The Sixth Sunday of Easter

The Rev'd Canon Mariclair Partee


John 14:15-21

The idea of a tripartite God is often the hardest for kids, also for adults, to grasp in catechism. Our church spent its first thousand years or so trying out different explanations for how our God could be three but one, and many lost their lives as heretics in the mean time. This is one of the reasons that we don’t hear many sermons about the Holy Trinity to this day, and we hear perhaps less concerned solely with the Holy Spirit, but that is what we have in our Gospel today, so let’s jump right in.

I think the best description of the Trinity that I ever heard was of Dad, his Son, and their pet bird. We’ve struggled with the Holy Spirit the most, I think, because we don’t get a whole lot of scriptural  discussion like we do with Jesus, with God the Father. Some identify the Holy Spirit with Sophia, the Greek personification of Holy Wisdom, and having a feminine member of the Trinity is a comfort to some, gives a feeling of inclusion in this holy mystery. Others recall the Holy Spirit present at Creation, traveling over the waters like a wind. In the gospel today quite technically the Holy Spirit is called the paraklete, a Greek word meaning something like counselor, comforter, advocate, or quite literally “someone called to your side”. Jesus in this passage form John is describing this advocate, this paraklete, as solace and companionship for the disciples after his own death, a means of ensuring that they are not left orphans when Jesus departs his earthly ministry. Throughout time and church history this advocate has taken on more and more of a lawyerly form, pleading our case in God’s court. This of course requires an angry God, one who must be dissuaded from damning us for eternity, and I don’t think that is an image of God that most of us identify with. I was discussing this notion of the Holy Spirit as divine attorney with a friend over email and his reply was so perfect that I have to share it with you:

“So, what do we do with this idea of the Spirit being an Advocate, or Counselor? Well, let’s try looking at it from a different perspective. What if Jesus is sending the Advocate to make his case to us? What if the Paraklete comes to us to make God’s case against our judging hearts? What if, as Jesus says, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.” And notice he says, “another Advocate?” Seems that maybe Jesus is the first Advocate, doesn’t it? As if Jesus came to make the case, to show us the love of God in his words and deeds, and now another Advocate will come to continue to make the case to us. But, “the case” seems the wrong term, really.

Have you ever read the play, Cyrano de Bergerac? Or, seen the movie? Or the Steve Martin version, Roxanne? Even if you haven’t, you kind of know the plot, I’m sure. Cyrano loves Roxanne, but ends up putting words into the mouth of Christian, and captures Roxanne’s heart through a messenger, or advocate . . . and it’s hard to tell which one is the advocate for the other, in this play. Now, you never want to press an analogy like this too far, but since we’re dealing with John’s gospel (where Jesus is called the Word), maybe it’s more apt than it seems at first. The great lengths that Christian and Cyrano go to in order to win Roxanne’s heart are perhaps a good glimpse at the effort that God goes through to win our hearts. It’s not a court of law, you see? It’s a romance!

What if the Advocate is not coming to be our helper in the courtroom? What if instead the Advocate is sent by God in order to win our hearts? What if God so loved the world that he sent his only son? Doesn’t Jesus show the ultimate depths of God’s love for you, in that he is willing to lay down his life proclaiming the love of God? Jesus walks among us, preaches the Good News to us, and then . . . well, we have to kill him. We don’t want to hear it.

But God does not give up. Here comes the Advocate to deliver the same message. The Spirit knocks on your heart’s door with the message of God’s love, and will continue to do so forever, because forever is how long God’s love for you lasts. Well beyond the grave, I might add.

And I will tell you the most important part of the message. Jesus says it himself in today’s Gospel: Because I live, you also will live.

There’s a lot more to the message, of course, but it all grows out of that main point: Because I live, you also will live.”

This is what the Holy spirit is, this is what God is trying to tell us, over and over, if only we can listen: the Holy Spirit is God’s love, working in our midst, singing the love songs of the Holy, calling us always back to the care of Him who made us.

“We cannot come to Jesus unless the Father draws us. And the Father draws us by sending the Advocate to plead with our hearts. And the Father and the Spirit together draw us to this altar today, where with the saints of every time and every place…with all of them, we meet the risen Lord in the breaking of the bread.”

(Quoted correspondence is between the author and The Rev'd George Baum)

The Fifth Sunday of Easter

The Ven. Richard I. Cluett

1Peter 2:2-10    +    John 14:1-14

Today’s Gospel speaks of some things of great importance. Most of us are familiar with the gospel scripture in the context of the burial of someone we love or have known. It is good to remember, though that Jesus was speaking to the disciples he was about to leave behind. He speaks about their life ahead and the way forward.

He speaks of fidelity and commitment and trust. In the midst of his disciples’ feelings of abandonment, betrayal, grief, and fear, Jesus speaks a word of comfort, “Do not let your hears be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” The Greek word could as easily be, trust. “Trust in God, trust also in me.”

The opportunity to fall into despair is regularly presented to us by the happenstance of life, by the action of others, by the frailty of our own selves. The tendency to despair lies not far below the surface of any one of us.

Barbara Crafton once wrote, Life is hard. For some, hunger and thirst, the grinding daily experience of poverty and want, from birth to death. For some, lifelong physical pain, or terrible terminal illness. And for those whose physical needs are easily and consistently met, other things: the loss of love, the crippling inability to give oneself completely and its corresponding loneliness, the paralyzing presence of chronic anger. War, and the fear of war. Disappointment. Betrayal. -- For everyone, something.

We share a common human experience of being – in our hearts, in our minds, in our behaviors – at some times, the most wretched of sinners, at other times just ground down by life and circumstance, and at the same time we are people who have known, received, and experienced mercy, the amazing grace of an infinitely loving God.

Everyone, without exception, either has stood or will stand before God at sometime in his or her life hoping against hope that the Good News is really true and dis­covering that it is true, and then being washed new and clean and be­ing freed and empowered for a new-born life.

The lesson of today’s scripture lessons is Don’t give in, don’t give up. Believe in all I have taught you, believe in all I have shown you. Believe in me as I do in you. Trust in me, as I trust in you. If you have trouble believing my words, then believe what you see. “Believe me because of the works themselves.”

