110324, All Saints Sunday, Year B

(Let’s take a deep breath, in and out.)

I borrow a line to start this sermon.  The line is from a poem Jane Hirshfield wrote describing that she was weaving “a rope out of thin air, in desperation, while falling.”

On this All-Saints Day, I invite you to think about what All Saints Day means while weaving a rope as you fall into a shared world, full of flavors and colors, full of joyful relationships and ideas, and also haunted by fear of unwanted evil and certain death.  I invite you to expand the perimeters of who you are and discover the promises of All Saints Day.  For in the thin air of our life together, today’s texts offer strands useful for weaving a rope.

In the thin air of desperation, parts of that rope are the monstrous strips of cloth binding decaying hands and feet and face, wrapping in the stench of death.  At Jesus’ command, the haunting “shroud that is cast over all peoples,” and the “deathly sheet that is spread over all nations” are rewoven.  They are rewoven by his command, “Unbind him, and let him go” Thus dear sisters and brothers, our troubled falling in thin air has been roped into a pacific falling into life.

Another strand woven into that rope of hope are the hands of God wiping away the tears from all faces.  Thus, when Jesus faces the tracks of our tears, he himself weeps at death, mourning, crying, and pain.  He knows and helps.  For on behalf of our suffering, Jesus dies, an apparent failure on the cross.  But because he knows who God is and what God does, Jesus ultimately reveals that God wipes away the tears from his and all faces.

Another mystical filament of that rope of joy is the bride adorned for her husband.  Can you imagine the threads of that wedding dress?  What a hallowed trick and what a holy treat!  The graveyard at the end of time becomes a garden party for the glorious wedding banquet!  It is a scene not of darkness of the tomb, but of the light of the world.

Now, let’s focus a bit more on one of the most unusual scenes in the history of the universe, that of the tomb of Lazarus.  I invite you to see how in that common graveyard scene, we are knit into one communion.  I invite you to begin to see the thread that weaves your wedding garment.  And imagine yourself being woven into Jesus, “out of thin air, in desperation, while falling.”

It begins when Jesus comes to Lazarus’ tomb and says, “Take away the stone.”

Martha responds with the most logical reaction in the history of the universe.  “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

However, Jesus invites Martha and us to go beyond the expected smell of death.  He invites her, you, and I to expand into the thin air of the implausible, to go with him to the glory of God.  He says to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”  Then with his pregnant question hanging in the air, the stone is rolled away.  The implausible is woven, Jesus thanks God, and in a great voice, shouts, “Lazarus, come out!”

And then Lazarus, having died and been bound in a dead man’s clothes, comes out!  And the unknowable is woven.  All eyes trained by the history of death, see something new.  They see the no longer dead Lazarus, still bound as if dead.  Then Jesus orders, “Unbind him, and let him go!”  He is no mummy, he is a man, not dead but alive.

It is a Halloween graveyard story, and an All-Saints scene.  It is a drama that smells not of decay, but smells of new life, not of the darkness of the tomb, but of the light of the womb, not of hopeless mourning, but of the breath of actual glory, not the ancient logic of death, but the even more ancient logic of God’s love for creation.

It is a drama full of tricks and treats and mystery.  There are the tricks of Jesus who brings God’s love into the midst of suffering.  There are the treats of Jesus who shares the glory of God in the created life that dies.  And there is the fullness of the mystical body of Jesus Christ, who says, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Because Jesus is such a being with such a purpose, we not only celebrate past saints who have died, we celebrate present saints who impart holiness to this hurting earth, and we celebrate future saints yet to be born whom God will use to do divine things.

While writing and weaving the strands of this sermon, I looked out our window in the late afternoon.  I looked at the now yellow-tinged-with-brown aspen leaves each trembling in the slight wind of sunset.

Then, with trembling, I tried to imagine the 2,000 children in Ukraine that have been killed or injured, an average of two child casualties each day since the war began over two and a half years ago.  I tried to imagine the tears.

With trembling, I tried to understand Israel’s war on Gaza.  Conservative figures show that more than 6,000 women and 11,000 children were killed in Gaza the last 12 months.  And I tried to understand the weeping.

And trembling, I thought of those in my lifetime killed by racial prejudice.  I thought of those suffering because of climate catastrophes of fire, hurricane, flooding, and drought.  And I fell into the thought of immigrants leaving their now dangerous homeland, their bruises, brokenness, and fears forming on our southern border.  And I felt depressed.

Moreover, in trembling desperation, I thought of the Lummi and Samish Indians and their centuries-long struggle for well-being and life on these islands.

I looked at all those leaves trembling in the dying sunlight destined to fall to the ground.  And I thought of this congregation, and of our beloved dead.  I wondered about our hopes and our desperation while falling into the future.

Dear saints, yes, fellow flawed people, God uses the great cloud of witnesses to do divine things and somehow God makes all creation holy.  Somehow, God weaves all creatures into the life-line of Jesus Christ, all our tears will be wiped away, and we will see the glory of God.

In the thin air of desperation, this woven rope from God imparts to you a wisdom for living, a broad and deep wisdom of overall hope connected to the raising of Lazarus, the raising of your loved ones, the raising of you, and the raising of future generations.  Indeed, this wisdom is revealed in the raising of Jesus of Nazareth.

(Let’s take time for forming your own thoughts about God’s Word.)

102724, Lectionary 30, Year B 

(Let us take a deep breath, in and out.)

The story from Mark is about a blind beggar named Bar-timaeus.

We first see this person on the road from Jericho to Jerusalem sitting on his cloak begging—as, no doubt, he did every day.  Somehow, he had become blind.  Was he blinded by an accident, a disease, or a fight?  We don’t know, but somehow, he had become blind, and he had to beg to all who passed by.  Begging was his business.  Blindness was his way of life.

Now, some people are burdened by physical blindness, but many are not.  Even so, cries for mercy are worldwide.  In the blinding power of suffering, we cry for mercy.  Often the cry for mercy is our business.  And when crying out, we use all the skills and information available to us.

In today’s drama, Mark says that Bartimaeus heard that Jesus of Nazareth was passing by.  And using all the skills and information available to him, he shouts, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Hear it?  The son of Timaeus calls Jesus, the Son of David.  Son of David is a dangerous title to use in Roman culture.  A cry for mercy to the Son of David would be a cry to the rightful king of Israel.  And this sort of cry would be a sign of insurrection and in the Roman way it would be dealt with. In any ancient Roman colony, peace came through violence.

