Tag: sermon

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Sermon: Baptism of Our Lord RCL A – “Mud and Mire”

Photo by Mike Erskine on Unsplash

Trying something new with this audio version of the sermon delivered live. If you listen, would love to know what you think. Thank.

The Captain of a ship reports: When I first went to sea, I was a Third Mate. I knew everything. After sailing for a few years and earning my Second Mate license, I realized I had a lot to learn. A few years later, I became a Chief Mate. It became apparent that there was much I still didn’t know. After years of sailing, I became the Captain of my own ship. Reality set in; I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. It’s ok. I have a third mate who knows everything.

Author Charles Bukowski said, “The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.” That is a true statement. However, intelligent people sometimes also believe they are truly unqualified for the position they have been entrusted with. They consider themselves to be frauds. This is known as imposter syndrome, which can be broadly defined as “the tendency to favour a narrative that ‘you’re not good enough’, or doubting your own capabilities, while fearing exposure of being a fraud.” (Source)

I don’t know how widespread such a problem is, but I do know that inside the walls of the church—not just ours—it is likely widespread.

Think about your experience here. You come through the doors, and the floors are clean. Heck, Chuck makes them shine (thank you, Chuck). There’s the smell of incense in the air. It’s comfortable, and we’ll even give you a cushion if your backside is a bit thin and doesn’t provide enough padding. When we look at the images of Jesus in the stained-glass windows, including those of the crucifixion, I love them, but they’re so cleaned up. Jesus doesn’t look like He’s been beaten or flogged. There’s no dirt. There’s no blood. All that has been cleaned up. When we come forward to receive the Eucharist, we receive the bread—it’s a perfectly round, bleached wafer. It, too, has been cleaned up from what bread normally looks like. (Please don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I would not change any of this. I believe that it is the way things are supposed to be. I’m just making observations here to make a point.) In addition, I wear some of the finest vestments available; our choir sings beautifully, accompanied by the organist and the lovely instrument he plays. Our entire experience of walking into this building is one of entering a well-ordered, clean place. That’s just elements of the space and the liturgy. What about the people?

Folks, you are marvelous, darling! Gorgeous. Handsome. It’s like walking into Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon, “where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” Then there’s you.

You look around you. You see the beauty of the place and all that takes place. You see folks all nicely scrubbed, sitting in their pews. And you think of yourself, and that imposter syndrome kicks in hard. You believe, “I’m not good enough,” “If they knew what I was like on the inside, they wouldn’t let me through the doors,” “This place and these people are all cleaned up, but I’ve been wandering through the mud of this world, and I track it around everywhere I go.” Not only do we see ourselves in such a poor light, but we also come to firmly believe that Jesus sees us the same way.

We think of Jesus—He’s nice and clean and shiny. He’s up there, looking down on my muddy self, and He’s disgusted by what He sees. How can He stand me? As a Christian, I am a fraud.

Today, we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord. It occurs every year on the first Sunday after the Epiphany. It is the day when Jesus comes to the forerunner, John the Baptist, to be baptized in the Jordan River. The Church teaches us that through this one act, Jesus accomplished so many things. Primarily, it inaugurated Christ’s ministry, sanctified the waters so that all who enter the waters of baptism might be cleansed, and revealed the nature of the Holy Trinity. These things are good to know, but I’m thinking today about the physical event of that baptism.

When I was younger, growing up in Louisiana, I always thought of the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized, as being about the size of the Mississippi or the Red. However, it is quite different. At its widest, the Jordan is only 80 to 100 feet wide. With a good arm, it would be easy enough to throw a rock across.

The environmental conditions in Israel are very arid and desert-like, except around the Jordan. There is fertile ground, and along the banks grow reeds and other water plants. It is also quite muddy.

If you think about the people coming to be baptized by John along the banks of the river, you can imagine it was a pretty trampled, sloppy place. Nothing pristine about it. Walking down to John, you’ll have to traipse through that mud. Going into the river, you’ll be washed clean—both spiritually and physically. However, when you come back out again, you’ll be spiritually clean, but physically… there you are in the mud again. The same was true for Jesus. When He came out of those waters, He didn’t miraculously glide across the mud and mire. No. He walked through it.

I thought of that image as I considered us here today. We come into this place and look around. It is clean and pristine. All these people are clean, with no blemishes or dirt on them (trust me, that is not the case. Oy!) Everything here is so well ordered, except for me. I’ve traipsed through the mud of this world, and I track it everywhere I go. How can Jesus stand me? But what we forget is that Jesus does not avoid the messy and dirty places. Jesus, in His humanity and divinity, chose… chose to walk through the mud of this world in order to find and save us, so that we might be with Him where He is.

St. Paul writes to the Philippians, “Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:6-8)

Jesus humbled Himself to walk through the mud with us so that, in the end, He might raise us to new life through our own baptism. As Paul said to the Romans, “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.” (Romans 6:3-4)

You’ve walked through the mud of this world. Jesus gave up the very throne room of Our God so that he might walk through that mud to find you.

The psychoanalyst Carl Jung wrote, “Modern man can’t see God because he doesn’t look low enough.”

We don’t believe Jesus can tolerate our messiness. We look up and around us. We look for Him in the Heavens and high on the altar, all clean and shiny. He is there, but perhaps more importantly, He is down here with us.

