Author Archives: Fr. Tom McAlpine

Unknown's avatar

About Fr. Tom McAlpine

Fr. Tom is a semi-retired priest in the Episcopal Church living in Fitchburg, Wisconsin.

“Know me…lead me”: A Meditation on Ps 139 (2nd after the Epiphany)

Leave a reply

Readings; Psalm 139

A curious set of readings! The Gospel: the calling of Nathael, picking up in a general way the Epiphany theme. The calling of Samuel: probably chosen as an Old Testament parallel to the Gospel. The reading from 1 Corinthians: well, it looks like the Lectionary editors wanted to put these chapters somewhere, and ended up distributing them in all three years of the Epiphany season. As for the psalm, the editors probably chose part of it for the theme of divine knowledge present both there and in the Gospel. We read all of it this morning, because in its entirety it’s worth a sermon. So, please open the BCP to pages 794-795.

What sort of psalm is it? The requests starting in v.18 suggest an individual petition. We find vv.18-21 uncomfortable enough that the Sunday Lectionary always omits them. The Psalter itself seems to work more on the principle articulated by John Chapman: “Pray as you can; don’t pray as you can’t.” If vv.18-21 are in my heart, the Psalter thinks it’s better to get them out there on my lips so God and I can deal with them together.

What of vv.1-17? They’re some sort of lead-in to vv.18-23: you, Lord, with your wonderful knowledge, are well-positioned to respond to the requests. But vv.1-17 really look like they’ve taken on a life of their own past any narrow rhetorical use, exploring this wonderful knowledge in surprising ways. So let’s start there.

Verses 1-5, addressed—like the whole psalm—to God, put God’s knowledge center-stage. What isn’t clear from these verses is whether the speaker is celebrating or complaining. Governments these days are getting better at surveillance, a trend Orwell worried about in his book 1984. We’re all over the map in our responses to this, but what when God’s surveillance capacities dwarf them all? What does God do with all this knowledge? The speaker/the poet hasn’t tipped his/her hand.

Verses 6-11 and 12-17 explore the theme in space and time. Space: wherever I go, you’re there. And in the middle of vv.6-11 the first clue as to what God is doing with this knowledge:

Even there your hand will lead me
and your right hand hold me fast.

“Lead…hold me fast.” God’s using knowledge for the speaker’s good, and is not about to let go. We might think of Jesus’ words in John: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand” (10:27-28). “If I climb up to heaven, you are there; / if I make the grave my bed, you are there also.” That’s something to hang onto.

Moving from the abstract darkness of v.11 to the darkness of the womb, the speaker describes God’s knowledge and involvement from their beginning: “you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” “I will thank you because I am marvelously made” or, as Alter translates it, “for fearsomely I am set apart.” That’s not an affirmation reserved for Olympic athletes; the Psalter invites us to echo it, to claim it, even while dealing with demanding limitations. And if we claim it for ourselves, we claim it for our neighbor, also when (thinking of our southern border) it’s inconvenient to do so.

Returning to the petitions starting in v.18: obviously Jesus’ teaching (commands!) and example expand our prayer options regarding the enemy. To the degree that we’ve let Jesus mess with our imagination, what do we do with these verses? The desert fathers probably got it right, understanding the enemy as—to use the language of our baptismal service—the “sinful desires that draw you from the love of God.” With care, a certain ruthlessness is indicated: “And if thy right hand offend thee…” (Matt 5:30).

What of vv.22-23? The speaker is self-aware enough to understand that this divine scrutiny is still needed, self-aware to know that “whether there be any wickedness in me” is an open question. (There is perhaps a gentle irony in this coming right after the imprecations of vv.18-21.) “Search… know… try… look well” “and lead me in the way that is everlasting.”

That final request is perhaps the most interesting line in the psalm. We might wonder why it’s necessary: the speaker surely has Moses’ law. As Joseph said to his brothers, “Do this and you will live” (Gen. 42:18). And here we might recall Psalm 19, back on p.607. Immediately after exuberant praise of the law (vv.7-11), we encounter “Who can tell how often he offends? / cleanse me from my secret faults.” The law is necessary, but—given our limited self-knowledge and our recurrent desire for self-deception—not sufficient. “Cleanse me!” Or, in today’s psalm’s language, “lead me.”

OK, and how does God do that? Scripture’s counter-question might be: Is there any means God doesn’t use? Joseph’s dreams, that angel-in-disguise who guided Tobias, Balaam’s ass, John the Baptist (Whose head do I want on a platter this week?)… There’s that lovely line from Leonard Cohen: “There is a crack… in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” There’s profound divine humility here, our God being happy to use the smallest crack. But it does require at least some part of us to be listening, to be awake.

John, author of today’s Gospel, incorporates this appreciation for divine knowledge in his portrait of Jesus. When Jesus is surrounded by an enthusiastic but unreliable crowd John tells us “But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to testify about anyone; for he himself knew what was in everyone” (Jn. 2:24-25). Recall too the Samaritan woman’s testimony: “He told me everything I have ever done” (Jn. 4:39). So, in today’s reading, Nathanel: “Where did you get to know me?” (Jn. 1:48)

And if we return to the question of what God/Jesus does with this knowledge, with Jesus’ leading: “Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” Nor does this seeing leave Nathanel/us unchanged. Paul, writing to those exasperating Corinthians, some of his least promising hearers: “And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18).

