Sermon: Christmas Eve & Christmas Day

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector
> Scripture for the day

Delane, Haitian projects manager for Food for the Poor and a friend I have gotten to know on trips to Haiti, had returned to her hotel in Cap-Haitien after visiting a poor village in the middle of a swamp. The village was so poor that rather than attend school, boys spent each day combing the dirty swamp water for tiny crabs that would be added to a weak soup for their supper. Even though the sun was fading, Delane had a sense that she needed to go back to the village that evening. She and a fellow worker drove to the village and began to walk along the paths built on islands in the swamp, islands created by mounds of garbage. They came to a hut. Able to see through the stick walls, they saw a woman inside placing a frying pan over a charcoal fire. It was suppertime. Only, the frying pan was empty.

As darkness began to fall, Delane and her companion knocked on the door. The woman welcomed them and explained that she had no food. She had prayed that God would provide her with food for a meal and placed the pan on the stove in faith that God would respond. And God did. Delane made sure the woman had something to eat.

Christmas is a story of discovery. A story about discovering light in the midst of darkness. About discovering wonder, hope and love.

Here is another Christmas story. Maybe you’ve heard this one.

In 1914 on a World War I battlefield in Flanders, German, French and British troops faced one another on Christmas Eve. A young German soldier began to sing “Silent Night” and others joined in. When they had finished, the British and French responded with other Christmas carols.

Eventually, the men from both sides left their trenches and met in the middle. They shook hands, exchanged gifts, and shared pictures of their families. Informal soccer games began in what had been "no-man's-land." And a joint service was held to bury the dead of both sides.

The generals, of course, were not pleased with these events. Men who have come to know each other's names and seen each other's families are much less likely to want to kill each other. War seems to require a nameless, faceless enemy.

So, following that magical night the men on both sides spent a few days simply firing aimlessly into the sky. Then the war was back in earnest and continued for three more bloody years. Yet the story of that Christmas Eve lingered - a night when the angels really did sing of peace on earth.

There are so many wonderful Christmas stories. Stories of hope. Stories of wonder. Stories of love.

Throughout the days of Advent we were reminded of how important it is to be ready to receive the gifts of God. Be prepared; be ready. In the twelve-day season of Christmas we embrace the wonder, feast on grace and sing with joy. Then the work begins.

Listen to a Christmas prayer by Howard Thurman:

When the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,

The work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people
to make music in the heart.

Preparation, celebration, and the work of thanksgiving. This is the pattern of living out Christmas.

Consider again the story of Delane in Haiti. Delane was prepared to receive God’s gifts. She had grown up in a poor family and empathized with those in need. She had chosen a vocation of service to the poor and had worked in places around the world to this end. Delane was fervent in her faith, possessed a keen mind and considerable organizational ability. She was ready to be led by God’s Spirit.

That evening in Cap-Haitian Delane was prepared to hear a call to return to the village in the swamp and she was prepared to give as a Christ bearer.

The same was true for the woman with the empty skillet. Despite her dire circumstances, she clung to hope. She trusted in God as darkness descended. She was prepared to be filled with grace.

Then came that miracle moment when these two lives touched. Both women knew the Spirit of the Lord was upon them. And the celebration began. There was joy. There was gladness.

There followed the work of giving thanks, the work of Christmas. And since that night when Delane saw the woman standing before an empty frying pan, the village built in a swamp has been transformed. New homes are being built on dry land. Boys and girls are in school. New boats enable the fisherman to catch larger fish. In the center of the village is a stone tower that stores clean drinking water. And on its sides is written, “Hope”.

All of this is about Christmas. It is about opposing troops’ singing on a battlefield, having food in a frying pan, and learning to read rather than dig for crabs in polluted water. It is about discovering reconciliation in animosity, hope in emptiness and promise in despair. Christmas is about finding compassion, meaning and gratitude.

God comes to us not only in ancient stables but also in all sorts of unlikely places and not simply on Christmas day. We are asked only to be ready to behold Christ among us, calling us to be prepared, to celebrate with joy and to do the work of Christmas.

What a night of wonder this is! Heaven and earth have kissed each other. We celebrate with our hearts full to the brim with hope.

And when gratitude fills our being, when the spirit of Christmas opens us to God’s presence, and the star in the sky is gone, and the kings and princes are home, and the shepherds are back with their flocks, we will in gladness embrace the work of Christmas:

To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among the people,
To make music in the heart.

That is the call of such a night as this. Our hearts are born again into the fullness of grace and the work of Christmas. Glory to God in the highest and peace to all people on earth. Amen.

Sermon: Fourth Sunday of Advent

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector
> Scripture for the day

This Christmas there has been more preparation than usual going on for my son, Chris, and his family. They have also been getting ready for the birth of their second child – a boy – William Courtland Deneke.

Ella, my son’s four year old first born, has been very excited about becoming a big sister. However, when it became apparent that her baby brother might arrive earlier than expected, Ella voiced her concern. “I want him to come after Christmas, and I want snow!”

Well, this past Wednesday, December 17, William Courtland Deneke was born. When Deborah talked to Ella on the phone after Ella saw her new baby brother at the hospital, Ella said with a deep sigh, “Mimi, he’s already here!” Ella might have thought she was all prepared for Christmas, but I don’t think she was truly ready for her baby brother’s birth.

Are you ready for Christmas? That’s a question we hear a lot. And the truth is we are never fully ready for Christmas. We are never totally prepared for the birth of the Christ child. The good news is that’s ok. Getting ready for Christmas means in part realizing that it is not all up to us.

That is one of the things so appealing about today’s gospel story of Mary. We have heard John the Baptist admonish folks to make a straight path for the Lord, but today we hear of another kind of preparation. An angel says to Mary, Do not be afraid; you have found favor with the Lord.

Advent weaves together the themes of judgment and grace. On this Sunday before Christmas the emphasis is upon grace, upon finding favor with the Lord. And that is something we need to hear.

I remember Christmas celebrations from my childhood. There was an emphasis on getting everything just right and working ever so hard to make sure it was. You had to be ready for Christmas. Nothing could be left to chance.

Today in the scriptures, we hear of a different kind of preparation: one of the heart. A letting go of our anxieties and fears. Mary trusted that God would do God’s part; it was not all up to her.

What a refreshing model of discipleship. Letting go of the need to be always in control, giving up the belief it is all up to us. Taking on the faith to trust in God and to let ourselves be empowered by God.

The early church struggled mightily with understanding the incarnation of God in Christ. Finally the vision emerged of seeing Christ as both fully divine and fully human. In Christ we see a partnership of humanity and divinity. In Mary we see humanity trusting and accepting the divinity of God.

Getting ready for Christmas is not only about making straight paths in our lives for God, but also about receiving the grace that transforms us into Christ bearers.

The frightening part of that is trusting God to do God’s part. Yet if we are to respond faithfully to the Christmas invitation to partner with God, we cannot stop with John the Baptist; we must also embrace Mary. With Mary we must find the courage to say, Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.

I like what Barbara Brown Taylor says about our fear of accepting God’s favor. She writes,

You can decide to say yes. You can decide to be a daredevil, a test pilot, a gambler. You can set your book down and listen to a creature’s strange idea. You can decide to take part in a plan you did not choose; doing things you do not know how to do for reasons you do not entirely understand. You can take part in a thrilling and dangerous scheme with no script and no guarantees. You can agree to smuggle God into the world inside your own body. Deciding to say yes does not mean that you are not afraid, by the way. It just means that you are not willing to let your fear stop you.

Following our Lord does not take away all fear. We can imagine that Mary had many fears over the years. As his mother, there were doubtless many times she was overcome with anxiety and fear of what lie might ahead for Jesus. However, she must have reminded herself time and time again that she had put her trust in God. She had accepted the mission presented to her by the angel. She would not let fear deter her from serving her Lord.

