Holy Trinity

June 15, 2014

Matthew 28.16-20

+ This morning there are, no doubt, a few anxious preachers out there in the world. There is probably more than one who is going into the pulpits of churches quaking a bit over the sermon they have to preach today. For some reason—a reason I never understood—there are a lot of preachers who just don’t even want to wrestle with the subject of the Trinity.

Not me. I LOVE to preach about the Trinity.  Now, I don’t claim to know anything more about the Trinity than any other preacher.  I am no more profound than anyone else on trying to describe what the Trinity is or how it works.  For me, as for everyone here this morning, it is a mystery. In fact, God as Trinity is the ultimate mystery of mysteries.    Of course, I see it as the paramount belief we Christians have.

The Trinity.  God as Three-in-One—God as Father or Parent or Creator, God as Son or  Redeemer and God as Spirit or Sanctifier.  When we really think about it, it is difficult to wrap our minds around this concept of God.  

The questions I regularly get is: how can God be three and yet one?  How can we, in all honesty, say that we believe in one God when we worship God as three?  Aren’t we simply talking about three gods? (No, we are not talking about three Gods)

Whole Church councils have debated the issue of the Trinity throughout history.  The Church actually has split at times over its interpretation of what exactly this Trinity is.  For me, none of these are deal breakers.   The Trinity is not a stumbling block.  Yes, I know the word “Trinity” never appears in scripture.

But I do enjoy exploring the different aspects of how God as Trinity is made known to us.  And…I very unashamedly believe that God does manifest God’s self in Trinitarian terms. But that doesn’t mean I am not confused by this mystery some times.  And it doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally doubt it all sometimes.

In our Gospel reading for today, we find that some worshipped Jesus when they saw him resurrected. And we find that “some doubted.”  I think that is a normal reaction for those people, who were still struggling to understand who Jesus was, especially this resurrected Jesus—this second person of the Trinity And the fact that we too doubt things like the Trinity is normal as well. It IS difficult to wrap our minds around such a thing.  It’s complicated and it’s complex. And, speaking for myself, sometimes the more I think about it, the more complicated it seems to get. Especially when we try to think in the so-called correct (or orthodox) way about it all.

But the doubts, the complications and intricacies of the concept of the Trinity are all part of belief.  Belief is not meant to be easy.  It is meant to be something we struggle with and carry around with us.  And doubt isn’t always a bad thing.

We all doubt at times.  Without doubt we would be nothing but mindless robots. There are moments when the Trinity does confuse me and I am filled with doubts.  I am one of those people who occasionally just wants something simple in my faith life.  I just want to believe in God—the mystery of God, the fact that God is God and any complexity about God is more than I can fathom.  I sometimes don’t want to solve the mystery of God.  I don’t want God defined for me.  I sometimes don’t want theology.  I sometimes just want spirituality. I sometimes just want God.

But, as a Christian, I can’t get around the Trinity.  And none of us can either.  And so I struggle on, just like the rest of us.

One of the best things that has helped me in my faith in God as Trinity is the famous icon of the Trinity, written (that’s the proper way to say an icon is painted or drawn) by the great Russian iconographer, Andrei Rubelev.  I have placed a modernized, even clearer version of the icon on the votive stand in the narthex.  After Mass today, I encourage you to go and take a look at it and see how truly beautiful it is.

In it you’ll find three angels seated at a table.  According to some theological interpretations, these three Angels represent the three Persons of the Trinity. In the icon we can see that all the three Angels shown as equals to each other.  In a sense, this icon is able to show in a very clear and straightforward way what all our weighty, intellectual theologies do not.  What I especially love about the image is that, in showing the three angels seated around the table, you’ll notice that there is one space at the table left open.  That is the space for you.

In a sense, we are, in this icon, being invited to the table with the Trinity.  We are being invited to join into the work of the Trinity.

And I think that is why this icon is so important to me. Yes, I have my doubts.  Yes, my rational, intellectual mind prevents me from fully understanding what this Trinity could possibly be and, as a result, doubts creep in.

But the icon does what nothing else can.  It simply allows me to come to the table and BE with God as Trinity.  It allows me to sit there with them and be one with them. And we realize, certainly in our own life here at St. Stephen’s, that God as Trinity is still calling to us to be at the table with this God. This table that we sit at is this table here—this altar.  And from this table, at which we feast with and on God as Trinity, we go out to do the ministries we are all called to do.  We go out to do the work of God as Trinity.

