1 Lent

February 26, 2012

Genesis 9.8-17; 1 Peter 3.18-22; Mark 1.9-15

+ So….did you miss me while I was on vacation? I hope so. Because, of course, I missed all of you. Of course, it does feel a bit strange to come back from vacation and, all of sudden, be confronted with the Season of Lent. But, here we are. The First Sunday in Lent. And no doubt you were all were prepared to come to church this morning, through all the threats of winter storms and blizzards, and hear gloom and doom in our scripture readings for today.

Ah, but not so. Instead, we get… water? We get Noah and the ark? And baptism? Now, this is my way to begin Lent!

We begin Lent as we begin any important step as Christians—with solid footing in our baptismal understanding. We begin Lent with a remembrance of our baptismal covenant—that covenant that we formed with God at our baptisms—a covenant that is still binding on us, even now. This covenant is a covenant very much like the covenant God made with Noah after the waters of the flood that we hear about in our reading from Genesis. I wasn’t expecting to do it, but here we are on this first Sunday of Lent, and I am preaching about, of all things, baptism.

As if that wasn’t enough, we also get another special treat. In our Gospel reading, we get, in a very brief scripture, an upheaval.

What? You missed the upheaval in our Gospel reading? You missed the reversal? You missed, in that deceptively simple piece of scripture, a mirror image? It’s easy to miss, after all. Our Gospel reading is so simple, so sparse. But then again, so is haiku. But let’s look a little closer at what we’ve just heard and read.

In today’s Gospel, we find three elements that remind us of something else. We find the devil. We find animals. And we find angels. Where else in scripture do we find these same elements? Well, we find them all in the Creation story in Genesis, of course. The story of Adam is a story of what? --the devil, of animals and of angels. But that story ends with the devil’s triumph and Adam’s defeat.

In today’s Gospel, it has all been made strangely right. Jesus—the new Adam—has turned the tables using the exact same elements. We find Jesus not in a lush beautiful place like Eden. Rather we find Jesus with wild animals in the desert—animals who were created by God and named by Adam. We find him there waited on by the angels—and let’s not forget that turned Adam away from Eden. And there, in that place, he defeats the Devil—the same Devil who defeated Adam.

I have found this juxtaposition between Adam and Jesus to be a rich source of personal meditation, because it really is very meaningful to us who follow Jesus. If we lived with the story of Adam, if we lived in the shadow of his defeat, the story a somewhat bleak one. There doesn’t seem to be much hope. The relationship ruined with Adam hasn’t been made right. But today we find that the relationship has been right. The story isn’t a story of defeat after all. It isn’t a time to despair, but to rejoice. The Devil has been defeated. And this is very important.

We, in our baptisms, also defeat the Devil. Now, by the Devil, I am not necessarily talking about a supernatural being who rules the underworld. I’m not talking about the horns, forked tail and pitchfork. By Devil I mean the personification of all that we hold evil.

In our baptisms, we renounce all the evil of this world and the next, and by renouncing evil, we are assured that it can be defeated. By renouncing the devil and all the evils of this world, we turn away from the evil inherent within us—the evil that was set upon us from the beginning—from Adam’s being turned away at Eden. Our baptism marks us and in that mark we find the strength to stand up against evil. This time of Lent—this time for us in the desert, this time of fasting and mortification—is a time for us to confront the demons in our lives. We all have them.

In our wonderful collect for today, we prayed to God to “come quickly to help us who are assaulted by many temptations.”

The poet that I am, I love the tradition language of Rite I better here.

“Make speed to help thy servants who are assaulted by manifold temptations.”

We all understand that term “manifold temptations.” We all have those triggers in our lives that disrupt and cause upheaval. Sometimes this upheaval is mental and emotional, sometimes it is actual. We have our own demons, no matter what name we might call them.

I certainly have my own demons in my life and sometimes I am shocked by the way they come upon me. I am amazed by how they lay me low and turn my life upside down. They represent for me everything dark and evil and wrong in my life and in the world around me. They are sometimes memories of wrongs done to me, or wrongs I’ve done to others. Sometimes they are the shortcomings of my own life—of being painfully reminded of the fact that I have failed and failed miserably at times in my life. They are reminders to me that this world is still a world of darkness at times—a world in which people and nature can hurt and harm and destroy. And their power and influence over my life is, I admit, somewhat strong.

Trying to break the power of our demons sometimes involves going off into the deserts of our lives, breaking ourselves bodily and spiritually and, armed with those spiritual tools we need, confronting and defeating those powers that make us less than who we are.

For me, I do find consolation when I am confronted by the demons of my life in that covenant I have with God in my baptism. I am reminded by that covenant that there is no reason to despair when these demons come into our lives, because the demons, essentially, are illusions. They are ghosts. They are wispy fragments of my memory. They have no real power over me despite what they make think sometimes. Because the demons have been defeated by God.

