Watching just beyond the candle light

Friends,

I haven't posted here in many weeks, instead focusing on my book project in my early morning writing time. I am close to finishing a first draft, so it is getting time once again to come back to this space.

A few kinds folks asked me this morning to post my sermon, so that seems a good way to start. The day is icy, and sleet is covering the sidewalks. More than 100 hearty souls braved the weather to make it to church. We improvised a few things, and it was a more intimate worship than we typically experience.

I  was not slated to preach today, but put something together with a major inspirational assist from Steven Charleston. The readings for today are Isaiah 11:1-10, Romans 15:4-13 and Matthew 3:1-12.

Here it is:

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         Good morning. Thank you for being for braving the elements and being here this morning. Not everyone could get here, including our scheduled preacher, and so our prayers today are with everyone who isn’t here. And we are here to pray for them.

         I had not planned to preach today, so forgive me, I haven’t had much time to prepare. That of course, goes a bit against the admonitions of Advent, a time when we are told to be awake because we don’t know what is coming next.

         But I am an old newspaper reporter, and I can still do a few things on deadline.

         This morning I could give you a little biblical background about John the Baptist, but I’d rather save that for another day.

         Today might be a day to be a little more low key, a little quieter than John the Baptist calling us a brood of vipers. Today I would rather John’s unquenchable fire stay in the fire place.

         So, I’d like to read you something that a friend of mine wrote the other day on his Facebook page. This is from Steven Charleston, who is the retired bishop of Alaska.

         Here is what he wrote:

         “When the hour is late and the world is quiet, when prayers are being said and dreams are being sought, then the space between this life and the life to come draws thin, and if you look with eyes of the Spirit you will see your ancestors watching over you, watching just beyond the candle light, keeping their gentle vigil through the night, offering their wisdom in words too still to speak.

“You are being blessed by those who loved you most. You are safe in their care. The air around you is filled with a ceaseless benediction, your life held secure in hearts as pure as holy.”

Advent is a time of being awake the holy that is so near us. It is a time of waiting for the holy, but also noticing the holy already here. It is a time for noticing our dreams, looking with the eyes of the Spirit into the candlelight. It is a time for remembering our ancestors, and feeling their presence.

I am always struck by those individuals who feel this more clearly than I do, more clearly than the rest of us. John the Baptist was certainly one – it is why people flocked to the river to hear him and be washed in the river by him. He told them to repent – the word means “turn around.”

The word “repent” has gotten so laden with guilt and judgment that it has lost its meaning with us. But in its classic meaning, repent means simply, turn around to see God once again.

All he was really doing is telling people to turn around, go home, what you seek is already with you – God is walking with you. If you can see that, feel that, your life will be changed.

We’ve had people like that in our own time – and some have been prophets and sages. We know them because we can see how the Holy Spirit changed them, and then how they profoundly change the lives of others, and even change entire nations.

We know them by how they march in the light of God, and how they base their life not on hatred, violence and revenge, but on love, hope and reconciliation.

St. Paul himself was a man of violence and hatred until the Holy Spirit filled him the joy and peace of believing.

We lost one of those giant figures this week – Nelson Mandela. He transformed himself from a prophet of violence to a prophet of love and forgiveness. He changed a nation and changed the world.

At communion today we will sing the hymn, Marching in the Light of God, that became the unofficial anthem of those in South Africa who brought down apartheid.

We are blessed by so many other people still living. And we are still blessed by those who are gone from us but whose lives we can feel in flicker of the candle light, the breath of the wind.

Most of them aren’t famous, but they somehow touched our lives deeply. Who are they for you?

Some are our ancestors, and they watch over us, whisper to us.

May this Advent be a time for you to remember those individuals in your prayers, give thanks for how they changed you, and then be awake to how they still walk with you.

And soon, we will remember again how long ago, God came to be among us as a human being, as Jesus, and how by his life we are changed, healed and made new forever.

There really is more to this life than what you see now.

No matter what bruises and bumps we encounter along the way, healing does come, sometimes here, sometimes in the next life – but healing comes.

