Sermons

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

For you yourself created my inmost parts; *
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
My body was not hidden from you, *
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were written in your book; *
they were fashioned day by day,
when as yet there was none of them.

The psalmist presents us this morning with a very comforting thought. God knew us from the beginning; He saw us at the moment of conception, when we were but a cute little zygote. He was present and active as every little bit of us formed in our mother’s womb- as the cells divided and opened up to form a blastocyst all the way to when we started forming little hearts and lungs and brains and arms and legs and hands and feet.

Maybe this isn’t as exciting to some as it is to me, but I for one cannot imagine anything more comforting. Even before mom and dad knew I existed, God was already at work. Long before the obstetrician smacked us and we drew our first breath, the Great Physician gave us the breath of His Holy Spirit. The only words I know to respond to this beautiful truth are, once again, the words of the psalmist:

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; *
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

We see this truth wonderfully displayed in God’s actions in the life of young Samuel. We learn in this morning’s Old Testament lesson that the Word of the Lord was rare in the days of Eli. What’s more, the shadow of corruption had come upon the worship of God in His Temple. Today’s lesson simply says that the sons of Eli were blaspheming God and their father permitted such abuse to continue. Earlier in First Samuel, it is explained that Eli’s sons, priests of the Temple, were stealing the burnt offerings to eat themselves and (believe it or not) were demanding better cuts of meat from those who came to make sacrifices to God, not because God demanded it, but because they wanted USDA prime filet for themselves rather than grade b chuck.

God required an advocate in Israel, a prophet who would denounce blasphemy and demand the reëstablishment of proper, orderly sacrifice; and God chose a child for this great task. As Samuel grew he would lead battles against the Philistines, call Israel to repentance, and anoint the first kings despite the fact that it meant his sons would not inherit the position of being judges of Israel from him.

God knew this would be Samuel’s lot in life when he formed him in his mother’s womb. This is not to suggest that Samuel had no part in determining his own course, as a strict Calvinist might have it. Rather, it means that God had a plan for him from the beginning; God did not determine Samuel’s path, but He knew that the young man would choose to follow the course intended for him.

There is much that we can glean from this, but I shall limit myself to one point- namely that there is a course set for each of us from the beginning and that it is our responsibility to determine where that path is leading us and how we might be faithful in following it. Now this does not mean that each of us can know precisely what he is meant to do in all aspects of his life from day one. I doubt if young Samuel knew precisely what God was calling him to do that night in the Temple. It does, however, mean that we can discern God’s will in our lives for at least the near future, knowing that the long term is also part of God’s plan and will be revealed in due course if we’re paying attention.

This may seem obvious enough, but I think we forget how the suppositions of the world can militate against this fundamental truth. There are assumptions about what sorts of life-choices are practical and appropriate considering an individual’s status in mind, body, or estate.

Please forgive my self-indulgence, but the best example that comes readily to mind for me is my own vocation. I remember vividly when I entered the ordination process. After my first semester in college, I returned home for my Christmas break, and the sense which had been nagging at me for a few years that I had a vocation to the priesthood finally pulled me in to my priest’s office and then (in very short order, thanks to the good rector’s appreciation of my as-yet nascent sense of a call) to the bishop’s office.

In that first meeting with the bishop, I kept encountering this idea that this was not something which an eighteen-year-old was supposed to be considering. In fairness to my bishop at the time, who ultimately supported my process, I’m sure I projected some of my own callow insecurity onto the situation, and, indeed, for nearly a half-century, the prevailing assumption in the church (not just in the bishop’s mind) was that one should have a career before considering “entering the church” (as the old ecclesial idiom so infelicitously put it).

It took some growth and discernment on my own part set this old assumption aside. In short (though I probably didn’t think precisely in these terms at the time) it took the realization that God had a plan for me from the very beginning and I had an obligation to see the thing accomplished, cultural expectations and my own insecurity not withstanding.

So, enough autobiography! The point is that each of us has a vocation, whether that be Holy Orders or being the best parent one can be or being the best friend one can be or being the best ditch-digger one can be. There is nothing for the Christian which is merely avocational; if we discern through prayer and contemplation the will of God, we’ll find that somehow each of the decisions we make in life is about vocation, about being the man or woman God means for us to be.

The good news is that God will make His gracious Will known, just as powerfully as he had done for Samuel, because cell by cell, limb by limb, synapse by synapse he made us just as He intended for just the purpose He intended. In some moments we can take this wonderful Truth and determine what’s next for us. In other moments, all we can do is stand back in awe and repeat the psalmists words again:

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; *
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

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

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

Every year on this Sunday, the same question inevitably arises in the minds of the faithful. “If Baptism is for the remission of sins, and Christ was like us in every way but sin, why in heavens name did he need to be baptized?!”
It’s a natural question, but I think it stems from a misunderstanding of the nature of Holy Baptism. It is certainly the case that we believe Baptism to be for the forgiveness of sins. The Nicene Creed says as much, and the Church Fathers explain that even those who are not guilty of particular sins, primarily infants, are nonetheless subject to the stain of original sin, that sad state of affairs enacted by the fall whereby no one can escape sin’s reality by their own efforts. Thus, we are all in need of Baptism for the remission of sins, but to view Baptism as only effecting our state in this regard is to take a rather narrow view of a complex Sacrament which effects us in more ways than that, and it confuses the nature of Christ’s own baptism.

