The Rev. Canon Mariclair Partee
We are half way through the Easter season, and as time passes for us, we see time moving in the creation narrative of Christianity in our lectionary. We have lived through the shock and the awe of the Resurrection, of the empty tomb and all that it represents.
Last Sunday we watched as Christ appeared to his disciples, initially all but Thomas, who expressed an inability or perhaps an unwillingness to believe that freed all of us, two thousand years later, to ask our own questions, express our own doubts, always with the reassurance of Christ’s presence in our lives even when our faith or our imagination is wanting.
Today we have two stories, running parallel, creation narratives in their own right-genesis stories of two apostles, and of the church.
In the reading from Acts, we meet Saul, who we know as Paul, on his way to Damascus. We are all familiar with this story, Saul setting off bloodthirsty to persecute followers of Jesus, struck blind on his way. He hears the voice of Jesus asking him why he was so set on persecution and destruction, and once he reaches Damascus he meets Ananias, a follower of the Lord who lays hands upon Saul’s eyes, and something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored. Saul is both literally restored to sight, and metaphorically so-he sees the error of his ways and ceases his persecutions, is baptized, takes a meal, and spends several days learning the story of Jesus from the disciples, and then sets out into the world, the most Christian of Christians, and in that moment the Church has her first evangelist. Paul travels far and wide, spreading the word of Christ, and we read his letters, or letters written in his name, still, encouraging and mediating between the distant churches founded in Christ’s name.
In the Gospel reading from John we encounter Simon Peter, setting out in a boat to fish with his fellow disciples. They don’t have any luck until the morning, when the Lord appears on the beach and tells them where to cast their nets. Over breakfast (notice the meals in both of these stories- always with the eating!) Jesus asks Peter three times if he loves him, and each time when he replies “Yes, Lord,” he tells Peter to tend his lambs, feed his sheep, tend his sheep.
And in that moment, the church receives her first pastor.
And so in three short weeks we have moved from the foundation of the Christian faith, in the resurrection, to the foundation moments of the Christian Church in these two stories. It is important that we are familiar with our history, so that we understand who we are as a Christian people, and as Episcopalians.
Today between services I will talk with a group of newcomers about the history of our Episcopal Church in our Foundations Class. We will discuss how we first differentiated ourselves from the Roman Catholic Church during the Reformation in a dance of the theological and the political, the development a few years later of the first Book of Common Prayer-which transformed us from a breakaway group of rebels into a proper church-to a similar act of rebellion a couple of hundred years later, when a group of colonies chose self-rule-all the way to this day of a global communion that struggles but has managed, so far, to find room in the wideness of God’s love for all who call themselves Anglicans. It is a complex and beautiful history, and I think there is some proof of God’s love for us in the fact of our existence, as Episcopalians, as Anglicans, as Christians, for two thousand years.
During my brief career as a lawyer, I was often forwarded emails from well meaning family members, usually some sort of lawyer joke or inspiring quotation about justice-though many more of the former! One that has stuck with me to this day was a picture of two people standing in a vast law library, staring at the endless shelves of books, with one saying to the other: “And to think it all started with ten commandments!”
I didn’t appreciate it for more than the sight gag at the time, but today, as we pray together for the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Anglican Communion in Japan, our companion cathedral in the Sudan, I find that I have a greater appreciation for the awe in that statement, because our vast global communion, our two thousand year Christian history, warts and all, started with the two stories we heard today in the lectionary, with two apostles, as human and as flawed as each one of us sitting in this cathedral today.
It is a little frightening, isn’t it, to know that any one of us could be the Peter or the Paul of the next two thousand years? Don’t think too much about it, it will keep you up nights!
It is said that the one Bible verse that is almost universally know is John 3:16. Even in this day when church educators and seminary professors decry mainstream biblical illiteracy, you see this verse sited on bumper stickers, billboards, posters at baseball games. I bet each of us could recite it- “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”
It is a pity that John 3:17 is not as universally known. Can any of you recite it? Don’t worry, I had to look it up—“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”
It is a very human instinct to judge, to condemn, to put our own judgment in the place of God’s. But in these foundational verses of scripture, and in the foundational stories we heard today of Peter and Paul, we are warned against persecution, not told to judge, but to nurture, to love, to care for our fellow sheep.
And so, on this third Sunday of Eastertide, and every day, let us yearn to follow those two commandments of Christ-to love our God, and love our neighbor as ourselves, to spread the word of God’s love far and wide, and to make sure that each and every sheep is tended, and is fed.
Once we have managed all of that, perhaps then we can begin on the business of condemning those we disagree with. But somehow I doubt we will have much of an appetite for it, after all.
AMEN.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Sescond Sunday in Easter
The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa
Good morning and happy Easter!
If you are visiting with us today at the Cathedral, I want to welcome you and let you know that the construction tape over the back door is a prop. We are celebrating the kick-off Sunday of our Capital Campaign, which is “Carrying the Vision Forward.” So, I don’t want you to be afraid. To the best of my knowledge, nothing is going to fall today.
My favorite movie—actually I have a few—but one of my favorite movies and yes, I’m going to talk about it at Easter though it has a Christmastime setting. It is the classic “It’s a Wonderful Life.” How many of you know that movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”? Raise your hands high. (Yes, this predicts how much of the story I actually tell.)
In 1945, I think, or 1946, Frank Capra, produced a wonderful movie in its time. Of course, it got panned. Now it’s a sentimental favorite among many. (Frank Capra’s wife, by the way, was a native of Delaware. She is buried in the cemetery of the parish that I previously served—just a little bit of a tribute for those of you who care about those things.) But, you know the story of George Bailey, who is filled with life, hope and dreams, wanderlust. He envisions his entire upbringing in that small town, living in that house with his father who has that business—the savings and loan. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to get up and out, and begin to chase his dreams. You know how the story goes, of course. His father dies and he is faced with a decision of whether he will remain and carry on the business or whether he will go off and pursue his dream. The life as it goes, as you know, is that he makes a success of his father’s business as defined by all of those who come to find housing and income through the building savings and loan. This goes until one day, actually the happiest day of George’s life—his wedding day, when he discovers that there has been something tragic. Money has gone missing.
