Sermon 5 Lent A - March 9, 2008

5 Lent A - 9 March 2008
Ezekiel 37:1-14; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45
James V. Stockton

Especially in this season of Lent, it’s good for us Christians to note that of the various ideas inherent to Christian faith, the concept of new life is perhaps the one most welcome of all. New life is an apt metaphor for starting over, for making a new beginning today and for carrying on in new life tomorrow.

People like the idea, and rightly so. Starting over means leaving the former behind. And if this sounds good sometimes, it’s important to consider the most basic and original notion of new life held closely by the apostles and first generations of the followers of Christ Jesus. For them, new life pushed right up to the edge of all the metaphorical applications of the phrase the metaphor and beyond. It means that people’s entire foundation of understanding about life and its meaning and its limitations, of their most basic beliefs and assumptions, is undone and replaced with something unlike anything that has been before. The apostles understood this. The early Christians understood this. I’m convinced that people for whom the metaphor is appealing have need to understand this, too.

“We believe in order that we may understand.” It is the foundational statement of 11th century English theologian Anselm of Canterbury. And it sets him apart, for his approach is not to explain belief in God and faithfulness to God by citing appropriate scriptures. Instead, he calls upon one of the great gifts God gives to humanity, the gift of reason. It can be no accident of history that some 5 centuries later, having separated its affairs from the foreign influence of Rome, the Church of England comes to define itself as precisely grounded in the three authoritative sources of Scripture, Reason, and Tradition. And we may rightly be thankful that, though having separated itself from the rule of England, the Episcopal Church in this country, in its Anglican heritage, does the same.

“We believe in order that we may understand.” It acknowledges, I think, that a relationship with God is rooted in the gift of faith. And it goes on to claim this gift of faith is intended by God to lead people almost automatically to the gift of a better understanding of the object of that faith, a better understanding of God. It implies, also, I think, that the reverse is not necessarily the case. People’s understanding of things does not necessarily lead them to God. Certainly, people may be able to come by themselves to the concept of a higher power. It’s also true, though, that people can bind themselves to the limits of their understanding, and thus confine themselves and their god to those limits.

Raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus pushes beyond the limits of the people’s assumptions and expectations. Raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus is pushing the people beyond their limits, in order to bring them to new foundation for their faith and understanding.

‘Let’s go back to Judea,’ Jesus tells his disciples. ‘Jesus,’ they say, ‘they tried to stone you to death there once, already.’ ‘Are you sure you want to go back?’ ‘We have to go,’ says Jesus. ‘Our brother Lazarus has died.’ That’s when Thomas speaks from a faith pushed to the limit of its understanding. ‘Let’s all go,’ he says. ‘Even if we have to die there, at least we’ll be with him.’ They arrive and Martha the sister of the dead man comes to Jesus. In the midst of her mourning the death of her brother, she does her best to confesses her faith, her trust in Jesus. ‘You could have saved him,’ she says. ‘I know this. And I know that God will give you whatever you ask.’ ‘Know this, then’ Jesus tells her, ‘your brother will rise again.’ ‘I know that he will rise again on the last day,’ she says. ‘And I know that you are the Christ, the Son of God.’ Likely, she is confused and overwhelmed by Jesus’ words. She goes to retrieve Mary. Maybe Mary will understand better what Jesus means. But she, like all, of them, has no other expectation than that the tomb contains only her brother’s dead body, and that some day, somehow, God will end her grief and she will begin again.

But if Jesus’ coming a sign of hope for his followers, it is something else entirely for Jesus’ critics. ‘Oh look, here’s Jesus,’ they say when he arrives. ‘He healed a man born blind; why couldn’t he have saved poor Lazarus?’ They aren’t really moved by the miracle that Jesus did in giving sight to the man born blind, of which we heard in last Sunday’s gospel. Jesus’ presence today and his recent miracle are simply opportunities to criticize him. For them, Jesus will never do enough, never be enough, to be the Messiah that they want.

The religious among them expect a pious wise man; learned, maybe elderly, reverencing tradition, and wrapping himself in the mantle of orthodoxy. The militant among them are looking for a rebel leader; a radical prepared to insight insurrection; someone with a sword, not so much ready to die for the cause, but certainly ready to kill for it. In either case, there should be no doubt that the critics of Jesus do have faith. It’s just that their faith is in a god that is bound by their own understanding. The hyper-religious define God by a code of righteousness and piety. They dissect every move that Jesus makes, they parse every word that he says, in order to charge him with technical violations. For theirs is the god of the fine print. The radically militant understand God according to wrath. Their understanding of God is expressed in violence, and in the pursuit of power. And they justify it all by claiming that it is ‘done in the name of a higher cause.’

And though we may say of Jesus’ critics that their faith is small, yet it is firmly placed, entrenched and immovable. And it is powerful enough to effect an unholy marriage of religious piety and religious violence that soon will place Jesus on the cross.

In the hearts and minds, then, of those who trust Jesus, there is something very different. It is a faith given and a faith received. It is God’s faith in them, which holds them, and a faith in God within them that leads them onward to the very edge of their understanding of God. None of them expects Jesus to do what he does next. That’s when he does the impossible.

When Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, he does so not on the strength of anyone’s belief that he can do it, for no one thinks he can. And that’s exactly why Jesus must do this; so that all may experience God as more than they expect, as more than they understand, so that all may trust God more, and more may come to understand God better.

The new life given in relationship with God through Jesus Christ is an attractive and powerful idea. Notice this, this week. And notice how it is or might be also to the people all around us; and rightly so. When Jesus says that those who believe in him will live, many want to believe; many choose to believe; and by the gift and grace of God, they and we do believe.

Especially in this season of Lent, notice how, in believing, we find together that new foundation for understanding that the same Spirit of God that came upon Jesus at his baptism, comes upon each of us at our own. We find together a new foundation for understanding that the same God of Scripture and tradition who defended Jesus in the wilderness is defending all of us, too. We find together a new foundation for understanding that the same God who, in Jesus, bridged the suspicions of the Samaritan woman at the well in order to bring to her God’s love for her, is reaching across suspicions of every kind through you and me and those around us, and bringing to us God’s Love for all.

We find together a new foundation for understanding that the same God who, in Jesus, restored sight to eyes of the man who had never seen, is giving to us that vision which God has always had for us all, and the gift of faith in God to make it real. We find together a new foundation for understanding that the same God who, in Jesus, brings new life to one thought gone and lost to yesterday, brings us to the new life that is already ours today, that carries us forward and makes every tomorrow new.

And now may Almighty God, whose desires that all should come to know the gift of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, so inspire our faithfulness to God in word and deed that we may always know and share the blessings of life and life eternal; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 4 Lent - March 2, 2008

4 Lent A - 2 March 2008
1 Samuel 16:1-13; Ephesians 5: 8-14; John 9:1-41
James V. Stockton

Let’s be honest and admit it: if our journey through Lent shows us anything, it is that the ways of God are largely a mystery; and perhaps this is the way it should be. But at the same time it shows us that the simple fact that the ways of God differ from the ways of human beings is abundantly clear.

I read a little story. Arnold Palmer, the renowned professional golfer, once spoke at gathering to celebrate golfers who are disabled. After the ceremony, a man is introduced to Arnold as the top golfer of the group. Arnold is surprised because the man is blind. Together Arnold and the golfer who is blind go outside to the golf course. There the man explains how golf works for the visually disabled. “This really works?” asks Arnold. “It works very well!” says the man. “In fact, I’d like to challenge you to a round of golf.” Arnold is surprised, and wonders for a moment, will be fair for him to accept?

For good or bad, the ways of God, are the ways of the One who has dominion over all, who rules over all creation, who reigns in heaven and on earth. God’s ways are not the ways of human beings and this is abundantly clear. And the simple fact of the distinction, is important in its own right. When bad things happen to good people, as the saying goes, people want to know why it happened. Who is to blame for what happened that should not have? Who is to blame for what should have happened, but did not? It’s a very understandable way to approach the problem, and that’s how people can know that it is a very human way. In contrast, then, the way of God is a mystery. Yet that God’s way is different from the human way, this is abundantly clear.

