Out of the Deep - A Homily for Proper 13, Year B, 2012

Homily for Proper 13, Year B, 2012 Sunday, July 1^st, 2012
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 5:21-43, Psalm 130

“Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord; Lord hear my voice.”

-Psalm 130:1

The secularized world in which we live may seem like it has forgotten God.  For those of us who attend church, we may seem like strange creatures to our neighbours who have largely given up on church attendance, or never even attended church in the first place.  Of course there is all the bad press the church gets over abuse scandals, churches closing due to declining attendance, or the unveiling of our divisions over controversial issues.  There are many who look on and say they don’t want any part of a community that professes to believe in God, but does such bad job representing him to the world. Finally, there are those who have not been raised in any faith tradition at all, and for whom God is simply a fairy tale.  It may seem as the world has forgotten God, if ever it even knew him.

This may seem to be the case, although time and again I get signs that it is not actually the case.  It is not true. For you see, I have come to the firm conviction that our world is longing and thirsting to know the living God. People may not necessarily know what it is that they are seeking.  Often it is meaning in their lives.  Perhaps they are very successful and something is missing. Perhaps a child has come along and new life has opened up a new wondering for about the mystery and purpose of life.  Perhaps someone near and dear has been lost and the soul is crying out for hope in the midst of loss and meaning in the midst of meaninglessness. 

I find myself encountering each of these kinds of people, and many, many more, on a regular basis.  When a life change comes, it is often as if a fire is kindled in the soul, the flame may be small, but is has been kindled.  When crisis comes, it may burn with rage, and then threaten to quickly go out.  The words of the psalmist come to mind, “Out of the depths, I have called to you O Lord, hear my voice!”  The one who has lost their faith, or had no faith to begin with, may find themselves astonished to hear these words coming from the mouths.  And yet, how many, when faced with a challenging moment, a life-changing moment, or a moment of crisis have called to the Lord in need, not sure even if they believe in him.Our soul thirsts for the living God.

 St. Augustine famously wrote, “You have made us for yourself O Lord, and our souls are restless until they find their rest in thee.”  It seems to me that two of the characters in today’s gospel might know something of this longing.  The first is the leader of the synagogue, Jairus, who pleads with Jesus to help him as his little daughter has fallen ill and is at the point of death.  Jairus repeatedly begs and implores Jesus to come and lay hands on her.  Though we know little about Jairus, we assume he was a faithful Jew of his community, being the leader of his local synagogue.  How many of us, though, are faithful Christians and yet really act as if we don’t need God in our lives?  I like to imagine Jairus as that faithful believer who yet had become somewhat complacent in his faith.  It took the illness of his daughter to really pour himself out, to come to Jesus in great vulnerability, to plead with Jesus to save her.  It took a tragedy for him to come to God for help.

 The second character is the woman with the issue of blood that had gone on for many years.  She had tried everything.  She had been to every doctor, she had tried every quack remedy, and she was not well.  She heard Jesus was coming, and as with so many of us, reaching out to God is her last resort.  When all else has failed, perhaps God can help me, we think.  Of course, we know it should be the other way around, but fools that we are, we try everything else first.  We look on prayer as the last resort.  And so, she thinks, if only I can touch the hem of his garment.

 Both Jairus and the nameless woman reach out in faith, even if their faith was weak.

 What is faith?  It is taking a risk.  It is being vulnerable before the one who created the universe, who created us, and in whose hands our fate rests.  It is easy to pretend he doesn’t exist.  Perhaps we are afraid of his power, but more likely, we are afraid of ourselves.  We are afraid that if we come to the one who knows us best, our deepest fears, insecurities and sinfulness will be unmasked.  We hide ourselves from the one who knows us deeply whether we wish it or not out of fear that our deepest secrets will be known. In hiding from him we are hiding from ourselves.

And yet, when we approach him, when we kneel before him, what do we encounter?  Is it fierce judgement or wrath?  Is it condemnation?  Do our mistakes and our sins define us and condemn us?  No.  As we open ourselves in vulnerability, we are met with compassion, we are met with love, we are met with mercy.  We are met with the words, “your faith has made you well!”  We are met with the words “Get up!” and we are fed with good things. 

Jairus and the woman reached out.  They took a risk. For Jairus, it was a moment of crisis and threatening loss, for the woman, it was a lifetime of pain and isolation that she could no longer bear.  Each of them reached out, took a risk, took the leap of faith.

It seems to me that people have a longing for the living God.  The stories of Jairus and the woman with the issue of blood are not foreign stories.  People in every age are met with crisis. People in every age come to the ends of their ropes.  People in every age; in this age, whether or not they believe, respond to a spark that is kindled in times of need, and cry out, “Help me Lord!” and murmur, “if only I could touch the hem of his garment!” 

On a recent hospital visit I passed a young man with Down’s syndrome who was with a young lady, his sister as it turned out.  I had been visiting a parishioner and was getting a cup of tea before I left the hospital. They smiled as we passed each other.  Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.  They man and woman had come back, and the young lady introduced me to her brother, who said he wanted to ask me something.  He said to me, “can you please pray for my mother who is very sick?”  I said of course I would, and in fact, we prayed together in that moment for his mother. 

On another occasion I was visiting my own father at Sunnybrook after one of his many back surgeries.  My mother and I were walking along and a woman and teenage boy stopped me.  “Are you a priest?” they asked.  I responded affirmatively.  The woman told me that her husband was dying and wondered if I could come up and say a prayer for him.  So I asked my mother to wait for me and I went with them and offered prayers in his room.

In both cases, it took a lot of courage, a great deal of vulnerability, and the spark of faith to reach out to someone they didn’t know to ask for prayers for those they loved.  God plants the seed of faith in our hearts, though. God offers courage when it seems impossible to stir it up.  God offers strength when we are weak and vulnerable.  And most beautifully and wonderfully, God offers hope in the midst of crisis.

These are but a couple of examples of people reaching out.  It is one of the reasons I wear the collar so much in public.  God only knows when people’s hearts will be stirred, but many people today don’t know how to reach out to God.  The role of the church is to be open to those who may be so stirred, to be attentive to those calls for help and those crying for hope.  It is our role to be present as a way of proclaiming that God is indeed with them, that God is loving and merciful, and that God hears their prayers and will not leave them alone.

People are seeking God, people are longing for God.  Those of the 1960’s who proclaimed God dead are wrong.  The modern radical atheist movement that claims there is no God is wrong.  God is not dead.  People are reaching out to God, but more importantly, God is reaching out to them, and to us.  There is a holy longing taking place in this world.  God longs for his people and his people long for him. May we have the grace to recognize the holy longing of God and the holy longing of his people and choose to be a part of this wonderful story and hope-filled story of grace.

