Church is a School of God’s Love

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

January 12, 2025

Year C: The First Sunday after the Epiphany – The Baptism of Our Lord

Isaiah 43:1-7

Psalm 29

Acts 8:14-17

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Church is a School of God’s Love

Last week, I met with several other Episcopal priests to talk about community organizing in Baltimore County.

Some of you know that community organizing is important to me. I was involved in community organizing back in Jersey City and I’ve been eager to do some of that work here – work that has already begun with our deepened relationship with Owings Mills Elementary School.

So, since community organizing obviously only happens if we partner with others, I was especially glad to attend this meeting with some of my colleagues.

But our meeting took an unexpected turn.

A community organizer who was at the meeting asked us priests a simple but actually kind of hard-to-answer question:

“What is church?”

“What is church now?”

Behind that question was the recognition that we’ve been through a lot these last few years:

We suffered through a global pandemic that sickened and killed countless people and upended our usual way of doing things everywhere, very much including here in church.

During the pandemic we quickly developed and have continued to offer online worship. This is surely a blessing. But are people who only “attend” our services virtually actually part of our community? How? What does that mean? What does that look like?

What is church now?

In our country over these last few years, we’ve faced bitter partisan divisions, losing much sense of common ground and leaving our political institutions wobbly and ineffective.

And then there are the frightening changes to our climate, the disasters that we have all witnessed, the terrors that some of our own parish families have endured, in just the last few days.

And, finally, we all know that, for all sorts of reasons, church has drifted from the center of people’s lives. Many churches have shrunk and closed. And that trend is likely to continue.

So, given all of that, what is church now?

Well, I’ll come back to that.

If you were here last week, you’ll remember that we heard the Epiphany story, the journey of the Magi to pay homage to the newborn King.

It’s a beautiful and magical story, but it’s also a story with some ominous shadows.

King Herod told the Magi that he also wanted to pay homage to the newborn king. That was a lie, of course. Herod was determined to eliminate this rival as soon as possible – so determined and so ruthless that he ordered the execution of all the children in Bethlehem.

And, as I reminded you last week, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fled to Egypt to escape Herod’s murderous rampage.

Like so many others, the Holy Family became a refugee family.

Well, eventually, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus made their way home, back to Nazareth.

And, aside from the charming story of the twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple, we know nothing about those Nazareth years, the decades of Jesus’ childhood, youth, and young adulthood.

We’re left wondering, did Mary and Joseph tell him the story? Did they tell him who he was?

Could people of Nazareth sense something about him – something special – something unique?

Or did he just live a normal life? Did he live pretty much like everybody else?

That’s what I think, but we really don’t know.

The story of Jesus resumes when, as an adult, he appears at the River Jordan and is baptized by John the Baptist.

And, as we heard in today’s lesson from the Gospel of Luke, after his baptism, Jesus was praying when the heaven was opened and the Spirit descended and the voice from heaven said, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

Now, you don’t have to agree with me about this, but I think that it’s at this moment – it’s at his baptism – that Jesus discovers – or begins to discover – who he really is:

God’s Son, the Beloved, with whom God is well pleased.

And I also believe that it’s at our baptism that we discover – or we begin to discover – who we really are.

As I never get tired of saying, in the water of baptism God makes an indissoluble, unbreakable bond with us.

There’s nothing we could ever do or not do that could cause God to dissolve or break this bond.

Why does God do this?

Because God loves us.

God loves us unconditionally.

We are God’s beloved children.

The Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke all report that immediately after his baptism, the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness, where for forty days and nights he was alone and hungry and thirsty and tempted and tested by Satan.

And I would imagine that during those long wilderness days and nights, our brother Jesus must have struggled to remember his baptism – struggled to recall that he was God’s Son – that he was God’s Beloved.

More than any of Satan’s tests, maybe the greatest temptation during those hard days was to forget or dismiss his baptism – to think that it was all a dream, just a figment of his imagination.

But Jesus remembered who he was and remained faithful in the wilderness.

And, you know, my baptized sisters and brothers, today we are in the wilderness, too.

So much is uncertain and frightening.

I’m sure you noticed that two of today’s lessons plus the psalm mention fire – a force, like water, that can both purify and also destroy.

Today we are in the wilderness and maybe we are tempted to forget or dismiss the great truths that we experience in baptism – the graces that we receive in baptism.

In the wilderness, maybe we forget God’s love and give into fear and despair.

But Jesus didn’t give into temptation, and, with God’s help, we can resist temptation, too.

        Even in the wilderness, even when the fires rage and the floods roar, we are beloved by God.

        And God will not let go of us, no matter what.

        So, what is church now?

        We could talk about this all day, but in this time and place, here’s what I think:

        Church is a school of God’s love.

        Church is a school of God’s love.

