Jesus was moved by pity... or was that anger?

Homily for Proper 6, Year B, 2009
Sunday, February 15th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:40-45

Jesus was moved with pity… or was that anger?

There is a little problem in the text of today’s Gospel reading. It is the sort of problem that we tend to gloss over from week-to-week in many of our readings from Scripture. It may be assumed by many that there is, out there somewhere, a pristine copy of the “original” New Testament. This is, of course, not so. As many of us know, our canon of Scripture came about as communities used various books of the Bible until very gradually a particular set of books became the accepted norm. What may be less well-known is that each book of the Bible was copied and re-copied with corrections made, words crossed out, and words added to make greater sense of an ambiguous passage. To make matters even more interesting, differing communities in the Early Church had versions of particular books of the Bible that contained significant differences. In fact, there is one surviving family of texts of the Book of Acts that is reckoned to be about thirty percent longer than the canonical version. In the days before printing presses, monastic scribes and copyists would laboriously copy the texts of the books of both the Old and New Testament, and yes, mistakes would be made, and conversely, mistake would be caught. As a result, today we are left with thousands of such corrections and textual problems bequeathed to us by these holy and well-intentioned individuals. There is one such problem in today’s text.

(As an aside: This is not strictly an ancient problem. A few weeks ago, I noticed a printing error in our lectionary Bible with respect to Mark 1:21. The text in the NRSV reads, “he entered the synagogue and taught.” Lectionary Bibles, because they pick up the story in mid-stream, often eliminate the pronoun and provide the proper noun for the sake of clarity. Thus, a well-meaning modern editor incorrectly replaced “he” with the proper noun “John.” However, the story is not about John going into the synagogue and teaching, but about Jesus going into the synagogue and teaching. Fortunately, a previous cleric or lay reader caught this error and scratched out “John” and replaced it with “Jesus.” Imagine the difference the name makes. This is a modern example of what was happening all the time in the hand-copying of ancient texts.)

In today’s text from Mark (1:40ff), we have just such a problem. There are two possible readings of what motivates Jesus. In our story, a man with a skin disease approaches Jesus, falls down before him and says “If you choose you can make me clean.” The text goes on to say, “Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now here is our problem. One significant family of texts reads, “Moved with anger, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now which text is correct – “pity” or “anger”?

These decisions are usually made by a group of international scholars who sift through all the various manuscripts and variant readings and using their collective wisdom, try and sort out which reading is the most probable. The thing to remember is that the choice made by these gurus is a matter of interpretation. I won’t go into the particulars of their decision on this story, rather I simply draw it to your attention as a reminder that each week, we gloss over a myriad of possibilities and a variety of textual variants that could make all the difference to certain texts. Some are obvious blunders on the part of copyists, but others like today’s text remain open to discussion and dispute.

So, why do I draw your attention to this particular textual variant today? I do so because Jesus “moved by pity” or “moved by anger” is a pretty significant variant. We normally think about this text in a certain way. Perhaps we should consider what our Jesus might look like if we spent some time with the variant reading.

First, let us consider the problem of the man with the skin disease. He had what has traditionally been called leprosy. The Old Testament laws considered such a person permanently unclean. They were to be cast out of the camp, and should they come near others they were to shout “unclean, unclean!” Impurity was not a moral judgment on an individual. Impurity was normally a short-term state of ritual uncleanness that simply excluded a person from certain cultic or liturgical activities. After a certain period of time, and after certain ritual acts, a person was declared pure and could once again participate in these community moments. It was not a negative judgment, simply a reality. We may look back on such things as primitive or even with some sense of disdain. However, it should be remembered that certain purity laws may have been a way of keeping public health in check. Furthermore, a period of ritual impurity in which a man could not touch a woman certainly provided women a safe time free of the aggressive sexual advances of men. These laws were considered good things.

The problem with impurity emerges when an impurity becomes interminable. Take for example the story of the woman who had a flow of menstrual blood for twelve years. And this is true also of those with such diseases as the man encountered in today’s text. A law that was meant to order society, and possibly even protect the vulnerable became a tool to exclude. Those who could never again be pure were cast out and excluded for fear of their impurity spreading. In St. Mark’s gospel, Jesus has a particular ministry to such ritually impure individuals. They take risks and touch him, and he risks much by touching them. The risk of contracting or spreading the ritual impurity is, in fact, the thing that breaks the vicious cycle, because through their touch of one another, through their human contact with Jesus of Nazareth, they are healed.

Now what does this have to do with our textual variant of Jesus’ “pity” or “anger.” That Jesus would be moved with pity would certainly be a natural reading and the one opted for by the editors of the NRSV; I do not contest it, per se. It has certainly been argued that this healing is an act of compassion, and so it is. But what if we consider that Jesus was moved with anger to perform this healing?

Many of us have been taught the abhorrent heresy that the God of the Old Testament was a god of anger while the God of the New Testament is a god of compassion. This is, of course, completely false for the reason that they are one and the same God. Furthermore, we could enumerate God’s continuous acts of mercy throughout the Old Testament in calling a sinful people again and again to return to him. There are also significant instances in which Christ, who is one and the same God as the God of the Old Testament, is moved with anger. We need only recount the story of the cleansing of the Temple. I would suggest that this story could be read as an example of God’s anger at what people have done with his good and just laws. As St. Paul reminds us in Romans, the Law was good, and yet sin used the law for ill purpose. Perhaps, just perhaps, Jesus was filled with rage at how the use of the Law had made this man (and so many others who were in a continuous state of ritual impurity) social pariahs. Can we not feel the anger of Jesus at this abhorrent situation? Are we not kindled to wrath? Who amongst us does not feel compelled to right such a wrong?

I would further suggest in stopping to consider this textual variant, that this gives us a fuller picture of Jesus as both God and man. In Jesus we encounter a God who is moved with great compassion for those who we, in our human sinfulness, attempt to exclude from our common life, and yet we also encounter a God whose wrath is kindled at such an injustice. In Jesus we encounter a man, a human, much like you and me who carries within himself the full range of emotions from compassion to anger. And who, like you and me when we are at our very best, can find our righteous anger kindled over injustice that we might become a more compassionate people.

Any community needs rules by which to govern and order its life. This is true of civil society, of voluntary associations such as clubs, and it is true of the Church. Rules exist to make our society a better place. Sometimes, though, we lose sight of the greater good and of the spirit of the law. The law then becomes a tool to protect us from those who frighten us because they are different and God is rightly enraged at such at such a perversion of the law. This is the Jesus we encounter in the variant reading of today’s text.

I will leave it to you to consider who might be excluded from the community of the greater Church because of our fear of including them. However, I think equally pressing is the question of who is excluded from our community here. Many have come to this parish, have been welcomed and have found a home. That is a fact. Yet, we continue to hear of others who have not felt so welcome. Why is this so? It may simply be that we are a church with nearly 180 years of tradition, of history, and of systems that work very well indeed. The legacy of our lengthy establishment is part of what makes this a wonderful place and enables us to be a light to the world in this community. And yet, we must ask if this, in some way, is also what keeps people from feeling welcome and at home. How do our systems keep people out? How does our legacy of establishment work against a welcoming, caring and inclusive vision of the kingdom? Difficult questions, to be sure, but not ones beyond our reach under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

We have a right to be enraged when we learn people have felt excluded, it is after all, how Jesus felt when confronted with this problem. The Good News is that Jesus does not settle for the status quo. Jesus, whether moved by righteous anger, or moved by compassion, performs a miracle and changes the way we see the stranger. I believe that he is working in such a way here. If we feel angry when we learn some have not been welcomed then may our anger stir compassion within us that we may extend the hand of fellowship to those who come through the doors of this place. It is, after all, what Jesus would do.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

A New Teaching With Authority

Sermon for Proper 4, Year B, 2009
Sunday, February 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:21-28

As many will know, Holy Trinity has been engaged in a process called Natural Church Development over the past couple of years. The tools of NCD allow us, through an annual survey, to capture a snapshot of where we are in several key areas of church life. Reflection on these results helps us to better understand who we are as the people of God in this place and the direction to which we are being called in the future. The survey provides us a snapshot of our weaknesses and our strengths. We know that like many Anglican Churches, we scored low in the area of Passionate Spirituality. One of the questions asked under this heading was “Do you believe that God will work even more powerfully in our church in the coming years.” Not only did we score low on this question but in our most recent survey our scored dropped. One must ask, therefore, what we believe about the ministry to which we are called in this community. A deeper question is must also be posed, “Do I believe that God works powerfully in my life?” If we do not believe that God works in our lives how will we believe that God works powerfully in the Church? Quite frankly, I don’t know what people believe about this question, but I do suspect that there are many, not only in this parish but in the Church at large, that find it hard to believe that God is active and working in their lives.

The story related in today’s Gospel is the first glimpse we get at the public teaching of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. What is so crucial about this passage is not the content of his teaching (for indeed, we are not told what he preached) but the character of his preaching: “he taught them as one having great authority.” The word “authority” has many connotations, and in the Greek one such connotation is the sense of “dominion.” Thus I believe that Mark is suggesting that Jesus is here asserting the authority of the dominion or reign of God. I believe this reading is borne out by what he does next. His authority is demonstrated by the casting out of a demon from a man in the synagogue. His teaching was proved to be powerful because of the power he demonstrated before the eyes of all around him.

