Sermon - Day of Pentecost

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

Our children, Thomas and Lizzy, grew up while our family was living in Germany. For both of them, I suspect, German is as much their mother-tongue as English. So imagine what it was like for Lizzy that day we first visited the school she now attends. Her eyes lit up when she walked into the classroom and recognized that the 12 year-old students were all speaking German with their teacher. She heard the language of her childhood, the language in which she first learned to read, the language the children in her Sunday School class spoke when the adults left the room. I don’t know exactly what she was feeling that day, but it might have felt like she’d come home.

What does it mean to hear a story told in your mother-tongue when you’re accustomed to hearing things through someone else’s culture, through someone else’s native language?

This morning, we’ve listened again to the Pentecost story from the book of Acts. Things started off normally enough but then people began to stand and read the lesson in other languages, mostly in their mother-tongue. Several languages, interrupting each other, all at once. What a great noise!

It gives us, perhaps, a glimpse of the chaos, the energy, the surprise of the first Christian Pentecost. Hearing Albert read in his mother tongue, Krio, and Cara read in Vietnamese and Gerritt in Dutch also reminds us that at Holy Trinity, our home countries and our mother-tongues are not all the same. It’s a gift, this diversity.

But don’t think for a moment this was meant to be a re-enactment of the first Pentecost. No. That was something entirely different.

The gospel according to Luke ends with the ascension of Jesus. The beginning of the book of Acts, written by the same author who wrote Luke’s gospel, picks up the story line. We find the disciples, now reconstituted as the 12 with the addition of Matthias (chosen, you’ll recall, by rather dubious means), gathered in a house somewhere in Jerusalem.

Some of Jesus’ last words to them still echo in their hearts: Don’t leave Jerusalem. Wait there for the promise of the Father. You’ll receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you and then you’ll be my witnesses. So now, ten days after Jesus’ Ascension, they were probably beginning to wonder how long the wait was going to be, maybe fear had begun to creep back into their hearts and minds.

And then this wild, strange thing happened. First came the sound, without warning, like a gale force wind. Then, like a wildfire, tongues of flame spread and danced above their heads. And the Holy Spirit filled them, giving them the ability to open their mouths and speak in languages none of them had studied in school.

I suppose the windows of the house must have been open, because a crowd soon gathered outside. Included in that crowd were Jews from at least 12 different nations, all living there in Jerusalem. They were residents of the city, not just in town for the festival of Pentecost. But Jerusalem wasn’t home to them—they understood the language spoken by the natives but it wasn’t their mother-tongue. It must have taken their breath away when each of them understood the disciples to be speaking in their own language. The crowd from Elam heard Elametic. (I made that word up…) Those who hailed from Pamphylia heard Pamphylian.

After the noise died down and after the disciples finished speaking about God’s deeds of power, the crowd was awe-struck. Amazed and perplexed. Some of them seemed curious, willing to ask questions about what this might mean, wondering together at the very mystery of these simple, unsophisticated fishermen suddenly able to speak a new language with eloquence. Some of them were open and wanted to hear more.

But not all of them. These others scoffed and turned away in disgust. Their minds and hearts slammed shut as they sneered ah, they’re just a bunch of babbling drunks.

And that’s all it took. Peter stood up and found his voice. With strength and confidence, he began this passionate, articulate sermon. Keep in mind, this is Peter speaking. Peter who a short while ago was denying that he even knew Jesus. Now he speaks with assurance. The part of his speech you heard this morning, is only the prelude to a mighty powerful sermon, a sermon that will reach the hearts of many in that crowd. If you were to read all the way to the end of the sermon, you’d know that 3,000 people were baptized as a result of hearing it. Not even Rick Warren can match that.

No one expected Peter to be able to stand up and preach like he did. But here he was, stepping up to the task with authority and strength. Where’d he get that power? Where’d it come from?

And where did those disciples learn to speak languages they’d never even overheard in casual conversation? Where’d they find the power to speak so fluently and tell God’s story in language that sounded like a clear bell? How are people ever enabled to do things they should never in a thousand years be able to do? And over the air comes the refrain You’ll receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you and then you’ll be my witnesses.

Of course, there are different ways of witnessing. In the telling of the Pentecost story this morning, the first language we heard was not actually heard at all. You saw it. Ginny moved to the center of the aisle and began to interpret the story in American Sign Language. What a witness our interpreters are—and what a gift to us are those who speak and listen through their hands.

Everything we’ve heard thus far suggests that receiving the gospel has to do with words, words, words. The disciples were given words to speak that would open hearts to God. Peter used words to confront people, to remind them of what they already knew about Jesus and to enlighten those who’d never heard anything about him.

But there are ways to witness to the gospel of Christ without using words.

St. Francis of Assisi is given credit for being the first to say it like this: Preach the gospel. If necessary, use words.

But sometimes it’s the very language we use in church that blocks the ability of some to hear. While those of us who worship here week after week might feel right at home, if Episcopalese isn’t your mother-tongue, well…how welcome would you feel?

Or how would you receive the good news of God in Jesus Christ if you are a single mother with a challenging 4 year-old in tow or a gay couple wondering if it would be ok to have their photo taken together for the parish directory or how do you hear the gospel if you are still learning to speak English or if your home at the moment is the Decatur Inn?

How do you hear, how to you receive the good news God is offering?

There came a point came in my life when I could no longer hear the good news of Jesus

through the voice of the Baptist preachers who formed me in the faith. Maybe the volume just got turned up too loud. But I could no longer hear love, I couldn’t hear compassion, I couldn’t hear anything above the din, the loud seemingly uncompromising voices.

Did you happen to read Tracy Wells’ Pentecost meditation in the e-news last week?

