How Do You Know?

Our drive to Denver was fairly quick as far as nine-hour drives are concerned. We talked about the future, the past and the needs of ‘now’. We talked about the weather; Oklahoma during the summer seems like punishment for a crime we didn’t commit. And we sat in companionable silence. It was a good drive. Road-weary as we were, we decided to head down to the hotel bar for an hour. Nicole and I rarely have a moment to share a drink in a public space for a lot of reasons. It almost never works out for us, as one of us will invariably know someone in the surrounding space. That’s a good thing, yet it also takes away from our time together. So, to the bar we sojourned. Fifteen minutes passed, the Lakers G-League team was trouncing Golden State, and we were happy.

Then he sat down.

Listen: I’m not one of those people who typically mistakes someone for someone else. I have fairly decent recall for names and faces, so I know when someone is or isn’t … well, who I think they are. That being said, I swear to the Lord Almighty that Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, sat next to us. I did a slow-motion head-turn to Nic, and we locked eyes. “That’s not…no way, dude. No. Way.” She giggled and said, “No, hon, that’s not him. Believe me, I would recognize the man who celebrated the Royal Wedding.” We laughed and seemingly went back to our drinks.

And yet…I couldn’t help myself. As he ordered a vodka soda, a crisp British accent lilted over the bar and my inner-church-nerd started screaming at me to be the extroverted person I am. I HAD to talk to him. So much for private time, eh…sorry Nic. Time to run for Mayor of Nowhere.

I turned toward him and asked his name—it was Grant—and asked what he did for a living, after telling him that he looked exactly like our Archbishop of Canterbury. His response was priceless, “I don’t have use for that man.” He explained that he didn’t align with the Church of England, that its archaic views ‘buggered’ him. Then he asked what I did for a living, and I told him. But as much as he was ‘buggered’ by his nation’s belief system, his next question sent me reeling.

“So, Sean, how do you know you’re going to heaven?”

A nuclear scientist asked me how I knew I was destined for paradise. I paused for a moment and said, “I guess I really don’t know.” He sat back, stiff upper-lip, and smirked. A pregnant pause, another drink order, and I turned back to him and said, “I’d like to revise my answer: I’m going to heaven because of grace, not because of what I have done here.” Grant looked at me and grinned, “Sean. That’s the right answer.”

We talked for another hour or so, Nicole joining in a bit here and there, and parted ways as friends. But his question, my two responses, and the whole conversation stuck with me. Why did I say I didn’t know? In my heart of hearts, I believe I’ll join God wherever heaven is, without a doubt. And yet, my first reaction was based upon the things I’d done to ‘earn’ a place there. That’s not how it works, though. And I know that. Yet, I couldn’t help myself from answering with qualified words due to my own insecurity surrounding my deeds and faith.

But grace doesn’t require deeds. And grace asks for the faith the size of a mustard seed. I have that. Too many times in this life we are conditioned to recognize our deeds as a means of worth. But as the Great Thanksgiving says, “For the means of grace and for the hope of Glory,” we must remember that, ultimately, God sees us as lovingly created beings, drawn from the dust and meant to roam this world with free will. When we choose to accept grace freely offered? Our paths are destined for paradise, no matter our failings. Living into God’s commandments is a secondary step to a primary and primal beginning: We have to choose to believe that God is greater than we can fathom and that nothing we do ‘earns’ us a spot in eternal glory.

Jesus already did that.

Our job is to believe in God, love God, and believe in ourselves. We are to take the grace that is freely given and spread it about the world. We are called to be harbingers of the world to come, being saved out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life. So why do anything at all, if grace is all we need? Because once we accept that grace, the love of God moves us to act. True belief acts as a catalyst to fan the flames of faith, burning away wrongful desires and ill-intentions. To disallow us to think that we can do it on our own, and to encourage us to include our fellow humans in the greatest gift ever given to humankind. It isn’t our free-will. It isn’t our deeds. It’s grace, all the way down.

And it always has been.

That’s how I know I’m going to heaven. And how I know that I’ll see you there.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

The Truth is...

