Transfigured Sight: Sermon for the Last Sunday after Epiphany A

When I was 17 years old, my mother and I went to Europe for two weeks after my high school graduation, spending our time mostly in the UK and Germany. This was travel done completely on the cheap: because Dad worked as a mechanic for American Airlines, we could fly standby, and if we were lucky enough to get a seat, we could get to Europe for about 150 bucks each. We went to London first, rented the cheapest car available, and stayed in the cheapest hotels available—sometimes even sleeping in the car to make our money go further or eating these weird British sandwiches that have butter and ham-- together. And ironically, we got there just in time for the birth of Prince William—in fact, I was standing in front of Buckingham Palace when the announcement was made—right behind a band of 70- and 80-year-old ladies drunk from drinking champagne all night and singing countless rounds of “Rule Brittannia.”

Mom was all about the genealogy—and since most of her people came from Scotland, she wanted to get up there as soon as possible. I however, being a history nerd, wanted to at least visit the British Museum. I wanted to see the Elgin marbles, the Rosetta Stone, the Sutton Hoo burial treasures, and mummies. So since this was technically “my trip,” she relented and I blazed through the British Museum in a precious afternoon while she, frankly, waited impatiently for us to go to Scotland by train that evening. And I got to see all of those amazing things-- and then some.

But then, there was a traveling exhibit there of modern art from the Museum of Modern Art. Mom wanted nothing to do with it, but I paid the extra fee and went in. I wandered around for a while, looking at works by Salvador Dali, Picasso, Rene Magritte, Frida Kahlo, and on and on. I paused at a painting by Joan Miro, a surrealist artist from Catalan in Spain. I don’t know if you are familiar with his works, but they often consist of a bunch of tiny objects scattered around the space of the painting or print.

Now, when I was a kid, I had a weak eye, and even had to go to therapy for it, so I have a tendency to this day of cocking my head to one side to move my stronger eye closer to something I really want to see. I was standing there trying my darnedest to understand anything about this piece of art when I heard a unique voice over my shoulder ask me “Do you like this work?” And I thought, somebody is pulling my damn’ leg, because that sounds like Vincent Price, the actor in horror classics such as The House of Wax and The Pit and the Pendulum. I decided I was either lightheaded from lack of food or the ham and butter sandwiches-- or the victim of some prankster.

Imagine my shock when I turned to face the voice, and it WAS Vincent Price. No kidding. I tried to keep my jaw from dropping and said something like, ‘Well, yes sir, Mr. Price, I am not sure if I like it, because I do NOT understand it.” He then smiled kindly and said, “Would you like to know more about it?” and I stammered yes before he changed his mind. He then told me he had studied English and art history at Yale after growing up in St. Louis, and was an art collector. He then generously spent the next 30 minutes or so taking me thorough the high points of the exhibit, explaining great works of art to me in that incredible voice. So there I was having a surreal moment in a surrealist art exhibit with the man who a year later would perform a rap for Michael Jackson on his Thriller album. It was incredible.

In those few minutes, Vincent Price tried to help me learn how to see modern art, and appreciate it. And after a mere 30 minutes of his kindness, I DID begin to see things I had never seen before in great works of art. Now, the things he taught me to see had always been there—but until I knew what to look for, they passed outside of my comprehension.

That’s the way it is about vision. You can look at things without really seeing them—and in fact that is the most common reaction we have to the wave of visual stimulation that floods into our brains throughout a single day. Most of it flows by unnoticed. It’s the only way we could survive, from an evolutionary perspective.

But that also means we risk missing entire worlds as we skim over the surface of our daily lives. We have to consciously stop and look below the surface to really see and understand anything important. And that’s especially hard in these days, isn’t it? We are increasingly distracted, increasingly hurried, increasingly overstimulated. We have convinced ourselves that we stand above nature rather than seeing that we are not only PART of nature, but dependent upon the natural world for our very survival. We fail to see the escalating patterns of natural disasters, especially droughts and wildfires and climbing temperatures and the very real part we play in making those things worse.

We see so much violence and cruelty even in our chosen forms of entertainment in movies and video games that we cease to see these things as real and present horrors that we are actually called to work against. 

At the same time, there are forces at loose among us that are actively trying to prevent our seeing and knowing things—especially racism, sexism, and hatred of anyone different from us that permeates every single aspect of our common lives together. We see leaders attempt to dehumanize the oppressed, the poor, the unhoused so that we don’t really see them as human being, much less souls beloved by God to whom we, as Christians are called to have not just love, but an obligation to stand alongside them. Sometimes there is so much suffering that it all blurs together—like the now daily litany of mass-shooting events in the United States.

And perhaps it all boils down to this one particular failure to see: the failure to see the image and imprint of God in everyone and every thing around us. And especially right now, the attempt to blind ourselves and our children from seeing others as equally valuable, and specifically the attempt to prevent our young people from developing the skill and faculty of empathy in their dealings with those around them. This is perhaps the greatest danger we now face in this cultural moment. If you don’t SEE other people’s challenges, much less their beauty, and if you refuse to learn about other people’s struggles, as well as their triumphs, you don’t really SEE them as fellow human beings. It’s just that simple.

This attempt to blind us to the reality of the suffering around us has very real consequences for us as a nation—it is intended to divide us and keep us at each other’s throats. But it also has a very severe spiritual component, especially for those of us who call ourselves Christian. Jesus ALWAYS took the side of expanding our understanding. He was a teacher who repeatedly encouraged deeper insight into our call to live together in community as part of our very nature and as part of our worship of God. Jesus, especially as God’s son, accepted incarnation into human flesh so that he could open our eyes to truly see what living a life that honored God was like. And a large part of helping us see what that life looked like was helping us see each other as filled with the divine spark, each and every one of us.

Jesus did not draw his three friends up on that mountaintop so he could perform magic tricks. Instead he revealed to them who he really was. They knew him as a very human friend and teacher, who ate, slept, walked, travelled and lived with them. But up on that mountaintop, just for a moment, Jesus pulls aside the vesture of him humanity and shows them that at the same time he is also God. Now, we call this incident “the transfiguration,” and we focus on how Jesus’s appearance has changed. And there are so many sensory details: the blinding light, the appearance of the greatest law-giver in Moses and the greatest prophet in Elijah, each of whom also had their own holy experience with God on a mountaintop and were changed by it.