From the earliest history of God’s people, they have found this to be exactly so. The very first king of Israel, was chosen by the will and the way of the people. He is King Saul and he turns out to be someone who repeatedly and deliberately contradicts the way of God. He offers not even the pretence of repentance and has no intention of turning back to God. The only way that God’s way will likely get through to him now is through those natural consequences that inevitably will weigh down upon him and upon anyone who ignores and resents the mystery of the way of God.

Though one might expect that a prophet of God will have a good understanding of God’s way. Yet even for Samuel, the fact that God’s ways are dramatically different from the ways of human beings becomes again abundantly clear. God tells Samuel to discern from among the sons of a man named Jesse a new king for God’s people. Predictably, I suppose, Samuel assumes that the new king is the eldest son of the father. The eldest has a lot of experience and presumably the wisdom that comes with it. For Samuel, he is the obvious choice.

But what is obvious to the human eye, to the human ear, to the human sense of things, is rarely related to the way of God. God’s vision goes deeper. Not the eldest son, nor the next, nor the next; God calls the least fit, the least prepared, the least expected. For Samuel, for Jesse, for his sons, for the new king David himself, God’s ways are a mystery. But the fact that God’s way is different from theirs, this is abundantly clear.

Last summer ECR was blessed to have a guest presenter Tom Snyder along with our own Ann Foxworth teaching our Adult Ed class. Tom is visually impaired; and he tells a story about an experience he once had when he spoke to a particular congregation about what it was like for him as a blind man in the fellowship of the Church. After his presentation Tom is meeting some of the lay leaders of the congregation. One of them asks Tom a question: “Mister,” the man says, “what did you do that made God decide to take away your sight?”

It’s basically the same question that the disciples ask in the Gospel reading for today. “What did this man do?” the disciples wonder. “What did you do?” the man asks Tom. I’m afraid this is not the time or place to pass along to you the answer that Tom gave in reply. Suffice it to say that Tom’s answer startled the man more than the man’s question startled Tom.

‘Who sinned,’ the disciples ask, that this man was born blind?’ It is a question rooted in the ways of human beings. Of course it’s God’s will that the man is blind. Of course the man’s misfortune is the result of the wrath of God. The way that they understand best is the human way of penalty and punishment. So, of course, they figure it so. The only question for them is: whom is God punishing, the man or his parents?

But God’s ways different from theirs. Ignoring the rules, Jesus labors on the Sabbath, making a salve of mud, and daring to heal on the day of rest. And in so doing, Jesus heals the man’s eyes, and more important he heals his heart as well. God’s ways open the eyes, the ears, the minds, the souls of people to whom others have gone blind and deaf, cold and willfully ignorant. God’s ways seek to convince all people of their own very real disability so that they may yet turn and come to perceive the way of God.

The golfer who is blind invites Arnold Palmer himself to a round of golf. “And,” he says, “I’ll bet you money that I beat you!” Challenged now, Arnold decides he must accept. “You asked for it,” Arnold says. “What time do we tee off?” “10:30” says the blind man. “10:30 tonight!”

Think for a moment: what are the ways of people around us? Think about it this week: what are your ways, what are mine, when we try to make sense of the misfortune of others, or of our own? Though people may not add God’s name to her misfortune, though we may not do so, either, yet there is for people, for us, an attraction to the notion that there is a kind of divine balance to the conditions of people around us, and to our own. It’s almost instinctive, isn’t it? Misfortune, disadvantage, and disability indicate that God has punished that person, those people; or that God has punished even you or me.

And Jesus comes to undo it all. As mysterious as it may be, the fact that the way of God is very different from the ways of us human beings is abundantly clear. And this is a blessing for which it is right to God thanks and praise. Yes, we bear responsibility for our actions; and yes, we bear responsibility for our failures to act. Yet, God knows that nearly every moment of every day, those around us, and you and I, really are doing just about the very best that we know how to do. God would like us to know this, too.

God sees what we see, hears what we hear, and knows what we know, assuming that we are able to admit it to ourselves. And it is that you’re a sinner, I’m a sinner, and the people around us are sinners, too. But is it really the way of God to punish you, to punish me, to punish those around us, even when we’re thinking that God should do exactly that? Or is it the way of God to reach past the obvious, and to be too busy loving you to punish you, loving me to punish me, loving those around us, and inviting us all of us to do exactly that?

If our journey through Lent shows us anything, it is that our way differs from God’s and God’s way from ours. It shows us that he way of God is for the way of God to find its way into your heart, your mind your soul, and mine. It shows us that the way of God is for the way of God to find its way through us into the world around us, that as more and more of us find the blessings of the way of God, more and more of us will find the way of God becoming abundantly clear.

And so may Almighty God, who bids us have no fear but the loss of Him, preserve us in His care, that no darkness of this mortal life may hide from us the light which is immortal, and which He has shown to us in Jesus Christ our Lord, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 1 Lent - February 10, 2008

1 Lent A - 10 February 2008
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Romans 5:12-19; Matthew 4:1-11
James V. Stockton

I read a story about a parish priest and her congregation. Preaching a sermon one Sunday, the priest makes the observation that there is a total of 789 possible ways for a person to sin. By the end of that week, she receives over ninety requests for a copy of the list. Please know that I have never seen this list. So, I won’t be able to provide anyone with a copy of it.

True or not, the story does illustrate the curious fact that people can be far more intrigued by sin than by its opposite. Many of those things to which sin refers are forbidden topics, things not spoken of in polite company. At the same time, sin includes behaviors, thoughts, and feelings with which people are very familiar. Stealing, lying, cheating, these are common examples of wrong-behavior. Along with more extreme and heinous crimes, these are recognizable to virtually everyone as sin, even to people who don’t typically use the phrase. The question then arises, though, doesn’t it, that if the vast majority of people agree that these behaviors are plainly wrong, why is there a need to create laws that forbid them?

In theology, there are two basic views of humanity. One is called a ‘low anthropology.’ It emphasizes what people often refer to as ‘the fall.’ We hear about it in this morning’s reading from the Old Testament. A low anthropology holds that humanity is essentially corrupt and that God’s task is to punish and correct this innate sinfulness of humankind. The alternative view is called a ‘high anthropology.’ This view emphasizes the original sanctity of humanity as reflected in the creation story that precede the fall, where God creates humankind and sees that it was very good. A high anthropology holds that humankind is essentially a reflection or image of God, and that its union with God is humanity’s very nature.

Think now about your own theological anthropology. Our view of humanity affects how we hear the story of the garden and how we understand Jesus’ encounter with the world and with the sin that he finds in it. Any of who have children and all of us who once were children know full well how to raise a child’s interest in anything: simply tell him, tell her, to leave it alone. Is it fair for God to put temptation itself smack dab in the middle of paradise? If you and I can child-proof our homes, can God not human-proof the garden? For the ancient Israelites, it is the serpent, who persuades Adam and Eve to do what God has instructed them not to do. In the view of the ancients, it is not the innate sinfulness of humankind, but evil itself that initiates sin into the world.

The temptation to be like God, probably does strike a cord somewhere within humankind collectively and often individually. It’s the temptation to believe that that humanity can outgrow its irrational fears of an angry punitive god or its concerns about pleasing a deity for the sake of reaping some wonderful reward. The irony of course, is that the Church, certainly the Episcopal Church, agrees that humanity can indeed outgrow these things; but it can do so only as God guides humanity to deeper and richer relationship with God.

They ate, “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, they knew that they were naked….” The instant that they say ‘No’ to God, they become self-conscious and uncomfortable. Apart from themselves as never before, apart form one another, they are instantly also apart from God. Division among peoples, division of the person from himself, from herself, and division from union with God: this is the success that evil seeks. This is the success that evil seeks then with Jesus, too. It’s the temptation that Jesus must face in order to be fully human while also fully divine.

‘Take care of your self,’ the devil says. ‘Eat something. Turn some of the stones into bread.’ There is something very human about the drive to set aside everything else and everyone else in order to achieve a sense that one’s survival is secure. For Jesus, though, to live is to do more than to survive, and in the provision of God there is life indeed. Jesus will not set aside his trust in God’s faithfulness. So the devil has a proposition. ‘If God is so dependable, why not prove it for all to see? Toss yourself from the Temple roof, and let God send the angels of heaven to save your life, as scripture promises God will do.’ Jesus, though, does not take the gift of life so lightly. To risk it pointlessly is not an act of faith, but a demonstration of utter disregard for the gift and for the giver. He understands that the opposite of faith in God is just such apathy; apathy toward the existence of God, toward the sovereignty of God, toward the goodness of God. Jesus rejects the plan.

