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

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

For God alone, my soul in silence waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

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

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

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

-Psalm 139.1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

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

Homily for the Feast of the Holy Name, 2012

Sunday, January 1^st, 2012

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford

The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Text: Luke 2:15-21

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

-Luke 2:21

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2012, The Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Hope for Today - A Homily for Christmas Eve, 2011

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

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

-Luke 2:10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"...Whose Service is Perfect Freedom." A Homily for Proper 23, Year A, 2011

Homily for Proper 23, Year A, 2011
Sunday, September 04, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 13:8-14

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves fulfils the law.”
-Romans 13:8

One of the old prayers of which I am so fond is a prayer that appears in the old service of Mattins from the Book of Common Prayer. It is the second collect, for peace, which reads in part, “O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord, whose service is perfect freedom…”

Whose service is perfect freedom.

One cannot imagine a more perfect creed of the Christian life. It is perfect because freedom and responsibility are interwoven in a beautiful knot. However, the freedom about which we speak is not a libertine, selfish freedom, that allows us to do anything we want; nor is the service about which this prayer speaks a slavery in which we are bound to a brutal taskmaster. The freedom we know is of a different sort, and the service to which we are called is of a more perfect kind.

The Exodus story that has been unfolding in our Old Testament readings over the summer months is a story that has been winding its way toward the climax of the Passover, of Moses leading his people from bondage in slavery into freedom. And the whole scope of Paul’s great letter to the Romans (and indeed all his letters) has been about our Christian reinterpretation of deliverance from slavery into freedom through the Christian Passover: Christ’s passing from death into life, that we might be led from the bondage of death into the freedom of new life.

What a wondrous concept freedom through new life is. It is all the more beautiful to behold when we try to place ourselves in the place of our forbears who knew what it was to be enslaved. Consider for a moment the enslavement known by the Hebrew people under their Egyptian taskmasters, and how their suffering led God to call Moses to lead his people out of that suffering, and how Moses cried out in anguish to Pharoah, “Let my people go!” Consider for a moment the Roman empire at the time of Jesus, and the number of men and women who fell into slavery through military conflict and penury, and how St. Paul reminded the early Christians that in Christ there is no male nor female, no slave nor free; that we are all one in Christ. Consider for a moment black slaves of the Antebellum South, or black brothers and sisters who continued to be enslaved by unjust laws in the supposed land of the free until the freedom marches of the 1960s. Consider the child soldiers of the world today who are bound in slavery to bellicose masters. Consider all these things, and imagine, if you are able, what it might be like to taste the longed-for freedom we so casually take for granted.

But there is a different kind of freedom that has gripped us today. It is a freedom that is rooted in a pernicious libertinism that absolves us from all responsibility to others. It is a freedom that is rooted in an individualism so prevalent in our modern culture that commands me to believe that my happiness, my well-being, my financial security is the good above all other that I must seek, to the exclusion, and even to the destruction of others. If they are weak, then let us just sweep them away, or enslave them. A freedom that destroys the life of another, a freedom that enslaves another, is no freedom at all. With such a freedom we also enslave ourselves. In such a freedom we become slaves to sin.

As St. Paul would have set, “Let me show you a better way.”

In another of his great letters, in a passage so often read at weddings, Paul enumerates all sorts of wonderful things that we might lay hold of that would suggest our perfect freedom, not only material wealth, but gifts of tongues, prophecy, and faith. But then he reminds us, if I have not love, I am nothing. In his letter to the Romans, he repeats the very words of Jesus, and reminds us of the character and nature of true. He recalls several of the ten commandments, “Don’t murder, don’t steal, don’t commit adultery, don’t covet,” and then he turns to remind us what is implicit in all of the ‘do nots’, namely do not do things that would harm or enslave your neighbour, but rather “Love your neighbour as yourself.” This is perfect freedom, not the freedom to do what we want, but to seek freedom and justice for all through love. Love does no wrong, he says. Love does not hurt your neighbour. Love is the fulfilling of the law.

And herein lies the paradox, to be perfectly free is to be bound by the law of love. This is our divine service. When we gather each week to worship God almighty, it is to prepare us and remind us that love of God is realized and lived out in love of neighbour. The king that we are bound to serve requires only this, to love his other subjects: both the weak and the strong. Love everyone. No exceptions. This is perfect freedom.

