The Feast of Edward Bouverie Pusey

Sept. 19, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Cathedral

In the Name of God, Father, + Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Yesterday was the Feast of Blessed Edward Bouverie Pusey. Although it was his good friend, John Keble, who started the so-called Oxford Movement in 1833 with a sermon he preached at Oxford University, Pusey became the leader of the movement that brought what we now call Anglo Catholicism to the Anglican Church.

For most of us, the issues of High Churchmanship and Low Churchmanship are hopefully no longer issues. But what Pusey and Keble and John Henry Newman proposed in their day—rife with anti-Roman Catholic sentiment—was considered radical.

And when Edward Pusey preached about his view of the Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, that’s when got himself into some deep trouble. In May of 1841, he preached a sermon at Oxford with the seemingly innocent title of The Holy Eucharist, a Comfort to the Penitent. This sermon—filled with his views that Jesus was truly and clearly present in the bread and wine—so incensed people that he was suspended from preaching for two years.

Of course, it backfired in those same authorities. The sermon was later published and it ended up selling 18,000 copies.

The fact is that what Pusey preached about the presence of Christ in the Eucharist is not radical, nor is it un-Anglican. But it is sometimes a good thing to ask ourselves: What do Anglicans believe concerning the Eucharist?

As we all know, Anglicans tend to have an ambivalent view toward many things and the Eucharist is no exception. As a result, Anglicans tend to hold a wide variety of differing views. Some prefer the more “low Church” definitions, in which Christ is truly present but not in any extraordinary way. The view here is similar to the Lutheran view of consubstantiation—in which the belief is that Christ is present with the bread and the wine. It is still bread, it is still wine, and Christ is present.

The Roman Catholic view is that of transubstantiation. It no longer bread or wine—it only appears to be so. For Roman Catholics, the Bread and the Wine have been transformed into the actual Body and Blood of Christ.

For us Anglicans—we don’t necessarily define the Eucharist in either way. We simply know that Christ is present in the Bread and the Wine, although we are wary of saying how or in what way.

I am currently reading the second volume of Book of V of Richard Hooker’s Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity. In this book, Hooker gives voice to what most Anglicans believe when it comes to verbal or intellectual wranglings regarding Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. He writes,

“I wish that men would more give themselves to meditate in silence what we have by the sacrament and less to dispute of the manner how?”

I personally tend to echo those immortal words of one of my personal heroes, James Dekoven. Dekoven himself was somewhat of a radical when it came to battling the powers-that-be in the Church when it came to issues of the Eucharist. Dekoven said,

“You may take away from us if you will every external ceremony; you may take away altars, and superaltars, lights and incense and vestments, and we will submit to you. But… to adore Christ's Person in His Sacrament - that is the inalienable privilege of every Christian and Catholic heart. How we do it, the way we do it, the ceremonies with which we do it, are utterly, utterly indifferent. The thing itself is what we plead for.”

I have clung to those words and found deep consolation in them over the year. For me, the matter is very much like Edward Pusey believed.

I know beyond a doubt that Christ is present in the bread and wine at the Eucharist. And like Pusey, I believe the Jesus is present in the Blessed Sacrament in the ambry here or in the tabernacle, in a monstrance held up with a host in it. And I especially believe that Christ is present in the bread and the wine when we gather here at this altar to celebrate the Mass.

My faith in the fact that Christ is present in the Eucharist has sustained me many times over the years. I have found profound and deep comfort in being able to retire at several times during the day here, to this chapel, to this ambry here, where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. I enjoy the opportunity to enter into Christ’s very real and very potent Presence here. I enjoy those occasions, in which I can take the Body and Blood of Christ to parishioners and others who ask for it and are comforted and upheld by it. I take comfort in knowing that Christ’s physical presence is just that close that I can turn to Him in those moments and find Him near. And in those holy moments in which I spend adoring, contemplating or simply being in His presence, issues of transubstantiation, consubstantiation or any other doctrines simply vaporize. In those moments, it is only my knowledge and belief that I am in the presence of holiness, that I am in the presence of the One whom I serve, whom I love and whom I believe in profoundly is enough for me.

For me, to define that Presence, to attempt to articulate and quantify it is the equivalent of trying to pin a wave upon the shore. When I ponder it too deeply, I become distracted. When I think of it for more than a few moments, I find myself led astray from my devotions. When I attempt to explain my experience with the Eucharist Lord by the standards of those doctrines, I find myself turning away from Him and the gift of His Presence that He gives.

