Sermon: Second Sunday after Epiphany

January 17, 2010

Second Sunday after the Epiphany

John 2:1-11

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Reverend Allan Sandlin, associate rector

Let us dream God’s dream, glimpsed on the mountain,

first by the one King, then King again;

a dream deferred now, waiting the fountain

where justice rolls down and praise ascends.

It’s a funny thing. I’ve been dreaming a lot this week. Maybe I was already thinking about the last verse of the hymn we’ve just sung or maybe Dr. King’s most famous speech took up residence in my dreams.

And I dreamed of Haiti—but they weren’t earthquake dreams. It was the Haiti I knew from a visit there 15 years ago and the dream was full of friends and colors, full of homes, schools and churches we visited that today lie in ruins.

Martin Luther King dreamed of the beloved community, a community made up of people of every race, class and nation. He believed with all his heart that "We are tied together in the single garment of destiny, caught in an inescapable network of mutuality."

An inescapable network of mutuality. I wonder about that this morning as we mourn with our sisters and brothers in Haiti. We watch and wait and listen with them, as the search for missing family and friends continues; as others try to find places to bury the dead while living in cars and on the streets because the buildings that still stand are simply not safe to enter.

If we are paying attention, we can feel, palpably, that “inescapable network of mutuality” pulling us all together.

Here are a few images, memories and impressions of the Haiti I knew in 1995.

Before the earthquake, in the capital city of the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, Port-au-Prince was painted with big, bright splotches of color. Artists and would-be-artists painted big, brave, bold pictures on sidewalks and walls, on buildings and inside churches and schools, anywhere they could find an empty, flat surface. Pictures of birds and flowers, pictures of people with hats and huge, wide smiles, full of life, full of joy.

It was Sunday morning and we jumped on a tap-tap, one of the colorful, rickety Haitian buses, and rode up into the hills outside of Leogane. Five priests, one a native Haitian and four of us, Americans, stood at the altar of St. Etienne’s Episcopal Church in Buteau to celebrate the Holy Eucharist.

The place was packed to overflowing and it was very hot. But the church was built on a hillside and the turquoise painted cinder blocks had space between them to allow an occasional breeze to float through. The faces and the voices of the people were full of joy, full of hope somehow and oh how they sang. We used the French translation of the Book of Common Prayer and they dutifully said the responses in Haiti’s official language, even as we listened to a sermon in Creole and said a few prayers in English.

Outside, children drew letters and pictures in the dust that covered our car and were more than cooperative posing for photographs. I look at those slides today and wonder how they could smile so generously when they had so little. So little food, so little education, so little shelter, so little of everything. And that was before the earthquake.

The images from Haiti this week have been heart-rending and deeply disturbing, beyond belief.

If ever there was a moment when we needed to remember that we belong to a beloved community, that moment is now.

We are part of a beloved community, mindful of the myriad ways we are connected with the people of Haiti, where there are 83,000 Episcopalians worshipping in over 100 congregations. In addition, Haiti has around 200 Episcopal schools for 6,000 students. As you may have heard, the Episcopal Diocese of Haiti is the largest diocese in the Episcopal Church and it is growing.

If names help connect us, we are part of a beloved community because the Episcopal Cathedral in Port-au-Prince is called St. Trinité, Holy Trinity, and the school that lies in ruins this morning is called Holy Trinity School.

We are part of a beloved community because our rector, Bill Deneke, and friends like Ed Buckley and Damian Reeder, who have travelled to Haiti, representing us, keeping watch over the wells your dollars have helped build, wells that provide clean water for people dying of thirst.

On their trip last month, they were part of a team that secured the release from prison of a man held for months for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his children.

We are part of that beloved community, that “inescapable network of mutuality.”

In the 62nd chapter of the book of Isaiah, we have heard this shout:

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest,

Until her vindication shines out like the dawn, and her salvation like a burning torch.

Isaiah, the prophet, promises to keep talking, keep preaching; he promises that nothing will make him sit down and shut up until God does what God has promised to do: restore Jerusalem and give Jerusalem a new name. No longer will Jerusalem be called desolate and forsaken. God will change her name and everyone in the whole world will know that she is the apple of God’s eye, delightful and pleasing.

Isaiah thus stands at the gate, banging on the door, insisting that God pay attention, that God remember the beloved city and restore the health and welfare of all the people. That’s Isaiah’s vision for the restoration of God’s people, Israel.

What vision, what hope can we have for Haiti today?

We can trust that God is paying attention, that God will remember the people, the beloved, in the city of Port au Prince and the surrounding towns and countryside.

Did you hear that President Obama invited two of his predecessors to the White House yesterday for a meeting about the crisis in Haiti? President Clinton and President Bush subsequently wrote an excellent piece for the NY Times. They are pointing toward the future, God’s future for Haiti.

They wrote: We should never forget the damage done and the lives lost, but we have a chance to do things better than we once did; be a better neighbor than we once were; and help the Haitian people realize their dream for a stronger, more secure nation.

And in order for there to be hope tomorrow, we can send money today, along with our prayers.

At the end of the service this morning (During the announcements this morning), Fr. Deneke will come and share his plan for what we can do at Holy Trinity.

