Christmas Sermon

Many of you have heard this.  It is the Christmas Eve  

sermon. . .

Is it real? Or is it Memorex? The question either takes you waaay back to another era, or it may not even register in your lexicon (lucky you!). Like so many marketing campaigns left in the dust of the digital age, Memorex's seems almost quaint in this era of instant everything. And while Memorex's slogan may have been catchy, its promise, we know, was always elusive. Real? Or Memorex? C'mon. Of course, we know the difference, and nothing can compare to the real thing, the live encounter, the moment that you talk about for days, weeks, and even years to come. We all remember those first concerts, memorable games, and grand performances, and nothing can compare to being there. Right?

I often feel that during this yearly remembrance of the birth of our Lord there are not just a few people who would prefer the real encounter rather than the annual retelling through Luke's gospel. Yes? We all become a little like doubting Thomas in these moments and wish to touch just a portion of this narrative, to verify it, to ensure it is real, so that we might believe. If we could travel back in time, back through the darkness of human history, could we arrive at a point and witness what the angels proclaimed and the shepherds beheld? Would the light of truth then illumine all the nooks and crannies of our questions and drive away all of our doubts and fears? Were we privy to know beyond the shadow of a doubt, would we be freed from the vicissitudes of life, the fickleness of the human heart, the violence oozing out in our society and world, or the heartbreak of events in places like Newtown?

Given the birth narrative from Luke, it is highly unlikely that even if we could return to the exact moment of Jesus' birth we would recognize this remarkable thing that God was doing in the child born in Bethlehem. The story-while replete with amazing events like angel hosts singing in the highest heaven-is rather uneventful, unimpressive, and extraordinarily ordinary. A peasant girl gives birth to a child in a stable in a backwater town in the Roman empire. How many millions of times did this happen? The riff raff-shepherds-are the first and, really, only witnesses. Why involve a fringe group in society with one of the most important events in the tradition? Indeed, the birth of Jesus to the rest of the world in the first century would have elicited the same response in the myth of King George writing in his diary as the American colonists ratified the Declaration of Independence: Nothing much of importance happened today.

Which is, perhaps, part of the exercise of this observance and this season of incarnation. We are called to see God coming to us not in spectacular spectacles of power and might, stopping the laws of nature to pluck us our of every pickle we find ourselves in. Rather, we are invited to see God present to us and for us in the mundane and oh-so-ordinary moments of life, enfleshed in those very human hearts and hands with whom we interact. God coming incognito, but God coming nevertheless to enter fully into our lives in all their nuances. As Frederick Buechner aptly notes:

Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he

will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of

self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of [humanity]. If holiness and the awful power and majesty of God were present in this least auspicious of all events, this birth of a peasant's child, then there is no place or time so lowly and earthbound but that holiness can be present

there too. And this means that we are never safe, that there is no place

we can hide from God, no place where we are safe from his power to

break in two and recreate the human heart because it is just where he

seems most helpless that he is most strong, and just where we least

expect him that he comes most fully.

It is this divine-coming-to-us that is such an important part of this night and the life of Jesus. Indeed, the name we give Jesus-Emmanuel-underscores the God-with-us reality of Jesus' life. This connection with our humanity is the divine surprise central to the Christian journey. While recently watching a recording of James Taylor and Carole King's Live at the Troubador concert, I glimpsed an image of the implications of incarnation that was compelling. As the performers ended their set, they moved toward the audience, and the camera captured close ups of fans and artists reaching out, grasping hands, and holding on for an extended moment. We all know this scene, and, perhaps, we have reached out ourselves at various venues whether a concert, game, or political rally. We reach out to touch that which we are awed by or respect or value. It's almost as if by touching the object of our fondness, we may receive a portion of their gifts, a human talisman as it were.

