"I am the light of the world": A Sermon for Laetare Sunday during the COVID-19 Pandemic

1 Samuel 16:1-13

Psalm 23

Ephesians 5:8-14

John 9:1-41

“As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”

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

High altar from St. Ignatius Episcopal Church

The Fourth Sunday in Lent is often called Laetare Sunday. On this Sunday, the Lenten Fast is loosened briefly, the purple vestments are swapped for a lighter rose-coloured set, the music takes a brighter turn, and the first glimmers of Easter appear on the horizon as some churches place flowers on the alter for this one Sunday in Lent. It is intended to encourage the faithful in their course through the season of penance and fasting, to reassure them that there is a season to all things, and that on the other side of Lent and the Passion is the glory of Easter and the Resurrection. The name Laetare comes from the traditional Latin introit or entrance for the mass of the day, Lætare Jerusalem. The full introit comes from Isaiah 66 and Psalm 122:

Rejoice ye with Jerusalem, and be glad with her, all ye that love her: rejoice for joy with her, all ye that mourn for her:

That ye may suck, and be satisfied with the breasts of her consolations; that ye may milk out, and be delighted with the abundance of her glory.

I was glad when they said unto me, ‘We will go unto the house of the Lord.’

Right now, it is difficult to rejoice. We are in our homes practicing social distancing in an attempt to blunt the spread of COVID-19 and the flatten the curve of infection so as to not overwhelm our healthcare systems. Many of us are cut-off from our friends and family, only engaging in necessary contact for groceries and medicine. Schools are closed, businesses are shutdown, the economy is uncertain, and the future is unclear. It is as if the world has hit a pause button, and yet we still have to move to continue life in whatever shape we can.

The most painful part of this for many of us is that churches are closed, and liturgies are cancelled. We are cut-off from the Eucharist, the Body and Blood of Christ, one of the things many of us look to in order to sustain them through the Lenten Fast is now a part of the Lenten Fast.

We may be at this for some time. China has now only begun to relax their own measures of quarantine, social distancing, and isolation after two months of implementation. Yet part of the problem with COVID-19 is that it is a novel strain of a coronavirus, and though scientists have learned much about it, there is still so much that is unknown. We are groping around unable to see as if in a dark room, blinded by shadows. The fear is that the virus may come rushing back once the restrictions are loosened so some scientists believe we may have to go in and out of social distancing until a vaccine is produced and distributed which could be 18 months to 2 years from now. There is a silver lining in this, should we need to enact social distancing again, the duration will likely be shorter than the prior one, our healthcare system will become more adapt at meeting society’s needs when an outbreak comes, and new anti-viral treatments are showing positive results. Even the most clinical and lacking in bedside manner scientists say that there is an end to this though the road ahead may be long and what lies at the other side is unsure.

In our Gospel reading today Jesus heals the man born blind. This healing is quite unique compared to the other healings in John’s Gospels. When Jesus heals the royal official’s son in John 4 or the paralytic in John 5, he does so at a distance, or by his command. Here however, Jesus spits on the ground, makes a paste of saliva and mud, smears it on the eyes of the blind man, and tells him to wash in the public pool of Siloam. This is not very sanitary and goes against all medical practice! And yet its very tactile, physical, and earthy scene and its physicality highlights Jesus message, “I am the light of the world.” That light is not some philosophical concept, there is no intellectual ascent or hidden knowledge given by Jesus to transcend reality, no Jesus is the physical light sent into the world so that people can see, and by his light people can see and know God. Reality itself bends to his very presence, and the light that he shines scatters the darkness and reveals the truth plainly for all to see, as S. Paul says in his epistle to the Ephesians “all things that are reproved are made manifest by the light: for whatsoever doth make manifest is light.” Through Christ, salvation and hope is offered to all, and that radiance overwhelms any darkness and any secret in the world because “the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” And in that light, all the secrets we carry, the worries, the fears, the anxieties which blind us to the light and hope of Christ are revealed as the foolishness of our human nature. We can see ourselves as we truly are. And when we stare at our human nature while under that light as if in a mirror, we see how foolish we can be, and laughter is inevitable. And from that laughter comes wisdom and joy as a gift from God, and from that joy comes hope.

Jesus tell us “as long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Though Jesus has ascended to the Father in Heaven, we believe that Jesus is still present physically in the world. We primarily acknowledge that Christ is present in the Body and Blood of the Eucharist, but now with many cut off from the Sacrament we are rediscovering how Christ is present in the Body of the Church. Though we do not gather in together in person, we can still pray together. Even if we are not in the same room, we can gather with our friends and loved ones to pray over Skype, Facetime, Zoom, or even the good old-fashioned telephone. Though we may not be in the same room, we are still gathered together and united in prayer because the Holy Spirit moves through us despite the distance. The Prayer of S. Chrysostom in the Daily Office of the Book of Common Prayer reminds us of Jesus’s promise “that when two or three are gathered together in thy Name thou wilt grant their requests.” Indeed, this may be a time to rediscover the poetry and prayers of Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, and Compline, which lies at the bedrock of the Prayer Book tradition.

More importantly, we are united in the Body of Christ through our baptism. Our baptism knits us together in ways that transcend our imagination and it gives us the opportunity to be the Body of Christ wherever we are and in what we do. We allow the Light of Christ to shine through us and into the world and help us to see others as God sees us, loved, beloved, and cherished. Our baptism allows us to be Christ to others and allow others to see God through our actions. Brian P. Flanagan, a professor of theology at Marymount University in Arlington, Virginia, wrote recently in America Magazine:

Josh Edelson/AFP via Getty Images

“Jesus teaches us, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.’ I have the privilege of being healthy and at low risk for complications from the virus. How can I use my time to support those in my community who are more biologically vulnerable? ... In this time in which we are not able to encounter Christ in the assembly or the Eucharist, we always have the opportunity to encounter Christ in the vulnerable, even in ways that protect ourselves and those we wish to help from further risk. A meal or groceries left on a doorstep [or given to the most vulnerable among us], a contribution to a fund for unemployed restaurant workers, a check-in with an isolated older person or a friend who has suddenly become a homeschooling parent—we can all do something, for someone, in this time.”