In my life I have believed at times, but I have also doubted. I have trusted at times, but I have also been afraid, not trusted. And then I catch a glimpse of what happens when people believe, when people trust, when people don’t give in, when people don’t give up, when people don’t walk away, when people believe and carry on, when people trust and plow ahead. When I see others, then I find I can believe, I can trust – again.

Jesus is speaking about a new-born life, one that lives in hope, believes in salvation, finds power in fellowship with other believers and strugglers, knows purpose in being God’s people – not only comfort, but purpose; a reason to be, a reason get up, a reason to go on, a reason to go out, a reason to seek and finally to find. It is amazing what happens, when we believe, when we trust.

In my national work for the church, I have seen the dead raised. I didn’t believe it possible at first, but I have seen the lame walk and begin to run. I have seen hope triumph over despair.

For those who may not know, I have been privileged for the past 3 years to work with dioceses that had been abandoned by leaders and members seeking, what they would call, a greater and more fundamental orthodoxy than they found in the Episcopal Church.

In a sense not one stone was left upon another stone in these dioceses. In one sense all that was left was the chief cornerstone and a faithful remnant. Church buildings and property were gone, all the holy books, vessels and vestments, leaders, records, funds, trusts, members, history and traditions, friends and even family members. Gone. All that was left in some places were a few people and their faith.

They could have gone to the local Lutheran church or some other congregation. No one would have blamed them. But battered and bruised as they were, they would not let their community die. So they gathered, a faithful few in living rooms and club halls and church basements, and shops, still the Episcopal Church of St. Whomever of the Episcopal Diocese of Quincy or San Joaquin or Fort Worth or Pittsburgh. They had their faith and they had each other. Period. They decided not to die, but instead to live, to be reborn, and to grow.

In the Diocese of Quincy all that was left was one full parish and two small congregations with about 1/3 of their original members remaining in their buildings; 2 full-time clergy and two retired, and that was it. No bishop, no diocese, no vestries. That was 3 years ago.

Last weekend I was in the Diocese of Quincy to help lead their first-ever Diocesan Ministry Training Conference. 180 people from nine congregations participated in ministry training workshops, learning about leadership and governance, Eucharistic and pastoral visitors, stewardship, Christian formation, evangelism, community advocacy, and more. The day ended in an extraordinary celebration of life and thanksgiving in the Eucharist, and the commissioning of these faithful people to carry on the mission of the church.

I have seen what was lost, found. I have seen what was dead, come alive. And if that can be true in Illinois and California and Texas and Western Pennsylvania, it is true wherever and whenever life needs a new birth. It is true for a diocese, it is true for a congregation, it is true for the lives of God’s people, and it is true for your life and mine.

For, We are … God's own people, in order that we may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called us out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once we were not a people, but now we are God's people; once we had not received mercy, but now we have received mercy.

Thanks be to God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Maundy Thursday

The Ven. Richard I. Cluett     

On the night before he was to die, Jesus did what he always did. He asked those around him to come for dinner. He invited those closest to him. He invited even the one who was to betray him. He invited the strong and faithful. He invited those whose faith was weak and full of doubt and fear. Some were wealthy, some were dirt poor. Some were righteous, some were wicked. Some were famous, some were infamous, some were notorious, some remain unknown to this very day.

Jesus did what he always did; normal human acts of kindness, invitations into the warmth of human community and fellowship. He took the stuff of everyday life and gave it new meaning. Bread, wine. He broke the bread and gave it to one and all to share. He blessed the cup of wine and he gave it to one and all to share.

No requirements about who could share the bread and the wine. Just normal everyday folks who believed and wanted to follow in his Way – just folks who were doing their best as best they could, and Jesus welcomed them.

Everyone was welcome at his table, as he knew God welcomes everyone.

He welcomed these everyday folks and gave them one another, and he gave them the gift of his continuing presence with them, even beyond death and the grave. Gave them one another and gave them himself.

¹⁹Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ ²⁰And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.

“Jesus… does what he always does: he issues an invitation in the breaking of the bread. On this night, as Jesus invites us to his table, he invites us … to remember him EVERY time we break bread -- at the altar, certainly, but also in the lunchroom and the dorm cafeteria, the family dinner table or the counter at the diner. Whenever we break bread, or draw breath, we are invited to do so in remembrance of Jesus, until he comes to complete the redemption of the world for which God anointed him.” *

After Jesus and the others share in the bread and wine, he tells them the special context of this Passover meal. He is the lamb that will be slain. He will give his life for the world. And when they eat this bread and drink from this cup, they will know him present with them, until the day he returns to complete his work of redemption in the world.

While they wait for that day, he says, “the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. ²⁷For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.”

This self-offering and this servanthood is not what the people of that time - including the disciples - expected from God, from the Messiah of God, or from the man Jesus who has come in the name of the Lord.

It is not what people from this day and time expect, either.  People do not expect the power of God to be shown in patient acceptance of this final cost of his discipleship, nor to be shown in servanthood to all sorts and conditions, the lonely, the outcast, the lost, the sick, the alien, “The tired, the poor, Those yearning to breathe free, The homeless, and the tempest-tossed.”

People do not expect power to be patient in suffering for the sake of others. They do not expect power to be an offered love in the service of others. They do not expect power to be willing to endure for the sake of others. But that’s the way it is. That is Jesus, and that is the way of Jesus.

The Jesus we remember this night is the one who offers himself. He is the Jesus who serves others. He is the Jesus who goes to the Cross for the life of the world. He is the truth of God.

And he invites us to join together with him and with one another and to be fed with the bread of life and the cup of salvation. And he asks us to go then and be his body and to serve the world in his name.

* Dylan Breuer

The Fourth Sunday in Lent - John 9:1-41

The Ven. Richard I. Cluett

How do you tell the difference between a First Class Miracle and an everyday miracle? That’s a tough question, maybe too tough to start. Let’s start with a more basic question. How do you know when a miracle is a miracle; when something happening is miraculous?

Is it simply something out of the ordinary, an exception to one’s day-in, day-out experience? Something unexpected? Or is it a miracle when something good happens if you have been expecting something bad? Or maybe some thing or some event is a miracle when it aligns with what we believe to be signs of God’s kingdom, signs of God’s presence, signs of God’s action.

That works for me. I think a miracle happens whenever we see a sign of God’s presence, God’s activity, God’s purpose, God’s way, God’s kingdom in the everydayness of our lives.

