Author: Rosemary Lovelace

Second Sunday after Epiphany – year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John – 21-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?

If you say the right words, the wine expands.

If you say them with love

and the felt ferocity of that love

and the felt necessity of that love,

the fish explode into many.

Imagine him, speaking,

and don’t worry about what is reality,

or what is plain, or what is mysterious.

If you were there, it was all those things.

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

Eat, drink, be happy.

Accept the miracle.

Accept, too, each spoken word

spoken with love.

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

First Sunday after Epiphany – Bill Harkins

The Collect

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

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

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

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

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Second Sunday after Christmas – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Matthew 2:1-12

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

And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;

For from you shall come a ruler

who is to shepherd my people Israel.'”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Sunday after Christmas – Bill Harkins

Isaiah 61:10; John 1:1-18

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John testified to him and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.'”) From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

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

I bid each of you good morning, Happy New Year come Wednesday, and a heartfelt welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday after Christmas!  Just a week ago we heard the lovely narrative from the Gospel of Luke, telling us of the earthly origins of Jesus in the form of the birth and infancy narratives of which we are all so fond. The Gospel of John, in contrast, does not include an account of the birth of Christ as do Luke and Matthew, who are ever the storytellers. They charm us with angels and shepherds, a virgin birth in a stable, a villain named Herod, and heroes in the form of peripatetic kings. In John, who is more of a theologian, we are given in these first 18 verses pure poetry in the form of a lovely Christological hymn and a dazzling, paradoxical conundrum: the light by which everyone sees came into the world, yet the world did not see it. Our culture sometimes bears this out. Last year a friend of mine made his way to a local store on Christmas Eve to get a couple of strings of new lights for an unexpectedly tall tree, and an extra stocking-stuffer or two. The employees were already pulling down the Christmas displays and decorations. My colleague asked one harried, soon-to-be former elf about it, and he said “When this place closes in an hour or two, Christmas is over.” My Methodist erstwhile next door neighbor, who delighted in what I called my Epiphany burning bush, teased me every year when I celebrate the 12 days of Christmas—beginning with Christmas Day—with additional lights lovingly placed on the humble boxwood in my front yard. I suspect even the Chickadees at my feeder thought I was bit nutty.

Is John right in saying that the light came into the world, and the world did not see it? Does that include us? John tells us that the Word became flesh in the form of Jesus of Nazareth, the Word that is the source of light and life for the world—and the innate goodness of creation is made manifest in this light…this life…this Word made flesh. So, John is not concerned with the birth narrative of Jesus so much as with the cosmic dimension of the always already there Word of God, made manifest in the birth of Christ. Indeed, in verse 14 we find the consummate expression of Johns Christology: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The Logos—the Word—became part of human history and dwells—the literal translations is “pitches a tent”—among us, even now. From this fullness—this abundance—we have all received grace upon grace. It is important to remember that law, instruction, and guidance for living were given through Moses, but grace and truth have now become flesh in the form of Jesus. Through the Incarnation, Jesus became one of us so we could see, hear, and touch the living Word of God, and participate in that Divine fullness. Yet, John cautions us that this light came into the world unperceived. What are we to do with this paradox?

The theologian Ronald Goetz has suggested that trying to find a systematic consistency in the Gospel of John is ultimately not the point. Rather, he suggests, John is holding up a mirror which reflects the true nature of faith—and the gratitude for the fruitful tension that comes with it. Poets know this better than most of us, I suspect. Robert Frost once observed that “heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close,” like seeing a flower from the window of a speeding train. One may not know the variety of the flower, but one understands the essence of its beauty. Like such fleeting glimpses, Goetz suggests, God’s revelation cannot be in-errantly recorded, processed, or made serviceable.” Yet, in faith, we “see” that it may be the most real and abiding thing we possess.

Each year, on the night after the winter solstice, my running buddies and I ventured into the darkness of the trail, with our headlamps lighting the way until we reached a place we affectionately called “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 became visible 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 woods 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 by virtue of the fact that we are human, and vulnerable, and in spite of this, amid our darkest moments, we see glimpses of light.

And 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, if only in our plastic, neon crèches. Despite the sometimes self-indulgent crassness of the season, are there not times when we can see glimpses of our own best selves reflected in the glimpses of light that we can barely make out? 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. Grace. That’s the word. Sometimes, in the darkness, despite ourselves, we catch a glimpse of it…and of the light from which it comes.

