Homily for Proper 8, Year A, 2011
Sunday, February 27th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 49:8-16a
“See, I have inscribed you on the palm of my hands.”
-Isaiah 49:16
Sometimes it can be hard to believe. Each of us will have moments in which we feel our faith wavering, or even more poignantly, moments when we find ourselves wondering if we believe anything at all. Sometimes, when I encounter other Christians, those filled with such zeal and passion, those who have a Bible verse at the ready for every little problem life throws at them, those who speak of all the exciting wonders God is working in their lives on a daily basis, I take a long, hard look at myself and I ask myself if I really do have any faith at all. In times like this is can be helpful to do a little storytelling, to look back on times when I have felt moved, when I have felt close to God, but even then, sometimes the distance we feel from God can be discouraging. Whether that distance comes from comparing ourselves with others who seem to have caught that holy flame, or whether it comes because we are experiencing other sorts of crises, such as a chronic or terminal illness, the loss of a job, or the breakdown of a family, the feeling of being distant from God can be deeply discouraging.
I suspect that this feeling is one of the reasons God appoints prophets, for one of the things that prophets do is to speak into the vacuum of the seeming absence of God in our lives. Prophets proclaim to a people for whom hope has slipped away that hope may again be restored, the fires of faith again rekindled, and that joy shall return. We often hear talk of prophets speaking about the injustices of the world, and we hear talk about prophets calling sinners to repentance, but there is also a powerful strain of the prophetic tradition in which the prophet proclaims the faithfulness of God when we so profoundly feel God’s absence.
The prophet Isaiah proclaimed to his people that God was drawing them out of captivity and restoring them, but they could not see it. They had lived in darkness for so long that they could not catch a glimpse of the light. He called them to sing for joy and to exult, but there was no joy in their hearts. They told Isaiah, “The Lord has forsaken us! Our Lord has forgotten us!” To which Isaiah responded with this powerful metaphor, “Can a woman forget her nursing child; and show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.” God loves his people as much as a nursing mother loves her child, and yet, even if that image was not powerful enough, believe this, he says, I have inscribed you upon my hand.
God has imprinted his people upon his hand. What wonderful words of comfort we find in these words, for though it may seem to me that I have somehow lost the imprint of God on my being, I can be assured that my being is imprinted upon God. The prophet Isaiah proclaims this profound truth to a discouraged people. To a people who believed that they had been forsaken by God, who knew captivity at the hands of foreign rulers, who had searched and searched and could not find God anywhere in their situation, the prophet proclaimed that God had imprinted them upon his hand – a powerful symbol that God’s people would never be without the blessing of his touch, that they would always be held firmly in his hand. Thus, when they felt most alone, when their faith failed, God’s faith did not. He loved them so much that he imprinted them upon himself that his people might ever be close to him.
These are words of great hope, then, for you and for me. Oh, how weak and fragile is my faith. How little strength I have in and of myself to keep the faith, much less follow Jesus and proclaim him. But oh, what a gracious and loving God we worship whose faith in us strengthens us beyond any faith you or I could manufacture on our own! What a hope we have when hope seems distant, because the hope we lay hold to is not a hope we dream but a hope God dreams! What joy we touch in that hope because it is not a joy we can muster but a joy that overflows from the heart of God for his creation and for his people!
Difficult as it may be to believe at times, the prophet proclaims that God has not left his people. The time would come again when another generation would feel discouraged, feel abandoned, feel the absence of God; and into their presence as child was born. A rabbi would later gather disciples around him and proclaim the same truth of God’s love for his people. If God cares for the sparrow that falls from the sky, or clothes the grass of the field which is alive today and gone tomorrow, how much more he cares for his people in their sadness and loneliness. These words brought comfort, these words proclaimed the presence of God, but what the disciples would later understand was that the one who spoke these words of comfort was none other than their God in their very midst.
When I forget the baptismal cross that is signed upon my forehead that marks me as Christ’s own forever, God does not forget it, for God has imprinted us, even with all our brokenness and doubt upon himself, upon his own very being, in the crucified Christ, that through him we might be grafted into his divine nature. When the world encloses us round and we lose sight of a distant God, God makes the journey across the chasm that separates us and imprints humanity upon himself that we might share in his faithfulness: that his faith should be our faith, that his hope should be our hope, and his joy might be our joy. This faith, this hope, this joy, are the marks of his love. And it is to this divine love that I cling when I find that human faith, hope and joy are beyond my ability to muster.
c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
We are God's Temple -- A Homily for Proper 7, Year A, 2011
Homily for Proper 7, Year A, 2011
Sunday, February 20th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Cor 3: 10-11, 16-23
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple?”
-I Cor 3:16
In each generation we are called to be builders. The kingdom of God is an edifice that grows and changes with each generation of Christians; and with each generation new possibilities are revealed. The glorious possibilities that are before us are unveiled when we realize that we build on the work of others. Even a little child standing on the shoulders of a giant can see farther than the giant alone. Thus, we stand today on the shoulders of giants, not simply the giants of this parish who have gone before us, but the giants of Christendom, our mothers and fathers in the faith, whose lives punctuate a two thousand year history of proclaiming Jesus Christ, the cornerstone. This is reality of the edifice to which we add ourselves as living stones.
As all who have ever been involved in building projects or home renovations know, every building project has its challenges; every home improvement has its hurdles. Sometimes it can be money. At other times, members of the construction team may have trouble getting along. Sometimes fatigue sets in. Sometimes the rules change when a new building code is introduced. Yes, at times it can feel like the challenges and obstacles are too great.
When the challenges seem so profound, it can be helpful to stop and rest for a moment, to stand back and gaze upon the edifice and ponder, for a moment, our place in time and our part in the project of building the kingdom of God.
Sometimes when we look back on the great builders of the past, we wonder how we can ever measure up. Osler, Hill, Creighton, Hopkins, and so many others – they were great builders in this parish, and certainly men whose work I cast my gaze upon with admiration and awe. We all look back to the heroes of our past, mothers and fathers, mentors and friends, who have played their part in the building of the edifices of our individuals lives, who helped make us who we are; and we wonder, can I ever do that for someone else?
Looking back on the great people of our lives and of our history can be an inspiring thing, but it can also be an intimidating thing. Sometimes we can stand gazing upon the edifice that they have built and idolize the builders so much that we forget that we stand with a trowel in hand and task to perform. In Corinth, there was so much devotion to the builders and their work, that this is what the Corinthian people forgot. They boasted of their great builders, of Paul, of Cephas, of Apollos. Each pointed to the parts of the building so carefully and lovingly constructed by their favourite builders, forgetting all the while that they, too, were called to be builders.
The temple that we build is not an edifice that can be seen and touched by human hands. It is not a building, but a community. It is not a house, but a household. It is our shared life in Christ. The edifice of this temple is adorned with acts of kindness, demonstrations of love and compassion, and gestures of faith. The edifice of this temple is adorned with the labour and love of generations offering themselves not only to each other, but to the living and loving God. As we stand back and gaze we see memorials to the magnificent builders of the past, and yet we see new possibilities upon the stones they laid. Standing back for a moment we appreciate the edifice, and are inspired by the labourers of old, and we imagine what the structure will look like when we have done our piece, placed our living stones upon the walls. Standing back for a moment we are granted a certain perspective; that the task is not ours alone. We stand on the shoulders of giants, and we lay stones upon which future generations will stand. We realize that we have a part to play. We begin to imagine, and we are reinvigorated for the task that lies ahead.
Have you ever see one of those great European cathedrals? On my living room wall hangs a nineteenth century picture of York Minster Cathedral. Athena and I visited this cathedral in 1995. At the time, the edifice was covered in a scaffold, for necessary renovations and repairs. Even so, we stood back and admired it in awe. In an age when buildings go up over night, it can be helpful for us to remember that a cathedral takes generations to build; and even when we think it completed the work goes on and a scaffold once again goes up. Think of the builders who invest in that structure that never see it through to completion, yet they know that they take part in a holy task, a grand work, an act of faith. That cathedral on my wall reminds me that our work as the people of God is such a thing, and indeed the kingdom of God is such a thing. We shall not see it completed and yet it matters not what we see, what matters is that we form a part of the edifice, as living stones, built upon other living stones – Paul and Apollos, Osler, Creighton, and Hopkins, and oh so many more!
The building only stands though, for one reason, and that is the cornerstone upon which it is laid. That cornerstone is our Lord Jesus Christ. We take up our place in the edifice with confidence because we know the rock upon which it is built. We continue to build because we know that the foundation cannot be shaken. We build to the sky because the Temple is built on Christ and belongs to God. We belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God, and God’s work will not be destroyed.
c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 20th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Cor 3: 10-11, 16-23
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple?”
-I Cor 3:16
In each generation we are called to be builders. The kingdom of God is an edifice that grows and changes with each generation of Christians; and with each generation new possibilities are revealed. The glorious possibilities that are before us are unveiled when we realize that we build on the work of others. Even a little child standing on the shoulders of a giant can see farther than the giant alone. Thus, we stand today on the shoulders of giants, not simply the giants of this parish who have gone before us, but the giants of Christendom, our mothers and fathers in the faith, whose lives punctuate a two thousand year history of proclaiming Jesus Christ, the cornerstone. This is reality of the edifice to which we add ourselves as living stones.
As all who have ever been involved in building projects or home renovations know, every building project has its challenges; every home improvement has its hurdles. Sometimes it can be money. At other times, members of the construction team may have trouble getting along. Sometimes fatigue sets in. Sometimes the rules change when a new building code is introduced. Yes, at times it can feel like the challenges and obstacles are too great.
When the challenges seem so profound, it can be helpful to stop and rest for a moment, to stand back and gaze upon the edifice and ponder, for a moment, our place in time and our part in the project of building the kingdom of God.
Sometimes when we look back on the great builders of the past, we wonder how we can ever measure up. Osler, Hill, Creighton, Hopkins, and so many others – they were great builders in this parish, and certainly men whose work I cast my gaze upon with admiration and awe. We all look back to the heroes of our past, mothers and fathers, mentors and friends, who have played their part in the building of the edifices of our individuals lives, who helped make us who we are; and we wonder, can I ever do that for someone else?
Looking back on the great people of our lives and of our history can be an inspiring thing, but it can also be an intimidating thing. Sometimes we can stand gazing upon the edifice that they have built and idolize the builders so much that we forget that we stand with a trowel in hand and task to perform. In Corinth, there was so much devotion to the builders and their work, that this is what the Corinthian people forgot. They boasted of their great builders, of Paul, of Cephas, of Apollos. Each pointed to the parts of the building so carefully and lovingly constructed by their favourite builders, forgetting all the while that they, too, were called to be builders.
The temple that we build is not an edifice that can be seen and touched by human hands. It is not a building, but a community. It is not a house, but a household. It is our shared life in Christ. The edifice of this temple is adorned with acts of kindness, demonstrations of love and compassion, and gestures of faith. The edifice of this temple is adorned with the labour and love of generations offering themselves not only to each other, but to the living and loving God. As we stand back and gaze we see memorials to the magnificent builders of the past, and yet we see new possibilities upon the stones they laid. Standing back for a moment we appreciate the edifice, and are inspired by the labourers of old, and we imagine what the structure will look like when we have done our piece, placed our living stones upon the walls. Standing back for a moment we are granted a certain perspective; that the task is not ours alone. We stand on the shoulders of giants, and we lay stones upon which future generations will stand. We realize that we have a part to play. We begin to imagine, and we are reinvigorated for the task that lies ahead.
Have you ever see one of those great European cathedrals? On my living room wall hangs a nineteenth century picture of York Minster Cathedral. Athena and I visited this cathedral in 1995. At the time, the edifice was covered in a scaffold, for necessary renovations and repairs. Even so, we stood back and admired it in awe. In an age when buildings go up over night, it can be helpful for us to remember that a cathedral takes generations to build; and even when we think it completed the work goes on and a scaffold once again goes up. Think of the builders who invest in that structure that never see it through to completion, yet they know that they take part in a holy task, a grand work, an act of faith. That cathedral on my wall reminds me that our work as the people of God is such a thing, and indeed the kingdom of God is such a thing. We shall not see it completed and yet it matters not what we see, what matters is that we form a part of the edifice, as living stones, built upon other living stones – Paul and Apollos, Osler, Creighton, and Hopkins, and oh so many more!
The building only stands though, for one reason, and that is the cornerstone upon which it is laid. That cornerstone is our Lord Jesus Christ. We take up our place in the edifice with confidence because we know the rock upon which it is built. We continue to build because we know that the foundation cannot be shaken. We build to the sky because the Temple is built on Christ and belongs to God. We belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God, and God’s work will not be destroyed.
c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Why Are We Here? A Homily for Proper 2, Year A, 2011
Homily for Proper 2, Year A, 2011
Sunday, January 16th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 1:29-42
“…but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.”
-John 1:31
Why are we here? I don’t mean that in the larger existential sense, but rather, the more particular sense. Why are we here as a church community? What are we about? To what end do we exist? There will be as many answers to that question as there are people who belong to this church. Many wonderful answers can be given: I am here because this is a community in which I am loved through good times and bad; I am here because what we do on Sunday mornings spiritually recharges me for the rest of the week; I am here because the words of Scripture challenge me to live my life differently; I am here because I need healing; I am here because God has called me here; I am here because I love the music of our faith and the song God puts in our hearts; I am here because it reminds me I am not alone; I am here to worship the God who created me, loves me, and redeems me. I am here because my mother made me get out of bed this morning and come.
These are all wonderful answers, and honest answers. Many more could be given. I should like to propose one that occurred to me as I read the words of John the Baptist, in John 1:31, “but I come baptizing with water for this reason, that Jesus might be revealed to Israel.” To the question, “why are you here?” John the Baptist responds, “I am here that Jesus might be known to the world.” To make Jesus known, to reveal Jesus, this is one of the most important reasons we are here.
Now, on one level this might be considered an act of hubris and arrogance, for of course, it is not we that make Jesus known, but the Holy Spirit of God that reveals Jesus. Indeed, John the Baptist goes on to describe how he knew Jesus was the messiah, the Christ: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him.” John the Baptist recognized the Messiah because the Spirit of God revealed Jesus to him AS messiah. And yet, John has a role to play. What he has seen and what he has heard, he is called to proclaim, and in his act of proclamation, Jesus is revealed to others.
A day passes, and John continues to go about his baptizing. He is standing with his two disciples and Jesus passes by. What does John do? He grabs his disciples by the arms and point out Jesus, probably a very non-descript man of his day, and proclaims, “Behold the lamb of God!” John directs others toward Jesus the Christ. The Spirit of God moves John to participate in the revealing of the messiah. He does not say, “Look, there’s that fellow from Nazareth, Jesus,” instead he proclaims as deeper truth what has been revealed to him. What has been revealed to him he now reveals to others, “behold the lamb of God.” What does this mean? He is the one that will save his people. He is the one who will deliver them from their sins. He is their Passover lamb.
In the act of recognition, Jesus turns to John’s disciples and asks: “What are you looking for?” Did they really know what they were looking for? They only knew something remarkable was happening, that something special was being revealed to them, and so they asked strange question, “where are you staying?” And he said, “Come and see.” Come and see -- words that are mysterious, and yet words that invite. Come and see.
Later yet, one of those same disciples, a man named Andrew, after spending some time with Jesus, returned home to his brother, Simon, and told him “We have found the Messiah.” Something had been revealed to Andrew because John had introduced him to Jesus, and he accepted Jesus’ invitation, to “come and see.” A day with Jesus, and Andrew knew he had found the messiah; and so he invited his brother, he revealed Jesus to his brother, and Simon came before Jesus and Jesus gave him the new name of Peter. In meeting Jesus, something profound was revealed to Simon, namely, who Simon was to be – a rock, upon which Christ’s church would be built. Suddenly, Simon’s existential question, “why am I here?” was answered.
Today, this church sits, a city set upon a hill, as a light to this community, and we ask why are we here? Amidst the myriad of valid and valued reasons, this is perhaps the most important one: that Jesus might be revealed to this community and to this world. Why are we here? Why do we baptize? Why do we sing songs and hymns? Why do we read our Sacred Scriptures and share our sacred meal? That Jesus might be revealed.
When we revisit some of the reasons that we are here, we realize that many of them are because Jesus has been revealed to us, and in our reasons for coming, Jesus is continually revealed to us: We are not alone; we have a song in our hearts; we are loved and cared for in good times and bad; we have found healing. And yes, even “my mother made me come” is a revelation, too. It is sign that God doesn’t give up on us; that sometimes God has to drag us out of bed and into action. All of the reason we gather reveal Jesus to us. We are here because we respond week-by-week to the words, “Come and see.”
