Fifth Sunday in Lent - St. Patrick

            It is the fifth Sunday in Lent, but it is also St. Patrick’s Day.  I am sure it’s fallen on a Sunday more recently, but the last one I recall was Sunday, March 17, 1991.  It was Palm Sunday that year.  I don’t recall the sermon that I heard that day.   I doubt it had anything to do with St. Patrick – but this one today does.

          The fact that Patrick is commemorated as a saint at all is a triumph of tradition over history, a common occurrence in the early centuries of the church.  He wasn’t among the saints who were decommissioned after the Second Vatican Council partly because there is evidence that he actually existed and probably because nobody wanted to deal with millions of disgruntled Irish Catholics.

          Beyond the fact of his existence, very little is known about Patrick.  He was born to a wealthy Christian family in Britain near the end of the fourth century.  The name of the town he identifies as his home is unrecorded anywhere else.   His father was a deacon and his grandfather was a priest.  The family was not known to be particularly devout and it is said that the two entered holy orders for financial advantage more than anything else.   Patrick showed no particular inclination to religious devotion early in life.   He was educated according to his station in life and two letters that he wrote in Latin still exist.

When he was 16 years old, he was kidnapped by pirates, taken to Ireland and sold into slavery.   One of his letters describes his captivity.  The man to whom he was sold as a slave was a high priest of the druids, the prevailing religious tradition in Ireland at that time.  Patrick worked for him as a shepherd.  The solitude of that occupation and the stress and sorrow of captivity inspired in him an increasing sense of religious devotion.  He began to pray daily.  He describes an experience that occurred in the sixth year of his captivity.  He heard a voice telling him that he would soon go home and that his ship was ready.  Patrick escaped his captor whose land he believed to have been in County Mayo.  From there he describes a journey of two hundred miles to a port where he persuaded a ship’s crew to take him on board.  After three days of sailing, Patrick and the crew landed on what is now the coast of France, abandoned the ship and wandered for several weeks.  Eventually he made his way back home to Britain.

Patrick’s letter describes an experience that occurred not long after his return home.  It reads: “I saw a man coming, as it were from Ireland. His name was Victoricus, and he carried many letters, and he gave me one of them. I read the heading: ‘The Voice of the Irish.’  As I began the letter, I imagined in that moment that I heard the voice of those very people who were near . .  the western sea—and they cried out, as with one voice: ‘We appeal to you, holy servant boy, to come and walk among us.’”  There was, in fact, a bishop named Victricius who visited Ireland from his home in Rouen, in what is now northwestern France, during Patrick’s lifetime.  After the experience of this vision, Patrick began formal religious studies after which he was ordained to the priesthood and returned to Ireland.  There he began the work of converting followers of traditional Celtic religions to Christianity.

He was received with hostility initially.  A druid text describes the Christian missionary in derisive language.   Not unlike Christian missionaries throughout centuries, Patrick incorporated symbols, rituals and religious practices of traditional Celtic religion into Christian observance and teaching.  Stories about him include one in which he taught the doctrine of the trinity using the shamrock.  It had been sacred to Irish pagans long before Patrick’s time in Ireland.  Its green color represented rebirth and new life and its leaves called to mind the number three which was sacred in traditional Irish religion which had three principal goddesses.  The Irish Druids lit fires as an act of religious devotion.  Patrick encouraged them to continue it and is said to have lit one himself on the eve of Easter.  Legend holds that his fire could be extinguished by no one but himself. 

St. Patrick was never formally canonized by a Bishop of Rome.  In the first thousand years of the church, canonizations took place mainly on a local and regional level.  His feast day, March17, gained greater recognition in the 18^th century through the efforts of an Irish Franciscan monk. 

One of the letters written by Patrick is entitled Declaration.  It describes his life as a Christian minister.  He claims to have  "baptised thousands of people" . . . and having  “ordained priests to lead the new Christian communities.  He reports having converted wealthy women, some of whom became nuns in the face of family opposition and converting the sons of kings to Christianity.

Patrick’s Declaration also describes an incident in which charges were brought against him by fellow Christians. He does not describe the nature of the complaint, but in the description of his subsequent trial he writes that he returned the gifts which wealthy women gave him, that he accepted no payment for baptisms or ordinations.  He writes that he covered the cost of gifts he made  kings and judges from his own resources and paid for the sons of chiefs to accompany him on his missionary travels. Historians have concluded that he was accused of some sort of financial impropriety, and perhaps of having obtained the office of bishop in Ireland with personal gain in mind.  Given his family history, the financial gains his father and grandfather received from having been ordained, he may have been especially sensitive to such charges.

As modern historians began to study Patrick a theory developed which argues that much of the work attributed to him was actually accomplished by a Bishop named Palladius.  There is a record of his work which took place a few decades after Patrick’s lifetime.  It had less to do with converting the Irish to Christianity and more to do with ministering to established Christian communities.   At mid-century this theory of the two Patricks was presumed to be true.  Now religious scholars are not so certain that the work of Patrick is interchangeable with that of Palladius.

