The Challenges of Establishment: A Response to the Inaugural Prayer Service at the National Cathedral

I am going to cut to the chase, I do not agree with the reasoning or decision for the Cathedral of Ss. Peter and Paul in Washington DC, better known as the National Cathedral, to host a prayer service for the inauguration of Donald Trump as President and Mike Pence as Vice President.  There is no good reason to have this service as it does more harm than good, and sends a very destructive message to the communities most at risk because of Trump's presidency.

I concur with Presiding Bishop Michael Curry that we should pray for the president, even by name.  There is a difference however, between praying for a leader and inviting authoritarian people into a sacred temple of the Lord to pray for and celebrate the position they will be inhabiting.  Though the Episcopal Church and the National Cathedral would claim not to endorse Trump or his ideology, by having this event it further normalizes the white nationalism that propelled Trump to the presidency.  The location of the Episcopal Church within the American religious landscape of being a quasi-established church along with the Cathedral of Ss. Peter and Paul being the so-called National Cathedral and the "national house of prayer" makes this all very disturbing.

Most importantly it sends a message to those who are already victims of Donald Trump and Mike Pence, and those who will be victimized by the Trump administration that the Episcopal Church and the National Cathedral are more concerned with power and status rather than the marginalized and the outcasts of the US.  Of course, this claim could be challenged, however we must remember that in inclusivity and welcome that Jesus offers is extended first and foremost to the poor, the outcast, and the dispossessed, the last that will be made first.  And though inclusivity is not a zero-sum game, we must remember that all discourse and actions are indeed political, there is no such thing as apolitical or politically neutral discourse and actions, and so the messages that we send do indeed matter.  Though the intentions of this service might come from a noble place, it is as with all other things the audience's interpretations and perceptions of these events that give this service its meaning.

As some of you may know, I was not raised in the Episcopal Church.  I came to it after being raised as a Roman Catholic and attending an conservative evangelical university because I believed that the Episcopal Church was a safe haven for those of us in the LGBTQ community.  I still believe this is the case.  The Episcopal Church helped me to discover and reconnect with God and my faith.  I know that I am safe within it.

There is a line of thought that believes that by welcoming Donald Trump and Mike Pence, they are celebrating the inclusivity on the Episcopal Church that is willing to take in all including the powerful and the oppressed.  The Episcopal Church often says all are welcome, and the Dean of the Cathedral, Very Rev. Randy Hollerith says, "all means all."  Along with this there is perhaps a hope that communities like the LGBTQ community to reconcile with people like Trump and Pence.  And though I would have no objection to Donald Trump or Mike Pence entering into any Episcopal church or cathedral on their own, and participating in the usual cycles of prayer and worship of the Episcopal Church, because indeed, all should be welcome in the Episcopal Church.  I do however object to THIS particular service being organized and held specifically for them.  The reconciliation that is being hoped for from this service is an illusory reconciliation because there is no demand for repentance, there is no acknowledgement of the evil that is done, and no attempt to rectify the evil that is done.  It is a pollyanna repentance that seeks civility and niceness over justice, and it is a pattern that the Episcopal Church has fallen into too often in its history; such as with slavery, colonialism, and segregation, and will risk falling into now if the Trump administration builds upon the oppressive actions of its members and follows through to the full extent of its rhetoric.

When the time comes, will people see the Episcopal Church as a refuge against authoritarianism, as an agent of God's justice, and willing to devote its considerable wealth, privilege, and prestige to protecting the poor, the prisoners, non-Christians, women, people of color, migrants, and the LGBTQ community?  By holding this event, you are effectively saying no to these communities.  This is not about loosing an election, but about the safety of those likely to be in harms way.  Yes, all are welcome, but what does that welcome mean when we seem to preoccupied to notice those with whom Jesus identifies: the poor, the prisoners, non-Christians, women, people of color, migrants, and the LGBTQ community?

I want to close with something a Facebook friend of mine, Gregory Williams, wrote:

"When Emperor Theodosius massacred 6,000 civilians when putting down an uprising in Thessalonica, Ambrose, bishop of Milan, excommunicated him. When Theodosius came to Milan and tried to go to the cathedral for mass, Ambrose physically blocked the door and denied him entry, and admitted him only after months of penance.