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

It's All About Jesus - A Homily for the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist, 2012

Homily for the Birth of John the Baptist, 2012

Sunday, June 24^th, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

“Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!”  How many of us remember these iconic words?  They were, of course, the introductory words of the Tonight Show.  Every show began with the inimitable Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson this way.  The depth and enthusiasm of Ed’s booming voice along with the music of Doc Severinson’s Tonight Show Band would get the audience pumped up and excited for that diminutive and dry comedian to appear from behind the curtain and begin his opening monologue.  Johnny might banter back and forth a bit with Ed, and Ed might even appear on the couch for a while, next to Johnny’s desk, but as the evening progressed Ed would move farther down the couch as Johnny took centre stage and his guests arrived.  Occasionally, we were reminded of Ed’s presence through his hearty laugh, his affirmations, “Yes sir, you are correct sir!”, but Ed was now usually outside the frame of the camera.  The man who opened the show with such fanfare quickly disappeared from view, his primary role being to introduce the star of the program.

Back in 1992 when I was working on my undergraduate degree at York University, I took my first New Testament course, taught by Professor Steve Mason.  At the time, I did not realize that I was studying under a man destined to become one of the great scholars our day in the field of inter-testamental studies.  Mason was (and is) a great teacher.  His thorough knowledge of the period and of the texts we studied was remarkable.  More remarkable though, was the way he helped us come to an understanding of what we studied.  Both Athena and I took courses with Mason, and it is amazing how frequently when we are discussing the biblical and other ancient texts that some of what we learned from Mason comes back to us and his words echo in our ears.

Professor Mason might be horrified that the example I now share with you is one that stuck with me.  Perhaps it is irreverent, and maybe it is on some level an over-simplification, but I think the analogy rings true enough that it remains a useful one for me, and it is about the role of John the Baptist in the gospels.  To this day I remember Mason telling us that if you want to understand the role of John, you have think of him as Ed McMahon, to Jesus’ Carson. 

I think it rings true in each of the gospel stories.  In Mark the gospel begins abruptly with John the Baptist proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, yet it is made abundantly clear from the quotation from Isaiah, that John is simply the one that prepares the way.”  And immediately, Jesus appears on the scene.  As Mason said, it is as if John was there saying, “Heeeeere’s Jesus!”  John immediately disappears from centre stage.   He shows up a few more times, like Ed on the couch, and his actions are reported by the disciples, like Ed’s laughter breaking through once in a while.  Eventually we learn that John is beheaded… I think the Tonight Show analogy eventually breaks down a bit here.  What is important, though, is that although the narrative begins with John, it is not ultimately about John.  It is about Jesus.

The Gospel of Luke gives even more information about the birth of John the Baptist.  In fact, the lengthy first chapter of St. Luke features two infancy narratives running in parallel, the birth of John the Baptist and the birth of Jesus.  One would think by the opening of the text, that the story would be about both figures, but after the baptism of Jesus by John, John slides into the background and Jesus takes centre stage.  It’s really all about Jesus.

In the third chapter of the Gospel of John, long after the baptism of Jesus, John the Baptist makes a surprise appearance, but this appearance is only to underscore to his own disciples that Jesus really is the one on they should be following.  He says plainly, “I am not the messiah,” and in fact shares with them that Jesus “must increase, but I must decrease.”  And so John slips away.  It is all about Jesus.

It’s not that John the Baptist didn’t have a robust career apart from Jesus.  There are other ancient sources that tell us about John the Baptist and give us some details that round out his character a bit more fully.  Lengthy, and sometimes highly speculative, scholarly treatments have been written about him.  Some try to link him up to the Qumran community of the Dead Sea Scrolls.  If I could push the Tonight Show analogy beyond what Mason did, even Ed McMahon had his own program at one point, Star Search. Only the true TV aficionados remember it, and it really wasn’t his claim to fame.  Ed McMahon shall forever be remembered as the one who introduced Carson.  And so it is for John the Baptist.  He is the one who first proclaimed Jesus.  It really is all about Jesus.

I think it behooves us to remember this.  Even for the greatest and last of the old-time prophets, it was not about him, but about the one about whom he prophesied and the one whom he proclaimed.  But that’s the point of a prophet isn’t it?  That’s the role of the preacher, isn’t it?  I would also suggest, that is the role of the church.  We are prone to turn inward; we can begin to think it is all about us, and all about the church.  We can forget who and what we are called to proclaim.  The church can become self-obsessed.  We can worry more about our survival than about proclaiming the kingdom of God.  We can worry more about our story than the story of the living God who comes to us in Christ Jesus.  To be sure, we play a part in that story, but we must know our part, as John the Baptist did, “I must decrease that he might increase.”  It’s about the living God who meets us in Jesus Christ.

We have a role in the story, but everything we are and shall be is shaped by our relationship with Jesus.  We are created for him, we are transformed through him, we are saved by him, and we live unto him.  Most importantly, though, we are called to proclaim him to each generation afresh.  To know our place in the story is not to be tethered to a constraining role, but rather to be freed from the things that distract us from our mission, to prepare a way in the wilderness for our God.

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

with apologies to Steve Mason, Ed McMahon & Johnny Carson

                                                                                                                              

With What Can We Compare the Kingdom of God? A Homily for Proper 11, Year B, 2012

Homily for Proper 11, Year B, 2012

Sunday, June 17^th, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

“With what shall we compare the kingdom of God…”

-Mark 4:30

Life has its little ironies, and one of them is that one of Ontario’s great agricultural communities should find itself saddled with a priest who knows less than next to nothing about farming.  Even more troubling, is that when you consider that when our Lord speaks in parables about the kingdom, he not infrequently resorts to agricultural metaphors to describe it.  One might think your clergy might take a more active interest in agricultural matters if only to truly and fully appreciate our Lord’s preaching about the kingdom.  This is probably why I have always found the writings of Paul so attractive, for you see, St. Paul was a city boy.  When he talked about the church and about his faith he used urban metaphors, the sort of thing I can get my head around a little bit more easily.  But this is the wonderful thing about the gospel, is it not?  The gospel is universal; we can understand it through employing images, metaphors, parables and illustrations from our varied contexts.  It is not for one race or nation, for one socio-economic group, or one demographic.  It is for everyone.  Its message is timeless and its purpose is the conversion of hearts in every place. 