As I say to young folk who are getting married, love is not always easy. To love someone so passionately in those early days of romantic abandonment feels like we have been set free, but we soon learn that love has obligations; we soon learn that love requires the abandonment of self. Love requires sacrifice. The Hebrew people who fled from Egypt fled from fierce oppression, but they also fled the only home that they had ever known. Freedom requires sacrifice. Our Lord went to the cross, and oh how he longed for the cup to be passed from him, but he went and so brought all his people freedom through the overthrowing of death. Love requires sacrifice.

Owe nothing to anyone, except to love one another, for the one who loves fulfils the law.

We won’t love everyone naturally or intrinsically. That is okay, I suspect. What is required of us,though, is that we let God love them through us, because in each person we me, we see look upon the face of Jesus: Slave or free; man or woman; black or white; gay or straight; friend or enemy. In the face of the other we see the face of our beloved, and they in turn see the face of their beloved in us. Love involves risks. Moses and his people risked. Jesus Christ risked. We are called to risk.

Through the strength we find in Christ, the service, the divine service, that we offer is to take the risk of loving not only our neighbours, but even those who would seem unlovable to all others, and abandon ourselves to that love, that in that divine abandonment to love, the whole world may know God’s loving embrace and move one step closer to being the kingdom of our Lord and his Christ, whose service is indeed perfect freedom.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Rejoice in Hope - A Homily for Proper 22, Year A, 2011

Homily for Proper 22, Year A, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Trinity Church, Bradford & St. Paul’s Coulson’s Hill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Romans 12:9-21

“Rejoice in hope.”
--Romans 12:12

Despair is a disease. It is a very contagious disease. Where it infects one, it quickly spreads to another, and very soon, despair becomes an epidemic. There is something in our human condition that makes especially prone to despair, that makes us exceptionally vulnerable. That is why when our leaders peddle despair, when they choose to speak about fear and impending doom, be it in the church or the world, even when they are doing so with apparently honest motives, it always backfires. Just think how quickly the media jumps on bad news and seeks to rebroadcast, and indeed recast it in even more despairing tones of hopelessness. Just think about how often you pick up the phone or go off to your computer to share a piece of bad news with someone else. Despair spreads as quickly and perniciously as any avian flu or SARS.

In his book, The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell writes about how little things can make a big difference. He underscores that epidemics can be destructive, but also that there are good epidemics, positive epidemics, and that there is always something that tips them from being simply and isolated phenomena into a phenomenon that falls upon everyone. He gives a particular example when he writes about the “broken window” concept. In the early 1980’s, the New York subway system was a disaster. Every train was covered in graffiti, fare evasion was rampant, and violent crime so prevalent that ordinary folk would avoid the subway at all cost. The authorities attempted unsuccessfully to treat the symptoms of violent crime, but it was not until a new general manager was hired, who dealt aggressively with the problems of petty crime (graffiti, fare evasion) that things began to change. What that new manager did was essentially to fix the broken window. Broken windows are one ways that epidemics spread. If we see a broken window, we are more tempted to break another, to further vandalize the property, or simply to fall into the apathy of despair and not even bother to try to fix the window, the dilapidated building, and make things better.

If we are prone to despair, though, I believe we also long for hope. Even more than being prone to despair, I believe we are a people programmed for hopefulness. It may come with great difficulty, but ultimately, I believe we long to see the best, hope for the best, and believe in the best. If we are indeed made in the image and likeness of God, who longs for the best, hopes for the best and believes in the best for humanity, than this should come as no surprise.

