Scripture for the 5th Sunday after Pentecost includes Genesis 25:19-34; Romans 8:1-11; Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
“Jesus went out and sat beside the sea.”
As I nibbled away at preparing to preach, the past few days, I too was beside the sea, on Martha’s Vineyard, where Diana and I enjoyed a few days off and a chance to catch up with our son Alex, who moved there this summer.
Great crowds filled the beach by the Sea of Galilee, and you won’t be surprised to hear that the island was teeming with visitors and summer residents. This will get only more so, as August arrives and the summer White House sets up digs. Beaches and crowds go hand in hand.
To achieve a degree of critical distance, to invite the attention of all those people, and to be visible to them, Jesus got into a boat and put out a short way. From that humble vantage point, he spoke to them.
The pulpit of St. Andrew’s Church in Edgartown is built in the shape of the bow of a dory. In a way, perhaps all pulpits nose their way into the nave to gain those same simple advantages Jesus sought, that day.
I don’t mean the Leonardo di Caprio effect in the bow of the Titanic. But that name “nave” (from the Latin “navus”, boat, source of “navy”) conveys the core message running beneath us as steady as a keel, and that message is, “We’re all in this boat together!”
Don’t you agree that this message needs to be heard just about everywhere, as a corrective to isolating behavior, a call to find a better response than escalating violence? We’re all in the same boat… we’re all in this together, whether the context is a friendship or a family in crisis, a government paralyzed in dysfunction, people of religious faith making sense of a pluralistic world, or a world confronted by profound challenges of climate change and desperately-needed new ways to steward the earth’s resources.
As I looked around me on the streets of Edgartown and Vineyard Haven, what I saw was disconnected clusters of people all looking for a good time, a good meal, a certain kind of shop, a change in pace, a fresh experience.
I’ll guess that this described the crowds Jesus addressed on that beach in Galilee. Each person, each household, was there in search of what mattered most to them at that moment, and they were there to get that certain something.
If there was one element they had in common, it was their hope, their hunch, their expectation that Jesus could provide that something—whether it was a healing, an exorcism, a miraculous meal, a rebuke to the powerful, a lifting up of the lowly, the raising of a dead person, or at least a good sermon that would get them reconsidering the status quo.
Jesus was unafraid to be the one element of unity that brought this crowd together. He aimed his bow towards shore, towards them, not out to the open sea, not avoiding them.
In what he then said to them, he invited openness: “Listen!” he calls to them. He then launches into a short pithy story that we churchfolk call a parable, a zinger with a singularly simple plot line, but a story that leaves the hearers scratching their heads wondering about its meaning.
And when the story ends, Jesus again invites openness: “Let anyone with ears listen!”
That’s essential to the core message of Jesus: We’re all in the same boat, we’re all in this together, and what’s required of us all—what can help unite us--- is that we learn to listen. Listen to one another, to the truth of our own experience; listen for God, for wisdom, for clarity.
In the story he tells, he reaches not into the world of fishermen but into the home ground of the Galilean farmers who may have made up a large part of the crowd.
A farmer sows seed. Or maybe, given the unlikely terrain described, this isn’t a fulltime farmer but an ever-optimistic backyard gardener limited to a small patch of land, rocks and thorns included. Four different conditions on the ground destine the seed to different outcomes—not so much four outcomes as two: success and lack of success. One out of four sown seeds yields a harvest; the other three get eaten, scorched, or choked. Those odds seem spot-on from my limited experience growing plants from seed.
And the one variable that accounts for success is good soil. Soil that has all the riches and all the rejects of the past turned over and worked in like a cover crop, wasting nothing organic, utilizing all the off-scourings, the manure from the stable, the ashes from the hearth.
It’s all a parable, isn’t it?
Isn’t good soil like the capacity we have to let the manure that falls upon our lives get folded into our experience as we learn how to turn over what lies on the surface so it breaks down and builds up, restoring the ground we stand on by wasting not a shred of the emotional-physical-spiritual complexity we either face and utilize, or try to escape and so become fugitives from the rich soil of our own lives?
In her book, “Learning to Walk in the Dark,” Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “the best thing to do when you are flattened by despair is to spend time in a community where despair is daily bread.”
Or, turning that a bit, isn’t the rich harvest Jesus points to in his parable the faith and hope and love which are the ground we walk on, the blood that pulses in our veins, and the tide that floats our boats in Christian community?
That’s the rich soil of community in Jesus that we want for Charlotte and Sylvia: ground so firm and dependable while also porous and receptive to the tender requirements of growth. Ground that welcomes believers, seekers, and skeptics: rich ground not to be fought over but freely shared. Holy ground where all may find Jesus’s way to see ourselves whole, to make whole the world around us, addressing with compassion the hardships suffered on the path, on rocky ground, and among the thorns.
I notice that our Gospel portion today presents in the first half Jesus’s parable, then in the second half an explanation of it. Is that explaining voice the voice of Jesus or of Matthew? Does Jesus offer this commentary in response to a long awkward pause after the bare simple story? Was everyone on shore going, “Huh?”
At similar moments elsewhere in the Gospels, it’s the twelve disciples who admit to Jesus (later, in private) that they just don’t get it, and so he explains the parable to them. But he insists that in his public preaching he will not stop speaking in parables. This remains his preferred way to invite openness to his message: by getting people to puzzle out the meaning.
We are all in the same boat. We are in life together. Together we treasure and steward the precious gift of life. This requires of us that we learn to listen deeply, deeply enough to fold into our good soil all that we learn, all that we understand, and all that we do not.
(Barbara Brown Taylor's "Learning to Walk in the Dark" is published by Harper One, 2014.)
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Farewell to the Cramptons
Scripture for the 4th Sunday after Pentecost includes Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Song of Solomon 2:8-13; Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
I hope you won’t be too disappointed to hear that I’m not prepared to delve into that hot little passage from the Song of Solomon. No other book in the Bible has had as many commentaries written about it than the Song of Solomon—no wonder, with its blend of almost Harlequin romance and almost Shakespearean sonnet, not to mention that peeking through the lattice that makes us wonder how the author would fare in safe church training.
We likely associate this passage with weddings, since it’s one of the readings suggested for such an occasion, and on the face of it the context appears to be the union of two people fulfilling their hearts’ desire. On the other hand, all those commentaries are bird-dogging the scent of allegory, hearing in these verses the spiritual union between Christ and his Church, or the intimate union of the soul with its champion, the Christ who speaks from Matthew’s Gospel promising rest from the weariness of life’s heavy burdens.
I’m also not going to attempt to do justice to today’s story about what happened to the patriarch Isaac after he escaped his father’s religious zeal on Mount Moriah, heard last Sunday. Let it be enough to hear that, some years later, the young man again becomes a project of his father, who this time assumes the role of matchmaker, aiming to find for Isaac a wife from the old country. This is an interesting companion piece for the Song of Solomon: by contrast to the rhapsody sung there, here it’s jaw-dropping amazement at how many times good fortune can strike when a missionary journey is blessed by God.
Themes of journey and pilgrimage hover over us, this summer. In our 9:00 gatherings, we’ve walked the Camino, the ancient pilgrim route across Spain, with Jamie Martin. We’ve stood on the heights of Machu Picchu in Peru with Jim and Alison Kolesar. Perhaps you have a journey or a pilgrimage to share, this summer (let me know, if you do!), while next Sunday Drew Gibson will lead the gathering in Bible study that will do justice to what becomes of the posterity of Isaac: the pivotal journey of his son Jacob, to be recounted from the Book of Genesis next Sunday.
And on Sunday, July 20th, our guest speaker at 9:00 will be Deborah Nathan, Executive Director of Artsbridge, an exchange program that makes Buxton School here in Williamstown the destination for twenty-four teenagers, nine pilgrims from Palestine, nine from Israel, six from the United States, on a journey to discover how reconciliation can be reached through the arts.