Nervously, “Many sternly ordered him to be quiet.”  No one would openly risk such terror, except Bartimaeus, a blind beggar.  Again, he courageously cried out, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Thus, in the very center of the story of Bartimaeus, Jesus stands still.  He is the still point of this story.  Jesus, the disciples, the crowd, and the blind beggar, Bartimaeus are still.  The sound of his urgent cry echoing in their ears.

For a moment, I want you to note this silence and the human cry for mercy echoing in your ears. Jesus is the still point of the blind universe, and there, God hears our cries.

Then, watch what happens on this roadside when Jesus calls Bartimaeus.  The blind beggar throws off his cloak, springs up from his business of begging, leaves behind his old worldview littered with suffering, and comes to Jesus.  Such beautiful movement.

And there, face to face with The Teacher, Jesus enacts God’s mercy.  Important and deep healing happens.  Jesus knows him, loves him, and saves him.  And Bar-Timaeus sees the pacific mercy of God and is made well.

Let me say it again.  Jesus loves the blind beggar.  He experiences mercy, and he is healed.  Mercy gives him a new business.  Bartimaeus learns that his health and his way of life are fully formed in mercy—a mercy that stretches mind, imagination and will—a mercy that enables him to be sure sighted and sure footed.

According to Mark, “He regained his sight and followed him on the way.”

Dear friends, there are other ways to think of blindness and begging.  There are people who have been blinded by selfishness, greed, and apathy.  In the drama of blindness, there are people who can’t see that they are loved, who beg for it, and who cry out for mercy.  On the roadside of your life, have you experienced a sort of inner blindness and met the mercy of God?

Consider, when someone hurts you, you may be blind with rage, and you may want to retaliate.

But that doesn’t fix things, does it?  It usually makes things worse.  And just there, in your blindness, is the presence of Jesus’ Spirit and the merciful word of forgiveness transforms you.  You don’t forget the hurt, but you forget the resentment and the urge to retaliate.  To forgive in the name of Jesus is to let go of the urge for retaliation and violence.   And this is an amazing grace.

Let me say more.  Over the years on the roadside of my life, I have betrayed people who were friends.  The reason I have is because I was selfish, and some friendships have ended.  I am very sorry for what has happened, and in my heart, the hurt isn’t forgotten.  But I have the conviction that God can and will hear my lament and make us whole.  Every time I think of these people and my betrayals, I imagine Jesus there interrupting the blindness and mediating forgiveness.  And I pray, God let our friendship see again.  This revelation from God is a revolution.  The mercy of God comes to blind sinners.  Dear followers of Jesus, the drama of Mark’s story indicates that we can see again.

For Lutherans, this Sunday celebrates the Reformation.  In 1517, Johann Tetzel, a Dominican monk was selling indulgences for Pope Leo X to finance the renovation of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.  Indulgences were documents that reduced the amount of time in penance one must undergo for sins.  A saying attributed to Tetzel says, “As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul into heaven springs.”  And with the power of Indulges the Roman Church made a lot of money.

Martin Luther, an Augustinian scholar was outraged that people were paying money for what was theirs by right as a gift from God.  He insisted that such forgiveness was God’s alone to grant.  Supposedly, on October 31, 1517, Martin Luther on the door of Wittenberg’s Castle Church, nailed “95 Theses on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences.”  These theses outlined items to be critically discussed.  In short order, they became the talk of Germany.  The outcome was reform concerning the gracious gift of forgiveness and made the church see again.  Mercy disrupts the church to the core.  It is as unsettling as it is comforting.

Karl Barth, an important 20^th century Swiss theologian wrote about his own inability to find faith.  He wrote about his blindness and how he was unexpectedly transformed, how God’s unmerited mercy reformed him.  He said that he was like a man climbing in the darkness of a winding staircase in the steeple of an ancient cathedral.  In the blackness he reached out to steady himself and his hand laid hold of a rope.  He was startled to hear the clanging of a bell.  In the blackness, the clanging of bells, that sort of surprising reform came to Karl Barth.

Thus, dear beggars who cry for mercy, imagine climbing a winding staircase in the steeple of the ancient cathedral of suffering and death.  In the blackness you reach out to steady yourself and your hands lay hold of a rope.  Imagine the wild joy of hearing the clanging of bells.  Imagine you and all creation resting in peace and rising in glory.  Imagine throwing off the business of sin and coming to Jesus.

Dear beggars, I invite you to decolonize your minds, hearts, and wills and rewild them further.  Whether it is the cry, “Have mercy on me,” and seeing again, or scattering the darkness by the ringing of bells, God reformed Bartimaeus, God reformed Martin Luther and Karl Barth and God is reforming the church.

Moreover, here and now, God is wildly reforming you.  For God is involved with you, knowing you, and loving you just as you are.  And God’s mercy is calling you to follow into a vocation of mercy, a vocation of voluntary self-giving love.  So too, God’s mercy enables you to be sure sighted and sure footed in following Jesus on the way to the cross and to the resurrection of your life.

(Let’s take time to be silent and still.)

April 12, 2020

John 20:1-18

Grace Church

The fast is over, let the feast begin. Alleluia, alleluia. From this vantage point, I see you, all of you. You are represented by names and Easter symbols — the pews filled with memories and stories, life and death, joy and sorrow. In these days of Coronavirus there is a reordering of all of these realities, for we have time for recounting as we shelter in place. Today, however we will shelter in the arms of a loving God who has taken the mess of our humanity and redeemed it once and for all. We will abide in the shelter of each other, gathered virtually as we remember the people and the stories that are enfolded into all our Easter days.

