Author: Rosemary Lovelace

Whitsunday – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the Day

Almighty God, on this day you opened the way of eternal life to every race and nation by the promised gift of your Holy Spirit: Shed abroad this gift throughout the world by the preaching of the Gospel, that it may reach to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 14:8-17, 25-27

Philip said to Jesus, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, `Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.”

“I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this lovely Pentecost Sunday. We are so very glad you are here, and if you are visiting with us today, a warm and heartfelt Holy Family welcome. Please do introduce yourself and let us get to know you a bit.

Today we celebrate the Holy Spirit among us, and one metaphor is the Fire of Pentecost. Fire is, of course, a paradox. The “paradox of Pentecost fire” refers to the seemingly contradictory nature of the Holy Spirit’s power at Pentecost, which is described as both a consuming fire and a transforming, loving presence. This fire is described in Acts 2:2-3 as a “sound like the rush of a mighty wind” and “tongues as of fire” that rested upon the apostles. While the fire appears to be a force of destruction, it is also used to empower the disciples to share the Gospel message, which is a symbol of God’s love and grace. Fire, in this case, is not meant to burn and destroy, but to transform and empower. The apostles were empowered by the Holy Spirit to speak in different languages, a gift that enabled them to share the message of Jesus to people from all over the world. Moreover, in this case, fire represents the Holy Spirit’s love, which is a powerful force of grace and compassion. It is a force that draws people to God and encourages them to live in accordance with God’s will. The fire of the Holy Spirit is also not just a force of divine power, but also a force that calls for self-giving and sacrifice. Just as the disciples were willing to leave their lives and jobs to follow Jesus, the fire of the Holy Spirit requires a willingness to be used by God, even at the cost of personal comfort. 

Pentecost highlights the connection between God, the disciples, and the people they encountered. The fire represents the unity of the Church and the shared experience of encountering God’s power. It also highlights the connection between individuals and the broader community of believers despite many, many differences across that broader community, just as there are many differences among us, different gifts, graces, and expressions of the Spirit. 

Let me tell you about another experience of fire, one I recalled on our recent trip to visit family in Montana. On this day, we paused on the trail—tired, hot, and momentarily liberated from the weight of our heavy packs—and I sat down on a scorched, fallen log, grateful for the respite, in what only three years earlier had been a verdant, old growth Montana forest. Now, the charred remains of spruce, lodge-pole pine, and fir were all that I could see. Burned sentinels of formerly majestic trees rose ahead and above us, and those no longer standing seemed to litter the forest floor as if some great force had arbitrarily tossed them and let them lay where they fell. Chaos and destruction seemed all around. I found myself feeling sad, and lamenting the loss of what I knew had once been a fecund, flourishing forest ecosystem.

I was in the Scapegoat Wilderness area of Montana with dear friends from graduate school, an annual, much anticipated sojourn, and this was not what I had in mind when I flew into Great Falls a few days before. I’d had visions of escaping my native southern heat by hiking in cool, pristine sub-alpine forests, and I now found myself in a forest radically changed by fire; ravaged, and permanently damaged. Or was it? Was I seeing the whole picture?

Several days prior to our Montana hike, we converged on Great Falls, Montana, where Scott, the younger brother of one of our cohort, lives and owns a small cabin in the Bob Marshall Wilderness area, about 40 miles east of Augusta, Montana. We planned to spend 5-6 days backpacking in what is affectionately called “the Bob,” some of the most magnificent wilderness in the country. When the plane landed in Great Falls I became immediately aware of dense smoke in the air, caused by wildfires in the wilderness area 80 miles away, where we were headed. Once assembled, we loaded up the truck and drove west toward the “Ahorn” fire (fires out west are typically named for a local, distinctive feature). Smoke filled the horizon, and I wondered what lay ahead. Would the USFS fight the fire, or would they let it burn? Fire management is a complex issue, as I learned during my Montana stay. The Native Americans understood that fire, though dangerous and potentially destructive, could also be life-giving. They often intentionally set fires for agricultural and hunting purposes. Following suit, the USFS understands that fire is nature’s way of restoring and replenishing the forest. Indeed, they often let fires burn themselves out, unless they threaten homes, businesses, or other human-related areas.[i] After a day at the cabin, monitoring the fire—now grown from 8,000 to 15,000 acres, we consulted the USFS and changed our backcountry route to a more southerly course, out of the Lewis and Clark Wilderness and into the Scapegoat Wilderness area.

Our hiking trip thus re-routed to the south began at a trail head in an area burned by a large and ferocious fire several years earlier. The hot sun, unimpeded by green branches, shone full-force on our single-file procession of backpackers, and served as a compelling and present reminder of the effects of the fire. It was by most outward appearances a scene of utter desolation, and a mordant reminder of the damage being wrought by the Ahorn fire to the north. It was hard to reconcile the forest, wildflowers, lovely meadows and waterfalls we left behind in a smoky haze with the pyrrhic terrain through which we now walked. And, although I knew that the sub-alpine lake where we planned to camp for the night was not in the burn area, and I consoled myself with images of a clear mountain lake, cool breezes, and a deep forest of many, many shades of green, this was a dramatically different world. Truth told it seemed to reflect aspects of my own inner state. Only a few months after the death of my mother, and the leaving for college of our younger son, I realized that I, too, was adjusting to significant changes in the emotional ecology of my own life. In some ways, the landscape around me—an ecological system amid radical change—seemed to mirror some of the changes in my world as well. I too, was in uncertain, suspect terrain.

After several miles of hiking on this hot day, we stopped for water and rest still solidly ensconced in the burn. As we sat, quietly, I began to look around. Amidst desolation, I began to see that life was everywhere, pushing upward in infinite detail, where my vision had been limited only to what was most obvious to the eye. I caught a glimpse of a mule-deer, drawn to the open terrain by the lush, waist-high vegetation now growing in the sunlight. Light, life-giving and fierce, seemed to have given birth to life lying in the trees, and in the soil, all along. Fireweed, a lovely plant, with lavender and pink flowers, that grows in just such burned-over land, was everywhere round us. How had I missed it?

As I listened, and watched, and finally began to pay attention, I heard a low, buzzing hum, and then began to see that the fireweed had attracted hundreds of hummingbirds, dodging and darting, feeding on the fireweed nectar, along with bees and other insects. Birds, marmots, chipmunks, wildlife of all kinds seemed suddenly visible, where before I had seen only blackened trees and desolation. Life seemed to be flourishing where once there I had seen only death, and destruction. And I had not seen it, in part because I had not paid attention to the moment—and to the larger, more complex picture it contained. Focusing only on the blackened trees straight ahead and above me, and on my fear of the fires to the north, fears stirred by the landscape all around me, I failed to see the profusion of life flourishing right beneath my feet. Seeds of lodgepole pines, needing only the intense heat of the fire to release their inner Chi—the deepest, essential life breath and energy, and I had both literally and metaphorically not seen the emerging new forest for the desolate, burned trees. To contend with high-impact fire, lodge-pole pine produce cones that open following exposure to extreme heat (termed ‘serotiny’). This serotinous strategy is one piece of evidence that fire was historically a prevalent disturbance across the lodgepole pine ecosystems of the Rocky Mountains. And, though trees are the big players in forests, understory species (like grasses, shrubs, and fungal networks) also have a strong evolutionary relationship with fire. Following fire, areas dominated by sprouting species (aspen, cottonwood, Gambel oak, grasses, and many shrubs) tend to rapidly return to pre-fire conditions. These species, many of which were previously rare or absent, flourish under the new conditions. Indeed, flourishing was everywhere, in stark contrast to the all too evident reminders of what had been, on the surface, a very challenging time for this forest ecosystem. The forest was exhibiting profound resilience amidst what appeared on the surface profound destruction. One needed only to quiet oneself, sit, and pay attention to see it.

