Some of us like our names. Some of us wish we had other names. Some of us have changed our names because those given us did not suit us (for whatever reason). I have always liked my first name.  As an adult, I found out that the roots of Sheila come from Cecelia, and St. Cecelia is the patron saint of music. Because I am musical–I used to play a little piano, and I have been a singer all my life–I love that connection to a saint. And last year, as I was going through the belongings of an acquaintance who’d died, I found a bas-relief of St. Cecelia. Considering it a gift from him, I put it in my upstairs prayer space, where she presides every morning.

This morning, as I read the daily lectionary and said my prayers, I thought it was ironic that on the first day of a new year, it is the feast day of The Holy Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Last night, many people celebrated New Year’s Eve with partying and revelry, and no doubt too many people had too much food and too much drink. Today, they will pay for that excess, and perhaps resolve not to do that again!

Many people will begin today by making New Year’s Resolutions–instruments by which they hope to improve themselves or their lives.

Yet this morning’s Psalm was an important reminder to me of who and what is important. In this nine-versed psalm, what we get is praise–not praise of human beings or how to improve ourselves or how important we are, but praise of the Holy One who has created us.

Psalm 8 begins and ends with this acclamation:  “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name over all the earth!” In other words, it is not a human name that is most important. No one with a human name created a night sky full of stars, or an ocean that crashes in beautiful white foam on Otter Cliffs in Maine, or a lake where loons cry, or fields of crops that stretch golden as far as the eye can see, or snow that falls and transforms an ordinary place into a landscape of winter beauty. God created this earth and all that is in it. It is God’s name to be praised for this island home we inhabit.

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established, what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?”

Yet God cares for the creatures who live on this island home, and if we are connected to God and aware of the Holy One who has created the world and all that is in it. we understand our own role. We are supposed to care for the earth and all that is in it. As my Old Testament professor Ellen Davis used to say, we are not to have dominion over the earth in a way that we run roughshod over its resources–its land, waters, oil, gas. We are to (in her words) “serve and preserve” the earth. Yes, we may be human beings–”a little lower than God”  as the psalmist writes–yet this does not mean that we use and abuse God’s creatures or God’s creation as if they or it is disposable.

Always, always, always, you and I must remember Whose Name is most important. It is God, the Holy One, the Creator of heaven and earth.  And because you and are have been created and given life by God, we are stewards of the earth on which we live. Whatever we resolve on this New Year’s Day, perhaps we should stop for a few minutes and reflect about how the goals we set will improve not only our own lives, but the world we see around us. How will our own goals make a difference in someone else’s life?  How will our own goals make a difference in the water that others drink or the natural resources that belong to all of us? How can we share those resources more equitably? How can we be more thoughtful about not wasting the resources we have so that others can enjoy what they do not have now? How can we take care of people–God’s creatures–in such a way that we “respect the dignity of every human being” as our baptismal covenant calls us to do?

In other words, just because today is the first day of a new year, the world is not just about me, or you. We–human beings–have been created to be in community: with God, with each other, and with the creation that God has given us to serve and preserve.

How will we do that in 2012? When we come to next New Year’s Eve, will God’s earth be in a better place? Will God’s creatures–both human and non-human–have better lives? If the answer to those two questions is to be a positive one, perhaps I have some serious reflection to do on this day. Perhaps you do too.

May the Holy One who has given us life and hope give us the strength and courage to act as God’s stewards in 2012. May we help to bring God’s reign to earth as it is in heaven. Then may God’s Holy Name be praised.

(c) The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures of Black Madonna and Blue Madonna by Frank Wesley and accessed through Google images

Pictures of Otter Cliffs and Compass Harbor, Maine by Sheila N. McJilton

Yet sometimes, a transforming moment is wonderful. We fall immediately and deeply in love with someone at a party, then spend many good years together. We have an inexplicable spiritual conversion experience. We sit with a dying person and suddenly know the depth and mystery of holiness. Or after a long and difficult labor, a nurse or midwife places a tiny bit of humanity with a very red face and a head full of hair into our arms. In that split second, life is transformed.

This morning, we celebrate one of those moments—the baptism of Amandine Mary, which is a transforming moment in her life—even though at this moment, she doesn’t know, or care! We also celebrate another transforming moment in someone’s life—without which Christmas would not have happened. We celebrate Mary, the mother of Jesus, who, in one transforming moment, said yes to God.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.”

This prayer has been uttered by millions of Christians for centuries. From popes to ordinary people. From desperate people who turn to her in prayer to those who adore her just because she is Mary. Just because she has been what the early Church fathers called “theotokos” or “God-bearer”—the woman who bore the Prince of Peace, the Light of lights.

I did not grow up with Hail Mary’s on my lips—my Southern Baptist mama cast a highly cynical eye on anyone with a love for saints. However, through the years, I have grown to love Mary. I have learned to love her despite attempts from certain quarters in the Church to domesticate her. Gentle, sweet Mary, who bows her head in meek compliance to the Divine will? I think not. The Mary in Luke’s gospel is no whimpering doormat.

In the Annunciation story in the first chapter of Luke, the angel Gabriel comes to Mary. “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Luke tells us that Mary is “much perplexed.” Well, I suppose I would be much perplexed if some big tall angel showed up in my house and began a conversation that way! Of course Mary is perplexed. Then Gabriel tells her that she will conceive and bear a son, describing this child in glorious language.  Like most women, Mary’s initial reaction is practical. “How can this be?,” she asks. “I am a virgin.” Gabriel tells her that she will be overpowered by the Holy Spirit—which, I might point out, is a rather vague answer. That this son will be the holy one. That nothing is impossible with God.

