Homily for Proper 18
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 9:1-5
As Christian people, we speak frequently about the importance of community. In community we first learn the faith of our mothers and fathers; in community we are nurtured and grow to maturity in the faith; and in community we are upheld and supported through the various stages of our lives – times of joy and times of trouble. In community we share a common meal around a common table and celebrate our common life as we partake of the bread of life. So much of our life is lived in community.
But there is one area of our lives when the idea of community cascades out of sight, if only for a moment, and that moment is the moment of decision. We may make a decision with input from those around us, with advice from experts, or with the concern of loved ones in mind, but ultimately, we own our decision and make them fully on our own. To make a decision may be commonplace or it may be profound, but any decision is always fraught with unknown implications. Any decision involves risk, be it large or small. Thus, it is up to each one of us to make the decisions of our lives and claim the consequences of our decisions. Having made a decision we may then return to the life and fellowship of the community and seek its support and nurture, but the moment of decision remains a solitary moment in which all around us disappear momentarily from view and we stand alone with our consciences and with the risk of losing ourselves.
As Christian people, though, we are never really alone, for as we step apart from those around us to face our moment of truth, the silence of that eternal moment is penetrated by the presence of the eternal one made flesh in our midst. There is another who stands with us in that otherwise lonely moment, the invisible God, made visible in Jesus Christ.
There is much talk these days, not only in our own parish Church, but around this diocese in general, that Anglicans do not feel that they possess a “passionate spirituality.” The research tells us that Anglicans in this diocese, at least, do not feel the presence of God in their lives. There are any number of correctives suggested, from bible studies, to prayer groups, to focus groups, to spiritual direction and counseling, but I believe one thing if I believe anything, that while each of these are valuable tools, they count for nothing if, in the moments of decision, we fail to come face to face with our deepest fears, take the risk that we are going to lose ourselves, and plunge headlong into God’s loving care in Christ. Will our spiritual life grow and develop if we keep insisting that passionate spirituality is something that we can conjure up ourselves with hard work and persistent effort? I think not.
Ultimately faith is about one thing – confronting our human frailty, our human fallibility, and yes, our mortality and to realize that we are frail, fallible and mortal, and that God alone is strong, infallible and immortal. “Frail as summer’s flower we flourish blows the wind and it is gone, but while mortals rise and perish, God endures, unchanging on.” When we finally reach that moment when we confront our frailty and mortality it is a moment of crisis, because it means giving up believing in our own power to solve every problem and bind every wound of our lives. It means giving up believing that we shall live forever. It means taking a risk with the gift we are given, not selfishly clinging to this life but letting it go and offering it back up to God. And in that moment of crisis, to stand face to face with Christ our Lord and say all that I am and all that I have are yours O Lord, “All things come of thee, and of thine own have I given thee.”
This moment may indeed be the moment of our Christian conversion, but is certainly not limited to it. Any moment of crisis in our lives is the moment in which we are faced with a question and a decision: “Will I try to save myself from this moment or shall I plunge into the depths of Christ and allow Christ to be my life, my all?” My friends, if this, in each moment of challenge, each moment of trial, each moment of angst, is the decision we make then we will be confirmed again and again in our faith, and we shall live a life of great fulfillment, a life of great meaning, even in the midst of suffering, loss, and death.
Embracing our pain and calling upon the Lord in those solitary moments in which we seem so alone – this is the road to a passionate spirituality. There is no other.
St. Paul knew this only too well, for time and time again he turned to Christ when all might otherwise seem lost and when all around had abandoned him, relying only on His grace. And God’s grace is sufficient unto the day. Paul also knew that in spite of his best preaching, his most valiant efforts, his most persuasive rhetoric, that he was himself powerless to save another. The decision, to turn to Christ in our moment of despair, is left to each of us alone.
In today’s epistle Paul longs to sacrifice himself for his brothers and sisters who have not embraced Christ, who still labour under the Law, under the illusion that their human works and effort would lead them to God, under the illusion that if only they followed the right program they would find favour with God. Paul knew that it is only an encounter with Christ that will reveal God’s grace. Paul knew and understood that just as he could not labour for his own salvation, neither could he labour for another. He could only share the Good News. Paul knew that the role of the community was, and is, to stand alongside brothers and sisters as they journey through the moments of crisis in life, encouraging them, sharing the good news, helping them forward in Christ, as they meet the living God in their darkest moments.
And so my friends, those moments of crisis that inevitably come, are ultimately between each one of us and the Lord, in which we face the angst of our humanity. As you face the moments of despair in your life, the moments of sadness, the moments of regret, the moments of fear, the moments of anxiety, the moments of pain, turn to the Lord. Turn to Christ. Take the risk of letting go, take the risk of offering him the wheel. It is that very point of decision in which we meet the living God and ask him, “Who do you want me to be in the midst of this crisis, and who do you want me to be as the result of this crisis?” And we affirm, “Lord Jesus, you alone can take me there.” In these times, in the moment of crisis, Christ will indeed make the way known. Every mountain will be laid low, every deep valley exalted, and through the breaking mist of your dissipating loneliness you shall see a whole company of friends and witness present alongside you to share the journey of faith, the Church of God, all of us gathered here together, a passionate people, in Christian love.
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.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Alive to God
Homily for Proper 12, Year A
Sunday, June 22nd, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 6:1b-11
In my homily, last week, I noted that it is often in the crisis moments of our lives that we meet God. And while it is surely true that for many of us our relationship with God has been a loving encounter that has stretched gently through the many years of our lives, it is also true that, like any long-term relationship, its growth is often punctuated by moments of crisis. To some extent, all crises by which we are confronted are rooted in fear. Most fear is really the fear of loss – losing our loved ones, losing a way of life, losing a relationship, losing ourselves. And at the heart of our fear of loss, we encounter our deepest fear: The fear of death. All loss is, in some way or another, a death in our lives. Death is something that, as human beings, we all inevitably share in. Thus, every little death in our lives touches, in some way, that deeper death to be faced by us all, sooner or later. This is why the losses faced by others around us may be so poignant to each of us; the fear felt by another might be so easily understood and shared, and the death even of a stranger touches us profoundly.
This fear of loss and fear of death reaches across the centuries and as such, we can certainly understand what the people of Rome, to whom St. Paul wrote, felt about death. They were just as afraid of death as you and me. They had heard of the wonderful news of new life in Christ Jesus, but some had clearly not understood what this meant. Someone posed the following question: If God’s grace is offered to us because we are sinners, should we not continue to sin in order that grace may abound? One wonders if this was even a serious question at all, or one simply posed to demonstrate the absurdity of the concept of God’s free grace in Christ. Be that as it may, I wonder if what they really feared was reckoning with their own angst about their own human finality. The message of God’s grace is a message that offers hope not only for this life, but also for the next. But when we begin to consider the ramifications of God in our lives, we are necessarily led to consider the impact of risk and fear and loss. And ultimately, we must consider the reality of our own death. I suggest that the critique of the gospel to which St. Paul is responding is a critique that seeks to make light not only of the gospel, but to also make light of the human angst we all share. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
When confronted with life and death we have two choices. The first is seek to cling to life, by ignoring the reality of death. It is not a clinging to life because life is something wonderful, but a clinging to life because we are afraid of what it means to lose our life. It is to choose a life filled with extraneous distractions; things that distract us from the reality of death; that instill in us the false hope death will somehow miss us and pass us by because we are hidden by the clutter of all the wonderful distractions that fill our lives. However, we have another way; we can make another choice. We can choose to face the reality of our own death and in spite of it, in the shadow of it, and because of it, choose life. At funerals, we often focus on the words of the psalmist, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” but we must never forget the companion verse: “I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.” Death remains a reality for each of us, but as Christian people, we choose to believe that it means something very different than the passing away and destruction of all that is good in life.
St. Paul reminds the Romans that all who are baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into his death. But I would suggest that baptism is not as much about our participation in Christ’s death, but God’s participation in our death. For in Christ God takes our human frailty, our human finality, and makes it his own; and in doing so conquers and destroys it. Death no more has dominion over him – the death he died, he died to sin once for all. Likewise, reckon ye also yourselves dead to sin and alive to God, in Christ Jesus. Death no longer has dominion over us.
In Baptism we have changed masters, we are no longer enslaved either to sin or to death. By being released from death as our master, we are also released from sin -- for is it not the fear of death that leads us into such selfish ways in which we cling to life not because it is beautiful but because we are selfishly afraid to imagine a world in which we do not exist? But in staring death in the face, Christ uses death to destroy death and vanquish its claim to victory. In this victory we walk in newness of life.
One of St. Paul’s favourite ways of describing a Christian is by using the phrase “in Christ.” You are “in Christ.” That is, we participate in his triumph over death, we walk in newness of life.
What does newness of life mean to us? In the academic discussion of Paul’s letters there is a debate that rages (is this not always the case when studying Paul?). The question is this: Is “newness of life” about a future hope or present reality. In academic terms we speak of the future or realized eschatology, i.e., is Paul’s theology of new life about a reality that God will one day bring about, or a new reality in which we are now participating. There are many passages in Paul that can be corralled to support either claim, but I would suggest that neither claim needs to be exclusive, and in fact are not polarities to be contrasted but should be considered complementary claims. On one level, Paul speaks about our death in the past tense and our new life in the future tense: “If we have died with him, we shall live with him.” This places us somewhere “between the times.” It suggests that our hope for new life is a future hope. And indeed it is. This is what allows us to believe that although these mortal bodies turn to dust, death is not the final story for any of us, but the door to new life. Although death has been defeated, we know that it only exists as the ending of this part of our journey and as the doorway to a yet more glorious journey. We have a future hope, and as Paul said in chapter 5 of Romans, hope does not disappoint.
However, Paul also says that through our death to sin that we are alive to God in Christ. Thus, as we have “put on Christ” in our baptism, we have also put on new life in the present age. In addition to the claim of future life, Paul makes the claim for new life in the here and now. In fact, he makes the claim that in our baptism we have already died. We have died to hopelessness, we have died to captivity, we have died to sin, we have died to separation from God, and now, nothing can separate us from the love of God. Although we continue to face the reality of the death of this mortal body, the words of Job ring true to us: “In my flesh I shall see God.” For while it is true that God calls us home after our earthly pilgrimage is done, we are not left comfortless in these latter days. God walks with us in Christ through the power of the Spirit throughout this earthly pilgrimage.
No matter the crisis that confronts us, no matter the fear that threatens to overtake us, no matter that our bodies shall one day give out, death is not our final story, nor is it or can it ever be our master. To be sure, we will continue to have our moments of doubt and fear. My own moments of angst often come in the darkness of the night, when the darkness threatens to overcome the light. I sometimes wonder if my passing out of this world will indeed be followed by my passage into another, or resurrection on some final day. Yet, sleeps encroaches and I find that I must finally submit to it. The next thing I know, the dawn has arrived and my fear has subsided. In the light of day I find hope not only for the future but also in the present moment. In the light of the day, I find abundant life, not only as something that will blossom when the harvest comes to fruition but also in the unfolding and flowering of my life in the present. It is in these moments in the light that I find the strength to face the darkness that will inevitably come again, and the courage to believe that the darkness always gives way to light. I come to recognize what St. Paul means when he says that we are “alive to God.” From our experience of being alive to God we begin to learn to believe that even when it seems like death has won the day, we can continue to believe that, even in the face of death, the promise of new life endures and is our reality.
Whether it be the experience of new life in the midst of the changes and chances of this fleeting world, or whether it be our hope for life beyond the grave, as Christian people we are convinced of one thing, that death no longer has dominion over us. In both the gentle unfolding of our lives, and also when faced with a litany of faith-challenging crises, we take comfort in the fact that we have chosen life, and indeed that life itself, in the person of Christ Jesus, has chosen us. Let us go forward then, eagerly to meet him in the midst of the worst the world can throw at us, because in those moments of walking through the valley of the shadow of death, when fear threatens to overcome us, we shall fear no evil; in the moments when we seem most alone we shall remember that, “thou art with me”; and when we come face to face with the reality of death in our lives, we shall remember that death has been swallowed up in victory and we shall believe that goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life, a life that is lived not only in the present, but eternally, in the heart of a loving God.
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.
Sunday, June 22nd, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 6:1b-11
In my homily, last week, I noted that it is often in the crisis moments of our lives that we meet God. And while it is surely true that for many of us our relationship with God has been a loving encounter that has stretched gently through the many years of our lives, it is also true that, like any long-term relationship, its growth is often punctuated by moments of crisis. To some extent, all crises by which we are confronted are rooted in fear. Most fear is really the fear of loss – losing our loved ones, losing a way of life, losing a relationship, losing ourselves. And at the heart of our fear of loss, we encounter our deepest fear: The fear of death. All loss is, in some way or another, a death in our lives. Death is something that, as human beings, we all inevitably share in. Thus, every little death in our lives touches, in some way, that deeper death to be faced by us all, sooner or later. This is why the losses faced by others around us may be so poignant to each of us; the fear felt by another might be so easily understood and shared, and the death even of a stranger touches us profoundly.
