Do any of you remember that ketchup commercial?  Rich, thick ketchup takes an inordinate amount of time to ooze out of a bottle.  Pounding the bottle fails to make the substance move any faster.  Meanwhile, a child sits expectantly awaiting the ketchup’s arrival.  The music in the background: “Anticipation.”

That commercial doesn’t exist any more; the technology has changed.  Squeeze bottles have rendered waiting for your ketchup unnecessary.  Delayed gratification is a thing of the past. 
 
We’ve gotten spoiled, haven’t we?  It’s not just ketchup.  You can throw your clothes into a washer and let it do the work while you’re doing something else.  The same goes for the dirty dishes after dinner. 
 
In 1849 it took 166 days to travel coast to coast by stagecoach.  By the 1860s it took 60 days. A decade later it took a train 11 days.  In 1923, an airplane did it in 26 hours, but by 1975, a plane travelled coast to coast in five hours.  Today, the Space Shuttle does it in 8 minutes!
 
We don’t much like to wait.  This applies to our faith as well.  Possibly you’re familiar with the prayer, “Lord, give me patience, and give it to me now!”
 
     Perhaps this attitude toward waiting is what causes Advent not to be universally appreciated.  Advent’s a season of waiting, of expectation, of anticipation.  We await the celebration of the birth of Jesus until the 25th; we look for the coming of Christ at the end of time.  We wait.  We prepare. 
 
One of the prominent figures in helping us to prepare is John the Baptist.  Even though he was a prophet some 2000 years ago, the way he prepared for the first coming of the Messiah gives an excellent model for how we should prepare to receive Christ at Christmas as well as when he comes again to judge the living and the dead.  So let’s imagine for a minute that you’re part of the crowd that went out to the wilderness to hear him.  You’ve heard that this prophet might have something to say that will help make some sense of life, which too often seems more than a little senseless.
 
You live your life pretty much the same as everyone else.  You make a living that keeps body and soul together and then some.  Most people think that you’ve got it “together.”  But there’s still an urge that tells you you’re missing something, something that makes everything else make sense.  So you’ve come to hear this man John, who just might have the key.
 
You feel a little timid, maybe a bit foolish, because here you are, a self-respecting citizen, going to the riverbank to hear a man dressed in camel’s hair, with a leather girdle around his waist, whose diet consists of locusts and wild honey.  In your saner moments you might have written him off!
 
He begins to preach.  His first words are, “You brood of vipers!”  (This isn’t getting off to a very good start!).  “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?  Bear fruits that befit repentance… Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
 
You’ve forgotten your anger at John about how he’s spoken to you.  You’re wondering what you can do to bear fruit. What impossible feat is he going to expect you to do in order to satisfy God’s anger?
 
John’s answer to you: “He who has two coats, let him share with him who has none; he who has food, let him do likewise.”  In other words, “Prepare for the coming of Christ by responding to the needs of those around you, and do what is within your power to fill those needs.”
 
The problem John paints is gigantic—a matter of life and death, yet his answer seems mundane.  He doesn’t tell the tax collectors and Roman soldiers to give up their hated professions; he doesn’t suggest taking up a dramatic lifestyle like his own.  He simply says, “Share out of your abundance; be responsive to the needs of others, don’t cheat or abuse others in your businesses.
 
Such a dramatic problem and such a simple solution!  Yet, it’s the ordinary situations in life that give us the most difficulty in leading moral, faithful lives.  Scripture’s clear.  Our relationship with our heavenly Father is directly related to how we treat our neighbor.  Being prepared to receive Christ, whenever he comes, depends in part upon how we care for those in need—physical, mental, spiritual, or emotional need.
 
I’m preaching to the choir.  You are sensitive to the needs of others.  You are generous with your time, your talent, and your money for the needs of the Church and for the needs of others.  You know the requirements of the Gospel and you seek to fulfill them.  But, you know, I suspect you’re rather like the people who went to hear John the Baptist.  The ones who probably needed to hear him the most wouldn’t take the time to do that.  So, in a sense, I suspect he was preaching to the choir, too. 
 
Each of us needs to be reminded of these truths, and let’s face it, probably most of us could be more responsive to need than we are.  Furthermore, each of us has something in our lives that is resistant to the Gospel, something that is indeed very basic.  If we’re going to be prepared to receive Christ, that something is what needs to be dealt with.  And that, my brothers and sisters, is the hard part.  By the grace of God, only you know what that something is and only you can deal with it, by the grace of God,
 
When we all do that, as a community of faith, Jesus Christ shines through us.  I need this time of anticipation in order to be prepared and I hope you will join me in making the most of this holy season of Advent.

A woman went into a post office to buy some stamps for her Christmas cards. “What denomination do you want?” asked the lady at the counter. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Has it come to this?  I suppose you’d better give me 20 Catholic and 20 Presbyterian stamps, then.”
 
 As we all begin to make preparations for Christmas, with gift purchasing, and the sending of cards, and some of us even beginning to decorate for Christmas—here we are in the Church being very counter-culture in a very visible way. You don’t see any Christmas trees, no festive lights. There are fewer candles on the altar. The color is purple, suggesting penitence. There are a few decorations: the Advent wreath—a plain circle with four candles, only one of which is lit today; a stable with animals; the picture behind the Lady Chapel altar is covered with a purple cloth; a picture of the Annunciation is on the altar; and three outdoor wreaths with purple bows are on the red doors. For throughout the Church this is not the Christmas season. It’s the season of Advent, a season of waiting.
 
 And Advent is not just a season of preparation to celebrate the birthday of our Lord. It’s a season that focuses, first and foremost, on preparation to receive him when he comes again in glory to judge the living and the dead. It’s a season devoted to contemplation of last things, the traditional themes being death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Advent is a time for examination of our lives and confession, for resetting our priorities, and for special acts of devotion and self-denial. It is as if to say that when we are prepared to meet the Lord when he comes again in glory, then we will also be prepared to celebrate rightly the annual observance of his first coming as the Babe in Bethlehem.
 
 With the exception of the first reading from Jeremiah, the readings appointed for today, as well as the Collect of the Day, point us in this direction, toward the Last Judgment.
 
 St. Paul, writing to the Thessalonians, urges them to be abounding in love toward one another and to all people, and live holy lives so that when Jesus comes again he may find them blameless before God.
 
In Luke we have the familiar warning that “there will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the seas and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world.”  If you were living last month in Sarasota, Florida, where Linda and I are from, when both of the hurricanes struck, you might have thought this biblical prophecy was coming true!  A dear friend actually died from fear during Helene.
 
With what’s going on in the Holy Land and in Ukraine and Russia, just to name a couple of nations, it might seem to some that that’s enough distress among nations to qualify as a sign of the end time. In this prophecy of things to come, Jesus tells his disciples that the Son of Man is coming in a cloud with power and great glory.
 
The earliest Christians truly believed Jesus might come at any moment. Early in his ministry St. Paul clearly believed that Jesus would come again before Paul died. Every day was Advent in the early Church.
 
t took some 40 years after the resurrection for the first account of the Gospel to be written. Have you ever wondered why there weren’t disciples cranking out best sellers immediately after the resurrection?  They believed there was no need for a written record, probably that there wouldn’t be enough time to get one written, before the Second Coming; and time would be better spent in getting out the word. And so they had no problem living each day as if it would be their last opportunity to get their lives in order and to proclaim the message of salvation.
 
Some 2000 years have passed. The Son of man still has not returned, yet the readings in this season remind us that the promise has been made. Jesus shall indeed come again. That coming may still be a thousand years away or it may be today. And that coming will be a time of final judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed.
 
The idea of judgment is based on the presupposition that there is such a thing as right and wrong, that there is such a thing as sin, that God intends for his people to have a certain standard of life, and that there is a way to break out of the cycle of sin. That “way” is Jesus Christ, the way, the truth, and the life.
 
Is there any doubt that the world is just as much in need of a Savior now as it was 2000 years ago?  Watch any news report on any given day and you’ll find many examples of our world’s need of the Savior. They’re filled with examples of war, violent crime, reports of divorces, stories of neglected and abused children. I don’t agree with William Bennett on some key issues, but I think he got it right in an article published years ago titled “Redeeming our Time,” when he stated that “there are other signs of social decay that do not so easily lend themselves to quantitative analysis….For there is a coarseness, a callousness, a cynicism, a banality, and a vulgarity to our time.
 
There is a sense in our time that there is no such thing as sin, and if there is a God, he doesn’t much care about how we live our lives and we certainly are not going to be held accountable.
 
Advent, all four weeks of it, reminds us that the world still needs the Savior. It reminds us that our thoughts, words, and deeds do have eternal significance, and we will be held accountable. It calls us to get our priorities straight and to be the sign to the world of all of these things. Yet our preparation for the Second Coming, as well as our preparation for Christmas, is a joyful preparation, in a quiet sort of way, for we know the Savior and we want to make him known. There is a solution to the problems that face us as individuals and as a society, and that solution is the One whose birth will be celebrated this Christmas Eve.
 
I invite you, during this beautiful season of Advent, truly to make it a time of preparation—to examine your lives and make your confession, to reset your priorities, and to make special acts of devotion and self-denial, all to the end that when our Lord Jesus comes again in glory to judge the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The ballots have been cast, the votes counted; but the outcome of our latest presidential election hasn’t solved anything. Whatever one’s feelings about our former and soon-to-be Commander in Chief, I think we can all agree on one thing: Our politics are ailing. And I’m not talking about legislation or the core issues of the Republican or Democratic parties. I’m talking about how people talk to one another. How they treat one another. How they see and portray their political opponents. 

The United States is now known globally for the intensity of its political discord. For the vitriol each party hurls at the other. It’s not just the problem of the Right or the Left. It’s everyone.To quote the Apostle Paul, “No one is righteous, no not one.” 

And most people can recognize that. Most people can recognize how ungracious and suspicious we’ve all become if given the chance. We’re just not often given that chance because politics in the United States has taken on the weight of religion, which politics was never meant to have. 

When we pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America or when we put our confidence in a particular political party and its leaders, we will go wrong if our ultimate devotion does not lay elsewhere. As the psalmist says, “Put not your faith in rulers, for there is no help in them.” 

It’s ironic, actually, that he would write those words. According to tradition, the Prophet David composed the psalm we recited just a few minutes ago. Of all people, you’d think, David would be the last to caution us from relying on our leaders and the governments they control. He was, after all, a king. And yet, king though he was, David knew from terrible experience just how quickly those in authority can fall. All it took for him was a glance out of the window on a sultry summer evening. 

David knew that even the wisest ruler can stumble over his own desires or twist the use of his office to his own ends — because David knew that even the wisest ruler is human. And human beings are not perfect. Much as we might want to think it, we do not exercise ultimate power or, more importantly, faultless self-control. We are too mortal for that. We hunger, we thirst, we want. We need. And, in the end, we die. There is no help in us. There is no help in us because, like the flowers of the field, we will fade away. We will return to the earth, and in that day all our thoughts will perish. 

