Homily for Easter 5, Year A, 2008
Sunday, April 20th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 1 Peter 2:2-10
“And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy and living sacrifice unto thee. And although we are unworthy yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits but pardoning our offences.”
-Post Communion Prayer, Book of Common Prayer, p 85-6.
We have often heard the phrase, “the priesthood of all believers,” and although we set certain individuals apart for a vocation as “priests in the Church of God,” this calling is simply an extension of a calling that we all share as the priestly people of God. St. Peter writes: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people.” As such we all share in a priestly calling. But what is this calling? What does it mean for each of us to be part of a royal priesthood? For that matter, what is it to be a priest?
In our simplest, most ancient understanding of the term, a priest is one who offers up a sacrifice to God. In the ancient world, in both the pagan world and in Jewish society, the sacrifice was often an animal, slaughtered and burnt. As Christians appropriated the term we came to understand our priests as offering up a different sort of sacrifice, a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving – a sacrifice offered in loving response to the one who offered up the ultimate sacrifice, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To this day, when a priest stands at the altar, presiding in worship, at the sacred liturgy, his or her role is to “offer up” to God something of value of the community. And in our praise and thanksgiving, what is it that we offer? It is nothing less than our selves, in the entirety of our being. We offer up our triumphs and achievements, our failures and our losses. We offer to God our riches and our emptiness, our spirits and our bodies.
That is why I love that old post-communion prayer from the Book of Common Prayer so much. Those who were Anglicans prior to 1962 will remember that it was originally part of the Eucharistic prayer itself, so that as the priest was offering up the prayer of thanksgiving, what was actually being offered up was the very people who were gathered in prayer. In 1962, this prayer was moved to the “post-communion” position, that is, we had opportunity to say it together after we had received the sacrament. Both positions have merit, the former in that the sacrifice of ourselves, as the people of God, is placed at the nexus of the priestly prayer; the latter position in that it is only after we are strengthened in receiving our Lord’s body and blood that we can even begin to offer the sacrifice of ourselves – after all, it was his sacrifice that makes our adoration and praise possible and the offering of ourselves possible.
I suppose I favour the post-communion position of this prayer in the 1962 Prayer Book because it serves to sum up the entire liturgy and expresses what St. Peter spoke of in today’s epistle: “Once you were not a people, but now you’re are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” We come before the altar of our Lord as a disparate people, sinners of all walks of life, rich or poor, male or female, slave or free (it matters not), but we come, and from whatever baggage by which we are burdened, we are set free. We come and in the recalling of his death and passion (and this is no mere remembrance, but a summoning forth into our time the timeless sacrifice our of our Lord), we meet him at the altar and we are made new. Whatever we bring, whoever we are, we offer it up to God: Our selves, our souls, and bodies, as a priestly people.
When I bring Communion to the sick and those shut-in, I almost always use this prayer to conclude the liturgy. I use it because it reminds each of us, no matter our health, estate, or age, that the offering of our selves, our souls, and bodies is indeed a reasonable and holy sacrifice. As long is there is life and breath in us, we live to praise the one who gave us that life in the first place. Even when the body is withered or broken, we still offer it to God as a reasonable and holy sacrifice – a precious sacrifice in the heart of God. Even, and especially, in our brokenness the sacrifice we make is holy. Many of the older people that I visit feel that in their seclusion, their incapacity, their age, they have nothing to offer. But nothing is farther from the truth! Whatever we have, no matter our condition or age or health, we offer it to God and God is well-pleased. The offering of one’s self, no matter our condition, is always a reasonable sacrifice in the sight of God, and it is most holy. We always have something to offer to God, and to each other in Christian community.
The offering that we make is always an offering back to God of what God has first given us, namely, the offering of our lives. It may fill us with great pride to think that we are “self-made” people, but to believe this is only to delude ourselves. We had no say in our creation. The mere reality that we are here in the first place is because God gave us life through our parents. We had absolutely nothing to do with this miracle. And I suspect that the more that we examine the triumphs we have known and experienced in our lives, perhaps, just perhaps, we will see the hand of another at work. We rarely get anywhere in this life without the help and encouragement of others. It may be fashionable as modern people to think of ourselves as independent individuals who work hard to get the good things in life, but take the magnifying glass in hand and look closely for the signs of our families, friends and community bearing us along with them, and look closely for the hand of God.
We cannot do it alone. This is why the prayer goes on to say, “and although we are unworthy, yet we beseech thee to accept this our bounden duty and service, not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences.” There are many who would strike this line from the prayer suggesting that having received the forgiveness of God that we are indeed worthy. But this is the point of the prayer! We offer up to God all that God has given us, not because we are able under our own power, but because God has made us able! All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee! Remember the words spoken in response to each question of our Baptismal covenant, “I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help… I will, with God’s help!” Why will I, because God has loved me so much that I can do no other; because it is not me, but Christ in me. That is the mystery of our faith and that is the mystery of Holy Communion! We leave this place nourished by Christ, bearing Christ in us, feeding on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving, that we might offer the entirety of our lives to back to God, moving forward through the week and into the reality of our lives. We become a living sacrifice, or to put it as St. Peter suggests, we are becoming living stones with which the Kingdom of God is built.
The priesthood of all believers is the offering of our whole lives to God – our selves, our souls and bodies. We need not be ashamed of what we offer, for whoever we are, whatever we are, wherever we are, our living sacrifice is reasonable and holy, precious in the sight of God. We need not be ashamed because it is Christ in us, the great high priest of our souls, that offers the sacrifice through us, as we dwell in him and he in us. The priesthood of all believers is about offering yourself to God. Only you can know what the way will be. What will you offer; how will you be a sacred minister in the royal priesthood of our Lord Jesus Christ?
Consider the words of the Christina Rosetti, a nineteenth century poet, who a friend of mine suggests was priest through the offering of her poetry:
What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man, I would do my part;
Yet what can I give him – give my heart.[1]
Sermon text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This text may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
[1] Christina Rosetti, In the Bleak Midwinter, final stanza.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Eating is Believing
Sermon for Easter III, Year A
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Luke 24:13-35
“Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
--St. Luke 24:31
On a sad and lonely road walked two disciples. Their journey took them away from the Holy City, away from the festival that had come and gone, and away from the hope they had for a better life and a better world. They had followed the man about the countryside and into the city and had been amongst those who had proclaimed him king. And yet, as that fateful week unfolded their dreams began to dissipate and they stood at a distance watching the whole enterprise come crashing down. In the defeat of their leader and their whole movement, their hopes and dreams were crushed. So, they quietly slipped away along a sad and lonely road, presuming that that in the brokenness of their dreams they would quietly slip back into the broken world – unnoticed, anonymous.
One suspects that the last thing these two solitary figures wanted was company. Yet, they found themselves walking alongside a stranger – something of an intrusive stranger who inquired about the nature of their conversation. To their shock and surprise, this man seemed to know nothing about the events of the previous week. How true it is that what is often monumental and catastrophic to one may go completely unnoticed by another. Nonetheless, in a spirit of friendship, they opened up to him and told him their story. They chose not to remain silent in the midst of this unknown stranger, but shared with him the story of their shattered hopes and broken dreams. They poured open their broken hearts to him over the loss of their treasured friend and master.
They also shared the rumours – rumours that they could not believe; that he walked again. Oh, they had not seen it themselves; they could not, dare not, believe it. Hope once dashed is only cautiously rekindled. They had risked so much to follow him. They would not so easily and freely risk again. Then strangely, this mysterious fellow traveler began to speak about the prophets and the Scriptures, and about their fulfillment in this man – a man unknown to him. How odd this must have seemed to them, and yet it strangely comforted them. But did they yet believe? Alas, they did not.
But something strange was kindled within them. As the day pressed on and night began to fall, they welcomed him into their lodging, no longer as a stranger but as a guest, as a friend. As they sat around the table to eat their meal, a strange thing happened: In a gesture that evoked another meal, less than a week before, he took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to them. And then, in an instant, in this simple drama, they knew that they had not been left alone, they knew that the hope that seemed lost was yet found. They finally came to understand and believe that the dream that they thought dead and buried with their master was now, no longer a dream, but a reality. Thy kingdom come.
He vanished from their eyes. But they no longer had any need to see him to believe. As they had walked along the road, sharing stories of the women in Jerusalem who had claimed he was alive, they refused to believe. They had not seen him themselves. For them, like Thomas, “seeing was believing.” But oh, how often do we see and yet not believe? How often does our Lord walk with us and we choose to see him not? How often do we choose pain over healing, sadness over joy, despair over hope, when healing, hope and joy walk with us? Understand this: Seeing is overrated!
We think that seeing and touching, getting the tangible proof, will answer all our questions and cast all our doubt away. Like Thomas, and like those disciples along the Emmaus road, we think that “seeing is believing.” One only need to look at the world around us. Does seeing poverty, global warming, war, or injustice make any of these things more difficult to deny or ignore? Alas, it does not. Sometimes, seeing makes it even more difficult to cope, more difficult to believe, more difficult to understand. Had the disciples on this road seen the Risen Lord, would they have believed? God chose another way – the way he offers to you and me.
The miracle of Emmaus is that the Lord came to the disciples in a completely different way. He came to them in their experience of pain, loss, hopelessness, and despair. He came to them as they chose to walk together with him and with each other despite the worst the world could throw at them, despite the reality of their deep disappointment and brokenness. He came to them as they shared in a broken piece of bread. He came to those who were broken as one who was broken, in the breaking of the bread. And the minute they recognized him, he disappeared. But was he gone? By no means! Although removed from their eyes, they believed. St. Luke never says, that they “saw” him, only that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
What did they recognize? They recognized that he was with them in their brokenness as they walked along the road, even though at first, they knew it not. They recognized him in the opening of the Scriptures. They recognized that as they broke bread that they did this in memory of him – and what is more, that in that their Lord was more than remembered, he was truly alive and present with them. They recognized that wherever two or three are gathered, “there I am in the midst of you.”
This is the story of our faith. This is our Easter acclamation. We meet our Lord along the road on which we walk to escape our darkest pain and disappointment. We meet our Lord every time the Scriptures are opened. We meet our Lord when bread is broken in community. Seeing is not believing; oh, if it were so simple. Believing is something more profound. Believing is finding love in the arms of another when we feel unworthy of love. Believing is finding forgiveness at the hand of another when we feel we have done something unforgivable. Believing is finding joy in the laughter of another when we feel we may never laugh again. Believing is finding compassion in the gentle touch of another when we feel words cannot express the depth of our pain. And believing is offering all these things back to another when they cannot stand on their own. Believing is knowing that it is neither you nor I that makes any of these miracles possible, but the loving, Risen one, whose brokenness is our brokenness, whose healing is our healing, whose life is our life. Believing is sharing the fullness and depth of our humanity together in this shared common life, around this common table, and in the breaking open of the bread of our hearts, we believe him to be alive in our midst receiving him into our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.
Copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Luke 24:13-35
“Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
--St. Luke 24:31
On a sad and lonely road walked two disciples. Their journey took them away from the Holy City, away from the festival that had come and gone, and away from the hope they had for a better life and a better world. They had followed the man about the countryside and into the city and had been amongst those who had proclaimed him king. And yet, as that fateful week unfolded their dreams began to dissipate and they stood at a distance watching the whole enterprise come crashing down. In the defeat of their leader and their whole movement, their hopes and dreams were crushed. So, they quietly slipped away along a sad and lonely road, presuming that that in the brokenness of their dreams they would quietly slip back into the broken world – unnoticed, anonymous.
One suspects that the last thing these two solitary figures wanted was company. Yet, they found themselves walking alongside a stranger – something of an intrusive stranger who inquired about the nature of their conversation. To their shock and surprise, this man seemed to know nothing about the events of the previous week. How true it is that what is often monumental and catastrophic to one may go completely unnoticed by another. Nonetheless, in a spirit of friendship, they opened up to him and told him their story. They chose not to remain silent in the midst of this unknown stranger, but shared with him the story of their shattered hopes and broken dreams. They poured open their broken hearts to him over the loss of their treasured friend and master.
They also shared the rumours – rumours that they could not believe; that he walked again. Oh, they had not seen it themselves; they could not, dare not, believe it. Hope once dashed is only cautiously rekindled. They had risked so much to follow him. They would not so easily and freely risk again. Then strangely, this mysterious fellow traveler began to speak about the prophets and the Scriptures, and about their fulfillment in this man – a man unknown to him. How odd this must have seemed to them, and yet it strangely comforted them. But did they yet believe? Alas, they did not.
But something strange was kindled within them. As the day pressed on and night began to fall, they welcomed him into their lodging, no longer as a stranger but as a guest, as a friend. As they sat around the table to eat their meal, a strange thing happened: In a gesture that evoked another meal, less than a week before, he took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to them. And then, in an instant, in this simple drama, they knew that they had not been left alone, they knew that the hope that seemed lost was yet found. They finally came to understand and believe that the dream that they thought dead and buried with their master was now, no longer a dream, but a reality. Thy kingdom come.
He vanished from their eyes. But they no longer had any need to see him to believe. As they had walked along the road, sharing stories of the women in Jerusalem who had claimed he was alive, they refused to believe. They had not seen him themselves. For them, like Thomas, “seeing was believing.” But oh, how often do we see and yet not believe? How often does our Lord walk with us and we choose to see him not? How often do we choose pain over healing, sadness over joy, despair over hope, when healing, hope and joy walk with us? Understand this: Seeing is overrated!
We think that seeing and touching, getting the tangible proof, will answer all our questions and cast all our doubt away. Like Thomas, and like those disciples along the Emmaus road, we think that “seeing is believing.” One only need to look at the world around us. Does seeing poverty, global warming, war, or injustice make any of these things more difficult to deny or ignore? Alas, it does not. Sometimes, seeing makes it even more difficult to cope, more difficult to believe, more difficult to understand. Had the disciples on this road seen the Risen Lord, would they have believed? God chose another way – the way he offers to you and me.
The miracle of Emmaus is that the Lord came to the disciples in a completely different way. He came to them in their experience of pain, loss, hopelessness, and despair. He came to them as they chose to walk together with him and with each other despite the worst the world could throw at them, despite the reality of their deep disappointment and brokenness. He came to them as they shared in a broken piece of bread. He came to those who were broken as one who was broken, in the breaking of the bread. And the minute they recognized him, he disappeared. But was he gone? By no means! Although removed from their eyes, they believed. St. Luke never says, that they “saw” him, only that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
What did they recognize? They recognized that he was with them in their brokenness as they walked along the road, even though at first, they knew it not. They recognized him in the opening of the Scriptures. They recognized that as they broke bread that they did this in memory of him – and what is more, that in that their Lord was more than remembered, he was truly alive and present with them. They recognized that wherever two or three are gathered, “there I am in the midst of you.”
This is the story of our faith. This is our Easter acclamation. We meet our Lord along the road on which we walk to escape our darkest pain and disappointment. We meet our Lord every time the Scriptures are opened. We meet our Lord when bread is broken in community. Seeing is not believing; oh, if it were so simple. Believing is something more profound. Believing is finding love in the arms of another when we feel unworthy of love. Believing is finding forgiveness at the hand of another when we feel we have done something unforgivable. Believing is finding joy in the laughter of another when we feel we may never laugh again. Believing is finding compassion in the gentle touch of another when we feel words cannot express the depth of our pain. And believing is offering all these things back to another when they cannot stand on their own. Believing is knowing that it is neither you nor I that makes any of these miracles possible, but the loving, Risen one, whose brokenness is our brokenness, whose healing is our healing, whose life is our life. Believing is sharing the fullness and depth of our humanity together in this shared common life, around this common table, and in the breaking open of the bread of our hearts, we believe him to be alive in our midst receiving him into our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.
Copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Is Seeing Really Believing?
Homily for Easter II, Year A, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Hebrews 11:1, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:24-29
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen.”
Hebrews 11:1
Thomas demands a sign. He demands to know if the one spoken of by his fellows is truly his Lord and his master. If my Lord walks again, then he shall bear the wounds of his passion. Show me the wounds of Christ, show me the marks of his death, and then I shall proclaim, “He lives.” He demands no more or less than any of his fellows. When Mary Magdalene met her Lord in the garden, Peter refused to believe her word and only a face-to-face encounter would allay his doubt. The other disciples, too, demanded to see him. Is Thomas any different from the rest; is Thomas any different from us? Let me touch the Lord with my hands and I shall know he lives.
“My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back,” writes the author of the epistle to the Hebrews. Thomas did not shrink back. In spite of his pain and sadness and the wound of loss that he carried within his soul, he did not shrink back. And like the prophets of old about which St. Peter speaks, he sought out his salvation by “careful searching and inquiry.” The Gospel of St. John is known as a Gospel of signs. Jesus travels around the countryside giving signs to the people of Galilee and Judea that he is sent from the Father. Thomas is a good student, and having learned to look for a sign, he demands it. “Show me the marks of his death and I shall believe.” Show me the body. But is it enough simply to see the body, even if it walks?
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is a body still bearing the marks of the crucifixion. It is a wounded body; it is a broken body. When the disciples meet their Risen Lord they meet the man who gave his life for many and in beholding his hands and his side, there can be no doubt that this is Jesus who died. This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, broken for you.
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is also a body that has been transformed in its Resurrection. While it still bears the marks of the Crucifixion, it is also a body that is no longer constrained by the mechanisms of humanly manufactured locks and keys. It is a body that moves through walls and ascends on high. It is a body that miraculously appears to his disciples, on the seashore, in the garden, in a locked house. It is a mystical body – a body of which we are invited to be part; a body that we are to feed on in our hearts by faith and thanksgiving, preserving our bodies and souls unto everlasting life.
Thomas beholds the body of his Lord with his hands and cries out “My Lord and My God.” The strongest, boldest, most revolutionary claim for the Messiahship, nay, the divine kingship of Jesus in the entire New Testament, is given here, found on the lips of the so-called doubting apostle.
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for...”
Thomas hoped beyond hope that what he would encounter would be his master and friend, once again present to him. Thomas hoped beyond hope that what others had witnessed would be real to him, too.
“Faith is the conviction of things unseen...”
What did Thomas see? He saw a man who supposedly died a week before standing before him. He felt the wound on his side and the marks on his hands and beheld the marks of Jesus’ passion. But what did he really see. Would the appearance of a man thought dead convince any of us that he was God among us, the Word Incarnate? Could this not be a trick? What did Thomas really see, beyond the wounds, beyond the man?
The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Thomas saw and believed. Thomas saw a promise, the promise of his Lord, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” He saw a promise fulfilled that his Lord would not leave him, that his Lord comes to him even in his darkest moment of sadness, doubt and despair – Lo! I am with you, Thomas.
What did he see? What did he feel? What did he know in his heart? “Peace” says Jesus, “my peace I give to you and my peace I leave with you.” That is the conviction of things unseen, beyond the wounds, beyond the man, the very peace of God which passeth all understanding. The Risen Jesus stood not only before him, but within him, Thomas feeding on his Lord by faith, with thanksgiving.
The assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. For Thomas and the others, seeing was believing. But St. John, knowing that the time would come when seeing would no longer be possible, committed to writing the story of Thomas, and so many other stories, written, in his own words, “that we might believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that in believing, we might have life.” And so it is true for us, as St. Peter wrote so long ago, “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribably and glorious joy!”
We may not see him as Thomas, Mary Magdalene or Peter beheld him, but oh, we do meet him. For week by week we feed on the bread of life and that life is the light of all people. As we take the bread in our hands, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, we behold, inwardly by faith, his head, his hands, his side, the sorrow and the blood. But as we receive the sacrament of his passion we also become filled joy, with the light of the Lord. The Word made flesh enters into us raising us to new life, in this world and the next. As we behold our Lord in our hands, we draw near with faith. We draw near even in our own fear, with our own doubts, with our own wounds and in our own sadnesss, and we dare not shrink back, because we know him in our hearts -- he stands risen, not only before us, but also within us -- the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. And we, like Thomas, feel moved to shout with all assurance and with all conviction, “My Lord and my God.”
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Hebrews 11:1, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:24-29
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen.”
Hebrews 11:1
Thomas demands a sign. He demands to know if the one spoken of by his fellows is truly his Lord and his master. If my Lord walks again, then he shall bear the wounds of his passion. Show me the wounds of Christ, show me the marks of his death, and then I shall proclaim, “He lives.” He demands no more or less than any of his fellows. When Mary Magdalene met her Lord in the garden, Peter refused to believe her word and only a face-to-face encounter would allay his doubt. The other disciples, too, demanded to see him. Is Thomas any different from the rest; is Thomas any different from us? Let me touch the Lord with my hands and I shall know he lives.
“My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back,” writes the author of the epistle to the Hebrews. Thomas did not shrink back. In spite of his pain and sadness and the wound of loss that he carried within his soul, he did not shrink back. And like the prophets of old about which St. Peter speaks, he sought out his salvation by “careful searching and inquiry.” The Gospel of St. John is known as a Gospel of signs. Jesus travels around the countryside giving signs to the people of Galilee and Judea that he is sent from the Father. Thomas is a good student, and having learned to look for a sign, he demands it. “Show me the marks of his death and I shall believe.” Show me the body. But is it enough simply to see the body, even if it walks?
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is a body still bearing the marks of the crucifixion. It is a wounded body; it is a broken body. When the disciples meet their Risen Lord they meet the man who gave his life for many and in beholding his hands and his side, there can be no doubt that this is Jesus who died. This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, broken for you.
The body of Jesus that the disciples encounter behind the locked doors of that house in Jerusalem is also a body that has been transformed in its Resurrection. While it still bears the marks of the Crucifixion, it is also a body that is no longer constrained by the mechanisms of humanly manufactured locks and keys. It is a body that moves through walls and ascends on high. It is a body that miraculously appears to his disciples, on the seashore, in the garden, in a locked house. It is a mystical body – a body of which we are invited to be part; a body that we are to feed on in our hearts by faith and thanksgiving, preserving our bodies and souls unto everlasting life.
Thomas beholds the body of his Lord with his hands and cries out “My Lord and My God.” The strongest, boldest, most revolutionary claim for the Messiahship, nay, the divine kingship of Jesus in the entire New Testament, is given here, found on the lips of the so-called doubting apostle.
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for...”
Thomas hoped beyond hope that what he would encounter would be his master and friend, once again present to him. Thomas hoped beyond hope that what others had witnessed would be real to him, too.
“Faith is the conviction of things unseen...”
What did Thomas see? He saw a man who supposedly died a week before standing before him. He felt the wound on his side and the marks on his hands and beheld the marks of Jesus’ passion. But what did he really see. Would the appearance of a man thought dead convince any of us that he was God among us, the Word Incarnate? Could this not be a trick? What did Thomas really see, beyond the wounds, beyond the man?
The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Thomas saw and believed. Thomas saw a promise, the promise of his Lord, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” He saw a promise fulfilled that his Lord would not leave him, that his Lord comes to him even in his darkest moment of sadness, doubt and despair – Lo! I am with you, Thomas.
What did he see? What did he feel? What did he know in his heart? “Peace” says Jesus, “my peace I give to you and my peace I leave with you.” That is the conviction of things unseen, beyond the wounds, beyond the man, the very peace of God which passeth all understanding. The Risen Jesus stood not only before him, but within him, Thomas feeding on his Lord by faith, with thanksgiving.
The assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. For Thomas and the others, seeing was believing. But St. John, knowing that the time would come when seeing would no longer be possible, committed to writing the story of Thomas, and so many other stories, written, in his own words, “that we might believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that in believing, we might have life.” And so it is true for us, as St. Peter wrote so long ago, “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribably and glorious joy!”
We may not see him as Thomas, Mary Magdalene or Peter beheld him, but oh, we do meet him. For week by week we feed on the bread of life and that life is the light of all people. As we take the bread in our hands, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, we behold, inwardly by faith, his head, his hands, his side, the sorrow and the blood. But as we receive the sacrament of his passion we also become filled joy, with the light of the Lord. The Word made flesh enters into us raising us to new life, in this world and the next. As we behold our Lord in our hands, we draw near with faith. We draw near even in our own fear, with our own doubts, with our own wounds and in our own sadnesss, and we dare not shrink back, because we know him in our hearts -- he stands risen, not only before us, but also within us -- the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen. And we, like Thomas, feel moved to shout with all assurance and with all conviction, “My Lord and my God.”
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Behold your Son, Behold your Mother, Behold Your God: A Homily for Good Friday
Sermon For Good Friday, 2008
Friday, March 21st, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 18:1-19:42
“Woman, behold your son – Son, behold your mother.”
Some time ago, I heard a story on the CBC about bullet-proof clothing. Unlike the bulky vest worn by police officers, this was designer clothing that looked no different from any other high-end garment that might adorn those who grace the runways and red carpets. What I found amazing was that this was literally a booming industry. A fifteen thousand dollar suit had just been delivered to a big businessman; a twenty thousand dollar dress sold quite handily to a young starlet. And what is more, the salespeople were really willing to get behind their product: They were literally willing to take a bullet for the cause. As I drove along listening to the radio report, my mouth was agape as I heard interviews with salespeople who had worn the clothes and were shot a point-blank range in order to demonstrate their own faith in the product. And upon the conclusion of the report, two words came into my head – fear and madness.
This report brings into focus the kind of paranoia by which we can be gripped living in a world of fear. Who is it that lurks around the corner waiting to take my life? Who is it that seeks to harm me, my family, or my children? Who is it that seeks to undermine the security of our nation to the point that we happily and wilfully give up our civil liberties as if such liberties were refuse to be dusted away in a Spring cleaning? And more than the fear of whom, there is the complacent fear of when. We become gripped by a paranoia that it is inevitable that others seek to harm us, and that it is only a matter of time until that unknown person takes a shot at us or our loved ones. We become so gripped with fear that we build walls around our cities, or through their centres, across our borders, in our airports, and now apparently around our bodies in the form of bullet-proof designer clothing, all in the hope of protecting us from some inevitable attack on our person. An existence built around fear.
Is this anything other than madness? Does it not speak of the complete, and more poignantly, the voluntary separation of ourselves from each other? Were we not created as beings of relationship, of love, of compassion, of tenderness? And yet we eagerly and willingly embrace the madness of separation in the hope of survival. Instead of questioning why we might need designer bullet proof clothing in the first place; instead of living lives that might change the madness of this reality, we design it, market and promote it, sell it, and even take a bullet ourselves to demonstrate its necessity. We choose to embrace the culture of fear and madness, rather than witness to its transformation.
“Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself … One of them asked him, ‘did I not see you in the garden with Jesus?’ Are you not one of his disciples?’ Peter replied, ‘I am not.”
Fear – driven by fear, a fear for his own safety, a fear that he had followed a false prophet, a fear that he was now to be condemned for a relationship with this false messiah, Peter denied his Lord. A wall went up around him, it was as if he slipped on one of those designer bullet-proof garments so that he could stand safely in the midst of those who might seize him and put him to death. And yet, there he stood at that moment, protected yes, but by his lie, utterly and completely alone.
“My peace I gave, which the world cannot give,
and washed your feet as a sign of my love,
but you draw the sword to strike in my name,
and seek high places in my kingdom.
I offered you my body and blood,
But you scatter and deny and abandon me.”
That love is ever before us, as it was ever before Peter. Again and again our Lord comes to us. The love of the servant king banishes all fear and casts away all darkness. But do we still choose fear? Do we still choose darkness? When push comes to shove, shall we choose to participate in the culture of fear and madness because it is easier to believe in despair rather than to proclaim hope? Shall we build walls around ourselves, segregating us from each other and from our Lord? Shall we make the pretence of belonging to each other, warming ourselves around the fire, if in fact, we have denied the one who by his love transforms the world in love? Fear is easy, because it is what we see every day – but what of the way we know by faith? What of the courage of love?
Some time later, at the foot of the cross stands a man and three women. The man is without name, some believe him to be the disciple John, we cannot be sure, but we do know this – he was one that Jesus loved. And with him, stand others, beloved by the Lord, most especially, his own mother, Mary. And as he risked all for them, as he gave his life that they might have life and have it abundantly, so too, they risked all for him. They risked the derision of onlookers. They risked the likelihood that as his followers they, too, might soon be persecuted at put to death. They risked the pain and fear of seeing one they loved so much die a slow and painful death. They stood in the open, on a hill, at the foot of that instrument of death and pain, when all others had run away in fear, beneath the one whose arms were stretched wide in pain but wide in love and offered him their mutual love in spite of the stares and derision of the world, the abandonment of their friends, and the danger and fear they must have felt. Against all fear, they stood together.
And he looked down on that young man with these words, “Son, behold your mother,” and to his mother, “woman, behold your son.” These are words that shall be forever remembered as words that bound these individuals together inseparably for all time. And what is more, they are words that bind us together for all time. They are words that are spoken to us today from that same cross. Look around this place, behold your mother, behold your father, behold your sons and your daughters, behold your brothers and your sisters. And as you gaze back, behold the Man, the man who spoke these words and made that sacrifice on the cross. For these words and that sacrifice have knit us together into one great family of love and compassion, in which sin and fear and darkness are banished forever, and replaced by a love so deep and so wide that stretches out over all creation. This is what we were created for -- this is what we were meant to be -- and not just us, but the whole world: to be one great human family, drawn together through the sacrifice of love.
Our prayer must be today, that the Lord will call us into the depth of that love, turning us from fear and madness, and putting in us the Spirit of courage that we might testify to this love that casts away all darkness. We pray that we might stand on that hill, with faith as the world chooses pain, and war, and violence. We pray that we have the grace to proclaim to that same world, with actions that speak louder than words, that self-sacrificing love that binds rather than separates us. For we know that our Lord calls the whole human family to look upon each other saying, behold your mother, behold your son. Let us have the courage to stand together with each other and with him as we look to the cross and proclaim: Behold the man, behold the lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. Behold our God.
Copyright 2008 by the Reverend Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Friday, March 21st, 2008
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 18:1-19:42
“Woman, behold your son – Son, behold your mother.”
Some time ago, I heard a story on the CBC about bullet-proof clothing. Unlike the bulky vest worn by police officers, this was designer clothing that looked no different from any other high-end garment that might adorn those who grace the runways and red carpets. What I found amazing was that this was literally a booming industry. A fifteen thousand dollar suit had just been delivered to a big businessman; a twenty thousand dollar dress sold quite handily to a young starlet. And what is more, the salespeople were really willing to get behind their product: They were literally willing to take a bullet for the cause. As I drove along listening to the radio report, my mouth was agape as I heard interviews with salespeople who had worn the clothes and were shot a point-blank range in order to demonstrate their own faith in the product. And upon the conclusion of the report, two words came into my head – fear and madness.
This report brings into focus the kind of paranoia by which we can be gripped living in a world of fear. Who is it that lurks around the corner waiting to take my life? Who is it that seeks to harm me, my family, or my children? Who is it that seeks to undermine the security of our nation to the point that we happily and wilfully give up our civil liberties as if such liberties were refuse to be dusted away in a Spring cleaning? And more than the fear of whom, there is the complacent fear of when. We become gripped by a paranoia that it is inevitable that others seek to harm us, and that it is only a matter of time until that unknown person takes a shot at us or our loved ones. We become so gripped with fear that we build walls around our cities, or through their centres, across our borders, in our airports, and now apparently around our bodies in the form of bullet-proof designer clothing, all in the hope of protecting us from some inevitable attack on our person. An existence built around fear.
