Tag Archives: darkness

Sermon – Luke 21.25-36, A1, YC, November 29, 2015

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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Many years ago, when my husband and I were driving from our honeymoon in the Outer Banks back home to Delaware, we decided to take the scenic route.  At the time, the idea of a scenic drive sounded romantic.  We were excited to take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.  And of course, as newlyweds, we were just excited to have more time together.  But by hour ten, I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I devolved into a whiny mess who could not keep still and who huffed and puffed in frustration.  I kept shifting around and fidgeting in my seat, and I am pretty sure I groaned at some point, “Are we there yet?!?”  Any notion of a romantic journey was lost – all I wanted was to get home immediately.

Truthfully, I feel similarly about Advent.  As a priest well-trained in preaching from the lectionary, I know I am supposed to be appreciative of the intentional ways in which the lectionary shapes, prepares, and teaches us.  But as soon as Advent starts, I get overly excited.  I think about the Advent candles, the purple vestments, and the greenery.  And because I know what is waiting for us on December 24th, I turn into that car-trapped honeymooner, complaining, “Are we there yet?!?”  Since I know a baby is coming, all I want to think about is Mary’s pregnancy, her relationship with Joseph, and the long journey to Bethlehem.  I am not saying I need to celebrate baby Jesus right away, but I at least would like to throw a baby shower or see Mary’s baby bump.

But that is not how Advent is presented to us in the beginning of Advent.  Instead of talking about the first coming of the Christ child, we talk about the second coming of Christ.  Instead of giddy, romantic stories about lovers making it work with an unexpected pregnancy, we get dark, foreboding tales of earthly disorder and destruction.  Instead of happy expectation, we get somber warnings to prepare ourselves and to stand guard.  Normally, I do not mind these texts at the beginning of Advent.  Theologically, I understand the concept of framing the first coming of Christ within the second coming.[i]  I understand that in order to appreciate Christ’s birth I need to remember what his birth means many years later.  I understand the need for a warning about being on guard for the second coming – a reminder that I do not get to enjoy all the fun stuff of Christ’s birth without realizing the significance of Christ’s death and return as well.  But emotionally, I am tired of being on guard.  I am tired of earthly destruction.  I am tired of feeling like the end is upon us.

That is what is so hard about Advent this year.  We are already on guard this Advent.  With terrorism striking worldwide, with gun violence in our own country, and with debates about welcoming refugees, we are already “alert at all times,” as Jesus demands.  I know people who are avoiding shopping in Manhattan this year because they are afraid of potential threats.  There are rumors of out-of-state school field trips getting canceled due to fear of danger. And some states have shut down their borders to refugees because of suspicions of terrorists in refugee disguise.  We know all too well the reality of living in fear, guardedness, and preparation for the darkness of this world.  And quite frankly, when we come to church, especially in this season of preparing for the Christ Child, the last thing we want to do is dwell on the darkness.  We want a little bit of light from Christ too.

Last weekend, the final movie in The Hunger Games series premiered.  For those of you unfamiliar with the series, the movie features a dystopian future after a failed revolution.  As punishment for revolting against the Capitol, the Capitol designs what is called The Hunger Games – a battle to the death in which two children from each of twelve districts faces one another in an arena.  Not unlike ancient practices in Rome, and yet uncannily familiar to modern times, the residents of the Capitol watch the games with a detached sense of enjoyment as they cheer for their favorites.  In the first film, President Snow talks to the head of the Games about why they have the games and a winner in the first place.  “Hope:” he explains, “It is the only thing stronger than fear.”  He goes on to say, “A little hope is effective.  A lot of hope is dangerous.”  You see, the President wants to keep people oppressed.  He knows that the people need to fear him – but he balances that fear with a tiny bit of hope so that they do not revolt again:  if they can believe that there is hope for a slightly better life while keeping the status quo, then they will strive to stay in line.  But the hope most be managed so that the hope does not liberate people from submission to the Capitol.

We could easily live lives of fear when hearing Jesus’ words today about the Second Coming.  We could worry about natural disasters, about violence, and about destruction.  We could hear Jesus’ words about being on guard, being alert at all times, and standing up to raise our heads, and be worried about the burden of constant vigilance.  But Jesus is not trying to scare us into preparation.  Jesus does not want us to live in fear.[ii]  Quite the opposite, Jesus wants to give us a big dose of hope today.  Unlike President Snow, Jesus does not manipulate us by only giving us a small amount of hope.  Though today’s text can feel full of gloom, Jesus, in his weird Jesus way, is actually trying to give a large dose of hope today.  Instead of asking us to cower in fearful anticipation, he is inviting us to stand tall, raise our heads in certainty, and be people of sober, joyful expectation.