Life eternal begins in this place and dwells with each and every one of us. The One who comes is already here. The dawn soon arrives, and the blessing is ours forever. So be awake, look for the salvation that is already yours forever.

And may we always march in the Light of God.

Amen.

Come stand with us in this darkness

My friend, Steven Charleston, the retired bishop of Alaska and former dean of our seminary in Boston, wrote this on his Facebook this morning, and he says this better than I could:

Why? Why the pointless cruelty, O God? Why the premeditated evil that comes to bring death, pain and sorrow to innocent lives and leaves us stunned to imagine a heart so cold it could conceive such an act? We cannot understand it, God, we cannot make sense of the senseless. And how should we respond even if we did understand? Tooth for tooth, eye for eye, would it end the madness or return the lost to live again? Come, Spirit of God, come stand with us in this darkness. Hold the fallen in your arms. Heal the injured. Comfort the broken-hearted. And if you cannot tell us why we do this to ourselves, show us how to love more deeply, that such pain will never be the final word, but rather mercy that needs no explanation.

Good Friday: Crossing through the dark

The morning is cloudy on our hill. The signs of winter remain: trees damaged in the winter storms, dead leaves on the ground. Life struggles to be born anew. Death does want to let go.

Today is Good Friday, which might be better called Grim Friday. Soon we gather again in churches to stand vigil at the Cross, and tell the story once again of a murder long ago in Jerusalem. The goodness will be hard to see. If faith falters in the dark, that is part of the forsakenness of living.

My friend, Stephen Charleston, wrote this on his Facebook this morning, and I leave it with you:

“There are few people of faith who have not crossed through that dark day when they wondered if the God on whom they depended had gone away, deserted them, or even died. In the pain of our own mortality, when we face the loss of those for whom we care, when illness strikes us down or injustice overwhelms us, it is not hard to understand why we have felt this way. To receive the light, we must accept the darkness. We must go into the tomb of all that haunts us, even the loss of faith itself, to discover a truth older than death.”

What makes us human?

I am cruising through the wonderful Virginia Festival of the Book for a few days, and there is much to hear and think about. I will write something here when I get a chance. For now, here is an item my friend Steven Charleston, the retired bishop from Alaska, posted today:

Even after all these years in the priestly life, I am still humbled by the unexpected call, ringing like a fire bell, the rush to get to the bedside, anxious looks, hurried explanations. the first prayers rising from collected hope, patched together on the run, with no time for school taught words, when you say more with a look than with language. We are human not because we have power, but because we have tears. We are touched by the hurt of another, moved to love and to care, and in that single feeling arises all that makes us worthy to be stewards of the mystery of life.

The simple truth is rarely simple

Dear friends,

We were knocked out by the snowstorm last Wednesday, and our power (and internet) was not restored until Friday evening. We had a number of trees down, and the cleanup will take a few days with the chainsaw. I will post photos when I get a chance. Thanks for coming back to this space in my absence.

My friend Steven Charleston, the retired bishop of Alaska, posted this on his Facebook this morning, and it speaks to me on many levels. I am not preaching today, so I leave you with this. . .

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The simple truth is rarely simple. I cannot explain the many twists and turns of my life, the reasons why, the fine shading of my choices, the hidden currents of the soul that carried me to the deep waters I tried to navigate. Like you, I often ponder the meaning of it all and share my quiet regrets, my endless thanks, my longing to understand more on the wings of prayers cast out into the patient sky. We each search for truth while we live truth and trust in a wiser mind above that understands why, a kinder heart that knows the truth and forgives just the same.

You can't take it with you -- or can you?

From our wonderful friend Steven Charleston comes this today...

I have been thinking of the old saying, you can't take it with you. It made me wonder. If you can't take your possessions with you, is there anything that you can you take? 

I began a suitcase list: a few of the things you can take with you. You can take the lasting respect of all those you blessed. You can take their enduring love. You can take the memory of every moment that made you glad to be alive. You can have the satisfaction of knowing you did your best. You can carry the hopes of a hundred hearts to heaven. You can take joy. In the end, who you are is what you take.