‘You really are a superior man,’ the devil then seems to say. I can see that you deserve all that God intends to give you. So, I’m going to make it even easier. Just drop down on your knees and praise me a little bit. Then I’ll give to you all the kingdoms around the world.’ The devil has tempted Jesus to compromise his relationship with God in himself, in heaven, and now, in the world around him. ‘Only God is God,’ says Jesus. ‘As for you, go away.’ The temptation all along is to usurp God, with self-justified means to accomplish holy ends. And Jesus does not succumb.

You and I may find analogies here to the temptations that we face in our lives. If so, that’s a good thing, and God, I think, intends it. With nothing but his humanity, Jesus provides us an example that we may try to emulate. But, again, is it fair? Is it fair to place a forbidden tree with forbidden fruit in the middle of perfection and paradise? Is it fair to drive Jesus into a hostile environment and solitude to face the devil in person? And finally, is it fair to give us the example of Jesus, fully human, yes, but also fully God, by which to measure ourselves? And the answer is: if God expects you and me never ever to sin again, then, no, it isn’t fair at all. And so it comes to: What is our theological view of humankind? And what is our human view of God?

If humanity is by nature a base, cold, cruel, and selfish creature, then it is unkind and unfair of God to ask us to be more. The temptation to do as we are told not to do is one to which we are going to succumb sooner or later, and surely God knows this. So, where is there justice in creating an attractive but forbidden tree? But if humanity is by nature a spiritual creature, originally and essentially in unique relationship with God and even somehow part of God in the world today, then the tree is necessary, and so also our vulnerability to its temptation. More than fair, the presence of the tree is grace.

God does not take us prisoner. Instead God gives us freedom, with an invitation to choose God, as God has chosen us. The ability to say ‘yes’ to temptation and, thus, ‘no’ to God, is the same freedom to say ‘no’ to temptation and say ‘yes’ to God.

And because, unlike Jesus, you and I are not without sin, this freedom is a gift that survives. Every day we compromise our faithfulness to God, and dishonor God’s faith in us, and it survives. We make mistakes, even when we try our best, and it survives. We tell little lies that mean nothing, that lead to big lies that challenge everything that God is trying to help us to become, but it survives. And we err even when we’re not aware of it. Ye, the freedom to choose God is a gift that survives our sins, because God still sees in us in the image of God, and so God still sees that we are very good.

If you find yourself wondering today, or tomorrow, just what are those 789 ways that a person might sin, choose to wonder also how it is that we turn back to God, from a fascination with the mystery of sin, from familiarity with it, from well-meaning error, from too-high or too-low a regard for the humanity of self. Choose to wonder how it is that when we turn to God, upwardly, inwardly, and even outwardly to those around us, we discover God’s forgiveness there, God’s Love given to us in ways too many for us to count.

So may God, by whom the humble are guided, grant that as we put away the old ways of sin, so we may be renewed in the spirit of our lives, and dwell in righteousness and true holiness all our days; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008 James V. Stockton

Rector's Study ~ Feb 2008

Rector’s Annual Report for 2007
The Rev. James V. Stockton
Annual Meeting January 20, 2008

It has been a good year and a challenging year all at the same time. 2007 marked our sixth year together, which means that our relationship as rector and parish has now surpassed the average length of time for a rector’s tenure here at ECR. This is important for both you and me because it means that for most of last year, all of us together have been navigating some largely uncharted waters.

In our community this last year we have experienced the loss of Jeffrey King, Charmaine Weerasinge, and Erlyne Pankratz. In addition to these I had the privilege of baptizing Dolly Ponder, mother and mother-in-law of Holly and Charles Davis, into the fellowship of this community and that of the wider Church, and then officiating at her funeral just a couple days afterward.

Sermon 3 Epiphany A - January 27, 2008

3 Epiphany A - 27 January 2008
Isaiah 9:1-4; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
James V. Stockton

In his book, Crossing Myself, author Greg Garrett writes, “When I was sunk in depression and racked with insomnia,” I was also sunk in myself, to the exclusion of everybody else’s pain and suffering.” In his book, Garrett is describing his experiences of sin, his struggles with depression, and his discovery and embrace of redemption. “Sometimes,” he continues, “it seemed impossible [for me] to do anything but bad things.” When people are having this experience of feeling sunk, as Garrett puts it, they have, then, a sense that it is impossible for them to change things, that it’s impossible to alter things for the better. And so the feeling of sinking just goes deeper.

In ancient days, the people of God believed that they were incapable of doing anything but bad things, anything but wrong things, anything but those things that were least meaningful to God, least faithful to their call as God’s people. In the days of the prophet Isaiah the nation of Judah is increasingly vulnerable to hostile nations all around it. The northern kingdom of Israel is falling to invasion by Assyria, and now Judah to the south no longer has its ally to turn to for help and support.

Isaiah and his people are experiencing the utter collapse of their world. For too many generations before them, God’s people have taken for granted and grown accustomed to the blessings that God has brought them to enjoy. For too long, too many people, too many of their leaders, have forgotten or grown callous toward the blessing of God’s presence always available to them, always abiding among them. For too long the people and their leaders have veered from the course that God laid out for them, the course most beneficial, safest, and most joyful.

The people have lived in a land of deep darkness. And they know that they are heading there again. They are struggling to find their way back, but it seems that they do only bad, only wrong, only acts of empty meaninglessness faithless and impotent. They are sinking, and they know it. And knowing it, they are ready at last for a real word from God.

‘A light has shone,’ the prophet says. The people may not yet see it,; they may not yet feel its warmth; but it is there, and it is shining. ‘Hey, people! Listen!’ calls the prophet. ‘God, and God alone is bringing you your freedom.’ It is God’s reckoning upon the oppressor whose rod and yoke have for too long weighted down the rightful j joy of all God’s people. It is God’s beckoning to those suffering of the nation and to the lost of the world. To people sinking, it is a word of hope. To people wondering either if another day is even possible, or if they care to meet it, it is a call to a whole new future.

“[My] story is a confession of sorts,” writes the author Garrett, “[a confession] that I have sinned in thought, word, and deed, that I have not loved me neighbor as myself.” “At [my church] we confess our sins at every Eucharist,” he goes on - not in mind numbing detail, but still - and when we’re done, we sit there for a moment, lost in ourselves, lost in our sins, as [our priest] gets up from his knees.”

‘Repent,” says Jesus. ‘For the kingdom of heaven is near.’ The ministry of Jesus begins. The light dawns. As the history of God’s people make clear, the experience of the blessing of God begins with repentance. The kingdom of heaven itself is as near as the heartfelt confession: “I have fouled up; and I want you, O God, to help me to do better.” It’s a confession of one’s shortcomings, to be sure. It is a confession of one’s errors, failings, wrong-doings. But what this means is that it is a confession of the inescapable fact that one is incapable of getting it right all the time, in every way. Which means that it is, if truly a confession, a confession also of one’s need and one’s desire for divine assistance, for divine guidance, for God help to turn to the way that is better; to the way that God is calling one to follow.

Without the second piece, the confession is, as Garrett describes, an exercise of simply sinking more deeply into self, me into myself, you into yourself, h into himself, she into herself. And in every case, each person or each group is distanced further from one another. Just as important, each is distanced further from God. It is this second piece, that is the complementary way out for people, for you and me, from that forest of sins into which the first piece leads, and so which keeps us all from sinking ever more deeply into our selves.

‘Come follow me,’ says Jesus to the fishermen. It is a way of saying, ‘Turn to me.’ It is Jesus’ way of saying, ‘Stop following the path that you have chosen, or the path that someone else has assigned you, or that random chance has out in place before you. Turn to this new direction,’ he is saying, ‘and come, follow me.’ It is Jesus’ way of calling them to true repentance. Not to wallow in their fallen-ness, not to root themselves to their broken-ness, Jesus invites them, he invites us, to turn to a new, and even unfamiliar, direction in order truly to follow him.

