And Our Eyes at Last Shall See Him

The Presentation of Christ at the Temple

 

Lord, now let your servant go in peace;

   your word has been fulfilled:

my own eyes have seen the salvation

   which you have prepared

in the presence of all people,

   a light for revelation to the gentiles 

and the glory of your people Israel.

Ordinarily, on a day like today, I would tell you a little story about that. Maybe something that happened at Beverly Hills, or Beaver, or Blue Jay. But I can’t do that this morning. It just wouldn’t fit. Wouldn’t say what needs to be said. So let me tell you about something that happened somewhere else. A little closer to home. In a little place called South Charleston… To some people who looked awfully familiar – though I won’t name any names.

It was four years ago — four years and one week or so — on a Sunday evening, as I recall, just two days before Christmas. Some of your fellow parishioners – maybe a dozen or so – gathered downstairs in the fellowship hall to do what good Christian people have done for centuries just before Christmas… To crawl into a crowded van, drive around in the dark, and then stand outside somebody’s house in the freezing cold and hurl Christmas carols at them with their voices. Caroling, they call it. Which according to Webster’s dictionary means – and I’m not making this up — “to praise in or as if in song.” Sounds like Mr. Webster knew a little something about Christmas caroling, doesn’t it?

But that’s what we did. We went Christmas caroling. And it was the perfect night for it, too. The moon was full and bright and the stars were shining. The air was crisp and cold — a lot colder than I thought it would be, I’m sorry to say. And everyone had “donned their gay apparel” — Santa Claus hats and gloves and mittens and things that light up with flashing lights.

It’s a wonderful thing to stand on someone’s front lawn and sing about Christmas and the birth of our Lord. And what’s even more wonderful than singing, I think, is seeing the smiles and the glow and the sparkle in the eyes of the people you sing to – those who hear the glad tidings of great joy in these wonderful carols they’ve heard from the time they were children. And with the starlight, and the moon nearly full, and not a cloud in the sky, it was easy to see the look in their eyes and the joy on their faces. It is a wonderful thing – full of joy and love and Christmas.

Everything was lovely that evening – like a Norman Rockwell painting, except for the horse and sleigh gliding over the snow. It was great.

Mike would park the church van. We’d gather on the sidewalk or in someone’s front yard. Claire would go to the door and knock, or ring the bell. And we would watch and wait for someone to appear. And Gena would lead us in singing the carols, the great songs of Christmas.

Claire ran up to the door of one house when everyone was in place. She knocked at the door, but nobody answered. She knocked again, a little louder this time. And we waited and watched. But no one came. So she knocked again. And the door opened. Not the door she had knocked on, mind you, but the neighbor’s door. And a man appeared who had donned his gay apparel, but had cast it off, I think. He didn’t just come to the door, he came all the way out. Stood in the driveway wearing less than most of us would on a hot summer’s day.  He was sporting a small pair of trousers – I believe they’re called boxers. And the rest of him was clad in pretty much the same thing he was wearing the day he was born, which went right along with one of the carols we sang – the one, you know, that says “word of the Father, now in flesh appearing.”

The amazing thing to me was this man was not cold! I think maybe for the same reason the wind shield washer in your car still works when it’s only twenty-two degrees outside. He was not cold… or very modest, at all, from what I could tell. He was just standing there out-of-doors in late December with the moon and the stars brightly shining. And there were a dozen or so people right in front of him, almost. So he struck up a conversation.

“You folks Christmas caroling?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. Is my boy over there?”

“Nope. He’s not with us.”

“I thought it was my boy. I’ve been watching for him. He’s supposed to be coming in tonight.”

“That’s nice.”

“And you say my boy’s not over there?”

“No sir. Haven’t seen him.”

I don’t know where the man’s son was. Maybe he was coming home from school for the holidays. Or maybe he’d just run out for some pizza, or some sodas, or some clothes for his father. But, his father was waiting and watching.

We weren’t that far away from Good Shepherd, you know, down on fifth avenue. [The funeral home in our town.] And I was thinking, why don’t we just go on down there. Because I’m ready to go now, Lord. Just take me now… because I’ve seen it all, Lord. There’s nothing more left to see.

It’s what Simeon said at the temple that day in the second chapter of Luke. “Lord, I’m ready. I can go now, Lord. I’ve seen all there is to see.” Well, maybe that isn’t exactly what he said, but it’s awfully close. For what he said was,

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people,
•    a light for revelation to the nations
• and the glory of your people Israel.

He was like some of the people we sang to that night. He’d been watching and waiting. Keeping an eye out for someone who would someday walk through the door and take his place where he belonged. The truth is he was waiting for a son. But not just any son, mind you. Not even his own. No, Simeon was waiting and watching for God’s Son. The Messiah. The Anointed One. The Christ.  Every day, says  Luke, he was there in the temple watching and waiting for him to walk through the gates, take his rightful place, and deliver his people from sin and death.

But it wasn’t just Simeon. There was a woman there, too. A prophet, she was. An eighty-four year-old prophet of God who came to live there in the Temple. Her name was Anna — it means “favor” or “grace.” And she graced the temple night and day, says Luke. She never left it, never went home, but she was there day and night, fasting and praying and listening for God – for that still, small voice of God that speaks to the heart.

Simeon and Anna, both of them old and wise. Both watching and waiting. Luke says it was the Spirit who brought them there. The same Holy Spirit that came to Mary, the mother of Jesus, led them to the temple (just as the star would lead the wise men to find him in a little town called Bethlehem). The Spirit spoke to Simeon’s heart in wordless whispers with the assurance that he would see the Christ, the Messiah of God. So there he was in the temple waiting and watching for the Son of God…

But lots of people came to the temple. Every day somebody new would walk through those doors. Travelers would come to worship and pray and make their offering to God. The priests would come, and the teachers of the law. And every day families would come – parents with young children. Newborn babies to be blessed and marked as God’s own. They’d come from all over. From every corner of every town and every village in the land. And every day Anna and Simeon were watching and waiting.

One day, says Luke, a young woman came with her husband from the old city of David, a backwater village called Bethlehem, “the House of Bread.” And in their arms was a child – a little boy. Like so many others, they brought him to the temple to be set apart as holy, because that was the way of God’s people then. Every firstborn male was to be set apart. Made holy. It was like being baptized in a way, for the child was given a name and claimed by God to be one of his own.