But the question of the future hangs in the air this morning. How can Haiti recover from this cataclysmic disaster?

Bob Herbert, writing in his column yesterday, had this to say:

“Enslavement, murderous colonial oppression, invasions by powerful foreign armies, grotesque homegrown tyrants, natural disasters — all you have to do is wait a while in Haiti for the next catastrophe to strike. On Tuesday, it was an earthquake that crushed the capital city of Port-au-Prince and much of its surroundings and raised the level of suffering and death to heights that defied comprehension…

Just when you think the ultimate has happened, the absolute worst, something even more dire, comes along.

And yet.

No matter how overwhelming the tragedy, how bleak the outlook, no matter what malevolent forces the fates see fit to hurl at this tiny, beleaguered, mountainous, sun-splashed portion of the planet, there is no quit in the Haitian people.

They rose up against the French and defeated the forces of Napoleon to become the only nation to grow out of a slave revolt. They rose up against the despotic Jean-Claude (Baby Doc) Duvalier and sent him packing. Despite ruthless exploitation by more powerful nations, including the United States, and many long years of crippling civil strife, corruption, terror and chronic poverty, the Haitian people have endured.

They will not be defeated by this earthquake.” he concludes.

On Friday afternoon, I had an email from Tracy Bruce, a priest friend of mine who has been working in Haiti for 20 years. She writes about the hope and the courage of the Haitian people…

I have been particularly touched by the singing in procession in Champs de Mars, the large plaza in Port au Prince. They were characterized by CNN reporters as a spiritual people maintaining their faith and hope in the midst of despair. It reminded me of my first visit to Haiti 20 years ago, working with people living in the absolute middle of paradox and celebrating.

These beautiful people know something of celebration in the midst of great suffering!

Today, we open our arms and our hearts to enlarge our beloved community, to remember with thanks the life of the Rev. Martin Luther King, to mourn with our sisters and brothers in Haiti.

In the future, we can redouble our efforts to help build more wells, to rebuild schools and churches, to rebuild roads, to help with reforestation projects. We can send teachers and doctors and engineers to work as partners with the Haitian people.

We can work together, sing, teach, plant trees and learn from the people of Haiti the lessons they have to teach us about hope, about courage, about faith.

Let us pray.

God of the living and the dead, we wail in grief at the pain and loss and horror and distress of our brothers and sisters in Haiti.

We do not understand your ways –that those who already suffer the most,

now suffer so much more.

Where people are still breathing under collapsed buildings, give them air and hope and courageous searchers.

Where children are injured or orphaned, find them trusted friends and generous caregivers.

Where despair is infectious and disease or looting spreads, bring patience and forbearance and healing and strength to conquer temptation.

And when others look with compassion from afar, release resources, empower expertise, shape political will, and bring deliverance for your people in their distress.

Through him who was crushed and bruised for us, in the comfort of your Holy Spirit. Amen. (Prayer written by Sam Well, Dean of Duke Chapel)

One of the personal connections that draws me into a beloved community with the people of Haiti is music. I have friends in that country with whom it’s been my privilege to make music both here and there.

So when I discovered a new hymn about Haiti a couple of days ago, I knew we had to sing it this morning. Presbyterian pastor and songwriter, Carolyn Winfrey Gillette, was inspired to write a hymn for Haiti this past week. In an interview on Thursday, she said “I wrote this hymn as a way of providing a prayer that could be sung in worship, so people could express their sadness and grief at this disaster, as well as their faith in God and a commitment to serve God in the midst of tragedy," Gillette says. "The things we believe, that we sing about on Sunday mornings, need to be related to the things we see and experience in the world around us," Gillette says.

In Haiti, There is Anguish

In Haiti, there is anguish that seems too much to bear;

A land so used to sorrow now knows even more despair.

From city streets, the cries of grief rise up to hills above;

In all the sorrow, pain and death, where are you, God of love?

A woman sifts through rubble, a man has lost his home,

A hungry, orphaned toddler sobs, for she is now alone.

Where are you, Lord, when thousands die, the rich, the poorest poor?

Were you the very first to cry for all that is no more?

O God, you love your children; you hear each lifted prayer!

May all who suffer in that land know you are present there.

In moments of compassion shown, in simple acts of grace,

May those in pain find healing balm, and know your love’s embrace.

Where are you in the anguish? Lord, may we hear anew

That anywhere your world cries out, you’re there-- and suffering, too.

And may we see, in others’ pain, the cross we’re called to bear;

Send out your church in Jesus’ name to pray, to serve, to share.

Tune: Frederick Charles Maker, 1881

Text: Copyright 2010 by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette. All rights reserved.

Permission is given for use by those who support Church World Service

Sermon: The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ

January 10, 2010

The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Very Reverend William Thomas Deneke, rector

Baptism is a rite that proclaims transformation. It is more about Christ’s death and resurrection than John the baptizer’s focus on God’s anger and vengeance. Why Jesus wanted to be baptized by John has long been debated. Whatever the reason, Jesus’ baptism by John did not reveal a messiah with a winnowing fork ready to cast the unfaithful away like chaff. Instead, this figure from Nazareth, ready to take up his mission, got God’s attention and approval. Perhaps it was destined; perhaps the time was right. But the vision of John the baptizer was about to be radically changed. And the signal for what would shake the foundations was a dove and a voice from heaven that said, in the words of the Cotton Patch version of the Bible, “You are my dear Son, I’m proud of you.”