We can still serve one another and be like Christ to others in the world, even if it must be done so at a distance. Though our prayers, our words, and our deeds, the Light that is Christ will continue to shine in this world, illuminating even the deepest shadow that seems to be so ever present in these times. As S. Paul says in his epistle to the Romans, “I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” There is nothing that will ever truly separate us from one another, and us from God, not even a virus.

The next few weeks may be very difficult, and the future beyond that may be uncertain. Pray for a quick end to this pandemic, but in these times, do not lose hope. God will never abandon us, as Psalm 23 says,

The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack nothing.

He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort.

He shall restore my soul, and bring me forth in the paths of righteousness, for his Name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff comfort me.

Though we cannot drink deeply of the Eucharistic cup, we can drink deeply of God’s love for us and that cup will sustain us in the midst of these times.

In the days to come I urge you to look after and take care of one another as best you can. Each day find something to be thankful for, something to pray for, and something to laugh over. If you are young and healthy and able to, find ways to reach out and serve the vulnerable because they are at even more risk than anyone else. In these acts we can find joy and laughter, and in that we find hope, and in that hope, Christ is known among us. As my mother told me on Friday, find Jesus in every moment.

I look forward to the day when I can say to you all in person, “We will go unto the house of the Lord,” and celebrate once again the Feast of Christ’s Body and Blood together as a community. May that day be a bright and joyous day filled with laughter where no shadows lie, and may that day come soon.

Amen.

Feel life as it is and know that God is there: A Homily for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany

Isaiah 49:1-7
Psalm 40:1-12
1 Corinthians 1:1-9
John 1:29-42

St. Thomas's Anglican Church
Toronto, ON

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

Pepperdine University, a private Christian university affiliated
with the Churches of Christ. Photo taken from usnews.com. 

When I was a younger man, I attended a conservative evangelical university in Southern California. [1] The school had a culture of Bible studies, student-led praise services, missionary-minded outreach, and testimonies. Though the evangelical practice of testimonials is meant to show and discuss how God is moving in a person’s life, people at this school often give their testimony to tell how God personally called them to salvation. Some people were quite good at telling a story, and their testimony resembled the hero’s journey of setting out, hitting a challenge, and in the abyss, they encounter God who personally calls them out of darkness into light and into a new life. I do not mean to discount people’s experience, often people find God and rely on God in the abyss. But these fantastic testimonies where they work hard and struggle to hear God’s call can put pressure on people who did not have such a fantastic journey to conform their life-story to this model. It was written on their face, and you could tell when people were uncomfortable doing this because they heard these stories and might ask themselves “am I truly called?”.

Our readings today are filled with language of God calling people to his service. Isaiah says, “The Lord called me before I was born, while I was in my mother's womb he named me.” Psalm 40 says “He lifted me out of the desolate pit, out of the mire and clay; he set my feet upon a high cliff and made my footing sure.” Paul tells the Corinthians “God is faithful; by him you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.” Simon is brought to Jesus, and Jesus says to him “‘You are to be called Cephas’ (which is translated Peter or Stone).” Isaiah, the Psalmist, and Paul say that God calls people. Jesus as God himself calls people to him. We believe that God calls each and every one of us to something, but how do we know God is calling us? What do we do when we encounter God’s absence?

The North American experience of Christianity is deeply tied to the question of God’s call. We inherited this from the various Reformed leaders and writers of early-modern Europe. Martin Luther constantly questioned whether or not he was good enough to merit salvation, but he reasoned that God’s call to us is independent of our own action. But it still begs the question, how do we know if we are called? John Calvin answers this question and said that God called those whom he will save to him before the beginning of time, and that our call is predestined. But how do you know if you were predestined? Later generations of Anglicans and Puritans in England said it would manifest in our diligence and dedication in our personal labour and personal morality. As a kind of reaction to this, John Wesley, the founder of Methodism said that he knew he was saved because he felt his heart being strangely warmed following his encounter with the Moravians after experiencing much failure in his early ministry in Georgia. Our society merged these all these contradictory things together and our culture tells people they have to work hard to hear God’s call and have any meaning in their lives. We have to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps to hear God’s call.

But what if we don’t hear God’s call. What if we do all the right things, pray, read scripture, go to church, be diligent in work, and strived and suffered greatly to no avail? Some may find God in these things, but not everyone does. How many long nights of the soul have lead to no great revelation? How often have you laid awake in the dark, worried about how you are going to pay rent, worried about your sick child who cannot go to sleep, worried about what your purpose in life is, worried if this project is going to work, only to be met not by the heavens opening up before you, but by the silent indifference of your bedroom walls. As Isaiah says, “I have laboured in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity.”

Iao Needle on Maui

We may work hard to hear God’s call, and may hear it in isolation, but when God’s call does not come it can feel as if you are “standing atop the summit of a great mountain, the winds tearing about you, then finding yourself buried alive…trapped, helpless, and alone.” [2]

And yet, God does indeed calls to us, even if we cannot discern God’s voice. What is sometimes lost in trying to hear God’s call in isolation is the reality that God’s voice is not a reward at the end of a long journey to the top of that mountain, but the thing that drives us to the base of that mountain; to climb that mountain with one another, with our friends, family, and community; and to help others climb to the top of that mountain. God’s voice is often best discerned in relationship, community, and in service with others. Many people often do this even if they cannot discern the voice of God or are actively seeking it in their lives because it is simply the right thing to do. There is no great secret to God’s call because it has been revealed in Jesus Christ. Paul says that “in every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind—just as the testimony of Christ has been strengthened among you—so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.” God’s call is therefore present, and we work to discern that call together with our community as we proclaim God’s “love and faithfulness from the great congregation” to the world. The voice of God is often best discerned in community and understood in the service of others. Wherever two or three are gathered, God himself is there.

