The Helper of the Helpless and the Saviour of the Lost - A Homily for Easter 4, Year C, 2013

Homily for Easter IV, Year C, 2013
Sunday, April 21st, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 10:22-30

 

Jesus’ claim of John chapter 10 to be the Good Shepherd, and the reminder in Psalm 23 that Jesus our Lord is indeed our shepherd, seem well suited to reflect on the events of the past week.  Whether it be the bombing in Boston, the explosion in Texas, or the earthquake in China; if it be the heightened tensions in the Korean Peninsula; or if it be the general feeling that the world is coming apart, the Good Shepherd has words of hope, compassion, and love for us still.

We stand a step removed from the terrible events of the past week, and yet the ever-watchful eye of the media draws us into the nexus of the horror and pain that is felt any time disaster strikes.  What if it were us?  And so the pain of others easily becomes a pain we carry, for we can see that it might have easily been one of us, or one we love.  Even though we stand somewhat removed from the terror, we find ourselves somehow locked in its grasp.

But for those who were there, even as for those of us who were not; for those who have lost so much, even as for those of us who only feel their loss from a distance, God searches and seeks for us, in our fear, in our sorrow, in our grief, and in our loss.  “I am the Good Shepherd, and I know mine own and mine own know me.”

The great comfort of the Christian gospel is that in precisely moments like these when we ask “where was God?” the answer comes, “here is God.”  We shall never truly understand the answer as to why God does not intervene to prevent evil, or to prevent the forces of nature from causing destruction, or to correct human error to prevent accidents.  Perhaps there are moments when God intervenes, and yet, there are so many when he does not. We have to deal with a universe that unfolds by defined laws and human free will, but does that mean that God is not present, that God does not care?

Quite the opposite, I think.  The whole story of the gospel is that God does care; God does care about the suffering of his people.  In the person of Christ Jesus he enters into our world, into our humanity, and joins our suffering to his – the true definition of “compassion” – to feel with, to suffer with.  God suffers alongside us and God feels our pain.  What is more, God is at work in our lives and in our world redeeming our suffering and redeeming our pain.  It is in the moments in which we feel most abandoned, most alone, most forgotten, that he reminds us that he has never and will never abandon us: “Even when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I am with you.  My rod and staff, they comfort you.”  It is in these moments that the Good Shepherd is seeking us out, calling our names, and reminding us that even though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.  His rule is a gentle one.  He rules as a comforter and refuge, a hope in times of trouble. God’s rule is one in which we learn that the events of the day, as powerful and as awful as they may be, shall not be the story that shapes our lives, but rather his compassion and mercy shall shape our story.   It has often been said during this week, and I think the sentiment is a good one, “when you see evil, when you see harm, look for the helpers.”  It is in acts of mercy, compassion, self-giving and goodness that we shall see the loving hand of the Good Shepherd.

This brings us to a second thought about the Good Shepherd in light of the events of the past week.  Many people have died.  The same questions abound, the same “whys” are cried out.  And for a time, perhaps the only answer is silence.  However, as I look back on the losses of my own life, and as I ponder the mystery of death, I come to realize that although my loved ones have been plucked out of my hands, they have not been plucked out of the hands of God.  A passage often read at funerals, from the Wisdom of Solomon reminds us, “The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God.”  And again, hear the words of the Good Shepherd:  “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me; and I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish, and no one shall snatch them out of my hand.  My Father who has given them to me, is greater than all and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand.”  There is nothing else I can do for the dead.  It is a harsh and dreadful reality, but even though they have been snatched away from me, they cannot be snatched away from God.  In God, even in death, they find eternal life.  So while human mourning and grief are real, and often crippling, once again, our hope is not in human hands, but in the hands of the almighty, who will not lose even one of his own.  Thus, we find in the Christian gospel words of comfort, but the gospel brings not only comfort, but challenge.

And so this brings me to a third thought, a challenging and difficult thought, and for this I will veer away from the Good Shepherd for a moment and to St. Luke’s Sermon on the Plain.  This question has to do with those who hurt us. I first began to formulate these thoughts earlier in the week when I heard of the sickening behaviour that was taking place in London after Lady Thatcher’s death.  As we have all heard, parties broke out and people began singing “Ding, Dong, the witch is dead,” and danced on her grave.  Anyone who participates in such behaviour and calls themselves a Christian is due for a serious reality check and a review of the words of Jesus found in St. Luke’s Sermon on the Plain.  Now, I would be the last one to eulogize Lady Thatcher for the way she governed.  There are many that credit her with saving her country and there are others who claim great suffering under her regime.  First of all, this is the cost of democracy.  We shall have leaders who will pursue policies we do not like, and we shall have the freedom to stand against them. We shall have leaders that do harm, and leaders that shall do good, and we shall often disagree on what constitutes harm and good.  We shall have leaders that we hate.  But I ask you to consider the words of Jesus from Luke chapter 6, and consider what transpired in London: “But I say to you that hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”  In our Bible study on Luke this week, we reflected on this passage.  This is perhaps the most revolutionary and world-changing claim of the gospel. Judaism knew “Love your neighbour,” and indeed that is a core value for us, but “love your enemy?”  We find this a hard pill to swallow.  Aren’t we supposed to hate our enemies?  Not if we are Christians.

And what does it mean to “love our enemy?” Well, Jesus tells us: do good to them, bless them, pray for them.  This means that what happened in London when people danced on the grave of Lady Thatcher was the most profoundly unchristian, and indeed, anti-Christian act that one could imagine.  Do the words of Jesus mean anything to us when we behave in such a shameful way.  Now we may say that was not us; that we were not there dancing on the grave, but now consider the events of Boston.  There was much rejoicing at the killing of one suspected perpetrator and the capture of another.  Should we rejoice that an evildoer is caught?  By all means.  Should we congratulate those who bring wrong-doers to justice? By all mean.  Should we breath a sigh of relief that the innocent are once again safe? By all means.  But should we rejoice in the death of a sinner?  I dare say, we should not.  Should we rejoice in the humiliation of a deluded young man?  I dare say, we should not.   To be sure, justice is a principle of the gospel, as well as mercy.  People must be kept safe and those who are dangerous must be removed so as to ensure the public good.  And yet, we can be merciful in all of this.  We should not puff ourselves up with false pride and dance on the grave of a young man who, for whatever mystifying reason turned to wickedness and chose to harm his fellow human beings.  We should not abuse the abuser with torture or humiliation, for even the sinner is still a child of God.  It may be hard to love ones such as these, but can we at least aspire to a greater humanity than what has been demonstrated by their actions? Shall we at least do good to them, where they were unable to do good to us?  Shall we pray for them with hope in our hearts, where they felt their prayers of no avail for us?  Shall we find mercy for them, where they felt no mercy for us?  Jesus reminds us with these very words, “that God is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked,” and then admonishes us, “be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.”  These are hard words.  But then I realize that those two boys could just as easily have been my children, or you children.  Even in the midst of all that they had done wrong, would I still not desire mercy even as justice is accordingly meted out?  Would I still not hope, beyond hope, that something good might be salvaged in them?  Would I not pray for them if they were my children, or your children?  And here is the rub, they are God’s children, as wicked as they might be, and we learn that God is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked, and that we ought to be merciful as he is merciful. 

