Magnify

'In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.

When Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord."

And Mary said: "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel ,in remembrance of his mercy, the promise he made to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."'

--Luke 1: 39-55

Picture the scene:  a young woman, no older than 15 or 16, becomes pregnant.  Though engaged, she’s not yet married, and she lives in a society that will at best alienate and at worst criminally condemn her.  Her parents named her Miriam, which means Sea of Sorrow, and now it would seem she’s living into that name. Her fiancée has two options: surrender her to the religious and political authorities to be dealt with appropriately, or quietly leave her and the child what’s coming, meaning they will be without protection and without any means of income and sustainability.  Oh, by the way, that second option is actually considered the righteous and honorable thing to do.  Don’t you think this young woman would be terrified?  Do you think there is any way that her situation would leave room for hope to persist?  

Nevertheless, that is exactly what happens.  God’s hope persists.  She persists.  She seeks solace from another woman who knows what she’s going through, an elderly cousin, herself in the middle of a highly suspicious pregnancy.  Her cousin might very well be the only person who won’t think she’s crazy, so she makes haste to go see her, not singing any songs of praise for her pregnancy, not yet, but holding her fear and trepidation, together with the smallest morsel of hope, which is at last allowed to blossom when she crosses the threshold of her cousin’s home and is greeted not with scorn and ridicule but with blessing.  “Blessed are you,” her cousin says to her.  “Blessed are you.”  Hope persists, and the young woman sings her glorious song, magnifying God.  

The Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to Elizabeth

It shouldn’t have happened that way.  Hope should not have been able to persist in her life, given the circumstances, yet in her song we hear of a world filled with hope, a world that God is turning, not upside-down, but rightside-up.  Mary, as her name appears in Greek, sings into existence a vision of a world transformed by a very persistent God.  The proud are scattered, the powerful are brought down, the lowly lifted up, the hungry are filled, and the rich are sent away empty.  It makes no sense in a world that offers little to no hope for the poor, the lowly, the hungry, or the not-yet-wed pregnant teenager.  But blessedly, God does not play by the world’s rules, and despite a society that would tell her to stay in her place, Mary sings her song, and the hope for a world set right by a God of truth, justice, and love, a hope that was preached by the prophets of old, a hope that her own son will embody, persists.  

Over time Mary’s song would be called Magnificat—taken from the first word in the Latin version—and be given special status as one of, if not the greatest, hymns of the Church.  Perhaps it is because it embodies the persistent nature of God, the reality that the world is, in fact, being turned, and in that turning there is hope.  Throughout history the poor and oppressed have found hope in Mary’s song—which, it should be noted, is the longest set of words spoken by a woman in the New Testament.  Archbishop Oscar Romero, who was assassinated at his cathedral’s altar by the Junta government in El Salvador, drew comparisons between Mary in her song and the poor and powerless in his own country.  Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, himself martyred by the Nazis, called the Magnificat, “the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary hymn ever sung!”  And even in our own Episcopal Church, seminarian Jonathan Daniels heard the Magnificat one night at Episcopal Theological Seminary in Boston, and the next day headed down south to Alabama to aid in the civil rights moment, where he was shot and killed.  They each heard Mary’s song as a cry for hope, not optimism.  Optimism looks behind us to find comfort in what we’ve experienced before, but hope, the kind of world-turning, musical hope of Mary, looks ahead to what our persistent God promises:  a world in which all injustice, all pain, all despair is reconciled to God, and all is made right.  It’s no wonder that the Magnificat was actually banned by many authoritarian regimes because it loudly and proudly proclaims the magnificence of God’s Kingdom, not any of our own making. Perhaps we need to do more casting down of the mighty and lifting up of the lowly in the face of authoritarians in our own time.

But I can tell you, brothers and sisters, that maintaining this hope, allowing it to persist, is not something we can do alone.  It’s too big.  The world is too dark, too violent, too broken for our hope alone to fix it.  I suspect Mary knew this.  This is why she goes to Elizabeth.  Often times when we hear the story of Mary leading up to Christmas we get Gabriel coming to her saying she will bear a son, then she immediately jumps into her song of hope and praise.  But this does not happen.  She needs the comfort and consolation of a person knows knows and trusts.  She needs someone else to tell her it’s ok, to give her a blessing, and to just let her know she’s not alone.  It is then that Mary sings her song, after she is met with that welcome from Elizabeth.  That little seed of hope that she carried with her from Nazareth to Ein Karem in the Judean hill country—which is not a short hike!—bursts forth into song when she is greeted so graciously by her Elizabeth and her unborn son John. 

You may not know it, but you showing up to church each week shows that you believe in the persistent hope of God that Mary’s song proclaims, yet you also understand that such hope is made all the more real when we make haste to seek one another out, to gather together in prayer, in song, and in mealtime.  This is why the Church exists, so that we remember that salvation isn't something we get to alone, but it is in community with one another. The Church is where those who are vulnerable, tired, worn out, and scared, much like Mary, find one another and have their own seeds of hope blessed.  In seeking out one another, blessing one another in our moments of fear, we can sing our hearts out for the persistent hope of our God who is turning the world rightside-up, offering good news to those who so desperately need to hear it.  It is, quite simply, revolutionary, to think that in a world like ours, a world of injustice and division on a scale more massive than any of us have seen, hope could persist.  But Mary’s song is one that we need to hear, year after year after year  We need to hear the hope it proclaims, and we need to seek out and find one another and sing with all of our hearts to the God who is lifting up the lowly, scattering the proud, and filling the hungry. One of my favorite seminary professors once said that if we can’t pray the Daily Office of Morning or Evening Prayer, that we could sing or say the Magnificat, because it’s a Divine Office unto itself, with the whole message of our faith wrapped up in Mary’s song of praise, echoed unto eternity.

Not so meek and mild, huh? No, Mary, trampling the serpent beneath her heel, is strong in her willingness to be vulnerable. No silent member of the nativity scene, or an obedient vessel for God’s arrival on earth. Hers is the voice crying out through the fear, calling us all to persist in God’s hope for a world where powers and principalities are undone by the magnificent Kingdom of God.  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us.  

Again I Will Say...Rejoice!

"Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The LORD has taken away the judgments against you, he has turned away your enemies. The king of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more. On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem: Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will renew you in his love; he will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival I will remove disaster from you, so that you will not bear reproach for it. I will deal with all your oppressors at that time.

And I will save the lame and gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise and renown in all the earth. At that time I will bring you home, at the time when I gather you; for I will make you renowned and praised among all the peoples of the earth, when I restore your fortunes before your eyes, says the LORD."

--Zephaniah 3: 14-20

"Surely, it is God who saves me; *

I will trust in him and not be afraid.

For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense, *

and he will be my Savior.

Therefore you shall draw water with rejoicing *

from the springs of salvation.

And on that day you shall say, *

Give thanks to the Lord and call upon his Name;

Make his deeds known among the peoples; *

see that they remember that his Name is exalted.

Sing the praises of the Lord, for he has done great things, *

and this is known in all the world.

