The Way, the Truth, the Life (Easter 5A: 18 May 2014)

RCL Easter 5A

18 May 2014

Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

North Vancouver BC

Focus text:  John 14.1-14

Click here to listen to the Sermon as preached at the 10.00 a.m. Eucharist at Gloria Dei.

       During my first congregational assignment I participated in a regular parish educational programme that explored various aspects of the Christian faith.  At one point during the series the  rector asked me to give a short presentation on Origen of Alexandria, an Alexandrian biblical scholar and teacher who lived from 185 to 254.  Looking back from the distance of more than thirty years, I should have declined, but I agreed because I wanted to please the rector whom I had only known for a short while.

      

       I gave the assembled group a brief overview of Origen's life and teaching, then I invited questions from the participants.  Things were going relatively well, until someone asked me about Origen's passing comment that 'even the devil could be saved'.  I shared what I knew about Origen's understanding of the human will and of the irresistible love of God.  If God's love is irresistible, then logic would dictate that eventually the devil would have to yield to God's love and seek forgiveness and reconciliation.

       I thought that this was the end of the matter, but when the Bishop came for his annual visit a week or two later, this question raised its head again.  This time the question was posed as if it were what I had been teaching the parish rather than my clumsy attempt to describe Origen's teaching.  The Bishop chose not to rise to the bait and said, 'What happens to us after death is God's affair.  How we live our lives as followers of Jesus in this life is ours.  This is what concerns me and every lay and ordained leader of the church.'

       In today's reading from the gospel according to John, we hear words that have been the source of endless Christian interpretation and, in some cases, the warrant for Christian persecution of those who do not share our faith:  "Jesus said to [Thomas], 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me.'" (John 14.6)  How are we to understand these words, living as we do in a society that is both multi-cultural and multi-faith?  How are we to act when our closest neighbours may be Muslim, as is true across the parking lot from this church, or Sikh and Muslim, as is true in my neighbourhood in Surrey?

       Perhaps the first step is looking back at the context of Jesus' words in the gospel.  Chapter 14 of John's gospel is part of a lengthy teaching session that Jesus has with the disciples following that last supper they were to enjoy before the events of Good Friday.  In these chapters John records his community's understanding of the life and ministry of Jesus in the light of the resurrection.  It is an internal conversation, directed not at those outside the Christian community, but at those who, as John puts it so well, have not seen yet believe.  Thomas' question is not, 'What is the future state of those who do not confess you as Lord?'.  His question is one that every Christian asks every day of her or his life of faith, "Lord, we do know where you are going.  How can we know the way?" (John 14.5)  It is to this question, "How can we know the way?", that Jesus responds with those famous words, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life."

       Before you or I ask questions about those following other paths, Jesus asks us three questions about our own discipleship:

       1)  Are we following the way of Jesus?

       2)  Are we seeking the truth of Jesus?

       3)  Are we living the life of Jesus?

It is sometimes far more tempting to question the faith of others, to ponder their place in God's plan of salvation, than it is to look closely at how we as members of Christ's body witness to the way, to the truth, to the life we know in Jesus of Nazareth.

       To follow the way of Jesus is to choose compassion rather than indifference, to choose reconciliation rather than vengeance, to choose self-giving rather than self-interest.

       To seek the truth of Jesus is delve into the mystery of why goodness is stronger than evil; love is stronger than hate; light is stronger than darkness and life is stronger than death (Desmond Tutu).

       To live the life of Jesus is to love the Lord our God with our all heart, with our all soul, with all your mind and with all our strength and to love our neighbour as ourselves.

       Follow the way of Jesus and others will follow.  Seek the truth of Jesus and others will seek.  Live the life of Jesus and others will live.

       This is the heart of the gospel that John proclaims.  He even goes so far as to write that those who follow this way, seek this truth and live this life will do greater things than their Teacher and Friend.  Through us the way, the truth and the life can become incarnate and the abundant life spoken of by Jesus becomes evident in us and in our communities. 

       Not quite two thousand years ago a Roman citizen living in North Africa wrote to his city magistrates to complain about the Christians living in the city.  He was aware of the official policies that considered Christians to be criminals, but he pointed out that the behaviour of these Christians was hardly criminal:  'They care for the sick, whether they are Christians or not.  They visit the prisoners, whether they are Christians or not.  They tend the needs of the poor, whether they are Christian or not.  Perhaps if our religious officials were to do the same, there would be fewer Christians.'

       Today's gospel seems to me to be an invitation to return to first things and entrust other matters to God.  Let us devote ourselves to following the way Jesus has modelled for us, to seeking the truth that Jesus reveals to us and to living the life that Jesus has shared with us.  Surely it is enough; surely it is what our neighbours need; surely it is what we have been baptized to do.  Amen.