We don’t need to rationalize everything out about our faith in God.  We don’t need to sit around and make it a personal issue.  No matter how much we might doubt the Trinity, the Trinity exists.  God as Trinity goes on, in that eternal, wonderful relationship.  And no matter how much we might doubt in our rational minds, we are still being called to the table to sit and to serve with the Trinity.

So, let us do just that.  Let us sit down at that table.  Let us bring our doubts and uncertainties with us.  And let us leave them there at the table.  Let us let God be God.  And let us go out from this table to do the work each of us has been called to do.

Jesus today, in our Gospel reading, commands us to go and make disciples of all the nations.  By doing so, we are joining in that communion of the Trinity.  And by doing so, we know, despite our doubts, despite our uncertainties, that the Trinity will be with us always. Always. Even to the end of the age.

10 years as Priest

The Feast of St. Barnabas

June 11, 2014

Matthew 10.7-16

+ In our Gospel reading for tonight, we hear Jesus say, “I am sending you as sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

 I can say that scripture has definitely been a prophecy-fulfilled in my ministry. When I heard those words ten years ago tonight, I had an idea of what Jesus meant. Ten year later, I can truly say I KNOW what Jesus meant. I’ve been there, in the midst of those wolves. And if I have had any gift granted to me by Jesus to survive, it has definitely been to be wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove.  Well, I don’t know how “innocent” I’ve been.  But I’ve tried really hard to be innocent as a dove.

 Ten years ago, at this very moment, I was waiting in the vesting room of Gethsemane Cathedral in Fargo.  That hot night (and it WAS hot that night) I was impatient. I was biting at the bit. I was straining forward. That ordination couldn’t happen fast enough. And when it did, it was something. It was unique. And it was wonderful. It truly was the Holy Spirit that night.

 At moments, it seems like it was just yesterday. And at other moments, it seems like it was 100 years ago.

 Ten years of priestly ministry. If we were going to break the numbers down, they would fall into place like this:

 1,028 Masses that I’ve celebrated (that does not include concelebrations or other masses I’ve been present at).

 That’s 1,010 sermons I have preached.

 That’s 53 weddings.

51 baptisms

97 funerals.

You wonder why I may be tired. You have heard me say it before. I will say it again a hundred times I’m sure.

I love being a priest.

I can say in all honesty that I was meant to be a priest. As sure as a shark is meant to hunt, or a fish to swim, I was meant to be a priest. It was almost like it was programed into me.  From that first day, when I heard my calling to be a priest at age 13, back in 1983, I knew this was what I was meant to do.

Now saying that, I’m not saying I have been a perfect priest. I was never called to be a perfect priest.  Nor even at times, have I been a particular good priest. I have failed. I have tripped. I have stumbled. I have made many, many mistakes. But even then, even with all the mistakes I’ve made, it’s all right. It’s all good.

Still, it hasn’t been easy.  I remember fifteen years ago, when I told the first Episcopal priest I wanted to be an Episcopal priest, he leaned back in his chair, put his fingers to his chin and shook his head.

“It’s never going to happen,” he said.

And I thought then, that was it. All right.   And if that priest had had his way, it would’ve ended there. Sadly for him, he did not get his way.

Jesus did.

Despite things like that, it has been a glorious ten years. And it has been a difficult ten years of my life. Some priests have been able to fly under the radar. Not me. Which is not always a good thing. Being a priest like me means being a target. A big target. For better or for worse.

Ten years ago, I was prepared for the backbiting, the unwarranted nitpicking, the sometimes steady criticisms, the fact that nothing I could do sometimes would ever be right for some people.   I knew those things always existed in the church. I did not go into this as some doe-eyed, naïve PollyAnna.  I was prepared for all this vocation would give me—both good and bad.  I was prepared for people who were not in ordained ministry who thought they knew more doing ordained ministry than me.  I was prepared for those people who thought they could do my job better than I could. And I was prepared for those who were ready to piggyback onto the good works I actually was able to accomplish.  I knew and was prepared for all of those things.

Ten years ago I thought I knew what it meant to be “broken.” I know now what it means to be broken.  And I have served many broken people.