In our collect today, we prayed these words, “…give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light…”[iii]  Many of us may question whether we can put on an armor of light in such a despairing world.  Perhaps we worry about sounding like Pollyannas or being insensitive to the suffering of the world and our communities.  But putting on the armor of light is not putting on the armor of denial or dismissiveness.  Putting on the armor of light is an act of seeing and experiencing the deep groaning of our time and proclaiming that God works as an agent of light despite what feels like overwhelming darkness.  By putting on our armor of light, we are acknowledging that “God in Christ is coming because God loves us – because God wants to redeem us.”[iv]  Putting on the armor of light means that despite all that is falling apart in our lives, our communities, and the world around us, we claim hope over despair.

Now some of us may think that putting on armor is preparing us for battle – that we are going to be issued lightsabers like the Jedi fighters of Star Wars.  But the armor of light is a bit different.  The armor of light requires us to stand tall as beacons of light in the world – much like the lighthouses that line our shores on Long Island.  Now, I do not mean putting on that armor is a passive act.  In fact, as N.T. Wright explains, our armor is not for an “exciting battle, with adrenalin flowing and banners flying, but the steady tread, of prayer and hope and scripture and sacrament and witness, day by day and week by week.”[v]  Knowing that we are slowly, steadily treading toward Jesus’ return, we need that armor of light more than ever:  to protect us from allowing fear to overcoming us, and to remind ourselves of how we are grounded in liberating hope.

And just in case you are not convinced that you can survive a long, steady tread, the community of faith gathers here every week to witness and wear that armor of light with you.  We are like those freedom fighters from the Civil Rights movement, who steadily marched – from Selma to Montgomery, through the streets of Washington, D.C., and anywhere else where fear was reigning.  Their power was in their numbers, their fortitude, and their hope.  They wore the same armor that we don today.  Yes, we will get to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child soon enough.  But before he comes, when he comes, and after he comes, we will still need to stand up, raise our heads, and be agents of light and hope.  The world needs our light – and so do we.  Amen.

[i] Mariam J. Kamell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 21.

[ii] David Lose, “Advent 1 C: Stand Up and Raise Your Heads!” November 23, 2015, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/11/advent-1-c-stand-up-and-raise-your-heads/ on November 25, 2015.

[iii] BCP, 211.

[iv] Kathy Beach-Verhey, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 25.

[v] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 260.

Journeying in the darkness…

07 Wednesday Oct 2015

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October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month.  In some ways, it seems like a strange month to choose.  In October, we are often focused on the harvest.  We have harvest-themed door wreaths and table decorations.  We enjoy a taste of the harvest ourselves – picking apples and pumpkins.  This is a time we celebrate abundance, and yet this is also the month when we honor when abundance is taken away.

As a child, I knew very little about pregnancy loss.  I had an aunt who sometimes referred to infant she lost by name, but no one besides her talked about it much, and the subject was so hushed and confusing that I never asked many questions.  As a chaplain, I experienced my first pregnancy loss with a patient.  A whole new world of darkness invaded what had developed in my mind as a world of joy.  I was at the age that my friends were starting to have babies.  But no one had ever talked to me about the dark side of pregnancy.  The darkness still felt very “other.”

Finally, a dear friend – one with whom I had shared many confidences – lost her pregnancy.  We lived far away, but I had just seen her pregnant belly at a reunion of friends for the weekend.  We had laughed and shared dreams about the child.  It had been a weekend of light.  And suddenly, that weekend was washed away with darkness.  We all rallied, sending flowers, meals, and cards.  We prayed and we cried.  And we listened.  My friend was very good about being vocal and honest about her pain.  We journeyed with her through the darkness.

During our mourning period, I shared with a few coworkers about my grief.  Slowly, the stories poured out.  Of pregnancies lost, of an infant loss, and even of the grief of trying to get pregnant.  No longer could I go on pretended that the world of pregnancy and babies was all roses and sunshine.  There is a darkness, a fear, and an uncertainty that haunts every pregnancy.  Most of the time those fears are unrealized, but unfortunately, not always.  And sometimes that darkness crashes down on those who never even realized the darkness was lurking.

