Comfortable Words
Readings: Genesis 24:34-48, 58-67; Psalm 45:11-18; Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
Jesus is in a pensive mood. “We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn,” he says, and then goes on to reflect on the life of John the Baptist as well as his own situation. John the Baptist lived simply, practicing ascetic behaviour that put him at odds with society. Jesus points out that because he wouldn’t dance he was considered to be a madman.
Jesus, on the other hand, lived life and laughed and welcomed all kinds of people. He ate and drank with outcasts and sinners. Yet his Jewish contemporaries condemned him. Because he didn’t mourn with them when they “wailed” they wrote him off as a glutton and a drunkard.
“You just cannot win,” Jesus seems to be saying. And we can all relate. We have all felt that way at one time or another. We do everything we can and find ourselves being criticized. It happens in family relationships. It happens in our work. It happens in churches. It happens when society looks at the church and finds it wanting, considers it hypocritical. Jesus is feeling down about it, but not for long. There comes a change of tone. How did he chase the blues away? How did he bring things back into perspective?
It seems to me that it happened through opening himself up to the wider mission, to the larger picture as he considered the task God had in mind for him. And from his prayerful reflection came a newfound awareness of the state of the human condition. He perceived the heavy load that we carry as a result of our humanity. He understood the sense of loss that we all feel.
That is what is reflected in the words that follow. "Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens,” Jesus says, “and I will give you rest." 'The comfortable words' we call them in the Book of Common Prayer. And on the surface they are comfortable, for with them Jesus extends an invitation to us. It is an invitation that offers fulfillment. It is an invitation to unload the heavy burdens we carry. Or if not to unload them, at least to have someone share in bearing the load. Who has not felt at one time or another the cares and burdens of life? Finding our way through life is tiring. We suffer through no fault of our own. From unemployment, unexpected expenses, marital discord, depression, illness, loss, fear! We can easily become overwhelmed with life.
On the other hand, many people go through life carrying heavy loads of their own making. They let life make them weary. They remember everything that ever happened to them. They remember the harm and damage done to them far better than the joy and affirmation they received. They won't eat macaroni and cheese because it reminds them of tough times when that was all they had to eat. They don't relate to certain groups of people because once long ago someone said something or did something to harm them. They end a friendship because of some little thing that happened. Years later even though they have forgotten the details they avoid that person. They are in fact a terrible burden both to themselves and to those around them. They never forgive; they never forget.
All of us know such people. If we are honest with ourselves, we have all been there. There is something of them in each of us.
We also know people who are able to overcome great suffering and turn it into powerful ministry. We know that they have not had an easy time. We have heard bits and pieces of their story. They have overcome great obstacles in their own lives. Yet they have time for a cup of tea with a friend. They have time to listen to the pain of others. They may not have much to say, no great words of wisdom. But they are the ones to whom we turn when we need a listening ear. Henri Nouwen, theologian and writer, calls them the “wounded healers” of our world.
What do such people possess that helps them not only to deal with what happens to them in life, but to reach out to others with the love of God? They have allowed themselves to be touched by Jesus. They have given the heavy burdens of life to him to carry. They have found rest for their souls.
There is a scene from the movie The Mission that speaks to me of that need to rid ourselves of our burdens. It is the story of the Jesuit mission in South America. The movie is about their mission to the Guarani, a tribe the Spanish are attempting to wipe out. One of the central figures in the movie is Mendoza, a slave trader who makes his living trapping these same people. After he kills his brother in a flash of anger, he yearns for redemption. The missionaries assign him a penance. He must climb a huge cliff by a steep waterfall, dragging behind him a net filled with armour. Again and again he attempts to scale the cliff only to have the net drag him down. In the end it is one of the Guarani, who cuts the heavy weight from his back. The anger drains from him and he collapses in a fit of laughter freed by the very people he has persecuted.
Many of us go through life without ever letting go of our burdens. We get used to the weight. We become somehow attached to them. Imagine yourself trudging along a road. The air is stifling hot. You are weighed down by a heavy backpack. With every step you take you wonder if it will be your last. A car stops beside you. A friend offers you a lift. You gratefully get into the car but you never remove the backpack. You continue to bear the full weight of the load even when you are in the car.
It doesn’t make sense, does it? Yet when we are offered forgiveness we often choose to hang on to guilt. When we are offered help we often choose to go it alone.
If you are experiencing loss and grief, is there some way God wants to use your experience to bring life to others? If your life is going well, how can you give a little bit more of your time, treasure and talents to ease somebody else's pain? It begins by turning your burdens over to Jesus, by leaving them at the foot of the cross.
Life will continue to put obstacles in the way. Life is like that. To be human is to suffer. But yoked to Jesus we will be better off. His yoke will be lighter in the long run than the one we are carrying. It will mean the end of much of the tension and depression that weighs us down. It will end the discouragement and negativity under which we live. With our burden lighter, we will travel lighter and breathe more easily. It is so much easier to carry our burden when someone is sharing the load.
What is the yoke that we will be taking up? Is it the world with all of its problems? The starving, the deprived the oppressed! It is difficult to imagine that such a yoke could be easy. But it is the yoke of our Lord, the yoke he asks us to take upon ourselves. Taking up that yoke, we can lay claim to his promises that we will find rest for our souls. Amen.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Saturday, May 27, 2017
The Feast of the Ascension
Loss, or Promise
Readings: Acts 1:1-11; Psalm 47; Ephesians 1:15-23; Luke 24:44-53
We are celebrating the Feast of the Ascension today. It occurs forty days after Easter – last Thursday to be exact. But being midweek it often gets overlooked. So we are marking it today. It is a fitting day for the whole people of God to gather in celebration.
During my high school years, I went to St. Mildred’s, a Private Girls' School run by an Anglican religious order. We had some unusual holidays, including the Feast of the Ascension. We would begin the day by trekking down to the local church for Eucharist, and then we piled on buses, and the whole school went to the island for a picnic. It was a day of celebration and fun. It marked the beginning of the end of the school year. We ate and played and raced and generally had a good time.
So whenever I come to reflect on the Feast of the Ascension, those memories come flooding back to me. They influence my thoughts. Indeed it always surprises me to find out that the Ascension is not about a picnic. In fact, it is anything but a picnic.
Jesus in his full humanity has been given new life in the resurrection. It has been a time of great hope for the disciples as they have been reunited with the risen Saviour. Then just like that, Jesus is gone. He has reappeared to them just long enough for them to say goodbye. Like a dream, he leaves behind no children, no estate, no writings, no trace of himself except this feeling that his presence was real, that uncanny feeling that he was just here, that he must have just stepped out for a time, that he will return at any moment.
It is a feeling of mixed joy and grief, of doubt and certainty. It marks the moment when the disciples came into their own time, and indeed when we pass from Jesus’ time into our own.
We read in Scripture that he was taken up into Heaven. We see it portrayed in stained glass windows and art, Jesus’ feet disappearing into the clouds. We may puzzle about how it happened, but emotionally we do understand it on a deep level. That is because we have experienced it with the loss that comes when a loved one dies. Death, even a lingering death, is so sudden and subtle. It is so peaceful. One moment you see the rise and fall of breath, the next it stops. Loved ones are suddenly taken from us, and the manner in which they go fills us with awe. It is an amazing, yet dreadful thing. We say and perhaps even know on some level that they are going to “a better place”. And yet we are confronted with the harsh reality that they are gone.
The stories of Jesus’ ascension are, it seems to me, about a Christian attitude towards death. The disciples and we are confronted with the hard reality that Jesus is gone. He has risen, not just from the dead, but from the world. Yet we cannot get away from the miracle. In fact, the miracle is the whole point, isn’t it? The disciples see with their own eyes that Jesus is gone, but he has gone to be with God. He is alive, so maybe their loved ones are alive. Maybe death does not have the final word. What a miracle that is! What a cause for rejoicing!
The Ascension, as he withdraws from his disciples, as he is carried from them into heaven, marks the end of Jesus' earthly life. Before he makes his final departure from them, he commissions them to continue his earthly work. As witnesses of the resurrection, it is their task to continue his proclamation. It is their responsibility to carry on the work that Jesus began. Jesus lives! Jesus reigns! Yet there is a catch! Jesus has left his disciples holding the bag!
So yes, this feast day is about loss. And we all know from personal experience that is no picnic. If we have ever suffered loss, then we can imagine how the disciples felt. This is a very difficult time in their lives. It is a time between loss and promise. How are they to face the future without their leader? How are they to trust that they will have the resources to carry on and to proclaim the great message of salvation that Jesus has given into their care? How are they to know that they are equal to the task that lies ahead? How are they to overcome the grief and pain that surrounds the loss of one they love?
So before Jesus leaves them he gives them a final blessing. That is, after all, an apt ending to his earthly life, a life wholly focused on blessing and forgiving. He died with forgiveness on his tongue; he rose with blessing upon it. And the disciples did not depart in sorrow, but in rejoicing. They may need to wait for the fulfillment of Jesus’ promise. But they wait knowing that Jesus has made good on every promise and they go out rejoicing in the courage of the Lord.
Part of the commissioning is a promise, the promise of power from on high. They will be “clothed with power”, covered head to toe with the power of the Holy Spirit. That is the promise they take with them. It will comfort them. It will sustain them. They go, not to the Upper Room, a place of protection and nurture, a place of locked doors and fear, but to the temple in Jerusalem. They did exactly what Jesus commissioned them to do. They immediately took their worship public.
We have all faced times of loss in our lives – the death of a loved one, broken relationships, empty nest syndrome, retirement. Even loss of innocence and problems related to addiction are about such in-between times. They are times of fear and confusion as we face change beyond our control. How do we deal with such events in our lives? How do we allow ourselves to know the promise of God to be with us?
We live in an in-between time in the Church's history. We see signs of moral decay in the fiber of society. At the same time we see a decline in attendance in the mainline churches. We see an aging congregation. We hear that the Church has lost its relevance in society. How do we hold on to the promise that God is with us and that we will be witnesses to the ends of the earth? How do we rejoice and witness to the power of the Spirit at work in our lives? In our own church, how do we discern the future that God holds in store for us?
The Scripture suggests a course of action. It suggests some things that the disciples did.
It should not be any surprise that the first thing they did was to gather in prayer. They didn’t know what to do, so they prayed for guidance. They prayed for the fulfillment of the promise that Jesus made to them. They gathered the community together and in solidarity they prayed to God, that God would be with them.
