Sermon for Palm Sunday, Year C, 2010
Sunday, March 28th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24:1-43
One day, in the midst of his teaching ministry, some Pharisees approached Jesus to warn him that Herod wanted to kill him. He told them to send Herod this message, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! ... You will not see me until the times comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord’” (Luke 13:34,35). And with these words, he pressed on toward Jerusalem.
In time, the shouts of “Crucify! Crucify!” prevailed, Pilate handed the prisoner over to death, and Jesus was led to the place of crucifixion – flogged, beaten, stumbling. Then, a certain man, Simon of Cyrene, coming in from the countryside and crossing the path of those paraded to their death as he did on so many days, Simon was seized by the soldiers. Laying upon him the cross of this prisoner, they compelled him to carry it. As the beaten and flogged prisoner stumbled forward, Simon followed behind, slowly, under the weight of the timber pressing down on his back. Suddenly distracted by the clamour of the wailing of women beating their breasts and lamenting the fate of this one convict, Simon looked up. And as the shoulders of Jesus straightened and he turned his gaze at the women, the prisoner spoke these chastising words to the women who were already bewailing his death: “Weep not for me, you Daughters of Jerusalem. Hold yourselves in pity. Curse the day that you were born and curse the wombs by which you shall bear children.” Simon asked himself, what manner of man is this who curses those who lament his death? “Pity yourselves,” the prisoner continued, “bless the day of your own destruction for it will be a great relief to you. Don’t you see that if this fate falls upon an innocent man, what fate will fall upon you and all of this city who, guilty of such grievous sin, stand truly condemned?”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
The very day in which we live is a city that kills the prophets and persecutes those who are sent to it. Would any deny that we are in need of a prophetic voice? Would any, knowing the terrors of Armenia, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, Rwanda, and the hidden terrors known only to God, dare to deny that we stand in need of a prophetic word? Would any deny that even as we hear such a word, we fail to receive it? Do we dare, like Herod, ask for a sign, when so many have been given, or call for a word of prophecy when so many have already been uttered?
The women around Jesus knew of the prophets. They knew the story of Israel; they knew the story of Judah. They knew of the Babylonian captivity, they knew of the subsequent short-lived liberation. They knew of God’s wrath, and they knew of God’s compassion. But they could not read the signs of their times. They were aware of the prophets but they were not in tune with them.
And so it is for us, if not more so: Do we even know who the prophets are? Are we so persuaded by those whom the world calls important, and those whom the world calls wise that we are unaware of those whom upon God has granted the gift of prophecy in our age? Do we call upon God to help us discern the prophets of our age? Do we even care to know who they are?
Do we even care when God raises up prophets amongst us? When God raises up those who dare to speak the truth or utter a prophetic word, we make the choice not to listen -- to turn the channel. There are people who cry out about injustice, they cry out with the voice of God and the authority of God, and we feign interest, and more disturbingly, we feign lamentation when their prophecies come to pass. What is more, it is easy to lament them when they are persecuted because we do not believe that we persecute them. But, God help us, we do, through neglect, disrespect, negligence, false piety, feigned interest, self-centredness, and self-indulgence. Is it not much easier to lament the horror and then, turn each one of us, to our own way?
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
As they reach the place of execution, Simon relieved of his burden, falls to the ground, exhausted, not only under the weight of the instrument of death, but under the weight of the condemnation of his city. There they crucify the prisoner. His cross is lifted high, and on either side of him are other criminals, each bringing to the moment of their death the weight of lives wasted and lives of unfulfilled hope and promise. Then, from the lips of the man in the centre, looking down on the crowds, the women, the soldiers, and even this man Simon, and out into the world, come these words: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.
Have any more beautiful or gracious words ever been spoken? To the one who betrayed me and turned me over to death: Father, forgive him. To those who shouted “Crucify him! Give us Barabbas!”: Father, forgive them. To the ones who slipped away under the darkness of night: Father forgive them. To the one who denied me; Father forgive him. To you soldiers who nail me to this tree; Father forgive them. To that man who carried this cross on which I am nailed, Father, forgive him. And to you, Daughters of Jerusalem, who kill the prophets and stone those whom God sends, Father forgive them. Father forgive them all, for they know not what they do.
But they do know what they do. They have heard the prophets, the voice of God has spoken to each one of them. Some of them followed him, some of them shared in his proclamation of the Kingdom. Many witnessed miracles and healings. Did even one of these stay with him? They knew what they did, and they were ashamed. But Jesus speaks these words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!
And then, one man, his name lost to history, one man, a sinner, hanging upon the cross. “Lord,” he says, “I know the evil that I have done. I know that I am worthy of such a death, but you, Lord? Jesus, remember me, a sinner, when you come into your kingdom.”
And then our Lord spoke such words with such power as never before, such words that changed the course of our human history: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
With those words, once spoken, the eyes of many a blind heart have been opened and the ears of many a deaf soul have received the word of salvation. With these words, the prophecy is fulfilled: How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood. One man was willing, one child of Jerusalem, and evil though he was, he threw himself humbly on the mercy of the crucified Lord. Blind to God’s prophets though he had been, deaf to God’s word, in a moment of grace he speaks the words: “Jesus, remember me.” And the words of life are spoken to him: “Truly, today you shall be with me in paradise.”
This then, is the good news of the gospel. Sinful sons and daughters of Jerusalem though we may be, we are heirs of the good thief, whom God called home though he was a grievous sinner. We are heirs to a promise and sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem. Though we are deaf to the prophets of God, God still desires to gather us under his wings as a mother hen broods over her children. Though we stone those who are sent to our city, Jesus still utters those gracious words, “Father forgive them” … although we know what we do.
God has sent us prophets. God has given us grace to hear the prophets. As he turned the heart of the good thief so he turns our hearts, giving and forgiving, opening our hearts to hear his word and giving us grace and power to not only hear but to act, and become prophets of the New Jerusalem. Faithful cross, the sign of triumph, now for us the noblest tree. For in the shadow of the cross, lit by the light of the resurrection, we have been transformed from sons and daughters of the old Jerusalem who wail and beat our breasts and feign lamentation for a prophet we have chosen not to hear into sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem, who at last have been gathered under the wings of God, and of whom this song is sung:
Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
"Give them another chance!" A Sermon for Lent 3, 2010
Homily for Lent 3, Year C, 2010
Sunday, March 7th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 13:1-9
“Sir, let it alone for one more year.”
-Luke 13:8
In considering the evils that have plagued this world in the past century and contrasting the great evils of our time with the relatively benevolent behaviour of everyday men and women, it would be easy for us to say we are free from sin. Most of us lead lives in which we do our best to love our families, be good citizens, and make a positive contribution to the world in which we live. For the most part, we are not criminals or hurtful people and when contrasted with those who stand trial for brutal crimes or against those who perpetrate holocausts and ethnic cleansing, we come off looking pretty good. Without a doubt, the goodness of ordinary people is often eclipsed by the all too real stories of human depravity and brutal disregard for the lives of others. Thus, we should celebrate goodness where we find it and allow goodness to cast a light on the darkness. It is worth remembering during this Lenten season, though, that as good as we might be, we all do things for which we are ashamed and of which we ought to repent. To recall the words of St. John, “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.”
I suspect that this is the thrust of the first part of story found in Luke 13. Some people put a question to Jesus about those who suffered various horrible fates, namely some Galileans murdered by Pilate and those who were killed when a tower fell on them. In the ancient world, disaster was often considered to be a punishment for sin. Indeed, a disaster might have even been considered a display of God’s wrath and evidence of previously committed sins. Sadly, this archaic religion is not a thing of the past. A certain well-known televangelist recently claimed that the Haitian disaster was a consequence of sins committed by the Haitian people in the nineteenth century. Yet, one wonders if this well-known preacher has ever read Luke 13 in which Jesus rebukes the questioners with the words, “unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”
We are so quick to see the sin in another and to assume that their misfortune is result of their faithlessness, but God forbid my own sins should be unmasked, for I am surely deserving of no better a fate. The truth is that be they large or small, our sins and our mistakes are all things for which God ought to be justly displeased. If our human brokenness were unmasked to the world there is not a one of us that could stand unashamed. We all have things we hide. We all have things in our lives about which we are deeply ashamed. And truth be told, we are all likely afraid that if our brokenness were unveiled, we would be punished for it.
Jesus’ words are harsh, not because God is harsh, but because we belong to a harsh reality, that good and decent as we are, there is not one of us that is perfect, and there is not one of us that does not harbour some shameful secret. If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves. Lent is a time for us to stare the reality of our sinfulness in the face.
Jesus confronts us with a harsh reality, but does not leave us without hope. As he so often does, he tells us a little story, a parable, to teach us something about God and the kingdom. Jesus tells the story of a man who plants a vineyard and this man’s encounter with the gardener who tends it. One particular tree in the vineyard has been without fruit for three seasons and the man, being the practical fellow that he is, commands the gardener to cut it down for it is simply wasting the soil in which it is planted. The gardener pleads with him though, “just one more year and a little more tending to the soil… if it doesn’t bear fruit at that time, then you can cut it down.”
“Give me one more chance, one more season.” We all deserve another chance, for we are all sinners. In spite of the fact that we think we ought to be punished, Jesus says, “Give me another go with him.” Maybe we need a little nourishment, a little cultivation, maybe just a little time. The truth is that maybe what we need is just a little help from our Lord. Left to our own devices we can be decent people, but we will always be flawed people. There will always be someone we offend or hurt, there will always be some way in which we have let ourselves down, let our loved ones down, let our God down. As Christian people, though, this need no dissuade us from pressing forward, for the Lord our God is good indeed. He does not visit disaster upon us for our sins, as some might suggest, rather his style is to say, “let’s give her another year,” or “I’m not finished with him yet.”
Most importantly, though, we are not left to our own devices to make things right, for God himself in Christ, tends the soil of our brokenness and sinfulness, and in doing so brings forth fruit in our lives. The whole Lenten journey is less about what we can do to make ourselves better people, and entirely about what God can do to bring forth fruit in our lives and for his kingdom. The triumph of the cross is the vanquishing of the shame of our sin and brokenness. The cross is at once Jesus’ cry to the Father, “give them one more year,” and at the same time his loving tending to the soil of our broken lives. When we are withering and dying under the shame of our guilt, Jesus stands for us, with us, and puts his hands into the dirt of our lives to cultivate within us the fruit of redemption.
Thus, to keep a holy Lent is not to work harder at something we can never attain on our own, but to offer the things we dare not share with other men and women directly to the Christ, hanging on the Cross, and he will bury them in a tomb from which no stone can be rolled away, and then give us living water that we might flourish and grow under the nourishment of his risen life.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, March 7th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 13:1-9
“Sir, let it alone for one more year.”
-Luke 13:8
In considering the evils that have plagued this world in the past century and contrasting the great evils of our time with the relatively benevolent behaviour of everyday men and women, it would be easy for us to say we are free from sin. Most of us lead lives in which we do our best to love our families, be good citizens, and make a positive contribution to the world in which we live. For the most part, we are not criminals or hurtful people and when contrasted with those who stand trial for brutal crimes or against those who perpetrate holocausts and ethnic cleansing, we come off looking pretty good. Without a doubt, the goodness of ordinary people is often eclipsed by the all too real stories of human depravity and brutal disregard for the lives of others. Thus, we should celebrate goodness where we find it and allow goodness to cast a light on the darkness. It is worth remembering during this Lenten season, though, that as good as we might be, we all do things for which we are ashamed and of which we ought to repent. To recall the words of St. John, “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.”
I suspect that this is the thrust of the first part of story found in Luke 13. Some people put a question to Jesus about those who suffered various horrible fates, namely some Galileans murdered by Pilate and those who were killed when a tower fell on them. In the ancient world, disaster was often considered to be a punishment for sin. Indeed, a disaster might have even been considered a display of God’s wrath and evidence of previously committed sins. Sadly, this archaic religion is not a thing of the past. A certain well-known televangelist recently claimed that the Haitian disaster was a consequence of sins committed by the Haitian people in the nineteenth century. Yet, one wonders if this well-known preacher has ever read Luke 13 in which Jesus rebukes the questioners with the words, “unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”
We are so quick to see the sin in another and to assume that their misfortune is result of their faithlessness, but God forbid my own sins should be unmasked, for I am surely deserving of no better a fate. The truth is that be they large or small, our sins and our mistakes are all things for which God ought to be justly displeased. If our human brokenness were unmasked to the world there is not a one of us that could stand unashamed. We all have things we hide. We all have things in our lives about which we are deeply ashamed. And truth be told, we are all likely afraid that if our brokenness were unveiled, we would be punished for it.
Jesus’ words are harsh, not because God is harsh, but because we belong to a harsh reality, that good and decent as we are, there is not one of us that is perfect, and there is not one of us that does not harbour some shameful secret. If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves. Lent is a time for us to stare the reality of our sinfulness in the face.
Jesus confronts us with a harsh reality, but does not leave us without hope. As he so often does, he tells us a little story, a parable, to teach us something about God and the kingdom. Jesus tells the story of a man who plants a vineyard and this man’s encounter with the gardener who tends it. One particular tree in the vineyard has been without fruit for three seasons and the man, being the practical fellow that he is, commands the gardener to cut it down for it is simply wasting the soil in which it is planted. The gardener pleads with him though, “just one more year and a little more tending to the soil… if it doesn’t bear fruit at that time, then you can cut it down.”
“Give me one more chance, one more season.” We all deserve another chance, for we are all sinners. In spite of the fact that we think we ought to be punished, Jesus says, “Give me another go with him.” Maybe we need a little nourishment, a little cultivation, maybe just a little time. The truth is that maybe what we need is just a little help from our Lord. Left to our own devices we can be decent people, but we will always be flawed people. There will always be someone we offend or hurt, there will always be some way in which we have let ourselves down, let our loved ones down, let our God down. As Christian people, though, this need no dissuade us from pressing forward, for the Lord our God is good indeed. He does not visit disaster upon us for our sins, as some might suggest, rather his style is to say, “let’s give her another year,” or “I’m not finished with him yet.”
Most importantly, though, we are not left to our own devices to make things right, for God himself in Christ, tends the soil of our brokenness and sinfulness, and in doing so brings forth fruit in our lives. The whole Lenten journey is less about what we can do to make ourselves better people, and entirely about what God can do to bring forth fruit in our lives and for his kingdom. The triumph of the cross is the vanquishing of the shame of our sin and brokenness. The cross is at once Jesus’ cry to the Father, “give them one more year,” and at the same time his loving tending to the soil of our broken lives. When we are withering and dying under the shame of our guilt, Jesus stands for us, with us, and puts his hands into the dirt of our lives to cultivate within us the fruit of redemption.
Thus, to keep a holy Lent is not to work harder at something we can never attain on our own, but to offer the things we dare not share with other men and women directly to the Christ, hanging on the Cross, and he will bury them in a tomb from which no stone can be rolled away, and then give us living water that we might flourish and grow under the nourishment of his risen life.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 21, 2010
What Would Jesus NOT Do - A Homily for Lent 1, Year C
Homily for Lent 1, Year C, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 4:1-14
We often hear it asked, “What would Jesus do?” However, I suppose the question set before us in today’s text is “What wouldn’t Jesus do?” The story invariably read on the first Sunday of Lent, whether it be the version from Matthew, Mark, or this year from Luke, is the story of the Temptation in the Wilderness. Following his Baptism, Jesus is driven out into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. In the life of the Church, Lent is traditionally a time of preparing candidates for baptism. Of course, baptism is such a joyous occasion and almost always followed by a lovely party with family and friends. Jesus got no party. Instead, he was given forty days in the wilderness, starving, thirsty, fighting of demons, and to top it all off, the devil came to him and tempted him. This story should serve as a word to the wise, and to those seeking baptism, namely, that the Christian life isn’t always a picnic in the park. The Christian life is filled with desert moment. The Christian life is filled with struggle against demons internal and external. The Christian is filled with temptations to do the things we ought not to do, and leave undone the things we ought to do. It may come as a surprise to many outside the Church who harbour such saintly, pious pictures of Christians who seem to never complain, drink, swear, get angry, or sad, that at times we may feel, as the words of the Book of Common Prayer confession says, as if we have no health in us.
There are many moments in our lives when we are confronted by choices. We are called upon to make decisions in our private lives, in our public lives, in our work and in our play that require ethical decision-making. We may not be literally confronted by that caricatured little fellow with the pointy tail and ears, horns on his head and pitchfork in hand, but we are confronted by situations that have the potential to destroy our lives and the lives of those around us. Often, those decisions may not present themselves as very profound. They may be deceptively prosaic. And what is even more alarming, they may offer choices that seem to actually offer a good outcome, but as St. Paul wrote, the devil masquerades as an angel of light, and so we also take the advice of St. John, to discern the spirits because not every spirit is of God.
Thus, we meet Jesus in the wilderness and subsquently taken to the pinnacle of the Temple. Satan sets before him three temptations: the temptation to turn stones into bread, to become the master of all he could see, and to test God to do a miracle by saving Jesus from death. Now, are these things in and of themselves bad? Turning stone into bread to feed the hungry, Jesus as Lord of the world, and God delivering Jesus from death were all things that later became integral to the story of Jesus and salvation history. Feeding the hungry, Jesus as Lord, and the conquering of death through the resurrection are all signs marks of the Gospel. Yet, here, they are temptations by the devil.
Consider it further, in the shorter version of the Lord’s prayer in Luke 11, three of the key petitions clearly echo the evil’s temptation: give us today our daily bread; your kingdom come; save us from the time of trial.” Bread, kingdom, and salvation from the time of trial – all things with which the devil tempted Jesus, and yet, all things for which he prayed to his Father in Heaven.
