Homily for the Feast of St. Stephen
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009 (translated from Aug 3)
The Convent of the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine.
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 6:9-7:2a, 51c-60.
Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.
Perhaps we might experience some incongruity at the sound of these words in the early days of August. Granted, our summer has not been one of exceeding warmth, but we are at a distance from the cruel frost of winter. Good King Wenceslas is, of course, a carol about an event on the feast of St. Stephen, and perhaps the words make much more sense when that feast day was celebrated under the old calendar on 26 December. However, it may be important for us to consider the words of this old carol (which comes from the pen of that great Victorian hymn-writer John Mason Neale), because the lesson it seeks to teach may indeed seem distant in the warm days of summer. As we rejoice in the warmth of the sun, the poverty of a long cold winter and the poverty of our spirits may seem distant indeed.
“Hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know’st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
Amidst the great feasts of our lives and the abundance of an opulent society there are those who walk amongst us, apparently nameless and without status. They are in our midst, and we see them daily, but choose to avert our eyes. Their poverty frightens us. It frightens not simply because we are either helpless or selfish, while these may be the words we give to our fear, rather, it frightens us because it makes us confront the poverty of our own souls and the winter cold within us that seems a sort of perma-frost that ever threatens to take hold of our entire being.
“Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,
Thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together,
Through the cold wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather.
The apostles appointed seven individuals to care for the poor and needy. The apostles appointed seven to go into the cold frightening places that we would rather not go. The apostles appointed seven individuals who, in Christ, could face down the frigid temperatures of their own souls and extend loving, warm hands to the poor and those in need. And how tempting is it to leave it to the deacons, those in deacon’s orders and those who seem to naturally take up that diaconal call, ordained or lay. How easy it is to turn away when we know others seem so much better fitted for the task. I have often wondered if the apostles who appointed those seven individuals had in some way abdicated the opportunity to melt away the ice of their own poverty. But in Christ, rich or poor, slave or free, male or female, we are called to gather our pine logs, bring flesh and wine, and brave the winter of our fear and the cruel frost of our spiritual poverty, leaving the warmth of the electric blanket or hot water bottle that will never melt the ice inside us, and make the journey to St. Agnes fountain and dine with friends we never knew we had.
“Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze your blood less coldly.”
Perhaps the biggest obstacle to leaving the warmth of the castle of our comfortable lives is indeed the fact that our frozen spirits have not the warmth to carry us on the journey. Even if we stir up the courage to take the journey, seek to protect ourselves from the elements, the winter within is still too great a foe that will impede our efforts. The night within us brings fear, the cold wind within causes our hearts to fail, and we feel that we cannot go on. But somehow, in the example of the Christ-like Wenceslas, that young page carries on, in spite of his inner fear, his inner poverty, and inner frost, he carries on filled with the warmth of the bright Sun of Righteousness.
Is their story not the story of blessed Stephen? Do we not recall how Stephen in the midst of great adversity was filled with grace and power. This grace and power came not from his own spirit but from the Spirit of God, and so he stood before the Sanhedrin because he stood with his master, and ours. He could speak because Christ warmed his heart against the wind and frost of an unbelieving chorus of voices. And he could go to his death forgiving those who executed him, “do not hold their sin against them,” because the warmth of Jesus passion and Resurrection became his own.
In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.
St. Stephen trod in his master’s steps, in a cold and heartless world, but found his heart strangely warmed. Is that not the way of the Christian faith, that when we journey together on the road, we will meet our sacred companion who will warm our hearts as we share his footsteps? Is it not the way of the Christian faith that as we sup together and break bread, his radiant transforming love becomes known to a cold and languishing world? Is it not the way of the Christian faith that our Lord melts not only the ice around us but within us?
Thus, in our master’s steps, we go. We journey forth in a winter that rages about and within, yet like a fabled king whose faith in Christ warmed his heart, like a young page who nearly gave way to the winter and yet found his path illumined, like the blessed proto-martyr Stephen, who faced a violent death but with a radiant soul and angel’s visage, we travel and meet our challenging gospel mandate not because we can face the winter’s rage, but because Christ Our Lord can.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Good King Wenceslas -- written by John Mason Neale (1818-1866)
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
A Life Worthy of the Calling of God -- A Homily for Proper 18 Year B
Homily for Proper 18, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 2nd, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 4:1-16
“I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worth of the calling to which you have been called…”
--Ephesians 4:1
The early chapters of St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians are a description of how God in Christ, in his unfailing love for humanity, has poured out the riches of his grace upon us. St. Paul blesses God who has blessed us in Christ Jesus with every spiritual blessing. Perhaps the greatest of these blessings is that Christ opened the way of faith not only to the Hebrew people, but also to the gentiles, and that in this remarkable development the people of faith become, in fact, the Temple of God.
Thus, we now reach the fourth chapter of the letter in which St. Paul addresses the question of what it means to live a life worthy of such a calling. Many of us will turn to such a list and perhaps experience a sense of deflation, if not conviction in realizing that we are confronted with lofty demands. What is a life worthy of the calling of God? We read in Ephesians 4 that it is a life lived “with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”
In the world around us, humility and gentleness are for suckers, patience is not a virtue, bearing another person’s foibles in love will only stunt my growth and defer the fulfillment of my personal and individual goals, and unity is, of course, a liberal ideal that can never truly be attained. Thankfully, though, we are members of another society, the Church of Christ. In the Church we are, of course, always humble and gentle with one another, we always have patience for those who think differently from us, no one ever feels unloved, and we are known to the world for our unity with our brothers and sisters in our own denomination and throughout Christendom.
Perhaps not.
Let us not, then, think ourselves holier simply because we are the church. I offer this thought not to shame us for failing to live up to the goal of a life worthy of the calling of God, but rather to demonstrate that when left to our own devices, desires, and human propensities, we simply cannot do it. What then are we to do?
On the one hand, there are Christian communities that understand this reality all too well but refuse to accept it. The focus of such communities is to try harder and harder, to work more and more to become the people they believe God wants them to be. These communities are often characterized either by an obsessive commitment to transforming the world through social justice initiatives or to obsessive attention to personal improvement through acts of piety and charity. And yet, somewhere along the way they lose sight of God’s grace. As a result, the harder they work their increasing moments of failure stand in stark contrast to their fleeting moments of success, and begin to realize that they are falling short of the glory of God.
On the other hand there are Christian communities who live with a sense of perpetual realized holiness. There is no need to work at things at all for God has made me perfect in his eyes. I am saved and I live a holy life through the virtue of being washed clean in his blood. Such groups are often characterized by a lack of concern for issues of social justice, the care of the world around them, and quite frankly, any concern for the well-being of anyone else outside the salvation of their eternal soul. Those who join such groups and cannot seem to attain that expected feeling of perpetual holiness often feel that they are unworthy in the eyes of God, and indeed, unlovable.
To be sure, these two portraits are caricatures. The reality is that both portraits speak to a dichotomy of the human condition within each of us. Each one of us will be tempted at times to either earn our stripes as a Christian through works of benevolence and charity or to be tempted to into believing that we are holier than we really are simply because we are Christians. But neither of these temptations are what it means to lead a life worthy of the calling of God because ultimately, both pictures focus not on God, but on you and me and what we are doing to lead a good and holy life.
The spiritual and ethical disciplines of gentleness, humility, patience, mutual upholding in love, and the striving for unity come not from efforts that derive from human potential. Rather, they are the outpouring of divine potential. What do I mean by this? Let us consider what St. Paul goes on to say a bit further in the fourth chapter.
After enumerating the characteristics of a life worthy of the call of God, he does not immediately go about giving us tools to live the life, but rather speaks of the origin such a life. He turns to examine the character of God and who we are in light of God’s character. “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith one, baptism, one God and Father of all who is above all and through all and in all.” Anglicans will of course immediately recognize this as the opening of our baptismal liturgy. Our identity as Christians is rooted in the oneness of God who is above, through, and in all. Let me put it another way. Years ago, I offered a word of thanks to a much beloved history professor at York University for an act of kindness he extended. He responded by paraphrasing the apostle: “Not me, Dan, but Christ in me.” He then went on to say that given the background of his life and upbringing he was not capable of offering the kindness that was extended. It was only because Christ dwelled in him.
Now, he was not saying that his humanity was evil, but rather that his humanity had been transformed in Christ. This is precisely the point made by Paul in the subsequent verses concerning his descending into the lower parts of the earth prior to his ascension. What I believe Paul is trying illustrate here is the assumption and transformation of our humanity in the Incarnation of Christ. Christ came among us not simply as a visitor or a ghost but as a true and living man who was born, lived and breathed, and died. God, in Christ, not only walked amongst us but assumed our nature that we might assume the divine nature. Thus, the Christian life is a life in which we lay hold of that divine nature that coming to fruition within is, or more appropriately, God lays hold of us. To be a Christian is not necessarily to emulate the Christ but to allow Christ to conform our character to his. This is what we mean when we say we are “in Christ” or as St. Paul says elsewhere, “in Christ we are a new creation.” Indeed, in the Incarnation of our Lord Christ fills all things. Thus, we are his Temple and he will transform us in order that we shall be capable of this calling.
Alas, we live in an “in-between” time in which all has not yet come to fruition. This is what leads some groups to work all the harder, forgetting the one that is already within them and why others place too much emphasis on what they already have, forgetting that the road ahead may yet be long. The reality is that each of us struggles daily with who we are under our old nature and who we are in Christ. The old nature, the one that is focused on me, both on what I can do or what I already have is a selfish nature. We can delude ourselves by playing into its charms and seductions. The new nature, or more precisely, our true nature is the one that draws us out of ourselves. It recognizes that it is God who calls, God who animates, God who gives life, and God who gives direction. It is an empathic nature; one that finds its ground of being in the divine and wholly Other and directs our actions toward those around us who are “other” than us. It is a nature that is drawing us into the completion of who we are. This is why in his companion letter to the Colossians Paul can speak of “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” We live in an age of expectation but it is also an age of hope.
As we are drawn into this growing maturity we will begin to understand, and believe that our faith journey is less about what I can do for God, but what God desires to do through me, and more precisely, and what God desires to do through us, his people. Thus, to live a life worthy of the calling of God, is hand over all our failures at being humble and gentle, to hand over all the moments where we could not be patient, to hand over the moments where we fell short of holding up each other in love, to hand over our frustrated attempts at unity, and turn to the one who shapes our destiny through his indwelling Spirit. Seek him where he may be found, in the longing of your transformed heart, and in the face of your brother or sister, then we shall lead a life worthy of the calling of God.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, August 2nd, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 4:1-16
“I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worth of the calling to which you have been called…”
--Ephesians 4:1
The early chapters of St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians are a description of how God in Christ, in his unfailing love for humanity, has poured out the riches of his grace upon us. St. Paul blesses God who has blessed us in Christ Jesus with every spiritual blessing. Perhaps the greatest of these blessings is that Christ opened the way of faith not only to the Hebrew people, but also to the gentiles, and that in this remarkable development the people of faith become, in fact, the Temple of God.
Thus, we now reach the fourth chapter of the letter in which St. Paul addresses the question of what it means to live a life worthy of such a calling. Many of us will turn to such a list and perhaps experience a sense of deflation, if not conviction in realizing that we are confronted with lofty demands. What is a life worthy of the calling of God? We read in Ephesians 4 that it is a life lived “with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”
In the world around us, humility and gentleness are for suckers, patience is not a virtue, bearing another person’s foibles in love will only stunt my growth and defer the fulfillment of my personal and individual goals, and unity is, of course, a liberal ideal that can never truly be attained. Thankfully, though, we are members of another society, the Church of Christ. In the Church we are, of course, always humble and gentle with one another, we always have patience for those who think differently from us, no one ever feels unloved, and we are known to the world for our unity with our brothers and sisters in our own denomination and throughout Christendom.
Perhaps not.
Let us not, then, think ourselves holier simply because we are the church. I offer this thought not to shame us for failing to live up to the goal of a life worthy of the calling of God, but rather to demonstrate that when left to our own devices, desires, and human propensities, we simply cannot do it. What then are we to do?
On the one hand, there are Christian communities that understand this reality all too well but refuse to accept it. The focus of such communities is to try harder and harder, to work more and more to become the people they believe God wants them to be. These communities are often characterized either by an obsessive commitment to transforming the world through social justice initiatives or to obsessive attention to personal improvement through acts of piety and charity. And yet, somewhere along the way they lose sight of God’s grace. As a result, the harder they work their increasing moments of failure stand in stark contrast to their fleeting moments of success, and begin to realize that they are falling short of the glory of God.
On the other hand there are Christian communities who live with a sense of perpetual realized holiness. There is no need to work at things at all for God has made me perfect in his eyes. I am saved and I live a holy life through the virtue of being washed clean in his blood. Such groups are often characterized by a lack of concern for issues of social justice, the care of the world around them, and quite frankly, any concern for the well-being of anyone else outside the salvation of their eternal soul. Those who join such groups and cannot seem to attain that expected feeling of perpetual holiness often feel that they are unworthy in the eyes of God, and indeed, unlovable.
To be sure, these two portraits are caricatures. The reality is that both portraits speak to a dichotomy of the human condition within each of us. Each one of us will be tempted at times to either earn our stripes as a Christian through works of benevolence and charity or to be tempted to into believing that we are holier than we really are simply because we are Christians. But neither of these temptations are what it means to lead a life worthy of the calling of God because ultimately, both pictures focus not on God, but on you and me and what we are doing to lead a good and holy life.
The spiritual and ethical disciplines of gentleness, humility, patience, mutual upholding in love, and the striving for unity come not from efforts that derive from human potential. Rather, they are the outpouring of divine potential. What do I mean by this? Let us consider what St. Paul goes on to say a bit further in the fourth chapter.
After enumerating the characteristics of a life worthy of the call of God, he does not immediately go about giving us tools to live the life, but rather speaks of the origin such a life. He turns to examine the character of God and who we are in light of God’s character. “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith one, baptism, one God and Father of all who is above all and through all and in all.” Anglicans will of course immediately recognize this as the opening of our baptismal liturgy. Our identity as Christians is rooted in the oneness of God who is above, through, and in all. Let me put it another way. Years ago, I offered a word of thanks to a much beloved history professor at York University for an act of kindness he extended. He responded by paraphrasing the apostle: “Not me, Dan, but Christ in me.” He then went on to say that given the background of his life and upbringing he was not capable of offering the kindness that was extended. It was only because Christ dwelled in him.
Now, he was not saying that his humanity was evil, but rather that his humanity had been transformed in Christ. This is precisely the point made by Paul in the subsequent verses concerning his descending into the lower parts of the earth prior to his ascension. What I believe Paul is trying illustrate here is the assumption and transformation of our humanity in the Incarnation of Christ. Christ came among us not simply as a visitor or a ghost but as a true and living man who was born, lived and breathed, and died. God, in Christ, not only walked amongst us but assumed our nature that we might assume the divine nature. Thus, the Christian life is a life in which we lay hold of that divine nature that coming to fruition within is, or more appropriately, God lays hold of us. To be a Christian is not necessarily to emulate the Christ but to allow Christ to conform our character to his. This is what we mean when we say we are “in Christ” or as St. Paul says elsewhere, “in Christ we are a new creation.” Indeed, in the Incarnation of our Lord Christ fills all things. Thus, we are his Temple and he will transform us in order that we shall be capable of this calling.
Alas, we live in an “in-between” time in which all has not yet come to fruition. This is what leads some groups to work all the harder, forgetting the one that is already within them and why others place too much emphasis on what they already have, forgetting that the road ahead may yet be long. The reality is that each of us struggles daily with who we are under our old nature and who we are in Christ. The old nature, the one that is focused on me, both on what I can do or what I already have is a selfish nature. We can delude ourselves by playing into its charms and seductions. The new nature, or more precisely, our true nature is the one that draws us out of ourselves. It recognizes that it is God who calls, God who animates, God who gives life, and God who gives direction. It is an empathic nature; one that finds its ground of being in the divine and wholly Other and directs our actions toward those around us who are “other” than us. It is a nature that is drawing us into the completion of who we are. This is why in his companion letter to the Colossians Paul can speak of “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” We live in an age of expectation but it is also an age of hope.
As we are drawn into this growing maturity we will begin to understand, and believe that our faith journey is less about what I can do for God, but what God desires to do through me, and more precisely, and what God desires to do through us, his people. Thus, to live a life worthy of the calling of God, is hand over all our failures at being humble and gentle, to hand over all the moments where we could not be patient, to hand over the moments where we fell short of holding up each other in love, to hand over our frustrated attempts at unity, and turn to the one who shapes our destiny through his indwelling Spirit. Seek him where he may be found, in the longing of your transformed heart, and in the face of your brother or sister, then we shall lead a life worthy of the calling of God.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Pledge of Our Inheritance - A Homily for Proper 15 Year B
Homily for Proper 15, Year B, 2009
Sunday, July 12th, 2009
The Parish of St. Stephen (Rosseau, Orrville, Ullswater/Bent River)
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 1:3-14
“Blessed be the God and Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing.”