This fear of loss and fear of death reaches across the centuries and as such, we can certainly understand what the people of Rome, to whom St. Paul wrote, felt about death. They were just as afraid of death as you and me. They had heard of the wonderful news of new life in Christ Jesus, but some had clearly not understood what this meant. Someone posed the following question: If God’s grace is offered to us because we are sinners, should we not continue to sin in order that grace may abound? One wonders if this was even a serious question at all, or one simply posed to demonstrate the absurdity of the concept of God’s free grace in Christ. Be that as it may, I wonder if what they really feared was reckoning with their own angst about their own human finality. The message of God’s grace is a message that offers hope not only for this life, but also for the next. But when we begin to consider the ramifications of God in our lives, we are necessarily led to consider the impact of risk and fear and loss. And ultimately, we must consider the reality of our own death. I suggest that the critique of the gospel to which St. Paul is responding is a critique that seeks to make light not only of the gospel, but to also make light of the human angst we all share. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
When confronted with life and death we have two choices. The first is seek to cling to life, by ignoring the reality of death. It is not a clinging to life because life is something wonderful, but a clinging to life because we are afraid of what it means to lose our life. It is to choose a life filled with extraneous distractions; things that distract us from the reality of death; that instill in us the false hope death will somehow miss us and pass us by because we are hidden by the clutter of all the wonderful distractions that fill our lives. However, we have another way; we can make another choice. We can choose to face the reality of our own death and in spite of it, in the shadow of it, and because of it, choose life. At funerals, we often focus on the words of the psalmist, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” but we must never forget the companion verse: “I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.” Death remains a reality for each of us, but as Christian people, we choose to believe that it means something very different than the passing away and destruction of all that is good in life.
St. Paul reminds the Romans that all who are baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into his death. But I would suggest that baptism is not as much about our participation in Christ’s death, but God’s participation in our death. For in Christ God takes our human frailty, our human finality, and makes it his own; and in doing so conquers and destroys it. Death no more has dominion over him – the death he died, he died to sin once for all. Likewise, reckon ye also yourselves dead to sin and alive to God, in Christ Jesus. Death no longer has dominion over us.
In Baptism we have changed masters, we are no longer enslaved either to sin or to death. By being released from death as our master, we are also released from sin -- for is it not the fear of death that leads us into such selfish ways in which we cling to life not because it is beautiful but because we are selfishly afraid to imagine a world in which we do not exist? But in staring death in the face, Christ uses death to destroy death and vanquish its claim to victory. In this victory we walk in newness of life.
One of St. Paul’s favourite ways of describing a Christian is by using the phrase “in Christ.” You are “in Christ.” That is, we participate in his triumph over death, we walk in newness of life.
What does newness of life mean to us? In the academic discussion of Paul’s letters there is a debate that rages (is this not always the case when studying Paul?). The question is this: Is “newness of life” about a future hope or present reality. In academic terms we speak of the future or realized eschatology, i.e., is Paul’s theology of new life about a reality that God will one day bring about, or a new reality in which we are now participating. There are many passages in Paul that can be corralled to support either claim, but I would suggest that neither claim needs to be exclusive, and in fact are not polarities to be contrasted but should be considered complementary claims. On one level, Paul speaks about our death in the past tense and our new life in the future tense: “If we have died with him, we shall live with him.” This places us somewhere “between the times.” It suggests that our hope for new life is a future hope. And indeed it is. This is what allows us to believe that although these mortal bodies turn to dust, death is not the final story for any of us, but the door to new life. Although death has been defeated, we know that it only exists as the ending of this part of our journey and as the doorway to a yet more glorious journey. We have a future hope, and as Paul said in chapter 5 of Romans, hope does not disappoint.
However, Paul also says that through our death to sin that we are alive to God in Christ. Thus, as we have “put on Christ” in our baptism, we have also put on new life in the present age. In addition to the claim of future life, Paul makes the claim for new life in the here and now. In fact, he makes the claim that in our baptism we have already died. We have died to hopelessness, we have died to captivity, we have died to sin, we have died to separation from God, and now, nothing can separate us from the love of God. Although we continue to face the reality of the death of this mortal body, the words of Job ring true to us: “In my flesh I shall see God.” For while it is true that God calls us home after our earthly pilgrimage is done, we are not left comfortless in these latter days. God walks with us in Christ through the power of the Spirit throughout this earthly pilgrimage.
No matter the crisis that confronts us, no matter the fear that threatens to overtake us, no matter that our bodies shall one day give out, death is not our final story, nor is it or can it ever be our master. To be sure, we will continue to have our moments of doubt and fear. My own moments of angst often come in the darkness of the night, when the darkness threatens to overcome the light. I sometimes wonder if my passing out of this world will indeed be followed by my passage into another, or resurrection on some final day. Yet, sleeps encroaches and I find that I must finally submit to it. The next thing I know, the dawn has arrived and my fear has subsided. In the light of day I find hope not only for the future but also in the present moment. In the light of the day, I find abundant life, not only as something that will blossom when the harvest comes to fruition but also in the unfolding and flowering of my life in the present. It is in these moments in the light that I find the strength to face the darkness that will inevitably come again, and the courage to believe that the darkness always gives way to light. I come to recognize what St. Paul means when he says that we are “alive to God.” From our experience of being alive to God we begin to learn to believe that even when it seems like death has won the day, we can continue to believe that, even in the face of death, the promise of new life endures and is our reality.
Whether it be the experience of new life in the midst of the changes and chances of this fleeting world, or whether it be our hope for life beyond the grave, as Christian people we are convinced of one thing, that death no longer has dominion over us. In both the gentle unfolding of our lives, and also when faced with a litany of faith-challenging crises, we take comfort in the fact that we have chosen life, and indeed that life itself, in the person of Christ Jesus, has chosen us. Let us go forward then, eagerly to meet him in the midst of the worst the world can throw at us, because in those moments of walking through the valley of the shadow of death, when fear threatens to overcome us, we shall fear no evil; in the moments when we seem most alone we shall remember that, “thou art with me”; and when we come face to face with the reality of death in our lives, we shall remember that death has been swallowed up in victory and we shall believe that goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life, a life that is lived not only in the present, but eternally, in the heart of a loving God.
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.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Can We Boast Without Shame?
Homily for Proper 11, Year A
Sunday, June 15th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 5:1-8
St. Paul writes, “Since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ… and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God.” Well, I do not know about you, but in my world, boasting is not something to be encouraged – and certainly not to be encouraged as a Christian virtue! I have always understood boasting as something selfish and conceited. At a slightly deeper level, if I boast about what I have, the boast is, in effect, a put-down of another: I have something you do not have, and therefore I am better than you and you should be ashamed or feel unworthy. I suppose it does not help that we are Canadians. Do we not pride ourselves in being unlike our boastful neighbours? Do we not overcompensate and over-apologize for any little offense that we might perpetrate; or even apologize for things that we have not done, lest it seem that we are to pig-headed? Furthermore, as Christian people we are to be filled with loving charity, giving of ourselves, doing without, being like Jesus, suffering for the sake of others. The last thing that we should do either as Canadians or as Christians is boast.
And yet, here, in this most crucial letter of the Pauline corpus, Paul affirms boasting, of a sort, as a Christian virtue. What are we to make of this? To me, this is one of those uncomfortable passages in Paul’s letters that is perhaps most easily passed over and left for another day. I suggest, though, that the difficulty of a passage must not dissuade us from considering how it might speak to us in the deepening of our Christian walk. I suppose, when it comes right down to it, I find this passage difficult because I know that my own ego is perhaps, slightly oversized. I know that I have a tendency to boast when, perhaps, I should instead be walking in humilty. I suspect that I am not alone in this although I cannot speak for others. So, when Paul speaks of boasting as a Christian virtue many of us feel a bit squeamish, because our own sin, and propensity to sin, is ever before us.
What is it, though, that Paul instructs us to boast about? It is this: “Our hope of sharing the glory of God.” This hope is rooted in our own justification by faith, our own peace with God through that justification, and indeed our access to God’s grace.
Before I continue, I would like to make a short digression and speak about justification by faith. This is a term that has been bandied about by theologians for hundreds of years. There is still much disagreement about what is meant by the term. Justification is what we call a legal-forensic term, with its etymological roots in the Latin translation of the Greek word for righteousness. A literal, and more correct (if grammatically dubious) translation of “justified”, might best be understood by transforming the noun “righteous” into a verbal passive form, “to be righteoused.” The controversy around this phrase concerns how we understand what to be “righteoused” or “justified” means. One understanding involves a permanent change in status of the person justified, a change of nature once and for all. In this understanding, a person takes on a permanent new identity through the sacrifice of Christ. Another understanding involves a wiping clean of the past, a clean slate, a tabla rasa, but with the possibility of going off track again. The past has been wiped clean, but the future is remains open. Furthermore, the degree to which a person continues to rely solely on grace or participate through post-justification "works" in the post-justification state continues to be a matter of theological disagreement and discussion. We cannot resolve these debates here, I only raise then to demonstrate that while Christians may agree on a doctrine of justification by faith, they may indeed have quite different understandings of what it means. Similarly, we might ask the origin of the faith through which we are justified. For some it is a faith we stir up ourselves when we realize we are unable to do right without God; it is a decision we make in the face of our realization that we have no power in and of ourselves to be righteous. We realize that only God makes us righteous and that stirring of faith leads imputes righteousness. Others will suggest that while that realization may be the catalyst to faith, faith comes not from ourselves but as a gift from God, which we appropriate both when we are confronted by crisis and also in the gentle unfolding revelation of God in the midst of our lives. I must confess that I fall into this latter group. All of this is to say that I take faith to be a gift from God. As we begin to receive that gift we begin to realize that God has opened to us the way of new life.
So what does this digression on justification have to do with boasting? Namely this: That the hope in which St. Paul boasts is a hope rooted in a faith imparted by God in Christ, through God’s grace, for a peace offered by the same loving God in Christ. We have access to this God in and through the self-offering of Christ in the Incarnation, Crucifixion and Resurrection. Put simply, we have cause to boast because we have received a most wonderful gift, reconciliation with a loving God and with each other. The gift is freely given and loving received. It is not of our own making but is divine and precious.
However, boasting still has its dark side, and St. Paul knows this better than anyone. We boast not in and of ourselves, or for ourselves but in, of, and for Christ. And we must always remember that our Lord and Christ is the one whose throne is a cross and who is a king who wore a crown of thorns. To boast in Christ we must always remember that the way of Christ is indeed a way of self-offering and self-denial. Boasting is not for self-glorification or the deprecation of others, but a confession of God’s gracious self-offering that transforms all creation. Boasting in Christ means claiming both the Cross and the Resurrection as our cause for boasting.
That wonderful Christian hymn, Lift High the Cross has this most poignant line: “Great is the cost of walking on this road, to follow and suffer with the Son of God.” I do not for a moment believe that suffering is a condition of our Christian faith nor is suffering sent by God to test us. Yet, I think suffering is a condition of our humanity. Each of us will, without fail, suffer in some way along our earthly pilgrimage. For some it will be physical suffering of the worst kind. For other there will be psychological suffering, emotional suffering, or spiritual suffering. One thing I find in common amongst those I meet who suffer is a propensity to utter such a phrase as this: “At least I’m glad don’t have it as bad as that other person over there…” While this sentiment can be a helpful coping mechanism, it is ultimately a symptom of a denial of our human condition, and illustrates what Rabbi Harold Kushner (author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People) calls the “suffering Olympics.” Yes, there will always be someone who has it worse than you, but what does that really matter. Your pain is real, your hurt is authentic, your struggle feels impossible to manage. What good is it to compare and be self-effacing about it. In a way, this propensity to compare our suffering with that of another is kind of boasting in which we lie to ourselves – as we attempt to minimize the reality of our suffering we implicitly claim to be better and more able to cope with our suffering that what we actually are. This is not the sort of boasting encourage by the Apostle.
I have said before that I take myself to be a Christian Existentialist. I believe very passionately that our life of faith comes about, develops and matures as the result of meeting God in the midst of human crisis. If we deny our suffering, if we reject it, if we allow the cup to pass, then we also risk missing the encounter with a Lord who meets us in our suffering. We risk meeting a Lord who makes our suffering one with his suffering and offers his Resurrection as our resurrection. Again, we do not believe that suffering is a visitation from God, but in our suffering we may certainly be visited by the one knows our pain and shares our wounds. Thus, St. Paul says that suffering produces endurance, but it is not our endurance, but God’s endurance when we have not the strength to endure. Endurance produces character; and again, it is not our character but the indelible character of Christ imprinted on us. Character produces hope -- hope not only for our deliverance from affliction, strife and need, but hope for the whole human family; for all our brothers and sisters who despondency threatens to overcome. And hope does not disappoint us. God is faithful to the last.
Thus, to boast in our justification, in the grace we have received, in our access to God, is not to boast in our own righteousness, our own access to God, our own peace, but to proclaim the righteousness of God to a hurting world, to those who suffer indignity and unjust oppression. To boast in our access to God is not boast in our relationship with God but to proclaim to the lonely and brokenhearted that God calls them, journeys with them, loves them beyond measure and will never leave them. To boast in the peace of God is not claim that we are a people without conflict or division, but to proclaim to a world torn apart by conflict, strife and division, that God reconciles us to each other when all hope for peace seems lost. To boast in hope is not to assert that we have a salvation from God that others do not, but to proclaim to any who walk without hope, to any who have lost their faith either in God or their fellow human beings, that in Christ all things are being made new with each new rising of the sun.
To boast in Christ is not an act of self-aggrandizement, nor is it a deprecation of the faith of others. It is the simple claim that we have met a Lord who loves us even in our darkest hour, who sharing in our suffering leads us forth to a yet more glorious day. It is the proclamation that again and again, he comes to us, and takes our hand, from one age to the next, loving us, helping us, leading us, transforming us, when we cannot help ourselves. It is the proclamation that this word of hope is hope for the whole world. And finally, it is a word of hope in whiche we can boast . It is a word of hope tht we can share with the world, without shame and without reservation.
Text c. 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.
Sunday, June 15th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 5:1-8
St. Paul writes, “Since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ… and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God.” Well, I do not know about you, but in my world, boasting is not something to be encouraged – and certainly not to be encouraged as a Christian virtue! I have always understood boasting as something selfish and conceited. At a slightly deeper level, if I boast about what I have, the boast is, in effect, a put-down of another: I have something you do not have, and therefore I am better than you and you should be ashamed or feel unworthy. I suppose it does not help that we are Canadians. Do we not pride ourselves in being unlike our boastful neighbours? Do we not overcompensate and over-apologize for any little offense that we might perpetrate; or even apologize for things that we have not done, lest it seem that we are to pig-headed? Furthermore, as Christian people we are to be filled with loving charity, giving of ourselves, doing without, being like Jesus, suffering for the sake of others. The last thing that we should do either as Canadians or as Christians is boast.