Yet, we find ourselves mired in despair. But time and time again, remarkable, little things begin to happen. We want the subway system to be safe, we want our political system to work, we want the broken windows to be fixed. This week we witnessed an outpouring of hope. This week we buried at great leader of this nation, a leader who spoke words of hope to a people so prone to despair. This week, in the midst of death and profound loss, hope became an epidemic. The small gesture of a final will and testament, final words of exhortation left by Jack Layton to Canadians was an offering of words of hopefulness that love, hope and optimism are better than the things that would seek to crush us. People gathered, and rain could not wash away tributes chalked onto the plaza of Nathan Philips Square. A tipping point, I believe. And lest this become about the politics of one man, let us not forget the extraordinary gesture of our Prime Minister in offering an unprecedented state funeral to the leaders of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. A friend of mine, and ex-pat American wondered on Facebook if this would have happened in polarized America? I hope and believe that the potential is there, too. Yes, some will criticize our Prime Minister of making a political move, and others will criticize the funeral organizers of organizing one last political rally, but those who do so are purveyors of despair and I encourage you not to buy into their cynicism. When did politics become such a dirty word? Politics is about serving the people of polis, the city, the community, the nation. A political move should not be considered a bad thing, but a principled stand on seeking to do the best for the people we seek to serve. Both the late, lamented leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition and our Prime Minister made political moves this week. They both did so with dignity, passion, and deep and profound hopefulness. We learned from both of them that politics can be hopeful and that cynicism and despair can be cast aside.

I have grown up in a Church that has been known as being less than hopeful. Pierre Berton’s Comfortable Pew has left a bitter legacy in the history of the Canadian Church. Church politics for the last forty years or so have been governed by fear: Declining attendance, lawsuits concerning residential schools, insufficient budgets, issues that divide such as the inclusion of gay and lesbian people in the life of the Church. Given this legacy, why are any of us here? And indeed, many are not here because the politics of fear has driven them away. But I heard some remarkable words recently. I attended a town hall meeting held by Archbishop Johnson in Barrie. It was an opportunity for him to answer questions and to listen to what people in this diocese are saying. There were many words of encouragement spoken. People spoke of the exciting things that were happening in their parishes. Even in tiny parishes that have traditionally been maligned for being small, we heard reports of the Spirit moving in wonderful ways. It was like the sign that hangs over the fictional record store in Stuart MacLean’s Vinyl Café, which reads proudly “We’re not big, but we’re small!” Then the Archbishop spoke these very profound words, “Everywhere I go, I see signs of hope; I see signs of God at work. I do not see the naysayers proved right. People are tired of bad news. People are tired about hearing about the demise of the Church. People are tired of it, and it is simply not true. Wherever I go I see Good News and I see hope.”

This week on the national scene people made a claim for hope. People who profoundly disagreed with Jack Layton’s politics said yes to his words of hope. Why did these words make such a profound impression upon us? It is because we are a people who, though prone to fear and despair desperately long for words of hope because deep down we do believe that hope is better, strong and greater than fear.

Every time I officiate at a wedding, I underscore a certain point, that in a world that knows much brokenness and hopelessness, I am standing before a couple that is saying “no” to such things, and instead, offering a profound “yes” to love and to hope, in the midst of their family and friends, and that love and hope has the power to change the world. In a prayer for the couple from the marriage liturgy we read, “May their lives together be a sacrament of your love to this broken world, so that unity may overcome estrangement, forgiveness heal guilt, and joy overcome despair.” Sound familiar? We pray that every marriage will be a “tipping point” in the glorious epidemic of hope.

A small thing: the birth of a tiny babe in stable. This is the most profound and hopeful act since the creation of humankind. God hoped. God believed. God hoped and believed that Joseph and Mary of Nazareth would take this tiny babe and nurture and care for it, in a world of profound infant mortality, in a world occupied by a Roman oppressor, in backwater Judea, God hoped and believed. God hoped and believed that at least a few would follow the young man, that at least some would find his preaching transformative, his preaching of an upside-down kingdom where the last are first. God hoped and believed that the young man would see it through to the end, even as the man longed for the cup to be passed. God hoped and believed that those who turned away would once again follow. God hoped and believed that death would not win the day. And it has not. God hoped and believed that others would catch the vision of hope and love.

A small thing: the birth of a tiny babe in a stable. A tipping point.

Years later a zealous missionary, having caught the vision, would write in his Epistle to the Romans, “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honour. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers …. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

We shall return home from this place, and surely as I am standing here, we will turn on the radio, television or internet. We will hear peddlers of despair, but they shall not, nor shall their message overwhelm us, hurt us or destroy us, for the point has tipped. We are bearers of Good News; we proclaim hope, and hope changes lives.

