Institution sermon for the Rev. Craig Reed at Holy Cross in Paris

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There are words in the Bible that are far from our daily experience, and sacrifice is one of them. Maybe we say “he had to sacrifice a lot to get where he is,” but even that is a far cry from cutting the throats of chickens under a tree and pouring out the blood in the name of some god, as would happen in Africa when Stephanie and I were there. But that kind of practice is not far from the writers of the Bible, and of course they themselves slaughtered animals for the sake of the God of Israel, with the blood running down the altar in rivers. What is all that about? Why have humans all around the world done such things? Often we think that the point was putting our wrong off on the poor animal, and that was doubtless so in many cases, but I want to look at another aspect- life, access to it, in its abundance and power. That is what the sacrificer wanted, and we too, if we are honest. 

Let me offer a good Texas example. The wildcatter searches, drills, looking for the vein, the sluice, the gusher. And when he finds it, it is not his doing, it was already there, and finding it means for him, the means of life, sometimes extravagantly. Well that is how ancient people thought of sacrifice- opening up a vein of life, like the vein of a ram, so that an outpouring would follow. And what would the enterprising wildcatter then do? Build a rig, a framework, not to create life, not even to control it really, but to allow them to live and work around it, so that they could live off its benefits. 

The Bible thinks about sacrifice in a very particular way, and so we need to do the same. Trying to make sacrifice yourself, trying to accomplish salvation on your own, is doomed. You are not the sacrifice. Some people take their whole life trying to learn that lesson and fail. But there is a sacrifice, sufficient, a great one, the great opening of life to every human being, to the world, and it is the death and resurrection of the anointed one, Jesus. Out of him flows the river of life Revelation speaks of. Everything you read in the Old Testament predicts and prepares for the great geyser. Everything we do here in the pulpit and the altar reminds and presents the fact of the one great sacrifice. It is one long history focused on the river of life that flows out of the side of the broken, sacrificed body of God’s Son. That is the Gospel in short form: no sacrifice in us, one sacrifice in Him, the temple of Zion pointing to it and the sacraments pointing back. And that includes, I might this evening add, your priest, Craig serving in your midst to be a living pointer back to the sluice, a kind of breathing divining rod for the stream of life. He has done, and will do a hundred things in ministry at Holy Cross, Paris, but see this evening how he is here, amidst it all, to do one thing, the help build and maintain the scaffolding over the gusher, to keep pointing out where the well is found, out of the dying side of Jesus on the holy cross. And when he does that, you and I find there rest for our soul and life that these dying bodies of our cannot on their own achieve.

But what about us? This is where this evening’s epistle reading comes into play. In the epistle to the Romans, Paul presents the news of river of life, the death and resurrection of Jesus. And he lays out the case about how we can’t create our own stream- he calls it the “justification by God of us sinners.” Now he gets practical in chapter 12- how does this spiritual geology actually work in quenching thirst. What kind of a rig does an individual build over the gusher? Listen to what he says: “by the mercies of God present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” That last word could also be translated “worship.” The prayer book picks up the theme when it says we, who can offer no sufficient sacrifice of our own, who worship the sacrifice of Jesus, are supposed to offer a “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” Wait a minute- on the one hand, no sacrifice, and on the other, we are to offer a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. The answer is this. We are not the sluice. But we do need a scaffold over it to make it central in our lives. We need to give it the praise it deserves. We need to align our lives in gratitude, we need to realize that the river of life is at the center of the world, that loving self-sacrifice for the sake of life is who God is, and then imitate, humbly, ever so partially, the shape of God’s own way with the world.

But what does this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving look like? What in other words does your Christian life look like? First it is by the mercies of God- you are dependent, a learner, Jesus says like a child. Second of all you are to present your body. This means all of our life- your thoughts, actions, showing up, suffering, self-denial sometimes, generosity others, saying your sorry, seeing how fragile life is- all that in the light of God who is a river of eternal life. And only in this sense are you to be a living sacrifice- a scaffold marking the spot. You are to be holy, that means, not a claim you are better than others, but rather that God has reached out and made a claim on you to be a sign of Him, the way a ram or goat was chosen for the temple. And Craig, also set apart, is here to remind you of the divine claim, on days you want to remember and days you wish you could act as you wish. Acceptable to God- because you are following in the tracks of Jesus, in whom his heavenly father was well pleased. Next he says to make your doing a kind of liturgy, a collective act of praise, what Mother Teresa called “something beautiful for God,” not just in your acting but in how you think and speak and even how you remember the past, all of that turned over to Him because he has the words of life, the river without which we perish.