But I was also prepared for the good things, as much as anyone can be prepared for such things in their lives.  In these ten years I’ve known the beauty of grace and friendship. I’ve known what it was to be the priest in a congregation of strong and caring people who truly care for their priest.  I’ve known the joys of being part of the celebrations that our church is known for as well—for the baptisms and the weddings and the celebrations of the good things of life. I’ve enjoyed the suppers and the parties and all the other celebrations that go along with being a priest.  

And I’ve known the incredible joy of being the priest of a congregation that has grown and expanded by leaps and bounds and to be a part of a place that has amazed everyone.  I knew what it was, in those moments, to see God breaking through in wonderful and incredible ways.  

I also realized that all that spiritual training I had—clinging to the Holy Eucharist and the discipline of the Daily Offices of Morning and Evening Prayer—could truly sustain one spiritually when the Devil takes you by throat and shakes you.  The Holy Eucharist and the Daily Office have been my buoys.  They helped me keep my head above water.

Yes, I am the scarred veteran priest. But I stand before you as priest who can still hold my head up and say, without one qualm, without one doubt, without hesitation: I am so happy to be a priest. I am! I really am!

I’m going to close tonight with the prayer I had printed on my worship booklet back then. It was a prayer I adapted from a prayer by one of my all-time heroes, Michael Ramsey, Archbishop of Canterbury. I can say that this has been a prayer that has been answered in ways I never knew prayers could be answered. This is a prayer that is a very clear warning to everyone: be careful sometimes what you pray for.  It might actually be answered.

I close with this prayer I prayed ten years ago tonight. And tonight, I can say that prayer has been answered. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Let us pray.

                                                                          
Lord Jesus, the years have fallen away—one by one—
only to reveal this one shining moment.
It lies here before me as a precious gift I neither asked for nor deserved.
And yet, here it is. Here it is in its beauty, more precious than any other gift.     
 
Only one thing I ask: take my heart and break it.
Break it not as I would like it to be broken, but as you would.
And because it is you who are breaking it, how can I be  afraid,
for your hands are the hands I have felt all my life at my back and on my face, supporting me, comforting me and guiding me
to the places you wanted me to be.
Your hands  are safety and in them, I am safe.

Take my heart and where you have broken it, fill it with joy—
not the joy I want for myself, but the joy you want for me.
Fill my heart with a burning joy and let its fire burn away
everything dead or dying within me.
Let my heart burn with a joy I can not imagine
and can only vaguely comprehend.

It’s time, Lord Jesus, and I am ready.

See! I am ready to be your priest.

 

7 Easter

The Sunday after the Ascension

June 1, 2014

Acts 1.6-14; John 17.1-17

 

+ It doesn’t happen very often. I don’t always highlight a celebrity in my sermons. Of course, most of you know, I LOVE celebrities. Whenever I see one on a plane or anytime I’m traveling, I get a bit flustered and gushy.

But this past Wednesday morning, a celebrity died that I think needs to be remembered and celebrated. This past Wednesday, the great poet, Maya Angelou, died.  Angelou was truly one of the greats.  Not just one of the great poet. One of the greats of all time. There’s no getting around that fact. She was truly a great person who, despite the hardships of her life, despite the setbacks, despite what life threw at her at times, she rose above it all.

I think it’s appropriate that she died the day before the Feast of the Ascension. There’s a beautiful poem that she wrote that speaks to us loudly at Ascension.  She wrote,

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Ascension is, of course, all about rising. This week, we move slowly away from the Easter season toward Pentecost.  For the last several weeks, we have been basking in the afterglow of the resurrected Jesus.  In our Gospel readings, this resurrected Jesus has walked with us, has talked with us, has eaten with us and has led the way for us.

Now, as we hear in our reading from Acts this morning, he has been taken up. We find a transformation of sorts happening in our relationship with Jesus in these scripture readings. Our perception of Jesus has changed.  No longer is he the Jesus who speaks to his disciples and does miracles for those people back then, in the Palestine. Now, he is here with us.

At his Ascension, we find that he is, in our midst. Us, right here. Right now.  In us.  At his Ascension, we recognize the fact that God has truly come among us.  God is here, right now, with us.

 No, God is not speaking to us not from a pillar of cloud or fire, not on some shroud-covered mountain, not in visions. Now God is here, with us, speaking to us as we speak to each other.  At the Ascension, the puzzle pieces really start falling into place.  What seemed so confusing and unreal before is starting to come together.  God truly has come among us as one of us. And God dwells in us and through us.  