King David wrote,

“I waited patiently for the Lord;
    he turned to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
    out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
    and gave me a firm place to stand.

He put a new song in my mouth,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear the Lord
    and put their trust in him.”

(Psalm 40:1-3 NIV)

Through your baptism, Jesus lifted you out of the slimy pit and out of the mud and mire. He gave you a firm place to stand. He made you worthy of the promises of Heaven. If along the way you find yourself traipsing through some mud…

Remember the Last Supper, when Jesus washed the disciples’ feet and when He came to Peter. Peter said that Jesus would never wash his feet. What was Jesus’ response? “‘If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘The one who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean.’” (John 13:8b-11)

When you come into this place, you are not an imposter. You are not a fraud. If you have walked through some muddy places, you need to wash your feet in the sacraments of Confession and the Eucharist, but you are clean. You are worthy. You are one whom Jesus loves. You are one He has gone to the furthest reaches to find. You are God’s child.

Let us pray: By God’s gift, through water and the Holy Spirit, we are reborn to everlasting life. In God’s goodness, may He continue to pour out His blessings upon us, His sons and daughters. May He make us always, wherever we may be, faithful members of His holy people. May He send His peace upon all who are gathered here, in Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Sermon: Christmas 1 RCL A – “Light”

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

A group of women was talking together. One woman said, “Our congregation is sometimes down to 30 or 40 on a Sunday.”

Another said, “That’s nothing. Sometimes our congregation is down to six or seven.”

A maiden lady in her seventies added her bit, “Why, it’s so bad in our church on Sundays that when the minister says ‘dearly beloved,’ it makes me blush.”

With today being a low Sunday—especially after the wedding last night—I’m delighted to see you all here. Hopefully, you won’t regret your decision after hearing a few verses of this poem by Lord Byron. The title: Darkness.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light.

It goes on from there, and I can assure you it doesn’t get any cheerier. It describes a post-apocalyptic world where the sun and stars have “gone out,” and humanity consumes everything in an attempt to create light, but all is despair. In the dim light of their fires, famine overcomes them. The last remaining survivors come together and build a fire so they can see one another, but they die of fright when they do because of the horror they have become.

In the end,

The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
(Source)


Can I just say “Merry Christmas”?

I’m not sure where Byron was in his head when he wrote that one, but the words of our Gospel kept coming to me as I read it. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

In the days leading up to the birth of Jesus, the world’s inhabitants lived in spiritual darkness. We know that there had not been a prophet in the land for over 400 years, and the oppression of the Roman legions was steadily increasing. It seemed that all of God’s promises had proved false. The Prophet Isaiah writes,

“Justice is far from us,
    and righteousness does not overtake us;
we hope for light, and behold, darkness,
    and for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
We grope for the wall like the blind;
    we grope like those who have no eyes;
we stumble at noon as in the twilight,
    among those in full vigor we are like dead men.”
(Isaiah 59:9-10)

The people were horrified by what had become of their lives and their dreams. Just as in the poem, a famine plagued the earth—the people were starving for God, for a Redeemer, a Savior. So they prayed, they prayed for the light to come.

And so it was, on a dark night, over the region of Judea above the City of David, which is called Bethlehem, that God once more said, “Let there be light,” and the Light of the World was given to us. It was God giving Himself to us in the form of a Babe, lying in a manger and wrapped in swaddling clothes.

“In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it…. The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.”

As we declare in the Nicene Creed, “For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven, by the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and was made man.”

The birth of Jesus, the Incarnation of God, was what this dark world had been waiting and praying for. Yet we often make the mistake of limiting the Incarnation of our Lord to a historical event—something that happened 2,000 or so years ago—and we fail to understand its power in this present dark world and in our lives. However, it is an error to limit the Incarnation to a specific time and place. The light that first shone in the world on that first Christmas still shines as brightly today as it did then. It still has the power to dispel the darkness and to bring about our redemption through the forgiveness of sins.

St. Paul confirms this in his second letter to the Corinthians: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” Through this shining into the darkness, God has qualified us—that is, enabled us—to share in the inheritance of the saints in light. He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.” (Colossians 1:12-14) And, as St. John tells us, all who believe this and call on Jesus’ Name are given the right by God to become His children.

However, even with this understanding, we are still left with one very important question: Why? Why has God rescued us? Why has He forgiven us? Why has He given us power to become His children?

Why did God become incarnate? Holy Scripture gives one answer to these questions: “Because of his great love for us.” (Ephesians 2:4) Scripture says, “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” (1 John 4:9-10) God loves us so much that He sent His one and only Son into the world to die for us.

As we enter these celebratory times of the year, our hearts are lifted, we experience the joy of God, and this is a wonderful blessing from Him. Still, we can never separate the birth of Christ, His incarnation, from His crucifixion. It was for this reason—this ultimate expression of God’s radical love—that Christ the Savior was born.