Rejoice in hope.

c.2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Keys of the Kingdom - Homily for Proper 21, Year A, 2011

Homily for Proper 21
Sunday, August 21st, 2011
Trinity Church, Bradford & St. Paul’s Coulson’s Hill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 16:13-20

“You are Peter and on this rock I will build my church.”
--Matthew 16:18

Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” They ventured all sorts of suggestions, but he pressed them further, “Who do YOU say I am?” Did Jesus cast he gaze around at all of them and then rest his eyes upon Peter? Whether Peter answered impetuously or under pressure, we shall never know, for we have only his response, “You are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” Perhaps following a moment of silence, a smiled crossed the face of Jesus and he proclaimed, “Blessed are you Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” Did Peter heave sigh of relief that he had answered correctly? Did Simon Peter feel like the school-child who has a tentative knowledge of the answer but a fear of putting up his hand? Whatever the feelings in that moment, Peter’s response was taken to be a profound one. Jesus claimed that Simon Peter had spoken not from some information that he had learned from a friend or teacher, but that his knowledge came from a much deeper place, indeed, that Peter’s knowledge was the result of divine revelation. Did Peter know this? Did Peter think this? Did Peter believe this? One suspects that Jesus’ proclamation that this knowledge was as much a revelation to Peter as the message itself.

What happens next, though, must surely have come as more of a surprise. Jesus gave Peter a new name and a set of keys. The name seems to have stuck and Simon son of John was henceforth known to his friends as Kephas (usually anglicized as Cephas), in Latin, Petros, Peter, or more colloquially, Rocky. The keys, though, were not literal keys, but figurative keys, and the church through the centuries has reflected on what the name change meant, and what these keys signify. Our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters understand the name change and the keys to represent a certain Petrine primacy and authority that has reached its apex in their bedrock dogma of papal infallibility. Other varieties of episcopally led churches, such as Anglicans, have generally reckoned that the keys and Petrine office represent a certain kind of apostolic authority that is diffused across the fraternity of the episcopacy and shared by all bishops alike, collegially. Protestants have envisioned Petrine authority and the power of these keys as further diffused across the leadership of the church, ordained and lay, gathered together, and that the “rock” was referring to the rock that was Peter’s faith.

But do we focus too much on trying to wed these symbols to our ecclesiological traditions at the expense of allowing them to speak to the story of our lives? What if we were to ask ourselves what it means to consider what this revelation that Peter had means to us, who believe that we receive revelation again and again (as much as Peter did) as we open the pages of Scripture and read these sacred words? What if in this story Peter himself is to be understood and read as stand-in for all Christians who in a moment of revelation recognize the Christ in their midst and seek to understand what it is he offers each of us as he calls us by name and hands us a set of keys?

Let me ask you a question, have you ever locked yourself out of your house? Well, I have done it, more times than I care to admit. When we lock ourselves out, we find ourselves relying on the generosity and indeed, the mercy, of others. The most recent time this has happened to me was when we were hosting the Bishop of Kingston, Jamaica. I had recently placed a mousetrap under the sink to trap a little creature I had suspected of infiltrating our green bin on successive evenings whilst the house, and the cats, slept. This particular Sunday morning, I got up and checked to see if I had caught anything, and sure enough I had snared a mouse. While the house still slept, I took the trap outside to dispose of the mouse and upon returning to the house realized that I had locked myself out. So there I stood, due to my own foolishness, at 6:30 am on a Sunday morning, in my bathrobe outside my front door, with a mousetrap in hand realizing that the only way to get back in was to ring the doorbell. I had hoped that Athena, who sleeps with earplugs, might have heard me, or perhaps one of the children, but no. Instead, I was greeted by our houseguest, a rather tired looking Jamaican bishop, in his housecoat, who had been roused by the doorbell. We stood there facing each other with telling smiles, I held up the trap, he gave a bit of deep chuckle, and without a further word exchanged, he let me back in. I made sure when I was dressed that I had the house keys in my pocket.