Cry aloud, inhabitants of Zion, ring out your joy, *

for the great one in the midst of you is the Holy One of Israel."

--Isaiah 12: 2-6 (The First Song of Isaiah)

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

--Philippians 4: 4-7

"John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our ancestor'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire."

And the crowds asked him, "What then should we do?" In reply he said to them, "Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise." Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, "Teacher, what should we do?" He said to them, "Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you." Soldiers also asked him, "And we, what should we do?" He said to them, "Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages."

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."

So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people."

--Luke 3: 7-18

Years ago while serving as a youth minister I was helping our young curate – assistant priest for the uninitiated – with a lesson on Advent with our kids. At the end a one boy asked him what the deal was with the pink candle, to which this curate, eager to show off his newfound church knowledge, explained that we take the purple of Advent and mix it with the white of Christmas and voila, we get the pink – or rose – candle. To which this little kid said very plainly, “Purple and white don’t make pink?” The curate shrugged and said, “That’s the best I got, kid!”

The pink candle lit for the Third Sunday of Advent

The pink candle stands out because this third week of Advent stands out from the rest of the season. We called this past Sunday "Stir-Em-Up Sunday", drawing from the first word in our Collect, but its more popular name is Gaudete Sunday.  Gaudete is Latin for ‘rejoice’ taken from the traditional opening chant, or introit, prescribed for the day. It’s also reflective of the rejoicing that permeates throughout our Scriptures.  The prophet Zephaniah says, “Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem!” and “the Lord will rejoice over you with gladness and renew you with love.”  In our canticle, the First Song of Isaiah, the prophet sings, “Therefore you shall draw water with rejoicing from the springs of salvation.”  The apostle Paul, writing to the church in Philipi, calls them to “Rejoice in the Lord always—again I say, rejoice!”  And in Luke’s Gospel we hear John the Baptist yelling at the brood of vipers. Oh, there’s rejoicing there, too, we’ll get to that! 

For some of us, it’s easy to rejoice this time of year. Hearts are practically giddy in anticipation of Christmas. but when we peel back the layers of our Scriptures, I suspect we will find that the voices calling us to rejoice are not doing so with the giddiness that we often experience around us this time of year, but rather they are crying out from a place of deep longing, anchored to an acknowledgment of God’s love and presence in human life, which is often anything but joyful.

The prophet Zephaniah puts in a rare appearance this week.  If you know your prophets—and I’m sure you do—you’ll know that some of the gloomiest passages in all of the Hebrew Bible are found in Zephaniah.  It’s true!  In the first chapter, starting with the second verse, we hear God say through the prophet:  “I will utterly sweep away everything from the face of the earth…humans and animals…birds of the air…fish of the sea…I will cut off humanity from the face of the earth.”  Yikes!  But just two chapters later, we hear a different tune being sung, one where the word of God, which began as irredeemable judgment, has been transformed into transcendent gladness, and that which once anticipated the sorrows of the people now celebrates their chorus of joy. 

We hear from another prophet this week, as our canticle, is taken from the 12th chapter of Isaiah. In this First Song of Isaiah we hear the promise that God is the people’s stronghold and defense, that they should rejoice in God and call upon God’s name, especially in anticipation of disasters the prophet had said earlier will come if folks don’t change their ways. Even during the exile, which starts in chapter 40, this instruction to rejoice in God’s deliverance endures.

Speaking of disasters, does anyone know where Paul was when he penned the letter to the Philippians and told them to rejoice in the Lord always?  He’s in prison!  What’s more, the church in Philippi was itself enduring great hardships and persecutions, and many more were to come.  Yet somehow out of that pain Paul is able to construct not only a message of hope but one that dares proclaim that the people should rejoice…always!

Then there’s John the Baptizer.  Where’s the joy in this guy? As he stands by the River Jordan every sort of wayfaring stranger from tax collectors to Roman soldiers are gathered. He calls them a brood of vipers, out there fleeing to him, so as to hide out from their wickedness. We talked a lot about the lack of joy in John’s message in my parish's Tuesday Bible study last week, but we also discovered a kind of joyful invitation that he offers. Notice how much of what he says is rooted in economic justice – Own more than you need? Great! Half of it can go to others, and you can start sharing from your bounty instead of stockpiling more. John’s calling the people to see their own intention and to be more than they have been; you’ve been thinking you already know yourself, well, look again, because your same-as-always life is over. There’s a tinge of fear and lots of hesitation on our part when we hear John (or someone like him) call us to metanoia, to turning ourselves around, but I’d like to think that such an invitation is worth rejoicing over. That, I believe, is why Luke refers to what John's doing as "proclaiming the good news."

Make no mistake, each prophetic voice this morning is speaking amongst communities that have experienced pain, trauma even, with dark, foreboding horizons ahead. How could any of them rejoice? It is the promise of God’s abiding presence, breaking into the world again, to which each of these voices proclaims. Zephaniah says, “The Lord your God is in your midst.”  Isaiah says, “The great one in the midst of you is the Holy One of Israel.”  Paul says, “The Lord is near.”  And joy and excitement can be heard in John’s voice as he declares, “One who is more powerful than I is coming, who will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.’ 

How is such joy possible, especially when we consider that each of these prophets was killed? It is a lesson, I suspect, that is taught to us by suffering. That is not to say that God causes or is glorified by suffering, far from it, but it is to say that when someone understands that God is still in suffering, in the absurdity of it all, they have a perspective that allows one to see beyond the suffering, to rejoice in the same way the prophets rejoiced. The Incarnation is so extraordinary, in part, because it takes place in a time when folks were desperate, when many felt the world had been left empty, and in the midst of Empire, Emmanuel arrives. The arrival of Love incarnate does not replace all suffering with joy – we need only look around, perhaps at our own sufferings– instead it makes joy possible. It allows us to dare to be joyful, to dare to hope, to dare to hang on to the mercy and love of God even when we may feel obligated to do anything but. In some ways it is the most radical and revolutionary thing we can do, to rejoice in the midst of a world filled with pain.

So rejoice, rejoice, believers!  Rejoice not because Christians are called to believe that everything will be ok, or that the pain will stop, but we rejoice in the saving grace of a God who loves us so much as to not only come among us, but to promise never to leave and to never give up on us.  This is the joy being stirred up today. This is joy for all who long to know the peace of God that passes understanding.  For this we rejoice…always…and again I will say, rejoice!  

Unlikely Prophets

'In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah,

"The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.'"'

--Luke 3: 1-6

I feel an incredible privilege whenever I get to stand among the people of God and say, “The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ!” and to then proclaim the evangelion, the Good News. But there are times when doing so is, frankly, kinda funny. This week is one of those times because, as the folks in my congregation couldn't help but notice this past Sunday, despite it being the Gospel of Jesus Christ, Jesus himself doesn’t make an appearance. And he won’t next week. Or the week after that. Seems a bit odd to proclaim the “The Gospel of the Lord!” when the Lord is nowhere to be found.

Or is he? Because, while Jesus himself isn’t mentioned, the same spirit with which Jesus preached, the same ethos that he embodied, the same message about God’s workings in the world is here, as we are first introduced to John the Baptizer.