As I see it, ethical decision-making in the Christian tradition, therefore, cannot simply involve proof-texting the Bible to see what it says, for the devil quotes Scripture, too. The words of Scripture can be twisted to justify the most insidious forms of chauvinism and bigotry. When posed with a difficult ethical question we must ask the question, to what end is my decision directed? Is my decision about filling my own stomach or quenching the hunger and thirst of others? Is my decision about giving glory, power and dominion to myself or about giving glory, power and dominion to God, the Father almighty and to his Christ? Is my decision about saving myself from the time of trial, or about relieving the trials, suffering, pain and brokenness of those around me and of the world at large? These considerations lie at the core of our ethical decision-making. And I believe that these are the principals that Jesus teaches us in Holy Scripture. He could have desired and accepted the good of all that the devil offered him, for the devil was not offering him inherently bad things. Yet, if he accepted what the devil offered, it would have been for his own personal aggrandizement and on contrary to the divine and triune will. He would not only have sold his soul, but he would have broken the heart of the Trinity. The Trinity would have ceased to be perfect holy divine communion. Ethical decision-making is about seeking Holy Communion with God and Holy Communion with each other. It means that we each have to give up a part of our own longings and desires to be together as God’s people, and to be a part of his body, in Christ.
This is not to say that we are to give up our human dignity, for human dignity is nothing less that image and likeness of God in us. Thus, we strive and fight “for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being,” as our baptismal covenant states. We stand against the evil forces that drive a wedge between us as a people and between us and our creator; we stand against the powers and dominions of this world that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God; and we stand against our own sinful desires that draw us from God’s love and break the bonds of our communion with each other.
Christ our God set before us the pattern of Christian ethical decision-making, namely to honour the divine, creative life in each one of us, not by turning to self, but turning outward to others, and upward to God the Father. True, authentic, divine selfhood is free from selfishness.
In and of ourselves, we are incapable of such divine selfhood; yet, in Christ, we learn what true selfhood is. In him we find our identity, and in him we live and move and have our being. And in communion with each other around his holy altar we dwell in him and he in us.
Thus, the answer to making ethical decisions is not always to simply ask what would Jesus do (although that is never a bad place to start), but perhaps to ask what he wouldn’t do. He would not turn stones to bread. He would not take the Lordship of the world for himself. He would not test God to save him from the time of trial. Tempting, and good as these things might have been, to have done them would have been to place his love of self ahead of his love for the world and his love for his Father in Heaven. Jesus knew who he was and what he wouldn’t do, because he knew that there is no greater love than that a man should lay down his life for his friend.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 4:1-14
We often hear it asked, “What would Jesus do?” However, I suppose the question set before us in today’s text is “What wouldn’t Jesus do?” The story invariably read on the first Sunday of Lent, whether it be the version from Matthew, Mark, or this year from Luke, is the story of the Temptation in the Wilderness. Following his Baptism, Jesus is driven out into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. In the life of the Church, Lent is traditionally a time of preparing candidates for baptism. Of course, baptism is such a joyous occasion and almost always followed by a lovely party with family and friends. Jesus got no party. Instead, he was given forty days in the wilderness, starving, thirsty, fighting of demons, and to top it all off, the devil came to him and tempted him. This story should serve as a word to the wise, and to those seeking baptism, namely, that the Christian life isn’t always a picnic in the park. The Christian life is filled with desert moment. The Christian life is filled with struggle against demons internal and external. The Christian is filled with temptations to do the things we ought not to do, and leave undone the things we ought to do. It may come as a surprise to many outside the Church who harbour such saintly, pious pictures of Christians who seem to never complain, drink, swear, get angry, or sad, that at times we may feel, as the words of the Book of Common Prayer confession says, as if we have no health in us.
There are many moments in our lives when we are confronted by choices. We are called upon to make decisions in our private lives, in our public lives, in our work and in our play that require ethical decision-making. We may not be literally confronted by that caricatured little fellow with the pointy tail and ears, horns on his head and pitchfork in hand, but we are confronted by situations that have the potential to destroy our lives and the lives of those around us. Often, those decisions may not present themselves as very profound. They may be deceptively prosaic. And what is even more alarming, they may offer choices that seem to actually offer a good outcome, but as St. Paul wrote, the devil masquerades as an angel of light, and so we also take the advice of St. John, to discern the spirits because not every spirit is of God.
Thus, we meet Jesus in the wilderness and subsquently taken to the pinnacle of the Temple. Satan sets before him three temptations: the temptation to turn stones into bread, to become the master of all he could see, and to test God to do a miracle by saving Jesus from death. Now, are these things in and of themselves bad? Turning stone into bread to feed the hungry, Jesus as Lord of the world, and God delivering Jesus from death were all things that later became integral to the story of Jesus and salvation history. Feeding the hungry, Jesus as Lord, and the conquering of death through the resurrection are all signs marks of the Gospel. Yet, here, they are temptations by the devil.
Consider it further, in the shorter version of the Lord’s prayer in Luke 11, three of the key petitions clearly echo the evil’s temptation: give us today our daily bread; your kingdom come; save us from the time of trial.” Bread, kingdom, and salvation from the time of trial – all things with which the devil tempted Jesus, and yet, all things for which he prayed to his Father in Heaven.
As I see it, ethical decision-making in the Christian tradition, therefore, cannot simply involve proof-texting the Bible to see what it says, for the devil quotes Scripture, too. The words of Scripture can be twisted to justify the most insidious forms of chauvinism and bigotry. When posed with a difficult ethical question we must ask the question, to what end is my decision directed? Is my decision about filling my own stomach or quenching the hunger and thirst of others? Is my decision about giving glory, power and dominion to myself or about giving glory, power and dominion to God, the Father almighty and to his Christ? Is my decision about saving myself from the time of trial, or about relieving the trials, suffering, pain and brokenness of those around me and of the world at large? These considerations lie at the core of our ethical decision-making. And I believe that these are the principals that Jesus teaches us in Holy Scripture. He could have desired and accepted the good of all that the devil offered him, for the devil was not offering him inherently bad things. Yet, if he accepted what the devil offered, it would have been for his own personal aggrandizement and on contrary to the divine and triune will. He would not only have sold his soul, but he would have broken the heart of the Trinity. The Trinity would have ceased to be perfect holy divine communion. Ethical decision-making is about seeking Holy Communion with God and Holy Communion with each other. It means that we each have to give up a part of our own longings and desires to be together as God’s people, and to be a part of his body, in Christ.
This is not to say that we are to give up our human dignity, for human dignity is nothing less that image and likeness of God in us. Thus, we strive and fight “for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being,” as our baptismal covenant states. We stand against the evil forces that drive a wedge between us as a people and between us and our creator; we stand against the powers and dominions of this world that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God; and we stand against our own sinful desires that draw us from God’s love and break the bonds of our communion with each other.
Christ our God set before us the pattern of Christian ethical decision-making, namely to honour the divine, creative life in each one of us, not by turning to self, but turning outward to others, and upward to God the Father. True, authentic, divine selfhood is free from selfishness.
In and of ourselves, we are incapable of such divine selfhood; yet, in Christ, we learn what true selfhood is. In him we find our identity, and in him we live and move and have our being. And in communion with each other around his holy altar we dwell in him and he in us.
Thus, the answer to making ethical decisions is not always to simply ask what would Jesus do (although that is never a bad place to start), but perhaps to ask what he wouldn’t do. He would not turn stones to bread. He would not take the Lordship of the world for himself. He would not test God to save him from the time of trial. Tempting, and good as these things might have been, to have done them would have been to place his love of self ahead of his love for the world and his love for his Father in Heaven. Jesus knew who he was and what he wouldn’t do, because he knew that there is no greater love than that a man should lay down his life for his friend.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Where the Heart of God Resides - A Homily for Ash Wednesday
Homily for Ash Wednesday
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will also be”
-- Matthew 6:21
The annual exhortation to fasting, almsgiving, and prayer is upon us. Annually we read Jesus’ admonition to go about this work and devotion quietly, in private, without making a fuss. We are not to make a show of our almsgiving, we are not to be ostentatious in our praying, and we are not to disfigure our faces so that other will see we are fasting. And yet, here we are kneeling in prayer, confessing our faults publicly, receiving the imposition of ashes, which we shall wear out into the streets as a sign that Lent is once again upon us. There is a dissonance in all of this, is there not?
I recently spoke with a gentleman who told me that as a child, he was told all good Anglicans wiped the cross off their foreheads when they left church on Ash Wednesday, unlike those terrible Catholics who wore their ashes with pride throughout the day for all to see. Was this really Catholic pride and was this really Protestant humility. I doubt it very much. I think that the pious Catholic had a very different motive, and that the Protestant was little more than an iconoclast. Yes, at first glance there seems to be a dissonance in what we do today with the words of Jesus, but as we explore both the words of Jesus and our response more deeply, I think that we shall come to a deeper understanding than the caricatures of proud Catholics and humble Protestants.
Where is your heart? This is the question that Jesus is asking us. The admonition against practicing our piety before others is really about the state of our heart. Do we long for praise, acknowledgement, recognition, and reward? Jesus is warning us that sometimes the outward trappings of our religious practice are served up to meet that oh so human need for approval. We long to be liked, respected, and admired; yet we are fundamentally insecure creatures. We store up rewards on earth, we display our strength, our perfection, and our wealth before others in order that we might convince people that we are all right. And more than all right, we are perfect. What does this say about our hearts? It suggests that there is something missing and that we are trying fill that void or mend that wound with external trappings. These things are all on the outside, though. That is not where our heart is meant to be.
As with many of the sayings of Jesus in St. Matthew’s Gospel, choices are often presented as stark opposites. There is a temptation here to read the words of Jesus in simplistic terms, but viewed amongst the varied woven tapestry that is the Holy Scriptures, we sometimes admonished to wear our faith on our sleeves, as Jesus says elsewhere in the Gospel of Matthew, “Do not hide your light under a bushel,” whilst in other places, like today’s passage from the same gospel, he encourages us to practice our piety in secret. The corollary of all this must be not that outward piety is bad and inward piety is good, or vice versa, depending on the passage you read; rather the corollary must be that with our hearts set on the things of God, the inward and outward life of faith will both fall into place.
Consider an analogy. Think for a moment of a close relationship that you share with someone, a spouse, a dear friend and confidant, a family member, or even a counselor, spiritual director or priest. Any intimate relationship will be multi-layered and multi-faceted. In the intimacy of a relationship there are things that you will share with each other that you will not share with the rest of the world. There are some things that are meant only for the two of you and your personal intimacy. And that is just fine. At the same time, any intimate relationship will bear fruit in the world, and there will be things about your relationship that will be shared and celebrated with the community around you. We celebrate our relationships and covenants both privately and publicly. If our hearts are set aright on the good and we live our covenant relationships faithfully, then where are hearts are, there too will be our treasure. Wherever we live out depths of covenant love and friendship with authenticity, there we will experience richness and blessing. The same is true of our life of faith. The sign of the cross in ash upon our foreheads, giving to those in need, and being intentional about our public prayer is the external fruit of living out a deep and intimate relationship with a loving God.
There is one hitch, though, and that is where we come to this day, Ash Wednesday. Try as we might, sinners that we are, we are prone to break covenants, betray confidence, hurt those we love and with whom we share our deepest intimacy. We often use our intimate relationships for selfish gain and in doing so we can cause great harm to those we love, and to ourselves. It seems to me that this is what Jesus is speaking about. Thus, when we use the disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving to direct attention to ourselves rather than nurture the deep intimacy of heart speaking to heart, we abuse the sacred mystery of humanity and the divine touching each other.
But herein we encounter the good news, as well. It is not humanity that has reached the heavens and touched God, rather it is God who has reached down and touched humanity. In the Word made flesh, God has placed his heart amongst his people. The heart of God is where is treasure is, and we are his treasure. In spite of all the ways we abuse his holy religion, in spite of all the ways we take advantage of his intimate presence for our own aggrandizement, God still counts us his treasure enough to place his heart amongst us. God longs for a loving relationship with his people, and persists again and again, even as we turn again and again from his intimacy and love.
Thus, to keep a holy Lent is not about whether or not we wear a cross proudly or wipe it away humbly, it is asking about where our heart will be, in the midst of the more profound reality of where God’s heart already is. In the intimacy of hearts meeting, human and divine, we will know treasure in the depths of our being and treasure in our common life with all God’s children.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will also be”
-- Matthew 6:21
The annual exhortation to fasting, almsgiving, and prayer is upon us. Annually we read Jesus’ admonition to go about this work and devotion quietly, in private, without making a fuss. We are not to make a show of our almsgiving, we are not to be ostentatious in our praying, and we are not to disfigure our faces so that other will see we are fasting. And yet, here we are kneeling in prayer, confessing our faults publicly, receiving the imposition of ashes, which we shall wear out into the streets as a sign that Lent is once again upon us. There is a dissonance in all of this, is there not?
I recently spoke with a gentleman who told me that as a child, he was told all good Anglicans wiped the cross off their foreheads when they left church on Ash Wednesday, unlike those terrible Catholics who wore their ashes with pride throughout the day for all to see. Was this really Catholic pride and was this really Protestant humility. I doubt it very much. I think that the pious Catholic had a very different motive, and that the Protestant was little more than an iconoclast. Yes, at first glance there seems to be a dissonance in what we do today with the words of Jesus, but as we explore both the words of Jesus and our response more deeply, I think that we shall come to a deeper understanding than the caricatures of proud Catholics and humble Protestants.
Where is your heart? This is the question that Jesus is asking us. The admonition against practicing our piety before others is really about the state of our heart. Do we long for praise, acknowledgement, recognition, and reward? Jesus is warning us that sometimes the outward trappings of our religious practice are served up to meet that oh so human need for approval. We long to be liked, respected, and admired; yet we are fundamentally insecure creatures. We store up rewards on earth, we display our strength, our perfection, and our wealth before others in order that we might convince people that we are all right. And more than all right, we are perfect. What does this say about our hearts? It suggests that there is something missing and that we are trying fill that void or mend that wound with external trappings. These things are all on the outside, though. That is not where our heart is meant to be.
As with many of the sayings of Jesus in St. Matthew’s Gospel, choices are often presented as stark opposites. There is a temptation here to read the words of Jesus in simplistic terms, but viewed amongst the varied woven tapestry that is the Holy Scriptures, we sometimes admonished to wear our faith on our sleeves, as Jesus says elsewhere in the Gospel of Matthew, “Do not hide your light under a bushel,” whilst in other places, like today’s passage from the same gospel, he encourages us to practice our piety in secret. The corollary of all this must be not that outward piety is bad and inward piety is good, or vice versa, depending on the passage you read; rather the corollary must be that with our hearts set on the things of God, the inward and outward life of faith will both fall into place.
Consider an analogy. Think for a moment of a close relationship that you share with someone, a spouse, a dear friend and confidant, a family member, or even a counselor, spiritual director or priest. Any intimate relationship will be multi-layered and multi-faceted. In the intimacy of a relationship there are things that you will share with each other that you will not share with the rest of the world. There are some things that are meant only for the two of you and your personal intimacy. And that is just fine. At the same time, any intimate relationship will bear fruit in the world, and there will be things about your relationship that will be shared and celebrated with the community around you. We celebrate our relationships and covenants both privately and publicly. If our hearts are set aright on the good and we live our covenant relationships faithfully, then where are hearts are, there too will be our treasure. Wherever we live out depths of covenant love and friendship with authenticity, there we will experience richness and blessing. The same is true of our life of faith. The sign of the cross in ash upon our foreheads, giving to those in need, and being intentional about our public prayer is the external fruit of living out a deep and intimate relationship with a loving God.
There is one hitch, though, and that is where we come to this day, Ash Wednesday. Try as we might, sinners that we are, we are prone to break covenants, betray confidence, hurt those we love and with whom we share our deepest intimacy. We often use our intimate relationships for selfish gain and in doing so we can cause great harm to those we love, and to ourselves. It seems to me that this is what Jesus is speaking about. Thus, when we use the disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving to direct attention to ourselves rather than nurture the deep intimacy of heart speaking to heart, we abuse the sacred mystery of humanity and the divine touching each other.
But herein we encounter the good news, as well. It is not humanity that has reached the heavens and touched God, rather it is God who has reached down and touched humanity. In the Word made flesh, God has placed his heart amongst his people. The heart of God is where is treasure is, and we are his treasure. In spite of all the ways we abuse his holy religion, in spite of all the ways we take advantage of his intimate presence for our own aggrandizement, God still counts us his treasure enough to place his heart amongst us. God longs for a loving relationship with his people, and persists again and again, even as we turn again and again from his intimacy and love.
Thus, to keep a holy Lent is not about whether or not we wear a cross proudly or wipe it away humbly, it is asking about where our heart will be, in the midst of the more profound reality of where God’s heart already is. In the intimacy of hearts meeting, human and divine, we will know treasure in the depths of our being and treasure in our common life with all God’s children.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Letting Down the Nets - A Homily for Proper 5 Year C 2010
Homily for Proper 5, Year C, 2010
Sunday, Feb 7th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 5:1-11
“Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.”