Again, returning to our collect for today, we prayed, “as you know the weaknesses of each of us, let each one find you mighty to save.”

God has been “might to save” us. The demons of our lives have been defeated by our Baptismal Covenant and the waters of those baptismal waters. The real power they have over my life has been washed away in those waters, much as all evilness was washed away in the flood in Noah’s time.

So, as we wander about in the spiritual desert of Lent, let us truly be driven. Let the Spirit drive us into that place—to that place wherein we confront the demons of our lives. But let us do so unafraid. The Spirit is the driving force and, knowing that, we are strengthened. Let us be driven into that place. Let us confront our demons. Let us confront the very Devil himself. Let us face the manifold temptations of our lives unafraid, knowing full well that God is “mighty to save.” And in confronting evil and temptation, let us, with Jesus, defeat those demons.

Strengthened by our Baptismal Covenant let us then be able to return from this place, proclaiming loudly, by our words, and by our actions,

“The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near, repent, and believe in the good news.”

Ash Wednesday

February 22, 2012
St. Mark’s Lutheran Church, Fargo

Matthew 6.1-6,16-21

+ I just got back from vacation last week. Now, I don’t mean to rub it in, but I spent a wonderful week and half in Florida, enjoying the sun, the ocean and some wonderfully warm temperatures. Of course, you can’t tell by looking at me. I’m Scottish, after all—I just don’t tan. Not even a little. But I can tell you, it’s a strange feeling coming back from vacation—from not thinking about “church things” for about two weeks and then suddenly shifting gears and having to deal with Ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday and Lent are definitely things we need to gear up for, just as Lent is a way for us to prepare ourselves for Easter. We need to prepare ourselves a bit for the momentous occasions in our lives as liturgical Christians.

What we are gathering together for this evening is a sobering event. To have ashes smeared on our foreheads and to hear those words, “You are dust and to dust you shall return” are hard words to hear.

This day is telling us, in no uncertain terms, that everyone gathered here this evening is going to quit breathing one day and will die. I’m sorry to be so morbid about this. And I’m sorry I’m the one that has to tell you this sad news. But, it is a fact. We are all, one day, going to die. There’s no getting around that.

And these bodies we have with us this evening will one day either be buried in the ground or burned to ashes by fire. Or maybe one or two of you are going to be cryogenically frozen. Good luck on the waste of that money…

One way or the other, these bodies we have—this flesh and bones we carry around with us—will one day crumble away and turn to dust and ash. I know it’s not pleasant. I know it’s difficult to look at the hands on our laps at this moment and realize that they will turn to dust and that these bodies fail us.

For me, I realized all of this very early on. Yesterday I celebrated a very momentous day in my life. I celebrated 10 years of being cancer free. It’s an amazing event to be able to say those words.

But, let me tell you, back then, I faced the reality of my mortality. I realized, back then, that I was being touched by something that could very easily have killed me. And there were moments when I found myself examining everything aspect of my life. I thought about how I had failed. I thought about how I had failed my parents, my friends, my siblings, my self and my God. And I realized how far short I had fallen in my life. It was sobering.

For us, this Wednesday evening is a similar experience. Tonight, we too are hearing, in our liturgy, that we are going to die. We are reminded that, despite the fact that we think so much depends upon us, in reality, we realize we are dust and to dust we all shall return. This is what Ash Wednesday is really about.

Benedictine Sister Joan Chittester, in her wonderful book from The Ancient Practices series, The Liturgical Year, says this about Ash Wednesday:

“Ash Wednesday, an echo of the Hebrew Testament’s ancient call to sackcloth and ashes, is a continuing cry across the centuries that life is transient, that change is urgent. We don’t have enough time to waste time on nothingness. We need to repent our dillydallying on the road to God. We need to regret the time we’ve spent playing with dangerous distractions and empty diversions along the way. We need to repent of our senseless excesses and our excursions into sin, our breeches of justice, our failures of honesty, our estrangement from God, our savoring of excess, our absorbing self-gratifications, one infantile addiction, one creature craving after another. . .”

Ash Wednesday, then, is a time for us to realize our time is limited. We don’t have an excess surpluss of time. If we are going to do good in this life, we need to do it now.

And we really do not have the option of wasting time doing wrong. Doing wrong robs us of that precious time we have left to us. Ash Wednesday and Lent are not times for us to beat ourselves up unmercifully, as so many Christians believe. It more than just giving up some things we might like—like candy or caffienated drinks.

It is rather a time for us to remind ourselves that it is not all about any one of us. Because we all fall into that dangerous cycle. We easily fall into that delusion of beleiving the universe revolves around the all-mighty ME. The fact is, it doesn’t. It’s not all about me, or you, or any one of us. We are, after all, dust. And we will, one day, return to dust.

But this is not something to despair over. It is not something to become depressed over. Rather, it should be something that motivates us. It should be something that makes us sit up and go out and do some good in this world in the time we have.