-Ephesians 1:3
We live in a world of broken promises, do we not? It takes but a moment to begin to enumerate the kinds of promises that are broken in this fragile world. Consider a few of them. It would seem as if we have witnessed a miracle if a politician were to keep his or her election promises. Then there the absurd promises we make to ourselves, “by the time I’m forty I want to be a millionaire, fly to the moon, and have solved world hunger.” There the little promises that we make to others that we let slide, “I know I promised to go to her baby shower, but I’m not feeling well,” or, “I know I promised you kids ice cream today, but things just got too busy.” Of course there are the more serious promises that are broken, the employer or employee who fails to live up to an employment contract; the service provider who needs to be taken to court for failure to provide a contracted service, or conversely, the customer who defaults on payment. Our current financial crisis and the examples of ponzi schemes, bankrupted companies, and individuals left penniless as a result are only too evident in the news media every day. And on a very personal level to many, there are the broken promises in personal relationships, in marriage break-ups, in the relationships of parents and children when individuals find themselves written out of a will; between friends who betray each other. The point is this: we live in a world of broken promises.
This fact is not lost on the Apostle Paul, who found himself sitting in a cold, damp, humiliating prison. This fact is not lost on the one who, like his master, had many turn on him. This fact is not lost on a man who traveled from city to city and witnessed the disappointment of so many who lived in emotional, psychological and social brokenness. Paul knew much about a world of broken promises. And yet, is it not remarkable that he opens his letter to the Ephesians with a wonderful hymn of praise and blessing? This man who found himself imprisoned chose to bless God and invoked those to whom he wrote to join in the blessing.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he begins his letter, “who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” How can this be? The one who sits imprisoned, in a world of broken promises blesses God and counts himself as blessed? Paul can claim this blessing because of what he knows God has done for him. Through his relationship with the Risen Christ, Paul has touched the heavenly places.
Consider the points he makes. Thus, Paul seeks to remind the recipients of his letter, and by extension, each of us who hears his words to today, to all who live in world of broken promises and dreams about the unfailing promise of God in Christ.
First, he reminds us that it God’s will that we are all to be adopted as his children. What is more, this adoption is a glorious thing to God in which he receives great pleasure. What can be greater than the joy of the growth of the family? The kingdom was opened not simply to his natural children, as it were, the Hebrew people, but to all people, natural or adopted we are his pride and joy. To those of us who often struggle with our own self-worth, this is really quite a remarkable statement, is it not, that God receive great pleasure in our adoption? God is blessed by our inclusion in his family, and we are blessed to be his children.
Secondly, he has given us redemption from all our sin and wrongdoing. Now the concept of forgiveness has become quite sterile in this world of legal, guarded apologies and formal acceptances. I fear that even the Christian tradition has often relied too much on sterile juridical metaphors in its theology of forgiveness and redemption. Repentance and forgiveness seem to take on a rather prosaic character in our society. Indeed, it may look something like what happens when we see children fight and then make up under the duress of parental supervision. The parental admonition to “apologize to your sister,” is met with a begrudging, “I’m sorry,” and an equally more tortured acceptance, “I accept your apology.” But according to Paul, in the economy of God, God in Christ lavishes redemption and forgiveness on us according to the riches of his grace. The lavishing of forgiveness is a promise of exuberance worth considering.
Thirdly, God has opened our eyes to the mystery of his will, namely, that in the fullness of time he gathers up all things to himself. This means that God’s eternal purpose is that we might, as is written in the 2 Peter 1:4, “partake of the divine nature.” The entire course of our existence and the history of the cosmos is that we might be drawn into the divine life. This might seem overly esoteric to us who are caught in the muck and mire of everyday life, but consider those divine moments that we encounter, the ones in which we know God is truly alive and present. They are different for each one of us but I know that we all from time-to-time feel that communion with God. What Paul is telling us is that God has given us the eyes to see that these moments of God’s reaching out to us are glimpses into God’s hope and dreaming about who we are becoming. And this gives us the strength to believe and press forward and live into the divine life in spite of the broken promises of the world.
There is much more that can be said about this opening prayer of thanksgiving, but our time is short, and thus I wish to underscore one final promise. Paul says that we who have set our hope on him, who have heard the word of salvation, have been marked in our baptism with the seal of his Holy Spirit, who have believed, we have a hope that cannot be dashed, for we are living into the divine purpose of God. As Christian people of faith, we have said yes to a promise that cannot be broken. True, we may turn away, we may break our part of the covenant from time-to-time, but God will not turn his face from us. God, in Christ, reaches out to us again and again and calls us back into his divine love. This is his promise to us: that he will not forsake those who have set their hope on him. “This pledge,” writes St. Paul, “is our inheritance.”
So, in this world of broken promises and dreams, we set our eyes on the one whose dreaming is greater than time and space, and whose faithful promises stretch from the depth of eternal love, for his heart is ever set upon us and his word of promise is ever faithful.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, July 12th, 2009
The Parish of St. Stephen (Rosseau, Orrville, Ullswater/Bent River)
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 1:3-14
“Blessed be the God and Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing.”
-Ephesians 1:3
We live in a world of broken promises, do we not? It takes but a moment to begin to enumerate the kinds of promises that are broken in this fragile world. Consider a few of them. It would seem as if we have witnessed a miracle if a politician were to keep his or her election promises. Then there the absurd promises we make to ourselves, “by the time I’m forty I want to be a millionaire, fly to the moon, and have solved world hunger.” There the little promises that we make to others that we let slide, “I know I promised to go to her baby shower, but I’m not feeling well,” or, “I know I promised you kids ice cream today, but things just got too busy.” Of course there are the more serious promises that are broken, the employer or employee who fails to live up to an employment contract; the service provider who needs to be taken to court for failure to provide a contracted service, or conversely, the customer who defaults on payment. Our current financial crisis and the examples of ponzi schemes, bankrupted companies, and individuals left penniless as a result are only too evident in the news media every day. And on a very personal level to many, there are the broken promises in personal relationships, in marriage break-ups, in the relationships of parents and children when individuals find themselves written out of a will; between friends who betray each other. The point is this: we live in a world of broken promises.
This fact is not lost on the Apostle Paul, who found himself sitting in a cold, damp, humiliating prison. This fact is not lost on the one who, like his master, had many turn on him. This fact is not lost on a man who traveled from city to city and witnessed the disappointment of so many who lived in emotional, psychological and social brokenness. Paul knew much about a world of broken promises. And yet, is it not remarkable that he opens his letter to the Ephesians with a wonderful hymn of praise and blessing? This man who found himself imprisoned chose to bless God and invoked those to whom he wrote to join in the blessing.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he begins his letter, “who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” How can this be? The one who sits imprisoned, in a world of broken promises blesses God and counts himself as blessed? Paul can claim this blessing because of what he knows God has done for him. Through his relationship with the Risen Christ, Paul has touched the heavenly places.
Consider the points he makes. Thus, Paul seeks to remind the recipients of his letter, and by extension, each of us who hears his words to today, to all who live in world of broken promises and dreams about the unfailing promise of God in Christ.
First, he reminds us that it God’s will that we are all to be adopted as his children. What is more, this adoption is a glorious thing to God in which he receives great pleasure. What can be greater than the joy of the growth of the family? The kingdom was opened not simply to his natural children, as it were, the Hebrew people, but to all people, natural or adopted we are his pride and joy. To those of us who often struggle with our own self-worth, this is really quite a remarkable statement, is it not, that God receive great pleasure in our adoption? God is blessed by our inclusion in his family, and we are blessed to be his children.
Secondly, he has given us redemption from all our sin and wrongdoing. Now the concept of forgiveness has become quite sterile in this world of legal, guarded apologies and formal acceptances. I fear that even the Christian tradition has often relied too much on sterile juridical metaphors in its theology of forgiveness and redemption. Repentance and forgiveness seem to take on a rather prosaic character in our society. Indeed, it may look something like what happens when we see children fight and then make up under the duress of parental supervision. The parental admonition to “apologize to your sister,” is met with a begrudging, “I’m sorry,” and an equally more tortured acceptance, “I accept your apology.” But according to Paul, in the economy of God, God in Christ lavishes redemption and forgiveness on us according to the riches of his grace. The lavishing of forgiveness is a promise of exuberance worth considering.
Thirdly, God has opened our eyes to the mystery of his will, namely, that in the fullness of time he gathers up all things to himself. This means that God’s eternal purpose is that we might, as is written in the 2 Peter 1:4, “partake of the divine nature.” The entire course of our existence and the history of the cosmos is that we might be drawn into the divine life. This might seem overly esoteric to us who are caught in the muck and mire of everyday life, but consider those divine moments that we encounter, the ones in which we know God is truly alive and present. They are different for each one of us but I know that we all from time-to-time feel that communion with God. What Paul is telling us is that God has given us the eyes to see that these moments of God’s reaching out to us are glimpses into God’s hope and dreaming about who we are becoming. And this gives us the strength to believe and press forward and live into the divine life in spite of the broken promises of the world.
There is much more that can be said about this opening prayer of thanksgiving, but our time is short, and thus I wish to underscore one final promise. Paul says that we who have set our hope on him, who have heard the word of salvation, have been marked in our baptism with the seal of his Holy Spirit, who have believed, we have a hope that cannot be dashed, for we are living into the divine purpose of God. As Christian people of faith, we have said yes to a promise that cannot be broken. True, we may turn away, we may break our part of the covenant from time-to-time, but God will not turn his face from us. God, in Christ, reaches out to us again and again and calls us back into his divine love. This is his promise to us: that he will not forsake those who have set their hope on him. “This pledge,” writes St. Paul, “is our inheritance.”
So, in this world of broken promises and dreams, we set our eyes on the one whose dreaming is greater than time and space, and whose faithful promises stretch from the depth of eternal love, for his heart is ever set upon us and his word of promise is ever faithful.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Teacher, Do You Not Care That We Are Perishing? - A Homily for Proper 12, Year B
Homily for Proper 12, Year B, 2009
Sunday, June 21st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:35-41
“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
- Mark 4:38
The feeling of being “afloat at sea” can be a frightening feeling. It is a metaphor that we might use when we feel as though things are out of our control or when we are unable to reach our destination, to get to the other side. How many of us have felt the distance of the horizon and longed that the wind would pick up and move us more quickly toward our goal, closer to our destination? Then the wind comes, and instead of the gentle breeze that will carry us closer, it begins to toss us to and fro until we find ourselves caught in a raging storm. Being “afloat at sea” maybe wasn’t so bad after all. For a moment the destination is not all that important. Instead, we focus on surviving the tempest that rages about us and we are likely to cry out to God, “Do you not care that we are perishing?”
The disciples were on a journey with Jesus. He gathered them about him and went from place to place teaching, casting out demons, and proclaiming that the kingdom of God had come near. As we have said many times over this past year as we have journeyed through Mark’s story of Jesus, the disciples are not always sharpest knives in the drawer. Clearly, Jesus’ miracles, his parables, his exorcisms, and his prophetic utterances, were all intended to point to the reality that in him God’s kingdom was already breaking through. Yet, as we know, the disciples did not quite understand his message or actions. Time and again the misinterpreted him and misunderstood him. They expected the kingdom to look very different from the kind of kingdom he proclaimed. Thus, they longed eagerly to “reach the other side,” to get to the place where it all made sense, where the kingdom (as they understood it) would finally come on earth. They missed the point that in Christ Jesus it had already come.
Thus, as they journeyed across the sea and a storm arose, tossing them to and fro, they were afraid that they were going die. Even though they had their Lord in their midst, they feared that as the waters crashed over the edge, this day would be there last. Surprisingly, an unworried Jesus slept in the stern, apparently oblivious to the whole thing. In a moment of final desperation they cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus awoke, uttered the words, “Peace, be still.” And the wind and rain stopped, and the sea went calm. They muttered amongst themselves, “who is this that even the wind and sea obey him.” Even as he calmed the storm about them, they still were not sure what to make of him. They still did not realize that the kingdom was breaking through in their midst.
Earlier this week as I was considering this text, I read it to my wife, Athena (and I do share this story with her full permission and blessing). When I got to the part in which the disciples cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?!” She responded with a resounding “no!” Athena is, of course, a teacher. As she approaches the end of the school year and moves into exams, there are many students, who in spite of her best efforts, have done very little and have not cared much about their learning. It is often these ones that panic in the last moments of the academic year, and who are prone to call out to a teacher exhausted from trying every angle, every multiple-learning style, having adjusted and modified the curriculum in every imaginable way, to a teacher who feels like hiding and sleeping in the stern of the boat, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” I think most of us can empathize with such a teacher and would be inclined to join in the resounding “no!” After all, every chance has already been given. Of course, the teacher that lives in my home is a compassionate teacher, as are most teachers I know, who really do long for the best for their students. Yet, who can blame them for shaking their heads at those who refuse to learn? Can we really begrudge them that secret “no” that they harbour in their hearts when the student cries out “Do you not care that we are perishing?”
But “no” is not the answer that Jesus gives. While we may seek to identify with the frustrated, tired teacher, who has done his or her best, we are actually meant to identify with the floundering disciples, who unwisely prayed for the wind and got a storm, who time and time again misunderstood the message and missed the mark, who long to be anywhere else but where they find themselves, even when where they find themselves may be the most important place to be. Let’s face it, most of us are poor students of this classroom we call life. Most of us make mistake after mistake, desire the things that are not best for us, wish our lives away and long to be anywhere or anytime else than our present place and present time. Most of us fail to recognize the kingdom of God amongst us, much less the presence of our Lord. Even if we do believe our Lord is with us, we may believe that he is sleeping and does not care.
The truth is that Jesus is with us and Jesus does care. When we call out he does answer and if we are wise and teachable, we will see that his presence is real and his kingdom does indeed come among us. Consider carefully what Jesus does. He does not immediately transport them to the other side, but he does still the storm. They do not immediately get to where they are going, rather, they learn the value in being where they find themselves. And most importantly, they learn that they are not alone when they seem adrift on the calm waters of the sea – they learn that the Lord is present amongst them.
Thus, we may find ourselves adrift, with the other side seeming so far away. We may find ourselves in the midst of a tempest, with waters crashing in over the sides of the boat, but what Mark means to tell us in this story is that getting to the other shore may not be the most important thing. Rather, it may be simply realizing – no, let me say it more emphatically – simply believing that even in the midst of being adrift or being tossed to and fro, that Jesus Christ is with us and will not forsake us. It is believing that the kingdom of God is to be found not in the arriving at the other side, but in the tempest that tosses us about. Perhaps the waters will crash about us, but we will know in our hearts his abiding presence and his assuring words, “peace, be still.” Yesterday, today, and tomorrow his words are the same. With the eyes of faith we will know his peace in the midst of the storm or when we are adrift, and we shall fear nothing.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. Not to be reproduced or redistributed without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, June 21st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:35-41
“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
- Mark 4:38
The feeling of being “afloat at sea” can be a frightening feeling. It is a metaphor that we might use when we feel as though things are out of our control or when we are unable to reach our destination, to get to the other side. How many of us have felt the distance of the horizon and longed that the wind would pick up and move us more quickly toward our goal, closer to our destination? Then the wind comes, and instead of the gentle breeze that will carry us closer, it begins to toss us to and fro until we find ourselves caught in a raging storm. Being “afloat at sea” maybe wasn’t so bad after all. For a moment the destination is not all that important. Instead, we focus on surviving the tempest that rages about us and we are likely to cry out to God, “Do you not care that we are perishing?”
The disciples were on a journey with Jesus. He gathered them about him and went from place to place teaching, casting out demons, and proclaiming that the kingdom of God had come near. As we have said many times over this past year as we have journeyed through Mark’s story of Jesus, the disciples are not always sharpest knives in the drawer. Clearly, Jesus’ miracles, his parables, his exorcisms, and his prophetic utterances, were all intended to point to the reality that in him God’s kingdom was already breaking through. Yet, as we know, the disciples did not quite understand his message or actions. Time and again the misinterpreted him and misunderstood him. They expected the kingdom to look very different from the kind of kingdom he proclaimed. Thus, they longed eagerly to “reach the other side,” to get to the place where it all made sense, where the kingdom (as they understood it) would finally come on earth. They missed the point that in Christ Jesus it had already come.
Thus, as they journeyed across the sea and a storm arose, tossing them to and fro, they were afraid that they were going die. Even though they had their Lord in their midst, they feared that as the waters crashed over the edge, this day would be there last. Surprisingly, an unworried Jesus slept in the stern, apparently oblivious to the whole thing. In a moment of final desperation they cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus awoke, uttered the words, “Peace, be still.” And the wind and rain stopped, and the sea went calm. They muttered amongst themselves, “who is this that even the wind and sea obey him.” Even as he calmed the storm about them, they still were not sure what to make of him. They still did not realize that the kingdom was breaking through in their midst.
Earlier this week as I was considering this text, I read it to my wife, Athena (and I do share this story with her full permission and blessing). When I got to the part in which the disciples cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?!” She responded with a resounding “no!” Athena is, of course, a teacher. As she approaches the end of the school year and moves into exams, there are many students, who in spite of her best efforts, have done very little and have not cared much about their learning. It is often these ones that panic in the last moments of the academic year, and who are prone to call out to a teacher exhausted from trying every angle, every multiple-learning style, having adjusted and modified the curriculum in every imaginable way, to a teacher who feels like hiding and sleeping in the stern of the boat, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” I think most of us can empathize with such a teacher and would be inclined to join in the resounding “no!” After all, every chance has already been given. Of course, the teacher that lives in my home is a compassionate teacher, as are most teachers I know, who really do long for the best for their students. Yet, who can blame them for shaking their heads at those who refuse to learn? Can we really begrudge them that secret “no” that they harbour in their hearts when the student cries out “Do you not care that we are perishing?”