When we discern God’s call, the heavens may not open up before us. We may not see the choirs of angels. But when you act in love and charity towards someone, when you show mercy and love to another person, particularly the most marginalized in our world, know that you are in the right place, at the right time, responding to God’s call to you, even if it does not seem readily apparent or be heard.

Easter Vigil, St. Thomas's Anglican Church

Life around us echoes with the voice of God, it is a melody that merges into a chorus of God’s song and we can hear it together with one another. We can hear God calling to us in the person on the street asking for spare change, the child who says come play with me, the joy of seeing a loved one, the cry of a victim begging for us to listen to them, the estranged friend who says I am sorry, the pull on your heart to forgive a great wrong, the noises of a child in baptism, the calm at the end of life, the words of Jesus in the Gospel heard in the midst of the congregation that calls you to have mercy on others. Feel life as it is and know that God is there.

Amen.

[1] Pepperdine University is a private Christian university affiliated with the Churches of Christ. Some may object to calling the Churches of Christ and Pepperdine evangelical and identify the Churches of Christ as a mainline denomination. Evangelical in this sense is not meant as a descriptor for a particular denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America calls itself evangelical but many ELCA churches do not conform or function like a typical evangelical church in the US. Evangelical is meant to describe a particular cultural and theological expression of Christianity, and that particular culture was the dominant one at Pepperdine.

[2] Quote taken from Kreia in Star Wars Knights of the Old Republic II.

Condemning Anti-Semitism: A Homily for the Epiphany

Isaiah 60:1-6
Psalm 72:1-7,10-14
Ephesians 3:1-12
Matthew 2:1-12

St Christopher's Episcopal Church
Kailua, HI

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

There has been a major spike in incidents, crimes, and attacks motivated by anti-Semitism over the past few years. In the United States there were nearly two-thousand recorded anti-Semitic incidents in 2019 alone, and this is a major increase from the 700 recorded attacks in 2016. New York state saw nearly a dozen separate incidents over the course of Chanukah this year. Anti-Semitic crimes have also become more frequent all throughout the world as well. Even Hawaii is not wholly removed from this as a person suspected of vandalizing a Beverly Hills Synagogue was arrested in Kona on December 18. During the Feast of the Epiphany we as Christians should contemplate the meaning of the Gentile Nations paying homage to the God of Israel. As Isaiah says, “Nations shall come to God’s light, and kings to the brightness of his dawn.” We should meditate on the Christians origins from Judaism to better respond to anti-Semitism in our communities.

These past four years have seen an increase in violence against not only our Jewish neighbours. Incidents against black and brown communities have increased, incidents against migrants have increased, incidents against Muslims have increased, and incidents against LGBTQIA people have increased. It seems as if the world is becoming a more violent and dark place. The Church must not only condemn such violence, it must also be a vehicle of reconciliation between communities and a shield for the most vulnerable who face such violence. Presiding Bishop Michael Curry often has called for the Episcopal Church to be a place for people to walk in the path of love with one another.

In our response however we sometimes seek to collapse all forms of prejudicial violence into very simple language—all violence against marginal communities is wrong and needs to be condemned and there is little to no difference between the kinds of violence that different communities experience—hate it just hate. This is overly simplistic and sometimes blinds us to reality. Though all acts of violence are tragedies and require response, hate manifests itself in different ways and different forms for different communities. We must be cognizant of the particularities of the violence and how Christianity has influenced or created these different kinds of violence. Anti-Semitism is a unique problem for Christianity however because it is a virus that continues to mutate within the Church over the course of centuries and millennia and prevents us from fully engaging with and embracing our Jewish neighbours.

The history of Judaism and Christianity is a messy one. Jesus was an observant Jew who lived in Roman Judea and Galilee. Christianity is borne out of Judaism, but the when, where, and why Christianity and Judaism drifted apart is debated by scholars. In places like ancient Syria, Iraq, and Iran, Christian writers were complaining of Christians maintaining Jewish practices and customs as late as the 700s. Can we call these people Christian? Jewish? I do not know. Though Christianity was borne out of Judaism, both Judaism and Christianity continued to grow, change, and influence each other throughout history. The relationship is never a one-way street. The diverse Judaisms of today are different from the diverse Judaisms of antiquity, and yet there are threads of continuity across the millennia. The New Testament, and especially the Gospels, reflect the messiness of Christian origins within Judaism.

The Gospel of Matthew is the messiest of the Gospels in this regard, and the arrival of the Wise Men from the East is emblematic of that messiness. When the Gospel of Matthew was written in the late first and early second century, there was no Christianity. Such a distinction between Judaism and Christianity did not exist. The various Jewish communities in the ancient world were in disarray due to the Roman Empire destroying Jerusalem and its Temple of God in the year 70. Different factions and groups were left to pick up the pieces left by the loss of the Temple. One such faction were the communities of Jews who believed that Jesus was the promised Messiah for the Jewish people. The Gospel of Matthew was written to show how Jesus fulfills that role as a new Moses and a new David, Jesus is the prophet, priest, and king of the Jewish people.

The prophets, particularly Isaiah, are employed by the Jewish author to show how the coming of Jesus ushers in the messianic age for the Jewish people. The magi, magi being the Greek name for the Zoroastrian priests of ancient Iran, pay homage to the Messiah or Christ. They give him the gold of a king, the frankincense of a priest, and the myrrh of a prophet who will die for speaking the truth.However, just as this story highlights the Jewishness of Jesus, it is quick to condemn Jews who do not accept that Jesus is the Messiah. Herod and all of Jerusalem is frightened by the coming of the gentile magi to pay homage to the Messiah. It is Herod’s jealousy over Jesus’ claim to kingship over the Jewish nation that leads to his slaughtering of the children in Bethlehem which follows the arrival of the magi. However, such discordance between Jewish factions is not uncommon in Matthew.

