Embodying Sanctuary: Sermon for the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, 2025

    

Do you have a special place, or time of day, where you feel close to God, or spiritually at peace? For some people it is the sunrise; for other people it is the sunset. For some people it is in the precincts of holy places, such as Notre Dame de Paris, La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, or some other grand edifice.

For others it could be the seaside, or in a boat at sea under twinkling stars. For others it is in a forest, strolling within the embrace of an aspen grove, which is actually a single tree, or lying on a soft bed of needles under giant redwoods thousands of years old. For others, it is looking in the face of their sleeping spouse, or child, or grandchildren. It can be in the voice of a loved one. It can be in a sesshin of Zen meditation.

Today, the regular readings for the 4th Sunday after Epiphany give way because today is a particular Feast Day—one that has fallen from observance in much of the Christian world, but a feast day nonetheless. Today is the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, which occurs 40 days exactly after Christmas Day. And for those who contemplate scripture seriously, when we hear the number 40 our ears should perk up, because 40 is always a significant number. Forty days and nights of the flood, 40 days, excluding Sundays of Lent; 40 days of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness by the forces of evil, 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the desert after their liberation from slavery in Egypt.

This feast is also known as Candlemas—a day when a vigil would be held at nightfall with the candles of Christmas at last extinguished. Taken together, we move closer to the closing of the three-part liturgical season of the Church’s Year called the Incarnation Cycle, which contains the seasons of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphanytide. In all this time since the end of last November, we have been called especially to contemplate and celebrate the coming of God into human flesh, as a helpless, impoverished child of a subject, oppressed people.

We are called to wonder, awe, and overwhelming gratitude that God came to live among us as one of us, to teach us how to live a fully God-centered life that connects us with all of our kindred creatures. It is necessary that we mindfully embody that sense of gratitude and wonder before God and before Christ as we prepare to enter the season of Lent three days after the last Sunday after the Epiphany in just a few weeks.

We remember and remind ourselves Jesus in his body, in the Incarnation, as a supreme act of love, generosity, and mercy— gifts we ourselves have received countless times throughout our lives, and in following the Way of Jesus we are called to ourselves embody to all those we meet, especially, the poor, the destitute, the desperate, or the oppressed. We take this call to embodying mercy and grace seriously, for if we only look around, we know that is all too often in fact too short a supply in the world in which we live. This is part of the counter-cultural aspect of being not just a fan but a follower of Jesus.

Because we are hearing these readings today, I regret to inform you that we had to skip one of the greatest poems to God’s love and caritas for us, and the love and caritas we are to hold for each other in 1 Corinthians 13—that describes God’s love, and the love Christians are therefore called to boldly embody in witness to the world. So I just want to remind you of what is lying just offstage this day. That beautiful proclamation that we had to skip this year begins with these truths:

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging symbol. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing….

Love is patient; Love is kind; Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; It is not irritable or resentful; It does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

That love that never ends, that active, muscular love, that protects, forgives, nurtures, shelters, and embraces through grace and mercy, must be at the center of our lives in Christ—or we have no life in Christ at all, and our claim to be Christians is hollow. Our deliberate, brave embrace of the obligations those words place upon us is what makes us true witnesses to Christ in a world that has almost given up searching for him. Unless we make him visible. Unless we ourselves embody the mercy, love and grace of our Savior who came for all.

We do not get to hear these words today. But we get to see how God’s very being, how God’s very presence among us in spirit as well as flesh, is borne out, and we are called to attention to that presence and its blessings, in this festival day.

In all of our readings this weekend, we hear of focus on holy places and spaces: Malachi is attempting to prepare the people of Israel to be able to worship once again in the rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem. This is necessary because during the years of exile, the people’s collective memory of the parts of the covenant attuned to prayer in the Temple had faded. Then we have the beautiful, joyful description of being in the presence of God, and knowing it as a place of safety, security, and well-being for all that is described in Psalm 84, which is also the subject of one of my very favorite hymns we sing today.

Psalm 84 also starts with an outburst of joy as the psalmist stands within the boundaries of the Temple. And in the midst of that grandeur, we also have a beautiful, delicate, humble image. The image of the sparrow and the swallow, two tiny birds who could both fit in the palm of one hand, so fragile and vulnerable, nonetheless knowing that they were safe by the altars of God—that really speaks to me. They feel so safe they have made their homes, their nests, right up alongside the altars of God. The utter transformation of the holy temple of God described here becomes even more vivid when we consider that in other biblical testimony, including our gospel, birds were more likely to be sacrificed near that altar than find their home there.