 And next week, one more puzzle piece falls into place when Jesus, in a sense, returns.  Next week, we will celebrate God’s Spirit descending upon and staying with us.

 For the moment, though, we are caught in between those two events, trying to make sense of what has happened and trying to prepare ourselves for what is about to happen.  We are caught between Jesus’ ascent into heaven and the Spirit’s descent to us.  It is a time for us to pause, to ponder who we are and where are in this place—in this time in which everything seems so spiritually topsy-turvy.

 I’m not certain there is a way we can make sense of the Ascension, but what we are faced with is the fact that in this ascended Jesus, God  still acts in our lives.  God acts us and through us.  I can’t repeat that enough.  The commission that the ascended Jesus gave to the apostles, is still very much our commission as well.  We must love—fully and completely.  Because in loving, we are living.  In loving, we are living fully and completely.  In loving, we are bringing the ascended Christ to others.  And we must go out and live out this commission in the world. When we do, the ascended Christ is very much acting in the world.

 For those first followers of Jesus, it seems like they didn’t have much of a change to ponder their life-altering experiences. As soon as one life-altering experience happened, another one came along.  Just when they had experiences Jesus’ death, resurrection and ascension, they encountered this outpouring of God’ Spirit in their lives. The waters, it seemed, were kept perpetually stirred.  Nothing was allowed to settle.

 That is what ministry is often like. One day, very early in my career, much earlier than I was ever ordained,  I came to  realize that Ministry is perpetually on-going.  There is never an ending to it.  It doesn’t matter if my life is falling apart around me, or that I am  tired or that my family life is in turmoil.  It’s always something.  One week brings another set of opportunities, set-backs, trip-ups, tediums, frustrations, joys, celebrations.

  Ministry truly is a never-ending roller-coaster ride of emotions and feelings.  In the course of a week, one can go from last rites and burials to weddings and baptisms—and everything in between.  And some of what comes in between are days when nothing much happens.  In between, there are the daily rounds of prayer, of the Daily Office,  of scripture reading, of Masses, of  meetings. There are lunches, there are suppers, there are lonely nights or sleepless nights or angry or troubled nights.  More often than not, there are nights just like the nights before.  There are nights when one follows the same rituals one has always followed.  And one does what one has done before without thinking, without pondering.

 In between those moments of great energy, there are frustrations or boredom.  There are moments when it all seems to be useless and pointless.  There are moments when one is, quite simply, frightened.  There are moments when one feels so overwhelmed by the fact that one is simply not qualified to be doing the work. There are moments when one thinks: I just can’t do this anymore.

 These are things those first followers of Jesus no doubt struggled with.  Yet we, like them, are sustained.  We, like them, are upheld.  We, like them, are supported by the God Jesus ascended to, whose work we are doing in this world.  In those moments when our works seems useless, when it seems like we have done no good work, the ascended Jesus still triumphs.

 Our job, in this time between Jesus’ departure from us and his return to us, is simply let him do what he needs to do in this interim.  We need to let the ascended Jesus work in us and through us.  We need to let the God of this ascended Jesus be the end result of our work.  When we wipe our hands at the end of a long and exhausting day, we need to realize that, of course, it seems that all was for naught as we gaze downward at our hands.

 But above us, the Ascension is happening.  Above us, Jesus has risen. And we are rising with him, even when it seems like we are bogged down in this very earth.  Above us, that place, that God to whom we are ascending is there. All we have to do is look up. All we have to do is stop gazing at our dirty, callused, over-worked hands—all we have to do is turn from our self-centeredness—and look up.  And there we will see the triumph.  And as we do, we will realize that there is more to this world than we initially thought.

 Jesus has ascended.  But he isn’t gone. He is with us, now even more so than before his ascension. He is with us in an even more intimate way. The joy we feel today comes when we let the ascended Jesus do what he needs to do through us. We are, as Jesus says in today’s Gospel, “in the world.” And because we are, we must do the work we are called to do in this world.

 So, let us stop gazing upward at that empty sky into which he has ascended. There is work to do. Right here. Right now. Let’s wipe the sun-blindness from our eyes. Let us turn toward those around us in need.  And let us be Jesus to those who need Jesus.  And there are people who need us to be Jesus for them. There are people who need us to be kind and compassionate and full of love and mercy. There are people who need our acceptance and hospitality.  