You know the scene when he spins into desperation. All of the happiness, the dreams of his life are dimmed and confused, and in his despair and hopelessness, he finds himself on the bridge asking this wish: Would it not have been better if I were not born at all? Well, you know what happens. Clarence, the angel, visits and George is treated to an experience of seeing what life would have been like if he had never been born. Of course, through seeing the flashed life, the interweaving of all the goodness that had occurred because of George’s life and faithfulness, he stands on that bridge again asking for his life back. George, in that moment, gets it. He gets it. He rushes home with what’s her face’s petals in his pocket—Zuzu, thank you Ron Heneghan—Zuzu’s petals in his pocket, surrounded by all those who, of course, were the witnesses to the goodness of his life. So, let me cut to the chase.
Thomas gets it. Doubting Thomas gets it. Thomas gets what’s going on. He’s just the only smart one to ask the right questions, but Thomas gets it. For centuries we’ve been giving Thomas a bad rap, but I’m here to tell you that Thomas gets it, like our good friend, George Bailey. Let’s face it; Thomas has had one heck of a week. He has seen the one in whom he has put his trust and his faith. He has followed him every step of the way and has watched him go to Jerusalem, be tortured, crucified, and murdered on a cross. Thomas has had a heck of a week. He has lost his dreams. He, like the other disciples, is clearly off-center, off-base. You have to believe that they are in deep, deep despair and, of course, they fear the worst.
I am here to tell you that Thomas gets it. He just wasn’t there when Jesus showed up. You have to remember that early in John’s gospel, when Jesus was prepared to go to Bethany, a place he had to leave under the threat of being stoned, it was Thomas who said to the other disciples, “We have to follow him there, even if we have to die with him.” That doesn’t sound very doubting to me. You see, Thomas was just the hands-on guy, the guy who needed the facts. He needed to know the skinny. Once he had the skinny, he would follow and go anywhere. It was Thomas who, later in the midst of Jesus’ farewell address not all that long ago, on a Maundy Thursday night, that we sat here and recreated and listened to. In the intimacy of that moment when Jesus took off the towel and washed their feet and left them with the poetic imagery that in my father’s house there will be many dwelling places and where I am, there you will be also. “You know the place where I’m going,” he said to them. It was Thomas who was the only brave one to speak up and say, “Wait a minute, Jesus, what exactly do you mean, because I have no idea where you’re going. In fact, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not sure of the way.” It is not because he didn’t want to know the way. He just didn’t understand. So he says, “Jesus, clarify.” You see, I believe Thomas gets it. Thomas gets what’s going on here. He just wasn’t in the room on that day when the disciples were locked in the room for fear. Who knows where he was—perhaps buying milk, buying bread, buying resources that would sustain them. Who knows where Thomas was. Maybe he was wandering the streets in despair, weeping over the one who he had lost. We don’t know where Thomas was.
The point of the story, the point of the good news that John is telling us in the end, is not that Thomas doubted. It is that Thomas got it. On the first day of the week, John tells us they gathered. What he is telling earliest readers of the story is that what you do as followers of Jesus is that you gather on the first day of the week. We get it. We’re here the first day of the week. What Thomas wanted to know quite simply, is this—is it he? Is it Jesus? Is it the same Jesus that I’ve been following around for the last few years? Is it indeed the same Jesus who I followed in trust and hope, believing and hoping for the kingdom he proclaimed? Is it the same Jesus whose dream I had bought into? That the lowly would be raised up? That those who suffer injustice would be stood up for? That the poor would have food in their stomachs? That the blind would be able to see again? That those who were held in bondage by whatever, whether it be Caesar or by their own spiritual sin, that they would find freedom? This is what I signed on for Thomas is saying. This is what I believe. Is it you, Jesus?
Okay, Thomas, Jesus says on his return. Poke your fingers, take a whiff...remember that night I washed your feet? It’s I, Thomas. I’m the guy who promised that I would abide with you, that I would be with you. I’m the guy who challenged you on that night to live the kingdom dream by issuing the command to love one another as I have loved you. This, you remember Thomas, is how the world will know me—that you will love one another as I have loved you. So surely Thomas, dazed and confused, grief-stricken and dimmed by Golgotha, you bet he wants to know it is Jesus. This, you see, is the message that John has for us in this gospel because the gospel is written for us. We are Thomas. It is he. It’s Jesus. He’s the one we follow. He’s the one we put our heart into and it is his kingdom in which we believe. Like Thomas and the rest of the disciples, unlock the door. Throw it open wide and get out there and start loving it as Jesus loved us. The issue you see, on this first Sunday after Easter, is who will carry the vision forward? Will the disciples become the resurrection community? Having seen the risen Christ, will they carry the vision of the kingdom forward like George Bailey? I wonder what the world would have been like if the church had never been born at all.
There are three questions the church is being asked, both at the time that they were reading the story in John’s gospel and in our time today. Who are you? What have you got? How do you do what you do? The early church were believers. They were people who gave their heart and soul to this Jesus, who dreamed the community that loves and cares and forgives and lifts up, who reached out to the sick, the poor, the persecuted and the hungry. What did they have? They had the experience of Jesus, the presence of Jesus. They shared the resources of their time and talent and treasure. How did they do it? They did it by unlocking the door, by simply unlocking the door, unlocking their fears, and living united, loving one another as Jesus loved them, and living like they had just seen the living Jesus. They believed it. Knowing who they were, what they had, and how to do it, they did it.
You and I know that we are launching a capital campaign. The words “capital campaign” often drive us to our rooms, asking us to lock the doors. Or is it the opportunity to hear the call of God as those who founded this parish a hundred and fifty years ago: To unlock the beauty, the resources and the talents of their lives so that a community here in south Bethlehem might know this dream that Jesus dreams. The people who founded this parish one hundred and fifty years ago built this parish. By looking at it, we know that they built it like they believed it. They built this foundation so that it would last. Nobody builds buildings that are going to last 150, 250, 350 years and in Europe, many, many, many, many, many years more unless they are believing it to reflect something in which they really believe. Our founders built this place, not as a testimony to their successes, but to their belief that who they were and what they had was a gift from God. They built it on this hill, I believe, for a reason: That it would be a manifestation of Christ’s kingdom here on earth and that those who would enter it would be challenged to spread the light from this hill in such a way that others would know Jesus. Just look up the hill that way and see St. Luke’s Hospital. Just look up the hill that way and see Lehigh University. Just look down the street to that corner and see New Bethany Ministries. Just look down to the basement of Sayre Hall and see the children who come here each day. Just look even to the Shawnee Building, which stores food to feed 400 people a day. Just look to the parish hall on any Thursday night in the winter and see the homeless being fed and housed.