Today, we have a different journey to consider, one about to be made by Stuart and Susan Crampton, their move to Ohio to a retirement community near their son and his family.
Stuart’s ties to Williams College date back sixty years, to 1954, when he arrived as a freshman. Ten years later, he would return to teach physics. With him came his bride of almost three years, Susan, and (Susan reports) one-and-a-half little Cramptons.
Fast-forward to February 4, 1978, and here in this church, Susan was ordained a priest, the first female diocesan resident to be ordained, just two years after the national Church decided that women should be ordained. For six years, Susan would serve as Associate Rector here, before going on to serve as Vicar of St. John’s in Ashfield, Associate at St. Andrew’s, Longmeadow, and Rector of Christ Church, Sheffield until her retirement in 2003. I wonder how many women—and men—Susan has mentored on their journeys to and through ordination.
For the eleven years since her retirement, she has served as one of several priests who have made it possible for us, hand in hand with lay members of our healing team, to offer anointing and the laying-on of hands for healing at every principal Sunday eucharist. Susan has also preached and celebrated for us, and in recent years has, with Charles O’Brien, served the people of St. Andrew’s in Blackinton.
Together, she and Stuart have been stalwart members of our choir. They have both been leaders of Coffee Conversations, popular gatherings after worship to read and discuss books that present brave options for understanding theology, scripture, spiritual practice, science and religion (and that last topic is another frontier that both Cramptons have tackled together in the wider community—imagine their pillow talk about quarks and dark matter and the Big Bang…)
You may not know that both Stuart and Susan have served in countless ways to strengthen the Diocese of Western Massachusetts. For years, Stuart served on the diocesan Finance Committee. Susan has served on several task forces, including an advisory committee on the full inclusion of LGBT people in the life of the Church.
And both have lent their support to the fledgling Berkshire Organizing Project. Stuart is one of the founders of the Northern Berkshire Interfaith Action Initiative, whose members run the Friendship Center food pantry in North Adams, and he championed the transfer of the long-standing Ministry Fund that provides emergency assistance, from the defunct Williamstown Ecumenical Association to the interfaith group.
The same analytical skills and systemic thinking that led to Stuart’s appointment as Provost of Williams College have been his hallmark here, in his service in our capital campaign, our Finance Committee, the Vestry, our first Website design, to name a few. He shaped and led our Planned Giving program, and passionately advocated maintaining a Youth Minister on our staff.
Did you know that for several years, Stuart has quietly and single-handedly handled this parish’s recycling of paper (all those Sunday leaflets!) and bottles, etc.?
And with all that said, I know I’ve not named all the ways these two people have strengthened the hearts and hands of this parish, our wider community, the Episcopal Church, Williams College, and the many other churches, schools, and institutions that they hold dear.
How fortunate we are! And how we will miss them.
May they keep opening their hearts and minds to the grace of God in Jesus Christ that hallows all our journeys by the Holy Spirit dwelling within us, reigning over us, and illumining the path before us.
I hope you won’t be too disappointed to hear that I’m not prepared to delve into that hot little passage from the Song of Solomon. No other book in the Bible has had as many commentaries written about it than the Song of Solomon—no wonder, with its blend of almost Harlequin romance and almost Shakespearean sonnet, not to mention that peeking through the lattice that makes us wonder how the author would fare in safe church training.
We likely associate this passage with weddings, since it’s one of the readings suggested for such an occasion, and on the face of it the context appears to be the union of two people fulfilling their hearts’ desire. On the other hand, all those commentaries are bird-dogging the scent of allegory, hearing in these verses the spiritual union between Christ and his Church, or the intimate union of the soul with its champion, the Christ who speaks from Matthew’s Gospel promising rest from the weariness of life’s heavy burdens.
I’m also not going to attempt to do justice to today’s story about what happened to the patriarch Isaac after he escaped his father’s religious zeal on Mount Moriah, heard last Sunday. Let it be enough to hear that, some years later, the young man again becomes a project of his father, who this time assumes the role of matchmaker, aiming to find for Isaac a wife from the old country. This is an interesting companion piece for the Song of Solomon: by contrast to the rhapsody sung there, here it’s jaw-dropping amazement at how many times good fortune can strike when a missionary journey is blessed by God.
Themes of journey and pilgrimage hover over us, this summer. In our 9:00 gatherings, we’ve walked the Camino, the ancient pilgrim route across Spain, with Jamie Martin. We’ve stood on the heights of Machu Picchu in Peru with Jim and Alison Kolesar. Perhaps you have a journey or a pilgrimage to share, this summer (let me know, if you do!), while next Sunday Drew Gibson will lead the gathering in Bible study that will do justice to what becomes of the posterity of Isaac: the pivotal journey of his son Jacob, to be recounted from the Book of Genesis next Sunday.
And on Sunday, July 20th, our guest speaker at 9:00 will be Deborah Nathan, Executive Director of Artsbridge, an exchange program that makes Buxton School here in Williamstown the destination for twenty-four teenagers, nine pilgrims from Palestine, nine from Israel, six from the United States, on a journey to discover how reconciliation can be reached through the arts.
Today, we have a different journey to consider, one about to be made by Stuart and Susan Crampton, their move to Ohio to a retirement community near their son and his family.
Stuart’s ties to Williams College date back sixty years, to 1954, when he arrived as a freshman. Ten years later, he would return to teach physics. With him came his bride of almost three years, Susan, and (Susan reports) one-and-a-half little Cramptons.
Fast-forward to February 4, 1978, and here in this church, Susan was ordained a priest, the first female diocesan resident to be ordained, just two years after the national Church decided that women should be ordained. For six years, Susan would serve as Associate Rector here, before going on to serve as Vicar of St. John’s in Ashfield, Associate at St. Andrew’s, Longmeadow, and Rector of Christ Church, Sheffield until her retirement in 2003. I wonder how many women—and men—Susan has mentored on their journeys to and through ordination.
For the eleven years since her retirement, she has served as one of several priests who have made it possible for us, hand in hand with lay members of our healing team, to offer anointing and the laying-on of hands for healing at every principal Sunday eucharist. Susan has also preached and celebrated for us, and in recent years has, with Charles O’Brien, served the people of St. Andrew’s in Blackinton.
Together, she and Stuart have been stalwart members of our choir. They have both been leaders of Coffee Conversations, popular gatherings after worship to read and discuss books that present brave options for understanding theology, scripture, spiritual practice, science and religion (and that last topic is another frontier that both Cramptons have tackled together in the wider community—imagine their pillow talk about quarks and dark matter and the Big Bang…)
You may not know that both Stuart and Susan have served in countless ways to strengthen the Diocese of Western Massachusetts. For years, Stuart served on the diocesan Finance Committee. Susan has served on several task forces, including an advisory committee on the full inclusion of LGBT people in the life of the Church.
And both have lent their support to the fledgling Berkshire Organizing Project. Stuart is one of the founders of the Northern Berkshire Interfaith Action Initiative, whose members run the Friendship Center food pantry in North Adams, and he championed the transfer of the long-standing Ministry Fund that provides emergency assistance, from the defunct Williamstown Ecumenical Association to the interfaith group.
The same analytical skills and systemic thinking that led to Stuart’s appointment as Provost of Williams College have been his hallmark here, in his service in our capital campaign, our Finance Committee, the Vestry, our first Website design, to name a few. He shaped and led our Planned Giving program, and passionately advocated maintaining a Youth Minister on our staff.
Did you know that for several years, Stuart has quietly and single-handedly handled this parish’s recycling of paper (all those Sunday leaflets!) and bottles, etc.?
And with all that said, I know I’ve not named all the ways these two people have strengthened the hearts and hands of this parish, our wider community, the Episcopal Church, Williams College, and the many other churches, schools, and institutions that they hold dear.