One of the hardest things in this life to grasp—at least for me—is the ‘why’ behind humanity’s behavior. I often find myself simply responding with “why?” when I hear about violence, hateful speech, or even simple arguments that shouldn’t even be a ‘thing’. Then I recognize those same terrible attributes in my own life. I can be a bit judgmental sometimes; I can get angry over silly nonsense; I will enter into an argument on social media or insert my opinion into conversation without being invited. What’s so important about me that allows me to think it’s absolutely fine to sit back and judge the world while also committing the same atrocities?

Fact is, too many of us are like this, whether we like it or not.

Christians, in particular, are called to live by a higher standard. We’re supposed to be the ones who think before we speak, who spread our personal truths and the word of God with kindness, not vitriol. But lately it seems that Christians have developed a preternatural ability to condescend to and belittle others without a second thought. My question:

Why?

What makes Christians, the Church, the people of God so special that we get to sit upon the judgment seat and look at others with the scales of justice in our eyes? Someone disagrees with our theology? Cancel them. Someone attends a church with whom we hold differing views? Cancel them. Someone doesn’t go to church but talks about how the church hurt them, and we get defensive instead of inclusive? Cancel them. We walk into offices, living rooms, and board meetings with a sense of self-importance; we know best, we hold the only real knowledge of God, you should listen to us. If we ever wonder why people are hesitant to step through the church doors, it’s because they don’t want to be put into a fishbowl of judgment-viewing pleasure. Resurrection is a wonderful community of loving people, yet we still have our own demons to battle. The whole Church-large (God’s one, catholic, UNIVERSAL church) has demons it needs to face. The demons of exclusion, of judgment, of insert-what-the-other-guy-did-wrong-here.

The truth is that we, too, are guilty of excluding others in the name of inclusion. “This church believes ___. So if you don’t, maybe somewhere else is better for you.” Those words aren’t said, but damn, sometimes I feel them when I attend other places, gatherings with clergy, or sit and listen to other pastors talk in coffee shops. The truth is that we, too, judge others on their clothing, their piercings, their neck tattoos, their language, or any other number of ‘their issues’. The truth is that we, too, look for fights in common conversations when ill-intent isn’t intended. We seek it. And we revel in the glory of the argument.

But really? The truth is that none of us is righteous, no not one. The truth is Jesus Christ came to save everyone, not just the people who agree with you or me. The truth is that if we want the Church to swell with vitality, we need to diminish some of the nonsense that we spew on social media and in parking-lot conversations and allow the spirit of God to wash us clean of the particular sin of self-righteousness.

Because the truth is that we are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus Christ, his words through our mouths and his love in our hearts. His kindness in our souls. I hope we can work toward being better. Because the world needs us to. Evil will shy away from the Good News. Every. Single. Time.

And that, my friends, is what the truth is.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Remember the Fallen and the Risen

Memorial Day Weekend, otherwise known as ‘sorry Father, I’m worshiping at St. Lake on the Beach’, is where we remember those who came before us. We give thanks to the men and women of our military for their service, their sacrifices; these patriots give their time, their passion, and sometimes their lives for this and other nations around the world. Recurringly, soldiers leave to defend and come back less appreciated, thus creating a feeling of isolation and despair. Where do they fit in, where is the ‘home’ they defended so vigorously? They are trailblazers and heroes, even if their service was limited to being stationed in non-combat areas; yet, Memorial Day’s greatest meaning comes in the form of remembering those who lost their lives defending the country and people they cherish. They should be remembered, named, and lauded for their service, not scoffed at by those who haven’t seen war and think peace is attainable by simple abstention from conflict.

No, these people go and fight so that others may find peace and safety.

I hope that you and your family will honor the memory of those who died for this country, for others in other countries, this weekend. While you’re at the lake, or in the backyard, take a moment of silence for the men and women of militaries across the world—people who devoted themselves in defense of tyranny, injustice, oppression and genocide. They saw the worst in humanity and still sought to march into the fray rather than run away.

