Monday, February 27, 2017

Sunday Sermon - 2/26/17 by the Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Matthew 17:1-9
2 Peter 1:16-21

I like to see movies and I much prefer seeing them in the movie theater.  It may be because I tie that experience to memories of my father.  Growing up we went to movies a lot and we developed certain routines.  After we purchased our tickets we’d enter the building and head straight to the concession stand.  There we would buy two medium sodas and a large popcorn - plain, no butter.  Then upon entering the theater we’d do a bit of a Goldilocks routine.  We tried to find seats that were not too close to the screen, but not too far either.  And then those seats needed to be as close to the middle as possible.  Once we sat down to wait for the movie to begin because this was in an age before cell phones, we’d actually talk to each other.  My dad had one unbreakable rule: no eating of the popcorn until the actual movie started.  Soda consumption was up to my discretion, but hands off the popcorn.  Which was actually OK with me because previews lasted, what, 5, 10 minutes back then?  Not like today when you can set your watch to 20 minutes of previews - one after another, after another, after another all aimed to peaked the audience’s interest in hopes that some will come back to see more.

It seems to be that our reading today about Jesus’ Transfiguration on the mountain top is like the biblical equivalent to a movie preview.  It certainly has a lot of the same elements - it’s short, it has amazing visuals - I mean it’s not every day that a man’s face becomes as brilliant as the sun and two men return from the dead, plus the bright cloud that comes upon them with the voice of God speaking clearly and loudly.  The disciples add the emotional drama of fear and awe.  And then, it’s over.  The story is left unfinished.  Mystery abounds.  And if you are curious, if you want to see more, well then the preview has done its job.

However, there’s more to Jesus’ Transfiguration story than just an opportunity for us to get a glimpse of a “coming attraction” where at a future time God’s light will shine with complete radiance.  It also provides us with a type of lens through which to view our present reality so that we are able to see God’s light shining right here, right now.

I mean we know that Jesus was shining God’s light even when he wasn’t all lit up like the sun.  The holy and sacred light was shining even when the disciples couldn’t see it.  And that light of God was still shining even when Jesus was arrested and beaten and hung on a cross to die.  That light was still shining even when the disciples felt that all was lost and found themselves in a valley of deep darkness.  This is what we can see through the lens of the transfiguration - light even in dark places.

You will do well, 2nd Peter tells us, you will do well to be attentive to this light, the Light of the Transfiguration, as to a lamp shining in a dark place.

It turns that finding really dark places out of doors is actually a hard thing to do nowadays.  The problem is light pollution.  The lights we turn on to light streets, parking lots, stadiums, homes, and office buildings - all of that adds up so that those artificial lights are brightening up the night sky to the point that we in the greater Charlottesville area do not see the same sky our grandparents did.  We miss the full array of the heavenly lights - only the brightest stars are able to shine through.

Literal darkness is hard to find, but darkness in the figurative sense, sadly that abounds.  Violence, fear, hatred, injustice, sickness, brokenness - all of that is easy for us to find.  And when one experiences that kind of darkness it’s really hard to see any light, let alone a heavenly one.

Yet 2nd Peter calls to us, you will do well to be attentive to this light of the Transfiguration as to a lamp shining in a dark place. 

On this Sunday we do indeed do well to pay attention to this sacred light.  A light, a lamp that is present and shining with God’s hope, God’s love, God’s promise in all of life’s dark places.  And a lamp that lights our way as we journey into the season of Lent - a season when we seek to address the problem of light pollution in a spiritual sense and try to turn down the artificial lights of busy-ness, gadgets and various distractions so that we might see God’s sacred light shining even more brightly in the darkest of places.

Jesus’ Transfiguration is so much more than a short and simple preview of things to come - something easily forgotten as soon as we walk out the church doors or start what seems like the “Feature Presentation”, Lent.  Rather Jesus’ Transfiguration is an indispensable lamp - a light that shines not only for us, but for the world that needs to see and experience God’s hope and God’s love. 