And yet, here, in this most crucial letter of the Pauline corpus, Paul affirms boasting, of a sort, as a Christian virtue. What are we to make of this? To me, this is one of those uncomfortable passages in Paul’s letters that is perhaps most easily passed over and left for another day. I suggest, though, that the difficulty of a passage must not dissuade us from considering how it might speak to us in the deepening of our Christian walk. I suppose, when it comes right down to it, I find this passage difficult because I know that my own ego is perhaps, slightly oversized. I know that I have a tendency to boast when, perhaps, I should instead be walking in humilty. I suspect that I am not alone in this although I cannot speak for others. So, when Paul speaks of boasting as a Christian virtue many of us feel a bit squeamish, because our own sin, and propensity to sin, is ever before us.
What is it, though, that Paul instructs us to boast about? It is this: “Our hope of sharing the glory of God.” This hope is rooted in our own justification by faith, our own peace with God through that justification, and indeed our access to God’s grace.
Before I continue, I would like to make a short digression and speak about justification by faith. This is a term that has been bandied about by theologians for hundreds of years. There is still much disagreement about what is meant by the term. Justification is what we call a legal-forensic term, with its etymological roots in the Latin translation of the Greek word for righteousness. A literal, and more correct (if grammatically dubious) translation of “justified”, might best be understood by transforming the noun “righteous” into a verbal passive form, “to be righteoused.” The controversy around this phrase concerns how we understand what to be “righteoused” or “justified” means. One understanding involves a permanent change in status of the person justified, a change of nature once and for all. In this understanding, a person takes on a permanent new identity through the sacrifice of Christ. Another understanding involves a wiping clean of the past, a clean slate, a tabla rasa, but with the possibility of going off track again. The past has been wiped clean, but the future is remains open. Furthermore, the degree to which a person continues to rely solely on grace or participate through post-justification "works" in the post-justification state continues to be a matter of theological disagreement and discussion. We cannot resolve these debates here, I only raise then to demonstrate that while Christians may agree on a doctrine of justification by faith, they may indeed have quite different understandings of what it means. Similarly, we might ask the origin of the faith through which we are justified. For some it is a faith we stir up ourselves when we realize we are unable to do right without God; it is a decision we make in the face of our realization that we have no power in and of ourselves to be righteous. We realize that only God makes us righteous and that stirring of faith leads imputes righteousness. Others will suggest that while that realization may be the catalyst to faith, faith comes not from ourselves but as a gift from God, which we appropriate both when we are confronted by crisis and also in the gentle unfolding revelation of God in the midst of our lives. I must confess that I fall into this latter group. All of this is to say that I take faith to be a gift from God. As we begin to receive that gift we begin to realize that God has opened to us the way of new life.
So what does this digression on justification have to do with boasting? Namely this: That the hope in which St. Paul boasts is a hope rooted in a faith imparted by God in Christ, through God’s grace, for a peace offered by the same loving God in Christ. We have access to this God in and through the self-offering of Christ in the Incarnation, Crucifixion and Resurrection. Put simply, we have cause to boast because we have received a most wonderful gift, reconciliation with a loving God and with each other. The gift is freely given and loving received. It is not of our own making but is divine and precious.
However, boasting still has its dark side, and St. Paul knows this better than anyone. We boast not in and of ourselves, or for ourselves but in, of, and for Christ. And we must always remember that our Lord and Christ is the one whose throne is a cross and who is a king who wore a crown of thorns. To boast in Christ we must always remember that the way of Christ is indeed a way of self-offering and self-denial. Boasting is not for self-glorification or the deprecation of others, but a confession of God’s gracious self-offering that transforms all creation. Boasting in Christ means claiming both the Cross and the Resurrection as our cause for boasting.
That wonderful Christian hymn, Lift High the Cross has this most poignant line: “Great is the cost of walking on this road, to follow and suffer with the Son of God.” I do not for a moment believe that suffering is a condition of our Christian faith nor is suffering sent by God to test us. Yet, I think suffering is a condition of our humanity. Each of us will, without fail, suffer in some way along our earthly pilgrimage. For some it will be physical suffering of the worst kind. For other there will be psychological suffering, emotional suffering, or spiritual suffering. One thing I find in common amongst those I meet who suffer is a propensity to utter such a phrase as this: “At least I’m glad don’t have it as bad as that other person over there…” While this sentiment can be a helpful coping mechanism, it is ultimately a symptom of a denial of our human condition, and illustrates what Rabbi Harold Kushner (author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People) calls the “suffering Olympics.” Yes, there will always be someone who has it worse than you, but what does that really matter. Your pain is real, your hurt is authentic, your struggle feels impossible to manage. What good is it to compare and be self-effacing about it. In a way, this propensity to compare our suffering with that of another is kind of boasting in which we lie to ourselves – as we attempt to minimize the reality of our suffering we implicitly claim to be better and more able to cope with our suffering that what we actually are. This is not the sort of boasting encourage by the Apostle.
I have said before that I take myself to be a Christian Existentialist. I believe very passionately that our life of faith comes about, develops and matures as the result of meeting God in the midst of human crisis. If we deny our suffering, if we reject it, if we allow the cup to pass, then we also risk missing the encounter with a Lord who meets us in our suffering. We risk meeting a Lord who makes our suffering one with his suffering and offers his Resurrection as our resurrection. Again, we do not believe that suffering is a visitation from God, but in our suffering we may certainly be visited by the one knows our pain and shares our wounds. Thus, St. Paul says that suffering produces endurance, but it is not our endurance, but God’s endurance when we have not the strength to endure. Endurance produces character; and again, it is not our character but the indelible character of Christ imprinted on us. Character produces hope -- hope not only for our deliverance from affliction, strife and need, but hope for the whole human family; for all our brothers and sisters who despondency threatens to overcome. And hope does not disappoint us. God is faithful to the last.
Thus, to boast in our justification, in the grace we have received, in our access to God, is not to boast in our own righteousness, our own access to God, our own peace, but to proclaim the righteousness of God to a hurting world, to those who suffer indignity and unjust oppression. To boast in our access to God is not boast in our relationship with God but to proclaim to the lonely and brokenhearted that God calls them, journeys with them, loves them beyond measure and will never leave them. To boast in the peace of God is not claim that we are a people without conflict or division, but to proclaim to a world torn apart by conflict, strife and division, that God reconciles us to each other when all hope for peace seems lost. To boast in hope is not to assert that we have a salvation from God that others do not, but to proclaim to any who walk without hope, to any who have lost their faith either in God or their fellow human beings, that in Christ all things are being made new with each new rising of the sun.
To boast in Christ is not an act of self-aggrandizement, nor is it a deprecation of the faith of others. It is the simple claim that we have met a Lord who loves us even in our darkest hour, who sharing in our suffering leads us forth to a yet more glorious day. It is the proclamation that again and again, he comes to us, and takes our hand, from one age to the next, loving us, helping us, leading us, transforming us, when we cannot help ourselves. It is the proclamation that this word of hope is hope for the whole world. And finally, it is a word of hope in whiche we can boast . It is a word of hope tht we can share with the world, without shame and without reservation.
Text c. 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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
I Am Not Ashamed of the Gospel
Homily for Proper 9, Year A
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 1:16-17
For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith.
--Romans 1:16
There may be many things about which we are ashamed. One only needs to probe beneath the surface of our lives to realize that there are some things that we have done that we would rather not share with others. There are different levels of shame. For example, it has been a number of years since I allowed my time as the manager of a Dairy Queen store to drop off my resume. While managing a Dairy is nothing to be ashamed of, I’d rather just keep it to myself. Why do I not wish to share this fact with a prospective employer? Of what am I ashamed? On a somewhat deeper level, I rarely tell people that I dropped out of Art College at age nineteen because I simply wasn’t good enough and didn’t have the personal discipline to cut it as a professional artist. I suppose that nearly twenty years later I still carry some shame and embarrassment about this failure. And I certainly know that there were times when I worked in a management position at the Anglican Book Centre that I made and was involved in decisions that I would certainly not make again. Of these I can say that I carry regret and yes, some shame.
Each of us will harbour feelings of guilt and shame over things done and left undone, over associations with people we have known, groups with which we have been affiliated, places we have worked. Yes, there will be mistakes in our lives about which we are ashamed, regretful and sorry. To make mistakes is part of being human. Similarly, to grow beyond childish things is also very human. We remain, though, the sum of our parts, and to some extent the shames and regrets of our past always remain a glimpse away in the rear-view mirrors of our lives.
But there is something about which I am not ashamed, and there is something about which none of us should be ashamed, and that is the Gospel of Christ. As Christian people we stand alongside St. Paul in this confession of faith. And might I say it is one of the earliest Christian proclamations of faith. I am not ashamed of the Gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith. I am not ashamed because when I look back on the things in my own life that I would rather keep to myself I know and understand that under my own power it is so easy to take a wrong turn, make a bad choice. I understand that under my own power I really have no ability make the right choices for my life. I understand that when I have thought thus, my choices have been less than exemplary and that when pressed to share them with others, I would rather keep them to myself.
Next week Canon Greg and I will be away on a clergy conference. The topic is Passionate Spirituality: From Beleaguered to Beloved. One of the activities in which we will be participating will be a small group time in which we are supposed to share with other clergy a moment in which we have felt beleaguered in ministry. I can tell you that there are many of us who feel a great reluctance to participate in this kind of sharing. I know that I will be careful about what I want to share. And I must ask myself why. In addition to worrying about the judgment of our peers, I think that it is because in our beleaguered moments we believe that we are alone, that we are operating under our own power, and as such when we fail we will necessarily feel that the world has come crashing down and that we are to be deeply ashamed of the darkness in which we find ourselves. But what if we were to believe that even in that loneliest place, to our surprise, that our Lord was with still? What if we were to believe that in our darkest hour, God had not left us but was pressing more deeply and passionately toward us? What if we were to believe that in our deepest angst over our failures and shame that the power of God was most poignant and purposeful in our lives?
I am not ashamed of the Gospel because even in my deepest shame, my deepest regret, in my darkest hour, the power of God is working for my salvation. Even as I grope in the wilderness, the wellspring of life, the dayspring from on high visits me. And I come to realize, perhaps in the moment of crisis, or perhaps through retrospection, that it never was and never can be my power that will bring me to the purpose and fullness my life, but only the power of God in Christ Jesus.
When we turn toward this font and make the promises of baptism we do so acknowledging a help, a help that comes from the Most High: “I will with God’s help.” And we answer these questions, “Will you continue in the Apostles’ teaching; will you seek and serve Christ in all persons; will you repent and return to the Lord, will you strive for justice and peace,” we answer them all with, “I will with God’s help.” But we do not answer in this manner simply as matter of course but as a matter of faith. It is a faith that is rooted both in our experience of God’s help and our own human frailty. It is rooted in our experience of God meeting and calling us first, and also our experience of not quite making it under our own power and our need to call on God in times of trouble. The call is made in crisis and yet God does not come running because he is already present, already helping us, already lifting us on eagles’ wings, already urging us on even before we make the call.
Each person’s story will be different, but this is the common story of our faith of which I am not ashamed: That God loved us, has never left us, and walks with us in Christ Jesus, even though we turn away again and again. God never ceases to care for us. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God is our helper in every time of trouble in our lives. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God goes with us, even when we foolishly try to bear the load of our lives under our own strength. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God goes before us even in the darkest moment, our death, shows it to be the way of everlasting life. This is the faith we share and we are not ashamed. This is the righteousness of God, that remarkable reality that God cares even for you and even for me. This is such an exciting reality that it is something we wish to share with each other – the power of the Gospel, the power of God, in our lives. This is what St. Paul means when he says that it is “revealed through faith for faith.” Simply put, the footprints of God in our individual lives serves for the building up of the faith of the Church as a whole. The faith I learned was a gift from God through my fathers and mothers in the faith, and the faith of these young ones will be a gift for those who follow them in years to come. Our shared faith, of which we are not ashamed, is a shared gift, for the building up of the Church, of the Kingdom and for the Glory of God. What God has done for you means a whole lot for the life of the Church and for the transformation of the world. The old, old story is new again, in the life of every Christian.
Today, two young girls are presented for baptism and several other youngsters gather around this altar to make their First Holy Communion. Each new Christian and each new communicant brings the whole of their lives, their very being before God, all that they have and all that they are, every good gift that God has given them and they offer it up to God to be a gift to this community of believers and a light to a broken and lost world. They bring their faith, unashamed, they bring the power God, unashamed, and they bring Good News, unashamed, to broken and hurting world. And that Good News is this: that in Christ, love conquers fear, and hope conquers shame.
To this end, while each of us will harbour things about which we are ashamed, and moments in our past we would rather forget, the power of God transforms us and moves us forward. Shame will not be our master nor failure our companion. And this I say emphatically to you young people: Claim Christ as your companion and master and make hope and love your way. When we glance back on the wonderful works God has done in our lives, and when we look upon these young people committing their lives to follow the way of Christ, how then can we ever be ashamed of this Gospel and its power? Nay, we shall not be ashamed to renounce all that separates us from God and proclaim with a sure confidence that Christ is our Lord. For we know that even in our most beleaguered moments that we stand with a Lord whose love is stronger even than death.
The homily is c. 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves and may not be reproduced or redistributed, in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 1:16-17
For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith.