When the astrologers got it right (Epiphany)

Leave a reply

Readings

Sometime in early Spring, shortly after what we celebrate it as the Feast of the Annunciation, Mary had sung:

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel,
for he has remembered his promise of mercy,
The promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children for ever.

We might mentally loop this song and let it play in the background throughout this sermon, for it provides an appropriate soundtrack for our Gospel reading, and the Gospel reading in turn shows the surprising ways in which it plays out.

And the Gospel reading, in turn, also looks like it’s playing off the texts we heard from Isaiah and our psalm. There’s the foreigners bringing gifts theme. Further, Matthew’s identified Jesus as Son of David in the opening verse of the Gospel, and here the quote from the prophet Micah identifies Jesus as the Messiah. Psalm 72’s gifts to the King’s Son fit right in. Gold and frankincense as gifts show up twice the the Bible: Isa 60 and Matt 2. Matthew’s interested in both the continuity (Ps 72) and discontinuity (Isa 60) of these texts with his story.

Our Isaiah text. For a sense of the situation, recall that when the returning exiles laid the foundation for the second temple, we’re told “But many of the priests and Levites and heads of families, old people who had seen the first house on its foundations, wept with a loud voice when they saw this house, though many shouted aloud for joy” (Ezra 3:12). This temple: such an impoverished version of Solomon’s temple. But, proclaims the prophet: that’s not the last word. You will shine. Nations will come to your light. Nations, bringing gold and frankincense to the temple. Jesus’ “You are the light of the world” might come to mind.

So, enter the Magi, the astrologers. In Matthew’s world folk assumed that important events—like the birth of powerful kings—would be heralded in the heavens. Even the Book of Numbers recalled the pagan prophet Balaam’s words “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near– a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17a). The Magi have seen the star; they head for the capital.

We heard what happened: they’re redirected to Bethlehem. The gold and frankincense end up in Bethlehem. So Isaiah got it wrong? Not according to Matthew: if you’re looking for the true temple, it’s currently in Bethlehem. The Gospel of John made the same point with Jesus’ words “”Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (Jn. 2:19); Matthew does it with this story.

Pulling back the camera, the Magi story reminds us of why we gentiles are celebrating this Jewish King’s birth. So in our second reading we heard “the Gentiles have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.” Jews and Gentiles, then (and now?) like the proverbial Hatfields and McCoys: and Jesus is uniting them. Matthew’s Gospel ends with the command to disciple all nations; the Magi story is the set-up.

The Magi. We met their counterparts in the competitions between Moses and Pharaoh’s magi and between Daniel and the Babylonian magi. The Jews (so to speak) get it right; the Gentiles get it wrong. And here the script gets reversed? Maybe. What doesn’t change is that in all three situations (Pharaoh’s court, the Babylonian court, Herod’s court) it’s the powerless who get it right.

That’s the warning both here and in Mary’s song. “He has come to the help of his servant Israel,” yes. But servant Israel—like servant Church—can be asleep at the switch. Not one of the chief priests or scribes accompany the Magi down to Bethelem. Better, I suppose, than Herod, who’s quite awake to any threat to his understanding of God’s kingdom. Being part of Israel or the Church: no guarantee that we’ll get it right. And the more power we have, the more careful we need to be.

Coming at this another way, in Mary’s song it sounds like God is making all the decisions. “He has filled the hungry with good things, / and the rich he has sent away empty.” In Matthew’s story the rich (so to speak) exclude themselves, the chief priests and scribes through some combination of sleep and inertia, Herod through fear.

Let’s return to Isaiah’s image of light.

Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
and thick darkness the peoples;
but the LORD will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.
Nations shall come to your light,
and kings to the brightness of your dawn.

No shortage of thick darkness these days. Isaiah—and Paul—don’t want us to be surprised by that. But precisely in the midst of that: “so that through the church the wisdom of God in its rich variety might now be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places.” And what is this wisdom that Paul is celebrating? That the Gentiles—all peoples—are now through the Messiah invited to full participation in God’s project of world healing initiated with Abraham and Sarah. Is this project of uniting all peoples in Christ sustainable? Did Mary and her song get it right? That’s what the Church—despite all its failings—is to demonstrate. ““You are the light of the world.”

Thank God for John the Baptist (1st Sunday after Christmas)

Leave a reply

Readings

14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
15 (John testified to him and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.'”) (Jn. 1:14-15)

V.14 looks like the climax of the text: it’s John’s way of capturing the deep joy that’s run through the birth narratives in Matthew and Luke. It’s the first, perhaps the most important theme, in this sermon. The Word became flesh, and the world hasn’t been the same since. We mark our years “B.C.” or “A.D.”

And yet even here (v.15) John the evangelist talks also about John the Baptist. And exploring John the Baptist’s role is the second theme in the sermon—and that will take some unpacking.

6 There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.
7 He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. (Jn. 1:6-7)

“He came as a witness to testify to the light.” What’s that about? If I say “that light is on” that sounds like pretty useless information. Why does light need a witness?

