June 1, 2008
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND
Matthew 7.21-29
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord’ will enter the Kingdom of heaven, but only those who do the will of my Father, who is in heaven.”
Most of us, when we hear this, have a pretty clear understanding of what Jesus is getting at, because, let’s face it—we’ve all done it. We have all talked Christianity with our lips and yet haven’t lived it out in our lives. We’ve talked the talk, so to speak, but haven’t walked the walk.
What Jesus is talking about today is that we can go through the motions all we want when it comes to our religion, but if we have no faith—and if we don’t actually go out and live our faith—then we have failed. We have failed God, we have failed each other as Christians and we have failed ourselves.
Faith is essential to being a Christian. Faith is more than just going through the motions. Faith is something that transforms us and makes us better. It motivates us and changes us. It makes us live out that faith.
As we are no doubt aware of, one can be religious without having any real faith. We can say “Lord, Lord” all we want, yet we don’t feel anything in our heart. There was has been a theological movement over the last couple hundred years called “religious atheism” or “Christian atheism.” The belief was that one could be a Christian without believing anything. One didn’t have to believe in the miracles stories of Jesus or the Old Testament. One didn’t have to believe in the fact that Jesus was the Son of God or God in the flesh. One didn’t have to believe in the Resurrection. One didn’t even have to believe in God. But as long as one believed in the moral teaching of Jesus—as long as one believed in what Jesus said, rather than what Jesus did—one could still be a Christian. That movement hasn’t gained a whole lot of momentum and it has flamed and fizzled quite often over the years. But these days we do still have some very popular theologians who like to push the edge on thinking like this.
It really does make one think about what he is hoping in and believing in when he prays, Lord, Lord. To me, this kind of atheistic Christianity seems empty. It seems like a pitcher without water. It seems to me to be a perfect example of people making religion an idol in their lives. And we can, in a sense, truly make religion an idol in our lives.
Last Sunday, in our Gospel reading, we heard Jesus saying: One cannot serve two masters. One cannot serve God and wealth—wealth here really in a sense being a symbol for ourselves. We cannot serve both God and ourselves. Religion without faith becomes a very demanding master in our lives. It becomes an idol.
I preached last week at the Cathedral about idols and I asked then: what do you think of when you think of an idol? No doubt, we think of those stone statues pagans worship. But for us, idols mean more than just statues. Idols for us are anything that come between us and God.
The fact is: religion really can become an idol for us as well. What Jesus is referring to in today’s Gospel reading is truly an instance of making religion an idol. If we go through all the motions of religion—of going to church, of praying prayers without believing, of keeping our Christian faith insular, private, if we keep it to ourselves, then it has become an empty, lifeless idol in our lives. It has become the water pitcher without water.
Christianity isn’t about us as individuals. It can never be just about us. The Church is not just about me. It is always about us—as a whole.
Every so often, I find someone coming up to me and saying, Father, I have a real problem the Creed. I don’t believe in the Resurrection of the Body. Or I don’t believe that Jesus was resurrected. Is it all right for me to keep quiet during those parts of the Creed I don’t believe?
My answer to that question is a simple one: No. It isn’t all right. Kathleen Norris, when this same question was posed to her, was clear: The creed isn’t about me as an individual. It’s about us as a whole.
When we profess the words of the Creed, we do it as a whole, not as individuals. This is what we believe, not what I believe. If I have trouble with aspects of the Creed, and sometimes I do, I need to work that out on my own. I need to work that out with God. But I have no right coming to Church and selectively keeping quiet on certain tenets of the Creed with which I’m struggling, because, when I am in Church, I am a part of something bigger than me.
The Church is about us, as a Whole. And more than that, Church is about taking what we share here—the Word, the Sacrament of the Altar, the love and the faith we learn and live out here—and taking that faith out into the world. It means living out our Christian faith in every part of our lives.
The fact is: we are Christians at all times. We are Christians when are awake and when we are asleep. We are Christians when we are in church and when we are not. We are Christians when we are driving, when we are at home, when we are at work. And because we are, we need to live out that faith. I don’t mean proselytizing necessarily. I’m not a real defender of people who constantly spout off about Jesus to the chagrin and frustration of others. People who do that are similar in many ways to what Jesus is talking about today in the Gospel reading, with their empty “Lord-this” and “Lord-that.”
I knew a priest who loved to quote that familiar dictum of St. Francis of Assisi: “Preach the Gospel, use words if necessary.” I would say, rather, “Preach the Gospel, use actions if necessary.” Because, let’s face it, our actions more often than not, speak much louder than words. Living out our faith as Christians means more than just preaching. It means being an example to others. It means being unashamed of letting others know that we are Christians. It means letting our faith in Christ shine through us.
There is a wonderful image in the poem "The Windows" by the Anglican priest and poet George Herbert that I have always loved. Herbert writes of God would shine through the preacher like a light through a window pane. I love that image. It works so well in all of our lives. The window pane doesn’t have to be perfect to let God’s Light shine through. It can be dirty or it can be cracked, but still God’s Light will shine through.
That’s what it means to be a Christian. We need to be the window pane through which the Light of God shines. It means being an example to others. It means being a Christian in every aspect of our lives. It means not letting the idols of our lives get in the way of our relationship with God.
Religion is what bridges the gap between ourselves and God. Religion is what opens the way to God. It should never be a barrier in the openness to God. And whenever we use religion for anything other than a means of bringing God to us and to each other and vice versa, it becomes an idol—a barrier in our relationship with God. That also means that whenever we use religion to bash or put others down, then we are using our religion as an idol as well.
With religion, all we need to do to not make it an idol is to infuse it with faith. We need to let God’s life-giving presence come into our lives. In doing so, God will destroy those dead and lifeless idols of our lives, and give us life. We need to fill our pitcher with pure, clean, life-giving water. And we need to share that water with others. When we do so, we will find ourselves doing the will of our Father who is in heaven.
So, live out your faith. Preach the Gospel; use actions if necessary. Be the window pane through which God’s light shines onto others. Be the conduit through which God can work wonders in your life and other’s lives as well. And. if you do, you will find the kingdom of God in your midst.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
2 Pentecost
May 25, 2008
Gethsemane Cathedral
Matthew 6.24-34
What do you think of when you think of an idol? We no doubt think of tiki statues of the South Pacific or the stone statues of Greek and Roman gods. We think of paganism and strange ancient religions. And those certainly are idols.
An idol by definition is: A human-made image, an object that is venerated and worhsipped as a kind of deity or god. In other words they are created things that we hold up on par with God.
Throughout scripture, we find idolatry to be a major issue. In the Old Testament, Moses is constantly reminding the Israelites not to worship human-made images. And the Israelites should have known better. Even when they saw the miracles that they did—the Red Sea parting, a pillar of cloud leading them during the day, a pillar of fire by night, the awesome display that settled atop Mount Sinai—they turned away from that, melted their gold down and made a golden calf to worship. And over and over again in scripture, we find God angered over this constant temptation to worship images.
It might seem strange for us, in this day and age, to imagine anyone worshipping idols. But when we think long and hard about it for a moment, we might actually see what those early worshippers saw in idols Faced with the choice between a god one can look at, touch, feed, dress, carry around—a god that sort of looks like ourselves to some extent—and a God that is invisible, a God that seems distant and so far beyond us, a God that makes great demands on us, that makes demands on us to be good, to deny ourselves, to not do what everyone else thinks is fun, the choice might actually be simpler than we, at first, thought. It is easier to worship an idol, to look to something kind of like us and worship it.
But we –modern people that we are—know better. We don’t need golden calves, or tikis, or stone statues of Zeus. We would be uncomfortable bowing down and praying to a statue of anyone.
The fact is, idols still do exist and we still do worship them. They aren’t statues, or even other celestial gods necessarily. The idols in our midst though are just as arrogantly real.
What was the top rated TV show last week? None other than: American Idol. And that word “idol” isn’t just a misnomer. It is a perfect example of the idols in our midst.
Idols are anything human-made that we hold up and adore. Idols are anything created that we put on par with God. And in our society, we do put our celebrities, and our politicians and our athletes on a level higher than us and higher even than our faith in God.
To make it even simpler, the definition of an idol is anything that comes between us and God. It is anything that we give equal or more importance to than God. When we look at idols with this definition, and begin an inventory of our lives, we find that we have many idols in our lives. The idols in our lives are things we might not have seen as idols originally.
The idols in our lives our things like”
Our Jobs. Although we might find it uncomfortable to admit, the fact is our jobs sometimes do take on an importance in our lives. Certainly, we can see why. Our jobs are often more than just jobs. Often we define ourselves and who we are by what we do. Our jobs are the sources of our sustenance. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to live. But when we become workaholics—when our jobs take precedence over our families and our faith in God, then it has become something bad in our lives. It has become an idol.