Which is a conclusion that has a double meaning. We human beings and our institutions are mortal and, therefore, what we do and what we say has great importance. Our actions are not trivial. Each of us is wholly unique, and no other life will be lived like ours ever again. But at the same time, we human beings and our institutions are mortal and, therefore, what we do and what we say stops short of having ultimate significance because we are not ultimate. We participate in what is ultimate. We interact with what is ultimate, but we don’t own it. We can’t control it. Our lives are but a breath. We cannot know what the future will hold. 

There is only One who can. There is only One who does. 

Only one Lord lives forever. Only one King conquers to save. Only one God is truly God.

He is ours, and we are his. 

“Happy are they who have the God of Jacob for their help, whose hope is in the LORD their God.” 

Happy are they, happy are we, when our confidence is in the LORD our God, for he made heaven and earth. He hung the stars in the sky and set the bounds of the sea. He keeps his promise forever. 

God does not change. He is not fickle or capricious. He does not hesitate to defend the weak and chastise the strong. God speaks, and the mountains tremble. He shouts, and the forests fall. He cries, and his blessed mother picks him up and cradles him at her breast, whispering stories of creation into the Creator’s ear.

Our God is like no ruler who has been or ever will be. He fights for us like a lion and then dies for us like a lamb. But he doesn’t die for us alone.

God’s salvation is for all people — because all people need him. From the youngest to the oldest, the richest to the poorest, we all need God’s grace in our lives because our hearts are divided, our minds distracted, our bodies exhausted. Like sheep without a shepherd, we are harassed and helpless without him. 

And God knows that. He knows how much we long for peace; he knows how much we long for justice; and he knows how much we won’t find those things apart from him.

God is the source of all good. The foundation of all holiness. The life-giving spring bubbling up unto eternity. Every loveliness, every satisfaction, every truth comes from him. And so he draws us, ever so slowly and ever so gently into the knowledge of his life and love not only in those moments of truth and beauty but perhaps more effectively in and through the trials and triumphs of the everyday realities of our lives.

But this is not a passive process. It’s not just something God does to us. We are coworkers in this, however small our part, a part that is at times harder to play.

When David wrote the opening lines of the 146th Psalm, he described the fundamental posture of the human being: Praising the Lord. God has given us everything we have — our breath, our being, our very life — and we are called to return it to him with thanksgiving. With praise. 

But it’s really not hard to imagine that there were times for David and times for us when that doesn’t work out as we might wish. There are times when we can offer our whole selves with gladness unto the Lord, thankful to our bones for what he has given us. And then there are times when all we have are two copper coins — which are actually worth much, much more.

When we are thirsty and pour a cup of cold water for someone who thirsts; when we are hungry and buy someone else a meal; when we strive to look beyond our neighbor’s political affiliations in order to behold one who is also made in the Image of God, we will find God in his might, taking even the smallest gift offered in faith and with a pure heart and multiplying it. God takes copper and turns it into gold. He takes five loaves and two fish and makes them into a feast. He takes our most hard-fought, most infinitesimal spiritual victory and turns it into the beginning of total transformation, where are hearts become that much more like his heart and our hands that much more like his hands and our words that much more like God’s Word — until Christ is all in all. 

For he is our King. Christ is our king, and he is a king who helps. Who heals. Who alone can save. This is our hope, a hope that is not dependent on outward circumstances, a hope that teaches us to leave unknown futures unknown, knowing that God’s guiding hand is with us at all times and in all places (Henri Nouwen).

Happy are they who put their trust in him, our Lord who reigns forever, our God throughout all generations. Hallelujah! AMEN.
​

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“What were you arguing about on the way?” Jesus and his disciples had just arrived in Capernaum after walking through Galilee. The days they spent together had been remarkable. Together, they had healed the sick and fed 5,000 and heard Peter’s astonished declaration, “You are the Christ.” But now, no one would meet Jesus’ gaze, let alone answer his question.

On the road, in the moment, it had felt so good to bicker about who was the best, who was the favorite, who was the greatest. Each of the disciples, whether or not they would admit it, wanted to be the first. Think of the admiration, the inside information, the confidence that would surely come with being Jesus’ right-hand man. As the silence continued, though, the disciples began to realize that they had missed the point entirely.

Who is the greatest? 

Most of us recognize that question or at least recognize the impulse behind it. We’ve heard it enough and maybe even participated in arguments of that kind. At home or on the playground or in the staff break room, we’ve wondered and sometimes we’ve wagered on whether or not we were the best. 

Mom likes me most. I deserve the promotion. No one will forget my name. 

It’s there in so many of our histories, that desire to be sought out, to be assured of our worth, to feel certain of our being loved — a whisper in our hearts of a better present or a brighter future that could be ours . . . if only we were great. 

Maybe then she would love me. Maybe then I would be happy. Maybe then I’d get respect. 

That voice comes to us so often when we’re afraid, when we’ve been confronted with our own frailty or lack of control. It could have been because of the failings of a parent or the death of a friend that our un-invincibility came to the forefront of our minds and stayed there like an ominous shadow. It’s natural to want to get out, to establish ourselves in such a way that we become untouchable, unable to be harmed — but such a desire can harm just as much as it can help us.

There is a fine line between virtue and vice when it comes to greatness or ambition or pride. In our own way, each of us wants to excel, each of us wants to be appreciated — and for good reason: God gave us good gifts to use for his glory in communion with him and his creation. But when we forget him, when through fear or faithlessness we seek after the world’s ideal of “greatness,” we enter dangerous spiritual territory.  

Think of the disciples, who began arguing over who was the greatest right after they heard that Jesus would suffer and die. As St. Mark tells us, they couldn't talk about what Jesus had said. They were afraid. Afraid of losing their way, of losing their lives, of losing their friend. And so it was that the disciples retreated to the safety of their own egos and lost the sense of what God’s kingdom is all about. Like a kid at recess who declares himself king of the castle, the disciples argued about who was the greatest because they could not bear the threat of uncertainty or the need of the Other or the cost of discipleship — lest they be wounded by the love that awaits us all.

That’s what fear does: It changes our perception, tempting us to believe that life is short and sorrowful, with no remedy when it comes to its end. And if that’s the case, why not grab what we can and do what we want and ignore the still, small voice that says there is so much more for us in store.

Sitting down, Jesus called the twelve to him and said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then, taking a child into his arms, Jesus said, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me — and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”

Our world is a complex and chaotic place, one that pushes us toward greed, toward selfishness. We all want to survive. We all want our due, and it’s so easy to make that our priority.

But to do so is to miss the point, to miss the freedom, of Christ’s rule.

In God’s kingdom, who is the greatest?

The disciples couldn’t seem to answer that question either. They struggled to comprehend the upside-down nature of God’s kingdom. Just as we do. We are so accustomed to the machinations of power, to the dog-eat-dog world that rewards those with influence and money and acclaim. It doesn’t seem to matter how long we’ve been a Christian, that ideal, that vision is still attractive to us. It still whispers to us on our lowest days that happiness is one paycheck or purchase or accolade away. 

And yet, if that’s what it means to be happy, then we can never truly attain it. The greatness of the kingdom of earth is fleeting — the stock market will crash, the promotion will pass us by, the relationship won’t live up to its potential. Nothing is certain here — except the one who sits down in our midst and reminds us of what is truly great.  

In the Kingdom of God, it is the one who humbles himself, who serves the least, who attends to the weak, who becomes like a child who has achieved the stature God desires for his people: which is nothing less than the greatness of God’s Son, who knew the suffering that lay before him and did not turn aside but gladly and willingly accepted death that we might be saved.

That is what greatness is about. That is what greatness looks like. And it is ours now, no matter our professional success or our physical stature or our age. Every time we catch ourselves pursuing the kind of power and prestige the world offers; every time we stop ourselves and reckon with the root of our desires; every time we set aside our own priorities for the sake of our Neighbor, we grow in God’s greatness. We grow in the ability to live as Jesus lives, to love as Jesus loves. And when we do so, we not only bless the world but we ourselves are blessed. For the simple exercise of virtue cleans our hearts, restores our vision, makes us more aware of the love God bears for us: love that is never-ending and always faithful, full of mercy and loving-kindness.

That greatness is ours now as we follow the Crucified Messiah. Even now he is with us. As we pass through our own Galilee, as we face our own fears and wrestle with our own temptations, Christ is with us, covering us with his grace — grace the empowers us to feel the anxiety and angst life gives us and then let it go, drawing near to God like a child to her mother, eager for his mercy and comfort. And we will find it. We will always find that limitless love when we draw near to the One whose weakness is our strength, whose death is our life, whose resurrection is now our own. He will make us great, no matter what may come. AMEN.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come to save you.”

Israel needed to hear those words. Early in the 8th-century BC, all of Jerusalem watched as the Assyrian army approached the city gates. Everyone knew what followed that mighty force, and had been reminded by the mouthpiece of the emperor himself, who stood at the base of Jerusalem’s walls and yelled: “Do not let your God on whom you rely deceive you by promising that Jerusalem will not be given into the hand of the king of Assyria. See, you have heard what the kings of Assyria have done to all lands, destroying them utterly. Shall you be delivered?”

With the voice o their enemy ringing in their ears, Israel wavered. They were full of fear and did not know whom to trust: the sight of their own eyes? Or the Word of the LORD?

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.”

As the armies of Assyria gathered before Jerusalem, the entire nation of Israel fought a preemptive battle — a battle with which we’re all familiar. 

In whom or in what do we put our trust? That is not a question most 21st-century Americans ask. We live in a peculiar time and a peculiar place, historically speaking: Even as war has raged around us, all over the globe, for the majority of the last century, American soil has remained relatively untouched. At the same time, however, the failures of our presidents and the failures of our nation have fostered a pervasive sense of distrust and dissatisfaction that grips us. The average U.S. citizen, for example, is now less likely to believe our government or our schools or our churches are acting for our benefit — and that doesn’t even address one’s faith in God.

We may not be facing the terror of imminent invasion; but that doesn’t mean there aren’t forces arrayed against us. They're just more subtle. A well-crafted image. A tantalizing lead. A quick click of the mouse. We are tempted, and in a way, we are taught to rely on ourselves, to believe the sight of our own eyes and the sound in our own ears and the slant of our own newsfeed. We don’t tend to throw ourselves on God’s mercy because we simply don’t have to; and so it is that when fear or sorrow strikes, we struggle to trust that God’s word is true. Sometimes we struggle to remember it at all. So God speaks again.

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.”

In the end, Jerusalem was not conquered by the Assyrian empire. Against all odds, the Jewish people routed the Assyrian army and returned to their city victorious. They remembered that the LORD was on their side — and that made all the difference, for they were able truly to see and truly to hear. They were able in that moment and for that day to recognize God for who he is and what he does. 

As the Psalmist puts so beautifully: The LORD gives justice to the oppressed and food to those who hunger. He sets the prisoner free and lifts up those who are bowed down. God is who he is and will be who he will be. God reigns forever. 

He does not change. God remains the same. From before time began and on past its end, God is perfect holiness. Perfect righteousness. Perfect love. At once unfathomable and inscrutable and also nearer than our very breath. Quick to bind up our wounds, always ready to deliver the one who trusts in him, God saves those who approach in faith and ask him for aid. And we know that definitively, finally because God himself wrote that good news with nail-pierced hands.

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.” 

