Month: November 2022

November 27, 2022, First Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44; Psalm 122

It’s the first Sunday of Advent, and as happens every year, the readings try to shock us with the coming of something new. It’s not entirely clear what it is, as the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament have rather different visions. But it is new, and important. And it’s about time.

The readings are obsessed with time. We are too. We are on time, we waste time, we spend time, we make it, find it and test things with it; we want a time out or we don’t have enough time. Our society is driven by time. But the scriptures are talking about a different kind of time, a time in some undefined future.

According to Isaiah, “in the days to come”, “out of Zion shall go forth instruction”. The Lord will judge the nations. People will “beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

The Psalm offers time as a vision of peace in Jerusalem when we praise the name of the Lord there: “Jerusalem is built as a city that is at unity with itself”. There in Jerusalem are thrones of judgment. We are asked to “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem”. Here Jerusalem is both the city, but also the place where the Temple provided a home for God. In praying for the peace of Jerusalem, we are praying for the peace of God.

This peaceful image shifts when we get to Paul, who tells us that “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” When we wake up, we hear from Jesus that “About that day and hour no one knows”. What we know is when that time comes (and we hope we are awake) there will be judgment: two people will be together, whether men in the field or women grinding meal, and “one will be taken and one will be left”. We must “keep awake”, and “be ready”.

The coming of the Son of Man has been expected by Christians since the time of Jesus and Paul. At different times particular dates and times have been proposed. From time to time we hear of a preacher who has determined the exact time when this will happen; his (and it is *his*) followers dutifully prepare only to find that nothing has happened.

This presents a problem. What is it we need to keep awake for, if not for some power snatching us away (or worse, leaving us behind)? If not the rapture, then what? What are we to be ready for? Are we ready to pray for the peace of Jerusalem? To, as Paul suggests, “live honorably in the day”? We need to be ready to be servants of Jesus, living our life as he has called us. We never know when we will be called on to respond to those in need, and we do not know what that need will be.

The time is already here. We do not need to wait for some astonishing event. We just need to be present. We can make our own contributions to beating swords into plowshares, and we can pray for the peace of Jerusalem. If we live honorably, anchored in Jesus, we are ready. It’s about time.

Last Sunday of Pentecost, 20 November 2022: Jeremiah 23:1-6; Canticle 16; Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43

It’s the end of the year (for the church at least!) and as we do in the world, we glance back but mostly look forward.  Jeremiah promises that the Lord will both “attend” to the evildoers who have scattered his flock, and then “gather the remnant” back to the sheep fold, and they shall “be fruitful and multiply”.  “They shall not fear any longer”.  Furthermore, in the future the Lord will raise up for David “a righteous branch”, who shall “execute justice and righteousness in the land”.   That’s quite a promise! 

The Canticle we say today instead of a psalm is the song of Zechariah, one of the canticles we use during evening prayer.  Zechariah had not believed the promise of a child to his wife Elizabeth, and had been rendered mute for his disbelief.  When his son was born, he was able to speak again, and these are his first words.  He recites the ancient promises to Israel, and points to the way John will have a role in fulfilling them. “The dawn from on high will break upon us!”

The Gospel takes us, finally, to the cross. This feels like an ending, but it is also a beginning.  Jesus asks God to forgive those who are crucifying him, “because they know not what they do”. He is mocked and taunted: if he is a King, why is he there?  In Luke’s account, we have the two thieves who are crucified with Jesus.  One joins the taunt: why can’t you save yourself and us?  The other thief pushes back, reminding his fellow that they were condemned justly.  “We are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong”.  He then asks Jesus to remember him “when you come into your kingdom”.  Jesus instead promises that the second thief will join him in paradise that day.

This echoes Paul, who promises us that God has “rescued us from the power of darkness, and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved son”.

Every time this Gospel comes around, I am reminded of the end of a poem by John Shea, “A Prayer to Jesus”, where he remarks that, “I am both thieves”.  So are we all.  We all at times want magician Jesus to whisk us away from suffering and into Paradise.  Can we just skip the pain?   At other times, we are all too aware of our failings and limitations.  There’s no one to one relationship here, this much sin leading to this much suffering.  It often seems as if suffering is unequally distributed. 

Jesus’ promise to the second thief is not that he won’t suffer: he will. He will die the same cruel and long death that Jesus will die.  But that is not the end.  This is the thing with our suffering: it is not the end of the story.   