People up and down the shore of Lake Galilee fishermen and their families, are sinking quietly within the same old pattern day to day, finding little hope for freedom from the Roman oppressors, little hope for freedom from the drudgery that defines their futures. Many are finding little reason, then, to seek freedom from their self-concerned despair. Yet, there are those few, those few who hear a call to rise to the unfamiliar, to enter into even the uncomfortable, and find a new way of being who they are, a renewed way of doing what they are meant to do.

Andrew and Peter, James and John hear the call of Jesus. It is his call to them not to enter an endless cycle of self-recrimination, but to turn to a new path upon which he will lead them. It is Jesus’ call to them not to wail a mournful dirge about the hardness of the world around them, but to learn to a new tune that Jesus will teach them, a new harmony already ringing quietly in the hearts and souls of those all around them.

“…lost in the moment, lost in our sin, …the priest gets up from his knees.” Garret writes. “Then he stands, raises his right hand, and blesses us.” “‘Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins, strengthen you in all goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit, keep in eternal life.’” “I have to say,” Garret continues, “that I am thankful that I can think about other people again; that I can think about somebody else’s pain before my own, again.” “Every Sunday, now,” he goes on, “I confess [to God] that I’ve put myself first and that I want to do better. And every Sunday I hear the voice of God saying that whatever I’ve done, I’m still loved. I’m still valuable. There’s still a plan for me.”

They leave their nets and follow Jesus. What net do we hold onto, what nets still hold onto you, to me: old habits, old grudges, old grief, even old lost joy that Jesus is calling us today to leave behind that we may find greater freedom as we follow him? What old regrets have you still in your heart, have I still in mine? What old wrongs, committed by you or against you, by me or against me, still wrap their mesh around our souls and drag us down from our higher calling to follow Jesus? What shall we drop today, tomorrow, in order that each of us may turn to himself, to herself, and find that person whom Christ knows him, knows her, to be? What shall we let go this week, this year, so that we may turn and love one another, that together we may help God to help ourselves to be the best that God has given us to be?

Finally, with whom shall we turn to the people around us, still living in darkness, still trapped in anger, grief or fear? To whom, but Jesus? That in you and me, they with us may find heaven come near, and may add their voices to our own to ring out with Jesus his call to each and all, ‘Come, follow me.’

And so may Almighty God, who unites us in the holy bonds of truth and peace, of joy and charity, grant to us that faith that was born in the heart of Christ our Savior, that it may overflow our own, and bless the world around us in his name; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 1 Epiphany A - January 13, 2008

1 Epiphany A - The Baptism of our Lord - 13 January 2008
Isaiah 42:1-9; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17
James V. Stockton

“I must speak to you, newborn infants, little children in Christ, new offspring of the Church, the gift of the Father, the fruitfulness of the Mother, God-fearing offshoots, the new colony, flower of our parenthood, fruit of our labor, my joy and my crown, all who stand fast in the Lord.” So, spoke the great fourth-century priest and bishop Augustine of Hippo. It is from a sermon he preached at the baptism of a group of new Christians. Quoting the Apostle Paul, Augustine tells them to ‘put on the Lord Jesus Christ,’ and then says, “Thus may you be clothed with the Life put on by you in the sacrament.” ‘For you are all one in Christ Jesus,’ he says, again quoting Paul. Then he tells them, “Such is the power of the sacrament....”

The rite and ceremony of baptism is undoubtedly familiar enough to many people in the Episcopal Church and other Churches as well. And when they are as familiar with in its inward and invisible reality as they are with its outward and visible form, people are all the more aware of the grace that the sacrament conveys, and thus are all the more able to know the incomparable blessing it brings. Baptism is a rite and ceremony of initiation. Part of its blessing, then, is that baptism is full admission into the fellowship of the wider Church. This fellowship is manifested locally in the parish or congregation. It is manifested regionally in the diocese. It is manifested provincially or nationally in the autonomous national Church. It is manifested globally through the fellowship of the autonomous national Churches of other countries in what is known as the Anglican Communion. And finally, it is manifested both temporally and eternally in the fellowship of all who know Christ as their Lord, and all whom Christ knows as his own. Part of he mystery of this fellowship then, is that it is both massive and yet intimate; it is timeless and yet existing always in the moment.

And so, Augustine reminds people in his sermon that the very nature of the fellowship itself is evidence of its own godly origin. In the reading we hear this morning from the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, the Apostle Peter is discovering this very thing. Peter is at the home of a Roman soldier and his family. They want to become followers of Jesus, Peter is trying to explain that Jesus came to the Hebrew people, and so they may well be required to convert to Judaism in order to follow Jesus. And in the midst of his sermon, God pours out the Holy Spirit on this Gentile family just the way God poured out the Spirit on the Apostles themselves. “I get it now,” Peter says. ‘God really doesn’t show any partiality. God really makes no distinction like the rest of us do. God doesn’t ask about race, age, gender, culture, job, status, income, education, lineage, family, friends, loved ones…’ Can anyone finish the list? “Instead,” Peter says, “anyone who fears God, anyone who is rightly humbled by God, who is duly in awe of God, anyone affected in heart and soul by their realization of God: God welcomes them.”

So he says, “Anyone who does what is right is acceptable to God.” And this seems a reasonable assumption, does it not? Surely, there is a basic standard of behavior whose measure people need to meet in order to be acceptable to God, and so to the fellowship of the Church? What can the Church expect of those seeking to be those “newborn infants” as Augustine refers to them; people wanting become “little children in Christ,” the “new offspring of the Church”? What can you and I require of those “gift[s] of the Father of those who are “the fruitfulness of the Mother,” those “God-fearing offshoots”? Is there not some requirement for good and kind behavior in people’s relationships toward others, and for holy and pious behavior in people’s behavior toward God? Since God shows no partiality, what then is the measure that someone must meet in order to join “all who stand fast in the Lord”? Then, maybe Peter thinks back to the stories he’s heard about the time when Jesus came to be baptized. Maybe we do well to do the same.

John has been preaching to the people. In the Gospel readings for the season of Advent just a few weeks ago you and I heard some of what he’s been saying. John tells the people to turn away from error and bad behavior; and he says, as a sign of their desire to be cleansed of these sins, they should be immersed in the waters of the river. Then, Jesus comes. And being a prophet and more, John recognizes in Jesus someone uniquely not lost in error, uniquely not indulging in bad behavior, someone uniquely without sin. And so John wonders, “Why do you come to me?” “I am the one who needs to be baptized,” he says, “and you are the one who should be baptizing me.” For John, Jesus measures up. For John, Jesus is the one from God who will come and will not so much as raise his voice in the streets for attention; who will be so gentle as not to break even a flimsy bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering candle wick. And yet, as John perceives, this is the one from God who will bring about justice, who will set free the prisoners, who will open hearts and minds to that inward Light of God. For John, Jesus measures up. And from our vantage from these nearly 2000 years later, you and I and all the Church, around the world and throughout time and eternity, would agree.

‘I get what you mean,’ says Jesus to John, “but it’s the right thing for us to do this.” John baptizes Jesus, and the Holy Spirit appears and lights upon Jesus, and the Father in heaven declares Jesus as the Son of God. And, as Jesus puts it, “all righteousness is fulfilled.”

And this is the clue that there is one more essential characteristic of baptism that makes it the unparalleled blessing that it is. Our formulary for baptism reads that one is “baptized in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” In one sense, it means what it sounds like to our modern ear. One is baptized, you and I were and are baptized, on behalf of the same Holy Trinity that is present at Jesus’ own baptism. At the same time, the more ancient and original meaning is also at work. To ‘baptized in the Name of…’ is to be baptized into that which is named. In Christ Jesus, God enters into the massive life of the world, and intimately into your life, my life, into our life together as the parish of ECR, and into the lives of the people around us. And in Christ, God brings to us each and all the invitation to be welcomed into the life of God. This is the mystery of the sacrament of baptism.

This is the mystery that binds together into one, people far and near, people wealthy and poor, people Left, and Right, and somewhere in the center, people of the past with people in the present with people of futures yet to come. This is the power that enables you and me and all God’s Church to strive for justice against the odds, to offer gentle mercy in the face of opposing might, to nurture the light of Christ especially where it is but a burning ember, and to bring into the freedom that we know in Christ those imprisoned by ignorance, hatred, and fear. This is the grace and the blessing that enables us to meet that standard that requires nothing more than that we do the best we can to trust Jesus. By no greater standard than the gift of our life in God, and by no lesser gift than our life together, you and I are, in this world today, ‘the fruitfulness of the Church our Mother, and the joy and crown of God.’