But who was really transfigured here? Let me suggest that the real impact of this story, especially as we prepare to enter the season of Lent, is that Jesus challenged his followers then and right now, to see themselves and each other in a deeper way. WE are the ones who are called to be transfigured and transformed by really SEEING who we are, and understanding the beauty and the duty of the implications of that reality. The actual people who were intended to be most transformed by this event were those who saw it—Peter and John and James, and by listening to the story, you and me. Six days after Peter first dares to say it out loud, Jesus affirms that he is, indeed, the son of God, both human and divine. But he also reminds us that we all have that divinity within us. Jesus becomes human to show us how to live as children of God. Jesus comes to us to show us how to truly SEE the divine fire within each and every one of us, and within all of creation. Once we see that holiness within us and around us, we can begin to respond with reverence and empowerment to confront the sins, sorrows, and evils of this world, and root them out as contrary to God’s loving call to us to walk in God’s ways, which is the true object of the Christian life.

The ability to see, and understand what is being shown, is vital to our lives as both humans and as disciples. Because Jesus came to the world not simply so that each of us can save our souls from hell. That’s a transaction, and Jesus was never transactional. He was not for sale. Grace and forgiveness and mercy are given to us in every moment of our lives. Stop and really SEE that. And then, with the newly awakened eyes of our hearts and souls, let us go out and act upon sharing that vision with the world, and acting accordingly.

AMEN.

Preached at the 505 and the 10:30 services of Holy Eucharist on the weekend of February 18-19, 2023, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

• Exodus 24:12-18
• 2 Peter 1:16-21
• Matthew 17:1-9
• Psalm 2

Transfiguration at Dawn: Speaking to the Soul, February 16, 2023

Exodus 24:12-18
2 Peter 1:16-21
Matthew 17:1-9


Something called the sleeper to wakefulness
to stand outside in the hour before dawn;
large flecks of snow arrowing out of the inky sky
looming suddenly, then swerving past.
They shush the interior chatter: “Be still.”
And as the unclad trees glow from within
the snow twines about like maypole ribbons

to communicate the wisdom each flake has drawn into itself
before vanishing when earth is met.
The creation light within each trunk
transfigures scrub oak to holy sentinels:
that light breathing in tree and stone and witness.

And the warmth of God’s pleasure stirs within the firs.

What is the origin of this light?
The forest switched on like Christmas trees,
vividly living against the night,

and the dark, silken, stars beyond a veil of cloud overhead.

They say when Moses was pulled up the holy mountain,
each cell vibrating and dancing like iron shavings over a magnet,
God’s glory rested upon the peak like wildfire cloud, and
he alighted face alit, God’s glow clinging to him like a shout. And when Jesus
took James, John, and Peter atop another, no less holy, prominence,
that fire, and that sacred love, came down,
and settled within and burst beyond that familiar, beloved body.
Jesus glowed like a sun, the true morning star
that guides weary wanderers home.
The air sizzled with God’s love,
stripping his friends of words but filling them with wonder.

The mountain can provide both a vista
and a frank reminder of the valleys that lie among us:
Jesus’s glory bursts forth from him,
twining around his friends and dazzling their hearts,
but the light has been there all the time.
God’s spark with our heart likewise stirs,

and the holy atoms dance.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 16, 2023.

Choosing Life by Grace: Speaking to the Soul, February 9, 2023

Deuteronomy 30:15-20



For the first 14 years of my teaching career, I taught 7th graders in middle school. I honestly loved much of it—even the dreaded “advisement” or “homeroom” class. One year, our teacher cohort designed some modules that taught logic and ethics, and those modules generated some of the best discussions I ever had outside of a reading class with that age of students.

I still remember this discussion we once after one of the kids asked whether, if you were forced to choose only one, you would rather be really kind or really intelligent. It was a great discussion—one that lasted most of the week.

I was surprised that—by a wide margin-- most of my students chose being really kind over having “high intelligence.” The consensus eventually was that you can overcome having high academic aptitude by hard work, but there was no shortcut to kindness.

One of my students put it this way: If one life is all we get, then we should live it in a way that our consciences are clean, and we have the comfort of knowing we are trying to be good people who don’t try to hurt anyone. Even if other people who are jerks seem to get away with murder, the fact is that there is almost always a lot of hurt behind their meanness, and that’s the real waste of a life. Without knowing it, she was describing the embodiment of grace.

This was from a twelve-year-old. And some people think middle schoolers are incapable of anything but emotional neediness. So wrong.

In our reading from Deuteronomy this Sunday, Moses is making plain the importance of choices and understanding the consequences of our decisions to this Israelites. Here, Moses reminds the Israelites that they have entered a covenantal relationship with God, and that entails blessings for obedience, but curses for faithlessness.

The choice before all of us, as Deuteronomy dramatically puts it, is that between death and life. This can be interpreted in a variety of ways. In the hands of preachers of my youth, this was part of what was known as “retribution theology,” where sin led inevitably to hell after death. Our relationship with God was based on a simple sort of justice: do good- receive heaven; do bad-receive hell. Then there would inevitably lead to a long list of “don’ts”—don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t swear, don’t wear slacks (for the ladies), don’t read Catcher in the Rye, don’t watch The Life of Brian—all would lead to damnation. Punishment awaited the slightest misstep. Yet misstep we did. The problem is that this system is simple, and God is not simple. This system has no place for grace. None of us are perfect. Yet, through grace, God loves us anyway.

As mature persons of faith, we are invited into the reality that being a faithful person is worthwhile even if hard times befall you, because being a faithful person who lives a compassionate, open-hearted life is not just a reward but a life-giving gift. Choosing life means this: love God, walk in God’s ways, observe God’s commandments. And always, always be kind.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 9, 2023.

Good Intentions: Sermon for 5th Sunday after Epiphany A (And Scouting Sunday)

One of my all-time favorite movies is Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein, a spoof on the horror movie genre of the 30s and 40s, the era of Lon Cheney and Bela Lugosi. Brooks takes the granddaddy of all horror stories to poke fun at, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, strips it of everything but the idea of the struggle between monster and creator, and gets down to work, aided by a brilliant cast that includes Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman, Cloris Leachman, Madeleine Kahn, and Peter Boyle.

One of the scenes depicts young Viktor Frankenstein, who has become convinced that his grandfather's work reanimating dead bodies is actually possible, being led by his assistant Igor into the local cemetery to get a suitable body for his experiment. They've decided on someone very, very large, to make regenerating the nerves easier. Just their luck, a local criminal has been hanged who's nearly seven feet tall. So they sneak into the cemetery, and begin to dig up the body. With ominous music, the coffin is shown rising up from the depths. Deep in a hole they have dug around the coffin, both Viktor and his assistant Igor appear, and spit out mouthfuls of dirt, fully aware of how disgusting their situation is.

