COOS Festival of Lessons & Carols
December 27, 2020
(can be printed out)
Sunday, December 27, 2020
Friday, December 25, 2020
Deliberately welcome Christ. Christmas Day 2020 The Rev. David M. Stoddart
Christmas Day
Christmas is a feast of the senses: decorated trees, outdoor lights, wrapped presents, chocolate, ham sliders, cookies, pies, chocolate, wreaths, candles, the sound of carols, the smell of pine and spruce, chocolate, connecting with loved ones in person and online, gathering together right now. It is indeed a good and joyful thing to celebrate Christmas in such an embodied way because we are celebrating the embodiment of God. The Holy One who speaks the universe into existence and declares it good enters into that universe and is enfleshed in Jesus.
And let me be clear: there is no logical way to understand or explain that incredible mystery. We can say the words, but in the end we can only kneel in love and awe before the wondrous reality of it. Spirit and matter are joined together. The One who makes the world is now part of the world and fills the world. As the Franciscan writer Richard Rohr puts it, we live in a Christ-soaked universe. Every physical object can be a means of grace; every physical action can be a sacrament. God is one with us and with this world She creates and rejoices in.
So, yes, we should eat, drink, and be merry. We should hug the people we love, and as the Psalmist says, we should taste and see that the Lord is good (Psalm 35:8). But there is one other thing we can do to make our joy and God’s joy complete. Just as God has been embodied in Jesus Christ, so Jesus Christ longs to be embodied in us. The saving work of the Incarnation is not complete until Christ is incarnated, enfleshed, in me and in you.
That is the work of the Holy Spirit who, as our second reading today affirms, has been poured out upon us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior. But there is something we can do to cooperate with that Spirit and open up the channels of divine love and grace within us. And that something is what I am going to urge all of us to do today. At some point today when you are not opening presents or eating or watching TV or talking to your family, I ask you to find a quiet space for just a few minutes. Go into your room and shut the door, as Jesus tells us in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 6:6). And then deliberately welcome Christ into your life. You can use whatever words you want — only Jesus is going to hear them — but welcome him personally and spend a few moments giving thanks that his Spirit lives in you.
My own prayer will be something like this: “Thank you, Lord Jesus, for living within me. I want my heart to love like yours, I want my spirit to be your Spirit. Thank you that I am filled with your life which you give to me as a gift. Thank you for the people around me who reflect your love. Thank you for opportunities to love you by loving others. Thank you for forgiving me when I fail. Thank you that you will be with me and I will be with you forever. Open my eyes so that I can see heaven everywhere. Welcome, Lord Jesus. Welcome.”
The New Testament and our baptismal liturgy make it clear: we are to be one with Christ and to embody Christ in this world. That is our great joy and privilege. Christmas will not be over until Jesus is enfleshed in us. And the more he is enfleshed in us, the more every day will be like Christmas.
So receive him. Welcome him. Embody him. Today.
Invited to come. Christmas Eve 2020. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges
Luke 2:1-20
On this Christmas Eve I find the familiar story of Jesus’ birth especially comforting. It’s a story that many of us have heard year after year - maybe even for all of our lives. And in a year when so much has changed and so much has been lost it’s especially nice to have at least one thing remain the same. We may not be able to gather in person, but we are united in spirit as we hear once again the story of a child who is born. A savior who is come. The baby Jesus wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
InnAnd it is to that manger we are invited to come. But before we get there, let us join those shepherds living in the fields, minding their own business, keeping watch over their flock by night. When all of a sudden, literally out of the blue, an angel of the Lord appears before them, and the glory of the Lord shines all around them, and - guess what? - they’re terrified. In fact, the original Greek reads that “they feared with great fear.” It seems that the appearance of an angel in full on glory is a rather frightening event - way out of one’s comfort zone. So after practically giving these poor shepherds a collective heart attack, the angel speaks the very first words we hear in the Christmas story, Do not be afraid.
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 23, 2020
Sunday, December 20, 2020
Hearing God's message. December 20, 2020 The Rev. David M. Stoddart
Luke 1:26-38
I don’t know how you picture this wonderful Gospel, but certain motifs have long dominated Western art, motifs we can see in this wall mural by an unknown artist.
Mary is at a prayer desk to show that she
has been praying, and she has a Bible in front of her, conveniently opened to
Isaiah 7: “Behold a virgin shall conceive and bear a son.” Her eyes are
downcast, her arms are crossed, and her look is submissive. She is prayerful
and pious, a holy young woman. And the angel is visibly present before her, an
androgynous figure with golden hair and beautiful wings. The scene is serene
and otherworldly. Similar depictions have been painted countless times: it’s a
common way of envisioning and interpreting this story . . . but it’s not the
only way.
Wednesday, December 16, 2020
Monday, December 14, 2020
Not the only voices out there. December 13, 2020 The Rev. Kathleen Sturges
John 1:6-8, 19-28, 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
When I was a child Saturday mornings were the best. That’s when all the good cartoons were on TV, one of them being The Adventures of Gulliver. But I must have been the only fan of the show because it only ran for one season. Nonetheless, I still remember it. Not the whole series but one character, in particular. His name was Glum. And he was true to his name. Whenever there was trouble, Glum, in a deep, monotone voice, would always declare, “It'll never work. We’ll never make it. We’re doomed. It’s hopeless.”
Now hope doesn’t make life easy. What
hope does is make life possible - even during wilderness times. Hope reminds us
that it will not always be this way. Hope tells us that we have a future. Hope
proclaims that the Word who is God is our light and our life which will never
fail.
Sunday, December 13, 2020
Wednesday, December 9, 2020
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
Words of comfort. December 6, 2020 The Rt. Rev. Susan E. Goff
“Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.” Advent is by far my favorite season of the year. Every year on the night before Advent begins, my husband Tom and I set up the Advent wreath on our dining room table, then hang a Moravian Advent star on our front porch. Each week we add more lights inside and out, working to keep at bay the growing darkness as we prepare in heart and mind for Christmas.
This year, though, we blew our traditions out of the water. After setting up the Advent wreath and hanging the Advent star, we put up our Christmas tree. In any other year I’d be embarrassed to admit it! This year, though, the darkness has been darker than usual. This year, we need the light to be more visible than ever. We haven’t decorated the tree yet, but it is up and the lights are lit. And in those lights we are finding comfort.
“Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God,” we heard today from the book of the prophet Isaiah. Comfort, O comfort. Said twice for emphasis, twice to indicate tenderness and compassion, twice because people needed a double measure of comfort.
The people of Judea, the southern territory of the biblical holy lands, had been conquered by the Babylonian Empire in the year 587 BCE. The beloved Temple, the center of worship and cultural identity, was torn to the ground and hundreds of people were force marched to far off Babylon where they lived in exile. Far from home, far from the land they loved, the people mourned. They lamented in prayers like Psalm 137:
By the rivers of Babylon—
there we sat down and there we wept
when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs,
and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”
How could we sing the Lord’s song
in a foreign land?
The people grieved for their loved ones who died in the attack on their city. They grieved for the Temple, the concrete sign of their faith. They grieved for their lost homes and lands and possessions, for life as they once knew it. And they experienced remorse and guilt, because they believed that Jerusalem was captured and destroyed as a punishment from God for their lack of faithfulness. In a foreign land, they suffered. Children grew and married in exile. Babies were born in exile. People died in exile. For forty years they lived in exile, and yearned with all their hearts to return home.
God spoke to them through the prophet:
“Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid . . .”
Words of comfort were spoken. An end was in sight. Forgiveness was granted. The people were still in exile, and would be for some months longer until the Persian Empire conquered Babylonia and the Persian King Cyrus set the captives free. The people were still in exile, but they had comfort and hope at last. Comfort and hope because God is tender, because God loves creation and all humanity deeply, because God is present and acts in the world.
Comfort and hope because God forgives and because God is good. Comfort for the present and hope for the future.
Today we are living in exile, not in a foreign land, but exiled by the Coronavirus to months of quarantine and separation in our own homes. In this exile, we grieve for what we have lost. We grieve for well over a quarter of a million people who have died of COVID-19 in the United States alone, far more than in any other nation of the world. We grieve for more than 63 million people who have been infected worldwide. We grieve for events that have been cancelled, trips we couldn’t take, friends and family we haven’t seen in person since March. We grieve the loss of jobs, the loss of income, the loss of livelihoods. We grieve that we will remain separated for a while longer, and that our Christmas celebrations will be as changed as were our celebrations of Easter, Pentecost and Thanksgiving.
Like the exiles in Babylon, some of us also wonder about the part sin has played in our exile. I don’t believe for a moment, the way they did, that God sent this exile upon as as a punishment for our unfaithfulness. I don’t believe that God who is tender, who symbolically carries the lambs in his arms, sends punishment indiscriminately, causing those who are already vulnerable to suffer even more. But I have seen how our human sin has made things worse. The Catechism at the back of our Book of Common Prayer says that “Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.” Sin breaks relationships. So, neglecting to protect one another when the virus first broke out, claiming that personal liberty is more important that communal safety, is sin that plays a part in spreading the virus. Turning the virus into a political battle zone, instead of focusing our battle on the virus itself, is sin that breaks relationship. Choosing financial well-being for some over the health and safety for all is sinful. This is hard news, because Americans take pride in our individuality, our political system and our economy. It’s hard to hear that every aspect of our lives, even those we cling to most tightly, can become occasions for sin and can pull us from being all that God created us to be. This pandemic, I believe, is not God’s punishment for sin, but human sin has made it worse. We grieve that brokenness, that sinfulness, along with all the rest that we have lost in this pandemic time.
In our grief, God speaks to us today. “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.” God sends us comfort that, although we’ll still be in this exile when Christmas comes, we will not be here forever. Although we’ll still be separated from loved ones and from our beloved church buildings for some months more, we won’t be apart forever. Although our sinfulness has helped make this pandemic far worse in the United States than in any other nation on earth, this pandemic will not last forever. The end is in sight. Effective vaccines are on the horizon. It will be an exile of over a year by the time it is over, but it won’t be 40 years as it was for the Judeans in Babylonia. God comforts us with that assurance today.
And God commands us to offer comfort to others. “Comfort, O comfort my people.” In this passage comfort is a verb in command form, and it is plural. Many commentaries imagine these as God’s words spoken to the angels. “Go, angels, go my messengers, go and comfort my people.”
God commands us to do the same. You, all of you, you in the middle of coronavirus exile, go and comfort my people, says our God. Comfort others. Keep reminding your family and friends that we’ve come so far and the end is in sight, so don’t give up now, don’t let your guard down now. Send texts and letters and old-fashioned Christmas cards, offering comfort. Make old fashioned phone calls. Give comfort and hope everywhere you can. In the words of Isaiah, “lift up your voice with strength, . . . Lift it up, do not fear, . . . Say to the cities of Judah, [to the cities of Virginia and beyond] ‘Here is your God!’” Be a part of obeying the command to comfort God’s people.
And if part of comforting others is to hang those Christmas lights early, do it boldly. Don’t worry, I’m assured that the Advent Pharisees are being quite lenient this year. Just be assured of God's comforting presence as you go and comfort others.
Sunday, December 6, 2020
Wednesday, December 2, 2020
Sunday, November 29, 2020
Our yearly wake-up call. November 29, 2020 The Rev. David M. Stoddart
Isaiah 64:1-9; 1 Cor. 1:3-9; Mark 13:24-37
How come we often think we know how a story should go, and yet get it completely wrong? A man had two sons. One worked the farm and did what he was supposed to do while the other left home and squandered his father’s money. So the father disowned that son and punished him severely. No, wait . . . actually, he threw a party for him. The owner of a vineyard went out to hire laborers. Some worked all day, and some only worked one hour, so of course the ones who worked all day got paid more. No, wait . . . actually, they all got paid the same amount. Jesus is always telling stories that throw us: we think we know how they should go, but they still manage to surprise us. The story of his life is surprising. An upstart rabbi from the provinces is tortured to death by the mightiest empire in the world because he threatens the status quo. So after ending his life in failure, he is quickly forgotten and his followers are never heard from again. No, wait . . . actually, the story has a very different ending.
So let me tell you another story. Human beings kept screwing up, so to punish us God disappeared from view and left us to our fate. Now the only way you can get on God’s good side is to have faith in Jesus. Those who have faith will be forgiven, while everyone else will be punished in hell forever. It’s a popular story, a bestseller even, but except for that part about humans screwing up, it’s completely wrong. Why so many people believe it I don’t know, but the readings today tell us a different story. Let’s begin with this idea that God disappears from view to punish us. Our first reading comes from the end of the book of Isaiah, and was written by a prophet trying to make sense of exile and suffering. He realizes that God no longer seems to appear in dramatic, earth-shattering ways. But listen to what he says: because you hid yourself we transgressed. Not, we transgressed so you hid yourself to punish us, but you hid yourself and so we transgressed. It’s because people could not or would not see God that they sinned.
Hold on to that for a second, and let’s address this idea that it’s our faith that saves us. That’s not what Paul tells the Corinthians today when he writes, He will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is faithful. It’s not our faith that saves us or makes us blameless: it is God’s faithfulness. As Paul writes in Second Timothy: even if we are faithless, [God] remains faithful (2 Tim. 2:13).
So here’s the real story. God does not always reveal Godself in earth-shattering ways, but because human beings fail to see God in the ordinary events of life, we hurt ourselves and we hurt others. But God’s unconditional love and utter faithfulness, fully revealed in Jesus Christ, will restore our vision and ultimately save us all. God has not left to punish us, nor are we left to somehow conjure up enough faith to save ourselves. That is not how the story goes. And since we don’t have to get on God’s good side, not even by having enough faith, what are we to do? Well, just what Jesus says in the Gospel: Keep awake.
We begin Advent today, our yearly wake up call. When we are spiritually sluggish or asleep, our ego-driven minds, obsessed as they are with self-justification and punishment, can weave nightmarish tales that are not true and do not reflect the love and faithfulness of God. So we get a shot of spiritual espresso today, with Jesus telling us, Wake up! This Gospel passage uses apocalyptic imagery, which is strange and disturbing. But then again, given a global pandemic with hundreds of thousands of people dead and millions out of work, with racial injustice abounding, global warming on the rise, and the gap between the haves and the have nots growing ever larger, maybe apocalyptic language is appropriate. In the midst of catastrophe, Jesus comes. At the end of time, yes, but also every day. He promises to be with us always, and his Spirit, the Holy Spirit of God, is continually coming, continually flowing. Do you see it?
In this time of social distancing, I find my own awareness heightened. As I listen to some of the pain our parishioners are experiencing, I feel the presence of Christ who identifies so completely with all those who suffer. We’re all zoomed out, and yet during this crazy time when we can’t be together in person, people are coming to worship and joining our small groups literally from across the country and around the world. Even now, Jesus is building community. This pandemic has stretched our society and exposed some glaring injustices, both racial and economic. But in the voices of those crying out for the powerless, I hear the voice of God and feel the compassion of Christ.
Jesus comes into a hurting world. He did it two thousand years ago, and he’s doing it now. God is forever faithful. We’re not abandoned and we don’t have to keep telling ourselves stories of despair. There is only one story Jesus tells, and it is the ever surprising story of Good News. So keep awake, and see that story unfolding before your eyes.
Wednesday, November 25, 2020
The invitation to give thanks is not limited. November 25, 2020 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges
Psalm 118:1, Luke 17:11-19
Picture with me a Peanuts comic strip. Lucy is feeling sorry for herself and she laments, "My life is a drag. I'm completely fed up. I've never felt so low in my life."
Monday, November 23, 2020
We make a difference. November 22, 2020 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges
Matthew
25:31-46
Early on in the pandemic, one of our parishioners, I’ll call her Laura, wanted to make a difference. So she volunteered with a local organization to deliver food to those in need. One of the people Laura delivered food to was Ellen. Ellen was disabled and lived alone. And whenever Laura came by Ellen always wanted to talk. So, naturally, Laura spent some extra time chatting with her. Soon, though, Ellen discontinued the food service, but she kept in touch with Laura. She would sometimes run errands for Ellen and was happy to drive Ellen to various appointments. But as the months went by Ellen’s needs continued to grow. Laura would get texts from Ellen sometimes just to say hi, other times expressing her loneliness, eventually calling Laura her BFF - her Best Friend Forever. When Ellen mentioned that what she really needed a health care agent in case she became incapacitated that’s when Laura called me. She felt torn between wanting to help and, truthfully, wanting to stop.
Looking through the lens of the parable about the sheep and the goats, I wonder, how would Laura be sorted? Because of the help she provided Ellen would Laura be considered a blessed sheep? But what if she stopped? Would Jesus move her from his right to his left and make her an accursed goat? That can’t be right. Because God knows better than anyone that people don’t neatly fall into simple categories. No one is completely good or bad, right or wrong, sheep or goat. Rather the truth is that we are both. At least I am. Sure there are times when I do feed and clothe and welcome and care and visit someone in need. And there are times that I don’t. In fact, I know I have behaved as a sheep and a goat to some of the same people on different occasions. For the least of these, as Jesus calls them, are not just strangers who pass in and out of our lives never to be seen again. The least of these is anyone with a need whether it be physical, emotional or spiritual. We live our days surrounded by the least of these and yet we are often unaware.
One of the truths that this parable reveals to us is that whether we know it or know what we do in our daily lives matter. We make a difference. And that’s good news, isn’t it? Don’t we all want to make a difference in this world? But the bad news, or maybe I should say, the more sobering news is that we may not know if the difference we are making is for good or for ill. We may mean well, but that doesn’t mean we get it right. There’s always plenty to confess when we consider both what we have done and left undone. So this parable should keep us humble. But in addition to that the story offers us a glimpse of what we often can’t see with the naked eye, that is, that whenever we encounter someone’s need we are encountering the holy. We are encountering Christ. Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these...you did it to me.
But what gets lost in translation - literally - is that Jesus is not just speaking to us as separate individuals. What we miss in our English bibles is that the “you” throughout the story is plural. What Jesus really says is, “I was hungry and you [plural, as in “ya’ll”] gave me food, I was thirsty and [ya’ll] gave me something to drink.” Conversely, “I was a stranger and [ya’ll] did not welcome me, naked and [ya’ll] did not give me clothing…” One on one acts of mercy are good and right. But using our collective power and influence to address the needs of others is just as much a part of our calling and should not be ignored. Just as [ya’ll] did it to one of the least of these…[ya’ll] did it to me.
And the only way we, as individuals and as a community, can ever hope to make a positive difference in the lives of others is to pray for and be open to God’s help. As we surrender to the power of God’s love and mercy in our own lives we are then able to let that love and mercy flow through us into the lives of others, the least of these, whomever they may be. In Laura’s case, she discerned that the most loving thing to do for Ellen was to create healthy boundaries. She still reaches out to Ellen in measured ways while encouraging her to connect with other resources in the community. It’s not perfect. Nonetheless, it is holy for Christ is present. And Christ is merciful to us all.
Sunday, November 22, 2020
Wednesday, November 18, 2020
Monday, November 16, 2020
Practical wisdom for living. November 15, 2020 The Rev. David M. Stoddart
Matthew 25:14-30
Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed
It’s the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance
It’s the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance
It’s the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live
The Rose. The words are by Amanda Mcbroom, but most of us know it as a song sung by Bette Midler. That song has come to my mind as I have sat with the Gospel this week. If it’s true that the parables of Jesus act as spiritual hand grenades, then this one today packs a lot of explosive power. And what jumps out at me is that third slave who says, I was afraid — afraid of his master, afraid of taking any chances, afraid of screwing up, afraid of failure, or who knows, maybe afraid of success. But fear is what drives him, and the results are terrible. Now we can get all bent out of shape and say what a mean master he has and that God would never do such a thing, but we’d be barking up the wrong tree. This is not an allegory or a theology lesson: it’s a parable, a story meant to shake us up. This third slave lives in fear, and it doesn’t make his life better: it just results in more fear, until at the end he finds himself in the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing his teeth.
The parable hits hard in part because it is so easy for us to live in fear. And nothing is so crippling as living in fear. I’ve experienced it in my own life, and I’ve witnessed it in the lives of others. I’ve seen people paralyzed by their fear of what others might think of them if they speak their mind or live out their core beliefs. Fear of those who are different than we are runs rampant in our society. Lots of people are afraid of change. I’ve known people who would not let themselves get close to others because they were terrified they might get hurt. And while there are times when fear is understandable and even justified, living in fear on a regular basis inevitably diminishes us. Fear breeds more fear, and leads only to isolation and despair.
It’s the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance
It’s the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance
It’s the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live
The Bible tells us over and over again not to be afraid, but the simple commandment, “Do not fear!” won’t suffice. The Bible also offers a remedy. And the remedy for fear is not steely resolve or blind faith or sheer recklessness. There is only one antidote to fear, and that is love. The First Letter of John puts it like this, God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them . . . There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. (1 John 4:16b, 18).
I know this is true. It’s when I feel most loved, when I am most aware of God’s love and the love of people around me, that I am most courageous. When I am filled with love, I am fearless. It’s when I feel isolated, cut off from God or from the people closest to me that I feel most afraid. And because that’s the case, when I do feel afraid, I know the answer is not to try to gear myself up to be brave — that doesn’t work. What works is to allow myself to be in God’s presence and to remember the love of God that continually surrounds me and fills me, as it surrounds and fills all of us. For as Paul says, God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us (Rom. 5:5). This is not academic theology: this is practical wisdom for living. Love and love alone sets us free: fear constricts and binds us, but love is what lets our spirits grow and our hearts expand. Loving doesn’t mean bad things will never happen. Loving means we will not live in fear.
Think of what you are most afraid of today. Consider how it holds you back or even cripples you. You can give into the fear, bury yourself, and refuse to take any chances, but there is another way: ask to know the love of God right in the midst of that fear. And I mean ask for it and look for it. If you have experienced the love of God before, remind yourself of what that feels like. And if you have never in your life known God’s love, be open enough to experience it. You might try repeating verses like “”God’s love has been poured into our hearts” or imagining Jesus saying to you, “I love you” or just keep praying, “God, I am open to your love,” If we open up even a tiny amount, and if we seek even a little bit, the Holy Spirit will find a way to touch us with love — and begin to set us free from fear and set us free to live.
Do you remember how the song ends? It goes like this:
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose
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