And now at the bottom of page 304 in the Prayer Book: “Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers? I will, with God’s help. Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? I will, with God’s help. Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? I will, with God’s help. Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? I will, with God’s help. Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? I will, with God’s help.”

And now may we dare to listen with our heart, to look with our soul, to sense the heavens opened around us and to hear God’s voice from above and within: “You are my people, you are my beloved, you are my Life in the world today; and with you I am well pleased.” Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Rector's Study January 2008

From the Rector's Study ~

It’s been said that God calls each generation of Christians to interpret the Gospel to the world around it in its own day. Given the pace of our 21st century world, perhaps it is now better said that Christians are called to interpret the Gospel afresh every year. May this Happy New Year find God calling and equipping the people of God for a fresh new start in bringing to neighbor, friend, and stranger the Good News of the Love of God for all in Jesus Christ. May this be especially true for all of us here at ECR. Amen.

This is a year that ECR will begin acting to realize its long-dormant full potential. Over the past several years, the Vestry, the Ministry Leaders, and I have addressed ways to set ECR free to shine more brightly as a beacon of God’s light here in North Central Austin. We’ve shared with everyone at ECR the progress of this study of our needs, limitations, and options. All of us have read and heard of the demonstrable need here at ECR for additional classroom/meeting space, and for additional parking. After several years of working steadily through a process of learning and discernment, the urgency of the need has made clear that the time is upon us now to act. We have come to realize that there really is no practical way to bring more people into the life and ministry of ECR until we create more parking space visible from Justin Lane.

This demonstrates that 2008 is also a year rich with challenge. More parking spaces means more cars bringing more people here to ECR. On the surface of it, it sounds only good. But the reality is that ‘new’ people bring ‘new’ ways, and ‘new’ ways means change. Simply seeing unfamiliar faces, hearing unfamiliar voices, and finding that we don’t know the names of everyone here at church anymore – these are changes that can disturb and even distress us.

Yet, we know that these changes are positive, because they mean that more people will be experiencing the blessings that you and I already know. More people will be meeting God and growing in relationship with God. They’ll be discovering the joys and beauties, the liberties and responsibilities of being Episcopalian. And as they are blessed, so also will we be blessed, as well. Additional challenge lies in the real costs of creating the parking lots necessary to increase our ability to make the Gospel accessible to more people. You and I will need to find, raise, contribute, and/or borrow all the money required to accomplish it. It’s likely that we will find some grant money available from either the diocesan center in Houston and/or from the national headquarters at the Church Center in New York. But the bulk of the responsibility will be ours.

So, there are two things that I wish us all to know: First, while these changes are absolutely necessary, they are necessary not in order for ECR to survive, but for ECR to thrive. They are necessary in order for ECR to honor the mission to which God is calling us. The potential for ECR is enormous, but remains hindered by a campus that projects an insular community. Yet, you and know we are in fact not at all disinterested in the world around us. We care about people who need to know that God’s Love is available to them, that God is reaching to them, and that we here at ECR have found God’s Love for us and we celebrate it every week, and we share it every day.

Second, while the financial aspects of meeting ECR’s needs both immediately with the parking lots and over the next few years with the construction of an additional building, are initially imposing, nevertheless, they are within our ability. Throughout the fifty-plus year history of ECR, it is clear that God has always helped this parish find a way forward. Whenever we are acting from our faithfulness to God, God proves faithful to us. God will provide.

ECR has a history of responding to God’s call, and this year finds ECR responding again, to move our witness and ministry forward in ways that will guarantee growth in ECR’s ability to offer God’s love, growth in ECR’s ability to share the knowledge and love of God with one another and others around us, growth in the numbers of people worshipping God here and serving others in God’s Name. The happy new year of 2008 will find us here at ECR interpreting the Gospel to one another and to the world around us through our renewed invitation to come here, really come here, and share with us God’s Love for all.

God’s Peace - Jim +

Sermon Christmas Eve A - December 24, 2007

The Feast of the Nativity A - Christmas Eve - 24 December 2007
Isaiah 62:6-7,10-12; Titus 3:4-7; Luke 2:(1-14)15-20
James V. Stockton

I love what author Frederick Buechner has written about this night. “The claim that Christianity makes for Christmas,” he says, “is that at a particular time and place, God came to be with us Himself. When Quirinius was governor of Syria,” he goes on, “in a town called Bethlehem, a child was born, who, beyond the power of anyone to account for, was the high and lofty One made low and helpless.”

Of the many things people love about Christmas, I believe that one of them is this: Christmas says that God became not just human, not just a person, a man of Galilee. Christmas says that God became a baby, and people still love this. It’s in this that people can come to understand the significance of Christmas, the real miracle beyond the obvious, and know what really happened on that first Noël.

Since I was first a father, and I mean here a parent, not a priest, I have enjoyed reading to my daughters the story of little boy and a particular Christmas in his life. Charlie and his family are enjoying some snowy weather, and their walk back home the pass by Mr. Wilson’s house. Charlie can’t help but notice that Mr. Wilson’s house is without decoration. There are no lights on the roof, no tree in the front window, no wreath on the door. Charlie’s mom and dad explain to him: Mr. Wilson hasn’t decorated these last few years, now, ever since Mrs. Wilson passed away.

Back home, Charlie is helping his father set up the Christmas tree. Charlie has an idea. “Dad,” says Charlie, “Could I have these extra branches?” “Sure,” says Dad. And while Dad finishes setting up the tree, Charlie fashions a small wreath from the branches. He finds a couple small ornaments and a bow, and attaches them to it. “I’ll be back in a little while,” Charlie announces. He takes the wreath and walks down the street. Carefully, he makes his way to Mr. Wilson’s front door. He knocks, and knocks again. There is no answer, so Charlie leaves the wreath on the porch leaning against the door. Later that day, Charlie is outside playing with some friends. When their finished and he is walking back home, Charlie passes in the direction of Mr. Wilson’s house and can’t help but notice the wreath that he made hanging on the door.

This story reminds me that part of the manifold magic of Christmas, is that the story of the Christ child, renews the child within nearly everyone. In the blur of the shopping blitz, through the series of parties, and the worn out checklist of things to do, Christmas still gives birth in many to a childlike faith in the goodness of God. And, at least for a while, it brings that faith to life in their world today. Beyond the harder realities of most of the year, beyond the year’s discouragement and disappointment, and the impatience, anger, and despair that these breed, comes a soft and gentle reminder of innocence; of hope, of peace, of joy, of love; of ideals and inspiration and and a renewed belief that these still matter.

The next day, Charlie is helping his mother wrap up some cookies, freshly baked, to give to family who are coming by tomorrow, on Christmas Day. “Mom,” he says, “would it be all right if I took these extra cookies over to Mr. Wilson?” Charlie wraps them up nicely and adds a bow. At Mr. Wilson’s door he knocks, and then knocks again. The door opens just a bit, and Charlie can see Mr. Wilson looking down at him. “Hi,” says Charlie, “these are just for you, Mr. Wilson. Merry Christmas.” Mr. Wilson says nothing, at first. Then he opens the door, and leans down with a nervous smile. “Well, thank you, Charlie.” he says. “Thank you, very much.”

The world may have to wait each year for Christmas, but at least then, the good news does break in again. People are reminded that can and do care about one another, that people can and do help one another, that love, given hands and hearts and lives, really can and really does make the biggest difference of all. Not in power but in Love, not in riches, but in Love: not in anger, threat, and conquest, but in Love has God come into this imperfect world. As Frederick Buechner goes on to say: “The One who inhabits eternity comes to dwell in time. The One whom none can look upon and live is delivered in a stable under the soft indifferent gaze of cattle. The Father of all mercies puts Himself at our mercy.”

When we remember the miracle that we celebrate tonight, we remember that the Almighty and Everlasting, the Ruler of the universe, entrusted the very Presence of God’s own being to the fragile form of a helpless baby; and became completely subject to the fragility of human care. With the love of baby for his mother, the love of a mother for her child, nothing less than God’s Love for all has come. And by this, I think, Christmas touches in each of us the child that never surrenders to maturity, who before he or she ever even learns them by name, and long before she or he ever learns doubt them, understands meaning of peace, good will to all.