--Luke 5:4
Whether or not we enjoy fishing, most of us enjoy a good fishing story. Several years ago, I regularly visited one hundred year old man named Duncan. In his younger days, Duncan loved to fish. Not surprisingly, given his confinement to a wheelchair and his residency in a nursing home, Duncan had come to believe that his fishing days were long behind him. However, for his one hundredth birthday, his son and son-in-law took him to a well-stocked fishing pond, lifted him from his chair into a boat, and drifted out over the water, and for the first time in many years, Duncan fished. When I visited him he told me about pulling fish after fish out of the water. It was the best birthday present a man could have, he said. Duncan and I concluded our visit as we always did, with Communion from the reserved sacrament. Before we shared in Holy Communion I decided to read for him the fishing story from John 21, a passage quite similar to the story we read today in Luke 5. After hearing of Peter casting his net over the right side of the boat and hauling to shore one hundred and fifty three large fish, Duncan exclaimed, “Now that’s a fishing story!” At that moment, the Scriptures came alive for him in a special way. The disciples then shared in a meal of bread and fish with their risen master, and Duncan and I shared in a meal of bread and wine with the same risen Lord.
In the fifth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel we hear of a similar story, yet this story takes place at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, rather than after his resurrection. The crowd has pressed in about Jesus and he has to get into the boat of some fishermen, who were ashore washing their nets, just so that he can get some distance from the crowd and teach them. Just off of the shore, in full view and in good voice, Jesus now begins to share his message with the crowd. After he had finished teaching he turned to Simon the fisherman, a man with whom he had some acquaintance, for he had recently healed Simon’s mother-in-law, and said to him, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon was skeptical. All night they had caught nothing. Was the area fished out? Had someone scared all the fish away? Was it not the right time of day or night? Perhaps we shall never know, but we do know all the usual fishing excuses. Yet, in spite of all his experience as a fisherman, and against his best instincts, Simon obeyed. And what happened next? The nets were so full that they began to break. They caught so many fish that all the fishing boats were filled and began to sink. As my friend Duncan might have said, “Now that’s a fishing story!”
The story does not end there, though, for when Simon Peter saw what was happening he fell down before the Lord and wept, repenting of his arrogance that had previously kept him from drawing in such a hearty catch, “Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man!” Jesus did not leave him though, rather, in his gentle but challenging way addressed him, “Fear not, my friend from now on you shall fish for men.” Simon Peter, James and John then left everything and followed him.
A fishing story indeed.
The truth is, of course, that this story has nothing to do with fishing, but everything to do with following Jesus and living out his mission in the world. This story could equally be told about a people living in a suburban Canadian community. These people live in relatively wealthy community; they have decent jobs, or are comfortably retired. They have devoted their lives to working hard both for their families, and for their community. They have a lovely little church that has served the community well for nearly two hundred years, indeed, it may be one of the oldest churches in the country. But a sense of sadness hangs over these people because the world has changed so much; their community has changed so much. They do everything they can to preserve the way of life they love so much, have worked so hard for, and have known so well. Yet, the nets seem to come up empty. The demographics of the community have changed drastically, or to put it another way, the fish seem to have relocated. Some will say in despair that the area is “fished out.” Others will suggest that like good fishermen, we just have to wait it out, be patient, the fish will come back. Someone else will suggest that we need different bait. Another will say that maybe we should try fishing at a different time of day or night. Others yet will simply assume that our fishing days are long behind us. All the old fishing excuses are trotted out and no matter what we try, the nets come up empty.
There is one thing that we so often overlook, though, and that is who is in the boat with us. The disciples fished day and night and their nets came up empty. They tried every fresh approach they could imagine, and they used every fishing excuse in the book, but the nets were still empty. Maybe it was time to pull the boat ashore and find a different pond. Maybe their fishing days were behind them.
Or, maybe there was something they were overlooking.
With Jesus in the boat with them, with his voice, his instruction, and with his presence amongst them, they cast their nets and they came up full, so full that the boats began to sink.
You may expect me now to suggest that if only we had Jesus with us in the boat that is called Holy Trinity, Thornhill, the catch would be bounteous. I will not suggest this, though, because Jesus our Lord is with us. He has never left the boat. What I will suggest is that we sometimes fail to recognize this reality; sometimes we forget that we have him as a captain. What I will suggest is that we spend a lot of time trotting out all the old fishing excuses as to why the nets are not full. What I will suggest is that if we let go of our excuses for a moment, as Simon Peter did, and let down our nets into the deep water of our community, that we might just be surprised at the catch we shall pull in. If we listen to his voice, we might just be surprised that the waters have not been fished out, that the fish have not gone away, that we are not fishing at the wrong time of day or in the wrong place, that our fishing days are not behind us. If we listen to his voice we may just be surprised.
What is Jesus saying to us?
He is saying stop making excuses; let down the net where you are. In spite of what you might think, there is deep water here. Don’t wait for the perfect conditions, or the perfect location. Fish on the pond or the lake on which you find yourself, there is deep water here. Whether it is a the country club or community centre; whether it is with your children and grandchildren or around the bridge table; whether you are at the cottage or on a cruise; these are the waters into which Jesus says, “cast your net.” And if the words of Jesus aren’t good enough for you, let me quote a Nike advertisement, “Just do it!”
Jesus is saying don’t be afraid! As Anglicans this may seem frightening, but no one is asking you give anyone the hard sell. Simply be willing to claim the fact that you are a Christian person. Our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters are not afraid to claim their identities, let us not be afraid to claim ours. Be willing to say why you are a Christian and why it matters to you, not in an arrogant or boastful way, but with honesty and love. After all we are not trying to get someone to buy something; we are talking about the love of God for a broken world. If we at Holy Trinity learned anything from Back to Church Sunday, it’s that the roof does not cave in when we invite a friend to church! Back to Church Sunday is not just once a year (or Christmas and Easter). Back to Church Sunday is every Sunday! Cast your net and invite a friend, follow up with someone you invited on Back to Church Sunday, or someone you know who comes only on Christmas and Easter. “Do not be afraid – cast your net!” This isn’t Father Dan or Canon Greg that are telling you this, it’s Jesus – they’re his words, not ours.
Finally, the text today is telling us to kneel before our Lord in humility as Peter did. Peter realized that he was trying to fish under his own strength and when he own strategy did not work, he made excuses. Yet, in a moment of grace, he listened to the voice of his Lord and cast down the net into the deep waters where he was and it came back to him full. When he realized that his sinful arrogance had hindered rather than helped him, he fell down and wept. We, too, must repent before the Lord for thinking that the kingdom is a thing of our own making, that it is all up to us and our church growth programs and designs. We must repent for our fishing excuses, and then receive his gracious forgiveness.
What shall we do then? Listen and obey, let down our nets into the deep water of this community, and let the Lord do the rest. That won’t just be a fishing story, that will be a kingdom story.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, Feb 7th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 5:1-11
“Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.”
--Luke 5:4
Whether or not we enjoy fishing, most of us enjoy a good fishing story. Several years ago, I regularly visited one hundred year old man named Duncan. In his younger days, Duncan loved to fish. Not surprisingly, given his confinement to a wheelchair and his residency in a nursing home, Duncan had come to believe that his fishing days were long behind him. However, for his one hundredth birthday, his son and son-in-law took him to a well-stocked fishing pond, lifted him from his chair into a boat, and drifted out over the water, and for the first time in many years, Duncan fished. When I visited him he told me about pulling fish after fish out of the water. It was the best birthday present a man could have, he said. Duncan and I concluded our visit as we always did, with Communion from the reserved sacrament. Before we shared in Holy Communion I decided to read for him the fishing story from John 21, a passage quite similar to the story we read today in Luke 5. After hearing of Peter casting his net over the right side of the boat and hauling to shore one hundred and fifty three large fish, Duncan exclaimed, “Now that’s a fishing story!” At that moment, the Scriptures came alive for him in a special way. The disciples then shared in a meal of bread and fish with their risen master, and Duncan and I shared in a meal of bread and wine with the same risen Lord.
In the fifth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel we hear of a similar story, yet this story takes place at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, rather than after his resurrection. The crowd has pressed in about Jesus and he has to get into the boat of some fishermen, who were ashore washing their nets, just so that he can get some distance from the crowd and teach them. Just off of the shore, in full view and in good voice, Jesus now begins to share his message with the crowd. After he had finished teaching he turned to Simon the fisherman, a man with whom he had some acquaintance, for he had recently healed Simon’s mother-in-law, and said to him, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon was skeptical. All night they had caught nothing. Was the area fished out? Had someone scared all the fish away? Was it not the right time of day or night? Perhaps we shall never know, but we do know all the usual fishing excuses. Yet, in spite of all his experience as a fisherman, and against his best instincts, Simon obeyed. And what happened next? The nets were so full that they began to break. They caught so many fish that all the fishing boats were filled and began to sink. As my friend Duncan might have said, “Now that’s a fishing story!”
The story does not end there, though, for when Simon Peter saw what was happening he fell down before the Lord and wept, repenting of his arrogance that had previously kept him from drawing in such a hearty catch, “Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man!” Jesus did not leave him though, rather, in his gentle but challenging way addressed him, “Fear not, my friend from now on you shall fish for men.” Simon Peter, James and John then left everything and followed him.
A fishing story indeed.
The truth is, of course, that this story has nothing to do with fishing, but everything to do with following Jesus and living out his mission in the world. This story could equally be told about a people living in a suburban Canadian community. These people live in relatively wealthy community; they have decent jobs, or are comfortably retired. They have devoted their lives to working hard both for their families, and for their community. They have a lovely little church that has served the community well for nearly two hundred years, indeed, it may be one of the oldest churches in the country. But a sense of sadness hangs over these people because the world has changed so much; their community has changed so much. They do everything they can to preserve the way of life they love so much, have worked so hard for, and have known so well. Yet, the nets seem to come up empty. The demographics of the community have changed drastically, or to put it another way, the fish seem to have relocated. Some will say in despair that the area is “fished out.” Others will suggest that like good fishermen, we just have to wait it out, be patient, the fish will come back. Someone else will suggest that we need different bait. Another will say that maybe we should try fishing at a different time of day or night. Others yet will simply assume that our fishing days are long behind us. All the old fishing excuses are trotted out and no matter what we try, the nets come up empty.
There is one thing that we so often overlook, though, and that is who is in the boat with us. The disciples fished day and night and their nets came up empty. They tried every fresh approach they could imagine, and they used every fishing excuse in the book, but the nets were still empty. Maybe it was time to pull the boat ashore and find a different pond. Maybe their fishing days were behind them.
Or, maybe there was something they were overlooking.
With Jesus in the boat with them, with his voice, his instruction, and with his presence amongst them, they cast their nets and they came up full, so full that the boats began to sink.
You may expect me now to suggest that if only we had Jesus with us in the boat that is called Holy Trinity, Thornhill, the catch would be bounteous. I will not suggest this, though, because Jesus our Lord is with us. He has never left the boat. What I will suggest is that we sometimes fail to recognize this reality; sometimes we forget that we have him as a captain. What I will suggest is that we spend a lot of time trotting out all the old fishing excuses as to why the nets are not full. What I will suggest is that if we let go of our excuses for a moment, as Simon Peter did, and let down our nets into the deep water of our community, that we might just be surprised at the catch we shall pull in. If we listen to his voice, we might just be surprised that the waters have not been fished out, that the fish have not gone away, that we are not fishing at the wrong time of day or in the wrong place, that our fishing days are not behind us. If we listen to his voice we may just be surprised.
What is Jesus saying to us?
He is saying stop making excuses; let down the net where you are. In spite of what you might think, there is deep water here. Don’t wait for the perfect conditions, or the perfect location. Fish on the pond or the lake on which you find yourself, there is deep water here. Whether it is a the country club or community centre; whether it is with your children and grandchildren or around the bridge table; whether you are at the cottage or on a cruise; these are the waters into which Jesus says, “cast your net.” And if the words of Jesus aren’t good enough for you, let me quote a Nike advertisement, “Just do it!”
Jesus is saying don’t be afraid! As Anglicans this may seem frightening, but no one is asking you give anyone the hard sell. Simply be willing to claim the fact that you are a Christian person. Our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters are not afraid to claim their identities, let us not be afraid to claim ours. Be willing to say why you are a Christian and why it matters to you, not in an arrogant or boastful way, but with honesty and love. After all we are not trying to get someone to buy something; we are talking about the love of God for a broken world. If we at Holy Trinity learned anything from Back to Church Sunday, it’s that the roof does not cave in when we invite a friend to church! Back to Church Sunday is not just once a year (or Christmas and Easter). Back to Church Sunday is every Sunday! Cast your net and invite a friend, follow up with someone you invited on Back to Church Sunday, or someone you know who comes only on Christmas and Easter. “Do not be afraid – cast your net!” This isn’t Father Dan or Canon Greg that are telling you this, it’s Jesus – they’re his words, not ours.
Finally, the text today is telling us to kneel before our Lord in humility as Peter did. Peter realized that he was trying to fish under his own strength and when he own strategy did not work, he made excuses. Yet, in a moment of grace, he listened to the voice of his Lord and cast down the net into the deep waters where he was and it came back to him full. When he realized that his sinful arrogance had hindered rather than helped him, he fell down and wept. We, too, must repent before the Lord for thinking that the kingdom is a thing of our own making, that it is all up to us and our church growth programs and designs. We must repent for our fishing excuses, and then receive his gracious forgiveness.
What shall we do then? Listen and obey, let down our nets into the deep water of this community, and let the Lord do the rest. That won’t just be a fishing story, that will be a kingdom story.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 17, 2010
What Happens When the Wine Gives Out? -- A Homily for Proper 2, Year C, 2010
Homily for Proper 2, Year C, 2010
Sunday, January 17th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 2:1-12
“Jesus did this, the first of his signs in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.”
--John 2:11
What happens when the wine gives out? Most of us have been to a party, or have given a party where something dreadfully embarrassing has happened. In the grand scheme of things such embarrassing moments are rarely of cosmic significance. We forgive our hosts or we forgive ourselves for the faux pas, and we move on. Therefore, it is curiously interesting when Jesus chooses to intervene in just such a prosaic moment, when the wine gives out at a wedding feast, and turns water into wine. At first he shrugs off the request of his mother to do something, “what is this to you and to me, woman?” Yet, ultimately, he acquiesces and we learn, in fact, that his presence in the midst of the mundane has been an occasion for the revelation of God’s glory, for we are told that because of this his disciples believed in him. This was to be the first of his seven signs.
Scripture is filled with ordinary moments. For this we ought to be grateful. Those who do not read the Bible or know it, assume that it is a book that is ethereal and heavenly. While there is no doubt that it is a sacred book, those of us who read it, or listen to its words week by week, know that it is filled with ordinary people, dysfunctional families, weddings feasts gone wrong, loved ones dying unjustly, communities fighting amongst themselves, and so on. At Cana, Jesus is present for one of those moments that may seem so familiar to us, the party gone wrong. Thus, Scripture is not above us or distant from our reality, but a part of our reality. It is our story first and foremost not because we are a people of faith, but simply because we are people, plain and simple.
Into the midst of our ordinary lives, God enters in. God enters in not to rescue us from such a world, but to redeem and transform the world. Thus, we speak of the Incarnation, or literally, the “enfleshment” of God as the nexus of our faith. We do not worship a God who whisks us up, up and away from the world, rather we proclaim God among us as Christ crucified. And God among us changes things. God among us changes us. God among us changes the world. This is what happens at Cana – God uses the mundane moment of a party gone wrong to turn the hearts of a people from fear to faith.
It may seem glib to compare the experience of a first century party gone wrong with the terrible events this week in Haiti. They are on opposite extremes of the human experience. Yet, there is a thread that runs through both events, namely, the human question, “does God really care about us.” At that wedding feast in Cana when the wine ran out, Jesus’ response seems dismissive and aloof, “what is that to you and to me?” Amidst the destruction in Haiti, and in so many other disasters, the same observation might be made. Where is God? It seems as if God sits in his heaven and proclaims “what is this to you and to me?”
As the images of the destruction of Port-au-Prince cascade before our eyes, we will inevitably ask the question, “Why?” Why has this happened? Why did God allow this to happen? Was this the will of God? Does God even care? Many years ago I recall seeing an interview with the Rev. Dr. John Polkinghorne, an Anglican priest and Cambridge Physicist, who was deeply concerned about the dialogue between faith and science. He was asked about the 1755 Lisbon earthquake in which thousands were killed, many in the Cathedral Church that collapsed, “was it the will of God that those people should die?” Polkinghorne responded, “I believe it is the will of God that the plates of the earth should move in accordance with their nature.” While the answer rings true to me on both a rational and theological level, it does not console me on a pastoral level. I think it will not console those in Haiti this week. Thus I look elsewhere to try to understand.
Nearly twenty years ago, I read Eli Wiesel’s semi-autobiographical fictional account of the holocaust, Night. It featured a terrifying scene in which a young boy was hanged with two other men for stocking arms. Wiesel writes,
"For more than half an hour he stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes. And we had to look him full in the face. He was still alive when I passed in front of him…Behind me, I heard the same man asking: ‘Where is God now?’ And I heard a voice within me answer him: ‘Where is He? Here He is—He is hanging here on this gallows…’" (pp. 70-72)
For many years I have struggled with what this passage was intended to mean. Did Wiesel intend it to characterize the absence and abandonment of God? Did he seek to say that Judaism itself was dead? Did he mean to suggest that God was dead? Or did he mean something else? I suppose I shall never really know what Wiesel meant or intended, but I cannot help but feel and see the story of my own God in this brief but horrifying excerpt, a God who hung on the gallows to share our human suffering.
The Christian God is not a God who swoops in and carries people out of danger. He does not engineer miraculous escapes. This may, at first seem the meaning of the story of Cana, of stepping in and saving the day by turning water into wine. But, I think something much deeper is happening in this story. We are told by John that it is a sign. What does the sign signify? I believe it communicates the reality that God does care deeply about us, so much so that he joins us in the crisis. He is the God who is with us in the disasters of our lives suffering alongside us. Where is God? He is at the banquet when the wine runs out. Where is God? He is amongst the rubble of Port-au-Prince and the suffering of the people. Where is God? He is hanging on a tree.