We need not condone what they did.  Nor should we suggest that justice should not be done.  Yet we ought not to descend into a mutual or similar barbarism and rejoice in wrongdoing or bloodlust.  That is not the Christian.  That is not Christian holiness.  That is not the way of Jesus. The Good Shepherd is a loving shepherd, a merciful shepherd, a shepherd that seeks out the lost, all the while caring for those closest to him.  And so an old prayer from the prayer book comes to mind as I draw this to a close,

“Be mindful, O Lord, of thy people bowed before thee …. Succour all those who are in tribulation, necessity or distress.  Remember for good all those that love us, and those that hate us, and those who have desired us, unworthy as we are to pray for them.  For thou art the helper of the helpless, and the saviour of the lost.” Amen.

Why Do You Seek the Living Among the Dead? - A Homily for Easter, 2013

Homily for Easter, 2013
Sunday, March 31^st, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24: 1-12

"Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

-Luke 24:5

The women who faithfully remained with Jesus as he hung upon the cross, who were there when his body was laid in the tomb, were the first to come to that tomb on the early morning following their Sabbath observance.  Their spices were prepared, and they had come to anoint his body.  To their great surprise though, the stone that covered the tomb had been removed; and to their even greater surprise they encountered two men, garbed in dazzling apparel who addressed them: “Why do you seek the living among the dead?”  What a strange question this was.  Their Lord was dead and they were here to carry out their appointed task and ministrations.  They were not seeking the living; they were indeed seeking the dead. 

But the men stirred their memories – the memory of something he had said early in his ministry in the Galilee, a memory that was clouded with the passage of time and the dreadful reality of his failed mission which ended on the cross.  The men asked the women to remember. Remember what he said to you.  Remember how he had told them that “the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and on the third day rise.”  Had they forgotten this promise?  Or were they here, actually seeking the living, did they remember, and hope, deep within themselves in the sacred silence of their hearts that maybe, just maybe, he was yet alive? 

When asked to remember, remember they did.  They had not yet seen him, and yet the stirring of their memory stirred within them the belief that he had risen.  His words stirred within them and the seed faith sprung to life in their hearts.  He was not to be found amongst the tombs; he had burst the chains of death; he had sprung forth from the tomb, and although he and not yet appeared to them, they knew with confidence that he was alive.

With great excitement they returned to the apostles and told them all they had seen and all they had heard; and yet, the apostles believed them not.  The apostles who had heard the same words, who were now being asked to remember what Jesus had told them way back in their Galilean days might have remembered his words, but they could not believe what they were being told by the women.  They castigated them for spreading “old wives’ tales.”  They did not believe.

But Peter, the first to have denied his Lord; Peter, who had with deep shame wept over his denial; Peter the first among the apostles who had proved to be the weakest when put to the test; something stirred in Peter.  Perhaps he remembered the words. Perhaps deep within the silence of his own heart he hoped beyond hope that it might be true.  Perhaps, just perhaps, he might be given a second chance.  And so against what must have been his better judgement he rose and ran to the tomb.  And there, on the floor of the tomb he found only the linen cloths.  He had not yet seen Jesus, and yet, he was amazed and his unbelief became belief. 

The women sought the living amongst the dead.  Peter sought the living amongst the dead.  But the one who lives is not to be found amongst the dead.  They cannot believe that he is alive and so they must seek out the place of the dead and look for him. They had seen him die. They knew where he should have been, and yet, that is not where God left him. He did not suffer his holy one to see corruption.

Where do they find him?  As we shall learn as we continue to read St. Luke’s gospel in Eastertide, they meet him as they journey in loneliness, sadness and despair along the Emmaus road. They meet him when they open the Scriptures and break bread together.  They meet him in their gathering together and they meet him in their going out into the world.  They meet him when they forgive each other their wrongs, and they meet him when they witness to his resurrection.  This is all to say that they meet him, not at a tomb, not amongst the dead but amongst the living.

This is the very place we meet him today.  We meet him when we gather round this table and share in receiving his risen and glorified body by faith with thanksgiving. We meet him when we hear the words of the prophets and the apostles opened to us, proclaimed and expounded. We meet him when we forgive each other the wrongs we have done. We meet him when we wash each other’s feet.  We meet him when we go out into the world to serve him in the person of God’s most vulnerable children. We meet him not amongst the dead, but amongst the living.  Seek the Lord where he may be found.

But just as the Father did not leave Christ in hell, just as he did not let his holy one see corruption, neither will he leave us amongst the dead. He does not abandon us to the grave. He does not abandon us to our sinful self-destruction.  He does not leave us amongst the dead or in the tomb.  In the glorious resurrection of Christ we are swept up into the power of his resurrected life.  In the resurrection of Christ, Jesus’ hands reach out to us to pull us from the very depths of despair, loneliness, brokenness, and sin. When we find ourselves walking amongst the dead, he descends to the depths with us and rescues us, restores us, redeems us, that we too might not be found amongst the dead, but the living.  And so that is where we find him today, not amongst the dead, not in a tomb, but in our very midst, risen in body and risen in the communion we share in this age, and risen in the communion we shall know when the final trumpet sounds and we are all raised to that new and glorious perfection. 

Why do you seek the living amongst the dead?  We are afraid it is not true.  We are afraid that death will be the final story that is written for us. We are afraid that what has been proclaimed to us is a lie. But remember what he said.  Remember.  Remember that he said that “the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and on the third day rise.” The Eucharist we share is an act of that remembrance.  It is a remembrance that as the grave could not contain him, so it shall not contain us.  Our shared ministry is a remembrance that though the powers of death might seek to destroy us in this life, when we act together in ministry we find hope and strength, endurance and fortitude, love and mercy, because the risen Jesus is with us.  When we serve each other, Jesus is with us.  To remember what he said is not simply to recall it, but to live into it.  When the men at the tomb tell the women “he is not here,” they mean among the dead.  When we proclaim he is risen, we are saying “he is here,” amongst the living.  The tomb is but a sign, the communion we share is the reality of Jesus risen from the dead. 

Woman Behold Your Son; Son Behold Your Mother: A Sermon for Good Friday, 2013

Homily for Good Friday, 2013
Friday, March 29^th, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 18:1-19:42

“Woman behold your son; son behold your mother.”

In the church in which I grew up, a church dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin, above the altar in the original church is a window.  In the centre is Christ, on his right side his mother reverently prays, on his left side, St. John, the beloved disciple and author of the Fourth Gospel, stands with quill and book in hand as a witness, testifying to the truth.  This image is clearly meant to evoke the scene in the Gospel of St. John in which Jesus, from the cross, commends his mother into St. John’s care and keeping with the words, “Woman, behold your son; son behold your mother.”  Jesus is not portrayed on the cross in this window, but rather as a priest offering the chalice to the faithful who are gathered for worship in that church, in much the same spirit as the image of Jesus portrayed in the window above the altar of this very church. The St. Mary’s window invites us to join with St. Mary and St. John around the foot of the cross and receive the benefits that are poured out in Jesus’ sacrifice.