The next day finds Charlie playing outside, and on his way back home to get ready for Christmas Eve services, he passes by the direction of Mr. Wilson’s house. He sees again the wreath he made hanging on the door, and he can’t help but notice that a small Christmas tree setting on a table is now visible through Mr. Wilson’s front window. Then he notices some noise coming from Mr. Wilson’s garage. Charlie hears the sound of a hammer, and the sound of a saw, and Charlie can only wonder what is going on.

When you and I in childlike wonder gaze in our mind’s eye, with the eyes of childlike faith, upon the infant Jesus, God is touching the best within us and raising up the relenting child that God has birthed in each of us. It is God saying to us, “Here is my Joy to you and to all the world. More than anything else, I long for you coming near to me and near to one another as people, as my family. And so I come near to you, so that you may find your love for me as I give my love to you.” And we begin to understand that in the birth of the infant Jesus, God means to come ‘down to us,’ so to speak, in order to lift us up to God. God intends to bring heaven near, so we may come near to heaven. God tells us, in effect, “I want you to trust me, and so, I will begin by trusting you. I trust you to care for me among you; I believe in you in me.” It’s because before God ever asks your or me to believe in Jesus Christ, it is in Christ Jesus, that God first believes in us.

Christmas morning arrives and Charlie wakes to a happy morning of giving and receiving and of taking a moment to thank God for it all. Then, unexpectedly, there comes a knock at the door. Dad answers, and to everyone’s surprise, in walks Santa Claus. “I understand that a very good little boy lives here,” says Santa, “and I have something here for him.” “Charlie?” says Santa, and Charlie comes near. Santa reaches into a sack that he is carrying. “This is for you,” he says, and he pulls out a small wooden sled just the right size for Charlie. It’s varnished and shiny and beautifully carved. And Charlie’s name is painted on it carefully, wonderfully. “It’s just for you, Charlie,” Santa says; “Merry Christmas!” Walking back out the front door, Santa wishes a Merry Christmas to all. Charlie can’t help but notice that there’s something about Santa that is familiar to him. Santa walks down the street in the direction of Mr. Wilson’s house. “Merry Christmas, Santa!” Charlie calls after him. Santa turns and smiles. “It certainly is, Charlie;” he calls back. “It certainly is.”

In the child born in Bethlehem, and in the child born in you, in me, God brings forward here our most god-like quality of all the desire to love and to be loved. Somehow through Christmas, God replaces our adulthood’s prudence, with our childlike generosity instead. God replaces our realistic resignation toward how things simply are with our most idealistic hope for what we can bring to be.

And so may God, who wonderfully created us, and more wonderfully restores the dignity of human nature, grant that we may share the divine life of the One who humbly shares in our humanity, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

© 2007, James V. Stockton

Sermon 4 Advent A - December 23, 2007

4Advent A – 23 December 2007
Isaiah 7:10-17; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25
James V. Stockton

Hope, and Peace, and Joy, and Love. And as has been said, ‘the greatest of these is love.’ Love is the gift that, like the light of this small flame shines brightly enough to bring to people sitting in even a massive darkness genuine hope and true comfort. It is the gift of God that, more than all the others, I think, changes everything.

Through the season of Advent we Episcopalians and many other Christians as well make a journey of our own to that stable and its lowly manger to the child born there whose birth we celebrate beginning tomorrow evening. It’s a journey that begins in a darkness of sorts, recalling how very unfamiliar a thing it was: this coming of God’s chosen One. Our journey’s progress thus is marked by the lighting of the candles of the Advent wreath as we have done these past weeks. And one thing we learn along this journey out of darkness into light is that the deeper the darkness, the easier it is for people to notice the light. One does not pray for greater darkness, of course. But one may rightly pray that, by virtue of the light, people may notice and be bothered all the more by the darkness in which they find themselves.

We who see with their eyes know this symbolism well enough, perhaps. But I wonder if it isn’t those whose literal sense of sight is impaired who understand better than the rest that the light of Christ is an inward light and the Love of Christ for all is the real and actual gift to which the light merely alludes. Sighted or not, many people within and outside the fellowship of the Church understand that there is indeed a darkness and many of these are hoping and longing for the miracle that contradicts it. There is a darkness that is a baseness of spirit, that is a surrender to the survival instinct which puts one’s personal interests ahead of those of everyone else. There is a darkness of the soul that is a surrender to the fear that somehow people in the past have misunderstood those long-lived promises of better days to come, that someone has misinterpreted those ancient and eternal prophecies of mercy, justice, and victory. It is a cold darkness within and the Light of Christ, the Love of God in Christ for all, enters into that interior vacancy to illuminate it, to warm it, to burn away from it all the hidden fears and desperations that have accumulated in the farthest corners and crevices.

The ancient Israelite king, King Ahaz is one of those afraid and desperate. The nation of which he is king is shrinking in influence and prestige among the surrounding lands. Ahaz is trying to hang on to what is left. His people are turning with false hope to false gods, and, like their king, they are surrendering to a fatalism that gives them excuse, if not reason, to be utterly self-interested and to assume that everyone else is the same. To believe in all gods is to trust no god, and so, ultimately, the people trust only themselves. But knowing also that their resources, material and spiritual, are extremely limited, they know that even the next day, all may change, and so change to them means the end. And so rather than caring themselves, the indulge themselves as best they are able. They live just for today and do not allow themselves even to ponder what may come tomorrow. So afraid and so desperate are they that they fear even the changes that God’s Love might make. Little is left of love for God, love for neighbor, even of love for self. The inward light, has faded.

Through the prophet Isaiah, God reaches out to the people: “Let me remind you of my promise,” God says. “Let me give you a sign of my faithfulness to you. Ask of me in order that I may respond in a way that will brighten your hearts with my Love.” Who wouldn’t jump at the chance? Who wouldn’t welcome the opportunity to ask a sign of God with the assurance that God will do it? Ahaz says, ‘No.’ Holding to his fear more firmly than to the hand of God, he is afraid to ask.

Trusting more in the inevitable cruelties of fate than in the faithfulness and Love of God, Ahaz turns away from the promise of God. Covering over the a substance of a selfish desperation with a veneer of devotion, Ahaz declines. “I wouldn’t want to test God.” What is it like to offer a gift to someone and have that person refuse it? What is it like for God to offer to the people rescue from their fear, and have them turn away from an admittedly unfamiliar grace to the darkness and desperation that they know so well? What is it like to be as deeply afraid as are they? And what is it like to be as deeply rejected as is God?

God responds as only God can. Where God might turn from the people as decisively as the people turn from God; where God might exercise divine judgment and their story would end here and now, God responds instead as only God is able. Though no sign is asked, yet a sign is given. ‘God with us’ shall be born. Contrary to their fears, God will preserve the people against the hostilities of their enemies. Contrary to their desperation, God will bring the people will again to live in that legendary land of milk of honey. Contrary to their being accustomed to the gloom, the very presence of God is coming here to be among them.

Even the mere promise of the sign is signal to those in search of reason to hope that things are changing, that Love is breaking in to the world. Maybe you and I and our fellow Episcopalians and fellow Christians and even the wider fellowship of all seekers after God can take it as a hopeful sign in itself, that after all this time, people still are watching for a sign.

Even hundreds of years later, long after God had spoken to the king through the prophet Isaiah, people held onto the promise of God’s sign to them. Until on a quiet night, a typical working man, Joseph the carpenter, has a dream. Perhaps like Joseph the son of Jacob this Joseph also is a dreamer. Maybe he, like many around him, has dreams of the sign to come of the presence of God among the people. If so, his dreams are, as the Christmas hymn puts it, met tonight, as soon again they will be met in that little town of Bethlehem.

Finding his fiancé to be pregnant with a child not his own, yet, Joseph is a kind an decent person. He might have disgraced her as he surely as she seems to have disgraced him, but he responds as only a kind and decent man could do. the engagement will end discreetly, and the two will part company. But as only God is able to do, God enters in and everything changes. Tonight Joseph learns that his dreams are God’s dreams, as well. Just when his journey with Mary has seemed to come to its end, he finds that his journey has only just begun.