Jesus did not stick around long on the banks of the Jordan after that. He did not stay with John’s theology of retribution and wrath. But he did stay with the commitment to holiness.

And that commitment led him on a journey that defines the baptism we will administer today.

The gospel reading gives us more than a hint about how Jesus reshaped John’s baptism. We discover that somehow in the mix of what we call the baptismal life – a mix much messier than John imagined – the Holy Trinity plays the major role. And what John saw as simple right and wrong is only a prologue to a more profound drama of redemption and hope. With the arrival of the Holy Spirit, Jesus the faithful Son, and God the loving Father, things got a lot more complicated.

The gospel uses imagery to describe the presence of the Holy Spirit and God the Father. The Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus in bodily form like a dove… and a voice came from heaven. This is poetic language. The kind of language that can describe what ordinary words fail to convey. Our imaginations are quickened. And we hear God say, “You are my dear Son; I’m proud of you.”

Somewhere in our baptismal life we need to hear words like that. Maybe at our baptism. But perhaps not even in church. But somewhere, some time, some place.

Today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles attests to a variety of early church beliefs about how and when the Spirit acts in baptism. There has long been a lively discussion in the Church about the distinction between water baptism and spirit baptism.

In our liturgy the marking of the cross on the forehead of the newly baptized is one sign of spirit baptism. Another is the laying on of hands in confirmation. But then it can be a long time between baptism and confirmation, and what if the Spirit can’t wait?

Generally, we have tried to normalize the work of the Spirit. But truthfully that’s hard to do when you’re dealing with poetic forms like doves and voices from heaven. The Spirit resists our efforts to normalize him …or her. So even though there is a well-defined institutional script for God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit, we have to be careful not to fall into the trap of John the baptizer. We can never take away the wonder of what is ultimately sacred and amazingly compassionate.

So here we are, about to baptize Charles Randall Booker and Kaelyn Rebecca Carter into a mystery based on the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And about the only way they or any of us can ever really link with the baptismal life is through the gift of the Holy Spirit. That puts us pretty at the mercy of grace. At the mercy of the voice that said, You are my son; I’m proud of you.

Of course, we make promises – vows – as we enter into the baptismal covenant. But we know we’re really not up to keeping those promises. We may do our best, but it is only through the love of God that we will be made what we aspire to become. Only through the gift of the Holy Spirit will we become what God calls us to be.

That does not mean we are free to dismiss our vows. It does mean that in dying to ourselves and allowing God to raise us to the life of Christ, we can be transformed into more faithful keepers of the covenant. That is what the baptismal life is about.

And in this process we may hear with some regularity, if we truly listen, a voice from beyond say, “You are my dear one; I’m proud of you.” When we hear that with our hearts, we know that the Holy Spirit is around.

But there is another twist: one important to keep in mind. Before we get too confident in our walk with Jesus, we might remember the seventh chapter of the Gospel of Mark. Here Jesus is approached by a foreign woman who begs him to cast out a demon from her little daughter. Jesus’ response is “Let the children – my people – be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs – the foreigners. Jesus comes around only after the woman confronts his exclusive moral judgment.

Sometimes the Spirit speaks to us thorough voices other than those from heaven. And dying to ourselves and being raised by God means listening and responding even to what we may not want to hear. That’s what Jesus came to do with the foreign woman.

Yesterday, at a baptism workshop, we listened to one another as we told our stories of doubt and faith, of being lost and being found. It is both in telling our stories and in hearing those of others that we discover the wonder of God among us. The stories we share are gifts, gifts that reveal our joys and struggles in responding to the wonder of a heavenly voice that keeps somehow saying, You are my dear one; I’m proud of you.

So we can promise Charles Randall and Kaelyn Rebecca that if they take their baptism seriously, they are in for a lively journey. This is the baptismal life into which we welcome them. It is a journey that can finally only be described poetically. One too wondrously full of possibilities for us to describe in mundane terms. We need our rich liturgies and more. And we need the soulful silence of the universe.

Charles and Kaelyn, your family, friends and all on the journey are here to encourage you, to love you and to forgive you along the way. But most of all, most of all, the wonder of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit is with you on this day and throughout your journey through baptismal waters.

Sermon: The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ

December 24, 2009

The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Luke 2:1-14

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Very Reverend William Thomas Deneke, rector

This is the time of year when many folks find themselves stranded at airports. Too many people are going places, more than can be accommodated. So people end-up sleeping in nooks and crannies around air terminals.

Mary and Joseph found themselves in this kind of situation. No accommodations. Too many people. No bed available.

All of us have been waylaid on some journey -- a detour, a cancelled reservation, overbooking on a flight. And we find things more out of our control than we wish.

For Mary and Joseph this was just the time when the baby was due. Right there in the airport. Right there in the village with no vacancy signs on the door of the Inn.

I suppose a lot of people would blame Mary and Joseph. Could they not have postponed the trip for a while? Could they not have phoned ahead for reservations? Maybe Joseph could have secured a gold card and they would have enjoyed the relative privacy of a guest lounge.

