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.

This is Not the End

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 17, 2024

Year B, Proper 28: The 26th Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 1:4-20

1 Samuel 2:1-10

Hebrews 10:11-14; 19-25

Mark 13:1-8

This is Not the End

This year, the change of seasons has been delayed.

The summer warmth lingered far longer than it should have while the ongoing drought gave us the most beautiful and long-lasting foliage that I can remember.

But the cold, and even some welcome rain, arrived last week.

The days grow short.

We’ve entered a chillier and more shadowy season.

Meanwhile, here in church, we can feel the seasonal change as we approach the end of the year.

In just two weeks, a new church year will begin on the First Sunday of Advent.

Of course, Advent usually gets pretty much gobbled up by the commercial Christmas of the world. And that’s too bad because there are two important themes to Advent – two sides of the Advent coin.

One is preparing for the birth of Jesus.

And the other is preparing for the Last Day, getting ready for the day of judgment - getting ready for the end.

        There have been two times in my life when I’ve thought that maybe this is the end.

The first was twenty-three years ago on what started as a beautiful September morning with an impossibly blue sky.

I was teaching history at my high school alma mater, St. Peter’s Prep, in Jersey City, just a few blocks from the Hudson River waterfront. 

My classroom was up on the top floor, with big windows looking to the East, giving me and my students a pretty good view of the New York skyline.

Sue was working in the corporate offices of Barnes & Noble, near Union Square, a couple of miles north of Manhattan’s southern tip.

It was the second day of classes.

So, the school year was still new enough to be shiny and hopeful, the students’ notebooks almost entirely blank, ready for all sorts of possibilities.

Well, most of you are old enough to remember how that day which began with such beauty ended with such horror.

After the fall of the second tower, which I could see and even hear in my classroom, as I turned to face my students sitting before me, wide-eyed, looking for me to somehow make sense of this, I remember thinking that whoever did this wanted to terrify us before they finished us off.

I remember thinking that maybe this was the end.

And there were many endings that day, so much death, destruction, and fear.

But it was not the end.

It took all day for her to find a way back across the river, but Sue eventually made her way back to Jersey City.

That night, Sue and I walked the few blocks from our house to our church to pray with Dave our rector and a few of our fellow parishioners. 

I don’t remember much of that night. I don’t recall a word of Dave’s homily, but looking around at the beautiful church, looking at Sue beside me, and my sisters and brothers around me, I remember thinking that, no, this is not the end – that somehow, we would go forward – together.

When school resumed a couple of days later, even as the ruins of the World Trade Center smoldered a little more than a mile away, we started something new.

Each morning, many of us gathered in the school’s foyer to pray for peace – students, faculty, and administrators, all of us together, pouring out our hearts to God.

This was not the end.

The second time when I thought that maybe this was the end was just a few years ago.

As you know, from time to time, different diseases pop up, usually in faraway places. And aside from feeling compassion for the people suffering and admiration for the people trying to help, epidemics or pandemics never really touched my life until, of course, the arrival of Covid-19.

And, at first, even that didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Back at our church in Jersey City, just like here, we made some modifications to the service – no exchange of peace, no drinking from the cup – and then we abruptly stopped meeting in person for what most of us thought and expected would be a few weeks until we “stopped the spread.”

Well, you all definitely remember what happened during those long months of separation.

There was a tremendous loss of life and livelihood, especially up in the New York City area where we lived, which was an epicenter of the pandemic.

During those hard and frightening days, we all learned whose work is truly essential.

For me, there were two moments during the worst of the pandemic, before the vaccines, back when there seemed to be only tunnel and no light, two moments when I thought that maybe we’d never get this under control, that maybe this was the end.

The first was one day when I drove past our main hospital, the Jersey City Medical Center, and there was a long line of out-of-state ambulances parked there, all different unfamiliar colors and names, all idling, waiting for the next call to help someone gasping for breath.

The other moment was the saddest, strangest funeral I’ve ever been part of.

A prominent, much-loved parishioner of our church died but we weren’t allowed to hold a funeral service.

What I could do is go to the funeral home by myself, where, I knelt before the man’s open casket and said the service, just the two of us, in that still and silent room.

After that saddest, strangest funeral, I spoke with the funeral director.

Now, I should say that, in my experience, funeral directors are some of the most upbeat people around. I’m not sure why that is – maybe they know better than most the preciousness of life, the value of time.