The coming of God in the incarnation, however, alters this encounter ever so slightly but surely most profoundly. In the divine-human engagement, it is God reaching out to touch us. God, in mystery and passion, desires to receive a portion of our reality, our humanity. Which, perhaps, seems a bit odd, as we spend so much of our time trying to transcend or escape the limits of our humanity. Yet, that is the heart of the incarnation. God reaching out to know us, to connect with us, to be one with us. Again, Buechner:

         The Creator himself comes to dwell within his own creation, the

         Eternal within the temporal . . . It is as if Shakespeare could somehow have entered the world 

         of  Hamlet . . . becoming a character in

         his own plot although he well knows the tragic denouement and submitting himself to all its       limitations so that he can burst them asunder when the time comes and lead a tremendous exeunt by which his whole dramatis personae will become true persons at last.

God enters in to transform our reality and welcome us into-not just a little but-the totality and fullness of our life. Thus, this night is holy, and all moments are hallowed, for there is no place that God is not. God reaches across space and time to grasp a hold of our hands and bless our human drama by entering fully into it with us. The divine light shines ever so brightly-and yet vulnerably-in our midst through the embodiment of a young child who grows and enters most fully into that cross shaped place of abandonment. God robed in flesh sanctifies this earthly journey, and continues to journey with us toward a time where all flesh shall see and know the fullness of God's grace. We may not always sense this, and Lord knows we experience enough to wonder, and yet, the promise returns again and again. Our task, in part, is constantly to remain ready to take the hand that is offered, recognize the live moment that continually meets us, and acknowledge the gift of the most very real thing present before us. Life.

Blessings.

      Mark    

Thanksgiving Sermon

From a bird's eye perch, the plowed fields of autumn in southeastern Minnesota create an agrarian quilt alongside the harvested corn and bean fields.  Seen up close, the acres upon acres of turned soil appear as waves of brown loam, rolling one into another.  To the untrained eye, these plowed patches are just sections of soil, districts of dirt, but to the farmer whose livelihood depends upon these patches of turned earth, these are the promise of a future, the hope for another crop, and the base upon which life is built.

It was along one of these furrowed fields in southeastern Minnesota that an image of the very kingdom of God was revealed.  While I participated in an internship with six rural churches, a contingent of farmers from what was then war-torn El Salvador had come to meet with their counterparts in this rich and fecund river valley in the heart of Minnesotan farm country.  Sustainable farm practices were discussed and relationships developed that would transcend national boundaries.  The image that remains with me occurred near the end of the El Salvadoran's visit. 

As a group stood around pickup trucks and discussed the remaining itinerary, two men—one El Salvadoran and the other from southeastern Minnesota—moved to the edge of what looked like a sea of loamy soil.  The plowed field rose above them ascending a hill on this particular farm, and the two farmers kneeled by the edge of the earthen sea and began to pick up chunks of turned soil.  Nutrient-rich dirt crumbled between their hands and returned again to the sea.  What was so amazing about the image was the tidal wave of realization regarding all that divided these two and, yet, all that connected them.  War.  Immigration.  Language.  These were the barriers that made rapport so difficult and complex.  And, yet, the land connected them.  Bound them together.  Earth to earth and dust to dust.  Their common heritage as tillers of the field allowed them to speak a language that moved beyond the particulars of their distinctive pasts, allowing them to connect, to see their shared humanity, and, perhaps, to understand a bit more about the other.  It was communion at a profound level.

Meanwhile, the exchange between these two farmers was not earth shattering.  Indeed, the only record of it exists within this reflection today and the memories that they themselves share of the event.  Yet, the exchange was one of the innumerable encounters that exist in life where we become aware of all that divides us and, simultaneously, those things that connect us.  Throughout human history, we have exhibited too often the desire to differentiate, to divide, to distinguish between one and another.  Within this propensity to discriminate—with all the positive and pejorative resonances that that inveighs--invariably, one is better, the other worse.  One is worthy, and the other not.  One is valued, while the other is dispensable.  The structures that we have developed as individuals and societies often obfuscate the privilege that we enjoy.  The miracle of our fortune to be born at a specific time in a specific place allows for untold opportunity.  And while we can be mindful of this reality and even act to try and level the playing field so that others may share in the opportunity we enjoy, there may exist a barrier that we experience in understanding our need, our limits, and—strange as it may seem to say in this beautiful and prosperous location—our poverty.