Closer to home, there is barely a week that goes by when the Canon and I do not receive at least one phone call in which we receive word that a member of this parish or someone beloved of them has cancer or some other devastating illness. There is barely a week that goes by when we do not receive a phone call from the Kane, Marshall or Jerrett Funeral Homes asking us to journey with a family who has just lost someone dear. There is barely a week that goes by when we do not see suffering in this parish family and community. It would be easy to believe God has abandoned us. It would be easy to believe that God is dead. It would be easy to cease to believe in God at all. But that would be the easy way out, would it not?
It is harder to believe when we live in a world in which the plates of the earth act in accordance with their nature. It is harder to believe when we live in a world in which cancer and aids ravage our friends and strokes damage the minds and bodies of our loved ones. It is harder to believe when we live in this fragile world in which the wine so readily gives out. However, God hanging on tree means something very different to us. God hanging on a tree means that in cancer, in earthquake, fire and flood, and yes, even in a party gone wrong, God is with us. God is with us in the crisis, God is with us in our angst, God is with us when death surrounds us. God is with us when the wine gives out. When the world comes crashing around us literally and figuratively and we so desperately long to be whisked away, God joins us in our pain. As we encounter God hanging from the tree, then something miraculous happens that appears to contradict reason, we come to believe. The miracle of Cana was not that water was turned into wine, rather that when it seemed like God did not care, they realized his presence in their midst, and in that revelation of his love, they came to believe. Thus, the miracle of water into wine is not deliverance from affliction, strife and need; rather it is the transformation our fear into hope, and the assurance of God with us, even in affliction, strife and need.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 17th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 2:1-12
“Jesus did this, the first of his signs in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.”
--John 2:11
What happens when the wine gives out? Most of us have been to a party, or have given a party where something dreadfully embarrassing has happened. In the grand scheme of things such embarrassing moments are rarely of cosmic significance. We forgive our hosts or we forgive ourselves for the faux pas, and we move on. Therefore, it is curiously interesting when Jesus chooses to intervene in just such a prosaic moment, when the wine gives out at a wedding feast, and turns water into wine. At first he shrugs off the request of his mother to do something, “what is this to you and to me, woman?” Yet, ultimately, he acquiesces and we learn, in fact, that his presence in the midst of the mundane has been an occasion for the revelation of God’s glory, for we are told that because of this his disciples believed in him. This was to be the first of his seven signs.
Scripture is filled with ordinary moments. For this we ought to be grateful. Those who do not read the Bible or know it, assume that it is a book that is ethereal and heavenly. While there is no doubt that it is a sacred book, those of us who read it, or listen to its words week by week, know that it is filled with ordinary people, dysfunctional families, weddings feasts gone wrong, loved ones dying unjustly, communities fighting amongst themselves, and so on. At Cana, Jesus is present for one of those moments that may seem so familiar to us, the party gone wrong. Thus, Scripture is not above us or distant from our reality, but a part of our reality. It is our story first and foremost not because we are a people of faith, but simply because we are people, plain and simple.
Into the midst of our ordinary lives, God enters in. God enters in not to rescue us from such a world, but to redeem and transform the world. Thus, we speak of the Incarnation, or literally, the “enfleshment” of God as the nexus of our faith. We do not worship a God who whisks us up, up and away from the world, rather we proclaim God among us as Christ crucified. And God among us changes things. God among us changes us. God among us changes the world. This is what happens at Cana – God uses the mundane moment of a party gone wrong to turn the hearts of a people from fear to faith.
It may seem glib to compare the experience of a first century party gone wrong with the terrible events this week in Haiti. They are on opposite extremes of the human experience. Yet, there is a thread that runs through both events, namely, the human question, “does God really care about us.” At that wedding feast in Cana when the wine ran out, Jesus’ response seems dismissive and aloof, “what is that to you and to me?” Amidst the destruction in Haiti, and in so many other disasters, the same observation might be made. Where is God? It seems as if God sits in his heaven and proclaims “what is this to you and to me?”
As the images of the destruction of Port-au-Prince cascade before our eyes, we will inevitably ask the question, “Why?” Why has this happened? Why did God allow this to happen? Was this the will of God? Does God even care? Many years ago I recall seeing an interview with the Rev. Dr. John Polkinghorne, an Anglican priest and Cambridge Physicist, who was deeply concerned about the dialogue between faith and science. He was asked about the 1755 Lisbon earthquake in which thousands were killed, many in the Cathedral Church that collapsed, “was it the will of God that those people should die?” Polkinghorne responded, “I believe it is the will of God that the plates of the earth should move in accordance with their nature.” While the answer rings true to me on both a rational and theological level, it does not console me on a pastoral level. I think it will not console those in Haiti this week. Thus I look elsewhere to try to understand.
Nearly twenty years ago, I read Eli Wiesel’s semi-autobiographical fictional account of the holocaust, Night. It featured a terrifying scene in which a young boy was hanged with two other men for stocking arms. Wiesel writes,
"For more than half an hour he stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes. And we had to look him full in the face. He was still alive when I passed in front of him…Behind me, I heard the same man asking: ‘Where is God now?’ And I heard a voice within me answer him: ‘Where is He? Here He is—He is hanging here on this gallows…’" (pp. 70-72)
For many years I have struggled with what this passage was intended to mean. Did Wiesel intend it to characterize the absence and abandonment of God? Did he seek to say that Judaism itself was dead? Did he mean to suggest that God was dead? Or did he mean something else? I suppose I shall never really know what Wiesel meant or intended, but I cannot help but feel and see the story of my own God in this brief but horrifying excerpt, a God who hung on the gallows to share our human suffering.
The Christian God is not a God who swoops in and carries people out of danger. He does not engineer miraculous escapes. This may, at first seem the meaning of the story of Cana, of stepping in and saving the day by turning water into wine. But, I think something much deeper is happening in this story. We are told by John that it is a sign. What does the sign signify? I believe it communicates the reality that God does care deeply about us, so much so that he joins us in the crisis. He is the God who is with us in the disasters of our lives suffering alongside us. Where is God? He is at the banquet when the wine runs out. Where is God? He is amongst the rubble of Port-au-Prince and the suffering of the people. Where is God? He is hanging on a tree.
Closer to home, there is barely a week that goes by when the Canon and I do not receive at least one phone call in which we receive word that a member of this parish or someone beloved of them has cancer or some other devastating illness. There is barely a week that goes by when we do not receive a phone call from the Kane, Marshall or Jerrett Funeral Homes asking us to journey with a family who has just lost someone dear. There is barely a week that goes by when we do not see suffering in this parish family and community. It would be easy to believe God has abandoned us. It would be easy to believe that God is dead. It would be easy to cease to believe in God at all. But that would be the easy way out, would it not?
It is harder to believe when we live in a world in which the plates of the earth act in accordance with their nature. It is harder to believe when we live in a world in which cancer and aids ravage our friends and strokes damage the minds and bodies of our loved ones. It is harder to believe when we live in this fragile world in which the wine so readily gives out. However, God hanging on tree means something very different to us. God hanging on a tree means that in cancer, in earthquake, fire and flood, and yes, even in a party gone wrong, God is with us. God is with us in the crisis, God is with us in our angst, God is with us when death surrounds us. God is with us when the wine gives out. When the world comes crashing around us literally and figuratively and we so desperately long to be whisked away, God joins us in our pain. As we encounter God hanging from the tree, then something miraculous happens that appears to contradict reason, we come to believe. The miracle of Cana was not that water was turned into wine, rather that when it seemed like God did not care, they realized his presence in their midst, and in that revelation of his love, they came to believe. Thus, the miracle of water into wine is not deliverance from affliction, strife and need; rather it is the transformation our fear into hope, and the assurance of God with us, even in affliction, strife and need.
c. 2010 the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
"A Voice was Heard in Ramah" - A Sermon for the Feast Day of the Slaughter of the Holy Innocents
Sermon on the Feast of the Holy Innocents
Tuesday, January 12th, 2010
Preached at the Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Jer 31:15-17, Ps 124, Matt 2:13-18
If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say;
If the Lord had not been on our side,
when enemies rose up against us;
Then would they have swallowed us up alive
in their fierce anger towards us...
By God’s grace, an angel of the Lord warned Joseph, in a dream, to flee from the wrath of a tyrant; a tyrant, who like most other tyrants in history constantly feared for the loss of power. In Herod, we meet a tyrant who feared a tiny, helpless child, a tyrant who murdered his own sons, a tyrant who in an act of paranoia was willing to drop the veil of death upon the helpless people of his own nation. But, by God’s grace, an angel of the Lord warned Joseph to take his family out of the reach of the merciless tyrant. And so our story goes: The child and his family flee under the cover of darkness into the safety of a different land, as if the very fulfillment of prophecy.
If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say;
If the Lord had not been on our side,
when our enemies rose up against us;
Then would the waters have overwhelmed us
and the torrent gone over us;
Then would the raging waters
have gone right over us.
The Lord has provided the cover of safety for the holy family.
A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children...
Left behind, unsuspecting, many other families are torn apart by the wrath of the same tyrant -- left behind, no angel to warn them about the unthinkable horror about to fall upon them. Children are torn from the arms of their fathers and mothers and slaughtered. In one swift act of terror, the tyrant tears apart the lives of countless families. The sudden onslaught of death and its swift departure leaves a desolate and despondent people wailing from the very core of their being for the slaughter of their very flesh and blood. God had not warned them. And the hymn of thanksgiving for deliverance begins to echo hollow:
Blessed be the Lord,
he has not given us over to be a prey for their teeth
Our help is in the name of the Lord,
the maker of heaven and earth.
Rather, our hearts are crushed by the sound of Rachel weeping for her children:
She refused to be consoled,
for they are more.
By what cruel interpretive slight of hand have commentators of the ages ridiculed the cry of Rachel? For what cruel and self-indulgent purpose have we dared to utter sentiments such as the words of the fifth century bishop of Carthage, Quodvultus:
“The children die for Christ, though they do not know it. The parents mourn for the death of martyrs. The Christ child makes those as yet unable to speak fit witnesses to himself. See the kind of kingdom that is his, coming as he did in order to be this kind of king. See how the deliverer is already working deliverance, the saviour already working salvation.”
By what cruel and utter madness have we dared to call these tiny victims the first martyrs of the church and written off the gutteral cry of parents destroyed by grief as the grief of those who mourn for martyrs? Give me no part of the kingdom of this Christ. Give me no part of the kingdom that theologizes the cry from Ramah as one that points to the Kingdom of God. Of what use is it to sing “Our help is in the name of the Lord” when, indeed, there is no help for these ones, nor is their help for the many silent voices lost to the purposeful silence of regimes that close their grips on power by massacring the innocent and muting the cry of Ramah throughout all the ages. By what twisted psychology do we justify the death of children and the grief of mothers as pointers to our own salvation, even the fulfillment of Scripture?
She refused to be consoled,
because they are no more.
So must we also refuse consolation.
Wise men came from the east seeking after a wonderful work that God was about to do. These wise men, holy men, in all good faith sought after a newborn king, a king that would bring peace. But they were deceived by a tyrant into revealing the vulnerability of God made human, and as such became inadvertently complicit in the ravaging of a people. They came seeking the light of the world and left in their wake the darkest night of the worst of the human condition.
During this holy time, we too seek the incarnation, God made human, the light of the world. We see his star rising in the east and we seek to follow it to where it rests. We long to do homage before the birth in time of the timeless Son of God. We seek after the light of the world and at that very moment are confronted instead by the slaughter of the innocent.
Why?
Why, when we seek a saviour, why when we seek the light of the word, are we confronted by genocide? Why are we confronted by the calculated destruction of an innocent group of people, simply for being who they are?
We seek the light and are confronted by the darkness. And we cannot, we must not, we dare not turn away. We look for the Christ and find instead innocent blood and are cut to our very core by the voice of lamentation, weeping for what cannot be returned.
Why?
It is in this horrible vision that we meet the darkness of our own souls. It is this very moment that we confront ourselves and realize that we might be Herod. And here, the possibility of our own darkness is the very reason that we need a saviour. In seeking a saviour, we encounter the very worst of human experience. And here is the purpose ro which God became human: to turn us away from the worst of what we might be and transform us into what we are meant to be, the likeness of Christ.
There are those that call this story fiction. It is simply the type of another massacre, a holy massacre. But no massacre is holy. And even if it was formed in the imagination of an evangelist we must not discredit it. If the historical record is silent about this massacre, so is it about many countless others, but do we dismiss or discredit them simply because the voice from Ramah is silent? We in our age, of all people, should know that enforced silence cannot dampen the cry of Rachel mourning her children. We know only too well... Auschwitz, Birkenau, Rwanda, and the near silence of Armenia that Rachel continues to weep for her children, and we cannot deafen our ears. These genocides are among us. This is not simply the fiction of a first century writer, it is the story of evil in the world which persists to this day. We cannot theologize away the death of innocents. It is a sin to hide these things. We must speak of them, and name them. We can only bring the darkness to light by speaking of it and acknowledging its existence. We are called to stare into the darkness and the forces of this world that draw us from the divine likeness, and speak to the darkness of humanity.
It is not the heart of God that these horrors come to pass. It will not do to say that the death of innocents as martyrs point us to the mystery of the Incarnation. It is not the heart of God that families suffer the loss of their heart and joy simply to fulfill the words of a prophet. It is the heart of God to enter into time to turn our hearts from such heresy. It is the heart of God for us to say a resounding no to such twisted nonsense. It is the heart of God to become as us so that we might be as him and not as children of the night.
God hears the cry from Ramah and will not let it be muted in silence.
c. 2003 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Tuesday, January 12th, 2010
Preached at the Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Jer 31:15-17, Ps 124, Matt 2:13-18
If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say;
If the Lord had not been on our side,
when enemies rose up against us;
Then would they have swallowed us up alive
in their fierce anger towards us...
By God’s grace, an angel of the Lord warned Joseph, in a dream, to flee from the wrath of a tyrant; a tyrant, who like most other tyrants in history constantly feared for the loss of power. In Herod, we meet a tyrant who feared a tiny, helpless child, a tyrant who murdered his own sons, a tyrant who in an act of paranoia was willing to drop the veil of death upon the helpless people of his own nation. But, by God’s grace, an angel of the Lord warned Joseph to take his family out of the reach of the merciless tyrant. And so our story goes: The child and his family flee under the cover of darkness into the safety of a different land, as if the very fulfillment of prophecy.
If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say;
If the Lord had not been on our side,
when our enemies rose up against us;
Then would the waters have overwhelmed us
and the torrent gone over us;
Then would the raging waters
have gone right over us.
The Lord has provided the cover of safety for the holy family.
A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children...
Left behind, unsuspecting, many other families are torn apart by the wrath of the same tyrant -- left behind, no angel to warn them about the unthinkable horror about to fall upon them. Children are torn from the arms of their fathers and mothers and slaughtered. In one swift act of terror, the tyrant tears apart the lives of countless families. The sudden onslaught of death and its swift departure leaves a desolate and despondent people wailing from the very core of their being for the slaughter of their very flesh and blood. God had not warned them. And the hymn of thanksgiving for deliverance begins to echo hollow:
Blessed be the Lord,
he has not given us over to be a prey for their teeth
Our help is in the name of the Lord,
the maker of heaven and earth.
Rather, our hearts are crushed by the sound of Rachel weeping for her children:
She refused to be consoled,
for they are more.
By what cruel interpretive slight of hand have commentators of the ages ridiculed the cry of Rachel? For what cruel and self-indulgent purpose have we dared to utter sentiments such as the words of the fifth century bishop of Carthage, Quodvultus:
“The children die for Christ, though they do not know it. The parents mourn for the death of martyrs. The Christ child makes those as yet unable to speak fit witnesses to himself. See the kind of kingdom that is his, coming as he did in order to be this kind of king. See how the deliverer is already working deliverance, the saviour already working salvation.”
By what cruel and utter madness have we dared to call these tiny victims the first martyrs of the church and written off the gutteral cry of parents destroyed by grief as the grief of those who mourn for martyrs? Give me no part of the kingdom of this Christ. Give me no part of the kingdom that theologizes the cry from Ramah as one that points to the Kingdom of God. Of what use is it to sing “Our help is in the name of the Lord” when, indeed, there is no help for these ones, nor is their help for the many silent voices lost to the purposeful silence of regimes that close their grips on power by massacring the innocent and muting the cry of Ramah throughout all the ages. By what twisted psychology do we justify the death of children and the grief of mothers as pointers to our own salvation, even the fulfillment of Scripture?
She refused to be consoled,
because they are no more.
So must we also refuse consolation.
Wise men came from the east seeking after a wonderful work that God was about to do. These wise men, holy men, in all good faith sought after a newborn king, a king that would bring peace. But they were deceived by a tyrant into revealing the vulnerability of God made human, and as such became inadvertently complicit in the ravaging of a people. They came seeking the light of the world and left in their wake the darkest night of the worst of the human condition.
During this holy time, we too seek the incarnation, God made human, the light of the world. We see his star rising in the east and we seek to follow it to where it rests. We long to do homage before the birth in time of the timeless Son of God. We seek after the light of the world and at that very moment are confronted instead by the slaughter of the innocent.
Why?
Why, when we seek a saviour, why when we seek the light of the word, are we confronted by genocide? Why are we confronted by the calculated destruction of an innocent group of people, simply for being who they are?
We seek the light and are confronted by the darkness. And we cannot, we must not, we dare not turn away. We look for the Christ and find instead innocent blood and are cut to our very core by the voice of lamentation, weeping for what cannot be returned.