In that same church it was our custom, much as it is in this very church, that during Holy Week we would follow the Way of the Cross, moving from station to station, re-enacting the Passion of our Lord. In that parish, I had a dear friend, whose name was Dorothy.  Dorothy was about my grandmother’s age and she was a spiritual mother to me.  Dorothy was one of those great servants of the Church with a deep faith and a spirit of true Christian servant-hood, she was a Christian friend to everyone and admired by all.  Very early in my Christian journey she took me under her wing and taught me the faith as a mother. 

Dorothy had three children.  When her only daughter Linda was in her thirties, Linda died of cancer.  This was an extraordinary blow to Dorothy, especially given that Linda had a young son, who was soon to pass into Dorothy’s care.   One Wednesday in Holy Week, a day I shall never forget, we were walking the Way of the Cross, and we got to the station in which Jesus commends his mother into the care of the beloved disciple.  Canon Bob Leckey asked Dorothy to read the Gospel appointed for that station.  She quietly for a moment and then read, “Woman behold your son; son behold your mother,” and we responded with the Trisagion, “Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Immortal One, have mercy upon us.”  After we had finished walking the stations she shared with me how profoundly moving it had been for her to be asked, on the spur of the moment, to read that particular passage.  I asked he why this was. She responded, “Dan, only Jesus knows how I feel.”

It is said that there is no greater pain than losing a child. It is also said that when this happens you feel so alone and no one can understand what it is like. In that moment in which she read those sacred words of the Gospel, Dorothy felt the grace and understanding of Christ wash over her.  Dorothy standing in the place of Mary, but saying the words of Jesus, knew the comfort of his love poured out on the cross.  She knew and understood at the deepest possible level what Mary felt, for like Mary, she too had lost a child.  She knew at that very moment what St. John felt, for she knew what it was to have another trusted into her care.  And yet, uttering the very words of Jesus from the cross, she knew and felt his loving compassion, his deep care and longing for her well-being, and the depth of his sacrifice for her.  Only Jesus knows how I feel.

For Dorothy, the Church had always been, but became more and more as the years rolled on, a family, her family.  At the foot of the cross we receive our salvation, not only for eternity, but for the present.  When we lose so much, it can seem like we cannot go on. When we make terrible mistakes it can seem like we cannot go on.  When we lose those closest to us it can seem like we cannot go on.  And yet, even as we lose, Jesus not only understands our pain, he ministers to us through his church: “Woman behold your son; son behold your mother.”  We become Mary.  We become the Beloved Disciple.

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is speaking with his disciples and he is interrupted by someone telling him that his mother and brothers and sisters have arrived. What is his response?  “Here are my mother and my brothera and my sisters.”  It is not that he does not care for his own family; rather he radically and powerfully reorders our reality, he expands our kinship.  For Christians, the ties of kinship are not biological. They are spiritual.  That is why at the foot cross, St. John becomes the son of Mary, and Mary becomes his mother.  This is not simply the story of Mary and John.  It is our story. This is what the cross does. As Christ is bound to the cross, we are bound to each other both now and in the age to come.  The pain of loss is real, and yet the kinship we share with each other in Christ is even greater. 

My dear friend Dorothy not only felt these things, she not only believed them, she lived them.  She became a mother, a mother in the Spirit, a mother in Christ, not only to me, but to so many.  When she left this earth at the age of 95 many of us felt a deep loss. How is such a gap to be filled?  And yet, the words of Jesus echo in our ears again to each of us as we stand by the grave of any loved. Look about, “behold your mother; behold your son,” and “these are my mother, and my brothers, and my sisters.”  The kinship we share is nothing less than the work of the cross. And the work of the cross is that though death’s mightiest powers have done their worst, Jesus’ hath his foes dispersed.  What Jesus gives us in our holy kinship is a faith, a hope, and a love stronger than death.  Jesus knows how we feel, and he ministers to us through each other in the midst of it all.

 

 

The Servant-Friend: A Homily for Maundy Thursday, 2013

Homily for Maundy Thursday, 2013
Thursday, March 28^th, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 13:1-17; 31-35

How difficult it can be for us to receive an act of kindness at the hands of another!  As this holy day of Maundy Thursday calls us to renew our own ministry of servant-hood it occurs to me that many of us are more comfortable taking up that role of servant than allowing others to serve.  To be sure, if we are to be like our master, we are called not to be served but to serve.  And yet, sometimes serving allows us to hide our own vulnerability, and strangely, in serving we find ourselves exercising power over those we serve.  I cannot imagine that this is what Jesus intended by calling us to a ministry of servant-hood.  Serving is not about us determining how we might serve, but listening to the needs of the vulnerable and the needy in our midst, and serving them as they need, not as we think they need.  When we decide what others need we exercise power over them and when they do not wish to receive what we so beneficently bestow upon them we become angered that our charity and philanthropy are rejected, and then we no longer consider them worthy of our graciousness.  This is not the servant ministry to which we are called by Jesus.

Jesus put his disciples in a difficult spot.  He asked them to put themselves in that position of vulnerability in which we are served and ministered to by another.  Jesus, the master, takes off his outer garment, the robe of rank, and ties the towel of a servant around his waist and washes the feet of his disciples. Surely, they must have felt extremely awkward at this overturning of the social order, but even more significantly, they felt vulnerable.  Perhaps they felt a loss of control.  This seems very clear from Peter’s response.  He wished to turn the loving gesture of Jesus into a utilitarian act.  Not just my feet, Lord, bathe my whole body; I need a good bath! Peter sought to control the experience.  It was difficult for him to allow himself to be served by Jesus. Perhaps his request to have his whole body washed was an attempt for him not only to control the experience but even to play into Jesus role-reversal somewhat.  Perhaps he takes upon himself the role of the master who, in having his feet washed, commands the servant to do more.  But ministry in Jesus’ kingdom is not about lording it over each other; rather, it is about loving one another. “I give you a new commandment,” says Jesus, “Love one another, as I have loved you.”  This is the origin of the name of this day, Maundy Thursday.  Jesus gives us a new commandment, a new mandatum, a new “maundy.”

How difficult it can be for us to receive the love of another.  When you are given a compliment that is offered in true earnestness, when a dear one offers a gift made from the sweat of their toil, when your beloved offers themselves lovingly, sometimes we are so humbled it is difficult to receive their loving acts with grace. What Jesus was doing, more than teaching us how to serve one another, was teaching us how to love one another.  Love requires great vulnerability.  Can we open ourselves to each other in ways in which we risk being hurt? Can we kneel before each other in ways in which we risk losing our own power that we might find strength together? 

When Jesus kneels before his friends, he does so not as master and servant or servant and master, but as friends. Jesus will say to them, “I no longer call you servants, I call you friends.”  Friendship requires risk. Friendship requires vulnerability.  As strange as this may sound, the Church, as long as it understands itself as an institution that offers service, will never truly be the Church.  When we see ourselves as offering something, as being the ones who control what we have to offer, and insisting that others accept what we offer on our terms, we are not being the Church Jesus called us to be.  This is not what he offered us, and it is not what we should offer others. 

