"...And Franktown Still is My Delight" - A Sermon for the 190th Anniversary Celebration of St. James' Anglican Church, Franktown, ON

Sermon for the 190^th Anniversary of St. James, Church, Franktown, Ontario

in the Anglican Diocese of Ottawa,

Sunday, September 23^rd, 2012

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: 1 Chronicles 29:6-19

“Near Franktown first I saw the light,

And Franktown still is my delight…”

These words come from the pen of a distant relation of mine and a son of this parish, the Rev. John May, M.A. (1834-1913), and are taken from a poem loftily titled, “Franktown Past and Present: A Poetic Panorama of Rich and Exuberant Fancy.”  Beyond these verses Mr. May goes on to lament the decline of the dear old place he loved so much, and yet, as I stand amongst you today, over a century after these words were penned, I see no cause for lamentation, but indeed, great cause for rejoicing!  For as John May first saw the light here in this place, as he was nurtured on God’s most holy word and holy sacraments from this pulpit and from this altar, so too, have countless others first seen the light here, and have been nourished thus. 

By my reckoning, for eight or more  generations, our Lord has drawn folk from all walks of life, all sorts and conditions, young and old, rich and poor, into his loving embrace in this very place.  For eight or more generations, Christians have first seen the light here.  For eight or more generations, Christians have heard that old, old story told, and have had their lives transformed by the Good News of Gospel in this very place.  St. James’ Church, Franktown, stands as a monument to the faith of our fathers and mothers who have now entered into glory and are at rest with the saints.  And yet, this place is no cold, lifeless monument, but a living, breathing witness to God’s power to bring healing, hope, reconciliation, and salvation in Christ Jesus.  While St. James’ Church may stand as a monument and a memorial to the work of God in the past, it continues to shine as a bright beacon of hope for those who come through its doors today, and for those who will one day catch a glimpse of that light and come to hear those wonderful words of life.  It calls to mind a particular biblical metaphor (one that was a favourite of John May) from the Sermon on the Mount: “You are a city set upon a hill.”  And indeed, although in Franktown one may search far and wide for a hill in geological terms, in theological terms, you are indeed “a city set upon a hill.”

 Every church, like every person, has its ebbs and flows in life.  There will be times when the way is hard, and the path uncertain.  Every church, like every person, will face moments of existential angst and crisis:  “Will we make it?” we might ask.  And “where are we going?”  And “how can we afford to do this.”  And yet, the simple fact that for 190 years you have faced these challenges serves to remind us that such fears, as real and pressing as they are, are but fears and not the final word. That these challenges have not overcome us or destroyed us speaks to the plain and simple truth of the most central aspect of our faith:  God is with us and is ever faithful.  Is this not the most self-evident message of the Incarnation, a message of which we so often lose sight?  In Jesus Christ, God is with us.  God has made his home among mortals.  But through the changes and chances of this fleeting life, we so often lose sight of this fact, we so often find ourselves drifting into fear, we so often find ourselves wondering if we can “do it.”  Then, we pause, then we listen once again to the words of Jesus, “Fear not, for lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age,” and with his words stirring the very depths of our souls, we realize that it is not all about our striving, about whether we can do it, but about God bringing about his Kingdom in us, around us, and for us. It is about God choosing to dwell among us, to bear our burdens and transform our suffering, our fear, and our failures for his glory and for the building up of his kingdom.  God has chosen to make his home in this very place, and as the words of life are read and the Sacraments administered, Jesus Christ dwells with you.

It has ever been thus.  When we cast our minds back to the early days of this community, we may need to engage our historical imaginations, but the story is a familiar one.  We cast our minds back to the early settlers and imagine what hardships they endured.  We imagine the personal cost of building this church when they were also trying to clear land and meet their own legal settlement requirements, and more importantly, feed and shelter their families.  Imagine the extraordinary personal cost of erecting the edifice of this fine place of worship, of furnishing it for God’s honour and glory.  It was no small feat.  It was no small feat, considering the journey that most had just taken. Once again, the Rev. John May helps us paint a picture of that life as he reflects on this journey, a journey from Ireland that his family took, which surely stirs within each of us an image of similar journeys taken by ancestors of the many others worshipping here today.

