February 26, The Feast of the Transfiguration

Kristin White

Matthew 17:1-9

 It is good for us to be here.

We’re a meaning-making people, I believe, ready to put to work the intellects that God has given us. Maybe this is amplified by the fact that I’m a preacher, that seemingly everything is potential material, but I am constantly walking around and trying to interpret what is happening – in the world, in my own life – to fit those pieces to an arc that will hang together, one that will in some way make sense, offer something to share, something to learn.

I left in January for an almost-two-week pilgrimage to the Holy Land with no idea of what to expect. In the company of almost 40 meaning-making colleagues, most of them priests, four bishops, one deacon…all of us accustomed to leading, in our own way, all of us used to being responsible, all of us prepared to interpret.

From the time even before our plane left Newark for Tel Aviv, two things became clear to me on this pilgrimage: 1) I was not in charge. And 2) I had no idea what all this would mean.

Our flight was delayed in leaving the States, and the group flying from the West Coast was affected by the storms there, so the reshuffling really began before the pilgrimage did. But, a little punchy with a lack of sleep, and with the customary good-natured awkwardness of people who don’t yet know each other well, we found our way.

Each site we visited had a kind of order to it. We would go to the place, hear for a few minutes from our guide Ghassan about what it was, about the historical significance, and his confidence of its authenticity (or not). And then we would celebrate a simple liturgy: someone would read a passage from the Bible that related to that place, we would sing a hymn, and conclude with a prayer. And then we would have about 10 minutes to look around and take pictures, before getting back on the bus and going on to the next site. We did that five or six times a day, with a break for lunch and dinner, some time for fellowship in the evening, and then enough sleep to wake up and do it all again the next day.

We went to Mount Tabor at the end of our first full day in Israel, believed by the western church to be the place of the Transfiguration in today’s gospel.

It’s an actual mountain, such that we weren’t able to stay in our regular tour bus and get to the top of it. Instead, we got out of our big bus and into little mini-buses, driven by guys who drive those little busses up and down that mountain all day every day…which gives them an ease of speed and a confidence at taking those hairpin switchback curves leading to the top and to the base…it was a kind of ease and confidence that I, as a passenger, did not experience.

But we arrived. And it was good for us to be there. This was one of the places that had been reshuffled – we were supposed to have gone the day before, but it had all been moved and sandwiched into the next day after our delay. It was the end of the day, so we had to hustle a bit through the liturgy before the church was closed for the evening, had to jockey with other groups for space. And then it was dark, and we were all going in separate buses when it was time to leave. I found out later that my friend Kate had waited for the last bus, watching for me because she was worried I’d be left behind (I had gotten on the first bus, because I was worried about being left behind…both of us shared concerns about my questionable navigation skills without benefit of the group and our guide).

I can tell you we drank fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice at a stand in the parking lot while we waited for the buses. I can tell you that the voices of 37 fellow pilgrims who would become my friends over those next 11 days, singing harmony under the dome of that church, took my breath away.

I can tell you two things: 1) I was not in charge, and 2) I still don’t know what it all means.

And it was good for us to be there.

Jesus leads Peter and James and John up that same high mountain in today’s gospel. His face shines. His clothes are the brightest white. He talks with Moses and Elijah, who are there with him.

“It is good for us to be here…” Peter begins, and he keeps going.

And then they’re all enfolded in a bright cloud. (When has a cloud ever been bright, in your experience?)

Within the cloud, a voice: “This is my son, the beloved, with him I am well-pleased. Listen to him!”

Peter and James and John fall down, terrified. Jesus tells them to get up, says that thing that Jesus says: “Do not be afraid.” It’s just him with them now. Moses and Elijah are gone.

As they come down the mountain, Jesus tells them not to tell anyone about this, until the Son of Man is raised from the dead.

What was that like for Peter and James and John, can you imagine? Just the walking up that high mountain is no small thing, and then all that they see in the vision, the bright cloud and the voice inside of it, the falling-down terror and then Jesus’ call: Do not be afraid…the command not to talk about it until some mysterious date in the future, which also defies explanation and understanding. What would they even say?

And yet. It was good for them to be there.

What I can tell you is that there was blessing to be found in not being in charge for those two weeks. There was blessing to be found in not being responsible to interpret, to make meaning.

Because instead, we pilgrims had the chance to encounter: places that I had only ever known by chapter and verse. I can tell you about the frescoes inside the dome of the Church of the Transfiguration. I can tell you about one of the first women bishops of the Church leading our celebration of Eucharist on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, at the place where we believe Jesus told his disciples: “You give them something to eat”. I can tell you that there’s a divider through the middle of the muddy Jordan River which serves as a border between the countries of Jordan and Israel, one that soldiers patrolled the baptismal site on both sides with machine guns, and that doves flew over our heads as we renewed our promises: “I will, with God’s help”. I can tell you about the 2,000-year-old olive tree I saw in the Garden of Gethsemane. I can tell you that on January 20, I laid my forehead against the Western Wall and prayed, and wept.

