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 31, 2009
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
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Jesus was moved by pity... or was that anger?
Homily for Proper 6, Year B, 2009
Sunday, February 15th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:40-45
Jesus was moved with pity… or was that anger?
There is a little problem in the text of today’s Gospel reading. It is the sort of problem that we tend to gloss over from week-to-week in many of our readings from Scripture. It may be assumed by many that there is, out there somewhere, a pristine copy of the “original” New Testament. This is, of course, not so. As many of us know, our canon of Scripture came about as communities used various books of the Bible until very gradually a particular set of books became the accepted norm. What may be less well-known is that each book of the Bible was copied and re-copied with corrections made, words crossed out, and words added to make greater sense of an ambiguous passage. To make matters even more interesting, differing communities in the Early Church had versions of particular books of the Bible that contained significant differences. In fact, there is one surviving family of texts of the Book of Acts that is reckoned to be about thirty percent longer than the canonical version. In the days before printing presses, monastic scribes and copyists would laboriously copy the texts of the books of both the Old and New Testament, and yes, mistakes would be made, and conversely, mistake would be caught. As a result, today we are left with thousands of such corrections and textual problems bequeathed to us by these holy and well-intentioned individuals. There is one such problem in today’s text.
(As an aside: This is not strictly an ancient problem. A few weeks ago, I noticed a printing error in our lectionary Bible with respect to Mark 1:21. The text in the NRSV reads, “he entered the synagogue and taught.” Lectionary Bibles, because they pick up the story in mid-stream, often eliminate the pronoun and provide the proper noun for the sake of clarity. Thus, a well-meaning modern editor incorrectly replaced “he” with the proper noun “John.” However, the story is not about John going into the synagogue and teaching, but about Jesus going into the synagogue and teaching. Fortunately, a previous cleric or lay reader caught this error and scratched out “John” and replaced it with “Jesus.” Imagine the difference the name makes. This is a modern example of what was happening all the time in the hand-copying of ancient texts.)
In today’s text from Mark (1:40ff), we have just such a problem. There are two possible readings of what motivates Jesus. In our story, a man with a skin disease approaches Jesus, falls down before him and says “If you choose you can make me clean.” The text goes on to say, “Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now here is our problem. One significant family of texts reads, “Moved with anger, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now which text is correct – “pity” or “anger”?
These decisions are usually made by a group of international scholars who sift through all the various manuscripts and variant readings and using their collective wisdom, try and sort out which reading is the most probable. The thing to remember is that the choice made by these gurus is a matter of interpretation. I won’t go into the particulars of their decision on this story, rather I simply draw it to your attention as a reminder that each week, we gloss over a myriad of possibilities and a variety of textual variants that could make all the difference to certain texts. Some are obvious blunders on the part of copyists, but others like today’s text remain open to discussion and dispute.
So, why do I draw your attention to this particular textual variant today? I do so because Jesus “moved by pity” or “moved by anger” is a pretty significant variant. We normally think about this text in a certain way. Perhaps we should consider what our Jesus might look like if we spent some time with the variant reading.
First, let us consider the problem of the man with the skin disease. He had what has traditionally been called leprosy. The Old Testament laws considered such a person permanently unclean. They were to be cast out of the camp, and should they come near others they were to shout “unclean, unclean!” Impurity was not a moral judgment on an individual. Impurity was normally a short-term state of ritual uncleanness that simply excluded a person from certain cultic or liturgical activities. After a certain period of time, and after certain ritual acts, a person was declared pure and could once again participate in these community moments. It was not a negative judgment, simply a reality. We may look back on such things as primitive or even with some sense of disdain. However, it should be remembered that certain purity laws may have been a way of keeping public health in check. Furthermore, a period of ritual impurity in which a man could not touch a woman certainly provided women a safe time free of the aggressive sexual advances of men. These laws were considered good things.
The problem with impurity emerges when an impurity becomes interminable. Take for example the story of the woman who had a flow of menstrual blood for twelve years. And this is true also of those with such diseases as the man encountered in today’s text. A law that was meant to order society, and possibly even protect the vulnerable became a tool to exclude. Those who could never again be pure were cast out and excluded for fear of their impurity spreading. In St. Mark’s gospel, Jesus has a particular ministry to such ritually impure individuals. They take risks and touch him, and he risks much by touching them. The risk of contracting or spreading the ritual impurity is, in fact, the thing that breaks the vicious cycle, because through their touch of one another, through their human contact with Jesus of Nazareth, they are healed.
Now what does this have to do with our textual variant of Jesus’ “pity” or “anger.” That Jesus would be moved with pity would certainly be a natural reading and the one opted for by the editors of the NRSV; I do not contest it, per se. It has certainly been argued that this healing is an act of compassion, and so it is. But what if we consider that Jesus was moved with anger to perform this healing?
Many of us have been taught the abhorrent heresy that the God of the Old Testament was a god of anger while the God of the New Testament is a god of compassion. This is, of course, completely false for the reason that they are one and the same God. Furthermore, we could enumerate God’s continuous acts of mercy throughout the Old Testament in calling a sinful people again and again to return to him. There are also significant instances in which Christ, who is one and the same God as the God of the Old Testament, is moved with anger. We need only recount the story of the cleansing of the Temple. I would suggest that this story could be read as an example of God’s anger at what people have done with his good and just laws. As St. Paul reminds us in Romans, the Law was good, and yet sin used the law for ill purpose. Perhaps, just perhaps, Jesus was filled with rage at how the use of the Law had made this man (and so many others who were in a continuous state of ritual impurity) social pariahs. Can we not feel the anger of Jesus at this abhorrent situation? Are we not kindled to wrath? Who amongst us does not feel compelled to right such a wrong?
I would further suggest in stopping to consider this textual variant, that this gives us a fuller picture of Jesus as both God and man. In Jesus we encounter a God who is moved with great compassion for those who we, in our human sinfulness, attempt to exclude from our common life, and yet we also encounter a God whose wrath is kindled at such an injustice. In Jesus we encounter a man, a human, much like you and me who carries within himself the full range of emotions from compassion to anger. And who, like you and me when we are at our very best, can find our righteous anger kindled over injustice that we might become a more compassionate people.
Any community needs rules by which to govern and order its life. This is true of civil society, of voluntary associations such as clubs, and it is true of the Church. Rules exist to make our society a better place. Sometimes, though, we lose sight of the greater good and of the spirit of the law. The law then becomes a tool to protect us from those who frighten us because they are different and God is rightly enraged at such at such a perversion of the law. This is the Jesus we encounter in the variant reading of today’s text.
I will leave it to you to consider who might be excluded from the community of the greater Church because of our fear of including them. However, I think equally pressing is the question of who is excluded from our community here. Many have come to this parish, have been welcomed and have found a home. That is a fact. Yet, we continue to hear of others who have not felt so welcome. Why is this so? It may simply be that we are a church with nearly 180 years of tradition, of history, and of systems that work very well indeed. The legacy of our lengthy establishment is part of what makes this a wonderful place and enables us to be a light to the world in this community. And yet, we must ask if this, in some way, is also what keeps people from feeling welcome and at home. How do our systems keep people out? How does our legacy of establishment work against a welcoming, caring and inclusive vision of the kingdom? Difficult questions, to be sure, but not ones beyond our reach under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
We have a right to be enraged when we learn people have felt excluded, it is after all, how Jesus felt when confronted with this problem. The Good News is that Jesus does not settle for the status quo. Jesus, whether moved by righteous anger, or moved by compassion, performs a miracle and changes the way we see the stranger. I believe that he is working in such a way here. If we feel angry when we learn some have not been welcomed then may our anger stir compassion within us that we may extend the hand of fellowship to those who come through the doors of this place. It is, after all, what Jesus would do.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 15th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:40-45
Jesus was moved with pity… or was that anger?