In a sermon, St. Augustine said,
“The Lord was born in order to die;
he died in order that we might live.
The wood of the crib was a sign of the wood of the cross;
the narrow manger foreshadowed the narrow tomb.” (Sermon 196)

An elderly priest tells a story from his youth. He says, “I thought Christmas Day would never come, as it seemed like eternity, but the day finally arrived. After a night of tossing and turning, I awoke early in the morning, then ran to the tree and looked under it to see what was there. As I looked, I found nothing under the tree, so I turned to my Father and asked, ‘Where is the gift that you said you gave me?’ He told me that my gift was not under the tree but on it.” The priest reports, “As I looked up, I heard these words, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ The gift was Jesus, looking down on me from that old rugged tree, the Cross, with love in his eyes.”

On a dark night, over the region of Judea above the City of David, which is called Bethlehem, God once more said, “Let there be light,” and through the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Light of the World was given to us. Mary wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger. For us, for our salvation, and for our sake, and because of his great love, God became one of us.

Give thanks, for the true light, which gives light to everyone, has come into the world.

Let us pray: God of love, Father of all, the darkness that covered the earth has given way to the bright dawn of your Word made flesh. Make us a people of this light. Make us faithful to your Word, that we may bring your life to the waiting world. Grant this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Sermon: Wedding – Kyler and Sophie

The Gospel reading from the fifteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel takes place at the Last Supper. There, Jesus says, “My command is this: Love one another as I have loved you.” When the disciples heard this, they might have been taken aback at first, but after a while, they may have come to the conclusion that they could do it. “I can minister to the sick, as Jesus did.” “I can help feed the hungry as He did.” “I can preach the Gospel.” “I can even be a servant to all.”

However, that was the fifteenth chapter; in the nineteenth chapter of John, the day after the Last Supper, Jesus radically redefined the meaning of the command to love one another as He loved us. Jesus demonstrated that His love extended far beyond ministering, serving, and preaching — it extended all the way to Golgotha and His death on the Cross. 

What makes this such a great challenge for us today is that this radical commandment of Jesus—love one another as I have loved you—has crossed the centuries to us gathered here today. At first, we might be tempted to interpret it as the disciples did—“I can be a good person.” “I can take care of those in need.” “I can feed the hungry.” But we know, Jesus, just as He did with the Apostles, has much more in mind.

However, we might still want to dilute it to make it more acceptable. Simpler. We might say, “I will love you as much as you love me,” or “I will care for you as much as you care for me.” The issue with this is that this kind of love is based on our own strength, with all the conditions we set. Done in our own strength, it might sound good, especially on days like today, but it can also turn sour rather quickly, because “I will love you as much as you love me” can also mean “I will be as angry with you as you are angry with me,” or “I will forgive you when you forgive me.” We know, this is not what Jesus intended.

No. Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you.” There are no addenda, footnotes, or appendices to this statement, which means we are called to love one another sacrificially—to the Cross. How can we do this? I’m not sure it’s even possible, but maybe we can learn a few things from those who have tried.

About twenty years ago, I had the blessed opportunity to officiate at the renewal of wedding vows for Ronny and Bunny, who had been married for fifty years. Several days before the service, I received a letter from their daughter, who had asked her mom, “How is it that two people can stay in love for so long?” Her mom replied, “We chose to.” Bunny went on to say, “Every morning when I get up, I choose to be in love with your dad. And because I love and respect him so much, I don’t get angry with him. I couldn’t imagine hurting someone I care so much for or even making the least bit angry or uncomfortable. Don’t hold grudges. Instead, tell him when he makes you upset. It is just as easy to put the toilet seat down as it is to pick up socks. Hugs are a great way to dispel anger. And most importantly, the advice that makes the most sense is simply to choose to be in love.” Before the renewal of vows, I had the opportunity to visit with Ronny and ask him the same thing. His advice was basically the same. “Choose to be in love.”

When Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you,” I believe this is at least a beginning of what He had in mind. It involves dying to self so that we all can have life. As Bishop Barron often says, to love someone is to “will the good of the other”—to set aside our own desires so the needs of others are fulfilled.

Therefore, before God and these witnesses, I charge you, Kyler and you, Sophie, in the Name of Christ’s one holy catholic and apostolic Church to love one another as Christ Jesus has loved you. To build a loving home that the Lord may bless, to live your lives to the fullest, but to always remember that it can only be done through Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

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Sermon: Christmas Day RCL A

The first words of the Bible are “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” and then, in very poetic language, the account of creation follows: light and darkness, the sun, moon, and stars, earth, land and sea, plants, animals, and finally humankind. This is God’s creation.

The Gospel of John begins with a similar phrase: “In the beginning…” However, it is not the creation account that follows, but what was before even that — “In the beginning was the Word.” Then comes another poetic passage about who the Word is and what he does.

But why do we hear these verses today? It becomes clear when we read, “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” These words point to the child in the manger. They reveal who this newborn child truly is—a human child, but not only that. His origins go back further and deeper than ours. We are people begotten of men, but Jesus is “God from God, Light from Light,” as the Nicene Creed states. He is God’s own Son, who has become man, taken on flesh, our mortal humanity, and become one of us.

God became man; this is what we say about the Christ Child in the manger. That is the focus of today’s Gospel. When God became man, He brought with Him the divine light that shines in the darkness—a light that brightens every shadow and dark corner as brightly as the noonday sun.

Why? Because He knows that we often wander in darkness—darkness of sin, death, sickness, war, and much more. We can become lost in a harsh world we don’t understand. We seek answers even when we don’t know the questions. That is why the Word became flesh, why God became man. So He could shine His divine light into the darkness of this world and our hearts, so that we might know joy and so that we all might find our way home to Him.