        You know, whenever I’ve had conversations about Sunday School, I’ve always said that, while I hope our children learn about our faith, that they learn some of the stories and the prayers, most of all, I hope that they feel loved here and begin to know that God loves them, no matter what.

        But it’s not just children who need to learn this.

        Especially in a culture that’s kind of stingy when it comes to love and compassion, a society that teaches us that we must earn everything and that we must deserve everything we get, we all need to learn and relearn that God loves us, no matter what.

        Church is a school of God’s love, a school where we are all teachers and students, over and over teaching one another and learning from each other the most important lesson:

        We are God’s beloved children.

        This is who we really are.

        And when we know this, we can endure the troubles and tragedies of life.

        We are God’s beloved children.

        This is who we really are.

        And when we know this, we really can keep our baptismal vows, loving God’s beloved children out there, seeking and serving Christ in all persons.

        We are God’s beloved children.

        This is who we really are.

        And church is a school of God’s love.

        Amen.

Religion and Life

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

January 5, 2025

The Second Sunday after Christmas

Jeremiah 31:7-14

Psalm 84:1-8

Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a

Matthew 2:1-12

Religion and Life

If you were here last week, on the First Sunday after Christmas, you may remember that our gospel lesson was the Prologue to the Gospel of John.

        The Prologue is John’s poetic version of the Christmas story – a Cosmic Christmas.

Rather than giving us details about Jesus’ birth, John looks all the way back… 

        “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

        So beautiful, right?

        And then, John declares that the Word that was with God, the Light that is God, became a flesh and blood human being in and through Jesus.

        “The Word became flesh and lived among us.”

        Christians have been hearing and reading and pondering those words for two thousand years.

        And maybe, over all that time, we’ve somehow gotten used to the idea of God becoming flesh, what’s called the Incarnation.

        Maybe we’ve gotten kind of ho-hum about God becoming one of us.

        Or, more likely, we still haven’t fully grasped what all this means for God and for us.

        God – the Creator and Source of all life – was uniquely present in Mary’s son, watched over by Joseph.

        God – the Creator and Source of all life – becomes flesh and blood, just like us.

        God plunges into our messed-up world - a world with brutal tyrants like Herod.

        God plunges into our still beautiful world, a world with people of wonder, curiosity, and courage – people like the Magi.

        We really don’t know who the Magi were – these wise visitors from the East - we don’t even know how many of them there were. We just assume that there were three because of their three gifts.

        But whoever they were, the Magi were willing to make a long trek to see for themselves the newborn king, eager to pay him homage and to present their gifts, and they were also brave enough to disobey Herod.

        Herod, of course, didn’t like this one bit.

        And in a grim part of the story that we didn’t hear today, Herod was so determined to kill this new king – this newborn rival – that he ordered the slaughter of all the young children in Bethlehem.

        But Herod’s plan to kill the new king was thwarted because, alerted by an angel, Joseph, Mary and the child Jesus fled to Egypt.

        For a time, the Holy Family was a refugee family.

        I appreciate the transition from John’s poetry that we heard last week and Matthew’s very earthy story that we heard today.

        It’s a vivid reminder that, in and through Jesus, God plunges into our messed-up but still beautiful world.

        And it’s also a reminder that for us Christians, there should be no gap between our religion and our life – no gap between the poetry that we say and sing in church each week and how we live our lives out there in the world.

        This is something that I think about pretty regularly: what difference does all of “this” make? 

        And I’m in good company because this was a main interest of our old friend Sam Shoemaker.

        It’s been a while since I’ve talked about Shoemaker, which means there are some newer parishioners who’ve never heard of him.

        Sam Shoemaker was born in Baltimore in 1893.

        He grew up here at St. Thomas’ and, to make a long story very short, he was ordained a priest in 1921. In fact, he presided at his first Holy Communion service right here.

        Shoemaker spent most of his ministry at Calvary Church in the Gramercy Park neighborhood of New York City.

        For decades he was incredibly active, writing over 20 books, speaking regularly on the radio, going on preaching tours, some of his sermons were even released on records – something which just amazes me.

        Today he’s best remembered for providing the spiritual foundations for the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous – just think about how many millions of lives he has touched and saved through that extraordinary program.

        But, as I said, Shoemaker was also especially passionate about connecting our religion with our entire life.

        Very early on, in 1926, Shoemaker started the “Faith at Work” movement.

        On Thursday evenings, lay people would meet at Calvary Church and talk about how they had lived as Christians out in the world.

        (A little commercial: nearly a century after Shoemaker started “Faith at Work,” this will be the topic for this year’s Shoemaker event on Saturday, February 1, which I very much hope you’ll attend.)