Why?
It is in this horrible vision that we meet the darkness of our own souls. It is this very moment that we confront ourselves and realize that we might be Herod. And here, the possibility of our own darkness is the very reason that we need a saviour. In seeking a saviour, we encounter the very worst of human experience. And here is the purpose ro which God became human: to turn us away from the worst of what we might be and transform us into what we are meant to be, the likeness of Christ.
There are those that call this story fiction. It is simply the type of another massacre, a holy massacre. But no massacre is holy. And even if it was formed in the imagination of an evangelist we must not discredit it. If the historical record is silent about this massacre, so is it about many countless others, but do we dismiss or discredit them simply because the voice from Ramah is silent? We in our age, of all people, should know that enforced silence cannot dampen the cry of Rachel mourning her children. We know only too well... Auschwitz, Birkenau, Rwanda, and the near silence of Armenia that Rachel continues to weep for her children, and we cannot deafen our ears. These genocides are among us. This is not simply the fiction of a first century writer, it is the story of evil in the world which persists to this day. We cannot theologize away the death of innocents. It is a sin to hide these things. We must speak of them, and name them. We can only bring the darkness to light by speaking of it and acknowledging its existence. We are called to stare into the darkness and the forces of this world that draw us from the divine likeness, and speak to the darkness of humanity.
It is not the heart of God that these horrors come to pass. It will not do to say that the death of innocents as martyrs point us to the mystery of the Incarnation. It is not the heart of God that families suffer the loss of their heart and joy simply to fulfill the words of a prophet. It is the heart of God to enter into time to turn our hearts from such heresy. It is the heart of God for us to say a resounding no to such twisted nonsense. It is the heart of God to become as us so that we might be as him and not as children of the night.
God hears the cry from Ramah and will not let it be muted in silence.
c. 2003 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Gift of the Seeker - A Homily for Epiphany, 2010
Homily for the Epiphany of the Lord
Sunday, January 3rd, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:1-12
“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?”
--Matthew 2:2
They were the original seekers. Whether they were kings, wise men, or astrologers; whether they numbered three, or ten, or twelve, it matters not. What matters most, is that they were seekers. They came from a distant land, a land outside the boundaries of the kingdom seeking to pay homage to a newborn king. They did not need to be conquered or persuaded. Rather they caught a glimpse of his light, in the form of a distant but bright star, and followed its course. Like many seekers, they were not exactly sure where to go or who to ask for directions, and like many seekers they got some bad advice and visited the wrong person. Yet, in spite of their unfortunate visit to Herod’s palace, God honoured the intentions of these faithful seekers and brought them to the child and his mother, and they paid him homage. Kneeling before the one whose star they had observed at its rising, they laid their gifts before him and where overwhelmed with great joy.
In our day, as the institutional church staggers along with its propensity toward inward-looking narcissism, with its fear of change, fear of the world beyond our walls, fear of the outsider, fear of those who are different , we would do well to consider that amongst the earliest seekers of our Lord are found visitors from a strange and distant land. On any given Sunday there will be seekers amongst us. This may not be immediately evident because we may have formed a preconceived notion of what a seeker looks like. However, there are many kinds of seekers. There are those that we may notice readily through different forms of dress and different customs; they may not immediately understand the customs and traditions within these walls, and may feel awkward and out of place. There are less obvious seekers, though. Indeed, I would suggest that there are many more seekers amongst us than we might immediately suppose. In fact, all of us are seekers in one way or another. Even those who were baptized as infants, have been life-long communicants, long-term members of an ACW group, advisory board, attended numerous parish social and educational events, and contributed to the stewardship of the parish through envelopes or pre-authorized giving, even amongst the most committed churchmen and churchwomen, we find seekers.
Wheter we come here today for the first time, or whether we have been coming here week after week for many years, we are all seeking something. For some it will be a solution to a problem that seems irresolvable. Others seek the kind of support and care that can be so difficult to find in the world. Some seek a deepening of their faith, having already known both the peace and the challenge of being a follower of the Christ. Mourners seek solace, the hungry seek food, the sick seek healing, the marginalized seek inclusion, the persecuted seek justice. Each of us come seeking – seeking the embrace of a loving Lord, a Lord who came for all people, not simply for an elect few.
While it is easy for us to imagine that there are many outside these walls who have never felt the embrace of that loving Lord, it is perhaps more difficult for us to understand that amongst us, there are many who come here week after week that still long and hope for that loving embrace, hoping and praying that today will be the day that they know God’s loving touch.
There are all sorts of seekers and they all come bearing gifts. Wise men came from the East bringing gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, grand gifts indeed, and perhaps a bit intimidating for those of us seekers who do not have such gifts to bring. They brought what they had, and gave from their abundance, but their material gifts are largely symbolic. What was important was that they gave the gift of themselves. They left their homelands, journeyed afar, and offered themselves to the newborn king. While it is true they did not stay, they returned home changed people. The light they followed became the light they carried home to their own country. And what is just as important, they left us a changed people, for those who were once excluded from God’s covenant were now included. Foreigners sought out the Lord and the Lord welcomes us all today, not as foreigners but as friends, not as outsiders but as family. The Kingdom would never look the same again.
Here is the frightening truth about seekers: in their seeking they change us. I speak not only of the seeker that has joined us today for the first time, but also of the seeking that continues amongst our oldest and most venerable pillars. Seekers challenge us. Seekers threaten us. We feel threatened because we are challenged to see the world in new and different ways. We feel threatened because we are challenged to catch a vision of God’s kingdom, not as we have shaped it but as God is shaping it. The seeker challenges us to embrace a transformed world, a transformed way of thinking, a transformed way of being. The seeker challenges us to believe in a broader, more expansive view of God.
The visit of strangers, of seekers from the East, frightened Herod, the King of the Judeans. Herod feigned openness and interest both in the seekers and the object of their seeking. But his feigned interest and disingenuous hospitality masked his own murderous intent and his all-too-human insecurity. Often we feign openness to the seeker but wish they would simply go away because we are not prepared for the transformation God will bring through their presence amongst us. Often, those who have journeyed amongst us for years, longing and seeking yet, are afraid to articulate their longing and seeking for fear of what it might do to the stability of our lovely community. We are afraid of the change that comes from seekers and their seeking. If we embraced the seeker, and we embraced the seeking, then we ourselves might be changed. We fear this more than anything.
But this is exactly what happened when foreign seekers sought the Christ under the light of a distant star. Their journey into the land of the Hebrew people, seeking a king, meant that this king would not simply be the King of the Judean people, but the Lord of all people. Their seeking forever changed the way that we Christians are to see our mission to the world. In their seeking we have learned that the will of God is the inclusion not of a few people into the Kingdom, but the inclusion of all God’s children. It is a mission that changes us as we embrace it.
Thus, whether you have joined us here today, seeking for the first or second time, or whether you have been amongst us for ninety years, seeking, searching for the Christ, welcome home. It is path well-trod from ancient times, by king and peasant alike, by wise and foolish, by rich and poor, by healthy and sick, by adult and by child. It is a journey that changes the seeker and faithful, alike. What excitement and what joy it shall be to learn who we shall become together, to learn how we will change each other, but more poignantly how God will change us and shape us together in the Kingdom of the Christ. Make the final step of the journey to his cradle, kneel and pay him homage, and offer what you alone can give him, the gift of yourself. And even as you find him, you will learn that it has not really been us that have been doing the seeking after all, rather, it is he who has sought us out, who has placed his star in the longing of our hearts, eternally offering himself to us.
“Where meek hearts will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.”
copyright 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, January 3rd, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:1-12
“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?”
--Matthew 2:2
They were the original seekers. Whether they were kings, wise men, or astrologers; whether they numbered three, or ten, or twelve, it matters not. What matters most, is that they were seekers. They came from a distant land, a land outside the boundaries of the kingdom seeking to pay homage to a newborn king. They did not need to be conquered or persuaded. Rather they caught a glimpse of his light, in the form of a distant but bright star, and followed its course. Like many seekers, they were not exactly sure where to go or who to ask for directions, and like many seekers they got some bad advice and visited the wrong person. Yet, in spite of their unfortunate visit to Herod’s palace, God honoured the intentions of these faithful seekers and brought them to the child and his mother, and they paid him homage. Kneeling before the one whose star they had observed at its rising, they laid their gifts before him and where overwhelmed with great joy.
In our day, as the institutional church staggers along with its propensity toward inward-looking narcissism, with its fear of change, fear of the world beyond our walls, fear of the outsider, fear of those who are different , we would do well to consider that amongst the earliest seekers of our Lord are found visitors from a strange and distant land. On any given Sunday there will be seekers amongst us. This may not be immediately evident because we may have formed a preconceived notion of what a seeker looks like. However, there are many kinds of seekers. There are those that we may notice readily through different forms of dress and different customs; they may not immediately understand the customs and traditions within these walls, and may feel awkward and out of place. There are less obvious seekers, though. Indeed, I would suggest that there are many more seekers amongst us than we might immediately suppose. In fact, all of us are seekers in one way or another. Even those who were baptized as infants, have been life-long communicants, long-term members of an ACW group, advisory board, attended numerous parish social and educational events, and contributed to the stewardship of the parish through envelopes or pre-authorized giving, even amongst the most committed churchmen and churchwomen, we find seekers.
Wheter we come here today for the first time, or whether we have been coming here week after week for many years, we are all seeking something. For some it will be a solution to a problem that seems irresolvable. Others seek the kind of support and care that can be so difficult to find in the world. Some seek a deepening of their faith, having already known both the peace and the challenge of being a follower of the Christ. Mourners seek solace, the hungry seek food, the sick seek healing, the marginalized seek inclusion, the persecuted seek justice. Each of us come seeking – seeking the embrace of a loving Lord, a Lord who came for all people, not simply for an elect few.
While it is easy for us to imagine that there are many outside these walls who have never felt the embrace of that loving Lord, it is perhaps more difficult for us to understand that amongst us, there are many who come here week after week that still long and hope for that loving embrace, hoping and praying that today will be the day that they know God’s loving touch.
There are all sorts of seekers and they all come bearing gifts. Wise men came from the East bringing gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, grand gifts indeed, and perhaps a bit intimidating for those of us seekers who do not have such gifts to bring. They brought what they had, and gave from their abundance, but their material gifts are largely symbolic. What was important was that they gave the gift of themselves. They left their homelands, journeyed afar, and offered themselves to the newborn king. While it is true they did not stay, they returned home changed people. The light they followed became the light they carried home to their own country. And what is just as important, they left us a changed people, for those who were once excluded from God’s covenant were now included. Foreigners sought out the Lord and the Lord welcomes us all today, not as foreigners but as friends, not as outsiders but as family. The Kingdom would never look the same again.
Here is the frightening truth about seekers: in their seeking they change us. I speak not only of the seeker that has joined us today for the first time, but also of the seeking that continues amongst our oldest and most venerable pillars. Seekers challenge us. Seekers threaten us. We feel threatened because we are challenged to see the world in new and different ways. We feel threatened because we are challenged to catch a vision of God’s kingdom, not as we have shaped it but as God is shaping it. The seeker challenges us to embrace a transformed world, a transformed way of thinking, a transformed way of being. The seeker challenges us to believe in a broader, more expansive view of God.
The visit of strangers, of seekers from the East, frightened Herod, the King of the Judeans. Herod feigned openness and interest both in the seekers and the object of their seeking. But his feigned interest and disingenuous hospitality masked his own murderous intent and his all-too-human insecurity. Often we feign openness to the seeker but wish they would simply go away because we are not prepared for the transformation God will bring through their presence amongst us. Often, those who have journeyed amongst us for years, longing and seeking yet, are afraid to articulate their longing and seeking for fear of what it might do to the stability of our lovely community. We are afraid of the change that comes from seekers and their seeking. If we embraced the seeker, and we embraced the seeking, then we ourselves might be changed. We fear this more than anything.
But this is exactly what happened when foreign seekers sought the Christ under the light of a distant star. Their journey into the land of the Hebrew people, seeking a king, meant that this king would not simply be the King of the Judean people, but the Lord of all people. Their seeking forever changed the way that we Christians are to see our mission to the world. In their seeking we have learned that the will of God is the inclusion not of a few people into the Kingdom, but the inclusion of all God’s children. It is a mission that changes us as we embrace it.
Thus, whether you have joined us here today, seeking for the first or second time, or whether you have been amongst us for ninety years, seeking, searching for the Christ, welcome home. It is path well-trod from ancient times, by king and peasant alike, by wise and foolish, by rich and poor, by healthy and sick, by adult and by child. It is a journey that changes the seeker and faithful, alike. What excitement and what joy it shall be to learn who we shall become together, to learn how we will change each other, but more poignantly how God will change us and shape us together in the Kingdom of the Christ. Make the final step of the journey to his cradle, kneel and pay him homage, and offer what you alone can give him, the gift of yourself. And even as you find him, you will learn that it has not really been us that have been doing the seeking after all, rather, it is he who has sought us out, who has placed his star in the longing of our hearts, eternally offering himself to us.
“Where meek hearts will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.”
copyright 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Thursday, December 24, 2009
"Fear Not! I Bring You Good News of Great Joy!" - Homily for Christmas Eve
Homily for Christmas Eve, Year C, 2009
Thursday, December 24th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-20
“Fear not, for behold I bring good news of great joy!”
--Luke 2:10
Into a world gripped with fear, a tiny babe was born. Over the past several hundred years, Judea had been a place that had been passed from foreign power to foreign power; it had known revolution upon revolution; and had known unjust ruler upon unjust ruler. There was prosperity for some and poverty for many. And just like today, amongst the names of the long-forgotten people of that day, there were many broken lives and broken hearts.
Broken lives and hearts – so many problems plague this age (and every age), but never is something so tragic as a broken life or broken heart. Some of you will have seen a full-page advertisement in the Toronto Star last week from our Archbishop, Colin Johnson. The headline read, “Does Jesus really matter anymore? Christmas is about shopping, presents, family and feasting, right?” He then goes on to remind us that our time is not so different from the time that Jesus was born into, “we suffer from worries and concerns, broken relationships, wars and famines. The very things that kept our ancestors awake all those years ago keep us awake still.”
It seems to me that fear is at the heart of all those things that keep us awake. Fear moves us to destructive action and paralyzes us from righteous, compassionate action. Fear tricks us into believing that we can do nothing to change the course of poverty, loneliness, economic injustice, and ecological degradation. Fear tells us that broken hearts are not to be mended. Fear also tricks us into thinking that the only way to solve the problems of the age is by engaging brute force, or conversely, by apathetically giving into it. Fear tricks us into thinking that there is no hope for the world or the people in it.
Fear drove a young unwed couple to journey the long distance from their home in Nazareth to the father’s ancestral home in Bethlehem for a taxation census. The unbreakable power of the Roman Empire demanded a head count for all to be taxed, and one can only imagine the fate of those chose not to obey the imperial edict. A young couple, afraid to show themselves in public for fear of the shame of the unplanned pregnancy, afraid to journey a dangerous road alone, afraid of what such a trip might do to the unborn child, pressed forward. Afraid that they would find no place to birth their child they scrambled about until a stable was found – no place for a baby to be born.
Yes, fear may have driven them, but God found them where they were, came to them and was birthed before their very eyes. He came to them as a tiny, vulnerable child, and turned their fear into joy and their angst into fulfillment. The stable was no longer a stable but the temple of God.
To this temple came poor shepherds, and I am sure, countless others (both rich and poor) who had eyes to see in that tiny child the one who would deliver them; who had ears to hear in his infant cries the voice of the one who would offer words of compassion and justice for all people. Why did the shepherds come to the child and his parents in this lowly place? Because in their own poverty and isolation they heard an angel loudly proclaim, “Fear not.” They, who were not worthy to be counted in the census, those shepherds keeping their watch, had courage stirred within them to leave their only source of income and well-being, and seek out a pearl of greater price, the newborn king! The song of joy had dispersed their fear.
The shepherds heard those great glad tidings and rushed, not with fear but with joy, expectation, and hope from their fields to that stable in Bethlehem, that unlikely temple, to see with their own eyes the great thing that God had done.
And what was that great thing. Had the Roman Empire fallen? No, Augustus was still Caesar. Did that young family find a manor house to live in? No, the child was still born in a stable. Did midwives and physicians show up to help in the birth? No, the woman gave birth with only her husband as a birth companion. These things had not changed, and yet, everything had changed, because the fear that had gripped their world was broken.
We draw nigh tonight like shepherds who have left our flocks. We draw nigh to see, to witness, to believe in the great thing that God has done. We have left our lives behind for a moment, even if just for a moment, to take time from presents, from shopping, from our families and from our feasting, to witness once again for ourselves the birth in time of the timeless Son of God. We draw nigh, to remember once again that though empires may rise and fall, though economies prosper and collapse, though jobs come and jobs go, though children are born and loved ones die, though the tides rise and fall, we are not afraid. We gather here to proclaim that fear is not our master, but rather the transforming love of the gentle babe who was born to a frightened young couple. We gather here to say that amidst the angst of the age, we shall not be overcome or sorrow as a people without hope but rather rejoice with that rag-tag group of shepherds that Christ is born.
Whether it be Bethlehem of Judea or Thornhill of Ontario, people are people, pain is pain, brokenness is brokenness, and fear is fear. But whether it be Bethlehem of Judea or Thornhill of Ontario, Jesus is the Christ and he has broken through the darkness of our pain and fear.
To a world that is hurting, he comes. To the fear that threatens to displace us, angels shout, “Fear not! Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!” Fear not, because a child is born who changes things.
He changes minds.
He changes hearts.
He changes people.
He turns the valley of the shadow of death into the way of life.