History records for us an interesting footnote. It was during the dark winter of 1864 at Petersburg, Virginia, where Robert E. Lee’s Confederate army faced the Union divisions led by General Ulysses S. Grant. The war, now three and a half years old, had transitioned from glorious charges to the muddy realities of trench warfare. Late one evening, Major General George Pickett, one of Lee’s generals, received news that his wife had given birth to a healthy baby boy. Throughout the line, Southerners lit large bonfires to celebrate the event. These fires did not go unnoticed in the Northern camps, prompting a cautious Grant to send a reconnaissance patrol to investigate. The scouts returned with news that Pickett had a son, and that the fires were celebratory. Interestingly, Grant and Pickett had been classmates at West Point and knew each other well. To mark the occasion, Grant also ordered bonfires to be built. 

What a strange night it was. Fires blazed on both sides of the lines for miles. No gunshots, no shouts, no fighting. Just light celebrating the birth of a child. But that didn’t last long. Soon, the fires died out, and darkness took over again—both of the night and of the war. 

The good news of Christmas is that in the midst of great darkness, there came a light, and the darkness was not able to overcome the light. It was not just a temporary flicker; it was an eternal flame. We need to remember that. There are times, in both world events and our personal lives, when we feel the light of the world will be snuffed out. But the Christmas story affirms that no matter what happens, the light still shines.

The theologian Robert Alden wrote, “There is not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of even one small candle.” That being true, then the divine light born in a manger in Bethlehem is more than adequate to dispel the darkness of this world eternally.

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Sermon: Christmas Eve RCL A

In 1946, the first car phone service was launched. It was big, clunky, and expensive. In 1964, Ma Bell rolled out a newer generation. It wasn’t until 1973 that the first truly mobile phone call was made. Martin Cooper of Motorola called Joel Engel, his rival at Bell Labs, to say, “Joel, I’m calling you from a cell phone… a real handheld portable cell phone.” Yet, it wasn’t until October 13, 1983, that the first mobile phone network went online. The phone was the Motorola DynaTAC 8000X. It weighed 2.5 pounds, took ten hours to charge, and provided 30 minutes of talk time.

Today, 348 million people live in the United States, and it is reported that 331 million of us have a cellphone, which we use to watch countless millions of cat videos every day. I suppose none of us really knows all that those little devices can do, but one interesting feature comes to us from Uncle Sam—Wireless Emergency Alerts, or WEA. 

Once or twice, we’ve had it alert during a service. It gives the government the power to send a message to every cellphone in a selected geographic location. It’ll override the silent features and everything else with a loud, blaring horn. I’m sure you know it. With this feature, the US government can send a message to every cellphone in the country (unless it is turned off), and, on average, almost all 331 million cellphones will receive it within two minutes. Why am I thinking on this?

In Holy Scripture, the image of the shepherd represents faithful leadership. The Psalmist says, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd, my sheep know the sound of my voice.” However, the image of the shepherd in Holy Scripture is dramatically different from how the shepherd was perceived in society.

They were viewed as thieves, uneducated outsiders with little to no synagogue attendance, and were considered equal in depravity to dice-throwers, pigeon-racers, and tax collectors. They were ritually unclean because of their work with animals, and their testimony should never be trusted. Scripture speaks highly of them, but for the most part, they were seen as some of the lowest of the low. So, why, of all people, would the angels first announce the birth of the Messiah to shepherds, and why were they chosen as the first visitors to this newborn King? 

It may not have been as efficient as the system we have today, but in Rome, there was one who could have quickly spread the message across the known world—Caesar Augustus.

Caesar Augustus is widely considered the greatest ruler of the Roman Empire. He came to power in 27 BC and ruled for forty years. Under his reign, there was the Pax Romana—the Peace of Rome, a period of almost two centuries of relative peace under Roman rule, and it was at its height under Caesar Augustus. 

During his reign, the Romans had 250,000 miles of roads, 62,000 of which were paved to support the rapid deployment of military troops and trade. Sure, you had slavery, high taxation, and suppression, but what a small price to pay for Caesar and his cronies to live in comfort.

Caesar considered himself the son of God and the savior of the people, but let’s say he, instead of those dirty shepherds, heard the angel’s message, went to the manger, saw, and believed. Jesus could have been swept out of that dump and given a royal palace, servants, and everything He would ever want or need. The whole crucifixion business could have been dispensed with. How?

Caesar, using his own version of the Wireless Emergency Alert system, could have used those 250,000 miles of roads and the messengers, who were constantly running to and fro, to spread the word of this new King while keeping Jesus safely cloistered away. Within two months of Jesus’s birth and Caesar’s visit to the manger, the message would have been broadcast to the entire empire. Not as fast as we could today, but a heck of a lot faster and more efficient than a couple of untrustworthy shepherds with no means of communicating to the rest of the world. 

The words of Judas Iscariot in the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar,
“Why’d you choose such a backward time in such a strange land?
If you’d come today you could have reached a whole nation.
Israel in 4 BC had no mass communication.”

Not only could Caesar have communicated the message more quickly, but he could have commanded and put into law that Jesus was the true Son of God, that there would be no other gods but the Father, and that anyone stupid enough to disagree could be put to death. How great is that?