We don’t talk about pregnancy loss much in church.  We have a liturgy for blessing a pregnancy.  We have a liturgy for giving thanks for a healthy birth.  And we have a liturgy for an infant baptism.  But the liturgies for infant loss are scattered and hard to find.  They are modified versions of other liturgies, often unauthorized by a liturgical committee.  They are like the darkened corner room of the maternity ward where they try to hide away the mom who has to deliver her stillborn.

Today, I want you to know that I am willing to talk about pregnancy and infant loss.  As a priest in the Church, I am willing to journey with you through the darkness – even if that darkness has been lingering for twenty years or more.  Or if you are trying to get pregnant, or even if you are pregnant and are afraid of the darkness – I am here.  You are not alone.  I will stand in the darkness with you – for however long you need.  And for those of you who are just now becoming aware of this issue and want to be supportive, I recommend this video.  You will find great resources on the website, as well as a link to an amazing book of devotions.  Join me in being the Church – a Church willing to sit in the darkness until we can find the light again together.

Sermon – John 3.14-21, L4, YB, March 15, 2015

19 Thursday Mar 2015

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Today we get one of the most beloved passages of Scripture.  Most everyone knows the line, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”  But even for those of us who do not know the words by heart, we have seen the marker “John 3.16” all over – at sporting events, on road overpasses, on tattoos, and on Tim Tebow’s face.  Even Episcopalians, who can rarely quote scripture citations, know this one.

What is funny about the popularity of this scripture verse is that this particular verse is one of the more complicated verses in scripture.  On the surface, the verse sounds full of promise:  God so loved; God so loved the world; God gave; So that believers should not perish; Everlasting life.  All those words sound wonderful.  They make God sound loving and generous.  They make life seem full of promise.  Why would you not want to parade John 3.16 around in celebration?

John 3.16 sounds wonderful until you really start to dissect the verse.  John 3.16 makes God sound loving, generous, and caring.  Until you read that one pesky clause, “everyone who believes.”  So God will love, be generous to, and give everlasting life to anyone in the world – as long as they believe.  But what about those who do not believe?  We all know lots of people who do not believe in Jesus Christ.  They are our neighbors, friends, family members, and classmates [colleagues].  Do we really believe God does not love them too?  All we have to do is read John 3.18 to learn that “those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.”

Now I do not know about you, but although this scripture lesson is known worldwide, and is beloved by many, I have never really felt comfortable with the implications of this passage.  I think two things either happen when we really start to look at this passage.  One, by recognizing that we are the “believers” of this passage, we both feel a sense of pride and acceptance and a sense of pity for the non-believers.  We feel bad for the non-believers, but we do not really know how to console them.  So we secretly just feel grateful and blessed, and wipe our hands clean of the non-believers.  They will have to fend for themselves.

The other way that many of us approach this text is that we sweep the verse under the rug.  We know a lot of other verses about God, and those verses tell us of a God whose love is much bigger.  We might imagine that there is hope for all the faiths of the world, and even for those without faith.  We prefer to focus on the part that says, “God so loved the world,” knowing the vast diversity of that world, preferring to imagine that our God is not a judgmental one, but a loving one.  And even if we concede that there might need to be some form of judgment, we will leave that judgment up to God.  We will let the business of who is in and who is out be God’s business, and we will just go on loving everyone anyway.

Either of those ways of thinking – the one where we pity the non-believers or the one where we brush aside the text – ignores the fact that those approaches come from the assumption that we are the insiders in this situation.  As Christians, we know that we believe in Jesus Christ.  So we must be the ones that John is talking about – the ones that God loves and saves, and to whom God gives eternal life.  But the problem with that underlying assumption is that the assumption puts us in a place of comfort, when, in fact, I think John 3.16 is supposed to put us in a place of discomfort.

In John 3.19-20, Jesus says, “…This is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil.  For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed.”  Instead of sitting on our comfortable “believer” cushion, I think what this passage is really inviting us to do is to recognize how we are in fact the people in the darkness.  We have been talking a lot in this Lent about our sinfulness – our separation from God and neighbor.  Our Lenten disciplines are meant to be ways for us to contemplate our sinfulness, to repent, and return to the Lord.  None of us is spared from being sinful.  We have all fallen victim to pride, envy, and hatred.  We have all had malicious thoughts and done hurtful things.  We have all forgotten about God, making our lives about our own wants and desires.  And I am sure many of us have had something in our lives that we have wanted to hide in darkness.  None of us feel entirely comfortable exposed, being bathed in light.  Like that makeup mirror that is just a little too bright, not many of us are ready to be seen under the bright light.

