Tuesday, December 29

Here where we celebrate the 12 days of Christmas, it's a time of deepening reflection on the Incarnation.  Advent is about preparing for the coming of Christ; but what do we do now?  Now we adore, we ponder.  Our crèche is the center of our worship space now.  We continue to read, to gaze.  What difference does it make that Christ has come?  I feel my heart open in a way that is unique to this season, but how does that opening change the way I live?  Is that opening enough of a breaking to shift my being?

"If we are to dwell in the tent the Son has pitched in our midst, we must enter into our own history here and now, and nourish our hope on the will to life that the poor of our continent are demonstrating" (Gustavo Gutierrez).  Between the crèche and the newspaper (or the Facebook feed), where are you opening to Christ today?  

Blessings in all you do and are today.

First Sunday After Christmas

1 Samuel 1:1-2, 7b-28; Colossians 1:9-20; Luke 2:22-40

Christmas is a season where the wings of diverse Christologies fold together.  (By “Christology” I mean theories about who Jesus was and is.  “Low” Christologies view Jesus as a human like others, a rabbi, a healer, but no more divine than anyone else; “high” Christologies emphasize Jesus’ divinity.  Mark has a “lower” Christology than John, for example.  Go check it out, and see if you can see the signs!)

Today we have a high Christological reading in Colossians (and at the Eucharist, in John 1:1-14).  Jesus is “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and earth were created.”  This is the vision of Jesus as “the fullness of God,” not as you and I might be signs of God, but completely and totally, before time and beyond space.

And the low Christology?  Well, look at that stable.  I’ve been pondering the pull of the stable story on us.  Matthew doesn’t mention a stable or a manger, and Mark and John don’t say anything about Jesus’ birth.  But people everywhere see great significance and meaning in that stable.  We flock to mangers and creches, even tacky plastic ones.  

The stable, the manger, is as human as we can get.  That stable is not even where humans live; it’s where animals live.  Jesus is passing through the animal kingdom on his way to humanity, uniting all of creation.

The sacrament of Christmas lies in this polarity between the high and the low, the fullness and the emptiness, the cosmic power and the helpless human infant.  If sacraments are visible signs of invisible grace, the stable and the manger are exhibit A.

This polarity is not only true of Jesus.  We, through adoption and grace, are shot through with divinity in the midst of our “stable” lives.  Millions of people live in conditions that we would not tolerate for farm animals, but even so they shine.  The stable is where we hide our divinity; the stable is where the light shines and calls others to honor it.

As you are “filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding,” may you claim and know your own beloved divinity.  May you honor it in others, especially those closest to the stable.  God is reconciling all things: heaven and earth, creatures and creator.  

Simeon saw the divinity in the child; Anna saw it and praised God.  Do you see the divinity around you?  Within you?

The Nativity of our Lord

Micah 4:1-5; 5:2-4; 1 John 4:7-16; John 3:31-36

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God . . . if we love one another, God lives in us, and her love is perfected in us.”

Rejoice today!  You are loved beyond your wildest dreams.  Rejoice!  The seed of love lives in you, spouting anew in the worst of circumstances.  Rejoice!  The world needs your joy and your love, and returns it to you.

That’s all you need to do, all you need to know.  The rest is details or excuses.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Love, Sr. Shane

Christmas Eve

Morning: Baruch 4:36-5:9; Gal. 3:23-4:7; Matthew 1:18-25; 

Evening: Isaiah 59:15b-21; Phil. 2:5-11

So many people still think that feminists (that’s people who believe in women’s equality and worth) must hate men.  Au contraire, mes amis!  We love the men who are strong enough to welcome strong women.  We love the men whose strength includes compassion and care and humility.  We love men like Joseph.

Joseph is usually shown as old, more a grandfather to Jesus than a father, more father than husband to Mary.  This somehow downplays his masculinity and makes him safe for a culture that fears sex, but it doesn’t serve him or us.  Mary was engaged to him, and he had every reason to expect that they would have children together.  But not so soon.  Not before they were married, or had sex.  In their world, this pregnancy is a major affront to his honor.  He would be entitled to divorce and shame her publicly.  But he’s not that kind of guy.  He’s decent enough to just let her go quietly.  Still, it would be rough for both of them, when everyone knows everyone’s business.

But Joseph isn’t just decent.  He turns out to be a visionary.  He’s just who Jesus needs as a father.  As Jesus grows, Joseph will be able to tell him to trust his visions and his intuitions, to trust God.  Both his parents will be on board for the ride of a lifetime.  

I’m sure Joseph wasn’t looking for an exciting life when he became betrothed to Mary.  I’m sure he didn’t want to leave his home, or be pursued by soldiers, or be talked about by neighbors.  I’m sure he also taught Jesus about just doing the next thing, paying attention to the texture of a board and the state of his tools.  Paying attention let Joseph know what action was called for at each moment, and that knowledge kept Jesus safe until he was grown.

Now, you may have had a father like Joseph.  Or not.  Either way, that “paternal” energy is available to you through prayer and meditation.  Give thanks today for the protection and love you have received, whoever gave it.  Honor your visions, and pay attention to the daily.  And rejoice!

Fourth Wednesday in Advent (O Virgo Virginum)

O Virgin of virgins, how shall this be?  For neither before you was there any seen like you, nor shall there be after.  Daughters of Jerusalem, why do you marvel at me?  The thing which you behold is a divine mystery.

