Prayer, day 2577: Inspired by the thought of William Temple

The sparrows rejoice in the dawn,
and call us from our slumbers to likewise give praise:
Loving Savior, hear our prayer.

Help us, Blessed Jesus,
to make this day one of peace and healing.
Forgive us our disregard of others' dignity, O God,
our contempt toward those we are called to love.
Forgive us for failing to see the beauty in simple things,
in the voice of a friend
and the touch of a loved one.

Open our eyes to delight as a child does
in the wonders of this Earth,
and in the faces of those we meet.
Let us rejoice in this sacramental universe
made holy by your sustaining love and grace.

Lord, strengthen us to demonstrate our faith
in a time of doubt and faithlessness.
Holy One, let us arise from our prayers before You
determined to persevere in mercy and truth.

Spirit of Compassion,
bend near to those who suffer
in body, mind or spirit.
Guide us, O Shepherd, in the paths of peace,
and rest your blessing upon those we now name.

Amen.

Welcome Wisdom: Sermon for Proper 20 B

Mark is always hard on the disciples, constantly making them seem foolish—the opposite of wise. In today’s gospel, they are painted as being too thick to understand what the gospel writer, with his gift of time and hindsight clearly understands—that Jesus will be handed over and killed. Then they are depicted about arguing over status just at the time that Jesus is trying to tell them what lies in store in the future. They seem to engage in foolish posturing and competition just at the time when they should be engaged in seeking the heart of wisdom. They are silent just when they should be asking questions.

The wisdom of the world is often used for personal advantage. And here we see the disciples engaging in just that. Having heard again Jesus’s prediction of his passion and death, they respond by arguing about who is the greatest among them.

Many references are made to the claim that the time we live in is “The Information Age.” Many of us carry in our pockets phones that have computing power 1500 times greater than one of the four navigational computers on board the Apollo spacecraft. We can look up almost any fact we wonder about in little more than a blink of an eye. And strangely, most of us use that incredible power to watch videos of baby goats in pajamas. We may not be any smarter, now, but at least we’re happier, and our blood pressure is down, too.

Nonetheless, it’s pretty clear that knowledge or information does not produce wisdom. And the definition of wisdom in our world can also be slippery. Literally. When we consider how repeatedly we hear ruthlessness, manipulation and cheating being extolled as being “smart” or “clever,” we have to begin to think that wisdom, especially the wisdom of God that we have been urged to seek in our readings for the past several weeks, has to mean something else entirely.

Just like our readings from Psalm 1 and James, Jesus points out that the wisdom of God, and the way it orders our lives, turns worldly wisdom upside down. To illustrate this, first Jesus talks about the importance of servant leadership, which then as well as now sounded like an oxymoron. To further make his point, Jesus then places a little child in the center of the disciples, and equates welcoming that little child with welcoming Jesus himself, the Son of God, who is also sometimes referred to as the Wisdom of God.

Our epistle states that living a good life—one framed by gentleness and virtue-- is the very heart of Godly wisdom. The Wisdom of God is so important in ordering our lives that the Psalter begins by specifically naming wisdom as a blessing par excellence. Our reading from James reminds us of specific characteristics of those who cultivate and seek the wisdom of God:
purity, peaceableness, gentleness,
being willing to yield and not insist on your own way,
being merciful, productive, impartial, sincere.

Does this list sound familiar? Try this passage to see if you can hear any echoes:
“If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels,
but do not have love,
I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
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.
If I give away all my possessions,
and if I hand over my body so that I may boast,
but do not have love, I gain 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."

Do you recognize this passage? 1 Corinthians 13. Here we see Paul describe the faithful love and charity of true discipleship with some of the same characteristics James uses to describe God’s wisdom. Wisdom that grounds us in what really matters—seeking justice that is the only foundation of true peace, serving rather than being served, embodying humility and compassion as we seek to follow Jesus.

The way of wisdom, the way of welcome into God’s household, is also the way of mercy, grace, and above all, love. Welcoming little children—with all their joy and purity and sometimes noise and even their mess—is the same as welcoming me, Jesus reminds us. That’s no small thing. In Jesus’s time, and even echoing in our own laws today, little children were not accorded full status as persons. They were explicitly viewed as the property of their father, in fact, part of his household. They had less than no status.