There is a little problem in the text of today’s Gospel reading. It is the sort of problem that we tend to gloss over from week-to-week in many of our readings from Scripture. It may be assumed by many that there is, out there somewhere, a pristine copy of the “original” New Testament. This is, of course, not so. As many of us know, our canon of Scripture came about as communities used various books of the Bible until very gradually a particular set of books became the accepted norm. What may be less well-known is that each book of the Bible was copied and re-copied with corrections made, words crossed out, and words added to make greater sense of an ambiguous passage. To make matters even more interesting, differing communities in the Early Church had versions of particular books of the Bible that contained significant differences. In fact, there is one surviving family of texts of the Book of Acts that is reckoned to be about thirty percent longer than the canonical version. In the days before printing presses, monastic scribes and copyists would laboriously copy the texts of the books of both the Old and New Testament, and yes, mistakes would be made, and conversely, mistake would be caught. As a result, today we are left with thousands of such corrections and textual problems bequeathed to us by these holy and well-intentioned individuals. There is one such problem in today’s text.
(As an aside: This is not strictly an ancient problem. A few weeks ago, I noticed a printing error in our lectionary Bible with respect to Mark 1:21. The text in the NRSV reads, “he entered the synagogue and taught.” Lectionary Bibles, because they pick up the story in mid-stream, often eliminate the pronoun and provide the proper noun for the sake of clarity. Thus, a well-meaning modern editor incorrectly replaced “he” with the proper noun “John.” However, the story is not about John going into the synagogue and teaching, but about Jesus going into the synagogue and teaching. Fortunately, a previous cleric or lay reader caught this error and scratched out “John” and replaced it with “Jesus.” Imagine the difference the name makes. This is a modern example of what was happening all the time in the hand-copying of ancient texts.)
In today’s text from Mark (1:40ff), we have just such a problem. There are two possible readings of what motivates Jesus. In our story, a man with a skin disease approaches Jesus, falls down before him and says “If you choose you can make me clean.” The text goes on to say, “Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now here is our problem. One significant family of texts reads, “Moved with anger, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.” Now which text is correct – “pity” or “anger”?
These decisions are usually made by a group of international scholars who sift through all the various manuscripts and variant readings and using their collective wisdom, try and sort out which reading is the most probable. The thing to remember is that the choice made by these gurus is a matter of interpretation. I won’t go into the particulars of their decision on this story, rather I simply draw it to your attention as a reminder that each week, we gloss over a myriad of possibilities and a variety of textual variants that could make all the difference to certain texts. Some are obvious blunders on the part of copyists, but others like today’s text remain open to discussion and dispute.
So, why do I draw your attention to this particular textual variant today? I do so because Jesus “moved by pity” or “moved by anger” is a pretty significant variant. We normally think about this text in a certain way. Perhaps we should consider what our Jesus might look like if we spent some time with the variant reading.
First, let us consider the problem of the man with the skin disease. He had what has traditionally been called leprosy. The Old Testament laws considered such a person permanently unclean. They were to be cast out of the camp, and should they come near others they were to shout “unclean, unclean!” Impurity was not a moral judgment on an individual. Impurity was normally a short-term state of ritual uncleanness that simply excluded a person from certain cultic or liturgical activities. After a certain period of time, and after certain ritual acts, a person was declared pure and could once again participate in these community moments. It was not a negative judgment, simply a reality. We may look back on such things as primitive or even with some sense of disdain. However, it should be remembered that certain purity laws may have been a way of keeping public health in check. Furthermore, a period of ritual impurity in which a man could not touch a woman certainly provided women a safe time free of the aggressive sexual advances of men. These laws were considered good things.
The problem with impurity emerges when an impurity becomes interminable. Take for example the story of the woman who had a flow of menstrual blood for twelve years. And this is true also of those with such diseases as the man encountered in today’s text. A law that was meant to order society, and possibly even protect the vulnerable became a tool to exclude. Those who could never again be pure were cast out and excluded for fear of their impurity spreading. In St. Mark’s gospel, Jesus has a particular ministry to such ritually impure individuals. They take risks and touch him, and he risks much by touching them. The risk of contracting or spreading the ritual impurity is, in fact, the thing that breaks the vicious cycle, because through their touch of one another, through their human contact with Jesus of Nazareth, they are healed.
Now what does this have to do with our textual variant of Jesus’ “pity” or “anger.” That Jesus would be moved with pity would certainly be a natural reading and the one opted for by the editors of the NRSV; I do not contest it, per se. It has certainly been argued that this healing is an act of compassion, and so it is. But what if we consider that Jesus was moved with anger to perform this healing?
Many of us have been taught the abhorrent heresy that the God of the Old Testament was a god of anger while the God of the New Testament is a god of compassion. This is, of course, completely false for the reason that they are one and the same God. Furthermore, we could enumerate God’s continuous acts of mercy throughout the Old Testament in calling a sinful people again and again to return to him. There are also significant instances in which Christ, who is one and the same God as the God of the Old Testament, is moved with anger. We need only recount the story of the cleansing of the Temple. I would suggest that this story could be read as an example of God’s anger at what people have done with his good and just laws. As St. Paul reminds us in Romans, the Law was good, and yet sin used the law for ill purpose. Perhaps, just perhaps, Jesus was filled with rage at how the use of the Law had made this man (and so many others who were in a continuous state of ritual impurity) social pariahs. Can we not feel the anger of Jesus at this abhorrent situation? Are we not kindled to wrath? Who amongst us does not feel compelled to right such a wrong?
I would further suggest in stopping to consider this textual variant, that this gives us a fuller picture of Jesus as both God and man. In Jesus we encounter a God who is moved with great compassion for those who we, in our human sinfulness, attempt to exclude from our common life, and yet we also encounter a God whose wrath is kindled at such an injustice. In Jesus we encounter a man, a human, much like you and me who carries within himself the full range of emotions from compassion to anger. And who, like you and me when we are at our very best, can find our righteous anger kindled over injustice that we might become a more compassionate people.
Any community needs rules by which to govern and order its life. This is true of civil society, of voluntary associations such as clubs, and it is true of the Church. Rules exist to make our society a better place. Sometimes, though, we lose sight of the greater good and of the spirit of the law. The law then becomes a tool to protect us from those who frighten us because they are different and God is rightly enraged at such at such a perversion of the law. This is the Jesus we encounter in the variant reading of today’s text.
I will leave it to you to consider who might be excluded from the community of the greater Church because of our fear of including them. However, I think equally pressing is the question of who is excluded from our community here. Many have come to this parish, have been welcomed and have found a home. That is a fact. Yet, we continue to hear of others who have not felt so welcome. Why is this so? It may simply be that we are a church with nearly 180 years of tradition, of history, and of systems that work very well indeed. The legacy of our lengthy establishment is part of what makes this a wonderful place and enables us to be a light to the world in this community. And yet, we must ask if this, in some way, is also what keeps people from feeling welcome and at home. How do our systems keep people out? How does our legacy of establishment work against a welcoming, caring and inclusive vision of the kingdom? Difficult questions, to be sure, but not ones beyond our reach under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
We have a right to be enraged when we learn people have felt excluded, it is after all, how Jesus felt when confronted with this problem. The Good News is that Jesus does not settle for the status quo. Jesus, whether moved by righteous anger, or moved by compassion, performs a miracle and changes the way we see the stranger. I believe that he is working in such a way here. If we feel angry when we learn some have not been welcomed then may our anger stir compassion within us that we may extend the hand of fellowship to those who come through the doors of this place. It is, after all, what Jesus would do.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, January 31, 2009
A New Teaching With Authority
Sermon for Proper 4, Year B, 2009
Sunday, February 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:21-28
As many will know, Holy Trinity has been engaged in a process called Natural Church Development over the past couple of years. The tools of NCD allow us, through an annual survey, to capture a snapshot of where we are in several key areas of church life. Reflection on these results helps us to better understand who we are as the people of God in this place and the direction to which we are being called in the future. The survey provides us a snapshot of our weaknesses and our strengths. We know that like many Anglican Churches, we scored low in the area of Passionate Spirituality. One of the questions asked under this heading was “Do you believe that God will work even more powerfully in our church in the coming years.” Not only did we score low on this question but in our most recent survey our scored dropped. One must ask, therefore, what we believe about the ministry to which we are called in this community. A deeper question is must also be posed, “Do I believe that God works powerfully in my life?” If we do not believe that God works in our lives how will we believe that God works powerfully in the Church? Quite frankly, I don’t know what people believe about this question, but I do suspect that there are many, not only in this parish but in the Church at large, that find it hard to believe that God is active and working in their lives.