Now along with the movie theater experience being linked to memories of my father, another reason I like it is because it forces me and any movie-goer to carve out time from the demands of life in order to willingly go to a place with others, and to pay attention to a light...on the screen.


We are doing something like that this morning, aren’t we?  We have intentionally put aside other activities or demands that may want to claim our time and attention.  We have come here to this special place willingly (at least I hope that most of you have come here willingly!) to be here in church with others so that together we might give our attention to a light.  In this case, though, it is not an artificial or temporary light of a screen, but a light that is enduring and eternal, God’s sacred and holy light, the Light of Christ revealed in Jesus’ Transfiguration.  And we do well to be attentive to this light as to a lamp shining in a dark place.  The first chapter of the gospel of John tells us that God’s light shone in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.  But with the lens of the Transfiguration we know even more than that.  Not only will darkness not overcome God’s light, but that there will come a day when all manner of darkness will be overcome by Light.  Or as 2nd Peter puts it, that the day will fully dawn and the morning star will rise in all of our hearts.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

One Holy Hot Mess. Weekly Reflection by Emily Rutledge

Today my baby turns three.  Both of my children have known nothing besides this church.  It is where they grew inside of me and where they continue to grow despite me. 

I was the best mom I will ever be when I was pregnant for the first time.  My standards were high.  My ideas about discipline and time management were clear.  My intentions for being a calm parent and mindful mom were set.

Then… they arrived.  Some days my goal is to find moments of joy scattered throughout the waking hours. Other days my goal is to not lose my mind at my kids for breathing too loudly.  My well of patience and compassion for parishioners, strangers, and friends is far deeper than the well I draw from for my family.  

Monday was so bad that I had to write a post-it note to myself:

When I was the best mom, pregnant with our first, I imagined what church with littles would be like.  Sweet angel faces in cute dresses and ties saying the Lord’s Prayer as we held hands in our pew. 

Here is a list of the things that have happened in church with my family the past few weeks:
  • My son has put his entire hand in the chalice during communion (apologies to everyone after us).
  • My daughter has cried and whined for an entire service because she would rather sit with another family (so glad we have friends who are better at life than we are).
  • My son has held my face between his hands and screamed at me because I would not let him super-man jump off the alter rail (meanest mom in the world).
  • My daughter has asked to go to the restroom no less than 4 times in a 40 minutes (yet she can hold it for hours at any birthday party).
  • Both of my children have “starved to death” because we decided to take away snacks during service and their huge breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit, and cereal bars could not sustain their less than 50 pound bodies (insert relentless whining of I’m SOOOOO hungry HERE).
  • My son has farted loudly and announced it to the rest of the parish as they processed to communion (you’re welcome).
  • During the offering we accidentally didn’t let the toddler touch the plate.  It sounded as if we were sacrificing him Old Testament style and he screamed “I didn’t get it” repeatedly until we took him out of the sanctuary (we now hand it directly to him even if he doesn’t seem to care that day). 
  • Last week my son wore a Disney Cars t-shirt to church and both kids wore crocs (because I was too tired to fight and no longer have standards for my children's appearance). 

The only time we hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer is when I am stopping one child from hitting the other. 

My time in worship used to be about holy repentance, reconciliation, and experiencing grace. It is now a time for which I must seek those things out later because of all I’ve done, said, and thought during worship. Worship on Sunday mornings isn’t about me right now.  It's about my kids.  Worship is a three ring circus that I refuse to throw the towel in on because between the crying and whining and dying of hunger my children are learning the truths of God. 

They are walking to the communion rail, holding up their chubby hands, and receiving the bread and wine.  They are asking for Christ… and Christ is being freely given.  They are learning that Jesus is for them. 

They are running down the aisle with their friends to listen to their priests (and sometimes me) preach to them about the never-ending love of God and Her goodness as they play with trucks and dolls and service bulletins.  They are learning that our God takes them as they are, where they are. 

