Advent IV: Holiness Happens

 

Advent IV - 12.20.24 - Year C
The Episcopal Church of St. John the Baptist
Milton, DE

Well, that went fast, didn’t it? Here we are, the the fourth Sunday in Advent and three days from Christmas. I believe this is my third time to be with you, but who’s counting, right? If I’m lucky, it won’t be the last.

 

If you’ve learned anything about me, it’s that I’m a storyteller. I love the Gospel stories and I love the stories of our lives that reflect the ancient stories of Good News – and the way the people of today reflect the ancient characters in the Gospel stories.

The Nativity stories in this cycle are just chock-full of stories inside of stories that simply tell themselves and, in so doing, strengthen our faith.

I especially love Luke’s story of The Visitation which gives us the beautiful song of Mary we know as “The Magnificat”. Scholars tell us that this song affords Mary the most words said by any woman in any piece of scripture anywhere. It’s also easily recognizable and cherished by many Christians as part of the Christmas story.

There’s a children’s Christian education program called “Godly Play,” which is based on the Montessori approach to teaching children. As the scriptural story is introduced, the teacher often says, “You may have heard this story before, but you have changed since the last time you heard this story. I wonder if the way you’ve changed, changes the way you will hear this story.”

 

What I hear this year in the story of the Visitation and the Magnificat is that there are so many stories within that story. The story looks to me like the word equivalent of one of those Russian Nesting Dolls where one doll fits into another and then another fits into yet another until you get to the baby.

Now, I'm really excited to get to all the stories in the stories, but before I begin, let me address something that always dances in the mind of at least one or two people in a congregation like this. Someone always wants to dismiss this story because of The Virgin Birth – which they consider so much hocus-pocus or poppycock. 

 

I love what author and Presbyterian minister, Frederick Buechner says about that:

“ . . . .many Christians have made it an article of faith that it was the Holy Spirit rather than Joseph who got Mary pregnant. If you believe God was somehow in Christ, it shouldn't make much difference to you how he got there. If you don't believe, it should make less difference still. In either case, life is complicated enough without confusing theology and gynecology.

In one sense anyway, the doctrine of the virgin birth is demonstrably true. Whereas the villains of history can always be seen as the products of heredity and environment, the saints always seem to arrive under their own steam. Evil evolves. Holiness happens.”

Evil evolves. Holiness happens. With all of the changes this past year has brought, that phrase strikes me in a deep place of understanding. Evil evolves. Holiness happens.

The story of the Visitation of Mary and Elizabeth and the Magnificat that Mary sings is one of those moments when “holiness happens”. 

It has a great deal to do with the word “blessed” – which is the word Elizabeth uses to greet Mary: “Blessed are you among women.”

Hold that thought because I’m going to come back to it in just a minute.  Or, two. 

I say that this is one of those moments when ‘holiness happens’ because on the surface of the story it may look like only Mary and only Elizabeth are present in this story. 

But, if you open the Nesting Doll of this story, you’ll find other women present, as well, all having to do with Mary having been greeted by Elizabeth as “Blessed”.

The first is the Song of Miriam - the sister of Moses - a biblical song of praise that celebrates the Israelites' deliverance from the Egyptians as the Red Sea parted for their escape. Miriam song begins, "Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea"

The next is the story of Hannah. I’m sure Mary knew both songs of Miriam and Hannah. Indeed, she may have even learned it from her mother Anne, who learned it from her mother, who may have sung the song around the house as she went about her work, as ancient mothers often did. 

Found in the second book of Samuel (2:1-10), Hannah gives thanks to God for the birth of her son Samuel. It is very similar to Psalm 113. In Judaism, the song of Hannah is regarded as the prime role model for how to pray and is read on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. It begins:

 “My heart rejoices in the Lord; my strength is exalted in the Lord. I smile at my enemies, because I rejoice in your salvation.”

But, there is yet another story in this story – the song of Deborah which we find in the fourth book of Judges (4:4-5) – her song is in Judges 5.  Deborah is described as a prophet, a judge and a warrior – a mother of Israel. Her story comes at a turning point in the history of Israel as the people cross over to reclaim Canaan. It is a time of violence and war when men and women are called to battle to save the nation of Israel.

Deborah’s song recalls the heroine Yael who kills Sisera, a general hellbent on destroying Israel. Yael offered him milk and kindness and hospitality and then, when he becomes drowsy with satisfaction, drives a peg through his skull and kills him. For this, Deborah sings the praises of Yael and says she is “blessed among women.”

 

I know, right? Who knew such violence was in scripture? But wait! There’s more.  There’s another nesting doll to be uncovered. Yael is not the only woman thus invited into this holy moment. 

Perhaps you may have heard the story of Judith, another strong woman in the stories of our faith during the time of the Assyrian attempted take over of Israel. In the 13^th chapter of the Apocryphal Book of Judith, Judith is praised in similar language for killing Holofernes: 

"O daughter, you are blessed by the Most High God above all other women on earth; and blessed be the Lord God, who created the heavens and the earth, who has guided you to cut off the head of the leader of our enemies."

So, there is a multitude of women present in the Magnificat. Mary and Elizabeth are joined by Miriam and Hannah, Deborah and Yael and Judith. All of these women are in that sacred space with Elizabeth and Mary. All of them are “blessed among women” because Mary carries within her womb the embodiment and the redemption of all of their stories. 

The promised redemption and salvation of God are themes in every song of each woman which now becomes incarnate in the babe in Mary’s womb. No wonder John the Baptist leaps in utero when Elizabeth greets Mary.

To understand this, to understand how ‘holiness happens’, you have to know something about the word “blessed”. That story is the final nesting doll in the nesting egg of stories about the Magnificat.

 

Several years ago, I was curious about the word “blessed” so I looked it up in the Old Oxford English Dictionary. I grew even more curious as I discovered that the root of the word ‘bless’ is ‘blood’. 

I mentioned this to my spiritual director at that time, Martin Smith, who was, also at that time, a brother in the Anglican Order of the Society of St. John the Evangelist in Cambridge, MA where I attended seminary. You may know them as “The Cowley Fathers”. 

Martin explained to me that most of our words in the English language came to us from St. Gregory who founded a monastery where the monks wrote down most of his sermons.  Prior to that, not many sermons were written down. Gregory’s favorite preaching topic was the stories of Jacob. He especially loved preaching on the story of Jacob’s wrestling with an angel.