So the young mother and her husband brought the little boy into the temple. And just as they were about to do what they had come there to do, Simeon took the child in his arms. And he lifted him up and thanked God with all his heart. And he said, “Now, Lord… Now you can let me go. For I’ve seen all I ever wanted to see.”

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people.

You know them, this couple. Mary and Joseph of Nazareth, and the infant Jesus… A carpenter and a teenage mother with her wee little baby.  Ordinary people from an ordinary little village. Simeon saw people like that every day at the temple. These folk weren’t dressed in fine linen and silk, or adorned with diamonds and rubies, or silver and gold. They were just plain, common, everyday people. Working class folk. A carpenter, mind you, and a young homemaker with a baby who had for his cradle a manger. A feed box. With hay for his bedding… You can’t get any more ordinary than that.

And yet, Simeon saw him and he knew. “There he is. This is the one. This is the one we’ve been waiting for. This child is the Light of the World, the One who will save God’s people from sin and death, and bring Light and Life to all of God’s children.” And right then and there he lifted up his voice and sang praise to God. “I’ve seen it, Lord. I’ve seen your salvation.”

Joseph and Mary were amazed, says Luke. How did he know? What did he see? “This child will do great and wonderful things for the people of God,” said Simeon. But how did he know that? What made the difference for him? And while they were still wondering how Simeon knew this, the prophet Anna came. And she praised God, too, for this wonderful gift. And then she turned to all who were longing for God’s glory and grace, to all who yearned for God’s presence and peace, and she told them about the baby — this little child named Jesus.

So you see, Anna and Simeon were waiting for this. They’d been keeping an eye out for the One who would come. But not just the physical eye. They had been watching with other eyes. Deeper eyes. The eyes of the heart and the eyes of the Spirit. The kind of eyes that are opened through prayer and worship, through hearing the scriptures. Eyes that are opened wider and wider as we learn to love and serve and care for other people.

Oh, but that kind of vision doesn’t come overnight. It takes time. A lifetime, I think, John Wesley would say. Maybe that’s why an old man and an eighty-four year old prophet were the first to see him,  I mean really see him that day in the temple. Because they had devoted themselves to a lifetime of prayer. A lifetime of seeing other people as they really are, and not just as the world teaches us to see them.

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy!

So keep your eyes open. Not just these [physical] eyes, mind you. But the deeper eyes, the hidden eyes — the eyes of the heart. The eyes that are opened through love and prayer, through giving and serving. Because a wonderful thing happens when we do. We begin to see more and more clearly that Jesus is here. Right here, I mean…. He comes to us through the young families all around us struggling to make a way in this world. He comes through the children. And he comes through older people around us — our own Annas and Simeons. He even comes in the least likely places through the least likely people we can imagine. But the good news is Jesus is here — the One who brings light and life to God’s people on earth is here. And our eyes can see him, too.

Do you remember Mister Rogers, from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood? Mister Rogers’ name was Fred. He was an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church. And he was a friend to everyone who knew him, especially all the children who grew up watching him on TV.

Some years ago, Mister Rogers made a trip to California. And while he was there, he decided to visit a fan – a boy with cerebral palsy. At first, the boy was really nervous. Just to think that Mister Rogers had come him was just overwhelming. And it made the boy so nervous that he got mad at himself. He started hating himself and even hitting himself. And he was so upset and so agitated, his mother had to take him into another room so he could calm down.

Mister Rogers waited patiently. And when the boy finally returned, Mister Rogers said, “I‘d like to ask you to do something for me. Would you do something for me?” And on his computer, the boy answered, “Yes.”

Mister Rogers said, “I would like to ask you to pray for me. Will you pray for me?”

The boy was stunned. No one had ever asked him to do that before. No one had ever asked him for anything like that. He had always been the one people prayed for. He had always been the subject of prayer. Ah, but now he was being asked to pray for someone else… for Mister Rogers, himself! And even though he didn’t know at first if he could do it, he said he would. He’d try his best.

And he did. He did. From that day on the boy kept Mister Rogers in his prayers. And he never talked about hating himself and hurting himself, he never talked about wanting to die after that. Because he figured Mister Rogers was really close to God. And if Mister Rogers liked him, well… that must mean that God liked him, too.

Someone asked Fred Rogers how he knew what to say to make the boy feel better. And do you know what he said? He said, “Make him feel better? – Oh, heavens no!” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t ask him for his prayers for his sake; I asked him for mine. I asked him to pray for me because I just knew that anyone who has gone through all he’s gone through must be very close to God. I asked him because Jesus loves him. And Jesus is with him.”

It’s what happens when we watch and wait in prayer and worship. It’s what happens to us when we open our hearts and hands to love and serve the people around us. We begin to see with deeper eyes, the eyes of the heart and the eyes of the Spirit. And like Mister Rogers and Simeon and Anna the prophet our eyes are opened to see Jesus in others.

So keep an eye out. Look for him in the world around you. Because something wonderful happens when we do. We begin to see more and more that Jesus is here. And he is. Jesus is here. Jesus is here…

• Lord, now let your servant go in peace;
•    your word has been fulfilled:
• my own eyes have seen the salvation
•    which you have prepared
• in the presence of all people,
•    a light for revelation to the gentiles 
• and the glory of your people Israel.

This is the word which is given for you. Amen.

The Servant-Mother of Our Lord

In this holy season of watching and waiting, of hope unfolding and love made known, I’ve been thinking of the strong and tender mother of our Lord. We know so little of her life, and yet she seems so close, so full of love and hope for all of us. For she is one of us — a humble, simple, ordinary soul.

Unnoticed by the world was she, until the angel-messenger of God appeared and greeted her with that most extraordinary greeting: “Hail, you who are highly favored. God has chosen you and calls you now to bear a gift of light and love to all who walk within this darkened world.” But she was not a head of state, a queen enthroned in power and grace. Nor was the mother of our Lord a woman known for wisdom, wealth, or worldly goods. She was but an ordinary young woman, if one so young can be called a woman. A child of tender age was she. Innocent, unknowing, and unknown by any man. But Gabriel, the ancient angel-messenger of the Lord appeared to her and said, “The gift you carry, the child you bear is a holy child, the only Son of God. And God has called and chosen you to bear him to the world.”