"Ambrose, let us remember, was an 'establishment,' 'Constantinian' bishop. In this way he was not unlike the Episcopal clergy at the National Cathedral.

"It is one thing to say that, because the gospel of Christ is for all times and places, that we should pray for Kings and Presidents and, when asked, devote pastoral attention to them through specific ministries, of which the national cathedral is one. It is quite another thing to say that our willingness to worship with powerful people is unconditional, or that there are no circumstances under which we will expel perpetrators of grave evil from our assemblies, both for the sake of our souls and for theirs, when continuing to have fellowship with them would constitute material cooperation with evil."

We must love out enemies, and pray for those who would persecute us.  But we must also realize that though all are welcome wherever they are within our communities and churches, there is a hope and even a demand to be transformed through prayer, repentance, and true reconciliation by the power of the Holy Spirit.  In the seeming absence of that, as Donald Trump has frequently said that he does not need to ask for forgiveness, and Mike Pence has done horrific things as governor of Indiana towards marginalized communities, the Episcopal Church and all churches in the United States must stand with the most vulnerable in our society, not only for their physical, but spiritual safety.  This is not to say that Donald Trump, Mike Pence, or anyone in the Trump administration is beyond redemption, but it is a recognition that the safety of those whom Jesus is to be found is at stake by the rhetoric, actions, and policies of these political leaders.  By celebrating men and women who ascended into power by allying themselves with and empowering white supremacy, patriarchy, and violent homophobia and transphobia, the National Cathedral sends a message that power and privilege matter more than standing with those who bear the face of Jesus, whether they wish to send such a message or not.  For this reason, I do not think the Inaugural Prayer Service should be held at the Cathedral of Ss. Peter and Paul.

Let Me Tell You A Story: A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 7:10-16

Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

Romans 1:1-7

Matthew 1:18-25

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church

Kailua, HI

+In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, in a far off land, there lived a young king named Ahaz.  He was a young man who only came to the throne at the age of twenty.  He was king over a small, but a proud little kingdom called Judah, but was sandwiched between two mighty empires: Assyria and Egypt. 

Assyria was a mighty and terrifying empire.  Though its cities were grand and the largest in the ancient world, and its culture was exquisite, many of its artistic works are among the most spectacular in antiquity; to be on its bad side meant unfortunate things.  Enemies were killed in gruesome ways, women and children taken into slavery, and conquered people were scattered to the corners of their empire.  And though Egypt was certainly powerful enough to rival them, they were far away, and were slowly loosing the ability to challenge Assyria.  Indeed, they would eventually be conquered by Assyria in the future.  For Judah, and other small kingdoms caught between the two, to survive meant having to side with one of these empires. 

Well, our young king was placed into a difficult situation.  Two other smaller kingdoms, Israel and Aram, which is located in modern-day Damascus, attempted to force Judah into a coalition to defend against Assyria, as they believed that they were stronger together.  Their request to have Judah join them was accompanied with an invasion and an assault on Jerusalem, just for good measure.  Ahaz, fearing for his kingdom, sought to find ways to save himself.  He sought ways to make Judah great, as it had once been under David and Solomon.

There was a man in Ahaz’s court named was Isaiah. He was one of the king’s distant relatives as they were both descended from royalty.  Ahaz found him a bit odd, but others called him a prophet.  He rambled off some prophecy about a child who will eat cheese and honey, and that God will save Judah from the invaders.  But what use is this for Judah?  Judah was a tiny land, and it was clearly being besieged on all sides.  Over in Assyria, they had many mighty and powerful gods.  Ashur, the patron deity of Assyria had a whole city built in his honour.  Marduk, a deity second to Ashur in significance, had a spectacular golden statue in Babylon that granted kingship to those who took his hand.  All that the God of Judah had was a small golden box in Jerusalem in a small little temple. 

So Ahaz decided to meet with the King of Assyria, Tiglath-Pileser III.  Isaiah said not to, but why not?  Assyria is strong, Assyria is mighty, and Assyria is great, and so it is only logical to try and be with that greatness and hope it comes off onto you.  Tiglath-Pileser was a king of kings, a god to his people.  He could get things done, people feared him, and so better to be his friend.  And so, Ahaz became a vassal to him. 