Every time we remember those words, every time we dare to trust, to exercise those spiritual muscles our society neglects, we actually encounter the LORD. We encounter the God who came to right every wrong and amend every injustice by taking the pain and the penalty, the vengeance and the violence on himself — so that we might be free.

Free of the fear and the anger that can so easily control us. Free to see rightly the world around us, to respect our rulers as imperfect servants of the same master, to honor our neighbors as fellow bearers of the image of God, to offer ourselves and everything that we have and everything that we are to the the One who alone is trustworthy. The kingdom of heaven is not simply an otherworldly reality. For those whose eyes have been opened, whose lives have been touched, whose hearts have been moved: we have been given the grace to see God in his Son now. And he does not delay in pouring out his blessing, nor does he hold back his grace from those who ask. God hears the cries of his people — and acts. 

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.” AMEN.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

“She wears her heart on her sleeve.” Not so long ago, that was a bit of a dubious compliment. People who fit that description — and this really could be men and women — were seen as wildcards, all sense and no sensibility. A good time, perhaps, but also quite likely to get themselves and their friends into trouble.

Within the last decade, though, wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve has become a good thing. A badge of pride: He’s authentic. She’s genuine. He really does speak his mind. 

Such a development is in keeping with the natural progression of our particular brand of individualism, where, in the words of one philosopher, “Everyone has a right to develop their own form of life, grounded on their own sense of what is really important or of value. People are called upon to be true to themselves and to seek their own self-fulfillment” (Charles Taylor, The Ethics of Authenticity, 14).

Which doesn’t sound too bad, does it? But he was writing before the Internet. And before Facebook. And before smartphones. What he and many others identified as problematic has become what we all experience now at a much higher level. 

The individual reigns. We hear about it. We see it. We subscribe to it. On Twitter, on TikTok, on Taylor Swift’s every album, the individual stakes her claim, bares her soul, reveals her heart. And we hit “repeat.”  

One must wonder, though, what that kind of “authenticity” does — to the people we admire and to us. What happens when the thoughts of the heart are given total complete command? When anger and desire drive us, and we just go along for the ride? What happens is that we all discover, sometimes in 160 characters or less, just how conflicted and chaotic and capricious a place the human heart can be. As Jesus said in our Gospel reading today, “it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.” 

Evil does come from within, no matter how hard we try to ignore or explain away that fact. Some sickness, some malady grips us, and we are unable to break free; and in our society we don’t seem to want to break free. Even Christians, of every stripe, find plenty of justification for the vitriol we express toward our neighbors. “I’m sorry but I just have to speak my mind,” we say. “I just have to say what’s true,” or, really, “I just have to say what I think is true,” which may very well not be the case. We cannot see the heart. Only God can. 

And he knows what he’ll find there. God knows the terrain. He knows the shifting emotions, the racing thoughts. He’s familiar with the good and evil that lay side-by-side in each one of us. God is no stranger to the wilderness that is so often characteristic of the centre of our being. He’s been there before, and he will go there again — for God would make of our hearts a heaven, a Promised Land, where we might dwell together in peace.

Think of that old Evangelical prayer: “Would you like to ask Jesus into your heart?” It’s sweet and simple and means so much more than most people realize because our heart is exactly the place Jesus longs to be. 

Walking with his disciples, gazing at the crowds, speaking with the religious leaders, Jesus saw that they were all harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd, forever confusing the way of death with the way of life, forever trying to find a shortcut to happiness, a one-way ticket to rest, and forever failing to do so. 

We need help. We are lost on our own. We need someone who knows that evil comes from within and who will nevertheless not run away. We need someone who will stay with us past the bitter end, until the light of resurrection dawns in our lives, which is what the Word of God, what the Love of God, has done and will continue to do. 

He makes the blind to see. He sets the prisoner free. He raises the dead. 

Entering into our hearts, welcomed into the core of who we are, God begins his work: tending, keeping, healing the heart that ever so slowly begins to recognize him and his grace. Like a master craftsman, like a skilled surgeon, Jesus identifies what is sick within us. He reveals what is bruised and broken. He binds up our wounds and refines what is good. God transforms us from the inside out — and keeps on doing so until our heart looks like his heart and our voice sounds like his voice and our hands work like his hands. Until we become whole and holy, perfected in the splendor of our own unique personhood. 

We are that precious to him. God so loved the world that he sent his only Son to save it. To save us. To renew all of creation, one heartbeat at a time. And he will. He does. God is with us now, on our lips and in our hearts, speaking softly, knocking gently at the door, ready to transfigure the one who desires him. AMEN.

This is an exciting day as we anticipate baptizing Calvin Moe! As Calvin grows up, I hope
he’ll be very acquainted with this church building. There’s a whole lot more to the Christian life
than this building, but there is so much about our faith in this very room.

When you have opportunity, you should take some time to look at our stained glass windows.
They tell the story of the earthly life of our Lord Jesus: The Annunciation, the Nativity, the
Epiphany, the boy Jesus in the Temple, his Baptism, the Wedding at Cana, the Transfiguration,
his Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, his crucifixion, the resurrection, the Ascension, and
over the altar, the Presentation.

There is one window, however, that’s the key to all of them: the resurrection window. If it
weren’t for the resurrection, we wouldn’t remember any of the other things. In fact, if it weren’t
for the resurrection, there would be no Church. It’s the greatest miracle of all. It’s the reason we
worship on Sunday, for every Sunday is a little Easter, a little Day of Resurrection.

And the Altar, the central focus of the entire church building, is a symbol of the resurrection.
At the Altar, at every mass, we remember all of salvation history, in an abbreviated form. The
culmination of that salvation history is the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross for the salvation of the
world and on the third day rising from the dead. That sacrifice is re-presented as the bread and
wine are consecrated to become the Body and Blood of Christ. Each communicant receives the
benefits of the sacrifice of Jesus by receiving the Body and Blood of the risen Lord.

How important is it for us to do that? Jesus says it’s a matter of life and death. He doesn’t say
it exactly that way. He just says, “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his
blood, you have no life in you.”

What does Jesus mean by life? Obviously, there’re millions of people who are breathing,
functioning human beings who have no part in Jesus, many of whom would describe themselves
as leading very fulfilled lives. The society in which we live takes little notice of Jesus, and in
many places he’s openly ridiculed. On the other hand, there are people in the Church, who
receive his Body and Blood regularly, for whom life holds little meaning, and who would even
describe themselves as basically unhappy. Do they have the life Jesus is talking about simply
because they consume his Body and Blood in the Eucharist?

Normally, I’d preach about the Real Presence on this Sunday when given this particular text
for the Gospel, for Episcopalians believe all sorts of things when it comes to the Real Presence of
Christ in the Sacrament, all the way from a very high view, that what we’re receiving is the Body
and Blood of Christ (that’s what we teach in this parish), to a very low view, that Christ is truly
absent in the Sacrament, an unfortunate and unsupportable view, given the teachings of Holy
Scripture and the tradition of the Church Catholic from earliest times.

Yet the concept of the Real Presence of Christ in the Sacrament shouldn’t be seen as an
isolated reality. The risen Christ is present in his Church not only in the Sacrament, but also in
the Word read and proclaimed, and in his people, the Body of Christ. The Sacrament is essential
to the Church, but also essential are these other elements. For one to have the life Jesus is
talking about requires all of these elements.

It isn’t unusual for a person who isn’t active in the Church to say something like this: “I don’t
attend church, but I try to live a Christian life.” What that person doesn’t realize is that you can’t
live a Christian life alone. It’s a contradiction in terms to say, “I’m not a part of the Church, but
I try to live a Christian life.” To be a Christian is to be a part of the Eucharistic community that’s
the Church, as far as that person is able. Of course, when one is sick or shut-in, he or she cannot
be present with the Church in worship, and the Sacrament is brought to that person.

Our life in Christ begins with baptism, when we’re initiated into the Eucharistic community.
That community requires a certain unity of belief, summarized in the Apostles’ Creed. It
requires worshipping with the community of faith every Sunday, receiving the Body and Blood
of Christ in the Sacrament, hearing the Word of God read and proclaimed, and being in
community with other members of Christ’s Body. As St. Luke tells us in The Acts of the
Apostles, “They continued in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and
in the prayers.”

It requires living a morally upright life, following the commandments of God, and when we
fail to live accordingly, which we all do, to confess our failures, seek the forgiveness of God and
his Church, and return again to following Christ.

It requires sharing our faith with others, to bring others to Christ through his Church. It
requires serving those in need, starting with those in our very midst. And it requires striving for
justice and peace among all people.

If this seems familiar, it should. It’s the Baptismal Covenant, which we’re all going to
reaffirm in a few moments. To have the life Jesus is talking about is to do all of these things, not

out of obligation, but out of love for God. When that happens, we have life, and we have it
abundantly. Of course, we are obligated to do these things, but the goal is to move beyond
obligation to doing them for the love of God.

This may sound to some to be a little legalistic, as if to say if you do certain things, then God
will reward you with certain blessings. In other words, some may think that what I’m saying
implies a kind of works righteousness, that our salvation depends on what we do and not on what
God does. My answer to that is that it all starts with God’s action on our behalf through Jesus
Christ. But God does require a response from us, and the requirement is nothing less than
everything we are.

I’m reminded of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s words in Cost of Discipleship concerning grace. He
has a wonderful chapter entitled Costly Grace, but he starts by talking about cheap grace.
“Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness
without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without
confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship,
grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate……Costly grace is the
gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which
a person must knock. Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it
calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a person his life, and it is grace
because it gives a person the only true life.”

To eat the flesh of the Son of man and to drink his blood includes partaking of his Body and
Blood at mass, but it means consuming Christ fully and being consumed by him. As the
Eucharistic prayer from Rite I states it, “that he may live in us and we in him.” That’s the reality
into which Calvin will be baptized this morning and it is the faith that will give him life.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


We all learn at a certain point in our lives that it is dangerous to give ourselves wholly to anything or anyone. Maybe it was the first blush of unrequited love that broke our adolescent heart; or maybe it was the failure of a parent to care for us when and in the way that we needed them. Whatever the case, we have all learned this hard lesson — sometimes in a moment — from the school of life: Love hurts. 


There are some of us, though, that took that lesson more literally than others. Much has been said about people born between 1985 and 2010. Millennials and Gen Z are statistically the most depressed and least connected out of every demographic. Regardless of the fact that we have instant access to one another’s thoughts and feelings because of texting and TikTok, we are significantly less likely to have close friendships, to get married, to want children — for many and complex reasons, I’m sure; though one common explanation is this: We’ve seen too much go wrong. In our homes, in our schools, in our churches, in our nation, we have witnessed and sometimes experienced the cost not only of love’s absence but of love run amok — so many of us have opted out altogether.


But it’s worth saying that the besetting sin of one generation is indicative of the sins of all the rest. What we see in full-color and high-definition in today’s young people is there in each one of us, hidden, perhaps, but present every time we allow the softness of our hearts to harden into cynicism. 