But “no” is not the answer that Jesus gives. While we may seek to identify with the frustrated, tired teacher, who has done his or her best, we are actually meant to identify with the floundering disciples, who unwisely prayed for the wind and got a storm, who time and time again misunderstood the message and missed the mark, who long to be anywhere else but where they find themselves, even when where they find themselves may be the most important place to be. Let’s face it, most of us are poor students of this classroom we call life. Most of us make mistake after mistake, desire the things that are not best for us, wish our lives away and long to be anywhere or anytime else than our present place and present time. Most of us fail to recognize the kingdom of God amongst us, much less the presence of our Lord. Even if we do believe our Lord is with us, we may believe that he is sleeping and does not care.
The truth is that Jesus is with us and Jesus does care. When we call out he does answer and if we are wise and teachable, we will see that his presence is real and his kingdom does indeed come among us. Consider carefully what Jesus does. He does not immediately transport them to the other side, but he does still the storm. They do not immediately get to where they are going, rather, they learn the value in being where they find themselves. And most importantly, they learn that they are not alone when they seem adrift on the calm waters of the sea – they learn that the Lord is present amongst them.
Thus, we may find ourselves adrift, with the other side seeming so far away. We may find ourselves in the midst of a tempest, with waters crashing in over the sides of the boat, but what Mark means to tell us in this story is that getting to the other shore may not be the most important thing. Rather, it may be simply realizing – no, let me say it more emphatically – simply believing that even in the midst of being adrift or being tossed to and fro, that Jesus Christ is with us and will not forsake us. It is believing that the kingdom of God is to be found not in the arriving at the other side, but in the tempest that tosses us about. Perhaps the waters will crash about us, but we will know in our hearts his abiding presence and his assuring words, “peace, be still.” Yesterday, today, and tomorrow his words are the same. With the eyes of faith we will know his peace in the midst of the storm or when we are adrift, and we shall fear nothing.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. Not to be reproduced or redistributed without the express, written permission of the author.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Healing Ministry - As If Someone Would Scatter Some Seed on the Ground
Homily for Proper 11, Year B, 2009
Sunday, June 14th, 2009
Preached at the Lay Anointers’ Training Weekend
Manresa Centre, Pickering, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:26-34
The following homily was preached at the Lay Anointers' Training Weekend on June 14th, 2009. This is a weekend in which lay people come together for training in sacramental healing ministry, offered by members of the Bishop's Committee on Healing (Diocese of Toronto).
“The Kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter some seed on the ground…”
--Mark 4:26
The view that the world has of the healing ministry is one of glamour, sensationalism, and curiosity. If we are to believe the images broadcast by the popular media (and many are indeed hard to believe), it is a ministry characterized by spectacular miracle followed by spectacular miracle. As the line up of those with every sort of affliction approaches the healer we witness the lame rise up and walk, ears of the deaf unstopped, and the blind receiving their sight. Whatever is happening in these televised moments, be it authentic miracles or the manipulation of charlatans, one thing is certain, for those of us involved the day-to-day work of the healing ministry, the continuous parade of miracles broadcast across our screen is anything but what we encounter in our ministries.
There will be those who suggest that if only our faith was greater, if only we used the right words, if only we did this, that or the other thing, we too would see the such miracles in our churches and amongst our people. This way of thinking is plagued by two mistakes, though. First, it places undue emphasis on what we do, and secondly, it assumes that all miracles take a certain shape.
Jesus told his disciples two parables. The first was about a seed that was scattered on the ground and grew as the farmer slept. The process was anything but spectacular and anything but sensational. The farmer simply scattered some seeds and went to bed. Day in and day out the plant, without his aid, began to grow. It grew and it grew and it grew until finally it ripened, producing a bountiful harvest.
As participants in our Lord’s ministry of healing we find that much of what we do is the work of scattering seeds. As someone approaches us and asks for anointing and healing prayer, we offer it freely and without reservation. We scatter the seed of healing and then get out of the way, leaving it to God, the ground of all being, to give the growth and offer His healing touch. This is not to say that we walk away or cease to care, indeed we can and should continue to care for those who seek our prayer and the sacraments of the church. Indeed, the farmer of this story is not uninterested in the growth of the seed, rather he marvels that it grows without his tending, and is humbled and reminded that it is God who is the one doing the work. He marvels that even in his simple act of faithfulness, in scattering the seed, God’s faithfulness produces an abundant harvest in the fullness of God’s time. It is a parable to remind us that it is God that gives the growth and that everything comes in season, not necessarily when we would wish to see it.
In the second parable, Jesus tells us about a mustard seed, the tiniest of seeds that when sown grows up to become the greatest of all shrubs, that even the birds of the air make their nests in its shade. This parable reminds us of the potential in one tiny seed. And yes, the seed we sow as we anoint and pray for another is a tiny seed indeed. We have but a small part in the work of healing, but what God can do with that tiny, planted seed is extraordinary indeed.
Finally, both parables speak to the reality that what is to come is hidden in very small and unassuming packages. This is so true of the healing ministry. We start small, and believe that God will turn what is planted into something grand and glorious not in the blink of an eye but in due season. To the trained eye, one seed can be distinguished from another, but to the average person, a seed, is a seed, is a seed; and certainly compared to the differences in the many varieties of plants that are produced, they all start off a lot alike. Yet, what is common in each seed planted is that it has within it, hidden, the kingdom of God. The healing ministry, at its very essence is a sign of God’s kingdom breaking through. The healing ministry, and every moment and piece of healing granted by our Great Physician points toward the healing of humanity and our reconciliation to a loving God. In every act and process of healing, in every tiny seed of healing, is nursed the healing of the cosmos.
What comes forth from those tiny seeds, what the branches and fruit might look like, is often a mystery. God alone knows how to nurture the seed of healing within us. For some it will be deliverance from physical affliction, for others it will be the coming to peace of a troubled mind or spirit, for others it will be the reconciliation of family and friends, and for some it will be a holy death. But whatever healing God gives, whatever surprising growth he gives to that little seed scattered and sown, in that seed, God’s kingdom is found and bursts forth.
For us as partners in the healing ministry then, let us not be discouraged when we see not the sensational results that we might hope or expect, rather may our Lord and Saviour simply teach us to be faithful sowers of the healing seed of Christ, patient gardener open to surprises, and humble servants who stand in awe of the abundant harvest of our God.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, June 14th, 2009
Preached at the Lay Anointers’ Training Weekend
Manresa Centre, Pickering, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:26-34
The following homily was preached at the Lay Anointers' Training Weekend on June 14th, 2009. This is a weekend in which lay people come together for training in sacramental healing ministry, offered by members of the Bishop's Committee on Healing (Diocese of Toronto).
“The Kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter some seed on the ground…”
--Mark 4:26
The view that the world has of the healing ministry is one of glamour, sensationalism, and curiosity. If we are to believe the images broadcast by the popular media (and many are indeed hard to believe), it is a ministry characterized by spectacular miracle followed by spectacular miracle. As the line up of those with every sort of affliction approaches the healer we witness the lame rise up and walk, ears of the deaf unstopped, and the blind receiving their sight. Whatever is happening in these televised moments, be it authentic miracles or the manipulation of charlatans, one thing is certain, for those of us involved the day-to-day work of the healing ministry, the continuous parade of miracles broadcast across our screen is anything but what we encounter in our ministries.
There will be those who suggest that if only our faith was greater, if only we used the right words, if only we did this, that or the other thing, we too would see the such miracles in our churches and amongst our people. This way of thinking is plagued by two mistakes, though. First, it places undue emphasis on what we do, and secondly, it assumes that all miracles take a certain shape.
Jesus told his disciples two parables. The first was about a seed that was scattered on the ground and grew as the farmer slept. The process was anything but spectacular and anything but sensational. The farmer simply scattered some seeds and went to bed. Day in and day out the plant, without his aid, began to grow. It grew and it grew and it grew until finally it ripened, producing a bountiful harvest.
As participants in our Lord’s ministry of healing we find that much of what we do is the work of scattering seeds. As someone approaches us and asks for anointing and healing prayer, we offer it freely and without reservation. We scatter the seed of healing and then get out of the way, leaving it to God, the ground of all being, to give the growth and offer His healing touch. This is not to say that we walk away or cease to care, indeed we can and should continue to care for those who seek our prayer and the sacraments of the church. Indeed, the farmer of this story is not uninterested in the growth of the seed, rather he marvels that it grows without his tending, and is humbled and reminded that it is God who is the one doing the work. He marvels that even in his simple act of faithfulness, in scattering the seed, God’s faithfulness produces an abundant harvest in the fullness of God’s time. It is a parable to remind us that it is God that gives the growth and that everything comes in season, not necessarily when we would wish to see it.
In the second parable, Jesus tells us about a mustard seed, the tiniest of seeds that when sown grows up to become the greatest of all shrubs, that even the birds of the air make their nests in its shade. This parable reminds us of the potential in one tiny seed. And yes, the seed we sow as we anoint and pray for another is a tiny seed indeed. We have but a small part in the work of healing, but what God can do with that tiny, planted seed is extraordinary indeed.
Finally, both parables speak to the reality that what is to come is hidden in very small and unassuming packages. This is so true of the healing ministry. We start small, and believe that God will turn what is planted into something grand and glorious not in the blink of an eye but in due season. To the trained eye, one seed can be distinguished from another, but to the average person, a seed, is a seed, is a seed; and certainly compared to the differences in the many varieties of plants that are produced, they all start off a lot alike. Yet, what is common in each seed planted is that it has within it, hidden, the kingdom of God. The healing ministry, at its very essence is a sign of God’s kingdom breaking through. The healing ministry, and every moment and piece of healing granted by our Great Physician points toward the healing of humanity and our reconciliation to a loving God. In every act and process of healing, in every tiny seed of healing, is nursed the healing of the cosmos.
What comes forth from those tiny seeds, what the branches and fruit might look like, is often a mystery. God alone knows how to nurture the seed of healing within us. For some it will be deliverance from physical affliction, for others it will be the coming to peace of a troubled mind or spirit, for others it will be the reconciliation of family and friends, and for some it will be a holy death. But whatever healing God gives, whatever surprising growth he gives to that little seed scattered and sown, in that seed, God’s kingdom is found and bursts forth.
For us as partners in the healing ministry then, let us not be discouraged when we see not the sensational results that we might hope or expect, rather may our Lord and Saviour simply teach us to be faithful sowers of the healing seed of Christ, patient gardener open to surprises, and humble servants who stand in awe of the abundant harvest of our God.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Company of Wise Women -- A Homily for the Feast of the Visitation of the BVM to Elizabeth
Homily for the Feast of the Visitation of the BVM to Elizabeth
Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
The Convent of the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 1:39-56
“…And Mary remained with her about three months.”
-- Luke 1:56
There are times in our lives when we need the counsel, friendship, and companionship of someone wiser than us. In the early days of our faith journey, the seed of faith that grows within our hearts can set before us what may seem like frightening burdens amidst all the hopeful potentialities of an unfolding life of faith. A heart strangely warmed is but one moment in birth of faith. Standing at the beginning of the road of unknown mystery is another.
There is no need to rehearse the social setting of Mary’s surprising pregnancy. We all know the societal judgments under which she would stand condemned. Furthermore, our Lady’s enthusiastic “yes” to the announcement of the Angel Gabriel, like a heart strangely warmed by the seed of faith, would most assuredly have as its companion the common travelers known as doubt and fear. Thus, she turned, as so many of us have in such times to someone who could mentor her, counsel her, and journey with her on the unfolding road ahead. She turned to a wise woman, her cousin Elizabeth to be her shepherd through the valley of her uncertain journey.
I recall, many years ago now, in the very early days of my unfolding sense of vocation, I sought the counsel of a wise man. Under the direction of another mentor, who sensed a burgeoning vocation even before I had, I was sent to the old convent on Botham road, to visit a certain Bishop Henry Hill. In the early days of an unfolding and frightening call, and a journey that would last some twelve years before I was ordained, this wise and generous older man opened his arms and his heart to a frightened younger man who clung only to the seed of faith growing within him and was facing an uncertain call into an uncertain future.
There are many who have crossed the threshold of this convent with similar stories. Each story is unique in its own way, but I would not be surprised if most shared a common thread, the heart strangely warmed and uncertainty about what that means. Many have come, men and women in all the stages of life, seeking mentors, companions, counsel, and friends for the journey. They come, as Mary did, seeking the companionship of wise women who will greet them with words, “come in and simply ‘be’ amongst us.”
There is a detail of this story, though, that is never to be forgotten, namely, that for even the wisest amongst us nurture still the seed of faith within them. Even as the journey is long and we find ourselves having journeyed farther down that road, God imparts to us, as he did to Elizabeth new gifts, new surprises -- often new and rather shocking surprises. Thus, when young Mary comes to stay with Elizabeth she is met by a friend and companion who is also journeying the same road… a little farther along perhaps; perhaps with a little more perspective, a little more experience, but the same road nonetheless. Ultimately, what Mary and Elizabeth learn in their shared journey is that they need each other. And Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months.
They day would come when Elizabeth would be gathered up into the company of her long departed mothers and Mary would find herself further down that road. At the foot of the cross, her dying Son would gaze down upon her and that beloved disciple and commend them to each other, “Woman behold your son; son behold your mother.” In the sorrow of that day she would hold and console that young man, and indeed an infant church, who she collectively held in her embrace and whose tears would flow against her bosom. And as the Resurrection light of Easter broke through, she would once again feel her heart strangely warmed, and be startled by the surprising road opening ever before her. As she pondered these things in her heart she would turn to find many rushing to her, as the seed of an infant faith grew within them, and questions, fears and doubts rushed over them. Wise woman as she was, her faith would then leap within her at their coming, and she would journey with them on the Gospel road, a companion, a friend, a wise woman of faith.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
The Convent of the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 1:39-56
“…And Mary remained with her about three months.”
-- Luke 1:56
There are times in our lives when we need the counsel, friendship, and companionship of someone wiser than us. In the early days of our faith journey, the seed of faith that grows within our hearts can set before us what may seem like frightening burdens amidst all the hopeful potentialities of an unfolding life of faith. A heart strangely warmed is but one moment in birth of faith. Standing at the beginning of the road of unknown mystery is another.
There is no need to rehearse the social setting of Mary’s surprising pregnancy. We all know the societal judgments under which she would stand condemned. Furthermore, our Lady’s enthusiastic “yes” to the announcement of the Angel Gabriel, like a heart strangely warmed by the seed of faith, would most assuredly have as its companion the common travelers known as doubt and fear. Thus, she turned, as so many of us have in such times to someone who could mentor her, counsel her, and journey with her on the unfolding road ahead. She turned to a wise woman, her cousin Elizabeth to be her shepherd through the valley of her uncertain journey.
I recall, many years ago now, in the very early days of my unfolding sense of vocation, I sought the counsel of a wise man. Under the direction of another mentor, who sensed a burgeoning vocation even before I had, I was sent to the old convent on Botham road, to visit a certain Bishop Henry Hill. In the early days of an unfolding and frightening call, and a journey that would last some twelve years before I was ordained, this wise and generous older man opened his arms and his heart to a frightened younger man who clung only to the seed of faith growing within him and was facing an uncertain call into an uncertain future.
There are many who have crossed the threshold of this convent with similar stories. Each story is unique in its own way, but I would not be surprised if most shared a common thread, the heart strangely warmed and uncertainty about what that means. Many have come, men and women in all the stages of life, seeking mentors, companions, counsel, and friends for the journey. They come, as Mary did, seeking the companionship of wise women who will greet them with words, “come in and simply ‘be’ amongst us.”
There is a detail of this story, though, that is never to be forgotten, namely, that for even the wisest amongst us nurture still the seed of faith within them. Even as the journey is long and we find ourselves having journeyed farther down that road, God imparts to us, as he did to Elizabeth new gifts, new surprises -- often new and rather shocking surprises. Thus, when young Mary comes to stay with Elizabeth she is met by a friend and companion who is also journeying the same road… a little farther along perhaps; perhaps with a little more perspective, a little more experience, but the same road nonetheless. Ultimately, what Mary and Elizabeth learn in their shared journey is that they need each other. And Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months.
They day would come when Elizabeth would be gathered up into the company of her long departed mothers and Mary would find herself further down that road. At the foot of the cross, her dying Son would gaze down upon her and that beloved disciple and commend them to each other, “Woman behold your son; son behold your mother.” In the sorrow of that day she would hold and console that young man, and indeed an infant church, who she collectively held in her embrace and whose tears would flow against her bosom. And as the Resurrection light of Easter broke through, she would once again feel her heart strangely warmed, and be startled by the surprising road opening ever before her. As she pondered these things in her heart she would turn to find many rushing to her, as the seed of an infant faith grew within them, and questions, fears and doubts rushed over them. Wise woman as she was, her faith would then leap within her at their coming, and she would journey with them on the Gospel road, a companion, a friend, a wise woman of faith.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Dream the Church -- A Sermon for Pentecost
Homily for Pentectost, Year B, 2009
Sunday, May 31st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 2:1-21
“… And your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.”