        It was the Incarnation, it was God plunging into our messed-up but still beautiful world that pushed Shoemaker to do this work. Here’s what he wrote:

        "We must utterly abolish the common distinction between religion and life. We have religion in a compartment - then there is life on the other side. Religion is praying, going to church, reading the Bible. Life is raising a family, making a living, enjoying company and recreation. In a religion that began with 'The Word was made flesh,' such thinking is heresy."

        Coincidentally or not, one of the things I’ve been thinking about for our new year together is to find new ways, or maybe rediscover some old ways, for us to get together and tell our stories – to learn more about each other – and maybe also to talk about the challenges of living as Christians out in the world.

        As Shoemaker said, we must abolish the distinction between religion and life.

        Stay tuned.

        So, on the morning of New Year’s Day, I went over to the office to work on today’s sermon, hoping for a couple of quiet, solitary hours before our noon service and Bible Study.

        I had just started writing at my desk when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walk up to the office door. After finding it locked, he rang the bell.

        I confess that my first irritated thought was, “You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s 9:00 in the morning on New Year’s Day.”

        But I unlocked the door and greeted the man in the office hallway.

        He identified himself as detective with the Baltimore County Police Department.

        And then he told me there had been a homicide “just up the road.”

        My stomach dropped, thinking that maybe one of our parishioners – that maybe one of you - might have been killed.

        The detective explained that he was hoping that our security cameras might be helpful in the investigation.

        When I finally got back to my desk, I looked online for more information and saw that it was a 21-year-old man named Raheim Ali Esna Ashari who had been shot and killed on Garrison Forest Road. 

         Nobody I knew.

         But yet another tragedy, particularly unsettling because it was so close to us.

         And as I tried to work on my sermon, I thought, well, here it is - here is a painfully local and terribly sad example of what I wanted to say today.

        Two thousand years ago, God plunged into this world, shining light and love into our messed-up world.

        God plunged into a world seemingly ruled by tyrants like Herod, ruthless men willing to lie and kill to protect their power and wealth.

        God plunged into a world where life seemed to be cheap, a violent world, where lives could and would be taken for little or no cause.

        God plunged into a world where families are forced to flee their homelands, desperate to save the lives of their children.

        But God also plunged into a world that’s still beautiful, a world where the Magi travel far to worship the newborn King, to offer him their gifts.

        God plunged into a world that’s still beautiful, a world where so many of you offer your gifts to people who can never repay us, never even thank us.

        In and through Jesus, God plunged into our messed-up but still beautiful world.

        And, especially as we begin an uncertain and already bloodstained new year, we Christians are called to follow God’s lead.

        With God’s help, may we plunge into the world.

        May God continue to shine light and love, in and through us.

        May we bridge the gap between religion and life.

        Out there.

        Amen.

The Light, Shining Forth in Our Lives

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

December 29, 2024

The First Sunday after Christmas

Isaiah 61:1-10-62:3

Psalm 147:13-21

Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7

John 1:1-18

The Light, Shining Forth in Our Lives

Merry Christmas!

Each year, I mention how Advent is the most countercultural season of the church year.

Out in the world, the so-called Christmas season now begins around Labor Day (I think that’s what we said, right?).

Meanwhile, here in church, we do our best to hold off on Christmas until December 24th. We take the holy season of Advent very seriously, preparing the way of the Lord with John the Baptist, and saying “yes” to God with the Virgin Mary.

And then, because we’ve stubbornly stuck with Advent, the transformation of our church to Christmas glory is even more spectacular.

Because we’ve stuck with Advent, the Christmas music sounds even more magnificent.

Because we’ve stuck with Advent, our Christmas joy is, well, even more joyful.

So, Advent is definitely countercultural.

But, you know, the Christmas Season is also countercultural.

I mean, out in the world, by now Christmas is pretty much over and done. Now is the time to get some great deals at all the “After Christmas” sales.

I haven’t seen this in Baltimore, but in New York City it’s common to see Christmas trees, stripped of their decorations, lying at the curb on December 26th, now just another piece of trash.

Out in the world, Christmas is over and it’s on to the next thing.

But, here in church, we’re celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas – a whole little season of joy.

It’s still Christmas.

And, maybe to make sure we get that message, today’s gospel lesson – the Prologue of the Gospel of John – is the same passage that we heard on Christmas morning.

It’s John’s Christmas story – a story much different from what we hear in Matthew and Luke.

John doesn’t include anything about there not being room at the inn, or the manger, or the angels singing “Glory to God in the highest.” 

        There’s nothing about shepherds amazed by the whole spectacle.

        Nothing even about Mary and Joseph

Instead, John gives us a cosmic Christmas, looking all the way back to the dawn of creation.

And, in his cosmic Christmas story, John reveals that the Light that was present with God in the first moment – the Light that is God - the Light that is life itself – this Light is now shining our shadowy world – and there is no shadow deep enough to extinguish the Light of Christ, never, no matter what.

You know, I love the Christmas stories in Matthew and Luke.

