Sermon 7 Pentecost - Proper 8A June 30, 2008

7 Pentecost - 30 June 2008 - Proper 8A
Genesis 22:1-14; Romans 6:12-23; Matthew 10:40-42
James V. Stockton

Does God dream? It’s a different question from asking, ‘Does God sleep?’ People have dreams of their futures, dreams of their legacies, dreams for the happiness of their loved ones, dreams for the society of which they are a part, and dreams for the world in which they live. Do people wonder if God had dreams? Do they wonder, ‘What dreams does God dream for people?’ Do they ever wonder, ‘What dreams does God dream for me?’

I read a story about a priest and his sermon one Sunday. “In the ancient times” he begins, “the people believed that God spoke to them in dreams and visions. If they wondered where God wanted them to go, or what God wanted them to do when they got there, they would seek a direct word from God in their dreams.” What do God’s people dream for themselves? And what about people beyond the border of the fellowship of God’s people? What dreams do people dream outside the Church looking in? And what does God dream for us and for all?

Long, long ago, Abraham had a dream. His own dream has been to have a son who will carry forward his lineage. And with the birth of his son, Isaac, his dream, his vision, his fondest hope has been fulfilled. But one day Abraham has a dream of another sort. It is a vision, and it originates far beyond Abraham’s aspirations. Neither comforting not inspiring, it is a dream, a vision, by which God tests Abraham. “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love,….” God knows of Abraham’s deep attachment to the boy. God knows the test that this is for Abraham.

In Hebrew it is the aqedah, the binding. It means Abraham’s binding of his son Isaac in preparation for his killing him and offering him up as burnt sacrifice to God. In the entire story of God’s people, this is a unique episode. I’ve seen people brought to tears when reading it aloud. So disturbing is this bit of Abraham’s story that virtually nothing is said of it, no attempt to make sense of it, in all the rest of the books of the Old Testament. Scholar Jon Levenson, in his book The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son, notes that there is an “utter absence of direct references” to the aqedah “anywhere else in the Hebrew Bible.” It isn’t until the Hebrew people are invaded, defeated, and taken captive that the rabbis and scholars of their day in their commentary or midrash begin to give the story more attention. As Levenson notes, it “becomes a theme of enormous import in Judaism of the Roman period, including the forms of Judaism that served as the matrix of Christianity.”

And thus the question remains alive through generations down to our own: the question being, as Levenson puts it, “the righteous father’s willingness to sacrifice his beloved son… together with the son’s glad and unqualified acceptance of his own divinely mandated death.” Question indeed! For the unspeakable command of God to Abraham causes the question to become far more urgent, “What truly does God dream for God’s people? What is God’s truly dream for me?”

Back in church, the priest continues explaining: “If the people weren’t getting any messages from God while dreaming in bed at home, they would build an altar of stone and sleep beside it, or go sleep in the Temple, where they believed all this would work better.” From beginning to end, the story of Abraham is rich with dreams that bring him messages through an angel from heaven. At the last possible moment, the angel calls out again, and Abraham answers. It is an important dynamic that I believe we do well to notice. From the start of this strange episode, through the three days of Abraham’s pondering of the message, to the climactic rescue of the child, a crucial element is Abraham’s attentiveness to God.

The angel calls out, Abraham answers, and God shows him a ram nearby which substitutes for Isaac as sacrifice to God. Then the angel speaks to Abraham again. In the verses that immediately follow our Old Testament reading for this morning we read: “The angel of the Lord called to Abraham from heaven a second time and said, ‘I swear by myself, declares the Lord, that because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.’”

In trying to find meaning in this story, then, some of the early rabbis went on to suggest, as some people suggest still today, that God grants favor to Abraham not when God first calls him to special blessing and responsibility, but when Abraham offers the sacrifice of his own son. For some of us, this will recall Jesus’ words in the Gospel for last week: “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me;…” “All nations on earth will be blessed,” says God through the angel, “because you have obeyed me,” obeyed even to the point of be willing to kill his own child.

If this is true, then it raises the stakes immeasurably when we ask the question about what God might dream. We can put the question socially and anthropologically, so that we ask collectively: What is God’s dream for us or for humanity? What does God require of us or of humanity? We can put the question personally and individually, so that a person asks himself, herself, you ask yourself, I ask myself: What does God dream for me? What does God require of me to make God’s dream real? However we ask it, though, if the question really is not just what am I willing to sacrifice, but whom, then the proportions of the question become huge. More important, the question becomes dark, ominous, even, dare I say, unholy.