Yet it cannot be denied that, when they’re not cranky or hungry or wet-- because let’s face it, everyone should get a pass when that’s going on—they also embody many of those same qualities: especially purity, gentleness, kindness, an openness to affection and love. But children, like servants, had no social status.  The kind of wisdom Jesus urges us to embrace turns all the calculations of the world on their heads.

And so, what a blessing that this weekend, St. Martin’s formally welcomes a little child as a new Christian into the household of God. Today, we will baptize Imogen, and I mean that “WE.” We will surround her and her family within the community, welcoming her in the waters of baptism, gathered around both font and altar as one body of disciples.

One of the things I most love about the Episcopal Church’s practice of baptism in our current prayer book is that it makes clear that the welcoming of a new Christian is not to be done privately, unless under extenuating circumstances. Instead, just like in our gospel, that new Christian, whether a little child or an adult, is placed in the midst of the disciples. We all stand around that child, and together we join in recommitting ourselves to the baptismal covenant once again. We commit ourselves to supporting the newly baptized, and we repeat again just what the basic wisdom of the Christian life entails in a series of 8 questions.

Let’s look at those again. Please turn in your prayer books to pages 304 and 305. The first three questions recapitulate the Apostles Creed by asking, Do you Believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit? The last five questions then move to actions that flow out of those beliefs—actions that outline the wisdom of God that bears good fruit in our lives. We know that these questions shift from beliefs to action by the change in the question words themselves, in the shift from “Do you believe?” to “Will you?”

Listen to the active verbs in these questions:

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

Will you persevere in resisting evil and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?  

And in answer to each question, we answer “I will, with God’s help.” That’s also key. The life of faith is NEVER a life lived in isolation, thrown upon our own meager and faltering resources. The life of faith is always strengthened and aided by God’s abundant mercy, grace and love. The life of faith is lived in community with God and with each other. That’s why the wisdom of welcome and love is so important. And that also why the wisdom of welcome and love we are called to practice as a community of wisdom seekers is so extraordinary when actually put into practice.

Will you continue in learning, in fellowship, communion, and prayer?

Will you persevere against sin, repent, and return when you miss the mark?

Will you proclaim God’s good news of reconciliation by who you are and what you say?

Will you seek, and serve, and love all persons as much as seek, serve, and love yourself?

Will you strive and respect every human being, and not just tolerate but celebrate their dignity—rich or poor, sick or well, friend or stranger, old or young?

This is the wisdom of welcome, beloveds, that we are called to commit to as disciples. Wisdom that doesn’t seek advantage or calculation, but, always and everywhere, serving each other in purity, gentleness, and love.

As you are standing with Imogen and with each other renewing your promises, look up. Look at the faces all around you. Each one of the people around you is also a beloved child of God, as beloved in God’s sight now as when they too were children. Know that you are also beloved children of God. 

The heart of the Christian life is shared life. A shared life is an abundant life. The promises we make as Christians we make with one voice in community at baptism-- as individuals, yes, but also as the community of St. Martin’s, within the universal Church that exists through time. With God’s help, may we always re-member and embody the welcome we have received into Christ’s Body, and continue to witness to the abundant welcome and love of God we each ourselves receive, again and again, through our Savior, Jesus.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on September 22, and at 8:00 and 10:15 am on September 23 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:
Proverbs 31:10-31
Psalm 1
James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a
Mark 9:30-37

Images:
1) and 2)- Icons representing Mark 9:37.
3) Baptism photo by Jill Gould.

Love in Flesh and Blood: Sermon for Proper 15B

I grew up in the so-called “Bible Belt,” in churches that did not observe formal liturgy, in places that never spoke of the word “sacrament” or pondered what that word might mean. Yet, the first time I took part in an Episcopal liturgy when I was 12 years old, I felt an astonishing thing come over me. 

At one level, I had no idea what was happening. Instead of sitting still, listening to a 40 minute sermon followed by a twenty minute altar call, there was all this movement—what the late great comedian and Episcopalian Robin Williams called “pew aerobics.” Up, down. Stand, sit, kneel. Genuflecting. Bowing. Crossing yourself. Juggling a service leaflet and a prayer book and a hymnal—and, this being Oklahoma— a Bible.