Let us now return to the question that I first posed. Each of us have heard the story of Jesus, we know the teaching of the gospel, and at some level we believe it, but do we live as if it were true? As many writers have reflected of late, we may be functional atheists. We believe the tenants of faith as abstract principles but we do not believe that God actually makes a difference in our lives.

Now, let us continue with the story of the exorcism in today’s gospel. Very clearly, the story as told is a clear demonstration of Jesus’ power and authority. It is a power and authority that creates awe amongst those who witness it and they, in turn, spread his fame throughout the countryside. It is an authority that inspires faith. Yet, I would suggest that we need to probe the meaning of this exorcism more deeply. For I do not believe that the story before us is primarily a story about exorcisms per se, but about what Jesus does to transform the lives of people and release them from bondage. It is a story that tells us not first and foremost about the casting out of demons, but rather about the power of God in Christ to work within us more powerfully than we can ask or imagine and cast out the demons that prevent us from seeing his mighty acts of power in our lives.

I would suggest to you that Anglicans are typically wary of such language because such seems to connote for many a kind of ostentatious spirituality that is more about show than substance. I wonder even when we ask the question about “God working more powerfully in our parish” if we are conjuring up images of fantastic exorcisms televangelistic healings? But what if the so-called demon is not so much an external force, but the impulse that keeps us from engaging in the reality of our lives, our troubles, and our angst in the context of a God who sees through it all and beckons us forth, casting away the things that enslave us? What if the demon is our blindness to seeing an active God?

The words of this particular demon speak directly, I believe, to what we believe and don’t believe about a God who has the power to change our lives. When the demon first encounters Jesus, his response to Jesus is ambivalent, “What have you to do with me?” It is easy for us to believe that this is a question spoken by those outside these walls. The world really doesn’t know or even care what Jesus can do for them. What has he to do with me? Yet, we must be honest with ourselves and ask, how often have we thought this about God? How often have we believed that God is distant and irrelevant in our lives as we are engaged in the business of muddling our way through this life? Thus, the words of this demon echo deeply within us as a reality many of us face on our journey of faith, namely, how our busy lives distract us from God’s persistent beckoning.

Next, the demon is hostile. He shouts, “Have you come to destroy us?” Again, honesty compels us to admit, that hostility to God is not simply felt by those who choose not to believe in God, but felt by those of us who proclaim our trust in him. Who amongst us has not cursed God for a tragic loss, a turn of fate that has disabled us, or an unfair judgment upon us. Thus, words of this demon once again unmask a certain frightening reality in our journey of faith, namely how our human disappointment eclipses God’s good gifts.

Finally, the demon attempts to gain control over Jesus. In the ancient world, a spell was affected by the naming of the subject over which the spell was being cast. Thus, “Jesus of Nazareth, I know who you are!” is not so much a recognition or submission of the demon to Jesus but an attempt to gain control over him. And again, we must ask ourselves about the times that God has set the way open for us and we choose not to follow his chosen path but seized our way and followed our own path. Once more, I speak not only about those outside these wall but about you and me, and the stubbornness we exhibit when we insist on our own way, when God has graciously opened a way for us.

Honesty compels us to admit, I think, that we might share more with the demon in this story than we would ever wish to confess. This is our human condition, though. We are each prone to ambivalence about God, hostility to God, and the desire to control God. Whatever it is that makes us this way, be it fear or be it sin, I think it behooves us to recognize it and name it. It is the thing that prevents us from believing that God will work powerfully amongst us in the days to come.

If we learn anything from the Gospel of Mark, though, we are to learn that the Kingdom of God has come very near indeed. Sometimes it is so near that we miss it. As the kingdom approaches we are confronted with a new reality, that things do not have to remain the same, and more importantly, that we do not have to remain the same. Ambivalence and apathy can be replaced by engagement and passion; hostility can be replaced by love and reconciliation; the need to control can be replaced by gentle trust. This is what Jesus offered the man possessed by that evil spirit, and this is what he offers us. With the words, “Be silent and come out of him,” Jesus muzzles the voices that confuse and confound us. Jesus silences the impulses that say it cannot be done. Jesus dampens the voice that says God is dead. God is not dead nor does he sleep. The Good News ever before us is that he banishes the forces within us and outside of us that seek to draw us from his love and care.

The kingdom of God has come near. In Jesus’ teaching and in this show of power, the people around him are amazed and recognize God’s dominion being reasserted once and for all. The question thus remains for each of us to ponder. We have heard his teaching time and time again, but have we witnessed his power? Most of us have not witnessed, and may never witness the sort of act of power described in today’s Gospel, but has your faith been strengthened in another way? Each of you are here because at some level you believe the truth that God in Christ transforms our lives and indeed transforms the world. Has there been a moment when hope seemed lost and a hand was extended? Has there been a moment when the night seemed darker than it could ever be and through that night a light broke through? Has there been a moment when you vowed that you would never believe again and some little sign was given that you were not alone or forsaken? Has there been a moment when and endless flow of tears have been wiped away? Has there been a moment when under your own power it was impossible, despite every attempt you made to do things on your own, and then God took control and opened a door?

I believe honesty compels us to admit that each of us have known such moments and to realize that they are no less powerful than that day on which he cast out an unclean spirit in a synagogue. I believe honesty and self-searching compels us to realize and understand that such moments are indeed a powerful demonstration of the truth of the Gospel to which we ascribe and profess belief. I believe honesty compels us to admit that we are indeed followers of the Christ who brings us a new teaching, and one with great power and authority.

It seems to me, that each of us carries with us demons that enslave us. And yet, each of us have had powerful moments, private though they might be, in which God in Christ has lifted those demons and those burdens from us and set us free. To know this reality is not simply to hear the story but to know its power. And if God has acted so powerfully amongst us individually, I refuse to believe that he will not act powerfully in this place in the days to come.

Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves - This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

The Lamp of God Has Not Gone Out

Homily for Proper 2, Year B
Sunday, January 18th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Samuel 3:1-10

“The lamp of God had not yet gone out.”
-- 1 Samuel 3:2

“The word of the LORD was rare in those days.” These words preface God’s call to the young Samuel, who served in the Temple, an apprentice to the old priest Eli. To those who lived in those days it might seem that this saying was true, that the word of the Lord was indeed rare. Eli, himself, may not have been the best priest in the world, for he was willing to toss Hannah out of the temple when he mistook her prayer for a fit of drunkenness. However, later realizing her faithfulness he took Samuel, her miracle child, under his tutelage. But if Eli was a man of fickle spirit, his sons were outright scoundrels, guilty of all sorts of evil and abuses; men not fit to be priests in the Lord’s temple. Clearly, the author of 1 Samuel intended the wicked sons of Eli to stand as symbols of the social and religious decay of the time. Thus, with such examples before our eyes, we can understand why those of that day would have felt that the word of the Lord was rare indeed. And yet, it was in the midst of this corruption and decay that a Word came to young Samuel, a word that would shape the future of the Hebrew people.

It might be equally tempting to say that the word of the Lord is rare in these days. Few of us can claim to have heard the voice of the Lord in audible terms, fewer still can claim to have witness a bona fide miracle, and those who have seen visions are often characterized as deranged or worse, as suspected of being charlatans. And as we look about us, it is certainly easier to see the evil in the world overcoming the good, than to believe in an active God. It may seem as if moral decay has eclipsed any sense of decency and “good will amongst all people.” It may appear that our old notion of progress has been unmasked as destructive regression. But what is more frightening is the sense that God seems absent from our descent into this abyss.

There will be many out there that will capitalize on our fear, and upon the apparent absence of God, with apocalyptic stories of destruction and wrath. And there will be many who, because hope seems so faint, will buy into these tales and simplistic ways of understanding concepts of God’s justice. However, I would caution against such a simple black and white reading of events. I would argue that although we witness signs of evil and destruction every day in this world, the signs of God’s presence are not invisible, and when finally discerned they are signs that give us victory over our pessimism and hopelessness.

As young Samuel slept and the dawn neared, the Lord called to him. The text tells us that the lamp of God had not yet gone out. Now, this may be a very simple way of telling us what time it was, namely, that it was nearing the dawn because the menorah still burnt and had not yet been extinguished. However, taken on another level, in the night of pessimism, in the night of moral decay, in the night of sadness, the lamp of the Lord had not gone out. Even as we sleep; even as the world slumbers; even as we lose sight of the light, the light burns still. And as young Samuel slept, the light continued to burn. Thus, in the early hours, when the night seems like it will never end, a word was heard under the light of that lamp, a word to Samuel.

Samuel was initially blind to the light and deafened to the word, for although he had been under the tutelage of a supposed holy man, he did yet know the Lord, so he could not recognize his voice. At first, young Samuel thought the voice that of his mentor Eli, but it was not. Sadly, Eli was not quick to rise to the task of helping Samuel. He sloughed off Samuel’s inquiries in his own drowsiness. Eli’s response calls to mind for us how the fatigue of life can often numb us to the excitement and urgency of God. It is something akin to being a new parent. When the little one stirs in their crib, every cough, every gurgle, every noise is a call to us to jump up from our nominal sleep and check to see if that little one under our care is fine. Yet time goes on, the child grows, and so does our weariness at the world and with our task of parenting. The child soon has to come to our bedside, shake us, “wake up Dad, the house is burning down!” To which, at this stage in my life I might be tempted to respond, “That’s nice son, go back to bed, I’m sleeping.” Such was the case with Eli, who should have been attuned to the possibility of a word from the Lord, but in his weariness with the world, was not.

