Trying to See Who Jesus Is -- A Homily for Back to Church Sunday, 2009

Homily for “Back to Church Sunday,” 2009
Sunday, September 27th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 19:1-10

"He was trying to see who Jesus was..."
--Luke 19:3

A man named Zacchaeus had heard that Jesus was in town. Now this man, Zacchaeus, was probably not well liked by the people of Jericho for he was the chief tax collector. If we think the taxman has a bad reputation today, we would do well to consider for a moment the reputation of the first century tax collector. In Roman occupied Judea, the tax collector would have been seen as a much-hated Roman collaborator. In addition to collecting an unpopular, and widely considered unfair tax, the tax collector would skim a sizeable chunk off the top, or worse, extort an additional amount for himself. Perhaps now, in our world of “Ponzi schemes” and economic fraudsters, we can appreciate what the first century person thought of the tax collector. Is it any wonder that they would have been counted amongst the greatest of sinners? We are told that Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector, and as a result, as wealthy as he was, one cannot imagine that he held any popularity amongst the people of his day.

Thus, when Jesus was passing by, it is not hard to understand why others in the crowd would not let Zacchaeus come close. Perhaps he pushed and shoved, with some sense of entitlement, trying to get through. But he was simply ignored. To make things worse, we are told that he was of short stature, he could not even see over the crowd. For some reason, though, he was determined to see Jesus that day. So, he rushed ahead, found a sycamore tree, a small tree to be sure, but large enough so that when he climbed into it he could just see over the heads of the crowd. Well, the jaws must have dropped amongst the crowd, as Jesus immediately spotted Zacchaeus and called to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today!” One can only imagine that moment of awkwardness and surprise as the crowd was silenced at this remarkable interchange – a moment of silence that was soon interrupted by gossipy whispering and grumbling amongst the people.

Zacchaeus was trying to see who Jesus was. How did he know about Jesus? What had he heard? What was it that drew him to find out more? These are aspects of the story that are withheld from us. All we are told is that Zacchaeus was trying to see who Jesus was. With all his doubts about his own self-worth; in full knowledge of how difficult it would be for him to join that crowd gathering around Jesus, he stirred up incredible courage (he knew not from where it came), at went out into the crowd to try and catch a glimpse of the man. He never thought Jesus would catch his eye, much less call his name.

We are a community filled with Zacchaeuses. Each of us has come here with our human brokenness and failures, but also with our hopes and dreams. Each of us comes with our history of joy and sorrow, and our yet-to-be-discovered divine potential. There is not a one amongst us that has not asked the questions: Will I fit in? What will they think of me? Am I good enough? Yet as we draw closer to the crowd, that fear seems to dissipate, for as we climb awkwardly into that sorry little tree, and peer over the heads of others we are spotted; the eyes of our hearts are met by the eyes of the heart of another, who calls us by name. We have to look around from side to side; is it me that you are calling, or someone else with the same name? No, it is I. It is a fearful moment when all time seems to stop, and yet an exciting moment. It is a moment of being found amongst the crowd. Me, Lord? Me? Really? The tax collector? You must have at it wrong!

“No, indeed,” he says, “There is no mistake, I’m coming home with you today, for like everyone in this crowd, you also, are one of my children … You are a beloved child of God.”

The crowd around seems baffled at first. They ask the same question that is upon Zaccheus’s heart. How could Jesus love one such as him? But, it does not take long for the answer to come to them, for one by one they realize that Zacchaeus’s story is also their own story. One by one their hearts and minds turn back to the moment in which they had wondered who Jesus was and how he picked them out of the crowd in which they found themselves, and said to them, “I’m coming home with you today.”

Am I worthy? Will I fit in? I’m not sure I can be the kind of person that I’m expected to be. I’m not sure I believe all the right things.

I suspect these were questions rumbling around the depths of the Zacchaeus’s heart. And if we are honest with ourselves, I am sure that they are questions that we secretly harbour. Yet, in spite of these questions, in spite of what everyone might think of him, in spite of what he felt about himself, Zacchaeus still wondered who Jesus was and thought he’d take a peek. Somehow, strangely, when Jesus caught his eye, those questions seemed no longer important, for they were eclipsed by a much greater reality – Zacchaeus learned that he was God’s child, that he mattered deeply to Jesus, that he was loved profoundly by Jesus, so much so that the Lord went home with him that day.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Take the Risk and Dare! A Homily for Proper 24, Year B, 2009

Homily for Proper 24, Year B, 2009
Sunday, September 13th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 8:27-38

“Let them take up their cross and follow me.”
-Mark 8:34

(authors note: This homily was preached as we were preparing to invite friends & neighbours to church for the upcoming "Back to Church Sunday" - Sept. 27th, 2009)

When Jesus asks the disciples “Who do people say that I am?” and the Disciples start making guesses like “John the Baptist,” or “Elijah”, Peter is the one who gets it right. “You are the Messiah!” he proclaims boldly. This proclamation is remarkable because, as we have learned as we have read through St. Mark this year, the disciples rarely get it right; they rarely understand who Jesus is and what it means to be his follower. And yet, here, when asked directly, Peter gets it right. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Now we might ask, how and why does Peter get it right in this circumstance? I would suggest that by simply spending time with Jesus day after day, by building a relationship with him, Peter has finally begun to know Jesus more deeply and more fully. What remarkable good news this is for us! We come here to this place week after week, we say our prayers, read the Scriptures, sing the hymns, and make our Communion. If we add up worship time alone (not to mention our private devotion and prayer), we will find that most of us have spent a lot of time with Jesus. Like the disciples, though, we often fail understand and know him. Yet, each of us has moments in which we can confidently proclaim, like Peter, “You are the Messiah!” We have those moments of clarity when we recognize in Christ Jesus the living God is in our midst and we rejoice in his abiding presence.

Of course, Peter quickly messes it all up. When Peter learns that Jesus must undergo great suffering and ultimately death. Peter stands back in astonishment. “No, it can’t be so!” To be clear, Jesus did also prophesy his Resurrection, but that point seems to have slipped past Peter. Jesus then rebukes Peter, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Alas, poor Peter has back to his old ways. So do we.

I think what frightened Peter, and what frightens us, is facing the risk of the Christian life. The risk, for Jesus, was the most horrifying risk that could be taken – public execution. Would the prophecy of his resurrection come to pass, or would it all be for nothing? This was the risk that Jesus had to take. Surely, the task before him demanded divine courage. For Peter, at that moment, it was all too much; divine courage escaped him. This is why Jesus rebukes him with “Get thee behind me Satan!” Although Peter was confident that Jesus was the Messiah, he was not so confident in what it meant to follow Jesus. If his Lord must undergo such tremendous risk, what would be the risk he was called to take?

This is a question that is ever before the Church throughout the ages. What are we willing to risk for the sake of new life? What is the crucifixion we must face before we experience the joyful Eastertide of Resurrection? There are many things. I want to address one particular fear we Anglicans are to which we Anglicans are prone – the fear of sharing our faith with others.

There are two verses that actually complete today’s gospel reading that have been left off (and you all know that I enjoy bringing these omissions into my homilies). I believe they might help us. They read

“Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of man will be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels. And he said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not face death until they see the kingdom of God has come with power.”

These verses are fairly strongly worded and one can see the reason why they might be left out of the lectionary. However, I think they provide a key to understanding today’s passage and a key for us as we try to unlock the mystery of the risks that stand before us today. (And before you begin squirming in your pew too much, I do not believe this passage is about shaming us into sharing our faith!)

So what risk is God calling us to take and what is the fear that stands in our way from stepping out in faith? Like many Anglicans, in recent days we have had much talk about declining attendance and the possible solutions to this problem. There are many scapegoats. We can claim that the changing demographics of our neighbourhood have contributed to decline. We can claim that our worship style is out of date or that programs are not relevant. We resign ourselves to the fact that people are too busy to come to Church. The truth is that we can make any number of changes but unless we actually invite people through these doors, internal changes will mean nothing to the advancement of God’s kingdom. I think that we must also be aware of an even greater fallacy of thinking. I would suggest that declining attendance is not the problem. A radical assertion, I know, but I do not actually believe God cares about the survival of any given parish Church. Rather I believe that God cares about the furtherance of the Kingdom of God. Growth is about growing and advancing the kingdom, not saving a parish in decline. If instead of advancing the Kingdom of God, saving the parish is our primary goal then we will lose everything – what will it profit us to gain the world but lose our spiritual life? If we choose not to participate in the true proclamation of the kingdom and the advancement of the Reign of God here in this community, then God will call others to take the risk in our stead.

Ultimately, Peter joined in that task. After proclaiming Jesus as Messiah, he was rebuked but for a moment as he was overcome by the risk that was set before him. But when all was said and done and the story unfolded, his experience of journeying with Jesus through his life, death and resurrection stirred up within him divine courage that he might join the work of the furthering the Kingdom of God. Though rebuked for a moment by the Son of Man, the Son of Man was not ashamed of Peter and Peter became first among Disciples.

We stand at a crossroad today. Each of us is here because we believe, we profoundly believe, that Jesus is the Messiah. We are here, and come here again and again because we have journeyed this far with Jesus. We now face a moment of risk. What shall be the future of the Kingdom in this historic place? Do we dare to risk?