The story related in today’s Gospel is the first glimpse we get at the public teaching of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. What is so crucial about this passage is not the content of his teaching (for indeed, we are not told what he preached) but the character of his preaching: “he taught them as one having great authority.” The word “authority” has many connotations, and in the Greek one such connotation is the sense of “dominion.” Thus I believe that Mark is suggesting that Jesus is here asserting the authority of the dominion or reign of God. I believe this reading is borne out by what he does next. His authority is demonstrated by the casting out of a demon from a man in the synagogue. His teaching was proved to be powerful because of the power he demonstrated before the eyes of all around him.
Let us now return to the question that I first posed. Each of us have heard the story of Jesus, we know the teaching of the gospel, and at some level we believe it, but do we live as if it were true? As many writers have reflected of late, we may be functional atheists. We believe the tenants of faith as abstract principles but we do not believe that God actually makes a difference in our lives.
Now, let us continue with the story of the exorcism in today’s gospel. Very clearly, the story as told is a clear demonstration of Jesus’ power and authority. It is a power and authority that creates awe amongst those who witness it and they, in turn, spread his fame throughout the countryside. It is an authority that inspires faith. Yet, I would suggest that we need to probe the meaning of this exorcism more deeply. For I do not believe that the story before us is primarily a story about exorcisms per se, but about what Jesus does to transform the lives of people and release them from bondage. It is a story that tells us not first and foremost about the casting out of demons, but rather about the power of God in Christ to work within us more powerfully than we can ask or imagine and cast out the demons that prevent us from seeing his mighty acts of power in our lives.
I would suggest to you that Anglicans are typically wary of such language because such seems to connote for many a kind of ostentatious spirituality that is more about show than substance. I wonder even when we ask the question about “God working more powerfully in our parish” if we are conjuring up images of fantastic exorcisms televangelistic healings? But what if the so-called demon is not so much an external force, but the impulse that keeps us from engaging in the reality of our lives, our troubles, and our angst in the context of a God who sees through it all and beckons us forth, casting away the things that enslave us? What if the demon is our blindness to seeing an active God?
The words of this particular demon speak directly, I believe, to what we believe and don’t believe about a God who has the power to change our lives. When the demon first encounters Jesus, his response to Jesus is ambivalent, “What have you to do with me?” It is easy for us to believe that this is a question spoken by those outside these walls. The world really doesn’t know or even care what Jesus can do for them. What has he to do with me? Yet, we must be honest with ourselves and ask, how often have we thought this about God? How often have we believed that God is distant and irrelevant in our lives as we are engaged in the business of muddling our way through this life? Thus, the words of this demon echo deeply within us as a reality many of us face on our journey of faith, namely, how our busy lives distract us from God’s persistent beckoning.
Next, the demon is hostile. He shouts, “Have you come to destroy us?” Again, honesty compels us to admit, that hostility to God is not simply felt by those who choose not to believe in God, but felt by those of us who proclaim our trust in him. Who amongst us has not cursed God for a tragic loss, a turn of fate that has disabled us, or an unfair judgment upon us. Thus, words of this demon once again unmask a certain frightening reality in our journey of faith, namely how our human disappointment eclipses God’s good gifts.
Finally, the demon attempts to gain control over Jesus. In the ancient world, a spell was affected by the naming of the subject over which the spell was being cast. Thus, “Jesus of Nazareth, I know who you are!” is not so much a recognition or submission of the demon to Jesus but an attempt to gain control over him. And again, we must ask ourselves about the times that God has set the way open for us and we choose not to follow his chosen path but seized our way and followed our own path. Once more, I speak not only about those outside these wall but about you and me, and the stubbornness we exhibit when we insist on our own way, when God has graciously opened a way for us.
Honesty compels us to admit, I think, that we might share more with the demon in this story than we would ever wish to confess. This is our human condition, though. We are each prone to ambivalence about God, hostility to God, and the desire to control God. Whatever it is that makes us this way, be it fear or be it sin, I think it behooves us to recognize it and name it. It is the thing that prevents us from believing that God will work powerfully amongst us in the days to come.
If we learn anything from the Gospel of Mark, though, we are to learn that the Kingdom of God has come very near indeed. Sometimes it is so near that we miss it. As the kingdom approaches we are confronted with a new reality, that things do not have to remain the same, and more importantly, that we do not have to remain the same. Ambivalence and apathy can be replaced by engagement and passion; hostility can be replaced by love and reconciliation; the need to control can be replaced by gentle trust. This is what Jesus offered the man possessed by that evil spirit, and this is what he offers us. With the words, “Be silent and come out of him,” Jesus muzzles the voices that confuse and confound us. Jesus silences the impulses that say it cannot be done. Jesus dampens the voice that says God is dead. God is not dead nor does he sleep. The Good News ever before us is that he banishes the forces within us and outside of us that seek to draw us from his love and care.
The kingdom of God has come near. In Jesus’ teaching and in this show of power, the people around him are amazed and recognize God’s dominion being reasserted once and for all. The question thus remains for each of us to ponder. We have heard his teaching time and time again, but have we witnessed his power? Most of us have not witnessed, and may never witness the sort of act of power described in today’s Gospel, but has your faith been strengthened in another way? Each of you are here because at some level you believe the truth that God in Christ transforms our lives and indeed transforms the world. Has there been a moment when hope seemed lost and a hand was extended? Has there been a moment when the night seemed darker than it could ever be and through that night a light broke through? Has there been a moment when you vowed that you would never believe again and some little sign was given that you were not alone or forsaken? Has there been a moment when and endless flow of tears have been wiped away? Has there been a moment when under your own power it was impossible, despite every attempt you made to do things on your own, and then God took control and opened a door?
I believe honesty compels us to admit that each of us have known such moments and to realize that they are no less powerful than that day on which he cast out an unclean spirit in a synagogue. I believe honesty and self-searching compels us to realize and understand that such moments are indeed a powerful demonstration of the truth of the Gospel to which we ascribe and profess belief. I believe honesty compels us to admit that we are indeed followers of the Christ who brings us a new teaching, and one with great power and authority.