And we had the chance to encounter people: five of us staked out the very back seats of our bus by the third or fourth day; we would sit and talk together for the rest of the trip. I could tell you about Ghassan, our guide, an Israeli Christian who grew up in the Old City of Jerusalem. Christians are a minority of only 2% there now, and Ghassan’s family has lived in Jerusalem for more generations than I know. But he said that the times are so hard for his family there, that he would leave with them tomorrow if he could. I could tell you about the teenage Muslim girls we met at the Tomb of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs in Hebron. Someone in the group asked permission to take their photo. They agreed, asked that we send it to them. The girls smiled to each other as we left, and said, “We’re going to be on Facebook.”

There hasn’t been too much time to think, in the weeks since I’ve been home, but once in a while I have wondered if the need to make meaning, the need to be responsible, might keep us from entering the bright cloud of encounter. I wonder what blessing might come of our willingness to suspend that need for a time. I wonder how we might be changed, because of it.

Those disciples saw something dazzling and profound, there with each other and with Jesus. They saw something they did not understand and could not explain. They were terrified. Whatever came next, their lives would be changed forever by what happened on that mountain.

And yes: it was good for them to be there.

February 18, The Burial of the Rev. F. Richard Adams

Kristin White

The Funeral of the Rev. F. Richard Adams – February 18, 2017

St. Augustine’s Church

Luke 24:13-35

Allison Jacobs is six years old. She has known Richard Adams all her life. In fact, her mom Amy grew up at this parish, and she used to babysit Richard’s children. And Richard’s children would grow up to babysit Allison and her older sister Emma.

Allison is one of our resident theologians here at St. Augustine’s. She thinks a lot about God and people, and a good part of one wall in my office is dedicated to her illustrations on those subjects. As she and her mom drove to church the Sunday before last, Allison and Amy must have been talking about life and death and God and Mr. Adams.

I stand outside most Sunday mornings to say hello as folks come to church. Allison started sharing her thoughts with me from the moment her car door opened, while she was still on the other side of the street.

“Rev. Kristin, I think God gives everybody two hearts,” she said. “God gives us one heart to beat and to keep us alive. And God gives us the other heart to love.

“Rev. Kristin, I think God gave Mr. Adams the biggest heart of all,” she said.

---

 “Did not our hearts burn within us?” the disciples ask in the gospel lesson that Richard chose months ago, to be read at this service, on this day.

As they say it, those disciples are filled with – what – joy and wonder and awe? – at the glimpse of a moment, when they see Jesus and recognize that it’s him…and then he’s gone.

But that is not how this story starts out. This gospel story begins at the point of heartbreak. Jesus died on the cross three days before. The sky went black, the curtain at the Temple tore in half from top to bottom.

These two followers of his are walking from Jerusalem to a nearby town called Emmaus. They meet a stranger, not recognizing that it’s Jesus. The stranger sees these two sad men and asks them what they’re talking about as they walk.

“Are you the only one who doesn’t know?” they ask, and then they tell him…about himself: the cross and the tomb and the three days.

“But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel,” they say. Can you hear the heartbreak in their words? Have you said those words? I have. I have said them as I rubbed my fingers together, clutching after something that wasn’t mine to hold. “We had hoped,” they say. "We had hoped."

The disciples go on to tell the stranger about the women, that morning, and their vision and the angels and the confusion. The stranger calls them foolish, and then he goes on to teach them about Moses and the prophets.

As they get to the village, the disciples ask him to stay. And he does. As they sit at the table, he picks up a loaf of bread. He blesses it, and breaks it. And they know. And then he’s gone.

---

The Rev. Frank Richard Adams lived life with a great big heart. He knew the kind of heartbreak that causes a person rub his fingers together, clutching after something that isn’t his to hold onto. And he knew what it was to feel such awe and wonder and joy that his heart burned within him.

I met Richard through his words before I met him in person. Richard, together with Allison’s mother Amy, crafted St. Augustine’s Parish Profile, the document describing St. A’s as this church searched for a new rector, now more than five years ago. A friend of mine had a copy of the profile. He gave it to me, saying “This is your church.” I read it. And it was. And it is.

Richard was one of the very first St. A's people I met, when he came to interview me at my former parish, and then again when I continued in the process here.

Writing was a vocation of his, but surely not the only one. In December of 2015, Richard’s long dream of being ordained to serve as a deacon of the church became reality.

A deacon’s role is to interpret the needs of the world to the church, calling us to action and service. Richard used his vocation as a writer in his ministry among people who had been incarcerated. He helped them write their way out, and back into a world outside the prison walls, through his work with St. Leonard’s Ministries. He spoke with candor and hope about his life in recovery, inviting others to live into their own. He served alongside the Rev. Ed Bird at St. Andrew’s Church, which stands right next to St. Leonard’s House. He served for as long as he was physically able to. And for as long as he was able, he read the gospel lesson at our Friday morning celebration here in St. Augustine’s chapel.