But the word still came. This time it did not come to the Holy Man, but to the boy. And thankfully, the boy persisted. Thankfully, too, old Eli, even in his drowsiness, offered some little guidance, for he in his younger days had known the Lord, and still had some small remembrance on how to test the Spirit. Eli sent young Samuel back to bed, but told him if he heard the word again, to respond with the words, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Indeed, the Lord spoke again, and Samuel responded as told.

It is not for us today to probe the depths of the frightening call or the powerful words that Samuel was called to proclaim. That is for another day and another homily. What is important for us today, though, is to ask the question, is the Lord calling us today? Of course he is. He calls us continually. His lamp has not gone out and his voice is ever issuing the call. How will we know his voice? How will we hear the call?

The Good News is that Jesus, the Good Shepherd knows his own and his own know him. We know the sound of his voice – we, his sheep know his voice. Samuel did not know the Lord. He had not been revealed to him. Although Samuel had lived amongst the priests, no one had really told him about the Lord. Yet, God is gracious beyond measure, for even through the tired sinfulness of old Eli, Samuel was given guidance, and at last he recognized the voice of God. But again, we know the voice of the Lord. We have heard it from the cries of manger-cradle, through the cry of anguish on a cross. We have heard it in parables and seen it lived out in acts of healing and restoration. We have heard it read from the pages of Scripture and we have heard across the pages of our lives. We have heard his voice.

Thus, when the night seems darkest and longest, let us ever remember that his lamp has not gone out. When the powers of the day seem hell-bent on self-destruction, let us recall that even through old Eli did God give guidance to a young lad who became a great judge and leader of his people. When the voices of confusion seek to overwhelm us, let us remember that there is a voice that has searched us out and known us before even we knew ourselves. Let us remember that there is a Good Shepherd calling in the night. Let us remember that amidst that cacophony of voices we can cut through the noise and hear the voice of the one true God with these simple words, a simple prayer indeed, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

Arise Shine, for Thy Light Has Come -- A Homily for Epiphany

Homily for the Feast of the Epiphany, Year B, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009 (translated)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 60:16; Matthew 2:1-12

“Arise, shine, for your light has come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon you!”
--Isaiah 60:1

The author of the book of Deuteronomy wrote these words: “This day, I set before life and death, blessing and curse, choose life!” And never are these words more relevant than in the Epiphany gospel. Indeed, one might say that they reach the summit of their meaning in the appearance and manifestation of our Lord. For today we hear the tale of such a choice. Today we hear the tale of a king who cowered before such a choice and chose the way that would lead to the slaughter of innocents, and ultimately to his own destruction. Today we also hear the tale of wise men from the east, kings perhaps, who chose not to walk in darkness, but follow the glimmer of a distant star and walk, instead, in the light.

The prophet Isaiah proclaims that a light has shined and that the glory of the Lord is risen upon us. For us, as Christian people, we believe that light to be the light of Christ. But there is an irony in Isaiah’s words, for even as he speaks of the coming light and the glory of the Lord rising, he foretells darkness covering the earth. That darkness, of course, is the darkness that clings to power when it knows its defeat is imminent; it is the darkness that thinks it has won the day when Christ hung lifeless on the cross. Yet, this is the darkness that ultimately dissipates when morning breaks and the bright Sun of Righteousness rises triumphantly. These truths are foreshadowed in the words of Isaiah, and they come to fruition in the coming of kings from the east to worship the light of the world, and sadly, in the resistance of a Judean king to the light.

Wise men came from the East, drawn and led by a distant light. The light they saw was in the sky – a glimmer in the distant night. And this light was but a glimmer of the light they encountered as they knelt before the Light of the World, lying in lowly estate. They offered him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but although they offered him gifts of earthly wealth, they offered him something more, the gift of themselves. Wise men, who could read both the stars and the signs of the times; wise men, possibly even kings of the Orient, recognized in this tiny boy, the true light – the light that was coming into the world. Recognizing that that light was the light of all people, they clung not to their own royal kingship but rendered themselves, their rule, and their very being unto the King of Kings, Christ the Lord.

There was another king, though, who was blind to the light. He could not read the skies nor prophetically take the pulse of the times, nor did he offer himself or his dominion to this newborn king. Rather, he clung selfishly and duplicitously to a precarious power that was not even his own, for this king was but a client of the Roman Imperial power. This Herod, an Idumean usurper of the Judean crown, clung so tenaciously to his fragile crown that he lost himself, his humanity, and left a wake of destruction in his frightened path.

Kings from the East and a king of Judea -- the former found their identity in submission to the Light of the World, while the latter lost himself by choosing to hide in the darkness. Kings from the East, drawn by a light, and a king of Judea, cowering in the shadows under the illusion of power – and between them both, the Kings of Kings, lying in lowly estate, a light shining through the darkness. Before them lie a choice -- to worship him or cut him down.

This is not simply the choice of kings, potentates, and wise men. It is a choice that is ever before the world. A light shines in the darkness, and yet darkness still covers the Earth. A light shines and those at a great distance catch a glimpse of its glimmer and seek it out. A light shines in the darkness and those close to its source cannot see it for they have been devoured by a darkness of their own making. But the light ever rises and his star is ever there to follow. It is never too late to see his star at its dawning and come and kneel before him.

The choice is ever before us to seek out the light, to search for its glimmer of hope amongst the darkness of this world, to see his star at its rising and to lay our gifts at his feet, feeble or grand as those gifts may be. The world may tempt us with promises of power and alternative glories. We may be tempted down dark roads that at first seem light but ultimately lead us to harm ourselves and others. Did Herod believe that he was doing the right thing for the people of Judea? Perhaps. Did he believe that clinging to his precarious power would keep the Roman overlords at bay? Perhaps. We can often choose dark roads with the best of intentions, but consider the consequence of such a choice; consider the slaughter of the innocents along the way.

How do we know the way? How shall we discern the light? Which star shall we follow amidst the many that glimmer in the night sky? It is the star that rests over a humble stable, not a palace of power. We know the light because it does not overpower us, but illumines us, warms us, enlightens the path peace. We know the light because it is the light that shines when we face the darkness of death and night with words that proclaim, “I am with you, even through the valley of the shadow of death.” It is a light that binds folk of good will together, rather than bringing estrangement. It is the light of a babe born in humility and laid in a manger for his bed.

Be assured, my friends, we have seen and borne witness to this light. At the font, and at the rail before the altar, we have been touched by the light of Christ and even held him in our hands. We receive him week by week and feed on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving. We have seen his star at its rising and we have become partakers of his Risen Life! The wise men only had a distant star and a faint hope. We are marked forever as his own in baptism. As witnesses to his Resurrection we have beheld his rising star in a way that those wise men never could. His story has become our story. And thus, the prophet Isaiah presciently proclaims to us, “Arise shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you!” So we arise, saying “no” to the darkness that covers the earth. We arise as shining as stars, reflecting his light, dispelling the darkness of the night.

When darkness seeks to overcome us, he arises within us and overcomes the night. And when we lose hope or when others seek to suppress his light in us, fellow stars arise amongst in gentleness and shine forth, sharing his resurrection glory, one with another, innumerable as the stars of heaven, helping us to once again kneel before the Light of the World. Together, as a holy people, we shine and the darkness shall never extinguish his light, for he has illumined our night and we shall never be without his light. Let us kneel before the Light of the World and offer our gifts of adoration and thanksgiving, and then, let us arise that his light might shine out into every dark corner of this troubled world.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves -- this homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

Let Us Go and See this Thing that has Come to Pass -- A Sermon for Christmas

Homily for Christmas Eve, Year B, 2008
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-21

Let Us Go and See this Thing that Has Come to Pass

I bring you Good News of great joy, which shall be for all people. A Word has gone out to all the nations, a Word that echoes across the ages into our hearts and souls this very night. A Word has gone out, more enduring, more powerful than any word or decree uttered by any emperor, king, or ruler of any age. A Word has gone out not only into the darkest corners of the world but into the darkest corners of our hearts. It is a Word that came to shepherds abiding in the field; it is a Word that reached distant wise men who pondered the stars; it is a Word that was birthed in the willing hearts of a young and frightened couple in a stable in Bethlehem – the Word made flesh, Jesus our Lord and King.

I bring you Good News of great joy that what was cast down is now being raised up, what was old is being made new, what is broken is being restored. Let us go then and see this thing that God has made known unto us. Let us see what God has done. Yes, my friends what has been made known and what has been done. We speak not about the past or only about the future but about the present. We speak about today.

We live in a world full of crisis, and we may look longingly back at an idyllic golden age (that never really was), or we may hope against hope for a better day to come. At times its seems like our only hope is rooted in the hope of tomorrow. In a world of terrorism and wars on terrorism, in a world in which gun violence grips our cities, in a world in which poverty and epidemic run rampant, in a world in which our environment seems irreversibly destroyed, we feebly hope that tomorrow will be a better day. But the hope of tomorrow is a feeble one indeed. If we have not fared well in the past, and if we have not acted well in the present, what hope have we for tomorrow?

But the Christmas message is not a message for tomorrow. It is not a pipe dream for the future. It is the breaking through of a reality that God has acted and is acting now. Hope is not long past or future-flung, it is now, in Christ. Will any of us dare to believe it is so? In the midst of economic crisis, ecological crisis, socio-political crisis, can we, will we, dare we believe that a Word has gone forth and that God has acted?