It seems to me, that each of us carries with us demons that enslave us. And yet, each of us have had powerful moments, private though they might be, in which God in Christ has lifted those demons and those burdens from us and set us free. To know this reality is not simply to hear the story but to know its power. And if God has acted so powerfully amongst us individually, I refuse to believe that he will not act powerfully in this place in the days to come.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves - This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, February 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:21-28
As many will know, Holy Trinity has been engaged in a process called Natural Church Development over the past couple of years. The tools of NCD allow us, through an annual survey, to capture a snapshot of where we are in several key areas of church life. Reflection on these results helps us to better understand who we are as the people of God in this place and the direction to which we are being called in the future. The survey provides us a snapshot of our weaknesses and our strengths. We know that like many Anglican Churches, we scored low in the area of Passionate Spirituality. One of the questions asked under this heading was “Do you believe that God will work even more powerfully in our church in the coming years.” Not only did we score low on this question but in our most recent survey our scored dropped. One must ask, therefore, what we believe about the ministry to which we are called in this community. A deeper question is must also be posed, “Do I believe that God works powerfully in my life?” If we do not believe that God works in our lives how will we believe that God works powerfully in the Church? Quite frankly, I don’t know what people believe about this question, but I do suspect that there are many, not only in this parish but in the Church at large, that find it hard to believe that God is active and working in their lives.
The story related in today’s Gospel is the first glimpse we get at the public teaching of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. What is so crucial about this passage is not the content of his teaching (for indeed, we are not told what he preached) but the character of his preaching: “he taught them as one having great authority.” The word “authority” has many connotations, and in the Greek one such connotation is the sense of “dominion.” Thus I believe that Mark is suggesting that Jesus is here asserting the authority of the dominion or reign of God. I believe this reading is borne out by what he does next. His authority is demonstrated by the casting out of a demon from a man in the synagogue. His teaching was proved to be powerful because of the power he demonstrated before the eyes of all around him.
Let us now return to the question that I first posed. Each of us have heard the story of Jesus, we know the teaching of the gospel, and at some level we believe it, but do we live as if it were true? As many writers have reflected of late, we may be functional atheists. We believe the tenants of faith as abstract principles but we do not believe that God actually makes a difference in our lives.
Now, let us continue with the story of the exorcism in today’s gospel. Very clearly, the story as told is a clear demonstration of Jesus’ power and authority. It is a power and authority that creates awe amongst those who witness it and they, in turn, spread his fame throughout the countryside. It is an authority that inspires faith. Yet, I would suggest that we need to probe the meaning of this exorcism more deeply. For I do not believe that the story before us is primarily a story about exorcisms per se, but about what Jesus does to transform the lives of people and release them from bondage. It is a story that tells us not first and foremost about the casting out of demons, but rather about the power of God in Christ to work within us more powerfully than we can ask or imagine and cast out the demons that prevent us from seeing his mighty acts of power in our lives.
I would suggest to you that Anglicans are typically wary of such language because such seems to connote for many a kind of ostentatious spirituality that is more about show than substance. I wonder even when we ask the question about “God working more powerfully in our parish” if we are conjuring up images of fantastic exorcisms televangelistic healings? But what if the so-called demon is not so much an external force, but the impulse that keeps us from engaging in the reality of our lives, our troubles, and our angst in the context of a God who sees through it all and beckons us forth, casting away the things that enslave us? What if the demon is our blindness to seeing an active God?
The words of this particular demon speak directly, I believe, to what we believe and don’t believe about a God who has the power to change our lives. When the demon first encounters Jesus, his response to Jesus is ambivalent, “What have you to do with me?” It is easy for us to believe that this is a question spoken by those outside these walls. The world really doesn’t know or even care what Jesus can do for them. What has he to do with me? Yet, we must be honest with ourselves and ask, how often have we thought this about God? How often have we believed that God is distant and irrelevant in our lives as we are engaged in the business of muddling our way through this life? Thus, the words of this demon echo deeply within us as a reality many of us face on our journey of faith, namely, how our busy lives distract us from God’s persistent beckoning.
Next, the demon is hostile. He shouts, “Have you come to destroy us?” Again, honesty compels us to admit, that hostility to God is not simply felt by those who choose not to believe in God, but felt by those of us who proclaim our trust in him. Who amongst us has not cursed God for a tragic loss, a turn of fate that has disabled us, or an unfair judgment upon us. Thus, words of this demon once again unmask a certain frightening reality in our journey of faith, namely how our human disappointment eclipses God’s good gifts.
Finally, the demon attempts to gain control over Jesus. In the ancient world, a spell was affected by the naming of the subject over which the spell was being cast. Thus, “Jesus of Nazareth, I know who you are!” is not so much a recognition or submission of the demon to Jesus but an attempt to gain control over him. And again, we must ask ourselves about the times that God has set the way open for us and we choose not to follow his chosen path but seized our way and followed our own path. Once more, I speak not only about those outside these wall but about you and me, and the stubbornness we exhibit when we insist on our own way, when God has graciously opened a way for us.
Honesty compels us to admit, I think, that we might share more with the demon in this story than we would ever wish to confess. This is our human condition, though. We are each prone to ambivalence about God, hostility to God, and the desire to control God. Whatever it is that makes us this way, be it fear or be it sin, I think it behooves us to recognize it and name it. It is the thing that prevents us from believing that God will work powerfully amongst us in the days to come.
If we learn anything from the Gospel of Mark, though, we are to learn that the Kingdom of God has come very near indeed. Sometimes it is so near that we miss it. As the kingdom approaches we are confronted with a new reality, that things do not have to remain the same, and more importantly, that we do not have to remain the same. Ambivalence and apathy can be replaced by engagement and passion; hostility can be replaced by love and reconciliation; the need to control can be replaced by gentle trust. This is what Jesus offered the man possessed by that evil spirit, and this is what he offers us. With the words, “Be silent and come out of him,” Jesus muzzles the voices that confuse and confound us. Jesus silences the impulses that say it cannot be done. Jesus dampens the voice that says God is dead. God is not dead nor does he sleep. The Good News ever before us is that he banishes the forces within us and outside of us that seek to draw us from his love and care.
The kingdom of God has come near. In Jesus’ teaching and in this show of power, the people around him are amazed and recognize God’s dominion being reasserted once and for all. The question thus remains for each of us to ponder. We have heard his teaching time and time again, but have we witnessed his power? Most of us have not witnessed, and may never witness the sort of act of power described in today’s Gospel, but has your faith been strengthened in another way? Each of you are here because at some level you believe the truth that God in Christ transforms our lives and indeed transforms the world. Has there been a moment when hope seemed lost and a hand was extended? Has there been a moment when the night seemed darker than it could ever be and through that night a light broke through? Has there been a moment when you vowed that you would never believe again and some little sign was given that you were not alone or forsaken? Has there been a moment when and endless flow of tears have been wiped away? Has there been a moment when under your own power it was impossible, despite every attempt you made to do things on your own, and then God took control and opened a door?
I believe honesty compels us to admit that each of us have known such moments and to realize that they are no less powerful than that day on which he cast out an unclean spirit in a synagogue. I believe honesty and self-searching compels us to realize and understand that such moments are indeed a powerful demonstration of the truth of the Gospel to which we ascribe and profess belief. I believe honesty compels us to admit that we are indeed followers of the Christ who brings us a new teaching, and one with great power and authority.
It seems to me, that each of us carries with us demons that enslave us. And yet, each of us have had powerful moments, private though they might be, in which God in Christ has lifted those demons and those burdens from us and set us free. To know this reality is not simply to hear the story but to know its power. And if God has acted so powerfully amongst us individually, I refuse to believe that he will not act powerfully in this place in the days to come.
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves - This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Lamp of God Has Not Gone Out
Homily for Proper 2, Year B
Sunday, January 18th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Samuel 3:1-10
“The lamp of God had not yet gone out.”
-- 1 Samuel 3:2
“The word of the LORD was rare in those days.” These words preface God’s call to the young Samuel, who served in the Temple, an apprentice to the old priest Eli. To those who lived in those days it might seem that this saying was true, that the word of the Lord was indeed rare. Eli, himself, may not have been the best priest in the world, for he was willing to toss Hannah out of the temple when he mistook her prayer for a fit of drunkenness. However, later realizing her faithfulness he took Samuel, her miracle child, under his tutelage. But if Eli was a man of fickle spirit, his sons were outright scoundrels, guilty of all sorts of evil and abuses; men not fit to be priests in the Lord’s temple. Clearly, the author of 1 Samuel intended the wicked sons of Eli to stand as symbols of the social and religious decay of the time. Thus, with such examples before our eyes, we can understand why those of that day would have felt that the word of the Lord was rare indeed. And yet, it was in the midst of this corruption and decay that a Word came to young Samuel, a word that would shape the future of the Hebrew people.