The power of the keys, we are told in Matthew 16, is that they have the power to loose and to bind, in both heaven and earth. We have traditionally thought that this is about the Church’s power to admit into the fellowship and to exclude from fellowship in the community. This may indeed be true, but this sort of thinking allows us to absolve ourselves from the responsibility of being bearers of the keys and locates that responsibility on others, be it papal authority, episcopal collegiality, or presbyterian or synodical collegiality. What if we were to think that holding the keys we have the power to lock ourselves out or let ourselves in? What if simply, we were to understand that Jesus has given us the keys to the house, the keys to the kingdom? It’s not that we earned them through some theology of works and that our power is to earn our way into heaven or hell through good or bad works; no, it is simply that we have recognized him as master of the house, the Lord, the messiah, the Christ, and in our recognition of him the master of the house has shared with us his keys. I can use those keys to go in, or I can throw them away, lose them, forget about them, abandon them, and find myself locked outside the house. The choice is mine.

But they keys aren’t the whole story here. As a member of the household we are given a name; we are counted as family. Jesus gave Simon a new name, he called him Peter. But oh, we know that Peter was not quite the rock he was supposed to be when crisis struck. At the passion of the one he had proclaimed as Christ, son of the Living God, he denied not once, but thrice that he knew the man. Good old Rocky seemed to have thrown away the keys and locked himself out. This seems to me to tell most clearly against the traditional Protestant reading of the name “Rock” signifying Peter’s faith. What then does it mean for Jesus to have called Simon son of Jonah the Rock? Of what possible significance is this name if it is applied to one whose faith sunk like quicksand at the moment of truth?

Perhaps the Rock is the truth of Peter’s acclamation, that Jesus is the Christ. Perhaps the Rock is the not so much our faith, but the faith of God in Christ. Perhaps the Rock is God’s commitment to his people; God’s commitment to go even unto death so that his people might have a place in the house. Remember that this acclamation directly precedes Jesus’ prediction of his Passion, of his death on the cross. Perhaps the Rock is Jesus and our relationship with him.

He trusts us with the keys to house, and we may lock ourselves out. We may do this intentionally, or foolishly. But the rock of faith upon which we stand is the reality of a faithful God, a steadfast master of the house, who goes to every length to open the door for us, even when we have lost the keys. The Rock of faith is the relationship that our Lord and master seeks to have with us, even when we forget him, turn from him, and believe that we have lost him; that naming us as his own, he will not leave us standing at the door, even when we have lost the keys. The rock of faith is that even when we lose the keys, abuse the keys, forget the keys, he is there to open the door for us again. And when we recognize that we are standing before the Christ, the son of the Living God, he smiles and once again hands us they keys to the kingdom and welcomes us home, as he did Peter.



c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"Except the Lord Build This House" - a Homily for Trinity Sunday, upon the Occasion of the 160th Anniversary of Trinity Church, Bradford

Homily for Trinity Sunday, Year A, 2011
On the Occasion of the 160th Anniversary of Trinity Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Texts: Genesis 28:10-17, Revelation 21:1-4,22-22:5

“God has made his home among mortals.”

When I worked at Church House, the informal name that was given to the head office of the Anglican Church of Canada, above the door of the rather plain three-story brownstone building stood a majestic plaque, probably four feet tall by three feet wide. It was in the form of the coat of arms of the Anglican Church of Canada. Inscribed at the apex were the words, Nisi Dominus. These are the Latin words which open Psalm 127: “Except the Lord build the house, their labour is but lost that build it.”

There are many buildings in this world that stand as monuments to wealthy and powerful benefactors and serve to glorify those who made the majesty of the building possible, these edfices forever memorialize their founder and patron. For one hundred and sixty years a building has stood on this ground as a monument to a different sort of benefactor, a divine benefactor, the Triune God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. And while there have been many individuals who have passed through the nave of this sacred space, or the nave of its predecessor, the first Trinity Church, this church stands not as a monument to the people, but as a monument to the living God.

More than a monument, though, this church is a home. It is a home and haven for all who enter. It is open to all regardless of wealth or station, to all sorts and conditions (as the old prayer book was want to say). It is open to anyone who feels the yearning for God stirring in their hearts. It is open to all who have lost their way. It is open to all seek to know God and make God’s love known to world. It is open to those who rejoice and those who mourn, those who long to make a joyful noise, and those who need to keep a prayerful silence. It is open to all, and has been and ever shall be a home for God’s people.