What happens next? Gabriel has to wait for Mary’s answer. Mary is a human being. She has a choice. She could say no. The choice is Mary’s. At the very moment she makes this decision, the world will be transformed—one way or another. Throughout the centuries, poets and artists have depicted this moment of time between Gabriel’s words and Mary’s response. It has been postulated that all the hosts of heaven stopped singing. Silence reigned while angels, archangels and hosts of heaven stopped. Listened. Waited for Mary’s answer. Would this innocent girl say yes to God?

To say yes to God will mean human consequences. She and Joseph are betrothed, which in the first century is as legal as marriage. Mary has been promised to Joseph. However, he will not take Mary to his own home until their official wedding ceremony. When Joseph learns that she is pregnant before this ceremony, he has every right to refuse to marry her. In fact, by law, Mary could be stoned to death—although by the first century, very few such drastic acts were carried out. In any case, if Joseph refuses to marry her, Mary will spend the rest of her life raising her illegitimate son in her father’s home, ostracized by the whole village. If Mary says yes to God, her life will never be the same.

Yet Mary shows incredible courage and strength. This is no Mary meek and mild. This is a Mary courageous and yes, even wild and powerful. Deep inside her, this strong young woman understands that nothing is impossible with God. Nothing. In a moment that transforms this young woman and the world, she chooses. “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” The world is forever changed by a teenager who says yes to God.

Mary has to process all of this incredible news, so she goes to visit her relative Elizabeth, who is also to bear a son. When Elizabeth hears Mary’s voice, she is filled with God’s spirit. “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  Mary responds to Elizabeth with a beautiful hymn we have come to call “the Magnificat.” Using the words of an Old Testament woman, Hannah, Mary sings a canticle in praise of God. “From now on all generations will call me blessed.” Then she moves us beyond her own situation into a larger realm of God’s possibilities. “For the mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. . .He has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. . .” Mary is a young, poor woman from a working class family. In her world the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Money counts. Politics count. Power counts. Caesar in Rome is called the son of God and treated as such. Yet out of a time of political power, corruption, lopsided economics, a poor teenager has the courage to say she will bear God’s child. She has the courage to sing with joy about a world that has not yet come into being—a world that with her decision, will someday—God willing—come to be reality. A world that you and I participate in, because you and I have moments in our lives in which we have the power, the choice, to say yes to God and no to the world.

Today, this community of faith will witness such a moment. Today, these young parents bring their fifteen month old daughter to the waters of Holy Baptism. Because she is too young to make this choice on her own, they say yes to God on her behalf. They will promise to bring up this child in the Christian faith. In saying yes to God and having Amandine baptized, they have a responsibility. Not only will they encourage her as she grows stronger physically, mentally and emotionally, they will also have a spiritual responsibility. They must teach her how important it is to love God and to love her neighbor. They must teach her the 23^rd Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer. They must find ways to nourish her spiritually in a community of faith.

The waters of Holy Baptism are not for the meek and mild, because they change you. Forever. They are for those who hear the voice of God through something or someone who says “God wants to be in you. God wants to change the world through you. You are blessed and the Lord is with you. And if you think you are not a likely candidate, just think of that innocent poor teenager long ago, faced with a messenger from God and an incredible, life-changing moment. And just remember: nothing, nothing, nothing will be impossible with God.

If somehow, someway, you are able to come face to face with Gabriel, what will be your response to God?

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner accessed at http://randomactsofmomness.com/

Icon of Theotokos of–the-Unburnt-Bush and Ballenger’s Black Madonna accessed through Google images

This morning was one of those times. As I listened to lay readers at both services read the epistle, one sentence grabbed my attention, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

1 Peter 3:13

“But in accordance with his promise, we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at home.”

“Where righteousness is at home.” I checked my Greek-English interlinear Bible and found that this translation also says “where righteousness dwells.” Okay, that’s “at home” for me.

We don’t talk much about righteousness in the 21st century. Sometimes you will hear someone called “self-righteous.” That, of course, is not a positive moniker. But I think that we have no clue what “righteous” really means.

The writer of this epistle addresses a community of faith that 1. wonders if the Lord really is coming back, since the original group of disciples thought Christ would return before they died, and 2. seems to be wandering into ways of living that are not healthy or good for them. Likely the Christian community is being derided for believing in some “day of the Lord” that really won’t happen. Yet the writer tells the believers that “with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day.” Those who profess the Christian faith are encouraged to wait patiently, to trust that there really will be a day of the Lord, and to live lives “where righteousness is at home.”

What is righteousness?  It is related to law–a construct with which the classical and hellenistic Greek world was familiar. It involved religion, politics and ethics. Yet righteousness was also deeply engrained in the Jewish people’s (then, by extension, early Christian’s) hearts, stretching back to Moses and the Ten Commandments. If you kept God’s laws, God’s commandments, you were considered righteous. And the thought was that Jesus–who kept God’s laws most perfectly and in his whole nature–was the most perfect example of righteousness.

Yet being righteous also related to being JUST. And that involved every person keeping God’s commandments to the best of his/her ability, striving to be like Jesus of Nazareth.

“Where righteousness is at home.” I have been wondering this afternoon what that might look like in today’s world. At the moment, our culture is in the midst of a frenetic, jingle-belled shopping binge. Of course after the New Year, some of us will regret our spending. Yet what has been done, will have been done, and the cold reality of that credit card bill will sit on the dining room table.