Which may be why the Old Testament is completely silent on the aqedah, and the New Testament mention Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac only twice, and only as evidence of the faith of one who has already received the promise of God. Which is why, I think, that if the story of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac is a call to God’s people to sacrifice anything, it is God’s call to sacrifice the notion that a dream of God is sadistically to test the faith of God’s people to the point of absurdity and obscenity. It is God’s call to us, and through us, to all whose lives we share, to reject with all our heart and soul and mind and being the idea that God would call Abraham or anyone else to kill their dreams.

The question is, then, very important: What does God dream for God’s people? In church, the priest is concluding his explanation to the parish. “So, the people would seek from God a message in their dreams. Thus began,” he says, tongue in cheek, “the time-honored tradition of sleeping in Church. I want to point this out,” he continues: “though I’m fairly certain that they will not actually hear it who would appreciate it most of all.”

You and I know that we need not be asleep in church to dream. So, don’t sleep in church, but by all means, dream. Let’s receive from God dreams for our future, for the legacies that we’ll leave behind, for the happiness of our loved ones; for the society of which we are a part, and for the world in which we live. We know that dreams that can be gifts of God. So dream this week, by all means, dream.

We know also that beyond the border of ECR people have dreams as well. Beyond the boundaries of the Episcopal Church, beyond the wider fellowship of all God’s people, people outside looking in have dreams. And as you and I do, they also in their own way, wonder, ‘What does God dream for people?’ ‘What dreams does God dream for me?’ After confronting our nightmares about the cost of obeying and following Jesus being more than we can bear, Jesus hints, I think, at the real dream of God. ‘Be welcomed,’ he says ‘by those who welcome you. And in you, let them welcome me.’ ‘Welcome those who come to you.’ he says. ‘And in them, you will welcome me.’ ‘Welcome one another. That’s all the sacrifice I really ask; just welcome one another.’ It’s as though God says, ‘Let my welcome live in you; let my Love live in you; let my dream be alive in you, and together, let us see our dreams come true.’

And so may Almighty God, who has poured into our hearts the greatest gift, grant us faithfulness in our witness to the power of that Love, which burns in the heart of God’s own Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 6 Penteocost - Proper 7A June 22, 2008

6 Pentecost - 22 June 2008 - Proper 7A
Genesis 21:8-21; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39
James V. Stockton

How did your last week go for you? I hope it was blissfully calm, but maybe it wasn’t. I hope your relationships with the people and world around you were refreshingly honest; but maybe they weren’t. I hope you experienced wonderfully your faith in God and God’s faith in you; but maybe you didn’t. And if it wasn’t, if they weren’t, and if you didn’t, maybe it goes to demonstrate what Jesus told his disciples long ago: Peace isn’t natural. Truth isn’t cheap. Trust in God isn’t easy.

Is it surprising for people to hear this? In a world suffering from war, is this a hard word from Jesus to hear? Jesus did not come to make peace with the world. He does not come to affirm the way things are. Instead, he brings a sword. Jesus’ manner of life, his witness is here to cut away the immorality of injustice; his words are here to pierce the heart of falsehood and pretense. In a time of fears that conflict may spread more widely, is it surprising to learn that Jesus comes to call his followers to fight when need be, to struggle when need be, to suffer and die, when need be?

I have to wonder, is it hard for Jesus apostles to remember what Jesus says to them in the gospel for today? He has risen and ascended, and as they live into their own ministry, they recall Jesus’ words and example to guide them on their way. “My critics and enemies call me evil and crazy,” says Jesus. “And if this is what they tell people about me, you can imagine what they’ll say about you.” “So,” Jesus tells them, “don’t be surprised. Don’t be surprised that people oppose the truth that you bring, the values that you represent.” “So, know this: God has you. Ultimately, your clear conscience will calm your mind. Your integrity will settle your fearful heart. Ultimately, your love for God, your commitment to truth, your pursuit of justice and mercy, will keep you in the knowledge and love of God.”