Here, we’ve been trudging along for 2,000 years to make Jesus known and loved, but if the angels had gone to Caesar Augustus, the world would have become Christian almost overnight and would have remained so until 476 AD, when the Roman Empire fell. That’s when whoever rose to power would have ushered in a new god, required everyone to worship it, and put to death those who disagreed. And the world would have fallen into step with little to no resistance. Why?

God chose shepherds when he came into the world because Jesus would not be managed by politicians and used to further agendas. That type of system is always doomed to failure. Instead, Jesus came so that hearts would be changed. This does not happen with commands and dictates. It doesn’t happen with power and threats. It happens when the humble and meek, the lowly and despised—the shepherds—hear the angels’ message and submit themselves, body and soul, to the One who calls them into His presence and reveals Himself to them.

In a sermon preached in the early fifth century, St. Augustine said, 

“Shepherds were watching their flocks by night.
Shepherds—simple men, humble men, poor men—were watching, and the angel of the Lord stood by them.
Not to kings, not to scribes, not to the wise of this world was the birth of Christ announced, but to shepherds.

Why shepherds?
Because they were humble; because they were vigilant; because they were keeping watch.
Pride does not keep watch; humility does.”

Jesus had no desire to conquer worldly empires. He came to conquer sin and death, so that those who believe in Him and call on His Name might receive forgiveness of sins and eternal life. This could never be accomplished by the dictates of Caesar. St. Leo the Great said, “Truth sought not the halls of kings, but the hearts of the humble.” Starting with shepherds has taken longer, but through those very humble beginnings, the world has never been the same.

This evening, we are the shepherds gathered in this place. We came not by compulsion or command, but because we too have had our hearts changed, made new. Somewhere within our souls, the angels spoke, saying to us as they did to the shepherds, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” We have heard those words, and like the shepherds, we visit the manger, kneel before our infant King, and believe. In his sermon, St. Augustine went on to say, 

Let us imitate the shepherds.
Let us keep watch over what has been entrusted to us.
Let us guard Christ in our hearts.
Let us proclaim Him by our lives.

Our God and King has drawn near, come, let us adore Him.

Let us pray (also from St. Augustine): Let the just rejoice, for their justifier is born. Let the sick and infirm rejoice, for their Savior is born. Let the captives rejoice, for their Redeemer is born. Let slaves rejoice, for their Master is born. Let free men rejoice, for their Liberator is born. Let all Christians rejoice, for Jesus Christ is born. Amen.

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Sermon: Advent 3 RCL A – “Yes”

When it comes to daily devotional books that you might read as part of a spiritual practice, we most often think of ones that are uplifting and joyful. Something to give a good start to the day. I’ve come across several that I quit pretty quickly, but some I get very involved with. Few are specific for priests, but there are a couple, and one that I discovered several months back is The Dignity and Duties of the Priest, by St. Alphonsus Liguori. 

In the first few pages, I thought it would be inspiring and uplifting. There was a quote by St. John Chrysostom that was setting the tone—“Priests should be so holy that all may look to them as models of sanctity; because God has placed them on earth that they may live like angels, and be luminaries and teachers of virtue to all others.” I read that and began to feel good about my calling, but then it took a turn. A couple of pages later—“In a word, [the priest] that is not holy is unworthy to approach the altar, because by the stains that he brings with him, he contaminates the sanctuary of God. Let him not approach the altar, because he has a blemish, and he must not defile my sanctuary.” On the next page, a quote from Saint Augustine further illumines this: “To the Lord is more pleasing the barking of dogs than the prayer of such priests.”  

It was such a wonderful book—and I mean that—but there were mornings when I would look at it and say, “You’ll get your turn. Give me a minute.” Then I would read and get smacked again—“At present, says the holy church, I am not persecuted by the pagans, for the tyrants have ceased, nor by the heretics, because there are no new heresies; but I am persecuted by the [priest], who by his scandals robs me of many souls.” For such a priest, Liguori tells us, “The end shall be, first, abandonment of God, and then the fire of hell.” 

I kept reading—it actually changed my understanding of the priesthood—but I kept wanting him to throw me a bone. Give me some sign of hope, because there were times I felt convinced I had no chance of heaven.

Now imagine you are Jewish and living during the time leading up to the birth of Jesus. You attend synagogue every Sabbath. You understand the teachings of the Torah and sincerely want to follow them, but you find that every turn, you stumble over one aspect of the Law or another. The only way to enter God’s Kingdom is if you are without sin, but no sooner have you made the appropriate sacrifices at the Temple for the forgiveness of sins, you fall into another pit. You want to be holy, but there seems to be no hope.

Now, imagine you’re living in the small city of Nazareth. One night, after a long, hard day, you’re making your way home. As you walk, you recall all the times you’ve failed God, and you understand the consequences of those failures. Yet, until you can return to the Temple again to make the necessary sacrifices, your salvation remains in question. In your fear and frustration, you stop along the way and lean against a wall just to have a moment of quiet. Then, you see a strange light begin to shine out of the window of the house you’re leaning against. Just as you’re about to move on, you hear the sweetest voice begin to speak, and it stops you in your tracks. You have no choice but to listen.

“Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” There’s a brief pause, then you hear, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Another pause, then you hear a young woman’s voice, “How will this be, since I am a virgin?”

The response comes immediately: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore, the child to be born will be called holy—the Son of God. And behold, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month with her who was called barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.”

Imagine you’re listening outside the window as all this happens. You realize that it is an angel of the Lord speaking to the girl. What he offers is not only salvation for the girl, but for the whole world—yourself included. The angel is offering the hope you are so desperately seeking. You know that through the Son of God, whom the angel is speaking about, you will receive forgiveness of sin, you will be given the freedom to serve and worship God without fear, and that you will be set free from the sting of death. In that moment, you understand all of this, but you also realize that everything depends on one thing—the young woman’s response.

St. Bernard of Clairvaux wrote in a sermon about that moment—a moment when all of creation held its breath, waiting for Mary to speak: “You have heard, O Virgin, that you will conceive and bear a son; you have heard that it will not be by man but by the Holy Spirit. The angel awaits an answer; it is time for him to return to God who sent him. We too are waiting, O Lady, for your word of compassion; the sentence of condemnation weighs heavily upon us…. Tearful Adam with his sorrowing family begs this of you, O loving Virgin, in their exile from Paradise. Abraham begs it, David begs it. All the other holy patriarchs, your ancestors, ask it of you, as they dwell in the country of the shadow of death. This is what the whole earth waits for.”—Mary, what is your answer? On one side is condemnation and death, and on the other is the forgiveness of sins and life eternal.

As I read Liguori’s book, I kept asking, “Is there any hope?” And for you, standing outside the window, listening to the angel’s words, you’ve asked the same question: “Is there any hope?” Yes, there is. The greatest of all hope. Why? Because “Mary said: Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word.” Mary said yes, and Hope Incarnate, the very Word of God, the Son of God, Christ Jesus the Lord, was conceived in the Virgin’s womb.

There is often confusion about why the Blessed Virgin Mary is held in such high esteem, but the answer lies in those few words of hers, for all of salvation—ours, the world’s, all of creation—hinged on her response.

That great Archbishop of Canterbury from the 11th century, St. Anselm, said, “To Mary God gave his only-begotten Son, whom he loved as himself. Through Mary, God made himself a Son, not different but the same, by nature Son of God and Son of Mary. The whole universe was created by God, and God was born of Mary. God created all things, and Mary gave birth to God. The God who made all things gave himself form through Mary, and thus he made his own creation. He who could create all things from nothing would not remake his ruined creation without Mary.”

If I could accomplish one thing today, it would be to increase your devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Our salvation is through Christ Jesus alone—no one comes to the Father except through Him—however, it was through Mary and her yes that Christ took on our flesh and, through that same flesh, was able to give us hope. As I’ve told you before, this hope we possess is not mere wishful thinking. Our hope in Christ Jesus is an unshakable knowledge and expectation of what the Father has promised all along. What is that promise? We read it in the:

“He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.

He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.

He has come to the help of his servant Israel,
for he has remembered his promise of mercy,

The promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children for ever.”

The Father has promised that we will be with Him in His Kingdom, where there will be no end, and it all started with Mary’s “Yes.”

Mary’s life is devoted to guiding us to her Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Offer your devotion to her. Respect her as Queen and mother, and through her intercessions, you will be drawn deeper into your relationship with the One True God.

Let us pray: Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve: to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus, O merciful, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! Amen.

Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

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Sermon: Our Lady of Guadalupe

The Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary was on Monday, the Feast of Our Lady of Loreto is today, and the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe is this coming Friday. We can’t cover them all, so I’ll share with you a report by Don Antonio Valeriano, a Native American author of the sixteenth century.

At daybreak one Saturday morning in 1531, on the very first days of the month of December, an Indian named Juan Diego was going from the village where he lived to Tlatelolco in order to take part in divine worship and listen to God’s commandments. When he came near the hill called Tepeyac, dawn had already come, and Juan Diego heard someone calling him from the very top of the hill: “Juanito, Juan Dieguito.”

He went up the hill and caught sight of a lady of unearthly grandeur whose clothing was as radiant as the sun. She said to him in words both gentle and courteous: “Juanito, the humblest of my children, know and understand that I am the ever virgin Mary, Mother of the true God through whom all things live. It is my ardent desire that a church be erected here so that in it I can show and bestow my love, compassion, help, and protection to all who inhabit this land and to those others who love me, that they might call upon and confide in me. Go to the Bishop of Mexico to make known to him what I greatly desire. Go and put all your efforts into this.”

When Juan Diego arrived in the presence of the Bishop, Fray Juan de Zumarraga, a Franciscan, the latter did not seem to believe Juan Diego and answered: “Come another time, and I will listen at leisure.”

Juan Diego returned to the hilltop where the Heavenly Lady was waiting, and he said to her: “My Lady, my maiden, I presented your message to the Bishop, but it seemed that he did not think it was the truth. For this reason I beg you to entrust your message to someone more illustrious who might convey it in order that they may believe it, for I am only an insignificant man.”

She answered him: “Humblest of my sons, I ask that tomorrow you again go to see the Bishop and tell him that I, the ever virgin holy Mary, Mother of God, am the one who personally sent you.”