This belief is Jesus’ dream, and I believe it was our ancestors’ dreams as they laid the foundations to this place because who they were and who we are are the people of God. What they had that they shared and what we’ve got are resources, physical and intellectual, spiritual and financial, built, shared, shared and built. And, of course, what they had and we have and Thomas and his friends had is the abiding presence of the risen Christ. How did they do it and how do we do it? We do it the way Jesus commanded us to do it, by loving one another as Jesus loved us, gathering on the first day of the week since 1864 or before. Those gatherings within these walls become the beacon of what those who would come here are called and sent to do. For generations in this place we have held one another’s children, baptized them in that baptismal font, celebrated with one another as love was consecrated in marriage and, as we have experienced even as recently as last week, embraced one another in the most despairing of times. Holding one another’s faith, comforting one another in our grief, and loving one another through difficult times, is how we do it. We do it coming together to serve the community and the world, loving one another as Jesus loved us. Can you imagine? Can you imagine if no one ever dreamed this cathedral church? Can you imagine your own lives without it? Can you imagine the south side of Bethlehem without it? Who we are, what we have, and how we do it—this is the way we carry the vision forward. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Good morning and happy Easter!
If you are visiting with us today at the Cathedral, I want to welcome you and let you know that the construction tape over the back door is a prop. We are celebrating the kick-off Sunday of our Capital Campaign, which is “Carrying the Vision Forward.” So, I don’t want you to be afraid. To the best of my knowledge, nothing is going to fall today.
My favorite movie—actually I have a few—but one of my favorite movies and yes, I’m going to talk about it at Easter though it has a Christmastime setting. It is the classic “It’s a Wonderful Life.” How many of you know that movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”? Raise your hands high. (Yes, this predicts how much of the story I actually tell.)
In 1945, I think, or 1946, Frank Capra, produced a wonderful movie in its time. Of course, it got panned. Now it’s a sentimental favorite among many. (Frank Capra’s wife, by the way, was a native of Delaware. She is buried in the cemetery of the parish that I previously served—just a little bit of a tribute for those of you who care about those things.) But, you know the story of George Bailey, who is filled with life, hope and dreams, wanderlust. He envisions his entire upbringing in that small town, living in that house with his father who has that business—the savings and loan. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to get up and out, and begin to chase his dreams. You know how the story goes, of course. His father dies and he is faced with a decision of whether he will remain and carry on the business or whether he will go off and pursue his dream. The life as it goes, as you know, is that he makes a success of his father’s business as defined by all of those who come to find housing and income through the building savings and loan. This goes until one day, actually the happiest day of George’s life—his wedding day, when he discovers that there has been something tragic. Money has gone missing.
You know the scene when he spins into desperation. All of the happiness, the dreams of his life are dimmed and confused, and in his despair and hopelessness, he finds himself on the bridge asking this wish: Would it not have been better if I were not born at all? Well, you know what happens. Clarence, the angel, visits and George is treated to an experience of seeing what life would have been like if he had never been born. Of course, through seeing the flashed life, the interweaving of all the goodness that had occurred because of George’s life and faithfulness, he stands on that bridge again asking for his life back. George, in that moment, gets it. He gets it. He rushes home with what’s her face’s petals in his pocket—Zuzu, thank you Ron Heneghan—Zuzu’s petals in his pocket, surrounded by all those who, of course, were the witnesses to the goodness of his life. So, let me cut to the chase.
Thomas gets it. Doubting Thomas gets it. Thomas gets what’s going on. He’s just the only smart one to ask the right questions, but Thomas gets it. For centuries we’ve been giving Thomas a bad rap, but I’m here to tell you that Thomas gets it, like our good friend, George Bailey. Let’s face it; Thomas has had one heck of a week. He has seen the one in whom he has put his trust and his faith. He has followed him every step of the way and has watched him go to Jerusalem, be tortured, crucified, and murdered on a cross. Thomas has had a heck of a week. He has lost his dreams. He, like the other disciples, is clearly off-center, off-base. You have to believe that they are in deep, deep despair and, of course, they fear the worst.
I am here to tell you that Thomas gets it. He just wasn’t there when Jesus showed up. You have to remember that early in John’s gospel, when Jesus was prepared to go to Bethany, a place he had to leave under the threat of being stoned, it was Thomas who said to the other disciples, “We have to follow him there, even if we have to die with him.” That doesn’t sound very doubting to me. You see, Thomas was just the hands-on guy, the guy who needed the facts. He needed to know the skinny. Once he had the skinny, he would follow and go anywhere. It was Thomas who, later in the midst of Jesus’ farewell address not all that long ago, on a Maundy Thursday night, that we sat here and recreated and listened to. In the intimacy of that moment when Jesus took off the towel and washed their feet and left them with the poetic imagery that in my father’s house there will be many dwelling places and where I am, there you will be also. “You know the place where I’m going,” he said to them. It was Thomas who was the only brave one to speak up and say, “Wait a minute, Jesus, what exactly do you mean, because I have no idea where you’re going. In fact, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not sure of the way.” It is not because he didn’t want to know the way. He just didn’t understand. So he says, “Jesus, clarify.” You see, I believe Thomas gets it. Thomas gets what’s going on here. He just wasn’t in the room on that day when the disciples were locked in the room for fear. Who knows where he was—perhaps buying milk, buying bread, buying resources that would sustain them. Who knows where Thomas was. Maybe he was wandering the streets in despair, weeping over the one who he had lost. We don’t know where Thomas was.
The point of the story, the point of the good news that John is telling us in the end, is not that Thomas doubted. It is that Thomas got it. On the first day of the week, John tells us they gathered. What he is telling earliest readers of the story is that what you do as followers of Jesus is that you gather on the first day of the week. We get it. We’re here the first day of the week. What Thomas wanted to know quite simply, is this—is it he? Is it Jesus? Is it the same Jesus that I’ve been following around for the last few years? Is it indeed the same Jesus who I followed in trust and hope, believing and hoping for the kingdom he proclaimed? Is it the same Jesus whose dream I had bought into? That the lowly would be raised up? That those who suffer injustice would be stood up for? That the poor would have food in their stomachs? That the blind would be able to see again? That those who were held in bondage by whatever, whether it be Caesar or by their own spiritual sin, that they would find freedom? This is what I signed on for Thomas is saying. This is what I believe. Is it you, Jesus?