The Gospel of Matthew contains a line that Christians have used to justify their violence against Jews throughout history. During Jesus trial in Matthew 27:25 “the people as a whole answered [regarding condemning Jesus], ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’”. Later generations of Christians believed their violence towards Jews was justified because of stories like that of Herod or the crucifixion—they accuse the Jews of being Christ-killers and say they deserve the violence as a form of human enacted divine retribution.

This is an extreme form of anti-Semitism, but it is congruent with many other kinds of anti-Semitism. It has emerged in many ways and at different times throughout history, but none of it has any place in the Church. However, it is the legacy we have inherited. We as the Gentile nations have been called to the God of Israel through Jesus Christ, but we must not forget that there are communities and people with whom God has formed a covenant with that has never been revoked. Our fore-bearers and ancestors have often deliberately overlooked the unique relationship Jews and Christians have with each other. Such ignorance has led to the horrors of the Inquisition, pogroms, and Holocaust. God will always deliver his people when they cry in distress, but the Church should not be the cause of that distress. Instead, we must cognizant of our common heritage with Judaism, learn how our traditions have grown, changed, and affected each other, and extend a hand of friendship and fellowship with our Jewish neighbors as one family of God.

Presiding Bishop Michael Curry has called on Christians to express their solidarity with the Jewish community tomorrow, January 6 in response to the rise in anti-Semitic attacks throughout the country. The bishops of the Diocese of Long Island wrote also that “We cannot stand silent before this fresh outbreak of anti-Jewish terror, We call on our fellow Episcopalians now to boost our own spiritual solidarity with our Jewish sisters and brothers. Anti-Semitism is a problem of special concern, not to be overlooked, to Episcopalians and all Christians. … Episcopalians should become a prayerful presence in the face of the fear and vulnerability created by these incidents threatening the Jewish community.

We as Christians are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. Our Baptismal Covenant commands us to “strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being.” Just as we stand against all forms of violence and discrimination in the world, we must stand against violence against our Jewish neighbors. In a world which seems so keen on repeating the mistakes of the past. We can build a better world where God’s light can shine brightly.

Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
and thick darkness the peoples;
but the Lord will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.

Amen

The Word's Body: A Homily 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, Son, and Holy Spirit

The Sundays following Christmas are often the runts of the liturgical litter. After major mid-week liturgies for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, the First Sunday after Christmas can be easily overlooked and missed by people. The Readings for the First Sunday after Christmas however help us to understand the events that we celebrate on December 24 and 25. Just as we should not be so quick to rush through Advent in our desire to celebrate Christmas, we should not rush through Christmas for the next thing (even if people are already setting off fireworks before New Year’s, and even if Longs and Target already are putting out Valentine’s Day stuff). We should take time and really look at our Christmas decorations and really listen to our Christmas hymns in order to contemplate and understand the mysteries that we celebrate every year, and the readings today help us to do so.

Baby Yoda nativity. Thanks, I hate it.

We are very quick to domesticate the story of Jesus’ birth. It is the most well-known story in the New Testament: Mary and Joseph travel to Bethlehem and Jesus in born in a manger because there is no room at the inn. Angels appear to shepherds to announce the birth of Jesus, and they leave their flocks to witness this event. We have many forms of media that retell this, we have pageants to re-enact it the story, and we have kitschy nativity sets that recreate the event. We can also swap out elements in the nativity sets to make it more humorous or precious including cat nativities, football nativities, sausage and cured meat nativities, and Star Wars nativities with little Baby Yodas as Jesus.

To be clear, pageants and other re=telling this story are not bad things in and of themselves (though the Baby Yoda nativity is a problem for a whole set of reasons). However, in domesticating the Nativity of Jesus, we lose track of the cosmic significance of this event—the Creator of the World, the Word of God, has entered into creation itself. He took on the physical elements of this world and became human. The Gospel of John tells us that the immaterial takes on the material, flesh, blood, bone, cells, and all the messy aspects of life. That very matter that Jesus takes on, our flesh and blood, become the very vehicle and garment of salvation, as Isaiah says, “he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness.” Jesus takes on a body and takes on everything that comes with having a body, including those aches and pains we all know and love.

Paul says that Jesus came into the world in fullness of time, and in so doing came to a place and time. Psalm 147, in the parts we did not read says, “God is not impressed by the might of a horse and has no pleasure in the strength of a man.” Not only did the Word come into creation, he came in a specific place and time in history and entered the world in the most helpless and vulnerable way possible as an infant. Just as the creator of the world held creation in his arms, now the creator is held by his creation in the arms of his mother, Mary. His body has to be fed, protected, and cared for, and will grow up in a world where life for 99% of humanity is short, cruel, and poor. God chooses to become poor, and he enters into the world as a marginalized and oppressed person.

Though he will grow-up as a carpenter’s child he still grew up as a poor Peregrinus, a non-citizen or foreigner under Roman Law. His home was conquered and occupied by the Roman Empire. Through the toil and sweat of their labour, the people of Galilee and Judea served the Roman Empire under the watchful eye of the Roman Peace or Pax Romana which extracted heavy taxes from the poor to maintain the occupation over the land. The law and order of Galilee and Judea was maintained by the Roman legions who could extract labour or violence from the populace with little to no consequence. The King of the Universe comes into the world as a slave to a world and society that will reject him.

Once again, Psalm 147 says that God “sends out his command to the earth,” and authors the laws that govern creation, but now enters into the world to live as a subject to the commands and laws of creation and humanity. And yet, in the course of Jesus’ life, he causes, as Isaiah says, “righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.” He feeds the poor, he heals the sick and injured, and raises the dead. Not for profit, not for political maneuverings, but because it is the right thing to do. The laws of physics bend to his command because what is good, and right cannot be stopped by human limitations around supply and demand or the laws of physics even. His very presence draws attention and power away from the rich, the powerful, and the elite. He makes to poor, the widow, the orphan, the oppressed, the sex workers, and the most marginalized the centre of a new creation.