Our leisure time is another idol of sorts. I can’t tell you how many times people have come to me and said, “Why do I need to go to church? I worship God in the beauty of my yard. I find God at the lake. I feel the presence of God more acutely while I’m in the woods.” As beautiful as that is, as many times as I have experienced God in those places, to say we will not go to church on Sundays because our leisure time takes precedence over that, is, in sense, making our leisure time an idol. Our responsibility as Christians are come to church, to share the Word and the Sacrament of the Altar together. By saying that we don’t need church because we can find God on our own is to make an idol of ourselves to some extent. As Christians, we believe that when we gather together to worship, the presence of Christ is in our midst and our collective presence becomes the Body of Christ. We need each other on Sundays. Being a Christian is not just about ME, as an individual. It is about US, together. And that is why it is important that we come together on Sundays, even when that cuts into our leisure time.
Of course, I’m preaching here to the converted. You’re here, on this Memorial Day weekend, when you could be somewhere else. So, this doesn’t probably mean much to you. Leisure time is obviously not an idol or any of you.
Another source of idolatry in our midst is, of course, sports. When we hear comments about sports being such things as “our national obsession,” or “football is god,” those are statements that have more meaning than we care to admit. If we look at how people act at sporting events—shouting, crying, screaming, jumping up and down, waving their hands around—those are things that any good Episcopalian would frown on if it were done in church. But we find ourselves doing it at home watching the game, or at the stadium. We find people absolutely obsessed by sports.
Even religion itself can be an idol. Sometimes we all go through the motions of church and religion. Or worse, sometimes we use religion to condemn and bash others. When we do any of these things, we make religion an idol as well.
I am not, of course, saying these things, in and of themselves are idols or are bad. It is when we put them in that place in our lives that belongs to God and to the Church that they do, in fact, become idols.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus is clear when he talks about serving two masters. We cannot do it. We cannot serve God and money, which is a symbol in many of ways all the idols in our lives. We cannot serve both God and our own self. When we serve anything else but God, we find ourselves overcome with anxiety. We find ourselves worrying over where and how we are going to get what we need to live, rather than trusting in the God who provides us with everything we need. This undue anxiety really is a slap in God’s face. It really is a sign of our own idolatry.
The great theologian Reginald Fuller said, “Anxiety arises from making something other than God our ultimate concern.” He expands on this thinking when he said: “”Anxiety is the result of listening to the serpent’s temptation of Adam and Eve; ‘You shall be gods.’ It is attempting to be our own gods, to usurp God’s function as Creator.”
If we examine our own anxieties in our lives, we find that most of our anxieties come from control issues. We feel anxiety when a situation arises that we cannot control.
Henri Nouwen, one of the best Christian writers in recent years, wrote a wonderful book during a complete emotional breakdown, The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey through Anguish to Freedom.
In it Nouwen addresses himself. He describes the need to not allow anything to come between us and God, not even our own sense of control.
He writes: “Your willingness to let go of your desire to control your life reveals a certain trust. The more you relinquish your stubborn need to maintain power, the more you will get in touch with the One who has the power to heal and guide you. And the more you get in touch with that divine power, the easier it will be to confess to yourself and to others your basic powerlessness.”
Nouwen goes on to explain that most of us, when we can’t control our lives, often find ourselves running away. He says that we should, instead, be like a seed.
“A seed only flourishes by staying in the ground,” Nouwen wrote. “When you keep digging the seed up to check whether it is growing, it will never bear fruit. Think about yourself as a little seed planted in rich soil. All you have to do is stay there and trust that soil contains everything you need to grow.”
The fact is, we will not find ultimate peace in anything other than God in our lives. God is the ultimate and only source of peace and joy and happiness in our lives. And our job, as Christians, as followers of Christ, is to not serve two Masters, but only the One. Our job is never let anything get in the way of our worship and obedience to God.
In the Old Testament, in the Book of Joshua, we find a horrendous story. The Israelites are about to cross the River Jordan into the land promised to them by God. There’s a problem however. Other people already live there. These people are idolaters. They worship idols—a huge variety of idols that are absolutely horrendous. There were idols like the idol of Moloch, in which the stone hands were mechanized so that babies scarified to Moloch were crushed in those hands. There were fertility idols and idols of cursing, idols to make someone love you, and idols that needed to be bathed daily.
As they were about to cross the Jordan, God commanded the Israelites to do something we find abhorrent now. God commanded the Israelites to go into the Promised Land and to kill every Canaanite. Every man, woman, child and animal. The Hebrew word for this “righteous slaughter” is herem. I’m not talking about a harem—a stable of wives. Herem in this sense means “slaughter in the strictest sense of that word.
For us, the idea of herem is incomprehensible. How could the God of love that we come together to worship command such a horrible and violent thing? But, we need to look at herem for what it was. God knew how weak the Israelites were. They had strayed before, even despite all the miracles they had seen with their own eyes. God knew that, as they entered the land of Canaan, the men would be seduced by the beautiful women there, and that it wouldn’t be hard for them to take on the idolatrous religion of Canaanites.
The gist of herem was this then: let nothing come between you and God. If something comes between you and God, destroy it. Wipe it from your vision. Utterly destroy whatever might come between you and God.
Now, wholesale slaughter is extreme and violent to us now. But for the people at that time, who lived a world much more violent than ours, who were about to enter into a land of people who known for their unmerciful violence, this was something they would have understood. In the case of the Israelites, they did not fully follow the command of God regarding herem. There came a point in which their temptations got the better of them. They spared some of the Canaanite women, whom they married, and as a result, they were led astray by their wives’ idolatry. And because they did not do as God commanded, idolatry became a plague on the Israelites for centuries.
We can take a healthier view of herem and apply it more productively to our own lives. For us, the message of herem is not one of violence. It is rather a message of making sure that nothing comes between you and God.
If you are weak, if you are easily led astray, separate from yourself those things that easily come between you and God. If your job, your leisure time, your sports—even your religion—come between you and God, destroy the hold those things have on you. Look at each of them not as masters, not as idols, not as things you can control, but rather as what they are—gifts from the One true God, who is your Master.
Let nothing in your life come between you and God. Serve the One Master of your life, and in serving that Master, let nothing come between the two of you. In everything you do, in wherever you go, heed the words of Jesus from this morning’s Gospel: “seek first the kingdom of God and [God’s] righteousness.”
If you that, if, in everything you do, you seek first God’s working your life, the power of the idols in your life will be broken. And God, who is righteous, will grant you the peace, the joy and happiness you have been longing for in your life.
Gethsemane Cathedral
Matthew 6.24-34
What do you think of when you think of an idol? We no doubt think of tiki statues of the South Pacific or the stone statues of Greek and Roman gods. We think of paganism and strange ancient religions. And those certainly are idols.
An idol by definition is: A human-made image, an object that is venerated and worhsipped as a kind of deity or god. In other words they are created things that we hold up on par with God.
Throughout scripture, we find idolatry to be a major issue. In the Old Testament, Moses is constantly reminding the Israelites not to worship human-made images. And the Israelites should have known better. Even when they saw the miracles that they did—the Red Sea parting, a pillar of cloud leading them during the day, a pillar of fire by night, the awesome display that settled atop Mount Sinai—they turned away from that, melted their gold down and made a golden calf to worship. And over and over again in scripture, we find God angered over this constant temptation to worship images.
It might seem strange for us, in this day and age, to imagine anyone worshipping idols. But when we think long and hard about it for a moment, we might actually see what those early worshippers saw in idols Faced with the choice between a god one can look at, touch, feed, dress, carry around—a god that sort of looks like ourselves to some extent—and a God that is invisible, a God that seems distant and so far beyond us, a God that makes great demands on us, that makes demands on us to be good, to deny ourselves, to not do what everyone else thinks is fun, the choice might actually be simpler than we, at first, thought. It is easier to worship an idol, to look to something kind of like us and worship it.
But we –modern people that we are—know better. We don’t need golden calves, or tikis, or stone statues of Zeus. We would be uncomfortable bowing down and praying to a statue of anyone.
The fact is, idols still do exist and we still do worship them. They aren’t statues, or even other celestial gods necessarily. The idols in our midst though are just as arrogantly real.
What was the top rated TV show last week? None other than: American Idol. And that word “idol” isn’t just a misnomer. It is a perfect example of the idols in our midst.
Idols are anything human-made that we hold up and adore. Idols are anything created that we put on par with God. And in our society, we do put our celebrities, and our politicians and our athletes on a level higher than us and higher even than our faith in God.
To make it even simpler, the definition of an idol is anything that comes between us and God. It is anything that we give equal or more importance to than God. When we look at idols with this definition, and begin an inventory of our lives, we find that we have many idols in our lives. The idols in our lives are things we might not have seen as idols originally.