It appears relatively certain that Patrick died on March 17, but there is uncertainty about the year.  At one point it was believed that he died around the year 420.  Later on 460 became the accepted year of his death but there is evidence from independent contemporary documents that it could have been later.   One writer claims he lived to the age of 120 years, not likely, but it would argue in favor of his having lived to very old age.  Later writers refer to Patrick as our Papa, that is our Pope or Primate.   The relative lack of centralization of the Church in the fifth century meant that bishops had great authority within their own lands.  

Centuries after his lifetime Patrick’s legend continued to grow and a variety of churches and other places claimed affiliation with various events in his lifetime.  Among the miracles associated with Patrick is ridding Ireland of snakes.  In fact, fossil evidence indicates that Ireland has been a snake-free zone since day one.  They just don’t live there.  But Patrick continues to be credited with driving them all away.  Aside from a handful of incidents described in his own words, we know little more about him than that he was a beloved spiritual leader.

Patrick’s spiritual depth was forged in adversity.   As a young man he looked forward to a relatively easy life on the estate of wealthy parents until the day he was captured and enslaved.  He says himself that hardship and solitude inspired his religious devotion and brought him closer to God.   When he returned home and experienced the call to ministry, he became aware of the limits of his early religious education.  Rather than letting that be a barrier, or using his family’s position to his advantage, he studied for years to prepare for ordination.  Rather than following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, who held comfortable and lucrative positions as church officials, Patrick returned deliberately to what he knew would be hostile territory for a Christian missionary and made it his own.

It is interesting to note how much the church’s contemporary struggles mirror those that Patrick encountered in the 5^th century.  We do our work within a culture that is increasingly removed from organized religion.  Religious leaders in our time are suspected and frequently rightfully accused of misconduct.  The issues we are called to challenge include violence, poverty and human trafficking.  Like Patrick, we are called as servants to do the work of turning human nature toward the building of God’s kingdom.  It’s no less difficult a task in the 21^st century than it was in the 5^th.

Patrick, the stranger in a strange land, not once but twice, became a beloved international ambassador for his adopted country.  He is the founder of feasts, parades and celebrations around the world; the patron of numerous professions including engineers and paralegals and of the city of Rolla, Missouri.

Today we give thanks for his ministry and his legacy.  And we give thanks that in our church the gifts of myth and tradition are honored for what they truly are, rather than being tortured into inauthentic and unsatisfying substitutes for certainty and fact.

Let us pray

Almighty God, in your providence you chose your servant Patrick to be the apostle of the Irish people, to bring those who were wandering in darkness and error to the true light and knowledge of you: Grant us so to walk in that light that we may come at last to the light of everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Third Sunday in Lent

Exodus 3:1-15
Psalm 63:1-8
1 Corinthians 10:1-13
Luke 13:1-9

            Throughout the Bible the image of the fig tree is one of the most prevalent and consistent.  It is symbolic of blessing and goodness.  When a biblical text describes times and places in which good things are happening, the growth of fig trees and the ripening of their fruit figures highly in the descriptive imagery.  Fig trees are the only individually named plant in the story of the garden of Eden.   The parable of the fig tree, which we hear today  from Luke’s gospel also appears in similar form in Mark and Matthew.  In this instance, the fig tree’s usual symbolic function is turned on its head.  The tree in question is not a sign of goodness and Blessing.  It gives no fruit and it hasn’t for three years.  Just as fruitful fig trees are a symbol of blessing, this barren fig tree signifies unrighteousness.  Jesus tells the parable  in the context of a discussion of sin and punishment.

          It begins with an account of Galileans who were slain at the order of Pontius Pilate.  He is an official of the Roman Empire, familiar from the Palm Sunday and Good Friday lectionary.   Rome governed its conquered territories with an eye toward maintaining order and deriving the greatest possible revenue from the land they acquired by conquest.  Occasional peasant insurrections were dealt with harshly.  Although we can’t identify the dead Galileans mentioned in today’s lesson with  specific events, such peasant uprisings were not uncommon.   This story is a parable and Jesus’ parables always challenge the assumptions of his audience.  We see that with the fig free and in his challenge to the the assumption that hardship, punishment and suffering are inflicted because of sin.

          In the interaction before the parable, Jesus tells the crowd that the Galileans who suffered at the hands of Pontius Pilate were not particularly better or worse than any other Galileans – including those gathered around him at that moment.  He reminds them that all of humanity is sinful; all of humanity falls short of God’s ideal.  Those who were singled out by Pontius Pilate suffered and that is a terrible thing, but it could have been any one of the group of people Jesus is talking to.  All of them, all of us must repent and turn away from sin continually.  To presume that those who suffer did something to deserve it that none of the rest of us has done is wrong.  We can only count ourselves blessed that we do not suffer as others do and turn toward God for forgiveness.