How do you spot a miracle? We are told in the song that miracles happen every day. Where? When? I don’t see them everyday in my life. How about you? See them every day, do you? Have you seen a miracle any day in your life? What if that is the problem, that we don’t see, we don’t notice, we don’t look, we don’t expect?

Was it a miracle that Samuel found a God-ordained boy named David to be the new king of Israel? In hindsight I think it probably was, but not a first class miracle. (I wasn’t actually present when Samuel found David.)

How about in the gospel lesson from John? Was it a miracle that Jesus healed the blind man? Absolutely it was a miracle, to my mind and my faith. First class? I don’t think so.

Did you think it was a miracle when you heard this in the first verse of the reading? “As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth.”

When all the others in the story had seen a blind beggar by the side of the road, as they crossed to walk on the other side of the road, when they had only seen a beggar, Jesus saw a man, a man, a man born blind.

I think that is the first class miracle. Jesus saw a man, a man born blind who had been forced to beg by the side of the road in order to live. A man in desperate straits. A man in need. A man. And Jesus healed that man.

Jesus healed all the time. It was pretty ordinary for him, and for other itinerant healers, too. But Jesus first saw this blind beggar as a man, as a man in need, to be sure. But he knew him first as a man, a person, a child of God, a brother, a human being. And only then, as a person in need and then he was moved to act. A first class miracle in my book.

Perhaps the most damning point in this gospel story is that to the others in the story he was only that blind beggar. As I have not seen others from time to time.

I want to tell you another story of a First Class Miracle, told to me by my good friend, Bud Holland. Bud worked for many years at the Episcopal Church Center in New York City. These are his words about another man named Richard.

“I met Richard on my way to the Church Center. Over the years we became good friends and prayer partners. When I met him he said that he was "special." He had two first names: Richard Jeffrey. He and I laughed. I brought people to meet Richard. Initially I said my name was Bud. It is Bud as in Budweiser. He laughed. Later I introduced Jerry Drino to him. He had not heard the name Drino before so he decided to call Jerry "Heineken." Again we laughed.

“I often wondered what he was about on that corner of 38th and 3rd Avenue. He did have a cup to receive money but it was such a passive way of asking for money. He never verbally asked for money. Then over time I realized that he was bartering love and he became for me a prayer partner. He always remembered the people I asked him to pray for. When people passed him on the street they would greet him by saying "hello, Richard." So he was known by so many others. Knowing folks who work on the street by name is unusual to say the least. It bears witness to his witness and faithful friendship over the years.

“When I told him that I was not going to be working in the city and would therefore not be seeing him very often, he rose from where he was sitting, tears filled his eyes, and he uttered these words: ‘It will be all right. God closes the distance between us.’ By the way, I was recently in the city and did not see him at the corner. In a very special way I believe we will always be in each other's prayers.”

In my words, a First Class Miracle.

When we truly see a person we could easily pass by as a neighbor, as a man, as a woman, as a brother or sister in Christ, as a person, with a name and a face which bears the light of God’s presence in our meeting, we will truly see. And we will know at that moment that we have been part of a First Class Miracle. Today, Jesus shows us the way.

Third Sunday in Lent - Samaritan Woman at the Well

The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa

Samaritan Woman at the Well

It appeared each morning and evening outside the door of my humble accommodations in the Bishop’s residence in Romogi– a large container or two of water for me to wash each day, on a long journey in a strange land without any of the conveniences of home. A hot sticky, uncomfortable slim bed, food that was difficult for my palate, the only water to drink in bottles, warm, the long days with people speaking a different language– what a gift this water outside my door was as it met my physical need to wash the hot sticky smell of a long day or the sweat of a hot night of difficult sleep.

From the wells of Romogi I came to realize that the women of the village, like generations before them, gathered each day and night at a watering place. But the water, poured on my body, lovingly heated, came from the wells of Romogi–bore holes drilled by prayers and actions of a people here in Bethlehem I had been called to serve. It is a generation of exile giving way to these women gathered at this well, their songs, their children in tow, their disappointments and pain, and now their hope for a future. They go there for their physical need of water, to drink, to cook, to wash, to feed their children, and water their gardens. These are physical needs, yet it is their songs, their community, their smiles, and their hope in a future that seems to transcend. It is their stories of faith in the midst of war, their grace in extending hospitality to me, a stranger, that transform the action at a well in Romogi from meeting a physical need to presenting a spiritual experience of Salvation.

I cannot help but feel I am living in John’s story of the Gospel as I reflect on the wells of Romogi. Like Nicodemus in chapters past, I draw near to Romogi as the learned man of the religious establishment who struggles to understand this simple faith of the people in whose midst I am. The experience and practice of hopefulness, given the grim conditions and oppressive history of these people, seems to have difficulty penetrating my mind and soul and my physical needs in the midst of my discomfort.

Yet like the Samaritan woman at the well who encounters Jesus, I, an “outsider,” seem to have been offered water that will transcend my physical needs and invite me to come alive to the experience that is before me. Like the Samaritan woman, I just have to stay with the experience of those standing before me, listen to them, engage them, and receive their gifts.

I listen to their songs, I delight in worship with them, and I listen to their stories and meet their children. I hear of brave decisions not to flee villages targeted for destruction and I embrace dreams of rebuilding a faith, a church, a village, a country, and then I realize my concerns for my own physical needs have dissipated and I am fully alive in a strange land, with new friends whose stories have gripped my heart and shaken me awake! Like the woman at the well with Jesus, I AM in the presence of Salvation!

Some have written that Salvation is an experience first and a doctrine second. I know this to be true. The experience of Salvation is to lose yourself in a moment only to realize you are more fully yourself than you ever have been before! It is like getting lost in a special moment where a performance transcends the seeming boundary of a theater in which you may be sitting and you suddenly become aware that you have been united with the gifts and spirit of those who are offering their gifts. Suddenly you are lost, but more fully aware of yourself in a way that leads you to want to conquer the world, a performance transformed. It is like losing track of time, commitment, hunger, need, or when standing with a friend whose heart is broken by life and suddenly your heart breaks. You lose yourself, your own needs, and you are one with your friend in their pain—Salvation.

