Author: Rosemary Lovelace

Third Sunday after Ephiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Give us grace, O Lord, to answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ and proclaim to all people the Good News of his salvation, that we and the whole world may perceive the glory of his marvelous works; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 4:14-21

Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.

When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this Third Sunday after the Epiphany. We are so glad you are here! Well, this is where it all begins: and while the baptism of Jesus is really the occasion—the true beginning—of his calling, today we continue to see the implications of that moment…the “so what” in response to Baptism. And in today’s Gospel and Epistle, it is here that the adult Jesus shows up on the stage of history. In this story and our own stories, baptism means more than repentance and cleansing. Here, theologically understood, baptism issues in the anointing of the Holy Spirit, the giving of an incarnational, redemptive identity. We recall that God said to Jesus: “You are my Son, the Beloved…with you I am pleased.” Although this epiphany is a public revelation in our telling of it, the words come intimately to the praying Jesus, and by extension we all bear witness to it as well. Much lies ahead for Jesus from this point, and we hear in today’s Gospel passage that the people were filled with expectation, especially in his own hometown. He must live out this identity and meet those expectations laid on him, and we do well to pay attention to how the people have been speaking about the anointed one already; remember how the crowds will project their hopes and desires onto him. This too, informed Paul’s vocation—his calling—a calling fully realized in this text for today as he reminds the Corinthians, and by extension each of us, that “we are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” Jesus’ baptism, and his response to it, thus leads us to consider the meaning of our baptism too. It’s “vocation,” a word that has lost much of its resonance through repeated use, both secular and churchly.

The psychiatrist Carl Jung had a sign inscribed over the front door of his home which read, “Bidden or not bidden, God is present.” It is an English translation of the Latin quotation which Jung found as a student when studying Erasmus, the Renaissance scholar and humanist. “Vocatio” is the Latin root of “vocation” andmeans to have a calling, but “calling” in our culture often simply denotes one’s job or career, one’s chosen profession. The notion that it is God who calls us, seems a commonplace piety when we are talking about “church vocations,” calls to “ministry” or “the religious life,” but it sounds more like an afterthought or theological overlay about ordinary life. We tend to think of our vocations as the way we make our living, and avocations — the things we don’t have to do — provide our recreation.

Many years ago, as I first began to consider ordained ministry, Bishop Frank Allan said this to me: “I think we get it backwards in our tradition. We have ordination certificates framed and hung on the wall, and our Baptismal certificate, if we have one, and if we know where it is, is only wallet-sized. It should be the other way around. The priesthood of all believers means just that.”

I agree with this. So, what does Baptism mean, theologically understood, in the sometimes-mundane everydayness of our lives? It means what we witnessed last week at our Ministry Fair. It means the abiding and steadfast work of all the committees who, week in and week out, keep this parish running. It means each one of us, asking where in the Body of Christ we belong, striving, as Paul says, for the greater gifts—that is, being our authentic, true selves as a member of this parish.

In one of my favorite movies, Tender Mercies, which many of us watched on movie night together last year, Robert Duvall plays the role of Mac Sledge, a washed up, alcoholic country singer, who awakens at a run-down Texas roadside motel and gas station after a night of heavy drinking. He meets the motel owner, a young widow named Rosa Lee, played by Tess Harper, and offers to work in exchange for a room. Rosa Lee, whose husband was killed in Vietnam, is raising her young son, Sonny, on her own. She agrees to let Mac stay under the condition that he not drink while working and living there. The two begin to develop feelings for one another, mostly during quiet evenings sitting alone and sharing bits of their life stories. Mac resolves to give up alcohol and start his life anew. After some time passes, he and Rosa Lee wed. They start attending a Baptist church on a regular basis. Mac’s redemption and self-improvement run parallel with his conversion to Christianity. Mac is baptized for the first time, along with Sonny. Afterwards, Sonny asks Mac whether he feels any different, to which Mac responds, “Not yet,” indicating Mac’s belief that his reconciliation with God will eventually lead to transformation, over time—in Kairos, or sacred time.Mac’s response to a fan who asks if he was really “The Mac Sledge,” the country music star— “Yes, ma’am, I guess I was” — suggests that his former self has been washed away through baptism and he is open to the mystery of who he is becoming.During one scene, Rosa Lee tells Mac, “I say my prayers for you and when I thank the Lord for his tender mercies, you’re at the head of the list.” Mac did nothing to guarantee or deserve such a miracle. Despite his at times selfish and abusive past, Rosa Lee takes him in and eventually falls in love with him: It is an undeserved grace, a gift of providence from a simple woman who continued to pray for him and to be grateful for him. Mac experiences his ongoing spiritual resurrection even as he wrestles with addiction, and death, in both the past—Sonny’s father in the Vietnam War—and present—his own daughter in a car accident. He also had to die to his old ways of being in the world. In the church, we call this “metanoia”-a kind of turning around, and healing in the process. One might say that Mac found a new “vocatio”—a new calling—beyond that of being a country music star. He rose from the waters of his baptism with a grace-full gift. He was transformed by love. And so are we.