All of these were sources of joy for Richard. But the greatest reason that his very big heart burned with awe and wonder was his family. Susie and Luke and Ted and Jonathan and Sarah and Katie, your dad loved you so very much. He delighted in you. He was so proud of you, of your families, of your children – his grandchildren.

Richard called me at the end of January, the day after his Katie, as he called you, was engaged to be married. He had fallen a few days before, was in a care center trying to regain his strength. He was so excited that Katie and Sebastian hoped to be married right here at St. A’s. He told me he was looking forward to getting stronger, to coming back to church.

Oh, Richard. We had hoped.

It would be our last real conversation. A few days later, Richard was admitted to Intensive Care. His children and grandchildren and friends all surrounded him, kept vigil at the hospital, at his bedside.

The Saturday before he died, Katie and Sarah asked me to come and pray. As we said Amen, Richard’s oxygen alarms began to sound. He knew. I would come back later that night to pray Last Rites. He prayed the Lord’s Prayer along with us. The words of that prayer would be his last. And three days later, he was gone.

“Did not our hearts burn within us?” the disciples ask.

Listen and watch for those moments of awe and joy and wonder, the all-too-fleeting glimpses of recognition that come as we walk this journey, as we share in fellowship. Come back to them. Come back, and come back again. Come back once more, and keep coming.

You are here today because you have known or learned from or been loved by a man with a very big heart – a heart that had been broken, a heart that burned with joy.

How does your own heart beat within you more strongly now, because of it? How has your own heart grown to love even more?

February 12, The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany

Kristin White

“See,” Moses says, “See, I have set before you today life and prosperity, death and adversity. If you obey the commandments I give you, by loving God and walking in his ways and observing his commandments, you shall live, and God will bless you in the land you are entering to possess.

“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life, so that you and your descendants shall live.”

“Choose. Life.”

Sometimes the law falls heavy on our ears, weighed down with the measure of what it tells us we cannot do.

Love the Lord your God, walk in God’s ways, observe the commandments AND the decrees AND the ordinances, and you shall live. And you shall become numerous. And you will be blessed in the land you’re setting your foot toward.

HOWEVER…

IF your heart turns away, IF you do not hear, IF you bow down to other gods, IF you wind up serving those other gods…you’re not going to make it very long in the land you’re crossing that Jordan River to enter.

Deuteronomy can be translated from the Hebrew as the “second law,” or “the second giving of the law.” And that explains something of the importance of today’s first reading from that book in the Hebrew scriptures of the Old Testament. This is part of one of the three sermons Moses makes to the People Israel as they prepare to enter the land of God’s promise. They’ve spent 40 years wandering through the wilderness. They have walked through the Red Sea on dry land, they have gotten lost and found, they’ve eaten manna and quail that rained down from heaven, they have drunk water from a rock. They have gone from being slaves in Egypt to knowing themselves as God’s own beloved. And as God’s own beloved, they have this new law – this new way of being who they are. They are people of a covenant about to be fulfilled. “Go, to a land that I will show you,” God said so very long ago to Abraham. And now…their feet are about to walk on that land.

So the Law that God gives them is a gift to the People Israel. The law will show them how to give shape and substance to the covenant that God has established. The law helps them live, offers them an identity based not on bondage but on promise. And the People Israel love the law. That’s important. The People Israel, prepared to cross the Jordan, love the law that God has given them.

“Choose life,” Moses tells these people he has helped to free and sought to lead. “Choose life, that you and your descendants shall live.”

It’s clear that the people have a choice. They can choose to walk as closely as they can to the path God has offered, and the promise of the covenant is that they will find in that path God’s abundance. Or…they can choose to fall away, to get lost, to get distracted and fall in love with things that are not worthy, and that abundance will be lost as well. The people have the awesome and devastating choice of life abundant…or death…and God gives them the autonomy to make it.

We’re in the midst of four weeks’ worth of gospel lessons that re-tell Jesus’ teaching on the Sermon on the Mount. It began two weeks ago with the Beatitudes: “Blessed are you,” Jesus said. And it continued last Sunday with Jesus’ teachings on salt and light. Next Sunday Jesus will tell his followers to love their enemies, to pray for those who persecute them.

Scholars aren’t sure who exactly Jesus’ audience is with this sermon. We know that he has called his disciples, that he walked around in Galilee teaching and preaching and healing people, we know that as his fame spread, people brought their sick and afflicted family and friends to be healed by him. And they were healed. So his fame grew. The texts tells us that people followed Jesus from Galilee and the Dacopolis region and Jerusalem and Judea and from well past the Jordan. And I’m telling you that that’s a pretty spread out region…so it says something about Jesus, that people came from all over those places to follow him. The text tells us that Jesus sees the crowds just before he begins to preach the Sermon on the Mount. He sees the crowds, and he walks up the mountain, and he sits down, and his disciples come with him. We don’t know about all the others. For all we know, they stay down at the base of the hill. But we know the disciples hear him.