Who knows when and where we will experience Salvation. All of us have stories when we realized we were into the event to the roots of our hair! It might even be the moment we come to fully give thanks for the day we were born, in all understanding, the moments when “I” didn’t matter so much, because of getting lost in the “WE.” In losing the “I,” we discover more of the “who I am”— Salvation.

From the wells of Romogi has come Salvation.

The Second Sunday in Lent

The Rev. Canon Mariclair Partee

The passage we read today from John’s gospel is rich in coded language-

The very setting of the scene is cloaked in mystery- Nicodemus, a leader of the Pharisees, comes in the night to praise the work of Jesus, who has been shunned by the religious establishment until now, and will continue to be.

On its face this makes no sense, and only ten or so chapters later, after the crucifixion, when Nicodemus comes forward in the light of day with an extravagant amount of spices and herbs with which to prepare Jesus’ body before it is placed in the tomb, do we understand that he has been a follower of Christ, a secret disciple since this early appearance in John’s gospel.

Our confusion about Jesus’ late night meetings with high placed officials is nothing compared to Nicodemus’ own bewilderment in the conversation that takes place on this night-

He comes to pledge his faith to Jesus and instead is told that in order to truly believe he must be born again from above. A practical man, Nicodemus is completely lost, trying to understand the physical reality of how being born a second time would work- but willing to ponder what would be a ridiculous proposal, and Jesus continues to offer non-explanations- a meditation on the wind, talk of Moses and serpents, even some gentle mocking.

In case you think this is one of those passages in the bible where our unfamiliarity with the context or the culture of the time is to blame for our inability to parse the language, know that what Jesus is saying sounds like nonsense to Nicodemus as well, and we never are told if he gets what Jesus is saying, or if he walks back into the night shaking his head, hoping that everything will eventually come to make sense for him.

Beyond the coded language in the passage between Jesus and Nicodemus, some of the words and phrases used here have come to be code words of their own, to carry their own secret meanings two thousand years after they were spoken that identifies them with particular groups or movements.

In our culture as 21^st century Americans, we are used to seeing John 3:16 in very public places, held aloft on posters and banners at baseball games, and we can probably all recite the verse from memory in a way that we never could, say, Acts 2:12. In preparing for this sermon I considered simply putting on a curly rainbow wig and unfurling a John 3:16 banner from the pulpit. I reconsidered, since I really do love my job here, but a parishioner offered to make the banner for me.

We’ve seen John 3:16 cited on billboards along the highway, Tim Tebow’s grease paint, and other unlikely spots. The numbers of chapter and verse have taken on an evangelical meaning in their own right, and sometimes represent a sort of protest by some Christians who feel marginalized in an ever more secular world.

Whether it is fair or not, “born again” carries even more coded meaning- having been raised as a Baptist in the deep south, for me being “born again” has a very particular meaning. It conjures images of an adult profession of faith resulting in baptism, stadium revivals and emotional altar calls. In a more social sense, being asked whether someone is “born again” can also be a way of figuring out exactly where that person falls on the fundamentalist/evangelical spectrum, whether he or she is “Christian enough,” and sometimes whether his or her politics and social views are “conservative enough.”

I imagine this coded meaning of being born again carries psychological weight for some of you as well. It’s the kind of language that can turn folks off immediately, shut down a conversation, because of the many different meanings it carries. I think that as Episcopalians, too often, we stop short of sharing our faith stories, of engaging in our call to share the good news of Jesus Christ, because we are afraid of being thought of as one of “those people,” the kind that wield Jesus as a weapon, preach a gospel of hate, and picket funerals.

We probably don’t realize that by keeping quiet as progressive Christians, we inadvertently support the belief in the secular world that “those people” represent all Christians. We keep quiet the fact that we too are believers who have been born again in our baptisms, who are born afresh every day as we live out our baptismal covenant, who believe that John 3:17- "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" is just as important as the verse that precedes it.

Most of us no longer spend Lent flagellating ourselves for our sinfulness, abstaining from any pleasure in food or entertainment, and instead take on a discipline of daily prayer, study, mindfulness, or service. I think that we could add becoming more familiar with our baptismal covenant to the list of healthy, meaningful ways to mark these 40 days. Where the Nicene Creed gives us the theology of our faith, the baptismal covenant gives us a plan of action, and the two are equally vital. If you get a chance, grab a Book of Common Prayer, flip to page 304, and read over this pledge that was made on your behalf at your baptism, and that you have renewed at every baptism that we have had here at the cathedral, that we renew periodically throughout our church year even if we have no babies to welcome into the body of Christ with water and the Spirit.

It is hard to read these words, for me, without getting a little excited about this church that we are part of, this life of faith that we are living. I always find myself feeling proud when I read through the phrases, the promises, particularly the pledge to respect the dignity of every human being. It is difficult to meditate on this pledge of faith and action without being reborn a little bit, without becoming refreshed, and shaking off the insecurity, the fear of being pigeon holed as a “crazy Jesus person”, and sharing the message of love of God, and neighbor, and self.

We can reprogram code words; we can make them our own; we can take back their meaning. And each and every day, we can all be born again.

The First Sunday of Lent

The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa

Let me begin by acknowledging that I am certain that at least a bit of what is on your hearts and in your minds this morning are the people of Japan. Indeed, we keep the people of Japan in our hearts and in our prayers. In this, in my memory, unprecedented time of natural disaster, we once again rise up with the people of Japan, in this case, as they respond to this disaster. We, in the world community as we respond to this disaster, have yet one more opportunity to discover what we are made of. I will say a bit more about Japan at the offertory, but I want to talk about this discovering what we are made of on this first Sunday of Lent because not only our Lenten journey, but actually our Christian and human journey is about discovering and finding our place in the order of things and discovering what we are made of.

Today we have two very familiar pieces of scripture. First we have the story of the garden. We learn of this story in Sunday school. I still remember sitting in Sunday school, hearing the story for the first time, and beginning my life-long journey of trying to figure out exactly what’s going on here. In the story of the garden and in the story of Jesus’ temptations in today’s Gospel, we have two of the most fundamental stories of our tradition. We find these stories formulating classic Christian theology, the stories that have shaped our existence forever. In fact, since the 300 ADs, one Augustine of Hippo developed for us the doctrine of original sin reflecting on this story of the garden. Indeed, what the story is about is humanity trying to figure out its place in the order of things. Whether you have read Augustine or not, this classical teaching of theology is implanted deep inside of you. It is from the story we get that our nature in Adam and Eve in humanity their inability to live in the simple law of the garden. Basically the law in the garden is do not trespass and, indeed, Adam and Eve just can’t help it. What we draw from this story from classic Christian theology is that we discover the limitations of our human nature, and we recognize that we do rely on God at every stage of our life. This is classic Christian theology.

