Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, 8:00am Holy Communion

“Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve”

The story of the temptations of Christ read on the First Sunday in Lent follows upon the baptism of Christ. The baptism of Christ is an epiphany – a making known of his essential divine identity: “This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased”. What immediately follows is that Christ is driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. The temptations belong to the pageant of the passion.

What are the temptations of Christ? They are our temptations brought to a certain kind of clarity in Jesus Christ. We are apt to have a negative view of temptation. But in truth, there is something altogether positive about the fact of temptations. They are a necessary feature of our humanity. Whether or not we are tempted is not at issue, but how we understand and respond to the temptations in our souls is altogether crucial. The story of the temptations of Christ is about two things: the naming of the three forms of temptation; and the threefold overcoming of temptation. The critical lesson for us is that temptation is properly named and only overcome by Christ and only by Christ in us.

The wilderness is the place of spiritual combat. It is also the place of spiritual refreshment and renewal. There is a struggle, a conflict. The conflict is within. It is the conflict of wills within us. We are divided against ourselves in every temptation. It is a question about our fundamental identity. What really defines us?

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Meditation for Ash Wednesday

“Remember, O man that thou art dust and unto dust shalt thou return.”

Dust and ashes. These are the symbols that mark the beginning of the pilgrimage of love. For that is the deep meaning of Lent. It is all about the renewal of love in our souls and lives, a renewing in us of the divine image in which we are made. That there can be a journey, a pilgrimage, is itself the great good news for our world, weary and in disarray.

T.S. Eliot’s poem, Ash Wednesday, explores the ambiguities of our modern world, our uncertainties and hesitations, the ambiguities and the confusions of our desires.  “Because I do not hope to turn again,” it begins, a phrase which functions as a kind of mantra, and one which captures so much of the despair and uncertainty of our world and day. The despair and uncertainty is in ourselves. And yet, hope against hope constantly breaks through as counter to our despair. There is a yearning, a desire for something more. There is prayer. “Teach us to care and not to care/ Teach us to sit still,” echoing the psalm prayer, “be still and know that I am God,” (Psalm 46.10). Eliot’s poem ends with a prayer from the liturgy and which is included in the Penitential Service of our Prayer Book (BCP, p. 614). And let my cry come unto thee.” Hope breaks through and seeks its voice, the voice of prayer.

Dust and ashes. They are the profound symbols that recall us to the truth of our humanity. Dust recalls us to creation, specifically to our human creation as the dust into which God has breathed his spirit, the concrete expression of our uniqueness as being made in the image of God, but as well having a connection to everything else in the created order. We are not the authors of our own being. “It is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves,” as the Psalmist puts it (Ps. 100). The dust is a strong reminder of our origins, of the truth of our being. “Remember, O man, that thou art dust.” It is something inescapable, something which can only be forgotten at our peril, for “unto dust shalt thou return.” We cannot escape our creatureliness. Denial is the folly of despair. No. The struggle must be to reclaim our being as made in the image of God.

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Sermon for Ash Wednesday

“Repent ye”

It will not do, especially on Ash Wednesday, to begin with anything less than the Scriptures. Oh, I know, doesn’t every preacher begin with a text from Scripture? To ask the question is to beg the question, on the one hand, and, on the other, to suggest that there is a problem. What scripture text and for what purpose, we might ask? We may realize that there are often other purposes or agendas that have precious little to do with any sort of biblical wisdom.

Ah, biblical wisdom! What is that? Does it exist? Can we speak of the Bible in any meaningful sense at all? And what does it have to do with Ash Wednesday? Because everything about this day and the season to which it invites makes no sense apart from the pageant of Scripture and, to push the point out into the open more fully, the pageant of Scripture doctrinally, that is to say, creedally, understood. That’s a tall order and yet one of the greatest importance. It is about reclaiming the very nature of our life in Christ. It belongs, we might say, to the very purpose of Lent.

Repentance. Impossible without a sense of God, the one very thing that contemporary culture within and without the Church insists on denying. Ash Wednesday is the wake-up call to what cannot be denied. It is not about some masochistic (or sadistic) way of beating up upon ourselves and others. It is about our acknowledgement of the grace of God which truly defines, governs, and rules our lives, the God “in knowledge of whom standeth our eternal life, whose service is [our] perfect freedom.” Not just any freedom but perfect freedom! This is the daily prayer of the praying Church and yet we are often oblivious to its power and truth.

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Sermon for Quinquagesima

“Behold, we go up to Jerusalem”

The idea of life as a journey is a common yet compelling metaphor. It signifies a sense of purpose and indicates a sense of direction. But not all journeys are the same. The differences lie in the conception of the end which conditions the means. Lent would remind us of the essential character of the Christian journey.

The journey is the pilgrimage of the soul to God and it is a pilgrimage with God. The end is union with God and God makes our way to him with us. We are apt to forget how remarkable this really is. There is our human desiring, on the one hand, our quest for God, the odyssey of the human soul, as it were, but there is, on the other hand, the divine desiring, that is to say, God’s will for us.