When Jesus preached, he knew his audience.  When he preached to fishermen, he talked of casting nets and making fishermen into disciples by making them fishers of people.  When he talked to vintners, he spoke of vines and branches.  When he talked to farmers he talked of sowers, sowing and reaping.  In Mark 4 he is speaking to this latter group.  “What is the kingdom of God like?” he asks.  He could have just as easily talked about fishing, but these were not a sea-faring people, these were people of the land.  The kingdom is “as if someone would scatter some seed on the ground, and would sleep, and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.”  Now I don’t know much about farming, but I do know that when you plant a seed, in good time it sprouts and grows.  It is wise to tend the growing plant because nature can play tricks on us, there can be too much rain, or not enough rain, there can be pests and weeds.  The good farmer knows where to plant something, and in which soil.  It is amazing though, that even if none of things are in order, how often a plant will still grow without human assistance and  how resilient a plant can be, even when untended.  Nature has a cycle all its own. We can manipulate, tend, and intervene, but ultimately the process is a natural one, and it takes time.  Jesus underscores this point when he speaks of the farmer sleeping and rising, night and day, and the plant growing, we know not how.  The farmer sows and the farmer reaps, and while there may be much tending in between, he is involved in waiting game of sleeping and rising til the harvest comes: “The earth produces of itself,” Jesus adds, “first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head.  But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”

No how is any of this an illustration of the kingdom of God?  Of course, this is a challenge for a city boy like me to understand, but let me give it a go.  The first thing is that we have very little control over the growth of the seed.  To be sure, we can make interventions, we can observe and control some of the conditions, but so many things are out of our control.  Ultimately, we can do everything we can, but the success of the crop is beyond our control.  So it is with the kingdom.  God is in control.  We can run church programs, we can do everything in our power to bring success to our mission, but really, it is God who will bring the seed that has been planted to  the point of harvest.  Sometimes we forget this.  Sometimes we think it is all about us and what we can do to make the church and its mission a great success.  Clergy are particularly vulnerable to this temptation, and when we fail, it is a humbling experience, especially when someone reminds us, well, it was never really about you, was it?  It is about God.   God is in control.  It is his kingdom.  It is his church.  It is his seed.  It is his harvest. 

So what are we to do?  We are to sow the seed.  We are to reap the harvest.  But what of the time in between?  The thing the farmer must do is be faithful to the seed that was planted and have hope and faith that the seed will bear fruit.  One commentator puts it this way about the disciples, “they cannot control the manifestation of the Kingdom of God, nor force it, but neither should they be impatient or discouraged.  They are only to proclaim it.”   Oh, how impatient we are, and oh, how discouraged we become at times.  The seed doesn’t grow as quickly as we like or yield fruit in our time, yet, we must let God be God.  Our role is to proclaim hope in the seed that has been planted.  Our role is to wait patiently and in our waiting to share the good news of the coming harvest.  And what, we may ponder, is the seed that was planted that we proclaim? It is that in Jesus Christ incarnate, crucified, risen and glorified, God is transforming our lives in new and glorious ways.  He is forgiving our sins, redeeming us from slavery, restoring broken relationships, and leading us into everlasting life. When we see the seed begin to sprout, when what appeared a lifeless thing begins, even in the smallest way to burst forth in life, we have a tiny glimpse of what the final harvest will look like, and we live in hope.  We are encouraged, and in our encouragement we proclaim that hope to others.

This led Jesus to another parable, to another metaphor, or more precisely, a simile, about the kingdom: with what can we compare the kingdom of God? It is like a mustard seed.  Thankfully, for one like me who has never seen a mustard seed, Jesus gives us a little lesson, “it is the smallest of the seeds when sown on earth, yet when it is sown it grows up and become the greatest of shrubs.”  Even to the agriculturally challenged this parable is fairly clear, from little packages come great things.  I suppose this is one of the truisms and joys of farming and gardening. It is so gratifying to see something wonderful come from practically nothing, from the most meagre of beginnings.   God takes what seems lifeless and gives it life.  God takes what is small and makes something great of it.  Most importantly, though, God give it purpose, for you note that he does not end the parable simple with the growth of the mustard seed into a great shrub.  No.  He tells us that it is a place in which the birds of the air make a home and find shelter in the shade.  It calls to mind another of Jesus’ sayings, “come unto me all that are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I shall give you rest.”  Or perhaps another, “abide in me as I abide in you.”  God give purpose to the kingdom.  The kingdom of God is a place where we can find rest for weary souls, succour in our discouragement, a home when others turn us away.   

It is interesting that he uses the metaphor of a shrub, though.  The Old Testament prophets often spoke about the coming messianic age as the restoration of the great cedars of Lebanon.  Now that is a majestic image. Instead, Jesus has a little fun with the metaphor.  The kingdom is not a mighty cedar, but rather a shrub.  It is the greatest of shrubs, mind you, but a shrub none-the-less.  Perhaps this should give us comfort when we realize the church seems to be so far from attaining the ideal of the Kingdom – we need not be a might cedar, perhaps it is okay to be a shrub, for even the birds of the air kind build a nest in the shrub and find shade and rest in our branches.

Have I done justice to these agricultural parables?  I hope in some small way I have understood them as best as a city boy can.  The kingdom of God is like a seed.  It takes time to grow, but grow it will.  We can nurture the seed but we cannot control its growth, God alone does that.  We must be faithful to the seed that is planted and live and proclaim the hope that the harvest will come.  The seed may be small, but great things will come.  And in the abundance of the harvest we shall find our true purpose, and granaries overflowing with abundance and grace for the feeding, healing, and redemption of the nations.

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

A Carefully Managed Drama - A Homily for Palm Sunday, Year B, 2012

Homily for Palm Sunday, Year B, 2012

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford ON,

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: Mark 11:1-11

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

--Mark 11:9

One commentator has noted that the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem is an act of “street theatre.”  When we hear the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem proclaimed once again it is not hard to imagine how radically political it all would have seemed to those who witnessed it. The theatre of the triumphal entry is a carefully managed one.  Jesus sends disciples to find a young donkey that has never been ridden to be brought to him.  The owner of that donkey seems to have been “prepped” secretly for such an event.  He has been given a secret phrase and when he hears it he will hand over the donkey.  It is all very clandestine up until the moment the street theatre is to unfold.  And when all is in order, when the disciples have been given their lines of “Hosanna,”  and “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” and “Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David,” when the props of cloaks and palm branches are in place, the symbolic curtain is drawn and the play begins.  The eyes of an unwitting audience are turned as the procession forms; shouting and singing are heard, and suddenly the audience is held captive to the spectacle of the event. 

If Jesus and his band have done their job well, and thanks to the witness of the four evangelists, we have every reason to believe they have, the crowd will witness an extraordinary thing.  Before their very eyes, if Jesus’ scripting and stage direction are up to the task, they will witness an enactment of the prophecy of Zechariah.  Before their very eyes, the throngs that make up the impromptu audience, will see and hear the ancient prophecy unfold:

“ 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.

He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim

   and the warhorse from Jerusalem;

and the battle-bow shall be cut off,

   and he shall command peace to the nations;

his dominion shall be from sea to sea,

                and from the River to the ends of the earth.”

And before long, the unwitting audience is not an audience any longer.  Before long, they find themselves drawn into the drama, joining the parade and the cries of the disciples, themselves shouting “Hosanna.”   “Save, Lord!” which is what Hosanna means, became the cry that formed on their lips.  Before long, they were entreating Jesus as if he were the Son of David, as if he were their expected king.  It was as if what had been foretold by Zechariah was coming true before their very eyes, and they, themselves, were a part of it!

