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. At the end of three days the officers went through the camp 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, 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.

January 26, 2025

Third Sunday after Ephiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

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

The Gospel: Luke 4:14-21

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

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

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

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

January 22, 2025

“Just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body–Jews or Greeks, slaves or free–and we were all made to drink of one Spirit.” (The Epistle: 1 Corinthians 12:12)

Our Ministry Fair last Sunday was an outward and visible sign of the Spirit at work in our beloved Holy Family. A deep bow of gratitude for Parish Life, and all those who contributed to the success of this gathering. Thank you! We were indeed one in the same Spirit of grace, hospitality, excellence, and compassionate outreach. 

Our search process now nears the penultimate stage, and we give thanks for our nominating committee consisting of co-chairs Martha Power and Steve Franzen, and the faithful committee members Scott Armentrout, Cammie Cox, Allan DeNiro, Winship Durrett, Jeannine Krenson, and Ric Sanchez. This is a difficult and sacred process, and we thank you, each of you!

And thanks to all those who completed the Congregational Assessment Tool (CAT) Survey taken by some 140 parishioners in May. Applications for our new Rector have now been received for consideration by the nominating committee, and they will go on to the vestry to complete the search process. We are getting close to the next chapter in the life of Holy Family thanks to all of you!

As I looked around the room at our Ministry Fair, and wandered throughout the parish, I was reminded that relationships—their invitation to each of us—calls us out of our self-serving agendas. They require that we allow ourselves to be vulnerable. They ask us to acknowledge our humility in the face of forces greater than we are. We are “called out” of what our agenda would be if we had not come across, for example, the woman in need at the nursing home, or those on the margins in such cold winter weather as we have experienced, those in need of a visit and a prayer, and so on…all the ways we give ourselves away as the Body of Christ in the world. We are “called out” of what our agenda would be if, for example, many years ago we had not recognized the need for increased visitation for sick and shut-in parishioners. We began a Lay Pastoral Care class, and this gave birth to our pastoral care committee.

So why go to church? What do you tell your friends or perhaps your own children who no longer go but who wonder why you do? Why participate in the ritual of baptism again and again by recalling your baptismal vows? Why commit ourselves to an irrevocable covenant to a group of flawed fellow human beings and agree to journey with them for the rest of our lives?

At my ordination at the cathedral many years ago, Thee Smith and I heard the Gospel of John read—you know the story: Jesus asks Simon Peter three times if he loves him. Three times Peter says that he does. Jesus tells Peter to tend and feed his sheep. He then says, “when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you, and take you where you do not wish to go.” Indeed. Such is the binding together we observed on Sunday. Why go to church? Because as theologian Ron Rolheiser suggests, it is not good that we should be alone, and ecclesiology—being the church in the world, in action—is walking with God in community. And because we must take our rightful place, humbly, within the family of humanity. And because the Holy Spirit calls us there—because to deal with Christ is to deal with the church. And because we need community to dispel our sometimes unrealistic and self-serving fantasies about ourselves…and in the presence of people who share life with us regularly we cannot lie and delude ourselves into thinking we are more generous and noble than we are. And because ten thousand saints have told us that God wants us to walk the spiritual journey with others, and not alone. And because we need to dream with others—and hope and pray together for justice and peace, especially in times such as these.

And we go to church because we need to practice for heaven here and now, and for the pure joy of it. So let us take one last glance back toward Christmas now. Let us recall the journey of the Magi, whose agendas were radically altered by news of the birth of a child. As T.S. Eliot wrote, “Just the worst time of the year for a journey and such a long journey: the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter…and the night fires going out, and the lack of shelters, and the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly and the villages dirty and charging high prices. A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, sleeping in snatches, with the voices ringing in our ears, saying this was all folly.” These three sojourners must have been, as Eliot suggests, haunted by the uncertainty.

Yet like them, we come to know that gifts only have life and meaning when they are taken, blessed, broken and shared with others. And Baptism is the sign of our identification with them and with Christ—a visible, tangible affirmation that binds us together and calls us out as we discover a spark of transcendence beyond our former selves or, as Eliot said so well of the Magi, who returned to their former land “no longer at ease here, in the old dispensations, with an alien people clutching their gods.” Indeed. We ought to be rightly suspicious when we are called only to joy. But Baptism is, ultimately, about the joy that was sealed and consecrated at the Jordan, in which, through the Holy Spirit, He gives His own to share.

This is what I saw last Sunday at the Ministry Fair…the joy of gathering in the Spirit, to be so much more together than we are alone! Thank you!