“What a filthy job!” Viktor says to Igor, as they are 5 feet deep in the hole.

“Could be worse,” says Igor, sunnily.

“HOW?” pouts Viktor.

“Could be raining,” Igor replies,-- and just then lightning flashes across the sky. Viktor and Igor look at each other, and five seconds later an absolute deluge arrives. Viktor looks sourly at Igor, who put on a brave face and blinks rapidly as they immediately get soaked to the skin. (1)

I imagine a few of our Scouting families have experienced the same thing on some of their outdoor adventures. Even when everything has gone wrong at a campsite, just remember—it could be worse—it could be raining.

You know, attitude, perspective, and a sense of proportion really are everything in life. To quote another great childhood movie hero of mine, Mary Poppins, drudge work really IS better when you are singing a song as you go along, a spoon full of sugar does make the medicine go down in the most delightful way.

Our readings today are all centered on instruction for life, on having the correct attitudes in doing what we do. Each of the communities being addressed in each reading is in turmoil or transition of some kind, which can create the worst kind of stress. Jesus is in the middle of his first big series of lessons in Matthew’s gospel, the Sermon on the Mount. He is taking a group of people who have been following him around looking for miracles and trying to change their perception of themselves. When he talks about his listeners being salt, light, and a city on a hill, he is telling them that rather than waiting for miracles to be performed in front of them by Jesus, that they themselves ARE the miracles that can change the world, if they allow God’s vision of human flourishing to root in their hearts and change their own understanding of responsibility. In his teaching, Jesus is forming them from a ragtag set of individuals into a COMMUNITY that works for the benefits of the world—just like Scouting.

The members of the church in Corinth that Paul is talking to are split into factions based on wealth, power, and claims of holiness, and this division prevents them from growing in faith. How many of us have experienced that kind of division? Maybe a better question would be: when have we NOT experienced that kind of division? But it doesn’t have to be that way.

The people being addressed by the prophet Isaiah have returned from exile under the protection of the Persian Empire, and have rebuilt their temple. And yet, their return to worship has not led them to a deeper spirituality. Instead, everything has become performative—about making a show and making worship all about themselves, rather than about God and allowing God to reshape their lives. They think they’re in charge, and that they can manipulate God by doing the right rituals the right way, but without their heart in it. Worship has become a hypocritical way of showing off, a piece of performance, rather than an act that shapes their outer lives.

In each case, the people are being urged to reorient their attitudes from merely going through the motions selfishly, but instead being true believers who put their principles into action, to be people of abundance, to become a community of the faithful who work to bring about empathy, justice and shalom into a world that desperately needs it—to shift from an inward, consumerist focus to an outward looking, unified force for good, even if that requires naming the part they play in the systems of injustice that surround them, if only by their silence.

The reading from Isaiah 59 questions empty observance of ritual without allowing true repentance to take root in our hearts. This passage addresses the problem of empty worship—worship that makes the worshiper feel good, or that makes the worshiper look good in the eyes of his or her neighbors, but ultimately is an empty gesture because it does not lead to a conversion of the heart and the soul.

How important is it to put your heart into what you do? Or is it more important to simply follow the rules and checklists of our “to-do” lists? It depends upon what we are doing— if you’re paying your property taxes, no one really expects you to be filled with joy as you do your duty—unless, and I am not kidding here, you can envision your money going to making sure children go through the school day fed as well as educated, you can envision to smooth roads you travel upon as being paid for by those tax dollars, or you can imagine your taxes supporting the EMTs who just saved your neighbor’s life and got them to the hospital. Because guess what? That is EXACTLY what your taxes do—and more. 

Likewise, in worshipping God, attitude is everything and the value of worship is made visible not in whether you feel you were entertained, but in how you are then empowered to act for good in the world beyond these doors. Worship is not a series of actions. Worship IS an attitude, just as love is. Worship is made holy by holy intention.

Specifically, Isaiah points out that fasting is actually an easier sacrifice than addressing issues of systematic injustice and oppression—and we all know Isaiah is correct. That’s why systematic oppression and injustice continues even in communities where a vast majority of people claim to be people of faith. In the Talmud, which is a collection of commentary on Jewish scripture that has been collected over the centuries, the rabbis make it clear that how one acts in their regular lives is more important than how one worships.

Rabbi Elazar said: One who performs acts of charity is greater than one who sacrifices all types of offerings, as it is stated: “To perform charity and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than an offering” (Proverbs 21:3), including all types of offerings. And Rabbi Elazar said: Acts of kindness, assisting someone in need, are greater than charity, as it is stated: “Sow to yourselves according to charity, and reap according to kindness” (Hosea 10:12)…. And Rabbi Elazar said: Anyone who performs charity and justice is considered as though he filled the whole world in its entirety with kindness, as it is stated: “He loves charity and justice; the earth is full of the kindness of the Lord” (Psalms 33:5). (2)

And actually, as I was reading their commentary, I was reminded of the Scout Oath and the Scout Law, which seek to orient Scouts as to how to live their lives even outside of Scout meetings, and even when they have become adults.

Jesus spends a huge amount of his time reminding us of God’s abundance, of God’s generous love and gift of grace, probably because we live most of our lives being told to see everyone around us as competition for scarce resources, and see strangers as potential “takers of our stuff.” But if we see ourselves as salt, without which life is not possible, or light, without which vision isn’t possible, suddenly we understand that we are called to take what has already been given to us, which is a miracle in and of itself, and DO something with it for the sake of the worl, not just for our own benefit.

In Scouting, life principles are taught through learning new things, and changing Scouts’ perceptions of themselves, their roles in their communities, and even their roles in nature, right? For instance, when camping, there’s the principle of “Leave No Trace.” That is broken down in a variety of ways: pack it in, pack it out. Leave what you find. Stay on established paths for the sake of vegetation, especially if your group is large. Only make a fire as large as you need. Observe wildlife without disturbing it. And these rules you practice at, say, Philmont, will also do you good in the wilds of New York City—especially the bit about not disturbing the local wildlife. The point is being taught consideration and respect for your surroundings and the people in them, whether you are in a tent or not. They're also meant to shape your lifelong intentions to those of being caring, careful, and attentive to consequences.