Okay, Thomas, Jesus says on his return. Poke your fingers, take a whiff...remember that night I washed your feet? It’s I, Thomas. I’m the guy who promised that I would abide with you, that I would be with you. I’m the guy who challenged you on that night to live the kingdom dream by issuing the command to love one another as I have loved you. This, you remember Thomas, is how the world will know me—that you will love one another as I have loved you. So surely Thomas, dazed and confused, grief-stricken and dimmed by Golgotha, you bet he wants to know it is Jesus. This, you see, is the message that John has for us in this gospel because the gospel is written for us. We are Thomas. It is he. It’s Jesus. He’s the one we follow. He’s the one we put our heart into and it is his kingdom in which we believe. Like Thomas and the rest of the disciples, unlock the door. Throw it open wide and get out there and start loving it as Jesus loved us. The issue you see, on this first Sunday after Easter, is who will carry the vision forward? Will the disciples become the resurrection community? Having seen the risen Christ, will they carry the vision of the kingdom forward like George Bailey? I wonder what the world would have been like if the church had never been born at all.
There are three questions the church is being asked, both at the time that they were reading the story in John’s gospel and in our time today. Who are you? What have you got? How do you do what you do? The early church were believers. They were people who gave their heart and soul to this Jesus, who dreamed the community that loves and cares and forgives and lifts up, who reached out to the sick, the poor, the persecuted and the hungry. What did they have? They had the experience of Jesus, the presence of Jesus. They shared the resources of their time and talent and treasure. How did they do it? They did it by unlocking the door, by simply unlocking the door, unlocking their fears, and living united, loving one another as Jesus loved them, and living like they had just seen the living Jesus. They believed it. Knowing who they were, what they had, and how to do it, they did it.
You and I know that we are launching a capital campaign. The words “capital campaign” often drive us to our rooms, asking us to lock the doors. Or is it the opportunity to hear the call of God as those who founded this parish a hundred and fifty years ago: To unlock the beauty, the resources and the talents of their lives so that a community here in south Bethlehem might know this dream that Jesus dreams. The people who founded this parish one hundred and fifty years ago built this parish. By looking at it, we know that they built it like they believed it. They built this foundation so that it would last. Nobody builds buildings that are going to last 150, 250, 350 years and in Europe, many, many, many, many, many years more unless they are believing it to reflect something in which they really believe. Our founders built this place, not as a testimony to their successes, but to their belief that who they were and what they had was a gift from God. They built it on this hill, I believe, for a reason: That it would be a manifestation of Christ’s kingdom here on earth and that those who would enter it would be challenged to spread the light from this hill in such a way that others would know Jesus. Just look up the hill that way and see St. Luke’s Hospital. Just look up the hill that way and see Lehigh University. Just look down the street to that corner and see New Bethany Ministries. Just look down to the basement of Sayre Hall and see the children who come here each day. Just look even to the Shawnee Building, which stores food to feed 400 people a day. Just look to the parish hall on any Thursday night in the winter and see the homeless being fed and housed.
This belief is Jesus’ dream, and I believe it was our ancestors’ dreams as they laid the foundations to this place because who they were and who we are are the people of God. What they had that they shared and what we’ve got are resources, physical and intellectual, spiritual and financial, built, shared, shared and built. And, of course, what they had and we have and Thomas and his friends had is the abiding presence of the risen Christ. How did they do it and how do we do it? We do it the way Jesus commanded us to do it, by loving one another as Jesus loved us, gathering on the first day of the week since 1864 or before. Those gatherings within these walls become the beacon of what those who would come here are called and sent to do. For generations in this place we have held one another’s children, baptized them in that baptismal font, celebrated with one another as love was consecrated in marriage and, as we have experienced even as recently as last week, embraced one another in the most despairing of times. Holding one another’s faith, comforting one another in our grief, and loving one another through difficult times, is how we do it. We do it coming together to serve the community and the world, loving one another as Jesus loved us. Can you imagine? Can you imagine if no one ever dreamed this cathedral church? Can you imagine your own lives without it? Can you imagine the south side of Bethlehem without it? Who we are, what we have, and how we do it—this is the way we carry the vision forward. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
The Great Vigil of Easter
The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa
Immediately following Aslan’s murder, Aslan's dead body remains on the Stone Table. Susan and Lucy come out from their hiding spot and cry over his body. Shamed and humiliated, the girls are unable to face Aslan. Susan and Lucy manage to remove the muzzle from Aslan, but they are unable to untie the cords around his body. Susan and Lucy spend the rest of the night in a miserable daze, and cry until they cannot cry any longer.
Of course, this synopsis is from the most vulnerable scene in the writings of C.S. Lewis, in his epic tale, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The great Aslan, the Christ figure in Lewis’ writing, lies bound and lifeless, having handed himself over to the powers of his world, so that Susan and Lucy’s brother Edmund, might be spared. This night their hearts break because they love both of them—their brother Edmund, and this Aslan whom they have come to know and in whom they have put their trust. They keep vigil with the lifeless Aslan, miserable in pain, their tears ducts have grown dry. One can appreciate their despair, their hopelessness, their sense that all is lost, that darkness and death now have the last word.
One does not need a fable to depict these feelings of despair, we all have had them. We have our share of it in life. Yet there is power in the ritual we celebrate this night, the most ancient of rituals that people of faith have known. Tonight we begin in the shadows. Like Susan and Lucy, we sit in the darkness of the tomb and wonder if the darkness of life may have the last say. We stare at our fears, our insecurities, our illnesses, our broken relationships, our addictions, and our losses, and we wonder if all that we have put our trust in will give way to these challenges of life and we be left with only them. We stare at them like we are in the tomb with the bound and wrapped body of Jesus and wonder if only darkness will remain.
"At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise—a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant's plate...The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan."