God loves all of humanity, equally. I do not think God pleasures in killing, nor do I believe God desires for us to have to fight. But sometimes justice requires sacrifice, and the character of soldiers is molded into that of an unbreachable bulwark which stems the tide of innocent blood. I believe, as Christians, we serve in a soldier capacity, too. We are to be the bulwark that stands tall against evil; the loving body of Christ that steps in front of the poor, the afflicted, the friendless and the needy. And let us also remember that the ultimate sacrifice, the general of our army, died on a cross to save every generation of every nation in one act of defiance. Christ did not walk away, he reached into the jaws of death, pried them open, and defeated the evil that threatened the world. He rose from death, from the ashes, and ascended on high so that we could continue his work as his reborn hands and feet, being freed from the tyranny of evil—true evil—if we would only choose to be brave like those before us. Just like the men and women who fought physical evil, we must honor those who fought the insidious evil of sin. The saints, the believers who came before us.

Spend a moment in silence for the fallen heroes of wars’ past. Spend a moment in thankful prayer for the martyrs of faithful justice. And remember that you are part of the present army of God, the ones who take up the mantle of Jesus Christ to keep thwarting evil in this world so that we may march to heaven with our heads held high, and our arms wide open, receiving the ever-longing and loving embrace of Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

So, What Now?

“Well, that’s good information, thank you. But I have to ask: So what?”
 
It’s one of the many sayings/questions attributed to local theologian and snarkologist (yes, I made that up) Dr. Steve Orwig. As the Dean of the Iona Collaborative School of Ministry over the last ten years, Dr. Orwig has stood watch over throngs of emerging clergy in the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma. He has been tasked with the testing, formation, and overall wellness of his students—a task he has approached with love and sarcasm, the best mix. His jokes? Terrible. His attire? Grandpa. His mind?
 
Brilliant.
 
He has a way of drawing out the importance within the statements being made. Someone may write or orate a pleasing sentiment, but Dr. Orwig almost always follows up with, “So, what?” What he means is this: So, what now? What do I do with the knowledge you just gave me? How does this land in a practical way, theological way, or any way that I can utilize for myself? I have absolutely loved this part of his pedagogy, even as a bystander and partner with him at Iona. His questioning mind has triggered my own in different ways, causing me to ask the same question, especially following Holy Week.
 
So, what now?
 
We had a tremendous turnout beginning on Palm Sunday and spanning throughout the week, culminating in the resurrection at Resurrection. I’ve received texts, emails, and phone calls regarding the meaningful services and sermons, so I know that people were changed if even only a little. Yet, I ask myself, “So, what now?” What do we do with all this built-up spiritual discipline, this stronger discipleship? Often enough, people will get worked-up by words and have nowhere to expend that energy. We get excited about something temporarily, but without consolidating our gains, we end up losing much of what we obtained. My hope is that this writing can serve as a reminder to keep moving forward while also taking time to discern what this past week, and season of Lent, has meant to us. What has it shown us about ourselves? About our communities? About one another?
 
I encourage all of us to continue seeking faith-filled acts and services. I urge all of us to consider what we’ve already encountered—and to reflect on that. They say the hardest part of a diet isn’t losing the weight, it’s keeping it off through maintenance. Don’t forget to maintain the disciplines of Holy Week and Lent. Remember that we aren’t this faithful just once a year, rather we are called to remain diligent in our faith, year-round. While the Summer looms and fun vacations await, our faith is something we can never allow to be set aside; instead, we must remember that we are set apart (2 Corinthians 6:14-17) and that our work is never finished.

We have entered Jerusalem. We have eaten in the upper room. We have washed each other’s feet. We have sat at the empty tomb. We have witnessed the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

So, what now?

Faithfully,
Fr. Sean+

The Church Welcomes You?

Christians, we have a problem.
 
We are violent. Our violence manifests in many forms: speech, actions, misuse of human-created items, thoughts, and a general lack of care for our fellow humans. We worship at the altars of xenophobia, aporophobia, heterophobia, homophobia, and many more phobias that I cannot even spell. Fear seems to be the starting point of our beliefs. It isn’t that we believe in anything in particular, but rather that we fear something ‘other’ and therefore name that ‘other’ as enemy. Then we go to war.
 