If you know your biblical genealogy you know that John is Jesus’ cousin, the son of Elizabeth, who herself is the cousin of Jesus’ mother Mary. John’s birth, like Jesus’, was a bit of a fluke. Both Elizabeth and her husband Zechariah were well past the usual age for child-bearing. The angel Gabriel had visited them and told them that they would have a son who was to be filled with the Holy Spirit and called to turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God, to borrow words from the first chapter of Luke. Zechariah, though, didn’t believe Gabriel, and so he was struck mute until the day of John’s birth, at which point he gave his own prophecy, which we read together this week, the Song of Zechariah, in which he not only praised God but foretold his son’s role as a prophet. 

Zechariah, Elizabeth, and John

To be sure, Elizabeth and Zechariah were unlikely forebears, but isn’t that how God usually works? John himself would seem an unlikely prophet, but in him the folks were reminded and continue to be reminded that the places and situations and people considered to be of great importance in our world might not be the places and situations and people God considers when God’s next big work is about to occur. It seems God has a fondness for tapping on the shoulders of the anonymous, the unknown, and the ill-prepared.

Tiberius Caesar had been reigning for 15 years, Pontius Pilate was an experienced governor, Herod was the tetrarch of Galilee, and Annas and Caiphas were the all-important High Priests, yet to whom does God ‘s Word go when God speaks it? Not to those powerful, big deal folks, no, but to John, son of Elizbeth and Zechariah, found among the unsuspected. 

God sends the message not via the Temple or the palace, not to the important somebodies of the world, but via the desert – or wilderness, as Scripture calls it. From the least habitable of places, the Word comes. To the most deserted and desolate of people, the Word blossoms with meaning and life. 

John speaks it loud and strong for folks to repent, to “Prepare!” Make straight those crooked paths, like Isaiah said long before; smooth out the rough places of despair into plains, make those mountains of troubles low. And all flesh, whether powerful or powerless, will see God’s new thing…together. No longer nobodies and somebodies – a sign of the new realm among us, or as Jesus will call it: the Kingdom of heaven.

My first boss out of college was a fellow named Rick Bentley, who was the Sports Information Director at what is now the University of Pikeville. I was his assistant, along with being assistant baseball coach, and he and I couldn’t have been more different. But we both loved sports, and we both loved Jesus. Rick was a Freewill Baptist, so this Episcopalian often clashed with his thoughts on Scripture, the role religion should play in society, and the nature of sin. Yet one day, as we were making one of our long road trips to cover a basketball game, he said, “You know, partner” – that’s what we called each other – “I figure when I die there’s gonna be a whole lotta folks I’m surprised to see in heaven, and there’s a whole lotta folks who’re gonna be surprised to see me!” In a car on a road in eastern Kentucky was the unlikely wilderness where my friend Rick, I believe, was not too far from the Kingdom of heaven when he made that little anonymous prophecy of his. 

The one and only Rick Bentley, who represented the Free Will Baptists at my ordination in 2012.

What John called the people in the wilderness to was repentance. The Greek word is metanoia, which means to turn oneself around. This call was for everyone, for the somebodies and the nobodies alike. It’s a word, perhaps, modern church-goers aren’t fond of because it evokes notions of wretchedness, or that somehow we are inherently evil and must constantly repent before a priest or some other confessor and be saved. I mourn that a great many preachers over the years have treated the concept of repentance in this way, an abusive tactic used to get folks to over-commit their time and their treasure to the church because, after all, only the church could save them. I am sorry if you are someone who has experienced that kind of message from a clergy person or a congregation of other believers. Still, if we are to accept the somewhat radical notion that my Free Will Baptist brother proclaimed, that heaven is something we will all inherit, then can we not all also accept the invitation to repent, to turn ourselves around, back toward God, back toward forgiveness, back toward mercy, back toward justice, back toward whatever new call God has in store for us during this season in which the world itself is about to turn, 

What in your life is not yet ready for God’s new call? What part of you is in need of repentance, of being turned around? John the Baptizer asked that question a little more boldly than me, but it is a question, nonetheless, that is offered to us all, the powerful and the powerless alike. I know there is much in me that needs to be turned around, not the least of which is my capacity to truly love those with whom I so strongly disagree - my friend Rick helped me with that. Who, I wonder, are those voices for you? Who are the anonymous, unknown prophets imparting wisdom, perhaps even a challenge or two, for you? And do you have ears to hear them? 

Their voices join the voice of the Baptizer, who all Advent long is out there in the deserts, in the wildernesses of our everyday lives, crying out for us to not only repent, to be turned around, but to prepare. To till the soil of our souls, that something fresh and new may be born. 

The Beginning (of Everything) Is Near

'Jesus said, "There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."

Then he told them a parable: "Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

"Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man."'

--Luke 21: 25-36

There is a meme that shows up around this time of year and makes its rounds on the social medias. It’s a picture person holding a piece of cardboard with the words written on it, “The Beginning is near.” There are many variations of this blog, including the one below with a person wear a Guy Fawkes mask. I couldn’t find the origins of the image, but it seems obviously a reframing of those street preachers with signs proclaiming “The End is near,” and in that way, it’s a perfect encapsulation of Advent.

The beginning…of everything…of a new hope…of the kingdom of God, is near. Yes, preacher, we know. We’re good Episcopalians who understand that today not only marks the start of a new church year but also this season of preparation for the birth of Jesus. All this has happened before, and all of it will happen again, and the beginning of the greatest story ever told is right around the corner. We get it.

If that were the case, though, why does Advent not start on a joyful note? Instead, our Gospel fills us with something more like despair. We start the new church year the exact same way we ended the last one, with Jesus talking about a coming time that sounds anything but joyful. 

We find Jesus teaching on the last week of his life while sitting on the Mount of Olives, opposite the Temple in Jerusalem. It’s a scene that is Luke’s version of one that we heard about from Mark just two weeks ago. Instead of one disciple commenting on the magnificence of the Temple, Luke uses the generic phrasing “Some were speaking about the Temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God.” Jesus gives the familiar prophecy about the Temple being destroyed, along with the destruction of the whole of Jerusalem, which some of Luke’s audience would have experienced roughly 20 years earlier. They ask for signs – how will we know these awful things will take place? – and Jesus borrows imagery from the prophet Daniel and paints this picture of doom and gloom – the sun darkened, the moon not giving light, stars falling, and heaven itself being shaken, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria; in fact, Jesus quotes Daniel verbatim when talking about the Son of Man coming in the clouds. It sounds pretty hopeless. Sure ain’t joyful.

Yet if we remember the purpose of this kind of rhetoric – the kind prophets like Jeremiah and Daniel used and that Jesus himself uses– it’s to reveal something to the people, to reveal hope in the midst of hopelessness. This is, once again, apocalyptic, a tearing away of the veil so that the people can see the truth. 