How fortunate we are! And how we will miss them.
May they keep opening their hearts and minds to the grace of God in Jesus Christ that hallows all our journeys by the Holy Spirit dwelling within us, reigning over us, and illumining the path before us.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Outgrowing Old Sacrificial Systems
Scripture for the 3rd Sunday after Pentecost includes Genesis 22:1-14, Romans 6:12-23, Matthew 10:40-42
That is one mighty powerful story from the Book of Genesis. Mighty disturbing, too, I know. It’s one of the central texts of the Hebrew Bible to be heard by the Church at the Easter Eve Vigil, on the holiest night of the year. But I will confess to you that we here at St. John’s avoid it like a skunk at a lawn party: for that night, we select readings that we like to put in the hands of children to dramatize—and while violence abounds in video games and movies, this case study in blind devotion is a tough one to ask children to grasp. Or adults.
And until, and unless, you allow some latitude in interpreting the point of this story, it doesn’t place God in a very, well, Godly role. The point made is the sharp end and the razor edge of that knife in Abraham’s hand. Who is Abraham and what is he doing? Who is this God, and what is he doing?
All the stories in the Book of Genesis demand being heard as stories that reveal the nature of God and the purposes of God, and as stories that reveal the nature of Israel and the purposes of Israel. These stories enlist individuals—today it’s Abraham and Isaac, while barely mentioned are the young men handling the donkeys, and in the far background is Isaac’s unmentioned mother Sarah.
Their purpose is to get us to relate to them, to elicit empathy, admiration, outrage, insight, revelation, so that we become fully engaged in the story. A frequent approach to Bible study with such a story as this one is to ask people in the circle, “Which of these individuals do you resonate with most?” Imagine the self-revelation in saying, I relate to Abraham… or I would pick Isaac. Far easier to select the donkey-handlers (or the donkey, for that matter) all of whom look upon this dreadful scene and wonder, What is going on here? And then get to look upon the transformation of this pending crime scene into an encounter with sheer grace.
For the purpose of God, insist all the stories in the great anthology of Genesis, is to form a people, a nation, a partner in covenanted love and obedience. And the purpose of Israel will be to stand as an embodiment of righteousness, an example to lead all peoples into covenant faithfulness to God.
What God is doing on Mount Moriah, goes the traditional answer, is testing the faithfulness of Abraham. Ruthlessly. This offends us, and it should, for this is not the character of God we encounter in Jesus Christ. Or is it?
Doesn’t Jesus undergo just such a harrowing test of his devotion? Isn’t that the breath-taking impact of the line Celia sings in the Exsultet on Easter Eve: “How wonderful and beyond our knowing, O God, is your mercy and loving-kindness to us, that to redeem a slave, you gave a Son.”?
A critical mind might object, “Wait: you’re saying that two thousand years pass and still we’re dealing with a God who requires the sacrifice of a son… but now it’s his own Son? And this is an improvement? This is evolution?
From the Bible’s point of view, yes, there is progress here. The story of Abraham and Isaac, from ancient Israel’s pre-history, shows what life was like before Israel had the Law to guide and shape its moral vision. A father—without consulting a mother—could expose his son to a most dreadful death, at his own hand, believing that such obedience was the requirement of God. The Law would outlaw this. But before the law, this kind of ultimate sacrifice is known to have happened, and to be part of the religious practice of at least one of the competing ancient Gods in the Middle East.
So time-travel from our first reading to our second reading. Let’s say two thousand years have passed. During those centuries, the law has developed in Israel, has shaped Israel. From those core ten commandments from God’s mouth to Israel’s heart, the law has grown to more than six hundred statutes, many of them regulating what it meant to be righteous before God. Some of these rules expanded the moral vision of Israel (for example, requiring the humane treatment of immigrants), but many strike us today as being obsessed with ritual purity and the rooting-out of impurity (dangerous ground for any religion to stand on, witness how certain categories of people have been excluded under these rules, including women and homosexuals).
But now, St. Paul announces, in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God has shaped a new creation, a new covenant, based not on law but on grace, the undeserved love of God. “For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.”
“And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. He went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. So Abraham called that place ‘The Lord will provide.’”
One way to interpret our thorny story from Genesis is to recognize that from the beginning we have been under grace. But grace was not a familiar category of human experience, given Abraham’s instinct to raise the knife first, raising his sights second—almost a second too late!
And it’s not too flip to observe that the moment was far from gracious for the ram. You can tell that the story teller in Genesis comes from a later time when the great temple in Jerusalem was awash in the blood of sacrificial animals. Ritual purity was understood to require the sacrifice of life. By comparison to two thousand years before, grace could be seen in that the victim was four-footed, not two-footed. There’s progress.
And in the new creation that St. Paul announces, there’s no place for continuing this industry of animal sacrifice. Think of the many encounters Jesus had on this very subject, urging people to raise their sights, not their knives. It is because of Jesus, Paul declares, that we are no longer under law and its required killing of countless victims. Jesus has put himself in their place, in our place; has become the scape goat, the sacrificial lamb (that we see painted on our altar) whose voluntary and total commitment to non-violent confrontation has given to God not appeasement, but traction to launch the new creation and its higher righteousness under grace. This truly is progress.
But wait: two thousand years have passed from then to now. Our sights are raised, but the more they are, the more we see:
Honor killings of free-thinking young women and men in Afghanistan and Pakistan, in the name of God.
Displacement, famine and epidemics obliterate whole generations of children in Africa, implementing strategies of ethnic cleansing.
Reprisal killings in Iraq, neighbors killing neighbors for differing interpretations and practices of their one religion—just as in Ireland, in the time of the Troubles—though surely such bloodbaths are also about money and jobs and influence and personal grudges.
American youths paying the ultimate price for freedom in nations that don’t know; what to do with freedom.
While here at home, the knife is replaced by the dollar as the greed of the elders is visited upon our children, whose future may be marked by more and more sacrifice.
Globally, the long view of what we are doing with the resources of the earth, and what we are not doing to change our life here on earth, will see the sacrifice of children’s children.
Can you stand any more of this? Where is the good news? We need to hear it. Where is progress? We need to see it. St. Matthew, in his Gospel, helps us recognize it. The reward of the righteous comes not to the person who thinks rightly, or believes rightly, or belongs to the right community, but to the one who acts rightly. Each one of us is empowered by the Spirit of God to walk in this world as an agent of grace, mercy, generosity, and free commitment to non-violence. These are the powers of the new creation, the bands of light that show the path to take.
And when we do, Jesus promises that whoever welcomes us welcomes him, and whoever welcomes him welcomes the one who sent him. There is the promise and the power that undergird progress. And it us up to us to affirm common purpose with all who raise their sights from old sacrificial systems the world must outgrow.
That is one mighty powerful story from the Book of Genesis. Mighty disturbing, too, I know. It’s one of the central texts of the Hebrew Bible to be heard by the Church at the Easter Eve Vigil, on the holiest night of the year. But I will confess to you that we here at St. John’s avoid it like a skunk at a lawn party: for that night, we select readings that we like to put in the hands of children to dramatize—and while violence abounds in video games and movies, this case study in blind devotion is a tough one to ask children to grasp. Or adults.
And until, and unless, you allow some latitude in interpreting the point of this story, it doesn’t place God in a very, well, Godly role. The point made is the sharp end and the razor edge of that knife in Abraham’s hand. Who is Abraham and what is he doing? Who is this God, and what is he doing?
All the stories in the Book of Genesis demand being heard as stories that reveal the nature of God and the purposes of God, and as stories that reveal the nature of Israel and the purposes of Israel. These stories enlist individuals—today it’s Abraham and Isaac, while barely mentioned are the young men handling the donkeys, and in the far background is Isaac’s unmentioned mother Sarah.
