A Prayer for Weary Travelers: Speaking to the Soul December 29, 2022

For all those in the midst of a travel meltdown

Beloved Savior, we come before you
seeking your grace and compassion this day:
we long for the weight of your hand upon us
as we seek to live into your witness of reconciliation.

Grant your protection
to all those who are lost, stranded, or alone.
Inspire your children to care for one another
in times of uncertainty and stress.
We thank you for those
who have shown compassion to the weary
and reassured the distressed,
caring for those who are far from home

Awaken us to your presence within us, Lord Christ,
that we remember that in your incarnation,
you remind us of our true nature and work:
to comfort the hurting
to stand alongside the oppressed
to reconcile the lost
to honor the dignity of all
to walk humbly and ever closer with our God.

Blessed Jesus, you taught us to pray and to listen,
to embody wisdom, peace, and virtue,
breathing forgiveness and mercy
in the renewal of life, holiness, and hope for all:
Today, may we set our feet firmly in this pilgrim path.

Bless and strengthen us in determination, O Messiah,
as we seek to witness to your light and truth,
and in your compassion pour out your comfort
upon those whose needs we bring before you.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 29, 2022. Written after having to drive 1700 miles to rescue my daughter after she was stranded and abandoned by Southwest Airlines on Christmas Day.

Where Love Is, There is God: Sermon for the Eve of the Nativity, Dec. 24, 2022

That gospel story we just heard cannot be surpassed. In it we have faithfulness, tenderness, awe, wonder, probably a little fear, relief, praise and joy. Through the shepherd’s example, we are encouraged to reach out to God through our God-given imaginations and not be afraid to believe the impossible. We are called to care, fidelity, and compassion, as Joseph modeled, and we are called to giving ourselves over to God in the pursuit of bringing about God’s kingdom, boldly, as Mary modelled. One thing that the shepherds, Joseph, and Mary all knew was that love had come among them, and their lives would be forever changed.

That’s it. The message of the most beautiful story in the world: where we act to bring love and warmth into the world, we encounter God.

It’s the part we don’t hear tonight that we spend our entire lives tracking down. The part that tells us “How”—how to welcome Jesus into our lives, and show that he still lives by our own witness, just like those shepherds in our gospel. How to receive Jesus not simply by saying we believe in him, but actually shaping our lives by his example.

And so, alongside the beautiful story we just heard, and that we will celebrate for these next many days, I want to offer you another story. Some of you may have read it in a book of stories by the great Russian master Leo Tolstoy. The problem is, he read it somewhere, attributed to an anonymous author, and he adapted it, thinking it was a folk tale. By the time he found out the true author, his works had already entered the public domain. So tonight, I want to share with you a version of the original story, written by a French pastor named Ruben Saillens. Even better, let me introduce to you the main character, because his name, so perfect for our congregation, was “Father Martin.”(1)

One hundred and fifty years ago, in the French city of Marseilles, there was a humble cobbler named Martin. Although he was an incredible shoe maker, his generosity and humility led him to live a simple life-- he had his tiny shop on a dusty side street consisting of a single room, and above it he lived in our studio apartment that was neat but plain. Father Martin's wife had died many years before, and their only son had been a sailor who had been lost at sea. He had a daughter, too, but for some reason they no longer spoke, and when asked about her, a single tear would leak out of his eye and run down his cheek as he shook his head mournfully. Yet even though he had known these tragedies, he was nonetheless known as a simple, kind, compassionate man.

It is Christmas Eve, and there's a sharp chill in the air as Father Martin closes his shop for the day.

He heads upstairs to his apartment, lights a stove, prepares a simple meal of stew and bread. He takes his cup of wine and goes and sits in a tattered armchair after pulling out the well-worn Bible from his shelf. He turns to the gospel of Luke, and reads about the struggle of the Holy Family to find a place to rest as they awaited the birth of Jesus. “There was no place for them in the inn,” he reads, and traces his fingers along under the words. “No place for Jesus—no place for the savior!” he exclaims in empathy.
He looks around his tiny home, noting that things may have been worn and well used, but they were neat and clean--certainly much better than spending the night out on the streets, or in a drafty barn. Father Martin thought slowly, “Oh that I could have made room for him here! I would have been glad to see him, to shelter him, and to welcome him into my home.”


“Of course,” he continued, “I have no gifts-- certainly not like the gold and the frankincense and the myrrh that the Magi brought. But what did the shepherds bring? It doesn't say-- but perhaps they didn't have time to get anything. Perhaps they only brought themselves.” Father Martin suddenly looked up on the top of one of the shelves along the wall and saw a small tattered cardboard box he sprung across the room and got it down and looked inside, where two perfect little shoes lay wrapped in tissue paper, made for a baby long ago whose parents had never come to get them. They were the best thing Father Martin had ever made-- his masterpiece. He smiled and touched the supple leather and neat stitches. “This is what I would give to Jesus--my very best pair of shoes I ever made! Oh, I wish I could have seen him and his family!”

He smiled for a moment at his own foolishness. The old man closed the box carefully and returned it to its place on the shelf. He then walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, sighing. Soon his head nodded on his chest, and he fell asleep. His lone candle burned itself out.

A voice suddenly spoke out of the darkness. “Martin!” “Who's there?” he cried out, seeing no one. But the voice, continued gently, “Martin, you wanted to see me. Keep an eye out on the street for me tomorrow.” And then the voice ceased. Martin rubbed his eyes wearily, and heard the clock strike midnight. It was now officially Christmas Day. Surely he must have been dreaming. So he put on his night clothes and crawled into his bed and fell asleep.

The next morning when Martin awoke, he was convinced that he had heard the voice of Jesus. Surely he had nothing to lose by remaining watchful as the voice had told him and seeing if he could see Jesus walking on the streets outside his shop. surely he would recognize Jesus as Jesus passed by-- after all, hadn't he admired paintings of Jesus throughout his entire life? And so he dressed, went downstairs to his shop on the main floor, and pulled up his chair at the large front window.

It was barely dawn, and there was no one on the streets. All that Martin saw was a street sweeper working in the bitter cold. He shivered visibly as he tried to attend to his work, rubbing his hands together, and stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. Martin, thought, while he was waiting to see Jesus, surely he could take time to offer the man something warm to drink. So Father Martin opened the door and called out to the man. “Come in, won't you? Come in and let me offer you something warm to drink and a seat by my stove if only for a moment!”

The streetsweeper turned to Martin gratefully, and came in from the cold, scraping his boots on the mat outside first. “I can only stay a moment,” the man said. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“Let me make you a cup of coffee, at least. Surely you have time for that!” exclaimed Martin, and the streetsweeper couldn’t say no. Yet even as he prepared the pot of coffee, Martin's eyes kept darting to the window to the street outside to see if anyone was passing.

“Why are you looking outside so often?” asked the street sweeper.

“I am waiting for my Master,” Martin replied.

“Your Master?” the street sweeper asked. “I thought you owned this shop.”

“Yes, I do, I was talking of another Master,” Martin replied.