          Jesus goes on to tell the group gathered before him a parable.  In it, there is a fig tree which has no fruit.  The owner of the garden where it is planted comes looking for figs and is once again disappointed.  We learn that he has waited for three years for the tree to produce and it has never grown a single fig.  He instructs the gardener to cut it down, saying that its presence on the land is a waste of the soil that might grow a more productive plant.  The gardener’s response is interesting for a couple of reasons.  He challenges the master’s order to cut down the tree and asks for another year to work with it, rather than simply doing as he is told.  He describes the work he will do with the tree, digging and fertilizing.   The gardener concludes his plan saying,  “If it bears fruit next year, well and good.  If not, you can cut it down.”  The shoe is on the other foot now.  The gardener is telling the boss what to do next year if the tree has still not produced.   Jesus has shocked his audience with a very assertive gardener and the mention of a form of fertilizer that they would not have expected to hear about from a traveling preacher.

          This parable leaves the audience hanging.  They will never hear the end of the story – we won’t either.  But it points the hearer in the direction of hope.   And there is more to the imagery than one more chance for the barren tree.  The image of the fig tree giving fruit is integral to biblical descriptions of the hope for the Messiah and the restoration of Zion.  And on a number of occasions in the Bible, women who have been barren eventually give birth to children.  The promise of Israel’s deliverance and the miraculous births to women like Sarah and Hanna call to mind the entirety of God’s gracious and mighty acts.  In the context of this gospel lesson, Jesus reminds his hearers that God leaves open the path to repentance even for those who have been given up as hopeless sinners.  God has the power to transform that which was cursed into blessing.  God does not see failure as the end, but as a point on the journey.

          In his blog this week, Bishop Marc Andrus of the Diocese of California wrote the following about the Episcopal Church:  “we are a church that believes Christ continues to be with the world, moving with us, helping us find meaning in moments of joy and also loss and pain.  The Christ whom we recognize is the one who speaks in John’s Gospel, saying, “There are many things I would teach you but you cannot bear them now . . . the Spirit will lead you into all truth.” 

          Lent is that time of year when we step back from our own goals and desires and allow ourselves to be led by the Spirit toward those things which we are not able to see and hear through our own efforts.  Our culture is geared toward meeting goals and being productive.  One of the prominent cultural and political motifs of the last 30 years has been the perceived divide between those who produce and those who do not.  Our nation’s government has ground to a standstill more than once having been consumed by conflict over the appropriate rewards and punishments for those who are perceived as makers and takers.

          This parable points out that for all our efforts and accomplishments, we come before God as creatures who have failed to live up to the promise of our creation in God’s image.   We come before God in need of forbearance, patience, cultivation and forgiveness.  Everyday life does not teach us to see ourselves in that way, but the Spirit gives us the opportunity to become aware that all we have comes from God.  Through prayer and fasting and setting ourselves apart from the pleasures and routines we take for granted we have the opportunity particularly during Lent to enact that reality.  In doing so we feel Christ moving with us through the world.

Second Sunday in Lent

It is a great blessing to note that during my 7 ½  at St. Mary’s, I have had very few moments of real unhappiness.  The weather this past week and the attendant cleaning up reminded me of the high proportion of those unhappy moments that involve cold weather, and particularly snow.  With the repairs that have been done on the building it’s not as difficult as it was a few years ago, but winter is not this old girl’s best season of the year – I mean this nearly 125 year old girl, not me.  Even though the worst leaks are plugged and most parts of the building are warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing, cold weather and snow seem to highlight the weak points of our parish and the building we inhabit.  It’s been two years since we’ve had as much snow as fell on Thursday.  The magical thinking of two mild winters came to an abrupt halt.  Yesterday the shock finally wore off and all over the city you saw people excavating the cars they had left behind and doing the finer work of clearing driveways and sidewalks.  Watching people negotiate the ice and snow and dealing with it myself both here and home had me imagining how it could serve as a metaphor for those things that separate us from God; those things that are very much on our minds in this season of Lent.

You could argue with me that an aspect of nature that is very useful to the earth and beautiful to the eye should not be considered a metaphor for sin.  I don’t mean that snow is bad – well maybe I do – I am at least an honorary California girl.  What I intend as the metaphor is the way that a big snowfall constrains our lives and how we interact with those constraints.

On days with snowfall like last Thursday many people stay indoors.  It’s too uncomfortable and too risky to be out there.   The media, obsess on the danger, having discovered winter precipitation as another opportunity for whipping up end of the world scenarios.  Predictions of snowmageddon and snowpocalypse keep people glued to their television sets and computer screens in the days before a winter storm.  Each one now has its own name, just like hurricanes.  The anticipation of big bad weather is not unlike the anxiety of anticipating an unflinching encounter with our own moral and spiritual shortcomings.  Most of us want to retreat from that reality in the same way as we do with snow – staying morally and spiritual indoors as it were, warm and dry before the fire, watching it as if all of those failures belonged to someone else – I’m not like that.  Think about people who commit high profile crimes and become the subject of news.  They are frequently described as if they were not human – they are animals.  We who observe their behavior are surely not capable of such terrible things.   But is that true?  Are we distinct from them because of our moral superiority or because our life circumstances were kinder to us than theirs were to them?  We shelter indoors keeping those hard questions outside.