Their purpose is to get us to relate to them, to elicit empathy, admiration, outrage, insight, revelation, so that we become fully engaged in the story. A frequent approach to Bible study with such a story as this one is to ask people in the circle, “Which of these individuals do you resonate with most?” Imagine the self-revelation in saying, I relate to Abraham… or I would pick Isaac. Far easier to select the donkey-handlers (or the donkey, for that matter) all of whom look upon this dreadful scene and wonder, What is going on here? And then get to look upon the transformation of this pending crime scene into an encounter with sheer grace.
For the purpose of God, insist all the stories in the great anthology of Genesis, is to form a people, a nation, a partner in covenanted love and obedience. And the purpose of Israel will be to stand as an embodiment of righteousness, an example to lead all peoples into covenant faithfulness to God.
What God is doing on Mount Moriah, goes the traditional answer, is testing the faithfulness of Abraham. Ruthlessly. This offends us, and it should, for this is not the character of God we encounter in Jesus Christ. Or is it?
Doesn’t Jesus undergo just such a harrowing test of his devotion? Isn’t that the breath-taking impact of the line Celia sings in the Exsultet on Easter Eve: “How wonderful and beyond our knowing, O God, is your mercy and loving-kindness to us, that to redeem a slave, you gave a Son.”?
A critical mind might object, “Wait: you’re saying that two thousand years pass and still we’re dealing with a God who requires the sacrifice of a son… but now it’s his own Son? And this is an improvement? This is evolution?
From the Bible’s point of view, yes, there is progress here. The story of Abraham and Isaac, from ancient Israel’s pre-history, shows what life was like before Israel had the Law to guide and shape its moral vision. A father—without consulting a mother—could expose his son to a most dreadful death, at his own hand, believing that such obedience was the requirement of God. The Law would outlaw this. But before the law, this kind of ultimate sacrifice is known to have happened, and to be part of the religious practice of at least one of the competing ancient Gods in the Middle East.
So time-travel from our first reading to our second reading. Let’s say two thousand years have passed. During those centuries, the law has developed in Israel, has shaped Israel. From those core ten commandments from God’s mouth to Israel’s heart, the law has grown to more than six hundred statutes, many of them regulating what it meant to be righteous before God. Some of these rules expanded the moral vision of Israel (for example, requiring the humane treatment of immigrants), but many strike us today as being obsessed with ritual purity and the rooting-out of impurity (dangerous ground for any religion to stand on, witness how certain categories of people have been excluded under these rules, including women and homosexuals).
But now, St. Paul announces, in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God has shaped a new creation, a new covenant, based not on law but on grace, the undeserved love of God. “For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.”
“And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. He went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. So Abraham called that place ‘The Lord will provide.’”
One way to interpret our thorny story from Genesis is to recognize that from the beginning we have been under grace. But grace was not a familiar category of human experience, given Abraham’s instinct to raise the knife first, raising his sights second—almost a second too late!
And it’s not too flip to observe that the moment was far from gracious for the ram. You can tell that the story teller in Genesis comes from a later time when the great temple in Jerusalem was awash in the blood of sacrificial animals. Ritual purity was understood to require the sacrifice of life. By comparison to two thousand years before, grace could be seen in that the victim was four-footed, not two-footed. There’s progress.
And in the new creation that St. Paul announces, there’s no place for continuing this industry of animal sacrifice. Think of the many encounters Jesus had on this very subject, urging people to raise their sights, not their knives. It is because of Jesus, Paul declares, that we are no longer under law and its required killing of countless victims. Jesus has put himself in their place, in our place; has become the scape goat, the sacrificial lamb (that we see painted on our altar) whose voluntary and total commitment to non-violent confrontation has given to God not appeasement, but traction to launch the new creation and its higher righteousness under grace. This truly is progress.
But wait: two thousand years have passed from then to now. Our sights are raised, but the more they are, the more we see:
Honor killings of free-thinking young women and men in Afghanistan and Pakistan, in the name of God.
Displacement, famine and epidemics obliterate whole generations of children in Africa, implementing strategies of ethnic cleansing.
Reprisal killings in Iraq, neighbors killing neighbors for differing interpretations and practices of their one religion—just as in Ireland, in the time of the Troubles—though surely such bloodbaths are also about money and jobs and influence and personal grudges.
American youths paying the ultimate price for freedom in nations that don’t know; what to do with freedom.
While here at home, the knife is replaced by the dollar as the greed of the elders is visited upon our children, whose future may be marked by more and more sacrifice.
Globally, the long view of what we are doing with the resources of the earth, and what we are not doing to change our life here on earth, will see the sacrifice of children’s children.
Can you stand any more of this? Where is the good news? We need to hear it. Where is progress? We need to see it. St. Matthew, in his Gospel, helps us recognize it. The reward of the righteous comes not to the person who thinks rightly, or believes rightly, or belongs to the right community, but to the one who acts rightly. Each one of us is empowered by the Spirit of God to walk in this world as an agent of grace, mercy, generosity, and free commitment to non-violence. These are the powers of the new creation, the bands of light that show the path to take.
And when we do, Jesus promises that whoever welcomes us welcomes him, and whoever welcomes him welcomes the one who sent him. There is the promise and the power that undergird progress. And it us up to us to affirm common purpose with all who raise their sights from old sacrificial systems the world must outgrow.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Celebrating a Dear Colleague in Ministry
Scripture for the 2nd Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 7) includes Genesis 21:8-21; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39
I must confess: never would I have chosen those readings for the celebration of Barbara Kourajian’s graceful career. And yet…
There is exactly the right message on the lips of the angel of God: “Do not be afraid; for God has heard your voice, just where you are.” That’s surely the right message to Barbara, as she draws whole the circle of her ministry here. And it’s precisely the right message for us who wonder, “Whatever shall we do now?”
And from Paul’s letter to the Romans, his potent reminder that when we are baptized, we are made one with Jesus Christ in his death so that we are made one with him in his resurrection. That is the central mystery of our faith, and on a day like this we must lean fully into the promise that in Christ God transforms our dyings into new life, our endings into commencements, and our retirements into… well, who knows?
And then there’s Matthew’s seminar with his disciples. He records Jesus extending to the twelve both his hands at once: with one, he excluded grandiose self-importance (“A disciple is not above the teacher… it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher…”) and with the other he includes everyone in the esteeming grace of God (“Even the hairs of your head are all counted… so do not be afraid; you are of more value than you know.”) How like a rabbi, to embrace all by asserting “on the one hand” while insisting “and on the other hand”… in full sympathy with the human tendency of a community to contain both those who think highly of themselves and those who knock themselves down. To all who are on this familiar spectrum, Jesus declares good news of pervasive love that casts out fear.
There are themes in Matthew today that help me express how grateful I am to have enjoyed eighteen years of often serendipitous (and always fascinating) liturgical partnership with Barbara Kourajian. Every Tuesday in the school year, Barbara and I would bring our hymnals and lectionaries for an hour or more of considering closely the crucible created by each Sunday’s readings, listening to how various texts and songs and prayers might resonate together. I will miss those Tuesdays, and here’s why.
Barbara has the gift of teaching without losing the openness of remaining a disciple, a student, a fellow learner fully ready to give, but adept also at receiving. I wonder if you know that throughout her eighteen years here, she has studied organ with Ed Lawrence—studied this organ, where her lessons were held, exploring how best to draw the best out of this humble and limited instrument. Wouldn’t you have thought that she might have stopped those lessons years ago—how much better could she get than what she has given us?—but what has made her such a fine organist and choir director is her commitment to finding out how deep the well of excellence is.
Some musicians have a similar commitment to excellence, but lack the love and the laughter that draw people to the well—a musicians’ quest for excellence can send folks running the other way. Having invested herself in excellence, Barbara has invited us to excel, as a singing congregation, and most surely as a choir. And I wonder if anything brings out a more sparkling smile on Barbara’s face than when an anthem has gone really well, or, as I noticed at Vespers last Wednesday, when voices blended in an a cappella duet that was a pure taste of heaven. You should have seen Barbara’s face.