Well, the Gospel of John presents us with quite a different view of Christmas than we find in Luke—different, yes, yet deeply, literally eloquent and equally full of promise, if only we are able to get it. John’s narrative is not so specific; no little town of Bethlehem, no humble manger, no cattle lowing, no shepherds or wise men. Yet we have this incredible, miraculous, life-giving statement that the Word became flesh. God became like us, so that we know God, and God might fully and completely know us…our experience, including our hesitant, uncertain efforts to bear that light into darkness. Jesus risked the vulnerability of becoming human, like us, and in so doing now takes on all the frailties and finitude of flesh-and-blood humanity. Each human soul, my sisters and brothers, is sacred and unique, and Christ dwells there, too. Christ has pitched a tent in each of us, in the particularity of our being, the sacred landscape of our souls. As our collect for today puts it, God has poured upon us the new light of God’s Incarnate Word. Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives. Amen

Christmas Eve – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Luke 2:1-20

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see– I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

In the name of the God of light and creation, whose loving care surrounds us on this night…Amen. Grace and Peace to you, and welcome, one and all, to Holy Family on this Holy Night! I especially want to extend greetings to those here tonight visiting family and friends. We are blessed by your presence among us, and we welcome you on this Christmas Eve.

“But Mary treasured all these words, and pondered them in her heart.” The beauty of this passage from the last part of Luke’s narrative has remained with me for several days. Perhaps this is because our Advent preparations have asked us to be more intentional about cultivating a sense of wonder at the mystery of the season. We, too, have pondered in our hearts the coming Incarnation and its meaning for our lives here, and now. Indeed, the beauty of Luke’s narrative never fails to draw me in with its rich images and moving and mysterious story. We recall the timeless images of this infant in a humble stable, the shepherds’ arrival, and the images of Joseph and Mary huddling together, being present with their son. As is so often true with Gospel narratives; however, Luke’s story of the birth of Christ is not limited to what we first hear or see.

In this season of wonder we need only use our imaginations to fill in some of the gaps in the narrative. Luke doesn’t mention the pain of childbirth, for example, or the radically life-changing event that has occurred in the lives of this young couple: the cries of the infant, the exhaustion and anxiety, the fears that both parents must have felt. And then there are the shepherds. In our mind’s eye we tend to romanticize about them, don’t we—and perhaps the author of Luke does too. We do well to remember that shepherds were not at the pinnacle of society in the day of Jesus’ birth. It’s not as if these guys dropped in from a party at the local Country Club to see the infant who in just a few years would certainly be joining the membership roles there. No, they were marginal, nomadic folk, eking out a subsistence living on the land. They showed up at the stable of Jesus’ birth at the suggestion of angels, no less, and I wonder what Mary’s response might have been. Was she concerned about their earthy appearance? Did she feel moved to shelter the child from these strangers? But the angels did choose them to be the first witnesses of God being born into the world. And we might wonder about this, too. We might ponder in our hearts, as Mary did in hers, that the least in society would be chosen to proclaim a mystery that would transform millions of lives and change the course of history. And I found myself thinking about Joseph, and identifying with him, perhaps most of all. I imagine Joseph worried over many concerns as these events unfolded: his fears about what others were thinking and saying about this child born out of wedlock, what this might mean for the honor of his family as he returned to his ancestral birthplace; and, moreover, the disturbing questions of finding a safe place away from home for the birth to occur—and ending up after all in a stable.    

And then there is this whole business of being “registered,” because the Emperor Quirinius decreed that it be so. Several years ago, I found myself at the local county tag office, standing in a long line that stretched outside into the cold, waiting to “register” my car. I found myself irritated at having to wait, angry that because of a glitch in the system our attempt to do this by mail had failed and feeling that I was somehow above this use of my time. I looked around at my fellow sojourners in line and I began to watch and listen. Most of them were speaking Spanish, and so I could only make out some of what they were saying. Partly because of the language barrier I felt a little isolated and lonely, even in this crowd of people, and I found myself wondering about this. Here, only 4 or 5 miles from my home, I felt like I was in a different world. I thought about the dislocation Mary and Joseph must have felt—the fear and anxiety. I wondered if Joseph was angry about the emperor’s census decree: the seeming arbitrariness of it and the great imposition it had on his young family. I recalled how frightened I was when our first son was born. Vicky and I were both graduate students, living in a new city, poor and scared. Our plans had been radically altered by this new life. And we took our son back to the small house we rented off-campus, and we knew that our world had changed forever. I thought about all of this as I waited there in line, waiting to be registered, and I tried to imagine the exponentially greater sense of fear and dislocation Mary and Joseph must have felt. And Mary treasured all these words, and pondered them in her heart…As Mary watched the world, one already radically altered, become stranger by the moment and filled with mystery—there seemed no end to the ways that God was turning their lives upside down. So even in “reading between the lines” we find that this story, one that we hear year after year, brings good news into our midst, wherever we may be, regardless of what’s going on in our lives. For some among us the light and warmth of this space on this evening may seem a sanctuary amid stressful and storm-tossed lives. At times Christmas may occur in our reflection on the long memories of youth, and relationships gone by. For many, this is a time of gathering with friends and family, sometimes in joy, sometimes with anxiety and trepidation: often with a mixture of both.