The fast is over, let the feasting begin. So today, I invite you to remember your own Easter days. To redeem the losses of this time, many families will need special care, those of us who have simply been inconvenienced must not forget the trials and tribulations of others — patience will be required. Many who are ready to rush back into normal will need to be reminded that there will be a new normal. What all of us must remember is that this time is a great cosmic pause — we must be willing to be a new people in light of this new reality. If we do not, God will, for we are challenged our a life of offering as the beloved and redeemed children of God, and we are called to be use to God — to serve, to be people of compassion and forgiveness — this is a life of Grace. Today, we are reminded

Last night I participated in the Great Vigil — it’s the first time I’ve participated in my pajamas. The Bishop struck the new fire in the darkened Cathedral and with a burst of energy, the fire blazed and the Paschal Candle was lit anew. Last night and this morning we gather to celebrate the great good news. From George McDonald comes these words describing to us the journey of Jesus:

In the sickness of his agony, the will of Jesus arises perfect at last;

and of itself, unsupported now, declares for God,

in defiance of pain, of death, of apathy, of self, of negation,

of the blackness within and around it;

calls aloud upon the vanished God.

And on that dreadful day it seemed that God has vanished. But I have another thought. God did not vanish, instead I believe that in the sigh of Jesus’ last breath, all creation came to a standstill — shattered by the cruel human consciousness that could not tolerate the goodness of this one man, Jesus. Dragged down by the conscious defiance of humanity there was a great cosmic pause, creation groaned as Paul puts it, and then God spoke the Word again — “Let there be light!” And in the timeless eternity that is God there was light and out of the earth, newly consecrated with the blood of the crucified, Jesus rose, a new creation.

In the particularity of that dreadful death, God acted and the second Adam, radiant with light, rose and the darkness vanished and death had lost its power to restrain him. In the only words that could explain this moment, we hear that there was a great earthquake. What else could be said? For how do we recount something so wondrous and incomprehensible to mere mortals? There was a great earthquake and an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and the stone rolled back and the women at the tomb heard the words of comfort. And Mary goes to the disciples and says, “I have seen the Lord.”

What has happened? Could it be a new beginning and a new creation? Could God have stopped the whole horrific nightmare and said let there be light, and we get to start over — we get a second chance? And in this second chance, we get to know the great secret, what up to that moment had only been a wish — death does not have the last word. Can knowing this truth send us down a different path? Can this journey that started with creation and a star and angels and dreams and wise men kings and a watery baptism and teaching and feasting and serving and finally a trip down the mountain into the valley of the shadow of death, be our to take as well?

Here is the answer: That perfect will of Jesus took the whole journey for us, crying out for God on our behalf so that now we know it all — we have seen the mystery of the universe revealed before our very eyes. This isn’t the end but only the beginning. In the sickness of his agony, the will of Jesus arises perfect at last; and of itself, unsupported now, declares to God! And in a cataclysmic moment, God speaks the Word again — Let there be light! And in the moment of radical transformation, creation is reborn and this time, creation is reborn in an image seared into the hearts and minds of all humankind. Jesus, the itinerant teacher is transformed: the Christ within his shattered body blazes forth, exploding into the universe — He is risen!

The blackened tomb is filled with radiant light, like unto the sun, blazing, blinding, life giving. He is the first born of this new creation and we are the recipients of his nourishing presence. The first gift is the knowledge that death cannot hold sway over us. The great secret that eluded the children of Adam is revealed. In our quest to be God, we dared to touch the sun and fell from grace. Conscious of death, fear ruled our hearts and alienation, our days. But now, the truth has been set free and out of the darkness of the tomb, humankind is liberated by the perfect will of Jesus the Christ. Jesus is alive! It is too awesome a truth, too wondrous to believe and yet, they experienced his risen body, glorious and eternal.

And we, too, will experience such a miracle in these days of coronavirus, if only we are willing to see.

Amen. Alleluia!

April 5, 2020

Palm Sunday

This is the beginning of Holy Week and today, we are getting ready for the story of the Passion. It is the greatest story ever told and so, in this week, we tell it slowly, we ruminate on it, we resist the temptation to go directly to the resurrection, where we are likely to move too quickly through the grief and we forget to experience the passion — the suffering, and then we fail to enter into the story with compassion — suffering with those who walked this way of Jesus. Today we get straight to the heart of it — the man who would be a new kind of king, will instead be crucified and once again, we are witnesses to this tragic ending and miraculous rising.

Before we read it, I want to frame it. The capacity for suffering and for suffering with — the expression of the deepest emotions defined and modeled for us by this one we call Jesus is foundational for Christian people. For many in our culture and for much of the world, the Christian faith is often seen as a weak pietistic stuffiness that presents itself as either morally rigid and limply relative. Christians are either Bible toting, passive-aggressive “do-gooders”or empty proclaimers of pious platitudes. The truth is that neither of these is at the heart of the Christian life — both are distortions and aberrations.

What much of our culture can’t imagine is that religious persons can be filled with great passion that is expressed in the form of the most beautiful, most courageous, most compassionate acts and the most sublime words imaginable.

This week, this Holy Week is the time we remember the heights to which humanity can ascend and the depths to which we can fall. And during this Holy Week, I ask that you read and listen, watch and study the life of this man Jesus. Telescoped into the span of one week, we will see what a human being can do. We will see the real potential of human life expressed in this one man, Jesus. In this single week we will see humanity at its best and worst.

But keep your eyes on Jesus, for here is what we know — we know for certain that he was a human being, flesh and blood, just as we are. In fact, his passion so completely expressed what it means to be human, we take on faith that he is the very Word of God, the expression of divinity in human form. He sets the bar for our own human lives and calls us to enter our own humanity with as much passion. He teaches us how to live and how to die, and in that living and dying, how to be human. And his willingness to go to the cross for us, sets us free from the nagging guilt that it’s not possible. His very passion for life is so great that through the miracle of grace, the unmerited favor of God, he rises from death so that we might see only life eternal. When we keep our eyes on the one who has shown us how to live, we too are given the promise of life eternal.

We are watching those who are on the front lines of this pandemic, living and dying with such passion — offering their lives for the sake of others. This generation may be remembered for the Coronavirus or it may be remembered for those who gave their lives for others — those who walked the way of Jesus out of love for others. Make this week holy as you remember the greatest story ever told and you pray for those suffering servants who are dying so that others might live.

Amen.

March 1, 2020

Lent 1

Matthew 4:1-11

Grace Church

“First communion day is the happiest day of your life because of the Collection and James Cagney at the Lyric Cinema.” Thus, begins one of the most wondrous moments in the Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Angela’s Ashes. Frank McCourt continues: The night before I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep, till dawn. I’d still be sleeping if my grandmother hadn’t come banging at the door.