Tracy calls to mind the 4th chapter of Luke’s gospel. In particular, it’s a verse Luke must have still had in his mind as he was writing the book of Acts. Early in his ministry, Jesus stood up in his hometown synagogue and read from the prophet Isaiah: The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.

Then, Tracy asks a good question. How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the Gospel?

For don’t you know, all of you who’ve been baptized have already been anointed by the Holy Spirit to be witnesses. It’s part of the covenant made at baptism and reaffirmed again and again throughout our lives in the church. So the question is, how will you do that? How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the Gospel?

Last week, I attended a conference for preachers. Preachers like me, who do this week after week. Five days of listening to sermons, at least 3 a day, and singing hymns side by side with 1,500 other preachers from across the country. And oh, my goodness, the preachers we had with us. It was like going to the All-Star game, although instead of Manny Ramirez and Chipper Jones, we had Fred Craddock, Barbara Brown Taylor, Raphael Warnock and oh yes, Desmond Tutu. It was a rich time. It was really something to hear those people preach the gospel.

But we also heard the gospel through some very fine music and singing—a little jazz and some awfully good gospel music—but it was the congregational singing that really rocked the place. The organ was grand but it was when the organist would lay out for a verse or two and let us sing a capella…that’s when we began to preach the gospel. Maybe you’ve had such an experience—a moment when the music carried you to a place where the spoken word could not go. But maybe that’s just me.

There are other ways the gospel can be preached, other ways to witness to God’s love.

Some people go their whole lives without standing in a pulpit, but they find other ways to preach the gospel. Other ways to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ. I’ve been told that Russ Wallace doesn’t really enjoy being in front of the congregation, not even to read a lesson from the Bible. But those 17 years of mission trips to Honduras, taking medicine and his skills as a doctor to places and people where they are so desperately needed—that’ll preach!

How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the gospel?

Well, that’s one question. And it’s a good one.

Then there were those in the crowd who listened closely and attentively and heard the good news in a way that went straight to their hearts. They received a gift from the Holy Spirit as well—the gift of hearing.

By the way, did you catch what Jesus said toward the end of the reading from John’s gospel this morning? What Jesus says there feels almost subversive to me. Lest we imagine that everything we need to know about faith and life is contained in words recorded in the Bible, Jesus himself comes along and says

I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.

When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you in all the truth…

Now I wonder. How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to hear? Were you paying attention? And what did you hear?

Sermon - Seventh Sunday of Easter

Angela Shelley Wiggins, seminarian

In late spring we do a lot of sending off – we celebrate graduations and send our graduates out to do new things. We prepare for summer weddings and we send the couple off to be a new family. When the school year ends, we'll say goodbye to colleagues and neighbors who are moving away for new jobs. We say "best wishes" and "stay in touch," and promise we'll see each other again. It's a time of joy and possibility, of sweetness with a touch of sadness mixed in.

We're proud of the graduates and excited for the newlyweds and the neighbors who've found new jobs in new places, but sometimes we want things to stay just like this, just a little longer. We try not to talk about the sadness we feel in the midst of all this hope, joy and promise. Sadness because we recognize that while something good is beginning, something else good is coming to an end.

I remember the summer between high school and college. I was so excited I started packing in June. In the last few years, as children of our friends have graduated, and we've watched our friends send them off into the world, I've become more aware of the parents' perspective. We've talked about the apprehension that lurks just beneath the joy, their sense that it's come too soon.

They worry: Will everything be okay? Are they prepared? Did we do enough? Did we do too much? Did we teach them everything we meant to? What did we forget?

And they try to pack in every bit of wisdom and nurture they can before summer ends. Sometimes they resort to extreme measures. They pull out the big guns – Dr. Seuss. He's never let them down before.

Oh the Places You'll Go is a typical Dr. Seuss book in many ways. It has the clever rhymes and whimsical illustrations, but its intended audience is a little older. This book began as a graduation speech. Now it's a popular graduation gift from parents and godparents, a fun way to express their hopes and their apprehension. It's a chance to sneak in that last dose of parenting before sending the graduate out into the world.

After years of bedtime renditions of The Cat in the Hat and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, it's fitting to send the graduate off with one last bedtime story, a story that promises success, "98 and ¾ percent guaranteed."

Dr. Seuss expresses the joy and optimism of proud families: "Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away!" He proclaims, "Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest."

But Dr. Seuss is also a realist. He acknowledges, "sadly, it's true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you." He writes about places where "streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked." But he's sure the graduate will emerge from the dark times and continue the journey.

Dr. Seuss also warns the graduates about the perils of loneliness, "Whether you like it or not, Alone will be something you'll be quite a lot." And he tells them that being alone can be very frightening, "so much you won't want to go on." But he assures them, "But on you will go though the weather be foul. On you will go though your enemies prowl. On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl. Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak."

Dr. Seuss is confident that the graduate will endure these challenges, and accomplish good things. He captures the hopes and prayers of parents, godparents, and teachers. He writes the words parents are searching for as they send their children out on their own.

It's funny how the other calendars of our lives sometimes intersect with the lectionary. In our regular lives, we're sending forth graduates, newlyweds, and friends. We're preparing ourselves for new relationships and changing relationships.

In our Gospel lesson today, Jesus is preparing his disciples for a new kind of relationship. When Jesus is no longer physically present, they will relate in a whole new way, and Jesus wants to prepare them for that time.

Like parents sending graduates off into the world, Jesus is preparing to leave his disciples to leave them on their own, yet not alone.

The first half of the Gospel of John is sometimes called "The Book of Signs" It tells of the signs and wonders Jesus did to reveal who he was – the Word Incarnate, God Among Us. The second half of the Gospel of John opens with the Last Supper and it relates Jesus' instructions to his disciples on how to live when he's no longer present among them.

The Gospel of John positions this prayer of Jesus at the end of the Farewell Speech to the disciples, and just before the account of the passion, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. It's a turning point in the story.