When the cries of thousands emanate from the blood-soaked ground upon which we place our soap-boxes, their pleas for justice fail to reach our ears. We’re too busy expounding upon the reasons for which we should get rid of this or that, the virtues of our standings, that we miss the real issue plaguing us: In the name of inclusion, we have decided who’s ‘in or out’.  Then we draw circles to exclude, answering violence with violence. The violence of excommunication from church, community, and/or civilization in general. The adage of “you’re either with me or against me” rings true in our souls, while we espouse a different message with our mouths. The Episcopal Church Welcomes You. But we forget to print the parenthetical to that statement, “as long as you agree with the new way.”  There’s a shift occurring in our little denomination that serves as a microcosm to a much larger paradigm shift. With all the ‘isms’ with which we terrorize each other, we lose sight of the important call laid upon us: To seek and serve Christ in all persons.
 
In ALL persons.
 
Someone is a gun advocate? We shun them. Someone holds a different view on sexuality (both heterogenous and homogenous), we shun them. Someone expresses a belief with which we disagree? We shun them. Our doors aren’t as easily entered as we might hope—it’s actually becoming more difficult to be welcomed into anywhere and accepted for who we are. These fears, these ‘isms’ breed violence. God is forgotten amid the desire to be right. Not righteous. Right. We would rather set up our camps and volley insults and bible verses at each other than actually come to the table, together. “I just can’t see Jesus in that person.” Well, good thing for us that God sees Christ in every one of us. It isn’t up to us to decide who’s in or out, who’s wrong or right. It’s up to us, those of us who prescribe to Christianity, to find a way to live in a holy tension with one another. Even if it means facing ourselves and recognizing that we, too, have placed restrictions on who we would like to see in our pews, across our tables, and in our circles.
 
I am guilty. I am one of the ‘we’ to which I refer. And I know I need to do better about opening my eyes and ears to see and hear the words from the ‘other’, before conversation dies and violence begins.
 
There is undoubtedly a presence of evil in the world. We cannot hope to contain the sinful nature or violent nature of every human being. Yet, we can strive to listen to each other and include one another through our differences. This insidious disease of dis-ease with one another is the root of much evil that infects our hearts and blinds our eyes. We may not be able to save the world, but thankfully that’s already been done for us. The way I see it, our job is to do the best we can to love one another through our differences. To recognize that much more unites us than separates us. To allow our anger to be aimed at its progenitor: the vile discrimination manifesting in our souls. My hope is that we can, in our individual communities, seek to understand varying perspectives and have real conversations. We don’t have to get angry and walk away from each other. We don’t have to resort to a Wick-ian version of excommunicado. We’re called to respect the dignity of every human being, and that excludes waiting for them to do it, first.
 
Christians, we have a problem. The violence infecting our hearts is seen and heard by others who would otherwise have a bastion of hope to look to: a community of believers who truly love one another even through their differences. This is what I aim to do, naïve as it might sound. Trite as it might be. I desire to stand and proclaim God's law without muddying it with my own agenda. Because I know that to affect change, I have to be an agent of it as well. I don’t blame knives, guns, bombs, disease or anything else as the primary means through which evil begets violence. I blame the hands and feet of those who utilize these in evil ways. There is no jus bellum in self-righteous beliefs, there’s just war.
 
Stand up for what you believe in. As will I. But I’ll never hate you for it because I am called to love you no matter what. We may not like each other, but we don’t have to hate each other. Then, perhaps the violence we see in this world will lessen, the walls between us will begin to crumble, and we can come together and build a community based on mutually-assured success and love. Not ‘like’.
 
Love.
 
The love of Jesus Christ.
 
Faithfully,
 
Fr. Sean+

What's Like Got to Do With It?

“Is it okay that I don’t ‘like’ my kids all the time? I mean, I always love them more than life itself, but I don’t always like them…”

We were in the midst of celebrating with thirty of our other friends—new and old—as he dropped this question in the middle of the table. My mind immediately reminded me of the time my folks had a talk with me concerning my attitude and general disposition, “We love you honey, but we don’t like you very much right now.” I didn’t understand how you could love someone and not like them. It didn’t make sense. Now that I’ve grown up (well, perhaps aged) I recognize the differences, as I am sure you do, too.