But “come and see” are words spoken not only to us, but something we are called to speak to others. For as the Spirit of God revealed Jesus to John, so John revealed Jesus to Andrew, and so Andrew revealed Jesus to Peter. Oh the wondrous things that happened through the sharing of Jesus with friends and families. But always remember, sharing is an invitation, never a command. Sharing Jesus begins with the words “come and see.” That is our part in the journey of revelation. We invite and pray for the Spirit to descend like a dove, that those who join us will indeed see in our love, our worship and our community the face of God in Christ, and will indeed leave this place proclaiming, “I have found the messiah,” and with joy and excitement offer that invitation to another.
c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 16th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 1:29-42
“…but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.”
-John 1:31
Why are we here? I don’t mean that in the larger existential sense, but rather, the more particular sense. Why are we here as a church community? What are we about? To what end do we exist? There will be as many answers to that question as there are people who belong to this church. Many wonderful answers can be given: I am here because this is a community in which I am loved through good times and bad; I am here because what we do on Sunday mornings spiritually recharges me for the rest of the week; I am here because the words of Scripture challenge me to live my life differently; I am here because I need healing; I am here because God has called me here; I am here because I love the music of our faith and the song God puts in our hearts; I am here because it reminds me I am not alone; I am here to worship the God who created me, loves me, and redeems me. I am here because my mother made me get out of bed this morning and come.
These are all wonderful answers, and honest answers. Many more could be given. I should like to propose one that occurred to me as I read the words of John the Baptist, in John 1:31, “but I come baptizing with water for this reason, that Jesus might be revealed to Israel.” To the question, “why are you here?” John the Baptist responds, “I am here that Jesus might be known to the world.” To make Jesus known, to reveal Jesus, this is one of the most important reasons we are here.
Now, on one level this might be considered an act of hubris and arrogance, for of course, it is not we that make Jesus known, but the Holy Spirit of God that reveals Jesus. Indeed, John the Baptist goes on to describe how he knew Jesus was the messiah, the Christ: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him.” John the Baptist recognized the Messiah because the Spirit of God revealed Jesus to him AS messiah. And yet, John has a role to play. What he has seen and what he has heard, he is called to proclaim, and in his act of proclamation, Jesus is revealed to others.
A day passes, and John continues to go about his baptizing. He is standing with his two disciples and Jesus passes by. What does John do? He grabs his disciples by the arms and point out Jesus, probably a very non-descript man of his day, and proclaims, “Behold the lamb of God!” John directs others toward Jesus the Christ. The Spirit of God moves John to participate in the revealing of the messiah. He does not say, “Look, there’s that fellow from Nazareth, Jesus,” instead he proclaims as deeper truth what has been revealed to him. What has been revealed to him he now reveals to others, “behold the lamb of God.” What does this mean? He is the one that will save his people. He is the one who will deliver them from their sins. He is their Passover lamb.
In the act of recognition, Jesus turns to John’s disciples and asks: “What are you looking for?” Did they really know what they were looking for? They only knew something remarkable was happening, that something special was being revealed to them, and so they asked strange question, “where are you staying?” And he said, “Come and see.” Come and see -- words that are mysterious, and yet words that invite. Come and see.
Later yet, one of those same disciples, a man named Andrew, after spending some time with Jesus, returned home to his brother, Simon, and told him “We have found the Messiah.” Something had been revealed to Andrew because John had introduced him to Jesus, and he accepted Jesus’ invitation, to “come and see.” A day with Jesus, and Andrew knew he had found the messiah; and so he invited his brother, he revealed Jesus to his brother, and Simon came before Jesus and Jesus gave him the new name of Peter. In meeting Jesus, something profound was revealed to Simon, namely, who Simon was to be – a rock, upon which Christ’s church would be built. Suddenly, Simon’s existential question, “why am I here?” was answered.
Today, this church sits, a city set upon a hill, as a light to this community, and we ask why are we here? Amidst the myriad of valid and valued reasons, this is perhaps the most important one: that Jesus might be revealed to this community and to this world. Why are we here? Why do we baptize? Why do we sing songs and hymns? Why do we read our Sacred Scriptures and share our sacred meal? That Jesus might be revealed.
When we revisit some of the reasons that we are here, we realize that many of them are because Jesus has been revealed to us, and in our reasons for coming, Jesus is continually revealed to us: We are not alone; we have a song in our hearts; we are loved and cared for in good times and bad; we have found healing. And yes, even “my mother made me come” is a revelation, too. It is sign that God doesn’t give up on us; that sometimes God has to drag us out of bed and into action. All of the reason we gather reveal Jesus to us. We are here because we respond week-by-week to the words, “Come and see.”
But “come and see” are words spoken not only to us, but something we are called to speak to others. For as the Spirit of God revealed Jesus to John, so John revealed Jesus to Andrew, and so Andrew revealed Jesus to Peter. Oh the wondrous things that happened through the sharing of Jesus with friends and families. But always remember, sharing is an invitation, never a command. Sharing Jesus begins with the words “come and see.” That is our part in the journey of revelation. We invite and pray for the Spirit to descend like a dove, that those who join us will indeed see in our love, our worship and our community the face of God in Christ, and will indeed leave this place proclaiming, “I have found the messiah,” and with joy and excitement offer that invitation to another.
c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 9, 2011
A Song of Delight - A Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, 2011
Homily for the Baptism of the Lord, Year A, 2011
Sunday, January 9th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 42:1-9
Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.
-Isaiah 42:1
Isaiah sings of a servant, and what a strange thing to sing about! When you think about it, how many songs are written to extol the glories of the hired help? Songs are sung about kings and princes, songs are sung about lovers and heroes, but how many popular songs are written about the servant? I suppose with some thinking we might posit an example or two, but when we pause to consider it, the servant is indeed a strange person to sing about. I suppose that if we were to seek a modern equivalent, it would perhaps be like singing a ballad about the Walmart greeter. Nothing against the Walmart greeter, of course, it is just that he or she is not normally the subject of panegyric praise.
The book of the prophet Isaiah contains several songs about the servant; perhaps the most famous is his song about the suffering servant. Many will recognize from our Good Friday liturgy the words, “He was wounded for our transgression, bruised for our iniquities.” Today we hear another one of those songs, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights!” These songs that Isaiah sung resonated with the people of the Early Church. They would have been familiar songs, well-known sacred songs of their Jewish heritage. They identified with these songs.
There is much debate in scholarship over who Isaiah thought the servant to be, but it is fairly clear that the people of ancient Judea considered the songs to be about them as a nation. The servant was the chosen one, in whom God delights, who walks in his way, who has his Spirit. But the servant is also the one who suffers, who seems abandoned, and yet is never abandoned. The people of Judea could certainly feel their own story being sung in the words of these ancient servant songs. And so, I believe, it was.
But songs have many layers of meaning, and sacred songs all the more so. Thus, it is no surprise that for the early Christians, new layers of meaning began to resonate in these well-worn and time-honoured sacred songs after they experienced the Risen Jesus in their midst. They sung them once again as they gathered, and as they heard the old, old song, once again, they heard it now with fresh ears. The suffering servant became for them, Jesus on the cross: “He was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities; like a sheep he was led to the slaughter; he was despised and reject; a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.”
The servant song we hear today is of a different sort, but it brought to life the story of Jesus with no less power: “Here is my servant, my chosen, in whom my soul delights: I will put my strength on him; I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness; I have given you as a covenant to the people; a light to the nations, to bring the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.”
Instead of passion of Jesus evoked by the suffering servant song, this song brought to mind the coming of Jesus, the giving of light to the world, and all that that coming brings, especially release from captivity for the poor, the weak, the persecuted and those weighed down by sin and guilt. It called to mind his baptism, the pouring forth of God’s Spirit upon him, his vocation as the chosen Messiah of God, his identity as God’s beloved child and servant, and importantly as the incarnation of God’s righteousness. When the people of the Early Church recalled the baptism of Jesus, this was the song they sung, for it extolled the servant who consented to be baptized in humility by John, in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled, even though he need not be baptized. For them, this song was about Jesus, and so it is for us, as well.
Thus, we sing this song still and new layers of meaning continue to burst forth. As we approach the font today, to welcome new Christians into the family, and to renew our own Baptismal vows and covenant, we hear these words, “Here are my servants, whom I uphold, my chosen in whom my heart delights; I have put my spirit upon them, and they will bring forth justice to the nations!” The song that was sung about an unknown servant became the song of an ancient people who felt their chosenness in their delivery from the bondage of Egyptian slavery into a promised land, is also the song of Jesus our Lord who delivers us through the waters of baptism into new life. But oh so importantly, it is for us today our song, the song of our servanthood, the song of our deliverance, the song of our chosenness, and the song of our vocation to live out and proclaim the love of God. As baptized Christians, the ancient song becomes our song, we become his children and yes, servants of God, and of one another.
And all of a sudden it makes sense. We can sing songs extolling kings and queens, great men and women. These songs will always abound, but there is another song that echoes from age-to-age, the song of the servant, and it is a song that God sings! God sings a song of praise delighting in his people. It is a song he sings with passion and with love. It is a song he sings with joy and delight. It is a song he sang at the creation of humanity and a song he will sing at the consummation of all history. It is a song he sings of us, his servants, his children, in whom he delights.
c. 2011 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 9th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 42:1-9
Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.
-Isaiah 42:1
Isaiah sings of a servant, and what a strange thing to sing about! When you think about it, how many songs are written to extol the glories of the hired help? Songs are sung about kings and princes, songs are sung about lovers and heroes, but how many popular songs are written about the servant? I suppose with some thinking we might posit an example or two, but when we pause to consider it, the servant is indeed a strange person to sing about. I suppose that if we were to seek a modern equivalent, it would perhaps be like singing a ballad about the Walmart greeter. Nothing against the Walmart greeter, of course, it is just that he or she is not normally the subject of panegyric praise.
The book of the prophet Isaiah contains several songs about the servant; perhaps the most famous is his song about the suffering servant. Many will recognize from our Good Friday liturgy the words, “He was wounded for our transgression, bruised for our iniquities.” Today we hear another one of those songs, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights!” These songs that Isaiah sung resonated with the people of the Early Church. They would have been familiar songs, well-known sacred songs of their Jewish heritage. They identified with these songs.
There is much debate in scholarship over who Isaiah thought the servant to be, but it is fairly clear that the people of ancient Judea considered the songs to be about them as a nation. The servant was the chosen one, in whom God delights, who walks in his way, who has his Spirit. But the servant is also the one who suffers, who seems abandoned, and yet is never abandoned. The people of Judea could certainly feel their own story being sung in the words of these ancient servant songs. And so, I believe, it was.
But songs have many layers of meaning, and sacred songs all the more so. Thus, it is no surprise that for the early Christians, new layers of meaning began to resonate in these well-worn and time-honoured sacred songs after they experienced the Risen Jesus in their midst. They sung them once again as they gathered, and as they heard the old, old song, once again, they heard it now with fresh ears. The suffering servant became for them, Jesus on the cross: “He was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities; like a sheep he was led to the slaughter; he was despised and reject; a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.”
The servant song we hear today is of a different sort, but it brought to life the story of Jesus with no less power: “Here is my servant, my chosen, in whom my soul delights: I will put my strength on him; I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness; I have given you as a covenant to the people; a light to the nations, to bring the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.”
Instead of passion of Jesus evoked by the suffering servant song, this song brought to mind the coming of Jesus, the giving of light to the world, and all that that coming brings, especially release from captivity for the poor, the weak, the persecuted and those weighed down by sin and guilt. It called to mind his baptism, the pouring forth of God’s Spirit upon him, his vocation as the chosen Messiah of God, his identity as God’s beloved child and servant, and importantly as the incarnation of God’s righteousness. When the people of the Early Church recalled the baptism of Jesus, this was the song they sung, for it extolled the servant who consented to be baptized in humility by John, in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled, even though he need not be baptized. For them, this song was about Jesus, and so it is for us, as well.
Thus, we sing this song still and new layers of meaning continue to burst forth. As we approach the font today, to welcome new Christians into the family, and to renew our own Baptismal vows and covenant, we hear these words, “Here are my servants, whom I uphold, my chosen in whom my heart delights; I have put my spirit upon them, and they will bring forth justice to the nations!” The song that was sung about an unknown servant became the song of an ancient people who felt their chosenness in their delivery from the bondage of Egyptian slavery into a promised land, is also the song of Jesus our Lord who delivers us through the waters of baptism into new life. But oh so importantly, it is for us today our song, the song of our servanthood, the song of our deliverance, the song of our chosenness, and the song of our vocation to live out and proclaim the love of God. As baptized Christians, the ancient song becomes our song, we become his children and yes, servants of God, and of one another.
And all of a sudden it makes sense. We can sing songs extolling kings and queens, great men and women. These songs will always abound, but there is another song that echoes from age-to-age, the song of the servant, and it is a song that God sings! God sings a song of praise delighting in his people. It is a song he sings with passion and with love. It is a song he sings with joy and delight. It is a song he sang at the creation of humanity and a song he will sing at the consummation of all history. It is a song he sings of us, his servants, his children, in whom he delights.
c. 2011 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A Song High Above the Trees - A Homily for Christmas I, 2010
Homily for Christmas 1, Year A, 2010
Sunday, December 26th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:13-23
“Herod… was infuriated and he killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under.”
-Matthew 2:16
My wife Athena and I enjoy the television program Madmen. It is the story of a 1960’s Madison Avenue Ad agency which paints a picture not only of that wild world of advertising, but also of everyday middle-class 1960’s life. Although, the events slightly predate us, we share a cultural memory from our early childhoods of the flavor of the day. Many of the little ordinary aspects of daily life that are depicted in that show ring true for us. For example, we both remember sleeping in the back window of the car on long car trips. We remember people smoking everywhere. We remember littering without much sense of consequence to the earth. Many who worked through that period will remember alcohol in the office and sexism and racism in the workplace. What the show depicts so poignantly, though, are those moment that are seared into our cultural consciences, namely events like the freedom marches, the Kennedy assassination and, of course, the Cuban missile crisis.
Although the Cuban missile crisis occurred before I was born, it served as a sign for my generation that we were on the brink of nuclear destruction. Indeed, we grew up in the seventies and eighties believing we would not live to see adulthood. The pessimism and angst of that age seems so far away now. It is now replaced though, for a new generation with wars on terror and the terrors of counter-terrorism. It is replaced by foreign wars in which we are involved that I can scarcely understand and dare not justify. Thus, while the circumstances have changed, our proclivity to hurt one another has not. It is easy for pessimism and angst to grip up once again.
Yet, into our moments of pessimism and angst, a light breaks forth. In the car, listening to my favourite classical music station the other day, I heard the Christmas carol, “Said the night wind to the little lamb,” and I learned something that I did not know, that is probably not news to the rest of you, that this song was written and first performed during the Cuban missile crisis as a plea for peace.
It begins almost as a whisper and finally swells with grandeur as the message of peace is proclaimed throughout the world.
This is how it goes:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see
Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear
Ringing through the sky shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know
In your palace wall mighty king
Do you know what I know
A child, a child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring him silver and gold
Let us bring him silver and gold
Said the king to the people everywhere
Listen to what I say
Pray for peace people everywhere
Listen to what I say
The child, the child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
The child, the child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
It seems to me that the world of first century Judea, a world ruled by a tyrant king with so tentative a grip on power that he chooses to slaughter innocent children, is not so different from the world at any time and place in human history. Terror is terror in any age, as the mothers of slain innocents in first century Judea knew only too well. It is surely not so different from a 1960’s whose existence hung on the decisions of Kennedy and Kruschev. The angst we feel from age to age, whether it be the angst of older veterans who are haunted still by the things they saw in Europe or the South pacific during the second world war, or the angst my generation knew under the doctrine of mutually assured destruction, or the angst this new generation must feel in an age of terror and counter terror, is not so different or alien that we cannot understand what it is to live under fear.
But fortunately, there is voice above the trees that calls out in the night, “Fear not!” It is a voice that proclaims to shepherds abiding in the fields that the fearful reality they know need not be the reality into which they live. It is a voice that proclaims to a young couple that through their love and care of a little child, peace will indeed come into the earth. It is a voice in the wind that awakens us from our fear and pessimism and angst. And dare we say it, it is a voice that can indeed form in our own mouths, be we kings or lowly shepherds and proclaim to the world a word of peace. It is a voice that says no to war, no to missiles, no to terror. It is a voice that says no to domestic violence, no to bullying in our schools, and no the hurt we cause others through shame and anger. But it is not primarily a voice that cries no, but a voice that cries YES. Yes, to peace, yes, to love, yes to hope. It is a voice that changes things, a voice that can make tyrants stand down, a voice that transforms our hearts and conforms us into the image and likeness of God. It is a voice of humility and a voice of new life.