Advent is an apocalyptic season. It serves a dual purpose. The first is to remind us that, in spite of the very best intentions of the people of God, the Kingdom that Jesus proclaimed to have already come near, hasn’t quite come in its grandest fulfillment, and so the prayer of Advent is that Christ will come again to rule among God’s creation with grace, mercy, and justice. The beginning of such a time, we hope – in the words of our Creed – is near.

The second purpose of Advent is to take us back to the beginning, back to that time of Jesus’ first Advent. And in the midst of our own times of hopelessness, to capture the spirit of hope folks felt back then, a spirit of yearning for that which some might’ve said was too good to be true: a new and unique expression of God’s intention to save this broken world was breaking through.

Capturing that spirit of hope is, I suspect, what Jesus means when he uses a fig tree as a parable for being able to observe the signs of the times. Such observing means paying close attention to all that is happening in our world, regardless of what we are afraid to see. This hope enables us to see our day’s news with the eyes of the heart, and not hide out in the fog of secular numbness or hyper-sensitivity. We often pretend to be remote or untouchable, shrouding ourselves in willful ignorance, but to read the sign of the times is to dare to acknowledge what is hidden in plain sight – what is being revealed to us right now– and to dare to find our part to play, our song to sing, our small task to fulfill in the unfolding drama of God’s Kingdom coming on earth as in heaven. No, we can’t take in all of the heartache and pain we see – our species wasn’t designed for it, our brains literally can’t handle it, which is why the overflow of information that we experience creates in us anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Yet we can find that small task in our small corner; because we’ve all got our part to play in that promised day’s arrival.

Such a day can’t get here fast enough, we might say when we see all that plagues this world, which may lead us to reading such signs less as an invitation to participation and more as a portent to something we must fear. Still, Jesus says, we need not be afraid, but we must remain on guard, yet without our hearts being weighed down. Be ready for that day, but don’t worry about it. So hurry up….but wait?! What kind of Messiah double-talk is this?

It's active waiting. Sounds oxymoronic, but that’s Advent, and it’s how we operate in a kingdom that has both already come and not yet come. For those of you who host holiday parties or are expecting loved ones to visit this year, think about how you prepare for those guests. You wait for them, sure, but is it passive? Lord no! I bet you’re looking out for the stray dust bunny to sweep or making sure the beds are prepared for those overnight visitors. It’s the same way for those of us living in the Second Advent, waiting actively for Jesus to be born anew in our lives, neither trying to predict when it’s gonna happen, nor being passive – but surrendering to God’s timing while actively looking for the one who is already here, finding our place in this kingdom that is both already and not yet. 

The days are getting crisper. I’ve felt the wind in the air lately. It chills me with how abrupt it can come on. That’s Advent, coming like the wind to wake us up to the reality that all that we see is not all that there is; that you, and I, and them, are more precious and more important than any of us can ever know;  that the love that came down at Christmas is as real now as it was then, and it’s coming again – as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.

The winds are blowing. The signs are all around. So, you there, who keep falling asleep in shallow waters, floating on the surface of your life, wake up! Stop staring blankly, numb to the wonder of who you are and whose you are. The God who searches for you in the holy mundane of your life is near. The revealing of your true self, and your role in the unfolding of this kingdom, is near. The beginning of everything is near. 

On Kingship and the Lions of the Coliseum

'Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”'

--John 18: 33-37

One lasting image of kingship for me is Arthur, King of the Britons, giving his credentials to man named Dennis and an unnamed, poor woman – who, it should be noted, didn’t vote for him. Arthur recounts the story of how the Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest, shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by Divine right that he, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur.  “That,” Arthur tells them, “is why I’m your king.”  But Dennis sums the whole thing up best when he retorts, “Strange women lying in ponds, distributing swords, is no basis for a system of government! Arthur is having none of this political commentary, so he represses Dennis, and then rides away.

Arthur, King of the Britons.

That scene in the early moments of Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a classic. Our system isn’t perfect, but at least we don’t rely on strange women distributing swords to declare who our leaders will be – though, maybe we should. We may not think much about what kingship or sovereignty mean because this is ‘Murica, and we literally fought a war not to have a king, but Christ the King Sunday, or, Reign of Christ Sunday, as it’s also called, comes around each year to invite us to do just that.

The Solemnity of Christ the King was established in 1925 by Pope Pius XI to be observed on the last Sunday of the liturgical calendar. The world was just seven years removed from the Great War, but fascism was on the rise, and in less than 15 years there would be a Second World War.  In response to the growing popularity of authoritarianism, the pope wrote in his encyclical Quas Primas, that the faithful should gain strength and courage from the celebration of this new feast, as they were reminded that Christ must reign in their hearts, minds, wills, and bodies, and that the leaders and nations would see that they were bound to allegiance to Christ, not the state. It is Jesus alone who is our sovereign, and the one to whom all of our praise and adoration is directed because he is the only one worthy of any of it. More folks need to remember that right now, I suspect.

Curiously, the Gospel for this last Sunday of what we call Year B doesn’t feature Jesus in a very kingly position. Instead, he is face-to-face with Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, moments before his death. Why this story for this day? Perhaps because it illustrates how wrong we often are about what kingship, sovereignty, or power really look like. The regalia of the Roman governor? Or the rags of an itinerant preacher? The whole script is flipped on its heard. 

So Jesus and Pilate engage in this beautifully Hellenistic battle of wits: Are you the King of the Jews? Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me? So you’re a king? You say that I am. What have you done? No answer. It’s brilliant. Jesus is no stranger to cross-examination, so he’s wise to not refer to himself as a king because that’s a political term, and if he’s a king – of the Jews, or anyone else – that’s treason because Caesar is king of, well, everything. His kingdom, then, isn’t a physical one – at least, not yet – it is in the mind and heart of the believer, where the mighty rich are sent away empty and the mighty are cast down, where the lowly are lifted up and the hungry are filled with good things; a kingdom that has, indeed, come near, but not in a way Pilate or anyone else would recognize. It’s a kingdom for those with eyes to see and ears to hear….the truth.

What is truth? That’s Pilate’s answer to that last line in our Gospel, and shame on the lectionary folks for cutting it out. What is truth has been at the heart of every political debate and every family argument for at least the past eight years, but, honestly, we all know it goes way beyond that. The Telecommunications Act of 1996 reduced regulation, enabling the handful of corporations dominating the airwaves to expand their power further. The result was the end of local news outlets, and a consolidation of media that established the Big Six – six corporations major corporations from which all forms of media became outsourced. This led to a boom in big tech that can be directly connected to THESE little things and the ways that we drink from the firehose of social and mass media daily. Whatever we want to be true can be, through confirmation bias made possible by algorithms that tell us what we want before we even know we want it. You are your own Cassar with your own truths, what could be more American than that? What else could possibly matter?

This is where, I believe, it matters that on a day when we designate for the solemnity of Jesus’ reign as sovereign of all, we get this particular encounter. Because truth is not about the loneliness of one’s own existence, but the revelation Jesus presents about the nature of humanity and of our world, namely, that none of us is their own Caesar, the center of their own existence – the very “truths” that media of all sorts and conditions feed us today. The truth Jesus offers sets us free to discover God’s will in a future that is open to possibilities because it is a future rooted in community, rooted in unity, in the counterintuitive motion of downward mobility that openly mocks and shames when the modern Pilates tell us we should move in the opposite direction. 