Jesus, in tonight’s Gospel, tell us, “Do not store up for yoruselves treasures on arth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”

We store up our treasures in heaven by doing whatever good things we can do in this time we have left to us. We store up treasures for ourselves when we recognize and live our lives knowing full well that the time we have is precious time. It is sacred time. It is time given to us by God to do something good and meaningful with. We don’t have the option anymore of wasting time. It is time now to go serve God and each other in love.

And when we do, it does not matter that we are dust. It is not matter that we will die. Because, as Jesus shows us again and again, what seems to be laid low—what seems to be only dust and ashes—can be raised up.

This is what it means to be a Christian. This is what means to be a follower of Jesus. We don’t have to be perfect. We can’t be perfect. But we can do much good even in our imperfect state.

Sister Joan goes on to say in her book, The Liturgical Year:

“Ash Wednesday confronts us with what we have become and prods us to do better. Indeed, Lent, we learn on Ash Wednesday, is not about abnegation, about denying ourselves for the sake of denying ourselves. It is about much more than that. It about opening our hearts one more time to the Word of God in the hope that, this time, hearing it anew, we might allow ourselves to become new as a result of it. It is the call to prayer, to liturgy, to the cocreation of the world. It about our rising to the full stature of human reflection and, as a result, accepting the challenge to become fully alive, fully human rather than simply, grossly, abysmally, self-centered human.”

I love that whole concept of how Lent helps to accept the challenge to become “fully alive…” We know that sometimes the only time we realize we are fully alive is when we are confronted with the fact that we are mortal and will one day die. Well, tonight, confronted with the fact that we are mortal—that we are dust—we realize as well that we are also, right now, right here, fully alive.

So, let us live fully during this holy season of Lent. Let us open our hearts during this season to the Word of God, speaking to each of us, so that we might become new as a result of it. And let us love and serve God and each other fully and comepletey as we are called to do.

This Lent can be a time for us to blossom, to grow, to flourish. We are dust and we will return to dust. But, as we will realize in the next several weeks, somehow, life—glorious, reusrrected life—can be born even from the dust.

20th Anniversary of PAPER DOVES, FALLING

Celebrating the 20th anniversary this month of the publication of my first book of poems, Paper Doves, Falling and Other Poems


PINK FEBRUARY

February has always been as pink
As a part and just as straight.
Pink has always been the snow

That seems, in its holy way,
To be pumped full of the somewhat
Sanctified auricle blood of

Saint Valentine who rules the month,
Headless and heartless, hurling
Cupids and cold to the wind.

Only the pulsing wounds of demise
Throb with any sort of love, albeit
A crooked love of curly-cues

And cruelty. Even the sky above
February’s heart-shaped face
Is cold, hard and depthless as

A dime. Streaked with strain
And crosses with the black birthmark
Of Lent, February grins on like a

Sarcastic growth of the sun. The month
As a whole, rolls in the blessed warmth
Of its own euthanasia of morals and mid,

Letting its gutters drop gray rain and
Snow like lead. Cupping its curling
Womb of frost, February loosens

Its white heat and
Cries for January,
Its lover, long dead.


Copyright © 1992 by Jamie Parsley

5 Epiphany

February 5, 2012

Mark 1:29-39

+ You know that I am not one of those people who likes to rub things in. Right? Still…in case you might not have heard me at any point, I am leaving for Florida. Now, before you think that I am an arrogant, full-of-myself priest, just remember a phrase I often use.

For any of you who know me for any period of time, you will often hear me say this MANY times. The phrase is: “The chickens always come home to roost.”

And I know that I need to be very careful about boasting too much about leaving these cold, snowy lands for more tropical environments. Because, as you might know, every year I got to Florida, I end up getting the flu or, at least, a very bad cold. See…the chickens always come home to roost.

Of course, I’m fighting it this year. I doing everything I can to fight the flu. I had my flu shot. I’m eating right. I’m eating lots of fruit. I’m getting as much sleep as I can.

Still, for me, at least before I started getting the flu shot a couple of years ago, the flu hit me like a ton of bricks. I would get not only sick, but I would get horrible fevers. And, for anyone who has had a fever, I don’t need to tell you: fevers are horrible. There are moments when I am in the midst of a terrible fever when I can actually understand why people died of think like Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918. I will lay there and just pray for God to come and take me away.

It just so happens that we encounter a fever in our Gospel reading for today. Simons’s mother-in-law was suffering with a severe fever—certainly a fever that caused everyone in her life to worry. Fevers, as we just established, are ugly, awful things. And for those of us who have suffered through fevers and illnesses, we can easily imagine what Simon’s poor mother-in-law dealt with in her illness.

I can tell you that, from my perspective anyway, givers are one of the most miserable things I have had to endure. The fever days were lost days for me. I just sort ended up shutting down when dealing with the flu and I often would find myself in a state in which I didn’t “think” anymore. I made feeble attempts at prayer—prayer beyond that simple prayer that I could just die—but for the most part, I simply just turned everything off and tried to escape into a self-protective cocoon of nothingness.