The journey is the way of sacrifice, to be sure, but it portends the greater accomplishment, the discovery of our part in the body of Christ. What has to be forsaken is our continual tendency to mistake the part for the whole or to deny everything else except our own self-will. Such are the disorders of sin which result in suffering and death. The journey does not deny the realities of sin and suffering but makes the way of pilgrimage through them. This is the marvel and the wonder of the Christian faith, the marvel and the wonder of redemptive love.

That is why the journey is the way of suffering. Our way to God passes through the ways of our rejection of God. Our way to God is the way of redemptive suffering in which the disorders of our souls – our disordered loves – are set in order. The disciplines of Lent are altogether about this. They don’t involve a flight from the world and the extinguishing of our desires so much as they intend “the setting of love in order”. They embrace the three essential characteristics of the Christian pilgrimage: the way of purgation; the way of illumination; and the way of union.

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Sermon for the Feast of St. Matthias

“I am the vine, ye are the branches”

There is something rather disquieting and quite disturbing about The Feast of St. Matthias. He is, after all, the disciple chosen by lot and by prayer to take the place of the traitor Judas, as the Collect so directly puts it. It is impossible to consider St. Matthias without thinking about the kiss of Judas and our own betrayals. To contemplate Matthias is to confront the betrayals of our own hearts. That may be the real blessing for it opens us out to the grace of God which is greater than our hearts of betrayal. Out of Judas’ betrayal comes Matthias’ faithfulness.

To be fair, we only know about his being chosen. That is the burden of the lesson from Acts. About his ministry and personality, we know far less. But that is in keeping with the Scriptures as a whole. They don’t fulfill our Oprah and Dr. Phil type desires; slim pickings for the gossip rags ancient and modern. Instead, they offer theology.

The theology here is most instructive. It is the theology of substitution, the theology of atonement belonging to the logic of redemption. Matthias takes the place of Judas. Why does he have to be replaced? Judas betrayed Christ and out of remorse killed himself. Why not just carry on sans Judas? Because of a larger consideration. The number twelve. The twelve apostles look back to the twelve tribes of Israel and look ahead to the apostolic foundation of the Church. It is all about how we are part of something more and greater than ourselves, namely, the community of redeemed sinners.

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Sermon for Sexagesima, 2:00pm service for Atlantic Mnistry of the Deaf

“But speak the word only”

What wonderful words! Here we see the power of God’s Word which goes forth not only to create but to restore and heal. Here we have a double healing, a healing within Israel and a healing outside of Israel, a healing touch and a healing word, the word tangible and visible, we might say, the word audible and intelligible. Jesus heals the leper by “put[ting] forth his hand and touching him,” touching the untouchable, the leper, and then says, “I will, be thou clean.” Here is the Word and touch of Christ near and at hand. Then, there is the healing of the Centurion’s servant, a healing from afar, by the simple power of the Word spoken and passed on, as it were, down through the ranks of the Roman legion!

It is not that Jesus is unwilling to make house calls. “I will come and heal him,” Jesus said. The Centurion’s response to this captures our attention and, more importantly, Jesus’ attention. The healing power of God in Christ reaches down through the centuries; it is not confined to time and place. Such is the meaning of God and here we see something of the marvel and the wonder of what God ultimately seeks for us. We are healed and restored, defined and dignified by his Word.

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Sermon for Sexagesima, 10:30am Morning Prayer

“You are not your own”

Scripture tests our patience. But more often than not, it is about our willingness to hear and not simply our lack of understanding.

Today’s lessons are a case in point. The lesson from Genesis is the story of the blessing of Jacob, a story of deceit really, because Jacob disguises himself as Esau and takes his place, thereby robbing his brother Esau of his birthright, the blessing of the first-born. Jacob uses cunning or guile to obtain what he wants. And yet, Jacob will become Israel by wrestling with an angel, wrestling with God, with whom there can be no deceit. There is, in short, a transformation which takes place. Jacob, the man of guile, becomes Israel, “in whom there is no guile”, as Jesus says about a later Israelite, Nathaniel.

In other words, there is hope for us all! There is the hope of change for the better in our lives, the hope of transformation, the hope for something more than the endless and dreary round of our same-old sins which, if not deadly, at least deaden us to the life-giving reality of God’s Word. In the case of Jacob, God is able to make something good out of the treachery and betrayals of our lives, even out of our own treachery and betrayal.

Genesis can be read as a set of stories about brothers: Cain and Abel, Abraham and Lot, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers. Through the various spectacles of sibling rivalry, God forges a people for himself through whom his will for all peoples is proclaimed. But are we willing to listen and attend to these stories?

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Sermon for Sexagesima, 8:00am Holy Communion

“If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities”

Storms and sports seem to define our Canadian winter but let’s hope they don’t define our souls!