The road leads us home

Roman road north of Jerusalem
near ruins of "Emmaus"
Photo by James Richardson 2011

From Bishop Steven Charleston this morning . . .

I walk on, no matter how easy or difficult the path before me. I walk on in good weather and bad, under a beautiful sky, beneath a dark moon, I walk on when the road seems to pull me forward to discover what is around the next corner, or even when I need to stop for rest before I can take another step. I walk on without knowing when my journey will end, embracing the journey itself as gift, it is my life and calling. I walk on in peace, in wonder, in endless thanks that you walk with me, and that together we walk in faith, the road that leads us home.

I am from the common earth

Sequoia National Park
Photo courtesy of the National Parks

From my friend Bishop Stephen Charleston...

I am from the common earth made, shaped by calloused hands, fashioned by a working God, whose design was to create a useful art, a mechanism mysterious but functional, a creation that could do something worthwhile, that could serve a good cause, and return value for what it cost, by making life for others just that much better. We are all from the common earth made, sisters of the soil, brothers of the ground on which we stand, varied but same shaped, built for the same goal, organic machines of love, durable in every season, set to a task shared in every part.

Mustard seeds within us

If you've been reading the Daily Office lately you might conclude Jesus has an inordinate fondness for small things like yeast and seeds and small coins. On Friday came a string of these parables, including one of the most familiar: the story of the mustard seed, from Matthew 13:31-35. Here it is in full:

“He put before them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.’ ”

I once wrote a seminary paper, that was very well received, on the parable, putting forth the proposition that the parable is something of an inside joke. Jesus is making fun of the pomposity of the Temple priests who compare to the Temple to the mighty “cedars of Lebanon,” a building so tall that birds nest in its branches.

It helps to know that in the 1st century world of Jesus, a mustard plant was not a lovely condiment for hotdogs. Mustard seeds grew into big bushes that were the scourge of neatly growing grain fields. Mustard was a weed, and not welcome in the grain fields.

By comparing the Kingdom of God to a mustard seed that grows like a weed, Jesus is saying that the Kingdom of God is unpredictable, surprising, not always respectable – and like the Holy Spirit, will grow where it will and invade the neat rows of grain. The point of the parable was not just the seed; it was the weed that grew from it. The Kingdom of God doesn't follow human rules and is seldom neat. For those excluded from the Temple and the restrictions of the priests, this was a satirical story. The story doubtlessly scandalized the Temple authorities. Who was Jesus to compare their grandiose Temple to a weed?

There is another way to hear the parable as well that is perhaps so obvious that I have not thought of it until recently. You can hear the parable of the mustard seed as a metaphor for the interior spiritual life. God’s spirit grows in unpredictable, surprising and not always respectable ways within us. The Holy Spirit grows where it will within us, and sometimes makes us uncomfortable by invading the neat rows of grain in our life. It is why the interior life can be unsettling, but also a great adventure if we are open to it. Small things do grow within us, and not always as we expect.

Yesterday, retired Bishop Steven Charleston of Alaska, as he is likes to do, posted a bit of wisdom on his Facebook page. Here is the one from Friday, and I leave it with you here today:

“An answer to your prayer is coming to you. It may not arrive exactly as you imagined, but you will recognize it when it happens. The pieces will fall together. The situation will change. Something unexpected will enter into the picture. At that moment, you will realize again one of the deepest truths of human faith: someone is listening when you pray. Someone hears you, cares for you, knows you. From that tiny seed of experience great religions grow. But they all begin when an answer is received to an appeal as ancient as time and a hope as new as now.”

By James Richardson, Fiat Lux

Expect healing and the far reaches of hope

Bishop Steven Charleston consistently amazes me with his prayerful wisdom and the holiness of his words. He is formerly the bishop Alaska and former dean of the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Mass.

He put this on his Facebook Monday and I pass it along to you:

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If I were bold enough to proclaim a healing, would you be bold enough to believe me? I work no miracle more than you. I have no special power to offer. But I do know that when we bring our love to bear, when we seek mercy, when we summon comfort from the far reaches of hope, something happens. Take my prayer as your own. Feel our words as one. Let this healing be our soul shared certainty, our fixed point of faith. Be bold not because you expect magic, but because like me you have been witness to a wholeness that no broken body can deny.