Through Isaiah’s words, God continues offering practical advice for those who want to LIVE as children of God in word, name, and example. Ultimately God further clarifies the point of sacrifices: they are meant to give us the blessing of being holy, of being part of something larger than ourselves. Sacrifices are meant to give us the blessing of living without fear.

And what is the result of following these kinds of sacrifices—the kind that make the person doing these kinds of sacrifices holy, blameless, and even blessed in the sight of God and for the good of the world around us? Isaiah tells us that by being generous and openhearted in our own lives, God will pour out abundance within our hearts, making us joyful and even fearless in all we do in the name of God. Isaiah also promises that by offering our true fast to God, “Our lights will shine out for all to see.” Just as Jesus assures his followers in our gospel today.

In our daily lives, our religious lives, and in our Scouting lives, there certainly are times when our actions seem outwardly correct, but lack a conviction of the heart. This is also a common theme in scripture. Thus Isaiah reorients the term “fast” here in an unusual way—turning the concept of sacrifice on its head. Basically God is saying this: Don’t fast to me out of fear—offer your best to me and those around you out of love. Be fearless in giving to others. Be fearless in fighting wrong, even if it costs you. Don’t make a show of doing without if, after you end your fast, you continue to engage in activities that ignore the plight of the suffering, or even adds to that suffering.

Do you want to make a sacrifice that pleases me? God asks. Fight injustice and oppression. Feed the hungry and bring the poor into your home just as eagerly as you would an honored guest—which was a very serious obligation in the Mediterranean culture of that time. Clothe those who are naked. Help your family members rather than try to hide from those who need help. And do it all not out of fear, but out of love. Be fearless in living out of love, and your light will shine out for all to see.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist on February 5, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

• Isaiah 58:1-9a, [9b-12]
• 1 Corinthians 2:1-12, [13-16]
• Matthew 5:13-20
• Psalm 112:1-9, (10)

Citations:

1) Mel Brooks, Young Frankenstein,-- video of the scene found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mC4VflOayBw 

2) Sukkah 49b, the William Davidson Talmud, found at https://www.sefaria.org/Sukkah.49b.13?lang=bi&with=all&lang2=en

3) "The Principles of 'Leave No Trace'" at Boy Scouts of America, https://www.scouting.org/programs/scouts-bsa/troop-resources/leave-no-trace/teaching-leave-no-trace/064-principles/

Salt and Faith: Speaking to the Soul, Feb. 2, 2023

“You are the salt of the earth… and the light of the world.” Matthew 5:13, 16


Reminder of the warm seas of our primordial wading ashore
in ages beyond words; or
the amniotic fluid that caressed and cushioned us
beneath our mother’s beating heart;
or the taste and trace of tears, whether joy or sorrow.
The sun may cause the vapor to rise, but the salt remains--
the water may ascend to heaven,
but the salt as God’s gift resolutely remains.
Our very blood carries the brackish proof
of its rootedness in our lives.
Lot’s wife became intimately aware of her salty heritage
when her backwards glance made her a pillar, and a warning.

The poets say Scipio beat his swords into plowshares at Carthage’s collapse
so that he could sow not seed but salt as a blight and a curse. Rome
later paid her soldiers in salt, the first “salary,” although
some take such tales “with a grain of salt.”

But it is precious.
It was required at each meal,
and offered on altars as a sign
of covenant faithfulness and steadfastness
a reminder of tenderness where destruction could just as well rule.
It can be eaten but is never fully consumed.
It preserves;
it saves;
it provides savor and delight.
Our faithfulness is designed to be as vital, as blessed to all we encounter.
Without flavor, it is nothing but bitter grit,
just as we are,
without faith.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 2, 2023.

Taken, Broken, Blessed: Sermon for 4th Sunday After Epiphany A and Annual Meeting

Sometimes it seems that we live—and die—by numbers. Especially when it comes to our health or our status.

For instance, health: think about it. For the last three years, we have watched what the infection and hospitalization rates were from COVID, the flu, and RSV, and proceeded accordingly.

But then there’s the more prosaic numbers. How old are you? How much do you weigh? What’s your resting heart rate? What’s your cholesterol count? What’s your A1C? What’s your BMI? And the dreaded, soul-crushing, fun-sucker of all questions: how many calories are in that?

Then there’s status: How many degrees do you have? How much money do you make? How much in your 401K or Roth? How many bedrooms—or more importantly, bathrooms-- in your house or apartment? How many cars do you have, if any? How many shares of stock do you have? What iPhone model do you have? What’s your zip code? And if you think that one doesn’t matter, let me try an experiment. What numbers come after this? Beverly Hills… (90210).

And what’s worse, all the numbers in that second set can have an impact on those numbers in the first set. In fact, here in the US, depending on what zip code you are born and then live in, your life expectancy can differ from those in other neighborhoods by as much as 22 years in St. Louis County alone.

You will forgive me if numbers have been on my mind a lot lately, and on the minds of a lot of us here at St. Martin’s whether you’re a staff member or lay leader or member. It’s annual meeting time, after all, and then comes parochial report to the diocese and the Episcopal Church time, and once again that seems to be all numbers, numbers, numbers.

But I am snapped out of this obsession by our gospel today. Today, Jesus gives us nine statements of blessing—and hopefully that’s the last number I use for a while as we ponder this pivotal and yet in some ways puzzling teaching. Because for Jesus, numbers have nothing to do with belovedness or with ranking.

Instead, Jesus lists categories of people whom he names as being blessed, right now. And what’s intriguing is that the categories Jesus names are NOT categories many of us would normally associate with being in a state of favor or blessing. Especially the first four. In the first four, he singles these out: the poor in spirit, those who mourn, those who are meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

In all four of these categories, people are not there because they want to be. They are there because of trying circumstances in their lives. According to Psalm 51, the “poor in spirit” are the broken-hearted; those on the verge of giving up, or those who are oppressed. The Message translation of the Bible, which uses modern idioms, translates this verse as those who are “at the end of their rope.”

Likewise, we hear “meekness” in our macho-obsessed culture as “powerlessness” or “wimpiness” even though that was not the case in Jesus’s day—in fact, it was one of the adjectives used to describe both Jesus and Mary his mother, and neither one of them were in any way weak. Instead, their meekness was their willingness to yield to God’s will, as we pray in the Lord’s prayer every time we pray for God’s kingdom to come.

Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness and justice are those who see the brokenness in our world and cry out for resolution and correction. They are those who allow themselves to see and name the sorrows and injustices that surround us, and call on us to stand against the forces of hatred, division, and inhumanity. And as we have seen especially in the last few weeks with the death of Tyre Nichols and the release of the video evidence of his brutal murder at the hands of those who dehumanized him even though sworn to serve and protect, we also know that these categories can overlap. Those who thirst for justice are also those who mourn, and those who are at the end of their rope.