We have in these readings today a celebration of dedication and promises fulfilled, both for the very young and for the very old. A baby boy is brought into the temple to be dedicated to God as the firstborn son, as required in Exodus. His parents, not being wealthy, choose the least expensive of the pair of birds to be offered on the altar, we assume. His mother also was to go through rites of purification from childbirth. But this is not simply any baby—this is, as is proclaimed openly in the courts of the Temple by an old man of faith named Simeon—the Messiah himself. Simeon, and Anna, proclaim the great mercy God has for us in sending us a Savior to teach us, step by step, how to be true children of God—each and every one precious and beloved, especially those in danger or trouble.

Simeon’s famous song of praise, the Nunc dimittis, is often prayed during evening prayer, vespers, or compline in the Episcopal Church as a canticle. It signifies, in these uses, the fading of the light of one day into the hope of another, the sense of peace on has in being in the presence of God as night begins, which for much of human history was a time of fear, as fevers could strike in the night that could claim one for death before morning. Simeon’s joyful proclamation that he has had the promise God made to him fulfilled so that he can now depart in peace from this life, is a comfort to those who are of advanced age or in danger.

Last night at the 505 the worshipers all prayed that part of the gospel aloud. And in praying that prayer of Simeon’s, we are reminded that Jesus sets us free from all fear, even the fear of death. The fear of scarcity. Jesus sets us free—so that we can share the gospel of love, freedom, and welcome with all of those we encounter. With all who are made in the image of God, who bear the love of God, even down to the tiniest sparrow.

As Christians, we do not attach the dwelling place of God to a particular place. No, instead, we are called to ourselves make ourselves a living temple for our God, within us. We do this by following the precepts of God, and by embodying them and standing up for them even in the face of contempt or hostility in the world around us. We honor the dignity and worth of every person, No exceptions, as we have been discussing our baptismal covenant repeatedly this Epiphany season. We do this by aligning ourselves with the refugee, the homeless, the poor, the outcast, just as Jesus did.

When we preach and pronounce God’s mercy, we must do it boldly. We must place that message as witnesses before the thrones of power. We must especially do it when we encounter forces that seek to dehumanize and mock, and threaten the most helpless among us. The concept of the church as a sanctuary and refuge is many millennia old--- going all the way back to the Torah. It is an obligation that is similar to the seal of the confessional. Worship spaces as shelters and refuges is a sacred tradition and fulfillment of the Law and Gospel.

We were reminded last week that we are all the members of Christ’s Body, and that the Church only exists if it makes Christ’s body visible and active in the world, no matter the cost. When the Church has NOT been a safe place for people, that has been a failure of our call to witness to the gospel of Jesus. May we ever be willing to stand up and stand with those who seek refuge, and mercy. To stand between those the world counts worthless and instead proclaim to others what we ourselves have received: the love, mercy, and grace revealed in making Jesus visible in the world ourselves.

When we realize that our very bodies are the dwelling place of God, all that we do matters in proclaiming the gospel.

“The sparrow has found her a house
and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young; *
by the side of your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.

Happy are they who dwell in your house! *
they will always be praising you.

Happy are the people whose strength is in you! *
whose hearts are set on the pilgrims' way.


Hear these words again, and take this opportunity to make an altar in your heart where the most vulnerable may find not just refuge but protection and security. And when you do so, do so knowing you are helping other eyes to see our Savior, who calls us all to safety, and security, and hope. Who loves us with a love that never fails. We have been set free, for our eyes have seen the Savior. Let us stand up for that freedom for all by making Christ visible for all. Bu boldly bearing the light of Christ into the darkest parts of our hearts and of our society. By being and insisting upon sanctuary, grace, and mercy for all. No exceptions.

Amen.