 Like that poem by Maya Angelou, like tides and stars and sun, we will rise. When we love others, when we are Christ to others, when we bring a God of love and mercy and acceptance to others, we allow others to rise as well. We embody and allow the Ascension to continue in this world.

 So, let the joy of the ascension live in us and through us and be reflected to others by us.  We will be sanctified in the truth of knowing and living out our lives in the light of ascension.  

 We will rise.  This morning, we have looked up and we have seen it. We have seen that rising—his rising and our rising—happening above us in beauty and light and joy .

 

6 Easter

Rogation Sunday

May 25, 2014

John 14.15-21

+ It’s a rare occurrence. A very rare occurrence. Anyone who has served with me on vestry knows how rare of an occurrence it is.  There are moments, maybe, the vestry and the wardens wonder to themselves: “Oh no. What is Fr. Jamie planning now?” That is the opinion I got a few months ago when I first introduced to the Vestry this idea about a memorial Garden here at St. Stephen’s.

And when I did, I think there was a moment of doubt among them. OK, you could almost hear them say. We’ve went along with his Anglo-Catholic renovations, with his introduction of bells and incense, with his genuflections and his images of the Virgin Mary. But a cemetery? On our grounds? That’s a bit strange… And I’ll admit: the idea is kind of strange.

But…as I have said from day 1, it IS very much a part of our Anglican heritage. And more importantly is ties in wonderfully to our Christian faith. Certainly, in England, it common to see a church, even in the middle of a city, with a cemetery around it.

Why? Because people wanted to be buried near a place that meant something to them. And in the months since I have introduced this memorial garden to the people of St. Stephen’s, I can tell you that sentiment has been echoed.

This congregation is important to people. And it naturally makes sense that they would want to be buried close-by.

But a deeper meaning, deeper even then sentimentalism, is at work here. In our Christian tradition, mercy plays heavily into what we do. And as a result, there have been, since the early Church, a series of what have been called corporal acts of mercy. These corporal acts of mercy are:

• To feed the hungry;
• To give drink to the thirsty;
• To clothe the naked;
• To harbor the harborless;
• To visit the sick;
• To ransom the captive;
• To bury the dead.

We at St. Stephen’s, in the ministry we do as followers of Jesus, have done most of those well. And today, we can say, we will be doing all of them.

Burying the dead is a corporate act of mercy.  And it is something we should be glad we are offering now.  And, it’s appropriate we are doing on this Sunday, Rogation Sunday, the Sunday before the Ascension.

In our Gospel reading for today we find Jesus explaining that although he is about to depart from his followers—this coming Thursday we celebrate the feast of Jesus’ Ascension to heaven—he will not leave them alone.  They will be left with the Advocate—the Spirit of Truth. The Holy Spirit.

He prefaces all of this with those words that quickly get swallowed up by the comments on the Spirit, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.”

And just to remind everyone, that command is, of course, “to love.”

To love God.  And to love our neighbors as ourselves.  This is what it means to be the Church.  To love.  To serve.  To be merciful.  To be Christ to those who need Christ.  To be a Christ of love and compassion and acceptance.  Without boundaries.  Without discrimination.

When we forget this, when we fail to do this, we fail to do mercy.  We are doing so this morning.  We are living in our ministry of mercy to others.

Today is, as I’ve said, Rogation Sunday.  Rogation comes the Latin word “Rogare” which means “to ask.”  Traditionally, on this Sunday, we heard the Gospel in which Jesus said,

"Whatever you ask the Father in my name, he will give to you".

Today, with our current lectionary of scripture readings, we actually find him saying, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate…”  From a very simple perspective, the thing we are asking today, on this Rogation Sunday, is to be faithful followers of Jesus, thorough out works and acts of mercy.  

Now for some of us, this whole idea of Rogation Sunday and the procession that we will soon be making outside at the conclusion of our Eucharist this morning might seem a bit too much.  The fact is, it is something, very much like burying the dead on the church grounds,  that has been done for centuries in our Anglican Tradition.

In the 1630s one of heroes (you hear me quote him and reference him often), Anglican priest and poet, George Herbert, commended these rogation processions.  He said that processions should be encouraged for four reasons:

1. A Blessing of God for the fruits of the field.

2. Justice in the preservation of boundaries of those fields and properties.

3. Charity in loving, walking and neighborly accompanying one another with reconciling of differences at the time if there be any.