He gives freely that which is restricted in his society, health and prosperity exist for the wealthy and powerful, and yet Jesus gives it and more to the poor. “The Lord lifts up the lowly but casts the wicked to the ground.”

The Word of God, who came into the world as a newborn infant will as an adult experience the worst violence and horrors that humanity can inflict on it through his passion, crucifixion, and death because he spoke out and acted against the cruel injustices of the world around him. He is executed for treason and sedition against the Roman state and died as a duly convicted criminal under Roman Law. But once again, in the fullness of time, in human history, Jesus is resurrected from the dead, and ascends into heaven with the very same body that he was born into. He carries the scars and traumas, the aches and pains, and the limitations of that body into Heaven in his ascension. The fullness of the human experience that played out on Earth are now in Heaven. Through Jesus’ body and experience, Heaven and Earth are linked together. All of this was done according to Paul “in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.”

Our bodies too also bear the marks and scars of our history and traumas. Our bodies may also have been sites of violence where someone has done evil upon us. But that physicality is the garment of salvation. Those who are the most marginalized, and those who have experienced the hardships of human existence are the “crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of God” because Jesus became poor and lived and served among the most marginalized. They are his people. The scars borne by the poor do not go away but are held dearly by God and those who carry those scars become God’s children through the grace of Jesus Christ and become heirs of God’s promises for creation.

All this comes from God entering the world as a human child in a particular place, in a particular time, in a particular socio-economic class, and in a particular way. Each Christmas pageant, conventional nativity set, and Christmas hymn proclaim the story of the infinite entering into the finite world. It is such a small thing, but so often the course of human history turns on the little things. The eyes of a child reflect the eternity of God because the eternity of God was a child, and the incarnation of Jesus as a human being brings hope that there will be vindication for the marginalized in this world.

Come and behold Him
Born the King of Angels!
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
Christ the Lord

Amen

Creeping Assyria: A Homily for the 8th Sunday after Trinity

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
Luke 12:32-40

St Thomas' Anglican Church
Toronto, ON

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

Stele of Tiglath-Pileser III from the British Museum

One of the things I find most interesting about the latter parts of the Hebrew Bible, particularly the prophets, is how the Biblical account interacts with the historical record. The names at the beginning of Isaiah listed here, Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah are not just names in the Bible, there are records of them existing, perhaps in the most fragmentary ways possible. In the cases of Ahaz and Hezekiah, we have relatively substantial record of them preserved through the Assyrian Empire. These kings, and indeed the Kingdoms of Judah stood in the shadow of the mighty Assyrian Empire and its great kings, Tiglath-Pileser, Shalmaneser, Sargon II, and Sennacherib. Isaiah has a vision where God condemns Jerusalem and Judah’s worship of God in harsh, but somewhat nebulous terms. But if we can understand some of the history of Judah and Assyria, we can then better understand God’s condemnation of Jerusalem.

For the kings and people of Judah, Assyria at first can seem to be far away, a place over there and something not to worry about.* The Assyrian Empire was noted for its brutality in the ancient world as a matter of course, their records of their conquests are terse but violent, the royal palaces were adorned with images of Assyrian conquest over their enemies (some of which are in the British museum). They regularly practiced deportation where conquered and subject peoples in their empire would be moved elsewhere to prevent rebellion and to force a diverse population to integrate to create a homogenous culture (this is something that happened to the Northern Kingdom of Israel). They maintained elaborate cults to their gods, particularly Ashur, Ishtar, and many others where grandiose statues would be lavished with feasts and adorned with finery. Some of these cults according to the Bible, particularly the ones of Canaanite and Semitic origin, practiced human sacrifice.

Why would Assyria act with such violence? Was there a greater purpose to such brutality and violence, to ripping people and families apart, deporting them to places far from their homes, to lavish cults to national deities, and violent spectacles over their enemies? Well no, cruelty was the point. Cruelty was the tool used to create and bind Assyria together. The Kings of Assyria were not gods, but they were the chosen kings of the four corners of the earth, the chosen kings of the universe, to defy them was to defy the will of the gods, and such defiance warranted severe punishment. Though Assyria may be over there for Judah, the reality is that Assyria was a neighbour they could not ignore and could not antagonize lest they risk losing things like trade, diplomatic assistance, or even their own sovereignty. Therefore, they become more like Assyria to endear themselves to them. Little by little, the brutality and cruelty of Assyria could slide into Judah.** If Judah were more like Assyria, then maybe Assyria might leave Judah alone, especially after Israel is destroyed by Assyria. Ahaz in particular adopts the cultic practices of Assyria and brings them into the Temple of Jerusalem and even offered his own son up as a sacrifice. In 2 Kings, throughout the text, there is an ever-present sense of ongoing corruption by Assyria as the people worship not to God in the Temple, but at the High Places and to deities besides God. And though Judah was not perfect, far from it, it too has its own history of violence. But the cruelty of Assyria increased, so too did the cruelty of Judah because neighbours affect each other even if some in Judah believed their worship of God made them more righteous than Assyria.

Image on pithos sherd found at Kuntillet Ajrud below
the inscription "Yahweh and his Asherah”. In the Bible,
El and Yahweh are associated with each other.
In some material they are separate beings,
sometimes they are the same being.

Who could blame Judah for acting like Assyria? It’s one little Asherah pole, one little altar to Moloch, where is the harm in that. Scholars point out that the God of Israel and Judah, referred to as El in the Ba’al Cycle, was worshiped by other Semitic peoples as part of a larger Middle Eastern pantheon, so despite God calling on Israel and Judah to worship him alone, the people could have worshiped God alongside other gods because everyone else did it, and it just makes sense to please as many gods as possible. The more gods on your side, the better off you are. Bit by bit, Judah becomes more like Assyria with all the violence and cruelty associated. Assyria is no longer over there but here.