Slow fades loved Erin from his lingering view;

Slow glides the keel across the solemn sea;

As, sad at heart, his wife and children, too,

Gaze fondly back in silent misery.

 

 Six weeks at sea! – the Gulf – and then Quebec –

The Durham boat – St. Lawrence – Montreal –

Old Bytown – then the “Bush” where’s not a speck

Nor sign of man! Unbroken forest all!”      

   

(From “The Pioneers,” by the Rev. John May 1911)

A wandering people, seeking a new home in a new and unknown land, but they sought to erect more than a home for themselves and their families, but a building in which they could give thanks to God for all his goodness to them, even during their wandering and exile.  It would cost them greatly.  It would mean extraordinary personal sacrifice, and yet, they did it; they did it because they believed God was with them, through their good times and bad, through moments of joy and moments of loss.  They believed God was with them on their journey. They built a house, not because God needed a house, for God dwells everywhere, but because they wanted to proclaim, in a tangible way, that God dwelled with them, ever and always, faithful to last.

Why should we be surprised at this?  Did not the Hebrew people build a house for God, even though God had been with them through their escape from slavery?  During their journey in the wilderness, through famine, in their living and in their dying, God was with them, a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night.  And yet, in the fullness of time, they needed to construct something more permanent as a sacrament of God’s permanence, of his never-failing presence.

However, we must never let the apparent permanence of any structure we construct distract us from the spiritual grace which is incarnated in the “sacrament” of this building.  God forbid that though this building should ever be lost, we might ever be reminded of the fact that we shall never be lost, because we journey with the presence of God.  Jesus does not say that a building is a city set upon a hill, or that a building is a light of the world, rather he says “you are a city set upon a hill; you are the light of the world.”  Oh, to be sure, this building means much to us, and although I have lived all my life in another part of this province I feel such affinity for this place knowing that it was one of my ancestors who was amongst its architects.  I can only imagine how deeply important the very fibre of this building is to each of you.  It is an important and holy place because God has made his home here, but it is holy and sacred also because God has made his home in you.

And so we find ourselves here today.  Many of you have made your home here for generations, and others amongst us have found that our own wandering, or the wandering of our ancestors, has taken us far and wide.  On this earthly pilgrimage we, like the Hebrew people of old, are all aliens and transients, whether we stay put or whether we wander.  This earthly life is fleeting.  The ages pass us by and we wither like the grass.  Who are we in the sight of an unchanging God?  Who are we and of what value are the things we offer when we realize that our gifts, even offered with great personal cost, are so small?  But thanks be to God that in Christ Jesus, small things are counted as great things.  Thanks be to God, that when and where we are weak, he is ever strong.  Thanks be to God that through this pilgrimage he sustains us all the day long of this earthly life until the day has ended and the night falls.  Thanks be to God for the immeasurable riches we have known in Christ Jesus and for his abiding presence in our lives and in this place.  Indeed, all things come of Thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee.

A light has shone in this community for one hundred and ninety years.  A light than will not be extinguished under a bushel, for it is not a light made by earthly flint, but indeed is ignited by a heavenly spark.  It is a light that has shone and cut through the darkness that has threatened to overcome many a faithful Christian, but the darkness has not, and never shall extinguish the light.  It is a light that has shone in the hearts of the faithful of this parish, and a light that has been a lantern along the path of many a lost wayfarer on the spiritual journey.  It is a light that continues to shine in your ongoing ministry and in the witness you offer to this wonderful village and the surrounding countryside.  It is a light that shines because God has made his home here, in you, in this city set upon a hill.

In closing, may I bid your indulgence for one last bit of verse from the pen of my Reverend ancestor, John May?  I shall let it be my prayer as we break bread together around this holy table, as did our ancestors in ages past, and so shall our descendants in years to come:

Come, Saviour, Come! And with us sup;

The night is drawing on apace.

Come, break the bread and pour the cup

That we may see and know Thy Face.

Come! Drink with us the sacred wine.

And feed us with the bread divine.

 

And when before the final gate

We stand, and shrink in mortal fear;

Then, as we halt, disconsolate,

Wilt Thou not, as of old, draw near;

Bide with us through that awful night,

And lead us safely to the Light.