It turns out that John the evangelist uses blindness as an image of the default human condition. The light can be right in front of us, and we’re clueless. That includes John the Baptist. We’d assume that his spiritual eyesight was 20/20, but later in this chapter we hear him confess:

31 I myself did not know him; but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.” 32 And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. 33 I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ (Jn. 1:31-33)

No dove, no recognition: even John the Baptist needs a witness.

John: “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Mk 1.4). Clothed in camel hair, eating grasshoppers & wild honey, baptizing folk in water that was more or less clean. You either heard John on his terms or you didn’t hear him at all. The people who’d received John’s baptism were the core of Jesus’ followers; those who’d rejected John’s baptism tended to reject Jesus too.

The apostle Paul talks about our sight in gentler terms:

12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. (1 Cor. 13:12)

So, one thing listening to John the evangelist and Paul might do is increase our awareness of our limited perception, increase our humility—particularly when we’re dealing with folk with whom we disagree. We’re not as in touch with Reality as we like to imagine.

But back to the text. God so loved the world that he not only sent his only begotten Son, light of the world, but also sent John the Baptist so that some could recognize that light.

Now here’s something to wonder about. Some 20 centuries later, we’re here because of the witness of those who’ve played John’s role in our lives. My family, my friends: these are among those who’ve played John’s role for me. What would your short list look like? Full disclosure: there are times when John is the last person we want to deal with. There are times when we find ourselves about to order John’s head served up on a platter.

There are times… I don’t know how your arguments with God go. Mine sometimes go like this: “God, where are you?” Silence. More silence. Eventually in the silence I hear a counter question: “Are you listening to John?” Sometimes paying attention to that question gets the conversation moving again.

God enlists agents other than people to play John’s role. My list of such witnesses would start out in California with the High Sierras above tree line under a full moon. What would yours start with?

Again, we eventually figure out that God calls us not to one change but a whole series of changes —“changed from glory into glory” is how one of our hymns puts it. Jesus is always out in front of us. So we’re always in need of witnesses. Who are those now preparing the way for the next changes to which God is inviting us? Who are those whose heads—if I had my way—might end up on a platter?

This business about John in today’s Gospel invites us to gratitude not simply for the Birth, but for the many witnesses God sends us so that we’re a little more able to see, to believe, to rejoice.

Who plays John’s role now? This question challenges me in two additional ways that I’ll mention before wrapping up.

First, God runs a risk sending John: we can mistake John for the Light. Today’s Gospel warns us against that. It can be comfortable to stop with John.

Second, what about the people for whom I might quite unconsciously be playing John’s role? So who I am, who I’m becoming, is important both for my sake and for others’. We’re interconnected that way.

Responding to who or what is playing John’s role in our lives, managing not to confuse these with the Light itself, playing—quite unconsciously—John’s role in the lives of others: three elements in our common life nurtured by this generous God who not only sends the light, but also companions to help us encounter it. Amen.

The Endgame: A world in which God–and we–are at home (Christmas Day)

Leave a reply

Readings

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” “Lived among us”: a defensible, if colorless translation. The Common English Bible offers “and made his home among us.” A more literal translation might be “and tabernacled among us.” Why would John put it that way?

John begins his prologue evoking Scripture’s creation story (“In the beginning…”), so let’s think about creation stories. The Mesopotamians (the tower of Babel and all that) told their creation stories ending with the construction of the metropolitan temple. And that gives us a clue regarding the logic at work in the first two books of the Old Testament. Genesis begins with the creation of the heavens and earth. Exodus ends with the creation (construction) of the tabernacle. In the internal chronology both start on the same day (first day, first month); the narrative of the tabernacle’s construction picks up Genesis’ creation language. There are, of course, differences in the Mesopotamian and Old Testament accounts, e.g., the Mesopotamian accounts ending with a temple at the center of imperial power, Moses and the freed slaves erecting the tabernacle at the foot of Sinai. But in both cases the goal is the same: creation reaches its goal, its telos, when there is a home for God in our midst.

The ending of Exodus’ account is worth noticing: “So Moses finished the work. Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle. Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled upon it, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle” (Exod. 40:33-35).

All of which brings into focus what John’s doing in his prologue in our Gospel reading. He’s not simply evoking the old creation story, but telling that story with a new ending: that Word through whom all things came into being becomes flesh, tabernacles among us. So, as Exodus moves immediately from tabernacle to glory, John adds: “and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” Paul talks about a new creation in one of his letters; John builds it into the structure of his prologue.

This dive into the creation and tabernacle stories might get us wondering what creation is for. It’s clearly not a sort of ant farm stuck on the shelf to ward off divine boredom. Taken as a whole (so I’m pulling the camera way back), Scripture’s stories suggest that it’s the Holy Trinity out of an abundance of love and joy creating a world in which all that love and joy can be shared.

So this world: always more or less alien to God, or a place where finally even God can, as it were, take off the shoes and put the feet up? Home: that is one of the images Scripture uses to capture creation’s goal (“Behold, the home of God is among humans!” [Rev 21:3 NRSV*]). Or, as Volf and McAnnally-Linz provocatively describe the endgame, here “God has now made the world such that God does not need to rule” (The Home of God p.214).

“And the Word became flesh and tabernacled among us.” That’s where that’s heading.

That’s the gift under the tree. And because we’re sometimes slow on the uptake John reminds us of how to open it: “But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.”