“Ah, sure,” said the street sweeper, too tired to try to solve riddles. He finished his cup of coffee, wiggled his toes in his boots, and prepared to leave. “Well, good luck, I hope you see your Master today.”

The door closed behind the street sweeper, and Martin sat down again, watching the street closely. A group of children passed by, singing Christmas carols. Martin waved, and they waved back. But still no Jesus. Some people saw Martin watching from the window—he smiled invitingly, and even those who had seemed less than happy smiled back. But still no Jesus.

Martin made a simple lunch from some of his leftover stew, and sat watching carefully. But still no Jesus. A few beggars were made brave by Martin’s smile, and approached, begging for a few pennies. They were not disappointed, and left with enough to buy a small roll and some cheese. There were cheeses-- but still no Jesus.

As darkness approached, the streets grew emptier and emptier. A small, ragged brown mutt slunk by sniffing in the gutter for scraps, limping slightly. The butcher down the street acted as if he would strike the pup with his broom, and the dog yipped in alarm and scurried straight toward Martin’s door and leaned against the post. Martin reached into the stewpot and pulled out a few pieces of meat and some of the broth, putting them on a chipped plate. He took them out to the poor dog, who, after starting, carefully approached the plate in almost human disbelief. Within moments the plate was licked clean, and the dog allowed his head to be petted before he trotted off.


The streets were in twilight and empty now. Suddenly around the corner a figure appeared, and Martin’s heart leapt—but it was only a young woman, not much more than a girl really. She held a bundle in her arms, and as she got closer, Martin could see she was dressed in a threadbare smock and a ratty coat, and the bundle was an infant, about nine months old. Martin sprang outside when he saw her stagger. “Ma belle!” he called out as he rushed to her as she leaned against the wall. When he was closer he could see that her face was creased in weariness, and the baby clung to her for warmth.

“Why, you don’t look well, ma chere. Why are you out so late on such a cold night—and alone with a little one?” Martin asked.

“I’m ill, and going to the hospital, and hoping that they will have pity and admit me although it’s Christmas Eve. My husband is away at sea, and should have returned. But it’s been three months. And now I’m ill…” The shoemaker immediately though of his own son, and his heart ached.

“Please, won’t you come inside for just a moment and warm up a bit? I have some stew, and milk for the baby.” He looked so kindly she felt reassured, and she followed him inside. Martin insisted on taking the baby from her so she could eat, and found one of his wife’s old shawls he had kept for sentimental reasons and draped it around her shoulders, all while crooning to the baby. When the young woman finished eating, he poured out some milk in a cup for the baby and placed it in ront of her so she could feed the child. As he passed the baby over, the blanket slipped, and he saw that the baby’s feet were bare and cold.

“No shoes? Oh no this will never do,” Martin murmured out loud. He looked closer. Could it be that the size was right? He went over to the shelf and pulled down his masterpiece shoes, and took them from the box and unwrapped the paper. Ah, they were the best shoes he had ever made! But he had no use for them, really—shoes are made to be worn, not stored away. And so Martin came to the woman, holding out the shoes, and asked “Will you allow me?”

“I have no money to pay you,” she cried, “and those are so very fine! They are fit for a prince!”

Martin smiled, “We have your young prince here now. Let’s try them on.” And the shoes fit as it they were made for the baby’s feet. It seemed impossible but they looked even more beautiful actually being worn. The young woman clasped the old man’s hands in gratitude and got up.

“I must go,” she said. “You have been so incredibly kind! I can never repay you.”

“No need, my daughter. Just get yourself well, and I will pray for your husband to be home soon!” The door shut behind her, Martin sat down again thoughtfully. It was now night. A fog even began to roll in from the sea. No point in watching any more. Jesus had not come!

He was so heartbroken he moved to his chair and slumped down. It all must have been just a dream! “He didn’t come!” he repeated over and over to himself.

Suddenly the room filled with light. The door of his shop swung open, and he saw all the people he had seen that day—the street sweeper, the passersby, the carolers, the beggars, the young woman and the baby. Each one approached Martin and said, “Didn’t you see me?” Over and over again. Martin was astounded, and his mouth formed a small o in wonder and shock. Could it be?

And then, with one voice, they spoke in the voice Martin had heard the night before:

“I was cold and you warmed me. I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I was naked and you clothed me.”2)

Martin suddenly understood. Jesus had come, after all.

And so Jesus has come among us, too, and comes to us still, in all those whom we can welcome and help not just in the Christmas season, but all year through. Jesus has come, and lives among us—in the room that we make for him in our hearts and in the love that we share with those we meet, Where Love is, there is God. That’s the message of Christmas.

Amen.


Readings:

Isaiah 9:2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

Citations:
1) Ruben Saillens, “Where Love Is, There is God,” translated from the French by Bob Goodenough, found at his blog Flatlander Faith, from the post “Papa Panov should be Father Martin,” November 20, 2018. The story by Tolstoy is known as “Papa Panov’s Special Christmas,” which can be found here.
2) See Matthew 25:35-36.

At the Gate of Advent: Speaking to the Soul, December 22, 2022

Mary is waiting, 

   every new ache
      ironically raising a stir of hope.
Joseph is waiting,
   wide awake
      to keep those crazy dreams at bay.
The angels are waiting
   and warming up their voices for the cantata,
   the altos humming a perfect fifth
      below the melody.
The shepherds
   don’t yet know they are waiting,
      but they are, eyes darting unconsciously skyward.
The sheep and goats are waiting,
   grazing while they wait,
      in the eternal wisdom of sheep and goats.
The goats are waiting
   to see if they get written out of the tale
   at the end.
The sheepdogs are waiting
   baring their teeth at malevolent shadows
   that blink with yellowy eyes
   and slink away.

The manger
   -temporarily still just a manger,
   corncrib, not crib-
      is empty but ready for the spotlight.
Zechariah and Elizabeth
   are up all night with a three-month-old
   nicknamed “Jumping Jack,”
   smelling of curdled milk and damp nappies,
   but they are waiting too.
The Magi are scrutinizing the star-charts,
   arguing, debating, pointing furiously,
      and redoing the math to no avail,
      subconsciously preparing a shopping list
         because the signs have spoken.
The Star is waiting, flaring on cue,
   testifying to portents and prophecies
   saying all that is needed
   simply by being itself.
God rubs her hands together in anticipation,
   like all parents
   when they know they have found
   the perfect gift.

So we wait too,
   on this longest night.
And while we wait, let us
   stand in awe at the vault of stars,
      who serve as witness and stage for wonders;
   breathe in stillness and alertness in this present moment
   offer up simple gratitude for the gift of hope
   sing along with celestial concerts
   practice peace for the Prince of Peace
in gratitude that God came to dwell
   among us
   as one of us
making the Creator human
and the created holy
infusing divine love into finite flesh
that we might dance with God
and truly love one another.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 22, 2022.

Dreamer: Speaking to the Soul, December 15, 2022

Matthew 1:18-25


No, that was another Joseph.