2 Samuel 7:1-17; Titus 2:11-3:8a; Luke 1:39-56

It’s another day for strong, fierce women.  Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist, is a hidden fulcrum in the nativity story.  Gabriel announces John’s birth to Zechariah, but he doesn’t get it.  Elizabeth gets it: she conceives, and she is filled with the Holy Spirit.  She speaks as a prophet, transforming Mary’s flight from home into a joyful reception and acknowledgment of her holy child.  She is the first human to announce Jesus’ arrival among us.

Imagine what it took to be Elizabeth.  For years she would have been scorned as a “barren” woman.  She would have no children to care for, or to care for her.  Now she is suddenly pregnant.  This may be joyful, but it might also have raised eyebrows and invited speculation.  She probably knew the dangers for older women at first births, and she might have seen some of the children born to older mothers and worried.  She might have been terrified as well as joyful.

She might also have resented her young cousin.  Now, after all these years, she is pregnant - and pregnant with a holy child, announced by Gabriel!  And here comes Mary, who got her own visit and who has heard that her child will be higher than Elizabeth’s.  If Elizabeth was an envious woman, she might have been envious here.

But Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit.  She faces into the challenge of giving birth, and she rejoices at Mary’s scandalous news.  She knows the whole story, and she lets Mary know she’s not crazy or alone.  She opens Mary’s heart to her full stature.  Mary may pronounce the Magnificat (although some manuscripts ascribe it to Elizabeth), but Elizabeth opens the door for her to see what God is doing.

It takes a village to raise a Savior.

Thank God today for the partners and companions who have helped you claim your gifts and strengths, and enabled you to face the challenges of life.  Let them know you know, and thank them.

Fourth Tuesday in Advent (O Emmanuel)

O Emmanuel, our Sovereign and lawgiver, the desire of all nations and their salvation: come and save us, O Christ our God.

Samuel 2:1b-10; Titus 2:1-10; Luke 1:26-38

At the monastery Eucharist on Sunday we sang about the angel Gabriel coming to Mary.  You know the hymn.  In one verse it reads, “Then gentle Mary meekly bowed her head; so be it unto me as pleaseth God, she said.”  After a weekend with the Lukan story, it was hard to sing those words.  Gentle she may have been; but I don’t see her meekly bowing her head.  I see her gazing at Gabriel, full of fire, almost daring him to say more.  “Here am I,” she says.  

“Yes,” she says.  “Overturn my life.  

Make me an outcast, a stain on my family’s honor.  

Make people whisper about me and my child.  

Threaten me with predictions of his death.  

I will trust God.  

I will believe in impossible things.  

I will do my best in a situation I don’t understand.  

I will raise this child to believe that he is made in the image of God, and to give his life to call others back to that image and that God.  

I dare you to try and scare me away.  

Yes.”

Meek?  I don’t think so.  Think of the single mothers who raise their children against terrible odds.  Think of the fathers and mothers who work themselves to the bone, fleeing oppression, landing with nothing, trying to teach their children that they are holy and precious.  They may act meek in front of their bosses or tormentors, but they are oaks of righteousness who cannot be uprooted.  Gentle, yes: fierce, yes; determined, yes; Spirit-filled, definitely, and not just in her womb, not just after the confrontation with Gabriel.  This is a woman of strength and power, a fitting mother for the Beloved One who overturned a universe.  

Meek?  

This is the woman who raised him to believe he could change the world.  This is the woman who taught Jesus to overturn tables in the Temple, to challenge priests and Pharisees.   

This is the woman who stood by him while he died.

Then gentle Mary fiercely raised her head.  “Okay, you’re on, I’ll do it all,” she said.  

Be it unto me according to your word, God.  Bring it on.

Fourth Monday in Advent (O Rex Gentium)

O Ruler of nations, and their desire, the Cornerstone, uniting both in one: come and save humankind, whom you formed of clay.

Zeph. 3:14-20; Titus 1:1-16; Luke 1:1-25

Wow!  Talk about whiplash!  Beautiful, joyful words from Zephaniah.  The beginning of the nativity story, Gabriel’s annunciation to Zechariah.  And sandwiched in between: the empire strikes back.  The underside of our belonging is always a drawing of boundaries.  Boundaries and clarity are necessary, but they can become weapons that distract us from our core concerns.  Can we ever state our hope, our faith, without impugning others?  

Some would call that a secular relativist desire.  Those who have the (singular) truth believe they owe it to God, to themselves, to others to point out the failings of others and warn them of the wrath to come.  

How’s that working for you?

Let’s just grab onto what matters here: “Grace and peace.”  This week, grace and peace.  This year, grace and peace.  

Sing aloud!  Shout!  Rejoice and exult with all your heart!  Just let the words of promise roll over you.  Do not fear; do not let your hands grow weak.  God will rejoice, will renew, will exult; God will remove disaster and deal with oppressors.  God will heal and gather, bringing us home.  God will restore us.  Grace and peace.

But we have a part in that.  If we don’t sing and rejoice; if we spend our time instead sharpening our weapons and our arguments, God won’t insist.  If we refuse to listen out of fear or arrogance or simple desire to dominate, God will give us the chaos we ask for.  But God’s will, God’s dream, is for wholeness - shalom.  Grace and peace.

And what about those others?  God will do this for them too, if we and they do not refuse it.  

Grace and peace to you from God our Mother and our Savior Jesus Christ.