I love when our children reenact those stories, dressed up as Mary and Joseph, as angels and shepherds, as mysterious visitors from the East.

I love when we have a real live baby Jesus, like we did this year, though young Henry Brooks was so quiet and peaceful, maybe some people didn’t realize that he was real!

I love those wonderful stories that never lose their power, but John’s cosmic Christmas reminds us that the birth of Christ is not only an historical event.

The Light of Christ continues to shine into our shadowy world, continues to shine in our often-shadowy hearts.

And, with God’s help, the Light of Christ can shine forth in our lives.

And, if you’re wondering what the Light shining forth in our lives looks like, well, it just so happens that we have three baptisms coming up in just a couple of minutes.

The Light is already shining forth in their beautiful faces and in the love of their parents and grandparents and the rest of their families.

And, with God’s help and ours, the Light will continue to shine forth in the lives of Denison, Huck, and Gideon, as they grow in their faith, when they keep their baptismal promises.

The Light will continue to shine forth…

        When they gather with other Christians for prayer and Communion.

        When they resist evil and ask forgiveness when they mess up.

        When they proclaim the Good News by word and example.

        When they seek and serve Christ in all people.

        When they strive for justice and peace.

        That’s what the Light shining forth in our lives looks like.

        It’s not a history lesson. 

        The Light is available to us, here and now.

        And this Light never dies.

        So, this is my fourth Christmas here at St. Thomas’.

        (I know, I don’t believe it, either – I had to check my math to be sure.)

        And, by the time you get to your fourth Christmas at a church, when you have the services and the schedule all figured out, you pretty much know how it’s going to go.

        It’s nice. It sort of feels like a family Christmas.

        Something else about four Christmases:

        This year, as I reviewed the Christmas memorials, I reflected on how I’ve known an increasing number of people on that list – each year there are more people I had the chance to know and to love. 

        People I miss very much.

        Very much including our beloved Beaumont Martin. 

        So, I was already missing Beaumont and thinking about her family and friends, as they face this first hard Christmas without her.

        And then on Christmas Eve afternoon, when the church staff and I were scrambling to deal with all the last-minute details, a man came to the office door, someone I didn’t recognize.

        He introduced himself and said that each year at Christmas he came to our churchyard to place a wreath on the grave of his great-great-grandfather. 

        But this year, he was surprised to find that a wreath was already there.

        At first, he thought maybe some other relative had visited but he was pretty sure that no one else in his family kept this meaningful ritual.

        And then he noticed that the wreath on his great-great-grandfather’s grave was identical to the wreaths that were placed on many other graves around the churchyard.

        And that’s when he decided to come to the office and find out just what was going on.

        Jane our Parish Administrator and I explained how over the last couple of years our parishioners – you – have made special donations so we can buy additional wreaths to place on some of our oldest graves, the graves of people who are probably no longer remembered by anyone who is alive, the graves of people remembered now only by God.

        This man was dumbstruck by this news, stunned by your generosity, awed by your willingness to let our shine out for people long gone, people who can’t thank us, at least not yet.

        And, as many of you know, this wreath project – this shining light - was Beaumont’s idea, her joy, just one of her gifts to us.

        So, Merry Christmas.

        It’s still Christmas.

        The Light of Christ is still shining our shadowy world – and there is no shadow deep enough to extinguish the Light, never, no matter what.

        The Light continues to shine in our often-shadowy hearts.

And, with God’s help, the Light can and will shine forth in our lives.

        Forever.

Amen.

God's Quiet Power

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

December 24, 2024

Christmas Eve

Isaiah 9:2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-20

God’s Quiet Power

Merry Christmas!

Each year when I stand up here on this holy night, I think of all the countless hours of preparation that went into getting us ready for Christmas at St. Thomas’.

Our church staff worked many extra hours designing, editing, and printing bulletins, checking the names of our deceased loved ones on our Christmas Memorial List, choosing music and rehearsing our magnificent choir, preparing our children for their “Tableau Plus,” cleaning our buildings and sprucing up our grounds, doing so much to make tonight perfect for all of us.

And then there are our parishioners – the people who “greened” the church on Sunday afternoon – and doesn’t it look beautiful?

        There are the altar guild members who polished our silver and ironed our our linens – the ushers and our acolytes who volunteered to serve tonight – the choir members who gave up so many Thursday nights to rehearse all the gorgeous music we’re singing and hearing tonight.

And I also think of our Christmas Extravaganza a couple of weeks ago, when so many parishioners and friends gave gifts – wrapped them and delivered them – gifts for people at the Community Crisis Center, Paul’s Place, Owings Mills Elementary School– people we may never meet, people who will never be able to thank us.

And so, as I stand up here on this holy night, I feel deep gratitude for the privilege of serving this church.