On this night our ritual will lead us out of darkness and into song and light. It will do so because our faith story is one of experience and revelation. As human beings, sometimes we do stare at death and despair and rightly wonder if it will have the last word. As people of faith we know there will be death, but know it will not have the last word. We look to the long line of brothers and sisters who throughout time have come to find new life and freedom, even in the midst of their brokenness and pain! God is working in history and in those he has made, and our faith story is not a story about death—it is a story about life! Jesus, you see, is risen! If not so, the stories of salvation we read would be traded for tragedies about life lived valiantly but ended in defeat. People of faith put on the eyes of faith, face our fears, and by God’s grace, transcend them.
This is the life we celebrate, the song we sing. It goes like this, “Alleluia, Christ is risen.” We need only look to the first row of this Cathedral this night to see that new life is at every step. Tonight, as people of faith, we are honored to welcome this new life into our midst, into our story of life! This is the life we baptize, this Abigail Lynn deBeer, into this night. This is the song we will sing for her until she can sing it on her own! Alleluia! Christ is risen! It does not mean she will not fear, it does not mean she will not face despair, it does not mean she will not see war; it does not mean she will not see pain. It does mean her companion now is a God whose life-force in Jesus raises us to new life, new possibilities, and new hopes. Death and despair are not the final word. The song we sing tonight is “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”
Immediately following Aslan’s murder, Aslan's dead body remains on the Stone Table. Susan and Lucy come out from their hiding spot and cry over his body. Shamed and humiliated, the girls are unable to face Aslan. Susan and Lucy manage to remove the muzzle from Aslan, but they are unable to untie the cords around his body. Susan and Lucy spend the rest of the night in a miserable daze, and cry until they cannot cry any longer.
Of course, this synopsis is from the most vulnerable scene in the writings of C.S. Lewis, in his epic tale, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The great Aslan, the Christ figure in Lewis’ writing, lies bound and lifeless, having handed himself over to the powers of his world, so that Susan and Lucy’s brother Edmund, might be spared. This night their hearts break because they love both of them—their brother Edmund, and this Aslan whom they have come to know and in whom they have put their trust. They keep vigil with the lifeless Aslan, miserable in pain, their tears ducts have grown dry. One can appreciate their despair, their hopelessness, their sense that all is lost, that darkness and death now have the last word.
One does not need a fable to depict these feelings of despair, we all have had them. We have our share of it in life. Yet there is power in the ritual we celebrate this night, the most ancient of rituals that people of faith have known. Tonight we begin in the shadows. Like Susan and Lucy, we sit in the darkness of the tomb and wonder if the darkness of life may have the last say. We stare at our fears, our insecurities, our illnesses, our broken relationships, our addictions, and our losses, and we wonder if all that we have put our trust in will give way to these challenges of life and we be left with only them. We stare at them like we are in the tomb with the bound and wrapped body of Jesus and wonder if only darkness will remain.
"At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise—a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant's plate...The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan."
On this night our ritual will lead us out of darkness and into song and light. It will do so because our faith story is one of experience and revelation. As human beings, sometimes we do stare at death and despair and rightly wonder if it will have the last word. As people of faith we know there will be death, but know it will not have the last word. We look to the long line of brothers and sisters who throughout time have come to find new life and freedom, even in the midst of their brokenness and pain! God is working in history and in those he has made, and our faith story is not a story about death—it is a story about life! Jesus, you see, is risen! If not so, the stories of salvation we read would be traded for tragedies about life lived valiantly but ended in defeat. People of faith put on the eyes of faith, face our fears, and by God’s grace, transcend them.
This is the life we celebrate, the song we sing. It goes like this, “Alleluia, Christ is risen.” We need only look to the first row of this Cathedral this night to see that new life is at every step. Tonight, as people of faith, we are honored to welcome this new life into our midst, into our story of life! This is the life we baptize, this Abigail Lynn deBeer, into this night. This is the song we will sing for her until she can sing it on her own! Alleluia! Christ is risen! It does not mean she will not fear, it does not mean she will not face despair, it does not mean she will not see war; it does not mean she will not see pain. It does mean her companion now is a God whose life-force in Jesus raises us to new life, new possibilities, and new hopes. Death and despair are not the final word. The song we sing tonight is “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”
Friday, April 02, 2010
Good Friday
The Ven. Richard I. Cluett
I want to think with you for a few minutes about this event from Jesus’ perspective, as well as our own. How did he allow this to happen? Why? How could he just give himself over to this? How could he just give away his own power over his life, his survival, to God, to Pilate, to pain, and finally to death itself?
Well, truth be told, looking at the entire context and content of his life, Jesus is not doing a new thing here. This is not new behavior, not a new practice, he’s not trying a different approach, this is not a new direction for his life. When Jesus says, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit”, he was not saying anything or doing anything different from what he had done his entire ministry. “Father, I put myself in your hands. Father, not my will but yours be done." In essence, his entire ministry is putting himself at God’s disposal. (Disposal, now there’s a word with multiple meanings.)
But it is true to form for Jesus at this time to do that. He has run the race. He has practiced what he preached. He has walked the talk. All those platitudes have been made real, been given life and flesh and now blood; they have been lived out. And the final ultimate giving over to God is being accomplished on the cross.
Many of us spend much of our lives trying to maintain control of our lives, attempting to wrest control of our lives from others – from parents, from employers, from the media, from the government, from our need to consume, from our addictions, from the powers that control our behavior, and even to wrest control over ourselves from the God who created us in that divine image.
From our earliest days we are taught to make our own decisions, to be responsible for ourselves, to chart our own course, to control our own destinies. For boys, John Wayne used to be the swaggering model that would tell the world we are in charge of ourselves. Now, for many young men it is the swagger of the hiphop gang, who “don’t take no lip, no dissin’ from nobody.”
“Grow up! Be a mensch, be a man!” Or for women, “I am woman. Hear me roar!” Or a child shouting back at an older sibling, “You’re not the boss a’ me!”
We are reluctant to give ourselves over into the hands of any other person, being, entity, or power.
But Jesus wasn’t. He may have been fearfully afraid of what was happening to him, but he wasn’t reluctant.
Both the prophets of old and the author of the Book of Hebrews wrote, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Jesus didn’t think so. He knew to whom he was ultimately giving himself, God the father, who created him, and who loved him, and who gave his life purpose and meaning, and who would keep him for ever and ever. So he said, Amen to it, amen to it all.