I think this is one of the many issues why some people don’t attend church. There may be this underlying notion that ‘we’ all like each other all the time; after service, we all get together and talk about puppy dogs and ice cream. I mean, we do spend an inordinate time in this community talking about dogs but that’s just because dogs are amazing. However, I wish people would set aside those preconceived notions of perfection and utopia. Because, and let’s be honest here: Church is messy sometimes.

The idea that utopic worship and community exists on this plane is ridiculous. Any time a large group of people gather together repeatedly, there will be differences of opinion; there will be disagreements on theology; political lines will be drawn; feelings will be hurt. That’s the truth. Yet, we still come together. Why? Because we love each other, even during those moments when we don’t particularly like one another. Small spats and even longer moments of discord are part of the human condition—we’re passionate! However, love means taking a deep breath and continuing doing life together. Imagine if God predicated God’s love for us on ‘liking’ us, first. I won’t lie, I’d be in serious trouble…and I imagine, if you’re honest, sometimes you would be, too.

The people we love the most are the ones who drive us to madness. Knowing how much God loves us, I’m surprised the Earth hasn’t been redesigned for dogs. Because…dogs. But still, God sticks with us. God continues to show grace and mercy. Humanity continues to bumble and heaven sighs too deep for words at our inanity; God takes a breath and keeps giving life to us, so that we can continue doing life together—going even so far as to give up His child, the one with whom he was well-pleased, the one he loved and liked, so that we could be saved from ourselves.

So, I looked him in the eye and said some of what I just wrote. I’m sure the language was a little more colorful in some parts, but the sentiment was the same: Yes, it’s okay not to ‘like’ your kids, your family, your friends, your neighbors, sometimes. Because you know you’ll always love them, and you’d give up anything to ensure their survival. That’s how we know a little bit of God resides within us, because we inherited an infinitesimal spark of goodness that ignites our souls into action, into love.

Churches aren’t perfect. Communities aren’t perfect. I am not perfect. Neither are you. But our love for each other should strive to be perfect, in that it has been handed down through a long line of love that began in a manger and never ended.

Hopefully we will like each other most of the time.

I know we will love each other, forever.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

A Simple Reminder

When I was a Curate at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Bartlesville, America, I had one of the greatest mentors of my life. The Rev. Dr. Lee T. Stephens was (and is) everything I wanted to be as a priest. He is kind, pastoral, and magnetic. He has a sense about him that oozes care and concern when appropriate, and an energy that is infectious and inviting during other times. His preaching is deeply rooted in scripture, yet I always felt like he was talking directly to me—a feeling that many others share in as I began to know the congregation.

It was common for me to Kramer my way into his office unexpectedly throughout the day. The light sounds of classical music emanated from a peaceful surrounding and then BOOM, a mid-thirties priest-puppy exploded into the serenity and plopped down on the couch, wagging his eager (and ill-timed) proverbial tail. “Whatcha dooooin?” was usually my beginning assault. He’d just smile lightly and push away from his desk, fold his hands, and respond with the same word. His deep baritone resonated in his office like a command that everything should be still. One word: “Yes?”. And yet in that one drawn-out word, a whole litany of questions and statements loomed. What do you need? What are you doing? Why doesn’t my assistant ever stop you? And yet, that gaze and that word always held kindness.

It was in one of these encounters that I learned about a particularly curious item that hung on the wall behind his chair: a foot-long silver-painted ceramic spoon. In an office decorated with books and boasting degrees I could only hope to earn, this strange object dominated its small corner of that world. And it felt so out of place. So, I finally asked about it.

It turns out, as with most peculiar objects, this spoon had a story behind it. When Fr. Lee was a young priest, his mentor had this very spoon hanging in his office. Young Fr. Lee was tenacious; he had all the gifts in the world and his mentor knew he’d do great things. I’m shortening this story a bit because to tell the whole tale would take more time than you probably have to read, today. But, when Fr. Lee had been called to a new church, that spoon had been left on his desk with a note that read something along the lines of, “Lee, remember that you have all the talent you need to do ministry. You came into this world with a silver spoon in your mouth, so to speak, and your struggles have been much less than others. Remember where you came from, and remember that without work and dedication, that ‘spoon’ will only take you so far. Let this funny object be a reminder to you to remain humble, and to do the work.”