There is a book and movie series out called “Divergent.”  It is a dystopian, futuristic series that captures what happens when the world destroys itself and the society that is rebuilt to prevent such destruction from happening again.  Though the premise is a bit complicated, one of the pieces about the series I find fascinating is the presentation of one group who believes that the truth is the answer to solving the world’s problems.  So all the members of that particular group must take what is called a “truth serum.”  When they take the serum, they must then be asked a slew of questions before all the members of the group, including extremely personal and private questions.  The idea is that if all your secrets are exposed, there is nothing left to hide behind.  Everyone is on equal footing and no one can hide their true selves.

I imagine the world in that group from the Divergent series as being like the one that Jesus is talking about today.  We are people who would avoid a truth serum – who would avoid the light – because we do not want all of ourselves exposed.  There are some things – those really dark, embarrassing, or shameful things about our lives – that we do not want the world to know.  We like the dark, if for no other reason than we can hide those ugly parts of ourselves there.  In fact, we like keeping a little bit of darkness in our lives.  And I imagine most of us would quite quickly decline a truth serum.

If we can admit that truth – that part of us that prefers there be just a little bit of darkness for us to hide in occasionally – then we might be able to see why John 3.16 is so brilliant.  If we can be humble about our own darkness and our own sinfulness, and approach God in that way, then Jesus’ words are much more meaningful.  For those of us who have a bit of darkness in us, God so loved us that God gave up God’s only Son so that we might have eternal life.  In this way, John 3.16 is refreshing.  When we realize that we are the ones in darkness, John 3.16 does not make us feel self-righteous, pitying others.[i]  Instead, John 3.16 is a harbinger of light.  In fact, John 3.16 calls us into the light with the promise of love, forgiveness, and grace.  Once we get ourselves out of the “insider’s circle” this passage becomes much more redemptive and much more full of hope.  And perhaps that is the point.  Not to make us relieved because we are on the inside looking out, but to make us relieved because we are on the outside looking in – and being beckoned in by our Lord and Savior.  If we can come to see this passage in this light, then I say go ahead and get that tattoo, embroider that wall hanging, and even make that poster for the big game.  Perhaps your artwork will remind you to keep turning from the darkness and turning into the light.  Amen.

[i] This idea shaped by the conclusions made by Paul C. Shupe, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 120.

Forever empty?

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

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I was talking to a parent recently about the challenges of raising children.  She reminded me of an awesome interview by Louis C.K. with Conan O’Brien.  The interview itself is funny and, as fair warning, quite crass (do not watch it with impressionable ears nearby – the link can be found here).  But what struck me about the interview is what I would label as pretty powerful theology by Louis C.K.  In his interview, he argues that we use technology to fill our time so that we can avoid the reality that there are parts of life that are tremendously sad and times when we feel utterly alone.  He further argues that by filling up that dark space and not allowing ourselves to fully experience that deep sadness, we never get to true happiness.

I was struck this week about how appropriate Louis C.K.’s words are for the Lenten experience.  I have a couple of parishioners who really dislike Lent and find it horribly depressing.  In some ways I agree with them.  Lent is somewhat depressing, and for some odd reason, that is what I like about Lent.  I never could fully explain that reality until I heard this interview.  What Louis C.K. points out is that sometimes we really need to go to those dark places.  Otherwise, we can never really find the true, deeply abiding happy places too.

In the Episcopal Church, The Catechism in the back of our Book of Common Prayer says this about sin:

Q:  What is sin?
A:  Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.
Q:  How does sin have power over us?
A:  Sin has power over us because we lose our liberty when our relationship with God is distorted.
Q:  What is redemption?
A:  Redemption is the act of God which sets us free from the power of evil, sin, and death.
(BCP 848-849)

Lent gives us the opportunity to really examine our own sinfulness – the ways in which we have distorted our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  Many of my friends have given up some form of technology for Lent – by not checking Facebook, taking Sabbaths from TV or the internet, or putting down their cell phones at certain points of the day.  My guess is that their discipline will create room for them to contemplate their sinfulness, or as Louis C.K. might say, their “forever empty.”  My prayer for them is that their practice leads to an ability to find their way back to God, who redeems us and helps us find that true happiness.  I am curious about how you are journeying into your own “forever empty” this Lent, and I look forward to hearing how that journey leads to the light.