They are playing peek-a-boo, rolling trucks, giving high-fives, and drawing pictures with the people surrounding them. They are learning that there is a great cloud of witnesses who see them, love them, and value them. 

While the recessional hymn has begun to sound like the gates of heaven opening up I still can’t shake the feeling that we are better because of this time.  My children are learning about God, and community, and love; I am learning about letting go.  Letting go of people thinking I’m a calm and in-control mom.  Letting go of what I planned for and accepting what children are actually like.  Letting go of equating behaving to belonging and believing.  When I sit in that pew… frustrated and tired and up to here with it all there are moments… when a mom of teenagers looks lovingly at my toddler clinging to my neck; longing for her babies to be that small again.  When a loud AMEN passes through their small lips and it makes me giggle and well-up.  When another mom, fighting her own battle in her own pew, locks eyes with me across the aisle and we have a moment where we both want to raise our fists in solidarity.  When the parishioner I prayed with about their struggles earlier in the week sees me wading through my own. 

No matter how hard a Sunday is… we are not alone.  We showed up.  So did the others.  We shared the space of where we were collectively that day.  It’s not always pretty.  For me it’s often bathroom runs and whining kids.  For others it’s the empty seat that was once occupied by a loved one.  It’s tired parents of late-to-come-home teenagers. It’s women and men longing for a loud pew like mine.  It’s families of all kinds, sizes, and ages combining to be THE BODY OF CHRIST.  It’s in those harried moments of what worship is for me in this season of life that I am experiencing what it means to be knit in by community and extended radical love exactly where I am. 


Back when I was the perfect mom I had no need for others to raise my perfect children with me.  The mom I am now needs every last one of you… and I would much rather be a mess with my community than perfect all alone.    

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Sunday Sermon - February 19, 2017 by the Rev. David M. Stoddart

Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18; Matthew 5:38-48


In the third and fourth centuries, hundreds of men and women fled to the deserts of Egypt and Syria. These people wanted to re-discover the Good News of Jesus, the power of Christ. What is our faith all about? We know them collectively as the Desert Fathers and Mothers, and they left behind many stories of spiritual insight. One such story concerns a younger man named Abba Lot visiting an older monk named Abba Joseph. And Abba Lot says to him, “Father, as best as I can, I keep my rule of life. I pray. I fast. I meditate on Scripture. I try to cleanse my mind of evil thoughts. What more should I do?” And Abba Joseph replies, “You follow the rules?” Then standing up and stretching out his hands to heaven, his ten fingers became like ten flames, and he said, “Why not become fire?”

In our passage from Leviticus today, we have lots of rules. Good rules. Leave food in the fields for the poor and the aliens. Don’t steal. Don’t defraud people. Don’t take advantage of the blind and the deaf. Don’t be partial in judgment. Don’t slander others. Don’t bear grudges. Love your neighbor as yourself. And Jesus follows up with some other good ones in the Sermon on the Mount. Turn the other cheek. Give to beggars. Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Even if we ignored the rest of the Bible, just trying to follow these rules would keep us plenty busy. But even if we could somehow manage to obey them all, we still might fail to connect the dots and see what binds them all together. We might be like Abba Lot, who somehow misses the burning core at the center of all of them. You see, we’re not here simply to follow the rules: we’re here to become fire. When Jesus says, You must be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect, he doesn’t mean we must legalistically observe every commandment: his harshest criticism falls on people like the Pharisees who do just that. To be perfect is to shine with the light of God.

And the brilliant, blinding light that unites all of these various rules and commandments today is one of extraordinary generosity. In God’s economy, there is always more than enough to go around: more than enough food, more than enough justice, more than enough goodness, more than enough love, even for our enemies, even for those who wish us harm. It doesn’t really have anything to do with what people deserve or don’t deserve. This is a staggering thought for us, but then again, we worship a staggering God who is not like us. As Jesus points out, our Father in heaven makes the sun to shine on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. To shine like that is to be like Christ ― and to know the generous and abundant life that Christ makes possible.