Jesus' words in the Farewell Speech and in his prayer give us a glimpse of what Jesus wants for his disciples. It's not a To-Do list or a checklist. Instead, it's in John's poetic language that slows us down to contemplate the mysteries he describes. In the Farewell Speech and prayer, we hear Jesus' hopes for his disciples, his prayer for his disciples, for us.

The relationship between Jesus and the first disciples is changing. The time of seeing Jesus perform wonders is ending. The time of eating and drinking with Jesus is coming to a close. No longer will they be an intimate group gathered around the table They will no longer see Jesus physically present among them, but Jesus wants them to know he's not leaving them alone and unprotected.

Over and over at this Last Supper he tells them, "Do not let your hearts be troubled." Jesus says, "I will not leave you orphaned." And "My peace I give to you."

We would like to include some of the assurances Jesus offers in our own sending forth messages. We want our graduates, our newlyweds, our colleagues to know they will not be alone. We want them to not be afraid. We want them to have peace. Imagine how much more comforting it must have been for the disciples to hear that although Jesus is leaving them, he's not leaving them alone.

At the conclusion of the Farewell Speech, Jesus prays to God the Father, both for his own work and for his disciples. Jesus prays for the disciples gathered in that room for the Last Supper, and he prays for the disciples gathered today in this room. Jesus prays for us, for his disciples in all ages and places. And this is his prayer. First he prays, "Holy Father, protect them in your name." Jesus says that he protected his disciples while he was on earth. Now that he is "no longer in the world," he entrusts them to the care of the Father.

Jesus prays for us just as we pray for the ones we love. The prayer we pray for those absent from us is the prayer Jesus prays for us, "Father, protect them. I can't be with them. Father protect them."

Jesus prays for protection for his disciples, "that they may be one, as we are one." He prays that his disciples will be one, will be unified, just as he is one with the Father.

Jesus also prays that his disciples will be protected from the evil one. This is similar to the prayer Jesus taught his disciples to pray, the prayer we say every week, "save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil."

The other main petition in this prayer is "sanctify them in the truth." Jesus prays that God will sanctify his disciples, He prays that God will sanctify us, set us apart to do God's work. It's interesting that Jesus didn't say, "Set aside a few from among them." Instead his prayer is for "those whom you gave me." Jesus prays that all his disciples will be set apart.

Most of us like the idea of Jesus praying for our protection. We'd like to be protected from danger and evil. It's a little more disquieting to hear Jesus pray for God to sanctify us, to set us apart, All of us. Not just the super-holy, not just the clergy, but all of us. Sanctified, set apart for God's work. All of us.

In our Gospel lesson today, Jesus' work in the world is coming to a conclusion. His work was revealing who God is and he has done this work through signs and wonders. And Jesus' work, revealing the glory of God, will be accomplished in his crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension. And his work will be accomplished through his disciples who will continue to reveal who God is. We have been set apart for this work, the work of revealing who God is. Sanctified by God through the prayer of Jesus.

In the liturgical calendar, We're in the seventh Sunday of Easter, between the ascension of Jesus, and Pentecost. Ascension, the day we mark Jesus' physical absence and his glorification, And Pentecost, when we celebrate the fulfillment of his promise to send the Holy Spirit in his absence.

We live in the fulfillment of that promise, with the presence of the Holy Spirit. We're celebrating mysteries we cannot describe, and telling stories we cannot comprehend. This is the work we've been set apart for, the work of making God known.

When we remember that we are the ones set apart, we have a new perspective. We're not staying behind and sending others off. We're all set apart to do the work of God, we're all sent out to make God known.

As Dr. Seuss concludes, "be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea, you're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So... get on your way!"

Or as the Book of Common Prayer puts it, "Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit. Alleluia, alleluia!"

Amen.

Sermon: Fourth Sunday of Easter

Justin Yawn, seminarian

Here we gather again on the fourth Sunday of Easter. It is a day where we hear the texts that many of us here might find familiar. First, we hear about Peter and John defending their actions to the Sanhedrin. Proclaiming the love of God and not denying it. Next, John, in our lesson, tells us about the love of God and how it should be incarnated in the love we have for others. Lastly, we approach the Gospel, the famous image of Christ as the Good Shepherd. Many people in the world use the image of a shepherd to describe Jesus. All of these stories are rich and full of meaning, but I want to focus on our two passages attributed to John.

The Gospel today portrays Christ as the Good Shepherd. As I mentioned earlier, it is a common image, but, I do not know about you all, I actually do not know exactly what a shepherd’s life is like today or even in 1st century Judea. Have no fears I did some research into the subject. Shepherds, in Jesus’ time, were really cut off from most of society. Their main job was to insure that their flock had water and food. If they were serious, as I think Jesus is depicted as, they would actually sleep outside with the sheep to insure their safety. However, their obedience to their flock put their own life in danger. It was a job that had to be taken seriously. It was not a job for the weak, but a job for the dedicated and strong. Shepherding in the desert had its own challenges. Water was not an abundant resource in the desert as many people may know if they have been to a desert before. Predators abided in many places and the sheep often wanted to go into the dark corners for shelter. The shepherd had to keep track of all of these things.

As Lawrence Moore points out, “Jesus, in John 10, picks up on the “frontline” aspect of shepherding: “I am the gate” (10:7) and, in our text this week, “I am the good shepherd”. Note that this follows on immediately from the verse, “I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly”. Jesus then moves immediately into the image of the shepherd whose “goodness” is seen in laying down his life for the sheep. Jesus is not saying, “I am the good shepherd because I am prepared to lay down my life for the sheep”. This is not about risk-taking. Jesus is the shepherd who will give abundant life to the sheep at the expense of his own life.”