The worse part of the fever for me was that I couldn’t remember even what it felt like to be well, nor could I imagine what it would feel like to ever be well again. The fever encompassed me just that fully. It essentially took complete control of my life for that time I was sick.

Now, in our day and age, fevers are, for the most part, pretty mild things. We get them and we get over them. But in the days of Jesus, fevers were dangerous. They often led to death. So, you can imagine that Simon Peter and his family were worried about this woman. And what Jesus does for is what no one else could do for her at that time.

Of course, I think it is important that we look at the larger picture of what we are dealing with in today’s Gospel reading. Sometimes the fevers of our lives aren’t fevers in the traditional sense. Often the fevers of our lives are sometimes more than just physical illness. Sometimes the fevers in our lives are actually more like things like depression and addiction and anything else that completely encompasses our lives.

One of my favorite poets is Anne Sexton. Sexton was a brilliant. She was a middle-class housewife in Boston in the 1950s who all of a sudden started writing poetry as a way of dealing with her often manic depressive states. She did pretty well writing her poetry. Within a few years she had published a couple of books and garnered herself a Pulitzer Prize for poetry. But, Sexton suffered with severe depression throughout most of her adult life. And in October, 1974, she actually committed suicide as the ultimate way of finally dealing with her unrelenting depression. .

In her poems that word “fever” kept surfacing again and again. For her, her depression was very much an all-encompassing, unrelenting fever from which she felt she could not escape. For anyone who has suffered with depression, one finds a certain “shutting off” as well. Often times this “shutting off” is a survival tactic—sometimes the only way one can navigate through the encroaching fogs of depression or illness or what have you without resorting to absolute despair.

Fever is a terrible thing—whether it be a physical, mental or emotional fever. It shuts us down and puts us in a place that can be frightening. But…when fevers lift, we find ourselves almost….jubilant. We find ourselves refreshed and renewed. We, for that one moment, maybe understand fully what resurrection might really be.

In our Gospel reading, that single touch from Jesus allowed that fever to lift from Simon’s mother-in-law in her agony. And when she rose up from her bed, she did the only thing she no doubt could do to show her gratitude: She served Jesus.

The fevers in our lives will come upon us in many ways. And they come, they will dominate us. They will shut us off and they will make us think that nothing else exists or will ever exists except the fever.

But when Jesus comes to us in our illness, we find that his touch does, in fact heal. That touch is able to lift the fever from us. And when it does, we find that darkness replaced with light and joy and gladness.

There will be fevers in various forms in our lives. There will be times when we will be forced to “shut down,” to numb ourselves because of the intensity of things that happen in our lives. But Christ shows us thought those dark, feverish moments.

Today, of course, we are celebrating the baptism of Julia Breth. It is a glorious day today. Every time we celebrate a baptism it is, of course, a glorious day. But, today, is especially glorious.

Now, I have known both Janie and Adam for a pretty good period of time. I married them. I knew them for years before that. And I know that they know a few things, this morning, about rejuvenation and resurrection.

These past few years, waiting for this gorgeous little girl to come into their lives, have not been easy. There were some numbingly difficult moments. There were times when this day seemed to be a fantasy—something that might not actually be. There were moments when it seemed, no doubt, like the fevers of this life were encroaching and there might never be a healthy, clear-headed moment ever again.

But, then, that cool, healing hand came into their lives and cleared those foggy moments way. And now, we are here. We are celebrating the new birth of Julia Breth today. We are celebrating her baptism and we are marking her as Christ’s own for all eternity. I can tell you, as someone who walked with Janie and Adam through some pretty dark days, this day seems particularly glorious.

For those of us who have been through the “fevers” of this life, we know one very important fact: we can never let those fevers win out. We must not let the fires of those fevers consume us and turn us to ashes.

Rather, we should, when their fires rage, turn in our illness and despair to that healing hand which draws close to us in that fevered moment. That cool hand, when it touches us, drives the fires of our fevers away from us and replaces that fever with a sense of joy and renewal and wonderful life.

So, let us, with a feeling of joy and renewal, rise up from our sick beds and let us serve Christ. Let each of us get up and go out into the world renewed and rejuvenated so that we can proclaim the message to whomever will listen. And, now, let us do so by joining with sweet Julia as she is baptized.

And let us now remember our own baptismal vows.

4 Epiphany

January 29, 2012

Psalm 111; Mark 1.21-28


+ Well, you know I had to do it. You know that on this Sunday—this Sunday on which we have our Annual Meeting—I had to do a bit of what I do well. I am a good cheerleading. There’s just no getting around it. There are just so many great things going on around us here. And we should be thankful. There is much to be thankful for on our Annual Meeting Sunday.

It is one of those glorious moments for us here at St. Stephen’s when we realize that following Jesus means following him to a moment in which it all just sort of comes together. When being a follower of Jesus is like being part of a well-oiled machine.