The problem for Isaiah isn’t that the worship of God had stopped, people continued to worship God. Instead, Judah devotion to other gods, gods which according to Isaiah do not even exist, has a material consequence on the poor and most vulnerable. Food and money are being spent on cults which demand violence and wealth to maintain themselves, which caused suffering among the people and the blame for that violence falls at the wealthiest and most powerful in Judah, namely the king. God does not require human worship to be complete and would rather not be worshipped while people are starving and suffering for the sake of idols and false gods. According to Isaiah, if the worship of God does not honour the poor, the orphan, the widow, the migrant, and the marginalised, and if the worship of God comes at the expense of those most marginalised, then God does not want it! Full stop.

Isaiah’s condemnation can make one sympathetic to the most iconoclastic peoples in history. Why spend so much on beauty and opulence, especially here? As Isaiah says, “incense is an abomination”. Why spend so much when there is so much need. But things like beauty, incense, the festivals, solemn gatherings, and everything that is used for the worship of God was created by God not because God needs these things, but for humanity, for us, to use in common with one another to give praise and thanksgiving to God. Everything was made by the One True God to be used in common to elevate those most marginalized by society but those who are closest to God: the poor, the orphan, the widow, the migrant, the disabled, the LGBT person, and the prisoner. When so much of the world revels and celebrates the cruelty and violence against them, our worship of God must empower us to serve and protect those most at risk in society.

Shrine dedicated to S. Michael the Archangel at All Saints'
Episcopal Church in San Francisco, CA. This shrine was made and
dedicated to the parishioners and friends of All Saints' who
passed away from HIV/AIDS. All Saints' is an Anglo-Catholic
parish in San Francisco, CA.

Isaiah’s condemnation speaks not only to the past, but to communities today. He speaks to our own Anglo-Catholic tradition to remind us that all this (gesture) does not come at the expense of the marginalized but exists for them. Sometimes our tradition has met the call, from the slum and worker priests of London who served the poor of an industrializing city who would otherwise be forgotten by building places of wonder and beauty for them, to the parishes of San Francisco that provided care to HIV/AIDS patients when many were content to let them die. But sometimes our tradition falls short, and we can become more preoccupied with the minutia of liturgy over and against what our worship calls us to do, “seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, and plead for the widow.” We still worship God when we fall short, but the reason for our worship is distorted and lost. In the end, God does not need our worship to be complete, but God invites us to honour him not only in praise and thanksgiving, but in serving those closest to him.

When you look at the news, look at social media, it can sometimes feel like the world is becoming a more violent place. In a world where violence and cruelty is becoming more and more the norm, where the problems of over there seem to coming more and more here (and were always here in their own ways), it becomes imperative for the communities that gather to worship God to serve those who are the victims of such violence. It is too easy to be drawn into greater patterns of cultural violence through inaction or indifference, or worse by choice, because Assyria is over there. But over there too quickly becomes here, and it becomes easier and easier to lose sight of God. But God continually calls for people to come back to the true worship of him where the poor are exalted, the hungry are filled, and the oppressed are set free. Our God will come and not keep silent, and he call invites us to serve the needs of the people closest to him.

Amen.

* During this sermon, I would occasionally point to the South when referencing Assyria. Coincidentally, by point at the South, I was also pointing to the United States.
** This sermon was inspired in part by reports of Canadian Border Service agents harassing asking for people’s immigration status in Toronto (https://www.680news.com/2019/07/12/advocates-concerned-over-reports-of-random-id-checks-from-immigration-officers-in-toronto/)
(https://www.blogto.com/city/2019/07/immigration-officers-are-conducting-id-checks-toronto-streets-and-people-are-furious/)

A Joyous Apocalypse: A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Easter

Acts 16:9-15
Psalm 67
Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5
John 5:1-9

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church
Kailua, HI

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

A few weeks ago, I participated in a symposium on apocalyptic literature in Zoroastrianism, Judaism, and Christianity. The first day of this symposium ended with a roundtable discussion over how we define apocalyptic as a genre, and what are some things that we should consider when comparing the apocalyptic literature between Zoroastrianism, Judaism, and Christianity. One scholar opened up the conversation by describing a painting of demons tormenting different individual people through various devices and tools of torture and punishment in the afterlife. He asked this painting was apocalyptic. Being the precocious and headstrong graduate student that I am, I decided to answer his question. I argued that the image was indeed apocalyptic because it reveals and describes in a fantastic and extraordinary way the final fate of humanity. After a brief discussion the scholar revealed that his question was a trap. The image he was describing could not be apocalyptic because it was actually a nineteenth-century Japanese painting by Kawanabe Kyōsai called the Torments of Hell. He argued that apocalypses were borne out of a particular historical and cultural framework in antiquity shared by Zoroastrians, Jews, and Christians that precluded the possibility of an “apocalyptic” work being made outside of that. Therefore, this painting could not be apocalyptic because it came from nineteenth-century Japan and not the ancient Middle East. He further argued that apocalypses are about a communal destiny or the collective destiny of humanity, and not individual eschatology or fate, and again said this painting could not be apocalyptic as it focused on individual torments.

I am a stubborn PhD student, so I pushed back against this distinguished scholar. I argued that his conception of the apocalyptic was overly narrow and precluded the possibility of how the end of days can be presented and understood outside such a narrow cultural and historical scope. Additionally, apocalypses can be both communal and personal. Indeed, most of the apocalyptic accounts in the Bible, Zoroastrian scriptures, and beyond are often mediated, experienced, and recounted by individuals (either as a literary device or to connect the apocalypse to history in some way) such as Enoch, Daniel, or John of Patmos, the author of the Book of Revelation which we have been reading from these past few weeks . I also argued that there are many works that are apocalyptic in nature even though scholars do not treat them as such, including Dante’s Divine Comedy, or even Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower because these stories involve the divine interrupting the human life to reveal the final reality of individuals, communities, and creation itself. We went on like this for a bit before a scholar from Cologne interrupted and changed the subject, but I could tell that this scholar did not agree with me.