I am not the one
in many-colored coat, braggart boy, Daddy’s pet
who told his brothers they’d grovel before him, who
dreamed that the heavens would dim
before his brilliance, who lured our ancestors west
famine dogging their heels.

I never confused myself
with the messenger,
much less the message.
I work with chisel and hammer, lathe and line,
a worker of wood and hewer of timber,
not prone to flights of fancy, feet on solid ground
even after she came into my life.

It was time for a wife. So the match
was arranged, her eyes shyly downcast,
her youth convinced me my simple life would spool on. But

now she speaks of being
the handmaiden of the Lord,
but prophet, too,
breathing revolution and a child to come
who will be God-with-us,
Eternity become enfleshed wisdom and truth.
With my pledge
--and angelic visitors’ guidance.

Now I am the Joseph-guided-by-dreams, angels
arriving on beams of light under night’s curtain, drawn aside
to unveil a new future, a choice
to smother the scandal by embracing all.
My honor will be their shield.
Helpless, from child’s first cry
my arms will open to claim and name
the One through whom all creation spins into life.

No, I am not that Joseph, either.
And so I echo her “Let it be for me
according to your will,” and I
will offer my name, my arm, my heart
to child and mother
as my God commands,
even to following the Joseph path westward,
the night banged with terror through
despotic plots and angelic commands.
At your word, Lord, I will go
led by dreams, and faith.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 15, 2022.

Great Expectations: Sermon for Advent 3A

The Christian liturgical calendar has two seasons of preparation: Advent and Lent. In the early Church, Advent was actually longer—from St. Martin’s Day through Christmas Eve, and it was known as “Little Lent.” The lessons in both Advent and Lent are centered around self-examination and repentance. But after two weeks of apocalyptic visions, this third Sunday in Advent brings us something different: Joy.

The great systematic theologian Karl Barth noted, “Joy is the simplest form of gratitude.” It may be simple, but it is not easy without mindfulness. Let’s face it: we are not hard-wired for joy. We are hard-wired in our animal brains for fear, especially the fear of scarcity—and scarcity and gratitude do not coexist with each other. We have to make a conscious effort to reset our expectations in order to get to joy rather than anxiety. We have to reset our lens to look at what we have, and the way those around us enrich our lives rather than see what we don’t have, and see others as competition for scarce resources. Yet we are also made in the image of God, and God’s beloveds. That’s why “don’t be afraid,” is repeated over 365 times in scripture. One for each day of the year.

The readings we hear this Sunday are all about defying expectations. The vision Isaiah gives us this week shows a desert blooming, the weak being strengthened, the disabled made whole, waters gushing forth in the driest of places. It’s the same vision of healing and restoration that Jesus uses to define and describe his ministry in our gospel: “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

And where does Jesus get the inspiration of this vision of abundance where there was need? From his own mother, whose Magnificat describes Jesus’s ministry even before his birth in the same way: the lowly, including Mary, lifted up, the proud and conceited humbled, the downtrodden lifted up, the hungry filled. The Magnificat begins and ends with identifying God with mercy. Mary’s vision and Jesus’s vision align, and that’s no accident. It’s a reminder of what the gospel really means and what it tells us about living into God’s generous vision for us.

Joy begets gratitude. Gratitude begets generosity. So why are these three things so hard to find in our own lives and in the culture that surrounds us? Perhaps it has to do with our expectations.

One of my favorite shows in the last couple of years has been Ted Lasso. It’s the story of an American college football coach hired to coach an underachieving English soccer club, even though he knows nothing about the game of soccer—not even the rules about offsides. The fans of the team are rabid and also cynical, having seen defeat snatched out of the jaws of victory too many times. Ted’s greatest feature as a coach is his relentless optimism. He inspires his players to believe in themselves, to have faith in themselves as a team. This sunny outlook clashes with the culture of world-weariness of the team organization and the fan base. When Ted urges the fans to keep the faith and have hope, her gets rebuffed repeatedly with the phrase, “It’s the hope that kills you.”

That’s the thing about low expectations. They become prophecy, because they suck the life out of you.

We can almost hear that same world-weariness in the tone of John the Baptist in our gospel today. Sitting in his prison cell, where he has been placed due to his stirring up the discontent of the masses against the most powerful people of his day, he had been preaching the coming of a fire-wielding, butt kicking Messiah, as we heard in last week’s gospel. He had expected the Messiah to join him in militancy.

Last week we saw John proclaiming the coming of the Lord. So much anticipation was imbedded in that gospel, which is of course so perfect for Advent. When indeed Jesus did appear, Jesus was not exactly what John had been expecting.

Isn’t that so often the case? We dream about something wonderful happening in our lives, and then reality ends up being still so random. Not worse, but different than our expectations. John had been expecting Messiah to be obvious to him. He expected Messiah to establish a certain way of justice that would reorder society the way John thought it should be.

And that’s not what he got. Instead, like Charlie Brown trick-or-treating and only getting rocks, in Matthew 4:12, John was arrested. The prophet rots in jail for seven chapters, and now, in chapter 11, he is forced to send some of his followers to attempt to ascertain whether Jesus is indeed the Messiah.

Sitting in his jail cell, John has doubts. To find the source of his disquiet, simply look at his words of prophecy. He has been foretelling doom, and judgment, and punishment. This is not the Messiah John has been expecting. John was expecting someone who would emphasize repentance more, even though Jesus certainly did plenty of that.
John was expecting vengeance!
John was expecting a leader who would be a strong man.
John was expecting some retribution at broods of vipers!

Many people, even today, especially today, expect to see that kind of God and that kind of leadership operating in the world right now. The problem with having a leader or God who is a “strong man” is that the only way he becomes a “strong man” is by taking away agency from everyone else and gathering all the power to himself and maybe his buddies. When Jesus instead focuses on healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and caring for widows John feels like he has been hoodwinked.

John has not gotten the Messiah he wanted or expected. And yet, here is his cousin, Jesus, and he is NOT some warrior king. He is not about restoring the former glory of Israel by having it rise to new military or political or economic power.

What Jesus IS about is moving among those who have been outcast. This God, we see, emphasizes mercy over retribution, in contrast to the God that many people today still seem to expect—a God of retribution and smiting, a sender of earthquakes and famines to punish millions. This God assures us that we are enough—good enough and strong enough to do an amazing thing: change the world by living as disciples and followers of Jesus.

Jesus reminds us that his ministry will surprise us. And since we are called to follow in his path, it will also lead us in ways we did not expect. It will heal us in ways we may not even think we deserve—but that’s the forces of evil whispering in our ear. “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” Jesus says. Blessed are those who embrace and follow Jesus for who Jesus is, radical enough for the best of us, instead of trying to make Jesus fit their preconceived notions of who Messiah will be.

We too live in a culture of scarcity, a culture that celebrates the lowest common denominator, a culture that is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder with war, climate challenges, and the inability to treat those with whom we disagree not as kindred but as enemies. We are ruled by fear of not being good enough.