Fourth Sunday in Advent (O Oriens)

O Dayspring, Brightness of the light everlasting, and Sun of Righteousness: come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death.

Gen. 3:8-15; Rev. 12:1-10; John 3:16-21

O Dayspring!  You’re my favorite.  (Don’t tell the others.)  You make my heart leap and my eyes brighten.  Sun of righteousness, you never really go away; like the moon we can’t always see all of you, but you are there.  Come, Dayspring, enlighten us.

Today we make the final turn toward Christmas.  No more parables (unless you see all these readings as parable).  Instead we have the condensed version of the Christmas story: 

We hid from God, who sought us out.  God loves us enough to send Herself, really, if you hold to the Trinity, to call us back.  And in the end, the breach is repaired.  The force that led us astray is seen for what it is, and is overcome.  The continuing fertile power of creation includes our hearts and souls and minds, calling us to renewal.

Some of us won't let ourselves be renewed.  Some of us will choose to stay in the dark, hiding from God, making our own pathetic clothing instead of being clothed with the sun.  That is nothing short of tragic, but we are given choice.

Now, for John the line is always between those who “believe” and those who don’t.  This has done a lot of damage over the years, as people used litmus tests to condemn others and examine themselves anxiously.  So let’s just put aside the modern idea of “belief,” and think about what we’re all doing here.  You may think you’re an atheist or agnostic, or you may have another faith tradition.  You may not know what you believe about Jesus, or God.  But I bet you’re reading this because you hold on to something, you trust in something, you know you need something that speaks to you from the Jesus source.  If you’re still reading by this late in Advent, you’re looking for the light.  And you probably know times in your life when you wanted to hide from it rather than live in it.  So you know the difference.  

Choose light; choose life.

Dayspring, shine on us.  Shine especially on those who fear you most, who hide out of guilt or shame or anger.  Let us see the salvation and power and the dominion of our God.  

Glory!

Homework: Repeat after me: “Behold the servant of the Lord; be it unto me according to your word.”  Then go sing, say, dance Mary’s Song today (Luke 1:48-56).

Third Saturday in Advent (O Clavis David)

O Key of David, and Scepter of the house of Israel, you open and no one can close, and you close and no one can open: come and bring the prisoners out of the prison, those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death.

Zech. 8:9-17; Rev. 6:1-17; Matthew 25:31-46

Our final parable.  Isn’t it interesting that Matthew chose this one for last?  I’ve never liked it.  I am always shown to be wanting.  I don’t do enough of these “corporal works of mercy.”  I don’t give enough, visit enough, welcome enough.  For at least thirty years I’ve struggled with this.

I’m a writer and a pray-er.  For years I was a professor of political theory, and I wrote about what should be done, but I wasn’t out there doing it.  Now I’m a Companion, and I’m still writing about what should be done, but I’m not out there.  I’m not in the soup kitchen, the prison, the shelter, the sickroom.  And I’ve felt guilt, but no deeper call to be in those places.

Finally a wise spiritual director worked with me on this.  She reminded me that the body of Christ needs the exhorters and teachers and apostles and prophets as much as the feeders and rescue workers and healers and visitors.  So over time I’ve come to an uneasy peace with where my gifts fit into God’s dream of wholeness.  I’m writing this because it’s what I’m supposed to do.  When I have gone to God in prayer and agonized, I hear: “Write!”  “Teach!”  Fine.

The line I think Jesus (or Matthew) is drawing here is not between corporal works of mercy and other, less worthy activities.  It’s between a life lived for ourselves alone and a life lived for and with others, to an end greater than ourselves.  It’s between compassion and apathy.  And when we do cooperate, when we enter into those larger spaces in our hearts, we can tell: we can sense the inheritance already at work in us.

The parable suggests that we don’t have to be aiming at Christ to serve Christ.  The “sheep” are surprised, and wonder when they served the “king.”  They did what their hearts told them to do, and they received the reward that is intrinsic to that.  So don’t waste time like I did, agonizing about your worthiness: just open your heart and do what seems right, what you can.

A great slogan I learned from the ELCA is “Be: See: Do.”  Be who you are.  See what you have.  Do what matters to God.  And “there shall be a sowing of peace,” as God promised through Zechariah.

As we turn the corner into the final week, you might spend some time with the parables from these last weeks and ask yourself what you need to carry into Christmas, and what you need to lay down.  If you be, and see, and do, what is in front of you?

Third Friday in Advent (O Radix Jesse)

O Root of Jesse, you stand for an ensign of the people; before you the rulers will shut their mouths, and for you the nations will seek: come and deliver us, and do not tarry.

Zech. 7:8-8:8; Rev. 5:6-14; Matthew 25:14-30

As we approach Christmas, promises seem to mingle with warnings.  Through Zechariah we hear the promise of restoration and return: the streets will be filled, children will play and the aged will sit in peace, and God will be with them.  From Matthew we hear about the consequences of our beliefs and actions.  If we trust God and use what we are given, we will receive abundantly; if we don’t, if we expect punishment and seek to play it safe, we lose everything.  I’m surprised Jesus didn’t have a parable: “the kingdom of God is like a gambling hall . . . “

Albert Einstein once said the most important question facing humanity is whether or not the universe is friendly.  I think he was onto the same line of thought as Jesus.  I don’t know what Einstein meant; he may have thought this was an empirical question, something to be discovered.  Jesus seems to say that we get the universe we expect.  The slaves with five and ten talents had an awesome responsibility, but also an awesome trust and willingness to try.  The slave with one did not, and his actions led to experience that verified his belief.  You can just hear him as he’s being thrown into the outer darkness: “I knew it!  I knew my master was harsh!”  He cannot see how he contributed to his situation, so he remains a victim, weeping and gnashing.