But we all know, if we’re honest with ourselves, that things don’t always go as planned and there are plenty of things around for us to trip over.

For Mary and Joseph, the whole journey was something to trip over. This was no mid-winter break, no seasonal vacation. A ruler looking for revenue designed their journey. There were duties to be paid to occupying powers and everyone was to be taxed.

Well, maybe not everyone. There were those who lived on the margins of society. Those whose existence meant little to rulers. Such a group showed up in Bethlehem that night. Shepherds. A motley crew that lived in the fields with sheep avoided the impasse at the airport and walked right into the stable. Walked right into the Christmas story. Remarkable.

Everything about the story draws on the unexpected. Even an angel shows up to say, “Do not be afraid!” “Goodness gracious Angel, the journey has been a disaster. The only inn in town is overbooked, Mary is giving birth in a place intended for animals, home is far away, and you say, “Do not be afraid?”

And this is how the Christmas story unfolds. A story that amazingly does not rattle us but lessens our anxiety. A story in which we find comfort and hope. I’ve heard this story countless times, and it still speaks to the deepest places of my life. And we gather this evening once again to hear the familiar passage from the Gospel according to Luke.

In part, it is the very unexpected circumstances of the account that offer reassurance. In the out of control places of our lives, an angel of the Lord says, “Do not be afraid.” When the doors of hospitality are closed to us, there are those who care. When we can only see disaster, the story gives us a grander perspective and fills us with hope.

There is a lot of mystery in the Christmas story. Things do not fall out in an orderly fashion. Consider again the motley shepherds. Undeterred by official decrees and crowded airports and busy schedules, they are encountered by an angel with a heavenly entourage. These workers, relegated to the margins, are the first to hear the glad tidings. Jesus would later say, “the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” That contradictory message is ironically comforting because it reveals a compassionate justice that we want to associate with a savior.

The Christmas story turns things upside down. And as much as we don’t want our lives in disarray, we are encouraged by tonight’s gospel.

In our heart of hearts we know we need a savior. A savior who is not bound by our desires or fears. A savior who does not depend upon scheduled flights and vacant rooms. A savior who affirms and upholds what sometimes is accorded little value.

Tonight we celebrate such a messiah. One who finds us even when we miss our flights, even when we’re not where we want to be, in any sense. A messiah who surprises us with new life and hope when they are least expected. And one who is more connected to life - to us – than we imagine.

Tonight, we join with the motley shepherds in glorifying and praising God. And with the angels in proclaiming, “Glory to God and peace on earth!”

Sermon: Third Sunday of Advent

December 13, 2009

The Third Sunday of Advent, Year C

Luke 3:7-18

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Very Reverend William Thomas Deneke, rector

Once again he’s back. Just when the radio is belching out chipmunks singing about Santa and Elvis is promising to be home for Christmas, John the Baptizer arrives with a greeting no one wants to hear. Here comes that preacher from the desert throwing water on our Christmas preparations. Phrases such as “brood of vipers,” “wrath to come,” and “thrown into the fire” are not lines we write on our Christmas cards. “Merry Christmas, you bunch of snakes!” This hardly seems like something we need to hear a few days before we celebrate the nativity of Christ.

But on the other hand, maybe the weird guy from the desert has a point. He’s not thinking about holiday preparations. It is doubtful that he has decorations, gifts and turkey on his mind. John has a vision of the future stirring within him, a vision that is shaking the foundations. God is at work and business as usual won’t do. The coming of Christ calls for new behavior, for repentance and for opening ourselves to a new way of being in the world. Anything that gets in the way of this transformation has to be thrown aside, thrown into the fire.

These days we hear a lot of talk about corporate restructuring. Many times the old ways promised doom. John is proclaiming the need for restructuring our lives. And he is pretty clear that without restructuring we are headed toward doom.

Look at the restructuring John is preaching. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” If our way of operating is to think only of ourselves, our lives are headed toward the dump with its unquenchable fire. If love of our neighbor and sharing our resources is not part of our moral DNA, we are no more than waste, the chaff that is thrown away.

Of course, we don’t like to think of ourselves as throwaways, especially in an age of recycling. Neither did people in the time of John. And he got into big trouble.

But the early church took him seriously and recorded his message for us to hear today. So only a few days before we gather on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, John’s words ring out in churches around the world.

“O.k., we get the message. We’ve been warned; we’ll try to do better,” we might say. But John is talking about more than “trying to do better.” He is asking us to turn our lives around. He is presenting a twelve-step program for salvation.

A couple of weeks ago parishioner Ed Buckley and I traveled to Haiti with a group from Food for the Poor to inspect the water wells that have been provided by Holy Trinity and other donors. The first day we traveled for nine hours across unbelievably rough roads. On several occasions, I thought of John the Baptizer’s admonition to make the crooked roads straight. That message had not gotten through to the Haitian roads’ department.

One of the wonders we witnessed in Haiti was the release of a man from a horrible prison. Food for the Poor had arranged for Edner’s release. He had been imprisoned for nine months for stealing rice. He had never been sentenced or had a trail because he had no money for a lawyer. Edner maintained his innocence.