The idols in our lives our things like”
Our Jobs. Although we might find it uncomfortable to admit, the fact is our jobs sometimes do take on an importance in our lives. Certainly, we can see why. Our jobs are often more than just jobs. Often we define ourselves and who we are by what we do. Our jobs are the sources of our sustenance. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to live. But when we become workaholics—when our jobs take precedence over our families and our faith in God, then it has become something bad in our lives. It has become an idol.
Our leisure time is another idol of sorts. I can’t tell you how many times people have come to me and said, “Why do I need to go to church? I worship God in the beauty of my yard. I find God at the lake. I feel the presence of God more acutely while I’m in the woods.” As beautiful as that is, as many times as I have experienced God in those places, to say we will not go to church on Sundays because our leisure time takes precedence over that, is, in sense, making our leisure time an idol. Our responsibility as Christians are come to church, to share the Word and the Sacrament of the Altar together. By saying that we don’t need church because we can find God on our own is to make an idol of ourselves to some extent. As Christians, we believe that when we gather together to worship, the presence of Christ is in our midst and our collective presence becomes the Body of Christ. We need each other on Sundays. Being a Christian is not just about ME, as an individual. It is about US, together. And that is why it is important that we come together on Sundays, even when that cuts into our leisure time.
Of course, I’m preaching here to the converted. You’re here, on this Memorial Day weekend, when you could be somewhere else. So, this doesn’t probably mean much to you. Leisure time is obviously not an idol or any of you.
Another source of idolatry in our midst is, of course, sports. When we hear comments about sports being such things as “our national obsession,” or “football is god,” those are statements that have more meaning than we care to admit. If we look at how people act at sporting events—shouting, crying, screaming, jumping up and down, waving their hands around—those are things that any good Episcopalian would frown on if it were done in church. But we find ourselves doing it at home watching the game, or at the stadium. We find people absolutely obsessed by sports.
Even religion itself can be an idol. Sometimes we all go through the motions of church and religion. Or worse, sometimes we use religion to condemn and bash others. When we do any of these things, we make religion an idol as well.
I am not, of course, saying these things, in and of themselves are idols or are bad. It is when we put them in that place in our lives that belongs to God and to the Church that they do, in fact, become idols.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus is clear when he talks about serving two masters. We cannot do it. We cannot serve God and money, which is a symbol in many of ways all the idols in our lives. We cannot serve both God and our own self. When we serve anything else but God, we find ourselves overcome with anxiety. We find ourselves worrying over where and how we are going to get what we need to live, rather than trusting in the God who provides us with everything we need. This undue anxiety really is a slap in God’s face. It really is a sign of our own idolatry.
The great theologian Reginald Fuller said, “Anxiety arises from making something other than God our ultimate concern.” He expands on this thinking when he said: “”Anxiety is the result of listening to the serpent’s temptation of Adam and Eve; ‘You shall be gods.’ It is attempting to be our own gods, to usurp God’s function as Creator.”
If we examine our own anxieties in our lives, we find that most of our anxieties come from control issues. We feel anxiety when a situation arises that we cannot control.
Henri Nouwen, one of the best Christian writers in recent years, wrote a wonderful book during a complete emotional breakdown, The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey through Anguish to Freedom.
In it Nouwen addresses himself. He describes the need to not allow anything to come between us and God, not even our own sense of control.
He writes: “Your willingness to let go of your desire to control your life reveals a certain trust. The more you relinquish your stubborn need to maintain power, the more you will get in touch with the One who has the power to heal and guide you. And the more you get in touch with that divine power, the easier it will be to confess to yourself and to others your basic powerlessness.”
Nouwen goes on to explain that most of us, when we can’t control our lives, often find ourselves running away. He says that we should, instead, be like a seed.
“A seed only flourishes by staying in the ground,” Nouwen wrote. “When you keep digging the seed up to check whether it is growing, it will never bear fruit. Think about yourself as a little seed planted in rich soil. All you have to do is stay there and trust that soil contains everything you need to grow.”
The fact is, we will not find ultimate peace in anything other than God in our lives. God is the ultimate and only source of peace and joy and happiness in our lives. And our job, as Christians, as followers of Christ, is to not serve two Masters, but only the One. Our job is never let anything get in the way of our worship and obedience to God.
In the Old Testament, in the Book of Joshua, we find a horrendous story. The Israelites are about to cross the River Jordan into the land promised to them by God. There’s a problem however. Other people already live there. These people are idolaters. They worship idols—a huge variety of idols that are absolutely horrendous. There were idols like the idol of Moloch, in which the stone hands were mechanized so that babies scarified to Moloch were crushed in those hands. There were fertility idols and idols of cursing, idols to make someone love you, and idols that needed to be bathed daily.
As they were about to cross the Jordan, God commanded the Israelites to do something we find abhorrent now. God commanded the Israelites to go into the Promised Land and to kill every Canaanite. Every man, woman, child and animal. The Hebrew word for this “righteous slaughter” is herem. I’m not talking about a harem—a stable of wives. Herem in this sense means “slaughter in the strictest sense of that word.
For us, the idea of herem is incomprehensible. How could the God of love that we come together to worship command such a horrible and violent thing? But, we need to look at herem for what it was. God knew how weak the Israelites were. They had strayed before, even despite all the miracles they had seen with their own eyes. God knew that, as they entered the land of Canaan, the men would be seduced by the beautiful women there, and that it wouldn’t be hard for them to take on the idolatrous religion of Canaanites.
The gist of herem was this then: let nothing come between you and God. If something comes between you and God, destroy it. Wipe it from your vision. Utterly destroy whatever might come between you and God.
Now, wholesale slaughter is extreme and violent to us now. But for the people at that time, who lived a world much more violent than ours, who were about to enter into a land of people who known for their unmerciful violence, this was something they would have understood. In the case of the Israelites, they did not fully follow the command of God regarding herem. There came a point in which their temptations got the better of them. They spared some of the Canaanite women, whom they married, and as a result, they were led astray by their wives’ idolatry. And because they did not do as God commanded, idolatry became a plague on the Israelites for centuries.
We can take a healthier view of herem and apply it more productively to our own lives. For us, the message of herem is not one of violence. It is rather a message of making sure that nothing comes between you and God.
If you are weak, if you are easily led astray, separate from yourself those things that easily come between you and God. If your job, your leisure time, your sports—even your religion—come between you and God, destroy the hold those things have on you. Look at each of them not as masters, not as idols, not as things you can control, but rather as what they are—gifts from the One true God, who is your Master.
Let nothing in your life come between you and God. Serve the One Master of your life, and in serving that Master, let nothing come between the two of you. In everything you do, in wherever you go, heed the words of Jesus from this morning’s Gospel: “seek first the kingdom of God and [God’s] righteousness.”
If you that, if, in everything you do, you seek first God’s working your life, the power of the idols in your life will be broken. And God, who is righteous, will grant you the peace, the joy and happiness you have been longing for in your life.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Arthur Michael Ramsey
April 23, 2008
The Chapel of the Resurrection
John 17. 1-8, 17-18
Twenty years ago today, Arthur Michael Ramsey, the 100th Archbishop of Canterbury, died. Archbishop Ramsey was one of the truly great Christians of modern times.
The Chapel of the Resurrection
John 17. 1-8, 17-18
Twenty years ago today, Arthur Michael Ramsey, the 100th Archbishop of Canterbury, died. Archbishop Ramsey was one of the truly great Christians of modern times.
He was born Nov. 14, 1904. He was ordained a priest in 1928 and served in many parishes, taught and was lecturer. He was also a prolific writer and author of several books. In 1952, he was appointed Bishop of Durham, in 1956 he became Archbishop of York and on May 31, 1961, he was appointed the 100th Archbishopf Canterbury. He served as Archbsihop from 1961 to 1974, probably the most tumultuous years in the Christian Church in recent history.
But he was the perfect choice for Archbishop during this time. Ramsey was an Anglo-Catholic and a die-hard one at that. Now most of us, no doubt, consider Anglo-Catholics to be pretty conservative and straight-laced. But he was also a very kind, very understand pastoral leader and, as such, he became a very popular, very well-liked leader in the Church. In fact, he was one of the most famous Archbishops of Canterbury in the twentieth century.
During the 1960s, when many people abandoned the Church and proclaimed themselves to be athiests, Ramsey was brave enough to say that he had deep respect for people were were honestly agnostic or atheist, and he believed that atheists were not necessarily lost from heaven. At the same time, he did not like some of the more evangelical kinds of Christianity, that he felt were sensationalist and over-emotional. He was famous for his criticism of Billy Graham, but he was also just as famous for the fact that he later became friends with Garaham and even appeared with him on stage at one of Graham’s crusades in Brazil.
He also believed there was no theological reason why women couldn’t be ordained priests, though, as an Anglo-Catholic, he was uncomfortable with that view. In fact, during his time as Cantaur, women were first ordained priests and, at one point, he received Holy Communion from a woman priest.