Homily – Isaiah 42.10–12, Harry Thacker Burleigh, September 11, 2014

19 Friday Sep 2014

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Today is a unique day.  Since 2001, we are unable to hear the words “September 11th” without associating the date with the events of that fateful day 13 years ago.  We remember where we were, what we saw, and how we felt.  We remember those who died – family members, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances.  September 11th is a day associated with pain – on both personal and national levels.  For many of us, we had never experienced a sense of such vulnerability to terror and devastation in our home country.  And though we do not live in an active war zone, the events of that day changed life here forever.  In fact, there is a whole generation now that has grown up in a post-9/11 world.

Harry Thacker Burleigh knew a little about what growing up in the shadow of darkness meant.  Born in 1866 in Erie, Pennsylvania, right after the Civil War, Harry’s grandfather, a former slave who had been blinded by a savage beating, passed along old spirituals to Harry.  That music was a gateway for Harry.  With some difficulty, Harry won admission to the National Conservatory of Music.  Meanwhile, he became a soloist at St. George’s Episcopal Church in New York City.  He faced resistance at St. George’s as a black man in the choir, but over time he became a beloved part of the congregation.  In time, Harry became a respected composer, arranger, and music editor.  He also played a key part in making old spirituals widely accessible.

Despite living in the shadow of slavery, Harry seemed to have embraced the words from Isaiah: “Sing to the LORD a new song.”  Harry could have easily kept his head down and simply survived in a post-slavery world.  Instead, he pushed for a new life – for the freedom to express himself.  He literally and figuratively sang a new song to the LORD, making music that reinterpreted the old spirituals, but also making a new life through music.  His making a new song made light shine into the darkness all around him – and he transformed the world around him.

God invites us to sing a new song in a post-9/11 world.  The invitation for us is to figure out what our new song will be.  We cannot erase what happened to us and to our country on that fateful day.  But we can change how we shine light into the shadows left over from that day.  So sing to the LORD a new song – in only the ways that you can.  Amen.

Sermon – John 1.1-14, CD, YA, December 25, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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I must admit that I have always been a little wary of John’s prologue at Christmas time.  I tend to prefer the earthy stories of Jesus in a manger, of dramatic angelic appearances, of messy shepherds, and of a baffled holy family.  I like that I can picture the events in my mind and ponder their meaning.  I like that I could imagine myself there and even wonder what the events mean to me two thousand years later.  My love of these stories is only accentuated by the songs we sing on Christmas Eve, and the nostalgia the music brings to me.

But today, on Christmas Day, we get none of that.  We sing no songs, we hear no romantic, familiar stories, and we do not get lost in the ancient narrative.  Instead, on this busy, often loud day, we come into a totally different space – a place of quiet reverence – and we hear a totally different text.  John does not go back to the beginning of Jesus’ story – he goes back to the beginning of all our stories.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Our minds drift not back to a stable, but to the beginning of creation, when the earth was a formless void – tohu wavohu.  Whereas our synoptic gospels try to tell us about who Jesus is by giving a story about his birth narrative, John’s gospel takes an even wider lens to try to explain who Jesus is.

In some ways the contrast between Christmas Eve’s stories about the stable and Christmas Day’s quiet reflection on the beginning of time is quite appropriate.  On Christmas Eve we are full of giddiness and excitement.  We break the long anticipation of Advent with a festive celebration of Jesus’ birth.  We share in jubilation, as if we are a crowd of people gathered at the maternity ward, sharing cigars and bear hugs.  But today, like a crew that has come in to clean up after a late-night party, we gather in these pews with a bit more sobriety, deeply pondering what all this incarnation stuff means.  For that kind of work, John’s gospel is the perfect gift.  John almost seems to say, “Yes, all those stories you know and love about Jesus are true and are to be celebrated.  But do not get swept away in the excitement and forget what this really means.”

For John, he begins his gospel starting not with details of the event of the incarnation, but with details about the significance of the incarnation.  For John, he is not interested in the sentimentality of a cute baby.  John is interested in the astounding fact that God became incarnate – took on flesh, lived among us, took on our dirty, gritty lives, and faced rejection and suffering – all so that we might live.  The God of creation – that same creative God we know from Genesis – is the same God who comes among us.  The Word has always been, and yet the Word also enters into human history to give life and light to the people.  When we talk about this kind of momentous significance, it is no wonder that we gather here in quiet awe of our God, soberly realizing the tremendous, salvific gift of the Word made flesh coming to dwell among us.