Keeping God’s laws–which I believe can be summed up in “love God and love your neighbor”–is pushed to the back burner as we get into the “spirit of Christmas.” Yes, we probably do some charitable giving this time of the year, and my own parish is currently collecting food and money so we can fill over 40 boxes with food for families of elementary school students over the holidays. That is a good thing, to give to others.

But I wonder whether we give righteousness a temporary lodging or whether we give it a home. I want to be the kind of faithful person who–in the cold of mid-January–thinks about how I will live out the love of God as often as I might in mid-December. To live according to the way God really calls us to live might mean that we live intentionally in odd ways.

For example, in this time of polarizing politics, of extreme rhetoric, of some who profess to know exactly what God wants or thinks, how can we–as faithful Christians–respond? In my own well-loved (and yes, adopted) tradition of the Episcopal Church, how can we join John the Baptist and cry out in the wilderness of people’s lives? How can we live the gospel with our lives? How can we invite others into the home of Christ’s love in real ways that make a difference in people’s lives?

I wish I had all the answers. I do not. In fact, I find that the longer I live a life of faith, the more questions I have. Yet I remain hopeful. I want to be more faithful in loving God and in loving others the way I want to be loved. Totally. Unconditionally. Without judgment. That is so difficult. And that probably means that I will have to move the furniture in the home of my soul, to make room for another. Maybe today, I have moved a chair a quarter of an inch. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

As I passed by an open stairwell that leads to the second floor of an office building, I heard someone say, “Well, whadda ya know?” I turned, and there, sitting on about the fourth step, was Dan (not his real name).  I was startled, because I think this may be the first time Dan has ever initiated a conversation with me. You see, Dan is a paranoid schizophrenic. He is homeless. He refuses to take meds. For part of the month–while his disability income lasts–he sleeps in a motel room. The rest of the month? Who knows. An elevator that’s empty overnight. The woods. We don’t know for sure. But we know that Dan belongs to St. Philip’s. Or maybe we belong to him.

On Sundays, Dan finds his way to the parish hall, where he knows he will find a hot cup of coffee, plenty of sugar to put in the coffee, and a high likelihood of some sugary snack. Oh, and there is a baby grand piano in the conference room. It’s hard to say whether the most compelling draw is the hot coffee or the piano.  Dan plays the piano, and perhaps playing music drives the voices out of his head for a while.

He plays beautifully–as if he has been trained. Dan is very intelligent. He was raised Episcopalian. His father and grandfather were musicians. Now, his family can no longer deal with him. Frankly, no one can do much with him, because he won’t take meds, he refuses to get into housing (“I don’t want people taking my money”–and don’t bother arguing that he hands someone money to stay in a motel room. . .sigh), and even in the worst of winter storms, he refuses to go to Winterhaven, our local homeless shelters in different churches. Sometimes he gets out a pen and scribbles higher math equations on Post-It notes. Amazing.

But almost every Sunday, we can count on Dan playing the piano. Occasionally, his routine gets disrupted. Sometimes there’s an adult forum in that conference room. And for eight weeks this fall, we had to worship IN the parish hall while a new roof was being installed in our worship space. The piano got moved out into the main room, and so Dan sat on the back row at both services, hoping for a chance to play his piano for a few minutes.

One Sunday, I was in a smaller, adjacent room leading an Adult Inquirers’ Class. We were having a few minutes of silent prayer–something that in the best of circumstances is a challenge for most folks. We had just settled well into the silence and I was enjoying the solitude and quiet. All of a sudden, I heard a riff on the piano, played with gusto, that sounded strangely like the introduction to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” Yep. That’s what that was. I giggled into the quiet, and several others joined me. Obviously they recognized the tune too.

You never know what Dan is going to play. It could be jazz or blues. It could be variations on a rock song. But somehow I think it’s an offering to God. It’s the only one Dan can afford. Yes, playing is soothing to his tortured mind. But it is also a gift. I walk into Wyatt Hall to ask the sexton something, and I hear music drifting out of the conference room. I find myself smiling. “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” indeed.

God has given so many gifts. The cutting edge to some of those is perhaps a double-edged sword of mental illness/brilliance. And I pray for those who suffer from schizophrenia. I do not understand, but I also don’t hear the voices that drown out reality as I know it.

Yesterday, as I entered the restaurant, I turned back. “Dan, have you eaten today?”

“No ma’am.” (He is always polite.)

“Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I’m just walking up and down the street.”

I went on in. Then I remembered that once before, I had bought some Brunswick stew for him.  As the owner greeted me with a hug (yes, I’m a frequent flyer in that restaurant), I asked him if I could add something to my order. I ordered a bowl of Brunswick stew. Then the thought occurred to me that Dan might very well be halfway down the block with his variety of plastic bags. I poked my head back out.

“Dan?”

“Yes ma’am?”
“I’m getting you some Brunswick stew. Don’t go anywhere yet.”

“Oh. Okay, ma’am.”

When I emerged from the restaurant, I handed him a bag that had a big bowl of hot Brunswick stew.

“There’s a spoon and napkins in there too,” I noted.

“Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said, and opened the bag hungrily.

I went back to the church and ate my grilled chicken salad, musing that since I am trying not to eat wheat these days, I really should have given him my little loaf of bread too. But maybe RH & B put one in the bag–I hadn’t checked.