(From “The Eyes were Holden that They Should not Know Him,”

by the Rev. John May, M.A. of Franktown, c.1913)

 

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves is a priest of the Anglican Diocese of Toronto, and is the first cousin four times removed of the Rev. John May (both are descended from William May, c. 1765-1855, the progenitor of the May family in Upper Canada).  Fr. Graves is the Priest-in-Charge of Trinity Church in Bradford, the editor of Prayers for Healing from the Anglican Tradition (Toronto: Anglican Book Centre, 2010), and in 2007 wrote his M.Div. theological, political, and educational thought of the Rev. John May, M.A.

"Who do People Say that I am?" - A Homily for Proper 24, Year B, 2012

Homily for Proper 24, Year B, 2012

Sunday, September 16^th, 2012: “Rally Sunday”

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: Mark 8:27-38

"Who do people say that I am?"

 

When Jesus asks the question, “Who do people say that I am?” he is asking a question to which he knows the answer.  Jesus knows what people think of him. He knows who people think he is. He knows that some think that he is a prophet, like John the Baptist or Elijah, while others think him a miracle-worker or magician, still others think him a wise teacher.  Perhaps each of them have caught some part of his character, but each of them have understood him incompletely.  Then there are those who do know him. Surprisingly, when all others fail to understand him the demons he casts out recognize him for who he really is. For them, there is no doubt; he is the Son of David, the Messiah.  Yes, even the elements know him, for does not one witness cry out when Jesus stills the seas, “who is this that even the seas and the winds obey him?”  And so Peter reports to Jesus what people are saying, to which Jesus presses him further, “… and who do you say I am?”  Peter responds, “You are the Messiah.”

But what does this mean?  What is does it mean to call Jesus the Messiah, the Christ?  Peter knows the right word, but does he know what it means?  Peter had a thought about what it meant, but he was sternly rebuked by Jesus when Jesus began to overturn the convention meaning of the concept of the “messiah” with talk of suffering and death.  There are literally hundreds of books written investigating what the typical first-century Jew thought the messiah might be like.  Investigating contemporary sources like inter-testamental Jewish literature, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and ancient historians like Josephus, we see that although in many ways Jesus does fit the bill for the description “messiah” (otherwise, how would he have been recognized as such?), in one important way, his version of messiahship was revolutionary.  Yes, he was a messiah that would ride on and conquer, as was expected, but he would ride on a lowly animal, not a majestic beast; he would take up a cross and not a sword; on his head would be placed twisted thorns and not a garlanded crown.  This messiah would suffer pain and suffer death. 

Peter would have been right to say “Forbid it, Lord!” Peter was right, given what he had learned the messiah should be, to object sternly to Jesus’ proclamation that the messiah must suffer and die, for this image of a messiah was not what was expected.  But Jesus rebuked him, for this messiah was not simply present to upset the current order of domination, but the cosmic order.  This messiah was here to set things right on all levels.  This messiah was here to deliver the people not only from the bondage of oppression of their earthly masters, but to deliver them from all other bondage, from the power of Satan, from the power of death, from the  all the things that bound them in body mind and spirit.  And how would he do this?  He would defeat those powers by defeating death itself.  He would go to the cross, go to the grave, with faith and hope and trust that God would raise him again.

Who do people say that I am? 

It seems to me that people are very confused, both within the church and outside the church as to who Jesus is. This should come as no surprise, for when we begin to read the stories of Jesus, to read his overarching story, it is a challenging one.  Anything that involves the dead being raised may be difficult to believe.  Peter was challenged and so are we.  Let us enumerate the various Jesuses we may hold dear to us.  There is the Jesus who cures the sick.  There is the Jesus who teaches that the God loves the poor, the downtrodden, the oppressed. There is the Jesus that teaches us to love our neighbour, and even our enemies. There is the Jesus who says “let the little children come unto me.”  There is the religious revolutionary, who turns over the tables of the money-changers in the portico of the Temple.  There is the Jesus who debates and criticizes both the religious zealots and hypocrites of his day.  There is the gentle baby Jesus, meek and mild, in his mother’s arms that we adore every year. There are all these Jesuses and more.  Each of us will have a favourite version, and vision, of Jesus.  And none of these are wrong.  They are all Scriptural, they have all been preached by me and many others from this very pulpit.  But like those early followers of Jesus who were taking guesses at who he was, if we latch onto only one of these images, or even just a couple, we are not getting the full picture, we don’t really and truly know who Jesus is. We catch glimpses of him, but we only catch a partial glimpse of who the Messiah is.  All these aspects of Jesus, Jesus as healer, revolutionary, teacher, all point to the deeper reality of Jesus, and that is the reality of God with us.   That is why John’s Gospel begins, with “the word was made flesh.”  That is why the book of Revelation draws to a close with “behold, God has made his home among mortals.”  Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us. 