When we declare that Christ is King, or Christ is sovereign, we lay claim to his own downward mobility and we own being members of him, over any other group, clan, or tribe. Claiming Jesus as sovereign says that his truth – strength through vulnerability, justice through mercy, and power through weakness – is our truth, despite what the algorithms would have us believe. Two kingdoms stand face-to-face: to which one will we choose to belong?

One of my favorite folk singers is a fellow named Pierce Pettis, who has a song called Lions of the Coliseum from his now out-of-print album, Chase the Buffalo, released in 1992. It speaks brilliantly to our modern experience of information overload by those who’ve co-opted this Christianity thing we love. The lions are the ones on the satellite tv preaching from their lap of luxury; with politicians and millionaires, you won’t see Mother Theresa there; the lions rob the poor for pocket change, and whose hypocrisy has made the church a museum where cobwebs hand like a rosary inside a mausoleum, whose surfaces are clean and white, while inside rotted corpses lie; so they like to keep the lid on tight. In the final verse, Pierce sings: “there’s rebel graffiti on the walls inside the coliseum, down below in the catacombs the defiant ones are meeting; hiding in the underground, blood brothers and sisters pass the cup around; and they pay no heed to the roaring sound of the lions of the coliseum.” Jesus’ kingdom is here…head…and here….heart….and here…the people. Yes, it will come in physical form – we affirm that each week – but it’s already here. Hold on to that assurance and pay no heed to the roaring sound of the lions of the coliseum.

Lions of the Coliseum, by Pierce Pettis

This is the scandal, the truth, of the Gospel; that if we are members of Jesus’ kingdom, we’re not members of any other; and if Jesus is king, then nobody else is. Empires fall, all terms of office and reigns of those in power end, but Jesus shall reign wherever the sun doth its successive journeys run, his kingdom stretches from shore to shore till moons shall wax and wane no more

Of Holy Fools and Apocalypses

'As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”'

--Mark 13: 1-18

I wanna talk about the apocalypse. Seems fitting.  I don’t know what pops in your head when you hear it. Maybe the “end of days” stories in things like the fictitious Left Behind series, which has no basis is biblical scholarship? If you’re of a certain age, maybe you think of the X-Men villain named Apocalypse? Anyone? Maybe that's just me. The word itself, apocalypse, is a Greek word being ‘unveiling,’ or ‘revelation.’ It is, in fact, the Greek title of the last book of the Bible.

En Sabah Nur, better known as Apocalypse.

This week's reading from the Hebrew scriptures was from the Book of Daniel, a piece of apocalyptic literature that heavily influenced the writing of the Revelation to John. The same imagery is used in both texts, as Michael the archangel makes an appearance, and both promise a victory for God’s people over the forces of evil. Apocalyptic stories like Daniel or Revelation are not meant to be blueprints for the end of the world, despite what some folks may suggest, but instead they speak to the current climate, to the need for people to have the veil pulled away from their eyes to see what is really going on, and using symbolism and metaphor they try to make sense of current events and experiences by casting them in a larger, cosmic framework, and in this way give comfort to people who are currently suffering or being oppressed.

Our journey this year with the Gospel of Mark comes to an end this week, as Jesus channels his inner Daniel with his own apocalyptic imagery. Right after watching that widow dropped in her two pennies, right after Jesus pointed out what real abundance, real power looks like, one of the disciples points out the impressiveness of the buildings and how mighty the stones are in the Temple walls. You can almost see the “Facepalm Jesus” meme happen in real time here:

Surely Jesus is disappointed, once again, in the slowness of the disciples to learn, well, anything. He counters this acclamation by telling them that this building and all it represents will cease to be. That famine and disasters will occur, and others will claim to come in his name. Yet it will all be the beginnings of the birth pangs. Something is being revealed, Jesus is trying to get them to understand.

The audience for Mark’s Gospel would’ve understood Jesus’ imagery immediately. There had been the great famine in Palestine in the year 50, the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that destroyed Laodicea and Pompeii in 61 and 62, and, of course, the destruction of the Temple itself by the Romans in the year 70, just before this Gospel started to be proclaimed. Their world  was changing, quickly, in ways that folks struggled to understand, and within the framework of the Gospel narrative itself, Jesus’ own journey is rapidly coming to its climax. 

He communicates all of this while standing on the Mount of Olives, the very place where the Messiah is meant to first appear – which, by the way, is why folks to this day pay top dollar to be buried on that mountainside, so that they can be the first to behold the Messiah’s coming. Just a few days earlier it was the place where Jesus had entered the city in humility on a donkey at the same time Pontius Pilate was coming in from the opposite end in the grand imperial procession of Rome. The turning point of human history is here – for the participants in this story, for the people who first heard it, and for us who have inherited it. Jesus and his teachings, Jesus and his earthly journey, are approaching convergence, and his way is moving steadily on toward fruition. It is, in a word, apocalyptic.

View from the Mount of Olives facing the Temple Mount. Notice the sarcophagi along the hillside.

What is being revealed in these final days of Mark’s Gospel is the promise of God’s victory over the powers and principalities of this world, though few will have the eyes to truly see it. They will only see a body on a cross, even when a group of women tell them about an empty tomb. The Gospel practically begs the audience to have eyes to see what is going on around them, what is truly real. It isn’t the grandeur of your buildings, the might of your empires, no. It is quiet humility, frailty, even poverty, that which is foolish in the eyes of people, but not God.

How many of you know the stories of the Holy Fools? They were a peculiar bunch of ascetics who acted intentionally foolish – some thought they were genuinely out of their minds – in order to irritate and shock people into paying attention and changing their own, truly foolish ways. They included folks like Basil, who shoplifted in order to feed and clothe those in need, going naked and weighing himself down with chains. There was also Simeon, who drug around a dead dog and threw nuts at people when he walked into church, then he'd crawled around the building on his butt, causing children to point and yell “There goes a crazy abba!” The Holy Fools themselves were apocalyptic, revealing the absurdities of their time, pulling people out of their everyday trances by means of absurdity. We got any Holy Fools in our congregations these days?

St. Simeon, the Holy Fool

Have we, like the disciple staring in awe at the magnificence of the Temple, become complacent and in need of some foolishness to draw the veil away from our eyes? This is, I believe, an apocalyptic moment, as so much new is being revealed and coming to light, in our parish, in our local communities, in our state, and especially in our country, as some people believe literally that the president-elect was chosen by Jesus and has come in his name. The events of the past fortnight have revealed truths that we may never have wanted to know, and yet now that we know them, what will we do with them? And with ourselves?