We all do it. The casual dismissal of a person because of their political views; the justification of anger or violence when it serves our purposes or protects our interests; the inability to maintain a conversation or even to listen to someone without glancing at our phone. These behaviors all come from the same place: a response to pain or to a perceived threat where we choose to preserve our own ego rather than risk the self-diminishment we fear will come when we open ourselves to someone or something else. The logic is easy to follow. Totally understandable. But you don’t need to be a priest or a prophet to notice the consequences of such an attitude.


The next few years, maybe even the next few months, will be pivotal, both for us collectively and individually. We will all be challenged to ask and answer whether or not we will we succumb to the spirit of the age. Will we fall back on our own defenses? Will we let our hearts be hardened by cynicism or disgust? Or will we follow a different path entirely? Will we dare to keep moving forward, open and honest and maybe sometimes afraid — but still filled with faith? 


The way is there, stretching out before us. Although it’s narrow, the road is crowded. Angels and archangels, apostles, martyrs, saints living and dead are all walking toward, all looking for the One who promised to be with us always. He is with us; and so is someone else. 


Like mother, like child. Like child, like mother. The Ever-Blessed Virgin Mary stands at the head of us all. Greater than the cherubim, more glorious than the seraphim, chief of the saints, Mary is honored not simply because of her role in the story of salvation but also because of her unassailable faithfulness and her unquestioning love for the God she bore as Son. 


Mary, more than anyone else in the world, knows that deep love can cause deep grief; and yet she always said “yes.” She always loved more. She always believed that God will make good of every evil in the end. 


Mary believed that with her whole heart, mind, soul, and strength not because she is different than us; but because she allowed the love of God to fill her so completely that it was heaven simply to be with him in everything — which did come with pain. The words of the Prophet Simeon were never far from her mind: “A sword will pierce your own heart, also.”  


Tradition tells us that Mary lived for a time as a child in the Temple; she would have heard just what was foretold of God’s Messiah, the Christ: He would suffer. He would die. He would be rejected by all those who once had welcomed him as king. Mary knew what was coming; and she soon experienced it. King Herod and his soldiers. Losing Jesus in Jerusalem. Losing Jesus to his ministry. Hearing her son speak before thousands of people. Sensing the plots of his enemies. 


Mary had no control over any of it. No choice in the matter. Her freely chosen act of love in bearing Jesus Christ came with much she did not choose, much she did not want. Still, she loved him. She loved her Son and her God with such compassion and tenderness that she kept saying, “let it be to me according to your will” even when that meant watching, helpless, as he was nailed to the cross. 


That was its own death for her. But she never ran away. She never looked away. Her resolve never failed. Mary would remain with Jesus in life and in death — which is why she and the other myrrh-bearing women went to the tomb on Easter morning, only to find that Jesus was not there. He had risen and was going on ahead of them to Galilee. Going on ahead of them to heaven, where Mary dwells with him now, never to be parted. 


That happy ending could not have happened if Mary hadn’t dared to risk the unknown of total surrender to God’s will. And that surrender could not have happened without the love that, burning in her heart, made her the vessel, the ark, the Mother of God Incarnate. 


And so it is that we look to her as our example and our hope. She knows what it means to suffer, to be sinned against in ways we could never anticipate and for which we could never fully prepare. Mary knows. She’s lived it; and she nevertheless remained holy, alight, illumined with love for God. She prays that we might be so filled with that love that we might say “yes” to God’s will and so find ourselves on the same journey that she has taken — which is the only way to find what we all really want.


Peace. Safety. Comfort and contentment. These things can never be secured out of a state of fear. We can never truly be happy, never truly flourish if we’re constantly retreating into the confines of our personal space. Love and life are found on the outside, in the open, on the road where we meet Christ in our friends and in our enemies and as we walk with our brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in the faith. That is where we become who we are. That is where we become who we are meant to be. 


Love hurts. It’s true. But perhaps that pain is simply the beginning of the Spirit’s labor in our lives, wherein we will all give birth to Christ. And if that is our life, if that is the Christian life, who better to teach us than God’s mother, who loved and lost and learned just as we all do and persevered regardless. She abides now in glory, beside her beloved Son; and she prays that we might make it there, too. AMEN.

​

     A new Abbott arrived at a monastery and the monks’ first introduction to him was at Morning Prayer.  The first words they heard from him were chanted, “Good morning.”  So the monks chanted back, “Good morning.”

     The next day, once again they gathered for Morning Prayer, and the Abbott sang, “Good Morning,” and they all chanted back, “Good Morning.”  This went on all week, then on Friday morning, after he greeted them with, Good Morning,“ and all of the monks chanted back, “Good morning,“ one monk way in the back of the chapel sang, “Good evening.”

     There was an awful, tense, silence.  Finally, the Abbott broke the silence by chanting, “Someone chanted evening.“

     When your new Rector arrives, I recommend singing only the expected responses!


“Do not work for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life.” 

     In every parish with which I’ve been associated, those parishes have been filled with hard-working people, “movers and shakers,” people who have lots of “irons in the fire.“  I’ve moved primarily in church circles for so long that I don’t know if I can generalize to the extent that I can say all people are like this, but many of the people I know are busy people, people who do know what work is about.  But what kind of work is it?  Does that work have a clear direction and goal?  Is that work for that which ultimately has meaning or not?

     One of my favorite characters in literature is Sherlock Holmes, and if there’s one characteristic that impresses me most about Sherlock Holmes, it is his determination in solving a mystery.

     In one story, Holmes has a serious illness. He lay dying on his bed for three days. He’d not had anything to eat or drink.  He charged his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, not to call a doctor, not even Dr. Watson.  But on that third day, it was obvious to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock Holmes was not long for this world.  So she told him that with or without his consent, she was going to call in a doctor.  Holmes weakly responded that if she was going to call a doctor, at least she should call Dr. Watson.

     When Watson arrived, he found that Holmes had diagnosed his own disease and that it was a rare eastern disease that only one man in London knew anything about. He told Watson to go to this man and beg him to come and help him.  Watson did as he was told, making sure he followed Holmes’s instructions not to get near him, so as not to catch the deadly disease, and fetched the expert.

     After hearing how ill Holmes was, the expert, Mr. Culverton Smith, went to see him without hesitation.  When he saw Holmes’s condition, he refused to treat him, however, for he confessed to Holmes that it was he who had arranged for him to catch the disease by sending him a box which, when opened, would prick the opener’s finger and inject the virus into the bloodstream.

     Of course, this confession was exactly what Holmes wanted to hear.  His act of illness now could end, and with Watson, who had been hiding behind the bed, having heard the confession, Smith could be convicted of a similar murder to which he had also confessed.

     The amazing aspect of this case was Holmes‘s willingness to go without food or water for three days in order to be convincing in his act and thus catch the culprit.  Over and over again in the stories of Sherlock Holmes it’s apparent that Holmes has only one aim in life, and that is to solve mysteries.  Any sacrifice is worth making to achieve this one goal.

     It’s this single-mindedness of Sherlock Holmes that is so like the single-mindedness that is required of us in the Christian life, in working for the food that does not perish. We Christians have one goal, and that goal is to follow Christ in all that we think, say, and do.  That’s what it means to call him Lord.  That’s what we have pledged to do by virtue of our baptism.

     Some might think that to be so single-minded about religion is to be fanatic, and no one wants to be labeled fanatic!  But to be single-minded about life is really not that foreign to our nature.  I’d venture to say that most all of us tend toward single-mindedness of one type or another.  It’s called living by a life principle, although we very rarely articulate the principle by which we live.

     Some live with happiness as their life principle.  Some live with familial well-being as their life principle, or their career, or making money, or amassing possessions, or having the respect of others, and the list goes on. But we all tend to live according to a life principle, and we tend to be single-minded in our pursuit of the goal. Unhappily, just because we’re here worshiping today doesn’t mean that working for the food which is imperishable is our life principle.  It may mean that some of the aspects of Christian faith fit in well with our life principle. It’s good for family life; it makes us feel good; it’s good for business, gives us a certain degree of honor, recognition, or power.

     The one thing that most all life principles have in common, however, is that they tend to be self-serving.  When Jesus calls us to work for the food which is imperishable, he’s calling us to accept a life principle that goes against our fallen nature, he’s calling us to a life like the life of our Lord, a life that takes us to the cross.  So he’s calling us toward accepting a principle that is in conflict with the one by which we naturally live, whatever that may be.  Some of what we call hypocrisy is, therefore, inevitable in the Christian life, for the Christian takes on a life principle that’s in conflict with the one by which he or she would naturally live.  St. Paul said, “The good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.”

     For us to live with Christ as our life principle doesn’t mean that we have to sell our possessions, give the proceeds to the poor, and then go live in a monastery.  It means devoting all of our activities, in thought, word, and deed to the glory of God, and seeking to do all things in accordance with God’s will.  We want to strive, by the grace of God, to be able to say along with St. Paul, “For me to live is Christ.”  May God grant us the grace to work for this food that is imperishable, that endures to eternal life. 

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

At about 4:30 in the afternoon at my house, you can feel the tension growing. Snack time has passed, but my children don’t remember that. They think I’ve never fed them. 

Pepper paces the kitchen floor, then opens the refrigerator and looks my way. “Can I have a cheese stick? Can I have a chocolate croissant? Can I have a popsicle?” We both know the answer to every question; but she asks anyway because Pepper is an intensely hopeful person and thinks maybe Mom will change her mind this time. Simeon just bites my leg.

Day after day after day, the same routine. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner punctuated by an obscene amount of clementines (which may just be my house). Sometimes it feels like all we humans do is eat or think about eating or worry about thinking about eating — which is ironic given the number of grocery stores and restaurants in this town. 

Not that long ago, our ancestors would have marveled at the abundance we enjoy. Fortified breakfast cereal. Vitamin D milk. Fifty-seven brands of tomato sauce. They were one bad storm or one late frost away from disaster. A failed crop meant less food in the winter meant less calories for the sick baby meant poor bone development and so on and so forth. For us, though, storms don’t register unless they knock out the power, and frosts melt away before we look up from our screens in the morning. Very few of us worry about going hungry because most of us haven’t ever felt what that really means. 

Humans are curious creatures. The everyday details of our lives, the stuff we take for granted — the eating, the drinking, the getting dressed, the going to sleep — these things teach us something true about the total reality of our existence. 

We will always need. We will always need more. And we will always be confronted and curtailed and sometimes controlled by that dependence, no matter what we do or who we are. Try as we might, we cannot escape the fact of our own insufficiency. Nor should we — because that is precisely where God meets us.

When Jesus sat down on a mountainside to the east of the Sea of Galilee, he knew exactly what the vast crowds were seeking as they followed him. They were hungry for salvation — salvation from sickness and sorrow. Almost everyone there that day had heard that if you just touched the fringe of Jesus’ robe, the shake in your fingers or the pain in your side would disappear. Instantaneously. Who wouldn’t walk a hundred miles to find that relief? 

But now the sun was about to set and the nearest town was miles away and dinner was on everyone’s mind. 

“Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” Jesus asked, to the consternation of his disciples. No one had that kind of money. Not even half-a-year’s wages could feed the crowd gathered there that day. Besides, the question was moot because there was simply no food to be found — except for a kid’s lunch. “And what good is five barley loaves and two fish for so many people?” they asked. A question to which Jesus did not respond, though we know his answer in effect: It is enough.