These three ‘gesima’ Sundays provide us with some important moral lessons that prepare us for the journey of Lent, the journey of the soul to God. They involve the transformation of the classical virtues of temperance, courage, prudence, and justice through the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity. This Sunday, Sexagesima Sunday, shows us the virtues of courage and prudence as transformed into love by the love of God.

God’s love seeks the perfection of our humanity. The virtues are the activities of the soul which seek human perfection. But the classical virtues, if left to themselves, can become, as Augustine argues, splendid vices. They are activities for we are not essentially passive creatures defined by what we have or simply by what we receive through our experiences for, then, we are not free. The cardinal virtues teach us something about the character and nature of our souls and the activity of our souls. But the activity seems to be from our side, the side of human seeking, human knowing and doing, as if we could perfect ourselves, as if we could attain to God on the strength and wisdom of our own. Therein lies the problem.

Does that mean that the virtues should be extinguished in us? No. Because, once again, we are not essentially passive beings. There needs to be our engagement with what comes to us; it is not just about what comes from us. That is where the transformation of the virtues by grace comes into play; the virtues become forms of love, forms of our participation in God’s love. Transitional between Epiphany and Lent, these ‘gesima’ Sundays remind us of the love of God manifest in Jesus and indicate how that love is to live in us.

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Sermon for Septuagesima

“Go ye also into the vineyard”

The parable of the labourers in the vineyard is powerful and disturbing. That is the point of the parables. They are meant to prod us into thinking. They offer us another way of looking at things. Often as not they are deliberately provocative.

What could be more provocative than the idea that those who have worked less should receive the same pay as those who have worked more? It violates our sense of justice completely. And yet, the point of the whole parable is to open us out to a larger consideration of the justice of God. “Whatsoever is right, that shall ye receive.” But what is right? Are we the measure? Is right simply, ‘what is right for me?’ Meaning, of course, what I want for me? But on the other hand, is there not a question about equity, about a sense of shared equality? Otherwise doesn’t everything come down to what is simply arbitrary? Now there is a problem!

But is that what we have in this parable? I don’t think so. I think this parable challenges the assumptions that I am measured by what I get and that I am owed what I think I should have; in short, it challenges the entitlement culture of our world and day. What is that? The idea that I am entitled to whatever I think I should have. Why? Because of who I am. Who am I? I am measured by my sense of self-worth but that is measured entirely by what I think I am owed. It is, of course, about arguing in a circle but the assumption is clear. My worth is measured in terms of what I receive. To the contrary, the parable challenges all of the forms of homo economicus, our humanity as defined primarily by economics, whether as consumers or as producers.

The parable suggests another principle which defines our lives. It is simply this. We are called to be labourers – workers. Not in the Marxist sense of homo faber, that I am what I make or produce, but in the much more radical sense that there is something positive and free, something dignified and true in labour. It belongs to the truth of our being as intellectual and moral creatures, creatures who know and love. Work or labour is about our lives as spiritual beings. Standing idle is not good and is not wanted. “Go ye also into the vineyard”. What is that vineyard but the good order of creation? What is our place in the created order? Both before and after the Fall, we are called to labour, to work: first, “to have dominion over” the whole of creation and “to be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it”; and, secondly, “to toil” on the ground and to labour for only “in the sweat of your face shall you eat bread.”

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Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, 10:30am Morning Prayer

“Behold, the days are coming … when I will send a famine on the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord.”

Epiphany season ends this year not with a bang or a whimper but on a note of reflective judgment. Epiphany season is about the making known of God and about what God wants for us. That alone is an astounding matter. It centers on the idea of revelation, that there are things God wants us to know and which are revealed to us. That says so much, on the one hand, about the truth and the dignity of our humanity, and says so much, on the other hand, about the truth and the mystery of God, the God who makes himself known to us so that his life can live and move in us. This is an astounding wonder.

The idea of God’s revelation of himself and his will for us means that something about ourselves is revealed to us. We are in these stories individually and institutionally, as it were. Something about the dynamic and nature of human institutions and human personality is revealed in the witness of the Scriptures. We are made aware of something beyond ourselves, a principle of absolute goodness and truth to which we are held accountable and without which we have no freedom and no real dignity. That we close our ears to this is our folly and our wickedness; judgment itself.

Judgment. We are uncomfortable about the idea of judgment and well we should be. In our day, judgment is about being judged by others without any recourse to the question, “upon what basis?” What are the principles that inform our moral, social and political discourse?

We live in a world of wheat and tares, wheat and weeds, as it were, and it is not always easy to know which is which or even which are we. That is why we are given sage advice by Paul in the Eucharistic epistle for today to forbear and to forgive one another and by Jesus in the Gospel parable to let both wheat and tares grow together until the harvest. “Whatsoever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus”, Paul says, and that suggests a check upon our judgments of ourselves and one another. In a world where we are constantly being told what to say and what to eat, what to do and what to think on the basis of mere assertion and arbitrary authority, it is good to be reminded of God’s judgment rather than ours. It is to be returned to the Lord who has made known himself and his will for us. There is a kind of intellectual and principled accountability.

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