I had never been in a facility as horrible as the prison we visited. Thirty-nine prisoners were housed in a cell about 10 by 14 feet. It was so crowed that sleeping on the floor could only take place in shifts. There was not room enough for all to lie down.

Jesus talks about visiting those in prisons and he speaks of release for prisoners. When I witnessed the Ft. Liberte prison, those words took on a new and deeper meaning.

When John admonishes us to share with those in need, I don’t think he is just talking about charity. He is asking us to identify with those in those in need: those who are hungry, homeless, in prison, in refugee camps, all those who live lives of hopelessness. Beyond giving to those in need, he calls us to see ourselves in the face of the homeless child begging for food on a street corner or the prisoner who stares out of prison bars with vacant, lifeless eyes.

The pillars of society of John’s day, those most invested in the status quo, reacted strongly to his message of egalitarianism. They perceived that their well-being was tied to the privileged status they enjoyed.

John makes us uncomfortable if we really listen to what he says. And while discomfort is not pleasing, it may embed a path to salvation. Through turning our lives around, we may find ourselves welcoming Christ in ways we never knew.

That is the good news promised by the desert preacher. His message is ultimately not one of condemnation, but of hope. He knows the future belongs to God. He knows that Christ is coming. He knows we need to be ready to receive the Bearer of grace and salvation. And he knows what is in the way.

We would be foolish to write off John the Baptizer as a wacky, colorful character from the desert who seasons Advent. He is a voice from within us. A voice that disturbs yet represents the wisdom of the ages. He may yet save us from ourselves, this lonely figure who baptizes with words of fire.

Sermon: First Sunday of Advent

November 29, 2009

The First Sunday of Advent

Luke 21:25-36

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Very Reverend William T. Deneke, rector

Advent is upon us; we have only four weeks to prepare for Christmas. Four weeks of shopping, decorating and partying. But that is not the preparation called for in the Bible readings for Advent.

The Psalm for today sets a tone that causes us to pause. It is a lament, a plea for God to reveal the ways and paths of the Lord. No “city sidewalk, busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style”. But rather a plea, even a demand, to be taught.

The epistle provides a window into the struggle of the early church to grasp the wonderful and bewildering future inaugurated by the risen Christ. Paul responds to the embryonic faith of the Thessalonians by blessing the young church. He holds up for them the promise of their faith and reveals his love for the community. “And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love to one another and to all people, as we do to you.” This is heartwarming and encouraging.

Then Paul adds a prayer that the Thessalonians may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.

Writer and teacher Reynolds Price developed a spinal tumor that was not only deadly but also incredibly painful. He tells us that he was not an especially religious person. But very early one morning he had a vision that transported him to the shore of the Sea of Galilee. He saw twelve persons that he knew were the disciples and a sleeping man that he knew was Jesus. Jesus then stood up and walked toward him. Taking his hand, he led into the water. He took handfuls of water and poured them on Price’s head and damaged back. Then Jesus said: “Your sins are forgiven.” Price asked, “Am I also cured?” And Jesus said, “That too.”

It is the grace and forgiveness of God that rends us blameless. Jesus comes to us on clouds of forgiveness. The great poet Tennyson wrote of his faith. “Not one life shall be destroyed or cast as rubbish to the void.”

Paul focuses on and draws out that seed of faith, that kernel of hope and projects it onto the large screen of promise revealed in Christ.

Both the psalm and epistle plea for a future shaped by God and both draw from this promise to embrace hope. They have as a backdrop the words we heard from the prophet Jeremiah. His vision of hope was also set against a background of destruction. As the first, lone candle of Advent burns, Jeremiah recalls his own city burning, yet speaks of God’s future of hope.

The hope revealed in these scriptures is not just holiday cheer. Nor is it a denial of suffering and death. The hope of which we hear this morning is so drawn from the love of God that we, too, can dare to proclaim, even at the grave, “Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia”.

And then comes the gospel for this First Sunday of Advent. And, on the surface, it seems to have no real connection with the lyrics “In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.” But if we go beneath the surface of the holidays to the place where redemption is at work, there is, indeed, a feeling of new life in the air and in the heart and throughout the world.

Luke presents a vision of a redeemed future that embraces all reality. The coming of the long expected Jesus is not divorced from the turmoil and suffering of the world. Hang onto your hats, keep the faith, do good works, get ready to have your socks blown off. Jesus is coming and a new realm of truth and justice is emerging. We are being redeemed.

The Jewish Talmud proclaims, “Do not be daunted by the Enormity of the world’s grief.

Do justice now.

Love mercy now.

Walk humbly now.

You are not obligated to complete the work,

but neither are you free to abandon it”.

New Testament theologian Gail O’Day points out that the lessons for this Sunday may seem foreign or discomforting. Yet, she says, “Without this eschatological vision, our celebration of Christmas can become solely an occasion of nostalgia and sentimentality rather than a bold enactment of God’s hopes for the world.”

An issue for many of us is that nostalgia and sentimentality are pretty attractive. We may be looking and listening for silver bells. The sentimental side of Christmas is bigger than life and clearly gets our attention. That’s why O’Day’s words ring true. Is the real promise of Christmas more than can be found under a tree?

The scriptures maintain that Advent points not to what is under the tree but to who was killed upon the tree and rose again. And maybe we don’t want to be reminded of this in late November and December. Maybe we had rather focus only on the promise of new birth and joy and happiness.