The Bishop again did not believe and asked for a sign.

On Monday Juan Diego did not return. His uncle, Juan Bernardino, became very ill, and at night asked Juan to go to Tlatelolco at daybreak to call a priest to hear his confession.

Juan Diego set out on Tuesday, but he went around the hill and passed on the other side, toward the east, so as to arrive quickly in Mexico City and to avoid being detained by the Heavenly Lady. But she came out to meet him on that side of the hill and said to him: “Listen and understand, my humblest son. There is nothing to frighten and distress you. Do not let your heart be troubled, and let nothing upset you. Is it not I, your Mother, who is here? Are you not under my protection? Are you not, fortunately, in my care? Do not let your uncle’s illness distress you. It is certain that he has already been cured. Go up to the hilltop, my son, where you will find flowers of various kinds. Cut them, and bring them into my presence.”

When Juan Diego reached the peak, he was astonished that so many Castilian roses had burst forth at a time when the frost was severe. He carried the roses in the folds of his tilma (mantle) to the Heavenly Lady. She said to him: “My son, this is the proof and the sign which you will bring to the Bishop so that he will see my will in it. You are my ambassador, very worthy of trust.”

Juan Diego set out on his way, now content and sure of succeeding. On arriving in the Bishop’s presence, he told him: “My lord, I did what you asked. The Heavenly Lady complied with your request and fulfilled it. She sent me to the hilltop to cut some Castilian roses and told me to bring them to you in person. And this I am doing, so that you can see in them the sign you seek in order to carry out her will. Here they are; receive them.”

He immediately opened up his white mantle, and as all the different Castilian roses scattered to the ground, there was drawn on the cloak and suddenly appeared the precious image of the ever virgin Mary, Mother of God, in the same manner as it is today and is kept in her shrine of Tepeyac.

The whole city was stirred and came to see and admire her venerable image… they called her by the name that she herself had used: “the ever virgin holy Mary of Guadalupe.”

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Sermon: Advent 2 RCL A – “Prophet’s Call”

The American Film Institute has several “Top 100” lists: 100 best movies, 100 best musicals, 100 best heroes and villains, and so on. They also have the “100 top movie quotes.” Way down in the 80s, we have lines like, “Yo, Adrian,” and “My Precious.” Moving up into the 40s, there is “Shane. Shane. Come back,” and “Stella! Hey, Stella!” Then breaking into the top ten, there are “Go ahead, make my day,” and “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Number one on the list, you’ve got to love Rhett Butler—“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a….” However, the one I’m thinking of today comes in at number ten, spoken by Travis Bickle, played by Robert De Niro, in Taxi Driver. The line: “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me!?” (Source)

In our Gospel reading, when John the Baptist confronts the Pharisees and Sadducees, I can picture them glancing at each other, then at John, and in their best Robert De Niro impression, asking, “You talkin’ to me?!” And then John firing back with number forty-four on the AFI list, “I see dead people.” Okay. Enough of that. 

As we know, John’s criticism didn’t stop with the religious leaders. He was an equal-opportunity rebuker, and later, he would criticize Herod for marrying his brother’s sister, which landed him in jail and eventually led to his beheading. Yet for the prophets, including John the Baptist, they were almost always upsetting someone and finding themselves in danger.

In the Acts of the Apostles, the first deacon was Stephen. He said to the religious leaders, “You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Spirit. As your fathers did, so do you. Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who announced beforehand the coming of the Righteous One.” (Acts 7:51-52) They then proceeded to stone him to death.

Despite the dangers of the job, the prophet’s role is to stir up the people and point out their errors, hoping they will return to God. In fact, they are responsible for the souls of the people before God. Speaking to Ezekiel, the Lord said, “So you, son of man, I have made a watchman for the house of Israel. Whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me. If I say to the wicked, O wicked one, you shall surely die, and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from his way, that wicked person shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand. But if you warn the wicked to turn from his way, and he does not turn from his way, that person shall die in his iniquity, but you will have delivered your soul.” (Ezekiel 33:7-9)

Prophet: a dangerous job before the people and before God, yet God calls those He chooses. The Prophet Jeremiah said, “The Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord said to me,
‘Behold, I have put my words in your mouth.
See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms,
to pluck up and to break down,
to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant.’”
(Jeremiah 1:9-10)

The Lord chooses and sends His prophets to speak His words, not their own. Knowing this, you might think they—dare I say, “We”?—would respond accordingly, but it was said, “The Lord, the God of their fathers, sent persistently to them by his messengers, because he had compassion on his people and on his dwelling place. But they kept mocking the messengers of God, despising his words, and scoffing at his prophets, until the wrath of the Lord rose against his people, until there was no remedy.” (2 Chronicles 36:15-16)

The same was true with John the Baptist. The people heard what was said, but they did not respond according to the will of God. Instead, they became angry with these messengers and persecuted them, often putting them to death. Thank goodness we are not like them. We accept criticism and correction very well. When someone offers Godly corrections to us, we don’t get angry. No, sir. We might get even, but we don’t get angry! Right?