Now, too many people receive less than a fair share of gifts to start with.  But many of them do nonetheless live in trust and multiply their gifts.  I know people with nothing who rejoice, and immigrants who know more about gratitude and willingness than those who have never faced the challenge of leaving everything and starting over.  I’ve been given ten talents, and for too much of my life I buried them out of fear.  When I began to let go and trust, the darkness began to lift.  I began to enter into the joy promised by God.

We stand today between promises and warnings.  Both guide us toward fullness of life, God’s dream for us.

What do you need to risk today to enter into God’s joy?

Please keep us in your prayers this weekend, as we lead a retreat at Holy Cross Monastery.  Our theme is “Magnificat!  Mary’s Yes and Ours.”  Thanks!

Third Thursday in Advent (O Adonai)

O Adonai, and leader of the house of Israel, you appeared in the bush to Moses in a flame of fire, and gave him the law on Sinai: come and redeem us with an outstretched arm.

Zech. 4:1-14; Rev. 4:9-5:5; Matthew 25:1-13

I’ve been waiting for weeks for this parable.  It’s the basis for one of my favorite hymns, which you can hear here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHayOpWimlM

Great song, but the parable is hard.  We’re all taught it’s nice to share, to be generous.  So what’s up with these bridesmaids?  Why does Jesus commend them?  What does he want from us?

It’s important to remember that parables aren’t exactly literal: they are parabolic, going around something to get to something.  The kingdom of God is “like this”: it isn’t “this.”  That said, what is Jesus trying to say?

Another spiritual truth.  If I do not keep my lamp trimmed and my oil full, I’m likely to miss the party.  No one else can fill my empty lamp; everyone has to walk their own path, do their own work.  The wise don’t say no because they don’t care; they just know that pouring their energy into people who won’t do their own work is just wasting their resources.  I cannot do your spiritual work for you, nor you for me.  I have to start each day checking my lamp through prayer, reading, holy conversation, service, and stewardship.  I need companions on the way to help me see how my supply of oil is doing, but they cannot fill me.  

If I don’t do these things, one day I’ll miss the opportunity of a lifetime.  I’ll be shut out, not as punishment but as a consequence.  There’s a time for everything, and I need to be able to see and respond.

By telling the story this way, Matthew makes God sound hard-hearted, and Her servants the same.  But it’s a parable.  Behind, around the story is the kernel of truth: Keep awake!

How’s your lamp today?

Third Wednesday in Advent (O Sapientia)

O, Wisdom! You came out of the mouth of the Most High, and reach to the earth’s farthest bounds, mightily and sweetly ordering all things: come and teach us the way of prudence.

Zech. 3:1-10; Rev. 4:1-8; Matthew 24:45-51

Most of you will start saying or singing the Great Os tomorrow night, but some of us start now and add an O for Mary at the end.  Each O is addressed to a particular manifestation or description of God.  Many of these appear in our daily readings, where you might have seen some already.  Coincidence? Or conspiracy?  Or con-Spiracy (with the Spirit)?  You decide.  Let me know when you find the source for one!

But I need to address these last teachings of Jesus.  We have four days of parables, Matthew’s last words of Jesus before the Passion.  And they bring us back to the scary side of Advent.  Today we hear of the choices facing slaves whose master goes away and is delayed in return.  (I could tidy this up by changing the words, but I want you to wrestle with being addressed as a slave.)

The parable is vivid.  Some will be faithful, good stewards.  They will be blessed when the master returns.  Some will be, er, not so faithful.  They will abuse themselves and others, and they will pay dearly.

Now, this is parable - not prediction.  But I do believe there are consequences for our beliefs and actions, and there are intrinsic returns.  When I lose faith and hope, I naturally begin to flag in my spiritual life.  Soon I’m closed in on myself, losing love as well.  The more I close in, the smaller and more painful my world is.  I am indeed out “with the hypocrites,” living the shell of a life.  

If I choose instead to live in hope and faith, my world expands.  I treat others well, and so they treat me well (as much as their condition permits).  If they don’t treat me well, I have the strength to endure.  And one day I look up, and I see Christ.  And more importantly, Christ sees me.  I feel the sun on my face.

So: do you believe the master will return?

If not, why are you reading this?

If you do, what are you doing in the meantime?

If you don’t, how is that shaping your behavior?

Third Tuesday in Advent

Zech. 2:1-13; Rev. 3:14-22; Matthew 24:32-44

“No one can celebrate a genuine Christmas without being truly poor.  The self-sufficient, the proud, those who, because they have everything, look down on others, those who have no need even of God - for them there will be no Christmas.  Only the poor, the hungry, those who need someone to come on their behalf, will have that someone.  that someone is God.  Emmanuel, God-with-us.  Without poverty of spirit there can be no abundance of God.”  - Oscar Romero

John writes to a church that has lost its purpose and fervor.  That church says, “I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.”  John tells them how wretched they are, and advises them to trade in what they have for the true wealth that comes from God.

