Sermon 2 Pentecost - Proper 3 A May 25, 2008

2 Pentecost - 25 May 2008 - Proper 3 A
Isaiah 49:8-16a; 1 Corinthians 4:1-5; Matthew 6:24-34
James V. Stockton

God provides. Beneath all the theology and mystery that enrich the message of the gospel, the simple truth that God provides lies very near the heart of the Good News of God’s Love for all.

There’s a story about a woman, living alone in her simple home, and her landlord, the man from whom she rents it. Bertie is an elderly woman; no spouse, no children, with very little by way of fixed income. Bertie contents herself to live with only her most basic needs met. She is pleasant, though. Poverty has taught her the simple beauty of God’s creation that many others around her pass by and ignore in their hurry to their next appointment or obligation. Mitch is Bertie’s landlord. He is not a bad sort, but he does find Bertie a curiosity and a pity.

One day Mitch stops by to collect from Bertie her rent money, ten days past due. “I’m sorry,” says Bertie as she hands Mitch her rent. “I was hoping I’d be able set aside a bit more before I had to pay my rent. It didn’t work out like I’d hoped, but God will provide.” Mitch looks around her bare bones abode. “What’s your God providing, Bertie?” he asks. “You don’t have anything as it is. You’re giving me your last dime, and I’m guessing that you don’t even have anything left to eat.” Bertie smiles at Mitch. “God will provide.” “Good grief!” Mitch shakes his head. “‘God will provide!’” mimicking Bertie. He shakes his head, and leave.

God’s provision. The idea can seem to be that Jesus is calling his followers to suspend their concerns, their concerns about anything, really; about everything. ‘‘Don’t worry about your food. Don’t worry about your clothing. Don’t worry about tomorrow.’ It’s as if Jesus is inviting people to cast their cares aside as though completely insignificant. And the implication, then, is that the people who have a care or a concern, the people who are worrying about something, are not just people of ‘little faith,’ but are people of no faith at all.

That said, it might be interesting to find out: Are you worrying about anything? If so, don’t be afraid to raise your hand. Don’t be afraid, you of little faith. So, just raise that hand.’ And of course, few people are going accept such an invitation. It isn’t an invitation to bring one’s ‘troubles and woes’ to Jesus. It’s rather more of an invitation to open oneself to criticism and judgment from others for the so-called ‘sin’ of worry and concern. It is an invitation, then, to denial; denial of one’s true feelings, denial of one’s true thoughts, and thus a denial of one’s true self. As such, it is an invitation to a dangerous and unfaithful exercise in false religion. For it is an invitation to deny to God the offering of the fullness of one’s being, in body, mind, and spirit. This is not the invitation that Jesus makes to his followers.

I read about a couple tourists visiting Israel. Kavanagh and McDuff have come over from Scotland to see the Holy Lands. Arriving at the Sea of Galilee, they learn that a boat ride across the lake will cost them fifty dollars apiece, and they are aghast. “Why, back home, we have some of the most beautiful lochs in the world,” cries McDuff. “And a fellow can cross them for but a few shillings.” “Ah, but sirs,” says the guide, “this is the lake that Jesus walked on.” “Small wonder, that,” says Kavangh. “With what you’re charging to take a boat across, I can see why he went on foot.”

With Jesus having ascended to heaven the disciples now know the presence of God by the power of the Holy Spirit among them, within them, and around them uniting them to God in body, mind, and spirit. They do in their own day what people like us do today; they recall his teaching and seek its fullest meaning for the worries and concerns of their lives and of the lives of those around them. And because people worry, Jesus is clear: ‘No one can serve both money and God,’ he says. And while the meaning may be apparent, yet we will do well to ask why Jesus would tell his followers, of all people, this bit of wisdom. ‘Don’t worry about your life,’ Jesus says. And again, the meaning and its application are broadly relevant. But there are insights available to us when we question why Jesus is telling this specifically to his followers.

His disciples now are right where he knew they would be. They have become the leaders of a movement that is beginning to catch fire. Jesus knew when he was among them that some day the disciples would gather the attention that accompanies offering to people the love of God and the dignity of being a child of God. And Jesus knew that this attention would bring with it temptations to capture and use this attention for purposes that would be less than godly, gracious, and true.