There are many ways we try to live this out in the church. And today I just want to talk about one of them, which is our financial stewardship. Yes, I know it’s February, not October: we’re not supposed to talk about stewardship now. But if I can surprise you enough to get your attention, that will be a good thing. As I hope most of you know, when we build our annual budget, which is our ministry statement for the year, we do not take a fundraising approach: okay, we need x number of dollars, so come on, hand it over. We don’t take that approach because it does not encourage an attitude of abundance. The goal is not to somehow collect the bare minimum for us to get by as a parish. Instead, following Scripture and Tradition, we have encouraged proportionate giving, asking people to give ten percent of their income to the work of God in the church, or at least move in that direction. To offer such a percentage upfront is a powerful spiritual and theological statement: it affirms that there is always enough. We can always be generous. And the more generous we are in our giving as individuals, the more generous we are as a parish: in our ministries, our outreach, in all that we do to know and share the love of God.

I raise this now because last month the Vestry approved a budget with a large deficit. We can cover that deficit because the Rev. Jennifer Durant, who died two years ago yesterday, left this parish a generous gift of money as an act of love and gratitude. But we will not be able to cover such a deficit next year. And what it comes down to for us is having three full-time ministry positions: a Rector, an Associate Rector, and a Youth Minister. For many years we had Associates right out of seminary who were paid accordingly and who did not need health insurance. That is no longer the case. We have an experienced and gifted staff, all of whom need health insurance, the cost of which continues to rise. If our giving does not also increase to reflect that, a year from now we will not be able to afford three full-time ministry positions.

I believe we want and need people in those positions. It enables us to offer the best possible worship experience, the best pastoral care, the best spiritual formation programs. It allows us to nurture a strong and thriving youth community. It empowers us to fulfill our mission: to grow a community in Christ and to share Christ’s love with the world.


I am telling you this in February so that in December people don’t say, “Hey, I didn’t know we were in this situation!” Well, now you know. And I share this with you feeling genuinely hopeful. We have a very generous congregation; there is great strength to build on. We have welcomed many new members, and our average pledge has gone up. So there is a lot good news. And in that spirit, here are the two things I would ask you to do. First, the Finance Commission is holding a special parish meeting on March 5 at 10:15. Please come. It won’t be a hard sell, but a chance to hear all the details about our financial situation and allow people to ask any questions they might have. We want to be fully transparent. Second, it is never too late to pledge or to increase the proportion of your income you offer to the work of God in this parish. If you are giving three percent, please consider raising it to five percent. If you’re giving eight percent, consider raising it to ten percent. Ultimately, what we need is not an emergency fundraising effort. That is not sustainable. What we are trying to foster is a congregation where everyone gives proportionately. If we all tithed, we would have more than enough to do all God calls us to do. And we can move in that direction, we can approach that very goal. The extraordinary generosity of God calls us to nothing less. We are not here to survive: we are here to become fire and to shine with God’s light ― in our loving, our caring, our reaching out, our worshiping, and our giving.

Thursday, February 16, 2017


Enemies?
Reflection by Fr. David Stoddart


                                                                     He drew a circle that shut me out --
                                                                     Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
                                                                     But love and I had the wit to win.
                                                                     We drew a circle that took him in.

                                                                          From "Outwitted" by Edwin Markham


Some years ago, when the Episcopal Church was still in the throes of debating homosexuality, I served on a reconciliation team in the Diocese of Western Massachusetts. At one point we hosted a weekend conference to which we invited people from across the country who had opposing views on this subject. The theme of the conference was reconciliation: how can we be reconciled to each other when we disagree strongly with each other? The weekend provided a structured and safe way for people to share what they really thought and believed, and to listen as others did the same. It concluded with a healing service. I was deeply moved by the whole experience, as I watched people who had opposite opinions on this emotional topic lay hands on each other, pray for each other, and embrace each other. Connections and friendships were formed by Sunday that few thought were possible on Friday night. And, by God's grace, we achieved our goal: not to change minds, but to change hearts.

We live in contentious times. It has become a truism to say that we are a divided nation, People all along the political spectrum feel like they are not being heard or understood by others with different viewpoints. A member of our parish recently wrote me that he feels attacked for holding conservative political views. Many of my wife's third grade students feel attacked for being Latino. I can't even count the number of people who have shared stories of alienation with me. Hurt feelings abound and people feel divided from each other.

But we cannot be a divided church. Reconciliation is at the heart of our mission and ministry. The Catechism in the Book of Common Prayer says, "The mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ." Such unity does not demand uniformity of thought or opinion: that's why it is so hard. Somehow we must listen to each other and respect each other even when we disagree the most. We cannot change minds, but we can change hearts.

We Christians often forgo genuine reconciliation and settle for "being nice." In practice this means that we only talk about really important things with people we know agree with us. I see that happening at COOS in our current political climate. Parishioners share with like-minded parishioners and avoid any substantive conversation with those they suspect think differently. This is not unity and it does not make for healthy community. We can have no enemies in the church.

So let's begin to change that. Next Wednesday (Feb. 22) we will be holding a Unity Vigil in the church at 7:00pm. People can join us for dinner at WAC at 6:00 if they want, or they can just come for the Vigil. It will be an opportunity for us to be together in community: to pray, to share (for those who want to do so), to listen, and to remember that we are all one in Christ. Nothing which divides us is stronger than the Spirit of Christ who unites us with God and each other in the deepest possible way. Please come join us while we let God draw one great, loving circle around all of us.

In that Love,
David +


Thursday, February 9, 2017

Stand in the Muck. Weekly Reflection: Emily Rutledge

The past few months have been loud.  The past few weeks have been deafening.  I have read more blogs, listened to more podcasts, and digested more policy than this English & Education major ever imagined possible.  I feel full. 

I also feel enraged and heart-broken and sad.  Last Sunday David spoke from the pulpit about where we stand as a church.  We stand on the side of Jesus, on the side love, on the side of open borders and hearts, on the side of inviting.  In that place we also stand on the opposite side of fear.
 
Lately our country is ruled by fear.  Fear of the ‘other’.  Fear of invasion.  Fear of what is to come. 

I am not a theologian or a policy expert.  I spent the majority of my higher education reading old dead dude’s writing and learning about the inner workings of the middle school brain.  I have spent the entirety of my adult life watching too much reality TV, drinking lots of coffee, and online shopping.  The rest of my time has been spent with a bunch of ‘others’. I have sat in hospital rooms with rape survivors as they spoke to police officers and endured invasive evidence collection.  I have spent countless late nights on a survivor hotline talking to men and women living close to the pit of despair that looms near when you have survived trauma.  I have taught in classrooms with students who have no permanent home or guaranteed next meal.  I have ministered to gay and straight, trans and cis, rich and poor, white and brown students whose constant fear is failure (on a million different levels). 

All these experiences have taught me three things:
  • We are all broken people with a ridiculous capacity for love and healing.
  • What we long for above all else is to be seen.
  • When you judge someone you can’t love them. 
As Believers we are all across the board right now.  We each know we are right and everyone else is wrong and somehow we are getting the lines between politics and Jesus really blurred.  Jesus has become the tool we use to justify instead of the ruler we use to measure. 

Beyond policy and politics there are people.  People that, no matter what God they do or do not worship, no matter their gender or orientation or race or education, have worth.   Just as you and I do. 

Hear their story. 

Jesus spent his entire ministry seeing and loving others and their stories.   Jesus’ ministry of presence challenges us to do the one thing that makes us most uncomfortable.  Show up.  Hold space.  See someone. 

Fear is so deeply intertwined with the unknown they can be hard to untangle.  There is only one clear way to untangle it all… to face it.  Speak with the recent immigrant and hear the stories of their escape and life in a war-torn country.  Have coffee with the Trans woman and understand the agony of being afraid, tormented, and alone in a body that doesn’t mirror her heart or mind.  Sit with your brown friends and hear what they must teach their children about how to remain safe in the country they built; how to leave a traffic stop alive and walk home without incident.  Be present with the nurse who offers an emergency contraceptive to the girl sexually assaulted by a family member. 

Jesus, our great teacher, taught us this power time and time again.  With a woman at a well.  With strangers in a synagogue.  With friends at a table.  With prostitutes and religious leaders and believers and doubters alike.  Jesus was never afraid to stand in the midst of the muck, listen to another’s story, and then proclaim the simple truth of LOVE.  Jesus showed us to love someone we must see and validate them.  It becomes very hard to hate and cast away and write off another human once you have shared space and story together.

It’s our job, as followers of Jesus, to do the hard work.  To hold the space.  To be witness to the ways God loves and works through all people.  At our baptism we committed to ‘seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves’ and to ‘strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being’.   We are called in this moment to do the things Jesus needs us to do for the people Jesus loves.  There are a million excuses and reasons we can shy away from this awkward hard work but now is when we move past being people who show up on Sundays to sit together in a pretty building to being a radical community of love that transforms the world.  

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Sunday Sermon - February 5, 2017 by the Rev. David M. Stoddart

Matthew 5:13-20


You are the light of the world.

This past week I attended Friday prayers at the masjid on Pine Street, where our local Muslim community worships. I have been doing that about once a month for the past year or so. I go as an act of friendship and solidarity with that faith community during what has been for them a very scary time, and over the months I’ve been doing it a number of parishioners have joined me. This past Friday my son Aidan was with me. The sermon was on sincerity of action. The preacher talked about how important it was for Muslims to sincerely work for good in their homes, their workplaces, and in the Charlottesville community at large. And he emphasized that when people see that, when people see believers sincerely working for justice, peace, and the relief of suffering, then God is glorified. And I couldn’t help but think of this Gospel: You are the light of the world. We are the light of the world, and of course it’s not our own light we reflect: it’s the light of Christ. But that light, according to Jesus, does not shine through dogmatic declarations or institutional mandates: it shines through acts of justice, peace, and mercy. Put simply, it shines through works of love. So he goes on to say, Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.

And there’s no mystery about what those good works entail. Isaiah says it plainly: Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? This is a theme that runs throughout the Bible: I mean, it’s found in hundreds of verses. And it is firmly embedded in our Baptismal Covenant, in which we promise —we promise! — to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as our self” and “to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.”

“All persons,” “all people,” and “every human being:” emphatic language. And Scripture makes it perfectly clear that “all people” includes foreigners, immigrants, and refugees. As it says in Deuteronomy: For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt (Deut. 10:17-19). This is not a one-off verse: the Law elsewhere stipulates that gleanings from every harvest must be left for aliens residing in the land so that they have food to eat (Lev. 19:9-10, 23:22). It is an outlook Jesus obviously embraces. The very core of his teaching is to love God with everything we’ve got and to love our neighbor as our self. And who is our neighbor? Everyone, Jesus says: Samaritans, Romans, foreigners . . . everyone: no exceptions. The greatest decision of the early church, a Jewish movement started by a Jewish Messiah, was made at the great Council of Jerusalem described in Acts 15 which opened up membership in the community of Christ to people of all nations, Jews and Gentiles alike. For two thousand years the Church Universal has offered witness to the all-embracing nature of God’s love by welcoming everyone and providing special care for the poor, the homeless, and the suffering. This is our spiritual DNA: this is who we are.

How do we best apply that tradition in our community and in our nation? We all know what’s going on: executive orders stopping all refugees from entering our country, including thousands who have already gone through years of vetting; voices in our society that speak with fear, hatred, and contempt about immigrants in general and Muslims in particular. Now, I get that we as followers of Christ may well disagree in good faith about the best policies to pursue. And when we do disagree, we should do so with respect and charity. But if we disagree on how to apply our tradition, we cannot disagree on what our tradition teaches us. It is clear and unambiguous, running from the beginning of the Bible to the end: there is no doubting it and no escaping it: God loves the poor, the homeless, and the stranger, and if we are to own the name Christian, somehow we must love them, too.

I have no idea what’s going to happen at the national level, but as Rector I do have some say in what happens here. So here’s what I know will happen: I will continue to visit the masjid with anyone who wants to join me and we will continue to build relationships with our Muslim neighbors ― because that’s love; our international outreach group, which has been working very hard, will continue to partner with the International Rescue Committee to resettle a refugee family here in Charlottesville, a family fleeing from violence and despair ― because that’s love; as a parish we will strive to be not just a welcoming church, but an inviting church, a community where all people can safely find a spiritual home: white people and brown people, young people and old people, straight people and gay people, liberals and conservatives, citizens and non-citizens ― because that’s love. Emily will continue to build up a youth community where everyone belongs and where everyone can experience God’s . . . love; Mother Kathleen and I will continue to proclaim the Good News of Jesus Christ in whose Kingdom the only power that matters is . . . love.

And, perhaps most important at this moment, I invite you to join me in making a commitment. When someone disagrees with me and, say, complains about this sermon, I will listen to them and I will love them. If we encounter someone espousing hatred, don’t give into the same hatred: love them. When people around us are afraid, don’t give into the same fear: The First Letter of John tells us that perfect love casts out all fear (1 John 4:18), so when we encounter fearful people, love them. We must stand firm for what we believe is right, but if we don’t do it with love and for love, it is all for naught. We must love ― there is no other way. Remember: You are the light of the world . . . Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.

Believe it or not, we are all God’s got to do this. So don’t just sing the songs and say the prayers and eat and drink your Jesus, and then go hide. After all, it is the light of Christ we reflect, the very light of God, and we know that no darkness will ever overcome it. Trust that. Live that. Go out and shine.


Thursday, February 2, 2017

Reflections 2/2/17 by Fr. David



The look on this man's face haunts me. He is a refugee, fleeing from violence in Syria, doing everything in his limited power to protect his children. I don't know him and I don't know his story, but I feel his pain. I have two children whom I love deeply and passionately. I would do anything I possibly could to insure their safety and well-being. I cannot imagine the pain of uprooting them from everything they have ever known, the agony of knowing they might starve to death, or be killed by bombs or gunfire, or drown trying to escape. It hurts me to look at this photo and put myself in this man's place.

And it sobers me to realize that when I look into his face, I am seeing the face of Jesus Christ, who completely identifies with him in his anguish. According to Matthew's Gospel, Jesus himself was a refugee when he was an infant. According to all the Gospels, Jesus cares for every person who suffers, regardless of race, nationality, or religion. And Jesus is the human face of God.

Our nation's political situation is volatile, and people are expressing a wide range of emotions as our government responds to the refugee crisis -- and it is a crisis, a terrible human tragedy. I don't know what will happen on the national level, but I am so grateful for the work of our parish's international outreach ministry which continues to partner with the International Rescue Committee to help resettle a refugee family here in Charlottesville. We raised $4,633 at our silent auction this fall to do that work, and representatives from the IRC will be orienting and training COOS volunteers in coming weeks. We don't know when that family will arrive, but we intend to be ready to assist them in every way we can whenever they do come.

As we do this ministry, we know that some 70,000 people who have undergone extensive vetting in order to resettle in this country are now being stranded, and the majority of them are women and children. We all hear the fear that is being expressed by some, the fear that offering safe haven to refugees will endanger us, but the Cato Institute has calculated that the chances of being killed by a refugee are one in 3.6 billion. In other words, we are more likely to die from our own clothes lighting on fire than we are to be killed by a refugee. And regardless of the odds, we are followers of Jesus, who tells us not to be afraid as we do whatever is good and right and loving. And if we can't do everything, we most certainly can do something. And what we can do, we are going to do.

Please pray for this ministry. Please pray for our elected leaders. And please pray for refugees everywhere, remembering that they are fellow human beings who love and dream and hurt and bleed just like us.

Love, love, always love,

David Stoddart +
Rector