There are those who brave the storm even at its worst.  For some, their presence at work is essential.  They are carefully prepared and equipped to fulfill those obligations – or their workplace has made provisions to get them where they need to be.  For others, no snowstorm is going to keep them from doing what they want to do.  They’re not afraid and they’re good at driving in snow and all those warnings from the police and highway patrol don’t apply to them.  Some of those foolhardy types get where they need to go without greater hindrance than a slow crawl through traffic.  Some of them – and you may have seen them driving huge vehicles with giant tires way too fast for conditions can’t resist the urge to weave in and out of traffic, apparently believing that the laws of physics somehow don’t apply to them.  They put themselves and others at risk.  Some of these folks who challenge the storm are rudely awakened by an accident.  Many simply get stuck in the snow and have to abandon their vehicles, trusting to the mercy of someone who is willing to rescue them out in the short term.  At some point the mess they have made gets cleaned up.  Their various rescuers are often among those I mentioned earlier whose essential work in hazardous conditions is characterized by careful preparation, vehicles that can negotiate the worst weather, the knowledge and skill that come with long and careful training and the grace of God.   We’ve all experienced moments of cluelessness or bravado our own moral and spiritual vulnerability when we believed that we were above it all.  For some the consequences of that insensibility were harsh enough to change our lives for better or worse.  And many of us have had the experience of being a moral and spiritual lifeline, being sufficiently attentive and prepared and inspired by God to help someone struggling with a terrible crisis.

When the snow stops falling, life goes on.  If the crisis of the blizzard has left no lasting effects, attention turns to the task of clearing it all away.  Hopefully there is a shovel nearby .  Even the last one grabbed out of the bin at the hardware store on the way home from work the night before the storm – will still move snow.  Most people begin somewhere near the front door, after preparing themselves with appropriate clothing.  Sometimes the snow is light and powdery like it was here last week.  Sometimes it’s heavy and wet and sometimes it is preceded by a rain of ice that forms a glaze underneath the snowfall.  Each condition has its own challenges, risks and hazards.  Each person who sets out to clear away snow has his or her strengths and weaknesses.  Sometimes it is difficult to get a foothold on slippery pavement.  Sometimes the task is overwhelming and the effort and exertion result in injury or even death.  I’ve noticed among my near neighbors that people go at the task of clearing snow very differently.  Some seem to be waiting for the last flake to fall.  They’ve finished before the rest of us even get started.   The paths they carve through the snow are straight and squared off and they scrape the pavement cleanly.    Others take a pragmatic approach, clearing a careful path for the car to enter the driveway, but not caring much about what it looks like from across the street.   My understanding is that property owners are required to clear the public sidewalks in front of our homes.  Some of my neighbors are kind enough to take care of the sidewalk in front of a neighbor’s house.  But I’m always surprised to see how many people leave the sidewalks in front of their homes uncleared.   Their inattention forces pedestrians to walk down the middle of the street narrowed by walls of snow pushed up by the plow. 

Yesterday afternoon began coming out in force to dig their cars out from the curb and carve spaces for them to park.  I noticed that my neighbor across the street, the one with the perfectly straight, perfectly scraped sidewalks was carrying snow from his curb over to our side of the street instead of tossing it on the space between the curb and sidewalk on his side.  Mabe he figures that he can’t keep the cars from splashing dirty slush on his side of the road, but he doesn’t want it piling up in his yard.  

Lent is a time to consider how we approach the task of clearing our moral and spiritual pavement.  Do your efforts focus on a pleasing outward appearance?  the path of least resistance?  Do you go beyond your own driveway or front steps and clear the sidewalk in front of the house?  Do the sins you recognize in yourself get blamed on others or outside influences?

            St. Mary’s is required to clear the sidewalks around the church building and our parking lots for the people who park here during the week.  We hire a company to clear the parking lot but we do the sidewalks ourselves and it takes time to get everything cleared.  It’s interesting to hear the different reactions from passers-by as we are working to get the snow out of the way of people trying to get to work.  Some are appreciative of any effort to make it easier for them to navigate through the snow and ice.  Others have words for advice about how it should be done.  Others complain that it should have been finished earlier or done better.  They seem oblivious to any sense of the effort, commitment and good will that go into getting the job done. 

Morally and spiritually we don’t exist in a vacuum.  We live in common with other people who are walking their own snowy path.  We benefit from the efforts of others.  In reality, any moral and spiritual snow clearing we do in support of the common good will always receive mixed reactions.   They are a good lesson for our own response to the efforts of others.