And it worked, Assyria eventually conquered Aram and Israel.  And Judah was safe.  All it cost Ahaz was some money, and to worship the gods of Assyria.  The money, though a substantial amount of silver, could be afforded.  As for the Assyrian gods, well why not.  If they helped to make Assyria great, maybe they will make Judah great.  People will keep worshipping the ancestral God of Israel and Judah, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, but worshipping more gods means you have covered all your bases.  Besides, one little Ashera Pole, one graven image in the court never hurt anybody, right?

Time passes, Tiglath-Pilesar would come and go, and Ahaz would come and go.  About a century passes, and with all things made by people, Assyria eventually faded away and a new empire, Babylon, was on the rise.  Well, Judah was a friend of Assyria, and now Assyria is gone, and those who were friends with Assyria do not look so good in the eyes of Babylon, especially since Babylon was once a conquered nation of Assyria.  And now, Judah had no close neighbours except Babylon, as Israel and Aram were destroyed, the cost of vassalage to Assyria reduced the treasury of Judah to the point that the kingdom could not support its people, the cost of Egypt’s friendship for protection against Babylon was higher, and the cost of keeping Babylon from invading even higher.

The last king of Judah, Zedekiah, never listened to the prophet of his era, Jeremiah.  He continued to worship gods other than the God of Judah, hoping for their protection, and according to the Bible even offered up human sacrifices to appease them.  In the end, after a desperate political gamble, King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon did away with Judah, destroyed the Temple of God, took the people into exile, stole the Ark of the Covenant, and did horrible things to King Zedekiah and his family.  Judah was no more.

Many generations pass, empires rise and fall, and we turn to a distant descendent of Ahaz named Joseph.  Though Joseph is descended from royalty, he is far from it; he is a carpenter.  He lives not in the independent Kingdom of Judah, but in a client state of Rome called Judea, or in Nazareth in Galilee according to the Gospel of Luke, but we do not need to split hairs over the details.  Rome itself had a leader, Octavius, who was taking titles like consul, tribune, First Citizen, pontifex maximus, Imperator, and Augustus Caesar.  And Augustus Caesar promised to make the Roman Republic great again.  But these matters were of little consequence to Joseph.  He had a business to manage, and a marriage to look to.

Joseph however discovers that his bride-to-be is pregnant.  He did not maker her pregnant, and so to him, there must have been some other sordid affair.  According to the Law of Moses, he could publically shame her, and the Book of Deuteronomy allows for him to put her to death.  But no, Joseph decides to be one of the good guys, he decides to let her save some face, and just quietly divorce her, even though she and her child will still be pariahs, it is a practical option, and it is better than nothing, right?

In his dreams, the an angel tells him, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”  All this was to fulfill the words of Isaiah “the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel.”  Who knows quite what happened in Joseph’s mind: how aware was he of his decent from Ahaz, how familiar was he with Isaiah’s prophecy, and how does he connect Emmanuel-God is with us, to Jesus-God Saves?  But somewhere in his heart and his mind, he decided to not do what society expected of him, he decided to not do the pragmatic thing, and he decided to accept what God was calling for rather than what would be best for him.  He did what polite society would call scandalous, and took a pregnant woman into his house to co-habitate with him, and together they would raise her child even though he was not expected to, or obligated to do so.  He, unlike Ahaz, trusted in God, and took Mary in when all of society would have rejected her. 

He was no longer a nice guy in the eyes of society; he did what was right though.  Unlike Ahaz, he did not trust in the powers and expectations of the world to make his situation better for him.  He did not choose pragmatism in the face of trial or opposition to avoid making he scene.  He chose love, and that is what we must do always.    

When we face the demands of society to conform to do that which is evil we must choose to follow God.  Sometimes, it is not enough to be a nice person.  Niceness gives us pretence of civility, when in reality it is cowardly.  We must follow Joseph’s example, and sometimes make the hard choices that no one expects from us because they are the right choices.  We must be willing to accept the person in need who is in danger of marginalization from our society; we must accept God’s love for those people.  God loves and blesses the outcasts, and so we must accept the outcasts into our hearts and our lives.  When society tells us to do evil, even if it seems pragmatic, or safe, we must resist and do the right thing.  Sometimes the person in need is someone close to us, sometimes they are a person who is homeless in the park across the way, sometimes they are a Syrian refugee, sometimes they are Muslim, sometimes they are a person of colour, or a member of the LGBTQ community, sometimes it is a woman who society is likely to reject based on their own beliefs about morality.  We must follow Joseph’s example and let the person in, because when we let that person in, we let God, Emmanuel in.  That is a Christmas miracle.