I am an apocalyptic kind of person. I read and study late-antique and early-medieval apocalypses. I am fascinated with media and popular culture that plays around with apocalyptic themes and ideas. One of my friends got irritated with me recently once when I tried to argue, somewhat jokingly, that everything is apocalyptic. I firmly believe what we say about the final fate of ourselves and this world says a lot about who we are and what we value in the here and now. Though there are many kinds of apocalypses throughout history and cultures. Christianity is indeed an apocalyptic religion because we believe in a God who exists above and beyond time and space who has crashed into time and space through the incarnation of Jesus Christ. He reveals himself to us now in the Gospels, through writing, art, hymnody, and in these accounts he relates to us what the destiny of creation, society, and ourselves were, are, and will be.

Our word apocalypse is derived from the Greek word ἀποκάλυψις, meaning revelation. This kind of revelation is not about answering a standard question. This word is about the revealing of something hidden or unknown being made known to us. We often associate it with the end of the world, because the Biblical book which we most associate with this idea, the Book of Revelation, discusses the destruction of this world, and the creation of a new Heaven and Earth where God will dwell among humanity in a new Jerusalem. Many texts considered apocalyptic that precede and follow Revelation carry similar themes of destruction and renewal either because Revelation is drawing from older ideas, or because newer texts are drawing from revelation. Of course, this idea of the end of the world is magnified in our culture, and we have a whole genre of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic media that is fixated on just the destruction of the world or destruction of civilization (often neglecting the aspects of renewal or recreation). I argue that this whole contemporary genre of apocalypses comes following the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Cold War. The first Godzilla film in 1954 is one of the first new apocalypses in our time.  These apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic themes are magnified in our time in the political climate and coming environmental catastrophes of climate change.

But what marks most of our modern apocalypses is not the hope that undergirds the Book of Revelation, like in today’s reading, but a nihilistic attitude that looks at an inevitable future with dread. We see the crises building on the horizon like an oncoming wave and we stand in fear of it crashing on-top of us. In our fear, we cannot conceive of diving through the wave to consider what lies on the other side. This is what media, scholars, preachers, and society get so desperately wrong with apocalypses—we focus and fixate on the destruction and devastation of apocalypse with a voyeuristic glee rather than considering the apocalypse, the revelation of the Divine crashing into Humanity, to transform not only the world around us, but our very lives. Indeed, apocalypses can occur on a very individual and personal level and can transform us personally just as it transforms the world.

That apocalyptic transformation is not about restoring things to what they once were, but into something new that simultaneously recognizes the past, but transforms that past into a fuller reality. The fruit and leaves of the Tree of Life heal the nations and people of the world, but those wounds borne by humanity are still carried into the new creation and are remembered. Indeed, the Crucified Christ, who is often associated with the Tree of Life, carries with him the wounds of his crucifixion, healed but still present, into his resurrection. And his resurrection is the same resurrection that we will have at the end of all things.

Time does not belong to us; time belongs to God. The end is not for our voyeuristic interests, but for God to manifest within time and space to share the good news to those the world has forgotten: the poor, the orphan, the widow, the homeless, the imprisoned, the refugee, and the oppressed. The great revelation of God comes to them because God entered into time as Jesus for their sake, and the Church bears witness to that revelation, to that apocalypse in sacrament and service to the world. Thus, God meets and interacts with creation through the revelation of his presence within creation, society, and the Church. Stories of God revealing himself to the prophets is apocalyptic, Jesus healing others is apocalyptic, the descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost is apocalyptic, Baptism is apocalyptic, the Eucharist is apocalyptic, prayer is apocalyptic, and ministry that makes God’s presence known in the world: ministry for the poor, the orphan, the widow, the homeless, the imprisoned, and the oppressed, is apocalyptic. The Church is the herald of the apocalypse, and where God’s ways should be known upon the Earth, and his saving health among all nations should be manifest.

Apocalypse tells us to live in hope, and not fear because though the world is constantly in motion and changing, God does not abandon the creation that he declared to be good at the beginning. The apocalypse gives us the freedom to imagine the world as it could and should be. The presence of God, the teachings of Jesus, and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit gives us the ability embrace that spark of creation to work with God in building that new creation with the knowledge that at the end, the Lord God will be our light, and will reign forever and ever. “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid,” trust in God, and walk with him as he walks among this world healing and caring for those whom we have forgotten but are closest to his heart. And in that way, God is revealed to the world.

Amen.

Forgiveness, Trauma, and Moving Forward: A Sermon for the Sunday Sunday after Easter

Acts 9:1-20
Psalm 30
Revelation 5:11-14
John 21:1-19

St. Thomas's Anglican Church
Toronto, ON

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

The Denial of Saint Peter, an oil-on-canvas painting by Gerard Seghers

If there is a universal constant to human experience is that we all make mistakes. We all do things that we regret, hurt people that we care about, and hurt people we barely know. Sometimes we say or do something careless without thinking about the consequences. Sometimes we say or do something we think is funny or charming, and it blows up in our faces. Sometimes we try to be sneaky and get away with something only to get caught. Sometimes we might be greedy or rude, and in our haste, we run over someone. And sometimes, when we decide to give into the darker temptations of our hearts and minds, we hurt someone maliciously to make us feel good about ourselves, or just because we can.

Human nature is damaged, it is broken. Our capacity to do good is wounded and the qualities intrinsic to our nature given to us by God are distorted by ignorance, suffering, death, and sin. Culturally speaking, we see and think of the battle between good and evil to be acted out on a great and epic scale, but the true conflict between good and evil, sin and righteousness, are more often than not fought on a deeply personal level in the choices we make and the thought (or lack of thought) that go into them. Indeed, it is that very banality of evil that makes the greatest evils possible. “It is such a quiet thing, to fall. But far more terrible is to admit it”* because to admit such a fall is to open the door to guilt and from that guilt pain arises over what was damaged and lost because of us. Guilt, pain, and regret hurt, they cut to the core because we see how our actions (or inactions) become two-edged swords. Just as we wound others, we wound ourselves. So, we bury the action rather than face it, and sometimes we keep repeating it because we believe there is nothing else to be done once a person is caught on a particular path.