All I know in those moments, is that it is Christ is present. When I look upon that small round host, or that loaf of consecrated bread, I see Christ’s body. When I hold it aloft at the Mass and break it, I know that the answer to my prayer—“Lord, make yourself known to me in the breaking of the bread”—has truly and wonderfully been answered, because He does. He does make himself known in the breaking of the bread. Because He is there.

When I look into that chalice and I see that deep dark rich wine, I see Christ’s Precious Blood and I know that it is Him. And when I eat of that Body and drink of that Blood, I know that for that moment in my life, I am, in fact, truly “flesh of his flesh and bone of his bones,” as the great Bishop, John Jewel, once proclaimed.

Christ is present here. Christ comes to all of us in the bread and the wine that we consecrate here on this altar. So, take comfort in that belief. Come to the feast of this Mass, knowing that, in doing so, you come to partake in Christ’s presence, that you come partaking of His flesh and blood and that by doing so, you become his flesh and blood as well.

Christ is here. He is here for you. All we have to do is look and see and believe and taste.

Amen.

Feast of Blessed Paul Jones

The Feast of Blessed Paul JonesSept. 4, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo, N.D.

John 8.31-32.
Today, we commemorate the feast of Paul Jones on the sixty-sixth anniversary of his death. Paul Jones was elected Bishop of Utah in 1914, just as World War I was breaking out. He did much as Bishop of Utah. He established preaching stations, he made others aware of what was then known as a missionary district.

But what he is best known for now, is not what he did as Bishop of Utah, but what he protested and spoke out against—namely war. In a speech in 1917, Bishop Jones did something few other people were doing at that time: he called war “unchristian.”

He went on to say, “Christians are not justified in treating the Sermon on the Mount as a scrap of paper."

Most of us no doubt shrug our shoulders when we hear that Bishop Jones protested the war. After all, we live in this post-Vietnam War era in which protesting war is just a part of out culture, whether we agree with it or not. But in 1918, protesting America’s involvement in war was considered unpatriotic and calling war unchristian was considered unbecoming of an Episcopal bishop. If fact, it was so scandalous, that Bishop Jones that, because of his statement, he was asked by the House of Bishops to resign, which he did, in the spring of 1918.

On resigning, he wrote, “I believe that the methods of modern international war are quite incompatible with the Christian principles of reconciliation and brotherhood, and that it is the duty of a Bishop of the Church, from his study of the word of God, to express himself on questions of righteousness, no matter what opinion may stand in the way."


Bishop Jones, whether you agree with his position on war or not, is still a great example for all of us Christians. He stood up for his convictions and lived by them no matter what anyone else thought. He truly lived out the words of Jesus from our Gospel reading this evening—

“If you hold to my teaching, you are my disciples. Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.”
He lived out to those words and that conviction to be a disciple of Christ, even to the point of stepping down from a position to which he felt called.

Occasionally, in our lives, we must live out the words of Jesus from tonight’s Gospel much as Bishop Jones did. We, as Christians, are called to know the truth and in knowing the truth, we know that the truth is truly freeing.

For Paul Jones, he knew the truth. For him, he could not reconcile the fact that one can still fight in a war and be a Christian. He did not feel that one can truly love God and love one’s neighbor as one’s self and still condone war. For Bishop Jones, this was the ultimate truth. And although he had to give up everything, he lived his life in truth to himself.

Paul Jones is ultimately an example to all of us for two reasons. On one hand, he represents in a powerful way that Christians who are pacifists should be respected for their views. It is easy to see war as unchristian. There is nothing beautiful about war. And for those people who have been through war, they know how horrible unchristian it can be. The fact is, whenever war breaks out in the world, we as Christians need to examine ourselves and our convictions deeply before we either condone or condemn the actions of that war. We need to return to the Sermon on the Mount and Jesus’ blessing of the peacemakers, and we need to return to the commandments of loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves. I’m not saying we should all be pacifists. I think there is such thing as a justified war. But I do believe any decisions we as Christians make about war need to be made with prayerfulness, deliberation and keeping intact our faith in Christ who calls to love not hate, to peace not violence, to life not death.