After entering the Holy city, it is likely that the crowd would have been dispersed by the authorities.  We are not told of that, but no protest or street drama lasts forever.  It is likely that many would have stayed and followed Jesus along the next steps of the way.  Those who followed would have shortly thereafter witnessed another piece of activist drama unfold -- Jesus turning the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple.  And even those who did not continue to follow him after the parade might still have heard of the event and thought of the final line of the book of Zechariah, “And there shall no longer be traders in the house of the Lord of host on that day.”  Suddenly, the penny would drop for them; the triumphal entry was but the first act of a great holy and political drama that was unfolding.  It did not end with the parade, but was continuing.  Who was the central player (and author and director) of this drama?  It was Jesus.  When the faithful Jew of the first century read Zechariah closely, he realized Zechariah was prophesying a great divine warrior, who would save his people from domination and oppression.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the crowd was growing who would join in this battle, inspired by that sacred drama that was unfolding on the streets of Jerusalem and within the portico of the Temple.

It is not hard to imagine why Jesus would have been seen as a threat; why he would have been put on trial, accused of both blasphemy and sedition, and put to death.  Some would have followed him and joined in the drama as supporters, disciples, and fellow-warriors, while others would play their role as persecutor and prosecutor.  One thing was clear to all, this man saw himself as the fulfilment of Zechariah’s prophecy and he had staged a series of events to prove it!  Good news for some; very, very bad news for others. 

But the drama takes a turn, a turn known only to its author, director and chief player.  It is a turn that he hinted at throughout his ministry, but was either rejected by his team of players, or misunderstood.  Where Zechariah’s story involved a warrior king, the story of Jesus would involve a servant king.  The words “Hosanna” that were sung during act one of the drama, the triumphal entry, were words drawn from Psalm 118:25, a liturgical psalm that would be sung upon the enthronement of a new king.  Jesus had an idea of what enthronement meant; a very different idea from that of his players.  He understood his victory in very different terms.  His enthronement was to happen upon a cross.  His crown would pierce his head.  A sword and spear would not be placed in his hands as symbols of his power and authority, but rather pierce his side.  Then would Zechariah 12:10 be fulfilled,

“And I will pour out a spirit of compassion and supplication on the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem, so that, when they look on the one whom they have pierced, they shall mourn for him, as one mourns for an only child, and weep bitterly over him, as one weeps over a firstborn.”

As the penultimate act unfolds, as he is enthroned upon the cross, as his mother and the women of his family alone remain to look upon the one who is pierced, we ourselves realize, in our abandonment of him, that we have been drawn into the drama.  We ourselves have shouted both “Hosanna!” and “Crucify!”  We have extolled him and celebrated him upon his entry into our lives, and yet we have betrayed him, denied him, and abandoned him.  We realize that the play that Jesus staged on that street so many years ago continues to unfold before our eyes in the contours of our own lives.  We have been drawn into false jubilation that our hearts might be broken, that we might be pierced through to the core, in order that a “spirit of compassion and supplication” might be poured out upon us, and into our hearts.  The drama was for us.  A carefully staged moment two thousand years ago continues again and again to draw us into the story, ensuring that we get up out of our seats, leaving our role as audience behind, and become participants in the holy work of God; for we cannot know his power to save, unless we have first shouted with all our hearts “Hosanna! Save, Lord!”  We cannot know the healing in his wings, or his victory over sin and death, unless our hearts have first been pierced, until we have shouted, “Crucify him!” and wallowed in great sorrow, self-pity, and regret.  And we shall not know the new life he brings unless we first visit that tomb and see the stone rolled away.  We cannot continue the sacred drama unless we have been participants all along the way.  For if we have journeyed with him this far, we shall journey with him to the end, which is really the beginning  when through the waters of baptism our own sacred drama unfolds and the words of Zechariah 13 are fulfilled:

“On that day a fountain shall be opened for the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem, to cleanse them from sin and impurity.”

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

My Soul in Silence Waits: A Homily for Proper 3, Year B, 2012

Homily for the Third Sunday after Epiphany
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Trinity Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Psalm 62:6-14, Mark 1:14-20

For God alone, my soul in silence waits.

Sometimes we find ourselves waiting.  I can think of several kinds of waiting. For example, there is the kind of waiting that happens when the world seems to stop, when doors close for us, when we cannot do the things we hoped and wanted to do. It is the kind of frustrating and soul searching waiting that we must do when further opportunity seems to dry up.  Another kind of waiting, perhaps related to the first, is the waiting that takes place when we are so overwhelmed by the changes and chances of this world, with our work, with our families, with our responsibilities, that in our all of our overwhelming busy-ness, we are waiting, longing, to just make it through the day.  And yet, there is a third kind of waiting, a waiting of a more intentional sort, the kind of waiting that takes place deep within us, a silent waiting and longing to become who we are called to be, to enter into the plan that God has for our lives, a waiting to hear his voice.

“For God alone, my soul in silence waits,” writes the psalmist.  What is the purpose of my life?  What am I supposed to do while I am on this earth?  What do you want me to do, O Lord?  Why did you create me?  These are all the questions that resonate at some deep level behind that statement, “for God alone, my soul in silence waits.”  We wait to hear the answers to those questions, for they are not simply questions about what I shall do with this life on a day-to-day basis; no, they are questions about who I am.  They are questions about my identity that God alone can answer.

The Gospel of Mark reminds us that it is in a time of waiting that God meets us.  Simon and Andrew, James and John, were hardworking fishermen, involved in the endless cycle of casting and drawing in their nets, day after day.  Were they waiting for something?  Was there something that would draw them out of their daily task into something better? Four fishermen, upon the sea – casting, waiting, and drawing in.  Their life, their very occupation was one of much waiting. And then Jesus appeared to them with his message:  The time is fulfilled, the waiting is over, the kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe in the Good News.  Their waiting was interrupted and they took that incredible risk of laying aside their work. The four men took the risk of leaving behind their life of waiting, and put down their nets and followed him.   As their souls had ever longed to break out of the busy cycle of their lives, so God indeed met them in their waiting and called them forth.

There was something about these fishermen that predisposed them to hearing the call of God, though.  I wonder if it was their habit of waiting.  I wonder if in the combination of busy-ness and drudgery of their work, they had cultivated a pattern of waiting.  They cast their nets, they waited, and they drew in.  The pattern of their work became the pattern into which God entered to call them forth into something new.

The difficulty for many of us is that we lead such frenzied lives that we scarce can find the pattern into which God might be woven into our lives, much less the place where he might enter in.  If we look a little further, though, I think we will all recognize that we are waiting for something.  Are we waiting for a better job?  Are we waiting to move into a new home?  Are we waiting for that child or grandchild to come along?  Are we waiting simply for better times?  It is into this waiting that God casts his fishing net.  It is into this waiting that he reaches out for us.  In our waiting and in our longing we are seeking to be filled by things temporal, but God knows our true hungering and thirsting, and in that time of waiting offers us living water, bread from heaven; into this longing for things temporal, he fills us with things spiritual. 

However, we shall not be surprised if the spiritual food upon which we are fed transforms not only our inner landscape, but our exterior landscape as well.  We shall not be surprised (or maybe we shall!) when we see that our lives change on the outside when they are transformed on the inside.