Gregory said that, when Jacob and the angel began to wrestle, in that moment, time stood still. It’s a holy moment, Gregory said, when the past and the future fold into the present and become one.  In that moment, Gregory preached that the blood of the cross splashed on Jacob and he was “blooded”. 

Jacob, Gregory said, was ‘blooded’. 

When the monks wrote down the sermon, they wrote in the script of their day, of course. To eyes that came to read that sermon later in time, their letter ‘d’ looked like an ‘s’. Thus, ‘blooded’ becomes ‘blessed’. 

Jacob was blessed.

When you open the nesting egg of the story of the Magnificat and begin to hear the echoes of all the other women who are singing with Mary in that holy moment – all those warrior women who fought for the freedom of their country which did not fully grant it to them – you begin to understand the blessedness of Mary, and why Elizabeth greets her as “Blessed among women.”

You begin to understand that in the holy moment when Mary wrestled with the words of an angel – as Jacob before her had wrestled with an angel – and had to suspend logic and reason, the past and the future folded into the present and the blood that had been shed in the past and the blood that will be shed on the cross has splattered on Mary. 

St. Gregory would have said that Mary is blooded – or blessed.  

You also begin to understand why Mary spoke about the “strong arm of God” and “casting the down the mighty” and “lifting up the lowly”. Perhaps you can understand why she sang about “filling the hungry with good things” and sending “the rich away empty”. 

And, you begin to understand just how much of an influence Mary had upon her son, Jesus as well as his cousin John who leapt in her womb when he heard Elizabeth say to Mary, “Blessed are you among women!” 

 

In his first sermon in the Temple, Jesus says,

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim release to the captives, recovering of sight to the blind, to deliver those who are crushed, and to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”

Do you hear it? Can you hear the echo’s of the songs of all the other women in the genealogy of the line of Jesus? Perhaps you can hear it more clearly in his second sermon, known as The Beatitudes. Jesus says, nine times, “Blessed are you . . . “

Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who weep and mourn. Blessed are the merciful and pure in spirit.

In two days, we will be celebrating the Nativity of Jesus. We will be asked to participate in a story that defies logic and strains reason. 

 

And for one night, one Holy night, we will be asked to suspend logic and reason and belief and participate in a story that requires an act of faith.   We will be asked not just to receive Jesus, but also to conceive Jesus in our hearts and souls and minds.

We will be asked to participate in a miracle.  Like Mary, we will be asked to say YES to God, even though people may judge us unkindly. 

Fear not! We will not be alone.  We will be surrounded by Mary and Elizabeth, Miriam and Hannah, and Deborah, Judith and Yael, as well as the four women mentioned in Matthew’s genealogy: Tamar and Rahab, Ruth and Bathsheba and a whole host of holy women and men, the saints of old, who arrived into a holy moment on their own steam.

At Christmas, we will enter that time and space when time stands still and holiness happens.

 

And when we do, we, too, will be blessed among women and men. 

 

Amen

 

Amen.

 

Recalculating Advent

 

The Episcopal Church of St. Peter

"A Sanctuary in the Heart of Lewes, Delaware"

Advent II - December 8, 2024

• Baruch 5:1-9
• Philippians 1:3-11
• Luke 3:1-6
• Canticle 4 or 16

It’s probably because I am from a crazy, immigrant family that puts the capital “D” in dysfunctional, that I get a little ..oh, I don’t know… um.. ”crabby” … this time of year. The prophets, for me, function like a spiritual GPS system, giving us directions and course corrections on exactly how and where and when to find The Incarnation.

Now, I don’t mind getting directions. I often rely heavily on my GPS system. Do you remember when they first came out? There were several versions: Garmin or Tom Tom are the two I remember. I had a Garmin. Now I have my cell phone. With Garmin, things were fine until you had to make a detour because of traffic or an accident – which – unlike the newer ones in your car or on your cell phone – ‘standalone’ GPS systems, can’t make adjustments for live traffic situations.

In the early models, as soon as you changed course from the one laid out for you, Mrs. Garmin, as I liked to call her, would say, “Recalculating.” Oh, but she wouldn’t stop there. She would repeat it. “Recalculating. Recalculating.”

And each time she repeated it, there was no doubt in my mind that she developed what my mother called “tone”. And that “tone” was clearly one of judgment. Re-CAL-cu-lay-TING.

Of course, on one level, it’s ridiculous – absurd – to get angry at the voice of one, crying from the dashboard. However, if you had grown up in my big, fat, crazy, dysfunctional Azorean Portuguese family, that was pretty much normal behavior.

Now, my mother, may she rest in peace, was a registered, certified, tour guide for Guilt Trips. It was the family business, so she came by her talent honestly. So, you’ll understand, please, and forgive me when I tell you that if I can get annoyed at the mechanical tone of a GPS system, I also start to get really crabby when I begin to hear too many GPS system directions – or corrections – from The Prophets.

My guilt gets triggered easily. I’m hardwired for it in my DNA and Roman Catholic roots. I don’t need help.

Advent, more than any other season, is absolutely thick with prophets. This particular liturgical year in Advent, we’ll hear from seven of them. Today alone, we hear from Baruch (we could have also heard from Malachi), Zechariah, Isaiah and John the Baptist.

Baruch is my favorite spiritual GPS system. Just listen to his directions:  

Take off your garments and put on the robe of righteousness. Arise. Look east. The high mountains will be made low. The valley will be filled. Everything will be level.

There! See?  No judgment. No groveling. No sniveling. Now we know exactly where we are going in order to see The Incarnation: Follow the level road. No, not the yellow brick, just level road.

But, like Mrs. Garmin, it’s the tone of some of the prophets that gets to me. Many of the prophets are clearly giving us warnings to forsake our sins. Repentance is the word of the day. Which, for me, is annoying.

Repentance is the right word and tone for Lent. But, this is Advent, not Lent. This isn’t the time for groveling and pleading and chest beating. Nay, nay. Like Mary, full of grace and pregnant with child, Advent is a spiritual time ripe with opportunities for contemplation and preparation.

Prepare the way, says the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. Not ‘Repent” but “Prepare”. Get ready. There’s a detour ahead. You’re going to have to change directions. Your life has been going this way, but you’re going to have to turn around. “The salvation of God” that you thought would only be seen by a few select folks will be seen by “all flesh”.