Listen to the night wind and you will hear that “yes” and through an encounter with the tiny child, born in a stable, you will be given the boldness and courage to proclaim peace to people everywhere.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
words and music for "Said the Night Wind to the Little Lamb" by Noel Regney and Gloria Shayne Baker.
Sunday, December 26th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:13-23
“Herod… was infuriated and he killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under.”
-Matthew 2:16
My wife Athena and I enjoy the television program Madmen. It is the story of a 1960’s Madison Avenue Ad agency which paints a picture not only of that wild world of advertising, but also of everyday middle-class 1960’s life. Although, the events slightly predate us, we share a cultural memory from our early childhoods of the flavor of the day. Many of the little ordinary aspects of daily life that are depicted in that show ring true for us. For example, we both remember sleeping in the back window of the car on long car trips. We remember people smoking everywhere. We remember littering without much sense of consequence to the earth. Many who worked through that period will remember alcohol in the office and sexism and racism in the workplace. What the show depicts so poignantly, though, are those moment that are seared into our cultural consciences, namely events like the freedom marches, the Kennedy assassination and, of course, the Cuban missile crisis.
Although the Cuban missile crisis occurred before I was born, it served as a sign for my generation that we were on the brink of nuclear destruction. Indeed, we grew up in the seventies and eighties believing we would not live to see adulthood. The pessimism and angst of that age seems so far away now. It is now replaced though, for a new generation with wars on terror and the terrors of counter-terrorism. It is replaced by foreign wars in which we are involved that I can scarcely understand and dare not justify. Thus, while the circumstances have changed, our proclivity to hurt one another has not. It is easy for pessimism and angst to grip up once again.
Yet, into our moments of pessimism and angst, a light breaks forth. In the car, listening to my favourite classical music station the other day, I heard the Christmas carol, “Said the night wind to the little lamb,” and I learned something that I did not know, that is probably not news to the rest of you, that this song was written and first performed during the Cuban missile crisis as a plea for peace.
It begins almost as a whisper and finally swells with grandeur as the message of peace is proclaimed throughout the world.
This is how it goes:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see
Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear
Ringing through the sky shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know
In your palace wall mighty king
Do you know what I know
A child, a child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring him silver and gold
Let us bring him silver and gold
Said the king to the people everywhere
Listen to what I say
Pray for peace people everywhere
Listen to what I say
The child, the child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
The child, the child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
It seems to me that the world of first century Judea, a world ruled by a tyrant king with so tentative a grip on power that he chooses to slaughter innocent children, is not so different from the world at any time and place in human history. Terror is terror in any age, as the mothers of slain innocents in first century Judea knew only too well. It is surely not so different from a 1960’s whose existence hung on the decisions of Kennedy and Kruschev. The angst we feel from age to age, whether it be the angst of older veterans who are haunted still by the things they saw in Europe or the South pacific during the second world war, or the angst my generation knew under the doctrine of mutually assured destruction, or the angst this new generation must feel in an age of terror and counter terror, is not so different or alien that we cannot understand what it is to live under fear.
But fortunately, there is voice above the trees that calls out in the night, “Fear not!” It is a voice that proclaims to shepherds abiding in the fields that the fearful reality they know need not be the reality into which they live. It is a voice that proclaims to a young couple that through their love and care of a little child, peace will indeed come into the earth. It is a voice in the wind that awakens us from our fear and pessimism and angst. And dare we say it, it is a voice that can indeed form in our own mouths, be we kings or lowly shepherds and proclaim to the world a word of peace. It is a voice that says no to war, no to missiles, no to terror. It is a voice that says no to domestic violence, no to bullying in our schools, and no the hurt we cause others through shame and anger. But it is not primarily a voice that cries no, but a voice that cries YES. Yes, to peace, yes, to love, yes to hope. It is a voice that changes things, a voice that can make tyrants stand down, a voice that transforms our hearts and conforms us into the image and likeness of God. It is a voice of humility and a voice of new life.
Listen to the night wind and you will hear that “yes” and through an encounter with the tiny child, born in a stable, you will be given the boldness and courage to proclaim peace to people everywhere.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
words and music for "Said the Night Wind to the Little Lamb" by Noel Regney and Gloria Shayne Baker.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Witnesses to the Light - A Homily for Christmas Morning, 2010
A Homily for Christmas Morning, 2010
Saturday, December 25th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, On
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 1:1-14
“The Word became flesh.”
-John 1:14
Light
When the sky clouds over, and the snow falls, and darkness reigns for days, oh, how we long for the light! When the days shorten and darkness falls earlier and earlier and the rising of the sun seems so distant and so faint, oh, how we long to feel the rays of warmth on our faces! When night falls and sleep refuses to come and the hours of darkness seem interminable, oh, how we long for the morn to break forth.
Light
In a world of dark thoughts and bleak futures, where is the light? In a world where the weak are forgotten and our human worth is counted by the dark measure of our spending habits, where is the light? In a world where aged mothers and fathers sit forgotten in the darkness of loneliness, and little children cower in the darkness of domestic violence, where is the light?
Light
As soldiers take up arms and march into the darkness of war; as the rulers of this age measure out lives in dark, sterile terms like “collateral damage,” where is the light?
There was a man from God named John. He was not the light, but rather, a witness to the light. He came to testify to the light, to a people who walked in deep darkness, and longed, oh how they longed, to see the light. To them it was but a dream, a hope, a prayer. The light that burned within them seemed so dim, nearly extinguished – it was there, but oh how it needed fanning by the breath of love. Could the light be kindled again? Could the flame be fanned? They hoped and dared dream. The true light which enlightens everyone was coming into the world. For them it was a hope and a dream. For us it is a reality.
The Word became flesh and although darkness threatens, but cannot envelop us. Though darkness falls, it shall not smother us. Though the night comes, the lamp burns and shall not be extinguished, for the darker it gets, the brighter the light of the Word of God burns. And where is the light? Shall we seek it on a distant shore? Is it burning in some distant heaven? No. It is here, in this world, shining its rays into the darkest corners, into the gloomiest places, into the saddest hearts. It is here – the true light that enlightens everyone has come into the world. The Word became flesh, and in his life, we find our life.
Life
Where the light shines, Life is found in abundance; where the flame of love burns, there can be no darkness; where the Spirit of God blows, the winds of night will never extinguish the light: there is and ever will be Life, for that Life is the light of all people.
Life
Into a world of death, Life is born; not fleeting life, but eternal and abundant Life. Into a world of death, Life is born and death will not defeat it or destroy it. Though darkness will fall and cover the earth at midday and many will believe that hope is lost, hope shall not be destroyed for Life cannot be destroyed by death, nor will Love be overwhelmed the darkness of anger, hate, or fear.
Love
Into a world of brokenness, Love is born. To hearts that weep with sadness, Love sows compassion. To lives filled with loneliness, Love becomes a companion. Into lives written off in sin and the darkness of mistaken purpose, Love brings healing and redemption.
Love
Light became flesh. Eternal life became flesh. Love became flesh. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Before us his glory illuminates the world casts away the darkness, for the darkness can neither understand it nor withstand it. Upon us he bestows his light, his life, and his love. Within us his glory shines and unveils our deepest darkest places. Around us his light lifts the darkness of the world and restores relationships and opens the way of peace.
Like John the Baptist of old, we are a people sent from God to testify to the light. We are not the light, and yet we are enlightened by the light. We witness to the light; the true light of love that has that has come into the world. As we adore Christ our God this morn, may our adoration be a witness to the light, and may this world know the radiance of the Word made flesh.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, December 25th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, On
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 1:1-14
“The Word became flesh.”
-John 1:14
Light
When the sky clouds over, and the snow falls, and darkness reigns for days, oh, how we long for the light! When the days shorten and darkness falls earlier and earlier and the rising of the sun seems so distant and so faint, oh, how we long to feel the rays of warmth on our faces! When night falls and sleep refuses to come and the hours of darkness seem interminable, oh, how we long for the morn to break forth.
Light
In a world of dark thoughts and bleak futures, where is the light? In a world where the weak are forgotten and our human worth is counted by the dark measure of our spending habits, where is the light? In a world where aged mothers and fathers sit forgotten in the darkness of loneliness, and little children cower in the darkness of domestic violence, where is the light?
Light
As soldiers take up arms and march into the darkness of war; as the rulers of this age measure out lives in dark, sterile terms like “collateral damage,” where is the light?
There was a man from God named John. He was not the light, but rather, a witness to the light. He came to testify to the light, to a people who walked in deep darkness, and longed, oh how they longed, to see the light. To them it was but a dream, a hope, a prayer. The light that burned within them seemed so dim, nearly extinguished – it was there, but oh how it needed fanning by the breath of love. Could the light be kindled again? Could the flame be fanned? They hoped and dared dream. The true light which enlightens everyone was coming into the world. For them it was a hope and a dream. For us it is a reality.
The Word became flesh and although darkness threatens, but cannot envelop us. Though darkness falls, it shall not smother us. Though the night comes, the lamp burns and shall not be extinguished, for the darker it gets, the brighter the light of the Word of God burns. And where is the light? Shall we seek it on a distant shore? Is it burning in some distant heaven? No. It is here, in this world, shining its rays into the darkest corners, into the gloomiest places, into the saddest hearts. It is here – the true light that enlightens everyone has come into the world. The Word became flesh, and in his life, we find our life.
Life
Where the light shines, Life is found in abundance; where the flame of love burns, there can be no darkness; where the Spirit of God blows, the winds of night will never extinguish the light: there is and ever will be Life, for that Life is the light of all people.
Life
Into a world of death, Life is born; not fleeting life, but eternal and abundant Life. Into a world of death, Life is born and death will not defeat it or destroy it. Though darkness will fall and cover the earth at midday and many will believe that hope is lost, hope shall not be destroyed for Life cannot be destroyed by death, nor will Love be overwhelmed the darkness of anger, hate, or fear.
Love
Into a world of brokenness, Love is born. To hearts that weep with sadness, Love sows compassion. To lives filled with loneliness, Love becomes a companion. Into lives written off in sin and the darkness of mistaken purpose, Love brings healing and redemption.
Love
Light became flesh. Eternal life became flesh. Love became flesh. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Before us his glory illuminates the world casts away the darkness, for the darkness can neither understand it nor withstand it. Upon us he bestows his light, his life, and his love. Within us his glory shines and unveils our deepest darkest places. Around us his light lifts the darkness of the world and restores relationships and opens the way of peace.
Like John the Baptist of old, we are a people sent from God to testify to the light. We are not the light, and yet we are enlightened by the light. We witness to the light; the true light of love that has that has come into the world. As we adore Christ our God this morn, may our adoration be a witness to the light, and may this world know the radiance of the Word made flesh.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, December 24, 2010
We've Heard it all Before - A Homily for Christmas Eve, 2010
A Homily for Christmas Eve, 2010
Friday, December 24th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-10
“Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place.”
--Luke 2:15
The skeptic might say, “We’ve heard it all before,” and choose to stay home. Indeed, by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, the skeptic might be right – from the time that Hallowe’en decorations are put away until the clock strikes midnight tomorrow, we will have heard the Christmas bells for two solid months. Why should we come together on this night sing the carols that have played without stop since November 1st and hear once again the story of a man and his pregnant wife, the birth of their son in a lowly stable, the song of angels and the awe of shepherds? Why? What is there to be gained from one more round of singing and one more telling of the story? We have heard it all before.
But ah! We have heard it all before! And the story beckons us into its presence and calls us deep into its narrative, inviting us to participate as a shepherd, or bystander, or yes, even a as chorus of angels. The story beckons us once again and we heed the words and come. We join the happy throng that proclaims that Christ is born. Because we have heard it all before, we come. Did we once as children wrap ourselves in a towel or ragged cloth and play a shepherd? Did once a beloved Sunday school teacher enfold us in an oversized choir surplice and place coat hanger wings upon our shoulders and a tinsel halo upon our heads? Were we once given the sacred task of holding a simple doll, transformed this night into a holy child, and rock it in our arms while parents and grandparents looked on, faces aglow, with joy, to see us participating in that old, old story? Were we called upon to be Joseph, Mary, an innkeeper, and angel, or even a sheep, donkey or star? Did we once, wearing five and dime (or dollar store) crowns make the journey down the nave of the church, as wise men once from the east came, to worship the newborn king? And even if we have not participated in such retellings of the story, have we not come from generation to generation, holding the hands of mothers and grandmothers, fathers and grandfathers, to sing the song of the angels, to journey even in spirit with shepherds and wise men, and kneel before the stable, offering our hearts to the King of Kings, born in low estate?
Ah, we have heard it all before, and what joy that story brings! We have heard it all before and we have shared it all before. In its telling and retelling, in our acting and reenacting of the story, the story shapes us and shapes our lives. The story works away in our hearts and melts away our hardness, our skepticism, our bitterness, and our cynicism. The story, though it be known so well, changes us and transforms us again and again.
We have heard it all before, and as the days slip on the story recedes into the backs of our minds and rests sleepily somewhere in the depths of our hearts. As the days of the year wear on and we face the hardships of life and inevitable sadness that comes simply in the act of living in a world with pain and loss, doubt sets in. As the days slip on, the story becomes one that is harder to hear, harder to believe, harder to tell. The days slip on and the nights become interminably longer and the story disappears into the depths our cultural amnesia, barely visible, barely audible. Just as it seems the dawn will never come and the darkness will never lift, a poor couple emerges from the darkness and find their way once again to a stable and once again a child is born to us.
We have heard it all before, and so we know from the depths of our beings what comes next: in that region, in some region deep within our hearts, shepherds are once again stirred by the angels’ song. And once again, deep within the winter of our souls the ice begins to melt and the story begins to warm us and proclaim to us a song of hope and joy that the darkness is being lifted and the night is far spent. Because we have heard it all before we hear the call to “come and see!” The Lord has worked a miracle and that miracle is not simply the birth of babe in Bethlehem, but the birth of hope for a troubled world and troubled lives. The story that weaves its way into the fabric of our lives is the story of hope for you and for me that though I may sink, from time-to-time, into a dark place I will not be abandoned there but will yet see the dawn break forth and rejoice and be glad that hope springs eternal.
We have heard it all before, and because we have heard it all before the old, old story is always a new and exciting story, because it is a story that changes lives. It is a story, that once told, can never be forgotten and once heard forever leaves the stamp of the divine life on our hearts. It is a story that enacts itself again and again within us and shapes us over and over and over again, molding us into the fullness of beauty that God intends for all his creatures.
We have heard it all before and we come to hear it all again, but not only to hear, but to participate, to journey, to allow ourselves to be shaped by the story of God amongst us, within us, reshaping us, and reshaping the world. We come to see this thing that has taken place, to hear this story, not because it someone else’s fascinating story, but because it is our story. It is the story of our life!
Can you believe, though, that some have not heard it? Some lives have never been shaped by it? Some have never had the wings placed on their shoulders or been wrapped in towels and blankets? Can you believe that some have never held the holy child in their arms and let him work the power of his story in their lives and hearts?
God made this world the stage for his story, and we are the actors, we are the shepherds, the magi, the angels and the holy family, whose lives have been shaped by an encounter with our God in the presence of the tiny child. This is our story, and it is good news for the world. As our lives have been shaped by it, let us sing the story with all our heart and live the story with all our being on the world’s stage that it might become the story of ages for a broken and hurting world. Glory to God in the highest.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, December 24th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-10
“Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place.”
--Luke 2:15
The skeptic might say, “We’ve heard it all before,” and choose to stay home. Indeed, by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, the skeptic might be right – from the time that Hallowe’en decorations are put away until the clock strikes midnight tomorrow, we will have heard the Christmas bells for two solid months. Why should we come together on this night sing the carols that have played without stop since November 1st and hear once again the story of a man and his pregnant wife, the birth of their son in a lowly stable, the song of angels and the awe of shepherds? Why? What is there to be gained from one more round of singing and one more telling of the story? We have heard it all before.