Others have been called, you know. So many others have been chosen, called and commandeered to bear the word of God. And so many others responded with fear and doubt and dread. “I am unworthy, Lord. I am a man of unclean lips. I am too young. I am too old. I am but a youth.” Peter said, “Depart from me, I am a sinful man.” And Saul of Tarsus, blinded by the Light, could not see how a persecutor of the Church could ever serve this one called Christ.

Mary did not turn away. She did not say, “Lord, I cannot.” But when she asked, “How can this be?” the angel-messenger of our Lord simply reminded her that God is God… and nothing is impossible with God. And hearing that, Mary responded, “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.” Later, on that holy night, Jesus was born in Bethlehem — born of Mary, the servant-mother of our Lord.

You, like Mary, are highly favored. God has called and chosen you to bear the Christ into this world. God calls you to carry Christ, the precious gift of God’s unfailing love, to all the world around you.

“May the glad tidings of Christmas be yours on this holy night. Exult in the child’s birth. Wonder at the depth of God’s love. And rejoice in a simple majesty that is God’s way to be with us.” –

To Hear the Angels Sing

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

 

It came upon the midnight clear, 

   that glorious song of old,

from angels bending near the earth,

   to touch their harps of gold:

“Peace on the earth, good will to men,

   from heaven’s all-gracious King.”

The world in solemn stillness lay,

   to hear the angels sing.

I’ve been thinking about angels this week. About that lovely old carol and the angels of Christmas and Advent. This season of watching and waiting, when people are longing to hear some word from the Lord. News of his coming. Or some sign of his presence and the peace that only he can bring.

There’s another old carol I’ve been hearing again and again… in my mind. “There are angels hovering round,” it says. And it goes on to say that the angels have come to sing in harmony… to the shepherds on their knees… of the child in Mary’s arms. Oh, there are angels, there are angels hovering round. Which is what Luke said in his gospel. When Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, there were angels hovering round…

First, says Luke, an angel of the Lord named Gabriel came to Zechariah the Priest. He came to tell him that he and Elizabeth would have a son. (We know him as John the Baptist, of course). But it was strange news for a couple who were up in years. It sounded impossible. That a man and woman would have  a child – their first child — in their old age. But that was the message of the angel who came to Zechariah when he was in the holy place of the Temple. At worship, mind you. When the people were waiting to hear a word from the Lord.

And then, Luke tells us, that same angel, Gabriel, appeared to a young woman who was barely more than a child. A young teenager, mind you… And only months later, says Luke, there were shepherds in the hills tending their flocks as shepherds had done for generations before them. But that night there were angels. Messengers. Hovering round. Watching over God’s flock. Tending God’s sheep. And one of the angel’s came to the shepherds to deliver a message. To bring “good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.” X

A little boy did that one year at the annual Christmas pageant at church. I mean, he was one of the angels. The one that gets to pop in out of nowhere and just scare the daylights out of the poor shepherds with a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones… I mean, if James Earl Jones was six years old, I’m sure that’s what he would sound like.

So the little boy was ready to “bend near the earth on hovering wing” — or glitter-glued, whichever it was – and announce the news that “unto them,” (these poor frightened shepherds) and the whole wide world, “a Savior was born.”  It was the news they’d been waiting for. For four hundred years. Oh, they had been waiting just for this… Not the kids in the Christmas Pageant. No… it just felt that way to them.

And during all of that waiting – which can be really hard for people at this stage in life – the boy had been practicing his line: Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy!  For weeks he’d been practicing. And people helped him. Coached him… Isn’t that what they call it? The boy had his own acting coaches. His grandparents, mind you. And any time and every time the family got together, they would dress him up in his costume. And he would rehearse his part for them: “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.” And they were all convinced, of course, that the kid had a future in this business. Another George Clooney, they thought, he was so good.

And finally after “four hundred years” of waiting, or whatever it was, the great night came. And everybody was in place for the pageant of all pageants. Grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins… And all the visitors from the community…  And the children were in their costumes. Bathrobes for the three kings and glittery, gold wings with coat hanger-halos for the angels. And all the mothers were excited. And a little nervous, I think. Because this was it. What they’d been waiting for. It was all for this.

And it was wonderful. Really. Kids who had not spoken their lines correctly one time in rehearsal — from the day they started practicing till that very night — got it right! Every word! Every detail! It  was just unbelievable… A thing like that just doesn’t seem possible. But there it was.

And the lowly shepherds were keeping watch over their cardboard sheep by night. And suddenly… he appeared. The angel-kid, ready to say, “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Which he would have, I’m sure… if only he could have remembered the words! But… he couldn’t. For the life of him, he just couldn’t.

So there he was… the spotlight shining right on him. And every grandparent and every uncle and aunt and out-of-town visitor in the place was sitting on the edge of their seat, not even daring so much as to breathe. All of them just willing the words to pop in to this poor kid’s brain and come out of his mouth. And he tried. Oh, he tried so hard to remember. But the words just wouldn’t come. And finally, in a moment of great heroism, he filled his lungs with breath and just blurted out the words: “Boy… have I got news for you!” 

Have I got news for you…

That’s what it means you know… when the scriptures say “tidings.” It means news. It means message. And that’s what angels do. They are messengers. Angelos it is in the Greek of the New Testament. Bringers of the word who come with news from God. A message to be delivered.  They’re evangelists, in a way. You can even hear it in the word. Evangelist. Look closely and you’ll see it there. The word angel within the word “evangelist.”

And that’s what they are. They’re like Martin Luther and John Wesley. They’re like Billy Graham and Fred Craddock and Will Willimon. Or like the Sunday School teacher who taught you about Jesus. Or the friend who was always there for you, no matter what. Or the loving grandmother who a became model of God’s kindness and love. And the funny thing is… they were  the ones who were speaking and acting. But somehow the word, the message, the news they brought to you came from God. A word from his heart to yours through these messengers.

Do you remember what it says in Hebrews 13 about angels? Oh, sometimes, it says, we entertain angels without even knowing it. Like the homeless man Tony Campolo ran into on Chestnut Street in Philadelphia one morning. You know the story… Tony said he was just walking along, and there he was. Some homeless man. And the guy was covered with dirt and soot from head to toe. And there was stuff caked on his skin. And he had a beard that hung down to his waist, nearly. With part of his breakfast, or something, sticking in it. And the man was holding a big Styrofoam cup in his hand. The lip of it was smudged from his dirty mouth. And as he staggered toward him, Tony said the man seemed to be staring into his cup. But all of a sudden the man looked up. At him. And said, “Hey, mister! You want some of my coffee?”