            I live on a street that serves as an alternate route for emergency vehicles.  It is also used by personnel at St. Luke’s Hospital, so we frequently see the snowplow early.  I remember Kansas City decades ago, lacking resources to deal with heavy snowfall and leaving many streets unplowed to await the spring thaw.  It’s better now, but whenever it snows, find that I’m surprised when I hear that someone’s street has not yet been cleared.  I forget that a fortunate choice of address makes my life easier.  When we bought a house, I had no idea that a fire station would be built two blocks away or that its proximity to St. Luke’s meant that it would be plowed earlier than other streets.  Our neighborhood did nothing to deserve that convenience  nor did we make any sacrifice in exchange for it.  My friends and colleagues who are still struggling to get their cars as far as the nearest corner have done nothing wrong. 

Life does not treat everyone equally.  Some people are desperately poor, some are wealthy.  Some struggle with ill health, some take great risks and suffer few consequences.  Some have everything handed to them and make the most of it; others squander their resources.  Some never have a chance to live productive lives.  Wealth and success are not rewards for moral superiority; poverty is not immoral.  Privilege may be earned through seniority, meritorious service or accomplishment, but frequently it has more to do with where you’re born or the family you’re born into than with anything else.

In this season of careful consideration of the way we live our lives and our relationship with God, ice and snow slow us down and offer us some lessons about the life of the spirit.  Their substance and weight can be metaphors for our sinful nature.  The uneven footing that they impose makes our vulnerability and our dependence upon God more real.  Those aspects of humanity can lose some of their force in the abstract for those of us who live a privileged existence in relation to most of the world. Snow and ice are a good reality check.

When I was a kid I remember very clearly a day at the end of a long winter when snow had been deep on the ground long past the point of being pretty or fun.  Cold had kept us inside for what seemed like several weeks.  One Saturday the temperature climbed into the 50s.  The snow vanished and I recall the sound of water trickling from downspouts and chunks of snow falling from roofs and the feeling of the spongy ground underfoot.  Our moms had been stuck indoors with us long enough to make them happy to send us outside to play in the mud.  We argued about having to wear coats.  The sudden rise in temperature and the bright sun made a jacket seem unnecessary.  That feeling of liberation from the snowy, icy prison of winter is, in a modest way, like the sense of liberation from sin that we have from God’s love and forgiveness in the person of Jesus.  

It’s supposed to snow again in a couple of days.   While your indoors watching it fall and while you’re clearing it away, take time for the work of Lent.

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, 2013 The Rev’d. Lauren Lyon – St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, Kansas City, Missouri

Zephaniah 3.14-20
Philipians 4.4-7
Luke 3.7-18

At tonight’s service of Advent Lessons and Carols, the first reading is the story of Adam and Eve. Stories like it were created because people frequently ask themselves and each other why life is as it is. The story of Adam and Eve offers an explanation for why life is difficult, why we suffer and struggle. It exemplifies the ability of human beings to damage what is beautiful, simple and complete. Adam and Eve crave the loss of their own innocence and in bringing it about they ensure that loss and its attendant sorrow will a certainty for all humanity. Adults who feel that sorrow do what they can to delay the loss of their children’s innocence, but it always comes too soon.

The third Sunday of Advent by long tradition is a day of rejoicing and celebration. In a season of preparation and waiting, sometimes observed by self-denial intended to sweeten the indulgences of the Christmas feast, the third Sunday of Advent is a brief pause. Our candle for this Sunday is rose colored instead of purple, festive rather than sedate. But on this Sunday, something has gone terribly wrong. What was beautiful, simple and full of promise has been broken. The Old Testament lesson appointed for the Eucharist on the third Sunday of Advent is the song of joy from the book of the prophet Zephaniah. It begins with the words Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! How do we rejoice in the midst of sorrow and fear?

More than a week ago, Sam Candler, the Dean of the Cathedral in Atlanta published an essay on the web site Episcopal Café http://www.episcopalcafe.com/daily/music/advent_a_holy_and_a_broken_hal.php . His choice of topic has turned out to be prescient. His essay begins with a reference to Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah” which may be most familiar as performed by Jeff Buckley or Rufus Wainright. Candler quotes one of the stanzas: there’s a blaze of light in every word, it doesn’t matter which you heard, the holy or the broken Hallelujah. He notes that even in Advent and at Christmas things are or become broken. He notes that Christmas toys will be broken and describes such events as “startling introductions for children to the way the rest of their lives will be.” Candler envisions a gentler and more merciful loss of innocence than the dreadful reality of this past Friday. But he is right; something in our lives is always broken, even in seasons of rejoicing. We have people among us who may be so overwhelmed by the parts of their lives that have been lost and broken that they cannot find a way to rejoice in a season of celebration. We carry them with us in prayer and with compassion until the time they are able to sing the broken hallelujah. When we are able to do that and let it move us through the pain and fear and sorrow we find holiness and peace in the life we live in time and space.

