The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ
February 14, 2021
Year B: The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
2 Kings 2:1-12
Psalm 50:1-6
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9
Blessed Assurance
You “Church By Phone” people may remember that this past Thursday was the feast day of Fanny Crosby, one of the most productive hymn writers of the 19th Century.
Because she is probably best remembered for “Blessed Assurance,” the tune and the words of that much-loved hymn have been echoing in my brain for the past few days.
“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!”
And I’ve been thinking about Fanny Crosby herself, who was quite an amazing person.
She was born in 1820.
And, probably the best-known fact about Fanny Crosby is that she was blind. She claimed to have lost her sight as an infant but others think that she was born blind.
Yet, despite her inability to see the faces of the people she loved, her inability to see the beauty of God’s creation, despite her inability to see the very words she wrote, despite her profound disability – or, actually, maybe because of her profound disability – Fanny Crosby was a person of deep faith, a faith that sustained her all the way to her death in 1915 at the age of 94.
Over the course of her long life she wrote hymns, of course – lots and lots of them, something like 8,000 or 9,000 of them (but, who’s counting?) and also plenty of poetry and music. She was also a teacher.
She was married to a man who was also blind. Together they had a daughter who died not long after she was born, and after that terrible tragedy Fanny and her husband lived mostly separate lives.
Despite the popularity of her work, she was poor, in part because – you’ll be surprised to learn – she made less money than her male peers, and she would also give to anyone less fortunate than herself.
Yet, throughout her long and often difficult life, despite her many sorrows and struggles, it seems that Fanny Crosby was somehow able to feel that blessed assurance, a foretaste of glory divine.
Today is the Last Sunday after the Epiphany.
We began this short journey back at the Jordan where, in the water of Baptism, Jesus heard the voice from heaven say: “You are my Son, the Beloved. With you, I am well pleased.”
From there it was a quick sprint as Jesus assembled his team, calling the first disciples to drop everything and follow him, to start fishing for people.
Those first disciples must have been dazzled when Jesus wowed everybody in the synagogue with his teaching, when Jesus cast out unclean spirits and healed many of the suffering people who were brought to him.
Those first disciples could not have known what they were in for as they followed Jesus from town to town, listening to the stories, watching in wonder as the blind were given sight, as the ears of the deaf were opened, as the dead were raised.
And now, today, on this Last Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear the story of the Transfiguration.
We’re on the mountain with Peter and James and John, fishermen who had left behind their nets to follow Jesus.
We’re on the mountain, so often the place of encounter with God, when suddenly Jesus is transfigured, clothed in a white more dazzling than we can imagine, a sneak preview – a foretaste - of Easter.
That would have been more than enough, but then Moses and Elijah appeared, those two giants of Israel’s past, two men who, it was believed, had not died but had been taken up into heaven.
That would have been enough – and it’s certainly enough for Peter who, not unreasonably, suggests that they build shelters for Jesus, Moses and Elijah, that they hold onto this mountaintop experience for as long as they can.
But, there’s more – the voice from heaven sounds again, just as at the Jordan.
But this time the blessed assurance isn’t just for Jesus. It’s for the disciples. It’s for us:
“This is my Son, the Beloved! Listen to him!”
And then, it was over.
Moses and Elijah were gone and the heavenly voice had gone silent.
All that was left was Jesus – more than enough, of course – who warns his friends not to say a word about all that they had seen and heard.
Together, they make their way down the mountain, descending from this mountaintop experience.
The disciples don’t know this yet, but now Jesus begins the journey to Jerusalem – the journey to his capital city where, after a palm-waving welcome, he will be roundly rejected, tortured, and brutally killed as a common criminal, convincing anyone who might have been paying attention that the cross was the end of the story.
During the hard days that lay ahead, I don’t know if Jesus and his friends remembered and held on to the blessed assurance of the Transfiguration.
I don’t know if they remembered and held on to that foretaste of glory divine – that sneak preview of Easter.
I don’t know, but I hope so.
By now, it has been almost a year since we worshiped together in person.
It is almost time for Lent again – a season when we are called to remember our mortality and practice self-denial – a season that, frankly, this year seems almost beside the point.
After all, haven’t we been reminded of our mortality every time we put on a mask and venture out into the world – every time we go to the supermarket or get on the bus?
Haven’t we been denied so much that we used to take for granted – like being together in church?
It has been a long year of suffering.
But, you know, during this time when we have been, in a way, blinded -unable to see an end to the pandemic, unable to see some of the people we love the most, when some in our land have been blinded by fear and anger and lies, during this time of blindness we have also been given the gift of sight – able to see much of what is usually hidden, able to see what’s truly possible, so long as we stick close to God and to each other.
In our hearts, and in our life together, we have been writing and singing our own hymns of love and faith.
We’ve prayed like we’ve never prayed before.
We’ve supported one another, creating new communities over the phone or on Facebook – yes, not the same as what we used to experience in church and in Carr Hall, but blessed assurance, nevertheless.
We’ve discovered that we – individually and as a community – are stronger, more resilient, more creative, than we might have thought.
And now today, some of us finally have the opportunity to receive Holy Communion apart, but also together – about to receive the most blessed assurance of all, the greatest foretaste of glory divine.
So, yes, it has been a hard year.
And, yes, we are not out of the woods yet.
And, yes, no doubt, the year ahead will bring more than a few setbacks, some unwelcome surprises, changes and losses that will be perhaps hard to bear.
But, as Jesus says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”
And, that’s for sure.
So, today, let’s remember Fanny Crosby, blind, but somehow always able to see blessed assurance.
Today, let’s remember Jesus and his friends who on the mountaintop received a foretaste of glory divine.
And, today, let’s remember all that we have been through together.
Let’s remember how even a perfect storm of pandemic and economic collapse and political instability is no match for the power of God.
And, let’s remember the hymns of love and faith that we have been writing in our own hearts – the hymns of love and faith that we have been writing, and singing, together.
Blessed assurance, indeed.
Amen.
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