In Romans today, St. Paul begins to spin out his experience of the risen Jesus, the Christ, who, as we discover in the Gospel lesson, is one who is able to live into who he is, able to withstand temptation, and through it he lives into what he was made of and for. St. Paul reminds us that the new Adam that is in Jesus, we get a breath of hope that through Christ and a relationship with Christ, where we fall short Jesus can redeem and make us new. This is classic Christian theology. Where Adam and Eve could not get it right, Jesus gets it right. Christ is tempted in the wilderness shortly after the Holy Spirit has named him for who he is, the Son of God. He takes his baptismal identity into the wilderness and it will be tested. He spars with Satan who offers him relief of the basic human needs of hunger and the basic human inclination to grab for power and have control. Jesus sticks to who he is, digs deep for what he is made of and, indeed, then lives out his mission as the Son of God, that identity that would lead him with courage to Jerusalem where he would offer himself up, where he would be crucified, and where God would do a mighty thing on behalf of all humanity.

Does all this sound right- classic Christian theology? So we get it. We rely on God and through the person of Jesus, we discover the true nature of God, and we find hope. Today I want you to park just for a few minutes, that life-long piece of your DNA that has taught you this Christian classic theology. Because I think that, as we discussed in Bible study this week with the Bishop, it is easy for us to go on automatic pilot then and say, OK, we’re never going to get it right, Jesus gets it right, and all will be well at the end of the day. But I would submit to you that there is more going on here, that it really is up to us to find ourselves in the story, to bend ourselves into the story, particularly on this Lenten journey, and to ask the same questions that Jesus was being asked in the wilderness which is “what are you made of,” discover what you are made of. That is what this journey is about, and we don’t have to be Adam and Eve and God knows we are not Jesus, but there is something in this for us if we bend ourselves and ask what we are made of.

So I share with you the true story of Ruby Bridges. Some of you may know this story. My daughter has been hounding me for months, because she has studied the story of Ruby Bridges, to sit down with her and actually watch the short Disney video that tells the story of Ruby Bridges, the six-year-old little girl in 1960 in New Orleans, Louisiana, who was ushered by federal marshals into the all-white school each day. It was her mother’s dream and hope that she would get a decent education. Some of you may remember well those early days of integration. Ruby Bridges, this six-year-old girl, would discover what she was made of in this experience. Her experience was that of many and in her little school, she was the only black child whose mother insisted that she go, and you know how that story goes. The first day she arrived, ushered and protected by federal marshals, one by one the parents of the young white students came and removed their children from school. Each day, as the day went on, surrounding the outside of the school, Ruby Bridges walked through crowds of people protesting the integration of that school. Day by day, Ruby heard things and witnessed things that she never would have imagined as a six-year-old girl.

As she tells the story, not as Disney tells the story, but if you’d like, Netflix, as she tells the story she says I learned that there were people in the world who hated and there were people in the world who loved, and it didn’t matter what color their skin was. She said that each and every day she would walk to school, and she did what her mother taught her to do, that was pray for God’s protection. Each day she would get up, she would say her prayers and she would ask for God’s protection as she walked through the angry mobs that were there each and every day, all day long. As the story goes, there was a psychiatrist, Dr. Coles, who, knowing the story and being deployed locally in the military, and being concerned for her emotional and mental health came to the family and asked if he could be of support. They finally agreed, and day by day they established a relationship. Working with her each day, he was concerned about what she was doing with all of that which was coming at her. He also witnessed that day by day she was growing less and less verbal. He worked with her and he said you need to bring those feelings to speech. You need to articulate to the people who are shouting hateful things to you. You need to let them know how you feel. Each and every day she walked through those crowds saying her prayers, until one day finally, as she tells the story, “I forgot to pray in the morning, so when I was walking past the angry crowds, I stopped and I turned, and I began to move my lips.” Dr. Coles, who stood in that crowd every morning in support of her, was feeling she was finally going to speak to the crowd, tell them how she felt, but he couldn’t hear her over the shouts of the crowd. All he saw was this little girl’s lips moving. He asked her later, “Ruby, I saw you bring to speech. What were you saying to the crowd?” She said, “I forgot to say my prayers, so I was praying for God’s protection, and I was praying that God might love them, too, and that God might forgive them.”

You see, this is really the stuff that we are made of. A six-year-old girl, discovered in the midst of what the world had to throw at her what she was made of, and she discovered that there are two types of laws that we live with. There is the law that tells us not what to do: Do not trespass, and there is the law of God’s nature, which is like the law of gravity. It just is. It’s a law of grace and love. It’s a law that calls us to discover what we are made of and when we dig deep to discover that law, that love can transform anything. So this is our Lenten journey, to discover that which we are made of, to dig deep as we live in a world that throws things at us, to live into the law, the law of God, which is love and grace, and can transform anything.

“Twenty plus one plus one” is a movement many churches, beginning in Christ Church, Warwick, New York, our brothers and sisters at Trinity, Bethlehem, and now growing among many churches. Twenty plus one plus one: 20 minutes a day in prayer, reflecting on who we are and what we are made of. One hour a week in worship, or a little more, coming together with each other, bringing our differences, bringing our hopes, bringing our prayers, bringing our thanksgivings. One hour a month in service so that others out there might know what we are made of: 20+1+1.

Amen.

The Eighth Sunday after the Epiphany

The Rev. Canon Mariclair Partee

Today in our readings we have many beautiful images that are being painted with words for us. In Isaiah, we have the image of God as mother and Zion as child. God, in this metaphor, is described like a pregnant woman and creation as her child, moving in the womb. God can no more forget us than a pregnant mother can forget the child that lives within her. Isaiah restates this and said God is like a nursing mother, unable to take her mind off of the child that she must feed every hour or two, her very body protesting if too much time goes by between feedings. A number of my girlfriends have been having children lately, so I know from being around nursing women and any of you who have been a nursing woman, there is a sort of second plane of existence that happens when you are responsible for nourishing another being. You really can’t ever take your focus off of what’s going on with that baby.

