Love finds a way. December 24/25, 2018 The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Christmas Eve/Christmas Day

What are the odds? What are the odds that the UVA men’s basketball team will win the NCAA tournament? Well, right now, the bookies in Las Vegas are saying that UVA has a 1 in 12 chance. Those may be good or bad odds, I suppose: it depends on your perspective. They are certainly better odds than, say, the odds of winning the Powerball lottery, which are about 1 in 292 million. But even those aren’t terrible odds compared to some things. For example, what are the odds that random chemical processes on the primordial Earth would somehow produce a single small protein consisting of 150 amino acids, the basic building block of life? Current science tells us that the odds of that happening were in 1 in 10 the 164th power. That means that the odds of a single correctly sequenced protein forming by chance were one in a million trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion. It was . . . unlikely.

But we live in a universe where unlikely things happen. Now, please stay with me for a minute: I’m going to get to Jesus. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was a French scientist and priest. He was a paleontologist who studied evolution, and became increasingly awed by what he learned. He was amazed that, after the Big Bang, all these particles didn’t just float away into infinite solitude. Instead, stuff formed. Quarks combined to form atoms; atoms combined to form molecules; clouds of gas and clumps of matter came together to form galaxies, stars, and planets. Increasingly large and complex molecules took shape, leading to organic molecules and the beginning of cellular life; plants and animals developed, coming together in ecosystems and forming intricate communities, including human civilization. Despite the law of entropy, matter keeps coming together in ever more complicated and incredible ways. It was Teilhard de Chardin who said that everything that rises must converge: it’s the law of the universe. And he had a name for that law, that fundamental power of attraction: he called it love, and believed it is hardwired into the the very nature of matter itself, into everything that exists. And he believed it was ultimately unstoppable. All of which makes perfect sense if, like him, we truly believe that God created the universe, and that God is love.

As I have prayed about this day, it’s the unstoppable power of love that keeps coming to my mind. Through all the vicissitudes of human history, through all the triumphs and all the horrors, love keeps emerging. That is certainly evident in the history of Israel. Through wars and exiles, through periods of bondage and strife, in the midst of bad kings and corrupt priests, love still kept coming, prophets and inspired people and miraculous moments still kept happening. I think of that as I imagine an unwed, teenage girl — a virgin, no less — stumbling to give birth to her baby in a dirty stable in an obscure town. Against all odds, love finds a way.

The birth of Jesus Christ, the Feast of the Incarnation, necessarily makes us rethink all of our notions of divine power. If we think God is almighty because God can do anything God likes and can smite anyone God dislikes, we need to think again. For sure, there are passages in Scripture which seem to imply such a view, but the Bible is an amazing, self-correcting book, and the story we celebrate tonight reminds us that God’s almighty power really is the power of love. It is not coercive or violent, even though we human beings have often projected that onto God. No, God is love, and so God’s power is the power of gentle, infinite perseverance. God is relentless and just won’t give up: love keeps coming and coming and coming, no matter what. It may seem quiet and weak and ineffective, and yet it is the strongest of forces. It is the great force at the heart of the universe. And we see it fully expressed in the life of Jesus, this peasant born to a poor mother, who has no formal education, possesses no wealth or social status, writes no books, and holds no office. He is executed as a common criminal at a young age, seemingly a total failure. In the few short years he has on this Earth, he just loves — and the sick are healed, the hungry are fed, the outcasts are included, the poor are blessed, and the sinful are forgiven. And when they kill him, he just rises to new life, and the world is changed. Against all odds, love finds a way. That’s what makes God almighty: God always finds a way.

We celebrate that love and that power tonight, but we would be missing the boat if we treated this occasion merely as a history lesson, an act of nostalgia. Because if love found a way for billions of years to create billions of galaxies, and if love found a way to be enfleshed in the person of Jesus Christ, then we can be certain that love didn’t just stop when the last book of the Bible was written: God’s love continues to find ways to express itself down to this very moment, and it will forever. In our reading from Titus, we hear that the Holy Spirit has been poured out on us. The very energy of God’s love at work in the universe is right now at work in our lives, all of our lives, without exception. It doesn’t matter whether we’ve been naughty or nice; it doesn’t matter how badly we’ve screwed up or how little we believe. God’s love is looking to find a way to reveal itself in your life and in mine. Not, as the letter to Titus assures us, because of any works of righteousness that we have done, but because God is love and that is what love does.

You want to worship Christ tonight? Let him love you. And if for any reason you think it is unlikely you can experience such love, if it seems impossible for you to know that love as you stress out at work or struggle through family crises or suffer from chronic illness or grieve the death of someone you loved with all your heart . . . well, think again. I think of a woman I knew earlier in my ministry, who showed up at our church broken, battling alcoholism and a terrible marriage. She didn’t think God could help her, and told me that repeatedly. Years later, after singing in the choir and sinking into the life of that parish community, she wrote me a simple letter. It said, “Before I came to this church, I did not believe Jesus is alive. Now I do.” I think of a senior member of this parish, a man who has gone to church his whole life, for decades, coming up to me after a Sunday Eucharist within the last twelve months with tears in his eyes and saying, “I never really knew God loved me until today.” God just never gives up — on any of us. The One who beat the odds by becoming human in Jesus is not fazed by any odds. There is something even bigger than a million trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion, and that something is the love of God Almighty. It is pulsing around us right now. It is flowing through us at this very moment. It never grows tired. It never gets discouraged. It will not be stopped. It will always find a way. Always. Thank God . . . Thank God!