When we held our first healing service, almost a year ago, I shared a brief version of this story with the 15 faithful souls gathered in our Holy Family chapel. I reminded us all—me included, that “wholeness” and healing may not always take the forms with which we are most familiar. The emphasis in these services is “care” as opposed to “cure.” By gathering—the very act of showing up—we are co-participants in healing, solace, nurture, and compassion. Even as our church, like so many churches, is in a season of transition, we are flourishing in so many ways. At the heart of this flourishing is imagination, creativity, and our intentional cultivation of relationships, and hospitality. After the service we gathered for lunch, as we will do today for our second annual Pentecost lunch and singalong, and the laughter and conversation around the table were also healing for us all. In so doing we reminded ourselves that providing opportunities for connection can heal us all, including mind, body, and spirit. We are doing more of that here, and I am so very proud of you all.

Last summer, I gathered in Northern Colorado with friends from graduate school, a trip almost canceled due to fires in the area. A week of heavy rain extinguished the fires and we were able to proceed with this annual trip. The valley where we spend the week is at 9’000’of elevation, at the confluence of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Comanche Wilderness, and was the site of significant fires in 1994 and 2022. On a trail run through the former burn area, I delighted in the young Aspen, spruce, and pines are flourishing in outward and visible signs of resilience, coming back to life in myriad ways. Dear Ones, we remain in a season of transition here at Holy Family and like the Holy Fires of Pentecost, this too can be a paradox. Atul Gawande, in his lovely book “Being Mortal,” says “For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a story. A story has a sense of a whole, and its arc is determined by the significant moments, the ones where something happens. Measurements of people’s minute-by-minute levels of pleasure and pain miss this fundamental aspect of human existence. A happy life may be empty. A difficult life may be devoted to a great cause. We have purposes larger than ourselves.” Yes, we are our stories. Let’s make our story here one of grace, and compassion, excellence, and radical hospitality. And let’s promise to do this together, shall we. Let our hearts not be troubled and be not afraid. Let’s be Pentecost people, not bound by old fears and patterns but open to what the Spirit in Her mischief may be doing here, and now. Amen.

Seventh Sunday of Easter – Year C – Katharine Armentrout

Revealing God and Our Lord Jesus Christ

One of the gifts of working on a sermon is an “aha” moment that can come…not always but sometimes.

And this past week, as I have been reading, studying, thinking and praying about the scripture we have, I had such an “aha” moment. 

Like many of you, for years I have studied Jesus, his parables, his miracles, his intellectual skirmishes with the Pharisees, His prayer times. 

And it has been about “Jesus” and what He was doing, and is doing for us. It was clear to me that Jesus was faithful to what He believed God was calling Him to do and to be.

But this week, it became clear to me that all this time in Jesus’ ministry it was much more: He was revealing to those he was with, and to us, the very nature of our God!! Who our God is, what our God desires, what our God wants.

Now… for many of you that might not be a revelation but it was to me.

Jesus, when he fed the 5,000, when He healed the paralytic, confronted the authorities, comforted the widow, raised the daughter of Jairius, He was not only being Jesus, Son of God, not only showing us the priorities of our God

but He was revealing the very nature of our God…

the very nature of our God.

Jesus, by His actions, showed us a loving, compassionate and, at times, righteous, God who was always, always desirous of a relationship with the disciples and with us.

The God Jesus reveals is not a remote, austere, ready-to-punish God…as some grew hearing about.

But our God is desirous of being in relationship, desirous of health, wholeness for all God’s people. Think of the Parable of the Prodigal Son  

And it is clear that Jesus’ relationship with God and God’s relationship with us is a priority. We see that clearly when we examine the prayer Jesus prayed at the time of the Last Supper, which is our gospel reading today from John.

First, Jesus prayed about His relationship with God, saying: “I glorified you on earth by finishing the work you gave me to do, so now Father glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in Your presence before the world existed.” 

Then he prayed that God would protect His disciples:

“ And now I am no longer in the world but they are in the world. And I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in Your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.

And then, in the final portion of the prayer which is our Gospel text this morning, Jesus prays to God for us- for those who will come to believe through the word and example of the Disciples.

“I ask not only on behalf of these, (the disciples) but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word…that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…”

And so, as we know from the stories of the disciples after Pentecost, and those faithful who came after them and from our own personal stories, we are in a continuing, loving relationship

a continuing, loving, intertwined community of God, Jesus, and the faithful down the generations.

All are very much part of the plan of the ongoing witness to God and God’s love and the saving power of life in Jesus Christ.

And that was what Paul was driven, driven, to tell the world – that in our God and in Jesus Christ is life, life abundantly.

We heard about his ministry last week with Lydia, the dealer in purple cloth. His words of teaching and prayer opened her heart to our Lord and to God’s kingdom. And she, with, all her family were baptized.

Paul and Silas remained in Phillipi, teaching and preaching and praying after his conversion of Lydia and her family. Unfortunately his presence caught the attention of a slave girl, a fortune teller with “a spirit of divination.”  She was an important source of money and profit for her owners.

The slave girl would follow Paul and Silas, and because she could see the nature of their ministry, she would cry out, “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.”

Eventually Paul became so irritated by her stalking of them that he called the spirit out from her. Thus she could no longer prophesy and that angered her owners, who saw their profits evaporate!

Then, as one writer put it, things got ugly! The owners wanted Paul and Silas punished. So, not mentioning their anger at the loss of revenue… instead cleverly accused Paul and Silas of disturbing the peace and of being Jews – a bit of Roman anti-Semitism, something we recognize today, something sure to rouse the people.

The crowd rioted and the Magistrates then ordered beaten with rods.

After a severe beating, they were thrown in prison and the magistrates ordered the jailer to keep them securely. So the jailer, following the orders put them into the very deepest cell and fastened their feet in the stocks.

Paul and Silas are a reminder, I think, that the way of discipleship is not always easy.

So about midnight, the very darkest hour both literally and figuratively, we might think that that Paul and Silas would be anxious about what would come next for them,

but no, what are they doing? They are singing hymns so that the other prisoners can hear. I can almost hear them singing “Let’s go down to the river to pray!

And scripture tells us “Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened.”

Note that Paul and Silas are in Phillipi, which is in northern Greece, and that is an earthquake zone. Now I don’t know whether God called down that earthquake or whether the earthquake was one of those, random “odd of God” moments.

Regardless of its origin, Paul and Silas remain on their benches singing hymns after the earthquake, despite being freed of their shackles. They don’t take off like some sensible folks might.

The jailer came running out with his sword, terrified and about to kill himself because he was sure they had escaped and he would be held responsible for the jail break. That could mean death for him at the hands of the authorities. But Paul yelled out, “It’s OK, we’re all still here.”

The jailer, I think overcome, called for lights and saw that they were still there, and he took them outside and asked, “What must I do to be saved.”

Now to us, this sounds like a religious question. It is a faith question, but he may have merely been asking “how do I get out of this mess?”

But Paul and Silas heard it as we do, as a religious question and answered, “Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household.” And that is what happened.

The jailer, overcome by their faith in our God and in the saving power of Jesus…overcome by their faithfulness,

brought them up into his house and set food before them; Paul and Silas spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all who were in the house. And he and his entire family were baptized, rejoicing that the jailer had become a believer in God.

How contagious is faith like that of Paul and Silas. Certainly that is what the jailer saw and felt. That is what Lydia saw and felt. Phillipi grew into a powerful Christian community, thanks to their witness.

Too soon, though, the original disciples who had followed the living Jesus, and those who were instrumental in drawing others to believe in the saving power of Jesus, died out.

And thus the witnessing to the our loving God and to the risen Christ, became the special privilege and responsibility of the community of believers they had taught.

The early Christians, who believed without actually witnessing our Lord, showed their love and commitment to our faith by their mutual caring, sharing, and by their willingness to forgive. They helped build the church of believers as we now know it.  

