Simeon and Anna, Patience and Discipline (1st Sunday after Christmas, 28 December 2014)

First Sunday after Christmas

28 December 2014

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Focus Text:  Luke 2.22-40

Click here to listen to the Sermon as preached at the 10.00 a.m. Eucharist on the 28th.

         When I was ordained transitional deacon in June of 1981, the Bishop of Colorado, Bill Frey, decided to appoint me as ‘Deacon to the Bishops’.  It was a position that Bill had created in the early period of the restoration of the diaconate as a full and equal ministry in the Diocese.  Although I was not called to the diaconate, there were no deacons yet ordained in the Diocese, so Bill made use of transitional deacons as models of the diaconate for the Diocese.  I was clearly instructed that my role was as a deacon not as a ‘priest in training’.

         More than half of my time on the Diocesan Staff was spent assisting the new Suffragan Bishop, William H. Wolfrum, known to everyone as ‘Dub’ for ‘W’.  Dub had begun his professional life as a wildlife biologist who specialized in trout habitats in Wyoming.  His life’s journey had led him to ordination as a transitional deacon and priest in Wyoming before election as a bishop.  Dub expected me to help him become a good bishop and I looked to Dub to help me to grow as an ordained minister.

         One day Dub called me into his office.  Apparently the word had gotten round the office, where, by the way, a young woman by the name of Paula Porter worked, that I was walking around ‘like a turtle pulling his head into his shell’.  I cannot remember the details thirty years later, but I can remember that I was angry at one of the more difficult clergy in the Diocese.  He had a knack of ‘pushing the right button’ and setting his colleagues on edge.

         After I finished my explanation of the cause, Dub was silent for a bit.  He then said to me, ‘Richard, if you were a trout, you wouldn’t last one season.  You rise to bait faster than anyone I’ve ever met.’  I am sorry to say that I am still learning but have not yet achieved mastery of myself in this.  In my journal for the 5^th of June of this year, written while I was attending a meeting of the Bishop, Archdeacons, Regional Deans, Dean and Senior Staff, affectionately known as ‘BARDDSS’, I wrote, ‘Wait.  Watch.  Listen.  Ponder.  Then act.’  I should print these words on several cards and make sure that one is with me whenever I attend a meeting!

         Today we hear the story of Simeon and Anna, two Jewish elders whose story, as told by Luke, reminds us that the life of faith requires (i) that we have patience and (ii) that we discipline ourselves to practice what we hope.  Let’s begin with Simeon.

         Most Christians know Simeon even if they don’t know his name.  The song of praise that he sings to God when he holds the infant Jesus in his arms has been sung by Christians for almost two thousand years:  ‘Now, Lord, you are releasing your servant in peace, according to your promise.  For I have seen with my own eyes the deliverance you have made ready in full view of all nations:  a light that will bring revelation to the Gentiles and glory to your people Israel’.[1]  Anglicans have sung it at Evening Prayer since the first Prayer Book, Presbyterians have sung it at the eucharist since the time of John Calvin and religious orders have sung it at Compline or Night Prayer since at least the fourth century.  Today it is often used at funerals as we give thanks for the witness of our beloved dead.

         Simeon had been waiting, day after day, to see this.  His patience was fuelled by his confidence in the promise God had made to him that Simeon would see the Messiah before his death.  Imagine, for a moment, spending each day looking for the Messiah, peering carefully at every face, not just children but adults.  We can almost hear Simeon’s question, repeated many times, each day, ‘Is this the One, Lord?  Or is that One?’

         Then there is Anna, the prophet after whom Paula and I named our daughter.  Eighty-four years old in a world where most women died in their thirties.  There is no mention of children and we do not know whether she lived in poverty or whether her family is providing her with a dignified old age.  What we do know is this:  She lives a disciplined life of prayer, almost a monastic life of prayer, within the confines of the Temple in Jerusalem.  Her message after seeing the infant Jesus tells us something of what she was hoping for:  the liberation of Jerusalem.[2]

         My friends, life as a Christian, especially as an Anglican Christian, in the twenty-first century requires patience and the discipline of practicing what we hope.  We live in a culture that tends to seek quick fixes to the world’s problems, but quick fixes are rare and frequently only Band-Aids that peel away when the waters of the world’s tears wash over them.  No matter whether the challenges are social, economic, environmental, political or religious, the good news comes with bad news.  The good news is that God loves us more than we can ask or imagine and is working in us, through us and even despite us to bring renew the creation.  The bad news is that it is going to take time and that God is relying on us to participate in this great work.