Yet we dare not stop even there, for God is with us, not only to accompany us, but to lead us into our salvation.  And thus, God delivers himself, in his life as Jesus of Nazareth, to death on the cross.  By the Father raising the Son from the dead, Jesus tramples down the gates of death.  Death is the thing that enslaves us most in this life. All of our fears, all of our anxieties are ultimately rooted in the fear of death.  To a remarkable degree, when we dig down deep enough, death is what shapes the narrative of our lives.  What Jesus does is proclaim in his teaching, in his journey to the cross on our behalf, and in his glorious rising to new life, that death is not and will never be the story that shapes us as Christian people.  Death will not destroy us. Death will not be the final word for us.  The resurrection of Jesus is our story, because his resurrection is our journey through the Red Sea out of bondage in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land.

 

Who do people say that I am? 

 

It is not wrong to take a particular liking to one image of Jesus.  Perhaps Jesus the healer is of particular meaning to us because we have known him to be with us through our own illness.  Have we been alone and felt the presence of Jesus the comforter?  Or do you feel the presence of Jesus the liberator in your ministry with those who are poor and in need.  Never forget though that all these aspects of Jesus point to Jesus the Saviour.  This is the Jesus we worship with all our hearts, for Jesus the Saviour seeks out you and me as individuals and saves us. Jesus the saviour opens his arms wide for the healing and salvation of the whole world.  Jesus the Saviour redeems and restores the whole cosmos. 

When we realize just how all-encompassing the Messiah is.  We can sometimes respond as Peter does, because our own fragmented image of the Messiah is challenged.  Our world view, our religious convictions are challenged. This isn’t the messiah I thought I followed!  But as we are challenged, and our older, safer understandings are broken open, God reshapes our convictions, reforms them, and recreates them.  But what is more, he breaks us upon, he reshapes us, he recreates us.  And this is what the Messiah does.  He leads us out of our bondage to death and he leads of out of the bondage of our old selves.

Who do people say that I am?

Even more important than this question that Jesus asks Peter is the question he will later ask, after the Resurrection: “Simon Peter, do you love me?” To understand who Jesus is, is one thing. To love this Jesus, to follow him, to trust him, is quite another.  And so the real question for us is, do we love Jesus?  This is why one of my favourite prayers is the prayer attributed to St. Richard of Chichester.  It is a prayer that you likely know if you have ever seen the musical Godspell. In fact, in the early 1970s it even got a lot of radio play. It is prayer that might well serve as an answer to both of Jesus questions, “Who do you say that I am,” and “Do you love me?” It goes like this:

“Thanks be to Thee, my Lord Jesus Christ

 For all the benefits Thou hast given me,

 For all the pains and insults Thou hast borne for me.

 O most merciful Redeemer, friend and brother,

 May I know Thee more clearly,

 Love Thee more dearly,

 Follow Thee more nearly,”

To which the 1970s version adds,

“day by day.”

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"...Whose Property is Always to Have Mercy" -- A Homily for Proper 23, Year B, 2012

Homily for Proper 23, Year B, 2012

Sunday, September 9^th, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: Mark 7:24-37

“We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs from under thy table.”