Let’s shift our perspective slightly and think about where a sacrifice is offered, namely a Temple. The human heart is built to seek out Bethel- the house of God, the spot where the fountain flows. Israel named that spot dedicated to God Zion. Your church makes the claim that that spot is really the cross of Jesus. Your building is really a symbol of you, for you are the stones, Peter tells us, where the sacrifice is made, by which he means proclaiming in word and example, in the building and outside it, the Son of God. Humans need a temple because they need access to life, they need to live at the font of sacrifice.

And what is the Temple for us now? As I mentioned, Peter in his first letter gives us the answer, as he quotes the book of Genesis: you are ‘living stones, built up as a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices.’ The reminder of the true temple, the replica, is us. I heard recently of an African American church in Dallas, which was renovated, but in such a way not to replace any of its bricks, which had been brought by its members bit by bit over many years to build the edifice as they went- they brought bricks who were its bricks. And our own bodies are replicas of a Temple, one that offers praise and thanksgiving, one that is eventually broken down so that it can some day be rebuilt. That is our real purpose from God- to become temples, as Paul says, of the Holy Spirit.

It is in this spirit that we can read the poem by the great Anglican poet of the 17th Century, the priest George Herbert. He chose to minister in a rural church, pouring himself into its life. In the poem he asks them to see their lives as a Temple, and they church building itself as an image of their lives. Make your life like Holy Cross, each virtue a stone on the way to the altar of God , each crack a struggle or failing in our lives, the stains the hardships through which we are wayfarers on the way to God. See in this church your lives, see in your lives a church built toward God. Then he looks up to the stained glass. There the word of God you hear in this place is like a colored pane of glass through which the events of life look different, can be seen as indicative of something higher and deeper.

All this brings us around to Craig, whose ministry among us we give thanks for and pray for this evening. His preaching is just such a colored glass through which we see our lives in relation to the God of eternity. He is a stone in this temple. The purpose and discipline of his life are the scaffolding that sustain him at the edge of the waters of flowing life. He teaches us to understand ourselves as placed here for the purpose of the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. He will be a godly example of working the day-to-day details of the sacrificial life, the life of abundant life in Jesus Christ in joy and sorrow. For all that we with enthusiasm, this evening, say Amen.

 

      

Christmas Sermon

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I am told that Molokai, in the Hawaiian chain, is the most beautiful of islands. The mountains, the deep blue bays, the forests sweet with guava and eucalyptus - it seems a kind of paradise. Into the bay sailed the ship, one day in 1863, with Father Damien, a Belgian priest of the Sacred Heart. The ship moored away from the shore, as those aboard feared the lepers quarantined in the colony and now gathered on the shore. Damien had to wade ashore. The sight must have taken him aback- people in turn wading out to meet him, a nose or ear gone, some without hands, others with faces maimed beyond recognition. In the next 16 years he shared their lives in every way. At the end of that period, on an Easter morning, he began his sermon, ‘we lepers…’ He had come to be with them, and finally to die as one of them.

What do you make of such a picture? It is not a little grotesque, especially amidst the festivity and cheer of Yuletide, though similar notes sound in our culture in Dickens or in the tale of good king Wencelaus. And of course the Christmas story is full of desperate refugees, genocide, imperialist control, and homelessness. Damien wading ashore to embrace and eventually to die with the maimed is a fitting image of the incarnation of God amidst his creation, the lepers being you and me. The unsettling nature of the image is true to the story.