The rulers of the Temple, who governed the religious worship and practice of the people, would one day order the apostles of Jesus to cease their spreading of the good news of God’s Love for all. They would threaten the disciples with punishment. They would offer to leave them in peace if only the apostles will agree to ‘behave.’ People would offer the disciples money and rewards to share with them the privileges of leadership and the more spectacular gifts of God’s Holy Spirit. The disciples would face the temptation to restrict the sharing of the Gospel to none but their own people, to none but those whom they themselves deemed worthy, and none but those who could pay for it in return.

And so it is important to Jesus that his disciples remember, that all his people remember, that you and I remember, that God provides.

Bertie is alone in her simple home. Her rent is paid for the month. Now she must content herself with a glass of water and some salt-crackers from her pantry. “God, she says aloud, “I know that you provide. “I’ll be careful not to worry about myself too much,” she continues. “And I’ll just rely on you not to worry about me too little.” Worry wouldn’t be quite the word to tell what Bertie feels. But whatever concern there is, underneath it lies a simple trust that God provides.

Choosing to serve God above all else is first a choice to serve something other than oneself. It is a choice well represented by those whom we remember on this holiday weekend, who chose to serve their country and the defense of others rather than serve themselves alone. It is the choice that transformed the first followers of Jesus into leaders of the Church and servants of the Gospel of God. It’s the choice that is set before every follower of Jesus since then, set before many times over, every day, set before you and me still today.

Inside her home, Bertie is eating when she hears a sound, a thump as something lands in her fireplace. Bertie investigates and finds pound sack of potatoes! Instantly she hears a thud at her back door. She rushes to see. Opening her back door, Bertie finds a grocery bag with two frozen chickens inside. She is speechless. Suddenly there is another thump at her front door. Rushing to open the door, Bertie finds several sacks this time, with bread and milk and eggs and canned goods. Berite is filled with awe and amazement. “Thank you, God!” she cries.

“Good grief, Bertie!” Mitch is laughing, as he comes out from around the corner of the house. “I brought you all that. And here you’re thinking God just dropped it out of the sky!” “Thank you, Mitch,” says Berite. “Thank you. And thank you, God!” cries Bertie again. “I couldn’t imagine that you could use this man, but I always knew that you would provide.”

Today, tomorrow, the next day and every day, the choice set before us is to trust that God provides. It is a choice to trust the simple truth that lies near the heart of God’s Love for us, and of God’s Love for all. It is the choice to raise your hand before family, friend, and neighbor and say, “Yes, I’m worried; so, help me to remember, please, that God provides.” It is the choice to fold my hands, and to tell God, “Yes, I’m worried; and yet, I remember, and help me to remember, Oh God, that you do provide.” It is the choice to stretch out our hand that those around us, that they may discover that God provides through you and me. God’s Love provides.

And so may Almighty God remember not what we deserve but that which God has entrusted to us; and as we have been summoned to the service of the Gospel, may God make us worthy of our call; through 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 7 Easter - Ascension Sunday May 4, 2008

7 Easter A - Sunday after Ascension Day - 4 May 2008
Acts 1:6-14; 1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11; John 17:1-11
James V. Stockton

Of the geometry with which God has blessed us it may be that the circle is the most pleasing of shapes that people see and most satisfying of concepts that people encounter. This proposition may be one worth keeping mind as we reflect upon one of the complexities of our faith. “The church that forgets the absence [of Christ] inevitably misunderstands and misconstrues [Christ’s] presence.” So writes theologian and historian Douglas Farrow in his book Ascension and Ecclesia. Farrow’s point is that Christ’s ascension is, and must be, far more than “only a lesson designed to put an end to the disciples’ expectation of further ‘visitations’ from heaven.”

Christ’s Ascension is a core and basic tenet of Christianity. The orthodox doctrines of the Church, as represented in both the Apostle’s Creed and the Nicene Creed, describe Jesus’ ascension into heaven as something on a par with those other aspects of his life and ministry that are definitive of Christianity itself. Along with his conception by the power of the Holy Spirit, his birth by the Virgin Mary, his passion and death under Pontius Pilate, and his mighty resurrection from the dead, Jesus’ ascension into heaven is right in there with the rest.