But ah! We have heard it all before! And the story beckons us into its presence and calls us deep into its narrative, inviting us to participate as a shepherd, or bystander, or yes, even a as chorus of angels. The story beckons us once again and we heed the words and come. We join the happy throng that proclaims that Christ is born. Because we have heard it all before, we come. Did we once as children wrap ourselves in a towel or ragged cloth and play a shepherd? Did once a beloved Sunday school teacher enfold us in an oversized choir surplice and place coat hanger wings upon our shoulders and a tinsel halo upon our heads? Were we once given the sacred task of holding a simple doll, transformed this night into a holy child, and rock it in our arms while parents and grandparents looked on, faces aglow, with joy, to see us participating in that old, old story? Were we called upon to be Joseph, Mary, an innkeeper, and angel, or even a sheep, donkey or star? Did we once, wearing five and dime (or dollar store) crowns make the journey down the nave of the church, as wise men once from the east came, to worship the newborn king? And even if we have not participated in such retellings of the story, have we not come from generation to generation, holding the hands of mothers and grandmothers, fathers and grandfathers, to sing the song of the angels, to journey even in spirit with shepherds and wise men, and kneel before the stable, offering our hearts to the King of Kings, born in low estate?
Ah, we have heard it all before, and what joy that story brings! We have heard it all before and we have shared it all before. In its telling and retelling, in our acting and reenacting of the story, the story shapes us and shapes our lives. The story works away in our hearts and melts away our hardness, our skepticism, our bitterness, and our cynicism. The story, though it be known so well, changes us and transforms us again and again.
We have heard it all before, and as the days slip on the story recedes into the backs of our minds and rests sleepily somewhere in the depths of our hearts. As the days of the year wear on and we face the hardships of life and inevitable sadness that comes simply in the act of living in a world with pain and loss, doubt sets in. As the days slip on, the story becomes one that is harder to hear, harder to believe, harder to tell. The days slip on and the nights become interminably longer and the story disappears into the depths our cultural amnesia, barely visible, barely audible. Just as it seems the dawn will never come and the darkness will never lift, a poor couple emerges from the darkness and find their way once again to a stable and once again a child is born to us.
We have heard it all before, and so we know from the depths of our beings what comes next: in that region, in some region deep within our hearts, shepherds are once again stirred by the angels’ song. And once again, deep within the winter of our souls the ice begins to melt and the story begins to warm us and proclaim to us a song of hope and joy that the darkness is being lifted and the night is far spent. Because we have heard it all before we hear the call to “come and see!” The Lord has worked a miracle and that miracle is not simply the birth of babe in Bethlehem, but the birth of hope for a troubled world and troubled lives. The story that weaves its way into the fabric of our lives is the story of hope for you and for me that though I may sink, from time-to-time, into a dark place I will not be abandoned there but will yet see the dawn break forth and rejoice and be glad that hope springs eternal.
We have heard it all before, and because we have heard it all before the old, old story is always a new and exciting story, because it is a story that changes lives. It is a story, that once told, can never be forgotten and once heard forever leaves the stamp of the divine life on our hearts. It is a story that enacts itself again and again within us and shapes us over and over and over again, molding us into the fullness of beauty that God intends for all his creatures.
We have heard it all before and we come to hear it all again, but not only to hear, but to participate, to journey, to allow ourselves to be shaped by the story of God amongst us, within us, reshaping us, and reshaping the world. We come to see this thing that has taken place, to hear this story, not because it someone else’s fascinating story, but because it is our story. It is the story of our life!
Can you believe, though, that some have not heard it? Some lives have never been shaped by it? Some have never had the wings placed on their shoulders or been wrapped in towels and blankets? Can you believe that some have never held the holy child in their arms and let him work the power of his story in their lives and hearts?
God made this world the stage for his story, and we are the actors, we are the shepherds, the magi, the angels and the holy family, whose lives have been shaped by an encounter with our God in the presence of the tiny child. This is our story, and it is good news for the world. As our lives have been shaped by it, let us sing the story with all our heart and live the story with all our being on the world’s stage that it might become the story of ages for a broken and hurting world. Glory to God in the highest.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Hope Blooms in the Desert - A Homily for Advent III, Year A, 2010
Homily for Advent III, Year A, 2010
Sunday, December 12th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 35:1-10
Listening to the news this week, it is becoming clear that Barak Obama has lost his lustre. It was but a short time ago that the hopes and dreams of America were all pinned on this one man. He could only stand to fail to live up to the expectations that he set for himself and the expectations placed upon him by the American people. In fact, last year around this time I remember a comment that I made in a sermon that this was all bound to happen sooner rather than later, and as much as I like the man, I was pretty sure that he was likely not the messiah, contrary to popular opinion. Closer to home, a messiah has risen on the political right. Toronto has a new mayor, and all the hopes and dreams of people of the opposite political stripe to those who would claim to support a Barak Obama are pinned on this man. Like Obama, though, it is clear that the lustre will wear off in short order as well. While Rob Ford has got off to an aggressive start in turning his platform into political reality, he is being met with much opposition and the city hall battles are beginning once again. It can be easy to see why people may feel apathetic to the political process when the lustre wears off any given administration, be they left or right.
None of this is said to disparage those who offer themselves for public service, nor is it to disparage the political process itself. Coming from a family of civil servants I am deeply appreciate those who serve their communities either as elected officials or as professional public servants. The health and well-being of a community is, in large part, the result of the hard work of the people who serve our communities as teachers, librarians, firefighters, police service officers, transit employees, municipal workers, and yes, elected politicians. The combined efforts of these and other professionals serve to create a public sphere in which we can enjoy the fruit of the good society.
And yet, people being people, we have differing views of what the good society is all about. We fight about its meaning and we offer our hopes and dreams to each other. Sadly though, we take delight in dashing each other’s hopes and dreams. And then we take further delight in deriding the one finds themself unable to keep his or her promises. Where we have the potential to come together as a people, the darkness of sin drives us apart and we hurt, rather than build up our fellow citizens.
This phenomenon is nothing new. The world into which the prophet Isaiah spoke was a world of political disappointment; a world in which hope would rise and fall with every new ruler, with every new direction, with every new platform and with every new administration. Between foreign captivity and disappointing kings, the Hebrew people had every reason to give up on hope; and yet, into their despair Isaiah spoke these words, “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.”
Perhaps these words were received with skepticism. Perhaps; but they were recorded and repeated generation after generation by people who knew much despair and much disappointment. They are repeated even unto this day. They are words that we repeat in Advent because they are words that pierce through the frailty of our humanity, and speak hope to hearts when hope is dashed and promises are broken. What is the hope that these words proclaim? That hope shall continue to blossom, that we shall taste its fruit, even as we journey from disappointment to disappointment.
This is a promise that comes not from human lips but from the mouth of the Lord. While it is that these words speak to a time beyond our time, about a kingdom that is to come, about the culmination of a history in which all things are gathered up in God, they are also words that speak to another reality though, and that is a reality that is set among us, in Christ Jesus. They speak to the reality of God’s presence in the birth of a tiny babe in Bethlehem, God incarnate, God in our midst. They speak to the reality of the presence of that same incarnate God through his abiding Spirit animating our shared life. They speak to the reality of Christ’s presence in the words of Sacred Scripture. They speak to the reality of his abiding presence in our sacramental sharing of his body and blood.
Most importantly, though, these words speak to us when all around have fallen away and we feel most alone, forsaken, and abandoned by broken promises of human hope. When hope should fail us because there is nothing left to cling to, hope prevails because it is the hope of God that rescues us. If we rely only on our own ability to manufacture hope, we shall be perennially disappointed, but if we shift our point of view for but a moment, we will realize that hope is not created by human hearts or human hands, but finds its wellspring in the heart of God. You see, God has hope for us. God believes in us. God has faith in us; and this is the hope to which we cling as Christian people, that is, God’s relentless desire for us to know joy, peace and love. The fruit of God’s faithfulness is our ability to know such things in him in Christ.
One of my favourite pieces of Christmas music is called “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.” Whereas the eating the fruit of the tree in the Garden of Eden condemned humanity to death, the eating of fruit of the apple tree which is Jesus Christ gives us life.
The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit, and always green
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared to Christ the apple tree.
His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne’er can tell,
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.
For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought:
I missed of all; but now I see
‘Tis found in Christ the apple tree.
I’m weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile;
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree
This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree.
Last year I read a post by a fellow Anglican blogger, Laurel Masse, who said that this is her life in a song. I believe it is the story of my life, too. Perhaps it is the story of our shared humanity. We cannot manufacture faith. We cannot manufacture hope. We cannot manufacture joy, peace or love. These things come from God, but God does share them with overflowing abundance and grace. In the midst of political angst and uncertainty, in the midst of our apathy, in the midst of doubt, “This fruit does make my soul to thrive and keeps my dying faith alive.” When hope seems lost, God sets before us a tree in the desert and that tree is nothing less than God himself, in Jesus Christ. Isaiah tells us that there is a highway that winds its way through the desert, and as we journey along that road we find that hope blossoms like crocuses, valleys are exalted and rough place made plain. Should we be surprised to find along that road an apple tree bearing the fruit of life? Weary with our toil, let us rest for a moment under the tree and find the happiness and hope we long have sought.
A moment under the tree and we shall learn that whether kings rise or fall, whether promises are kept or broken, whether we succeed or whether we fail we can take heart that hope cannot be obliterated for we do not create it, we only share it. The fruit of Jesus Christ the Apple Tree we are called to share. Share it we will, and share it we must, for it is the tree of the fruit of life that blossoms without end and for healing of the nations. We rise from our rest under that tree, having tasted its goodness and we take up our way again on the road, but this time sharing the fruit of Jesus Christ the Apple Tree, sharing the hope that good will indeed will reign among people, even if only in fleeting moments until such a time that all things find their consummation in the fruit of hope that awaits us all.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Jesus Christ the Appletree - Words Anonymous (New England c. 18th century)
Music - Elizabet Poston (1905 - 1987).
Sunday, December 12th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 35:1-10
Listening to the news this week, it is becoming clear that Barak Obama has lost his lustre. It was but a short time ago that the hopes and dreams of America were all pinned on this one man. He could only stand to fail to live up to the expectations that he set for himself and the expectations placed upon him by the American people. In fact, last year around this time I remember a comment that I made in a sermon that this was all bound to happen sooner rather than later, and as much as I like the man, I was pretty sure that he was likely not the messiah, contrary to popular opinion. Closer to home, a messiah has risen on the political right. Toronto has a new mayor, and all the hopes and dreams of people of the opposite political stripe to those who would claim to support a Barak Obama are pinned on this man. Like Obama, though, it is clear that the lustre will wear off in short order as well. While Rob Ford has got off to an aggressive start in turning his platform into political reality, he is being met with much opposition and the city hall battles are beginning once again. It can be easy to see why people may feel apathetic to the political process when the lustre wears off any given administration, be they left or right.
None of this is said to disparage those who offer themselves for public service, nor is it to disparage the political process itself. Coming from a family of civil servants I am deeply appreciate those who serve their communities either as elected officials or as professional public servants. The health and well-being of a community is, in large part, the result of the hard work of the people who serve our communities as teachers, librarians, firefighters, police service officers, transit employees, municipal workers, and yes, elected politicians. The combined efforts of these and other professionals serve to create a public sphere in which we can enjoy the fruit of the good society.
And yet, people being people, we have differing views of what the good society is all about. We fight about its meaning and we offer our hopes and dreams to each other. Sadly though, we take delight in dashing each other’s hopes and dreams. And then we take further delight in deriding the one finds themself unable to keep his or her promises. Where we have the potential to come together as a people, the darkness of sin drives us apart and we hurt, rather than build up our fellow citizens.
This phenomenon is nothing new. The world into which the prophet Isaiah spoke was a world of political disappointment; a world in which hope would rise and fall with every new ruler, with every new direction, with every new platform and with every new administration. Between foreign captivity and disappointing kings, the Hebrew people had every reason to give up on hope; and yet, into their despair Isaiah spoke these words, “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.”
Perhaps these words were received with skepticism. Perhaps; but they were recorded and repeated generation after generation by people who knew much despair and much disappointment. They are repeated even unto this day. They are words that we repeat in Advent because they are words that pierce through the frailty of our humanity, and speak hope to hearts when hope is dashed and promises are broken. What is the hope that these words proclaim? That hope shall continue to blossom, that we shall taste its fruit, even as we journey from disappointment to disappointment.
This is a promise that comes not from human lips but from the mouth of the Lord. While it is that these words speak to a time beyond our time, about a kingdom that is to come, about the culmination of a history in which all things are gathered up in God, they are also words that speak to another reality though, and that is a reality that is set among us, in Christ Jesus. They speak to the reality of God’s presence in the birth of a tiny babe in Bethlehem, God incarnate, God in our midst. They speak to the reality of the presence of that same incarnate God through his abiding Spirit animating our shared life. They speak to the reality of Christ’s presence in the words of Sacred Scripture. They speak to the reality of his abiding presence in our sacramental sharing of his body and blood.
Most importantly, though, these words speak to us when all around have fallen away and we feel most alone, forsaken, and abandoned by broken promises of human hope. When hope should fail us because there is nothing left to cling to, hope prevails because it is the hope of God that rescues us. If we rely only on our own ability to manufacture hope, we shall be perennially disappointed, but if we shift our point of view for but a moment, we will realize that hope is not created by human hearts or human hands, but finds its wellspring in the heart of God. You see, God has hope for us. God believes in us. God has faith in us; and this is the hope to which we cling as Christian people, that is, God’s relentless desire for us to know joy, peace and love. The fruit of God’s faithfulness is our ability to know such things in him in Christ.
One of my favourite pieces of Christmas music is called “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.” Whereas the eating the fruit of the tree in the Garden of Eden condemned humanity to death, the eating of fruit of the apple tree which is Jesus Christ gives us life.
The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit, and always green
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared to Christ the apple tree.
His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne’er can tell,
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.
For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought:
I missed of all; but now I see
‘Tis found in Christ the apple tree.
I’m weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile;
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree
This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree.
Last year I read a post by a fellow Anglican blogger, Laurel Masse, who said that this is her life in a song. I believe it is the story of my life, too. Perhaps it is the story of our shared humanity. We cannot manufacture faith. We cannot manufacture hope. We cannot manufacture joy, peace or love. These things come from God, but God does share them with overflowing abundance and grace. In the midst of political angst and uncertainty, in the midst of our apathy, in the midst of doubt, “This fruit does make my soul to thrive and keeps my dying faith alive.” When hope seems lost, God sets before us a tree in the desert and that tree is nothing less than God himself, in Jesus Christ. Isaiah tells us that there is a highway that winds its way through the desert, and as we journey along that road we find that hope blossoms like crocuses, valleys are exalted and rough place made plain. Should we be surprised to find along that road an apple tree bearing the fruit of life? Weary with our toil, let us rest for a moment under the tree and find the happiness and hope we long have sought.
A moment under the tree and we shall learn that whether kings rise or fall, whether promises are kept or broken, whether we succeed or whether we fail we can take heart that hope cannot be obliterated for we do not create it, we only share it. The fruit of Jesus Christ the Apple Tree we are called to share. Share it we will, and share it we must, for it is the tree of the fruit of life that blossoms without end and for healing of the nations. We rise from our rest under that tree, having tasted its goodness and we take up our way again on the road, but this time sharing the fruit of Jesus Christ the Apple Tree, sharing the hope that good will indeed will reign among people, even if only in fleeting moments until such a time that all things find their consummation in the fruit of hope that awaits us all.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Jesus Christ the Appletree - Words Anonymous (New England c. 18th century)
Music - Elizabet Poston (1905 - 1987).
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Prepare the Way of the Lord - A Homily for Advent II, Year A, 2010
A Homily for Advent II, Year A, 2010
Sunday, December 5th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 3:1-12
“Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.”
-Matthew 3:3 (quoting Isaiah 40)
As I have shared with you before, as a child I was always one who had a terrible time waiting for Christmas morning. Given the chance, I would have opened my presents at the earliest moment possible. Fortunately, my parents always had the good sense to make us boys wait. While other families we knew had this enviable tradition of allowing their children to open just one present on Christmas Eve, this was strictly forbidden in our house. As I reflect back with benefit of age and parenting experience, I now believe my parents were wise in teaching us that good things are worth waiting for.
I suppose I haven’t grown up that much since then. This is still hard today. While I am less excited about opening presents, I find great joy in watching others; especially those close to me tear the paper away from the gifts piled under the tree. And given the chance, I could easily yield to the temptation of my children who annually plead with me, “just one present Dad; can we please just open one present early?!” I must admit, I have to fight off every urge within me to allow it, and consequently deliver that heart-breaking resounding “no!” Fortunately for me, Athena is a strong partner in this heartless act. I have to keep telling myself, and the children, that good things are worth waiting for.