It might be equally tempting to say that the word of the Lord is rare in these days. Few of us can claim to have heard the voice of the Lord in audible terms, fewer still can claim to have witness a bona fide miracle, and those who have seen visions are often characterized as deranged or worse, as suspected of being charlatans. And as we look about us, it is certainly easier to see the evil in the world overcoming the good, than to believe in an active God. It may seem as if moral decay has eclipsed any sense of decency and “good will amongst all people.” It may appear that our old notion of progress has been unmasked as destructive regression. But what is more frightening is the sense that God seems absent from our descent into this abyss.
There will be many out there that will capitalize on our fear, and upon the apparent absence of God, with apocalyptic stories of destruction and wrath. And there will be many who, because hope seems so faint, will buy into these tales and simplistic ways of understanding concepts of God’s justice. However, I would caution against such a simple black and white reading of events. I would argue that although we witness signs of evil and destruction every day in this world, the signs of God’s presence are not invisible, and when finally discerned they are signs that give us victory over our pessimism and hopelessness.
As young Samuel slept and the dawn neared, the Lord called to him. The text tells us that the lamp of God had not yet gone out. Now, this may be a very simple way of telling us what time it was, namely, that it was nearing the dawn because the menorah still burnt and had not yet been extinguished. However, taken on another level, in the night of pessimism, in the night of moral decay, in the night of sadness, the lamp of the Lord had not gone out. Even as we sleep; even as the world slumbers; even as we lose sight of the light, the light burns still. And as young Samuel slept, the light continued to burn. Thus, in the early hours, when the night seems like it will never end, a word was heard under the light of that lamp, a word to Samuel.
Samuel was initially blind to the light and deafened to the word, for although he had been under the tutelage of a supposed holy man, he did yet know the Lord, so he could not recognize his voice. At first, young Samuel thought the voice that of his mentor Eli, but it was not. Sadly, Eli was not quick to rise to the task of helping Samuel. He sloughed off Samuel’s inquiries in his own drowsiness. Eli’s response calls to mind for us how the fatigue of life can often numb us to the excitement and urgency of God. It is something akin to being a new parent. When the little one stirs in their crib, every cough, every gurgle, every noise is a call to us to jump up from our nominal sleep and check to see if that little one under our care is fine. Yet time goes on, the child grows, and so does our weariness at the world and with our task of parenting. The child soon has to come to our bedside, shake us, “wake up Dad, the house is burning down!” To which, at this stage in my life I might be tempted to respond, “That’s nice son, go back to bed, I’m sleeping.” Such was the case with Eli, who should have been attuned to the possibility of a word from the Lord, but in his weariness with the world, was not.
But the word still came. This time it did not come to the Holy Man, but to the boy. And thankfully, the boy persisted. Thankfully, too, old Eli, even in his drowsiness, offered some little guidance, for he in his younger days had known the Lord, and still had some small remembrance on how to test the Spirit. Eli sent young Samuel back to bed, but told him if he heard the word again, to respond with the words, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Indeed, the Lord spoke again, and Samuel responded as told.
It is not for us today to probe the depths of the frightening call or the powerful words that Samuel was called to proclaim. That is for another day and another homily. What is important for us today, though, is to ask the question, is the Lord calling us today? Of course he is. He calls us continually. His lamp has not gone out and his voice is ever issuing the call. How will we know his voice? How will we hear the call?
The Good News is that Jesus, the Good Shepherd knows his own and his own know him. We know the sound of his voice – we, his sheep know his voice. Samuel did not know the Lord. He had not been revealed to him. Although Samuel had lived amongst the priests, no one had really told him about the Lord. Yet, God is gracious beyond measure, for even through the tired sinfulness of old Eli, Samuel was given guidance, and at last he recognized the voice of God. But again, we know the voice of the Lord. We have heard it from the cries of manger-cradle, through the cry of anguish on a cross. We have heard it in parables and seen it lived out in acts of healing and restoration. We have heard it read from the pages of Scripture and we have heard across the pages of our lives. We have heard his voice.
Thus, when the night seems darkest and longest, let us ever remember that his lamp has not gone out. When the powers of the day seem hell-bent on self-destruction, let us recall that even through old Eli did God give guidance to a young lad who became a great judge and leader of his people. When the voices of confusion seek to overwhelm us, let us remember that there is a voice that has searched us out and known us before even we knew ourselves. Let us remember that there is a Good Shepherd calling in the night. Let us remember that amidst that cacophony of voices we can cut through the noise and hear the voice of the one true God with these simple words, a simple prayer indeed, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, January 18th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Samuel 3:1-10
“The lamp of God had not yet gone out.”
-- 1 Samuel 3:2
“The word of the LORD was rare in those days.” These words preface God’s call to the young Samuel, who served in the Temple, an apprentice to the old priest Eli. To those who lived in those days it might seem that this saying was true, that the word of the Lord was indeed rare. Eli, himself, may not have been the best priest in the world, for he was willing to toss Hannah out of the temple when he mistook her prayer for a fit of drunkenness. However, later realizing her faithfulness he took Samuel, her miracle child, under his tutelage. But if Eli was a man of fickle spirit, his sons were outright scoundrels, guilty of all sorts of evil and abuses; men not fit to be priests in the Lord’s temple. Clearly, the author of 1 Samuel intended the wicked sons of Eli to stand as symbols of the social and religious decay of the time. Thus, with such examples before our eyes, we can understand why those of that day would have felt that the word of the Lord was rare indeed. And yet, it was in the midst of this corruption and decay that a Word came to young Samuel, a word that would shape the future of the Hebrew people.
It might be equally tempting to say that the word of the Lord is rare in these days. Few of us can claim to have heard the voice of the Lord in audible terms, fewer still can claim to have witness a bona fide miracle, and those who have seen visions are often characterized as deranged or worse, as suspected of being charlatans. And as we look about us, it is certainly easier to see the evil in the world overcoming the good, than to believe in an active God. It may seem as if moral decay has eclipsed any sense of decency and “good will amongst all people.” It may appear that our old notion of progress has been unmasked as destructive regression. But what is more frightening is the sense that God seems absent from our descent into this abyss.
There will be many out there that will capitalize on our fear, and upon the apparent absence of God, with apocalyptic stories of destruction and wrath. And there will be many who, because hope seems so faint, will buy into these tales and simplistic ways of understanding concepts of God’s justice. However, I would caution against such a simple black and white reading of events. I would argue that although we witness signs of evil and destruction every day in this world, the signs of God’s presence are not invisible, and when finally discerned they are signs that give us victory over our pessimism and hopelessness.
As young Samuel slept and the dawn neared, the Lord called to him. The text tells us that the lamp of God had not yet gone out. Now, this may be a very simple way of telling us what time it was, namely, that it was nearing the dawn because the menorah still burnt and had not yet been extinguished. However, taken on another level, in the night of pessimism, in the night of moral decay, in the night of sadness, the lamp of the Lord had not gone out. Even as we sleep; even as the world slumbers; even as we lose sight of the light, the light burns still. And as young Samuel slept, the light continued to burn. Thus, in the early hours, when the night seems like it will never end, a word was heard under the light of that lamp, a word to Samuel.