In the two millennia since, we still don’t get it.  We want to flee our neediness and brokenness.  We love to give, because that makes us feel generous and prosperous; but few of us really love to receive.  We don't want to be indebted - but we are.  My breath, my thoughts, my opportunities come to me through sources beyond myself.  My life is a gift, if I am willing to receive.  If not, I might still have things; I might still have opportunities; but I will not have gratitude.  I will not know God.

“Look!  I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me” (Rev. 3:20).  

Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying.

Third Monday in Advent

Zech. 1:7-17; Rev. 3:7-13; Matthew 24:15-31

“If anyone says to you, ‘Look! Here is the Messiah!’ or ‘There he is!’ - do not believe it.”  

At first glance it seems to me that we do not have this problem.  If anything, most of the people I know would not believe it if they were told Jesus was standing in front of them - unless they could understand it metaphorically, a gesture to the Christ in each of us.  But the idea that a singular person might be the Messiah, the Holy One of God, is so foreign even to church people (or especially to us?) that this saying seems unnecessary.

And yet, how often do we look for Messiahs?  In an election year, there are plenty of people who would like to be our Messiah.  They employ people to convince us that they are in fact the answer to our prayers.  But it’s not just politics.  We look for wise ones whose books we can read (rather than following their path).  We look for people whose achievements make us feel good, even as our own lives disintegrate.  We look for friends or spouses who will save us from loneliness or insecurity.  And some people will always volunteer for the part.

But Jesus’ story reminds us that this Messiah business is tricky.  It’s so tempting - so human - to look for the Messiah among the strong or pseudo-strong.  Just as Jesus’ followers kept waiting for him to sound the battle call, we can think we know what the Messiah will look like and do.  We’re usually wrong.

God is the surprise business.  God is not in the wish-fulfillment business, delivering us what we think we need.  God is in the business of doing more than we can ask or imagine, and asking us to do the same.  It is only when we accept the limitations of our humanity, with their accompanying fears, that we can wait with open hearts and minds.  Then we just might sneak a glimpse of the Holy One walking down our street.

Where have you looked for a Messiah?  How did that work out for you?

How will you prepare to wait today?

Third Sunday in Advent

Amos 9:11-15; 2 Thess. 2:1-3,13-17; John 5:30-47

John the Baptist “was a burning and shining lamp” (John 5:35).  The Christian monastic tradition has seen John as its ancestor, and the Episcopal Church recognizes this in its prayer for monastics: “O God, by whose grace your servant ______, kindled with the flame of your love, became a burning and a shining light in your Church: Grant that we also may be aflame with the spirit of love and discipline, and walk before you as children of light . . .”  

I love this prayer.  I want to be on fire with this spirit, and I want others to feel it too.  And I know that this flame doesn’t always burn evenly.  Jesus tells the crowd that they “were willing to rejoice for a while in [John’s] light,” but we know that John died and the crowds moved on.  When John was imprisoned, likely most of those who enjoyed hearing him just went home.  His flame diminished, and some might have thought it was extinguished.  But that flame never dies.

In A Whispered Name, a novel by William Brodrick, a visitor asks a monk what it is that they do in the monastery.  The monk replies, “We tend a fire that never goes out.”  That, indeed, is what we do here as Companions.  It’s what we do as Christians, as people of faith.  And as we tend the fire, we are invited to become the fire, to be aflame.

As we draw toward the longest night of the year, may you draw near to the fire, and become a burning and a shining light.  May you give warmth and light to all who see you.  May you singe the sins that cling to you, and let their ash blow away.  May you endure, and rejoice - not only for a while, but forever.

Second Saturday in Advent

Haggai 2:1-9; Rev. 3:1-6; Matthew 24:1-14

Two readings about the temple in Jerusalem: two temples, in fact.  The temple built by Solomon was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.  The second temple was completed in 515 BCE, and was a focus of domination and resistance between the Judeans and their various rulers until the Romans destroyed it in 70 CE.

Here in Haggai we hear about the building of the second temple.  The prophet promises prosperity and splendor.  The splendor took centuries to achieve, during the reign of Herod in 20 BCE.  The prosperity never really came for most people, as we might expect for a colonized, subjugated people.  But still, it must have been impressive: Jesus’ disciples are impressed.  

Jesus is not impressed by the temple buildings.  The Gospels present him as predicting the destruction of the temple, a destruction that the evangelists had seen as they wrote.  But there’s more to Jesus’ lack of interest here than prediction.  

Jesus is not trying to build big buildings.  He did not become incarnate to bring material splendor and prosperity.  He came, he comes, to people who lack these; he comes to those who are looking beyond that.  He doesn’t settle for the first door, the first reward I mentioned yesterday.  He’s bringing the morning star.

Today many mainline Christians are seeing the destruction of their temples.  The buildings designed for splendor, that advertised prosperity, are falling into disrepair.  Congregations are falling into disrepair as well, often by trying to hang onto the buildings past their time.  And God knows, there are wars and rumors of wars.  There are false prophets, and increased lawlessness.  It’s a great time to be faithful!  I mean that.  The splendor is gone, the false incentives to “worship.”  What remains is the good news of the kingdom, announced by Jesus.  

Barn's burnt down --

now

I can see the moon.

Mizuta Masahide

Second Friday in Advent

Haggai 1:1-15; Rev. 2:18-29; Matthew 23:27-39

If you live in the United States you’ve likely seen and maybe taken a personality test or two.  (Maybe they’re everywhere by now.)  Today in Revelation we get not so much a personality test as a soul test.  What will motivate you to remain faithful?