And it was. It was more than enough. That evening more than 5,000 people ate their fill with plenty to spare. All because they had followed the path set down by their own neediness and formed by their own suffering and so had found God himself.

Surely, as Jesus walked among the men and women and children seated on the grass, the faithful among them would have been thinking, “The eyes of all wait upon you, O LORD, and you give them their food in due season.” 

That is not a truth we are accustomed to contemplating or even accepting nowadays. And why would we? We don’t wait for anything. Our food appears as if by magic on grocery store shelves. Every imaginable consumer good can be delivered to our doorstep in less than two days for the low price of $14.99/month. Modernity, in the West and especially in America, has done its best to eradicate human need and eliminate the minor and major suffering that goes along with it — which is a project that certainly has its place, but one that also has its dangers. 

People don’t look at each other any more when they meet in the grocery store or on the street. They don’t talk. They tweet. Somewhere in the mad rush to meet every physical need and satisfy every physical desire, we lost the other, more subtle essentials. It’s almost as though in this age of super-human intelligence and super-human abundance we’ve forgotten what it really means to be human. 

It’s a good thing we get hungry. 

It is a very good thing that we get hungry, that we get tired, that we feel the pain of not having what we need or what we want because those are signposts anchored in the present, pointing us toward the one who gives all, who makes all, who made us. 

We are his. We are not our own. And our limitations — our creatureliness — remind us of that in no uncertain terms. 

Every time we go to bed. Every time we get up. Every time we skip breakfast. Every time we eat lunch, God is there. The giver of every good gift is there because he designed us to find Him in all that we do and in all that we are. God designed us to live with Him and in Him, to taste of his love at dinner, to rest in his companionship at night, to wait on his arrival every time we wait in line. 

The great philosophers and sages, theologians and saints of history intuited this (some knew it): we are most ourselves not when we stay at home, but when we go out. When we look beyond ourselves for help of any kind, we meet the God who is near to those who call upon him. We meet him in the dimpled apple that is both tart and sweet. We meet him in the subtle word of a friend that soothes our fears. We meet him in that stillness that is peace beyond understanding. In the reality of our neediness, we meet God, a God who will heal us. A God who will feed us. 

We are not so far removed from that mountainside where the Bread of Heaven gave himself for the life of the world. God can do miracles. He still does. AMEN.

​

​ 
     I’m a Star Trek fan.  I’ve seen all of the original series several times and some of the movies. One of my goals is to watch all of the Star Trek episodes in every one of the 11 different spin-off TV series – Star Trek The Next Generation, Star Trek Voyager, Discovery, and so on.  You may remember the mission statement at the beginning of the original series: “Space – the final frontier… These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.”
 
     One of my favorite episodes is actually one of the oldest. Captain Kirk has ended up somehow in a dark, empty room. He’s unconscious and injured. There is one other person in the room, who, we gradually discover, is from another world. She is in perfect condition when the captain first appears, she goes over to Kirk and begins to touch his wounds, which begin then to heal. But an even more amazing thing happens. As Kirk’s wounds disappear, the woman begins to be in pain, and then she becomes bruised herself. After Kirk is healed, then she begins to heal.
 
     As Kirk gains consciousness and strength, some unknown, unseen assailant, strikes him again, and the process begins all over. Their captors apparently are intrigued by this woman who is able literally to take on the suffering of others. In fact, not only is she able to take on that suffering, but she also appears to have a compulsion to do so.
 
     From my perspective, this episode of Star Trek is one of the most striking of all, because it’s a kind of parable or allegory. It’s a vivid portrayal of the meaning of compassion.  True compassion is so much more than simply feeling sorry for someone who is hurting. Compassion is an entering into the suffering of someone else. The word compassion comes from two Latin words, cum, which is the preposition with, and passio, which means to suffer — to suffer with.  Of course, compassion means even more than suffering with. It means to suffer with for the purpose of comforting and easing the pain of another person.
 
     St. Mark in today’s Gospel tells us that the disciples had returned from the mission on which Jesus had sent them. They had been on a mission of compassion, and upon hearing about all that they had done and taught, Jesus perceives that they all needed a little R and R.  So he took them off to a quiet place to rest, but the crowds followed them.  St. Mark tells us that when Jesus saw the crowds he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.  He saw people who were sick, people who were having marital problems, people who were having financial difficulties, people who were out of work, people who were facing difficult decisions, people in need of God’s love and forgiveness.  Mark doesn’t tell us this about the crowd, but in any crowd of people, these are the kinds of things that are going on.  And so, as tired as they all were, Jesus felt that he could not turn his back on them.  So he taught them.
 
     Jesus had compassion on the crowds.  Just as he would one day take their sins and the sins of all on himself, he took upon himself their needs, and the needs of his disciples, their suffering and pain, ignoring his own needs, that he might bring to them the word of life. That’s one way we could describe his earthly ministry, isn’t it?   A ministry of compassion: the ministry of taking upon himself the suffering of humanity.
 
     The scriptures tell us that Jesus’ compassion in this instance issued in his teaching the people. What did he teach them?  We’re not told specifically, but we may suppose one thing he taught them was to be compassionate themselves. This might have been the time when he told the parable of the Good Samaritan, or of the Shepherd who left 99 sheep to go after the one lost sheep, or the saying about turning the other cheek. One thing is SURE. He showed by example what true compassion is. Not only did he ignore his own needs in order to teach them, but also, when they were hungry, he fed them, giving us the miracle known as the feeding of the 5000.
 
     There’s something deep within us that urges us to reach out to those who are hurting, much like the woman in Star Trek, but much more important, just like our Lord continually reached out to those around him. Some people are trained and actually get paid to be compassionate.  All of those in the healing professions come to mind.  You give your clergy a living wage so that we can devote ourselves full time to a ministry of compassion.  The Secret Service men who threw themselves over former President Trump when the first shot was fired last week, are trained literally to take the suffering of the person they’re protecting on themselves.  They’re trained to take the bullet instead of the actual targeted person.
 
     David Hume, the 18th century Scottish philosopher and historian, said, “There is some benevolence, however small, infused into our bosom, some spark of friendship for humankind, some particle of the dove kneaded into our frame, along with the elements of the wolf and serpent.”
 
     It’s that spark of compassion that’s part of what it means to have been created in the image of God. But when we were created, it was a flame, not just a spark. Human sin directed our gaze inward, blocking that connectedness with the whole human family, blinding us to our role in the process of healing and wholeness.  One way to put the purpose of the incarnation is that Jesus came in order to lead us back to being fully compassionate people. He came to fan that spark back into a flame, to give us a passion for compassion.
 
     The Church is the result of the incarnation, and by Church, I don’t mean an institution, I mean Christ living in each one of us.   Like Jesus Christ, in Christ we are to be passionate about compassion. Think about your relationships at home, at work, at church, wherever you spend your time, and seek by the grace of God to be compassionate.
 
 

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. 

King Herod heard of Jesus and his disciples, for Jesus’ name had become known; and like everyone else in Jerusalem and Galilee and all of Israel, Herod had to decide who this man was. For him, though, there was only one answer: “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.”

What a change of pace we experience in our Gospel text today. Normally, we expect to hear the words of Jesus. We expect to be encouraged, convicted, or questioned by Christ himself. But this morning is different. Instead of the usual, we hear the grisly conclusion of the life of the Forerunner, St. John the Baptist. Just a short time ago, just a few pages in the course of the narrative, John wandered in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming a baptism of repentance in preparation for the advent of the Lord. “One more powerful than I am is coming after me; I am not worthy to bend down and untie the strap of his sandals. I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” The Kingdom of God was at hand. “Repent and be baptized, you brood of vipers!”

John the Baptist was never one to mince words. It didn’t matter if you were a Pharisee or a fisherman, a Roman soldier or a king — John had something to say to you about what must change in light of the coming Messiah. And, in the case of Herod, his message was uncompromisingly personal. Herod had married his brother’s wife, which was forbidden by Jewish law in the strongest of terms — and Herod knew that, and John knew that. John told Herod the truth, so of course he threw John in prison, though for what end we don’t immediately know. Herod admired John. He liked to listen to John even as he was perplexed by him. Still, the pronouncement of the Forerunner rankled, especially with Herod’s wife, who made good use of her circumstances to accomplish her end. “Give me the head of John the baptizer on a plate,” and it was done.

The Gospel of the Lord? 

What gospel is there in that story? What triumph? What resurrection? On the face of it, not much. Another innocent man declared guilty. Another prophet killed. Another ruler doing something terribly wrong and getting away with it. In Herod’s court, the world goes on as it always has — or so it can seem. And yet the Truth is different. 

If we were to flip back a few pages or cast our minds to the Gospel lesson from a few weeks ago, we would see a study in opposites. Immediately preceding the story of John’s death, we hear Jesus telling his disciples about the true nature of God’s kingdom. God’s kingdom is not like this world, he says. In God’s kingdom, the poor are treasured, the sick are healed, and wrong is made right — because God’s rule is one of love, of self-sacrificial love, a love that will not tire or rest or stop loving until everyone has encountered Him. That is the kingdom Christ proclaims, the kingdom he sent his disciples to announce on his behalf. 

What a contrast between God’s reign and Herod’s. Side-by-side they stand, one seemingly poor and powerless, the other dominant and in demand. But to the one who knows, who has seen and heard, the rightful king and his righteous kingdom are impossible to miss. 

They call to the heart. 

They call to everyone’s heart. Even Herod liked to listen to John and his message of repentance because some part of him knew it was true. Some part of him recognized and resonated with the restorative breeze that accompanies the Spirit as he blows down the crumbling facades and crooked altars we build inside of us. Repentance can be painful; but it is the path to freedom.

We know that, just like we know that we shouldn’t eat three cheeseburgers for dinner every day or check our phone in the middle of the night. But just because we know doesn’t mean we’ll always listen. We’re so often so happy in our sin that letting it go or turning around seems impossible. Like Herod, the idea of repentance may be attractive. We might catch a glimpse of the wide-open space on the other side, but then we decide to stay right where we shouldn’t be. Which is what Herod did. Herod hardened his heart. He surrounded himself with so much luxury and pleasure, that when the moment to choose repentance came, Herod felt like he had no choice at all — and the results were disastrous. “Who is this Jesus of Nazareth but the man I killed, returned from the grave to punish me?” 

Of course he would think that. In Herod’s world, in our world, that is precisely what happens. Bloodshed and vengeance. The nightmare of guilt and the multiplicity of sorrow that follows. 

But that is a story written according to an older testament; we live in the light of a New. And in that light, what do we know to be true? What did John know to be true? What did Jesus do? God came into this world not to condemn it, but to save it — to die saving it — which has been his glory all along.

When we were citizens of this world, dead in our sins, enslaved to our own desires, God came down to save us. He saw how weak we were and how lost, and he said, “I will never again pass them by.”

He will never again pass us by because he is right here. God is with us. Christ Jesus is with us, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God as a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, humbling himself even to the point of death on a cross that we might be saved. 

For God loves us, each of us. And he abides with us: no matter how often we misunderstand him or misrepresent him, no matter whether our hearts are more akin to the ascetic of the desert or the king in his court, God longs for us. He longs to pour out his blessings upon us, longs to show us his salvation, so that we might be free to enjoy him, this God who made each of us for his very own.