Here, then, is where the geometry of the thing might be helpful. The point of the Ascension of Jesus is that what was begun is now complete. Certainly what was begun in Jesus, in the incarnation of the Christ, this is completed. Yet, there is more than this that God has begun. And this means that there is a greater circle, if you will, that is represented in Jesus’ ascension, encompassing a wider meaning than people might first perceive.

“I have made your name known,” prays Jesus, “to those whom you gave me from the world.” It is a prayer that Jesus offers to God on his final night with them before his arrest and execution. And perhaps as we do today, perhaps as our fellow Episcopalians and many other Christians around the world do today, perhaps the disciples also remember this prayer that Jesus once offered on their behalf, as they turn from the mystery of his ascension into heaven. “Holy Father,” Jesus prays, “protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one as we are one.” Jesus prays for them because, even though they do not realize it on the sad night on which he prays, nor do they realize it yet as he blesses them atop Mount Olivet before disappearing from view, yet Jesus knows. Jesus knows that he is leaving them in the midst of a world to which they no longer really belong.

And Jesus knows that, soon, the disciples will realize it themselves. “Lord, is this the time?” they ask Jesus. It’s a very reasonable question; it’s a very linear question. ‘You have been raised from the dead; you have shown yourself to us repeatedly, you have confirmed for us that you are the Christ of God.’ “Now,” they ask him, “is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” It’s a linear question. And so, it is a worldly question. And for this reason, Jesus must tell them, “It’s not for you to know.”

A story tells of Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw and young man whom he meets at a dinner party. The young man launches into a monologue describing his observations and opinions concerning innumerable topics. He drones on and on, with on one else nearly as fascinated as he himself. Unwilling to restrain his wit any longer, Shaw interrupts. “I do believe,” he says to the young man, “that between the two of us, we know everything in the world that there is to know.” “Really?” asks the young man. “And how, pray tell, would that be?” “Well,” says Shaw, “you seem to know everything except that you are an incomparable bore. And I know that!”

What is humanity’s to know, and what is it that is not ours to know? Within our venerable Anglican tradition, there is an approach to faith that is described as a three-legged stool. It originates with 17th century Church of England theologian Richard Hooker, and, in my humble opinion, we have yet to plumb the depths of his insight. Hooker proposes that Christian faith is well supported by a godly triad whose first leg is Scripture, whose second leg is Reason, and whose third is Tradition. And despite the tendency of some ideologies to make appeals to tradition in order to support practices that are rooted in unchallenged prejudices, nevertheless, thanks be to God, Anglicanism still ranks Reason ahead of tradition. It is Anglican, it is Episcopalian, thus, I think we may rightly argue, that it is simply inherently Christian to appreciate this fantastic capacity to think, to question, to wonder, to theorize, to test, and to think it through again. It may be given to us to know, or it may be given to us not to know. But it is always given to us to want to know.

The disciples want to know is this the time. Jesus wants them to know something far more important. And Jesus wants them to want to know that it is something not ‘out there’ in front of them somewhere; but something closer, something nearer to the point where they began. When the disciples start out with Jesus, they do not know him. They think they know him; they think that he is a wise man, they wonder if he is a prophet, and they hope that he is the one anointed and appointed by God to put their people back at the top of the hierarchy of world order. From our own perspective of nearly 2000 years afterward, we know that Jesus was not literally any of these; we know that the followers of Jesus did not, in the beginning, know Jesus.

Now, as he prepares to leave them in death, Jesus he prays for his disciples in a particular way. His disciples have come to know him at least well enough that though they remain are in the world, yet they, like he, are now no longer of it. That life that is of the world and the life of Christ in the world do not communicate long with one another before one begins to give way to the other. <>Two people uniting as a couple, have no absolute need to do in the context of a life of faith in God, a life in but not of the world. People celebrating the life of a love one who has recently died, have no absolute need to do in the context of a life of faith in God, a life in but not of the world. But sometimes, in times of joy, people do seek God’s blessing in a context of a life of faith. Sometimes, people do seek God’s consolation in times of grief in the context of a life in but not of the world. This indicates, I suggest, Christ’s call to his followers to create such intersections of cooperation and distinction, where people may bring their experiences of the linear progression of their lives into contacts with eternity and with the life of God.