That is an important model for us as the community of the church. You may be saying to yourself, "Well that's pretty obvious. Of course we should pray." Gather the community together and pray. Pray for God's guidance about our future. Pray that God will be present with us. Pray that God will be at work in our lives.
But it is important for us to remember in our own lives as well. It is important for us to remember when we face a time of loss or change in our lives. Pray even when the only prayer you can pray is "God, I can't pray". Because that kind of prayer will help us to look back and remember the times when God has been with us. It will help us to remember the promise that God made to be with us always.
And pray in thanksgiving. We so often neglect to thank God for all of our many blessings. We are so blessed that we come to expect it.
Finally we await the fulfillment of God's promise. We live in hope. There is such an air of expectancy about the disciples during this period of waiting. There is a sense of building urgency. "What next?" they seem to be asking. They are about to embark on a new way without Jesus to guide them. The path ahead is not yet clear. It is a time of testing and discovery. Such times in our lives can be fruitful as we learn to trust our own resilience, our own abilities and our God given talents.
The Ascension is not the end of the story.
"I am risen. I am still with you." That is the message to the disciples. It continues to be the message to the church today. We still encounter the risen Lord. Yet that is a mystery that, not surprisingly, eludes our grasp. Our encounter is rather like trying to view a beautiful painting through a venetian blind. We can see the image, but not clearly enough to understand its beauty and perfection. We get flashes of insight. But to full appreciate its beauty, we would have to view it under the proper conditions, with our view unobstructed, with the proper lighting.
When the risen Lord encounters us, we do, for a moment, fully comprehend. Yet it is difficult to hold on to the image.
If we have eyes to see the mystery of the resurrection, we will glimpse it all around us. We will catch sight of it in nature – the smell of rain, the wildness of a thunderstorm, the beauty of a flower unfolding, the sight of a starry sky. We dream it. The kind of dream you wake up out of without quite remembering what it was about, and yet you feel better for having dreamed it. We meet it through the liturgy, through music, through the world of books. And most of all we meet it in our relationships with other people.
And so it may not be a picnic. But we are not left alone. Jesus parted from the disciples. But he promised the Holy Spirit. That promise is there for us as well. May we too be clothed with power from on high.
Readings: Acts 1:1-11; Psalm 47; Ephesians 1:15-23; Luke 24:44-53
We are celebrating the Feast of the Ascension today. It occurs forty days after Easter – last Thursday to be exact. But being midweek it often gets overlooked. So we are marking it today. It is a fitting day for the whole people of God to gather in celebration.
During my high school years, I went to St. Mildred’s, a Private Girls' School run by an Anglican religious order. We had some unusual holidays, including the Feast of the Ascension. We would begin the day by trekking down to the local church for Eucharist, and then we piled on buses, and the whole school went to the island for a picnic. It was a day of celebration and fun. It marked the beginning of the end of the school year. We ate and played and raced and generally had a good time.
So whenever I come to reflect on the Feast of the Ascension, those memories come flooding back to me. They influence my thoughts. Indeed it always surprises me to find out that the Ascension is not about a picnic. In fact, it is anything but a picnic.
Jesus in his full humanity has been given new life in the resurrection. It has been a time of great hope for the disciples as they have been reunited with the risen Saviour. Then just like that, Jesus is gone. He has reappeared to them just long enough for them to say goodbye. Like a dream, he leaves behind no children, no estate, no writings, no trace of himself except this feeling that his presence was real, that uncanny feeling that he was just here, that he must have just stepped out for a time, that he will return at any moment.
It is a feeling of mixed joy and grief, of doubt and certainty. It marks the moment when the disciples came into their own time, and indeed when we pass from Jesus’ time into our own.
We read in Scripture that he was taken up into Heaven. We see it portrayed in stained glass windows and art, Jesus’ feet disappearing into the clouds. We may puzzle about how it happened, but emotionally we do understand it on a deep level. That is because we have experienced it with the loss that comes when a loved one dies. Death, even a lingering death, is so sudden and subtle. It is so peaceful. One moment you see the rise and fall of breath, the next it stops. Loved ones are suddenly taken from us, and the manner in which they go fills us with awe. It is an amazing, yet dreadful thing. We say and perhaps even know on some level that they are going to “a better place”. And yet we are confronted with the harsh reality that they are gone.
The stories of Jesus’ ascension are, it seems to me, about a Christian attitude towards death. The disciples and we are confronted with the hard reality that Jesus is gone. He has risen, not just from the dead, but from the world. Yet we cannot get away from the miracle. In fact, the miracle is the whole point, isn’t it? The disciples see with their own eyes that Jesus is gone, but he has gone to be with God. He is alive, so maybe their loved ones are alive. Maybe death does not have the final word. What a miracle that is! What a cause for rejoicing!
The Ascension, as he withdraws from his disciples, as he is carried from them into heaven, marks the end of Jesus' earthly life. Before he makes his final departure from them, he commissions them to continue his earthly work. As witnesses of the resurrection, it is their task to continue his proclamation. It is their responsibility to carry on the work that Jesus began. Jesus lives! Jesus reigns! Yet there is a catch! Jesus has left his disciples holding the bag!
So yes, this feast day is about loss. And we all know from personal experience that is no picnic. If we have ever suffered loss, then we can imagine how the disciples felt. This is a very difficult time in their lives. It is a time between loss and promise. How are they to face the future without their leader? How are they to trust that they will have the resources to carry on and to proclaim the great message of salvation that Jesus has given into their care? How are they to know that they are equal to the task that lies ahead? How are they to overcome the grief and pain that surrounds the loss of one they love?
So before Jesus leaves them he gives them a final blessing. That is, after all, an apt ending to his earthly life, a life wholly focused on blessing and forgiving. He died with forgiveness on his tongue; he rose with blessing upon it. And the disciples did not depart in sorrow, but in rejoicing. They may need to wait for the fulfillment of Jesus’ promise. But they wait knowing that Jesus has made good on every promise and they go out rejoicing in the courage of the Lord.
Part of the commissioning is a promise, the promise of power from on high. They will be “clothed with power”, covered head to toe with the power of the Holy Spirit. That is the promise they take with them. It will comfort them. It will sustain them. They go, not to the Upper Room, a place of protection and nurture, a place of locked doors and fear, but to the temple in Jerusalem. They did exactly what Jesus commissioned them to do. They immediately took their worship public.
We have all faced times of loss in our lives – the death of a loved one, broken relationships, empty nest syndrome, retirement. Even loss of innocence and problems related to addiction are about such in-between times. They are times of fear and confusion as we face change beyond our control. How do we deal with such events in our lives? How do we allow ourselves to know the promise of God to be with us?
We live in an in-between time in the Church's history. We see signs of moral decay in the fiber of society. At the same time we see a decline in attendance in the mainline churches. We see an aging congregation. We hear that the Church has lost its relevance in society. How do we hold on to the promise that God is with us and that we will be witnesses to the ends of the earth? How do we rejoice and witness to the power of the Spirit at work in our lives? In our own church, how do we discern the future that God holds in store for us?
The Scripture suggests a course of action. It suggests some things that the disciples did.
It should not be any surprise that the first thing they did was to gather in prayer. They didn’t know what to do, so they prayed for guidance. They prayed for the fulfillment of the promise that Jesus made to them. They gathered the community together and in solidarity they prayed to God, that God would be with them.
That is an important model for us as the community of the church. You may be saying to yourself, "Well that's pretty obvious. Of course we should pray." Gather the community together and pray. Pray for God's guidance about our future. Pray that God will be present with us. Pray that God will be at work in our lives.
But it is important for us to remember in our own lives as well. It is important for us to remember when we face a time of loss or change in our lives. Pray even when the only prayer you can pray is "God, I can't pray". Because that kind of prayer will help us to look back and remember the times when God has been with us. It will help us to remember the promise that God made to be with us always.
And pray in thanksgiving. We so often neglect to thank God for all of our many blessings. We are so blessed that we come to expect it.
Finally we await the fulfillment of God's promise. We live in hope. There is such an air of expectancy about the disciples during this period of waiting. There is a sense of building urgency. "What next?" they seem to be asking. They are about to embark on a new way without Jesus to guide them. The path ahead is not yet clear. It is a time of testing and discovery. Such times in our lives can be fruitful as we learn to trust our own resilience, our own abilities and our God given talents.
The Ascension is not the end of the story.
"I am risen. I am still with you." That is the message to the disciples. It continues to be the message to the church today. We still encounter the risen Lord. Yet that is a mystery that, not surprisingly, eludes our grasp. Our encounter is rather like trying to view a beautiful painting through a venetian blind. We can see the image, but not clearly enough to understand its beauty and perfection. We get flashes of insight. But to full appreciate its beauty, we would have to view it under the proper conditions, with our view unobstructed, with the proper lighting.
When the risen Lord encounters us, we do, for a moment, fully comprehend. Yet it is difficult to hold on to the image.
If we have eyes to see the mystery of the resurrection, we will glimpse it all around us. We will catch sight of it in nature – the smell of rain, the wildness of a thunderstorm, the beauty of a flower unfolding, the sight of a starry sky. We dream it. The kind of dream you wake up out of without quite remembering what it was about, and yet you feel better for having dreamed it. We meet it through the liturgy, through music, through the world of books. And most of all we meet it in our relationships with other people.
And so it may not be a picnic. But we are not left alone. Jesus parted from the disciples. But he promised the Holy Spirit. That promise is there for us as well. May we too be clothed with power from on high.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
The Second Sunday of Easter, Year A
The Call of Faith
Readings: Acts 2:14a & 22-32, Psalm 16; 1 Peter 1:3-9; John 20:19-31
Easter is a call to faith, the Christian response to the Easter event, faith that believes even though it cannot see. That is what Peter boldly proclaims to all in Jerusalem who will listen. "Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy."
But do we? Let’s face it! It is easy for Peter and the other disciples to believe. After all, they were witnesses to the risen Lord! They talked to him. He appeared to them offering them peace. He sent them out filled with the Holy Spirit. He gave them power to forgive. How could they not believe?
And there is Thomas! He could not take their word for it. He wanted proof. "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."
Aren't we like that? I know I am. I want proof positive. I want to see for myself. For most of us, seeing is believing. We rationalize. We question. We want to know the outcome before we commit ourselves.
There is something more in Thomas's story that has always intrigued me. It is a seemingly trivial fact that John chooses to include. He tells us that Thomas is a twin. Do you ever wonder why he put that in? Why was it important enough to add? Was it to make the story more interesting? I truly doubt that, although twins are interesting characters. I remember a set of twins that I once taught. They were a real challenge. That whole year I never learned to tell them apart. I was never quite sure when I called one of their names just who actually answered. And being Jane and Joan it probably wouldn't have mattered much. They kept the class guessing about what they would get into next. They knew without saying a word what the other was thinking. They were bright and fun. To have twins must be both a double joy and a double challenge. But that doesn't explain why John told us that Thomas was a twin.
He also didn’t tell us whose twin Thomas was. We can read in Scripture about James and John being brothers. Whose twin was Thomas? Could it have been Mary Magdalene, or perhaps even Judas? Nothing even begins to explain why he made a point of telling us that Thomas was a twin.
That is, unless you read between the lines. Who is Thomas’s twin? The answer is evidently meant to be “us”. We are Thomas’s twins. Like Thomas we all experience times of fear and doubt, pessimism and trust, belief and unbelief. And that is a difficult place to be, because we don’t like to live with ambiguity. We want a sense of certainty.
We see it in the priorities of society. Billions of dollars are spent every year developing new technologies. Meanwhile millions of people starve to death. We worry less about improving our present existence than about the unknown, those things which are just beyond our reach. We want to know.
When it comes to God we are even more anxious to know with a sense of certainty. We want signs, wonders, miracles. We want to prove the existence of God. Is God really out there looking after things? Is the world in good hands? Is everything going to turn out all right after all? Are the good going to be rewarded and the bad punished? Is there something to look forward to when our earthly life is completed?
There are uncertainties in life as well. How can we be certain that we are really loved? Is there meaning to life? What legacy will we leave behind us? We want certainty about who we are and what we have accomplished. That makes us Thomas’s twin. He just wanted to be certain. He wanted tangible proof. He didn’t want to be told. He wanted to see for himself. He wanted to see the mark of the nails in Jesus’ hands. He wanted to put his finger in the mark of the nails. He wanted to put his hand in Jesus’ side. Only then could he be certain that there would be no disappointments, no false hopes.
Let’s read between the lines again. When Jesus came to the Upper Room to see the disciples, Thomas wasn’t there. Whatever good reason he may have had, he missed out on what the rest of the community shared. He missed the encounter with the risen Christ. He missed the words of peace. He missed the outpouring of love and concern and blessing. He missed the pep talk that sent the others out carrying the message of forgiveness.
Many good people have the mistaken notion that they don’t need the community of faith. They think they can make it on their own. “What purpose does church serve?” they ask. “I can live a Christian life on my own terms. I can be good. I don’t need the church. After all, it’s filled with a bunch of hypocrites who just want my money.”
Others think that once you become a Christian, once you accept faith, all the doubts simply disappear. They think that with faith all our rational faculties cease to be used. We simply park our brains at the door. We accept the Church’s teaching and follow blindly.
That will never be enough. For doubts come. In fact, I am skeptical of anyone who says they have no doubts. I fear they may be fanatical in their faith. Doubts come to all of us.
Doubts come to us when we look at all the terrible things that are going on in the world. What kind of God allows the terrible suffering that comes about because of war, or famine, or terrorist acts? What kind of God allows disasters to strike innocent people?
Doubts come most of all when we face difficulties and hardships in our lives. We question the very existence of God. Why am I sick? Why did my child die? Why can’t I find a job? Why did my spouse walk out on me? Why is God letting this happen to me? I am faithful. I believe. Why? What use is faith if bad things still happen? Where are you God when I need you? If that is the basis of our relationship with God, then doubts will simply overwhelm us. We will lose hope. Doubt is not the opposite of faith; hopelessness is!
I had this very conversation this past week with a close friend. She is a faithful Christian, raised in the Roman Catholic Church and active in her parish. Lately any number of things have caused her to question her faith – the death of a close mutual friend, another friend’s struggle with a debilitating disease, her son’s continuing struggle with depression, her own chronic pain. “I went to all the services during Holy Week and Easter,” she said to me, “but somehow I am just left with emptiness. I know it is wrong. I need to have faith, but …”
That is where Thomas’s story comes in. It continues to be so reassuring. It says to me that it is reasonable to have doubts. It is understandable. It is human. Everyone has doubts about their relationships at one time or another. There is not a husband or wife who has not at some time had doubts about their relationship. There are no two friends who have not at some time in their relationship wondered whether it would last. And there is not a believer who has not experienced Christ as absent from their lives at some time or another. We have all had times when it was difficult to believe.
Thomas challenges us to persevere when we have doubts. He got to the place where we must get. Like him we must cry out, “My Lord and my God!” It may sound more like a question than a statement. Never mind. Persevere in the faith. Witness to how God is working in your life and in the lives of others. Deepen your commitment to God day by day. Commit yourself to the work of the Church.
And most of all, watch for the signs of resurrection around you. We need moments of evidence, moments of feeling God’s presence. Such moments are given so that our faith can survive the periods of seeming absence of God, the times when we do not see, yet believe.
Where is the risen Lord to be seen?
• In the bursts of colour as spring returns
• In the face of the stranger who smiles as we pass by one another
• In the voice of a friend who calls just to say hello
• In the laughter of children
• In a moment of joining hands with another person in the exchange of the peace
• In bread broken and wine poured
• In looking into another’s eyes and seeing Christ
The gospel is about us after all. It tells us that Thomas was a twin. It leaves us with the tantalizing question, “Who is Thomas’s twin? And there is only one possible answer. I! I am Thomas’s twin. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!
Readings: Acts 2:14a & 22-32, Psalm 16; 1 Peter 1:3-9; John 20:19-31
Easter is a call to faith, the Christian response to the Easter event, faith that believes even though it cannot see. That is what Peter boldly proclaims to all in Jerusalem who will listen. "Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy."
But do we? Let’s face it! It is easy for Peter and the other disciples to believe. After all, they were witnesses to the risen Lord! They talked to him. He appeared to them offering them peace. He sent them out filled with the Holy Spirit. He gave them power to forgive. How could they not believe?
And there is Thomas! He could not take their word for it. He wanted proof. "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."
Aren't we like that? I know I am. I want proof positive. I want to see for myself. For most of us, seeing is believing. We rationalize. We question. We want to know the outcome before we commit ourselves.
There is something more in Thomas's story that has always intrigued me. It is a seemingly trivial fact that John chooses to include. He tells us that Thomas is a twin. Do you ever wonder why he put that in? Why was it important enough to add? Was it to make the story more interesting? I truly doubt that, although twins are interesting characters. I remember a set of twins that I once taught. They were a real challenge. That whole year I never learned to tell them apart. I was never quite sure when I called one of their names just who actually answered. And being Jane and Joan it probably wouldn't have mattered much. They kept the class guessing about what they would get into next. They knew without saying a word what the other was thinking. They were bright and fun. To have twins must be both a double joy and a double challenge. But that doesn't explain why John told us that Thomas was a twin.
He also didn’t tell us whose twin Thomas was. We can read in Scripture about James and John being brothers. Whose twin was Thomas? Could it have been Mary Magdalene, or perhaps even Judas? Nothing even begins to explain why he made a point of telling us that Thomas was a twin.
That is, unless you read between the lines. Who is Thomas’s twin? The answer is evidently meant to be “us”. We are Thomas’s twins. Like Thomas we all experience times of fear and doubt, pessimism and trust, belief and unbelief. And that is a difficult place to be, because we don’t like to live with ambiguity. We want a sense of certainty.
We see it in the priorities of society. Billions of dollars are spent every year developing new technologies. Meanwhile millions of people starve to death. We worry less about improving our present existence than about the unknown, those things which are just beyond our reach. We want to know.
When it comes to God we are even more anxious to know with a sense of certainty. We want signs, wonders, miracles. We want to prove the existence of God. Is God really out there looking after things? Is the world in good hands? Is everything going to turn out all right after all? Are the good going to be rewarded and the bad punished? Is there something to look forward to when our earthly life is completed?
There are uncertainties in life as well. How can we be certain that we are really loved? Is there meaning to life? What legacy will we leave behind us? We want certainty about who we are and what we have accomplished. That makes us Thomas’s twin. He just wanted to be certain. He wanted tangible proof. He didn’t want to be told. He wanted to see for himself. He wanted to see the mark of the nails in Jesus’ hands. He wanted to put his finger in the mark of the nails. He wanted to put his hand in Jesus’ side. Only then could he be certain that there would be no disappointments, no false hopes.
Let’s read between the lines again. When Jesus came to the Upper Room to see the disciples, Thomas wasn’t there. Whatever good reason he may have had, he missed out on what the rest of the community shared. He missed the encounter with the risen Christ. He missed the words of peace. He missed the outpouring of love and concern and blessing. He missed the pep talk that sent the others out carrying the message of forgiveness.
Many good people have the mistaken notion that they don’t need the community of faith. They think they can make it on their own. “What purpose does church serve?” they ask. “I can live a Christian life on my own terms. I can be good. I don’t need the church. After all, it’s filled with a bunch of hypocrites who just want my money.”
Others think that once you become a Christian, once you accept faith, all the doubts simply disappear. They think that with faith all our rational faculties cease to be used. We simply park our brains at the door. We accept the Church’s teaching and follow blindly.
That will never be enough. For doubts come. In fact, I am skeptical of anyone who says they have no doubts. I fear they may be fanatical in their faith. Doubts come to all of us.
Doubts come to us when we look at all the terrible things that are going on in the world. What kind of God allows the terrible suffering that comes about because of war, or famine, or terrorist acts? What kind of God allows disasters to strike innocent people?
Doubts come most of all when we face difficulties and hardships in our lives. We question the very existence of God. Why am I sick? Why did my child die? Why can’t I find a job? Why did my spouse walk out on me? Why is God letting this happen to me? I am faithful. I believe. Why? What use is faith if bad things still happen? Where are you God when I need you? If that is the basis of our relationship with God, then doubts will simply overwhelm us. We will lose hope. Doubt is not the opposite of faith; hopelessness is!
I had this very conversation this past week with a close friend. She is a faithful Christian, raised in the Roman Catholic Church and active in her parish. Lately any number of things have caused her to question her faith – the death of a close mutual friend, another friend’s struggle with a debilitating disease, her son’s continuing struggle with depression, her own chronic pain. “I went to all the services during Holy Week and Easter,” she said to me, “but somehow I am just left with emptiness. I know it is wrong. I need to have faith, but …”
That is where Thomas’s story comes in. It continues to be so reassuring. It says to me that it is reasonable to have doubts. It is understandable. It is human. Everyone has doubts about their relationships at one time or another. There is not a husband or wife who has not at some time had doubts about their relationship. There are no two friends who have not at some time in their relationship wondered whether it would last. And there is not a believer who has not experienced Christ as absent from their lives at some time or another. We have all had times when it was difficult to believe.
Thomas challenges us to persevere when we have doubts. He got to the place where we must get. Like him we must cry out, “My Lord and my God!” It may sound more like a question than a statement. Never mind. Persevere in the faith. Witness to how God is working in your life and in the lives of others. Deepen your commitment to God day by day. Commit yourself to the work of the Church.
And most of all, watch for the signs of resurrection around you. We need moments of evidence, moments of feeling God’s presence. Such moments are given so that our faith can survive the periods of seeming absence of God, the times when we do not see, yet believe.
Where is the risen Lord to be seen?
• In the bursts of colour as spring returns
• In the face of the stranger who smiles as we pass by one another
• In the voice of a friend who calls just to say hello
• In the laughter of children
• In a moment of joining hands with another person in the exchange of the peace
• In bread broken and wine poured
• In looking into another’s eyes and seeing Christ
The gospel is about us after all. It tells us that Thomas was a twin. It leaves us with the tantalizing question, “Who is Thomas’s twin? And there is only one possible answer. I! I am Thomas’s twin. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!
Friday, April 7, 2017
Palm / Passion Sunday, Year A
Forsaken By God
Readings: Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 26:14-27:66
The drama of Passion Sunday takes us on a journey from the glory of the triumphal procession into Jerusalem with its waving palms and shouts of ‘Hosanna’, to the agony of Jesus’ death on the cross. What haunts me most throughout the drama begins in the garden. Jesus is facing an imminent and horrifying death. He prays fervently to God, “My Father, if it is possible let this cup pass from me.” But the cup does not pass from him. Perhaps more bitter to swallow, he asks his friends to stay awake with him as he prays, but they fall asleep during his time of need. One of them even betrays him, gives him over to the authorities. He stands before the chief priest and elders, then Pilate, on his own, his disciples having abandoned him. That sense of abandonment is culminated for me in the cry of dereliction from the cross, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
In part it haunts me because I have heard those words on my own lips. I have experienced that sense of abandonment. I have felt times when God seemed far away, remote, even absent. If we are honest, we have all experienced it. “Where are you, God? Why have you run out on me? Why have you left me in the lurch?”
Haven’t we all screamed that question into the cold, grey skies in the face of seemingly insurmountable crosses that have come into our lives? The loss of a job, a nasty divorce, the death of a loved one. So many hurts in life cause us to feel unloved, abandoned. Yet I never really fathomed that Jesus on the cross felt that sense of complete and utter dereliction, that sense of the absence of God. Karl Bart says that Jesus “goes into the far country.” He goes to that place we all go when we are so overburdened with sin and sorrow and despair that we can no longer feel God’s loving presence.
To hear that sense of dereliction from the cross cuts me to the core, because in it I recognize that it is my sin, my sorrow, my despair, not his, that causes Jesus to hit rock bottom. He goes into that far country, and what he encounters there he encounters for me. He is looking into the mirror of his own existence, and seeing there the blackest of images. He has “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,” says Paul. And that is what is reflected in those empty words from the cross.
Holy Week is a journey to the cross. It calls us to convey in some way the truth of the cross. The cross is an event. An event needs to be experienced. The people of Jesus' time had experienced the reality of the roman manner of execution. They understood the horror of crucifixion. They knew of its brutality. They related with complete empathy to the death of Jesus.
But how can we possibly put it into words that our 21st Century minds can fathom. We cannot know in the same way. We tend to turn it into some kind of theological statement. The problem with that is that it somehow takes away from the event. How are we to convey the meaning of the cross in our own lives? We say that we will "bear the cross", but we have no concept of what that really means.
Through the ages the event of the cross has been depicted through the language of symbol, through story, through music, through art. Such images have presented varied and often idealized images of the cross.
I think of the images of cross which have been meaningful to me at different times of my life. The first is from my childhood. In my father’s study was a crucifix, perhaps five feet high, a beautiful carving from Oberammergau. I must have spent much time looking at the figure on the cross, because I remember it vividly. It was a very human form, with an Aramaic face, graphically portrayed. To stand beneath it and look up at it when I was so small, and it was so large, was overwhelming. I remember the look of anguish on the face, the crown of thorns, the taut and rigid body. Such depictions of the cross are not unusual. They provide us with a strong sense of the humanity of Jesus. Such a portrayal illuminates the words of the prophet Isaiah speaking of the suffering servant. "I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting."
Compare that to the Christus Rex, the reigning Christ, which dominated the sanctuary of a very modern church to which I once belonged. There is a smaller version of it in the chapel here at St. Mark’s. It presented a startlingly different image of Christ crucified. The figure seemed almost suspended in mid air. Christ was not so much hanging on the cross as lifted from it. A much gentler figure, Jesus was dressed in chasuble and wearing a golden crown. The muted shades had an aesthetic beauty but there was nothing of the human in its impact. The effect was ethereal rather than graphic. Such a portrayal is closer to the image the writer of Hebrews conveys. Christ the Great High Priest, a human offering of perfect obedience to God's will. Through Christ, God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves. God offers the perfect sacrifice on our behalf.
In my last church hangs an empty cross. The ‘Empty Cross’ recognizes that Holy Week does not end with Jesus on the cross for Good Friday is not the end of the story. Jesus died and was buried, and on the third day he rose again. The cross is empty because Christ is risen.
Yet the resurrection follows the crucifixion; it in no way erases it. The empty cross to me denies the humanity of Christ. Do we not consider ourselves “crucified with Christ”? Are we not called to take up our cross and follow Jesus? The good news is that Christ goes with us, even as he went before us, fully tasting humanity in a body like yours and mine.
Somehow I think our image of cross needs to do more than any of those images can do. It needs to more radically help us to experience the event of the cross. The cross allows God to participate in the human condition. It allows God to suffer with us. To experience what we as humans experience. It brings God into solidarity with God's own creation. But if we have lost touch with that experience, we in turn need to participate in the event.
A story which to me expressed better than anything I have read, the mystery of God's participatory act of solidarity with human suffering, is by a Japanese writer, Shusaku Endo, in his novel, "Silence". His work is a protest against the triumphalism of the message of the Jesuit missionaries who brought their form of Christianity to Japan in the sixteenth Century. The story is about a young Portuguese Jesuit priest, Rodrigues. He has a genuine devotion to Christ. He spends hours in prayer and meditation, contemplating, imitating Christ, convicted of his need to be willing to suffer, even to die for Christ's sake.
During an uprising against the Christians, Rodrigues finds himself in great difficulty. He is taken prisoner and is asked to renounce his faith. At first, he refuses; he hopes to emulate Christ, hoping even for the martyrdom that he believes will bring him into the very presence of God. Instead of that, he is imprisoned. From his cell, he hears the cries of Japanese Christians who have already recanted their faith, but who are still being tortured. Rodrigues is told, until he renounces his faith, they will continue to be tortured. It horrifies him. His captors ask him once more to apostatize. They offer him a crucifix. All he needs to do is to trample on the image of Christ on the cross, simply to grind it with his toe.
The image presented to him does not resemble in any way the face that he has come to adore and emulate. Still he cannot bring himself to step on it until he hears the voice of Christ speaking to him: "Trample, it is for this that I have come." Suddenly he understands the message of the cross. His image of Christ is transformed. He experiences the event in a whole new way. He tramples on the crucifix to alleviate the sufferings of others.
Our view of the cross needs to enable us to participate in the event, to understand God's participation in our human condition. The cross allowed Jesus to suffer with humanity. It allowed God access to our human condition. The cross was a sign of humiliation, pain and suffering, a sign of failure. But to the Christian it is a transforming experience that allows us to see ourselves in God.
One further image of cross I would like to leave with you. It is a cross, which was on loan to Trinity College one Lent when I was a student there. It now hangs in the Church of the Incarnation in Willowdale. It is a large, rough wooden cross. The figure of Jesus is made from broken pieces of mirror. Roughly cut, they are placed much as one would place the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It has caused more than the usual amount of disagreement over whether or not it is art. It seems that people either like it immensely, or find it deeply disturbing. I find it a powerful symbol. I see my own image reflected in the brokenness of Christ. It reminds me that Christ suffered with me. It helps me to understand the cry of dereliction and abandonment from the cross. It reminds me that God's power is able to transform even the most terrible suffering. It reminds me that God is with us. In that encounter with the crucified God I learn that the sharing of suffering is the beginning of its transformation to wholeness and joy.
Readings: Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 26:14-27:66
The drama of Passion Sunday takes us on a journey from the glory of the triumphal procession into Jerusalem with its waving palms and shouts of ‘Hosanna’, to the agony of Jesus’ death on the cross. What haunts me most throughout the drama begins in the garden. Jesus is facing an imminent and horrifying death. He prays fervently to God, “My Father, if it is possible let this cup pass from me.” But the cup does not pass from him. Perhaps more bitter to swallow, he asks his friends to stay awake with him as he prays, but they fall asleep during his time of need. One of them even betrays him, gives him over to the authorities. He stands before the chief priest and elders, then Pilate, on his own, his disciples having abandoned him. That sense of abandonment is culminated for me in the cry of dereliction from the cross, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
In part it haunts me because I have heard those words on my own lips. I have experienced that sense of abandonment. I have felt times when God seemed far away, remote, even absent. If we are honest, we have all experienced it. “Where are you, God? Why have you run out on me? Why have you left me in the lurch?”
Haven’t we all screamed that question into the cold, grey skies in the face of seemingly insurmountable crosses that have come into our lives? The loss of a job, a nasty divorce, the death of a loved one. So many hurts in life cause us to feel unloved, abandoned. Yet I never really fathomed that Jesus on the cross felt that sense of complete and utter dereliction, that sense of the absence of God. Karl Bart says that Jesus “goes into the far country.” He goes to that place we all go when we are so overburdened with sin and sorrow and despair that we can no longer feel God’s loving presence.
To hear that sense of dereliction from the cross cuts me to the core, because in it I recognize that it is my sin, my sorrow, my despair, not his, that causes Jesus to hit rock bottom. He goes into that far country, and what he encounters there he encounters for me. He is looking into the mirror of his own existence, and seeing there the blackest of images. He has “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,” says Paul. And that is what is reflected in those empty words from the cross.
Holy Week is a journey to the cross. It calls us to convey in some way the truth of the cross. The cross is an event. An event needs to be experienced. The people of Jesus' time had experienced the reality of the roman manner of execution. They understood the horror of crucifixion. They knew of its brutality. They related with complete empathy to the death of Jesus.
But how can we possibly put it into words that our 21st Century minds can fathom. We cannot know in the same way. We tend to turn it into some kind of theological statement. The problem with that is that it somehow takes away from the event. How are we to convey the meaning of the cross in our own lives? We say that we will "bear the cross", but we have no concept of what that really means.
Through the ages the event of the cross has been depicted through the language of symbol, through story, through music, through art. Such images have presented varied and often idealized images of the cross.
I think of the images of cross which have been meaningful to me at different times of my life. The first is from my childhood. In my father’s study was a crucifix, perhaps five feet high, a beautiful carving from Oberammergau. I must have spent much time looking at the figure on the cross, because I remember it vividly. It was a very human form, with an Aramaic face, graphically portrayed. To stand beneath it and look up at it when I was so small, and it was so large, was overwhelming. I remember the look of anguish on the face, the crown of thorns, the taut and rigid body. Such depictions of the cross are not unusual. They provide us with a strong sense of the humanity of Jesus. Such a portrayal illuminates the words of the prophet Isaiah speaking of the suffering servant. "I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting."
Compare that to the Christus Rex, the reigning Christ, which dominated the sanctuary of a very modern church to which I once belonged. There is a smaller version of it in the chapel here at St. Mark’s. It presented a startlingly different image of Christ crucified. The figure seemed almost suspended in mid air. Christ was not so much hanging on the cross as lifted from it. A much gentler figure, Jesus was dressed in chasuble and wearing a golden crown. The muted shades had an aesthetic beauty but there was nothing of the human in its impact. The effect was ethereal rather than graphic. Such a portrayal is closer to the image the writer of Hebrews conveys. Christ the Great High Priest, a human offering of perfect obedience to God's will. Through Christ, God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves. God offers the perfect sacrifice on our behalf.
In my last church hangs an empty cross. The ‘Empty Cross’ recognizes that Holy Week does not end with Jesus on the cross for Good Friday is not the end of the story. Jesus died and was buried, and on the third day he rose again. The cross is empty because Christ is risen.
Yet the resurrection follows the crucifixion; it in no way erases it. The empty cross to me denies the humanity of Christ. Do we not consider ourselves “crucified with Christ”? Are we not called to take up our cross and follow Jesus? The good news is that Christ goes with us, even as he went before us, fully tasting humanity in a body like yours and mine.
Somehow I think our image of cross needs to do more than any of those images can do. It needs to more radically help us to experience the event of the cross. The cross allows God to participate in the human condition. It allows God to suffer with us. To experience what we as humans experience. It brings God into solidarity with God's own creation. But if we have lost touch with that experience, we in turn need to participate in the event.
A story which to me expressed better than anything I have read, the mystery of God's participatory act of solidarity with human suffering, is by a Japanese writer, Shusaku Endo, in his novel, "Silence". His work is a protest against the triumphalism of the message of the Jesuit missionaries who brought their form of Christianity to Japan in the sixteenth Century. The story is about a young Portuguese Jesuit priest, Rodrigues. He has a genuine devotion to Christ. He spends hours in prayer and meditation, contemplating, imitating Christ, convicted of his need to be willing to suffer, even to die for Christ's sake.
During an uprising against the Christians, Rodrigues finds himself in great difficulty. He is taken prisoner and is asked to renounce his faith. At first, he refuses; he hopes to emulate Christ, hoping even for the martyrdom that he believes will bring him into the very presence of God. Instead of that, he is imprisoned. From his cell, he hears the cries of Japanese Christians who have already recanted their faith, but who are still being tortured. Rodrigues is told, until he renounces his faith, they will continue to be tortured. It horrifies him. His captors ask him once more to apostatize. They offer him a crucifix. All he needs to do is to trample on the image of Christ on the cross, simply to grind it with his toe.
The image presented to him does not resemble in any way the face that he has come to adore and emulate. Still he cannot bring himself to step on it until he hears the voice of Christ speaking to him: "Trample, it is for this that I have come." Suddenly he understands the message of the cross. His image of Christ is transformed. He experiences the event in a whole new way. He tramples on the crucifix to alleviate the sufferings of others.
Our view of the cross needs to enable us to participate in the event, to understand God's participation in our human condition. The cross allowed Jesus to suffer with humanity. It allowed God access to our human condition. The cross was a sign of humiliation, pain and suffering, a sign of failure. But to the Christian it is a transforming experience that allows us to see ourselves in God.
One further image of cross I would like to leave with you. It is a cross, which was on loan to Trinity College one Lent when I was a student there. It now hangs in the Church of the Incarnation in Willowdale. It is a large, rough wooden cross. The figure of Jesus is made from broken pieces of mirror. Roughly cut, they are placed much as one would place the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It has caused more than the usual amount of disagreement over whether or not it is art. It seems that people either like it immensely, or find it deeply disturbing. I find it a powerful symbol. I see my own image reflected in the brokenness of Christ. It reminds me that Christ suffered with me. It helps me to understand the cry of dereliction and abandonment from the cross. It reminds me that God's power is able to transform even the most terrible suffering. It reminds me that God is with us. In that encounter with the crucified God I learn that the sharing of suffering is the beginning of its transformation to wholeness and joy.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
The Second Sunday in Lent, Year A
Enjoy the Mountain, Live in the Valley
Readings: Genesis 12:1-4a; Psalm 121; Romans 4:1-5, 13-17; Matthew 17:1-9
The word 'Lent' although we quite properly associate it with fasting and penitence means literally 'spring'. When we consider the coming of spring we think in terms of growth and new life. Despite the cold, already around us are signs that say that spring is on its way. Daylight is coming earlier and staying longer. Whether we see it or not the earth is warming up and preparing for the growth that marks our spring weather. I know that we consider Lent as a rather dreary time in the church year, a time of giving up, a time of penitence, and dreary hymns in minor keys. However, Lent, as the springtime of the year is a good way for us to consider the season, for this is a time of spiritual re-awakening and growth. It is a season of great hope.
If Lent is a season of hope it is also a time to reflect on change and transition in our lives. When our lives change we are often faced with a new awareness of how attached we are to our old ways. We find it difficult to put down new roots and grow in new directions. To do so takes more trust than most of us can muster.
Abraham's story is an important one for us, for it is not only a story of the great faithfulness of God, but also of our human ability to put our trust in God through all the changes and transitions of life.
God called Abraham to begin a new life in a new place. It was a call, not only for Abraham, but also for the people of Israel. It is the beginning of their history of salvation – a moment of transition in their lives. God calls Abraham to leave his homeland and set out to a strange place. God makes a seemingly impossible promise to Abraham that his descendants will become a great nation with a territory of their own. It is on the basis of God's promise that he leaves the familiarity of his life and sets out to live as an alien resident, far from his roots. It is a story that touches us as part of our human heritage. Being uprooted and displaced, whether by war, disaster or choice is the experience of millions of people in our own time. Consider the story of the Syrian family that the River of Hope is sponsoring in our community.
The wonder of the story is not only that Abraham was obedient to the call of God. It is that he trusted so implicitly in God's ability to accomplish what was promised. Wouldn't our human tendency be to take control, to try to orchestrate things so that God's promise came about through our own efforts? Abraham didn't raise an army and march on the Canaanites. He didn't enact laws and find people to enforce them. He didn't get himself a crown. For Abraham, faith meant believing in God's promise and trusting that God would make it happen in God's own time, in God's own way, through God’s grace.
Speaking for myself, I find that kind of faithfulness to God's promises very difficult. In my head I know the promises that God has made to us; in my heart I find it difficult to simply trust. I know intellectually that God's grace is free and abundant. Yet I find it impossible to give up my own need for control and let God work in my life.
That is one of the themes that I find in the Transfiguration passage in the Gospel. Jesus takes Peter, James and John up a high mountain. There on the mountaintop, Jesus is transfigured, changed. He appears before them in dazzling white, a sign of God’s presence. They witness Elijah and Moses talking to Jesus.
During that encounter, Peter feels led to build three tabernacles, three altars as memorials, shrines to his sacred experience. What could possibly be wrong with doing exactly that? Whenever Abraham found signs of God’s presence on his journey, he built an altar and called on the name of God. It is part of our human nature to do so. We build churches. We want holy places in which to worship God. We think that by memorializing God we will somehow capture the holy. God will surely be with us.
But as God would have it, Peter will not build altars on the mountaintop. Altar building will take place in changed lives in the valley below. The vision ends as quickly as it began, like a bursting bubble. The disciples are transported back to the valley. It is in the valley, after all, that they are called to serve lovingly and faithfully. It is in the difficult arenas of the world that their ministry will unfold.
That does not mean that the experience will be forgotten. Mountain top experiences change our perceptions of God and of ourselves. The disciples will carry that experience with them. Later when they look back on what has happened it will help them to face the difficult days ahead, days of loss and confusion.
We tend to think of "mountaintop experiences" as being ecstatic experiences, emotional highs. That is because true revelations are very difficult to express to other people. They are uniquely personal experiences. It is meaningful to the person within his or her own context. And so we search for the right words to describe our experience of God. It is that inexpressible quality that leads us to call those deep revelations "mountaintop experiences".
Those of us who live a normal Christian life spend most of our time with both feet firmly on the ground. We try to live the Christian life. We participate in worship. We give our time and talents to the work of the Church. We spend time in prayer and study. We try to live a good and moral life.
Life is not an easy journey. We all experience wilderness times in our lives, times of frustration, pain, suffering, difficulty. Sometimes it seems as if there will be no end to the wilderness time. When one thing after another happens to us, we ask the age-old questions. Why is this happening to me? Why must I suffer? Our faith comes into question. It is at those times that we call on our mountaintop experiences, those times when God was revealed to us in some inexplicable way that gave us a glimpse of glory.
It is those deep experiences of God that make it possible for people facing deep tragedy not only to sustain their faith, but to continue to affirm that God is a God of love, that God is there for them. When I look back over my life I become aware of many such moments. They are often just fleeting glimpses of the grandeur of God. The easy ones to express are times when I have experienced God through a great piece of music, a walk in the woods, a stimulating conversation with a friend, a synergistic moment when the right story or the right word came at exactly the right time. I have to say that some of them I would have great difficulty even beginning to explain to you. There have been moments of great clarity when I knew that God was with me. There have been times of prayer when I felt a deep connection to God. There have been times of danger when life was spinning out of control, and yet I knew that God was there.
I consider the Camino to be one of those mountaintop experiences in my life. I find it difficult to explain exactly what it entailed. I am without words to name it, other than its impact on my relationship to God. I am at just as much a loss of words to express the experience of praying on the beach at St. Columba’s Bay in Iona. In fact, the whole Iona journey is another of those inexpressible experiences that have brought me into closer relationship with God.
They are not experiences that we can go looking for. They are ways in which God chooses to be revealed to us. It is about letting God lead us. It is about opening ourselves to God. It is about letting God come into relationship with us. And especially it is about allowing ourselves to return to the valley. It is the changed lives that take place in the valley that are the tangible results of the mountain top experience. Jesus’ immediate act on descending from the mountain was to heal a young boy suffering from epilepsy. That boy, Peter as he becomes the ‘rock’, the foundation of the Christian faith, the lives of all of the faithful, the Church, the body of Christ; these are the living altars that proclaim the glory of God. That is pure grace.
Let this Lent be a time to reflect on change and transition in our lives. Let it be an opportunity to grow in new directions, to come into a deeper awareness of God's grace at work in our lives and to know God's abiding presence in our lives and the life of the world. Let it be a time to experience God’s grace at work in our lives and in the lives of those around us. Amen.
Readings: Genesis 12:1-4a; Psalm 121; Romans 4:1-5, 13-17; Matthew 17:1-9
The word 'Lent' although we quite properly associate it with fasting and penitence means literally 'spring'. When we consider the coming of spring we think in terms of growth and new life. Despite the cold, already around us are signs that say that spring is on its way. Daylight is coming earlier and staying longer. Whether we see it or not the earth is warming up and preparing for the growth that marks our spring weather. I know that we consider Lent as a rather dreary time in the church year, a time of giving up, a time of penitence, and dreary hymns in minor keys. However, Lent, as the springtime of the year is a good way for us to consider the season, for this is a time of spiritual re-awakening and growth. It is a season of great hope.
If Lent is a season of hope it is also a time to reflect on change and transition in our lives. When our lives change we are often faced with a new awareness of how attached we are to our old ways. We find it difficult to put down new roots and grow in new directions. To do so takes more trust than most of us can muster.
Abraham's story is an important one for us, for it is not only a story of the great faithfulness of God, but also of our human ability to put our trust in God through all the changes and transitions of life.
God called Abraham to begin a new life in a new place. It was a call, not only for Abraham, but also for the people of Israel. It is the beginning of their history of salvation – a moment of transition in their lives. God calls Abraham to leave his homeland and set out to a strange place. God makes a seemingly impossible promise to Abraham that his descendants will become a great nation with a territory of their own. It is on the basis of God's promise that he leaves the familiarity of his life and sets out to live as an alien resident, far from his roots. It is a story that touches us as part of our human heritage. Being uprooted and displaced, whether by war, disaster or choice is the experience of millions of people in our own time. Consider the story of the Syrian family that the River of Hope is sponsoring in our community.
The wonder of the story is not only that Abraham was obedient to the call of God. It is that he trusted so implicitly in God's ability to accomplish what was promised. Wouldn't our human tendency be to take control, to try to orchestrate things so that God's promise came about through our own efforts? Abraham didn't raise an army and march on the Canaanites. He didn't enact laws and find people to enforce them. He didn't get himself a crown. For Abraham, faith meant believing in God's promise and trusting that God would make it happen in God's own time, in God's own way, through God’s grace.
Speaking for myself, I find that kind of faithfulness to God's promises very difficult. In my head I know the promises that God has made to us; in my heart I find it difficult to simply trust. I know intellectually that God's grace is free and abundant. Yet I find it impossible to give up my own need for control and let God work in my life.
That is one of the themes that I find in the Transfiguration passage in the Gospel. Jesus takes Peter, James and John up a high mountain. There on the mountaintop, Jesus is transfigured, changed. He appears before them in dazzling white, a sign of God’s presence. They witness Elijah and Moses talking to Jesus.
During that encounter, Peter feels led to build three tabernacles, three altars as memorials, shrines to his sacred experience. What could possibly be wrong with doing exactly that? Whenever Abraham found signs of God’s presence on his journey, he built an altar and called on the name of God. It is part of our human nature to do so. We build churches. We want holy places in which to worship God. We think that by memorializing God we will somehow capture the holy. God will surely be with us.
But as God would have it, Peter will not build altars on the mountaintop. Altar building will take place in changed lives in the valley below. The vision ends as quickly as it began, like a bursting bubble. The disciples are transported back to the valley. It is in the valley, after all, that they are called to serve lovingly and faithfully. It is in the difficult arenas of the world that their ministry will unfold.
That does not mean that the experience will be forgotten. Mountain top experiences change our perceptions of God and of ourselves. The disciples will carry that experience with them. Later when they look back on what has happened it will help them to face the difficult days ahead, days of loss and confusion.
We tend to think of "mountaintop experiences" as being ecstatic experiences, emotional highs. That is because true revelations are very difficult to express to other people. They are uniquely personal experiences. It is meaningful to the person within his or her own context. And so we search for the right words to describe our experience of God. It is that inexpressible quality that leads us to call those deep revelations "mountaintop experiences".
Those of us who live a normal Christian life spend most of our time with both feet firmly on the ground. We try to live the Christian life. We participate in worship. We give our time and talents to the work of the Church. We spend time in prayer and study. We try to live a good and moral life.
Life is not an easy journey. We all experience wilderness times in our lives, times of frustration, pain, suffering, difficulty. Sometimes it seems as if there will be no end to the wilderness time. When one thing after another happens to us, we ask the age-old questions. Why is this happening to me? Why must I suffer? Our faith comes into question. It is at those times that we call on our mountaintop experiences, those times when God was revealed to us in some inexplicable way that gave us a glimpse of glory.
It is those deep experiences of God that make it possible for people facing deep tragedy not only to sustain their faith, but to continue to affirm that God is a God of love, that God is there for them. When I look back over my life I become aware of many such moments. They are often just fleeting glimpses of the grandeur of God. The easy ones to express are times when I have experienced God through a great piece of music, a walk in the woods, a stimulating conversation with a friend, a synergistic moment when the right story or the right word came at exactly the right time. I have to say that some of them I would have great difficulty even beginning to explain to you. There have been moments of great clarity when I knew that God was with me. There have been times of prayer when I felt a deep connection to God. There have been times of danger when life was spinning out of control, and yet I knew that God was there.
I consider the Camino to be one of those mountaintop experiences in my life. I find it difficult to explain exactly what it entailed. I am without words to name it, other than its impact on my relationship to God. I am at just as much a loss of words to express the experience of praying on the beach at St. Columba’s Bay in Iona. In fact, the whole Iona journey is another of those inexpressible experiences that have brought me into closer relationship with God.
They are not experiences that we can go looking for. They are ways in which God chooses to be revealed to us. It is about letting God lead us. It is about opening ourselves to God. It is about letting God come into relationship with us. And especially it is about allowing ourselves to return to the valley. It is the changed lives that take place in the valley that are the tangible results of the mountain top experience. Jesus’ immediate act on descending from the mountain was to heal a young boy suffering from epilepsy. That boy, Peter as he becomes the ‘rock’, the foundation of the Christian faith, the lives of all of the faithful, the Church, the body of Christ; these are the living altars that proclaim the glory of God. That is pure grace.
Let this Lent be a time to reflect on change and transition in our lives. Let it be an opportunity to grow in new directions, to come into a deeper awareness of God's grace at work in our lives and to know God's abiding presence in our lives and the life of the world. Let it be a time to experience God’s grace at work in our lives and in the lives of those around us. Amen.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, Year A
Beyond Call
Readings: Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 51; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; Matthew 5:1-12
During the season of Epiphany the readings focus on God’s call to us. It is a call that goes beyond giving gifts to God. It is a call to give of our deepest selves. That is very much reflected in the readings for this particular Sunday.
The Old Testament reading begins with a courtroom scene; God is the prosecutor and the mountains are the judges. God is upset that despite all of God’s generosity and grace, the people of Israel have turned away. Micah reminds the people of how blessed they have been by God’s grace. And then he asks them a question. “What does the Lord require of you?” Not waiting for their answer, he follows it with a very succinct and poignant response. “Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God.” It is the call of the people of Israel. It is the call of the Christian, yet it goes far beyond even the Christian call. It touches our deepest humanity. It is a call to social responsibility, to the kind of personal behaviour and interior spirituality that epitomizes ethical living. What God requires goes beyond the norms of everyday living, of society. God requires people to turn their lives around, to live their lives differently.
Micah has so much to say to us today. He reminds us that, although it is a sign of spiritual awareness, it is not enough to go to church. It is not enough to have the outward trappings of religion. Our lives must reflect our relationship to God. If we truly want to worship God it must show in our daily lives, not simply in our practice of worship. Our lives must reflect that desire to live justly, to do the loving thing.
Furthermore, for Micah it has nothing to do with religious rituals. No animal sacrifice could begin to make a difference. It has to do with a sacrifice of the heart and the spirit. It has to do with the way we live our lives. It has to do with the change that takes place in our lives when we decide to follow God.
The Gospel also reflects that need to change the way we live our lives. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus proclaims a new way of living, a new character of faith. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says knowing that the poor in spirit already belong in the kingdom of God. They are the ones who know that the kingdom of God is not yet fully realized here on earth. They know that society leaves out too many people. There are too many who suffer, who starve and who are abused.
The poor in spirit are the ones who want to change all that. They want a world where justice reigns. They want to put an end to injustice. They want a world that is free of weeping and arrogance, of homelessness, injustice, darkness and war. They look out on our world and weep. They weep for those who will go hungry this day. They weep for those who languish unjustly in prison. They weep for those shot down on our city streets. They weep for the child abused by a parent. They weep for the family in turmoil. They weep for the denuding of our forests and the polluting of our waters. They weep for those who are excluded because of the perceptions of those around them.
“Blessed are the meek,” Jesus says. Doesn’t that contradict everything that the world stands for? To the world the meek are the ones that get walked all over. It challenges the world’s moral values. The very ones the world dismisses as unrealistic and naïve become the radical subversives who can change the world into a place of peace and justice. They are the advocates for the poor and for those in need. In terms of Christian faith a seeming defeat emerges to be the great moral victory of history, inspiring and calling people in every age to give their allegiance to Jesus Christ.
Our Christian faith searches for the paradox at the heart of everything. The unimportant becomes important. The marginal becomes central. Think of the blessing that the Martin Luther King’s of this world bring to society. The course of action of the meek is often the most courageous. It is often the most effective as well. While God will use those with gifts, the powerful and influential, the bright and talented, it is often the rejected, the despised, the imprisoned, the martyred who become real instruments of God’s peace in the world.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness”, Jesus says. And I wonder, do I hunger and thirst for righteousness? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness or do I find excuses and simply look the other way? Do I assume that it is not up to me, that someone else will look after things, make certain that justice is served? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness, or am I indifferent to the suffering I see around me? Do I avoid becoming too caught up in it? Do I keep silent when I see injustice so that I do not offend those around me?
The message of the beatitudes is not for the past. It is not for some distant future. It is relevant to the present moment. We are called to trust in God in difficult circumstances. They are unavoidable in our lives. There will always be times of difficulty, for it is part of the human condition. The beatitudes help us, not simply to endure life’s difficult times, but to accept and live a sustaining relationship with God throughout our whole lives. This was never more true than at this moment. In Africa, in Asia and the Middle East millions of our fellow human beings suffer disease, privation and the effects of war and natural disasters we have never experienced, let alone imagine. Many of our First Nations People live in poverty in the midst of our plenty.
That call to give of our deepest selves is reflected in our Baptismal covenant. Can you hear Micah’s powerful words reflected as we make this promise? “Will you strive for justice and peace and respect the dignity of every human being?” What a challenge that presents to us!
We know that to live as Micah proclaims is to live as God would have us live. We know in our hearts that what Jesus is saying calls us to change our lives. It calls us to the sense of joy that comes with serving God. It calls us to see our sacrifice of love as the way in which we serve God and bring about God’s kingdom of peace. And there lies the challenge! For to even come close to living our lives that way we will have to make changes. We will have to make a commitment to follow God and live our lives in a way that reflects God’s love. We will see it in the face of Jesus. We will want it in our own lives.
Sunday by Sunday we gather at the table. We break bread. We share the cup of salvation. As we do so we see foreshadowed the gathering of the hungry, the poor, the marginalized in the kingdom of God. As we come forward to receive the body and blood of Christ, we are responding to the altar call. We are committing ourselves to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.” Amen
Readings: Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 51; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; Matthew 5:1-12
During the season of Epiphany the readings focus on God’s call to us. It is a call that goes beyond giving gifts to God. It is a call to give of our deepest selves. That is very much reflected in the readings for this particular Sunday.
The Old Testament reading begins with a courtroom scene; God is the prosecutor and the mountains are the judges. God is upset that despite all of God’s generosity and grace, the people of Israel have turned away. Micah reminds the people of how blessed they have been by God’s grace. And then he asks them a question. “What does the Lord require of you?” Not waiting for their answer, he follows it with a very succinct and poignant response. “Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God.” It is the call of the people of Israel. It is the call of the Christian, yet it goes far beyond even the Christian call. It touches our deepest humanity. It is a call to social responsibility, to the kind of personal behaviour and interior spirituality that epitomizes ethical living. What God requires goes beyond the norms of everyday living, of society. God requires people to turn their lives around, to live their lives differently.
Micah has so much to say to us today. He reminds us that, although it is a sign of spiritual awareness, it is not enough to go to church. It is not enough to have the outward trappings of religion. Our lives must reflect our relationship to God. If we truly want to worship God it must show in our daily lives, not simply in our practice of worship. Our lives must reflect that desire to live justly, to do the loving thing.
Furthermore, for Micah it has nothing to do with religious rituals. No animal sacrifice could begin to make a difference. It has to do with a sacrifice of the heart and the spirit. It has to do with the way we live our lives. It has to do with the change that takes place in our lives when we decide to follow God.
The Gospel also reflects that need to change the way we live our lives. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus proclaims a new way of living, a new character of faith. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says knowing that the poor in spirit already belong in the kingdom of God. They are the ones who know that the kingdom of God is not yet fully realized here on earth. They know that society leaves out too many people. There are too many who suffer, who starve and who are abused.
The poor in spirit are the ones who want to change all that. They want a world where justice reigns. They want to put an end to injustice. They want a world that is free of weeping and arrogance, of homelessness, injustice, darkness and war. They look out on our world and weep. They weep for those who will go hungry this day. They weep for those who languish unjustly in prison. They weep for those shot down on our city streets. They weep for the child abused by a parent. They weep for the family in turmoil. They weep for the denuding of our forests and the polluting of our waters. They weep for those who are excluded because of the perceptions of those around them.
“Blessed are the meek,” Jesus says. Doesn’t that contradict everything that the world stands for? To the world the meek are the ones that get walked all over. It challenges the world’s moral values. The very ones the world dismisses as unrealistic and naïve become the radical subversives who can change the world into a place of peace and justice. They are the advocates for the poor and for those in need. In terms of Christian faith a seeming defeat emerges to be the great moral victory of history, inspiring and calling people in every age to give their allegiance to Jesus Christ.
Our Christian faith searches for the paradox at the heart of everything. The unimportant becomes important. The marginal becomes central. Think of the blessing that the Martin Luther King’s of this world bring to society. The course of action of the meek is often the most courageous. It is often the most effective as well. While God will use those with gifts, the powerful and influential, the bright and talented, it is often the rejected, the despised, the imprisoned, the martyred who become real instruments of God’s peace in the world.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness”, Jesus says. And I wonder, do I hunger and thirst for righteousness? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness or do I find excuses and simply look the other way? Do I assume that it is not up to me, that someone else will look after things, make certain that justice is served? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness, or am I indifferent to the suffering I see around me? Do I avoid becoming too caught up in it? Do I keep silent when I see injustice so that I do not offend those around me?
The message of the beatitudes is not for the past. It is not for some distant future. It is relevant to the present moment. We are called to trust in God in difficult circumstances. They are unavoidable in our lives. There will always be times of difficulty, for it is part of the human condition. The beatitudes help us, not simply to endure life’s difficult times, but to accept and live a sustaining relationship with God throughout our whole lives. This was never more true than at this moment. In Africa, in Asia and the Middle East millions of our fellow human beings suffer disease, privation and the effects of war and natural disasters we have never experienced, let alone imagine. Many of our First Nations People live in poverty in the midst of our plenty.
That call to give of our deepest selves is reflected in our Baptismal covenant. Can you hear Micah’s powerful words reflected as we make this promise? “Will you strive for justice and peace and respect the dignity of every human being?” What a challenge that presents to us!
We know that to live as Micah proclaims is to live as God would have us live. We know in our hearts that what Jesus is saying calls us to change our lives. It calls us to the sense of joy that comes with serving God. It calls us to see our sacrifice of love as the way in which we serve God and bring about God’s kingdom of peace. And there lies the challenge! For to even come close to living our lives that way we will have to make changes. We will have to make a commitment to follow God and live our lives in a way that reflects God’s love. We will see it in the face of Jesus. We will want it in our own lives.
Sunday by Sunday we gather at the table. We break bread. We share the cup of salvation. As we do so we see foreshadowed the gathering of the hungry, the poor, the marginalized in the kingdom of God. As we come forward to receive the body and blood of Christ, we are responding to the altar call. We are committing ourselves to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.” Amen
Saturday, January 21, 2017
The Third Sunday after Epiphany, Year A Sermon Series Pt 3
Truth and Reconciliation: An Ongoing Process
Readings: Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
I begin this sermon by acknowledging the First Nations in whose territory we live and express my thanks for this opportunity to meet here today. And once more I put before you two questions. How will you in this parish share in the ministry of truth and reconciliation? And more importantly what does it even mean?
It is no mistake that during the season of Epiphany the consistent theme is our call to discipleship. Epiphany is about the many ways in which God is revealed to us. From the revelation of God to the Magi to the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan to our own call as Christians, it is about our relationship with God. It is about how God's coming to us changes us.
God calls us as a society. Isaiah speaks to Judah, a nation in exile. They have lost their relationship with God. Here finally he gives them a message of hope. In spite of their lack of faithfulness, they will know joy in the midst of darkness. God will not abandon them. It is such good news to people who are experiencing pain and suffering. Isaiah links the coming of new light with regaining their freedom, with bringing an end to the oppression that has caused them to abandon their faith in the first place.
God calls us as Church. Paul writes to the churches in Corinth tackling the problem of their many divisions. He reminds the people that their loyalty must be to Christ and not to the particular leaders in their community. It is God who calls them. It is God who gives them their unique gifts. Their relationship needs to be with God and it needs to be a strong one that moves them past the quarrels and divisions so that they are able to be the people of God and bring transformation to their community.
And God calls each one of us as individuals. Matthew recounts the story of Jesus calling the disciples. What has gone on before is of real significance. John baptized Jesus in the river Jordan. Jesus went into the desert by himself for forty days. He was tempted by the devil in the wilderness. He refused to use his divine powers for his own ends. Now he is ready to begin his ministry in earnest. He settles in Capernaum, rather a strange choice of place. It is a harbour town, home to cutthroats and pagans, not the easiest setting in which to begin his ministry. The words of Isaiah about bringing light into darkness flood into his consciousness. Empowered by those words, he realizes that God is with him illuminating the path. He sets out to find disciples to assist with the work.
The story of the call of the disciples is really pretty simple. Jesus sees Peter and Andrew casting their nets into the sea. He must have seen them on many occasions. He invites them to follow him. "I will make you fish for people," he says. They respond immediately. James and John are also fishermen. They are helping their father mend the nets. He calls them. They leave their father and the boat and follow Jesus.
Being a disciple involves making decisions. If they were to do God's will they first had to respond to Jesus' invitation! As Christians, we too need to respond to the invitation. We need to make a conscious decision about what we will and will not do. Only then can God reach out to a society in need of transformation. So what is our response to the invitation? What will we do to bring light and healing into the lives of others?
God calls us at this time and in this place. God calls us where we are. Where is God calling this community of faith? Are we being faithful to our call? I believe with my whole heart that God is calling us at this time and in this place to a ministry of Truth and Reconciliation. First Nations People need to experience first hand what Isaiah is speaking about. They have experienced, indeed, they continue to experience, pain and suffering because of Canada’s colonial attitudes and our continuing racism and apathy to their situation. The dream that one day our nation will live up to its promises remains largely unfulfilled. Darkness continues to cover the land. They need that sense that God is with them to bring light, to increase joy, and to break the rod of the oppressor. They need to experience joy in the midst of darkness. It is in this moment that we hold out hope that light will shine in the darkness.
The mood of the passage is one of celebration and trust that God will shine into the darkness. It is one of trust in God even if events seem to be anything but joyous. Let us continue to bring light to bear on the oppression under which they have lived. Let us find ways of turning that oppression into hope and freedom. Then we will have achieved reconciliation.
But what is reconciliation anyway? How will we know when we have achieved it? It starts with doing what we are doing right now, educating ourselves about our complicity in their plight, acknowledging that we are the problem and that we need their forgiveness. When Michael Peers issued an apology on behalf of the Anglican Church of Canada in 1993, it began the process of reconciliation that continues to this day. He told the people of the shame and humiliation he felt in listening to their stories of abuse and thinking of the part that the Church played in that suffering. He confessed his failure. He did it on behalf of all of us; even those of us who did not at that time know the story. He did it knowing that it could result, as it did, in costly suits against the Church. He did it because he knew that the Church needed healing every bit as much as First Nations People. We are sorely in need of reconciliation.
In 2008 then Prime Minister Stephen Harper issued an apology. “The government recognizes that the absence of an apology has been an impediment to healing and reconciliation. Therefore, on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, I stand before you, in this Chamber so central to our life as a country, to apologize to Aboriginal peoples for Canada's role in the Indian Residential Schools system.”
And here we are almost ten years later still pondering what Truth and Reconciliation means. What more do we need to do?
The first step to reconciliation is an apology. The second step is forgiveness. That is certainly never a given. People can be so hurt by what has happened that forgiveness is the last thing on their mind. When we have hurt someone we think that forgiveness should somehow be automatic. “Of course,” we think, “if we apologize then we should be forgiven. Whatever happened to forgive and forget?” Much work needs to be done to regain trust, to assure First Nations People that the apology stands, that we are doing everything in our power to make amends. And so I believe that the ball remains in our court.
There is a story about reconciliation that I want to share with you. I am not certain where it comes from. There was a woman, a weaver, who was renowned for her beautiful tapestries and carpets. People came long distances to buy them from her. They knew that there was something unique about every piece that she did. One of her customers spoke to her about it. “It must be painstaking work,” he said. “No two carpets are alike. How do you do it? What happens when you make a mistake? You must take hours going back and fixing your mistakes?”
“No!” replied the woman. “You see! My mistakes are the reason that each piece is unique. When I make a mistake I weave it into the pattern.”
We cannot undo the mistakes of the past. We cannot forget. In fact it is important that we not forget. Reconciliation calls us is re-member the past, to weave it into the tapestry of our lives.
How do we re-member First Nations People? How do we honour them and ensure that the darkness in which they are living does not continue? It begins with our own acknowledgement of our complicity in their circumstances. It continues with our making certain that it is not forgotten, that we know our history, that our children are taught the real history of Canada and the contribution of our First Nations People. As Christians that is our call.
As our Primate, Archbishop Fred Hiltz writes in the response to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, “We will continue to share in the work of healing and reconciliation, respectfully following the leadership of Indigenous communities and leaders, and to offer leadership among non-Indigenous Canadians where that is appropriate.”
“May the Creator guide us as we continue in the work of healing, justice, and right relations for the generations it will take to address that harm “and guide this country on a new and different path”. (Remembering the Children prayer, 2008)”
And to that I say, Amen!
Readings: Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
I begin this sermon by acknowledging the First Nations in whose territory we live and express my thanks for this opportunity to meet here today. And once more I put before you two questions. How will you in this parish share in the ministry of truth and reconciliation? And more importantly what does it even mean?
It is no mistake that during the season of Epiphany the consistent theme is our call to discipleship. Epiphany is about the many ways in which God is revealed to us. From the revelation of God to the Magi to the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan to our own call as Christians, it is about our relationship with God. It is about how God's coming to us changes us.
God calls us as a society. Isaiah speaks to Judah, a nation in exile. They have lost their relationship with God. Here finally he gives them a message of hope. In spite of their lack of faithfulness, they will know joy in the midst of darkness. God will not abandon them. It is such good news to people who are experiencing pain and suffering. Isaiah links the coming of new light with regaining their freedom, with bringing an end to the oppression that has caused them to abandon their faith in the first place.
God calls us as Church. Paul writes to the churches in Corinth tackling the problem of their many divisions. He reminds the people that their loyalty must be to Christ and not to the particular leaders in their community. It is God who calls them. It is God who gives them their unique gifts. Their relationship needs to be with God and it needs to be a strong one that moves them past the quarrels and divisions so that they are able to be the people of God and bring transformation to their community.
And God calls each one of us as individuals. Matthew recounts the story of Jesus calling the disciples. What has gone on before is of real significance. John baptized Jesus in the river Jordan. Jesus went into the desert by himself for forty days. He was tempted by the devil in the wilderness. He refused to use his divine powers for his own ends. Now he is ready to begin his ministry in earnest. He settles in Capernaum, rather a strange choice of place. It is a harbour town, home to cutthroats and pagans, not the easiest setting in which to begin his ministry. The words of Isaiah about bringing light into darkness flood into his consciousness. Empowered by those words, he realizes that God is with him illuminating the path. He sets out to find disciples to assist with the work.
The story of the call of the disciples is really pretty simple. Jesus sees Peter and Andrew casting their nets into the sea. He must have seen them on many occasions. He invites them to follow him. "I will make you fish for people," he says. They respond immediately. James and John are also fishermen. They are helping their father mend the nets. He calls them. They leave their father and the boat and follow Jesus.
Being a disciple involves making decisions. If they were to do God's will they first had to respond to Jesus' invitation! As Christians, we too need to respond to the invitation. We need to make a conscious decision about what we will and will not do. Only then can God reach out to a society in need of transformation. So what is our response to the invitation? What will we do to bring light and healing into the lives of others?
God calls us at this time and in this place. God calls us where we are. Where is God calling this community of faith? Are we being faithful to our call? I believe with my whole heart that God is calling us at this time and in this place to a ministry of Truth and Reconciliation. First Nations People need to experience first hand what Isaiah is speaking about. They have experienced, indeed, they continue to experience, pain and suffering because of Canada’s colonial attitudes and our continuing racism and apathy to their situation. The dream that one day our nation will live up to its promises remains largely unfulfilled. Darkness continues to cover the land. They need that sense that God is with them to bring light, to increase joy, and to break the rod of the oppressor. They need to experience joy in the midst of darkness. It is in this moment that we hold out hope that light will shine in the darkness.
The mood of the passage is one of celebration and trust that God will shine into the darkness. It is one of trust in God even if events seem to be anything but joyous. Let us continue to bring light to bear on the oppression under which they have lived. Let us find ways of turning that oppression into hope and freedom. Then we will have achieved reconciliation.
But what is reconciliation anyway? How will we know when we have achieved it? It starts with doing what we are doing right now, educating ourselves about our complicity in their plight, acknowledging that we are the problem and that we need their forgiveness. When Michael Peers issued an apology on behalf of the Anglican Church of Canada in 1993, it began the process of reconciliation that continues to this day. He told the people of the shame and humiliation he felt in listening to their stories of abuse and thinking of the part that the Church played in that suffering. He confessed his failure. He did it on behalf of all of us; even those of us who did not at that time know the story. He did it knowing that it could result, as it did, in costly suits against the Church. He did it because he knew that the Church needed healing every bit as much as First Nations People. We are sorely in need of reconciliation.
In 2008 then Prime Minister Stephen Harper issued an apology. “The government recognizes that the absence of an apology has been an impediment to healing and reconciliation. Therefore, on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, I stand before you, in this Chamber so central to our life as a country, to apologize to Aboriginal peoples for Canada's role in the Indian Residential Schools system.”
And here we are almost ten years later still pondering what Truth and Reconciliation means. What more do we need to do?
The first step to reconciliation is an apology. The second step is forgiveness. That is certainly never a given. People can be so hurt by what has happened that forgiveness is the last thing on their mind. When we have hurt someone we think that forgiveness should somehow be automatic. “Of course,” we think, “if we apologize then we should be forgiven. Whatever happened to forgive and forget?” Much work needs to be done to regain trust, to assure First Nations People that the apology stands, that we are doing everything in our power to make amends. And so I believe that the ball remains in our court.
There is a story about reconciliation that I want to share with you. I am not certain where it comes from. There was a woman, a weaver, who was renowned for her beautiful tapestries and carpets. People came long distances to buy them from her. They knew that there was something unique about every piece that she did. One of her customers spoke to her about it. “It must be painstaking work,” he said. “No two carpets are alike. How do you do it? What happens when you make a mistake? You must take hours going back and fixing your mistakes?”
“No!” replied the woman. “You see! My mistakes are the reason that each piece is unique. When I make a mistake I weave it into the pattern.”
We cannot undo the mistakes of the past. We cannot forget. In fact it is important that we not forget. Reconciliation calls us is re-member the past, to weave it into the tapestry of our lives.
How do we re-member First Nations People? How do we honour them and ensure that the darkness in which they are living does not continue? It begins with our own acknowledgement of our complicity in their circumstances. It continues with our making certain that it is not forgotten, that we know our history, that our children are taught the real history of Canada and the contribution of our First Nations People. As Christians that is our call.
As our Primate, Archbishop Fred Hiltz writes in the response to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, “We will continue to share in the work of healing and reconciliation, respectfully following the leadership of Indigenous communities and leaders, and to offer leadership among non-Indigenous Canadians where that is appropriate.”
“May the Creator guide us as we continue in the work of healing, justice, and right relations for the generations it will take to address that harm “and guide this country on a new and different path”. (Remembering the Children prayer, 2008)”
And to that I say, Amen!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
Come and See Readings: Isaiah 49:1-7; Psalm 40:1-11; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9; John 1:29-42 Invitations come in many shapes and sizes. They ...
-
Don't Worry! Readings: Joel 2:21-27; Psalm 126; 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Matthew 6:25-33 Don’t you love it when someone says, “Don’t worry! Eve... -
Living Saints Readings: Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 24:1-6; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44 Every year on the first of November we celebrate the ...