This is the God we worship. This is the God who reigns. This is the God who holds all that is in his hand — who holds even John, even Herod, even us in his hand — and who will lose nothing of what he has made but bring everything into his Kingdom, where righteousness and peace kiss each other. Where every wrong is made right. Where we are made holy and whole through the blood of the Lamb. AMEN.

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​     Ethan Allen, leader of the Green Mountain Boys during the Revolutionary War, was with a group of fellow patriots at a Sunday service led by a stern Calvinist preacher.  The preacher took as his text, “Many shall strive to enter in, but shall not be able.”   In typical predestinarian fashion, the preacher observed that God’s grace was sufficient to include one person in 10, but not one in 20 would endeavor to avail himself of the offered salvation.  Furthermore, not one man in 50 was really the object of God’s favor, and not one in 80…
 
      At this point, before the preacher was able to utter another depressing divine statistic, Allen seized his hat and left the pew saying, “I’m off, boys. Anyone of you can take my chance.”

     I don’t blame Ethan Allen for walking out on that, but most people wouldn’t have taken that liberty.  Obviously, Allen was a free thinker as well as a fighter for freedom.

     Last Thursday marked the 248th anniversary of the adoption by the continental Congress of the Declaration of Independence. The declaration was the work of a committee of five: John Adams, Roger Sherman, Robert R. Livingston, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin. That day on which this committee presented the Declaration of Independence must have been an intensely exciting one, for they knew that this declaration would lead the colonies to war against the most powerful nation on earth. 

     The declaration makes it clear that this move toward revolution was based on universal principles concerning the rights of the individual and the responsibility of government: “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  That declaration did indeed lead to war, to the shedding of much blood, as well as countless other sacrifices, and ultimately to the establishment of this great nation.”

     Throughout my life, I have occasionally fantasized about one of the founding fathers, for example, George Washington, coming back to earth and seeing what he helped to set into motion. What would he think about what the United States has become? Our boundaries extend from the Atlantic to the Pacific. What would Washington think about airplanes, subways, railroads, and automobiles; electric lights, hot tapwater, and indoor bathrooms; about buildings that reach as high as the clouds, microwave ovens, fast food, the Internet, cell phones, Facebook, and Twitter?

     After I fantasize for a while about what Washington would think about all of the wonders of our high-tech world, my imagination turns toward the more negative aspects of modern life. What would he think about the thousands of homeless people in every major city in this land, of our huge crime rate, the many lives destroyed by drug addiction, and our high rate of illiteracy in spite of the fact that education is available to every child in this country?  What would he think of our current candidates for President? 

      Washington was an Episcopalian. What would he think about the fact that there are beautiful Episcopal churches all over this country and yet we had an average Sunday attendance in 2022, the last year for which we have figures, of 372, 952 — fewer than 400,000 people in church in the Episcopal Church and dwindling every year?

     My fantasy always ends with Washington having very mixed feelings about our condition. How can a nation with so much wealth, so much power, and capable of doing so much good have so many overwhelmingly sad problems?

     And then I come back to the present, and I realize that my fantasy wasn’t about George Washington at all, but was a way of helping me to reflect on our society. We all have a tendency, I think, to be rather schizophrenic when it comes to thinking about our country. On one hand, we can get caught up in singing patriotic songs and celebrating so much that is good about this land, and on the other hand, we can look at all of the problems and become very pessimistic and despairing.

     Neither view taken by itself, is realistic or helpful, but put the two together and add to them God’s love for us and our love for God and his Church, and we have all that we need to do our part in dealing with the problems that face this nation.  As people who love our country, and who love God, most of all, the only part of the world that we’re responsible for changing is that part in which we live. We cannot alleviate world hunger, but we can and must help to feed the hungry in this community, and we’re doing that on a daily basis with our lunch program. We haven’t been able to do away with crime, but we can and must teach our children right from wrong.  We can’t alleviate the problem of literacy, but we can and must work toward making our schools the best they can be.

     It’s important for the Church to celebrate Independence Day.  The Episcopal Church has made Independence Day a Major Feast, so that we can remember and give thanks for those who gave their lives that we might be free.  It’s important to give thanks for the many blessings we enjoy as citizens of this country, and to use that thankfulness to stir within us the will to be sacrificial in serving the common good.  That’s where our faith and patriotism come together, and it is that point where we are ready for our Lord to send us out, as he sent his disciples, to proclaim the Gospel. 

     Adam Smith, whose economic and philosophic ideas helped to shape our constitution, said that “to feel much for others, and little for ourselves; to restrain our selfish, and exercise our benevolent affections, constitutes the perfection of human nature.”  It is when we become this kind of patriot that patriotism will serve its proper end, and be altogether consistent with our calling as Christians.

     God bless our native land; firm may she ever stand through storm and night: when the wild tempests rave, ruler of wind and wave, do thou our country save by thy great might.

     For her, our prayers shall rise to God, above the skies; on him we wait; thou who art ever nigh, guarding with watchful eye, to thee aloud we cry, God save the state!
 
 

​     Let me tell you about myself.  My name is Jairus.  Our family lives in Palestine.  It’s a difficult time for us as a people, for we’re part of the Roman Empire, which is polytheistic, very cosmopolitan, and very immoral.
 
     I’m a religious man, in fact, I’m a leader in my synagogue, and I’ll tell you, it’s difficult for us not to give in to some of the pagan influences that are everywhere.  That’s probably my most important role as a religious leader—to model what it means to hold to the faith when the culture around us is so against what we believe and how we’re to conduct ourselves morally.  I take my role very seriously and as a result people look up to me.
 
     There was an itinerant preacher who was making the rounds.  Many of the people of our synagogue went out to hear him teach and preach.  There were amazing stories about this man, Jesus.  In fact, I went out to hear him myself.  He’s an amazing teacher.  His parables are wonderful stories about the nature of God and man.  But I have to say that more than anything he says, there’s something about him that draws a person to him.  It’s hard to describe, but suffice it to say he has a great deal of charisma. 
 
     And then there are the healings.  He cured a leper.  One moment that leper was diseased, and the next he was clean!  And there are stories about his curing a man with an unclean spirit.  And a huge crowd witnessed his healing of a paralytic.  Amazing stories!  One can’t help but recall the words of Isaiah: “The blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them.”
​
     But I have to say that there were problems about Jesus.  He healed a person with a withered hand on the Sabbath, when he could have waited a day.  It wasn’t an emergency.  Why didn’t he honor the Sabbath?  In explanation, he said things like, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”  And he associated with people whose reputations weren’t stellar, to put it mildly.  And he and his disciples didn’t fast at the appropriate times.  That’s very difficult to understand in someone who’s supposed to be leading people to God.  And so, while some were heralding him as the Messiah, most of my friends, certainly most of the religious leaders in Israel, thought he was more of a problem than a solution to our difficulties.
 
     I was keeping fairly neutral, when something happened in our family that changed everything.  My beloved daughter of twelve years of age became quite ill.  We called in all of the doctors, but they couldn’t do anything for her.  The whole synagogue was praying for her, yet she continued to decline.  In fact, one day it was almost certain that my dear daughter would die.  I had to do something.  I couldn’t just watch my daughter die.  I knew it would be controversial, but I just had to give it a chance, so I went to Jesus and I begged him to come to our home and lay his hands on her and heal her.  He had healed others; he could heal her.
 
     The tragic news came while Jesus and I were on the way to see her.  My daughter died.  We were too late.  Jesus insisted on continuing to the house, telling me not to lose hope.  When we got to the house, we saw that the mourners and musicians had already arrived; the required rites of mourning were being done.  Jesus told the crowd who were gathered, “The child is not dead, but sleeping.”  Everyone was dumbfounded that he would say that.  He told them to leave and then he took my wife and me and Peter, James, and John to where our daughter was, and he said, “Talitha Cumi” (“Little girl, I say to you, arise.”).  And she got up and walked.  Jesus told us then to fix something for her to eat.  He told us not to tell anybody, but I can’t help but tell you, because he can help you, too.
 
     You see, I now know that Jesus truly is the Messiah.  He’s the one whom scripture foretold would come and save the world.  This wonderful miracle is a sign of that salvation.  I’d been skeptical before, and then just neutral about him.  It was only when I was in a true crisis, when I had exhausted all other avenues for help, that I turned to him.  One might think that he might’ve been a little upset that I went to him only as a last resort, but he didn’t chastise me.  He welcomed me, he calmed my fear; then he gave my daughter new life. 
 
     It’s now several years after my daughter was brought to life.  I, Jairus, want you to know this because Jesus, who is now crucified and risen, can give you new life as well.  It’s an even better life than what he gave to my daughter and he gives it to all who desire it.  It’s life through him and in him and with him.  It’s life right now and even death cannot conquer it.  To avail yourself of it, though, you must go beyond a simple knowledge of Jesus to complete trust in his grace and love—the kind of trust I had when I finally went to Jesus to heal my daughter.  He gave this life to you at your baptism, yet each day you and I must decide anew if we’ll really put our trust in him. 
 
     When we come up to this altar rail to receive the body and blood of Christ, may it truly be a time of renewing our trust in Jesus and receiving him anew.    
 
      
 
 

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Time and time again, the men that Jesus chose to follow him, the men that Jesus commissioned as his own apostles, failed to recognize the One who stood before them. Jesus of Nazareth was so much more than simply their teacher, a wandering rabbi, the son of a carpenter. He was and is, indeed, the Son of God. 

Jesus spoke with authority. He interpreted Scripture as though he himself wrote it. Jesus cured the sick, freed the demon-possessed, told a paralyzed man to stand up and walk. He forgave sins. No one in the history of Israel had done such amazing things except Moses or maybe Elijah; but they were dead and gone and no one like them had been seen since. Until Jesus appeared in Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God’s kingdom come. 

“Who is this man?” Everyone was asking that question. The way he spoke, the way he acted, the look on his face when he saw someone suffering — it was almost as if Jesus had stepped out of the Scriptures themselves, but the role he was playing was God’s. 

Not that his disciples (or anyone else you might expect) made that connection. Caught up in their own conflicts and distracted by their own desires, Jesus’ followers missed what was right in front of them. They missed who Jesus really was even as they walked beside him along the dusty roads of Galilee and on toward the sea. 

Which is where the story in our Gospel text today begins.

Evening had fallen, and after teaching a crowd of thousands for the whole day, and after having been forced to stand in a boat offshore because of the sheer number of people, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” 

The moon was bright, and the sea was calm. The journey should be straightforward, easy even; half of the disciples were fishermen. But almost as soon as their boat left the shallows for the deep, the wind changed. Clouds raced across the sky, and rain began to fall. 

The disciples knew what was coming. They knew how fierce sudden storms could be on the Sea of Galilee; but this was worse. The wind and the water had come alive, roused like some wild beast on the hunt, the kind of animal that plays with its prey before killing it. 

And the disciples panicked. Rushing to the stern of the boat where their master lay sleeping, the men shook Jesus awake. “Teacher,” they said, “do you not care that we are perishing?” 
And without saying a word, Jesus stood up, reached his hands toward the sea and said, “Be still. Be quiet.” And in an instant, it was. The sky cleared. The water calmed. All was at peace — except for the disciples who, as St. Mark tells us, were even more frightened. They “feared greatly.” 