Bread. Salad. Stew. For the first time in a day, at 2:00 p.m., a homeless man has a hot bowl of stew. And on Sunday, maybe I’ll get to hear his fingers move up the piano keys as he begins “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.”

All things come of thee, O Lord. And of thine own have we given thee. Play on, brother. Amen.

Last night, we had some interesting conversation about why it has been so challenging for folks to carve out even ten-fifteen minutes every day to pray or reflect about their spiritual lives. I asked them, “This is not a judgment on my part. I am just interested in hearing how you all believe you can be spiritually formed and strengthened if you don’t have a regular prayer discipline. What gets in the way of that?” The answers were honest and intriguing. Pressures of time, especially for those who commute in the DC area. The subtle pressure of multi-tasking. The demands of a family–especially for those with young children. The struggle to have discipline in one’s life in general.

My instincts about Sunday were confirmed. About two hours on Sunday morning really is the major block of time when spiritual formation happens for most folks. One person noted that it is easier to be prayerful in community. Yes! The monks and nuns learned that centuries ago, did they not?  And Archbishop Thomas Cranmer knew this as he crafted his masterpiece we know as the Book of Common Prayer. Christianity is about community, not individual quests.

What last night’s discussion also confirmed was my own long-held belief that because I rarely see some folks except on Sundays, my own reflections and time spent on writing and preaching a good sermon are critical. My care (as is true for others) in making Sunday morning worship rich and full for people is critical.

One person shared that she has done daily spiritual prayer and reading for years, because she is affiliated with Daughters of the King. I asked how she began to do that, and she said, “I started out with little bits here and there. And I found that the more time I spent with God, the more time I had during the day to get things done. ” Hmmm.  Sounds like a good beginning for a stewardship sermon, doesn’t it?

This morning, I found a beautiful poem by Eric Symes Abbott, who was appointed Dean of Westminster Abbey in 1959, retiring in 1974 (died in 1983).  I decided to post it here, especially for the techie students in my small class! This poem is from Invitations to Prayer: Selections from the Writings of Eric Symes Abbott, Dean of Westminster, 1959-1974. I found it in an anthology, Love’s Redeeming Work: The Anglican Quest for Holiness.

“Spaces of Silence

Whatever we may say about particular
times and methods of prayer,
this much is essential, that each day
should have some dedicated silence in it.
This is the gift of our time to God.
We are to put ourselves at God’s disposal
in the quietness. The prayer
will be dispersed throughout our day,
throughout our activity, but there will be
some dedicated spaces of silence.”

The Altar Guild had adorned the altar area with candelabras, which we only use on festive occasions (we have two altar candles), the choir director and choir led us in a Litany of the Saints as prelude, Ginny Wilder, one of our two seminarians, preached an “out of the ball park” All Saints sermon. Then just before the Great Thanksgiving, three of us read the names of the faithful departed whose names had been submitted by parishioners–beginning with those who have died in the past year.

Today was a special All Saints Day for me. That is because of something that happened just over a month ago. It has to do with my connection with some saints who rest in the Love’s Creek Baptist Church Cemetery in Siler City, NC.

I had gone south for my fortieth high school reunion and the weekend was full of amazing moments. You have heard it said that with some friends, you can walk into a room and pick right up where you left off years ago? Trust me. It is true. I bear witness to that, and the love shared by some dear friends has criss-crossed the ordinary boundaries of time and place. But that is not the connection to All Saints–although I suppose on some level, it could be.

On Friday afternoon that weekend, I drove about twenty miles east from Asheboro to Siler City, a little town where we had lived for eighteen months when I was about thirteen years old, where my father had served as pastor of a small Baptist church. Now, both of my parents’ mortal remains rest in that quiet cemetery. As I approached, I realized that small town America really is disappearing. Where there had been a two-lane highway, now there is a four-lane highway. Where there were fields and farms, there are now businesses and parking lots. The two old homes that were across the highway from our house? Gone. Replaced with businesses, and I imagine the homeowners now rest in that cemetery too. I found later, that the parsonage is also gone. Trees are still there (larger, of course). But the only thing that helped me find where the little house had been was a slab of concrete, where the carport had been. The only positive feeling about that was that a big children’s playground is now evident on the back of that property, where the back yard had been.

I found the graves of my parents.  I must admit that I found myself very unsettled by the fact that at the edge of the cemetery, where trees had overlooked the sites and where my father used to sit after Mama died, was now a chain link fence that separated the cemetery from a shopping center. I mused, “Hmmm, Joni Mitchell was right. Paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” Yet I parked, went over and sat at the foot of the graves, took my Birkenstocks off and sat down to reflect on my parents’ lives.

I must digress here for a moment. Mama was a singer. She was not a trained singer; however her vocal ability was a natural gift, and I have always been grateful that this is a gift I inherited. Mama could also play the piano and organ. She had had piano lessons at some time, but she taught herself on the organ, as far as I know. However, Mama could also play by ear. She could play a version of “St. Louis Blues” that would make you sit up and take notice, and for years, I have wished that I had a recording of her playing that. In fact, during my senior year in high school, Mama played that and I sang it for a talent show. I think I won first place. No matter. It was one of those special times when our usual mother-daughter rivalry came together and made real music.

As I sat there in a cemetery that was–despite its proximity to shopping and golden arches–peaceful and quiet, I began to talk to my parents. I told them many things, among which was my grief that my mother had never known my son, because he was born the year after she died of breast cancer. I told her how proud she would have been of the man he has become, and that that very weekend, he was going to walk for Breast Cancer–he’d raised over $400 for that cause.

