Homily for Lent 1, Year B, 2009
Sunday, March 1st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 1:9-15
“The time is fulfilled, the Kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe in the Good News.”
-- Mark 1:15
If we were late first century Christians, perhaps living in the city of Antioch, and we had no knowledge of any other gospels (for indeed the other gospels may not have yet come into being), and if we were sitting in a community of people listening to a reader performing the words of the Gospel According to Mark, these would be the first words we hear from Jesus.
Following the opening narrative about John the Baptist, the author propels us into the ministry of Jesus beginning with his baptism by John, his temptation in the wilderness, and then with his first brief, one-line sermon. If we are to hear the text as it was originally written, we need to expunge from our minds all the details subsequently added by Matthew and Luke, and the variations we find in John. In those other gospels, we have a long unfolding of the opening of Jesus’ ministry, we have virgin births, flights into Egypt, shepherds, wise men, a child Jesus teaching in the Temple; we have secondary players of Joseph, Mary, Zechariah and Anna, Elizabeth, Herod the Great; we have angels and visions. When we come to the baptism we have details added about John arguing with Jesus about his fitness to baptize one who is greater. When we come to the temptation in the wilderness we hear about a detailed struggle with Satan in which various temptations and Jesus’ response to them are enumerated in detail. Finally, when we come to Jesus’ early preaching, these few terse words from Mark are expanded in Luke to a dramatic reading and exegesis of Isaiah in Luke, to a lengthy sermon on the mount in Matthew.
None of this is to suggest that these things did not happen. However, if we are to hear the impact of Mark’s introduction of Jesus of Nazareth we must, for a moment, lay aside these details from the other gospels and consider Mark’s words alone. Having recognized what we must lay aside, let us hear again the sparse narrative provided by Mark, listening as if for the first time.
In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’
And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.
Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.’
Three stories told in shotgun order, baptism, the temptation, first preaching. Three stories that are told elaborately in the other gospels, but in minimalist fashion in this gospel. The words are chosen carefully. What do we learn from them?
In the very short episode of his baptism, we learn that Jesus is God’s anointed, God’s beloved Son, in whom God is well pleased. The first time we encounter Jesus in St. Mark’s gospel, we learn that his life and mission are from God. We learn that as God’s son he comes with the authority of God.
In the very short episode of the Temptation in the Wilderness, free from any explanation of the specifics of the temptations he faced, we learn that it was the Spirit of God that in fact placed him there, much like the Spirit of God directed the prophets of old. And why was he sent into the desert? It was to face forty days of temptation by Satan, over which he is victorious, for he was not devoured by the wild beasts and indeed was cared for by the angels of heaven. What do we learn? That the powers of evil have no power over the one sent by God.
In the very short one-line sermon of Jesus, following the arrest of John the Baptist, we learn that Jesus has a very simple message. The kingdom of God has come near, is “at hand.” It is not a far-off future scenario. It is not coming with the fanfare that one might expect. The time of waiting is over. The kingdom is upon us. And what are we to take from that? It is time to get on board.
In what way is the kingdom of God at hand? If we are to take anything away from this simple, rapid narrative of Jesus’ first appearance it is that in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, God has chosen to walk with us, God defeats the powers of sin and death, and that in the very presence of Jesus, the his kingdom is at hand.
It may be difficult for us to believe that the kingdom is very near or even at hand. If it were so, would this not be a perfect world? Would things like crime and war not be abolished? Would emotions like sadness and anger not be permanently replaced by joy and contentment? Would psychological states like depression not give way to perfect mental health? Would broken bodies not be bound up and death itself come to an end?
Our view of the kingdom breaking through is that of a perfect world, but it is not a perfect world, and yet, with Jesus amongst us, it is something more than what it seems.
In what way is it something more? To understand this we must cast our eyes toward the end of the narrative, the end of Mark’s gospel, which ends not with a resurrection narrative (although some later editors of St. Mark panicked and added Resurrection stories) but with a word that death had not defeated Jesus of Nazareth, that all that was told throughout the gospel was indeed true, that in this man we have encountered the living God. Standing before an empty tomb we come to learn that an instrument of death, the cross, has become for us the tool through which life is offered. Standing before an empty tomb, we recognize that the sepulcher is not a grave, but a bed of hope for all people. Standing before an empty tomb, we now believe his words, that the kingdom of God is at hand, not tomorrow, not years from now, but truly at hand, today.
God’s moment is now, the time for waiting is over. Thus, if we are waiting for the right moment to deepen our faith, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to open our Bibles and begin a regular course of reading Holy Scripture, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to begin a course of daily prayer, it is now. If we are waiting for the right moment to be reconciled with our neighbour, it is now. This is the message of Jesus’ opening proclamation, and indeed it is the message that permeates through Mark’s gospel. It is time to turn again, because the kingdom is not far off, but very near, indeed at hand.
To repent, simply means “to turn.” The word need not have any deeper or foreboding meaning than this. It is the word we use in our baptismal vows. Each of us will know deep within us what type turning we need to do this day, in this season of Lent. Each of us will know that there will be certain things from which we need to walk away. Each of us will know that there are certain things that we need to embrace and affirm. When we probe the depths of our beings we cannot fool ourselves. There are some things that are wrong for us, and there are some things that are right for us. And now is the time to say “no” to what draws us from our loving creator and to say “yes” to the things that help us to discover who we truly are in the eyes of God.
This is possible because the kingdom of God is not far off. This is possible because in Christ, in Jesus of Nazareth, we learn that we are the beloved of God. As we have entered into the waters of baptism with Christ, those words uttered to him become words uttered to us, behold my beloved. And as the spirit hovered over him, so the spirit hovers in our hearts. And as he was tested in the wilderness and overcame temptation, so too we are tested but we shall not be overcome with woe for we are not alone in the desert. For as he overcame temptation, so too shall we overcome everything that seeks to destroy us because his victory over the powers of sin and death is our victory over those same powers. And as he proclaimed the kingdom of God has come near, we live into that reality, that it is very near indeed, in fact, at hand.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Showing posts with label Repentence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Repentence. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
To Turn Again: A Homily For Ash Wednesday
Homily for Ash Wednesday, 2008
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
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