But it was at the start of the Holy Communion part of the service that I was absolutely broken open, heart, body, and soul. It was there that I truly felt to be a part of the great body of the Church, and felt received and accepted as I was, with all my faults. I saw how the practice of communion empowered the church, with each and every one of us as a full minister of it, to offer ourselves and all the world’s prayers before God. It left me reeling and rejoicing, all at the same time.

Jesus’s words today can leave us reeling, too. Jesus reminds us that he is the living bread sent by the living Father, and that by taking Jesus into our physical bodies we are made one with him. That promise resounds for us two thousand years later and asks us to take it seriously. And that’s hard for us. The gospel is so radical and life-changing that we often can’t help but try to tame it a little—or a lot. We try to domesticate it, water it down, and therefore place it under our control. But that’s exactly what Jesus is pushing back against in our gospel today. His words call us to renew our understanding of how earth-shaking this act of communion and thanksgiving really is.

For weeks now, Jesus has declared that he is the bread of life, and the crowd asked him for this bread, always. And we DO have it always, in the Eucharist. In our faith that lives and breathes through us, when we let it. We have it always, when we open our hearts to the presence of Christ within us, both as individuals and as a parish and in the world at large.

Count how many times the word “life” or some form of it appears in this reading. We are talking about matters of life and death here—literally. Perhaps a question we can ask ourselves is this: are we really living, or are we just existing? Are we opening ourselves to the blessings and wonders of God’s gifts to us, and then seeking to reflect that joy and hope and light into the world?

There are often times that we get so overwhelmed that we just drift along, reacting rather than being mindful. And who can blame us? There seems to be a constant tattoo of bad news—illnesses, crises, struggles to put food on the table, struggles to find time to spend with those we love, political turmoil, natural disasters—the list goes on and on. Yet it is at moments such as these that we sometimes have to be shaken out of our cycle of anxiety, take a deep breath, and remember that we are not in this alone.

Look again at this passage. Jesus PROMISES us full, rich, abundant life in him—true and real communion with him and in him. That communion with Jesus also draws us into a precious communion with each other. Such devotion Jesus offers us can be overwhelming.

Jesus is asking us to have faith enough to let ourselves be wide open to his grace, light and truth.
To have faith in the Way of Jesus, a way that is governed by a wisdom that goes against the cynicism and miserly fears that attempt to dominate us.
To be wide open to being fed with the very substance of love.
Jesus is asking to be welcomed into our inmost beings, and to recognize our oneness with the divine love that is at the beating heart of the spiritual life-- of life itself.

If we take that seriously, of course it shocks us. 

Jesus’s words this week are meant to shock his listeners. When he talks about eating his flesh and drinking his blood, it probably makes most of us uncomfortable, and rightfully so. But even in our discomfort, we also need to see that Jesus is stating as forcefully as he can that he will feed us with his very self, seeking to be alongside us and within us always. And that’s why, for many of us, Eucharist is such a central part of our worship together each week. Yet hopefully it never becomes for us something commonplace, something expected, something routine. I personally hope to never take this for granted.

I remember the first time I listened to the Eucharistic prayer in an Episcopal church, and was invited to kneel alongside people who were largely strangers to me and raise my hands to receive this miraculous sacrament. Something electric went through me, and I have never been the same since. Even though it is years later, I can still see the faces of those around me as together we received the Body and Blood of Jesus. Each time we gather around this altar, we are joined together, and not just within this service or within this building, but across time and distance. 

My father was not a church-going man, and hardly ever took communion that I can recall, yet in his last days, a priest from one of the churches I attended in Tulsa came to minister to my dad, assuring him of God’s love and offering him and all of us in the room communion. It gave him a sense of peace which I had seldom seen within him. I am convinced that every time we share in communion, he is there alongside me, and all those we love and see no more are gathered with us too. This altar stretches through time and space as we reaffirm that we all share in the heavenly banquet.

Sharing in the Eucharist together reminds us that eternity is not something trapped in the future but is now. If “Christ has died; Christ has risen; Christ will come again”… if Jesus “was, and is, and shall be, world without end, amen”… then we participate in Christ’s life right now when we gather together in worship and singing and praise (as was discussed in our reading from Ephesians), and certainly when we eat of Christ’s body and drink of his blood. We are then “in Christ, and he in us.” 

