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 5, 2025
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.
December 29, 2024
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,
December 24, 2024
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.”