And we also, we here at the end of our Advent journey, find ourselves concluding a journey back to the beginning, back to the stable, to the infant Christ-child, to the Light of God is born within us. Driving out dark fear, Hope enters in and springs to life in the people of God. Relieving gloom and desperation, Peace wells up to calm and comfort the people of God. Shining brightly upon us, God’s own Joy lifts us up the people of God, and makes it home in your heart and mine.

And at last, the greatest of these is Love. It comes when we ask and when we do not. Quietly but insistently, God’s Love comes in and changes everything. And it offers itself always until, comforted by it, calmed by it, inspired by it, we take it and it becomes us. So that wherever you are there shines the Light of God; so that wherever I am, there the warm glow of the promise of heaven gives its comfort. God’s Love come among us: yes, long ago in away in a manger; and also here at the end of our journey, it is come into our world again in you and me. Wherever we are, today, tomorrow, on Christmas Day, on any day thereafter, because we are there, there is the Love of God come near; and here and now or there and then, as only it is able, God’s Love changes everything.

And now may Almighty God, who gives us grace to reflect in this world the eternal promise of God, grant that we may share always in that Love that filled to overflowing the heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, that it may overflow ours to God’s praise and glory; through the same Christ our Savior, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, One God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

© 2007, James V. Stockton

House of Bishops to ABC 2007?

There is reason to hope and pray that when the House of Bishops meets with the Archbishop of Canterbury later this month, they will all move quickly and responsibly through the hot-button topic of homosexual love and sexuality, then purposefully onward to the more central concerns of the Church and the Communion: our mission in the world around us. If so, the bishops and the ABC will help to liberate all but those most invested in the controversy, to enjoy and to share the Love of God more effusively. Toward that end, a few observations around the polity of the Church and the canonical interrelationships of the Churches of the Anglican Communion may be useful.

It will benefit all concerned when Left, Right, and Centrist recognize that the Church is bound by the State when it comes to the definition of marriage. The State defines marriage; the Church does not. The Church acknowledges this in our canons at Title I, canon 18a, which requires that “before solemnizing a marriage the Member of the Clergy shall have ascertained that both parties have the right to contract a marriage according to the laws of the State.” Thus, when people either raise the fear or raise the hope that the Church is ready to define marriage to include couples who are of the same sex, such claims simply are not true because it is simply not possible for the Church to do so. Fear not, the State defines marriage; like it or not, the State defines marriage. The bishops, the ABC, and the Church as a whole will do well to waste no further time or energy around false fears and false hopes that ignore this fact.

Division without Demise

Division Without Demise

Bishop Cox, retired suffragen of Maryland, is 'leaving' for the Southern Cone; Bishop Herzog, retired diocesan of Albany, is leaving for Roman Catholicism; the Church in England is leaving Rome to become the Church of England; and the Church of England in the American Colonies is leaving to form the Episcopal Church in the United States of America. The difference between the latter two instances and the two former is that the first are current and the latter are now history. But they all serve to demonstrate that division per se is not an evil in and of itself. In light of the anxiety that has afflicted some of late, I suggest the healing balm of a reality check.

Division doesn't equal decay. Division is a natural and God-given process that enables growth. I pray, then, that we can all relax the lamentations a bit and bring our reactions to it into a healthier perspective. It’s important that we not confuse religion with denomination, faith with Church. Our religion is Christianity; our faith is Christian. Our denomination is the Episcopal Church, and our Church is a part of the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic ideal. We can take great solace, then, in the fact that when people depart the Episcopal Church, they are not, unless specifically stipulated departing, Christ or Christianity.

The (First) Communiqué from the Primates

The (First) Communiqué

Reluctantly, I identify with my fellow confused and frustrated kindred in Christ as regards the Communiqué and our Presiding Bishop's response. At its best, Church life is the life of God and the liveliness of the Gospel. How far have we departed from these if we now find ourselves engaging less a relationship with the world around us and more a contest with those who purportedly are kindred in Christ?

None of this contest reflects the witness of those exemplars of human frailty and faith who stood up in the Hebrew context of the early Church and identified the Gentiles as "us." The Apostle Peter conferred with no one but his conscience and God before he welcomed formally, ceremonially, ritually into the life of Christ the Roman soldier and his family. The Apostle Paul conferred with no one but his conscience and God before he declared Christ risen not just for some, but for all. The evangelist Philip met with no one but God the Holy Spirit before he welcomed into fullness of Life the Ethiopian eunuch. One can only wonder what questions would have been raised, what recommendations to delay, to ponder, to meditate, to consult, to meet again later, would have been imposed had Philip acted more from prudence than from principle. James the brother of Jesus showed no hesitation, no lack of clarity, no inclination to appease those who disagreed, before he led the Church to identify officially the formerly sub-human Gentiles as fully fellow people of God. And now in our own day, I cannot help but notice that, since the release of the Communiqué, even among well-intenioned inclusivists our fellow Christians and fellow human beings who are gay are being referred to almost exclusively (!) in the third person. Perhaps deriving from its hostile context of origin, the language of the Communiqué is already putting distance between kindred joined in baptism.

Wary of the Sin of Waiting

Martin Luther King, Jr. once wrote from a Mississippi jail cell to his clergy colleagues, explaining why he would not, why he could not, agree to their pleas that he delay acting upon his convictions. In his letter which was later published under the title, ‘Why we Can’t Wait,’ King shows that he understands the reasons that his colleagues have chosen to still their activism, to silence their own voices, presumably in hopes of achieving a social stability that mollify the majority on both sides of the segregation and equal rights controversy, and would substitute for true peace. He then explains why this simply won’t do for himself in light of his calling to represent Christ to both his friend and his enemy, alike.

Passing through the storm - General Convention 2006

Surely by the grace of God, the Church has gently and mightily risen above a gathering squall, perhaps that it might now address the storm gathering in the world around it. General Convention rejected the petty bigotries that have driven efforts to redefine the Church. With active commitment to that truly Christian manner of life that was displayed there, the Episcopal Church can move further beyond the internal fanaticism that finds itself now in its death throes, and turn to concerns truly more meaningful and relevant to a Communion that claims the ministry of the reconciliation of humanity with God.

Perhaps the rumor is true that a number of so-called ‘orthodox’ bishops cynically cast their votes for Katharine Jefferts Schori as Presiding Bishop only to drive schism. If so, we can thank God for this 21st century revision of the story of divine will made manifest by Balaam’s ass. We will soon have a presiding bishop who is unencumbered by participation in the good-ol’ boy network, and who, wondrously enough, is focused on the Church’s global witness and ministry.

Two Streams in the emerging 'covenant'

The conversation around the proposed Anglican Covenant appears to be surfacing two discernible streams: those who are in favor of its adoption rather immediately, and those who favor a cautious skeptical approach.  Few if any are against a Covenant outright.  Having reviewed the St. Andrew's draft of the proposed Covenant, I had originally concluded that it was pretty serviceable.  I viewed the abundant appendices as perhaps a sly way of weighing the thing with such cumbersome processes of application that effectively it would be a moot exercise.  I no longer hold to this position.  As serviceable as it may be, the proposal is less about a covenant of relationship than it is about a description of a juridical process.  I believe this renders the proposed covenant a detriment to the vitality of the Anglican Communion, and certainly to the mission and ministry of the Episcopal Church.

The Currency of Controversy

In the Church's seasons of controversy, taking no public position is sometimes the prudent and charitably Christian to do. But perhaps it is time for those who once spoke out with bold and godly clarity on behalf of others whose voices were refused legitimacy to lay aside their polite diplomacy and speak up again. Perhaps it is time now for those who seem to have gone strangely quiet to take a clear position on the issues roiling the Church today, and freely accept the consequences of speaking plainly the Truth of the Gospel.

Homosexuality is the precipitating issue that has brought forward deep disagreements around biblical interpretation and application, limits and privileges of constitutional authority, the ontology of communion, and the definition of Anglicanism. Nevertheless, because most people concede that these other issues are open to legitimate differences of opinion, homosexuality continues to orient the debate. Since at least 1993, I’ve heard repeated the claim that “it’s really all about anal sex.” The plain wisdom of this insight recognizes that, for many of the ‘manly men’ disturbed by folks like Bp. Robinson and his partner, the idea of same-sex activity between two women simply doesn’t elicit the same passionate revulsion as does the idea of gay male sex. This may suggest an important insight into the nature of the current dispute. Currently, historically, and biblically, the objection to homosexuality is always primarily and most energetically expressed by men, and always primarily and most energetically focused upon the sexual activity rather than upon the sexual orientation itself.