When the disciples were waiting, Jesus called them.  Not only did they hear the call they recognized the power of the call.  As the psalmist also says, “God has spoken once, twice have I heard it, that power belongs to God.”  The disciples not only heard the call, they believed that the one who called them had the power to change their lives.  The call resonated doubly within their souls and they became fishermen of another sort, turning in their earthly nets, for spiritual nets.  Where once they lived a life of mundane purpose, they now lived for God. 

This is the hopeful message of the Gospel, that in our mundane waiting, in our troubled waiting, in our angst-ridden waiting, in our lonely waiting, Jesus turns that waiting into a kingdom moment.  The waiting that seems to make us so distant from God is the very means God uses to manifest his kingdom.  The question for us will be, as it was for the disciples, will we answer the call?  Will we take the risk of turning in our nets for new and better ones?  We will believe that the time of waiting is over and that the kingdom of God is at hand?

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

You Have Searched Me Out and Known Me: A Homily for Proper 2, Year B, 2012

Homily for Proper 2, Year B, 2012
Sunday, January 15^th, 2012
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: 1 Samuel 3:1-10; Psalm 139; John 1:43-51

“Lord, you have searched me out and known me.”

-Psalm 139.1

Sometimes, the simpler things bring us to faith.  For all the miracles and stories of wonder-working in the gospels, we must consider what it really is that draws us into a relationship with the living God.  To be sure, there are times in the gospels when Jesus works a miracle and it causes someone to become his disciple.  These, though, are the extraordinary tales. Yes, there have been similar stories through the ages of our history in which miracles have brought people to faith, but what of the countless number who have not known such grand miracles, and yet have believed deeply and profoundly, lived lives of piety and devotion, and proclaimed their faith in the living God? Can one come to faith without miracles? 

The answer of course, is yes.  Yes, with a proviso, that we are considering the word miracle in its narrowest terms.  If we posed the question, can we come to faith without mystery, I think the answer would be no.   Of course, I do not mean mystery in its literary sense, as a kind of story that needs to be solved by a detective. Rather, I mean mystery in the religious sense; the sense of awe and unknowing before God, and at the same time being mysteriously and strangely known by that same God.  The stories we hear today are only slightly miraculous.  However, they overflow with a profound degree of sacred mystery.  It is this sacred mystery that touches most of us in the depths of our souls as Christians, even when miracles are scarce.

 Jesus told Nathanael that he would see great and miraculous things, angels ascending and descending upon the Son of Man, whatever such a thing might look like!  Yet, this is not what brought Nathanael to faith.  What brought Nathanael to faith was the revelation that he was already known by God. What brought Nathanael to faith was the fact that he, a simple Israelite man, a man without deceit, a man with a sceptic’s eye, might be known, inside and out, by God.  When told by his brother Philip that he and his companions had found the messiah and that he was from Nazareth, Nathanael scoffed.  It might be a bit like saying the Messiah came from Bradford.  And yet, when he went to investigate what he thought would surely be a fraud, Jesus (as is so often the case with those to come to him in St. John’s Gospel) knows all about him already.  Nathanael, puzzled by this, asked him how he knew him, and Jesus, in essence responded, “I’ve had my eye on you. I have seen you under the fig tree.”  A little bit of mystery, and Nathanael made a profound proclamation of faith: “Rabbi, you are the Son of God!  The King of Israel!” 

 What was it that inspired this proclamation of faith on the part of Nathanael that not only was Jesus simply a teacher, but indeed the Son of the living God and the hope of an Israel whose spirit had been broken?  What was it that caused him in an instant, after having only just met Jesus, to proclaim him as the one foretold by the prophets of old?  It was simply this, that Jesus knew him. It was nothing more, nothing less.  And this is more powerful than any miracle, that God in Christ knows us and seeks us out. For Nathanael, the words of the Psalmist were suddenly real to him, “Lord, you have searched me out and known me.” Sacred mystery!

 In olden times in the Temple, a young lad was sleeping.  He knew little of the ways of God, but was being trained up by the old priest Eli to be a servant of the Lord.  Three times God called out his name, and thrice Samuel was confused.  He thought it was his earthly master, Eli, waking him.  Old  Eli the twice dismisses Samuel, but the third time recognizes that something is up, that God is at work.  He advises his young apprentice that if he hears the call again, he should answer simply, “Here I am, Lord.”  And so when the voice of the Lord calls again a third time, young Samuel, thanks to the wise mentoring of his old master, heeds the call and offers himself up to the God who knows his name.   What was the miracle other than a voice that sounded like that of Eli did Samuel witness?  What was it that brought him to faith?  It was simply this, that he was known by name by the living God. Sacred mystery!

 Back again to first century Galilee – Nathanael’s brother Philip met Jesus first.  He was the one who told Nathanael about the Messiah.  Unlike Nathanael, though, he did not share his brother’s scepticism.  We are simply told by St. John that Jesus found Philip and said, “Follow me,” and Philip followed him and ran to tell his brother about him.  What was it that brought Philip to faith?  Was it a grand miracle?  Was it even a good sermon?  No.  It was simply this: Jesus found him.  What do we know about Philip and Nathanael prior to their meeting with Jesus?  We know nothing.  Their names mean nothing to us, and they would remain unknown to history if Jesus had not found them, and called them to proclaim his name to the ends of the earth.  They might have seemed insignificant to others, but they meant much to God.  Sacred mystery!

 As it was with Samuel, God went searching and God went calling.  God seeks and God finds.  God looks into the hearts and lives of men and women, both great and small, both rich and poor and says, “Follow me.”  And why do we follow?  We follow because by some sacred mystery, we realize that everything we are, have been, and will be are known to this man from Nazareth.  We look into the eyes which have gazed into our soul and know that before us is the very God who created us seeking us out not simply because he has something special for us to do, but simply because he loves us and longs to be with us. He longs for a relationship with us, he longs for communion with us.

 It is often said that the purpose and end of the Christian life is that we might partake of the divine life.  The great mystery of our lives is that we are wired to long for God, to seek after God, to attain communion with God. The greater mystery, though, is that though our feebleness prevents us from touching God’s face, in Jesus Christ, God reaches out and touches ours.  The greater mystery is that frail and feeble as we are, imperfect as we are, God longs for us and seeks communion with us.  What is the greatest mystery of all is that as we falteringly seek to partake of the divine life, God draws near to us and selflessly partakes of human life, that we might finally be partakers of the one who is all life and goodness.

 This then, is a miracle.  The miracle of faith is that God knows and longs for communion with each and every one of us, and makes that possible. He knows each of our names, sees into each of our hearts, and even in our brokenness (and perhaps because of our brokenness) longs to partake of our life; that we might partake of his.  Whether we are like Samuel, a little child with no knowledge of God but with a wise mentor who can help us hear his voice, or whether we are like Nathanael, a sceptic who is swayed by a personal encounter, or whether we are like Philip who runs headlong into an unknown future, God is calling us by name.  He has searched us out and known us … and that is why we come to faith.