Walk as Children of Light

RCL Epiphany 3A

26 January 2014

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Focus text:  Isaiah 9.1-7

Click here for an audio recording of the Sermon as preached at the 10.00 a.m. Eucharist at Saint Faith's on the 26th of January.

       In the autumn of 1997 I travelled to the Solomon Islands to spend six weeks as a visiting lecturer in liturgy.  The then Archbishop of Melanesia, Ellison Pogo, had met me two years earlier while he was taking a sabbatical and studying liturgy at Vancouver School of Theology.  So, towards the end of September of 1997, I flew from Vancouver to Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands, via Honolulu, Sydney and Brisbane, a journey that lasted thirty-six hours and took me back at least one century.

       I arrived in the early morning hours at the airport in Honiara.  From the airport I was whisked away in almost total darkness to Kohimara, some thirty-five kilometres from Honiara, where the theological college is located.  We sped through villages and bounced on gravel roads with only the headlights of the truck to guide us.  By the time we arrived at the college, I was totally disoriented, exhausted and not a little bit frightened.

       This was my introduction to the Solomon Islands.  The sun rises at six in the morning and sets at six in the evening.  Dawn and twilight last but a half an hour or less.  Most electrical power is provided by diesel generators, so most communities ration fuel and provide only two, maybe three, hours of electrical power after sunset.

       If you have lived most if not all of your life in the western world where electricity flows like air and where there is rarely ever anything like true darkness, even at night, then it might be hard to imagine nights in the Solomon Islands.  The stars of the southern skies are brilliant without the competition of what some scientists call the ‘light pollution’ of modern cities.  Moonlight is bright enough to read by and to cast shadows that rival those cast by sunlight.

       Not only is the night dark, but it is quiet.  Small sounds are magnified in the darkness and I remember feeling very small, quite vulnerable surrounded by the jungle that stood only a few metres from the boundaries of the theological college.

       Human beings have a ‘love-hate’ with darkness.  On the one hand, darkness can be a time of rest and renewal.  When we watch films, the theatre is darkened, not only to help us see the film more clearly, but to create an atmosphere where it is easier for our imaginations to participate in the story unfolding before us on the screen.

       But on the other hand, darkness has always seemed to be a place of danger.  Many of us leave lights on in our homes even as we sleep, whether inside to guide us if we awake or outside to deter those who might disturb the security of hour homes.  Those of us who live in cities know that night-time safety means walking on well-lit streets and driving on roads that are clearly illuminated.  Most of us have had the experience of calming a child fearful of the dark or, perhaps, have always had such a fear ourselves.  When I am at home, for example, our bedroom is kept quite dark, but when I travel alone, I prefer a bit more light at night than Paula does.

       For the people to whom Isaiah speaks in today’s familiar passage, darkness was more than a condition of light.  The darkness in which they lived was the threat of hostile neighbouring powers who coveted the access to the Mediterranean Sea and trade routes to Egypt and beyond that the kingdoms of Israel and Judah enjoyed.  By the time of Isaiah the northern kingdom of Israel had fallen to the Assyrian Empire and the southern kingdom of Judah was being threatened with annexation.

       We can almost hear the people asking the priests in the Temple:  ‘Where is God?  Are we not the chosen people?  Do we not have a covenant with the Holy One?’  When the priests provide no answer, it falls to the prophets such as Isaiah to discern what God is doing in the affairs of their times.  What Isaiah offers is the assurance of a future despite the darkness of the present.  Scholars debate whether Isaiah’s word indicate that God has already acted on behalf of the people or whether these words are a promise for a future intervention, but what is clear is that God will act to bring light into the darkness.  God promises that a leader will arise who will bring justice and righteousness to secure God’s reign for ever and ever.

       While the people of Judah heard these words as a promise of a new king who would drive away the Assyrians, Christians have heard these words as a promise of the coming of the Messiah whom we believe Jesus of Nazareth to be.  For this reason this passage is one of those read at Christmas as we celebrate the coming of Christ into the darkness of our night.  It is no accident that we celebrate the nativity on the 25^th of December which, in the ancient world, was the day of the winter solstice.  The growing darkness of winter gives way to the growing light of spring and the promise of new life in our fields and flocks.

       All of us long for light in our darkness.  In our times and in our society darkness takes many forms: 

• the darkness of growing old without the resources to live with dignity;
• the darkness of having no secure place to call ‘home’;
• the darkness of living under various forms of oppression, some economic, some racist, some violent;
• the darkness of suffering from chronic illnesses of the body, the mind and the soul.

       Into those darknesses God promises to bring light, the light of the compassionate and passionate love made known to us in Jesus Christ.  It is a compassion that embraces us and a passion that ‘will not let us go.’  It is a compassion and a passion that is self-giving.  It is a compassion and a passion, however, that is not limited to the person of Jesus of Nazareth and the promise of eternal life in the future.