Any of us who have been in the Church for any period of time knows that these are rare moments. The Church very rarely feels like a well-oiled machine. But when it does—let me tell you, it’s pretty sweet.

Most of us who here this morning have come from other congregations or denominations that, for whatever reasons, have not been functioning well. There is a reason why we have found St. Stephen’s and like it. We have seen dysfunction in our past. We have seen what it’s like to not be following Jesus as we should. We have felt frustration and disappointment.

But…I think we need to clear. Those moments of frustration and disappointment and, yes, even dysfunction—they too are important to growth. Those moments too are important as we follow Jesus wherever he might lead us. To be a follower of Jesus means we follow him wherever he goes. And sometimes the places he leads us are not always pleasant places to be.

In the beginning of our Gospel reading for today, we find Jesus in a place, at first, in which he is being marveled at. People are amazed by his teaching. It is, certainly a high point for those followers of Jesus. It is a moment in which the decision they made to follow him has been, in some very real way, validated.

And then, in the midst of that adulation, those followers find themselves confronting evil. There, in the middle of all that praise, comes a person possessed by an evil spirit. It was, no doubt, an unpleasant moment. Can you just imagine? Just when things seem to be going well, there’s a crazy, possessed person in their midst.

For us we have been confronted with things like this as well. Well, maybe not crazy, possessed people. Dear God! But we do know a few things about evil. For all the grand and glorious things we see on occasion as followers of Jesus, we are also reminded that there is still injustice and oppression and sexism and homophobia and a multitude of other really horrible things going around us in the world and in our society.

We see evil. We know evil. We are confronted with evil on a regular basis, and especially in those moments in which we really don’t want to confront evil. But, what Jesus’ encounter with the evil spirit shows, however—and, again, as we all know here—is that evil is not quite what we thought it was.

Yes, evil has much power in this world. But it does not have ultimate power. Evil does not—nor does it ever—win in the end. History has shown this again and again. And, in following Jesus, when we confront evil and injustice and oppression and discrimination, we know full well that these things will all one day be cast out. They all will be quieted. And goodness will triumph ultimately in the end. We know this as followers of Jesus. We know this because we know that’s what it means to follow Jesus.

Here at St. Stephen’s there have been ebbs and flows. There have been good times, and there have been bad times in our history. And there will continue to be ebbs and flows, and good times and bad times. It’s just the way life is.

But what we realize now, in this wonderful moment, is that when God’s blessings flow and we can feel that Presence of ultimate goodness at work in our lives, we like those people who witnesses Jesus casting out the evil spirit, are amazed. We wonder and we marvel at what is happening. And hopefully, like those first followers, we are motivated. We are motivated to continue following Jesus, as parishioners of St. Stephen’s, wherever he leads us. We are motivated to continue to stand up and speak out against evil when we are confronted with it.

That is what we have always done here at St. Stephen’s and that is what we will continue to do. We do this, because that is what followers of Jesus do. As we look back over the fifty-plus years of ministry at St. Stephen’s, we see that many wonderful things have been brought to fruition here.

A few weeks, we had a visitor who shared with me how amazed she was that this seemingly small congregation in north Fargo has produced some major ministries that are still felt in our wider community. Stepping up to the plate and doing important things as followers of Jesus is what we have always done here and continue to do. And as we all know, in both good and evil, there are consequences to all of our actions. When we do something, whether it be good or wrong, there will be a consequence. When we do good and step up the plate and defend people, the good consequences of those good actions have far-ranging effects, so far ranging in fact that we might never even fully realize what they do. And in those moments, we are often amazed.

Yesterday, on Facebook, I saw a wonderful cartoon. It shows a person, kneeling, with his hands folded in prayer, before Jesus. But Jesus is surrounded by people. One is in a wheelchair. One is bandaged. One is on crutches. Some have soiled clothing it looks like. The caption of the cartoon is a quote from the person praying: “Why is it that whenever I ask Jesus into my life, he always brings his friends?”

Well, we know full well here at St. Stephen’s that’s exactly what it means to ask Jesus into our lives. We know that when we decide to follow, he going to bring his friends with him. His friends who are naked and oppressed and marginalized. And when we follow Jesus, he isn’t always going to lead us through sun-lit fields full of easy pathways.

When we follow Jesus, he leads us, again and again, to his friends. He leads us again and again down paths in which we told to help people who we might not normally notice or deal with and make their lives better. We are called again and again to feed the hungry and heal the sick and to try, in whatever we can, to make other’s lives in some way better. And, as we journey through our Church year toward Lent, we know that following Jesus means following him on the Way of the Cross, a path that goes through a place of darkness and violence and through a moment in which is seems that evil triumphs and goodness loses.

Of course, we know better. We know good always wins. That is what we are celebrating this morning. The fact that, yes, we have been through those dark moments. We have been through those lean years. We have been through moments when it seems as though Jesus was leading us through desert wastes and arid lands.