Bill+

January 19, 2025

Second Sunday after Epiphany – year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John – 21-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?

If you say the right words, the wine expands.

If you say them with love

and the felt ferocity of that love

and the felt necessity of that love,

the fish explode into many.

Imagine him, speaking,

and don’t worry about what is reality,

or what is plain, or what is mysterious.

If you were there, it was all those things.

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

Eat, drink, be happy.

Accept the miracle.

Accept, too, each spoken word

spoken with love.

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

January 15, 2025

Grace and peace to each of you on this chilly Wednesday in Epiphany! I hope everyone is emerging safely from the icy chrysalis of the past few days. I missed seeing you all at church on Sunday. I was able to get out on the trails a few times, and finally made my way to the counseling center to see after my patients on Monday. With a full moon riding high in the sky, I was entranced by the beauty of the ice on a cold January night, a moment to be treasured, and a luminous gift.

In the quiet stillness of the woods in winter, I am reminded of this lovely poem:

I have seen the sun break through

to illuminate a small field

for a while, and gone my way

and forgotten it. But that was the

pearl of great price, the one field that had

treasure in it. I realize now

that I must give all that I have

to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after

an imagined past. It is the turning

aside like Moses to the miracle

of the lit bush, to a brightness

that seemed as transitory as your youth

once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

This is a beautiful poem by Welsh poet, R. S. Thomas. Thomas was an Anglican priest, as well as a poet, but I think his words are full of profound wisdom for everyone, regardless of creed. The Bright Field speaks about those shining moments in life — moments of grace, beauty, inspiration, and yes…epiphany — I which we fleetingly encounter the divine or feel a deep connection to the universe. This image of the bright field evokes for me various ideas: the moment you first see your children, or grandchildren, or first fall in love, or adopt a new animal in need of rescue, or when you read and understand some complicated scientific theory about the universe and see God in a new way, or become transfixed by a Shakespeare sonnet, a work of fiction, or an incredible piece of music… or, of course, when you pray or meditate, and feel a connection to the divine.

These moments are almost like—I would say exactly like the moment when the water became wine at the wedding, as we will hear on Sunday. Or that moment when the bread and wine, broken and blessed, become our journey as the Body of Christ in the world. The poet confides that he has often seen the sun “illuminate a small field” for a moment and, continued on his way and “forgotten it”. But, says Thomas, he knows that that field was “the pearl of great price”; that moment was something rare and beautiful, to hold on to and spend your life searching for. He is admitting here that he has experienced moments of profound connection to God, but that he has proceeded to move on, without dwelling on it. However, he has now come to realize that he must “give all that I have/ To possess” that moment — that “bright field” — again.

Another quality of these “bright” moments becomes clear as we enter the second stanza; the poem says that life is not “hurrying on/ to a receding future” or “hankering after/ and imagined past”. These lines deliver to me the notion that these bright moments of grace are in fact moments where we are intensely present. These are the moments we are most alive, and when we feel most connected to life, the universe, and/or God. This is as relevant for prayer and meditation as it is for all the other instances where one might experience a moment of connection to the universe.

The poem ends with the beautiful image of the burning bush from the story of Moses. Thomas tells us that life — and these moments — is about “turning/ like Moses to the miracle/ of the lit bush”. Again, there is a real sense of intense presence in this image. I think the way the bright light — which is God, and grace — is described in the final lines is just exquisite: though it had once seemed “as transitory as your youth”, it is in fact “the eternity that awaits you.”

This coming Sunday will be our Ministry Fair, an opportunity to learn more about the wonderful ministries at Holy Family, and to allow your imagination, and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit in Her wisdom, to discover ways you might become more involved in our beloved Holy Family parish. This is a remarkable gift from Tammy Kirk and the Parish Life Committee in conjunction with all of those ministries represented. Please join us, won’t you, and take time to pause, learn more about these offerings, and as RS Thomas suggests, be present and aware that we are, each of us, standing on Holy Ground. Let’s give thanks for the past year, as lay ministries have flourished in so many ways, and as we are leading the way for a new “lay led, clergy supported” way of being the church in our Diocese, and beyond. I am so very grateful for each of you. As our collect for Sunday, a lovely invitation indeed, reminds us, let us endeavor to shine together:

Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ is the light of the world: Grant that your people, illumined by your Word and Sacraments, may shine with the radiance of Christ’s glory, that he may be known, worshipped, and obeyed to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, now and forever. Amen.