Paul Jones is an example for a second reason: He lived out his Christian convictions deeply and thoroughly, against great odds. And just because society at that time condemned him for his views, in the long run, he has prevailed. When we look at the Bishops who were seated in the House of Bishops in 1918, we probably don’t remember many of them now. We certainly don’t commemorate them as saints. But here we have Paul Jones. 66 years after his death, we are commemorating him and discussing him still. In this time of war, many Christians look to him as one of the many pacifists who paved the way for them to be able to speak out against war. And for all of us, Paul Jones helps instill in us the courage to stand up for our convictions, no matter how unpopular they may seem by society as a whole.

And even there, we find a lesson for all of us: God can take a perceived defeat, like being forced to resign as Bishop, and can use that defeat as an ultimate triumph. That is a wonderful lesson for us as well. Even our failures can be turned to God’s ultimate glory in the end.

So, let us remember Bishop Paul Jones and let us do him honor by standing up for the Truth. Like Bishop Jones, hold to the teachings of Christ as you see them and as you live them out in your life. And know that the Truth of those convictions in Christ will, without doubt, set you free.

14 Pentecost

September 2, 2007
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND

Luke 14:1, 7-14

For those us who were listening closely to this morning’s Gospel, we might find ourselves struggling a bit with Jesus’ words. And if we aren’t struggling—if those words don’t make us uncomfortable—then maybe we should be. They are uncomfortable words, after all. He is making clear to us that, if we neglect the least among us, if we put ourselves first, we are putting ourselves in jeopardy. What we do here on earth—in this life—does make a difference. It makes a difference here, and it makes a difference in the next world. It makes a difference with those we neglect. And it makes a difference with God.

So, we should take heed. We shouldn’t neglect those who are least among us. But probably the most difficult aspect of our Gospel today is when Jesus summarized everything in that all-too-familiar maxim:

“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Jesus is not pulling any punches here. He is clear as day. Humble yourselves. If you do so, you will be exalted. If you are arrogant and full of yourself, you will be humbled.

I think, humility and pride are too often huge issues for all of us Christians, whether we are laypeople or clergy. For those of us who have spent a good part of lives in church, we have known too many arrogant, self-centered, conceited Christians in our lives. They sometimes are on the Vestry, in the pews, in the kitchen, or in the pulpit.

Pride is ugly. It doesn’t do anyone any good, especially the prideful one. But to be fair, it’s easy enough to do. It’s easy enough to fall in that ugly trap of pride. When we encounter those prideful Christians, we need to be careful how we deal with them. Because we need to remind ourselves: “there but for the grace of God, go we.” Sometimes, the most prideful Christian we encounter, isn’t in the Vestry, or the pews, or the kitchen or the pulpit. Sometimes, the most prideful Christian we know is the one we find staring back at us from the mirror.

Pride is an easy trap to fall into as Christians. We know we are loved by God. We also know we, as Christians, through our Baptisms, have a special place in relation to God. It’s easy sometimes to feel smug and self-assured. And when we are fully immersed in Church work, it’s easy for us to think that the success or failure of the ministry of the Church depends on us. We’ve all heard it, “If I didn’t do it, who would?” We’ve all said it. “If I didn’t do it, everything will fall apart.” And sometimes, this might be true.

But, it is a dangerous road to take when we start thinking everything revolves around us. And for clergy, they are in an even more vulnerable place. I will admit, I find myself falling into the pride trap on occasion. But I am, at the same time, lucky in some ways. I have a circle of family and friends who put me in my place very quickly whenever I find my head getting a little too big for its own good. Whether it be my parents, my friends and colleagues, or any number of other people, I can always depend on them to either subtle or not so subtly remind me when I am getting a bit too big for myself.

As clergy, we occasionally find ourselves being praised and treated with a sometimes undeserved respect. And although I have found my vocation to the priesthood a very humbling experience, there are times when we might find ourselves feeling very smug over a job well done. That’s true with all of us, as Christians.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling not so much prideful or smug, but simply good about my duties as a priest. I was at the Cathedral, doing two Masses that day. At the second Mass, I baptized the beautiful baby daughter of a couple I married over a year before. I also preached a sermon on baptism (one of my favorite topics) that received many wonderful, glowing comments from people. It was one of those perfect Sunday mornings and as I left the Cathedral that morning, I admit I felt like I had done a good job. And I felt the creeping edges of pride coming up inside me. To be honest, it felt good.