It’s “Recalculate” but without the tone. Or the guilt.

But you have to get up off your knees and stand on your feet. You have to stop looking down like a penitent, and look inward like a contemplative. When you lift up your head, look East. Take off the sack cloth and the ashes and, as Baruch says,

“Put on the robe of the righteousness that comes from God; put on your head the diadem of the glory of the Everlasting; for God will show your splendor everywhere under heaven.”

Now, we’re talking Advent!

Maybe Mrs. Garmin has it right, after all. Maybe the word for Advent is not “Repent”. Maybe the word of Advent is “Recalculate.” Maybe the Advent challenge of our spiritual GPS system is to stop looking for forgiveness and stop listening for judgment. That’s the direction for Lent. In the Season of the Incarnation, perhaps our spiritual GPS should be programed in the direction of love.

Do any of you remember the short story “The Burglar’s Christmas” by Elizabeth Seymore? Well, Elizabeth Seymore was the pseudonym used by Pulitzer prize winning author Willa Cather when she published her short story 1896 in the monthly magazine, Home Monthly. The story carries the theme of the biblical story, The Prodigal Son. Prodigal means extravagantly, wastefully generous, so it’s really more aptly titled The Prodigal Father. This, then, is the story of The Prodigal Mother.

The story opens as we listen to the conversation between two young men, standing on the corner of Prairie Avenue and Eightieth Street in Chicago, just before the turn of the century.

It is Christmas Eve. The two young men are ne’er do wells. Vagrants. Scallywags. Bums. They haven’t eaten in 36 hours and they have no money left. One decides he’s at least going to try to trade in on the goodwill of the season – laced with memories of a happier time – for a sandwich from the owner of a pub where he used to play the banjo.

He invites his friend to come, but he declines. The two part company, leaving the one to fill his head with the possibility of a free meal and the other to consider finding solace at the bottom of the lake.

William. That’s the man’s name who is left alone on that street corner in Chicago. Twenty-four years old. From a good home and a good family. College grad of whom hopeful things were said.

As Cather writes, “He knew now that he never had the essentials of success, only the superficial agility that is often mistaken for it.”

Like young men in ages past and yet to come, William had taken a wrong turn and couldn’t find his way back on the right path – and, didn’t know if he wanted to.

It was Christmas Eve and it was also William’s birthday, something he found somewhat sadly amusing if not slightly ironic. Memories of a loving family and a warm fire stirred memories of hot meals which only caused the rumbling in his belly to grow louder and sparked his plans for a further descent into failure.

Right there, in that moment, he decided to try his hand at being a thief.

A young woman walked by with an armful of packages, dropping one which he retrieved and returned. Following her, he saw the door to their home open and, after everyone had made their way to the back of the house, William snuck in and made his way up to the third floor where he promptly launched his new career as a burglar.

And, just as quickly, his new career took a detour. His pockets stuffed with jewelry, the door suddenly opened and, standing before him was none other than his own mother. You can easily find the story on the internet for free so I will leave you to read of their encounter, of his reunion with his mother and his father, and of his hot meal which warmed his belly as well as his heart and his soul.

His mother wanted him to tell her everything – where he had been, what he had done. She wanted him to spare no detail of the truth. He said to his mother, "I wonder if you know how much you pardon?"  "O, my poor boy,” she said, “much or little, what does it matter?”

And then she says to William, something I think we all need to hear. (Listen!) “Have you wandered so far and paid such a bitter price for knowledge and not yet learned that love has nothing to do with pardon or forgiveness, that it only loves, and loves—and loves?”

Here, in the Season of the Advent of the Incarnation of Love, when we wait for the birth of the “Love (that) came down at Christmas,” instead of hearing the prophet’s call to Repent, perhaps we ought to tune our ears to listen to the higher calling of the GPS angels singing, “Recalculate!” No tone. No judgment. No need. Just one, “Recalculate.” Just turn around. See that love had been there, all along.

Oh, of course, we are human. We all fall short. We will still need a season of repentance and forgiveness. We have that season. It is called Lent. It will be here soon enough.

Perhaps for one short season – the shortest of them all – we can allow ourselves to soak – drench – saturate –  marinate – ourselves in the reality of the unconditional, Incarnational love of God. Let that love sink into our own bodies, deep into the marrow of our very bones, so that we can at least try to do better at loving ourselves and others as God loves us.

God knows, we need it. Some of us who appear to want for nothing seem to be starved for it. Winter’s coming.

The story of The Burglar’s Christmas ends with these words, which sound to me to have a prophetic tone that echoes that of Baruch. (Listen!)

“And as the chimes rang joyfully outside and sleep pressed heavily upon his eyelids, he wondered dimly if the Author of this sad little riddle of ours were not able to solve it after all, and if the Potter would not finally mete out his all comprehensive justice, such as none but he could have, to his Things of Clay, which are made in his own patterns, weak or strong, for his own ends; and if some day we will not awaken and find that all evil is a dream, a mental distortion that will pass when the dawn shall break.”

Friends, let us set our spiritual GPS to return to Eden – or, at least, the dream of The Beloved Community, which I believe is one of the stops on the road home to Eden. Oh, let’s not give up on the dream of the Beloved Community. Especially now, when the road has suddenly gotten a lot steeper and there are lots more road blocks in the way. Especially now, when it is threatened with extinction. With love, we can get there. Don’t give up. Please.

Let us caste off the heavy robes of guilt and shame and know that no matter who we are, or who we think we are, or who we have become; no matter how wonderful or messed up or crazy our family of origin; no matter where we’ve been or where we think we’re going or what we think is just up the road ahead, this Season of Advent has nothing to do with pardon or forgiveness. Advent is about the birth of Unconditional Love that “only loves, and loves—and loves.”

Let us tune our ears and hear the angels sing “recalculate,” without judgment or guilt or shame. Let us turn around, take the detour or get back on track, walk the road less traveled, and redirect our lives so we may return to awaken in Eden to the Dream of a prodigal Father/Mother God who loves us lavishly. Extravagantly. Wastefully. 

 

And try, just try, to do the same.

Amen.