Jesus calls us to recognize ourselves within these four categories. We need to be honest and think of those times we have been in one or more of those categories, either through our own circumstances or by empathy for the circumstances of those around us. Jesus reminds us that those who are poor in spirit, those who mourn, those who protest against oppression should be as dear to us as ourselves, that we are all bound together in mutuality and love. What one suffers, we all suffer. We see that in the next three categories Jesus names as blessed: the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers.

The merciful receive mercy and it grows and grows until the violence and exploitation our society is absolutely drenched in is cut off at its knees, because the merciful will never support the merciless, no matter how much it may profit them in the short-term. The pure in heart will see God, because they will see the image of God everywhere, as they view creation with wonder and each person in it as being in the image of God Godself, as precious to us as our own breath. 

And the peacemakers—oh, the peacemakers. Here Jesus uses the term you might hear elsewhere translated as shalom, which is more than just the absence of conflict. It is working for wholeness, wellness, the common good, repairing what is broken and strengthening what is good. Peacemakers work to align humanity with God’s dream for us, vertically as it were, as well as recognizing our neighbors as just that—our neighbors, our kindred, regardless of differences—peace spreading out horizontally until it covers all the Earth.

Jesus finishes up by acknowledging the cost of living in this state of blessedness. Those last two statements of blessing may be the most paradoxical of them all. And Jesus is blunt. First, he makes a general statement: blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of working for Jesus’s gospel. Because it is certain that the forces of this world will fight tooth and nail against being overturned. But then, Jesus turns and looks at each of us and makes it clear: he means you and me. Blessed are YOU, he says. The first time he uses that word in his sermon. Blessed are YOU when you are mocked and resisted as you work to help bring my kingdom into being. He is looking right at what we now call the Church, here. We are called to stand at the nexus of each other and God and, with our fallible yet faithfully striving hands and hearts, and promote blessing instead of curses, healing instead of injury, engagement instead of apathy, care instead of disdain.

And there our gospel portion ends. If that was all we got, surely we would be left at best scratching our heads, or at worst, scoffing and declaring this precious message, this encapsulation of all of Jesus’s teaching, to be impossible and simply walk away. But we are blessed for another reason: we know the entire story of Jesus’s saving life and example among us. And when we gather in worship, we do so not for what it gives us, but for how it empowers us to give to the world.

There is a story from Hasidic Judaism. A teacher and his students in schul were studying the story in Deuteronomy when Moses gives the Ten Commandments to the people, and God commands them to place the words on their hearts. One of the disciples asks the rebbe, or teacher, “Why does Torah tell us to ‘place these words upon our hearts’? Why does it not tell us to place them in our hearts?” The rebbe answers, “It is because as we are, our hearts are closed, and we cannot place the holy words in our hearts. So we place them on top of our hearts. And there they stay until, one day, the heart breaks and the words fall in.”(1)

And we know something about blessing being possible through brokenness, don’t we? Every single time we gather around this altar, God’s altar, here at St. Martin’s, we take, break, bless, and eat. We share communion only through breaking and blessing the offerings we bring forward—not just bread and wine, or our money, but our very selves—and sharing them with each other. That’s why we ask you to rise as the offerings are brought forward. We rise because what we are truly called to offer to each other is ourselves. That’s what makes this parish a blessing in the world—the breaking open and the blessing and the consecrating of ourselves to God’s service, out of love and faith and hopefulness. Breaking open the hard muscle and fortresses of our hearts so that the words can get in, especially the most important word of all—the Word of God, Jesus.

Come, Lord Jesus. Come to us who are poor in spirit, who mourn, who seek your will, who cry out for justice and righteousness. Come to us as we embody your call to be merciful, to be pure in heart, to hammer our swords into plowshares and our hearts into worthy vessels for your love in the name of peace. Come, break us open that your Word may find a home within our hearts, and make us a blessing for the world in truth and love.

Amen.

Preached at the 9 am single service and annual meeting at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on January 29, 2023.

Readings:

Micah 6:1-8

Psalm 15

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Matthew 5:1-12

Citations:

1) Christopher K. Germer, The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion: Freeing Yourself from Destructive Thoughts and Emotions, pp. 142-143; cited in J. Marshall Jenkins, Blessed at the Broken Places: Reclaiming Faith and Purpose with the Beatitudes, loc. 756/3579, kindle edition.

Prayer 3632: Third Sunday after Epiphany A

Blessed Jesus,
you call us to leave behind our boats and follow you:
let us leave behind the boat of tribalism
to step out onto the shore of kinship;
let us leave behind the boat of self-righteousness
and step out onto the shore of seeking
that we may be filled with awe at your loving-kindness,
and wonder at your abundant grace.

Blessed Jesus,
you called us to be fishers for people:
may we gather them to you
by offering the nourishment of your gospel,
in love, not in fear,
by living out your truths in compassion and mercy,
in joyful surrender to your Way,
with the vision of a restored creation dancing before us,
rather than judgment and coercion.

Blessed Jesus, you call us to cast our nets wide:
Let us cast nets
not as a trap, not to prevent escape.
Let us cast nets
beneath those who call out for help
fearing falling into nothingness,
nets as wide
as your outstretched arms, O Savior.

Wrap the mantle of your healing, O God,
around ragged hearts and aching bodies,
that we may rejoice that the kingdom of heaven has drawn near.
Rest your hand of comfort and tenderness
upon those who call out to You.

Amen.

A Fortress Not of Stone

Psalm 27:1, 5-13

Into your courts, O Most Holy,
we come bearing our weights and burdens,
to cross the threshold and breathe in the cool air
redolent with tallow, incense, wood soap,

dust motes set ablaze and twirling
by colored grass and the breath of prayer–
a humble little church, carpet threadbare
from the tread of feet drawn to your radiance.

Your house, O God—
made not of stone or plaster,
but lyric of the human heart,
a refuge from all that assails
when we see beyond the skin that divides us
to the image of eternity with each one..

Here I see You, O redeemer,
in the beauty of your living temple:
in the sticky face of a child playing in the pew,
looking up to say “Amen;”
in the young woman whose very step across the threshold
is an act of bravery and resistance
to the pains yoked to her against her will
by those who thought themselves God’s anointed, praying
that this day she will be reminded of her beauty carved by your love;
the mother who has prays for her son awaiting diagnosis,
the young man whose job hangs by a thread,
the elderly father whose children do not call.