Our language of vocation is problematic not just in its churchly usage (where the distinctions and congruities of “inner” and “outer” calls can trip us up) but in the more common reality of a multiplicity of calls with competing claims upon the stewardship of our lives. We do not have just one vocation, of course, and we sometimes struggle to balance different responsibilities and relationships. Anointing any one of our vocations as somehow holier than another may be a dangerous thing. Was my role as a professor more of a vocation than my marriage, or as a counselor more important than teaching, or serving for a time among you all most important, or is my responsibility as a citizen less than my relationship to my children, and now, to my grandchildren? The claims of others call out to us, often by name, and often out of genuine need. When Thee Smith, my twin brother in ordination, and I were ordained at the Cathedral, Bishop Alexander said that we should remember that we are not professors who happened to be ordained, but priests, after the order of Melchizedek, who happen to teach. I have found this to be a deeply important and significant ontological understanding of vocation. It is a vocational tapestry that begins right here, at this altar, on Sunday and flows out from there into the world. It is a tapestry of many colors, many threads, the most significant of which is, I believe, our Baptismal thread—guiding, sustaining, enriching the whole. And what if our vocations seem to change during our lives? If what one once felt called to do or be no longer seems right, what then? Sometimes, of course, the covenants of the past must hold us in faithfulness. But sometimes new callings arise, and lives are remade in response. What of those who are adrift, unsure of any calling? Our lovely imagery of vocation then seems naïve, better suited for the supposed stability and limited choices of an earlier age. As Wendell Berry reminds us;

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

In the Episcopal Church we are comfortable with the mystery of asking questions, being curious and open to how God might be calling us into a flourishing and generative future. But consider this: the calling of Jesus in today’s Gospel—scripture having been fulfilled in that moment—is not about a job or a career. It is not a word of mission, sending him into the future; at least, not at the outset. The word of baptism is first about the delight of God in this beloved, this chosen, this child called by name. Not a call to do, but a calling that names us. I love to imagine God delighting in Jesus, and in each of us, as any parent delights in her or his child. As for Jesus, my sisters and brothers, so it is for us. Our first calling, the baptismal calling, is the one that simply loves and names: You are my child. I delight in you. The words embrace us and promise to hold us. This is where it begins, and this is also, we dare claim, the last word, the one that holds our future. Yet between that beginning and that end, this baptismal call will often become a call to action. It will mean mission and ministry and all kinds of tasks. It means what our parish—our entire wonderful parish, from flowers and altars to tractors and caring for these acres, to Eucharistic visitors and to extending hospitality in countless ways, and on and on—what this space looked like last Sunday, and what it looks like every week, as we become the Body of Christ in the world. Anointing is a sign of blessing, but it is also a commissioning. As it was for Jesus, so it is for us, the Body of Christ in the world. Our parents and teachers and scores of others called us and sent us to the vocations of our lives. These vocations have come through human voices and relationships, institutions, and communities; they call to us in all the ways our lives find form and function. The tasks and duties do matter, but what abides — our identity, our belonging, our hope –begins when we hear “You are my child, beloved,” and we are raised to the new life of grace; sustained by the Holy Spirit; given an inquiring and discerning heart; the courage to will and to persevere; a spirit to know and to love God; and the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works.” We promise to go forth into the world, respecting te dignity of every human being. And so it is with each of us. I pray that our vocations, whatever they may be and however they are unfolding, are warmed by the Holy Fire that lives in each of us. And so, dear ones, my annual report is this…a love letter to this parish, and a deep bow of gratitude for each of you. In this season of the Episcopal church, changing as it is in so many ways, the “lay led, clergy supported” vision is becoming a reality in this parish. And I pray we remember that the Holy Spirit who anointed us on the day of our Baptism is there to assist, encourage, inspire, and sustain us. I give thanks for each of you, and for the ministries we share in this sacred space, and beyond. Amen.