He was also one of the first truly ecumenical Cantaurs. He was close friends with Pope Paul VI, which was very radical for his time, as well as with Eastern Orthodox leaders such as the Patriarch of Constaninople, Athenagoras and the Patriarch of Moscow, Alexis. He also supported the union between the Church of England and the Methodist Church, a union that eventually failed.
Politically, Ramsey supported liberalizing laws against homosexuality in the England, another very controversial stance for a conservative Anglo-Catholic. He was outspoken in his opposition to the Vietnam War, apartheid, and was a vocal critic of Chilean dictator, Augusto Pinochet.
When he died on April 23, 1988, he was cremated and his ashes were buried in the Close of Canterbury Cathedral, next to the grave of his great predecessor as Archbishop of Canterbury, William Temple.
Although he isn’t officially a saint in the Church, he truly is a saint to some of us. Certainly he is a saint to me. The reason we honor saints in the Church isn’t because we are putting before us examples of Christian life that we can’t relate to. We don’t honor saints because they are somehow holier than us.
Rather, saints are meant to be guides for us. They are meant to show us the way. They have already traveled the way we are walking. They have trod the path to Heaven.
When we are disheartened, when we are lost, when we have lost joy, and vitality and hope, they show that there were times as well when they have been disheartened, when they too had lost joy and hope. But they persevered and look at what they have gained—
they have gained Glory. They have gained Heaven.
So, let us look to the saints in our life. Let us look to our friends who have gone on before us and whom we will see one day. Let us look to our friend, Michael Ramsey. And we struggle on our journey, as we stumble and trip on our way, let us listen as Michael Ramsey encourages on with words like these,
“Heaven is the goal…” he once wrote, “the goal of every member of the flock, the goal of [everyone] created in God’s image to share eternally in God’s glory.”[1]
Let us listen to him when he says to us, “We ought to think much and often about haven…it is, after all, the proper destiny of [everyone] who is created in God’s own image…He who called you…has also called you to eternal glory in Christ…”[2]
Let us continue on, as we must, as Michael Ramsey himself as already done, to that goal—heaven. And there, with Michael Ramsey, let us one day rejoice in that eternal glory in Christ.
[1] The Christian Priest Today, 1972.
[2] Ibid.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
5 Easter
April 20, 2008
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND
Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14
The Gospel we heard this morning is a familiar one for most of us. This is one of the Gospel readings recommended by the Book of Common Prayer for funerals. In fact, it is, by far, one of the most popular Gospel readings chosen for funerals. There’s little doubt why it is. It is wonderfully appropriate.
In fact, just this past Wednesday, I preached on this same Gospel reading at a funeral, one of three funerals in which I’ve participated in the last two weeks (and I still have one more planned for May 3).
The reason it is so popular is because it truly does give us a wonderful glimpse into what awaits us following our death. This really is the BIG issue in our lives. We might not give it a lot of conscious thought, but no doubt most of us have pondered at some time in our lives, what awaits us following our death.
The part we no doubt concentrate on in today’s Gospel are Jesus’ words “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” Traditionally, we have heard the word “mansions” used here, and I have never been shy in saying that I have always enjoyed the word “mansions.” I believe that these dwelling places awaiting us are truly the equivalent of mansions for us.
But the part we sometimes overlook in this scripture is Jesus’ even more wonderful words “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” This is really just another way of saying what we heard in last week’s Gospel when he said, “I am the Gate through which the sheep enter the pastures.” Over the history of Christianity, many people have used and abused the words of Jesus from today’s Gospel; using it to prove their point that Jesus is saying that only Christians get to go to heaven.
That is not quite what Jesus is saying here, however. What he is, in fact, saying is that, he is the way because he is the incarnate God—because he is God who has come to us and become one with us. In Jesus, because of his incarnation, we now know the way to God because we know God. Through Jesus, we truly get to know and experience God. In Jesus, we see God. He is the very image of God.
That is, of course, a huge statement of faith to make. But to say that God became flesh—that God actually took on flesh like our flesh—and lived like we live, and, just as importantly, died like we all must die—that really is a great and wonderful way, a truth way, to life.
All Saints Episcopal Church
Valley City, ND
Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14
The Gospel we heard this morning is a familiar one for most of us. This is one of the Gospel readings recommended by the Book of Common Prayer for funerals. In fact, it is, by far, one of the most popular Gospel readings chosen for funerals. There’s little doubt why it is. It is wonderfully appropriate.
In fact, just this past Wednesday, I preached on this same Gospel reading at a funeral, one of three funerals in which I’ve participated in the last two weeks (and I still have one more planned for May 3).
The reason it is so popular is because it truly does give us a wonderful glimpse into what awaits us following our death. This really is the BIG issue in our lives. We might not give it a lot of conscious thought, but no doubt most of us have pondered at some time in our lives, what awaits us following our death.
The part we no doubt concentrate on in today’s Gospel are Jesus’ words “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” Traditionally, we have heard the word “mansions” used here, and I have never been shy in saying that I have always enjoyed the word “mansions.” I believe that these dwelling places awaiting us are truly the equivalent of mansions for us.
But the part we sometimes overlook in this scripture is Jesus’ even more wonderful words “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” This is really just another way of saying what we heard in last week’s Gospel when he said, “I am the Gate through which the sheep enter the pastures.” Over the history of Christianity, many people have used and abused the words of Jesus from today’s Gospel; using it to prove their point that Jesus is saying that only Christians get to go to heaven.
That is not quite what Jesus is saying here, however. What he is, in fact, saying is that, he is the way because he is the incarnate God—because he is God who has come to us and become one with us. In Jesus, because of his incarnation, we now know the way to God because we know God. Through Jesus, we truly get to know and experience God. In Jesus, we see God. He is the very image of God.
That is, of course, a huge statement of faith to make. But to say that God became flesh—that God actually took on flesh like our flesh—and lived like we live, and, just as importantly, died like we all must die—that really is a great and wonderful way, a truth way, to life.
For some people Jesus saying he was the Way, the Truth and the Life was, quite simply, blasphemous. It certain was blasphemous to those people who dragged Stephen out and stoned him to death in our reading this morning from the Acts of the Apostles. But Stephen understood the fact that Jesus was God. He looked up into heaven and was allowed a vision, in which he saw Jesus in the glory of God. And with his last words, he prayed to Jesus,
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
This is the first recorded prayer to Jesus in the scriptures. And it is the most beautiful and most honest prayer we can pray to him.
So this, morning, in both our Gospel reading and our reading from Acts, we are confronted with visions. In our Gospel, Jesus allows us to see that beautiful house that belongs to his Father, and how in that house, we have a place prepared for us. In Acts, we see, with Stephen, the glory of God and Jesus standing there. It is glorious to be able to look ahead and see what awaits us. It is wonderful to be able to see the joys and beauty of our place with Jesus in heaven.
Still, knowing full well what awaits us, having been given glimpses into that glorious place that lies just beyond our vision, we still find ourselves digging in our heels when we have to face the fact of our own dying.
I teach a class called Suffering and Christian Healing. The other night, we were discussing the issue of dying. I realized as we talked, that there are a lot of books out there about the process of dying—there are books on what we will experience if we receive a terminal diagnosis, there are books on how to manage pain, there are books on facing psychologically and emotionally the process of dying.
But there are few books that teach us actually about dying itself, from a spiritual point of view. I remember once reading a book by the Roman Catholic saint, Alphonsus de Liguori, about how to die what he called a “happy death.” A happy death was not a death free of pain or suffering necessarily. A happy death was dying in the Presence of God. A happy death is a holy death.
St. Alphonsus wrote,
“If, when death comes, we are found in the grace of God, oh with what joy shall we say: ‘I have secured all; I can never again lose God, I shall be happy forever!’”
He even composed a prayer to Jesus to obtain a happy death. He prayed,
“My Lord Jesus Christ, through the bitterness you suffered on the cross, when Your blessed soul was separated from Your sacred body, have pity on my soul, when it shall depart from my body, and shall enter into your glorious eternity.”[1]
This is one of the things I think we can all admire about the Roman Catholic Church. The Roman Church actually ponders and prays about dying. In the Roman Church, there are prayers one can pray so one can die a happy and holy death—a death in which one can find consolation and peace with God as one dies. There is even a patron saint for a happy death—St. Joseph, the same saint, strangely enough, that one invokes when one is trying to sell a house.
I recently read a wonderful story about a Benedictine monk at St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota. Every day, when the monastery bell rang at 11:00, Father Placidus would bow his head and quietly pray. When asked why he did that, he said, “I pray the Ultima.” The Ultima was a beautiful Latin prayer to the Virgin Mary that he prayed every day at 11:00:
Ultima in mortis hora
Filium pro nobis ora
Bonam mortem impetra
Virgo Mater Dominia
At death’s last hour,
To your son pray for us,
A good death ask for us,
O Virgin Mother, Our Lady.