You call us to embrace of each other- that is your church.
To sing for those who breath is tight,
to welcome those seeking shelter,
to embody grace for the bowed down,
to flare with hope and tenderness for those casting off their burdens.
made free by your mercy.
In resting on each other,
we rest in You.
This is a fortress not of stone,
but of being a people for others.

You, God, are our sheltering fortress,
rock and refuge,
our dwelling place for all our days,
shelter in storm and trouble
made visible in the peace that we share.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 19, 2023.

Being At One With God and Neighbor: Sermon for the 2nd Sunday after Epiphany, A

The season of Epiphany is about the dawn of comprehension and understanding as to who Jesus is in terms of his role as Messiah and Savior, as Son of God, the Incarnation of God in human flesh to reveal to us who God is. Our readings we just heard are directed at that purpose.

However, we could all be forgiven for feeling a bit of whiplash. After all, last week, Jesus was still an infant, and the Wise Men from the East had just arrived—the first non-locals to proclaim Jesus as someone set aside and worthy of worship. The writers of the lectionary unfortunately skip over the next events recounted in Matthew’s gospel of Jesus’ early years—the seeking of asylum by the Holy Family in Egypt until Herod’s death, and Herod’s slaughter of the innocents attempting to kill the infant Messiah. Instead, we go straight the account in John’s gospel of Jesus suddenly being an adult, and being proclaimed the Lamb of God by his cousin John the Baptist to his own followers.

Jesus is referred to twice by his cousin John as the “Lamb of God,” and the first time this saying is used it is followed by the qualifier “who takes away the sin of the world.” You might recognize those words as those called the “Agnus Dei,” which we sing or say at certain times in the year:

Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
have mercy on us.
Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
have mercy on us.

Sin is an injury or rupture in relationship, which creates an imbalance that requires atonement. “Atonement” is an interesting word—and very much misunderstood. Atonement is too often seen as a bargain that lets someone off for the consequences of their actions. Some people, over the centuries, have misinterpreted the idea of atonement as something done for us rather than something we are called to do.

Just the opposite.

Atonement is an action or attitude that seeks to provide reparation for an injury or wrong that has been committed. Atonement is making amends, and being willing to sacrifice in order to restore a sense of wholeness and. Atonement allows for reconciliation when one person owes another for the wrong or injury they have done. But look at the word when you place hyphens within it: “at- one-ment.” The suffix “-ment” is defined as “condition” or “the means of making or being.” So, literally, the meaning of “at-one-ment” is “the condition of unity,” or “the condition of being ‘as one.’” 

Injury or wrong creates separation. When someone has hurt us, that hurt creates a divide or a gulf between us and that person. That gulf might remain indefinitely, unless the hurt or injury of the offended party is alleviated or tended to in some way. This can be something as simple as expressing remorse and apologizing, or it can include attempts to restore what was damaged: if kids vandalize playground equipment by spray-painting graffiti on it, their atonement for their wrong can include paint removal, repainting the equipment themselves, or paying for said repairs. But atonement is deeper. It means we are at one with each other—the offender and the offended—and thus we would never think of repeating the offense, for it would be the same as hurting ourselves.

The goal of atonement is to try as much as possible to return to the condition between the guilty party and the injured party as it was before the act that was wrong. The goal of atonement, in other words, is not about blood sacrifice and substituting an innocent victim for a guilty one. The goal of atonement is reconciliation and repair. It is about choosing to avoid harming another in the first place, in imitation of Jesus as Jesus exemplified during his earthly life and ministry.

Jesus will take away the sin of the world, and people may understand it in two helpful ways. First, Jesus is the incarnation of God in humanity, both fully God and fully Man, living among us and teaching us. Second, Jesus’s teaching is revelatory—he reveals God to us in a new way as the Son of God, and as we say each Sunday in the Nicene Creed, as “very God.” He helps us to understand how God wants us to live our lives—by modelling it himself. Atonement leads to nothing less than for us to change our orientation from our own blind self-centeredness to an outward orientation where we work for mercy, justice, peace as disciples and children of God.

In other words, atonement is NOT merely about saving ourselves from the consequences of our sins. It is about humbly recognizing and acknowledging our failures and our sins, known and unknown, things done and left undone, individually and communally, and working to not just make amends but place ourselves on a more ethical, empathetic path. Atonement literally means seeing a seamless bond between ourselves, creation, and God.

The heart of atonement is empathy for those around us, because we acknowledge that we are all one.

Talk about counter-cultural.

But there’s more. In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus is presented as the new “Moses,” the greatest prophet of God and shaper of the religion of Israel. Thus, like John, Jesus is a prophet. He is MORE than John because he is also, in addition, the Messiah, the anointed One, the Lamb of God who call us to atone. And this brings us to a happy coincidence between our national holidays and our religious ones. For this weekend in the season of Epiphany, we remember and celebrate a great modern prophet who called us to unity, empathy, and reconciliation with each other—the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And as a prophet, one of his primary tasks was to call us to self-examination, reconciliation, and atonement.

We often forget that Dr. King was not just a protest leader and orator. He was, first and foremost, a Christian preacher. And he had much to say in his sermons about atonement as the restoration of relationship.

In the book Strength to Love, a collection of Dr. King’s sermons, Dr. King uses the story of the Good Samaritan from the gospel of Luke as the foundation for his sermon, “On Being a Good Neighbor.” First, let’s remember that the man who had been attacked by robbers in Jesus’s story was not named or described by Jesus. Dr. King echoes the question Jesus was answering about our obligations to others and states it this way:

“Who is my neighbor? ‘I do not know his name,’ says Jesus in essence. ‘He is anyone toward whom you are neighborly. He is anyone who lies in need at life’s roadside. He is neither Jew nor Gentile; he is neither Russian nor American; he is neither Negro nor white. He is ‘a certain man’—any needy man—on one of the numerous Jericho roads of life.’ So Jesus defines a neighbor, not in a theological definition, but in a life situation.” Dr. King then goes on to describe the Samaritan:

“What constituted the goodness of the good Samaritan? Why will he always be an inspiring paragon of neighborly virtue? It seems to me that this man’s goodness may be described in one word—altruism. The good Samaritan was altruistic to the core. What is altruism? The dictionary defines altruism as “regard for, and devotion to, the interest of others.” The Samaritan was good because he made concern for others the first law of his life.” 