-- Acts 2:17
To dream, to dare to dream, is a part of Christian vocation. For men and women, young and old, to dream is to have hope. We dream about who we could become, who we are becoming in the hands of a loving God. Who we are becoming and who we might be – these things form the essence of our Christian dreaming. We dream about our place in the story, we dream about our community’s place in the story, and we dream about the place of the Church in the world. We dream about what God is doing and will be doing in the days ahead to further His kingdom here on Earth. More profoundly, though, our dreams and longings are longings placed on our hearts by the Spirit of God, the Spirit that gave birth to the church and continues to give birth to our spirits as it is poured out in Holy Baptism.
In the Upper Room, the disciples waited, prayed, and dreamed. They dreamed of the promised gift of the Spirit, they dreamed of the future and their place in it, and they dreamed about what the continuing presence of Christ might mean for them and their world. As it was for them, so to it is for us. As it shaped the longing of the disciples, God’s Holy Spirit shapes our human longing into a holy longing and our human dreaming into holy dreaming. As God’s love is poured out upon us our longing and dreaming is brought to perfection by that same Spirit. To dream is to invite God’s Holy Spirit to enter into our broken lives, wherever we are, in whatever state we find ourselves, and ask for the wings of the Spirit to unfurl in our dreaming. To dream the Church, to dream the Kingdom, is to invite God’s Holy Spirit into our humanity and shape our dreaming and longing into a Christ-like longing for the reconciliation of the world to God.
Our Primate, Archbishop Fred Hiltz, our spiritual leader, has called us to dream. As Canadian Anglicans what are our hopes and dreams for the future of this Anglican Church of Canada. The dream is not simply about what any one of us in particular want the Church to be, but rather for each of us give voice to the voice of the Spirit of God speaking to us individually that we might hear collectively the call of God to Anglicans in this country in the years to come. Like disciples in an Upper Room, we wait and pray; we dream and long. There may be many different voices, many different languages, many different images in our visions and dreams, but can we be open to the Spirit as it descends and allows us to understand one another, even when we speak in different tongues, different voices, appealing to different images, metaphors and paradigms? Can we, will we dare to hear each other and dream together?
Next Sunday, Trinity Sunday, has been declared Vision 2019 Sunday. A most appropriate day indeed, for the Trinity is nothing if not the diversity of persons in united purpose and loving harmony. In our dreaming and purpose can we mirror the divine life of the Blessed Trinity? In our wonderful diversity of persons let us let us dream together the Church and the Kingdom under the blessing of the Spirit that hovered over creation and recreates us day by day. Your pew leaflet includes an insert with ways in which we can dream together, as a parish, and as Canadian Anglicans. I encourage you to take up these opportunities and join your dreaming and longing to the dreaming and longing of Anglicans across this great nation and in this great Church of ours.
Perhaps I could begin. What do I dream?
I dream of a Church that has no fear or reservation in making the Gospel of Christ, the story God’s reconciling love, known to a hurting world.
I dream of a Church that turns to God again and again in prayer and listens to what the Spirit is saying to the Church.
I dream of a Church in which all the children of God are welcome, and not turned away because of human prejudice or human fear of those who are different.
I dream of a Church that has the courage to stand up to the injustices and prejudices of the world around us, and champion the voice and cause of the dispossessed, the marginalized, and the forgotten.
I dream that God will journey with those who have left the Church, and yes, even abandoned their faith in light of the ways that the Church has hurt so many in our history.
I dream that God will open our eyes to the harm we have done through ignorance, selfishness and naiveté. Thus, I dream and long for a meaningful reconciliation with those from whom we are estranged.
I dream of a Church of courageous people gathered under the banner of Christ who stand together and say no to the dark forces of this world that would have us believe that our human value is rooted only in what we can buy or what we can sell.
I dream of a Church that says proclaims a resounding “no” to the selfishness of within us and around us that leads us to destroy, rather than nurture and care for God’s good creation.
And I dream of a Church in which every one of God’s children knows and feels the healing and reconciling love of God in Christ, no matter how broken they are, defeated they are, no matter how sick, depressed or demoralized, I dream that God’s love will be known to any and all in need, strife or affliction, and I dream that we will be the people to carry that love to the world.
This is what I dream and this is what I long for, upon attempting to listen to the voice of God’s Holy Spirit. What do you dream for? What is your holy longing? It is time to share the ponderings of your heart. It is time for men and women, young and old to dream dreams and share their visions that God might shape our dreams and our visions into the vision of his kingdom.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, May 31st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 2:1-21
“… And your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.”
-- Acts 2:17
To dream, to dare to dream, is a part of Christian vocation. For men and women, young and old, to dream is to have hope. We dream about who we could become, who we are becoming in the hands of a loving God. Who we are becoming and who we might be – these things form the essence of our Christian dreaming. We dream about our place in the story, we dream about our community’s place in the story, and we dream about the place of the Church in the world. We dream about what God is doing and will be doing in the days ahead to further His kingdom here on Earth. More profoundly, though, our dreams and longings are longings placed on our hearts by the Spirit of God, the Spirit that gave birth to the church and continues to give birth to our spirits as it is poured out in Holy Baptism.
In the Upper Room, the disciples waited, prayed, and dreamed. They dreamed of the promised gift of the Spirit, they dreamed of the future and their place in it, and they dreamed about what the continuing presence of Christ might mean for them and their world. As it was for them, so to it is for us. As it shaped the longing of the disciples, God’s Holy Spirit shapes our human longing into a holy longing and our human dreaming into holy dreaming. As God’s love is poured out upon us our longing and dreaming is brought to perfection by that same Spirit. To dream is to invite God’s Holy Spirit to enter into our broken lives, wherever we are, in whatever state we find ourselves, and ask for the wings of the Spirit to unfurl in our dreaming. To dream the Church, to dream the Kingdom, is to invite God’s Holy Spirit into our humanity and shape our dreaming and longing into a Christ-like longing for the reconciliation of the world to God.
Our Primate, Archbishop Fred Hiltz, our spiritual leader, has called us to dream. As Canadian Anglicans what are our hopes and dreams for the future of this Anglican Church of Canada. The dream is not simply about what any one of us in particular want the Church to be, but rather for each of us give voice to the voice of the Spirit of God speaking to us individually that we might hear collectively the call of God to Anglicans in this country in the years to come. Like disciples in an Upper Room, we wait and pray; we dream and long. There may be many different voices, many different languages, many different images in our visions and dreams, but can we be open to the Spirit as it descends and allows us to understand one another, even when we speak in different tongues, different voices, appealing to different images, metaphors and paradigms? Can we, will we dare to hear each other and dream together?
Next Sunday, Trinity Sunday, has been declared Vision 2019 Sunday. A most appropriate day indeed, for the Trinity is nothing if not the diversity of persons in united purpose and loving harmony. In our dreaming and purpose can we mirror the divine life of the Blessed Trinity? In our wonderful diversity of persons let us let us dream together the Church and the Kingdom under the blessing of the Spirit that hovered over creation and recreates us day by day. Your pew leaflet includes an insert with ways in which we can dream together, as a parish, and as Canadian Anglicans. I encourage you to take up these opportunities and join your dreaming and longing to the dreaming and longing of Anglicans across this great nation and in this great Church of ours.
Perhaps I could begin. What do I dream?
I dream of a Church that has no fear or reservation in making the Gospel of Christ, the story God’s reconciling love, known to a hurting world.
I dream of a Church that turns to God again and again in prayer and listens to what the Spirit is saying to the Church.
I dream of a Church in which all the children of God are welcome, and not turned away because of human prejudice or human fear of those who are different.
I dream of a Church that has the courage to stand up to the injustices and prejudices of the world around us, and champion the voice and cause of the dispossessed, the marginalized, and the forgotten.
I dream that God will journey with those who have left the Church, and yes, even abandoned their faith in light of the ways that the Church has hurt so many in our history.
I dream that God will open our eyes to the harm we have done through ignorance, selfishness and naiveté. Thus, I dream and long for a meaningful reconciliation with those from whom we are estranged.
I dream of a Church of courageous people gathered under the banner of Christ who stand together and say no to the dark forces of this world that would have us believe that our human value is rooted only in what we can buy or what we can sell.
I dream of a Church that says proclaims a resounding “no” to the selfishness of within us and around us that leads us to destroy, rather than nurture and care for God’s good creation.
And I dream of a Church in which every one of God’s children knows and feels the healing and reconciling love of God in Christ, no matter how broken they are, defeated they are, no matter how sick, depressed or demoralized, I dream that God’s love will be known to any and all in need, strife or affliction, and I dream that we will be the people to carry that love to the world.
This is what I dream and this is what I long for, upon attempting to listen to the voice of God’s Holy Spirit. What do you dream for? What is your holy longing? It is time to share the ponderings of your heart. It is time for men and women, young and old to dream dreams and share their visions that God might shape our dreams and our visions into the vision of his kingdom.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, May 16, 2009
If You Keep My Commandments: To "be" rather than to "do" -- A Homily for Easter VI
Homily for Easter 6, Year B, 2009
Sunday, May 17th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:9-17
“If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”
--John 15:10Sunday, May 17th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:9-17
“If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”
To keep the commandments of God; this is what we take to be the essence of our Christian life. Indeed, back in the fourteenth chapter of St. John, Jesus himself says, “if you love me, keep my commandments.” The keeping of commandments seems to suggest the taking up of a task, the doing of certain duties, the following or keeping of a code. I suggested last week, in our reading of John 15:1-8 (Jesus’ words about the vine and the branches) that we might be overly tempted to understand the concept of “bearing fruit” as the concept of living out a life of good works. I do wonder, though, if we miss the point of his words if we unduly focus on Christian “duty” rather than Christian “being.” Now, there will be many that will respond that “good works” are the natural response of those who respond positively to the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they would not be wrong in their assertion. The Church has long maintained this theological position and indeed, faith without ensuing good works would appear to be a meaningless dead faith. To this view I wholeheartedly subscribe, and yet there seems to me to be something of a chasm between faith and the work of faith, and this chasm is exacerbated by our societal obsession with doing. The evidence of our value and worth in this world is that we produce something of value. I expect that this is the ultimate result of the Industrial Revolution and the age of consumerism. Unless I produce something that people want, find useful, and will pay for, I am of little value to the rest of humanity. Is it so far a stretch, then, to ask if this loathsome estimation of our human worth as participants in a society obsessed with productivity is not frequently applied to our spirituality and life of faith?
As a Church that finds at least a portion of its identity formed in the womb of Protestantism, we are clear that “good works” do not buy us our salvation. We are clear that is by God’s grace alone and through our faithful response to that grace that we find ourselves to be his redeemed children. Yet, why are we so obsessed with works? On the one hand we may say that they have nothing to do with the attaining of salvation, yet on the other we still count ourselves worthless if our faith appears to bear no fruit. The problem seems to me to be that we have a very narrow understanding of what “bearing fruit” might mean. This skewed understanding is intensely shaped by a world that identifies intrinsic value in productivity. Thus, the evidence of a lively faith will seem to be for us a proliferation of churchly activity, of service to the community, of endless programme opportunities, of doing, doing, doing. The implication being that if our lives are full of doing this will be the evidence of a faith-filled life. The corollary, of course, is that if I do not pack my days with good works and productive activity, I have no evidence of my faith. I wish to reiterate, I do not see good works as bad. On the contrary, a lively faith will indeed lead the Christian person to an intense desire to live out the gospel in works of charity and activity. Yet, good works are simply that, a living out of the gospel, not the evidence of faith.
What then, does Jesus mean when he commends us to keep his commandments? Of what does he speak? He speaks, of course, of love, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Love is more than doing. Love may cause us, and even drive us, to act in certain ways, to do certain things, but at the core of its essence, love is really about being. Thus, we can say that “I am in love,” or “we are in love.” Love transforms us, changes us, and affects our very being. Love works on us, on our very being and our very existence. This is the reality to which Jesus speaks when he says you did not choose me, I chose you! To be in love is to be in Christ, for it is Christ who affects our hearts, inhabits our being, and transforms us. If you keep my commandments you will abide in my love. The commandment is not so much an order to “do” but a invitation to “be.” It is the experience of the abiding presence of our Lord with us always. What is more, we experience the same love of the Father for the Son, for as they abide in each other; so now in Christ the Father abides in us and we in him. In this is the joy of Christ made complete, and is our joy made complete. And consider this: “joy” is another word of being rather than doing.
Thus, as I asserted last week, the fruit that we bear is Christ abiding eternally amongst us in the world. It is the fruit of love and the fruit of joy of which we, and those around us partake. The fruit is not to be hoarded, just as it (unlike so much in our modern age) is not grown for personal gain. It grows and ripens for the purpose of sharing, the purpose of nurturing, and the purpose of existential and eternal fulfillment for the whole world. If we try to hoard the fruit of love, the fruit of joy, and yes, even the fruit of hope, we will fail. The fruit will fall to the ground and rot, its life-giving purpose perverted. The fruit of the vine is for the life of the world and the healing of the nations. To this end, Jesus says “I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”
Love is something to be given away, not hoarded. When love, the fruit of the vine is given away, more will grow. When love, the fruit of the vine is given away it nourishes the one who receives it and it gives life. Love begets love. It is something to be enjoyed and something in which we abide.
Thus, it is true that love will cause us to live out our lives in acts of love. Love will cause us to bear the fruit of love in our lives, and yes, love will lead us to good works. Let us never forget, though, that works are not in and of themselves the fruit of the vine, the fruit is Love itself in the person of Christ. When we find ourselves consumed by the doing of this life, and when we begin to mistake what we “do” for the essence of Christianity, then let us recall what Jesus said: “I do not call you servants but friends.” To be a servant is to work, to define ourselves by what we do; to be a friend is to be defined by what we are. To be a friend is simply “to be.” And what marvelous fruit grows from branches that abide in the friendly vine of Christ.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, May 8, 2009
Abide in Me: A Homily for Easter V
Homily for Easter 5, Year B, 2009
Sunday, May 10th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:1-8
“You have already been cleansed by the word I have spoken to you.”
--John 15:3
When we hear the words of Jesus in the Gospel of John about the vine and the branches, we are often captivated by the fate of the branches that bear no fruit, the ones that are pruned away and cast into the fire. While it is important to consider all aspects of this passage, I would suggest that it may not be fruitful for us to find ourselves entirely obsessed with this portion of the text. To focus disproportionately upon this aspect of the text may indeed draw us away from the point of the passage altogether and the message Jesus has for us. It is clear that John’s Gospel is characterized by a very strong polemic, casting in stark contrast those who are inside the community and those who are outside. Indeed, it is a polemic takes on cosmic and eternal overtones. This polemic may seem very jarring to us. We must never forget, though, that the community to which John initially wrote, of which he was a part, was a community cast out of the synagogue for its faith in Christ. Thus, he is pressed into using such language that is clearly a response to the church’s ejection from the community. This ejection caused upset in both communities in a number of ways, not the least being the tearing apart of families. The religious and social impact of such a break must have been enormous. In such events of social crisis, language tends to escalate and polemic heightens. The temptation for any of us, when rejected, is to reject in turn those who rejected us. Rejection upon rejection, slander upon slander. This is likely the social context from which this passage emerges, and in such wise does John interpret the words of Jesus. But again, I suggest that we probe beyond the polemic of the story and focus not on what has been pruned away, but rather what abides, for it is in these words, that I believe Jesus speaks directly to the Church of this and every age.
It is natural for any of us to feel that we are not included in the life of the community; that we may not be “in.” How many of us have wondered if we really are Christians when we compare ourselves with others who are zealous in their faith. But our faith is not a faith built on fear. Consider for a moment, how Jesus addresses the hearers of this passage. He does so in a form of direct address, using the second person plural, “You have already been cleansed.” To whom does he speak? Of course, in the context of the story, he is speaking to his followers, his disciples. But his words cut across time to others as well. As John wrote these words, they were words directly addressed to the community of his day, to a new generation of disciples in a new situation. They became the “you” to whom Jesus spoke. Now, as the Gospel is proclaimed in this assembly today, we become the “you” to whom Jesus continues to speak. Through the Scriptures, Jesus’ words continue to speak and we believe that through Holy Scripture, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, we encounter the Living Word of God.
Thus, I ask, do you believe he is speaking to you, that this is a word address to our community today, the baptized faithful? If we do indeed believe that Jesus speaks his word directly to us through the words of Scripture, I ask, do you see yourselves in the collective “you” addressed by Jesus in today’s text when he says, “You have already been cleansed by the word I have spoken to you?” And if the Christian faith is new to you and you are inquiring as to whether Jesus might be the Lord you are seeking, do you hear a word being spoken to you, seeking you out, calling to you?