But these early witnesses should not be seen as “the good old days or a bygone era”. Instead, as one writer put it,  

“Their witness should challenge us. Their idealism begs to be reflected in us. Their courage urges us not allow our tentative efforts to falter…or to hold us back.” Patricia Sanchez, The National Catholic Reporter (April 3, 2009)

We are all very much part of the plan of the ongoing witness to God and God’s love which was made clear in the life and ministry of Jesus.

We are in a direct line with the Disciples and the earliest followers; and we need to proclaim our faith as loudly as they did…   

continuing to reveal the loving nature of our God and the saving power of life in Jesus Christ.

That is our call and our commitment.

In fact, the Vision Statement for Holy Family makes clear that this is our mission. It says our mission is:

“Revealing Jesus through our actions by extending His love for us through our service to others.” 

I might suggest that we could amend that vision statement to say “Revealing our God and our Lord Jesus Christ by extending their love through our service to others”…

My prayer is that we, you and I, can see ourselves as part of God’s life and the saving ministry of Jesus Christ. Don’t forget that we are who Jesus was praying for on the night before he was crucified.  And his prayer reminds us that our unity, our “oneness”, with God and with Him is to be a sign to the world of God’s love for all people in Jesus Christ. Amen

Sixth Sunday of Easter – Year C – Byron Tindall

This section of John’s Gospel is a portion of what is called the final discourses. Among other things, Jesus is preparing his disciples for what is about to take place in Jerusalem. He is also getting them ready to take over his ministry after he is gone.

In 2 weeks, on June 8, we celebrate our yearly remembrance of the coming of the Holy Spirit on the day of Pentecost. To me, it’s the birthday of the church. Jesus’s work on earth is done. He has returned to his Father in Heaven, wherever that is.

This is the arrival of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, about which Jesus discusses with his disciples in the Gospel lesson from John appointed to be read today.

The spoken word and action-teaching of Jesus is rapidly coming to an abrupt halt with his arrest, death, resurrection and ascension. But fear not, Jesus tells his followers. The Counselor, The Spirit of Truth, the Holy Ghost, and there are other names applied to her, is going to help the disciples, AND US, understand what Jesus was trying to teach them and us all along. Unlike the disciples, we don’t have to wait for that arrival.

“Peace, I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives,” Jesus told his followers. When you stop and think about the peace of Rome, it was fantastic, if you happened to be a Roman citizen. The people to whom Jesus was talking were not Roman citizens. They were the conquered, down-trodden, enslaved people whose land had been overrun and occupied by Rome.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. You heard me say to you, ‘I am going away, and I am coming to you,’” Jesus continued.

At first glance, this is a little bit confusing. But 50 days after the resurrection came the ascension, which we remember Thursday of this week. And shortly after that, we celebrate the arrival of the third person of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, the Councilor, the Spirit of Truth.

“If you loved me, you would rejoice that I am going to the Father, because the Father is greater than I,” Jesus continued. Now talk about some apparent double talk. The only way I can wrap my head around this, and some other statements recorded in the Gospels as well, is to climb out on the limb of possible heresy and to theorize that the man Jesus did not have complete and full “access” to the Christ, who we call the son, 100 percent of the time. This is hair splitting, I know, but it helps me and hopefully some of you as well.

“And now I have told you this before it occurs, so that when it does occur, you may believe,” is a statement to assist the followers through the troubling times which were immediately ahead.

I have intentionally avoided the opening part of the Gospel lesson for today from John, saving it for last.

In the lesson from Acts today, St. Paul knew he had to take off to Macedonia. I, too, feel I have to say a few words about the first portion of the Gospel lesson for today.

“Jesus said to Judas (not Iscariot), ‘Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them. Whoever does not love me does not keep my words; and the word that you hear is not mine, but is from the Father who sent me. I have said these things to you while I am still with you….”’

If we love Jesus, we must love as He loved. If we follow Jesus, we must go into the world and fight injustice and the abuse of any and all of the creation. We must stand up against everything that doesn’t “respect the dignity of every human being.”

We must fight for the rights of those who society have pushed out of the way and marginalized. Then there’s educational opportunities, and don’t forget health care.

Unless we happen to be Native Americans, we must realize that our ancestors were immigrants at one time or another. The Old Testament is pretty specific on how the sojourners are to be treated.

Our Presiding Bishop, The Most Rev Sean Rowe, put it this way. “As Christians, we must be guided not by political vagaries, but by the sure and certain knowledge that the kingdom of God is revealed to us in the struggles of those on the margins.”

Richard Rohr’s daily meditation for May 21 quoted Center for Action and Contemplation faculty member Randy Woodley. “…Scripture is one the of tools we have to understand the right way to live. I appreciate it, not as a rule book, but as stories that align with creation. The teachings and creation align with our hearts and align with good solid communities whose values are soaked in love and caring. When I see something in Scripture that looks like the opposite of that, then I have to say, ‘Well, I’m supposed to learn something about that. I’m supposed to learn how not to do that or not to act that way.’” “Those who love me will keep my word…” The choice is ours to make.

Fifth Sunday of Easter – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the DayAlmighty God, whom truly to know is everlasting life: Grant us so perfectly to know your Son Jesus Christ to be the way, the truth, and the life, that we may steadfastly follow his steps in the way that leads to eternal life; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 13:31-35

At the last supper, when Judas had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now, I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning! And welcome to Holy Family on this 5^th Sunday of Easter. If you are visiting us this morning, welcome, and please let us get to know you!

Several years ago, Vicky and I attended a clinical conference in San Francisco, and visited Grace Episcopal Cathedral for the early morning service. We were entranced by this remarkable place of worship high atop a hill overlooking the city. Inside, we explored its various chapels, a labyrinth, lovely murals depicting the history of the city, and stunningly beautiful windows. One is invited to enter this holy space, and to allow one’s spiritual imagination to come alive. The last available window space has recently been filled with an incredible stained-glass piece, depicting a spiral nebula—a lovely galaxy much like our own milky way, spinning deep in outer space. I was reminded again of the words of Eucharistic Prayer C, “the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home.” Somehow the depth and expansiveness of the cathedral seemed to contain a hint of all that, and more, a kind of mysterious engagement with the holy, as if the Spirit blew gently, constantly, lovingly through the cool depths of the very soul of the building holding us in its embrace.     

After the celebration of the Eucharist, we emerged into the brilliant northern California sunlight on a cool April morning. On a plaza just below the doors of the Cathedral is an outdoor labyrinth, encircled by Japanese Maples only now in full leaf, and they luminous in the morning light. On the perimeter of the labyrinth nine or ten Cantonese women engaged in their morning ritual of Tai Chi, the lovely, synchronous form of worship, exercise, and meditation. We stood for a long while at the top of the steps, entranced by this rich, resonant synchronicity of worship and culture: our own celebration of the Eucharist, this labyrinth of ancient Celtic origins, just like our own, and the deeply moving ritual of Tai Chi, all brought together by the grace-filled welcoming embrace of one of our Cathedrals. It was a moment of, well, grace, in every sense of the word.

My primary feeling was that of gratitude, a deep, abiding appreciation for the moment of Kairos we experienced. A moment when Spirit seemed so present, so close, so available. And that Spirit-time, that Kairos, points us to something that lies in the very heart and soul of who we are and who we aspire to be as a parish. It’s the very force that emanates from God and gives life to us all. This morning—in this light-filled space—we hear the remarkably poignant words spoken by Jesus; “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Put simply, Jesus’ incarnation of the ancient ideal was to become the pattern of how the disciples, and that includes us, were to be known to one another, the pattern, that is, of how we ought live our lives. St. Augustine once observed that Jesus loved each person he ever met as if there were no other in the entire world to love. He radically individualized and made incarnate the affection he acted out toward others. I was reminded on the steps of Grace Cathedral that morning that we are all made in the image of that extraordinary love—all of us—and this Holy space was an outward and visible sign, if you will, of the love which led Jesus to say that he would take us into himself. And yes, sometimes we all fall short of this ideal, core virtue of love and compassion, and one of the reasons for returning here, and to all of the sacred places in our lives, is to be reminded of this, and restored, and nourished to go back out into the world as the Body of Christ.