For a time such as this

 

Queen Esther (אֶסְתֵּר Hadassah) by Edwin Long

"For Such A Time As This"
St. John the Evangelist Episcopal Church, Milton, DE
Pentecost XIV - Proper 21 B
September 29, 2024

Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22
Psalm 124
James 5:13-20
Mark 9:38-50

Of course, I could be wrong, but I think it was Walter Brueggemann who said, “I take the bible too seriously to take it literally.” There is lots of humor in the bible but we miss it because we take it too literally. Take, for example, this morning’s Gospel. Granted, you have to embroider the story a little bit to find the humor, but stay with me and let’s find it together.

Jesus and his disciples have been walking together through Galilee and the Villages of Caesarea Philippi (which sounds to me like one of the many new suburban developments somewhere in Sussex County), through Capernaum. Along the way, the disciples have been talking amongst themselves about “who is the greatest”.  

Jesus says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” He tells them that the Realm of God must be entered “as vulnerable as a little child.”

This morning, we hear John say to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Did you catch that? John did not say, “He was not following YOU.” No, John said, “Not following US.”

Again, with the inflated ego. Follow US, not Jesus. Now, in my religious imagination, I think Mark left out a verse. Or, maybe someone coming after him decided that, since it was such a short verse, it could be dropped. But, I think that in between what John said and how Jesus answers could have probably been one of the most powerful short sentences in scripture since the verse, “And, Jesus wept.”

I think that before Jesus goes into the obvious hyperbole about tying millstones around the necks of people, and cutting off feet and hands and plucking out eyes, is probably the verse: “And, Jesus did a facepalm.”

I mean, seriously! How dense are these apostles? Well, probably about as dense as those of us who take the bible so literally that there have been those who have actually tied millstones around necks of people and watched them drown, or literally cut off body parts, comforted by their self-righteousness that they were only following the words of Jesus.  

The Bible has many funny moments—though you might not know it from the history of Christian interpretation. Nietzsche’s biggest complaint about Christians is that we are a joyless people. Theologian Paul Tillich said he almost left Christianity for the same reason.

One of the best examples of humor in the bible, not as well-known as the story of Jonah and the Whale, is the story of Esther. That reading was one of the options we have for today’s lesson from Hebrew Scripture, but since it was not chosen, allow me a few minutes to summarize the book for you, with the encouragement that you take a few moments out of your afternoon Sabbath, find your bible, dust it off, and read the Book of Esther. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.

I want to use the story of Esther because I think Jesus knew it and understood the tool of hyperbole as a way of making a point. And it certainly seems that the disciples need a verbal hit upside the head to understand something about leadership and ministry.

Fair warning: You may miss the humor in the book if you are reading it with your Victorian scruples intact. The great Protestant theologian Calvin didn’t include Esther in his biblical commentaries. And, the great theologian of the Reformation, Martin Luther, felt it had “too much pagan naughtiness.”

So, admit it. Now you want to run home and read it, right?

So, here's a brief summary: The Book of Esther tells the story celebrated at The Jewish Festival of Purim. It’s the story of how Queen Esther and her cousin Mordecai saved the Jewish people from the plot of the wicked Haman, who was advisor to the Persian King Ahasuerus and who tried to have the Jews destroyed.

Understand: they are Jews living in the Persian diaspora. They are there because they were under threat of genocide, living in a place where the religion at the time was a sort of dualism. Persians worshipped one Supreme God with occasional rare mentions of other Gods. Their Satan was elevated to a much higher power and position, a near equal and opposite to God.
 
Esther is not your typical saint. She doesn’t conduct herself like someone who is zealous about the law, yet she becomes a Jewish heroine. She doesn’t rise up from unsavory circumstances ringed with white blossoms of purity like St. Agnes, who was thrown into a brothel but remained, miraculously, immaculate. Esther is decidedly not a heroine of the nunnish type.

She becomes a heroine because she takes a bold risk of faith. Queen Esther decides to speak to the King about Haman’s plan to kill all the Jews even though an appearance at the King’s Court, without an invitation, is punishable by death. It’s the words of her uncle Mordecai that inspire her:

“For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14)

Who knows but that you have come to your position for such a time as this? I don’t know about you, but I hear an echo of Mordecai’s words in the admonition of Jesus to the apostles:

“Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us.” (Mark 9:38-41)

We also hear an echo of this position in the words of James, the brother of Jesus, which we heard this morning:

“My brothers and sisters, if anyone among you wanders from the truth and is brought back by another, you should know that whoever brings back a sinner from wandering will save the sinner's soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins.” (James 5:13-19)

Whoever brings back a sinner from wandering.

Whoever is not against us is for us.

And, who knows that you have come to your position for such a time as this?

My friends, hear me: I know you are grieving this morning. I am keenly aware that last Sunday was your farewell to your beloved Pastor Tom. Your Senior Warden and I discussed this when we talked about my being with you this morning. As a Hospice Chaplain, I am well acquainted with the workings of grief. I know that the hearts of many of you are probably feeling a bit tender and sore. You are grieving and anxious and that is to be understood.

I know Tom came to you when you were not feeling loved or loveable. I know his love for you built up this congregation from a mere 15 to, at times, 75 – more at High Holy Days. I know some of you are afraid that you will never find another priest and pastor to love you the way Pastor Tom did. It’s going to be hard to trust anyone – me, other supply clergy, your interim priest, or even your new rector when she or he comes.

That’s a reasonable anxiety because here’s the hard truth: There will never be another Pastor Tom. But, here’s another truth: That does not mean that you are not loveable or that you will never find someone to love you again.

Here's another truth: In the midst of the pain of grief and anxiety of the unknown, sometimes we confuse taking things literally with taking things seriously. They are not the same. Taking things literally can cost you one of the strongest medicines known to the entire human enterprise: Laughter.

It’s so important not to take things literally but not so seriously that you lose the ability to laugh at yourself. Don’t be afraid to do a facepalm at yourself every now and again. I have no doubt that Jesus did. Because Jesus knew what it was to be human.

Voltaire said it best: "God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.”

Now, even now, God has already prepared people who will be raised up “for such a time as this”. There are those among you who learned the lessons of love of the past decade and are willing to take the risks of faith to trust others. Now, even now, God is already preparing leaders, laity and ordained, “for such a time as this” who will walk with you into the future.
 