Samuel was initially blind to the light and deafened to the word, for although he had been under the tutelage of a supposed holy man, he did yet know the Lord, so he could not recognize his voice. At first, young Samuel thought the voice that of his mentor Eli, but it was not. Sadly, Eli was not quick to rise to the task of helping Samuel. He sloughed off Samuel’s inquiries in his own drowsiness. Eli’s response calls to mind for us how the fatigue of life can often numb us to the excitement and urgency of God. It is something akin to being a new parent. When the little one stirs in their crib, every cough, every gurgle, every noise is a call to us to jump up from our nominal sleep and check to see if that little one under our care is fine. Yet time goes on, the child grows, and so does our weariness at the world and with our task of parenting. The child soon has to come to our bedside, shake us, “wake up Dad, the house is burning down!” To which, at this stage in my life I might be tempted to respond, “That’s nice son, go back to bed, I’m sleeping.” Such was the case with Eli, who should have been attuned to the possibility of a word from the Lord, but in his weariness with the world, was not.
But the word still came. This time it did not come to the Holy Man, but to the boy. And thankfully, the boy persisted. Thankfully, too, old Eli, even in his drowsiness, offered some little guidance, for he in his younger days had known the Lord, and still had some small remembrance on how to test the Spirit. Eli sent young Samuel back to bed, but told him if he heard the word again, to respond with the words, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Indeed, the Lord spoke again, and Samuel responded as told.
It is not for us today to probe the depths of the frightening call or the powerful words that Samuel was called to proclaim. That is for another day and another homily. What is important for us today, though, is to ask the question, is the Lord calling us today? Of course he is. He calls us continually. His lamp has not gone out and his voice is ever issuing the call. How will we know his voice? How will we hear the call?
The Good News is that Jesus, the Good Shepherd knows his own and his own know him. We know the sound of his voice – we, his sheep know his voice. Samuel did not know the Lord. He had not been revealed to him. Although Samuel had lived amongst the priests, no one had really told him about the Lord. Yet, God is gracious beyond measure, for even through the tired sinfulness of old Eli, Samuel was given guidance, and at last he recognized the voice of God. But again, we know the voice of the Lord. We have heard it from the cries of manger-cradle, through the cry of anguish on a cross. We have heard it in parables and seen it lived out in acts of healing and restoration. We have heard it read from the pages of Scripture and we have heard across the pages of our lives. We have heard his voice.
Thus, when the night seems darkest and longest, let us ever remember that his lamp has not gone out. When the powers of the day seem hell-bent on self-destruction, let us recall that even through old Eli did God give guidance to a young lad who became a great judge and leader of his people. When the voices of confusion seek to overwhelm us, let us remember that there is a voice that has searched us out and known us before even we knew ourselves. Let us remember that there is a Good Shepherd calling in the night. Let us remember that amidst that cacophony of voices we can cut through the noise and hear the voice of the one true God with these simple words, a simple prayer indeed, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Arise Shine, for Thy Light Has Come -- A Homily for Epiphany
Homily for the Feast of the Epiphany, Year B, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009 (translated)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 60:16; Matthew 2:1-12
“Arise, shine, for your light has come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon you!”
--Isaiah 60:1
The author of the book of Deuteronomy wrote these words: “This day, I set before life and death, blessing and curse, choose life!” And never are these words more relevant than in the Epiphany gospel. Indeed, one might say that they reach the summit of their meaning in the appearance and manifestation of our Lord. For today we hear the tale of such a choice. Today we hear the tale of a king who cowered before such a choice and chose the way that would lead to the slaughter of innocents, and ultimately to his own destruction. Today we also hear the tale of wise men from the east, kings perhaps, who chose not to walk in darkness, but follow the glimmer of a distant star and walk, instead, in the light.
The prophet Isaiah proclaims that a light has shined and that the glory of the Lord is risen upon us. For us, as Christian people, we believe that light to be the light of Christ. But there is an irony in Isaiah’s words, for even as he speaks of the coming light and the glory of the Lord rising, he foretells darkness covering the earth. That darkness, of course, is the darkness that clings to power when it knows its defeat is imminent; it is the darkness that thinks it has won the day when Christ hung lifeless on the cross. Yet, this is the darkness that ultimately dissipates when morning breaks and the bright Sun of Righteousness rises triumphantly. These truths are foreshadowed in the words of Isaiah, and they come to fruition in the coming of kings from the east to worship the light of the world, and sadly, in the resistance of a Judean king to the light.
Wise men came from the East, drawn and led by a distant light. The light they saw was in the sky – a glimmer in the distant night. And this light was but a glimmer of the light they encountered as they knelt before the Light of the World, lying in lowly estate. They offered him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but although they offered him gifts of earthly wealth, they offered him something more, the gift of themselves. Wise men, who could read both the stars and the signs of the times; wise men, possibly even kings of the Orient, recognized in this tiny boy, the true light – the light that was coming into the world. Recognizing that that light was the light of all people, they clung not to their own royal kingship but rendered themselves, their rule, and their very being unto the King of Kings, Christ the Lord.
There was another king, though, who was blind to the light. He could not read the skies nor prophetically take the pulse of the times, nor did he offer himself or his dominion to this newborn king. Rather, he clung selfishly and duplicitously to a precarious power that was not even his own, for this king was but a client of the Roman Imperial power. This Herod, an Idumean usurper of the Judean crown, clung so tenaciously to his fragile crown that he lost himself, his humanity, and left a wake of destruction in his frightened path.
Kings from the East and a king of Judea -- the former found their identity in submission to the Light of the World, while the latter lost himself by choosing to hide in the darkness. Kings from the East, drawn by a light, and a king of Judea, cowering in the shadows under the illusion of power – and between them both, the Kings of Kings, lying in lowly estate, a light shining through the darkness. Before them lie a choice -- to worship him or cut him down.
This is not simply the choice of kings, potentates, and wise men. It is a choice that is ever before the world. A light shines in the darkness, and yet darkness still covers the Earth. A light shines and those at a great distance catch a glimpse of its glimmer and seek it out. A light shines in the darkness and those close to its source cannot see it for they have been devoured by a darkness of their own making. But the light ever rises and his star is ever there to follow. It is never too late to see his star at its dawning and come and kneel before him.
The choice is ever before us to seek out the light, to search for its glimmer of hope amongst the darkness of this world, to see his star at its rising and to lay our gifts at his feet, feeble or grand as those gifts may be. The world may tempt us with promises of power and alternative glories. We may be tempted down dark roads that at first seem light but ultimately lead us to harm ourselves and others. Did Herod believe that he was doing the right thing for the people of Judea? Perhaps. Did he believe that clinging to his precarious power would keep the Roman overlords at bay? Perhaps. We can often choose dark roads with the best of intentions, but consider the consequence of such a choice; consider the slaughter of the innocents along the way.
How do we know the way? How shall we discern the light? Which star shall we follow amidst the many that glimmer in the night sky? It is the star that rests over a humble stable, not a palace of power. We know the light because it does not overpower us, but illumines us, warms us, enlightens the path peace. We know the light because it is the light that shines when we face the darkness of death and night with words that proclaim, “I am with you, even through the valley of the shadow of death.” It is a light that binds folk of good will together, rather than bringing estrangement. It is the light of a babe born in humility and laid in a manger for his bed.
Be assured, my friends, we have seen and borne witness to this light. At the font, and at the rail before the altar, we have been touched by the light of Christ and even held him in our hands. We receive him week by week and feed on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving. We have seen his star at its rising and we have become partakers of his Risen Life! The wise men only had a distant star and a faint hope. We are marked forever as his own in baptism. As witnesses to his Resurrection we have beheld his rising star in a way that those wise men never could. His story has become our story. And thus, the prophet Isaiah presciently proclaims to us, “Arise shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you!” So we arise, saying “no” to the darkness that covers the earth. We arise as shining as stars, reflecting his light, dispelling the darkness of the night.