--Romans 1:16
There may be many things about which we are ashamed. One only needs to probe beneath the surface of our lives to realize that there are some things that we have done that we would rather not share with others. There are different levels of shame. For example, it has been a number of years since I allowed my time as the manager of a Dairy Queen store to drop off my resume. While managing a Dairy is nothing to be ashamed of, I’d rather just keep it to myself. Why do I not wish to share this fact with a prospective employer? Of what am I ashamed? On a somewhat deeper level, I rarely tell people that I dropped out of Art College at age nineteen because I simply wasn’t good enough and didn’t have the personal discipline to cut it as a professional artist. I suppose that nearly twenty years later I still carry some shame and embarrassment about this failure. And I certainly know that there were times when I worked in a management position at the Anglican Book Centre that I made and was involved in decisions that I would certainly not make again. Of these I can say that I carry regret and yes, some shame.
Each of us will harbour feelings of guilt and shame over things done and left undone, over associations with people we have known, groups with which we have been affiliated, places we have worked. Yes, there will be mistakes in our lives about which we are ashamed, regretful and sorry. To make mistakes is part of being human. Similarly, to grow beyond childish things is also very human. We remain, though, the sum of our parts, and to some extent the shames and regrets of our past always remain a glimpse away in the rear-view mirrors of our lives.
But there is something about which I am not ashamed, and there is something about which none of us should be ashamed, and that is the Gospel of Christ. As Christian people we stand alongside St. Paul in this confession of faith. And might I say it is one of the earliest Christian proclamations of faith. I am not ashamed of the Gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith. I am not ashamed because when I look back on the things in my own life that I would rather keep to myself I know and understand that under my own power it is so easy to take a wrong turn, make a bad choice. I understand that under my own power I really have no ability make the right choices for my life. I understand that when I have thought thus, my choices have been less than exemplary and that when pressed to share them with others, I would rather keep them to myself.
Next week Canon Greg and I will be away on a clergy conference. The topic is Passionate Spirituality: From Beleaguered to Beloved. One of the activities in which we will be participating will be a small group time in which we are supposed to share with other clergy a moment in which we have felt beleaguered in ministry. I can tell you that there are many of us who feel a great reluctance to participate in this kind of sharing. I know that I will be careful about what I want to share. And I must ask myself why. In addition to worrying about the judgment of our peers, I think that it is because in our beleaguered moments we believe that we are alone, that we are operating under our own power, and as such when we fail we will necessarily feel that the world has come crashing down and that we are to be deeply ashamed of the darkness in which we find ourselves. But what if we were to believe that even in that loneliest place, to our surprise, that our Lord was with still? What if we were to believe that in our darkest hour, God had not left us but was pressing more deeply and passionately toward us? What if we were to believe that in our deepest angst over our failures and shame that the power of God was most poignant and purposeful in our lives?
I am not ashamed of the Gospel because even in my deepest shame, my deepest regret, in my darkest hour, the power of God is working for my salvation. Even as I grope in the wilderness, the wellspring of life, the dayspring from on high visits me. And I come to realize, perhaps in the moment of crisis, or perhaps through retrospection, that it never was and never can be my power that will bring me to the purpose and fullness my life, but only the power of God in Christ Jesus.
When we turn toward this font and make the promises of baptism we do so acknowledging a help, a help that comes from the Most High: “I will with God’s help.” And we answer these questions, “Will you continue in the Apostles’ teaching; will you seek and serve Christ in all persons; will you repent and return to the Lord, will you strive for justice and peace,” we answer them all with, “I will with God’s help.” But we do not answer in this manner simply as matter of course but as a matter of faith. It is a faith that is rooted both in our experience of God’s help and our own human frailty. It is rooted in our experience of God meeting and calling us first, and also our experience of not quite making it under our own power and our need to call on God in times of trouble. The call is made in crisis and yet God does not come running because he is already present, already helping us, already lifting us on eagles’ wings, already urging us on even before we make the call.
Each person’s story will be different, but this is the common story of our faith of which I am not ashamed: That God loved us, has never left us, and walks with us in Christ Jesus, even though we turn away again and again. God never ceases to care for us. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God is our helper in every time of trouble in our lives. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God goes with us, even when we foolishly try to bear the load of our lives under our own strength. This is our faith, of which I am not ashamed: That God goes before us even in the darkest moment, our death, shows it to be the way of everlasting life. This is the faith we share and we are not ashamed. This is the righteousness of God, that remarkable reality that God cares even for you and even for me. This is such an exciting reality that it is something we wish to share with each other – the power of the Gospel, the power of God, in our lives. This is what St. Paul means when he says that it is “revealed through faith for faith.” Simply put, the footprints of God in our individual lives serves for the building up of the faith of the Church as a whole. The faith I learned was a gift from God through my fathers and mothers in the faith, and the faith of these young ones will be a gift for those who follow them in years to come. Our shared faith, of which we are not ashamed, is a shared gift, for the building up of the Church, of the Kingdom and for the Glory of God. What God has done for you means a whole lot for the life of the Church and for the transformation of the world. The old, old story is new again, in the life of every Christian.
Today, two young girls are presented for baptism and several other youngsters gather around this altar to make their First Holy Communion. Each new Christian and each new communicant brings the whole of their lives, their very being before God, all that they have and all that they are, every good gift that God has given them and they offer it up to God to be a gift to this community of believers and a light to a broken and lost world. They bring their faith, unashamed, they bring the power God, unashamed, and they bring Good News, unashamed, to broken and hurting world. And that Good News is this: that in Christ, love conquers fear, and hope conquers shame.
To this end, while each of us will harbour things about which we are ashamed, and moments in our past we would rather forget, the power of God transforms us and moves us forward. Shame will not be our master nor failure our companion. And this I say emphatically to you young people: Claim Christ as your companion and master and make hope and love your way. When we glance back on the wonderful works God has done in our lives, and when we look upon these young people committing their lives to follow the way of Christ, how then can we ever be ashamed of this Gospel and its power? Nay, we shall not be ashamed to renounce all that separates us from God and proclaim with a sure confidence that Christ is our Lord. For we know that even in our most beleaguered moments that we stand with a Lord whose love is stronger even than death.
The homily is c. 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves and may not be reproduced or redistributed, in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
The Mighty One Has Done Great Things
Homily for the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to Elizabeth
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Lay Anointers’ Refresher Workshop
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: the Magnificat
“The mighty one has done great things for me.”
--Luke 1:49
To gather as lay anointers and those who share in Christ’s healing ministry on this Feast of the Visitation is a most appropriate and fortuitous convergence events, for in the words of that ancient hymn, Magnificat, we sing words that speak of the healing power of the Gospel. What can be more central to our understanding of the healing ministry than the proclamation that “the mighty one has done great things for me?” As partners with our Lord in the healing of the nations, we seek mighty works day-by-day. Thus, it would do us well to follow the ageless wisdom of the Church and make this hymn part of our daily pattern of worship and prayer. For if we do, we will hear of a God who not only cares for the lowly, the broken, the hungry, the disposed of the world, but we hear of a God who lifts them up, fills them, offers them good things. And lest we forget, we ourselves are amongst the broken, the lowly, the weak, who are in constant need of God’s loving care.
These words are both words of hope and words of a promise fulfilled. He has looked with favour on his servant, he has lifted up the lowly, he has filled the hungry. And most importantly, these promises are from generation to generation. These promises endure from age to age and his might works are known from one generation to the next. When we pray these most ancient words, when we sing this most ancient hymn, we extol a God who in Christ Jesus has changed the way we look at our own brokenness and the brokenness of the world. We extol a Lord who is ever present in the midst of brokenness and struggle.
While it will be important for us as caregivers never to minimize the pain, loss, sadness or grief experienced by anyone in need of healing; while it will be important for us to affirm that brokenness and illness are real; while it may be important for us to realize that in some cases the body is going to fail; we must never lose sight of the reality that regardless of our degree of human frailty, God continues to work mighty deeds in the lives of all God’s children. From complete physical cure on the one end of the spectrum to, on the other end, the passing from this life into the next, the Christ whose human body was formed in the womb of Mary journeys with us and lifts towards wholeness. As partners in the healing ministry it is our task to faithfully proclaim this Gospel. For at the end of the day, we are not healers in and of ourselves, we are but messengers, as was Mary, messengers of a gracious God who never leaves or abandons any of his children in times of trouble. In our act of journeying with another in their pain, be we healthcare professionals, psychotherapists, pastoral counselors, lay anointers, lay visitors, or clergy, we proclaim simply by our presence and companionship that no one is ever left alone. As Elizabeth journeyed with Mary in what should have felt like a time of abandonment, we journey together with those who are weakened by the changes and chances of their lives, and there in the midst is the Christ, the one who heals the wounds of our souls and comforts our troubled spirits. If we can simply share in this ministry of presence then indeed God will be glorified and the hungry will receive good things and a mighty work shall have been done.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Lay Anointers’ Refresher Workshop
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: the Magnificat
“The mighty one has done great things for me.”
--Luke 1:49
To gather as lay anointers and those who share in Christ’s healing ministry on this Feast of the Visitation is a most appropriate and fortuitous convergence events, for in the words of that ancient hymn, Magnificat, we sing words that speak of the healing power of the Gospel. What can be more central to our understanding of the healing ministry than the proclamation that “the mighty one has done great things for me?” As partners with our Lord in the healing of the nations, we seek mighty works day-by-day. Thus, it would do us well to follow the ageless wisdom of the Church and make this hymn part of our daily pattern of worship and prayer. For if we do, we will hear of a God who not only cares for the lowly, the broken, the hungry, the disposed of the world, but we hear of a God who lifts them up, fills them, offers them good things. And lest we forget, we ourselves are amongst the broken, the lowly, the weak, who are in constant need of God’s loving care.
These words are both words of hope and words of a promise fulfilled. He has looked with favour on his servant, he has lifted up the lowly, he has filled the hungry. And most importantly, these promises are from generation to generation. These promises endure from age to age and his might works are known from one generation to the next. When we pray these most ancient words, when we sing this most ancient hymn, we extol a God who in Christ Jesus has changed the way we look at our own brokenness and the brokenness of the world. We extol a Lord who is ever present in the midst of brokenness and struggle.
While it will be important for us as caregivers never to minimize the pain, loss, sadness or grief experienced by anyone in need of healing; while it will be important for us to affirm that brokenness and illness are real; while it may be important for us to realize that in some cases the body is going to fail; we must never lose sight of the reality that regardless of our degree of human frailty, God continues to work mighty deeds in the lives of all God’s children. From complete physical cure on the one end of the spectrum to, on the other end, the passing from this life into the next, the Christ whose human body was formed in the womb of Mary journeys with us and lifts towards wholeness. As partners in the healing ministry it is our task to faithfully proclaim this Gospel. For at the end of the day, we are not healers in and of ourselves, we are but messengers, as was Mary, messengers of a gracious God who never leaves or abandons any of his children in times of trouble. In our act of journeying with another in their pain, be we healthcare professionals, psychotherapists, pastoral counselors, lay anointers, lay visitors, or clergy, we proclaim simply by our presence and companionship that no one is ever left alone. As Elizabeth journeyed with Mary in what should have felt like a time of abandonment, we journey together with those who are weakened by the changes and chances of their lives, and there in the midst is the Christ, the one who heals the wounds of our souls and comforts our troubled spirits. If we can simply share in this ministry of presence then indeed God will be glorified and the hungry will receive good things and a mighty work shall have been done.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Why Do You Standing Looking Toward Heaven? A Homily for Ascensiontide
Sermon for Easter 7, Year A
(Sunday in Ascentiontide)
Sunday, May 4th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 1:6-14
“Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”
-Acts 1:11
Sometimes we feel that we have been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. As individuals and as a people we often feel abandoned. The death of a loved one, the moving away of a friend, or perhaps the coming of age of a child – each of these leaves a hole our hearts and perhaps, a deadening of our spirit. During this past month as we remembered the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., forty years ago, we are called to remember all manner of people and societal groups that have been forgotten or abused by the powers that be, and consider what it is like to be part of a people who are forgotten, left alone or abandoned by the powerful classes of the world. And whether it is abandonment as individuals or abandonment as a group of people; whether it is abandonment by those close to us or abandonment by the institutions and systems that are meant to help us, abandonment can leave us feeling stranded, helpless, immobilized. In the powerlessness of abandonment we meet the demons of hopelessness and loneliness. To be left alone without aid or succour is, perhaps, our deepest human fear. There are times in our lives when each of us have felt abandoned, left alone, forgotten and we have a taste of the pain that is felt by so many in this broken world on a daily basis.
On the Mount of Olives, as the Risen Jesus preached about the Kingdom of God to his disciples, he suddenly disappeared. St. Luke tells us that he was lifted up and a cloud took him out of their sight. Whatever we might think about the mechanics of the Ascension, whether or not he was taken up into the sky, or simply vanished from their sight, or walked away into the distance, the disciples experienced his departure as a shock. The picture painted by St. Luke is one in which they are staring up into the clouds, looking for one that they could see no longer. In their abandonment they were immobilized, frozen. It was like they could not move.
They had not expected their leader to be taken away again. After all, they had not first expected their king to be crucified, and yet, he was, to their shock and surprise. Yet, their sense of fear and abandonment at his death, their loneliness and despair gave way to rejoicing at his surprising and glorious resurrection. And so they ask the Risen Christ, having witnessed the power of God, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of Israel?” The disciples had expected a show of power and force from the earthly Jesus during his ministry. They had been disappointed, but surely this resurrected Jesus would topple the powers and oppressors, surely he would lead them triumphantly, surely this was the time appointed for victory. But he answers them with a cryptic response that it is not for them to know the times or seasons set by the Father. He goes on though to tell them that they have a special job to do, as his witnesses, in the power of the Holy Spirit. Then, suddenly, he is taken from them. Thus, we can imagine their shock. They expected a show of force. Their expectations were thwarted. They expected Jesus to lead. He disappeared. They expected to follow him. He told them that they would lead the way. Would not you or I be shocked and immobilized? For a second time, their expectations were left unmet. For a second time, he had left them.