Jesus offered us, offers us, friendship.  He lays down his life for his friends.  He kneels before his disciples not as master or servant, but as friend.  Jesus reimagines what servant-hood means and demonstrates a servant-hood shorn of power-imbalances, and demonstrates servant-friendship.  Why is it difficult for Peter to have his feet washed?  Why is it difficult for us to have our feet washed?  It is because we must assume a level of uncomfortable intimacy with another person, someone with whom there is a power imbalance. It involves extraordinary risk. Peter balks at it. We balk at it.  My first reaction would be to balk at it if my bishop were to ask to wash my feet, as many do when they consider allowing their priest to wash their feet.  And yet, we may be keen to offer that service to others, but how can we do that if we first have not felt the vulnerability that they feel?  Can we offer compassionate loving service, can we wash the feet of another, if we have not first sat in that chair and allowed our feet to be washed?  When it comes our turn to wash the feet of another we must understand how vulnerable that person is, what an extraordinary risk they are taking, what a privilege we have in serving them.  Can we understand this unless we have felt that same vulnerability or taken that same risk?

True servant-hood, the kind of servant-hood we encounter in Jesus, is not one person acting upon another. In fact, this is the very antithesis of the servant-hood modeled by Jesus. True Christian servant-hood is a ministry of friendship. It is reciprocal. It involves mutual giving and receiving. It involves mutual vulnerability and mutual risk. It involves mutual joy. This is why Jesus says I no longer call you servants but friends.  As Jesus loved us so we love him.  And as we have loved him and been loved by him, so too shall we be drawn into a deeper mutual love of each other in Christian friendship.

The Choice of the Good Thief - A Homily for Palm Sunday, Year C, 2013

A Homily for Palm Sunday, Year C, 2013
Sunday, March 24^th, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford,
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke: 22:14-23:56

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

The gospel of Christ confronts us with choices.  Will we follow him?  Will we take up his cross?  Will we stay with him even to the last?  Will we say “yes” to him, even when all others are failing and falling away?  These are the choices we make in our journey of faith, on our journey to holiness, on our quest for communion with God.  But saying “yes” is not such an easy thing.  Saying “yes” has a cost. Saying “yes” has a risk.  There are many things we say “yes” to in life without a second thought.  They are choices that we make that have no real import on us, except perhaps a slight convenience or inconvenience depending on the situation, but these are not difficult or life-changing choices.  The costly choices are the ones that ask us to examine ourselves, to be honest with ourselves, and stir up in us the longing, perhaps with fear and trembling, to change or be changed.  This is the nature of the choice that confronts us in the gospel.  This is the choice we encounter in the cross.

We live in a world of denial and illusion.  Perhaps this is so because we are, at some deep level, afraid to face what reality brings.  We are afraid of what people think of us.  We are afraid of what might happen to us if we make certain choice, of what we might lose, of what we might suffer.  And so we retreat into denial and illusion.  We create happy, illusory edifices that surround our lives, and pretend that we are immortal, that we cannot be hurt or wounded by others or even by our own failures. “Always look on the bright side of life” says one popular song even when the pain reveals there is no bright side, but only sadness, regret, and loss. 

Sometimes we feign saying “yes” when our actions really say “no.”  We give lip service to one choice, while our actions tellingly speak of another.  Beneath it all is fear; the fear of death.  The fear of losing everything is at the heart of all lies, illusion, and denial.  Until we stare that fear in face and own it, until truth itself confronts us, we shall forever live in a world of happy illusion and delusory denial. 

But what if, confronted by Jesus, something were to cut us to the core, and in a moment we realize that losing all is our ultimate fate in spite of our best efforts to convince ourselves otherwise?  What if, confronted by Jesus, our fears were to be momentarily unmasked and revealed and we had to face them?  What if, confronted by Jesus, his witness and testimony to the truth, we were to realize that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves?

Our Lord hung upon the cross, between two thieves.  Even in the face of his own impending doom, one of the thieves made a choice and clung tenaciously to his illusion.  In the moment of his certain and unavoidable death, he hung next to the one who could offer him eternal life and mocked him.  In the moment when he could have been saved, his own pride prevented him from recognizing his saviour and so he cast his soul away, for  the power of sin is so strong that it tempts us that it is better to live a short life in illusion than an eternity in bliss.

Our Lord hung upon the cross, between two thieves.  In the face of his own impending doom, the other thief made a choice, his own arms stretched wide in vulnerability and pain, and let Jesus into his heart. That thief owned the choices of his life. He owned his sin. He owned his crimes.  He knew that he deserved to die.  In opening his heart to the reality of his own life, his heart was opened to the presence of the Christ who hung next to him.  And the sinless Christ, seeing his pain, seeing his penitent heart, hearing the words of compassion that he uttered, too this man’s sin upon his shoulders, and promised him paradise. 

The story of the good thief makes explicit the work of the cross: forgiveness to the penitent sinner.  To follow Jesus is to allow him to cut through the morass of the lies we tell ourselves to keep ourselves safe from the pain we fear so much; the pains of this life, and our fear of death.  The choice to follow Jesus is the choice to open ourselves to experiencing and witnessing our doubt, our fear, our pain, and our sinfulness.  “What need have the healthy for a physician?” Jesus asks earlier in the gospel.  When we care to be honest, when we have the courage to be authentic, we realize that we all need the great physician.  And yet, where does that courage come from?  How can we find the courage to face what is so frightening that we build castles in the air to hide from it? 

It is the stark reality of the cross, of the one man who needed no physician, of the one man who sinless, made the choice to succumb to its tortures that we might have true life in abundance.  In Jesus Christ, the living God made a choice for humanity. In Jesus Christ, God became human that we might become divine.  Remember how we are told in Scripture that we are created in image and likeness of God?  Yet, sin obscures that image.  We are apt to holiness and godliness, but are we able?  That is why every “yes,” every “I will,” is qualified by the phrase, “with God’s help.”  For you see it is only through Christ and him crucified that we can have any hope of re-attaining the image and likeness of God in which we were created.  Under our own power, death is too frightening, our mistakes are too frightening, our sins are too debilitating.  And our natural response, our primal predilection for self-perseveration is to begin to peddle lies to ourselves.  “I can do this if I only try hard enough,” or “it must be everyone else; I’m okay,” or the favourite phrase of the political consultant “I make the truth.”  But our castles will come falling down for our delusions and our lies are built on sand. 

We hear of two Simons, one named the rock.  Peter.  But where was the bedrock of his faith and commitment when confronted with the reality of a crucified messiah?  What were his words when asked about the one he swore he would never leave?  “I do not know the man.”  Fear gripped Peter.  Fear made him lie.  Fear put his very life and soul at risk.  And were it not for the mercy of God, were it not for the merciful arms of Jesus stretched wide on the cross, Peter may have gone down in history numbered amongst the bad thief, or even Judas who betrayed his master.