Amen.

Just Be There: Mary, Martha, and Black Lives Matter. A Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 18:1-10a
Psalm 15 
Colossians 1:15-28
Luke 10:38-42

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church
Kailua, HI

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

We have seen a lot of violence lately on the mainland of the US, and abroad.  We pray for the people of Baton Rouge, LA, where three men who work as police officers were killed this morning.  We pray for the people of Turkey following a failed coup on Friday and in the midst of their political instability.  We pray for the people of France as they mourn over the death of 80 people during their Bastille Day celebrations on July 14.  As we pray for the world, we must pray for the violence that continues to grip the US.

In our mourning, let us not forget that it has been two weeks since the killing of two black men, Alton Sterling and Philando Castile at the hands of police officers.  In the days that have followed, there have been protests, discussions, debates, and a whole lot of hand wringing over what to do.  Indeed since the death of Philando Castile on July 6, there have been at least 5 more black men killed by police: Micah Johnson, Alva Braziel, Andre Johnson, Delran Small, and Tyler Gebhard.  In the midst of this, we have also seen the death of five men who work as police officers following a peaceful Black Lives Matter protest in Dallas.  Law enforcement agents killed the accused shooter, the same Micah Johnson I mentioned earlier, using a remote controlled drone, the first such killing on US soil.  In the midst of mourning, there has been many people asking how and why we got to this point, and a great deal of hand wringing on the part of many seeking solutions.  We have heard a lot of calls for unity, for calls to respect our common humanity, calls for us to come together as we mourn.  But many of these calls for unity, even some of the calls from President Obama himself, seem to miss what is at the core of many of these tragedies.  

If I may be so bold, I would say that the deaths of these black men are not rare occurrences, but are so common that many of us might treat it as a normal thing.  In fact, since the beginning of this year, there have been at least 114 incidents of a black person being killed by a person who works as a police officer.  Bear in mind that Black Lives Matter has emerged in our national consciousness as a result of the deaths of Treyvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner at the hands of law enforcement agents and vigilante citizens over three years ago.  And perhaps the retaliatory violence against people who work as law enforcement agents has emerged because of the apparent lack of justice that fails to hold the people accountable for the death of people of color accountable for their actions.  Here’s the thing, extremism begets extremism, and violence begets violence.  These things do not form or emerge in a vacuum, but emerge because of the powerful exercising violence against the powerless, and the powerless responding back with violence.  There are longstanding cycles of violence that continue to perpetuate themselves, and these cycles are older than all of us.  We may  not be personally responsible for these cycles of violence, but we choose actively in our day-to-day lives to either further the cycle, or to work to break it.

I believe as Christians, we are called to serve and love God, and to serve and love our neighbors.  But we sometimes become frustrated over how we do this.  And perhaps in our collective frustration, inaction occurs.  And in our inaction, more violence happens.

When I look at our Epistle reading, and hear the words of Saint Paul, we hear the promises of Christ.  Jesus, who is firstborn from the dead reconciles all to God.  He is the Resurrection, and the Life, he is the promise of salvation and redemption, and he brings hope and mercy to a battered and broken world.  I have also sat with the words of this morning’s Psalm, “Lord, who may dwell in your tabernacle? who may abide upon your holy hill?”  I sit with these, and contemplate over what they mean, and I find myself looking over and again the message of Jesus.  

I do not believe that Jesus’ incarnation was an accident, or incidental to his ministry.  He was born to a poor, working-class Palestinian-Jewish family in a land occupied by the mighty Roman Empire.  Of course, we all know and hear how Jesus served and ate with the poor, the outcast, and dispossessed, but we sometimes hear less about how he also ate with the wealthy, the powerful, and the elite.  He interacted with priests and Pharisees, and even healed the servant of a Roman centurion who served his very occupiers.  We may take this as a sign of Christ’s universal love for the whole of humanity, but to different groups he had a different message.  To the poor, the outcast, and the oppressed, he brought a message of hope and mercy, but to the powerful came calls and commands to change their ways, to repent to look beyond themselves, and see the poor, outcast, and oppressed in their midst as human beings.  To see them as just existing.  Perhaps to put it bluntly, God gives to the powerless hope and mercy, and God gives to the powerful warnings of their sins and evil.  