I recently read a wonderful story about a Benedictine monk at St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota. Every day, when the monastery bell rang at 11:00, Father Placidus would bow his head and quietly pray. When asked why he did that, he said, “I pray the Ultima.” The Ultima was a beautiful Latin prayer to the Virgin Mary that he prayed every day at 11:00:
Ultima in mortis hora
Filium pro nobis ora
Bonam mortem impetra
Virgo Mater Dominia
At death’s last hour,
To your son pray for us,
A good death ask for us,
O Virgin Mother, Our Lady.
This kind of thinking might seem a bit strange to us non Roman Catholics. We just aren’t used to thinking about such a thing as a “happy death” or a “good death.” The whole idea seems like some kind of oxymoron. “Happy” and “death” just don’t go together in way of our thinking.
But it is a good thing to think about occasionally. Certainly there are few books to teach us non-Roman Catholics about how to die a happy and holy death. As a priest, I can say that I have known many people who, when faced with their deaths, simply don’t know how to die and don’t know how to look at their dying as a way of moving into God’s presence. And even fewer know how to prepare themselves spiritually for dying.
What few Episcopalians and Anglicans know is that there have actually been Anglicans who have set an example for us about holy dying. Jeremy Taylor, the great 17th century Anglican Bishop, wrote a wonderful book called Holy Living. In it, he prayed to God:
“Give me grace to live a holy life, and thy favour, that I may die a godly and happy death.”
Taylor also wrote another great book called The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying. For Taylor, the first way to prepare for a holy death is to always remind ourselves that we are going to die. Taylor wrote, “Always look for death, every day knocking at the gates of the grave.”
This kind of thinking isn’t meant to be morbid or unpleasant. It’s simply meant to remind us that we are mortal. We will die one day. But rather than despairing over that fact, we should use it as an opportunity to draw closer to God. We should use it as an opportunity to live a more holy life. And hopefully, living a more holy life, we can pray at that last moment—that holy moment—with true conviction, that wonderful prayer of St. Stephen, the first martyr:
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
Although it’s probably not the most pleasant thought to have that we are going to die, I think it is important to think about occasionally. The reason we should think about it—and the reason we shouldn’t despair in thinking about it—is because, for a Christian, dying is not a horrible thought.
Dying is not a reason to fear. Because, by dying, we do come to life everlasting—life with end. By dying, we come to meet Jesus and Jesus comes to meet us. And although we, at this moment, can’t imagine it as being a “happy” or “holy” moment, the fact is, it will be. It will be the holiest moment of our life and it will be the happiest moment of our life.
For Stephen, who died abused, in pain, bleeding from those sharp stones that fell upon him, it was a happy and holy moment when he looked up and saw Jesus waiting for him. He was happy because he knew he would soon be received by Jesus and it was holy because, at that moment, his faith was fulfilled.
That place toward which we are headed—that place in God’s house, in that place with Jesus—we will find our true home. We all know the traditional hymn “Jerusalem, my happy home.” It is a beautiful hymn with, yet again, that wonderful word “happy.”
Jerusalem, my happy home,
Although it’s probably not the most pleasant thought to have that we are going to die, I think it is important to think about occasionally. The reason we should think about it—and the reason we shouldn’t despair in thinking about it—is because, for a Christian, dying is not a horrible thought.
Dying is not a reason to fear. Because, by dying, we do come to life everlasting—life with end. By dying, we come to meet Jesus and Jesus comes to meet us. And although we, at this moment, can’t imagine it as being a “happy” or “holy” moment, the fact is, it will be. It will be the holiest moment of our life and it will be the happiest moment of our life.
For Stephen, who died abused, in pain, bleeding from those sharp stones that fell upon him, it was a happy and holy moment when he looked up and saw Jesus waiting for him. He was happy because he knew he would soon be received by Jesus and it was holy because, at that moment, his faith was fulfilled.
That place toward which we are headed—that place in God’s house, in that place with Jesus—we will find our true home. We all know the traditional hymn “Jerusalem, my happy home.” It is a beautiful hymn with, yet again, that wonderful word “happy.”
Jerusalem, my happy home,
when shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?
Thy saints are crowned with glory great;
they see God face to face;
they triumph still, they still rejoice
most happy is their case.
Heaven—the new Jerusalem—is truly our happy home, the place toward which we are wandering around, searching. And we will not find our rest until we rest there, and we will not be fully and completely happy until we are surrounded by the happiness there.
So, let us look forward to that new Jerusalem, to that place in which Jesus has prepared a place for us. It awaits us. It there, right at this moment, just beyond our vision. Let us look to it with joy and let us live in joy until we can go there.
Amen.
[1] St. Alphonsus de Liguori, The Incarnation Birth and Infancy of Jesus Christ
So, let us look forward to that new Jerusalem, to that place in which Jesus has prepared a place for us. It awaits us. It there, right at this moment, just beyond our vision. Let us look to it with joy and let us live in joy until we can go there.
Amen.
[1] St. Alphonsus de Liguori, The Incarnation Birth and Infancy of Jesus Christ
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Wednesday of 4 Easter
Chapel of the Resurrection
April 16, 2008
Matthew 5.17-20
In tonight’s Gospel, Jesus talks about how he came not to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it.
“…till heaven and earth pass away,” Jesus says, “not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is perfected.”
No doubt, this scripture seems a bit daunting for us. When we think of “The Law,” we think of a set of confining, oppressive rules. We think, no doubt, of the Levitical Law—that set of almost tedious rules we find in the book of Leviticus. We think, no doubt, of all the “thou shalt nots” we find in the Bible.
But is that what Jesus is saying he came to fulfill in this reading? Well, not really. If we listen closely to what he’s saying elsewhere, we know that he expertly summarizes the Law—the Ten Commandments—into two commandments.
“Love God.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
In a sense, these really are the commandments. They are the true Law. Jesus is clear that upon these two commandments, the Law rests. The other eight commandments simply are ways in which these two commandments are lived out.
If you love God and love your neighbor as yourself, you won’t covet your neighbor’s property, you won’t worship idols, and you won’t steal. You simply won’t let anything come between you and God and you and your neighbor.
Even these two great commandments are incredible in and of themselves. For example, none of us can love God, without loving our neighbor as ourselves. Love of God motivates and compels us to love each other. And we can’t love our neighbor as ourselves without loving God. If we truly believe God is present—God is immanent—then by loving our neighbor as ourselves, we are loving God. And if we don’t love ourselves, we can’t truly love God, who loves us so completely, and we can’t truly love neighbors.
So, truly, if we try to live out these commandments in our lives, if we make the effort to follow this wonderful Law and let our lives reflect this Law, we are being Christians. We are accomplishing the Law in our very lives.
In fact, it is probably one of the boldest statements of Jesus to us about salvation when he says, “whoever does them and teaches them shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” In other words, living out these commandments—loving God, loving your neighbor as yourself—are what save us ultimately.
So, live out this great and wonderful Law of God in your life as best you can. Love God. Love your neighbor as yourself. And know that, in doing so, you are accomplishing the Law and bringing the kingdom of God into our midst.
Amen.
April 16, 2008
Matthew 5.17-20
In tonight’s Gospel, Jesus talks about how he came not to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it.
“…till heaven and earth pass away,” Jesus says, “not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is perfected.”
No doubt, this scripture seems a bit daunting for us. When we think of “The Law,” we think of a set of confining, oppressive rules. We think, no doubt, of the Levitical Law—that set of almost tedious rules we find in the book of Leviticus. We think, no doubt, of all the “thou shalt nots” we find in the Bible.
But is that what Jesus is saying he came to fulfill in this reading? Well, not really. If we listen closely to what he’s saying elsewhere, we know that he expertly summarizes the Law—the Ten Commandments—into two commandments.
“Love God.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
In a sense, these really are the commandments. They are the true Law. Jesus is clear that upon these two commandments, the Law rests. The other eight commandments simply are ways in which these two commandments are lived out.
If you love God and love your neighbor as yourself, you won’t covet your neighbor’s property, you won’t worship idols, and you won’t steal. You simply won’t let anything come between you and God and you and your neighbor.
Even these two great commandments are incredible in and of themselves. For example, none of us can love God, without loving our neighbor as ourselves. Love of God motivates and compels us to love each other. And we can’t love our neighbor as ourselves without loving God. If we truly believe God is present—God is immanent—then by loving our neighbor as ourselves, we are loving God. And if we don’t love ourselves, we can’t truly love God, who loves us so completely, and we can’t truly love neighbors.
So, truly, if we try to live out these commandments in our lives, if we make the effort to follow this wonderful Law and let our lives reflect this Law, we are being Christians. We are accomplishing the Law in our very lives.