“Well, no,” he thought. “I really don’t… who would?” But for some reason, he said, he just knew that the right thing to do was to accept the man’s generosity. So Tony heard himself say, “Sure. I’ll take a sip.” (And he did!)

And as he handed the cup back to him, Tony said, “You’re pretty generous, aren’t you, giving away your coffee? What’s gotten into you today to make you so generous?”

And the homeless man looked straight into his eyes and said, “Well… the coffee was especially delicious this morning. And I figure if God gives you something good, you ought to share it with other people!”

Tony thought, “Oh, man… this guy set me up. This is going to cost me five dollars. Five dollars! One sip of coffee!” So Tony looked at the homeless man and said, “I suppose there’s something I can do for you in return, isn’t there?”

And the man nodded, “You can give me a hug.” And at that point Tony says he would have gladly given him five dollars or more! But  he said, “The guy put his arms around me and I put my arms around him. And all of a sudden I realized something. This guy wasn’t going to let me go!” People were passing them there on the sidewalk. They were staring at him. (At Tony.) Because there he was dressed in his starched white shirt, wearing a coat and tie, hugging this dirty, filthy… bum! And he was so embarrassed… But he didn’t know what to do.

And then something happened. And his embarrassment changed to awe and reverence. For somewhere in his heart of hearts he heard a still, small voice… It said, “I was hungry, did you feed me? I was naked, did you clothe me? I was sick, did you care for me?” And in that moment, he knew that Jesus was in Philadelphia. And he was on Chestnut Street that morning. And Tony knew that he was being held in his arms as he stood there hugging this stranger.

Oh… there were angels hovering round that day, saying, “Tony! Have I got news for you! This man is your brother. He’s someone God loves, too. Someone God made in his image… just like you.”  It just doesn’t seem possible… But they each felt God touching their hearts through the other. And Tony said it changed him completely.  It changed the way he sees other people. He says it’s still hard sometimes. Sometimes it seems nearly impossible. But God sent him message that day. One he really needed to hear. And I have a feeling the homeless man received a message, too. That God is with him. That he is not alone. And that Jesus still comes to us. He can still bring us peace – even to someone like him. Someone the world would just rather ignore. And Jesus can still bring goodwill. Even among complete strangers.

It doesn’t seem possible. Especially in this world that is so full of hopelessness and despair. But that’s the message angels bring….

And isn’t that what the angel said to that young, young woman named Mary. “Greetings! You who are so highly favored.” To Mary he came. She was just an ordinary girl in an ordinary little town. A town so small that it wasn’t even on the map in those days. Oh, she was just about as likely to be chosen by God as that homeless guy on Chestnut Street. But there he was. This angel-messenger sent from God. “You will conceive. You will give birth. You’re going to have a baby. A king… A king whose kingdom will never end!”

She said, “How? That’s just not possible. I’m not married. I’ve never even been with a man.”

And the angel Gabriel said, “Your son will be called the Son of the Highest. Because the Spirit of God will enfold you. His power will overshadow you. And he will be God’s own Son. For you see, Mary. Nothing is impossible with God.” 

Oh, there are angels bending near the earth. There are angels hovering round today. And their message is the same. “Nothing is impossible with God. Nothing is impossible with the One who came to us in Jesus. The One who emptied himself and became one of us. The Word made flesh. The One who carried our sins… who paid our debt. Who redeemed us from slavery to sin and death and hell. Nothing is impossible with this God of ours…

And the same God who chose the most unlikely, ordinary, everyday sort of person – a young virgin, mind you, from a backwater little place called Bethlehem – to carry his own Son into this harsh and troubled world – the same God chooses you. No matter how unlikely or even impossible you think that could be. He chooses you to do the same. To be like Mary. To carry his Son into our world, that he might bring peace to troubled hearts. And goodwill to people who have nothing in common. And grace and mercy and lovingkindness to those whose hearts are bruised and whose spirits broken. God chooses you, like Mary, to deliver Jesus. To bear Christ into this world.

Sounds impossible, doesn’t it? How can this be? Do you ever think that? Or feel it? Or say it? I know I do.

A teacher asked her class one morning what each of them wanted to be when they grew up. And their answers came from all over the room: A football player. A doctor. An astronaut. The president, one of the children said. A fire fighter. A teacher. A race car driver… Everyone had an answer. Everyone that is, but one little boy named Tommy.

The teacher noticed he was sitting there quiet and still. And so she said, “Tommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

And Tommy said… Do you know what he said? Tommy said, “Possible.”

“Possible?” said the teacher.

“Yes,” said Tommy. “My mom is always telling me I’m impossible… So when I get bigger, I want to be possible.”

He wasn’t trying to be funny. He was a serious as he could be. Because that was the message he received. The only one that got through. And he believed what he heard. He believed that that’s who he was. And it hurt. It hurt so much…

It isn’t just Tommy. There is a world of hurt these days. A world of loneliness and despair…  People longing… People just waiting for the somebody to come. With a message – some word of hope. A message of deliverance. Some news.. that they aren’t alone. That Somebody is with them. That God is here. That God is with them. Not against them. But really with them and for them… Pulling for them. (For them.)

Oh… The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing. To hear some good news. A message of hope.

And God chooses you to be something like an angel. God sends you with the glad tidings. He sends you with his Word. His Son. The Word made flesh.

There is a woman in this community in need of something like that. She needs to know that she’s not alone. That somebody is pulling for her and her family. Because both of her parents, who are older now, are suffering some kind of dementia. I don’t know what is causing it for them. But you know what happens. It’s more than just forgetting names and telephone numbers. Or even birthdays and anniversaries, now. Sometimes you wonder if they know where they are or who they’re with. Or maybe they think you are someone else. Some other person they knew or even a stranger. And there are times when they can’t even remember how to butter a piece of toast, or how to make it…. You know what happens. How terrible it is to see this happen to someone you know and love. Someone who’s always been there for you. It can be frustrating. Really frustrating. And exhausting. It’s just so hard take…

So both of her parents have this now. And one day they fell. Both at once, her mom and her dad. And the mother had broken a hip and had to be in the hospital. And then her father went to the doctor for a checkup.   And when he did they discovered that he has cancer, now. And then the mother – the woman’s mother — had to go back to hospital. For three weeks. And this woman, their daughter, has been trying her best to care for them. Running back and forth, this way and that. And she is so tired. In her body, in her heart, in her, spirit… She is just exhausted.

