Author: Rosemary Lovelace

The Feast of the Presentation of our Lord – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Almighty and ever living God, we humbly pray that, as your only begotten Son was this day presented in the temple, so we may be presented to you with pure and clean hearts by Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 2: 22 – 40

Almighty and ever living God, we humbly pray that, as your only begotten Son was this day presented in the temple, so we may be presented to you with pure and clean hearts by Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to this Holy Eucharist in observance of Presentation Sunday, the fourth Sunday after the Epiphany. The story of the Presentation is in many ways a result of showing up and being present for mundane, ordinary rituals. I find myself intrigued by this, and especially today, as we have been about the business of being and doing church. The characters in Luke’s Gospel account are going about the business of what is required of them by Torah, the Law of Moses. They are presenting their firstborn to be dedicated to God. It seems to me important that the words “presentation” and “present” come from the same Latin root, praesens, meaning literally “to be before.” In my pastoral care classes each semester, we talked about “being there” and “being available” or “being present” as key elements of what it means to engage in effective pastoral care giving. In our spiritual lives, being present always has a double meaning. There’s present, as in here and available, paying attention and in attendance. And there’s present, as in now—this moment—or Kairos, in Greek, a sacred moment of time. Almost all of the world’s religions recommend both of these: living in the moment, with full awareness. And, we are learning from neuroscience that practicing mindfulness can literally change our neural pathways and neurochemistry for the better.

I believe this is so very important, especially in a culture that makes being present–here and now–so very difficult. We live in a time of anxiety which potentially robs of us our ability to stay present. We create forms of idolatry out of preoccupation both with the past and the future—neither of which, ultimately, we can control. I see this often in my clinical practice, and in myself.

Regardless, we then live as if the mystery of the Holy Spirit is not blowing through our lives. Thus, we sometimes are at risk for setting ourselves up for disappointment, create idols of our plans without consulting God, and cannot enjoy the present. One of the lessons I have learned from athletics—many years of football and now, many more years of running, is that we can prepare as well as possible, and then we have to show, play the game or run the race, and recognize that in order to do our best we must be present to the moment, to the task at hand. The mantra of my trail running group is “Conditions may vary.” We do the training and then we recognize that once the starter pistol is fired, most anything can—and often does happen. So the wisdom of our religious traditions seeks to address this. Now that both of our sons have become parents themselves, I remind them that the greatest gift we can offer our loved ones is “true presence.” Many faith traditions urge us to make the most of every day as a gift from God, and an opportunity that will not come to us again. Thomas Keating’s Centering Prayer practice has as its goal, in part, practicing the presence of God. This means recognizing that God is here and now moving through our everyday activities, including our smallest ritual acts, no matter how trivial they seem. This knowledge can, and should, offer us a vision of resilience, and hope.

Old Simeon and Anna knew this, too. Simeon is guided to a meeting with Joseph and Mary out of his knowledge that God’s creativity in this world has not been exhausted in the past—and both of them feel in their tired bones that God is capable of doing something in the present that is wholly new, world-shaking, and life-giving. Old Simeon takes Jesus into his arms and is moved to say…”now you are dismissing your servant in peace…my eyes have seen your salvation.” So now we know what salvation looks like. It takes on the face and embodiment of a human being.

For us, this means an affirmation that God has come among us in human form to live as we live, experience life with us in all its wonder and sorrow, and live with us into a new appreciation of what it means to be fully, truly alive as human beings. In other words, what it means to be present…to be there. Theologically this is in keeping with the events of the 40 days of Christmas, which comes to an end with the Presentation—or Candlemas—which we celebrate today. Really, the Incarnation is our central theological doctrine that God has been revealed in human form. Living into the truth of this doctrine means that we follow God’s lead in terms of self-involvement in the world of human suffering: with compassion and ethical commitment at every level of individual, social, and political involvement. It means a willingness to be present. When we say, with Simeon and Anna, “yes” to who Jesus really is, we say “no” to the myriad distractions that keep us in bondage to the past, or to the future. It means looking for opportunities to give our best efforts in our affirmation of who Jesus is, being there in ways we feel called to be there. Each of us is given a life for a reason outside ourselves. Each Sunday, indeed each day, we present ourselves—we bring forth ourselves in Epiphany—and re-dedicate our lives to God.