The season of Mary, with prayers for peace and goodwill to all

This is the season of the one we call Mary: the Jewish maiden Miriam, mother of Yeshua, or Joshua, the one who we call Jesus.

On Sunday, and again today in the Daily Office readings, we hear Luke's account (Luke 1: 26-38) of how the angel told Mary she would be with child, and this child would be "called the Son of the Most High."

Mary declares she is a virgin, and the angel says she will be pregnant from "The Holy Spirit."

And so the Christmas story begins.

Through the ages, Mary has become larger than life, the "Theotokos," the "mother of God." For some she has remained a perpetual virgin, although the biblical accounts clearly state she had other children besides Jesus (and why wouldn't she?).

We almost lose sight of this perplexed, probably frightened, teenage peasant girl in a land long ago. Much would happen to her -- she would outlive her son, Jesus, and would be carried into her old age by the early Christian community.

We are still carrying her. We are still connected to her through this same Holy Spirit who came to her and comes to all of us, and gives us strength and hope and healing, often when we least expect it. Many encounter "Holy Spirit" as female, and why not?

Sometimes in my daily prayers I imagine myself sitting beside a river, and all of human experience is in that river. Mary herself is somewhere downstream, but I am still connected to her in that river, the same river where John the Baptist stands, the same river that brings water and life to people everywhere. We are all connected in this river just as the Holy Spirit connects us through her breath.

When you pray, your prayers will touch me, as mine will touch yours. We are connected to the poor, and the rich, to the Tea Party and the Occupy protesters. We are connected even to those who cause us the most pain. We are connected even to our enemies.

Lately, Steven Charleston, the retired bishop of Alaska, has been writing brief prayers from the heart and posting them daily on his Facebook page. Here is his prayer for today:

"Peace on Earth. Goodwill to women who work two jobs, to men who come home weary. Goodwill to those who carry our conscience into the streets, goodwill to the soldier missing home, to the student climbing the wall of tuition. Goodwill to the poor standing in line, to the elder sitting alone. Goodwill to the foreclosed family, to the pink slipped worker, to the new parents of an uncertain future. Goodwill to those in chronic pain, to those in chronic hope. Goodwill to the hungry of body, mind or heart. Goodwill to those who have given up and to those who have just begun. Peace, I pray, peace, and goodwill to us all."

Amen.

"How is it they live for eons in such harmony?" (but we don't)

I am not preaching today -- but if you are in the area, please come hear Pastor Nik in the pulpit. Today is sometimes known as "Mary Sunday," as the lessons will make clear: 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, Canticle 15, Romans 16: 25-27 and Luke 1: 26-38.

Our friend Karen in Tennessee sent this other day. Enjoy your Sunday . . .

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“We are fields before each other.”

~ St. Thomas Aquinas ~

How is it they live for eons in such harmony -

the billions of stars -

when most men can barely go a minute

without declaring war in their mind against someone they know.

There are wars where no one marches with a flag,

though that does not keep casualties

from mounting.

Our hearts irrigate this earth.

We are fields before

each other.

How can we live in harmony?

First we need to

know

we are all madly in love

with the same

God.

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And one more item today: Steven Charleston, the retired Bishop of Alaska, and who I admire greatly (and who I would love to have come preach at St. Paul's), wrote this on his Facebook this morning, and I pass it along to you:

"The incarnate story begins in humility. That is the first step in our own spiritual narrative. But how to take it? Not once, but over and over, as our life shifts through age and place. It is not feigned innocence or submission. It is what my ancestors believed was the gyroscope of the holy, the sense of inner balance that held a tension between pride and resignation, between limitation and possibility. What gave life to the sacred was a vulnerable power. That same divine energy resides incarnate in each of us, a hope that knows it can change the world, if only it is willing to seek shelter in the poorest home it finds."

Art by Flor Larios