Silence and Noise: A Homily for Palm Sunday

Homily for Palm Sunday, Year A, 2008
Sunday, March 16th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Matthew’s Passion Narrative; Philippians 2:5-11

Silence and noise. These two opposites tug at us in our hearing of the Passion According to St. Matthew. On the one hand, there are those who mock our Lord; there are those who deride him; there are those who have much to say about the man hanging on the cross. They speak as if they understand all things, self-righteously pontificating with self-assurance. On the other hand, there are those who stand by quietly, not speaking, not commenting, not editorializing; rather, simply participating in the drama as it unfolds, exhibiting a different sort of righteousness – the faithfulness of discipleship. Noise and silence.

From the earliest moments of St. Matthew’s gospel, it has been the purpose of the Evangelist to teach us about what it means to be a true disciple; what it means to be righteous. But righteousness may not mean exactly what we think it does. No, for in the opening chapters of St. Matthew, we learn of Joseph, a righteous man, who would do the right thing and put away his wife Mary for her alleged infidelity. This would have been the righteous thing. Instead, God directs him on a different path, the path of gentleness, the path of compassion, a path in which he opened himself to ridicule by others – the path of self-offering and self-giving.

And so it is time and time again for St. Matthew. Righteousness is not what we think it is. Consider the temptations of Jesus, as well as the Sermon on the Mount, in each of these stories we learn that righteousness is not about following the right code, but the giving over of self in order that the heavenly kingdom might come on earth.

In the final moments of Jesus’ earthly life, we are witness to this ultimate self-offering. He is accused of being unrighteous, of being a blasphemer, but nothing can be further from the truth. To the accusations leveled against him, he makes no pretense to greatness. As palms and garments are thrown before him acclaiming him king, he comes riding not on a white stead but on a lowly donkey. To the question: “Are you the Messiah?”, comes the self-effacing reply, “You have said so.” As soldiers, thieves and passersby mock him, the noise becomes deafening: “If you are indeed God’s son save yourself; you saved others!” Amidst the noise truth is indeed spoken, albeit ironically, mockingly: He is the king, the Messiah, the Son of God. Ironically, they speak the truth, only they know not of what they speak.

In the shadows stands the one who could speak the truth, the one who acclaimed him as God’s Son. But Peter refuses to step into the light, choosing to remain in the shadows of the flickering fire, denying his Lord. From his lips comes the deafening noise of denial.

Noise and Silence.

Through his condemnation and through his lengthy execution, our Lord spoke but a few words. Amidst the deafening noise of the accusations and taunting, he chose not to acclaim the glory that was indeed his, but took up his cross in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled. He took up his cross so that in vulnerability we might find strength, in hopelessness we might see hope, so that in death we might know resurrection.

It is common for us to think of this as a lonely journey in which Jesus was abandoned. It seems all the lonelier due to the incessant noise made by those around the silent Messiah who is led like a lamb to the slaughter. And yet, if we examine the narrative more closely, if we delve into the silence, we recognize that our Lord is not alone. There are others that stand with him, silently, oh so silently, but they also stand with him, faithfully, oh so faithfully. A man name Simon, a Cyrenean, was compelled to carry our Lord’s cross. Does he, like Peter (another Simon) abdicate his responsibility? Does he announce that he does not know the man? Does he refuse? No. Without voice or word he takes up his Lord’s cross and follows him, providing not only respite for a doomed man, but a model of discipleship for all time.

And if we extend today’s narrative a paragraph further than we read this morning, we learn of “many women, looking on from a distance; who had followed him all the way from the Galilee, having provided for him.” Like the angels who came to minister to him after his desert temptation, so these faithful women, not least being Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the Zebedees, stood with him, silently during his final moments. Unlike the men who ran away, who could not watch and pray even for an hour, they stayed and prayed, silently, oh, so silently. Yet, their silence would not remain silence. For simply by being there they became the first faithful witnesses to the saving act of God. While others mocked and derided, in their silence these women watched and prayed. They would be the first to proclaim him risen from the dead; they would be the first to believe; they would be the first apostles of the Resurrection. In their compassion, ministering to him faithfully and consistently from the foundation of his mission, to this his final moments, they teach us what it means to be true disciples of Jesus. They did not run and in the fullness of time, their silence turns to proclamation.

And finally, if we read but another paragraph further, we hear of another selfless man, another Joseph (take note), who like the first Joseph, at great expense and risk to himself, in order to offer loving care to the women around Jesus took a brave and courageous step of compassion. He went quietly to Pilate and asked for the body, which he placed in his own tomb: A quiet, courageous man of some means and position in his society who quietly risked it all to do the right thing -- a model of discipleship.

Silence and Noise.

A generation later, St. Paul wrote, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” And in today’s epistle Paul sings an ancient hymn about our Lord who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…even unto death on a cross.”

Jesus came not as one with an army or fiery sword. He came as a servant. It is the servant king who redeems us, who brings us to new life, who offers us hope in the midst of our sorrow. This is the righteousness of which St. Matthew speaks. It is not the righteousness of Law, or rule, or doctrine, or forms of worship. No. It is the righteousness of Love, compassion, gentleness, and self-offering. Everything else has the potential to become a clanging cymbal or a noisy gong. The most righteous men of the day put our Lord to death. The most righteous of the disciples denied him in the moment of truth. The most righteous did the wrong thing for the right reason. But there were others who in silent love, silent compassion, silent self-giving followed their lord through the trials of the cross to the glory of the resurrection.

As participants in the Passion of our Lord we find ourselves confronted with a choice. Shall we choose to cling to the noise of our own self-righteousness or shall we choose the silence of eternity interpreted by love? Should we choose the silence, we shall indeed find that we have a voice, a voice that proclaims louder than any clanging cymbal the still small voice of calm. We shall find the voice that in humility hopes all things, bears all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Like the women around Jesus we shall find our voice and it shall be the voice of our Lord that in thought, word and deed, proclaims a love so great, so divine that it demands our souls, our lives, our all.

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

Can These Bones Live?

Homily for Lent 5, Year A, 2008
Sunday, March 9th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45

“Can these bones live?”


--Ezekiel 37:3

Some time after the people of Judah were taken into captivity in 587 B.C., the prophet Ezekiel was swept up in a vision in which he was transported to a valley of dry bones – a valley where bone was piled upon bone for as far as the eye could see. It was an unimaginable sight and he stood within its midst. One can only imagine the revulsion that he felt given the palpable stench and taste of death, given the reality of the ritual impurity of the moment, and given the fearsome sight itself of bone upon bone. Frightfully, Ezekiel stood amidst the utter a reality of death itself. Could he have kept himself from weeping? What were the emotions that welled deep within his heart in that moment? He certainly knew that these bones represented the fate of his nation; he certainly knew that this vision of death was not simply a vision, but rather a manifestation of the reality faced by his people in exile. And had God forsaken them? Had God forsaken him? Was this to be the ultimate fate of the people who walked in the darkness of foreign oppression? They had certainly lost their way but they had also been escorted somewhere that they would rather not have gone. Was this to be his own fate? As the horror of the vision overwhelmed him, these words took shape within his ears, and the voice of God spoke to him, “Can these bones live?” A small voice began to form within his own breast and took shape on his own lips, “Oh Lord God, you know."

There is much to weep over in this present age, in a world filled with brokenness and despair, not to mention a church filled with brokenness and resignation over its own apparent imminent demise. Do we not feel as if we might be standing in a valley of dry bones -- bone upon bone for as far as the eye can see? Do we not feel, at times, that whether it be church or world, we have a certain helplessness and hopelessness about how things are going to unfold. Do we dare to stand against the oppressor when the oppressor seems unbeatable? Do we dare to stand against injustice when injustice appears the to have become the order of the day? Are we afraid to embrace change because all we have ever known becomes all we can ever imagine? Shall the exile be the best that we can hope for? Shall battles in court over the possession of church buildings be the best that we can offer to the world? Are we a people without voice, without form, without flesh on our bones, without the breath of life itself – a people without hope? It seems that this is how the world often sees us. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.

The vision of Ezekiel is an oracle of hope. The vision of Ezekiel, though beginning in the valley of death, concludes in the Garden of Resurrection. Although Ezekiel stands in the midst of bones dried and discarded, despondent of hope, still he listens for the voice of God in the darkest and most frightful place. And that voice does indeed speak. It is a voice that speaks across the tears of a broken people and calls this lonely prophet to a new hope. "Prophesy to the bones," says the Lord. Ezekiel listens, and perhaps tentatively at first, but with increasing confidence speaks to the bones. The bones come together, bone to bone, rattling with a deafening noise. The noise is overwhelming, but do these bones yet live? Can these bones yet live? Oh Lord, you know.