But this morning, in this moment, he is leading through a verdant land. And as we follow, we are seeing amazing things. And it is good.

So, let us rejoice and be thankful on this Sunday of our Annual Meeting. Let us be thankful for all that we have been given in this past year. And let us look with joy into a future of unlimited possibilities.

“You have shown your people the power of your works,” we prayed in our psalm for today.

We have seen the power of God’s work in our midst. And on this morning we can truly say that is wonderful and glorious. What more can we do on this beautiful Sunday, but rejoice?

2 Epiphany

January 15, 2012

1 Samuel 3.1-20; John 1.43-51


+ I can be, shall we say, a bit of a jerk sometimes—especially to my fellow clergy. They need to have someone be jerks to them occasionally.

This past weekend I met with my good friend, the Reverend Ann Anderson. Ann, as some of you may know, is an Episcopal priest at Gethsemane Cathedral here in Fargo. Although I wasn’t feeling well this week because of duodenal ulcer that has been wreaking a bit of havoc with me, I went out with Ann because occasionally we just need to talk and vent a bit. At some point in the conversation we had on Friday night, I announced, quite loudly, trying to prove a point I was making and trying to predict the future about a certain issue:

“I am the prophet in your midst…”

To which Ann looked at me very incredulously and just dramatically rolled her eyes and then said something I can't repeat in church. As she should have.

Trust me, I am no prophet. I was never called to be a prophet, nor would I want to be.

But…I will say this: I have been called. No, not three times, like the prophet Samuel. But just once. And when it happened, I was just a boy, just like Samuel. I was thirteen years old. I was Lutheran. And I was walking in, of all places, a cemetery. Some of you have heard this story before, but it’s one that is so much a part of who I am and where I’ve come from that I will probably tell the story again and again until my dying day.

That day I didn’t hear a voice, like Samuel. And I don’t think I ever audibly said, “Here I am!” But the fact was, that day, I knew God wanted me to be a priest.

Often in our lives, we have those moments. They’re brackets in our lives. Or joints. Our life was going along one way and then BAM! something happens and our lives are following a completely direction than we intended. Sometimes, more often than not, it’s a relationship with someone that does it to most of us. For me, it was the priesthood. There were moments in the years that followed in which I found myself questioning my calling.

A few years later I received another just as valid, just as legitimate calling—to be a poet. And for many years I felt conflicted. Should I be a poet and a teacher of poetry? Or should I be a priest? I hadn’t yet realized that it was essentially a dual-vocation.

But there were moments when, after deciding on setting my nose to the grindstone to be a priest, when I was envious of fellow poets and poetry teachers. While they gained tenure, published, won awards, cultivated their writing careers, kept up on with the latest trends in that insular world of poetry, I was in ensconced in the equally insular world of the priesthood.

As I pursued my goal of the priesthood, I was paid very little as I worked in one thankless minor church job after another. I had one set back after another. I went to seminary. I studied theology at three different schools. And ten years ago next month, I was diagnosed with cancer. There were feasts, there were fasts, there were famines. But at no point, even in those moments when I reached what I felt were spiritual and personal “rock bottom” moments, did I ever doubt that calling in my life.

I was truly able to say to God in those dark, cold moments, “Here I am. Do with me what you must. I am trusting you to get me through.”

I preserved. I kept on keeping on, as the old saying went. And I kept on looking.

In today’s Gospel, we find Philip saying to Nathaniel, “Come and see.”

And we find Jesus telling Nathaniel, “You will see greater things than these.”

For all those low points in my life, there were just as many and more high points. There were miracles, the recovery from illness, the saints—true, living saints—that I have met—and still continue to meet—and walked beside, I too have seen great things. And although I have not seen heaven literally opened or angels literally “ascending and descending,” I have seen the veil between this world and heaven lifted many times—oftentimes here at this altar at the Eucharist. And I have seen angels ascending and descending in the guise of fellow travelers along the way.

Like Nathaniel, who would have a series of low points in his own life (legend says he would die a particularly horrible martyrs death of being flayed alive, forced to walk, skinless in the desert, before being headed), through it all, he kept looking. And in looking, he saw. This is what it means to be a disciple—a follower of Jesus.

Despite the setbacks, the illnesses, despite the people who are out to trip you up, there are also the rewards—the high points that are better than any other high points.

Now, I am telling you the story of my priesthood, here. But for all of us, it’s the same when we talk about being Christians. Being a Christian means being a follower of Jesus—being a minister of Christ And being a disciple is a difficult thing at times. No one, when we became Christians, promised us sparkling, light-filled moments and rose gardens every step of the way. Actually, when we became Christians, we became Christians—all of us—in the shadow of the Cross. When we were baptized, we were marked with the Cross. That was a quaint, sweet little sentiment. It meant we were baptized into following Jesus wherever he left in his life and ours—the good times and the bad. And as a result, we have faced our lives as followers of Jesus Christ squarely and honestly.