In the midst of your grief and sorrow – which is good and right and proper for you to experience because you have had a great loss – know that we are people of the Eucharist and Resurrection. We are people of Thanksgiving and Life Eternal. God will never leave us comfortless. Be assured by the words of our Eucharistic liturgy during a funeral:

“. . . . for we know that life is changed, not ended.”

Life is changed, not ended. That includes our congregational life.

Know that there are Esthers and Mordecais, Eldads and Medads, and Joshua son of Nun, and yes, Hamans and unruly Kings among us. There are also wise teachers like James and Moses, and those who understand the hyperbole in the words of Jesus teaching who can help us laugh at ourselves and do a facepalm when that’s exactly the medicine we need to take.

Open your heart to it all, my friends. Nobody ever looked back and said, “I could have loved less.” Open your heart even though it makes you as vulnerable as a child.

For such is the Realm of God.

For such a time as this.

Amen.

Like a child

 

St. Mark's Episcopal Church - Millsboro, DE
Pentecost XVIII - Proper XX - September 22, 2024

Track 1
Proverbs 31:10-31 Psalm 1 James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a Mark 9:30-37

Some of you may already know – and, if you don’t, you will soon discover – that Ted, your new Priest in Charge, is a big fan of Amy Jill Levine. Huge. I don’t know what he has in store for your Advent Christian Education Series, but I am willing to bet solid money that it – and/or a few of his sermons – will at least include some of Amy Jill Levine’s work.

There is good reason for this. Amy Jill Levine rocks. Hard. AJ (as she prefers to be called) is Professor of New Testament and Jewish Studies at Hartford International University for Religion and Peace. Yes, I said, New Testament AND Jewish Studies. If you stop and think about that for a minute, you’ll see that it isn’t so strange.

The Gospels are all about the teachings of a Rabbi from Nazareth and the Epistles were written by Jewish men. Who better to help us understand the teachings of the Rabbi we follow than a good Rabbinical scholar?

I’ve heard AJ lecture several times. She’s really good: smart and funny and edgy and provocative. She’s a lot like Jesus. During one of her lectures, Levine told us about her son. He was a little boy at the time. He had curly hair, she said. Altogether adorable. Imagine that little boy is sitting in the front row every time you preach, she said. Right there in front of you. Never say anything that will harm that little Jewish boy.

I remember that statement so vividly because I remember preaching in front of my own kids when they were little. I remember thinking that I never wanted to preach a sermon that they would be ashamed of – or that would shame any one of them. Or, that wouldn’t be the truth spoken from my heart. Never say anything that will harm a little child.

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus takes a little child by the hand and says to the disciples, See this child? This child right here? This is what the reign of God looks like. THIS, not some old man or old woman with a crown sitting on a throne.

I know what you’re thinking. Children don’t have any status. They are little more than chattel, which can be bought and sold like the women who are their mothers – despite what we read this morning from the Book of Wisdom about wives.
And yet, this is what the reign of God looks like. This is who the reign of God belongs to. So, says Jesus, wise up and welcome them.

But, the disciples, it seems were pretty clueless. There are 16 chapters in Mark’s Gospel. We’re at chapter 9 – more than half way through. Jesus has said and done lots of things. Amazing things. Astounding things. Miraculous things. And yet, the disciples don’t get it.

After Jesus explains to them – albeit in the third person – about what is going to happen to him, Mark tells us that they had been arguing among themselves about who was the greatest. Seriously! Apparently, the boxer Muhammed Ali was not the first to concern himself with the status of the greatest. Apparently, he isn’t the last. Probably won’t be, either.

I imagine the disciples look at themselves rather sheepishly. I mean, who started that conversation anyway? Was it Peter? Nah, he really hadn’t been the same since Jesus changed his name from Simon. It had to be the Sons of Thunder, James and John. They might have been thinking, “Why did we allow ourselves to get caught up in that discussion in the first place?”

That’s when Jesus, rather than rebuke them, takes a little child by the hand. Maybe the little boy or girl was standing nearby. Maybe playing with a toy. Maybe minding her own business. Maybe paying close attention to the energy in the room. Jesus takes that little one and puts her center stage. I imagine the room goes silent.

Taking the child in his arms, Jesus says to the disciples, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

You see this child? This face? These curls? Keep them in front of you, Jesus says. Let them be your guide to my reign. Don’t do anything that will hinder or harm them. Look to them first, before you speak or offer admission or try to describe what I came here to do. This little one is all you need to know about that. Keep her safe. Keep him safe. And know that whenever you welcome one of these little ones, you welcome me and the One who sent me.

Not a lot of churches I help out in these days have a child – much less children – sitting in the pew. Sometimes, when I look out at you, sitting there in the congregation, I try to imagine your faces when you were little children. If you see me looking at you while the Hebrew Scripture or Epistle is being read, that’s probably what I’m doing.

I imagine some of you were probably as mild mannered as you are today. But, there are others of you . . . . well . . . . I’ll just say this:  You didn’t develop that devilish smile or that mischievous twinkle in your eye just yesterday. And I suspect some of you were born with one hand on your hip and no one had to slip a nickel or a dime into your hand to persuade you to be bossy.

I see the child in you. The playful child. The mischievous child. I also see the child who was bullied. The child who was shamed. The child who never thought she was good enough. The child who thought he’d maybe make the team but he’d never be accepted.

I never want to hurt that child.

When I preach to you, I know that I am not only preaching to the person you are today – the person you have become – I am also preaching to the child you once were. That happy child and that hurt child are also here in this church this morning, maybe minding their own business or toying with my words, paying close attention to the energy in the church right now, trying to determine what “Mother” will say or do next.

As I prepare to preach the Gospel – the Good News – to you, I remember all of your faces and I hear Jesus whisper in my ear: This – THIS – is the realm of God. This – THIS – is what God’s reign looks like. Do everything you can to challenge them to take risks for the Gospel, but keep their souls safe. Protect them even as you encourage them to stretch themselves in their faith.

 

And, if they fall – when they fall – do everything you can to make sure someone – maybe not you, probably not you, probably not even a deacon or a priest or a bishop – but someone in the community is there to pick them up and dust them off and help them back on their way.

For that is what the realm of God looks like, too: The people of God helping the people of God to be better people of God. And that takes the vulnerability and openness of a little child. It also takes the resilience of a faith tested by time.