Dr. King then goes on to point out that the Samaritan acts out of altruism, which he describes three ways. First, he says the Samaritan possesses a “universal altruism,” that overcomes the prejudice against prejudice against those different from us. Second, Dr. King states that the Samaritan possesses a “dangerous altruism,” willing to risk what he has to behave morally and compassionately. Doing right can have risk—that’s why too many avoid it. Dr. King observes:

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. The true neighbor will risk his position, his prestige, and even his life for the welfare of others. In dangerous valleys and hazardous pathways, he will lift some bruised and beaten brother to a higher and more noble life.” 

And finally, Dr. King states that the Samaritan has “excessive altruism.” Dr. King defines this as moving from being motivated by pity in which you still see the neighbor as someone “other,” and instead move to sympathy and empathy, or being AT One with the neighbor in their suffering, and thus being willing to go beyond the minimum required perhaps by law to loving completely in unity and community with those around us.

Dr. King then applies the lessons of this parable to the evils of discrimination and segregation that plague this nation by living into living by the inner law of God that calls us to atonement. And he concludes with a statement that reflects back upon our focus in this season of Epiphany and in our gospel reading. Dr. King concludes:

"In our quest to make neighborly love a reality, we have, in addition to the inspiring example of the good Samaritan, the magnanimous life of our Christ to guide us. His altruism was universal, for he thought of all men, even publicans and sinners, as brothers. His altruism was dangerous, for he willingly traveled hazardous roads in a cause he knew was right. His altruism was excessive, for he chose to die on Calvary, history’s most magnificent expression of obedience to the unenforceable." 

As both Jesus and Dr. King remind us, we are called to atonement for our failures, yes. We are also called to a brave and joyful proclamation of our essential unity and fellowship as children of God. When we live into the relationships that Jesus calls us to embrace with both God and with all creation, we are transformed. We make room within our hearts for the inner light and wisdom of the folly of the gospel of Jesus, one that denies that there must be winners and losers as much of the world’s systems demand. It is embracing the paradox and the gift of God coming into time as a helpless infant, and of the greatest becoming the least, all for love beyond all of our own fearful limitations.

So as we continue to invite the Epiphany light of love and wisdom into our hearts, may we be led by the examples of prophets like Dr. King, who point us to the way of knowing ourselves more fully, and of knowing God through the power of being at one with each other.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on February 14 and at the 10:30 Holy Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 49:1-7

Psalm 40:1-12

1 Corinthians 1:1-9

John 1:29-42

Citations:

Martin Luther King, Jr., Strength to Love, pp. 20-30, Kindle edition.

At One With God and Each Other: Speaking to the Soul, January 12, 2023

John 1:29-42

In this coming Sunday’s Gospel reading, Jesus is referred to twice by his cousin John as the “Lamb of God.” The first time John adds the qualifier, “who takes away the sin of the world.” You might recognize the words from the “Agnus Dei,” which we sing or say at certain times during the year:

Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
have mercy on us.
Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
have mercy on us.

Sin is an injury or rupture in relationship, which creates an imbalance requiring atonement. “Atonement” is an interesting word—and very much misunderstood. Atonement is too often seen as a bargain that lets someone avoid the consequences of their actions.

Just the opposite.

Atonement is an action or attitude that seeks to provide reparation for an injury or wrong that has been committed. Atonement means making amends, and being willing to sacrifice in order to restore a sense of wholeness. Atonement allows for reconciliation when one person owes another for a wrong or injury they have done.

Consider the word with hyphens within it: “at- one-ment.” The suffix, “-ment”, is defined as “condition” or “the means of making or being.” So, the literal meaning of “at-one-ment” is “the condition of unity,” or “the condition of being ‘as one.’”

Injury or wrong creates separation. When someone has hurt us, that hurt creates a divide or a gulf between us and the other person. That gulf might remain indefinitely, unless the hurt or injury of the offended party is alleviated or tended to in some way. This can be something as simple as expressing remorse and apologizing, or it can include attempts to restore what was damaged: if kids vandalize playground equipment by spray-painting graffiti on it, their atonement for their wrong can include paint removal, repainting the equipment themselves, or paying for said repairs. But atonement goes deeper. It means we are at one with each other—the offender and the offended—and thus we would never think of repeating the offense, for it would be the same as hurting ourselves.

The goal of atonement is to try as much as possible to return to the condition between the guilty party and the injured party as it was before the act that was wrong. The goal of atonement, in other words, is not about blood sacrifice and substituting an innocent victim for a guilty one. The goal of atonement is reconciliation and repair. It is about choosing to avoid harming another in the first place, in imitation of Jesus as Jesus exemplified during his earthly life and ministry.

Jesus will take away the sin of the world, and people may understand it in two helpful ways. First, Jesus is the incarnation of God in humanity, both fully God and fully man, living among us and teaching us. Second, Jesus’ teaching is revelatory—he reveals God to us in a new way as the Son of God, and as we say each Sunday in the Nicene Creed, as “very God.” He helps us to understand how God wants us to live our lives—by modelling it himself. Atonement leads to nothing less than mercy, justice, peace.

Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
Have mercy upon us.

No matter in what way you understand these phrases, we Christians see Jesus as the means for us to truly know God and to know how to live our lives, even though a hundred different Christians might interpret that second part a hundred different ways.

Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world,
Grant us thy peace.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 12, 2023.

Image: part of a crozier with the Lamb of God from the Louvre.

The Way to Wonder: Sermon for the Feast of the Epiphany 2023

We think we know the story.

We’ve heard it a thousand times, a mash-up from the gospels of Matthew and Luke and the imaginings of a dozen Christmas hymn lyrics.

The angel Gabriel darting around making more predictions than commentators on ESPN. Receptive women and reluctant, doubtful husbands. Waiting. Some singing of hymns of praise. Then, the weary family, a trace of scandal hanging over their unusual pregnancy. The lack of space for them to rest, accepting the indignity of bedding down with the cattle in a cave beneath the inn. The imagined filth and dust as they deliver their child themselves and place him in a feeding trough. Shepherds startled out of their boredom in their fields by flashes of light and angelic pronouncements and hallelujah choirs. And then, a wait, a shift to a house, and sumptuously attired exotic visitors from the East, led by astrological signs to seek out an infant boy whose birth they foresaw in the stars.

It sounds fantastic, like a fairy tale. And we live in a world where fairy tales would have died out completely if it wasn’t for Walt Disney.