At the tomb of his friend Lazarus, Jesus was met by Martha, who laments uncontrollably, "If you'd been here my brother would not have died!" How easy it is to blame others. Sometimes the only answer to the brokenness of life, to the brokenness of the world, to the brokenness of the church, is to weep. At the tomb of his friend, Jesus wept. Over life that had departed, over lack of faith, over fear and despair, Jesus wept. In the valley of the dry bones our Lord weeps, and so do we. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know. Can Lazarus walk amongst us again? Oh Lord, you know.

"I am going to open your graves, oh my people," says the Lord. "But our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely." But the voice of God thunders, “I am going to open your graves, and bring you up to from your graves, oh my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel and you shall know that I am the Lord when I open your graves, and bring you out from your graves, oh my people." Do we dare to believe the prophecy of Ezekiel? Do we dare to hold his words as true? Do we dare to believe that the bones of our faith can live? In a world that tears itself apart in violent acts of self-destruction; and in a church tearing itself apart and demonstrating to the world that it is no better than the worst the world can offer, can we dare to believe that the Lord will breathe life into these dry bones? Can we dare to hope? Is there hope? Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.

"Lazarus, come forth!" And the bones came together bone to bone, and the man wrapped in a shroud came forth from the tomb as the stone was rolled away, and the Spirit of the Lord moved mightily upon the bones, and Lazarus walked again amongst us; not as one without life, not as one without hope but as a witness to the mighty power of our Lord, a witness to the power of the Resurrection. These bones can live.

The forty days of our Lenten journey are a time for seeking out the broken, shattered, and dry bones of our lives, of the church, and of the world. As we find those bones, as we stand in their midst, as we fall up to our knees and weep over them, we are called to prayer: "can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know." We are called to self-examination, to repentance, but most importantly, to new life. The forty days are a time in which we journey forward through the valley of the dry bones, often finding ourselves in exile in dark places, perhaps even a tomb. In the midst of the valley, in the midst of the dry bones of our lives, we are called to prophesy to those same bones. And indeed these bones shall live. Only you will know the dry bones of your own story; together as a Christian people we seek to discover the dry bones of the church; and together as a human race we seek to uncover the dry bones of humanity. But out of our cry from the grave, we are called forth by our Lord to be his partner that together, we might turn mourning into dancing, brokenness into wholeness, ashes into fire, and death into life.

In these forty days, we journey through the valley of the shadow of death and out the mouth of a tomb into the garden of abundant life. Our Lord who has journeyed through these same depths stands at the mouth of the tomb beckoning us forward into the light -- not the light of some ephemeral, distant, future bliss, but into a world, yes, this world, illuminated by the light of Christ. "Can these bones live?" Yes, oh Lord, they can, they shall, and they will, because in you they are made alive -- because in you we are made alive. We press forward through these forty days knowing that we are not people without hope, but a people alive in the Resurrection of our Lord. We know that even amidst the dust there are always “alleluias” waiting to be sung. We know that even as our lives, our church, and our world struggle our way through the valley of dry bones, our Lord breathes new life on us, and we yet live.

"Lazarus, come forth!"



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

The Bread of Life: The Heart of Ecumenical Ministry

Homily for Ecumenical Lenten Series
Sunday, Mar 2nd 2008
Preached at Thornhill Presbyterian Church
By the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, Assistant Curate,
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Texts: Exodus 16:2-4,9-16; John 6:25-35

“I am the Bread of Life.”

The consensus of the Hebrew people wandering in the wilderness was that the experiment had failed. The memory of the tyranny of their Egyptian masters, their past oppression, their utter and inhumane subjugation was now being eclipsed by the hunger pangs they felt as they traveled through the wilderness. The pain of the present made the injustice of the past seem but a distant and fading bad dream. They had needs that must be met now. And like many great leaders who remain in power beyond the initial revolution, the lustre of Moses’ leadership was beginning to fade. Hence, the people cried out in anger, “If only we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger!” How quickly their tune had changed. Things eternal had given way to things temporal.

In St. John’s Gospel we are told of a Messiah who knows the depths of the hearts of those who encounter him. Under the fig tree he peered into the depths of the soul of Nathaniel; in Jerusalem he unlocked the mysteries of heaven to a Pharisee named Nicodemus; to a Samaritan woman by a ancient well he saw into her past and offered her a future filled with living water; to all who encountered him he offered the gift of himself and abundant life. He offered to mend their brokenness, touch their hearts, and most poignantly, give them food that would fill them more deeply and with greater sustenance than any earthly food. But even with the heavenly food in sight; even having tasted it themselves, longing for multiplied loaves, they sought after things temporal rather than things eternal.

It is by the mercy of God, though, that their needs were met. Although the Hebrew people needed first, and foremost deliverance from slavery, oppression and subjugation, they were not left bereft of physical sustenance; for they were given quail to eat and manna from heaven. And although our Lord Jesus Christ offered living water and bread from heaven, he also multiplied loaves and fishes in order that none might go hungry in body, much less spirit.

But how do we respond to such graciousness on the part of God who meets our physical needs? In the meeting of our practical needs do we then take for granted the graciousness of God who offers to meet the needs of our hearts, who applies salve to the wounds of souls, and who mends the confusion of our minds. Do we choose to live by bread alone? And more importantly, do we choose to teach our children to seek after things temporal, to the exclusion of things eternal?

In the early nineties, when I was doing an undergraduate degree in religious studies at York University, I first heard of the ecumenical movement. I was enrolled in a secular Church History class. The professor was a member of the Orthodox Church of America, and most of us were of different denominations. Indeed, I was a cradle Anglican, and in this class I met my wife, a Pentecostal. There were Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, members of the United Church, Roman Catholics, non-denominational Christians, and even an agnostic or two thrown in for good measure. At the beginning of the year, our Professor told us that the academic thinking of the day was that the glorious hope of post-war ecumenism had now failed, and that the ecumenical movement was virtually dead in the water. As someone who had lived through the optimism of the former days, this deeply troubled him. However, he said that he was convinced that ecumenism was not actually dead, but taking on new shape and new hope. By the end of the course, this eclectic group of people, in a secular university, had formed a tightly knit community that academically explored the question “what is the Church?” Our Professor suggested to us, and we found this to be true, that in exploring the question together, we had in fact, been the Church together, in spite of all the practical things that separated us from one another.

Well since those days, I have heard time and again the death knell of the ecumenical movement being sounded. It is certainly true that if we look at a number of issues on which we spend a great deal of time as Christian people in ecumenical conversation, things look pretty grim. I think that we should not be afraid to name them: There is the question of recognizing each others’ ordinations and orders of ministry; there is the question of shared communion around our altars and communion tables; and what exactly is this thing we call the Eucharist, is it a memorial, a sacrament, a sacrifice, and what about the real presence? Are women recognized in holy orders? What is our position on the inclusion of gay and lesbian people in the life of the Church? These issues present difficulties and questions not only for the ecumenical movement, but also in the internal theology and politics of our own denominations. It may seem to us that what divides us is greater than what binds us. It may seem that the centre does not appear to be holding. It may seem that we are growing farther apart, rather than closer together.

And yet, we must ask, what is the centre? What is it that binds us rather than separates us? What is it that we hold in common? What is the miracle of which we so often lose sight? What is it that sustains us as a family as we threaten to go our separate ways? Or more properly, who is it?

Sometimes we seek a miracle at the expense of recognizing the miracle in our midst. This was certainly true of the Hebrew people freed from their bondage. They were free, and yet they remained slaves to their pessimism. This was true of those around Jesus: The bread of life was in their midst, and yet they asked for bread to eat, blind to the true bread from heaven. Overwhelmed with disappointment – disappointment about their leaders, about themselves, about the world – people of any time can fail to see the gracious touch of salvation and blessing of hope amongst them. It is often easier for us to cry aloud as the Hebrew people did so long ago that it would have been better never to have even tried, than to be in this mess that we are in now. Or as with the disciples to moan and cry that we do not have enough to feed the faithful. It is all to easy to give up when we lose sight of the centre; when we lose sight of what truly sustains; when we lose sight of the bread of life, when we become obsessed with things temporal at the expense of things eternal.