But had he left them? For suddenly, two angels appear to them offering an explanation. Two messengers who seek to remind the disciples of their call. What they say, in essence, is this: “Why are you looking up to heaven? Why are you still standing around? You have other things to do! You asked about the kingdom … what are you waiting for? Now is the time. Will you waste your time waiting around until Jesus comes back? He will return just as suddenly as he left, and will you lot still be standing around here with your jaws on the floor?” Perhaps at this moment one of them, a certain man named Cleopas might have recalled another moment, perhaps days earlier in which their Lord, at a certain supper at Emmaus, had disappeared; a moment in which Cleopas and his companion realized that Jesus had not really left them but remained with them, in their fellowship, in the community, in the breaking of the bread, even though they saw him no longer. Perhaps, just perhaps, they caught a glimpse of the abiding presence of Jesus and the true meaning of their acclamation that “the Lord is risen, indeed!” At that moment, they realized that they were not left alone, even though he had vanished. At that moment they recalled what he taught them, what he gave them, what he called them to be. They picked up their jaws, they left their sense of abandonment behind, they turned from their places and headed back to town, not dispersed as at the crucifixion, but together as one family. They journeyed together, unemployed fishermen, dishonorable tax collectors, frustrated revolutionaries, folk of all sorts and conditions, and a widowed mother who had lost her son. They journeyed together. And he was with them. In an upper room they met, and prayed, and broke bread, not immobilized by abandonment and loneliness as a people without hope, but as a community and a family with a mission to the world – messengers of hope.
So we and many around us stand in our age, in our moments of loss and abandonment, in our fear and our hopelessness, in our immobility and frozenness, in a daze, gazing into the heavens, waiting for the kingdom of God, waiting for someone to make things right. But as the angels proclaimed to those disciples “people of Galilee, why are you staring into the heavens,” so those same disciples, who are to us angels of the gospel (for what is an angel but simply a messenger) proclaim to us through the pages of Holy Scripture across the ages, “People of your age, why are you gazing into the heavens? Why are you sorrowing as a people without hope? Why are you feeling lost and forsaken? The one who was crucified and was raised from the dead has not left you, but is glorified in your midst! He is with you to the ends of the age to the ends of the earth and is calling you to be his people and his messengers of the gospel!” Hearing these words, shall we forget the story of our faith? Even in our moments of isolation and abandonment, shall we forget the one that has journeyed with us through the crosses we have had to bear and has raised us up in from our moments of sadness and despair? Shall we forget the one who has carried us when we were weak? Shall we forget the one who forgets us not? Shall we forget the one who is with us always? We do not forget, because even in our brokenness we do not approach this story of the ascension as a paralyzed people but as a people who live in the power and light of the Risen Christ. We are a people who live in the power and breath of the Holy Spirit of God. We ourselves have become messengers, witnesses, like the angels and the apostles, who bear a message to a broken and hurting world. We come here like the apostles to discern our call, to wait on the call of the Spirit of God, to meet Christ in the breaking of the bread, and to return to the world proclaiming “He is risen, indeed!” To a world that only knows abandonment we proclaim he will not abandon or forsake the world or a single one of his children. In our experience of being beloved of God, in our knowledge that he will not forsake us, he gives us a mission: He sends us forth as messengers to proclaim to a hurting world that he is with us always, that we are not alone, that the kingdom of God is at hand.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
(Sunday in Ascentiontide)
Sunday, May 4th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 1:6-14
“Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”
-Acts 1:11
Sometimes we feel that we have been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. As individuals and as a people we often feel abandoned. The death of a loved one, the moving away of a friend, or perhaps the coming of age of a child – each of these leaves a hole our hearts and perhaps, a deadening of our spirit. During this past month as we remembered the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., forty years ago, we are called to remember all manner of people and societal groups that have been forgotten or abused by the powers that be, and consider what it is like to be part of a people who are forgotten, left alone or abandoned by the powerful classes of the world. And whether it is abandonment as individuals or abandonment as a group of people; whether it is abandonment by those close to us or abandonment by the institutions and systems that are meant to help us, abandonment can leave us feeling stranded, helpless, immobilized. In the powerlessness of abandonment we meet the demons of hopelessness and loneliness. To be left alone without aid or succour is, perhaps, our deepest human fear. There are times in our lives when each of us have felt abandoned, left alone, forgotten and we have a taste of the pain that is felt by so many in this broken world on a daily basis.
On the Mount of Olives, as the Risen Jesus preached about the Kingdom of God to his disciples, he suddenly disappeared. St. Luke tells us that he was lifted up and a cloud took him out of their sight. Whatever we might think about the mechanics of the Ascension, whether or not he was taken up into the sky, or simply vanished from their sight, or walked away into the distance, the disciples experienced his departure as a shock. The picture painted by St. Luke is one in which they are staring up into the clouds, looking for one that they could see no longer. In their abandonment they were immobilized, frozen. It was like they could not move.
They had not expected their leader to be taken away again. After all, they had not first expected their king to be crucified, and yet, he was, to their shock and surprise. Yet, their sense of fear and abandonment at his death, their loneliness and despair gave way to rejoicing at his surprising and glorious resurrection. And so they ask the Risen Christ, having witnessed the power of God, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of Israel?” The disciples had expected a show of power and force from the earthly Jesus during his ministry. They had been disappointed, but surely this resurrected Jesus would topple the powers and oppressors, surely he would lead them triumphantly, surely this was the time appointed for victory. But he answers them with a cryptic response that it is not for them to know the times or seasons set by the Father. He goes on though to tell them that they have a special job to do, as his witnesses, in the power of the Holy Spirit. Then, suddenly, he is taken from them. Thus, we can imagine their shock. They expected a show of force. Their expectations were thwarted. They expected Jesus to lead. He disappeared. They expected to follow him. He told them that they would lead the way. Would not you or I be shocked and immobilized? For a second time, their expectations were left unmet. For a second time, he had left them.
But had he left them? For suddenly, two angels appear to them offering an explanation. Two messengers who seek to remind the disciples of their call. What they say, in essence, is this: “Why are you looking up to heaven? Why are you still standing around? You have other things to do! You asked about the kingdom … what are you waiting for? Now is the time. Will you waste your time waiting around until Jesus comes back? He will return just as suddenly as he left, and will you lot still be standing around here with your jaws on the floor?” Perhaps at this moment one of them, a certain man named Cleopas might have recalled another moment, perhaps days earlier in which their Lord, at a certain supper at Emmaus, had disappeared; a moment in which Cleopas and his companion realized that Jesus had not really left them but remained with them, in their fellowship, in the community, in the breaking of the bread, even though they saw him no longer. Perhaps, just perhaps, they caught a glimpse of the abiding presence of Jesus and the true meaning of their acclamation that “the Lord is risen, indeed!” At that moment, they realized that they were not left alone, even though he had vanished. At that moment they recalled what he taught them, what he gave them, what he called them to be. They picked up their jaws, they left their sense of abandonment behind, they turned from their places and headed back to town, not dispersed as at the crucifixion, but together as one family. They journeyed together, unemployed fishermen, dishonorable tax collectors, frustrated revolutionaries, folk of all sorts and conditions, and a widowed mother who had lost her son. They journeyed together. And he was with them. In an upper room they met, and prayed, and broke bread, not immobilized by abandonment and loneliness as a people without hope, but as a community and a family with a mission to the world – messengers of hope.
So we and many around us stand in our age, in our moments of loss and abandonment, in our fear and our hopelessness, in our immobility and frozenness, in a daze, gazing into the heavens, waiting for the kingdom of God, waiting for someone to make things right. But as the angels proclaimed to those disciples “people of Galilee, why are you staring into the heavens,” so those same disciples, who are to us angels of the gospel (for what is an angel but simply a messenger) proclaim to us through the pages of Holy Scripture across the ages, “People of your age, why are you gazing into the heavens? Why are you sorrowing as a people without hope? Why are you feeling lost and forsaken? The one who was crucified and was raised from the dead has not left you, but is glorified in your midst! He is with you to the ends of the age to the ends of the earth and is calling you to be his people and his messengers of the gospel!” Hearing these words, shall we forget the story of our faith? Even in our moments of isolation and abandonment, shall we forget the one that has journeyed with us through the crosses we have had to bear and has raised us up in from our moments of sadness and despair? Shall we forget the one who has carried us when we were weak? Shall we forget the one who forgets us not? Shall we forget the one who is with us always? We do not forget, because even in our brokenness we do not approach this story of the ascension as a paralyzed people but as a people who live in the power and light of the Risen Christ. We are a people who live in the power and breath of the Holy Spirit of God. We ourselves have become messengers, witnesses, like the angels and the apostles, who bear a message to a broken and hurting world. We come here like the apostles to discern our call, to wait on the call of the Spirit of God, to meet Christ in the breaking of the bread, and to return to the world proclaiming “He is risen, indeed!” To a world that only knows abandonment we proclaim he will not abandon or forsake the world or a single one of his children. In our experience of being beloved of God, in our knowledge that he will not forsake us, he gives us a mission: He sends us forth as messengers to proclaim to a hurting world that he is with us always, that we are not alone, that the kingdom of God is at hand.
Text copyright 2008, 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.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Priesthood of All Believers: "What Can I Bring Him?"
Homily for Easter 5, Year A, 2008
Sunday, April 20th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Peter 2:2-10
“And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy and living sacrifice unto thee. And although we are unworthy yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits but pardoning our offences.”
-Post Communion Prayer, Book of Common Prayer, p 85-6.
We have often heard the phrase, “the priesthood of all believers,” and although we set certain individuals apart for a vocation as “priests in the Church of God,” this calling is simply an extension of a calling that we all share as the priestly people of God. St. Peter writes: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people.” As such we all share in a priestly calling. But what is this calling? What does it mean for each of us to be part of a royal priesthood? For that matter, what is it to be a priest?
In our simplest, most ancient understanding of the term, a priest is one who offers up a sacrifice to God. In the ancient world, in both the pagan world and in Jewish society, the sacrifice was often an animal, slaughtered and burnt. As Christians appropriated the term we came to understand our priests as offering up a different sort of sacrifice, a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving – a sacrifice offered in loving response to the one who offered up the ultimate sacrifice, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To this day, when a priest stands at the altar, presiding in worship, at the sacred liturgy, his or her role is to “offer up” to God something of value of the community. And in our praise and thanksgiving, what is it that we offer? It is nothing less than our selves, in the entirety of our being. We offer up our triumphs and achievements, our failures and our losses. We offer to God our riches and our emptiness, our spirits and our bodies.
That is why I love that old post-communion prayer from the Book of Common Prayer so much. Those who were Anglicans prior to 1962 will remember that it was originally part of the Eucharistic prayer itself, so that as the priest was offering up the prayer of thanksgiving, what was actually being offered up was the very people who were gathered in prayer. In 1962, this prayer was moved to the “post-communion” position, that is, we had opportunity to say it together after we had received the sacrament. Both positions have merit, the former in that the sacrifice of ourselves, as the people of God, is placed at the nexus of the priestly prayer; the latter position in that it is only after we are strengthened in receiving our Lord’s body and blood that we can even begin to offer the sacrifice of ourselves – after all, it was his sacrifice that makes our adoration and praise possible and the offering of ourselves possible.
I suppose I favour the post-communion position of this prayer in the 1962 Prayer Book because it serves to sum up the entire liturgy and expresses what St. Peter spoke of in today’s epistle: “Once you were not a people, but now you’re are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” We come before the altar of our Lord as a disparate people, sinners of all walks of life, rich or poor, male or female, slave or free (it matters not), but we come, and from whatever baggage by which we are burdened, we are set free. We come and in the recalling of his death and passion (and this is no mere remembrance, but a summoning forth into our time the timeless sacrifice our of our Lord), we meet him at the altar and we are made new. Whatever we bring, whoever we are, we offer it up to God: Our selves, our souls, and bodies, as a priestly people.
When I bring Communion to the sick and those shut-in, I almost always use this prayer to conclude the liturgy. I use it because it reminds each of us, no matter our health, estate, or age, that the offering of our selves, our souls, and bodies is indeed a reasonable and holy sacrifice. As long is there is life and breath in us, we live to praise the one who gave us that life in the first place. Even when the body is withered or broken, we still offer it to God as a reasonable and holy sacrifice – a precious sacrifice in the heart of God. Even, and especially, in our brokenness the sacrifice we make is holy. Many of the older people that I visit feel that in their seclusion, their incapacity, their age, they have nothing to offer. But nothing is farther from the truth! Whatever we have, no matter our condition or age or health, we offer it to God and God is well-pleased. The offering of one’s self, no matter our condition, is always a reasonable sacrifice in the sight of God, and it is most holy. We always have something to offer to God, and to each other in Christian community.
The offering that we make is always an offering back to God of what God has first given us, namely, the offering of our lives. It may fill us with great pride to think that we are “self-made” people, but to believe this is only to delude ourselves. We had no say in our creation. The mere reality that we are here in the first place is because God gave us life through our parents. We had absolutely nothing to do with this miracle. And I suspect that the more that we examine the triumphs we have known and experienced in our lives, perhaps, just perhaps, we will see the hand of another at work. We rarely get anywhere in this life without the help and encouragement of others. It may be fashionable as modern people to think of ourselves as independent individuals who work hard to get the good things in life, but take the magnifying glass in hand and look closely for the signs of our families, friends and community bearing us along with them, and look closely for the hand of God.
We cannot do it alone. This is why the prayer goes on to say, “and although we are unworthy, yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences.” There are many who would strike this line from the prayer suggesting that having received the forgiveness of God that we are indeed worthy. But this is the point of the prayer! We offer up to God all that God has given us, not because we are able under our own power, but because God has made us able! All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee! Remember the words spoken in response to each question of our Baptismal covenant, “I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help!” Why will I, because God has loved me so much that I can do no other; because it is not me, but Christ in me. That is the mystery of our faith and that is the mystery of Holy Communion! We leave this place nourished by Christ, bearing Christ in us, feeding on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving, that we might offer the entirety of our lives to back to God, moving forward through the week and into the reality of our lives. We become a living sacrifice, or to put it as St. Peter suggests, we are becoming living stones with which the Kingdom of God is built.
