Epiphany 4B, Annual Meeting

Readings found here

What do you want to do now?

Imagine if Paul’s words in his letter to the community in Corinth were the opening address of an annual meeting.

“Knowledge puff us, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge, but anyone who loves God is known by God…”

We may know, but does our knowledge serve to reconcile?

We may know, but does our knowledge upbuild the church?

We may know, but does our knowledge give glory to Christ?

Paul is adamant in his annual meeting address, I mean his letter to the Corinthians…if what we claim to know destroys others, then that knowledge is not of God.

Care for each other taking precedence over any knowledge we might claim.

Imagine. Imagine if this is how we lived.

If we were able to set aside our own desires whenever those desires would harm others.

In this way, liberty and self-discipline become partners in our ministry of reconciliation.

Ministry.

We are here for ministry. Not to be ministered to, altho’ that will happen in a community of ministers, but to be ministers.

Ministers by virtue of our baptism.

And, so when we gather for our parish Annual Meeting, we gather as ministers—ministers using the tool of polity and policy to advance God’s will.

At the beginning of our annual meeting, I offered/will offer a prayer that petitions God for guidance and reminds us of the reason that gives purpose to our gathering,

Eternal God, you called us to be your beloved people, to preach the gospel and show mercy. Keep your Spirit with us as we meet together, so that in everything we may do your will. Guide us lest we stumble or be misguided by our own desires. May all we do be done for the reconciling of the world, for the upbuilding of the church, and for the greater glory of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

We are beloved people.

And, out of our belovedness we are called to service, to discipleship.  Living out the good news of the Gospel, showing mercy, and acting only insofar as our actions are done,

For the reconciling of the world.

For the upbuilding of the church.

And, for the greater glory of Jesus.

For me, this prayer resonates with the Gospel we heard today.

Chronologically this Gospel follows Jesus’ baptism and his subsequent 40 days in the desert, and his proclamation that the “kingdom of God is at hand”.

Spiritually, it is a sequence in which Jesus’ identity is made known by God who calls him “my son, my beloved”; then, because Jesus knows who he is and to whom he belongs, the manifestation of evil which he encounters in the desert does not have power over him.

Out of this, two truths of Jesus’ nature are revealed to us:

Jesus is the beloved child of God.

Jesus knows what evil looks like.

And, because Jesus knows what evil looks like, he can see it in the world. And, because he can see it, he can command it, 

“Be silent and come out of him”.

Jesus’ claim to authority is grounded in his fundamental identity. His action emerges from his authority, his authority is grounded in belovedness.

Authority and love—discipline and liberation.

Leading to reconciliation--wholeness for a man in need of healing.

Our identity too is grounded in belovedness. 

Just as Jesus was claimed as beloved at his baptism, so too are we. Beloved children of God, “marked as Christ’s own forever…”

What does this mean, this marking?

It means that,

You do not belong to the world.

You do not belong to the powers of this world.

You are not an object to be used, you are a person to be loved.

And, as Christ’s, you are part of something that cannot be destroyed, can never be destroyed.

This is who you are. This is who we are.

Marked as Christ’s own forever.

Last week, I spoke these very words—claiming baby Adrian for Christ. The rest of Adrian’s life will be lived in the aftermath of baptism. And, he will join the rest of the body of Christ living in the ordinary time.

Ordinary time…

After the promises have been made. After the community has consented.

This is ordinary time.

33-34 Sundays of the church year are Sundays we call ordinary. They are defined only in relation to what has come before,

After the Pentecost.

After the Epiphany.

All Ordinary.

Poet Marie Howe offers to us the following depiction of Ordinary Time, as time when,

The rules, once again, applied

One loaf = one loaf.  One fish = one fish.

The so-called kings were dead. And the woman who had been healed grew tired of telling her story, and sometimes asked her daughter to tell it.

People generally worshipped where their parents had worshipped—

the men who’d hijacked the airplane prayed where the dead pilots had been sitting,

and the passengers prayed from their seats

—so many songs went up and out into the thinning air . . .

People, listening and watching, nodded and wept, and, leaving the theater,

one turned to the other and said, What do you want to do now?

And the other one said, I don’t know.  What do you want to do?

It was the Coming of Ordinary Time.  First Sunday, second Sunday.

And then (for who knows how long) it was here.

It is here, Ordinary Time, the time in which we are given the opportunity to live in response to what we have seen in the extra-ordinary times.

Ordinary time is active, not passive. It is a time when we, as Christians, demonstrate that what we have seen, what we have heard, and what we have said and promised--that it matters. It matters to us, it matters to the world. Because,

In ordinary time, we renounce evil.

In ordinary time, we encounter prophets.

In ordinary time, we find healing.

In ordinary time, we have our annual meeting…

I jest, but only just. Because the structures and statutes by which we govern ourselves don’t exist for us, but for the reconciling of the world, for the up-building of the church, and for the greater glory of Jesus Christ our Lord.