Can you believe it?

Consider for a moment that in the muck and mire of first century Palestine, under foreign domination and oppression, in the midst of political uncertainty, terrorist uprising, economic disparity, God came into the world. To a people without hope, to a people with a broken spirit, to a people who longed for a better tomorrow but feared it would never come, God entered in. He did not tarry, he came and the word uttered to the people, to shepherds abiding in the field was not “wait,” but “come hither and see what God has done.” To these ancients God became human and lived amongst them.

And to you, whose heart is broken this night, he comes.

And to you, who have lost your job and fear what the future holds, he comes.

And to you, whose retirement savings have disappeared these past few months, he comes.

And to you, as your family life is in turmoil, he comes.

And to you, who have lost your beloved this past year, he comes.

And to you, who fear for the anxiety of tomorrow, he comes.

Unto each one of us, in our personal brokenness, into the muck and mire of our lives, into the complicated business we call “life”, into the confusion of our lives, he comes with healing in his wings. You may not hear angels singing or trumpets heralding his coming, but he has come.
To any who were once alone but comforted by another, he has come.

To any who have made a terrible mistake and felt the forgiveness of another, he has come.

To any who have lost something or someone dear and felt the outpouring of love and support by family and friends, he has come.

And even in the silence of the moment when all seems lost, even in that silence, he is there.

These are the angelic choruses that herald his living and abiding presence among us. These are the heavenly songs here on earth that remind us we are not alone, and what is more, that we have been saved from every evil that the world can throw at us. This is the Glory of God illumined all around.

Angels appeared to trembling shepherds. The Glory of the Lord shone round about them enveloping them and calming their fear with joyous tidings that the Lord had come. A Word of hope came to them and they turned their faces toward Bethlehem, and they were not afraid. In the love and care of others in Christ, we are enfolded in that same glory and in that same love. And in our comfort and care of others we enfold them in that same love. Thus we have no cause to fear for Christ is born and the world is changed. We are surrounded by the glory of God. And we turn.

Seek the signs of the Word made flesh. God is disclosing them moment-by-moment in spite of, and in the midst of a broken world. Seek the signs not in the courts of kings, or the halls of parliaments, or in the offices of Bay Street. Seek them not at the end of a rifle or in the commands of generals or in the movements of armies, for God discloses himself in gentleness, in deep humility, in the arms of an unwed teenaged mother, in the dampness of a lowly stable.

In acts of gentleness, in kindness and humility he is made known to us. In acts of forgiveness, contrition, and compassion he comes. God is found in brokenness. God is found in our poverty, both spiritual and material. Yet make no mistake, his humility is his power and his poverty is his strength, for it is in his humiliation that our broken hearts are mended and in his poverty that we are richly filled. Let us go then unto Bethlehem seeing and believing this thing that the Lord has done.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

What Was Kept Secret for Long Ages is now Disclosed

Homily for Advent IV, Year B, 2008
Sunday, December 21st, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Romans 16:25-27, Luke 1:26-38.

"What was kept secret for long ages is now disclosed"

At the end of my sermon series this past summer I promised one more homily on Romans this year. And so, on this fourth Sunday of Advent we are confronted by the concluding verses of St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, a glorious doxology extolling the revelation of the mystery of God in the Christ-event. How utterly appropriate it is that we read this text concurrently with the great annunciation text found in Luke’s Gospel (Luke 1:26-38), for was it not upon this announcement to Mary about the birth of a son to her, the Son of the Most High God, that the entirety of Paul’s proclamation is founded? What was kept secret for many ages was indeed revealed in that announcement to Mary. What was hidden was suddenly disclosed. It was in that moment that all of human history, all of the history of the people of Israel suddenly made sense. It was in the words of that angel that the words of the prophets were broken open. It was in that angelic song that not only the stories of old came to life, but that the stories of their own lives finally made sense. It was in these words that the Word of God, Jesus Christ, was disclosed once and for all. In that very announcement the world became aware of what St. John would later proclaim…the Word, the Logos of God, the second person of the Blessed Trinity, was there from the beginning, from creation, in creation, in the guiding of sacred history, and now, in our very midst – the Word becoming flesh.

Thus, St. Paul can look back through the prophets, the Law, the writings of his ancestors and behold the Christ. That is why St. Paul, who once so zealously persecuted the Church with those ancient Scriptures ready at hand can now look upon those same Scriptures and find his Lord and Christ revealed through them and alive in them. It is this revelation to St. Paul that brought about the obedience of faith in him and this revelation that he proclaims not only to the people of his own day, of Rome, of Corinth, of Ephesus, of Galatia, of Thessalonica, of Colossae, but also across the pages of history to the people of our day, Toronto, London, Tokyo, Mexico City, New York, Moscow, to places great, and yes to place small. That message is this: that Christ has come to save us, great and small, rich and poor, young and old, wise and foolish. He proclaims a Christ revealed in the Law, the Prophets and the Writings of old, through whom the world was created, who guided his people through the wilderness, who carried them through exile and yes, in the fullness of time, was made human that we might partake of the divine nature. He proclaims a saviour who came not only for a single people but for the whole world, a light to the nations, through the grace and mercy and power of God, a gospel made known to all the gentiles.

On this fourth Sunday of Advent we stand on the cusp of hearing that old, old story once again of shepherds kneeling before his crib to adore him. But what is it that gave the shepherds their courage to leave their flocks and draw nigh? What is it that would eventually lead eastern magi to undertake a lengthy journey to pay him homage? What is it that gave a young man courage to embrace his bride whom he should otherwise put away in shame? And what is it that would enable a frightened young girl to utter the profound words, “be it unto me according to your word?”—words that would change the world?

It is the proclamation of the Word, itself, for as St. Paul says, “God … is able to strengthen you according to (the) gospel and proclamation of Jesus Christ.” The very proclamation of the Word made flesh turns fear to joy, weakness to strength, despair to hope. The very proclamation of the Word made flesh enables us to look back over our lives and our history and see the hand of God leading us to our place of “yes,” to our place of “let it be unto me according to your word.” It is this proclamation of the Word made flesh, of Jesus our Saviour born, crucified, and risen in glory, that vanquishes all our fear and doubt, all our insecurities, all our frailties. Is not the message of Paul, after all, a consistent message of “not me, but Christ in me?” The proclamation of Paul throughout his entire corpus of writing, and the message of the angel to Mary, is a consistent message that it is not our effort that matters, but our “yes”, our “let it be unto me according to your word,” our acknowledgement that with God all things are possible. And so it comes to pass that in the birth of a tiny child in a stable cold and dark, with God all things are possible.

Now to God who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages 26but is now disclosed, and through the prophetic writings is made known to all the Gentiles, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith—to the only wise God, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory for ever! Amen.

Text Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Behold Your God and Be Not Afraid!

Sermon for Advent II, Year B, 2008
Sunday, December 7th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 40:1-11

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord.”

Over the last couple of weeks we have been speaking about apocalyptic literature. It has been recognized that the images in apocalyptic literature have the potential to stir up great fear. To be sure, certain groups will capitalize on this fear, using it to encourage conversion. However, if our faith if based on fear, we are not set free as the gospel promises, but are enslaved. For the Word of the Lord is not a word of fear but a word of hope. It is a word that touches us in our deepest inner selves and transforms us, changes us, and empowers us. It is a word, as spoken through the prophet Isaiah that not only calls us forth and changes us, but calls the people of God to speak it aloud to the whole world, “O Zion that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the high mountain; O Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings, lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid; say unto the cities of Judah, behold your God!”

Be not afraid. As we confront some of the biblical images written about in the prophets and in book of Revelation, and yes, even in the gospels themselves, there is a temptation for us to be afraid. And why are we afraid? We are afraid because maybe, just maybe, the images are not so distant, not so esoteric. Maybe, just maybe, they speak of real evil in the world; they speak of real brokenness; they speak of a people without hope. And we wonder, are these texts speaking about our world, our lives, our sense of hopelessness? When we consider this possibility, these are texts that make us tremble.

But do we miss the point, though, when we allow ourselves to be overcome by the frightening images of apocalyptic literature? I believe we do. A couple of weeks ago, it was asked of me, how do we know the false prophets of any age? The false prophets are the ones that use fear to further their cause and enslave the people. I will say it again; the Word of the Lord is a word of hope that sets free, not a word that enslaves through fear. Consider those moments in Holy Scripture when God reaches out to humanity. How does God greet his people? He does so with the words, “Fear not!”

Consider for a moment Hagar, in her desperation in the wilderness as she was about to abandon her son, an angel of the Lord appeared to her with the words, “Fear not!” And as the Hebrew people were pursued into the wilderness and to the shore of the Red Sea, what were the words that Moses spoke to them? “Fear not! Stand firm, and see the deliverance the Lord will accomplish for you this day!” And when a man named Joseph considered putting away an unwed pregnant woman to whom he was betrothed, an angel of the Lord appeared with these words “Fear not, take her as your wife!” And to an aging priest of the Temple named Zechariah, who had no offspring, who was seized by terror at the appearing of an angel of the Lord, that same angel uttered these words, “Fear not!” And to a young woman trembling at the call to be the mother of God incarnate came this angelic proclamation: “Fear not, Mary, for the Lord is with you!” And to shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night, an angelic chorus singing of the glorious birth of the Saviour of the world, greeted those frightened shepherds with these words, “Fear not!” At the tomb of the Lord an angel spoke to the frightened women who had come to anoint his body, “Fear not, he is not here, he is risen.” And finally, as our Lord appeared to those same women and sent them forth with a message to the apostles, he did so with these very words, “fear not.”