       In our baptismal liturgy we give a light to the newly-baptized with the words:  ‘Receive the light of Christ, to show that you have passed from darkness to light.’ [1]  As that light is given, you and I join in saying, ‘Let your light so shine before others that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.’ [2]  The light that entered into the world at the birth of Christ shines into the darknesses of our world each time the hungry are fed, the naked clothed and those who are imprisoned either in body, mind or spirit are liberated by the actions of those in whom the light of Christ dwells.

       In the autumn of 1986 Paula and I found ourselves beset by pressures that we could not have foreseen.  David, our oldest, was born at the end of September with a cleft lip and palate, a condition which made it difficult for him to feed and which meant at least two surgeries in the first year of his life.  I had begun the preparations for my doctoral examinations, four months of research to prepare for my written and oral examinations in February of 1987.  Unexpectedly I received a call from Vancouver asking me if I would consider applying for a teaching appointment in liturgy.  In the four months from September to December we experienced the birth of our oldest child, Paula’s recovery from childbirth, the struggle to carve out time to study, two trips to Vancouver and one trip to Denver for David’s first surgery.  We were exhausted and fragile.

       One late night, probably in November or early December, David would not sleep.  Paula was exhausted and so I paced the floors of our small house trying to comfort David and lull him into sleep.  More than an hour passed as I wandered the halls, but David would not settle.  The physical darkness of the night became a mental darkness.  I remember thinking that, if I were to drop David on the floor and perhaps silence him, it might be thought of as an accident.  The memory of that night is etched on my mind; since then I have never been surprised by the darkness that can seize the minds and hearts of human beings.  I have been to the brink of that chasm.

       Into the darkness of that night came a bright beam of light:  I knew that I needed only call David’s godparents, Paul and Sarah Tracy.  They lived no more than ten minutes away and they would come immediately and without question if I called them.  Within minutes I would know the brightness of their wisdom, their compassion and two more pairs of parental arms to care for David.  That knowledge, that light, cast the darkness away.  I went to the rocking chair and, slowly, rhythmically, David and I entered into God’s peace, surrounded by the light cast by the community of faith to which we both belonged.  I was not alone; David was not alone; Paula was not alone; we were not alone.

       I do not know what darknesses you may have experienced or may even experience in the present time.  Those darknesses seem so deep, so impenetrable, that we lose hope.  But we are not alone.  We are not left in the darkness without the compassionate and passionate love of God made known to us in the person of Christ embodied in our families, our friends and our neighbours.  Those who have received the light of Christ in baptism are God’s agents, lamps in the ‘dark night of the soul’.

       When I was in seminary, I fell in love with a particular prayer which was said several times during the week at evening prayer:  ‘Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.  Amen.’ [3] 

       My sisters and brothers, we share with the angels this ministry of presence in the darknesses of our world.  May God’s grace enable to fulfill this ministry with the confidence that darkness cannot overcome the light of Christ.  May God’s grace give us courage to reach out for this light when we ourselves are besieged by the powers of the dark.  Jesus Christ is the light of the world, a light no darkness can extinguish, because it is borne in the hearts, minds, souls and strength of countless disciples who are unafraid of the dark.  Amen.

---

[1] The Book of Alternative Services (1985), 160.

[2] The Book of Alternative Services (1985), 160.

[3] The Book of Common Prayer (1979), 124.

A Lord for Our Times

The Reign of Christ

24 November 2013

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Click here for an audio recording of the Sermon as preached at the 10.00 Eucharist on Sunday, the 24th of November 2013.

         During my first year of doctoral studies at the University of Notre Dame, Paul Bradshaw, then, as now, one of the prominent historians of liturgy, came to give a guest lecture at the University.  At the time I did not know that he was being considered for a teaching position and that the public lecture was part of the interview process.  I would come to know him better in the years to come as one of my professors and a member of my doctoral committee.

         Dr Bradshaw’s lecture was on the use and misuse of early Christian texts in contemporary Christian liturgy.  You need to know that the liturgical movement which gave rise to The Book of Alternative Services was fuelled, in part, by a rediscovery of early Christian liturgical texts.  These texts were understood to be a link with our earliest Christian ancestors and valuable in re-creating the same spirit in us that empowered these first generations.  One such texts is the so-called Phos Hilaron or ‘Evening Hymn’:

O Gracious Light, pure brightness of the ever-living Father in heaven, O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed.  Now as we come to setting of the sun and our eyes behold the vesper light, we sing your praises, O God:  Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices, O Son of God, Life-giver, and to be glorified through all the worlds.