It is only the home for God’s people though, because it is first and foremost, God’s home. This is the profound and radical assertion of the Christian faith, that God is not a distant God, but a God who enters into our humanity, into our world, and chooses to reside with us. This is what it means to say that Christianity is a religion of Incarnation, to mean literally that God takes flesh, and dwells among us. Even more profoundly challenging for the world to believe though, than God becoming man in Jesus Christ, is God abiding with us eternally through his Spirit. God’s presence amongst us is not a fleeting thirty year span but an abiding presence in person of the Holy Spirit and in his presence a disparate people have become family. This is why we are able to call God, who is the creator of the cosmos, by the intimate name of Father, because the timeless one has chosen to enter time and be with his creatures. As the book of Revelation remarkably proclaims, “God has made his home among mortals.”

Oh how easy it can be, though, to lose sight of the God who has made his home with us. Should we be hard on ourselves when even some of the greatest of the patriarchs of old could lose sight of this reality from time-to-time? Think of Jacob, who proclaimed after a vision in a dream, “Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it!” Difficult it can be to see the hand of God at work, and we can often get caught up on our own striving, our own building, our own sense of ministry and mission. Yet, time and again, we are granted, as Jacob was granted, a vision of the living God living amongst us. Time and again we are given a new set of eyes through which we can catch a glimpse of a reality that before seemed veiled. Time and again, we experience the God we thought was lost to us, and we proclaim with Jacob our ancestor, “Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it!”

So it does not seem out of place to proclaim that reality once again, lest we forget who built this house and whose house it is. This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven. Oh, to be sure, it is a building built with human hands. Yes, it needs its ongoing repairs and maintenance as we know so well. But it is so much more than a building made with human hands. To recognize this church as the Lord’s house is to recognize that it is a place where heaven touches earth; a place where God is again incarnate in the world; a place where God has chosen to dwell among mortals.

Wherever we gather as God’s holy people this is true. Wherever two or three are gathered, there I am in the midst of you. And yet, people and generations are fleeting. “Frail as summer’s flower we flourish blows the wind and it is gone, but while mortals rise and perish, God endures, unchanging on.” We need our holy places, our holy buildings, not because God needs a house and not because they are the essence of what it means to be “the Church,” but because they are tangible, sacramental signs of the profound and earthshaking reality that God has made his home among mortals. They are a testimony to God’s abiding presence from generation to generation in this world and in this particular community.

Through the bricks and mortar of this place, frail and feeble as any building may be, we encounter the living God, and the living God is incarnate to the people of this community of Bradford. This is a reality that existed long before this congregation first gathered as Trinity Church without a building in 1849, or built the first church in 1851. It is a reality that will exist long after this current building is gone. God is in this place, and this building, and its predecessor, have not only told that story, but have tangibly made present the living God to those who seek his face.

I have been fond of quoting St. Matthew’s gospel in this our 160th year, especially the passage from the Sermon on the Mount: “You are a city set upon a hill … a light to the world.” We must never forget that we are God’s city and the light we radiate is God’s light – the light of the most holy, blessed and glorious Trinity.

While much hard work has gone into this place by human hands over 160 years, this house is not built on the bedrock of our work or the work of our ancestors, but on the bedrock of the faithfulness of God in Christ, and the abiding presence of the Holy Spirit. I praise the faithfulness of God’s people, but let us all praise together the faithfulness of our God who has chosen to make his home amongst us. Let us praise the Triune God, our patron, the Holy Trinity, who is the foundation and the life upon which this house is built. Let us praise the Trinity for this home we have been given which is both our home and God’s home, and a place where heaven and earth touch. Truly the Lord is in this place. May we never forget our loving patron and the light and hope that shines here for all who seek to make it their home.

Nisi Dominus – Except the Lord build this house, their labour is lost that build it.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"Why are You Weeping?" - A Homily for Easter, 2011

Homily for Easter, 2011
Sunday, April 24th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 20:1-18

“Woman, why are you weeping”

I have seen the Lord.

The Beloved Disciple simply looks inside the tomb, without entering, and sees the graveclothes and believes.