“Who is this that even the wind and the waves obey him?” 

And on that note our story ends, with the disciples near-stupid with terror and exhaustion, asking themselves who this man could be. 

We know! The answer is clear. You’d think the disciples would get it. How could they not, when they had followed Jesus for long enough to see him cure the sick and feed the hungry and calm the storm. How could they not come to the conclusion that Jesus is in fact the Messiah, mortal and more than mortal, the Son of God not just in name or in character but in his very being. 

What a difference that realization would have made on the Sea of Galilee that night. If they had known, if they had believed that God himself was on board, would the disciples have been so scared? The storm would have raged. The boat would still have been swamped. But the disciples would have been safe, even while their lives were in danger. 

Which is where things start getting complicated, especially for us, who can smile at the irony of a story written down so many years ago; but who nevertheless can also recognize the fear and even imagine the terror those men experienced — because we’ve felt something like that and seen something like it before.

It could have been a tragedy. A friend dead before their time. A career ruined in an instant. A dream crushed by one careless comment. Or it could have been the slow build of sorrow over months or years, the bad news that creeps up until suddenly we’re drowning without ever having realized we were so far from the shore. Each one of us has been and each one of us will be those disciples at some point in our lives: helpless, hopeless, ready to shout at God, ready to shake him. “Don’t you care that we are perishing? Don’t you care that I am perishing?”


A statement to which Jesus did not actually respond. When his disciples woke him up, Jesus heard the fear in their voice, and he saw the desperation on their face — and he got to his feet and raised his hands to the sky and commanded the sea to calm and the wind to still. Then, turning to his disciples, he spoke to them for the first time since their voyage began: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” 

It’s worth noting the difference in his voice, the tense in which he speaks. Jesus commands the wind and the waves; he questions us. That distinction is important and not just because grammar is important: God commands the forces of nature to obey him. In the beginning, he commanded all that is to appear. Except for humans. For humans, God speaks differently. He invites, he questions, he dialogues. God speaks to us and wants to hear our response — because he wants us to find that same calm and that same stillness with him and through him and in him — a state of mind and a posture of heart that begins when we believe what he says and what he does is true and thus recognize him when he comes.

Jesus said at the end of his earthly ministry that all power and authority had been given to him and that he would be with us always, even to the ages of ages. God is with us, behind us, before us, beneath us; above us and all around us. On the boat in the storm, in the car before work, when we laugh, when we cry, He abides – even when we miss him, even when we don’t believe he is there. God rests in this place where there never seems to be any rest that he might be ready to raise his hands and calm the turmoil within us when we ask him to do so. 

Tossed here and there by the waves, it takes a certain courage to leave the cabin or let go of the handrail. It takes a bravery of spirit to step away from the power of our fear and set down the easy comforts and the quick fixes and reach for the Lord, daring to take God at his word, to say, “Save me, O Christ, lest I perish.”

That movement, that prayer, is in itself a victory. Because he will save us. He will deliver us. Maybe not from our circumstances, but through them. Maybe not in the ways we expect or even want but in the way we need. For all that we experience, the good and the bad, is the domain of our salvation, an opportunity to exercise our faith in the steadfast love of the LORD, a love that never fails, not even in the face of death. God is with us, offering us peace, offering us rest, even amidst the storm. AMEN. 


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​      Linda and I have just returned from a wonderful cruise in northern Europe.  We planned this in celebration of our 50th wedding anniversary, which really isn’t until 22 June. Anyway, we had a tremendous time. We thought of you all along the way and kept you in our prayers as I know we were in yours. It was great to get away, but it was even greater to get back and it is wonderful to see you again. 
 
      An elderly lady was well-known for her faith and for her boldness in talking about it. She would stand on her front porch and shout “PRAISE THE LORD!”
 
     Next door to her lived an atheist who would get so angry at her proclamations he would shout, “There ain’t no Lord!!”
 
     Hard times set in on the elderly lady, and she prayed for God to send her some assistance. She stood on her porch and shouted “PRAISE THE LORD. God, I need some food!! Please, Lord, send me some groceries!!”
 
     The next morning the lady went out on her porch and noticed a large bag of groceries and shouted, “PRAISE THE LORD.”
 
     The neighbor jumped from behind a bush and said, “Aha! I told you there ain’t no Lord. I bought those groceries. God didn’t.”
 
     The lady started jumping up and down and clapping her hands and said, “PRAISE THE LORD. He not only sent me groceries, but He made the devil pay for them. Praise the Lord!”
 
     That lady had faith, didn’t she? I’ve had the great blessing throughout my ministry of knowing many people who had that kind of strong faith.  In my brief time here at Emmanuel Memorial, I’ve met some people who have that kind of faith.  In every person who has strong Christian faith, it started out small, like a mustard seed, but with time and care it has grown large and overshadows every other element in the person’s life.
 
     All people have faith. Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t say that all people have Christian faith, but all people have certain guiding principles that determine how they look at life and the course their lives take.
 
     We all have principles by which we live our lives, some large and some small. My Aunt Martha, may she rest in peace, grew up in the small town of Grove City, Ohio. She and my mother and their other sister and my grandparents were related probably to half the people in town. Everyone knew everyone else. She told me when I was growing up, “In a small town, don’t tell anyone anything you don’t want everyone to know.” She put faith in that small principle.
 
     We’re still pretty new here, but it seems like Champaign is a fairly small town!
 
     There are many things that become guiding principles in people’s lives. Some people’s primary guiding principle is the amassing of wealth. Others have as their primary motivation having power over others. For others, it’s respect, for others, work.  For some, the most important thing is family.  For the addict, it’s coming up with the next fix.  For the alcoholic, the next drink.  Some guiding principles are basically good things, and are compatible with Christian faith, if kept in perspective; others are not.
 
     The most important of the 10 Commandments is the first one: “I am the Lord thy God who brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have none other gods but me.”  Jesus restated this most important guiding principle this way: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.”   a second guiding principle is like the first: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
 
     These are the guiding principles for every Christian, and they’re the only way to true life. The faith revealed to us in Holy Scripture is that to put anything else as the most important thing in life is idolatry and will ultimately lead to destruction. Money, power, fame, respect, family, drugs, alcohol – they’re all in the same category—if they become more important than the love of God. When that happens, that’s what we call sin.
 
     Wait a minute!  Did I just change gears with you?  I thought we were talking about faith!  Don’t you have to have faith first, before you have the love of God? Isn’t faith synonymous with belief?  The theologian John Macquarie, in his book The Faith of the People of God, says “faith is a total attitude toward life, and although belief is a part of this attitude, it’s essence is to be seen rather in commitment to a way of life. It may be the case that when the commitment is made, all the beliefs implied in it are not yet clear, and it’s only in following out the commitment that the beliefs come to be fully and explicitly understood.”  In the Letter of James, the apostle says, “You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.”  So, when Jesus speaks about faith he’s speaking about a relationship between God and the believer.
 
     I just quoted from the Letter of James.  James is an excellent example of the point I’m making.  During our Lord Jesus’ earthly ministry, his own family wasn’t particularly supportive of his ministry in Nazareth.  Jesus’ family actually tried to restrain him from preaching, teaching, and healing.  James, his brother, isn’t mentioned, but we would assume that he was one of the family members trying to keep Jesus from doing his ministry.
 
     James obviously believed that Jesus existed as he was growing up with him, but I think it’s safe to say that he had no faith in him at that point.  Even if our Lord Jesus had tried to convince his brother that he was the Creator of the universe, James would most likely have thought he was crazy or possessed!  James eventually became an apostle and was the first bishop of Jerusalem.  By that time, he knew that Jesus had been raised from the dead.  He knew him as his Lord and God.  He actually gave his life for him, for he died for his faith in the year 62.  Now that’s a mustard seed growing into a large shrub story if I’ve ever heard one!
 
     So, faith, while it includes belief, is more than belief; it’s a relationship between God and the believer. Think about the most important relationships you have. What are the characteristics of those relationships?  They’re loving, they have a foundation of trust, and they require nurturing through time spent with the beloved.  That’s a good thing to remember always, but especially on this Father’s Day.
 
     Your being here this morning is an act of faith.  You’re spending time with God, your heavenly Father.  You’re nurturing your relationship with him.  If perhaps you’re here for the first time and know very little about the Christian faith, this first small step is an act of faith, and could be that small mustard seed that eventually will grow into a large shrub in your life, overshadowing everything else.
 
     As fallen human beings, we all have a tendency to make something else the main thing, when we know our commitment to God should be the main thing, always and everywhere.  But thanks be to God, whenever we fall and confess our failure, God forgives instantly.
 
     God grant us the grace to make our faith the main thing, as that mustard seed grows into the largest of shrubs, and our faith becomes more and more the way to life.
 
 
 
 
 
 

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Adam and Eve heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God among the trees of the garden.” 

We all know this particular story. We’ve heard it before, some of us even since we were children. Though they had been commanded not to eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the man and woman did precisely that. The snake tempted Eve, she tempted Adam, and the rest is history — which is really where we’ve all learned this story in unforgettable and sometimes deeply personal ways. 

No one, not even the most optimistic among us, can look at our world — or at our own selves — and conclude that everything is fine. As G.K. Chesterton once famously said, original sin (this disease or dysfunction that got its start somewhere behind the mists of myth and legend) is the one doctrine on which everyone can agree. The evidence is simply too great to deny. One glance at the news, one moment on any social media platform, and we know (if we’re being honest) that something has gone terribly wrong. In sinful hands, the fruit of that forbidden tree really is death.
Not that Adam and Eve were thinking about that when they dashed into the forest on that primordial evening. All they wanted to do was hide. To flee from their mistake, to deny their disobedience, to be exempted from responsibility — as if the absence of the criminal could reverse the crime. Adam and Eve were ashamed; and they were ashamed to be seen by the only One who could save them. 

You see, when the woman and the man ate the forbidden fruit, they didn’t actually gain anything. They lost something, even everything. Ever since that moment, humankind ceased to know God as he is. We stopped looking to the heavens with our arms raised in thanksgiving because we were too busy looking after ourselves, too concerned with our own self-preservation to recognize God as our creator and sustainer and friend. And so it is that Adam and Eve hid because they thought they knew what was coming, and they couldn’t bear to watch.

But if they had dared — if they had stayed, if they had stepped out from among the trees, what would they have found but the God who was coming to find them. And who is also coming to find us. 

Because we, too, hide from God. Like our forebears, we reach for something that we should not have or does not belong to us and then recoil when the consequences unfold. “But he deserved the harsh words,” we think. Or, “I wanted the dress or the car or the phone and have a right to it — and to my opinion.” That movement rarely results in healing or hope. In fact, more often than not it results in the kind of pain or alienation that can blind us to each other and to the world and to God. Wittingly or unwittingly, we hide — and so lose ourselves.

And yet God is not deterred. Nor is he dismayed. He loves us, he speaks to us, not only when we are “good,” but when we make mistakes. Maybe especially when we make mistakes. God approaches, calling us each by name, holding out a wounded hand to lead us back into the light. A light in which we are revealed just as much as God is.