Another Simon, this one a Cyreneian, had the cross place upon his shoulders when Jesus could no longer carry it.  This Simon chose not to run.  This Simon chose to see in the sinless man his salvation and took up his cross to follow in his way.  This Simon did not turn back from the pain, or the shame, or even an uncertain fate. This Simon did not lie nor deny the Christ.  Like the good thief, he faced the reality of the moment, and made a choice to minister to Jesus.  Surely he too is with him in paradise.

When we reject Jesus, we seek to silence the voice our pain, the voice of our fear, and the voice of our sinful mistakes.  Jesus might have let the cup pass from him, but he was the man of perfect authenticity.  He was the man, the one man, the God-man, who was both apt and able to stare death in the face and openly embrace it.  And in doing so, he conquered all fear, conquered sin, and yes, even conquered death, not only for himself, but for all who will come to him with a fearful but honest “yes” in their hearts and on their lips.  For them, for us, Jesus offer truth and healing and even in the midst of all that pains us, a place in paradise.

 

 

 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem... A Homily for Lent II, Year C, 2013

Homily for Lent II – Year C, 2013
Sunday, February 24^th, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 13:31-35

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

-Luke 13:34

If Lent is a time to consider how we might draw closer to God, then we would do well to consider the ways in which we pull away from him, or alas, even reject him.  Indeed, the very language I use to refer to God may offer us a hint as to one of those ways.  You will have noticed that I referred to God as “him.”  Do I take this to be a cardinal sin?  No, I do not.  I am not amongst those who would have us dump all masculine imagery about God, wholesale.  I think we ought to retain many of those masculine images of God, most especially, the healthy ones.  What needs deep consideration are the unhealthy masculine metaphors and faces we have applied to God.  And further, for those of us who are men to have healthy understanding of our own masculinity, we must learn to sift and discern the healthy masculine images that flow from God to our humanity.  But if this is true, it is also true that we must attend to an equally pressing, and indeed possibly more urgent problem, and that is the suppression of the feminine face of God.  It is into this spring of hope that we plunge today, for in thirteenth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel we confront one of those rare moments in Scripture when the feminine divine seeks to enfold us and we, characteristically, reject it.

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were not willing!”

This is, at first glance, a surprising Jesus.  This is Jesus as mother.  This is Jesus weeping over Jerusalem; weeping over her children.  This is Jesus as mother who will be shunned for offering her undying love. This is Jesus as the mother who will be punished and destroyed for loving her children and seeking their well-being.  This is Jesus the mother who calls to that other mother, Jerusalem, and admonishes her for abandoning her identity as “mother of us all” by perversely turning against, and destroying her own children.

None of this should surprise us though, for is Jesus not the one who challenges violent and patriarchal visions of power by the pouring forth of love in selfless abandon?  This is not singularly a feminine virtue, rather it is our human calling!  Gracious self-offering; selfless abandon!  Jesus the perfect human being offering perfect love for the health, well-being, and very salvation of her children! 

It has been said that to ascribe to God human attributes is wrong, for God is above human attributes, and God is above gender.  But I question this notion.  Of course, we put a human face on God because the ineffability of God is impossible for us to grasp.  We give God arms, we give God legs. He counts the stars with his fingers.  He breathes life into us.  We hear his footsteps in the garden.  We say these things about God, and yet, has not God taken human legs and hands in Jesus?  The point is this: we project our humanity onto God because our humanity flows from God.  Created in the image and likeness of God, male and female (!), our humanity flows from his divinity.  And so when God chooses to come to us, to reach out to us in deep love, God shows us a human face.  That face is the Christ.  The error we have made is to look only at Jesus the man to the exclusion of Jesus the human.  What Jesus accomplishes is that he makes us partners in the healing work of the gospel and in the persistent proclaiming of hope, regardless of gender, and indeed, in the fullness of our genders – equal, different, and partners. Who is it that catches that vision first?  Yes, some fishermen begin to follow him, but it seems at times like dim senses preclude them from understanding, and their quest for personal glory clouds their vision.  In St. Luke’s gospel, who is it that immediately catches the vision?  Consider Mary, the mother of Jesus, who in her youthful fright says “yes” to God’s plan of hope and healing.  Consider Simon’s mother-in-law, whose name is tragically lost to us, who upon being healed rises up to offer herself in Christian service.  Consider the nameless sinful woman who kisses the feet of Jesus in deep love and prophetic understanding, anointing him ointment and with her tears.   And Mary Magdalene and Joanna who opened both their purses and their hearts to make his ministry of love possible! And who stands at the foot of the cross when all others have fled?  Who journeys to the tomb?  These are the apostles of love, who by God’s grace, and in spite of the best efforts of violent voices, still leave their traces in our sacred texts.  These are the voices -- these are the prophets -- that we seek to stone and kill for fear that they will challenge us beyond what we can bear.  But what do they want? What do they seek?  Nothing less than the very longing of Jesus, the very longing of God, “how I have longed to gather you under my wings, as a mother hen gathers her brood, but you were not willing.”

Perhaps the supreme and most grotesque irony is the robbing of Jerusalem of her feminine nature.  The Old Testament prophets understood Jerusalem as the holy place in which all races, tribes, and nations would be gathered to know the goodness and salvation of God.  To them she was “the mother of us all.”  What might Jerusalem look like today if we really believed that?  Would the children of Abraham and Sarah so wilfully seek to destroy each other within her very walls? 

But Jesus comes to redeem all of that.  “How I have longed to gather you as a mother hen gathers her brood.”  Jesus reminds Jerusalem that she is a mother, not a warrior or vengeful judge that stones her own children!  “How you would not let me gather you under my wings!” Jesus cries in anguish. And so he presses forward to that Holy City to restore, rebuild, and verily, re-create!  His entry will be one in humility, not military might; and his recreating act will be offered in sacrificial love that consummates the new birth.

We are challenged to the core of our being by these words of Jesus, by his lament for Jerusalem.  This is a Jesus that sets before us God as mother.  This is a Jesus who offers us the pain of a mother in despair. However, we encounter also the resilience and persistence of the feminine divine that presses forward with strength and compassion in equal measure that her children may not be lost to her. If Luke can dare to imagine God in this way, can we dare to imagine God our mother who seeks to gather us under her wings?  Can we dare to allow that image, and oh so many more to be liberated from the prisons  in which we have kept them suppressed, deep in some dark chamber within us?  Can we dare to draw close to God our mother?  Can we dare to draw close to the feminine face of God? Or shall we be like Jerusalem, turning her back on who she is, stoning her own children?  Shall we not only seek to suppress the fullness of humanity but the fullness of divinity? There are wings waiting – longing ! – to enfold us.  

Grace without Obstacles - A Homily for Ash Wednesday, 2013

Homily for Ash Wednesday, 2013
Wednesday, February 13^th, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

“We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way.”