Today’s gospel reminds us that Mary was invited to step out boldly and act in faith. And to do so trusting that she was in partnership with God. It was not all up to her.

That invitation comes to all of us in some way. Somehow life conspires to lead us into holiness, into making decisions as servants of the Lord. In Mary that invitation was presented and received in such grace that we count the story as special and unique. But God’s spirit calls all of us. Calls us to be Christ bearers. Calls us through grace to give birth to God’s incarnated presence. From our humanity blessed by God can come hope and life and salvation. From us can emerge forgiveness and redemption not just because we have gotten ready for Christmas by making paths straight, but also because we have trusted the favor of God that rests upon each of us.

Thanks to Mary, we know that getting ready for Christmas is a process pregnant with possibilities beyond our imagining and beyond just our doing. Possibilities as wondrous as the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sermon: Third Sunday of Advent

The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector
> click here for the Scripture for the day

Come, Lord Jesus, come. We wait, we hope, we yearn. Come, find a people who wander in the wilderness. Come, bring hope to people who have given up hoping. Come, be light to our darkness. Come, speak a word into our silence. Come, Lord Jesus. We yearn for you, even when we don’t know it is you for whom we are yearning. Amen.

John the Baptist faithfully shows up on the church calendar every year around this time during Advent. We hear his story told and retold in the gospels and in fact, the same basic outline of the story is told in all 4 gospels—very few biblical characters rated that kind of coverage in the New Testament—and today we’ve listened to part of that story from the 4th Gospel, the Gospel according to St. John.

But did you notice? If you’re familiar with the character of John, did you notice he forgot to wear his camel-hair coat and he wasn’t munching on locusts and wild honey the way he does when Mark tells the story? In the 4th Gospel, the author doesn’t paint him with the same brush that Matthew, Mark and Luke do—we hear nothing about his being Jesus’ cousin, and there’s not a word about his baptizing Jesus. In fact, he’s not even called the Baptist. He’s just “a man sent from God, whose name was John.”

In this morning’s version of the story, his song sounds plaintive, restive, mysterious.

I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord…
Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me…

We can almost hear him singing…

What is the crying at Jordan? Who hears, O God, the prophecy? Dark is the season, dark our hearts and shut to mystery.

In the dark night, the uncertain crying of this mysterious stranger still catches us off-guard and unsettles us, asking questions, leaving space for us to wonder. Who is he, where did he come from? What is the crying, who can hear it?

He came as a witness to testify to the light…
But he himself was not the light…
He came to testify to the light.

It was the disbelieving clergy, priests and Levites from Jerusalem, who questioned him saying “Who are you?” and he replied, I’m not the Messiah. Well then, maybe you are Elijah? In other versions of the story, we almost imagine that John fancied himself a prophet like Elijah but not today. I am not, he says.

Ok, then, how about the prophet? Are you the prophet? No. Each time his answer gets shorter and shorter. I am not the Messiah. I am not. No.

And then finally he finds his voice. Pointing toward the One who was coming out of the darkness, pointing toward the light breaking into the world.

John the Baptist is particularly important to us in the season of Advent. All around us Christmas has already come. I know some us get frustrated that we aren’t singing Christmas carols in church yet, we’re not talking about baby Jesus yet. Ok, I’ll admit that at home, I’ve pulled our favorite Christmas carol book off the shelf and once or twice, just once or twice, I’ve sat down at the piano and played a few carols.

But John the Baptist helps us keep our eye on the coming light, reminding us of what has not yet come, pointing us in the right direction but saying “not yet” and reminding us that he is not the Messiah, nor are we.

A minute ago Ruby sang the 1st verse of a hauntingly beautiful hymn that reminds us of John the Baptist. It’s a song that sings of the mystery and darkness of Advent.

Who then shall stir in this darkness, prepare for joy in the winter night? Mortal in darkness we lie down, blind-hearted seeing no light.

John could have claimed greatness, he could have reminded the crowds that he was a blood relative of the One who was coming. But John cares nothing for his own fame. Not even to justify the good news he heralds. He is not the light coming into the darkness. He is the voice that announces the coming of that light. He is the trumpet blast, the resounding organ, he is the soft, humming cello that wakes us up, that rouses us from our deep slumber. He is the opening act for the main event.

He refuses to cooperate with his audience but he does have something of earth-shattering importance to tell them. And here’s the thing: If they have been confounded about who he is, if they have had a hard time fitting him into a category, just wait. Just wait for the one who will come after him. The light that is coming into the darkness will be so dazzling, so brilliant that it will shatter their illusions of life in the dimly lit world.

Yet, the light will not fit their expectations, conform to their carefully drawn plans, submit to their domination. In his response to the religious leaders, John turns out to be a very good witness to the light. But neither John nor the One coming after him will ever fit into anyone’s little box. John cannot be classified or catalogued—as such, he is witness to the indefinable, unknowable Messiah. No one can define this Lord, no one can conform this Lord to a pre-determined mold. John simply invites us to pay attention to the light that is coming into the world, to watch and wait. And trust that God will open our eyes when the time comes. It is enough to trust the light to be light enough to see…

We’d been waiting awhile. I think Mom knew the end was coming and maybe I knew it, too, though we’d not spoken about it. Shortly after we ate lunch in their apartment, Mom went back to Dad’s bed-side in the nursing home and found his breathing was becoming more and more shallow. She called the apartment and just said, “You should come.”

We stood around his bed, the priest prayed the Litany with us, Mom and I sang a hymn, we told him how much we loved him. And he died. I’d arranged with a local funeral home for someone to come immediately to take his body to the hospital so they could do an autopsy requested by his doctor. Two hours went by and no one came. They said they were short on ambulances and no one was available.

Finally, someone from Hospice said she knew a man could help. “He works for himself and he works by himself. Lawrence is a strong, black man and he’ll probably come dressed in overalls. Oh and he’ll probably want to say a prayer with y’all.” 20 minutes after my phone call asking him to come, Lawrence came around the corner, pushing a gurney with a dark red velvet body bag folded on top. As he approached us, he offered his outstretched hand, introduced himself and went straight into the room. My brother and his wife were standing with Mom at the bed.

While were waiting for someone to come, we’d been playing a Willie Nelson cd that Dad loved, crying one minute and laughing the next at the strangeness of it all: the family of this Baptist preacher, gathered around our dead father, listening to “On the road again” as we kept vigil.

Lawrence came into the room, gathered us all together in a circle and announced “We’re gonna have a prayer now.” And we grabbed each other’s hands and this big man prayed. He prayed that God would take Dad and welcome him home and bless his family and I don’t remember any more of his words but I’ll never forget the certainty of his presence, the certainly we all felt that God was very near.

When he finished praying he asked us to step out of the room so that he and the nurses could do their work. I was told later that he treated Dad’s body with care and reverence and in a few minutes, he was done and on his way. We never saw him again.

Now, Lawrence wasn’t Jesus. I told one or two people I thought he might have been an angel. But now I’m not even sure I’d go that far. But he was certainly a witness. At a moment when we most needed it, he pointed us toward the light and that light filled our hearts and brought comfort and relief and courage.

Lord, give us grace to awake us, to see the branch that begins to bloom; in great humility is hid all heaven in a little room.

Lawrence was a little like John the Baptist—one who’s willing to stand where few are willing: alone, in the wilderness of people’s lives, in the darkness.

You know, John the Baptist never said, Just follow Jesus and everything will turn out the way you have always wanted it to. No. That is not the promise of John. That is not the promise of Christmas.

Methodist Bishop Will Willimon once said, In order to see the fragile light of Christmas, one has first got to become accustomed to the dark. In order to see the stars in the highest heavens, one must sit for a while in the darkness here on earth. Are you up to such honesty?