I’ll catch you later on down the trail, and I hope to see you at the Ministry Fair…and in church, this coming Sunday!

Bill+

January 12, 2025

First Sunday after Epiphany – Bill Harkins

The Collect

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

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

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

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

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 8, 2025

On a cold Epiphany winter night at Holy Family, we joined in the Episcopal tradition of the Burning of the Greens. The Christian holy day Epiphany, on Jan. 6, is also known as the “Feast of Lights,” and some Episcopal congregations celebrate this feast quite literally, by burning Christmas trees and greens in recognition of Jesus as a light to the world.

The light from a Christmas tree fire invokes symbolism rooted in the origins of Epiphany as an alternative to pagan festivals that were held on the winter solstice – the darkest day of the year. Also known as Three Kings Day, Epiphany traditionally commemorates the day the Magi were introduced to the infant Jesus. Light also is a familiar motif in contemporary lectionary readings for Epiphany, such as Isaiah 60:1-6: “Arise, shine; for your light has come.”

Another tradition, closely associated with the winter solstice, is the burning of a Yule log in a bonfire, symbolizing the return of the sun during the darkest time of year, particularly prevalent in ancient Scandinavian cultures; people would often save a small part of the log to light the next year’s fire, signifying continuity and the cycle of life. The Germanic, Scandinavian, Norse, and Celtic peoples celebrated Yule on the winter solstice. Anciently, Yule was a celebration that, in some cases, lasted for 2 months! Norse people would celebrate Yule with evergreens, holly, wreaths, a Yule log, and bells.

In ancient customs, burning the Yule log was believed to signal the return of the sun and usher in the beginning of spring. When adopted as a Christian custom, a Yule log became symbolic of the infant Christ Child at Christmas. People would leave the Yule log burning for the 12 days of Christmas. A small portion of the log is saved to light next year’s fire, and the ashes are scattered over a garden when it is time to plant seeds. 

For many years, on the night of or near the winter solstice, my running buddies and I ventured once into the darkness of the trail with our headlamps lighting the way until, we reached a place we affectionately call “Beech Cove.” Deep in the woods, alongside a lovely brook, we turned off our headlamps and let the darkness settle in around us. The water could be heard in a new way, and Orion and the Pleiades became visible in a new way above us. Wendell Berry, our American treasure, wrote this about the dark: “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet, and dark wings.” Anyone who has spent time in the wood at night will know the truth of this poem, and its paradoxical lesson that we know the light, in part, because we are willing to become familiar with the dark. And sometimes we know the dark simply because we are human, and vulnerable, and in spite of this, even amid our darkest moments, we see glimpses of light.

This is where the Gospels of John and Luke speak to one another, in dialectic fashion perhaps. The incarnation we observe and celebrate in this season means nothing less than that God is no longer a God of the sky, relegated to Orion’s realm, but rather walks in the rhythm of humanity. Now, in Christ, we can gaze upon God, both human and divine, just as light—the Word—is both particle and wave, and in seeing Him we see who we were meant to be.

So, there is more to the cry of the infant in that cold, dark stable than meets the eye, and sometimes, even if through a glass darkly, we glimpse that something more. John, in his paradoxical insistence that the world cannot see the light which supposedly enlightens it, would not deny that even our unknowing, at times uncaring world sees glimpses of the light. Despite the sometimes-self-indulgent nature of the season, there are times when we can see glimpses of our own best selves reflected in the glimpses of light. We are reminded of W.H. Auden’s similarly paradoxical Christmas Oratorio in which he wrote: “To those who have seen the child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all…we look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit our self-reflection.” This being human can be so very hard, until we remember that we are held in the hands of a God who chose not to leave us alone. Indeed, the lovely performance of Amahl and the Night Visitors, a one-act opera by Menotti, was a wonderful celebration of this same Epiphany message. We are transformed by these mysterious, Holy encounters with light, and with compassion shared and given away. I am so very grateful for our choir, led by John King Carter, and the musicians and actor/singers, and especially young Amahl, played by the remarkable Darwin Marie Dudgeon

Thanks, as well, to Bruce Elliott and the faithful Grounds Crew for, well, shepherding our own bonfire! A deep bow of gratitude to Jacques for creating the set design for the stage, and to the hospitality team for contributing the chili and hard work for the dinner, and to all who brought food for our bountiful feast. You kept us warm and fed on a cold winter’s night!

Epiphany blessings to each of you, and I’ll catch you later down the trail. I hope to see you in church! Bill+