It was about that time when, as I approached my car, I saw it had been vandalized once again. As I shared with you before, my car had been vandalized in May on three different occasions by a disgruntled bi-polar cross dresser who has been hanging around the Cathedral. Having done almost $3,000 worth of damage then, I had my car repainted and was putting the incident behind me when here it happened again. Here, in front of me, was my car with the same pattern of scratches, the same amount of damage. And with it, the same sinking sense of frustration.

I came away from that perfect morning feeling as though I had been punched in the stomach. To call this a humbling experience was an understatement.

But this is what it means to be a Christian sometimes. It means experiencing those highs, knowing full well that we must also experience the lows as well and knowing that Christ is with us in highs as well as the lows.

It’s easy to fall into that ugly trap of believing everything is about us. It’s easy to convince ourselves that the world revolves around us and only us. Life, after all, is a matter of perspective. And from our perspective, everything else does in fact revolve around us.

Our job as Christians is to change that perspective. Our job as Christians is to, always and everywhere, put Christ first. It is not all about us. We are just a breath. We are just a blink of the eye in the larger scheme of things. We are born, we live, we die. And then we are gone. And, without Christ, that is all we are. There is no hope, there is no future, there is no us, without Christ. Christ gives us our definition. Christ gives us our identity. Christ gives us our purpose. This is what it means to be a Christian.

And this is what Jesus is getting at today, when he talks about the humble being exalted. Who knows better than Jesus about humility? He, who humbled himself by becoming one of us, who humbled himself to the point of actually being betrayed, humiliated and murdered, knew a few things about humility. But, we don’t have to let pride win out in the end.

I have found a very helpful exercise based on a saying by one of my personal heroes, the priest and poet, Blessed George Herbert. George Herbert would pray, each time he preached, that he would be the window pane through which the Light of Christ might shine. I love that image. And we can do so much with it. The idea of being a window through which the light of Christ shines is wonderful for us. Because we realize that no matter how dirty the pane is, no matter how cracked or warped the glass might be, Christ’s light can always shine through. We don’t have to be the clear, clean window pane. We only need to be enough of a pane that Christ’s light will get through in some way. And by letting Christ’s light shine through us, we are truly putting Christ first. That is really our job as Christians.

So, when you find yourself falling into the pride trap, stop and remind yourself to put Christ first. When you find yourself seeing the world as revolving around you, stop and remind yourself that Christ is at the center of your life and, as such, your world in fact revolves around Christ. When you find yourself shining with the glow of self-pride and self-contentment, remember that the light shining through you is not your light, but the light of Christ and that any reflection others have of your works are accomplished only through that light. When you find yourself becoming prideful, stop and listen to the voice of Christ as he says to you, “those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Because, Christ wants you to be exalted. Christ wants to exalt you. But this can only happen when you come before Christ as his humble servant, as his humble disciple, as his humble friend. This can only happen when you place Christ at the forefront of your life.

So, put Christ first. Humble yourself before Christ. And let the light of Christ shine through you in all that you do.

Amen.

Slash

I recently had my car vandalized (for the second time) by a disgruntled bi-polar crossdresser who has been loitering at the Cathedral for the last few months (I couldn't make this up if I wanted to). To say the very least, it was a sobering experience, despite it being almost Kafkaesque.

Here's a poem that came out of that experience:


Slash

1.

The raw-faced young deputy—
his grim jaw set just so—
says, “That’s

hatred, there. That’s
violence.” The other slashes
only mimic

this one, which
floats in its
tan background as

a storm-driven horizon
does. It glares back
white and deep

where the grooves
of his key
went in—

he, who
lurks, creeping
about like a stench

or a spreading
stain
on an otherwise white carpet.

And all of it
on this car that
is, in its simplest presence,

me, or an ikon of
me at least—
a symbol of whatever

he, flouncing about
in his Lane Bryant skirts, saw
and despised.

I ache over it
the way I ache
over wasps’ nests

or bats. I ache!
but set my teeth—
one against the other—

and wish not
for violence
or vengeance

but for… accountability?
for admission? or acknowledgement?
of what he’s done—

for the humility
wrought
unasked for

on me to be
wrought on him—
the one who

held the key
and set its grooves
not once

or twice
but three times
into the paint,

leaving scars
behind it
undulating

like the scales
of a song we sing
only on occasions we dread.


2.