This is powerful stuff that we’re getting today. This is beautiful, tender stuff. We are told that not only can God not forget us, but God inscribes our names on the palms of his hands so that we are always comforted and held within him. These beautiful pictures go on into Matthew’s gospel with the lilies and the birds. I can’t read this passage without thinking of a hymn that was sung to me as a child and I think everyone knows it, even if you weren’t Southern Baptist at one time. It’s about how God’s eye is always upon us. “I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free. His eyes are on the sparrow, so I know he watches me.” It’s such a beautiful sense and a wonderful sense of how important we are to God.

God’s eye is always upon us. He cares for the birds of the air so how could he possibly forget us? We are told not to worry about what we will eat because God feeds all of his creatures, even those who don’t sow or reap, or store up in barns. We are told also not to worry about how we are clothed and where we will find clothing. We are told to look to the lilies of the field that are clothed in the purest white and cloth of gold, clothed even surpassing the lavishness of Solomon but, like the grasses, they only wither and die. So how much more must God love us, whose lives are longer than a thousand lilies?

We are given all of this beautiful reassurance throughout the readings today and then we are told, don’t be anxious. This is one of those questions or one of those statements that Jesus makes throughout his Gospel that catches us off guard, if we are really listening. This part of Matthew comes right after the Beatitudes, so we are still in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus gives these wonderful comforts and then says, so don’t be anxious. I think for most of us, on one hand we can weigh those beautiful comforts, but on the other hand we can still have a lot of anxiety because everything we see every day is telling us to be anxious. You can’t get on the Internet or open a newspaper or call your mother, in my case, without being reminded of all the things that we should be worrying about.

So how do we live as a non-anxious presence in an anxious world? I don’t think that Jesus is telling us today that we shouldn’t worry about where things come from, that we shouldn’t plan ahead, that we shouldn’t try to make sure that we are covering our future needs, but I think what he is telling us is actually we shouldn’t let that worry become so central to our lives, so much a part of our being, that we are paralyzed by it. We are anxious because we have reason to be anxious. There are many frightening things going on in the world today. We have many more worries – we have to worry about college funds, retirement plans, bank bailouts, all of these things, but all of this anxiety serves to keep our focus on ourselves, and ultimately to keep our focus off of our neighbor and off of God.

How do we live a non-anxious life? I think the only answer that we have to this question truly is prayer. Prayer is the only real balm that we have. There is a school of thought that defines sin as distance from God, and I think that anxiety can fall under the same definition. When we are so anxious that we can only focus inward, we can only focus on our own immediate needs, we can’t focus outward. We can’t make room for God to come in and hold us with the palms of his hands, and comfort us, and give us his strength. So how do we pray? I think ultimately prayer, at its essence, is learning to be comfortable with our silent selves and in that way, becoming comfortable with God. I think this can only be achieved through constant steady conversation with God. If we have a prayer life, then we have a foundation for an examined and non-anxious life, and a life that can then be turned over to the work of God rather than anxiety.

How do we pray? We pray in many ways. As Episcopalians, obviously we come together corporately on Sunday mornings, on Wednesday mornings, on Saturday evenings, and we pray together. We know that we can find God and hear God in the midst of our community. We also pray individually. For me, silence is key in this. Now you can pray on your knees, you can pray on a walk, you can pray on a comfortable chair, looking out the window or sort of sitting in that place that’s in between waking and sleeping, but I think the important aspect is that it is intentional. We intentionally give ourselves a moment to stop, lay aside the worries of the day, clear our heads, clear our minds, give ourselves over to God, and give God the opportunity to be present in our lives, to be present in us. We must empty ourselves so that we can be filled with God’s love.

So prayer is intentional and prayer is self-examining, but ultimately, I think, if we keep at it, we will find ourselves in a place where we will know with certainty that, just as God’s eye is on the sparrow, he is always watching us, and our anxieties will leave us at last as we remember that we are inscribed on the palms of God’s hands always, and he can never forget us.

Amen.

The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany

The Ven. Richard I. Cluett

Stephen Bayne, a wise bishop and saint of this church, wrote many years ago:  God put freedom into his created universe in order that the universe could respond to his love with an answering love of its own – given out of its freedom. That’s Life.

The scripture appointed for this day lays before us a stark and clear presentation of a choice. “… today I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the LORD your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him…”

The choice is to align one’s life according to God’s way and know the blessings that will come in the doing or to follow in some other way and reap what is sown down that path.

As I was driving around the Lehigh Valley the other day, I saw a church sign that read, “God’s message doesn’t change”. I believe that to be true. The core truth is the core truth. But who hears it changes. The era in which it is heard changes. The culture through which it is heard changes. The time in the life of the person who hears it changes.

One time I heard God’s message was as a newly ordained person Then I drove around in a car left over from a more frivolous time of my life. It was a hot, little orange/red Fiat convertible sport car that wore a bumper sticker that declared, “Choose Life!” (Actually it is kind of fun to remember those days when “father” would drive up in it to parishioners’ homes.)

But this was not some adolescent hippie exclamation, nor was it an anti-abortion slogan. It was more basic than that. It was more of a primal shout! What I wanted to say to the world in my youthful enthusiasm was “Choose LIFE”. Choose a way of life that leads to joy and exuberance and love, and provides a pathway through the tough times of life that come to one and all regardless of stature or status. Choose life that ultimately leads to living in God’s blessing and returns to God and the people among whom we live a love that answers God’s love given in our creation.

It is, I believe, the deep desire of God’s heart that we make the choice for Life. It is as we pray in the Eucharistic prayer, Again and again, you called us to return. Through prophets and sages you revealed your righteous Law. And in the fullness of time you sent your only Son, born of a woman, to fulfill your Law, to open for us the way of freedom and peace. Claiming God’s love, receiving God’s love, and living in God’s love is the “way of freedom and peace.”

It is not the way to a problem-free life, it is not a way to escape the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, it is not a way to dodge all the stuff that life throws at us, it is not the way to skip the pains of aging or adolescence or sexuality or any kind of hard time. But it is a way through them.