One of the best pieces of apocalyptic storytelling in the 21st century is the Wachowski siblings masterpiece, The Matrix. Spoiler alert for a movie series a quarter of a century old, but The Matrix paints the picture of a world where humanity is caught in a simulation of reality – known as the Matrix –  boring, mundane, and safe. But the true reality, the “real” world is one in which humans’ minds are being kept in this simulation while their bodies are used as batteries to power an empire of machines. Once you see what is real, it is almost impossible to go back into the safe simulation – though one character tries, taking a bite of virtual reality steak saying, “Ignorance is bliss.” In the end, though, all of humanity is not freed from the Matrix, but they are given the choice to leave of their own accord. They can remain in a virtual world, pretending that they are free, or they can venture out into a world that, though frightening and hard, is truly real. The choice is theirs.

Keanu Reeves in The Matrix Reloaded, the second entry in the original trilogy.

And the choice is ours. As it was for Jesus’ disciples. Now that the veil has been pulled away, now that things have been revealed for what they are, what will we do? There are Holy Fools all around us, calling us to forsake our false sense of security and be reckless witnesses for the very morals and ethics of Jesus himself.  What lies in front of us may not be a reality that we would choose willingly, but it has chosen us. What will we do going forward?  Some may choose to remain in their own version of the Matrix, blissfully unaware of the trials and tribulations around them – to borrow from the French-born American essayist Anais Nin, it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with. They have much in common with that disciple staring at the Temple walls. As I asked members of my congregation, I'll ask readers of this blog: is that who you are??  I seriously doubt it. Yes, to choose to see things as they are means to choose the cross, but it also means to choose the hope of an empty tomb. To have such hope may seem foolish, but it is also holy. We are in the midst of the birth pangs.   

It Is Enough...For Now

'The word of the LORD came to Elijah, saying, “Go now to Zarephath, which belongs to Sidon, and live there; for I have commanded a widow there to feed you.” So he set out and went to Zarephath. When he came to the gate of the town, a widow was there gathering sticks; he called to her and said, “Bring me a little water in a vessel, so that I may drink.” As she was going to bring it, he called to her and said, “Bring me a morsel of bread in your hand.” But she said, “As the LORD your God lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.” Elijah said to her, “Do not be afraid; go and do as you have said; but first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son. For thus says the LORD the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the LORD sends rain on the earth.” She went and did as Elijah said, so that she as well as he and her household ate for many days. The jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the LORD that he spoke by Elijah.'

-- I Kings 17: 8-16

'As Jesus taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”'

--Mark 12: 38-44

This past Sunday was only my third one serving the folks of the Church of the Advocate in Chapel Hill. The seats are set up monastic-style, facing each other, so for the first two weeks I chose to preach from the center aisle. Not only does it feel more natural, but the Advocate doesn't exactly have a pulpit, more like a lectern/ambo that is used for the readings and prayers. However, at least for one Sunday, that lectern/ambo served the purpose of a pulpit, which is the visible symbol of the authority given to a preacher to proclaim the Good News. Despite the tumultuous week that we had just experienced, that is what I intended to do for the people whom I have been called to serve. 

It's times like this when I’m glad that the burden does not fall on me to choose our Scriptures for the each Sunday. I might have resorted to something like Psalm 3, which says in its seventh verse:  

“Rise up, O Lord; set me free, O my God; surely you will strike all my enemies across the face; you will break the teeth of the wicked.”                                               

Because that’s where I’ve been since last Tuesday. I’ve wrestled with a lot of anger, and also fear – for myself and my spouse, for my queer siblings, for our immigrant neighbors, and for everyone who faces an uncertain and unclear future when the calendar turns to 2025. I’m not going to tell you that things are still ok because Jesus was Lord the day before the election and he’s still Lord now; that things are bad but God is still good. That’s called spiritual bypassing, and it’s a form of gaslighting and abuse. I’m not going to do that. Because for so many things are not ok, and that kind of rhetoric does very little to heal the hurting that folks are feeling or assuage the legitimate concerns that the most vulnerable among us face. I’m not compelled to lean into that right now. 

As I told my folks on Sunday, I don’t exactly feel like I have much to give right now. Maybe you don’t either. And that’s ok. We say it every week at the Advocate: bring what you’ve got into this space, bring it this Table, give it to God and see what happens. I’m gonna try to give what little bit I have and see what happens.

I’ve heard it said before, and you’ll hear me say many times, that there is a difference between fact and truth. Facts are things that are provable, while truth is something deeper, it’s about meaning and feeling. I studied for a summer in the Holy Land several years ago, and our guide regularly told us that if we had come there looking for facts we would leave disappointed, but if we came looking for truth we would find it. Facts, as we have seen recently, aren’t always enough. Our Scriptures, likewise, are not always factual, but they are filled with truth, with meaning, with life lessons told through myth, metaphor, hyperbole, song, prose, and poetry. It might be hard to believe that God factually did all those things in our Bible stories, but it matter that we hold to the truth God that can do them. And there is truth in our Scriptures this week that maybe, just maybe, can send us on our way with some modicum of hope.

That truth is conveyed by two widows, separated by roughly 900 years. The first is caught up in a time of drought and famine. Her household has succumbed, and all that remains is her and her son. There’s not much left, just enough meal and oil to bake one last cake for the two of them to share before they die. She’s met by Elijah, the so-called Man of God, who has the audacity to ask her to make a cake for him first. A bit presumptuous, if you ask me, but the widow has nothing to left to lose. She offers what little she does have, and dips into her jar of meal and jug of oil to make the Man of God’s cake…and then she makes one for herself…and another for her son….and another…and another….for days on end. The jug and jar did not fail. It was all she had, but it was enough. That’s the truth of this story, even if such a miracle is, perhaps, not factual.

An Eastern mosaic of the story of the widow's mite.

We find Jesus today, on the Tuesday before he died, in the temple teaching and preaching. Beware, he warns those gathered, of the scribes, of those who were the entrepreneurs of the religious establishment, a literate class in an illiterate society who, as Jesus puts it, devoured widow’s houses, usually by administering loan agreements and then foreclosing on widows’ property when they couldn't repay the loan.  It just so happens, there in their midst, is another poor widow, who gives two copper coins worth a penny into the general treasury. What an unlikely candidate to be teaching in the temple. Others are certainly considered more powerful, more important, more holy than she, yet it is her faithfulness, her willingness to bring all she’s got, no matter how insufficient it may appear, and in so doing, offer a lesson on the quality of real power, which doesn’t look like the pomposity of the scribes but the humility of this widow. Does it factually make sense that a woman would hand over, as our translation puts it, “everything she had, all she had to live on.” Not really – why would anyone do that? - yet the truth of her story remains, that real power comes not from the top-down or from an abundance of privilege, but from the bottom-up and from self-emptying when it would seem there’s nothing left. The mite of this widow not only blesses her but everyone who witnessed it.

A Greek word so often used in the New Testament is kenosis, which means to empty oneself. Paul uses this word to not only describe what Jesus does on the cross, but also what we are meant to do for one another.  Both of the widows in these stories embody kenosis, they empty themselves. They’ve got no idea what is going to happen, how God might show up – if at all. Yet here, at the end of their ropes, and because they do not fear to lose what little bit they still have left, they can offer it with the slimmest of hopes, that something – anything – might be possible.