So, take a minute now to look around this church. Look into the faces of your neighbor sitting next to you or in front of you or behind you. Go ahead, I invite you to do that now. I invite you to say to each other, “You are an image of God.”

And now say, “This is the Reign of God.”

You know, it helps to listen to good Rabbis, those who are Jewish, those who are Christian, those who come to teach us the word of God not as one who is the greatest, but from a place of truth and love in their hearts.

Amen.

Being and Becoming

A Sermon preached at St Mark's, Millsboro

Pentecost XVII - Proper 19 B

September 15, 2024

Track 1
Proverbs1:20-33 Psalm 19 James 3:1-12 Mark 8:27-38

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus is traveling through the villages of Caesarea Philippi when he asks his disciples, "Who do you say I am?"

It’s important to listen to his answer. After he waits for his disciples to respond, Jesus doesn’t so much tell them who he is, as what he was about to become.

Let me say that again: Not who he is, but who he is to become and what he must do in order to become what he was created to be.

He also told the disciples about the process of becoming that they, themselves, must experience if they are to be known as his "followers".

Note, please: Not what he is or they are now – but who they must become and how to achieve it. And that, of course, requires sacrifice of who they are now. For Jesus, that involves death. For the disciples, it means the death of their former self and possibly their actual death.

The other night, I was preoccupied with all that is going on in the world. I couldn't really focus on anything I'm presently reading . Network television was, for me, just junk - game shows, talent contests, reruns, and political commentary, the last being pretty much a combination of the first three.

I decided to watch a British film called, "Me Before You" on streaming TV.

 

So, I'll say this and get it out of the way: Emilia Clarke plays the character Louisa Clark. How many here are a fan of Game of Thrones? I’m not just a fan, I’m a true fanatic.

Emilia is probably best known for playing the Khaleesi (or Princess), Daenerys Targaryen, a most formidable woman. She is known as the Mother of Dragons which were born in the fire of her rebirth.

Her intention is to do what she must to become the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Hers was not a baptism of water, but a transformation by fire.

One of her most famous lines - when she wasn't shouting "Dracarys," to make her dragons breathe fire - was the understanding of what she must do to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion Lannister, of House Lannister, tells her that it is an impossible task. All of her family in House Targaryen is gone. So is House Stark and none of the others will back her.

She says, “Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell: they're all just spokes on a wheel. This one's on top, then that one's on top, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground.”

Tyrion responds, “It's a beautiful dream, stopping the wheel. You're not the first person who's ever dreamt it.”

“I'm not going to stop the wheel,” says Daenerys, “I'm going to break the wheel.”

See also: formidable woman.

So to see her go from that character to the silly, flighty, Louisa Clark in this movie, with her funky fashion and impossibly silly rage of facial expressions was, well, difficult. I almost turned it off, but I had paid $2.99 to rent it and I'm cheap so I watched.

I'm glad I did.

 

Very short synopsis: Louisa is a "quirky," irrepressible cheerful, and very kindhearted young lass in Northern UK who moves from one job to the next to help her family make financial ends meet. Her whole worldview is tested when she becomes a caregiver for Will Traynor, a wealthy young banker left paralyzed - a quadraplegic - and deeply cynical from an accident two years earlier.

He wants to go to Switzerland to be euthanized. She wants to show him that life is worth living. During their six-month relationship, they are both changed and transformed. But not in the way you might suspect.

Both have to lose their lives in order to regain them.

 

I've been thinking about that movie in terms of the question Jesus asks his disciples. I've been thinking about how we are not - tomorrow, or next week, or, for some of us, next year - who we are today. Some of us change for the good and some of us, well, life's unkindness has left some of us unkind. Or, grumpy. Or, arrogant. Or, pessimistic and depressed and cynical.

Oh, we have the basic qualities and characteristics that are part of what is referred to as our "nature" - much of which can be tempered by how we are "nurtured".

The point is that we are always becoming.

Depending on how we manage the circumstances of our lives - the curve balls and the strikes and the walks, as well as the line drives, base hits, and home runs - we become more or less of who we are and the image God had of us when we were first conceived in the mind of God.

And, that is the point of our life in Christ: to become more of who we are as we discover why it is we were born here, at this time, in this place, for this purpose.

Not all of us have grand purposes – to become President of the United States, or a research scientist who helps to put a human on a faraway planet or discovers a cure for a previously incurable disease. Not all of us will ever be an Olympian, much less win a gold, silver or bronze metal.

For some of us, it is enough that we have discovered something –  a passion, sobriety, a relationship – that has saved ourselves from disaster or catastrophe.

For some, it is enough that we exhibit courage and strength and bravery in overcoming, to the best of our abilities, an illness that may eventually take our lives.

Some of us have stopped the wheel of patterns of family destruction. Other of us have broken the wheel.

I don’t know why you come to church. I don’t know your individual stories, but I see your faces. I have looked into your eyes. I know that if you have loved, you have suffered. I know that you didn’t get here today to who you are and what you have become without some sacrifice of self.

You can not become who you are without sacrificing at least in part what you once were.

Some of us had parents, grandparents, and great grandparents who sacrificed living with their families in the land of their birth to make a new life in this country. They never knew – could, perhaps dream but not even imagine – the life we have now. Their sacrifice was not so much for themselves but for the dream they had for us before we were even conceived or born.

And that is the point Jesus is making in today’s Gospel. No, we’re not as close to sacrificing our lives as the first disciples were. No, we are not being persecuted for our faith as the early Christians were. But, to be a Christian is to always die – at least a little – to self so that we can become better followers of Christ.

Being in order to become.

Dying to self in order to more fully live in Christ.

Living this life fully until we are called by God to live fully into the gift of Life Eternal.

This morning’s scripture tells us that Jesus “called to the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

Many of you have taken up your cross and followed Jesus into this wonderful little faithful church to become The Body of Christ. The good news is that the journey did not end when you arrived and became a member of St. Mark’s, Millsboro. Indeed, by the grace of God, the journey has only just begun.

Alleluia! And let the church say, “Amen.”

A Short Sermon on Sin

 

A Short Sermon on Sin
Old Christ Episcopal Church, Laurel, DE
Pentecost XV - Proper 17B

When I was planning this sermon and remembering the last time I was here, I recall that it was hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell. Which is a good image for this sermon which I’ve entitled “A Short Sermon on Sin”.