Through our Baptisms we are given the gift of discernment about what God wishes us to do with our lives. And we are given particular communities of faith like this one, in which to engage that discernment. Each of us has moments when someone, like Simeon, steps up to us and says, “Here is what I see for you…consider this as your ministry.” In whose face do you see Simeon in your life? Such encounters may happen in the most insignificant, mundane moments. In the simple, ordinary rituals of our lives we may encounter those who say to us, in effect, “will you be there…are you present?”    

Well, for many years, I listened to Tom and Ray Magliozzi, better known as Click and Clack the Tappet Brothers, whose Peabody Award winning show ‘Car Talk” could be heard on NPR every Saturday morning. One of my favorite parts of this show was the weekly Puzzler, typically a question to which I did not know the answer, but which was always entertaining and educational. One week the weekly puzzler question was this: Last summer I was driving east to west across the country, and found myself in Kansas around noon. I was surrounded on all sides by farms raising a single crop—beautiful to look at, but difficult to understand. When I looked to my right, I saw fields of yellow, and when I looked to my left, I saw fields of green, and yet a single crop was being grown. Please explain. And here’s the answer, which I suspect most in this crowd already knows: In the northern hemisphere, the summer sun is in the southern sky. What I was observing was heliotropism—the tendency for flowers to turn and face the sun. The plants on the left side of me were turned away from me and facing the sun, while the plants on the right side were facing me, and the sun. The plants were sunflowers. When I looked to the right, I saw the yellow faces of the flowers, and when I looked to the left, I saw the green backs of the flowers.

This is wonderful, I found myself thinking, and it perfectly describes how the work of the Holy Spirit, our comforter and advocate, gently guides us in the direction of God’s sustaining, nourishing, and healing presence. Organizations, including Holy Family, are heliotropic. Churches lean toward the source of energy—whether that energy is healthy or not. As memories and imaginations are engaged to nourish participants with the best and most life-giving resources, the church will lean in the direction of those narratives and practices.  And it is just like Simeon, stepping up and speaking the truth by virtue of having shown up and paid attention…Imagine a kind of “heliotropism of the soul” in relation to God, and one begins to understand how we are transformed when we turn toward God, whom I understand to be love incarnate, with the help of the Spirit, no matter what the context may be. And now, we can see the human forms of this through advances in relational neurobiology. Diane Ackerman, writing in a New York Times editorial, suggests that what we are learning is that the brain is constantly rewiring itself based on daily life, just as the sunflowers in Kansas are constantly turning toward the sun. For example, did you know that if you are in a committed relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue blood pressure, ease stress, improve mental health, and even lessen pain? “In the end,”

Ackerman writes, “what we pay the most attention to defines us. How you choose to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life literally transforms you.” A baby’s first attachments imprint its brain, but this is not the end of it by any means. This neural alchemy continues throughout our lives. Supportive relationships, neuroscience is teaching us, across the life-cycle, are the most robust predictors of medical and mental health, happiness, and even forms of wisdom. In short, loving relationships can alter our brains. This includes our loving relationship with God. We now know that spiritual practices such as mindfulness meditation and centering prayer can change our neural pathways and neurochemistry, and that acts of compassion inform who, and whose, we become. Practicing gratitude leads to neuroplasticity and, literally, changes our neural pathways in life giving transformation.

Ackerman tells the story of her own marriage. After her 74 year-old husband suffered a left-hemisphere stroke that wiped out a lifetime of language all he could utter was “Mem.” “Mourning the loss of our duet of decades,” she writes, “I began exploring new ways to communicate, through caring gestures, pantomime, facial expressions, humor, play, empathy, and tons of affection—the brains epitome of a safe attachment.” This helped rewire her husband’s brain to a startling degree, she reported, and in time they were able to talk again, he returned to writing books, and even his vision improved. The brain changes with experience throughout our lives, and it’s in the context of loving relationships of all kinds—partners, spouses, children, grandchildren, parents, close friends, parishioners, and yes, dear one’s the Holy Spirit leading us, turning us, to God—that brain and body really thrive.