The truth is I do not believe we are ashamed of the Gospel nor are we ashamed of Jesus. I know that Jesus has touched the lives of each and every person here, or you would not be here! I think that as Anglicans we might just be a bit shy. Perhaps it is our Victorian heritage, but there is something that makes us nervous about inviting someone to join us. “Would you come to Church with me,” seems as frightening to us as Jesus’ prophecy was to Peter about the road to the cross. I say it again: I do not believe we are ashamed. I believe that like Peter we have found the Messiah, we have followed him, we proclaim him again and again as our Lord and Master. Yet, like Peter, when called to face something more, we are more than a little scared. That is human, but to risk, to reach out to another and invite them to join us is to draw on the divine courage that we have with Jesus as our friend.

Jesus said, “there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see the kingdom of God has come with great power.” I have never believed this was a prophecy about the future. I believe that this was a word to his followers that the kingdom is upon us this very minute. As Jesus stands in our midst her in this church, his kingdom is breaking through as we speak. We are witnesses to that glory.

Let us then, who have walked in the presence of the Lord, in the glory of the Lord, take the risk of faith and invite someone else to join the journey of the kingdom. Let us face the fear before us with divine courage; a courage that comes from knowing Jesus and offer that gentle invitation to friend and neighbour, “Come and see!” Invite a friend into the Kingdom.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

For it is from Within: A Homily for Proper 22, Year B, 2009

Homily for Proper 22, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 30th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark: 7:1-8,14-15,21-23

“For it is from within…”
--Mark 7:21

A dispute with the Pharisees, sandwiched between miraculous deeds of power and healing – just what was St. Mark up to, when he chose to include this rather obscure episode in the life of Jesus? Our understanding of this passage is perhaps further impeded by the fragmentary nature of the text as it appears in our lectionary. Once again, in an attempt to provide some focus and clarity, and omit passages that may direct us away from the core message of this text, the framers of the lectionary have omitted several passages. In one way, we may wish to thank them for it for we are spared an excursus on how certain Pharisees dodged the fifth commandment (“honour thy father and mother”) and their filial responsibilities by making offerings to God rather than supporting aged parents. We are also spared Jesus’ explanation of today’s parable by way of analogy to a description of how the human digestive tract works. These excised passages fall within the larger episode, which I will now review, of Jesus encountering a group of Pharisees who accuse his disciples of not following pharisaic oral law. Apparently Jesus’ disciples abrogated purity traditions by failing to wash their hands before meal. Jesus responds by leveling the charge of hypocrisy at the Pharisees. This is where he points out they seem to have forgotten the fifth commandment. Next, he seeks to overturn the meaning of the purity laws by explaining that it is not what goes into a person that defiles them but what comes out of a person. He then takes aside the disciples, that ever-so-dunce group, and explains to them just what he means by this, illustrating his parable by means of the digestive tract analogy. The moral lesson is then expounded: “For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”

While I am sure that there are things that might yet be added to this list, and it seems quite thorough, there may be many little, lesser sins that are neglected. Realizing that we have not committed some of the greater sins, like murder or theft, does not get us off the hook. One would do well to remember that this list seems to be representative rather than exclusive, and that that all of us have fallen short of the glory of God. Thus, the point of Jesus’ parable is clear and should be simple, should it not? Just don’t do bad things and all will be well.

I suppose it should be that simple, and yet I wonder why it is we continue to get it wrong? I had moments in the last week, when despite my best efforts and striving, I could just not love my neighbour, much less my enemy. I am certain I am not alone in such realizations. I cannot tell you how many people I have had come to me that have been hurt by family or friends and have said, “Father, I know I am supposed to forgive, that is what is commanded of me as a Christian, but I just can’t do it.”

And therein rests our dilemma as Christian people, and the dilemma that is at the heart of this confrontation with the Pharisees. In this conflict over purity regulations that seem obscure to us today but essentially a conflict over how people of faith are to behave, is unearthed a conflict between the desire to do the right thing and the practical problem of how to live out of this desire.

If we were to rely only on the gospel narratives, we would only have a picture of the Pharisees as legalistic hypocrites who espouse strict laws but cannot keep them. Other sources tell us another story, though. In the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Pharisees are called “the seekers after smooth things” because they are not really so strict in their observance in the laws, but rather, they find loopholes to get around strict Torah observance. Indeed, Jesus himself, seems to be making such a criticism of them with respect to the fifth commandment. Perhaps a more charitable, and historically accurate picture might be that they developed traditions and customs to help them keep the commandments, to be better, holier people, to keep them precisely from the kind of sin about which Jesus was speaking. Let us not be too hard on the old Pharisees, because is not what they did precisely what we do as a church? Do we not make canons and rules to order our common life for the common good, for the advancement of God’s kingdom?

I see in this text a tension between two very real realities in which we live and move daily. On the one hand, there is crucial importance of the converted heart and the personal experience of God that changes the way we live. On the other hand, there is the ongoing reality that we live a common life in the shared polis of the world. We all know of course, that life lived together, even in the community of the faithful is a far from any utopian ideal. Thus, the Pharisees were deeply concerned with ordering their shared life together in a faithful way. But, the Pharisees have become so concerned about what one of my old professors called “building a fence around the Torah” (that is to say that if I make a set of rules that keeps me from getting close to the commandments of God I will never break those rules), that they have lost the experience of a relationship with God. Jesus seeks to remind the disciples (and the Pharisees) that without an experience of God, following rules will not keep us from destructive behaviour; indeed, even our rules have the potential to become destructive.

Thus, I believe that Jesus’ words can be read, and must be read, on two levels. The first level – the surface level -- is his instruction that destructive behaviour, let us call it sin, comes from the heart. The surface reading only identifies the problem. The solution has variously been to make rules outlawing the sin and punishments for those who break the rules. This may be crucial to a well-ordered society, but does it bring us any closer to God? Rules are crucial, but do they give life or transform the heart? Therefore, I suggest we go deeper and explore a second level of meaning, and for this we return to the question of just why did Mark place this episode where he did, between stories of healings and demonstrations of power? The answer, I think, is clear. The heart is not changed because we force it to change; rather the heart is transformed by the power of God.

Sandwiched between stories of the feeding of the multitudes, Jesus walking calmly across a stormy sea, and the healing of the sick people of Genesaret on one side, and on the other, the casting out of a demon from the Syrophoenician woman’s daughter, the curing of a deaf man, and another miraculous feeding of the multitudes, is it not clear, that God in Christ is transforming us? The feeding stories are signs that we are given the spiritual food we need to sustain us, the healing stories are signs that our human brokenness, and yes our sinfulness is mended by God, and the nature miracles are miracles in which the forces that threaten to overwhelm us are calmed. And in the centre of it all is this story about our hearts. The human heart can hurl rage and hurt and destructive power, or it can surrender its hurtful impulses to Jesus and be transformed and itself become the temple of holiness, the temple of the Lord. When the heart weeps, Jesus seeks to console it. When the heart rages, Jesus seeks to calm the raging waters and winds. When the heart hungers, Jesus seeks to feed it. Let us then go to the table of the Lord, whether or not we have first washed our hands.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Put on the Whole Armour of God – or Shall We? A Homily for Proper 21 Year B

Homily for Proper 21, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 23rd, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 6:10-20

“Put on the whole armour of God.”
--Ephesians 6:11

May I make a confession? I do not find the militaristic language of putting on the “whole armour of God,” to be terribly helpful language. Of course, I mean no disrespect to those who have served or continue to serve in the military. The image is simply outside of the realm of my own experience. I have never served, and please God, never will serve in a uniform nor raise a sword against another human being. And to be quite honest, as someone who believes the Christian gospel to be a message of peace, I find the language troublesome. While I do realize that the militaristic language used is about battling supernatural evil and standing against life-destroying powers of darkness, it is all to easy, and we are all-too-ready, to point out and judge evil without much critical thought or reflection. Too be sure, we should stand against the forces of evil that threaten God’s good gift of life, but I think that often we name as evil things that simply frighten our sense of well-being and security, things that challenge us, and in the end we learn that they are not evil at all. Furthermore, we spend much time looking for evil in those around us and forgetting our own propensity to harm others. I find this troubling. Thus, this passage’s militaristic metaphors of armour and battle may serve more to mislead than to encourage.

To deepen my wariness of such language and metaphor is the way the Church has appropriated such this particular passage in hymnody and its Christian Education. Now, I know that Onward Christian Soldiers will be a much-beloved hymn to many and I am aware of the arguments that state that the language of such a hymn is simply symbolic or a metaphor for the Christian life. But there is no such thing as a “simple” metaphor or as something being “just” a symbol. Symbols and metaphors are things of great power. They carry within them a depth of meaning that is internalized and then lived out in practice. Should we choose to see the mission of the Church as “marching as to war” then we make it in the nature of our faith to conquer, suppress, and hurt others in whom we perceive the forces of evil at work. There can be no other outcome -- in wars people are hurt, are maimed, and are killed. And whether or not we physically hurt others, through living out this metaphor we have within us the potential to do incredible psychological and spiritual harm to others, not to mention ourselves. The men and women around Jesus expected him to draw the sword and overthrow the oppressor, but Jesus overcame evil not through shows of force but with a demonstration of humility. Indeed, our Lord’s humble self-offering robs such frightful metaphors of their power.