I could go on forever with this terror—
this sullen anxiety that dogs me. In bed,
the humming fan lulls the sheets,

the pillows, but not me. I awake, dreaming
he has snuck up on me with a knife—
or, on worse nights, a gun—

and, still half-asleep, feel myself
go dizzy not with the pain of it
or even the shock of violence

but with the loss of my blood,
spreading hot and thick
like natal gunk around me.

My friend—the Reiki master—
tells me, “He’ll crash and burn
the middle of the Fall.” But

it’s only August. And who’s to say
the crash and fall won’t come
after I’ve been laid low and left

in the grass, grasping at that spilling
heat which pours from me with
every heartbeat? Who says I won’t be

crying out—like the voice
in my dream—to the rain, like the nun on
the sinking Deutschland, crying,

“O Christ, Christ,” in English
as dying Aelred did because he loved
the word best in English?

“O Christ!” I sing in the night
“Christ!” as that man—it’s a man!—
a man in his absurd broom skirt,

his foul stink still in my throat,
bounds for the rain-slick pavement
as deftly as a dancer too big for his tiny feet.

Clarke Bassett Memorial Eucharist

The Memorial Eucharist for
J. Clarke Bassett
(Jan. 29, 1928 – Aug. 25, 2008)
Mon. August 27, 2007
The Chapel of the Resurrection
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo, North Dakota

Hebrews 12.18-29
I am happy to be here this morning to commemorate the life of Clarke Bassett and to commend this wonderful man to God. I only got to meet Clarke twice, once the week before last and once again last Thursday. The first time we shared Holy Communion together, which was beautiful and, on that occasion, I anointed him. The second time we just shared a prayer together. But, on that last occasion, I got to see a glimpse, I think, of the real Clarke. He was bright and cheery and fully aware of everything. And he was definitely happy to see me. It was good for me to see him like that.

Now I suspect that if Clarke were here this morning, he would not want me to be up here making him out to be some kind of saint. But I can say that I am very happy to have met Clarke and to have walked with him just a little while anyway.

And I have no doubt that Clarke is with us here this morning. I am of the belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is a thin one. And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Clarke is close to us this morning. He is here, in our midst, celebrating his life with us.
And we should truly celebrate his life. It was a life full of meaning and purpose. And, although it is no doubt hard to face the fact that we are distances from him, we can take some consolation in the fact that although Clarke has shed this so-called “mortal coil,” he has now entered into that presence of God.

In our reading today from Hebrews we hear God described as a “consuming fire.” I love that image. Oftentimes in the Bible, we find God appearing to humans in the form of fire or surrounded by flames. When God appears to Moses as a fire in the Burning Bush, Moses is frightened by it, but the Voice that speaks to Moses from the fire is a soothing and consoling one. Likewise, when the Israelites were freed from bondage in Egypt, they went into the desert led by God who appeared to them as a Pillar of Fire. Even at the Resurrection of Christ, we find that after the gloom and darkness of Jesus’ death on the cross on that miserable Friday afternoon, on Easter Sunday morning, Christ appears as a burning light—as blinding fire of glory—which burns away the darkness of death and fear.

What this shows us is that God is a God who is more than just some benevolent being sitting on a distant throne in heaven. God is a God of energy—sometimes frightening energy—but energy nonetheless. God is a God who acts in our lives, who comes into our midst like a “consuming fire” and burns way all of those things that might separate us from God. And as frightening as this image is of God—a consuming fire can be frightening, it consumes, it burns—we also know God is a God consumed with a fire of love and goodness.

What I love about being an Episcopalian is that our Prayer Book helps us to articulate what we believe. Whenever I am asked, “What do Episcopalians believe?” I say, “We believe what we pray.” We’re not big on dogma and rules. We’re not caught up in the letter of the law or preaching a literal interpretation of the Bible. But we are big on liturgy and prayer and worship. Our Prayer Book in many ways defines what we believe. And so when I’m asked “What do Episcopalians believe about life after death?” I say, “Look at our Prayer Book. Look at what it says. And that is what we believe."