Is this anything other than madness? Does it not speak of the complete, and more poignantly, the voluntary separation of ourselves from each other? Were we not created as beings of relationship, of love, of compassion, of tenderness? And yet we eagerly and willingly embrace the madness of separation in the hope of survival. Instead of questioning why we might need designer bullet proof clothing in the first place; instead of living lives that might change the madness of this reality, we design it, market and promote it, sell it, and even take a bullet ourselves to demonstrate its necessity. We choose to embrace the culture of fear and madness, rather than witness to its transformation.
“Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself … One of them asked him, ‘did I not see you in the garden with Jesus?’ Are you not one of his disciples?’ Peter replied, ‘I am not.”
Fear – driven by fear, a fear for his own safety, a fear that he had followed a false prophet, a fear that he was now to be condemned for a relationship with this false messiah, Peter denied his Lord. A wall went up around him, it was as if he slipped on one of those designer bullet-proof garments so that he could stand safely in the midst of those who might seize him and put him to death. And yet, there he stood at that moment, protected yes, but by his lie, utterly and completely alone.
“My peace I gave, which the world cannot give,
and washed your feet as a sign of my love,
but you draw the sword to strike in my name,
and seek high places in my kingdom.
I offered you my body and blood,
But you scatter and deny and abandon me.”
That love is ever before us, as it was ever before Peter. Again and again our Lord comes to us. The love of the servant king banishes all fear and casts away all darkness. But do we still choose fear? Do we still choose darkness? When push comes to shove, shall we choose to participate in the culture of fear and madness because it is easier to believe in despair rather than to proclaim hope? Shall we build walls around ourselves, segregating us from each other and from our Lord? Shall we make the pretence of belonging to each other, warming ourselves around the fire, if in fact, we have denied the one who by his love transforms the world in love? Fear is easy, because it is what we see every day – but what of the way we know by faith? What of the courage of love?
Some time later, at the foot of the cross stands a man and three women. The man is without name, some believe him to be the disciple John, we cannot be sure, but we do know this – he was one that Jesus loved. And with him, stand others, beloved by the Lord, most especially, his own mother, Mary. And as he risked all for them, as he gave his life that they might have life and have it abundantly, so too, they risked all for him. They risked the derision of onlookers. They risked the likelihood that as his followers they, too, might soon be persecuted at put to death. They risked the pain and fear of seeing one they loved so much die a slow and painful death. They stood in the open, on a hill, at the foot of that instrument of death and pain, when all others had run away in fear, beneath the one whose arms were stretched wide in pain but wide in love and offered him their mutual love in spite of the stares and derision of the world, the abandonment of their friends, and the danger and fear they must have felt. Against all fear, they stood together.
And he looked down on that young man with these words, “Son, behold your mother,” and to his mother, “woman, behold your son.” These are words that shall be forever remembered as words that bound these individuals together inseparably for all time. And what is more, they are words that bind us together for all time. They are words that are spoken to us today from that same cross. Look around this place, behold your mother, behold your father, behold your sons and your daughters, behold your brothers and your sisters. And as you gaze back, behold the Man, the man who spoke these words and made that sacrifice on the cross. For these words and that sacrifice have knit us together into one great family of love and compassion, in which sin and fear and darkness are banished forever, and replaced by a love so deep and so wide that stretches out over all creation. This is what we were created for -- this is what we were meant to be -- and not just us, but the whole world: to be one great human family, drawn together through the sacrifice of love.
Our prayer must be today, that the Lord will call us into the depth of that love, turning us from fear and madness, and putting in us the Spirit of courage that we might testify to this love that casts away all darkness. We pray that we might stand on that hill, with faith as the world chooses pain, and war, and violence. We pray that we have the grace to proclaim to that same world, with actions that speak louder than words, that self-sacrificing love that binds rather than separates us. For we know that our Lord calls the whole human family to look upon each other saying, behold your mother, behold your son. Let us have the courage to stand together with each other and with him as we look to the cross and proclaim: Behold the man, behold the lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. Behold our God.
Copyright 2008 by the Reverend Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Foolishness of God -- A Homily for Tuesday in Holy Week
Homily for Tuesday in Holy Week, 2008
Tuesday, March 18th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; John 12:20-36
“The Message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” – 1 Cor. 1:18
Paradox stands at the heart of our Holy Week journey: A triumphal parade becomes the longest mile; a king is crowned with thorns and placed upon a cross as throne; the healing of the nations comes about through the wounding of a single man; and ultimately, new life is born out of death. Is it any wonder, then, that St. Paul says, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing…” In this world, which oft seems devoid of meaning, how can these paradoxes make any sense at all? Is not what we see with our own eyes what is real? Are not Kings are gloried in their victory rather than in their defeat? Is not pain an unavoidable reality that grips us all, sooner or later? Is not death our final humiliation? On the surface, the answer is “yes.” The paradoxes are absurd. What we see is what we know. Defeat is defeat; pain is pain; and death is death. How can they be anything more? We see with our own eyes the reality of such things and we have experienced them in our own lives and the lives of those around us. And it’s not pretty.
There is another way of seeing, though. It is a way of seeing that penetrates the reality that is seen by our eyes, heard with our ears, touched by our hands. Truly, it is a reality that penetrates our hearts and souls. It is the reality of God here among us; light in the midst of us. It is a reality that is beyond sensory comprehension. It is a reality that is beyond explanation. It is a reality that is beyond the wisdom of this world. It is a reality that is felt and known inwardly amidst the contradiction of what we may experience outwardly. It is impossible to say how it happens for each one of us, but “in Christ” we are made alive and as he peers into, and touches the depths of our hearts, so that we to peer into, and touch the depths of his. The meaninglessness of the world around us suddenly takes on meaning; in the hopelessness of our situation we suddenly find hope; and in the brokenness of our humanity we find wholeness; in the moment of death we know eternal life. This is why as Christians at funerals we confess the paradox that while we are indeed “dust and to dust we shall return,” that even at the grave we make “alleluia” our song. What is seen is not necessarily the ultimate truth, and what is more, what we see takes on greater meaning because of what we feel and know, inwardly and mystically, in Christ. Thus St. Paul can say, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.”
And so it is that in losing our life, we shall find it; in gentleness, we shall find strength; in brokenness, we discover wholeness; in dying, yet we live. In Christ, as St. John reminds us, life is fleeting and not to be hoarded or clung to, for it is never really ours to possess. If we know the one who gives us life, we shall come to live it more fully, more passionately, and more meaningfully. Then, finally, the paradox in all its inexplicable contradiction will be understood and we will revel in understanding in the foolishness of God.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in who or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Tuesday, March 18th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; John 12:20-36
“The Message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” – 1 Cor. 1:18
Paradox stands at the heart of our Holy Week journey: A triumphal parade becomes the longest mile; a king is crowned with thorns and placed upon a cross as throne; the healing of the nations comes about through the wounding of a single man; and ultimately, new life is born out of death. Is it any wonder, then, that St. Paul says, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing…” In this world, which oft seems devoid of meaning, how can these paradoxes make any sense at all? Is not what we see with our own eyes what is real? Are not Kings are gloried in their victory rather than in their defeat? Is not pain an unavoidable reality that grips us all, sooner or later? Is not death our final humiliation? On the surface, the answer is “yes.” The paradoxes are absurd. What we see is what we know. Defeat is defeat; pain is pain; and death is death. How can they be anything more? We see with our own eyes the reality of such things and we have experienced them in our own lives and the lives of those around us. And it’s not pretty.
There is another way of seeing, though. It is a way of seeing that penetrates the reality that is seen by our eyes, heard with our ears, touched by our hands. Truly, it is a reality that penetrates our hearts and souls. It is the reality of God here among us; light in the midst of us. It is a reality that is beyond sensory comprehension. It is a reality that is beyond explanation. It is a reality that is beyond the wisdom of this world. It is a reality that is felt and known inwardly amidst the contradiction of what we may experience outwardly. It is impossible to say how it happens for each one of us, but “in Christ” we are made alive and as he peers into, and touches the depths of our hearts, so that we to peer into, and touch the depths of his. The meaninglessness of the world around us suddenly takes on meaning; in the hopelessness of our situation we suddenly find hope; and in the brokenness of our humanity we find wholeness; in the moment of death we know eternal life. This is why as Christians at funerals we confess the paradox that while we are indeed “dust and to dust we shall return,” that even at the grave we make “alleluia” our song. What is seen is not necessarily the ultimate truth, and what is more, what we see takes on greater meaning because of what we feel and know, inwardly and mystically, in Christ. Thus St. Paul can say, “that the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.”
And so it is that in losing our life, we shall find it; in gentleness, we shall find strength; in brokenness, we discover wholeness; in dying, yet we live. In Christ, as St. John reminds us, life is fleeting and not to be hoarded or clung to, for it is never really ours to possess. If we know the one who gives us life, we shall come to live it more fully, more passionately, and more meaningfully. Then, finally, the paradox in all its inexplicable contradiction will be understood and we will revel in understanding in the foolishness of God.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in who or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Silence and Noise: A Homily for Palm Sunday
Homily for Palm Sunday, Year A, 2008
Sunday, March 16th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Matthew’s Passion Narrative; Philippians 2:5-11
Silence and noise. These two opposites tug at us in our hearing of the Passion According to St. Matthew. On the one hand, there are those who mock our Lord; there are those who deride him; there are those who have much to say about the man hanging on the cross. They speak as if they understand all things, self-righteously pontificating with self-assurance. On the other hand, there are those who stand by quietly, not speaking, not commenting, not editorializing; rather, simply participating in the drama as it unfolds, exhibiting a different sort of righteousness – the faithfulness of discipleship. Noise and silence.
From the earliest moments of St. Matthew’s gospel, it has been the purpose of the Evangelist to teach us about what it means to be a true disciple; what it means to be righteous. But righteousness may not mean exactly what we think it does. No, for in the opening chapters of St. Matthew, we learn of Joseph, a righteous man, who would do the right thing and put away his wife Mary for her alleged infidelity. This would have been the righteous thing. Instead, God directs him on a different path, the path of gentleness, the path of compassion, a path in which he opened himself to ridicule by others – the path of self-offering and self-giving.
And so it is time and time again for St. Matthew. Righteousness is not what we think it is. Consider the temptations of Jesus, as well as the Sermon on the Mount, in each of these stories we learn that righteousness is not about following the right code, but the giving over of self in order that the heavenly kingdom might come on earth.
In the final moments of Jesus’ earthly life, we are witness to this ultimate self-offering. He is accused of being unrighteous, of being a blasphemer, but nothing can be further from the truth. To the accusations leveled against him, he makes no pretense to greatness. As palms and garments are thrown before him acclaiming him king, he comes riding not on a white stead but on a lowly donkey. To the question: “Are you the Messiah?”, comes the self-effacing reply, “You have said so.” As soldiers, thieves and passersby mock him, the noise becomes deafening: “If you are indeed God’s son save yourself; you saved others!” Amidst the noise truth is indeed spoken, albeit ironically, mockingly: He is the king, the Messiah, the Son of God. Ironically, they speak the truth, only they know not of what they speak.
In the shadows stands the one who could speak the truth, the one who acclaimed him as God’s Son. But Peter refuses to step into the light, choosing to remain in the shadows of the flickering fire, denying his Lord. From his lips comes the deafening noise of denial.
Noise and Silence.
Through his condemnation and through his lengthy execution, our Lord spoke but a few words. Amidst the deafening noise of the accusations and taunting, he chose not to acclaim the glory that was indeed his, but took up his cross in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled. He took up his cross so that in vulnerability we might find strength, in hopelessness we might see hope, so that in death we might know resurrection.
It is common for us to think of this as a lonely journey in which Jesus was abandoned. It seems all the lonelier due to the incessant noise made by those around the silent Messiah who is led like a lamb to the slaughter. And yet, if we examine the narrative more closely, if we delve into the silence, we recognize that our Lord is not alone. There are others that stand with him, silently, oh so silently, but they also stand with him, faithfully, oh so faithfully. A man name Simon, a Cyrenean, was compelled to carry our Lord’s cross. Does he, like Peter (another Simon) abdicate his responsibility? Does he announce that he does not know the man? Does he refuse? No. Without voice or word he takes up his Lord’s cross and follows him, providing not only respite for a doomed man, but a model of discipleship for all time.
And if we extend today’s narrative a paragraph further than we read this morning, we learn of “many women, looking on from a distance; who had followed him all the way from the Galilee, having provided for him.” Like the angels who came to minister to him after his desert temptation, so these faithful women, not least being Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the Zebedees, stood with him, silently during his final moments. Unlike the men who ran away, who could not watch and pray even for an hour, they stayed and prayed, silently, oh, so silently. Yet, their silence would not remain silence. For simply by being there they became the first faithful witnesses to the saving act of God. While others mocked and derided, in their silence these women watched and prayed. They would be the first to proclaim him risen from the dead; they would be the first to believe; they would be the first apostles of the Resurrection. In their compassion, ministering to him faithfully and consistently from the foundation of his mission, to this his final moments, they teach us what it means to be true disciples of Jesus. They did not run and in the fullness of time, their silence turns to proclamation.
And finally, if we read but another paragraph further, we hear of another selfless man, another Joseph (take note), who like the first Joseph, at great expense and risk to himself, in order to offer loving care to the women around Jesus took a brave and courageous step of compassion. He went quietly to Pilate and asked for the body, which he placed in his own tomb: A quiet, courageous man of some means and position in his society who quietly risked it all to do the right thing -- a model of discipleship.
Silence and Noise.
A generation later, St. Paul wrote, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” And in today’s epistle Paul sings an ancient hymn about our Lord who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…even unto death on a cross.”
Jesus came not as one with an army or fiery sword. He came as a servant. It is the servant king who redeems us, who brings us to new life, who offers us hope in the midst of our sorrow. This is the righteousness of which St. Matthew speaks. It is not the righteousness of Law, or rule, or doctrine, or forms of worship. No. It is the righteousness of Love, compassion, gentleness, and self-offering. Everything else has the potential to become a clanging cymbal or a noisy gong. The most righteous men of the day put our Lord to death. The most righteous of the disciples denied him in the moment of truth. The most righteous did the wrong thing for the right reason. But there were others who in silent love, silent compassion, silent self-giving followed their lord through the trials of the cross to the glory of the resurrection.
As participants in the Passion of our Lord we find ourselves confronted with a choice. Shall we choose to cling to the noise of our own self-righteousness or shall we choose the silence of eternity interpreted by love? Should we choose the silence, we shall indeed find that we have a voice, a voice that proclaims louder than any clanging cymbal the still small voice of calm. We shall find the voice that in humility hopes all things, bears all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Like the women around Jesus we shall find our voice and it shall be the voice of our Lord that in thought, word and deed, proclaims a love so great, so divine that it demands our souls, our lives, our all.
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or resdistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, March 16th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Matthew’s Passion Narrative; Philippians 2:5-11
Silence and noise. These two opposites tug at us in our hearing of the Passion According to St. Matthew. On the one hand, there are those who mock our Lord; there are those who deride him; there are those who have much to say about the man hanging on the cross. They speak as if they understand all things, self-righteously pontificating with self-assurance. On the other hand, there are those who stand by quietly, not speaking, not commenting, not editorializing; rather, simply participating in the drama as it unfolds, exhibiting a different sort of righteousness – the faithfulness of discipleship. Noise and silence.