-2 Cor. 6:3

As we embark on our Lenten journey, our thoughts will inevitably turn to what we shall give up, or what discipline shall we take on.  We will begin with good intentions, but as with our failed New Year’s resolutions, we shall find ourselves faltering, and perhaps even abandoning our disciplines before the forty days are over.  Perhaps the problem is that we give undo attention to the discipline, itself.  Perhaps the problem is that we allow the discipline to be the focus of Lent, rather than being the means upon which we focus on Christ.  Lent is about one thing, and one thing alone, turning again to Christ.  Nothing should stand in the way of this one goal.

We ought never to lose sight of this goal during our Lenten journey, and indeed, we ought never to lose sight of this goal during the whole of our Christian life.  Yet, we are mortals formed of the earth. We are but dust.  Our best intentions are fleeting and we lose sight of our purpose oh so frequently.  We are mere mortals with all the selfishness that comes from being mortals.  We are inclined to forget that we are mere creatures.  We place ourselves at the centre of the universe and we fail to account for the destructive nature of our actions and our selfishness.  Most of all, we are inclined to forget about the God who created us.

 

Lent is a time to turn again to God.  Yet, having become so selfishly inclined, having turned away again from our Lord, how can we even know we need to seek him?  God seems so distant at times.  Perhaps, though, God only seems distant because we push him to the fringes of our life.  But God is not distant.  God, recognizing the gaping chasm between creator and created, sought to bridge that chasm by becoming man.  God, in Christ Jesus, came to us that the chasm that separated us from God might simply disappear.  Nothing stands in the way from turning to God, when God has turned to us, in Christ Jesus.

When St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians, he claimed to be an ambassador for Christ.  He entreated the Corinthians to be reconciled to God.  Indeed, they had already received God’s grace in Christ, they had already been reconciled, but frail creatures that they were they had a proclivity to turn away from God.  And so too do we.  Paul entreated them once again to turn to Christ.  That call to turn again is as necessary for us to hear today as it was for the ancient Corinthians on that long-ago day.  Let us not risk receiving the grace of God in vain, but rather remember that God has listened to our prayers in the past and he has helped us.  He has brought us salvation in Christ.

If that truth seems distant; if those promises seem old and stale; if the fire in our hearts has waned to a mere flicker, then now is the time to turn again.  Now is the time in which the flames will once again be fanned.  Now is the day of salvation.  If we have turned away, it is time to turn back again to Christ. He will not leave us or forsake us.  He will receive us again and again.

As St. Paul wrote, we are putting no obstacle in in anyone’s way.  And neither is God.  God does not require sacrifice or burnt offerings; he does not require Lenten disciplines or fasting.  God loves a broken and contrite heart.  This is the thing he will not despise.  The very thing we are afraid of – brokenness – this is what God embraces.  The thing that would appear to be the obstacle for us, is means through which God reaches out.  Where God sees a chasm he builds a bridge.  That bridge is Christ. Where God finds a gaping wound he applies a salve.  That salve is Christ.  Where God sees the fire waning to a flicker he fans the flames.  That breath is Christ.  It is precisely in our weakness, not in our strength, that Jesus comes to us.  Indeed, our feigned strength may just be an obstacle for us before God.

Thus, in vulnerability and longing, with fear and trembling, with the risk of disappointment, we turn again.  And once again we meet Christ.  We turn to Christ, not to disciplines.  If we take up such disciplines during Lent it will not be because they will bring us closer to God, there is only one thing that brings us closer to God, and that is Jesus. If we take up Lenten disciplines once again it will be out of our deep devotion to the one who is there for us without obstacle, without condition, with pure grace.  If take up Lenten disciplines again, it will be because we wish to clear away the rubbish of our lives to make a place for the one who has so graciously reached out to us and made a place for us in his heart. 

No matter where we find ourselves as this Lenten journey begins, I entreat you, as St. Paul entreated the Corinthians, on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.  Turn again.  You shall find him, without obstacle, and with perfect grace, welcoming you into his heart.

Why we Sometimes Want to Throw God off a Cliff - A Homily for Proper 4, Year C, 2013

Homily for Proper 4, Year C, 2013
Sunday, Feb 2^nd, 2013
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text:  Luke 4:21-30

Most of us believe we know what is best for us.  After all, who knows my needs better than me?  Who knows your needs better than you?  It seems to me that we have elevated this understanding of need-fulfilment to doctrine.  Students tell teachers what they need, patients tell doctors what they need, children tell parents what they need – education, health care, and parenting all revolve around the stated (or unstated) needs of the individual.  Now, self-awareness is not a bad thing, indeed, it is a very good thing.  In particular, when we run up against large institutions and structures that inevitably forget about the needs of individuals, self-advocacy is very, very important. However, there is a difference between self-awareness, and selfish-centredness.  Self-awareness asks a multiplicity of questions, such as: what do I need to grow, to become a better, healthier, more educated person? Self-awareness considers the complicated web of relationships of which we are all a part and how we can function not only as individuals but as individuals in relationship with each other. Self-awareness asks the question “who am I in the world.”  Conversely, self-centredness asks one simple question, “what can the world do for me?” and pursues one single-minded goal: finding out how to make this happen.  We are at our best when we are self-aware beings seeking the common good of other self-aware beings, living in a self-aware society. Mutual self-awareness builds up the common good; selfish-centredness tears it down and destroys it.

When Jesus preached in his home-town, and when it became clear that that the messianic mantle had fallen upon him, people had certain expectations.  Messiahship had kingly connotations.  The messiah was a descendent of David, and it was prophesied that he would rule over Israel.  Now, we know from hindsight that Jesus was a very different kind of messiah than what had been expected.  However, in those days, they expected a king who would rescue the people and smite their enemies.  This is why they expected his so-called “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem to be somewhat more triumphal than how it actually turned out.  And this is why even his disciples argued amongst themselves who was the greatest, and who would sit at his right hand in his kingdom. If any one of us had a person of great power or influence in our family or amongst our friends, it would only be natural to sidle up every now and again, ask for a favour, seek a point of privilege, maybe even a lucrative appointment or placement of some sort.

When Jesus preached in his home-town, and it became clear that the messianic mantle had fallen upon him, people had great expectations.  They had heard that he was gaining a following throughout the Galilee, that he was getting famous, that he was working great wonders! “Was this not Joseph’s son?” they murmured after they heard him preach for the first time?  Others might have been saying, “Just think, I knew him when…!”  One might think that Jesus would have ridden on his new-found popularity at home; after all, they were amazed at his preaching.  You might have thought that he would have used the home-town advantage a little more constructively.  Yet, instead, Jesus picked a fight with them.  He chastised them.  He put words in their mouths:  “Doubtless you will say ‘Doctor cure yourself!’” and “’Do here in your hometown the miracles we heard you did in Capernaum!’”   Well, they weren’t actually saying those things, at least not at that moment.  Jesus was cutting them off at the pass.  He knew the time would come when the requests for favours would start rolling in, when he would have to disappoint them, when he couldn’t be the sort of messiah they thought they were getting.  In an attempt to explain why they would be disappointed, he told them a couple of stories, one about Elijah who offered food during a famine to the widow of Zarephath and her son, and one about Elisha who cleansed but one leper amongst many, Naaman. These two stories made them so angry that they rode Jesus out of town and attempted to throw him off a cliff! What was the point of these two stories?  What was it about those stories that made the people closest to Jesus so angry at him?