I don’t think I’ve ever preached a sermon on sin. It’s not something Episcopalians do. Oh, we partake in our fair share of sin; we just don’t like to hear about it – especially in church – and never in a sermon, thank you very much.

Might make people uncomfortable. That would be awkward. And, they might not come back to church. Like, ever again. These days, we can’t afford to miss out on one single pledge.

Well, buckle up folks, because whether you want to believe this or not, Jesus just preached a very short sermon about sin. We also heard one in the Epistle of St. James, the son of Joseph and Mary and the presumed brother (Oh, okay, half-brother) of Jesus.  

Here's the difference: the focus of James’ sermon about sin is slightly different from Jesus. James talks about being not only “hearers of the word but doers of the word”.  Jesus is much more concerned about the relationship we have with each other and the world rather than the things we do that are considered sinful.

The religious leaders of his day were horrified that the disciples of Jesus were not strictly following the religious rules of their day. Specifically, they were not ritually washing their hands before they ate. This was not a concern about cleanliness, per se. This was a concern about godliness.

Remember, please the that Levitical Rules that created these cleanliness codes were in reaction to the concern of the Israelites that their time in bondage in Egypt had to have been a punishment from God.

Whatever it was they did, they certainly didn’t want to do it again and make God angry. So, all of these rules were carefully created about what could and couldn’t be eaten, and how they should and shouldn’t be prepared, and what one should and should not do, and all very carefully followed so as not to anger God and find themselves slaves again.

Jesus says, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”

Bottom line: Jesus is calling us to pay close attention to the content of a one’s character rather than the content of someone else’s purse. Jesus is calling us to open our eyes to our relationships with one another rather than following the law out of blind obedience to it.  Jesus is saying we must honor God not just with our lips but with our lives.

That’s because sin is whatever leads us away from the first and great commandment: 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. ' And the second is like it: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”

Now, those commandments from God have been around for centuries and it seems fewer of us in each succeeding generation have been successful in following them. Otherwise, we wouldn’t still have the sins that Jesus names as coming from the human heart: “fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly.”

Hear me: I am not an anarchist. Rules are not bad. Rules are good things because they can govern and steer a relationship along a good path. They become bad when they become a narrow gate through which relationships must always past. When this happens, the rules become the basis for the relationship. Sometimes, rules become the substitute for the relationship.

I submit that this is so because, while it may be easy for most of us to love God, and for some of us to love our neighbor, for many of us, it’s the “as yourself” part that we mess up on. It’s so much easier to blame others for what we think we don’t have – enough money, a suitable spouse, a good enough home, a good reputation. And so we steal and commit adultery and envy and slander, and so on.

“As yourself.” Love God, love your neighbor AS YOURSELF. It starts here, in the human heart.

Croatian scholar, theologian, and author of many books on reconciliation, Miroslav Volf, wrote, “Forgiveness flounders because I exclude the enemy from the community of humans even as I exclude myself from the community of sinners.”

Understanding ourselves as humans that have also been broken by sin is the key to opening the door to forgiveness and reconciliation. As a Christian, I cannot talk about sin without talking about forgiveness and reconciliation.

 

It's sort of like the Japanese art of Kintsukuroi, the art of repairing broken pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. When we understand that we have all missed the mark, when confess that we have all fallen short, we open ourselves to God’s grace which is like a gold or silver lacquer that makes us even more beautiful for having been broken. That admission, that confession, allows us to see the beauty in other people’s brokenness and find forgiveness and reconciliation and peace.

And, you know, that’s really all I know about sin. Or, all I know to say about sin. And, forgiveness. And, reconciliation. Except, to say this: There is absolutely nothing – no sin of any sort or manner or condition, intentional or not – that can keep you from the love of God. Not even you.

 

Amen.



The Collect

Lord of all power and might, the author and giver of all good things: Graft in our hearts the love of your Name; increase in us true religion; nourish us with all goodness; and bring forth in us the fruit of good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God for ever and ever. Amen.

 

The Epistle

James 1:17-27

Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. In fulfillment of his own purpose he gave us birth by the word of truth, so that we would become a kind of first fruits of his creatures.

You must understand this, my beloved: let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger; for your anger does not produce God's righteousness. Therefore rid yourselves of all sordidness and rank growth of wickedness, and welcome with meekness the implanted word that has the power to save your souls.

But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves. For if any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like. But those who look into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and persevere, being not hearers who forget but doers who act-they will be blessed in their doing.

If any think they are religious, and do not bridle their tongues but deceive their hearts, their religion is worthless. Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.



The Gospel Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

When the Pharisees and some of the scribes who had come from Jerusalem gathered around him, they noticed that some of his disciples were eating with defiled hands, that is, without washing them. (For the Pharisees, and all the Jews, do not eat unless they thoroughly wash their hands, thus observing the tradition of the elders; and they do not eat anything from the market unless they wash it; and there are also many other traditions that they observe, the washing of cups, pots, and bronze kettles.) So the Pharisees and the scribes asked him, “Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” He said to them, “Isaiah prophesied rightly about you hypocrites, as it is written,

‘This people honors me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me;

in vain do they worship me,
teaching human precepts as doctrines.’

You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition.”

Then he called the crowd again and said to them, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”

 

Wonder Bread

St. John's Episcopal Church, Milton, DE
Pentecost XII - August 11, 2024
Proper 14, Year B, Track I

In my mind’s eye, I can still see my grandmother’s kitchen as clearly as I can see my hand in front of me. I can see her kitchen table  -  the place where we ate breakfast together every morning - which also served as a banquet table of sorts when the whole family was together. 

 

Of necessity, it was a large table. Like many immigrant families, hers was large. My grandmother had twenty pregnancies and twenty-two children. Only nine made it to adulthood - five girls and four boys - but when you add spouses and their children, my grandmother’s kitchen filled up very quickly. 

The table was also the place where meals were prepared - meat, poultry, and pork were tenderized and fish and shellfish were seasoned with generous amounts of salt, pepper, onion and garlic (lots and lots of garlic) as the basics and then, depending on the menu, with fresh or dried seasonings like sage, basil, oregano, thyme, parsley, and saffron.