Ironically, reading the story of the ten lepers from Luke in today's gospel may reveal this very situation.  It is very easy to read the story as a lesson in thanksgiving.  That is, the 9 lepers are examples of how not to respond to the good that befalls us, and the one leper is our crowning example of how to properly give thanks.  However, the story is filled with the complexity of the social history that permeates every society and this complexity cannot help but impact how we read this narrative.  The truth is that the one leper who returns to Jesus is not an example of how to give thanks so much as he is the example of what to do when there is nowhere else to go.

Indeed, the world in which he lived viewed him as doubly troubled.  That societies discriminating eye saw his skin disease—leprosy—as a punishment by God for something he must have done.  Meanwhile, as a Samaritan, he would be considered unclean, and no self-respecting priest would have anything to do with him.  Therefore, after Jesus dismisses him to go and see the priest, he literally had no place to go.  Thus his thanksgiving as a model for our thanksgiving is a bit odd.  We consciously choose to offer thanks today.  We actively engage in thanksgiving.  And the idea that we might be unacceptable or unworthy to stand in this space and offer thanks is, probably, not something we are used to thinking about. 

Yet, that is at the heart of this lesson, and here we are.

And the example of the one leper who returns to Jesus is instructive for us.  Rather than an example of how to give thanks, perhaps the story exists as a reminder of how we all—to varying degrees and in various situations—have moments where we have no place to go.  In those moments, God in Christ is the very place that we are told will always receive us, regardless of the situation.  Furthermore, the great equalizer that does connect us one to another is the mortality that we can consider.  Like the farmers kneeling beside that vast field of plowed earth, the soil of our life sifts through our hands, and we cannot help but recognize all that divides us and, yet, the profundity of that which we share. 

That scene in southeastern Minnesota and the leper returning to Jesus rightly frame our Eucharistic gathering here.  The communion of the two farmers is a communion that we participate in as well, albeit in a different time and space.  The life sifting through their hands is replaced with the life placed within our hands, and the reality of what connects us and transcends us hopefully is never lost.  Meanwhile, the leper's thanksgiving—literally Eucharist—is one that emerges not out of power and control but out of limitations and vulnerability.  Our coming to this table is a participatory echo of that truth.  We, too, have no place else to go, and the face that met that leper millennia ago meets us in this meal.  Accepting us as we are and calling us to replay this gift in our own lives and in the myriad ways that we might for our own life and, equally, for the welfare of those farmers in El Salvador or southeastern Minnesota, or for the lepers in our own midst, or, another way of saying it, is for the salvation of the world.

Weekly Reflection--May 10, 2012

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

People:  I will, with  
             God's help.

Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
People:  I will, with  

              God's help.

Thus ends the questions to parents, godparents, and the gathered community during a baptismal service in the Episcopal Church, and thus begins the profound work that we all are invited into as we enter the community of Christ at baptism.   

These are hard concepts to live into!  Serve Christ in all persons?  Respect the dignity of every human being?  What happened to picking and choosing?  What about those whom we consider worthy or unworthy?  There doesn't seem to be much wiggle room for compartmentalizing people or distinguishing between acceptable and unacceptable.   

Everybody means everybody!

Thus, we are continually reminded (every time we witness a baptism and every time we review this rite) that we cannot avoid the difficult call that is central to Christianity:  seeing Christ in the "other" and respecting the dignity of every human being.  And why?  Because that is what Jesus would do.  No.  Better yet, that is what Jesus has done and continues to do.  

It is with this background that I write about President Obama's decision to support marriage equality.  I do this recognizing that there exist naysayers regarding this type of discussion everywhere.  Those who will say that politics shouldn't be discussed in the Church.  Those who will say that the President is driven by the basest of motives:  political calculation.  Those who will interpret this shift in the marriage equality debate as negative or positive based solely on their view of the current President.   