And isn’t that what the Christian life is all about? To be transformed and transform ourselves and others; to be healed and to heal ourselves and others; to be fed and to feed ourselves and others. If we are in Christ and Christ is in us, we aren’t just waiting around for God to fix us or fix our society or fix our world. We are part of the life of God. Can we have faith enough to turn that around, and let God be a part of our lives, in the ways that really matter?

This is sacrament: a making holy of ourselves regardless of place, rank or time. In our gospel passage Jesus promises us this gift as part of his living ministry. We are given this gift for our benefit, and for the benefit and service of the entire world—no exceptions.

And while sacraments are all around us, and we live in what Archbishop of Canterbury William Temple called “a sacramental universe,” this sacrament of communion, along with the sacrament of baptism, melts away our walls and defenses, uniting us as one Body even outside the walls of this parish church. It reminds us that we are not just individuals, but we are members of the Body of Christ, and charges us to be Jesus’s hands, eyes, and heart in the world.

It’s an incredible thing. “This is my Body, given for you” has a multiplicity of meaning and seems foolish when we hear it. Yet through this statement, we reach up with hopeful hands and we accept that gift of Christ’s very body for us. We are also made part of that Body, and are thus called to sacrifice and service, ourselves. This sacrifice is not just done for us, but is done by us, and with us, and in us, and throughout the world. We all are empowered as ministers through this sharing and being willing to share.

It also means that, as Christ lives within us, sustaining us both body and soul, so we must be about the very real work of sustaining others. Living as Christ’s Body in the world calls us to hold nothing back, but to offer of ourselves in response to very real hunger we encounter in the world.

Here, around this altar, we meet a God who loves us enough to be one OF us. Jesus holds nothing back from us, but becomes one WITH us in spirit but also in our very bodies, absorbed into our very cells and sinews and bones. In defiance of our failures and shortcomings, because Jesus is always there with us, we become love in our bones; we are anchored within the eternal life and love of God, no matter where we are at that moment—in happiness or sorrow, in comfort or in pain, in joy or mourning, in peace or in turmoil.

In all times and in all places, may we trust in your promises, Beloved Savior, and remember that we are one with you, and you with us.

Amen.


Preached at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, August 18 at the 505, and on August 19 at 8:00 and 10:15 am.

Readings:
1 Kings 2:10-12; 3:3-14
Psalm 111
Ephesians 5:15-20
John 6:51-58

Images:
1) Joey Velasco (1967-2010), Filipino, Hapag ng Pag-asa (Table of Hope)
2) from wiirocku.tumblr.com
3) detail from an early depiction of the Heavenly Banquet

Meeting the Stranger, Meeting Jesus: Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter, Year A

Jesus and the disciples on the Road to Emmaus. Artist unknown.

Readings: Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35

In our gospel story, two disciples—possibly Cleopas and his wife—are walking on the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus on Resurrection Day. Their hearts are filled with a mixture of heaviness and hope, for they have heard strange tales, this third day after Jesus’s crucifixion, about Jesus being risen from the dead. But they dare not believe it.

Then suddenly, a stranger starts walking alongside them. The stranger asks what they are discussing, and they pass along the story that they have heard about Jesus and the empty tomb. They obviously are completely bewildered if not a whole lot doubtful about the story they have been told. They believe that their hopes in Jesus have been dashed, regardless of the empty tomb. Possibly they heard the rumors spread by the authorities that Jesus’s body had been stolen away.

This stranger, after asking what they are talking about, then does a curious thing: he begins interpreting all that Jesus had done on earth to prove that he was the One whom scripture had foretold. You would think that, as small as the community of followers was, these two would wonder where a stranger would get so much information about Jesus.

Being hospitable and intrigued, they invite the stranger to stay with them as they have their evening meal. It is at the point that the stranger breaks the bread that suddenly, “their eyes are opened” to the truth—the one who has been walking and talking with them is doing what he has done countless times before. Jesus is breaking the bread—which to our Christian understanding echoes with Eucharistic meaning—and suddenly they know who he is. Just when that happens, though, he disappears once more. As the experience they have had begins to sink in, they realize that only Jesus could have made their “hearts burn within them.” It is when Jesus takes, breaks, blesses and gives the bread to them that he is fully known. It can be the same way with us.