For God made a promise to the frightened couple that night in the garden. He told them that their own offspring, their own flesh and blood, would face the same temptation they failed to withstand; but this time, he would overcome it, even if it cost him his life. 

Even then the gospel is spoken. Even then the Christ is revealed. Almost from the very beginning — when creation seemed to have come to its very end — we find the Son of God and Son of Man, the One in whose image we are made, who was born, who lived and died so that we might once more dwell in the presence of God without fear or shame but in quiet confidence and contented rest. 
Which is where the human being was always meant to be: at one with God, at home with God, at peace with Him. Christ achieved that for us. Opened up that garden again for us. Though Jesus suffered, though he was crucified, he crushed the serpent, and gave us what we thought had been lost forever: communion with God himself. 

That is our eternal reality, our belief and our hope, a hope that is unseen in so many ways and yet present and possible even in the here and now. For God does not find us only to let us hide again but draws the soul who desires him ever deeper into the life of his love and the light of his kingdom. There we are reborn. There we once more grow up. There we learn as an infant does — crawling, toddling, running, falling, again and again and again, always looking to dada, to “Abba” for our every need and our every good. 

Until one day we learn to give him everything and to expect everything from him. Until one day we learn to surrender our will to his, to long for him with the same intensity as a watchman guarding his city gates longs for the dawn. Until one day we know him, finally, as the God of mercy, who forgives that he might be revealed to us — and so he heals us. And when that happens, the watching becomes seeing, and the longing becomes enjoying, and we enter paradise again, not as the children of Adam and Eve but as the children of God, the brothers and sisters of Christ. 

For now, though, we wait. We wait in this world at the time of the evening breeze for the sound of the LORD God walking our way. May we listen for him. May we long for him. May we run out to meet him when he comes. AMEN.

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Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And blessed be his kingdom, now and forever. Amen. 

The words have changed. Only a week ago we said, “Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!” But now something else passes our lips. It’s a familiar phrase, one we say somewhere around 60% of the year; and yet to speak the Triune Name, to bless Him: what a mystery that is, and what a miracle.

We may not think in those terms — because who does think about the Trinity? Even priests avoid it. We quip that Trinitarian doctrine is a matter for theologians, and then make the curate preach on this particular Sunday every year. To do so, though, to equivocate when it comes to the One in Three and Three in One, is to miss a gift. For this encounter and any encounter with the Triune God is a blessing. We say it. We bless him; and in doing so he blesses us. 

Which is actually incredible and maybe even a little unbelievable. God blesses us — us, who get him so wrong so much of the time. Such is the human predicament. Since time immemorial, when people began to look from their hands to the sky and wonder if anyone was up there, humankind has been calling on almost any god but the LORD. Thor, Zeus, you name it — pagan antiquity came up with some pretty sophisticated substitutions. But now, after two World Wars and the Atom Bomb and the Internet, most modern people have settled on worshiping the god of their imaginations, the deity that deals in thumbs-ups and bright smiles, a deity in which our world believes and proclaims. “God,” in this age, is the affirmative voice that resides somewhere in our subconscious, a voice that wants us to be happy and that is eager to show us the path of self-fulfillment, where the individual is the beginning and end of everything. 

But then life happens, as it always does. The toddler cries all day or the relationship falls apart or the beloved parent or friend or spouse forgets our name. What can we do, what can anything or anyone do when that happens? What could we buy that might alleviate the emptiness that rushes up to meet us? What could we watch that might loosen the grip of pain and fear that threatens to consume us? What could we say when there are simply no words left?

Very little. Maybe nothing. When tribulation comes, there is no mortal power within us that can surmount our suffering. And there is no mortal power outside of us that can transform our suffering. On our own we are frail and fragile and helpless — but with God we are not. Which is not just something nice to say. It is the truth. 

We’ve all searched, desperately at times, for the cure to our sorrows or the balm for our anxieties. And, like most people, we have looked at the sky and screamed at the clouds even if we weren’t sure that anyone was listening. That is part of our nature. Each of us knows, whether by the beating of our hearts or in the movement of our souls, that Someone is listening. Someone does care.
 

And we know his Name.

Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

He is no figment of our imagination. He is not someone we can control or even fully comprehend. He is God of gods and Lord of lords. 

The saints and doctors of the Church have taught us that God is of one substance. He alone is divine, all-holy, all-powerful, unchanging. Or, to put it another way, He Is Who He Is; and no one and nothing else is like him. 

And yet he doesn’t exist in isolation. God speaks. He breaths. He loves. God is unity in community: Three Persons in One Being, a being that is perfectly at rest. Perfectly content. Perfectly whole. We could spend years meditating on the ways the Church has conceived to speak about the Trinity; but, perhaps this morning, all we need to remember is that the God who made everything that is is the God who redeemed everything that is is the God who sanctifies everything that is. We live and move and breathe in his reality, a kingdom marked not by selfish self-fulfillment but by selfless self-giving love. 

Such is the nature of the One we worship, a God who will draw us out of ourselves and into his Life, that we might be united with Him. That we might come into the presence of God Almighty, the creator of heaven and earth, not as a caricature of what humankind can be but made into the very image of his Son through the working of his Spirit. 

Which doesn’t happen in one day. This is a journey, a pilgrimage that happens at walking-speed and according to the tempo of our own heartbeat. God will lead us away from the cramped and cracked altars we build in our hearts toward his heavenly throne. Abiding with the One who is near us, all around us, and in us, we will find God. We will encounter Him. And he will stop us in our tracks, bring us to our knees, and lift our hearts to the place where the Holy One sits and from which the Holy One came down and to which the Holy One always returns. 

And that’s the key: Worshiping the Holy Trinity — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — is really not about understanding a doctrine. It’s not about the ability to speak with confidence of a mystery we can’t actually comprehend. Worshiping the Trinity is about surrendering ourselves to a God who is above all and through all and in all, and who nevertheless humbles himself to meet us where we are.

And, mystery of mysteries, we know when he does. Every time our spirit longs for hope and healing, every time our hearts cry, “Abba, Father!” the Spirit bears witness to our spirit that we are God’s children, the beloved of the Trinity. 

As we take hold of that faith, as we grow in him, as we grow in love, we will begin to live with the kind of peace and joy that binds the Father and the Son and the Spirit together, until we become the kind of children who are always looking for, always running toward, always begging to be held by the Beloved. 

Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And blessed be his kingdom, now and forever. AMEN. 

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In the Name of the Father and the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

They didn’t believe him at first. He was leaving them, that much they grasped; but Jesus talked about it as though his departure would be a good thing. And how could it be? When you love a person, you want them to be near, to never go far. And yet he had — and more than once. 

Jesus was betrayed, arrested, led to his death. He died a criminal. Almost every one of his disciples abandoned him. Until the news of his resurrection brought them back, three days later, shaking to the upper room. “Peace be with you,” Jesus said. He talked with them. Walked among them. Ate with them. But not for long. Forty days after his resurrection, Jesus met with his disciples on a mountain outside of Jerusalem and told them that he was going back to the Father. “I will send you the Advocate, the Holy Spirit,” he said. And then he was gone.

Looking at the sky, the disciples marveled and wept and surely remembered the words Jesus spoke in our Gospel text today: “I tell you the truth; it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you, but if I go, I will send him to you. And when he comes, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf.” 

What could those words have meant to the disciples when they first heard them? And what did those words mean to them as they peered into the clouds? “It is to your advantage that I leave. I will go and send you someone else.”

The mystery of God’s will was still a mystery, even as the day of Pentecost dawned. The disciples had waited. And wondered. And prayed. They knew that something was coming; but nothing else was clear. All they could do was abide in that place of expectation, painful as it was, and believe that the promise Jesus gave them would be fulfilled. 

And it was. In the space of a moment — in the space of a breath — the early morning clamor of the City of Peace was swallowed up in the roar of gale-force winds. Fire appeared and burned over the disciples’ heads; and the Holy Spirit himself filled the room. And not just that. For the breath of God filled the disciples, too. 

It was almost like breathing for the first time. The fear was gone. The sorrow was gone. The confusion was gone. Divine life had been poured out without hesitation or limitation on the men and women gathered there that day, and the experience was nothing less than re-creation. 

We see it happen. We hear it happen. Think of Peter, the disciple who got so much right when he wasn’t getting it so utterly wrong. Peter stood up and, filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, told the crowds gathered before him that these were the days of which the prophets had spoken and that Jesus of Nazareth was the Christ, sent by God himself to save the world. 

And the crowd believed him. They heard the Truth in his voice. And that was transformative. Thousands of people began to worship Jesus that day. Thousands of people were baptized. Thousands of people received the Holy Spirit. The presence of God was palpable. The lame walked and the mute spoke; but more wondrously and more miraculously, the rich became poor, and the poor became rich. Everyone had everything in common. And Jew and Gentile, slave and free, male and female sat down together to eat.

That is Pentecost. This is Pentecost: the rebirth of the world as it was meant to be. We know from Holy Scripture that the Spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters at the very beginning of creation, holding everything that is in the knowledge and love of God. On the Day of Pentecost, that same story was retold. For in his descent, the Spirit takes what Christ has done and makes it our own. He takes the love and the faithfulness and the obedience Jesus showed to the Father and places the power to do the same in our own hearts. He fills us with the grace that makes us what we were always meant to be: We are no longer strangers but God’s friends, no longer enemies but beloved brothers and sisters to each other and to all of creation. 

That miracle isn’t just something that happened on a single day so long ago. We live in Pentecost. We move in Pentecost. The Spirit of God has come, and he fills all things and sanctifies all things. He is God, invisible almighty and eternal; and yet we can see him, know him, feel his presence in the lifting of our hearts and the glow of our countenance and the impulse to reach out in love to someone, to anyone purely because they are a fellow creation of the Lord our God. 

We know that the Holy Spirit is among us because no one else could cause that love to blossom and grow. No one but God himself could beget such holiness and wholeness that is the same sign and the same miracle that took place so long ago. We may not speak in the tongues of every nation, but moved by the Spirit and transformed by the Spirit and filled by the Spirit, we can and do speak in the language every human heart knows and longs to hear: which is love. 

One look at the news, one honest glimpse at ourselves, and we know without a doubt that the entirety of creation groans as if in labor pains, awaiting the coming of a God who makes right what is wrong and heals what is broken. We long for the day when wars will cease and suffering will end.

We long for that day; and it is coming, not only in the future, when Christ returns in glory to judge the living and the dead, but now and every day in our hearts. We have the Spirit, the power of God himself to change and to grow into the likeness of his Son; and we have the honor to do so with him, to hope, to actively passionately hope that God might take us as we are and make us into who he wants us to be. And he will. He does. He starts with that desire. He starts with frightened disciples and makes them into saints. He starts with hostile crowds and makes them into his Church. For the Spirit helps us in our weakness. He prays for us with sighs too deep for words that when the time comes we will act as one with the Lord of Love, whom he brings near, never to depart.

This is our life, our life in the Triune God. What will come of that will surprise and amaze us, for we breathe with the very Breath of God. Let us go forth rejoicing in the power of the Spirit. Alleluia, alleluia! AMEN.

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