The challenges of God’s call can be surprising. It can be hard sometimes to trust the promise of God. Yet if these struggles betray how woefully human are those who seek to follow Christ Jesus, how thoroughly human is our own the Episcopal Church, along with the wider fellowship of all who seek the knowledge and Love of God, it bears recognizing that it is precisely to these thoroughly human struggles that God gives custody of the divine treasures of Peace, and Truth, and Trust in God.

As we heard last week, Abraham and Sarah are impatient to experience God’s promise to them the unlikely promise of an heir born to them in their extreme old age. Having arranged with her maid and slave, Hagar, to serve as surrogate mother, Sarah now resents the son that Abraham has fathered with Hagar. She wants the child and his mother banished and Abraham agrees. Abraham sends the woman and child off into the wilderness to fend for themselves. These actions of Abraham and Sarah demonstrate the fact that God calls and moves through people not because they are perfect, but because they are willing to try; and when they get it wrong, are willing to try again.

There is, then, no need to soften the fact: what Abraham and Sarah do here is cruel. The closest we can come, I suppose, to defending their actions is to recall that that God somehow assures Abraham that God will tend to the child. It is a promise that God makes to Abraham, and later also to the boy’s own mother. And, of course, it is a promise that God keeps. God does rescue both Ishmael and his mother Hagar from the harshness of the desert. And the Ishmaelites do become a nation great in their own right.

On a side note, in some circles, it’s a popular notion, to equate Ishmael and his descendents with the followers of Mohammed and with Islam. I would suggest caution here, if only to note that the original animosity is between Sarah and Hagar, not between Isaac and Ishmael, who actually grow up for awhile playing nicely together. In addition, it’s important, I think, to note that the birth of Islam brought it into conflict not first with the Jewish descendents of Abraham, but with the Christian believers in the divinity of Jesus. And of course, more recent conflicts are rooted in 20th century politics, with any sense of ancient discord merely supplying secondary and specious justification for modern hostilities. In short, let’s not blame this stuff on God. Instead, let’s be willing to try to trust the promise of God. And when we get it wrong, let’s not force the promise in our own way. But let’s be willing to try again to trust the promise of God.

Trust in God is hard. Truth can be costly. Peace must be intentional. Jesus knows all this. And it’s important to him that his followers know it, too. Certainly, his disciples remember that Jesus was no conquering warrior. They remember also, though, that Jesus was no diplomat come to negotiate, compromise, and placate the self-interest of as many people as possible. As is said elsewhere in the gospel, Jesus is no ‘respecter of persons.’ He is no mincer-of-words. He does not alter his manner or his speech based upon the status of the person or the people to whom he speaks. And so he cannot, he will not, tell his closest followers anything less than the truth. And the truth is, the apostles are in for trouble. God has not sent Jesus to call them from their fishing nets and tax-collector’s booths, to a life of ease and effortless success. Just as Jesus does, so also will the apostles now confront all that keeps people from God’s Love for them and for all.

Trust in God can be difficult. Truth is costly. Peace must be on purpose. “One’s foes will be member of one’s own household,” says Jesus. Maybe Peter thinks back and recalls his father’s response to him dropping the fishing nets, leaving the boat, leaving behind the family business, and going off with this itinerant preacher, Jesus. Maybe Matthew remembers how his friends and relatives told him what a fool he was to leave his lucrative position as tax-collector and take off after this upstart, Jesus. Maybe someone you or I know has known similar skepticism among people close to him or to her when she or he decided to follow the course that was, for her, for him, the nobler, higher, more godly way. Maybe you or I have experienced it ourselves.

Peace is a prize to be pursued and earned. Truth is a challenge to be met and embraced. Trust in God is a spiritual gift to be exercised and strengthened. One wonders if it’s hard for the disciples to hear this. One wonders if it’s hard for people now to hear this. Is it hard for you and me to hear it again today? And one wonders if maybe the disciples follow Jesus anyway because they hear from him the same promise of God that gathers us here today: “You are of value to God,” says Jesus. “You matter to God. God cares for you. God is always with you.”

How was last week for you? I pray it was good and joyful, exciting and energizing, and all that you hoped it would be. And I pray that this week will be all that and more. I pray that this week will be, for you and me, for us together, and through each of us, also for those around us, a week that is unsettling, disturbing, challenging, tiring, and in this, a week that is rich with the promise of God.