If you are experiencing the wilderness this Advent, if you are feeling lost and cut-off, alone and bewildered, wandering in a sea of uncertainty…God is making a way. God will come again and will bring good news to the oppressed, God will bind up the brokenhearted, God will proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners, God will comfort those who mourn. God is making a way in the wilderness of our hearts, our lives.

So, stay awake. Wait and hope for the coming of our Emmanuel, our God who comes to be with us. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Now comes the day of salvation, in joy and terror the Word is born! God gives himself into our lives; O let salvation dawn!

*The hymn is St. Mark’s, Berekley (“What is the crying at Jordan?”), #69 in the 1982 Hymnal.

Sermon: Second Sunday of Advent

Angela Wiggins, seminarian
> click here for the Scripture for the day

North Florida is a beautiful place to live,
but it seems to attract – or maybe inspire –
more than its share of roadside prophets.
Nearly every time we drove to the coast,
somewhere along Highway 319
we would see a prophet standing beside the road.
He – and they were always men – would park his pickup truck
and hold signs exhorting travelers to repent and follow God.
Then, at dusk, they would pack up and head back to their regular lives –
whatever regular means for a roadside prophet.
Without the posters, though, they looked pretty ordinary.
You would never pick them out at the grocery store.

But there was one prophet in Tallahassee that stood out from all the rest.
His signs had the same themes as the other prophets,
but he was a little more creative and
more concerned with justice and the poor.
He worked at the intersection of Monroe and Tennessee streets,
close to the capitol and the universities.
This was the premier location for prophesying.
Traffic moved slowly at that intersection and
there were pedestrians and bicyclists.
So, unlike the prophets out on the highway,
his audience could hear him preach.
Soon everyone recognized him.
He called himself King Love.

As you might guess, King Love did not dress like just any prophet.
After all, he was a king.
He wore a big gold crown like we put on the Magi in Christmas pageants
and he had big black boots.
But, best of all, he wore a floor-length red velvet cape
trimmed with gold embroidery and white fur.
You couldn’t miss him.
Like Santa Claus, he had big red cheeks and a long white beard.
And after a few humid days in that red velvet cape,
he smelled like a Herd of Reindeer.
I know this because I once stood in line behind him at the grocery store.

Even without his signs, you knew he was different.
You knew this was a prophet,
a man with a message.
Even if you could not see the words on his signs,
you could read his clothes
and know there was something he had to say.

It doesn’t take long to get noticed
when you stand on a street corner dressed in a
gold crown and a red velvet cape.
Soon people were pulling over to talk to King Love.
Students would linger on the corner and
strike up conversations with him.
The newspaper did a story on King Love.
Everyone wanted to know why a man would dress that way.

Once there was another prophet with wardrobe issues.
The Gospel lesson tells us John the Baptist also wore distinctive garb.
Like the prophet Elijah,
he wore a leather belt around camel hair clothes.
Can you imagine what he smelled like?
Mmm – wet camel.
Not only that, but his diet was locusts and honey.
A very unusual man.

People would have noticed John the Baptist.
It’s no wonder he attracted a following.
Those clothes said “prophet,”
but it was clear he was not just any prophet.
Those clothes said: “Elijah.”

That’s when you know it’s time to listen up –
a prophet like Elijah doesn’t come along every day.
The resemblance to Elijah was significant
because of the prophecy that Elijah would return
with the coming of the day of the Lord.
If he dressed like Elijah;
maybe he was Elijah.
The appearance of Elijah would be great news.
So the appearance of an Elijah-like prophet was big news.

Even before John said anything,
the people knew he had something to say.
They knew something big was happening.
They knew they had to hear John the Baptist,
And they wanted to know what he was all about.

His diet and wardrobe are hints that John
may have been part of the Essenes.
a Jewish sect with separatist tendencies.
That would explain why he was out there in the wilderness.

So there’s John out in the wilderness
preparing the way of the Lord.
And the people are coming to him, out there in the wilderness.
Coming to hear that they should repent and be baptized.
Now that’s a long way to go to get bad news.
But, John also brings good news, Mark tells us.
John brings news of the coming of the Lord.

John’s message was
“the one who is more powerful than I is coming.”
Imagine that – John is drawing crowds to himself and
proclaiming baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
That’s power, but John says,
“you aint seen nothing.”
“Wait ‘til you see what’s coming.”
“Wait ‘til you see who’s coming.”

The message from John the Baptist brought the past and
the future together in a strange intersection.
The intersection of urgency and waiting.
The intersection of prophecy and fulfillment.
The intersection of heaven and earth.
The intersection where the new creation is born.

The first verse of the Gospel of Mark is about that new creation –
“the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”
This could be the title of the Gospel.
But notice how Mark 1:1 sounds a lot like Genesis 1:1.
Compare “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” to
“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth.”
Mark says that’s what God is up to – a new creation.
The good news of Jesus Christ is the news of the new creation.

The Baptist tells them to prepare for the coming of the Lord.
“Repent,” he says.
By that, he doesn’t mean, “say you’re sorry,”
or “say you won’t do it again.”
He means metanoia.
Metanoia, that beautiful Greek word for a complete change of heart.
When John preaches a baptism of repentance,
he is not offering a purification rite
for them to do whenever they felt guilty.
He is offering metanoia,
a complete change of heart,
a new creation.
He is inviting them to stand at the intersection
where the new creation is being born.

In Advent, we are standing in that intersection,
the intersection of ordinary time and the incarnation.
the intersection of heaven and earth.
the intersection of prophecy and fulfillment.
In Advent we wait with urgency and with patience
for the coming of the Lord and
for the coming again of the Lord.

While we stand at the intersection
of ordinary time and the incarnation,
we wait…and we prepare.
We stand at the intersection of heaven and earth
where God becomes one with us
that we might be made whole.
We stand at the intersection of prophecy and fulfillment
where we see the fulfillment and the not yet fulfilled.
And we wait.

The Gospel tells us what we are to do while we wait:
Pay Attention.
We are to be on the lookout.
We are to expect the coming of the Lord.
We are to prepare a way for the Lord.

Today’s Epistle lesson tells us how we are to live as we wait for the Lord.
We are to lead “lives of holiness and godliness.”
The holiness we are called to is not
the holiness of separation from the world.
We are called to be holy as God is holy.
This is the self-giving love we see in Christ Jesus.
This is the holiness that is our calling,
a face-to-face self-giving love.
We are to live in peace. The peace of Christ.
Yes, we are waiting, but this is not passive waiting,
It’s active waiting.
We are to strive.
We are to hasten the coming of the day of God.

As Isaiah tells us,
we are to join the proclamation,
“Here is your God.”
The prophet tells us
the word of God does not wither or fade.
While we wait, we can trust God.

The old is passing away and
“we wait for new heavens and a new earth,
where righteousness is at home.”

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

Sermon: First Sunday of Advent

Tracy J. Wells, guest preacher
> click here for the Scripture for the day

"Then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven." (Mark 13:26-27)

For many years, I missed this part of Advent.

"Oh, it's the first Sunday of Advent, what a lovely season," I'd think to myself. Time for Advent wreaths and the lovely greenery decorating the church, time for the beautiful Advent lessons and carols, time for those fun chocolate Advent calendars to help us count down the days to Christmas.

I had never really looked closely at the Scriptures that we read this time of year - Scriptures that are not just about foreshadowing the birth of Jesus in the first century, not just about waiting for Christmas, but about waiting for that other coming of Jesus - the Second Coming - which we affirm every week when we recite the Nicene Creed - "he will come again to judge the living and the dead."

In all the loveliness of the pre-Christmas season, somehow my mind conveniently edited out the judgment part of Advent.