Preached at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Malachi 3:1-4

Psalm 84

Hebrews 2:14-18

Luke 2:22-40

Prayer, day 2441: For the Feast of St. Francis

Our God and our All, 
we place ourselves within the bounds of your peace, 
and give You thanks for your lovingkindness. 
Let your light shine in our hearts 
like Brother Sun and Sister Moon and all the stars, 
that we may walk in peace and joy. 
You have placed our feet upon Mother Earth, 
who sustains us and provides us our food: 
may we honor and tend her in love. 
As we pass through this day, your gift, 
may we be gentle and forgiving to all, 
praising You, O God, in all that we are, do, and say. 
Enlighten our minds, 
that we may act from a perfect charity, 
and sing forth your praises always. 
You are love and peace, Lord Christ: 
 draw into your embrace 
all those whom we remember before you as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2068: Inspired by the Jubilate

You are the source of all goodness, O God,
and our shelter in times of trial.
The lands ring out their joy to God,
whose mercy never fails.
God calls each one by name,
and we answer our shepherd's call.
We know You have made us
and are with us, O Loving One,
and we sing your praise.
Your gates open before us;
let us enter with thanksgiving,
sure in your reception and protection of us.
We call upon You and You answer us,
for your faithfulness endures from age to age.
Strengthen and vouchsafe those who call upon You,
especially these for whom we pray.

Amen.
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Defying Expectations: Sermon for the 3rd Sunday of Advent, Year A

Preached at the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Town and Country, Missouri,
December 11, 10 am

Readings:
Isaiah 35:1-10
Canticle 15
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11

Last week, I was unable to be here with you because I was in a car wreck last Saturday, and Pamela urged me to stay home. The wreck came as a total surprise. I had pulled up at a four-way stop, and two cars perpendicular to me pulled up at the same time just a second later. So, knowing that four-way stops are always trouble, I waved the other two cars through. All the stops but mine were then empty, which is just how I like my four-way stops—I don’t know about you. Imagine my shock, then, when as I was in the middle of the intersection I heard a huge bang and then had something white loom up in front of my eyes and the next thing I know I was spinning. And it was some GOOD, thrilling spinning, let me tell you. People pay hundreds of dollars at Disney World for such spinning.

I entered that intersection expecting to get through it and go on my merry way. It is an understatement to say that I most certainly and without a doubt did NOT get what I expected.

There are many people in our readings today who also did not get what they expected. 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.

This will be the vision that greets the eyes of the faithful ones, the followers of the Way of God. Instead of desolation, they will see fertility and abundance and beauty. They will see a land of promise. And they will rejoice, and all will live together in wholeness as a community at peace.

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 Jesus comes by this radical vision of real peace and wholeness honestly. It was given to him by his Father in Heaven. It was proclaimed by his Mother here on Earth in her brave hymn of praise and rebellion known as the Magnificat, which has been prayed and sung and whispered throughout the ages. 

Biblical scholar and Anglican bishop N. T. Wright calls the Magnificat
“the gospel before the gospel,
a fierce bright shout of triumph
thirty weeks before Bethlehem,
thirty years before Calvary and Easter.” 

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 vision for us.

It’s a gospel which has always confounded any who try to twist it based on their own expectations. 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. 

Jesus IS a strong man- make no mistake. As God incarnate, he COULD treat us as infants and take care of everything. But Jesus’s strength as God, clothed in humanity, is rooted in love, not fear. Jesus’s message is about healing us, strengthening us, empowering us for the work he is going to send US into the world to do in his name. 

Jesus didn’t come to patronize us or treat us as infants, but to lead us back into the full vision of humanity that was planted in us by God in creation: a vision of wholeness, integrity, justice, and peace that our Jewish brethren sum up in one small word: “shalom.” And Jesus shows us who he is by what he does in the name of mercy and healing, not by what he says in condemnation or by threats.

So John sends some of his followers to ask Jesus straight up: “Are you the One we have been waiting for, or is there another?” There is a little bit of a forlorn quality in the question. John seems to be wondering, “Have I been wasting my time? Have I been wrong about what my role is?”

Notice how Jesus answers John here, too. Jesus is NOT about Jesus. Jesus does not say, “Yes, I am he! I have healed the blind, the lame, the lepers, the deaf! I have raised the dead! I have brought hope to the poor!” Jesus lets the actions speak for themselves. He emphasizes the healing, not the credit that is due. He puts the focus on the kingdom, healed and established on foundations of wholeness, rather than his status. He echoes the prophecies we heard in our section of Isaiah today. He fulfills the promises his mother shouted out with defiant joy in her canticle today.