In fact, it is probably one of the boldest statements of Jesus to us about salvation when he says, “whoever does them and teaches them shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” In other words, living out these commandments—loving God, loving your neighbor as yourself—are what save us ultimately.
So, live out this great and wonderful Law of God in your life as best you can. Love God. Love your neighbor as yourself. And know that, in doing so, you are accomplishing the Law and bringing the kingdom of God into our midst.
Amen.
John Meader Requiem Eucharist
John Meader(August 29, 1927 - April 11, 2008)
April 16, 2008
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo
John 14.1-6
As most of you know, John was a life-long Episcopalian. He was active at both St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Detroit Lakes, and at St. Barnabas on the Desert in Scottsdale, Arizona, a church I was privileged to visit just a few weeks. The Episcopal Church was very important to John and it defined and shaped his faith in God.
When John’s daughters and I were talking the other day, they mentioned that John often led Morning Prayer in the churches he attended. He often stepped up on those occasions when priests were, for whatever reasons, unavailable and actually led the service.
The Book of Common Prayer—this book from which we are worshipping this morning—was very important to him, as it is to all Episcopalians. This book helps us to pray, helps us to understand God and God’s dealings in our lives. It is a book that, with the Bible, helps us to grow closer to God in our devotional life.
No doubt, this very service that we are participating in at this moments, was a service of great consolation to John in his life. And John, no doubt, would commend the words of this service to us as a way of consoling ourselves and making sense of the loss and sadness we are feeling this morning.
The fact is, we can take great hope in our liturgy—in the actual words of this service. Certainly, for us Episcopalians, we place huge importance on liturgy. That is why most Episcopal churches discourage eulogies at the actual funeral service.
In some churches these days, there are often, in addition to the sermon, a series of eulogies from family and friends. They are often beautiful sentiments and I, for one, have often enjoyed hearing them. Most Episcopal churches however discourage eulogies, and that is part of the reason why we will have a time for eulogies at the reception following this service. In fact, in the 1928 Prayer Book, the one John was no doubt very familiar with, it was typical that not even a sermon, much less a eulogy, would ever have been preached during an Episcopal funeral.
I recently read a biography of the author John Steinbeck. When Steinbeck died in 1968, his funeral was held at St. James Episcopal Church in New York City. The service itself lasted fifteen minutes. And not once, throughout that service, was Steinbeck’s name mentioned.
No doubt, most of us cringe when we hear that. This is so very much contradictory to our usual experience of funerals.
Luckily, we’ve revised that a bit with our current Prayer Book, which was revised in 1979. We do actually mention the person for whom we are praying by name. We allow a sermon. But we still discourage eulogies, because we hope that the words of the service itself will be consolation enough for family and friends. The words of the service say everything we can ever hope to say about dying and about rising to new life following death.
For most preachers, anything we say in addition to the words of the liturgy simply pale in comparison. In fact, as we celebrate this service together, I invite you to pay special attention to the words we say together.
For example, the words we used at the beginning—words that actually come from the Gospel of John—are incredible, and have been used to begin Anglican funerals since 1549:
I am Resurrection and I am Life, says the Lord.Whoever has faith in me shall have life,even though he die.And everyone who has life,and has committed himself to me in faith,shall not die for ever.
We often don’t think too much about those words, but they really do tell us everything we could hope to hear about death. In Jesus, we have Resurrection and Life. With faith in Jesus, even though we will die in our bodies, we shall live. And in living, we will live forever with him.
Pay close attention also to the prayers we say at he commendation at the end of the service when we say together,
“Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.”
“…where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.”
Those are not light words. Those are words that pack a punch and have deep meaning for anyone who mourns.
Also, we Episcopalians do something few other non-Roman Catholic denominations do: we actually pray for the deceased. While most Lutherans, Presbyterians and Methodists make a point of not praying specifically for the person who has passed away, we very unashamedly do. In a few moments, at the end of the Prayers of the People, we will pray,
“Father of all, we pray to you for John, and for all those whom we love and see no longer.”
It’s words and images and sentiments such as these that make our liturgy so important and carry the weight it does. That’s why I always I encourage people to take these service programs with them following the service and read through these words when they’re feeling sad.
Often people tell me that they have taken the Episcopal funeral service home with them and replaced the name in the program with one of their own loved ones and that using these prayers have helped them in their own grief and sorrow. After all, they are full of consolation and hope. They truly do give us a glimpse of what awaits all of us.
This liturgy carries great meaning at other times as well. On Friday, when I gathered with the family at John’s bedside to say some prayers, one of the prayers we prayed was this one. It comes from the Book of Common Prayer for the Anglican Church of New Zealand. The prayer we prayed Friday afternoon was this:
God of the present moment,
God who in Jesus stills the storm and soothes the frantic heart;
bring hope and courage to your servant.
Make him the equal of whatever lies ahead for him.
For your will is wholeness.
You are God and we trust you.
It was a perfect prayer for John on Friday. God, who in that present moment, God, who stills storms and soothes hearts that are frantic, was, at that moment, brining hope and courage to John. In that moment, God made John the equal of what lay ahead for him—life, unending, glorious life.
That prayer could also be used for us as well today. As we head into these days without John, we also ask our God, who is with us in this present moment, to still the storm of our mourning and to soothe whatever frantic hearts we may have in the wake of our loss. We ask God at this time to bring us hope and courage. And we truly do ask God in our liturgy to make us the equal of what lies ahead for us in these days to come.
We, also, in our liturgy, allow for the reading of the scriptures. I am also especially happy that the family chose this particular gospel reading for this service this afternoon. In it, we find Jesus allowing us a glimpse of what awaits us. We are able to see, for a moment, the Father’s house and how in that house there are many rooms awaiting us. In older translations of this scripture, we hear the word “mansions” used. In my Father’s house there are many mansions. I like that idea of mansions. 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 loved John so much, provide him with anything less than a mansion? I don’t think so. And I am fully certain that God has provided a mansion for John.
Can you imagine what that place must be like? Can you imagine the joy he must feel right this moment? Can you imagine the laughter he is experiencing.
This is the consolation we can take away from today. In that place—that wonderful glorious place, promised to us in scripture and in liturgy—John is now fully and completely himself. He is whole.
In that Prayer from the New Zealand Prayer Book that I prayed with John and his family on Friday, we prayed,
Your will, O God, is wholeness.
Wholeness means just that—completeness. Whatever imperfections we might have in this world, whatever in this life prevented us from being who we are truly meant to be, are made whole by God.
And today, we can take great consolation in the fact that that petition has been answered for John. God has made John 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 the illnesses that lead to death, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well. They too will pass away. This is what gets us through. This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. This is what scripture allows us to glimpse. This is what liturgy allows us to look forward to. It is a faith that can tell us with a startling reality that every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure John would be quick to tell you—will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening.
John knew this faith in his own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this.
At the end of this service, as we take John’s casket out to the hearse, the priests will pray a wonderful verse that we say now to John, but, one day, will be said for all of us as well.
“Into paradise may the angels lead you. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.”
On Friday, John was received into that paradise. On Friday, angels led him to that holy city Jerusalem. On Friday, the martyrs received and brought him home.
One day we too will be received there as well. One day, we too will experience that wonderful paradise.
So this morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith that John is complete and whole and beautiful at this very moment and for every moment to come form now on. Let us take consolation in that paradise to which he has been received by martyrs and angels. And let us be glad that one day we too will be there as well, sharing with him in that joy that will never end.
April 16, 2008
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral
Fargo
John 14.1-6
As most of you know, John was a life-long Episcopalian. He was active at both St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Detroit Lakes, and at St. Barnabas on the Desert in Scottsdale, Arizona, a church I was privileged to visit just a few weeks. The Episcopal Church was very important to John and it defined and shaped his faith in God.
When John’s daughters and I were talking the other day, they mentioned that John often led Morning Prayer in the churches he attended. He often stepped up on those occasions when priests were, for whatever reasons, unavailable and actually led the service.
The Book of Common Prayer—this book from which we are worshipping this morning—was very important to him, as it is to all Episcopalians. This book helps us to pray, helps us to understand God and God’s dealings in our lives. It is a book that, with the Bible, helps us to grow closer to God in our devotional life.
No doubt, this very service that we are participating in at this moments, was a service of great consolation to John in his life. And John, no doubt, would commend the words of this service to us as a way of consoling ourselves and making sense of the loss and sadness we are feeling this morning.
The fact is, we can take great hope in our liturgy—in the actual words of this service. Certainly, for us Episcopalians, we place huge importance on liturgy. That is why most Episcopal churches discourage eulogies at the actual funeral service.