A couple of years later, Fr. Lee retired officially after 46 years of ministry. I was to take his place at St. Luke’s while they searched for a new Rector. When I moved into his office, the spoon lie. Alongside it, a simple note that read, “Sean, remember where you came from. Do the work.”

Sometimes, we forget whom we serve. Our ministry turns into one that is self-focused or self-serving, if we allow it. What starts out as reverence and humility quickly turns into power and authority misplaced. In my life, it’s during those times that I see that spoon that hangs on my wall, and I remember. I remember that God uses all of us, each with our unique gifts, to further His mission. That none of us is greater, and that it takes all of us to do this work. None of us can do it alone, and the work isn’t about us, ever. I hope that you have something that reminds you who you serve. And why you serve. Some of you may never need that reminder, and I thank God for you. Yet, if you’re like me, then sometimes you need a reminder. Remember whom we serve. Remember why we serve. And remember that the work is never done, and that we’re not the only ones who can ‘do it right’. It doesn’t start with us, nor does it end with us, we’re simply workers in a long line of love that stretches back to the one who started it: A man hanging on a cross.

So, as the spoon hangs on my wall, Christ hangs in my heart. And I am grateful for that reminder, every day.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean

The Incarnation

I recently lost two of my senses. Now, if you ask my wife, she’ll tell you I never had any sense to begin with, but the fact remains: I lost my ability to smell and to taste. What an odd way in which to ‘be’. At first, it was almost fun—at least to me—as I pondered the grossest things to eat and smell and then decided to video myself following up with action. But after a few days, food lost its luster. I stopped eating regular food and just started eating soup. After all, my sense of touch wasn’t gone, so hot liquid turned into a delicacy; I was happy to receive something that elicited a bodily response.

As I quaffed liquid pounds of nothingness, my eyes tried to trick my tastebuds into thinking they’d touched something known. Sight beheld soup, mind transferred thought, tongue almost gets tricked. But it wasn’t true. A fleeting moment of hope destroyed by a followed minute of dull vacancy. Soup, as it turns out, is not capable of magic tricks.

Of course, the loss of my senses came at the behest of a new visiting illness—well, new to me—from the Covid family. As a Covidian does, I had to sequester myself into a room in our home. Now, I won’t get into the isolation of suffering inflicted upon me by being banished into a place with a 4k television, an Xbox, and a mechanized sofa. I know you all feel my pain just by that description. But I will tell you that after a few days, the room started mimicking the sense-deprived soup: bland, repetitive, and devoid of any flavor or nostalgia-wielding properties. I would read for a little while, play video games for a little while, take a nap, read, play, nap, and repeat.

I won’t lie, it was fun for a little while. Basically, the first day. It was great! Death didn’t call to brag about its latest capture; sickness didn’t beckon with its latest victim; poverty didn’t shove its head in the door and brag about new members; and loneliness hovered silently—not saying anything, just waiting in the darkness to strike. But then, eventually, I realized something.

Joy hadn’t stopped by, either. Laughter had been muted. The touch of my loved one was just out of reach.

I reeled in panic at some points. How long was this going to last? Would I ever get my senses back? How much longer did I have to stay in this room, burdened by my privilege? Poor, poor, pitiful Sean. Sitting in the isolation of a comfortable, heated room, with toys and amenities and no one to bother him. Isn’t that the dream? Peace and quiet, uninterrupted by anyone or anything?

No. It’s the nightmare—people are our bastion. Because there is no peace in being alone. There is no quiet in this silence, as my mind fills my attention with things I should be ‘out there’ doing.

On the last night before I thought I’d be released from my prison, I started thinking about those who lost so much time during the actual pandemic. Then, I thought about those who caught this insidious sickness and didn’t have a loving partner to bring them tasteless food and drinks, medicines and love. I thought about what it must’ve been like for the modern-day Lazarus, stricken with Covid lying under an overpass, praying to God that someone would pull over and offer him a drink of water.  Or maybe a gentle word. Or some food. Or a blanket. Or a prayer…

That’s what the world was like before Christ became Incarnate. We didn’t know how to be human—we were senseless and isolated from God, because we kept choosing the sensory-deprived sickness of unatoned sin instead of the warmth of the burning bush. We wandered aimlessly through the desert for forty years; we floated on the waves for forty nights; we passed over the Passover; and we made God in our own images. We worshiped from the altar of greed and received bottomless cauldrons of meaninglessness in return for our offerings. We looked at God, right in the column of fire, and said, “Nice trick. What’s next?”