It seems to me that as Christians we spend a considerable amount of time focusing not on the centre, not on what binds us, but on what separates us. In no way do I mean to suggest that the things that separate us are simply periphery. There are many important issues about which we disagree, but shall our disagreement pierce the heart of God? Shall we choose to turn our backs on the centre, our Lord and Saviour, by seeking after the lesser of breads?

The forty years of this Lenten series serves as a resounding “no!” to that question. For forty years, Christians of this community have come together to worship, pray, and learn together, because of what binds us together rather than what separates us from each other. For an even longer period of time, clergy and lay workers of this community have come together in fellowship and Christian brotherhood and sisterhood, with a passion for the sharing the Good News of the Gospel of Christ and living out our call to be partners in that Good News for this community. In this neighbourhood, for as long as many can remember, Christian brothers and sisters of so many branches of this wonderful family have reached out to the community and the world in love, service, compassion and charity. And how has this been possible? Is it because we have chosen to focus on what separates us? By no means. Rather, it is because we have chosen to focus on what binds us and sustains us – Our master and our friend, the Lord Jesus Christ. We seek first the things eternal, the living water, the bread of heaven. In seeking first things eternal, our Lord himself -- as he did so many years ago, both in wilderness and in ancient Judea -- attends to things temporal. And our needs are met.

It is only too easy for us to cry in the wilderness or long for the multiplication of loaves. It is only too easy for us to believe that only when issues around the periphery are solved that we can sit down together as brothers and sisters. It is only too easy to look to what separates us and lose hope and sight of what binds us together. A great songwriter once wrote these somewhat discouraging words:

You say potato, I say potahto
You say tomatoe, I say tomahto
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomaho
Let’s call the whole thing off.

Sometimes it seems that this is where the ecumenical movement has taken us. Sometimes it seems that the differences in the way in which we pronounce our faith distance us greatly from each other. But let us not forget the experience of these forty years. They have not been a wilderness, but a time of great exploration, friendship, companionship and hope. It has been the best time to be the Church together. Has there ever been any other age in which Christians of such diverse branches of the family have worship, prayed, learned and served together. What a wonderful time to explore our life together. It would be easy to look at what separates us and “call the whole thing off,” but oh, when we look at what binds us, what exciting times we have had, and what exciting times lie ahead! Let us not forget that the songwriter continued the song with the following words:

But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part
And oh, if we call the whole thing off, then that would break my heart.
...
So we better call the “the calling off” off.


Indeed, in Christ, we, like those lovers who fought over pronunciation, have more in common that what separates us. Let us not break our own hearts, much less the heart of God, by “calling the whole thing off.” Instead, let us stay focused on the centre, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, on the miracle in our midst. And finally, as we seek to pass on the sustenance of our faith, let us pass on to our children what we have believed, known and experienced together as brothers and sisters in this community, the bread of life, our Lord Jesus Christ, in our midst.

Text copyright the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2008. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means without the express written permission of the author. "Let's call the whole thing off," by George & Ira Gershwin.

The Healing Ministry: Living Water

Sermon for Lent 3, Year A, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. John 4:5-42

“Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty…”
John 4:15

Today’s text from St. John’s Gospel tells the stories of individuals who were seeking something more. On the surface, the were concerned about meeting their basic needs of survival – water to drink and food to eat – but at a deeper level, they knew as we know, that we do not live by bread alone. Thus, at some deep, intrinsic level, they knew that being alive, being human, was about more than meeting their basic needs, but also about satisfying a hunger for God. And in today’s text Jesus recognized those hidden needs, educated those who came to him, and offered to meet the deepest longings of their hearts. To those who received him, he gave them the gift of his divine presence. The depth of their understanding was expanded and the longing ember of their heart was ignited to share the good news with others.

Many of you will know that for some years, I have served as a member of the Bishop’s Committee on Healing. As next Sunday is the week in which we anoint for healing and highlight the Church’s healing ministry, Canon Greg has asked me to reflect, on the healing ministry here at Holy Trinity and share some of my observations and reflections.

On the surface, our passage from St. John’s Gospel does not appear to be a text about the healing ministry, and yet, I think that if we look more closely, we can draw some important conclusions about healing ministry from the text. Primarily this text tells us that things may not always be as they seem. By this I mean that often in healing we seek one thing when we really need, and deeply long for, another. This was certainly the case with the woman at the well. On one level she sought to have her bodily need for sustenance met, and yet, on a deeper level, she longed also for another kind of sustenance – for living water.

In the healing ministry, we do, without a doubt seek after physical healing, which we call “cure.” However, in spite of technology, and anti-aging formulas, we must face the reality that human bodies simply wear out. Complete physical health is a bit of an illusion given this fact. Now, do not get me wrong, it is my firm belief that there can be physical healing from ailments and disease, and yes, I do believe in miracles, but I have also been aware that many times, when we pray hard, desire faithfully, and live wholesomely, there is no physical healing. Thus, while physical cure is important, I think that the healing ministry must not stop there or become obsessed with physical cure, but probe more deeply into the health of the whole person – body, mind, spirit.

I am pleased to minister in a church in which parish nursing is so strongly embraced. We have in this parish a talented and passionate parish nurse who exercises care for the people of God with holy compassion and spiritual gentleness. In counseling, advocating, advising and educating, she, along with a supportive health and wellness committee, responds not only to the concerns of parishioners about their physical health, but also to concerns about their emotional and spiritual well-being. Parish nursing ministry is a ministry that understands healing in its broadest sense and seeks to incarnate the healing ministry of Jesus in the everyday life and concerns of Christian people.

Growing out of our parish nursing ministry is the prayer shawl ministry. Prayer shawls are knit in love and prayer and offered to someone with a physical need, emotional or spiritual need. Those who receive them feel enfolded in the love of God and the prayer of this community. This ministry is growing and we wish to highlight it as part of our healing ministry. On the first Sunday of the month at the 10:00 a.m, beginning next week, prayer shawls collected over the previous month will be offered up in prayer at our monthly healing service, as part of our offertory prayer. The prayer shawls will be brought up and presented by an individual who participates in this ministry.

Another important healing ministry at Holy Trinity is that of intercessory prayer. Two important ways in which we do this are through the “prayers of the people” in our liturgy and through the confidential prayer chain. In each case, we remember those close to us who are in need of any sort of healing – body, mind and spirit. We encourage you to provide names for the intercessor that he or she may pray for those in need, but more importantly, we encourage you also to name those known to you in the silence provided during the Intercessions. God knows the needs of God’s people, but simply naming them aloud gives each of us the chance to stand together in loving care for those who seek God’s healing touch. You may be a bit nervous about it at first, but go ahead, give it a try, you will feel warmed by the knowledge that you have stood with your brothers and sisters in loving prayer. The prayer list continues to grow and we are considering reading some of the names at the early service, some at the later service and some on the Wednesday service. In addition to our public intercessions, we encourage you to make use of the confidential prayer chain. You make contact its coordinato to request confidential healing prayer for yourself or loved ones.

Finally, I am delighted that the ministry of anointing continues to be lovingly offered at Holy Trinity. I have been involved in the training of anointers for a number of years and this ministry is close to my heart. I wish to remind you also that if you find yourself sick at home, in hospital, preparing for an operation or procedure, this sacramental ministry is entirely appropriate and one of the clergy would be pleased to visit you both for anointing and the Church’s primary sacrament of healing, the Holy Eucharist.

Anointing is open to all persons, regardless of whether or not they are baptized for God’s healing touch is offered to all. Anointing with oil is a rich and ancient symbol. In the ancient world oil was treated as a medicine to be applied as a salve to wounds, burns and other physical ailments. In the tradition of the Church is has been seen as a sacramental sign of Christ as medicine to soul. Like any sacrament it is the outward visible sign of the inward spiritual grace. And like any sacrament it is to be received only by the person seeking the sacrament only. This is why the Church does not allow anointing by proxy, or on behalf of another person. Indeed, our diocese has a policy to this effect. I recognize that there has been some confusion around this point, but remember, one does not receive communion on behalf of another, one is not baptized on behalf of another, and one certainly does not get a stand-in spouse when they are getting married. Anointing is for your healing, your wholeness, your need of God’s healing touch. Intercessory prayer, as part of the prayers of the people or privately with a partner or through the prayer chain are appropriate ways for praying for loved ones in need of health and wholeness.