Her choir members know they are valued. The hairs of their heads are all counted. In our mobile society, each Sunday a different ensemble of voices is heard, meaning that Barbara has kept careful track of who’s coming and who isn’t. She has made sure that singers aren’t afraid to offer their questions and suggestions, from the most confident singer to the newest voice on the block. She has cared for each singer as a pastor cares, as a shepherd cares.
Diana and I have known Barbara for twenty-five years, first as our son Andrew’s piano teacher. In 1992, we heard there was a house for sale on Lindley Terrace. I believe the sign hadn’t yet been hung, but Andrew insisted, “I just know it’s Ms. Kourajian’s house,” and sure enough, it was. At the closing Barbara and Bud brought Andrea to the bank for the signing; I remember her snuggled in her carrier, on the big table where all the documents were being passed from one party to the other.
Now this place of worship won’t be Ms. Kourajian’s house in quite the same way as it has, these eighteen years—though we’re delighted to hear her say she’ll worship with us when she wants to in this coming year before the move to Maine. And I guess on the table now is the infancy of Barbara’s retirement. My friend, may this new life provide you with freedom, strong health, and fortunate new opportunities to be bold.
(At this point, Peter introduced composer Alice Parker, long a friend of St. John’s and a source of inspiration to Barbara, who had come to church this morning secretively to rehearse thirty singers to lead a new hymn commissioned by the parish to celebrate Barbara’s ministry on her retirement. Alice introduced the hymn “Inheritance”, based on her reworking of two or three of Thomas Traherne’s meditations. Traherne (1637-1674) was a pastor on the Welsh border, and a metaphysical poet whose “Centuries of Meditations” was not discovered until 1964, in a manuscript version that was on its way to the trash bin. Richard H. Schmidt in “Glorious Companions: Five Centuries of Anglican Spirituality”, published by Eerdmans in 2002, writes, “For Traherne, the world was not, as for the Puritans, a wilderness fraught with dangers and temptations, but ‘the beautiful frontispiece of eternity,’ a theater manifesting the wonders of God, a school offering lessons in joy and delight.” )
I must confess: never would I have chosen those readings for the celebration of Barbara Kourajian’s graceful career. And yet…
There is exactly the right message on the lips of the angel of God: “Do not be afraid; for God has heard your voice, just where you are.” That’s surely the right message to Barbara, as she draws whole the circle of her ministry here. And it’s precisely the right message for us who wonder, “Whatever shall we do now?”
And from Paul’s letter to the Romans, his potent reminder that when we are baptized, we are made one with Jesus Christ in his death so that we are made one with him in his resurrection. That is the central mystery of our faith, and on a day like this we must lean fully into the promise that in Christ God transforms our dyings into new life, our endings into commencements, and our retirements into… well, who knows?
And then there’s Matthew’s seminar with his disciples. He records Jesus extending to the twelve both his hands at once: with one, he excluded grandiose self-importance (“A disciple is not above the teacher… it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher…”) and with the other he includes everyone in the esteeming grace of God (“Even the hairs of your head are all counted… so do not be afraid; you are of more value than you know.”) How like a rabbi, to embrace all by asserting “on the one hand” while insisting “and on the other hand”… in full sympathy with the human tendency of a community to contain both those who think highly of themselves and those who knock themselves down. To all who are on this familiar spectrum, Jesus declares good news of pervasive love that casts out fear.
There are themes in Matthew today that help me express how grateful I am to have enjoyed eighteen years of often serendipitous (and always fascinating) liturgical partnership with Barbara Kourajian. Every Tuesday in the school year, Barbara and I would bring our hymnals and lectionaries for an hour or more of considering closely the crucible created by each Sunday’s readings, listening to how various texts and songs and prayers might resonate together. I will miss those Tuesdays, and here’s why.
Barbara has the gift of teaching without losing the openness of remaining a disciple, a student, a fellow learner fully ready to give, but adept also at receiving. I wonder if you know that throughout her eighteen years here, she has studied organ with Ed Lawrence—studied this organ, where her lessons were held, exploring how best to draw the best out of this humble and limited instrument. Wouldn’t you have thought that she might have stopped those lessons years ago—how much better could she get than what she has given us?—but what has made her such a fine organist and choir director is her commitment to finding out how deep the well of excellence is.
Some musicians have a similar commitment to excellence, but lack the love and the laughter that draw people to the well—a musicians’ quest for excellence can send folks running the other way. Having invested herself in excellence, Barbara has invited us to excel, as a singing congregation, and most surely as a choir. And I wonder if anything brings out a more sparkling smile on Barbara’s face than when an anthem has gone really well, or, as I noticed at Vespers last Wednesday, when voices blended in an a cappella duet that was a pure taste of heaven. You should have seen Barbara’s face.
Her choir members know they are valued. The hairs of their heads are all counted. In our mobile society, each Sunday a different ensemble of voices is heard, meaning that Barbara has kept careful track of who’s coming and who isn’t. She has made sure that singers aren’t afraid to offer their questions and suggestions, from the most confident singer to the newest voice on the block. She has cared for each singer as a pastor cares, as a shepherd cares.
Diana and I have known Barbara for twenty-five years, first as our son Andrew’s piano teacher. In 1992, we heard there was a house for sale on Lindley Terrace. I believe the sign hadn’t yet been hung, but Andrew insisted, “I just know it’s Ms. Kourajian’s house,” and sure enough, it was. At the closing Barbara and Bud brought Andrea to the bank for the signing; I remember her snuggled in her carrier, on the big table where all the documents were being passed from one party to the other.
Now this place of worship won’t be Ms. Kourajian’s house in quite the same way as it has, these eighteen years—though we’re delighted to hear her say she’ll worship with us when she wants to in this coming year before the move to Maine. And I guess on the table now is the infancy of Barbara’s retirement. My friend, may this new life provide you with freedom, strong health, and fortunate new opportunities to be bold.
(At this point, Peter introduced composer Alice Parker, long a friend of St. John’s and a source of inspiration to Barbara, who had come to church this morning secretively to rehearse thirty singers to lead a new hymn commissioned by the parish to celebrate Barbara’s ministry on her retirement. Alice introduced the hymn “Inheritance”, based on her reworking of two or three of Thomas Traherne’s meditations. Traherne (1637-1674) was a pastor on the Welsh border, and a metaphysical poet whose “Centuries of Meditations” was not discovered until 1964, in a manuscript version that was on its way to the trash bin. Richard H. Schmidt in “Glorious Companions: Five Centuries of Anglican Spirituality”, published by Eerdmans in 2002, writes, “For Traherne, the world was not, as for the Puritans, a wilderness fraught with dangers and temptations, but ‘the beautiful frontispiece of eternity,’ a theater manifesting the wonders of God, a school offering lessons in joy and delight.” )
Friday, June 20, 2014
Celebrating the Holy Trinity
Scripture for Trinity Sunday includes Genesis 1:1-2:4a; II Corinthians 13:11-13; Matthew 28:16-20
What an odd thing, to reserve one Sunday in the church year to celebrate a concept: Trinity Sunday. If there is a problem with this, it is that the doctrine of the Holy Trinity is just as likely to be presented as a problem as it is to be celebrated as a priceless gift, a burden to be explained rather than a blessing to be embraced. More a geometry problem to solve than a pool of living water to go splashing and swimming in.
And the readings for today are an odd lot. First, the opening account of creation from the Book of Genesis, as if recognizing from the get-go that the mystery of the Holy Trinity requires a healthy regard for materiality, the Creator God longing for partnership in caring for this beyond-miraculous shimmering mantle of life draped upon this planet. And in the culmination of all this divine yearning , God breathes spirit into matter, to implant the divine likeness.