That is the place he prepares for us. Jesus’ love for us was not just a radically incarnate, individual love. It was also universal love, and it includes this planet earth, our island home, and everything in it, including Grace Cathedral, and all of our moments and glimpses of grace, and this sacred space, and each of us, who are called to be earthen vessels of that love. The eyes with which he looked upon the world were never filled with disdain or contempt. We must never forget that the opposite of love is not anger, but rather indifference. We all get angry, and sometimes that anger is instructive because it can remind us of what is most dearly, deeply important to us. Jesus loved each of us as if we were the only ones in the world, and he loved all as he loved each. And this speaks to the wisdom of C.S. Lewis, who made a distinction between what he called “need love” and “gift love.” Need love, says Lewis, is always born of emptiness, a kind of possessive acquisitiveness that is the relational, spiritual equivalent of a vacuum, like a black hole in outer space, sucking everything into its dark center. Lewis acknowledges that many times when we humans say, “I love you,” what we really mean is “I need you, I want you…you have value to me that I desire to make my own, regardless of the consequences to you.” Lewis contends that another form of love is radically, ontologically different. It is what he calls “gift love.” Rather than being born of emptiness, or impoverishment, and the needs to which they point, this form of loving is one of fullness, and grace, and gratitude. Its goal is to enrich and enhance the beloved rather than extract value. Gift love moves out to bless and increase—to enliven, nurture, and sustain the other. It is more like an ever- flowing spring than a needful vacuum. Lewis concludes by saying that the uniqueness of the biblical vision of reality is that God’s love is “gift love,” not “need love.” He reminds us that, “we humans are made in the image of such everlasting and unconditional love,” we are created Imago Dei—in the image of God. Not only are we loved by God in this way, we can choose to live our lives this way. We are most likely to fall into “need love” when we are feeling scared, or vulnerable in some way—when faced with new situations or people who are different in one way or another. But even then, amid our uncertainty, we can choose, with God’s grace, to grow into the wonder of “gift love.” CS Lewis reminds us that “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

I am so very grateful for this past year among you, and although my time is coming to a close—and it now seems I will be here a bit longer than we thought—the moments of grace we have experienced together will remain with me and have become a part of who I am, and who I am still becoming. I am so very proud of you all. Over the past year we have together done so much, loved so much, given so much. I am especially grateful for the example of my colleagues Katharine and Byron, whose steadfast faithfulness has been the essence of Gift Love. Katharine went into and came out of retirement during our time of need and gives so much of herself, blessing, nurturing, sustaining with her grace-filled pastoral heart, often behind the scenes and without recognition. Katharine, thank you so much for your compassionate love for us all and for so many at the prison, and elsewhere. Byron has been a faithful and steadfast colleague, showing up week in and week out, with good humor, wise counsel, and insightful pastoral care. Thanks to Byron, as he and Ann journey to Washington this weekend. And our colleague Ted Hackett, despite ongoing health challenges, has gracefully shown up as he has been able, giving so much to this parish, and beyond, over the years. And I want to thank all of you. I have had the graceful privilege of watching this parish flourish, thanks to so many who have stepped up and found gifts and graces you may not have imagined you had. Our newly formed Parish Life committee, yes, lay led, clergy supported, has transformed this congregation in many ways. Thank you! Along with each of the guilds and committees, from pastoral care to our vestry and nominating committee; from hospitality to our vergers and EM’s, from our Digital Ministry without which we would not be Holy Family to the wider world to our Grounds Committee, flower and altar guilds, DOK, and all those who assist the worship committee in its work, thank you! And a deep bow of gratitude to our able, talented, and steadfast parish administrator Christie who gracefully puts up with all our comings and goings, and John and our amazing choir, who have also grown and proven resilient, and open to new ideas! All these examples of selfless gift love have placed us in a good position to face the future in a time when the church—ours and all mainline Protestantism—is undergoing rapid change, and to welcome our new rector whom we are holding in our prayers. Let’s remember another moment of Gift Love, on a summer day in 1998 when more than 300 PBS stations across the nation aired a very special of Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood that featured KoKo, the sign-language using gorilla. Mr. Rogers’ visit to KoKo’s home at The Gorilla Foundation helped launch a week of programming entitled “You and I Together” which addressed the confusion and fears of young children when confronted with new situations or people who are different. The weeklong theme of “inclusion” featured KoKo and helpful talks about feeling included, no matter the nature of one’s disability, infirmity, skin color, race, gender, religion, or sexual orientation. Turned out that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was one of KoKo’s very favorite TV shows. And when this gentle Presbyterian pastor, beloved by so many, entered KoKo’s room, she immediately embraced him in a gentle gorilla hug, and in sign language said, “Love you, neighbor, KoKo love.” KoKo then bent down to help Mr. Rogers remove his shoes, as she had seen him do every day, for so many years, on his show. She then helped him remove his sweater. So, you see, gift love is available to us all and can come from unexpected sources. And with the grace of God, we can choose to embrace that love, just as KoKo embraced Mr. Rogers. Let’s be bearers of light, of grace, and of hope, shall we, no matter what the future may bring! As Leonard Cohen sang,

“Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”

And let the people of God say, Amen

Fourth Sunday of Easter – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the Day

O God, whose Son Jesus is the good shepherd of your people: Grant that when we hear his voice we may know him who calls us each by name, and follow where he leads; who, with you and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 10:22-30

At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.”

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all. Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 4^th Sunday of Easter and, of course, today we also celebrate Mother’s Day. The texts for today are full of rich images of green pastures, sheep and their shepherds, and deep, still waters. They are comforting images, for the most part. Sheepfolds, for example which form the context for this section of John’s Gospel, were located just inside or barely outside the village. Each evening all the sheep of the village would be herded into the common area, and their shepherds would take turns guarding the gate. When night fell and all was quiet and secure, the shepherd would lie down to rest at the opening of the sheepfold, becoming, as it were, the human gate for the sheep. Getting to the sheep required getting past the Shepherd. For all its limitations the metaphor of the Good Shepherd works in this sense. For like the shepherd, parents, grandparents, godparents, teachers, mentors, priests, and friends have “tended” us. Indeed, the word tend comes from the same Latin root—attendere—that gives us the word attend, and it means to pay attention, to care for, to minister, to “stretch out.” Think for a moment of those along the way who have “stretched out”—a wonderful term—to and for you. We all have such people in our lives. They have loved and taught and led and comforted and mentored us. They have tended to us by paying attention to us, by implication telling us that we matter. They have sought to prepare us for life. They demonstrated what Carl Jung would call maternal or feminine archetypes, though not all of them have been our biological mothers. And since this Sunday is also Mother’s Day, which we use as occasion to give thanks to God for all the women in our church, all those who have mothered and parented us. Understood metaphorically, not all of them have even been women. But all of them have provided for us what my colleagues in my clinical work call a “holding environment” out of which our true selves—the Divine spark given to each of us—can emerge. And in this safe context—not unlike a sheepfold—we internalize this care in such a way as to make it part of our narrative—our story. Teachers and professors, friends, coaches, colleagues …my maternal grandmother, my wife and sons, all have shepherded me, and all have helped me see the compassion and love at the heart of faith. In this context of care we discover, as Gerard Manley Hopkins said, our true voice “acting in God’s eye who in God’s eye we are.”

This is a life-long journey, one we share with the people of Israel who, after all, struggled for a home that they were always trying to find and get to, hold onto or get back to. They struggled for peace, for food, and for their faith in God. Psalm 23 was a cherished hymn for the Hebrews precisely because of the highs and lows of Israel’s history, their insatiable thirst on long desert journey’s, and their frequent rush down more manageable paths towards more manageable gods, which always led them into unmanageable trouble and lamentation. Then they would return to worship, and the story—the narrative—of their true selves as a people, would be told and retold. In a sense then, context is everything in relation both to the 23^rd Psalm and the Gospel text for today. Many people I see in my clinical practice have no trouble finding green pastures. The problem is that next the pasture over so often seems so much greener, and they are scared of missing it. We are drawn to overflowing waters in our culture of abundance, yet we so often wander thirsty, as one country music writer put it, in all this rain. It is not surprising that so many of the psalms describe the disruptive experience of being lost and found, judged and forgiven, sent away, and brought back. It is all part of the pathos of a people who got scared and lost their way, and the high drama of a God who searches to find his lost sheep.

And we get so scared, do we not, when we are afraid there will not be “enough,” even when we aren’t quite sure what enough would look like, or even what it is we are afraid we will not have enough of. Each of us has been scared. Perhaps it took the form of an illness, a call from the Drs office or a loved one, a plummeting stock market, or a call from the police late at night. Perhaps it was a letter on the kitchen counter that said, “I’m not coming back,” or a pink slip one Friday afternoon. The shadow of the valley, like the Good Friday losses of our lives, can take infinite forms. I bear witness to them in my clinical practice, and in my own life, just as you have done so in yours. In his book “The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life,” David Brooks says that he has observed two kinds of people, and for both types, as he writes, for the first type…:

…Life had thrown them into the valley, as it throws most of us into the valley at one point or another. They were suffering and adrift…Some people are broken by this kind of pain and grief. They seem to get smaller and more afraid, and never recover. They get angry, resentful and tribal….But other people are broken open. The theologian Paul Tillich wrote that suffering upends the normal patterns of life and reminds you that you are not who you thought you were. The basement of your soul is much deeper than you knew. Some people look into the hidden depths of themselves and they realize that success won’t fill those spaces. Only a spiritual life and unconditional love from family and friends will do. They realize how lucky they are. They are down in the valley, but their health is O.K.; they’re not financially destroyed; they’re about to be dragged on an adventure that will leave them transformed.

In the Gospel for today we have a description not only of how Jesus relates to us, but how we are to relate to one another. In coming to one another Jesus is to be the way: In this same passage from John, Jesus says I have come to the sheep that they might have life and have it more abundantly. We are called to be in relation to one another as Jesus is in relation to us. This is how those who cared for us remain with us: we hold their voices inside us, and we remember that we have been seen, that others have “stretched out” for us. The shepherd could lead because the sheep could hear his voice, could see him moving steadily ahead of them, and they trusted him. Ultimately, of course, we are all called to be Shepherds, all called to create together a safe sheepfold—or holding environment—within which we are nurtured, sustained, and nourished. As David Brooks writes:

Joy involves the transcendence of self. When you’re on the second mountain, you realize we aim too low. We compete to get near a little sunlamp, but if we lived differently, we could feel the glow of real sunshine. On the second mountain you see that happiness is good, but joy is better.

Each semester for many years of teaching at Columbia and in the doctoral program we shared with Emory and ITC, we covered topics such as addiction, mental illness, psychology and religion, and family systems theory. Through each module the abiding image was that of the pastoral caregiver as a shepherd, and of staying in relationship in the service of a transcendence of self in commitment to the common good. We studied, and learned together, in order to remember that it is more important to be in right relationship than it is to be right, and we can love completely without complete understanding. As Richard Rohr has said so well;

There is no other form for the Christian life except a common one. Until and unless Christ is experienced as a living relationship between people, the Gospel remains largely an abstraction. Until Christ is passed on personally through faithfulness and forgiveness, through concrete bonds of union, I doubt whether he is passed on by words, sermons, institutions, or ideas.

This past week we observed the Feast Day of Julian of Norwich, whom our weekly women’s spirituality class has also been reading. She too, was a shepherd of a kind, helping us to re-imagine our images of God, just as one of my primary images of God is informed by my own maternal grandmother. To Julian of Norwich, feminine depictions of God were not radical, subversive, or rebellious. They were obvious, inevitable, and clear. She didn’t feel the need to defend her words, she simply wrote what was revealed to her in the visions: God has masculine qualities and God has feminine qualities. Both are important, and this is a non-dualistic opening of our relationship to the Living God.

Unfortunately, it’s not so easy for most of us. We are constantly filtering our theology through what we consider to be permissible. Unlike Dame Julian, we tend to defer to precedent rather than follow the nudging’s of our own souls. We sometimes trust those in authority more than we trust ourselves if, indeed, we are even given the opportunity to explore these narratives. But the witness of Julian of Norwich asks us to be brave; to dig deep within and experience God in our guts, not just in our churches; to engage our spiritual imaginations in the pursuit of a salvation that sets us free today—not just after we are gone from this world.

Engaging with the feminine face of God does not mean discarding the masculine one. Not only is there room for both in our spiritual imaginations but Julian of Norwich would argue that there’s room for both at the same time. Dame Julian approached gender binaries playfully, with a refreshing absence of precision. She repeatedly wrote things like “Jesus births,” “he mothers,” and “Jesus as both Son and Mother.” Amid our own discomfort and hesitancies, Julian of Norwich offers an ease, a gentle reassurance, that God is much larger than our finite brains can comprehend. This God we know and love—this God we have experienced—is big enough to hold it all. The question is, can we put aside our fears and prejudices and get on board with that? Can we allow Julian, and other good shepherds, to encourage us to use our imaginations to become, in the process, more fully alive.

Yes, bearing witness, stretching out, attending, feeding, sustaining, healing, guiding, making our voices be heard. These are the tasks to which we are called in community. As the Apostle John has written, we are children of God, made in God’s image, growing as we move on in faith. We do not know what wonders God has in store for us, but we do know we are called to listen, to hear God’s voice and follow God’s lead. So let us now come to the Table of Grace with hopeful hearts as we live into the Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, and let all the people of God say, AMEN. 

Third Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins

The Collect

O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in

the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him

in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen

The Gospel: John 21:1-19

Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing…This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead…Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all. Amen. 

Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this 3^rd Sunday of Easter! I’m so glad you are joining us today. In this chapter of our lives at Holy Family, I find myself empathizing with the Disciples in ways perhaps new for me. Maybe you do so as well. We know they have been scared, and in the reading for today, they don’t recognize Jesus at first when he appears. Begging the question, when we are in a season of uncertainty and transition, can we recognize Christ in the face of the other, our sisters and brothers, and can we remain relatively non-anxious enough to lead with wisdom, and resilience, even when we may disagree with one another? And, let’s remember we have only recently emerged from an unprecedented time of social distancing and quarantine, and we’ve all been on a post-pandemic journey of sorts. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago, we had our own mini version of a pandemic here at Holy Family and I am so very proud of how we responded. I’m so glad to have been on this journey with you all, and I am grateful for those serving on our vestry and search committees. I am aware that my time among you is ending. About this time last year, I was walking out to the car with Andy Edwards after services. Now, Andy and Melinda were here many years ago, back when I was a Postulant at Holy Family, over 20 years ago, and he said “Well, your priesthood has come full circle from here to the Cathedral, and now back again.” And so it has. My first thought was one of deep gratitude for this parish, and for all it has meant to me and my family. Truth told we are, many of us, in a new role at Holy Family, and I am only one among many here asked to step up in this season. As our beloved Katharine Armentrout said so well last year, lay leadership will be—for many reasons, increasingly important in the coming chapter. We’re not alone in this. As I said many times over the past year, in many contexts of our denomination, and our sister denominations in mainline Protestantism, a new mission statement in “Lay Led…Clergy Supported”. My friend and running buddy, the Bishop of New Hampshire, has told me that 80% of their parishes can no longer afford a full-time priest. We will each have to discover in ourselves opportunities for leadership, and this may mean facing fears, uncertainty, and leaving our comfort zone to be an integral part of the Body of Christ. We each have an opportunity to grow in new ways. When I decided to retire from full time teaching and focus on clinical practice, and Vicky and I made the decision to move to Jasper, I did not know what lay ahead, and I certainly did not anticipate becoming the interim here. Like the disciples in the Gospel for today, we are each walking, talking with one another about what has happened, finding some meaning in what we’ve been through, and trusting that God is listening to us and bearing witness to our concerns and fears. Carl Jung once said that the soul rejoices in saying out loud what we feel inside, just as our Psalms of both joy and lament teach us to do, even when it is hard to do so. As the disciples experienced in this Gospel, Jesus is available to hear both, and we are called to do likewise.

Jesus invited the disciples tell about their anxieties and pains; he let them grieve and mourn. Jesus listened to them, as they poured out their fear, uncertainty, sadness and grief. Jesus patiently guided the disciples “from hopelessness and sadness to celebration, to hope, to relationship restored and renewed; in short, to resurrection.”  I suspect the disciples felt much the same as we do now, a kind of “not knowing” with the sense of dislocation that sometime attends it. They were fishing for literal fish, yes, but also for answers about what would happen after the resurrection.

The author Rachel Naomi Remen has suggested that “The way we deal with loss shapes our capacity to be present to life more than anything else,” she says. And when we tell each other stories of hope and resilience, they tell us about who we are, what is possible for us, what and who we might call upon. They also remind us that we’re not alone with whatever faces us and that there are resources available to us. But we must each be committed to hope, compassion, and grace. As Goethe said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth…the moment one definitely commits oneself, the Providence moves too.” The Disciples believe Jesus to be a stranger, and their eyes were opened in the breaking of the bread, and in the boat and on the shore of Tiberius. In this text and related passages, this is a common theme. What does it mean to really see? How often do we miss what is right in front of us and how often do we miss the face of Christ in the stranger whom we encounter on the road? In the Gospel story for today we have a signpost of sort through uncertainty in this sea of transition at Holy Family. Indeed, this Gospel text was read at my own ordination at the Cathedral of St. Philip many years ago and, truth told, I was scared when I heard these words: “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.”

Last summer a friend and I were hiking and trail running high in the mountains of Northern Colorado, and at certain points above the tree line where the trails can become diffuse, cairns, towers of rock guiding the way, were so very helpful. “Inuksuk”—or little people—as the Inuit tribes call these signposts, can be like lighthouses on a distant shore, guiding us along. Jesus is just such a guide in the Gospel for today, and as such he helps the disciples move from grief and loss and despair to hope, and to compassion.

A year ago, in this parish hall, our consultant gave us a list of things we must do together as we seek our new rector—and this list included coming to terms with our history; acknowledging the past; being honest about the DNA in that past… and dealing with both grief—letting go—and moving forward together…holding on; beginning to discover a new identity; allowing for and empowering new leaders among us; strengthening relationships and enriching hospitality; asking ourselves where we have been, and where we are going, and what kind of leadership is needed in this new chapter…and we are called to love one another with grace, and compassion. And with love. These goals continue to be salient. And leadership requires transparency, facing our fears and old narratives with courage, and having agency amid uncertainty. If we trust God, and if we do not give in to fear or lethargy which keep us stuck in old patterns, we may discover who, and whose we are.

In the spring of 1977, I lamented the end of my tenure as a collegiate 400-meter runner and thus, my running career. Or so I thought. Mark, a wonderful distance runner at Rhodes, would not hear about it. “We are running Peachtree together, and I will be your coach,” he said. “In your dreams,” I responded. To which he said, “Exactly…and my dreams are about to become reality.” And so, they did. Mark trained with me, and together we ran Peachtree in 1977, starting at the old Sears building in Buckhead, and finishing downtown in the fountains at Central City (now Woodruff) Park. We continued to run Peachtree each year, and Mark helped me train for the first of my 12 marathons, the most recent of which was on the Biltmore Trails in Asheville. In February of 1992, a malignant lymph node was removed from under Mark’s left arm. In April of that year, having qualified in Memphis the December before with a 2:38:00 marathon, Mark ran his final Boston Marathon. He had been waiting faithfully at the finish line for an hour when I finally arrived on Boylston Street in Copley Square. My friend had developed melanoma, and despite entering an aggressive treatment protocol at the National Institutes of Health, by late December of 1992, just before New Year’s, he died in his beloved Memphis. Calvary Episcopal Church was filled for his funeral, including runners from all over the south. He was a wonderful scholar athlete, who lost no intensity in his transition from gridiron running back to harrier, a history we shared. Mark was a courageous, beautiful, and fiercely competitive runner. And he was my dear friend. In early December of 1992, in a final conversation at one of our favorite places, Jagger’s Pizza in Emory Village, Mark asked me to keep running Peachtree for both of us. And so, I have. God willing, this year will be my 49^th consecutive Peachtree Road Race. I run mostly trail races these days, and delight in running with my friends, and with my sons. Each run is a new adventure in what the wonderful poet Mary Oliver referred to as “this one wild and precious life.” Donald Winnicott, the British psychoanalyst, and pediatrician, believed that imagination and passion contribute to a sense of aliveness—both mental and physical. “O God,” he once wrote, “my prayer is that I will be fully alive when I die.” For me, and for many whom I love, running is one way of being fully alive. As an Episcopal priest, professor, and pastoral counselor, it is my deep hope that we each find ways to flourish in this way, as I believe God intended. My friend said to me “Bill, I have had so much love.” I said “Yes, there are many who love you, and I am among them.” “That may be, “he replied, “but what I mean is that there are so many whom I have loved. I have so much gratitude for the love God has enabled me to give away.” Dear ones, we are given by God the freedom to love—and this requires release from any fears and the bondage of unnamed grief and old narratives that would keep us in bondage to fear, and the need to be in control amid uncertainty, and prevent us from leading with love. It requires the peace of God, breathed on the disciples and each of us. We are rightly suspicious when we are called only to joy. Yes, and even amidst our struggle with various forms of loss and uncertainty, we can find life-giving possibilities, in conversation with each other, widening the circle of care, and guided by love. And remember, as Jesus taught us, that wholeness includes all our wounds, just as it included all his. It includes all our vulnerabilities and fears, including fears of repeating the past. This is the way we connect to one another. Our shared humanity allows us to be available to one another with transparency and true courage. In sharing his wounds, and in the breaking of the bread, Jesus was known to the disciples, and to us. This led to abundance, rather than scarcity. Let’s go and do likewise no matter what the future may bring. Amen.

Second Sunday of Easter – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 20:19-31

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Judeans, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained…”

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. “Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet have come to believe”. What powerful, mysterious words these are; made all the more remarkable when we think about Jesus’ disciples who, after Jesus was betrayed, scattered, afraid for their own lives. They watched the events unfold, but always from a distance, blending into the crowd of spectators. And even as they learn that crucifixion hadn’t been the end of it, in the Gospel lesson for today we find them behind locked doors, hiding together in fear in the upper room. No doubt the words of the women at the tomb were ringing in their ears, only worsening their isolation and fear: “They have taken away our Lord and we do not know where they have taken him.” Suddenly Jesus appears, and speaks those remarkable words; “Peace be with you”. And he breathes upon them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” But where was Thomas? Perhaps he needed to be alone. Maybe he went to that place we all go, in the midst of deep grief, where we may believe that nothing or no one can reach us, even if it is not true.  It’s easy to be drawn to Thomas because he seems so human. After all, it was Thomas who asked Jesus how they could know the way. Jesus replied “I am the way, the truth, and the life”. But Thomas needed proof. There was an uncompromising honesty about him. He would never respond to the anxiety of his own doubts by pretending they did not exist.

In today’s Gospel text, I think Jesus is reminding Thomas, and by extension all of us, that it is relationship that heals. He reaches out to Thomas in his isolation and doubt and offers the hand of friendship and reconciliation.  It is not our doubts, my friends, that is the enemy. Rather, it is responding to that doubt by cutting ourselves off from others, from relationships that can heal us and sustain us—which is most risky. And we are most likely to do this when, like the disciples, we are scared, sad, angry, and lost, and we hide ourselves behind closed doors. And often what locks us in are our fears, insecurities, illnesses, compulsions or addictions, past hurts we have experienced and the hurts we have caused. And I wonder if we have more of this separation and disconnection these days. The social scientist Brene’ Brown has said that faith communities who hope to be safe containers for beloved community, must create safe spaces for honest, authentic transparency in relation to those things that would keep us in the bondage of disconnection borne of shame. Jesus gives us an alternative to being cut off from ourselves, and others, and from God. And I have seen this kind of community in action in chapters of the Community of Hope lay pastoral care efforts, which we are working on establishing here at Holy Family, and elsewhere too!

Some time ago, I attended the “birthday” of a friend who was celebrating his 9^th year of sobriety. I first met him in 1978 when we worked together on the adolescent psychiatric unit at Peachford Hospital, and we became friends. Just out of college, searching for direction and purpose, I learned so much from my colleagues, and the patients and families with whom we worked.  My life and that of my friend took different paths, but we kept in touch. I knew he had struggled with alcohol, but until I heard his story, I did not realize the depth of his addiction. And so, on a cold and rainy night some 35 years after we met, I drove up to Cherokee County as he picked up his 9-year chip. I walked into a room filled to capacity—maybe 70-80 souls, a good number of whom were members of a local motorcycle group in recovery. They eyed me, dressed like the professor I had been all day long, and I them, dressed like, well, a motorcycle gang. Finally, one of them came up to me, shook my hand, smiled, and said welcome, we are glad you are here. Let’s find you a seat.” That night, I heard the testimony of those who knew and loved my friend, and stories of life—his and theirs—before and after sobriety. I was deeply moved by the openness, shared vulnerability, and honesty in the room. I heard my friend tell the moving story of how drinking almost killed him, and how he had said to those gathered in that very room, some nine years earlier, “I am lost. Tell me what to do; and if you tell me, I will do it.” And then he said, through tears of one who has come back from the edge of the abyss, “You saved my life, you know… I asked, and you gave, and you told me to work each step, and that you would be there with me each step of the way. And you were. I was among the living dead, and I slowly came back to life. I am here tonight, standing up here talking to you, because you people saved my life.” And this story was indeed a perfect example of a man whose life had in many ways ended…who was no longer fully alive, and who had come back to life. And so it was that those gathered that night were “practicing resurrection” as Wendell Berry asks us to do, and as the life of Jesus embodies…that Paschal Mystery available in each, sacred moment of our lives. And you see, dear one’s, those souls had chosen not to remain trapped behind the locked doors of their addictions—a living death cut off from relationship. They had chosen to be in the community, out in the open. And to do this, they had to face with brutal honesty—a searching, fearless, and unrelenting moral inventory— the truth of what had kept them imprisoned. I found myself moved and inspired by this connection of relationships, and I understood my friend better too…and I understood the power of the Paschal Mystery of Easter a bit more clearly: that in the phrase “one day at a time” we see the truth of that new life. It was as if we placed our hands in the wounded brokenness of my friend’s soul, and we believed. In Christ, darkness and death has been overcome—is overcome—one day, one moment at a time, here and now. And, we overcome not just any darkness, but the darkness that finds us hidden from ourselves and from relationship with others…the infinite Good Friday deaths of the bondage of addiction, our shadow selves wanted only to be made whole again. Life is a journey, Thomas’ journey and ours. And it is seldom a straight line. In his novel Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry has his protagonist say:

“If you could do it, I suppose, it would be a good idea to live your life in a straight line – starting, say, in the Dark Wood of Error, and proceeding by logical steps through Hell and Purgatory and into Heaven. Or you could take the King’s Highway past the appropriately named dangers, toils, and snares, and finally cross the River of Death and enter the Celestial City. But that is not the way I have done it, so far. I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked. Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circling or a doubling back. I have been in the Dark Wood of Error any number of times. I have known something of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, but not always in that order. The names of many snares and dangers have been made known to me, but I have seen them only in looking back. Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there. I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises. Often I have received better than I deserved. Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led – make of that what you will.”  

Jesus felt the deep pain of suffering—his and ours—and through his resulting scars and resurrection, we too can find redemption. We can feel hope, and renewal. Jesus wanted the disciples to see his wounds so that they could understand the resurrection hope those scars represented. To be vulnerable and to tell the bold truth about our lives, including our scars—is uncomfortable and risky, but it is the antidote to the prison of shame and the isolation it breeds. The Good News is that, like Thomas and his brothers and sisters, we too are called to move from times of doubt to moments of grace. And if we have been honest in our doubt, despite the vulnerability of being lost, our decisions of faith will be more honest and clearer and committed as we move along our journeys. To give of ourselves, we must know ourselves—that’s the fearless moral inventory. Yes, “Practice Resurrection,” that wonderful writer Wendell Berry says to us, and every time we choose to do this, the grace-filled Easter story continues. The Nashville alt-country singer songwriter Jason Isbell, whose work I enjoy, has been on his journey in recovery now for several years. In a recent song, his lyrics remind me of Jesus after the resurrection, promising Mary Magdalene, the disciples, and Thomas too, that no matter what, he will never leave us. When I hear these words, I imagine Jesus saying that no matter the doors behind which we may be hiding, he will find us:

I love you like the morning loves the afternoon

Like the prairies love the plains

If you leave me now, I’ll just come running after you

I’ll be the wind behind the rain

When I got home that night, I sent my old friend a message thanking him for the gift of his story, and for inviting me into that sacred space. He sent a text message that read: “Life; Chaos; Recovery; Gratitude.” And I realized that is almost like…I would say it is exactly like the Holy Spirit had been breathed upon us in that locked room, the doors of which had been flung open by the grace of my friend’s story. And when that happens, because we have asked for it, we can co-participate in the compassionate beloved community of God, one day at a time. Amen

Easter Sunday – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself…

Birds flying high, you know how I feel

Sun in the sky, you know how I feel

Breeze driftin’ on by, you know how I feel

It’s a new dawn

It’s a new day

It’s a new life for me, yeah

It’s a new dawn

It’s a new day

It’s a new life for me, oohAnd I’m feeling good

Good morning, and welcome to this glorious day of the Resurrection! In the Gospel reading for today, we heard one of two Resurrection stories within scripture. In the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the images are quite similar. In the Gospel of John, the story is in some ways quite different, though the theology they share—the central message of these Gospel texts—is essentially the same; we, too, have been raised with Christ. I want to say a word this morning about both versions and the implications of each for our lives together.

In the Gospel of Luke, we hear what the women at the tomb learn at about this time of day—Jesus is already gone. And since we, too, have been raised with Christ, the question then becomes whether we will miss our resurrection; for it is at the tomb that we discover the truth about ourselves, questions that have occupied our thoughts this season of Lent. At the sight of the empty tomb, we find all these questions coming together as one. To become what we practice, as Jesus teaches on Ash Wednesday, is to become new.     

To recognize the prophetic nature of what it means to follow the prophet Jesus, as we discover at the Transfiguration, is to begin to act differently. To understand, as the farmer did about the fig tree, that life is about slow, untimely and unlikely growth—and not about perfection—is to think in new ways about the nature of our spiritual lives and the potential for redemption in each moment. To love those who are sometimes unlovable, in reckless ways, as does the prodigal parent, is to travel through life with life-giving insight.

Like the women who go to the sepulcher on Easter morning to bless the body, because their lives had been changed, we have been preparing together for six weeks, in various ways, to answer this last, momentous question: Will we ourselves, touched by Jesus, now rise and live life differently? And what is the essence of that difference? It is living into the Christian life as a journey of transformation. Hence, Jesus’ question, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” Like the women who went to the tomb expecting to find the grave blocked, we must not allow our fear of grieving our losses blind us to the possibilities, and to silence our hearts. The resurrection to which Easter calls us—our own—asks of us that we prepare to find God where God is by opening ourselves to the world around us with a listening ear, a compassionate heart, a spirit of wonder. This means that we must prepare to be surprised by God in strange places—sometimes in ways that make us uncomfortable. We must allow others to open our hearts to things we do not want to hear. It presumes that we will reach out to the other—stranger though they may be—and seek out Christ in the face of the stranger, especially those relegated to the margins.

Lent is not, therefore, my sisters and brothers, a series of behaviors, but rather a series of questions. Easter is not simply a day of celebration, but a day of decision. In the Resurrection story from the Gospel of John, we see this emphasis on decision borne out in a remarkable way. Faitful, steadfast, resilient Mary Magdalene wants Jesus back as she remembers him, which is so human of course; failing that, she wants his body in a definite place, she wants a grave she can tend. Jesus appears to her in what Rowan Williams, our former Archbishop of Canterbury, calls one of the most moving moments of the whole Bible—and her first instinct is to think yes, he is back as she remembers, yes, she has hold of him after all. He has not disappeared; he has not been taken away to an unknown destination. But Jesus warns Mary: he is being taken away to a destination more unknown than she could imagine. “Do not cling to me,” he tells her. From now on, there will be no truthful way of speaking or thinking of him except as the one who lives alongside the source of all things. These simple words already contain all the mysteries we celebrate when we say the creeds, and when we break the bread of Holy Communion.

Resurrection is not so much a matter of believing things about Jesus as about believing in Jesus. Believing, in this sense, does not consist of giving one’s mental assent to something, but giving one’s heart at a much deeper level. It involves a transformation from having heard about Jesus with the hearing of one’s ear to being in relationship to the spirit of the Living Christ. For ultimately, Resurrection means that Jesus is not a figure of the past: hence the Gospel texts say, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” and “Do not cling to me.” Rather, Jesus is with us, among us, is us, in the form of the church that is the resurrected Body of Christ. This means we cannot have Jesus just on our terms. After the resurrection, with its demonstration that Jesus’ life is as indestructible as God’s life, we simply cannot go back to the Jesus who is humanly familiar, as Mary had wished. And clearly, we can’t have Jesus as a warm memory, a dearly departed whose grave we can visit. Easter asks us to consider where and how we might want to cling, what we are unwilling to grieve, and where we might want to turn away from the journey, what we might be refusing to hear or to see. The Gaelic say that there are ‘thin places’ between heaven and earth. Perhaps it is so that the very young and the very old or the very ill among us recognize this best of all. If we have walked alongside those who are dying, we have watched and listened as visions are experienced and conversations are held with others who have long since died, as though they were gathering right there themselves. Those of us who are still so very bound to this earth cannot see or hear them, but we find ourselves convinced that there is something more in the room than what we can possibly comprehend. And spend time with children, and one soon realizes they notice things we sometimes miss, often, the sacred in the mundane. As the poet David Whyte has written:

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the

conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterablythemselves.

Everything is waiting for you

And yes, there are other times and places, too, when we sense the ‘holy’ in extraordinary ways. When I’m cooking, I feel the presence of my grandmother, who taught me to cook. Every year at the Peachtree Road Race I feel my dear friend Mark, who died of melanoma at age 39 and encouraged me to keep running for us both, running alongside me. Occasionally, running on the trails, I feel the presence of our beloved dog Sadie, whom we lost two years ago, and who loved to run…and on and on, the mystery of those thin spaces in our lives, just as Mary experienced in the garden. Could there have been a place more ‘thin,’ than that first Easter Day when the women made their way to the tomb to find it empty? Although they could hardly believe it and no doubt struggled to find words for it, mustn’t they have known that they were standing in a ‘thin place’ when they were reminded that it was foolish to look for the living among the dead? It is no surprise, of course, that Peter and the other apostles could not take in what the women hurried back to share, even as we shook our heads so long ago to hear the youngest among us point to something so wondrous. And yet, one must believe that they knew there was something more afoot as in Luke’s account, Peter ran to the tomb himself and left somehow changed – amazed at what he had seen.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep.

And so I wonder now, on this Easter Day as we gather in song and praise surrounded by the fragrance of spring and the sounds of beloved hymns, how it is that we will experience these places, our lives now, as ‘thin.’ I wonder how and where heaven will meet earth this year. It is all a mystery, of course. The sort of mystery that words perhaps cannot quite capture. And yet we seek to speak to them still. Like the women at the tomb to so long ago, we, too, have been captured by this mystery and though our words may stumble, how can we not speak of it? And in the speaking? By God’s own doing, perhaps others will find themselves in a ‘thin place’ as well. Oh yes, maybe through our words, heaven will be brought just a little bit closer to earth. Indeed, maybe in the telling, others will sense the presence of the Risen Christ as well. It is so that birth and death, living and dying is fraught with mystery. And how much more mysterious is that which we are called to proclaim on Easter! For you, what words, what stories best capture and convey this mystery? This Gospel text is filled, dear one’s, with abundance from the smallest of things, miraculous transformations, and images of choices that ask of us nothing less than that we exercise our responsibility to choose God’s way—the pearl of great price—which may take us on our own distinctively sacred pilgrimage. Look around you, friends, at the purple coneflower on the trail, the raven tending her nest, the homeless man on the corner, the light in the eyes of your loved ones. Look at your grandmother’s quilts, waving in the breezes of your memory, and use your imagination—that God-given, sacred, imagination, which is the power to creatively engage this world in faith, and considering the Good News. Then pay attention to the nearness of the kingdom of heaven, here, now, and your place in it, the pearl of great price, the treasure in the field. “The Incarnate word is with us,” Wendell Berry wrote, “is still speaking is present, always, yet leaves no sign, but everything that is.”  And ultimately, dear ones, this means that we are the Body of Christ. The incarnation did not end after 33 years. The word did not just momentarily become flesh and dwell among us—it became flesh and continues to dwell among us.

I want to invite us all, in this coming Eastertide and on into Pentecost, to be a good friend to others. As Joan Chittister remindws us, “Mary Magdalene is the woman whom scripture calls by name in a time when women were seldom named in public documents at all. She is, in fact, named fourteen times—more than any other woman in the New Testament except Mary of Nazareth, the mother of Jesus, herself. She is clearly a very important, and apparently a very wealthy woman. Most of all, she understood who Jesus was long before anyone else did and she supported him in his wild, free ranging, revolutionary approach to life and state and synagogue. She was, it seems, the leader of a group of women who “supported Jesus out of their own resources.” And she never left his side for the rest of his life. She was there at the beginning of the ministry. And she was there at the end. She was there when they were following him in cheering throngs. And she was there when they were taking his entire life, dashing it against the stone of synagogue and state, turning on him, jeering at him, shouting for his death, standing by while soldiers poked and prodded him to ignominy. She tended his grave and shouted his dying glory and clung to his soul. She knew him and she did not flinch from the knowing. The “Magdalene factor” as Chittester calls it, especially in friendship, is the ability to know everything there is to know about a person, to celebrate their fortunes, to weather their straits, to chance their enemies, to accompany them in their pain and to be faithful to the end, whatever its glory, whatever its grief. The Magdalene factor is intimacy, that unshakeable immersion in the life of the other to the peak of ecstasy, to the depths of hell. Let’s be that kind of friend, here, to one another, and to those we meet in our work as the Body of Christ in the world…“Practice Resurrection,” our wonderful poet Wendell Berry says. And in the words of Teresa of Avila, “Christ has no body now but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours. Yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion must look out on the world. Yours are the feet withwhich He is to go about doing good in the world. Yours are the hands with which he is to bless us now. Alleluia, Amen.”