Merry Christmas.

Conduits for God’s Future: Christmas Eve 2023

Leave a reply

Readings

Both my brother and I enjoy sci-fi in multiple formats. A couple years back he sent me season 1 of Star Trek: Voyager; who knows what’ll be under the tree this year. As TV series go, my favorite is undoubtedly Dr. Who, particularly as played by Tom Baker. Dr. Who is a Time Lord, who travels through time in contraption called the TARDIS, which, due to a long-standing malfunction, has the outward appearance of a blue English police box.

Time travel has been particularly relevant in 2023. Who hasn’t instinctively reached for the fast forward button at multiple points—or perhaps the reverse button. But life doesn’t seem to come with that sort of remote. So 2023 has had more than its fair share of moments in which we might feel stuck.

And, at first, glance, our readings, particularly the first, are not of much help. “…endless peace…He will establish and uphold it / with justice and righteousness / from this time onward and forevermore.” And Isaiah fills out the vision: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, / and their spears into pruning hooks;” “the wolf shall live with the lamb, / the leopard shall lie down with the kid.” But that’s then and we’re here. Add the devastation that forms the immediate backdrop to Isaiah’s words (“the yoke of their burden, / and the bar across their shoulders, / the rod of their oppressor”) and we have plenty of material for a “Blue Christmas” observance right here.

And yet, Jesus’ birth has something to tell us about this experience of feeling stuck, trapped in the present. For that, we might start with Santa Claus, who started out as St. Nicholas, bishop of Myra (now in Turkey) at the beginning of the 4th century. Nicholas did some of his most important work at night, anonymously distributing food, clothing, and—sometimes—small bags of gold down chimneys to those in need. During the day, he periodically used the full weight of his office to defend the innocent. Eventually the anonymity collapsed and he was honored also in the multiplication of stories about him.

If we wonder what was at the heart of what Nicholas was about, perhaps we could put it like this: he recognized that God invites us to open ourselves so that we become a sort of conduit through which God’s future—the sort of future Isaiah was describing—can flow into the present. He may have been distributing blankets in ad 320, but more than ad 320 was in play.

In this Nicholas was somewhat like Mary, part of whose story we heard in the Gospel. Nine months earlier an angel had appeared to her: would she be the conduit—in a quite literal sense—through which God’s future might arrive? She replied: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord, let it be with me according to your word.” That was one of the high points; it doesn’t take much reading between the lines to recognize the likelihood of low points in the story from the Gospel we just heard: tired after a multi-day journey, giving birth for the first time, far apart from most of the folk she would have liked around her, making do in the manger. The year was—scholars guess—about 4 bc, but much more than 4 bc was in play.

That invitation to open oneself as a conduit through whom God’s future can flow into the present: that’s an invitation extended not just to Nicholas and Mary, but to each one of us. The birth we celebrate today: unique. The divine invitation to cooperate with God in bringing God’s future into our present: that’s a standing invitation. And God nurtures places like St Peter’s where we can learn together how to do that together.

This opening oneself as a conduit through whom God’s future can flow: what more can we say about what it looks like? Well, that’s the question that drives most of what shows up in the “Sermon” slot throughout the year, isn’t it. For now, it’s enough to say that if we’ve gathered together to celebrate Jesus’ birth, just wait till he starts talking, starts acting. May we—please God—keep paying attention, keep learning.

So, time-traveling that leaves our present mostly untouched—that’s probably not in the cards. Opening ourselves as conduits for God’s future to flow into our present: God’s all over that one. Experiencing ourselves as stuck is not the only option. And so we say: Merry Christmas.

Glory & Absurdity (4th Sunday of Advent)

Leave a reply

Readings

The texts still ringing in our ears suggest point and counterpoint (on the one hand… on the other hand…). On the one hand, we celebrate the glorious history of our salvation. And it is glorious. About ten centuries before Jesus, the Lord promised to David, King of Israel and Judah, an eternal dynasty. And despite all the wars, a long exile, and all the other vicissitudes that accompany life, the Lord fulfills this promise, as the Gospel reminds us: “behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High; and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there will be no end.” And this is a reign not only over the house of Jacob. His reign will include all nations, and for this reason one of his servants, Paul, writes to the Christians in the capital of the Roman Empire, which letter we know as “Romans.” “Romans.” Every time we use this name it’s an invitation to recall something of the daring of this letter, directed to the capital, and proclaiming a future for the human race that ignores completely the pretensions of empire. That empire fell—in the West—in the fifth century, and fifteen centuries later the followers of Jesus compose more than 30% of the world’s population and are found in every country of the world.

Yes, it is a glorious history. And we, like the recipients of Paul’s letter, are invited to sense some of this glory in the midst of all that passes for glory in our culture and world.

On the other hand, there’s the continuity between the experience of King David and the Virgin and our quite unglorious experiences on the other. That continuity…

David. King of Israel and Judah, as our lesson opens he’s now in a position to build a temple worthy of the Lord his God. To Nathan his prophet the project seems so obvious, so natural, that he doesn’t even think of consulting the Lord. “Go, do all that is in your heart; for the LORD is with you.” That very night the Lord sends a message to David via Nathan, a combination of good news and bad news. The bad news: you are not to build me a house (a temple); the good news: I will build you a house (a dynasty). This promise of an eternal dynasty sustains the people during the darkest moments of their history, and is the basis for the hope for the Messiah, Son of David.