Now, some of us respond to this story, and some of the other early resurrection stories, with wondering HOW the disciples could fail to recognize Jesus when they see him, especially given their natural longing as the word begins to get out that his body is no longer in the tomb.

How well do we know any other person, really? We are all mysteries to each other, no matter how much we are bound by common interests or memberships in groups, or language, or socio-economic class, or race, or vows, or birth, or anything else. And with Jesus, this mystery can be intensified—remember all the times throughout scripture that even Jesus’s closest friends fail to understand exactly who he is or what he is doing.

But there a few things we have to remember. The risen Jesus has been changed by the events of his Passion and Resurrection. He has come more fully into unity with God the Father, and his earthly life is changing--coming to an end as he has been known, becoming different. Jesus has been lifted up on the cross as a light for the whole world—not just for his disciples and friends. The scriptures we heard today said that “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” We have the very same issue, as we were also reminded in the story last week about Thomas. We too hunger to know Jesus, but we are not sure what exactly we are looking for.

There is an important point here: these disciples got to meet Jesus when they welcomed the stranger, and insisted that this stranger stay with them and enter into fellowship with them. THIS is one of the other tangible ways we can meet Jesus. We can meet Jesus in the face not just of our friends, but when we look into the face of the stranger.

Once again this story reminds us that life according to the gospel is one of radical hospitality, and that flies in the face of almost everything we are often told about how we are supposed to react to strangers in our midst. We too easily fall into habits of trying to separate “us” from “them.” Whoever “them” ends up being, we are told to fear “them,” judge “them,” isolate “them.” We certainly are not taught to look for the face of Christ in the stranger. Yet that is where, over and over again throughout the witness of scripture, we end up encountering and finding God.

Each of may have our own Emmaus moment. As many of you may know, I am not a cradle Episcopalian. I was born and christened a United Methodist, then, when our pastor was moved when I was four, my mother began a decade-long journey through the nooks and crannies of Evangelical American Christendom, and we three kids bobbed along and followed in her wake like baby ducks following Mama Duck. It wasn’t until I was 12 that I first entered an Episcopal Church.

My teacher’s husband was being confirmed, and she invited me to come. Now, I had never been to any church like this in my life. Unfamiliar with the liturgical tradition of the Episcopal Church, I sat there in my dress, fake pearls, and hat (my mother mistakenly thought lady’s headgear was required). I fought off her attempt to put me in little lace gloves only with great tomboy vigor, but it was a struggle.

I sat at my friend’s confirmation and tried to take it all in without looking too stunned.
There was a bulletin, and it told you everything that was going to happen.
The people leading the service were dressed in special clothes, not three-piece suits.
There was one guy wearing a piece of pointy headgear that I knew from my chess set meant he was a bishop.

There were candles and a real pipe organ.
The sermon was filled with joy, and the only mention of hell was preceded by a “what the…” at the announcements.
Women were allowed to read the lessons.

In the middle there was a thing called “the peace,” in which I was hugged and kissed on the cheek and complimented on my hat by several older ladies who thought I was being knowingly retro in my garb rather than dressed to match a scene in The Quiet Man.

But the thing that really got me was when we knelt and heard the words that recounted God’s saving deeds throughout history. Invocations were said over the bread and wine, and then they were broken and offered to all of us. Now for the past 8 years, I had been raised in churches that rarely, if ever, celebrated communion. But here, we gathered around the altar, kneeling side by side. Unlike at other churches’ Lord’ Supper” remembrances which I had attended, even as a stranger I was welcomed.

And that’s where I really met Jesus. I met him in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup.  
“Body of Christ; Bread of Heaven.”
“Blood of Christ; Cup of Salvation.”

That’s when my savior was made known to me in the bread, in the cup, in the blessing, in the fellowship of all those gathered together worshipping. This is when I learned what a sacrament truly can be—as Mother Pamela reminded us last week, “an outward and visible sign” – and the most miraculous, transformative part—“of an inward and spiritual grace.”