It is the poor, the outcast, the dispossessed and the oppressed that the Son of God became incarnate to be among.  They are his people.  In the midst of the violence and fear: the violence in the US, the violence on Bastille Day, the violence in Turkey, the ongoing violence in the Middle East, and much, much more; in the actual violence, and in the retaliatory attacks, we who have power, we who have privilege must see the challenges and realities of what is going on and name it.  If we indeed want to call for peace, for unity, for justice, we who are powerful have to be willing to listen to the voices and cries of the oppressed, and acknowledge how we might be contributing either directly, or indirectly to this state, namely, we must follow the words of Jesus, and pull the log out of our own eye that keeps us from acknowledge our own sins before we can have the presumption to ask others to do anything, let alone ask for unity.

Jesus tells us that we see him in the face of the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, and the prisoners.  For us today, to see Jesus, we look to those who carry the face of Jesus today to listen to those who are willing to speak, to learn from those willing to teach, and to serve.  For Jesus, Black Lives Matter, Latino Lives Matter, Asian Lives Matter, Muslim and Middle Eastern Lives Matter, Migrant Lives Matter, Indigenous and Native Lives Matter, Native Hawaiian Lives Matter and LGBTZ Lives Matter.  Though Jesus loves all people, we must remember that Jesus identifies with and has a particular love for the marginalized people of the world.  They are his people. 

Though this can all be overwhelming, we should not be paralyzed though into inaction, we as a church and as a society need to find a way to move forward.  We cannot do that, until we know what the problems are.

This leads us to our Gospel.  In our Gospel, we see Mary sitting, and being present before Jesus.  Her sister, Martha, is running around, busting her backside, and trying to be a good host for Jesus.  She isn’t doing anything wrong, far from that, but Jesus praises Mary for just being present with him.  I find that this Gospel story can provide for us a model for how we proceed.  Martha runs around, as we sometimes run around, and we loose sight of what matters, of who is in our midst.  We get preoccupied with the idea of people that we forget that people are around us.  Mary however, is present with Jesus, the only thing that matters, and thus chooses the better part.  We need to follow her example, but how do we do that?


Well, I have one answer that I can give to you.  Dr. T.J. Tallie, a scholar of African History, and a Facebook friend of mine, posted a video on Facebook a few weeks ago briefly explaining his experience of being a black man in America, and some advice for people, particularly white people, on what we can do in the face of tragedies like the shooting of black men by people working as police in the US, and the daily injustices that people of color deal with here in the US.  I would also add that this can also provide a guide to us who are white about what to when the inevitable retributive violence against Muslims, and people from the Middle East and North Africa, occurs in the US and abroad in response to the attacks in Nice, as there are those blaming Muslims for this attack.  I have received permission to refer to this video, and would like to read you the transcript of it.

“I wanted to say a little something to my white friends.  White friends, this is a terrible and frustrating and exhausting moment, and you may be feeling at a loss for what to do or what to say, or how to make things possibly better.  I think it is important to know that you can’t fix things.  But I also think it is really important for you to check in with the people of color in your life, especially black, and Latino, and Native American, and Middle Eastern people.  Just check-in and love them.  Don’t weedle them for how they are feeling, don’t show them how you are a good ally, Just be there.  Ask if they need anything.  Get them a coffee, give them a hug.  Just be.  It is so hard to exist every fucking day here, to move through a world that implicitly tells you that you do not matter, that you do not exist.  And yes, we are calling upon you to join us in dismantling all of this white supremacist fuckery.  But we are also calling you in the day to day to keep an eye out for how hard it is to fucking breath everyday.  Go check in on your friends, that’s what you should do right now.”

We alone cannot fix the evils that exist in this world.  If we try to get the political power necessary to do so, we might end up compromising ourselves along the way. We can run around and try all we want, but we will loose sight of the people who are in front of us in this very moment, the people who we call friends, the people who exist around us, and even the people we pretend are invisible.  But even just being with a person is not always easy.  We have to accept that we might not get an answer, and that we might be spurned in this action, and that is okay.  But we cannot get upset; we cannot give up on doing this because this is not about us.  We have to step aside, stop running around, and allow others to just exist.  We have to step aside, stop running around, and allow Jesus to exist.  If we allow Jesus to exist, we can begin to have hope in this world.