So as we have seen, the healing ministry is being carried out in so many ways in this place. We are partners with the living Christ in his healing ministry and we continually seek new ways to be faithful proclaimers of the Lord who mends not only broken bodies but broken hearts and spirits. May each of us find living water to quench our thirsty souls and bread from heaven to sustain us on our journey.

Do Not Lose Heart

Homily for the Feast of SS Cyril & Methodius
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008 (translated from Feb 14th)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 4:1-6

“Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” 2 Corinthians 4:1

Cyril and Methodius, who died in AD 869 and 895, respectively, have come to be known as the apostles to the slavs. It was Cyril and Methodius, two brothers of the Byzantine nobility, who brought the Gospel into Moravia and other parts of Central Europe. As we learn from Fr. Stephen Reynolds in For All the Saints, they were sent to this area because of their fluency in Slavonic. As a result, Cyril developed a writing system so that the native Slavs could write in their own language. As Fr. Reynolds explains, this led to the translation of Scripture into the native tongue of the people as well as the development of a unique Slavonic liturgy, which continues to be influence both Eastern Catholic and Orthodox liturgy to this day. And of course, the contribution of the Cyrillic alphabet has been far-reaching.

After Cyril’s death, the Franks attempted to undo much of his work and it was through the perseverance of his brother Methodius and subsequent followers that the work took root and endured. It would have been easy for the brothers and their followers to lose heart, but surely they must have meditated on today’s text from 2 Corinthians, “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” Surely, it was by God’s mercy that they engaged in their ministry and surely it was God’s will and God’s purpose that they should succeed. Against the gravest odds they did not lose hope. Even after the loss of his brother, Methodius knew that God was faithful and through the faithfulness of God, he persisted in his task and call to ministry.

We may never be called to create and alphabet so that Scripture might be read in a native tongue, or devise a liturgy for the faithful of a particular nation (although we have such saints in our own Church of Canada, such as Bishop Horden who did much the same work amongst the native peoples as did Cyril and Methodius amongst the Slaves). However, each of us is called to a particular ministry. Perhaps it is to care for a loved one as they age or experience illness. Perhaps it is work with those in need in your neighbourhood. Perhaps it is to walk with a friend in their grief. You alone know the ministry to which God calls you. Whatever this ministry may be, there will be times when it will be difficult to fulfill it, when the task seems overwhelming, when it might seem easier to give up. Yet, we know that the ministry is not our own, but God’s. We are but partners in the sacred task, and the real minister is God, who through his mercy will not forsake us, abandon us, or forget us. Rather God will walk with us and indeed, go before us. The faithfulness he offered to Cyril and Methodius is a faithfulness he offers to each of us. Therefore, we do not lose heart for we know we walk with a faithful God.



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

A Holy Lent

A Sermon for Lent 1, Year A
Sunday, February 10th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 4:1-11

“I invite you to keep a Holy Lent.” These words are spoken by the Celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy. The word “Lent,” itself, is derived from a middle-English word meaning “spring.” Thus, when we speak of Lent, we speak of a springtime in which what was once dead is now coming back to life. Well, in Canada, at least, it is difficult to imagine the season through which we now journey to be a season of springtime. There are no flowers or buds or returning birds, nor have the hibernating animals begun to wake up. We are decidedly in the dead of winter. However, if we take a closer look around us, we will come to realize that all is not dead; even in the chill of winter, there are signs of life. Some birds still sing, some squirrels still scurry, and even beneath the mounds of snow, seeds wait quietly to burst forth. There is life, perhaps it is fleeting, perhaps it is drowsy, but there is indeed life.

And so it is with our Christian faith. Lent appears to us, to be a time of death. Traditionally, Lent has certainly been a time of doing without. I suspect, in many cultures, and indeed in our the early days of our pioneer culture here in Canada, a Lenten fast may have been as much out of necessity as out of piety. In a world in which we have whatever we want, whenever we want it, it is difficult to imagine a day in which some things, some foods, resources, medicines, even contact with other people, were simply not available, all because of the prohibitions of the winter environment. Thus, I suspect that the discipline of giving up something for Lent is indeed a good one, for it reminds us that there are others who do without, and it reminds us that there are some things that we simply do not need. And ultimately, it reminds us that what we truly need might not be things at all but something much deeper, much more profound, much more eternal. Sometimes, though, the presumed austerity of the season might seem to speak more to death than to life, and more to darkness than to light, more to wintertime than to springtime.

We seem to forget that the season of Lent is actually a springtime season and that spring is a time of gradual awakening, of gradually putting down roots, and gradual blossoming into beauty. I must confess, that the contrast between Lent and Easter has always seemed to me quite stark. There is Lent, which is all about darkness, winter, coldness, austerity, and then there is Easter, which is all about light, spring, warmth, new life, and overflowing abundance. Upon closer examination, though, the seasons of the year change slowly, do they not? Surely, we have examples sudden snowfalls, flash floods, and unexpected heat waves. But for the most part, our seasons slide into one another, and we rely on newscasters to tell us that it is now spring, or summer, or winter, or fall, and for the most part we say either, “It doesn’t seem much like winter yet,” or “Wow, I thought it was fall already!” This is all to say that our movement from season to season is a gradual one. And so, I say, is our movement from Lent to Easter. The movement is gradual, and the signs somewhat deceptive. Yes it is dark, yes it is cold, but lo, there is life.

In the history of the Church, Lent, as with springtime, has been a time for putting down roots. Lent is the time for catechesis, that is, for learning about the faith, for deepening our life of prayer, and for disciplining ourselves, or regulating our lives, that we might grow. We do all of this so that at Easter we can glory in the flower of our faith in bloom.

Again, the celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy outlines what a Holy Lent might look like, namely a time of “self-examination, penitence, prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and reading and meditating on the word of God.” It is tempting to look upon Lent simply as a time of “giving up” something in order that we might experience what it is like to “do without.” I do not want to disparage this practise or its piety, but I suggest that our Lenten Spring should be something more akin to the cultivation of a garden. It should involve the care and quality of the soil, the quality of its tilling, its location with respect to sun and shade, the planting of the vegetation and the subsequent care and tending to its growth and blooming.

With this image in view, I think I am discovering that the Lenten Spring is a time of discipline for growth. This is why Lent has traditionally been a time of Christian Education and Baptismal Preparation programs. This is why Lent has been a time of regulating our diets and tending to the care of our bodies. This is why Lent has been a time for looking to our past failings and false self-expectations and readjusting our hopes and dreams and expectations. This is why Lent has been a time for examining the injustices of our society and our world and seeking to assist others out of our abundance so that the unjust chasm between rich and poor might be closed in order that the world might more closely resemble the kingdom of God in which there is neither rich nor poor. This is why Lent has been a time to read and meditate on God’s word in order that we might more closely align our lives and wills to the divine life and the divine will. Each of these aspects of Lent speaks of discipline, and not the kind of discipline that breaks us, but the kind of discipline that gives us growth. These are the disciplines of spring.

And what of the forty days faced by Jesus? Forty days in the wilderness. Forty days of discipline. Forty days of temptation. It is easy for us to imagine the austerity of Jesus. It is easy for us to imagine a dirty, broken man, emaciated by the elements a lack of food. It is easy for us to imagine a man overwhelmed by the darkness of the cold desert nights. Instead, St. Matthew gives us the opposite image – a man truly alive; a man who, having journeyed through his own Lent emerges mature, blossoming, resisting the temptations of the devil; a man with a wellspring of depth and confidence and reliance on his Father in Heaven, a man who could not and would not be broken by temptation.

What also emerged was a man who wanted more. He was famished, but not for things temporal, but longing with an increasing hunger for things eternal. Just as the forty days strengthened him against his enemy, the forty days deepened his appetite and longing for God. God was faithful, for we are told that when all was said and done, the angels came and ministered to him.

May this forty days be for each of you a time of self-discipline, of self-discovery, a time of deepening your faith, and a time of growth in your love of God. Remember it is the springtime of your faith. May you meet the bright Sun of Righteousness at your joyful Eastertide, with a renewed hope, a strengthened resolve, and a hunger in your heart for the living God. And may the angels of God minister to you on your Lenten journey.

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

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.