And so begins the “Blessed are you…” and the “You are the light of the world…” and so will continue next Sunday: “Give to him who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow…”

And (sigh) we have Jesus’ teachings from today: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not murder…’ But I say to you that if you are angry, you will be liable to judgment…’

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart…’

“It was also said, ‘Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate…’ But I say to you that anyone who divorces his wife…causes her to commit adultery…’

“Again, you have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.’ But I say to you, Do not swear at all…Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’

Sometimes the law falls heavy on our ears.

Last week Jesus made it clear to those who follow him that the law that God gave to the People Israel is the law that God still gives to the People. “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets,” he said. “I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them.”

The two might strike us as different, especially given this morning’s text, but the Book of Deuteronomy and the Sermon on the Mount have something in common. Remember, Deuteronomy is the second giving of the law, the preparation for people walking into the lives that they have hoped for, for generations. And scholars treat the Sermon on the Mount as a parallel fulfilling, a kind of second giving of the Ten Commandments. Jesus is offering it to his disciples up there on the mountain, this distilled and amplified and seemingly impossible way of being, to the people who have dropped their nets to follow him, people who will descend this mountain and continue in seemingly impossible ways with faithful and imperfect lives of ministry.

As hard as it falls on our ears, what if today’s gospel passage from the Sermon on the Mount is every bit as much about choosing life as the reading from Deuteronomy?[1] With those heavy words, what if Jesus is provoking us beyond superficial adherence to the rule of law, to instead find our way inside of that beloved law, to what it means at heart?

Is Jesus saying that life is endangered when anger and insult and judgment prevail?

Is Jesus saying that life is endangered when women are treated as disposable?

Is Jesus saying that life is endangered when we make promises that we have no intent to keep?

It seems to me that we’re living in a distilled and amplified time, one in which multiple times a day we could envision Moses standing before us on the Plains of Moab, saying “See, I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life, that you and your descendants may live.”

How do our thoughts and our words and our actions bring life to this beautiful world? How can we hold this second giving of the law, this fulfillment offered by Jesus, when our fury would cause us to dehumanize another person? When our labels would exclude? When our promises fall flat?

The People Israel wandered through the wilderness for 40 years, proved again and again that it’s easy to get lost. It’s easy to be distracted, to fall in love with bright and shiny objects. It’s easy to forget who we are, especially when the words of law fall so heavy on our ears that we forget to listen.

But the law that the People Israel love, the fulfillment of the law that shapes the disciples’ journey down that mountain and beyond, invites us, as it invited them, to choose life in the abundance of a God who blesses us and calls us beloved.

“See, I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God…so that you may live in the land that the Lord swore to give to your ancestors, to Abraham and Sarah, to Isaac and Rebecca, and to Jacob and Leah and Rachel.”

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4810

January 29, The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany: Baptism, Welcoming New Members, and Annual Meeting

Kristin White

Micah 6:1-8, 1 Corinthians 1:18-31, Matthew 5:1-12

“Oh my people,” the prophet Micah says in today’s first reading. “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?” He’s trying to remind them of who God has been for them throughout the ages, to show them what matters in their own lives and in the life they share.

“Consider your own call,” the apostle Paul writes to the church at Corinth, a church that has become consumed with its own internal politics, forgotten who they are and what they are meant to be.

“Blessed are you,” Jesus teaches his disciples. He only just called them after his return from the wilderness, and immediately began teaching and healing and casting out demons and doing miracles, and the crowds have grown grown. Jesus sees them, and he goes up the mountain. His disciples follow behind him. He sits down, begins to teach, offering blessing with the strength of commandment, blessing that confers itself in the speaking of it.

These scripture passages bounce off of one another, weave together, and resonate with each other. Taken together, they offer the church “a call to action, a call to be church.”[1]

“Blessed are the merciful,” Jesus says to his disciples. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness sake…”

“What does the Lord require of you?” the prophet asks, “But to do justice, and love kindness…”

“We proclaim Christ crucified,” Paul writes. “To those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.”

Taken together, these scriptures offer a frame to see the world without being overcome by it. Taken together, they can show us a way forward with simplicity, and hope, and compassion.[2]

Let yourself experience these passages of scripture simply, without needing to offer expert interpretation. Simply put, what do these passages mean to you? What claim do they make on your life? I’ll show you my pictures and tell you my stories about it later, but how do you imagine Jesus walking up that mountain, away from the crowds that had followed him there? Did the crowds follow, and jostle the disciples, or did they stay at the base of the hill? Did Jesus look across the Sea of Galilee toward the Golan Heights as he taught, or was he looking at a baby, or an elderly man? “Blessed are you….blessed are you…” Where are you in the story, and how does it land on you differently to find your way into it?

Sometimes hope is all upside down and sideways. It doesn’t look like we expect it to. “The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God,” Paul writes to the Corinthians. Sometimes hope is born of defiance, a sheer unwillingness to despair. “Consider your call,” Paul writes. “God chose what is foolish…God chose what is weak…God chose what is low…” What I learned in my bones of my time in Jerusalem is that the place that was Christ’s tomb was also the place of Christ’s resurrection. Defiant hope has always had a home in our faith. And defiant hope, I believe, paves a path to our future.