This is easy to do, especially when you're part of a church that doesn't like to focus too much on judgment. We are a church of welcome, of inclusion, not a church of judgment and exclusion. It's one of the main reasons I chose in my adult life to become an Episcopalian. (I'm not a "cradle" case like some of you out there.)

But we don't get to edit out the judgment part just because it makes us uncomfortable. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, every year during the end of Pentecost and the beginning of Advent, we read these passages of Scripture that speak about Jesus's Second Coming and the final judgment of all humanity. And today, I am inviting you to engage with that part of our tradition that we so often want to gloss over.

Now, don't start squirming too much. I'm not going to launch into a fiery "hellfire and brimstone" kind of sermon here. We are still in the Episcopal Church, after all. And actually, I think most of us don't need fear-mongering tactics to get us to reflect on God's judgment. I suspect it is a question that many of us reflect on quite often, however quietly and privately. It is a question basic to the human condition, a question that we revisit every time we encounter sudden and unexpected death.

At its most universal, the question is this:
"If I were to die tomorrow, what meaning would my life have? What would I have contributed to this world?"

At its most specific, within the Christian faith, the question is this:
"When I meet Jesus, at my death or at the Second Coming, what will Jesus think of the way I have been living my life? How have I served God with this gift of life God has given me?"

Christian contemporary artist Nichole Nordeman asks this question in a song called "Legacy" that has spoken to me over the years. "I wanna leave a legacy," she sings in the chorus. "How will they remember me? Did I choose to love? Did I point to God enough to make a mark on things?"

The Scriptures we have been reading lately invite us to reflect on these questions. Last week we heard the parable of the sheep and the goats, from Matthew 25 - an image of the final judgment in which Jesus measures the faithful not by how many vestry meetings they've attended or how many church functions they've organized, but by how they've treated the "least of these" - the most vulnerable members of society - those who are hungry, thirsty, sick, or in prison.

And so on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin to wait for Christ's coming - both on Christmas and in the Second Coming - we are invited again to reflect on this question. How are we living our lives? Are we living in accordance with the kingdom of God as described by Jesus in the Scriptures? Are we choosing to love? Are we pointing to God in all we do? Are we caring for the most vulnerable members of our society? Today marks the beginning of a year of carefully and intentionally asking those questions of our common life together.

Two weeks ago, the diocesan annual council voted to pass a resolution that commits the Diocese of Atlanta to focus intentionally on poverty for the next full church year, beginning today on the first Sunday of Advent and ending on Christ the King Sunday next November. The resolution instructs that every gathering of the church for the next year should begin with the question, "How shall what we are doing here effect or involve the poor?"

I have talked with some clergy from around the diocese who felt frustrated by this resolution and the demands it makes. They felt if they voted against the resolution, it would seem like they were "voting against the poor," and yet they didn't think simply asking this question at the beginning of Bible study or worship or vestry meetings would really accomplish anything - and worried that it would seem forced and inauthentic.

I can understand their concerns, but I was excited when I heard about this resolution. Call me naïve, but I think this kind of question is exactly the type of question the church should be asking every time it gathers as the body of Christ. To me, this is a "final judgment" kind of question.

In my vision of the Second Coming, if Jesus were to walk through those doors right now, I feel fairly confident he'd be asking us just such a question - how has what we have been doing here, in this place, effected or involved the poor, the most vulnerable of society? Would Jesus recognize this place and our work here as a continuation of the work of reconciliation and justice he began in first-century Palestine?

I acknowledge how cumbersome it may seem to keep this question at the forefront of every gathering of the church for the next year. But I think that is precisely the point. The prophetic voice has never been easy to hear. Sure, it may seem awkward to bring this "agenda item about the poor" into situations where it doesn't seem to "fit" - the Seniors in Action trip to hear the Atlanta Symphony's Christmas concert later this month, or the Feminist Theological Reflection Group's Advent party, or the next young adult dinner gathering - what do any of these activities have to do with the poor? Well, perhaps that is precisely the question we should be asking of all these activities.

At its best, this exercise will bring an awareness of poverty into those situations and circumstances where we do not usually think about it. Perhaps if we approach this year remembering how deeply and inextricably God's judgment is linked to our treatment of the most vulnerable among us, we might allow the prophetic voice of God to create in us a conversion of heart, mind and action with regards to our relationship with the most vulnerable in society.

As a parish that already does a great deal of outreach to "the poor" of our own city and around the world, I would encourage you, the people of Holy Trinity, to reflect particularly on this aspect of the question: "How shall what we are doing here effect or involve the poor?" We already do so much to "help" the poor; how can what we do in this place more fully involve the poor, so that we can break down the barriers between "us" and "them" that the language of "the poor" and "the rich" often creates? How can this community bring together people of different social classes to worship and share a common life together?

What would it look like, for example, if we both donated food to DEAM and invited our DEAM customers to worship with us on Sunday mornings? What would it look like if we went and spent time with the poor by becoming involved in the ministry of the Church of the Common Ground, an outdoor worshipping community for homeless men and women in downtown Atlanta? When we look around the table as we are gathered for Eucharist or for the many meals we will share together in this place over the next year, may we continually ask ourselves the question - who is not here? And what can we do to invite and involve those people in our life of worship and ministry in this place?

These are "final judgment" kinds of questions. How shall what we are doing in this place effect or involve the poor? How will our lives make the love of Christ known to the world? What would Jesus find in this place, and in our hearts, if he were to return today? The answers have implications not just for our personal reckoning as we stand before God in the final judgment, but for the kind of church and community we will be here and now.

Amen.

Tracy Wells is Holy Trinity’s communications coordinator. She holds a master of theological studies from Harvard Divinity School and is a Postulant for Holy Orders in the Diocese of Atlanta.

Sermon: Christ the King Sunday

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector
> click here for the Scriptures of the day

Today we come to the end of the liturgical year. Next Sunday we will enter the season of Advent and a new church year.

The celebration of Christ the King is a fitting finale to the gospel readings, the feast days, the fasts and the promises of this past year. The readings for today describe the kind of reign associated with the kingdom of Christ.

Remember the Beatitudes: God’s blessings upon the poor, the reviled, the peacemakers, the humble. These are of great value in Christ’s kingdom. Those on the margin often take center stage in God’s realm. Jesus identifies with those left behind.

In the Mediterranean basin of the First Century, the social norms honored those at the top of the pyramid. There was no significant social mobility. If you were born into the lower layers of society, there you remained. The masses flocked to Jesus because he had a message of hope for those neglected by social norms and institutions.

The message Jesus shared – good news for the oppressed – had deep roots in Judaism. Today we also hear the words of the prophet Ezekiel. He spoke words of hope to a broken people. He, too, said that God would seek the lost, those left behind.

Both the gospel and the words of the prophet not only reveal that God’s mercy is weighted on the side of those left behind but that in dismissing the ways of God’s Kingdom, a choice is being made not to be a part of it. According to Ezekiel, the Lord says,

“I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the
strayed, and I will bind up the injured,
and I will strengthen the weak,
but the fat and the strong I will destroy.
I will feed them with justice.”

The gospel today, with its grand portrayal of Christ on a throne, makes it clear that when we decide to dishonor the values proclaimed in the beatitudes, Jesus’ blueprint for the kingdom of God, we choose not to live in God’s kingdom.

Perhaps this is all pretty obvious. But in the Bible nations and people often make unfaithful decisions and fail to see how this could have an impact on their faith. They seem genuinely surprised when confronted about their behavior.

Maybe the prophet and the gospel overly simplify this matter of separating sheep from goats. The truth is most of us move in with the goats at times and with the sheep at other times. The scriptures no doubt already know this; they are focused, instead, on our need to incarnate the word of God. Our religion is pretty worthless if it cannot lead us to feed the hungry or clothe the naked.