And then, one Tuesday night she heard a knock at the door. “Oh, what could it be now? Who is there?”

Let me tell you who was there. It was someone you know. It was Ann and Jenny and Malissa.

They were walking in the community, ringing doorbells just to say a quick hello at each doorstep. Something like, “Hi! We’re from the church and we just wanted to say hello and give you a bag of homemade cookies. And we’d love to have you come and visit the church, sometime. Join us in worship. And if we can ever help you we’re here.” That’s what they were doing.

So there they were. And they said that to her. But something happened. There were angels on the street that night – messengers of hope – and bearers of Christ. Because this is what happened. The woman who is so exhausted, leaned against the door. And she said, “Oh, God sent you. It was God who sent you here tonight.” And she told them her story. About her parents and what had happened. And she said, “I am so thankful that you stopped by. I can’t tell you…” And they told her they would visit her parents.

And they did. And the woman was there with her parents. And she said it again. She said, “You know, when you came last week it was God who sent you. Because I had not eaten. All I had was a cold Big Mac and fries from McDonald’s. It had been sitting in my car. And I was just getting ready to microwave it. And you came with your cookies….” And it wasn’t just the cookies. It was the news, the message, the hope and the peace they delivered. It was the Christ they carried to her. “I know,” she said, “that God sent you. Because I was so exhausted. So tired. So weary. And when you came it made all the difference in the world.”

I tell you…there are angels hovering round. Bending near the earth. Bringing good news, glad tidings for all people: You are not alone. Christ our Lord still comes… He comes to you. And sends you now into this world he so loves. A world watching and waiting… longing to hear the truth, the Good News of God’s love in Jesus our Lord.

So… go. Go with God. Go to whomever he sends you.  For, The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear his angels sing.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Soli Deo Gloria

Benen

The Legend of the Holly

Legend has it that a young orphan boy was living among the shepherds who tended their flocks in the hills of Judea. The hill country was lovely and green, the perfect place for little lambs and young boys. But it was a dangerous place, too. Wolves and snakes and other wild beasts were never far away. The shepherds were always watching, always ready to protect the sheep of their fold. And in their presence the young boy felt safe.

But one night their hearts pounded with fear, and so did the boy’s, when suddenly an angel appeared with a message from their Creator, the Almighty himself! “Fear not,” said the angel. “For behold, I bring you glad tidings of great joy! A savior, the Messiah, is born tonight in the old city of David. You will find him there lying in a manger.”

A baby? In a manger? The anointed Messiah? They couldn’t believe it. And yet the great prophets, Isaiah and Jeremiah, had said this day would come. So the shepherds left their sheep in the hills and went to find the Lamb of God.

On the way to Bethlehem, the young orphan boy wove a crown of holly branches for the newborn king. But when he laid it before the infant Jesus, the crown looked so unworthy that the little shepherd became ashamed of his gift and began to cry. But then something strange and wonderful happened. The baby reached out and touched the crown. And with the Christ child’s tender touch, the leaves began to sparkle shiny and green.  And the orphan’s tears were changed into scarlet berries.

It’s a lovely legend, a beautiful story of love incarnate. And the glad tidings of great joy God speaks to his people here and now is the same. For Christ our Lord still reaches out to touch the wounded hearts of his little ones and all who long for his tender, healing, life-giving presence. He still brings healing to our woundedness, light to our darkness, and hope to our despair. The living, loving Messiah of God still reaches out to you and to me. But not to us only. There are others all around us who long for that same holy touch in their hearts and lives. Some feel rejected. Some have suffered loss. Some are hurting or hungry or homeless. Others long for meaning and purpose. Still others simply yearn to love and be loved….

So let us be God’s touch of love-made-flesh for them this Christmas. Reach out to Christ’s little ones all around you. Give your gifts, your love, your time, your heart. And remember that in doing all of these things, you join the sages and shepherds of old who offered their hearts to God’s own beloved Son, the Word made flesh who came to dwell among us.

Through the coming of a Child, God infuses the world with a holy presence. Receive this gift of Christmas, and live by grace to love in Christ’s name.

The Christmas Feast

Long ago, before the advent of shopping malls or Santa Claus or even Christmas trees, Christmas was a holy day, a feast day. And like all feast days in the ancient Church, Christmas began with the ringing of bells for the service of Evensong or Vespers on the preceding day. The worshipers would then gather to celebrate the birth of Christ with a holy feast, the Feast of the Nativity. But the only food they would eat at this high and holy meal was the bread and wine of Holy Communion, the body and blood of Christ our Lord. Then, when all had received the sacrament, the presider would stand before them and dismiss them with a blessing.

In those days, the last words of the communion service were always the same: Ite missa est ~ three Latin words meaning, “You are dismissed” or “You are sent.” As the years went by, worshipers began to refer to the service of Holy Communion by those last three words. Eventually the sacrament came to be known simply as the Missa or the Mass. So the Feast of the Nativity became the Christ Mass. This holy season we now call Christmas began in the Church, at the table of our Lord.

It seems odd that the birth of Jesus was first celebrated with the Lord’s Supper. For the holy sacrament speaks of sacrifice and suffering, even of death. And yet, Communion is the perfect symbol for what took place on that holy night in the Bethlehem stable. For just as God’s presence is made known to us in the breaking of ordinary bread and in the blessing of ordinary wine, so the gift of God’s presence was revealed to all the world in an ordinary stable among ordinary people. Likewise the chalice, a common earthen vessel, held the sacramental wine ~ the blood of Christ ~ which is the very symbol of Jesus’ life and love given for us. In the same way, the manger, a common feed box, held the One who came to bring life and love to all ~ the Word-made-flesh, Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, “God-with-us.”