Magnifying, rejoicing, waiting. December 23, 2018 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Luke 1:39-55

I still remember the moment.  I was four.  It was December and I was old enough to be totally in tune with all the excitement surrounding Christmas.  I knew that sometime soon I would be getting presents.  Presents, that perhaps, were in my house right at that moment.  And given that my parents were nowhere in sight it seemed like a perfect opportunity to investigate.  I began my search.  Quietly, I opened up closet doors and looked inside.  Then I tiptoed into parents’ room and spied under the bed.  Next I opened some cabinets searching every nook and cranny.   Until finally I peered behind a couch and saw a thin box slid between the back of the couch and the wall.   My heart began to race for I knew I found something.  And pulling it out into the light I saw what it was my gift! - a Dressy Bessy doll.  Very likely the reason I remember all of this so vividly is because of the intense feeling that rushed through me at that moment of discovery.  It wasn’t joy.  It wasn’t excitement.   It was crushing disappointment.  Not because I didn’t want Dressy Bessy, I did.  But because I had ruined the surprise - the wait was over and with it gone was the delight of anticipation.

Today on this fourth Sunday of in Advent our wait is almost over, but I trust no one will experience crushing over that.  In a little more than twenty four hours from now our Christmas Eve services will commence as we celebrate the coming of God in Christ into the world.  Our reading this morning reflects our being on the cusp of Jesus’ birth as we listen to part of Mary’s story.   Really we are jumping into the middle of her story. Mary’s life has just been completely disrupted.  The angel Gabriel has just appeared out of nowhere to announce that Mary will conceive and give birth to a son.  She will name Jesus and he will be God’s Messiah.  It’s a lot to take in.  And perhaps that is the reason why Gabriel mentions, somewhat as a postscript, that Mary’s aged and barren relative, Elizabeth, is now miraculously with child and in her sixth month - which means that Mary is not alone.

Seizing on this news, Mary sets out in haste to journey to Elizabeth’s house.  And when she arrives, the baby in Elizabeth’s womb (whom we know to be John the Baptist) leaps for joy.  Filled with the Holy Spirit, Elizabeth exclaims, “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb.  And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes for me?”   Mary responds with her own proclamation, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.…”  She goes on to extol the mercies of God who has reversed the world’s status quo - the proud have been scattered, the lowly lifted, the hungry filled, and the rich sent empty away.  Yet as beautiful as Mary’s song of praise is all she needs to do is walk outside to see that, sadly, the world falls far short of this vision of justice, harmony, and fullness.

Doesn’t that ring true for us as well?  Tomorrow as we celebrate the good news of Jesus’ birth with songs of peace, joy, and love we know that strife, sadness, and hatred still have mighty strongholds in our world.  Indeed, it is an odd and sometimes confusing land that we, with Mary, Elizabeth, and all the faithful, inhabit.  We  rejoice in the wondrous things that God has done while at the same time wait for the promises of God to be fully expressed.  We proclaim that God’s Kingdom has come while recognizing that it is not totally here yet.  We know that God with us as we believe that God is also coming to us in new and fresh ways  Our life of faith is one that is lived in the tension and the mystery of this already-and-not-yet world.  

Mary and Elizabeth know well how to live in this place of paradox that embraces both the rejoicing in what is and the waiting for what surely will be.  They do this, with God’s help, by looking beyond the circumstances that present right in front of them.  When Mary visits Elizabeth early on in her pregnancy her condition is not obvious.  Yet Elizabeth is able to recognize not just that Mary is with child, but that Christ resides within her.  Elizabeth sees Christ in the other.  And Mary magnifies the Lord.  Now when something is magnified the thing itself does not become bigger, but magnification does alter one’s perception, it enhances the ability to see.  Mary magnifies God by her words and deeds.  She helps us to better see and experience God’s presence in our world.  And we, too, are called and gifted by the Spirit to do the same - to recognize Christ and magnify God - all the while rejoicing as we wait.   

Beyond the initial greeting, we are given no details about Mary’s visit with Elizabeth except for one thing, she stayed for three months.  And that’s an important part of the story because it means that neither woman was alone in her waiting for the promises of God to unfold.  Faith never flourishes in isolation.  We need one another.  During Advent, and all the seasons of our lives, we are to wait for the fulfilling of God’s promises together, in community.  For it is in community that we hold each other up when one of us is in need.  In community we encourage one another, we pray for one another, we serve one another, we love one another.  And sometimes when there’s no apparent fix to a situation, we sit in the dark with one another, waiting together for God’s light to shine.   For it will shine.

Jesus is the light of the world and with his coming we know that love can, does, and will prevail in all times, in all places, in all relationships, in all circumstances.  That is why we rejoice.  And that is why the wait is worth it.  It only took that one time finding of my present to learn the lesson that part of the joy of Christmas is actually found in the wait.   As we celebrate the great gift of God with us this Christmas may we also discover the joy in the wait.  For we can rest in faith and trust that in God’s time, all of God’s promises will surely be fulfilled.       