What little bit you have right now is enough. As I said on Sunday, even if you feel empty, the fact that you are even here is enough. If all you have is a lament, or even a curse, it’s enough. For this place and this time, it’s enough. I wish that all we have experienced in these latter days had not happened in our time. But as Galdalf reminded Frodo, all we have to decide now is what to do with the time that is given us. I don't know about any of you, but what I intend to do, like those two widows in our stories this week, is give what little I have each day, with the slimmest of hopes that, to quote another prophetic voice from The Lord of the Rings, there is some good left in this world and it is worth fighting for! And I promise you that I will fight and I will preach – with words, when necessary – in the name of the Lord Jesus and all that he lived, died, and rose for, until I have emptied myself of all that I have to give. And it will be my greatest honor to do that by your side.

Samwise Gamgee: hobbit, hero, prophet.

It is important that we acknowledge the grief that is all around us and to honor that every person may be in a different stage of that grief – whether denial, sadness, anger, bargaining, or acceptance. As an aside, for any of you who are not experiencing grief right now, I say, "Thanks be to God!" But for those of us who are, it's important to name it. No doubt the two widows were also grieving for what was going on in their own times. Yet we also know that, to paraphrase Richard Rohr, those who do not transform their grief and pain will transmit it. Hurt people hurt people, after all. We're watching that play out in front of us. Perhaps not today, but some day, together, we will transform this grief and this pain and will steel ourselves to do what we are called to do as followers not of Caesar but of Jesus!

Our Psalm for this past Sunday was Psalm 146 which, in the second verse, says it pretty plainly: "Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, for there is no help in them."Our trust is in, again to quote that Psalm, the One who gives justice to those who are oppressed, food to those who hunger, who sets the prisoners free, opens the eyes of the blind, lifts up those who are bowed down, who cares for the stranger, sustains the orphan and widow, and frustrates the wicked. That is our work and it always has been, and our work does not change. We keep showing up, we keep emptying ourselves, we keep filling one another with the Bread of heaven and Cup of salvation, we keep praying, and we keep letting what we say and do every Sunday inspire us to go out there and live it every single day. The meal and the oil did not fail. The widow’s mite blessed her and those around her immeasurably. Did God really, factually, do these things? Maybe, maybe not. But the truth is God can. And at least for right now, that is enough. 

For All the Saints

In the second act of Stephen Sondheim’s musical Into the Woods, the four remaining lead characters – the Baker, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, and Jack – come together to sing the show’s penultimate number called No One Is Alone. After the long, arduous journey they’ve been on, each one having experienced tremendous heartache, they try to understand the consequences of the things for which they have wished throughout the show, and they begin to decide to place community wishes over their own. The song itself serves a dual purpose: first, to show that each of the characters’ actions – and by extension our own – are not made in a bubble and that no one is guaranteed to be the protagonist of their own story. And second, the song demonstrates that even when life throws its greatest challenges at us, we do not have to face them alone, that there are still people who love us, believe in us, and are cheering for us.

Red Riding Hood and Cinderella sing their parts of 'No One is Alone' from the 2014 film adaptation of Into the Woods.

I would add, even when we cannot see them. For that is what the Feast of All Saints is about, the companions we have had along our journey through the woods of our own lives, those who showed us the way, who may have gone on to glory, but whose lessons, whose love, whose spirits live on and inspire us to keep going and remember, to borrow the last line of that song: things will come out right now/we can make it so/someone is on your side/no one is alone.

Most of y’all, I suspect, are familiar with the Paschal Triduum, which are the three sacred days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday. They are the holiest days in the Christian calendar, marking Jesus’ passing over from death to life. This springtime Triduum of life is mirrored by a Triduum of death in the fall of All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day, which happen on October 31, November 1, and November 2, respectively. They teach us that death is every bit as sacred as life – two sides of the same coin. All Hallows Eve was the day when Christians remembered that death doesn’t have the final say, and thus is not something to be feared, so they dressed up and mocked demons and devils to their faces. All Saints marked the celebration of the apostles and martyrs, confessors and doctors of the church, the big deal folks who have stained glass in their honor and stuff named for them. All Souls, then, was the day to remember everyone else, all the faithful departed. Over time, though, and because All Saints is one of the few major feast days we can move to the following Sunday, All Saints and All Souls got conflated and merged together, while All Hallows Eve became an almost entirely secular holiday that a lot of Christians, if you can believe it, even openly opposed. 

Which is where most of us found ourselves in our churches this pat weekend. All Saints Sunday is not just about remembering the big deal folks, but all those who we love but see no longer. Personally, this day always takes me back to little All Saints Episcopal Church in Norton, VA, a place where the directory is the front and back of one sheet of paper. This place baptized me – along with my mother and sister – they confirmed me, and ordained me – and later my dad. And while they didn’t have a staff or lot of programs, they have lived into their name. Saints that worshiped there included Joe and May Straughn, who sang in the choir, and were the kind of old couple that made you ask, "How are they together?!" but who were madly in love. Frances Herndon, the cantankerous yet faithful altar guild chair who insisted I preach her funeral even before I was ordained. The Rev. Fran McCoy, the finest priest I have ever known - who was so good that I didn't even know men could be priests! - and the one person most responsible for me being one today. And my mother, Susan Mitchell, who I still see in the crowd every place I preach. They are just some of the saints, the companions on the way, the ones who reminded me and many others that none of us is alone, even if now they do so on a far greater shore.

The Rev. Frances J. McCoy, Rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Norton, VA

And that is what the saints truly are to us, our companions. That word is taken from the Latin com, meaning “together or with,” and pan, meaning “bread.” Our companions are literally the ones with whom we share bread. And just as your closest companions are the ones you invite to share bread at your dinner table, at the holy Table, Christ brings us together – he who himself is the bread of life, the bread of heaven, the bread that feeds and sustains us. We share this Bread with each other, yes, but when we come forward and reach out our hands we do not do it alone. None of us is alone. The heavenly banquet that we know our loved ones are sharing right now is nothing less than the Eucharist itself. In the great prayer of the Church we hear Jesus’ words to his apostles, echoed through eternity for all the saints, “Do this for the remembrance of me.”  Remember.  We do not partake in this holy meal to simply recall an event in history, no.  We re-member; that is, we become a member again, we reconnect with Christ and with all the saints who partake in this Communion. We reaffirm our place in the communion of saints by the Communion of Christ’s own body and blood.  With those words of his, the lid is blown off of time.  The past is brought into the present, and the eternal is now.  We are tied to all who have ever offered this prayer before us, bound together with all throughout history who have shared the bread and cup.  We are united through the future to the heavenly banquet, where the feasting never ends.  In the midst of that celebrating, while moving beyond time, we are joined by the saints of God right beside us.  Our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, grandparents, grandchildren, and dear friends.  They are here with us.  We named them on Sunday. And each time we come to the Table we share with them in what Saint Ignatius of Antioch called “the medicine of immortality.”

No one is alone. Salvation is not something we achieve on our own – contrary to popular opinion, we do not go out and “get saved” by ourselves. We pray, we break bread, we study, we grow, we fail, we fall, we repent, we forgive, and we keep moving closer and closer to salvation together. The lives of the saints remind us of that fact. They remind us that no one is alone.  