But the scriptures know the whole story. And when they speak of the hope of the future, they bear witness to the great drama of redemption in which the love of God is transforming sorrow into joy and hurt into forgiveness.

The scriptures bid us to prepare for the fullness of God’s love, the fullness of redemption and forgiveness. Opening our hearts and minds and lives to this hope that embraces both love and suffering, prepares us to receive grace even now.

Lately, I’ve heard story after story of individuals being called into offices and told they are no longer employed. Often they are told to leave by another door and not return to their workplaces. Sometimes they are even escorted from the building by security guards. These are people who have been loyal employees. Many who have sacrificed for their companies.

Such practices dehumanize and try the souls of men and women. They are a reminder of cruelty and suffering and the need for redemption. And they lead us to the Advent cry, Come, Lord Jesus.

Jesus, who is redeeming humanity, is the Expected One known to scriptures. Not just a jolly, benevolent father figure, but a man who loved and suffered and died for others. A man who revealed the presence of God in forgiving and healing and sacrificing. A man who revealed God’s faith in the future despite the suffering of the present, and did so by entering fully into the joys and sorrows of humankind. A savior and lord who rose from the dead and will come again. It is this long expected savior for which this season invites us to prepare.

The Advent vision of hope is salvation for a troubled world. Writer Edward Hays has said that Advent is a winter training ground for those who desire peace. It is not afraid to look at the sins of the world and still dare to hope that the world is being redeemed.

It is a short season, only four weeks. But Advent has much to offer. The good news it conveys means that we can hope, despite all that is falling apart in our lives, our communities, and the world around us. Advent offers us expectation and hope for something new. “Stand up and raise your heads”, says the gospel, “because your redemption is drawing near.”

Sermon: Christ the King Sunday

November 22, 2009

Christ the King Sunday

John 18:33-38a

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Reverend Allan Sandlin, associate rector

Late November has snuck up on us once again. The last leaves are falling from the trees in our back yard. Our suddenly very tall children are looking forward to one more family Thanksgiving before the oldest one heads off to college. (Tell me I’m not the only one thinking about that?) For Gretchen and me, our thoughts always turn to memories of our fathers, both of whom had late November birthdays. The fading memories of Thanksgivings past get added to the mix. And since we were both born in a certain decade, memories of an infamous November 22nd when our childhood innocence and the nation’s Camelot dreams were shattered.

That’s late November in our world. Late November in the church is all about endings and beginnings. T. S. Eliot poignantly reminds us that

What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from.

And so on this last Sunday in the long season of Pentecost, the Church celebrates the Feast of Christ the King as an end where we start from. If you think about it, today’s sort of like New Year’s Eve in the Church, for next Sunday the church year begins again—the First Sunday of Advent is our New Year’s Day.

If you Googled images of Christ the King, you’d find pictures of Jesus with bright, shining crowns on his head, some of them pure gold, others crusted with jewels. And you’d see icons with muted colors, brilliant halo rays surrounding Jesus’ head. Sometimes he’s sitting on a throne, dressed in flowing red velvet robes. Royal Jesus, looking very much like an earthly king might look. Those images are very much in tune with this morning’s first three readings.

From the Hebrew Scriptures, the book of Daniel presents an apocalyptic vision of a throne engulfed in fiery flames, with an Ancient One seated on it and waited on by ten thousand times ten thousand servants. The king in Psalm 93 has put on his most splendid, beautiful clothes and is acclaimed as mightier than the sound of many waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea. And, of course, leave it to the book of Revelation, the last book in the Bible, the Omega of Holy Scripture to describe Jesus Christ, “the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead and the ruler of the kings on earth”, as the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end… It’s all so rich and wonderful, it’s almost too much to bear, isn’t it?

If we stopped right there, we could go on singing our triumphal hymns, crowning Jesus King of Kings and Lord of Lords, with all the glory and grandeur we can muster. It’s a fitting grand finale to the long season of Pentecost, the final hurrah before entering the quiet days of Advent. We’ve selected hymns this morning that sing of Christ’s reign and God’s glory and if we’d thought about it, we could have hired trumpet players for today. It’s entirely appropriate to celebrate the reign of Christ, the coming of God’s kingdom with pomp and circumstance.

But we can’t close our prayer books and go home just yet. We can’t leave without hearing this brief scene from Jesus’ trial as told in the gospel of John. Our glorious Christ the King stands in handcuffs before an earthly king named Pilate and we know where this will end. On this day of endings, the gospel lesson lands us right in the heart of the Passion of Christ. Standing in the courtroom of an earthly king, on trial for his refusal to play by the rules of an earthly kingdom. The end of our Lord’s life is just around the corner and the story doesn’t need to mention the cross for us to sense its shadow hanging over the scene. And it will be an ending that is also a beginning for if the crucifixion is coming soon, then resurrection is also near and once again, beginnings and endings are so close they almost touch each other…

In this scene, Pilate asks most of the questions, poking and prodding at Jesus. On the surface of things, Pilate’s the one in control. Jesus is in his courtroom, under guard of his soldiers and yet who do you think is the one in control?

Are you the King of the Jews?