So, there it is. We can respond to our Baptism by turning to one another in love. If you’re in a committed, loving relationship to another—including a relationship with God as love incarnate—this can change your life. What we bear witness to in Baptism, and in the Eucharist, is a commitment to this community and to that love, God’s love, which binds us together. As Richard Powers says in his remarkable book “Overstory,” What we care for, we will grow to resemble. And what we resemble will hold us, when we are us no longer. . . .” We become what we pay attention to and love. We can turn, like sunflowers in a Kansas field, and face the source of love, and compassion, and be our best selves. “Practice Resurrection,” the poet Wendell Berry wrote, and that may begin with reaching out in hospitality and love, to others. Amen.

Third Sunday after Ephiphany – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Give us grace, O Lord, to answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ and proclaim to all people the Good News of his salvation, that we and the whole world may perceive the glory of his marvelous works; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 4:14-21

Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.

When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this Third Sunday after the Epiphany. We are so glad you are here! Well, this is where it all begins: and while the baptism of Jesus is really the occasion—the true beginning—of his calling, today we continue to see the implications of that moment…the “so what” in response to Baptism. And in today’s Gospel and Epistle, it is here that the adult Jesus shows up on the stage of history. In this story and our own stories, baptism means more than repentance and cleansing. Here, theologically understood, baptism issues in the anointing of the Holy Spirit, the giving of an incarnational, redemptive identity. We recall that God said to Jesus: “You are my Son, the Beloved…with you I am pleased.” Although this epiphany is a public revelation in our telling of it, the words come intimately to the praying Jesus, and by extension we all bear witness to it as well. Much lies ahead for Jesus from this point, and we hear in today’s Gospel passage that the people were filled with expectation, especially in his own hometown. He must live out this identity and meet those expectations laid on him, and we do well to pay attention to how the people have been speaking about the anointed one already; remember how the crowds will project their hopes and desires onto him. This too, informed Paul’s vocation—his calling—a calling fully realized in this text for today as he reminds the Corinthians, and by extension each of us, that “we are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” Jesus’ baptism, and his response to it, thus leads us to consider the meaning of our baptism too. It’s “vocation,” a word that has lost much of its resonance through repeated use, both secular and churchly.

The psychiatrist Carl Jung had a sign inscribed over the front door of his home which read, “Bidden or not bidden, God is present.” It is an English translation of the Latin quotation which Jung found as a student when studying Erasmus, the Renaissance scholar and humanist. “Vocatio” is the Latin root of “vocation” andmeans to have a calling, but “calling” in our culture often simply denotes one’s job or career, one’s chosen profession. The notion that it is God who calls us, seems a commonplace piety when we are talking about “church vocations,” calls to “ministry” or “the religious life,” but it sounds more like an afterthought or theological overlay about ordinary life. We tend to think of our vocations as the way we make our living, and avocations — the things we don’t have to do — provide our recreation.

Many years ago, as I first began to consider ordained ministry, Bishop Frank Allan said this to me: “I think we get it backwards in our tradition. We have ordination certificates framed and hung on the wall, and our Baptismal certificate, if we have one, and if we know where it is, is only wallet-sized. It should be the other way around. The priesthood of all believers means just that.”

I agree with this. So, what does Baptism mean, theologically understood, in the sometimes-mundane everydayness of our lives? It means what we witnessed last week at our Ministry Fair. It means the abiding and steadfast work of all the committees who, week in and week out, keep this parish running. It means each one of us, asking where in the Body of Christ we belong, striving, as Paul says, for the greater gifts—that is, being our authentic, true selves as a member of this parish.