Sadly, though, the Church has laid hold of this particular metaphor as near and dear. Many who grew up in conservative Christian traditions will remember being taught to memorize Scripture, as a sort of “sword drill” in which memorized passages are sputtered out in attack against all manner of heresy because the “sword of the Spirit is the Word of God.” What kind of Christian education is this? The Word of God as a weapon to attack another child of God leaves me cold.

As we hear Scripture proclaimed in our assemblies and as we read our sacred texts we discover, though, that Scripture is graced with an abundance and variety of metaphor. We are not restricted to one particular militaristic metaphor that speaks of the Christian life; rather we have an expansive repertoire on which to draw. We are free to think in multiplicity of metaphor; where one ceases to function with meaning, we return to the core of our faith and begin to explore new ones. This is exactly what Paul was doing when he first employed this militaristic language. It was a language that made sense in his context. When Jesus went about his preaching, he used agricultural metaphors, of seeds scattered and vineyards planted, for he preached amongst a rural people. When Paul began his preaching, his metaphorical grammar shifted, to a language of sport and battle, of races won and battles fought. He did so because the people to whom he preached were an urban people and these were urban metaphors.

Who are we, and what does the gospel of Christ have to say to the world in which we live? What are the metaphors needed today to share the word of faith? Most importantly, though, what is at the heart of any metaphor of the Christian faith, and what does the metaphor proclaim?

If we leave aside the armour metaphor itself for a moment, let us consider Paul’s purpose in using it. He begins this passage by asserting, “be strong in the Lord.” He ends the passage by praying that he might “make known with boldness the mystery of the Gospel.” Within this context of strength and boldness, the militaristic metaphor surely makes sense. Yet, when we consider where it is that we find our strength, truly, I feel drawn in another direction, to a servant-king, whose humility and gentleness were stronger than any sword, shield, helmet or spear. I am drawn to the metaphor of a master who bends down to wash the feet of his servant. I am drawn to the metaphor of the great physician who when we are found lifeless, beckons to us in words of hope, “wake up, come forth.” I am drawn to the metaphor of a mother hen gathering her brood within her embrace. I am drawn to the metaphor of a good shepherd who suffers not the loss of one of his flock. These, too, are bold metaphors – bold in their gentleness, and bold in their claim to power in vulnerability.

How do we proclaim our gentle faith boldly in our context? What are our metaphors?

When someone among us feels lonely, having lost their life partner, and indeed their own hope for the future, shall we not take the risk of wrapping them in the blanket of compassion, which is the embrace of Lord?

When someone has been given the heart-breaking news that their job will come to end, or even more tragically, that they are faced with chronic or terminal illness, shall we not take the risk to be their companion and walk with them on the Emmaus road, a road in which tears are wiped away; a path, which is the presence of our Lord?

When someone has been immobilized emotionally, psychologically, physically, by forces beyond their control, shall we not take the risk of offering the word of encouragement, which is the Word made flesh, in whom we live and move and have our being?

And when someone is overtaken by the poverty of hunger and pangs of thirst, shall we not offer them food and drink, which is truly the life-giving body and blood of our Lord.

Boldness in humility, proclamation in acts of gentleness: These are the metaphors that give me strength, and yes, I believe they are true to Paul’s longing to preach the Word of God boldly. These are the metaphors that clothe me in Christ. There are, for each of us, many more. It would be a shame if we chose not to explore them.

c. 2009 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.

"To Be or Not To Be": The Crisis of Faith -- A Homily for Proper 20, Year B, 2009

Homily for Proper 20, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 16th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 5:15-20

"Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of time..."
--Ephesians 5:15-16

Our short selection from Ephesians is a study in contrasts: be wise, not foolish; be filled with the Spirit, not with wine; and while the times may be dark and evil, rejoice, sing and give thanks.

In previously reflecting on St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, I have spoken about how the first half of the letter is about the content of Christian belief, while the second half of the letter is about the content of the Christian life. We call these kerygma and paraneisis. There is the message, and there is action. But I have also argued previously that the “action” or the way of life is not what brings about faith, but is what flows out of a faithful life. I maintain that it is all too easy for us to think that doing the right things will make us better people. Rather, I emphatically believe that it is God that transforms our innermost being and outermost shape in order that we might become the beautiful creations he intended us to be! To be created in his image and conformed to his likeness – this is both the content and action of faith. And while it would be easy to read the letters of Paul and the writings of his school in a simplistic fashion that reveals the secrets of successful Christian living, it would be a shame if this was all we got from a reading of the Epistle to the Ephesians. Sadly, this is how many choose to read this text, as a handbook for how to live. But, oh! How much more there is for us to see in these hallowed pages, because how to live is but the surface; Paul’s express purpose is to tell us who we are! The letters of Paul and, in fact, the entirety of the Christian Scriptures is less about what we do and entirely about who we are.

The verb, “to be” is a wonderful verb. It encapsulates so much. It is at once pragmatic and yet mystical. “Being” is both rooted in our material reality and our eternal purpose. And the nexus at which they intersect is place in which all the angst of our material finitude confronts the glory of God’s eternal goodness. It is a frightful moment of decision. It is the moment in which we have the opportunity to embrace the goodness that knows no beginning or ending, or drown in the river of eternal nothingness. To be, to truly “be” is to embrace the reality in which we live, in the presence of that eternal reality from which the heavens and the earth take their meaning. It is in this moment of decision, when we utter the eternal Shakespearean cry, “to be or not to be,” that we both choose and abandon ourselves.

Should we choose not “to be,” we say “no” to life, “no” to both the beauty of this wondrous, divine, material creation, and “no” to the glories of eternal goodness and unending beauty. This is choice. And in this choice we let ourselves go. We abandon all hope for life. The world, both material and eternal, becomes unmanageable, untenable, unbelievable, unlivable, and then (As T.S. Eliot wrote in the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock), “human voices wake us and we drown.” We drown in nothingness.

Should we choose “to be”, though, we say “yes” to both the beauty of this wondrous, divine, material creation, whose splendours seem freshly new to our transformed eyes; and “yes” to the eternal goodness and unending beauty that surrounds, enfolds, and knows us from our mothers’ wombs. All that is in the world takes on new and brilliant meaning in the brilliant light of all that is eternal. And in one single moment, a moment of choice in which we say “yes,” I will face that bottomless chasm, I will face those fog-filled frightening streets, and the chasm closes, the fog dissipates, and then, our eyes are opened to the reality that no chasm can claim us and no fog can cloud our way! Choosing to face the demon that threatens us and the power that threatens to overwhelm us is to claim the reality that we, that I, cannot make the demon disappear or defeat the power with shows of brutal force or acts of will. My choice is simply “to be” before the chasm, to stand at the head of the fog-filled street, to face the demon, and hand myself over to eternal goodness. We abandon not hope, but our reliance on our limited power and stand before the Almighty who alone makes us who we need to be; who we were made to be.

In the nexus of choice and abandonment we meet the Christ.

The words immediately preceding today’s passage are the words, “Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you!” It is into death; it is into non-being, that Christ shines his light! It is into meaninglessness, that the radiance of eternal meaning is shone! It is into our failed attempts at making our own meaning that the meaning of God gathers us into the hope-filled meaning of sacred history.

“Be wise, not foolish.” Across frightening chasms, and down fog-filled streets heaven touches earth in the companionship of Christ. It is in tears along the Emmaus road that hearts are warmed and eyes are opened. What glories we would miss if chose not to walk the road, or abandon ourselves to the baptism of our tears?

“Be filled, with the Spirit, not with wine.” Wine can function as a symbol of life or symbol of despair, and while in much of Scripture the life-giving properties of wine are emphasized and extolled, in this instance it stands as symbol of denial, and as a metaphor of self-destruction. When we cannot face the chasm or fog-filled streets, and are afraid of the death they might bring, with sad irony we drown ourselves; kill ourselves with self-destructive behaviours. Each of us knows in the depths of our hearts what our own particular self-destructive patterns are. But there is a better course: We can stand before the chasm or fog in awe and trembling, but with the courage of heaven as our friend we shall be filled with the Spirit that collapses heaven and earth, and be led into a new and bounteous promised land.

“Give thanks in the name of Christ, sing hymns and songs, and make a melody to the Lord in your hearts.” The days are evil. But we make them so. It need not be thus, for in Christ we are a new creation. In Christ we choose to face the evil with song and thanksgiving, robbing evil of its fearful power and negating guile. In Christ we abandon ourselves to the worst possible fate knowing that should even death take us, death will not rob us of our sacred identity or life’s holy meaning. As the chorus sung in that ancient Greek drama by Aeschylus, “be sorrow, sorrow spoken, but let the good prevail!”