We have been convinced that there is not enough, even as this planet just recently welcomed its 8 billionth inhabitant. Take a step back and look at what a scarcity mentality does to us. It has been scientifically proven that living in the fear of scarcity causes us to be unable to care about the future—we cast away planning for tomorrow, even when the investment is small and the reward great when we are in the grip of a scarcity mindset. Scarcity actually bathes our minds in failure, weakening us and immobilizing us, robbing us of any feeling of agency. Scarcity whispers “there’s nothing you can do,” and makes sure that you are robbed of the will to change. Scarcity robs us of having great expectations of ourselves and our power to make a difference.(1)

There is also a scarcity of decency, compassion, and humanity running about among us. We are surrounded by forces of division who gain power by mocking, spitting upon, and demonizing those who are different. We are plunged into feelings of helplessness that leads us to disengage, to believe we have no power to change obvious wrongs, to believe that our voice does not matter. We are told that we are never enough, and that there isn’t enough to go around—and we are often told that by the very people who have hoarded more than they will ever need or be able to use—and they use their excess to keep the rest of us scampering after crumbs and attacking each other.(2)

That was very much the same world Jesus and Mary and John lived in, too. Jesus’s religious opponents controlled people by shame, and the Romans controlled people by brutality and contempt—three byproducts of the scarcity mindset. Yet if you look at how Jesus and Mary define how to conquer the scarcity mindset, they do not propose exchanging one oppressor for another. They describe a vision like Isaiah describes: one in which beauty grows where there was desolation, where there is no longer one group lording it over another, but instead, where all have ENOUGH. And the way we do that is to turn from competing with each other and seeing each other as competitors in a death match of scarcity, and instead see each other as resources.

What if we reset our expectations to quiet the screaming monkey mind drumming between our ears, and instead opened our eyes to see that there is enough? Enough and more to spare! What if we invested in each other—in fulfillment of our baptismal promise to celebrate and give thanks for the potential and worth of every person? We don’t need big flashy miracles. Joining together and making sure each other had enough would be an abundant miracle, in and of itself. And that’s the kind of transformative ministry Jesus practiced among those he encountered. It’s what we are called to do as disciples.

“God is at work in the world, healing the broken paces and inviting us to see it. Live with joy!” both Mary and Jesus urge us. Open your eyes to see the wonders of God all around you, the gifts from God poured abundantly into your life with every breath that you take! The way of faith is the way of joy and gratitude, a life we can only receive once we cast away the soul-killing “certainty” that there will never be enough. It is that certainty that keeps the world at each others’ throats— rather than living by the kingdom values this season of preparation calls us to embrace for our flourishing. It’s there already. Jesus and Mary invite us to embrace abundance, to embrace faithful living, to embrace joy.

This coming week, I invite you to dedicate some time each morning and each evening specifically cultivating a spirit of joy, a spirit of expectation, a spirit of gratitude. I invite you to live in AWE: abundance, wonder, and empowerment. That’s how to live into the joy of great expectations, of gratitude for not only what we have but what we can build with each other.

Preached at the 505 on December 10 and the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist on December 11 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 35:1-10

Psalm 146:4-9

James 5:7-10

Matthew 11:2-11

Citations:

(1) See this article from the American Psychological Association: https://www.apa.org/monitor/2014/02/scarcity; 

(2) See Brene Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, 27-29 (kindle edition).

Winnowing: Speaking to the Soul, December 8, 2022

Bedeviled by thoughts ominous and thoughts profound,

wreathing fog about my noggin, sheathing
perspective, restive, I
did not know how to spy the blue sky,
to believe it abides, though veiled,
beyond the steel-gray vault of cloud.

What to keep, what to fling away,
wheat and chaff, seed and soil, shell and sand–
I cannot clear the threshing floor of mind
nor shoulder the load alone.

My Heart’s Companion whispers, “Peace.
Be still.” Fists unfurl. And the breath of prayer
sends the draff and dregs eddying away.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 8, 2022.

Embracing the Wilderness: Sermon for Advent 2A

In October 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Wilderness Act. This new law created a system to preserve and protect over 9 million acres of untouched landscape in 800 locations, ranging from deserts to cypress swamps, pristine beaches to alpine meadows, rocky crags and verdant valleys. There are no roads, no paths but the ones the animals who live there have made. There is no potable water, no wi-fi, no electricity.

These wildernesses were preserved as a recognition that even with minimal human interaction, they nonetheless have value in and of themselves as habitats for animals, as places of inspiring beauty in and of themselves, uncommercialized. These places are not viewed as resources to be exploited, but as a gift that cannot be replaced or remade once they are gone.

These diverse wildernesses were protected from disturbance, and for people to enjoy-- so long as those people abide by the wilderness ethics code, which requires human visitors to “Leave No Trace.” It also begins with the expectation to “plan ahead and prepare.” The wilderness can be a place of danger, but it can also be a place of spiritual purification and awakening. As noted author Terry Tempest Williams describes it, “A blank spot on the map is an invitation to encounter the natural world, where one's character will be shaped by the landscape. To enter wilderness is to court risk, and risk favors the senses, enabling one to live well. The landscapes we know and return to become places of solace. We are drawn to them because of the stories they tell, because of the memories they hold, or simply because of the sheer beauty that calls us back again and again. (Williams, Refuge, loc 3550/4534)

The wilderness, in scripture, was a place of extremes of heat and cold, of arid landscapes occasionally interrupted by flash floods that suddenly created short-lived rivers and streams, animals who would suddenly appear out of holes in the ground. It was a place of danger. But it was also the place where one encountered God. The place where the covenant was sealed between God and Abraham. The place where Jacob dreamed of his ladder reaching to heaven. Moses and the Burning Bush. The giving of the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. The wanderings through the Wilderness of Sin—yes, it is actually named that—where the Israelites during their exodus grumbled against God when they got hungry. The place where David hid from Saul and Elijah hid from Ahab. The place where wild-eyed prophets roamed, either fasted or ate bugs, and contended with their God.

For here is another truth: the wilderness is the place where promises are made and kept by God.

Our scriptures underscore the reminder that the wilderness is a place for exploration of the self as much as exploration of a landscape. These are also places that can call us to question the unwritten stories that often operate to support the things we do unquestioningly. It is a place of self-examination, and a place of turning. Unfortunately, for too many of us, the wilderness is a place to be avoided. It is a place that lacks creature comforts. It is harsh and unforgiving, we think. And so we create negative associations and shun the experiences that true wilderness can bring out of us. But the wilderness whether inside us or outside us, is a place where God faithfully fulfils the promise of salvation.

On Friday we went to hear Handel’s Messiah Oratorio performed at Powell Symphony Hall—the very opposite of a wilderness you can imagine. The place was decked out to the nines. There were gigantic wreaths and ribbons everywhere. There were twinkly lights hung on those wreaths and on the garlands arranged like a huge smile beneath them.

We settled back into our comfortable seats, and for two and a half hours we listened to the choir and the harpsichords and the organ and the strings and the lone bassoon and oboe and the two trumpets and especially the four soloists. The music rolled over us in waves. The words were projected up on a screen as they were sung.