I thanked my parents for what they had given me–especially my faith and my strength–and as I did, I found myself weeping. Barefoot, blue-jeaned, eldest living daughter, I grieved for the things done and left undone, especially between  me and Mama, and for the things unsaid that one always wishes one had said (after the fact of course). I wept for Daddy who had died mentally long before he died physically, from the ravages of Altzheimer’s. I wept for the baby sister that had preceded me in birth by a year, who had only lived seventeen days and who is buried in a cemetery in Buchanan, Va. I wept for my son who never knew this preacher when he was strong and vital, or this big, strong, red-headed, freckle-faced woman with an infectious laugh, who loved ice cream in any form–especially when it was orange sherbet in ginger-ale punch.

I hadn’t intended to get emotional, but it was cleansing, and afterwards, I felt a deep peace settle into my bones. I said, “Mama, I have only felt your presence twice since you died. Sometime, it would be nice if you would let me know you’re around.” And I asked both of them to guide my son.

After a time, I got up, got in the car and headed back to Asheboro, scanning the dial for NPR’s “All Things Considered.” I found the station out of Chapel Hill, but wasn’t paying much attention to a bit on the news about letters–a Friday regular. As I approached a traffic light on the way out of Siler City, the reporter read a letter from a woman in St. Louis. She was not happy about the fact that NPR had done a feature on the four baseball teams that had made the semi-finals for the World Series, but had really only focused on three of them–completely ignoring the St. Louis Cardinals.

I was idly watching the changes in this small town. I noticed that finally, the sun was peeking out from clouds for the first time that day. The announcer finished reading the letter. And as they segued out of that part of NPR, a saxaphonist began to play. The sounds of “The St. Louis Blues” filled the car. Suddenly, I was barely able to see the road for my tears. I whispered, “Thank you, Mama.”  The past, present and future had suddenly rushed together in one of those inexplicable “you can’t make this stuff up” kind of moments.

That happened again this morning during the Feast of All Saints. As two other saints picked up where I had left off with the prayers for the faithful departed, I left my place at the altar to go to the foot of the chancel steps. I picked up two thin tapers and  lit them for the mothers of a parishioner and her husband who had asked me to do that. And then, although I hadn’t planned to do this, I thought of that afternoon a month ago, then I chose two other tall, thin tapers.

“These are for you, Mama and Daddy. I love you.” Slowly, through my tears, I reached out, touched the tips of the tapers to the candle in the center, then anchored them firmly in the sand.

For all the saints. May they rest from their labors in peace this day and forever.

“But lo!  there breaks a yet more glorious day;
the saints triumphant rise in bright array;
the King of glory passes on his way.
Alleluia, alleluia.

From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
through gates of pear streams in the countless host,
singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Alleluia, alleluia! “(from Sine Nomine, Hymn 287)

(c) The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Icon of Russian saints and picture of candle tapers accessed through Google images
Other pictures taken by author

Today we will hear the gospel story from the imagined viewpoint of one of Jesus’ disciples.

Almost as soon as we entered the temple that morning, I knew Jesus was in trouble. The chief priests and the elders spotted us as soon as we walked in. As soon as Jesus started teaching people who’d gathered, they surrounded us. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. The day before, Jesus had entered one of Jerusalem’s city gates riding a colt and a donkey. The crowd cheered and shouted “Hosanna to the Son of David!  Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord1 Hosanna in the highest!” The next day, we followed Jesus into the temple.

Almost before we knew what was happening, Jesus started overturning the temple money changers’ tables. You couldn’t bring your own money into the temple. You had to buy the temple’s special currency for offerings—and they made a fat profit off that money exchange, believe me. I guess Jesus had had enough of that extortion going on right there in God’s house. So he started overturning tables. Then he started overturning the chairs of the men who sold sacrificial turtle doves. I must admit that it was kind of funny at the time. All those rich, fat guys scrambling to get out of Jesus’ way. The cages of the doves tumbled. Turned. Burst open. Doves flew out and up into the rafters, where they cooed in freedom. Some children ran over to see what was going on. Recognizing Jesus from the day before, they started yelling, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” Then after Jesus healed some blind and lame people, we left the temple.

But there was no way the chief priests and elders could miss—or ignore—such defiant acts in the face of their power and authority. The next morning, when we came back from Bethany, we entered the temple. When Jesus began teaching, they confronted him with arms crossed. Lips tight. Faces stern. “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” In other words, who gave you a parade permit? Who said you had the right to destroy moneychangers’ and dove sellers’ incomes? Who made you God that you could teach or heal people?

The air was thick with tension. But Jesus was calm and sure. Like a good rabbi, he answered their question with a question. “I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” The elders exchanged uneasy looks, then moved away to huddle together and talk. I knew that no matter how they answered Jesus, they would look bad. Like other Old Testament prophets, John the Baptist had stood on society’s margins and challenged all of God’s people to repent. To turn away from evil. To return to God’s ways. But Herod—Rome’s Jewish puppet king—had John beheaded for his insolence and prophetic words. Now, if the elders answered Jesus that John’s baptism came from heaven, Jesus could reply, “You say you believe in God. So if John’s baptism was from God, why did you not believe what he said?” So they could not say that.