The noted Roman Catholic biblical scholar, Raymond Brown reminds us that the word used by John for cleansing and pruning are the same Greek word. Thus, when Jesus says, the Father “removes or prunes every branch in me that bears no fruit,” Brown offers the following translation, “trims clean every branch in me that bears no fruit.” Thus, when he goes on to say that “you are cleansed already,” this suggests that we have already been “trimmed clean.” It suggests that we are indeed branches that will bear fruit because anything in us that does not bear fruit has already been cast away. The message for us, the baptized, and those approaching baptism is not that we are cast away because of what is not fruitful within us, but rather that God in Christ prunes away those things that keep us from bearing fruit. We remain attached to the vine.
Jesus goes on to say, “Abide in me as I abide in you.” Another translation reads, “Remain in me as I remain in you.” Jesus remains with us, and within us, beyond his brief earthly life. He remains, alive in each baptized Christian. He remains, he abides, and he lives in us. Indeed, his primary manifestation in the world in our time is through his Church. Our life, as branches bearing fruit, is supported and sustained by the true vine, Jesus Christ our Lord. If there is no vine, a branch cannot bear fruit. However, the vine abides forever never dying, never withering. The Good News is that we are not branches that bear no fruit but branches, already trimmed clean, cleansed in our baptism, that we might make Christ known to the world. We are indeed fruitful branches. We must never forget, though, that we cannot bear fruit unless we abide in the vine. The vine sustains our life and allows us to bear the fruit we so desperately hope to bear. Thus, as we abide in that vine, our source and ground of our being, he abides in us.
Much of St. John’s Gospel is about a Jesus who seeks to offer us a relationship with the Father. In the prologue to the Gospel we learn that to those who believe he gives power to become the children of God. In Jesus’ final prayer (in the seventeenth chapter of the St. John), before the passion narrative unfolds, Jesus prays “Father they know everything you have given me is from you. For the words that you gave me I have given them.” Jesus offers the entirety of himself, everything that that Father has given him, that we might know what it is to be one with the Father. In this offering, the Father holds nothing back from us. The fruit born by Jesus becomes the fruit born by everyone who follows him. (Incidentally, this is a very sophisticated way of understanding the self-offering of Jesus, and ultimately, the offering on the cross becomes for us a sign of this very offering).
Jesus goes on to pray, “As you have sent me into the world so I have sent them.” As branches on the true and living vine, we offer Christ to the world. The fruit, which we bear, is Christ himself. And lest we have any doubt about that, he continues, “sanctify them in the truth, your word is the truth.” Again, we return back to the opening words of the Gospel, “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Jesus is the Word. Therefore, if Jesus the Word of God abides in us and we in him, the fruit we will bear is Christ himself, to be offered to a world that hungers and thirsts for reconciliation, justice and peace.
To bear the fruit which is Christ is not simply to follow his precepts or do his will but to allow ourselves to abide in him that we might bear him in all our joy and all our sorrow, because to bear Christ in our sorrow and joy (and in everything else in-between) is to allow the entirety of our humanity to be sanctified for the healing of world. This is what it means to bear fruit. The mistake for us is always to think that it is about simply following a set of rules or living a good life. These may be important things, but they are not what it means to bear fruit. To bear fruit is to allow our very essence to be transformed by the one who abides in us that we might abide in him. In this mutual abiding, even our pain has the potential to bear healing fruit because Christ abides in our pain and remains with us. In this mutual abiding, our joy has the potential to be a healing joy for those around us, because Christ abides in our joy and remains with us in our heights. Yes, even in our mistakes and failures, he abides there, too. If we turn again and again to him, and recognize that he has not left us, that he remains and continues to abide, even our mistakes and failures can be a means of bearing Christ to the world. If we allow him to work through our authenticity, through our contrition, through our brokenness, and yes, even through our sinfulness, we will bear Christ to the world.
I cannot speak for others who have not chosen this way. I cannot and shall not judge them. Instead I speak as one who has heard his word and claimed it as my own; I speak to those who have claimed it as their own; I speak to those drawing near to the light of this faith, who sense the word awakening within them: His word abides; you have been trimmed clean already; you have been cleansed. Hear then his word: “Abide in me as I abide in you.” Others may find a word of comfort somewhere else, in some other way but I have found my comfort and challenge here in these words, in this Word of God, as have Christians of all ages. Thus, we do not fear being pruned away and cast off because we know that we firmly abide in the vine and that vine abides in us and will remain with us always.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, May 10th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:1-8
“You have already been cleansed by the word I have spoken to you.”
--John 15:3
When we hear the words of Jesus in the Gospel of John about the vine and the branches, we are often captivated by the fate of the branches that bear no fruit, the ones that are pruned away and cast into the fire. While it is important to consider all aspects of this passage, I would suggest that it may not be fruitful for us to find ourselves entirely obsessed with this portion of the text. To focus disproportionately upon this aspect of the text may indeed draw us away from the point of the passage altogether and the message Jesus has for us. It is clear that John’s Gospel is characterized by a very strong polemic, casting in stark contrast those who are inside the community and those who are outside. Indeed, it is a polemic takes on cosmic and eternal overtones. This polemic may seem very jarring to us. We must never forget, though, that the community to which John initially wrote, of which he was a part, was a community cast out of the synagogue for its faith in Christ. Thus, he is pressed into using such language that is clearly a response to the church’s ejection from the community. This ejection caused upset in both communities in a number of ways, not the least being the tearing apart of families. The religious and social impact of such a break must have been enormous. In such events of social crisis, language tends to escalate and polemic heightens. The temptation for any of us, when rejected, is to reject in turn those who rejected us. Rejection upon rejection, slander upon slander. This is likely the social context from which this passage emerges, and in such wise does John interpret the words of Jesus. But again, I suggest that we probe beyond the polemic of the story and focus not on what has been pruned away, but rather what abides, for it is in these words, that I believe Jesus speaks directly to the Church of this and every age.
It is natural for any of us to feel that we are not included in the life of the community; that we may not be “in.” How many of us have wondered if we really are Christians when we compare ourselves with others who are zealous in their faith. But our faith is not a faith built on fear. Consider for a moment, how Jesus addresses the hearers of this passage. He does so in a form of direct address, using the second person plural, “You have already been cleansed.” To whom does he speak? Of course, in the context of the story, he is speaking to his followers, his disciples. But his words cut across time to others as well. As John wrote these words, they were words directly addressed to the community of his day, to a new generation of disciples in a new situation. They became the “you” to whom Jesus spoke. Now, as the Gospel is proclaimed in this assembly today, we become the “you” to whom Jesus continues to speak. Through the Scriptures, Jesus’ words continue to speak and we believe that through Holy Scripture, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, we encounter the Living Word of God.
Thus, I ask, do you believe he is speaking to you, that this is a word address to our community today, the baptized faithful? If we do indeed believe that Jesus speaks his word directly to us through the words of Scripture, I ask, do you see yourselves in the collective “you” addressed by Jesus in today’s text when he says, “You have already been cleansed by the word I have spoken to you?” And if the Christian faith is new to you and you are inquiring as to whether Jesus might be the Lord you are seeking, do you hear a word being spoken to you, seeking you out, calling to you?
The noted Roman Catholic biblical scholar, Raymond Brown reminds us that the word used by John for cleansing and pruning are the same Greek word. Thus, when Jesus says, the Father “removes or prunes every branch in me that bears no fruit,” Brown offers the following translation, “trims clean every branch in me that bears no fruit.” Thus, when he goes on to say that “you are cleansed already,” this suggests that we have already been “trimmed clean.” It suggests that we are indeed branches that will bear fruit because anything in us that does not bear fruit has already been cast away. The message for us, the baptized, and those approaching baptism is not that we are cast away because of what is not fruitful within us, but rather that God in Christ prunes away those things that keep us from bearing fruit. We remain attached to the vine.
Jesus goes on to say, “Abide in me as I abide in you.” Another translation reads, “Remain in me as I remain in you.” Jesus remains with us, and within us, beyond his brief earthly life. He remains, alive in each baptized Christian. He remains, he abides, and he lives in us. Indeed, his primary manifestation in the world in our time is through his Church. Our life, as branches bearing fruit, is supported and sustained by the true vine, Jesus Christ our Lord. If there is no vine, a branch cannot bear fruit. However, the vine abides forever never dying, never withering. The Good News is that we are not branches that bear no fruit but branches, already trimmed clean, cleansed in our baptism, that we might make Christ known to the world. We are indeed fruitful branches. We must never forget, though, that we cannot bear fruit unless we abide in the vine. The vine sustains our life and allows us to bear the fruit we so desperately hope to bear. Thus, as we abide in that vine, our source and ground of our being, he abides in us.
Much of St. John’s Gospel is about a Jesus who seeks to offer us a relationship with the Father. In the prologue to the Gospel we learn that to those who believe he gives power to become the children of God. In Jesus’ final prayer (in the seventeenth chapter of the St. John), before the passion narrative unfolds, Jesus prays “Father they know everything you have given me is from you. For the words that you gave me I have given them.” Jesus offers the entirety of himself, everything that that Father has given him, that we might know what it is to be one with the Father. In this offering, the Father holds nothing back from us. The fruit born by Jesus becomes the fruit born by everyone who follows him. (Incidentally, this is a very sophisticated way of understanding the self-offering of Jesus, and ultimately, the offering on the cross becomes for us a sign of this very offering).
Jesus goes on to pray, “As you have sent me into the world so I have sent them.” As branches on the true and living vine, we offer Christ to the world. The fruit, which we bear, is Christ himself. And lest we have any doubt about that, he continues, “sanctify them in the truth, your word is the truth.” Again, we return back to the opening words of the Gospel, “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Jesus is the Word. Therefore, if Jesus the Word of God abides in us and we in him, the fruit we will bear is Christ himself, to be offered to a world that hungers and thirsts for reconciliation, justice and peace.
To bear the fruit which is Christ is not simply to follow his precepts or do his will but to allow ourselves to abide in him that we might bear him in all our joy and all our sorrow, because to bear Christ in our sorrow and joy (and in everything else in-between) is to allow the entirety of our humanity to be sanctified for the healing of world. This is what it means to bear fruit. The mistake for us is always to think that it is about simply following a set of rules or living a good life. These may be important things, but they are not what it means to bear fruit. To bear fruit is to allow our very essence to be transformed by the one who abides in us that we might abide in him. In this mutual abiding, even our pain has the potential to bear healing fruit because Christ abides in our pain and remains with us. In this mutual abiding, our joy has the potential to be a healing joy for those around us, because Christ abides in our joy and remains with us in our heights. Yes, even in our mistakes and failures, he abides there, too. If we turn again and again to him, and recognize that he has not left us, that he remains and continues to abide, even our mistakes and failures can be a means of bearing Christ to the world. If we allow him to work through our authenticity, through our contrition, through our brokenness, and yes, even through our sinfulness, we will bear Christ to the world.
I cannot speak for others who have not chosen this way. I cannot and shall not judge them. Instead I speak as one who has heard his word and claimed it as my own; I speak to those who have claimed it as their own; I speak to those drawing near to the light of this faith, who sense the word awakening within them: His word abides; you have been trimmed clean already; you have been cleansed. Hear then his word: “Abide in me as I abide in you.” Others may find a word of comfort somewhere else, in some other way but I have found my comfort and challenge here in these words, in this Word of God, as have Christians of all ages. Thus, we do not fear being pruned away and cast off because we know that we firmly abide in the vine and that vine abides in us and will remain with us always.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, April 26, 2009
You Are Witnesses: A Homily for Easter III
Homily for Easter 3, Year B, 2009
Sunday, April 26th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24:36b-48
“You are witnesses of these things.”
-- Luke 24:48
He called them witnesses -- a group of frightened, doubting former followers. These are the ones he sent into the world to share the Good News of God. If we think that it is difficult for us to witness to our Christian faith in this world, in this age, then consider how difficult it would have been for them. The world and the powers to which they were called to witness were the same world and same powers that crucified their master; a difficult, if not dangerous audience indeed. More to the point, beyond the improbability of the audience to whom they were to witness was the improbability of the witnesses, themselves. They were a broken community possessed by fear, gripped by betrayal, and riddled with doubt. It was an improbable call, to an improbable people, to witness to an improbable audience. And yet, the call was made, it was answered, and a group of improbable witnesses told the story against all odds. The call goes out still.
It can be intimidating for Anglicans to think about witnessing because we may inadvertently compare ourselves (and find ourselves wanting) with those of our brothers and sisters of other Christian communities who witness with astonishing polemical certainty. We may wonder when we hear the preaching, evangelizing, and witnessing of certain Christian groups how we, in the face of such outward shows of devotion and zeal, how we, with our heritage of Victorian reservation, can even consider ourselves disciples of the Risen Lord, much less his witnesses. When we examine ourselves, we find ourselves (especially in contrast to so many others who bear the name Christian) to be improbable witnesses. Improbable though we are, we are witnesses indeed.
Do you not know that all you who have been baptized into Christ have been baptized into his death? Death is not something embraced with certainty. Even those amongst us with the deepest, most certain faith will, in our silent, lonely moments find death a frightening mystery. Each of us will have our doubts and fears about our ultimate fate. Yet, when that moment comes, whether it be swift and unannounced or with much preparation, it is the ultimate moment of vulnerability and authenticity, when all else is eclipsed by the reality of who we are and have been in the eyes of God. In that moment of complete vulnerability it matters not how successful I have been nor how broken I am, for I am completely in the hands of God. And our brokenness is no obstacle to a loving, gracious God.
If, therefore, our brokenness is no obstacle to God in death, can it be an obstacle for him in life? Thus, our honesty and authenticity about our brokenness may indeed be a tool used by God as he calls us, his improbable witnesses, to the task of sharing the Good News. Jesus himself was an improbable saviour. We know of course, from the hosannas of a gathered crowd, hosannas that were followed by shouts of derision and denial, that the people of his day expected something else, another kind of messiah. Yet, the saviour given to this world was one that was broken and covered in wounds, who facing his death offered up his own doubts and fears, and ultimately bore his vulnerability before the eyes of the whole world. Yet, God transformed his brokenness, vindicated his fear, and defeated his doubt in a triumphant victory over the grave. Jesus is the man of ultimate authenticity. Even the resurrection body of Jesus still displays the wounds of his passion. His wounds are part of who he is. But the good news is that his wounds have been transformed gloriously for the healing of the nations.
Thus, we should never forget that our wounds are part of who we are. However, we are not our wounds. What is more, as God has transformed the wounds of Jesus for the healing of the nations, so too does the Risen Jesus transform our wounds that we might join him in his work of bringing healing and reconciliation to a broken world, that its wounds, too, might be healed. The wounds of Jesus are no longer crippling wounds but a glorious sign of his victory over all that would enslave us, even death. Each of us carries wounds that would cripple us were it not for the power of the Risen Christ.
There may be those who seem to be perfect, and yes, many of them may fly the Christian flag as a sign of their perfection. Perfect health, abundant wealth, ideal relationships, and a morally exemplary life will be the hallmarks of such a person. Perhaps, too, they share their faith with undying zeal. Yet, which of us finds comfort in the friendship of such a one? When we experience pain, or loss, or poverty, or the unexpected compromising of our own moral code, can we turn to such a one in comfort? Will their witness be of any assistance to us? It is likely that in the presence of such a one we will only feel inadequacy, alienation, an even condemnation. Is this the witness of the gospel of Jesus Christ? The truth is that a person such as these bears wounds, too, but they are afraid to share them.
Remember that Jesus commissioned a broken body to be his disciples. It was a broken body because those who were once twelve were now eleven because one of his own betrayed him. It was a broken body because Judas betrayed him and Peter denied him. It was a broken body because the women at the tomb ran away in fear. It was a broken body because the disciples believed the witness of these women to be “idle talk.” It was a broken body because even as he appeared to them, happy though they were, they still doubted. It was a body, a community, with gaping wounds. And yet he said to them, “You are my witnesses.” He did not go searching for others. He returned, with his own wounds openly and authentically displayed to the same ones who were so wounded, themselves, and called them his witnesses. But in offering them his transformed wounds, in opening the Scriptures to them they learned how God was transforming the world through his wounds, and yes, through theirs. In returning to them, a broken, wounded people, he transformed their wounds and entrusted them with his gospel.
Each new Christian who passes through the font, young or old, will bear many wounds through the course of their lives. Each of us will experience wound of doubt. Each of us will experience the wound of fear. Each of us will experience wounded bodies, and be they great wounds or small, each of us will know pain. We may be tempted to hide the wounds that make us human beings, but then we would also be hiding the truth of the Gospel, that even as each of us walks with pain, we walk also with a God who transforms our pain into healing, our fear into hope, and our doubt into faith. What makes us witnesses is not that we are perfect, without fear, without doubt, but that we, too, experience these things. The difference is that we do not experience these things alone, but in the company of the one whose body was also broken, who also bore the wounds of pain, and fear, and doubt. But the good tidings of great joy for all people is the truth to which we also witnesses that as his wounds are transformed for the healing of the nations, so too are ours. When we witness, or walk with someone who has journeyed through pain and has come through it transformed, our wounds are transformed as well. We recognize that their wounds, while they do not disappear, are not the story of their destruction, nor are ours the story of our destruction, but rather they are for the healing of the nations.