The gospel is all about incarnation. The beatitudes and the Kingdom of Christ are to be lived out in our decision- making.

Left to our own devises, most of us find that hard, very hard, to do. We are equipped for living into the kingdom through the mercy of God. We celebrate that in Holy Baptism.

So here we are, empowered by the Spirit, ready to pray boldly but perhaps still a little unsure of living out the beatitudes.

The gospel story today makes it pretty easy. A cup of water, a hospital visit, an article of clothing. But don’t be fooled. These are teasers, gentle ways to point us in the right direction. The Spirit may call us not only to give a cup of water but also to help build a well in Haiti.

What is so meaningful about the examples that Jesus gives is that they are relationship oriented. They are about building community.

For three years Holy Trinity was in a partnership with the village of Los Hornos, Honduras. Then Honduras Outreach, our sponsoring program, decided to stop all partnerships and send missions groups to whatever village was in need at the time. No more partnerships, no more long-term relationships. After a year Honduras Outreach realized this was a mistake. Churches wanted to be in partnerships. Relationships mattered. Now the partnership program has been revived. And that’s good.

The Kingdom of Christ is built upon relationships, built around community. Sometimes that means a one on one relationship, but it can also mean reaching out to people we will never meet. It means seeing Christ in our next-door neighbor and also in our neighbor on the other side of town or on the other side of the world. Wherever there are people who hunger, wherever people are imprisoned, wherever people suffer, Christ is there. To reach out to anyone in need, anyone left behind is to reach out to Christ.

It is all about incarnating the Kingdom of Christ within us. Jesus in the account today makes it clear that he wants to include us in his kingdom. It could not be any easier. But we have to decide to meet him, to encounter him not only in the abundance of others but also in the needs of others. To see Christ in this way is a gift not only to those in need but to the needful parts of ourselves.

This day we celebrate Christ the King. King of the realm where relationships matter and people are family. The realm where what we do to one of the least of the family members we do to the King. Amen.

Sermon: 27th Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 28, Year A)

The Rev. Robyn Neville, guest preacher

For the Third Servant

I think many of us have heard this Gospel before, the Gospel of the “talents.” A man leaves on a journey, and puts three servants in charge of his property. In the master’s absence, two of the servants increase the master’s property by doubling it; and then there’s that other poor servant – the third one - the one who buries his master’s property in the ground, for safe keeping. When the master returns, the master praises the first two servants, but he condemns this third servant, and orders him to be thrown into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I really feel for that third servant. I wonder what made him bury his portion in the ground. Perhaps he was just being cautious; perhaps he was simply being ultra-conservative with his master’s money, and instead of investing in markets that he could neither trust nor predict, he simply kept the property safe. Or perhaps he was a fearful man, and perhaps he had had run-ins with robbers before – thieves, after all, were common in Jesus’ day; that’s one of the reasons the Roman army was stationed in Palestine to begin with. Maybe this servant buried the talents because he didn’t want anyone to steal them.

Or perhaps he was just not a very imaginative person, or he wasn’t a very motivated person; maybe he was a dark-hearted man who was jealous of his master’s wealth and refused to invest it out of his own self-loathing. The master calls him “lazy” and “wicked.” Was he? Was he truly a bad servant?

Some of you may already know that in the Ancient Middle East, a talent was an enormous amount of money. It was the equivalent of about 3,000 shekels, approximately 40 kilograms of silver. That’s 88 pounds of silver. Can you imagine burying that much silver in the ground? It would have been quite a job; it would have taken at least a day of digging. This servant, this third of the three, must have been very good at burying things.

The readings from today all seem to agree that God does not take bad servants lightly. In our first reading from the Book of Judges, we read that the Lord lets the Israelites fall into slavery to a foreign king, in a foreign land, a land filled with unclean gods. The Lord allows the Israelites to be taken captive, to be carried off to an unclean place. Now God doesn’t abandon the Israelites altogether; he gives them Dvorah or Deborah to lead them, a woman of great strength, and intelligence, and wisdom and fairness, a woman who eventually redeemed Israel in the sight of God. But still – our reading from the Hebrew Bible this morning reminds us that there is a price to be paid for being a bad servant.

The Israelites were being bad servants. We hear in the Judges lesson that the Israelites were, and I quote, “again doing evil in the sight of the Lord” - and here the key word is “again” – meaning, they were at it again, the Lord had already warned them to stop what they were doing and start doing what was right, and yet, they were at it again. If we were to read back into the Book of Judges, we would see that the Israelites were up to worshipping false idols again. They had forgotten their master. They had forgotten Adonai. They had buried their memories of all the good that God had done for them, they had buried their love for the living God, and they had started sacrificing once again to the fertility gods and the thunder gods of their neighbors. That’s a pretty clear case of being a bad servant of God, right?

But what about our bad servant in the Gospel reading? What did he do that was so wrong? After all, at a time when our own global economy has been through some dramatic changes, and our own markets have been so unpredictable, burying a monetary windfall in the ground may not seem like such a bad idea.

But the Gospel lesson today isn’t about the economy. It is all about the Kingdom of Heaven. Jesus tells this story of the master and the three servants to help us understand what the kingdom of heaven is all about. The kingdom of heaven, it would appear, has everything to do with being a good servant.

The problem with the bad servant is that he was afraid. The Gospel reading tells us that he was afraid of the master. Now, I don’t think that’s the lesson of the story; I don’t think the Bible instructs us to be terrorized by God – at least, not to be afraid of God’s wrath in that old timey religion kind of way. Jonathan Edwards, the great eighteenth century preacher, once preached a sermon that he entitled, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” and he tried to convince his congregation that God was to be feared because God would dangle recalcitrant souls over the flames of hell the way a child dangles a spider over the open flame of a candle. I think that’s a pathological reading of Scripture, and I don’t think that either God or children should be that cruel. That’s not the image of God that Jesus proclaimed.

The third servant from our Gospel reading today is afraid – but in the sense that he is immobilized by his fear to somehow step out and do something great. I wonder about the natural greatness that lies dormant in each of us. Do we ever really know that the God who made us, the God who loves us with that beautiful, eternal love, made us for something great? Do we ever really accept that, or believe that? We might say, “well, God doesn’t make junk,” but do we take it further, do we ever really trust the fact that God made us to be a great people, a community of believers who shine a kind of light and a kind of beauty and a kind of honor that will startle and inspire people when they see it? Can you accept that God entrusted greatness to you?

This, I think, is what our Gospel is preaching to us today. The kingdom of heaven, as far as Jesus was concerned, is something that we’re supposed to create here, now, on this earth, in our lifetimes. The kingdom is supposed to be a place in our hearts, and a place in our world, where fairness and justice reigns. Where love is the great investment. Where peace and kindness and compassion rule our thoughts and our motivations. This is the kingdom of heaven, and in order to be brought to life in this world, the kingdom needs great people. The kingdom needs great servants. Do you know that you have that greatness living within you now? I promise you, if you have the Spirit of God dwelling within you – and if you’ve been baptized, then you do have the Spirit, whether you feel it or know it or not – then you can be great. The lesson today is simply that we can’t bury that Spirit-given greatness deep down and allow it to remain hidden.

But that’s what we do, isn’t it? We bury the kingdom deep down, we bury our own greatness deep down, and we try to ignore it. Instead, we often listen to those little, shadowy, desiccated, raspy voices that whisper to us, “You can never be great. You can never do anything meaningful. All that you do is worthless. If you try to do something great, you will fail. Everyone will see. If you do succeed, no one will notice, and in this day of global media, if no one notices your greatness, then it doesn’t count. You will suffer. You will despair. You will be led to destruction.” This is what those little voices say to us.

I say, shut off those voices. I say to those voices, if they are speaking to you today, be gone. I say to those voices of destruction, you do not belong among God’s people. I say, this is sacred ground, right here, where we are gathered, where we are sitting, and I say to those life-taking voices, you have no place here. You have no power here. These are God’s people, and they were made to be great. They were made to shine. I say to you, Holy Trinity Parish, you were made to be great, and you were made to shine. You were made to be a beacon here in Decatur, and in Haiti, and in Honduras, and in Ireland, and to the ends of the earth. You were made not to bury that shining kingdom within you – no, you were made to make it great in Christ’s name.

Now, I know that this life is difficult. I know that many of us are carrying burdens that are too much. I know that many of us are fearful about what’s next, what else could go wrong. I know that some of us are really struggling.

But today I want to encourage you to take a spiritual shovel, whatever that means to you, and to dig up the great things that you’ve hidden within you. Maybe suffering has caused you to put aside your talents. Maybe you’ve taken the spiritual equivalent of 80 pounds of silver, and you’ve hidden it so well inside of your soul that you don’t even see it anymore. Not today!

Today, I want you to reach into the loamy, rich, good earth of your spirits and find those great things that you buried deep down. Unearth them. Bring them back into the light. Offer them back up to the God who gave them to you. Know that you were made to bring forth greatness. Know that those great things that you’ve hidden within you are worthy gifts, and that it’s time to give those gifts back to God. Know that the living God who loves you doesn’t want you to be wasteful – not even of your own being. God doesn’t want you to waste your self. Know that hope lives in you, dwells in you like the wind of the Spirit dwells in you. If only you would be a good servant, and bring that hope forth, to share with the world.

We can’t build the kingdom if our tools are buried in the ground. We can’t honor God fully if we’ve somehow obscured part of our own being.

We can work together, to bring out each other’s great gifts, and we can offer all that we have – all that we are – to God’s glory.

May God give us the vision and the courage to dig up the hidden talents, those buried treasures of our souls, and to offer our own greatness to God on behalf of the kingdom. The God of eternity deserves our very best, and we deserve to remember that our very best is there because of God, because of God’s extravagant generosity with us. May the living God give us the grace to be good stewards of our souls, to be good stewards of our greatness, so that we may build up the kingdom, and be a shining example of hope for the world.

Amen.


The Rev. Robyn Neville, an Episcopal priest, holds a Th.M. from Harvard Divinity School and an M.Div. from Virginia Theological Seminary and is working on her Ph.D. in church history at The Candler School of Theology at Emory, focusing on women and gender in the early medieval period. She and her husband are regular worshipers at Holy Trinity.

Sermon: 26th Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 27, Year A)

The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector

I have to tell you, this morning’s gospel lesson (Matthew 25: 1-13) is not my favorite parable. Not by a long shot.

On Monday morning, when it occurred to me that I might be preaching this week, I went on-line to see what the gospel lesson would be for today.

I moaned to myself…
Oh, no. Not THAT one.

I called the rector.
Bill, can’t one of the seminarians preach this week?

You see the problem, don’t you? First of all, there are these 5 bridesmaids
who are unwilling to share their oil with their friends who are running low. Didn’t their parents teach them anything about sharing with others?

They have extra jugs of oil. You’d think they could’ve each spared just a little?

But that’s not the worst of it.

The groom comes late to the party— which is interesting because in my experience if someone’s late to the wedding, it’s usually the bride— anyway, the groom arrives late and then waltzes into the feast with the 5 oil-rich friends of the bride and shuts the door.

When the other 5 arrive, now late themselves because they had to try to find a 7-11 that was still open so they could buy some more oil…when they arrive and plead with him to open that door…what does he say?

"Truly I tell you, I do not know you."

I hate that he said that.

The groom sounds like very disagreeable person, and this parable does not fit my concept of the Kingdom of Heaven at all.

So is it any wonder I just couldn’t get terribly excited about this text?

Especially not this week.

You see, by Wednesday, I was completely exhausted from watching election returns and I was just beginning to focus on the long to-do list for diocesan council next week.

In a pinch, on almost any other parable, I could have resurrected an old sermon. But I’ve managed to avoid preaching on this text for the past few years
and was not eager to wrestle with this challenging parable.

That’s what happens when you belong to a church that uses the lectionary—it’s the luck of the draw. So, changing to a more palatable gospel was not an option.

Let’s see what we’ve got.

It’s clear that this parable is an allegory— that is, the characters and events are symbols for something else.

When Matthew wrote this parable down, he expected that his congregation would be able to unlock the code on the spot.

They would recognize that the bridesmaids represented the church and the bridegroom was, of course, Jesus.

All the bridesmaids have lamps and oil but only the wise ones are prepared for the delayed arrival of the bridegroom.

The folks in Matthew’s church would have immediately said aha when they heard that the bridegroom was coming late—that signified to them that the return of Christ had been delayed, longer than they expected.

That much is relatively plain and easy to decipher. Here’s the thing. I don’t believe Jesus told this Kingdom of Heaven parable to frighten us into acting right or compel us to do more and work harder.

I don’t believe that Jesus is hanging back, delaying his arrival, waiting to see who has stayed up all night, watching for his return, eager to slam the door to the Kingdom in their faces.

And Jesus most certainly didn’t intend for us to be fretting over who’s going to get admitted into heaven and who will find themselves pounding on the gates, begging to be let in.

No. I have a hunch it has something to do with that oil. And it’s not about who has oil and who doesn’t. You might have a cupboard full of oil in your kitchen at home, but did you remember to bring some of it with you to get you through the night?

When you left the house, headed for the election-night party, did you remember to bring along enough oil to keep your lamp lit in case a snowstorm came up and delayed your return home?

It’s not about who possesses the resources and who doesn’t.

So why is this oil important?
What is Jesus trying to tell us?

Anna Florence Carter tells the story of a seminary professor who gave a lecture to her students entitled “the spiritual life of the preacher.”Before she began her lecture,She set an old-fashioned oil-lampon the table in front of her.The kind with real oil and a wick.

She talked about how the job of the pastor is to be a light for others—echoing what Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount.

In the 5th chapter of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus said:

"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lamp stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, left your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven." (Matthew 5.14-16)

Then the teacher lit the wick and the class watched the lamp burn as she talked. It gave off a beautiful glow.

But the lamp only had a small amount of oil in it and so very quickly the oil disappeared and the flame went out.

What happens when the oil runs out? she asked her students. “Well then your light goes out and you have nothing to give. A pastor with no oil, a Christian with no oil, can’t be the light of the world for anybody, no matter how much they want to be.” (Anne Florence Carter, Lectionary Homiletics, Proper 27, Year A)

I think this is one of the greatest spiritual dangers that clergy face. We work hard (for all kinds of reasons including some that are not so good—
like wanting to keep the congregation happy, wanting to be liked, wanting to make sure we keep our jobs…) but we also work hard because we hope we are doing God’s will, we hope that a flicker of Christ’s light shines through us, visible enough for you to see.

But we don’t always keep our oil lamps filled.

Sometimes we run dangerously low on fuel and if we seem distracted or unfocussed or just plain tuckered out, you could probably take a look at the gas gauge and see that we’re running low.

All of us—you, me, Deborah and Bill—would do well to remember the announcement we hear every time the airplane is taxiing down the runway.

You know, the one where the voice reminds you that in case of an emergency
you should put the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping someone else with theirs?

It’s easy to forget that rule. Maybe you forget it, too, from time to time.

It won’t happen as often if you’ll figure out what it is that fills your lamp
and restores your soul.

I don’t know where you go to fill your lamp.I hope you know where that place is
and that you visit that place regularly.

The church can certainly be one place.

The Eucharist, the prayers, the hymns, the silence and the mystery,
the community…I hope you are fed and fuelled by some of these.

For some of you, I suspect that reaching out to others, taking communion to our homebound members, making sandwiches to feed the hungry, visiting the sick, praying for those who are suffering… these things in themselves can help fill your lamp.

Sometimes I wonder if we don’t need to say no from time to time in order to keep our lamps in good working order.

If you find yourself serving on too many committees, with too much on your plate, and the associate rector calls and asks you to do one more thing,
even if it’s something you love doing, something you’re really good at, something that’s really important…sometimes you might need to say no.
(But not this week, please, and definitely not when a member of the vestry calls you and invites you to make a financial pledge to the church…)

But seriously, if you don’t learn where your boundaries are, your oil just might run out before you even know that you’re running low…You know, I think this is one of those stories Jesus tells us when he needs to get our attention. Sometimes he has to speak quite forcefully or tell us stories that make us snap to attention in order to make sure we are listening.

As challenging as this story is to our ears,he’s not trying to scare us into cleaning up our acts.

He’s encouraging us to fill our lamps in order to be ready when the bridegroom comes and the feast begins.

Fill your lamp so that you can be part of the procession that lights the way in the darkness and prepares the way for the coming of Christ.

Amen.

Sermon: All Saints' Day

Worship @ the Welcome Table
Tracy J. Wells, Communications Coordinator

We saw him every Sunday.

His spot was by the trashcan on the corner of Church and Brattle Streets in Harvard Square, right across the street from the Crate and Barrel. From there, he sold copies of "Spare Change News," a street newspaper on issues of poverty, produced by volunteers, and sold by homeless and formerly homeless vendors on the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts. From beneath his wool cap, his dark face would light up when he saw us, and we all came to expect the familiar greeting:

"Hello, family!" he would say to us as we approached him, a United Church of Christ minister, an Episcopal deacon, a Methodist seminary student, and me – a graduate student of religion who was absolutely sure that she was NOT interested in ordained ministry!

We would return Butch's greeting, "Hi Butch! How're you doing today?"

"Doin' alright, doin' alright," was always the response. His large grin was unfailing as he picked out which sandwich he'd like from the assortment we brought every week, and gladly took the clean socks that we offered, and always insisted that we all hold hands while he led us in prayer, right there on that street corner, as busy shoppers brushed past us.

Butch was one of our many parishioners in The Outdoor Church of Cambridge, an ecumenical Christian community that takes the church to those who either cannot or will not reach it on their own. Every Sunday for over a year while I was in grad school, I worshiped with The Outdoor Church in Cambridge Common, a large public park right outside of Harvard Square. We held an outdoor Eucharist, a liturgy that began every week with the same passage of Scripture that we just heard sung in the video:

Jesus said, "Come to me, all you that are weary
and carrying heavy burdens
And I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me;
For I am gentle and humble in heart;
and you will find rest for your souls;
for my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

After the Eucharist, we'd share a simple meal together, usually comprised of sandwiches, fruit, and - of course - cookies. Then we'd load up all the extra food we had into coolers, and we'd set off into Harvard Square, with sandwiches and juice and cookies, and communion, to meet people where they were. Instead of setting up a soup kitchen and waiting for the hungry to come to us, we went to them.

I began volunteering with The Outdoor Church after about a year and a half of trying to ignore this inner constant nagging that told me that Jesus would probably be much more likely to be found hanging out with Boston's homeless population than spending a whole lot of time with the academic intellectuals at my graduate school. The Jesus I met in the Gospels seemed to be more concerned with feeding the poor and reaching out to the disenfranchised than almost anything else.

The Gospel lesson for today illustrates what some theologians (those “academic intellectuals!”) have called Jesus's "preferential option for the poor." In it, Jesus turns conventional wisdom on its head, and calls "blessed" precisely the opposite of the things we usually speak of as blessings. Think about it. Most people use the term "blessed" when they are describing something good that's happened to them. "I'm so blessed to have my good health," or "I'm so blessed that my children are safe." "I'm so blessed that things are going so well for me right now at work." "I'm so blessed to have this house and this money."

But Jesus doesn't say that. Jesus says, "Blessed are you when things are really NOT GOING WELL for you. Blessed are you when you are MOURNING. Blessed are you when you are POOR. Blessed are you when you are HUNGRY."

It's not a coincidence that we read this scripture on All Saints' Day, the day we remember all those saints of the church who have gone before us. For a saint is not, contrary to popular culture belief, a person who is perfect or lives a holy life in such a way that they never have any trouble. A saint is one who recognizes the holiness in imperfection.

The Church hasn't always done a very good job of reminding us of this -- if you think about the icons and such that we have that represent the saints in these sort of statue-like figures, holding out their hands in blessing, with halos, who look very much removed from who we are as living, breathing human beings who make mistakes.

But the Episcopal Dictionary of the Church defines as saint as "a holy person, a faithful Christian, one who shares life in Christ." Notice it didn't say "perfect" anywhere in there. Faithful, yes. Perfect? No.

So what does it mean to be a saint? To be holy, faithful? To be one who shares life in Christ? What does it mean to share life in Christ?

If our scriptures for today are any indication, perhaps to be a saint is to recognize the blessedness in the things that the world often devalues, avoids, or shuns.

I left the Outdoor Church in 2006 when I graduated and moved away from Boston, but I've kept in touch with the ministers - Jed, the UCC minister and Pat, the Episcopal deacon. And in February of this year, I received an email from Jed with some sad news.

"Pat and I have some bad news," he wrote. "Butch died sometime two weeks ago, apparently of a heart attack. Last summer he told us he needed to be hospitalized for a few standard tests, and then disappeared."

Jed and Pat tried to visit Butch in the hospital, but to no avail. They had no contact information, they couldn't find him, the hospitals were unhelpful. They finally learned of his death from Frenchy, one of our other parishioners in The Outdoor Church who was sort of the unofficial "mother" of the Harvard Square homeless community, keeping tabs on everyone and informing us of what everyone was up to if we hadn't seen them in a while.

When I heard about Butch's death, I wished more than anything that I could have gone to his memorial service. You see, for me, Butch was one of the saints. Butch's faith was an example to me. Butch taught me a lot about looking for the best in everything and everybody. About seeing the blessings in those things I might not be inclined to see as blessings. When I think about the great cloud of witnesses, the great communion of the saints, I picture Butch there, with his arms open wide in welcome, and calling out to everyone he meets, "Hello, family." This All Saints’ Day, I am particularly remembering Butch.

Who are you remembering today? Who in your life has shown you what it means to be a holy person, a faithful Christian, one who shares life in Christ? Who in your life has exemplified what it means to recognize the blessedness in the things the world so often devalues?

I invite you to hold those people in your minds and hearts, and please join with me in a prayer of thanksgiving.

Gracious and holy God, we give you thanks for the great cloud of witnesses and saints that have gone before us, of the examples that they have shown us of what it means to live a holy and faithful life in service to you. Grant that we may follow their example and one day enter with them into that great communion of the saints, which worships you for all time, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, now and forever, Amen.

Tracy Wells is Holy Trinity's communications coordinator. She holds a master of theological studies from Harvard Divinity School and is a postulant for Holy Orders in the Diocese of Atlanta.

Sermon: 24th Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 25, Year A)

The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector

I’ve been e-mailing with an old friend of mine this fall.
He’s older and wiser than I am.
He’s a retired banker
and certainly understands the economic crisis more thoroughly than I do.

And he’s on the other side of the political fence from me.
We’ve been enjoying a political discussion, back and forth, off and on,
for a few weeks now.
We don’t see eye to eye on every issue.
But we do agree on one thing:
we both dislike the “gotcha” game so evident in this political campaign.
You know what I mean.

One candidate says that we could have troops in Iraq for 100 years.
You and I know he didn’t mean that the war would go on for that long
or that we’d keep anything like the current troop levels there for 100 years.
But the opposing party hollered “gotcha”
and for months, it seems that’s all they can talk about whenever foreign policy comes up.

The other candidate has a spontaneous conversation with a plumber.
And this candidate says something about using taxes to help
spread the wealth around.
In that context, it was a silly thing to say
and I bet he wishes he’d never said it.
But, his opponent immediately cried “gotcha”
and began a relentless denunciation of socialism
that we can expect to hear about for the next 8 days.

No matter who you plan to vote for (and I do hope you plan to vote),
wouldn’t all of us have been better off,
better informed about the candidates, without the “gotcha” game?

Well, guess what? It’s a very old game.
What do you suppose was going on with Jesus and the Pharisees in this morning’s gospel?

The Pharisees must have been delighted
that Jesus shushed their political opponents, the Sadducees.
In Matthew’s version of the gospel,
both parties had been out to get Jesus
ever since he rode triumphantly into town on a donkey.

Truth be told, neither the Democrats or the Republicans…
I mean the Sadducees or the Pharisees,
were serious about the questions they were asking Jesus.
They were trying to trick him, to lay a trap for him, to discredit him.

They were playing “gotcha”.

In today’s story, the Pharisees arrive smugly on the scene.
They’re standing around the edge of the gathering,
muttering amongst themselves and finally push this one guy forward.
We’re told he’s a lawyer,
but he’s really more like a theology professor, a biblical scholar.
He slides up next to Jesus and calls him Didaskalos. Teacher.

If you were to say that Greek word out loud,
you’d find it pretty hard not to hiss.
Didaskalos. Try it.

Didaskalos, which commandment is the greatest?

Now any 1st century Hebrew scholar worth his salt
knew that in the biblical tradition there were 613 commandments.
So this wasn’t a serious question.
The lawyer thought he’d trap Jesus when he asked him
Which of the 613 commandments in Torah is the most important…didaskalos?

New Testament theologian and preacher Tom Long says that
“the lawyer’s question implies a rule-based understanding of the law…
If the lawyer had been asking about baseball,
and Jesus had replied that ‘three strikes and you’re out’ was the most important rule,
the lawyer would have had reason to produce a counter argument.
‘How come the most important rule isn’t four balls and you walk?’
he might have reasonably said.” (p. 255, Matthew)
That’s what the lawyer was up to, laying his trap so that he could say “gotcha”
and finally, Jesus’ opponents would have him right where they wanted him.
Instead, Jesus thinks on his feet
better than either John McCain or Barack Obama ever will.
And he reminds the Pharisees of the one verse of Hebrew scripture
every Jew knew by heart, based on a verse from the book of Deuteronomy.

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.

And then he reached into his pocket
and pulled out another verse they no doubt knew, this one from Leviticus as well:
You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

The lawyer asked for one single commandment
that boils down all the other commandments into one great law.
Jesus brilliantly gives him two, two commandments that summarize
all the meaning of the Hebrew Scriptures.

Jesus isn’t telling the Pharisees anything they don’t already know.
But the new thing he’s doing is tying the two commandments together in one.
It’s not all about rules and regulations, he says.
It’s about loving God and loving neighbor.

It sounds so simple.

And that’s what was so brilliant about Jesus’ response.
This was a test, a major test, for Jesus.
Everything was riding on his answer to this very loaded question,
choosing 1 commandment out of 613.
And the answer was so simple. Love God, love your neighbor.

Dorothy Day, the great Roman Catholic writer
who worked so tirelessly for the poor in the 1930s, put it like this:

"I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least."

In high school, we used to sing along with Paul McCartney and John Lennon:
“All you need is love”.
Sometimes I wonder if the Beatles didn’t have it right. Maybe it is that simple.

Except that it can be awfully difficult to love God
and love our neighbor in equal portions.

Some times we find ourselves so in love with God
that all we want to do is come to church and pray, read the Bible, sing…
talk about Jesus with our like-minded friends.
Then when that young man comes to the church door
for the 4th time this week asking for help,
loving my neighbor becomes something I suddenly have a lot less energy for.

On the other hand, sometimes we get so caught up in our mission trips
or marching in parades,
writing letters on behalf of Troy Davis,
volunteering at the night shelter…
loving God begins to take second place.

I have friends who believe in God
and spend many hours more than I ever will making the world a better place to live in. But some of those friends don’t see much reason to come to church,
to worship God.
Loving God seems to take a seat at the back of their bus.
I wonder where we get the idea that faith is just being nice to other people
and believing in God?

Maybe it’s not so simple after all.

My hunch is that over the course of a lifetime
we move back and forth between these two commandments.
Does love of God with our hearts, souls and minds
have primacy over love of our neighbor?
Which comes first?

I don’t know.
I do know that sometimes it’s easier to love the one
who keeps coming to the door asking for help than it is to love God.
As demanding as he can be, he’s not nearly as demanding as God.

God asks infinitely more of us.
And therefore, sometimes, it’s harder for us to love God.

Then I wonder if there is a way to hold these two in tension,
to live with them and move back and forth between them fluidly.
I wonder what worship might look like
if the boundaries between love of God and love of neighbor became intentionally blurred.

Some of the folks we try to help,
people who need a ride to the VA
or help paying their electric bill
or who need air mattresses so their 4 children don’t have to sleep on the floor…
sometimes they will ask me what time church starts on Sunday morning.
Would it be alright for me to bring my family?
I say yes, of course it would. We’d love to see you in church.

But would we really?
Would we all welcome everyone to worship God with us?
To drink coffee with us, sit in class with us, hand out bulletins with us?

Then I wonder what worship would be like if the bread we eat at the Eucharist
could be more visibly connected to bread for the world.
We pray give us this day our daily bread
and then make no connection with our responsibility
for feeding the hungry of our city their daily bread.

Ok, full disclosure here.
A small group of us here at Holy Trinity are taking this question seriously.
We’ve been planning our next Welcome Table service—
that’s what we’re calling our new Saturday evening worship service here at the church.

I’m not going to tell you what we’re planning.
If you want to know more,
you’ll just have to come worship with us this coming Saturday at 6 pm in Tisdale Hall. But here’s the question we’re thinking about:

Can we bring love of God and love of neighbor
into a more intimate, tangible proximity with each other
within the context of worship?

That’s what we’re thinking about.

I can tell you this:
loving God and loving neighbor
are the essentials we need to be faithful disciples of Jesus.

And if you’ve paid attention to those gold and purple signs
mounted on walls around this place,
you’ll recognize the greatest commandment in these words.
Our mission is to…what?

Open hearts to God (love God)
And open doors to community (love neighbor).

It’s never easy, finding the balance.
Sometimes we will lean toward loving our neighbor, sometimes toward loving God.
I suspect there will always be tension between the two, at least, some of the time.
But, the next time you find yourself getting all bent out of shape
over a disagreement with your neighbor
or frustrated by “gotcha” games between co-workers or politicians,
or wondering if we’re fulfilling our mission here at Holy Trinity,
try going back to the greatest commandment.

Recite it, along with the second one that is of equal importance.
And let every thing we do,
here in this place and in our homes and in our lives,
be done in love—for God, for one another.

Step back and look at the horizon, the big picture.
Are we opening hearts, ours’ and those of others, to God,
with all our hearts, all our souls, all our minds?

Are we opening doors to community,
loving our neighbors as ourselves?

It’s truly not always as simple as asking the question.
But if we’re serious about becoming more and more the body of Christ,
serious about wanting others to join us
and share in this mission, then maybe all we need is love.