That journey from fear and sorrow to joy and hope is what Advent prepares us for. We await the telling of that story in which a man and woman travel to a distant and unknown place, endure a birth under the most difficult of circumstances and together, look into the face of the child that has been born to them, with all its innocence and promise. His death would be the broken hallelujah that made humanity whole and holy again. May God give us the grace to see the promise of Advent in all that is and will be broken in the seasons of our sorrow and the seasons of our rejoicing; may God bring comfort to those who mourn and healing to those whose innocence has been lost too soon. May there be abundant peace from heaven and life for us and for all.

Amen. Hallelujah.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

On the Sundays during the great 50 days of Easter, a lesson from Acts of the Apostles takes the place of our usual Old Testament lesson. I’ve mentioned the great 50 days several times since Easter and some of you have asked me about it. In the Episcopal Church we follow the ancient tradition of observing Easter from the Sunday of the Resurrection through the Feast of Pentecost – thus 50 days of Easter. That’s why we are still wearing white and will continue to wear it until we switch to red on Pentecost. When the stores put the candy eggs and marshmallow peeps on the discount shelf on Easter Monday, we really are just getting started. Today is day 22. It’s like the 12 days of Christmas, only four times as much fun.
Acts of the Apostles is almost certainly a second book created by the author of the Gospel According to Luke. That could have come about in a number of ways. Some New Testament scholars think the two books are about the same age – written in the year 85. That’s about 50 years after Jesus’ death and a generation or two after Paul’s earliest letters. If that is true, the answer to the question why two books could be as simple as the author coming to the end of one reasonably sized papyrus scroll and continuing his story on a second one. If that’s how it happened, then Luke-Acts is unique among New Testament books. It is something more than simply a gospel – a book about the life and ministry of Jesus. It could also be true that the author set out deliberately to create two different works: one a gospel, the other a narrative about the early church with the apostle Paul as its main character. And some scholars argue that this second book is not as old as the gospel – that it was written in the early first century, around the year 110.
If Acts was intended as a single work, why are the two books separated in the New Testament canon? One explanation for that is similar to the positioning of Matthew first in the order of the gospels, even though Mark was the earliest. The content of Matthew’s gospel is a bridge between Israel and Jesus. Acts is the bridge between Jesus and the apostle Paul; thus its placement between the fourth gospel and Paul’s letters in the New Testament.
Paul’s genius is shown first in transforming the paradox of a crucified Messiah into the triumph of the cross – a sacrifice that ultimately became a victory over death. But he took that a step further and made Jesus, with his firm roots in Jewish tradition, intelligible to the gentile community. Paul did that so well, that the church, which began as a subgroup of the synagogue community ultimately became a gentile institution. It makes sense that Luke identifies with Paul and idealizes him. Luke, whoever he actually was, was undoubtedly a gentile and his gospel is directed toward a gentile audience, as was Paul’s ministry. One way of describing the central idea of Acts of the Apostles is that it makes the claim that the church – the gentile church - is the true heir of Israel.
It appears likely that for a while, Jesus’ followers were able to continue as a sub-group within the synagogue community. But tradition and practice may have evolved until eventually the two groups were doing things so differently as to make that relationship impractical. Circumstances and events outside the realm of religion put additional pressure on the relationship. And, Paul’s ministry to the gentiles also required an answer to the question what must one do to be a member of the church? Did you have to observe Jewish tradition to be a follower of Jesus, or was there another way for a gentile to become a Christian? These issues are part of the narrative of Acts. Paul and his gentile converts win all of the arguments.
Reading Acts as history gives the impression that the church was born in moments and grew to institutional size within a few weeks. In reality it almost certainly took a lot longer. One thing that Acts does is give us a big picture view of the efforts that Paul’s letters describe in more specific detail. Paul preached Jesus’ story to the gentiles. He established the idea of humanity’s salvation by way of Jesus’ self-sacrifice on the cross as the cornerstone of Christian theology. Given who and what he had to work with, it was a remarkable accomplishment. We don’t really see it that way, because what Paul envisioned has come to us as a finished product, heavy with the authority of tradition. The author of Acts has a clearer understanding of what Paul accomplished and makes him the hero of the book. And with the implication that the church is Israel’s heir, he sows the seeds for centuries of claims that the church has superseded God’s covenant with Abraham and that Christians are beloved of God and Jews are not.
We have had the opportunity to observe and reflect upon the centuries of persecution that this claim has brought about. We have minute to minute access to information about violence fueled by ongoing claims of religious superiority. How do we fit our responses to that information together with our understanding of the authority of scripture? We have plenty of examples of people who use religious violence as a justification for their claims that religion is dangerous and useless. If you’re here, you probably don’t agree with that position. But if you take seriously what you believe, sooner or later, you have to figure out what that really is.
There are plenty of churches whose mission is little more than to provide a simple answer to that question. Our tradition has had a tendency to leave the complications out in the open and let everyone wind their way through them as they will. We sometimes have to work with people from more straightforward traditions who are attracted to our church by the way we worship, but get surprised when they discover that there are lifelong homework assignments that involve working out the details. Acts of the Apostles is one of those.