Our wounds are not left gaping but made to be a sign of hope that as we journey together in our brokenness we journey together in our healing. For our story does not end with one who hung wounded on a cross, but begins with one who stood before them with his wounds transformed. Our story does not end with a broken community of disciples dispersed, doubting and afraid, but begins with the wounds of that community healed in common purpose to witness to his healing wounds. Our story does not end with our wounds, but begins with a witness of authenticity in which our healing wounds are not a sign of shame but a beacon of hope, that even in our shared pain God can and will transform our wounds. Even we, with all our wounds, are his witnesses.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, April 26th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24:36b-48
“You are witnesses of these things.”
-- Luke 24:48
He called them witnesses -- a group of frightened, doubting former followers. These are the ones he sent into the world to share the Good News of God. If we think that it is difficult for us to witness to our Christian faith in this world, in this age, then consider how difficult it would have been for them. The world and the powers to which they were called to witness were the same world and same powers that crucified their master; a difficult, if not dangerous audience indeed. More to the point, beyond the improbability of the audience to whom they were to witness was the improbability of the witnesses, themselves. They were a broken community possessed by fear, gripped by betrayal, and riddled with doubt. It was an improbable call, to an improbable people, to witness to an improbable audience. And yet, the call was made, it was answered, and a group of improbable witnesses told the story against all odds. The call goes out still.
It can be intimidating for Anglicans to think about witnessing because we may inadvertently compare ourselves (and find ourselves wanting) with those of our brothers and sisters of other Christian communities who witness with astonishing polemical certainty. We may wonder when we hear the preaching, evangelizing, and witnessing of certain Christian groups how we, in the face of such outward shows of devotion and zeal, how we, with our heritage of Victorian reservation, can even consider ourselves disciples of the Risen Lord, much less his witnesses. When we examine ourselves, we find ourselves (especially in contrast to so many others who bear the name Christian) to be improbable witnesses. Improbable though we are, we are witnesses indeed.
Do you not know that all you who have been baptized into Christ have been baptized into his death? Death is not something embraced with certainty. Even those amongst us with the deepest, most certain faith will, in our silent, lonely moments find death a frightening mystery. Each of us will have our doubts and fears about our ultimate fate. Yet, when that moment comes, whether it be swift and unannounced or with much preparation, it is the ultimate moment of vulnerability and authenticity, when all else is eclipsed by the reality of who we are and have been in the eyes of God. In that moment of complete vulnerability it matters not how successful I have been nor how broken I am, for I am completely in the hands of God. And our brokenness is no obstacle to a loving, gracious God.
If, therefore, our brokenness is no obstacle to God in death, can it be an obstacle for him in life? Thus, our honesty and authenticity about our brokenness may indeed be a tool used by God as he calls us, his improbable witnesses, to the task of sharing the Good News. Jesus himself was an improbable saviour. We know of course, from the hosannas of a gathered crowd, hosannas that were followed by shouts of derision and denial, that the people of his day expected something else, another kind of messiah. Yet, the saviour given to this world was one that was broken and covered in wounds, who facing his death offered up his own doubts and fears, and ultimately bore his vulnerability before the eyes of the whole world. Yet, God transformed his brokenness, vindicated his fear, and defeated his doubt in a triumphant victory over the grave. Jesus is the man of ultimate authenticity. Even the resurrection body of Jesus still displays the wounds of his passion. His wounds are part of who he is. But the good news is that his wounds have been transformed gloriously for the healing of the nations.
Thus, we should never forget that our wounds are part of who we are. However, we are not our wounds. What is more, as God has transformed the wounds of Jesus for the healing of the nations, so too does the Risen Jesus transform our wounds that we might join him in his work of bringing healing and reconciliation to a broken world, that its wounds, too, might be healed. The wounds of Jesus are no longer crippling wounds but a glorious sign of his victory over all that would enslave us, even death. Each of us carries wounds that would cripple us were it not for the power of the Risen Christ.
There may be those who seem to be perfect, and yes, many of them may fly the Christian flag as a sign of their perfection. Perfect health, abundant wealth, ideal relationships, and a morally exemplary life will be the hallmarks of such a person. Perhaps, too, they share their faith with undying zeal. Yet, which of us finds comfort in the friendship of such a one? When we experience pain, or loss, or poverty, or the unexpected compromising of our own moral code, can we turn to such a one in comfort? Will their witness be of any assistance to us? It is likely that in the presence of such a one we will only feel inadequacy, alienation, an even condemnation. Is this the witness of the gospel of Jesus Christ? The truth is that a person such as these bears wounds, too, but they are afraid to share them.
Remember that Jesus commissioned a broken body to be his disciples. It was a broken body because those who were once twelve were now eleven because one of his own betrayed him. It was a broken body because Judas betrayed him and Peter denied him. It was a broken body because the women at the tomb ran away in fear. It was a broken body because the disciples believed the witness of these women to be “idle talk.” It was a broken body because even as he appeared to them, happy though they were, they still doubted. It was a body, a community, with gaping wounds. And yet he said to them, “You are my witnesses.” He did not go searching for others. He returned, with his own wounds openly and authentically displayed to the same ones who were so wounded, themselves, and called them his witnesses. But in offering them his transformed wounds, in opening the Scriptures to them they learned how God was transforming the world through his wounds, and yes, through theirs. In returning to them, a broken, wounded people, he transformed their wounds and entrusted them with his gospel.
Each new Christian who passes through the font, young or old, will bear many wounds through the course of their lives. Each of us will experience wound of doubt. Each of us will experience the wound of fear. Each of us will experience wounded bodies, and be they great wounds or small, each of us will know pain. We may be tempted to hide the wounds that make us human beings, but then we would also be hiding the truth of the Gospel, that even as each of us walks with pain, we walk also with a God who transforms our pain into healing, our fear into hope, and our doubt into faith. What makes us witnesses is not that we are perfect, without fear, without doubt, but that we, too, experience these things. The difference is that we do not experience these things alone, but in the company of the one whose body was also broken, who also bore the wounds of pain, and fear, and doubt. But the good tidings of great joy for all people is the truth to which we also witnesses that as his wounds are transformed for the healing of the nations, so too are ours. When we witness, or walk with someone who has journeyed through pain and has come through it transformed, our wounds are transformed as well. We recognize that their wounds, while they do not disappear, are not the story of their destruction, nor are ours the story of our destruction, but rather they are for the healing of the nations.
Our wounds are not left gaping but made to be a sign of hope that as we journey together in our brokenness we journey together in our healing. For our story does not end with one who hung wounded on a cross, but begins with one who stood before them with his wounds transformed. Our story does not end with a broken community of disciples dispersed, doubting and afraid, but begins with the wounds of that community healed in common purpose to witness to his healing wounds. Our story does not end with our wounds, but begins with a witness of authenticity in which our healing wounds are not a sign of shame but a beacon of hope, that even in our shared pain God can and will transform our wounds. Even we, with all our wounds, are his witnesses.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Who Will Roll Away the Stone For Us? -- A Homily for Easter Day
Homily for Easter Day, Year B, 2009
Sunday, April 12th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 16:1-8
“Who will roll away the stone for us?”
--Mark 16:3
A group of women approach the tomb of their crucified Lord, hoping to do one last thing for him – to anoint his body for burial. They had in mind one final act of devotion, one final offering of love. In their deep distress they embraced their task. Something occurred to them though, as they embarked upon that final offering of love, a great stone stood at the entrance of the tomb, impeding their way: “Who will roll the stone away for us?” they asked. Who, indeed.
Who amongst us, when gripped by sadness, by fear, by distress has not sought to bury ourselves in a task that would in turn bury our fear, distress or sadness? To “do” rather than to “feel” is the way we tend to deal with crises that threaten to overwhelm us. But having thrown ourselves into the task, with few emotional resources, and often with considerable physical and mental exhaustion brought on by the crisis, we are easily defeated when an obstacle of great proportions blocks our way and impedes our task. Our strength is gone, the task that would distract us falls apart, and we are left raw, despondent, “Who will roll the stone away for us?” Who, indeed.
“Crisis” is a word used liberally in our day and age. We have an environmental crisis that seems to be moving with such momentum that even if we change our ways, our natural world will never be the same. We have an economic crisis that is felt by many, rich and poor alike, with such destructive force that we have begun to words reserved for natural disasters and wars to describe their effect. Thus we have an economic catastrophe or we are facing economic turmoil, strife, or even destruction. We in the west have become so embroiled in wars on foreign soil, with motives so confused and poorly understood, that we wonder if we will ever see an end to such carnage.
Lest we think that the state of the world is an illusion created by media outlets, we have no shortage of official and learned apostles of hopelessness. We have pundits, commentators, politicians and generals; we have economists and environmentalists, each whom profess the starkly pessimistic and deeply despondent belief that we are powerless to stop the tide of history now forcefully released upon the world. Those who would counter such pessimism and despondency with a message of optimism and hope are counted and dismissed as “starry-eyed dreamers” who have their heads in the clouds. Meanwhile while the rest of us, who feel so overwhelmed and helpless as the magnitude and enormity of the various crises before us, go on imagining the tide to be no tide at all, firmly burying our heads in the sand. For most, the obstacle is too great, too large, too immovable. Who will roll away the stone for us? Who, indeed.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, those same women, who had felt defeated by the stone they knew they could not move, arrived at the tomb, gazed upon it and saw to their surprise that great stone had been rolled away.
Early in the morning on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, the great tide of anguish and pain is turned back and again put away. Not realizing what they were about to hear, not realizing the what they were about to see, they approached the tomb with renewed purpose for what had previously blocked their way was removed. They could do what they came to do. They could anoint his body. Perhaps they breathed a sigh of relief, but then another obstacle – his body was not there. Instead, a young man in a dazzling robe, by tradition an angel or holy messenger, told them not to be alarmed for Jesus has been raised from the dead.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen a new reality was proclaimed that forever changed the world. What would expect these women might have felt in that moment? Where hopelessness had held them captive, hope now set them free. Where the tide of tears threatened to drown them, the joy of the sun now warmed their hearts. Weeping may linger in the night, but joy comes in the morning. What cause for rejoicing this would have been … except … Mark tells us that they were gripped with fear. And so the gospel ends. Unlike the other accounts in Matthew, Luke and John, the Gospel of Mark ends not with appearance of the Risen Jesus conversing with his disciples, but with the news of his resurrection and three frightened women who have been given a task to go and spread the good news, yet, in their fear, they cannot. Why is it so?
I wonder if we are a people who have learned to be comfortable with crisis. Do we glory in the crisis we cannot stop or the oncoming catastrophe we cannot change? Do we in some strange and self-destructive way create crises that will spin beyond our control? Will we happily make half-hearted efforts to find solutions only to self-righteously defend our apparent heroic failures to proclaim, “well at least we went down trying?” I suppose that the reality we share with the women at the tomb is the reality that grace can be a frightening thing to receive. It may simply be easier to live with the turmoil of what we know than to risk faith in an empty tomb and an unseen hand that has rolled away the stone. Consider whatever stone stands in your way this Easter morning. If it were suddenly rolled away, would you know what to do, how to be, or how to feel? Surely, these women did not, even with such a great gift before them. This is the story of the women at the tomb. But it is not the entire story.
Why does Mark end his gospel here? I believe it is because that the story is made complete in our response to its stark ending. As the story draws to an abrupt close something wells up within us. We long to call to the women at the tomb, “Don’t you realize what has happened? Don’t you understand what this means? Don’t you get it? Death has been destroyed! Jesus is alive!” We call to them, from our vantage point of knowing the Risen Jesus, of hearing and believing the rest of the story which has here been left untold. From our own experience of having stones rolled away. We call, but they answer not.
Then, and only then, we begin to realize that we are calling not to them, but to ourselves in our dark and hopeless moments. We are calling to ourselves in words of encouragement, and words of faith in the Risen Christ. I would suggest that this is the way Mark wanted it, for the faith of the women in the story is not nearly as important as the faith that you and I, the readers of this gospel, share. Mark intended that his story of Jesus would elicit in us the same response that was offered by the centurion at the foot of the Cross, who upon the death of Jesus proclaimed, “Surely, this man was the Son of God.” Apparently it worked because future generations, confused at the abrupt ending and the actions of the women, shouted across the ages the same words of bewilderment and confusion at their lack of faith, and then from their own experience of the Risen Christ began to pen numerous faithful additional endings to the gospel to tell the rest of the story – a story they deeply believed, but eluded the women at the tomb, that Jesus was risen from the dead, a story to be shared with a hurting world. Apparently it worked because we are gathered here this joyous day proclaiming that the Lord is risen indeed, filling our hearts with hope and joy! Alleluia!
What the women at the tomb were to eventually learn, what the early church knew, and what I believe each of us knows deep within our hearts is the reality that God is ever and always rolling stones away that we cannot move alone. God rolls away stones that stand in the way of repairing the broken relationships of our lives. God rolls away stones that keep warring peoples from laying down their arms. God rolls away stones that keep us from caring for the poor amongst us. And how is it possible that these stones shall be removed? It is because God rolls away the most impenetrable, heaviest stones of all, the ones that surround our hardened hearts. With such stones removed, and with our hearts softened, arms are laid down, the earth is renewed, the hungry are filled with good things, and our own broken lives are mended.
Try as we might we cannot move such stones under our own power, but the one who turned the grave into a bed of hope, the one who rolled the stone away from a tomb so that life might burst forth triumphing over death, He is the one that shall roll the stones of our lives. And as he rolls away the stone for us, we realize that we are not gazing into a tomb, but rather gazing out from one – a tomb that has kept us captive in our fear and hopelessness. As that stone is rolled away, we like Lazarus, are called forth to join with our Lord in his work of rolling away the stones of a hurting world. We join in this holy task, in which tears of the world are turned to joy, not because we, ourselves, are able, but because in his triumph over the grave, he has made it possible.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, the women were wondering “who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb for us?”
Text Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, April 12th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 16:1-8
“Who will roll away the stone for us?”
--Mark 16:3
A group of women approach the tomb of their crucified Lord, hoping to do one last thing for him – to anoint his body for burial. They had in mind one final act of devotion, one final offering of love. In their deep distress they embraced their task. Something occurred to them though, as they embarked upon that final offering of love, a great stone stood at the entrance of the tomb, impeding their way: “Who will roll the stone away for us?” they asked. Who, indeed.
Who amongst us, when gripped by sadness, by fear, by distress has not sought to bury ourselves in a task that would in turn bury our fear, distress or sadness? To “do” rather than to “feel” is the way we tend to deal with crises that threaten to overwhelm us. But having thrown ourselves into the task, with few emotional resources, and often with considerable physical and mental exhaustion brought on by the crisis, we are easily defeated when an obstacle of great proportions blocks our way and impedes our task. Our strength is gone, the task that would distract us falls apart, and we are left raw, despondent, “Who will roll the stone away for us?” Who, indeed.
“Crisis” is a word used liberally in our day and age. We have an environmental crisis that seems to be moving with such momentum that even if we change our ways, our natural world will never be the same. We have an economic crisis that is felt by many, rich and poor alike, with such destructive force that we have begun to words reserved for natural disasters and wars to describe their effect. Thus we have an economic catastrophe or we are facing economic turmoil, strife, or even destruction. We in the west have become so embroiled in wars on foreign soil, with motives so confused and poorly understood, that we wonder if we will ever see an end to such carnage.
Lest we think that the state of the world is an illusion created by media outlets, we have no shortage of official and learned apostles of hopelessness. We have pundits, commentators, politicians and generals; we have economists and environmentalists, each whom profess the starkly pessimistic and deeply despondent belief that we are powerless to stop the tide of history now forcefully released upon the world. Those who would counter such pessimism and despondency with a message of optimism and hope are counted and dismissed as “starry-eyed dreamers” who have their heads in the clouds. Meanwhile while the rest of us, who feel so overwhelmed and helpless as the magnitude and enormity of the various crises before us, go on imagining the tide to be no tide at all, firmly burying our heads in the sand. For most, the obstacle is too great, too large, too immovable. Who will roll away the stone for us? Who, indeed.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, those same women, who had felt defeated by the stone they knew they could not move, arrived at the tomb, gazed upon it and saw to their surprise that great stone had been rolled away.
Early in the morning on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, the great tide of anguish and pain is turned back and again put away. Not realizing what they were about to hear, not realizing the what they were about to see, they approached the tomb with renewed purpose for what had previously blocked their way was removed. They could do what they came to do. They could anoint his body. Perhaps they breathed a sigh of relief, but then another obstacle – his body was not there. Instead, a young man in a dazzling robe, by tradition an angel or holy messenger, told them not to be alarmed for Jesus has been raised from the dead.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen a new reality was proclaimed that forever changed the world. What would expect these women might have felt in that moment? Where hopelessness had held them captive, hope now set them free. Where the tide of tears threatened to drown them, the joy of the sun now warmed their hearts. Weeping may linger in the night, but joy comes in the morning. What cause for rejoicing this would have been … except … Mark tells us that they were gripped with fear. And so the gospel ends. Unlike the other accounts in Matthew, Luke and John, the Gospel of Mark ends not with appearance of the Risen Jesus conversing with his disciples, but with the news of his resurrection and three frightened women who have been given a task to go and spread the good news, yet, in their fear, they cannot. Why is it so?