Those times are part of life, but they don’t define our lives. They are part of us, but they don’t define us. We have been created for freedom, and peace, and love and if we are faithful in our living, steadfast in our doing, then we will know freedom, we will know peace, we will abide in love.

There are forces that would draw us away from these, take us down other paths, seduce us into other ways, try to make us a different person – some of those forces come from outside of us and some come from within ourselves.

But we know, too, that within us and within all of humankind there are stronger powers drawing us toward the love of God and toward the God given right of freedom and peace and life lived in tranquility with family and neighbor alike.

Our nation is based on this belief, is based on these truths. Our Declaration of Independence boldly states what could not be seen and was not known in the lives of the people at that time in this place, We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

And to bring those things that are ours by divine right into being, we ordered ourselves as a nation. We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

A people claimed their heritage as God’s creation and wanted the ability for themselves and their children to live in peace, justice, and freedom. That’s what God intended in the beginning and that’s what our forebears brought into being. They chose Life.

And it is amazing to me that in my adult life I have seen the same choice made by the people of Poland and Czechoslovakia, Latvia and Estonia, and East Germany and in each of the countries of the Soviet Union. The choice for Life was made by the people of South Africa, the choice for Life was made by the people of Southern Sudan, the choice for Life was made by the people of Tunisia, and in these last days the choice for Life was made by the people of Egypt.

The people claim the promise that predates even God’s Covenant with Moses. “Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the LORD your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him; for that means life to you and length of days, so that you may live in the land that the LORD swore to give to your ancestors, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.”

Our president declared on Friday, “This is the power of human dignity, and it can never be denied. Egyptians have … (put) the lie to the idea that justice is best gained through violence. For in Egypt, it was the moral force of nonviolence -- not terrorism, not mindless killing -- but nonviolence (the) moral force that bent the arc of history toward justice once more.

“And while the sights and sounds that we heard were entirely Egyptian, we can't help but hear the echoes of history -- echoes from Germans tearing down a wall, Indonesian students taking to the streets, Gandhi leading his people down the path of justice.

“The word Tahrir means liberation. It is a word that speaks to that something in our souls that cries out for freedom. And forevermore it will remind us of the Egyptian people -- of what they did, of the things that they stood for, and how they changed their country, and in doing so changed the world.”

We stand in awe and we kneel to give thanks to God that “we have seen the hand of God at work in the world around us” once again when God’s people have chosen LIFE. It is the deep desire at the heart of God that we Choose Life.

The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany

The Rev. Canon Mariclair Partee

In the world of Biblical criticism and scholarship, there is a constant tension between two ways of approaching scripture.

These are Exegesis v. eisegesis.

Exegesis (from the Greek meaning “to lead out”) is a critical explanation or interpretation of a text. The goal of Biblical exegesis is to explore the meaning of the text which then leads to discovering its significance or relevance.

Exegesis includes a wide range of critical disciplines: textual criticism is the investigation into the history and origins of the text, but exegesis may include the study of the historical and cultural backgrounds for the author, the text, and the original audience. Other analysis includes classification of the type of literary genres present in the text, and an analysis of grammatical and syntactical features in the text itself. Most modern, or post-modern, commentaries on the Bible take exactly this approach, and you will find endless footnotes telling you the subtleties of the translation or giving you historical context so that one can better wrap one’s mind around the words on the page.

Eisegesis (from the Greek meaning “into”) is the process of misinterpreting a text in such a way that it introduces one's own ideas, reading into the text. While exegesis draws out the meaning from the text, eisegesis occurs when a reader reads his/her interpretation into the text. As a result, exegesis tends to be objective when employed effectively while eisegesis is regarded as highly subjective.

This sounds pretty black and white- but anyone who has ever translated something from one language to another knows that it is very much a grey area, words in one do not have exact correlatives in the other, choices are made that result in one shade of meaning over another, and the end result is always somewhat subjective, which is exactly why we have the practice of exegesis in the first place.

I mention all of this because the Gospel passage we heard today is probably one of the most exegeted, and most eisegeted, in our canon. We’ve read this passage as a formula for getting into God’s grace, a set of instructions for how to become a child of God, instead of an affirmation of our belovedness from before we were formed in the womb.

The phrase “salt of the earth” has come to mean something quite different than what it would have meant to the Gospel writers- where we hear it as meaning good, simple, and honest, two thousand years ago, when salt was the only spice widely available and was used not only for preserving foods but also for enhancing their flavors, it would have meant something special, something that made common things greater.

In the same way, the strength of light in a world before electricity is perhaps something we can’t wrap our minds around- it is hard now to get away from light, one must go far from populated areas to see the night sky without ambient brightness from streetlights, cars, humanity. So the power and promise of a single lamp doesn’t quite impact us, I think, with the weight it is meant to have.

Fred Craddock, writing in the Christian Century, says this about today’s Gospel: “For the first context, Jesus offers affirmation, warning and instruction. The affirmation is in two vivid images, “You are the salt of the earth” and “You are the light of the world.” Notice “You are” not “You ought to be or should try to be.” Both salt and light are so basic and essential to human life that Jesus felt no need to spell out what this meant. However, having introduced the existence of hostility toward the gospel, Jesus does elaborate on what can happen to God’s people under persecution and sustained opposition. Salt can lose its integrity, its identifying quality as salt. This does not occur suddenly, of course, but so gradually that those to whom it happens do not perceive themselves as changing and cannot identify later a single time or place when their faith ceased. Certainly the loss was not intentional; it was more a matter of drifting away…

“Or, says Jesus, how easy it is to lose initiative in mission and take up a posture of protection and defense after one suffers verbal, physical, social or economic abuse for one’s faith. For example, building a city on a hill is sound strategy for self-defense, but the increased visibility attracts even more hostility. Or again, putting a lamp under a bushel certainly reduces the chance of having it blown out, but the price for such protection is darkness. In other words, the way of Christ is mission: witnessing and benevolent intrusion into the life of the world.

There is no way that Christ’s cause can be converted into an individual or community lifestyle of self-interest, self-protection and defense against vulnerability. To do so is not to interpret Christ differently, but to abandon him. The way of Christ is to take the initiative and rather than hide from the world, let the light shine in the hopeful trust that the praise of God will be increased.