So what we see here is that 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.

Jesus reminds us that his ministry will surprise us, and will lead us in ways we did not expect and heal us in ways we may not even deserve. “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” he 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. 

John asks who Jesus is. Now in the second half of our reading Jesus asks the crowds if they understand who John is. A “reed shaken in the wind” would have been someone who sought to appeal to popular opinion, who would have said what was pleasing to the crowd. That certainly wasn’t John—and in the end, it isn’t Jesus, either, then or now. Was John a smoothly groomed, tanned, manicured huckster in a bespoke suit, preaching an easy message in some plush setting? Not even close. But even John lost sight of the fact that the inbreaking of God’s kingdom into the world would completely upend all the power structures he despised-- by NOT playing into them and the inherent violence that is the foundation of human systems of empire and domination.

John is a prophet—but more than a prophet. He is the last great prophet of the old age, who is pointing to the new age. He is the transition between the Old Testament, which depended upon prophets to explain the ways of God, and the New Testament, which has the Messiah, who is a prophet and God incarnate. Yet the least in the kingdom of heaven—among those who have faith in Jesus as the Christ—are greater than John at this moment, not because John is doubting, but because John is trying to impose his own expectation upon Jesus. Jesus’s ministry is making John uncomfortable, because it is not what he expected.

Advent kind of does the same number on us. We are anticipating Christmas, with a cute chubby baby lying in a manger, and instead we get this fully grown holy man speaking riddles and challenges as well as hope. 

We can see one thing, though. Jesus is his MOTHER’S son, as well as the Son of God. “My soul proclaims the GREATNESS of the Lord, and my spirit REJOICES in God my Savior!” she cries out. “God has lifted up the lowly, starting with me, and has placed his strong arm before me!” she sings. And Jesus himself, in his words and actions, proclaims the very same thing.

Jesus was NOT the one that John was expecting. And John certainly wasn’t the only one confounded. Jesus often confounded those who encountered him—and still does, today more than ever! Look around at all the different gospel visions we see proclaimed today in the name of Christ! 

We don’t own Jesus—Jesus owns us.

That’s why we identify ourselves through his title as Christ. Now the next question to logically proceed is this: Who, then are we, and what are we to do?

Nothing less than carry Jesus and his gospel of healing, mercy, and fierce compassion into the world. We, like Mary, are called to be Christ-bearers, to be disciples, not just fans. We are called to a way of life that saves us right now, not in some distant future, through our own lives bearing testimony to the JOY that is God’s kingdom. As Caryll Houselander reminds us in her book of devotions to Mary called The Reed of God, Mary is not just human, she is humanity. She is us. Houselander writes, “The one thing she did and does is the one thing that we all have to do, namely to bear Christ into the world. Christ must be born from every soul, formed in every life.”

And that means making Jesus’s path our own, and remembering that he seeks to live within us right now. As Christians, we are called to be the body of Christ and to literally embody Christ. The operating instructions are right before us: in this season of darkness, our business is to shine that light of healing, of compassion, of love even in the face of hate, into the world.

Given that this third Sunday in Advent is called “Gaudete” or “Joy” Sunday, what could be more joyful than to be reminded that God generously defies our expectations again and again? Throughout scripture God calls us to turn away from systems of behavior based on scarcity and anxiety. The reading from Isaiah reminds us that God does not intend for us to live that way, nor to try to impose that anxiety and fear upon others. If we see the face of God in each and every fellow being, how can we hope that others will “lose” so that we will “win?” That kind of losing and winning denies the inherent goodness and dignity of EVERY human being that we repeated a couple of weeks ago at the baptism we celebrated together. 

If it sounds crazy to hope for such a world, that’s because maybe it is. That’s why our presiding bishop calls us “crazy Christians.” We are called not to give in to being ground down by the expectations and limitations of this world, but to work to establish the kingdom of heaven on Earth. And that involves defying expectations and challenging injustice and impoverishments of all kinds in the name of mercy and the Love who came and is coming into the world as Jesus Christ our Savior.

Amen.

Prayer, Day 1383- inspired by the Jubilate

Statue, Christ Church Cathedral, St. Louis.