It was the rare occasion that meat was served alone. It was always in a casserole or a stew, in a pot roast or a loaf, a soup or a pot pie, and always surrounded by tons of vegetables, fresh out of her garden or from large jars which she had put up: potatoes, carrots, squash, turnips, beets, string beans, tomatoes, broccoli, etc.

The menu varied, depending on what the butcher had on sale or what my grandfather and uncles and boy cousins  (“the boys” as she called them) had caught on their fishing trip when they took my grandfather’s boat off the coast of New Bedford, MA or had gone into deeper waters off the island of Cuttyhunk.

The one item on her table on which you could also depend was bread. Now, my grandmother was an excellent cook - I can’t think of a thing she made that I didn’t like - and at the risk of sounding like Oprah in that Weight Watcher commercial, I’m going to say it anyway, “I love bread.”  Probably more than Oprah, I love bread.

Now, if you’ve ever had real bread - especially if you’ve made or been part of the process of making real bread - you know the difference between real bread and processed bread. I’m probably going to date myself, but I’m now old enough that I don’t care anymore, but I remember the first time my mother brought home something called “Wonder Bread”.

How many here will admit that they remember Wonder Bread?

How many still eat it?

Mother was sooOOoo proud, sooOOoo pleased to be able to bring home to her children bread that was different from anything she had been fed as a child. This wasn’t some recipe created by some peasant in a fishing village in the old country. This was wasn’t some ancient recipe but something created by smart men, modern men - actual scientist in a real laboratory - that was made from a scientific formula. 

 

Not a recipe, a formula, see? It wasn’t ancient, it was modern. Not from a kitchen but a scientific laboratory. Not heavy and dark but white and light as a feather. Why, it was a miracle of modern science. It was a wonder, is what it was.

And so, it was called WONDER Bread. 

Except, we hated it. I mean, we kids didn’t say that, of course. Not to her face. We must have had a sense that one day, it would be our turn to be the parent, longing to please our children in a way that our mother or father never could.

As my mother hovered over us at our kitchen table, we each took a bite of the bread on which she had slathered margarine - not the pale, creamy, sweet tasting butter from our grandmother’s house, but that deep yellow spread that didn’t taste or smell or feel anything like real butter.

She seemed so eager to please us, so excited to be so different from her own mother and establish herself as a mother in her own right, that, well, we smiled and then oohed and aahed until she clapped her hands with joy and turned her back to head into the kitchen.

Once her back was turned we kids looked at each other around the table. Our eyes silently conveyed our chagrin and a resignation to our mother’s romance with the miracles of modern science.

We knew that whenever we wanted real bread we could just head downstairs to our grandmother’s apartment and she’d always give us a thick slice of her bread - sometimes slathered with real butter and her strawberry preserves or dripping with orange marmalade; other times, depending on the season, we would have a real treat of fresh warm bread, right out of the oven, slathered with butter and then topped with fresh slices of peaches or pears or apples from the fruit trees in her yard. Sometimes, as a special treat, she would take some of her freshly ripened figs, mashed and cooked with honey, which would become a fig jam.

It was no wonder to us that Wonder Bread could never hold up to the weight of real butter and slices of fresh fruit or a thick layer of fresh fruit preserves. Or, in the summer, a thick slice of beefsteak tomato. There was simply no comparison. But, Wonder Bread was not created for that. It was created to make more bread available to more people at a fraction of the cost. It was a utilitarian ethic at its finest, efficient best: The greatest good for the greatest number.

Wonder Bread may have been a miracle of modern science, but we kids had already tasted something that was a mystery.

Somehow, someone, somewhere way back in time had figured out that taking a living thing - a fungus called yeast - and added it to ground flour and sugar and water - the basic elements of life - and if you had the patience to watch it rise and fall and then rise and fall again and then if you kneaded it with the strength of your arms you didn’t know you had, and then baked it in in an oven - could create something that, mysteriously, would sustain and nourish life.

It was the difference between tasting a scientific wonder and entering the deep mystery of the alchemy of the very stuff of life.

Earlier in this sixth chapter of John, we read that Jesus had just finished feeding 5,000 people with just five loaves and two fishes. The people were so astounded by this miracle that they followed him out on the Sea of Galilee to see what other miracles this prophet could perform.

But Jesus pointed them beyond their present reality and toward the mystery of life. He told them that His life was the central ingredient of Life. He said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

Our bodies are still nourished and sustained by the bread of this world, but our souls - ah, but our souls - require a different kind of substance and nourishment.

We were born into this world, as Teilhard de Chardin says, not as human beings to have a spiritual experience - No! - but as spiritual beings to have a human experience. We need the bread of this world for our bodies, but we need the Bread of Life - Jesus - to nourish and sustain our souls.

Every Sunday, we gather together as a community of faith and listen to the ancient stories of God’s intervention in the drama of our lives. We sing the old, old songs which tell the story of Jesus and his love. We profess our faith in the ancient Creeds, and confess and receive absolution for our sins, offering prayers and petitions for ourselves, one another and the world.

It is then the job and the privilege of the priest to gather up all these various ingredients - the elements of our worship that act as flour, sugar, salt, yeast and water - and offer prayers of gratitude over them and make what we call “a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving” over the simple, basic elements of creation so that we - together, people and priest - our work - the sacred liturgy of our lives of faith which we call Eucharist - the words of our faith become flesh and call forth the true presence of Jesus,the Bread of Life, that our souls may be nourished from the bounty of creation for this life and the life to come.*

We are spiritual beings who are here, on this fragile earth, our island home, to become human beings so that, when our work here is done, we may return to our Heavenly home as spiritual beings with the One who creates Life.

How any of that happens - how the simple elements of creation - bread and grapes become wafers and wine - become the Body and Blood of Jesus, the Bread of Life - is a deeper mystery than even the mystery of how the simple stuff of creation becomes the Bread of the world.

It is more than a wonder; it is a miracle of faith in which we are privileged to participate each and every Sunday, being the day when we remember and celebrate the gift and the mystery of the Incarnation, the Miracles and Wonders and the Resurrection of Jesus.

Hear again the words of life which feed our very souls: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

I don’t pretend to understand it. I just embrace with deep gratitude the wonder of it all so that our faith, our souls, may be nourished and sustained in this life and the next.    

Amen.

*I must say, I think I out-St-Pauled St. Paul with that sentence that is, itself, a full paragraph. I think he would be proud of me.