On the other hand, if they answered “John’s baptism was of human origin,” that would spell trouble with the crowds who had gathered around to hear this confrontation. The people had understood John for who he was: a true prophet sent from God. In fact, John’s words and John’s baptism had changed many of these folks’ lives. So the church leaders couldn’t afford to say what they really thought about John, for fear of the crowd’s reaction—especially during Passover week. The thousands of people streaming from the provinces into Jerusalem for Passover always made the Romans nervous. We always saw more armed soldiers in the city streets during Passover week. There must be no trouble from or among the Jews. Not now. Not this week. So the elders gave Jesus an answer that was no answer. “We don’t know.” In turn, Jesus refused to tell them who had given him authority to teach, to heal, to turn over tables of corrupt money changers, to drive dove sellers out of God’s house of prayer. Instead, he told them a story about a man who had two sons.

The man asked one son to go work in the vineyard and he said he would not. But later, the son changed his mind and did go to work. The man asked his other son to go work and that son said he would. But that son never acted. He did not do what he had said he would do. At the end of his story, Jesus posed another question to the chief priests and elders. “Which of the two did the will of his father?” We could see their faces relax a little. Oh, that’s easy to answer and it won’t get us in trouble. The first son. Because his actions—not his words—spoke the truth. The first son’s actions proved his change of heart and mind.

Jesus nodded. They had answered correctly. Now he made his final move. He told the elders that tax collectors and prostitutes were going into God’s kingdom ahead of them. Why? Because John the Baptist had told the official church folks the truth about themselves and they refused to believe it. They refused to allow their hearts and minds to be changed about what God’s kingdom looks like. How they should act towards their brothers and sisters. But the people on the margins of society—the deaf, the blind, the lame, the leper, the tax collectors, the women who roamed the streets late at night—those folks had heard John’s message and believed its truth. They had left their old ways of life to follow God’s law of loving God and loving their neighbor. Their hearts were changed. Their minds were changed. Their lives were changed. And I knew some of those folks, because now they traveled with us. In fact, some stood there with us that day in the temple.

As soon as Jesus said that society’s riff-raff would be first in God’s world and the privileged, powerful leaders of the institutional church would be last, I knew how this trip to Jerusalem would probably end. The church leaders stiffened and stalked away. Unless Jesus toned down his rhetoric and behaved himself in public, things were going to get ugly. In fact, if he didn’t start to talk the party line and act the party way, he was pretty much a dead man walking. It was just a matter of time. How they would execute him, and exactly when, I didn’t know. But they would. Corrupt people in positions of power and privilege cannot bear being called to accountability by people who speak truth. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow.

What they did not know, though, was that killing Jesus would not silence the truth. You see, they didn’t understand—nor did we at the time—about resurrection and its power. Jesus’ actions during his life—and God’s actions through Jesus in the resurrection—transformed people’s hearts and minds through love in my time, then through the millennia to yours. Love changes the world. Law may keep the world in line, but love changes people’s hearts and lives. We who were blessed to follow Jesus learned this in real time.

We have passed that power of love on to you, through accounts in sacred scripture. Through words spoken, through bread broken. You can’t just say you believe in Jesus. You have to follow Jesus. That does not mean that you just say words that sound religious or right. It means you allow Jesus’ love to change you enough to act. It means that you follow Jesus to the margins of society, to stand with the powerless who have the courage to speak truth to power. Even when—and especially when—that truth is offensive—even dangerous.

We who first followed the Lord were willing to do this. How about you?   Today, in the twenty-first century, will your words speak God’s truth? Will your actions speak God’s truth? The world awaits your answer.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures accessed through Google images

“Lord. . .how often should I forgive?. . .Seven times? Not seven times,. . .but seventy times seven.”

How ironic it is that the subject of forgiveness lands on the Sunday lectionary today. Life changed for you and me ten years ago today. In a matter of hours on a beautiful fall morning, the actions of a few people bent on destruction and terror forever changed the lives of not only Americans, but millions around the world. Forgiveness. Is there forgiveness for a terrorist? Is there forgiveness for evil? Perhaps that kind of forgiveness is something beyond human answers. For the moment, I invite you to leave those difficult–if not impossible–questions, turning to consider today’s gospel. What does Jesus have to say about God’s forgiveness?

In this part of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus is teaching the disciples—and the community of faith that forms after Jesus’ death and resurrection—how people should live together in Christian community. Today, Peter approaches Jesus to ask about forgiveness. It helps to understand that in the first century, “most rabbinical teaching. . .stated you must forgive another Jew three times for an infraction. Peter’s statement of seven times was twice the standard plus one for good measure. Seven was also the word for wholeness. . .”[1] Peter probably thinks he is being generous. But Jesus’ response is startling. “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” And in some ancient translations, Jesus does not say “seventy-seven times” but “seven times seventy” or 490. Peter’s number is a finite one. Jesus’ number implies an infinite one. “It implies wholeness times Godliness.”[2]

To make his point, Jesus uses hyperbole with a parable. A king wants to settle accounts, and one of his slaves owes him ten thousand talents. The king demands his money but the slave cannot pay the debt. Of course he can’t. “A single talent was worth more than fifteen years’ worth of typical daily wages.”[3] As Tom Long, a well-known preacher has noted, “An Egyptian pharaoh couldn’t come up with ten thousand talents, much less a slave. The situation is something like our saying that a lowly mail-room clerk owed the CEO of IBM a ‘bazillion dollars.’ It was hard to know who was more foolish—the slave, for getting into that size debt, or the king, for extending that sort of credit line to a slave. In any case, the king, realizing that repayment was out of the question, attempts at least to cut his losses by ordering the slave to be sold, along with the slave’s family and all his worldly goods.”[4]