Is this not the revelation, or apocalypse, of our Lord? The very words that are spoken whenever an angel appears or whenever God greets his people? “Fear not.” This is the revelation of our God to his people, and this is his encouragement and promise, that whatever the world has to throw at us, we need not fear. To those who are alone, fear not! To those who have made terrible mistakes, fear not! To those who are sick or suffering, fear not. And even to those who walk through thick darkness, and the valley of the shadow of death, fear not, for I am with thee.

Fear not, because the rough places through which you travel are being made plain. Fear not because the mountains that block your way are being made low. Fear not because the crooked pathway is being made straight.

It is one thing, though, to believe that this message is a message for us, the faithful people of God. Yet, can we believe that it is also a message for the world. Do we realize or understand our role in shouting that message from the high places? Do we make it part of our faith journey to say to a hurting world, to those around us, without fear, that God in Christ is alive and well, that his word endures forever, and that amidst the brokenness of human lives and the hopelessness that is proclaimed by the powers of this world that Jesus enters in to our lives and comes again and again to those in need, sorrow or distress?

One of my favourite all-time movies about Jesus is the movie musical Godspell. The film begins with John the Baptist portrayed as a New York busker coming across the Brooklyn Bridge singing “Prepare ye the way of the Lord.” He soon calls a series of ordinary folk together, from the drudgery of their hopeless, nameless existence to follow Jesus. As the film unfolds the disciples gather around Jesus in a seemingly empty New York City. The ensemble cast take up many roles, even playing the parts of the antagonists, thus demonstrating the good and evil in each one of us. Finally, the story reaches its climax in the death of Jesus. The most interesting thing about this interpretation of the Jesus story is the fact that there is no resurrection proper. Instead, the disciples take up the body of Jesus, and carry him into the world. Yet, they return to a world once again populated by crowds, carrying the body of their Lord, not in a solemn funeral procession but with joy and singing, reprising the opening joyful song, prepare ye the way of the Lord.

In fact, I believe the Resurrection is preached and depicted in this musical adaptation of the story of Jesus. The disciples begin the story surrounded by an oppressive New York city that doesn’t care about them and holds no hope. Yet they are captivated by a Word, a Word that calls them forth, a Word that transforms them, a Word that gives them hope. Then, when all hope should seem to be lost in the death of their master, their hope is not lost, and they return to that old world, but with different eyes and with a different power and with a sense of joy and hope. What has changed for them? They carry the body of the Lord into the world. They are no longer a people gripped by fear but a people transformed by hope. The Lord has transformed them and through them he is transforming the world.

If they had returned to the world without him, they would be powerless. Yet, they leap into the world as if every mountain has been made low and every rough place plain, because for them, in Christ it has. They return into the world, beholding their God. Without fear and with the great hope that what God has done for them in Christ, he will do for the world, they return into that world. And they cannot contain themselves. The lives of those that carry him may come to an end, but the Word of Hope will never die. The grass withers and fadeth away but the Word of the Lord endures forever. As his body has been brought into the world and as his word is heard, so shall the lives of men and women in every age be changed and transformed, and so, too, shall they take his body in their hands and proclaim with loud voices the hope that is set before them. Beholding their God they take up the call in a glorious procession, for all others to hear: Prepare ye the way of the Lord!

And with these words, our Lord comes to us again this season. Our call to watch and wait is transformed into a call to proclaim the day of his coming. Behold your God, and be not afraid. Take up his call without fear, without regret, without trepidation, because you know the good news of glad tidings that he brings. You know the joy and hope that he has given us. And you know that it is he that makes straight the crooked paths of our lives, makes smooth the rough places of our spirits, and lifts us from the deep valleys of our broken hearts. Carry his body into the world, proclaim the Word from every high place. Behold your God, and be not afraid.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

I Will Seek Out My Sheep: A Sermon for the Reign of Christ

Homily for the Feast of the Reign of Christ, Year A
Sunday, November 23rd 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24

“I will seek out my sheep”
--Ezekiel 34: 12

I have recently been giving some thought to apocalyptic theology. Last week, in our youth confirmation class we had questions raised about the meaning and interpretation of the images in the book of Revelation. In our parish newsletter and recently on my blog I wrote about the so-called “Little Apocalypse” in the thirteenth chapter of St. Mark’s gospel. In both cases, I noted that we as mainstream Christians have tended to shy away from such texts, fearing them to be too difficult to understand, resisting the urge to dig into them with enthusiasm, and thus leaving them within the realm and ownership of certain very conservative strands of Christianity. Yet, I think that apocalyptic theology, that is, theology that tends to focus on the appearance of Christ at the end times, has something to say to us, the everyday people of God, in our present situation.

Apocalyptic thought is usually painted in very black and white terms. There is evil and good. Which side are we on? However, I think that this question may be a bit of a “red herring,” for underneath all apocalyptic thought is the presumption that God, in his goodness, saves his people – and not only saves them, but recreates them and all creation, making all things new. God, in Christ, is transforming the created order into its final purpose. Thus, I think the question for us is, can this be true? Do we see it? Do we believe it?

The other thing that needs to be said about apocalyptic theology, and about biblical prophecy in general is that it is never really about predicting the future, but interpreting the present time. Now, by this I do not intend to suggest, as some do, that by reading the newspapers we will be able to identify the ten-horned beast of the apocalypse. This kind of simplistic association of a biblical image or metaphor with a particular person in our time is surely wrong-headed and dangerous. However, the writers of such apocalyptic and prophetic literature surely had individuals of their own day in mind, and spoke in a sort of code so that they would end up on the chopping blocks, themselves. What apocalyptic and prophetic texts suggest is that in every age there are tyrants that rise up, there are crises that are bigger than what we can handle, and there is always before us the real possibility that we will lose hope.

Years ago I heard one writer – this was during the Reagan years and the height of nuclear tension – asked if he thought we were on the brink of the apocalypse. He laughed a very serious laugh and noted, has not every generation been on the brink of the apocalypse? Did not the men in the trenches in the First World War look to heaven and cry, “My God, this is the apocalypse!” And so I concur – each age must face its own apocalyptic threat.
When terrorists run planes into buildings; when the climate seems to have changed irreparably; when we stand powerlessly in the midst of economic turmoil; do we not stand with hands outstretched and cry unto God, “Is this the apocalypse?” And of course, the greater danger is that we will simply buy into the apathy of the times and find ourselves not on the side of the righteous but aligned with the great whore, Babylon.

It is of course, so easy to place the blame. Our leaders have failed us. Certainly this was the view of Ezekiel. The people that found themselves in Exile were there because of the past failure and continued failure of their religious leaders. This oracle from Ezekiel is an oracle of hope in which God brings the righteous out of captivity and pronounces with judgment on those leaders who have failed in their responsibility, who have lived off of the fat of the land and the backs of the people. He calls them fat sheep that will be separated from the lean ones. Similarly, with this oracle surely in mind, Jesus talks about the separation of the sheep and the goats.

For those of who lead, those of us who are religious leaders, and those of you who lead in your workplaces and communities, these are hard words. We must ask the question, have we worked for the kingdom or have we worked to fill ourselves?

Let us not forget that the word “apocalypse” simply means “revelation.” And for us, as Christian people, this is the revealing of God in Christ. Has this not already happened in the Incarnation; in the appearing of God amongst us in the person of Jesus Christ? Is this not the reality that we confess in the words of our faith an in our creeds? And does he not come again and again to us, to each of us, in every generation, in every age?

So, amidst all this angst of a world coming apart; amidst our fear that we can do nothing to change the course of the mighty rivers of world events; amidst the struggle of leaders to do what is right when the current tempts us in the wrong direction, God comes to us with the words, “I will seek out my sheep.” And what comforting word these are, for who is it that does the seeking? Is it you or I? No. It is God in Christ. It is God who presses into the world in all its brokenness and seeks out you and me. It is God who risks and offers up his own life on the cross for you and me. It is God whose love eclipses our hatred and enfolds us as we resist enfolding. It is not up to you or me, it is up to God – and God has acted. He has appeared. The apocalypse is now, and it is good news for the whole world.

It is good news because although we as leaders may fail to lead, God will not fail.

It is good news because although we as Christians may fail in virtue, piety, and faithfulness, God will not fail.

It is good news because although kingdoms rise and fall through pride, arrogance, and power, God’s kingdom will never fail.

I recall our eleventh primate of the Anglican Church of Canada, Michael Peers, offering these words, “We’re in it for the long haul.” His words are words of hope because it is true: while rulers rise and fall, we stand with Shepherd who fell and rose. Or rather – it is he who stands with us.

In every age the voice of the oppressed has called out for justice. Apocalyptic theology tells us that God will indeed execute judgment, or rather that the oppressors through their actions may have already executed judgment upon themselves. When Ezekiel speaks in today’s texts about the separation of the lean sheep and the fat sheep, and the deliverance of the oppressed and the punishment of those who have filled themselves unjustly, we must ask ourselves, in what way might we be amongst the “fat sheep.” Surely, we are not without guilt, both as leaders and as privileged people in the world. But are we without hope?