From the earliest moments of St. Matthew’s gospel, it has been the purpose of the Evangelist to teach us about what it means to be a true disciple; what it means to be righteous. But righteousness may not mean exactly what we think it does. No, for in the opening chapters of St. Matthew, we learn of Joseph, a righteous man, who would do the right thing and put away his wife Mary for her alleged infidelity. This would have been the righteous thing. Instead, God directs him on a different path, the path of gentleness, the path of compassion, a path in which he opened himself to ridicule by others – the path of self-offering and self-giving.
And so it is time and time again for St. Matthew. Righteousness is not what we think it is. Consider the temptations of Jesus, as well as the Sermon on the Mount, in each of these stories we learn that righteousness is not about following the right code, but the giving over of self in order that the heavenly kingdom might come on earth.
In the final moments of Jesus’ earthly life, we are witness to this ultimate self-offering. He is accused of being unrighteous, of being a blasphemer, but nothing can be further from the truth. To the accusations leveled against him, he makes no pretense to greatness. As palms and garments are thrown before him acclaiming him king, he comes riding not on a white stead but on a lowly donkey. To the question: “Are you the Messiah?”, comes the self-effacing reply, “You have said so.” As soldiers, thieves and passersby mock him, the noise becomes deafening: “If you are indeed God’s son save yourself; you saved others!” Amidst the noise truth is indeed spoken, albeit ironically, mockingly: He is the king, the Messiah, the Son of God. Ironically, they speak the truth, only they know not of what they speak.
In the shadows stands the one who could speak the truth, the one who acclaimed him as God’s Son. But Peter refuses to step into the light, choosing to remain in the shadows of the flickering fire, denying his Lord. From his lips comes the deafening noise of denial.
Noise and Silence.
Through his condemnation and through his lengthy execution, our Lord spoke but a few words. Amidst the deafening noise of the accusations and taunting, he chose not to acclaim the glory that was indeed his, but took up his cross in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled. He took up his cross so that in vulnerability we might find strength, in hopelessness we might see hope, so that in death we might know resurrection.
It is common for us to think of this as a lonely journey in which Jesus was abandoned. It seems all the lonelier due to the incessant noise made by those around the silent Messiah who is led like a lamb to the slaughter. And yet, if we examine the narrative more closely, if we delve into the silence, we recognize that our Lord is not alone. There are others that stand with him, silently, oh so silently, but they also stand with him, faithfully, oh so faithfully. A man name Simon, a Cyrenean, was compelled to carry our Lord’s cross. Does he, like Peter (another Simon) abdicate his responsibility? Does he announce that he does not know the man? Does he refuse? No. Without voice or word he takes up his Lord’s cross and follows him, providing not only respite for a doomed man, but a model of discipleship for all time.
And if we extend today’s narrative a paragraph further than we read this morning, we learn of “many women, looking on from a distance; who had followed him all the way from the Galilee, having provided for him.” Like the angels who came to minister to him after his desert temptation, so these faithful women, not least being Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the Zebedees, stood with him, silently during his final moments. Unlike the men who ran away, who could not watch and pray even for an hour, they stayed and prayed, silently, oh, so silently. Yet, their silence would not remain silence. For simply by being there they became the first faithful witnesses to the saving act of God. While others mocked and derided, in their silence these women watched and prayed. They would be the first to proclaim him risen from the dead; they would be the first to believe; they would be the first apostles of the Resurrection. In their compassion, ministering to him faithfully and consistently from the foundation of his mission, to this his final moments, they teach us what it means to be true disciples of Jesus. They did not run and in the fullness of time, their silence turns to proclamation.
And finally, if we read but another paragraph further, we hear of another selfless man, another Joseph (take note), who like the first Joseph, at great expense and risk to himself, in order to offer loving care to the women around Jesus took a brave and courageous step of compassion. He went quietly to Pilate and asked for the body, which he placed in his own tomb: A quiet, courageous man of some means and position in his society who quietly risked it all to do the right thing -- a model of discipleship.
Silence and Noise.
A generation later, St. Paul wrote, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” And in today’s epistle Paul sings an ancient hymn about our Lord who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…even unto death on a cross.”
Jesus came not as one with an army or fiery sword. He came as a servant. It is the servant king who redeems us, who brings us to new life, who offers us hope in the midst of our sorrow. This is the righteousness of which St. Matthew speaks. It is not the righteousness of Law, or rule, or doctrine, or forms of worship. No. It is the righteousness of Love, compassion, gentleness, and self-offering. Everything else has the potential to become a clanging cymbal or a noisy gong. The most righteous men of the day put our Lord to death. The most righteous of the disciples denied him in the moment of truth. The most righteous did the wrong thing for the right reason. But there were others who in silent love, silent compassion, silent self-giving followed their lord through the trials of the cross to the glory of the resurrection.
As participants in the Passion of our Lord we find ourselves confronted with a choice. Shall we choose to cling to the noise of our own self-righteousness or shall we choose the silence of eternity interpreted by love? Should we choose the silence, we shall indeed find that we have a voice, a voice that proclaims louder than any clanging cymbal the still small voice of calm. We shall find the voice that in humility hopes all things, bears all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Like the women around Jesus we shall find our voice and it shall be the voice of our Lord that in thought, word and deed, proclaims a love so great, so divine that it demands our souls, our lives, our all.
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or resdistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Can These Bones Live?
Homily for Lent 5, Year A, 2008
Sunday, March 9th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45
“Can these bones live?”
--Ezekiel 37:3
Some time after the people of Judah were taken into captivity in 587 B.C., the prophet Ezekiel was swept up in a vision in which he was transported to a valley of dry bones – a valley where bone was piled upon bone for as far as the eye could see. It was an unimaginable sight and he stood within its midst. One can only imagine the revulsion that he felt given the palpable stench and taste of death, given the reality of the ritual impurity of the moment, and given the fearsome sight itself of bone upon bone. Frightfully, Ezekiel stood amidst the utter a reality of death itself. Could he have kept himself from weeping? What were the emotions that welled deep within his heart in that moment? He certainly knew that these bones represented the fate of his nation; he certainly knew that this vision of death was not simply a vision, but rather a manifestation of the reality faced by his people in exile. And had God forsaken them? Had God forsaken him? Was this to be the ultimate fate of the people who walked in the darkness of foreign oppression? They had certainly lost their way but they had also been escorted somewhere that they would rather not have gone. Was this to be his own fate? As the horror of the vision overwhelmed him, these words took shape within his ears, and the voice of God spoke to him, “Can these bones live?” A small voice began to form within his own breast and took shape on his own lips, “Oh Lord God, you know."
There is much to weep over in this present age, in a world filled with brokenness and despair, not to mention a church filled with brokenness and resignation over its own apparent imminent demise. Do we not feel as if we might be standing in a valley of dry bones -- bone upon bone for as far as the eye can see? Do we not feel, at times, that whether it be church or world, we have a certain helplessness and hopelessness about how things are going to unfold. Do we dare to stand against the oppressor when the oppressor seems unbeatable? Do we dare to stand against injustice when injustice appears the to have become the order of the day? Are we afraid to embrace change because all we have ever known becomes all we can ever imagine? Shall the exile be the best that we can hope for? Shall battles in court over the possession of church buildings be the best that we can offer to the world? Are we a people without voice, without form, without flesh on our bones, without the breath of life itself – a people without hope? It seems that this is how the world often sees us. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.
The vision of Ezekiel is an oracle of hope. The vision of Ezekiel, though beginning in the valley of death, concludes in the Garden of Resurrection. Although Ezekiel stands in the midst of bones dried and discarded, despondent of hope, still he listens for the voice of God in the darkest and most frightful place. And that voice does indeed speak. It is a voice that speaks across the tears of a broken people and calls this lonely prophet to a new hope. "Prophesy to the bones," says the Lord. Ezekiel listens, and perhaps tentatively at first, but with increasing confidence speaks to the bones. The bones come together, bone to bone, rattling with a deafening noise. The noise is overwhelming, but do these bones yet live? Can these bones yet live? Oh Lord, you know.
At the tomb of his friend Lazarus, Jesus was met by Martha, who laments uncontrollably, "If you'd been here my brother would not have died!" How easy it is to blame others. Sometimes the only answer to the brokenness of life, to the brokenness of the world, to the brokenness of the church, is to weep. At the tomb of his friend, Jesus wept. Over life that had departed, over lack of faith, over fear and despair, Jesus wept. In the valley of the dry bones our Lord weeps, and so do we. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know. Can Lazarus walk amongst us again? Oh Lord, you know.
"I am going to open your graves, oh my people," says the Lord. "But our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely." But the voice of God thunders, “I am going to open your graves, and bring you up to from your graves, oh my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel and you shall know that I am the Lord when I open your graves, and bring you out from your graves, oh my people." Do we dare to believe the prophecy of Ezekiel? Do we dare to hold his words as true? Do we dare to believe that the bones of our faith can live? In a world that tears itself apart in violent acts of self-destruction; and in a church tearing itself apart and demonstrating to the world that it is no better than the worst the world can offer, can we dare to believe that the Lord will breathe life into these dry bones? Can we dare to hope? Is there hope? Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.
"Lazarus, come forth!" And the bones came together bone to bone, and the man wrapped in a shroud came forth from the tomb as the stone was rolled away, and the Spirit of the Lord moved mightily upon the bones, and Lazarus walked again amongst us; not as one without life, not as one without hope but as a witness to the mighty power of our Lord, a witness to the power of the Resurrection. These bones can live.
The forty days of our Lenten journey are a time for seeking out the broken, shattered, and dry bones of our lives, of the church, and of the world. As we find those bones, as we stand in their midst, as we fall up to our knees and weep over them, we are called to prayer: "can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know." We are called to self-examination, to repentance, but most importantly, to new life. The forty days are a time in which we journey forward through the valley of the dry bones, often finding ourselves in exile in dark places, perhaps even a tomb. In the midst of the valley, in the midst of the dry bones of our lives, we are called to prophesy to those same bones. And indeed these bones shall live. Only you will know the dry bones of your own story; together as a Christian people we seek to discover the dry bones of the church; and together as a human race we seek to uncover the dry bones of humanity. But out of our cry from the grave, we are called forth by our Lord to be his partner that together, we might turn mourning into dancing, brokenness into wholeness, ashes into fire, and death into life.
In these forty days, we journey through the valley of the shadow of death and out the mouth of a tomb into the garden of abundant life. Our Lord who has journeyed through these same depths stands at the mouth of the tomb beckoning us forward into the light -- not the light of some ephemeral, distant, future bliss, but into a world, yes, this world, illuminated by the light of Christ. "Can these bones live?" Yes, oh Lord, they can, they shall, and they will, because in you they are made alive -- because in you we are made alive. We press forward through these forty days knowing that we are not people without hope, but a people alive in the Resurrection of our Lord. We know that even amidst the dust there are always “alleluias” waiting to be sung. We know that even as our lives, our church, and our world struggle our way through the valley of dry bones, our Lord breathes new life on us, and we yet live.
"Lazarus, come forth!"
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, March 9th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45
“Can these bones live?”
--Ezekiel 37:3
Some time after the people of Judah were taken into captivity in 587 B.C., the prophet Ezekiel was swept up in a vision in which he was transported to a valley of dry bones – a valley where bone was piled upon bone for as far as the eye could see. It was an unimaginable sight and he stood within its midst. One can only imagine the revulsion that he felt given the palpable stench and taste of death, given the reality of the ritual impurity of the moment, and given the fearsome sight itself of bone upon bone. Frightfully, Ezekiel stood amidst the utter a reality of death itself. Could he have kept himself from weeping? What were the emotions that welled deep within his heart in that moment? He certainly knew that these bones represented the fate of his nation; he certainly knew that this vision of death was not simply a vision, but rather a manifestation of the reality faced by his people in exile. And had God forsaken them? Had God forsaken him? Was this to be the ultimate fate of the people who walked in the darkness of foreign oppression? They had certainly lost their way but they had also been escorted somewhere that they would rather not have gone. Was this to be his own fate? As the horror of the vision overwhelmed him, these words took shape within his ears, and the voice of God spoke to him, “Can these bones live?” A small voice began to form within his own breast and took shape on his own lips, “Oh Lord God, you know."
There is much to weep over in this present age, in a world filled with brokenness and despair, not to mention a church filled with brokenness and resignation over its own apparent imminent demise. Do we not feel as if we might be standing in a valley of dry bones -- bone upon bone for as far as the eye can see? Do we not feel, at times, that whether it be church or world, we have a certain helplessness and hopelessness about how things are going to unfold. Do we dare to stand against the oppressor when the oppressor seems unbeatable? Do we dare to stand against injustice when injustice appears the to have become the order of the day? Are we afraid to embrace change because all we have ever known becomes all we can ever imagine? Shall the exile be the best that we can hope for? Shall battles in court over the possession of church buildings be the best that we can offer to the world? Are we a people without voice, without form, without flesh on our bones, without the breath of life itself – a people without hope? It seems that this is how the world often sees us. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.
The vision of Ezekiel is an oracle of hope. The vision of Ezekiel, though beginning in the valley of death, concludes in the Garden of Resurrection. Although Ezekiel stands in the midst of bones dried and discarded, despondent of hope, still he listens for the voice of God in the darkest and most frightful place. And that voice does indeed speak. It is a voice that speaks across the tears of a broken people and calls this lonely prophet to a new hope. "Prophesy to the bones," says the Lord. Ezekiel listens, and perhaps tentatively at first, but with increasing confidence speaks to the bones. The bones come together, bone to bone, rattling with a deafening noise. The noise is overwhelming, but do these bones yet live? Can these bones yet live? Oh Lord, you know.
At the tomb of his friend Lazarus, Jesus was met by Martha, who laments uncontrollably, "If you'd been here my brother would not have died!" How easy it is to blame others. Sometimes the only answer to the brokenness of life, to the brokenness of the world, to the brokenness of the church, is to weep. At the tomb of his friend, Jesus wept. Over life that had departed, over lack of faith, over fear and despair, Jesus wept. In the valley of the dry bones our Lord weeps, and so do we. Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know. Can Lazarus walk amongst us again? Oh Lord, you know.
"I am going to open your graves, oh my people," says the Lord. "But our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely." But the voice of God thunders, “I am going to open your graves, and bring you up to from your graves, oh my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel and you shall know that I am the Lord when I open your graves, and bring you out from your graves, oh my people." Do we dare to believe the prophecy of Ezekiel? Do we dare to hold his words as true? Do we dare to believe that the bones of our faith can live? In a world that tears itself apart in violent acts of self-destruction; and in a church tearing itself apart and demonstrating to the world that it is no better than the worst the world can offer, can we dare to believe that the Lord will breathe life into these dry bones? Can we dare to hope? Is there hope? Can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know.
"Lazarus, come forth!" And the bones came together bone to bone, and the man wrapped in a shroud came forth from the tomb as the stone was rolled away, and the Spirit of the Lord moved mightily upon the bones, and Lazarus walked again amongst us; not as one without life, not as one without hope but as a witness to the mighty power of our Lord, a witness to the power of the Resurrection. These bones can live.
The forty days of our Lenten journey are a time for seeking out the broken, shattered, and dry bones of our lives, of the church, and of the world. As we find those bones, as we stand in their midst, as we fall up to our knees and weep over them, we are called to prayer: "can these bones live? Oh Lord, you know." We are called to self-examination, to repentance, but most importantly, to new life. The forty days are a time in which we journey forward through the valley of the dry bones, often finding ourselves in exile in dark places, perhaps even a tomb. In the midst of the valley, in the midst of the dry bones of our lives, we are called to prophesy to those same bones. And indeed these bones shall live. Only you will know the dry bones of your own story; together as a Christian people we seek to discover the dry bones of the church; and together as a human race we seek to uncover the dry bones of humanity. But out of our cry from the grave, we are called forth by our Lord to be his partner that together, we might turn mourning into dancing, brokenness into wholeness, ashes into fire, and death into life.