Jesus has reminded us that he has the ability to protect us. Our response to this loving kindness is to follow, follow Christ where he leads us. Christ says that he did what the father commanded and gave up his life for others. He acted in obedience, more importantly; his life was centered on God. Christ loved us and Christ loved God. We too are called to that place of love. To love others as a shepherd loves their flock. Christ had God, and we have both to lead and guide us. This is a gift that we should not take for granted. Knowing that Christ is our protector and leader is the first step toward living into the faith Christ calls us too.

When I was a young boy about 12 I was involved in the Boy Scouts of America. I spent many nights camping and scurrying around remote marsh hammocks with my friends and my father. One particular thing I disliked to do was go out at night and collect firewood in the dark. I was always scared that I might stumble onto a snake or maybe even the boogie man would get me. It never occurred to me that my dad was right there with me the entire time. He was keeping his eye on me and he always knew when I needed help or was very scared. Many times he would come and walk with me, so I would not worry about the creatures of the night. I felt safe. Dad was my shepherd who looked after me, whom I trusted and loved completely. Eventually, I became comfortable in this relationship and was able to go out and get my work done without him standing right next to me. However, I always knew he was watching over me and he was only a call away if I needed him.

This is what the risen life of Christ is about. Christ has been there by our side and Christ is there with us even when we don’t see him. Just as a Shepherd stays with its flock, so too does Christ stay with us. Our life with Christ calls us to embody the love he has for us and express this love to those around us. In one sense, we are sheep who rely on Christ and in another sense we are the instruments of Christ in the world.

Our epistle today encourages us to live out our faith. James, mentions in his letter that faith without works is dead (James 2:17). Here too, John is making a similar claim that we should let our love for Christ overwhelm us and lead us to love those around us. It is incarnating our faith in Christ that leads to transformative power in the world. It leads us to places that we would not normally go. It leads us to Honduras, New Orleans, Serbia, Africa, India, Haiti, and the list goes on. Our love for Christ helps us to recognize those in need around us. We do not just keep this love concealed for ourselves and for those whom we trust but we express to all people.

Last night at our Welcome Table Service, Ed spoke about the Clean Water ministry in Haiti. Particularly he spoke about prayer and how he understood prayer in his own life. But, what I saw standing before the congregation last night was a man who was incarnating the love of God. He was not letting his own fears or faith become a stumbling block. Ed found a way to touch God’s creation in transformative ways. When I look out in the congregation this morning I see faces of people who reach out to those around them and embody the love of God the same way Ed does. People who are not afraid to act in love. People who look at outreach as a normal part of their lives. The mission statement of Holy Trinity is a wonderful witness to the love each congregant here has for those around them. Holy Trinity challenges us to open hearts to God and doors to community. If I had time this morning I would tell stories about the various times I have seen this mission statement embodied by parishioners here. Your faith is strong and it is through this faith that you are acting.

Robert Cole-Turner says that faith is never alone and when God creates saving faith in our hearts, God creates active love. Everyone sitting here today has the saving faith of Christ in their hearts and we must remember this and continue the work.

We are the body of Christ on Earth and it is our job to live out our faith in our actions. For some this comes in the form of outreach to those in need. For others it might be a simple act of kindness and even for others it might be taking time to pray for someone who has hit a rough patch in their life. There is not one uniform way to live out your faith. The important thing we need to remember is that Christ is our leader and protector and all we need to do is align ourselves with the will of God and trust in Christ.

If you think back to Holy Week, our readings on Holy Thursday included two commandments Christ left us with are echoed in the epistle today. First to love God and secondly to love our neighbor. I know Holy Week is long past and we are into the joy of the Easter season and resurrection. But, these two commandments are important to remember as we live into the risen life. It is an easy task God calls us to. When we live into this risen life Christ challenges us, challenges us to seek and serve those around us. To remember that everyone of God’s creation is our sister or brother. Also, we must not forget that Christ is with us and guiding us every step of the way. Christ is our shepherd, protector, and friend. The one who will never leave our sides, but one who calls us to live out our faith in the world and to reflect God in all that we do.

When we begin to live out this faith, things happen. Wells are dug providing water to over 60,000 Haitians, with more on the way. Communities are developed and concrete floors are placed in houses that previously only had dirt floors. People travel to the Gulf Coast to provide houses to those who are living in shelters. Someone takes the time to call a friend who just experienced a tragedy and offers peace. Acting in faith leads to love of those around us which ultimately provides hope. I tell you today, my friends, that I believe this is what it means to live into the risen life of Christ.

Sermon: Third Sunday of Easter

The Rev. Pamela Cooper-White, guest preacher
Professor of Pastoral Theology, Care and Counseling at Columbia Seminary in Decatur

Come, risen Lord, and deign to be our guest;
Nay, let us be thy guests; the feast is thine;
Thy self at thine own board make manifest
In thine own Sacrament of Bread and Wine.

Today we have yet another of the many beautiful stories in the gospels of appearances of Jesus after the Resurrection. In Eastertide we share with the disciples in that mysterious and awesome threshold or luminal time, when we stand in between the concrete certainty of Jesus’ actual flesh and blood life here on earth, and the now-2,000-year period lived on earth by us and all followers of Jesus—ever since the Ascension and Jesus’ passing the gift of the Holy Spirit to give birth to the church, the new incarnation of Christ in us and in our forefathers and mothers in the faith. Although in this year 2009 we are very far down the corridor of time within this era of the church, every year as we dwell in these 50 days of Eastertide, we step back into a time that is not only lived out here on earth—a time when the realm Heaven reaches into our time from some unfathomable place out of time and beyond, to bridge worlds of knowing and unknowing, temporal and eternal. The Anglican Communion itself stands within this span of time almost like the blink of an eye – begun over 1500 years after Christ’s Resurrection. Even so, we are part of that larger stream of history that embraces all the faithful, who celebrate with joy all the ways in which Christ continues to be raised up in us and among us, even today!