The priesthood of all believers is the offering of our whole lives to God – our selves, our souls and bodies. We need not be ashamed of what we offer, for whoever we are, whatever we are, wherever we are, our living sacrifice is reasonable and holy, precious in the sight of God. We need not be ashamed because it is Christ in us, the great high priest of our souls, that offers the sacrifice through us, as we dwell in him and he in us. The priesthood of all believers is about offering yourself to God. Only you can know what the way will be. What will you offer; how will you be a sacred minister in the royal priesthood of our Lord Jesus Christ?
Consider the words of the Christina Rosetti, a nineteenth century poet, who a friend of mine suggests was priest through the offering of her poetry:
What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man, I would do my part;
Yet what can I give him – give my heart.[1]
Sermon text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This text may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
[1] Christina Rosetti, In the Bleak Midwinter, final stanza.
Sunday, April 20th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Peter 2:2-10
“And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy and living sacrifice unto thee. And although we are unworthy yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits but pardoning our offences.”
-Post Communion Prayer, Book of Common Prayer, p 85-6.
We have often heard the phrase, “the priesthood of all believers,” and although we set certain individuals apart for a vocation as “priests in the Church of God,” this calling is simply an extension of a calling that we all share as the priestly people of God. St. Peter writes: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people.” As such we all share in a priestly calling. But what is this calling? What does it mean for each of us to be part of a royal priesthood? For that matter, what is it to be a priest?
In our simplest, most ancient understanding of the term, a priest is one who offers up a sacrifice to God. In the ancient world, in both the pagan world and in Jewish society, the sacrifice was often an animal, slaughtered and burnt. As Christians appropriated the term we came to understand our priests as offering up a different sort of sacrifice, a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving – a sacrifice offered in loving response to the one who offered up the ultimate sacrifice, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To this day, when a priest stands at the altar, presiding in worship, at the sacred liturgy, his or her role is to “offer up” to God something of value of the community. And in our praise and thanksgiving, what is it that we offer? It is nothing less than our selves, in the entirety of our being. We offer up our triumphs and achievements, our failures and our losses. We offer to God our riches and our emptiness, our spirits and our bodies.
That is why I love that old post-communion prayer from the Book of Common Prayer so much. Those who were Anglicans prior to 1962 will remember that it was originally part of the Eucharistic prayer itself, so that as the priest was offering up the prayer of thanksgiving, what was actually being offered up was the very people who were gathered in prayer. In 1962, this prayer was moved to the “post-communion” position, that is, we had opportunity to say it together after we had received the sacrament. Both positions have merit, the former in that the sacrifice of ourselves, as the people of God, is placed at the nexus of the priestly prayer; the latter position in that it is only after we are strengthened in receiving our Lord’s body and blood that we can even begin to offer the sacrifice of ourselves – after all, it was his sacrifice that makes our adoration and praise possible and the offering of ourselves possible.
I suppose I favour the post-communion position of this prayer in the 1962 Prayer Book because it serves to sum up the entire liturgy and expresses what St. Peter spoke of in today’s epistle: “Once you were not a people, but now you’re are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” We come before the altar of our Lord as a disparate people, sinners of all walks of life, rich or poor, male or female, slave or free (it matters not), but we come, and from whatever baggage by which we are burdened, we are set free. We come and in the recalling of his death and passion (and this is no mere remembrance, but a summoning forth into our time the timeless sacrifice our of our Lord), we meet him at the altar and we are made new. Whatever we bring, whoever we are, we offer it up to God: Our selves, our souls, and bodies, as a priestly people.
When I bring Communion to the sick and those shut-in, I almost always use this prayer to conclude the liturgy. I use it because it reminds each of us, no matter our health, estate, or age, that the offering of our selves, our souls, and bodies is indeed a reasonable and holy sacrifice. As long is there is life and breath in us, we live to praise the one who gave us that life in the first place. Even when the body is withered or broken, we still offer it to God as a reasonable and holy sacrifice – a precious sacrifice in the heart of God. Even, and especially, in our brokenness the sacrifice we make is holy. Many of the older people that I visit feel that in their seclusion, their incapacity, their age, they have nothing to offer. But nothing is farther from the truth! Whatever we have, no matter our condition or age or health, we offer it to God and God is well-pleased. The offering of one’s self, no matter our condition, is always a reasonable sacrifice in the sight of God, and it is most holy. We always have something to offer to God, and to each other in Christian community.
The offering that we make is always an offering back to God of what God has first given us, namely, the offering of our lives. It may fill us with great pride to think that we are “self-made” people, but to believe this is only to delude ourselves. We had no say in our creation. The mere reality that we are here in the first place is because God gave us life through our parents. We had absolutely nothing to do with this miracle. And I suspect that the more that we examine the triumphs we have known and experienced in our lives, perhaps, just perhaps, we will see the hand of another at work. We rarely get anywhere in this life without the help and encouragement of others. It may be fashionable as modern people to think of ourselves as independent individuals who work hard to get the good things in life, but take the magnifying glass in hand and look closely for the signs of our families, friends and community bearing us along with them, and look closely for the hand of God.
We cannot do it alone. This is why the prayer goes on to say, “and although we are unworthy, yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences.” There are many who would strike this line from the prayer suggesting that having received the forgiveness of God that we are indeed worthy. But this is the point of the prayer! We offer up to God all that God has given us, not because we are able under our own power, but because God has made us able! All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee! Remember the words spoken in response to each question of our Baptismal covenant, “I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help!” Why will I, because God has loved me so much that I can do no other; because it is not me, but Christ in me. That is the mystery of our faith and that is the mystery of Holy Communion! We leave this place nourished by Christ, bearing Christ in us, feeding on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving, that we might offer the entirety of our lives to back to God, moving forward through the week and into the reality of our lives. We become a living sacrifice, or to put it as St. Peter suggests, we are becoming living stones with which the Kingdom of God is built.
The priesthood of all believers is the offering of our whole lives to God – our selves, our souls and bodies. We need not be ashamed of what we offer, for whoever we are, whatever we are, wherever we are, our living sacrifice is reasonable and holy, precious in the sight of God. We need not be ashamed because it is Christ in us, the great high priest of our souls, that offers the sacrifice through us, as we dwell in him and he in us. The priesthood of all believers is about offering yourself to God. Only you can know what the way will be. What will you offer; how will you be a sacred minister in the royal priesthood of our Lord Jesus Christ?
Consider the words of the Christina Rosetti, a nineteenth century poet, who a friend of mine suggests was priest through the offering of her poetry:
What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man, I would do my part;
Yet what can I give him – give my heart.[1]
Sermon text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This text may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
[1] Christina Rosetti, In the Bleak Midwinter, final stanza.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Eating is Believing
Sermon for Easter III, Year A
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Luke 24:13-35
“Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
--St. Luke 24:31
On a sad and lonely road walked two disciples. Their journey took them away from the Holy City, away from the festival that had come and gone, and away from the hope they had for a better life and a better world. They had followed the man about the countryside and into the city and had been amongst those who had proclaimed him king. And yet, as that fateful week unfolded their dreams began to dissipate and they stood at a distance watching the whole enterprise come crashing down. In the defeat of their leader and their whole movement, their hopes and dreams were crushed. So, they quietly slipped away along a sad and lonely road, presuming that that in the brokenness of their dreams they would quietly slip back into the broken world – unnoticed, anonymous.
One suspects that the last thing these two solitary figures wanted was company. Yet, they found themselves walking alongside a stranger – something of an intrusive stranger who inquired about the nature of their conversation. To their shock and surprise, this man seemed to know nothing about the events of the previous week. How true it is that what is often monumental and catastrophic to one may go completely unnoticed by another. Nonetheless, in a spirit of friendship, they opened up to him and told him their story. They chose not to remain silent in the midst of this unknown stranger, but shared with him the story of their shattered hopes and broken dreams. They poured open their broken hearts to him over the loss of their treasured friend and master.
They also shared the rumours – rumours that they could not believe; that he walked again. Oh, they had not seen it themselves; they could not, dare not, believe it. Hope once dashed is only cautiously rekindled. They had risked so much to follow him. They would not so easily and freely risk again. Then strangely, this mysterious fellow traveler began to speak about the prophets and the Scriptures, and about their fulfillment in this man – a man unknown to him. How odd this must have seemed to them, and yet it strangely comforted them. But did they yet believe? Alas, they did not.
But something strange was kindled within them. As the day pressed on and night began to fall, they welcomed him into their lodging, no longer as a stranger but as a guest, as a friend. As they sat around the table to eat their meal, a strange thing happened: In a gesture that evoked another meal, less than a week before, he took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to them. And then, in an instant, in this simple drama, they knew that they had not been left alone, they knew that the hope that seemed lost was yet found. They finally came to understand and believe that the dream that they thought dead and buried with their master was now, no longer a dream, but a reality. Thy kingdom come.
He vanished from their eyes. But they no longer had any need to see him to believe. As they had walked along the road, sharing stories of the women in Jerusalem who had claimed he was alive, they refused to believe. They had not seen him themselves. For them, like Thomas, “seeing was believing.” But oh, how often do we see and yet not believe? How often does our Lord walk with us and we choose to see him not? How often do we choose pain over healing, sadness over joy, despair over hope, when healing, hope and joy walk with us? Understand this: Seeing is overrated!
We think that seeing and touching, getting the tangible proof, will answer all our questions and cast all our doubt away. Like Thomas, and like those disciples along the Emmaus road, we think that “seeing is believing.” One only need to look at the world around us. Does seeing poverty, global warming, war, or injustice make any of these things more difficult to deny or ignore? Alas, it does not. Sometimes, seeing makes it even more difficult to cope, more difficult to believe, more difficult to understand. Had the disciples on this road seen the Risen Lord, would they have believed? God chose another way – the way he offers to you and me.
The miracle of Emmaus is that the Lord came to the disciples in a completely different way. He came to them in their experience of pain, loss, hopelessness, and despair. He came to them as they chose to walk together with him and with each other despite the worst the world could throw at them, despite the reality of their deep disappointment and brokenness. He came to them as they shared in a broken piece of bread. He came to those who were broken as one who was broken, in the breaking of the bread. And the minute they recognized him, he disappeared. But was he gone? By no means! Although removed from their eyes, they believed. St. Luke never says, that they “saw” him, only that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
What did they recognize? They recognized that he was with them in their brokenness as they walked along the road, even though at first, they knew it not. They recognized him in the opening of the Scriptures. They recognized that as they broke bread that they did this in memory of him – and what is more, that in that their Lord was more than remembered, he was truly alive and present with them. They recognized that wherever two or three are gathered, “there I am in the midst of you.”
This is the story of our faith. This is our Easter acclamation. We meet our Lord along the road on which we walk to escape our darkest pain and disappointment. We meet our Lord every time the Scriptures are opened. We meet our Lord when bread is broken in community. Seeing is not believing; oh, if it were so simple. Believing is something more profound. Believing is finding love in the arms of another when we feel unworthy of love. Believing is finding forgiveness at the hand of another when we feel we have done something unforgivable. Believing is finding joy in the laughter of another when we feel we may never laugh again. Believing is finding compassion in the gentle touch of another when we feel words cannot express the depth of our pain. And believing is offering all these things back to another when they cannot stand on their own. Believing is knowing that it is neither you nor I that makes any of these miracles possible, but the loving, Risen one, whose brokenness is our brokenness, whose healing is our healing, whose life is our life. Believing is sharing the fullness and depth of our humanity together in this shared common life, around this common table, and in the breaking open of the bread of our hearts, we believe him to be alive in our midst receiving him into our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.
Copyright 2008, 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.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Luke 24:13-35
“Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
--St. Luke 24:31
On a sad and lonely road walked two disciples. Their journey took them away from the Holy City, away from the festival that had come and gone, and away from the hope they had for a better life and a better world. They had followed the man about the countryside and into the city and had been amongst those who had proclaimed him king. And yet, as that fateful week unfolded their dreams began to dissipate and they stood at a distance watching the whole enterprise come crashing down. In the defeat of their leader and their whole movement, their hopes and dreams were crushed. So, they quietly slipped away along a sad and lonely road, presuming that that in the brokenness of their dreams they would quietly slip back into the broken world – unnoticed, anonymous.
One suspects that the last thing these two solitary figures wanted was company. Yet, they found themselves walking alongside a stranger – something of an intrusive stranger who inquired about the nature of their conversation. To their shock and surprise, this man seemed to know nothing about the events of the previous week. How true it is that what is often monumental and catastrophic to one may go completely unnoticed by another. Nonetheless, in a spirit of friendship, they opened up to him and told him their story. They chose not to remain silent in the midst of this unknown stranger, but shared with him the story of their shattered hopes and broken dreams. They poured open their broken hearts to him over the loss of their treasured friend and master.
They also shared the rumours – rumours that they could not believe; that he walked again. Oh, they had not seen it themselves; they could not, dare not, believe it. Hope once dashed is only cautiously rekindled. They had risked so much to follow him. They would not so easily and freely risk again. Then strangely, this mysterious fellow traveler began to speak about the prophets and the Scriptures, and about their fulfillment in this man – a man unknown to him. How odd this must have seemed to them, and yet it strangely comforted them. But did they yet believe? Alas, they did not.
But something strange was kindled within them. As the day pressed on and night began to fall, they welcomed him into their lodging, no longer as a stranger but as a guest, as a friend. As they sat around the table to eat their meal, a strange thing happened: In a gesture that evoked another meal, less than a week before, he took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to them. And then, in an instant, in this simple drama, they knew that they had not been left alone, they knew that the hope that seemed lost was yet found. They finally came to understand and believe that the dream that they thought dead and buried with their master was now, no longer a dream, but a reality. Thy kingdom come.