“In the Bible,” writes the scholar Farrrow, “the doctrine of the resurrection slowly emerges as a central feature of the Judeo-Christian hope. But if it can stand for that hope, that hope itself is obviously something more.” “…it is not too bold to say,” he continues, “that the greater corporate journey documented by the scriptures continually presses…toward the impossible feat of the ascension.” <>At his ascension, Jesus promises his followers that soon they will be blessed with the Holy Spirit of God, as he himself was blessed. For he knows that they, like he, that we like he, are now be in the world, as a symbol of life begun, ended, and perpetually residing in God. Today, you and I have completed a circle. We have returned to find Christ Jesus where our journey with him began. He is absent, distant again; and we find ourselves, and sometimes people in the world around us, again expectant of his coming. And yet, we find him still uniquely present to us in word, in sacrament and in the sacramental fellowship of we his people.

And so, by his absence and through our expectation, we discover Jesus again among us, in the only way that we can find him, in the way that only he can be found. As he and the Father are one, we find Jesus again, he within us and we in him; in the world but not of it, we living the life of the faith that we have in Jesus, and Jesus living the life of the faith that he has in you and me.

And so may Almighty God, who unites us in the holy bond of truth and peace, of joy and charity, so grant to us the gift of faith that it may overflow our own, and bless the hearts and lives around us; 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'sStudy May 2008

From the Rector's Study ~

Once his followers experience Christ Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, the movement of the Holy Spirit of God defines and determines the Church thereafter. With infectious passion the good news of God’s Love is broadcast farther and wider by growing numbers of Christians. They gather regularly to give thanks and praise to God, the very purpose of our own Sunday worship. In this community practice, God renews the vitality of the Holy Spirit within the Church, God’s people. From there, we move back out into the world around us, to infect it further with God’s Love for all. Thus, even as the Church celebrates cyclically the life and ministry of Jesus through the seasons of the Church year, yet the Church exists always and perpetually in the season of Pentecost, the season of the movement of the Holy Spirit.

As you likely know, this month our diocese will hold an election for our next diocesan bishop. Again as you may know, I am a nominee in this election. As the community whom I serve and lead, I want to share with you my sense of call, of the movement of the Spirit, regarding this election:

Sermon 4 Easter A - April 13, 2008

4 Easter A - 13 April 2008
Acts 2:42-47; 1 Peter 2:19-25; John 10:1-10
James V. Stockton

Conventional wisdom: I wonder if it isn’t almost a contradiction in terms. There is a wisdom, I suggest, in people gathering today to celebrate Jesus and his resurrection. But it is a wisdom that is, I suggest, more extraordinary than conventional. Conventional wisdom may have some people sleeping late this morning. After all, conventional wisdom tells them that they’ve endured a long busy week and another long busy week lies ahead of them; so, they should rest up in preparation for it. Conventional wisdom may have some folks out on the lake this morning, enjoying some leisure time. Conventional wisdom tells them they’ve earned, so they’d be fools not to take it. Conventional wisdom also tells people sometimes when it’s time to give up, or why it’s senseless to continue trying, or to try at all in the first place. There’s a saying that holds that the person who says it can’t be done should move out of the way of the person doing it. Maybe people should wonder: ‘Is conventional wisdom’ almost a contradiction in terms?’

There is a story of the Rt. Rev. Milton Wright. He was a bishop of the United Brethren Church which was shortly to join a similar denomination to form the Untied Methodists. In 1890, Bishop Wright is speaking at the Church’s annual convention. The convention is held at a local college. At one point in the meeting, the president of the college rises to speak. “I think,” says he, “that we are living in a very exciting age.” “What do you see?” asks the presiding bishop. The college president replies, “I believe we are coming into a time of great inventions. I believe for example,” he says, “that [one day soon, people] will fly through the air like birds.” “What!” exclaims the bishop. Shocked, he cries out, “This is heresy! The bible says that flight is reserved for the angels.” His was the conventional wisdom of the day.

Conventional wisdom: it may be a contradiction in terms. Conventional wisdom certainly contradicts the wisdom that gathers people, Episcopalian and otherwise, to celebrate Jesus and his resurrection. Conventional wisdom is, by definition, so very conventional that it hardly ever celebrates at all.