Let’s take another look at the Gospel Reading:

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Now, Jesus’ baptism seemed to effect something quite different than the remission of sins, of which, remember, he was not in need. Instead, we learn from his Baptism something about his relationship to the Godhead. We learn about his intimate connection to the Father and the Holy Spirit. For Christ, this was a relationship which was already a reality. The Creation Story in Genesis makes this much clear, when we see the Father creating the world by means of the Word (or Logos) of which Jesus became the embodiment, and we read that God’s Spirit moved over the deep.

This relationship preceded Creation, it has been for eternity in fact, but in the Waters of Baptism, it is made tangible. The Holy Spirit does not arise as a feeling, but descends as a dove. The Father is not presented as a concept, but as a person with a voice which can be heard.

This is very important, because it is what is so unique about the Christian faith. If there is one thing I am reminded of by Jesus’ baptism it is this: It’s not all about some mental or spiritual transcendence whereby we leave the world and live on some different plane of existence. Rather, God is made known in ordinary, tangible stuff.

The mystery of the Trinity is made real when Jesus, a man, stepped into regular old water. Our relationship with the Trinity is effected with regular old water which, by the Grace of God, becomes something extraordinary. The Mystery of Salvation, of Christ’s death and resurrection, is made known to us not through mental gymnastics, but through ordinary water and ordinary bread and ordinary wine which by the Grace of God becomes something extraordinary. We learn from this morning’s lesson from Acts that the presence of the Holy Spirit is effected not by some sort of transcendental meditation, but through the laying on of physical apostolic hands onto a flesh and blood person, just as today, the Grace of the Holy Spirit is made real when the successors of those first apostles lay their hands, ordinary old hands, onto an ordinary head to confirm or ordain someone.

So, Baptism is about more than just the remission of sins, though for us sinners that’s part of the story. Baptism is also about the ability of God to create a relationship with flesh-and-blood people in the material world, the washing away of the stain of original sin being but the first step. It’s about Christ being known not primarily by spiritual athletes who stay in their studies or their cells and just think a lot (as edifying and gratifying as that practice can be from time to time). Nor is it about having some grand “spiritual” experience (again, not a bad thing, but not the point). Rather, the power and glory of God is made present in the midst of remarkably ordinary things: water, bread, wine, flesh, blood. The Grace of God is made present in the gathering of flesh-and-blood people, who’ve been regenerated by the Holy Spirit and maintain holy relationships with God and each other.

We as Christians, and particularly as Anglicans, have an Incarnational faith, which is to say that the reality of God becoming human in Christ Jesus makes all the difference for how we view the world. The world is no longer just a place for “stumbling blocks”, but has become the very locus of God’s saving work. Christ’s Incarnation, His Baptism at the Jordan, His whole life of woe, and his physical, bodily Resurrection all point to the fact that the way to holiness is not by some kind of world-denying levitation, but by being Christians in the material world, among ordinary stuff, acknowledging reality, and watching God make his presence known around us in the midst of that which is commonplace, whether it be ordinary water, ordinary bread and wine, or ordinary people. It is the ordinary things that serve as the vessels God uses to make His Grace known and felt. God does this for us all the time, but how much more wonderful it is when we recognize it: in plain old water, in tasteless bread, in pretty bad wine, in that person sitting next to you, in the midst of ordinary stuff. It takes a great God to forgo thunderbolts and a booming voice and the like to make Himself known in quotidian things; it takes a God who values us, who values our experience, who wants to be in a relationship with us all the time. Thank God that’s our God!

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

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

Reconciliation is something we talk about quite a bit in our church and, increasingly, in the larger society. We teach our children to reconcile their differences; we find joy when marriages, friendships and relationships between parents and their estranged children are reconciled; and we are especially concerned these days that “the reconciling love of God” be made manifest in our national political scene. It is an unfortunate but perhaps unavoidable consequence of our nature that when we speak of reconciliation it is not truly the kind of radical reconciliation that we should hope for. Reconciliation in the plain sense often has the subtext of “letting bygones be bygones,” agreeing to disagree, and so forth. And these are all fine things, they are at least part of the picture, but the reconciliation envisioned by scripture is of a whole other order of magnitude.

The occasion which we have gathered tonight to observe is the celebration of reconciliation in this larger sense. Tonight we celebrate the miracle of the incarnation, that most holy mystery of God made truly human, and we are forced to contemplate what it really means.