And so, as we consider our meeting, I ask us all,

What do you want to do now?

What do you want to do now?

In this ordinary time--for the reconciling of the world, for the upbuilding of the church, and for the greater glory of Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Epiphany 2B

 Revised Common Lectionary Readings (Episcopalian variation for Epiphany 2B) can be found here

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Enough in Each Other

What happens when a child is taught that they are the one who must somehow save the world?

What happens when the survival of the earth is placed upon adolescent shoulders?

What happens when we look at our young people and tell them that somehow, it is their responsibility to save us from ourselves?

What happens when grown up concerns are internalized by children who have only recently begun to see themselves as being independent of their caregivers?

What happens when a child hears on the news, or reads in the paper, or sees on the screen—destruction and despair, without any context for creation and hope?

What happens?

What has happened?

I spent time with a clergy colleague, who serves as a college chaplain, this week and she shared with me the reality of her context—a context in which young adults have been given adult responsibilities without a means of understanding adulthood as anything but isolation.

Alone, burdened, afraid, and ashamed that, somehow, they have already failed to fix the world. And, their light dims…

Too many of our young people are plagued by anxiety and diminished by despair…

And, in my wondering about this, I find myself wondering if we have equipped our young people with tools to deconstruct the institution, the stories, the traditions, and authority—without giving them any scaffolding out of which to participate in the rebuilding.

Our culture, and I include the church in this, has emphasized critical thinking, celebrated individualism, encouraged exploration of self, and praised cleverness. But, for all the good that has been wrought, our culture has also neglected the value of community and encouraged independence at the expense of others.

When I was in college, I learned the art of deconstruction in my literature classes. As I explored texts, I was encouraged to take apart the assumptions, the traditions, and the generally accepted modes of thought—and, in doing so, it was assumed that the effort of deconstruction would lead to some inarguable truth at the core of the work. 

What that truth might be was highly individualized, and it was up to me to prove my truth by defending my premise in writing.

Apologetics in defense of myself.

As I look at some of that old writing, I understand that I wasn’t so much writing about the books, as I was writing about myself.

And, the inarguable truth that I ascribed to was that I was not alone. Not in the sense of having classmates or professors and living in the dorm. But, in the sense of being interconnected with a power beyond myself.  

I knew, knew with great certainty, that this life is not all that is and that I was part of God and God part of me.

I understood God, in Christ, as empathetic to human suffering—as understanding of my grief and anger, of my joy and laughter.

I was not alone.

I did not learn this from literary analysis. I did not learn this from current events. I did not learn this from my personal wondering.

I learned this from people, devout in the Christian faith, who showed me that I was not alone. Who invited me in, saying “come and see”. Who stood shoulder to shoulder with me in prayer. People who listened, who questioned, who comforted, and who held hope for me in the moments that felt hopeless. From these people, and our tradition, I learned that I did not have to shoulder the burden of the world in its entirety because I was part of a body that was more than me. It wasn’t my body’s responsibility to carry it all—it was the responsibility of the Body in its entirety. The body of Christ--enough when I could never be enough.

I am enough because we are enough. And, because of this, deconstruction did not lead to nihilism…but rather to an unshakeable certainty that, even at my loneliest, I am not alone.  

And, I want this. I want this for our young people.

I want to equip them with the same faith that has sustained me. Sustained me with the assurance, a blessed assurance, of God’s permanence and presence in our midst and in my very being.

I want our young people to turn to psalm 139, as I do, and hear within it God’s love for each of us. I want our young people to hear the call of Samuel and consider where God might be calling them, just as I did when I discerned a call to the priesthood. I want our young people to be able to listen to the news and respond to it out of our shared baptismal calling to honor the dignity of every human being. I want our young people to know of the Christian faith that sustained Martin Luther King Jr. The Christian faith that inspired J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis, and Tolkien. The Christian faith that motivates so many of us to action on behalf of others. The Christian faith that teaches us that we are not our own, but rather we are God’s beloved and inter-related with are therefore accountable not just to ourselves, but to God, and to all the beloved children of God who share this Body we call the Body of Christ.

And, with this, I am going to take a moment to remind us that when I say young people, I mean us. Because, our young are part of our body—they are not apart from it. So, we, we are the ones who need to know. We are the ones who need to be assured. We are the ones…

We are the ones tasked with the “yes”. The yes to God, the yes to our community, the yes to our faith. Because, when Nathanael wonders if anything good has come out of Nazareth, I want all of us to be able to respond with a resounding “yes”. Yes, something good has come out of Nazareth!

I want us all to be able to confront bad news with the good news of the Gospel. I want all of us to be able to name and claim our Christian faith when others would take it from us.