This line, from the “Prayer of Humble Access,” the prayer that is offered by priest and people in the traditional Anglican liturgy, just moments before receiving Communion, is rarely used any more.  It is thought that having moved through the liturgical journey of hearing God’s most holy word, professing our faith, confessing our sins and hearing the words of absolution, that it now seems inappropriate to return to lamenting our unworthiness.  Yet, when we realize that these words are rooted in a particular story from the life of Jesus, and when we delve into that story, we begin to understand why we might wish to reclaim these words as an important moment in our liturgical prayer. 

In the seventh chapter of St. Mark, Jesus goes into the region of Tyre, that is, gentile territory.   Characteristic of Jesus’ modus operandi in St. Mark’s gospel, he wishes to conduct himself in secret.  He does not wish anyone to know that he is there and so he slips into a house.  But as is always the case, he does not escape the notice of those who have heard of his wonder-working power.  A Syro-Phoenician woman, a gentile, whose daughter was possessed of an evil spirit sought him out.  As any mother in distress might, she threw herself at the feet of the man who might prove to be the only hope for her ailing daughter.  And what would you or I expect Jesus to do?  Would we not think that he would rush to the daughter and cast out the demon?  Would we not think that he would look with great compassion and empathy on the mother who was so deeply grieved and troubled?  Would we not think that gentle Jesus, meek and mild, would offer her words of hope and comfort?  We would expect all these things, therefore, how amazed, and yes, how distressed we are to hear Jesus utterly dismiss her. How saddened we are that he offers not a word of compassion but a word of rebuke.  How disgusted we are when we realize that he not only rebukes her but compares her child to a dog.  To her plea to cast the demon out of her daughter, he dismissively and disturbingly responds, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs!”

What are we to make of this?  Oh, it would be so easy just to ignore this passage, explain it away as later interpolation, because the Jesus we love and serve would never have said, could never have said such a thing.  Oh it would be easy to suggest that these first century words were offered in a different way than we understand today, and that they might have been heard in a different way than we would hear them today, but the reality is this: the historical distance only serves to starken the words, not soften them.  In ancient times, dogs were not the lovely animals that we have domesticated today. They were not “man’s best friend.” They were scavengers who roamed the countryside and streets to devour whatever they could find that had been recently killed or thrown away.  Some modern commentators have suggested that because Mark uses the Greek diminutive term for dog that perhaps Jesus is make a more pleasing comparison of the little girl to a little puppy.  This is not so. His words are harsh.  Why would he compare the Syro-phoenician woman and her child to dogs?

There is an old rabbinic tradition that those who were not schooled in the study of the Jewish Law, namely the gentiles, were often referred to as dogs.  The woman is specifically identified as a gentile and thus, she clearly fits into this definition.  While this perhaps increases our understanding of why Jesus says such a thing, it does not soften his words.  Likewise, there is another clue to understand Jesus’ words that is found in his use of the word “first.” “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”  In several other contexts in Mark’s gospel, Jesus uses the term “first” to explain an eschatological reality, that is, how things are unfolding in the end times.  For example, the strong man (i.e., Satan) must first be bound; or using his harvest metaphor, “first, the grain and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear.”  In this sense, time unfolds in its proper order, certain things must happen first in order for the fullness of God’s plan to unfold and the kingdom to truly come.  In this reading, the gospel must first be preached to the Jews, and only then will the gentiles “come to thy light” as Isaiah had pophesied.

Yet, even with this level of understanding, the words are still harsh and unforgiving.  But let us turn for a moment from those harsh words of Jesus to the response of the Syro-Phoenician woman.  Before we do, though, think for a moment what you might have done if you had thrown yourself at the feet of Jesus and he had rebuked you as a dog.  What would you have done?  Would you have left in sorrow? Would you have quietly slipped away, regretting how vulnerable you had made yourself, only to be abused?  Would you wish that you had never even tried, and simply returned home to nurse your ailing daughter as best you could on your own?  Perhaps we would have responded in such a way, but the remarkable thing is that this woman did not.  Perhaps she was gripped by anger. Perhaps her resolve to see her daughter healed is what drove her to continue to press Jesus.  Perhaps it was her sense of justice in the face of what she took to be his unjust rebuke.  Whatever it was that drove her, she did not stand down.  She faced him.  She cleverly and adeptly transformed his parable, his metaphor, to her own just purpose. And what did she say?  Her answer was brilliant, “My Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” 

The sheer and utter brilliance exhibited by this woman is remarkable.  She did not demand a place at the table.  She did not claim an honour beyond her place.  She did not even ask for something unrealistic. She only stated the truth.  Even the dogs are fed.  “I may be unworthy,” she states, “but I still need to eat.”