I wonder if we are a people who have learned to be comfortable with crisis. Do we glory in the crisis we cannot stop or the oncoming catastrophe we cannot change? Do we in some strange and self-destructive way create crises that will spin beyond our control? Will we happily make half-hearted efforts to find solutions only to self-righteously defend our apparent heroic failures to proclaim, “well at least we went down trying?” I suppose that the reality we share with the women at the tomb is the reality that grace can be a frightening thing to receive. It may simply be easier to live with the turmoil of what we know than to risk faith in an empty tomb and an unseen hand that has rolled away the stone. Consider whatever stone stands in your way this Easter morning. If it were suddenly rolled away, would you know what to do, how to be, or how to feel? Surely, these women did not, even with such a great gift before them. This is the story of the women at the tomb. But it is not the entire story.
Why does Mark end his gospel here? I believe it is because that the story is made complete in our response to its stark ending. As the story draws to an abrupt close something wells up within us. We long to call to the women at the tomb, “Don’t you realize what has happened? Don’t you understand what this means? Don’t you get it? Death has been destroyed! Jesus is alive!” We call to them, from our vantage point of knowing the Risen Jesus, of hearing and believing the rest of the story which has here been left untold. From our own experience of having stones rolled away. We call, but they answer not.
Then, and only then, we begin to realize that we are calling not to them, but to ourselves in our dark and hopeless moments. We are calling to ourselves in words of encouragement, and words of faith in the Risen Christ. I would suggest that this is the way Mark wanted it, for the faith of the women in the story is not nearly as important as the faith that you and I, the readers of this gospel, share. Mark intended that his story of Jesus would elicit in us the same response that was offered by the centurion at the foot of the Cross, who upon the death of Jesus proclaimed, “Surely, this man was the Son of God.” Apparently it worked because future generations, confused at the abrupt ending and the actions of the women, shouted across the ages the same words of bewilderment and confusion at their lack of faith, and then from their own experience of the Risen Christ began to pen numerous faithful additional endings to the gospel to tell the rest of the story – a story they deeply believed, but eluded the women at the tomb, that Jesus was risen from the dead, a story to be shared with a hurting world. Apparently it worked because we are gathered here this joyous day proclaiming that the Lord is risen indeed, filling our hearts with hope and joy! Alleluia!
What the women at the tomb were to eventually learn, what the early church knew, and what I believe each of us knows deep within our hearts is the reality that God is ever and always rolling stones away that we cannot move alone. God rolls away stones that stand in the way of repairing the broken relationships of our lives. God rolls away stones that keep warring peoples from laying down their arms. God rolls away stones that keep us from caring for the poor amongst us. And how is it possible that these stones shall be removed? It is because God rolls away the most impenetrable, heaviest stones of all, the ones that surround our hardened hearts. With such stones removed, and with our hearts softened, arms are laid down, the earth is renewed, the hungry are filled with good things, and our own broken lives are mended.
Try as we might we cannot move such stones under our own power, but the one who turned the grave into a bed of hope, the one who rolled the stone away from a tomb so that life might burst forth triumphing over death, He is the one that shall roll the stones of our lives. And as he rolls away the stone for us, we realize that we are not gazing into a tomb, but rather gazing out from one – a tomb that has kept us captive in our fear and hopelessness. As that stone is rolled away, we like Lazarus, are called forth to join with our Lord in his work of rolling away the stones of a hurting world. We join in this holy task, in which tears of the world are turned to joy, not because we, ourselves, are able, but because in his triumph over the grave, he has made it possible.
Early in the morning, on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, the women were wondering “who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb for us?”
Text Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A New Commandment: Love One Another - a homily for Maundy Thursday
Homily for Maundy Thursday, Year B, 2009
(using Year A texts)
Thursday, April 9th, 2009, 7:30 p.m.
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 13:1-17,31b-35
You do not know what I am doing, but later you will understand.
--John 13:7
A new commandment, a new mandate, mandatum novum, from which we get the term “maundy”: Love one another as I have loved you. As he knelt before them and washed their feet, they received a glimpse of the kind of offering he was making, for within a short time the one who washed their feet would have his arms stretch wide on the cross in such an embrace as to embrace the whole world. As he knelt before them that evening, and later, as he hung on a cross, Our Lord, unfolded before his disciples and before the world the nature of his kingship and the glory of his kingdom – a kingdom in which glory is not manifest in acts of power but in servant-hood and self-offering. Yet, even as Jesus explained it to them, it is unlikely that they fully understood it. They hoped to see his glory, but did they know what to look for?
Consider the opening verses of John, “The Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us… and we beheld his glory.” Perhaps, for those of us who read the gospel at a distance of two millennia, and with a view of the entire gospel portrait, it is easier for us to behold his glory in his gracious self-offering. But did the early disciples recognize his glory as he was in their midst? He came to his own and his own knew him not. The kind of glory that he exhibited at once confused and confounded them. Do we count the kneeling of a master at the feet of his followers as an act of glory? And can we count a king nailed to a cross as a sign of glory? And yet, in this gospel of St. John, a gospel that above all others speaks of the glorified Christ, we meet the Christ in his deepest humility and is this encounter with the God who humbles himself at the feet of his own followers, and ultimately humbles himself to death, even death on a cross, that we behold his glory. It is in the condescension of the Word who was with God from the beginning that we behold his glory. If Luke locates Jesus’ lowliness in his birth a stable, and if Mark locates his lowliness in his identity as the son of a carpenter who is derided by his hometown family and friends, then John locates his lowliness in his act of self-abrogation, kneeling before his disciples, as he becomes the servant of his servants.
It then behooves us to remember whose servants we are. We serve the king who served others. Each Maundy Thursday is a time in which we clergy are to recall that we are called not to be served but to serve, and then by extension a reminder is offered to all the faithful, that as it has been done unto them so, too, they should do unto others. The tradition of this day is that the clergy would wash the feet of the congregation. Indeed this tradition was carried into the Reformation and early Anglicanism when Queen Elizabeth I, herself, would wash and kiss the feet of her subjects. The intimacy of foot washing, which was rooted in the ancient tradition of a servant washing the dirty sandaled feet of a traveler welcomed into a home has begun to give way in many places to a modern equivalent, the washing of each others’ hands. In a world in which we are afraid to touch and even shake hands, in a world frightened by SARS and C-Dif, and so many other frightening conditions that are passed by close contact, close proximity, and touch, the hands take on the symbolism held by feet in antiquity. Hands are in constant need of cleansing in the way that feet were in ancient times. It is an act of service, and indeed personal risk to touch and wash the hands of another. I believe it is what our Lord would do if he were amongst us this day.
We as clergy take up this task to remind ourselves whose servant we are. Our liturgy also reminds each of us, as baptized Christians, that we share in this sacred ministry of servant-hood. Ambrose of Milan, a late fourth century bishop, describes the baptismal liturgy in his church, in which after baptism each new disciple participates in a foot-washing ceremony done by the bishop, seemingly suggesting that the most senior minister of the church demonstrates that in our baptism we take up a servant-hood ministry. Consider also what we learn from another church father, Aphrahat, a great East Syrian Church Father of the 4th century (virtually unknown to us in the West), who writes “Our redeemer washed the feet of his disciples on the night of the paschal sacrifice, (which is), the mystery of baptism. You should know, my beloved, it was on this night that our redeemer gave the true baptism.”(Demonstration XII.10).
This is the glory of God, the glory into which we are baptized, to serve not because it attains for us the kingdom, but because in the kingdom we can do no other. It is in the very nature of God to serve and care and offer himself for the sake of his creation. Thus, it is in the very nature of his kingdom that we should live out our Christian lives as a servant-people, caring and offering ourselves for others. If, therefore humanity is glorified in Christ crucified, to be in Christ, to partake of his nature, is to serve not because it is the right thing to do but because we can do no other.
The forces of the world will tell us that there are all kinds of things that we are made for such as the accumulation of wealth and power. There will be others that try to convince us that it is impossible for human beings to escape the foibles that make us oh so sinful. We have impulses toward unfair and unhealthy competition with our brothers and sisters, impulses that lead us to take up arms, impulses to hurt others to save ourselves, impulses to place ourselves above all others. There are those that would have us believe, pessimistically or even nihilistically, that these impulses can never be curbed within humanity. This is true of our old nature. But under the banner of the servant-king, the glorified Christ, we can claim a new commandment, a new mandate, a new Maundy, one into which we are growing day by day in our life in Christ. Love one another as I have loved you. It is the way that is made open to us through the self-offering of our Lord, it is the way of love. It is what we are made for, designed for, built for. It is who we are destined to be in our glorified humanity, the humanity that is offered to us in the incarnation of God in Our Lord Jesus Christ.
In that moment when Jesus wrapped a towel around himself and gently took Peter’s feet within his hands and washed away the grime of the world, Peter could not understand the glory of God being revealed to him. But when his time would come be called to lead the sheep, he we would come to understand. When his time came that he would be led to his own cross he would understand. And as we take each other’s hands and gently pour water, wash and dry, and serve each other, we behold His Glory, the Glory of the Lord, not in demonstrations of power and force but in an act of loving and gentle humility.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
(using Year A texts)
Thursday, April 9th, 2009, 7:30 p.m.
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 13:1-17,31b-35
You do not know what I am doing, but later you will understand.
--John 13:7
A new commandment, a new mandate, mandatum novum, from which we get the term “maundy”: Love one another as I have loved you. As he knelt before them and washed their feet, they received a glimpse of the kind of offering he was making, for within a short time the one who washed their feet would have his arms stretch wide on the cross in such an embrace as to embrace the whole world. As he knelt before them that evening, and later, as he hung on a cross, Our Lord, unfolded before his disciples and before the world the nature of his kingship and the glory of his kingdom – a kingdom in which glory is not manifest in acts of power but in servant-hood and self-offering. Yet, even as Jesus explained it to them, it is unlikely that they fully understood it. They hoped to see his glory, but did they know what to look for?
Consider the opening verses of John, “The Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us… and we beheld his glory.” Perhaps, for those of us who read the gospel at a distance of two millennia, and with a view of the entire gospel portrait, it is easier for us to behold his glory in his gracious self-offering. But did the early disciples recognize his glory as he was in their midst? He came to his own and his own knew him not. The kind of glory that he exhibited at once confused and confounded them. Do we count the kneeling of a master at the feet of his followers as an act of glory? And can we count a king nailed to a cross as a sign of glory? And yet, in this gospel of St. John, a gospel that above all others speaks of the glorified Christ, we meet the Christ in his deepest humility and is this encounter with the God who humbles himself at the feet of his own followers, and ultimately humbles himself to death, even death on a cross, that we behold his glory. It is in the condescension of the Word who was with God from the beginning that we behold his glory. If Luke locates Jesus’ lowliness in his birth a stable, and if Mark locates his lowliness in his identity as the son of a carpenter who is derided by his hometown family and friends, then John locates his lowliness in his act of self-abrogation, kneeling before his disciples, as he becomes the servant of his servants.
It then behooves us to remember whose servants we are. We serve the king who served others. Each Maundy Thursday is a time in which we clergy are to recall that we are called not to be served but to serve, and then by extension a reminder is offered to all the faithful, that as it has been done unto them so, too, they should do unto others. The tradition of this day is that the clergy would wash the feet of the congregation. Indeed this tradition was carried into the Reformation and early Anglicanism when Queen Elizabeth I, herself, would wash and kiss the feet of her subjects. The intimacy of foot washing, which was rooted in the ancient tradition of a servant washing the dirty sandaled feet of a traveler welcomed into a home has begun to give way in many places to a modern equivalent, the washing of each others’ hands. In a world in which we are afraid to touch and even shake hands, in a world frightened by SARS and C-Dif, and so many other frightening conditions that are passed by close contact, close proximity, and touch, the hands take on the symbolism held by feet in antiquity. Hands are in constant need of cleansing in the way that feet were in ancient times. It is an act of service, and indeed personal risk to touch and wash the hands of another. I believe it is what our Lord would do if he were amongst us this day.
We as clergy take up this task to remind ourselves whose servant we are. Our liturgy also reminds each of us, as baptized Christians, that we share in this sacred ministry of servant-hood. Ambrose of Milan, a late fourth century bishop, describes the baptismal liturgy in his church, in which after baptism each new disciple participates in a foot-washing ceremony done by the bishop, seemingly suggesting that the most senior minister of the church demonstrates that in our baptism we take up a servant-hood ministry. Consider also what we learn from another church father, Aphrahat, a great East Syrian Church Father of the 4th century (virtually unknown to us in the West), who writes “Our redeemer washed the feet of his disciples on the night of the paschal sacrifice, (which is), the mystery of baptism. You should know, my beloved, it was on this night that our redeemer gave the true baptism.”(Demonstration XII.10).
This is the glory of God, the glory into which we are baptized, to serve not because it attains for us the kingdom, but because in the kingdom we can do no other. It is in the very nature of God to serve and care and offer himself for the sake of his creation. Thus, it is in the very nature of his kingdom that we should live out our Christian lives as a servant-people, caring and offering ourselves for others. If, therefore humanity is glorified in Christ crucified, to be in Christ, to partake of his nature, is to serve not because it is the right thing to do but because we can do no other.
The forces of the world will tell us that there are all kinds of things that we are made for such as the accumulation of wealth and power. There will be others that try to convince us that it is impossible for human beings to escape the foibles that make us oh so sinful. We have impulses toward unfair and unhealthy competition with our brothers and sisters, impulses that lead us to take up arms, impulses to hurt others to save ourselves, impulses to place ourselves above all others. There are those that would have us believe, pessimistically or even nihilistically, that these impulses can never be curbed within humanity. This is true of our old nature. But under the banner of the servant-king, the glorified Christ, we can claim a new commandment, a new mandate, a new Maundy, one into which we are growing day by day in our life in Christ. Love one another as I have loved you. It is the way that is made open to us through the self-offering of our Lord, it is the way of love. It is what we are made for, designed for, built for. It is who we are destined to be in our glorified humanity, the humanity that is offered to us in the incarnation of God in Our Lord Jesus Christ.
In that moment when Jesus wrapped a towel around himself and gently took Peter’s feet within his hands and washed away the grime of the world, Peter could not understand the glory of God being revealed to him. But when his time would come be called to lead the sheep, he we would come to understand. When his time came that he would be led to his own cross he would understand. And as we take each other’s hands and gently pour water, wash and dry, and serve each other, we behold His Glory, the Glory of the Lord, not in demonstrations of power and force but in an act of loving and gentle humility.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Fools for Christ -- A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent
Homily for Lent 3, Year B, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Cor. 1:18-25
The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to those who are being saved it is the power of God.
--1 Corinthians 1:18
The kingdom of God is a world turned on its head, or at least so it seems to those who have not experienced the power of the cross. It is a kingdom that is ushered in through the weakness and humility of a Servant King. It is a kingdom that comes when a child is born in low estate, in a lowly stable rather than a majestic palace. It is a kingdom that comes when its king arrives embarrassingly on a donkey rather than a glorious stallion. It comes when its king is condemned before his peers by the kings of the world, rather than acclaimed by them. It comes when he takes his throne upon a cross rather than in the halls of power. It comes when his tomb is empty rather than inhabited by a rotting corpse. What sort of kingdom is this kingdom and what manner of king is this, whose power is manifest again and again not in shows of force but acts of humility?
For see, the wisdom of this age and any age is this: that power is manifest by the sword, the rifle or the bomb; that power is manifest when wealth is flaunted; that power is manifest when the strength of one man instills fear in the heart of another; that the values of equality, peace, and brother and sisterhood are best imposed rather than lived out in acts of gentleness and humility. This is the wisdom of this age, and of any age. But it is not the message of the cross. And to this end, the message of the cross is pure and utter folly.
It is folly because if I work hard enough I can be more successful than my fellow humans. If I can make more money, I can live more securely, more fully, more happily. If we are strong enough and we have big enough guns, we can send enough armies into far away lands we can make successful, prosperous, western friendly democracies in which our values are celebrated. If we push our children hard enough they can be smarter, better, more wealthy than their parents. And if I hoard enough wealth, go on all the right diets, exercise religiously, dress like I’m still twenty-five years old and call myself a “zoomer” instead of a “boomer,” I shall never die.
This is the wisdom of this age. But it shall not save us.
When the stock markets plunge what happens to our happiness, security, and strength? When this body starts to fail and no amount of homeopathy, medicine, chemotherapy, or surgery can stop its decline, where is our power, our self-assurance, and strength? And when young men and women come home from distant lands in body bags because our pride and arrogance has led us to places that will not embrace the superiority of western culture, what good do all the guns and bombs do? Where is our strength? And yet, the wise people of our age tell us to “stay the course.” Is this wisdom, or madness and folly?
It seems that the wisdom of this age is a wisdom based in the belief that if we are strong enough, we can ignore reality, put away our angst, and live as if loss and death shall never overtake us. Is this wisdom, or are we merely fooling ourselves?
There are many ways in which we experience both loss and death, and indeed, what is death, itself, if not the supreme sense of loss. Do we not experience a sort of death when we suffer financial loss and dreams of financial freedom die? Do we not experience death when our politicians who ran on platforms of hope inevitably let us down and fast-peddled political hope seems to die? Do we not experience a sort of death when relationships breakdown and when friends and family betray us? And then there is the reality of death that we face when we stand at the bed-side of one who is dying or before the casket of that loved one, or ultimately, on the precipice of our own death? Where then is the wisdom and power of this age?