So what do we do while we wait? We make preparation. Until the hour strikes and the gift is given, we wait and prepare. And thus spake St. John the Baptist, “Prepare the way of the Lord.” The preparation to which St. John calls his followers, though, is of a strange sort. It does not involve “trimming the hearth and setting the table,” nor does it involve any of the other requisite “hauling out the holly,” or “setting up the tree before my spirits fall again,” or even “carols at the ‘spinnit.’” Rather, it is a work of self-examination. In order to prepare for the coming of the Lord, St. John the Baptist exhorts us to consider the ways in which we have failed ourselves and each other, how we have been hypocrites about what we claim to believe, and about how we have overindulged in unhealthy and unhelpful behaviours. Most importantly, having examined ourselves, we are called to repent.
Now, I sense that this exhortation probably lands with a resounding “thud” into the midst of our pre-Christmas celebrations. “Oh, Father Dan,” you might say, “trimming the tree is so much more fun!” It is true that you will get no argument with me about that. I love trimming the tree with some good carols on the “spinnit.” But let us consider for a moment the nature and purpose of that special gift that is set before us; that gift comes not under the tree or wrapped in paper, but rests under the precarious shelter of the roof of a cattle stable and is wrapped in swaddling bands. This gift, the most precious gift of all, the one for which we wait, is given to us a salve for our human wounds and a balm for our bruised souls. This gift is given to mend broken hearts and broken relationships. It is offered to restore wholeness to broken lives and bring joy to all who have lost their way. This gift is no ordinary gift. No, it is the most amazing of gifts – the gift of Emmanuel, God with us.
Oh, how we long for such a gift and all its benefits. How can we wait for Christmas morning? How can we wait to receive such a blessing and offering of grace? But we must. We must wait and we must prepare. The preparation that is set before us is the preparation of the heart. It is time for us to look within ourselves and realize just how much we need that most precious of gifts and to search out our own brokenness and discover exactly the wounds to which that salve will be applied and the bruises that the balm of Christ will soothe. And most importantly, to search ourselves and understand that there is nothing I can do to heal my wounds, but with the Lord all things are possible: Come, Lord Jesus.
Where meek hearts will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, December 5th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 3:1-12
“Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.”
-Matthew 3:3 (quoting Isaiah 40)
As I have shared with you before, as a child I was always one who had a terrible time waiting for Christmas morning. Given the chance, I would have opened my presents at the earliest moment possible. Fortunately, my parents always had the good sense to make us boys wait. While other families we knew had this enviable tradition of allowing their children to open just one present on Christmas Eve, this was strictly forbidden in our house. As I reflect back with benefit of age and parenting experience, I now believe my parents were wise in teaching us that good things are worth waiting for.
I suppose I haven’t grown up that much since then. This is still hard today. While I am less excited about opening presents, I find great joy in watching others; especially those close to me tear the paper away from the gifts piled under the tree. And given the chance, I could easily yield to the temptation of my children who annually plead with me, “just one present Dad; can we please just open one present early?!” I must admit, I have to fight off every urge within me to allow it, and consequently deliver that heart-breaking resounding “no!” Fortunately for me, Athena is a strong partner in this heartless act. I have to keep telling myself, and the children, that good things are worth waiting for.
So what do we do while we wait? We make preparation. Until the hour strikes and the gift is given, we wait and prepare. And thus spake St. John the Baptist, “Prepare the way of the Lord.” The preparation to which St. John calls his followers, though, is of a strange sort. It does not involve “trimming the hearth and setting the table,” nor does it involve any of the other requisite “hauling out the holly,” or “setting up the tree before my spirits fall again,” or even “carols at the ‘spinnit.’” Rather, it is a work of self-examination. In order to prepare for the coming of the Lord, St. John the Baptist exhorts us to consider the ways in which we have failed ourselves and each other, how we have been hypocrites about what we claim to believe, and about how we have overindulged in unhealthy and unhelpful behaviours. Most importantly, having examined ourselves, we are called to repent.
Now, I sense that this exhortation probably lands with a resounding “thud” into the midst of our pre-Christmas celebrations. “Oh, Father Dan,” you might say, “trimming the tree is so much more fun!” It is true that you will get no argument with me about that. I love trimming the tree with some good carols on the “spinnit.” But let us consider for a moment the nature and purpose of that special gift that is set before us; that gift comes not under the tree or wrapped in paper, but rests under the precarious shelter of the roof of a cattle stable and is wrapped in swaddling bands. This gift, the most precious gift of all, the one for which we wait, is given to us a salve for our human wounds and a balm for our bruised souls. This gift is given to mend broken hearts and broken relationships. It is offered to restore wholeness to broken lives and bring joy to all who have lost their way. This gift is no ordinary gift. No, it is the most amazing of gifts – the gift of Emmanuel, God with us.
Oh, how we long for such a gift and all its benefits. How can we wait for Christmas morning? How can we wait to receive such a blessing and offering of grace? But we must. We must wait and we must prepare. The preparation that is set before us is the preparation of the heart. It is time for us to look within ourselves and realize just how much we need that most precious of gifts and to search out our own brokenness and discover exactly the wounds to which that salve will be applied and the bruises that the balm of Christ will soothe. And most importantly, to search ourselves and understand that there is nothing I can do to heal my wounds, but with the Lord all things are possible: Come, Lord Jesus.
Where meek hearts will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, December 3, 2010
A Revised Edwardian Homily On Salvation
A Homily for Monday in the Week of Advent I
Framed and Based on the Second of Part of the Edwardian Homily on Salvation
Preached at the Trinity College Chapel
Monday, November 29th, 2010
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves (after Archbishop Thos. Cranmer)
Text: Matthew 8:5-13
(Scriptural References are from the Great Bible of 1539)
Dear friends in Christ, ye have heard how all men ought to seek their justification and righteousness, and how this righteousness commeth unto men by Christ’s death and merits. As good Christian folk ye shall also know that three things are required to the obtaining of our righteousness, that is, God’s mercy, Christ’s justice, and a true and lively faith out of the which faith springeth good works. Yet, ye shall also be aware dear friends, that no man can be justified by his own good works, that no man fulfilleth the law, according to the full request of the law.
These things are of course also attested by St. Paul in both his epistle to the Church in Galatia and in the epistle written to the church in Ephesus. After this wise, to be justified only by this true and lively faith in Christ, speaketh all the old and ancient authors, including Hilary, Basil, and Ambrose. Yet even as these good and ancient authors attesteth (and many more are there to be numbered amongst them) that we are justified by faith, nevertheless, this is not so meant of them, that that the said justifying faith is alone in man, without true repentance, hope, charity, dread, and the fear of God, at any time and season. Nor when they say, that we be justified freely, they mean not that we should or might afterwards be idle, and nothing thereafter required of our part. But this saying, that we be justified by faith only, freely, and without works, is spoken for to take away clearly all merit of our works, as being able to deserve justification at God’s hands, and thereby mostly plainly to express the weakness of man and the goodness of God. This faith the holy scripture teacheth us; this is the strong rock and foundation of Christian religion; this doctrine all old and ancient authors of Christ’s church do approve and setteth for the true glory of Christ, and beateth down the vainglory of man.
Hence we consider that centurion of old, of whom we learn in eighth chapter of St. Matthew, who besought our Lord in consideration of the burthen he knew in the suffering of his servant who lyeth at home sick of the palsye, greviously pained. That dear centurion, having a throrough and full understanding of his own unworthiness before our Lord, pleadeth unto him with such humility, “Syr, I am not worthy, that thou shuldest come under my rofe; but speake the worde only and my servaunt shall be healed.”
What greater humility was ever known in one man than the humility of this centurion who was not a son of Israel? Yet this man understood that our Lord has ordered all things mightily and in an orderly fashion when he said, “For I also my selfe am a man subject to the aucthoryte of another; and have soudiers under me, and I saye to this man, go, he goeth: to another come, and he cometh, and to my servaunt do this and he doeth it.” Our Lord, having been moved by such sensible and true words, marveled and sayd to them them that followed hym: “Verily, I saye unto you I have not founde so great fayth in Israel. I say unto you that men shal come from the eest and west, and shall rest with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kyngdome of heaven.”
With the eyes of God’s mercy and through the merits of Christ’s justice, our Lord gazed upon the countenance of the centurion of old and drew forth from the well of his soul the waters of a true and lively faith such that not only the centurion knew, that day, the mercy and justice of the Lord, but so too, the servant gripped by the palsye, and indeed the whole retinue, knew and tasted the salvation of our God. Thus, being sent upon his way, the centurion, knew the justifying strength of our Lord to heal and to save.
But think not, dear friends that such a justification was wrought by any righteousness on the part of the centurion, but rather hold fast to the truth that justification is not the office of man but of God. The faith of the centurion directed him only to the Lord and the wideness of his mercy. Meditate thoroughly on the story of the centurion and you will find that ye too, indeed all present, although we hear God’s word, and believe it; although we have faith, hope and charity, repentance, dread and fear of God within us, and do never so many works thereunto; yet we must renounce the merit of all our said virtues, as weak and insufficient, and trust only in God’s mercy as that centurion did.
The centurion knew whereof he spake, although he commandeth others, he knew that he liveth under the sovereignty of another and that no good work should raise him from his post to command those things wereof he had no authority to command. To such an end, our Lord saw no faith equal to his in Israel and in such a faith the wideness of God’s mercy was thereby known that “many shall come from eest and west to … to rest with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kyngdome of heaven.” The work of man justifieth not, and the wideness of God’s justice and mercy knoweth not the boundary of nations. Trust only in God’s mercy, and that sacrifice which our high priest and Saviour, Christ Jesus, the son of God, once offered upon the cross, to obtain thereby God’s grace and remission, as well of our original sin in baptism, as of all actuall sin committed in us after our baptism, if we truly repent, and turn unfeignedly to him again.
Even so, as great and good and as godly a virtue as the lively faith is, yet it putteth us from itself, and remitteth or appointeth us unto Christ (as it did the centurion), for to have only, by our Lord, remission of our sins, or justification. So that our faith in Christ saith unto us thus: It is not I that take away your sins, but it is Christ only; and to him only I send you for that purpose, forsaking therein all your good virtues, words, thoughts, and works, and only putting your trust in Christ.
Framed and Based on the Second of Part of the Edwardian Homily on Salvation
Preached at the Trinity College Chapel
Monday, November 29th, 2010
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves (after Archbishop Thos. Cranmer)
Text: Matthew 8:5-13
(Scriptural References are from the Great Bible of 1539)
Dear friends in Christ, ye have heard how all men ought to seek their justification and righteousness, and how this righteousness commeth unto men by Christ’s death and merits. As good Christian folk ye shall also know that three things are required to the obtaining of our righteousness, that is, God’s mercy, Christ’s justice, and a true and lively faith out of the which faith springeth good works. Yet, ye shall also be aware dear friends, that no man can be justified by his own good works, that no man fulfilleth the law, according to the full request of the law.
These things are of course also attested by St. Paul in both his epistle to the Church in Galatia and in the epistle written to the church in Ephesus. After this wise, to be justified only by this true and lively faith in Christ, speaketh all the old and ancient authors, including Hilary, Basil, and Ambrose. Yet even as these good and ancient authors attesteth (and many more are there to be numbered amongst them) that we are justified by faith, nevertheless, this is not so meant of them, that that the said justifying faith is alone in man, without true repentance, hope, charity, dread, and the fear of God, at any time and season. Nor when they say, that we be justified freely, they mean not that we should or might afterwards be idle, and nothing thereafter required of our part. But this saying, that we be justified by faith only, freely, and without works, is spoken for to take away clearly all merit of our works, as being able to deserve justification at God’s hands, and thereby mostly plainly to express the weakness of man and the goodness of God. This faith the holy scripture teacheth us; this is the strong rock and foundation of Christian religion; this doctrine all old and ancient authors of Christ’s church do approve and setteth for the true glory of Christ, and beateth down the vainglory of man.
Hence we consider that centurion of old, of whom we learn in eighth chapter of St. Matthew, who besought our Lord in consideration of the burthen he knew in the suffering of his servant who lyeth at home sick of the palsye, greviously pained. That dear centurion, having a throrough and full understanding of his own unworthiness before our Lord, pleadeth unto him with such humility, “Syr, I am not worthy, that thou shuldest come under my rofe; but speake the worde only and my servaunt shall be healed.”
What greater humility was ever known in one man than the humility of this centurion who was not a son of Israel? Yet this man understood that our Lord has ordered all things mightily and in an orderly fashion when he said, “For I also my selfe am a man subject to the aucthoryte of another; and have soudiers under me, and I saye to this man, go, he goeth: to another come, and he cometh, and to my servaunt do this and he doeth it.” Our Lord, having been moved by such sensible and true words, marveled and sayd to them them that followed hym: “Verily, I saye unto you I have not founde so great fayth in Israel. I say unto you that men shal come from the eest and west, and shall rest with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kyngdome of heaven.”
With the eyes of God’s mercy and through the merits of Christ’s justice, our Lord gazed upon the countenance of the centurion of old and drew forth from the well of his soul the waters of a true and lively faith such that not only the centurion knew, that day, the mercy and justice of the Lord, but so too, the servant gripped by the palsye, and indeed the whole retinue, knew and tasted the salvation of our God. Thus, being sent upon his way, the centurion, knew the justifying strength of our Lord to heal and to save.
But think not, dear friends that such a justification was wrought by any righteousness on the part of the centurion, but rather hold fast to the truth that justification is not the office of man but of God. The faith of the centurion directed him only to the Lord and the wideness of his mercy. Meditate thoroughly on the story of the centurion and you will find that ye too, indeed all present, although we hear God’s word, and believe it; although we have faith, hope and charity, repentance, dread and fear of God within us, and do never so many works thereunto; yet we must renounce the merit of all our said virtues, as weak and insufficient, and trust only in God’s mercy as that centurion did.
The centurion knew whereof he spake, although he commandeth others, he knew that he liveth under the sovereignty of another and that no good work should raise him from his post to command those things wereof he had no authority to command. To such an end, our Lord saw no faith equal to his in Israel and in such a faith the wideness of God’s mercy was thereby known that “many shall come from eest and west to … to rest with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kyngdome of heaven.” The work of man justifieth not, and the wideness of God’s justice and mercy knoweth not the boundary of nations. Trust only in God’s mercy, and that sacrifice which our high priest and Saviour, Christ Jesus, the son of God, once offered upon the cross, to obtain thereby God’s grace and remission, as well of our original sin in baptism, as of all actuall sin committed in us after our baptism, if we truly repent, and turn unfeignedly to him again.
Even so, as great and good and as godly a virtue as the lively faith is, yet it putteth us from itself, and remitteth or appointeth us unto Christ (as it did the centurion), for to have only, by our Lord, remission of our sins, or justification. So that our faith in Christ saith unto us thus: It is not I that take away your sins, but it is Christ only; and to him only I send you for that purpose, forsaking therein all your good virtues, words, thoughts, and works, and only putting your trust in Christ.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
What Time Is It? - A Homily for Advent I, Year A, 2010
A Homily for Advent I, Year A, 2010
Sunday, November 28th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 13:11-14
“You know what time it is.”
--Romans 13:11
What time is it?
Like the Christians of Paul’s day, we live between the times. We live in a reality in which Christ has been revealed to us, a reality in which we have tasted the goodness of God, in which we have caught a glimpse of the resurrection of his Christ, in which we have begun to experience his healing and saving grace. But we also live in a reality in which there is still much pain and much brokenness. We live in a world in which we still experience sickness. And we live in a world in which we are all still prone to make terrible mistakes. It is a confusing time in which we await the consummation of the love we have tasted.
Advent is a time between the times. While the world around us sings carols (and indeed, when we leave this place we may go home and listen to some ourselves), we enter the church and we sing hymns of expectation, and speak words of Christ’s imminent arrival, but we resist the urge to sing the carols that belong properly to his arrival on Christmas Eve. Advent is a time to hold in tension the polarities of this confusing double-mindedness, and see if there is anything we can learn “living between the times.”
A couple of weeks ago I preached that I did not mind hearing the carols so early in the shopping malls and on the radio because they are a witness to the world of the reality that we proclaim; namely, that Christ is with us and in the world, restoring it from brokenness to glory. And yet, I have asked, as Anglican tradition has long dictated, that during Advent, in church at least, that we hold back on the carols, that we cease our Alleluias and glorias for a few weeks. So you might be asking, “what gives?” If God is present, if the act of salvation has been won, if death has been defeated in the Resurrection, why do we need to put the brakes on as we approach the wonderful celebration of our Lord’s nativity?