The slave begs for mercy, and the king—amazingly enough—forgives this unpayable debt. What is the slave’s response? Does he gratefully rejoice that he and his family have been spared imprisonment or being sold? Does he pay this incredible generosity forward to others? No. Instead, he finds a fellow slave who owes him money—just one hundred denarii, the amount of money someone could earn in one day. He grabs the other slave by the throat and demands his money. It seems that he has not forgiven his debts as his have been forgiven. But the community calls him to accountability. The other slaves tell this story to the king and the king becomes so furious that he sentences the first slave to be tortured. Jesus ends the story with this: “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

Forgive. From your heart. Many times, you and I say “I’m sorry,” yet we no more mean that than we can fly. We just say it because it sounds good and makes us look righteous. In our hearts, we may just be biding our time until we can get even. We may come to church and pray the Lord’s Prayer. Yet the truth is that when we get to that part about forgiveness, we don’t dwell too long on that part. We pray (often quickly) “forgiveusourtrespassesasweforgivethosewhotrespassagainstus.” Which misses the point, because the literal translation is this: “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” In ancient times, a common image for forgiveness was—literally—to release someone from debt. The debt was marked “paid in full.” That was forgiveness.

Do we really forgive someone else in the same way that God forgives us? Real forgiveness is not about mouthing the words “I’m sorry.” True forgiveness is about relationships being made whole. It means we are willing to work towards true reconciliation with someone else. As someone has said, “forgiveness has nothing to do with forgetting.” It is not a feeling. It is an action.[5] An act done with intentionality and compassion. The kind of act demonstrated by God. I do not believe that God sits on the throne in heaven doing arithmetic. God is not having accountants run daily balance sheets, making a list, checking it twice to see who’s naughty and nice. God forgives us by marking the ledger “paid in full” because of Jesus’ sacrificial and self-giving love. To forgive someone, we must be willing to give up power and become vulnerable.

God knows this better than we do. God sent God’s own Son to be a vulnerable human being. To live with us and teach us new ways of living and loving. Then what? Jesus was willing to give up his life, to die on a cross for love of us. What was one of the final things Jesus said in this life? “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Jesus taught us that forgiveness is neither easy nor cheap. To forgive someone, we must be willing to give up being right in order to be in relationship. Sometimes we feel justified by our need to be right. In the past ten years, this kind of thinking has been national, and to some extent, global. “Well, those people need to be taught a lesson. The United States is not going to stand by and let terrorists win. We never forget.” But often, this kind of thinking is more personal. “I’m not going to forgive her. Not after what she said to me. Or “he was so rude to me and my family. I’m not going to stand for that.” Or “she took my husband away from me. I’ll never forgive her.”

Jesus never said that we should be doormats, to be abused by others. In fact, in today’s gospel, notice that the community called the first slave to accountability. Those who are abused–like women in domestic violence situations–need the voices of others to call attention to their abuse and to demand justice–and too seldom do they get that kind of support.

Jesus also never said that forgiving someone else would be easy. Forgiveness is about being more willing to be in relationship than to be right. We’re not always willing to do that. Truth be told, we must admit that if God forgives us in the same way that we forgive others, we can never pray the Lord’s Prayer again. Not one of us is capable of forgiving someone else that much. What we can do is to admit that and ask God to help us. We can pray, “Lord, you know my heart. When I cannot forgive like you do, will you please fill in the gaps? Because there are a lot of gaps here.” Then as Christians, we must have just a tiny bit of faith that this will happen. Because God is faithful, even when we are not. With God’s help, we give up our control. We stop putting energy into blame or rationalizations. We stop de-personalizing one person or an entire group of people into faceless objects by calling them “those people.”

Forgiveness. Is there forgiveness for a terrorist? I don’t know the answer to that. I know three things. First, evil is beyond human comprehension. Forgiveness, or redemption through acts of evil, is God’s business, not ours. Second, I know that my holding a grudge against someone never hurts them. It only embitters and destroys me. Forgiving someone—even when undeserved—sets me free. Third, at the end of time, when I face my Creator, I will be answerable for only one person: myself. Just as you will be accountable only for yourself. How, then, will we measure up? I know that for me, I’m already praying that God will not forgive me the way I have forgiven others. I pray that like the king in Jesus’ story, God will forgive me extravagantly, with mercy and love that is deep and broad and beyond my human comprehension or asking. On that, all my hope on God is founded. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures accessed through Google images,

Matthew 13:1-23

My father was a gardener. Gardening was not Daddy’s vocation, but it was his avocation. He liked to say that it was his golf, the way he relaxed. However, Daddy’s gardening had a practical purpose, too. My grandmother lived with us, and there was Mama plus three children. The yield from Daddy’s garden—frozen or canned or preserved—fed our whole family all through the winter. I remember how Daddy plowed the soil to get it soft and pliable. We children helped him plant the seeds: poking holes in the mounds of dirt. Planting corn, green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, okra, beets, onions, and sometimes, pumpkins. Then we went back later to fertilize, weed or water. As summer went on, we helped to pick the vegetables off the vines and to put the freshly dug potatoes in a basket to take home and wash.

Although I don’t know for certain, I’m guessing that some summers, the garden yielded more vegetables than in other summers. It all depended on how much rain we got, and when we got it. I do not think Daddy’s garden was a luxury. With six mouths to feed, on a preacher’s and a teacher’s income, the food this garden yielded made a difference in our lives. So my father did not leave his garden to chance—especially in the preparation of the soil that was to receive all those seeds.