Second Sunday after Epiphany – year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John – 21-11

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good Morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this second Sunday after the Epiphany. After the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus and the descent of the Dove at the baptism of Jesus, the Epiphany season celebrates the beginning of miracles or “signs” in John’s story of the wedding at Cana. We read this story at Epiphany because the theme of this season of our liturgical year is the “showing forth” or manifestation of Jesus—who he is and what he is about. The changing of water into wine was the first time Jesus gave a real sign to his disciples and others in this way—this Epiphany. I want to visit with you this morning considering this first sign and the implications of this for our lives together at Holy Family. Put in theological terms, this reading from John’s Gospel builds upon the deep and rich history of traditional Jewish feasts with the immediacy, and perhaps urgency of Jesus’ life among his people. In this case, the water in the jars—representing a sacred ritual from institutional Judaism, is set aside for purification. The new revelation of who Jesus is builds upon the “old dispensation” as TS Eliot put it in his poem about the journey of the Magi. There is also the theological connection to the words of Isaiah, who likens the life of Jesus as Messiah to a wedding, and the joy of God’s people to the joy of a bride and bridegroom.

Theological musings aside, however, this is a really good story. Mary tells her son to do something for these folks whose wedding feast—and they were major social events often lasting for days—was in serious peril. Jesus tells Mary that all of this is none of his business and that he has other plans—another agenda—about how and when he will reveal himself. His time has not yet come.

Mary essentially ignores his response and assumes that Jesus is going to be a good Jewish boy and listen to his mother—and he does. Now, what we know about social customs in those days is that to have run out of wine was akin to committing a big social faux pas—a potentially disgraceful disaster that the families might never live down. Wine was the plumb line—if you will—that kept the celebration moving. So, Jesus must decide what to do. He must decide whether to wait before he makes himself known, before he reveals what he learned when God said, “you are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Or rather to act now, responding to the human need presenting itself in this moment, here and now. Jesus acts, the wedding is saved, and the bride and groom are given a new chance—the celebration is given new life. Now, if we take a step back and look at the big picture, we see that this story is not really about the bride and groom. In one sense, it isn’t even about Jesus. The first time Jesus makes himself known—the first time he “shows forth”—if you will, he does so not according to his plans or his timetable, but in response to human need. Jesus’ first manifestation of his true nature was not for or about Jesus. He didn’t call the media together for the cultural equivalent of a “breaking news” event—with which we are all so familiar these days—and then demonstrate a miracle. Rather, the true signs of his calling and identity were drawn out of him in the context of a real-life event, in relationship to people in his day-to-day existence, and out of their needs, not his.

So, dear ones, I want to suggest that what it means and what it looks like for Jesus to be the Messiah is given expression in this moment, amid a relatively mundane moment of human life and need. Who he was and what he had to give, then, were not done for him or his own self-aggrandizement. These qualities, the essence of his being, existed always and only for others—from the very beginning.  