He has shone his light into the darkest places of our lives and welcomed us to his heart and cradles us, as his most holy mother cradled him those years ago. What greater joy can we know, and what better hope can we have, that the fear of the ages is dispersed by his ever-present light? Thus, I bid you return to your fields, to your flocks with this good news of great joy, having witnessed what the Lord has done, and like those shepherds of old, tell all about what you have seen and heard, as it has been told to you.
c.2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Thursday, December 24th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-20
“Fear not, for behold I bring good news of great joy!”
--Luke 2:10
Into a world gripped with fear, a tiny babe was born. Over the past several hundred years, Judea had been a place that had been passed from foreign power to foreign power; it had known revolution upon revolution; and had known unjust ruler upon unjust ruler. There was prosperity for some and poverty for many. And just like today, amongst the names of the long-forgotten people of that day, there were many broken lives and broken hearts.
Broken lives and hearts – so many problems plague this age (and every age), but never is something so tragic as a broken life or broken heart. Some of you will have seen a full-page advertisement in the Toronto Star last week from our Archbishop, Colin Johnson. The headline read, “Does Jesus really matter anymore? Christmas is about shopping, presents, family and feasting, right?” He then goes on to remind us that our time is not so different from the time that Jesus was born into, “we suffer from worries and concerns, broken relationships, wars and famines. The very things that kept our ancestors awake all those years ago keep us awake still.”
It seems to me that fear is at the heart of all those things that keep us awake. Fear moves us to destructive action and paralyzes us from righteous, compassionate action. Fear tricks us into believing that we can do nothing to change the course of poverty, loneliness, economic injustice, and ecological degradation. Fear tells us that broken hearts are not to be mended. Fear also tricks us into thinking that the only way to solve the problems of the age is by engaging brute force, or conversely, by apathetically giving into it. Fear tricks us into thinking that there is no hope for the world or the people in it.
Fear drove a young unwed couple to journey the long distance from their home in Nazareth to the father’s ancestral home in Bethlehem for a taxation census. The unbreakable power of the Roman Empire demanded a head count for all to be taxed, and one can only imagine the fate of those chose not to obey the imperial edict. A young couple, afraid to show themselves in public for fear of the shame of the unplanned pregnancy, afraid to journey a dangerous road alone, afraid of what such a trip might do to the unborn child, pressed forward. Afraid that they would find no place to birth their child they scrambled about until a stable was found – no place for a baby to be born.
Yes, fear may have driven them, but God found them where they were, came to them and was birthed before their very eyes. He came to them as a tiny, vulnerable child, and turned their fear into joy and their angst into fulfillment. The stable was no longer a stable but the temple of God.
To this temple came poor shepherds, and I am sure, countless others (both rich and poor) who had eyes to see in that tiny child the one who would deliver them; who had ears to hear in his infant cries the voice of the one who would offer words of compassion and justice for all people. Why did the shepherds come to the child and his parents in this lowly place? Because in their own poverty and isolation they heard an angel loudly proclaim, “Fear not.” They, who were not worthy to be counted in the census, those shepherds keeping their watch, had courage stirred within them to leave their only source of income and well-being, and seek out a pearl of greater price, the newborn king! The song of joy had dispersed their fear.
The shepherds heard those great glad tidings and rushed, not with fear but with joy, expectation, and hope from their fields to that stable in Bethlehem, that unlikely temple, to see with their own eyes the great thing that God had done.
And what was that great thing. Had the Roman Empire fallen? No, Augustus was still Caesar. Did that young family find a manor house to live in? No, the child was still born in a stable. Did midwives and physicians show up to help in the birth? No, the woman gave birth with only her husband as a birth companion. These things had not changed, and yet, everything had changed, because the fear that had gripped their world was broken.
We draw nigh tonight like shepherds who have left our flocks. We draw nigh to see, to witness, to believe in the great thing that God has done. We have left our lives behind for a moment, even if just for a moment, to take time from presents, from shopping, from our families and from our feasting, to witness once again for ourselves the birth in time of the timeless Son of God. We draw nigh, to remember once again that though empires may rise and fall, though economies prosper and collapse, though jobs come and jobs go, though children are born and loved ones die, though the tides rise and fall, we are not afraid. We gather here to proclaim that fear is not our master, but rather the transforming love of the gentle babe who was born to a frightened young couple. We gather here to say that amidst the angst of the age, we shall not be overcome or sorrow as a people without hope but rather rejoice with that rag-tag group of shepherds that Christ is born.
Whether it be Bethlehem of Judea or Thornhill of Ontario, people are people, pain is pain, brokenness is brokenness, and fear is fear. But whether it be Bethlehem of Judea or Thornhill of Ontario, Jesus is the Christ and he has broken through the darkness of our pain and fear.
To a world that is hurting, he comes. To the fear that threatens to displace us, angels shout, “Fear not! Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!” Fear not, because a child is born who changes things.
He changes minds.
He changes hearts.
He changes people.
He turns the valley of the shadow of death into the way of life.
He has shone his light into the darkest places of our lives and welcomed us to his heart and cradles us, as his most holy mother cradled him those years ago. What greater joy can we know, and what better hope can we have, that the fear of the ages is dispersed by his ever-present light? Thus, I bid you return to your fields, to your flocks with this good news of great joy, having witnessed what the Lord has done, and like those shepherds of old, tell all about what you have seen and heard, as it has been told to you.
c.2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Monday, December 21, 2009
What If It Had Been You? - A Homily for Advent IV, Year C
Homily for Advent IV, Year C
Sunday, December 20th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 1:39-55
What if it had been you? What if in the days of your early adolescence an angel had spoken to you in the silence of the night and prophesied that you would be the mother of the saviour? What if as a young man, in the depth of your dreaming you received an angelic vision that the woman to who you were betrothed, but with whom you had had no sexual relation, was about to bear a son who would save his people. What if it had been you – you or I who had received this message, heard the awesome and frightening message for not only our future, but the future of the world? What if it were you or I?
Would our response have been Mary’s “let it be unto me according to your word?” Would our response have been “my soul magnifies the Lord,” or “My spirit rejoices in God my saviour?” Or would the shame of an illegitimate pregnancy bring fear, and shame, and loathing? Would our response more closely resemble the response of Joseph in Matthew’s Gospel, to put away the woman of shame? Could we have borne the shame or faced the judgement of those around us.
But the angel did come to Mary, and it did come to Joseph, and despite their initial fear, astonishment, and shame, both Mary and Joseph said “yes.” Joseph did not put away his future wife, nor did Mary hide her face in shame. Instead, Mary went immediately, with haste into the Judean hillside, into the country, to her relative Elizabeth, who in her old-age had also received a visitation from the Lord – Elizabeth who six month’s pregnant was destined to be the mother of the Baptist.
Mary went – a young girl, barely a woman -- to Elizabeth, an elder, a mentor, a wise woman. She faced not the burden alone, but in the company of this holy mother who was herself a vehicle of God’s grace. And there she stayed for some time, sharing her both her fears and her dreams with the one, who in a remarkable way, could understand her sacred calling. For when she saw Elizabeth the words from the elder woman’s mouth were not words of judgment, nor words of condemnation, but words of blessing. Even within her own womb, the baby leaped for joy. Elizabeth, who had also been touched by God, greeted the one who others may have shunned, with reverence, respect and admiration: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” and she wondered aloud, “why has it happened that the mother of my Lord comes to me?”
And so her son likewise wondered aloud many years later, when the same Lord approached him on the banks of the Jordan river and asked him for baptism. Like his mother he evinced his own unworthiness, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal – it is he who should be baptizing me.” And yet, the timeless son of God was baptized by John.
He comes to us again in these latter days – again and again. It shall not matter whether we are rich or poor, of low or high estate. He comes to us – again and again. And it is in our weakness and our brokenness that we meet him and he meets us. He comes to the scared and frightened child in each of us as he came to a trembling adolescent girl in Nazareth. He comes to us in our false pride and vanity, in our fear of shame and judgement as he came to a young man who actually considered abandoning his bride to be. He comes to us in our aged brokenness, in our regret and disappointment about what might have been for our lives if only things had worked out differently, as he came to an old woman whose womb had been barren throughout the decades of her life. He comes to us in our world of darkness, sadness, violence and anger, as he came to middle-eastern land so long ago, disappointed by failed hopes and foreign domination.
He comes to us today not with words of judgement or condemnation for who we are or what we might have been. He comes to us not with anger or wrath for the mistakes we have made or continue to make. He comes to us not with punishment for the sins in which we inevitably participate. He comes to us with great love, with words of hope, with healing in his wings with these words: Greetings favoured one. He comes to us with the promise to be born within each one of us, to turn our fear to hope, our sadness to joy, and our sorrow into laughter. He comes to us, to you and me, with the same message that came to Mary and Joseph, and Elizabeth and Zechariah, greetings favoured ones. They were not great and powerful people, but people like you and me – and they were favoured by God; favoured to birth the Christ to a hurting world.
We are favoured, for the Christ has been birthed in each of us, and continues to be born again and again in our hearts with purpose of transforming not only our lives but transforming the world and bringing hope to a people that walk in darkness. Hide not your light -- that is, his light -- under a bushel, but let it be unto you according to his word, that each of us might sing the words of blessed Mary this Christmastide and always, “My Soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my Spirit rejoices in God my saviour!”
c. 2006 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, December 20th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 1:39-55
What if it had been you? What if in the days of your early adolescence an angel had spoken to you in the silence of the night and prophesied that you would be the mother of the saviour? What if as a young man, in the depth of your dreaming you received an angelic vision that the woman to who you were betrothed, but with whom you had had no sexual relation, was about to bear a son who would save his people. What if it had been you – you or I who had received this message, heard the awesome and frightening message for not only our future, but the future of the world? What if it were you or I?
Would our response have been Mary’s “let it be unto me according to your word?” Would our response have been “my soul magnifies the Lord,” or “My spirit rejoices in God my saviour?” Or would the shame of an illegitimate pregnancy bring fear, and shame, and loathing? Would our response more closely resemble the response of Joseph in Matthew’s Gospel, to put away the woman of shame? Could we have borne the shame or faced the judgement of those around us.
But the angel did come to Mary, and it did come to Joseph, and despite their initial fear, astonishment, and shame, both Mary and Joseph said “yes.” Joseph did not put away his future wife, nor did Mary hide her face in shame. Instead, Mary went immediately, with haste into the Judean hillside, into the country, to her relative Elizabeth, who in her old-age had also received a visitation from the Lord – Elizabeth who six month’s pregnant was destined to be the mother of the Baptist.
Mary went – a young girl, barely a woman -- to Elizabeth, an elder, a mentor, a wise woman. She faced not the burden alone, but in the company of this holy mother who was herself a vehicle of God’s grace. And there she stayed for some time, sharing her both her fears and her dreams with the one, who in a remarkable way, could understand her sacred calling. For when she saw Elizabeth the words from the elder woman’s mouth were not words of judgment, nor words of condemnation, but words of blessing. Even within her own womb, the baby leaped for joy. Elizabeth, who had also been touched by God, greeted the one who others may have shunned, with reverence, respect and admiration: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” and she wondered aloud, “why has it happened that the mother of my Lord comes to me?”
And so her son likewise wondered aloud many years later, when the same Lord approached him on the banks of the Jordan river and asked him for baptism. Like his mother he evinced his own unworthiness, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal – it is he who should be baptizing me.” And yet, the timeless son of God was baptized by John.
He comes to us again in these latter days – again and again. It shall not matter whether we are rich or poor, of low or high estate. He comes to us – again and again. And it is in our weakness and our brokenness that we meet him and he meets us. He comes to the scared and frightened child in each of us as he came to a trembling adolescent girl in Nazareth. He comes to us in our false pride and vanity, in our fear of shame and judgement as he came to a young man who actually considered abandoning his bride to be. He comes to us in our aged brokenness, in our regret and disappointment about what might have been for our lives if only things had worked out differently, as he came to an old woman whose womb had been barren throughout the decades of her life. He comes to us in our world of darkness, sadness, violence and anger, as he came to middle-eastern land so long ago, disappointed by failed hopes and foreign domination.
He comes to us today not with words of judgement or condemnation for who we are or what we might have been. He comes to us not with anger or wrath for the mistakes we have made or continue to make. He comes to us not with punishment for the sins in which we inevitably participate. He comes to us with great love, with words of hope, with healing in his wings with these words: Greetings favoured one. He comes to us with the promise to be born within each one of us, to turn our fear to hope, our sadness to joy, and our sorrow into laughter. He comes to us, to you and me, with the same message that came to Mary and Joseph, and Elizabeth and Zechariah, greetings favoured ones. They were not great and powerful people, but people like you and me – and they were favoured by God; favoured to birth the Christ to a hurting world.
We are favoured, for the Christ has been birthed in each of us, and continues to be born again and again in our hearts with purpose of transforming not only our lives but transforming the world and bringing hope to a people that walk in darkness. Hide not your light -- that is, his light -- under a bushel, but let it be unto you according to his word, that each of us might sing the words of blessed Mary this Christmastide and always, “My Soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my Spirit rejoices in God my saviour!”
c. 2006 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hope in the Darkness - A Homily for a Service of Remembrance and Hope
A Homily for a “Service of Remembrance and Hope”
(offered to those who mourn during this Advent and Christmas Season)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 9:2-7; John 1:1-14
“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”
- Isaiah 9:2
As we draw close to the longest night of the year, I am deeply cognizant that for many, this year has been (as the prophet Isaiah says) like dwelling in a land of deep darkness. Many amongst us have lost someone over this past year and even after many years, others will still feel the loss of loved ones poignantly as the Christmas season approaches. The period of grief and mourning is often depicted metaphorically by our biblical authors as a period of dwelling or living in a land of darkness. Consider, for example, the words of that most beloved of psalms in which we find ourselves “walking through the valley of the shadow of death.” Shadows, darkness, deep darkness, and night. The darkness of grief is a darkness from which we wonder if we shall ever emerge. It is a darkness that no one else seems to understand, for we are surrounded by a festive season. Although the days have grown shorter, festive lights illumine night. Although our hearts may be saddened, we are surrounded by songs of joy. Although we long to be alone with our quiet thoughts we are dragged into the crowd to share in a cheer we can barely muster. One supposes we must come along for the ride, and yet, no matter how many carols are sung, no matter how many lights are strung, no many how many parties are attended, we still feel deeply lost in a land of deep darkness and wandering about in the shadow of death.
The truth is that the darkness never dissipates so quickly. Contrary to the expectation of our culture that we should be able shift gears, to “get over it”, to tune in to the season, the dawn comes slowly and gently. As I have related before, I like to rise early in the morning. Sometimes I look out the window and watch the sunrise. In my former life as a commuter, out the window of my train, I used to like to watch the sun come up and the sky gently illumined. First comes a faint glow, barely noticeable, then comes a soft light, perhaps some colour. The faints lights that shine like moments in the night, the stars, begin to fade, to be replaced by the rising sun, and even on the coldest morning, the warmth of its rays -- what a blessing the gentle sunrise is to us, and so different from the abrupt flick of the switch that brings about man-made light.
I suppose this is what the world expects of us when we are in our grief and we come into the Christmas season, that we should flick a switch and all shall be well with our broken hearts. But God does not ask this of us. God invites us to be present to our pain, sorrow and grief. God allows us to journey through the land of deep darkness, for is not the night God’s dominion as much as the day? And although the night feels cold and lonely, we are not alone, for as we journey through that land of darkness, through the valley of the shadow, God our shepherd is with us. We may not be able to always detect his presence, but we know his promise. And we know that the dawn comes gently.
The light does indeed shine in the darkness, but it is not the light of feigned happiness, nor is it the light of false festivity, rather, it is the faint sparkle of a star that reminds us that the darkness is never all-encompassing, or the glow on the horizon that says the day is coming, not just yet, but slowly, gently, warmly, tenderly. It is the warmth that is felt when we realize that we are not alone on the journey through the night but feel the presence of another who understands the journey we are making. It is in these things that the light shines through. For as the Christ is present will all those who make merry this season with song, and food and drink, and dance, so too is the Christ present with those who shed a tear and long once again for a warm and loving embrace. His light is the light of all people, those who dance and those who mourn. May you feel his warm embrace and catch a glimpse of his gentle dawning light this Advent and Christmastide.
c. 2009 The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
(offered to those who mourn during this Advent and Christmas Season)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 9:2-7; John 1:1-14
“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”
- Isaiah 9:2
As we draw close to the longest night of the year, I am deeply cognizant that for many, this year has been (as the prophet Isaiah says) like dwelling in a land of deep darkness. Many amongst us have lost someone over this past year and even after many years, others will still feel the loss of loved ones poignantly as the Christmas season approaches. The period of grief and mourning is often depicted metaphorically by our biblical authors as a period of dwelling or living in a land of darkness. Consider, for example, the words of that most beloved of psalms in which we find ourselves “walking through the valley of the shadow of death.” Shadows, darkness, deep darkness, and night. The darkness of grief is a darkness from which we wonder if we shall ever emerge. It is a darkness that no one else seems to understand, for we are surrounded by a festive season. Although the days have grown shorter, festive lights illumine night. Although our hearts may be saddened, we are surrounded by songs of joy. Although we long to be alone with our quiet thoughts we are dragged into the crowd to share in a cheer we can barely muster. One supposes we must come along for the ride, and yet, no matter how many carols are sung, no matter how many lights are strung, no many how many parties are attended, we still feel deeply lost in a land of deep darkness and wandering about in the shadow of death.