And I also feel awe – awe at God’s power flowing through this place and its people – a quiet power that’s very different from the loud power of the world.

Tonight, Deacon Amelia read for us Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth. 

        This is a story that always touches our hearts, no matter how many times we’ve heard it.

Luke begins by identifying the loud power of the world – the loud power of the Emperor Augustus who could demand a count of all the people in the vast and cruel Roman Empire.

        That loud power uprooted ordinary people – or seemingly ordinary people – like Joseph and Mary, forcing them to travel far from home – loud power that doesn’t care that Mary’s pregnant – loud power that doesn’t care about – and maybe even enjoys – the suffering of others.

Luke acknowledges the loud power of emperors and governors but, of course, Luke knows - and we know - that the true power – the ultimate power - God’s quiet power – was at work not in the glory of Rome but in humble Bethlehem.

God’s quiet power was at work, not among emperors and governors, but with Mary who said “yes” to God, and Joseph, who couldn’t really provide a suitable place for the holy child to be born, but, no matter what, he stayed by Mary’s side and that was enough.

And, most of all, God’s quiet power was at work in and through this newborn child. 

        Jesus was an infant.

        The Son of God was totally dependent on the love and care of others, totally vulnerable to all the very real dangers of the world.

        And yet this is how God’s Light enters the shadowy world, not with thunder and lightning, not with commands and cruelty, but through dependence and vulnerability, through tenderness and smallness.

        God’s quiet power.

        And God’s quiet power that was born in Bethlehem two thousand years ago is still at work in and through us.

        God’s quiet power flows through the people who worked so hard and, yes, mostly quietly, to give all of us a beautiful Christmas celebration.

        God’s quiet power flows through the people who gave gifts, not only to family and friends, but to total strangers in need.

        God’s quiet power flows through us, each time we really listen to one another, each time we reject selfishness and choose generosity, each time we reject hate and choose love.

        On this night, we remember and celebrate that the real power, the ultimate power, God’s quiet power, has entered the world in and through Jesus.

        And God’s quiet power continues to flow in and through us.

        On Christmas, and always.

        Amen.

Women of Hope

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

December 22, 2024

Year C: The Fourth Sunday of Advent

Micah 5:2-5a

Psalm 80:1-7

Hebrews 10:5-10

Luke 1:39-55

Women of Hope

So, a question: how many of you have a lot on your mind?

Yes, that’s what I thought.

I’m glad I’m not the only one!

There’s all the preparation for Christmas, of course, trying to come up with good gift ideas, trying to find the time and energy to purchase those gifts and make sure everything is ready for the holiday.

And there’s all the preparation for Christmas here at church.

So many faithful, creative, and dedicated people – parishioners and staff – have been hard at work, creating bulletins, rehearsing music, preparing the children for their “tableau plus,” planning for the greening of our beautiful church later today, and so much more.

And, amid all that joyful preparation, the sufferings of our community, our land, and the world have been on my mind, too.

I think of our parishioners facing what’s meant to be a joyful holiday without a loved one, or while enduring illness, while fearing the future.

I think of the teachers, students, and families at a school in Wisconsin with the now heartbreaking name of “Abundant Life” – an infuriatingly familiar story that has already faded from the headlines (have you noticed that?) but not from the hearts of parents who have to send their kids to school each day.

And the other day, as I was driving around, I listened to a radio program about just one child, a little girl, in Gaza – how she had lost so much – lost loved ones, lost her home.

Thinking about her suffering and the suffering of countless people in Gaza and Israel, Ukraine and Syria, and so many places around the world. 

And, of course, together, we look ahead to an uncertain new year.

So, yes, like you, I’ve had a lot on mind.

And I’ve been searching – searching for distractions, searching for good news.

And, most of all, I’ve been searching for hope.

For the past two Advent Sundays, we’ve been reflecting on John the Baptist.

I made the smart decision to, ahem, “outsource” those two Sundays to Amelia and Sue.

       So, we had the gift of hearing our two wonderful interns reflect thoughtfully and beautifully on that powerful and challenging prophet – John the Baptist – John the Baptist, who prepared the way of the Lord, calling people to be baptized and change their ways – to repent - before it’s too late.

And now today, on the Fourth and final Sunday of Advent, at last we turn our attention to the other main character of this holy season, the Virgin Mary.

This year we don’t hear the story of the Annunciation – the story of the Angel Gabriel appearing without warning to Mary – Mary, a young peasant woman from Galilee, from the countryside – Mary, a seemingly unimportant person from a poor and insignificant place – a place under Roman rule, a place that knew all about fear, suffering, and loss.

The angel appears to Mary with the earthshaking news that she has found favor with God, so much favor that she – in the eyes of the world a nobody – she has been chosen to carry the Son of the Most High God into the world.

We’re not told what thoughts must have raced through Mary’s mind in this moment, but we can imagine.