But the only way we will find our way is to find our way together, and for that we must have compassion. That’s what allows us to see ourselves in one another, to know that we’re made of the same handfuls of dust. “O my people,” the prophet says. We belong to each other. We’re made of the same dust, by a God who uses dust to make beautiful things.[3] And the God who makes beautiful things requires us to “do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly…”

My friend Kate and her church in Western Springs welcomed a refugee family from Syria to their community last summer: two parents and their three children. The Sunday before they arrived from their 20-hour journey, she preached that “one of the reasons we read scripture is to enlarge our imaginations…Not all of us grew up as immigrants or refugees; but we hold sacred stories of the Bible that remind us that once we were no people, but now we belong to God and to each other. It’s not just a story: it’s our story.”[4]

Woven together, these pieces are a fitting call to the church to be church, today, in the life of this church; today, in the life of this world.

Because everything that we do today will come back to the fact that we belong to each other, the fact that, together, we all belong to God.

Today in this church we will baptize a baby whose mother and aunt and uncles were baptized at this same font. Blessed are you, Baby Kayla. We will welcome new members who now join this Body of Christ that is the Church. Blessed are you. We will feast and give thanks and discern and hope for the future of St. Augustine’s. Blessed are you. We will welcome, as our guests here tonight and throughout the week, people who don’t have anyplace else to call home. Blessed are you. Blessed are you. Blessed are you.

And today as we go back out into the world, may we be guided by lessons of simplicity and compassion and hope found in this scriptural call to action. Remember who God has been for you, simply; recall yourself again into our story. Remember that we belong to each other; that we’re made of the same dust. Consider the call we share from the God who created the steadfast hope that burns within us, from the God who uses dust to make beautiful things. Consider your call to do justice, to love mercy, to walk humbly. O my people…blessed are you.

If this present moment has anything to teach us, I hope it teaches us that all of this matters. God’s calling on your life is not superfluous or haphazard. God’s gifts within you are not accidental. Our lives count. Our gifts matter. Hostility and isolation and cynicism will not prevail against simple compassion and defiant hope…they can’t. But it takes all of us, offering what we have to give with open hands, with open hearts. Remember: the place of Christ’s burial is the place of his resurrection.

So may we hear our call, on this day of baptism and welcoming new members and taking counsel at our annual meeting and hosting guests who stand most in need of our hospitality.

Blessed are you, O my people. Let us gather, now, at the font of our salvation.

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4802

[2] Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1. Charles James Cook “Matthew: Pastoral Perspective.” Knoxville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010. 312.

[3] http://www.nadiabolzweber.com/uncategorized/some-modern-beatitudes-a-sermon-for-all-saints-sunday.htm

[4] the Rev. Kate Spelman, All Saints Episcopal Church, Western Springs, IL

January 22, The Third Sunday after the Epiphany

The Rev. Dr. Frank Senn

Isaiah 9:1-4; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23

This is the time of the year when I begin to watch hopefully for signs of more daylight – the sun rising a little earlier in the morning and setting a little later in the evening.  We’re only a month past the winter solstice, but the darkness in our northern world gets old fast.  We yearn for a little more light.

I suppose we could say the same thing about the political situation in our country. We yearn for a little more light. We went through the darkness of a particularly nasty election season and, unfortunately, not much has been done to assuage the fears of many of our fellow citizens regarding the actual policies of new administration. Perhaps what little light has been shed on the situation has come from people comforting one another, like in all the women’s marches yesterday in cities across our country---or one-on-one I did on a street corner yesterday after my men’s yoga class as I listened to a fellow class member vent his heart-felt concerns about the new president for more than an hour.   

We’re also in the time after the Epiphany, which begins with Isaiah’s announcement: “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Isaiah 60:1). I expect the light to grow stronger as Christ’s presence in the world expands through the mission of the gospel.

I would note that we are in the week of prayer for Christian Unity. Certainly as Churches find ways to be in full communion with one another and ministers from different Christian traditions can be authorized to preach and preside at the Eucharist as needed in one another’s churches, the light of unity is growing brighter.

Two of the three readings today speak of light in the darkness. The other one speaks of the power of God in the Cross. There’s a clashing here as these readings are juxtaposed with each other that brings even deeper meaning to the "light". I think we need that word about the cross because when we Christians hear the message of the light of God shining in Jesus there is an unconscious expectation and a subtle hope that if we profess our faith in him things will be better and life will be much smoother sailing.  But there is a deeper truth that emerges by holding these passages together.

These three speak of hope and the hope is realized in Jesus when he begins his ministry of preaching, of calling the disciples, of teaching and healing. Matthew carefully places Jesus in the right place at the right time by showing how he was truly the long promised One, the light coming into a dark world. He puts Jesus into the right place geographically by picking up Isaiah's prophecy.