It was grace that opened the disciples’ hearts to hear Jesus interpret his significance throughout the history and scriptures of Israel. Their hearts had been stirred as he spoke, and we should be familiar with that. Our own worship service every Sunday begins with the liturgy of the Word, and then moves to the liturgy of the table.

It was grace that opened their eyes to who he really was then in the blessing, breaking, and sharing of the Eucharist. Every week we come here, hungry for the living Word, hoping to encounter Christ and to be equipped by that encounter for our own daily ministry as disciples. 

I would argue that we can know Jesus fully in the breaking of the bread. But that’s not all. Jesus seeks to work transformation in us, and the Eucharist is one of the ways that he does it. In the story, the moment Jesus breaks the bread, two things happen simultaneously: the two disciples become aware of who Jesus IS--NOT just who he was. Then he vanishes, so that they may know that he is not what he once was—he is MORE. Like them, we get to know the risen, living Christ in the breaking of the bread, and gain a new understanding that he is our living savior, who has brought us into himself, and by doing so, has united us also with each other, with all creation—and with God.

I am convinced that when we gather around this altar together, that’s when we fully come together, which in itself is a great mystery. Jesus is the bridge that brings us together and helps us to remember that we may not fully know each other, but through the love of God we can love each other and welcome each other—no exceptions.

It’s here that we are all reminded that we are one body, as well, and not just ANY body, but also the Body of Christ. It’s here we are reminded that we can all be signs to each other of God’s grace and mercy. And then we can embody that grace to the entire world, as each of us remembers that by our baptism we are all ministers in a Church that is called to minister to the world, the dark places as well as the light, as Christ’s own.

As a result of meeting the stranger on the road to Emmaus, we are called to live into who we are called to be: Body of Christ; Bread of Heaven. Bread for the World, Bread for ALL the world. As the Body of Christ, we are called to embody the Good News of God’s grace and love to a world that is hungry for it. Come, taste and see that the Lord is good. Let us gather around the table, where none are outcast, and all are fed and led to meet Jesus in both friend and stranger, and then, together, let us carry his love out into the world.

Preached at the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Town and Country, MO, on April 30, 2017.

Named and Claimed: Speaking to the Soul, January 4, 2017

The Baptism of Jesus, Russian, 1780.

Last Sunday was New Year’s Day, a day in which the old year is gone, and we turn to hopes and promises for the year to come. Two years, the old and the new, touch for an instant, and then one recedes into the hazy shades of memory even as the other flickers to life and begins to wax bright. What’s done is done. A new year lies before us. Even if we think we know what may happen in that year, it remains true that there will be blessings we cannot possibly foresee. And so, it’s a time of hopefulness. The days imperceptibly lengthen, and for that we are grateful, even if winter has only just begun.

This year, New Year’s Day coincided with the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus. We heard the story of how Jesus was brought by his parents to be circumcised and named in the Temple, according to the traditions of his ancestors going back to Abraham. In this scene, the baby is taken by his parents, named and claimed, the first-born son, given the name of Jesus: “God saves.”

The giving of the name is an important landmark: it is the accepting of the child as a member of the family. Even today, we still believe that the meaning of a name given to a child has power. Why else do expectant parents spend hours poring over baby name websites and books, if they’re old school? Certainly, the sound of the name is important, but the meaning carries weight, as well. When Mary and Joseph took the infant Jesus to the Temple, they were naming and claiming the child as a member of their household.

And then we come to this week’s gospel. In a mere blink of the eye, we see Jesus now this Sunday, a grown man approaching his kinsman John, asking to be baptized. John is scandalized by the request, yet Jesus insists. Down into the water he goes, and when he comes up, he is once again claimed and named, but this time by his Heavenly Father as the Spirit of God descends upon Jesus and alights upon him. “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Jesus is revealed as God, what our Orthodox brothers and sisters call “theophany.” He is Jesus. And he is the Son of God. Both at the same time.

These two names reflect the two natures, the human and divine, that are themselves made manifest to us through two signs: the water and the Spirit. By these same two signs we ourselves have been baptized, named and claimed as beloved children of God as well. Hearing the story of Jesus’s baptism, I am drawn to marvel at the miracle of that grace which calls us and claims us, too, as beloved children of God. Just as Jesus did, we go down into the waters of baptism and then come up a new person, with a new, wonderful name: Christian. Christ-bearer. One who has been called to carry Christ and his light into the world, rejoicing. Come what will, we are named and claimed as children of Light, before which the darkness flees.