But in response the angels sing their songs of glory. What does that mean? It acknowledges that what is occurring has significance far beyond that village and that time. God is addressing the rupture with his children for all time and for the whole world. It bespeaks the power and brilliance of his presence, though its form is the surprisingly helpless one of a child. Most of all it says that what has occurred is unutterably beautiful. That the transcendent and powerful would reach out and embrace the damaged and lost - just as there proofs of God by reason, or cases for God from ethics, would this not be the argument for God from beauty?

Obviously those who attend Midnight mass include the deeply religious, the episodically religious, the polite, those with family solidarity. We are in different places about what to do with the idea, indeed the possible reality, of God. But for each of us, the idea of the human heart longing does speak to us. We are built toward something unnamed and mysterious. But what is that yearning for? For truth, for forgiveness, for fairness perhaps. But this evening let us define it this way: would that we might somehow be perfectly known, seen fully as we are, perhaps better than we see ourselves, to be known in all that we imagine to be unloveable, that from which the other turns away - what if that is the thing we most want. In the Ingmar Bergman movie “Winter Light” the young woman holds her hands with a severe rash before her pastor, who has lots of opinions as shields by which he avoids seeing her. She takes the bandages off her rashed hands so that he is obliged to see her as she really is. What if the one toward which we yearn is the one who sees us wholly. Think here of how the apostle Paul likes to say that we will know God, or better yet be known by him. What we fear most, our unlovability, and what we want most, our being intimately and perfectly known, conspire in the Christmas gospel in the most beautiful thing there can be, and such beauty too is the telltale fingerprint of God. 

The message of the incarnation of God’s son is our being truly known, and his dwelling unreservedly closely with us. God wades ashore as we stand surprised and marred on the beach. And of course the story in its larger frame reminds us that the one who approaches us made us, we are his, and he knows us, heals us, whose effects we come slowly to know. And at the very least God being the one who is close and sees us involves a change to how we tend to think about him, a rediscovery, which is what the discipline of listening to the word of God here every Lord’s day is about.

Much more could be said and tonight is not the occasion for an extended discourse. Maybe now in your life is the time to see if indeed the seeming silent cosmic indifference is actually not so, but actively seeking, nearing, and knowing you. Suffice it for this evening to say that the snippet of the gospel you have heard is a long tale of that divine search with a corresponding thrashing about and running away on our part. Read the bible anew in this light.  Then the moment of God remaining God and yet entering our condition does not seem arbitrary at all. At the same time it is a spare, individual human moment with fallible characters, a story as risky and unlikely as ours.  Incarnation is what we call the great intersection of the long divine pursuit and a Single fleeting moment, God's great entry, and that is why it speaks compellingly to each of us as well. 

Those who sat in darkness have seen a great light, predicted the prophet 700 years earlier. At Christmas there were angels, windows into the world of spirit, the world suffused with the divine presence. And they sang about his glory, which means they adored him for his unutterable beauty. And that beauty expressed itself perfectly in his knowing and seeing and approaching us as we truly are, in love and without reserve. So often we make of religion either works to do, or political positions, or concepts, or even feelings of ours. Put this aside one evening in favor of adoration. Let the attention be all on the great brightness to which we are drawn, the indescribable beauty also personal. Let the only command or concept be “behold.” Allow this broken and disappointing world to be suffused in that light, in which, the Bible says, we are ourselves changed from glory into glory. Amen

Peace,

GRS

    

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Complete the Race (II Timothy 4:17)

At the end of our vacation we find ourselves in Chicago for its Marathon weekend (the fastest, I have read this morning, perhaps because it is cool and relatively level). Marathons offer many good things. You can see world-class athletes from places like Ethiopia and Kenya. There is a feel of fiesta with signs by family members, getups by some for-fun runners, and food for sale.

But as I looked out my hotel window at 7:30 a.m., I watched the race of competitors who have lost legs or their use. Wheeling vehicles by arm for 26 miles means serious fitness and determination.

Those competitors were to me, this morning, a symbol of the Church too. For each is wounded. The larger family cheers them on. Each by grace has risen up to run the race. Ahead is the goal, the prize, the welcome home. We find the companionship of Jesus the Lord, there, and along the route too.

Amen.

GRS