 Jesus’ purpose in re-telling these well-known tales was two-fold.  First, not everybody gets what they want. Some people will be disappointed.  These two old-time prophets reached out to particular individuals who had particular needs, but the needs of others seem to have been ignored.  Secondly, you may not always like who gets the help, especially when it is not you!  Both the widow and Naaman were gentiles. These stories were stories of God reaching out to those considered to be on the outside, those not considered members of the family, those who may not seem to be deserving of God’s grace.

 So what is Jesus trying to say to his family and friends in his home-town?  Simply this, you may be impressed with me now because you think you know what I am about and you are imagining all that I can do for you. You are thinking, “Do for us what you are doing for them!” But what if that is not what I am here for?  What if it’s not all about you? What happens when I have to disappoint you?  What happens when you realize that you are not the only ones God is reaching out to? 

The expectations that the people in Nazareth had for Jesus were narrow, self-centred and to the exclusion of others.  God’s vision is broad, community-focused and inclusive.  When the people heard the truth, they couldn’t take it and they wanted to throw Jesus off a cliff.

We all have needs.  We are all in need of love, of forgiveness and healing. But that’s the point –

ALL of us need God, not just some of us, not just me, not just you.  “Come unto me ALL who are weary and carrying heavy burdens,” Jesus says.  St. John writes that Jesus the righteous is the propitiation for our sins: and not for ours only, but for the sins of the WHOLE world.  Yes, my needs are important, and God cares about me, but if I am created in the image of God, and if through his grace I am to be conformed to his likeness, then my focus will shift away from me, the beloved of God, to recognize and serve you, the beloved of God. When I become self-aware that my identity is Christ, not in me alone, then I find my true self in the service of him, and those he loves.  Selfishness gives way to self-awareness, selfishness gives way to generosity, selfishness gives way to perfect love.  And after all, love is patient and kind, not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.  It does not insist on its way.

We think we know what we need, and we may have some sense of it, but I am grateful that at times, my parents had a greater sense of what I needed than I did.  I am grateful that my teachers were trained to not only meet my educational needs (as I might have narrowly envisioned those needs) but to shape me for citizenship and community.  I am grateful that when I don’t know what’s wrong with me that my doctor has the training to know what might help, and the wisdom to offer proper treatment.  We have a great physician who knows our needs even before we do and even before we ask.  What is more, he knows our true needs, and yes, he can offer challenging words, words that may even make us wish to throw him from a cliff.  Yet, if we accept his wisdom, if we embrace his challenging love, if we let him work away on the dark places of our souls, we shall find that we are transformed and healed.  We shall find that what we thought we needed was not what we needed at all.  We shall find ourselves opened to new possibilities, but even more wonderfully, we shall see him working that same grace not only in ourselves but in our community and the world of which we are part.

Baptism: A Journey of Trust - Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, Year C, 2013

Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, Year C, 2013

Sunday, January 13^th, 2013

Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Life is filled with choices.  There are the simple choices that we make, the ones of little or no consequence; and there are the profound, life-changing choices.  The choice we make in baptism is of the latter sort.  It is a choice that changes us forever.  It is a choice that marks out the contours by which we shall live, and the choice that shapes way we shall navigate those contours.  It is both an acknowledgement and a commitment.  It is an acknowledgement that we are in need of God; and it is a commitment to follow that same God.  And further, and perhaps most significantly, it is an act of trust.  When we come to baptism we trust that the God who created us will forever be both our Father and friend; we trust that even though we turn away from that God again and again, that same God will never abandon us and never fail to welcome us home should we turn again and seek him out; we trust that he is the one who saves us from ourselves, and from our sins; and we trust that he is the one who makes all things new and gives us new life.

The question has often been asked, why did Jesus need to be baptized?  If he was born without sin, and if, as the Church teaches, he was God incarnate?  And if John was preaching repentance and baptizing for the forgiveness of sins, why did Jesus need to be baptized? Of what purpose was his baptism?  It is an interesting and perplexing question, and much scholarly energy has been expended over this problem.  It seems to me, though, that the answer is especially clear, Jesus made a choice, and as such, God made a choice.

 In Jesus, God chose to enter into our story to redeem and save us.  That was a choice.  Our God is not a god who simply made the world and disappeared; rather, in deep love for his creation, God become vulnerable – vulnerable as a babe, vulnerable as a man, vulnerable unto death.  In Jesus, God took a chance on us.  God limited himself.  God became a human being, with all human limitations, including pain and death.  Jesus of Nazareth had doubts. Jesus of Nazareth knew fear.  Jesus of Nazareth knew temptation.  There were many moments when Jesus could have failed in his mission -- as when the devil tempted him in the wilderness, or when he prayed that the cup might pass from him -- but he resolved to persevere for our sake.  Of course Jesus did not need to be baptized, for he knew no sin, but that is not to say he was not tempted toward it, even as we are tempted. 

Thus, to be baptized was, for him, and act of trust. Part of the vulnerability of God in the Incarnation is his giving up of his omniscience. What a remarkable thing, that when God became man, he limited himself.  He, as human being like you and me, needed to trust.  In baptism Jesus was saying that he trusted his father’s plan. To be baptized was for him to submit to the ministry of John, as he submitted to the ministry of Mary and Joseph of Nazareth, and as he would submit even unto death under Pilate.  To be baptized was to say yes to God’s plan not only for himself, but for all of us.  It was to be vulnerable, to take a risk, to trust.

And so we, who have not the benefit of knowing no sin; we who are not God incarnate; we who are but frail creatures, are asked to make a decision.  We are asked to be vulnerable. We are asked to trust.  Will you turn away from the things that draw you from the love of God?  And will you turn to Jesus who is your saviour?  Will you trust him?  We you obey him?  These are the questions asked at baptism. They are difficult questions because they mean that not only are we placing our trust in something, or someone, greater than ourselves, we are saying that we cannot do it without him. 

 Apart from Holy Scripture and the sacraments that Jesus has left us, we cannot see him.  And yet, in those Scriptures, and in these sacraments we can meet him, we can know him, we can believe in him.  Through these Scriptures and these sacraments we can have an experience of him – not simply as a wise teacher who is worthy of following, but as our Saviour who is not only re-making us, reshaping us, and restoring us, but re-making, reshaping and restoring the whole world. 

 And when we take that risk of vulnerability; when we take that risk of trust; when we take that risk of faith; we are granted a special role in that sacred drama of the new kingdom.  We become players on the stage of divine history. Where once there was no meaning, now we find meaning.  Where once hopelessness shaped our future, now our lives and destinies are infused with hope. Where once fear held us back, now trust propels us forward. 

 Most beautifully, though, even though we shall make mistakes, those mistakes will not become the story of our lives.  Returning, forgiving, renewing – this is our story.  The pattern of the one who in vulnerability trusted his Father in heaven, becomes our pattern, and his victory over the grave becomes our victory as well. 