Today, we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany. Epiphany is a Greek word, that means the manifestation or revealing of Christ as the son of God to nations beyond the Jews. The Magi represent the rest of the world being drawn into the embrace of God, as the prophet Isaiah predicted. “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” And so we have what tradition had named the Three Kings following the light of a star from Persia, to the East—a star that flared into existence to announce the birth of a God. They bring gold and frankincense, signs of wealth and holiness, just as Isaiah described—but also myrrh, a spice used in embalming. Our psalm likewise talks of kings bringing gifts of tribute.

These Kings are also known as “wise men.” Why are they wise? Because, as non-Jews, they know something the “king” of the Jews, Herod, should know. They obviously expect Herod (and everyone else in Jerusalem) to know, and stop in Jerusalem so that they can fine-tune their directions.

Yet, they get their first surprise, for not only do the people of Jerusalem and their king NOT know about the birth of this new king, they are completely terrified by the possibility that there could be a new king on the horizon. One has to wonder why, if the Wise Men WERE indeed so wise, they might not have foreseen this possibility—since the birth of a new king means the end of the reign of the current king, and kings usually don’t take being deposed too well.

So these pagans also accidentally warn the local dictator that there is a legitimate rival for his fraudulent claim to be king. They may be called wise men, but this is a misstep that will later cause Herod to lash out and slaughter hundreds of innocents. They continue on their way with the star leading them, and find what must have been a letdown. No palaces, so sumptuous lodgings, but a poor peasant family, in a house now at least, but still not obviously destined for greatness at first glance, or even second or third. Nonetheless, their hearts tell them they have found what they are searching for, and they present their precious gifts, and worship the little baby. And like good guests visiting a family with a newborn, they don’t overstay their welcome. They have a long journey home in which to make sense of all they have seen. So after their dreams warn them not to go back through the road that goes by Herod’s palace, they return home by another way.

So what is the point of this story to our jaded ears?

At the most basic level, in Matthew’s gospel it is Gentile wise men who are the first to recognize and proclaim of the special quality of Jesus as divine and a holy child at his birth. They come to pay homage to a child born, according to prophecy, as king of the Jews, even though they are, again, not Jewish religious scholars but strangers who nonetheless have the imagination and faith to follow the signs they perceive. Thus the Magi represent that God’s plan and love is for all of us, God reaches out to all who can open their eyes, and have the faith to interpret and see the signs. The light has come to the Gentiles, but the people of Israel do not yet really see the signs and interpret them yet.

But I think the last sentence of our reading holds a key for us, living 2000 years later. After seeing and recognizing Jesus as holy, they go home another way. They are placed on another path.

In other words, worship is easy. It’s joyful, and uplifting. But allowing it to transform us and our perceptions, the way we see and interact with the world and each other and with God? That’s particularly challenging BECAUSE we have become so blind to the idea of the miraculous and the wondrous imprint of God that we encounter in Jesus., and in creation all around us.

The great Episcopal lay theologian and teacher Verna Dozier makes much the same point in her masterpiece, The Dream of God:

“The church missed its high calling to be a new thing in the world when it decided to worship Jesus instead of follow him. We live in a day when it would be equally offensive to those who bear the name of Christian to hear Jesus blasphemed as to see him followed. And yet discipleship, not worship is what Jesus called for….” (Dozier, loc 1120).

She points out that in every instance of Jesus’s adult life, when someone attempted to worship Jesus, he stopped them, asking them instead to do the harder thing and FOLLOW him:

“Worship is setting Jesus on a pedestal, distancing him, enshrining (enshrouding) him in liturgies, stained glass windows, Biblical translations, medallions, pilgrimage to places where he walked—the whole nine yards. Following him is doing what he did, weeping over situation that was so far removed from the dream of God and spending his life to make it different. Following is discipleship…. Following Jesus is having that clear eyed vision of whom we serve.” (Dozier, 1148)

This is where I believe we are called to expand our understanding of what an epiphany is. Epiphany also means a sudden shift in our insight or understanding, a “eureka!” moment in which our perception of the world is completely changed. Even though it is left unsaid, I believe those Wise Men returned to their homes and told what they had seen, yes, but I also am convinced they came back years later to hear that young rabbi preach as he walked the shores of lakes and rivers and taught people from the heights of hills. I believe the shift in their perception as they held that tiny baby in their rough hands began working in their hearts even before Jesus uttered his first word.

Because epiphanies do not usually come in words, but in insight. In being willing to look around with new eyes and see wonders in the ordinary—wonders that reawaken us to the nearness and presence of God in our everyday lives, if we allow the light of God to lodge within our hearts.

The encounter the Magi had with the Holy Family undoubtedly left them changed. It also led them to find their way home by a different path than the one they had taken before. And that’s the way it is with epiphanies, isn’t it? They change you, and they change your understanding of the path that you are on. Epiphanies point us to another way home.

Jesus calls us to enlarge our own horizons, just as the star caused the Magi to enlarge theirs. Specifically, Jesus calls us to worship, and to offering, absolutely—but more importantly, Jesus calls us to be formed and shaped by that worship and that offering to see the world with new eyes. But more importantly, Jesus calls us to USE that insight to join in the work of restoring creation and our relationships within creation so that they are based on healing, reconciliation, and compassion. Jesus calls us to renewal, to reconciliation, to discipleship.

This is a new year. It’s a new opportunity to commit to living with a renewed commitment to our ministry as Christians. The days grow longer with each week; may our hearts and our courage grow just as surely. May we commit ourselves to following the light of Christ, and welcoming it into our hearts, so that we may live unafraid, united, in service to God and each other.


Amen.

Preached at the 505 on January 7 and at the 10:30 Holy Eucharist on January 8, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 60:1-6

Psalm 72:1-7,10-14

Ephesians 3:1-12

Matthew 2:1-12

Prayer 2584: For Shrove Tuesday

O God Our Peace, 
God of the Seeking,
who holds the winds in the hollow of your hand,
accept our prayers and praises
as we humbly offer them to You,
in hope, in faith, in trust.

Purify our hearts ands set them ablaze, Lord Christ,
that we may make our intentions
like steel forged in the hearth of your steadfast love.
May we reflect upon your blessings,
O Redeemer and Savior,
and cast ourselves upon your law
as the foundation of our lives and actions,
loving each other as You love us,
fiercely and without fail.

Merciful One, God Our Help and Hope,
by the power of your Holy Spirit,
grant us the courage and the will to persevere,
and give your angels charge
over the seeking and the penitent,
as we bend the knee before You, Blessed One,
and lay our concerns before You as we pray.

Amen.