The People Who Walked In Darkness

Homily for Proper 3, Year A, 2008
Sunday, January 27th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 9:2, Matt. 4:18-22

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness-- on them light has shined. --Isaiah 9:2

During the days of the prophet Isaiah, darkness covered the face of the earth -- the darkness of human despair as an invading army walked over kingdom of God’s chosen people. Imagine if you will, families separated, people uprooted from their homes, young men killed attempting to defend their homeland, and all of it seeming so senseless. And while it might be explained that the collapse of their world was the result of their impiety, the cause no longer mattered. Now they were overwhelmed by a deep darkness – a darkness that brought despair and crushed all hope.

I wonder if we, too, sometimes feel as if a deep darkness has covered the face of this world. Tyrants walk the earth, masquerading as angels of light, all the while exploiting the weakest and frailest amongst us. And perhaps more problematic than the wrath of tyrants is the powerlessness and indeed apathy to which we succumb in the face of systems of domination. Do we not feel powerless to challenge the powers of this world and do we not feel powerless to make changes? Even if we have worked for good in our lives, how discouraging it is to see evil apparently get the upper hand. And surely, as the psalmist fears, we too must fear that we shall fail to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.

The people of ancient Israel felt this way, but Isaiah brought them a message – a message about a new day dawning, a new light shining. He told those who lived under the cloud of deep darkness -- in a land in which the light of goodness had long been absent -- that they shall see a great light. Indeed, they were liberated, released from their slavery and captivity. A disciple of Isaiah lived to sing the song, “Arise, shine for thy light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.” A light shone forth and the truth was made manifest, that God does act in history and does act for his people.

It was true then and it is true now. The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. As Christian people, we know that the light of the world is our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. As Christian people we know that the light has shone in the darkness and the darkness has never been able to overcome it. We know that the light of Christ is the light that shone in creation and is the light of all human beings. And we know and believe that even if we walk in darkness, a light shines upon us.

Did those first disciples of Jesus recognize the light? Did Simon, Andrew, and the sons of Zebedee catch that glimpse of glory in the man who called them from their nets and boats? As simple peasants who lived their lives in a world of Roman occupation and domination, they knew something of darkness. They knew the feeling of powerlessness and they understood the apathy of living under oppression. They knew what it was to walk in a land of great darkness, and they may certainly have understood the words of Isaiah as applying to their lives, to their world. So, what was it about this man Jesus and his words, “follow me”, that inspired them? What made them put down their nets? What made them see in him, the words of the prophet fulfilled? What made them glimpse the light?

“I will make you fishers of men.” With these words he inspired them. Inspiration in its truest sense and meaning is no mere pep talk, but the gushing in of the Spirit. With these words he breathed into them hope. With these words he breathed into them longing. And with these words he breathed into them potential – their human potential fully realized in Christ. If they would follow him, journey with him, dwell with him, then they would become who they were created to be. They had been on the right track, they knew they were fishermen, God had given them the gifts they needed; they had just not realized what their catch would be. As Jesus came to them by the seashore, their futures opened before them and they truly became themselves. And in this moment, they were no longer powerless, scared, hopeless or apathetic; they were empowered by the Holy Spirit to be partners with the living Christ in the breaking through of the light. The people who walked in darkness saw a great light.

Jesus stands at our seashore, be it Bay and Bloor, Yonge and John, or Jane and Finch -- Jesus stands and calls us from our darkness. It may be hard to believe while tyrants walk the Earth, but God brings new life into the world. As all seems lost, a baby is born. When the sky seems darkest, a new light appears, shining in the East. Those who watch and pray will recognize the light as the light that can never be overcome. When all seems lost, hope is born in the midst of us, and in the midst of our toil, as we cast the nets of our work, we behold the glory of God.

Can we be inspired? Shall we answer the call: “Follow me?” Shall we lay down our nets to take up the work of the gospel? Shall we be fishers of the people who have walked in darkness? Shall we share the light given to us in our baptism? Shall we, with Christ, overcome the darkness even as it appears to have won the day? We will, with God’s help, for the Christ walks with us in this task, never leaving us alone but lighting a path along the way with a light that has not, nor ever shall be never be overcome.

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

Fear Not!

Sermon for Christmas I, Year A
Sunday, December 30th, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:13-23

“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened.”
-- Matthew 2:3

Fear. When allowed to take hold, it can overtake our reason and overwhelm our senses. While there are healthy fears, fears that can preserve and protect us from harm, and while we certainly acknowledge holy fears, like the fear or reverence of Almighty God, there is also a kind of fear that is all-consuming and all-destructive. At times, fear can grip hold of us in such a way that we become consumed by self-preservation at the expense of all virtue, of all reason, and of all consideration of others. It is this kind of fear that is the antithesis of the Christian faith. It is this kind of fear that ironically extinguishes life rather than preserve it. Fear can lead us to abandon our principles. The fear of what people might think if they learned the truth, leads us to lie, to create false truths, to create false identities for ourselves. Fear can destroy our relationships and our communities. On a larger scale, fear can lead to rash military decisions, political assassinations and even to genocide. Our recent history is littered with decisions made in the grip of fear and the deaths of innocents at the hands of those frightened to relinquish power and control.

So it was in the days of King Herod. In the innocence of the inquiries of the traveling magi, Herod receives word of a threat to his autocratic rule. Wise men seeking to worship the newborn king, inadvertently announce to the reigning despot the arrival of the one who could challenge his authority. And when he heard this, Herod was frightened. We began to wonder to himself, “Could it be so? Is my authority about to be challenged again?” Herod’s reign had not been without those who challenged it, even three of his own sons, Antipater, Alexander, and Aristobulus, were executed by his command when they appeared to pose a threat to his rule. Thus, the frightened Herod, pondered the words of these visiting wise men with a feigned sympathetic interest, all the while plotting the destruction of the child. For what was it for a man who had slaughtered his own sons in the grip of fear to slaughter the children of his Judean subjects, fear once again encircling his hardened heart? The sad reality is simply that Herod grasped the truth that if Jesus was Lord, he was not, could not, or ever be Lord. What will a frightened ruler do to hold on to power? Herod did what so many despots had done before and so many despots have done since, he took up the sword against the weak and the powerless in a frightful rage against all reason. Behold what fear can do. Who amongst us can imagine the threat of a tiny child in its mother’s arms?

Yet, time and time again, fear trumps reason, virtue, and compassion. Scholars may dispute the historical veracity of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, but we know this, that innocents continue to be slaughtered throughout this world when frightened tyrants cling to power. Herod represents the worst of what we can be, the depths of depravity to which each of us, as human beings, has the potential to descend. And we should never delude ourselves, the descent is not as distant as we might imagine. As a human race, and as members of that human race, we teeter constantly on the precipice of evil, with fear threatening to tip us into the chasm. Each of us has within us the potential to be like Herod.

Into this world of darkness, death, and terror, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph and spoke these words: “Fear not.” Do not fear, for your wife Mary will bear a son who will save his people. “Fear not,” words spoken to Joseph, and words spoken to Mary. “Fear not,” the trumpet call of God that ushers in the dawning of a new day. “Fear not,” the light shines in the darkness. With the “yes” of Joseph and the “yes” of Mary, a new day truly dawned. For in the willingness of human hearts to cast away the works of fear and let the hand of God enter in, a new world of human possibility, mingled with divine purpose has been inaugurated.

Herod and Joseph were two men who both received the news of the coming of the Lord. Herod and Joseph, two human beings, just as we are human beings, with a choice before them: Fear or fear not. Herod allowed his fear to consume him and overpower him to the point that he spilled the innocent blood of little ones. But Joseph held in his arms the precious gift and nurtured the boy, cared for the boy, protected the boy. Joseph had every reason to be afraid. He could have feared the condemnation of his community when his young bride was found to be with child out of wedlock. He could have feared the responsibility of raising this important child. He could have feared the threat to the child and Mary by the wicked King Herod. Certainly he was confronted by such fear, and yet, the word of God through the voice of the angel resounded in his heart: “Fear not.” Facing those fears, he took up his task, against all odds, against the judgment of the world, in the face of a murderous tyrant, and protected and nurtured the tiny babe who would save us all.

“Fear not.” These words are still offered to us in these latter days. In these days of scandals, assassinations, of genocides, these words still resound. Herod is long since dead, and Joseph slipped quietly away into the background of the Biblical narrative, never to be heard from again. But the word of the Lord remains, “fear not.” As frightening as the world might seem today, the world into which our Lord was born was equally frightening. In the story of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, all the picturesque sentimentality of stable, shepherds, and lowing animals gives way to the harsh reality of the human condition. But this is the world into which Jesus was born.