When Jesus took the risk of baptism, even though he knew no sin, God blessed him.  The Holy Spirit descended like a dove and proclaimed “with you I am well pleased.”  And today, in the baptism we share; in the trust we share with Jesus, the trust we place in Jesus; in risk of faith we take; the Holy Spirit proclaims to us, the words of our Father, “with you I am well pleased.”

The Final Word - A Homily for Christmas Day, 2012

Homily for Christmas Day, 2012
Tuesday, December 25^th, 2012
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 1:1-14

Although the powers of darkness would seek to overcome and destroy us, they can never be the final word for us. 

When we cast our minds back over the course of our lives, I think many of us will realize that there are things we have done, and left undone, for which we are not proud.  All too often, these mistakes become for us the narratives that shape our lives.  Our mistakes and our sins have the potential to become the word of our lives, but the message of today is that even our grossest deeds, our most careless errors, and even our most malicious mistakes need not be the final word for us.

Christmas can be a difficult time for many because the pain of a recent – or even not-so-recent – loss may feel overwhelming.  When so many are making merry, the gap left by a loved one who is no longer with us, and the sorrow we feel, may feel like the word that is written upon our lives, but it need not be the final word for us.

In the midst of the great brokenness of this world, amidst senseless violence like the recent shooting in Connecticut, amidst accidents and unforeseen losses, imagining that the world is so irretrievably lost that only a 2012 Armageddon that will wipe things out may seem like the only word for a helplessly hurting world, but it need not be the final word for us.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God!

The only word that truly matters to us, the only word that really has a hold on our lives, the only word that is of any true substance is Jesus Christ, the Word of God, who was in the beginning with God and through whom all things were created.  This is the only word that matters because all things came into being through him.  Not one thing that was created came into being without him. All other words that seek to have a claim on us ultimately have not power or claim over us, for they are not the source of either our being, or our Salvation.  They are not the light of life.  The very Word that gives us life and light is the Word that is written upon our hearts and upon our very being, and should any other word seek to erase or deface that word, that word shall not stand.

We can fail to see the Word because the darkness is often so overwhelming that our vision is obscured, and that is why the Word became flesh.  When the world seemed too dark, when other words seemed to echo in our ears and garble our thoughts, the Word became flesh.

The Word becomes flesh and casts away the other words that seek to imprint themselves on our lives.  The light shines in the darkness, and although the darkness seeks to overcome the light it cannot.  The light casts out the darkness.

Darkness still covers the earth but we have a light that forces it back.  Other words still seek to write themselves into our story, but we have a Word that is our story, and no other words shall take his place. 

Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh, is God’s final word for us.  Jesus Christ is the light of the world, and although at times the darkness seems powerful, and those other words seem multitudinous, Jesus is written on our hearts and indeed, he is the light which shines forth from our new life in him.  By his grace, by water and the Spirit, we are a new creation and so we need not fear any other word or be threatened by the darkness. If God is for us, who can be against us?

Let us go, then, unto Bethlehem - A homily for Christmas Eve 2012

Homily for Christmas Eve, 2012
Monday, December 24^th, 2012
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 2:1-20

Fear not! I bring you good news of great joy for all people!

Into a world governed by fear, the message came.  Into the lives of the poor and the oppressed, the message came.  Into the hearts of those who hoped but dared not believe, the message came.  The message, “fear not!” sounded resolutely in the face of those who governed by fear, it lifted the dark veil of oppression, and gave birth to faith in the hearts of those who doubted.

But what had changed?  What was it that had cast away the fear that gripped the people of that long-ago age?  The angel proclaimed, “I bring you good news of great joy!”  But what was that joy?  The good news was news of their salvation.  Hard as it might have been to believe, had as it might have been to accept, God had come to save his people.  Did Herod the King still reign over them?  Was the violently imposed Roman peace still a reality for them?  Were those shepherds abiding in their fields still poor shepherds?  Yes.  On one level, nothing seemed different, and yet, everything had changed, for fear no longer gripped their hearts.  Fear no longer gripped them because they knew that the very things they feared were no longer the things that held power over them.  They knew that their salvation was something so much more precious and eternal than merely their deliverance from unjust rulers or wealthy exploiters.  They knew – and they knew it deep in that place where truth cannot be shaken – that they belonged to God.  They knew that somehow, all the walls that they had built separating themselves from God were being broken down.  How could this be?  They were not sure.  But at the very moment angels proclaimed the words “Fear not!” they knew their world had changed.  They were saved. 

Their salvation was not a spiriting out of this world.  Their salvation was not a rejection of this world.  Their salvation was not a destruction of this world. Rather, it was a reclaiming of this world for God.  Those shepherds of old did not know it at the time; what they did know was that God always gave a sign.  And what would that sign be?  They would find a babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.  Those who were gripped with fear were gripped with fear no longer.  They made haste, and went to seek the sign, to see this great thing that God had done:  a simple child lying in a manger. What manner of greatness was this?  What manner of miracle did they witness?  In what way could the birth of a child into the poverty of a stable be a sign?  This, we cannot explain, except to say that they knew, once again, in that deep place of knowing where truth cannot be shaken, that they witnessed before them in that tiny child, cradled in a trough, their very salvation.  For God so loved the world; and they knew it to be true.

And thus in the midst of evil powers that might seek to destroy them, they could in turn say “fear not!”  When Caesars and Herods sought to oppress them, they could say “fear not!” And when their own sinfulness and their own brokenness might seem to be too heavy to bear, they could say to themselves and too each other “fear not!”

This story is an old one.  It is one we know so well, but do we know it and believe it in that deep place of knowing where truth cannot be shaken?  Do we believe the words of the angels, “Fear not?”  Do we believe the sign that was given to the shepherds, a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger is a sign still given to you and to me?  Do we believe that in deep humility, poverty and helplessness, God has saved us?

Let us go then, once again even unto Bethlehem and see this thing that the Lord has done. 

In a world in which broken men and women take up arms and seek to destroy the most weak and vulnerable, and in a world in which others cry out that the only solution to violence is arms and more violence, the angels host cries out “Fear not!”

In a world seems to spin apart with absurdity upon absurdity as politicians and rulers create and shape false truth at their whims, and in which the gullible believe every falsehood spun before them, the angel host cries out, “Fear not!”

In a world in which economic woes and fiscal cliffs have become the highest concern of our shared life, the angel host cries out, “Fear not!”

Into our lives when families break apart, when loved ones die tragically, when we make terrible, terrible mistakes that we deeply regret, the angel host cries out, “Fear not!”

I tell you now what the angels proclaimed to the shepherds then: fear not!

I tell you now what the shepherds heard then: I bring you good news of great joy which shall be for all people.  Unto you is born this day, a Saviour which is the Christ the Lord.

I set before you now what was set before them then: You will find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

Let us go then, once again – or perhaps for the first time – even unto Bethlehem and see this thing that the Lord has done.  If you are afraid, fear not.  If you have pondered the child from a distance and yet have never drawn close, draw close now. And if you have hoped, yet never dared to believe, believe it now.  The holy child is born this day for me and for you.  He has come to us that we might never be far from him again and nothing will ever separate us from him ever again.  Fear not, for unto you is born this day a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.