What do you think? What is your experience of this matter of who can control what? What does your experience tell you about you?
There have been moments when I have given some situation or myself into the hands of God – almost always as a last resort, often with a sense of frustration. “God I have tried and tried, it’s now up to you, I give up.”
Sometimes I have given it over with the clear evidence of my own impotence to do anything anyway; the very last option being commending myself and my situation into the hands of God.
Is that what was going on with Jesus? Was it the last resort? He had been at the mercy of the powers of this world for the last several hours – in the agony of their power. Did he just give up? Had he had enough and was now ready to succumb, to give it up?
I don’t think so. If he had just given up, he would have simply slipped away into the merciful welcoming relief of death.
Instead, having experienced the worst that humanity has to give, the powers of the world having taken their best shot, having been brought to the limits of human frailty and human emotion…
Instead, he proclaims the truth that is at the core of his life and ministry, and one last time he declares, “Father into your hands I commend my spirit,” at the last asserting his control over his destiny… and that by commending himself, committing himself into the care of God, who calls him, “My Beloved.”.
Truth be told, in my own experience God has never failed to be there. Sometimes I have known that only when I have looked backward, reflected back on some part of my life and experience. Sometimes it has proven to be a fearsome thing to be in the hands of God, taking me where I did not want to go. Other times taking me gently to rest beside still waters. But there, always there, ever there – when I let God be there – with me.
And truth be told, we will all, each and every one of us, come to a moment when we will be in the hands of God. We will either fall into those hands or give ourselves over into the hands of God, but either way we will be in God’s hands finally, at last, in our death.
Holy woman, poet and priest, recent e-resident during Lent at Nativity Cathedral, and dear friend Renee Miller has written,
Much of our conversation and exchange with life revolves around trying to gain control where we have none, and avoid the control of those who insist on imposing it on us. It becomes a wearying game, because of the energy it requires. One of the ways we … step out of the game is simply to medicate ourselves with television, the Internet, shopping, eating, and other such indulgences. Essentially, we go to sleep, in order to give ourselves a break.
Imagine waking up to your life and your world with the passion of faith and courage and strength. Imagine seeing your mind, body, and soul being fattened rather than flattened because of your trust in a God who is greater than any difficulty in life, because of your courage that proclaims that the Holy One is ever-present, because of your strength that is grounded in the might of heaven. (You can) have that trust, that courage, that strength.
… We are surrounded on all sides by the protective presence of the Creator. We are not in control— – neither is anyone else. It is the Holy One alone.
So doesn’t it make sense to give ourselves as much time in God’s hands as possible? Doesn’t it make sense to learn about this God who, in the end, will reclaim us as God’s own? Having given us life, God will receive us at the end of it and keep us in love for ever and ever.
Right now, liturgically, we find ourselves in the silence of Jesus’ death, waiting until Sunday to experience what God will do. Was it the right thing at the last to trust?
We are not there yet liturgically, but we do know already what happens on Sunday, early in the morning. So, yes we know, we know it was the right thing for Jesus, and it is the right thing for us, too.
Father, help us to commend ourselves – body, mind, soul and spirit – into your hands. Amen.
I want to think with you for a few minutes about this event from Jesus’ perspective, as well as our own. How did he allow this to happen? Why? How could he just give himself over to this? How could he just give away his own power over his life, his survival, to God, to Pilate, to pain, and finally to death itself?
Well, truth be told, looking at the entire context and content of his life, Jesus is not doing a new thing here. This is not new behavior, not a new practice, he’s not trying a different approach, this is not a new direction for his life. When Jesus says, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit”, he was not saying anything or doing anything different from what he had done his entire ministry. “Father, I put myself in your hands. Father, not my will but yours be done." In essence, his entire ministry is putting himself at God’s disposal. (Disposal, now there’s a word with multiple meanings.)
But it is true to form for Jesus at this time to do that. He has run the race. He has practiced what he preached. He has walked the talk. All those platitudes have been made real, been given life and flesh and now blood; they have been lived out. And the final ultimate giving over to God is being accomplished on the cross.
Many of us spend much of our lives trying to maintain control of our lives, attempting to wrest control of our lives from others – from parents, from employers, from the media, from the government, from our need to consume, from our addictions, from the powers that control our behavior, and even to wrest control over ourselves from the God who created us in that divine image.
From our earliest days we are taught to make our own decisions, to be responsible for ourselves, to chart our own course, to control our own destinies. For boys, John Wayne used to be the swaggering model that would tell the world we are in charge of ourselves. Now, for many young men it is the swagger of the hiphop gang, who “don’t take no lip, no dissin’ from nobody.”
“Grow up! Be a mensch, be a man!” Or for women, “I am woman. Hear me roar!” Or a child shouting back at an older sibling, “You’re not the boss a’ me!”
We are reluctant to give ourselves over into the hands of any other person, being, entity, or power.
But Jesus wasn’t. He may have been fearfully afraid of what was happening to him, but he wasn’t reluctant.
Both the prophets of old and the author of the Book of Hebrews wrote, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Jesus didn’t think so. He knew to whom he was ultimately giving himself, God the father, who created him, and who loved him, and who gave his life purpose and meaning, and who would keep him for ever and ever. So he said, Amen to it, amen to it all.
What do you think? What is your experience of this matter of who can control what? What does your experience tell you about you?
There have been moments when I have given some situation or myself into the hands of God – almost always as a last resort, often with a sense of frustration. “God I have tried and tried, it’s now up to you, I give up.”
Sometimes I have given it over with the clear evidence of my own impotence to do anything anyway; the very last option being commending myself and my situation into the hands of God.
Is that what was going on with Jesus? Was it the last resort? He had been at the mercy of the powers of this world for the last several hours – in the agony of their power. Did he just give up? Had he had enough and was now ready to succumb, to give it up?
I don’t think so. If he had just given up, he would have simply slipped away into the merciful welcoming relief of death.
Instead, having experienced the worst that humanity has to give, the powers of the world having taken their best shot, having been brought to the limits of human frailty and human emotion…
Instead, he proclaims the truth that is at the core of his life and ministry, and one last time he declares, “Father into your hands I commend my spirit,” at the last asserting his control over his destiny… and that by commending himself, committing himself into the care of God, who calls him, “My Beloved.”.