Maybe she briefly considered telling the angel that God got it wrong and should choose someone else for this monumental task, maybe that nice young woman who lived across the road.

Maybe Mary quickly began calculating the cost of saying “yes” to God, began considering the uncertainties and dangers ahead.

How to explain this pregnancy to her fiancée, Joseph?

How to explain this pregnancy to her family?

What will the neighbors think? In a small town, everyone’s going to talk.

And, as a faithful Jewish woman, she would have known the stories of the prophets. She would have known that there would be a high cost to saying “yes” to God – a high cost for her and an even higher cost for her child.

But, despite all of that, Mary says, “yes.”

Mary says “yes” to God.

Mary says “yes” to hope.

And that’s where we pick up in today’s gospel lesson.

After receiving this most extraordinary news, after giving her most hopeful “yes,” Mary does a very human thing. 

        She visits family. 

        All by herself, apparently, Mary travels to her relative Elizabeth, who is in the middle of her own miraculous pregnancy.

In her “old age,” Elizabeth is carrying John the Baptist – John, who doesn’t get a speaking part today, but he’s already on the move, leaping for joy in his mother’s womb at the presence of the Son of God and his mother.

And then, Mary does another, most human thing.

She sings.

Mary sings a song of hope.

Mary sings about her own blessedness.

And Mary sings about the powerful acts of God - God who has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly – God who has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.

Mary, woman of hope, sings about the powerful acts of God.

        Mary sings about what God has done in the past.

        Mary sings about what she knows God will do again, in and through her son.

Mary knows that hope is not so much a feeling, but an action.

Mary, woman of hope, has acted – saying “yes” to God, doing her part in the downside-up revolution that is now underway.

Mary – and Elizabeth, too – were women of hope.

So, like you, lately I’ve had a lot on my mind.

But also like you, I’ve also been blessed by some women of hope – not only Mary and Elizabeth – but women of hope in our own time and place.

As I mentioned to some of you last week, I’ve attended a lot of church services in my day. But I can’t remember a service that was more joyful and more hopeful than the ordinations last Saturday at the Cathedral.

The place was packed with people of all ages but with a noticeable number of younger people.

        There was a buzzing excitement.

And as I watched Amelia and the four others stand before the bishop and all of us and make some very big promises, I was in awe of their faithfulness and courage.

You know, in the old days, in the boom years of the middle part of the last century when new churches were being built all over the place, when most everybody attended church, when Sunday School classrooms were packed, back in those days, being an ordained person in the Episcopal Church may not have been easy but it was secure – there was a lot of job security.

It’s not like that now – and so it takes more faith, more courage, more hope, to sign on for this work than it did even when I was ordained 17 years ago.

So, it was deeply moving to see Amelia and the others stand before God and us and say “yes.”

Hope is not so much a feeling, but an action.

        And Amelia our deacon is a woman of hope.

And then, if you were here last Sunday, I bet you’ve been thinking all week about Sue’s beautiful, challenging, and deeply vulnerable sermon.

I had read a draft of Sue’s sermon a few days earlier, so I had a good idea of what she was going to say, but I still wasn’t prepared for the power of seeing and hearing her stand up here in front of all of us, people she’s only known for a few months, and speak about the worst thing, and speak about it with raw honesty and deep faith, connecting her suffering to the Gospel message of hope.

Hope is not so much a feeling, but an action.

And Sue, our ministry intern, still in the early days of discerning her vocation, is a woman of hope.

In a hard time, long ago, Mary and Elizabeth both said “yes” to God.

Knowing that the future would be difficult for them and for their sons, they still placed their trust in God, choosing to be women of hope. 

In our own hard time, as we complete our Christmas preparations, let’s all say “yes” to God. 

        Let’s all say “yes” to the God who, in and through Jesus, turns the world downside-up.

With God’s help, in this time and place, let’s be people of hope.

Amen.

“A Time of Being Deeply Shaken”

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

December 1, 2024

Year C: The First Sunday of Advent

Jeremiah 33:14-16

Psalm 25:1-9

1 Thessalonians 3:9-15

Luke 21:25-36

“A Time of Being Deeply Shaken”

So, by now you all know that in my sermons I often address, directly or indirectly, what’s going on in our community, our country, and in the world.

I firmly agree with the person who said that preachers should preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. 

I mean, if what we say and do in here isn’t relevant to the rest of our lives, what’s the point?

But, at the same time, the church – our church or any church – loses its way when it becomes too much like the culture out there in the world.

        So, if the message we receive here is pretty much what you’d see and hear on MSNBC or Fox News, well, we’ve lost our way – we’ve become too much like the culture – or, at least, one of the cultures – out there.

Now, please correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that this community, this place, is different than what we see and hear out there. I think that’s why you keep coming back week after week. I think that’s why new people are making a spiritual home here with us.