The answer, I think, is that we are a “work in progress.” Yes, it is true that God has acted decisively in Jesus of Nazareth and won for us our salvation and victory over death. Yet, day-by-day, the fruits of that redemption are still being uncovered, and they exist in tension with the unfinished work of the restoration of all things. As I have stated, there is much that is still broken, still hurting, and still evil in this world. God is indeed at work, and he will bring that work to completion; but part of that work involves drawing you and me into the divine life, and into the divine work. The coming of our Lord amongst us in Jesus of Nazareth was the decisive act in which the beauty of God’s plan of restoration and redemption was inaugurated and revealed to and amongst us. The Incarnation of the Lord changed things. And what it changed most was us.
This is why St. Paul tells the Romans -- and yes, these are words that echo across the age to us as well -- to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ.” Cloth yourself in the Lord and be a sign to the world of the redemption won in Christ Jesus. We stand before the powers of this age that refuse to believe that God is alive and active and transforming the world, and we say “no” to evil, “no” to power structures that dehumanize God’s creatures, and “no” to the unhealthy desires that draw us away from God. We put on Christ and we say “yes” to the beauty of all that is Good, “yes” to the hope that the world can be transformed for the building up of the Kingdom of God, and “yes” to the best of human longing and desire for intimacy with each other and with God.
What time is it?
It is a time of decision. The time between the times is a time for choices and a time for decision-making. It is a time in which we ask ourselves if we really and truly believe that the appearance of Jesus began a new era that is working its way to the completion in God. And if our answer is “yes”, it is a time in which we ask ourselves if we want to be a part of that journey. It is a time in which we pray to God as a community and as individuals and ask him to reveal to us the unique vocation we have as a community and as individuals as we participate in the unfolding of his Kingdom.
What time is it?
It is a time to wake up. St. Paul says, “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from your sleep.” The liturgical pulling-back that we do in Advent, the reservation of Alleluias and glorias, the change to the colour blue for our hangings and paraments, the lighting of successive candles in anticipation, and finally the singing of hymns and the reading of Scriptures that speak of both the birth of Jesus in a stable and his awesome and great appearance at the end of days, all serve to offer us a sort of wake-up call. They jar us to a moment of awakening and moment of decision. These things remind us that we do indeed “know what time it is!” This jarring change of colour and mood, mingled with restraint in our Christmas excitement and anticipation unveil to us the reality that the “day of the Lord is drawing nigh,” and as St. Paul once again says, “Our salvation is nearer to us now than when we first became believers!”
The wake-up call that we are given is one that reminds us that history is on the move, and in history, God is on the move. As he acted in the creation of the world, in the story of the Hebrew people, in the Christ-event known to us as Jesus of Nazareth, in sending his Spirit upon the Church, and as he has acted through the saints of old, so he continues to act in the church and in the world, today. His voice is calling us to be a part of this movement toward the redemption of the cosmos.
What time is it?
It’s time to put on Christ Jesus and live what we believe, for the salvation we have tasted is at hand, nearer than when we first believed.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 28th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 13:11-14
“You know what time it is.”
--Romans 13:11
What time is it?
Like the Christians of Paul’s day, we live between the times. We live in a reality in which Christ has been revealed to us, a reality in which we have tasted the goodness of God, in which we have caught a glimpse of the resurrection of his Christ, in which we have begun to experience his healing and saving grace. But we also live in a reality in which there is still much pain and much brokenness. We live in a world in which we still experience sickness. And we live in a world in which we are all still prone to make terrible mistakes. It is a confusing time in which we await the consummation of the love we have tasted.
Advent is a time between the times. While the world around us sings carols (and indeed, when we leave this place we may go home and listen to some ourselves), we enter the church and we sing hymns of expectation, and speak words of Christ’s imminent arrival, but we resist the urge to sing the carols that belong properly to his arrival on Christmas Eve. Advent is a time to hold in tension the polarities of this confusing double-mindedness, and see if there is anything we can learn “living between the times.”
A couple of weeks ago I preached that I did not mind hearing the carols so early in the shopping malls and on the radio because they are a witness to the world of the reality that we proclaim; namely, that Christ is with us and in the world, restoring it from brokenness to glory. And yet, I have asked, as Anglican tradition has long dictated, that during Advent, in church at least, that we hold back on the carols, that we cease our Alleluias and glorias for a few weeks. So you might be asking, “what gives?” If God is present, if the act of salvation has been won, if death has been defeated in the Resurrection, why do we need to put the brakes on as we approach the wonderful celebration of our Lord’s nativity?
The answer, I think, is that we are a “work in progress.” Yes, it is true that God has acted decisively in Jesus of Nazareth and won for us our salvation and victory over death. Yet, day-by-day, the fruits of that redemption are still being uncovered, and they exist in tension with the unfinished work of the restoration of all things. As I have stated, there is much that is still broken, still hurting, and still evil in this world. God is indeed at work, and he will bring that work to completion; but part of that work involves drawing you and me into the divine life, and into the divine work. The coming of our Lord amongst us in Jesus of Nazareth was the decisive act in which the beauty of God’s plan of restoration and redemption was inaugurated and revealed to and amongst us. The Incarnation of the Lord changed things. And what it changed most was us.
This is why St. Paul tells the Romans -- and yes, these are words that echo across the age to us as well -- to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ.” Cloth yourself in the Lord and be a sign to the world of the redemption won in Christ Jesus. We stand before the powers of this age that refuse to believe that God is alive and active and transforming the world, and we say “no” to evil, “no” to power structures that dehumanize God’s creatures, and “no” to the unhealthy desires that draw us away from God. We put on Christ and we say “yes” to the beauty of all that is Good, “yes” to the hope that the world can be transformed for the building up of the Kingdom of God, and “yes” to the best of human longing and desire for intimacy with each other and with God.
What time is it?
It is a time of decision. The time between the times is a time for choices and a time for decision-making. It is a time in which we ask ourselves if we really and truly believe that the appearance of Jesus began a new era that is working its way to the completion in God. And if our answer is “yes”, it is a time in which we ask ourselves if we want to be a part of that journey. It is a time in which we pray to God as a community and as individuals and ask him to reveal to us the unique vocation we have as a community and as individuals as we participate in the unfolding of his Kingdom.
What time is it?
It is a time to wake up. St. Paul says, “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from your sleep.” The liturgical pulling-back that we do in Advent, the reservation of Alleluias and glorias, the change to the colour blue for our hangings and paraments, the lighting of successive candles in anticipation, and finally the singing of hymns and the reading of Scriptures that speak of both the birth of Jesus in a stable and his awesome and great appearance at the end of days, all serve to offer us a sort of wake-up call. They jar us to a moment of awakening and moment of decision. These things remind us that we do indeed “know what time it is!” This jarring change of colour and mood, mingled with restraint in our Christmas excitement and anticipation unveil to us the reality that the “day of the Lord is drawing nigh,” and as St. Paul once again says, “Our salvation is nearer to us now than when we first became believers!”
The wake-up call that we are given is one that reminds us that history is on the move, and in history, God is on the move. As he acted in the creation of the world, in the story of the Hebrew people, in the Christ-event known to us as Jesus of Nazareth, in sending his Spirit upon the Church, and as he has acted through the saints of old, so he continues to act in the church and in the world, today. His voice is calling us to be a part of this movement toward the redemption of the cosmos.
What time is it?
It’s time to put on Christ Jesus and live what we believe, for the salvation we have tasted is at hand, nearer than when we first believed.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Remember Me in Your Kingdom - A Homily for The Reign of Christ, Year C, 2010
Homily for the Reign of Christ, Year C, 2010
Sunday, November 21th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Luke 23:33-43
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
--Luke 23:42
For those who have heard the old, old story again and again, the irony will not be lost on us. As Jesus is nailed to the cross and as it is lifted up, three successive taunts are hurled at him. With bystanders observing mutely, the leaders of the day mocked the Lord saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” Soldiers, having cast lots for his clothing, offered him sour wine and these words of ridicule, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” And finally, even one of the thieves between whom he was crucified called out, “Are you not the messiah? Save yourself, and us!”
The irony of these taunts is so clear to us because we have the end of the story in sight, we know that while Jesus does indeed suffer death, death is not victorious over him. God indeed delivers his Son from the grave. Where soldiers, religious officials and bystanders mocked him because they thought they were seeing the colossal failure of his ministry culminating in his death, we know that quite the opposite is true: that the cross on which he was hung and that the death that he suffered were, in fact, victory for this cynical, hurting world.
An even deeper irony is revealed in our knowledge of the rest of the story: The so-called “bad thief,” the one who mocks Jesus, not only taunts the crucified Lord to save himself, but also to save him and the other criminal with whom he was crucified. We imagine these words being delivered with such hateful disdain and cynicism, and yet we note again the irony, that this act upon the cross will indeed be a saving act. Somehow, though, at least one character in the narrative can see through the fog of cynicism. The so-called “good thief” is the single person in this narrative with eyes to see, the one person who neither passively observes nor maliciously maligns; the one person who sees in this apparent defeat of the messiah, the fruit of redemption. Thus, he reprimands his companion and turns his eyes to his crucified Lord and mouths what were likely his final words, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It would be so, for our Lord proclaimed the words so many of us long to hear in all our human brokenness, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
***
We all have images of God that are formed in our youth. While some have very gentle and loving images of God, I think it is true even amongst Church going folk that some of our images of God are less than healthy, and perhaps a bit skewed. Some of us have images of an angry God, or a punitive God, or a God who is watching over us waiting for us to make mistakes in order to punish us. Even if these are not our images of God, I am quite certain it is what many people outside the Church think of when they imagine the God of churchgoing people. Religious fanatics have not helped allay these stereotypes, but have fanned the flames of ignorance and intolerance. But whatever our image of God, I expect that from time-to-time, God will surprise us, smash that image and we will behold him (or her), in a new and splendid way. From time-to-time, God smashes the idols of the divine image we have imagined and gives us new eyes to see the divine glory. This is what happened on the hill known as the place of the skull.
If we recall those three derisions leveled at Jesus, they all contained one element, specifically, they asked, if he was indeed a king he should show great power and come down from the cross, destroy his oppressors and liberate his people. Should we cast our minds back to a certain moment of temptation in the desert at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, we will realize that the image of God that people expected to see in Jesus has not changed that much. The temptations that Satan set before Jesus, to seize and demonstrate his power, and yes to even use his power to help others, are the same temptations he faces on the cross. He is tempted by the derisions of the onlookers in the same way he is tempted by Satan, to reveal himself in power. On the cross, when he fails to do so, he is mocked.
People had an expectation of what a messiah, what a king, would do and Jesus failed to, refused to, live up to those expectations. Thus, when God delivered him unto death and raised him on the third day, in an event of iconoclastic gentleness, God in Christ shattered the idol of people’s perception of who God is and how God should act. Instead of a warrior king who comes with sword and army, we meet the humble self-giving, self-effacing messiah. And it is he, in all his humility, who saves us. Irony of ironies.
Consider again, that moment outside Jerusalem, when amidst the waving of palm branches and excitement Jesus prepared to enter the holy city. Those who gathered around him were gathered for a political revolution. What did they get? - A messiah who handed himself over freely to the authorities to be crucified. God in Christ shatters the image of our expectations.
The culmination of the liturgical year is a moment in which we praise Christ as our King, as our Messiah. But do we know and understand what kind of king we serve; what sort of King we worship? History is littered by the stories of Kings who use their power to enslave people they are meant to serve and destroy the spirits of those whom they are meant to inspire. History is filled with kings, rulers and statesmen who have sent young men (and women) into battle for the most selfish of causes, and have left mothers widowed and children orphaned all in an insane lust for power. This is, for many, the image that comes to mind with the word “king.”
Sadly, for many such is the image of God. To many in the world, looking in from the outside at Christians (and other people of faith), we are perceived a religious fanatics who will sacrifice principles of gentleness and inclusivity to serve an angry God. And while there are those in all religions who serve such an image, they are most certainly wrongheaded, and if there are Christians who follow such an image of God, they have certainly misread the Gospel. For the Word of life that is set before us today, the Word that hangs on that cross proclaims something else; something very revolutionary, something very shattering, something very iconoclastic about God - namely that the one that has all power chooses not to exercise it. Rather, for the sake of his children, he joins them in their journey of life and death.
If he is the king, the messiah, if he is God, let him save himself and us, cries the “bad thief,” but by not saving himself, by not taking the crown of gold but receiving a crown of thorns, he puts his people before himself and saves them. In the Incarnation, God empties himself, assumes our humanity, suffers the worst that human beings can suffer, and separates himself from the font of his very essence, so that we might be drawn into the divine life. By making our human story his story, his divine story becomes our divine story. He joins us in the communion of earthly life, that we might join him in communion with the Father.
He is not a king who separates himself from us in palaces distant and lavish, but a king who joins us in the muck of life, in the pain of our own trials and disappointment. He draws not a sword against the enemy, but rather turns the heart of the enemy and makes the enemy his friend and redeems what his broken. He appoints a place in paradise for even the convicted thief. What then do we learn about the nature of God, about true kingship, about the king and messiah we worship and proclaim? That true kingship, and indeed all Christian leadership, is rooted in deepest humility and a love that burns even unto death. This is the nature of God and this is the life we drawn into by the cross of Christ: the life of humility, compassion, and love. To Christ our King, compassionate and kind, we ascribe our honour and love unto the end of the age. Lord Jesus, remember us when you come into your kingdom.
C. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 21th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Luke 23:33-43
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
--Luke 23:42
For those who have heard the old, old story again and again, the irony will not be lost on us. As Jesus is nailed to the cross and as it is lifted up, three successive taunts are hurled at him. With bystanders observing mutely, the leaders of the day mocked the Lord saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” Soldiers, having cast lots for his clothing, offered him sour wine and these words of ridicule, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” And finally, even one of the thieves between whom he was crucified called out, “Are you not the messiah? Save yourself, and us!”
The irony of these taunts is so clear to us because we have the end of the story in sight, we know that while Jesus does indeed suffer death, death is not victorious over him. God indeed delivers his Son from the grave. Where soldiers, religious officials and bystanders mocked him because they thought they were seeing the colossal failure of his ministry culminating in his death, we know that quite the opposite is true: that the cross on which he was hung and that the death that he suffered were, in fact, victory for this cynical, hurting world.
An even deeper irony is revealed in our knowledge of the rest of the story: The so-called “bad thief,” the one who mocks Jesus, not only taunts the crucified Lord to save himself, but also to save him and the other criminal with whom he was crucified. We imagine these words being delivered with such hateful disdain and cynicism, and yet we note again the irony, that this act upon the cross will indeed be a saving act. Somehow, though, at least one character in the narrative can see through the fog of cynicism. The so-called “good thief” is the single person in this narrative with eyes to see, the one person who neither passively observes nor maliciously maligns; the one person who sees in this apparent defeat of the messiah, the fruit of redemption. Thus, he reprimands his companion and turns his eyes to his crucified Lord and mouths what were likely his final words, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It would be so, for our Lord proclaimed the words so many of us long to hear in all our human brokenness, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
***
We all have images of God that are formed in our youth. While some have very gentle and loving images of God, I think it is true even amongst Church going folk that some of our images of God are less than healthy, and perhaps a bit skewed. Some of us have images of an angry God, or a punitive God, or a God who is watching over us waiting for us to make mistakes in order to punish us. Even if these are not our images of God, I am quite certain it is what many people outside the Church think of when they imagine the God of churchgoing people. Religious fanatics have not helped allay these stereotypes, but have fanned the flames of ignorance and intolerance. But whatever our image of God, I expect that from time-to-time, God will surprise us, smash that image and we will behold him (or her), in a new and splendid way. From time-to-time, God smashes the idols of the divine image we have imagined and gives us new eyes to see the divine glory. This is what happened on the hill known as the place of the skull.
If we recall those three derisions leveled at Jesus, they all contained one element, specifically, they asked, if he was indeed a king he should show great power and come down from the cross, destroy his oppressors and liberate his people. Should we cast our minds back to a certain moment of temptation in the desert at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, we will realize that the image of God that people expected to see in Jesus has not changed that much. The temptations that Satan set before Jesus, to seize and demonstrate his power, and yes to even use his power to help others, are the same temptations he faces on the cross. He is tempted by the derisions of the onlookers in the same way he is tempted by Satan, to reveal himself in power. On the cross, when he fails to do so, he is mocked.
People had an expectation of what a messiah, what a king, would do and Jesus failed to, refused to, live up to those expectations. Thus, when God delivered him unto death and raised him on the third day, in an event of iconoclastic gentleness, God in Christ shattered the idol of people’s perception of who God is and how God should act. Instead of a warrior king who comes with sword and army, we meet the humble self-giving, self-effacing messiah. And it is he, in all his humility, who saves us. Irony of ironies.