And being the Biblical nerd that I am, I noticed the scriptures that made up the first half of the oratorio were almost all from prophetic books, especially Isaiah. Isaiah, the prophet most quoted by Jesus and about Jesus in the New Testament, as we saw in our gospel today. And so, sitting in that grand building, I was left to contemplate the contradiction between the idea of the wilderness and the artful music that resonated all around the audience.

From our reading in Isaiah to our passage from Matthew’s gospel, we see descriptions of wilderness. In fact, in our gospel from Matthew, we hear a prophecy from Isaiah 40—much later in the book we attribute to that prophet. But Isaiah speaks of a king sprouting up from a tree trunk that has been struck down, and that king’s reign leading to not just a restoration of justice and but a restoration of creation in which wild animals no longer prey on tame ones, and there is no longer any need for one to suffer and die for the feeding of another. Wilderness becomes a restored garden of Eden. Most importantly, the wilderness is a place where true community and working together for the common good becomes reality.

Then Matthew describes John the Baptizer as a wild man, but a wild man with a voice. “A voice cries out from the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord; make his pathways straight.”

And how does one do that, in the place where there ARE no pathways? John answers that too, by calling those he encounters there to repentance. And there’s a word from which many of us recoil, instantly. Calls for repentance are too often associated with feelings of shame, of accusation, of being considered wrong and broken. John’s own words and description here are part of that problem, in fact. But we also get a hint that John himself may have inserted his own preferences here. Jesus will defy even John’s expectations. That is why later John will be shown as questioning whether Jesus is the actual Messiah or not. With Jesus, there was a LOT less smiting and burning than John expected, and a whole lot more healing and reconciliation.

For Jesus, repentance is about healing. It’s a place where promises are made and kept by God from tender compassion and mercy. All that repentance really means is to take time to examine our lives, and where our choices and stubbornness are not serving us, to make a decision to turn. And in this way, we are being asked to understand the wilderness not as something internal, but as something that lies within us all. All that repentance really means is to have faith in the faithful love of God for us, rather than in our own shallow, misspent scrabbling after the illusion of our own insatiable appetites for more, more, more.

Too many of us fear that wilderness within us too—or at least fear really exploring it, much less acknowledging where we might need some realignment. And this awakening to our own waywardness, our own privilege—that has become such a loaded word but it is a word that MUST be spoken if we are ever to move to reconciliation and healing in our world. That acceptance of our own benefit from injustice is there, and it must become visible by looking at life through the perspectives of others when they offer us their truth. The call to repentance is a starting point for accepting the relief of God’s incomprehensible grace.

But if we do dare to be brave enough to explore the wilderness within us, we can learn that it’s not just a place of danger, impulse, and brutality. It is also a place that calls us to contemplation of who we are as people and what our actions tell others about us and our character. The wilderness inside us is a gift, because it is a place of restoration, of purification. It is a place where we get to know our true selves. It is also the place within us that God most seeks to dwell in—if only we are brave enough to invite God in, to embrace the promise of God’s abundant love for us, yes, but also the transformative gift of living by God’s abundant economy, of straightening the pathways to our hearts to let in our savior.

Externally or internally, the wilderness is no barrier to God-- God loves the wilderness just the way it is. And God spends a lot of time in the wilderness with us. It is us who want the wilderness leveled, not God. Since when does God see the wilderness and respond with a construction crew and truck full of asphalt? God’s time is NOT our time, and God’s schedule is not our schedule. God likes to take the long way home, reminding us once again that God’s home is everywhere, wherever God is but not limited to one place.

It is in the midst of the wilderness that the people are urged to faith. And the kind of faith the people are being urged to embrace is not an easy faith. It is faith that seems to fly in the face of all evidence. The wilderness is where God’s word will be proclaimed, by Isaiah and by John the Baptist and Jesus. It’s a place that strips us bare of all our illusions and vanities and pretended pride. It’s a place where our defenses against admitting our wrongdoing are shredded, but not so that we can be punished. So that we can be moved to repentance—to the turning joyfully to a new life that is more pure and truer to God’s commandments, yes, but more importantly, to a life that is truer to God’s PROMISES.

The readings we explore during the season of Advent are meant to remind us of the glorious promises which are our inheritance as people of faith. We also begin the ingathering of your promises made to support this parish and help it to flourish and to grow in its mission of being the light of Christ in the world. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the darkness and cold of winter, we are reminded of promises made and promises kept. We are reminded that Christ came to call us to unity, not division, and certainly not fear. Confident in God’s abundant plans for our flourishing, amy we make straight the pathway of Christ into our hearts.


Amen. 

Readings:

Isaiah 11:1-10

Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

Romans 15:4-13

Matthew 3:1-12

Citations:

Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place, loc. 3550/4534, kindle edition.

Praise Now: Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022

Inspired by Caedmon’s Hymn

O God the Maker, whose creation brings forth stuttering praises of awe and wonder
from the untutored tongues of your children,
our hearts overflow now with your marvelous love.

Holy One, you weave the silken tapestry of heaven,
glorious to drink in and refresh our faith,
spread overhead like the canopy of a mighty oak
drawn anew to contemplate the depth of your wisdom.

Our feet firmly planted among the grasses,
our eyes lifted to the spangled expanse
of the roof of the world You have made, World-Warden;
we stretch heavenward like tender saplings.

You have fashioned this Earth as our home,
and made it holy by the work of your fingers
for all to rejoice in your bounty.

Gratitude and wonder are the foundation of our prayer,
surging up like a spring of water from our souls.

And now, O Creator,
gather our swirling thoughts
within the bounds of your mercy,
and grant your blessing upon us,
and all who turn their hearts to your light.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022.

The End, the Beginning, but Always Love: Sermon for Advent 1A

In 1969, to wrap up side two of their masterpiece album Abbey Road, the Beatles designed a little two minute number to complete the medley that makes up most of the second half of the album. It was called “The End.” It featured a solo by each of the band members, fiddling around as only the Beatles could do. But closed with this truism: "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” (1)

This is also the point, ultimately, of our readings that we hear today in the lectionary.

Today is a day of endings, and a day of beginnings. Today, we begin a new church year, a new liturgical year, with this first Sunday of the season of Advent, the time of expectation, the time of “already” but also “not yet” that so describes our lives as 21st century seekers after Jesus.

It is almost the end of November, which means it is almost the end of Native American Heritage Month, and our reminders of the people who brought us the first Thanksgiving to begin with, 400 years ago.

Today is hopefully the beginning of a new dedication to the concept of gratitude and thankfulness to which our faith calls us. But first, we have to confront our misunderstanding about this morning’s gospel. It seems to speak of the end—the Really Big End, the End Times, that if you grew up in evangelical Christianity meant that Jesus was going to appear again in the sky and take up only a lucky few to be with him in heaven, leaving the rest of humanity to suffer through wars and cataclysms and disasters.

This passage itself was one that was quoted to me often in my childhood churches. Many of them talked often about the “end-times,” and this was one of their favorite images: two people will be working side by side, and one will be taken and the other “left behind” when Jesus makes his “second coming.” I didn’t like hearing that any more than I imagine you did, back then.