Later in this service, we will all pray the same words together. As we commend Clarke to Christ’s loving and merciful arms, we will pray,

Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life eternal.
It is easy for us to say those words without really thinking about them. But those are not light words. Those are words that take on deeper meaning for us now than maybe at any other time. Where Clarke is now—in those caring and able hands of Christ—there is no sorrow or pain. There is no sighing. But there is life eternal. It is a time in which, even at the grave, we—whoa re left behind—can make our song of alleluia. Because we know that Clarke and all our loved ones have been received into Christ’s arms of mercy, into Christ’s “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”
This is what we cling to on a day like today. This is where we find our strength. This what gets us through this temporary—and I stress it is temporary—separation from Clarke. We know that—despite the pain and the frustration, despite the sorrow we all feel—somehow, in the end, Christ is with us and Christ is with Clarke and that makes all the difference. For Clarke, sorrow and pain are no more. Rather, Clarke has life eternal.

And that is what awaits us as well. We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any real enthusiasm today. But we can find a glimmer of light—of that all consuming fire of God—in the darkness of this day. And in that burning, consuming fire is Christ, and in that light Christ is holding Clarke firmly to himself.

The memorial service for Elizabeth Stafne

 

The memorial service for

Elizabeth Stafne

(Sept. 27, 1909– May 11, 2007)

Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral,  Fargo, ND

 May 15, 2007

 I am honored to be here this morning to commemorate the long and wonderful life of  Betty Stafne and to help commend this wonderful woman to God. I got to know Betty somewhat well over the last few years.  She was a remarkable woman—and I don’t say that lightly. She was a woman of great strength and of contagious warmth.  There was no doubt about that.

Whenever I would visit her, she would look at me with that brilliant spark in her eyes and would welcome me as though she had known me all her life, even though she might not have remembered exactly who I was. I liked that.  For that time I spent with her, I was important to her. I think she felt that way about everyone who came into her life.  And every time I visited her, there was always that remarkable life dancing in her eyes.

Now I know that if Betty were here this morning, she would be poo-pooing me to be quiet about all these glowing comments about her.  Because in addition to being a strong, warm and wonderful person—she was also very modest. 

And I have no doubt that Betty is, in fact, with us here this morning.  I am of the belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is a thin one. And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Betty is close to us today.  She is here, in our midst, celebrating her life with us.

And we should truly celebrate her life. It was a good life. It was a life full of meaning and purpose.  Before this service began, we heard Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. In many ways, that music truly summed up who Betty was. In her younger days, she loved to dance, loved to have fun, loved to dress up.  All her life, Betty lived life to the fullest and drank deeply from that life.

And it was a life of faith in God, as well. For Betty, her faith was important to her and I think that faith continues on with those of us who are here celebrating her life.

In this morning’s Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say those wonderful warm words of welcome. 

 

“In my Father’s place there are many mansions.”

 

In other translations, we hear, instead of mansions, “dwelling places.” In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.  I like that idea of mansions instead.  After all, would a God of love provide us, who made it through the perils of this life, with anything less than a mansion? Would God, who saw someone like Betty through ninety-seven years of life provide her with anything less than a mansion?  I don’t think so.

I am fully certain that God has indeed provided a mansion for Betty.  Can you imagine what that place must be like?  Can you imagine the music and the beauty that fills that place at this moment?  I have no doubt that Betty’s mansion is similar in many ways to her lake home. I have no doubt that in that place of beauty, in that place of music and joy, there is also the sound of gently lapping water.

            Can you imagine the joy she must feel right at this moment?  That is probably the best consolation we can take away from today. After all, that long life of hers is not over by any means.  It has only blossomed into its fullest meaning. In Christ, Betty is now fully and completely herself. She is whole.

Of course that doesn’t make any of this any easier for those who are left behind. Whenever anyone we love dies, we are going to feel pain. That’s just a part of life.  But like any pain, like any sorrow, because of Christ, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well.  They too will pass away. This belief that pain is temporary is what gets us through these hard times. This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. We believe in a faith that surpasses death.  

When we look to Jesus in these moments, we know that yes, he was betrayed, suffered and died. Those who loved him felt a despair like no other despair.

On that Friday afternoon in which he died, few of them could ever imagine that there would ever be joy or hope again. And yet, on that Sunday morning, their tears were turned to smiles and their sorrow was turned to joy. That is what we hope in as well. That is where our faith lies.

When the Anglican priest and poet George Herbert said, “Christ dries our tears with his grave clothes,” he wasn’t just speaking poetically. He was saying that, truly, Christ comes to us in the midst of our losses and shows us the way to Life—to a life reborn out of death. Into a life without end. It is a faith that can show us with startling reality every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure Betty would tell you—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening. Betty knew this faith in her own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this.