(Before I get to that, a word about translations.  The NRSV, which is used by the Episcopal Church in its lectionaries and office books, refers to the one who “conquers and continues to do my works” (2:26).  The Common English Version is, I think, more helpful: it addresses “those who emerge victorious, keeping my practices until the end.”  “Works” today sounds like one kind of practice, service of various kinds, and this is important, but “practices” may get to the larger point of how we are to be faithful.  The NRSV wins for literal translation here, but if you find it obscure try this alternative.)

So: why should we “conquer” and “continue”?  Here’s where the test comes in.  We’re promised two rewards.  The first is “authority over the nations; to rule the nations with an iron rod and smash them like pottery.”  This sounds very appealing to my ego, which likes to be in control and thinks it knows what everyone else needs.  My ego is rooted in anxiety, and it often thinks that the answer to feeling threatened is to eliminate the threat.  We see a lot of that these days, no?  “If I were in charge . .  “ 

But, um, I don’t see Jesus taking that road.  That is the road of the sword, of the gun, of the bomb.  That road leads to others who hate, who nurse revenge, who plot to build their own iron rods and smash me in turn.  My ego thinks it’s a great idea, but my ego can’t see far enough.

The other reward doesn’t speak to the ego, but to the soul.  “I will also give the morning star.”  The sun, the source of light and warmth.  I cannot control the sun, nor can I take it for my own.  It can only come as a gift, as it does each day.  Each morning I stand in wonder before the new light of dawn.  My ego has nothing to do, but my soul is fed.  And as I stand, I remember that everyone, every nation, is also under this morning star.  We are all nurtured and sustained and illuminated by it.  All the iron rods in the world do not change it.  It has its own source and its own course.  It has nothing to offer my ego.

Our religious wars, past and present, begin and continue with people who choose the first reward.  But choosing that iron rod cuts us off from the second gift.  The morning star still rises, but we don’t even notice.  The challenge is to put down the rod, even in the face of my ego’s fear, and wait for the morning star.  I know it’s worth it, if I can just continue to keep God’s practices.

Which reward will you choose today?

Second Thursday in Advent

Amos 9:1-10; Rev. 2:8-17; Matthew 23:13-26

The hard words just keep coming.  Reading these readings today, I’m reminded of a book by Walter Brueggeman, on the prophetic imagination.  He said that the job of a prophet is twofold: to warn and condemn, but also to encourage.  If all we get is criticism and dire predictions, we are as likely to tune out as to repent (witness the climate change deniers, for example).  No one wants to feel helpless.  Jesus’ brilliance was in calling us to a new way of being, a way that could lead us to naturally lay down what harms us and others.  He knew about encouragement.

But we don’t hear a lot of that today.  We hear condemnation: from Amos, and from Jesus.  And to make matters worse, Jesus’ charges against the Pharisees can seem hard to translate into our lives.  It’s easy to tune out.

But hidden at the end of Revelation there is a pearl of encouragement.  “To everyone who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give a white stone, and on the white stone is written a new name that no one knows except the one who receives it.”  Hidden manna.  A new, hidden name.  As in the desert, that place of testing, I will find food when I least expect it.  And just when it seems my time is running out and I will join my anonymous ancestors, I will receive a new name.  This name signals a new life.

I can attest to the power of a new name.  I was not born with the name I have.  I heard the name Shane when I was 11, and I knew it was my true name, but I didn’t tell anyone for another 16 years.  Inside, I had a strong woman growing.  Her name was Shane.  I dreamed as Shane, but I lived as a pretty miserable and angry girl and woman.  Then, when I was 28, I let myself become Shane.  I changed my name legally.  It was awkward; it seemed crazy.  But that year was also the year I walked into the rooms of recovery.  It was the year I went back to school to finish my degree.  My whole life changed when I claimed my name.  Later I learned it means “God is gracious.”

This is the promise of baptism.  It’s the promise of all the traditions of initiation that allow for a new name.  But the deepest, truest initiation is not with a name chosen by others; it has to be a name discovered for oneself.  And the discovery does not come, I believe, without trials and little deaths.  The old self has to be worn away or transformed before the new can emerge.

Be faithful.  Stand in hope today, facing into the pain of the world and of your own soul without flinching.  You will receive hidden manna, and a new name.  I wonder what yours is?

Second Wednesday in Advent

Amos 8:1-14; Rev. 1:17-2:7; Matthew 23:1-12

Herewith a rant about the use of the title “Father” (and now “Mother”) in the Church.  Does it bother anyone else that we just blow right by Jesus’ clear instructions?  When did we decide that those words applied to the Pharisees of his day, but not to us?  Don’t get me wrong.  There are many teachings in the Gospels (and many more in the other writings!) that I think applied to Jesus’ time but perhaps not to ours.  But this one seems spiritually important and eternal.

We gather as Christians with one God, one Lord, one Shepherd.  We honor many other people, living and dead, but we don't mistake them for our one Source.  Treating humans that way is dangerous to them, as well as to us.  It’s a truism in religious life that the great sin awaiting the righteous person is pride.  This is precisely what happens with the Pharisees.  So how dangerous is it to call someone “Father” or “Mother”?  What does that do to them?