Sometimes I’m asked why we Episcopalians pray for the dead; after all, they’re fine now because they’re with God. There’s two reasons, really: 1) to remember that, as the prayer says, in death life is changed, not ended, and that those we love are still alive in the presence of God, and 2) because they are praying for us. On that side of the Kingdom is the Church Triumphant, those who have finished their earthly course and have found their triumph and bliss with Christ, and it is their ministry to pray for us here in the Church Militant – a term we use for us here on earth who are still in our struggles. We pray for them because that relationship is not over because it is rooted in love, which is the very nature of God – because if it ain’t about love, it ain’t about God, right? I am fond of reminding folks that love is the most powerful force in the whole universe, it cannot be destroyed by time or space. Love never dies. Love is what unites us, the living to the dead, and reminds us that we are not alone. This day is all about love.

The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant fresco by Andrea da Firenze, c.1365

For all the saints, who from their labors rest, who thee by faith before the world confessed, thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blest. And let the church forever say: Alleluia! And Amen.

Lessons in Courage From Bold Bartimaeus

*This post is unchanged from my first sermon at the Church of the Advocate, Chapel Hill on October 27.

'Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.'

--Mark 10: 46-52

When I was in college everyone – and I mean, everyone – knew me as Transformer Joe. Not Baseball Joe, not Theatre Joe, not Episcopal Joe, or even Hillbilly Joe, no, I was only Transformer Joe. You see, word got around that I collected action figures, specifically Transformers, and folks would even come to my dorm room to get a tour of what at that time was a modest collection. I was asked to write a piece for the school paper, and when my roommate told someone that he roomed with Joe Mitchell they asked, “Who?” but when he told them Transformer Joe they said, “Oh you room with Transformer Joe?” It’s kind of bummer only being known for one quality or aspect of who you are. Even now I’d like to think that I’m more than Transformer Joe or Father Joe or whatever. We’re all more than just one thing.

Some things never change.

Bartimaeus of Jericho is, like many characters in the stories of Scriptures, often remembered for one thing: being blind. Among scholars, clergy, and kids in Sunday School he’s known as, you guessed it, Blind Bartimaeus. And that’s really not fair because Bartimaeus is much, much more than this particular physical trait. He displays a level of courage that I suspect is Good News for all of us, and his witness helps us, too, remember that more than one thing defines who we are.

We should point out that Bartimaeus is not a person folks would’ve immediately been inspired by. He’s got three strikes against him as soon as we meet him: he’s blind, he’s a beggar, and even his name is unflattering – Bar-timmaeus, “son of Timaeus,” literally means “son of the defiled or unclean.” Yet as is often the case in the story of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the most incredible acts of faith, hope, and charity come from the most unlikely of individuals. 

So here is Bartimaeus, sitting on the side of the dirt road in Jericho, a pit stop on the way to Jerusalem. Jesus and his followers are coming through town on their way to the Passover celebration, in fact, the very next event in Mark’s Gospel after this encounter is Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem for Palm Sunday. Bartimaeus hears that Jesus is coming through, and we get his first courageous act: he shouts, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” What’s so courageous about that? It's a political declaration. It heralds Jesus as the Messiah, the heir to the throne of David. Even though he’s blind, Bartimaeus sees what others can’t, he sees with eyes that know God has arrived and God will act. The folks around him want him to hush up. “Stop saying things like that or you’re gonna get us all into a whole mess of trouble!” It’s an act of sedition. Rome don’t take too kindly to folks declaring that someone besides Caesar is in charge, after all. But he shouts again at the very top of his lungs, proclaiming Jesus’ sovereignty and asking for the most basic gift one person can give another: mercy.

There’s boldness in Bartimaeus – maybe Bold Bartimaeus suits him better, you still have the alliteration! Jesus hears him. Let that sink in for moment. Jesus hears the bold declarations of a blind beggar and tells the very folks who were trying to get him to shut up to bring him closer. Then Jesus asks one of my favorite questions, one he doesn’t ask anyone else: what do you want me to do for you? Hoo-boy! What do you do with that?! How would you answer that, or how would I? Peace in the Holy Land? An end to the patriarchy? A direct, pointed question that only Bartimaeus can answer.

An African icon of Bartimaeus being led to Jesus by the folks who told him to keep quiet.

He says, “Let me see again.” What’s interesting here is that the Greek better translates to “That I may receive sight.” So whether Bartimaeus has been physically blind from birth or not, we can’t really know, but we do know that Scripture always has multiple levels of meaning. Yes, he is asking to physically see, but his request is one that the very people who first received this Gospel prayed: let us see what is going on in the world around us and respond to it. Mark’s Gospel was written around the year 70, when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and Rome sacked the city, leaving believers in the God of Abraham bereft and lost. What do we do now? How can we see a path forward in the midst of such misery? “Let me see again,” Bartimaeus pleads, along with every lost and fearful person who first heard this story proclaimed in the town squares.

And here’s the best part. Jesus doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t speak a magic word like when he healed the mute person two chapters earlier. He doesn’t make mud from the dirt and spread it on Bartimaeus’ eyes like he does for another blind person in John, chapter 9. Jesus tells him that his faith has made him well, not any outward gesture from Jesus. His faith, his hope, his charity - another word for love -  of God is what gives Bartimaeus the courage to proclaim what he knows is true about Jesus, to step forward and plead his case before God, and receive healing, in every sense of that word.

Then, and perhaps this is most important, he follows Jesus. Our text says he followed him on “the way.” That’s a lower case ‘w,’ in case you were wondering, but we could just as easily make it uppercase; because the Way was, after all, what the Jesus Movement was originally called, and the folks we call Christians were first known as Followers of the Way. Bartimaeus doesn’t treat Jesus as a kind of cosmic vending machine to whom he makes a request, gets his prize, and then moves on. He is transformed by the encounter, made a new creation, and because of that he cannot help but follow this Way of Jesus, all the way to Jerusalem, to the cross and to resurrection. To think of him simply as Blind Bartimaeus, really doesn’t do him justice, does it?

Bold Bartimaeus knew he was more than just one thing. How about you, folks of the Advocate? What stirs you enough to make a scene like this blind beggar on the side of the road? What are your blind spots, and where do you need to have your sight restored? What could it be that your faith has already healed, you just don’t know it yet? As with Bartimaeus, a new path, a new road, has been opened at the Advocate, and we will walk it together. We too will boldly proclaim the sovereignty of Jesus above all others. We too will seek justice for those who have strikes thrown against them by systems of oppression and those who collaborate to maintain them. We will remind every person that it isn’t just one thing that defines them, and as we pray for our own faith, hope, and love to increase, we will put each of those qualities into action to be sure the world knows what Jesus himself proclaimed when we first began Mark’s Gospel almost a year ago: that the Kingdom of God has come near! He will be there, Jesus will, every step, asking us those same questions – like, “What do you want me to do for you?” – and together we will live into those questions as we follow him on the Way.