The common cup of Holy Communion reminds me of another vessel. It, too, is a common, ordinary, earthen vessel. And yet, like the manger of Bethlehem and the Cup of Life, it carries a great and wonderful treasure. You are that vessel. And the treasure you carry in your heart and life is nothing less than Christ himself. Through your loving kindness and care for others, you bring to them the gift of life and love. You are a channel of God’s grace, a living reminder of Christ to others. +

“May our faith be as daring as dreams. May our hopes be as bright as Bethlehem’s star. And may the coming Christ find in our hearts both a welcome and a home.”

Answered Prayer

Eighteen years is not such a long time to be in ministry. Still, I was worn and weary… and all of forty-four. Eighteen years of ministry in the hills and vales of West Virginia were hanging round my heart like a millstone. Dying churches, wounded spirits, and a hand-me-down hopelessness as deep and dark as an abandoned coal mine — all of these were somehow my fault. If they were not the direct result of my spectacularly ineffective ministry, the mere fact of their being was proof positive that I had failed. Otherwise the churches would be alive and well and growing day by day. Hope would fill the crevices of despair. The spirits of the faithful would be soaring high above the hallowed hills.

In my better moments, of course, I realize that I am not powerful enough to bring to ruin the Reign of God on earth. But that is what I heard. At nearly every clergy gathering, every district meeting, and even in my denomination’s annual conference I would hear the same message: As the pastor goes, so goes the church! or It all depends on the one in the box (the person in the pulpit) or the more biblically correct, “Where there is no vision, the people perish!” The intent of the messengers, of course, was to encourage pastors to lead with vision and purpose. But for those who have labored long and hard in a vineyard that appears to be slowly dying, the message becomes an indictment. As the pastor goes, so goes the church becomes The church isn’t thriving because of the pastor.

This was the message I had heard. And I took it to heart …so much so that I began to question my calling. Was I mistaken? Did God really call me to ministry? And if he did, is he now calling me out of ordained ministry? I was becoming more and more discouraged, sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Finally, I packed my bags and went to the monastery which had become my spiritual home. There I spent a week in prayer and holy reading, asking God again and again, “Where do I belong? What do you want me to do?” Each day I strained to hear the answer. But there was no word. No answer. No still, small voice that whispered to my heart of hearts.

On a hilltop not far from the monastery stands a tiny chapel built nearly a hundred and fifty years ago by Swiss Benedictines. The chapel is set in a lovely meadow. I have spent many afternoons there in prayer and meditation. On this particular day, as I wrestle with this thing called “calling,” my heart is heavy. I am torn within, straining with all my might to hear God’s silent-but-thundering voice within. I yearn for God’s presence. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot force God’s grace. I have neither Jacob’s strength nor his resolve. Finally I give up. I yield to God’s apparent absence.

There is a gathering place outside on the front lawn of the chapel. It looks something like a church without walls. There are park benches lined up like pews. A center aisle of soft green grass separates the two sections. Directly behind them is a life-size crucifix. Before them is an ambo, a stone pulpit that seems worthy of a great stone church.
For what seems like a long time, I sit here in this open sanctuary. My eyes are closed, but I am aware of the wind. I hear it first on one side, then on the other. I hear it in front, then behind… Almost without thinking I find myself praying the prayer Ezekiel prayed in his vision as he stood before the valley of dry bones p, “Come from the four winds, O Breath. Come from the four winds, O Breath of God, and breathe on me that I may live in your sight …and be the person you want me to be.” I pray this for myself, for my church, for The United Methodist Church, and for the Church catholic.

Sitting here in this place of worship and wonder, I ask myself, “Am I here and now standing on holy ground? Is God speaking to me?” My questions, again, turn to prayer: “Tune my heart to hear your voice, Lord…”

The wind continues to blow, it feels refreshing, soothing, like a healing balm. As it blows, I cannot help but think of that most holy Wind, the Breath of God, the Spirit that carried life to man and woman in creation, empowered the Church, and enlivened even the dead, dried bones in Ezekiel’s vision. And I allow myself to believe that God is breathing new life into my heart, into my life, into my ministry, and into the very depth of my being.
“God, how do you want to use me?” I struggle with this, straining to hear in my heart. Finally I pray, “God take me and use me as you will.”

After this, I sit quietly, listening to the sound of the wind. I feel it against my face and arms. My eyes are closed but I sense light dancing in the darkness. It reminds me of Genesis, the creation story. I have the feeling that God is re-creating — creating something new within me. I rest in this image, this place, this quiet Mt. Horeb for me.

To be honest, I still have doubts. At times I struggle with my calling. But I have come to see that being called to ministry is not a once-and-for-all kind of experience. Much more than a fond remembrance, it is ongoing. This call to ministry is a living thing, demanding my attention, my response, my commitment, my all. This I learned in an open church in the simple gifts of wind and sun — the gentle “voice” of the One who calls us.

Lord, Let Me See (July, 2008)

Note — This piece was written in 2008 while on silent retreat at Siant Meinrad Archabbey. It is a bit of reflection after wrestling with self-doubt in prayer and meditation.

They came to Jericho. As [Jesus] 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 (NRSV)

My grandmother could see. She wore wire-rimmed glasses. Bifocals. And she could see clearly….

As a child, I thought the “granny glasses” she wore, along with her snow white hair and gently wrinkled face, made her look wise. More than wise, really. It was as though all of her wisdom, warmth and gentleness came from the same place within her. It all flowed from the same source. All of this, of course, made Pearl Stanley Jones someone I loved and admired. And, though it may sound a bit odd, I wanted very much to look like my grandmother, too (in a little boy sort of way). “It must be the glasses,” I thought. “If I had a pair of glasses like hers – with the wire rims and the little square bifocal ‘windows’ – I would be warm and gentle and wise like my grandmother.”

Ah, but what made my grandmother a truly wise and grace-filled soul had little if anything to do with the way she looked and everything to do with her ability to see. Somehow it was as if she could see with deeper eyes – with eyes that see beyond the outward appearance and into the heart.

I remember riding the train to Boston with my grandmother one summer when I was not quite twelve years old. We had a bit of a layover in Washington as we waited for the next train to arrive. And there in the stationhouse, I noticed my grandmother’s kindness. She greeted strangers with warmth. She was kind to the conductors and porters and the people who loaded the baggage onto the train. She was always kind, always grateful, always smiling.