I mean, you’ve heard me say many times that this is one of the few places left where all different kinds of people, people who probably disagree about many different things, come together.

        We pray and serve together – it was Republicans, Democrats and Independents who filled those 153 Thanksgiving meal bags that were delivered to hungry people at the Community Crisis Center last week – feeding people about whom we know nothing except that they’re hungry and, for us, that’s all that matters.

        Counter cultural.

        The Church is meant to be counter cultural.

        And there is no season more counter cultural than Advent.

        While the world has been celebrating Christmas – or at least selling and buying what it calls Christmas – since, oh I don’t know, around Labor Day, here we begin a new church year with these four Advent Sundays of preparation – preparation for the birth of Jesus that we’ll celebrate on the real Christmas – and also preparation for the Last Day, the Day of Judgment.

        We’re even having a “Celebration of Life” planning session today.

        I don’t think we can get any more counter cultural than that!

        To help get ready for this holy season, I recently read Advent sermons and meditations written by Alfred Delp, a Jesuit priest who was among the few German Christian leaders who spoke out against Hitler and the Nazis, one of the few German Christian leaders who helped Jews escape to safety.

        Fr. Delp’s courageous opposition led to his arrest and execution in 1945, near the end of World War II.

        Fr. Delp wrote some of his Advent meditations while in prison, writing on scraps of paper smuggled into his cell, his hands shackled.

        It was very powerful and moving to read his words written under such duress.

        Alfred Delp wrote about Advent as a time of being deeply shaken.

        Of course, he and the people hearing and reading his words were already deeply shaken by a culture that had turned to idolatry, hate, and genocide – deeply shaken by the war, by the bombs falling from the sky, deeply shaken by the loss of life – deeply shaken because they could not see their way to a peaceful future.

        As I was reading Delp’s words, of course I thought about the less dire but still real traumas of our own days – the terror attacks and pandemic that I talked about a couple of weeks ago – a political system that seems not so stable – the wars in Ukraine and the Middle East that have caused so much suffering and death and still threaten to spread like a wildfire.

        And then there are our own personal traumas – loss of work, illnesses and addictions and accidents, the death of someone we love so much.

        Like Alfred Delp and the people of his time, we are also deeply shaken.

        And Advent is indeed a time of being deeply shaken.

        Did you hear Jesus’ description of the Last Day in today’s gospel lesson?

         “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of heaven will be shaken.”

        We are shaken by the events of the world and our lives.

        We are shaken by Advent and its preview of the Last Day.

        Yes, we are shaken - but we do not fall because we know the love of God.

        We are shaken but we do not fall because we know the love of God – the love that sent John the Baptist to call us to repent and change our ways.

        We know the love of God – the love that chose Mary, a young peasant woman from the middle of nowhere. God chose the most unlikely person to carry the Son of God into the world – Mary who will sing that, through her son, God is turning the world downside up.

        We know the love of God in the holy men and women down through the centuries, people like Alfred Delp, faithful even unto death, writing to his shaken people about God’s love and faithfulness even in prison, even as he prepared for his own last day.

        We know the love of God in the people we pray and serve with here, week after week – the people who packed as much food and festive accessories as they could into those very heavy Thanksgiving bags – people who call or write when we’re in trouble or feeling low – people who make the choice to pray and serve with – people who make the choice to love – people with whom they probably disagree about all sorts of stuff – the most counter cultural move of all.

        And, most of all, we do not fall because in just a few weeks we will celebrate the birth of the Holy Child in the humblest of circumstances, Jesus the Foot-Washing King whose life of love and sacrifice, whose teachings of love and sacrifice, will change everything, showing us the way to new life.

        Yes, we are shaken but we do not fall.

        As Jesus says, we don’t cower in fear but raise our heads with confidence.

        We are shaken but we do not fall.

        As Jesus says, we don’t numb ourselves to the shaking up that’s happening all around us but we pay attention, looking for signs that God is still at work, looking for signs that God is coming into the world – coming into the world through a priest writing on scraps in his prison cell – coming into the world through people feeding the hungry – coming into the world through the people lined up to be fed – coming into the world on a cold night in Bethlehem when, perhaps, it seemed all hope was lost.

        Advent is a time of being deeply shaken.

        We live in a time of being deeply shaken.

        We are shaken. 

        But we do not fall.

        Because we know – we know - the love of God.

        Amen.

In the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 24, 2024

Year B: The Last Sunday after Pentecost – Christ the King

2 Samuel 23:1-7

Psalm 132:1-13

Revelation 1:4b-8

John 18:33-37

In the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King

One of the key moments in the gospels occurs just a bit before the exchange that we just heard between Pilate and Jesus.

Back before Jesus was betrayed, back before he was arrested and tortured, back at the Last Supper, Jesus taught his friends a few final most important lessons.