The truth is that the darkness never dissipates so quickly. Contrary to the expectation of our culture that we should be able shift gears, to “get over it”, to tune in to the season, the dawn comes slowly and gently. As I have related before, I like to rise early in the morning. Sometimes I look out the window and watch the sunrise. In my former life as a commuter, out the window of my train, I used to like to watch the sun come up and the sky gently illumined. First comes a faint glow, barely noticeable, then comes a soft light, perhaps some colour. The faints lights that shine like moments in the night, the stars, begin to fade, to be replaced by the rising sun, and even on the coldest morning, the warmth of its rays -- what a blessing the gentle sunrise is to us, and so different from the abrupt flick of the switch that brings about man-made light.
I suppose this is what the world expects of us when we are in our grief and we come into the Christmas season, that we should flick a switch and all shall be well with our broken hearts. But God does not ask this of us. God invites us to be present to our pain, sorrow and grief. God allows us to journey through the land of deep darkness, for is not the night God’s dominion as much as the day? And although the night feels cold and lonely, we are not alone, for as we journey through that land of darkness, through the valley of the shadow, God our shepherd is with us. We may not be able to always detect his presence, but we know his promise. And we know that the dawn comes gently.
The light does indeed shine in the darkness, but it is not the light of feigned happiness, nor is it the light of false festivity, rather, it is the faint sparkle of a star that reminds us that the darkness is never all-encompassing, or the glow on the horizon that says the day is coming, not just yet, but slowly, gently, warmly, tenderly. It is the warmth that is felt when we realize that we are not alone on the journey through the night but feel the presence of another who understands the journey we are making. It is in these things that the light shines through. For as the Christ is present will all those who make merry this season with song, and food and drink, and dance, so too is the Christ present with those who shed a tear and long once again for a warm and loving embrace. His light is the light of all people, those who dance and those who mourn. May you feel his warm embrace and catch a glimpse of his gentle dawning light this Advent and Christmastide.
c. 2009 The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Your Redemption Draweth Nigh! A Homily for Advent I, Year C, 2009
Homily for Advent 1, Year C, 2009
Sunday, November 29th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 21:25-36
“Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
-- Luke 21:28
I am an early riser. I am also an avid listener to CBC radio. By the time I get into my car in the morning I have often listened to the newscast about a half dozen times. I don’t like to miss it even when I’ve already heard the news several times that morning. While there may be much overlap, the national news at the top of the hour is different from the local news on the half hour. Then there are the interviews and commentary in-between, and of course, there is always the breaking news. Often, I will be able to catch the beginning of the program, “The Current,” on my way to work, and on my way back down to the church for evening meetings, I enjoy “As it Happens,” both of which reflect on current news events with insightful and provocative interviews. It is nice to end my day driving home from evening meetings listening to “Ideas,” a thoughtful program that features documentary presentations on subjects of an intellectual nature. If I am out during the day visiting I often pick up bits and pieces of programming and catch up on arts and entertainment news and commentary on my way to and from visits and meetings. It is a wonderful world of news, is it not?
One day this week I couldn’t take it any more. I shut off the radio and slipped in one of my favourite Frank Sinatra CDs and breathed a sigh of relief as the “Chairman of the Board” crooned on, “Come fly with me, come fly, come fly away…”
Perhaps you will know that feeling. There is a lot going on in the world, in our lives, in our workplaces, and in our homes. If we don’t have enough confusion and trouble in our own circles we are more than willing to invite the confusion and trouble of the world into our lives by turning on the radio, the television, or the internet. And while it is wonderful to know what is going on out there, and I am all for exposing ourselves to a broad range of thoughts, ideas, and information, sometimes it can seem a bit much. Sometimes, it can seem as if the world is coming apart, locally on the half-hour and globally every hour, with traffic and weather on “the tens.”
“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faints from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world…” No wonder we want to fly away, whether it be escaping simply through the words of a Sinatra song, or more seriously, and more tragically for some, the decision to give up on life and the world altogether.
Yet, it is at this precise moment, the moment in which we want to escape that we hear the command, “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption draweth nigh!” What? Amidst the confusion of nations; amidst the confusion of our homes; amidst the confusion of voices around us; amidst distress, loss, foreboding and fear, our redemption draweth nigh? When these things happens our natural tendency is to run for the hills, to hide our faces, to “duck and cover,” but no – stand up, raise your head, your salvation is near!
This is a shocking command because contrary to what many people may think the Christian faith has never been about escaping a terrible world and its apparent hopeless plight. In the early of Christianity a heresy arose called Gnosticism. One of its principal errors was divorcing of the spiritual from the material. In Gnostic thought the material world is bad and the spiritual world is good. In Gnostic thought the redeemer is the one who delivers the enlightened believer from the evil material world into the spiritual realm. But our Christian faith is entirely rooted and grounded in a God who enters into the material world not to destroy it, nor to ferret us out of it, but to redeem in, restore, it remake it. And in all of this, we are invited to be God’s co-creators.
It is precisely at the moment when we are overwhelmed; it is precisely in the moment when we feel like abandoning hope in the world God has created; it is precisely in the moment when we long to fly away, that God enters in. God enters in to bring hope to those who suffer violence at the hand of another, to break the rod of the oppressor. God enters in to comfort and weep with those whose hearts are broken, those who have lost one so dear to them. God enters in to calm the souls of those who are afraid, who have become immobilized by anxiety, depression and hopelessness. And God enters in as the events of the hurting world seem oh so overwhelming to those of us who long only for peace and tranquility amongst nations. God enters in not to destroy this world and the men and women in it, but to redeem the Earth and all its peoples.
“I look from afar, and Lo! I see the power of God coming and a cloud covering the whole Earth!” (From the Matin Responsary for Advent)
Therefore, we shall not run to the hills or flee from the world, as tempting as the words “come fly with me” may be. Rather we shall be alert, stand tall, and lift up our heads in joyful anticipation that God is about to do a new thing. Let us go out to meet him and say, “Art thou he that should come and reign over thy people Israel?” Surely he is the one. Our redemption, and the redemption of the whole world, as troubled as it is, is drawing nigh.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 29th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 21:25-36
“Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
-- Luke 21:28
I am an early riser. I am also an avid listener to CBC radio. By the time I get into my car in the morning I have often listened to the newscast about a half dozen times. I don’t like to miss it even when I’ve already heard the news several times that morning. While there may be much overlap, the national news at the top of the hour is different from the local news on the half hour. Then there are the interviews and commentary in-between, and of course, there is always the breaking news. Often, I will be able to catch the beginning of the program, “The Current,” on my way to work, and on my way back down to the church for evening meetings, I enjoy “As it Happens,” both of which reflect on current news events with insightful and provocative interviews. It is nice to end my day driving home from evening meetings listening to “Ideas,” a thoughtful program that features documentary presentations on subjects of an intellectual nature. If I am out during the day visiting I often pick up bits and pieces of programming and catch up on arts and entertainment news and commentary on my way to and from visits and meetings. It is a wonderful world of news, is it not?
One day this week I couldn’t take it any more. I shut off the radio and slipped in one of my favourite Frank Sinatra CDs and breathed a sigh of relief as the “Chairman of the Board” crooned on, “Come fly with me, come fly, come fly away…”
Perhaps you will know that feeling. There is a lot going on in the world, in our lives, in our workplaces, and in our homes. If we don’t have enough confusion and trouble in our own circles we are more than willing to invite the confusion and trouble of the world into our lives by turning on the radio, the television, or the internet. And while it is wonderful to know what is going on out there, and I am all for exposing ourselves to a broad range of thoughts, ideas, and information, sometimes it can seem a bit much. Sometimes, it can seem as if the world is coming apart, locally on the half-hour and globally every hour, with traffic and weather on “the tens.”
“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faints from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world…” No wonder we want to fly away, whether it be escaping simply through the words of a Sinatra song, or more seriously, and more tragically for some, the decision to give up on life and the world altogether.
Yet, it is at this precise moment, the moment in which we want to escape that we hear the command, “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption draweth nigh!” What? Amidst the confusion of nations; amidst the confusion of our homes; amidst the confusion of voices around us; amidst distress, loss, foreboding and fear, our redemption draweth nigh? When these things happens our natural tendency is to run for the hills, to hide our faces, to “duck and cover,” but no – stand up, raise your head, your salvation is near!
This is a shocking command because contrary to what many people may think the Christian faith has never been about escaping a terrible world and its apparent hopeless plight. In the early of Christianity a heresy arose called Gnosticism. One of its principal errors was divorcing of the spiritual from the material. In Gnostic thought the material world is bad and the spiritual world is good. In Gnostic thought the redeemer is the one who delivers the enlightened believer from the evil material world into the spiritual realm. But our Christian faith is entirely rooted and grounded in a God who enters into the material world not to destroy it, nor to ferret us out of it, but to redeem in, restore, it remake it. And in all of this, we are invited to be God’s co-creators.
It is precisely at the moment when we are overwhelmed; it is precisely in the moment when we feel like abandoning hope in the world God has created; it is precisely in the moment when we long to fly away, that God enters in. God enters in to bring hope to those who suffer violence at the hand of another, to break the rod of the oppressor. God enters in to comfort and weep with those whose hearts are broken, those who have lost one so dear to them. God enters in to calm the souls of those who are afraid, who have become immobilized by anxiety, depression and hopelessness. And God enters in as the events of the hurting world seem oh so overwhelming to those of us who long only for peace and tranquility amongst nations. God enters in not to destroy this world and the men and women in it, but to redeem the Earth and all its peoples.
“I look from afar, and Lo! I see the power of God coming and a cloud covering the whole Earth!” (From the Matin Responsary for Advent)
Therefore, we shall not run to the hills or flee from the world, as tempting as the words “come fly with me” may be. Rather we shall be alert, stand tall, and lift up our heads in joyful anticipation that God is about to do a new thing. Let us go out to meet him and say, “Art thou he that should come and reign over thy people Israel?” Surely he is the one. Our redemption, and the redemption of the whole world, as troubled as it is, is drawing nigh.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, November 20, 2009
A Story of Three Kings - A Homily for the Feast of St. Edmund the Martyr
Homily for the Feast of St. Edmund-the-Martyr
Friday, November 20th, 2009
Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Kings 23.21-25, 29-30a
A Story of Three Kings --
--not the three kings we normally think about in Epiphanytide, but rather three kings from different times and places, but all united under the banner of faithfulness and self-offering.
The First king – Josiah
Following a period of faithlessness, turmoil and confusion, a new king arises, a faithful king, one that we are told loves the Lord with all his heart, soul and might. One who returns to the Law of the Lord. We are told that in his time, the Passover is celebrated again for the first time in many years. The portion of the text we do not read today reminds us that the Lord’s wrath was still kindled against Judah for its sins. Our text then picks up again and we then learn that Josiah perishes in a battle with the Egyptians. His servants carry him back in a chariot, the throne of a great king, to be buried in Jerusalem amidst great honour. In a time of turmoil, faithlessness and broken humanity, the Lord raised up a faithful king, unlike any before or since, we are told, to be a sign to his people. The image of Josiah is a powerful one, an image appropriated throughout the ages of the faithful monarch who reforms a broken society. Diarmaid MacCulloch, a historian of sixteenth century Church History suggests that the boy king, Edward VI, was a new Josiah, bringing restoring true religion and piety to his people.
The Second King – The Christ
Then comes another king, the King of Kings, upon whom so much expectation is placed. As we approach the eve of the celebration of his reign, of his enthronement as king of kings and lord of lords, we are constantly called to remember that his throne is a cross and his crown a crown of thorns. He rides not on a warrior’s chariot, but on a lowly donkey; his birthplace is not a palace but a stable; his followers not a courtly retinue, but a rag-tag band of itinerants who have chosen unemployment over the honour of riches. Yet in this king’s reign, restoration is accomplished – restoration and reconciliation, the very heart of true religion. Faithfulness and self-offering, not the grasping of power and authority are the things that transform a broken world. He is incarnation of faithfulness and self-offering that Josiah could only embody in “type” and “sign”. The Christ is the fulfillment of the type and sign of faithful Josiah.
The Third King – Edmund the Martyr
In 870 in East Anglia, we meet our third king, Edmund, whose feast day we celebrate today. Should we seek the details of horrific and sensational death we shall find them in Edmund’s martyrdom – tied to a tree, scourged, pierced with an arrow, and finally decapitated by Viking marauders. The cause of his martyrdom was simple – he refused to renounce his faith and his fealty to his Lord and master. He would have been allowed to live had he renounced his faith and ruled as a vassal king to Viking overlords. Yet, Edmund knew that he could only serve one Lord and master, and it wasn’t the Vikings. Consider his death – scourged, tied to a tree, his body pierced. He took up his cross indeed and followed in the footsteps of his Lord and King. Another legend tells us that he was decapitated and his head thrown into the woods. His followers began looking for the head and calling out to it, “Father, where are you!?” To which the lost head beckoned back, “I am here, my sons!” They searched and searched and followed the voice until it was found under the watchful eye of a starving wolf. The wolf had not eaten the head but had protected it. Edmund’s followers retrieved the head and reunited it with the body. The wolf, sent by God, disappeared again into the forest. Edmund was buried in the place that is now known as Bury St. Edmunds. We are told that one hundred years later Edmund was exhumed and his head had reattached to his body with only a thin red line on his neck to indicate his martyrdom. His skin and flesh were soft and pure as the driven snow.
In his wonderful book, Albion: The Origins of the English Imagination, Peter Ackroyd speaks about the literature of this period (in particular Beowulf, but certainly this could be applied to such legends as that of Edmund) as an act of the historical imagination. Surely such stories of Edmund, rooted in the fact of his martyrdom speak to the more profound realities of faithfulness and self-offering, and the yet more profound reality of resurrection. I would venture to say that in the gift of imagination, God grants us the ability to deepen the understanding of our eyes of faith but what was true about Edmund was not simply that he followed in the footsteps of his Lord and Master amidst the reality of a brutal, broken world, but the reality that though his body was brutalized his spirit could not be destroyed. The metaphor of pure soft skin and a re-attached head speak to the spiritual reality that violence, anger, brutality and hate cannot destroy us. Death will not and never shall have dominion over us. This is what the Reign of Christ means to us. The sting of death has been swallowed up in the faithfulness and self-offering of Love Divine.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Friday, November 20th, 2009
Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Kings 23.21-25, 29-30a
A Story of Three Kings --
--not the three kings we normally think about in Epiphanytide, but rather three kings from different times and places, but all united under the banner of faithfulness and self-offering.
The First king – Josiah
Following a period of faithlessness, turmoil and confusion, a new king arises, a faithful king, one that we are told loves the Lord with all his heart, soul and might. One who returns to the Law of the Lord. We are told that in his time, the Passover is celebrated again for the first time in many years. The portion of the text we do not read today reminds us that the Lord’s wrath was still kindled against Judah for its sins. Our text then picks up again and we then learn that Josiah perishes in a battle with the Egyptians. His servants carry him back in a chariot, the throne of a great king, to be buried in Jerusalem amidst great honour. In a time of turmoil, faithlessness and broken humanity, the Lord raised up a faithful king, unlike any before or since, we are told, to be a sign to his people. The image of Josiah is a powerful one, an image appropriated throughout the ages of the faithful monarch who reforms a broken society. Diarmaid MacCulloch, a historian of sixteenth century Church History suggests that the boy king, Edward VI, was a new Josiah, bringing restoring true religion and piety to his people.
The Second King – The Christ
Then comes another king, the King of Kings, upon whom so much expectation is placed. As we approach the eve of the celebration of his reign, of his enthronement as king of kings and lord of lords, we are constantly called to remember that his throne is a cross and his crown a crown of thorns. He rides not on a warrior’s chariot, but on a lowly donkey; his birthplace is not a palace but a stable; his followers not a courtly retinue, but a rag-tag band of itinerants who have chosen unemployment over the honour of riches. Yet in this king’s reign, restoration is accomplished – restoration and reconciliation, the very heart of true religion. Faithfulness and self-offering, not the grasping of power and authority are the things that transform a broken world. He is incarnation of faithfulness and self-offering that Josiah could only embody in “type” and “sign”. The Christ is the fulfillment of the type and sign of faithful Josiah.
The Third King – Edmund the Martyr
In 870 in East Anglia, we meet our third king, Edmund, whose feast day we celebrate today. Should we seek the details of horrific and sensational death we shall find them in Edmund’s martyrdom – tied to a tree, scourged, pierced with an arrow, and finally decapitated by Viking marauders. The cause of his martyrdom was simple – he refused to renounce his faith and his fealty to his Lord and master. He would have been allowed to live had he renounced his faith and ruled as a vassal king to Viking overlords. Yet, Edmund knew that he could only serve one Lord and master, and it wasn’t the Vikings. Consider his death – scourged, tied to a tree, his body pierced. He took up his cross indeed and followed in the footsteps of his Lord and King. Another legend tells us that he was decapitated and his head thrown into the woods. His followers began looking for the head and calling out to it, “Father, where are you!?” To which the lost head beckoned back, “I am here, my sons!” They searched and searched and followed the voice until it was found under the watchful eye of a starving wolf. The wolf had not eaten the head but had protected it. Edmund’s followers retrieved the head and reunited it with the body. The wolf, sent by God, disappeared again into the forest. Edmund was buried in the place that is now known as Bury St. Edmunds. We are told that one hundred years later Edmund was exhumed and his head had reattached to his body with only a thin red line on his neck to indicate his martyrdom. His skin and flesh were soft and pure as the driven snow.