He vanished from their eyes. But they no longer had any need to see him to believe. As they had walked along the road, sharing stories of the women in Jerusalem who had claimed he was alive, they refused to believe. They had not seen him themselves. For them, like Thomas, “seeing was believing.” But oh, how often do we see and yet not believe? How often does our Lord walk with us and we choose to see him not? How often do we choose pain over healing, sadness over joy, despair over hope, when healing, hope and joy walk with us? Understand this: Seeing is overrated!
We think that seeing and touching, getting the tangible proof, will answer all our questions and cast all our doubt away. Like Thomas, and like those disciples along the Emmaus road, we think that “seeing is believing.” One only need to look at the world around us. Does seeing poverty, global warming, war, or injustice make any of these things more difficult to deny or ignore? Alas, it does not. Sometimes, seeing makes it even more difficult to cope, more difficult to believe, more difficult to understand. Had the disciples on this road seen the Risen Lord, would they have believed? God chose another way – the way he offers to you and me.
The miracle of Emmaus is that the Lord came to the disciples in a completely different way. He came to them in their experience of pain, loss, hopelessness, and despair. He came to them as they chose to walk together with him and with each other despite the worst the world could throw at them, despite the reality of their deep disappointment and brokenness. He came to them as they shared in a broken piece of bread. He came to those who were broken as one who was broken, in the breaking of the bread. And the minute they recognized him, he disappeared. But was he gone? By no means! Although removed from their eyes, they believed. St. Luke never says, that they “saw” him, only that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
What did they recognize? They recognized that he was with them in their brokenness as they walked along the road, even though at first, they knew it not. They recognized him in the opening of the Scriptures. They recognized that as they broke bread that they did this in memory of him – and what is more, that in that their Lord was more than remembered, he was truly alive and present with them. They recognized that wherever two or three are gathered, “there I am in the midst of you.”
This is the story of our faith. This is our Easter acclamation. We meet our Lord along the road on which we walk to escape our darkest pain and disappointment. We meet our Lord every time the Scriptures are opened. We meet our Lord when bread is broken in community. Seeing is not believing; oh, if it were so simple. Believing is something more profound. Believing is finding love in the arms of another when we feel unworthy of love. Believing is finding forgiveness at the hand of another when we feel we have done something unforgivable. Believing is finding joy in the laughter of another when we feel we may never laugh again. Believing is finding compassion in the gentle touch of another when we feel words cannot express the depth of our pain. And believing is offering all these things back to another when they cannot stand on their own. Believing is knowing that it is neither you nor I that makes any of these miracles possible, but the loving, Risen one, whose brokenness is our brokenness, whose healing is our healing, whose life is our life. Believing is sharing the fullness and depth of our humanity together in this shared common life, around this common table, and in the breaking open of the bread of our hearts, we believe him to be alive in our midst receiving him into our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.
Copyright 2008, 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.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Is Seeing Really Believing?
Homily for Easter II, Year A, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Hebrews 11:1, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:24-29
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen.”
Hebrews 11:1
Thomas demands a sign. He demands to know if the one spoken of by his fellows is truly his Lord and his master. If my Lord walks again, then he shall bear the wounds of his passion. Show me the wounds of Christ, show me the marks of his death, and then I shall proclaim, “He lives.” He demands no more or less than any of his fellows. When Mary Magdalene met her Lord in the garden, Peter refused to believe her word and only a face-to-face encounter would allay his doubt. The other disciples, too, demanded to see him. Is Thomas any different from the rest; is Thomas any different from us? Let me touch the Lord with my hands and I shall know he lives.
“My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back,” writes the author of the epistle to the Hebrews. Thomas did not shrink back. In spite of his pain and sadness and the wound of loss that he carried within his soul, he did not shrink back. And like the prophets of old about which St. Peter speaks, he sought out his salvation by “careful searching and inquiry.” The Gospel of St. John is known as a Gospel of signs. Jesus travels around the countryside giving signs to the people of Galilee and Judea that he is sent from the Father. Thomas is a good student, and having learned to look for a sign, he demands it. “Show me the marks of his death and I shall believe.” Show me the body. But is it enough simply to see the body, even if it walks?
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is a body still bearing the marks of the crucifixion. It is a wounded body; it is a broken body. When the disciples meet their Risen Lord they meet the man who gave his life for many and in beholding his hands and his side, there can be no doubt that this is Jesus who died. This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, broken for you.
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is also a body that has been transformed in its Resurrection. While it still bears the marks of the Crucifixion, it is also a body that is no longer constrained by the mechanisms of humanly manufactured locks and keys. It is a body that moves through walls and ascends on high. It is a body that miraculously appears to his disciples, on the seashore, in the garden, in a locked house. It is a mystical body – a body of which we are invited to be part; a body that we are to feed on in our hearts by faith and thanksgiving, preserving our bodies and souls unto everlasting life.
Thomas beholds the body of his Lord with his hands and cries out “My Lord and My God.” The strongest, boldest, most revolutionary claim for the Messiahship, nay, the divine kingship of Jesus in the entire New Testament, is given here, found on the lips of the so-called doubting apostle.
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for...”
Thomas hoped beyond hope that what he would encounter would be his master and friend, once again present to him. Thomas hoped beyond hope that what others had witnessed would be real to him, too.
“Faith is the conviction of things unseen...”
What did Thomas see? He saw a man who supposedly died a week before standing before him. He felt the wound on his side and the marks on his hands and beheld the marks of Jesus’ passion. But what did he really see. Would the appearance of a man thought dead convince any of us that he was God among us, the Word Incarnate? Could this not be a trick? What did Thomas really see, beyond the wounds, beyond the man?
The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Thomas saw and believed. Thomas saw a promise, the promise of his Lord, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” He saw a promise fulfilled that his Lord would not leave him, that his Lord comes to him even in his darkest moment of sadness, doubt and despair – Lo! I am with you, Thomas.
What did he see? What did he feel? What did he know in his heart? “Peace” says Jesus, “my peace I give to you and my peace I leave with you.” That is the conviction of things unseen, beyond the wounds, beyond the man, the very peace of God which passeth all understanding. The Risen Jesus stood not only before him, but within him, Thomas feeding on his Lord by faith, with thanksgiving.
The assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. For Thomas and the others, seeing was believing. But St. John, knowing that the time would come when seeing would no longer be possible, committed to writing the story of Thomas, and so many other stories, written, in his own words, “that we might believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that in believing, we might have life.” And so it is true for us, as St. Peter wrote so long ago, “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribably and glorious joy!”
We may not see him as Thomas, Mary Magdalene or Peter beheld him, but oh, we do meet him. For week by week we feed on the bread of life and that life is the light of all people. As we take the bread in our hands, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, we behold, inwardly by faith, his head, his hands, his side, the sorrow and the blood. But as we receive the sacrament of his passion we also become filled joy, with the light of the Lord. The Word made flesh enters into us raising us to new life, in this world and the next. As we behold our Lord in our hands, we draw near with faith. We draw near even in our own fear, with our own doubts, with our own wounds and in our own sadnesss, and we dare not shrink back, because we know him in our hearts -- he stands risen, not only before us, but also within us -- the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. And we, like Thomas, feel moved to shout with all assurance and with all conviction, “My Lord and my God.”
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.
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Hebrews 11:1, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:24-29
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen.”
Hebrews 11:1
Thomas demands a sign. He demands to know if the one spoken of by his fellows is truly his Lord and his master. If my Lord walks again, then he shall bear the wounds of his passion. Show me the wounds of Christ, show me the marks of his death, and then I shall proclaim, “He lives.” He demands no more or less than any of his fellows. When Mary Magdalene met her Lord in the garden, Peter refused to believe her word and only a face-to-face encounter would allay his doubt. The other disciples, too, demanded to see him. Is Thomas any different from the rest; is Thomas any different from us? Let me touch the Lord with my hands and I shall know he lives.
“My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back,” writes the author of the epistle to the Hebrews. Thomas did not shrink back. In spite of his pain and sadness and the wound of loss that he carried within his soul, he did not shrink back. And like the prophets of old about which St. Peter speaks, he sought out his salvation by “careful searching and inquiry.” The Gospel of St. John is known as a Gospel of signs. Jesus travels around the countryside giving signs to the people of Galilee and Judea that he is sent from the Father. Thomas is a good student, and having learned to look for a sign, he demands it. “Show me the marks of his death and I shall believe.” Show me the body. But is it enough simply to see the body, even if it walks?
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is a body still bearing the marks of the crucifixion. It is a wounded body; it is a broken body. When the disciples meet their Risen Lord they meet the man who gave his life for many and in beholding his hands and his side, there can be no doubt that this is Jesus who died. This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, broken for you.
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is also a body that has been transformed in its Resurrection. While it still bears the marks of the Crucifixion, it is also a body that is no longer constrained by the mechanisms of humanly manufactured locks and keys. It is a body that moves through walls and ascends on high. It is a body that miraculously appears to his disciples, on the seashore, in the garden, in a locked house. It is a mystical body – a body of which we are invited to be part; a body that we are to feed on in our hearts by faith and thanksgiving, preserving our bodies and souls unto everlasting life.
Thomas beholds the body of his Lord with his hands and cries out “My Lord and My God.” The strongest, boldest, most revolutionary claim for the Messiahship, nay, the divine kingship of Jesus in the entire New Testament, is given here, found on the lips of the so-called doubting apostle.
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for...”
Thomas hoped beyond hope that what he would encounter would be his master and friend, once again present to him. Thomas hoped beyond hope that what others had witnessed would be real to him, too.
“Faith is the conviction of things unseen...”
What did Thomas see? He saw a man who supposedly died a week before standing before him. He felt the wound on his side and the marks on his hands and beheld the marks of Jesus’ passion. But what did he really see. Would the appearance of a man thought dead convince any of us that he was God among us, the Word Incarnate? Could this not be a trick? What did Thomas really see, beyond the wounds, beyond the man?
The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Thomas saw and believed. Thomas saw a promise, the promise of his Lord, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” He saw a promise fulfilled that his Lord would not leave him, that his Lord comes to him even in his darkest moment of sadness, doubt and despair – Lo! I am with you, Thomas.
What did he see? What did he feel? What did he know in his heart? “Peace” says Jesus, “my peace I give to you and my peace I leave with you.” That is the conviction of things unseen, beyond the wounds, beyond the man, the very peace of God which passeth all understanding. The Risen Jesus stood not only before him, but within him, Thomas feeding on his Lord by faith, with thanksgiving.
The assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. For Thomas and the others, seeing was believing. But St. John, knowing that the time would come when seeing would no longer be possible, committed to writing the story of Thomas, and so many other stories, written, in his own words, “that we might believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that in believing, we might have life.” And so it is true for us, as St. Peter wrote so long ago, “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribably and glorious joy!”
We may not see him as Thomas, Mary Magdalene or Peter beheld him, but oh, we do meet him. For week by week we feed on the bread of life and that life is the light of all people. As we take the bread in our hands, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, we behold, inwardly by faith, his head, his hands, his side, the sorrow and the blood. But as we receive the sacrament of his passion we also become filled joy, with the light of the Lord. The Word made flesh enters into us raising us to new life, in this world and the next. As we behold our Lord in our hands, we draw near with faith. We draw near even in our own fear, with our own doubts, with our own wounds and in our own sadnesss, and we dare not shrink back, because we know him in our hearts -- he stands risen, not only before us, but also within us -- the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. And we, like Thomas, feel moved to shout with all assurance and with all conviction, “My Lord and my God.”
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.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Behold your Son, Behold your Mother, Behold Your God: A Homily for Good Friday
Sermon For Good Friday, 2008
Friday, March 21st, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 18:1-19:42
“Woman, behold your son – Son, behold your mother.”
Some time ago, I heard a story on the CBC about bullet-proof clothing. Unlike the bulky vest worn by police officers, this was designer clothing that looked no different from any other high-end garment that might adorn those who grace the runways and red carpets. What I found amazing was that this was literally a booming industry. A fifteen thousand dollar suit had just been delivered to a big businessman; a twenty thousand dollar dress sold quite handily to a young starlet. And what is more, the salespeople were really willing to get behind their product: They were literally willing to take a bullet for the cause. As I drove along listening to the radio report, my mouth was agape as I heard interviews with salespeople who had worn the clothes and were shot a point-blank range in order to demonstrate their own faith in the product. And upon the conclusion of the report, two words came into my head – fear and madness.
This report brings into focus the kind of paranoia by which we can be gripped living in a world of fear. Who is it that lurks around the corner waiting to take my life? Who is it that seeks to harm me, my family, or my children? Who is it that seeks to undermine the security of our nation to the point that we happily and wilfully give up our civil liberties as if such liberties were refuse to be dusted away in a Spring cleaning? And more than the fear of whom, there is the complacent fear of when. We become gripped by a paranoia that it is inevitable that others seek to harm us, and that it is only a matter of time until that unknown person takes a shot at us or our loved ones. We become so gripped with fear that we build walls around our cities, or through their centres, across our borders, in our airports, and now apparently around our bodies in the form of bullet-proof designer clothing, all in the hope of protecting us from some inevitable attack on our person. An existence built around fear.
Is this anything other than madness? Does it not speak of the complete, and more poignantly, the voluntary separation of ourselves from each other? Were we not created as beings of relationship, of love, of compassion, of tenderness? And yet we eagerly and willingly embrace the madness of separation in the hope of survival. Instead of questioning why we might need designer bullet proof clothing in the first place; instead of living lives that might change the madness of this reality, we design it, market and promote it, sell it, and even take a bullet ourselves to demonstrate its necessity. We choose to embrace the culture of fear and madness, rather than witness to its transformation.
“Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself … One of them asked him, ‘did I not see you in the garden with Jesus?’ Are you not one of his disciples?’ Peter replied, ‘I am not.”