And maybe his most essential teaching occurred when he stood up from the table, removed his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. 

He poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet.

Probably they were all shocked and confused.

Maybe they were embarrassed – embarrassed for Jesus, embarrassed for themselves.

Feet, you know.

But it’s Peter who expresses his horror at the idea that his Lord would stoop to perform an act of such lowly service – this was the kind of work done by a slave, most certainly not an appropriate task for the Messiah, the Son of God.

Yes, Jesus had certainly taught some challenging, confusing, unsettling lessons, but I mean foot-washing was just too much.

So, Peter objects, tries to say no to Jesus.

But Jesus warns Peter that he must allow Jesus to do this – that if Peter wants to be part of Jesus, then he must allow Jesus to wash his feet.

Peter gets it – he gets it so clearly that, with a little nod to, yes, Baptism, Peter invites Jesus to wash his whole body.

Try to imagine the scene.

The disciples were just beginning to wrap their minds around the bitterly painful reality that Jesus was going to be killed.

They were beginning to grasp that the end – or what sure seemed like the end – was near.

And now Jesus has made his way around the table, washing all those dusty, smelly feet.

After Jesus was done – when perhaps the room was fragrant with fresh smell of clean feet – Jesus explains that this is how it is to be among his followers – this is how it is to be among us.

Just as Jesus the King has washed our feet, we must offer this same kind of loving service to one another.

        This is how it is to be

        In the Kingdom of the Foot-washing King.

        To say the least, a foot-washing king was uniquely strange back in the first century.

        In today’s gospel lesson, we hear the Roman governor Pontius Pilate struggle to make sense of Jesus.

        Pilate knew all about the ways of the world, the ways of kings, the ways of raw power.

        You had to be tough to be a Roman governor.

        So, Pilate knew all about using cruelty to assert and maintain authority.

        Pilate knew all about instilling fear and amassing wealth.

        And yet, standing before him was a King like no other – a King with no army – a King who didn’t fight back – a King who claimed that his kingdom was not in Pilate’s world of power politics.

        Standing before Pilate was a King – a King he’ll execute just like he disposed of countless other troublemakers, countless others who dared to threaten the glorious power of Rome.

        A King who would rise again on the third day.

        No, Pilate never did figure out Christ the King.

        But we shouldn’t feel too superior to Pilate because the truth is that we also struggle to figure out Christ the King.

        A foot-washing King is uniquely strange in any century, including our own.

        Today is the Last Sunday after Pentecost, the last Sunday of the Church Year, the Feast of Christ the King.

        Much of our church calendar – the different seasons and the various holy days – much of our church calendar is very ancient.

        But not the Feast of Christ the King, which is only 99 years old.

        In the aftermath of World War I, Pope Pius IX recognized that, while the horrific war may have ended, the world was still a very dangerous place.

        The pope and other Christian leaders were alarmed that many Christians were no longer placing their ultimate trust and faith in Christ the King.

        Instead, Christians were pledging allegiance to strong men.

        Many Christians were getting swept up in nationalism and fascism

        Many Christians seem to have concluded that, yeah, the Foot-Washing King might be nice for church and everything, but in the “real” world, you gotta be tough.

        Pilate would have heartily agreed.

        So, responding to this grim situation, in 1925 the Roman Catholic Church, quickly followed by Anglicans, Lutherans, and others, created the new feast day that we celebrate today:

        Christ the King.

        On the last Sunday of the church year, we are reminded that our King is not like the kings of the world.

        No, our King is Christ the Foot-Washing King.

        And we are meant to live in the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King.

        Well, you don’t have to know much history, and you don’t have to closely follow current events, to know that this new feast day has not exactly been a big success.

        Over the last 99 years, Christians have gone right on putting their ultimate trust in worldly kings – including some kings far more evil than anyone Pope Pius IX could have imagined, kings who would never, ever wash anyone’s feet. 

        Over the last century, Christians have gone right on getting swept up in the ideologies of their time, fooling ourselves into thinking that this – this system, this policy, this party – this will finally solve all of our problems.

        Will we ever learn? 

        Back at the Last Supper, after Jesus finished washing the feet of his friends, he said to them,

        “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord – and you are right, for that is what I am. So, if I, your Lord and Teacher have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”

        As we conclude what’s been an often very difficult year and we look ahead to a new year of uncertainty, the kings of this world will continue to be the kings of this world, the kind of kings that Pilate would have known well.

        But no matter our troubles, just like with the first disciples at the somber Last Supper, Jesus calls us to follow his example of loving, lowly service.

        It’s a costly way – it was a costly way for Jesus, and it is a costly way for us – but it is the only way to new life.

        We are invited to live now and forever with Jesus and with one another in the kingdom of the Foot-Washing King.

        As always, the choice is ours.

        Amen.