Later, at my aunt’s house, my grandmother made a pot of coffee for the “the cleaning lady.” And she sat with her at the kitchen table, asking her all about her children and family. Later, when it was time for the maid to return to her chores, my grandma insisted on helping her with them. As they worked, they talked and laughed. They shared their stories and their lives, their joys and their sorrows. And at the end of the day, the two women embraced and exchanged addresses, promising to keep in touch (which they did until my grandmother’s passing nearly seven years later.)

It was there in Boston that summer that I saw my mother’s mother making friends with the cab driver who had driven us to the museum. My aunt was terribly concerned that the cab driver would be annoyed by Grandma’s attempt to make conversation with him. After all, he was a stranger and she might be a bother to him. But the cab driver quickly objected. “She can talk to anybody she wants.” It was plain to see that he was delighted to meet someone who took an interest in him … so delighted was he that he even waived his fare!

The cab driver, the maid, the conductors and porters and “loaders of luggage” responded to her with such warmth and delight not so much because of her white hair and wrinkles – and not even because of those wonderful bifocals that gave her the look of a wise-but-warmhearted professor. They responded positively to her because of the way she saw them. For my grandmother saw them with the eyes of her heart. She saw each of them with humility and grace. Each was a person to her, a somebody, a child of God’s heart.
Saint Benedict urges us to cultivate this kind of vision in chapter four of the Rule, “The Tools for Good Works.” Your way of acting should be different from the world’s way; the love of Christ must come before all else. You are not to act in anger or nurse a grudge. Rid your heart of all deceit. Never give a hollow greeting of peace, or turn away when somebody needs your love. Bind yourself to no oath lest it prove false, but speak the truth with heart and tongue. (RB 4:43-44)

Sometimes I picture Jesus standing before me, gazing deeply into my heart, and this is what he says: “What do you want me to do for you?” And I hear myself echoing the words of the blind beggar of Jericho, “Lord, let me receive my sight. Lord, open my eyes. Let me see.” For I, too, am blind, though not physically. It is a spiritual blindness, a sort of myopic heart, I suppose. I long to see with deeper eyes – the same sort of eyes that allowed my grandmother to look past the prickly facades and the veils of lowliness to see others as the beloved of God. “Lord, open my heart, that I may see…”

What hinders my vision is something akin to an inability to focus my heart on Christ. I want to live completely and totally for him, and yet I cling selfishly to my familiar sins. Something in me refuses to let go of the image of myself that has haunted me for so long. In my mind, in the depths of my being, I have painted a self-portrait. And the self it portrays is rough-hewn, simple-minded, ineffective. Often I see myself as something like “poor Appalachian white trash,” (a term I would never use to describe another living being). There are times when I feel “normal,” I suppose – even effective and competent. But I quickly repent of this “arrogance” at the first sign of failure (or even what I deem to be insufficient progress.) So this is my prayer. This is my answer to the questioning Christ: I long to receive my sight, in order that I might see and know and remember who I am.

To be honest, I think part of the problem is that I don’t see others as they really are. Benedict urges his readers to “welcome all visitors … as Christ.” But sometimes I think I have a tendency to look at others and say to myself, “O Jesus, is it you again?” But I don’t think that’s what the great abbot had in mind! And when it comes to the church – the church I serve – I fear I tend to see what people are not, rather than what or who they are.

It all has to do with the heart, doesn’t it? Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” That is why I must learn to focus my heart on Christ. I must come to see that Christ is the other – that in this world there is only Christ and me. But in order to see Christ in the other, I must learn to see with deeper eyes. So with Bartimaeus, the blind beggar of Jericho, I pray, “Lord, let me receive my sight.” 

The story of Bartimaeus also reminds me of another sort of vision. How often we hear our denominational church leaders speak of visioning and visioneering (a term made popular by Andy Stanley, son of Rev. Charles Stanley). Each local church in our annual conference is required to develop a vision statement for the church. When it comes to this sort of vision, I am in the dark. Superintendents these days often ask, “Where do you see this church in ten years?” I never know how to answer. The truth is this whole notion of “visioning” confuses me. I cannot see what lies ahead. My prayer is that the church will follow Christ in all things. I pray that we will follow Saint Benedict’s plea to “prefer nothing whatever to Christ, that he may lead us all together to everlasting life.” But I don’t think that’s the answer our church leaders expect to hear from parish pastors. I don’t know how to envision the future church membership and attendance in worship. Maybe I am being too simplistic, but the hopes, the dreams, the “vision” I see is a church that follows Christ – a church where kindness and grace are practiced daily, a church that reaches out in love to all persons, a church where all are valued not because of their gifts, giving, status or ability, but simply because God values and loves them. I see a church that takes seriously its call to be disciples as well as make them. How large will the church be? I have no idea. Will it grow numerically? I pray that it will, but I also realize that the opposite may be true.

This is where I am confused. I do not know how to see as others do. And this inability to see is tearing at my heart. I can not see where the conference is headed. Nor can I see what the Church is becoming. And I am not certain that the vision held before our eyes is God’s vision. At times I think the vision held before us is the fear-blurred vision of those who are desperate to have their ministry validated by numerical growth rather than by the knowledge that we are following where Christ leads.

Again, I find myself praying with Bartimaeus: “Lord, let me see. Touch my eyes. Touch my heart. Let me receive my sight.”

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that thou art;
Thou my best thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

Be thou my Wisdom, and thou my true Word;
I ever with thee and thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, and I thy true son,
Thou in me dwelling, and I with thee one.

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise;
Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
Thou and thou only, first in my heart,
High King of heaven, my treasure thou art.

High King of heaven, my victory won,
May I reach heaven’s joys, O bright heaven’s Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

My Grandmother’s Gift

I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…”
– John 10:14 (NRSV)

On a wall near her kitchen table were the words my grandmother prayed each morning as she ended her time of quiet communion with God: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want ….” That was the image of Christ she carried in her heart and life — the image of the strong and tender Shepherd who will not lose even one of his sheep. For my grandmother, too, was a goodly shepherd, a curate to the world around her, caring for the lost and broken members of God’s own flock.

As a young boy, I spent a good bit of time with my grandmother, often staying the night with her in the little white frame house she called home. During the day I would work with her in the garden, gathering just enough corn for our supper and a basket of tomatoes for canning. In the evenings I would sit by her side as she read from The Upper Room and the bible she so gently cradled in her hands, as though it were a precious thing, treasured and holy. And from those ancient words that spoke of truth and grace, she would weave stories. And from the stories my grandmother told, God would weave healing and hope.