And 4 (hold on to your seats). Mercie (yes, mercy) , in relieving the poor by a liberal distribution of largesse, which at the time is or ought to be used.

What we are doing today is all of those things. Even the dedication of our memorial garden—this visible sign of the final corporal act of mercy—is a part of this Rogation celebration. We are asking God’s blessings on the growth not only of crops and fields. We are thanking today for the growth of our congregation. We are thanking God for the acts of mercy done to each of us.  And we are asking God to continue to make us Christ to those who need Christ.

As you can see, the rallying themes of this Rogation time are hope and justice and mercy.  As George Herbert reminds us there is always room for charity.

As we process out at the end of the Eucharist today, I ask that you remember Jesus’ call to us, to love him and to keep his commandment of love and mercy.  It is more than just sweet, religious talk.  It is a challenge and a true calling to live out this love in radical ways.  It is a challenge to be merciful.

As we process, as we walk together, let us pay attention to this world around us.  Let us ponder the causes and the effects of what it means to be inter-related—to be dependent upon on each to some extent, as we are on this earth.

We do need each other.  And we do need each other’s love.  And mercy.  We do need that radical love that Jesus commands us to have. With that love, we will truly love our neighbors as ourselves.  We will show mercy to them.

Our neighbors, of course, are more than just those people who live next door to us.  Our neighbors are all of us, those we do in fact love and those we have difficulty loving.  And our neighbors also include this earth and all the inhabitants of it. That command of Jesus is to love—to respect—those with whom we live and share this place.  

 Let this procession today truly be a "living walking" as George Herbert put it.  But let our whole lives as Christians be also a “living walk,” a mindful walk, a walk in which we see the world around with eyes of love and respect and justice and care. And, most importantly, with eyes of mercy. Amen.

 

5 Easter

May 28, 2014

Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14

+ On Friday, I received a strange thing in the mail. I received my brother’s death certificate. I actually ordered it a few weeks before.  I was curious to see it and to read about what caused my brother’s very premature death last July at age 57.

There were no surprises. He died of a heart attack. He had had, of course, a stroke years before, which was a contributing factor to his death.  He had high cholesterol.  The regular litany that we hear so much about in our society.

When I showed the certificate to my mother, she shared a story I hadn’t heard before: a story she heard from my niece about my brother’s death. She said that, at some point in his last heart attack, he had a look of absolute fear on his face.

My mother said, “He died just my father”—my grandfather Ted.

They both died frightened. They died uncertain of what was happening to them.

“Yes,” she said, “they just didn’t know how to die.”

It was a very telling comment from my mother.

And the fact is, if I asked you this morning if you knew how to die, would you be able to say you knew. Let’s face it, there’s no classes on how to die. There’s no grand lesson. All we, as followers of Jesus know of dying is this: we know only that he promises us something greater than this.

And we catch a glimpse of that greater something in our Gospel reading for this morning. 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.  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. I don’t believe that they’re actual mansion, mind you.  I think Jesus is being very poetic in his description.  But I think what he conveys is that God will provide something beautiful and wonderful for us.

 And in our reading from Acts this morning, we get to catch an even clearer view of that beautiful and wonderful something that awaits us.  In Acts we find our own dear, patron saint, St. Stephen, being dragged out by an angry mob and stoned to death.  It’s certainly not pretty. But in the midst of that violence and anger, we find St. Stephen having a glorious vision.  He looks up into heaven and is allowed a vision, in which he sees Jesus in the glory of God.  And with his last words, he prays to Jesus,

 “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

 This is the first post-Ascension prayer to Jesus in the scriptures.  And it is the most beautiful and most honest prayer St. Stephen could’ve prayed.

 So this, morning, in both our Gospel reading and our reading from Acts, we are confronted with glorious visions. Now neither of them are as stupendous as the Rapture. But there is something wonderful in being 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 God 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 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.

 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.

 In our Book of Common Prayer, we have a beautiful prayer that is prayed for someone near death. It can be found on page 462.  There we find this prayer,

 “Almighty God, look on your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort ‘this person’, with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.”

 “Comfort ‘this person’ with the promise of life everlasting”

 This promise of eternal life, as we have seen in the Resurrection, should truly be a comfort to us, especially in those moments when we fear death.  Thinking about our own deaths isn’t necessarily morbid or unpleasant.  It simply reminds us that we are mortal.  We will all 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.  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—we will find our true home. Heaven—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.