“Get up! Get up! Get that child outa the bed. Happiest day of his life an’him snorin’ above in the bed.” I ran to the kitchen. “Take off that shirt,” she said. I took off the shirt and she pushed me into a tin tub of icy cold water. My mother scrubbed me, and my grandmother scrubbed me. I was raw. I was red. They dried me. They dressed me in my black velvet First Communion suit with the white frilly shirt, the short pants, the white stockings, the black patent leather shoes. Around my arm they tied a white satin bow and on my lapel they pinned the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a picture of the Sacred Heart, with blood dripping from it, flames erupting all around it and on top, a nasty-looking crown of thorns.

“Come here till I comb your hair,” said Grandma. “Look at that mop, it won’t lie down. You didn’t get that hair from my side of the family. That’s that North of Ireland hair you got from your father. That’s the kind of hair you see on Presbyterians. If your mother had married a proper Limerickman you wouldn’t have this standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair.” She spat twice on my head. “Grandma, will you please stop spitting on my head.” “If you have anything to say, shut up. A little spit won’t kill you. Come on, we’ll be late for the Mass.

We ran to the church. My mother panted along behind with Michael in her arms. We arrived at the church just in time to see the last of the boys leaving the altar rail where the priest stood with the chalice and the host, glaring at me. Then he placed on my tongue the wafer, the body and blood of Jesus. At last, at last. It’s on my tongue. I draw it back. It stuck. I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the minister’s voice, “Don’t let that host touch your teeth, for if you bite God in two, you’ll roast in hell for eternity.” I tried to get God down with my tongue, but the priest hissed at me. “Stop that clucking and get back to your seat.”

God was good. He melted and I swallowed Him and now, at last, I was a member of the True Church, an official sinner. Things didn’t get better for Frank McCourt that day for after breakfast he got sick. He continues:  She dragged me through the streets of Limerick. She told the neighbors and passing strangers and pushed me into the confession box. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s a day since my last confession.” “A day? And what sines have you committed in a day, my child?” “I overslept. I nearly missed my First Communion. My grandmother says I have standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair. I threw up my first communion after breakfast. Now Grandma says she has God in her backyard and what should she do?”

“Ah…ah…ah, tell your grandmother to wash God away with a little water and for your penance say one Hail Mary and on Our Father. Say a prayer for me and God bless you, my child.” I asked mam, “Can I go now and make the Collection? I want to see James Cagney.” Grandma says, “You can forget about the Collection and James Cagney because you’re not a proper Catholic the way you left God on the ground. Come on, go home.” Frank McCourt did get into the Lyric Theater to see James Cagney but only after he committed one more sin on that first communion day. It would not be his last.

I do believe there is no word in all the world that is more misunderstood than sin. Frank McCourt’s story of Irish Catholic sin is simply a variation on a theme that can be found in every denomination, in every corner of Christendom. In fact, we are obsessed with the identification of sins. In 1958, there was a book published by the title Sins of the Day. It consisted of sins, divided into categories such as “The Teacher” “The Manager” “Unmarried People” “The Lawyer” – overcharging was one of those sins – and even, “The Minister.” Some sins included: Overstaying one’s welcome, behaving in a vain manner, refusing to fill in forms on the grounds that they are a waste of time. One sin was not keeping one’s desk tidy.

Even among good balanced Anglicans, there is confusion: some want to hold fast to narrow Catholic sin, others want to dismiss sin as a holdover from a less enlightened era. But virtually all miss the point. We rehearse the story of The Fall every year – several times a your and still we don’t get it. The first thing you need to know is that the Hebrew people did not give a definition of sin in Genesis, they told a story, the story of Adam – humankind – and Adama, the earth, the soil. The Hebrew language simply doesn’t allow for abstractions – this is the story of how things came to be the way they are. The narrative is told in poetic form, lost to us in most translations.

Two things stand out – the man and the women chose not to trust God and instead sought to be like God! The second thing we must remember is that these characters are our ancestors. Like North Ireland, Presbyterian hair, we are stuck with them. Their sin and ours is our unwillingness to accept the limitations of our humanity – abandoning it for dreams of grandeur and the seductive lie that we can be like God. The nature of sin is that it separates us from God, from one another, from creation and from self. To argue over whether or not a particular thing is sin is to miss the point. The reality is that we ARE separated. The Bible is the story of how that separation is overcome and how we are restored.

That leads to today’s Gospel reading. We leap ahead, leaving the man and the woman in order to meet another ancestor. There is someone else who has claimed us as his kin, and we hear his story today. How the Spirit lead him not into a garden but into the wilderness, where he, too, was tested, only he passed. His test was harder. There was nothing clear cut as a tree to stay away from and no specific instruction from God about what or what not to do. Yet somehow, he managed to say no to three tantalizing possibilities and came out of the desert the same person he had been when he in, he was the beloved Son of God.

There was a line draw in this story as clearly as there was in the first one. Jesus could play God or he could remain human. He could go buzzing around in the air, turning the desert into a gourmet bakery or he could keep his feet on the ground and live with the ache in the pit of his stomach, as hungry and tired as anyone would be after a six-week fast.

Adam stepped over the line and found humanity cursed, Jesus stayed behind the line and made humanity a blessing. One man trespassed – the other stayed put. One tried to be God, the other was content to be a human being. And the irony is that the one who tried to be God did not do too well as a human being, while the one who was content to be human became known as the Son of God.

So, here we are – children of Adam and brothers and sisters of Jesus. Sinners and redeemed. Fallen and saved. That’s the story and it must be told in its entirety – full of the complexity of a great drama. It is, in fact, the greatest story ever told and all of it matters. In this season of self-discipline and preparation, take time to consider your ancestry. Look in that mirror and see. See Adam and Eve, naked and hiding, see that North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair – unruly and out of control. And then, take a closer look, you may not be ab le to see it with the naked eye, but for those who have eyes to see and hearts to believe it is there. It is the sign of salvation for all of us – a small cross, lightly drawn across the forehead of humanity – for remember the rest of the story: There was once born in David’s royal city a savior and while we were yet sinners he came and lived for us and died for us and marked us as his own forever.