One of Betty’s great and famous ancestors was also one of my favorite poets, the great 17^th century American poet, Anne Dudley Bradstreet.         Anne Bradstreet was the first American poet, and the first American female poet to have her works published. Born in about 1612, Anne and her family emigrated to America in 1630. Life in the colonies was not an easy one, and survival became a regular part of a life in which the climate, lack of food, and primitive living arrangements made it very difficult for Anne to adapt. Yet, in these circumstances, when others returned to England, Anne stayed and instead turned inwards, letting her faith and her poetry help her through those difficult times.

In her poem, “The Flesh and the Spirit,” Anne Bradstreet wrote of heaven,

 

No Candle there, nor yet Torch light,
For there shall be no darksome night.
From sickness and infirmity
Forevermore they shall be free.
Nor withering age shall e're come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear.

 

Later in this service, we will pray with Bishop Michael the words of another poem, the words of the poem we in the Episcopal Church call “The Commendation.”  In that prayer, we will pray,

 

Give rest, O Christ, to thy servant with thy saints,

where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing, but life everlasting.

 

This morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in our faith—in the faith that, with Christ, Betty is in that place very much as Anne Bradstreet envisioned it.  There, Betty is complete and whole and beautiful at this moment. Truly her beauty is “bright and clear.”  She is in a place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.  And let us be glad that one day we too will be sharing with her in that everlasting life.  

 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

14 Pentecost

 

Sept. 10, 2006

St. Mark’s Lutheran Church

Fargo, ND

 

Isaiah 35.4-7a; Psalm 146; James 2:1-10,[11-13],14-17; Mark 7.24-37

 

So, I know you have been asked this question before:

 

 

 “What command do you suppose is the most repeated in the Bible?”

Do you remember?

If you don’t, don’t worry.

I’m, not grading anyone. I promise.

But think about it a bit.

What command do you think is the most often repeated command in the Bible?

No doubt, the first thought to come to you is probably one of the ten commandments, I’m sure. “Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.” Or “You shall have no other gods.”

If we look beyond the Ten Commandments, we might try to find a few others that sound good.

Certainly, we might think about the command Jesus gave us,  “Love one another as I have loved you.”

I can just imagine what people outside the church might think when they are asked about what is about most repeated command.

No doubt they will think of something that begins “Thou shalt not…” and includes some sort of shame.

Or certainly with all the issues going on in the Church today, they’ll think of a commandment that has something to do with sex, since that’s all the church seems to be able to talk about lately.

But none of those are the most often repeated commands.

The most often repeated command in both the Old and New Testament is  “Do not be afraid.”

Certainly it was, by far, the most often repeated commandment of Jesus in the Gospels.

But we do encounter quite often as well in the Old Testament.

And sure enough, in our reading this morning from Isaiah, we do in fact here it.

“Do not fear,” God tells us through the prophet Isaiah.

Those are soothing words to most of us, because, let’s face it: we all feel fear at times.

We live in scary times. There is a war going.

Tomorrow is the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on this country.

Those of who remember it well, remember too the fear we felt that day.

And it was a true and palpable fear.

And now, five years later, the war rages on.

Men and women are dying over there as we gather here this morning.

We ourselves are still surrounded by threats of terrorism and violence.

As if terrorism wasn’t enough, we still have to live alongside hatred, anger,  bigotry and homophobia and sexism in our world.

There is illness, there are setbacks, there is frustration and there is a whole lot of hurt out there in the world and, and not just out there, but right here in our midst as well. 

As much as we want to think the world is nice and happy and wonderful, it isn’t always.

The world we live in is not always a pretty place.

So, most of us are longing to hear God say to us , “Fear not.” We want God to command us to put aside our fears.

The fact is, it’s sounds easier than it actually is.

After all, when anyone usually says something like this to us, we shrug our shoulders and roll our eyes and think, “Right. Sure. Easier said than done.”

We can tell ourselves all we want to not fear but the fact is the fear will probably remain.

However, it is more than just a matter of saying it.

We need to believe it and we need to live out in our lives.

Those words—Fear not—need to be the “call words” for us throughout our entire lives.

Those words need to be reminded of again and again in our lives.  

No matter how much we claim our own braveness, we do feel real fear.

And we’re not the only ones.