“To be or not to be?” Ah, ‘tis indeed the question for people of faith, and for all who walk this earth. In the moment on the edge of the chasm we face a choice of life and death; between being and non-being; between meaning and meaninglessness. Let us choose life. Before the fog-filled street of fear we must abandon ourselves, either into drowning nothingness or into holy meaning in the embrace of our Lord. Let us abandon ourselves into his holy embrace. Then, indeed in the midst of sorrow and pain, heaven will touch earth, and a song of praise be stirred in our hearts and sound from our lips.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"Be Imitators of God" -- A Homily for Proper 19 Year B

Homily for Proper 19, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 9th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 4:25-5:2

The late archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey, once wrote (perhaps somewhat harshly) about the reformer John Calvin’s view of the Church:

For Calvin, the Church is rather utilitarian. It is not perceived as the glow of Christ’s incarnate presence; it is the policeman sent to protect the Christian life by commands and prohibitions. Here is discipline, without the sense of union with the death and life of Christ which gives meaning… (Michael Ramsey, The Gospel and the Catholic Church. London: Longman, 1936, p. 197)

Whether or not this is a fair assessment of Calvin’s understanding of the Church, it could certainly be argued that it is a fair assessment of how the world sees the Church. To many in the world, the Church is a society governed by harsh rules, rules to which few can measure up, rules that are imposed and policed by harsh disciplinarians known as clergy and bishops. And we must ask ourselves, if at some level, this is how many within our own ranks view the so-called life of faith. Do we ourselves think that the Christian life is about ordering our own lives in a particularly rigid disciplinarian manner that we can never hope to live out? Do we ourselves think that a Christian life is about living a life in which I would do all the right things, behave the right way, and ultimately live by the impossible axiom “what would Jesus do?”

If we, to some measure, believe this to be true, and if it how we are perceived by the world around us, is it any wonder that the Church is seen as a less than viable option in this post-modern age of relative values and institutional skepticism. For some, I suppose, the need to have rules imposed on them in the midst of such uncertain times is a longing for comfort and security. I believe this is directly attributable to the growth of conservative and fundamentalist sects and denominations. Yet, for most, the Christian Church is seen as a society of rigid disciplinarianism to which they will never be able to conform. As I have written elsewhere, I believe this is the reason why the so tenaciously proclaimed mantra of our age is “I am a spiritual person, but not religious.”

The truth is, that most who proclaim a self-professed spirituality proclaim a poorly conceptualized, severely unreflective, and woefully inadequate expression of the divine that is rarely grounded in an authentic experience of the numinous but rather finds its origins in a longing to set itself apart from something it despises, namely a religion of discipline and works, governed by ecclesiastical policemen.

If such a person were to cursorily read through St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians, they might feel self-righteously justified in their scathing assessment of the Church. At first glance, the second half of the letter (which we are reading through this month) seems filled with rules and codes for living out the life of faith. “Aha!” they might proclaim, “Rules, rules, rules! I knew it! And look at them all, so hopelessly out of date, ‘wives obey your husbands and slaves obey your masters!’ It’s all about domination and control” (I do plan to address these rules and codes in the days ahead, but will leave them aside for a moment). Should I have the opportunity to engage in a conversation with such a person, I would encourage them to read a little more deeply, a little more carefully into the letter (for the task of learning to read a text more carefully and deeply is always a fruitful task, even when reading texts with which we so vociferously disagree).

At the culmination of today’s passage we read, “Therefore, be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us” (Ephesians 5.1). There my reading partner might strike out at me with such self-assuredness, “There it is – be imitators of God! How can one be an imitator of the one who is perfect? Is this not an unreasonable demand? Is this not what leads up to all those rules we can’t fulfill, and the ecclesiastical cops who punish us for not keeping God’s commandments?” On the other hand there might be those in the Church who blindly accept Paul’s saying as the embodiment of Christianity, “There it is in black and white, ‘what would Jesus do’… that’s what is expected of me as a Christian.” And this sort of simplistic reading would only strengthen the resolve and cement the case of my skeptical friend. But to get to the crux of the matter, we must truly ask what it means to be imitators of God, and what does this say about the living out of the Christian life.

In the ancient Greek world, of which Paul and his followers were very much a part, the concept of imitation, or mimesis (in Greek) was very much a cosmological concept. In Plato, for example the things we see around us are an imitation of an ideal form. Thus, for the ancients the concept of imitation was about copying the ideal, but more a conformity to the ideal or representation of the ideal. The first century Hellenistic Jewish philosopher Philo saw procreation as an imitation or mimesis of God as creator. Thus, human beings at their most intrinsic level as creations of God seek conformity to the ideal of God. There is a desire and longing deep within us to show forth the light of our creator in our lives by imitating the creator. Yet, all our efforts at doing so tend to fail. For this reason, Christ came into the world, that we might therefore be restored to the image of God and conform to God’s likeness, not through our own effort, but through the work of God in Christ.

Therefore, it seems to me (and some would argue to the contrary) that what Paul is trying to suggest is not that we become like God through copying him, but rather that because Christ has restored us to God, as we put on Christ we become conformed to God’s likeness, in whose image we are created. This is what it means to be imitators of God. It is to find our true character, our true nature, in Christ. Good works and a holy life flow from this reality. This would have been a radical assertion to many in first century Judaism who might have perceived this conforming to the image and likeness of God in an idolatrous way. It is however, crucial to the thought of Paul and his heirs, and crucial to our understanding of what the Church is.

In Ephesians 1:22-23 we read, “The Church is his (Christ’s) body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.” There is a clear assertion that as in Christ we experience the fullness of God, as his body the Church, too,is filled with the fullness of God. Again, in 3:21 we read, “in him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you are also built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.” For Paul, God literally resides in our shared common life. In 3:18-19 Paul prays that we may have the power to comprehend the fact of Christ’s broad and deep love that we might be filled with the fullness of God. This is all to say that our shared life as Christian people, as the Church, is a life in which we are conformed to his image and likeness. This is the imitation of God, that the world might come to see God in the body of his Christ, which is the Church. This is the point against which Archbishop Ramsey was responding. What most people see is a society of rigid disciplinarians, what God intends them to see is his reconciling love for the world.

But still we ask, how can this be? In what way is this reconciling love manifest? The temptation is of course to try to force the issue through works of piety and charity. The temptation is to try with all our might to be like Jesus, to do what Jesus would do. But that is putting the cart before the horse. The answer to this dilemma is, I believe, to be found in that same verse that ends today’s reading, previously quoted, “Therefore, be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” They key, phrase I suggest is “as beloved children.” Now my skeptical friend who professes spirituality over religion will immediately understand another example of how people of faith are to be like children who blindly follow those in authority. Not so! I respond (And those of us who have had children will know how rarely children blindly follow their parents admonitions in any case). What does Paul mean by this? I once again suggest returning to the ancient world and the context from which the letter first emerged.

Athena and I have been listening to an audio recording of Homer’s The Odyssey. In the early chapters of the story are about the coming of age of Telemachos, the son of Odysseus who is long thought dead while returning from the Battle of Troy. Telemachos’s home is overrun by haughty suitors who seek his mother’s hand ignoring the honour of youthful Telemachos. The goddess Athena sees the plight of Telemachos and comes to him, telling him he is no longer a child but a man, and that he must go and find his father and that together they will drive out the suitors. Thus, Telemachos under the watchful eye of Pallas Athena, begins a journey to seek word of his father and visits his father’s old battle companions, wise kings. The important thing in all of this that king after king recognizes Telemachos as the son of Odysseus, because he speaks in wise words, beyond his years. This is in stark contrast to the haughty suitors whose insolence blinds them to the fact that in person of the son, the father was yet in their midst. The child Telemachos has become the image of his father. This is the kind of imitation of Paul speaks, this is mimesis. It came not from trying to be a man, but simply from the fact that in his faithfulness to his father, he had grown into a man – a man in his father’s image, quite contrary to the character of the haughty suitors.

I believe this is the context out of which Paul writes. To grow into maturity is to become the imitation of the ideal parent. Again imitation is not understood as simply copying the actions of the parent, for simply copying the actions of another is not what makes you into your parent, rather imitation, as understood as mimesis, is a sign that you are growing into the ideal, into maturity, into your truest character.

For Paul, what is the sign of maturity? What does God do in Christ? What is the ideal? It is to love and forgive. All our ethics, all our rules, the way we order our life and society, the way we order the Church are all to flow from this reality, that God loves us and offers us the grace of his forgiveness. As we grow into maturity, this is the life we come to imitate, not through human effort but because it is who we are. Because God put on man, we are able to put on God, in Christ. Thus, our true character in Christ is to touch our divine potential and we become capable of things that were once foreign to our fallen nature – to love and forgive. Love and forgiveness are not concepts that can be emulated but only offered from a place of deep authenticity and are a mark of character. When the Church decides to focus less on the discipline of faith and instead recognize within itself the character of Christ then shall the world perceive the glow of Christ’s incarnate presence.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Warming the Winter of Our Hearts -- A Homily for the Feast of St. Stephen

Homily for the Feast of St. Stephen
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009 (translated from Aug 3)
The Convent of the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine.
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 6:9-7:2a, 51c-60.

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.

Perhaps we might experience some incongruity at the sound of these words in the early days of August. Granted, our summer has not been one of exceeding warmth, but we are at a distance from the cruel frost of winter. Good King Wenceslas is, of course, a carol about an event on the feast of St. Stephen, and perhaps the words make much more sense when that feast day was celebrated under the old calendar on 26 December. However, it may be important for us to consider the words of this old carol (which comes from the pen of that great Victorian hymn-writer John Mason Neale), because the lesson it seeks to teach may indeed seem distant in the warm days of summer. As we rejoice in the warmth of the sun, the poverty of a long cold winter and the poverty of our spirits may seem distant indeed.

“Hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know’st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

Amidst the great feasts of our lives and the abundance of an opulent society there are those who walk amongst us, apparently nameless and without status. They are in our midst, and we see them daily, but choose to avert our eyes. Their poverty frightens us. It frightens not simply because we are either helpless or selfish, while these may be the words we give to our fear, rather, it frightens us because it makes us confront the poverty of our own souls and the winter cold within us that seems a sort of perma-frost that ever threatens to take hold of our entire being.