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Let Us Praise His Holy Name - A Homily for the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus, 2012

Homily for the Feast of the Holy Name, 2012

Sunday, January 1^st, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: Luke 2:15-21

“After eight days had passed, it was time to circumcise the child; and he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb.”

-Luke 2:21

Until recent times, the English Church has traditionally kept this day as the Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord.  The old 1662 Book of Common Prayer made provision for a celebration of the Holy Name to be kept on August 7.  However, when we read Luke 2:21, we realize that the circumcision and naming of Jesus are one single event and therefore, we should celebrate them together.  To add a third strand to this festival day is that in modern times, January 1^st has been kept as the beginning of a civic new year.  And perhaps, this is the first and best place to begin.

New Year’s Day is a fresh start for us.  The day is filled with resolutions about whom we shall become in the upcoming year, with goals of what we wish to achieve, and hopes and dreams for a better tomorrow.  It is a time to repent of all the things we have done that we ought not to have done, and all the things we have not done that we ought to have done.  It is a new beginning, a clean slate, a fresh start.  Thus, it is inescapable that we should continue to celebrate the mystery of Christmas this week (remember indeed, that Christmas is Twelve Days, starting with Christmas day itself, making this Day 8).   The mystery of Christmas is that in Jesus Christ God has given us a new beginning, a fresh start.  The words of the Book of Revelation, “Behold I am making all things new” apply not only to the New Jerusalem that is to come, but the new reality we experience as God comes among us at Christmas in the person of Jesus Christ our Saviour.  The great mystery of Christmas, that God is making all things new in Christ, is also the promise of hope that is ever before us.  The gift of Jesus is a gift of new life for us.  As St. Paul says in Galatians 4, we are no longer slaves but children through adoption.   Consider the metaphor.  In the ancient world (and in many places today) the child without parents is given over to the elements, to poverty and very soon, to death – a fate even worse than slavery.  For one without parents there is no hope; but through brotherhood with Christ, God becomes our loving parent.  And thus we are not, and never shall again be, alone.  Where in our past we had only despair, in our present and our future we are filled with hope and joy because we have God as both our loving father and mother.

But as much as this day is about new beginnings, we are also reminded that we a part of a larger story – the divine disclosure of God to us through the ages.  We are not entirely divorced from our past, and indeed, when we are in Christ we are able to look back at our history and see the hand of God that has directed us to this very moment.  In a past we once thought was hopeless, the Spirit of God which is with us from our birth has been moving within and about us.  In those times we could not discern its presence or its work, but from the vantage point of our redemption in Christ we can see the Spirit’s work everywhere in our history.  The Circumcision of Jesus points directly to this reality.  As God entered into humanity he did so in the context of a humble family in first-century Judea.  This humble family, this Holy Family, did all the things required of them by the Law of God. On the eighth day they took their babe to the Temple, the mother underwent her ritual purification, and the boy was circumcised and named.  His life began in very obedience to the Law he himself was presently fulfilling.  Aspects of that Law would no longer be considered binding to Christians in a very short time, and yet, in order to fulfill all righteousness, Jesus came into the world and began his life under that Holy Law.  As St. Paul has written also in Galatians 4, “God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law.” Soon, the Early Church began to realize that the old Law, the former Covenant, had disclosed the New Covenant through signs and prophecies.  The old prefigured the new.  And in the circumcision of Jesus, old became new.

That great nineteenth-century bishop and biblical exegete, Charles Gore, in his commentary on St. Luke, wrote that our focus this day should not be so much on the rite of circumcision, though, but rather on the naming of Jesus.  And thus we recall that Jesus is given the name prophesied by the angel Gabriel when he first came to Mary, “Greetings favoured one… and now you will conceive and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.”  We learn also from St. Matthew’s gospel that an angel had also prophesied this birth to Joseph, and told him that the child shall be named Jesus, “for he shall save his people.”  The name of Jesus is thus significant to us, for the name itself is a testimony to our salvation.  This salvation is not only for those born under the law, as St. Paul proclaims, it is for all people.  Thus St. Paul was able to begin a remarkable mission to the gentiles, to those who had never even embraced the old law, because the New Covenant of grace is not simply for a single chosen people, but for all mankind.

Elsewhere, in Philippians 2:5-11, Paul writes about the divine movement of God in Christ and unfolds for us the mystery of salvation, that Christ Jesus who was in the form of God, chose not to cling to his divinity, but emptied himself taking the form of a slave, even unto death.  Thus God lifted him up and exalted him giving him the name that is above all names; that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord to the glory of God the Father.

And this is what we celebrate and proclaim this day, the name that is above every name.  It is before this name that we bend the knee.  It is upon hearing this holy name that we bow.  The name of Jesus is for us a token and badge of our redemption. The very name means salvation.  It is the very word of health and life for us.  It is sweetness upon our lips and music to our ears.  It is joy. It is hope. It is love; God’s unfathomable and endless love for us.   Thus today, let us fulfill all righteousness and praise his Holy Name.

c. 2012, The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Hope for Today - A Homily for Christmas Eve, 2011

Homily for Christmas Eve, 2011
Saturday, December 24^th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-20

“I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”

-Luke 2:10

In his recent book, The Triumph of Christianity, sociologist Rodney Stark notes that those who deride the Christian faith claim that Christianity is but “a sedative for suffering in this life by promising that we will be fully compensated in the next.”  He continues, “Atheists like to ridicule this aspect of faith as ‘pie in the sky.’”  While it is certainly true that the Christian faith is concerned about what happens to us after we die, it is equally true, that our faith is not about enduring present suffering for the sake of eternal bliss.  Nothing can be farther from the truth.  Indeed, Stark responds by noting, “What is almost always missed (in these derisive characterizations of Christianity) is that Christianity often puts the pie on the table! It makes life better here and now. “

It seems to me that the Christmas story is entirely about how our faith not only gives us a hope for the future, but transforms our lives in the present age.  The Christmas story is about hope.  Hope in the age to come, and hope in the present moment.   The truth is that in Christ Jesus, God changes lives. 

We live in a world that is desperately searching for meaning.  The promises offered by the world are failing all around us.  Political systems that once seemed so established are being reshaped and reformed in unrecognizable ways.  An economy that was once considered unassailable has repeatedly suffered blows that have unmasked its structural and systemic instability.  Even our beloved public institutions and social safety nets that were considered the envy of the world are threatened under the weight of the instability of the present economic system.  We long for a word of hope to be spoken into the present moment, not simply a word about some distant future hope, but a word of hope for “now.”

“Lo, there were shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.”  Although we live in a very different world from these shepherds, do not think for a moment that they needed a word of hope for their present reality any less than we need one today.  They lived in occupied territory.  They knew great hardship and suffering.  All of the things that threaten to defeat and destroy every generation were part of their story as much as they are part of ours.  What were their needs?  How did they suffer?  What meaning did they seek for their lives?  The human condition changes not from age to age.