Now, let’s turn for just a moment to the Epistle. We recall that in many of his letters, some written from prison, Paul is about the state of the church in the first century. There were many conflicts due to infighting and miscommunication. Folks in Corinth, for example, were keeping secrets from one another and, as is so often the case when religion goes bad, they were more concerned about being right than being in relationship. They were saying things like “this gift of the spirit is mine, this way of doing things is mine, this way of being in the world is mine; this form of spirituality—this religion…is mine.” And you see, what Paul says to them is what Jesus discovered when the wine gave out. Paul says “What you have been given—your spiritual gifts—are not for you. Rather, Paul says, “To each is given the manifestation of the spirit for the common good.” What you have is not for you. What you have is ultimately not even about you. The folks in Corinth could never get their religion right, or their lives right, until they realized that being right was much less important than being in relationship. When Paul references the Spirit as he does in the text for this morning, he is reminding us to tend this gift carefully—the gift of what theologian Ronald Rolheiser called our “Divine spark” or the Holy flame we have each been given. What we have been given is not for us. It is given so we might give it away, in love. So it is with most of our gifts.

Once when I was in graduate school, a gift to be sure, I used a big word in the presence of my grandmother, whom I dearly loved and hated to disappoint. She was quiet for a moment and said “Sweetheart, we are so proud of you for going on with your schooling. But remember that what you are learning—all this new knowledge—can be used to build walls that separate you from others, or bridges that reach out to them. When you use a big word and you don’t really need to, you are building a wall. And it’s like putting a ten-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head.”

What Jesus had, who he was, by the gift of God, was not for him or even about him. It was given so that he might choose to give his life away. What we have, individually and in this wonderful congregation, this Holy Family, is not for us. It is for the common good. And yet this is the great good news—this is Gospel—that when we give, we become part of something much greater than we can possibly be on our own. There is, as the theologian Paul Tillich put it, “a center, a direction, a meaning to our lives. Jesus offers new wine, a new being, new creation.” We are not created to live lives that are closed-in upon ourselves, protective, possessive, and defensively preoccupied with being right. Another of my wise grandmother’s sayings, usually from the pulpit of her garden, was “Sweetheart, remember that a person all wrapped up in themselves is a very small package.” Rather, we are creatures born to be in relationship. And this means being as fully present, at this moment, as we can be.

Jesus chose to abandon his plans; his schedule; his timetable, for relationship with something much larger. At the wedding in Cana of Galilee, he chose to act—to manifest this new creation. In doing so, he shows us what human life can be like. As the poet Goethe once said, “Anything you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Act, boldly, and Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never have otherwise occurred.” Today is our wonderful ministry fair, envisioned by Parish Life, and hosted by so many who give themselves away week in and week out. Let the Spirit you have been given allow your imagination to see new possibilities for your life at Holy Family. We need your Divine Spark, and let’s remember that there are many, many ways to give something having nothing to do with money. Remember that we come to resemble what we love and hold dear or, as Augustine said of the Eucharist, “Behold who you are, become what you receive.” Or as our fellow Episcopalian and poet Mary Oliver wrote:

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?

If you say the right words, the wine expands.

If you say them with love

and the felt ferocity of that love

and the felt necessity of that love,

the fish explode into many.

Imagine him, speaking,

and don’t worry about what is reality,

or what is plain, or what is mysterious.

If you were there, it was all those things.

If you can imagine it, it is all those things.

Eat, drink, be happy.

Accept the miracle.

Accept, too, each spoken word

spoken with love.

My friends, sometimes we can get so caught up in how something is possible that we forget simply to enjoy it. This poem by Mary Oliver invites us to accept the miracle, spoken with love, not just of the loaves and fishes, or the wine in Cana, but of our very existence, which is perhaps the greatest miracle of all. I believe this is especially true when we live beyond ourselves, into the new being of God’s new creation, where there is plenty of wine at the wedding. Amen

First Sunday after Epiphany – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Father in heaven, who at the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan proclaimed him your beloved Son and anointed him with the Holy Spirit: Grant that all who are baptized into his Name may keep the covenant they have made, and boldly confess him as Lord and Savior; who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” 

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 2^nd Sunday after the Epiphany. During this season we gather in community to explore the mystery of the Incarnation, and to pay attention to those ways Jesus is calling each of us to explore how we might bear the Light of Christ into the darkness. Today’s lectionary passages provide us with the occasion to reflect on how we are formed and shaped by our participation in worship in this sacred space. As the lovely Psalm appointed for today says,

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”

And in the Gospel text we hear the wonderful invitation implicit in each of our Baptism’s to respond to God’ call in our lives. This reminds me of a quote from St. Augustine which, translated, goes something like this: “Behold what you are…become what you receive.” In some way, each of the passages we heard read this morning have to do with the deeply compelling narratives of knowing and being known by God, and by one another, and with the process of coming to know ourselves, and our Christian vocation, in deeper ways. At our Baptism—and those of others—we hear the same message: remember who, and whose, you are. In Baptism and in the Eucharist we discover the deepest truth about ourselves: that we are beloved of and by God. This is our deepest identity, and yet it takes a lifetime to live into the full truth of this. This narrative is at the heart of our journey, with Christ, into the fullness of our participation in the Body of Christ. So, this quote from St. Augustine, “Behold what you are…become what you receive,” originated in a homily in which he reflected on this deepest of truths in our faith—that through our participation in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist we are transformed into the Body of Christ, to be taken, blessed, broken, and given for the world.

This morning I want to invite us to think theologically about what this might mean, especially during this season of Epiphany. What might it mean to behold what and who we are, and to become what we receive in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist? The priest and writer Henri Nouwen has suggested that the words “taken,” “blessed,” “broken,” and “given” summarize our lives, because as Christians we are in fact called to be bread for the world, taken, blessed, broken, and given. In this season, as we look for the manifestations of God’s Incarnation in our lives, each of these things is likely happening somehow, somewhere in our lives, right now. If only we are willing to pay attention. If we are willing, that is, to listen to and heed the call, the invitation offered to us. On the wall in my study at the seminary for many years was a quote from the psychologist Carl Jung which reads “Bidden, or not bidden, God is present.” Indeed, and knowing that we have been chosen by God, that we are beloved of God and precious to God, is the first step in our response to God’s call.

I believe that every time we recognize Jesus’ presence in our lives and in others, even in the most mundane moments, it is because he has already approached us—has already seen God in us. And then we have the choice to live as if we believe that this is true, that we are taken—we are chosen, blessed, broken, and given. This is in part what it means to behold who we are…and become what we see and receive. The Gospels affirm this again and again, don’t they, in the images of the Good Shepherd, who knows his sheep and his sheep hear his voice; in Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus and with the woman at the well; and the examples of the man by the pool at Bethsaida, and Mary in the garden—each represents a moment in which Jesus is present, coming to meet another, but in some way unrecognized…. Behold what you are, become what you see and receive… Jesus always recognizes us, but we do not always recognize him. What difference might it make if we live into the belief that Jesus is present in every moment, every person, every situation, asking us to come, and see?

And, here’s where two threads of my vocational tapestry find common ground. One of the places where psychologists and theologians have fertile room for conversation is in the importance of knowing and being known, the need for mutual recognition. Just as God understands the need for us to seek out those moments when we know ourselves in clearer ways, and recognize the Light of Christ in ourselves and others, psychologists understand in ever more compelling ways how deeply important to development it is to be recognized. Psychologist Jessica Benjamin has written “As she cradles her newborn child and looks into its eyes, the mother says, “I believe she knows me. You do know me, don’t you? Yes, you do.” Never will she feel more strongly, than in those first days of her baby’s life, the intense mixture of its being part of herself, utterly familiar, and yet utterly new, unknown, and other.” Yes, and therein lies a tale, because this narrative of relational development toward the path of recognition, which occurs over the course of a lifetime, is at the very heart of what it means to be human, and to become who we are called by God to be. We are and we become our attachments over the course of our lives. One of the areas where philosophy, religion, and psychotherapy overlap is the idea of “agency.” Research has consistently shown that when people see themselves as engaged in change, and capable of progress, they are happier. One study of psychotherapy patients showed that when patients considered themselves to be engaged in a narrative of development and growth, they had a sense of agency and their mental health improved.” Yes, and I believe this is true both psychologically and spiritually—among other ways—and it is the message at the heart of today’s Gospel. Our word for this agency is “Metanoia”; we become the light we receive, and then we share it with others…we give it away.

When I was an inquirer on the journey of discernment regarding ordination, I was assigned for a 9-month stint at the Alzheimer’s unit at Wesley Woods. Among my duties was to make sure that residents on the Alzheimer’s unit who at some point had indicated a desire to attend worship, were taken downstairs for church. Nancy Baxter, our supervisor, assigned each of us one or two patients for whom we were responsible. One of my assigned patients was a lovely woman whom I’ll call Mildred. I knew that she had been a school teacher in a rural county south of Atlanta. She spent her whole life teaching, faithfully, in one school, and never married, and attended the little Methodist church in which she had been baptized as a child. She attended that church right up until she left for Wesley Woods. Photos of her former students—and these were her children—filled her room. In the time I knew her Mildred did not say a single word to me. In fact, I never observed her in conversation at all. I knew that she had distant relatives who visited her—nieces and nephews I think—but I never met them. All that I knew about her I gleaned from her chart, and from her caregivers. Over the course of several months, I would make my way to her room to retrieve her in her wheelchair—she was always ready for church, dressed immaculately and with a ribbon in her hair—and then I would settle her into her place in the congregation and I would leave to assist with worship. After the service was over, I would wheel her back to her room and bid her goodbye.

One day a strong thunderstorm interrupted our routine. As I headed to the elevator to bring her to worship, the storm was increasing in fury, with lighting and thunder and strong winds. The power flickered off, and on, and the elevators weren’t working, so I decided to take the stairs. The lights went out completely as I made my way to the fourth floor. I slowly climbed the stairs to Mildred’s floor. The lights came on, but dimly, as the generator kicked in, and the storm became more intense. I got to her room, and it was empty. Where was she? She was always ready and waiting for me to pick her up. I realized that my dislocation amid the storm, and the break in our routine—well, my routine anyway–had made visible what until now had gone unnoticed by me. I had over the previous months become attached to Mildred—perhaps she reminded me of my maternal grandmother, who had recently died—but in any case, I cared about her and was fond of her, and suddenly, I needed to find her. I felt strangely alone. I made my way into the common room, where residents were gathered in a safe, centrally located space, and I searched for her, among the others.  I looked around the room for her, and finally there she was, dressed and ready for church, seated amid the huddled patients in the day-room. And for a moment it was as if I was a small child again, afraid of the storm outside, scared and alone, and I thought “Do you know me? Tell me that you know me…say that you recognize me.” And then she smiled at me, for the first and only time. And I came to myself again. And here’s the amazing thing. Once the storm was over, and we headed down to church, I decided to sit right next to Mildred. Once the service was underway, we prepared to sing a hymn, so I took one of the lovely Methodist hymnals we used for our Episcopal services at Wesley Woods, turned to the appointed page, and held it up for me and for Mildred, not expecting much from either of us, truth told. And the song began, and wonder of wonders, Mildred began to sing like a trained chorister. She had a beautiful voice, and she knew every word of that hymn, and all the others we sang that afternoon, by heart. This from a woman I’d never heard utter a single word. She had no need of the hymnal, so I put down and listened to her. Over the years, through the music of her tradition, and through her participation in the worship of the Body of Christ, She had become what she had received. And, finally, I got it. I could see the face of Christ in her face, and in her faith. And Alzheimer’s could not take that away. Not then, not ever. And as we celebrated the Eucharist I understood in a new way that we are indeed taken, blessed, broken, and given to the world. And I realized, dear one’s, that this is at the heart of our Episcopal faith—how we pray, and our participation in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist, gradually shape who we become. If only we will say yes. And in those sacraments, Jesus tells us that he is always there, waiting, and that he knows us and is calling to us—that he’s always known us and has always been there, no matter what storms there may be. Taken, blessed, broken, and yes, given to the world. And so I pray that we may behold who we are, and become what we have received, and live into this beholding and becoming for a lifetime, and beyond. God has called each of us by name. Let’s covenant to remember who, and whose we are together in this Epiphany season. Amen.  

Second Sunday after Christmas – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Matthew 2:1-12

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:`

And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;

For from you shall come a ruler

who is to shepherd my people Israel.'”

Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Grace to you and peace, and welcome to Holy Family on this 2^nd Sunday of Christmas. I wish each of you a warm Holy Family welcome on this chilly winter day, and I am so glad you are here with us this morning! The wise men have been journeying home by another road, about which more in a minute, and in his own way, the theologian Martin Luther was among our wise men and women. On October 1512 Luther received his doctorate in theology, and shortly afterward he was installed as a professor of biblical studies at the University of Wittenberg. His lectures on the Bible were popular, and within a few years he made the university a center for biblical humanism. As a result of his theological and biblical studies he called into question the practice of selling indulgences. On the eve of All Saints’ Day, October 31, 1517, he posted on the door of the castle church in Wittenberg the notice of an academic debate on indulgences, listing 95 theses for discussion. As the effects of the theses became evident, the Pope called upon the Augustinian order to discipline their member. After a series of meetings, political maneuvers, and attempts at reconciliation, Luther, at a meeting with the papal legate in 1518, refused to recant. Martin Luther was excommunicated on January 3, 1521. The Emperor Charles V summoned him to the meeting of the Imperial Diet at Worms. There Luther resisted all efforts to make him recant, insisting that he had to be proved in error based on Scripture. The Diet passed an edict calling for the arrest of Luther. Luther’s own prince, the Elector Frederick of Saxony, however, had him spirited away and placed for safekeeping in his castle, the Wartburg. Here Luther translated the New Testament into German and began the translation of the Old Testament. He then turned his attention to the organization of worship and education. He introduced congregational singing of hymns, composing many himself, and many of those are in our own hymnal. He also issued model orders of services and published his large and small catechisms for instruction in the faith. During the years from 1522 to his death, Luther wrote a prodigious quantity of books, letters, sermons and tracts. Luther died on February 18, 1546.

The story of the Wise Men, whose visit to Jesus we hear about this morning in Matthew’s Gospel, and will be at the center of a wonderful performance here tomorrow night, has fired the imaginations of countless persons, including Martin Luther, down through the centuries. Often the results have been filled more with enthusiasm than with historical accuracy. Writers and artists have taken these few verses from Matthew and expanded them beyond recognition. This may have had to do with the exotic title, “Wise Men from the east,” that caused people’s minds to work overtime. I confess that I, too, find these words bring a flood of images and questions to mind. Were they astronomers, astrologers, kings, or scholars? And where in the vast, inscrutable, mysterious east did their journey originate? The great artist Botticelli created one of his most well-known works, called “The Adoration of the Magi,” based on this theme. It is indeed a lovely work of art. Commissioned for the chapel in Santa Maria Novella, it was painted in 1475, and according to some art historians it honors the Medici family, generous patrons of Botticelli, by interpreting the three wise men as portraits of Cosimo, Giovanni, and Guiliano Medici. There is some dispute about this.     

Of course, the Epiphany was a common subject in Florentine art, and Botticelli had already produced two versions of this mysterious sojourn. Somewhat more accurate, perhaps, was T.S. Eliots’ poem “The Journey of the Magi” quoted by the Anglican Bishop Richard Hooker many years ago… “Just the worst time of the year for a journey and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.” And Eliot indeed takes us on that journey with the Magi, pushing them to the edge so that we too, take that journey, “And the night fires going out, and the lack of shelters, and the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly and the village’s dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, sleeping in snatches, with the voices ringing in our ears, saying that this was all folly.” Matthew’s Gospel does not clear up all our questions for us. And we do not begrudge Eliot his questions either, do we? Was it all for nothing, this rough and long journey—and remember, the Holy Child was by now likely one year old—or was there something to all this talk of light, and a King?

Well, Martin Luther’s sermon on the coming of the Magi may have captured the true feeling that surrounded this event. The great reformer described how perplexed these “wise men” were upon arriving in Jerusalem. Not only were they road weary and saddle sore after having come from Persia; not only were they tired and weathered after week upon week of relentless travel, but they were ready for a celebration. They were all set for torches and feasting, merrymaking and dancing in the streets—yet when they arrived Jerusalem was as quiet as a library. Not a creature was stirring. Luther in his sermon went on to say, “The birth of a puppy would have caused more excitement” than the birth of Jesus in Jerusalem. The wise men must have been…as T.S. Eliot suggests—haunted by the uncertainty: had their stargazing been wrong? And, had this light from the heavens pointed to another reality…something entirely different from the birth of the “king of the Jews”? Had they journeyed all this way in vain? The only “king of the Jews” they encounter in Jerusalem is Herod. And he is no surprise whatsoever. Like many other “kings” he wields great power, with many under his command. He extravagantly renovated and enlarged the temple. And he is very concerned about someone out there still in diapers who is purported to be more powerful than him. Herod was no more than a vassal of the Roman Emperor, but he was a skilled politician who had secured control over half a dozen provinces. To his court the wise men came. Herod instructed them to report back when they had found their king. Of the gifts presented to Jesus the gold represented kingship, incense for priesthood, and myrrh, a spice used in burials, for availing sacrifice. Prompted by God, the Wise Men found a different way back to their homes. Herod never saw them again. 

Perhaps the most searching question in this rich, wonderful, mysterious story is: who would have figured that pagans from Persia would come to the Holy Land to show the people of the Covenant what God is doing in their midst? Or that these witnesses would not only gaze up at a star, but actually step out in faith and follow it to a foreign land to discover what it meant? These characters could not be more removed from the Jewish Citizenry in Jerusalem—in heritage and outlook. And yet God uses them—neither Jew nor Christian—to show that the Light has come. And what do we know of this Light? The poet Isaiah wrote: The Light has come to dispel the darkness that had covered the earth and all its people. Indeed, the Epiphany we observe tomorrow reminds us that the life of faith is a life of seeking, accepting, and acknowledging the gift of light that God has freely bestowed upon us. And one of the focal points of Epiphany is our Baptism, through which each of us is given gifts by God. Like the wise men who came before us, we are those people who searched for signs of hope and reconciliation and find that search to have led us here, to this place and time.

The theologian Gabriel Marcel told the story of sitting in a village café in the German Alps, just at dusk. On a hillside road in the distance, in the growing darkness, the village lamplighter moved slowly up the hill, lighting each lamp as he walked. Marcel could not actually see the lamplighter, only the light he left as he walked up the hill above the village. In just this way, he later wrote, God’s gifts to us illumine the darkness and make a path for others to follow. Because a stranger he would never see lit the way, Marcel was moved to consider the light in a new way. Because strangers in a far off country once searched the heavens for a sign, we are here now and know something of the light that can drive away all darkness. Because of the stewardship of a man named Paul, once an avowed enemy of the Light, we have been made one body with the Light. Because Martin Luther had the courage to spread the light of the Gospel, we are transformed, and we discover a spark of transcendence beyond our former selves, or, as T.S. Eliot put it so well in The Journey of the Magi, “No longer at ease here, in the old dispensations, with an alien people clutching their gods.” We are called to be in discernment about who and what we worship, the idols we are tempted to create in the service of power, and control, and which risk further marginalizing those already on the margins. Indeed, we clutch our false gods when we are afraid, and when we forget to respect the dignity of every human being. The gift of the incarnation of Christ has been given to us, through this wondrous Light, by Grace, as Martin Luther reminded us, and as our passage from Romans says so clearly, so that we might give them to others, that all might be reconciled one to another. We are called to share the divine life of the one who humbled himself to share our humanity, so that the Light might dispel the darkness, and shine throughout all the earth. Amen.