Third Sunday of Easter
John 21.1-19
This week a couple of parishioners have circulated online articles that I was on the list to receive. One of them had to do with what Christianity could mean or could offer with regard to the economy. Another had to do with what Christian identity could mean to a person trying to live life day to day in the world as it is now. Although they were very different articles, they had something in common and the content of both is reflected in today’s gospel lesson.
The story is told as a post-resurrection appearance in John’s gospel, but it has a remarkable similarity to a story in chapter 5 of Luke which takes place during Jesus’ ministry. It is odd in the context of John’s gospel because in Chapter 20 – one chapter before today’s lesson, Jesus has just revealed himself to the skeptical Thomas and the other disciples as the risen Lord. We heard that story last Sunday. In it, Thomas is awe-struck and falls to his knees proclaiming Jesus as his Lord and God. Then in the story we hear this week from Chapter 21, the disciples, including Thomas, once again initially fail to recognize Jesus. As with much of biblical literature, the coherence of the narrative and the inner life of the characters are not the first priority of the author – the story is about something else. At the end of it, Jesus casts Peter in the role of leadership. He is to be the one who feeds and walks alongside them providing sustenance, community and guidance. As with last week’s gospel lesson, this is a story about what and how the church is to be.
We are what the church has become. We look back a century or even a half century ago and see the church functioning as an institution, interacting with other institutions. The church was a presence in civic life. It was a norm in personal and family life. Throughout my school years the number of my peers whose families did not at least claim affiliation with a particular church was very small. The number whose families did not attend regularly was not much greater. Now it’s very much the opposite. And the church is more frequently ignored or actively excluded from civic life out of fear of appearing to favor one variety of religious belief over another or concern that religious partisans will attempt to impose their particular beliefs on others in the form of law. The dark side of the church’s institutional weight has been exposed more recently – the effort to hide the abuse of children in the Roman Catholic Church or the willingness of some in the Anglican Communion to exclude its gay and lesbian members from full participation in the sacraments in order to placate those who would fragment it out of anger over their full inclusion in the community of the baptized.
As the church we do not have the civic and institutional heft we once did. Plenty of people claim to “be spiritual,” but the mention of Christianity frequently produces a roll of the eyes or a response made in a resigned tone of voice, as if we have little or nothing to offer to someone seeking life in the spirit and in community.
But the articles I mentioned earlier both suggest that that assumption is inaccurate. The church does have something very important to contribute to the common life of the community outside these walls. What we have to offer is particularly important in a time in which the expectations of future generations for a standard of living that exceeds that of their parents may never be satisfied. It is particularly important in a world where work is no longer about creating something useful or valuable but has become something more like putting your hand in the next person’s pocket and taking what you find. It is particularly important in a world in which ideas, behavior, politics and economy are increasingly driven by the furtherance of individual interest and satisfaction of individual desire rather than what builds and preserves the rhythm and fabric of a community’s common life and connects humanity with the natural world.
I think you can find all of these ideas in today’s gospel lesson. The disciples encounter Jesus in the early morning on the beach. They’ve worked all night at fishing and have nothing to show for it. He suggests that they try one more time, and their labor is productive. They have a connection with what they do. The interaction of their labor with the natural world is obvious. They sell their fish to the people who will consume it. And they eat what they catch. They’re not selling financial instruments that reward the seller with mind-bending amounts of money in the short term, arouse in the buyer the same hope of mind-bending profits when he flips them and then cause entire national economies to collapse when those two have their money safely deposited offshore. As the church, we live life by what has been characterized as a noble rhythm: the change of seasons and in the church year that is built around the story of Jesus’ life and the traditions that his followers have gathered over time. Those traditions challenge us to find our place in a story that is not entirely of our own making. It links us across space and time to those who have gone before us and those who will come after us. We also fit ourselves into the ethical constraints that story asks of us and apply them to our daily living.
In today’s gospel story Jesus invites the disciples to come together to cook and share a meal. It is one of the most basic forms of human community. We enact it in ritual form every Sunday and in real life after we conclude our worship. Calling coffee hour the 8th sacrament is more than just a joke. It points to our human inclination to eat in the enjoyable and enlightening company of others. But in families and households in our culture, the preparation and sharing of meals has become enough of a rarity that experts like family therapists and nutritionists have to tell us how important it is. As a culture our consumption and acquisition of food and of everything else, for that matter, has lost its rhythm and purpose. Consumption has come to be about satisfying our momentary desires and our demand to have more for the purpose of having more. The ideals and aspirations of our culture have come to be about gathering the resources to support this satisfaction of endless desire. That transforms the meaning of work from effort that produces something useful and valuable into whatever produces the most gain for the worker. By this standard, if you’re not earning a fortune by any means necessary, you have some explaining to do. When the system that had evolved for doing that took a hit in the fall of 2008, and the realization dawned that it was all a game that we had been drawn into, the prevailing emotion was fear – fear of not having enough. What the church can do is help people recalibrate what enough means. Every Sunday we gather together for the Eucharist – the giving of thanks and the sharing of a meal. We express ritually the belief that in Christ there can be enough for all. We offer that expression in a community that acknowledges shared limits on the way we live out our own desires and our responsibility to provide for the needs of others. By changing our own attitudes about what is enough – for others and for ourselves, we offer the world the means to exchange the resentment over a declining standard of living to a thoughtful and appreciative consideration of what we really need to live life well: to care for the earth and its creatures, to do our work with honor, commitment and a sense of productivity, and to create a world in which justice and peace guide our decisions and actions.