I knew this particular funeral director pretty well, but that day I hardly recognized him. We were masked, of course, but through his eyes and voice and body language, I knew that he was drained and exhausted. I saw profound sadness and even fear in his eyes.

And I remember thinking that maybe this was the end.

And there were many endings during those days, so much death, destruction, and fear.

But it was not the end.

In just a few days after we were told we couldn’t meet in person, Sue figured out how to live-stream our service on our church Facebook page.

On that first Sunday and for months of Sundays to follow it was just the two of us in church. Sue was our camera person, acolyte, lector, and intercessor while I presided and preached.

Of course, I would never ever want to go back to those days, but they weren’t without their blessings. After the service, I used to especially love scrolling through the comments posted by parishioners and other viewers, all those “amens” and “alleluias” and greetings of love and friendship.

And, very early in the pandemic, we started offering conference call prayer services, three times a day, morning, noon, and evening. And it was a joy to hear all those much-loved voices as they called in day after day and as we prayed for deliverance, prayed for each other, and even managed to laugh.

And, amazingly enough, the morning edition of “Church By Phone” continues to this day.

This was not the end.

I’ve shared parts of these stories with you before, but I wanted to return to them again because, for me, they come closest to what the Jewish people experienced in the year 70 when the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem.

As we heard in today’s gospel lesson, while speaking to his awestruck disciples about forty years earlier, Jesus had predicted that this would happen, that the mighty Temple would be destroyed – not one stone left upon another.

It’s hard for us to grasp what a catastrophe this was for the Jewish people.

The Temple was the center of religious life, the place where, in a sense, God was believed to dwell.

It’s where the sacrifices took place, the sacrifices that kept Israel in covenant with God.

How could God have allowed the holiest place on earth to be destroyed?

And what happens next?

No doubt, many thought that this was the end.

But two new spiritual sprouts grew from the ashes of the Temple.

The priests were no longer needed, but the rabbis, the teachers, took the lead.

And a new Judaism was born, a tradition strong enough to withstand catastrophes even worse than the destruction of the Temple.

And the other sprout was Christianity itself, the faith that has brought us here today, two millennia later, the faith that reassures us that God loves us enough to die for us.

This was not the end.

As we heard in today’s gospel lesson, Jesus is quite frank that times will be hard.

For some of us, at least, it probably sounded like he was talking about today.

But no matter the season, even in the midst of the cold, even when the shadows are deepest, God is at work, planting seeds of new life.

So, we face our hard times, together, trusting that even when the end does come, God will not let go of us, no matter what.

Amen.

Generosity Begins in Our Hearts

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 10, 2024

Year B, Proper 26: The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

Psalm 127

Hebrews 9:24-28

Mark 12:38-44

Generosity Begins in Our Hearts

Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking about one of Jesus’ greatest parables, the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

I’m sure many of you are familiar with it.

The set up is that a lawyer asks Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Rather than answering the lawyer directly, Jesus responds with a question:

“What is written in the law? What do you read there?”

Of course, the lawyer knows the law, and he responds,

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus congratulates the lawyer for giving the correct answer.

But then the lawyer asks a follow-up question:

“And who is my neighbor?”

To answer that question, Jesus tells a story.

A man was going down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho when he was attacked by robbers who stripped him, beat him, and left him for dead by the side of the road.

Now a priest came down the road. And when he saw the beaten man, he crossed to the other side and went on his way.

And then a Levite – the Levites played special roles in the Temple – then a Levite came along, saw the dying man, and he also crossed the road and went on his way.

And then a Samaritan came along. 

Unlike the other two, he helps the poor man, bandaging his wounds, put him on his animal, and brought him to an inn. The Samaritan paid for his stay, giving him to time to heal and recover in safety.

The Samaritan was a neighbor to the beaten man by the side of the road.

This is what loving your neighbor as yourself looks like.

Even after two thousand years, this parable is still so powerful and challenging.

But for the first Jewish hearers of this parable, there would have been two great shocks.

First, although Jews and Samaritans were related to each other, they really didn’t get along – didn’t trust each other.

Jews could hardly imagine that a Samaritan might be “good.”

To get a feel for that initial reaction to the parable, simply replace “Samaritan” with the kind of person, or even the person, that you despise the most.

Imagine that’s the person who helps the stranger in need.

Go ahead. I’ll give you a moment.