As we move through this season of Lent, accept your humanity and your ancestors. And remember above all things, there is nothing that can separate you from the love of God. For in the words of Paul to the Romans: For I am convinced that neither death, not life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.   Amen.

February 23, 2020

Last Sunday after Epiphany

Matthew 17:1-19

Grace Church

It was so good to return to sunny Lopez…what happened this morning? At six o’clock, as Teddy was beginning to stir, the wind blew, the rain fell and I found myself outside with two very unhappy Tibetan spaniels. Only yesterday we were running and playing in the garden, today, we are outside in a freezing rain with the wind howling.

This is a bit of the metaphor for today’s gospel from Matthew, his version of the Transfiguration. Six days earlier, in response to the question, “Who do people say that I am?” Peter declared, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!” Peter, always the optimist, sees sunny skies ahead for this teacher. When Jesus then offers the first of three predictions of his passion, Peter resists, “God forbid it, Lord!” And Jesus responds, “Get behind me Satan.” Poor Peter, setting his mind on human things. In this moment, the first glimpse of stormy weather is seen.

Today, we find this same Everyman — Peter off on a mountaintop adventure with Jesus, James and John. In Matthew’s telling, and, as is often the case with Matthew, Peter is again the foil. This moment of transfiguration, often considered to be a resurrection appearance — is the moment that challenges us all — for, like Peter, we want the sunny story, the easy path, the mountaintop experience.

The beauty of scripture is truth is told. Sometimes actual events are reported but often the scriptures simply open our eyes to the truth. And the truth of this story, this story of the transfiguration is not whether or when it happened, what matters is that this truth is Jesus, fully human and radiant with divine light shines forth for us to see and believe.

This last Sunday in Epiphany finds us on top of the world. As we gaze at the radiant face of the one we have been following all these many weeks, we catch a glimpse of glory that is ours, the glory that filled us at creation, the very breath of God. Jesus is revealed to us during this season of Epiphany and he will offer himself to us in the season of Lent. And that’s the story we resist. We know somewhere deep down inside things are going to get messy — the weather will turn on us — the wild ride from blazing star and wise men kings, the waters of baptism and that crazy prophet John, the wedding feast with endless wine, the crowds and the miracles, the visions of the kingdom of God from the mount, we know this is all too good to be true.

So, we say, “Let’s stay up here, on top of the world. It is good for us.” Of course it is, because we know there is trouble down below. We sense this could go very wrong, that storm clouds are brewing below. What we don’t yet understand and don’t want to know is the price of glory.

Here is Jesus, revealed to us, fully revealed, fully human, fully reflecting the image of God, and filled with light, radiant like the sun. And we stand in awe, longing to stay in the moment. Glory before us.  In other words, the radiance of the divine dwells in Jesus. And rather than follow Jesus in this way, we long to make him an idol — we quickly turn away from the alternative — the journey off the mountaintop, the journey to Jerusalem, the journey to his passion.

Jesus is revealed and Peter, on our behalf says, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Before he could shut his mouth, they were overshadowed by a bright cloud: “This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him.” In Matthew’s version, the three collapse in a heap and Jesus speaks. His words are clear: “Get up and do not be afraid.” The storm may be coming but I am with you and you will come off this mountain and it will be stormy but then, the sun will rise.

We long for glory but we do not want to pay the price. Glory will come to us as we turn our eyes and ears and heart to God. Each of our own stories will have an ending, each story closes with a death but our stories have an epilogue that reads: And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. And they saw a young man dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side, and he said to them. Do not be afraid, you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth who was crucified. He has been raised.  From this mountain of glory we must come down and finish the journey. As Jesus has been made manifest on this last Sunday of Epiphany, so, too we must go through the disclosure of who we are during this season of Lent.

Can we bear the scrutiny of our words and deeds? Can we open ourselves to the radiant light of day and be seen? Our Lenten journey to Jerusalem is not simply following Jesus to the cross as passive observers. We are called to expose our own hearts and minds on the way. And in this journey we must face the fact that we are likely to abandon and betray Jesus. When we are ready to acknowledge that fact, then we will be ready to bear the good news, his death brings us into the light, his sacrifice is our salvation, his resurrection, our hope.

Over the next forty days we prepare ourselves for the truth about our humanity. We, individually and collectively, look in the mirror and accept that there is more, that there is a path, that there is the means and that we are not along. All of this leads us to glory, for we, too, are called to reflect the radiant light of the creator. Our faces will shine and we shall be radiant in our own way. Often we speak of ingesting the body of Christ.

Today I invite you into another image — imagine that you are absorbed into the glory of God. By Jesus, and with Jesus, and in Jesus, we bring glory to God as we are enveloped in that Glory. At the same time, deep within ourselves, we know that we, too, are the beloved children of God. And we hear the voice of God say, “These are my children, the beloved, and with them, I am well pleased.”

Thanks be to God, alleluia, alleluia!

Epiphany 6A, February 16, 2020

Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 119:1-8; 1 Corinthians 3:1-9; Matthew 5:21-37

Fons and I were on the Mount of the Sermon on the Mount last May. Our pilgrimage to Jordan, Israel and Palestine included many of the sites important in the life of Jesus, including the Mount of Beatitudes. It is near Capernaum on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee.

The Sea is a huge lake surrounded mostly be farmland on rolling hills that come right down to the water’s edge. Mid-way up the side of one of those hills is a shallow cave. It overlooks the Sea and the acoustics around that cave are great. About half our group walked to the cave from the guest house where we were staying.

Henry, a biblical scholar, joined us there and led us to the cave.

His explanation of what happened there was what I want to share with you today.

Jesus was the next Isaiah, a prophet in most people’s eyes. His mission was to reform the faith in God that already existed. Get Israel back to being the holy nation of God. Live by the Ten Commandments, Make the religious leaders fair and compassionate again.

But, the reform Jesus had in mind went further than that. Worldly life is full of greed, power plays, and mean-spirited people, even in religious circles. Always was, always will be. Nations rise and fall. Countless civilizations rose and fell before the time of Jesus. Think of how many since then. Could any of that be changed? Realistically?

No, but Jesus had a spiritual reformation in mind. Reforming individuals. Obeying the law as a rote practice is okay. But, hey, everyone can do that. If not because of the values in the laws themselves, perhaps because we fear the consequences of not behaving well.

Jesus talked about intention in what we do. It isn’t enough not to do wrong, thinking about doing wrong is already putting your spirit in a bad place.

We’re pretty good at the practice of the law. But how do we stack up with obeying the Commandments the way Jesus sees it?

Loving God: There is only one God. Not a physical idol. No using God’s name when you swear (oops). and take a rest one day a week, the Sabbath. Okay, I am not good with this.

Sure I usually go to church on Sundays and do believe in one God. But there are lots of distractions in my life – vacation, or doing laundry, or supporting my kids playing sports on Sunday, working in a hospital, a store or restaurant – or having someone else work there so I can shop.

My intent could be to slow down on Sundays, because I remember that God knows I need a day off to give thanks for all that I am and all that I have. Plus get my energy back.

Loving neighbor: or ‘keep society in tact’

Respect your parents and elders.

No murder, adultery, stealing, envy, or slander. Here we go. All those things that require respect, self discipline, honoring boundaries, and placing ourselves in second place.

Could I hate someone enough that I act on it? No, but dwelling on that hate or criticism or anything in between, means my spirit is in a bad place. Drooling over beautiful or handsome actors means I’m not paying attention to the people I actually know and love. Envying people who have more than I do, are prettier than I am, are wealthier than I am. If envy becomes an obsessive, I can’t find joy in where I am in my own life. Again, putting my spirit in a bad place.

If we hate, envy, or discredit the people we meet, we are abusing a creation of God, and that means abusing or misusing God.

We just can’t do that. But we do. That means we have been breaking a lot of the commandments meant to keep us whole and holy creations of God.

The Sermon on the Mount elevated the status of all those who are weak, in mourning, seeking faith, creating peace – normal people, simple people. Elevating them to being the light of the world. Anyone can have faith and strength through God, with a spirit of pure intention.

How can we create intention?

Reconciliation. In Alcoholics Anonymous, there is a great emphasis on reconciliation. You have to acknowledge that your behavior has hurt others, and you need to make amends with them. It gives you both peace. It takes away the guilt that you have from hurting others.

If that doesn’t work, “Don’t go away mad, just go away.” Jesus anticipates that reconciliation doesn’t always work. Some relationships can never be mended. Brush the dust off your sandals and walk away. Don’t let the grudge or hatred or bad feelings keep you from returned your soul to being whole, from being fully in God’s hands.

Joshua’s rallying call to the Hebrews, “Join me and God!” makes us want to jump up and be part of the good guys, the A-team. When we get on the field, though, the requirements get tough. Do we still want to be there? Or do we want to retreat to the stands. We can cheer (or pray) that others do the work, the heavy lifting so to speak. And maybe that is all we can do. Intention is important. And it makes our Christian faith a lot easier to follow.

We want to help others. We influence our friends to help others. We can change our leaders so that they help others.

Try reconciling with God. “All that we have done, in thought, word and deed. Not loved you or our neighbors with our whole heart. We’re sorry and want to try again.”

Here we are, ten days before Lent. What timing!

Joshua asks us – “are you ready to follow God?”

Jesus asks quietly, “Is your intent to be 100% in all you do?  Then promise to turn around and start paying attention to your life in God.”

We have ten days to decide how we will serve God in this Lent.

February 2, 2020

Epiphany 4A

Matthew 5:1-12

Grace Church

Last week I told you about my son Michael — my biological child, my wild Epiphany child. Today I am going to tell you a story about my other son, my adopted son — not a wild child, a fragile one. Alan was blessed with a remarkable gift, a gift that could only be imagined by the creator of heaven and earth — a gift of music that literally filled him and linked him inexorably to the mystical realm of heaven.

Alan began playing the organ when he was six years old and playing professionally at nine. He played the organ at the Crystal Cathedral every Sunday morning for ten years and in that time, set off on a journey that took him around the world, playing great organs everywhere, dazzling in his youth and exuberance. In 1994 he arrived in Phoenix to study with Bill Brown and Kimberly Marshall in a doctoral program at ASU.  When I began my time at Trinity Cathedral in 1995, Alan had been there a year — he was twenty-nine, I was forty-eight and we embarked on a spiritual journey of blessing that was grounded in humility, compassion, mercy, peace and purity of heart. We sought to enact in the daily rhythm of the cathedral a spirit of tenderness as we cared for the beloved children of God of Trinity Cathedral and we each found strength in the broken heart of the other.

Alan and I were kindred spirits and after his mother and father died a year apart, he said, “I’m not ready to be an orphan, will you be my adopted mother?” I promised I would do my best, knowing that we are all the adopted children of God. Embedded in the beatitudes is the promise of a life of being beloved of God; we enter into this sacred life of blessing, not expecting a life free from pain and suffering but a life of offering, a life of surrender, humility, a life of radical grace that comes only from letting go of ego and control for the sake of others.

Alan and I honored that call as companions in the way of Jesus for twenty-four years. We worked together for fourteen years, ten at Trinity and four at Saint Mark’s Cathedral. Whether together or apart, we spoke almost every day and my biological children called Alan their other brother.  Carolyn and Sandra each had a very special relationship with Alan, knowing him, not as a musician but as a beloved brother.

On January 14, Alan entered into the larger life of the kingdom of God and I am clinging to these words of Jesus: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,” as I prepare to make the public offering of remembrance at his funeral on February 18 in Phoenix.

This day is a bit of a paradox as we celebrate the feast of presentation of the Jesus in the temple and Jesus preaching from the mountaintop. After these many weeks of preparing the way, celebrating the birth, meeting angels, shepherds and kings, we finally encounter Jesus, not as a promise or an infant or a young boy — today we meet Jesus on the mountaintop, in his prime, laying the foundation of the great reversal he called the Kingdom of God. It is on this Sunday we see God revealed before our eyes and we discover the absolute radical nature of the Kingdom of God. And then tonight, we will sit in this space in the dark and, like Simeon encountering Mary and her first born son, we will feel our hearts stirred.  Simeon proclaimed, “Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised; for these eyes of mine have seen the Savior. A light to enlighten us all.”  These beautiful words of the Nunc dimittis prepare us for the explosive power of Jesus on the mountaintop, proclaiming a new vision of heaven and earth — a vision of blessing and belovedness.

Everything we might have expected about God’s kingdom is turned upside down. And even in death, we find comfort, for as I offered a few weeks ago, Jesus has called us first to see all reality through the eyes of the eternal realm of the kingdom of God. We are called not to fix our eyes on this moment but on the infinite promise that God is always with us. It is this promise that is proclaimed on the mountaintop and it is this promise that allows us to carry on even in the midst of grief. We are the beloved community that is called to live and proclaim God’s blessing at all times and for all people.

We are not simply the recipients of blessing, we are called to be signs of God’s love in the world — expressions of the eternal and infinite love that created heaven and earth.

My favorite theologian, that wild Dane Soren Kierkegaard sets the part in his discourse: Purity of heart is to will one thing. As he quotes Ecclesiastes 3:11, “God made all things beautiful in his time; also God has set eternity within the human heart.” Kierkegaard says,”Before the quiet gaze of the Eternal, there is no hiding place.” It is this eternal one, this one we see in the person of Jesus the Christ is where we begin — in the promise, in the infant child, on the mountaintop and even in our grief, we shall see God and know that “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

And so, on this Sunday of Presentation and Proclamation, we live full of grace and I know my dear adopted son, Alan is rejoicing in the presence of all that is holy and I remember that he made an offering of his extraordinary gift of music — pulling out all the stops and filling us with joy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Amen.

January 26, 2020

Matthew 3

Epiphany 3A

Grace Church

Although my daughters have been providing sermon material and stories for decades, today I want to speak to you about sons. I have one son, Michael — Michael is my wild child, my wild Epiphany child.

This is the child who called me shortly before the Christmas break in his first year of college and dropped the fraternity bomb — “Hey, Mom, it’s your son. Oh, by the way, I rushed and joined a fraternity last night and I might need five hundred dollars.” That was a shock. This was the same child who spoke disparagingly about sophomoric idiots who joined fraternities. In fact, I couldn’t remember that he had ever said a positive thing about fraternities. And, on the heels of that announcement, there was this one, the band —The Pinch. He calls and tells me he’s in a band. I am stunned and asked the typical mom questions, “But what instrument do you play?” “Play? None, I’m the lead singer and songwriter!” “What? Singer and songwriter? When did that happen? You dropped out of band in the seventh grade. I didn’t even know that you could still read music?” “Read music? Why would I need to do that!”

Where does this impulsive behavior come from? Unpredictable. Michael has always done this sort of thing. Diving into the deep end of the pool at eighteen months. Climbing over the fence at daycare at 22 months. Rushing headlong into one adventure after another, pulling others into the whirlwind of activity. For years we were on the first name basis with the emergency room staff — stitching up, X-rays, crutches and casts, concussions and chaos.

Unpredictable, impulsive, always doing the unexpected. When he announced he would be attending law school he called again, “Hey mom, it’s Michael, you know, your son.” Frequent check-ins were not his style — “So I’m thinking about maybe going to law school, in Vermont — I might need some money” “What? Vermont, isn’t that all the way across the country, have you ever been there?” Frankly this was the most radical thing — Michael was my socially gifted child. He was a junior in college when he discovered there was a direct correlation between the time he spent in the library and his grades. Law school? This just didn’t compute with my alternative rock band, snow boarding, absolutely charming, party loving son. My beautiful, wild spontaneous son — a lawyer?

Michael leaps into the unknown. He is my Epiphany child. He is my metaphor for Epiphany. Epiphany is the season of reckless journeys. Wild, impulsive behavior toward stars and rivers and an encounter with the living God. Epiphany is the season when we celebrate our going to God — moving forward toward the light.

Beginning with those wisemen kings, it is our story about the truth of dreams and the longings of the human heart to see God. Epiphany is the festival of dreamers. People who hear voices, see visions and impulsively follow stars. Epiphany is the festival of childhood and the intuitive knowing that outstrips the intellect and leaps headlong into dreams and into the river of Jordan.

Who but impulsive, naïve, childlike persons and mad magicians envision a child who on love alone will build a kingdom, whose pierced hand will hold, no scepter, whose hallowed head will wear no crown, who will bring us new life and receive our death, whose Kingdom belongs to those in need? Who could imagine such a thing?

Epiphany is the time we celebrate the story of journeys taken by those who seek after God’s reign. How could my wild Epiphany child survive in this world? And then I thought about my life — off to seminary at 25 with two babies before women were even being ordained? And then, years later, ordained and called again and again into service of this Jesus who calls us to this reckless life — Texas, Arizona, NYC, LA, Seattle, San Diego and Lopez Island.

My son and I each have had lives filled with dreams and visions of a better world — a world of relentless love. Michael is a lawyer, married, father of two amazing little girls and he and his wife, Jen are unafraid of living all out, full tilt and of course, here I am, with you. I need you to know that I was called, called to be here to help you imagine a future that may require following the wild star.

So, who is it that asks that we place our confidence in the inexplainable and surrender our lives to what we cannot see? Who calls us to live for the impossible and drop everything for a dream? Who seeks our attention and will not let us go but pursues us with relentless love?

Jesus calls us “in our joys and in our sorrows, days of toil and hours of ease, still he calls, in care and pleasures, ‘Christian love me more than these.’ ‘Christian, love me more than these.’”

Epiphany is an invitation to go on a journey we cannot order or control, following a way we cannot fully comprehend. The call as seen in today’s gospel is a reckless one. Contented fisherfolk, casting their nets into the Sea of Galilee. The next day Simon and Andrew, James and John are following Jesus. Dropping everything. This is the kind of behavior I expect from Michael. They leave behind everyone. Reckless behavior. And Jesus, what was he thinking? What kind of followers would these people be? Had he checked them out beforehand? Did he know if they were bright enough, competent enough, dependable enough to be disciples? I think not! What reckless and impulsive behavior on all sides. Jesus simply says, “Follow me” and they follow. No creed to believe, no doctrine to adhere to, not dogma to accept, no contracts to sign, no background check into their worthiness. “Follow me” and they did it, immediately.

What fools they must have been. Leaving everything. Didn’t they know that it would cost them everything? Didn’t they know that their world would be forever changed?

“Follow me…follow me…follow me…” the words ring though the ages.  Where are we going? What will it cost? Why this way? “Follow me…follow me…follow me…”and here we are today. Do we dare? Do we really dare to follow the one who still calls us to leave everything? Do we dare follow one who standards are so low that all are welcome?

But here is the truth: we will follow someone or something in this life. It is inevitable — money, power, fame, beauty, immortality. We are constantly being persuaded to follow one path or another. We are relentless pursued by Madison Avenue, Wall Street or Hollywood. Do not be deceived — you will choose a defining center, we all do.

The question before us today is this: Are you willing to risk following the path of the one who called us to see heaven itself? Are you willing to center your life on something so reckless as to promise a glimpse of the glory of God? If the answer is yes, then I promise that life will never again be the same and you will be changed forever. The price you will pay is everything — the gift you will receive is immeasurable joy.  The invitation to follow Jesus is an invitation to come out and play. To imagine that he called Peter and Andrew, James and John away from their nets to anything less is to misunderstand the call.

It is an invitation to join with all creation in a dance filled with laughter and celebration of feasting and festivity. We follow Jesus down a path that gives life meaning and purpose, depth and joy. In fact, we are invited to become like children. Perhaps my son Michael has known that secret all along.

Amen.

January 12, 2020

The Feast of Epiphany

Matthew 2:1-12

Grace Church

Today we celebrate the Magi, the gifts and the star, and I want to wade into the deep end of the pool and bring some gravitas into these last moments of this mystery of Christmas and the Feast of Epiphany. So, as we say in Godly Play, watch where I go to get this story so that you know where to find it. (Place the crowns on the wise guys.) Yes, this is what greeted me when I arrived back from Phoenix and straight into the finance committee meeting. And yes, I joined in with my own contribution, a halo, of course. I’d have to be an angel to put up with these guys.

This is a moment where I choose to enter more deeply into the mystery of Christmas, into this story so richly textured, so mythic in nature, this sacred story that can’t simply be told, enacted and then put back on the shelf until next year. For the true nature of myth is a symbolic but concrete presentation of the union of the finite and the Infinite. What story has a more powerful way of revealing and concealing the glorious dance of the Infinite God with God’s creatures, made of the earth and infused with spirit — body, finite and limited, and spirit, infinite and indefinable — these humans  who can reach to the heavens and embrace the union of the infinite and the finite? What story can better sustain our lives from cradle to grave than this story?

This story of the birth, life, death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ brings together the infinite and the finite, the indefinable and the defined. God in humanity made manifest! This is Epiphany — God in humanity made manifest — the infinite and the finite shown forth, not as a single miracle but as a testimony of all reality. And that is what we often miss in the flurry of getting ready, in the production of a pageant and in the exhaustion of food, family and fun.

When we get to Epiphany, we are already beginning to think about Lent. The crèche is put away, the costumes are boxed up for another year and the greens are finally tossed, dried out reminders of our favorite time of year. For these many weeks we have been immersed in the holiday spirit and often miss the power of the myth. I’m anxious to redeem this word myth for it is an important word for the contemplative life.

I quote from Beatrice Bruteau who writes about myth, metaphysics and mysticism: “All three have to do with the great basic fact of being, that being is both Infinite — transcendent of all form and therefore inconceivable and unspeakable — and possessed of a multitude of expressive, intelligible, often beautiful, sometimes conflicting forms.” She goes on to say, “Receiving and assimilating myth is itself an unconscious experience of the union of the finite and the Infinite. For the mythic embodies the presence of the Infinite, the undefined, the unspeakable, in the artistic guise of the finite, the defined, the variously spoken.”

And most importantly, “The reality that the myth means to present to us cannot be captured and pinned down and interpreted as a single fixed meaning. The myth seems to be rich with endless particular interpretations, yet it remains a singly glimpsed reality, a unitary window on the Great Ultimate.

And for us, today, that is what we experience on this feast day of Epiphany — we hear this story again, a story we know by heart and have experienced year after year — a story bigger than the Magi and King Herod and the star that guided the way — for we, too, are to be found in this story, we, too, are Magi and we, too, find murderous ways to avoid dealing with this child in the manger, we, too, find ourselves in this scene of shepherds and angels. That is the power of myth that doesn’t let us be observers but draws us into the story. Mythic consciousness liberates the mind from the literal, one-dimensional, fixed, denotative interpretative habits of our culture.

We are called to look beyond the question of what happened to the question of what the story means, especially how it sets before us the great mystery of the intersection of the finite and the Infinite. And we must remember this second thing about myth is that it is not about somebody else, it is about us. This story is about us — the secret about this divine life is that it is already in us. That was Jerome Berryman’s question sixty years ago at Princeton Seminary: “What if it’s not about what we put into a child’s head but about what’s already there? The sacredness of each child, holiness waiting to be released.” For sixty years Jerome has been creating a way to the contemplative life for all of us.

For those of us who stumbled upon this contemplative life and for those who seek it with great in, there is one more thing. It is about a reorientation of our lives. We have been taught to see that we are first and foremost “finite” — “limited and finite.” And secondly, we are taught that we are part of the Infinite oneness. Bruteau has eloquently turned this idea upside down, suggesting that we see our primary identity as part of the Infinite. She offers this perspective: “What the myths say about the finite and the Infinite, more or less explicitly, is that the Infinite comes first and its expression in the finite follows.” We are used to thinking that the real thing, the primary thing, is whether something actually took place in historical time — the finite expression precedes meaning but what the myths say is that meaning comes first and expression comes afterwards.

Eternity is not build on time but time on eternity. The question is not, “Did that event happen in the past? But, is that meaning always happening, is it eternally true?” Thus, a particular historical event is a kind of sacrament of the eternal truth. It is the Eternal that is primary and history, the finite and temporal, that is secondary.

Hard but here is what I want you to consider: Can we reorient ourselves, our thinking from the perspective of the Infinite — what is eternally true — in this very simple way, can we attempt to see as God sees? Can we see through the eyes of Christ? Can we seek to see the eternal through the eyes of the Magi, who traveled a long distance because they perceived in the heavens something Infinite and Eternal? Can we tell this sacred story — this myth that holds heaven and earth together as one — and find the Holy Child in everyone we meet?

And finally, can we imagine that our own stories also contain the mythic promise of a sacred child who sees with the eyes of God?

Amen.