Truth be told, in my own experience God has never failed to be there. Sometimes I have known that only when I have looked backward, reflected back on some part of my life and experience. Sometimes it has proven to be a fearsome thing to be in the hands of God, taking me where I did not want to go. Other times taking me gently to rest beside still waters. But there, always there, ever there – when I let God be there – with me.
And truth be told, we will all, each and every one of us, come to a moment when we will be in the hands of God. We will either fall into those hands or give ourselves over into the hands of God, but either way we will be in God’s hands finally, at last, in our death.
Holy woman, poet and priest, recent e-resident during Lent at Nativity Cathedral, and dear friend Renee Miller has written,
Much of our conversation and exchange with life revolves around trying to gain control where we have none, and avoid the control of those who insist on imposing it on us. It becomes a wearying game, because of the energy it requires. One of the ways we … step out of the game is simply to medicate ourselves with television, the Internet, shopping, eating, and other such indulgences. Essentially, we go to sleep, in order to give ourselves a break.
Imagine waking up to your life and your world with the passion of faith and courage and strength. Imagine seeing your mind, body, and soul being fattened rather than flattened because of your trust in a God who is greater than any difficulty in life, because of your courage that proclaims that the Holy One is ever-present, because of your strength that is grounded in the might of heaven. (You can) have that trust, that courage, that strength.
… We are surrounded on all sides by the protective presence of the Creator. We are not in control— – neither is anyone else. It is the Holy One alone.
So doesn’t it make sense to give ourselves as much time in God’s hands as possible? Doesn’t it make sense to learn about this God who, in the end, will reclaim us as God’s own? Having given us life, God will receive us at the end of it and keep us in love for ever and ever.
Right now, liturgically, we find ourselves in the silence of Jesus’ death, waiting until Sunday to experience what God will do. Was it the right thing at the last to trust?
We are not there yet liturgically, but we do know already what happens on Sunday, early in the morning. So, yes we know, we know it was the right thing for Jesus, and it is the right thing for us, too.
Father, help us to commend ourselves – body, mind, soul and spirit – into your hands. Amen.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Maundy Thursday
The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa
The dictionary defines the word “by-stander” as a person present but not involved; chance spectator; onlooker. I was struck by the notion of a by-stander as I was listening to a story on NPR about the recent phenomena of Mob Flashes in center city Philadelphia, the phenomena of young kids converging at a particular geographical location at a coordinated time. There have been as many as a thousand on the scene at any given time. I appreciated the Philadelphia city official’s struggle as he was talking about how, in the most recent Mob Flash, a handful of teens out of the thousand turned violent and destructive. The question being discussed was what about the others. The conversation focused on the by-standers, those in the group of kids and those in the vicinity? The conversation about those who may be in the mob for the adrenalin rush and feeling of power, but internally are not approving of the violence and destruction, and those others in a state of shock and uncertainty look on. How many of these bystanders are there? Why are they immobilized in the face of violence and destruction? For those who are part of the mob, what moves them from being a participant in an act, to a by-stander that cannot act for the good or the ill?
The narrative that guides our faith this most holy of weeks is full of by-standers. There are those who were present but not involved in the happenings of Jesus of Nazareth and his followers. There are soldiers, citizens, clergy, and many others who watched both the excitement and the cruelty that would take place. There were many who would witness Jesus and choose to be a by-stander. The truth of the matter is that if you ponder the entire story and put it in historical context, the majority of those who witnessed Jesus in his life and ministry would be bystanders. They would be present at some point, onlookers, but choose not to become involved. Their lives would remain the same; they would be on-lookers. When they witnessed power, healing, love and intimacy, they were not changed or moved to make a decision of belonging to the followers of Jesus. They would not believe in who and what Jesus was up to, and they would therefore not behave in such a way as to help shape the new world Jesus proclaimed and described as God’s kingdom. When they witnessed the cruelty, harm and injustices that Jesus denounced and ultimately became the object of, they would do so as bystanders or onlookers. They watched perhaps with horror and dismay, but certainly kept a distance. There would be nothing that would change their belonging and believing, and therefore nothing that would move them to act in the midst of this cruelty.
If the definition of bystander is to be one who is present but not involved, then certainly we would not find this an adequate description for those that gathered around this Jesus on this most intimate night as Jesus prepares for the final act of his life. Who is it, then, who gather with Jesus if they are not by-standers? Who is it that have witnessed him in such a way that they are involved, present to every moment of this relationship and called into a deeper relationship that will inform their belonging, believing and behaving to proclaim this radical way of living Jesus describes as kingdom living? What makes the difference between by-standing and belonging, believing, and behaving?
These, I submit to you, are the focal questions for you, for us this night.
How do you and I experience Jesus this very night? Do we experience Jesus as one whom we look on from a distance, a distance of 2,000 years? Do we find ourselves looking on as chance spectators? Do we find ourselves present but in a way that does not involve us? Are we by-standers in this story that is ours, this story of faith and life, life and faith?
Or do we see this life and this faith and this night as an opportunity to be present with Jesus even as he promised to be present with us.
For you and me, the challenge is to know we are in this story; NO, I suggest to you that as a matter of fact we ARE this story.
We who dare to follow this Jesus are challenged this night to join him in this intimate moment the night before he dies. We are invited to sit in chair and offer our feet to be washed as if Jesus himself were washing them, and to ponder in our hearts the Mandatum (Maundy) he lays down for us in the totality of his life and in the humble action of his washing: We are as Jesus commands us to Love one another just as he loves us.
Now the commandment to love is not new. The Great Commandment to love God with all hearts, all soul, all mind, and all strength and to Love neighbor as ourselves, is found in Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. The new part of this commandment is the radical notion from Jesus that we love "as I have loved you."
So there are at least two challenges in this commandment. They are, of course, in relationship with one another.
One is to deeply and correctly discern how Jesus loves and to express that way of loving in our own lives. After all, it is the scripture that tells us that by loving one another in this way the world will know Jesus!
The other challenge comes especially for churchy folks like you and me. We “know this story” we read tonight. We have read it, heard it, marked it, and inwardly digested it, yet the challenge remains: will we become it? Folks like you and me may identify with Peter when he realizes Jesus is about to wash his feet. We may find the idea of Jesus washing our feet unnerving and we, ourselves, undeserving. We may find this foot washing an act of intimacy characterizing a relationship we may not fully understand, or so intimate we may not be ready to commit to it.