God continues to seek out his sheep even to the last. When Ezekiel enumerates the fate of the lean and the fat sheep, he adds this additional comment: “He shall feed them with justice.” To whom does this statement refer? One interpretation suggests he metes out justice by rewarding the good and exterminating the evil. Yet, if we read this statement through the lens of our Christian faith, and through the work of Christ, is not the justice of God that our Shepherd comes to seek out the lost sheep, the ones who have gone astray, and yes, even the evil ones? It is so easy to speak in terms of good and evil, and yet, what is evil if not human brokenness and disappointment? What is evil if not weakness hidden behind feigned power? What is evil if not insecurity and fear? Are there any amongst us who have not been the victims of brokenness, disappointment, weakness or insecurity and fear? And are there any amongst us who have not allowed ourselves to be overwhelmed by such things in negative ways? Ezekiel tells us that God promises to seek the lost, bring back the strayed, bind up the injured, and strengthen the weak. And this is precisely what he has done in Jesus Christ. What if God is seeking out all of humanity, the good and the bad, and seeking to bring about reconciliation, healing, and wholeness to all? This is a hard message because we, as human beings, have one view of justice. But God has another.

Is not the justice of God this: “I came not to seek the righteous but the sinner?” God became human that each of us, in all our brokenness might be made whole. I suggest to you today that each of us has within us both the “lean” and the “fat.” Each of us is both sheep and goat. Each of us is both sinner and saint. The work of Christ is the reconciliation of our inner struggle. The work of Christ is the healing of this dichotomy. The work of Christ, and the justice of God in Christ, is transformation of brokenness into wholeness. When this happens in any one of us, the world is healed, and we do indeed behold and witness the revelation, the apocalypse, of kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ before our very eyes.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

I Have Called You Friends -- A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday

Homily for Remembrance Sunday
Sunday November 9th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:12-17

"I have called you friends."
John 15:15

Upon my shelf sits a multi-volume history of civilization, inherited from my paternal grandfather, The History of Civilization, by Will Durant. Toward the opening of his first volume, he writes: “Civilization is not something inborn or imperishable; it must be acquired anew by every generation.”

As the nazi juggernaut moved forward, and as political appeasement failed, a generation of men and women searched their consciences and rose to answer the call of the day. They stood against a machine of death because they valued life and chose life for those of us who were to follow. For the sake of civilization, each of them made a sacrifice, and for the sake of civilization, many made the ultimate sacrifice. For the men and women of the day, participation in the War was beyond the acquisition and appropriation of civilization for themselves, it was about the very survival of civilization. And hoping to see the end of the war, it was about the hope that a better day would ultimately dawn. To them we owe a debt that can never be repaid. To those who came home and to those who fell our humble gratitude is annually extended upon this day.

“No greater love has this, that a man should lay down his life for his friend.” Surely this is the one Scripture that interprets the sacrifice made both by those who fell and by those who came home. Surely these are the words of Jesus to which we have annually turned to understand both the offering and the loss of that courageous generation. To lay down one’s life can mean so many things. There are those who sacrificed unto death, but there are those who came home came home changed forever, physically scarred, emotionally scarred, psychologically scarred. There is not one who went that did not lay down his life in one way or another… all for the love of his friend.

“I have called you friends.” What shall a man who did not live through the War say on such a day? What have I to offer to the many here lived through such times? I am afraid that I have little or nothing to offer. Over the past couple of weeks I have discussed today’s reading from St. John with many friends. One wrote me to say that in the context of Remembrance Day the focus on this text from John is, of course the words of Jesus, “No greater love has this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Other sayings of Jesus that form a part of the passage, such as “I have called you friends,” are for another time. Yet, I wonder... for while I may have little or nothing to offer on such a day, surely our Lord, in his full perfect and sufficient sacrifice, once offered, continues to offer himself to us. How exactly does he do that? He does it day-by-day, in times of war and in times of peace with these simple words, “I have called you friends.” These are words that cut us to the core. These are words that express a reality so revolutionary and so beautiful. These are words that change me. These are words that change us. Because when the spectre of evil looms and those around us, especially the weak and vulnerable, become the victims of unjust threats and violence, who amongst us is not moved to put our very being on the line to see the forces of darkness put in abeyance? God himself felt this way about us, and so in friendship he offered up himself tasting pain and tasting death that we might be called friends. God understands the pain and anquish of our souls, and yet, he redeems it.

The rhetoric of good and evil and light and darkness is so much a part of the conflicts we face today. I did not live through the War. I’m told that they were simpler times and that moral judgments were easier to make. I shall leave that to the consciences of those who lived through such times. However, I am compelled to speak to the consciences of those who live in the present time. I note, for myself at least, how easy it is to rise in righteous indignation when I feel under attack. But are we too quick to make judgments about the evil in another and stand against so-called darkness when we have not stopped to examine the darkness within ourselves? Whether it be wars in far off lands or wars within the Church, we perceive ourselves to be the defenders of what is right and the “other” to be part of an axis of evil, against which we must valiantly fight. We see ourselves as taking up the torch bequeathed to us from our fallen fathers.

“Take up your quarrel with the foe:
to you with failing hands we throw
the torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with those who die
We shall not sleep…”

But is their battle our battle? Do we blindly take a torch without understanding what it is that we are carrying? Are we under the delusion that the wars we fight and the battles that we wage are part of the same war fought so long ago? Do we examine what we fight and why we feel we must fight? They discerned the call of God and did what they felt they must do to be a civilized people in their own day? What is God calling us to do today?

I cannot judge the consciences of the people of another generation. I believe that they in good conscience saw a foe and rose against it, to the end that they took Jesus’ words very seriously and laid down their lives for their friends. However, I must judge the consciences of men and women of my own age – my own conscience included -- and begin to ask the question: who, or what, is the foe?

Who, or what, is the foe of our age against which we are called to stand? Is the foe not our human ignorance and fear of those who are different from us? Is not the foe our own impatience with a world changing faster than we can understand? Is not the foe our inability to listen to the voices of those from the margins? Is not the foe our vengeance and thirst for retribution? Is not the foe our sense of entitlement? And yet we do not recognize the foe. Again and again we mistake our brother or sister for our enemy, and in lashing out at them, we destroy ourselves. In doing so we choose not to acquire civilization for this generation but to destroy it. Will Durant is also reported to have said, “a civilization is not conquered from without until it is destroyed from within.”

So my friends, as we press on to the future (with the deepest admiration and respect for those who have taken up the battle in their own day), we must ask ourselves, what is the torch that is passed from failing hand? As we lay hold of the awesome responsibility of taking that torch in our own day, let us be clear not only about the foe against which we must constantly make a stand, but about the very nature of the torch itself.

Is it not the light that shines in the darkness, which the darkness cannot – can never! --overcome? Is it not that battle against evil in whatever form it takes? Is it not the battle against war itself, the greatest evil created by human hands? Is it not the battle against the deep sinfulness within us that compels us to destroy each other? Did our fathers fight that we should take up arms or did they fight that we should lay them down?

“I have called you friends.” Did Jesus lay down his life that we should continue to stand against each other, or that we should stand together as friends? Jesus saw in the midst of his less than perfect company of followers not sinners, but friends. He saw past the surface, past the tarnished visage, past the tax collector, past the revolutionary zealot, and yes even past the betrayer, and called them friends.

The terrorist. The Wall Street embezzler. The corrupt politician. Can I see past the labels and the visages? Of course I cannot. I am but a man. But Jesus can and does. What is more he calls them friends. He calls each of us friends because when his light shines upon us, all that darkens of our souls is washed away by his brilliance and his love. The brilliance of his light is given to us in our creation and is restored to as he seeks us out again and again as we ever fail in our struggle to be a civilized species.

What is it that is passed on from Flanders Field? Note that it is not a sword but a torch, a light. It is a light that illumines the darkness in which we all walk; a light that reveals the true darkness, the true enemy, the true foe -- the darkness of our own hearts; and it is a light that vanquishes that darkness forever. The torch has been passed from Flanders Field, yet, it is but a shadow of the torch that was passed not on battlefield, but on hill, lo those years ago, from other failing hands, pierced hands, and arms stretched wide in suffering and in love. From the hands nailed to the Cross, into the hands of a company of friends, His light – and not only his light but his very presence – is carried into the world.

Let us keep faith, then, with the one who died, or rather, may he keep us in His faith that all people might be called friends and not enemies; brothers and sisters and not strangers; beloved, not hated; precious, not reviled. Through His grace may we love each other as He has loved us. His love alone, the love that laid down its life for us, can cut through our prejudice, hatred, and anger… search your conscience. Is it not so?

After fifty years of chronicling the history of Civilization, Will Durant stated his final lesson, gleaned from his amassed learning: “Love one another. My final lesson of history is the same as that of Jesus.”

May it be so. Come, Lord Jesus.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

We are Determined to Share with You Not only the Gospel of God but also Ourselves.

Sermon for Proper 30, Year A
Sunday, October 26th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8

“So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also ourselves, because you have become very dear to us.”
--1 Thess 2:8

What is it that humans have feared most from age to age? More that war, more than poverty, more than disease – humans are afraid of being alone. Indeed, I would venture to say that underlying most of the things that grip us with fear is the fear of being alone. War, poverty, disease – these are all things that, when all is said and done, precipitate some kind of loss. At the heart of loss, is separation. And when we are separated from each other, from those we love and care for, through distance, illness, or death, we are alone. To probe even deeper, the aloneness that we feel when separated from each other makes us wonder if we are alone in the universe. Here, I speak not of the cosmic realm, but of the eternal realm. What if, when all is said and done, we are truly alone?