“But suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone about them and they were afraid.”  Sometimes fear grips us when the possibility of change is before us, for even though we have longed for change, prayed for healing, we can fear it.  We have become so accustomed to the pain we experience, we have become accustomed to the brokenness of our lives and of our world, the brokenness of the systems of power that rule this world, that a challenge to that pain and brokenness might seem frightening at first.  What we experience may be difficult for us, but it is what we know.  Better the devil we know, so the saying goes. 

But into this fear of taking the plunge into the unknown ocean of hope, into this fear of taking a risk for healing, reconciliation and new life, the angel announces “Fear not!”   Fear not.  How easily it is said, but how much more difficult it is to follow, to believe.  Yet, the announcement to be not afraid carries with it a promise, and it is a promise that undergirds the proclamation and washes our fear away.  “Fear not, for I bring you glad tidings of great joy! I bring you good news!”  Into the midst of all the bad news of our lives and the brokenness of this world, good news is spoken, glad tidings are proclaimed.  And what is this good news?  Today, in the city of David, a saviour is born.

Today a saviour is born; not tomorrow, not next week, not in some far off, distant utopian future.  Today, this very night, Jesus is born.  This is the power of the Gospel. This is the truth of its message:  God with us, Emmanuel.  God changes us now. The moment is not long in coming.  The moment is now.    The Shepherds were not told to wait, nor did they go to sleep and wait until the morning. No!  They made haste in the late evening hours: “Let us go and see this thing that the Lord has done!” 

The message is no different this very night.  Amidst the brokenness of this age and of our lives, the angel voices proclaim, “Fear not! For unto you is born this day, a saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”  And as it was for the Shepherds, so it is for us, Jesus has come, our God Incarnate, God in the flesh, God made human, Emmanuel.  We need not wait, we need not hope for a better day, for hope meets us tonight!   Shall we then make haste to greet him as he comes to us?  

And what of the suffering of this present age?  What of the corrupt systems?  What of our broken world?  I say, that when God changes you and when God changes me, God changes the world.  With every heart that receives him a new piece of divine reconciliation occurs.  With every heart that receives him, a new and generous heart is created that says “no” to all the forces and powers that seek to destroy this world and the people in it. With every heart that receives him, human dignity is restored. 

God changes us.  Jesus changes us.  It is not all about what happens when this life is finished, although God cares about that, too.  It is about God changing this world, transforming this world, one life, one person at a time.  When God changes me, when God changes you, together we become a people whose lives are modeled on compassion, generosity, love and hopefulness.  When Jesus is birthed in us, these things are birthed in the world, and the world is changed.  When I know joy, the world knows joy.  When I know love, the world knows love.  When I know hope, the world knows hope.  When I am changed, when I am transformed, the world is changed, the world is transformed.

And so, this very night, angel voices proclaim that Good News again.  Let us heed their call, and like the shepherds of old, make haste to greet him.  But more than that, like them, let us bear witness to this thing the Lord has done.  Let us bear witness in our changed lives as the shepherds did in theirs.  May you know his life-transforming love this Christmastide and always, that each of you might carry the Christ Child to those who in turn need to hear the life-changing message, “Fear not, for unto you is born a saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

You are Children of Light - A Homily for Proper 33, Year A, 2011

Homily for Proper 33, Year A, 2011
Sunday, November 13th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

“You are all children of light and children of the day.”
1 Thess. 5:5

One of the distressing things about the age in which we live is the pessimistic tendency to find hopelessness around every corner. It does not help when we are relentlessly bombarded with news of the seemingly unending economic crisis. From time-to-time we are given breaks with other bits of bad news, broadcast over our televisions, radios, or computers. Then there is the bad news we get in our personal lives. We hear of another relationship that has fallen apart, another dear friend has received bad news about their health, or we learn of a family member who is in crisis. Who can blame us if we seem to be walking about in a perpetually depressed state?

The Thessalonians of St. Paul’s day surely knew some hard times, as we have known hard times. They would have been just as affected by unforeseen illness, the loss of loved ones, and economic challenges, as we are affected in this day. And perhaps, having heard the news that Jesus would come again, they were seeking more information about when this wondrous event would take place. When would all the is bad come to an end? Perhaps they were wondering and hoping for this day, that the pain and pessimism that surrounded them would be swallowed up in the immanent return of the one in whom they had put their faith.

Perhaps the Thessalonians were disappointed that Jesus’ return had not come as quickly as they had expected, or as St. Paul might have promised. Loved ones were still dying, conflict continued, economic woes still persisted. If only Christ would return and put an end to it all.

But that is a very pessimistic view of the world, is it not? I know Christians who still take this line and hope that Jesus will return and put an end to this evil age. I think, though, that those who think such things have missed a crucial point and fundamental truth about Christianity. It seems to me that they have overlooked something about the character of God, something crucial to our understanding of who God is, and something crucial about God’s relationship with his creation. I would suggest, rather, that we have a hopeful God, a God who not only loves this world, but a God who seeks to redeem it, and is in fact redeeming it. We have a God who so passionately cares about us and loves us that he desires not to wipe it out and start again, but to bring it instead to its fullness and true purpose.

The Thessalonians were likely depressed, disappointed, and pessimistic. They were willing to cash in their chips and move quickly into the new and throw away the old, to write it off as broken, useless, out of date, and even evil. However, Paul admonishes them not to give up hope. He offers them a reminder of their identity in Christ Jesus. He reminds them that they are not in darkness. They are children of the light, children of the day. He reminds them to be attentive in the midst of a troubling world; to look for signs of the Lord’s coming.

It can be difficult in a troubled world to see signs of the Lord’s coming. I would suggest that as children of the day, as children of the light, we are to seek signs of light even in the midst of a troubled world and our troubled lives. I am not speaking of false optimism nor suggesting that we should be Pollyannas. Rather, I would encourage you, as Paul encouraged those early Christians, to really live as we believe. We believe that Christ has come amongst us in great hope for this world. We believe that God really does love us. We believe that God really does care for us and for his creation. We believe that in offering himself for us, we might have life even as death seems to win the day. To live in this way, to care about our world, to care about our fellow human beings, even those with whom me may find ourselves in conflict, to care about our society, to take an interest in our politics, to reach out to the weakest and the most vulnerable, to live, to live, to live, even in the face of death -- these are all way of walking as children of the day. These are all ways of living out the hope of God in this world. They are ways of being awake, of being watchful, of being mindful, in a world that sometimes feels like it is populated by zombies. And it is true, sometimes we all feel like zombies walking aimlessly through life. But stay awake, Paul says, for the day of the Lord is at hand, it comes like a thief in the night. We speak not of some apocalyptic end, but of a new age dawning now upon us, of which we are a part, and are partners with a loving God in its inauguration.

The things around us can indeed be discouraging at times, but Paul also gives us this reminder to encourage one another, as we have already been doing; to build each other up; to share the hope we have with each other that in times of trial, that we might not lose sight of the great hope that is set before us. The importance of Christian community, one of its primary purposes I would say, is that it is a place for encouraging each other in hope, when the world around us conspires in hopelessness. The Christian community is a place in which we encourage each other to live out in the world our baptismal covenant. It is the place where we say together, “I will, with God’s help,” and send each other out, not as individuals but as a community, into the world to say, that we know a better way. It is a place where we encourage each other with gentleness and love and then go forth to live lives of gentleness and love.