I wonder, perhaps, if this is an act of empowerment and as so is an act to move us beyond our fears, limitations, and inadequacies. I wonder, perhaps, if this act is a charge to live in the world bravely advocating for those who are poor, forgotten, downtrodden, abused, broken, despairing and hopeless, whether that someone is us, someone we know intimately or a stranger we do not yet know. I wonder if this is an act that moves us from bystander to belonging, believing, and behaving in this kingdom Jesus proclaims.
The commandment is NOT: Love one another as I have loved someone else.
The commandment is: “Love one another as I have loved YOU.”
Whether you come to have your feet washed this night or to meditate in your pew as the feet of others are washed, won’t you let Jesus love you this night? Won’t you join me in taking whatever steps we may to move past those places in us when it is more comfortable to be a bystander? Won’t you love one another belonging, believing, and behaving in such a way that the world knows the one and ones we are in communion with and the kingdom that is proclaimed? Amen.
The dictionary defines the word “by-stander” as a person present but not involved; chance spectator; onlooker. I was struck by the notion of a by-stander as I was listening to a story on NPR about the recent phenomena of Mob Flashes in center city Philadelphia, the phenomena of young kids converging at a particular geographical location at a coordinated time. There have been as many as a thousand on the scene at any given time. I appreciated the Philadelphia city official’s struggle as he was talking about how, in the most recent Mob Flash, a handful of teens out of the thousand turned violent and destructive. The question being discussed was what about the others. The conversation focused on the by-standers, those in the group of kids and those in the vicinity? The conversation about those who may be in the mob for the adrenalin rush and feeling of power, but internally are not approving of the violence and destruction, and those others in a state of shock and uncertainty look on. How many of these bystanders are there? Why are they immobilized in the face of violence and destruction? For those who are part of the mob, what moves them from being a participant in an act, to a by-stander that cannot act for the good or the ill?
The narrative that guides our faith this most holy of weeks is full of by-standers. There are those who were present but not involved in the happenings of Jesus of Nazareth and his followers. There are soldiers, citizens, clergy, and many others who watched both the excitement and the cruelty that would take place. There were many who would witness Jesus and choose to be a by-stander. The truth of the matter is that if you ponder the entire story and put it in historical context, the majority of those who witnessed Jesus in his life and ministry would be bystanders. They would be present at some point, onlookers, but choose not to become involved. Their lives would remain the same; they would be on-lookers. When they witnessed power, healing, love and intimacy, they were not changed or moved to make a decision of belonging to the followers of Jesus. They would not believe in who and what Jesus was up to, and they would therefore not behave in such a way as to help shape the new world Jesus proclaimed and described as God’s kingdom. When they witnessed the cruelty, harm and injustices that Jesus denounced and ultimately became the object of, they would do so as bystanders or onlookers. They watched perhaps with horror and dismay, but certainly kept a distance. There would be nothing that would change their belonging and believing, and therefore nothing that would move them to act in the midst of this cruelty.
If the definition of bystander is to be one who is present but not involved, then certainly we would not find this an adequate description for those that gathered around this Jesus on this most intimate night as Jesus prepares for the final act of his life. Who is it, then, who gather with Jesus if they are not by-standers? Who is it that have witnessed him in such a way that they are involved, present to every moment of this relationship and called into a deeper relationship that will inform their belonging, believing and behaving to proclaim this radical way of living Jesus describes as kingdom living? What makes the difference between by-standing and belonging, believing, and behaving?
These, I submit to you, are the focal questions for you, for us this night.
How do you and I experience Jesus this very night? Do we experience Jesus as one whom we look on from a distance, a distance of 2,000 years? Do we find ourselves looking on as chance spectators? Do we find ourselves present but in a way that does not involve us? Are we by-standers in this story that is ours, this story of faith and life, life and faith?
Or do we see this life and this faith and this night as an opportunity to be present with Jesus even as he promised to be present with us.
For you and me, the challenge is to know we are in this story; NO, I suggest to you that as a matter of fact we ARE this story.
We who dare to follow this Jesus are challenged this night to join him in this intimate moment the night before he dies. We are invited to sit in chair and offer our feet to be washed as if Jesus himself were washing them, and to ponder in our hearts the Mandatum (Maundy) he lays down for us in the totality of his life and in the humble action of his washing: We are as Jesus commands us to Love one another just as he loves us.
Now the commandment to love is not new. The Great Commandment to love God with all hearts, all soul, all mind, and all strength and to Love neighbor as ourselves, is found in Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. The new part of this commandment is the radical notion from Jesus that we love "as I have loved you."
So there are at least two challenges in this commandment. They are, of course, in relationship with one another.
One is to deeply and correctly discern how Jesus loves and to express that way of loving in our own lives. After all, it is the scripture that tells us that by loving one another in this way the world will know Jesus!
The other challenge comes especially for churchy folks like you and me. We “know this story” we read tonight. We have read it, heard it, marked it, and inwardly digested it, yet the challenge remains: will we become it? Folks like you and me may identify with Peter when he realizes Jesus is about to wash his feet. We may find the idea of Jesus washing our feet unnerving and we, ourselves, undeserving. We may find this foot washing an act of intimacy characterizing a relationship we may not fully understand, or so intimate we may not be ready to commit to it.
I wonder, perhaps, if this is an act of empowerment and as so is an act to move us beyond our fears, limitations, and inadequacies. I wonder, perhaps, if this act is a charge to live in the world bravely advocating for those who are poor, forgotten, downtrodden, abused, broken, despairing and hopeless, whether that someone is us, someone we know intimately or a stranger we do not yet know. I wonder if this is an act that moves us from bystander to belonging, believing, and behaving in this kingdom Jesus proclaims.
The commandment is NOT: Love one another as I have loved someone else.
The commandment is: “Love one another as I have loved YOU.”
Whether you come to have your feet washed this night or to meditate in your pew as the feet of others are washed, won’t you let Jesus love you this night? Won’t you join me in taking whatever steps we may to move past those places in us when it is more comfortable to be a bystander? Won’t you love one another belonging, believing, and behaving in such a way that the world knows the one and ones we are in communion with and the kingdom that is proclaimed? Amen.
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