And what of Joseph… a different kind of father in that culture, to be sure. A friend of mine reminds us that Joseph is the father who braved the ridicule of his society for this child and the boy’s mother. Instead of simply being ‘a righteous man’ by refusing to ‘expose her to public shame,’ Joseph was a just man who refused to ‘dismiss her (and her child) quietly.’ Rather than the standard formulas about female virtue, he trusted a dream that overwhelmed the categories he had been taught about women and men, virtue and righteousness. Having your categories upended, like who’s a sinner and who isn’t, my friend says, is always a good hint that the force we often call the Holy Spirit might be present. The Bible calls scrambled categories metanoia, having your mind changed, often translated ‘repentance.’ I like to think that Jospeh played a big role in teaching Jesus the glory of connection with others and the joy of intimacy.

As I see so often in my clinical work this season can, at times, be one of depression, loneliness, and fear. Regardless of where we are, we can hold on to the wonder of this new birth among us, and in us. This is the mystery and miracle of the Incarnation: God being born into humanity—into each of us: no matter where we find ourselves. And we are reminded in the Gospel of Luke, if we use our imaginations and think of similar instances in our own lives, that this birth doesn’t happen only when the house is in order. It doesn’t happen when the mess has been cleaned up in anticipation of guests, and our world is a tidy place. Rather, Jesus is born into a world as messy and difficult and broken as ours may be at times. He is born into a community and a family that experiences fear and anxiety, torn by conflicts, transitions, and uncertainty, waiting to be “registered” for reasons that are not always clear indeed, reasons that may have to do with the arbitrary indifference of the powers and principalities. The Christ who is Incarnate among us demands that we resist giving in to despair. He is born into a place where those who first bear witness to who he is and what he represents are not those with political power, nor are they scholarly professors or the debutante crowd. Rather, they are those living on the margins of society. And like Mary, we are called to treasure all these words, and with a sense of wonder, to ponder them in our hearts.

Well, recently a group from Holy Family visited a local long-term care and rehabilitation center, where we sang seasonal songs, shared Christmas cookies, and distributed gifts to the residents. There was some confusion about the time and date of our arrival due to some administrative changes at the facility, but despite this initial anxiety all went well. During our visit, I recognized an elderly resident whom I met last year; let’s call her “Susan” to preserve confidentiality. She says very little, and she walks a lot, but when she does talk her refrain is “I need help.” At first, I would sit next to her and ask, “Susan, how can I help you.” Inevitably, she did not answer. But this year, I finally realized that what she most needed was for someone to “see” her, to pay attention to her…to sit alongside her. And so, finally, this year, I got it. The real help Susan needed was for someone to simply show up, and be present, and acknowledge that she existed. This year I simply sat down next to her on the sofa in te atrium, and I was quiet. Silently, she reached out and took my hand, and she was quiet too. This is the antithesis of simply being “registered.” When we allow ourselves to imaginatively enter into this story of the Incarnation we find that it shines light into all the dark and scary places of our lives: lives lived in relation to a God to whom all desires are known, and from whom no secrets are hid. The coming of Christ breaks open the darkness, rearranges our perceptions of the world, and invites us to live our lives in response to a deeper truth. Here’s the truth of the message of the Incarnation: Let the Word of Christ dwell in you. Most of us, most of the time perhaps, think of the Word as being in a book, rather than the Word of Christ being in each of us. A newborn life radically changes the lives of any family—as it did for Mary and Joseph. An encounter with a stranger in need can change our lives and invoke life-giving compassion for all. Tonight, we celebrate the Word made flesh, dwelling among us. Like Mary and Joseph, we are called to be co-participants in the transformation of our lives, and the lives of those whom we encounter. We have indeed seen a great light. As we treasure all these words and ponder them in our hearts, let that light shine forth in each of us. I pray that it may be so for us all. Amen