Amen.

Thoughts on the Orlando Shooting

I did not hear the news about the Orlando shooting until after Mass this afternoon.  I will admit, I do not pay much attention to news on Sunday mornings until after Mass, mainly for the sake of focusing on the liturgy.  There are days however that I regret looking at the news, and wish I never opened up Facebook on my phone while walking back from church.  Today was one of those days, and I do not know what else to say or do, so I am writing down and sharing these thoughts of mine.  I am so thankful that I was able to spend the day with a good friend of mine, because I was able to hide from my sorrow, pain, and anger for just a little while.  I was able to smile for a bit, and able to be myself.  But eventually I had to confront my feelings on this.

50 are dead in Orlando.  A shooter came into a gay club in Orlando and opened fire with a gun he legally purchased.  He was angry at the sight of two men kissing apparently, so he decided to be a good guy with a gun.

Though there are a lot of people who are mourning for the events that have happened, and say this is a crime against our common humanity, I have to admit, I find no comfort with that.  To know that the largest mass shooting in the history of the US, and the largest act of violence in the US since the 9/11 attacks were directed towards the LGBTQ community, my own community, cuts and hurts in a way that not everyone can understand.  Society hopes to soften the pain by generalising it, and yet I find that only those who are a part of other communities that experience violence en masse in the US are the ones who truly can begin to understand this pain, for though the pain is different among our communities, the hurt is the same, and in that we can find empathy with each other.

The blood of the oppressed cries out for justice from the ground of Orlando, just as it cries out throughout much of the land, and yet we do nothing.  We Americans believe that the right to own tools of murder is more important and more sacred that the lives and bodies of black people, brown people, queer people, and children.  We will never be able to end oppression in the US until we get rid of the very tools of that oppression.  Yet we do nothing.  How many more people have to die for the sake of this golden calf our society worships?

As selfish as this may sound, there are days that I am thankful that I live in Canada.  I am thankful I can walk out the door and believe that I am safe as a gay man here.  I am thankful that I do not have to live in fear for my safety, much less my life here in Toronto. I cannot imagine the fear that my LGBTQ friends in the US are feeling.  Now, because of Orlando, I am afraid to travel home to the US lest I come across someone who decides I do not deserve to live.  It is terrifying that the academic conferences that I attend, or may attend, have to send out emails about ensuring that conference spaces are safe from gun violence.  I know that because I am white and male that I am considered more acceptable in the eyes of American society, so I cannot imagine the fear that black or brown queer people are feeling in the wake of this attack.

To make matters worse, politicians and others in the US are being terrible about this.  People have been posting responses on the Internet praising the shooter, and others have attributed the shooter as being part of God’s justice against the LGBTQ community.  We also see people shifting the blame for this violence onto Islam, even though those same people have spent years demonising the LGBTQ community.  Again, though our pain may be different, we must not allow the forces of hate to divide those of us who are oppressed.

As I write this, I am listening to a Requiem Mass so that I can pray for those who have died.  I do not know how else to express the pain except to listen, to write, and to pray.  I can only hope and pray that someday that the justice of God may come and that the poor, the oppressed, and the destitute are exalted finally.  Until that day comes, I pray for the victims of the Orlando shooting, and all those who live in fear and are distressed, particularly the LGBTQ community in the US and throughout the world.

If you can, go to a rally, go to a vigil, pray, meditate, be silent, be still, mourn, cry, weep, and keep your thoughts, minds, and hearts on the victims of Orlando.


Look with pity, O heavenly Father, upon all thy queer children who live with injustice, and terror as their companions. Have mercy upon us and forgive us our sins of deed or neglect against these our neighbours. Give strength to those who work for justice and opportunity for all, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

May light eternal shine, O Lord, upon them the victims of Orlando, for endless ages with thy blessed ones, for thou art gracious. Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord: and let light perpetual shine upon them, for endless ages with thy blessed ones, for thou art gracious.

Amen.