Tonight’s gospel reading gives us a clue. “And she wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” We are not presented with Christ the King who draws all to him on the last day, here. We cannot imagine this child as head of the church or as the one who will judge the world from his throne. Instead, we are presented with a Christ who is entirely abased.

The angel who is charged with announcing the child’s birth is not sent to Jerusalem. He is not sent to King Herod or to the Pharisees and Scribes. Rather, he finds shepherds, lowly men from the fields. It is for them, the angel says, that this child is born. When the shepherds find the child they discover his surrounding no less austere than their own. He has not been born in a palace or the Ritz Carlton Bethlehem or even anything resembling a sanitary place to give birth. Instead, God’s Word enters the world in a grubby manger among livestock.

And were Christ to enter the world today it would be in much the same way. He would not be born in a well equipped, safe and sanitary hospital room. More likely, he’d be born to a poor woman in a tent in Syria. Angels wouldn’t fly out to the White House or even Lambeth Palace to announce his birth. They would appear to African men and women suffering from AIDS, to impoverished families in Appalachia, to people living in hovels in Haiti and Calcutta. It is for them, the angel says, that Christ came into the world.

When we really place ourselves in this story we find that this is, perhaps, not the Christ that we wanted to see. Were we to place ourselves at the manger, we’d find Christ in a helpless, pitiful position. He would seem all too human. The risen Christ is a much safer character to us. He is victorious and distant. His story is one which seems to provide a more tangible joy. The birth narrative is less accessible, ironically enough, because its subject is so much like us. One has to dig a bit deeper to see the hope in this story. One has to be a bit more receptive to the Good News it has to tell us.

To put it plainly, one must be prepared come to this Christ while he is in his abjection. One has to see all of the austerity, all of the grubbiness and lack of explicit majesty in the birth of our Lord to understand the nature of Christ. We often think about Jesus as God with us, his glory thinly veiled behind an human facade. Christmas calls us to think of him as a child, the most human of humans, with weakness and need to the point of utter dependence. And inextricably fused with this humanness is Christ’s divinity. It is in total acceptance of this humanness and acceptance of full subjection to the Father’s will; it is in the choice of abasement, of self-subjugation, that we see God in Christ.

Kierkegaard wrote about the need to be contemporary with Christ. The idea is that to fully understand and accept the person of Jesus for who he was and claimed to be, one must place herself in the company of Christ in his lowliness. That is, to fully and sincerely accept this child, she would have to place herself in the shoes of one of his disciples, ignoring two-thousand years of evolution, and sometime devolution, in theology; jettisoning all preconceptions about him; and forgetting about all of that resurrection and coming-again-in-glory business for a little while.

Of course, this is an exercise which is impossible to fully carry out, but we must try. We must place ourselves in the shoes of these shepherds who should have rightly thought this whole business of some kid in a manger in Bethlehem being the messiah rather dubious. The natural inclination one might have would be to dismiss all of it as a little off (“an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato” said Ebeneezer Scrooge), and yet, they believe. They believe that this is God’s work. These shepherds aren’t so partisan as to think that the only place one finds power is in the king’s palace and they are not so doctrinaire as to think that the only place one can meet God is in the temple. Perhaps their simplicity gave them an advantage in this matter. It is a rather difficult thing for us to adopt the simple sincerity of Christ’s first followers. It has been suggested that were Jesus around today, the church would probably pay him little attention. I do not know whether or not this is the case, but it seems an altogether appropriate question to ask ourselves. Would we recognize God in man made thusly manifest.

This brings us back to the idea of reconciliation. Christ’s abasement, his lowly stature as highlighted in the birth narrative, is a central concern in God’s mission in Christ. Jesus’ role was in truly reconciling God and humanity. This required that he be not only fully human and fully divine, but that his humanness be profoundly demonstrated. This is the great apparent contradiction of our faith- the beautiful paradox of Christian orthodoxy. It is also a mystery which holds so much hope for mankind. “Then a virgin conceived,” wrote St. Ambrose, “and the Word became flesh that flesh might become God.” Christ offers that which is more than simply a way to put up with each other despite our differences. In the Word made flesh we are given insight into God’s purpose for us. We are given a chance to live more fully in the knowledge of God. And in this realization and in the choice to live into its implications, we are afforded the chance to see the humanity and, indeed, the sacredness (the spark of divinity) in each other. We are enabled to go beyond “getting along” and instead learn to live in love in certainty that each and every human being is a child of God, beloved of God, and worthy of our own love and care. In this, particularly in the face of all that divides us (those divisions being the work of the tempter) there is great hope in the work of God in Christ reconciling us each to the other. And from this hope rightly springs joy. For the people who walked in darkness have this night seen a great light; all of us who lived in the land of deep darkness-on us light has shined.

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