The land of Zebulun and Naphtali at the time of Jesus was Galilee. But back 800 years earlier, when Isaiah wrote, the people from these tribes of Israel were the first to be carted away by the Assyrians. Since then the whole region was considered with contempt and somehow degraded, especially by the Jerusalem Jews. The question of Nathanael when he was introduced to Jesus, "What good thing can come out of Nazareth?" gives you a feel for their contempt. Galilee was now populated with Gentiles as well as Jews, and therefore more cosmopolitan and not as pure as Judea. But the long ago promise was that out of this place of darkness and hopelessness a great light would shine.

And then Matthew paints a picture of Jesus walking along the shore of the Sea of Galilee calling his first disciples. He walks between the earth and the sea. Now the ancient Jewish writers saw the sea as evil. It floods and destroys the world. It separated the Israelite people from freedom when they were slaves in Egypt.  It rages uncontrollably in floods that come crashing down the cataracts from Mount Hermon.

In the creation story the earth was formed out of some chaotic watery substance. The sea is chaos and the earth is order. These images and symbols have been given new meaning for us since the great Tsumani of several years ago – the power and chaos of the sea sweeping humanity up and devouring everything in its path. And then came Hurricane Katrina, and recently the floods in Texas and even in Arizona, of all places. Maybe these images help us understand how the Hebrews felt about the sea. Matthew is presenting a picture of Jesus calling order out of this chaos.

The Corinthian reading seems to come from way out in left field. Paul is writing to a small house church which he has planted in the great Greek city of Corinth. When the Corinthian converts first heard about Jesus they trusted in him.  Something connected for them and the light went on.  They were filled with God's Spirit in amazing and wonderful ways.  But in a brief few years they seemed to have completely lost their way. They quickly became divided and proud and self‑seeking. This is a church in darkness, so to speak. And into this darkness Paul drives home the center and focus of their faith – the CROSS of Jesus. He reminds them how he came to proclaim the gospel to them not with fancy words and eloquent wisdom, because the cross speaks for itself. The message of the cross is a powerful message to those who trust in it, but to those who don't it just seems like foolishness and nonsense. It is the CROSS that brings light out of darkness. Martin Franzmann caught that connection in his great hymn, “Thy strong word didst cleave the darkness.” He writes:

From the cross thy wisdom shining

Breaketh forth in conqu’ring might;

From the cross forever beameth

All thy bright redeeming light.

The cross speaks of pain, rejection, abandonment, helplessness and death. Not the sort of things we like to think about and certainly not what we want to experience for ourselves. It doesn't have the same good feeling about it as light shining in darkness does.  It feels more like darkness itself.

So we have today a word about light dawning in a dark world, and a word about the cross. Our lectionary puts them together today. And they raise the question: If Jesus came as the light, why is there so still so much darkness?

If God had revealed himself through an all-powerful Christ who came to conquer the oppressors and liberate his people and bring in a new order of justice and peace, the CROSS wouldn't have been necessary. But he didn't. Instead the Light was extinguished, seemingly snuffed out at the cross. Jesus submitted himself to the evil forces and powers of the time. Even the land was covered in darkness at his death.

Jesus is the icon of God.  He reveals God to us, what God is like. God is not different from Jesus. Does this mean that somehow God is not the all-powerful controlling force that is responsible for every cause and effect in the way we often think of Him? Is there something about the way Jesus suffered and confronted evil that gives us more truth about God? Is this finally what “Immanuel”  – “God with us” – means? Suffering alongside us?

"The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God," wrote Paul. God's power is released in suffering. The light shines because there is darkness. Certainly the resurrection has happened but the full redeeming and reconciling effects of this resurrection haven’t taken place yet. If it had there would be no Tsunamis, no devastating hurricanes, no torrential floods, no wars and bloodshed and refugees.  No, the general resurrection of the dead and the new heavens and the new earth are yet to come, and come they will, just as surely as Jesus came at the right time in the right place on the shores of Sea of Galilee.

This is good news for us. Into the deepest pain and suffering, confusion and disappointments, the sin we can't overcome, the self‑absorption we so easily succumb to – into these dark places the light shines. It shines from the cross. By gazing on the wounded, dying Christ, who reaches out to us with love, seeing us in all our frailty and woundedness, weakness and complete inability to help ourselves, we allow him to enter into these dark places.  He comes with power to turn on the lights and help us see something in a new way. In our weakness, he becomes our courage.  In our fear, he becomes our hope.  In our hurt, he becomes our healing.  In our helplessness, he becomes our confidence.  In our storms, he becomes our shelter. In our darkness, he becomes our light.

When Jesus called the fisherman on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, they immediately left their nets and followed after him. What did they know about him? It couldn't have been much in such a short time. But there was something about him they sensed and trusted. That trust was tested over and over for his disciples, for Mary his mother and the other women and the small company that followed him and learned so much from him. They had been walking in the presence of Love, and when they looked into that face on the cross many of them fled in fear and shame. But some stayed. Later, these same fearful men faced their own violent deaths, but this time strong and sure that the light who had come into their lives was the light of the world.