In some churches these days, there are often, in addition to the sermon, a series of eulogies from family and friends. They are often beautiful sentiments and I, for one, have often enjoyed hearing them. Most Episcopal churches however discourage eulogies, and that is part of the reason why we will have a time for eulogies at the reception following this service. In fact, in the 1928 Prayer Book, the one John was no doubt very familiar with, it was typical that not even a sermon, much less a eulogy, would ever have been preached during an Episcopal funeral.
I recently read a biography of the author John Steinbeck. When Steinbeck died in 1968, his funeral was held at St. James Episcopal Church in New York City. The service itself lasted fifteen minutes. And not once, throughout that service, was Steinbeck’s name mentioned.
No doubt, most of us cringe when we hear that. This is so very much contradictory to our usual experience of funerals.
Luckily, we’ve revised that a bit with our current Prayer Book, which was revised in 1979. We do actually mention the person for whom we are praying by name. We allow a sermon. But we still discourage eulogies, because we hope that the words of the service itself will be consolation enough for family and friends. The words of the service say everything we can ever hope to say about dying and about rising to new life following death.
For most preachers, anything we say in addition to the words of the liturgy simply pale in comparison. In fact, as we celebrate this service together, I invite you to pay special attention to the words we say together.
For example, the words we used at the beginning—words that actually come from the Gospel of John—are incredible, and have been used to begin Anglican funerals since 1549:
I am Resurrection and I am Life, says the Lord.Whoever has faith in me shall have life,even though he die.And everyone who has life,and has committed himself to me in faith,shall not die for ever.
We often don’t think too much about those words, but they really do tell us everything we could hope to hear about death. In Jesus, we have Resurrection and Life. With faith in Jesus, even though we will die in our bodies, we shall live. And in living, we will live forever with him.
Pay close attention also to the prayers we say at he commendation at the end of the service when we say together,
“Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.”
“…where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.”
Those are not light words. Those are words that pack a punch and have deep meaning for anyone who mourns.
Also, we Episcopalians do something few other non-Roman Catholic denominations do: we actually pray for the deceased. While most Lutherans, Presbyterians and Methodists make a point of not praying specifically for the person who has passed away, we very unashamedly do. In a few moments, at the end of the Prayers of the People, we will pray,
“Father of all, we pray to you for John, and for all those whom we love and see no longer.”
It’s words and images and sentiments such as these that make our liturgy so important and carry the weight it does. That’s why I always I encourage people to take these service programs with them following the service and read through these words when they’re feeling sad.
Often people tell me that they have taken the Episcopal funeral service home with them and replaced the name in the program with one of their own loved ones and that using these prayers have helped them in their own grief and sorrow. After all, they are full of consolation and hope. They truly do give us a glimpse of what awaits all of us.
This liturgy carries great meaning at other times as well. On Friday, when I gathered with the family at John’s bedside to say some prayers, one of the prayers we prayed was this one. It comes from the Book of Common Prayer for the Anglican Church of New Zealand. The prayer we prayed Friday afternoon was this:
God of the present moment,
God who in Jesus stills the storm and soothes the frantic heart;
bring hope and courage to your servant.
Make him the equal of whatever lies ahead for him.
For your will is wholeness.
You are God and we trust you.
It was a perfect prayer for John on Friday. God, who in that present moment, God, who stills storms and soothes hearts that are frantic, was, at that moment, brining hope and courage to John. In that moment, God made John the equal of what lay ahead for him—life, unending, glorious life.
That prayer could also be used for us as well today. As we head into these days without John, we also ask our God, who is with us in this present moment, to still the storm of our mourning and to soothe whatever frantic hearts we may have in the wake of our loss. We ask God at this time to bring us hope and courage. And we truly do ask God in our liturgy to make us the equal of what lies ahead for us in these days to come.
We, also, in our liturgy, allow for the reading of the scriptures. I am also especially happy that the family chose this particular gospel reading for this service this afternoon. In it, we find Jesus allowing us a glimpse of what awaits us. We are able to see, for a moment, the Father’s house and how in that house there are many rooms awaiting us. In older translations of this scripture, we hear the word “mansions” used. In my Father’s house there are many mansions. I like that idea of mansions. 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 loved John so much, provide him with anything less than a mansion? I don’t think so. And I am fully certain that God has provided a mansion for John.
Can you imagine what that place must be like? Can you imagine the joy he must feel right this moment? Can you imagine the laughter he is experiencing.
This is the consolation we can take away from today. In that place—that wonderful glorious place, promised to us in scripture and in liturgy—John is now fully and completely himself. He is whole.
In that Prayer from the New Zealand Prayer Book that I prayed with John and his family on Friday, we prayed,
Your will, O God, is wholeness.
Wholeness means just that—completeness. Whatever imperfections we might have in this world, whatever in this life prevented us from being who we are truly meant to be, are made whole by God.
And today, we can take great consolation in the fact that that petition has been answered for John. God has made John 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 the illnesses that lead to death, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well. They too will pass away. This is what gets us through. This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. This is what scripture allows us to glimpse. This is what liturgy allows us to look forward to. It is a faith that can tell us with a startling reality that every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure John would be quick to tell you—will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening.
John knew this faith in his own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this.
At the end of this service, as we take John’s casket out to the hearse, the priests will pray a wonderful verse that we say now to John, but, one day, will be said for all of us as well.
“Into paradise may the angels lead you. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.”
On Friday, John was received into that paradise. On Friday, angels led him to that holy city Jerusalem. On Friday, the martyrs received and brought him home.
One day we too will be received there as well. One day, we too will experience that wonderful paradise.
So this morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith that John is complete and whole and beautiful at this very moment and for every moment to come form now on. Let us take consolation in that paradise to which he has been received by martyrs and angels. And let us be glad that one day we too will be there as well, sharing with him in that joy that will never end.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
4 Easter
Good Shepherd Sunday
April 13, 2008
St. John the Divine
Moorhead, Minnesota
1 Peter; Psalm 23; John 10.1-10
Today is Good Shepherd Sunday—the Sunday in which we encounter this wonderful reading about Jesus being the Good Shepherd. However, we not only have just one wonderful image in today’s Gospel reading. We actually have two.
The first is a wonderful and beautiful image all in its self. Jesus describes himself in today’s Gospel as the Good Shepherd. This is probably one of the most perfect images Jesus could have used for the people listening to him. They would have understood what a good shepherd was and what a bad shepherd was. The good shepherd was the shepherd who actually cared for his flock. He looked out for them, he watched them. The Good Shepherd guided the flock and led the flock. He guided and led the flock to a place to eat.
This is an important aspect of the role of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd didn’t feed the flock. Rather the good shepherd led the flock to the choicest green pastures and helped them to feed themselves. In this way, the Good Shepherd is more than just a coddling shepherd. He is not the co-dependent shepherd. The Good Shepherd doesn’t take each sheep individually, pick them up, and hand-feed the sheep. Rather, he guides and leads the sheep to green pastures and allows them feed themselves.
The Good Shepherd also protects the flock against the many dangers out there. He protects the flock from the wolves, from getting too near cliffs, or holes, or falling into places of water.
Let’s face it, there are many dangers out there. There are many opportunities for us to trip ourselves, to get lost, to get hurt. If we follow the Good Shepherd, if we allow ourselves to be led by him to the Gate, we avoid those pitfalls of life. Of course, the journey isn’t an easy one. We can still get hurt along the way. Bad things can still happen to us. There are predators out there, waiting to hurt us. There are storms brewing in our lives, waiting rain down upon us.
But, with our eyes on the Shepherd, we know that the bad things that happen to us will not destroy us, because the Shepherd is there, close by, watching out for us. We know that in those bad times—those times of darkness when predators close in, when storms rage—he will rescue us.
More importantly the Good Shepherd knows his flock. He knows each of the sheep. If one is lost, he knows it is lost and will not rest until it is brought back into the fold. In our collect for today, there is a wonderful reference to the Good Shepherd. In the prayer, we ask God:
“Grant that when we hear his voice, we may know him who calleth us each by name…’
This is the kind of relationship we have with Jesus as the Good Shepherd. We are know him because he knows us. He knows us and calls us each by our name.
In Jesus, we don’t have some vague, distant God. We don’t have a “watchmaker God” like the Deists of the eighteenth century believed in. We don’t believe in a God who simply sets the watch of our creation—who created us—and then just let us go, not caring about us, not knowing us, now paying any more attention to us. We don’t have a God who lets us fend for ourselves. We instead have a God who leads us and guides us, a God who knows us each by name, a God who despairs over the loss of even one of the flock. We have a God who, in leading us and guiding us, then allows us to pass through him into a place wherein we will feast.
The bad shepherd, on the other hand, is a lazy shepherd. He doesn’t care for the flock and, in not caring, he lets the flock do whatever it wants. If sheep go astray, he doesn’t go after them, bringing them back into the fold. If a wolf comes near, he doesn’t come between it and the sheep, but rather runs away, leaving the sheep to fend for themselves. If a sheep here or there are lost, it doesn’t matter. And worst of all, he doesn’t know his sheep. One or two might be lost, but the bad shepherd might not even notice, and certainly wouldn’t care. All these are important images, vital images to explain the relationship God has with us and we with God.