“Love comes down at Christmas,” the old carol proclaims. Love comes down at Christmas, and claims and names us as his own.

(This was first published on Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 4, 2017.)

Everywhere Will Be A Feast: Sermon for Maundy Thursday, 2016

Readings:

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10),11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

Luke 22:14-30

Traditionally, there are two special features to the Maundy Thursday service. First, it’s the time each year when some of us serve each other by washing each other’s feet. Second, tonight is considered the “birthday” of the Holy Communion.

I may have previously mentioned that I grew up in the so-called “Bible Belt,” in churches that did not observe formal liturgy, in places that never spoke of the word “sacrament” or pondered what that word might mean. Yet, the first time I walked into an Episcopal Church when I was 12 years old, I felt an astonishing thing come over me. At one level, I had no idea what was happening. Instead of sitting still, there was all this movement—what the late great Robin Williams called “pew aerobics.” Up, down. Stand, sit, kneel. Genuflecting. Bowing. Crossing yourself. Juggling a service leaflet and a prayer book and a hymnal—and, this being Oklahoma— a Bible. (Yeah—I know! Episcopalians! Bringing our Bibles to church! But it happened!)

But it was at the start of the Holy Communion part of the service that I was absolutely broken open, heart, body, and soul. It was there that I truly felt to be a part of the great body of the Church, and felt received and accepted as I was, with all my faults. I saw how the practice of communion empowered the church, with myself as a full minister of it, to offer ourselves and all the world’s prayers before God. It left me reeling and rejoicing, all at the same time.

Communion is a radical act to remake the social order, and to draw us together toward each other and toward God without respect to ANY differences. We are reminded of this in our gospel passage, when, amazingly, a disagreement breaks out among the disciples right after they have participated in this sacred fellowship with Christ. Jesus says, “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves.” This is sacrament: a making holy of ourselves regardless of place, rank or time. And tonight we are called to remember the grace of the sacrament of Holy Communion that we received as a gift of Jesus even before his Passion, death, and resurrection. We were given this gift for our benefit, and for the benefit and service of the entire world—no exceptions.

And while sacraments are all around us, and we live in what Archbishop of Canterbury William Temple called “a sacramental universe,” this sacrament of communion, along with the sacrament of baptism, melts away our walls and defenses, uniting us as one Body even outside the walls of this parish church. It reminds us that we are not just individuals,

but we are members of the Body of Christ, and charges us to be Jesus’s hands, eyes, and heart in the world.

It’s an incredible thing. “This is my Body, given for you” has a multiplicity of meaning. Through this meal, we accept that gift of Christ’s very body for us. We are also made part of that Body, and are thus called to sacrifice and service, ourselves. This sacrifice is not just done for us, but is done by us, and with us, and in us, and throughout the world. We all are empowered as ministers through this sharing and being willing to share.

We are drawn together to remember that Jesus sets an example for us tonight: in both the foot-washing and the Eucharist, we are called to serve, as well as to be vulnerable enough to allow others to serve us.

“Who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.” That verse indicates the connections between the two main things we are called to do for each other tonight: we are called to wash each others’ feet, and we are called later to gather together around God’s table, the altar, and give and receive communion together.

Jesus makes it clear that we can’t serve God unless we are willing to also serve each other—and each other doesn’t just mean the people here at this service, or the just the people in this congregation, or even just the people in the diocese or the Episcopal Church. This is not a sacrifice that asks us to give up something as much as a sacrifice that calls us to make ourselves holy, to be disciples who work for what our Jewish brothers and sisters call tikkun olam—the repair of the world. This is a sacrifice of praise, of thanksgiving, and hope.

When we gather to make Eucharist, we are engaged in a radical act to remake ourselves, and by doing so, remake the world to reflect the continuing presence and healing of the world by God through the power of the Holy Spirit. This is the feast of the world’s redemption, and we make this together—all of us—with God.

William Temple reminds us of that when he remarked: “The church is the only society that exists for the benefit of those who are not its members.” When we gather around this altar, we are not just gathering to be consoled, but to be strengthened, renewed, and fed by the love that Christ embodies for us, and that we are called to embody for each other.  