In one of my favorite movies, Tender Mercies, which many of us watched on movie night together last year, Robert Duvall plays the role of Mac Sledge, a washed up, alcoholic country singer, who awakens at a run-down Texas roadside motel and gas station after a night of heavy drinking. He meets the motel owner, a young widow named Rosa Lee, played by Tess Harper, and offers to work in exchange for a room. Rosa Lee, whose husband was killed in Vietnam, is raising her young son, Sonny, on her own. She agrees to let Mac stay under the condition that he not drink while working and living there. The two begin to develop feelings for one another, mostly during quiet evenings sitting alone and sharing bits of their life stories. Mac resolves to give up alcohol and start his life anew. After some time passes, he and Rosa Lee wed. They start attending a Baptist church on a regular basis. Mac’s redemption and self-improvement run parallel with his conversion to Christianity. Mac is baptized for the first time, along with Sonny. Afterwards, Sonny asks Mac whether he feels any different, to which Mac responds, “Not yet,” indicating Mac’s belief that his reconciliation with God will eventually lead to transformation, over time—in Kairos, or sacred time.Mac’s response to a fan who asks if he was really “The Mac Sledge,” the country music star— “Yes, ma’am, I guess I was” — suggests that his former self has been washed away through baptism and he is open to the mystery of who he is becoming.During one scene, Rosa Lee tells Mac, “I say my prayers for you and when I thank the Lord for his tender mercies, you’re at the head of the list.” Mac did nothing to guarantee or deserve such a miracle. Despite his at times selfish and abusive past, Rosa Lee takes him in and eventually falls in love with him: It is an undeserved grace, a gift of providence from a simple woman who continued to pray for him and to be grateful for him. Mac experiences his ongoing spiritual resurrection even as he wrestles with addiction, and death, in both the past—Sonny’s father in the Vietnam War—and present—his own daughter in a car accident. He also had to die to his old ways of being in the world. In the church, we call this “metanoia”-a kind of turning around, and healing in the process. One might say that Mac found a new “vocatio”—a new calling—beyond that of being a country music star. He rose from the waters of his baptism with a grace-full gift. He was transformed by love. And so are we.

Our language of vocation is problematic not just in its churchly usage (where the distinctions and congruities of “inner” and “outer” calls can trip us up) but in the more common reality of a multiplicity of calls with competing claims upon the stewardship of our lives. We do not have just one vocation, of course, and we sometimes struggle to balance different responsibilities and relationships. Anointing any one of our vocations as somehow holier than another may be a dangerous thing. Was my role as a professor more of a vocation than my marriage, or as a counselor more important than teaching, or serving for a time among you all most important, or is my responsibility as a citizen less than my relationship to my children, and now, to my grandchildren? The claims of others call out to us, often by name, and often out of genuine need. When Thee Smith, my twin brother in ordination, and I were ordained at the Cathedral, Bishop Alexander said that we should remember that we are not professors who happened to be ordained, but priests, after the order of Melchizedek, who happen to teach. I have found this to be a deeply important and significant ontological understanding of vocation. It is a vocational tapestry that begins right here, at this altar, on Sunday and flows out from there into the world. It is a tapestry of many colors, many threads, the most significant of which is, I believe, our Baptismal thread—guiding, sustaining, enriching the whole. And what if our vocations seem to change during our lives? If what one once felt called to do or be no longer seems right, what then? Sometimes, of course, the covenants of the past must hold us in faithfulness. But sometimes new callings arise, and lives are remade in response. What of those who are adrift, unsure of any calling? Our lovely imagery of vocation then seems naïve, better suited for the supposed stability and limited choices of an earlier age. As Wendell Berry reminds us;