This is no cult we belong to, that promises us that if we do this and that we will be freed from pain and suffering. As followers of Jesus, we know that, Yes, bad things are going to happen to us. There will be illness, there will be setbacks, there will be broken relationships and conflicts with others, there will be loss and there will be death. And we know that there will be many, many people out there who want to trip us up and who want us to fail. Following Jesus means being able, in those dark moments, to look and to see. When surrounded by darkness, we can see light. When stuck in the mire and muck of this life, we can still look up and see those angels descending and ascending on the Son of Man, the One we have chosen to follow.

As I look back over these past many, many years, I realize they have been the most productive and fruitful years of my life. More than anything, as I look back over these last years, I find God weaving in and out of my life. As I look back, I find God, speaking to me, much as God spoke to Samuel in today’s reading from the Hebrew scriptures.

God, whether I was listening or not, was calling me again and again by name. God is calling each of us by our name. God is calling to us again and again. Our answer is a simple one. It simply involves, getting up, looking and seeing, and saying to God,

“Here I am.”

Here I am.

And when do that, we will find that, like Samuel, God is with us. And—in that glorious moment—we will know: God will not allow one of our words to fall useless to the ground.

Baptism of Our Lord

January 8, 2012


Genesis 1.1-5; Mark 1.4-1

+ There are few things that I love more than when people start talking about all the great things happening here at St. Stephen’s. And let me tell you, they have been talking. Just this past week I was asked by some—from another churches:

“So…what’s the secret of the current success at St. Stephen’s?”

I’m usually pretty baffled by that question. It seems to assume there’s some great, well-thought-out plan. The fact is, there isn’t any grand, well-thought-out plan. At least, not on my part.

But, I think it’s a good question, and it’s good for us to think about it. It’s good for us to ponder it and to delve deeply and honestly into the why we are doing so well here. I think I personally am not able to articulate what’s happening.

But, this past week, I came across a wonderful quote by one of the best spiritual writers out there right now, the Episcopal priest, Barbara Brown Taylor, who, I would say, does a pretty good job of articulating what’s going on. Taylor writes:

“When I hear people talk about what is wrong with organized religion, or why their mainline churches are failing, I hear about bad music, inept clergy, mean congregations, and preoccupation with institutional maintenance. I almost never hear about the intellectualization of faith, which strikes me as a far greater danger than anything else on the list. In an age of information overload, when a vast variety of media delivers news faster than most of us can digest--when many of us have at least two email addresses, two telephone numbers, and one fax number--the last thing any of us needs is more information about God. We need the practice of incarnation, by which God saves the lives of those who intellectual assent has turned as dry as dust, who have run frighteningly low on the bread of life, who are dying to know God in their bodies. Not more about God. More God.”

More God. I think she nails it on the head with that.

I have found from many of our new members, this is one of this things (along with our open acceptance and our strong peace-and-social justice stance) that they love about St. Stephen's— a strong sense of spirituality backed up by action, in other words (i.e. rather than talking about worship of God and ministry, we are worshipping and doing ministry): We do that very well here.

And we also realize that we are all searchers after God here. In other words, what’s happening here is more than just social. We are more than just a social-justice organization. Any of us can find social-justice organizations out there, and they probably do social-justice better than we can any day.

And we are more than a church that intellectualizes out search for God. We don’t just sit around talking about God and pondering God.

We, at St. Stephen’s, put our money where our mouth is, so to speak. Rather than just talking about God, we actually worship here. We worship here in the liturgy—in our encounter with Christ in our Eucharist—and we encounter God in the music we sing. We, more talking about worship, actually worship here. God is real to us because we truly experience God here.

And we more than just talk about social justice here. We actually do it. But we do it not because it’s the popular thing to do or because we are pressured by society of the Church. We do it because it stems from that real Presence of God we experience here. We do it because our relationship with God compels us to go out and do ministry.

In other words, what we do here is we, by our worship, by our ministry, by what we do, by what we have been conditioned to do to some extent by our very baptisms, is help God in bringing God into the our midst. We are further the Kingdom of God. We—on this first Sunday of Epiphany—are in fact helping that epiphany of Christ in our midst.

This past Wednesday we commemorated the Feast of the Epiphany, which occurred on Friday. Epiphany is a beautiful feast, though I think it’s a bit anti-climactic, following Christmas. At our Wednesday night Mass, I shared some thoughts from Fr. John-Julian, an Episcopal priest and a member of the Order of Julian of Norwich in Wisconsin. He started out, in his talk, by reminding us that this word, Epiphany, comes from the Greek word epiphaneia, which means, “manifestation” or “showing forth”. He then went on to explain that the Epiphany commemorates four manifestations of Christ in his life:

1) The adoration of Shepherds at the manger in Bethlehem, which we commemorated essentially on Christmas Eve

2) The Visit of the Magi or the Three Kings, which is very much the traditional understanding of what Epiphany is.