         Look to the west wall of this church.  You will see four plaques that contain the names of those who are buried in our Memorial Garden just outside that wall.  Two are full, one is partly full and one empty.  These plaques do more than just list names; they tell a story of patience.  Many of those buried here worked with God so that this congregation could participate in God’s great work of renewal.  For reasons that I do not fully understand, God has not yet finished this work.  But the plaques remind me that I am not alone; I am part of a community that stretches back almost two thousand years, even longer if I add our years to those of the people of Israel.  Perhaps, whenever we are tempted to be impatient with God, we should either look to or remember the names of our sisters and brothers who have gone before us in this place.  And remember that there are likely to be more as we continue in this great work.

         We also continue on in the discipline of service, worship, evangelism, education and pastoral care, fuelled by the hope that we have in God’s promises to us, some already fulfilled in the past and present, some to be fulfilled in the future.  I am tempted to buy every Anglican in the Diocese of New Westminster that little red coffee mug that reads ‘Keep calm and carry on.’  Care for those in any need or trouble.  Share in the eucharist.  Proclaim the good news.  Learn about God as God is revealed in the scriptures, in the tradition and in our lives.  Build up others in the love of Christ.

         So we wait and watch like Simeon.  We listen and ponder like Anna.  Then we act in hope, even as we lift our voices and ask our God, ‘Lord, how long before the work is done?’  ‘Not yet,’ God seems to be saying, ‘but keep calm and carry on.  The day is surely coming.’  Amen.

---

[1] Luke 2.29-31 (Revised English Bible).

[2] Luke 2.38.

The Unopened Gift (Christmas Day 2014)

Christmas Day

25 December 2014

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Click here to listen to the Sermon as preached at 10.00 on Christmas Day.

         In the summer of 1972 my mother arranged an interview for me with the personnel manager of the new, then state-of-the-art J. C. Penney department store in Colorado Springs’ first covered shopping mall.  The manager was a friend of my mother and had known me since I was a boy.  I was immediately hired.

         I worked at J. C. Penney for the next three summers and three Christmases while I was in university and then for a full year after I graduated.  In the summer of 1976 I left on the first stage of my professional journey which would eventually lead me here.

         For most of my ‘career’ at Penney’s I worked in ‘Toys, Lawn and Garden’.  Christmas always brought an expansion to the floor space allocated to our department.  Our shelves were full of the latest toys and games, Christmas decorations and supplies as well as anything else that had caught the fancy of our department manager.

         Now, if you have ever worked in retail sales, then you will understand my mixed feelings about this time of year.  People ravage the shelves, damaging packaging and merchandise.  Everyone wants a lower price and refuse to understand why a salesperson can’t just cut the price in half --- ‘After all, it’s Christmas!’  And then there is the endless loop of Christmas music playing over the store’s sound system.

         Then comes the real horror:  the days following Christmas.  Customers cannot --- or will not --- understand why you will not refund their money without a receipt or, in some cases, why you will not refund them for a product your store has never carried.  ‘Ho!  Ho!  Ho!’ quickly becomes ‘Oy!  Oy!  Oy!’ as holiday cheer is replaced by a widespread post-holiday depression.  And through it all the sales staff have to remain professional and cheerful, terminally cheerful.

         Perhaps it is that experience that has made Christmas Day itself one of my favourite days of the year.  Most shops are closed and there is a quietness, a calm, which descends upon the city.  Celebrations of the eucharist, such as ours today, have a certain peaceful and domestic informality as if we were in the family room still in our pajamas with the debris of opened presents around us.

         For some of our neighbours today is the calm before the storm.  Tomorrow there are trips to the malls for the Boxing Day sales.  There may be relatives to visit or to take to the airport for return journeys to their own homes.  Still others may begin to feel the first symptoms of the post-holiday depression I’ve mentioned, especially if the promised ‘batteries included’ proved to be an empty promise.

         Perhaps some of us here this morning share these feelings and experiences.  Christian faith is not an invisible force field that deflects human disappointments from touching us.  To the contrary:  our faith awakens us to the realities of the human condition, but it also helps us to view the present through the eyes of a compassionate and generous God.