And for Jesus’ first Jewish audience, the other shock of this story would have been the cowardly and selfish behavior of the priest and Levite.

I mean, of all people, these officially religious men would have known that God’s Law obligated them – required any Jew – to assist a person in need and distress.

That obligation would have been more important than potential risks to their personal safety, and certainly more important than wherever they were in such a rush to get to.

But, in this parable, as so often throughout history and still today, the official, professional religious people fail spectacularly, and it’s the most unlikely person – in this case the hated Samaritan – it’s the most unlikely person who obeys God most perfectly – it’s the most unlikely person who is a neighbor – it’s the most unlikely person who is generous.

I thought of the Parable of the Good Samaritan when I began to reflect on today’s gospel lesson, where Jesus makes some pointed criticisms of the religious establishment, making those criticisms while he is right in the heart of the religious establishment: the Temple.

None of his criticisms should be surprising. I mean, throughout the gospels, Jesus doesn’t have much good to say about the religious leaders of his time.

He dismisses them as hypocrites.

He condemns them for making life more difficult than necessary for people.

And every time Jesus criticizes the religious leaders of the first century, all of us who are religious leaders today should probably get at least a little bit uncomfortable.

I mean, I’d sure hate to be one of those guys… walking around in long robes…

And I definitely wouldn’t want to be the kind of person who… recites long prayers…

Or always sits in the best seats…

Well, at least as far as I know, I haven’t devoured any widow’s houses!

And then, after Jesus is done criticizing the holy men, as if on cue, a widow appears in the Temple.

In the English translation, she’s described as poor, but the Greek word is better translated as “destitute.”

This widow, destitute and vulnerable, appears in the Temple and makes her offering: two small copper coins.

One commentary said that was equal to 1/64th of the typical daily wage - a tiny, tiny amount of money. But it’s everything that she has.

And Jesus simply speaks the plain truth when he says that she has given far more than the others, who gave bigger amounts, yes, but they had plenty left over.

This passage is usually interpreted as Jesus praising the widow for her exceptional generosity.

And I suppose that’s true.

But we can’t forget what we heard just before we met this widow. We can’t forget Jesus’ critique of the system, his criticism of the priests taking advantage of the poor widows.

Does God really want her to give all that she has to the Temple?

And why is the widow destitute, anyway?

So, just for the record, please be as generous as you can be with the church. But please do not give everything you have to the church.

We are not interested in devouring anyone’s houses!

You know, asking you to be generous feels kind of funny because so many of you are incredibly generous with the church – giving so much of your time, talent, and treasure.

        As I’ve said before, it’s deeply moving and inspiring.

The jampacked Thanksgiving bags began arriving last Sunday. I’m not sure how that happened since we just began distributing them last Sunday, but when you’re generous and determined you can make even seemingly impossible things happen!

And I know that most, if not all, of you are also generous with other institutions that do good work – schools and all sorts of charities.

And since it seems that, no matter our political persuasion, we all agree that in our very rich country so many of our neighbors are struggling to make ends meet, so many people have just a few coins rattling around in their pocket, so many people are lying in distress beside the road, I know that we will continue to be generous, continue to be a Servant Church.

Finally, I keep thinking about the priest and Levite who crossed the road to avoid the man left for dead by the side of the road.

And I think of the scribes who liked wearing their long robes and saying show-off prayers and taking the best seats and devouring the homes of widows.

They knew God’s law better than anybody and yet they lost their way.

        How could this be?

But then, I think about my own life, the times that I’ve messed up, the times I’ve lost my way, the times I haven’t been as loving or generous or forgiving as I should have been, and the root cause of those mistakes has always been that I haven’t taken care of my heart.

I allowed my heart to get sick with fear or anger or grievance.

Without rest and renewal, I’ve given into compassion fatigue and become stingy and resentful and judgmental.

I mean, that man lying by the side of the road should’ve been more careful! He’s not my problem!

So, especially these days, when the news is practically pumped into our veins, clogging our spiritual arteries with poisons, we must care for our hearts.

Yes, we should be informed but that doesn’t have to be twenty-four hours a day.

At least sometimes, we should turn off the TV, put away the phone, shut down the computer, and just be quiet, just breathe, just look out the window, take a walk, open the Prayer Book and pray one of the prayers or psalms that will comfort and feed our soul.

For our own wellbeing, we need to care for our hearts.

And we need to care for our hearts because that’s where generosity begins.

Amen.