We often pray for Jesus to be with us in times of need.  But Jesus flips this around: we will be with Jesus.  “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

November 13, 2022, 23^rd Sunday after Pentecost: Isaiah 65:17-25; Canticle 9 (Isaiah 12:2-6); 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19

“As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

I think one of the most difficult things to accept is that the world we live in is not permanent.  People we love will die; we lose jobs and friends; buildings will be demolished, or burn down. The world we know—the patterns of behavior, the things we depend on—will not be the same at some point in the future.  We watch the destruction of wildfires nearby and we know that the destruction they bring will ultimately come to this planet that we love, even when we do not act as if we do.

When things are going well in our lives, we do not want change, but change comes.  Jesus promises us that there will be wars, earthquakes, famines and plagues.  As a historian, there are few times in history when most of these promises/predictions could not be said to be true. We have certainly seen all of these.  Most of us have not suffered persecution in Jesus’ name, but the rest is clearly visible.

And then what?  Isaiah promises “new heavens and a new earth”.  It sounds wonderful: “no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress”.  Babies will not die soon after birth; those who work will reap the rewards of their work.  In this peaceful and beneficent world, “The wolf and the lamb shall feed together”.  

We tend to assume that change will be bad, at least any change that we have not chosen.  But Isaiah promises change for the good, full of blessings from God.  It comes from the conviction expressed elsewhere in Isaiah, in today’s canticle, one we say often in evening prayer.  “Surely it is God who saves me/ I will trust in him and not be afraid.” The world is always changing.  There are wars, earthquakes, famines and plagues; because of modern communications, we know this.  We see suffering not just nearby, with homeless people huddled in doorways, but far away, in the victims of famine and war, the refugees and migrants we see on our televisions. 

We all in our own ways seek to help those in need, but what we do is pathetically inadequate. In this world, this suffering will always be there. We all look to the world Isaiah describes and Jesus promises, the new heaven and the new earth where there is no suffering or grief, and enough for everyone. Then we will follow Isaiah’s instructions, to “be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating.”

November 6, 2022, Feast of All Saints: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18; Psalm 149;
Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

“The holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever—for ever and ever.” (Daniel 7:18)

The celebration of All Saints is powerful, with the reminder of those who have gone before us. We remember famous saints and less famous ones, the saints who have illumined our lives in various times and places. We end our Litany of the Saints with names offered up by members of the congregation, those who have been their guides along the way.

Let’s be honest: the good thing about adding the names of those we have known is that they make sainthood more attainable. Most of the saints were probably insufferable, or at least difficult to live with. What allowed them to do the things we admire them for was a singlemindedness that puts their service to God before everything else. Few of us share that focus, that willingness to put God before all human connections.

All Saints is also a celebration of hope. Paul talks of the “hope to which Jesus has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints”. This is a hope we have through baptism, not through any special behavior. We too will join “the saints triumphant”.

That all sounds pretty good, until we get to the gospel. We hear the Beatitudes, Jesus’ blessings. Blessed are you, he says, if you are poor, hungry, grieving, under attack: your reward is great in heaven. But woe to you if you are rich and well fed, happy and admired: the reverse will be true for you. Not necessarily very comforting. Jesus is once again challenging the order of his (and our) world.

Then we get the command: Listen. “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” He ends his admonition with a restatement of the golden rule: “Do to others as you would have them do to you”. Now, this is hard. Most of us, when people hurt us, want to hurt them back: that’s human. Jesus is calling us to a different way so that we remake the world.

Sometimes this passage is read to mean that it is our Christian duty to be a doormat, accepting whatever comes. But that’s not what Jesus says: he never says being treated badly is good. He tells to pray for abusers, not to hang out with them. I try to be respectful to people who have treated me badly, but I do my best to not place them in a position to do it again. We have to treat ourselves, not just others, as we want to be treated. Love is an orientation toward healing. It is neither uncritical nor always “nice”. Sometimes tough love is necessary: a woman I recall every year on All Saints once lovingly told me to stop being so full of myself. It was hard to hear, but I needed it.

The golden rule is an ethical guideline in most major religious and ethical traditions. Treating others as we wish to be treated can be difficult, but it is transformative. The shift in orientation is healing for us. When I think of the saints who have guided me on my way, what I remember is the way they faced the world with love.

But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;  the saints triumphant rise in bright array;       The King of Glory passes on his way.     Alleluia, alleluia!

–Hymnal 1982, Hymn 287