Consider again, that moment outside Jerusalem, when amidst the waving of palm branches and excitement Jesus prepared to enter the holy city. Those who gathered around him were gathered for a political revolution. What did they get? - A messiah who handed himself over freely to the authorities to be crucified. God in Christ shatters the image of our expectations.
The culmination of the liturgical year is a moment in which we praise Christ as our King, as our Messiah. But do we know and understand what kind of king we serve; what sort of King we worship? History is littered by the stories of Kings who use their power to enslave people they are meant to serve and destroy the spirits of those whom they are meant to inspire. History is filled with kings, rulers and statesmen who have sent young men (and women) into battle for the most selfish of causes, and have left mothers widowed and children orphaned all in an insane lust for power. This is, for many, the image that comes to mind with the word “king.”
Sadly, for many such is the image of God. To many in the world, looking in from the outside at Christians (and other people of faith), we are perceived a religious fanatics who will sacrifice principles of gentleness and inclusivity to serve an angry God. And while there are those in all religions who serve such an image, they are most certainly wrongheaded, and if there are Christians who follow such an image of God, they have certainly misread the Gospel. For the Word of life that is set before us today, the Word that hangs on that cross proclaims something else; something very revolutionary, something very shattering, something very iconoclastic about God - namely that the one that has all power chooses not to exercise it. Rather, for the sake of his children, he joins them in their journey of life and death.
If he is the king, the messiah, if he is God, let him save himself and us, cries the “bad thief,” but by not saving himself, by not taking the crown of gold but receiving a crown of thorns, he puts his people before himself and saves them. In the Incarnation, God empties himself, assumes our humanity, suffers the worst that human beings can suffer, and separates himself from the font of his very essence, so that we might be drawn into the divine life. By making our human story his story, his divine story becomes our divine story. He joins us in the communion of earthly life, that we might join him in communion with the Father.
He is not a king who separates himself from us in palaces distant and lavish, but a king who joins us in the muck of life, in the pain of our own trials and disappointment. He draws not a sword against the enemy, but rather turns the heart of the enemy and makes the enemy his friend and redeems what his broken. He appoints a place in paradise for even the convicted thief. What then do we learn about the nature of God, about true kingship, about the king and messiah we worship and proclaim? That true kingship, and indeed all Christian leadership, is rooted in deepest humility and a love that burns even unto death. This is the nature of God and this is the life we drawn into by the cross of Christ: the life of humility, compassion, and love. To Christ our King, compassionate and kind, we ascribe our honour and love unto the end of the age. Lord Jesus, remember us when you come into your kingdom.
C. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Our Apocalyptic Hope - A Homily for Proper 33, Year C, 2010
Homily for Proper 33, Year C, 2010
Sunday, November 14th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 65:17-20, Luke 21:5-19
“For I am about to create a new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.”
--Isiaiah 65:17
As the liturgical year winds its way to its conclusion, the tenor of the texts of the day begin to change. Today we feel ourselves surrounded by apocalyptic words that at once disturb and yet proclaim hope. And while it may be tempting to sidestep such words that offer frightening end-time images, it seems to me that we may be in danger of closing our eyes and shutting our ears to tidings of great joy. Yes, it is no coincidence that as the sound systems in shopping malls and television commercials have begun to ring out such tidings, the words we hear in our sacred liturgy are striking a very different tone. Indeed, as we approach the time of Our Lord’s Advent, or coming to be amongst us, we will hear words not only of a tender babe born in a stable and his mother mild, but also of a great and dreadful king who comes to judge the world. I do believe we do ourselves and the gospel an injustice when we fail to proclaim only part of the story. Perhaps this dissonance sounds loudest at this time of year when shopping mall speakers ring out carols in the midst of growing consumer frenzy.
It should be said that I am not one that gets terribly upset when the carols start playing early in the season (or even before the advent of the season!). I have a confession to make: I was always the first one in the family to pull out the Christmas LP’s (remember those?) and place a stack of them on the old hi-fi stereo (remember those?) and listen to them drop as Perry Como, Bing Crosby and so many others sang words both secular and sacred in praise of the newborn king and in celebration of the season. When the Eaton’s, or Simpson’s Christmas “wish book” would arrive my brother and I would spend hours on the floor pouring over the half dozen or so pages of toys, imagining what Christmas morning would be like with a nice selection of toys, which somehow Santa knew we wanted. The earlier the tree could go up, the better. And while selecting and cutting down the tree was a charming ritual, there was something to be said for that artificial tree we later purchased, as that meant we could start the season earlier and earlier each year. Later in life, I found myself working in retail sales, and I suppose my love of pulling out the Christmas stops early was suited well to that vocation. So you see, I don’t panic when I hear the carols playing in the mall in November. In fact, I rejoice, because they are one of the last places our faith can be proclaimed openly in the public sphere in the midst of a world that so desperately needs to hear that story.
There is another part of the story though, and that is the story we shall encounter as Advent unfolds, and they are words that call us to repentance and words that proclaim justice. The birth of a babe in Bethlehem was certainly meant to bring comfort and joy to all humankind, and especially to bring comfort, joy, and justice to the broken-hearted, the weak, the downtrodden and afflicted. Why was our Lord born into a stable in the lowliest estate? To be amongst the lowliest of God’s people. In this important detail of the Christmas story something important is revealed to us, namely, the justice of God.
And this is what apocalyptic literature is all about, the justice of God. The word “apocalypse” has become to us a frightening and foreboding word, but really, it means nothing else than “revelation.” Therefore, when we encounter apocalyptic literature as we do today in both Isaiah and Luke, we must ask ourselves what is the revelation we are receiving in these terrifying words. In Luke we hear Jesus explain how not a stone of the mightiest edifice known in Palestine, the new Temple constructed by Herod, would remain in place. Amidst the destruction of this symbol of establishment, national pride and stability, there would be dissention, war, earthquake, fire and famine. There will be prophets of hope and prophets of doom. And many will be led astray.
This sounds not unlike our own day, does it not? But of course, this is the enduring power of apocalyptic literature, in that it speaks to the angst of the people of every age. I once heard an interview with an expert in “end-times” thinking. He spoke about how the men in the trenches during the Great War, with bombs falling about them, cried out, “Is this the apocalypse?” And was it? The scholar who was being interviewed said, “of course it was, as it has been for every soldier in battle. What soldier has not cried out, ‘My God, the apocalypse is at hand!’?” Every generation witnesses the injustices of the world, the ways in which human beings treat each other, whether it be in wars, or social policy that dehumanizes the weakest amongst us, or economic systems that value capital over God’s creation, or the bottom line over human lives. Even in the details of our individual human suffering through illness, the inexplicable loss of loved ones, we witness injustice and we are prone to despair. All of us, from time-to-time, cry out, “Is this the apocalypse?”
My friends, the answer is “yes.” But we need not fear, for if the apocalypse is nothing less than a revelation of our God and of both his justice and mercy, then we can only rejoice, for the God that is being revealed is the one who comes amongst us to restore the brokenness of humanity and this world. What is more, this apocalypse, this revelation, is not simply and end-time phenomenon. I choose not to indulge in the guessing of times and dates and conditions of the ultimate return of our Lord and the consummation of history. I shall leave those things a mystery. But what I do proclaim is that God is being revealed in our midst through all our earthly days. To the conditions that seek to destroy the image of God in us, God is appearing. To the unjust systems that corrupt and destroy God’s people and God’s creation, God is appearing. To those in psychological angst, with broken spirits, or deteriorating bodies, God is appearing. It the midst of our darkest days, God is appearing. We need not wait ‘til the end; God appears now! Had we read one more verse into that little apocalypse in Luke we would have read the words, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” Hearken then to the words of Isaiah, “For I am about to create a new heaven and new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or called to mind.” The kingdom of God that is breaking through, then, is one in which mercy tempers justice. The justice of God is restorative, not destructive. The call goes out to claim it; shall we our Lord’s call?
You see, my friends, God is revealing himself to us day-by-day, in the midst of troubles of this life. Each day for us, if we choose to see it, is an apocalypse. Each day, there is before us a hand that offers justice and mercy, should we wish to take it. If we listen closely, we will hear a song of justice ring out that proclaims that the things that destroy the creatures of God have no power or victory over us. If we listen closely, we hear a song of mercy that even when we have done wrong, God will welcome us home as his children.
This is why I am not worried when I hear the words of carols sung in the shopping mall in November, for they are words of revelation. They are an apocalypse that rings out in a hurting and broken world. And they are proof that God makes himself known in the unlikeliest of places and the unlikeliest of moments.
c.2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 14th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 65:17-20, Luke 21:5-19
“For I am about to create a new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.”
--Isiaiah 65:17
As the liturgical year winds its way to its conclusion, the tenor of the texts of the day begin to change. Today we feel ourselves surrounded by apocalyptic words that at once disturb and yet proclaim hope. And while it may be tempting to sidestep such words that offer frightening end-time images, it seems to me that we may be in danger of closing our eyes and shutting our ears to tidings of great joy. Yes, it is no coincidence that as the sound systems in shopping malls and television commercials have begun to ring out such tidings, the words we hear in our sacred liturgy are striking a very different tone. Indeed, as we approach the time of Our Lord’s Advent, or coming to be amongst us, we will hear words not only of a tender babe born in a stable and his mother mild, but also of a great and dreadful king who comes to judge the world. I do believe we do ourselves and the gospel an injustice when we fail to proclaim only part of the story. Perhaps this dissonance sounds loudest at this time of year when shopping mall speakers ring out carols in the midst of growing consumer frenzy.
It should be said that I am not one that gets terribly upset when the carols start playing early in the season (or even before the advent of the season!). I have a confession to make: I was always the first one in the family to pull out the Christmas LP’s (remember those?) and place a stack of them on the old hi-fi stereo (remember those?) and listen to them drop as Perry Como, Bing Crosby and so many others sang words both secular and sacred in praise of the newborn king and in celebration of the season. When the Eaton’s, or Simpson’s Christmas “wish book” would arrive my brother and I would spend hours on the floor pouring over the half dozen or so pages of toys, imagining what Christmas morning would be like with a nice selection of toys, which somehow Santa knew we wanted. The earlier the tree could go up, the better. And while selecting and cutting down the tree was a charming ritual, there was something to be said for that artificial tree we later purchased, as that meant we could start the season earlier and earlier each year. Later in life, I found myself working in retail sales, and I suppose my love of pulling out the Christmas stops early was suited well to that vocation. So you see, I don’t panic when I hear the carols playing in the mall in November. In fact, I rejoice, because they are one of the last places our faith can be proclaimed openly in the public sphere in the midst of a world that so desperately needs to hear that story.
There is another part of the story though, and that is the story we shall encounter as Advent unfolds, and they are words that call us to repentance and words that proclaim justice. The birth of a babe in Bethlehem was certainly meant to bring comfort and joy to all humankind, and especially to bring comfort, joy, and justice to the broken-hearted, the weak, the downtrodden and afflicted. Why was our Lord born into a stable in the lowliest estate? To be amongst the lowliest of God’s people. In this important detail of the Christmas story something important is revealed to us, namely, the justice of God.
And this is what apocalyptic literature is all about, the justice of God. The word “apocalypse” has become to us a frightening and foreboding word, but really, it means nothing else than “revelation.” Therefore, when we encounter apocalyptic literature as we do today in both Isaiah and Luke, we must ask ourselves what is the revelation we are receiving in these terrifying words. In Luke we hear Jesus explain how not a stone of the mightiest edifice known in Palestine, the new Temple constructed by Herod, would remain in place. Amidst the destruction of this symbol of establishment, national pride and stability, there would be dissention, war, earthquake, fire and famine. There will be prophets of hope and prophets of doom. And many will be led astray.
This sounds not unlike our own day, does it not? But of course, this is the enduring power of apocalyptic literature, in that it speaks to the angst of the people of every age. I once heard an interview with an expert in “end-times” thinking. He spoke about how the men in the trenches during the Great War, with bombs falling about them, cried out, “Is this the apocalypse?” And was it? The scholar who was being interviewed said, “of course it was, as it has been for every soldier in battle. What soldier has not cried out, ‘My God, the apocalypse is at hand!’?” Every generation witnesses the injustices of the world, the ways in which human beings treat each other, whether it be in wars, or social policy that dehumanizes the weakest amongst us, or economic systems that value capital over God’s creation, or the bottom line over human lives. Even in the details of our individual human suffering through illness, the inexplicable loss of loved ones, we witness injustice and we are prone to despair. All of us, from time-to-time, cry out, “Is this the apocalypse?”
My friends, the answer is “yes.” But we need not fear, for if the apocalypse is nothing less than a revelation of our God and of both his justice and mercy, then we can only rejoice, for the God that is being revealed is the one who comes amongst us to restore the brokenness of humanity and this world. What is more, this apocalypse, this revelation, is not simply and end-time phenomenon. I choose not to indulge in the guessing of times and dates and conditions of the ultimate return of our Lord and the consummation of history. I shall leave those things a mystery. But what I do proclaim is that God is being revealed in our midst through all our earthly days. To the conditions that seek to destroy the image of God in us, God is appearing. To the unjust systems that corrupt and destroy God’s people and God’s creation, God is appearing. To those in psychological angst, with broken spirits, or deteriorating bodies, God is appearing. It the midst of our darkest days, God is appearing. We need not wait ‘til the end; God appears now! Had we read one more verse into that little apocalypse in Luke we would have read the words, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” Hearken then to the words of Isaiah, “For I am about to create a new heaven and new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or called to mind.” The kingdom of God that is breaking through, then, is one in which mercy tempers justice. The justice of God is restorative, not destructive. The call goes out to claim it; shall we our Lord’s call?
You see, my friends, God is revealing himself to us day-by-day, in the midst of troubles of this life. Each day for us, if we choose to see it, is an apocalypse. Each day, there is before us a hand that offers justice and mercy, should we wish to take it. If we listen closely, we will hear a song of justice ring out that proclaims that the things that destroy the creatures of God have no power or victory over us. If we listen closely, we hear a song of mercy that even when we have done wrong, God will welcome us home as his children.
This is why I am not worried when I hear the words of carols sung in the shopping mall in November, for they are words of revelation. They are an apocalypse that rings out in a hurting and broken world. And they are proof that God makes himself known in the unlikeliest of places and the unlikeliest of moments.
c.2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Has Anger Triumphed Over Hope? A Homily for All Souls and Remembrance Sunday
A Homily for All Souls and Remembrance, 2010
Sunday, November 7th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 11:21-27
“Lord , if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
--John 11:21
Today, the threads of three different commemorations are woven together.
First we celebrate the feast day of All Souls, a time when we remember before God all those who have gone before us into the presence of God and whom we shall meet again when we all share in the Resurrection of the dead. While we remember all those who have been near and dear to us and our now on that other shore, we remember in particular those who have gone to the arms of Jesus in this past year. And so as we read those names later in the context of the Holy Eucharist, the tenderness of our hearts will certainly be touched in a special way. While it is a time to mourn our losses, it is also a time to celebrate our hope in Christ that we shall see them again in glorious resurrection bodies, with sure and certain hope that death is not the final story for them, nor for us.
A second thread, so closely woven together with the first, is the theme of Remembrance. We come to today solemnly remembering and giving thanks for those who made that ultimate sacrifice, who laid down their lives for their friends. We remember also those who offered themselves and came home, but came home forever changed. We remember even our enemies who fell in battle and lament the circumstances that made us enemies. We remember the innocent victims of all human conflict and pray to God that he will ever hold before us a different and better way. We remember our troubled past in all its moral ambiguity.
The final thread before us is the example of St. Martin of Tours, an ancient French saint who died in the year 397. It is one of the striking convergences of our secular and ecclesiastical calendars that Remembrance Day and his feast day both fall on November 11th. St. Martin was a Roman solider by profession, possibly a conscript. At some point in his early life Martin was converted to Christianity, and while he was still a catechumen (that is, one preparing for baptism) he met a poor beggar on the road. The beggar implored him to clothe him, so Martin cut his soldier’s cloak in two and gave one half to the beggar that he might be clothed. Later Martin had a vision of Christ wrapped that same half-cloak, saying, “Martin, a mere catechumen, covered me with his garment.” Martin left the army, was baptized and went on to form one of the earliest monastic communities in France.
There are times when it seems inevitable the sword must be taken up against a terrible foe, and yet there are times when Christ sets before us the frailty of our shared humanity and shows us another way. Most veterans I have ever known have wished not that we might glorify the wars in which they fought but rather that we might celebrate the peace we have known, and to work for that same peace so that we might never raise arms again. In St. Martin we meet a powerful example of just such a movement toward peace. St. Martin is the solider that stoops to help the man in need and in doing so not only demonstrates Christian compassion, but seeks eradicate one of the very causes of war, the poverty of the poor man.