The world in which we live can be filled with joy and wonder. Often it is also a world filled with pain and terror. And yet into this world the Christ is born again and again in the hearts of the faithful, as he was born so long ago amidst the pain and terror of the Judean people. His coming is heralded with a cry, “Fear not!” It is a word that came to Mary and a word that came to Joseph. It came to some shepherds in the Judean hillside. It came to the disciples of the Lord as the met him in his resurrection. As he spoke it to them, so he speaks it to us, “Fear not, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” It is a word that comes to us again and again. We can let fear grip us. We can let fear overwhelm us. We can let fear control us. Or we can hear the words of the Christmas angels, and indeed the words of our Lord, himself, “Fear not.” We can be strengthened by the presence of Emmanuel, God with us, and be like Joseph who chose forever to remain a steward of the precious gift. In our baptism, we have been given the gift of Emmanuel, we have no reason to fear, for He is indeed with us.

Copyright 2007, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, either in whole or part without the express written consent of the author.

He Comes to Us

Sermon for Advent 4, Year A
Sunday, December 23rd, 2007
Holy Trinity, Thornhill
Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 1:18-25

“…He did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.”
--Matthew 1:24

What if it had been you? What if in the days of your early adolescence an angel had spoken to you in the silence of the night and prophesied that you would be the mother of the saviour? What if as a young man, in the depth of your dreaming you received an angelic vision that the woman to whom you were betrothed, but with whom you had had no sexual relation, was about to bear a son who would save his people. What if it had been you – you or I, who had received this message, heard the awesome and frightening news? News that would not only affect our future, but also the future of the world. News of a son who would save his people. What if it were you or I?

Would our response have been Mary’s “let it be unto me according to your word?” Would our response have been “my soul magnifies the Lord,” or “My spirit rejoices in God my saviour?” Or would the shame of an illegitimate pregnancy bring fear, and shame, and loathing? Would our response more closely resemble the response of Joseph in Matthew’s Gospel, to put away the woman of shame? Could we have borne the shame or faced the judgement of those around us.

But the angel did come to Mary, and it did come to Joseph, and despite their initial fear, astonishment, and shame, both Mary and Joseph said “yes.” Joseph did not put away his future wife, nor did Mary hide her face in shame. Instead, Mary went immediately, with haste into the Judean hillside, into the country, to her relative Elizabeth, who in her old-age had also received a visitation from the Lord – Elizabeth who six months pregnant was destined to be the mother of John the Baptist.

Mary went – a young girl, barely a woman -- to Elizabeth, an elder, a mentor, a wise woman. She faced not the burden alone, but in the company of this holy mother who was herself a vehicle of God’s grace. And there she stayed for some time, sharing her both her fears and her dreams with the one, who in a remarkable way, could understand her sacred calling. For when she saw Elizabeth the words from the elder woman’s mouth were not words of judgment, nor words of condemnation, but words of blessing. Even within her own womb, the baby leapt for joy. Elizabeth, who had also been touched by God, greeted the one who others may have shunned, with reverence, respect and admiration: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” and she wondered aloud, “why has it happened that the mother of my Lord comes to me?”

And so Elizabeth’s son likewise wondered aloud many years later, when the same Lord approached him on the banks of the Jordan river and asked him for baptism. Like his mother he evinced his own unworthiness, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal – it is he who should be baptizing me.” And yet, the timeless son of God was baptized by John. He came to John. He comes to us.

He comes to us again in these latter days – again and again. It shall not matter whether we are rich or poor, of high or low estate. He comes to us – again and again. And it is in our weakness and our brokenness that we meet him and he meets us. He comes to the scared and frightened child in each of us as he came to a trembling adolescent girl in Nazareth. He comes to us in our false pride and vanity, in our fear of shame and judgement as he came to a young man who actually considered abandoning his bride to be. He comes to us in our aged brokenness, in our regret and disappointment about what might have been for our lives if only things had worked out differently, as he came to an old woman whose womb had been barren throughout the decades of her life. He comes to us in our world of darkness, sadness, violence and anger, as he came to a middle-eastern land so long ago, and a people disappointed by failed hopes and foreign domination.

He comes to us today not with words of judgement or condemnation for who we are or what we might have been. He comes to us not with anger or wrath for the mistakes we have made or continue to make. He comes to us not with punishment for the sins in which we inevitably participate. He comes to us with great love, with words of hope, with healing in his wings. He comes to us with these words: Greetings favoured ones. He comes to us with the promise to be born within each one of us, to turn our fear to hope, our sadness to joy, and our sorrow into laughter. He comes to us, to you and me, with the same message that came to Mary and Joseph, and Elizabeth and Zechariah, greetings favoured ones. They were not great and powerful people, but people like you and me – and they were favoured by God; favoured to birth the Christ to a hurting world.

We are favoured, for the Christ has been birthed in each of us, and continues to be born again and again in our hearts with the purpose of transforming not only our lives but transforming the world and bringing hope to a people that walk in darkness. Hide not your light -- that is, his light -- under a bushel, but let it be unto you according to his word, that each of us might sing the words of blessed Mary this Christmastide and always, “My Soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my Spirit rejoices in God my saviour!”

Copyright 2007, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, without the express, written permission of the author.

How Silently, How Silently, the Wondrous Gift is Given

Homiletic Reflection for Christmas Eve
Monday, December 24th, 2007 (7:00 p.m.)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.

Still – the still of night, the still of darkness, the still of sleep. But as this season has pressed in around us how difficult it is for us to be still. For those of us who have ever worked in a store during this season is there any sense of stillness? For those of us who have worked to prepare a Christmas feast for a large gathering of family and friends, can there be any sense of stillness? And for these little ones for whom excitement is heaped upon excitement, can there be any sense of stillness? Even our telling of the old, old story is bound up with frenzy, activity, and excitement! For it is after all, an exciting story.

In a world of constant coming and going, a world in which we live with a 24 hour clock and overnight shifts, and in a season when excitement runs high, it is hard for us to imagine that little town of Bethlehem, slumbering in a deep and dreamless sleep as silent stars go by. And yet, silent or frenzied though the world may be, though our lives may be, the angels still keep their watch of wondering love.

For into the dark streets of our lives – whether they be darkened by a frenzy that keeps us from slowing down to truly understand the blessings of life; whether they be darkened by loneliness or sadness through the loss of a loved one during this season; whether they be darkened by our feelings of failure over the mistakes we have made this past year or things that we ought to have done but have left undone; whatever our streets be darkened by, into our lives still shines an everlasting light.

It is a light that comes to us as we least expect it. It is a light that comes to us in the darkness of a dampened stable. It is a light that comes into the darkened streets of our lives. It is a gift that is given silently, O so silently – a wondrous gift. It is a light that illumines our dark places. It is light that shine over and around our frenzy, in and about our loneliness, and through our despair and regret. It is light that casts out our sin. It is a light that enters into our hearts and minds and souls and gathers us around a manger in which a tiny baby rests, silently, O so silently. And we behold his glory.

O Holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray. Descend into our lives, into our darkness. Bring to us the stillness of peace that we might hear the Christmas angels, and their great, glad tidings. Come to us in our brokenness. Come to us, Lord Jesus, our one true light. Come and free us from all that enslaves us. Come to us, Holy Child, this night amidst our darkness, be born in us that others might hear in our song, those great glad tidings. Come to us, be born in us, our Lord, Emmanuel.

Copyright 2007, the Reverend Daniel F. Graves. This next may not be reproduced or redistributed either in whole or part without the express, written permission of the author.

A Signal to the Peoples

Sermon for Advent 2, Year A
Sunday, December 9th, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Isaiah 11:1-10

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”
-- Isaiah 11:1

When a new leader comes into power they bring with them a hope for a better future. The early days of a new government, a new city council, a new church leader all come with expectations that a new era has dawned and that whatever ailed the previous administration will now be corrected. The world will indeed be a better place. New leaders always look good when compared with their battle-worn predecessors. Yet, the day comes when that first disappointment is experienced, hope is dashed, and we realize that all leaders are human and capable of human error and human sin.

I suppose it is because we had such high hopes that the disappointment we experience can be so deep when leaders fail to meet our expectation. After all, victory speeches are filled with rhetorical hyperbole claiming in advance victory over problems that have not yet been solved. Simply electing or proclaiming a new leader will not change the ills of the state. Our misplaced trust in the messianic self-accolades of our worldly rulers is what disappoints us as much as the failure of the leaders themselves.