In today’s gospel, Jesus talks about a man who sows seeds. We must understand that first century farming is very different than modern farming methods. In Jesus’ world, a farmer’s practice is to “cast the seed and then plow the land. With this scattershot approach, it is no surprise that some seed falls on hard soil, other seed on ground too rocky for good roots, and still other seed among thorns and weeds.”[1] The land in Palestine is challenging, in the best of times, so if a crop yields seven bushels, or sevenfold, it was a good year. “Tenfold meant true abundance. Thirtyfold would feed a village for a year and a hundredfold would let the farmer retire to a villa by the Sea of Galilee.”[2] So Jesus’ story about the sower uses extravagant—almost unbelievable—images of an abundant harvest of food.

To whom does Jesus tell this story, and why does he not explain it? Context is critical. Just prior to this parable in Matthew’s gospel, while Jesus was in Nazareth, the Pharisees accused Jesus of being possessed by demons. They have even gone so far as to get his mother and brothers to take him home—resulting in Jesus asking, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Jesus realizes, with sadness—and perhaps some anger—that his family thinks he is crazy. And if that is so, he must continue on his spiritual journey, proclaiming God’s kingdom, with his chosen family—the disciples who follow him.

With these disciples, Jesus knows he can go deeper than superficial explanations of parables, because he believes they will understand. The disciples are curious about this. They ask Jesus “Why do you speak to them in parables?”The “them” is likely not only the people in the crowds gathered around to listen, but the church officials—the Pharisees—who refuse to see God’s new kingdom breaking in among them in Jesus’ words and deeds. The “word of the kingdom” that Jesus casts with abandon like seeds on the ground, is that God’s love is more abundant than anything we can ask for or imagine. Keeping all the rules and regulations of the church is not necessarily the best way to know God’s love—although one might argue that keeping the discipline of a life of faith is not a bad thing altogether. Yet we Christians might well ask ourselves what disciplines of faith we practice on a daily basis. We might ask what it means to sow seeds of faith—in ourselves and in others? And how well do the seeds of faith grow in our lives?

Many churches today use the corporate method of gardening. Some of the mega churches have done careful research before planting a church. They research demographics of a geographical area. They choose location strategically, using the latest in marketing methods. They spend a lot of money on a state-of-the art worship space, have plenty of parking and purpose-driven programs. In other words, many churches use methods and strategies adopted from the business world. Clearly, the sower in Jesus’ parable would not be hired by any self-respecting pastor of a mega-church. Yet I wonder if we would hire him either. It just doesn’t make good sense to squander precious seeds as we stride along, throwing seeds willy-nilly. Yet in every church, we proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ to people whose hearts are like different kinds of soil.

On any given Sunday morning, a variety of people enter our church doors, hungry for spiritual food. As one writer has noted, “There is the newcomer who is ‘church shopping’ or ‘trying out’ Christianity. There is the person in crisis who will vanish when things get better. There is the family who comes ‘for the kids’ but quits once the kids’ soccer season starts.”[3] Yet is it our business what kind of soil is represented in people’s lives or how the seeds of faith are received? Jesus makes it very clear in this parable that the abundant yield of the harvest belongs not to the sower, but to God. God has given every human being some of God’s DNA, so that we might be hungry for God in some way. Do we respond? Some of us do. Some of us don’t. Some of us struggle along for years, not knowing that the hunger within us is spiritual. And even when we know that, we still struggle at times to be faithful.

Being faithful is what this is about, of course. As people of God, we are called to be sowers of God’s love, wherever we are. This means we learn how to pray. We teach our children how to pray. We adopt disciplines like attending worship faithfully or reading holy scripture or helping our brothers and sisters in the community—not just because it feels good, but because Jesus calls us to care for each other the way God has cared for us.  If we are to be disciples of Jesus, we must stride out, throwing seeds of faith with reckless abandon. Being willing to risk.

The picture on the front of today’s bulletin was taken by a friend and colleague of mine, Charles Lafond. It is a statue of the sower, found in London’s Kew Gardens. Charles wrote a poem about this statue, and in closing today, I would like to share parts of it.

“Strong arms sowing.
Strong legs striding.
Strong heart growing.

God brooded over the earth.
Not planned.
Not designed.
Not considered.
Not deigned.
No. Not so Anglican as deigned. . . .

And we.
Who are we but made in that image?
Who are we that we do not carry our basket in life?
Who are we not to sache our color like some orchid or lotus?
Who are we that we do not throw seeds to the earth that God might further brood?
Who are we that we do not stride with legs of weathered bronze along troughs cut wide
and deep by oxen unseen whose mantle is easy and whose burden is light?
Who are we but the sower of The Seed?

We exist to stride, not stroll.
We exist to go forward and not go back;
not even to glance back.

To go back would be to crush the earth
and hamper the seed. . .

For now, we sow the seed and we tend the garden,
longing for the Gardener for whom we turn.
Who calls our name.
Who sparks our re-cognition like lightening in a dark, dry forest.
Who calls that second turning into a dance.”[4] Amen.

© Text by The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton
Picture of Working in Garden Hoeing Between Plants accessed through Google images.
Picture of 4 Soils, James B. Janknegt. Contemporary, accessed at www.textweek.com.
Pictures of Sower in Kew Gardens, London by The Rev. Canon Charles Lafond, “The Sower at Kew,” posted on July 1, 2011 at http://charleslafond.com/blog. .  Accessed on July 4, 2011.  Used with permission of author.