In these forty days, we journey through the valley of the shadow of death and out the mouth of a tomb into the garden of abundant life. Our Lord who has journeyed through these same depths stands at the mouth of the tomb beckoning us forward into the light -- not the light of some ephemeral, distant, future bliss, but into a world, yes, this world, illuminated by the light of Christ. "Can these bones live?" Yes, oh Lord, they can, they shall, and they will, because in you they are made alive -- because in you we are made alive. We press forward through these forty days knowing that we are not people without hope, but a people alive in the Resurrection of our Lord. We know that even amidst the dust there are always “alleluias” waiting to be sung. We know that even as our lives, our church, and our world struggle our way through the valley of dry bones, our Lord breathes new life on us, and we yet live.
"Lazarus, come forth!"
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Bread of Life: The Heart of Ecumenical Ministry
Homily for Ecumenical Lenten Series
Sunday, Mar 2nd 2008
Preached at Thornhill Presbyterian Church
By the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, Assistant Curate,
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Texts: Exodus 16:2-4,9-16; John 6:25-35
“I am the Bread of Life.”
The consensus of the Hebrew people wandering in the wilderness was that the experiment had failed. The memory of the tyranny of their Egyptian masters, their past oppression, their utter and inhumane subjugation was now being eclipsed by the hunger pangs they felt as they traveled through the wilderness. The pain of the present made the injustice of the past seem but a distant and fading bad dream. They had needs that must be met now. And like many great leaders who remain in power beyond the initial revolution, the lustre of Moses’ leadership was beginning to fade. Hence, the people cried out in anger, “If only we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger!” How quickly their tune had changed. Things eternal had given way to things temporal.
In St. John’s Gospel we are told of a Messiah who knows the depths of the hearts of those who encounter him. Under the fig tree he peered into the depths of the soul of Nathaniel; in Jerusalem he unlocked the mysteries of heaven to a Pharisee named Nicodemus; to a Samaritan woman by a ancient well he saw into her past and offered her a future filled with living water; to all who encountered him he offered the gift of himself and abundant life. He offered to mend their brokenness, touch their hearts, and most poignantly, give them food that would fill them more deeply and with greater sustenance than any earthly food. But even with the heavenly food in sight; even having tasted it themselves, longing for multiplied loaves, they sought after things temporal rather than things eternal.
It is by the mercy of God, though, that their needs were met. Although the Hebrew people needed first, and foremost deliverance from slavery, oppression and subjugation, they were not left bereft of physical sustenance; for they were given quail to eat and manna from heaven. And although our Lord Jesus Christ offered living water and bread from heaven, he also multiplied loaves and fishes in order that none might go hungry in body, much less spirit.
But how do we respond to such graciousness on the part of God who meets our physical needs? In the meeting of our practical needs do we then take for granted the graciousness of God who offers to meet the needs of our hearts, who applies salve to the wounds of souls, and who mends the confusion of our minds. Do we choose to live by bread alone? And more importantly, do we choose to teach our children to seek after things temporal, to the exclusion of things eternal?
In the early nineties, when I was doing an undergraduate degree in religious studies at York University, I first heard of the ecumenical movement. I was enrolled in a secular Church History class. The professor was a member of the Orthodox Church of America, and most of us were of different denominations. Indeed, I was a cradle Anglican, and in this class I met my wife, a Pentecostal. There were Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, members of the United Church, Roman Catholics, non-denominational Christians, and even an agnostic or two thrown in for good measure. At the beginning of the year, our Professor told us that the academic thinking of the day was that the glorious hope of post-war ecumenism had now failed, and that the ecumenical movement was virtually dead in the water. As someone who had lived through the optimism of the former days, this deeply troubled him. However, he said that he was convinced that ecumenism was not actually dead, but taking on new shape and new hope. By the end of the course, this eclectic group of people, in a secular university, had formed a tightly knit community that academically explored the question “what is the Church?” Our Professor suggested to us, and we found this to be true, that in exploring the question together, we had in fact, been the Church together, in spite of all the practical things that separated us from one another.
Well since those days, I have heard time and again the death knell of the ecumenical movement being sounded. It is certainly true that if we look at a number of issues on which we spend a great deal of time as Christian people in ecumenical conversation, things look pretty grim. I think that we should not be afraid to name them: There is the question of recognizing each others’ ordinations and orders of ministry; there is the question of shared communion around our altars and communion tables; and what exactly is this thing we call the Eucharist, is it a memorial, a sacrament, a sacrifice, and what about the real presence? Are women recognized in holy orders? What is our position on the inclusion of gay and lesbian people in the life of the Church? These issues present difficulties and questions not only for the ecumenical movement, but also in the internal theology and politics of our own denominations. It may seem to us that what divides us is greater than what binds us. It may seem that the centre does not appear to be holding. It may seem that we are growing farther apart, rather than closer together.
And yet, we must ask, what is the centre? What is it that binds us rather than separates us? What is it that we hold in common? What is the miracle of which we so often lose sight? What is it that sustains us as a family as we threaten to go our separate ways? Or more properly, who is it?
Sometimes we seek a miracle at the expense of recognizing the miracle in our midst. This was certainly true of the Hebrew people freed from their bondage. They were free, and yet they remained slaves to their pessimism. This was true of those around Jesus: The bread of life was in their midst, and yet they asked for bread to eat, blind to the true bread from heaven. Overwhelmed with disappointment – disappointment about their leaders, about themselves, about the world – people of any time can fail to see the gracious touch of salvation and blessing of hope amongst them. It is often easier for us to cry aloud as the Hebrew people did so long ago that it would have been better never to have even tried, than to be in this mess that we are in now. Or as with the disciples to moan and cry that we do not have enough to feed the faithful. It is all to easy to give up when we lose sight of the centre; when we lose sight of what truly sustains; when we lose sight of the bread of life, when we become obsessed with things temporal at the expense of things eternal.
It seems to me that as Christians we spend a considerable amount of time focusing not on the centre, not on what binds us, but on what separates us. In no way do I mean to suggest that the things that separate us are simply periphery. There are many important issues about which we disagree, but shall our disagreement pierce the heart of God? Shall we choose to turn our backs on the centre, our Lord and Saviour, by seeking after the lesser of breads?
The forty years of this Lenten series serves as a resounding “no!” to that question. For forty years, Christians of this community have come together to worship, pray, and learn together, because of what binds us together rather than what separates us from each other. For an even longer period of time, clergy and lay workers of this community have come together in fellowship and Christian brotherhood and sisterhood, with a passion for the sharing the Good News of the Gospel of Christ and living out our call to be partners in that Good News for this community. In this neighbourhood, for as long as many can remember, Christian brothers and sisters of so many branches of this wonderful family have reached out to the community and the world in love, service, compassion and charity. And how has this been possible? Is it because we have chosen to focus on what separates us? By no means. Rather, it is because we have chosen to focus on what binds us and sustains us – Our master and our friend, the Lord Jesus Christ. We seek first the things eternal, the living water, the bread of heaven. In seeking first things eternal, our Lord himself -- as he did so many years ago, both in wilderness and in ancient Judea -- attends to things temporal. And our needs are met.
It is only too easy for us to cry in the wilderness or long for the multiplication of loaves. It is only too easy for us to believe that only when issues around the periphery are solved that we can sit down together as brothers and sisters. It is only too easy to look to what separates us and lose hope and sight of what binds us together. A great songwriter once wrote these somewhat discouraging words:
You say potato, I say potahto
You say tomatoe, I say tomahto
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomaho
Let’s call the whole thing off.
Sometimes it seems that this is where the ecumenical movement has taken us. Sometimes it seems that the differences in the way in which we pronounce our faith distance us greatly from each other. But let us not forget the experience of these forty years. They have not been a wilderness, but a time of great exploration, friendship, companionship and hope. It has been the best time to be the Church together. Has there ever been any other age in which Christians of such diverse branches of the family have worship, prayed, learned and served together. What a wonderful time to explore our life together. It would be easy to look at what separates us and “call the whole thing off,” but oh, when we look at what binds us, what exciting times we have had, and what exciting times lie ahead! Let us not forget that the songwriter continued the song with the following words:
But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part
And oh, if we call the whole thing off, then that would break my heart.
...
So we better call the “the calling off” off.
Indeed, in Christ, we, like those lovers who fought over pronunciation, have more in common that what separates us. Let us not break our own hearts, much less the heart of God, by “calling the whole thing off.” Instead, let us stay focused on the centre, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, on the miracle in our midst. And finally, as we seek to pass on the sustenance of our faith, let us pass on to our children what we have believed, known and experienced together as brothers and sisters in this community, the bread of life, our Lord Jesus Christ, in our midst.
Text copyright the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2008. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means without the express written permission of the author. "Let's call the whole thing off," by George & Ira Gershwin.
Sunday, Mar 2nd 2008
Preached at Thornhill Presbyterian Church
By the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, Assistant Curate,
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
Texts: Exodus 16:2-4,9-16; John 6:25-35
“I am the Bread of Life.”
The consensus of the Hebrew people wandering in the wilderness was that the experiment had failed. The memory of the tyranny of their Egyptian masters, their past oppression, their utter and inhumane subjugation was now being eclipsed by the hunger pangs they felt as they traveled through the wilderness. The pain of the present made the injustice of the past seem but a distant and fading bad dream. They had needs that must be met now. And like many great leaders who remain in power beyond the initial revolution, the lustre of Moses’ leadership was beginning to fade. Hence, the people cried out in anger, “If only we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger!” How quickly their tune had changed. Things eternal had given way to things temporal.
In St. John’s Gospel we are told of a Messiah who knows the depths of the hearts of those who encounter him. Under the fig tree he peered into the depths of the soul of Nathaniel; in Jerusalem he unlocked the mysteries of heaven to a Pharisee named Nicodemus; to a Samaritan woman by a ancient well he saw into her past and offered her a future filled with living water; to all who encountered him he offered the gift of himself and abundant life. He offered to mend their brokenness, touch their hearts, and most poignantly, give them food that would fill them more deeply and with greater sustenance than any earthly food. But even with the heavenly food in sight; even having tasted it themselves, longing for multiplied loaves, they sought after things temporal rather than things eternal.
It is by the mercy of God, though, that their needs were met. Although the Hebrew people needed first, and foremost deliverance from slavery, oppression and subjugation, they were not left bereft of physical sustenance; for they were given quail to eat and manna from heaven. And although our Lord Jesus Christ offered living water and bread from heaven, he also multiplied loaves and fishes in order that none might go hungry in body, much less spirit.
But how do we respond to such graciousness on the part of God who meets our physical needs? In the meeting of our practical needs do we then take for granted the graciousness of God who offers to meet the needs of our hearts, who applies salve to the wounds of souls, and who mends the confusion of our minds. Do we choose to live by bread alone? And more importantly, do we choose to teach our children to seek after things temporal, to the exclusion of things eternal?
In the early nineties, when I was doing an undergraduate degree in religious studies at York University, I first heard of the ecumenical movement. I was enrolled in a secular Church History class. The professor was a member of the Orthodox Church of America, and most of us were of different denominations. Indeed, I was a cradle Anglican, and in this class I met my wife, a Pentecostal. There were Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, members of the United Church, Roman Catholics, non-denominational Christians, and even an agnostic or two thrown in for good measure. At the beginning of the year, our Professor told us that the academic thinking of the day was that the glorious hope of post-war ecumenism had now failed, and that the ecumenical movement was virtually dead in the water. As someone who had lived through the optimism of the former days, this deeply troubled him. However, he said that he was convinced that ecumenism was not actually dead, but taking on new shape and new hope. By the end of the course, this eclectic group of people, in a secular university, had formed a tightly knit community that academically explored the question “what is the Church?” Our Professor suggested to us, and we found this to be true, that in exploring the question together, we had in fact, been the Church together, in spite of all the practical things that separated us from one another.
Well since those days, I have heard time and again the death knell of the ecumenical movement being sounded. It is certainly true that if we look at a number of issues on which we spend a great deal of time as Christian people in ecumenical conversation, things look pretty grim. I think that we should not be afraid to name them: There is the question of recognizing each others’ ordinations and orders of ministry; there is the question of shared communion around our altars and communion tables; and what exactly is this thing we call the Eucharist, is it a memorial, a sacrament, a sacrifice, and what about the real presence? Are women recognized in holy orders? What is our position on the inclusion of gay and lesbian people in the life of the Church? These issues present difficulties and questions not only for the ecumenical movement, but also in the internal theology and politics of our own denominations. It may seem to us that what divides us is greater than what binds us. It may seem that the centre does not appear to be holding. It may seem that we are growing farther apart, rather than closer together.
And yet, we must ask, what is the centre? What is it that binds us rather than separates us? What is it that we hold in common? What is the miracle of which we so often lose sight? What is it that sustains us as a family as we threaten to go our separate ways? Or more properly, who is it?
Sometimes we seek a miracle at the expense of recognizing the miracle in our midst. This was certainly true of the Hebrew people freed from their bondage. They were free, and yet they remained slaves to their pessimism. This was true of those around Jesus: The bread of life was in their midst, and yet they asked for bread to eat, blind to the true bread from heaven. Overwhelmed with disappointment – disappointment about their leaders, about themselves, about the world – people of any time can fail to see the gracious touch of salvation and blessing of hope amongst them. It is often easier for us to cry aloud as the Hebrew people did so long ago that it would have been better never to have even tried, than to be in this mess that we are in now. Or as with the disciples to moan and cry that we do not have enough to feed the faithful. It is all to easy to give up when we lose sight of the centre; when we lose sight of what truly sustains; when we lose sight of the bread of life, when we become obsessed with things temporal at the expense of things eternal.
It seems to me that as Christians we spend a considerable amount of time focusing not on the centre, not on what binds us, but on what separates us. In no way do I mean to suggest that the things that separate us are simply periphery. There are many important issues about which we disagree, but shall our disagreement pierce the heart of God? Shall we choose to turn our backs on the centre, our Lord and Saviour, by seeking after the lesser of breads?
The forty years of this Lenten series serves as a resounding “no!” to that question. For forty years, Christians of this community have come together to worship, pray, and learn together, because of what binds us together rather than what separates us from each other. For an even longer period of time, clergy and lay workers of this community have come together in fellowship and Christian brotherhood and sisterhood, with a passion for the sharing the Good News of the Gospel of Christ and living out our call to be partners in that Good News for this community. In this neighbourhood, for as long as many can remember, Christian brothers and sisters of so many branches of this wonderful family have reached out to the community and the world in love, service, compassion and charity. And how has this been possible? Is it because we have chosen to focus on what separates us? By no means. Rather, it is because we have chosen to focus on what binds us and sustains us – Our master and our friend, the Lord Jesus Christ. We seek first the things eternal, the living water, the bread of heaven. In seeking first things eternal, our Lord himself -- as he did so many years ago, both in wilderness and in ancient Judea -- attends to things temporal. And our needs are met.
It is only too easy for us to cry in the wilderness or long for the multiplication of loaves. It is only too easy for us to believe that only when issues around the periphery are solved that we can sit down together as brothers and sisters. It is only too easy to look to what separates us and lose hope and sight of what binds us together. A great songwriter once wrote these somewhat discouraging words:
You say potato, I say potahto
You say tomatoe, I say tomahto
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomaho
Let’s call the whole thing off.