I pray that this week we won’t be surprised when God gives us occasion to do battle with the impulse to do battle; to refuse to tolerate the instinct for intolerance; to surrender a natural contentment in pursuit of a true and supernatural peace from God. I pray that this week we won’t be surprised that God gives us occasion to pay the price for speaking the truth; to confront those comfortable falsehoods that separate people from God and from one another; and to proclaim loudly, in deed and in word, that truth alone will set us free in the knowledge and Love of God. I pray that this week we will not be surprised to find that God gives us occasion to welcome and receive again the gift of trust in God; and occasion to use it, to exercise it, to strengthen it, so that our witness in the world may be ever faithful, ever peaceful, and ever true to the Love of God for all.

And so may Almighty God, who draws our hearts to Jesus, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so direct our wills that, wholly belonging to God, we may be dedicated to the welfare of God’s people, and to the glory of God’s Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, One God, for ever and ever. Amen.

© 2008, James V. Stockton

Sermon 4 Pentecost - Proper 5 A June 8, 2008

4 Pentecost – Proper 5A – 8 June 2008
Genesis 12:1-9; Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26
James V. Stockton

This month, this week, daughters and sons, granddaughters and grandsons, nieces, nephews, cousins and friends, and maybe some of us right here, are graduating. From a school, a college, a seminary, some institution of learning, they will take their experiences and growth and bring them to bear on the question: ‘What now will they do with their lives?’

What will you want you life to be? What kind of person will you strive to be? What will you to do with your life? What are you doing with your life today? They’re all variations on a theme. And most people know that it’s a huge question. Because most people know, on some level, that of all that life brings to us, that life itself is the greatest gift and the greatest responsibility.

What do you want to do with your life? What do I want to do with mine? We have a sense that the answer to this question has somehow to do with God, which is at least part of why we are here in Church on this fine morning.

Recently I was reminded of one of my favorite stories. At a theological conference, someone once asked a prominent rabbi a question. ‘Rabbi,’ he begins, ‘what do you think will happen when we die?’ And the rabbi says, “I think God will ask each of us, ‘why didn’t you enjoy life more?’” How might people respond if God were to ask them, ‘What have you today that you brings joy into your life?’ How might you or I respond?

In the scriptures of the Old Testament, Abraham and Sarah are great figures who respond to God’s call, and who have much in their life that brings them joy. Today we hear a small portion of their amazing story. Before he was Abraham, he was Abram. Before she was Sarah, she was Sarai. Before they hear God’s call and respond to it, they live on land that Abram has inherited from his father in the midst of a people that they know, within a culture in which they prosper. They are people who have much in life to bring them joy. Then God calls them to graduate to a higher knowledge of God’s grace and Love for all.

"Go from your country and your kindred and your father's house,” God says; “to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation,” says God; “and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing." It sounds as though the cause for their joy is that God will make of Abraham and Sarah ‘a great nation.’ God will cause this great nation to exalt Abraham’s name in its history and mythology. And it may even be that Abraham and Sarah take God’s message in exactly this way.

But they will learn. They will experience more of God’s love. And they will graduate. They will graduate to the greater knowledge and understanding that God is making of them a divine joy and blessing in the lives of those who will follow, those who, in their own way, will graduate, and so in their own will ask “What now will I do with my life?”

The Church represents and re-presents this question in its sacramental life. Virtually every one of the Church’s seven sacraments involves a question or questions that aim ultimately at asking us, “What really do we intend to do with our lives.” In addition, beyond the rites and ceremonies themselves, when we are candidates for baptism or confirmation, or when we are seeking the blessing of Holy Matrimony, or are asking for unction or reconciliation, or, like our own seminarian Sue Wilimot, are preparing for ordination, there is a period of examination, to ensure that we are prepared to address the questions that are particular to each sacrament. “Into what and into whom are you to about to be baptized in order to become a Christian?” “In the Church that is confirming you, what does the word ‘episcopal’ mean?” “What is the affliction of which you wish to be healed in body, mind, or spirit?” “Are you prepared to amend your sin against God and your neighbor?” Each question alludes to that one question that lies at the heart of every sacrament: “What shall I do with my life?”