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

In the Episcopal Church we are comfortable with the mystery of asking questions, being curious and open to how God might be calling us into a flourishing and generative future. But consider this: the calling of Jesus in today’s Gospel—scripture having been fulfilled in that moment—is not about a job or a career. It is not a word of mission, sending him into the future; at least, not at the outset. The word of baptism is first about the delight of God in this beloved, this chosen, this child called by name. Not a call to do, but a calling that names us. I love to imagine God delighting in Jesus, and in each of us, as any parent delights in her or his child. As for Jesus, my sisters and brothers, so it is for us. Our first calling, the baptismal calling, is the one that simply loves and names: You are my child. I delight in you. The words embrace us and promise to hold us. This is where it begins, and this is also, we dare claim, the last word, the one that holds our future. Yet between that beginning and that end, this baptismal call will often become a call to action. It will mean mission and ministry and all kinds of tasks. It means what our parish—our entire wonderful parish, from flowers and altars to tractors and caring for these acres, to Eucharistic visitors and to extending hospitality in countless ways, and on and on—what this space looked like last Sunday, and what it looks like every week, as we become the Body of Christ in the world. Anointing is a sign of blessing, but it is also a commissioning. As it was for Jesus, so it is for us, the Body of Christ in the world. Our parents and teachers and scores of others called us and sent us to the vocations of our lives. These vocations have come through human voices and relationships, institutions, and communities; they call to us in all the ways our lives find form and function. The tasks and duties do matter, but what abides — our identity, our belonging, our hope –begins when we hear “You are my child, beloved,” and we are raised to the new life of grace; sustained by the Holy Spirit; given an inquiring and discerning heart; the courage to will and to persevere; a spirit to know and to love God; and the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works.” We promise to go forth into the world, respecting te dignity of every human being. And so it is with each of us. I pray that our vocations, whatever they may be and however they are unfolding, are warmed by the Holy Fire that lives in each of us. And so, dear ones, my annual report is this…a love letter to this parish, and a deep bow of gratitude for each of you. In this season of the Episcopal church, changing as it is in so many ways, the “lay led, clergy supported” vision is becoming a reality in this parish. And I pray we remember that the Holy Spirit who anointed us on the day of our Baptism is there to assist, encourage, inspire, and sustain us. I give thanks for each of you, and for the ministries we share in this sacred space, and beyond. Amen.

Second Sunday after Epiphany – year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John – 21-11

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good Morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this second Sunday after the Epiphany. After the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus and the descent of the Dove at the baptism of Jesus, the Epiphany season celebrates the beginning of miracles or “signs” in John’s story of the wedding at Cana. We read this story at Epiphany because the theme of this season of our liturgical year is the “showing forth” or manifestation of Jesus—who he is and what he is about. The changing of water into wine was the first time Jesus gave a real sign to his disciples and others in this way—this Epiphany. I want to visit with you this morning considering this first sign and the implications of this for our lives together at Holy Family. Put in theological terms, this reading from John’s Gospel builds upon the deep and rich history of traditional Jewish feasts with the immediacy, and perhaps urgency of Jesus’ life among his people. In this case, the water in the jars—representing a sacred ritual from institutional Judaism, is set aside for purification. The new revelation of who Jesus is builds upon the “old dispensation” as TS Eliot put it in his poem about the journey of the Magi. There is also the theological connection to the words of Isaiah, who likens the life of Jesus as Messiah to a wedding, and the joy of God’s people to the joy of a bride and bridegroom.

Theological musings aside, however, this is a really good story. Mary tells her son to do something for these folks whose wedding feast—and they were major social events often lasting for days—was in serious peril. Jesus tells Mary that all of this is none of his business and that he has other plans—another agenda—about how and when he will reveal himself. His time has not yet come.

Mary essentially ignores his response and assumes that Jesus is going to be a good Jewish boy and listen to his mother—and he does. Now, what we know about social customs in those days is that to have run out of wine was akin to committing a big social faux pas—a potentially disgraceful disaster that the families might never live down. Wine was the plumb line—if you will—that kept the celebration moving. So, Jesus must decide what to do. He must decide whether to wait before he makes himself known, before he reveals what he learned when God said, “you are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Or rather to act now, responding to the human need presenting itself in this moment, here and now. Jesus acts, the wedding is saved, and the bride and groom are given a new chance—the celebration is given new life. Now, if we take a step back and look at the big picture, we see that this story is not really about the bride and groom. In one sense, it isn’t even about Jesus. The first time Jesus makes himself known—the first time he “shows forth”—if you will, he does so not according to his plans or his timetable, but in response to human need. Jesus’ first manifestation of his true nature was not for or about Jesus. He didn’t call the media together for the cultural equivalent of a “breaking news” event—with which we are all so familiar these days—and then demonstrate a miracle. Rather, the true signs of his calling and identity were drawn out of him in the context of a real-life event, in relationship to people in his day-to-day existence, and out of their needs, not his.

So, dear ones, I want to suggest that what it means and what it looks like for Jesus to be the Messiah is given expression in this moment, amid a relatively mundane moment of human life and need. Who he was and what he had to give, then, were not done for him or his own self-aggrandizement. These qualities, the essence of his being, existed always and only for others—from the very beginning.  