The invitation. December 16, 2018 The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Philippians 4:4-7

As I begin this homily, I have two questions I want to ask you. First, when was the last time you felt joy? We might vary a bit on how we define that word, but I think all of us have some innate, visceral sense of what joy is. So, when did you last feel joyful? Second, are you at peace right now? The wonderful Hebrew word for peace, shalom, means “complete” and “whole.” Do you feel complete and whole today? Are you at peace?

Paul writes in our epistle this morning: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. This is such a great passage from Philippians, and it emphasizes both joy and peace, two words we hear a lot this time of year. We’ll see them on Christmas cards, holiday decorations, and ornaments on the tree. We’ll hear them in readings at church and sing them in hymns and carols. But many people will not always feel joyful and peaceful, and many will find that any moments of joy and peace seem fleeting at best. And clearly just throwing the words around does not suffice: we could sing “Joy to the World” over and over again or hear how the angels proclaimed “Peace on earth, goodwill towards all” a hundred times, and still not experience the joy and peace we are supposed to be experiencing because, well, it’s December. So if you do not feel fully at peace or if you cannot make yourself be joyful, then this reading from Philippians is for you. I find that it unlocks the truth about joy and peace, and opens me up to experience them ever more fully.

Philippians is an awesome letter, and notable for many reason. Philippi was the home of the very first church on European soil. It was founded by the apostle Paul and a woman, Lydia, who was a leader in that community. The Philippians clearly occupied a special place in Paul’s heart, and he wrote to them with obvious love: this is by far Paul’s happiest letter. But in the midst of all the positive energy this epistle radiates, it’s easy to forget that when Paul wrote it, he was in prison, and his life was in extreme jeopardy. He says in the first chapter that he is not sure he is going to get out alive. So when he writes about joy and peace, he is not being glib or superficial. He’s not just saying, “Don’t worry! Smile and be happy!” He is in touch with something essential and life-giving, and we need to be in touch with it, too.

Paul understands that joy and peace are not dependent on circumstances, nor are they simply feelings that come and go, emotions we either have or don’t have. Joy and peace do not just happen to us when the stars align and everything is great. No. They are the direct result of living close to God. The lynchpin of this passage is “The Lord is near.” It’s when people realize how near God actually is that everything changes. Circumstances may not get any easier, and we may still feel real pain and sadness. But joy and peace will be the foundation that undergirds our existence. In Galatians, Paul says that they are fruits of the Spirit, they are what happen when we realize that the Spirit of God lives within us and flows through us. They are the work of God in our lives, gifts that are continuously given. This is why Paul writes, Rejoice in the Lord; this is why he talks about the peace of God. Put simply, joy and peace are not primarily emotional: they are primarily relational. And they are not feelings we passively have: they are experiences we actively live . . . when we live close to God.

And the Gospel conveys the same message. John the Baptist obviously did not graduate from charm school, and he lacks Paul’s eloquence, but he makes the same point. God is coming into the world. The Lord is near: live accordingly. “Repentance” doesn’t mean “feel bad about your sins”: it means “change your mind.” If the God of love is close, we don’t have to cling to our possessions out of fear or selfishness: we are free to share what we have with others. If the Holy One is coming into the world, then we don’t need to abuse power or use violence to further our own interests: we are free to live differently. John does not talk about joy and peace, but he doesn’t have to: if we live and act like the Lord is near, then joy and peace will follow naturally.

God has come into the world in the person of Jesus Christ. Yes, we look forward to the final fulfillment of all things, when God’s reign of love will be fully established. But in the meantime, the Spirit of Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit of God, is coming into the world every single moment. The Lord is near. If we want truly to observe Advent, then we will live each day like the Lord is near. We don’t want to be people who eat and drink Jesus on Sunday, and then live the rest of the week as if Christ were somewhere beyond the planet Jupiter. So rather than trying to conjure up seasonal feelings, think about where you are living as if Christ were not close. How would your life change if you started living as though Christ were very close — at work, or as you deal with illness, or as you grieve the loss of someone you love, or wherever you are currently living as though God were absent? That is the invitation given today and every day of our lives.

And we can be sure: the Lord is near, no matter what. Etty Hillesum was a Dutch woman who, along with her whole family, was murdered at Auschwitz. She kept a diary, and even as she observed the horrors around her and anticipated her own death, she lived with a strong sense of God’s near presence. Not long before they killed her, she wrote: “Truly my life is one long hearkening unto myself and unto others, unto God. And if I say I hearken, it is really God who hearkens inside me. The most essential and the deepest in me hearkening unto the most essential and the deepest in the other. God to God.” The nearness of God allowed her to endure even the worst atrocities. She wrote, “The realms of the soul and the spirit are so spacious and unending that this little bit of physical discomfort and suffering doesn’t really matter all that much. I do not feel I have been robbed of my freedom; essentially no one can do me any harm at all.” That kind of peace is unshakeable; that kind of joy goes deeper than any suffering. Etty Hillesum experienced it in a Nazi concentration camp. Paul experienced it in prison. We can experience it in any and all circumstances, because it’s true: the Lord is near. Live it . . . and rejoice . . . and be at peace.