         What Christian faith teaches us is the lengths to which God will go to care for creation.  Even as Adam and Eve go forth from the garden in disgrace, God provides clothing for them.  Even as God floods the earth, Noah, his family and breeding stock are preserved in the Ark.  God will even go so far as to come among us in the person of Jesus of Nazareth to experience our joys and sorrows, our hopes and fears, an act of divine solidarity with human beings.  And that act of solidarity has created a people who are rich and poor, strong and weak, old and young, wise and foolish, near and far.

         On this Christmas Day I dare to say that we are a gift given by God to the world.  To be truthful we are a gift that many of our contemporaries have left under the tree.  Perhaps they think of us as that ugly sweater our least favourite relative sends to us every year without fail!  But, my friends, even an ugly sweater has something to offer.

         So, in the quiet and calm of Christmas Day let us draw strength and warmth from one another.  Let us renew our faith in the God who gives unexpected gifts to us and to all humanity.  Let us reveal to our friends and neighbours what lies underneath the wrapping paper.  After all, we may be just the gift they’ve been waiting for all their lives.  Amen.

A Christmas to Believe In (1st Eucharist of Christmas on 24 December 2014)

First Eucharist of Christmas

24 December 2014

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Click here to listen to the Sermon as preached at the Eucharist on the 24th.

         As we gather in the warmth and joy of this Christmas Eve, I give thanks that we can do so in safety and in the knowledge that we are free to practice our faith openly.  At the same time we gather as citizens of a world where many of our sisters and brothers do not share the same security and freedom.

         In the Middle East, the region in which Jesus of Nazareth was born, many Christians have fled their homes and others live in fear.  Some have paid the ultimate prices for their faith in the Prince of Peace.  They are not alone.  Violence troubles the followers of Islam, as Sunni attach Shia and Shia Sunni.  Even smaller religious communities, unknown to most Westerners, such as the Yezidis and the Druze live in the fear that their Muslim neighbours will turn on them.

         We cannot forget the children who are at risk all over the world.  Some suffer the ancient scourges of disease and hunger.  Others are threatened by a new ogre:  the fear that education will empower boys and especially girls to question the dogmas that enslave and oppress the human spirit of wonder, of questioning and of inclusion.

         We all know friends and family who are so troubled by the challenges and evils of our world that the story we tell this night no longer holds meaning for them.  True, they enjoy the music and traditions of this Christian feast, but the notion that in this Child the Creator of the stars of night comes among us is a tragic myth who promise is contradicted daily by the evening news.

         Other friends and family may be bothered by preachers such as I who disturb the jollity of the season by speaking about unhappy things.  After all, they say, isn’t this time of good will to all, a respite form the unpleasantness of world affairs?  On this Christmas Even in the centennial year of the beginning of World War I let’s hear about British and German soldiers playing soccer during an informal Christmas Eve truce rather than the tragedy of consciously Christian nations taking up arms against one another and plunging Europe into the chaos of war.  ‘Lighten up, Richard,’ I can hear some folks saying, ‘at least until the Sunday after the Bishop’s visit in January when there’ll only be few folk around!’

         There is, though, another way to celebrate this feast, one that does not deny the joys of family and friends, the glory of music and traditions that continue to bring people together, even my Sikh neighbours who insist on wishing me a ‘merry Christmas’ rather than a more neutral ‘happy holidays’.  It is a way of embracing the promise of this night without closing our eyes to the needs and concerns of our world.  It is a matter of choosing faith as a stimulant to work with God in bringing about what we hope for rather than choosing faith as a sedative to dull the pain.

         For those of us who choose this path, tonight is an occasion when we renew our commitment to working for that justice and peace the birth of the Christ Child promises.  I know people here who have travelled the world to bring dental care to those who have no access.  This is the choice to live in the promise.  I know people here who have worked to offer opportunities such as Special Olympics for children with special needs.  This is the choice to live in the promise.  I know people here who have raised funds for agencies and programmes that combat violence among the young and that shelter young women at risk and help them develop skills.  My list could go on and on.

         The story that we have heard tonight and that we celebrate with the exchange of gifts, with festive meals with family and friends and with music and ceremony is not a story about taking refuge from the world and its problems.  This story is about our God coming among us to embrace the best in us, to inspire the potential within us and to confront the worst in us --- not in condemnation but in love.  It is a story worthy of cantatas, of truces between warring parties and of the renewing of friendships and family bonds.  Why?  Because it is a story about hope and the possibility of realizing that hope in the here and now as well as in the future.  It is a story about how this world can be a place of wonder, joy and peace for all its people when we choose to live as agents of God’s promises made known in the birth of this Child.