It can take different things to wake us up from our stupor. Saul received a dramatic vision from Jesus and was blinded which led him to see the damage he was doing. For Peter, it was merely being in Jesus’ presence once again after he denied him to get him to see the error of his ways. The wounded nature of humanity can give us varying limits to both our capacity to do good, and our capacity to recognise evil. But in both cases, Jesus forgives Saul and Peter freely.

However, we inhabit a culture of extreme binary opposites. We live in a world of total depravity or total sanctification—there is no in-between. These ideas have been around for millennia in one form or another, but we best understand them from the European Christian religious reformations in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but they now operate beyond Christian discourse, especially as the Church becomes less and less relevant to the North American society. There is a totality in which everything is brought to its extreme. We are cultured to present ourselves as being perpetually-right and perpetually-good. Wrongdoing, mistakes, and sins, whether or not they happen because of malice, are all rendered as instantly unforgivable and a mark of total moral failure on the person. This has been at the foundation of carceral systems throughout history in which the bodies, minds, and souls of people are destroyed not for the sake of rehabilitation, but to utterly destroy them. It feels good to condemn others because it makes us feel good and righteous, and yet the hammer of justice tends to fall the hardest on the most marginalised in society. Consider Jesus’ crucifixion, such a punishment was reserved for those like Jesus who were the poorest and at the margins of Roman society, a wealthy or privileged person would never be condemned to such bodily destruction.

In turn, if someone, particularly someone powerful, is caught doing wrong and apologises, the apology is not always genuine because to admit wrongdoing is to admit to that total moral failure. This is where we get the apologies of “I am sorry you feel that way,” or “I’m sorry you misunderstood that” and it turns the “failure” back onto the victim. Such a practice trickles down to us as well It is never our fault, it’s someone else’s fault. If there is ever a genuine apology, the penalty must be severe and the penance intense and public to demonstrate to others what happens to bad people.

In this mire, it is hard to understand and grasp the kind of forgiveness that Jesus offers and invites us to embody. As hard as it is to break ourselves from the cultural mould, we ought to remember what writers such as Ss. Augustine of Hippo, John Chrysostom, Athanasius, the Desert Mothers and Fathers, Julian of Norwich and many others say regarding humanity—human nature is not totally depraved but only wounded. We see in the Gospels Peter and the apostles doing good while struggling with his own failings. Saul said he was completely committed to the Law of Moses, including the moral and ethical dimensions of the Law, while also actively persecuting others. Jesus points out in the Sermon on the mount that gentiles and tax collectors are capable of doing compassion and mercy while still falling short of the mark he left for us.

I am reminded of what JRR Tolkien once wrote in a couple letters, “one must face the fact: the power of Evil in the world is not finally resistible by incarnate creatures [such as us], however 'good' [we are] … It is possible for the good, even the saintly, to be subjected to a power of evil which is too great for them to overcome – in themselves.” Though we resist evil, and strive to do good, even the best of us will fall short, but that struggle to do good is what is moral. We must however acknowledge the pain and the hurt we have caused, and the pain and hurt within us. We must not allow it to consume us until we lose control and fall apart because it is in that place, that place of recognising our limitations and failings that where the scales can fall from our eyes, and we see Jesus there. Jesus offers forgiveness to us freely, and then we can learn to forgive freely as well.

What is this forgiveness though, what does it mean, and what does it look like? In our totalising world, we misunderstand forgiveness. We think forgiveness is a return to the status quo, and brushing off of anything and all things, to accept the harm done without question. That’s not what forgiveness is. Too often people in positions of power demand victimised people or traumatised communities to to “forgive” the abuse done to them by their victimisers so as the violence against them can continue unchallenged and unabated. Additionally, there are indeed actions that are unacceptable. For example, violence, especially violence in all its forms motivated by racism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia are unacceptable and people need to be held accountable for their actions. What forgiveness truly is however is the pathway to something new in which people are set free anger, hate, sorrow, pain, fear, and terror are let go. When we are forgiven, or when we forgive, nothing might not seem different, the heavens do not open up and sometimes things do not change dramatically. However, we open up ourselves to a new life and world of new possibilities.

Sculptural relief of the Ascension in Walsingham England.
Note the nail marks in Jesus' feet.

We see in the very resurrected body of Jesus the recognition of what forgiveness looks like. Yes, he died but now is risen from the dead. Though he is embodied in the same body as before, that body has changed because he now bears the marks and wounds of his betrayal and death. The damage that Judas, Peter, and all the disciples who abandoned him and denied him is still there. Jesus bears the wounds of his scourging, physical assault, and crucifixion and are visible to see. The ordeals and traumas he endured are still there. Indeed, he carries those scars and traumas physically into heaven, and the discordance of such trauma are now part of a greater harmony of a new creation. There is no going back to what was before, you can never go back. The damage that is done is done. Instead Jesus offers to Peter, to Paul, and to all of us a new vision of the world and how we can be in it: feed my sheep, feed my lambs, and follow me.

We might not always receive forgiveness from the people we have harmed, despite recognising our failures and genuinely apologising and repenting. That reality can indeed hurt, and we are not owed forgiveness from anyone. To expect it from those we have harmed is presumptuous and can retraumatise people. But we still have hope, “if any sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 2:1-2). Jesus offers forgiveness freely through his resurrection which we can still embrace to help transform us not only so that we may resist evil more fully and completely, but so that we too can learn to forgive others freely. The victory that Christ won over sin has given us greater blessings than those which sin had taken from us: "where sin increased, grace abounded all the more" (Rom 5:20). We can never go back to what was before, but we can go forward with a new sight and vision of the world remade, restored, and redeemed.

Amen.

*This is a quote from Kreia from Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II.