Sometimes it seems that this is where the ecumenical movement has taken us. Sometimes it seems that the differences in the way in which we pronounce our faith distance us greatly from each other. But let us not forget the experience of these forty years. They have not been a wilderness, but a time of great exploration, friendship, companionship and hope. It has been the best time to be the Church together. Has there ever been any other age in which Christians of such diverse branches of the family have worship, prayed, learned and served together. What a wonderful time to explore our life together. It would be easy to look at what separates us and “call the whole thing off,” but oh, when we look at what binds us, what exciting times we have had, and what exciting times lie ahead! Let us not forget that the songwriter continued the song with the following words:
But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part
And oh, if we call the whole thing off, then that would break my heart.
...
So we better call the “the calling off” off.
Indeed, in Christ, we, like those lovers who fought over pronunciation, have more in common that what separates us. Let us not break our own hearts, much less the heart of God, by “calling the whole thing off.” Instead, let us stay focused on the centre, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, on the miracle in our midst. And finally, as we seek to pass on the sustenance of our faith, let us pass on to our children what we have believed, known and experienced together as brothers and sisters in this community, the bread of life, our Lord Jesus Christ, in our midst.
Text copyright the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2008. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means without the express written permission of the author. "Let's call the whole thing off," by George & Ira Gershwin.
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Healing Ministry: Living Water
Sermon for Lent 3, Year A, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. John 4:5-42
“Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty…”
John 4:15
Today’s text from St. John’s Gospel tells the stories of individuals who were seeking something more. On the surface, the were concerned about meeting their basic needs of survival – water to drink and food to eat – but at a deeper level, they knew as we know, that we do not live by bread alone. Thus, at some deep, intrinsic level, they knew that being alive, being human, was about more than meeting their basic needs, but also about satisfying a hunger for God. And in today’s text Jesus recognized those hidden needs, educated those who came to him, and offered to meet the deepest longings of their hearts. To those who received him, he gave them the gift of his divine presence. The depth of their understanding was expanded and the longing ember of their heart was ignited to share the good news with others.
Many of you will know that for some years, I have served as a member of the Bishop’s Committee on Healing. As next Sunday is the week in which we anoint for healing and highlight the Church’s healing ministry, Canon Greg has asked me to reflect, on the healing ministry here at Holy Trinity and share some of my observations and reflections.
On the surface, our passage from St. John’s Gospel does not appear to be a text about the healing ministry, and yet, I think that if we look more closely, we can draw some important conclusions about healing ministry from the text. Primarily this text tells us that things may not always be as they seem. By this I mean that often in healing we seek one thing when we really need, and deeply long for, another. This was certainly the case with the woman at the well. On one level she sought to have her bodily need for sustenance met, and yet, on a deeper level, she longed also for another kind of sustenance – for living water.
In the healing ministry, we do, without a doubt seek after physical healing, which we call “cure.” However, in spite of technology, and anti-aging formulas, we must face the reality that human bodies simply wear out. Complete physical health is a bit of an illusion given this fact. Now, do not get me wrong, it is my firm belief that there can be physical healing from ailments and disease, and yes, I do believe in miracles, but I have also been aware that many times, when we pray hard, desire faithfully, and live wholesomely, there is no physical healing. Thus, while physical cure is important, I think that the healing ministry must not stop there or become obsessed with physical cure, but probe more deeply into the health of the whole person – body, mind, spirit.
I am pleased to minister in a church in which parish nursing is so strongly embraced. We have in this parish a talented and passionate parish nurse who exercises care for the people of God with holy compassion and spiritual gentleness. In counseling, advocating, advising and educating, she, along with a supportive health and wellness committee, responds not only to the concerns of parishioners about their physical health, but also to concerns about their emotional and spiritual well-being. Parish nursing ministry is a ministry that understands healing in its broadest sense and seeks to incarnate the healing ministry of Jesus in the everyday life and concerns of Christian people.
Growing out of our parish nursing ministry is the prayer shawl ministry. Prayer shawls are knit in love and prayer and offered to someone with a physical need, emotional or spiritual need. Those who receive them feel enfolded in the love of God and the prayer of this community. This ministry is growing and we wish to highlight it as part of our healing ministry. On the first Sunday of the month at the 10:00 a.m, beginning next week, prayer shawls collected over the previous month will be offered up in prayer at our monthly healing service, as part of our offertory prayer. The prayer shawls will be brought up and presented by an individual who participates in this ministry.
Another important healing ministry at Holy Trinity is that of intercessory prayer. Two important ways in which we do this are through the “prayers of the people” in our liturgy and through the confidential prayer chain. In each case, we remember those close to us who are in need of any sort of healing – body, mind and spirit. We encourage you to provide names for the intercessor that he or she may pray for those in need, but more importantly, we encourage you also to name those known to you in the silence provided during the Intercessions. God knows the needs of God’s people, but simply naming them aloud gives each of us the chance to stand together in loving care for those who seek God’s healing touch. You may be a bit nervous about it at first, but go ahead, give it a try, you will feel warmed by the knowledge that you have stood with your brothers and sisters in loving prayer. The prayer list continues to grow and we are considering reading some of the names at the early service, some at the later service and some on the Wednesday service. In addition to our public intercessions, we encourage you to make use of the confidential prayer chain. You make contact its coordinato to request confidential healing prayer for yourself or loved ones.
Finally, I am delighted that the ministry of anointing continues to be lovingly offered at Holy Trinity. I have been involved in the training of anointers for a number of years and this ministry is close to my heart. I wish to remind you also that if you find yourself sick at home, in hospital, preparing for an operation or procedure, this sacramental ministry is entirely appropriate and one of the clergy would be pleased to visit you both for anointing and the Church’s primary sacrament of healing, the Holy Eucharist.
Anointing is open to all persons, regardless of whether or not they are baptized for God’s healing touch is offered to all. Anointing with oil is a rich and ancient symbol. In the ancient world oil was treated as a medicine to be applied as a salve to wounds, burns and other physical ailments. In the tradition of the Church is has been seen as a sacramental sign of Christ as medicine to soul. Like any sacrament it is the outward visible sign of the inward spiritual grace. And like any sacrament it is to be received only by the person seeking the sacrament only. This is why the Church does not allow anointing by proxy, or on behalf of another person. Indeed, our diocese has a policy to this effect. I recognize that there has been some confusion around this point, but remember, one does not receive communion on behalf of another, one is not baptized on behalf of another, and one certainly does not get a stand-in spouse when they are getting married. Anointing is for your healing, your wholeness, your need of God’s healing touch. Intercessory prayer, as part of the prayers of the people or privately with a partner or through the prayer chain are appropriate ways for praying for loved ones in need of health and wholeness.
So as we have seen, the healing ministry is being carried out in so many ways in this place. We are partners with the living Christ in his healing ministry and we continually seek new ways to be faithful proclaimers of the Lord who mends not only broken bodies but broken hearts and spirits. May each of us find living water to quench our thirsty souls and bread from heaven to sustain us on our journey.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. John 4:5-42
“Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty…”
John 4:15
Today’s text from St. John’s Gospel tells the stories of individuals who were seeking something more. On the surface, the were concerned about meeting their basic needs of survival – water to drink and food to eat – but at a deeper level, they knew as we know, that we do not live by bread alone. Thus, at some deep, intrinsic level, they knew that being alive, being human, was about more than meeting their basic needs, but also about satisfying a hunger for God. And in today’s text Jesus recognized those hidden needs, educated those who came to him, and offered to meet the deepest longings of their hearts. To those who received him, he gave them the gift of his divine presence. The depth of their understanding was expanded and the longing ember of their heart was ignited to share the good news with others.
Many of you will know that for some years, I have served as a member of the Bishop’s Committee on Healing. As next Sunday is the week in which we anoint for healing and highlight the Church’s healing ministry, Canon Greg has asked me to reflect, on the healing ministry here at Holy Trinity and share some of my observations and reflections.
On the surface, our passage from St. John’s Gospel does not appear to be a text about the healing ministry, and yet, I think that if we look more closely, we can draw some important conclusions about healing ministry from the text. Primarily this text tells us that things may not always be as they seem. By this I mean that often in healing we seek one thing when we really need, and deeply long for, another. This was certainly the case with the woman at the well. On one level she sought to have her bodily need for sustenance met, and yet, on a deeper level, she longed also for another kind of sustenance – for living water.
In the healing ministry, we do, without a doubt seek after physical healing, which we call “cure.” However, in spite of technology, and anti-aging formulas, we must face the reality that human bodies simply wear out. Complete physical health is a bit of an illusion given this fact. Now, do not get me wrong, it is my firm belief that there can be physical healing from ailments and disease, and yes, I do believe in miracles, but I have also been aware that many times, when we pray hard, desire faithfully, and live wholesomely, there is no physical healing. Thus, while physical cure is important, I think that the healing ministry must not stop there or become obsessed with physical cure, but probe more deeply into the health of the whole person – body, mind, spirit.
I am pleased to minister in a church in which parish nursing is so strongly embraced. We have in this parish a talented and passionate parish nurse who exercises care for the people of God with holy compassion and spiritual gentleness. In counseling, advocating, advising and educating, she, along with a supportive health and wellness committee, responds not only to the concerns of parishioners about their physical health, but also to concerns about their emotional and spiritual well-being. Parish nursing ministry is a ministry that understands healing in its broadest sense and seeks to incarnate the healing ministry of Jesus in the everyday life and concerns of Christian people.
Growing out of our parish nursing ministry is the prayer shawl ministry. Prayer shawls are knit in love and prayer and offered to someone with a physical need, emotional or spiritual need. Those who receive them feel enfolded in the love of God and the prayer of this community. This ministry is growing and we wish to highlight it as part of our healing ministry. On the first Sunday of the month at the 10:00 a.m, beginning next week, prayer shawls collected over the previous month will be offered up in prayer at our monthly healing service, as part of our offertory prayer. The prayer shawls will be brought up and presented by an individual who participates in this ministry.
Another important healing ministry at Holy Trinity is that of intercessory prayer. Two important ways in which we do this are through the “prayers of the people” in our liturgy and through the confidential prayer chain. In each case, we remember those close to us who are in need of any sort of healing – body, mind and spirit. We encourage you to provide names for the intercessor that he or she may pray for those in need, but more importantly, we encourage you also to name those known to you in the silence provided during the Intercessions. God knows the needs of God’s people, but simply naming them aloud gives each of us the chance to stand together in loving care for those who seek God’s healing touch. You may be a bit nervous about it at first, but go ahead, give it a try, you will feel warmed by the knowledge that you have stood with your brothers and sisters in loving prayer. The prayer list continues to grow and we are considering reading some of the names at the early service, some at the later service and some on the Wednesday service. In addition to our public intercessions, we encourage you to make use of the confidential prayer chain. You make contact its coordinato to request confidential healing prayer for yourself or loved ones.
Finally, I am delighted that the ministry of anointing continues to be lovingly offered at Holy Trinity. I have been involved in the training of anointers for a number of years and this ministry is close to my heart. I wish to remind you also that if you find yourself sick at home, in hospital, preparing for an operation or procedure, this sacramental ministry is entirely appropriate and one of the clergy would be pleased to visit you both for anointing and the Church’s primary sacrament of healing, the Holy Eucharist.
Anointing is open to all persons, regardless of whether or not they are baptized for God’s healing touch is offered to all. Anointing with oil is a rich and ancient symbol. In the ancient world oil was treated as a medicine to be applied as a salve to wounds, burns and other physical ailments. In the tradition of the Church is has been seen as a sacramental sign of Christ as medicine to soul. Like any sacrament it is the outward visible sign of the inward spiritual grace. And like any sacrament it is to be received only by the person seeking the sacrament only. This is why the Church does not allow anointing by proxy, or on behalf of another person. Indeed, our diocese has a policy to this effect. I recognize that there has been some confusion around this point, but remember, one does not receive communion on behalf of another, one is not baptized on behalf of another, and one certainly does not get a stand-in spouse when they are getting married. Anointing is for your healing, your wholeness, your need of God’s healing touch. Intercessory prayer, as part of the prayers of the people or privately with a partner or through the prayer chain are appropriate ways for praying for loved ones in need of health and wholeness.
So as we have seen, the healing ministry is being carried out in so many ways in this place. We are partners with the living Christ in his healing ministry and we continually seek new ways to be faithful proclaimers of the Lord who mends not only broken bodies but broken hearts and spirits. May each of us find living water to quench our thirsty souls and bread from heaven to sustain us on our journey.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Do Not Lose Heart
Homily for the Feast of SS Cyril & Methodius
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008 (translated from Feb 14th)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 4:1-6
“Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” 2 Corinthians 4:1
Cyril and Methodius, who died in AD 869 and 895, respectively, have come to be known as the apostles to the slavs. It was Cyril and Methodius, two brothers of the Byzantine nobility, who brought the Gospel into Moravia and other parts of Central Europe. As we learn from Fr. Stephen Reynolds in For All the Saints, they were sent to this area because of their fluency in Slavonic. As a result, Cyril developed a writing system so that the native Slavs could write in their own language. As Fr. Reynolds explains, this led to the translation of Scripture into the native tongue of the people as well as the development of a unique Slavonic liturgy, which continues to be influence both Eastern Catholic and Orthodox liturgy to this day. And of course, the contribution of the Cyrillic alphabet has been far-reaching.
After Cyril’s death, the Franks attempted to undo much of his work and it was through the perseverance of his brother Methodius and subsequent followers that the work took root and endured. It would have been easy for the brothers and their followers to lose heart, but surely they must have meditated on today’s text from 2 Corinthians, “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” Surely, it was by God’s mercy that they engaged in their ministry and surely it was God’s will and God’s purpose that they should succeed. Against the gravest odds they did not lose hope. Even after the loss of his brother, Methodius knew that God was faithful and through the faithfulness of God, he persisted in his task and call to ministry.
We may never be called to create and alphabet so that Scripture might be read in a native tongue, or devise a liturgy for the faithful of a particular nation (although we have such saints in our own Church of Canada, such as Bishop Horden who did much the same work amongst the native peoples as did Cyril and Methodius amongst the Slaves). However, each of us is called to a particular ministry. Perhaps it is to care for a loved one as they age or experience illness. Perhaps it is work with those in need in your neighbourhood. Perhaps it is to walk with a friend in their grief. You alone know the ministry to which God calls you. Whatever this ministry may be, there will be times when it will be difficult to fulfill it, when the task seems overwhelming, when it might seem easier to give up. Yet, we know that the ministry is not our own, but God’s. We are but partners in the sacred task, and the real minister is God, who through his mercy will not forsake us, abandon us, or forget us. Rather God will walk with us and indeed, go before us. The faithfulness he offered to Cyril and Methodius is a faithfulness he offers to each of us. Therefore, we do not lose heart for we know we walk with a faithful God.
Text copyright the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2008. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express written permission of the author.
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008 (translated from Feb 14th)
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 4:1-6
“Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” 2 Corinthians 4:1
Cyril and Methodius, who died in AD 869 and 895, respectively, have come to be known as the apostles to the slavs. It was Cyril and Methodius, two brothers of the Byzantine nobility, who brought the Gospel into Moravia and other parts of Central Europe. As we learn from Fr. Stephen Reynolds in For All the Saints, they were sent to this area because of their fluency in Slavonic. As a result, Cyril developed a writing system so that the native Slavs could write in their own language. As Fr. Reynolds explains, this led to the translation of Scripture into the native tongue of the people as well as the development of a unique Slavonic liturgy, which continues to be influence both Eastern Catholic and Orthodox liturgy to this day. And of course, the contribution of the Cyrillic alphabet has been far-reaching.