I would like to step back from such knee jerk responses and inquire what it might mean that this political figure has come out where he has on this issue, especially in this way.   

If you read the link in the "Going Deeper" section, you will read, in part, about Obama's Christian faith informing his change of heart.  Far from being support for this President, I am intrigued by the use of Christ and the Golden Rule as a way to enter into a difficult social issue of our time.  Of course, I believe--whether politically motivated or not--that the President gets it right on marriage equality, precisely because his change of heart aligns with what we espouse in the baptismal covenant:  seeing Christ in the "other" and respecting the dignity of every human being.  (Indeed, the leadership of this parish is on record  as seeking to change the  restrictions on priests in our Diocese that do not allow them to officiate at same sex marriages, and there is a committed group that, over time, has sought to influence the discussion of the Episcopal Church at large.) 

To those who say that Christianity is not to be political, I would say that Christianity hopefully is not partisanly political.  However, the Greek root of our politics directly references citizens, people, human beings.  Thus, at its core, Christianity is very political, because Jesus was very concerned about people and the welfare of humanity.  Of course, Christianity is not political in the present day pejorative sense that many people hold for politics and politicians.  Nevertheless, to read the gospel narratives about Jesus, one cannot be easily separate faith and life.  Like it or not, the two are intertwined.  

The refreshing argument put forward by the President regarding marriage equality is that the rhetoric of vituperative and virulent Christian conservatives is called out for the xenophobic and un-Christian expression that it is.  Of course, Jesus had nothing to say about marriage equality.  The idea, within his culture, would have been anachronistic.  However, Jesus does have a great deal to say about welcoming the "other", caring for those marginalized, recognizing the humanity of all people, and affirming-in-ways-that-transcend-rules the love and commitment that exists between and among people.  And those who clamor for "saving marriage" by refusing to recognize the love and commitment of others need to ponder the breadth of Jesus' ministry and the baptismal covenant that is at the heart of our life together.   

I don't know that if those who oppose marriage equality were to do this anything would change.  I like to believe that were they to reflect upon such exhortations of seeking Christ in the "other" and respecting the humanity of all, the fear that drives so much of their efforts might melt away and the face of Christ might emerge upon the very individuals they seek to marginalize.  Lord knows, that as I write this, I am aware that I, too, am called to see Christ in the face of the one that I believe to be driven by fear.  There is no easy out in our tradition.  As I mentioned at the outset, these are hard concepts to live into.  Though if we trust that God does call us to such a life, we have to wrestle with the difficulties. 

Indeed, what can we say?  God is an equal opportunity challenger of all of us! 

     

Blessings,

Mark    

Reflection for February 23

The Stamford train station is a ghost of itself at 5:30 AM.  I pulled into the parking garage at this time yesterday and made my way to the station proper as a part of an Ash Wednesday ministry.  The Rev. Kate Heichler, the Rev. Joan Breckenridge, and a group of about eight seminarians from Yale Divinity School gathered at Stamford's commuter hub to distribute Ashes on the Go. 


The clergy wore collars and a stole and the seminarians were robed in black cassocks.  Sandwich board signs informed passersby about the Ashes on the Go.  And we grouped in pairs along the walkways and the platforms of the station to distribute ashes to those who desired them.

The seminarians were a very eager group and there was a noticeable excitement at the prospects for the morning.  (Full disclosure:  I was encouraged by the energy of the seminarians, but soon learned that they may have been a little overeager.  We didn't need to be at the station at 5:30!!)

The activity that morning was, in a way, alot like waking up:  slow and slumbering at first, building into more and more activity, and then quickening into the normal pace for the day.  There was little activity in the station when we arrived.  Those waiting for a train napped or sipped on a cup of coffee.  Cars trickled slowly into the station.  And the Ash Wednesday pairs were able to talk about the morning, classes at Yale, family histories, and whatever else passed the time.