Okay. So that’s not quite a proof text for the doctrine of the Trinity, but it presents two dimensions of God, Creator and Spirit, and the stage is set for the Word to become flesh, as the divine breath animates Adam and Eve, implanting the image of God.
Then, after what may be the longest lesson in the church year, come two of the shortest.
St. Paul writes to his congregation at Corinth and expresses what every pastor asks of his or her congregation: “Put things in order, listen to my appeal, agree with one another, live in peace.” I wonder if these words don’t echo the voice of the Creator God shaping the world.
I wonder if these words might also suggest the crucible out of which the doctrine of the Holy Trinity emerged. The concept of a multi-dimensional God (Father/Mother, Son, Spirit) puts God in order. The interdependent unity in the midst of diversity (Creator, Redeemer, Guide) demonstrates what agreement looks like and how it behaves at the highest level. The basic message that God is knowable in at least three distinct ways without conflict, without contradiction, models what it is to live in peace.
And then the Gospel, the closing words in Matthew, conveys the promise the Holy Trinity fulfills: “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” And that “I” is spoken from the heart of the dancing, twirling, circling persons of the divine Trinity, inviting us to know God through each pathway into the Godhead, to pray into warmer relations with whichever member of the Trinity we feel least familiar with, to steep ourselves in trusting silence in the company of whichever member we feel we know best, and to welcome the call that rises from the yearning of God for partners in caring for the earth and its myriad creatures.
Carl Jung insisted that three was an incomplete number, always leaning toward four. This helped him present a case for Mother Mary taking her place in the Godhead.
Though, from what I’ve observed, believers who are devoted to Mary don’t need her case to be argued by any man. Mary is the one who gets things done. There hasn’t been a time in the worldwide Church when Mary hasn’t been right at the heart of the apostolic community, the missionary movement, and the bridging between materiality and the spirit.
Check out the rightmost window above the altar rail and see Mary front and center at the Ascension of her son Jesus, and see her again as the hub of the wheel of apostles receiving .the Pentecostal flames of illumination and ignition. You might say she is the midwife of the new creation launched by the resurrection of her son, our savior.
One need not be a Jungian to speak of Mary on Trinity Sunday. Nor is it tinkering with the Holy Trinity to speak of her place in the divine dance. When we all learn the steps and practice the rhythms of the Holy Trinity, when we all entrust ourselves into the dynamic stillness of the Creator, the centered self-giving of the Redeemer, and the Spirit’s peace that passes understanding, then the doctrine of the Holy Trinity will seem no longer a problem in geometry, but a priceless gift of grace.
What an odd thing, to reserve one Sunday in the church year to celebrate a concept: Trinity Sunday. If there is a problem with this, it is that the doctrine of the Holy Trinity is just as likely to be presented as a problem as it is to be celebrated as a priceless gift, a burden to be explained rather than a blessing to be embraced. More a geometry problem to solve than a pool of living water to go splashing and swimming in.
And the readings for today are an odd lot. First, the opening account of creation from the Book of Genesis, as if recognizing from the get-go that the mystery of the Holy Trinity requires a healthy regard for materiality, the Creator God longing for partnership in caring for this beyond-miraculous shimmering mantle of life draped upon this planet. And in the culmination of all this divine yearning , God breathes spirit into matter, to implant the divine likeness.
Okay. So that’s not quite a proof text for the doctrine of the Trinity, but it presents two dimensions of God, Creator and Spirit, and the stage is set for the Word to become flesh, as the divine breath animates Adam and Eve, implanting the image of God.
Then, after what may be the longest lesson in the church year, come two of the shortest.
St. Paul writes to his congregation at Corinth and expresses what every pastor asks of his or her congregation: “Put things in order, listen to my appeal, agree with one another, live in peace.” I wonder if these words don’t echo the voice of the Creator God shaping the world.
I wonder if these words might also suggest the crucible out of which the doctrine of the Holy Trinity emerged. The concept of a multi-dimensional God (Father/Mother, Son, Spirit) puts God in order. The interdependent unity in the midst of diversity (Creator, Redeemer, Guide) demonstrates what agreement looks like and how it behaves at the highest level. The basic message that God is knowable in at least three distinct ways without conflict, without contradiction, models what it is to live in peace.
And then the Gospel, the closing words in Matthew, conveys the promise the Holy Trinity fulfills: “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” And that “I” is spoken from the heart of the dancing, twirling, circling persons of the divine Trinity, inviting us to know God through each pathway into the Godhead, to pray into warmer relations with whichever member of the Trinity we feel least familiar with, to steep ourselves in trusting silence in the company of whichever member we feel we know best, and to welcome the call that rises from the yearning of God for partners in caring for the earth and its myriad creatures.
Carl Jung insisted that three was an incomplete number, always leaning toward four. This helped him present a case for Mother Mary taking her place in the Godhead.
Though, from what I’ve observed, believers who are devoted to Mary don’t need her case to be argued by any man. Mary is the one who gets things done. There hasn’t been a time in the worldwide Church when Mary hasn’t been right at the heart of the apostolic community, the missionary movement, and the bridging between materiality and the spirit.
Check out the rightmost window above the altar rail and see Mary front and center at the Ascension of her son Jesus, and see her again as the hub of the wheel of apostles receiving .the Pentecostal flames of illumination and ignition. You might say she is the midwife of the new creation launched by the resurrection of her son, our savior.
One need not be a Jungian to speak of Mary on Trinity Sunday. Nor is it tinkering with the Holy Trinity to speak of her place in the divine dance. When we all learn the steps and practice the rhythms of the Holy Trinity, when we all entrust ourselves into the dynamic stillness of the Creator, the centered self-giving of the Redeemer, and the Spirit’s peace that passes understanding, then the doctrine of the Holy Trinity will seem no longer a problem in geometry, but a priceless gift of grace.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Remembering the Fiftieth Day
Scripture for the Day of Pentecost includes Acts 2:1-21 and John 7:37-39
I’ve gotten hooked on Pandora as my online source of music while I work. Every so often it disengages into sleeper mode, requiring me to return to the site and say, Yes, I’m still listening. (Of course, I could forego that exercise by shelling out a few dollars a month, but I’m not there yet.) That moment of re-engagement must be waterfront property for advertisers, since the same ad comes on so often I pretty much have it memorized. We exercise our bodies, so why not also exercise our minds? Lumosity.com. “Challenge your brain with scientifically-designed training… Train memory and attention… Web-based personalized training program… Track your progress… Get started now.” Learn how Lumosity works for you.”
Memory. Remembering. Such a frequent topic, as one advances in age. Remembering is the key to so much that matters: Thoughtfulness. Heritage. Purpose. Responsibility. Starting the car. Remember to look up, we are taught by the Ascension of Jesus on the fortieth day after his resurrection: Disentangle from your smart phone, to-do list, agenda, and assorted compulsions… Remember to look up to regain perspective on yourself and your world in light of God’s sovereignty and the vast scale of the heavens.
Today, the fiftieth day in the new creation launched by our Lord’s resurrection, what goes up comes down. The Spirit needed to reproduce the wide-embracing love that has summoned us in Jesus Christ, the very Spirit that is in Jesus and is in the Creator God and unites them both is poured into the hearts of all who will welcome and treasure this gift, uniting us to one another and to God in Jesus.
Pentecost, the 50th day, the making-over of an ancient Jewish festival celebrating the giving of the law to Israel, transposing it to remember the giving of the Spirit to the Church for the world. Remember the common heritage of this day in both religions: the ancient law was given to fashion a people of faithful freedom. Such is also the work of the Spirit of God given today.