Let me ask you this: you hear John the Baptist crying out, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” How do you respond? The human thing to do is to look at everyone around you and say, “Darn tooting! Y’all need to repent! Get right with the Lord!” The whole time, thinking John the Baptist couldn’t possibly be talking to you. Or what about this: Christian groups love to quote this one from 2nd Chronicles: “If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (2 Chronicles 7:15) What’s the first thing to go through your head? “If those left-wingers or the fascist right (I too am an equal opportunity rebuker) would just learn to pray and follow Jesus, then this whole thing could be sorted out overnight!” Can I get an “Amen”? Why do we think this way? Isn’t it obvious? This call to turn from wicked ways is about them, and has nothing to do with me! 

However, the prophet confronts us and says, “Oh, yes, it is. It is all about you. You are the one who needs to get right with God.” Like everyone else, we don’t much like hearing it, but we must be willing to listen to the words of John the Baptist—“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”—and allow those words to be spoken to us personally and as the Church. We must let God correct us so we are not the ones provoking His wrath. Through this process of correction, we are allowing him to perfect us. As the Lord told the church in Laodicea, “Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline, so be zealous and repent.” (Revelation 3:19)

How can we let the prophets’ words speak to us and correct us? There is a powerful phrase from Martin Luther: “The Cross tests everything.”  

If we test our thoughts, actions, and deeds the same way the Pharisees and Sadducees evaluated theirs, we respond like they did—“You talking to me?” However, if we test those same thoughts, actions, and deeds by the Cross, we may discover a different outcome. It might not be what we want to hear, but it will be God’s truth.

I wonder, if we are willing and brave enough to look closely, which part of ourselves, our lives, our being would we hesitate to put to the test of the Cross? I suspect there are aspects of all our lives that are much safer tucked away in their own personal niches, their own special places of worship within our souls, even illuminated with one of those little votive candles—areas that are far too cherished by the Great “I” to be put to such a test. Yet, if we did, if we nailed those silly notions to that most sacred tree, the Cross, well, they would likely scream out in protest and blasphemy, just like the wicked thief did who was crucified with Jesus. But in the end, we would be set free from those things that bind us.

The prophets deliver messages to a world that is broken, but their messages are also for us. Jesus says, “He who has ears, let him hear.” (Matthew 13:9) I pray that if you hear in your soul John the Baptist calling you to repentance, don’t be like those who become proud and angry. Instead, submit to the call of repentance and accept the forgiveness of sins; for as St. John tells us, “If we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)

Let us pray: 

O God,
You raised up St. John the Baptist
to prepare a perfect person for Christ.
We call upon St. John’s intercession
to properly prepare us with a true
sense of repentance to receive Your
grace and salvation.
Make us faithful to Truth and justice,
as You did Your servant,
John the Baptist, herald of Your Son’s
birth and death. Lord, may You increase
Your life within us.
Amen.

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Sermon: RIP – Mary Alice Stalcup

Link to Obituary

I came across a poem that I thought Mary Alice would like, but also one that feels as though she lived it. It is often attributed to St. Augustine, but it is much more contemporary than that. It was written in the early 20th century by German musician and teacher Georg Goetsch. The title: I Praise the Dance.

I praise the dance,
for it frees people from the heaviness of matter
and binds the solitary to community.
I praise the dance,
which demands everything:
health and a clear spirit,
a poised soul and a shining body.
The dance transforms the soul
into a dwelling of light.

O human, learn to dance,
for otherwise the angels in heaven
will not know what to do with you.

The dance is wholly from the beginning.
It is the movement of creation itself,
the becoming of all things,
their passing and their re-becoming.
The dance turns the deepest, holiest things
into visible and living form.

Dance,
because the whole of creation dances:
the sun, the stars, the earth—
they all move in rhythm and harmony.
So too should you move in rhythm with God.

The author told us,

O human, learn to dance,
for otherwise the angels in heaven
will not know what to do with you.

I can assure you, you do not want to see me dance. It’s not pretty, but I do understand the deeper meaning of the author’s message. 

He is telling us that in this life, we are meant to find joy. We should learn not only to experience God through prayer and study but also to encounter Him in the people we meet. We are called to seek out ways in this lifetime to love, show compassion, practice our faith, and give of ourselves. Living this way allows those around us to experience glimpses of heaven—the eternal life to come. From what I’ve learned, Mary Alice was just such a person. She was one who learned how to dance in her soul and showed others how to do the same.

You might think that someone who has lived such a life would face no troubles, but we know that’s not true. I recall the time St. Teresa of Avila was crossing a stream in winter. She lost her footing and fell into the icy water, then complained to the Lord about all her suffering. Jesus said to her, “Don’t complain, my daughter, this is how I treat My friends.” To which Teresa responded, “If this is how you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few!” 

Mary Alice, also a friend of Jesus, had every reason to complain just as St. Teresa did, but like St. Teresa, Mary Alice did not lose her faith. She heard those words of Jesus we read in our Gospel and lived them—“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” Despite her suffering, she held onto her belief, her faith in Jesus, so that on this day, we can confidently say that she is dancing with the angels in God’s Eternal Kingdom.

Those of us gathered here today are saddened by our loss, but we can also rejoice in knowing that Mary Alice, through the power of the resurrection, is now truly home. We can also rejoice in the knowledge that a place has been prepared for us, and on the day of the Lord’s choosing, he will gather us to Himself, where we will all be reunited in the very presence of His glory. As the Psalmist declares, “This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.”

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