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,
Thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together,
Through the cold wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather.

The apostles appointed seven individuals to care for the poor and needy. The apostles appointed seven to go into the cold frightening places that we would rather not go. The apostles appointed seven individuals who, in Christ, could face down the frigid temperatures of their own souls and extend loving, warm hands to the poor and those in need. And how tempting is it to leave it to the deacons, those in deacon’s orders and those who seem to naturally take up that diaconal call, ordained or lay. How easy it is to turn away when we know others seem so much better fitted for the task. I have often wondered if the apostles who appointed those seven individuals had in some way abdicated the opportunity to melt away the ice of their own poverty. But in Christ, rich or poor, slave or free, male or female, we are called to gather our pine logs, bring flesh and wine, and brave the winter of our fear and the cruel frost of our spiritual poverty, leaving the warmth of the electric blanket or hot water bottle that will never melt the ice inside us, and make the journey to St. Agnes fountain and dine with friends we never knew we had.

“Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze your blood less coldly.”

Perhaps the biggest obstacle to leaving the warmth of the castle of our comfortable lives is indeed the fact that our frozen spirits have not the warmth to carry us on the journey. Even if we stir up the courage to take the journey, seek to protect ourselves from the elements, the winter within is still too great a foe that will impede our efforts. The night within us brings fear, the cold wind within causes our hearts to fail, and we feel that we cannot go on. But somehow, in the example of the Christ-like Wenceslas, that young page carries on, in spite of his inner fear, his inner poverty, and inner frost, he carries on filled with the warmth of the bright Sun of Righteousness.

Is their story not the story of blessed Stephen? Do we not recall how Stephen in the midst of great adversity was filled with grace and power. This grace and power came not from his own spirit but from the Spirit of God, and so he stood before the Sanhedrin because he stood with his master, and ours. He could speak because Christ warmed his heart against the wind and frost of an unbelieving chorus of voices. And he could go to his death forgiving those who executed him, “do not hold their sin against them,” because the warmth of Jesus passion and Resurrection became his own.

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.

St. Stephen trod in his master’s steps, in a cold and heartless world, but found his heart strangely warmed. Is that not the way of the Christian faith, that when we journey together on the road, we will meet our sacred companion who will warm our hearts as we share his footsteps? Is it not the way of the Christian faith that as we sup together and break bread, his radiant transforming love becomes known to a cold and languishing world? Is it not the way of the Christian faith that our Lord melts not only the ice around us but within us?

Thus, in our master’s steps, we go. We journey forth in a winter that rages about and within, yet like a fabled king whose faith in Christ warmed his heart, like a young page who nearly gave way to the winter and yet found his path illumined, like the blessed proto-martyr Stephen, who faced a violent death but with a radiant soul and angel’s visage, we travel and meet our challenging gospel mandate not because we can face the winter’s rage, but because Christ Our Lord can.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Good King Wenceslas -- written by John Mason Neale (1818-1866)

A Life Worthy of the Calling of God -- A Homily for Proper 18 Year B

Homily for Proper 18, Year B, 2009
Sunday, August 2nd, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 4:1-16

“I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worth of the calling to which you have been called…”
--Ephesians 4:1

The early chapters of St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians are a description of how God in Christ, in his unfailing love for humanity, has poured out the riches of his grace upon us. St. Paul blesses God who has blessed us in Christ Jesus with every spiritual blessing. Perhaps the greatest of these blessings is that Christ opened the way of faith not only to the Hebrew people, but also to the gentiles, and that in this remarkable development the people of faith become, in fact, the Temple of God.

Thus, we now reach the fourth chapter of the letter in which St. Paul addresses the question of what it means to live a life worthy of such a calling. Many of us will turn to such a list and perhaps experience a sense of deflation, if not conviction in realizing that we are confronted with lofty demands. What is a life worthy of the calling of God? We read in Ephesians 4 that it is a life lived “with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

In the world around us, humility and gentleness are for suckers, patience is not a virtue, bearing another person’s foibles in love will only stunt my growth and defer the fulfillment of my personal and individual goals, and unity is, of course, a liberal ideal that can never truly be attained. Thankfully, though, we are members of another society, the Church of Christ. In the Church we are, of course, always humble and gentle with one another, we always have patience for those who think differently from us, no one ever feels unloved, and we are known to the world for our unity with our brothers and sisters in our own denomination and throughout Christendom.

Perhaps not.

Let us not, then, think ourselves holier simply because we are the church. I offer this thought not to shame us for failing to live up to the goal of a life worthy of the calling of God, but rather to demonstrate that when left to our own devices, desires, and human propensities, we simply cannot do it. What then are we to do?

On the one hand, there are Christian communities that understand this reality all too well but refuse to accept it. The focus of such communities is to try harder and harder, to work more and more to become the people they believe God wants them to be. These communities are often characterized either by an obsessive commitment to transforming the world through social justice initiatives or to obsessive attention to personal improvement through acts of piety and charity. And yet, somewhere along the way they lose sight of God’s grace. As a result, the harder they work their increasing moments of failure stand in stark contrast to their fleeting moments of success, and begin to realize that they are falling short of the glory of God.

On the other hand there are Christian communities who live with a sense of perpetual realized holiness. There is no need to work at things at all for God has made me perfect in his eyes. I am saved and I live a holy life through the virtue of being washed clean in his blood. Such groups are often characterized by a lack of concern for issues of social justice, the care of the world around them, and quite frankly, any concern for the well-being of anyone else outside the salvation of their eternal soul. Those who join such groups and cannot seem to attain that expected feeling of perpetual holiness often feel that they are unworthy in the eyes of God, and indeed, unlovable.

To be sure, these two portraits are caricatures. The reality is that both portraits speak to a dichotomy of the human condition within each of us. Each one of us will be tempted at times to either earn our stripes as a Christian through works of benevolence and charity or to be tempted to into believing that we are holier than we really are simply because we are Christians. But neither of these temptations are what it means to lead a life worthy of the calling of God because ultimately, both pictures focus not on God, but on you and me and what we are doing to lead a good and holy life.

The spiritual and ethical disciplines of gentleness, humility, patience, mutual upholding in love, and the striving for unity come not from efforts that derive from human potential. Rather, they are the outpouring of divine potential. What do I mean by this? Let us consider what St. Paul goes on to say a bit further in the fourth chapter.

After enumerating the characteristics of a life worthy of the call of God, he does not immediately go about giving us tools to live the life, but rather speaks of the origin such a life. He turns to examine the character of God and who we are in light of God’s character. “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith one, baptism, one God and Father of all who is above all and through all and in all.” Anglicans will of course immediately recognize this as the opening of our baptismal liturgy. Our identity as Christians is rooted in the oneness of God who is above, through, and in all. Let me put it another way. Years ago, I offered a word of thanks to a much beloved history professor at York University for an act of kindness he extended. He responded by paraphrasing the apostle: “Not me, Dan, but Christ in me.” He then went on to say that given the background of his life and upbringing he was not capable of offering the kindness that was extended. It was only because Christ dwelled in him.

Now, he was not saying that his humanity was evil, but rather that his humanity had been transformed in Christ. This is precisely the point made by Paul in the subsequent verses concerning his descending into the lower parts of the earth prior to his ascension. What I believe Paul is trying illustrate here is the assumption and transformation of our humanity in the Incarnation of Christ. Christ came among us not simply as a visitor or a ghost but as a true and living man who was born, lived and breathed, and died. God, in Christ, not only walked amongst us but assumed our nature that we might assume the divine nature. Thus, the Christian life is a life in which we lay hold of that divine nature that coming to fruition within is, or more appropriately, God lays hold of us. To be a Christian is not necessarily to emulate the Christ but to allow Christ to conform our character to his. This is what we mean when we say we are “in Christ” or as St. Paul says elsewhere, “in Christ we are a new creation.” Indeed, in the Incarnation of our Lord Christ fills all things. Thus, we are his Temple and he will transform us in order that we shall be capable of this calling.

Alas, we live in an “in-between” time in which all has not yet come to fruition. This is what leads some groups to work all the harder, forgetting the one that is already within them and why others place too much emphasis on what they already have, forgetting that the road ahead may yet be long. The reality is that each of us struggles daily with who we are under our old nature and who we are in Christ. The old nature, the one that is focused on me, both on what I can do or what I already have is a selfish nature. We can delude ourselves by playing into its charms and seductions. The new nature, or more precisely, our true nature is the one that draws us out of ourselves. It recognizes that it is God who calls, God who animates, God who gives life, and God who gives direction. It is an empathic nature; one that finds its ground of being in the divine and wholly Other and directs our actions toward those around us who are “other” than us. It is a nature that is drawing us into the completion of who we are. This is why in his companion letter to the Colossians Paul can speak of “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” We live in an age of expectation but it is also an age of hope.