The Book of Common Prayer calls us to remember that the mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with one another and with God in Jesus Christ. The weekly eucharist we celebrate to sustain us for that mission has at its very heart a portion called the Anamnesis. Pull that word apart and see its Greek components: “An-“ (against) “amnesis” (forgetting). This is the moment whose purpose is against forgetting. X marks the spot of deepest moment in the eucharist—one that is set off with the ringing of bells in our Anglo-Catholic parishes—when we hear the celebrant give voice to the words of Jesus, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”
And then, after hearing similar words over the cup of wine, again resolving into, “Do this for the remembrance (the Anamnesis) of me,” we respond with words we know by heart, words that constitute the Church’s first and oldest creed, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” and we call this the remembered mystery of faith.
Remembering is key to identity, central to accomplishment, crucial to perspective and balance. As you can’t start the car if you can’t remember where you left the keys, you can’t renew faith and hope and love if you’re forgetting what they look like, what they feel like, what they require, and where their source is to be found.
Forgetting can be perilous. Amnesia robs us of all our links to who we are and what we need to do. The potency and danger of forgetting has been dramatized for us this past week, as the free world has remembered the days of massacre in Tiananmen Square, June 3rd and 4th, 1989, while China forbids that remembrance, stifles the memory, inculcates amnesia. It appears to work: school children as old as high schoolers do not recognize iconic photographs of that event (or are afraid to admit they do). Wise voices, hopeful voices, say the day will come when the story will be told and truth reclaimed by remembering.
Such potent remembering, the re-membering, the reunifying of members by speaking truth and seeing the picture whole, telling the story, voicing the Word, is what eucharist is for, what life is for.
For seniors at Williams and their families, the cup of remembering overflows today. Remembering is central to all that matters: Heritage, appreciation, reconciliation, recovery, celebration, choice, mindfulness, completion, commencement.
I’ve gotten hooked on Pandora as my online source of music while I work. Every so often it disengages into sleeper mode, requiring me to return to the site and say, Yes, I’m still listening. (Of course, I could forego that exercise by shelling out a few dollars a month, but I’m not there yet.) That moment of re-engagement must be waterfront property for advertisers, since the same ad comes on so often I pretty much have it memorized. We exercise our bodies, so why not also exercise our minds? Lumosity.com. “Challenge your brain with scientifically-designed training… Train memory and attention… Web-based personalized training program… Track your progress… Get started now.” Learn how Lumosity works for you.”
Memory. Remembering. Such a frequent topic, as one advances in age. Remembering is the key to so much that matters: Thoughtfulness. Heritage. Purpose. Responsibility. Starting the car. Remember to look up, we are taught by the Ascension of Jesus on the fortieth day after his resurrection: Disentangle from your smart phone, to-do list, agenda, and assorted compulsions… Remember to look up to regain perspective on yourself and your world in light of God’s sovereignty and the vast scale of the heavens.
Today, the fiftieth day in the new creation launched by our Lord’s resurrection, what goes up comes down. The Spirit needed to reproduce the wide-embracing love that has summoned us in Jesus Christ, the very Spirit that is in Jesus and is in the Creator God and unites them both is poured into the hearts of all who will welcome and treasure this gift, uniting us to one another and to God in Jesus.
Pentecost, the 50th day, the making-over of an ancient Jewish festival celebrating the giving of the law to Israel, transposing it to remember the giving of the Spirit to the Church for the world. Remember the common heritage of this day in both religions: the ancient law was given to fashion a people of faithful freedom. Such is also the work of the Spirit of God given today.
The Book of Common Prayer calls us to remember that the mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with one another and with God in Jesus Christ. The weekly eucharist we celebrate to sustain us for that mission has at its very heart a portion called the Anamnesis. Pull that word apart and see its Greek components: “An-“ (against) “amnesis” (forgetting). This is the moment whose purpose is against forgetting. X marks the spot of deepest moment in the eucharist—one that is set off with the ringing of bells in our Anglo-Catholic parishes—when we hear the celebrant give voice to the words of Jesus, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”
And then, after hearing similar words over the cup of wine, again resolving into, “Do this for the remembrance (the Anamnesis) of me,” we respond with words we know by heart, words that constitute the Church’s first and oldest creed, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” and we call this the remembered mystery of faith.
Remembering is key to identity, central to accomplishment, crucial to perspective and balance. As you can’t start the car if you can’t remember where you left the keys, you can’t renew faith and hope and love if you’re forgetting what they look like, what they feel like, what they require, and where their source is to be found.
Forgetting can be perilous. Amnesia robs us of all our links to who we are and what we need to do. The potency and danger of forgetting has been dramatized for us this past week, as the free world has remembered the days of massacre in Tiananmen Square, June 3rd and 4th, 1989, while China forbids that remembrance, stifles the memory, inculcates amnesia. It appears to work: school children as old as high schoolers do not recognize iconic photographs of that event (or are afraid to admit they do). Wise voices, hopeful voices, say the day will come when the story will be told and truth reclaimed by remembering.
Such potent remembering, the re-membering, the reunifying of members by speaking truth and seeing the picture whole, telling the story, voicing the Word, is what eucharist is for, what life is for.
For seniors at Williams and their families, the cup of remembering overflows today. Remembering is central to all that matters: Heritage, appreciation, reconciliation, recovery, celebration, choice, mindfulness, completion, commencement.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
What Does the Ascension Mean?
Scripture for the 7th Sunday of Easter includes Acts 1:6-14; I Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11; John 17:1-11
On the fortieth day of Eastertide, following the chronology of the Gospels, the Church catches its breath as our Lord Jesus Christ ascends into heaven. What does the Ascension mean?
The New Testament is challenged by the question, “With what sort of body does the risen Lord come?”. There’s clear evidence that the Gospel writers do not want us thinking of the resurrected Christ as a ghost. St. Luke reports that at our Lord’s final appearance to his disciples, “They were startled and terrified, and thought they were seeing a ghost. Jesus said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have… ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.” (Luke 24:36-43)
How charming can you get in making the point that this is one and the same Jesus, the Christ known to them, loved by them, as before?
But where the tension enters is around the question, “So is his the body of a resuscitated corpse?” No. That’s out of bounds for two reasons. First, resuscitation leaves the door open a crack for thinking that he didn’t truly die, which would make the resurrection fall far short of being the good news Christians dare believe it is. Second, if we really were dealing with Jesus in his same physical body as before, wouldn’t he be subject all over again to the limitations of flesh and blood? St. Paul, writing to the Romans, insists, “We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God.” (6:9-10)
The Renaissance painter who tried to capture the Ascension with a group portrait of the disciples looking up to heaven, a pair of bare feet dangling overhead--- that’s all you see of Jesus, just those feet—wants to tell us that we’re dealing here with flesh and blood, metatarsals and Achilles tendons, bunions and blisters, and, of course, those nail holes.
But doesn’t that same ploy, the dangling feet, sweet as they are, reveal the inadequacy of flesh and blood to describe the ascending Christ? Might a painter capture the moment and the movement better by an abstract style, not so much feet in flight as energy rising, returning to its source?
St. Paul again, this time writing to the Corinthians, speaks to our question. “But some one will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come? …” Do you remember what he says next? “You foolish one! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel… But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body… For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality.” (I Corinthians 15)
What’s the take-home from all that? Paul’s distinction between a physical body and a spiritual body. By Paul’s understanding, Jesus’s forty days of post-resurrection appearances have been in what he calls a spiritual body. Remember how, last Sunday, we heard his apostolic colleague Peter claim that our Lord’s very first appearance out of the tomb took him to breathe freedom into those mockers and scoffers who made fun of Noah during the building of the ark. What an edgey way to declare that absolutely no one is beyond the reach of the spiritual presence of Jesus!
We all know what a physical body is, and how it works. A spiritual body? Whatever that is, I believe it’s the answer to our opening question. The doctrine of the Ascension does not require belief that a physical body is taken up, but rather that a spiritual body rises to return to its source.