In his wonderful book, Albion: The Origins of the English Imagination, Peter Ackroyd speaks about the literature of this period (in particular Beowulf, but certainly this could be applied to such legends as that of Edmund) as an act of the historical imagination. Surely such stories of Edmund, rooted in the fact of his martyrdom speak to the more profound realities of faithfulness and self-offering, and the yet more profound reality of resurrection. I would venture to say that in the gift of imagination, God grants us the ability to deepen the understanding of our eyes of faith but what was true about Edmund was not simply that he followed in the footsteps of his Lord and Master amidst the reality of a brutal, broken world, but the reality that though his body was brutalized his spirit could not be destroyed. The metaphor of pure soft skin and a re-attached head speak to the spiritual reality that violence, anger, brutality and hate cannot destroy us. Death will not and never shall have dominion over us. This is what the Reign of Christ means to us. The sting of death has been swallowed up in the faithfulness and self-offering of Love Divine.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Birth Pangs of the New Creation: A Homily for Proper 33, Year B
Homily for Proper 33, Year B
Sunday, November 15th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 13:1-8
“For these are but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”
--Mark 13:8
What are we prepared to lose? What are we prepared to give up? We are learning that in spite of changing demographics in this community there are tremendous opportunities for the Kingdom of God to be experienced here in Thornhill. We are also learning that Holy Trinity can indeed be a part of sharing the Good News of that kingdom. We have recently received a report that indicates that there are over four thousand Anglicans that live within our parish boundaries. Furthermore, that report indicates that there are over ten thousand people that live within our parish boundaries that have no religious affiliation. We also learn that amongst those number there is a goodly percentage of those people under the age of twenty. Thus, in spite of what we might think, there is a tremendous mission field in this community. Even more exciting news, as we shall learn in more detail in the weeks ahead as the result of our third Natural Church Development Survey are released, is that we are becoming more comfortable about reaching out and sharing our faith with others. If “Back to Church Sunday” was any indication (approximately 50 people accepted invitations to join us that day), we are indeed becoming more and more confident about sharing our faith journey with those around us. We stand at the threshold of new and wondrous possibilities. God is calling us into a new day, and indeed into a new era. I believe that all signs indicate that we are ready to accept that call. There is a question though, of what we are willing to lose to journey into this new land and into this new era? The call is not without cost; no journey forward can be made without leaving something behind. What are we willing to give up?
As Jesus and his disciples exited the Temple, that grand edifice which was a monument the architectural vision of Herod the Great under whose patronage this latest version was constructed, the disciples of Jesus marveled at its grandeur, beauty, and apparent permanence, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Their rapture in the architectural magnificence of the Temple was interrupted by the words of Jesus, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone of them will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” How hard it must have been to hear these words. The Temple stood as a monument to their faith, the greatness of their God, and was considered to be the very place where heaven met earth, yet Jesus claimed that its great stones would fall. And he was right. Within fifty years the Temple was destroyed and both Judaism and Christianity were left to discern the religious and spiritual landscape into which God was now calling them.
The spiritual landscape in times of discernment will seem fraught with obstacles indeed. It may seem like the edifice with which we are so comfortable and so enraptured is crumbling down. There may be temptations to go off course, to follow different captains, it may seem like we are at war with one another. But Jesus offers a word of hope, fear not, “for these are but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”
This section of Mark’s Gospel is the beginning of a section we call the “little apocalypse”, because it goes on to describe an apocalyptic end-times scenario. I have spoken before about how difficult this imagery may be to us mainstream Christians, but let us consider this passage in the context of Mark’s message. We are now drawing close to the end of our liturgical year, which will culminate next week with the feast of the Reign of Christ. We will cease reading Mark’s Gospel until three years hence when we take it up again. Cast your mind back to last year at this time when we began talking about Mark’s message of Jesus. Near the beginning of the Gospel, Jesus introduces his mission with the words, “repent, believe, for the kingdom of God has come near.” Literally, the kingdom is at hand. Throughout this year this has been the interpretive key to which we have always turned as we have journeyed with St. Mark, the kingdom is at hand, drawing near, breaking through as we speak. It is this message that Jesus repeats at the beginning of the Markan “little apocalypse” as we draw near to the concluding our reading of the Gospel of Mark, namely, we are now experiencing the birth pangs of the kingdom. This is the oft-neglected hope of apocalyptic literature, the end is nigh, but so too is the beginning!
Those who have experienced giving birth, and those who have witnessed a birth will know that it is not an easy thing. Perhaps the phrase “birth pangs” is even too light a word. There is first the tremendous physical pain of birth itself, which is accompanied by the fear that something might go wrong, and then when the child comes, so too comes shocking realization that the life of family will never be the same again with the addition of this new member. Uncertainty, upheaval, suffering, pain, trauma, fear, and yet new life, new joy, new birth, new hope -- this is the message of Jesus as his disciples marvel at the magnificent edifice of the Herodian Temple. It is time for one glory to give way to another. A baby is on the way. What we have experienced to date in our life together has been wonderful, has it not? The edifice of our shared life is grand and something to marvel at, but Jesus is here to remind us, don’t cling to it too dearly, for the best is yet to come. What are you willing to give up? Which stones have to fall? Shall we choose to move forward as this era ends and another begins? Can we face the day with bravery, courage, and faith that this is not the end, but rather the birth of a new glorious day?
I believe that we stand like the disciples marveling at an edifice, for us it is the edifice of Anglican Christianity in Thornhill. We have reason to celebrate it, rejoice in it, marvel at it, and all that it has been to us. But if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, our Lord stands in our midst reminding us that he is about to do a new thing. This is not the end, but rather a new beginning. When a child is born our lives must change, but what a joy it is to change when we hold that lovely child in our arms and experience new life and new hope. We will have to give up many things precious to us, but who would not give them up when we realize that the child who is about to be born in our midst is, once again, the little child of Bethlehem in who brings life to world?
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 15th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 13:1-8
“For these are but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”
--Mark 13:8
What are we prepared to lose? What are we prepared to give up? We are learning that in spite of changing demographics in this community there are tremendous opportunities for the Kingdom of God to be experienced here in Thornhill. We are also learning that Holy Trinity can indeed be a part of sharing the Good News of that kingdom. We have recently received a report that indicates that there are over four thousand Anglicans that live within our parish boundaries. Furthermore, that report indicates that there are over ten thousand people that live within our parish boundaries that have no religious affiliation. We also learn that amongst those number there is a goodly percentage of those people under the age of twenty. Thus, in spite of what we might think, there is a tremendous mission field in this community. Even more exciting news, as we shall learn in more detail in the weeks ahead as the result of our third Natural Church Development Survey are released, is that we are becoming more comfortable about reaching out and sharing our faith with others. If “Back to Church Sunday” was any indication (approximately 50 people accepted invitations to join us that day), we are indeed becoming more and more confident about sharing our faith journey with those around us. We stand at the threshold of new and wondrous possibilities. God is calling us into a new day, and indeed into a new era. I believe that all signs indicate that we are ready to accept that call. There is a question though, of what we are willing to lose to journey into this new land and into this new era? The call is not without cost; no journey forward can be made without leaving something behind. What are we willing to give up?
As Jesus and his disciples exited the Temple, that grand edifice which was a monument the architectural vision of Herod the Great under whose patronage this latest version was constructed, the disciples of Jesus marveled at its grandeur, beauty, and apparent permanence, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Their rapture in the architectural magnificence of the Temple was interrupted by the words of Jesus, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone of them will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” How hard it must have been to hear these words. The Temple stood as a monument to their faith, the greatness of their God, and was considered to be the very place where heaven met earth, yet Jesus claimed that its great stones would fall. And he was right. Within fifty years the Temple was destroyed and both Judaism and Christianity were left to discern the religious and spiritual landscape into which God was now calling them.
The spiritual landscape in times of discernment will seem fraught with obstacles indeed. It may seem like the edifice with which we are so comfortable and so enraptured is crumbling down. There may be temptations to go off course, to follow different captains, it may seem like we are at war with one another. But Jesus offers a word of hope, fear not, “for these are but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”
This section of Mark’s Gospel is the beginning of a section we call the “little apocalypse”, because it goes on to describe an apocalyptic end-times scenario. I have spoken before about how difficult this imagery may be to us mainstream Christians, but let us consider this passage in the context of Mark’s message. We are now drawing close to the end of our liturgical year, which will culminate next week with the feast of the Reign of Christ. We will cease reading Mark’s Gospel until three years hence when we take it up again. Cast your mind back to last year at this time when we began talking about Mark’s message of Jesus. Near the beginning of the Gospel, Jesus introduces his mission with the words, “repent, believe, for the kingdom of God has come near.” Literally, the kingdom is at hand. Throughout this year this has been the interpretive key to which we have always turned as we have journeyed with St. Mark, the kingdom is at hand, drawing near, breaking through as we speak. It is this message that Jesus repeats at the beginning of the Markan “little apocalypse” as we draw near to the concluding our reading of the Gospel of Mark, namely, we are now experiencing the birth pangs of the kingdom. This is the oft-neglected hope of apocalyptic literature, the end is nigh, but so too is the beginning!
Those who have experienced giving birth, and those who have witnessed a birth will know that it is not an easy thing. Perhaps the phrase “birth pangs” is even too light a word. There is first the tremendous physical pain of birth itself, which is accompanied by the fear that something might go wrong, and then when the child comes, so too comes shocking realization that the life of family will never be the same again with the addition of this new member. Uncertainty, upheaval, suffering, pain, trauma, fear, and yet new life, new joy, new birth, new hope -- this is the message of Jesus as his disciples marvel at the magnificent edifice of the Herodian Temple. It is time for one glory to give way to another. A baby is on the way. What we have experienced to date in our life together has been wonderful, has it not? The edifice of our shared life is grand and something to marvel at, but Jesus is here to remind us, don’t cling to it too dearly, for the best is yet to come. What are you willing to give up? Which stones have to fall? Shall we choose to move forward as this era ends and another begins? Can we face the day with bravery, courage, and faith that this is not the end, but rather the birth of a new glorious day?
I believe that we stand like the disciples marveling at an edifice, for us it is the edifice of Anglican Christianity in Thornhill. We have reason to celebrate it, rejoice in it, marvel at it, and all that it has been to us. But if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, our Lord stands in our midst reminding us that he is about to do a new thing. This is not the end, but rather a new beginning. When a child is born our lives must change, but what a joy it is to change when we hold that lovely child in our arms and experience new life and new hope. We will have to give up many things precious to us, but who would not give them up when we realize that the child who is about to be born in our midst is, once again, the little child of Bethlehem in who brings life to world?
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Gift of Joy and Wonder: A Homily for All Saints Day and a Celebration of Holy Baptism
Homily for All Saints Day, Year B, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 11:32-44
Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?
--John 11:41
The culminating prayer in our baptismal liturgy petitions God to give the candidates of baptism “the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works.” I certainly realize that as we travel this road of life that it can often be difficult to find and experience joy and wonder. Our souls have such a deep longing for these things, though. The birth of children and the welcoming of these children into the household of God is a moment in which we seek to claim God’s joy and wonder for them and for ourselves. It is a moment in which we see the road of life begin to open with glorious possibilities. It is a road of mystery, in the best sense of sacred mystery, in which we affirm our belief that God’s loving hand and life-giving Spirit will forever guide and animate the journey of this life for each and every Christian person.
This is a claim we make even amidst the troubles of the day. We have seen a people gripped by fear this past week as worries about the H1H1 virus have caused long line-ups at vaccination clinics. To a large degree, we have cause to be frightened, for we have seen the all-too frightening consequences of this virus. Fear exerts a power over us that threatens to tear the fabric of society and our souls. Whether or not the vaccination program has been competently administered is not a matter that is with my expertise and I am not capable of judging it. Yet, consider the anger, frustration, and panic that has been exhibited as people fear they will lose their place in line, or not get the vaccination in time. Consider what such anger, frustration and panic does to our community, and consider what it does to our souls.
In a town called Bethany, not far from Jerusalem, a dear friend of Jesus had fallen ill. Jesus, that great healer, did not get there on time and Lazarus died. When he finally arrived, Lazarus’ sister Mary was beside herself with grief. Panic and perhaps even anger had given way to despondency. She dropped to the feet of her Lord and wept bitterly, “Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And he joined her in her tears, Jesus himself wept.
Then words of derision came from the crowd, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” We know the rest of the story, the stone is rolled away, and Jesus utters the words “Lazarus, come forth!” And the dead man walks again.
For those in our lives who walk with pain and loss, in particular the loss of ones so dear, this passage may, on the surface, be cold comfort. We do not see the dead raised as Lazarus was raised. Yet, I would ask us to consider one oft-neglected phrase uttered by Jesus before he raised Lazarus, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”
Jesus entered a town filled with fear, with anger, with frustration about him and about his ministry. He was met with derision and unbelief. Yet as the people wept, he wept, and as the people’s hearts were filled with trouble, so was his heart troubled. He joined them in depth of their despair and suffered alongside them -- Lazarus was his friend, too, remember.
But even as his heart was troubled and even as he wept with them, he reminded them of a promise he made, that if they believed they would see God’s glory. On that day in Bethany, when belief was so hard, God’s glory broke through. The miracle they witnessed was a miracle that pointed to the greatest miracle this world has ever known, the Resurrection of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. The raising of Lazarus, as grand as it might seem to us who have not witnessed such things, is but a sign of the act of God that would restore life to the world. On that day in Bethany, when all seemed lost, God revealed his glory to a hurting and wounded people. He gave them the gift of faith, of belief, and the gift of joy and wonder.
Baptism is not inoculation to the pains and hurts of this life. It is not a vaccine that will protect us from illness or mortal death. Rather, baptism is the claim of a loving God on our lives that we shall never be left alone in such moments and that even in the midst of pain, grief, loss, frustration, anger and fear, God will reveal his glory. God does not bring these things upon us, and yet, somehow in divine mystery, just as he did in a lowly stable, God enters in, unexpected and unbidden and we behold his glory. Baptism is about saying “yes” to that glory; it is about believing in the light that shines in the darkness.
Thus, we welcome today these new Christians. We know that at times their lives will be easy and at other times, difficult. Yet we welcome them in full confidence and knowledge that they belong to Christ and that at the most unexpected moments along the road, he shall reveal himself to them and they shall marvel with joy and wonder at all his glorious works.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 11:32-44
Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?
--John 11:41
The culminating prayer in our baptismal liturgy petitions God to give the candidates of baptism “the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works.” I certainly realize that as we travel this road of life that it can often be difficult to find and experience joy and wonder. Our souls have such a deep longing for these things, though. The birth of children and the welcoming of these children into the household of God is a moment in which we seek to claim God’s joy and wonder for them and for ourselves. It is a moment in which we see the road of life begin to open with glorious possibilities. It is a road of mystery, in the best sense of sacred mystery, in which we affirm our belief that God’s loving hand and life-giving Spirit will forever guide and animate the journey of this life for each and every Christian person.
This is a claim we make even amidst the troubles of the day. We have seen a people gripped by fear this past week as worries about the H1H1 virus have caused long line-ups at vaccination clinics. To a large degree, we have cause to be frightened, for we have seen the all-too frightening consequences of this virus. Fear exerts a power over us that threatens to tear the fabric of society and our souls. Whether or not the vaccination program has been competently administered is not a matter that is with my expertise and I am not capable of judging it. Yet, consider the anger, frustration, and panic that has been exhibited as people fear they will lose their place in line, or not get the vaccination in time. Consider what such anger, frustration and panic does to our community, and consider what it does to our souls.
In a town called Bethany, not far from Jerusalem, a dear friend of Jesus had fallen ill. Jesus, that great healer, did not get there on time and Lazarus died. When he finally arrived, Lazarus’ sister Mary was beside herself with grief. Panic and perhaps even anger had given way to despondency. She dropped to the feet of her Lord and wept bitterly, “Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And he joined her in her tears, Jesus himself wept.
Then words of derision came from the crowd, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” We know the rest of the story, the stone is rolled away, and Jesus utters the words “Lazarus, come forth!” And the dead man walks again.
For those in our lives who walk with pain and loss, in particular the loss of ones so dear, this passage may, on the surface, be cold comfort. We do not see the dead raised as Lazarus was raised. Yet, I would ask us to consider one oft-neglected phrase uttered by Jesus before he raised Lazarus, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”
Jesus entered a town filled with fear, with anger, with frustration about him and about his ministry. He was met with derision and unbelief. Yet as the people wept, he wept, and as the people’s hearts were filled with trouble, so was his heart troubled. He joined them in depth of their despair and suffered alongside them -- Lazarus was his friend, too, remember.
But even as his heart was troubled and even as he wept with them, he reminded them of a promise he made, that if they believed they would see God’s glory. On that day in Bethany, when belief was so hard, God’s glory broke through. The miracle they witnessed was a miracle that pointed to the greatest miracle this world has ever known, the Resurrection of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. The raising of Lazarus, as grand as it might seem to us who have not witnessed such things, is but a sign of the act of God that would restore life to the world. On that day in Bethany, when all seemed lost, God revealed his glory to a hurting and wounded people. He gave them the gift of faith, of belief, and the gift of joy and wonder.
Baptism is not inoculation to the pains and hurts of this life. It is not a vaccine that will protect us from illness or mortal death. Rather, baptism is the claim of a loving God on our lives that we shall never be left alone in such moments and that even in the midst of pain, grief, loss, frustration, anger and fear, God will reveal his glory. God does not bring these things upon us, and yet, somehow in divine mystery, just as he did in a lowly stable, God enters in, unexpected and unbidden and we behold his glory. Baptism is about saying “yes” to that glory; it is about believing in the light that shines in the darkness.
Thus, we welcome today these new Christians. We know that at times their lives will be easy and at other times, difficult. Yet we welcome them in full confidence and knowledge that they belong to Christ and that at the most unexpected moments along the road, he shall reveal himself to them and they shall marvel with joy and wonder at all his glorious works.
c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
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