It happened on a dark and dreary day when I was seven, maybe eight years old. I was sitting alone at her kitchen table imagining that the brown china rabbit I had taken from the shelf was a living thing, a real live rabbit hopping through the forest. The rabbit had been a gift to her from a friend — someone very dear to her heart. On days that were dark and dreary, my grandmother would take the little brown rabbit from the shelf in her kitchen, place it in my hands, and begin to piece together a story. It might be the tale of The Hare and the Tortoise, The Velveteen Rabbit, or a story of her own making about a little brown rabbit that lived in the woods. And always, at the end of the tale, there would be a treat — a small glass of milk, a lemon cookie, and the warm and wonderful feeling of being welcome and wanted in my grandmother’s house.

But on that dark day, when I sat alone with the fragile brown rabbit, I imagined it hopping along — which it did, of course, with the help of my hand. But suddenly it “hopped” too close to the edge of the table and fell. When it landed on the old braided rug beneath the table, it was broken in two. And at that very moment, something inside me was broken, too. Everything was broken. After all, the rabbit had been a gift, something precious and dear to my grandmother’s heart, something that could never be replaced. So I ran. I ran and hid behind the old shed at the far end of the garden, where I was sure I would never be found. I sat there crushed and broken inside, mourning the loss of my grandmother’s love and the trust I had broken along with the rabbit. “No one will ever find me here,” I thought. And after what had just happened, I thought I didn’t deserve to be found.

But as the shepherd seeks the lamb that has strayed, my grandmother sought me. I could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. As she came around the shed, I braced myself and looked down at the dirt, ready to bear the bitter scolding that surely was coming. I was in tears and trembling silently, because I knew that I was about to hear my own grandmother tell me how terribly disappointed she was in me — how ashamed she was to have such a grandson. She would tell me, surely, that I wasn’t welcome in her house anymore, that she didn’t want me to be her grandson, and never again would I sit at her table or hear her stories or know her love.

Ah, but grandma really was like a shepherd. She was like a goodly shepherd who seeks the one who has gone astray. Instead of scolding, she gathered me up in her arms and gently carried me back to her house and into her kitchen. And there on her kitchen table sat the little brown rabbit, no longer broken but all in one piece, as if it was new. She pointed to the rabbit, put her arms around me, and said, “If I had to, I could probably get along without that rabbit … But I don’t think I could ever do without you.”

That day she gave two lemon cookies and a tall glass of milk. And she told me a story about a little brown rabbit that was broken in two and put back together with a whole lot of love … and a wee bit of glue.

And the truth that Christ has woven in my heart from that experience is at the very heart of all the “I am” sayings of Jesus. It is what our hearts most long to hear: “I am with you… I am with you.”

He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep. — Isaiah 40:11 (NRSV)

Longing for Home

I wrote these words a few years ago while on silent retreat at Saint Meinrad.

Times of silence, prayer, and holy listening seem few and far between. There is deep within my soul, in my heart of hearts, a hunger for silent communion with God. It is a desire to be known, to be held, to be wholly accepted by God as I imagine a loving grandfather would adore and even delight in a beloved grandchild.

I never knew either of my grandfathers. And yet, I have (since childhood I suppose) held an image of “grandfather” as one who is strong, tender, loving and wise. He is someone who has learned gentleness and peace even though he has known hardship and experienced sorrow. He is one who delights in each grandchild, somehow enabling each one to feel and to think that they are “grandpa’s favorite.” Grandfather’s love is something they treasure, a precious gem, something full of wonder, mystery, and grace. Each grandchild knows him/herself to be the Beloved.

My “picture” or “image” of God looks a bit like this grandfather. This is the experience of God that I long for. This is the acceptance and tender grace for which my heart is longing. I am continually yearning for and continually avoiding this kind of intimate communion with God in Christ. And by this duality I am baffled.

Still the longing remains — and this is pure grace — it is God who creates the longing within me. The heart’s hunger for God is the effect of God’s longing for us. As Father Lambert Reilly (the former Archabbot of Saint Meinrad) would say, “It is the apple that pulls the boy up the tree.” God is the initiator of communion. It is what Father Wesley called prevenient grace, what Kierkegaard described as a “God-shaped hole” in the human heart. Karl Barth (in his Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans) named it Godsickness — a kind of homesickness for God, the heart’s true home.

This longing of the heart cannot be satisfied by a single encounter with God, just as a life cannot be sustained and nourished by a single meal. The yearning is part of us. The heart’s longing for God is “natural” (in the sense that it is truly human nature). It is part of our make-up, as much a part of who we are as our need for water, air, acceptance, touch. Perhaps this is, in part, what it means to be created in the image of God — to have within us this deep, natural longing for communion with our Creator, as though the heart is shaped for God, the spirit imprinted with the image of God. For God alone is our home, our resting place, our habitation. As our ancestor in faith, Saint Augustine, said so well, “Thou hast made us for thyself, O God, and our heart is restless until it rests in thee.”

Lord, in your mercy, hear my prayer…

Earthen Vessels

The pews in this church are like shelves on the walls of the potter’s house, each of them holding earthenware vessels, old clay pots. The vessels are alike, but not entirely. All are formed from the earth – all given birth on the same potter’s wheel, all made complete in the same potter’s fire. They are all made for a purpose. Each vessel is made to be filled, to be emptied and then filled again. And for this task they are well suited.

But they are earthen vessels. They are jars of clay with flaws and imperfections that give each its own character and uniqueness among the many vessels that come to rest within the potter’s house. They are flawed and imperfect and easily broken. When broken, these vessels can do great harm. Their rough edges can wound. Jagged pieces and shards, though hardly visible, can easily hurt and scar any who touch them.

Even so, there is something good and lovely and precious within them. We have within these flawed and fragile vessels a great and wonderful treasure. For like the vessels of the altar, they carry life. The One who is life, dwells within them, no matter how imperfect they may be. In them is God’s Beloved.

Like an old clay pot, a vessel of the altar, you are called and chosen not to be perfect, but to carry the grace of God in Christ to others like you – to those who are flawed, fragile, imperfect and beloved.

Grace & PEace,
Tom