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.  

To seek and serve Christ in all persons...and dogs. The Rev. Deacon Lawrence Elliott

Deacon Lawrence and Sophie

Deacons are called to have one foot in the church and one in the world; to be a pebble in the shoe of the Church. For us to interpret to the Church, we must be in the world to know its needs, concerns, and hopes. In our baptismal covenant, we agree that we can do these things “with God’s help.” Thus, all baptized Christians are called to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself.”

The deacon, as an icon of servant ministry, “shows Christ’s people that in serving the helpless they are serving Christ himself.” (The Book of Common Prayer, p. 543) When the needs of the world are brought to the church, the deacon seeks to call others to their own servant ministry. If students at a local elementary school need help learning to read, the deacon seeks those who will thrive in this work. Deacons can work with the community and the church in a food pantry project. A deacon friend of mine learned of many Vietnamese students in northern Virginia who had little to eat and nowhere safe to go after school. She started a program that provides a safe place, a snack, homework help, and a backpack of food to take home. In each of these cases, the deacon could do all the work, but the greater gift is for all baptized people to be called to their own servant ministry.

How do you know you’ve found the place to which God is calling you? “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” (Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC)

Such a place exists for each of us. Perhaps places. The deacon as icon of servant ministry can remind us all of the needs of the world. Seeing the deacon serve in the Eucharist can remind us that we are called to service, that service is required. On Sunday morning I strive to greet and say farewell at the door to the church. This not only fulfills my call to have one foot in the church and one in the world, but perhaps reminds us all that moving from church to world is seamless. It’s not a here/there, us/them, situation but God’s seamless creation.

Who we are. November 4, 2018 The Rev. David M. Stoddart

Luke 6:20-36

“On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travellers into the gulf below.” So begins Thornton Wilder’s great novel, The Bridge of San Luis Rey. It tells the story of Brother Juniper, who was haunted by this tragedy and decided he would make sense of it. He spent years researching the life stories of the five people who perished, believing they must have been terrible sinners being punished by God or people so good that God called them to heaven early. But all his inquiries failed to give him any easy answers. They were human beings, both beautiful and broken, and he could discern no reason why they in particular should have suffered such a fate. Br. Juniper fails in his search for meaning, but the book doesn’t. There is actually one great theme in all of their lives, a theme which an abbess, who knows the story, articulates at the very end of the book: “But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and then forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

I have sat with more dying people than I can remember, and I have been to countless funerals. I have listened to many people reflect on their lives, and I have listened to many people eulogize the lives of others. And it’s true: love is the only meaning. Fame, fortune, and success are all secondary at best: our lives really come down to the love we knew and the love we shared. Even amassing money and status is for many people just a way to feel loved, or at least a way to feel like they are worthy of being loved. When Jesus emphasizes the primacy of love in his life and teaching, he is not making it up or discovering something new. He is showing us the truth at the heart of reality. It’s true whether you’re a Christian or not; it’s true whether you’re religious or not. God is love, and love is the DNA of the universe. The one thing those five people who died on that bridge had in common was love: their expression of it, their longing for it, and sometimes their lack of it. If we are to find meaning in our lives, it will ultimately come down to the love we gave, the love we received, the love we wish we had experienced.

Today is All Saints’ Sunday, so let me remind you of what a saint is. A saint is not an intolerable goody-goody, who never swears, never has a nasty thought, and really, really likes church services. No, in our tradition a saint is simply someone who has realized that love is what this is all about, that loving God and loving others is the key that unlocks everything. And a saint is someone who sees that this truth applies not only to our family and dearest friends, but to everyone. A saint gets this Gospel today, a Gospel filled with love and lacking any trace of sentimentality: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you . . . Do to others as you would have them do to you . . . If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them . . . But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

Nine African Americans murdered in a Charleston church. Eleven Jews massacred in a Pittsburgh synagogue. The list keeps growing. Hate crimes are on the rise, as is the hate speech that leads to them. The poison is all around us: we have encountered it up close and personal here in Charlottesville. The reflexive instinct of our broken humanity is to hate back: to despise those who say and do horrible things until we, too, have joined the chorus of the hateful. That may feel natural to us, but Jesus says no, it’s not. We were made by love and for love. And to Jesus, love does not mean passivity: it means actively going out and meeting hatred with acts of goodness and mercy, going out of our way to love when those around us are not loving. In fact, Jesus insists that this is the best way to confront evil and the only way to defeat it. And all the saints know this. Paul knew it: ‘If your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good (Rom. 12-20-21).  Martin Luther King, Jr. knew it: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Only love: with all the saints, we need to know that, too. And we need to live it.

So if you’re thinking right now of the people you despise, and if you’re saying to yourself that loving them seems agonizingly hard, I have two things to say to you. First, “Good morning! I’m glad you’re awake. Welcome to the Christian faith.” Jesus told us it’s all about love and then commanded us take up our cross and follow him. He never promised that loving would be easy: he just promised it would be worth it. Second, of course we can’t love like that on our own, but we don’t have to. That is precisely why the Holy Spirit has been given to us: to empower us to love like Jesus. His Spirit of infinite and unconquerable love abides in each one of us right now, waiting to be unleashed in our lives.

So rather than just read the news and fall into bitterness and despair, let’s ask ourselves: How are we going to unleash the Spirit of love in our lives? What difficult people are we going to be kind to this week? How are we going to connect with someone who is different than we are? Who are we we going to pray for that we haven’t been praying for? How will we show mercy to someone who needs mercy? Who will we try to understand better? What public policies will we support with our voice and our vote? In short, how are we — you and I — going to make the world a more loving place this week, today? Each of us has the God-given power to make this world a more loving place. One of the most ancient parts of our liturgy, along with the Words of Institution themselves, is the dismissal: Let us go forth in the name of Christ; Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit; Go in peace to love and serve the Lord; GO! We’re not here to escape. We’re here to be reminded of who we are, and then to be fed and empowered to go out and be saints, people who know that love is what it’s all about, people who show that love is the only way to live well. Yes, Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world — thanks be to God! — but there is that one nagging little detail: he has delegated much of that saving work to us. In the power of the Holy Spirit, go and do it.