More on the Ashes to Go

Then, as the sun rose above the horizon and showered the city and station with light and unseasonable warmth, the pace began to pick up.  People would pass us by.  Some would look stolidly ahead and not make eye contact.  Others would glance at our sign--Ashes on the Go--and either smile, shake their head as if such a thing was unconscionable, or do a double take to make sure they actually were seeing what they thought they saw.

And then one person came over to us. 

"Is this for real?" she asked.  And we assured her that, indeed, it was.  To which she responded, "Well, then, give me some."  And we obliged, asking her name, and then etching on her forehead the sign of a cross with the declaration, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."

Sort of a strange thing to say and certainly more strange, I suppose, to ask for it in a train station.  Yet, there we were, and there they were, and what was offered was graciously received.  People--not all and certainly a minority, but people nonetheless--wanted this.  They wanted to have ashes placed on their forehead and those words spoken over them.

That, to me, is amazing.   

Even more on the Ashes to Go

Of course, many of the exchanges were uneventful.  People simply came to where we were standing, put out their foreheads, and then moved on to catch their train.  And, I suspect, that I will never meet Len, or Marty, or Adele again.  Yet, for a very small moment in time, we shared a connection.  We participated in the truth-telling of this day and of our lives--that we are dust and to dust we shall return--and we were able to take that awareness into the day and the world that is so very big and crazy and filled with so many competing messages and claims.

What I found satisfying about the morning was the simple human contact and acknowledgment of another.  We were not demanding people stop.  The posts were set up inconspicuously, and short of greeting passersby with, "Good Morning," we said very little.  Yet, even the "Good Morning," was a change in the routine of many I would guess.  And for those who stopped, there was an acknowledgment of reality, a reconnection to some past practice or event, something that stirred within them for just a moment and moved them to receive ashes.

Many would reject what we did as a stunt or, God forbid, not a complete service (replete with confession, etc.).  Yet, the moments that we do have are limited, and the opportunities that we get to remind people of God, of their value in the eyes of God, and the preciousness of life is so very fleeting.  So, for this Ash Wednesday, Ashes on the Go seemed like the right thing.  Or, in the words of one person, "This is awesome!"  Amen.

Blessings.

Mark    

February 9 Post

Man (sic) is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.        -Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts
on Faith

This past Sunday we had one of the best book discussions that I have been a part of for some time.  The discussion focused on Annie Lamott's Traveling Mercies, and it was broad ranging,  involved everyone who attended, and possessed wonderful moments of insight and serendipity. 

If you know Lamott's writing, you know that it is deeply personal and can be a bit unnerving with frank descriptions of her "interesting" life.  You cannot say that Lamott hasn't lived.  You also cannot say  that she lacks honesty and forthrightness. And finally, you cannot say that she hasn't glimpsed grace.

Indeed, what strikes me about Lamott's writing is its brutal honesty and its awareness of where and how God may be present in the midst of the whole crazy and wonderful mess we call life.  For some, these vignettes of life are upsetting.  She can be hard to read.  For others, the stories of Annie Lamott have an almost parable like quality to them.

And in the fine tradition of the parables of Jesus, her stories function to subvert, to shake us awake, to force us to see the harshness of life.  Yet, in doing so, we stumble into the presence of the holy.
One writing example from Traveling Mercies expresses well the reality of what many of us expect from life, what the truth actually is, and how that may be enough.  Lamott writes:

It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do. 
 
As humans, we desire order and structure and meaning that follows a certain logic and trajectory.  Chaos and meaninglessness is naturally abhorred.  However, life throws us a number of curve balls and upsets that nice, neat idea of an unobstructed linear development of meaning within our life.  Indeed, what we expect often is not what we get. 

Yet, as Lamott notes, the rusty bent tools of friendship, prayer, conscience, and honesty often will suffice. 

As we talked on Sunday, the stories of Annie Lamott elicited our own stories, and I was reminded again of the power of narrative and the holiness of each of our stories.  Part of the beauty and blessing of the Christian tradition is that it is a wonderfully long and winding story about God and God's relationship with humanity and the larger creation.  God's story mingles with our story.  Our story impacts God's story! 