At the root of most human conflict is the inhuman way we treat each other, and in particular, how we treat the most vulnerable amongst us. It is characteristic of the human condition to dehumanize the “other,” and thus we distance ourselves from all the we fear. It is the distance we place between ourselves and those who are different from us; it is the radicalization and fragmentation of peoples that comes through poverty, neglect, religious and ethnic hatred that leads us on the path of war. It is against these things that brave men reluctantly took up arms to fight. And it is against these things that Jesus stands when he sets before us the example to take the risk to reach out to those who are the most vulnerable amongst us in love and charity. By tearing his valuable cloak and handing it to the poor man, the one who was so different, the one who was so distanced from Martin in status and wealth, good St. Martin challenged the fear that drives wedges between us as peoples of this world.
The recent municipal elections here in the GTA and the mid-term elections south of the border were deeply disturbing because they were animated with so much anger. There is healthy anger, and there is righteous indignation. Any good therapist will tell you that it is good to name your anger and get it out. But if our anger is what drives us we shall never be partners in the building up of God’s kingdom. “What has happened to hope,” people are asking. Has it been replaced by anger? Anger, and its close cousin, Blaming, well always be close at hand. Indeed, out of her deep sadness and anger, Martha of Bethany blamed Jesus for her brother’s death, simply because Jesus had not come when he was called. Consider the irrationality of the anger that drives the blaming, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It’s your fault Jesus; death is your fault. Has hope been replaced by anger?
And yet we know the rest of the story, that even in the midst of the anger of Martha of Bethany, in even as she accuses Jesus, resurrection is proclaimed, and Jesus calls out “Lazarus, come forth!” and hope is restored. God repaid anger and blaming not with the sword but with new life.
God looked upon the brokenness of this world and chose not to send a flaming sword to destroy it, but rather to clothe himself in humility, in human flesh, as Jesus of Nazareth, and offer himself in vulnerability to this broken world. To those of us languishing on the side of the road, in the poverty of our humanity, suffering the nakedness of our anger, hate and prejudice, he stretched out his hands in suffering and wrapped us in the torn cloak of his divinity, that we might know his perfect peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding.
We live in an imperfect world. It is a world in which people die. It is a world in which people take up arms, out of malice to harm and out of valour to protect. This is the reality in which we live, but there is another reality which is breaking through, and that is the reality the reality of the sacred cloak in which we are wrapped that reminds us that this imperfect world is passing away and we are being enfolded in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, just as those who have gone before us, whom we remember today, have already tasted.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 7th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 11:21-27
“Lord , if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
--John 11:21
Today, the threads of three different commemorations are woven together.
First we celebrate the feast day of All Souls, a time when we remember before God all those who have gone before us into the presence of God and whom we shall meet again when we all share in the Resurrection of the dead. While we remember all those who have been near and dear to us and our now on that other shore, we remember in particular those who have gone to the arms of Jesus in this past year. And so as we read those names later in the context of the Holy Eucharist, the tenderness of our hearts will certainly be touched in a special way. While it is a time to mourn our losses, it is also a time to celebrate our hope in Christ that we shall see them again in glorious resurrection bodies, with sure and certain hope that death is not the final story for them, nor for us.
A second thread, so closely woven together with the first, is the theme of Remembrance. We come to today solemnly remembering and giving thanks for those who made that ultimate sacrifice, who laid down their lives for their friends. We remember also those who offered themselves and came home, but came home forever changed. We remember even our enemies who fell in battle and lament the circumstances that made us enemies. We remember the innocent victims of all human conflict and pray to God that he will ever hold before us a different and better way. We remember our troubled past in all its moral ambiguity.
The final thread before us is the example of St. Martin of Tours, an ancient French saint who died in the year 397. It is one of the striking convergences of our secular and ecclesiastical calendars that Remembrance Day and his feast day both fall on November 11th. St. Martin was a Roman solider by profession, possibly a conscript. At some point in his early life Martin was converted to Christianity, and while he was still a catechumen (that is, one preparing for baptism) he met a poor beggar on the road. The beggar implored him to clothe him, so Martin cut his soldier’s cloak in two and gave one half to the beggar that he might be clothed. Later Martin had a vision of Christ wrapped that same half-cloak, saying, “Martin, a mere catechumen, covered me with his garment.” Martin left the army, was baptized and went on to form one of the earliest monastic communities in France.
There are times when it seems inevitable the sword must be taken up against a terrible foe, and yet there are times when Christ sets before us the frailty of our shared humanity and shows us another way. Most veterans I have ever known have wished not that we might glorify the wars in which they fought but rather that we might celebrate the peace we have known, and to work for that same peace so that we might never raise arms again. In St. Martin we meet a powerful example of just such a movement toward peace. St. Martin is the solider that stoops to help the man in need and in doing so not only demonstrates Christian compassion, but seeks eradicate one of the very causes of war, the poverty of the poor man.
At the root of most human conflict is the inhuman way we treat each other, and in particular, how we treat the most vulnerable amongst us. It is characteristic of the human condition to dehumanize the “other,” and thus we distance ourselves from all the we fear. It is the distance we place between ourselves and those who are different from us; it is the radicalization and fragmentation of peoples that comes through poverty, neglect, religious and ethnic hatred that leads us on the path of war. It is against these things that brave men reluctantly took up arms to fight. And it is against these things that Jesus stands when he sets before us the example to take the risk to reach out to those who are the most vulnerable amongst us in love and charity. By tearing his valuable cloak and handing it to the poor man, the one who was so different, the one who was so distanced from Martin in status and wealth, good St. Martin challenged the fear that drives wedges between us as peoples of this world.
The recent municipal elections here in the GTA and the mid-term elections south of the border were deeply disturbing because they were animated with so much anger. There is healthy anger, and there is righteous indignation. Any good therapist will tell you that it is good to name your anger and get it out. But if our anger is what drives us we shall never be partners in the building up of God’s kingdom. “What has happened to hope,” people are asking. Has it been replaced by anger? Anger, and its close cousin, Blaming, well always be close at hand. Indeed, out of her deep sadness and anger, Martha of Bethany blamed Jesus for her brother’s death, simply because Jesus had not come when he was called. Consider the irrationality of the anger that drives the blaming, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It’s your fault Jesus; death is your fault. Has hope been replaced by anger?
And yet we know the rest of the story, that even in the midst of the anger of Martha of Bethany, in even as she accuses Jesus, resurrection is proclaimed, and Jesus calls out “Lazarus, come forth!” and hope is restored. God repaid anger and blaming not with the sword but with new life.
God looked upon the brokenness of this world and chose not to send a flaming sword to destroy it, but rather to clothe himself in humility, in human flesh, as Jesus of Nazareth, and offer himself in vulnerability to this broken world. To those of us languishing on the side of the road, in the poverty of our humanity, suffering the nakedness of our anger, hate and prejudice, he stretched out his hands in suffering and wrapped us in the torn cloak of his divinity, that we might know his perfect peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding.
We live in an imperfect world. It is a world in which people die. It is a world in which people take up arms, out of malice to harm and out of valour to protect. This is the reality in which we live, but there is another reality which is breaking through, and that is the reality the reality of the sacred cloak in which we are wrapped that reminds us that this imperfect world is passing away and we are being enfolded in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, just as those who have gone before us, whom we remember today, have already tasted.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, October 31, 2010
What St. Paul Prays for the People of Ephesus - A Homily for All Saints, 2010
Homily for All Saints’ Day, Year C, 2010 (translated)
Sunday, October 31st, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 1:11-23
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.
-Ephesians 1:17-18
One of the most important things that a priest is called to do is to pray for the people for whom he or she has the care of souls. The Anglican tradition is a tradition rich in prayer. In particular, Anglicans pray the form known as the Daily Office, easily recognized by those who grew up in the tradition of Mattins and Evensong as principal Sunday services. Morning and Evening prayer, offered daily, is a way of prayer shaped by the reading and recitation of Holy Scripture. When Anglicans (and Christians of other traditions who share this liturgical form) pray the Office, our prayer is rooted and grounded in the reality of Jesus Christ the Incarnate Word of God, revealed in the written Word of God. Thus, when we come to offer our intercessions and cares to God, we offer them enfolded in the words of Holy Scripture.
As we come to St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians we read a text that is, in effect, a prayer. How helpful it is for us, both as clergy and laypeople, when our words grow stale or even when prayers refuse to form on our lips, to turn to Scripture, and to the Apostle in particular, to learn afresh how to pray. As St. Paul gives thanks for the Ephesians and tells them how he has heard of their faith in the Lord Jesus, he adds these words:
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.
Can there be any better prayer that a pastor could offer to God on behalf of his or her people? Can there be any better prayer that any of us, as faithful Christian people, could offer for our brothers and sisters in Christ?
Let us consider for a moment what these words might mean to us.
First, Paul prays that God might give us the spirit of wisdom and revelation. This life is a journey of discovery. We might recall the prayer for the newly baptized person in the baptismal liturgy in the Book of Alternative Services, “Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works” (BAS 160). It may be said that the life of the baptized Christian is the journey of discovering the beauty and holiness of God. And how do we come to know such things? Through wisdom and revelation.
On the one hand, there is so much beauty in the world that points to the majesty and greatness of God. Indeed, when asked about how people know God exists, many will simply say look at the stars, or the beauty of the autumnal leaves, or the great complexity of the natural order. In fact, many a scientist has devoted their life to the study of God’s creation because this beauty has driven them with a desire to understand the works of God. The philosopher, the theologian, the scientist, all use the god-given gift of wisdom to seek an understanding of this divinely ordered cosmos. And Paul prays for the people of Ephesus, that they might be given the Spirit of wisdom. May it also be so for all of us.
There are other things, though, that cannot be known through wisdom, reason, or study. These are things that are known only through a special revelation of God. For Christian people, the Holy Scriptures are the place through which this revelation is found. What is this revelation? It is the revelation of God’s love in Jesus Christ. This is where we learn that death has no power over us, that indeed Christ has trampled down death by dying, and defeated the power of Sin that we might have life. This is where we learn that God is in Christ reconciling the world to himself. For the Christians of Paul’s day this revelation came through the reading and hearing of the Hebrew Bible for signs and prophecies about Jesus, for Christians since the second century or so, it has additionally meant reading the stories of Jesus, the acts of the early church, the letters of Paul and other apostles, for their disclosure of Jesus the Christ. Paul prays for the Ephesians that God might be revealed to them. May it also be so for us.
Wisdom and Revelation, two ways to God not alternatives, but complementary, and these are things for which we ought to continue to pray for each other. But why does Paul ask for these things, and why ought we to continue to pray for them? To what end are they important? Paul continues his prayer, “that we may come to know him (Jesus) and that the eyes of our hearts might be enlightened.” Sometimes the Church slips into thinking that it is a service club. Please note, I have nothing against service clubs – indeed, I belonged to one for several years – but the primary work of the Church is not about making the world a better place, but forming Christian people. The Church is a place, or more precisely, a gathering, in which we are nurtured that we might grow into the people God intends us to be. The Church is the gathering in which we pray, learn and serve. It is the gathering in which we are shaped and conformed, through the power of the Holy Spirit, into the likeness of Christ. It is where we come to know Christ and are transformed into the body of Christ. This is what Paul means by enlightenment – that they eyes of our hearts be opened that we might see who it is that we really are in Christ; that we might learn our true identity, and help others on that same journey. It is through the transformation of people, that the world is transformed.
And finally, what do we see with the eyes of hearts opened? We see hope; the hope to which we are called in Christ. This is a hope that the sadness of the world is not the thing that claims us. This is the hope that the broken promises of the world do not claim us. This is the hope that illness and indeed death are not our masters, but rather, we are claimed by a loving God whose love brings joy in the midst of sadness, healing in the midst of brokenness, and life in the midst of death. It is a hope that the world is indeed being transformed, as we hear in the Gospel today -- the poor, the mourners, the despised of the world are blessed in heart of God. With the eyes of hearts opened we see us as God sees us, as saints in light, on the road of becoming who we are in Christ Jesus.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, October 31st, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 1:11-23
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.
-Ephesians 1:17-18
One of the most important things that a priest is called to do is to pray for the people for whom he or she has the care of souls. The Anglican tradition is a tradition rich in prayer. In particular, Anglicans pray the form known as the Daily Office, easily recognized by those who grew up in the tradition of Mattins and Evensong as principal Sunday services. Morning and Evening prayer, offered daily, is a way of prayer shaped by the reading and recitation of Holy Scripture. When Anglicans (and Christians of other traditions who share this liturgical form) pray the Office, our prayer is rooted and grounded in the reality of Jesus Christ the Incarnate Word of God, revealed in the written Word of God. Thus, when we come to offer our intercessions and cares to God, we offer them enfolded in the words of Holy Scripture.
As we come to St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians we read a text that is, in effect, a prayer. How helpful it is for us, both as clergy and laypeople, when our words grow stale or even when prayers refuse to form on our lips, to turn to Scripture, and to the Apostle in particular, to learn afresh how to pray. As St. Paul gives thanks for the Ephesians and tells them how he has heard of their faith in the Lord Jesus, he adds these words:
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.
Can there be any better prayer that a pastor could offer to God on behalf of his or her people? Can there be any better prayer that any of us, as faithful Christian people, could offer for our brothers and sisters in Christ?
Let us consider for a moment what these words might mean to us.
First, Paul prays that God might give us the spirit of wisdom and revelation. This life is a journey of discovery. We might recall the prayer for the newly baptized person in the baptismal liturgy in the Book of Alternative Services, “Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works” (BAS 160). It may be said that the life of the baptized Christian is the journey of discovering the beauty and holiness of God. And how do we come to know such things? Through wisdom and revelation.
On the one hand, there is so much beauty in the world that points to the majesty and greatness of God. Indeed, when asked about how people know God exists, many will simply say look at the stars, or the beauty of the autumnal leaves, or the great complexity of the natural order. In fact, many a scientist has devoted their life to the study of God’s creation because this beauty has driven them with a desire to understand the works of God. The philosopher, the theologian, the scientist, all use the god-given gift of wisdom to seek an understanding of this divinely ordered cosmos. And Paul prays for the people of Ephesus, that they might be given the Spirit of wisdom. May it also be so for all of us.
There are other things, though, that cannot be known through wisdom, reason, or study. These are things that are known only through a special revelation of God. For Christian people, the Holy Scriptures are the place through which this revelation is found. What is this revelation? It is the revelation of God’s love in Jesus Christ. This is where we learn that death has no power over us, that indeed Christ has trampled down death by dying, and defeated the power of Sin that we might have life. This is where we learn that God is in Christ reconciling the world to himself. For the Christians of Paul’s day this revelation came through the reading and hearing of the Hebrew Bible for signs and prophecies about Jesus, for Christians since the second century or so, it has additionally meant reading the stories of Jesus, the acts of the early church, the letters of Paul and other apostles, for their disclosure of Jesus the Christ. Paul prays for the Ephesians that God might be revealed to them. May it also be so for us.
Wisdom and Revelation, two ways to God not alternatives, but complementary, and these are things for which we ought to continue to pray for each other. But why does Paul ask for these things, and why ought we to continue to pray for them? To what end are they important? Paul continues his prayer, “that we may come to know him (Jesus) and that the eyes of our hearts might be enlightened.” Sometimes the Church slips into thinking that it is a service club. Please note, I have nothing against service clubs – indeed, I belonged to one for several years – but the primary work of the Church is not about making the world a better place, but forming Christian people. The Church is a place, or more precisely, a gathering, in which we are nurtured that we might grow into the people God intends us to be. The Church is the gathering in which we pray, learn and serve. It is the gathering in which we are shaped and conformed, through the power of the Holy Spirit, into the likeness of Christ. It is where we come to know Christ and are transformed into the body of Christ. This is what Paul means by enlightenment – that they eyes of our hearts be opened that we might see who it is that we really are in Christ; that we might learn our true identity, and help others on that same journey. It is through the transformation of people, that the world is transformed.
And finally, what do we see with the eyes of hearts opened? We see hope; the hope to which we are called in Christ. This is a hope that the sadness of the world is not the thing that claims us. This is the hope that the broken promises of the world do not claim us. This is the hope that illness and indeed death are not our masters, but rather, we are claimed by a loving God whose love brings joy in the midst of sadness, healing in the midst of brokenness, and life in the midst of death. It is a hope that the world is indeed being transformed, as we hear in the Gospel today -- the poor, the mourners, the despised of the world are blessed in heart of God. With the eyes of hearts opened we see us as God sees us, as saints in light, on the road of becoming who we are in Christ Jesus.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
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