When, if ever, has conventional wisdom not held in some form or another, that people do best to take care of themselves, and their own interests, and to protect their things from others who might use them or even take them? When, if ever, has conventional wisdom not held that one ought not try to rise too far above one’s station in society? When, if ever, has conventional wisdom not held that one should go along to get along, to go along with things as they are in order to avoid trouble for oneself. When, if ever, has conventional wisdom not held that one should take for oneself the most that one can get away with taking: in ancient times, that one should take as much as possible of the food gathered for the day; or more recently, as much as possible of the money in the budget, before someone else makes off with it, and you’re left hungry and tired?

And with conventional wisdom offering such wonderful and encouraging advice, when, if ever, has conventional wisdom been the cause for real celebration? It isn’t conventional wisdom that gathers Christians today to celebrate Jesus and his resurrection.

‘The believers devoted themselves to the things that the apostles taught and to the fellowship that they created.’ They devoted themselves to breaking bread together and to praying together. As the first reading for today tells us, there is nothing at all conventional in the way the first Christians gather, either. The first Christians don’t gather up their private stuff and money, which is exactly what most people would do. Instead, they sell what they have in order to make sure that each has what he or she might need. It’s completely unconventional, and maybe this is part of the reason why these early Christians enjoy the good will of everyone else around them. It’s unconventional, and it’s a celebration. And there’s nothing really conventionally wise about people like you and me gathering today to carry on with the celebration that they began.

Ours is a traditional Church, the Episcopal Church. It’s long history traces back, yes, to the England of the Renaissance. But out history goes back even further, all the way to the apostles of Jesus and to all the way back to this very celebration described for us in the book of Acts, the book of the Acts of the Apostles. Conventional? In the sense that we hold our traditions respectfully, sure. For they are not ours alone; they belong also to those generations of Christians in whose path we follow, and to those generations of Christians who will follow us, celebrating the wisdom of Jesus, always unconventional.

When, if ever, would conventional wisdom have chosen fishermen to carry on the movement that Jesus began? When, if ever, would conventional wisdom have chosen a couple of spinster sisters and a ‘professional woman,’ shall we say, to be at the center of Jesus’ circle of followers and friends? When, if ever, would conventional wisdom encourage people to embrace their identity as sheep, and as part of the flock? But Jesus does it, and thanks be to God, our good shepherd is anything but conventional. Jesus says, ‘I am the entryway into life and life everlasting.’ Jesus says, ‘You follow me, and I’ll lead the way.’ Jesus says, ‘You go out when I go out, and you come in when I come in, and I’ll be watching over you every moment and every step of the way.’ The conventional wisdom of Jesus’ day was telling him to gather his own, to keep the others out. But in Jesus, God shows us that conventional wisdom never leads to the extraordinary.

Jesus says, ‘I want anyone and everyone to come to me. I don’t care if they look like I look. I don’t care if they speak like I speak. I don’t care if they come from my people or someone else’s. I don’t care if they know my name. I only care that they recognize my voice. I only care that they care that, in what I say, in how I say it, and in what I refuse to say, at last they hear the good news that God loves them, and is calling them to know this Love.’ Thanks be to God for the wisdom of our good shepherd.

In Jesus’ day and in our own, conventional wisdom says ‘Hey, it’s easier to look the other way while the thief or the bandit come in.’ Conventional wisdom tells us always to ask, ‘What’s in it for me?’ But Jesus says, ‘I will give my life before I’ll allow another to make off with a sheep that rightfully belongs to God, with a soul that God is trying to love.’ Thanks be to God that Jesus’ wisdom is wiser than convention.

The bishop at the convention asks the college president to speak, and the president speaks of things most unconventional. “We are coming to a time,” says he, “of great inventions. I believe that [people] will fly through the air like birds.” “What!” exclaims the bishop. “This is heresy! The bible says that flight is reserved for the angels.” The bishop looks around at the meeting. “We’ll have no more of such talk here!” Having set things right, the bishop returns home from the convention. There he passes out to his children some gifts that he brought for them. The two younger boys get a little wooden spinner. Powered by a rubber band, when the boys wind it up, it flies through the air. Content and comfortable, he thanks God, this Bishop Milton Wright, as his two sons, Wilbur and Orville, set to playing with their new flying toy.