3) Jesus baptism by John the Baptists in the River Jordan, which we commemorate this morning.

And 4) Jesus’ first miracle at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.

In today’s Gospel reading, we find what Fr. John-Julian and many other Christian thinkers call a Theophany. Theophany means “A manifestation of God”, but today we see it in a very profound way. We actually find the very Trinity—Father, Son and holy Spirit—being revealed—the Father, in the voice that proclaims, “You are…my Beloved; with you I am well pleased,” the Son in the flesh of Jesus and the Holy Spirit as the dove that descends upon Jesus.

It is an incredible event—in the lives of those first followers and in our lives as Christians as well. Here the standard is set. In this moment, it has all come together. In this moment, it is all very clear how this process is happening. Here the breakthrough has happened.

For us it’s important because we too are still experiencing the benefits of that event. From now on, this is essentially what was spoken to each of us at our own baptisms:

“You are my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

For most of us, we have no doubt taken for granted our baptisms, much as we have taken for granted water itself.

Yes, I know: I preach a lot about baptism. And I don’t just mean that I preach a lot about how much I like doing baptisms. I preach often about how important each of our baptisms are to us because they are important. In a sense what happened at Jesus’ baptism happened at our baptisms as well. And when we realize that, we also realize that Baptism is THE defining moment in our lives as Christians.

Whether we remember the event or not, it was the moment when our lives changed. It was the moment we became new. It was, truly, our second birth.

I am so happy that we do something as simple as commemorate our baptisms here at St. Stephen’s. I asked early last year for many of you to search out the dates of your baptisms. And you did. And we remember those dates in our prayers here in the Eucharist each Sunday. I like to encourage people to find out the date of their baptism.

Of course, as you know, I always look for a reason to celebrate, but baptism anniversaries are truly great opportunities to celebrate.

I often reference my best friend from high school, Greg. As you know, he is a die-hard atheist. Well, I did manage to find out the date of his baptism—July 16—and, much to his chagrin, the poor man receives a baptism anniversary card on his baptism anniversary. Whether or not he appreciates it is not really the most important thing. The important thing is that, even despite his atheism, which I actually respect and, in a very real way, understand, he still belongs to Christ. He was marked by Christ in his baptism for all eternity. And nothing he—or anyone else can do—can change that.

That’s why I think Baptism is so very radical. In our current Prayer Book this bond is probably best defined. After the Baptism, when the priest traces a cross on the newly baptized person’s forehead, she or he says, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.”

This is essential to our belief of what happens at baptism. In baptism, we are all marked as Christ’s own. For ever. It is a bond that can never be broken. We can try to break it as we please. We can struggle under that bond. We can squirm and resist it. We can try to escape it. But the simple fact is this: we can’t. For ever is for ever.

No matter how much we may turn our backs on Christ, Christ never turns his back on us. No matter how much we try to turn away from Christ, to deny Christ, to pick Christ apart and make Christ something other than who he is, Christ never turns his back on us. Christ never denies us.

What Baptism shows us, more than anything else, is that we always belong to Christ. It is shows us that Christ will never deny us or turn away from us. It shows us that, no matter what we might do, we will always be Christ’s. Always. For ever.

In this way, Baptism is truly the great equalizer. In those waters, we are all bathed—no matter who we are and what we are. We all emerge from those waters on the same ground—as equals. And, as equals, we are not expected to just sit around, hugging ourselves and basking in the glow of the confidence that we are Christ’s own possession. As equals, made equal in the waters of baptism, we are then compelled to go out into the world and treat each others as equals.

And that’s what we do well here at St. Stephen’s. For us, Baptism is not some quaint dedication ceremony. It is the event that still provokes us and compels us to go out into the world and make a difference in it. Our baptism doesn’t set us apart as a special people above everyone else. It forces us out into the world to be a part of the world and, by doing so, to transform the world.

So, in those waters of baptism, something incredible happened for us. We went into those waters one person, and emerged from those waters as something else completely. It was an incredible moment in our lives, just as it was in the life of Jesus, who led the way and showed us that Baptism was an incredible outpouring of God’s love and light into our lives.

So, with this knowledge of how important it is, let us each take the time to meditate and think about our own baptisms and the implications this incredible event had and still has in our lives. When you enter this church, and when you leave it, pay attention to the baptismal font in the narthex and the blessed water in it. Touch that water, bless yourselves with it, and when you do, remember you do so as a reminder of that wonderful event in your life which marked you forever as Christ’s very own. And let that water be a reminder to you that you are called to go now from this church and from this Eucharist we have shared in, to love.

To love, full and completely. To realize that we are equally loved by God—no matter who we are or what we are.

And as we go from here, let us listen for those words—those beautiful, lulling words—that is spoken to each of us, with love and acceptance:

“You are my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”