But the other beautiful image in today’s Gospel is that of Jesus as the Gate, through which the sheep enter the pastures. This is an image different than we’ve heard previously.
The image of the Good Shepherd can be taken and applied by anyone. Anyone can be a shepherd. Even we can take the image of the Good Shepard and apply it to ourselves. Certainly, priests and pastors have long clung to that image and applied it to their vocation. And a good priest and pastor really should be like the Good Shepherd. But no priest or pastor—not one of us—can claim to be the Gate for the sheep.
Jesus, today, does just that however. He describes himself as the Gate through which the sheep enter. At first, this seems like a strange image. Most of us can, no doubt, wrap our minds around the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. But Jesus as the Gate? That’s a bit harder to understand.
The fact is, it too is a wonderful image. Jesus makes clear that there is only one Gate through which to enter the green pastures and he is that gate. One cannot enter the pasture except by entering the Gate. So, in a sense, as sheep of the flock, we get Jesus at every turn. He knows us. He leads and guides us. And, through him, he brings us to a place of refreshment and fulfillment.
I often read one or two sources before I ever sit down to write a sermon. One of the sources I am not ashamed to refer to every Sunday is Forward Day By Day, the daily meditations that have inspired Episcopalians for many decades. The writer for this morning’s meditation refers to an image that I had forgotten. The entry for today reads:
“One of the things I have always loved about C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia is the plethora of entrances into that magical land. By the end of the series, however, it is clear: Aslan, the great golden Christlike lion king of Narnia, does not merely open the door to other worlds; he himself is the way.”
For those of you who have not read Lewis’ The Last Battle, it’s truly a wonderful finale to the Narnia series. In its finale, those who believe in the lion Aslan, who truly is a symbol for Christ, pass through a gate into a beautiful place. The actual going through the gate is a terrifying experience, but once they are through, they come out in paradise. In a sense, Aslan stands at the threshold of the new era. He stand there not merely to usher people in. He stands there as the gate through which the characters enter. It’s an image that we should all cherish.
Jesus is the Good Shepherd and he is also the Gate. He is the Shepherd that leads us to the Gate—to himself. And he is the Gate through which we can enter into those lush green pastures that wait all of us.
So, on this day in which we celebrate the Shepherd who leads and guides, allow yourself to be led. On this day that we look to the Shepherd who guides, let us be guided. Allow yourself to be led by that Great Good Shepherd, who brings you to himself, to the very Gate. And there, go through the Gate into that glorious place we have longed for all our existence. And when we are there, in that glorious place, let us rejoice in our God and in each other. Let us know that the joy we will experience there will be a joy that is never taken from us.
April 13, 2008
St. John the Divine
Moorhead, Minnesota
1 Peter; Psalm 23; John 10.1-10
Today is Good Shepherd Sunday—the Sunday in which we encounter this wonderful reading about Jesus being the Good Shepherd. However, we not only have just one wonderful image in today’s Gospel reading. We actually have two.
The first is a wonderful and beautiful image all in its self. Jesus describes himself in today’s Gospel as the Good Shepherd. This is probably one of the most perfect images Jesus could have used for the people listening to him. They would have understood what a good shepherd was and what a bad shepherd was. The good shepherd was the shepherd who actually cared for his flock. He looked out for them, he watched them. The Good Shepherd guided the flock and led the flock. He guided and led the flock to a place to eat.
This is an important aspect of the role of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd didn’t feed the flock. Rather the good shepherd led the flock to the choicest green pastures and helped them to feed themselves. In this way, the Good Shepherd is more than just a coddling shepherd. He is not the co-dependent shepherd. The Good Shepherd doesn’t take each sheep individually, pick them up, and hand-feed the sheep. Rather, he guides and leads the sheep to green pastures and allows them feed themselves.
The Good Shepherd also protects the flock against the many dangers out there. He protects the flock from the wolves, from getting too near cliffs, or holes, or falling into places of water.
Let’s face it, there are many dangers out there. There are many opportunities for us to trip ourselves, to get lost, to get hurt. If we follow the Good Shepherd, if we allow ourselves to be led by him to the Gate, we avoid those pitfalls of life. Of course, the journey isn’t an easy one. We can still get hurt along the way. Bad things can still happen to us. There are predators out there, waiting to hurt us. There are storms brewing in our lives, waiting rain down upon us.
But, with our eyes on the Shepherd, we know that the bad things that happen to us will not destroy us, because the Shepherd is there, close by, watching out for us. We know that in those bad times—those times of darkness when predators close in, when storms rage—he will rescue us.
More importantly the Good Shepherd knows his flock. He knows each of the sheep. If one is lost, he knows it is lost and will not rest until it is brought back into the fold. In our collect for today, there is a wonderful reference to the Good Shepherd. In the prayer, we ask God:
“Grant that when we hear his voice, we may know him who calleth us each by name…’
This is the kind of relationship we have with Jesus as the Good Shepherd. We are know him because he knows us. He knows us and calls us each by our name.
In Jesus, we don’t have some vague, distant God. We don’t have a “watchmaker God” like the Deists of the eighteenth century believed in. We don’t believe in a God who simply sets the watch of our creation—who created us—and then just let us go, not caring about us, not knowing us, now paying any more attention to us. We don’t have a God who lets us fend for ourselves. We instead have a God who leads us and guides us, a God who knows us each by name, a God who despairs over the loss of even one of the flock. We have a God who, in leading us and guiding us, then allows us to pass through him into a place wherein we will feast.
The bad shepherd, on the other hand, is a lazy shepherd. He doesn’t care for the flock and, in not caring, he lets the flock do whatever it wants. If sheep go astray, he doesn’t go after them, bringing them back into the fold. If a wolf comes near, he doesn’t come between it and the sheep, but rather runs away, leaving the sheep to fend for themselves. If a sheep here or there are lost, it doesn’t matter. And worst of all, he doesn’t know his sheep. One or two might be lost, but the bad shepherd might not even notice, and certainly wouldn’t care. All these are important images, vital images to explain the relationship God has with us and we with God.
But the other beautiful image in today’s Gospel is that of Jesus as the Gate, through which the sheep enter the pastures. This is an image different than we’ve heard previously.
The image of the Good Shepherd can be taken and applied by anyone. Anyone can be a shepherd. Even we can take the image of the Good Shepard and apply it to ourselves. Certainly, priests and pastors have long clung to that image and applied it to their vocation. And a good priest and pastor really should be like the Good Shepherd. But no priest or pastor—not one of us—can claim to be the Gate for the sheep.
Jesus, today, does just that however. He describes himself as the Gate through which the sheep enter. At first, this seems like a strange image. Most of us can, no doubt, wrap our minds around the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. But Jesus as the Gate? That’s a bit harder to understand.
The fact is, it too is a wonderful image. Jesus makes clear that there is only one Gate through which to enter the green pastures and he is that gate. One cannot enter the pasture except by entering the Gate. So, in a sense, as sheep of the flock, we get Jesus at every turn. He knows us. He leads and guides us. And, through him, he brings us to a place of refreshment and fulfillment.
I often read one or two sources before I ever sit down to write a sermon. One of the sources I am not ashamed to refer to every Sunday is Forward Day By Day, the daily meditations that have inspired Episcopalians for many decades. The writer for this morning’s meditation refers to an image that I had forgotten. The entry for today reads:
“One of the things I have always loved about C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia is the plethora of entrances into that magical land. By the end of the series, however, it is clear: Aslan, the great golden Christlike lion king of Narnia, does not merely open the door to other worlds; he himself is the way.”
For those of you who have not read Lewis’ The Last Battle, it’s truly a wonderful finale to the Narnia series. In its finale, those who believe in the lion Aslan, who truly is a symbol for Christ, pass through a gate into a beautiful place. The actual going through the gate is a terrifying experience, but once they are through, they come out in paradise. In a sense, Aslan stands at the threshold of the new era. He stand there not merely to usher people in. He stands there as the gate through which the characters enter. It’s an image that we should all cherish.
Jesus is the Good Shepherd and he is also the Gate. He is the Shepherd that leads us to the Gate—to himself. And he is the Gate through which we can enter into those lush green pastures that wait all of us.
So, on this day in which we celebrate the Shepherd who leads and guides, allow yourself to be led. On this day that we look to the Shepherd who guides, let us be guided. Allow yourself to be led by that Great Good Shepherd, who brings you to himself, to the very Gate. And there, go through the Gate into that glorious place we have longed for all our existence. And when we are there, in that glorious place, let us rejoice in our God and in each other. Let us know that the joy we will experience there will be a joy that is never taken from us.
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