Light is coming into our dark world. The sun and the earth will keep on doing their thing in their orbits, upheld by God’s grace for our benefit.  But the Light of Christ in our world only grows stronger. As Fransmann wrote in his hymn,

Lo, on those who dwelt in darkness,

Dark as night and deep as death,

Broke the light of thy salvation,

Breathed thine own life-giving breath.  Amen.

– Frank C. Senn, STS, Evanston, IL

January 8, The Baptism of Christ

Kristin White

Matthew 3:13-17

Kevin and his family had come to their church when he was in the fifth grade. They stuck to the edges of things over those next several years – they attended worship once in a while; they didn’t get involved in small groups or ministries; they didn’t really get to know other people very well.

So their pastor, Rodger Nishioka, who tells the story,[1] was happily surprised when Kevin opted to join the other ninth graders as they went through the process of confirmation. Kevin was not yet baptized, so he would prepare for both his baptism and confirmation on Pentecost Sunday the following spring.

Pastor Nishioka held an orientation meeting, and Kevin and his family showed up. At the meeting, he asked the confirmands to sign a covenant that they would participate fully. Kevin signed it. It was clear that he took this process seriously, because he showed up for everything: the two retreats, the mission work, the meetings with his mentor, the weekly classes. Kevin did it all.

At a festive Pentecost celebration, Kevin was baptized, and Kevin and the other young people confirmed the promises of their baptism.

And then he disappeared.

After a time of just not seeing Kevin or his family, on the heels of a year when he and they had become so much a part of the church community, Pastor Nishioka reached out to them.

Kevin’s mother seemed surprised by his call to check in. “Oh,” she said, “I guess I thought he was all done. I mean, he was baptized and confirmed and everything. Doesn’t that mean he’s done?”

 There’s not much about Jesus’ first 30 years of life in the lead-up to today’s gospel passage. The gospel of Matthew begins by telling us the genealogy, that beautifully involved and convoluted and blessed family history that Frank Senn recalled when he preached a few weeks ago.

Then comes Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth: the coming of the magi with their gifts, which marks this season, and their going home by a different way; it remembers Herod’s attack on the innocents.

Next is the description of John the Baptist, with his calling to prepare the way…and, yes, with his calling the Pharisees and the Sadducees a brood of vipers.

And then we land on today’s passage. It’s only chapter 3 in Matthew’s gospel account of Jesus’ life and ministry – there are 25 more chapters to go.

In today’s gospel, Jesus comes from the Galilee to the Jordan River to be baptized by John. (And I just have to tell you…next Sunday, my group on pilgrimage will go from the Galilee to the Jordan River to renew the promises of our baptism. I will carry you with me. Thank you for this opportunity.)

So Jesus comes from the Galilee to the Jordan River, to be baptized by John. John can hardly help himself: “No no no – I should be baptized by you,” he protests. But Jesus answers him: “Let it be, for this way it is fitting to fulfill all righteousness.” John consents, the text tells us. And he baptizes Jesus. When he does, the heavens open, and the Spirit of God descends like a dove, and a voice from heaven says: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

In the very next verse, the same Spirit will lead Jesus into the wilderness. There, he will fast for 40 days, and be tempted by the devil. He will return, and call disciples to drop their nets and follow him, and they will. He’ll teach, and preach, and heal, and feed people, and cast out demons, and do miracles. He will upset the powers and principalities. He will set his face toward Jerusalem, toward the cross and the tomb.

Those next 25 chapters of the gospel of Matthew encompass the whole of Jesus’ ministry during his earthly life. And that ministry begins with his baptism – it doesn’t end there. Jesus’ ministry begins with that blessed convergence of recognition at baptism: the heavens open, the Spirit descends, the voice says this is my beloved son. This confirming of Christ’s identity is the ground from which his ministry will grow.

We have spent a good deal of time over this past year discerning the ministries of this parish, asking questions both of ourselves and of leaders outside the church about who and what St. Augustine’s is called to be and to do.

That conversation began with last year’s Annual Meeting, and continued with the vestry retreat and in individual and shared discussions throughout the year.

What became clear through it all is that there are a variety of good gifts and callings among the people of St. Augustine’s Church. What became clear is that people are compelled to share the gifts that have been conferred on us by virtue of our baptism: gifts of hospitality, calling us to shelter and to feed people; gifts of questioning and teaching; gifts of caring for one another; gifts of advocating, of doing substantive work for justice; gifts of praying, for each other and for this beautiful and broken world.

I hear you naming those gifts. And we will have an example of that today, at the end of communion, as we commission Eucharistic visitors who will practice the ministry of their baptism by taking the blessed bread and wine from this table out to people who cannot be here with us for worship.

Helping each other recognize and name and claim the gifts we have been given, and then equipping ourselves to live into God’s calling on our lives, is, I believe, one of the most important callings of this church. And it’s happening. It is beginning to grow.

Kevin and his parents came back to church, not too long after that phone call from their pastor. They came back to the now-confirmed classmates and the mentor and the worshipping assembly that they had become such a part of in those past months; and they were welcomed warmly.