The problem I had with the strategy behind this rapture stuff was that it put all the emphasis on the end. It really didn’t matter HOW you lived your life—so long as you personally accepted Jesus as your savior. You could still be mean to people, and make fun of or blame the poor, and hate foreigners and refugees. Just as long as you believed in Jesus, you would go to heaven. My problem with this was that I had actually read the Bible all the way through—even before we had the Old Testament TWICE in our high school English curriculum because, you know, I grew up in the Bible belt. And the funny thing was, both Moses and Jesus insisted exactly the opposite.

There is nothing in this passage actually about heaven. Read it again. But there is an insistence that we are accountable for our actions, and for living our lives on no basis other than love, compassion, and obligation to each other. Saying that you believe something, no matter how crazy it is, as we have seen over and over again in the last few years of our lives together, is the easy part. Especially if you think you will profit from it. Living a life guided by Jesus’s example, which called us to care, compassion, and healing, is much more difficult.

Because when we look at the message of the gospels in their entirety, we see a Jesus who called us to be disciples during our lives right now—to heal the sick and feed the multitudes and welcome the outcast. For all of this talk about Jesus coming again like a thief in the night in Matthew 24 there’s the outline of what it means to be a faithful follower of Jesus in Matthew 25, where the king judges the nations based on whether they cared for the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, the prisoner, and the stranger. For every place in the scriptures that it talks about Jesus’s second coming, there’s many times as much of an emphasis that Jesus’s birth and life already initiated the coming near of the Kingdom of God.

The idea that Jesus will swoop down out of the clouds and take only some of us is not a helpful image. BUT the affirmation that Paul McCartney so admirably places before us, that it is the love we give and demonstrate that matters, IS, indeed, more helpful to us in unlocking the gospel imperative.

The Way of Jesus to which we are called is not about what we can take. It is about what we can give. It is not about looking out for ourselves. It is about being grateful for the chance we have to make a difference for others, to acknowledge the web of relationships that bid us together and lead us to flourish and grow as human beings. The heart of the ethical, love-affirming life to which Jesus calls us also means that we ARE accountable for our actions and their consequences, whether those consequences are deliberately intended or not.

This is where St. Paul’s admonition to wake up comes in. When I was a teen, my Sunday school class in my first Episcopal church was asked to design an altar hanging for Advent. It ended up being very simple: large dark golden letters spelled out “Sleepers, awake” with a Chi Rho against a purple background. This thing could easily be read from the back of the nave, and captured the main idea: that Advent is often described as a time of watchfulness, of anticipation, or preparation. It is a time of waking up and preparing for the coming of Christ with joy and gratitude.

Unfortunately, our epistle omits some important verses to help us understand what being awake and being thankful really means. If we back up a bit, here is what we hear:

Owe no one anything except love to one another. For the one loving has fulfilled the other Law. For the commandments “do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not covet” and any other commandment is brought to a head/summed up in this word: Love your neighbor as yourself.” For the love of neighbor works no evil. The fullness of the Law is love. And do this knowing the time, for the hour has already come for you to rise up from sleep… (2)

Therefore, although not mentioned within the verses the lectionary places before us, the center of the teaching we heard from our epistle is love, directed outward toward others, our neighbors, as an act of obligation, an ethical imperative to work for the good of those around us, to revel in rather than seek to deny or minimize our obligation to one another in favor of our own advantage or exploitation of those around us.

Today is a day for us to wake up to the blessing that obligation is in our lives, the holy calling to self-giving that Jesus embodied for us to imitate as his friends and followers. To remember that Christian love is not a choice or an emotion, but an obligation, a holy calling, an act of will, and a response ingratitude to what has first been given to us by a God who loves us so much as to give us God’s very Son to show us the way to holy, grateful living. The one we await and yet already know in this season of Advent.

And interestingly this brings us to the Native American wisdom we have been celebrating this month.

Biologist, professor, and enrolled citizen of the Potawatomi Nation Robin Wall Kimmerer’s classic work Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants speaks of the word obligation repeatedly in indigenous understanding of relationship. Early in the book, she tells the story of her father thinking strawberry shortcake to be the best present in the world, made from berries picked by his children. She notes:

Gifts from the earth or from each other establish a particular relationship, an obligation of sorts to give, to receive, and to reciprocate. The field gave to us, we gave to my dad, and we tried to give back to the strawberries. When the berry season was done, the plants would send out slender red runners to make new plants. Because I was fascinated by the way they would table over the ground looking for good places to take root, I would weed out little patches of bare ground where the runners touched down. Sure enough, tiny little roots would emerge from the runner and by the end of the season there were even more plants, ready to bloom under the next strawberry moon. No person taught us this-- the strawberries showed us. Because they had given us a gift, an ongoing relationship opened between us.(3)

It seems obvious, right—and is especially a vital reminder as we continue to confront the need to care for this parish in our annual giving campaign. Use up all the strawberries, and the strawberries will soon not be there for you. It’s a simple reality we completely ignore at our own peril. Fail to take care of your needs now, and soon the things you depend upon for life will no longer be there for you at all. And the fact is, the same thing is true about any of our relationships—including, especially, with each other.

Ms Kimmerer goes on to share in her book an Iroquois pledge of gratitude that is used to start every meeting of the people. It is called the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address, or in their language, the “Words Before All Words.” They start with this pledge of affirmation to remember all for which they are grateful, and I want to share some of it with you. It very specifically lists all the things for which we as human beings depend, and for which we are called to be grateful and acknowledge. It starts like this:

Flag of the Iroquois Confederacy

Today we have gathered and we see that the cycles of life continue. We have been given the duty and responsibility to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. So now, we bring our minds together as one as we give our greetings and our thanks to one another as people. NOW OUR MINDS ARE ONE.

We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. She supports our feet as we walk about upon her. It gives us joy that she continues to care for us as she has from the beginning of time. To our Mother, we send our greetings and our thanks. NOW OUR MINDS ARE ONE.

We give thanks to all the waters of the world for quenching our thirst and providing us with strength and nurturing life for all beings. Water is life. We know its power in many forms — waterfalls and rain, mists and streams, rivers and oceans. We are grateful that the waters are still here and meeting their responsibility to the rest of creation. Can we agree that water is important to our lives and bring our minds together as one to send greetings and thanks to the water? With one mind, we send our greetings and our thanks to the spirit of Water. NOW OUR MINDS ARE ONE.

And on it continues, listing food plants, medicine plants, animals, winds, thunder, sun, moon, stars. It gives thanks for the teachers of wisdom who pass down the collected lore and knowledge of the people, which once again reminds me of Thanksgiving at my grandfather’s house as we would listen to stories from our elders. It ends by thanking God, our Creator:

Now we turn our thoughts to the Creator, and send our greetings and our thanks for all the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest words of greetings and thanks to the Creator. NOW OUR MINDS ARE ONE. (4)

Our readings today remind us, as our Indigenous friends’ words of gratitude do, that life is a circle, a sacred hoop of giving and receiving that has no beginning and no end. That we are bound together in reciprocity, obligation, and love—and that is a GOOD thing. That personal character—especially a character of giving and generosity—matters. That how we LIVE, rather than how we end our lives, is our foundation as Christians, yes, but as fully alive and flourishing human beings.