After Cyril’s death, the Franks attempted to undo much of his work and it was through the perseverance of his brother Methodius and subsequent followers that the work took root and endured. It would have been easy for the brothers and their followers to lose heart, but surely they must have meditated on today’s text from 2 Corinthians, “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” Surely, it was by God’s mercy that they engaged in their ministry and surely it was God’s will and God’s purpose that they should succeed. Against the gravest odds they did not lose hope. Even after the loss of his brother, Methodius knew that God was faithful and through the faithfulness of God, he persisted in his task and call to ministry.
We may never be called to create and alphabet so that Scripture might be read in a native tongue, or devise a liturgy for the faithful of a particular nation (although we have such saints in our own Church of Canada, such as Bishop Horden who did much the same work amongst the native peoples as did Cyril and Methodius amongst the Slaves). However, each of us is called to a particular ministry. Perhaps it is to care for a loved one as they age or experience illness. Perhaps it is work with those in need in your neighbourhood. Perhaps it is to walk with a friend in their grief. You alone know the ministry to which God calls you. Whatever this ministry may be, there will be times when it will be difficult to fulfill it, when the task seems overwhelming, when it might seem easier to give up. Yet, we know that the ministry is not our own, but God’s. We are but partners in the sacred task, and the real minister is God, who through his mercy will not forsake us, abandon us, or forget us. Rather God will walk with us and indeed, go before us. The faithfulness he offered to Cyril and Methodius is a faithfulness he offers to each of us. Therefore, we do not lose heart for we know we walk with a faithful God.
Text copyright the Rev. Daniel F. Graves, 2008. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express written permission of the author.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
A Holy Lent
A Sermon for Lent 1, Year A
Sunday, February 10th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 4:1-11
“I invite you to keep a Holy Lent.” These words are spoken by the Celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy. The word “Lent,” itself, is derived from a middle-English word meaning “spring.” Thus, when we speak of Lent, we speak of a springtime in which what was once dead is now coming back to life. Well, in Canada, at least, it is difficult to imagine the season through which we now journey to be a season of springtime. There are no flowers or buds or returning birds, nor have the hibernating animals begun to wake up. We are decidedly in the dead of winter. However, if we take a closer look around us, we will come to realize that all is not dead; even in the chill of winter, there are signs of life. Some birds still sing, some squirrels still scurry, and even beneath the mounds of snow, seeds wait quietly to burst forth. There is life, perhaps it is fleeting, perhaps it is drowsy, but there is indeed life.
And so it is with our Christian faith. Lent appears to us, to be a time of death. Traditionally, Lent has certainly been a time of doing without. I suspect, in many cultures, and indeed in our the early days of our pioneer culture here in Canada, a Lenten fast may have been as much out of necessity as out of piety. In a world in which we have whatever we want, whenever we want it, it is difficult to imagine a day in which some things, some foods, resources, medicines, even contact with other people, were simply not available, all because of the prohibitions of the winter environment. Thus, I suspect that the discipline of giving up something for Lent is indeed a good one, for it reminds us that there are others who do without, and it reminds us that there are some things that we simply do not need. And ultimately, it reminds us that what we truly need might not be things at all but something much deeper, much more profound, much more eternal. Sometimes, though, the presumed austerity of the season might seem to speak more to death than to life, and more to darkness than to light, more to wintertime than to springtime.
We seem to forget that the season of Lent is actually a springtime season and that spring is a time of gradual awakening, of gradually putting down roots, and gradual blossoming into beauty. I must confess, that the contrast between Lent and Easter has always seemed to me quite stark. There is Lent, which is all about darkness, winter, coldness, austerity, and then there is Easter, which is all about light, spring, warmth, new life, and overflowing abundance. Upon closer examination, though, the seasons of the year change slowly, do they not? Surely, we have examples sudden snowfalls, flash floods, and unexpected heat waves. But for the most part, our seasons slide into one another, and we rely on newscasters to tell us that it is now spring, or summer, or winter, or fall, and for the most part we say either, “It doesn’t seem much like winter yet,” or “Wow, I thought it was fall already!” This is all to say that our movement from season to season is a gradual one. And so, I say, is our movement from Lent to Easter. The movement is gradual, and the signs somewhat deceptive. Yes it is dark, yes it is cold, but lo, there is life.
In the history of the Church, Lent, as with springtime, has been a time for putting down roots. Lent is the time for catechesis, that is, for learning about the faith, for deepening our life of prayer, and for disciplining ourselves, or regulating our lives, that we might grow. We do all of this so that at Easter we can glory in the flower of our faith in bloom.
Again, the celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy outlines what a Holy Lent might look like, namely a time of “self-examination, penitence, prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and reading and meditating on the word of God.” It is tempting to look upon Lent simply as a time of “giving up” something in order that we might experience what it is like to “do without.” I do not want to disparage this practise or its piety, but I suggest that our Lenten Spring should be something more akin to the cultivation of a garden. It should involve the care and quality of the soil, the quality of its tilling, its location with respect to sun and shade, the planting of the vegetation and the subsequent care and tending to its growth and blooming.
With this image in view, I think I am discovering that the Lenten Spring is a time of discipline for growth. This is why Lent has traditionally been a time of Christian Education and Baptismal Preparation programs. This is why Lent has been a time of regulating our diets and tending to the care of our bodies. This is why Lent has been a time for looking to our past failings and false self-expectations and readjusting our hopes and dreams and expectations. This is why Lent has been a time for examining the injustices of our society and our world and seeking to assist others out of our abundance so that the unjust chasm between rich and poor might be closed in order that the world might more closely resemble the kingdom of God in which there is neither rich nor poor. This is why Lent has been a time to read and meditate on God’s word in order that we might more closely align our lives and wills to the divine life and the divine will. Each of these aspects of Lent speaks of discipline, and not the kind of discipline that breaks us, but the kind of discipline that gives us growth. These are the disciplines of spring.
And what of the forty days faced by Jesus? Forty days in the wilderness. Forty days of discipline. Forty days of temptation. It is easy for us to imagine the austerity of Jesus. It is easy for us to imagine a dirty, broken man, emaciated by the elements a lack of food. It is easy for us to imagine a man overwhelmed by the darkness of the cold desert nights. Instead, St. Matthew gives us the opposite image – a man truly alive; a man who, having journeyed through his own Lent emerges mature, blossoming, resisting the temptations of the devil; a man with a wellspring of depth and confidence and reliance on his Father in Heaven, a man who could not and would not be broken by temptation.
What also emerged was a man who wanted more. He was famished, but not for things temporal, but longing with an increasing hunger for things eternal. Just as the forty days strengthened him against his enemy, the forty days deepened his appetite and longing for God. God was faithful, for we are told that when all was said and done, the angels came and ministered to him.
May this forty days be for each of you a time of self-discipline, of self-discovery, a time of deepening your faith, and a time of growth in your love of God. Remember it is the springtime of your faith. May you meet the bright Sun of Righteousness at your joyful Eastertide, with a renewed hope, a strengthened resolve, and a hunger in your heart for the living God. And may the angels of God minister to you on your Lenten journey.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, February 10th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 4:1-11
“I invite you to keep a Holy Lent.” These words are spoken by the Celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy. The word “Lent,” itself, is derived from a middle-English word meaning “spring.” Thus, when we speak of Lent, we speak of a springtime in which what was once dead is now coming back to life. Well, in Canada, at least, it is difficult to imagine the season through which we now journey to be a season of springtime. There are no flowers or buds or returning birds, nor have the hibernating animals begun to wake up. We are decidedly in the dead of winter. However, if we take a closer look around us, we will come to realize that all is not dead; even in the chill of winter, there are signs of life. Some birds still sing, some squirrels still scurry, and even beneath the mounds of snow, seeds wait quietly to burst forth. There is life, perhaps it is fleeting, perhaps it is drowsy, but there is indeed life.
And so it is with our Christian faith. Lent appears to us, to be a time of death. Traditionally, Lent has certainly been a time of doing without. I suspect, in many cultures, and indeed in our the early days of our pioneer culture here in Canada, a Lenten fast may have been as much out of necessity as out of piety. In a world in which we have whatever we want, whenever we want it, it is difficult to imagine a day in which some things, some foods, resources, medicines, even contact with other people, were simply not available, all because of the prohibitions of the winter environment. Thus, I suspect that the discipline of giving up something for Lent is indeed a good one, for it reminds us that there are others who do without, and it reminds us that there are some things that we simply do not need. And ultimately, it reminds us that what we truly need might not be things at all but something much deeper, much more profound, much more eternal. Sometimes, though, the presumed austerity of the season might seem to speak more to death than to life, and more to darkness than to light, more to wintertime than to springtime.
We seem to forget that the season of Lent is actually a springtime season and that spring is a time of gradual awakening, of gradually putting down roots, and gradual blossoming into beauty. I must confess, that the contrast between Lent and Easter has always seemed to me quite stark. There is Lent, which is all about darkness, winter, coldness, austerity, and then there is Easter, which is all about light, spring, warmth, new life, and overflowing abundance. Upon closer examination, though, the seasons of the year change slowly, do they not? Surely, we have examples sudden snowfalls, flash floods, and unexpected heat waves. But for the most part, our seasons slide into one another, and we rely on newscasters to tell us that it is now spring, or summer, or winter, or fall, and for the most part we say either, “It doesn’t seem much like winter yet,” or “Wow, I thought it was fall already!” This is all to say that our movement from season to season is a gradual one. And so, I say, is our movement from Lent to Easter. The movement is gradual, and the signs somewhat deceptive. Yes it is dark, yes it is cold, but lo, there is life.
In the history of the Church, Lent, as with springtime, has been a time for putting down roots. Lent is the time for catechesis, that is, for learning about the faith, for deepening our life of prayer, and for disciplining ourselves, or regulating our lives, that we might grow. We do all of this so that at Easter we can glory in the flower of our faith in bloom.
Again, the celebrant in the Ash Wednesday liturgy outlines what a Holy Lent might look like, namely a time of “self-examination, penitence, prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and reading and meditating on the word of God.” It is tempting to look upon Lent simply as a time of “giving up” something in order that we might experience what it is like to “do without.” I do not want to disparage this practise or its piety, but I suggest that our Lenten Spring should be something more akin to the cultivation of a garden. It should involve the care and quality of the soil, the quality of its tilling, its location with respect to sun and shade, the planting of the vegetation and the subsequent care and tending to its growth and blooming.
With this image in view, I think I am discovering that the Lenten Spring is a time of discipline for growth. This is why Lent has traditionally been a time of Christian Education and Baptismal Preparation programs. This is why Lent has been a time of regulating our diets and tending to the care of our bodies. This is why Lent has been a time for looking to our past failings and false self-expectations and readjusting our hopes and dreams and expectations. This is why Lent has been a time for examining the injustices of our society and our world and seeking to assist others out of our abundance so that the unjust chasm between rich and poor might be closed in order that the world might more closely resemble the kingdom of God in which there is neither rich nor poor. This is why Lent has been a time to read and meditate on God’s word in order that we might more closely align our lives and wills to the divine life and the divine will. Each of these aspects of Lent speaks of discipline, and not the kind of discipline that breaks us, but the kind of discipline that gives us growth. These are the disciplines of spring.
And what of the forty days faced by Jesus? Forty days in the wilderness. Forty days of discipline. Forty days of temptation. It is easy for us to imagine the austerity of Jesus. It is easy for us to imagine a dirty, broken man, emaciated by the elements a lack of food. It is easy for us to imagine a man overwhelmed by the darkness of the cold desert nights. Instead, St. Matthew gives us the opposite image – a man truly alive; a man who, having journeyed through his own Lent emerges mature, blossoming, resisting the temptations of the devil; a man with a wellspring of depth and confidence and reliance on his Father in Heaven, a man who could not and would not be broken by temptation.
What also emerged was a man who wanted more. He was famished, but not for things temporal, but longing with an increasing hunger for things eternal. Just as the forty days strengthened him against his enemy, the forty days deepened his appetite and longing for God. God was faithful, for we are told that when all was said and done, the angels came and ministered to him.
May this forty days be for each of you a time of self-discipline, of self-discovery, a time of deepening your faith, and a time of growth in your love of God. Remember it is the springtime of your faith. May you meet the bright Sun of Righteousness at your joyful Eastertide, with a renewed hope, a strengthened resolve, and a hunger in your heart for the living God. And may the angels of God minister to you on your Lenten journey.
Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
To Turn Again: A Homily For Ash Wednesday
Homily for Ash Wednesday, 2008
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The People Who Walked In Darkness
Homily for Proper 3, Year A, 2008
Sunday, January 27th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 9:2, Matt. 4:18-22
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness-- on them light has shined. --Isaiah 9:2
During the days of the prophet Isaiah, darkness covered the face of the earth -- the darkness of human despair as an invading army walked over kingdom of God’s chosen people. Imagine if you will, families separated, people uprooted from their homes, young men killed attempting to defend their homeland, and all of it seeming so senseless. And while it might be explained that the collapse of their world was the result of their impiety, the cause no longer mattered. Now they were overwhelmed by a deep darkness – a darkness that brought despair and crushed all hope.
I wonder if we, too, sometimes feel as if a deep darkness has covered the face of this world. Tyrants walk the earth, masquerading as angels of light, all the while exploiting the weakest and frailest amongst us. And perhaps more problematic than the wrath of tyrants is the powerlessness and indeed apathy to which we succumb in the face of systems of domination. Do we not feel powerless to challenge the powers of this world and do we not feel powerless to make changes? Even if we have worked for good in our lives, how discouraging it is to see evil apparently get the upper hand. And surely, as the psalmist fears, we too must fear that we shall fail to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.
The people of ancient Israel felt this way, but Isaiah brought them a message – a message about a new day dawning, a new light shining. He told those who lived under the cloud of deep darkness -- in a land in which the light of goodness had long been absent -- that they shall see a great light. Indeed, they were liberated, released from their slavery and captivity. A disciple of Isaiah lived to sing the song, “Arise, shine for thy light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.” A light shone forth and the truth was made manifest, that God does act in history and does act for his people.
It was true then and it is true now. The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. As Christian people, we know that the light of the world is our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. As Christian people we know that the light has shone in the darkness and the darkness has never been able to overcome it. We know that the light of Christ is the light that shone in creation and is the light of all human beings. And we know and believe that even if we walk in darkness, a light shines upon us.
Did those first disciples of Jesus recognize the light? Did Simon, Andrew, and the sons of Zebedee catch that glimpse of glory in the man who called them from their nets and boats? As simple peasants who lived their lives in a world of Roman occupation and domination, they knew something of darkness. They knew the feeling of powerlessness and they understood the apathy of living under oppression. They knew what it was to walk in a land of great darkness, and they may certainly have understood the words of Isaiah as applying to their lives, to their world. So, what was it about this man Jesus and his words, “follow me”, that inspired them? What made them put down their nets? What made them see in him, the words of the prophet fulfilled? What made them glimpse the light?
“I will make you fishers of men.” With these words he inspired them. Inspiration in its truest sense and meaning is no mere pep talk, but the gushing in of the Spirit. With these words he breathed into them hope. With these words he breathed into them longing. And with these words he breathed into them potential – their human potential fully realized in Christ. If they would follow him, journey with him, dwell with him, then they would become who they were created to be. They had been on the right track, they knew they were fishermen, God had given them the gifts they needed; they had just not realized what their catch would be. As Jesus came to them by the seashore, their futures opened before them and they truly became themselves. And in this moment, they were no longer powerless, scared, hopeless or apathetic; they were empowered by the Holy Spirit to be partners with the living Christ in the breaking through of the light. The people who walked in darkness saw a great light.