Now, let’s turn for just a moment to the Epistle. We recall that in many of his letters, some written from prison, Paul is about the state of the church in the first century. There were many conflicts due to infighting and miscommunication. Folks in Corinth, for example, were keeping secrets from one another and, as is so often the case when religion goes bad, they were more concerned about being right than being in relationship. They were saying things like “this gift of the spirit is mine, this way of doing things is mine, this way of being in the world is mine; this form of spirituality—this religion…is mine.” And you see, what Paul says to them is what Jesus discovered when the wine gave out. Paul says “What you have been given—your spiritual gifts—are not for you. Rather, Paul says, “To each is given the manifestation of the spirit for the common good.” What you have is not for you. What you have is ultimately not even about you. The folks in Corinth could never get their religion right, or their lives right, until they realized that being right was much less important than being in relationship. When Paul references the Spirit as he does in the text for this morning, he is reminding us to tend this gift carefully—the gift of what theologian Ronald Rolheiser called our “Divine spark” or the Holy flame we have each been given. What we have been given is not for us. It is given so we might give it away, in love. So it is with most of our gifts.

Once when I was in graduate school, a gift to be sure, I used a big word in the presence of my grandmother, whom I dearly loved and hated to disappoint. She was quiet for a moment and said “Sweetheart, we are so proud of you for going on with your schooling. But remember that what you are learning—all this new knowledge—can be used to build walls that separate you from others, or bridges that reach out to them. When you use a big word and you don’t really need to, you are building a wall. And it’s like putting a ten-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head.”

What Jesus had, who he was, by the gift of God, was not for him or even about him. It was given so that he might choose to give his life away. What we have, individually and in this wonderful congregation, this Holy Family, is not for us. It is for the common good. And yet this is the great good news—this is Gospel—that when we give, we become part of something much greater than we can possibly be on our own. There is, as the theologian Paul Tillich put it, “a center, a direction, a meaning to our lives. Jesus offers new wine, a new being, new creation.” We are not created to live lives that are closed-in upon ourselves, protective, possessive, and defensively preoccupied with being right. Another of my wise grandmother’s sayings, usually from the pulpit of her garden, was “Sweetheart, remember that a person all wrapped up in themselves is a very small package.” Rather, we are creatures born to be in relationship. And this means being as fully present, at this moment, as we can be.

Jesus chose to abandon his plans; his schedule; his timetable, for relationship with something much larger. At the wedding in Cana of Galilee, he chose to act—to manifest this new creation. In doing so, he shows us what human life can be like. As the poet Goethe once said, “Anything you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Act, boldly, and Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never have otherwise occurred.” Today is our wonderful ministry fair, envisioned by Parish Life, and hosted by so many who give themselves away week in and week out. Let the Spirit you have been given allow your imagination to see new possibilities for your life at Holy Family. We need your Divine Spark, and let’s remember that there are many, many ways to give something having nothing to do with money. Remember that we come to resemble what we love and hold dear or, as Augustine said of the Eucharist, “Behold who you are, become what you receive.” Or as our fellow Episcopalian and poet Mary Oliver wrote:

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?

If you say the right words, the wine expands.

If you say them with love

and the felt ferocity of that love

and the felt necessity of that love,

the fish explode into many.

Imagine him, speaking,

and don’t worry about what is reality,

or what is plain, or what is mysterious.

If you were there, it was all those things.

If you can imagine it, it is all those things.

Eat, drink, be happy.

Accept the miracle.

Accept, too, each spoken word

spoken with love.

My friends, sometimes we can get so caught up in how something is possible that we forget simply to enjoy it. This poem by Mary Oliver invites us to accept the miracle, spoken with love, not just of the loaves and fishes, or the wine in Cana, but of our very existence, which is perhaps the greatest miracle of all. I believe this is especially true when we live beyond ourselves, into the new being of God’s new creation, where there is plenty of wine at the wedding. Amen

First Sunday after Epiphany – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Father in heaven, who at the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan proclaimed him your beloved Son and anointed him with the Holy Spirit: Grant that all who are baptized into his Name may keep the covenant they have made, and boldly confess him as Lord and Savior; who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

The Gospel: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” 