         So, let’s roast our chestnuts over an open fire.  Let’s laugh when Jack Frost nips at our noses.  Let’s sing yuletide carols, whether with choirs or just ourselves.  But most of all, let us give thanks for the promise this night offers again to our world.  Let the hope of this promise seep into our very muscles and bones.  May that hope renew our commitment to work with God in making the dream of this night the waking reality of tomorrow morning --- for us and for all God’s people far and near.  Amen.

Rhys and the Angels (Christmas Eve Lessons and Carols)

Lessons and Carols

24 December 2014

Saint Faith’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

Click here to listen to the Story as told at Lessons and Carols on the 24th.

         Once upon a time, many centuries ago, when the princes still governed the Welsh, there was a shepherd named Rhys ap Rhys who lived on the slopes of Yr Wyddfa in the princedom of Gwynedd or, as it is now called in English, Mt Snowdon in Snowdonia.  Other than the sheep he tended, Rhys’ only companion was his sheepdog Seren Bach or ‘Little Star’ in English.  Although some folk thought that Rhys lived a lonely life, he always welcomed strangers or travellers with generous hospitality.  No one went from his home hungry nor did they leave without a good story to pass along to their friends.  When he did come down from the highlands to bring the sheep for shearing and to buy those things which he could not find on the mountain, Rhys was always in the company of other people, especially children who loved his stories and who were a more interesting flock for Seren to herd about than the sheep who knew all his tricks.

         Rhys did have one secret wish that he had only ever shared in the dark of a winter’s night with Seren.  Rhys’ grandmother had once told him that, from time to time, the angels of Bethlehem travelled north to the mountain on Christmas Eve.  Their glory, she said, would bathe the mountain in light, just to remind the people that they were as precious in God’s sight as any other folk.  “I do wish I could see the glory of the angels who greeted Jesus,” he would say to Seren.  “After all, God seems to have a special place in his heart for shepherds, does he not?  What about Joseph who became Pharaoh’s chancellor?  What about Dafydd who became king?”  Seren would simply put his head against Rhys and both would sigh deeply.

         So every Christmas Eve Rhys would set aside his best keg of ale, a fine ham and a cord of well-dried, resin-filled firewood.  “When the angels come,” Rhys confided to Seren, “they’ll need a little ale to cheer them up, some ham to help them recover from their journey and a warm and crackling fire to warm themselves against the cold.”  Then the shepherd and his dog would sit up all night, waiting outside with a small fire, until the sun’s first rays fell upon the cabin.  “Perhaps next year,” Rhys would sadly say.  It was hard to know how sad Seren really was.  Rhys, disappointed with the absence of the angels, tended to be a bit absent-minded and Seren was the beneficiary as slices of ham carelessly fell to the floor as Rhys carved the ham in preparation for his own dinner.

         Some of Rhys’ neighbours would come by on Christmas Day, knowing that there would be plenty of ale, well-cured ham and a warm fire.  Rhys, ever attentive to guests, would never reveal why he seemed so melancholy.  Most just assumed it was the loneliness of living on the mountain without kith or kin nearby.

         Then came the Christmas Eve with the great storm.  Strong winds, sweeping from the south, brought moisture from the Channel and Irish Sea.  Cold temperatures over the highlands of Gwynedd turned that moisture into snow, first gentle flurries, then a full blizzard.  Rhys had already made his annual preparations of ale, ham and firewood, but even he, as hopeful as he ever was, did not think this would be the year the angels came.  “Well, Seren,” Rhys said, “we might as well go to bed.”  Although Seren loved Rhys and was faithful in waiting with him outside every Christmas Eve, the thought of sleeping next to Rhys in a warm bed seemed to him to be a better way of celebrating the night of Christ’s birth.