The Syro-phoenician woman touched a truth that is universal.  We all need the benevolence of others.  None of us can get through this life under our own strength and power alone. We need others to help us, support us, encourage us, nourish us.  Sometimes those things are offered lovingly, and sometimes they are offered resentfully, sometimes they are even offered unknowingly or thoughtlessly, like those who throw the scraps to the dogs. However this help comes, when we are starving, when we are helpless, we grasp at it wherever we can find it.

It is not enough to leave it here, though, for the Syro-Phoenician woman also touched another truth, and this is something that is true about God.  She reminded Jesus that we have to do with a merciful God, not a God who expects us to get it right, to follow all the rules perfectly, or even to be a part of a chosen, select group.  We have to do with a God whose property is always to have mercy.  This is what she reminds Jesus, and this is the thing that touches Jesus’ heart, for Jesus knows she speaks the truth.   

And when we consider this text in its context in the Gospel of Mark, we realize that this is where things have been moving all along!  Remember that last week Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for ignoring the spirit of the Law by embracing oral traditions in contrast to the Law? Recall that he turned the purity laws upside-down by suggesting that it is not what goes into a person that makes them unclean but what comes out of them? Think back and remember that Jesus had just redefined the boundaries of who was at the table and who was not, and he had opened the doors and broken down the barriers.  The woman who approached him this day did not ask him for a seat at the table, but only a scrap.  Yet, her request resounded in his heart for she was actually asking him to demonstrate in action what he was known to preach, that God’s mercy is not simply for those who keep God’s rules, but for all; not for the perfect, the righteous, and the sinless, but for the sick, the outsider, and the sinner. She did not claim to be worthy, she simply asked God to be God and demonstrate his mercy upon her, unworthy as she was. She was a gentile.  She had not kept the Law of the Jews.  She was not righteous nor did she claim to be.  She simply asked God to throw her whatever scrap he could that her daughter might be made well, for even a scrap from God is more wonderful and abundant than any scrap that is thrown from the table to the dogs.

If we allow ourselves to be transported from that moment so many years ago, we will realize that we are not unlike that Syro-Phoenician woman. We are gentiles by birth. We have not kept the intricacies of the Torah. And yet, do we not hope for God’s love and mercy? Do we not hope that he will look upon us not as dogs but as his children, too?  I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ve done a single thing is this life that could ever make me worthy of God’s love, and if I have, it has surely been cancelled out by the myriad of mistakes I have made.  But thankfully, we have not to deal with a God who asks us to be perfect before he loves us, before he offers us his mercy.  The true sacrifice to God is a broken and contrite heart.  The true worshipper is the one who recognizes their need to cleave to God, even for a scrap of his goodness, for even a scrap has the power to transform us beyond measure.  Even a tiny morsel of God’s mercy makes me more worthy than I could ever be under my own power.  At the same time it is the thing that keep us humble.  We ever remember that it is not me, as St. Paul would later say, but Christ in me.  It is not my strength but his, not my righteousness but his, not my life, but his.

Now we see the table is set.  Surely there are those more worthy than me that will approach it.  There must be others that have kept the commandments more thoroughly than me.  Maybe there are.  How often are we afraid to approach because we feel unworthy.  So many people feel unworthy before God. So many people never approach because they feel that they will be turned away because they are flawed, broken, have sinned, made terrible mistakes.  Yes, maybe by rights God should turn us away.  However, when pressed, Jesus hears the words of the Syro-phoenician woman and she returns home to find that her daughter has already been healed.  Even as she battled with Jesus, her daughter was being healed.  Even as she struggled with God, God’s grace was already at work.  Even as she sought God’s mercy, God’s mercy had already been poured out upon her daughter.  Yes, we are unworthy, but that does not matter to God, because mercy is what God is all about, and so we approach with all our flaws, and cry out for mercy, for God is the same God whose property is always to have mercy.

 

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

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