It is a wisdom that gathers us today, a wisdom far beyond convention and comfort. It’s a wisdom of God’s own granting that moves us to celebrate Jesus and his resurrection, and our own. It’s a wisdom that gathers us today, a wisdom beyond all convention and mediocrity, bringing us to one another to see, to hear, and to feel God’s own joy in celebrating us, God’s own people, to know God’s own Love for you and me. It’s a wisdom that gathers us today, a wisdom beyond all convention and complacency, calling us to gather with us all those in the world around us who are straining to hear that voice that their heart will recognize: that voice that speaks without contradiction of the unconventional love of God; the extraordinary love of God for all.

And so may Almighty God, by whose mercy we find both rest and confidence, inspire our witness to him who gave himself on our behalf, and for the whole world; that all might come within the reach of his saving embrace; through the same our Lord Jesus Christ, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 3 Easter A - April 6, 2008

3 Easter A - 6 April 2008
Acts 2:14a, 36-41; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35
James V. Stockton

“Madame,” I said; “if our God were a pagan god, or the god of the intellectuals – and form it comes to much the same – He might fly to His remotest heaven and our grief would force Him down again.” So reads The Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos. It’s not a real diary, but a work of fiction. A lonely parish priest is ministering faithfully to his congregation and the town around them.

He is speaking at this point to Mme. la Comtesse, trying to comfort her; she is mourning the death of her young son. She believes herself angry at God, and certainly she has the right to characterize her feelings in the way she chooses. But the priest suggests an alternative. Her feelings are strong, yes. But “You [don’t] hate Him,” says the priest of Madame’s feelings toward God. Hate is indifference and contempt. Now at last you’re face to face with Him.” Whatever she feels toward God, she is hardly indifferent. She is passionate about it. And in this, so the priest believes, is sign of a hope that she has hope, a passionate hope, for something greater than the death that has claimed her son and claimed, as well, her faith in God.

If it’s difficult to remember, that’s all right; it is, after all, the third Sunday of Easter. We’ve been celebrating now for two weeks now God’s raising up of Jesus from the dead. But today the gospel reminds us of those first days before the first disciples ever know that there is something to celebrate. These travelers from Jerusalem on the road to a small town called Emmaus are mourning the death of a loved one. And maybe they know it, maybe they don’t, but either way: they also mourn the near-death of their ability to trust in God. It’s been three days since Jesus was crucified, and yet here are these two still talking about it.

‘He was a prophet mighty in what he did and in what he said,’ they tell each other. ‘We were hoping he was the one sent from God to set everything right again,’ they tell each other. ‘But somehow we must have been wrong. Our leaders didn’t see what we thought we saw. They didn’t hear what we thought we heard. They didn’t believe for a minute that Jesus was the one; of did they?!.’ They must have repeated it over and over in their minds by now; they must have repeated the story to one another many times over by now; but here they are still still trying to process it, trying to understand it, trying to make some sense of how they could have been so very wrong about Jesus. Hour after hour, day after day, these two, and probably every one of Jesus’ followers, are going over it. ‘What really happened? How did we get it this wrong? What did we miss?’

And literally what they miss is Jesus. I don’t mean that they miss him in the sense that he is gone and they are nostalgic for him and are feeling acutely the loss of his presence among them. Surely, this is true. But quite literally, the disciples miss Jesus. Right here, right now, he is with them. The irony is almost too much; even to these two disciples of Jesus, Jesus remains a stranger.

There are theories about how this is possible; people speculate. Perhaps there is something inherent to the resurrected body that causes Jesus’ appearance to be dramatically different from what he looked like before being raised. Maybe now that the resurrection has taken place, Jesus is using heavenly powers to cloud their senses. God has already won the victory, so, to do so now does not compromise the gift or the efficacy of the incarnation. But surely at least part of the reason that they don’t recognize Jesus standing beside them is that they do not expect to. The faith that tomorrow shall be better for the presence of God with them today has lain still for three endless days now. Their hope has died on the cross with Jesus. Their trust in God’s hand at work in the world around them has been buried with their Lord.

And so they miss him. And this is their problem. It’s the problem, I suggest, that remains from their age into our own. Too many people still are missing out: still missing out on the presence of God, still missing out on the celebration, still missing out on their own recognition of God, and missing out on God’s recognition of them.