When we stand to lose all, all in which we have invested our trust, our faith, our hope, where then do we stand? With whom do we stand? Where then are the debaters of this age? Where then is the wisdom of this world? Suddenly, what once seemed foolish to us begins to make sense. When we stand face to face with death of any sort, we suddenly realize that it is not the grasping at power or wealth or self-help techniques that will deliver us but complete and utter abandonment to our brokenness, and in that very moment arms stretched wide on the cross close round us, embrace us, and show us a better way. At the foot of that cross, before the crucified God we face our own demise and realize that it is not demise at all, because in that great act of love the grave has become a bed of hope. Because death no longer has dominion over him, it no longer has dominion over us. I can face the pain of today and the uncertainty of tomorrow because my trust is not founded on the wisdom of this age, but on Christ crucified and raised from the dead.
Debaters and philosophers and experts of all sorts, from this age or any other, can do their best to try to convince me that the accumulation of wealth, guns, elixirs of youth, and political power of all sorts will bring us to a better humanity. I shall never believe it, for I follow the one who, through the power of the cross, reclaims and transforms a broken people. I believe in and follow a Lord who is the Lord of lost causes, of broken hearts, of broken bodies and broken spirits. If this is foolishness, then can me a fool, for Christ’s sake.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Cor. 1:18-25
The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to those who are being saved it is the power of God.
--1 Corinthians 1:18
The kingdom of God is a world turned on its head, or at least so it seems to those who have not experienced the power of the cross. It is a kingdom that is ushered in through the weakness and humility of a Servant King. It is a kingdom that comes when a child is born in low estate, in a lowly stable rather than a majestic palace. It is a kingdom that comes when its king arrives embarrassingly on a donkey rather than a glorious stallion. It comes when its king is condemned before his peers by the kings of the world, rather than acclaimed by them. It comes when he takes his throne upon a cross rather than in the halls of power. It comes when his tomb is empty rather than inhabited by a rotting corpse. What sort of kingdom is this kingdom and what manner of king is this, whose power is manifest again and again not in shows of force but acts of humility?
For see, the wisdom of this age and any age is this: that power is manifest by the sword, the rifle or the bomb; that power is manifest when wealth is flaunted; that power is manifest when the strength of one man instills fear in the heart of another; that the values of equality, peace, and brother and sisterhood are best imposed rather than lived out in acts of gentleness and humility. This is the wisdom of this age, and of any age. But it is not the message of the cross. And to this end, the message of the cross is pure and utter folly.
It is folly because if I work hard enough I can be more successful than my fellow humans. If I can make more money, I can live more securely, more fully, more happily. If we are strong enough and we have big enough guns, we can send enough armies into far away lands we can make successful, prosperous, western friendly democracies in which our values are celebrated. If we push our children hard enough they can be smarter, better, more wealthy than their parents. And if I hoard enough wealth, go on all the right diets, exercise religiously, dress like I’m still twenty-five years old and call myself a “zoomer” instead of a “boomer,” I shall never die.
This is the wisdom of this age. But it shall not save us.
When the stock markets plunge what happens to our happiness, security, and strength? When this body starts to fail and no amount of homeopathy, medicine, chemotherapy, or surgery can stop its decline, where is our power, our self-assurance, and strength? And when young men and women come home from distant lands in body bags because our pride and arrogance has led us to places that will not embrace the superiority of western culture, what good do all the guns and bombs do? Where is our strength? And yet, the wise people of our age tell us to “stay the course.” Is this wisdom, or madness and folly?
It seems that the wisdom of this age is a wisdom based in the belief that if we are strong enough, we can ignore reality, put away our angst, and live as if loss and death shall never overtake us. Is this wisdom, or are we merely fooling ourselves?
There are many ways in which we experience both loss and death, and indeed, what is death, itself, if not the supreme sense of loss. Do we not experience a sort of death when we suffer financial loss and dreams of financial freedom die? Do we not experience death when our politicians who ran on platforms of hope inevitably let us down and fast-peddled political hope seems to die? Do we not experience a sort of death when relationships breakdown and when friends and family betray us? And then there is the reality of death that we face when we stand at the bed-side of one who is dying or before the casket of that loved one, or ultimately, on the precipice of our own death? Where then is the wisdom and power of this age?
When we stand to lose all, all in which we have invested our trust, our faith, our hope, where then do we stand? With whom do we stand? Where then are the debaters of this age? Where then is the wisdom of this world? Suddenly, what once seemed foolish to us begins to make sense. When we stand face to face with death of any sort, we suddenly realize that it is not the grasping at power or wealth or self-help techniques that will deliver us but complete and utter abandonment to our brokenness, and in that very moment arms stretched wide on the cross close round us, embrace us, and show us a better way. At the foot of that cross, before the crucified God we face our own demise and realize that it is not demise at all, because in that great act of love the grave has become a bed of hope. Because death no longer has dominion over him, it no longer has dominion over us. I can face the pain of today and the uncertainty of tomorrow because my trust is not founded on the wisdom of this age, but on Christ crucified and raised from the dead.
Debaters and philosophers and experts of all sorts, from this age or any other, can do their best to try to convince me that the accumulation of wealth, guns, elixirs of youth, and political power of all sorts will bring us to a better humanity. I shall never believe it, for I follow the one who, through the power of the cross, reclaims and transforms a broken people. I believe in and follow a Lord who is the Lord of lost causes, of broken hearts, of broken bodies and broken spirits. If this is foolishness, then can me a fool, for Christ’s sake.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Time is Fulfilled, Repent and Believe
Homily for Lent 1, Year B, 2009
Sunday, March 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:9-15
“The time is fulfilled, the Kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe in the Good News.”
-- Mark 1:15
If we were late first century Christians, perhaps living in the city of Antioch, and we had no knowledge of any other gospels (for indeed the other gospels may not have yet come into being), and if we were sitting in a community of people listening to a reader performing the words of the Gospel According to Mark, these would be the first words we hear from Jesus.
Following the opening narrative about John the Baptist, the author propels us into the ministry of Jesus beginning with his baptism by John, his temptation in the wilderness, and then with his first brief, one-line sermon. If we are to hear the text as it was originally written, we need to expunge from our minds all the details subsequently added by Matthew and Luke, and the variations we find in John. In those other gospels, we have a long unfolding of the opening of Jesus’ ministry, we have virgin births, flights into Egypt, shepherds, wise men, a child Jesus teaching in the Temple; we have secondary players of Joseph, Mary, Zechariah and Anna, Elizabeth, Herod the Great; we have angels and visions. When we come to the baptism we have details added about John arguing with Jesus about his fitness to baptize one who is greater. When we come to the temptation in the wilderness we hear about a detailed struggle with Satan in which various temptations and Jesus’ response to them are enumerated in detail. Finally, when we come to Jesus’ early preaching, these few terse words from Mark are expanded in Luke to a dramatic reading and exegesis of Isaiah in Luke, to a lengthy sermon on the mount in Matthew.
None of this is to suggest that these things did not happen. However, if we are to hear the impact of Mark’s introduction of Jesus of Nazareth we must, for a moment, lay aside these details from the other gospels and consider Mark’s words alone. Having recognized what we must lay aside, let us hear again the sparse narrative provided by Mark, listening as if for the first time.
In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’
And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.
Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.’
Three stories told in shotgun order, baptism, the temptation, first preaching. Three stories that are told elaborately in the other gospels, but in minimalist fashion in this gospel. The words are chosen carefully. What do we learn from them?
In the very short episode of his baptism, we learn that Jesus is God’s anointed, God’s beloved Son, in whom God is well pleased. The first time we encounter Jesus in St. Mark’s gospel, we learn that his life and mission are from God. We learn that as God’s son he comes with the authority of God.
In the very short episode of the Temptation in the Wilderness, free from any explanation of the specifics of the temptations he faced, we learn that it was the Spirit of God that in fact placed him there, much like the Spirit of God directed the prophets of old. And why was he sent into the desert? It was to face forty days of temptation by Satan, over which he is victorious, for he was not devoured by the wild beasts and indeed was cared for by the angels of heaven. What do we learn? That the powers of evil have no power over the one sent by God.
In the very short one-line sermon of Jesus, following the arrest of John the Baptist, we learn that Jesus has a very simple message. The kingdom of God has come near, is “at hand.” It is not a far-off future scenario. It is not coming with the fanfare that one might expect. The time of waiting is over. The kingdom is upon us. And what are we to take from that? It is time to get on board.
In what way is the kingdom of God at hand? If we are to take anything away from this simple, rapid narrative of Jesus’ first appearance it is that in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, God has chosen to walk with us, God defeats the powers of sin and death, and that in the very presence of Jesus, the his kingdom is at hand.
It may be difficult for us to believe that the kingdom is very near or even at hand. If it were so, would this not be a perfect world? Would things like crime and war not be abolished? Would emotions like sadness and anger not be permanently replaced by joy and contentment? Would psychological states like depression not give way to perfect mental health? Would broken bodies not be bound up and death itself come to an end?
Our view of the kingdom breaking through is that of a perfect world, but it is not a perfect world, and yet, with Jesus amongst us, it is something more than what it seems.
In what way is it something more? To understand this we must cast our eyes toward the end of the narrative, the end of Mark’s gospel, which ends not with a resurrection narrative (although some later editors of St. Mark panicked and added Resurrection stories) but with a word that death had not defeated Jesus of Nazareth, that all that was told throughout the gospel was indeed true, that in this man we have encountered the living God. Standing before an empty tomb we come to learn that an instrument of death, the cross, has become for us the tool through which life is offered. Standing before an empty tomb, we recognize that the sepulcher is not a grave, but a bed of hope for all people. Standing before an empty tomb, we now believe his words, that the kingdom of God is at hand, not tomorrow, not years from now, but truly at hand, today.
God’s moment is now, the time for waiting is over. Thus, if we are waiting for the right moment to deepen our faith, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to open our Bibles and begin a regular course of reading Holy Scripture, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to begin a course of daily prayer, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to be reconciled with our neighbour, it is now. This is the message of Jesus’ opening proclamation, and indeed it is the message that permeates through Mark’s gospel. It is time to turn again, because the kingdom is not far off, but very near, indeed at hand.
To repent, simply means “to turn.” The word need not have any deeper or foreboding meaning than this. It is the word we use in our baptismal vows. Each of us will know deep within us what type turning we need to do this day, in this season of Lent. Each of us will know that there will be certain things from which we need to walk away. Each of us will know that there are certain things that we need to embrace and affirm. When we probe the depths of our beings we cannot fool ourselves. There are some things that are wrong for us, and there are some things that are right for us. And now is the time to say “no” to what draws us from our loving creator and to say “yes” to the things that help us to discover who we truly are in the eyes of God.
This is possible because the kingdom of God is not far off. This is possible because in Christ, in Jesus of Nazareth, we learn that we are the beloved of God. As we have entered into the waters of baptism with Christ, those words uttered to him become words uttered to us, behold my beloved. And as the spirit hovered over him, so the spirit hovers in our hearts. And as he was tested in the wilderness and overcame temptation, so too we are tested but we shall not be overcome with woe for we are not alone in the desert. For as he overcame temptation, so too shall we overcome everything that seeks to destroy us because his victory over the powers of sin and death is our victory over those same powers. And as he proclaimed the kingdom of God has come near, we live into that reality, that it is very near indeed, in fact, at hand.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, March 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:9-15
“The time is fulfilled, the Kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe in the Good News.”
-- Mark 1:15
If we were late first century Christians, perhaps living in the city of Antioch, and we had no knowledge of any other gospels (for indeed the other gospels may not have yet come into being), and if we were sitting in a community of people listening to a reader performing the words of the Gospel According to Mark, these would be the first words we hear from Jesus.
Following the opening narrative about John the Baptist, the author propels us into the ministry of Jesus beginning with his baptism by John, his temptation in the wilderness, and then with his first brief, one-line sermon. If we are to hear the text as it was originally written, we need to expunge from our minds all the details subsequently added by Matthew and Luke, and the variations we find in John. In those other gospels, we have a long unfolding of the opening of Jesus’ ministry, we have virgin births, flights into Egypt, shepherds, wise men, a child Jesus teaching in the Temple; we have secondary players of Joseph, Mary, Zechariah and Anna, Elizabeth, Herod the Great; we have angels and visions. When we come to the baptism we have details added about John arguing with Jesus about his fitness to baptize one who is greater. When we come to the temptation in the wilderness we hear about a detailed struggle with Satan in which various temptations and Jesus’ response to them are enumerated in detail. Finally, when we come to Jesus’ early preaching, these few terse words from Mark are expanded in Luke to a dramatic reading and exegesis of Isaiah in Luke, to a lengthy sermon on the mount in Matthew.
None of this is to suggest that these things did not happen. However, if we are to hear the impact of Mark’s introduction of Jesus of Nazareth we must, for a moment, lay aside these details from the other gospels and consider Mark’s words alone. Having recognized what we must lay aside, let us hear again the sparse narrative provided by Mark, listening as if for the first time.
In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’
And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.
Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.’
Three stories told in shotgun order, baptism, the temptation, first preaching. Three stories that are told elaborately in the other gospels, but in minimalist fashion in this gospel. The words are chosen carefully. What do we learn from them?
In the very short episode of his baptism, we learn that Jesus is God’s anointed, God’s beloved Son, in whom God is well pleased. The first time we encounter Jesus in St. Mark’s gospel, we learn that his life and mission are from God. We learn that as God’s son he comes with the authority of God.
In the very short episode of the Temptation in the Wilderness, free from any explanation of the specifics of the temptations he faced, we learn that it was the Spirit of God that in fact placed him there, much like the Spirit of God directed the prophets of old. And why was he sent into the desert? It was to face forty days of temptation by Satan, over which he is victorious, for he was not devoured by the wild beasts and indeed was cared for by the angels of heaven. What do we learn? That the powers of evil have no power over the one sent by God.
In the very short one-line sermon of Jesus, following the arrest of John the Baptist, we learn that Jesus has a very simple message. The kingdom of God has come near, is “at hand.” It is not a far-off future scenario. It is not coming with the fanfare that one might expect. The time of waiting is over. The kingdom is upon us. And what are we to take from that? It is time to get on board.
In what way is the kingdom of God at hand? If we are to take anything away from this simple, rapid narrative of Jesus’ first appearance it is that in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, God has chosen to walk with us, God defeats the powers of sin and death, and that in the very presence of Jesus, the his kingdom is at hand.
It may be difficult for us to believe that the kingdom is very near or even at hand. If it were so, would this not be a perfect world? Would things like crime and war not be abolished? Would emotions like sadness and anger not be permanently replaced by joy and contentment? Would psychological states like depression not give way to perfect mental health? Would broken bodies not be bound up and death itself come to an end?
Our view of the kingdom breaking through is that of a perfect world, but it is not a perfect world, and yet, with Jesus amongst us, it is something more than what it seems.
In what way is it something more? To understand this we must cast our eyes toward the end of the narrative, the end of Mark’s gospel, which ends not with a resurrection narrative (although some later editors of St. Mark panicked and added Resurrection stories) but with a word that death had not defeated Jesus of Nazareth, that all that was told throughout the gospel was indeed true, that in this man we have encountered the living God. Standing before an empty tomb we come to learn that an instrument of death, the cross, has become for us the tool through which life is offered. Standing before an empty tomb, we recognize that the sepulcher is not a grave, but a bed of hope for all people. Standing before an empty tomb, we now believe his words, that the kingdom of God is at hand, not tomorrow, not years from now, but truly at hand, today.
God’s moment is now, the time for waiting is over. Thus, if we are waiting for the right moment to deepen our faith, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to open our Bibles and begin a regular course of reading Holy Scripture, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to begin a course of daily prayer, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to be reconciled with our neighbour, it is now. This is the message of Jesus’ opening proclamation, and indeed it is the message that permeates through Mark’s gospel. It is time to turn again, because the kingdom is not far off, but very near, indeed at hand.
To repent, simply means “to turn.” The word need not have any deeper or foreboding meaning than this. It is the word we use in our baptismal vows. Each of us will know deep within us what type turning we need to do this day, in this season of Lent. Each of us will know that there will be certain things from which we need to walk away. Each of us will know that there are certain things that we need to embrace and affirm. When we probe the depths of our beings we cannot fool ourselves. There are some things that are wrong for us, and there are some things that are right for us. And now is the time to say “no” to what draws us from our loving creator and to say “yes” to the things that help us to discover who we truly are in the eyes of God.
This is possible because the kingdom of God is not far off. This is possible because in Christ, in Jesus of Nazareth, we learn that we are the beloved of God. As we have entered into the waters of baptism with Christ, those words uttered to him become words uttered to us, behold my beloved. And as the spirit hovered over him, so the spirit hovers in our hearts. And as he was tested in the wilderness and overcame temptation, so too we are tested but we shall not be overcome with woe for we are not alone in the desert. For as he overcame temptation, so too shall we overcome everything that seeks to destroy us because his victory over the powers of sin and death is our victory over those same powers. And as he proclaimed the kingdom of God has come near, we live into that reality, that it is very near indeed, in fact, at hand.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
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