         They had just fallen asleep when a knock at the door woke them both.  Seren, true to his duty, barked several times until Rhys hushed him.  Rhys went to the door and opened it.  Out of the storm and into the cabin came a man, one that Rhys did not recognize, but that was not unusual.  His arms revealed a man well-used to working hard, perhaps with metal or even wood.  “Friend Rhys,” the man said, “would you have any ale?  I’ve a cabin full of thirsty workers who, if I don’t bring ale, will drink all the water I’ve brought inside to keep from freezing.”  Rhys brought out the keg and, without a second thought, gave it to the man.  “God’s blessings, Rhys.  I shall see you soon.”  And off the man went.

         “Well, Seren,” Rhys said as they returned to bed, “looks like you and I will have to be satisfied with water tomorrow.”  No sooner had they fallen asleep when both were awakened by a gentle but no less firm knock at the door.  At the door was a woman, well and warmly dressed.  She seemed vaguely familiar, but Rhys was too well-mannered to ask her name.  “Friend Rhys, I hear that you have a fine ham,” were her first words.  “I have some travellers at my home from the south who won’t believe me that the best ham comes from Gwynedd.  Will you help me?”  Never one to shirk from upholding the honour of Gwynedd, Rhys fetched the ham and gave it to her.  “Let me carry it for you,” he offered, but she quickly took the ham and assured him that all would be well.  As she disappeared in the snow, she called back, “God’s blessings, Rhys.  I shall see you soon.”

         As the ham vanished into the snow, Seren offered a slight canine protest at the loss of his Christmas dinner.  Rhys laughed and ran his hands through Seren’s fur.  “Not to worry, Cariad Bach, we’ve still plenty of food for tomorrow.”  Rhys fell back to sleep, but Seren remained awake for a little bit, unconvinced that a roast chicken was equal to a well-cured ham.  Just as he began to dream of dancing hams, Seren heard a quiet noise at the door, almost as if someone were sitting down at the threshold.

         Rhys must have heard it as well.  He went to the door and, as he opened it, a young boy, perhaps no more than ten and barely clothed, fell into the cabin.  Rhys pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapped the child in it and then put some of the special firewood on the fire.  The wood caught fire quickly and the room was filled with firelight and warmth.  Before Rhys could ask the boy who he was and why he was out on such a wretched night, an unusual glow began to fill the room from beyond the shuttered windows.  For a moment Rhys forgot the child and began to fear that somehow the barn where the sheep were sheltered had caught on fire.  But the light was not like the light from the fireplace; it grew and filled the room, brightening every corner, almost as if the sun was rising just outside the door.

         And that’s when the child began to laugh, a laugh that was as joyful as the sound of a brook flowing from one of the lakes on the slopes of Yr Wyddfa, a laugh that brought summer into the midst of the winter storm, a laugh that promised green pastures where only snow now lay.  “Well done, Friend Rhys,” said the boy with a broad smile.  “Come outside and meet my family.”

         Rhys and Seren followed the boy who now seemed fully revived and radiating warmth outside.  Waiting outside were the man and the woman who had come earlier in the night.  As the child approached them, Rhys knew who they were, their faces were those that he had seen in the stained glass of the cathedral in Llandaff, the portrait of the Holy Family.  As his eyes grew wide in recognition, Rhys then beheld the source of the light.  Countless angels surrounded the Family and their song filled the valley with the joy of heaven.  Rhys couldn’t be sure, but he thought that he saw his grandmother and other friends and family who had gone before him joining the angels in song.

         “Well done, Friend Rhys,” said Joseph, “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.”  “Well done, Friend Rhys,” said Mary, ”I was hungry and you gave me something to eat.”  “Well done, Friend Rhys,” said the Christ Child, “I was naked and you gave me something to wear.”  “Well done, Friend Rhys,” sang the angels, “you good and faithful servant.”

         Below the mountain people saw the glow as the clouds parted and a clear starry night sky filled the heavens.  And some of them, who remembered what their own grandmothers had told them about the angels and Christmas Eve on Yr Wyddfa, smiled and said, “Well done, Friend Rhys, well done.”

         And from that year on, many folk would join Rhys on Christmas Eve, bringing their own kegs of ale, their well-cured hams, their well-seasoned wood, and, of course, their faithful dogs.  Some years the Holy Family and the angels would join the people for the Christmas feast and the mountain would be bathed in angelic light.  Other years only Rhys and his friends were present, sharing with one another the joy and the warmth of their fellowship, their songs and stories echoing from the slopes of Yr Wyddfa.  And every year, at the end of the feast, voices would call out as they left the mountain, “Well done, Friend Rhys, well done.”