When darkness seeks to overcome us, he arises within us and overcomes the night. And when we lose hope or when others seek to suppress his light in us, fellow stars arise amongst in gentleness and shine forth, sharing his resurrection glory, one with another, innumerable as the stars of heaven, helping us to once again kneel before the Light of the World. Together, as a holy people, we shine and the darkness shall never extinguish his light, for he has illumined our night and we shall never be without his light. Let us kneel before the Light of the World and offer our gifts of adoration and thanksgiving, and then, let us arise that his light might shine out into every dark corner of this troubled world.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves -- this homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, January 4, 2009 (translated)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 60:16; Matthew 2:1-12
“Arise, shine, for your light has come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon you!”
--Isaiah 60:1
The author of the book of Deuteronomy wrote these words: “This day, I set before life and death, blessing and curse, choose life!” And never are these words more relevant than in the Epiphany gospel. Indeed, one might say that they reach the summit of their meaning in the appearance and manifestation of our Lord. For today we hear the tale of such a choice. Today we hear the tale of a king who cowered before such a choice and chose the way that would lead to the slaughter of innocents, and ultimately to his own destruction. Today we also hear the tale of wise men from the east, kings perhaps, who chose not to walk in darkness, but follow the glimmer of a distant star and walk, instead, in the light.
The prophet Isaiah proclaims that a light has shined and that the glory of the Lord is risen upon us. For us, as Christian people, we believe that light to be the light of Christ. But there is an irony in Isaiah’s words, for even as he speaks of the coming light and the glory of the Lord rising, he foretells darkness covering the earth. That darkness, of course, is the darkness that clings to power when it knows its defeat is imminent; it is the darkness that thinks it has won the day when Christ hung lifeless on the cross. Yet, this is the darkness that ultimately dissipates when morning breaks and the bright Sun of Righteousness rises triumphantly. These truths are foreshadowed in the words of Isaiah, and they come to fruition in the coming of kings from the east to worship the light of the world, and sadly, in the resistance of a Judean king to the light.
Wise men came from the East, drawn and led by a distant light. The light they saw was in the sky – a glimmer in the distant night. And this light was but a glimmer of the light they encountered as they knelt before the Light of the World, lying in lowly estate. They offered him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but although they offered him gifts of earthly wealth, they offered him something more, the gift of themselves. Wise men, who could read both the stars and the signs of the times; wise men, possibly even kings of the Orient, recognized in this tiny boy, the true light – the light that was coming into the world. Recognizing that that light was the light of all people, they clung not to their own royal kingship but rendered themselves, their rule, and their very being unto the King of Kings, Christ the Lord.
There was another king, though, who was blind to the light. He could not read the skies nor prophetically take the pulse of the times, nor did he offer himself or his dominion to this newborn king. Rather, he clung selfishly and duplicitously to a precarious power that was not even his own, for this king was but a client of the Roman Imperial power. This Herod, an Idumean usurper of the Judean crown, clung so tenaciously to his fragile crown that he lost himself, his humanity, and left a wake of destruction in his frightened path.
Kings from the East and a king of Judea -- the former found their identity in submission to the Light of the World, while the latter lost himself by choosing to hide in the darkness. Kings from the East, drawn by a light, and a king of Judea, cowering in the shadows under the illusion of power – and between them both, the Kings of Kings, lying in lowly estate, a light shining through the darkness. Before them lie a choice -- to worship him or cut him down.
This is not simply the choice of kings, potentates, and wise men. It is a choice that is ever before the world. A light shines in the darkness, and yet darkness still covers the Earth. A light shines and those at a great distance catch a glimpse of its glimmer and seek it out. A light shines in the darkness and those close to its source cannot see it for they have been devoured by a darkness of their own making. But the light ever rises and his star is ever there to follow. It is never too late to see his star at its dawning and come and kneel before him.
The choice is ever before us to seek out the light, to search for its glimmer of hope amongst the darkness of this world, to see his star at its rising and to lay our gifts at his feet, feeble or grand as those gifts may be. The world may tempt us with promises of power and alternative glories. We may be tempted down dark roads that at first seem light but ultimately lead us to harm ourselves and others. Did Herod believe that he was doing the right thing for the people of Judea? Perhaps. Did he believe that clinging to his precarious power would keep the Roman overlords at bay? Perhaps. We can often choose dark roads with the best of intentions, but consider the consequence of such a choice; consider the slaughter of the innocents along the way.
How do we know the way? How shall we discern the light? Which star shall we follow amidst the many that glimmer in the night sky? It is the star that rests over a humble stable, not a palace of power. We know the light because it does not overpower us, but illumines us, warms us, enlightens the path peace. We know the light because it is the light that shines when we face the darkness of death and night with words that proclaim, “I am with you, even through the valley of the shadow of death.” It is a light that binds folk of good will together, rather than bringing estrangement. It is the light of a babe born in humility and laid in a manger for his bed.
Be assured, my friends, we have seen and borne witness to this light. At the font, and at the rail before the altar, we have been touched by the light of Christ and even held him in our hands. We receive him week by week and feed on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving. We have seen his star at its rising and we have become partakers of his Risen Life! The wise men only had a distant star and a faint hope. We are marked forever as his own in baptism. As witnesses to his Resurrection we have beheld his rising star in a way that those wise men never could. His story has become our story. And thus, the prophet Isaiah presciently proclaims to us, “Arise shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you!” So we arise, saying “no” to the darkness that covers the earth. We arise as shining as stars, reflecting his light, dispelling the darkness of the night.
When darkness seeks to overcome us, he arises within us and overcomes the night. And when we lose hope or when others seek to suppress his light in us, fellow stars arise amongst in gentleness and shine forth, sharing his resurrection glory, one with another, innumerable as the stars of heaven, helping us to once again kneel before the Light of the World. Together, as a holy people, we shine and the darkness shall never extinguish his light, for he has illumined our night and we shall never be without his light. Let us kneel before the Light of the World and offer our gifts of adoration and thanksgiving, and then, let us arise that his light might shine out into every dark corner of this troubled world.
Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves -- this homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Let Us Go and See this Thing that has Come to Pass -- A Sermon for Christmas
Homily for Christmas Eve, Year B, 2008
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-21
Let Us Go and See this Thing that Has Come to Pass
I bring you Good News of great joy, which shall be for all people. A Word has gone out to all the nations, a Word that echoes across the ages into our hearts and souls this very night. A Word has gone out, more enduring, more powerful than any word or decree uttered by any emperor, king, or ruler of any age. A Word has gone out not only into the darkest corners of the world but into the darkest corners of our hearts. It is a Word that came to shepherds abiding in the field; it is a Word that reached distant wise men who pondered the stars; it is a Word that was birthed in the willing hearts of a young and frightened couple in a stable in Bethlehem – the Word made flesh, Jesus our Lord and King.
I bring you Good News of great joy that what was cast down is now being raised up, what was old is being made new, what is broken is being restored. Let us go then and see this thing that God has made known unto us. Let us see what God has done. Yes, my friends what has been made known and what has been done. We speak not about the past or only about the future but about the present. We speak about today.
We live in a world full of crisis, and we may look longingly back at an idyllic golden age (that never really was), or we may hope against hope for a better day to come. At times its seems like our only hope is rooted in the hope of tomorrow. In a world of terrorism and wars on terrorism, in a world in which gun violence grips our cities, in a world in which poverty and epidemic run rampant, in a world in which our environment seems irreversibly destroyed, we feebly hope that tomorrow will be a better day. But the hope of tomorrow is a feeble one indeed. If we have not fared well in the past, and if we have not acted well in the present, what hope have we for tomorrow?