But then something miraculous happened. God stopped showing up in bushes, pillars of fire, and clouds and took a step back. Seeing the world for what it had become, the Great I AM thundered on high and shouted NO MORE. The Greatest, the ever-living, never ceasing Creator didn’t step away, he stepped in. Packaging himself in the only salve for the wound that humanity had become, God manifested himself in a world that reeked of poverty, of greed, of gluttony, of war, and did so in a place where no one would think to look: an empty barn outside of an Inn.

That night, humanity wasn’t just saved, it was reborn.

The Christ child’s first cries into the night created echoes throughout eternity, rebuffing the sounds of wailing souls, long parted this world yet remaining in nothingness; instead giving them a whisper of hope that they, too, would be remade and healed. God’s Incarnation wasn’t just a moment of birth, it was an advent of a new humanity, wherein we became something more than we were before. We reached out and touched the face of God through tears of joy, as God showed us the true worth of a human soul, brought sinless into the world. An infant that would grow to defy an empire, not by swinging a steel sword, but through wading through the crowds attached to a wooden cross. A being that was there in the beginning of all things, and suffered to deny the end of all things, to stymie death’s victory.

Our senses were brought to true life that holy night, that silent moment, as the heavens cracked open and poured grace over the churning world, forever changing the landscape of death into salvation.

That is the greatest gift we will ever receive. And the greatest gift we can give. The knowledge of Christ’s birth, life, and victory over death; the message of joy, laughter, and love of God. A gift that enacts the awareness to stop stepping over Lazarus to worship Pilate, and to start loving the Judas’ of this world because we are just as guilty. Guilty of neglect, of denial, of violence, and of self-righteousness. We don’t deserve the perfect love we’ve been given, yet the guilty will still receive grace.

Because God shows up.

Just as God always does. How long will it take for us to recognize how much we need God, how much God adores us? How long will we continue to espouse notions of faith while committing acts of heinous violence, racism, neglect and atrocities against our brothers and sisters? How long will we wait in silence while the world searches for superheroes on the screen, instead of a savior at the altar?

When will we say NO MORE, stepping back, and turning around, seeing that the only needs we have, are of those who have nothing? Those who live without so much. Without love, without friendship, without money, without hope. Without God. Because we have already been given our gift. We have enough. We just have to see it. When will our senses be restored?

Christ came into this world and showed us the way.

How long will we wait to show him we’re ready to follow…

Tomorrow Holds Today’s Unfulfilled Promises.

5 In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was descended from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. 7 But they had no children because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.

8 Once when he was serving as priest before God during his section’s turn of duty, 9 he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to enter the sanctuary of the Lord to offer incense. 10 Now at the time of the incense offering, the whole assembly of the people was praying outside. 11 Then there appeared to him an angel of the Lord, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. 12 When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified, and fear overwhelmed him. 13 But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. 14 You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, 15 for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He must never drink wine or strong drink; even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit. 16 He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. 17 With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” 18 Zechariah said to the angel, “How can I know that this will happen? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.” 19 The angel replied, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. 20 But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.”

21 Meanwhile the people were waiting for Zechariah and wondering at his delay in the sanctuary. 22 When he did come out, he was unable to speak to them, and they realized that he had seen a vision in the sanctuary. He kept motioning to them and remained unable to speak. 23 When his time of service was ended, he returned to his home.

24 After those days his wife Elizabeth conceived, and for five months she remained in seclusion. She said, 25 “This is what the Lord has done for me in this time, when he looked favorably on me and took away the disgrace I have endured among my people.”