Advent is a time of waking from our delusions and embracing life as given to us in Christ. But as Paul insists, and as Jesus implies in the gospel, “the night is far gone, the day is near” is meant to remind us that the ONLY thing that matters is how well we take seriously the idea that we are bound together by the obligation of love and mutual caring for each other which is the essence of the Gospel of Jesus, the foundation of what we are called to BE as human beings made in the image of God. We are fully human when we acknowledge and rejoice in our dependence upon each other: among families—however we make them, among coworkers, among parishioners, within creation, within society.

“Belief” in Jesus isn’t just about heaven and what happens to us after we die or a magic ticket to save yourself, but rather and most importantly a call to work for the repair of the world. Belief in Jesus is about nothing if it is not directed outwardly toward those around us—that’s why there are so many commands to love one another in scripture. Belief in Jesus is nothing if it is not transformative, leading to making us not just fans out to save our own necks, but disciples. Discipleship is about transformation of our lives and our relationships with each other, especially the marginalized, the oppressed, and the helpless, right now. It’s about working to bring the kingdom of God into being the kin-dom of God, to recognize each other as beloved children of the One Who Made Us and Loves Us.

In the end, it is the life and love we offer each other that matters, and brings us back to the beginning. And the beginning is love.

Preached at the 505 on November 26, and at the 10:30 Eucharist on November 27 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 2:1-5

Psalm 122

Romans 13:11-14

Matthew 24:36-44

Citations:

1) John Lennon and Paul McCartney, "The End," from the album Abbey Road, 1969.

2) Romans 13:8-11

3) Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants, 24.

4) Ibid., 106-116. A version of the full text can also be found here: https://danceforallpeople.com/haudenosaunee-thanksgiving-address/ 

A Prayer for Thanksgiving: Speaking to the Soul, November 24, 2022

God of Abundant Grace,
your love preserves us
and calls us to wakefulness and compassion:
we raise our hearts in thankfulness and praise.

You, O God, call all the stars by their names,
and set them dancing overhead to our wonder and delight.
You teach the birds their songs
that lighten our hearts and call us to joy.
You have called us into community for our flourishing,
and called us to companionship in your Way of Love.

May we tend to the earth, and to each other,
with steadfastness and gratitude,
always seeing your imprint, Lord Christ,
wherever we look.

May we treasure friends and loved ones,
companions and fellow travelers on this earth,
and reach out to those around us in love and kindness.

May we be brave in loving,
bold in giving,
steadfast in hoping,
and grateful in all things.

May we seek to mend the wounds we have created,
and forgive those who have hurt us.

May we ever cultivate being honorable and compassionate,
being just while loving mercy and grace,
seeking purity while acknowledging our humanity.

Holy One, send your angels to tend to those
who call upon You and depend upon your care,
especially those away from home,
and those whose needs we place before You,
that your peace, surpassing all our knowing,
may be our embodied prayer.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 24, 2022.

Prepositions of God's Love: Speaking to the Soul, November 17, 2022

Colossians 1:11-20

“There is a theology in prepositions…”— Rev. Canon Graham Ward, How the Light Gets In: Ethical Life I

Remain strong, O faithful, O seekers
   with all the strength
   from Christ’s glorious power,
enduring
   with patience,
giving thanks
   to the Father
sharing the inheritance
   of the saints
   in the light.
God rescued us
   from the power
   of darkness
   into the kingdom
   of God’s beloved Son
   in whom
we have redemption, the forgiveness
   of sins.

Jesus is the image
   of the invisible God
firstborn
   of all Creation–
   in him

all things 
   in heaven
   on earth
were created
   through Jesus
and
   for Jesus.

Jesus himself is
   before all things;
all things hold together
   through Jesus.
Head
   of the body,
   of the Church;
Jesus, the beginning,
firstborn
   from the dead;

First
   in everything.

The fullness
   of God
is pleased
   to dwell
   in Jesus.
God is pleased
   to reconcile
   to Godself
all things
   in heaven
   on earth
   by making peace
   through the blood
      of Jesus’s cross.

This is how we remain faithful,
awaiting God-
   with-us,
Emmanuel
   by whom
   in whom
   through whom
we live and move and have our being,
revealing God’s love, longing, redemption,
seeking us–
world
and love
   without end.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, November 17, 2022.

Giving Our All: Sermon for Proper 28C (St. Martin's Day, tr.)

There are a lot of things going on in our lives right now that come together today. First, this is the Sunday closest to the feast day of our patronal saint, Martin of Tours, and so we celebrate that today, giving thanks for his example in our lives, and also having a wonderful feast, literally, in a few minutes after worship concludes, to which you are all invited.

We are also in the midst of Native American Heritage Month, which has been observed in this diocese by daily posts about the history and cultural achievements of the first peoples who lived in the Americas and in Hawai’i.

November 11 is St. Martin’s Day, and also is Veterans’ Day, which originally day of the armistice that ended World War I. Most people do not know that these two commemorations do not just coincide: they were MEANT to coincide. So we also marvel that our patron saint is associated with a day of great thanksgiving, a day in which we recognize the real sacrifice, honor, and obligation of those who serve in the military of this country. And our gospel reminds us of the terrible cost of war and military service that Martin himself knew.

Our patron saint, Martin of Tours, was born to pagan parents from Hungary in the early 4th century of the common era, with a father who was a senior military officer in the Roman imperial guard. As a child, he grew up in Italy, where his father was stationed, and at age ten it is believed he attended a Christian worship service. He did this against his parents’ wishes, and he became a catechumen, or someone undergoing religious instruction to join the Church. Back then, the minimum time for the catechumenate was three years but was often longer.

Then, at 15, Martin was required to join the army as well, and he became a cavalry soldier. It is said that while he was stationed in Gaul, near Amiens, a beggar approached him in the cold and asked for some alms. In response, Martin cut his military cloak in half with his sword. Later that night, Christ appeared to him in a dream, clothed in the half of the cloak he had given the beggar. Martin then determined to be baptized, and he was.

He eventually realized that he felt he could not be a Christian and be a soldier of Rome, and so he requested to be released from his 25-year commitment to the army. This was right before an impending battle, so he was charged with cowardice and thrown into jail. He offered to stand unarmed before the enemy army, holding nothing but a cross, and army officials were ready to take him up on his offer—but the enemy sued to surrender, and so Martin was discharged.

Martin then made his way to Tours in what is now France, where he studied with Hilary of Poitiers, and eventually made his vows as a monastic, but gained a reputation for piety and holiness. He established a monastery there called Marmoutier, where his holiness attracted several hermits who lived in small cells around him.