While I don’t have a handy definition of a spiritual body, here’s how that image makes sense to me. Jesus Christ the righteous one suffered for the sake of the unrighteous, in order to bring us all to God. And when man’s inhumanity to man had done to Jesus the very worst it could do, God made him alive in the spirit: not as a resuscitated corpse, but as a person transformed from dependence upon flesh into the full freedom of spirit.
Which gets me thinking that the Ascension is really about you and me, about what our dying means, and how it is we dare conceive participating in a realm beyond this one.
What we do know about a spiritual body is that the Church is described that way in the New Testament letters. Paul writing in I Corinthians says, “For just as the (physical) body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one (spiritual) body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free, male or female—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit… Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” (chapter 12)
We physical individuals are united, made one spiritual body, in grateful acceptance of the gift of Jesus Christ, the way, the truth, the life that constitutes goodness and sets in motion a power that equips humanity to reproduce his wide-embracing love. That love is the gift the world needs. To take our part in that love, we open ourselves to be transformed from dependence upon flesh into the full freedom of spirit.
What does the Ascension mean? The Collect for that day answers the question-- so why, for heaven’s sake, didn’t we go there right away and not wait til the very end of this sermon? All I can say is that to approach the Ascension, you have to go the scenic route.
“Almighty God, whose blessed Son our Savior Jesus Christ ascended far above all heavens that he might fill all things: Mercifully give us faith to perceive that, according to his promise, he abides with his Church on earth, even to the end of the ages…”
He ascends in order to fill all—what goes up must come down—freeing us to love God in all things and above all things, freeing us to seek and recognize and treasure his presence with us on earth.
By ascending, the risen Christ trains the spiritual body of his Church to look up. There’s as basic a meaning as you can get… but there’s not a one of us who doesn’t need the message reinforced daily: Look up from our smart phones, our must-do lists, our agendas and our analyses. Disentangle from what has to matter so much because of our physical dependencies, and choose to practice the spiritual freedom that God gives us, calls us to, and uses to prepare us for what God is preparing for us.
And what comes down, according to the New Testament’s chronology, comes down ten days later, on the fiftieth day of Eastertide, and causes the Church to catch the breath of God inspiring the new creation released in the resurrection of Jesus. The Holy Spirit, the same spirit in Jesus that is in the Creator God, comes down on Pentecost, and fills all hearts that will seek and recognize and treasure such a gift.
Next Sunday is the Day of Pentecost. It will have some stiff competition hereabouts, with commencement at Williams. Rise early and come to worship at 8:00, when we’ll sing, and when parking is easy, and when leftovers from our breakfast for Williams seniors are at their most plentiful, and the timing is perfect to go watch the procession, and first the opportunity to rejoice with a few of our seniors and their families.
On the fortieth day of Eastertide, following the chronology of the Gospels, the Church catches its breath as our Lord Jesus Christ ascends into heaven. What does the Ascension mean?
The New Testament is challenged by the question, “With what sort of body does the risen Lord come?”. There’s clear evidence that the Gospel writers do not want us thinking of the resurrected Christ as a ghost. St. Luke reports that at our Lord’s final appearance to his disciples, “They were startled and terrified, and thought they were seeing a ghost. Jesus said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have… ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.” (Luke 24:36-43)
How charming can you get in making the point that this is one and the same Jesus, the Christ known to them, loved by them, as before?
But where the tension enters is around the question, “So is his the body of a resuscitated corpse?” No. That’s out of bounds for two reasons. First, resuscitation leaves the door open a crack for thinking that he didn’t truly die, which would make the resurrection fall far short of being the good news Christians dare believe it is. Second, if we really were dealing with Jesus in his same physical body as before, wouldn’t he be subject all over again to the limitations of flesh and blood? St. Paul, writing to the Romans, insists, “We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God.” (6:9-10)
The Renaissance painter who tried to capture the Ascension with a group portrait of the disciples looking up to heaven, a pair of bare feet dangling overhead--- that’s all you see of Jesus, just those feet—wants to tell us that we’re dealing here with flesh and blood, metatarsals and Achilles tendons, bunions and blisters, and, of course, those nail holes.
But doesn’t that same ploy, the dangling feet, sweet as they are, reveal the inadequacy of flesh and blood to describe the ascending Christ? Might a painter capture the moment and the movement better by an abstract style, not so much feet in flight as energy rising, returning to its source?
St. Paul again, this time writing to the Corinthians, speaks to our question. “But some one will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come? …” Do you remember what he says next? “You foolish one! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel… But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body… For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality.” (I Corinthians 15)
What’s the take-home from all that? Paul’s distinction between a physical body and a spiritual body. By Paul’s understanding, Jesus’s forty days of post-resurrection appearances have been in what he calls a spiritual body. Remember how, last Sunday, we heard his apostolic colleague Peter claim that our Lord’s very first appearance out of the tomb took him to breathe freedom into those mockers and scoffers who made fun of Noah during the building of the ark. What an edgey way to declare that absolutely no one is beyond the reach of the spiritual presence of Jesus!
We all know what a physical body is, and how it works. A spiritual body? Whatever that is, I believe it’s the answer to our opening question. The doctrine of the Ascension does not require belief that a physical body is taken up, but rather that a spiritual body rises to return to its source.
While I don’t have a handy definition of a spiritual body, here’s how that image makes sense to me. Jesus Christ the righteous one suffered for the sake of the unrighteous, in order to bring us all to God. And when man’s inhumanity to man had done to Jesus the very worst it could do, God made him alive in the spirit: not as a resuscitated corpse, but as a person transformed from dependence upon flesh into the full freedom of spirit.
Which gets me thinking that the Ascension is really about you and me, about what our dying means, and how it is we dare conceive participating in a realm beyond this one.
What we do know about a spiritual body is that the Church is described that way in the New Testament letters. Paul writing in I Corinthians says, “For just as the (physical) body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one (spiritual) body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free, male or female—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit… Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” (chapter 12)
We physical individuals are united, made one spiritual body, in grateful acceptance of the gift of Jesus Christ, the way, the truth, the life that constitutes goodness and sets in motion a power that equips humanity to reproduce his wide-embracing love. That love is the gift the world needs. To take our part in that love, we open ourselves to be transformed from dependence upon flesh into the full freedom of spirit.
What does the Ascension mean? The Collect for that day answers the question-- so why, for heaven’s sake, didn’t we go there right away and not wait til the very end of this sermon? All I can say is that to approach the Ascension, you have to go the scenic route.
“Almighty God, whose blessed Son our Savior Jesus Christ ascended far above all heavens that he might fill all things: Mercifully give us faith to perceive that, according to his promise, he abides with his Church on earth, even to the end of the ages…”
He ascends in order to fill all—what goes up must come down—freeing us to love God in all things and above all things, freeing us to seek and recognize and treasure his presence with us on earth.
By ascending, the risen Christ trains the spiritual body of his Church to look up. There’s as basic a meaning as you can get… but there’s not a one of us who doesn’t need the message reinforced daily: Look up from our smart phones, our must-do lists, our agendas and our analyses. Disentangle from what has to matter so much because of our physical dependencies, and choose to practice the spiritual freedom that God gives us, calls us to, and uses to prepare us for what God is preparing for us.
And what comes down, according to the New Testament’s chronology, comes down ten days later, on the fiftieth day of Eastertide, and causes the Church to catch the breath of God inspiring the new creation released in the resurrection of Jesus. The Holy Spirit, the same spirit in Jesus that is in the Creator God, comes down on Pentecost, and fills all hearts that will seek and recognize and treasure such a gift.
Next Sunday is the Day of Pentecost. It will have some stiff competition hereabouts, with commencement at Williams. Rise early and come to worship at 8:00, when we’ll sing, and when parking is easy, and when leftovers from our breakfast for Williams seniors are at their most plentiful, and the timing is perfect to go watch the procession, and first the opportunity to rejoice with a few of our seniors and their families.
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