Isaiah and the people he was prophesying to in our first scripture reading from today knew a few things about fear.

Isaiah’s message for today  came in the midst of a message few people wanted to hear.

He was in the midst of telling those people that the world they knew and cherished was about to come to an end.

Armies were amassing, ready to overtake the lands of Judea and Israel and send its people off into exile.

Most people who heard Isaiah, of course, didn’t believe him.

How could we—God’s chosen people—be driven out of this land that God led our ancestors to?

As you can imagine, prophets were not always popular people.

They were popular when the prophecies foretold good times that were to come.

But those prophets of joy and happiness were few and far between.

Most of the prophets were prophets because they were the vessels through which God wanted to warn people.

More often than not, a prophet was one who had to stand up and say, “unless you repent, punishment will come upon you.”

Let’s face it, none of us would want to hear that—especially from someone who claims that God told them to tell us that.

And I’m none of us would want to be in the prophets place either.

Imagine for a moment, having a prophecy of a future disaster that is about to befall an entire nation.

Would you seriously want that responsibility?

Would you want the responsibility of saying to people, “Listen, if you don’t turn away from your wayward habits, there is going to be some major destruction coming your way.”

These poor prophets were not lucky. Yes, God chose them and spoke to them in a special way.

But the words God spoke to them became yokes to them. They became weights on their shoulders.

They had many years of toil ahead of them as prophets—struggling under the weight of God’s words in their life.

And often the reward many of them received for their toil was exile and occasionally violent deaths.

Isaiah, it is popularly believed, died after being put inside a hollow log and sawed in half for what God compelled him to speak.

So, even Isaiah knew the power fear had over people.

But in the face of these stark realities, in the face of the stark reality of the exile that awaited the people of Judah and Israel, God was still able to speak through Isaiah that somehow, despite all the bad things that were about to happen, ultimately, God would prevail.

Even in the face of the invasion by foreign armies, God was still able to say to those people with real conviction, “fear not.”

This call is not some “pep rally” cry. God isn’t telling them not to fear just so they rally and win the big game.

The “fear not” from Isaiah is a command of real integrity.

It is a command of true bravery and real spiritual strength.

God is saying to them through Isaiah that, yes, terrible things are about to happen to you, but what is more important than these terrible things?

God is. God is more powerful than anything that can possibly happen to you.

So, even in the face of overwhelming defeat you can truly not be a slave to fear.

Let’s face it: fear is crippling. It is a prison. Fear blocks us from carrying out what God calls each of us to do.

If fear rules, we cannot live our lives with any sort of fullness.

If fear rules, God becomes an afterthought.

God loses out to fear if we let fear control our lives.

Certainly, we all must face our hardships in life.

Now, maybe violence in not in our futures (I hope it isn’t in any of our futures), but we do all have much to face in our lives before our own journeys are over.

We all have much to be afraid of at times.

But in those moments, the words of God cut through those uncertain futures like a blinding light.

“Fear not,” God is saying to us still.

Nothing you suffer from this time forward will be hidden from your God, who loves you.

Nothing you have suffered so far can be hidden from God. God knows what you’ve been through and what you will go through.

God is not turning a blind eye to you in the face of these hardships.

Why? Because you are valuable.

Just as we hear throughout scripture that we should not fear, we also hear that we are valuable.

We are precious in the eyes of God. Each and every one of us is important to God.

We are so precious that God came to us as one of us in the person of Jesus.

We are so precious that God, who knew we feared—who knew that we are at times crippled by our fears and act violently and ridiculously out of our fear—came to us in Jesus and, in Jesus, showed us that fear, although real, is ultimately  temporary.

In a sense, it is an illusion.

Fear is somewhat like a nightmare.

When we are actually going through the nightmare, it seems so real—so horrible. But when we awake, the nightmare just sort of fizzles in our memories.

That is what fear is like. When we are afraid, there is nothing else like it. It dominates our lives.

But when we are beyond the fear, we forget in many ways how terrible it was.

God came to us as one of us and in our own words, with a mouth like our mouths, told us “Fear not.”

God came to us as one of us and said to us in our uncertainty those words we  long to hear.

“Fear not.”

So, take to heart what God is saying to you in the prophecy of Isaiah and through the words of Jesus and through all of scripture: fear not.

Rather, rejoice in God’s love and presence and know that nothing can separate you from a God who longs to know you and to take your fear from you.