And so in the midst of Eastertide, today, we have this story—perhaps one of the most peculiar, in which Jesus appears again to the disciples, shows them his wounded hands and feet, eats a piece of broiled fish, and then teaches them—in effect, commissioning them and preparing them for the greater commissioning which will come to them at the time of his Ascension, and which will be sealed by the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.

This particular story stands in contrast to the Emmaus Road story that immediately precedes it in Luke’s gospel. In that story, the disciples meet Jesus without realizing it as they walk along, and they recognize him only in the moment when he sits down to supper with hem and breaks he bread and blesses the wine. Then he vanishes from their sight! There is a kind of ghost story quality to that story. Jesus is not quite as corporeal. The disciples are not said to have touched him, nor actually eaten with him. He vanishes, and then they feel their hearts have been aflame. Was it really Jesus? Or was Jesus present in some symbolic way in the person of a stranger? The story is enigmatic and ambiguous. It leaves us wondering, and leaves us with an impression of mystery.

Luke tells the story we have today immediately after the Emmaus Road story to underscore the point that this risen Christ is definitively not a ghost (and he takes pains to say so right in the text of the story), not a hallucination. Luke wanted to make it very clear to his readers that these proliferating stories of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances were neither fanciful nor hysterical, but actual, real encounters with the Christ—immediate, embodied, and real on a very down-to-earth level.

He makes the point of saying that the disciples themselves were “disbelieving for joy and wonder.” A powerful statement of the two-sidedness of the post-Easter experience—both disbelief, and joy and wonder. As the eternal penetrated the temporal world again and again over the course of those 50 days, the disciples came to trust that joy, and to prepare themselves to be witnesses to their new conviction that Christ was still alive and in their very midst.

And so we come to that peculiar passage about Jesus asking, “Do you have anything to eat?” They gave him broiled fish, and he ate it in their presence. Hmmm. Why would the resurrected Lord of all Creation be hungry? Commentators and preachers for centuries have simply skipped over that part of the story. Why, do you suppose? Did they consider it trivial? Or just a piece of early Christian legend that was meant to add some oomph to the believability of their story? Surely Luke was impelled to include that detail, partly in contrast to the Emmaus Road story—to say, “Look, see, he showed his hands and his feet, and even ate with us.” This was no ethereal ghost but a real, down-to-earth physical experience. We also have in this a reminder not to separate spirit and body, as the early church often did as it became more influenced by Graeco-Roman philosophy, especially following the lead of St. Paul.

But I find even more in this passage about Jesus eating the fish than a kind of literalistic “proof of life.” The fish in this story is a symbol carrying multiple associations and meanings, many of which might have been quite transparent to Luke’s own readers. Fish, as a very common food in a coastal society, appear in many biblical stories going all the way back to the Hebrew Bible. While the primary use of the fish was for food, fish also came to symbolize—are you ready for this?—not only food, sustenance, life, but death! In the Book of Exodus (7:21), Moses and Aaron caused the river to turn to blood, killing the fish and polluting the water so that the Egyptians would die. In the Book of Isaiah (50:2), the death of the fish was associated with God’s rebuke against the people: “By my rebuke I dry up the sea, I make the rivers a desert; their fish stink for lack of water, and die of thirst.” In Ecclesiastes (9:12), fish were associated with untimely death: “For no one can anticipate the time of disaster. Like fish taken in a cruel net, and like birds caught in a snare, so mortals are snared at a time of calamity, when it suddenly falls upon them.” The fish in today’s gospel story, then, may represent Christ’s own death, but also the final death—the death of death itself!

Of course, sometime early in the church’s history, the symbol of the fish also came to represent Christ himself, perhaps in an association between the fish and Christ’s victory over death. The acrostic derived from the Greek letters for the word “fish”—ichthys—stood for he Greek words for “Jesus Christ God’s Son, Savior.” Now the symbol of death had become a symbol of life! Jane Flaherty, a priest in Portsmouth, Virginia, once wrote, “I wonder if the practice of eating fish on Friday comes from the symbolism of the fish as Jesus’ death. Perhaps we should eat fish on Sunday as a sign of the risen Christ—not as [fasting or] penance, but as celebration.”

The activity of fishing, which so dominates the stories about Jesus’ life and the everyday lives of the disciples, also became the central metaphor for becoming “fishers of people” (John 21:19). In another resurrection story, the risen Christ directs the disciples to cast their net to the right of the boat, and they catch 153 fish! Then he broils fish for them for breakfast on the beach. Here in our story today, Jesus begins to prepare the disciples for their own commissioning, as witnesses—for which the Greek word is martys—witnesses, martyrs, and evangelists—tellers of the good news—a life-and-death commissioning that would demand their all, but which they also now trusted would give them the same victory over death that Jesus so dramatically revealed.

But there is still one more element. The fish recalls the story we heard, not long ago, about the feeding of the 5,000 on the hillside, and the miracle of the loaves and fishes.

We meet, as in that upper room they met;
Thou at the table, blessing, yet dost stand:
“This is my Body”; so thou givest yet:
Faith still receives the cup as from thy hand.

This miraculous feeding, with a great flowing abundance that resulted in baskets overflowing and even food left over, is a story of the Eucharist—Christ’s abundance that feeds us and nourishes us in both body and soul. In the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the loaves and fishes have a certain symmetry, like bread and wine. The English word “Lord” means, literally, the loaf-ward, the warden of the loaves, so when we call Jesus “Lord,” we are saying that he is the one who feeds us with the most basic stuff of life. So why did we need fishes in the miracle? Fishes have in many cultures and mythologies been a symbol for the unconscious, and for dreams. Picture golden carp flashing beneath the surface of a Japanese pond. The pairing of loaves and fishes is a pairing of here-and-now with vision, conscious with unconscious, body with mind and spirit.

So fish also is a Eucharistic symbol of Christ’s own hospitality, and Christ’s overflowing abundance. But there’s something different about today’s gospel story! Now the tables are turned. It is the disciples who feed Jesus. The gift of hospitality has been passed on to them. Jesus is now both host and guest.

Come, risen Lord, and deign to be our guest;
Nay, let us be thy guests; the feast is thine;
Thy self at thine own board make manifest
In thine own Sacrament of Bread and Wine.

In these times when the church is so fragmented across the world, and the Anglican Communion itself struggles with so much division, this gospel message is one of both hope and challenge. The hope is that we as the church are Christ’s body, Christ’s hands and heart in this world. In spite of our brokenness, we are still united as members of this Body, and we still belong to God and to one another. This is both our hope and our joy!

And the challenge is this: When we see persons who hunger in our own time, we are called like the disciples to answer the question: “Do you have anything to eat?” And we are called to give of our abundance. In so doing, we both feed Christ himself, and become Christ for the other, just as that hungry other person has shown Christ to us, wounds, hunger, and all. It is this, and not clinging to one side of a church fight or another, one part of the worldwide church or another, that makes us Christians, and makes us Christ’s own. It is by feeding others that we are fed. By feeding others, we take the feast of the Eucharist with us into the world, truly sharing the body and blood of Christ in our own time.

One with each other, Lord, for one in thee,
Who art one Savior and one living Head;
Then open thou our eyes, that we may see;
Be known to us in breaking of the Bread.

Amen.

Sermon: Easter Day

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector

We have gathered this morning to celebrate a mystery. A mystery born out of darkness but shaped by love.

The Easter mystery speaks dramatically to the darkness of our existence. It addresses sorrow, suffering and death. The resurrection does not deny death; it does not negate grief, but it offers hope in the place of despair.

Resurrection is different from the so-called immortality of the soul. Immortality suggests some sort of soulful, mist-like existence that continues on without a body. The Easter story knows nothing about such as this.

The Easter experience was not a theory or a grasping for immortality, but a one of a kind experience. Witnesses to the raising of Christ had to come up with an explanation to describe it. They used the Greek word “anistamai” for “resurrection”, which means “an act of standing up after having lain down.” Resurrection was a gift from God. It did not represent immortality of the soul. It was not resuscitation or revivification in which the revived would die again. Resurrection was a wondrous gift that opened not only the tomb of Jesus but also a window into the very heart of God. And that, more than anything else, is what we are here today to celebrate.

Easter addresses every fear that we have ever had or will ever have. During this past week our liturgies have addressed the suffering and death of Christ. We witnessed Christ’s agony and fear, and, finally, his horrible death and burial in a tomb.

All of us have been or will be in that tomb. We all have been in places of darkness, in places where life has run its course, where we are not able to summon what is needed to deliver us.

Some have experienced that in depression. Some in the loss of a loved one, some in finding their lives turned upside down by the loss of a job or the discovery of a terminal illness. Others have experienced the tomb through the suffering of the world, through hunger, oppression, genocide and greed. And all of us know, on some level, that one day we will be placed in some resting place where God alone can rescue us.

Whether or not we attended the services of Holy Week, we can sense the shadows of death over our shoulders even if we choose to ignore them.

That is the context for Easter. And while the resurrection of Christ reveals the wonder and love of God, it also calls us to turn from dismissing human suffering and to respond to it with Easter hope.

Hope is not the same as optimism. Optimism is based on indications that things are going well; optimism assumes that the present trajectory will continue and bring positive results. It is an attitude whose roots, ironically, are often fear-based.

Hope, on the other hand, does not arise from a perceived pattern of success. Hope can come into being amid the worst kind of gloom, the kind fit only for a thoroughgoing pessimist. Hope arises not from the situation itself but from something outside the situation. It is a light entering into the darkness. It is something beyond us. A gift of grace.

Easter is about hope. Holy Week sets the stage by presenting the dark and ultimately helpless condition of humanity. No degree of optimism will roll away the stone from the tomb. No embrace of a purpose driven life will save us from the results of crucifixion. But because of Easter, we can go to our crosses with hope in God’s love. We can enter the tomb trusting in the One who raised Jesus from the dead.

Easter is not theory based. It is experiential. The Easter faith of the earliest Christians came not from arguments but from experience. They had no way of assembling a “body of evidence” to convince unbelievers of Jesus’ resurrection. Each person had to decide for himself or herself.

And that remains true for us. Resurrection is always beyond whatever arguments we construct for it or against it. It is too embedded in the mystery of life, too dependent upon the love of God to be affirmed or dismissed by arguments.

Easter is a mystery because it is so close to the heart of God. It is a wonder because it reveals the smile on God’s face.

What we can do is hope in Christ. What we can do is live each day remembering God’s smile by sharing the good news in how we relate to others. What we can do is to stop being so self-absorbed and concentrate more on discovering God’s love in all sorts of places, even in the graveyards of human misery. We can respond to the Easter mystery by supporting love among the suffering and by lifting up those who live in darkness. We can dare to hope in Christ, not in a way that denies suffering and death, but in a way that trusts the love of God to transform darkness into light. We can be willing witnesses of that transformation and willing supporters of God’s Easter experiences.

When we are freed through hope, we discover joy and strength we never knew we had. Consider the change in Simon Peter, a disciple of Christ. At the trial of Jesus, Peter denied knowing Jesus. Driven by fear and failed optimism he became lost in darkness. Later, after the resurrection, Peter, with courage and strength, confronted the very authorities he once feared with his Easter faith, even though this would lead to his own execution.

Easter hope takes away the fear of death, not death, itself, but the power it exercises over us. Easter hope enables us to live fully not grasping for control but trusting in the love of God.

And so this morning, we gather around the wondrous Easter mystery. We come with thankful hearts, and we come in hope. Not the shallow hope of optimism or the skewed hope of argument. But the hope revealed in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, an Easter experience of the love of God beyond our imagination but as near to us as the air we breathe.

Let us pray:

O Lord, you enter into the tombs with us and bid us stand. You are beyond all marvels, and we are blessed beyond measure by your love. Give to us the hope of Easter, not as a balm for our anxiety but as openness to your wonder. Enable us to see you in others and to affirm your presence even in places of death in our own lives and in the lives of our neighbors. When we forget your wonder, remind us of Easter, and when we die, hold us close to your breast. We are grateful and our hearts are filled with joy because of Easter. Alleluia. Amen.

Sermon: Maundy Thursday

Justin Yawn, seminarian

“Unless I wash you, you have no share with me”

Today we encounter two great actions of Christ as he spends his last night with the disciples. First, the act of humility by Jesus when he washes the feet of his disciples and, secondly, the institution of the Last Supper. Each is of great importance in the Christian tradition and especially in our liturgy tonight. This night we will follow Christ’s example and wash one another’s feet and then we will gather at the table to share in the last feast together as a faith community before heading to Calvary and the tomb.

If you notice the Gospel narrative does not mention the Last Supper. It is through the reading in 1 Corinthians that we begin to see the entire picture. The Epistle will come alive a little later as we gather at the table and celebrate the last feast with our Lord. It will be a feast of celebration and departure. But first, let’s take a moment and focus on the foot washing and the actions of Jesus. Let’s ask ourselves, how does this relate to us today? Is there more to this story than just an act of humility by Christ himself?

These questions bring us into the core of that night in a room inside the walls of Jerusalem. What was Jesus trying to accomplish through this humble act? Let’s explore this from three different perspectives that I have borrowed and adapted from Mary Louise Bringle. First, we will focus on the interaction with Peter and the words that I repeated at the beginning of this sermon. Peter proclaims to Jesus, “You will never wash my feet.” It is a formidable statement. After all the time Peter has spent with Jesus, it has come to more opposition. Jesus has knelt down and is crawling around like a servant and washing the feet of his disciples. However, Peter does not want to relinquish control over this action and his relationship with Christ.

Peter, upon first glance, seems to come across as modest in his action not to let Jesus wash his feet. It seems to be a form of pride that is illustrated through the opposition of Peter. Peter is trying to choose what he wants to accept from Jesus. Often it seems we might fall into this trap of selection and choosing what we want to accept from God. All through our early lives we are dependent on those around us.

I remember, well I don’t think I actually remember, but I heard stories about how I struggled with a form of meningitis that attacked one of my eyes. I had no control over the situation and all I could do was trust that my parents and doctors would provide for me what was needed to care for me. Here we see Peter trying to refuse this gift from Jesus who is trying to take care of him and prepare him for the future.

Pride can be a scary thing, something many of us might struggle with. In the contemplative tradition of the early church fathers and mothers, you see pride in a way that is slightly different then how we might think about it. St. Maximos the Confessor refers to the demon of pride in two distinct ways. First, it will try to get us to promote our achievements to others or it will cause us to belittle those around us who we think are not as perfect as us. Either way, as Maximos points out we turn ourselves away from the love of God which is first and foremost.

Peter is struggling with this notion of pride, he wants so bad to take control of an uncontrollable situation. He is missing the big picture. Jesus reminds him, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me”. Powerful words are uttered out of Jesus’ mouth. Jesus is trying to show Peter that trust is what is important and letting go. Think how much different our life would be if we stepped out of the driver’s seat and let Christ take the wheel?

This brings me to my second theme; learning how to serve. Jesus gets down on his hands and knees and proceeds to wash the feet of his disciples. Not excluding one of them, not even Judas. The servant role Jesus takes on calls us to think about the details in our lives. He takes aim at a small thing. Jesus does not get up and do something flashy or elaborate to express his love. He does not pass onto them some material gift that will help them in the world. Instead he offers them a towel off his body and water. Water that would have become filthy and a towel that would be hardened with the mud.

However, it is in this place that Jesus is calling us to. It is a place of dirty water and towel. Sometimes we spend our time focusing on ways of serving people that bring us glory or get our name on the map. The act of water and a towel call us to focus on the little, the exhausting, inelegant demands of service. Service is not always a glamorous task. When my uncle was ill with Cancer my Aunt spent most of her time tending to remedial tasks. She had to help him eat, clean, move and many other things. It was through this service in the minute details that brought comfort and peace to my Uncle during the last days of his life with us. Another important thing to note is, the very stoles that Bill, Allan, and Deborah wear all have their roots in the towel that Jesus used this last night with his disciples. It calls us to think, “How are we all being called to the towel of extending God’s hospitality to others?”

The last lesson I believe can be gleaned from this action of humility is one of reconciliation. As we notice in the text Jesus washes all the disciples’ feet even Judas. Jesus knows that Judas is about to betray him and hand him over to be crucified. However, Jesus is not letting that stop him from sharing in the fellowship with his disciples. Jesus is modeling service and willingness to reach out to those around him. Today we live in a world that is seemingly enveloped in violence.

All one needs to do is turn on the television and watch for about 5 minutes to be reminded of the violence around the world. Every day in Africa someone is killed for their political, religious, or ethnic affiliation. Today, women are beaten by their husbands repeatedly without any chance of escape. Today people in our own country steal and malign those who are unable to defend themselves. But through all of this comes signs of hope. In Rwanda, a woman whose family was killed in the genocide returns to offer love to her perpetrators. In Iraq, troops help Iraqi families rebuild their houses. Here at Holy Trinity, people seek to rid Haiti of its water problem and try to provide hope for a better future. Perhaps this is what Christ was modeling when he was crawling around washing the feet of his disciples. Calling us to remember that all have a share in this salvific act and it is by our actions that we represent this.

Christ says “Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them”. It is a simple statement that reflects the obedience and more importantly, the humility of Christ. We are called to walk in this journey and be a reflection of God to those around us.

Just as the disciples were washed as a community of believers, so we are as well. It is at this point that The Holy Eucharist, foot washing, and our baptisms collide. Tonight we will wash ourselves in the spirit of Christ’s humility and gather as a community at the Table. Perhaps when we were younger we were baptized given the spirit and brought into union with our faith community. Through the cleansing of ourselves we begin to see the work at hand; the life that Christ calls us to, and more importantly models for us.

The act of foot washing and the Lord’s Supper all show how we as a community partake in the body of Christ. The lessons that we can glean from Christ’s humility are all reminiscent of the love Christ has for us. Through waters of Baptism we are brought into the fold, through the body and blood of Christ at the Eucharist we are united together.

As we leave here tonight in anticipation of tomorrow let us not forget the events of this night. Let us try not to jump ahead to Saturday night and forget the tools that Christ was leaving to his faithful followers that still resonate with us today and will be the tools to remember when Christ leaves us. As a community of faith let us go out and share the humble love of Christ to those around us. I can assure you that where love and charity abound then God is reflected. I think if we can do this then we are living into the command that Jesus leaves his disciples with: I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

Sermon: Fourth Sunday in Lent

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

We are midway through Lent, midway through the season of wilderness that precedes Easter. Lent and Easter together are liturgical expressions of holy baptism. During Lent we die with Christ and during Easter we are raised with Christ. In these forty days before Easter we are invited to open ourselves to God’s presence in the wilderness just as Nicodemas discovered grace in the dark of night.

It is a challenge to find meaning in darkness. On their journey around Edom, the ancient Hebrews lost track of the promise and were overwhelmed by the desert. What had seemed so grace-filled lost its wonder and was replaced by fear.

That is such a deeply human experience. The wilderness represents the side of life we might call unholy. That part of ourselves we associate with God’s absence.

We all have times in the wilderness. Times when we lose heart, times when hope vanishes, times when bitterness and cynicism wrap themselves around us. Sometimes we spend long stretches in the wilderness. We may become afraid and lose our way. In fact, as a rule it’s not until we are in the wilderness that the concept of God’s grace makes sense. Up until that time grace may seem like a nice idea but nothing more. A nice idea applicable for others. It is when we realize that we are in the desert and parched with thirst that we can find God’s grace to be a sheer gift of living water.

Lent is about this kind of experience. Finding God’s presence in the deserts of life is the work of Lent.

Paul Tillich, a remarkable theologian, in his classic sermon “You are Accepted” wrote,

Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness. It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life. It strikes us when we feel that our separation is deeper than usual, because we have violated another life, a life which we loved, or from which we were estranged.

It strikes us when our disgust for our own being, our indifference, our weakness, our hostility, and our lack of direction and composure have become intolerable to us. It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection of life does not appear, when old compulsions reign within us as they have fordecades, when despair destroys all joy and courage.

Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying: “You are accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know; perhaps you will find it later.

Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much. Do not seek for anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted!”

It is hard to believe that such a gift could be associated with wilderness experiences. Yet that is exactly what we proclaim in baptism. We die with Christ that we may be raised with Christ. It is in the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life, that new life emerges through grace.

This is not a process that we can control or even reason our way through. It is too existential, too soulful, too close to our core for us to manipulate. Our journeys in the wilderness call us to trust that God accompanies us not because of anything we do but because God loves us unconditionally. God walks with us through the desert not as the cause of our sorrow nor as one oblivious to it, but as a companion in grief. In the words of the Psalmist, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

If we have the courage to be honest with ourselves, sooner or later all of us find ourselves in the wilderness. It is never very far away. John’s gospel knows that. And so the evangelist says to keep our eyes on Jesus. When we’re lost, when we’re without hope, look to Jesus. And then John presents some of the most remarkable words in the Bible: He says,“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Here is the great paradox of faith. It is through our encounters with God in the wilderness that we are saved. It is in our unholiness that we discover we are not condemned but accepted. As Tillich said, “ … a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted’”.

St. Paul reminds us not to run out into the wilderness in order to discover the grace of God. He says, in the King James Version, “Sufficient unto the day is the call thereof”. There will be plenty of times for trials without our manufacturing them. We don’t need to go looking for wilderness experiences. They will find us.

Today’s Lenten readings remind us that God is not absent when we think God is. In fact it is when we feel most separated from God that we may find we are loved and accepted.

A lot of people in the developing world know this well. Many have discovered God’s presence in the valley of the shadow of death. [e.g. Haiti] It may be harder for those of us with resources enough to escape from some of the valleys to know we are loved. We may not even think we have to depend on God’s love for survival. But there are other valleys, other wildernesses that we tend to find ourselves in. Wildernesses of meaninglessness, greed, and self absorption, the valley of clinging to anger when a hand of reconciliation has been offered us, the valleys of failing to love our neighbor by turning a blind eye to our neighbor’s plight, and the deep valley of failing to act on the faith into which we were baptized. These are unholy places, but not places beyond the love of God. God came into the wilderness of the world not to condemn the world but in order that the world might be saved.

Let us pray:
O God, give us the courage in these days of Lent to see you in the barren places of our lives. Give us ears to hear you in the silence of alleluias. For you walk with us in the wilderness and share our pain in the valleys of grief. Through Jesus Christ in whom we die and find new life.
Amen.