I don’t know what came next for Kevin, because that was just the beginning. But I give thanks for the fact that, whatever his own next steps in the journey, he took them within the context of relationship with a community of faith and love. I give thanks that Kevin’s baptism and confirmation were not the culmination, but just the beginning.

My prayer for St. Augustine’s Church is that this is a place of beginning, again and again. My prayer is that we will discern God’s gifts in our own lives – to name them for each other, to ask questions, to imagine the ways God may be calling us to put those gifts into practice for the good of this world, to equip ourselves for that work, and then having begun, to come back and tell each other about how we have seen God in and through it all.

My prayer for this church is that every time we renew our baptismal promises, as we will very soon, we will have own identity confirmed and reaffirmed. That we will hear again: “this is my beloved child.”

My prayer is that we will all remember our baptism, and we will know it as a calling to begin.

[1] Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1. Roger Nishioka “Pastoral Perspective.” Knoxville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010. 302.

December 24, Christmas Eve

Kristin White

The elderly man turns on the light, smiles at his dog, and greets the delivery person who has a package for him.

“English for beginners,” the man reads aloud with a heavy accent – it’s the title of the book that was in the package he just received. The dog watches him, wags its tail.

He makes tea, reads aloud and repeats the phrases he has read. He labels everything around the house with stickie notes, including the dog, who is now no longer wagging its tail, but instead trying to scratch off the stickie note label that reads: DOG.

He repeats again: “I am, you are, he/she/it is, they are…” He says it again.

Children overhear him through the open window. They laugh as he practices.

He names the utensils at the breakfast table, using their English words: fork, knife. He names his toast when it pops up from the toaster.

With his headphones on, he repeats the phrases from his tutorial: “I love you. You are perfect.” Except that he happens to be riding a public bus at the time, which leads to some surprise on the part of the woman sitting two seats ahead of him.

He and his little dog watch English-speaking movies, seemingly of the Godfather variety, which includes some salty language. Someone shoots a gun. The dog barks.

Later, the man repeats some of those salty phrases, to his rubber ducky, in the bathtub. But then he makes it up to the ducky with those well-practiced phrases: “I love you. You are perfect.”

Another package arrives from the delivery service, this time including things with English names he knows, now, and says as he takes them out and then begins to pack:

suitcase…slippers…toothbrush…passport…pajamas…

He delivers his little dog to a friend’s house, turns off his Christmas lights, practices his English phrases on the way to the airport.

And then he’s there. Right there, on the threshold. He hugs his son. And then he walks in and kneels down, and in his now well-practiced English, says to a shy little girl standing to the side in the hallway:

“Hi. I am your grandpa.”

Amy Jacobs shared that story, which, it turns out, is a Christmas advertisement, from Poland. And it’s an advertisement that I have yet to watch without weeping.

Choosing to be beginners isn’t something we do very often, once we become good at something. It’s hard to start again, especially when we’re used to being good at what we do. We like what is familiar, right? I do. We like knowing the things we know, knowing the people we know.

Beginning is hard. Learning something new is a challenge, no matter what. Getting to know different people can be awkward. We make mistakes. And we just might get embarrassed.

And this grandpa, this sweet, elderly, fluent Polish-speaking grandfather, is willing to go through all of that. Because he wants to meet his little granddaughter, yes, but more than that, I think he wants to know her. So he chooses to become a beginner again. He chooses to go through the awkwardness of learning a whole new language and going to a whole new place, so that he can go to her, and kneel down on the floor, and look her in the eye, and get to know her.

I never thought before seeing that advertisement about God becoming a beginner, for us. But he is, in the person of Jesus, on the occasion of the miracle we remember tonight.

Presumably, God the Holy Trinity, Three-in-One-One-in-Three, God who laid the foundations of the earth, God who separated the light from the darkness and the darkness shall not overcome it, God who parted the Red Sea and led the People Israel through on dry land…presumably, our God is and always has been…good at what God does. God is, and forever has been, good at knowing what God knows.

So what does it say to us, that God comes to us on this night in the person of Jesus Christ as an infant? God comes to us a beginner at everything.

God comes into our midst, willing to go through the awkwardness of dependence, needing to cry in order to have his needs met. God comes to us and learns to speak and to walk. God learns what all beginners learn: that getting to know things and people can be hard, and painful, and good. In the person of Jesus, God learns what it is to live on this earth, entirely human and entirely divine.

The miracle of this night is our recognition that we’re not doing this all on our own. God comes to be with us – not speaking through a cloud or an angel, though God is really good at that, too – but no. God comes to us as one of us.

In the person of Jesus, God speaks to us with a voice we can understand. In the person of Jesus, God can come right across our threshold, and kneel down to look us in the eye, and say hello.

The miracle of this night is that God gives us God’s own self – a beginner, learning what it is to be with us, so that he can invite us into the miracle of being with him.

Welcome to the miracle, friends. Welcome to the miracle of God with us.