The people of Tours decided to make Martin their bishop, but he wanted nothing of it. So the story goes that he was tricked into the church to be elected bishop on the excuse that someone needed healing. One popular legend claims that he was so reluctant to be elected that he hid in a barn full of geese, who ratted him out by honking at him. And so the townspeople dragged him out, covered in feathers and probably goose-poop, and finally persuaded him to accept election as bishop. This is why, by the way, it is a tradition to this day in Europe to eat goose on Martinmas. Revenge CAN be, if not sweet, then at least tasty.

Nonetheless, even though bishop, he still lived in Marmountier in his humble cell. He was known for travelling to every parish in his diocese once a year, often on foot. In all things, he was led by a sense of duty, a sense of compassion, and a sense of conscientiousness that gazed outward with humility.

Martin is the patron saint of, among other things, tailors, beggars, soldiers and conscientious objectors, winemakers AND recovering alcoholics, which just goes to show that the people in the Roman curia who decide these things know a multi-tasker when they see one. He is the patron saint of geese, whose migration is usually simultaneous with his feast day, and although he is that patron saint of France, in England his emblem is a goose, and it is said that traditionally, the geese begin their migration south on St. Martin's Day. The newborn baby of Hans and Margaret Luther was baptized on St. Martin’s Day in 1483, and thereafter bore the name of Martin Luther into history. It is said that the trees bloomed on the day he was buried, even though it was November 11; and one term used to describe what some call “Indian summer” days at this time of year in Europe is “St. Martin’s Summer”—one we got to experience for two glorious days last week, including on St. Martin’s Day, before God turned on the cold Friday night.

St. Martin’s feast day is also what is called here in the US as “Veterans’ Day.” Martinmas is also connected to the end of World War I. Martin remained somewhat popular in France even during the French Republic, even if for a while his popularity flagged in France as violent anti-religious sentiment swept across it in the Enlightenment. Until World War I. World War I was a new kind of World War, fully industrialized, and the loss to human life was staggering for that time. Entire villages in England and France lost nearly all of their young men in the fighting.

The horrors of mechanized trench warfare, machine guns, and poison gas left a lasting impression on the survivors. Some villages in England lost every single young man between the ages of 18 and 35 to this war as either wounded or dead.

As the war dragged to a terrible end, the cease fire eventually was declared at 11:11 am on November 11, 1918—St. Martin’s Day—specifically, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The French people had a resurgence of piety regarding the saint, with some believing that his intervention had helped spare France from any more of the horrors of the conflict, which was fought largely on French and Belgian soil in the European theatre. St. Martin’s feast and the celebration of peace and those who sacrifice to defend peace are forever linked. The feast day of the soldier and conscientious objector is also the day that this horrific war came to an end.

Therefore, every time we celebrate St. Martin’s Day, we honor also those who have sacrificed and continue to sacrifice upon the fields of battle, even while we fervently give thanks for peace—real peace that is grounded in abundance for all because we realize the interconnectedness of all. We remember the fast in the midst of the feast.

This is where this morning’s gospel comes in. Interestingly, this pericope contains all of chapter 21 EXCEPT that it omits the first five verses of this chapter:

[Jesus] looked up and saw rich people putting their gifts into the treasury; 2he also saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins.3He said, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them; 4for all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on.’

Think of these two small copper coins as pennies. Jesus sees this, and comments on it. The rich have given from their extra, but the widow has given all that she has to live on. Hers is an act of absolute faith and trust in God, while the rich are giving what they will not miss, what will not affect their real comfort and their bottom line.

The widow understands that she has an obligation to help maintain the Temple. Not only that, she has the FAITH to fulfill that obligation because she has an absolute trust in God. But we make our first mistake when we look at annual giving as only giving to this parish. Our giving to this parish is our giving to God.

The widow gives of what she needs, and does it without fanfare, and without hesitation. In this way she demonstrates great faith and faithfulness. The same faith Martin displayed when he gave up everything to follow Christ.

The anecdote about the widow is important in understanding the verses that we just heard. Where and how we worship God is a matter that we should have at the forefronts of our minds. And for the original audience of Luke, the answer to this question, even as followers of Jesus, had been the Temple. What is NOT spoken of, and what we have to keep at the forefront of our minds, is that Luke’s audience has already witnessed the very calamities and destructions that Jesus speaks of in this day’s gospel. Luke has Jesus speaking of things that happened after Jesus’s own earthly ministry, but within the life of the Lucan community. In 70 CE, the Temple WAS destroyed by the Romans, and not a stone WAS left standing. The beautiful treasures and ornaments that Luke has Jesus’s followers describe in those first words had been gone for years by the time Luke’s gospel was written. The only knowledge some of Luke’s community had for what the Temple had looked like in all its glory was probably memories from their elders, or the accounts of the Jewish historian Josephus

What Luke has Jesus describing had already happened. And I wish I could say that we ourselves have no knowledge of such calamities, as did our patron saint Martin as he experienced in his military career. But we do. Russia is committing the same kind of destruction and calamities in Ukraine right now. The last century alone has witnessed attempted genocides and slaughters of the Armenians by the Turks; the Jews and Gypsies and LGBT people, among others, by the Nazis; Stalin’s starving years; Pol Pot’s fields of blood in Cambodia; the Tutsis by the Hutus in Rwanda; Muslims by Serbs in Bosnia; 300,000 residents of Nanking by the Japanese…. The list goes on.

And this month, we acknowledge and dedicate ourselves to becoming more educated about the violence, dispossession, and often outright murder that was visited on and still continues in some places toward the Indigenous people in the US, Canada, Mexico, Brazil, Australia, and New Zealand. As we hear Luke’s passage, we think of people who have been persecuted for their faith throughout history, especially our Jewish kindred as anti-Semitism is on the rise in the US and other western nations again. As Martin was when he asked to be released from his military obligations based on his conscience.

So what is the good news? What do we “do” with the first verses of Luke chapter 21? What is its call to us?

First of all, we are reminded that faithfulness and generosity cannot be an afterthought, as the story of the widow, the story of Martin, and the story of Jesus himself illustrates and calls us to imitation.

We are also reminded that even when we encounter wars and calamities and destruction, God is still with us. I think we are reminded that the destruction of the Temple also ended up reminding us that we worship God not in a certain place, but in approaching Jesus and inviting him to live and guide us. In a way, WE are now called to be the Temple to the world as Christ’s body—to be the insistent reminder that God lives among us in creation and is forever making it new, as our Native kindred insist to this day, and as our passage from Isaiah proclaims.

So let us live lives of real sacrifice, real gratitude, real connection with each other and with our God. Let us pray for the wisdom and courage to make this parish stronger and on a more stable footing than ever. Let us honor the sacrifices of those who have gone before us in faithfulness both in our nation’s history and in the history of this parish, and put our empathy into action before the eyes of the world. And in all we do, may we proclaim boldly our commitment to God and each other with gratitude for our blessings, steadfastness in hardship, and see our responsibilities to each other as never a burden, but a joy. May we follow in the example of Martin, and live s life of faithfulness and dedication to God, all our lives.

Preached at the 505 on November 12 and at the 10:30 Eucharist in November 13, 2022, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville,

Readings:

Isaiah 65:17-25
Canticle 9 
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13
Luke 21:5-19