12-Step groups emphasize anonymity as a “spiritual foundation,” “ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.”  Discussion of this principle usually centers on the cost to everyone when people start taking credit for their own recovery and that of others.  Usually, when they do they fall in some big way.  Those who live and serve in contented anonymity touch lives and strengthen their own recovery.  Or, as Jesus simply puts it, “All who exalt themselves will be humbled; and all who humble themselves will be exalted.”  

“I do not call you servants any longer, . . . but I have called you friends” (John 15:15).  As the Church formed, this insight went underground; but it is a spring from which the kingdom of God continually wells up.  The body of Christ has one head.  

I call you friends.

Who needs your quiet service today?  You do.

Second Tuesday in Advent

Amos 7:10-17; Rev. 1:9-16; Matthew 22:34-46

As we enter into reading Revelation, you may find yourself with Amaziah saying to Amos, “O seer, go, flee away to the land of Judah, earn your bread there, and prophesy there; but never again prophesy here, where I can hear you!  Especially don’t tell me that your words of judgment apply to me or my people.”  Amos responds that he is not the one bringing disaster on the people or the kingdom; the people themselves are doing that by practicing oppression and injustice.  They may want to hear Christmas carols, but he brings the word of God, the choice between life and death.

John refers to the persecution he shares with his correspondents, and this persecution continues to this day.  Now the persecution is not expressed through formal bans against “the Church,” but it is executed against communities who read the Gospel in ways that interfere with the business of the privileged.  Across Latin America Christians have been slaughtered, the reading of the Magnificat has been banned, by rulers who found it “too political.”  

William Stringfellow wrote that the early Christians, like many today, “knew that the message of both Advents [the first, and the one that is to come] is political.  That message is that in the coming of Jesus Christ, the nations and the principalities and the rulers of the world are judged in the Word of God. . . This is the truth, which the world hates, which biblical people (repentant people) bear and by which they live as the church in the world in the time between the two Advents.”

Jesus’ answer to the lawyer is consistent with Amos’ message.  It challenges us today.  The first commandment, the greatest; the second, like it.  No qualifications.  No “unless it costs us profits or makes us unpopular or is inconvenient.”  Standing in the light, we know when we’re living those commandments and when we aren’t.  We may not measure up - we won’t - but at least we can stop pretending or denying or killing the messenger.

Give thanks today for all those prophets, great and small, who call you to God’s dream today.  Heed their warnings, and pass it on!  

Second Monday in Advent

Amos 7:1-9; Rev. 1:1-8; Matthew 22:23-33

Did your heart sink a bit when you saw that we’re starting to read Revelation?  We just read it during the weeks before Advent; wasn’t that enough?  This book, so disliked by so many in the U.S. for its violent images and language of revenge; what is this book doing messing up our lovely Advent?

It’s right where it belongs.  As an apocalyptic book it is all about the coming of Christ.  Its visions speak hope to oppressed people around the world.  In Latin America, in Asia, in Africa, Revelation holds out the hope that injustice will end, the order of the world will be overcome.  It’s good for those of us in the global North to remember that.  For millions of faithful Christians, the United States is the new Rome; global capitalism is the contemporary face of Babylon.  When it seems there is no hope, when God is delayed, apocalyptic visions become a means of maintaining hope.

And in the midst of the terrors, John wishes grace and peace to those who are faithful.  He writes to seven churches to warn and to correct them, to admonish them in love.  

In our privileged position in the global order, it’s confusing to read this.  Are we part of the churches, to be corrected but saved?  Are we part of Babylon, to be cast into outer darkness?  Can we be both?  How might we live in Babylon and be faithful?  Can we not only survive Babylon, but transform it?  Can we be part of the healing of the nations?  Where will you stand?

That is a question worth wrestling with.  Compared to that, debates about marriage and the resurrection are simply interesting.  This is the question confronting us.  

Second Sunday in Advent

Amos 6:1-14; 2 Thess. 1:5-12; Luke 1:57-68

Today we’re at the Church of the Ascension again, and I’m preaching.  It’s John the Baptist Sunday, so at the Eucharist we get the followup to the daily Gospel: the Song of Zechariah (Luke 1:68-79) and Luke 3:1-6, introducing the adult John.  Read all of them today.  Rather than a reflection, here’s the sermon I plan to preach (unless God has other ideas!).

Thank you for inviting me to be with you today.  Yesterday Elizabeth and I led a quiet day focused on Mary’s yes to God, a response to an invitation.  Today’s readings remind us of other invitations from God.  Baruch invites the exiles to return from Babylon, and those who remained in Jerusalem to welcome them.  Zechariah’s song is a response to God’s invitation to participate in salvation as the father of John the Baptist.  And in his song, his son is invited to go before the Lord to prepare the way, to give the people knowledge of salvation.  It all sounds great.

The Gospel reminds us, though, that invitations are often challenges as well.  I feel challenged to bring you a word today, and I pray God to give me that.  Baruch challenged the exiles to go back to Jerusalem, and challenged the residents of Jerusalem to welcome them.  Paul challenged the Phillippians to overflow with knowledge and insight, to be righteous.  Invitations are always challenges.  They demand a response.

Do you think that when Zechariah sang to his infant son that he could have imagined what was to come?  Zechariah was a priest in the Temple.  He served a holy function, within an institution whose leaders will eventually participate in killing Jesus.  He likely expected John to become a priest in his turn.  As a priest he would indeed help the people to worship God, and he would pray to God on their behalf.  But he would do this within the bounds of order and decency, and also within the bounds of the Roman Empire.  

That’s not what happened.  John had another destiny, and it was likely not one that Zechariah understood.  At some point he left home, left the career track, and went to the wilderness.   After a period of preparation he began preaching.  He called the people to repent.  He called all the people to repent, including all those rulers that Luke lists at the beginning of the passage.  His call to others will eventually cost him his life.  But long before that the call that he experienced, the invitation he received, cost him the life his father planned for him.  It cost him family, and secure income, and status.  It would have cost his family in honor, in that honor-driven society.  John received an invitation to fullness of life, and all he had to do was give up everything safe and familiar and risk his life for God.

This is the double edge of God’s invitations.  God’s invitations are always challenges.

When God calls the exiles back from Babylon, most of them don't want to go.  When they are called out of Egypt, most of them turn against Moses when they realize what’s happened.  And who knows?  Maybe the plagues were directed at getting the Israelites to leave, as much as getting Pharaoh’s consent!  

God’s invitations are always challenges.

Every time God or God’s messengers appear, they tell people: “Do not be afraid.”  That should give us a clue as to what they’re up to.

Do not be afraid, Zechariah!  Your prayer has been heard.  You’re going to have a child who leaves everything you understand and value, and dies in prison.

Do not be afraid, Mary!  You’re going to have a child in questionable circumstances that will cost you honor among your people.  He’ll grow up to be hunted and killed.

Do not be afraid, Joseph, to take Mary as your wife.  You’ll have to flee to Egypt and make a new home in Nazareth, and endure the whispers of the neighbors.

Oh yeah.  God’s invitations are always challenges.

Do you want to be invited?  That’s what John is up to.  He follows the invitation and becomes an inviter himself.  As his father prophesied, he goes before the Holy One to prepare the way, to let people know salvation is available, that God’s compassion is here, that release and mercy are right here.  All we have to do, he says, is repent.

Do you want to be invited?

Advent is one of the great seasons of invitation.  We’re invited to parties, to carol sings, to tree lightings, to church services.  We’re invited to donate time and money to help others.  The invitations have gotten more insistent as media multiply.  They carry the challenge to enjoy the season, to do more, to do too much.  The invitations from marketers, from neighbors, from employers and from friends add up to a season from which we can only recover.

But hidden in that pile of invitations is another.  Before it was swamped by the commerce of Christmas, Advent was a little Lent, a time of preparation for the coming Christ.  Our readings still reflect that emphasis, but we’ve lost touch with the challenge of Advent.

The challenge is not to get our Christmas shopping done, or to bake enough cookies for all our neighbors.  The challenge is not getting cards out, or surviving all the Christmas parties.  The challenge is to prepare for the coming of God.

Just when everything and everyone around us tells us to go out and do more, we are invited to sit still and wait.  We are invited to wait with women while holy children grow in them, and to wait with their baffled husbands.  We are invited to wait with the exiles and slaves until the call to go forth is clear.  We are invited to turn again, to grasp the promise of freedom.   We are invited to face our sins, whatever separates us from God, in order to lay them aside and enter the joy of God’s realm.

Do you want to be invited?

You have been.  However you choose to respond, you’ve been invited.  John invited his listeners.  Jesus invited those who heard him.  For thousands of years we’ve been invited, and today you and I are invited.

You cannot pretend you didn’t get the invitation.  Sorry.  Not responding is a response.

There’s good news here.  This invitation is a challenge to enter more deeply into life.  It’s an invitation to really fulfill your deepest hunger, your oldest thirst, your primal longing.  And yes, it looks hard and scary.  We can’t see the promised land as clearly as we can see the land we’ve grown up in.  But it’s there, waiting for us.  God is waiting for us.

John came to bear witness to the light.  This light will shine for us, and guide our feet into the way of peace.  That’s not an invitation.  That’s a promise.

Prepare the way of the Lord. 

First Saturday in Advent

Amos 5:18-27; Jude 17-25; Matthew 22:15-22

Today we’re at the Church of the Ascension in New York City, leading a quiet day on “Mary’s Yes and Ours.”  Please pray for us to have a word to share, and for those gathered that they might hear God, whatever we say or don’t.

Amos reminds us that we don’t know what we’re saying “Yes” to most of the time.  Those who “desire the day of the LORD”: what are they thinking?  Likely they’re thinking that God will smite someone else and reward them.  Sorry.  We’re in this together.  And because we are, injustice is more damaging than failure to worship properly.  If my offerings come from what I profit off your labor, God is not happy.  And when God ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

The alternative to “justice roll[ing] down like waters, and righteousness like an everlasting stream” is social chaos: distrust, anger, violence, and the consequences of violence: inability to sustain agriculture, lack of education or health care, leading to fewer options other than violence.  Sound familiar?  Fifty years after Martin Luther King quoted this passage to call the United States to racial justice, we are more divided, more suspicious of more “others,” than ever.

So we don’t need to imagine a parental God’s anger; we can see what happens when God’s will is violated.  However you understand God, whatever language or image you use, it’s clear when the healing of the world is happening and when it isn’t.  God’s will for us is wholeness and healing.  God’s will is justice and righteousness.

This week’s events remind us of the continuing spiral of violence and pain in the world.  Any week’s events show us this.  And God ain’t happy.

Where can you bring or participate in justice and righteousness today?  

Make God happy today.