God's Christmas Word: A Sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas

Isaiah 61:10-62:3
Psalm 147:13-21
Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
John 1:1-18

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church
Kailua, HI

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

So far it appears that we have survived Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and we have arrived on the First Sunday after Christmas, more or less.  Over Advent, we heard the stories and prophecies of the coming of the Lord, and on Christmas Eve and Day, we heard the story of the Nativity of our Lord, Jesus Christ.  It would therefore be logical to assume that we might now hear one of the stories of Jesus’ childhood on the Sunday following Christmas such as his dedication at the Temple, the visitation of the Magi, the flight to Egypt by the Holy Family, the slaughter of the innocents by King Herod, or his wandering and being found in the Temple of Jerusalem by his parents, Mary and Joseph.  And those stories do indeed come up on such feasts like Holy Name Day on January 1, the Epiphany on January 6, and Candlemas on February 2.  Also, the lectionaries in the Church of England and Anglican Church of Canada’s respective Books of Common Prayer have stories like this for the First Sunday after Christmas.  However, the architects of our own lectionary have placed this seemingly unusual passage from the Gospel of S. John as the Gospel reading for the Sunday after Christmas. 

A card with The Last Gospel

These first few verses of the first chapter of the Gospel of S. John are filled with metaphors, poetry, allegories, and symbolism, and contains rich philosophy and theology throughout its words.  Even if one does not understand the message present within this text, one cannot help but appreciate its beautiful poetry and wordplay present in this passage.  It speaks of the incarnation of the Word, the Son of God taking flesh; it contains the whole of the Divine Plan for creation and redemption.  Much has been written about it over the course of two millennia.  It’s potency was so significant, that in the eleventh century, at the end of the Eucharistic liturgy of the Western Church, the priest would read this passage in what was called “The Last Gospel,” as a reminder of the incarnation, first as a private devotion on the way back to the sacristy, and then audibly for the whole congregation to hear.  This practice however overtime came to an end.  Thomas Cranmer did not include The Last Gospel in the first Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England in 1549.  It was also removed from the Roman Catholic Mass as one of the liturgical reforms of the Second Vatican Council.  For us Anglicans and for our Roman Catholics brothers and sisters, I believe the decision to remove The Last Gospel was a mistake because it diminishes the significance of the Incarnation in the history of our redemption.

When we juxtapose this passage from the Gospel of John with our Christmas nativity scene, it seemingly does not make sense: how can such a humble scene coincide with this abstract scene from John’s Gospel.  Whereas the nativity scene can be easily made into Christmas decorations, this cannot.  Yet both realities are true, and two sides of the same coin.  And though we might consciously say, “yeah we hear this all, Son of God, divine and human, we say it in the Creed every week,” I find that we shy away from what John has to say in favor of the amalgamated accounts from the Gospels of Ss. Luke and Matthew.  We can conceptualize that scene better, we can package that scene better, we can present that scene better, we can market that scene better, and we can control that scene better because that scene has a baby in it--a precious child that we can put precious ornamentation and pageantry around whilst ignoring the bigger picture. 

This is not to say this is a bad scene or that it is bad to have pageants and such, these pageants are important to highlight and to teach people of the humility to be found in the birth of Christ, but we cannot isolate this event from the deep, cosmic reality of the incarnation.  John’s scene is weird, it is difficult to explain, and it takes the power to control the narrative away from us and places it in God’s hands.  For 21st century Americans, that is terrifying, because we are accustomed to defining things on our own terms and placing ourselves or what we want at the center of the story rather than what is there.  Yet we must dive into this deep place to understand the mysteries of the incarnation.  Listen to Christmas carols that are still playing on the radio, and read the carols in our hymnal, and you will see God’s majesty in the midst of such humility.  In this, we find in John’s account of the Nativity more understanding about what this Christmas season is than anything else we can imagine. 

When we listen to the Greek of this passage, we hear the beauty of this mystery:

Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος.

In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and God was the Word—before time, if you can conceptualize that; before space, if you can conceptualize that, before creation itself, there was the Logos, the Word.  Greek philosophers often would use Logos, or Word, as an abstract term for a principle source of knowledge, or the principle source of knowledge; often contrasted with Sophia as a particular or the principle source of wisdom.  Christians however took to the term Logos not as an abstract term, but personified it as the Second Person of the Trinity, the Son of God.  From here, the author of the Gospel of John borrows from the Greek version of the Book of Genesis to shed light on the relationship between God the Father and the Word:

Εν ἀρχῇ ἐποίησεν ὁ Θεὸς τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γῆν.