It is the question that the Apostle Paul wants to help the early Church answer through the story of Abraham and Sarah. By the time Paul writes his letter to the Christians in Rome, the story of is an icon of faith in God. Teachers and preachers hold him up as the example to follow the personification of ready obedience, the ideal to which the rest of us ought to aspire.

‘What shall I do with my life?’ It’s the question for which the evangelist Matthew tries to provide an answer through his own story in the Gospel. Matthew instantly rises to Jesus’ call, who immediately leaves his old life, to venture onward with Jesus into an unfamiliar new life is, to a less spectacular degree, also an example for Christians to imitate, an ideal of ready faith in Jesus to which all of us may rightly aspire.

The truth is, though, Paul is using the story of Abraham another way. The truth is the story of Matthew is set into a larger context that makes it a story not so much of profound faith, but of a man’s knowledge of himself as a sinner, and of God’s grace reaching into lives around him that no one but Jesus would deem worthy. As a revered figure at the core of the identity of God’s people, Abraham and his covenant with God provide a template for the New Covenant that God makes with people in Jesus. Paul’s point is that the original covenant that God made so long ago with Abraham is not founded upon Abraham’s actions. It is founded upon the trust that Abraham placed in God; trust that preceded and shaped Abraham’s faithfulness in response. The former covenant is the agreement of a promise made between God and Abraham which Abraham’s lineage ratifies throughout their generations primarily through the sign of circumcision, and in other rites and ceremonies.

Paul wants the early Christians to understand that the New Covenant is similarly based in trust. As the Old Covenant is rooted in Abraham’s trust in God, so is the New Covenant rooted in Jesus’ trust in God. This is the agreement of the promise fulfilled, a covenant between God the Father and God the Son, Jesus Christ, a covenant that Christ’s followers then ratify in their own lives, primarily through the sign of baptism and also in the rites and ceremonies of the other sacraments. And above all, it’s important for them to know, it’s important for you and me to know, that, as Paul says, this promise rests on grace. The story of Abraham and Sarah, the story of Matthew, Paul’s own story, and yours and mine, as well, all are first about God; and only then about our response in faithfulness to God.

What will we do with our life? It’s the covenant question. Biblical scholars have discerned in scripture over 600 specific prohibitions for human behavior, and twice as many prescriptions. And while never God’s intention, people came to understand these as the Covenant they were to keep.

And so, it’s our graduation question: What will you do with your life? What will I do with my life? We may choose to spend this precious gift of life trying to observe what seem to be God’s rules for us. And sooner or later, when we finally realize that there’s no human way for us to keep these laws perfectly, that we are creatures with a flawed sense of good and bad, of right and wrong, that we are inherently unable to be perfect in our faithfulness to God, then do we bring our experience and growth to bear on the question: What will we to do with our life?

Will we follow the advice of a Rabbi and scholar, and enjoy life more today, tomorrow, and the next day? Will we answer God’s call to each of us to be set free from our role in life as sinner, and instead to become a blessing from God in the lives of many? Will we graduate to God’s call to us to desire mercy; mercy for ourselves, in understanding our need for it? and mercy for those around us, those beyond help, those beyond welcome, but those never beyond our knowledge of the Love of God for all.

And now may Almighty God, who has lifted us from what we were due into the richness of grace, equip us to be worthy of our call, that by all our works, begun, continued, and ended in faith, we may glorify God’s holy 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

Rector's Study June 2008

From the Rector’s Study ~

From here on, our task is all about living out the New Covenant. We are charged both with being God’s people toward one another and with doing God’s will in the world around us. What we are given to do and to be is very likely just the same as was given to the first disciples of Jesus as they went out from the upper room. The wind of the Spirit of God had blown over them and freshly empowered them, literally inspired them, to proclaim in deed and in word the Good News of God’s Love for all. Their call is our call; our vocation is the vocation of the apostles of Christ our Lord.

Our diocese has elected a new bishop whose task it will be to remind all the rest of us our call, and to empower God’s Church for the carrying out of our mission. Our new bishop will need our prayers; indeed he needs them now, even before he becomes officially our bishop. Pray for the Rev. Andy Doyle, and know that he is praying for all of us. Give thanks that, in some important ways, our diocese, the congregation of all the people, has chosen to end business as usual in order to chart a new path toward our future. And let us commit ourselves now to continue to do our part to ensure that our diocese stays true to this new course.

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