Peter has to enter the tomb, hold and touch the graveclothes.

Mary has to have an experience of the Risen Jesus; she needs to speak with him, she tries to lay hold of him, in order to believe.

In another week we shall hear about another disciple, Thomas, who insists on inspecting Jesus’ wounds.

Some must see, others must understand, some need to touch, others need to feel – but there is one common denominator in all of these stories, and in our Christian faith, the presence of the Risen Jesus our midst. With Easter, we experience a new reality. It is a reality that transforms minds, raises fallen spirits, and mends broken heart. It is an experience that turns the sinner from their sinfulness. It is a reality that changes the way men and women live.

Mary Magdalene weeps and then is filled with joy. The disciples who doubt are inspired by faith.

The resurrection of Jesus is not simply and event in time long ago, it is an event our lives. The Risen Jesus is not only encountered at the mouth of an empty tomb, in middle-eastern garden, on the Emmaus road, or behind the locked door of a house in the Galilee. To be sure, our mothers and fathers of old met him in these places, but down through the ages he has been met, and has met us, again and again. Through the dark valleys of our lives, he meets us. In sickness and in health, as children are born and loved ones die, he meets us. In the angst of all that troubles us, the Risen Jesus meets us.

Oh, we may not know him at first. Like the disciples of old, we may at first fail to see him in our midst. We may only detect an empty tomb, we may see his garments and the place where he once rested, we may mistake him for the gardener, or a strange on the road we may mistake him for another simple fellow-traveler. He may come to us at unexpected times, in unexpected way and in unexpected places. Perhaps, like Mary our eyes will be opened in time to see him, or perhaps like the disciples on the Emmaus road we will only recognize that we have met him after he has disappeared from our sight. In either case, he has been and ever shall be present; and when the reality of the Christ Event touches us, our hearts burn within us with great joy!

Days will come and pass when this seems not to be true. Time will come when we again feel alone. We shall all journey through valleys in which we feel lost and abandoned. There shall be moments when we shall feel lifeless and it seems as if God himself is lifeless, hanging on a tree. But when all seems lost, he confronts us again, he appears and stands before us and asks the age old question, “Why do you weep?”

There shall be no answer to the question for the answer is unimportant, it is simply enough that the question has been asked, for it means he has not left us. As we hear those words we know he is with us and like Mary, we exclaim, “Rabbi,” and like Thomas we proclaim, “My Lord and my God!”

When we hear his voice and his words of comfort once again, “Why do you weep,” it means God is not dead. It means that the end we thought was the end is not the end, but rather the beginning of something new. It means he is raised, and it means we, too, are raised.

Do you not know that all of you that have been baptized have been baptized into his death? Surely then, if Christ is raised from the dead, do we not also share in his resurrection?

Signs of the Resurrection are everywhere to be found: for the disciples it was an empty tomb and strewn grave clothes, a man mistaken as a gardener, or a stranger along the road. Who knows where we shall meet him, we only know that we shall, again and again as our spirits falter, as we again turn to sin, as we again lose hope. We shall meet him, whether he touches your mind, your heart or your spirit, wherever he takes your hand or wipes your tear, you shall see him risen and know that we share in that glorious resurrection from the dead.

C.2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Fear Not - A Reflection fo the Great Vigil of Easter 2011

A Reflection for the Easter Vigil, 2011
Saturday, April 23rd, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 28:1-10

At the tomb of Jesus, the women heard these words: “Do not be afraid.”
Oh, how there is much to frighten us in this life. We fear the unknown. We fear the future. We fear for our loved ones when they are out of sight. We fear death. Fear has a way of capturing us, laying hold of us, crippling us, enslaving us.

But this is the night the Jesus Christ breaks the chains of all enslavement, shatters the bonds of death, and delivers us from all fear. This is the night that Christ our God tramples down death by death. This is the night that stone of the tomb rolls away. This is the night when we are delivered from darkness into light, from death into life. This is the night in which fear is destroyed.

Early, as the third day dawned, two Marys went to the tomb of Jesus, and the earth shook, the stone was rolled away, and an angel of light appeared and proclaimed, “Fear not!” But they did fear, for they could see that the body of their Lord had been stolen. No. Not stolen, but gone. “I know what you are looking for,” said the angel, “Jesus of Nazareth. He is not here; he is risen, as he said!”