(Inspired by the Jubilate)
You are the source of all goodness, O God, and our shelter in times of trial. The lands ring out their joy to God, whose mercy never fails. God calls each one by name, and we answer our shepherd's call. We know You have made us and are with us, O Loving One, and we sing your praise. Your gates open before us; let us enter with thanksgiving, sure in your reception and protection of us. We call upon You and You answer us, for your faithfulness endures from age to age. Strengthen and vouchsafe those who call upon You, especially these for whom we pray.

Amen.
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Prayer 1058

As the light arises in the East, so the dawn from on high breaks over us: Come, O Light of Christ, and fill our hearts! 

You, O God, are full of mercy and loving-kindness: may our souls sing out and magnify the Lord, who has done great things for us! 
May we rise from our beds with a song on our lips, for the Almighty is our Shield and our Strength. 

Set our hearts and minds upon the pilgrim's path of justice, wisdom, and equanimity, O Holy One, we pray. 

May we radiate joy and contentment in the courts of praise, and turn our hands to tikkun olam, the repair of the world. May we come at your call, Lord Christ, and rejoice as we are gathered into your embrace. 

Bless and keep us as the apple of your eye, O Redeemer, and make your face shine upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Paths of Peace: Speaking to the Soul, December 4, 2015

The dawn from on high will break upon us....

I got up the past few mornings early, unable to sleep. The night seemed heavy and impenetrable. Memories of yet another massacre hung in my head as I settled in to do my morning prayers. As I read the Lord’s Prayer, I closed my eyes and said those words slowly and deliberately, holding in my heart all those on my prayer list, especially the families in San Bernardino who have had a new identity thrust open them: that of victims of violence and mass murder. I opened my eyes, and saw that the sun had miraculously risen again, suddenly and stealthily, and in that roseate light my eyes fell upon these words in the Prayer Book from the Song of Zechariah:

In the tender compassion of our God

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

We will hear these words again as the canticle for this upcoming second Sunday in Advent. We will say together the words of hope and anticipation, words that express the joy of longing almost within reach. A prayer of thanks for God’s care and concern over us even in the midst of turmoil, and that calls us to turn, to repent, to change our orientation from darkness and toward light.

Even in the chill of approaching winter, in the shadow of terror that hangs over our world,  it seems all to easy to respond to violence with violence , to meet fear with fear. In a time that seems all too enmeshed in aggression, in rejection, in hate, the Song of Zechariah holds out the hope that we can be led back to paths of peace from darkness and the shadow of death—that same terrible place mentioned in the 23^rd Psalm, the place where hope seems the dimmest, when all life and hope hangs by a thread. But that is also where God waits with us, sending forth light in the darkness to allow us to change our orientation toward death and fear, and toward light and hope.

Singer/songwriter Tracy Chapman has a beautiful song, called “Change,” that ends with this repeated question: “If you saw the face of God and Love, would you change?” Advent is a time that reminds us that change is coming, but that change requires our agency, if only through being willing to persevere, to hope and then to act. Chapman’s song asks, “What chain reaction, what cause and effect makes you turn around, makes you forgive and forget?” Too often we are told that nothing will change. But what if Zechariah’s song points us toward an answer? What if we turn away from the darkness and hopelessness that weighs us down, and instead turn our eyes toward the shattering light of hope, and then put our feet on the path of peace instead? The light of God is not just comfort but strength, strength to envision a better world for ourselves, and to act to bring it to birth.

Have we ever needed words such as these more? Zechariah’s song is full of hope, anticipating a victory for those who have been afraid for far too long. Zechariah sings of freedom—freedom from fear, from the hands of those who hate us. If you remember the last time that you felt gripped by fear, you remember how it may have felt like a vise, like bands across your chest, making it hard to breathe, to move, to speak.

Our way out of the darkness starts with opening our eyes to hope—hope strengthened by the knowledge that we are called to change, to turn our feet from paths of fear to paths of peace.

Blessed be God, indeed, for God has come to the people and set them free—free to worship without fear. And fear seems the biggest enemy of all for us—fear of the sudden darkness and cold that steals upon us when we turn our eyes from the light we hope is just over the horizon. The Song of Zechariah reminds us that it is fear that binds us, but God is there to give us the strength to break free, and once free to determine for ourselves to put our feet on a different path.

(This was first published on Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for December 4, 2015.)