At the same time, this “you are not to build me a house” represents an enormous danger. Why? Because at that time, the construction of a temple for the king’s god signaled the god’s approval of the king. And this was particularly important for David, who was not himself the son of a king. So not building a temple would be something like winning the presidential election, but not moving into the White House. “No, Mr. Putin, you won’t be visiting President Biden in the White House, but at the Holiday Inn.… It’s actually a very nice suite… OK, I’ll tell him that you won’t be coming at this time…” So David not building the temple places a large question mark over his entire reign, and this may have something to do with the number of rebellions he had to put down.

If we ask the reason for this prohibition, the text gives no clue. There are attempts to answer the question elsewhere in the Old Testament, but here, no.

Mary. Real estate agents tell us that the three most important factors for the value of a home are location, location, and location. In a society that values honor, like Mary’s society, the important factor in marriage is timing: first the marriage, then the pregnancy. This doesn’t seem all that complicated, even for the Lord. Nevertheless, for Mary the order is pregnancy, then marriage, which represents a permanent stain on both Mary’s and Jesus’ reputation. “We were not born of fornication” gets hurled in Jesus’ face (John 8:41).

Again, if we ask what this divine decision was about, we encounter only silence.

That is, both David and Mary experienced what we know all too well, these elements in our life that don’t appear to have any meaning, these absurd elements that hobble our efforts and threaten the most beautiful of our days.

As we recall this dimension in the history of David and Mary, we might recall something St Paul wrote: “And to keep me from being too elated by the abundance of revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan, to harass me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I besought the Lord about this, that it should leave me; but he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made fully present in weakness.’ I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me” (2 Corinthians 12:7-9 [RSV*]).

I wonder if these lines from Paul have something to do with David’s and Mary’s experience.

“Too elated” is a wonderfully diplomatic phrase, something like Alan Greenspan’s “irrational exuberance.” If the Old Testament is any indication, it’s a regular problem for God’s people. Moses: “Take heed lest you forget the LORD your God… when you have eaten and are full, and have built goodly houses and live in them, and when your herds and flocks multiply, and your silver and gold is multiplied, and all that you have is multiplied, then your heart be lifted up, and you forget the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage” (Deut 8:11-14).“Too elated” indeed.

“Too elated” is not, of course, a typically Episcopal problem. We “solved” that problem when we drove out the Methodists a couple centuries back! So we can hear week after week that we are sons and daughters of the living God, that we can talk directly to our Creator without any intermediary, no roaming or data charges—and we’re not elated. This is not necessarily a good thing. It’s like being in the driver’s seat of a Ferrari or Jaguar and not being tempted to go even a mile over the speed limit. We could do with a bit more elation. But I digress.

Whatever we do with the earlier part of Paul’s text, his more general point “power is made fully present in weakness” speaks directly to David and Mary and each one of us.

It’s not the script most of us would have chosen. Supermanwould have been more like it. (And the nice thing about playing Superman was that all you needed was a towel with one of the narrow sides tied around the neck!) Power, power, and more power.

What Mary is presented with is rather different. All her weakness and vulnerability remain. But what will grow within her is nothing other than the Son of God. And through that One those lines from her song will be fulfilled: “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, / and has lifted up the lowly. / He has filled the hungry with good things, / and the rich he has sent away empty.”

And what the angel presented to Mary, our gracious God presents to each one of us. The weakness and the vulnerability don’t disappear. But what God would grow within us and among us is nothing less than the down payment on the fulfillment of all the hopes and dreams captured in the carols we will start singing this evening.

The Christmas story gives the absurdity and the futility of the world its full due. If the stories of David, Mary, and Paul are any indication, God’s not above using some of that to prevent too much elation. But at the end of the day, neither the absurdity nor the futility get the last word. “Power is made fully present in weakness,” and through Mary’s “let it be to me according to your word” the Savior of the world is again at our doorstep.

Coming together during the Longest Night / Celebrating the Feast of St Thomas (St Dunstan’s, Madison WI)

Leave a reply

Readings (For the 2023 Longest Night, only Habakkuk and John used, the John reading expanded as follows)

7 Then after [hearing that Lazarus was ill Jesus] said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” 8 The disciples said to him, “Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” 9 Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. 10 But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.” 11 After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.” 12 The disciples said to him, “Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.” 13 Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. 14 Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. 15 For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” 16 Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” (Jn. 11:7-16)

3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. 4 And you know the way to the place where I am going.” 5 Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” 6 Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. (Jn. 14:3-6)

24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” 26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” (Jn. 20:24-29)

——————————————————————————————————————————-

This year our Longest Night Eucharist falls on December 21, the Feast of St Thomas, Apostle. That is an interesting coincidence; let’s wonder together about what Thomas’ Feast might contribute.

Were it not for the Gospel according to John we’d know nothing of Thomas besides the later legends. And what John tells us—three bits from chapters 11, 14, and 20—we heard in the Gospel reading. Hardly enough for any sort of biography, but enough to make us wonder whether there had been some serious loss in Thomas’ past.

Loss can leave us feeling unhinged, wondering if we belong—anywhere. So the first thing we might notice about Thomas is that Jesus’ words to the disciples—words to each one of us—apply also to him: “You did not choose me but I chose you” (Jn. 15:16). Thomas isn’t there by mistake. I wonder if Jesus chose Thomas also as a counterweight to some of the other apostles. Thomas is not going to be among those arguing about who can sit on Jesus’ right or left when they return to Judea.

“Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Just because you’re heading toward a brick wall is no reason by itself to change course. So Thomas shows himself an authentic son of Abraham and Sarah, promised descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky, but who spent decades as sojourners in the “Promised Land” having produced together exactly zero children. But of course John has not passed on the opportunity for irony: at the end of the story both Lazarus and Jesus will be alive. Perhaps it’s a sort of prequel to the resurrection stories.

I love that second bit out of the 14th chapter: “Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Thomas is willing to acknowledge that he—like the rest of the disciples—has no idea what Jesus is saying. The usual strategy is to keep quiet; Thomas speaks up.

In passing, I wonder if we notice often enough that Jesus’ well-known response (“I am the way, and the truth, and the life…”) is not an answer in any obvious sense (“’Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?’ ‘I am the way…’”). It’s more a Zen koan (“The sound of one hand clapping.”) If we pay attention, we may catch glimpses of its meaning throughout our lives.

Then there’s that third portion of John, set a week after Easter. There are two surprises, that Jesus shows up and that the disciples are still together. The other disciples have been all “Hallelujah” and Thomas “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…” Christians split over so much less, but here they are, together. It does look like something of Jesus’ “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another” (Jn. 13:34) has sunk in.

This is maybe one of the more important things our brother Thomas contributes to our Longest Night observance: loss and grief are not meant to be experienced alone. Job’s friends got it right: they came and sat with him in silence— for seven days. The trouble started when they started talking—a standing warning, I suppose, to preachers.

Thomas and the other disciples are together. Jesus shows up. And Jesus gives Thomas what he needs. Thomas, like Jacob wrestling all night with the stranger: “I will not let you go, unless you bless me” (Gen. 32:26). Or Job, for that matter, who quickly figures out that the conversation he needs is not with his friends, but with the Almighty. And the Almighty shows up.

That story ends with these words from Jesus: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” That’s not a criticism of Thomas. Rather, here, as in other resurrection accounts, the author’s wrestling with the question of how their audience relates to Jesus. So in Luke’s road to Emmaus story, how is the risen Jesus encountered? The Scriptures are opened, bread is broken: the two halves of our Eucharist.

The collect for Thomas’ Feast understandably focuses on Thomas’ faith (“Do not doubt but believe.”). I wonder if the story does not equally encourage us to focus on the love that holds Thomas and the other disciples together. Faith and love: how often these get disconnected, with “faith” that uses all the right words (hear the scare quotes) underwriting loveless conduct. This is one of the main problems the author of 1st John, a sort of dummy’s guide to reading John’s Gospel, is trying to address:

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. (4:7-8)

Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. (4:20)

The author of 1st John has, of course, no interest in undervaluing faith, but equally no interest in letting it get disconnected from love. He pulls the two together elsewhere in the letter:

And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he has commanded us. All who obey his commandments abide in him, and he abides in them. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit that he has given us. (3:23-24)

And we might extrapolate: the community of love that the Spirit nurtures is the context we need when life’s experiences make faith, trust, and hope difficult if not near impossible. That’s one of the things tonight’s gathering is about.

That community of love—do we always get that right? Of course not, and that’s one of the elements of loss and grief with which we struggle. Fortunately the Spirit is more patient with us than we ourselves are, keeps nurturing our capacity to love.

How to summarize? We sell John short when we hear his story about that encounter a week after Easter as simply Thomas’ story. It’s a story about what happens when Jesus’ “love one another” is heeded in the midst of loss and grief, so that together—and only together—are the other disciples able to witness and share Thomas’ confession “My Lord and my God!”

Straining toward the harvest (3rd Sunday of Advent)

Leave a reply

Readings

The optimist thinks this is the best of all possible worlds. The pessimist agrees. So our Isaiah reading: neither optimism nor pessimism, but something else.

We’re familiar with the first part of that reading from Jesus’ reading it in the Nazareth synagogue. We think—rightly—that it’s about Jesus. But not only about Jesus. The Spirit has come upon Jesus to address a particular audience so that “They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations” (emphasis mine). This is why in the Church Year Christmas is the first of the Principal Feasts. The last one: All Saints’. Unless there’s a rich harvest, not much to celebrate.

Are we getting that rich harvest? On the one hand, our cycle of feasts assumes an affirmative answer, as do the commemorations throughout the year in Lesser Feasts and Fasts. Smartphone apps like Day by Day include these, and descriptions of the folk involved can be found at satucket.com. And each of these commemorations is the tip of an iceberg.

Here are two harvest stories, one ancient, one modern. Erich Auerbach in his classic study Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature observes that Greco-Roman literature tended to sort that representation by social class: the nobility could have noble thoughts, act nobly—or tragically. The common folk: fit only for comic relief. Then come the Gospels, in which, for example, the challenge an ordinary fisherman-turned-disciple faces the night of Jesus’ arrest is treated not as a bit of comic relief (what else would you expect from someone still smelling of fish) but with all seriousness. And Western Literature’s never been the same ever since.

One of modernity’s favorite targets is the Christian missionary, e.g., Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible (1998). But if we look at the actual effects of the missionary work that was seeking to make disciples (recall the ending of Matthew’s Gospel), there’s Robert Woodbury’s study “The Missionary Roots of Liberal Democracy” (2012). Woodbury’s statistics establish not simply correlation, but causation. How might that have worked? Well, if I come to believe that Jesus died for all of us, that all of us are sinners, that all of us are called to holiness, then at some point I’m going to wonder why their voice matters and mine doesn’t. Or, to focus on a more prosaic dimension: if you’re translating local languages to produce Bibles in those languages (So my language is important too? So God speaks my language?), if you’re supporting publishers to print those Bibles locally (And what else might they publish?), if you’re promoting literacy among women and men alike, rich and poor alike to folk can read those Bibles (And what else might they read?), whether you intend it or not, you’re creating ground in which liberal democracy can take root and flourish.

Are we getting that rich harvest? On the other hand, down in the trenches we’re hardly in a position to give a reliable answer. So the important question: what do we/I want? “Your kingdom come; your will be done.” Is that what I want? (Advent: not a bad time to wonder what my actions say about what I want.)

If our first reading from Isaiah gives the big picture, our other two readings provide close-ups.

Our Gospel reading features John the Baptist, an Advent mainstay. What’s interesting about John in light of the Isaiah reading is that this healing the world project gives John considerable freedom in dealing with the current authorities. Are you the Messiah, Elijah, the prophet? None of the above. John doesn’t need to fit into one of their boxes—and neither do we. Isaiah’s healing the world project: too serious to assume that it aligns neatly with any of the boxes or political parties currently on offer.

Which brings us to Paul’s advice at the end of his letter to the Thessalonians: “but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil.” Paul would have liked that Robert Fulghum quote: “Don’t believe everything you think.”

But what of the beginning (“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances…”)? Because everything is just fine? No: because God is also engaged. As Joseph put it to his brothers: “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today” (Gen. 50:20). The news tempts us to write off various situations as godforsaken. Joseph’s story tells us to be careful about that: even in Pharaoh’s dungeon God is at work.

“Rejoice always.” “Rejoice always”? The same Paul who wrote that wrote (to the Romans): “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Well, which is it, Paul? I think Paul would go with what he (later) wrote to the Romans, for he adds in the next verse “Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are” (Rom. 12:15-16). Suffering is frightening, and it’s often tempting to deal with our fear by trying to explain it, neutralize it, claim to be wiser than we are.

What then of Paul’s “Rejoice always”? The truth there, I think, is that our faith/trust tells us that weeping doesn’t get the last word. Plenty of weeping in the psalms of complaint—precisely to motivate God to act so that this situation turns out to be a comedy and not a tragedy. We don’t rush the transition from weeping to rejoicing. We do recognize that there’s an important difference between weeping without hope and weeping in hope.

Advent is about waiting. Today’s readings remind us that it’s an active waiting. We’re in the middle of a heal-the-world project. We don’t fit easily into the ready-made boxes. (New wine, fresh wineskins.) We don’t skimp on the daily work of testing everything, holding fast to what is good; abstaining from every form of evil. Sometimes we’re rejoicing together; sometimes we’re weeping together. Always we’re straining toward our promised future: “I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my whole being shall exult in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.”

That Rendezvous at the Jordan (The 2nd Sunday of Advent)

Leave a reply

Readings

Good morning, and welcome to the second Sunday of Advent. The prof in one of my undergraduate philosophy classes explained his lectures this way: I’m pretty much talking to myself; you all are free to listen and to expand the conversation. Not a bad description of this sermon.

This sermon will be on the short side. The challenges today’s texts pose are more behavioral than conceptual.

“And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to [John], and were baptized by him in the river Jordan.” Jerusalem to Jericho: I walked the middle stretch of that route the last time I was on an excavation in Israel. The first stretch is the more or less flat stretch from Jerusalem to the edge of the plateau; the last stretch is the flat bit once you reach the Jordan valley. The middle stretch: a narrow path that drops 3,500 feet.

I don’t go down to John—I don’t seriously enter Advent—if my world is working, if I can say “We’re doing OK.” Later in Mark we’ll hear Jesus say “Healthy people don’t need a doctor, but sick people do” (2:17 CEB). If I think I’m healthy I don’t make an appointment with a doctor, much less trudge down, then up from the Jordan.

If I say “We’re doing OK” our second reading has two things for me to think about. First, the new heavens and the new earth are coming, which will mean a sharp devaluation in our current currency. Even a wheelbarrow load won’t be enough to purchase even a slice of the bread of life. So how’s my balance of the new currency—love—doing? When Paul says “Owe no one anything, except to love one another” (Rom. 13:8) it’s that new currency he’s talking about.

Second, my “We’re doing OK” tells me I’m working with a really impoverished referent for “we.” What “you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev 19:18) tells me is that my neighbor is part of my “we.” The divine patience Peter describes is also the patience so that this penny can drop.

No, we’re not doing OK. So, down to the Jordan…

Down at the Jordan, John “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Repentance. This Advent I’m finding this question uncomfortably useful: “Do I spend more time and energy angry at the sins of others or at my own sins?” As that famous Pogo cartoon put it “We have met the enemy, and he is us” (Earth Day, 1971). Not that the others are sinless, but focusing on their sins is unlikely to be productive either for them or for me.

I’ll risk an example. As Katherine Cramer, professor of political science at the UW Madison explored in her book The Politics of Resentment (2016), there’s a lot of resentment in rural Wisconsin directed at urban Wisconsin, a good part of it unjustified. But not all: Back in 1959 Ezra Taft Benson, Secretary of Agriculture in the Eisenhower administration, told farmers “get big or get out.” We like cheap groceries, and pay insufficient attention to the folk who foot the bill.

“Do I spend more time and energy angry at the sins of others or at my own sins?” Since I don’t know how soon I’ll have an answer I like to that question, here’s my backup question: “Do I spend more time angry at the sins of others or praying for these others?”

Watching the news, reading the newspaper, scrolling through the internet: these are spiritual activities, whether we do them in a disciplined fashion or not.

“And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to [John], and were baptized by him in the river Jordan.” Let’s join them.

Waiting in the Dark (1st Sunday of Advent)

Leave a reply

Readings

Good morning, and welcome to the Season of Advent. Over the next weeks our readings revolve in different ways around God’s advent, God’s arrival. Predictably, we’ll resonate with some of those ways more than others. God knows we’re in different places, and Thursday may find us in a different place than Sunday. (This is why I’d encourage you to take advantage of our readings being on a separate sheet. Take them home, tape them to the bathroom mirror, see what resonates during the week.) There are multiple doors into the story; if some are currently closed others will be open.

Our first reading and the psalm speak from deep pain and profound uncertainty: is God going to arrive? Not difficult to think of situations around the world in which their words would come naturally to the lips. And most of us in the past or present have had occasion to echo that “How long?”

Both the first reading and the psalm speak of God’s anger, and that merits a digression. We shudder when some preacher declares that that hurricane/earthquake/disease is God’s punishment because there’s too much of X going on. It’s tempting to simply quarantine that language of divine anger. But that may be worse: that God isn’t angry about the evil that corrupts and destroys God’s creatures. The danger is weaponizing that language: God’s angry at them for doing that. The first reading gets it right: we’re the problem. As one of our confessions puts it “We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.”

The first reading treads where we fear to tread: “But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid ourself we transgressed.” Can we talk to God like that? No, not if it’s a grenade we hurl and then duck for cover. Yes, if we’re sticking around to hear how God might respond.

In other words, questions like “How long?” can seek to deepen a relationship or score points (“I’m right; you’re wrong.) The words are perhaps less important than the intention: what do I want? That’s often not an easy question, whether with God or with a family member. The words I choose or shun in prayer can clarify my intention. The situations that elicit “How long?” may clarify whether I’m finally praying “Your kingdom come” or “My kingdom come.” What do I want? As we hear in Lewis’ The Last Battle, “all find what they truly seek” (chapter 15). But back to the first reading…

If most of the first reading is about the past and present, the ending points towards—well, demands—a future. You’re the potter; you started this project; isn’t there some obligation to finish it properly? That was Moses’ argument after the Golden Calf debacle. It’s an argument to keep in the back pocket: if our future depends on how well we’ve kept our end of the bargain…

The reading starts with “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” That may sound familiar, because it’s the language Mark picks up to describe Jesus’ baptism: “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart…” (1:10). That’s part of Mark’s good news (‘Gospel’), that there’s an answer to “how long?”

Our second reading, the beginning of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. If we read it apart from the rest of the letter, it sounds like everything is going fine: just switch on the cruise control/autopilot. And sometimes that’s where we are. If so, we’d better stop reading there, because beginning in the next verse Paul—without denying for a moment God’s grace and their many spiritual gifts—does want them to wonder about the “blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ” part. In Jesus’ language, to “keep awake.”

Today’s Gospel: more than enough material for multiple long sermons. For the moment, let’s just notice two things. First, as the NRSV recognizes, “the Son of Man coming in clouds” is a quote from Daniel’s vision of history as one ill-tempered beast/empire after another until God reestablishes a human future. For our day and age that’s perhaps one of the most appealing parts of the Good News to share: our future is not an extension of our present. We’re not stuck in the logic of “Do unto others as they do to you—only do it first.” Or “The one who dies with the most toys wins.” No reason to not start using the currency of the coming kingdom now.

Second, there’s that closing parable: “It is as if someone took a trip, left the household behind, and put the servants in charge, giving each one a job to do” (CEB). A couple weeks ago in reading a similar parable in Matthew I suggested that in the context of Matthew’s Gospel we might understand the work in terms of making disciples and acting mercifully. This year (church year) we’re in Mark: we’ll want to attend to what Mark might want us to hear. From Jesus’ repeated “keep awake,” we probably don’t want to be on autopilot.

How might we pull this together? The prayer “How long?” doesn’t disappear now that we have the New Testament. It shows up in the Book of Revelation. Sometimes that’s all we can pray. As someone put it, “Pray as you can, don’t pray as you can’t.” Jesus’ “keep awake” might encourage us to remember that even in those situations there may be unexpected opportunities to mirror God’s arrival. “Any dark corner that I can find…”