There are many people in this world whose faith in God seems so assured that I wonder if this question ever crosses their minds? I admire such faith, but I must be honest, it is not the experience of most of the people that I meet. And if I am to be quite honest, it is not always my experience. I have acknowledged previously, because I believe that honesty about things spiritual is incumbent upon us all, that there are times in the depth of my dark nights that I feel alone, and I wonder. I wonder about the promises of God. I wonder what comes next. I wonder about the afterlife and our resurrection from the dead. I wonder if my life means anything at all. I wonder about God. I wonder if I am alone.

Ironically, though, I don’t think that I am alone in this wondering. Who amongst us has not wondered in such wise? Who amongst us has not had those moments of feeling desperately isolated and alone? Who amongst us has, through isolation from fellow human beings, not felt isolated from God? I think we all have. But the first thing that I wish to say is this: that in our shared struggles around loneliness and aloneness, we realize that we are not alone. We all share in this struggle and we all share in the realization that it holds a very destructive power over us. I think we all know that loneliness and aloneness can threaten our bodies, minds and spirits. Loneliness and aloneness can destroy us. Our struggle with being alone is a struggle we share as part of our human condition.

What is so destructive, though, is the fact that we have so little power to change this. We cannot will ourselves out of loneliness. What brings an end to loneliness, what ends our experience of aloneness, is the presence of another. And so to this end, St. Paul writes to the people of Thessalonica, “So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also ourselves, because you have become very dear to us.” And in those comforting words, a people who felt alone in the world, because of persecution, because of rejection, because of all the things the breed loneliness, knew they were loved. Paul’s words signify a certain reality that Paul sought to impart not only comfort, but his own very loving presence to them. And what is more, he sought to impart through his own loving presence, the loving presence of a loving God.

One of the devices frequently employed by Paul as he wrote to communities around the Mediterranean was this very literary device in which he seeks to impart his presence through the means of a letter. Paul could not be with every community at every time. But he always promised that he was coming soon, and was indeed already with them through his love and his letter writing. But for Paul, it was never really about his own presence and his own love for the people, but about God’s presence and God’s love. He hoped and prayed and believed that in making his love known, they would know something of the love of God and in this experience of love, know something of God’s presence. He hoped and prayed and believed that they would not be alone, that none of us would be alone.

What Paul sought to enact for the people of Thessalonica, and for Christians everywhere (and this is why we still read him today, and why his letters speak across the ages), was this: A loving God continues to seek us out, as individual and as a people. As individuals who are lost and alone, and as people who wander in the wilderness together, and yet apart, God presses forward, seeks us out, gathers us in. Why is this so? Because we have become very dear to him, not through our own merit, not through our own striving, not through works of the Law, but simply because it is in the nature of God to love his people more passionately than we could ever hope to love back. God is determined to share himself with us. God is determined to share his love with us. God is determined that we should not be alone.

This is indeed the Good News of the Gospel of God in Jesus Christ. Because God has walked amongst us in Christ, therefore we are not alone. Because God has shared himself with us, therefore we are not alone. Because God has given us the gift of human love, the gift to love each other, therefore we are not alone. Surely, the darkness of night continues to fall, and moments of loneliness will continue to wash over us, but we are not alone. Wars and rumours of wars may threaten to separate us from friend and neighbour, but we are not alone. Surely, those around us will abandon and forsake us, through the shattering of friendships, marriages, and even through death, but we are not, nor shall ever be alone. For God is determined when our determination fails. God is faithful when our faith diminished. God is present when all around us disappear. And most importantly God is ever seeking us out, sharing himself with us, and imprinting upon our hearts his wonderful words of life.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Rejoice in the Lord Always

Homily for Harvest Thanksgiving
Senior’s Luncheon
Wednesday, October 8th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Philippians 4:4-9

“Rejoice in the Lord always.”
-Phil 4:4

St. Paul writes to the Philippians, “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I will say, rejoice!” It is, of course, easy to rejoice when things are going well. As our annual celebration of thanksgiving comes around and we see the bounty around us in this wonderful country, in this community, and even in this church, it is easy to find words of thanksgiving to God for all the ways in which we have been blessed.

Thanksgiving has two sides, though. There are those who go without the necessities of life on a daily basis – people who we cannot see in far away places, and people we choose not to see in this our own community. It then becomes somewhat more difficult for me to give thanks for what I have because then I must examine, why do I have so much and why do they have so little? Where is the justice in that? Where is the mercy of God? Is it easy for them to give thanks?

However, there is a reality that these two portraits fail to present. Even the wealthiest amongst us are not without pain, suffering, regret and some kind of poverty or another. Those who have much have much to lose, and often they do. Even if all our financial and material needs are met, we still lose loved ones to tragic illness or tragic accidents; we still face broken relationships; we still face the reality of a broken world. We have much to rejoice over, but we also have much to lament over.

And who has not seen blessing in the eyes of the poorest pauper? I remember talking with a street busker once who was not a wealthy man, but he constantly gave thanks for his life and all that he had. His spirit of thanksgiving was a blessing to those who passed by and spoke with him and heard his music. Who amongst us has not been touched by the generosity and gentleness of one who has less than we, and yet is thankful for even the slightest thing?

Be we rich or poor or middle class, each of us has within us poverty and wealth. When St. Paul wrote to the Philippians, he was impeded from being with them because he was imprisoned for preaching the Gospel. Yet, he exudes great joy. Was he suffering? Certainly – he was in prison. Was he conflict? Certainly – he longed to leave this realm to be with Christ. What St. Paul understood, though, was that suffering and joy are not single children. Suffering and joy are twin siblings that walk together. To consider them anything else is to delude ourselves. Paul’s experience ran the gamut from poverty to jubilation – and he experienced both things not as polarities but as partners in his human experience and as the result of his life in Christ.

The Church at Philippi was very likely a wealthy community, funding many of Paul’s missions, and yet, it seems as if they were experiencing suffering under some kind of persecution. There seem to have been conflict in the community. Today’s passage follows an exhortation by Paul for two members (two faithful members who had suffered much for the gospel) to be reconciled with each other. Suffering and joy exist together in an ongoing tension. Indeed, he holds up our Lord and Saviour as the primary model of this suffering and joy, for Christ suffered greatly for our sake but is now exalted so that we, too, might be exalted. God, himself, participated in both our suffering and our joy. Thus, all our suffering and joy is made holy in his suffering and joy.

I suppose then, that this is one of the things that make us both human and hallowed. In our suffering we can taste the suffering of another and not only feel compassion but be stirred to walk with them, help them lift their burden and carry their load. In our joy we can touch the joy of another and celebrate the blessings of each other’s lives. To be truly human, as God created us to be, is to be touched and moved by the life and experience of our fellow creatures.

Let us be stirred, then, to give a hand to those who suffer, walk in poverty, are filled with sadness, and need a companion, for do we not all experience some kind of poverty at some time or another? And let us rejoice with those who celebrate good news and abundant blessing, for are we not all blessed in one sense or another? Let us be of the same mind as Christ our Lord, who suffered and rejoiced, not for his sake but for ours. Let our suffering and joy be made holy, in him, in service to our fellow creatures.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

Do Not Worry: A Homily for Harvest Thanksgiving

Homily for Harvest Thanksgiving, Year A, 2008
Sunday, October 5th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 6:25-33

Do not worry. How easy it is to offer this platitude when there is so much to worry about. The very suggestion not to worry seems to undercut the reality of the stress, pain or fear that we might be experiencing over any given crisis. How many times has a friend or loved one told you not to worry about someone or something and you have wished that your friend, well-meaning as they are, would simply go away? The well-meaning friend hopes that in offering this counsel will alleviate your worry, and perhaps even alleviate their own worry about you and everything that you are facing. Yet, such counsel and advice is often taken as the counsel of Job’s friends, as not really helpful advice at all. For to worry is to be a person invested in the world and invested in the stuff of life. I must worry about my children when I send them off either to kindergarten or university. I must worry about the safety of our schools and streets. I must worry about an aging parent whose health is declining. I must worry about a friend in financial need. Don’t tell me not to worry.

This week has been a week of financial worry for many who have invested in the markets, or for those who have pensions heavily invested in these same financial markets. This week has been a worry for those south of the border who have homes and houses on the line. There is cause for worry for many folk. We have cause to worry for the places in the world that are torn apart by warfare and strife. We have cause to worry for the poorest amongst us in the world who go without the basic necessities of life on a daily basis. We have cause to worry about our young men and women overseas. We have so much too worry about.

To deny our worry would be to deny a piece of ourselves and to deny a piece of our humanity. If we are to live with any authenticity we must admit that we do indeed worry and not push it down inside of us and pretend that we have some kind of superhuman resistance to it. Similarly, I believe that as friends to those who find themselves in crisis, we should resist the urge to tell others not to worry, when there is indeed cause for worry. Rather we should stand alongside those in their angst and offer them companionship and love as they authentically struggle with the challenges and worries that they encounter along life’s road.

Thus, these words of Jesus -- “do not worry” -- are difficult for us. Should we even take them seriously? Are they actually a realistic admonishment? Should we consider that they apply to others who have better resilience to crisis than you or me?