As we are drawn into this growing maturity we will begin to understand, and believe that our faith journey is less about what I can do for God, but what God desires to do through me, and more precisely, and what God desires to do through us, his people. Thus, to live a life worthy of the calling of God, is hand over all our failures at being humble and gentle, to hand over all the moments where we could not be patient, to hand over the moments where we fell short of holding up each other in love, to hand over our frustrated attempts at unity, and turn to the one who shapes our destiny through his indwelling Spirit. Seek him where he may be found, in the longing of your transformed heart, and in the face of your brother or sister, then we shall lead a life worthy of the calling of God.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Pledge of Our Inheritance - A Homily for Proper 15 Year B

Homily for Proper 15, Year B, 2009
Sunday, July 12th, 2009
The Parish of St. Stephen (Rosseau, Orrville, Ullswater/Bent River)
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Ephesians 1:3-14

“Blessed be the God and Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing.”
-Ephesians 1:3

We live in a world of broken promises, do we not? It takes but a moment to begin to enumerate the kinds of promises that are broken in this fragile world. Consider a few of them. It would seem as if we have witnessed a miracle if a politician were to keep his or her election promises. Then there the absurd promises we make to ourselves, “by the time I’m forty I want to be a millionaire, fly to the moon, and have solved world hunger.” There the little promises that we make to others that we let slide, “I know I promised to go to her baby shower, but I’m not feeling well,” or, “I know I promised you kids ice cream today, but things just got too busy.” Of course there are the more serious promises that are broken, the employer or employee who fails to live up to an employment contract; the service provider who needs to be taken to court for failure to provide a contracted service, or conversely, the customer who defaults on payment. Our current financial crisis and the examples of ponzi schemes, bankrupted companies, and individuals left penniless as a result are only too evident in the news media every day. And on a very personal level to many, there are the broken promises in personal relationships, in marriage break-ups, in the relationships of parents and children when individuals find themselves written out of a will; between friends who betray each other. The point is this: we live in a world of broken promises.

This fact is not lost on the Apostle Paul, who found himself sitting in a cold, damp, humiliating prison. This fact is not lost on the one who, like his master, had many turn on him. This fact is not lost on a man who traveled from city to city and witnessed the disappointment of so many who lived in emotional, psychological and social brokenness. Paul knew much about a world of broken promises. And yet, is it not remarkable that he opens his letter to the Ephesians with a wonderful hymn of praise and blessing? This man who found himself imprisoned chose to bless God and invoked those to whom he wrote to join in the blessing.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he begins his letter, “who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” How can this be? The one who sits imprisoned, in a world of broken promises blesses God and counts himself as blessed? Paul can claim this blessing because of what he knows God has done for him. Through his relationship with the Risen Christ, Paul has touched the heavenly places.

Consider the points he makes. Thus, Paul seeks to remind the recipients of his letter, and by extension, each of us who hears his words to today, to all who live in world of broken promises and dreams about the unfailing promise of God in Christ.

First, he reminds us that it God’s will that we are all to be adopted as his children. What is more, this adoption is a glorious thing to God in which he receives great pleasure. What can be greater than the joy of the growth of the family? The kingdom was opened not simply to his natural children, as it were, the Hebrew people, but to all people, natural or adopted we are his pride and joy. To those of us who often struggle with our own self-worth, this is really quite a remarkable statement, is it not, that God receive great pleasure in our adoption? God is blessed by our inclusion in his family, and we are blessed to be his children.

Secondly, he has given us redemption from all our sin and wrongdoing. Now the concept of forgiveness has become quite sterile in this world of legal, guarded apologies and formal acceptances. I fear that even the Christian tradition has often relied too much on sterile juridical metaphors in its theology of forgiveness and redemption. Repentance and forgiveness seem to take on a rather prosaic character in our society. Indeed, it may look something like what happens when we see children fight and then make up under the duress of parental supervision. The parental admonition to “apologize to your sister,” is met with a begrudging, “I’m sorry,” and an equally more tortured acceptance, “I accept your apology.” But according to Paul, in the economy of God, God in Christ lavishes redemption and forgiveness on us according to the riches of his grace. The lavishing of forgiveness is a promise of exuberance worth considering.

Thirdly, God has opened our eyes to the mystery of his will, namely, that in the fullness of time he gathers up all things to himself. This means that God’s eternal purpose is that we might, as is written in the 2 Peter 1:4, “partake of the divine nature.” The entire course of our existence and the history of the cosmos is that we might be drawn into the divine life. This might seem overly esoteric to us who are caught in the muck and mire of everyday life, but consider those divine moments that we encounter, the ones in which we know God is truly alive and present. They are different for each one of us but I know that we all from time-to-time feel that communion with God. What Paul is telling us is that God has given us the eyes to see that these moments of God’s reaching out to us are glimpses into God’s hope and dreaming about who we are becoming. And this gives us the strength to believe and press forward and live into the divine life in spite of the broken promises of the world.

There is much more that can be said about this opening prayer of thanksgiving, but our time is short, and thus I wish to underscore one final promise. Paul says that we who have set our hope on him, who have heard the word of salvation, have been marked in our baptism with the seal of his Holy Spirit, who have believed, we have a hope that cannot be dashed, for we are living into the divine purpose of God. As Christian people of faith, we have said yes to a promise that cannot be broken. True, we may turn away, we may break our part of the covenant from time-to-time, but God will not turn his face from us. God, in Christ, reaches out to us again and again and calls us back into his divine love. This is his promise to us: that he will not forsake those who have set their hope on him. “This pledge,” writes St. Paul, “is our inheritance.”

So, in this world of broken promises and dreams, we set our eyes on the one whose dreaming is greater than time and space, and whose faithful promises stretch from the depth of eternal love, for his heart is ever set upon us and his word of promise is ever faithful.

Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Teacher, Do You Not Care That We Are Perishing? - A Homily for Proper 12, Year B

Homily for Proper 12, Year B, 2009
Sunday, June 21st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:35-41

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
- Mark 4:38

The feeling of being “afloat at sea” can be a frightening feeling. It is a metaphor that we might use when we feel as though things are out of our control or when we are unable to reach our destination, to get to the other side. How many of us have felt the distance of the horizon and longed that the wind would pick up and move us more quickly toward our goal, closer to our destination? Then the wind comes, and instead of the gentle breeze that will carry us closer, it begins to toss us to and fro until we find ourselves caught in a raging storm. Being “afloat at sea” maybe wasn’t so bad after all. For a moment the destination is not all that important. Instead, we focus on surviving the tempest that rages about us and we are likely to cry out to God, “Do you not care that we are perishing?”

The disciples were on a journey with Jesus. He gathered them about him and went from place to place teaching, casting out demons, and proclaiming that the kingdom of God had come near. As we have said many times over this past year as we have journeyed through Mark’s story of Jesus, the disciples are not always sharpest knives in the drawer. Clearly, Jesus’ miracles, his parables, his exorcisms, and his prophetic utterances, were all intended to point to the reality that in him God’s kingdom was already breaking through. Yet, as we know, the disciples did not quite understand his message or actions. Time and again the misinterpreted him and misunderstood him. They expected the kingdom to look very different from the kind of kingdom he proclaimed. Thus, they longed eagerly to “reach the other side,” to get to the place where it all made sense, where the kingdom (as they understood it) would finally come on earth. They missed the point that in Christ Jesus it had already come.

Thus, as they journeyed across the sea and a storm arose, tossing them to and fro, they were afraid that they were going die. Even though they had their Lord in their midst, they feared that as the waters crashed over the edge, this day would be there last. Surprisingly, an unworried Jesus slept in the stern, apparently oblivious to the whole thing. In a moment of final desperation they cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus awoke, uttered the words, “Peace, be still.” And the wind and rain stopped, and the sea went calm. They muttered amongst themselves, “who is this that even the wind and sea obey him.” Even as he calmed the storm about them, they still were not sure what to make of him. They still did not realize that the kingdom was breaking through in their midst.

Earlier this week as I was considering this text, I read it to my wife, Athena (and I do share this story with her full permission and blessing). When I got to the part in which the disciples cried out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?!” She responded with a resounding “no!” Athena is, of course, a teacher. As she approaches the end of the school year and moves into exams, there are many students, who in spite of her best efforts, have done very little and have not cared much about their learning. It is often these ones that panic in the last moments of the academic year, and who are prone to call out to a teacher exhausted from trying every angle, every multiple-learning style, having adjusted and modified the curriculum in every imaginable way, to a teacher who feels like hiding and sleeping in the stern of the boat, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” I think most of us can empathize with such a teacher and would be inclined to join in the resounding “no!” After all, every chance has already been given. Of course, the teacher that lives in my home is a compassionate teacher, as are most teachers I know, who really do long for the best for their students. Yet, who can blame them for shaking their heads at those who refuse to learn? Can we really begrudge them that secret “no” that they harbour in their hearts when the student cries out “Do you not care that we are perishing?”

But “no” is not the answer that Jesus gives. While we may seek to identify with the frustrated, tired teacher, who has done his or her best, we are actually meant to identify with the floundering disciples, who unwisely prayed for the wind and got a storm, who time and time again misunderstood the message and missed the mark, who long to be anywhere else but where they find themselves, even when where they find themselves may be the most important place to be. Let’s face it, most of us are poor students of this classroom we call life. Most of us make mistake after mistake, desire the things that are not best for us, wish our lives away and long to be anywhere or anytime else than our present place and present time. Most of us fail to recognize the kingdom of God amongst us, much less the presence of our Lord. Even if we do believe our Lord is with us, we may believe that he is sleeping and does not care.