Jesus answers Do you ask this on your own, or did someone put you up to it?

I am not a Jew, am I? Your own people handed you over to me. What have you done?

Jesus says My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my followers, my soldiers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to you. My kingdom is not from here.

So you are a king after all?

You say that.

And then Jesus gets to the heart of the matter: This is why I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.

In this very brief scene, two worlds, two kings, two kingdoms collide. Pilate’s questions make clear that this is not a religious conflict but a political one and he’s feeling the pressure of the mob just outside the palace doors, perhaps worried about losing his job if he makes the wrong choice.

When Pilate called Jesus king, according to John’s version of the story, it was as a term of derision. A few scenes further on in the story, Pilate will instruct his people to inscribe “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews” on a notice tacked to the cross in 3 languages.

Jesus, even with his hands tied behind his back, is calm and epitomizes what we today might call a “non-anxious presence”. His royalty permeates the air. My kingdom is not of this world he says. And with those words, Jesus separates himself from Pilate’s world of politics, military might and the banalities of life in the royal court. But Jesus is not taking himself or his followers out of this world. God’s kingdom is not some ethereal place up in the heavens, removed from contact with all the messiness, the pain, the corruption and disease and death of this world. The kingdom Jesus points toward is not on the other side of the cosmos. It is here and now.

John’s gospel from beginning to end, is all about the reality of the in-breaking Kingdom, it’s all about incarnation. And we hear it right away, in the first chapter of the book: And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

The Word became flesh and lives among us still and we catch glimpses of it if we are paying attention. But how and where do we see it?

Those of you who are in DOCC this fall, the Disciples of Christ in Community course here at Holy Trinity, will recognize this poem by R.S. Thomas entitled “The Kingdom”. It’s a long way off but inside it here are quite different things going on: Festivals at which the poor man is king and the consumptive is healed; mirrors in which the blind look at themselves and love looks at them back; and industry is for mending the bent bones and the minds fractured by life.

It’s a long way off, but to get there takes no time and admission is free, if you will purge yourself of desire, and present yourself with your need only and the simple offering of your faith, green as a leaf.

Can you imagine a festival, a Mardi Gras perhaps, where the poor man is king and the sick are healed? Where blind people look at themselves in the mirror and love looks back at them? Can you imagine a time when our resources, our intelligence, our systems are focused not on war or making more money than we need but on mending bent bones and minds fractured by life? The kingdom of God is like that.

Author and theologian, Daniel Clendenin, sees another way of envisioning the Kingdom of God embodied by Jesus. Imagine what life would be like on earth, here and now if God were king and the rulers of this world were not. Imagine if God ruled the nations, and not Obama, Kim Jong-il, Mugabe, or Ahmadinejad. Every aspect of personal and communal life would experience a radical reversal. The political, economic, and social subversions would be almost endless—peacemaking instead of war mongering, liberation not exploitation, sacrifice rather than subjugation, mercy not vengeance, care for the vulnerable instead of privileges for the powerful, generosity instead of greed, humility rather than hubris, embrace rather than exclusion. (from an on-line essay at www.journeywithjesus.net)

You’ve heard the Hebrew word shalom. We usually think it means peace. But a better translation of shalom is human well-being. And the kingdom of God is like that.

I wonder this morning as we end another year in the church and slow down long enough to consider all our endings and beginnings, can we pay close enough attention to recognize encounters with God’s kingdom happening in our lives every day? There’s definitely some kingdom work happening at the Fair Trade Sale in Tisdale Hall today. If you think of this annual Holy Trinity event only as a great chance to do some early Christmas shopping, think again. More significant is the help we are able to give people all over the world. We are supporting artists and craftspeople whose faces we’ll never see, whose voices we’ll never hear. And they are not artists living and working in Buckhead or on the Upper West Side of New York. They are from Haiti and Bangladesh, from South Africa, Honduras, Vietnam and the Philippines …the dollars we spend go directly to help lift them a little ways out of the poverty engulfing them.

This year, we have some new friends with us, friends who live and work in Clarkston, Stone Mountain and Decatur. They are part of a community of refugees, Bhutanese people who fled their homeland because of ethnic cleansing. Many of them lived in a United Nations refugee camp in Nepal for 18 years before coming to the United States. Here in Georgia, they’ve been making stunning baskets, woven from kudzu and bamboo.

Yesterday at our Fair Trade Sale, they had the best day of sales they’ve ever had, selling over $1,300 worth of baskets. That will pay for 3 month’s rent.

Who would have imagined that our ubiquitous Southern vine could be turned into something so useful and so beautiful? Supporting these Bhutanese people, who left their homes in Asia, came to the United States and discovered a use for kudzu we’d never thought of, gives us the opportunity not only to glimpse the kingdom but perhaps to have a small part in opening up a new corner of that kingdom.

The Kingdom of God is like that.

In a few minutes, we’ll pray the prayer Jesus taught us how to pray, the Lord’s Prayer, the Our Father. It’s a prayer that I suspect we find comforting most days. But I wonder about one petition, in particular, that may be less comfortable for us to say. It might even be a little disturbing. When we look at the way the world really is, in light of what Jesus was saying and doing as he ushered in the Kingdom, do we mean it when we pray Thy kingdom come, thy will be done?

Sermon: Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

November 8, 2009

The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 12:38-44

Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Georgia

The Very Reverend William Thomas Deneke, rector

In today’s gospel, a poor widow who contributed a couple of coins, which were all she had to live on, is said to have been a more faithful steward than those who gave large sums but with little sacrifice.

The faithfulness of the woman was not guaranteed by her status as a widow or by her poverty. Those attributes simply predisposed her to a hard life. She could have become bitter and cynical. But in her suffering, she had learned where to place her hope. She had discovered what was ultimately trustworthy. So, perhaps out of thanksgiving or love of God or a desire to share her faith, she gave all she had.

The poor widow’s stewardship response is contrasted with that of those who gave out of their wealth without any sacrifice. Although they gave more money, their giving was less faithful than was the poor widow’s.

It is important to remember that we may hear the story quite differently from Jesus’ original audience. We may wonder at the wisdom of the poor widow in giving away every cent she had. In this part of the story there is a sub plot.

According to Jewish law the widow should have been afforded some security. She should not have been in the position of having no more than a penny. In the account Jesus not only points out the hypocrisy of the religious hierarchy, but also indicts them for neglecting to care for widows. The story’s intent is not to say that every penny should be given to the church but to hold up the injustice of a corrupt system and show how such corruption was revealed in the very ones who should have known better. The poor widow, who was easily dismissed, modeled the devotion that should have been found in community leaders.

None of this is surprising to anyone who has heard the good news of Christ. The kingdom he proclaimed always turned things upside down. The reading reminds us that things are not always as they seem. Irony and paradox commonly frame truth.

This weekend, the Presiding Bishop of our Church addressed Diocesan Council and presided and preached at the Council Eucharist. Bishop Katherine said the call of the Church now is mission, mission, mission.

I was struck by her description of the Church as an organization that exists to serve others. The Church belongs to God, not us. It’s important to remember that. We are not so much drawn into this faith community to be served, but through the power of the Holy Spirit to learn how to share and serve in the name of Christ. That is the DNA of ministry. What we have at the heart of our community is mission. The mission given us in our baptismal covenant.

It is wondrous to see how God is leading the Episcopal Church into mission. The various testimonies at Council surely revealed this. Through the grace of God we are being enabled to share our gifts and open our hearts and grow in faith. God continues to raise up our church as a blessing to many, and to lead us into deeper faith and mission.

That was so evident at Diocesan Council as we heard, for example, of two new congregations. One is the parish of Christ the King in Lilburn, an international community representing nationalities from around the world. The other is the Church of the Common Ground, which serves the homeless in downtown Atlanta. There were stories and more stories that told of the difference Episcopalians are making around the world in our ministries of compassion.

At Holy Trinity we know of many of these ministries first hand as we seek to bring clean water to Haitians without it, home improvements and educational opportunities to poor Hondurans, home rebuilding to people in New Orleans and flood relief to people in our own area. We reach out in these ways and others, such as supporting one another in our Christian formation and being with one another in our joys and sorrows, because our DNA is ministry and we are a people in mission.

When we seriously seek to live into our baptism and mission, our stewardship is less likely to reflect that of the pious folks described in the gospel and more likely to resemble that of the poor widow. And we are more likely to place our hope in God rather than in things such as getting ahead or in having what we want or in just surviving. We come to know as we mature in Christ that church is about serving others and blessing God.

In the gospel today all this activity of the Spirit is witnessed in a poor widow who gave all she had to live on. She is a metaphor for faithful sharing. She is both an inspiration and a challenge.

The question the reading raises for us to ponder is how do we give out of the faith with which we are blessed? Or, in other words, how do we give faithfully rather than just offer what is left over?

Two quotes from two of the saints of our time speak to this: The first is from Mother Teresa of Calcutta, and the second is from the English author, C.S. Lewis.

Mother Teresa once said, “If you give what you do not need, it isn’t giving.”

And in a similar vein, C. S. Lewis wrote: “I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare.”

These two people of faith lived and served with openness to the Holy Spirit. They were not perfect; they struggled with their faith. But in Mother Teresa and C.S. Lewis, can be seen two people who through grace came to the place of the poor widow.

We can go there, too. And we do so whenever we open ourselves to be transformed by the grace of God. Whenever we come to know the joy of serving God and our neighbor. And whenever we understand that life is about ministry and mission.

It is through this baptismal path that we come to place our hope in God. In this way we stand with the poor widow, knowing where our true salvation lies and that God’s grace is abundant enough to share. In fact, it is in sharing that we receive the best gifts. Another thing the kingdom of God turns upside down.

For many of us, living this way involves some struggle. We have to die to something. Maybe even to our desire to find an alternative to God. The baptismal life is about dying to just these sorts of things. Turning away from whatever draws us from the love of God.

But while entering the tomb with Jesus can be hard to undertake, the promise is that we will find new life. We will be transformed and made free to serve in the power of the Spirit. We will be free to love, to give from our faith and not from what is left over.

I doubt that we will see the poor widow on many billboards or in many commercials. But she points the way to abundant life, and she reminds us that within all of us there is a call to live more fully into Christ our Savior who said it is more blessed to give than to receive.