God is always coming to us. December 2, 2018 The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Luke 21:25-36

So Jesus came to me the other day on the John Warner Parkway, of all places. It was a crazy day: my schedule was too full, I was already behind and running late, and I hit heavy traffic. And I was not handling it well: I was feeling a lot of stress, but as I drove by a dead deer on the side of the road, without even thinking about it, I began to pray the Jesus prayer. It’s a simple prayer — “Lord Jesus, have mercy” — and I pray it a lot. But on that day it just happened, unbidden, and all of the sudden it was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My whole body relaxed, my breathing deepened and slowed down, and I felt so much better — I mean, literally, in a moment. Externally, nothing had changed: the traffic was still heavy, I was still late, and the deer was still dead. But Jesus came anyway, and that’s the point.

I love Advent. I love the sense of waiting and expectation that fills this season. I love the music, the blue vestments, the wreath (when it doesn’t fall down) and that sense of entering into an ancient tradition which reminds us we are part of something so much greater than ourselves. But I also have some conflicted feelings about Advent. My biggest problem is that it always seems to come right before Christmas — perhaps you’ve noticed this. It’s a crazy time of year, terribly busy, and loaded with stuff. And often I find myself fantasizing about doing Advent without all the stuff. If only I didn’t have to worry about the annual giving campaign and the church budget, if only there weren’t so many concerts and open houses and parties and meetings and seasonal activities to attend, if only I didn’t have to plan Christmas liturgies and write a Christmas sermon and prepare for the Vestry retreat in January, THEN I could really sink into this season and truly do Advent. And that fantasy actually predates my ordination: it goes back decades. If only I didn’t have to worry about college applications, if only I didn’t have to take exams and write term papers, if only I didn’t have to do all the stuff you have to do in December, then, THEN, I could enjoy the perfect Advent.

It’s a lovely fantasy, but it’s just that: a fantasy. And listening to many of you, I know that I am not alone in having such a fantasy. But whether we are talking about Advent in particular or life in general, we can never just eliminate all activities and make everything around us fall into place and everyone around us behave just right so that we can have the perfect God moment. For one thing, we don’t have that kind of control. And the older we get, the more we realize how little control we actually have. Life happens: unexpected crises come up, people get sick, circumstances change, we are pushed and pulled in ways we did not anticipate or plan for. If everything around us had to be perfect for us to encounter the living Christ, then it is safe to say we would never encounter him at all.

So thank God for this strange and disturbing Gospel passage today, because it reminds us that Jesus does not come into a perfect world. Luke writes about signs in the heavens, tumult in the seas, distress among the nations, people filled with fear and foreboding. Is Jesus referring to the end of time? Or the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, which would take place in the year 70? Or the turmoil which can be found in the world at any time and in any generation — say, like, right now? The answer is probably yes to all of them. Jesus often speaks on many different levels at once. But in all the scenarios he could be talking about, the central point remains the same: the Son of Man (as Jesus often refers to himself) does not come into a perfect world where everyone is behaving well and having only positive thoughts, a world where nothing bad ever happens and no one ever suffers. No: Christ always comes into the real world, an often broken and distressed place where flawed people live and struggle. And that’s exactly what we need: to have Christ come into our world just the way it is and into our lives just the way we are.

It is traditional at the start of Advent for preachers to admonish their congregations to slow down, make time for prayer and reflection, and not be seduced by the busyness of this season: you don’t have to send out 300 Christmas cards; you don’t have to buy 1,001 presents for everyone you know. And that is certainly good advice and I would urge anyone to heed it. But the real Advent challenge is not external activity: it’s internal disposition. We cannot create a perfect environment around ourselves — we’ll go nuts if we try — but we can be more open and expectant within ourselves. The great words of Advent are verbs like “watch,” “stay awake,” and “expect.” The message of the season is that Jesus is Emmanuel, God-with-us: God is always coming to us. Always. We don’t have to be saints or perfect people. We don’t have to spend eight hours a day in prayer. We don’t have to have stress-free lives with nothing going on. The Good News is that God loves us as we are and comes to us as we are.

So any practice which gently reminds us of that as we go through our busy days is a good practice. Saying simple prayers like the Jesus Prayer, or repeating short passages of Scripture like “Abide in me and I in you” can certainly be beneficial. But there is no one right way to do this: people should feel free to experiment and see what actually helps them to be more watchful and expectant. But Advent is not first and foremost a method: it’s a frame of mind, an openness of spirit, a willingness to trust that God comes into my life just because God loves me. It wouldn’t be Good News otherwise.

I said at the beginning of this sermon that Jesus came to me as I drove on the parkway. But, of course, that is not exactly the case. Christ was with me all along: I just woke up and remembered it, which filled me with renewed peace and strength. I wish many such wakeful moments for each one of you in the next few weeks. You don’t have to make them happen: please just find ways to remind yourself that Christ is coming to you all the time — and wants you to know it.

Lens of God. Thanksgiving Eve 11/21/18 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Matthew 6:25-33

“Do not worry about your life,” Jesus says to us this evening.  Oh, if it was only that easy.  For most of us our lives overflow with worry.  Not just about what we will eat or drink or what we will wear, but also concerns like, “will my child be ok?” or “will I find work?” or “will someone ever love me?” or “will my health hold out?” or “will I ever be able to retire?” or “will this nation hold together?” or “will this world ever find peace?” ...and I’m just getting started.

Yet even as this list mounts Jesus still says to us, “Do not worry about your life.”  This isn’t a brush off or pie-in-the-sky advice.  These words come from the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus is talking about some of the toughest things about being human like anger, prayer, divorce, reconciliation, dealing with enemies, and the power of money.  When Jesus tells us not to worry he is in no way making light of human needs and concerns.  I mean, think about it, the first audience that Jesus is speaking to knew what it was like to live on the edge.  There was no form of social safety net.  Daily survival was a real issue for many.  Their concerns about what they would eat, drink, or wear were completely valid.  Just as our concerns are valid today.  That’s not the issue.  What is the issue and can become the problem is that we have this tendency to take our valid concerns and get so tied up in worry and anxiety about them that it ends up pulling us away from God - just when we need God the most.

And Jesus knows from whence he speaks.  He utters these words, “Do not worry about your life,” all the while knowing that his own life is destined for the cross.  Even so, we don’t get the sense that Jesus lives anxiously looking to the future, worrying about what is coming next.  Just the opposite, he lived what he was preached.  He did not worry about his life and what was ahead of him because he had a deep trust and connection with God.  That trust and connection freed him from the tyranny of worry, allowing him to live entirely in the present moment to delight in the goodness of God revealed in the birds of the air, the lilies of the field, and all of creation.  And this freedom, this joy of living, he wants for those he loves. 

But don’t be fooled.  There’s more to Jesus’ message than a “just say no” approach to worry.  Rather it’s about changing the lens we use to look at life.  Now when we literally look around at what we see through our eyes everything seems perfectly natural to us.  If something in the distance is out of focus we figure that’s just because it’s so far away.  If the print of a page is difficult to see, well that’s because the font is way too small and the lighting is poor.  We assume that the way we see the world is the way the world actually is - until we are given a new lens through which to see.  And now it’s possible to make out individual leaves on a tree or read miniscule directions on a bottle.  That’s when it may dawn on us that perhaps we weren’t seeing everything as clearly and as accurately as we previously thought.  The proper lens makes all the difference. 

Looking at the world through the lens of worry distorts our vision.  Although it may feel so natural and normal that it’s hard to imagine the world any other way Jesus proclaims that there is another way of seeing the world - a truer way using a better lens.  That lens is the lens of God.  It’s a lens that sharpens our vision so that we can better see all the ways that God is present and at work in the world.  Our worries don’t disappear with this lens, but it enables us to see that whatever our concerns they exist within the bigger picture of God’s reality, God’s care, and God’s love. 

Being here tonight is part of the process of changing our lens.  As we worship God and feast on the Eucharist our eyes of faith grow stronger and our vision fuller.   And what comes into focus is our blessings for which we are called, not just in this season but in all seasons, to give thanks.  For gratitude draws us closer to God, to others, and to all of creation.  Gratitude deepens our trust.  Gratitude enlivens our faith.  And when our hearts are filled with thanks worry has little room to flourish. 

So let us worry less by seeking God and God’s way in the world more.  Although there are no guarantees about how all of our concerns will turn out we can trust that no matter what God will always be with us and that in the end all will be well.   That is our ultimate worry free guarantee.  Thanks be to God! 

Always we begin again. November 25, 2018 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

John 18:33-38

In a world where alternative facts and fake news abound, Pontius Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” especially resonates today.  This question comes at the end of his interrogation of Jesus as he demands to know, “Are you the King of the Jews?”  That’s what Pilate really cares about.  It’s a simple question and it’s clear he is looking for a simple answer, yes or no.  But you don’t have to hang around Jesus very long to know that his answers are rarely simple because truth is not often simple.  Take this situation, if Jesus had answered Pilate, “Yes, I am the King of the Jews,” Pilate would have understood his answer within the context of his own experience of what a King was which would not have been correct.  On the other hand, if Jesus had answered “no” then that too would have also been untrue. 

That’s not to say that everything in this world is so complicated.  Facts exist and they do matter.  They are essential to our wellbeing as a society.  A fact is something that can be verified objectively or that can be proven with evidence.  Like the fact that the earth is round, or all mammals have hair, or fire is hot, or Church of Our Saviour is the best church ever - ok, that’s not fact, but it still may be true. 

Still, in the exchange between Pilate and Jesus, sticking to just the facts was not enough.  Jesus explains that his kingdom is not of this world.  It’s not a kingdom that operates with violence and domination - and that’s clearly demonstrated by his willingness to submit to Pilate’s examination and ultimately to the cross.  But there’s even more than that, Jesus goes on to say that if anyone wants real answers they will find them by looking to Jesus himself.  “For this I was born,” he says, “and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.” 

So what is truth?  Truth is larger than fact.  It doesn’t discount facts, but it does move beyond facts into the realm of meaning.  Truth is not something that is simply believed or thought of.   Truth is something that is lived and done.  Jesus’ life on this earth testified to truth, to God who is infinite love, mercy, and grace.  Truth, therefore, is not something that can ever belong to us rather we are invited to belong to it.  

 

“Everyone who belongs to the truth,” Jesus declares, “listens to my voice.”  Which means that one of our challenges in this world is to tune out the other voices around us that claim to have truth, and to pay attention to the one to whom we belong.  But really, how are we supposed to do this?  Given that Jesus does not speak in an audible voice like you or I, how are we to listen to his voice?   We listen by participating in regular worship and communion, by reading and studying Scripture, by seeking God’s guidance in prayer, and by discerning Jesus’ voice in others.  It’s important to remind ourselves that belonging to the truth and listening to Jesus’ voice is not an individual assignment, but a group project.  There’s a saying that goes, “It takes the whole world to understand the whole gospel.”  And indeed we need one another as we seek to belong to the truth, listening to Jesus’ voice.  For it’s a voice that speaks for a kingdom that is not of this world.  In the face of human need, we hear the voice say, “I was hungry and you gave me food.”   When death surrounds us, the voice says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” In the midst of today’s refugee crisis we hear, “Love the foreigner as yourself.”  When confronted with hatred, the voice says, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”  And if ever we feel alone the voice speaks, “Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” 

Belonging to the truth and listening to Jesus’ voice means that our lives, like Jesus’, testify to the truth.  Thankfully, though, that doesn’t mean we are to have quick and easy answers to every question someone might ask.  Just the other day a parishioner was sharing how inadequate she felt when her friends asked her about her faith.  She didn’t know really what to say.  And she’s not alone.  We probably all struggle to find words that express why we believe what we believe.  It’s a challenge because words alone cannot convey the fullness of truth.  And honestly, very few people come to faith through well-reasoned arguments.  More often people believe because of personal encounters with love, mercy, and grace - when people experience that truth they naturally want to belong to it.   So even though words may fail us, as we listen and respond to Jesus’ voice our lives can and do testify to the truth.   

But I know that’s not the case all of the time.  At least it’s not for me.   Sometimes even when I hear Jesus’ voice, I act in ways that are a far cry from testifying to the truth.  Fear, hurt, anger, selfishness speak to me and, I confess, I listen and react.  It is then that the words of St. Benedict comfort me.  “Always we begin again,” he writes, which seems particularly apt for today, being that this is last Sunday in the season of Pentecost, the end of the church year.  Next Sunday we start a whole new year with Advent.  We will begin again.  And unlike the world’s time that moves in a linear fashion where, for example, November 25, 2018 will never come again, the church marks time in a circular way.  We move through Advent, then Christmas, Epiphany, then Lent, Easter, then Pentecost eventually coming back to Advent once more to do it all over again.  Always we begin again.  Each and every day is a fresh opportunity to experience in new ways what it means to belong to the truth, to listen to Jesus’ voice, and to live into the answers.  And if, … no really it’s a matter of when, we fail to do so even then, or maybe especially then, we get to experience the truth of God’s grace, mercy, and love, that beckon us.  Always we begin again.  And in doing so our lives become a testimony to what the world desperately needs: Truth. 

The work of a deacon. November 18, 2018 The Rev. Deacon Lawrence J. Elliott

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” they asked me as a kid. I never knew. Maybe a teacher. In middle school I wanted to be a singer, in high school, a church organist. I didn’t imagine being a deacon until I was 65. Never did I imagine being here—until it happened.

But I am your deacon and I’ve been here for seven weeks, so I thought it might be good to take some time to talk about deacons, where we came from, how I became one, and what I want to do here.

In Chapter 6 of the Book of Acts we read of disputes between Hebrew and Greek widows over neglect in the daily distribution of food (Acts 6.1). In response to a proposal from Peter, seven men were chosen to serve at table. The apostles laid hands on them—these were the first deacons, a word from the Greek, diakonia, to serve.

Stephen, one of the seven, when falsely accused of blasphemy, preached an eloquent and powerful sermon, beginning with Abraham and ending with the proclamation of Jesus Christ as the Messiah. He spoke truth to power with the words given him by the Holy Spirit. His enraged accusers took him outside the city wall and stoned him to death. The other deacons scattered and Philip, the only other of whom we hear, went to Samaria, and proclaimed the Gospel. He later encountered an Ethiopian eunuch, for whom he unlocked scripture and baptized.

Serve at table, speak truth to power, proclaim the gospel. That is the threefold pattern of service which the first seven deacons set, and which we deacons still follow.

Since that time, there have been deacons, but the order faded, in part from the rise of the priesthood, until, in 1979, deacons returned to the Episcopal Church, driven energetically by changes to The Book of Common Prayer, which sets out a very distinctive role in liturgy and details it in the rubrics. In various service notes we find:

“A deacon should read the Gospel and may lead the Prayers of the People. Deacons should also serve at the Lord’s Table, preparing and placing on it…” And at the end of the service, “The Deacon dismisses them with these words…” On Palm Sunday it is the deacon who begins the procession of palms. At The Easter Vigil it is the deacon who carries the newly lighted Pascal Candle and sings the Exsultet.

As with Philip, deacons work in the world, serving the helpless. We are, “to interpret to the Church the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world.” I’m told that I should have one foot in the world and one in the church, so I stand at the door welcoming in and sending out, and I stand here today.

But it took a while. I was Ordained to the Sacred Order of Deacons by Bishop Shannon on September 29. It was a two-hour service, but it took 4½ years to get there. How did I get there, and how did I come to be serving at COOS, wearing this sideways stole, preaching? There are no job interviews for deacons, I was assigned by Bishop Shannon and I pledged to obey my bishop.

The rest of the journey began in June 2014.

I felt a call. I might not have heard it aloud, as Samuel did (1 Samuel), but an internal sense of urgency and purpose arose, and my response was like Samuel’s, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” How could I not listen, not say yes? “Speak, Lord,” became my first scriptural support mantra.

My second came from Matthew (14:29). Jesus walks on the water and when he commands Peter to come to him, he says, “Come.” That single, gentle word, urging Peter to himself, has called to me through every stage of school and in my growth as a deacon. Jesus said, “Come.”

I had a third inspiration, a haunting mantra, from Kathleen Norris who wrote, “Prayer is not about asking for what you think you want; prayer is asking to be changed in ways you can’t imagine.” I did pray to be changed, even though I didn’t know what that meant. I was changed in ways I don’t yet understand. Apart from knowing scripture, theology, and such, there was an internal change. A greater depth, a quieter mind. There was a reorientation, as of a compass, and I turned to a different place.

I worked with others, assembled a 60-page application and submitted to a psych evaluation. While I waited for acceptance, I turned to my first school assignment: a front to back reading of the Bible and a journal of that read.

What a gift it was, to return to the familiar—and the new—in scripture. My greatest surprise? Job 38, God speaking from the whirlwind. Amazingly beautiful and powerful language. The journal of my read became 600 pages of text, art, and links to music. And, I’m not done yet. The creativity of the project was, and still is, very sustaining.

Finally, I interviewed and was accepted as a postulant.

School began July 2016 and as I studied, I strove to grow into being a deacon, learning to be who I would become. Ordination might be a mystical change point, but as whom would I go into the world? Who would I be?   I knew I would bring myself, but how else might I be changed? Queen Elizabeth II said, “Ordination is the setting aside of a person for service to God.” “Service to God,” I understood, but “setting aside?”

School was held one weekend each quarter for two years and I studied scripture, theology, church history, and more. Between weekends the work did not stop. I read books, wrote papers, and met sometimes-difficult deadlines. It was hard. I was retired and long out of school, but I couldn’t ignore the call. At each weekend, we had a deacon on staff, which gave us opportunities to hear their experiences in life as a deacon.

As the end of school neared a great unknown hurdle lay ahead: Canonical Exams, a final. I was required to show competence in Scripture, theology, the tradition of the church, and other subjects. Passing the test was required for ordination. I passed.

And now, here at COOS? What will I do? Who will I be? As I’ve mentioned, deacons have a distinctive role in liturgy and are also called to work in the world.

There are ministries at COOS I might help with, and I’m considering volunteering at the jail or at Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women.

I’ve signed on to help with a 12-step presentation in January, and I wonder what else God might send my way, our way, to ease pain in the world, and bring his kingdom closer.

I have pledged to serve, “the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely,” and to “make Christ and his redemptive love known, by my word and example, to those among whom I live, and work, and worship.” I am, “to show Christ’s people that in serving the helpless they are serving Christ himself.”[1]

Kenneth Leach wrote that it is “the deacon’s ministry to proclaim by example the consequences of being a eucharistic community that is called to serve.”

Let me say that again, it is “the deacon’s ministry to proclaim by example the consequences of being a eucharistic community that is called to serve,”^[2] and “to shine a light on the servant ministry that is already embedded in all our lives. Deacons make ministry visible.”^[3]

Growing into the deacon who makes all this possible, who calls others to their servant ministry, is a joyful task. It is nothing less than, “Proclaiming and manifesting the kingdom of God,” as written in Mark (Mk 1.14).

I’ve spoken much of the work of the deacon, but I will not be working alone. I will shine light so that each of us can find our own servant ministry, because we made pledges at our baptis

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?^[4]

And together, we answered: “I will, with God’s help,” because no one of us can do this alone.

How do we live out these vows, in our community that is called to serve? We best serve God and the community, with an open mind and loving heart, and always in prayer. Whether it is a Thanksgiving meal, volunteering at the Schoolhouse Thrift Shop, Salvation Army, The Haven, or PACEM, we are serving the least of these. One might lend a hand at a local school or library, or volunteer here at COOS with your time, talent, and resources.

When they asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up,” I didn’t know then but I know now. I want to shine a light on the servant ministry that is already embedded in all our lives. I want to make ministry visible, in order to “assist in understanding that all baptized persons are called to minister in Christ's name, to identify their gifts with the help of the Church and to serve Christ's mission at all times and in all places.[5]

Let us pray.

Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated to you, and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people; through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.[6]

---

[1] The Ordination of a Deacon, The Book of Common Prayer

[2] Kenneth Leech, Being a Deacon Today, Brown, p. 53

[3] Rt. Rev. Tom Ray Being a Deacon Today, Brown, p. 7

[4] Service of Holy Baptism, BCP, p.305

[5] Constitution & Canons TheEpiscopalChurch.org p. 67

[6] A Prayer of Self-Dedication BCP p. 832

Message of inclusion. November 11, 2018 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

Ruth 3:1-5, 4:13-17

“Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.”  This declaration of love and belonging comes from the book of Ruth in the Old Testament.  If it sounds familiar it’s probably because you’ve heard it at a wedding or two.  Although most often quoted in a romantic setting the original context is far from sentimental.  These words of love, spoken by Ruth to her mother-in-law, Naomi, are uttered during desperate and uncertain times, times that call for love not just in word but in action.  

Which is not always an easy thing to do.  I mean, we Christians talk a good game about love.  But   when it comes down to actually doing it in real life with real people all too often we fumble the ball.  Like the man who came home from work one day to find a horrible scene.  His dog had apparently gotten out of the house and had run through his neighbor’s walkway which had just been poured with wet concrete.  The neighbor, in response, shot the dog.  When the man went over to confront his neighbor he exclaimed, “How could you do this?  I thought you loved dogs?!?!”  “I do love dogs,” said the neighbor.  “I love dogs in the abstract, but I hate dogs in the concrete.”

Isn’t that the truth?  We’re really good at loving everyone in the abstract, but in the concrete, when “everyone” becomes a someone with a particular name and face and, perhaps, a certain way about them that we find annoying, offensive, or just downright wrong then love becomes a challenge.  Add to that a difference of race, political party, nationality, language, or religion and loving such a someone might even seem close to impossible.

Our Old Testament witnesses to that tension, particularly when it comes to dealing with the stranger.  On the one hand, God told Abraham that through him all nations would be blessed.  The prophet Isaiah proclaimed that Israel was to be a light to the nations.  And scattered throughout the scripture God’s people were instructed to exercise special care, justice, and compassion for the stranger among them.  Then in the book of Leviticus, God plainly commands, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  Yet there is also another narrative, one where preeminence is placed on keeping totally separate from those who are different.  Marriage to foreigners is forbidden. Laws dictate that Jewish people may not touch, associate with, or eat with those who are not Jewish.  And in some circumstances the Israelites were commanded to destroy entire foreign towns and its occupants in order to keep God’s people pure. 

Abstract people are easy to love: concrete people, not so much.  And it’s exactly into this tension - that existed then and certainly exists now - that the book of Ruth speaks.  For it’s a story about ordinary people challenged to move beyond fear and prejudice in order to live faithfully and fully.  And in doing so we see the power of love and the good news that God’s people can be as different as they can be and yet still belong to one another.

Ruth’s story actually begins with Elimelech and Naomi, Israelites living in Bethlehem with their two sons.  Famine forces them to become immigrants and find refuge in the neighboring, but foreign and sometimes enemy, country of Moab.  Elimelech dies making Naomi a widow, but she is supported by her sons who end up going against Jewish law and marrying local girls, Ruth and Orpah.  Ten years pass and sadly tragedy strikes again.  Both of Naomi’s sons die leaving Naomi and her daughters-in-law with no means of support.  But word is that Israel is no long in a state of famine so Naomi decides that her best bet is to head back to her homeland.  She counsels her daughters-in-law to do the same, to go back to their original homes and try to start over.  Orpah heeds this advice.  Ruth does not.  Despite all of their differences in age, nationality, race, and religion plus the risk that as a Moabite she would face hostility in the land of Israel, Ruth pledges to her mother-in-law, “Where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay.”  She is committed to Naomi not with a sentimental or abstract love, but a love in action, a love in the concrete.   And it is that type of love that makes these two belong to one another.

So together Naomi and Ruth journey to Bethlehem.  And our reading picks up after some time of being back in Israel eking out an existence by gleaning the remnants of local crops.  Realizing this is not sustainable, Naomi hatches a plan for Ruth to woo one of Naomi’s relatives, Boaz.  The plan works flawlessly.  Boaz takes Ruth as his wife - another nontraditional and, some might say, unlawful marriage - which provides protection for both Ruth and Naomi.  The blessings continue as Ruth becomes pregnant and gives birth to a son, Obed, who will become grandfather to King David.  Remarkably, Ruth, the outsider, the foreigner, a person who might even be considered a threat by some, not only plays a role in bringing about Israel’s greatest king, but centuries later is named in the very first chapter of Matthew’s gospel as one belonging to Jesus’ family. 

Ruth’s story answers the thorny question about how do you take abstract love and make it concrete?  By loving those around you - those who are seen and those who are unseen and on the margins.  By sticking with them when it’s easier to leave.  By seeking the best for them even when that may require some sacrifice on your part.  By recognizing that your well-being is tied up in their well-being.  That’s because along with being a love story Ruth’s story is also about belonging.  In our world today where divisiveness has become the norm and an “us versus them” mentality is cultivated we have the counter message of Ruth.  God’s message.  A message of inclusion - the good news that God’s people do not have to look the same or think the same to belong to each other.  It is not political party or race or language or nationality that makes us belong.  What makes us belong is love - the love God has for all of us which means that, like it or not, we belong to one another.  And no one can be dismissed.

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.  These words don’t just belong to Ruth or to starry-eyed couples at the altar, but to each one of us.  Challenging us to move beyond fear and prejudice.  To recognize that in and through God we all are linked together.  To know that all of us are fully loved and all of us truly belong.  So with God’s help, may we live that truth as we seek to love one another - especially those we find in the concrete.