Last Sunday After Epiphany

Exodus 34:29-35
Psalm 99
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
Luke 9:28-36, [37-43a]
Luke’s account of the Transfiguration has its roots in Mark’s version of that story. Jesus’ encounter with God in the company of the great Israelite prophets has an even earlier example which is included in the Gospel of Peter. That book is one of the non-canonical gospels, of which there are several. These books represent diverse records of Christian tradition for about the first three centuries after Jesus’ life and ministry, but they were not ultimately selected to be included in the Bible. In that older version, the resurrected Jesus is accompanied by two men who seem to be Moses and Elijah as he exits his opened tomb.
When you try to classify the Transfiguration story, it is difficult to do. It has some things in common with the stories of Jesus’ baptism – like the heavenly voice proclaiming Jesus’ authority. But like that older strand of tradition from the Gospel of Peter, the story of the Transfiguration could also originally have been the story of a post-resurrection appearance that was modified and put in a different place. And, it could have been an authentic religious experience of Jesus which happened to be witnessed by two of his closest followers, who eventually told others about it.
We hear this story on the actual Feast of the Transfiguration – August 6 or the Sunday closest to it. But we also hear it on the last Sunday after Epiphany. You could think of this day as having similarities to the Feast of Christ the King – the last Sunday before Advent begins. Both of them look back toward the season that is ending and forward toward the season that is to come. The Transfiguration is a particularly dramatic story of God’s manifestation in the world in the person of Jesus, which is what Epiphany is about. For the early church with roots in Jewish tradition, it is an ultimate expression of his authority, placing him in the presence of Moses and Elijah as their peer and even their successor. Jesus remains as the two of them depart and the divine voice proclaims his divinity and authority.
But on Wednesday, we enter Lent. Next Sunday’s gospel begins a narrative leading up to Palm Sunday and Maundy Thursday in which Jesus is tested and his authority and sense of mission are formed and expressed through trial and crisis. The Transfiguration story is a reminder, before we enter that time of testing and trial, of its ultimate meaning.
We live out our faith through the traditions of the church year in a manner that is is dynamic; it is cyclical and seasonal. That expression and experience of the season is meant to be at the heart of worship. Considering that made me think about my husband who is a southerner by birth. He has a passion for a food called grits. Many of you are familiar with grits and some of you love it as Nelson does. Nelson’s love for grits is sufficiently profound as to motivate oratory. He frequently proclaims that grits are what you bring to them. They are the blank canvas upon which your culinary genius and you gustatory curiosity and courage may be played out.
You could think of the liturgical year in the same way. [hang in here with me for a moment] The year is as it always is – beginning with Advent, progressing to Christmas, and Epiphany, through Lent, Holy Week, Easter, Pentecost and the season after. There are individual celebrations that stand out in the midst of this cyclical calendar – a parish’s patronal feast, All Saints and All Souls Days, and Christ the King are a few of them. But the experience is different every year because the world is different every year and we are different every year as individuals and community. The lens through which you experience Lent is different in a time when you or those around you are experiencing testing and hardship. Easter and All Saints Day take on different meaning if they are the occasion of the baptism of a child or they follow upon the recent death of a loved one.
In the Transfiguration story, the first impulse of Jesus’ disciples who are with him on the mountain is to freeze that moment in space and time. As Moses and Elijah are departing, the disciples suggest building dwellings for the two of them and Jesus so that their time together in that place might never end. Human beings seem to like to do that. We like to encompass the divine with boundaries that are represented as and frequently intended as efforts to show respect and reverence. But such efforts frequently end up being the means by which God is made comfortable and convenient and by which access to the divine is place under human control and offered only to those who are judged to be worthy. In the Transfiguration story God interrupts the disciples efforts to domesticate the proclamation of God’s kingdom.
Our journey through any given church year is an ever changing experience viewed through the lens of our life events. That dynamic, ever changing experience has points of reference in tradition around which it moves. The story of the Transfiguration could be seen as one of those reference points. Just as we prepare to enter Lent – the time of testing, doubt, challenge and crisis, we have a glimpse of what is at the end of that journey – Jesus, showing us who and how God is.