‘[God] might fly [away] to His remotest heaven,’ says the priest to the grieving countess. ‘But you know,’ he goes on, ‘that our God came to be among us.’ [‘So,’] he tells her, ‘shake your fist at him, spit in His face, scourge Him, finally crucify him: what does it matter?’ ‘My daughter,’ says the priest, ‘it’s already been done to Him.’

Her son has died and no matter her disappointment, no matter her anger, no matter her grief, her passion for what might have been, for what should have been, remains. And in this, I suggest, God provides her the solution. As they walk with him, the disciples of Jesus do not recognize him. Yet as they walk along, something is happening. They will say it later this way: ‘our hearts were burning within us.’ Jesus has died, and yet no matter their disappointment, no matter their anger, no matter their grief, their passion for what might have been, for what should have been, remains. And in this, I suggest, God provides them the solution. For while their passion remains for what might have been, then God can stir it to a passion within them for what might yet be. If their passion remains for what should have been, God will stir it to become a passion within that will what shall yet be.

‘My daughter,’ says the priest to Madame la Comtesse; ‘you must be at peace. “And then,” reads his diary, “I blessed her. ….We exchanged no words. The peace I had invoked for her had descended also upon me. And it was so ordinary, so simple, that no outsider could ever have shaken it. For indeed we had returned so quietly to everyday life, that not [even] the most attentive onlooker could have gauged the mystery of this secret, which already was no longer ours.”

As in every age, so also still in our own, people continue along their way many in various forms of inward pain. Perhaps evident in their faces, maybe hinted at in their posture or their gait, people move along with their confusion over what they’d expected versus what happened instead. People grieve unfathomable loss, they rail against inexcusable injustice, and they are passionately afraid that their faith in the inevitability that goodness, truth, and love will one day make things right again is dead or dying. Plodding along to their own Emmaus, they cannot not look for Jesus; they don’t know where to search, anymore; and maybe they never did. Pressing on from what they try to leave behind to whatever by chance might lie ahead, they cannot come to Jesus; they do not know where to find him, anymore; and maybe they never did. But confounded, sad, or angry, indifferent they are not. Somewhere beneath the surface or somewhere deep within passion remains. And it is these toward whom Jesus still draws alongside today.

Christ is risen, and Christ still comes to us today. Wherever we are, in place or location, Christ still comes to us today. The stranger beside you, the stranger next to me, can be Christ in someway drawing near to ask us how we’re doing today. Wherever we are in mind or heart, Christ still comes to us today. The next unexpected interruption, the next distracted thought or daydream, may be Christ somehow speaking to you, to me, to explain for us a larger godly plan. And so we celebrate this third week of Easter, giving God thanks in word and deed for raising Christ to life and raising us to new life in him.

This third week of Easter let us give thanks by recognizing today or tomorrow, that person next to you or me who, confused and lonely, needs your smile or mine to keep them company along their way. This third week of Easter let us come alongside that person, sad and hurt, or broken and angry, or howsoever they choose to characterize what they’re feeling, let us come alongside that person who needs to recognize in us that passion of God’s own heart, burning for them through you and me.

Now may Almighty God, who by the glorious resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ brought life and immortality to us all, grant that we, being raised to newness of life, may live always in the presence of Christ Jesus and rejoice in glory everlasting; 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

Rector's Study April 2008

From the Rector's Study ~

A season of new and renewed life is upon us, here at ECR and for Christians all around us and around the world. We’re energized, looking forward to a horizon drawing nearer. ECR’s leadership is well engaged in the renewal of our campus in order to manifest the Lord’s own welcome to those passing by and pulling in. New energy is coming in. When more people are able to park here and join in the worship and fellowship of our community, new energy will add itself to ECR all the more. It will be sure sign that our witness is growing, our effect upon the world around us for good and for God is growing.

New life is renewing us here, and we are renewing ECR for the present and for the future good of our families, friends, neighbors, and for those whom we don’t even know, but who someday will feel the faith and the love that we are growing here today. I am personally committed to seeing that ECR becomes a major Episcopalian witness at the center of Austin, in the heart of some of the most thriving neighborhoods of the city. I know that ECR’s leadership is committed, as well. I am committed to realizing this vision.

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