Thus, we are developing a Lenten reflection booklet based on the stories of those at St. Francis and at the Episcopal Church of Christ the Healer.  We all have something to offer, for we all have our stories, and the telling of those stories is a sacred act.  The telling of our stories allows us to discover or deepen friendship.  The telling of our stories is an act of prayer.  The telling of our stories piques and engages our conscience.  And telling our stories hopefully allows us to acknowledge the truth of our lives and the world around us. 

I invite you to offer your story in our Lenten reflection booklet.  If you haven't already contacted me, please do so.  Regardless, please enjoy the fruits of the writing labors of many within both congregations.  And I hope you may recognize amidst the fragments that are offered a bit of the glue holding us all together.

Blessings.

Mark    

I can still see the puff of smoke that quickly arose and then dissolved in thin air.  The puff emerged from a shaving of rosin off of the bow of the cello player as it was drawn across the strings during last Sunday's chamber ensemble concert!  That's how close we were sitting to the performers!!

The chamber group, Simpatico, that Darin Lewis has developed is simply amazing.  Fourteen individuals wielding string instruments, a passion for beautiful music, and the ability to make it happen.  The intimacy of the setting in the sanctuary at the Church made it all the more powerful.  Again, puffs of rosin smoke!  Not to mention access to the delicate fingerings for the various pieces, the eye contact of the various performers, and the invitation to the sheer delight that they took in making beautiful music.  The evening was truly magical.

What's more, the evening was the fulfillment of a long-held dream of many who worked tirelessly to bring the sanctuary to reality.  Names like Richard Mayberry, Ed Happ, Frank Baker, JoAnne Cone, and, particularly, Joe Mygatt.  (And those who are not with us but were vital to the project and would appreciate the outcome:  Betty Wilson, Tom Hitchcock, Gordon Hart, Shirley Chillington, Gloria Brown, and Patzy Lavender to name a few.)  As one of the architects of the new Church, Joe developed the space not only for worship but also for chamber music.  Last Sunday's event was the first time a chamber group performed in that space, and the acoustics were phenomenal.  Many people commented that this needs to happen again.  And it will. 

(For those who were unable to attend, we hope to have video and audio files available to allow you a hint of how beautiful the music was.  And I hope that you may be able to experience the wonder and beauty of such an event in the future.)

All of this is prelude to a piece that was passed on following the service.  Inspired by the evening and reminded of the poignancy of that Church space, parishioner, Ralph Nazareth, passed on a reflection that he had written to a friend about the worship space on Long Ridge Road.  I don't know if it will resonate with you, but I found it beautiful and wonderfully articulate.  As the saying goes, the best form of flattery is plagarism, so let me flatter Ralph:

What else? Perhaps I should mention the building itself. A modest box-shaped structure set in the woods, you'd never expect the special feeling it has when you enter it. I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps it's the simplicity and clarity of the lines, very modern. Not a curlicued frieze in sight, much less rococo gargoyles to shadow your psyche. Radiant white walls, perfectly positioned to receive the stream of light let in by angled windows and apertures set in the ceiling with an unsurpassed elegance of asymmetry. ED's famous "slant of light" cannot and does not "oppress" here "like the weight of cathedral tunes." Light becomes the medium for prayer, a lucidity of knowing our radical contingency, a raising of hearts in quiet exultation. 

What was so poignant about the evening concert was the confluence of space and sound.  Both beautiful in and of themselves.  Both mingling to create something even more beautiful.  In an odd way, confronted by such beauty, we often stumble into an awareness of our "radical contingency".  Far from a macabre focus on or fascination with morbidity, such an experience is so temporal and fleeting that we cannot help but recognize our contingency.

Thus, boisterousness and frivolity are not immediate extensions of such an experience.  Rather, as Ralph notes, hearts raised in quiet exultation fill the space as well.  

Blessings.

Mark