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 2^nd Sunday after the Epiphany. During this season we gather in community to explore the mystery of the Incarnation, and to pay attention to those ways Jesus is calling each of us to explore how we might bear the Light of Christ into the darkness. Today’s lectionary passages provide us with the occasion to reflect on how we are formed and shaped by our participation in worship in this sacred space. As the lovely Psalm appointed for today says,

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”

And in the Gospel text we hear the wonderful invitation implicit in each of our Baptism’s to respond to God’ call in our lives. This reminds me of a quote from St. Augustine which, translated, goes something like this: “Behold what you are…become what you receive.” In some way, each of the passages we heard read this morning have to do with the deeply compelling narratives of knowing and being known by God, and by one another, and with the process of coming to know ourselves, and our Christian vocation, in deeper ways. At our Baptism—and those of others—we hear the same message: remember who, and whose, you are. In Baptism and in the Eucharist we discover the deepest truth about ourselves: that we are beloved of and by God. This is our deepest identity, and yet it takes a lifetime to live into the full truth of this. This narrative is at the heart of our journey, with Christ, into the fullness of our participation in the Body of Christ. So, this quote from St. Augustine, “Behold what you are…become what you receive,” originated in a homily in which he reflected on this deepest of truths in our faith—that through our participation in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist we are transformed into the Body of Christ, to be taken, blessed, broken, and given for the world.

This morning I want to invite us to think theologically about what this might mean, especially during this season of Epiphany. What might it mean to behold what and who we are, and to become what we receive in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist? The priest and writer Henri Nouwen has suggested that the words “taken,” “blessed,” “broken,” and “given” summarize our lives, because as Christians we are in fact called to be bread for the world, taken, blessed, broken, and given. In this season, as we look for the manifestations of God’s Incarnation in our lives, each of these things is likely happening somehow, somewhere in our lives, right now. If only we are willing to pay attention. If we are willing, that is, to listen to and heed the call, the invitation offered to us. On the wall in my study at the seminary for many years was a quote from the psychologist Carl Jung which reads “Bidden, or not bidden, God is present.” Indeed, and knowing that we have been chosen by God, that we are beloved of God and precious to God, is the first step in our response to God’s call.

I believe that every time we recognize Jesus’ presence in our lives and in others, even in the most mundane moments, it is because he has already approached us—has already seen God in us. And then we have the choice to live as if we believe that this is true, that we are taken—we are chosen, blessed, broken, and given. This is in part what it means to behold who we are…and become what we see and receive. The Gospels affirm this again and again, don’t they, in the images of the Good Shepherd, who knows his sheep and his sheep hear his voice; in Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus and with the woman at the well; and the examples of the man by the pool at Bethsaida, and Mary in the garden—each represents a moment in which Jesus is present, coming to meet another, but in some way unrecognized…. Behold what you are, become what you see and receive… Jesus always recognizes us, but we do not always recognize him. What difference might it make if we live into the belief that Jesus is present in every moment, every person, every situation, asking us to come, and see?

And, here’s where two threads of my vocational tapestry find common ground. One of the places where psychologists and theologians have fertile room for conversation is in the importance of knowing and being known, the need for mutual recognition. Just as God understands the need for us to seek out those moments when we know ourselves in clearer ways, and recognize the Light of Christ in ourselves and others, psychologists understand in ever more compelling ways how deeply important to development it is to be recognized. Psychologist Jessica Benjamin has written “As she cradles her newborn child and looks into its eyes, the mother says, “I believe she knows me. You do know me, don’t you? Yes, you do.” Never will she feel more strongly, than in those first days of her baby’s life, the intense mixture of its being part of herself, utterly familiar, and yet utterly new, unknown, and other.” Yes, and therein lies a tale, because this narrative of relational development toward the path of recognition, which occurs over the course of a lifetime, is at the very heart of what it means to be human, and to become who we are called by God to be. We are and we become our attachments over the course of our lives. One of the areas where philosophy, religion, and psychotherapy overlap is the idea of “agency.” Research has consistently shown that when people see themselves as engaged in change, and capable of progress, they are happier. One study of psychotherapy patients showed that when patients considered themselves to be engaged in a narrative of development and growth, they had a sense of agency and their mental health improved.” Yes, and I believe this is true both psychologically and spiritually—among other ways—and it is the message at the heart of today’s Gospel. Our word for this agency is “Metanoia”; we become the light we receive, and then we share it with others…we give it away.