I suppose that more important than, “Do not worry,” is the comforting reality of Jesus’ abiding presence with us. As I have said so often about St. Matthew’s Gospel, it is a gospel about the enduring presence of Christ in our lives. The text begins with the fulfillment of the prophecy about the birth of Christ, Emmanuel, literally, God with us, and concludes with Jesus’ promise to be with us always even unto the end of the age. Having “book-ended” his Gospel in this way, I believe that this promise of presence is the key that we must constantly use to unlock Matthew’s text. To this end, I think that this is what this little story is really about. In the midst of our worry, in the midst of crisis, in the midst of sadness, in the midst of fear, in the midst of loss, Jesus is with us.

Jesus is with us not as one who negates our worry or angst but as one who helps us bear it on the road. Thus, when we look to the birds of the air or the lilies of the field we come to understand that God journeys with the whole created order through the seasons. As it is with us, so is it also for the Earth: for the earth, there are good seasons and bad. There are times where there is too much rain, or too much snow, or too much heat… but shall we say God has abandoned the Earth? There are times when the harvest is plentiful and there are times when the harvest is sparse. Shall we say that God has abandoned the wind or the sky or the earth or the sea? The seasons cycle through their days and yet comes another dawn, a new morn, a new sun and a new moon, new growth, and yes, so too again will follow the withering of the grass and the falling of the leaves and the sleeping of the earth. But as God attends the seasons of the Earth, so too, he attends the seasons of our lives. He is with us as joy is birthed and he is with us when death brings sadness. He is with us as we fall in love and with us when love is broken. He is with us in the brightness of our mornings and in the deep frightening stillness of our nights. He is with us always.

Do not worry. This phrase then takes on a new meaning because our counselor is not merely a well-meaning friend offering platitudinous counsel, but a companion who shares our fear, knows our pain, tastes our burden. In the crucible of our lives he lives and moves and has his being. And in his crucible is our burden lifted, carried, and redeemed in the sight of God.

We do not know why we face certain kinds of suffering in this life. And while these sufferings may feel like they are put upon us, let us never forget that our God is the one who helps bear the burden and lift our suffering and worry from us. Let us never forget that we are not left alone, or comfortless, or companionless.

Do not worry. This is not the counsel of a well-meaning, but wrong-headed friend, but a promise. It is a promise – a promise that our worry is never ours to bear alone; a promise that whatever suffering we face is a suffering that will be shared by the one who hung for us on the tree of life; a promise that dark though the road may be, Jesus will ever be a light to our feet and a lantern to our path.

Worry does not go away simply because someone tells us not to worry. Our fears and worries dissipate only when another helps us carry them, and lift them from our shoulders. Let us therefore embrace the reality of our worry, the reality of our fear, the reality of our struggle, and the reality of our pain and angst, for it is in embracing the reality of our lives that Jesus extends a hand to walk with us. It is in facing the reality of our lives that we are offered not empty words of consolation, but a promise of divine friendship, which is the gift beyond all measure and a harvest more bountiful than wealth of riches and gold.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.

Follow Me

Homily for the Feast of St. Matthew
Sunday, September 21st, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 9:9-13

“Follow me…” and he got up and followed him.
- Matthew 9:9

If a certain first century tax collector named Matthew was to be caught up somehow in the space/time continuum and transported to our present day and witness the celebrations held in his honour, see the churches dedicated to his memory, and notice the prefix of “Saint” added to his name, he would certainly be forgiven for thinking that he must be the victim of a case of mistaken identity. Surely, this festival and those churches could not be in honour of him, the hated tax collector! And if one of his contemporaries happened to have been caught up in that same time warp with him, he surely would have added, “I know the man well, and believe me… he ain’t no saint!” What happened that this most notorious of sinners should come to be thought of as one the preeminent saints of the Church?

Let us first consider, what was so bad about this man anyway? As modern people we may scratch our heads at the notion that being a tax collector was about as bad as one could get, but in ancient times tax collectors were looked upon with considerable distain and loathing. Often, they were free-agent local contractors who collected taxes on behalf of the hated Roman occupiers. Thus, to some extent, they were probably looked upon as collaborators. Furthermore, many were known for either skimming off the top or overcharging and pocketing considerable sums of money for themselves. They were individuals who should have served the public good but who abused their civic duty. In today’s terms we might draw an analogy with those, who, as members of respected professions engage in questionably ethical behaviour. Whether they be civil servants corrupted by access to the public purse, or the so-called ambulance-chasers of certain guilds, we can begin to understand the low regard in which this particular professional might have been held. To this end, tax collectors were grouped alongside all other kinds of sinners, such as prostitutes, thieves, rapists, and murderers, and in the case of today’s gospel, were singled out as especially bad.

However, by the end of the first century, the Church had a special book, claiming to come from the hand of this most heinous tax collector -- The Gospel According to St. Matthew, which has become the first book of our New Testament. To those who knew Matthew the tax collector, this most certainly would have come as a surprise. Scholars debate whether or not our tax -collecting friend was actually the author of this book, but it seems certain that the traditions within it go back to him. What is especially interesting is that this particular gospel soon achieved a preeminent status in the Church as the first amongst four gospels, and indeed has often been called “The Church’s book.” By the early second century, one writer, Papias (whose words are preserved in fourth century Church Historian Eusebius of Ceasarea) notes the importance of Matthew’s gospel by stating, “Matthew collected the oracles (of Jesus) in the Hebrew language and each interpreted them as best he could” (Eusebius Ecc. Hist. III.39.16). Later in the second century, the great Ireneus of Lyons also knows of this gospel and its preeminence. By the middle ages, several versions of his martyrdom existed, having him meet his demise in the defense of the faith variously in Persia, Ethiopia, or Pontus. Reputed relics of St. Matthew are found across Europe and remain to this day places of pilgrimage.

The question remains, though, how did this notorious sinner become the celebrated saint? The answer is deceptively simple and can be found in his response to that invitation offered by Jesus on that afternoon so long ago: “Follow me.”

The story is a simple one and so much remains untold. Jesus was simply walking by, caught sight of Matthew and offered him an invitation to become his follower, his disciple. We are simply told that Matthew “got up and followed him.” We are not told of what angst might have been on Matthew’s heart leading up to that moment. We are not told of the risk he took in leaving all behind. We are not told of how he might have felt at being offered a place in this special band of disciples given how his fellows disdained him. We are only told that he got up and followed Jesus.

I suppose that it really is as simple as that for each of us. We can wrestle and wrangle over what being a follower of Jesus might mean for us. What are the challenges of following Jesus? What will I have to give up? What lies ahead for me? What will people think of me? Will I be acceptable to God? Am I fit for God’s work? All these questions may pass before us – these and more – but ultimately we must face that moment of truth when all the questions and concerns are eclipsed by the invitation. Will I say yes to that invitation? Will I rise up and follow him?

Jesus sees beyond and through our doubt and angst into the depths of our truest selves and issues that call that cuts through all that distracts us. The terseness of the call illustrates that this is how he saw Matthew. He looked beyond all that separated Matthew from his fellow citizens. He saw Matthew with different eyes. Consider that the name Matthew derives from a Semitic word that means “gift from God.” Matthew may have been despised and rejected by amongst whom he lived and worked. And very likely, there was good cause to despise such a man. Yet, Jesus looked beyond what the world could see. He looked beyond even how Matthew might have viewed himself and recognized the man who was a gift from God, and invited him to follow him on his journey.

I am conscious, though, that the name “Matthew” might also be a play on the Greek word for disciple, mathetes. So again, the one who we might cast aside, the one who we might despise is gathered up by that great shepherd of our souls and recognized as being of great value to the kingdom of God. Jesus looked beyond the tax collector and saw the disciple. Our Lord looks into the depths of each one of us, beyond the things others do not like about us, and beyond the things that we do not like about ourselves, and recognizes and calls the disciple in each one of us.

I am also conscious that while Jesus called Matthew to be his disciple, Matthew became something more. A disciple is one who “follows behind” and indeed this is the sense of the Greek phrase that here we find translated, “follow me.” An apostle, on the other hand, is one who goes ahead, with a message and a proclamation. Thus, not only did Jesus recognize within Matthew the follower, he saw what he could become, which was the herald of good tidings, the apostle.

We catch a glimpse of this reality within the text because Matthew’s conversion is immediately followed by Jesus sitting at dinner not only with Matthew, but with many tax collectors and sinners. What has Matthew’s conversion done but lead others to Christ! By following he became a leader. Others around, others who felt unworthy, other who felt unloved, others who felt themselves to be the outcasts, others who believed that they had nothing to offer, others who believed they had no beauty within themselves, recognized that they, too, were gifts from God. Through the witness of Matthew’s discipleship, they were able to let go of everything that held them in bondage to their brokenness and sit in the presence of the Lord feeling loved and affirmed simply as children of God.

The message is as sure today as it was then. Underneath the rubble of my own mistakes and missteps, and underneath the wounds of our broken relationships there exists a person who is a gift to the world. Although we may not be able to see it ourselves and even others may write us off, Jesus looks deeply through the fog of our lives and utters those words, “follow me – be my disciple – I choose you.”

And if we dare to say yes, we too shall find that we are called not only to be disciples but called to be heralds and apostles of this scandalous message that each created person is indeed valuable and precious, that each one of us is a gift from God and have a gift to offer, and that there is no one who is not precious and beautiful in the sight of God.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.