But, in order to do this, we need to know scripture. In order to do this, we need to live into the baptismal vows that we make in which we commit ourselves to continue in the apostles’ teaching and the breaking of the bread and the prayers. In order to do this, we need to teach wonder, but also offer assurance. Assurance found, not in the form of platitudes, but in the form of the interdependent, inter-related, body of Christ.

Amen.

Christmas Eve, 2017

Breath into Life

Tonight begins with music and light as, together, we create an elegant, sacred and joyful space in which to offer our praise to the God who has come into our midst.

Silence, breath, flickering flame.

The bow across strings, the inhaled breath preceding the sound, and then, the sound.

Breath giving life to our hopes and our fears.

The breath over the water, the breath of life, the first cry of a baby born in a stable thousands of miles and thousands of years away.

This is a new creation.

And, we gather.

We gather to celebrate with heart and mind; body and soul, the new creation as it gathers within the spare stone walls of a stable.  

Mary and Joseph; the animals within; angels; shepherds; and a newborn. Creation begins anew as the Garden of Eden’s entirety is encompassed by stone walls built by human hands.

Mary, Joseph, beasts and their keepers, and a baby birthed—not within the confines of the garden but within the truth of this world.

This world. Where all is forgiven, and love prevails in this place, this place, where a woman breathes and strains through the labor pains—this is the dawn of new life.

And, here we are. In the dark of night, marking the dawn.

A new day in which God becomes a baby. A baby born to poor parents. A baby swaddled with rags. A baby rooting for the breast. A baby who the world would call the least of these.

The new creation emerges in the midst of a vulnerable people, in a fragile form.

And, as I consider the fragility of the infant. It is striking, this is a new creation that cannot survive without our care.

Our care. And when we gather with the shepherds, we gather as stewards of this creation. Giving of ourselves so that this baby can survive. So that this baby can thrive. So that this baby can transform the world.

What a wonder this is. That this new creation requires our care--requires our compassion.

The story needs us. The baby needs us. This family needs us. And so we gather, as active participants in what God has done for the world. What God continues to do for the world when we focus ourselves and our lives on the new creation found in the most vulnerable of people, in the most fragile of moments.

What is important is this. What is crucial is this. What matters is this…

Tonight, we re-set our priorities. Tonight, we live into our calling—to center ourselves on something so much more than ourselves.

Not for me. Not for you. For us. All of us. All of us who, in this incarnation, become more than we once were and all that we might be. Christ abides in us as we abide in him…and, on this night, Christ is born to us. Christ is born in us. Christ is born in this gathering that knits together Christ’s very body.

And in this moment of birth, the powers of this world fade to the background. There is no social media, no 24/7 news cycle, no newspapers, no MPR, no shock radio...just us, the faithful body turning our hearts, our minds, our souls, and our bodies towards the beautiful, awe-filled, amazing truth of God's love for us.

In this story, the emperor gets two sentences...the infant, the universe.

As it should be, as it should be in any world, in our world--that a baby is born and the world in all its brokenness gives way to awe in the face of the infinite and powerful potential of life. Fragile, vulnerable, messy, needy, rooting, and rejoicing, life!

In this moment of awe...violence and destruction lose their sway over us. In this moment of awe, worry gives way to anticipation. In this moment of awe, we may be afraid, yes—but we are also filled with hope.

Filled with hope because, on this night true worship is given to a baby born to poor parents. On this night, we give breath to creation. On this night, we are knit together in one body, for one purpose.

On this night, we the rulers of this world do not get to dictate the terms of the story because they are not the authors of this story. God is, and in God’s story no ruler is greater than the shepherd, no king mightier than the swaddled infant, no house more radiant than the stable.  

This is a story of God's intention, our longing, our need, and a baby who fulfills it all—God’s story, our story.

And so, the faithful gather to hear our story. A story which holds all of our hopes and fears. A story with is ours but not ours alone. A story which holds at its center the vulnerable. A story which we are invited to make our story. A story where those who attend to the baby are the shepherds, the stewards, of the new creation. A story in which we are responsible for the vulnerable, the vulnerable one who will love and live for us all.

At this time, we gather. At this time, we proclaim—our part in the story. Our part in the new creation.

So together, let us stand and sing…

MMMMMMM

Who is as the hymn would put it, the sum total of all of our hopes and fears.

And, here we gather with all of OUR hopes and fears.

We, this is not a story for any one of us...it is a story for all of us. A story that we gather together for, a story best heard in community, a story proclaimed this night around the world.

Cairo, Somalia, New Delhi, Mexico City, Luxembourg, Paris, Israel, Palestine, and here, here at

Here, at St Clement's in St Paul Minnesota. The church where inscribed above the arch is an invitation, perhaps even a command, to gather in he new creation.

The Spirit and the bride say come....

This a moment of revelation, of the revelation. Of glory, of hope,

O come all he faithful, joyful and triumphant!