But the Christmas message is not a message for tomorrow. It is not a pipe dream for the future. It is the breaking through of a reality that God has acted and is acting now. Hope is not long past or future-flung, it is now, in Christ. Will any of us dare to believe it is so? In the midst of economic crisis, ecological crisis, socio-political crisis, can we, will we, dare we believe that a Word has gone forth and that God has acted?
Can you believe it?
Consider for a moment that in the muck and mire of first century Palestine, under foreign domination and oppression, in the midst of political uncertainty, terrorist uprising, economic disparity, God came into the world. To a people without hope, to a people with a broken spirit, to a people who longed for a better tomorrow but feared it would never come, God entered in. He did not tarry, he came and the word uttered to the people, to shepherds abiding in the field was not “wait,” but “come hither and see what God has done.” To these ancients God became human and lived amongst them.
And to you, whose heart is broken this night, he comes.
And to you, who have lost your job and fear what the future holds, he comes.
And to you, whose retirement savings have disappeared these past few months, he comes.
And to you, as your family life is in turmoil, he comes.
And to you, who have lost your beloved this past year, he comes.
And to you, who fear for the anxiety of tomorrow, he comes.
Unto each one of us, in our personal brokenness, into the muck and mire of our lives, into the complicated business we call “life”, into the confusion of our lives, he comes with healing in his wings. You may not hear angels singing or trumpets heralding his coming, but he has come.
To any who were once alone but comforted by another, he has come.
To any who have made a terrible mistake and felt the forgiveness of another, he has come.
To any who have lost something or someone dear and felt the outpouring of love and support by family and friends, he has come.
And even in the silence of the moment when all seems lost, even in that silence, he is there.
These are the angelic choruses that herald his living and abiding presence among us. These are the heavenly songs here on earth that remind us we are not alone, and what is more, that we have been saved from every evil that the world can throw at us. This is the Glory of God illumined all around.
Angels appeared to trembling shepherds. The Glory of the Lord shone round about them enveloping them and calming their fear with joyous tidings that the Lord had come. A Word of hope came to them and they turned their faces toward Bethlehem, and they were not afraid. In the love and care of others in Christ, we are enfolded in that same glory and in that same love. And in our comfort and care of others we enfold them in that same love. Thus we have no cause to fear for Christ is born and the world is changed. We are surrounded by the glory of God. And we turn.
Seek the signs of the Word made flesh. God is disclosing them moment-by-moment in spite of, and in the midst of a broken world. Seek the signs not in the courts of kings, or the halls of parliaments, or in the offices of Bay Street. Seek them not at the end of a rifle or in the commands of generals or in the movements of armies, for God discloses himself in gentleness, in deep humility, in the arms of an unwed teenaged mother, in the dampness of a lowly stable.
In acts of gentleness, in kindness and humility he is made known to us. In acts of forgiveness, contrition, and compassion he comes. God is found in brokenness. God is found in our poverty, both spiritual and material. Yet make no mistake, his humility is his power and his poverty is his strength, for it is in his humiliation that our broken hearts are mended and in his poverty that we are richly filled. Let us go then unto Bethlehem seeing and believing this thing that the Lord has done.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-21
Let Us Go and See this Thing that Has Come to Pass
I bring you Good News of great joy, which shall be for all people. A Word has gone out to all the nations, a Word that echoes across the ages into our hearts and souls this very night. A Word has gone out, more enduring, more powerful than any word or decree uttered by any emperor, king, or ruler of any age. A Word has gone out not only into the darkest corners of the world but into the darkest corners of our hearts. It is a Word that came to shepherds abiding in the field; it is a Word that reached distant wise men who pondered the stars; it is a Word that was birthed in the willing hearts of a young and frightened couple in a stable in Bethlehem – the Word made flesh, Jesus our Lord and King.
I bring you Good News of great joy that what was cast down is now being raised up, what was old is being made new, what is broken is being restored. Let us go then and see this thing that God has made known unto us. Let us see what God has done. Yes, my friends what has been made known and what has been done. We speak not about the past or only about the future but about the present. We speak about today.
We live in a world full of crisis, and we may look longingly back at an idyllic golden age (that never really was), or we may hope against hope for a better day to come. At times its seems like our only hope is rooted in the hope of tomorrow. In a world of terrorism and wars on terrorism, in a world in which gun violence grips our cities, in a world in which poverty and epidemic run rampant, in a world in which our environment seems irreversibly destroyed, we feebly hope that tomorrow will be a better day. But the hope of tomorrow is a feeble one indeed. If we have not fared well in the past, and if we have not acted well in the present, what hope have we for tomorrow?
But the Christmas message is not a message for tomorrow. It is not a pipe dream for the future. It is the breaking through of a reality that God has acted and is acting now. Hope is not long past or future-flung, it is now, in Christ. Will any of us dare to believe it is so? In the midst of economic crisis, ecological crisis, socio-political crisis, can we, will we, dare we believe that a Word has gone forth and that God has acted?
Can you believe it?
Consider for a moment that in the muck and mire of first century Palestine, under foreign domination and oppression, in the midst of political uncertainty, terrorist uprising, economic disparity, God came into the world. To a people without hope, to a people with a broken spirit, to a people who longed for a better tomorrow but feared it would never come, God entered in. He did not tarry, he came and the word uttered to the people, to shepherds abiding in the field was not “wait,” but “come hither and see what God has done.” To these ancients God became human and lived amongst them.
And to you, whose heart is broken this night, he comes.
And to you, who have lost your job and fear what the future holds, he comes.
And to you, whose retirement savings have disappeared these past few months, he comes.
And to you, as your family life is in turmoil, he comes.
And to you, who have lost your beloved this past year, he comes.
And to you, who fear for the anxiety of tomorrow, he comes.
Unto each one of us, in our personal brokenness, into the muck and mire of our lives, into the complicated business we call “life”, into the confusion of our lives, he comes with healing in his wings. You may not hear angels singing or trumpets heralding his coming, but he has come.
To any who were once alone but comforted by another, he has come.
To any who have made a terrible mistake and felt the forgiveness of another, he has come.
To any who have lost something or someone dear and felt the outpouring of love and support by family and friends, he has come.
And even in the silence of the moment when all seems lost, even in that silence, he is there.
These are the angelic choruses that herald his living and abiding presence among us. These are the heavenly songs here on earth that remind us we are not alone, and what is more, that we have been saved from every evil that the world can throw at us. This is the Glory of God illumined all around.
Angels appeared to trembling shepherds. The Glory of the Lord shone round about them enveloping them and calming their fear with joyous tidings that the Lord had come. A Word of hope came to them and they turned their faces toward Bethlehem, and they were not afraid. In the love and care of others in Christ, we are enfolded in that same glory and in that same love. And in our comfort and care of others we enfold them in that same love. Thus we have no cause to fear for Christ is born and the world is changed. We are surrounded by the glory of God. And we turn.
Seek the signs of the Word made flesh. God is disclosing them moment-by-moment in spite of, and in the midst of a broken world. Seek the signs not in the courts of kings, or the halls of parliaments, or in the offices of Bay Street. Seek them not at the end of a rifle or in the commands of generals or in the movements of armies, for God discloses himself in gentleness, in deep humility, in the arms of an unwed teenaged mother, in the dampness of a lowly stable.
In acts of gentleness, in kindness and humility he is made known to us. In acts of forgiveness, contrition, and compassion he comes. God is found in brokenness. God is found in our poverty, both spiritual and material. Yet make no mistake, his humility is his power and his poverty is his strength, for it is in his humiliation that our broken hearts are mended and in his poverty that we are richly filled. Let us go then unto Bethlehem seeing and believing this thing that the Lord has done.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
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