In some ways, the contrast between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are hitting home a little more vividly this year.  On the one hand, I have a four-year old, who really gets Christmas this year, who is excited beyond belief about baby Jesus, St. Nicholas, presents, and visiting family.  Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I want to cultivate that joy.  I am reminded of that collect from compline that asks God to “shield the joyous.”  But on the other hand, death has been heavy around me these last few days.  A dear friend from Delaware died this weekend, St. Margaret’s Cemetery helped a young couple from a neighboring church bury an 8-month stillborn child on Monday, and just two days ago, a St. Margaret’s parishioner lost his mother.  In light of the grief of those around me, I am grateful for a sober reminder of the awesomeness of our God, the salvation and promise of resurrection that is only made possible through the incarnation – that Word made flesh who lived among us, and who is full of grace and truth.  In the end, there is hope on both sides – hope for the happily joyous this season and hope for the soberly mournful this season.  I thank God for a Church who tends to both sets of needs, but mostly I thank God for taking on our earthly flesh, for giving us the Word who knew both joy and sorrow, and for promising us that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.  Amen.

Homily – Colossians 4.2–6, John of the Cross, December 12, 2013

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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Today we honor Juan de la Cruz, or John of the Cross.  Though he died in 1591, John was widely unknown until more recently.  Born in 1542 in Spain, his father died when he was three.  His mother and siblings were thrown into poverty.  He received early education in an orphanage, but by 17 he had learned carpentry, tailoring, sculpting, and painting through apprenticeships.  He was able to do his university studies with the Jesuits; after school he joined the Carmelite order.  In 1567, he was ordained to the priesthood and recruited by Teresa of Avila to reform the Carmelite order.  He studied extensively, was a spiritual director, and devoted himself to the search for God.  Because of his attempts to dramatically reform the Carmelites, he was eventually imprisoned.  There he wrote poetry as a comfort.  His “Dark Night of the Soul” became his most famous piece.  As John of the Cross has been rediscovered, he has become known as “the church’s safest mystical theologian” and “the poet’s poet.”

I was thinking John must have known a lot about the dark night of the soul.  He had a rough childhood, fought to get an education, and then found incredible resistance when he tried to make the devotion of the Carmelites better; his prison cell must have felt like a dark night.  I am reading an Advent devotional right now, and it has felt pretty dark at times.  I can tell the author has experienced some rough times, though she never specifies what they are in her poetry.  But the darkness of her soul pervades her writing.  I have wondered as I read why she is putting such darkness in our Advent devotional – a season of light.  But then I thought about the realities of this season – the pain the season can bring of lost loved ones, of unfulfilled dreams, of unmet expectations, of pressure and anxiety.  Perhaps the author, like John of the Cross, is willing to expose the dark night that can live in the soul.

So where is the light for us to grasp in Advent?  I appreciate those words of instruction in Colossians: “Devote yourselves to prayer.”  Prayer is one of the places that we can dump darkness and discover light.  Prayer is the conversation in which we can struggle vulnerably and honestly with God, and eventually end up on the other side renewed and refreshed.  This is one of our Advent invitations:  devote yourselves to prayer.  Whether you already feel bathed in light or you are longing for the light, prayer is the place where we meet God and we find strength for the journey.  Amen.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YC, March 31, 2013

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

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On that dark, damp, dreary morning, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb expecting something.  Darkness clings to her like a cloak.  She was there at the foot of the cross two days ago.  She waited, hoping against hope that God would be victorious and Jesus would be miraculously saved.  And then she prayed that God would take Jesus faster, because despair was setting in and his suffering was overwhelming to witness.[i]  She cried so much that night, that her eyes ran dry.  After 48 hours of dazed despair, she drags her lifeless body through the darkness to tend to her beloved Jesus’ body.  Seeing his body one more time will only confirm her grief, but at least she has somewhere to go to mourn; at least his cold body will confirm his death, and begin a journey toward closure.  Mary Magdalene comes to that tomb in darkness expecting something.

We too come to church today expecting something.  Maybe we are expecting a word of joy, the release of the alleluias we have been holding in for weeks.  If we attended the myriad Holy Week services this week, maybe we are expecting a relief from all the darkness of the liturgies during these last holy days.  If we have not been to church in a long time, maybe we are uncertain as to what to expect.  We came here seeking something – some sort of connection, a sense of familiarity, or maybe a place that will accept us as we are, letting us take things as slowly as we need.  Or perhaps you were dragged to church today by a family member, and the most you are expecting is an hour of your time taken away – and that certainly feels like a period of darkness for you too.

If Mary came expecting one thing, what she gets is altogether different.  The absence of Jesus body puts her over the edge.  The first thing she does is run to get the disciples.  But even they only confirm the awful truth that keeps compounding.  Humiliating him, torturing him, and crucifying him were not enough.  Now they have taken his body too?  Having the disciples leave Mary Magdalene alone again starts the downward spiral that seems endless.  This is why she cannot see the angels in their glory – she only mutters a response to them and turns away from the tomb, her vision blurred by her tears again.  This is also why, when a man appears, she desperately begs the man to tell her where he has taken the body.  And then the unexpected happens – or at least perhaps what she had hoped might happen, but would never let herself say aloud.  Rabbouni!  Her teacher is back!

But Jesus only partially fills her expectations.  “Do not hold on to me,” Jesus says.  His words must have felt like a slap to Mary’s fragile self.  In the instant that she recognizes Jesus, a whole new set of expectations arrive.  Surely, they can flee to Galilee again and keep Jesus safe.  But Jesus changes things yet again; Mary Magdalene’s expectations cannot be fulfilled.  Things cannot return to normal.  What Jesus invites is not a return to the way things were, but to a way that is even better than the way things were; a way in which she can develop new expectations for her life in Christ.

When I graduated from college and relocated to Delaware, I was looking for a United Methodist church.  I had experienced a particular style of worship in my hometown, and was looking to replicate that experience.  After six months of frustrated looking, I stumbled into the Episcopal Cathedral.  Parts of my expectations were met – the Cathedral had one of the most diverse populations I had ever seen – racially, socioeconomically, ethnically, by household definitions, and by sexual orientation.  They were doing some incredible urban ministry, and seemed to have an inspiring commitment to the poor.  But the worship killed me.  It was so formal and the music was so uptight, that I wondered how such a progressive church could be so rigid.  I remember hearing an offertory anthem one Sunday that was so good that I said a very loud, “Amen!” at the end.  I realized right away that that was not what was expected of me.  Ultimately, after several Sundays, I decided that I would stay, but only temporarily.  When we moved again, I would just look for another United Methodist church.  But God had other expectations for my life.

That is the funny thing about expectations.  Both the realistic expectations Mary Magdalene has – the expectation to remain in bitter darkness – and the hopeful expectation Mary has – that everything could go back to normal – are not met.  But that does not mean that Jesus does not make a way out of the darkness.  We have heard from the very beginning of John’s gospel about Jesus and the light.  “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it,” says John’s gospel[ii]  The later, John says, “Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’”[iii]  Jesus, then, this light of the world, cannot meet the expectations of Mary; because Mary’s expectations are smaller than God’s.  Mary cannot go back to the way things were.  But the way things are going to be is infinitely better.  “God gives a new kind of life, a life that is still worth living, a new kind of aliveness toward God and the world…”[iv]

Mary’s interaction with Jesus invites us to consider our own expectations of this day.  If we came here today, only seeking joy without transformation, then our expectations might go unmet today.  If we came here expecting to rub out all the darkness of these last days, then our expectations will only be partially met today because we cannot celebrate the resurrection, without the cross ever with us.  If we came here as seekers, expecting to just sit in the pew and then go back to our lives, then our expectations might not be met either.  Once we learn that this room is full of seekers just like us, who want us to enrich their journey, this place cannot be seen in the same way.  Even for those of you who just hoped to survive this hour of forced worship will not have your expectations met.  Because even if you are not touched today by Christ’s light, those who brought you here are being touched by the light; your relationship with them will be changed because they are being changed.

So the polite Southerner in me wants to say, “I am so sorry we did not meet your expectations today.”  But at the end of the day, I am glad that our expectations are not met today.  God is doing bigger and better things than we can imagine.  Our job is to trust that the light of the world will lead the way into the new resurrection journey that awaits us.  Amen.

[i] Joan Gray, “Beyond Rescue,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 22, no. 3, Easter 1999, 51.

[ii] John 1.5

[iii] John 8.12

[iv] Gray, 52.

Sermon – John 1.1-18, C1, YC, December 30, 2012

31 Monday Dec 2012

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Our Christmas text today from John sounds more like the introduction to a dramatic movie – you can almost hear James Earl Jones’ deep voice saying the words, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Of course, John’s version of the story is not as action packed as Luke’s version of the story.  Luke’s story of an evil empire, of a scandalous marriage and birth, of magnificent angels, and of rebellious shepherds is much more like the Christmas blockbuster we would all flock to the theaters to see.  John’s version of the story is a little more like the movie at the independent film theater that you might be dragged to with your artsy friend – or maybe you would just wait until the film came out on DVD, to watch if you had time.  John’s story is less engaging because he takes us away from the dramatic and relatable details of that holy night, and takes us to the cosmic understanding of that night.  The language is beautiful, but we have a difficult time finding a way to connect to the story.

The good news is that John gives us more than we realize at first glance.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  The beginning of John reminds us of the beginning of another great story of our faith – the beginning of Genesis.[i]  We hear the similarities from Genesis:  “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep…”  We can hear James Earl Jones’ introduction here too.  In Genesis the world was in darkness and chaos – “tohu wavohu” are the Hebrew words for this dark chaos, this formless void.  By referencing this time of darkness from Genesis, John hints that when Jesus is made flesh among us, the world has fallen once again into a time of darkness.  In fact, even though God forms the world and gives the world light, the light seems to battle with darkness from the earliest days.  Though God gives the world covenants, laws, judges, kings, and prophets, the darkness still fights with the light.[ii]

And so, in the midst of this struggle between darkness and light, we pick up the story with John.  God, unwilling to cede the world to darkness, takes on flesh.  Jesus Christ becomes the incredible gift to us – God incarnate to show us the way to lightness.  Of course, Moses and Job saw glimpses of God’s glory and light.  But when the Word becomes flesh, God puts flesh on light, glory, grace, and truth, “so that followers who want to know how [light, glory, grace, and truth] sound and act have someone to show them.”[iii]  John does not start his gospel telling us the story of Jesus’ incarnation; Instead, John tells us of the significance of Jesus’ incarnation.  John cuts right to the importance of this event instead of letting us linger in the blockbuster version of the story.

What is challenging about John’s version of the story is that John immediately invites us into a choice when we hear the significance of Jesus becoming incarnate.  John explains, “[Jesus] came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God…”  When we hear these words we often think of those people who did not accept Jesus.  We hear John’s words in the past tense, thinking ourselves as separate from a time when Jesus had to be accepted or not.  Unfortunately, we do not get off so easily.  We too can be people who do not accept Jesus, and who do not live in the light.  We turn our eyes from those in prison, from those barely keeping out of poverty, and from those victims of discrimination and intimidation.  We allow the darkness to spread, not claiming the light of Jesus in our lives, and not shining the light of Christ into the darkness.

I stumbled on a commercial recently about parenting.  The commercial shows three quick vignettes – a father drinking milk from the carton, a dad shoving some dropped trashed under a bench, and a mother yelling angrily at the car in front of her.  At the end of each scene, a child is shown to be watching, taking in every last bit of behavior from the parents.  The commercial warns parents that children are constantly watching, listening, and learning from all of us.  We are our children’s teachers and children learn by imitating us.  The commercial is eye-catching in its honesty and simplicity.

What John is arguing for today is somewhat like this commercial.  Like children and parents, the world is watching us.  The world, knowing us to be persons of faith can see when we are agents of the darkness or of the light.  A few weeks ago, when a police officer gave shoes to a homeless man, the world saw his light.  When young dancers agreed to perform during their Christmas Break to raise funds for the victims of Hurricane Sandy, the world saw their light.  When we empty our pockets and purchase gifts for those suffering right here in Plainview, our community sees our light.  Whether we want to admit the reality or not, the world is watching us for some hint of light in this world that can be so dark.

Being an agent of light can feel like an overwhelming responsibility.  But John’s gospel gives us two words of encouragement.  John first tells us that to those who claim the light, who claim Jesus in their lives, God gives power to become children of God.  In other words, God will give us the power to become the light in the world.  Second, John tells us that we have all received, grace upon grace.  God’s grace can lift us up out of the darkness, and allow us to shine Christ’s light in the world.  Through God’s grace and power, we can be agents of light.  We can be agents of light in a world that still struggles with darkness.  We can be agents of light because “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”  Amen.

[i] Paul J. Achtemeier, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),189.

[iii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),191.