 I wish I could’ve shared all of this with my brother, Jeff. I wish he could’ve know that there was such a thing as a happy or holy death. I wish he had known how to die.

 For us, we do know.  So, let us look forward 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 are there together. Amen.

 

4 Easter

Good Shepherd Sunday

May 11, 2014

John 10.1-10

+ This past week many of us remembered the 10^th anniversary of the consecration of our own Bishop, Michael Smith. I remember that day very well in my memory.

For us, as Episcopalians, Bishops ARE important. I mean, we are after all,  Episcopalians. Our very name tells us we are “governed by bishops.” We place a lot of hope and ideals in our bishops. We long and pray for good and strong Bishops to lead us and guide us. And we know, as Episcopalians, that we NEED Bishops, just as we need priests and deacons and lay leaders in our Church.

I think it’s appropriate that, in the midst of all this activity regarding Bishops, we celebrate then, today, Good Shepherd Sunday. On this Sunday, we pray this wonderful collect in which we recognize Jesus as our Good Shepherd. And, on this Sunday, we encounter this wonderful reading about Jesus being the gate for the sheep.  Jesus describes himself as the Gate through which the sheep enter the pastures.

This is probably one of the most perfect images Jesus could have used for the people listening to him. Although they don’t get what he’s saying at first, they certainly 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 prods 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.

If we follow the Good Shepherd, if we allow ourselves to be led by him to the Gate, we find that incredible reward of green pastures awaiting us.  And even if we don’t follow, if we stray, we will find him prodding 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 be there for 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.  He will go after that lost sheep.

In our wonderful collect for today, there is this wonderful petition,

“Grant that when we hear his voice, we may know him who calls us each by name…’

 This is the kind of relationship we have with Jesus as the Good Shepherd. We 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 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 and goes after us, chasing us down.

 Last week I shared with you that wonderful bit from the Rule of St. Benedict about welcoming all people as Christ. Well, the Rule of St. Benedict—that endless source of great practical advice—also has an incredible chapter on the role of an Abbot. An Abbot, of course, is the leader—the parent—of a monastery. But more than that, the way St. Benedict lays it out, the Abbot becomes the embodiment of the Good Shepherd.

In Chapter 64 of the Rule, Benedict writes:

 Let [the Abbot] recognize that his goal must be to profit the monks, not to be preeminent over them.

And later in that same chapter, we hear this:

 Let [the Abbot] not be excitable, anxious, extreme, obstinate, jealous, or overly suspicious, since such a man is never at rest. Instead, he must show forethought and consideration in his orders, and whether the task he assigns concerns God or the world, he should be discerning and moderate, bearing in mind the discretion of holy Jacob, who said: If I drive my flocks too hard, they will all die in a single day (Gen 33:13). Therefore, drawing on this and other examples of discretion, the mother of virtues, he must so arrange everything that the strong have something to yearn for and the weak nothing to flee.

Probably the best summation of this chapter—and role of the Good Shepherd—is this:

Let him strive to be loved rather than feared.

Imagine what the Church would be like all our leaders—not just our Bishops, but all our priests, all our deacons, all of our lay leaders—strived to do just this in the Church? Our Church would be a glorious place!

As Christians, as followers of Jesus the Good Shepherd, we are also called to be good shepherds to those around us.  All of us.  

All of us who are called to ministry—and we all, as Christians, are ministers and we have each been called, in our own ways—we know that to be truly effective ministers we have to be good shepherds.  We should be helping others toward the Gate, and through the Gate into that green pasture.  We should be nudging and prodding each other along, in love.  And we should be concerned about those who have fallen away, who have been led astray.  This is what it means to do ministry.

So, on this day in which we celebrate the Shepherd who leads and guides, let us allow ourselves to be led.  And let us lead.  On this day that we look to the Shepherd who guides, let us be guided.  And let us guide.  Let us allow ourselves to be led by that Great Good Shepherd, who brings us to himself, to the very Gate.  And there, either led or prodded, leading and prodding others, let us go through the Gate, that goal of our spiritual lives, into that glorious place we have longed for all our existence.  And when we are there, in that glorious place, let us rejoice together in our God and in each other.  It will be a great day on that day, for there, we will be with the One who not only is aware of us, but knows us and calls us by our very name. Amen.