I remember when I first heard this hymn in seminary at evening prayer.  I have always been intrigued by the line, ‘and to be glorified through all the worlds.’  It has inspired my imagination of a universe alive with the praise of God.

         It was Dr Bradshaw’s lecture that inspired me to change my thesis topic from a study of contemporary baptismal rites to a study of contemporary Anglican ordination rites.  This inspiration came when Dr Bradshaw pointed out that the American Episcopal prayer for the ordination of a bishop, taken from an ancient text, asked that God send a portion ‘of [God’s] princely power’ upon the one being ordained.  ‘What does it mean,’ asked Dr Bradshaw, ‘for Anglicans living in a democratic republic to ask that their bishops be given “princely power”?  Certainly, this is not what they want.”  I remember pondering this point for some time.  When the time came for me to write my thesis, I found it interesting that when Canadians, who live in a constitutional monarchy, borrowed texts from the United States for the ordination rites, one of the texts that we did not borrow was the American prayer for the ordination of a bishop.  Rather we chose an English prayer with no reference to princely power.  Ironic, don’t you think:  the republicans choose ‘princely power’, the monarchists avoid it.

         So, here we are today, celebrating the feast of the ‘Reign of Christ’, using language and imagery of royalty to describe our teacher, our friend, our rabbi.  Here we are today, celebrating a feast day established by Pope Pius XI in 1925 to counteract the power of rising Italian nationalism and calls for further reduction in the power of the Pope in Italy.  At a time when many in our country are calling for the abolition of the Senate, a Canadian version of the House of Lords, and a few are even calling for an end to our relationship with the Crown, we are singing hymns and using prayers that cast Jesus as universal king.

         I find myself returning to Dr Bradshaw’s lecture of so many years ago.  The language of kingship no longer trips easily from our lips, especially the lips of younger Canadians.  Are we in danger of misusing older imagery and thus missing the point of what it means to call Jesus ‘Lord’?  I don’t think so.

         Every time we open the New Testament we are confronted with a story about a teacher, a friend, a prophet whose every action, whose every story, whose every teaching challenges our notions of what it means to exercise power.  Although he is surrounded by people and institutions who are prepared to coerce obedience by force, Jesus always chooses persuasion by word and example.  Although he is surrounded by crowds who are longing for the destruction of the Roman occupation and the overthrow of the petty monarchs who rule, Jesus dares to proclaim a message of forgiveness and reconciliation, a message of passive and peaceful disobedience that later inspired Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.

         As he hangs on the cross and is taunted by onlookers and by one of those crucified with him, Jesus does not even respond with words threatening revenge in some future time.  Rather, he speaks words of forgiveness, even despair, and, to the so-called ‘penitent’ thief, words of comfort and promise.  What kind of ‘king’ is this?  What kind of ‘master of the universe’ is this?  Certainly it is not one we recognize from our history books nor from our own experience of those who desire power.

         But, my friends, it is this counter-cultural image of leadership that we so desperately need in our country and our world today.  We do not need to look too far to find leaders who are more interested in partisan advantage than in the common good of the people they serve.  We do not need to look too far to find prominent examples of people who use their popularity or their economic power to build up their own self-images rather than benefit those whose adoration or toil has given them prominence.

         To call Jesus ‘Lord’ is to confess that there is another form of leadership, leadership by self-giving.  The self-giving we see in Jesus does not diminish the one who gives; it reaches out like waves of heat from a fire to warm all who gather around it.  It is leadership that dares to say that the needs of the most vulnerable are more important than the prestige of the privileged.

         I have no illusions about how difficult this kind of leadership is.  G. K. Chesterton, the famous author, once said, “It is not that Christianity has been tried and find wanting; it’s that Christianity has never really been tried.”  Every one of us who bears the sign of the cross on her or his forehead knows that each day, despite our best intentions, we fail to embody the self-giving love that God has shown us in Jesus and that God fills us with by the Holy Spirit. 

        But then there are those glorious moments, like ‘Take a Bite out of Winter’, when we know, we really know, that Christ reigns, that Jesus is our Lord and that all other forms of leadership are pale illusions next to the glory of God.  There are moments when we see someone we know and love rise up from loneliness or despair because of the compassion of another parishioner or perhaps even a total stranger.  And then we know, truly know, that our God is alive and is working among us.

         It no longer matters why the church has a feast called ‘The Reign of Christ’ nor does it matter that we use language taken from ancient models of leadership.  What matters is that we are brought face to face with a God who looks upon us through the eyes of Jesus.  And in this experience, in this faith, we are renewed and recommit ourselves to making the reign of Christ real to all whom we know and among whom we live.  We recommit ourselves to the reign of Christ, the compassionate one, the truthful one, the generous one, in our own lives.  And may it be so.  Amen.