And then, a few minutes after that, we are sent out into the world, to remember that we are called to serve God by serving others as well.

The poor.

The homeless.

The outcast.

The sick. The friendless.

Refugees. Sinners.

Happy people. Scared people. Angry people. Hurting people.

When we gather around this table, we offer our thanks, our praise, and our very selves to God through God’s Son Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. And Jesus is here: we are participating even now in that same fellowship and service we just heard recounted in our scripture passages. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, Jesus is in our midst right here in a powerful way. The Rev. John Koenig, in his classic work The Feast of the World’s Redemption, explains it this way:

“At the table Jesus is not only a humble servant and teacher of love by example but also a prophet who shows himself to be the way, truth, and life…. In the strongest possible way Christ makes known to those who approach his table that he ardently desires our company just as we are. He welcomes believers with compassion, refreshment, and forgiveness. He receives all the pains and griefs we bring to the Eucharist, because Jesus has been in those places, and in a way he still is.[1]”

Through communion with God and each other, we are gathered into that cloud of witnesses to the glory of God that has been and is now. We are enticed through the beauties of this fellowship to relax our grip, for a moment, on our own concerns, knowing that they are not just ours but are shared among each other and with God in this fellowship. That is the comfort and solace part of communion. Yet, there is also a “not yet” we also become aware of. The tragic events in Belgium, Turkey and ongoing in South Sudan call us to meet suffering and pain with hope and healing, and the Eucharist equips and even CHARGES us to serve the world in that way.

Eucharistic Prayer C contains this reminder that our commemoration and thanksgiving at this table is meant to prepare us for mission into the world:

“God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our 
eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver 
us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace 
only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for 
renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one 
body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the 
world in his name.”

When we lift our hands for the bread of life, we also offer up our hearts to God in Christ Jesus, that they be taken, opened, filled with light, love, compassion, and power, and returned to us. The altar around which we gather extends out in a plane through time and space. We become partakers not just in the bread and wine, but partakers of the abundant feast of Christ’s grace that is ongoing at all times. We engage all our senses in the mystery of God’s love revealed to us through the mystery of the Incarnation of God’s Son, Jesus. We hear, sing, praise, taste and see the goodness of the Lord right here in this sacrament. In a world where there is often supposedly never enough, we are reminded that God’s love and grace for us is not just amazing but abundant.

Methodist pastor Jan Richardson expresses this abundance, and the mission we are given in this feast, beautifully in her poem, “And the Table Will Be Wide.”

And the table

will be wide.

And the welcome

will be wide.

And the arms

will open wide

to gather us in.

And our hearts

will open wide

to receive.

And we will come

as children who trust

there is enough.

And we will come

unhindered and free.

And our aching

will be met

with bread.

And our sorrow

will be met

with wine.

And we will open our hands

to the feast

without shame.

And we will turn

toward each other

without fear.

And we will give up

our appetite

for despair.

And we will taste

and know

of delight.

And we will become bread

for a hungering world.

And we will become drink

for those who thirst.

And the blessed

will become the blessing.

And everywhere

will be the feast.

We remember especially in these three days holy days between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday, that Jesus will be sacrificed for us, but we will be sacrificed too, brought together through love and humble service.

Let us lift up our hands and hearts with all angels and archangels and the saints and loved ones who have gone before us, with those who are here with us and those who have passed momentarily from our lives, to become bread for a hungering world. Let the blessed become a blessing.

Please join with me in a word of prayer.

Lord Jesus, you taught us that to serve others is the greatest way to love and serve God: help us also accept the honor and blessing of being cared for with grace. Help us to serve, and to love each other enough to allow them to serve us. Help us to remember that we are cleansed not through our own effort but in community with each other, for the redemption of the world. Holy One, help us shed our fear of being vulnerable, that we may love You and each other fully, and be healed by love. Help us to join hand and hearts in thy Holy Communion, Lord, to be strengthened and united, giving thanks to You and interceding through our praise and thanksgiving, for the entire world and its cares.

Amen.

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[1] John Koenig, The Feast of the World’s Redemption: Eucharistic Origins and Christian Mission, pp. 223-224.