To be sure, leaders are called to high standards, but so are we. To be sure, leaders will make mistakes, but so do each one us. Before we stand in judgment of the ones who fail us time and again in power, shall we not consider our own misplaced faith in the rhetorical hyperbole of those who proclaim the job finished before it has begun?

In the days of Isaiah, the kingdom of Judah was in decline. A kingly line that had promised so much hope was producing disappointment upon disappointment. The current king, Ahaz, had now struck a deal with the enemy to save his own skin – an enemy that would bring great destruction upon Judah. The hope of the Davidic kingship was soured beyond recognition. And amidst the cynicism and skepticism of the day, Isaiah spoke of hope: A root shall spring forth from the stump of Jesse. Jesse was the progenitor of the Davidic line. The line shall be cut down and left as a stump, and yet, there would always be hope – the hope of a Davidic king who would bring forth justice and peace; a king that would be the saviour of the nations. But sadly, we know that the kingship never recovered. New kings would rise and fall in this Davidic line. There would be further kings of Judah in much later times – the Maccabees and their descendents – who came with good intentions but left the kingdom corrupted and in the hands of its enemies. Hopes for a better day were met, time and again, by failure after failure of the rulers and the misplaced trust of the people. Had the words of the prophet even been a farce?

And then, one day, hundreds of years after the death of beloved Isaiah, when disappointment had been heaped upon disappointment for generation upon generation, in a lowly stable, in the cold of the night, a new light shone. And a little child shall lead them. In the most unexpected of conditions, from the stump which had been violently cut back so many times, from the line in which so many hopes had been dashed, David, Solomon, and so many others, a tiny root sprung up, almost unnoticed. Where great kings had failed, this tiny one would triumph beyond every expectation and the world itself would be transformed.

That light continues to shine in the darkness and the darkness has never yet comprehended it. Time and time again we place our hope in our own power and in the power of earthly kings and leaders. Does this not show that we choose to make our home among the darkness? Does this not demonstrate that time and again we fail to understand that under our own power hope is but an illusion? That by placing all our trust in the grandiose promises of those who lead that we have set ourselves up for failure and disappointment?

None of this is to say that we should eschew political engagement in any way, or boycott our polling stations, or cease to work for a better future. No. These things are all important. We should, of course, seek to support those who present themselves for the very difficult and trying vocation of public office and other kinds of leadership in our society. And we should not only support them in their run up to office but in the ongoing practice of leadership, holding them to high standards, offering criticism where appropriate and forgiveness when Christian fellowship demands it. In all things, but especially in things political, we should follow the command of our Lord, to be wise as serpents and gentle as doves.

It must never be forgotten that all good gifts are gifts from heaven and not of our own making. It is what we do with a gift that honours the giver. The gift of peace has been given to us in Christ. Shall we live it out? Shall the wolf lie down with the lamb in our time? Under our own power – no; but as a gift from God received in faith – yes, indeed, most certainly yes. Is the kingdom of justice and peace possible? Yes, indeed, most certainly yes. Yes, because when all things are considered, it is not a future hope about which we speak, but the hope of the dayspring from on high which has already dawned upon us.

The hope that the leaders of this world offer to us, election after election, victory speech after victory speech, is a utopian hope that will never truly dawn, but will always be met with disappointment because its success or failure lies in human hands. As human beings, in our earthly leaders we seek the restoration of David’s line, but in Christ we meet its fulfillment. This fulfillment is not a future dream to be sought after, but a present reality into which we are invited, because in the human womb of Mary, divinity met humanity, and in such sacred union the kingdom of this world becomes the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ.

We speak of Advent as a time of waiting, and so it is. Ironically, though, it is not a time of waiting for the birth of our Lord, nor his coming again in glory. Rather, it is a time of waiting for the opening of the eyes of our hearts and the ears of our misunderstanding. I shall say it again: Christ has come. Shall we remain as children of the darkness, and comprehend not the light of Christ? Christ is amongst us. We meet him in this Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist. We meet him in the human touch of a brother and sister who anoints us with oil in the fear of our pain. We meet him when two individuals stand together in front of the community of the faithful and profess their love to one another in holy matrimony, for the whole world to see. We meet him in the support of the Christian community when we know the pain and loss of the death of a loved one. We meet him when we choose to look into the eyes of one who wronged us and seek common ground rather than a chasm of difference and distance.
Moment upon moment of this earthly life Christ comes to us again and again. Let those who have eyes to see, see, and ears to hear, understand. Can we dare to see that the root of Jesse stands, not as a future hope, but as a present reality, as a signal to the peoples? Shall the nations, shall we, inquire of him? If we do, we will recognize that his dwelling is indeed glorious.

Copyright 2007 by the Revd Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced either in whole or part, by any means, without the express written permission of the author.

We Have Found the Messiah

Homily for St. Andrew’s Day (Translated)
Wednesday, November 28th, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 4:18-22

In the early chapters of St. Matthew’s gospel, we meet he apostle Andrew very briefly. He is a fisherman, the brother of Simon Peter who, with his brother, drops everything to take up that call, “follow thou me.” For him there is no looking back only pressing forward with the new task to become, as our older translations say, a fisher of men. Perhaps, in the terseness of this short anecdote we sense the excitement of the brothers as they take up their new lives as apostles of the Lord.

Could they have imagined what would happen in the days ahead? Legend tells us that both became great evangelists to the far reaches of the known world: Peter to Rome, Andrew to Scythia. Church tradition also reveals that both were crucified, Peter upside down and Andrew on an X-shaped cross. From the simple life of Galilean fishermen to martyrs for the gospel; would they have taken up this new life had they known?

Probably fifteen years ago, I heard Bishop Arthur Brown preach a sermon on St. Andrew. I believe that he took as his text the somewhat more detailed passage from St. John’s gospel in which Andrew answered the call of Jesus to “come and see.” This same apostle then went and found his brother Simon and then ran to his friend Philip and told them, “We have found the Messiah.” While I cannot remember all the details of Bishop Brown’s sermon, one particular refrain has remained with me to this day. As he exegeted the passage, he asked again and again, “who’s your Andrew?” The question is poignant because while Andrew is one who drops everything to follow the Lord, he is also one invites others on the journey with him. He runs, not walks, to gather others. With excitement, with joy, with passion, he lets all the world know that the Messiah has come. His passion does not end when his initial excitement wanes, for we know that he followed his Lord, even unto death.

And so the question remains: Who is your Andrew? When I work with those seeking baptism I often ask this question. Who is you Andrew? In whom have you seen the spark? Who was it that first led you on the path? Who was it in their thoughts, words, or deeds that helped that spark within you come alive? Who introduced you to the one who was knew you from your mother’s womb, our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ? From whom did you receive the faith once delivered to the saints? Who was your Andrew?

Finally, to whom shall we be “Andrew?” The spark having been lit within us, and we ourselves having taken up the Christian life, to whom shall we deliver the faith? Will we have the passion and excitement to seek out Simons and Philips and tell them we have seen the Lord?

St. Andrew’s day toggles the end and the beginning of the liturgical year. Sometimes we celebrate it before the first Sunday of Advent, sometimes after the first Sunday. Regardless, this makes it the perfect occasion to recommit ourselves to that task of being Andrew to a broken and hurting world, and at the coming of that Holy Babe, announce to those around us we have found the Messiah.

Text copyright The Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2007. This text may not be reproduced or distributed by any means, in whole, or in part, without the express written permission of the author.

Becoming the Good Thief

Sermon for the Reign of Christ
Sunday, November 25th, 2007
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 23:33-43

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
--Luke 23:42

The desire to demonstrate power through a show of force is not a new urge. If we find ourselves concerned with the growing tendency of our society to beat others into our own image and likeness, into conformity with our principles, political, moral, ethical or religious, then we stand with many across the ages who have felt powerless against belligerent exercises of unjust power. But we must remember that none of us are immune to the temptation to exercise power and force over others who are different from us. So, as we stand shocked and awed by the tyranny of others, can we dare to recognize the tyranny we exercise in our own lives over those less powerful than us?