Jesus stands at our seashore, be it Bay and Bloor, Yonge and John, or Jane and Finch -- Jesus stands and calls us from our darkness. It may be hard to believe while tyrants walk the Earth, but God brings new life into the world. As all seems lost, a baby is born. When the sky seems darkest, a new light appears, shining in the East. Those who watch and pray will recognize the light as the light that can never be overcome. When all seems lost, hope is born in the midst of us, and in the midst of our toil, as we cast the nets of our work, we behold the glory of God.
Can we be inspired? Shall we answer the call: “Follow me?” Shall we lay down our nets to take up the work of the gospel? Shall we be fishers of the people who have walked in darkness? Shall we share the light given to us in our baptism? Shall we, with Christ, overcome the darkness even as it appears to have won the day? We will, with God’s help, for the Christ walks with us in this task, never leaving us alone but lighting a path along the way with a light that has not, nor ever shall be never be overcome.
Copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be distributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, January 27th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Texts: Isaiah 9:2, Matt. 4:18-22
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness-- on them light has shined. --Isaiah 9:2
During the days of the prophet Isaiah, darkness covered the face of the earth -- the darkness of human despair as an invading army walked over kingdom of God’s chosen people. Imagine if you will, families separated, people uprooted from their homes, young men killed attempting to defend their homeland, and all of it seeming so senseless. And while it might be explained that the collapse of their world was the result of their impiety, the cause no longer mattered. Now they were overwhelmed by a deep darkness – a darkness that brought despair and crushed all hope.
I wonder if we, too, sometimes feel as if a deep darkness has covered the face of this world. Tyrants walk the earth, masquerading as angels of light, all the while exploiting the weakest and frailest amongst us. And perhaps more problematic than the wrath of tyrants is the powerlessness and indeed apathy to which we succumb in the face of systems of domination. Do we not feel powerless to challenge the powers of this world and do we not feel powerless to make changes? Even if we have worked for good in our lives, how discouraging it is to see evil apparently get the upper hand. And surely, as the psalmist fears, we too must fear that we shall fail to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.
The people of ancient Israel felt this way, but Isaiah brought them a message – a message about a new day dawning, a new light shining. He told those who lived under the cloud of deep darkness -- in a land in which the light of goodness had long been absent -- that they shall see a great light. Indeed, they were liberated, released from their slavery and captivity. A disciple of Isaiah lived to sing the song, “Arise, shine for thy light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.” A light shone forth and the truth was made manifest, that God does act in history and does act for his people.
It was true then and it is true now. The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. As Christian people, we know that the light of the world is our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. As Christian people we know that the light has shone in the darkness and the darkness has never been able to overcome it. We know that the light of Christ is the light that shone in creation and is the light of all human beings. And we know and believe that even if we walk in darkness, a light shines upon us.
Did those first disciples of Jesus recognize the light? Did Simon, Andrew, and the sons of Zebedee catch that glimpse of glory in the man who called them from their nets and boats? As simple peasants who lived their lives in a world of Roman occupation and domination, they knew something of darkness. They knew the feeling of powerlessness and they understood the apathy of living under oppression. They knew what it was to walk in a land of great darkness, and they may certainly have understood the words of Isaiah as applying to their lives, to their world. So, what was it about this man Jesus and his words, “follow me”, that inspired them? What made them put down their nets? What made them see in him, the words of the prophet fulfilled? What made them glimpse the light?
“I will make you fishers of men.” With these words he inspired them. Inspiration in its truest sense and meaning is no mere pep talk, but the gushing in of the Spirit. With these words he breathed into them hope. With these words he breathed into them longing. And with these words he breathed into them potential – their human potential fully realized in Christ. If they would follow him, journey with him, dwell with him, then they would become who they were created to be. They had been on the right track, they knew they were fishermen, God had given them the gifts they needed; they had just not realized what their catch would be. As Jesus came to them by the seashore, their futures opened before them and they truly became themselves. And in this moment, they were no longer powerless, scared, hopeless or apathetic; they were empowered by the Holy Spirit to be partners with the living Christ in the breaking through of the light. The people who walked in darkness saw a great light.
Jesus stands at our seashore, be it Bay and Bloor, Yonge and John, or Jane and Finch -- Jesus stands and calls us from our darkness. It may be hard to believe while tyrants walk the Earth, but God brings new life into the world. As all seems lost, a baby is born. When the sky seems darkest, a new light appears, shining in the East. Those who watch and pray will recognize the light as the light that can never be overcome. When all seems lost, hope is born in the midst of us, and in the midst of our toil, as we cast the nets of our work, we behold the glory of God.
Can we be inspired? Shall we answer the call: “Follow me?” Shall we lay down our nets to take up the work of the gospel? Shall we be fishers of the people who have walked in darkness? Shall we share the light given to us in our baptism? Shall we, with Christ, overcome the darkness even as it appears to have won the day? We will, with God’s help, for the Christ walks with us in this task, never leaving us alone but lighting a path along the way with a light that has not, nor ever shall be never be overcome.
Copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be distributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Fear Not!
Sermon for Christmas I, Year A
Sunday, December 30th, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:13-23
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened.”
-- Matthew 2:3
Fear. When allowed to take hold, it can overtake our reason and overwhelm our senses. While there are healthy fears, fears that can preserve and protect us from harm, and while we certainly acknowledge holy fears, like the fear or reverence of Almighty God, there is also a kind of fear that is all-consuming and all-destructive. At times, fear can grip hold of us in such a way that we become consumed by self-preservation at the expense of all virtue, of all reason, and of all consideration of others. It is this kind of fear that is the antithesis of the Christian faith. It is this kind of fear that ironically extinguishes life rather than preserve it. Fear can lead us to abandon our principles. The fear of what people might think if they learned the truth, leads us to lie, to create false truths, to create false identities for ourselves. Fear can destroy our relationships and our communities. On a larger scale, fear can lead to rash military decisions, political assassinations and even to genocide. Our recent history is littered with decisions made in the grip of fear and the deaths of innocents at the hands of those frightened to relinquish power and control.
So it was in the days of King Herod. In the innocence of the inquiries of the traveling magi, Herod receives word of a threat to his autocratic rule. Wise men seeking to worship the newborn king, inadvertently announce to the reigning despot the arrival of the one who could challenge his authority. And when he heard this, Herod was frightened. We began to wonder to himself, “Could it be so? Is my authority about to be challenged again?” Herod’s reign had not been without those who challenged it, even three of his own sons, Antipater, Alexander, and Aristobulus, were executed by his command when they appeared to pose a threat to his rule. Thus, the frightened Herod, pondered the words of these visiting wise men with a feigned sympathetic interest, all the while plotting the destruction of the child. For what was it for a man who had slaughtered his own sons in the grip of fear to slaughter the children of his Judean subjects, fear once again encircling his hardened heart? The sad reality is simply that Herod grasped the truth that if Jesus was Lord, he was not, could not, or ever be Lord. What will a frightened ruler do to hold on to power? Herod did what so many despots had done before and so many despots have done since, he took up the sword against the weak and the powerless in a frightful rage against all reason. Behold what fear can do. Who amongst us can imagine the threat of a tiny child in its mother’s arms?
Yet, time and time again, fear trumps reason, virtue, and compassion. Scholars may dispute the historical veracity of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, but we know this, that innocents continue to be slaughtered throughout this world when frightened tyrants cling to power. Herod represents the worst of what we can be, the depths of depravity to which each of us, as human beings, has the potential to descend. And we should never delude ourselves, the descent is not as distant as we might imagine. As a human race, and as members of that human race, we teeter constantly on the precipice of evil, with fear threatening to tip us into the chasm. Each of us has within us the potential to be like Herod.
Into this world of darkness, death, and terror, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph and spoke these words: “Fear not.” Do not fear, for your wife Mary will bear a son who will save his people. “Fear not,” words spoken to Joseph, and words spoken to Mary. “Fear not,” the trumpet call of God that ushers in the dawning of a new day. “Fear not,” the light shines in the darkness. With the “yes” of Joseph and the “yes” of Mary, a new day truly dawned. For in the willingness of human hearts to cast away the works of fear and let the hand of God enter in, a new world of human possibility, mingled with divine purpose has been inaugurated.
Herod and Joseph were two men who both received the news of the coming of the Lord. Herod and Joseph, two human beings, just as we are human beings, with a choice before them: Fear or fear not. Herod allowed his fear to consume him and overpower him to the point that he spilled the innocent blood of little ones. But Joseph held in his arms the precious gift and nurtured the boy, cared for the boy, protected the boy. Joseph had every reason to be afraid. He could have feared the condemnation of his community when his young bride was found to be with child out of wedlock. He could have feared the responsibility of raising this important child. He could have feared the threat to the child and Mary by the wicked King Herod. Certainly he was confronted by such fear, and yet, the word of God through the voice of the angel resounded in his heart: “Fear not.” Facing those fears, he took up his task, against all odds, against the judgment of the world, in the face of a murderous tyrant, and protected and nurtured the tiny babe who would save us all.
“Fear not.” These words are still offered to us in these latter days. In these days of scandals, assassinations, of genocides, these words still resound. Herod is long since dead, and Joseph slipped quietly away into the background of the Biblical narrative, never to be heard from again. But the word of the Lord remains, “fear not.” As frightening as the world might seem today, the world into which our Lord was born was equally frightening. In the story of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, all the picturesque sentimentality of stable, shepherds, and lowing animals gives way to the harsh reality of the human condition. But this is the world into which Jesus was born.
The world in which we live can be filled with joy and wonder. Often it is also a world filled with pain and terror. And yet into this world the Christ is born again and again in the hearts of the faithful, as he was born so long ago amidst the pain and terror of the Judean people. His coming is heralded with a cry, “Fear not!” It is a word that came to Mary and a word that came to Joseph. It came to some shepherds in the Judean hillside. It came to the disciples of the Lord as the met him in his resurrection. As he spoke it to them, so he speaks it to us, “Fear not, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” It is a word that comes to us again and again. We can let fear grip us. We can let fear overwhelm us. We can let fear control us. Or we can hear the words of the Christmas angels, and indeed the words of our Lord, himself, “Fear not.” We can be strengthened by the presence of Emmanuel, God with us, and be like Joseph who chose forever to remain a steward of the precious gift. In our baptism, we have been given the gift of Emmanuel, we have no reason to fear, for He is indeed with us.
Copyright 2007, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, either in whole or part without the express written consent of the author.
Sunday, December 30th, 2007
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Reverend Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 2:13-23
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened.”
-- Matthew 2:3
Fear. When allowed to take hold, it can overtake our reason and overwhelm our senses. While there are healthy fears, fears that can preserve and protect us from harm, and while we certainly acknowledge holy fears, like the fear or reverence of Almighty God, there is also a kind of fear that is all-consuming and all-destructive. At times, fear can grip hold of us in such a way that we become consumed by self-preservation at the expense of all virtue, of all reason, and of all consideration of others. It is this kind of fear that is the antithesis of the Christian faith. It is this kind of fear that ironically extinguishes life rather than preserve it. Fear can lead us to abandon our principles. The fear of what people might think if they learned the truth, leads us to lie, to create false truths, to create false identities for ourselves. Fear can destroy our relationships and our communities. On a larger scale, fear can lead to rash military decisions, political assassinations and even to genocide. Our recent history is littered with decisions made in the grip of fear and the deaths of innocents at the hands of those frightened to relinquish power and control.
So it was in the days of King Herod. In the innocence of the inquiries of the traveling magi, Herod receives word of a threat to his autocratic rule. Wise men seeking to worship the newborn king, inadvertently announce to the reigning despot the arrival of the one who could challenge his authority. And when he heard this, Herod was frightened. We began to wonder to himself, “Could it be so? Is my authority about to be challenged again?” Herod’s reign had not been without those who challenged it, even three of his own sons, Antipater, Alexander, and Aristobulus, were executed by his command when they appeared to pose a threat to his rule. Thus, the frightened Herod, pondered the words of these visiting wise men with a feigned sympathetic interest, all the while plotting the destruction of the child. For what was it for a man who had slaughtered his own sons in the grip of fear to slaughter the children of his Judean subjects, fear once again encircling his hardened heart? The sad reality is simply that Herod grasped the truth that if Jesus was Lord, he was not, could not, or ever be Lord. What will a frightened ruler do to hold on to power? Herod did what so many despots had done before and so many despots have done since, he took up the sword against the weak and the powerless in a frightful rage against all reason. Behold what fear can do. Who amongst us can imagine the threat of a tiny child in its mother’s arms?
Yet, time and time again, fear trumps reason, virtue, and compassion. Scholars may dispute the historical veracity of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, but we know this, that innocents continue to be slaughtered throughout this world when frightened tyrants cling to power. Herod represents the worst of what we can be, the depths of depravity to which each of us, as human beings, has the potential to descend. And we should never delude ourselves, the descent is not as distant as we might imagine. As a human race, and as members of that human race, we teeter constantly on the precipice of evil, with fear threatening to tip us into the chasm. Each of us has within us the potential to be like Herod.
Into this world of darkness, death, and terror, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph and spoke these words: “Fear not.” Do not fear, for your wife Mary will bear a son who will save his people. “Fear not,” words spoken to Joseph, and words spoken to Mary. “Fear not,” the trumpet call of God that ushers in the dawning of a new day. “Fear not,” the light shines in the darkness. With the “yes” of Joseph and the “yes” of Mary, a new day truly dawned. For in the willingness of human hearts to cast away the works of fear and let the hand of God enter in, a new world of human possibility, mingled with divine purpose has been inaugurated.
Herod and Joseph were two men who both received the news of the coming of the Lord. Herod and Joseph, two human beings, just as we are human beings, with a choice before them: Fear or fear not. Herod allowed his fear to consume him and overpower him to the point that he spilled the innocent blood of little ones. But Joseph held in his arms the precious gift and nurtured the boy, cared for the boy, protected the boy. Joseph had every reason to be afraid. He could have feared the condemnation of his community when his young bride was found to be with child out of wedlock. He could have feared the responsibility of raising this important child. He could have feared the threat to the child and Mary by the wicked King Herod. Certainly he was confronted by such fear, and yet, the word of God through the voice of the angel resounded in his heart: “Fear not.” Facing those fears, he took up his task, against all odds, against the judgment of the world, in the face of a murderous tyrant, and protected and nurtured the tiny babe who would save us all.
“Fear not.” These words are still offered to us in these latter days. In these days of scandals, assassinations, of genocides, these words still resound. Herod is long since dead, and Joseph slipped quietly away into the background of the Biblical narrative, never to be heard from again. But the word of the Lord remains, “fear not.” As frightening as the world might seem today, the world into which our Lord was born was equally frightening. In the story of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents, all the picturesque sentimentality of stable, shepherds, and lowing animals gives way to the harsh reality of the human condition. But this is the world into which Jesus was born.
The world in which we live can be filled with joy and wonder. Often it is also a world filled with pain and terror. And yet into this world the Christ is born again and again in the hearts of the faithful, as he was born so long ago amidst the pain and terror of the Judean people. His coming is heralded with a cry, “Fear not!” It is a word that came to Mary and a word that came to Joseph. It came to some shepherds in the Judean hillside. It came to the disciples of the Lord as the met him in his resurrection. As he spoke it to them, so he speaks it to us, “Fear not, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” It is a word that comes to us again and again. We can let fear grip us. We can let fear overwhelm us. We can let fear control us. Or we can hear the words of the Christmas angels, and indeed the words of our Lord, himself, “Fear not.” We can be strengthened by the presence of Emmanuel, God with us, and be like Joseph who chose forever to remain a steward of the precious gift. In our baptism, we have been given the gift of Emmanuel, we have no reason to fear, for He is indeed with us.
Copyright 2007, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, either in whole or part without the express written consent of the author.
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