In the Beginning, God made the Heavens and the Earth.  Εν ἀρχῇ, “In the Beginning” John brings us back to this primordial place and time.  When God makes the Heavens and the Earth, God speaks.  God is not alone in this creation, the Logos, the Word is present with God the Father, and is God himself as God the Son.  What comes forth from God the Father’s spoken Word or Logos is all that is and ever will be.  At the end of that creation, God, through his Spoken Word and with the Power of the Holy Spirit forms humanity in his image and likeness, and we too are gifted with words. 

Words have power, the power to create, shape, mold, form, reform, and destroy.  We see that power in the midst of creation as God creates with and through the Word.  As we too are made in the image and likeness of God, so too do our words contain creative and destructive power.  That power is greater than anything else that we can wield, because words manifest into thought, which manifest into action.  We see how a kind and joyful word can transform a space around us, and we see how a word can destroy others and ourselves.  The first sins of humanity were done through words—through lying and deception, and through our words the creation was marred. 

This is why we have the Christmas Season, and this is why we celebrate such a humble birth, because God the Son, the Divine Word of God, present at Creation, empties himself of all power and magnificence save his love, for it is in love that all of this occurs, and enshrouds his divine nature in flesh.  His Divine Nature never overtakes his human nature, and his human nature never corrupts his Divine Nature.  The Divine Splendors of the Heavenly realm manifest themselves in simple images—a stable or a cave as a royal palace, a manger as a king’s bed, a mother’s lap as a throne, animals and shepherds as a royal court—here, paradise is on Earth, God is among his people, and the creation made by a word, distorted by a word, is now restored by the Word.

Jesus Christ, by sharing in our human nature, allows for us to share in his Divine Nature.  S. John Chrysostom, a fourth century bishop of Constantinople wrote on the Nativity:

“For this He assumed my body, that I may become capable of His Word; taking my flesh, He gives me His spirit; and so He bestowing and I receiving, He prepares for me the treasure of Life. He takes my flesh, to sanctify me; He gives me His Spirit that He may save me.” 

By taking on flesh, Jesus becomes a bridge for us to walk upon to restore us into the fullness of the image and likeness of God.  We walk that bridge by being in relationship with him: through Baptism and the Eucharist we share in his Life, Death, and Resurrection, becoming a part of his Divine and Human Body.  We become more like him through acts of charity and justice.  A kind word to someone in pain, visiting someone in the hospital or in prison, and even giving some money to the person begging on the street when possible.  Anyone can do these small actions, but we find that sometimes in the smallness, in the person-to-person interactions, we find Christ, inviting us into the heavenly realm.  In these exchanges, Heaven is on Earth.  We do not need to wait for the bureaucrats in Honolulu or Washington to make grand sweeping gestures to make Heaven manifest on Earth.  We cannot let God’s mission of justice and evangelism fall on the shoulders of the leadership of the Episcopal Church alone.  We might have a great presiding bishop, and we might have a great rector here, but evangelism does not fall on them alone—that is our job.  Our own actions, as small as they may seem, is where that heavenly and cosmic realm manifest around us.

Altar of the Nativity in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, Palestine

This is why the Nativity from the Gospel of John is so important, and why we need it in our lives and in our Christmas story.  The Christmas story is a lynchpin of history.  It is one of those moments where nothing changes, and yet everything changes.  A Divine Mystery is enshrouded by humble events, and yet those humble events behold a Beauty far surpassing human understanding.  The beginning, the middle, and the end are linked; God is present in and amongst us in our beginning, in the middle, and the end.  And now, because humanity and Divinity are linked in the person of Jesus Christ, we too are at the beginning, the middle, and the end of creation.  We now participate in a new creation through being as Christ to others.  This story reminds us of the very paradox of what Emmanuel means—God is with us, he will now always be with us, now and until the very end of time itself.

Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning;

Jesus, to thee be glory given!

Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing!

O Come let us adore him

Venite Adoremus

O Come let us adore him

Christ the Lord.

Amen.