Fear – driven by fear, a fear for his own safety, a fear that he had followed a false prophet, a fear that he was now to be condemned for a relationship with this false messiah, Peter denied his Lord. A wall went up around him, it was as if he slipped on one of those designer bullet-proof garments so that he could stand safely in the midst of those who might seize him and put him to death. And yet, there he stood at that moment, protected yes, but by his lie, utterly and completely alone.
“My peace I gave, which the world cannot give,
and washed your feet as a sign of my love,
but you draw the sword to strike in my name,
and seek high places in my kingdom.
I offered you my body and blood,
But you scatter and deny and abandon me.”
That love is ever before us, as it was ever before Peter. Again and again our Lord comes to us. The love of the servant king banishes all fear and casts away all darkness. But do we still choose fear? Do we still choose darkness? When push comes to shove, shall we choose to participate in the culture of fear and madness because it is easier to believe in despair rather than to proclaim hope? Shall we build walls around ourselves, segregating us from each other and from our Lord? Shall we make the pretence of belonging to each other, warming ourselves around the fire, if in fact, we have denied the one who by his love transforms the world in love? Fear is easy, because it is what we see every day – but what of the way we know by faith? What of the courage of love?
Some time later, at the foot of the cross stands a man and three women. The man is without name, some believe him to be the disciple John, we cannot be sure, but we do know this – he was one that Jesus loved. And with him, stand others, beloved by the Lord, most especially, his own mother, Mary. And as he risked all for them, as he gave his life that they might have life and have it abundantly, so too, they risked all for him. They risked the derision of onlookers. They risked the likelihood that as his followers they, too, might soon be persecuted at put to death. They risked the pain and fear of seeing one they loved so much die a slow and painful death. They stood in the open, on a hill, at the foot of that instrument of death and pain, when all others had run away in fear, beneath the one whose arms were stretched wide in pain but wide in love and offered him their mutual love in spite of the stares and derision of the world, the abandonment of their friends, and the danger and fear they must have felt. Against all fear, they stood together.
And he looked down on that young man with these words, “Son, behold your mother,” and to his mother, “woman, behold your son.” These are words that shall be forever remembered as words that bound these individuals together inseparably for all time. And what is more, they are words that bind us together for all time. They are words that are spoken to us today from that same cross. Look around this place, behold your mother, behold your father, behold your sons and your daughters, behold your brothers and your sisters. And as you gaze back, behold the Man, the man who spoke these words and made that sacrifice on the cross. For these words and that sacrifice have knit us together into one great family of love and compassion, in which sin and fear and darkness are banished forever, and replaced by a love so deep and so wide that stretches out over all creation. This is what we were created for -- this is what we were meant to be -- and not just us, but the whole world: to be one great human family, drawn together through the sacrifice of love.
Our prayer must be today, that the Lord will call us into the depth of that love, turning us from fear and madness, and putting in us the Spirit of courage that we might testify to this love that casts away all darkness. We pray that we might stand on that hill, with faith as the world chooses pain, and war, and violence. We pray that we have the grace to proclaim to that same world, with actions that speak louder than words, that self-sacrificing love that binds rather than separates us. For we know that our Lord calls the whole human family to look upon each other saying, behold your mother, behold your son. Let us have the courage to stand together with each other and with him as we look to the cross and proclaim: Behold the man, behold the lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. Behold our God.
Copyright 2008 by the Reverend 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.
Friday, March 21st, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 18:1-19:42
“Woman, behold your son – Son, behold your mother.”
Some time ago, I heard a story on the CBC about bullet-proof clothing. Unlike the bulky vest worn by police officers, this was designer clothing that looked no different from any other high-end garment that might adorn those who grace the runways and red carpets. What I found amazing was that this was literally a booming industry. A fifteen thousand dollar suit had just been delivered to a big businessman; a twenty thousand dollar dress sold quite handily to a young starlet. And what is more, the salespeople were really willing to get behind their product: They were literally willing to take a bullet for the cause. As I drove along listening to the radio report, my mouth was agape as I heard interviews with salespeople who had worn the clothes and were shot a point-blank range in order to demonstrate their own faith in the product. And upon the conclusion of the report, two words came into my head – fear and madness.
This report brings into focus the kind of paranoia by which we can be gripped living in a world of fear. Who is it that lurks around the corner waiting to take my life? Who is it that seeks to harm me, my family, or my children? Who is it that seeks to undermine the security of our nation to the point that we happily and wilfully give up our civil liberties as if such liberties were refuse to be dusted away in a Spring cleaning? And more than the fear of whom, there is the complacent fear of when. We become gripped by a paranoia that it is inevitable that others seek to harm us, and that it is only a matter of time until that unknown person takes a shot at us or our loved ones. We become so gripped with fear that we build walls around our cities, or through their centres, across our borders, in our airports, and now apparently around our bodies in the form of bullet-proof designer clothing, all in the hope of protecting us from some inevitable attack on our person. An existence built around fear.
Is this anything other than madness? Does it not speak of the complete, and more poignantly, the voluntary separation of ourselves from each other? Were we not created as beings of relationship, of love, of compassion, of tenderness? And yet we eagerly and willingly embrace the madness of separation in the hope of survival. Instead of questioning why we might need designer bullet proof clothing in the first place; instead of living lives that might change the madness of this reality, we design it, market and promote it, sell it, and even take a bullet ourselves to demonstrate its necessity. We choose to embrace the culture of fear and madness, rather than witness to its transformation.
“Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself … One of them asked him, ‘did I not see you in the garden with Jesus?’ Are you not one of his disciples?’ Peter replied, ‘I am not.”
Fear – driven by fear, a fear for his own safety, a fear that he had followed a false prophet, a fear that he was now to be condemned for a relationship with this false messiah, Peter denied his Lord. A wall went up around him, it was as if he slipped on one of those designer bullet-proof garments so that he could stand safely in the midst of those who might seize him and put him to death. And yet, there he stood at that moment, protected yes, but by his lie, utterly and completely alone.
“My peace I gave, which the world cannot give,
and washed your feet as a sign of my love,
but you draw the sword to strike in my name,
and seek high places in my kingdom.
I offered you my body and blood,
But you scatter and deny and abandon me.”
That love is ever before us, as it was ever before Peter. Again and again our Lord comes to us. The love of the servant king banishes all fear and casts away all darkness. But do we still choose fear? Do we still choose darkness? When push comes to shove, shall we choose to participate in the culture of fear and madness because it is easier to believe in despair rather than to proclaim hope? Shall we build walls around ourselves, segregating us from each other and from our Lord? Shall we make the pretence of belonging to each other, warming ourselves around the fire, if in fact, we have denied the one who by his love transforms the world in love? Fear is easy, because it is what we see every day – but what of the way we know by faith? What of the courage of love?
Some time later, at the foot of the cross stands a man and three women. The man is without name, some believe him to be the disciple John, we cannot be sure, but we do know this – he was one that Jesus loved. And with him, stand others, beloved by the Lord, most especially, his own mother, Mary. And as he risked all for them, as he gave his life that they might have life and have it abundantly, so too, they risked all for him. They risked the derision of onlookers. They risked the likelihood that as his followers they, too, might soon be persecuted at put to death. They risked the pain and fear of seeing one they loved so much die a slow and painful death. They stood in the open, on a hill, at the foot of that instrument of death and pain, when all others had run away in fear, beneath the one whose arms were stretched wide in pain but wide in love and offered him their mutual love in spite of the stares and derision of the world, the abandonment of their friends, and the danger and fear they must have felt. Against all fear, they stood together.
And he looked down on that young man with these words, “Son, behold your mother,” and to his mother, “woman, behold your son.” These are words that shall be forever remembered as words that bound these individuals together inseparably for all time. And what is more, they are words that bind us together for all time. They are words that are spoken to us today from that same cross. Look around this place, behold your mother, behold your father, behold your sons and your daughters, behold your brothers and your sisters. And as you gaze back, behold the Man, the man who spoke these words and made that sacrifice on the cross. For these words and that sacrifice have knit us together into one great family of love and compassion, in which sin and fear and darkness are banished forever, and replaced by a love so deep and so wide that stretches out over all creation. This is what we were created for -- this is what we were meant to be -- and not just us, but the whole world: to be one great human family, drawn together through the sacrifice of love.
Our prayer must be today, that the Lord will call us into the depth of that love, turning us from fear and madness, and putting in us the Spirit of courage that we might testify to this love that casts away all darkness. We pray that we might stand on that hill, with faith as the world chooses pain, and war, and violence. We pray that we have the grace to proclaim to that same world, with actions that speak louder than words, that self-sacrificing love that binds rather than separates us. For we know that our Lord calls the whole human family to look upon each other saying, behold your mother, behold your son. Let us have the courage to stand together with each other and with him as we look to the cross and proclaim: Behold the man, behold the lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. Behold our God.
Copyright 2008 by the Reverend 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.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Foolishness of God -- A Homily for Tuesday in Holy Week
Homily for Tuesday in Holy Week, 2008
Tuesday, March 18th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; John 12:20-36
“The Message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” – 1 Cor. 1:18
Paradox stands at the heart of our Holy Week journey: A triumphal parade becomes the longest mile; a king is crowned with thorns and placed upon a cross as throne; the healing of the nations comes about through the wounding of a single man; and ultimately, new life is born out of death. Is it any wonder, then, that St. Paul says, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing…” In this world, which oft seems devoid of meaning, how can these paradoxes make any sense at all? Is not what we see with our own eyes what is real? Are not Kings are gloried in their victory rather than in their defeat? Is not pain an unavoidable reality that grips us all, sooner or later? Is not death our final humiliation? On the surface, the answer is “yes.” The paradoxes are absurd. What we see is what we know. Defeat is defeat; pain is pain; and death is death. How can they be anything more? We see with our own eyes the reality of such things and we have experienced them in our own lives and the lives of those around us. And it’s not pretty.
There is another way of seeing, though. It is a way of seeing that penetrates the reality that is seen by our eyes, heard with our ears, touched by our hands. Truly, it is a reality that penetrates our hearts and souls. It is the reality of God here among us; light in the midst of us. It is a reality that is beyond sensory comprehension. It is a reality that is beyond explanation. It is a reality that is beyond the wisdom of this world. It is a reality that is felt and known inwardly amidst the contradiction of what we may experience outwardly. It is impossible to say how it happens for each one of us, but “in Christ” we are made alive and as he peers into, and touches the depths of our hearts, so that we to peer into, and touch the depths of his. The meaninglessness of the world around us suddenly takes on meaning; in the hopelessness of our situation we suddenly find hope; and in the brokenness of our humanity we find wholeness; in the moment of death we know eternal life. This is why as Christians at funerals we confess the paradox that while we are indeed “dust and to dust we shall return,” that even at the grave we make “alleluia” our song. What is seen is not necessarily the ultimate truth, and what is more, what we see takes on greater meaning because of what we feel and know, inwardly and mystically, in Christ. Thus St. Paul can say, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.”
And so it is that in losing our life, we shall find it; in gentleness, we shall find strength; in brokenness, we discover wholeness; in dying, yet we live. In Christ, as St. John reminds us, life is fleeting and not to be hoarded or clung to, for it is never really ours to possess. If we know the one who gives us life, we shall come to live it more fully, more passionately, and more meaningfully. Then, finally, the paradox in all its inexplicable contradiction will be understood and we will revel in understanding in the foolishness of God.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in who or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Tuesday, March 18th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; John 12:20-36
“The Message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” – 1 Cor. 1:18
Paradox stands at the heart of our Holy Week journey: A triumphal parade becomes the longest mile; a king is crowned with thorns and placed upon a cross as throne; the healing of the nations comes about through the wounding of a single man; and ultimately, new life is born out of death. Is it any wonder, then, that St. Paul says, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing…” In this world, which oft seems devoid of meaning, how can these paradoxes make any sense at all? Is not what we see with our own eyes what is real? Are not Kings are gloried in their victory rather than in their defeat? Is not pain an unavoidable reality that grips us all, sooner or later? Is not death our final humiliation? On the surface, the answer is “yes.” The paradoxes are absurd. What we see is what we know. Defeat is defeat; pain is pain; and death is death. How can they be anything more? We see with our own eyes the reality of such things and we have experienced them in our own lives and the lives of those around us. And it’s not pretty.
There is another way of seeing, though. It is a way of seeing that penetrates the reality that is seen by our eyes, heard with our ears, touched by our hands. Truly, it is a reality that penetrates our hearts and souls. It is the reality of God here among us; light in the midst of us. It is a reality that is beyond sensory comprehension. It is a reality that is beyond explanation. It is a reality that is beyond the wisdom of this world. It is a reality that is felt and known inwardly amidst the contradiction of what we may experience outwardly. It is impossible to say how it happens for each one of us, but “in Christ” we are made alive and as he peers into, and touches the depths of our hearts, so that we to peer into, and touch the depths of his. The meaninglessness of the world around us suddenly takes on meaning; in the hopelessness of our situation we suddenly find hope; and in the brokenness of our humanity we find wholeness; in the moment of death we know eternal life. This is why as Christians at funerals we confess the paradox that while we are indeed “dust and to dust we shall return,” that even at the grave we make “alleluia” our song. What is seen is not necessarily the ultimate truth, and what is more, what we see takes on greater meaning because of what we feel and know, inwardly and mystically, in Christ. Thus St. Paul can say, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.”
And so it is that in losing our life, we shall find it; in gentleness, we shall find strength; in brokenness, we discover wholeness; in dying, yet we live. In Christ, as St. John reminds us, life is fleeting and not to be hoarded or clung to, for it is never really ours to possess. If we know the one who gives us life, we shall come to live it more fully, more passionately, and more meaningfully. Then, finally, the paradox in all its inexplicable contradiction will be understood and we will revel in understanding in the foolishness of God.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in who or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)