There is a very real sense that the exercise of power is a good thing, that power equals strength. Indeed, most of us would rather work for a strong leader than serve under a weak one. Thus, we are sometimes seduced by the strong leader who demonstrates, with acts of power, their strength. We might laud their show of force as decisive, as the mark of one that is in control, that knows his or her own mind, that will not be swayed by others. But to what end is the power exercised and to what good? What good is a decisive king if his subjects go hungry, remain oppressed, are silenced upon the questioning his authority? What does it profit any of us to have peace, order, and security if indeed we have lost our souls?

Three convicted criminals were led up a hill to the place of their execution. The crime was sedition; the punishment was death by crucifixion. The peace of the empire was at stake. The king, the emperor, had been challenged by back-water upstarts. It is likely that the emperor, himself, never heard the name Jesus of Nazareth, nor those of two bandits crucified on his right and left. There was a way of maintaining peace, order and security in the empire, and the local governors, the instruments of the state knew it well.

We know little of the two men crucified with Jesus. Their names are lost to us. Both Matthew and Mark speak of them as “revolutionaries” while Luke simply calls them “robbers” or “bandits.” The implication, though, is that they themselves were men of violence; men who sought to overturn the rule of the Emperor through sedition, violence, the use of force. To fight force with force; for this, they were condemned. And what of the man, Jesus? A revolutionary? Certainly – but of what sort? He was not above shows of power and acts of force. He had overturned the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple court, after all. But more often then not, his acts of power were miracles, healings, signs of God’s mercy and sacraments of God’s love for a broken humanity and hope of reconciliation for a conflicted world. He gave sight to the blind, he mended broken hearts, and he set free those who were tormented in their minds and in their spirits. He saved others through his gentle touch and compassionate words – a different kind of power.

“He saved others! Let him save himself!” Who dared shout these words as he hung on that rood of death? Who dared mock and taunt the Son of God in the passion of his suffering? The leaders of the people. The soldiers who crucified him. Even one crucified with him who had likely stood against the tyrannical power of the emperor. Who are these who mocked and taunted him? They are you and I. They are both those who held power and those who stood against tyranny. They are you and I – waiting, hoping, longing for a show of power to prove themselves wrong. They placed a placard above his head, ironically proclaiming him king. But in some sense hoping beyond hope that he was a king. “Show us your power! Make us believe! If you can do it, if you are a king, if you can save yourself we will follow you, we will bow down before you, we will worship you! Show us your power!” But nothing happens, darkness descends and hope is lost. He is no king; he has no power.

But then a voice, one thief rebukes the other who taunts the would-be messiah: “We are justly condemned, but this man has done no wrong.” It is a moment of crisis for this thief who is about to face his own death. Who in his own acts of power and shows of force has failed to see his goals met. Power and force have done him no good, and there he hangs justly condemned. But in this moment of crisis, his mind clear, he sees all that has gone before him and catches a glimpse of eternity – a glimpse of what God’s kingdom is truly like. In his moment of clarity he penetrates the fog of misunderstanding. The outstretched arms of the man between him and his fellow thief are not nailed to the cross in defeat, but rather, are outstretched for the healing of the nations. They are arms that embrace; they are arms that welcome home even the most brutal blackguards and hopeless sinners. He recognizes in the outstretched arms of this man, not defeat, but triumph, not weakness, but power. True power, in compassion, in love, the power of God to heal the world. And as his life drained from him, his wasted, bloodstained life, the good thief turned his head and uttered these simple words, “Jesus, remember me, as you come into your kingdom.” And beyond remembrance, Jesus offers him eternal friendship and companionship: “Today you will be with me in paradise.” In the words of St. Ambrose of Milan: “More abundant is the favour shown than the request that was made.”

In Jesus’ dying moments a criminal receives a share of the Christian destiny in the Kingdom of God. Those who mocked know not what they asked, for indeed a show of great power was made, not in force, but in humility and weakness. For it was not simply one criminal who was received that day, but with outstretched arms, our Lord opened the way for all humanity, broken as we are. The “Good Thief” is good not because he has done anything good, but because he has allowed himself to be known by the one who sought him out from before the foundation of the world. In his own weakness he met the humility of God at the cross and was born to new life in God’s kingdom of reconciliation.

Life is filled with moments in which we find ourselves crucified. In which all power is taken from us. There is a great temptation to grasp at power in order to raise ourselves up from despair. There is a great temptation to trample others in our grasping at that power. There is a great temptation to believe that in one great show of force we can resolve our brokenness. We cannot. We stand crucified with our Lord. And the moment of choice is ever before us: we can choose the lot of the one thief, who taunted and mocked to the very end, believing only in the fallacy of the force of might, or we, with the good thief, can turn to Jesus in our brokenness, in our own crucifixion, and ask him to remember us in his kingdom.

Copyright 2007, by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed either in whole or part, by any means, without the express written permission of the author.

Greater Love hath No Man than This: A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday

Sermon Preached on Remembrance Sunday, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:12-17

“I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.” --John 15:17

What shall we do for love? To what does love drive us? How shall we show our love? Love is commanded by our Lord, and each of us, in our own way seek to live out the call to “love one another, as I have loved you.” Sometimes our different understandings of what it means to love, or what we do for love, or how we show our love, can lead to conflict amongst us. Even more poignantly, it may often lead to conflict within each person’s own heart and conscience. Each year, as we prepare to remember those who have fallen in battle, I find myself deeply conflicted – conflicted by our Lord’s promise to lead us into the way of peace and the continual call we face in our world to take up arms against injustice and tyranny that is contrary to the peace and justice of God. I find myself conflicted because I think that both those who lay down arms and those who take up arms often do so out of a sense of love. Both gestures will surely involve sacrifice and the giving over of self, possibly to the utter loss of self. Both gestures may, indeed, find themselves firmly rooted in this very gospel, “greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

A couple of years ago, I was in a parish in which there were three “sons of the parish” fighting in Afghanistan. One was a nurse, another a military police office, and the third a gunner. One was killed. And at the same time that we were praying for them, and all members of our military, we were also praying for James Loney and the other members of the Christian Peacemaker Team who were held hostage in Iraq. One of them was ultimately killed. I recall standing and praying the prayers of the people in which we remembered all of these individuals, each acting out of the same call to love, the same sense that there is no greater love than that one should lay down one’s life for friends. The same love; lived out in very different actions. And would I dare say whose love was greater? I cannot, I dare not.

It would seem to me that each was driven by a call to do the greater good: a call to end injustice in the world; a longing for the end of violence; a passion to work for the perfect day when war shall be no more, when pain and suffering shall be no more, when mourning and crying shall be no more. Who amongst us cannot admire the courage and the sacrifice of any who shall risk their lives, or ultimately, make the supreme sacrifice for the sake of his or her friend?

At the heart of the sacrifice, whether the soldier who offers him or herself in battle, or the peacemaker who stands between blaring rifles, is the shared hope and longing that we may somehow be reconciled with those from whom we are estranged. Each earnestly desires love over hate, and peace over war. The hope and longing of either the soldier or the peacemaker is that in the act of vulnerability and risk, we might find a way through to a better world. That in offering up ourselves, others might live.

In our Lord, we find the pattern of this desire, and ultimately its fulfillment. Our Lord came to unite the estranged in brotherhood, in sisterhood, in friendship. In him we learn not only the example to lay down one’s life for one’s friends, but also the example to pray for those who hate us. As he gave up his life as a ransom for many, he expected “the many” to be, not only his friends, those who followed him, fickle as they were, but those who despised him, those who crucified him: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” In Christ, we meet the supreme reconciler, the one who reconciles all things to each other, to himself, and to his Father in heaven. Each of us, in Christ, shares in this ministry of reconciliation.

The soldier and the peacemaker, each offer themselves in risk, in vulnerability – each willing to lay down their lives. But is it the violence of life offered up that brings reconciliation? Is it the death itself that will bring peace? No. It is the love with which a life is offered. It is the love of friend, and indeed enemy in which the life is offered that has the power to transform. It is not the death of Jesus that brings us to new life, but the love of Jesus in his self-offering, even unto death. Our salvation is in the fact that God became human and that in the Incarnation divine love became human love in order that human love might become divine. And in this offering of love, we become friends – friends of God, and friends to each other, those who love us, and those who hate us.

Today, as we remember before God all who offered their lives in the midst of human conflict, we do so not glorifying death but recalling the love with which such sacrifices have been made. And we do so with the hope that all humanity might be reconciled and united in divine friendship, no longer strangers, but brothers and sisters as children of the new creation.

Copyright 2007, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. The sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means without the express written persmission of the author.