The Anglican Triad

In an article in last month’s Nevertheless, I referred to Anglican theologian Richard Hooker’s order of priority that he assigned to Scripture, Reason, and Tradition. I didn’t include it in the article, but to be absolutely specific, I was drawing upon a quote from the Fifth Book of Hooker’s Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, Chapter 8 "The Third Proposition," section 2. I think it has something still to teach us. (All the following quotations are from the 1977 edition from the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.)

In this section, Hooker refers to two kinds of laws that he believes the Church may properly establish: one for the sake of order, the other pertaining to doctrine. He does contend that “that which in doctrine the Church doth now deliver rightlie as a truth, no man will saie that it may hereafter recall and as rightlie avoutch the contrarie. Lawes touchinge matter of order are changeable, by the power of the Church; articles concerninge doctrine not so." Yet, he then says, in the specific quote to which I referred earlier, "Be it in matter of the one kinde or of the other, what scripture doth plainelie deliver, to that the first place both of creditt and obedience is due; the next whereunto is whatsoever anie man can neccessarelie conclude by force of reason; after these the voice of the Church succeedeth. That which the Church by her ecclesiasticall authoritie shall probablie thinke and define to be true or good, must in congruitie of reason overrule all other inferior judgmentes whatsoever." Here the casual reader will want to note that ‘succeedeth’ refers to ‘follows in order of succession’ rather than to ‘wins’ or ‘prevails.’

The Lingering Issue

Returning from a vacation spent drinking in the natural beauty of our great state, I’m refreshed and reminded of the wonder and goodness of God. In touch with the vastness of God’s creation, the urgent concerns of humanity tend to shrink in comparison. To be surrounded by the awe-inspiring rugged grandeur of the mountains, to sit quietly and hear the whisper of God in the silence of the desert, has been, for me, to gain a renewed appreciation of the timeless and divine blessings that God, I think, would have shape the lives of His people. In our supposedly more civilized settings of city and suburb there reside concerns or ‘issues’ that can drive us quite forcefully. And unless they are integrated with the eternal and divine, these are the issues that can most easily divide, and whose resolutions, if similarly divorced from the transcending goodness of God, can bring far more harm than healing. My experience in the past and of late has been that these ‘issues’ can be humbled, issue-driven-ness quickly can be tamed, in the context of less-mediated and less-distracted contact with God.

Natural disaster and a distracted Church

An ancient tradition of the Faith holds the Church to be a type of rescue vessel. Pope Boniface VIII described the Ark of Noah as a prophetic symbol of the Church, each vessel adrift in an endless sea as a sign and offer of rescue for souls floundering in the chaos. As early as the second century, Tertullian writes of the Church as navis, as ship. This tradition lies behind the name of the space in which we worship: the Nave. The Church can well be understood as a ship of salvation, driven by the windy motion of the Spirit of God, and propelled by the collective energy of all in it steadily pulling their weight. It’s an inspiring image. But the practical reality of a close fit aboard even as noble a vessel as the Church would lead to problems, and this seems to have been on Jesus’ mind.

‘If your brother, your sister, a member of your family in the Faith, a kindred in Christ should wrong you, then there is a way to handle this.’ And though few take time to notice, there is a first condition that must be met before one person may address the sin of another. The ‘sinful behavior ’ must be directed at the person who claims the status of one offended. It’s worth considering how much discord in the Church might be laid to rest if this qualifier were applied. But supposing an offense truly exists, then step after tedious step is to follow. And if resolution still proves elusive, the offended party is then simply be done with the offender if need be, and move on. All this said, and in order to adhere strictly to the text, we should note that when Jesus says, ‘if your brother,’ the ‘you’ is singular. There is nothing in this prescription that calls for a collective dismissal of a supposed offender. It is a personal, even intimate, process. And it is ponderously slow. It imposes patience. One wonders if perhaps Jesus intends the tedium to bring perspective in order to challenge his followers not to indulge in being too-easily offended; and perhaps to discover a better way.

HoB Covenenant Statement 2005

Criticism is easy of the recent Covenant Statement from ECUSA’s House of Bishops, their response to the recommendations of the Windsor Report and the ‘requests’ from the February meeting of the Anglican Primates. Simply to criticize is a cheap and easy imitation of true critical thinking; it demeans both the object of criticism and the critic. So, no criticisms here. The House of Bishops have taken a definitive position on the concerns churning the Anglican Communion. And they are to be commended.

In forming the Covenant Statement, the HoB has done something that actually borders on the courageous and wise. Our bishops have responded constructively and with integrity, graciously reminding folks (anyone who cares to pay attention) that they simply lack the authority that some wish them to exercise. They have nevertheless agreed to “withhold consent to the consecration of any person elected to the episcopate…until the General Convention of 2006” and to “encourage the dioceses of [the] church to delay episcopal elections….” Some see this response as petulant. But surely this is a narrow criticism. Simply put, there is nothing more that the bishops can do, constitutionally. And it’s a mark of courage that they have done no less. With regard to the Primates’ request that ECUSA withdraw its members from the Anglican Consultative Council, the HoB’s agreement to “defer to the [ACC] and the Executive Council…” reminds their critics again that the bishops of ECUSA have limits to their authority. The HoB has been both respectful and educative in their reply. They have responded from a renewed sense of the mutual accountability that all of us have in relationship with the wider Communion, and that the wider Communion has in relationship with us.

The HoB's Burdern of Irresponsibility

The Report of the Primate’s Theological Commission of the Anglican Church of Canada on the Blessing of Same-Sex Unions, also known as the St. Michael Report, is a document worthy of study, and an example of the kind of focused work that the Episcopal Church should be doing. It is available for review at . Whether or not the Church of Canada follows through is up to that Church. What ECUSA does is up to us. One hopes we’ll soon decide to take upon ourselves the responsibility that is ours, and if not from the episcopal order, then perhaps better still, this decision will emerge from the order of the laity.

It’s very disappointing to see that, stateside, something quite to the contrary has been unfolding. As recently reported in The Living Church, a scandalous number of our bishops have been busy demonstrating how well they are able to speak from both sides of their mouths. Rather than genuinely supporting a prayerful and reverent response to the call to enter into a sophisticated, credible, respectful, and respectable process of defining the theological groundings for what we do, and thus for who we are, they have been hiding behind a deceptive pretense.

Being Unafraid

A friend of mine once needed to consider moving from Austin to continue his work in ordained ministry. But he was loathe to leave his adopted home city. He told me that if it was true that he’d gotten himself into a rut here in Austin, nevertheless, it was for him, “a velvet rut.” Routine predictability, safety, and comfort are commendable goals. But before an individual, family, community, parish, diocese, or entire Church seeks single-mindedly the comforts of predictability, the safety of routine, and the peace and quiet of peace and quiet, they do well to pay close attention to the consequences that accompany this pursuit. For if the velvet rut is a furrow into which one may comfortably descend, there is also a hand that pushes one in and holds one there. Comfortable as the rut itself, it is a velvet glove fitted over the nasty claw of Fear.

Judging God

There are particular reasons that we are having this dispute about this particular topic. Certainly the dispute does indeed involve “how one regards Scripture,” and more importantly, I’d suggest, it involves how the Church as a whole regards Scripture. But let’s not delude ourselves. This is primarily about sexuality and love.

The current dispute among Episcopalians, indeed among many Western Christians of any stripe, has not been piqued by someone rising up at General Convention to ask ratification of a particular view of Scripture. Similarly, we’re not arguing here about the washing of hands, the eating of shellfish, the consuming of milk with meat at the same meal, or any of a large number of other scriptural commandments. We are not arguing about Moses’ edict that we “must neither add anything to what I command you nor take anything from it.” Nor are we arguing about the fact that Jesus himself violates this Mosaic command when he says, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you l have love for one another.” We will do well to admit to one another and to ourselves that this dispute is about sexuality and love; more specifically, it is about same-sex sexuality, and love.