In one instant, in one moment, their fear disappeared, and as Christ himself had slipped the surly bonds of death, so too, did the women find the fetters of their fear loosed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, they knew themselves to be delivered from fear, to be ransomed from death.

With great excitement, they ran, their fear turning to joy, they ran to tell the other disciples that their Lord was alive. Without seeing him they believed. Yet with their minds intent on the task before them and their hearts strangely warmed, he appears before the women and greets them. And what are his first words? “Fear not.”

Can we hear these words enough as the troubles of life unfold before us? Thanks be to God that they are ever before us. Again and again we meet our Risen Lord on the road of this life, and again and again he comes to us with these words, “Fear not!” Do not be afraid, for I am with you. Do not be afraid for I love you. Do not be afraid for I shall be with you to the ends of the earth and to the end of days.

When all seems lost, when fear seeks to grip us once again, when we are feeling enslaved to fear, when the stone seems too large to roll away on its own, listen; listen, and you will hear those words, “Fear not!” Behold, and watch, and you will see the stone rolled away; you will find the tomb empty, and you will meet your Risen Lord on the road yet again, who, ever and always, greets us with the words, “Do not be afraid.”


c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

"Woman, Behold Your Son" -- A Homily for Good Friday

A Homily for Good Friday, 2011
Friday, April 22nd, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 19:26-27
“Woman behold your son”
-John 19:26

Confronted by the cross of Christ, we are changed. At the foot of the cross, beneath the feet of the crucified Jesus, a new family is born – the Christian community. As Mary his mother wept and the disciple he love best mourned, Jesus comforted them with these words, “Woman, behold your son; son, behold your mother.” But these were not simply words of comfort, but rather a radical reordering and recreation of community. Confronted by the cross, confronted by the death of a son, of a friend, of the leader of their movement, these two individuals who might be abandoned, forgotten, left alone, are knit together into one family. The widow and the orphan are drawn together into a new family, the Christian community. “From that hour,” we read, the beloved disciple to the mother of Jesus, “into his own house.”

And so it is, our movement, our religion, is one in which the edges are constantly being challenged. Our family is constantly being transformed and recreated, as others, who might otherwise feel lost and forsaken, are drawn in. Confronted by the cross of Christ, we are called again and again to re-creation, to envisage our family in new and creative ways. We are called again and again to include those whom the world forsakes as part of our family, in our company of friends.

When the family changes, we change, too. It is not always easy to be part of a family. There may be those with whom we disagree. There will be those who challenge us. There will be competing ways of doing things. Yet, there is something greater than our differences that binds us together. What is it? What is the force that makes us one, even when we differ in so many ways? Even when we come together with all our brokenness and sinfulness exposed?

It is the sacrifice of Christ our God on the cross. Jesus said, “When I am lifted up I will draw all people unto me.” At the heart of that sacrifice is the longing of God, longing for all his people, and longing that we may be one. Before he was handed over to death, that was indeed Jesus’ prayer, “Father, I pray that they may be one, even as you and I are one.” And to that end he breathed upon us his Holy Spirit that we might be knit together as a holy and sacred people, who in spite of all our differences, our brokenness, and all our challenges, that we may be one, even as Christ and the Father are one.

To be one may not necessarily mean that we will agree in all things, for some things are indeed a matter of indifference; but do we not agree in this, that Christ died that we might live? Do we not agree in this, that the offering that hangs on the cross is the God’s deepest self-offering of love for his own people? No greater love hath this, than a man should lay down his life for his friends!

“I have called you friends,” says Jesus, and that is what we are, a company of friends, a new family, that seeks to make known to each other, and to the world, the deep compassion of our God through the proclamation of his self-giving love in the cross. We seek to make known in thought, word, and deed the love that knows no boundaries, the inclusive embrace of God in God’s family for all who choose to receive it. We turn one to another in mutual brokenness, each of us knowing loss, exclusion, and forsakenness in some way, and we hear the words of our Lord, “Woman, behold your son,” and “son, behold your mother.” And all things are made new.

c.2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves