Author: Rosemary Lovelace

February 26, 2025

Bill Harkins

In February the Episcopal Church has traditionally celebrated the lives of two people dear to me, and to many. Eric Henry Liddell (16 January 1902 – 21 February 1945, was a Scottish athlete, rugby union international and missionary. Liddell was the winner of the Men’s 400 meters at the 1924 Summer Olympics held in Paris. He was portrayed in the wonderful film Chariots of Fire. Born in China, Liddell returned there as a Protestant missionary in later life.

Often called the “Flying Scotsman”, Liddell was born in Tianjin (formerly transliterated as Tientsin) in North China, second son of the Rev & Mrs James Dunlop Liddell who were Scottish missionaries with the London Missionary Society. He became well known for being the fastest runner in Scotland while at Eltham College. He withdrew from the 100-meter race in the 1924 Olympics in Paris as he refused to run on a Sunday. Liddell spent the intervening months training for the 400 meters, an event in which he had previously excelled. Even so, his success in the 400m was largely unexpected. He not only won the race but broke the existing world record with a time of 47.6 seconds. To put this in perspective, my best 400m time was 48.2 at the D-III championships my senior year in college, some 50 years later!

Liddell returned to Northern China where he served as a missionary, like his parents, from 1925 to 1943 – first in Tianjin and later in the town of Xiaozhang. Liddell’s first job as a missionary was as a teacher at an Anglo-Chinese College (grades 1-12) for wealthy Chinese students. It was believed that by teaching the children of the wealthy that they themselves would later become influential figures in China and promote Christian values. During his first furlough in 1932, he was ordained as a minister. On his return to China, he married Florence Mackenzie of Canadian missionary parentage in Tianjin in 1934.

In 1941 life in China was becoming so dangerous that the British Government advised British nationals to leave. Florence and the children left for Canada to stay with her family when Liddell accepted a new position at a rural mission station in Shaochang, which gave service to the poor. Meanwhile, the Chinese and the Japanese were at war. When the fighting reached Shaochang the Japanese took over the mission station. In 1943, Liddell was interned at the Weihsien Internment Camp with the members of the China Inland Mission Chefoo School. He died there of a brain tumor on 21 February 1945, five months before liberation.

Among my favorite moments in the film “Chariots of Fire” is this one:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCKNqIjdu8o

“Chariots Of Fire”. Such an amazing, iconic movie. It is a timeless classic. The fact that it is based on historical events makes it even more compelling. It is also one that I have a personal connection to. I have already done one post of a scene from the movie featuring Harold Abrahams, one of the 2 main characters in the movie. A man whose …

www.youtube.com

Now, I am an old and slow trail runner, but this scene never fails to put a spring in my step, and hope in my heart, and a reminder to remain steadfast, and resilient!

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us… (Hebrews 12: 1-2) 

Another saint whose life we celebrate this month is the poet George Herbert, many of whose poems have been put to music and can be found in our hymnal.

George Herbert | The Poetry Foundation

George Herbert (3 April 1593 – 1 March 1633)[1] was an English poet, orator, and priest of the Church of England. His poetry is associated with the writings of the metaphysical poets, and he is recognized as “one of the foremost British devotional lyricists.” He was born in Wales into an artistic and wealthy family and largely raised in England. He received a good education that led to his admission to Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1609. He went there with the intention of becoming a priest, but he became the University’s Public Orator and attracted the attention of King James I. He sat in the Parliament of England in 1624 and briefly in 1625

After the death of King James, Herbert renewed his interest in ordination. He gave up his secular ambitions in his mid-thirties and took holy orders in the Church of England, spending the rest of his life as the rector of the rural parish of Fugglestone, St. Peter, just outside Salisbury. He was noted for unfailing care for his parishioners, bringing the sacraments to them when they were ill and providing food and clothing for those in need. Henry Vaughan called him “a most glorious saint and seer”.He was never a healthy man and died of consumption at age 39.

More than ninety of Herbert’s poems have been set for singing over the centuries, some of them multiple times. In his own century, there were settings of “Longing” by Henry Purcell and “And art thou grieved” by John Blow. Some forty were adapted for the Methodist hymnal by the Wesley brothers, among them “Teach me my God and King”, which found its place in one version or another in 223 hymnals. Another poem, “Let all the world in every corner sing”, was published in 103 hymnals, of which one is a French version. Other languages into which his work has been translated for musical settings include Spanish, Catalan and German.

In the 20th century, “Vertue” alone achieved ten settings, one of them in French. Among leading modern composers who set his work were Rubbra, who set “Easter” as the first of his Two songs for voice and string trio (op. 2, 1921); Ralph Vaughan Williams, who used four by Herbert in Five Mystical Songs, of which “Easter” was the first and “Antiphon II” the last; Robin Milford, who used the original Fitzwilliam manuscript’s setting of the second part of “Easter” for his cantata Easter Morning (1932), set in two parts for soprano soloist and choir of children’s or women’s voices; Benjamen Britton, and William Walton, both of whom set “Antiphon” too; Ned Rorem who included one in his “10 poems for voice, oboe and strings” (1982); and Judith Wier, whose 2005 choral work Vertue includes three poems by Herbert.

This is among my favorites of Herbert’s poems set to music and found in our hymnal. It was sung at the Cathedral when my ordination brother Dr. Thee Smith and I were ordained years ago. Members of our own Holy Family were there as well:

King of Glory, King of Peace with Lyrics

This past week in our “Walk in Love” Adult Education class we discussed the chapter “Marking Time,” and explored how immersion in the Daily Office and other prayers can cultivate “Kairos” time and deepen and enrich our spiritual lives. This lovely prayer by Herbert is a perfect example:

Seven whole days, not one in seven,

I will praise thee;

in my heart, though not in heaven,

I can raise thee.

Small it is, in this poor sort

to enrol thee:

e’en eternity’s too short

to extol thee.

This coming Sunday will be our final class, and it has been such a joy to journey with you. Your faithful attendance has been such a joy for me! We won’t be able to complete the entire book, but please keep reading and exploring how our spiritual disciplines shape us. Remember Augustine’s words, when writing about that moment in the liturgy when the consecrated elements are held up before the faithful, who said ‘Behold what you are, become what you receive. ‘ Just think about those words for a moment ‘Behold what you are, become what you receive.’ They are words that work on so many levels. What we care for, we will grow to resemble. And what we resemble will hold us, when we are us no longer.

I’ll catch you later down the trail, and I hope to see you in church.

Blessings, Bill+

February 19, 2025

Bill Harkins

In one of my favorites of his songs, Van Morrison sings:

I’m a dweller on the threshold

And I’m waiting at the door

And I’m standing in the darkness

I don’t want to wait no more

I’m a dweller on the threshold

And I cross some burning ground

And I’ll go down to the water

Let the great illusion drown

This song speaks to those liminal spaces we find on the journey and the invitation to explore them implicit in Morrison’s “I don’t want to wait no more.” The etymology of “threshold” is from the Latin, “Limen.” It describes states, times, spaces, etc., that exist at a point of transition or change—a metaphorical threshold—as in “the liminal zone between sleep and wakefulness.”

When we walk through that doorway, as Morrison’s song suggests, something addresses us, prompts us, calls us, pushes us, pulls us into a relationship with itself. Transitional, liminal space is where we experience life in a lively way that feels real to us and where we discover and create ourselves as fully alive. I would suggest that this includes those aspects of our lives that are dissonant and where we are in conflict. It is from and within this space that we encounter each other, in our common finitude, and we bring forth a sense of wonder about and meanings in relation to our encounters with all of those who inhabit that space with us.

We may not always agree with one another, but a sense of wonder amid our commitments to Holy Family is among the gifts of our participation in the sacraments. For the psychiatrist Donald Winnicott this “liminal” space is co-created, in the context of relationships. “You may cure your patient,” he wrote, “and still not know what makes her or him go on living.”  The best indicator of a return to wholeness was the capacity for imagination and creativity. Indeed, liminal space in this sense is given meaning through the broader community, such as therapeutic spaces, and yes, communities of faith! We have indeed been “dwellers on the threshold” in this season of transition at Holy Family. I am so very grateful for our Nominating Committee, and our vestry, for steadfast, faithful work as we seek our new rector in this transitional season! Thank you to Stephen Franzen, Martha Power, Jeanine Krenson, Scott Armentrout, Allan DeNiro, Cammie Cox, and Richard Smith for their devoted commitment to this process! Thanks to our vestry, who will soon take the baton in the next stage of our process. I am so grateful to our outgoing vestry members Terry Nicholson, Andy Edwards, and Howell Kiser. A deep bow of gratitude as well to our new vestry members, Mary Sue Zercher, Wayne Crawford, and Belinda Humphrey, who join Ginger Griffith, Jim Braley, Loran Davis, Amy Dickson, John Kirk, our faithful scribe Rosemary Lovelace, and Sr. Warden Phil Anderson for this next stage of the journey.

Indeed, perhaps the word “liminal” is instructive. In anthropology, for example, liminality is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when we have not yet begun the transition to the new normal. We ask what sustains us as we journey together, what do we hold on to; and what do we leave behind. We are on a journey less Odyssean than Abrahamic. We do not know where this will lead us, yet hope, and this beloved Holy Family community of grace and hospitality, sustains us.

ring any liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold” between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which remains open. I am so grateful for the good work I have been called to do at Holy Family, even as my time among you slowly ends. Freud referred to counseling as “a cure through love” and this includes ordained ministry. Perhaps this is what another author meant, when he wrote this during an “in between” time like ours:

“Age has no reality except in the physical world. The essence of a human being is resistant to the passage of time. ..Think of love as a state of grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega…An end in itself.” ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Love in the Time of Cholera)

Each summer, I gather with dear friends from graduate school for a week of conversation, laughter, reading, trail running, wiffle ball, and other outdoor activities. For the past few years we’ve gathered in northern Colorado, near Pingree Park, the Colorado State University Mountain campus, on the border of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Roosevelt National Forest. Often, we meet new friends in their native habitat:

And, we sometimes find ourselves in new, uncertain, liminal terrain. This photo is of Comanche Peak and the cirque to Fall Mountain, in the Mummy Range. Just over the mountain range is Wyoming and points north. 

Last year, my friend Bob, who teaches philosophy and religion in Minneapolis, and I hiked up to Comanche Peak, along the cirque to Fall Mountain, down into Mummy Pass, and thence back to our cabin in the valley. It was a 10-hour trip and challenging both physically and mentally. Leaving the summit of Comanche Peak, we could see clouds building to the north and west. Despite our very early “alpine” start, we remained concerned about lightning from afternoon thunderstorms. With so much exposure above the tree line, we would need to seek lower ground. Much of the day was spent above 12,000’, along the rim of the cirque. Keeping a close eye on the storms building to the west…

…we decided to drop down into the sub-alpine forest beyond Fall Mountain. This required that we leave the trail and make use of our map and compass, to connect with the Mummy Pass trail at a point south of our original path. We were in unfamiliar terrain, cutting across country, and using our best judgment considering new, developing information. There were a few moments of harrowing uncertainty as we sought the trail, we knew we should intersect—and eventually we did. In the relative safety of the lower altitude, we made our way back down toward the Pingree Park valley, past Cirque Meadow…

…and back to the cabin, as the chilling rains began. The day had indeed been harrowing in both the culturally familiar, pejorative sense—to vex; to cause distress—and in the agricultural sense of the term, as in to harrow the soil, turning over the detritus of last year’s crop for planting, new growth, and eventual harvest. In fact, the root of harrow comes from word harve, from which we get our word harvest. As I write, I am harvesting some of the seeds that were planted that day. I have a sense of wonder about this. It is often the case that I am not sure what was planted, or what the harvest will be!

Richard Rohr, in one of his meditations says this:

At some point in time, we may need to embark on a risky journey. It’s a necessary adventure that takes us into uncertainty, and it almost always involves some form of difficulty or failure. On this journey the man learns to trust God more than he trusts a sense of right and wrong or his own sense of self-worth.”  

~Richard Rohr, “On The Threshold of Transformation.”

That evening, safe and warm by the fire (at 10,000’ evening temperatures are often in the 30’s, even in August!) we shared stories of our adventure. Relationships, often the psychological equivalent of our external adventures, also have the power to participate in our well-being and healing. And I was filled with gratitude for those harrowing journeys and adventures that are often occasions for transcendence, and new perspectives. For adventures, that is, which nurture, heal, sustain, challenge, and provide moments of freedom, perspective, and grace. Now back home, in my study, it feels almost like—I would say it feels exactly like, coming into the presence of still water, where my soul, too, is at rest.

I give a deep bow of gratitude to each of you, and for the good work we have shared on our journey into liminality. It has been an honor and privilege to serve among you. In our “Walk in Love” adult education class, we will begin the next section of the book entitled “Marking Time.” There, we will emphasize the importance of the Daily Offices and the liturgical calendar as ways of ordering our disciplines and practices, especially during times of change and transition. This is among the prayers we pray:

Almighty and eternal God, ruler of all things in heaven and earth: Mercifully accept the prayers of your people and strengthen us to do your will; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I am so grateful to be a “dweller on the threshold” with each of you at Holy Family. I pray that we will find ourselves at home, strengthened and renewed together, in the new chapter of our parish. I’ll catch you later down the trail and see you in church! Bill+

February 12, 2025

Bill Harkins

The Reverend Absalom Jones, 1746-1818

This famous image of Jones was rendered by Philadelphia artist Raphaelle Peale in 1810.

In our “Walk in Love” adult education class, we are learning about how Episcopal beliefs and practices shape our actions. We’ve learned the phrase Lex orandi, lex credenda, from the Latin, meaning “the law of prayer is the law of belief.” This describes the idea that habits of prayer shape Christian belief. It’s a reminder that prayer and belief are integral to each other, and that liturgy is not distinct from theology. In other words, our beliefs and actions are informed by our spiritual disciplines. This belief is shared by most faith traditions in one way or another and has to do with “meaning making” and spirituality as we live out our day to day lives. When I was a sophomore at Sandy Springs High School, I was unexpectedly promoted to the varsity football team due to the injury of a senior whose position I shared in our Power-I option offense. Truth be told, I was scared, and unprepared. When the team manager asked me to pick a number for my jersey, I chose #21 because Roberto Clemente was among my athletic heroes. While known primarily for his years with the Pittsburgh Pirates, Clemente’s first love was track and field, and he was an Olympic hopeful in his youth before deciding to turn his full attention to baseball. While I played football for many years, track and field was also my true passion, and running has been (so far) a life-long passion. When my teammates learned of my jersey choice, and why I chose it, some used racist language to describe me, and Clemente (this was still very much Jim Crow south in the early 70’s). I was hurt, and disappointed.

And I wore that jersey for the next three years!

At about this time I was tentatively making my way into the Episcopal Church, driving from my neighborhood down Mt. Vernon Highway to Holy Innocents’ Episcopal, where Rev. Bob Johnson was the rector (the vicarage was in our neighborhood). I shared my story with him, and he provided a compassionate and safe context for me to work through my disappointment in my teammates and help me do the good work of turning my anger into compassion; my grief into empathy; and my shame into grace. He was the first person to tell me that how we pray informs our beliefs and informs the way we live out those beliefs in our quotidian lives.

Clemente did just that, spending much of his time during the off-season involved in charity work. When Managua Nicaragua was affected by an earthquake on December 23, 1972, Clemente immediately set to work arranging emergency relief flights. He soon learned, however, that the aid packages on the first three flights had been diverted by corrupt officials of the government, never reaching victims of the quake. He decided to accompany the fourth relief flight, hoping that his presence would ensure that the aid would be delivered to the survivors. The airplane which he chartered for the New Year’s Eve flight had a history of mechanical problems and it also had an insufficient number of flight personnel (the flight was missing a flight engineer and a copilot), and it was also overloaded by 4,200 pounds (1,900 kg). It crashed into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Puerto Rico immediately after takeoff on December 31, 1972, due to engine failure. The plane was never found.

This week we observe the Feast Day of Absalom Jones, who was America’s first Black priest. Born into slavery in Delaware at a time when slavery was being debated as immoral and undemocratic, he taught himself to read, using the New Testament as one of his resources. At the age of 16, Jones’ mother, sister, and five brothers were sold, but he was brought to Philadelphia by his master, where he attended a night school for African Americans operated by Quakers. Upon his manumission in 1784, he served as lay minister for the Black membership at St. George’s Methodist Episcopal Church with his friend, Richard Allen, and together they established the Free African Society to aid in the emancipation of slaves and to offer sustenance and spiritual support to widows, orphans, and the poor.

The active evangelism of Jones and Allen greatly increased Black membership at St. George’s. Alarmed by the rise in black attendance, in 1791 the vestry decided to segregate African Americans into an upstairs gallery without notice. When ushers attempted to remove the black congregants, the resentful group exited the church.

In 1792 Jones and Allen, with the assistance of local Quakers and Episcopalians, established the “First African Church” in Philadelphia. Shortly after the establishment that same year, the African Church applied to join the Protestant Episcopal Church, laying before the diocese three requirements: the Church must be received as an already organized body; it must have control over its own affairs; and Jones must be licensed as lay-reader and if qualified, ordained as its minister. Upon acceptance into the Diocese of Pennsylvania, the church was renamed the African Episcopal Church of St. Thomas. The following year Jones became a deacon but was not ordained a priest until 1802, seven years later. At 56 years old, he became the first Black American priest. He continued to be a leader in his community, founding a day school (as African Americans were excluded from attending public school), the Female Benevolent Society, and an African Friendly Society. In 1800 he called upon Congress to abolish the slave trade and to provide for gradual emancipation of existing slaves. Jones died in 1818.

Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe, left, and the Very Rev. Martini Shaw celebrate the Eucharist during a Feb. 9 service celebrating the Feast of Absalom Jones. Photo: Kirk Petersen/Episcopal News Service. To celebrate the Feast of Absalom Jones, Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe traveled to the spiritual home of the first Black Episcopal priest: the African Episcopal Church of St. Thomas in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, founded in 1792, with Jones as its first rector.

“We have all heard the many wonderful stories of Absalom Jones,” Rowe said in his Feb. 9 sermon. “He transformed the church, transformed the world around him … he changed lives by his mild manner,” and built a church of 500 people in only a year. Rowe began by quoting from the Gospel of John, where Jesus said, “I am the vine, and you are the branches,” a metaphor the presiding bishop returned to several times.

“Absalom Jones built a community, and didn’t build it because he himself was a great man,” Rowe said. “He built it because he himself knew that he was to be connected to the vine, and from where his power came, and from where the glory of God would go forth through him in that place.” Jones and other African Americans founded St. Thomas after staging a historic walkout from St. George’s Methodist Church, where they faced discrimination despite having been allowed to worship. The story is captured in “Blessed Absalom,” the opening hymn, which calls out the church by name:

Founded the Saint Thomas’ Church

For Afric’s sons and daughters blest

Full-fledged members of Christ’s body,

They no longer were oppressed.

Blessed Abs’lom, pray that weMay be the church at Christ’s behest

(Hymn 44, Lift Every Voice and Sing)

This hymn, like so many, evokes a prayerful hope that “we may be the church at Christ’s behest.” Indeed, and in this season of our lives at Holy Family, in the Episcopal Church undergoing rapid change, and in our own country, we are seeking to make meaning of what we are experiencing. This is ultimately based on hope in a loving God who holds us, and cares for the world. One may ask “If we have faith, why is hope so important?” While faith is believing in something, even without seeing proof, “hope” is the expectation that what we believe in and pray for will actually come to pass, making it a future-oriented aspect of faith; we need hope to actively anticipate the positive outcomes of your faith, providing motivation and resilience in the face of challenges. We can’t have hope without first having faith in something. Hope looks to the future, and while faith can encompass the present and past, hope is focused on the positive possibilities yet to come. Having hope gives us perseverance, resilience, and the strength to keep going even when things are difficult because we believe in a better future. We hope to bridge the political, racial, economic and other divides that threaten to separate us.

I’m grateful to Rev. Bob Johnson, whose pastoral care led me to the Episcopal Church and who listened to my lamentations, and to Roberto Clemente, who helped teach me that while athletics is important, how we live out our faith is more important, and Absalom Jones, whose faith led to hope and helped me understand in new ways the importance of respecting the dignity of every human being.

And so, we pray, “Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand, and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God.And not only that, but we also boast in our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, 4 and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, 5 and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

I’ll see you later down the trail, and I hope to see you at church! Bill+

March 2, 2025

Last Sunday after Epiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Luke 9:28-36

Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” —not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning and welcome to Holy Family as we observe the last Sunday in Epiphany, and hear the story of a mountain top gathering replete with sleep deprived disciples, saints of old, and a dazzling light show. It is a story guaranteed to mystify and enchant all ages, from children to those not quite so young. Vicky and I fall into the latter category, and now that we are grandparents of 7 year-old twins, Jack and Alice, and a six year-old granddaughter, Sophia, and two year-old Georgie, we have been re-acquainting ourselves with children’s films and books, many of which are, I suspect, meant for grownups too. Disney’s Beauty and the Beast experienced a revival of sorts with Emma Watson of Harry Potter fame as Belle, the benevolent bibliophile who learns to love the beast and sees humanity hidden beneath his outward appearance. It is a film about a transfiguration of sorts, with themes of integration on our journey to wholeness. And if we use our imagination, we can see the glorious appearance of Moses, Elijah, and Jesus in this Lukan Gospel passage as being a little bit like the Beast’s transfiguration at the end of the film, when he is lifted by mysterious forces and enveloped in light that erupts out from him in this moment of transformation. This is the stuff of Hollywood, of course, and we do love stories about change and renewal.

On the other hand, in a sense, the Transfiguration in Luke is NOT the same as the climax of the story in Beauty and the Beast. Rather, it’s a little more like the moment Princess Fiona’s true self is revealed in the film Shrek—another movie about transformation—filled with awe-inspiring light and dramatic music leading us to expect a Beauty and the Beast-style ending. Instead, Shrek subverts our expectations, like many of Jesus’ parables. The light subsides to reveal “true love’s true form,” as the song goes, and we discover that true love’s true form isn’t one of conventional beauty and royalty, but rather one that makes Fiona perfectly suited for a life of companionship with Shrek in the swamp — a life that the story teaches us has the potential for a lot more abundance and love than life in a palace.

Indeed, a central message in the story of Jesus’ transfiguration in all three gospels is that the moment of dazzling glory comes not at the end of the gospel, but in the middle. It is not the climactic moment in which Jesus’ true nature is decisively revealed for all to see. After the light show subsides (and in Luke, after the divine voice, proclaims Jesus as God’s chosen), Jesus goes back to looking just as he has while they’ve been traveling around Galilee, teaching, healing, and setting people free from the powers that bound them and closed them off from community. The disciples tell no one of what they have seen. When the disciples are ready to proclaim their message to the world, at the very center of it will be a moment that comes much later in the story, the moment in which Jesus’ true nature is revealed and lifted up for any to see: that is to say, Jesus’ true nature will be revealed on the Cross. In verse 31, Luke tells us that Moses and Elijah appear in glory and speak of Jesus’ “departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.” The Greek word used for “departure” here is exodus. The connection between this Gospel text and the experience of Moses’ descent from Sinai is made clear. And we heard both stories this morning.

The Disciples witnessed a vision, and wanted to stay atop the mountain forever. They could not. The author and theologian Henri Nouwen has said that the Transfiguration offers access through the gate of the visible—a very human Jesus—into the mystery of the invisible—the face of God. In this Gospel story, Jesus becomes a kind of luminous narrative—a living story, if you will, pointing to a wonderfully mysterious truth. Whatever happened on the mountain had to have meaning on level ground, that place where the sacred and profane meet in mundane, quotidian everydayness. The disciples hear a voice from heaven saying “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” This repeats a common thread in the use of the term “beloved” and in the command to listen, to pay attention. And so with this the mountaintop experience comes to an end, and it is time to return to the everydayness of life, and a journey which may lead into unknown territory.

Begging the question, what might it mean to “practice Transfiguration,” theologically understood, once one has descended the mountain? And keeping with two of the identified themes of this passage—those of light and of listening— how might this inform our practices of paying attention to the light of the Transfiguration in the everyday moments of our lives, and not just those occasional mountaintop experiences? This may mean recognizing that in some way we, too, are to be bearers of that Light. The valley—and the road to Jerusalem that lay within it, is where Jesus continued his ministry. How do we embody our mountaintop experiences, including our journey into Christ in the Eucharist, once we have returned to the valley of day-to-day life to “Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord”? How do our disciplines and practices inform both our mountaintop experiences and life upon our return to level ground where we are called to see Christ in the face of the other, and respect the dignity of every human being?

Some time ago I journeyed with my two sons to the Northern Cascades for a mountaineering trip, the ultimate goal of which was to summit Mt. Baker. Or, so I thought. After several days of preparation, we departed our base-camp at 2:00am for the summit attempt. The night was clear and cold, and our team, roped together, ascended steadily up the glacier. Each deliberate step brought us closer the hoped for sunrise on the summit of this jewel of the Cascades. Soon, however, lightning appeared off to the west as a line of powerful, pre-dawn thunderstorms announced a fast-moving cold front. In consultation with our wise guide, we made the group decision to return to camp, the wind, rain, and lightning close behind. I wanted the mountaintop, and I got a storm. I was disappointed, and later, in conversation with my sons, in which I voiced my regret, our older son, the most experienced mountaineer among us, he said something I’ll never forget. “Dad, you never intentionally climb into a storm. That’s mountaineering 101. We did the right thing.” His wise, old soul younger brother nodded, and pointed toward the Roosevelt-Deming glacier glittering like a thousand jewels below us. We were together on an unforgettable adventure, and that was all that really mattered. What I remember most about the trip now, back in life on level ground, is not the fact that we did not reach the summit, but that we created lifelong memories, and that our disciplines and practices led us to remember what was most valuable and important—our love for one another, showing up, being present, and fully alive. Like Peter, perhaps, who wanted to remain on the mountain top, I had to reconcile my return to level ground with a deeper awareness of the nature of the journey, a journey perhaps more ambiguous, mysterious, and risky. The disciples would descend the mountain, but—and this is where our Mt. Baker narrative and this one part company—they would climb into a storm of life-changing proportions with Jesus in Jerusalem. Perhaps with Peter we are tempted to say “Let’s stay on this mountain, and build huts here” when practicing Transfiguration on level ground may mean transformation and change beyond anything we had imagined.

Sometime in the late 4th or early 5th century, St. Augustine preached a sermon on the nature of the Eucharist in which he said, “Behold what you are…become what you receive.” For Augustine the disciplines and practices of the sacraments are the occasion for both a deeper awareness of what one is, and a living into what one might become as one in the Body of Christ. The Transfiguration is, in part, a living into a sense of wonder about the mystery of such transformations. And so with Fiona, and Shrek, we learn that true love’s true form may be found in the most surprising and life-giving ways. And with Augustine, and with James, and John, and especially Peter, who was so very human, and for whom falling down, was ultimately falling upward into grace, we understand that in Christ we are created in the image of God, Imago Dei. And we know in new ways that God’s love will follow us regardless of where we go. These are signs of grace and hope bountiful plenty to take with us down from the mountaintop, regardless of where our practices of transfiguration may take us. Amen.

February 23, 2025

Seventh Sunday after Epiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing: Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you. Grant this for the sake of your only Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 6:27-38

Jesus said, “I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you…

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. 

Deep River,

My home is over Jordan.

Deep River, Lord.

I want to cross over into campground.

The words of this powerful spiritual speak so well to us and to the life and ministry of so many, from Martin Luther King and Ghandi to all those who work for justice and compassion. Campground is that place where justice is realized, and compassion and hospitality allow us to see the face of the other and accept them as children of God. And these words remind of that night in Memphis, when Martin Luther King said, “I’m not fearing any man. I’ve been to the mountaintop… and I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you…These words resonate the themes of both the Exodus story and of Luke’s Gospel. Like Moses, he was leading his people out of bondage to powers and principalities. He was formalizing and clarifying a new relationship with the old order. He referred to the mountaintop experience of Moses in such a way as to place in context the nature of his service and, if necessary, his suffering. His speech also exhibited the codification of a new law in relation to contemporary social issues. His solidarity with the Memphis garbage workers, on strike because of racially biased, unfair wages, called for a transcendence of the current law. He called for a new covenant. His voice spoke out against the injustice of laws that violated the fundamental rights of his fellow human beings and, though “legal” in the technical sense, were unjust. His identification as a contemporary Christian allowed him to call upon these two traditions with integrity and power. His suffering and eventual death were in the extreme an example of how service to God a particular kind of freedom is indeed. Had he been bound by old codes of vengeance; the movement would have never gotten beyond the “eye for an eye” stage and gone the way of all such movements. Insisting on the practice of non-retaliation and using the language of the Exodus out of Egypt, King manifested in his own life journey the tensions inherent in both the Exodus account and the Gospel of Luke. There was, to be sure, ambiguity and suffering. The way was not always clear, nor is it now. Jesus is rarely who we want him to be. We want him to be comfortable, reassuring, and safe, but sometimes he is none of these things. Jesus’ teaching is hard. If we really hear it, no matter where we are situated in terms of economics, society, or politics, it will make us uncomfortable, unsettled, and feel decidedly challenged. Jesus was and is a radical — not in the sense being on the extreme ends of the political spectrum, but in the literal sense of ‘down to the roots.’ His vision for humanity, for the Church, for us, is not about stopgap solutions but about a deep and thoroughgoing transformation of our beliefs, ideals, and actions.

There are few places in the Gospels where this is more evident than in Luke’s Sermon on the Plain (Luke’s version of Matthew’s more famous Sermon on the Mount), which our Sunday lectionary started last week and continues today, with these challenging words:

Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you. If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them.

This ethic runs pretty much opposite to every human instinct. We recite the Golden Rule — Do unto others as you would have them do unto you — often enough, but here in context it seems more difficult, because what it’s really saying is “Do unto others not as they have done and are doing unto you.” Ouch. When Jesus says, “Love your enemies,” he’s not talking about abstract figures, but the literal people who hurt us. This is love completely devoid of sentimentality. But is this kind of love even possible? And if it is, is it good? The twentieth century was a golden age for nonviolent resistance. And a lot of that was driven by Christians who saw in Jesus’ teaching not a way of reinforcing power structures, but of a means of empowering the oppressed by revealing those power structures as being evil. Howard Thurman, a theologian whose writings inspired many of the leading figures of the American Civil Rights movement wrote powerfully about this: Hatred, he says, only reinforces hatred and harms the hated and hater alike. The way of love is not a sentimental retreat or a submission in the face of injustice, but a way for the oppressed to take ownership of their lives by taking the initiative over their oppressors. As Richard Rohr has written, “Just don’t get into the tit-for-tat game… Create your own loving set of rules, which will blow the system apart. You take the initiative and change the rules, the expectations and the outcome” (Jesus’ Plan for a New World). In teaching in this way, Jesus takes away the idea of reciprocity and retribution. We don’t do good because others do good to us; neither do we do bad because others do bad to us. We do good because it’s good. Full stop. But what’s interesting is that, right at the end of the passage, Jesus gives us back reciprocity in a transfigured way:

Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful. Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap; for the measure you give will be the measure you get back.

As the theologian Matthew Root has suggested, here the mirror for our actions is not our neighbor, but God. God, in whose image and likeness we were made, is the one whose image our lives are to reflect. And so, we are called to mercy, to withhold judgement and condemnation, to forgive, and to be generous. And, because we do this, we will receive these as well, even if in ‘the next life’ or in a ‘spiritual way’ in this life. This remains difficult teaching. Our sense of justice and fairness demands that things balance out in this world; sadly, the reality of sin makes that unlikely, if not impossible. The most we can hope for in this world is consolation to go along with the difficulty, and to build the best, most whole and healed relationships we can, and exercise our true spiritual freedom— the freedom to set aside our natural urges for retribution and to love even our enemies.

One of my dear friends and colleagues told our group of a ministry they call the Starfish Collective. It’s based on a story of a young mother and her child who discover while walking on the beach that the retreating tide has left hundreds of starfish stranded above the waterline, where they will die in the heat and sun before the next incoming tide can cover them once more. The two of them rush from creature to creature, picking each one up and flinging it back into the sea. A curmudgeonly old man walking by scoffs, and says derisively, “You’re wasting your time. You can’t possibly make a difference here. There’s just too many of them and only two of you.” The child picks up one more starfish and tosses it into the waves. “Made a difference for that one,” she says.  “Be merciful,” Jesus told his disciples, “As your heavenly parent is merciful.”  

Service to God is, in this sense, perfect freedom because it ultimately means a transcendence of self, as one embraces a higher calling. We make our voices heard, amid uncertainty and ambiguity, and make ourselves willing to embark on a journey out of bondage to a servanthood to self alone. It is very easy to be kind to those who are nice to us – and to love those who love us. The challenge for Christians is to go further. Among Jesus’ own disciples there were strong characters and the potential for disastrous relationships. Simon the Zealot was violently opposed to Roman occupation; Matthew had made a living as a tax-collector in effect collaborating with the Romans; in the early Church at Philippi, Luke would have met a community in which a wealthy woman called Lydia met and worshipped on equal terms with dockers from the local port. Peter, as we know, struggled time and time again to understand and live out what Jesus was saying. His humanity is, in this sense, what draws me to him. And yet Jesus said he was the rock on which his church was built. I take comfort in that. Christian communities are never uniform – people hold different political views – and have strong opinions about a wide variety of issues; we belong to different social groups, and so on. And yet, week by week, we gather to worship God and, hopefully, to build up the Body of Christ in our own community and the locality in which we live. To do this, we must employ much of the teaching in today’s Gospel, cultivating qualities of compassion, forbearance and forgiveness. We must go beyond what might be expected in a club or other organization – being willing to sacrifice something of our own self-interest to create harmony. Such a community is a powerful witness to the world and will attract others to us. Yes, we may find ourselves exploited from time to time – but, as Jesus says, God is never outdone in generosity – and what we give we will receive back in even greater abundance.  “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” King quoted these very words in his Letter from the Birmingham Jail. “I must honestly reiterate that I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.

King made the remarkable observation that the greatest enemy of justice in Birmingham at the time was not the sheriff, armed with clubs, and fire hoses, but rather the indifference of those who knew better. Believe that as long as you keep going, you will arrive. Another prophetic voice of that time, Marvin Gaye, sang about taking those first steps: ”Mother, mother There’s too many of you crying Brother, brother, brother There’s far too many of you dying. You know we’ve got to find a way…to bring some loving, here today.”Campground, in the old spiritual, is that place, dear one’s where we are all heading when we respond to the question, “And what does the LORD require of you: To act justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” It is that place where we are committed to justice, and compassion.

Oh, don’t you want to go,

To the Gospel feast;

That Promised Land,

Where all is peace? Oh, deep River, Lord,

I want to cross over into campground.

Amen.

February 16, 2025

Sixth Sunday after Epiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers; and because in our weakness we can do nothing good without you, give us the help of your grace, that in keeping your commandments we may please you both in will and deed; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 6:17-26

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this sixth Sunday after Epiphany. I have been thinking about the beginning of the Gospel text for this morning…the part where Luke tells us that Jesus came down from the mountain after naming the Twelve, and stood on a “level place” with a large crowd of disciples and others waiting for him. I found myself thinking about the implications of this act…particularly since Matthew’s “Sermon on the Mount” includes similar teaching but takes place on the mountaintop. Matthew’s version is also more “spiritualized.” He says, for example, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Luke’s account, on the other hand, begins with “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God.” Somehow the fact that Jesus came down from the mountain to this level place seems important. He is not talking down to the crowd but is rather on a level playing field with them. There is a kind of reciprocity and availability here that I find intriguing. Perhaps this is, in part, because I don’t believe the beatitudes are about us…or that they were spoken those listening in such a way as to give them prescriptive commands about how to live. It’s so easy to hear them this way, but I think doing so misses the point. I once had a professor who constantly reminded those of us would-be pastoral therapists against giving advice. “Your clients can go out onto West End Avenue and get advice for free,” he said. “What they can’t get is the availability and wisdom and presence you bring to the relationship. It’s a relationship unlike any other.” I believe this is what Jesus is doing here, and I think it is a good practice for the priesthood of all believers, too—and that means all of us.

Because, you see, in this Gospel text Jesus is offering relationship. He is not so much offering commands for how we should live, or prescriptive advice about what we should do. We hear these words and some of us imagine Jesus to be telling us that we should go be poor, or learn to cry more, or find ways to be persecuted. I think this misses the real issue. The harder we try to make these rather distinctive sayings into some kind of prescriptive marching orders, the less sense they make. Moreover, I believe the paradoxical nature of these beatitudes is, in a sense, precisely the point. Nowhere in these sayings is there a directive of any kind—to anybody. Nowhere does Jesus use the imperative, nowhere does he give any orders or advice or requirements. The entire section is in the indicative—that is, he is showing—not ordering. He is signifying and suggesting—not telling people what to do.

This invitation to consider a different view of reality is precisely in keeping, I believe, with the symbolic act of coming down from the mountain, on an even plane with the people, and giving an indication of the kingdom of God from ground level. I am not persuaded that this passage is about making the world a better place, or how to become more prosperous, or how to earn favor with God. I believe Jesus is giving the crowd, and by extension giving us, a glimpse into the way God thinks, who God is, and what the Kingdom of God is like. If the beatitudes don’t seem to bear much likeness to reality, as we know it, so be it. They are not about the way the world really works, just as they are not about how we are to behave. The beatitudes are about imagining what matters to God. And how we respond to this knowledge is up to us—wherever we are in our lives, here and now. Jesus offers us a glimpse of the paradoxical picture of God’s values and priorities—and he does so as an alternative to our ordinary ways of viewing the world. Jesus is giving us an opportunity to see that which is often hidden to our day-to-day vision. What we do with this is up to us.

Perhaps we will find that we are encouraged in a rough spot, or cautious during a soft spot.

Perhaps we will see ourselves as one kind of person or another among these categories, even paradoxically so. That too is finally between each one of us, and God. Regardless, the promise is that the way things are is not the way things will always be. I don’t know about you, but when I imagine Jesus coming down off the mountain and being at eye-level, I find myself more open to hearing what he has to say. I am drawn to him precisely because of this gesture of availability. I feel, well, a sense of openness to the possibilities. I can imagine stretching on tiptoes to see, and straining to hear Jesus speak these words and, upon hearing them, walking away, shaking my head and laughing. I can imagine thinking to myself “Wow, now that is a new light on this business of being alive…and it will take a while for me to begin to ponder this, and perhaps to see my life in this new light.” Perhaps the laughter in my imagination is instructive. Isn’t it true that so often laughter can ease the bumps in the road, level the anxiety we may feel, and give us a new perspective on what it means to be human? As the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr once said, “Laughter is the beginning of prayer, humor is the prelude to faith.”    

And perhaps the reference to light is instructive, too. After all, the theme of Epiphany is light. Yet the past few days have been mostly gray and rainy and cold. But you know what? The past two weeks, on my runs on the trails, most of which have occurred in cold rain, I have noticed flocks of bluebirds; 10-15 of these lovely creatures creating a distinctive colorful, hopeful contrast to the gray skies.

I reminded myself that bluebirds begin nesting in February, and I remembered another cold and rainy February when I had put up a new bluebird box the previous fall. Why did I do this? Who knows? Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Maybe that had something to do with it. One evening, just before dark, I was getting some firewood from the back yard, and I decided to make sure the bluebird box near the woodpile was clear of insects and debris—just in case it might seem an appealing home to some pair among the recent visitors. Slowly, carefully, I opened the front door. In an instant I saw the momentary brilliant flash of a blue wing, perched high on the new nesting material in the box. The evening light, for a moment, revealed a deep, abiding faithful and mysterious loveliness hidden inside. I slowly closed the door, secured it, and moved away, shaking my head and laughing at the paradoxical mystery of this revelation—this indication, this signifier, this intimation—of a new season of life. There, in the soft last light of an Epiphany evening, still deep in winter, the mystery of these bluebirds is the same as the question abiding in the beatitudes—if such a thing as this is possible, this turning upside down of our expectations, how might our own lives be different?

These blessings and woes are certainly strange, but could they be the doorway to a life more beautiful and fuller of wonder than our deepest dreams? This depends on the choices we make. And Luke uses his gospel to show that people can fall under the spell of the Jesus Way and choose the winding path toward participation in God’s blessed kingdom. The good Samaritan provides emergency assistance to a man who has been robbed and then generously commits funds for his longer-term recovery. Following an encounter with Jesus, a tax collector named Zacchaeus distributes his wealth to those he has cheated. An unnamed woman breaks a precious jar of ointment so that she can use its contents as a blessing for Jesus as life brings him closer to the cross.

Because you see, Jesus uses blessings to encourage and give hope to those who have every good reason to be discouraged and hopeless. Underneath these words, he is saying, You are beloved. The world may not see you that way, but I do. And I will treat you accordingly. Where is the church speaking words that communicate that kind of hope? Where is the church acting to make these blessings come true? That’s the winding path of love that leads to the most amazing views.

Jesus cared so much for those who needed care that he held nothing back as he loved them. As Luke says, “Power came out from him and healed all of them.” He must have seemed strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than their deepest dreams. His spirit of compassion for those who were impoverished and ostracized was fierce and unwavering. He was issuing an invitation to those who had the means to make life more blessed for those without such resources. Indeed, Jesus’ blessings and woes are specific and daunting. They can make us reconsider how we have ordered and understood our world—and how to amplify compassion and generosity. That would be the first step along the winding road that leads to a world full of compassion. Do we believe this? Are we foolish for doing so? Is it possible that these beatitudes offer us what the poet Robert Frost called “something more of the depths,” … something, that is, beyond our own self-preoccupation? I believe this is a step toward wholeness, rather than cure. Curing means getting rid of the disease, while healing— “salve”,  means becoming whole. We do far better to imagine that we have parts of ourselves more like Mary, or the prodigal, or Paul with his thorn, or Peter, who so faithfully struggled to be whole despite his limitations—limitations I share with him, rather than imagining ourselves to have all the answers. We all need grace, and the more deeply we understand this, the closer we move to wholeness. That is why Jesus “ate with sinners” and why he came down to level ground, and why the people felt so comfortable around Him. Robert Frost wrote:

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs

Always wrong to the light, so never seeing

Deeper down in the well than where the water

Gives me back in a shining surface picture

Me myself in the summer heaven godlike

Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.

Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,

I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,

Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,

Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.

Water came to rebuke the too clear water.

One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple

Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,

Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?

Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.

Jesus is offering us in the beatitudes a glimpse into the heart of God— “something more of the depths” as Frost put it. What we do with this glimpse—this light into the kingdom of God, is, finally, up to us. Amen.

February 5, 2025

Among my favorite passages from the Hebrew Bible is Joshua 3: 1-5. The NRSV version reads like this:

3 Early in the morning Joshua rose and set out from Shittim with all the Israelites, and they came to the Jordan. They camped there before crossing over. 2 At the end of three days the officers went through the camp 3 and commanded the people, “When you see the ark of the covenant of the Lord your God being carried by the levitical priests, then you shall set out from your place. Follow it, 4 so that you may know the way you should go, for you have not passed this way before. Then Joshua said to the people, “Sanctify yourselves; for tomorrow the Lord will do wonders among you.”

In this reading from Joshua, we find people in transition and a leader, in Moses, also in transition or, perhaps in a process of transformation. In our liturgical year we are moving through Epiphany toward Lent, which begins with Ash Wednesday on March 5th. We are also in a transitional season after a polarizing and difficult election season. Many are anxious and at times, the truth seems elusive. And of course, we are in transition as we seek our next rector in this season of profound changes in the Episcopal Church and in mainline Protestantism, hence, our “Lay led, clergy supported” mantra. In our “Walk in Love” class at Holy Family (40+ souls last Sunday…thank you!) we are making our way through disciplines and practices found in the Book of Common Prayer. We have learned the Latin phrase “Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi” which, loosely translates as “how we pray shapes our beliefs and actions.” We began a discussion of our Baptismal Covenant, a portion of which reads like this:

Celebrant: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

People: I will, with God’s help.

Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

People: I will, with God’s help

How might our disciplines and practices, including our covenants, prayers, liturgy and life together as the Body of Christ assist us in this time of change, and polarization, and anxiety? How might these guide us on a journey in many ways unlike any other…when like Joshua at the Jordan, we “have not passed this way before”?

Walter Brueggemann, my erstwhile colleague from Columbia Seminary, teaches about three kinds of Psalms and, as such, three kinds of journeys: Psalms of Orientation, Disorientation, and New Orientation. And we know this pattern well as Christians and Episcopalians in the form of our journey during Holy Week from Palm Sunday to Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter…

This familiar pattern is one about which Richard Rohr and other authors have written as part of our spiritual journey. It is also about our “salvation,” because we are indeed “saved” by knowing and surrendering to this universal journey of reality. Knowing the full pattern allows us to let go of the first order, accept the disorder, and, sometimes hardest of all—to grieve our losses and trust the new reorder.

In some ways during this season of transition, we are living out our own version of that Exodus journey. Ignatius, one of our spiritual forefathers and mothers, wisely said that we must learn to practice what he called “Holy Indifference” when we encounter those limit places where we must let go of our illusion that we can order and control the world through whatever means we seek to do so. Release of control to God will show itself as compassion and generosity, respecting the dignity of every human being, and less attention to rules and regulations. This will normally be experienced, Rohr says, as a move toward humility and real community. It may also mean that we can discover leadership abilities in ourselves, and new ways of being in community, perhaps in ways that are surprising.

“Leadership” is a broad topic, and we may be tempted to think it does not apply to us. I want to challenge that notion, and invite us to think together about leadership, and about how we might lead ourselves and others on this Exodus journey during this season of our lives. The origin of the word “leader” means, simply, to guide. So, let’s imagine how we might guide one another in this season of disorientation. We will have our vestry retreat this coming Saturday with a new team of leaders. Moreover, we are exploring together new and exciting ways to recruit more lay leaders at Holy Family. This is hopeful. And hope is a good thing…it may be the best of things.

You may see yourself as a leader, you may not…. But Quaker Educator Parker Palmer says that “Leadership” is a concept we often resist. It seems immodest, even self-aggrandizing, to think of ourselves as leaders. But if it is true that we are made for community, then leadership is everyone’s vocation, and it can be an evasion to insist that it is not. When we live in the close-knit ecosystem called community, everyone follows and everyone leads.” No matter who or where we are, we may be called to lead in this threshold season, and to practice resurrection in ways that may surprise us. Leadership is not an identity; rather, it is a role; leading is not who we are; leading is what we do – at least some of the time.

And I don’t believe that leaders are born any more than great violinists or runners or surgeons or football players are born. I believe that leadership can be learned – primarily through practice and experience—and that it can take an infinite variety of forms. Indeed, it may be that when we bump up against our own limitations, and those things in relation to which we are afraid, we can discover in ourselves the capacity to lead in ways that may surprise us. And we have, in our Exodus text from this morning, an excellent example. So, I want to invite us to think through some of the key elements of leadership. I’m going to invoke someone we all know: Moses, whose story we know well.

Moses was both flawed and called: Moses reminds us we do not have to be heroic or have special charisma. He did not seek the job – there was no ad on Linked in saying “prophet needed to lead exodus – forever reshape relationship with YHWH”;  Moses was attuned to the problem (they were slaves) and attuned to the sacred (he saw a burning bush); he was present and awake; he responded to the need and the opportunity; he did the job that had to be done, despite being flawed and called…Moses Articulated a vision : he was clear about current reality – slavery in a foreign land; he was clear about future promise – a promised land and new relationship to YHWH. Like Moses, Naomi was a strong, resilient, faithful leader who guided her daughter-in-law Ruth to a new life. Naomi’s story is a powerful example of how faith, loyalty, and love can help people through difficult times.

Friends, this is creative tension—imagination and resilience emerge out of liminal, transitional times and spaces. Moses mobilized the people, and persevered to realize/achieve that vision. I believe that Moses’ leadership and ours too, has a pastoral quality. Leading helps others claim their own leadership. Likewise, Naomi guided Ruth to a new life of imagination and creativity.

We lead by calling forth and supporting the leadership of others; Jesus always helps grow people up…he does not infantilize others. The psychiatrist Donald Winnicott, among my heroes, once said that he knew his patients were getting better not so much when their symptoms abated—a good thing to be sure—but rather when they recovered or discovered their gifts for imagination, and creativity, and being fully alive. I agree!

Together, metaphorically speaking, we are preparing to cross the Jordan to a new chapter of our parish. Let’s covenant, shall we, to respect the dignity of every human being, to lead together, and to cultivate our collective imagination and remain hopeful as we pray…

Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works. Amen.

I’ll catch you later on down the trail, and I hope to see you in church!

Blessings, Bill+

February 9, 2025

5th Sunday after Epiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

Collect

Set us free, O God, from the bondage of our sins, and give us the liberty of that abundant life which you have made known to us in your Son our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 5:1-11

Once while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gone out of them and were washing their nets. He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken; and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany! We are so glad you have joined us this morning. The Gospel for today is evocative on many levels, not the least of which is the remarkable, and I dare say evangelical conversion of Peter, Andrew, James, and John, notable in part for the utter loss by Zebedee of the labor force of his solid small fishing business…but that is a sermon on a different kind of faith for another day, perhaps. Suffice it to say that I have always worried about old Zebedee and admired the resilience with which he carried on. I’m not sure I would have fared well under those circumstances. This passage is also noteworthy in its lovely evocation of Isaiah, and the passage we heard just a few weeks ago– The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone. Now, in Epiphany, we see the Incarnational embodiment of those prophetic words and today it takes the form of Jesus casting his nets—fishing for people—on the shores of Galilee. With gratitude, I recall today with affection the novelist Walker Percy, whom I met while I was a student at Rhodes College, and whose writings had, in some ways, the effect of converting a young neuroscience major into the priest standing before you all this morning. And I am reminded of the holy and haunting lines from the poem of his relative, William Alexander Percy, written in 1924, and now published as Hymn 661 in our hymnal:

They cast their nets in Galilee

Just off the hills of brown

Such happy simple fisherfolk

Before the Lord came down

Contented peaceful fishermen

Before they ever knew

The peace of God That fill’d their hearts 

Brimful and broke them too

It is the fourth stanza of William Alexander Percy’s moving poem that captures the Christian gospel task: “The peace of God, it is no peace,/ But strife closed in the sod,/ Yet, let us pray for but one thing– / The marvelous peace of God.” Our gospel lesson recounts for us the calling of four fishermen into the fold of the disciples of Jesus: Andrew and Simon Peter, and James and John. They became, probably, the closest followers and friends of Jesus. But they were ordinary people, rural people. They were simple fisher folk. Though we tend to think of “fishing,” these days as a peaceful and leisurely endeavor, true fishermen know it is hard work. Those who make a living from fishing know that their livelihood depends upon random weather, equipment repaired repeatedly, and the vagaries of where fish might be on a given day. In some ways we can identify with this uncertainty, as we all know that much is left to chance in our lives no matter how much control we believe we may have. Fishermen are, therefore, in some ways like all of us. The first followers of Jesus were regular people, making a regular living, praying for the peace of God. That peace was often mixed with strife, but it was worth it… people just like you and me, people who work for peace even when some days are so hard… like “strife sown in the sod” to use Percy’s image. We get it…and yet, when we come together in Christ, something happens as Percy says, the “marvelous peace of God,” the peace that passes all understanding. So perhaps we might cast our prophetic nets ahead a bit, use our imaginations, and evoke a day yet to come, though those called to follow Jesus on the shore that day could not foresee it. What will the Incarnational work begun on the shore of Galilee this day bring about? If we imagine that we, too, are called to put down our nets, however we understand this, what now?

In the past several weeks I have spoken with many people in our parish, and for that matter in my clinical practice, and in grocery store aisles and countless other contexts about the political tensions in our country. Some have wanted me to preach in support of our president—for whom we pray and will continue to pray—and others have expressed deep concerns about the current administration and even wondered if Holy Family is a safe place for them to worship. Like many, our own family has been impacted by recent events, as our brilliant daughter-in-law, a gifted epidemiologist with the CDC, like thousands of employees from the VA to the CDC and beyond, was among those receiving the resignation offer letter, which has created mass confusion. And our son, an oncology fellow at MD Anderson, has been working on a lymphoma grant for NIH now put on hold. Many have been impacted and have had their lives turned upside down including aid organizations in our own denomination and that of our sister denomination, the Lutheran Church. Like each of you, regardless of how you voted, I have strong feelings about these matters. But hear this, I will always preach the Gospel, which calls us to love our neighbor as ourselves, welcome the stranger, show compassion to the suffering, and respect the dignity of every human being. And I will never tell you or anyone else how to vote, a sacred right ultimately based on your core values, and how those values are lived out in the world. As today’s Gospel suggests we are called to put down our nets and follow Jesus. How we interpret this is ultimately a matter between ourselves and God. Maybe our “nets” metaphorically speaking, are either/or, all or nothing ways of thinking and being in the world, and we may be called to let this go. Nevertheless, I will never tell you, or anyone else, how to vote.

And we have been here before in our church, many times. Indeed, some 25 years ago, I was a Postulant here at Holy Family. Let me tell you about a chapter in our own history during a time we were threatened with division, an experience later published in an academic journal. That summer, after a two-week vacation in Wyoming with our large extended family. The trip was primarily in honor of the 50th wedding anniversary of my parents-in-law, and 15 of us spent a week in Dubois, Wyoming, just south and east of the Tetons and Yellowstone Park. This is an area of distant views, stunningly beautiful and remarkably varied geological terrain, and weather that can change in an instant. Yes, Yellowstone was a fascinating, exotic experience for this native Georgian, and the park and its environs struck me as a wonderland of flora and fauna with which I was largely unaccustomed. Adding to my sense of mystery in this remarkable area is the fact that much of it is contained in a vast, ancient volcanic caldera. Geologists tell us that it is one of several geologic “hotspots” around the world—areas, that is, suggestive of high thermal energy beneath the surface. Old Faithful, the area of Mammoth Hot Springs, and many other areas in and around Yellowstone are “outward and visible signs” of this reality. All of this occurred, of course, in the context of our family gathering, and the joys and tensions of a family of 15 spending a week together in close quarters. Despite the inevitable moments of difficulty that come with life in families, we did just fine, and the trip was a joy and an adventure. Oddly, one moment stands out for me, and I have thought of it often considering the events of the past several weeks in our country, and in the diverse family that is our Episcopal Church. Driving east on I-80 out of Salt Lake City into Wyoming, we eventually turned left at Rock Springs and began to climb toward Lander and the Wind River Range. Driving north in this dramatic, high desert country, we passed a sign that read “Continental Divide–7, 600 Feet.” Upon seeing the sign, one of my nephews removed his Walkman from its normal, fixed position and asked from the back of the van, “Uncle Bill, what does ‘Continental Divide’ mean?” With utter certainty and absolute authority, I said: “Kevin, it means that all the water—snow or rain, that falls on the east side flows into the Atlantic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico, and all the water that falls on the west side eventually flows into the Pacific Ocean.” “Wow,” Kevin said. “That’s pretty cool. You know a lot of neat stuff, Uncle Bill.” And he then restored his Walkman to its rightful place and went back to reading his book.

For a few moments of self-congratulatory bliss, I drove on in complete agreement with my young nephew…such a bright and perceptive lad. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “I am a veritable storehouse of esoteric but essential information about the nature of things, just waiting to expostulate with clarity and certainty bestowing upon worthy recipients the fruits of my knowledge. Yes, that’s me…Uncle Bill, font of wisdom and truth.”

And yet…I began to look around, to really see the land through which we sojourners were passing. This high desert country was stunningly beautiful, with the majestic, snow-capped Wind River Range piling up ahead of us to the north and west. But the landscape where we were at that moment was rolling hills, with vast open spaces of relatively flat terrain, as if it had been scooped out of the earth by giant hands. Truth told, as I thought about it, I could not really tell in which direction rain falling over this area might eventually flow—which way the melting snows of winter would travel in the warm spring sun. I found this, well, unsettling.

I began to feel not so very wise. The old Rhodes College neuroscience major in me began to develop alternative hypotheses, testing each one in my mind as we drove northward. But there was no getting around it. Falling rain in this region might end up almost anywhere. The term “Continental Divide” either meant what it said, in the way I had explained it to my nephew, or it meant nothing at all, and should be dispensed with. Heaven help me, I even began to feel a little anxious. “If this term—that sign back there, doesn’t really mean exactly what it says, what does?”

Even as I said this to my former science-oriented self, however, I knew better. I knew, moreover, that this either/or, all-or-nothing binary way of thinking was not really my style. I knew there were some places in the Rockies where one could indeed literally stand astride the Continental Divide in a steady rain and watch the water flow toward either side, fully confident of its destination. Other places, like the Great Divide Basin, were more, well, ambiguous—there was “greyer” in the definition; there was need for more discernment.

John McPhee, the remarkable writer who has made geology—and many other topics—come alive for lay folk like me, wrote the following about the very spot through which we were now driving:

“Dark mountains spread low across the horizon, might have been a storm coming—and in a sense they were, or had been. They were the Over-thrust belt, cumulate from the west. Looking north to the even more distant Gros Ventre and Wind Rivers, and south to the Uintas, were encompassing in a wide glance about sixteen thousand square miles of land, much of it so dry, stacked flat like crumbling hardtack, that only a geologist could absorb such a scene and see in it a lake that would rank seventh in the world….So level is the land there that the term “Continental Divide” is somewhat moot. Cartographers seem to have difficulty determining where it is. Its location will vary from map to map. Moreover, it frays, separates, and, like an eye in old rope, surrounds a couple of million acres that do not drain either to the Atlantic or the Pacific—adding ambiguity to the word “divide.”

As I thought about this later, I came to see the terrain in a new way. I could see that, rather than rendering the term “continental divide” meaningless, somehow, by virtue of it’s sharing an ancient, complex story, a previous life as an Eocene Lake of tremendous proportions—it seemed to enlarge, deepen, and enrich the term for me. I could take the long view of the geologist and within it, engage this term with imagination, depth and dimension in time and space.

I thought a great deal about our complex church family and the ostensible “continental divide” issues down through the years that have threatened to separate us: creedal debates; the Civil War, and especially the issue of slavery; the Introduction of the new Book of Common Prayer, and saying goodbye to the 1928 Prayer Book; issues of Civil Rights; the intense debates over the ordination of women and same sex marriage; and the ratification and consecration of Bishop Elect Gene Robinson of New Hampshire and related discussions about human sexuality. Most recently, the homily given by Bishop Mary Ann Budde has led many to the Episcopal Church and caused others to threaten to leave. Each of these has seemed to be, in its time, the “continental divide” that would split the church by means of either/or, all or nothing thinking about how—and if—we come together at table, and who presides there. Each has threatened to give us reason to make choices primarily out of fear—a fear that God’s love will not be enough to overcome the ambiguous divides that threaten to separate us. It cannot. It must not. And let us remember, my brothers and sisters, that making decisions informed primarily by an ethos of fear—amidst what Walter Brueggemann calls a “myth of scarcity,” is almost always dangerous, because such decisions make us more vulnerable to this “all or nothing” thinking.13 Rather, perhaps this terrain we have traversed in our Episcopal Church over those two weeks of General Convention was more like the Continental Divide in the Great Basin of Wyoming. Perhaps in this liminal, transitional place called church, the winds of the Holy Spirit blow and have space to creatively engage us. Perhaps there are times in the life of our church, just as is sometimes true in our personal sojourns, when “not knowing” with utter certainty can be a blessing. Perhaps during this interim season of our lives—we can trust that the Spirit is indeed working among us.  

It is not always easy to see beneath the literal to the metaphorical and symbolic, especially when our basic needs and fears often determine what we see, and how. Jesus knows we are hungry on many levels, and we are often scared, and wilderness can take so many forms. The psychologist Carl Jung, deeply interested in religion, once said: “I have seen people remain unhappy when they content themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of life. They seek position, reputation, outward success, money, and remain unhappy even when they attain what they have been seeking. Such people are usually confined within too narrow a spiritual horizon.”

Peter, Andrew, James, and John would come to learn this and to bear it out in ways they could not imagine…the peace of God that passes all understanding and, as William Alexander Percy said so well, the marvelous peace of God. Like each of the disciples in their own way, who left their nets to become the Body of Christ in the world, Jesus is to be broken, blessed, and shared. He gives himself away, each moment. Like the Eucharist we celebrate, Jesus is more than a provider of physical sustenance. In Wyoming, I said “Pay attention; see, and you will believe.” Conversely, Jesus says to us, “Seeing is not always the same as believing; sometimes you have to believe, in order to really see.” Both are correct. And both point to a similar truth: the only way to have a full life, and keep it, is to give it away. Jesus embodied this in his life, in which we are invited to be creatively compassionate, in gratitude. “Every day,” Wendell Berry says, “you have less reason not to give yourself away.” Jesus said, “I am the Bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. Take up your nets, and follow me.” Amen.As I thought about this later, I came to see the terrain in a new way. I could see that, rather than rendering the term “continental divide” meaningless, somehow, by virtue of it’s sharing an ancient, complex story, a previous life as an Eocene Lake of tremendous proportions—it seemed to enlarge, deepen, and enrich the term for me. I could take the long view of the geologist and within it, engage this term with imagination, depth and dimension in time and space.

I thought a great deal about our complex church family and the ostensible “continental divide” issues down through the years that have threatened to separate us: creedal debates; the Civil War, and especially the issue of slavery; the Introduction of the new Book of Common Prayer, and saying goodbye to the 1928 Prayer Book; issues of Civil Rights; the intense debates over the ordination of women and same sex marriage; and the ratification and consecration of Bishop Elect Gene Robinson of New Hampshire and related discussions about human sexuality. Most recently, the homily given by Bishop Mary Ann Budde has led many to the Episcopal Church and caused others to threaten to leave. Each of these has seemed to be, in its time, the “continental divide” that would split the church by means of either/or, all or nothing thinking about how—and if—we come together at table, and who presides there. Each has threatened to give us reason to make choices primarily out of fear—a fear that God’s love will not be enough to overcome the ambiguous divides that threaten to separate us. It cannot. It must not. And let us remember, my brothers and sisters, that making decisions informed primarily by an ethos of fear—amidst what Walter Brueggemann calls a “myth of scarcity,” is almost always dangerous, because such decisions make us more vulnerable to this “all or nothing” thinking.13 Rather, perhaps this terrain we have traversed in our Episcopal Church over those two weeks of General Convention was more like the Continental Divide in the Great Basin of Wyoming. Perhaps in this liminal, transitional place called church, the winds of the Holy Spirit blow and have space to creatively engage us. Perhaps there are times in the life of our church, just as is sometimes true in our personal sojourns, when “not knowing” with utter certainty can be a blessing. Perhaps during this interim season of our lives—we can trust that the Spirit is indeed working among us.  

It is not always easy to see beneath the literal to the metaphorical and symbolic, especially when our basic needs and fears often determine what we see, and how. Jesus knows we are hungry on many levels, and we are often scared, and wilderness can take so many forms. The psychologist Carl Jung, deeply interested in religion, once said: “I have seen people remain unhappy when they content themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of life. They seek position, reputation, outward success, money, and remain unhappy even when they attain what they have been seeking. Such people are usually confined within too narrow a spiritual horizon.”

Peter, Andrew, James, and John would come to learn this and to bear it out in ways they could not imagine…the peace of God that passes all understanding and, as William Alexander Percy said so well, the marvelous peace of God. Like each of the disciples in their own way, who left their nets to become the Body of Christ in the world, Jesus is to be broken, blessed, and shared. He gives himself away, each moment. Like the Eucharist we celebrate, Jesus is more than a provider of physical sustenance. In Wyoming, I said “Pay attention; see, and you will believe.” Conversely, Jesus says to us, “Seeing is not always the same as believing; sometimes you have to believe, in order to really see.” Both are correct. And both point to a similar truth: the only way to have a full life, and keep it, is to give it away. Jesus embodied this in his life, in which we are invited to be creatively compassionate, in gratitude. “Every day,” Wendell Berry says, “you have less reason not to give yourself away.” Jesus said, “I am the Bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. Take up your nets, and follow me.” Amen.

February 2, 2025

The Feast of the Presentation of our Lord – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Almighty and ever living God, we humbly pray that, as your only begotten Son was this day presented in the temple, so we may be presented to you with pure and clean hearts by Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 2: 22 – 40

Almighty and ever living God, we humbly pray that, as your only begotten Son was this day presented in the temple, so we may be presented to you with pure and clean hearts by Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to this Holy Eucharist in observance of Presentation Sunday, the fourth Sunday after the Epiphany. The story of the Presentation is in many ways a result of showing up and being present for mundane, ordinary rituals. I find myself intrigued by this, and especially today, as we have been about the business of being and doing church. The characters in Luke’s Gospel account are going about the business of what is required of them by Torah, the Law of Moses. They are presenting their firstborn to be dedicated to God. It seems to me important that the words “presentation” and “present” come from the same Latin root, praesens, meaning literally “to be before.” In my pastoral care classes each semester, we talked about “being there” and “being available” or “being present” as key elements of what it means to engage in effective pastoral care giving. In our spiritual lives, being present always has a double meaning. There’s present, as in here and available, paying attention and in attendance. And there’s present, as in now—this moment—or Kairos, in Greek, a sacred moment of time. Almost all of the world’s religions recommend both of these: living in the moment, with full awareness. And, we are learning from neuroscience that practicing mindfulness can literally change our neural pathways and neurochemistry for the better.

I believe this is so very important, especially in a culture that makes being present–here and now–so very difficult. We live in a time of anxiety which potentially robs of us our ability to stay present. We create forms of idolatry out of preoccupation both with the past and the future—neither of which, ultimately, we can control. I see this often in my clinical practice, and in myself.

Regardless, we then live as if the mystery of the Holy Spirit is not blowing through our lives. Thus, we sometimes are at risk for setting ourselves up for disappointment, create idols of our plans without consulting God, and cannot enjoy the present. One of the lessons I have learned from athletics—many years of football and now, many more years of running, is that we can prepare as well as possible, and then we have to show, play the game or run the race, and recognize that in order to do our best we must be present to the moment, to the task at hand. The mantra of my trail running group is “Conditions may vary.” We do the training and then we recognize that once the starter pistol is fired, most anything can—and often does happen. So the wisdom of our religious traditions seeks to address this. Now that both of our sons have become parents themselves, I remind them that the greatest gift we can offer our loved ones is “true presence.” Many faith traditions urge us to make the most of every day as a gift from God, and an opportunity that will not come to us again. Thomas Keating’s Centering Prayer practice has as its goal, in part, practicing the presence of God. This means recognizing that God is here and now moving through our everyday activities, including our smallest ritual acts, no matter how trivial they seem. This knowledge can, and should, offer us a vision of resilience, and hope.

Old Simeon and Anna knew this, too. Simeon is guided to a meeting with Joseph and Mary out of his knowledge that God’s creativity in this world has not been exhausted in the past—and both of them feel in their tired bones that God is capable of doing something in the present that is wholly new, world-shaking, and life-giving. Old Simeon takes Jesus into his arms and is moved to say…”now you are dismissing your servant in peace…my eyes have seen your salvation.” So now we know what salvation looks like. It takes on the face and embodiment of a human being.

For us, this means an affirmation that God has come among us in human form to live as we live, experience life with us in all its wonder and sorrow, and live with us into a new appreciation of what it means to be fully, truly alive as human beings. In other words, what it means to be present…to be there. Theologically this is in keeping with the events of the 40 days of Christmas, which comes to an end with the Presentation—or Candlemas—which we celebrate today. Really, the Incarnation is our central theological doctrine that God has been revealed in human form. Living into the truth of this doctrine means that we follow God’s lead in terms of self-involvement in the world of human suffering: with compassion and ethical commitment at every level of individual, social, and political involvement. It means a willingness to be present. When we say, with Simeon and Anna, “yes” to who Jesus really is, we say “no” to the myriad distractions that keep us in bondage to the past, or to the future. It means looking for opportunities to give our best efforts in our affirmation of who Jesus is, being there in ways we feel called to be there. Each of us is given a life for a reason outside ourselves. Each Sunday, indeed each day, we present ourselves—we bring forth ourselves in Epiphany—and re-dedicate our lives to God.

Through our Baptisms we are given the gift of discernment about what God wishes us to do with our lives. And we are given particular communities of faith like this one, in which to engage that discernment. Each of us has moments when someone, like Simeon, steps up to us and says, “Here is what I see for you…consider this as your ministry.” In whose face do you see Simeon in your life? Such encounters may happen in the most insignificant, mundane moments. In the simple, ordinary rituals of our lives we may encounter those who say to us, in effect, “will you be there…are you present?”    

Well, for many years, I listened to Tom and Ray Magliozzi, better known as Click and Clack the Tappet Brothers, whose Peabody Award winning show ‘Car Talk” could be heard on NPR every Saturday morning. One of my favorite parts of this show was the weekly Puzzler, typically a question to which I did not know the answer, but which was always entertaining and educational. One week the weekly puzzler question was this: Last summer I was driving east to west across the country, and found myself in Kansas around noon. I was surrounded on all sides by farms raising a single crop—beautiful to look at, but difficult to understand. When I looked to my right, I saw fields of yellow, and when I looked to my left, I saw fields of green, and yet a single crop was being grown. Please explain. And here’s the answer, which I suspect most in this crowd already knows: In the northern hemisphere, the summer sun is in the southern sky. What I was observing was heliotropism—the tendency for flowers to turn and face the sun. The plants on the left side of me were turned away from me and facing the sun, while the plants on the right side were facing me, and the sun. The plants were sunflowers. When I looked to the right, I saw the yellow faces of the flowers, and when I looked to the left, I saw the green backs of the flowers.

This is wonderful, I found myself thinking, and it perfectly describes how the work of the Holy Spirit, our comforter and advocate, gently guides us in the direction of God’s sustaining, nourishing, and healing presence. Organizations, including Holy Family, are heliotropic. Churches lean toward the source of energy—whether that energy is healthy or not. As memories and imaginations are engaged to nourish participants with the best and most life-giving resources, the church will lean in the direction of those narratives and practices.  And it is just like Simeon, stepping up and speaking the truth by virtue of having shown up and paid attention…Imagine a kind of “heliotropism of the soul” in relation to God, and one begins to understand how we are transformed when we turn toward God, whom I understand to be love incarnate, with the help of the Spirit, no matter what the context may be. And now, we can see the human forms of this through advances in relational neurobiology. Diane Ackerman, writing in a New York Times editorial, suggests that what we are learning is that the brain is constantly rewiring itself based on daily life, just as the sunflowers in Kansas are constantly turning toward the sun. For example, did you know that if you are in a committed relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue blood pressure, ease stress, improve mental health, and even lessen pain? “In the end,”

Ackerman writes, “what we pay the most attention to defines us. How you choose to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life literally transforms you.” A baby’s first attachments imprint its brain, but this is not the end of it by any means. This neural alchemy continues throughout our lives. Supportive relationships, neuroscience is teaching us, across the life-cycle, are the most robust predictors of medical and mental health, happiness, and even forms of wisdom. In short, loving relationships can alter our brains. This includes our loving relationship with God. We now know that spiritual practices such as mindfulness meditation and centering prayer can change our neural pathways and neurochemistry, and that acts of compassion inform who, and whose, we become. Practicing gratitude leads to neuroplasticity and, literally, changes our neural pathways in life giving transformation.

Ackerman tells the story of her own marriage. After her 74 year-old husband suffered a left-hemisphere stroke that wiped out a lifetime of language all he could utter was “Mem.” “Mourning the loss of our duet of decades,” she writes, “I began exploring new ways to communicate, through caring gestures, pantomime, facial expressions, humor, play, empathy, and tons of affection—the brains epitome of a safe attachment.” This helped rewire her husband’s brain to a startling degree, she reported, and in time they were able to talk again, he returned to writing books, and even his vision improved. The brain changes with experience throughout our lives, and it’s in the context of loving relationships of all kinds—partners, spouses, children, grandchildren, parents, close friends, parishioners, and yes, dear one’s the Holy Spirit leading us, turning us, to God—that brain and body really thrive.

So, there it is. We can respond to our Baptism by turning to one another in love. If you’re in a committed, loving relationship to another—including a relationship with God as love incarnate—this can change your life. What we bear witness to in Baptism, and in the Eucharist, is a commitment to this community and to that love, God’s love, which binds us together. As Richard Powers says in his remarkable book “Overstory,” What we care for, we will grow to resemble. And what we resemble will hold us, when we are us no longer. . . .” We become what we pay attention to and love. We can turn, like sunflowers in a Kansas field, and face the source of love, and compassion, and be our best selves. “Practice Resurrection,” the poet Wendell Berry wrote, and that may begin with reaching out in hospitality and love, to others. Amen.

January 29, 2025

On Monday of this week, we observed the Feast Day of John Chrysostom (c. 347-Sept. 14, 407). Among our Saints, known for preaching, and in our tradition, for this lovely prayer:

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, O Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

An Eastern patriarch. He was born at Antioch in Syria. Early in life John became a monk, and, at times he lived as a hermit. He was soon recognized as a great preacher. In 397 he became the Patriarch of Constantinople. He served in that position until 404 when he was deposed and banished by Empress Eudoxia and Theophilus, Patriarch of Alexandria. Chrysostom was an opponent of the Arians. He placed great emphasis on the eucharist. He died in Comana in Pontus, now in northeast Turkey. His most significant writing was On the Priesthood, a manual for priests and bishops. Chrysostom is a Doctor of the Church. In 1908 Pope Pius X named him the patron saint of preachers. His life and ministry are commemorated in the Episcopal calendar of the church year on Jan. 27.

Of course, we know this prayer from our Morning and Evening disciplines in the Book of Common Prayer, and it is among my favorites. He is reminding us that whenever Christians gather to pray, they can trust that Christ is present. Chrysostom’s prayer also guards against a blind, uninformed faith. We ask that God fulfill our requests “as may be best for us.”

Chrysostom, like the Anglican priest and poet RS Thomas, was unafraid to ask tough questions, and both remind us that faith is not the same as certainty. This is among the reasons Vicky and I were drawn to, and remain members of the Anglican Communion. Chrysostom wrote that “faith is not certainty,” meaning that true Christian faith involves a level of trust and reliance on God even when faced with doubt or uncertainty, rather than complete, unwavering knowledge or understanding; it is a leap of faith that requires ongoing commitment despite not having all the answers.

Last week, while running on the neighborhood trails, I was entranced by the winter woods, with snow still present in shaded Beech groves deep in the forest.

I also remembered to look down, and I was fascinated by the fractal-like ice formations along the way:

Our faith can be like this too…taking both the long view and paying attention to even the smallest details in our day to day lives. This is one reason that forms of prayer and mindfulness practice can deepen our attention, as the poet Mary Oliver said so well:

“Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.”

The priest and poet RS Thomas reminds us that our faith is often deeply connected to our prayer life, however we define it, keeping our eyes on that Divine Spark we have each been given:

My luminary,

my morning and evening

star. My light at noon

when there is no sun

and the sky lowers. My balance

of joy in a world

that has gone off joy’s

standard. Yours the face

that young I recognized

as though I had known you

of old. Come, my eyes

said, out into the morning

of a world whose dew

waits for your footprint.

Before a green altar

with the thrush for priest

I took those gossamer

vows that neither the Church

could stale nor the Machine

tarnish, that with the years

have grown hard as flint,

lighter than platinum

on our ringless fingers. ~ RS Thomas

This coming Sunday we’ll begin our exploration of the book “Walk in Love,” a review of Episcopal beliefs and practices. Feel free to join us as you are able. In the lives of both Chrysostom and Thomas, we are reminded of the Latin phrase “Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi” or, loosely translated, “you are what you pray.” And we remember that wherever two or more are gathered the Spirit is among us as well.

I’ll catch you later down the trail, and I hope to see you in church!

Bill+

Rite II:O God, who gave your servant John Chrysostom grace eloquently to proclaim your righteousness in the great congregation, and fearlessly to bear reproach for the honor of your Name: mercifully grant to all who proclaim your word such excellence in preaching, that all your people may be made partakers of the glory that shall be revealed; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God for ever and ever. Amen.