When I was an inquirer on the journey of discernment regarding ordination, I was assigned for a 9-month stint at the Alzheimer’s unit at Wesley Woods. Among my duties was to make sure that residents on the Alzheimer’s unit who at some point had indicated a desire to attend worship, were taken downstairs for church. Nancy Baxter, our supervisor, assigned each of us one or two patients for whom we were responsible. One of my assigned patients was a lovely woman whom I’ll call Mildred. I knew that she had been a school teacher in a rural county south of Atlanta. She spent her whole life teaching, faithfully, in one school, and never married, and attended the little Methodist church in which she had been baptized as a child. She attended that church right up until she left for Wesley Woods. Photos of her former students—and these were her children—filled her room. In the time I knew her Mildred did not say a single word to me. In fact, I never observed her in conversation at all. I knew that she had distant relatives who visited her—nieces and nephews I think—but I never met them. All that I knew about her I gleaned from her chart, and from her caregivers. Over the course of several months, I would make my way to her room to retrieve her in her wheelchair—she was always ready for church, dressed immaculately and with a ribbon in her hair—and then I would settle her into her place in the congregation and I would leave to assist with worship. After the service was over, I would wheel her back to her room and bid her goodbye.

One day a strong thunderstorm interrupted our routine. As I headed to the elevator to bring her to worship, the storm was increasing in fury, with lighting and thunder and strong winds. The power flickered off, and on, and the elevators weren’t working, so I decided to take the stairs. The lights went out completely as I made my way to the fourth floor. I slowly climbed the stairs to Mildred’s floor. The lights came on, but dimly, as the generator kicked in, and the storm became more intense. I got to her room, and it was empty. Where was she? She was always ready and waiting for me to pick her up. I realized that my dislocation amid the storm, and the break in our routine—well, my routine anyway–had made visible what until now had gone unnoticed by me. I had over the previous months become attached to Mildred—perhaps she reminded me of my maternal grandmother, who had recently died—but in any case, I cared about her and was fond of her, and suddenly, I needed to find her. I felt strangely alone. I made my way into the common room, where residents were gathered in a safe, centrally located space, and I searched for her, among the others.  I looked around the room for her, and finally there she was, dressed and ready for church, seated amid the huddled patients in the day-room. And for a moment it was as if I was a small child again, afraid of the storm outside, scared and alone, and I thought “Do you know me? Tell me that you know me…say that you recognize me.” And then she smiled at me, for the first and only time. And I came to myself again. And here’s the amazing thing. Once the storm was over, and we headed down to church, I decided to sit right next to Mildred. Once the service was underway, we prepared to sing a hymn, so I took one of the lovely Methodist hymnals we used for our Episcopal services at Wesley Woods, turned to the appointed page, and held it up for me and for Mildred, not expecting much from either of us, truth told. And the song began, and wonder of wonders, Mildred began to sing like a trained chorister. She had a beautiful voice, and she knew every word of that hymn, and all the others we sang that afternoon, by heart. This from a woman I’d never heard utter a single word. She had no need of the hymnal, so I put down and listened to her. Over the years, through the music of her tradition, and through her participation in the worship of the Body of Christ, She had become what she had received. And, finally, I got it. I could see the face of Christ in her face, and in her faith. And Alzheimer’s could not take that away. Not then, not ever. And as we celebrated the Eucharist I understood in a new way that we are indeed taken, blessed, broken, and given to the world. And I realized, dear one’s, that this is at the heart of our Episcopal faith—how we pray, and our participation in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist, gradually shape who we become. If only we will say yes. And in those sacraments, Jesus tells us that he is always there, waiting, and that he knows us and is calling to us—that he’s always known us and has always been there, no matter what storms there may be. Taken, blessed, broken, and yes, given to the world. And so I pray that we may behold who we are, and become what we have received, and live into this beholding and becoming for a lifetime, and beyond. God has called each of us by name. Let’s covenant to remember who, and whose we are together in this Epiphany season. Amen.