The banners of hate may seem firmly planted. The pessimism of the age may seem at times to triumph. But hope will not be disappoint and faith shall not fail, because whereas hate and pessimism are built on sand, faith and hope and love are built on the rock that is Jesus Christ. And Jesus Christ, the one who walked among us and continues to abide with us through the Holy Spirit, is the faith, hope and love of God for a broken and hurting world; and in this faith, hope and love, the fullness of God’s creation will be realized.

We have nothing to fear because we meet the world under the strength of God’s hope. God believes in his creation, loves his creation, and in Christ Jesus, has given us new life, reconciliation, and the strength to live out his hope. God’s hope says yes to the world, not no, for this is God’s world and God will not see it lost.

St. Paul writes, “For God has destined us not for wrath but for obtaining salvation through Jesus Christ, who died for us so that whether we are awake or asleep we may live in him. Therefore encourage one another and build up each other, as indeed you are doing. “

You are doing it. I have seen it. This is why I have hope. Your love and encouragement of each other are a sign to me that Jesus Christ is alive and present in this community and changing the lives of men, women and children. I see hope wherever I turn, and that hope eclipses any pessimism that might distract us from God’s longing for us. That hope also gives me the great courage to participate in the mission of God for this world, and so it should give each of us such courage.

One of my favourite Anglican Churchman was a great liturgist named Percy Dearmer. He wrote this prayer, which has become my favourite prayer of the Anglican Tradition.

Almighty God, who has set before us the great hope that your kingdom shall come on earth, and taught us to pray for its coming; give us grace to discern the signs of its dawning, that we might work for the perfect day when the whole earth shall reflect your glory, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

When Patience is Tested - A Homily for Proper 28 (National Thanksgiving), 2011

Homily for Proper 28 (National Thanksgiving)
Sunday, October 9th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Exodus 32:1-14

“Turn from you fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people.”
-Exodus 32:12

God had every right to be angry with his people. He had delivered them from the hand of pharaoh and slavery in Egypt. He had led them dry-shod through the Red Sea. He had given them manna to eat in the wilderness. And still, the moment their Moses leader had gone up the mountain to converse with God, the Hebrew people decided to make a false god and bow down and worship it. The anger of God was kindled against his people and God was ready to raise his hand against them.

This story tells us that even the patience of God can be tested once in a while. In one way this gives me great comfort, for I am often disappointed in myself when I find my wrath kindled and my patience tested. While each of us has different levels of tolerance, I am sure that all of us have a breaking point. All of us, from time-to-time, find our patience tested by those around us, not only our adversaries, but family members, friends, and yes (dare I say it?), even fellow parishioners. We are only human, and perhaps it will come as a comfort to all of us that as we find our patience tested in difficult situations, by difficult people, even God finds his patience tested.

When our patience is tested it is easy to raise our voices in violent response. Throughout history, the taking up of arms often happens when we find our patience for talk and conversation exhausted. Violent words, violent actions, regrettable words and regrettable actions often follow the loss of patience. When a certain fury rises up within us, rages within, we are quick to act, and perhaps not so quick to think about the consequences. But oh, there is much time to think about consequences after the act is done, and much of the thinking we do is about our regret for the hastiness of our actions.

In his book Writing in the Dust, written immediately after the events of September 11th, 2001, Archbishop Rowan Williams, who was a short distance from the World Trade Centre that morning reflects on the natural desire to act decisively, vindictively, when we are hurt:

"The Response of at least some people in the face of deep injury, once feeling has returned, is a passionate striking out; there is something recognizable about the language of Psalm 137 – ‘ let their children die horribly, let them know what humiliation and exile are like.’ It is an honest moment; but for those of us who are not totally helpless in terms of internal or external resources it is only a moment" (p. 18).

His point is that when our patience is driven to the point of exhaustion, in that moment, we are ready to let loose. We are ready to exact vengeance. We are ready to make the decisive strike against what has driven us to this frenzied moment of exasperation. But perhaps, we need to step back for a moment and consider what acting in such circumstances will do. To recognize that the shattering of patience is but a moment that must be put in the larger framework of our ultimate response. Williams goes on to reflect that as people who have the freedom that we do in the West, we must use that freedom wisely. We have the freedom to think and express ourselves in so many ways. Williams notes:

"We have something of the freedom to consider whether or not we turn to violence, and so, in virtue of that very fact, are rather different from those who experience their world as leaving them no other option. But if we have that freedom, it ought to be less likely that we reach for violence as a first resort … it means putting on hold our most immediate feelings – or at least making them objects of reflection; and means trying to pull apart the longing to re-establish the sense of being in control and the longing to find a security that is shared …. It means acknowledging and using the breathing space; and also longing and using the rage and revengefulness as a way of sensing a little where the violence comes from." (p 23-4)

If only we had taken the Archbishop’s sage words to heart ten years ago. Now we are left reflecting on ten years of our response in Afghanistan and wondering, was it all worth it? The point, though, is this: As Christian people, we have a freedom in Christ that requires of us a higher response to anger, to hate, to infidelity and faithlessness. In Christ Jesus we have the freedom not to strike back with immediate force (either on the global scale or in our communities and in our relationships). We have the higher calling, when our patience is sorely tested, to breathe deeply, to create some space, to attempt to understand from where the pain that is thrust at us has come, and consider what words we will speak into that situation and what healing and reconciling actions we might live by. It seems to me, this is the calling of a Christian community.

On the mountain, where even God’s wrath was kindled and God himself was prepared to strike down his own people, Moses implored God to take a breath, to reflect on what he was about to do. Moses reminded God that 400 years of slavery is not so easily healed by a walk through the Red Sea and some manna in the Wilderness. Moses reminded God that healing is a process, that deliverance is a journey, and that God himself had made a promise. Moses reminded God of God’s own gracious and loving nature. Moses reminded God of God’s own merciful nature; and God relented.

If it gives me comfort that even God’s patience can be sorely tempted, then it also gives me comfort to know that God can reconsider wrath in the moment of temptation. This story gives me hope, should give all of us hope, that even though we may from time-to-time find ourselves driven to the breaking point where our patience is tested, that we are capable of a much higher calling, a much more compassionate response, and a much more reconciling love. When human beings, God’s children, were at their most rebellious, God chose not to raise his arm in anger, but sent his Son and came to be amongst us himself in Jesus Christ, to understand the pain and brokenness we feel and experience as human beings; to transform us that we might be made whole. When God’s patience could have been most sorely tested, rather than raising his hand, God reached out his hand in the person of Jesus Christ and saved us from ourselves. I can think of nothing greater for which to give thanks; and I can think of no more thankful way to live than to live into that higher calling of compassion, understanding, and peacemaking.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves