Repeat as Often as Necessary: A Sermon for Sunday May 24, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, May 24, 2020. The service was live-streamed from our empty church building because of COVID-19. During these unusual times, you can join me Monday-Friday for Evening Prayer at 5pm and at 7pm on Sundays for live-streamed liturgies on our church's FB page. The links to help you connect with me directly on social media can also be found on this website.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in our sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
On Thursday we celebrated the feast of the Ascension. If you’re a linear thinker and have been following the lectionary, you have experienced some whiplash when you heard today’s gospel reading. On Thursday, we remembered the story in Acts when Jesus ascends to heaven, and then today, we jump back in time to just before the crucifixion.
For those of you who might need a brief refresher, the story of Jesus’ ascension is found at the beginning of the book of Acts. Jesus has been resurrected and reunited with his disciples and has spent forty days with them. This is why we celebrated Ascension Day on Thursday not today. I find it hard to believe, but this past Thursday was forty days after Easter.
So Jesus has been with his disciples for forty days and now they ask him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”
The text doesn’t say this, but I wonder if Jesus’ heart sank as he realized they still didn’t understand. Did he feel like a failure? Did he wonder if he should hang around a bit longer and try to explain everyone one more time?
Because it seems to me that every time Jesus tries to explain what he is planning to accomplish, the disciples listen, nod their heads and then go right back to their original paradigm. “That’s all really cool Jesus, but now we’re going to take back our kingdom, right?”
We can only guess what Jesus is feeling based on what he says which is something like, “Stop obsessing over dates and times, that’s God’s job, not yours,” and “you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (8)
And then, we are told, “he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.” (9)
Jesus disappears and now all the disciples are staring up into the sky unable to believe what has just happened. Then two men in white robes appear and ask, “what are you doing staring up into the sky?”
I imagine it was actually a terrifying and confusing moment to experience, but as a reader, I find it hilarious to imagine all these men with shocked looks on their faces staring up into an empty sky, and then, startled by the question from the men in white, trying to explain what they’ve just experienced.
We know that gradually the disciples did begin to make sense of all of these experiences, but it didn’t happen right away.
And that may be in part because of all the ways their lives keep changing over a short period of time. Constant change is exhausting, disorienting, disheartening. We don’t tend to do our best thinking in those sorts of circumstances.
From the time they first met Jesus they began to develop a set of expectations – a set of expectations we see in their question to Jesus, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”
Those expectations were dashed when Jesus was crucified. Jesus was gone, dead, and before they could even really wrap their head around that reality, Jesus was alive again. And through the next 40 days they began to hope again, began to imagine a future with Jesus again, and then, in a moment, he’s gone.
They had developed a sense of what it meant to be a follower of a physically present Jesus, but they did not yet understand what it would mean to follow Jesus without actually being physically present with Jesus.
It was possible that the whole movement would fall apart at that moment, but it doesn’t. In fact, as they begin to figure out what it means to follow Jesus Christ without the physical presence of Jesus Christ the movement strengthens and grows rapidly.
When he was physically present with them, Jesus kept trying to explain things to his followers and they kept missing the point. It was only after he ascended that they began to reflect on all the things he had said and began to make sense of them.
I wonder why they didn’t do that work when Jesus was present but I suspect that oftentimes, we avoid difficult questions until we have no choice but to answer them.
Right now, we’re all having to figure out what life looks like without what was once a central focus of our lives of faith – gathering in this building. What does it mean to live a faithful life without that experience?
What might we have been missing, what tough questions, or God filled experiences might we all have been avoiding when we had public worship gatherings readily available?
Jesus has never needed a Sunday worship experience in order to connect with his people. We’ve always known this; we haven’t always practiced it. We have vast riches of ways to connect with God from walking outdoors, to journaling, to the rhythms of contemplative prayer practices like the examen or evening prayer.
What might we discover – or - rediscover in this time so that not only are we able to feed our souls now, but, when public worship does resume again, that we will see it as a beautiful addition to an already full banquet table, instead of the only thing on the menu?
I wouldn’t have wished a pandemic on anyone, and the possibility of new fruit doesn’t diminish how bone shatteringly hard this experience has been and continues to be but I hope we will continue to ask the questions anyway.
The disciples and the stories of the early Jesus movement that we find in Acts give me hope that if we choose to engage this time with curiosity, we may emerge with a richer and deeper and more balanced understanding of what it means to be followers of Christ.
Engaging this time with curiosity doesn’t have to mean doing more, it doesn’t have to look like productivity, it doesn’t have to look like adding 10 new contemplative practices to your day.
But it could mean stopping to notice what you’re feeling, what you’re experiencing, and to say, “Huh, that’s interesting. I wonder what that’s about.”
So that was Thursday and today is Sunday and the lectionary jumps back to an event that happens before the crucifixion.
As part of our daily 5pm online prayer service, we read the gospel for the coming Sunday and through that I am reminded of how different it is to read silently and to read something aloud. I am hearing the cadences of John’s gospel in a new way as I try to wrap my tongue around his words on a daily basis. It’s one of my “huh, that’s interesting discoveries.”
John’s writing style is very different from say Mark’s. John’s writing style is particularly difficult to read aloud – if he’d invited me to edit his gospel I would have said, “John, you are way too wordy. Try to say what you mean in a single sentence, instead of repeating it with only slight variations over three or four sentences.”
But he did not ask me.
And it seems that the creators of our lectionary also thought John could use an editor because they made the rather unusual choice to end our reading less than halfway through Jesus’ prayer. I wonder if they looked at the second half of the prayer and thought “this is all rather repetitive. Let’s just end it partway through.”
The prayer is 25 verses long, but our reading ends at verse 11.
Chapters 14-17 of John’s gospel are known as Jesus’ farewell discourse. In these chapters we see Jesus spending time with his disciples trying to prepare them for his death.
Which is no easy task.
In one of my favourite scenes from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, two characters are talking about the death of their mothers. One character asks the other, “Was it sudden?” And the response is, “No, and yes. It’s always sudden.”
Death, even one you think you are prepared for, is always sudden.
But Jesus is trying to prepare them. He is doing his best to make sure they have everything they need to walk through the dark and confusing times they are about to encounter.
And as part of that process, Jesus prays.
Jesus was a person of prayer and so it’s only natural that he would end these discourses with prayer. This prayer is, as prayer always is, a conversation between the pray-er and God.
But Jesus is also aware that he has an audience and so this prayer works on two levels – as a conversation with God, and as good news for the disciples.
Later, when they begin to think back on this time and remember what Jesus told them, they would also remember the words of this prayer. A prayer that says things like, “They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word.” (6)
In dark moments, when they begin to doubt, they can remember Jesus’s affirmation that they belong to God and have been faithful to God.
This idea repeats throughout the prayer, the disciples belong to God.
God didn’t really need this reminder, but how comforting this repeated idea must have been for the disciples in moments of dark and doubt. May it be a comfort to us as well – we are God’s people too. We belong to God.
I said earlier that this prayer is repetitive, but I think that is part of its brilliance. In its repetitiveness it begins to take on the cadence of a chant or a mantra or a Taizé song.
There are some things we need to be told more than once – especially during hard times. I need to be told over and over and over again that I belong, that I matter, that I am loved.
And this is what Jesus does, he says the same thing, with only slight variations over and over again – you belong to God.
I’d encourage you to read the entire chapter this week, read it as a prayer, read it more than once.
The entire prayer ends, “I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” (26)
This is my prayer for all of us this week. May each one of us know that we are filled with God’s love, and may that love pour out of each one of us throughout the coming week.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Sifting and Sorting: A Sermon for Sunday May 10, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, May 10, 2020. The service was live-streamed from our empty church building because of COVID-19. During these unusual times, you can join me Monday-Saturday for Evening Prayer at 5pm and at 7pm on Sundays for live-streamed liturgies on our church's FB page. The links to help you connect with me directly on social media can also be found on this website.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
Psalms tend to be relational. That’s part of their appeal for use in prayer. Tonight’s psalm, Psalm 139, describes a particularly intimate relationship between God and the psalmist. God is addressed as Yahweh, which was Israel’s personal name for God. (1,4) In just the first six verses, God is addressed as “you” ten times – “you have searched,” “you know,” and so on and the psalmist also refers to themself thirteen times, “when I sit down and when I rise up,” “my thoughts,” “my path.” (Nancy deClaisse-Walford)
Walter Brueggemann has observed that, “The Psalms are prayers addressed to a known, named, identifiable You. This is the most stunning and decisive factor in the prayers of the Psalter.” In Psalm 139, as in many others, there is both a “known, named, identifiable You,” and a known, identifiable “I.”
This is not a song about abstract ideas. This psalm is inherently relational, describing the relationship between the You and the I, between God and the writer of the psalm.
About halfway through Psalm 139 the psalmist asks a question, “Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?”
The answer?
Nowhere, because God is everywhere. The imagery used – heaven, Sheol, etc. is meant to tell us that no matter how high, or how low, or how far away the psalmist travels, there is nowhere that God is not present. Even if the psalmist were to “take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,” God is there. (9). God is present in the light of day and the dark of night. God is everywhere.
In another psalm, Psalm 121, this idea reappears when the psalmist says “the One who keeps watch over Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.” (St Helena’s translation)
Many of us have come to find this idea really comforting thanks in large part to Alana Levandoski’s song setting “God who watches over you.”
About 10 years ago now, I was part of a community that purchased a large home in the hope of being able to provide housing for people who were experiencing homelessness.
As part of that process we gutted the attic to create additional bedrooms and before we put up the drywall, we prayed together in that space and then we went around writing blessings all over the beams. One person wrote, “He who watches over you will never slumber nor sleep” over all the spaces where we knew beds would eventually go.”
The experience and the choice of that scripture passage were so beautiful to me that I posted the pictures on Facebook and showed them to friends.
One friend, commenting on a photo of a framed-out bedroom asked me why anyone would have chosen to put that particular phrase over someone’s bed. I tried to explain what a comfort the idea was and how we were trying to prepare these spaces to be a place of safety for people.
She listened and she said, “Well I guess, given your explanation, it could be comforting, but I think the idea of someone watching me the whole time I’m sleeping is incredibly creepy. I guess it all depends on who’s watching.”
Fair point. Context is everything.
If we understand God as good and loving, then knowing God will always watch over us is a comfort. If we view God as judgmental, always watching in order to zap us when we misbehave, then it’s more than creepy, it’s downright terrifying.
The psalmist doesn’t portray God as creepy or terrifying, instead the psalmist indicates that knowing that God is everywhere inspires a sense of awe. They say, “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it.” (6)
They can’t explain it, but they believe it. They’ve experienced the inescapable presence of God and it fills them with awe.
The Psalmist also tells us that God isn’t simply always present watching us dispassionately and trying to guess what we’re thinking, always trying to determine our motivations from our actions. God is also not watching, somewhat bored, because God already knows exactly what is going to happen. Rather, God is engaged in an active process of searching, and knowing.
The Psalm opens:
1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
3 You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
O Lord, you know it completely.
The Hebrew verb translated as “you discern,” (zrh) is the same word used to describe sifting wheat from chaff. (New International Biblical Commentary)
I’ve never sifted wheat from chaff, but I have sometimes sorted rice or lentils or beans. I love the feeling of sticking my hands deep into the bucket and seeing what I pull up. It’s an active and ever-changing process. Just when you think you’re done, you dig a little deeper and discover there is still more sorting to be done. Similarly, God’s knowledge of us is not static, it is an active process.
Through this process God knows us so well that God knows what we’re going to do and say before we do and say anything.
The psalmist continues:
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
When you hear, “You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” How does that make you feel? Do you feel protected or stifled? Do you imagine God’s hands feel comforting, or oppressive? Does it feel like a weighted blanket that provides comfort and helps you sleep soundly, or does it feel claustrophobic, like you have no room to move or breathe or be.
Being known is a vulnerable thing, especially if we aren’t sure we can trust the other person.
The Psalmist believes that ultimately God can be trusted, that God is worthy of knowing and being known by. They express a sense of comfort that no matter where they go God’s “hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.” (10)
I agree that God can be trusted and is worth getting to know, but I also understand that many, many people have been taught such an unhealthy understanding of who God is that they won’t be able to make that leap. I also know that sometimes, what I believe in my head has a hard time sinking down into the rest of my body. My brain may say “God is trustworthy,” and yet I still hesitate and doubt. My brain may say, “God loves you,” but my heart says, “That can’t be true, you are fundamentally unlovable.”
Be gentle with yourself if that is your experience.
Understanding who God really is is a process that takes a lifetime. It is a process of learning and unlearning but I do believe that ultimately the process and hard work will be worth it. Finding someone you trust to help you sift and sort your understanding of who God is an invaluable part of this process. Send me a message if you’d like some help figuring out how to begin.
And don’t expect to figure it all out right away. In fact, don’t expect to figure it out. Be very wary of people who believe they have everything figured out, who believe they have nothing new to learn about God.
Just a God is described as continually getting to know us by sifting and sorting, this is also how we get to know God. If we actively engage in the process, if we dig our hands in the wheat, then our understanding of God’s character will continue to change and grow. God doesn’t actually change, but our understanding will.
It won’t necessarily look like a radical shift but it will shift. There is always something new we can learn about God.
It’s hard though, and our own perceptions and expectations often get in the way. That’s at least in part what’s happening in today’s gospel reading. The disciples have such a fixed idea of who they think God is, that they fail to recognize God even when God is sitting right next to them.
Thomas and Philip and many others spent extended periods of time with Jesus and yet they were still confused about who he is.
At one point Philip says to Jesus, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied,” to which Jesus replies, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?” (8-9)
Jesus goes on to explain that to know Jesus is to know God, they are indivisible, interconnected, they are one and the same.
Can you picture the disciples scratching their heads while trying to understand what Jesus is saying? These are the sorts of mysteries that take a long time to sink into our understanding and even then, the best we can usually do is say, “It’s a mystery, I don’t have to be able to explain everything about it in order to know that it is true.”
Jesus then moves on to explain how to identify a person who believes that Jesus is who he says he is. Jesus followers will not be identified by their ideas, they will not be identified by their ability to correctly rattle of a list of doctrines or dogmas. The sign that a person knows Jesus, is not what they believe, it’s how they behave.
Jesus says, “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” (12)
To believe in Jesus is to behave like Jesus. Take for example the parable of the two sons in Matthew. In that story, one son says he will do what his father asks of him, and doesn’t. The other son says he will not do what his father asks him to do, but then he does. Which one does Jesus say did God’s will? The one with the right words or the one with the right actions? (Matthew 21:28-32)
The one with the right actions. “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do, and, in fact, will do greater works than these…”
How does our behaviour demonstrate what we actually believe? Where are there consistencies, and inconsistencies.
First, I want to suggest that one of the primary behaviours someone who wants to follow Jesus needs to adopt is the ability to admit when they have missed the mark. There is a reason that in our prayer of confession we say, “the people we can’t quite manage to be.” Because we’re going to mess up. Perfection is not the goal, humility and awareness are. We are trying to model our actions on Jesus’, but we won’t always get it right, and we should freely and humbly apologize whenever we miss the mark.
I think our current times provide us with an opportunity to better align our beliefs and our behaviour in a particular way.
We can, like the psalmist, develop a greater awareness of God’s constant, consistent presence in our day to day lives.
I know technically we’re in the season Easter but it still feels very much like Lent to me. Lent is a season that encourages us to ask, ‘What can I learn about myself and about God by removing something from my life?”
A lot of things have been removed from our lives lately, it hasn’t entirely been by choice, it’s sort of a forced Lent, but we can still learn from it.
This building and the gatherings we hold inside it have never been the only places that we could encounter God. How might we continue to exercise our ability to encounter God in all things and all places in this time when we cannot gather to experience God’s presence in this space?
I know many of you are asking these questions already and it’s been delightful to hear stories of how you are encountering God in your day to day lives. In caring for each other, in quiet times, in nature, in preparing food.
I hope you’ll continue to do this or be inspired to try. Like with our physical muscles, the more you practice awareness, the stronger your ability to be aware will become.
And as always, be gentle when yourself when God feels far away or entirely absent. Sometimes we just can’t access that sense of God’s presence even when we believe deeply that God is indeed present.
God is always present whether we know it or not, whether we can access that sense of awareness or not. Be gentle with yourself in those times when you just can’t sense that God is there and savour the moments when God feels so nearby that you can God hand on your shoulder.
May you seek and find God in unexpected places this week.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Made Known to Us in the Making of the Bread: A Sermon for April 26, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, April 26, 2020. The service was live-streamed from our empty church building because of COVID-19. During these unusual times, you can join me Monday-Saturday for Evening Prayer at 5pm and at 7pm on Sundays for live-streamed liturgies on our church's FB page. The links to help you connect with me directly on social media can also be found on this website.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
We’re learned a lot of new terms and phrases since the beginning of this pandemic: sheltering in place, social distancing and so on. Lately the one that has struck me as odd is “opening the economy,” because while I understand what people mean by that phrase, I would have picked a different term. The entire economy hasn’t closed, we haven’t stopped exchanging money for goods and or services. Sections of the economy are closed, but other sections are booming.
Toilet paper. Lysol products. Hand sanitizer. They are almost consistently sold out. So is flour and yeast because suddenly baking bread is North America’s number one past time.
You know what else has been selling really well and as a result have become difficult to find? Puzzles.
Just go online and try to buy one, it’s almost impossible.
I have been doing puzzles since before it was cool and I love how the picture begins to take shape as I slowly fit in piece after piece.
Sometimes when a puzzle wasn’t created very well, it’s possible to put the same piece in multiple places. You can put a piece in a space it’s not meant to go.
I hate that.
Othertimes, I know I need a particular piece and I look and I look and I sift and I sort and I just can’t seem to find it. I know I need an orange piece with three outies and one innie and it’s got to be in the box but I just can’t find it.
Until suddenly I realize I’ve been staring at the piece I needed the whole time, I just hadn’t recognized it.
Our gospel story begins, “Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all the things that had happened.” (13-14)
Seven miles is a little over 11 kilometers so this is a decent walk. More than long enough to have a rich detailed conversation, if you’re so inclined.
So, two of them are walking, which two? One is a man named Cleopas, he is named in the text, and N.T. Wright speculates that the second person is his wife, Mary. There is a story in the gospel of John about a married couple with those names and Wright believes that it is likely that these are the same people. (John 19:25).
So if Wright is correct, Mary and her husband Cleopas are walking to Emmaus talking about current events, and there would have been a lot to talk about. There hadn’t been a slow news day in quite some time. First Jesus was arrested, then tried, then crucified and then well, the next part of the story was rather puzzling.
Beyond current events, we don’t know exactly what they were talking about but whatever the content of the conversation, the purpose of the conversation was most likely to try and make meaning out of everything that had happened. To try and wrap their heads around all of the ways their lives had been turned on their heads in such a short period of time. To try and make sense of things and to try and decide what they should believe, how they should feel, what they should do next.
I suspect we all can relate to this unsettled feeling. The events are different, and each one of us is having a different experience of this pandemic, but all of our lives changed in a very short period of time when it became clear that we needed to begin to shelter in place to protect each other by limiting the spread of COVID-19.
Did you have exciting plans over the next few months? Well, odds are they are cancelled. And you can’t really make a lot of new plans either. Pretty much everything that hasn’t been turned into a Zoom meeting is in a holding pattern right now.
This is not how I thought my spring would unfold.
I never thought I’d spend so much time at home. I never thought I’d sing into a computer. I never thought I’d wear a mask at the grocery store. I never thought I’d watch TV and shout, “stop touching your face!” and “Why are you standing so close together?” and seriously people, STOP TOUCHING YOUR FACES!
And I certainly never thought I wouldn’t be able to hug my family whenever I wanted to.
Life has changed, we will never go back to the way things were, but we can, and we will go forward. (Deborah Frances-White)
But right now, we are like Mary and Cleopas, walking on the road, trying to make sense of things that make no sense.
It is at this point, that Jesus appears and joins them on their walk, but they don’t realize that it is Jesus. (15)
It’s not that Jesus was automatically unrecognizable, the text tells us that, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” (16). Jesus approaches them and asks, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” (17)
After Jesus asks the question, we’re told, “They stood still, looking sad.” (17)
Have you had a chance to stand still since this pandemic began? Have you been able to make space for your grief?
Everyone is having a different experience of this pandemic. Some people are finding themselves with not enough to do. Some people are finding new ways to fill their time. And some people are working more than they ever have before.
But I believe we are all, in our own ways, grieving. And I hope, we will all find space to stand still and acknowledge the truth of what we are feeling.
I hope we will learn to be honest and gentle with ourselves. Knowing that whatever we are feeling is OK, and whatever we need to do to get through this pandemic is exactly what we need to do.
No judgement, only curiosity. No condemnation, only gentleness.
Jesus has asked them a question, “What are you talking about?” and now Cleopas and Mary have a choice to make – will they tell the truth to this stranger, or will they lie? Will they admit that they are talking about Jesus? Will they admit that they are also follows of Jesus?
It’s a difficult decision to make, this man is a stranger and they have no reason to trust him, they have no reason to trust that if they tell this stranger that they are followers of Jesus Christ that they won’t be reported to the authorities.
And yet, that is what they choose to do.
Even though it was dangerous, they not only tell Jesus the basic details of recent events, they boldly make it clear that they were among Jesus’ followers. They don’t say, “Jesus of Nazareth who some people thought was a prophet,” they say, “Jesus of Nazareth who was a prophet, mighty in deed and word before God and all the people.” (19)
Of this they are confident, Jesus was a prophet. But then, as they continue to tell the story, their confidence wavers. “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” (21)
“We had hoped,” they said.
Now those hopes are gone. They had believed that Jesus was a prophet, but more than that, that he was the Messiah. The one who would save Israel. And now they’re not sure.
Jesus died, which logically means he couldn’t have been the Messiah. Or at least, that’s what they’d thought for the past few days, but now, some members of their company have claimed to have seen Jesus alive so… what are they supposed to believe?
I believed a lot of things two months ago that I don’t believe now. They are smaller, more mundane things than whether or not Jesus is the Messiah, but I understand the unsettling feeling of discovering that things you were sure were true, aren’t true. I understand how it can make even the ground underneath your feet begin to feel unstable.
I have different hopes as well. Two months ago, I hoped for many things that just aren’t going to happen now. And now, while I still have hope, my sense of the future, of what I can look forward to feels cloudy, feels a bit like what I imagine Mary and Cleopas are feeling as they tell their story to Jesus.
N.T. Wright notes that, “Cleopas’s puzzled statement only needs the slightest twist to turn it into a joyful statement of early Christian faith: ‘They crucified him – but we had hoped he would redeem Israel” would shortly become “They crucified him – and that was how he did redeem Israel. But before they could begin to understand what had just happened they had to be prepared. They, like everybody else in Israel, had been reading the Bible through the wrong end of the telescope. They had been seeing it as the long story of how God would redeem Israel from suffering, but it was instead the story of how God would redeem Israel through suffering...” (N.T. Wright)
Jesus listens to Mary and Cleopas, even though he actually knows the whole story. Never underestimate the value of listening to someone else’s story. Even if you already know the basic details, there is power in letting someone talk and listening when they do.
And after he listens, Jesus says, “You’ve got everything you need to understand what is going on, you’ve just got the puzzle pieces all mixed up. Here, let me sort it out for you.”
And then, Luke tells us that, beginning with the stories of Moses and all the prophets, Jesus beings to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. Without revealing his own identity, he fits all the details of scripture and current events together to show who the Messiah is and why he had to die. (25-27)
He doesn’t finish the puzzle though, he saves the final piece for later in the story.
When their destination is in sight, Mary and Cleopas invite Jesus to stay with them and he agrees. They eat a meal together and during that meal, Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to them. It’s the final piece of the puzzle, the imagine suddenly clicks into focus.
Luke tells us, “Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” (30-32)
They were so excited, that they leave their home and go all the way back to Jerusalem, another seven miles, so that they can tell the other disciples what has happened. When they find them and told them everything that had happened they said, “he was made known to us in the breaking of the bread.” (33-35)
For the time being, in order to show love to each other and to our neighbours, we cannot gather together, we cannot break bread in this building, but that doesn’t mean that Jesus will not be made known to us.
Although we are often quick to point out the parallels between this story of Jesus breaking bread and our eucharistic practice, that moment actually has a lot more in common with an everyday meal in your home. Gathering for eucharist is so valuable and I long to be able to do it again, but it is not the only way we can encounter the risen Christ.
May you encounter the risen Christ when you go for a walk outside.
May you encounter the risen Christ when go online.
May you encounter the risen Christ whenever you sit down to eat.
And if you’re one of the lucky people who has flour, and yeast, and the time and inclination to bake your own bread, then I pray that Jesus will make himself known to you in the baking of that bread.
May you encounter the risen Christ throughout each day, whatever it holds.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
My Buddy Ben
On April 25, 2020 I was asked to lead an online workshop about spiritual direction and creating a Rule of Life for the Diocese of Rupertsland. It felt both timely and odd, kind of like a lot of things I've been experiencing during the pandemic. The workshop can be found on my Facebook page, but in it I referenced a series of talks that my colleague Jamie Howison and I gave about St Benedict, his rule, and how to create your own rule in 2017. I've included links to all three of those talks here for your listening pleasure:
Daring to Hope for Resurrection: A Sermon for Easter Sunday 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Easter Sunday, April 12, 2020. The service was live-streamed from our empty church building because of COVID-19. During these unusual times, you can join me Monday-Saturday for Evening Prayer at 5pm and at 7pm on Sundays for live-streamed liturgies on our church's FB page. The links to help you connect with me directly on social media can also be found on this website.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
Matthew’s description of the resurrection is dramatic – Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary” arrive at the tomb when “suddenly there was a great earthquake” as an angel who looks like lightening descends from heaven, rolls back the stone and takes a seat. (1-2)
Earthquakes and other worldly beings that look like lightening. Is it any wonder that the men guarding the tomb first shook with fear and then “became like dead men?”
Surely sheer terror is the most reasonable feeling to experience under the circumstances.
The angel says, as angels always need to say, “Do not be afraid.” Fear is a natural, but apparently unnecessary, thing to feel in the presence of an angel.
The earthquake, the appearance of the angel, the stone rolling away from the tomb. Each one of these would be terrifying on its own but the angel is only just getting warmed up. He’s about to tell the two women that the impossible is in fact possible. That the world as they knew it has been changed forever. Life will never be the same.
The angel tells the two Marys that Jesus is no longer dead and shows them the empty tomb as proof. He then instructs the women to go and inform the other disciples that not only has Jesus risen from the dead, he has also gone to meet them in Galilee.
And the two women leave the empty tomb but they don’t have to wait until they have told the other disciples and travelled to Galilee to see Jesus because “suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him and took hold of his feet, and worshipped him.” (9)
Why did they touch his feet? I suspect there were a few reasons. The first, is that despite having been told over and over again not to be afraid, the sight of Jesus has terrified them and they fall to the ground. Jesus’ feet might be all they can manage to see until they catch their breath and their hearts begin to beat normally again.
Second, I think they touch his feet because they want to know that Jesus is really there, that’s he’s not appearing as vision or as a ghost or that they aren’t in the middle of a really intense hallucination.
When they touch his feet, when they feel his human body, they know he is really there. That he is really alive. That he is real.
Jesus then repeats the instructions the women have already received from the angel, “Do not be afraid, go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.” (10)
These women have been chosen and commissioned by Jesus himself to be the first witnesses to his resurrection and the first people to tell others the good news.
The resurrection of Jesus is a dramatic event that leads to heightened emotions -naturally, people are afraid. Naturally they are confused. Naturally, upon seeing Jesus they flip from the deepest despair to the most profound joy in an instant.
It’s a time to feel all the feelings, and to feel them intensely.
Normally as we walk through Holy Week, our liturgies make intentional choices to guide us through a series of emotions. On Good Friday, even though we know that Easter is coming, we resist the temptation to tell that part of the story. We sit in the pain and the confusion and the sorrow of Christ’s death. On Saturday we push even deeper into those feelings, and then, normally, on Easter Sunday we lean deeply into the joy, the celebration, the victory of Christ’s resurrection. We pack this church and shout at the top of our lungs “Christ is risen, He is risen indeed!” Not only do we feast on bread and wine and each other’s company, but we take it one step further and pop huge bottles of sparkling wine and lay out giant bowls of chocolate.
Not this year.
Christ has risen, the story hasn’t changed. But this year, I want to remind us all that on that first Easter, the women who went to the tomb didn’t march there in Easter bonnets intent on a joyous celebration. They were in mourning, and they were afraid.
All of the feelings were felt on that first Easter and it’s fitting that we make space for them today.
A few weeks ago, Susanna Singer preached at St Gregory of Nyssa church and I thought, “that’s my Easter sermon.” In her sermon she asked the question, “Am I just looking for resuscitation or do I dare to hope from resurrection?”
I never want anyone to die. The death of a person is a tragedy and should be mourned, but I do think that there are a lot of things in my life and in this world that need to die. Ideas, habits, ways of thinking, systems. For too long we’ve settled for artificial resuscitation instead of defiantly demanding resurrection.
Comedian Sinhu Vee, reflecting on her own recovery from COVID-19, said that because we can no longer go out, we must go in. This is a time to reflect on our interior lives, on who we are, who we are becoming, and who we want to be.
The pandemic will end, we will be able to leave our homes, we will be able to gather in this space again, but life will never return to the way it was, and I don’t want it to. I want resurrection, not resuscitation.
Because a lot of my old ways, a lot of our collective ways, weren’t working. Sometimes we pretended they were working, especially if they were working for us. If we did acknowledge they were broken, we believed that that was just the way it was, that change was impossible. That a new resurrected life was impossible.
But we were wrong.
The first thing I believe needs to die in order to make way for resurrection, is the way our society privileges hyper productivity and frenetic busyness. I’ve seen countless memes that say essentially, “If you don’t emerge from this pandemic with rock hard abs, the ability to speak 3 new languages, the great Canadian novel, and the world’s best sourdough bread you have let the entire human race down and you should be deeply ashamed of yourself.”
You haven’t let anyone down; you don’t need to be ashamed. In fact, this manic drive to be endlessly productive has been kept alive on life support for way too long. It’s time to pull the plug and let it die.
Whatever gets your through these days, provided it doesn’t harm you or others, whatever gets you through is what you need to do… or don’t do. Have an extra nap, have an extra cookie, turn off your phone, turn off your TV or put in an extra workout, learn a new low-calorie recipe, binge watch that show, write that novel.
Whatever gets you through.
I have a ham defrosting in my fridge right now. I’m going to cook it tomorrow. I’ve been meaning to cook it for awhile, in fact, based on the date on the package, I’ve been meaning to cook it since 2016.
It wasn’t an impulse purchase either, I specially ordered that ham from a local farm. It was an intentional choice. 2016 me wanted to be the kind of person who invited people over for a ham dinner.
But I never did.
And I didn’t just forget about it either. Every time I opened my freezer and I saw that ham it made me feel guilty.
It made me feel like I wasn’t doing enough, that if I was really trying I would just work a little harder and pull of that dinner party already.
So tomorrow, and frankly for quite a few days after that, we’ll be eating ham, and then the ham will be gone and hopefully the guilt will be gone. But what kind of person will I choose to become?
I’m not sure right now which false idea of myself needs to die, that I am the kind of person who has people over for ham suppers, or that I am OK with the other choices I make that mean I am not that person. I’m not sure which one needs to die and I’m not going to push myself to come up with a quick answer.
But leaving that ham in the freezer was artificial resuscitation of an ideal, of a person I could never quite manage to be, and it needs to die. I don’t want artificial resuscitation anymore, I am longing for resurrection.
Resurrection might look like a slower pace of life where we all take naps without feeling guilty, make our own food because we want to and enjoy the process, and choose not to buy things that we’ll never use or don’t really need.
I’ve spent a large portion of my life working in food banks and soup kitchens feeding hungry people or working to help house people without homes. I am intimately familiar with the ways many our systems are broken. The ways we as a society say that some people matter more than others.
But do you know what I also used to believe? That our broken systems would always be broken. Trying to fix them is just too complicated, the political will simply isn’t there, any change that is going to happen will be slow, incremental. Glacial.
I don’t believe that anymore. That idea has been on life support for way too long and, at least for me, it’s dead, never to be resuscitated again.
Because suddenly, all over the world, cities, including ours, have found housing for people who need it overnight.
It’s not perfect and it doesn’t solve every problem. The issues that lead those people to be homeless still remain but what has become perfectly clear to me is that the issue has never been a lack of housing, the issue has always been our priorities.
When we want to house people, we house them. And we do it quickly.
Resurrection looks like safe, affordable housing for everyone. Right here, right now.
Over 25 years ago I first learned about the idea of a guaranteed national income. It made a lot of sense to me. It seemed easier and way more effective than our current system.
A system that means that more than once in my life I’ve sat with someone crunched the numbers and said, “I know you want to work, but I think you need to stay on social assistance.”
Because the second you start working is not the same as the moment you have money in the bank. As soon as you start working you’ll need to spend money on different clothes, on bus tickets, on childcare, on all sorts of things.
And the moment you start working, not only will you be cut off of social assistance, you’ll also lose you extended health care coverage. And even if you managed to find a job that offers health care, there will probably be a waiting period.
And your kid needs new glasses.
Unless a person can leap from unemployment to a six-figure salary, our current system tends to punish people who try to work.
But a national guaranteed income is no longer a pipe dream for idealists. We’ve just put a version of it into action in this country – albeit for the short term because of COVID-19.
It didn’t roll out perfectly but is sure did roll out quickly.
So no one will ever be able to tell me that it’s not possible or that “these things take time,” ever again.
When we want to make sure people have enough money to cover the basic necessities of life, we make it happen.
Poverty as a complex problem that can only be solved somewhere off in an idealized future is an idea that has been given artificial resuscitation for far too long. It needs to die.
Resurrection looks like a country that ensures that all of its citizens have their basic needs met, regardless of their ability to work.
When Jesus died and lived again, life didn’t return to normal. It changed forever. And while I am sure it was terrifying and confusing and unsettling on that first Easter morning, we have come to understand it as good news. Incredibly good news.
Today is a day of resurrection. May we all refuse to settle for resuscitation.
Because Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Amen
We are the Church: A Sermon for Sunday, March 22, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, March 22, 2020. This was the first Sunday we live-streamed our service from an empty building to our congregation self isolating in their homes because of COVID-19. During these unusual times, you can join me Monday-Saturday for Evening Prayer at 5pm or catch the livestream of our Sunday liturgies on the church's FB page. The links to help you connect with me directly on social media can also be found on this website.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
If you’ve been part of any church for even a short time you know that we often struggle with the phrase “going to church.” We say it, but we also know that “You can’t go to church because the church is not a building, the church is the people.”
We know this and yet for the sake of convenience, most of us still talk about going to church.
Today I am feeling the difference between a building and a community of people in a way I never have before. It was so strange to come and set up for a service without making coffee, pouring wine, setting out bread. It was strange to sit here and not watch you all walk through the doors and take your seats.
And so a few of us are here in this building, and most of us are watching from home and together we are still the church. This building is not the church, it never was. Even if it’s convenient to refer to it that way.
The people in this room and each and every one of you watching from home or listening on the podcast – together, we are the church.
In today’s gospel reading, Jesus encounters a blind man. He spits on the ground, massages the dirt until it becomes mud, puts that mud on the man’s eyes and then tells him to go and wash in a public pool. (5-7)
My personal experiences, my social location, and my mood all impact how I read any gospel story. For most of my life I’ve read this story and thought, “Seriously Jesus? That’s gross.”
That’s an awful lot of germs. And for what? We know that Jesus doesn’t need to make spit mud in order to heal people. There are lots of stories where he just commands people to get better and they do.
But today, all those germs and people touching each other fills me with a kind of melancholy and a deep wish that I could return to a time and place where it was OK to be physically close enough to a stranger that I could rub spit mud on their eyes.
Not that I would rub spit mud in someone else’s eyes, but suddenly it would be so wonderful to know I could.
What a difference a week can make.
We are living in a time when the best way we can show love for each other and for our neighbours is by staying physically separated. Physically distant, but never socially isolated.
The man born blind was socially isolated. From the moment as a young child people realized he was blind, this man would have been a social outcast. Instead of being integrated into a community that would ensure his economic stability and social well-being, his blindness sentenced him to a life of poverty on the margins of society.
It would have been a difficult, lonely life.
The assumption at the time was that his blindness was caused by sin – either his or his parents.
We see this in the questions asked by the religious leaders: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (2)
Jesus’ responds, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned…” (3)
Jesus makes it clear: blindness isn’t a punishment for sin.
No disability, no sickness, not even COVID-19 is a punishment for sin.
This situation is revealing some seriously broken structures in our society, but God isn’t sitting in the sky zapping people with a virus because of sinful choices.
Osvaldo Vena observes, “… the man was a social outcast on the assumption that his physical and social conditions were the consequence of his or his parents’ sin. He was put in this position by a culture that did not give him enough opportunities to support himself in a dignified manner. But Jesus is about to change all that with a miracle that speaks of the healing power of the marginalized. Both Jesus and the man were considered sinners by popular culture (9:2, 24,34) and yet they are the protagonists of a liberating event.”
No sooner is the man healed than an interrogation begins. We’re told that this healing is a first, people have never experienced anything like this before and they’re trying to make sense of it.
Today’s gospel passage is filled with questions. It’s a long passage, and almost every second sentence is a question. Who sinned? Who healed you? How did he heal you? All asked in a tone that seems to imply, “How dare you both disrupt the social order by healing and being healed!”
We’re not asking the same questions, but this has certainly been a week filled with questions, many of which we don’t have answers for. What is COVID-19? Which activities are safe and which aren’t? Can I go outside? Pet my neighbour’s dog? Will my family and loved ones be OK? Will I be OK?
We know that the best way we can show love to our neighbours is by staying physically distant from them and by staying at home as much as possible. We know it’s important to find creative ways to stay socially connected even when we are physically distant.
But we don’t know a lot more than that. Most of us have way more questions than answers. And it’s hard.
I don’t have a lot of answers either. I have a lot of hope, but not a lot of answers.
It’s OK to have questions, it’s natural to have questions but in the context of this gospel story, the nature of the questions being asked robbed everyone of something important, something beautiful.
Everyone in this story is focused on questions, either because they are asking them, or because they are being forced to answer them.
Additionally, a lot of these questions aren’t actually questions. They aren’t curious, they are accusatory or sarcastic. When the man who was born blind asks, “Do you also want to become his disciples,” he knows that’s the last thing they want to do.
And in all of this they miss the most beautiful thing.
The chance to celebrate together.
In the story of the prodigal son, when the younger son is restored to his family, is restored to his community, the father throws a huge party. Everyone is invited to join in the celebration. Not everyone chose to celebrate, but everyone is invited.
That’s how tonight’s story should have played out. There should have been a party. The man born blind can see! It’s no longer possible to simply label him a sinner and cast him to the margins of society. He doesn’t have to be alone anymore! He now has the chance to fully participate in the life of his community.
There should have been a party, but instead of a celebration, this man goes straight from the pool of Siloam to a hostile interrogation.
The members of his community are so focused on trying to figure out the source of the sin they are sure caused his blindness, or the trick being played on them by either this man, or Jesus, or both, that everyone misses that there is something to celebrate.
The restoration of this man’s sight means he can fully participate in the life of his community. He has the chance to live a better life. He doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
That’s worth a party.
We are in the midst of challenging times. It’s going to be easy to focus on finger pointing and finding others to blame – the government, the people whose fear led them to buy too much toilet paper, our friends and family who aren’t taking this situation as seriously as they should.
We can’t ignore those situations and we need to be honest about our feelings, but let’s all try to make sure that we don’t become so focused on those things that we miss the good and beautiful things. The things worth celebrating.
It is beautiful to see the many ways people are stepping up and asking, how can I be helpful at this time? What can I do? We should celebrate the health care workers who are caring tirelessly for people who are sick. We should celebrate the grocery store employees and food service workers who are trying to switch their business models overnight to make sure people get the basic supplies that they need.
It is beautiful to see people being creative and generous with their talents. We’ve seen people put together free livestream concerts, celebrities are recording themselves reading story books to kids, neighbourhoods are gathering on porches and balconies to sing together and stay connected. My neighbours are checking in on Facebook and reducing the number of people in stores by running errands for each other. It’s beautiful.
This is a challenging time, and there is much that is ugly and awful and hard, and we need to be honest about that, but in doing so, let’s not overlook the beautiful moments, the things we need to celebrate.
The church is not this building, it never was. We are the church.
We are going to be OK. We are in this together and we are going to look out for one another. This is a hard thing, but we can do hard things.
But oh, oh, how I look forward to that day when we are all here in this space together again. Can you imagine how loud we are going to sing? We might just blow the roof right off the joint.
Until that time, we will continue to be socially close while physically distant. We will continue to look out for each other and be the church.
Stay safe everyone, stay healthy, and when you see a beautiful thing, no matter how small, celebrate. And when we are finally together again, know we will celebrate together with every fiber of our beings.
We, all of us, are the church, and we know how to party.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Snakes on a Pole: A Sermon for Sunday March 8, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, March 8, 2020.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
In my former church, there was a woman who slept through every sermon I ever preached. Every single one. That same woman would shake my hand and thank me for the sermon after every service.
She may have been legitimately grateful for the best sleep she had all week, I’m not sure, but what I am sure of is that if she had ever stayed awake long enough to look up while I was preaching, she might have realized that we could see each other. She might have realized that I could see she was sleeping.
But I don’t think she ever did look up. Every Sunday she looked down and fell asleep. And every Sunday she shook my hand and thanked me for the sermon.
It can be hard to concentrate in church, even the best churches. It can be hard to pay attention to everything that is being said, especially when the lectionary gives us a really long readings, like it has today.
It can be hard to catch everything that was said.
In our first reading from Psalm 121, the author of the psalm is in need of help. The help is available, the question is, will the psalmist notice it?
The psalm isn’t suspenseful, the question is actually answered in the first two lines, “I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”
The psalmist chooses to stop looking down, lift up their eyes, and in doing so they are able to see not only that help is available, but the source of that help as well.
If they had chosen to keep looking down, they might have missed it entirely.
What we focus on determines both what we see, and what we miss.[1]
Jesus says a lot of weird things in today’s gospel reading, but one of the weirdest is this, “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”(14-15)
Excuse me Jesus, what was that you just said about Moses handling snakes?
When exactly did Moses lift up a snake?
He did it a couple of times actually. One time God turned Moses’ walking stick into a snake and then back into a stick again, but that’s not the story Jesus is referencing here.
Jesus is referencing a story found in Numbers. (Numbers 21: 1-9) Moses and the Israelites are wandering in the desert and scripture tells us they, “became impatient on the way.”
And in their impatience they begin to complain, blaming both God and Moses for their unfortunate situation saying, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.”
So which is it? Is there no food and no water, or there IS food and water, they just didn’t like it? It can’t be both.
But people who are in the mood to complain rarely spend time checking if their complaints are logical and they really dislike in when you try to.
The people also know the answer to the question, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt?” It’s because they were slaves in Egypt and they wanted to leave.
It’s comforting to me, actually, to know that human beings have been this short sighted and self-centered since the very beginning. How easy it is for all of us to trade gratitude for self pity.
And we should all be grateful that, at least to the best of my knowledge, God has never responded to anyone in this room who was complaining in the same way he responded to the people in this story.
Because in this story, God doesn’t counter their complaining with logic, pointing out that it’s impossible to have no food AND food you don’t like at the same time OR reminding them about how much they hated being slaves and how long and how loudly they had begged to be set free.
No, God doesn’t talk to them at all, instead God sends poisonous snakes whose bite will kill them.
And guess what happens? The people quickly stop complaining, realize that they have made a serious mistake and say to Moses, “We have sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you, pray to the Lord to take away the serpents from us.” (6)
But God doesn’t get rid of the snakes, instead God tells Moses to make a statute of a snake out of bronze. God then tells him to put the snake on a pole and put it where the people can see it. Anyone who has been bitten only needs to look at the snake on the pole and they will live.
Huh.
Well that’s certainly one way to handle the situation. Not one I would have thought of, but it seems to have worked.
It’s a bizarre story, but as I’ve been mulling it over in preparation for this sermon, it occurred to me just how hard I would find it if there were literal poisonous snakes slithering around my feet to focus on anything other than the snakes. Even if I knew looking up would save me, I’m not sure I would do it.
Because snakes are terrifying.
At best my eyes would dart up and down from the snakes on the ground to the snake on the pole and back to the snakes on the ground again.
Which honestly reflects how I treat a lot of things that I intellectually know are good for me, like drinking enough water and filing my taxes on time. I know they’re good for me, I know I’ll be grateful in the long run, I still don’t do them.
2 fun facts before we go any further: The modern symbol for medicine includes a snake wrapped around a pole, and we reference this story from Numbers, and several other similar stories, every year in our Good Friday liturgy. In that liturgy, the things the people were complaining about – wandering in the desert, the quality of the food – become reasons to crucify Jesus.
In that liturgy we pray through a series of questions and answers that includes:
O my people, what have I done to you, or in what have I offended you? Answer me.
Because you led us out of the land of bondage. We have prepared a cross for our Saviour.
And then a little later: Because you led us out through the desert forty years, and fed us with manna, and brought us into a very good land, we have prepared a cross for our Saviour.
What you focus on determines what you see, and what you miss.
The Israelites became so focused on their grumbling that they missed the good things they had. Things were tough, but they were no longer slaves. Manna every day may feel repetitive, but they always had enough to eat.
Not only did they forget how good they had it, they forgot that things could get worse. An infestation of poisonous snakes kind of worse.
I wonder how many Israelites remained so focused on the snakes, that they neglected to look up long enough to see the snake on the pole and be healed?
I wonder how often we do the same? How often do we get so focused on the particular story we have chosen to tell about our lives, about our circumstances, that we don’t realize that there may be another, better way to look at things.
And I don’t mean this in some kind of naïve fairy tale kind of way, if you are surrounded by poisonous snakes the last thing you need to hear is “look on the bright side, they could be poisonous alligators” but if you are surrounded by both poisonous snakes and an actual cure, you want to make sure you notice the cure.
What we focus on determines what we see, and what we miss.
The psalmist needed to look up, past their own pain and struggles, to the hills where help was available. The Israelites need to have the courage to stop looking at the snakes at their feet and look up to the snake on the pole to be healed, and Jesus is also telling us that we need to look up.
In our gospel reading, one of the things Jesus says to Nicodemus is, “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. (14)
Jesus is using this historical reference, one Nicodemus would have been familiar with, to talk about his own death. He is comparing himself to a snake on a pole.
He is saying that his body will be put on a cross and lifted above the earth.
And he is saying that this is all part of God’s plan to redeem the world.
Jesus follows this comparison with what has perhaps become the most famous verse in the entire Bible, John 3:16:
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”
It’s utterly bizarre to me but even people who don’t know what the verse says, know its address from having seen it on signs at concerts and sporting events.
I think it’s probably the first verse I was encouraged to memorize as a child, and I was told that I should memorize it because it summarized Jesus’ entire message.
And I believed that, and I memorized it.
But if Jesus’ entire message could be summed up in one single verse, why do we need the rest of the Bible?
Because it doesn’t sum up his entire message. In fact, all you need to do is read one additional verse in John’s gospel, the very next verse, John 3:17 and you will realize that if all you do is focus on John 3:16, you miss the important point being made by Jesus in John 3:17:
“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”
Without this verse it is all too easy to turn John 3:16 into a verse that suggests that God’s plan was to condemn the world, but he also created an individualistic escape clause in Jesus. And that’s what way too many people have come to believe.
“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”
What you focus on determines what you see, and what you miss.
Lent is a season that encourages us to shift our focus and see things differently.
What are you noticing as you move through this season? Are the things you’ve chosen to give up or take on helping you to see things in a different way? Pay attention to the shifts, especially the subtle ones.
In addition to being the second Sunday in Lent, and the day we all struggle with the time change, today is also International Women’s Day, a day that invites us to pay attention to women, to their achievements and their struggles in a particular way.
Achievements and struggles that have, for far too long, gone unnoticed. It’s an all too common thing for women to feel invisible in their homes, in their workplaces, and in their churches.
I’m hopeful though that this is going to change – perhaps too slowly for my liking – but it is going to change. When a friend’s daughter discovered this was International Women’s Day she said, “what do you mean Women’s Day? Shouldn’t we get half the days?”
I know what it is like to feel invisible, and to feel seen in the church. I like one infinitely better than the other. It is my hope that we all will work to see each other and to always ask the questions: Who is missing? How can we learn to see them too?
May it be so.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
[1] I believe that credit for this idea comes from Brian McLaren and Suzanne Stabile.
Making Ash: A peek behind the scenes
About a year ago I was having some painting done in my house and I had the following conversation with my painter:
"So, I'm just going to run out to the back yard for a little while, if you see smoke and fire, don't worry about it."
"Um, OK."
"You see, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I need to burn these palms in order to make ashes so that tomorrow I can smear them on people's foreheads, look them in the eye, and remind them they are going to die."
Short pause.
"Your job is really weird. Good. But weird."
My job is weird. Good. But weird.
There are all sorts of traditions and practices connected to Lent and Holy Week in the Anglican Church but today I thought I'd walk you through the life cycle of a palm.
First, there is an entire part of this story that I don't really know anything about. For those of us who live in parts of the world where we can't easily grow palms we rely on someone else to grow them and ship them to us. We buy ours from a local church supply shop, but a friend of mine in North Carolina told me that her church just heads out into the brush behind the church and cuts down as many as they need.
On the Saturday before Palm Sunday, members from the two church congregations that share the building gather together to fold palms. (saint benedict's table rents space in All Saints' Anglican Church. We are two separate congregations but we look to work together whenever it makes sense to do so.)
At this point the palms are green and wet and relatively easy to fold. Every year I need to re-learn the process but gradually muscle memory kicks in and I can fold the palms without really thinking too much about it.
At our church we fold the palms into simple crosses, but a google search will show you palms transformed into amazing works of art.
But why do we fold palms in the first place?
One way to answer the question is to point out that when Jesus entered Jerusalem people waved palm branches and we remember this event in his life on Palm Sunday. (Click here to read last year's Palm Sunday sermon for more details.)
But for me, folding palms goes deeper than a simple commemoration of an event. You can easily have a Palm Sunday service without spending time and money folding palms.
I have spent my whole life in churches and, while I never heard anyone say this using these exact words, the churches I was raised in believed it was much more important to ensure I had Jesus in my head than my heart.
Being a Christian meant I needed to learn a series of ideas and agree that I believed they were true. It was all about my head.
And those ideas were reflective of a particular way of understanding who Jesus was - a Jesus who was seen through the lens of white, colonial, heteronormative patriarchy.
I'm only just now beginning to come to see just how damaging that was.
One of the ways that this "inviting Jesus into my head" form of Christianity has been damaging is it ignores the diverse experiences of the people God created. God created people who are nonverbal, people who will never be able to read or process complex Statements of Faith, people whose first language and ways of connection is through dance and their bodies or the visual arts and surely God wants to be in relationship with these people too.
Which means that there have to be more ways to connect with God than the methods that the churches I grew up in privileged.
So now I try to find as many ways as possible to help people connect. Touching, smelling, and folding palms connects us to God. Holding them in our hands during the Palm Sunday service as we move our bodies, sing, speak, and listen amplifies that connection.
After the service people will take those crosses home and tuck them in a prayer book, or the corner of a picture frame or a window sill. They will quickly shrivel and dry as we move through the early days of Holy Week but they'll remain in those spots through the year until we are all reminded a week or two before Ash Wednesday to return them to church to be burned.
The year I was shown how to turn palms into ashes I was overtaken by geeky joy, but this year I almost missed the beauty of the moment in my busyness. I was about to just try and quickly burn the palms before rushing off to the next thing on my to do list when I was overtaken with the difference a few short years could make on my attitude.
So I stopped, collected myself and entered prayerfully into the process. I collected all my supplies - dried palms, several metal bowls, a lighter, a spoon, and a sieve. This year I also experimented with cutting the palms into smaller pieces before I began. When the flame hits long curly palm branches the fire can become unruly and hard to control.
I went outside and placed the bowl with the palm pieces in the snow on top of my raised vegetable garden. My garden is in its own Lenten season - dormant and dead, but in a few short months it too will be filled with new life.
As I watched the smoke billow out of the bowl I thought of all the people who had folded, saved, and returned those palms. I thought of the people who would come to our Ash Wednesday liturgies and a feeling of gratitude enveloped me that was thicker than the smoke.
Once burned, the palms need to be pressed through a sieve to break up any larger pieces and make them suitable for marking people's foreheads with a tangible sign of their mortality.
"Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return."
The first ashes, however, were dispersed earlier then they should be. It happens every year but I always forget to watch for an unexpected gust of wind that will appear out of nowhere as I pass the ashes through the sieve, disbursing them throughout my neighborhood.
Which is as it should be.
Take in the View: A Sermon for Sunday, February 23, 2020
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, February 23, 2020.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about climbing mountains. Partly because both of tonight’s readings take place on mountains, but mostly because at the end of April I’ll be travelling back to Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage route that people have been walking since about the 9th century. The Camino begins when you step out of your front door with intention and ends at the supposed burial place of the James who features in today’s gospel reading.
The Camino contains a lot of mountains.
People sometimes ask me how I am training for the walk and I laugh because how on earth do you train to walk huge mountains in 30 plus degree weather in Manitoba in February? I mean, where could you possibly go to simulate those conditions.
You can’t.
Having climbed a few mountains in my life now, I have learned some things about them. First, unlike what most kindergarten drawings will tell you, mountains aren’t giant triangles where you go straight up one side and then straight down the other.
Mountains are more complicated than that. It’s not uncommon that in order to climb up a mountain you have to go up a little bit and then down a little bit and then up a little bit again, switching back and forth to gradually reach the top.
And while you are doing that, you often have no idea how far you’ve gone. It’s rare to be able to actually see the top of the mountain as you are climbing because trees or fog or simply the scale of the endeavor obscures your view.
I once climbed a mountain in Banff in foggy conditions, and the only reason I knew I had made it to the top was because Parks Canada had posted a sign that said so.
And there was a gift shop.
Today’s gospel reading begins, “Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain…” (17)
So immediately, I want to know what happened six days earlier.
Six days earlier, Jesus explained to his disciples that he was going to go to Jerusalem where he would suffer, die, and then three days later come back to life and if they really want to follow him, the disciples are going to have to pick up a cross and be prepared to die as well.
This revelation was so startling and unsettling that the gospel tells us that Peter rebuked Jesus for suggesting such a thing was possible and Jesus responded with equal force saying to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan!” (16: 21-23)
That’s what happened six days before today’s story. That’s a lot of information for the disciples to take in and a lot of complicated emotions to sort through and process. Relationships don’t often bounce back from a sharp rebuke like, “Get behind me Satan.”
At bare minimum things would feel really awkward for quite some time.
So I imagine that things are feeling pretty tense, and pretty heavy as the four men begin to climb that mountain. They are carrying a lot more than just whatever the Bible times equivalent of a backpack would have been.
What you carry, determines how you walk. This is true in all aspects of life. Your gate changes if you are carrying a football, or a baby, or a bowl full of hot soup or some disappointing news. In fact, not just what you are carrying, but how you carry it can make a big difference.
If you’re climbing a mountain, it’s easier to carry a heavy weight on your back, then in your hands. It’s also easier if that weight is evenly distributed, if you don’t have something sharp poking you in the small of your back.
It’s even easier is the weight is consistent.
I once put an orange in my bag in the morning and spent most of the afternoon marveling at how much easier it was to walk after I had eaten that orange for lunch.
An orange.
Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, and Lent is a really great season to reflect on all the things you carry with you every day.
Sometimes people use the season of Lent to let something go. To stop carrying something they normally hold on to. It could be chocolate or coffee, but it could also be a particular habit, or an attitude. One year I gave up going to Starbucks – not coffee entirely, no one wants to see me give up coffee - just Starbucks. And I was surprised to discover how I had gradually and unthinkingly formed patterns of moving through the day that included stopping at Starbucks, whether I really wanted a latte or not. I had to give it up, to notice that.
And then when Lent was over I did start going back to Starbucks, but no where near as often.
Sometimes people use the season of Lent to pick something up that they don’t normally carry. It might be collecting money for a charity or adopting a new prayer practice. A few years ago I decided to pick up reading the Rule of Benedict over Lent, and as this is the third year in a row I plan to do that, I guess it’s now a tradition.
What are you carrying? Is there something you need to put down, or pick up, or just rearrange a bit? Lent can be a great opportunity to do just that.
The disciples are carrying a lot of heavy feelings as they climb that mountain. And when they finally arrive at the top, Matthew tells us that Jesus was, “transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. (2-3)
Now as a quick Biblical refresher, both Moses and Elijah died a long time before this story took place. Or actually, Moses died a long time before this story took place, Elijah didn’t actually die at all:, he road straight into heaven in a horse driven chariot made of fire, but that’s a story for another time.
Moses and Elijah are not the disciples’ contemporaries. They are heroes from the past, men they have read stories about. More symbols that people. Their presence alone would have been disorienting.
So the disciples climbed the mountain feeling out of sorts and now they are witnessing a conversation between two men from the history books and Jesus looking nothing like the Jesus they are used to.
Jesus’ face is shining like the sun and his clothes are dazzling white.
Which seems scary and disorienting to me and I think I’d have been tempted to say, “OK, I’m out,” and start back down the mountain on my own or to cower behind a bush in fear, but that’s not how the disciples react.
Peter says, “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” (4). Peter looks around at what is happening and declares that it is good.
So good, in fact, that he offers to make three dwellings one each for Jesus, Moses and Elijah. (4)
Or at least he starts to make this offer, because we are told that he didn’t even get to finish his thought, “While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with him I am well pleased; listen to him.” (5)
And now, the disciples are afraid. “Overcome by fear” they fall on the ground. (6)
The disciples are face down on the ground quaking in fear, having just heard God say that they should listen to Jesus.
And what is the first thing they hear Jesus say? “Get up and do not be afraid.” (7)
But Jesus doesn’t just stand at a distance shouting at them to smarten up and stop being so afraid, no Jesus approaches them, touches them and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” (7)
Before they hear his words, they feel his reassuring touch. And they do as they are told.
Sometimes the gospel writers casually just slip in these amazing little details that are so easy to miss. Jesus touched them. He saw they were afraid, he came right up beside them, touched them and said, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
It’s beautiful.
Now I want to invite you to engage in a little speculative imagining with me.
I don’t think that the disciples were focusing on the beautiful scenery that surrounded them as they climbed that mountain. Rather I suspect they were focused on trying to wrap their heads around everything Jesus had told them or perhaps on how to make an uncomfortable situation a little more comfortable.
When they arrived at the mountain top, I don’t think it was the panoramic view that held their attention. Rather I suspect that they were so focused on the amazing sight of Jesus transformed and the two men who joined him that that was all they could see.
And then when God came and spoke declaring Jesus was beloved, I think they focused on the dirt at their feet as they fell to the ground. If their eyes were open at all, that dirt was all they could see.
But now after having seen all the things they have seen and experiencing Jesus’ gentle touch and reassurance that they do not have to be afraid, I wonder if they were finally able to stand up, look out, and take in the view.
Which is something I want us all to do together tonight as well. Jesus and the disciples will not stay on the mountain top, they will walk down the mountain and continue walking until they reach Jerusalem. The things Jesus said would happen will indeed happen. He will die.
And we’re being invited to come down the mountain and walk alongside them.
Lent is a season where we remember and focus on difficult things. Beginning on Ash Wednesday with a reminder that we are all dust and to dust we will all return, we’ll enter a desert season moving us gradually closer to Christ’s death on a cross.
But before we leave the mountain and enter the wilderness, let’s take a look at all we can see from the top of this mountain. Because from here we can see the entire story, from here we can see Jesus resurrected on Easter Sunday. From here we can see that Christ’s glorious transformation on this particular mountain top is not the end, but only a part of the entire story.
So stop, take it all in, and then, when you’re ready, take a deep breath and begin the climb back down the mountain into Lent.
And know that when you do, Jesus is walking right beside you.
In the name of our glorious God who Creates, Redeems, and Sustains.
Amen.
Waiting for the Light: A Sermon for Candlemas (Feb 2, 2020)
The following sermon was preached at saint benedict's table on Sunday, February 2, 2020. The audio version is available below or wherever you regularly listen to podcasts.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight O God, for you are our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
One of my favourite days of the year is the day in late fall when, after having successfully completed all the tasks required to winterize my yard, the snow starts to slowly fall. After all the pressure I feel to complete all those winterizing tasks in time, I look forward to that first gentle snowfall that signifies the start of a new season, a season that tends to find me spending a lot more time inside, a lot more time reading. It’s a slower, gentler season and usually by the time it arrives, I’m exhausted and I’m looking forward to a different pace of life.
By now, by February, I am completely done with winter. I’m tired of snow, I’m tired of spending so much time inside, I’m tired of feeling cold all the time, and I’m tired of how the long dark nights make me feel less safe, less free to go out whenever I want to. I’m ready for light, for gardening catalogues, for being able to go outside whenever I want without fear and without having to put on multiple layers of clothing.
I am done with winter, but winter is not done with me. It’s not done with any of us. Literal winter, and for many of us, spiritual winter are here for awhile yet. Our moods tend to match the seasons, and many people find the long dark months of winter to be particularly difficult ones.
Which, I suspect, is at least partly why the church is its wisdom decided that February 2nd, which marks the halfway point of winter, would be the day the church would set aside to celebrate light.
Traditionally, today is the day that churches bless all the candles they intend to use in worship throughout the coming year. This has been happening since the Middle Ages which, as you can imagine, was a time when a church used a lot more candles in the average year than we do now – and we still manage to use a fair number of candles in any given year.
Tonight we are celebrating Candlemas, a mass with a special focus on candles. Although it’s a long standing tradition in the Christian church, I am guessing that for many of you this will be your first time participating in the celebration. Welcome.
Our gospel reading for this evening is traditionally read on Candlemas and while the connection between the story of Jesus’ family visiting the temple and the blessing of candles may not be readily obvious, it’s there, so let’s look more closely at that story.
Tonight’s gospel reading begins, “When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, ‘Every first born male shall be designated as holy to the Lord’) and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, ‘a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.” (22-24)
In addition to being called Candlemas, today is also sometimes referred to as the Feast of the Presentation or the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s also sometimes called Superbowl Sunday or Groundhog Day, but that’s an entirely different story.
It is sometimes called the Feast of the Purification of Mary in part because according to the law, only Mary required purification after Jesus’ birth, but when Luke describes what is happening in his gospel he doesn’t single Mary out. Rather he says, “When the time came for their purification…”. Their purification. This is a family affair.
Well done Luke.
There is a lot going on in these first few verses – we see that Mary and Joseph are faithful, law abiding Jews who will raise Jesus within the context of the covenant relationship God has with the people of Israel.
Additionally, we learn that Mary and Joseph are poor because the law requires a lamb be used as an offering but makes the provision to sacrifice turtledoves or pigeons if the people can’t afford a lamb.
Mary and Joseph are too poor to afford to buy the proper animal for this sacrifice. Think about how weird that is for a moment.
And not just how weird it sounds to our modern ears to sacrifice an animal at all, think about how weird it is that a king’s parents are so poor, that they need to take the charitable option at a ritual connected to celebrating the new king’s life.
Over and over again in Jesus’ story we are seeing a king, who will not be like any other king, a human being, who will not be like anyone else who ever lived. It should be a reminder to us every time we try to make Jesus in our own image, every time we try to model the church on the world, that we are in very real danger of missing the point, of missing the real Jesus.
Luke also tells us about two encounters that Jesus and his family had while they were at the temple.
One of those encounters was with Anna.
Luke tells us that Anna was a prophet of a “great age… She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day.” (36-37)
This faithful prophet recognizes who the tiny baby is and not only does she praise God, but Luke tells us that she spoke “about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.” (38)
And so, Anna becomes one of the first, if not the first evangelist. The first to tell others the good news of Jesus Christ.
But remember, that before she could do that, she had to spend her entire life, 84 years, waiting with a patient hope. A hope that she had no practical reason to believe would be realized. A lifetime of waiting in the dark, hoping for the light.
Now Anna wasn’t the only person waiting with patient hope that Jesus and his family met in Jerusalem, they also met Simeon.
Luke tells us that Simeon was “righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah.” (25-26)
On the day that Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to the temple, the Holy Spirit guides Simeon to go there as well.
When he sees Jesus, he takes the child in his arms and begins to praise God saying,
“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.” (25-32)
Luke’s gospel is full of songs that have been woven into the prayer life of the church. From Mary’s Magnificat to this song from Simeon. Simeon’s canticle (Nunc dimitiis) is typically sung at Compline, the final prayer in the Liturgy of the Hours.
Simeon’s song is also where we get the connection between this story and the blessing of candles. Simeon tells us that Jesus will be a “a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”
Jesus is the light of the world. So tonight when the world feels so very dark, we celebrate this milestone in his young life, being presented at the temple, by blessing candles.
Simeon’s joy at seeing Jesus isn’t a naïve joy. He can see the path ahead will be a difficult one. After blessing Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, he says to Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (34-35)
Jesus will suffer, and so will those who love him.
This is a story of patient hope and resilience, but it is also a story about suffering, a suffering that can’t be ignored.
N.T. Wright says that “Simeon is waiting for God to comfort Israel. Anna is in touch with the people who are waiting for the redemption of Israel. They are both living in a world of patient hope, where suffering has become a way of life. It now appears that God’s appointed redeemer will deal with this suffering by sharing it himself. Simeon speaks darks words about opposition, and about a sword that will pierce Mary’s heart as well.
So this, Luke is saying, is what happens when the kingdom of God confronts the kingdom of the world. Luke invites us to watch, throughout the story, as the prophecies come true. Mary will look on in dismay as her son is rejected by the very city to which he offered the way of peace, by the very people he had come to rescue. Finally the child who is, as Simeon says, ‘placed here to make many in Israel fall and rise again’ himself passes through death and into resurrection, taking with him the hopes and fears of the city, the nation and the world.” (35-26)
These things are coming, and as we move closer to Lent and Easter we will begin to reflect on those stories, but they are not here yet. Today we have a story of patient hope rewarded, and of two young parents holding a tiny baby.
A tiny baby, that Luke tells us will, after the family returns to their hometown of Nazareth, “[grow] and become strong, filled with wisdom; and the favour of God [will be] upon him.” (40)
I’ve only participated in Candlemas celebrations a few times myself, the first time was in 2016 when I spent several months on sabbatical at St John’s Abbey in Collegeville, MN. One of my main goals on that sabbatical was to participate regularly in the liturgical life of the St John’s community and I was particularly excited that I would be able to participate in their celebration of Candlemas.
This was in large part because Kathleen Norris had written so eloquently about her own experience of that celebration with the monks in her book “The Cloister Walk.” Here is what she wrote:
“Today the monks are doing something that seems futile, and a bit foolish. They are blessing candles, all the candles they’ll use during worship for the coming year. It’s good to think of the light hidden inside those new candles; walking to prayer each morning in the bitter cold, I know that the light comes earlier now. I can feel the change, the hours of daylight increasing. The ground has been covered by snow since Thanksgiving; in this climate, I’ll seize hold of any bit of hope, even if it’s monks saying prayers over candles.
The reading from Karl Rahner, at morning prayer, came as a shock. To hear so esteem a theologian cry out, “I have still to become a Christian” was humbling. The words have stayed with me all day. I wonder if one of the reasons I love the Benedictines so much is that they seldom make big noises about being Christians. Though they live with the Bible more intimately than most people, they don’t thump on it, or with it, the way gorillas thump on their chests to remind anyone within earshot of who they are. Benedictines remind me more of the disciples of Jesus, who are revealed in the gospel accounts as people who were not afraid to admit their doubts, their needs, their lack of faith. ‘Lord, increase our faith, they say, “teach us to pray.” They kept getting the theology wrong, and Jesus, more or less patiently, kept trying to set them straight. Except for Peter, the disciples were not even certain who Jesus was: “Have I been with you all this time, and still you do not know me?” Jesus asks in the Gospel of John, not long before he’s arrested and sentenced to death.
Maybe because it’s the heart of winter, and the air is so cold that it hurts to breathe, the image of the sword from Luke’s gospel comes to mind as I walk back home after vespers. We’ve heard it twice today, at morning prayer and at mass. I wonder if Mary is the mother of [the prayer practice ]lectio, because as she pondered her life and the life of her son, she kept Simeon’s hard prophecy in her heart. So much that came easily in the fall has become a struggle this winter. I still walk to morning prayer – it seems necessary to do – but it requires more effort now. Still I know that it is nothing I do that matters, but what I am, what I will become. Maybe Mary’s story, and this feast, tell us that if the scriptures don’t sometimes pierce us like a sword, we’re not paying close enough attention.” (114-115)
Like Kathleen, I have had many profound moments of prayer at St John’s Abbey, moments where scripture did indeed pierce my heart. Moments where staring into the flame of a candle I came to realize deep truths about myself I had been unable or unwilling to acknowledge until those very moments. I have so many stories I can tell.
But none of those stories happened on Candlemas.
On February 2nd, 2016 I , like Kathleen Norris and so many others before me, put on layer upon layer of winter clothing and trudged through the snow in the dark to prayer. I grimaced as my wet boots squeaked on the floor amplified by the acoustics of the church – the only noise in the seemingly silent building.
I marveled at the stacks of candles – simple, but beautifully made by the monks from beeswax harvested on the property.
Perhaps, because it had been so built up in my mind I expected that the liturgy would have some extra flair to it, but it didn’t. Just their regular evening prayer that incorporated a blessing of those candles.
I basked in the warm glow of the candles and prayed the words of the liturgy. No profound transformation took place. No new insight into the words I was praying took hold of me that night.
But as I trudged back in the dark to my apartment I did have a sense that this was exactly as it should be. Not every moment in the spiritual journey is a profound one. Blessing candles may in fact be, as Kathleen Norris suggests, a foolish thing to do.
And that’s what makes is beautiful.
Candlemas also marks the halfway point of winter. Winter is halfway over folks! That is worth celebrating. That is worth marking with a defiant gesture – like the blessing of light. A light we still can’t quite see but know is coming. A light that represents our own hope in what is yet to come.
May these candles that we bless this evening be a sign of hope to you whenever you are experiencing dark times.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen
Here is the full quote Kathleen Norris references:
“The darkness is still with us, O Lord. You are still hidden and the world which you have made does not want to know you or receive you… You are still the hidden child in a world grown old… You are still obscured by the veils of this world’s history, you are still destined not to be acknowledged in the scandal of your death on the cross… But I, O hidden Lord of all things, boldly affirm my faith in you. In confessing you, I take my stand with you.. If I make this avowal of faith, it must pierce the depths of my heart like a sword, I must bend my knee before you, saying, I must alter my life. I have still to become a Christian.” Karl Rahner, Prayers for Meditation.