The truth is that Jesus is with us and Jesus does care. When we call out he does answer and if we are wise and teachable, we will see that his presence is real and his kingdom does indeed come among us. Consider carefully what Jesus does. He does not immediately transport them to the other side, but he does still the storm. They do not immediately get to where they are going, rather, they learn the value in being where they find themselves. And most importantly, they learn that they are not alone when they seem adrift on the calm waters of the sea – they learn that the Lord is present amongst them.

Thus, we may find ourselves adrift, with the other side seeming so far away. We may find ourselves in the midst of a tempest, with waters crashing in over the sides of the boat, but what Mark means to tell us in this story is that getting to the other shore may not be the most important thing. Rather, it may be simply realizing – no, let me say it more emphatically – simply believing that even in the midst of being adrift or being tossed to and fro, that Jesus Christ is with us and will not forsake us. It is believing that the kingdom of God is to be found not in the arriving at the other side, but in the tempest that tosses us about. Perhaps the waters will crash about us, but we will know in our hearts his abiding presence and his assuring words, “peace, be still.” Yesterday, today, and tomorrow his words are the same. With the eyes of faith we will know his peace in the midst of the storm or when we are adrift, and we shall fear nothing.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. Not to be reproduced or redistributed without the express, written permission of the author.

The Healing Ministry - As If Someone Would Scatter Some Seed on the Ground

Homily for Proper 11, Year B, 2009
Sunday, June 14th, 2009
Preached at the Lay Anointers’ Training Weekend
Manresa Centre, Pickering, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Mark 4:26-34

The following homily was preached at the Lay Anointers' Training Weekend on June 14th, 2009. This is a weekend in which lay people come together for training in sacramental healing ministry, offered by members of the Bishop's Committee on Healing (Diocese of Toronto).

“The Kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter some seed on the ground…”
--Mark 4:26

The view that the world has of the healing ministry is one of glamour, sensationalism, and curiosity. If we are to believe the images broadcast by the popular media (and many are indeed hard to believe), it is a ministry characterized by spectacular miracle followed by spectacular miracle. As the line up of those with every sort of affliction approaches the healer we witness the lame rise up and walk, ears of the deaf unstopped, and the blind receiving their sight. Whatever is happening in these televised moments, be it authentic miracles or the manipulation of charlatans, one thing is certain, for those of us involved the day-to-day work of the healing ministry, the continuous parade of miracles broadcast across our screen is anything but what we encounter in our ministries.

There will be those who suggest that if only our faith was greater, if only we used the right words, if only we did this, that or the other thing, we too would see the such miracles in our churches and amongst our people. This way of thinking is plagued by two mistakes, though. First, it places undue emphasis on what we do, and secondly, it assumes that all miracles take a certain shape.

Jesus told his disciples two parables. The first was about a seed that was scattered on the ground and grew as the farmer slept. The process was anything but spectacular and anything but sensational. The farmer simply scattered some seeds and went to bed. Day in and day out the plant, without his aid, began to grow. It grew and it grew and it grew until finally it ripened, producing a bountiful harvest.

As participants in our Lord’s ministry of healing we find that much of what we do is the work of scattering seeds. As someone approaches us and asks for anointing and healing prayer, we offer it freely and without reservation. We scatter the seed of healing and then get out of the way, leaving it to God, the ground of all being, to give the growth and offer His healing touch. This is not to say that we walk away or cease to care, indeed we can and should continue to care for those who seek our prayer and the sacraments of the church. Indeed, the farmer of this story is not uninterested in the growth of the seed, rather he marvels that it grows without his tending, and is humbled and reminded that it is God who is the one doing the work. He marvels that even in his simple act of faithfulness, in scattering the seed, God’s faithfulness produces an abundant harvest in the fullness of God’s time. It is a parable to remind us that it is God that gives the growth and that everything comes in season, not necessarily when we would wish to see it.

In the second parable, Jesus tells us about a mustard seed, the tiniest of seeds that when sown grows up to become the greatest of all shrubs, that even the birds of the air make their nests in its shade. This parable reminds us of the potential in one tiny seed. And yes, the seed we sow as we anoint and pray for another is a tiny seed indeed. We have but a small part in the work of healing, but what God can do with that tiny, planted seed is extraordinary indeed.

Finally, both parables speak to the reality that what is to come is hidden in very small and unassuming packages. This is so true of the healing ministry. We start small, and believe that God will turn what is planted into something grand and glorious not in the blink of an eye but in due season. To the trained eye, one seed can be distinguished from another, but to the average person, a seed, is a seed, is a seed; and certainly compared to the differences in the many varieties of plants that are produced, they all start off a lot alike. Yet, what is common in each seed planted is that it has within it, hidden, the kingdom of God. The healing ministry, at its very essence is a sign of God’s kingdom breaking through. The healing ministry, and every moment and piece of healing granted by our Great Physician points toward the healing of humanity and our reconciliation to a loving God. In every act and process of healing, in every tiny seed of healing, is nursed the healing of the cosmos.

What comes forth from those tiny seeds, what the branches and fruit might look like, is often a mystery. God alone knows how to nurture the seed of healing within us. For some it will be deliverance from physical affliction, for others it will be the coming to peace of a troubled mind or spirit, for others it will be the reconciliation of family and friends, and for some it will be a holy death. But whatever healing God gives, whatever surprising growth he gives to that little seed scattered and sown, in that seed, God’s kingdom is found and bursts forth.

For us as partners in the healing ministry then, let us not be discouraged when we see not the sensational results that we might hope or expect, rather may our Lord and Saviour simply teach us to be faithful sowers of the healing seed of Christ, patient gardener open to surprises, and humble servants who stand in awe of the abundant harvest of our God.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Company of Wise Women -- A Homily for the Feast of the Visitation of the BVM to Elizabeth

Homily for the Feast of the Visitation of the BVM to Elizabeth
Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
The Convent of the Sisterhood of St. John the Divine
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 1:39-56

“…And Mary remained with her about three months.”
-- Luke 1:56

There are times in our lives when we need the counsel, friendship, and companionship of someone wiser than us. In the early days of our faith journey, the seed of faith that grows within our hearts can set before us what may seem like frightening burdens amidst all the hopeful potentialities of an unfolding life of faith. A heart strangely warmed is but one moment in birth of faith. Standing at the beginning of the road of unknown mystery is another.

There is no need to rehearse the social setting of Mary’s surprising pregnancy. We all know the societal judgments under which she would stand condemned. Furthermore, our Lady’s enthusiastic “yes” to the announcement of the Angel Gabriel, like a heart strangely warmed by the seed of faith, would most assuredly have as its companion the common travelers known as doubt and fear. Thus, she turned, as so many of us have in such times to someone who could mentor her, counsel her, and journey with her on the unfolding road ahead. She turned to a wise woman, her cousin Elizabeth to be her shepherd through the valley of her uncertain journey.

I recall, many years ago now, in the very early days of my unfolding sense of vocation, I sought the counsel of a wise man. Under the direction of another mentor, who sensed a burgeoning vocation even before I had, I was sent to the old convent on Botham road, to visit a certain Bishop Henry Hill. In the early days of an unfolding and frightening call, and a journey that would last some twelve years before I was ordained, this wise and generous older man opened his arms and his heart to a frightened younger man who clung only to the seed of faith growing within him and was facing an uncertain call into an uncertain future.

There are many who have crossed the threshold of this convent with similar stories. Each story is unique in its own way, but I would not be surprised if most shared a common thread, the heart strangely warmed and uncertainty about what that means. Many have come, men and women in all the stages of life, seeking mentors, companions, counsel, and friends for the journey. They come, as Mary did, seeking the companionship of wise women who will greet them with words, “come in and simply ‘be’ amongst us.”

There is a detail of this story, though, that is never to be forgotten, namely, that for even the wisest amongst us nurture still the seed of faith within them. Even as the journey is long and we find ourselves having journeyed farther down that road, God imparts to us, as he did to Elizabeth new gifts, new surprises -- often new and rather shocking surprises. Thus, when young Mary comes to stay with Elizabeth she is met by a friend and companion who is also journeying the same road… a little farther along perhaps; perhaps with a little more perspective, a little more experience, but the same road nonetheless. Ultimately, what Mary and Elizabeth learn in their shared journey is that they need each other. And Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months.

They day would come when Elizabeth would be gathered up into the company of her long departed mothers and Mary would find herself further down that road. At the foot of the cross, her dying Son would gaze down upon her and that beloved disciple and commend them to each other, “Woman behold your son; son behold your mother.” In the sorrow of that day she would hold and console that young man, and indeed an infant church, who she collectively held in her embrace and whose tears would flow against her bosom. And as the Resurrection light of Easter broke through, she would once again feel her heart strangely warmed, and be startled by the surprising road opening ever before her. As she pondered these things in her heart she would turn to find many rushing to her, as the seed of an infant faith grew within them, and questions, fears and doubts rushed over them. Wise woman as she was, her faith would then leap within her at their coming, and she would journey with them on the Gospel road, a companion, a friend, a wise woman of faith.

Copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Dream the Church -- A Sermon for Pentecost

Homily for Pentectost, Year B, 2009
Sunday, May 31st, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Acts 2:1-21

“… And your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.”
-- Acts 2:17

To dream, to dare to dream, is a part of Christian vocation. For men and women, young and old, to dream is to have hope. We dream about who we could become, who we are becoming in the hands of a loving God. Who we are becoming and who we might be – these things form the essence of our Christian dreaming. We dream about our place in the story, we dream about our community’s place in the story, and we dream about the place of the Church in the world. We dream about what God is doing and will be doing in the days ahead to further His kingdom here on Earth. More profoundly, though, our dreams and longings are longings placed on our hearts by the Spirit of God, the Spirit that gave birth to the church and continues to give birth to our spirits as it is poured out in Holy Baptism.

In the Upper Room, the disciples waited, prayed, and dreamed. They dreamed of the promised gift of the Spirit, they dreamed of the future and their place in it, and they dreamed about what the continuing presence of Christ might mean for them and their world. As it was for them, so to it is for us. As it shaped the longing of the disciples, God’s Holy Spirit shapes our human longing into a holy longing and our human dreaming into holy dreaming. As God’s love is poured out upon us our longing and dreaming is brought to perfection by that same Spirit. To dream is to invite God’s Holy Spirit to enter into our broken lives, wherever we are, in whatever state we find ourselves, and ask for the wings of the Spirit to unfurl in our dreaming. To dream the Church, to dream the Kingdom, is to invite God’s Holy Spirit into our humanity and shape our dreaming and longing into a Christ-like longing for the reconciliation of the world to God.

Our Primate, Archbishop Fred Hiltz, our spiritual leader, has called us to dream. As Canadian Anglicans what are our hopes and dreams for the future of this Anglican Church of Canada. The dream is not simply about what any one of us in particular want the Church to be, but rather for each of us give voice to the voice of the Spirit of God speaking to us individually that we might hear collectively the call of God to Anglicans in this country in the years to come. Like disciples in an Upper Room, we wait and pray; we dream and long. There may be many different voices, many different languages, many different images in our visions and dreams, but can we be open to the Spirit as it descends and allows us to understand one another, even when we speak in different tongues, different voices, appealing to different images, metaphors and paradigms? Can we, will we dare to hear each other and dream together?

Next Sunday, Trinity Sunday, has been declared Vision 2019 Sunday. A most appropriate day indeed, for the Trinity is nothing if not the diversity of persons in united purpose and loving harmony. In our dreaming and purpose can we mirror the divine life of the Blessed Trinity? In our wonderful diversity of persons let us let us dream together the Church and the Kingdom under the blessing of the Spirit that hovered over creation and recreates us day by day. Your pew leaflet includes an insert with ways in which we can dream together, as a parish, and as Canadian Anglicans. I encourage you to take up these opportunities and join your dreaming and longing to the dreaming and longing of Anglicans across this great nation and in this great Church of ours.

Perhaps I could begin. What do I dream?

I dream of a Church that has no fear or reservation in making the Gospel of Christ, the story God’s reconciling love, known to a hurting world.

I dream of a Church that turns to God again and again in prayer and listens to what the Spirit is saying to the Church.

I dream of a Church in which all the children of God are welcome, and not turned away because of human prejudice or human fear of those who are different.

I dream of a Church that has the courage to stand up to the injustices and prejudices of the world around us, and champion the voice and cause of the dispossessed, the marginalized, and the forgotten.

I dream that God will journey with those who have left the Church, and yes, even abandoned their faith in light of the ways that the Church has hurt so many in our history.

I dream that God will open our eyes to the harm we have done through ignorance, selfishness and naiveté. Thus, I dream and long for a meaningful reconciliation with those from whom we are estranged.

I dream of a Church of courageous people gathered under the banner of Christ who stand together and say no to the dark forces of this world that would have us believe that our human value is rooted only in what we can buy or what we can sell.

I dream of a Church that says proclaims a resounding “no” to the selfishness of within us and around us that leads us to destroy, rather than nurture and care for God’s good creation.

And I dream of a Church in which every one of God’s children knows and feels the healing and reconciling love of God in Christ, no matter how broken they are, defeated they are, no matter how sick, depressed or demoralized, I dream that God’s love will be known to any and all in need, strife or affliction, and I dream that we will be the people to carry that love to the world.

This is what I dream and this is what I long for, upon attempting to listen to the voice of God’s Holy Spirit. What do you dream for? What is your holy longing? It is time to share the ponderings of your heart. It is time for men and women, young and old to dream dreams and share their visions that God might shape our dreams and our visions into the vision of his kingdom.

Text copyright 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

If You Keep My Commandments: To "be" rather than to "do" -- A Homily for Easter VI

Homily for Easter 6, Year B, 2009
Sunday, May 17th, 2009
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:9-17

“If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”

--John 15:10

To keep the commandments of God; this is what we take to be the essence of our Christian life. Indeed, back in the fourteenth chapter of St. John, Jesus himself says, “if you love me, keep my commandments.” The keeping of commandments seems to suggest the taking up of a task, the doing of certain duties, the following or keeping of a code. I suggested last week, in our reading of John 15:1-8 (Jesus’ words about the vine and the branches) that we might be overly tempted to understand the concept of “bearing fruit” as the concept of living out a life of good works. I do wonder, though, if we miss the point of his words if we unduly focus on Christian “duty” rather than Christian “being.” Now, there will be many that will respond that “good works” are the natural response of those who respond positively to the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they would not be wrong in their assertion. The Church has long maintained this theological position and indeed, faith without ensuing good works would appear to be a meaningless dead faith. To this view I wholeheartedly subscribe, and yet there seems to me to be something of a chasm between faith and the work of faith, and this chasm is exacerbated by our societal obsession with doing. The evidence of our value and worth in this world is that we produce something of value. I expect that this is the ultimate result of the Industrial Revolution and the age of consumerism. Unless I produce something that people want, find useful, and will pay for, I am of little value to the rest of humanity. Is it so far a stretch, then, to ask if this loathsome estimation of our human worth as participants in a society obsessed with productivity is not frequently applied to our spirituality and life of faith?

As a Church that finds at least a portion of its identity formed in the womb of Protestantism, we are clear that “good works” do not buy us our salvation. We are clear that is by God’s grace alone and through our faithful response to that grace that we find ourselves to be his redeemed children. Yet, why are we so obsessed with works? On the one hand we may say that they have nothing to do with the attaining of salvation, yet on the other we still count ourselves worthless if our faith appears to bear no fruit. The problem seems to me to be that we have a very narrow understanding of what “bearing fruit” might mean. This skewed understanding is intensely shaped by a world that identifies intrinsic value in productivity. Thus, the evidence of a lively faith will seem to be for us a proliferation of churchly activity, of service to the community, of endless programme opportunities, of doing, doing, doing. The implication being that if our lives are full of doing this will be the evidence of a faith-filled life. The corollary, of course, is that if I do not pack my days with good works and productive activity, I have no evidence of my faith. I wish to reiterate, I do not see good works as bad. On the contrary, a lively faith will indeed lead the Christian person to an intense desire to live out the gospel in works of charity and activity. Yet, good works are simply that, a living out of the gospel, not the evidence of faith.

What then, does Jesus mean when he commends us to keep his commandments? Of what does he speak? He speaks, of course, of love, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Love is more than doing. Love may cause us, and even drive us, to act in certain ways, to do certain things, but at the core of its essence, love is really about being. Thus, we can say that “I am in love,” or “we are in love.” Love transforms us, changes us, and affects our very being. Love works on us, on our very being and our very existence. This is the reality to which Jesus speaks when he says you did not choose me, I chose you! To be in love is to be in Christ, for it is Christ who affects our hearts, inhabits our being, and transforms us. If you keep my commandments you will abide in my love. The commandment is not so much an order to “do” but a invitation to “be.” It is the experience of the abiding presence of our Lord with us always. What is more, we experience the same love of the Father for the Son, for as they abide in each other; so now in Christ the Father abides in us and we in him. In this is the joy of Christ made complete, and is our joy made complete. And consider this: “joy” is another word of being rather than doing.

Thus, as I asserted last week, the fruit that we bear is Christ abiding eternally amongst us in the world. It is the fruit of love and the fruit of joy of which we, and those around us partake. The fruit is not to be hoarded, just as it (unlike so much in our modern age) is not grown for personal gain. It grows and ripens for the purpose of sharing, the purpose of nurturing, and the purpose of existential and eternal fulfillment for the whole world. If we try to hoard the fruit of love, the fruit of joy, and yes, even the fruit of hope, we will fail. The fruit will fall to the ground and rot, its life-giving purpose perverted. The fruit of the vine is for the life of the world and the healing of the nations. To this end, Jesus says “I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”

Love is something to be given away, not hoarded. When love, the fruit of the vine is given away, more will grow. When love, the fruit of the vine is given away it nourishes the one who receives it and it gives life. Love begets love. It is something to be enjoyed and something in which we abide.

Thus, it is true that love will cause us to live out our lives in acts of love. Love will cause us to bear the fruit of love in our lives, and yes, love will lead us to good works. Let us never forget, though, that works are not in and of themselves the fruit of the vine, the fruit is Love itself in the person of Christ. When we find ourselves consumed by the doing of this life, and when we begin to mistake what we “do” for the essence of Christianity, then let us recall what Jesus said: “I do not call you servants but friends.” To be a servant is to work, to define ourselves by what we do; to be a friend is to be defined by what we are. To be a friend is simply “to be.” And what marvelous fruit grows from branches that abide in the friendly vine of Christ.

c. 2009 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves