Archive for the ‘incarnation’ Tag

Advent 4   Leave a comment

mrpriest
The following is a homily I gave at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Denver, on the morning of 24 December 2017.
Scripture: Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38
Canticle: Luke 1:46-55

Today’s Gospel lesson, known in the Church as The Annunciation of Gabriel to Mary, or simply The Annunciation, is my favorite Bible story. And it’s one of the most influential stories in terms of art; I would encourage you when you go home this afternoon to do a Google image search on The Annunciation. You’ll find hundreds of paintings over the centuries, from ancient murals and icons to John Collier’s very modern take. Even if you can’t call to mind any images of the Annunciation at this moment, some of the pictures you find will undoubtedly be familiar to you. (Your search may reveal a few early images in which Mary is wearing a chasuble and stole—the vestments of a priest).

The story has inspired hymns and spiritual songs, perhaps most notably Hymn #265, which we often sing at this time of year as well as on the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25th. And three words of Mary’s response inspired Paul McCartney to write one of the Beatles’ most celebrated songs.

If you pray the Rosary, or grew up praying it, you know that the first line of the Hail Mary, “Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee,” comes from Gabriel’s greeting here.

All this familiarity with The Annunciation can desensitize us to its revolutionary nature: this is one of the most subversive stories in the Bible.

Let’s quickly address Mary’s virginity: the Church and our culture have developed an unfortunate fixation over the centuries on Mary’s sex life, and it has had an unhealthy effect on our broader conversations around sexuality, with some devastating consequences, particularly for young women.

Mary’s sexual innocence is not the point, and the message is definitely not that virgins have found favor with God and those who aren’t virgins are out of God’s favor.

The point—as Gabriel explicitly says—is that God can do what should be biologically impossible. This is God saying, “I know the parameters of human reproduction; I created those parameters; and I can transcend those parameters.”

Because what’s about to happen will change everything.

Mary accepts the strange news that follows the strange greeting, and says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” That “Here am I, the servant of the Lord” echoes the response of God’s faithful servants over generations to God’s call; look through the Bible and you will see those words again and again. They’re good words to have in mind if God should ever call you to anything.

And when Mary says, “Let it be with me according to your word,” Mary becomes three things: one, she becomes a mother.

Two, she becomes in essence the first Christian priest, consecrating with her word the body and blood of Christ—a fact curiously overlooked or excused by two millennia of male church leaders opposed to the ordination of women, despite Mary being depicted in priestly vestments in liturgical art for nearly that whole time.

Three, she becomes Theotokos: the Mother of God. Now, I recognize that may be a controversial term for some of you. Calling Mary the Mother of God isn’t to worship Mary, or to say that Mary is greater than or equal to God or Jesus; it is acknowledging and showing reverence for her special role and place—as Gabriel clearly acknowledges in the text—as the mother of the incarnate God, the one who was chosen for and accepted this role—risking her impending marriage, her reputation, and in a time of both high childbirth mortality and the stoning of unmarried mothers, risking even her life—and gave birth to Jesus and raised him.

So Mary is special. And yet, very much human, and very much an example for all of us: for each one of us is called to echo her response: Here am I; let it be with me according to your word.

Every day, in every moment, God calls you and me and The Church to do as Mary did, and give birth to the incarnation of God in the world.

Most of you know that Erica and I are expecting our first child in April. And we have had countless friends and relatives telling us, “Your lives are about to completely change forever. You can’t even imagine how much everything is about to change.” And it’s something I don’t mind hearing over and over, because I know it’s true: I know that no matter how much I can intellectually grasp how profound an experience becoming a parent is, I won’t really know until I experience it first hand. Neither books nor movies, nor having nieces and nephews and the children of close friends in my life can prepare me: the experience is beyond my comprehension.

So is this true of the Incarnation. What we will celebrate tonight, what St. Paul calls “the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed,” was foretold for generations as the coming of a king and liberator of a great kingdom—and yet turns out to be not a king and kingdom in an earthly sense, but a helpless baby born to a family of marginalized ethnicity in a time of occupation and oppression, and a spiritual kingdom whose citizens strive to live in marked distinction from the values of the kingdom they physically inhabit. Even the Prophets couldn’t grasp the astonishing thing they were foretelling. But they knew that everything would change.

Shortly after the Annunciation, Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who is unexpectedly pregnant with John who will become the Baptist, and Mary sings the canticle we call The Magnificat, which took the place of a Psalm for us in today’s liturgy. This Song of Mary hearkens back to the Song of Hannah, mother of the prophet Samuel—another unexpected pregnancy—and it is perhaps even more subversive and insurgent than The Annunciation.

Mary begins, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,” (in Latin: Magnificat anima mea Dominum, my soul magnifies the Lord) and then she tells us why; she paints a picture of a world turned upside down, a world in which God has scattered the proud in their conceit, has cast down the mighty from their thrones, has lifted up the lowly, has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty; God has come to the help of God’s servant, for God has remembered God’s promise of mercy.

The Magnificat is what love, justice, and power look like in God’s kingdom. It is the polar opposite of what love, justice, and power look like in our wounded world. It is the polar opposite of the greedy, heartless tax bill passed into law this week. It is the antithesis of the justice and power structures we see in our nation today. It is a world in which Mary’s consent is an essential element of the Incarnation, as is Joseph believing her story.

This song of subversion is part of the Church’s daily liturgy: it’s optional at morning prayer, but always part of evening prayer. If you’ve ever thought about memorizing a piece of poetry to calm yourself at stressful times, consider memorizing this canticle, and reciting it—praying it—regularly.

Note that Mary uses the past tense; these are the things that God has done. Even though Jesus is not yet born, and we may not see how justice is prevailing on Earth, it is already done, and cannot be undone. The powerful, the unjust, and the unloving just don’t know it yet.

Tonight Christmas begins. God is coming into the world through unlikely means: an impossible pregnancy through the consent of a brave and Blessed Mother.

God is coming into the world through the faith and love and justice of every person in this congregation and in the Communion of Saints—brave and blessed mothers all. And everything is about to change…

“Do not be afraid, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a child… of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Funeral Homily for Br. Max Steele, BSG   Leave a comment

The following is the homily I gave at the funeral of Br. Max Steele, BSG, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Chattanooga, Tennessee, on 16 December 2017.
Scripture: Job 19:21-27
Psalm 150
Rev 7:9-17
John 11:21-27

The Gospel passage we’ve just heard finds Martha of Bethany—along with her sister Mary, and Jesus himself—in deep grief over the death of Mary’s and Martha’s brother Lazarus. It’s appropriate to imagine a sobbing voice—or even an angry voice—in Martha’s admonition to Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.”

And if you’ve ever felt that feeling grief is somehow inappropriate for a Christian who believes in the Resurrection, take heart in verses 33 and 35 of this same chapter of John: “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved… Jesus began to weep.”

Jesus knows what he is about to do; he has just told Martha “Your brother will rise again.” and still he weeps over Lazarus’ death and the pain around him.

We are all in this house of prayer today because we love and grieve for Brother Max. We love and grieve with Sonya and Sam.

Scripture assures us that Jesus grieves with us.

But it also assures us of more than this: When Martha talks about her brother rising in the Resurrection on the last day, Jesus tells her, “I am the Resurrection and the life.”

Brother Max had faith in this declaration. He had faith in all these Bible passages we have heard this afternoon: the redemption promised in the Job passage; the salvation promised in the Revelation. Like the Psalmist, Max was unabashed in his praise of God. He was an example for all of us to follow in his faithfulness to God’s call.

I met Brother Max when he and I interviewed for the Brotherhood of Saint Gregory in the spring of 2014. The two of us, with Michael-Julian Piper, had a few hours to get to know one another the evening before our interviews, and in those hours we shared our life stories and became fast friends. I went to sleep that night thinking, “if we don’t get into BSG, I want to start a community with these two guys.”

And the next morning, the three of us found that we were already community: the interview process is—appropriately—intense, and in between sessions, Max, Michael-Julian, and I met in the chapel to talk, pray together, and cheer each other on. We were all admitted that day as Postulants Prospective, and the three of us continued to be community over the next few months as we waited for Summer Convocation and the chance to actually join The Brotherhood: we had several phone calls to talk about life, theology, and our hopes and plans for our vocations.

All this to say: Max was born to be a Brother. Born to serve, support, and love the people around him. Born to be faithful to God’s call.

The Brotherhood has two mottos: “Servants of the Servants of God,” which I think we can all agree Max embodied; and “Soli Deo Gloria: to God alone the glory.” Shortly after we became Postulants Prospective, Max began to put “Soli Deo Gloria!” in his e-mail signature. It was completely natural and genuine in him to glorify God and not himself; it was so true to the good, humble servant he already was.

I’m moved by Max’s choice of the passage from Job, particularly the lines:

For I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth;
and after my skin has been thus destroyed,
then in my flesh I shall see God,
whom I shall see on my side…

It reminds me of a hymn we often sing at the close of Palm Sunday: “O Sacred Head, Sore Wounded”; it’s number 168 in the Hymnal.

There’s an extent to which each of us dies alone. I know that Brother Max was surrounded in his final days by Sonya and Sam, by Brothers and other family and friends. And I know that his trust in God was so strong that he had a sense of peace about his death—that his only worry was leaving Sonya and Sam bereft. But none of the mortal humans at his side could share his experience of death; no one could entirely understand what was happening to him.

One of the blessings of the Incarnation is that God in the form of Jesus Christ has experienced death. That Jesus—immortal and eternal—has an intimate personal understanding of human mortality.

The last verse of “O Sacred Head, Sore Wounded” is:

My days are few; O fail not, with thine immortal power
To hold me that I quail not in death’s most fearful hour,
That I may fight befriended, and see in my last strife,
To me thine arms extended upon the cross of life.

Jesus was present with Max throughout his dying in a way that no other living human could be. And extended his arms from the cross to “guide Max to springs of the water of life, and to wipe away every tear from his eyes.”

Which brings us back to Jesus and Martha, weeping together at the graveside of Lazarus. In his Incarnation, God knows the deep sorrow of losing a dear friend. Jesus,  in weeping for Lazarus, with a company of mourners, bestows holiness upon the very act of mourning.

Even though we are confident that Max is with Jesus, and will rise again in the Resurrection on the last day, we grieve at his apparent absence from our lives here and now.

But Max is still with us. He is present in our memories of his sweetness, his warmth, his humor and laugh, his service to his fellow human beings.

He is with us in the ways that his personality has rubbed off on Sonya and on his brothers and friends. He is present in Sam. We see him in Sam already, and will no doubt see him more as Sam grows.

And he is present in the Communion of Saints who pray for us and with us and walk among us. Every time we gather to celebrate the Eucharist, we are united not only with Christ and one another, but with every Christian who has celebrated the Eucharist over time. Max is there with us, probably saying to each of us in that wonderful Alabama-Tennessee baritone, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

At this altar, we receive abundant, unconditional love from a God who knows and can empathize with our deepest pain and grief. We receive nourishment to give us strength and faith to go out into the world and serve God and God’s people, to God’s glory.

For I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth;
and after my skin has been thus destroyed,
then in my flesh I shall see God,
whom I shall see on my side

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Advent 1   1 comment

C99mg1hXoAAWSUBThe following is the text of a homily I gave at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Denver, on 3 December 2017
Biblical texts: Isaiah 64:1-9Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18Mark 13:24-37

It is night. Charlie Brown is standing outside, looking at Linus, who is walking towards him holding a candle. Charlie Brown says, “What’s this?”

Linus replies, “I have heard that it is better to light a single candle then to curse the darkness.”

“That’s true,” says Charlie Brown, now looking past Linus, “Although there will always be those who disagree with you…”

And in the final frame we see Lucy, shouting into the night: “You stupid darkness!”

Scripture, like Charles Schulz’s “Peanuts”, is always relevant, but sometimes it feels particularly relevant, as if it speaks precisely to this present moment. When I began to prepare this homily and read the first line of the Isaiah passage, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,” I thought, “isn’t scripture relevant?” In this time of unveiled white supremacy, misogyny, homophobia and transphobia, of increased violence, economic and environmental injustice, and morally-bankrupt leaders, how much do we long for God to “tear open the heavens and come down,” to bring justice and righteousness to the wounded people of our nation and world.

Today we begin both the season of Advent and the new Liturgical Year. The Church begins its year with a time of waiting, hoping, preparing for the coming of Christ in the present and future. And we remember the ways our spiritual ancestors did the same in the past.

Each of the seasons of the Liturgical Year represents an invitation to us to contemplate our relationship with God both as individuals and in community. An invitation to remember that we are citizens of God’s kingdom, and how the way of that kingdom is different from the way of the world.

And I think Advent may be the strongest of such invitations; it is perhaps the most contemplative of seasons, and this invitation to contemplation comes in the time of year in which we often find ourselves most busy; the invitation to remember the ways of God’s kingdom comes at a time when the world is shouting at us to shop, buy, consume. Black Friday always gets the jump on Advent 1.

This congregation is abundant in generosity—our blanket drive is the most recent in a long list of examples—so I have no doubt that each of you approaches your Christmas shopping with a spirit of giving rather than material accumulation and consumption. That’s not what my Advent message is about.

But I do want to encourage you to find time within this season for that contemplation that the world wants you not to find time for. Even if all you can manage is 5 minutes on one day in this whole season. If you can do more, great; if you can make it a weekly or daily practice in this season, great. But if it’s just one time, one day, for a few minutes, stop what you are doing, set your phone down, and spend a moment with God in silent contemplation.

What should you contemplate? Consider what we are waiting for in Advent.

We begin Advent with a collection of apocalyptic readings, establishing that things are bad. And this is a good beginning to our contemplation of waiting: for what were our spiritual ancestors waiting?

What was Isaiah crying for in that passage? For what restoration does the Psalmist cry when they say, “Restore us, O God of hosts”? What was it like for our spiritual ancestors to wait generations for a messiah? What was it like to wait hundreds, thousands of years for a promised deliverance? What agony must that have seemed at times, particularly during the times of wandering in the wilderness, exile, captivity, and occupation. They must have believed their world would never be just again. What kept their hope alive?

Sometimes it is a good and right thing to sit with that darkness, to be patient with it, to contemplate the ways in which we are together in waiting for the light. We are in communion with our spiritual ancestors and with each other. That is part of what the Eucharist is about. We, like them, are waiting in hope.

In times such as our own, when power is held and abused by people exercising the worst parts of human nature, when the people in charge make a mockery of the values of our faith and the stated values of our nation, it is acceptable to scream “you stupid darkness!” And that can be a holy and righteous part of your Advent contemplation and meditation.

And then: light a candle. Meditate on your vision for this wounded world. In the spirit of the motto we have adopted at St. Thomas for this year, bring your light. How can you be the Light of Christ in a dark world?

The incarnation of God is an ever-ongoing thing, as the Body of Christ—in us, the Church—enacts the will of God, the legacy of Jesus. God works through human beings, and that includes you—as individuals and as community.

“Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” The hope of Advent is what the hope of our spiritual ancestors over millennia has always been: that a savior, a redeemer, a sustainer will come. That there will be light at the end of the darkness, that a power greater than the evil powers of this world will come in great glory. That the ways of this world have not won, and will not win.

This hope is what keeps us working God’s will in the world through the dark times; and that work in turn feeds the hope. This is the “keeping awake,” the being “on the watch” that Jesus speaks of in this reading from Mark. That God—often through us—is working all things for ultimate good. That there is a light shining through the darkness.

I have quoted Blessed Julian of Norwich from this pulpit before. Julian is the 15th Century English mystic who wrote the book “Revelations Of Divine Love” from a series of visions she had during an illness. But I haven’t quoted her most famous line, which is what God told her several times in slightly varied words through these visions: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”*

Julian was no Pollyanna: her words—or rather, God’s words as reported by her—are not meant to be a don’t-worry-be-happy panacea, pretending that suffering isn’t real. “He did not say,” Julian notes, “‘You shall not be perturbed, you shall not be troubled, you shall not be distressed…’”*

The words “all shall be well” are that same hope: that God is always acting in love in the world; that despite the very real evil and suffering in the world, God is present with us and working for ultimate good. That someday Jesus will return, and whether that happens tomorrow or 10,000 years from now, we can keep working in the assurance that all shall be well. And that this is the vision we can carry in our hearts as we work to bring God’s Reign to earth.

Jesus is coming. And God’s abundant love has always been, is now, and will always be becoming incarnate in the world around you. As we begin this season of preparation, as you patiently contemplate the darkness, let God’s abundant love become incarnate within you—become incandescent within you.

Julian again: “And so our good Lord answered all the questions and doubts that I could raise, saying most comfortingly in this way, ‘I may make all things well, I can make all things well, I will make all things well, and I shall make all things well; and you will see for yourself that all things shall be well.’”*

*Julian of Norwich (2015). Revelations Of Divine Love. (Barry Windeatt, Trans.). Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1395).