This is perhaps easy to hear but more difficult to live. We are constantly assailed by messages that we could be better, do more, work harder. Instead, Jesus is telling us, we should strive to be faithful above all else.

This is a tough message to hear, particularly for us, right? As Americans, as a country of folks founded on the notion that, like a character out of a Horatio Alger story, anyone being able to pull themselves up by the boot straps and become wildly successful with enough hard work, and for us as Protestant, Reformation Christians, who have heard these passages used for generations to reinforce the notion of righteousness by works, that if we just work hard enough, pray correctly, God will admit us to his love.

The message today is radical- our place in the kingdom is assured, has been since our creation, and our responsibility is to live out the power of that assurance, the confidence that is only possible through God's wide embrace. This isn’t something we can do. This is something we have to be.

Jesus said he came not to destroy the law, but to fulfill it, to complete it- and by living into the spirit of the covenant God made with us In our births, into the gifts that God has given us, we spread the light of God’s love in the dark places we encounter, we spread our saltiness in all that we undertake, and finally we rest in the knowledge that if all that we do is grounded in Christ, it will have been well done.

The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany

The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa

Matthew 5:1-12

There is chaos and violence in the streets of Egypt. The ancient city of Carthage, known to us today as Tunisia, has seen similar oppressive violence as a response to voices protesting for democracy, equality, and economic opportunity. In Uganda, political tensions are rising, and recent attacks on activists for the rights of gays and on humanitarian workers seem to be an outgrowth of highly-charged political diatribe. In Sudan, the people of the south remain hopeful that voting for secession from the north will hold peacefully, yet violence has erupted and lives lost near the north/south border. Voices in the south clamor for peace and freedom, and in the north, carefully measured statements about a new Sudan are heard. In our own country, a new year brings again the voices of a path continuing forward in difficult times as we continue to struggle economically, and continue to live in a time where our country is at war.

In all of it, one can wonder and be lost, or even overwhelmed, in the dynamics of an unsettled time and unsettled world. In the midst of it all, we can respond to events as they impact our own lives and we can rightly wonder—what voices might we find clarity and action in following. One might also wonder, it all seems so big and we are just regular folk, what is my place in it?

This is the set-up I ask for us to live into this morning as we consider our Gospel today. In a world just as disrupted and challenged, I might suggest that common folk may have been asking the same questions. I am just a regular folk; what is my place in all this mess? Among the many voices crying out in this world, in which one might I find some clarity and action following?

Today we have the Beatitudes. Familiar to all of us, most scholars agree the beatitudes are the platform speech on which Jesus builds, inspires, challenges, and equips his followers to live into a new ideal for their lives and the world that is the Kingdom he has come to usher in. The symbolism in Matthew’s gospel is worth noting. Just as Moses ascended that holy mount to discover and deliver the law for the people of God, so Jesus sits on the mount to deliver the good news that God’s dream is actualized in Jesus, and to those who listen and believe in what he says, they must actualize his teachings in their behavior. In this way, God’s dream comes alive! “Blessed” is the English word we use to translate from the Greek “marikiori” which, more closely translated, may be “how fortunate” or “how fulfilled,” or in that sense, “happy.” “Blessed” are the ones who hear, believe, and live out this path that is not easy of bringing God’s dream to life in their lives and in the world.

This is a large and demanding voice with a call to big things. Who, then, is worthy of such a commendation? Who is there on that hillside? What about you? Can you imagine yourself on that hillside today? What is it that is being asked of them, of us? Surely those sitting there that day must have been spiritual heroes to actualize such behavior; surely this message today must be for the heroes among us.

Hear the words of Fred Beuchner as he responds to the questions, “What voices do I pay attention to, and how is it that a common folk like me fits into this? I paraphrase from his work on the Beatitudes found in his book, Wishful Thinking.

“We might be tempted to guess one sort or another of spiritual hero, (might be picked out to hear this special commendation that is beatitudes), men and women of impeccable credentials morally, spiritually, humanly, BUT we would be wrong.

“Jesus did not pick out the spiritual giants (to follow, listen, and to actualize) but the “poor in spirit,” the ones who spiritually speaking have nothing to give but everything to receive.”

“Not the champions of faith who can rejoice even in the midst of their own suffering, but the ones who mourn over suffering, and have the ability to mourn over the suffering of others.”

(Jesus did not choose) the strong ones but the meek ones, in the sense of the gentle ones, i.e., not like Caspar Milquetoast but like Charlie Chaplain, the little tramp who was stamped on by the world, yet is dapper and undaunted to the end, and somehow makes the world more human in the process.

(Jesus did not choose) the ones who are righteous but the ones who hope they will be some day and in the meantime, are well aware that the distance they have to go is still greater than the distance they have come.

(Jesus did not choose) the winners of great victories over evil in the world, but the ones who, seeing it in themselves every time they comb hair in the mirror, are merciful when they find it in others, and in being merciful maybe win the greater victory.

(Jesus did not choose) the totally pure, but the “pure in heart,” the ones who are as shop-worn and clay-footed as the next, but who somehow have kept some inner freshness and innocence intact.

(Jesus did not choose) necessarily the ones who have found peace in its fullness but the ones who, just for that reason, try to bring it about wherever and however they can, be it peace with their neighbors and God, peace and themselves.

Jesus saved for last the ones who side with heaven (on his account) even when any fool can see it seems to be a losing side in worldly terms. Looking into their faces he says, “Blessed are you.” “How fortunate you will be.” “Happy are you.”

Imagine them looking back at him. Now imagine yourself looking back at him. They are not a high-class crowd, peasants and fisher folk, on the shabby side, some of them, not that bright. It doesn’t look like there is a hero among them, Buechner reminds us. How about among us?

They are blessed—and they must know it as they go forward. It is not his hard times ahead he is concerned with but theirs. It is his own meekness, his own mercy, his own peaceful heart from which he speaks. It is their meekness, their mercy, their own peaceful hearts (and ours) that he seeks.

A final word on this day: If the Sermon on the Mount is Jesus delivering the platform of God’s dream and the opportunity is to hear the beatitudes as a commendation to actualize principles of mercy, meekness, peacefulness, and sacrifice, then we give thanks for Joel Atkinson’s ministry and person, for he is indeed “blessed.”

Amen.