-Luke 1:5-25 NRSVUE

Tomorrow Holds Today’s Unfulfilled Promises

I have been living in a dry land, but I remember a time when the world was verdant and vibrant. I would see something, and my imagination would peal back layers of meaning; God would reveal a multiverse! God was mischievously active, and I was very curious and expectant. In every one of those revelatory moments, I felt called into a new relationship and I loved to share what God had unveiled. I can’t really remember when life began to dull, when the colors began to fade, and time collapsed into the present moment, but in that moment Zechariah and I became one.

But that all ended when God opened this scripture to me. The words cried out to me, “Drink me.”  They flew off the page saying, “Choose me, choose me.” How do we set ourselves in time? Luke used Herod. What if we didn’t define our place in time by someone else’s life? Similarly, what if we didn’t allow our earthly origins to define us? Luke tells us that Elizabeth was a daughter of Aaron, and that Zechariah was a son of Abijah. What benefit do we derive from being blameless and righteous if we remain barren? And for that matter, who do we blame for our barrenness? Luke laid that on Elizabeth.

Luke tells us that [John] will be from God, and the Holy Spirit will be with him before he is born. Luke [the angel] goes on to say all sorts of amazing things that will be associated with this child that hasn’t even been conceived. However, Zechariah and Elizabeth are old, and he is living in the present moment. (We’ve heard this story before.) Everything that Gabriel says is in the future tense. Will, will, will, will. But Zechariah is living in a dry land, and angels always evoke fear; and fear isolates us in time and strips us of our creativity.

“How will I know that this is so?”  This is the part of the story that makes Advent so significant to us. Zechariah may have some earnest questions regarding his potency, but he is not talking about his wife conceiving a child. He is talking about a future that he does not expect to live long enough to see. “How will I know…” “that he will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God.”  “How will I know…” that the spirit and power of Elijah will rest upon him? “How will I know…” that he will turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.’ Even if I become a father, “How will I know…?”

I’m going to claim the privilege of extending the text to make a point. Later on in the story, after John was born and Zechariah regained his ability to speak, he still didn’t know; and the chances are that he never would. Amazingly, he was a dad just like Abraham, but the angel’s foretelling of John’s impact on Israel was still out there as an unfulfilled promise. Nonetheless, Zechariah pitch perfectly broke into song. We call that song the Benedictus Dominus Deus. The truly amazing thing about his song is that he brings Gabriel’s future tense into the present tense. You can find his song on page 92 of the Book of Common Prayer 1979.

I can’t really remember when life began to dull, when the colors began to fade, and time collapsed into the present moment, but in that moment Zechariah and I became one. However, I remember when God restored the clarity and the color for which I longed and brought the promise to bear on my life. The promise was still out there and yet it was wonderfully present.

At its core, Advent is forward looking and timeless. It doesn’t matter if we are old. The promise is bigger than we are. It lives in our midst and fuels the hope that moves us forward. Advent saves us from the despair that can infect us when we can’t see beyond ourselves because it tells us that tomorrow always holds the unfulfilled promises of today.

The Rev. Dr. Mark Story

Rector

St. Mary’s Edmond

Enough is Enough

I think there are two sides to every Advent season. The first, and most obviously driven home, is the need for us to create space in our lives (or re-create) for the coming Messiah. We’re fairly faithful most of the year, anyway, but Advent serves as a great reminder to take a step back and assess our relationship with God. Have we made ‘enough’ time for God, have we attended worship ‘enough’, have we…have we…have we…  The questions go on and on, and to a point I think they’re worthy introspections.

To a point.

Which brings me to the second side of Advent. The joy-killers.

When did we decide that a season about penitence and anticipation should completely over-shadow the celebration of the Incarnation? Furthermore, why are some clergy so obsessed with Advent that their own congregations open up speakeasy eggnog venues filled with frankincense and the soft sounds of Christmas music, hidden away from their leaders? It’s like some of us are actively trying to kill the joy of Christmas, because we think you aren’t taking Advent seriously ‘enough’.

But just like the questions of the first side, clergy can no more answer those than the question of the second. ‘Enough’ is up to you. You decide what that word means in your lives. We cannot, and should not, be the Advent police. Our job is to instruct and guide, not diminish and accuse. The amount of evil in the world can be staggering. If at any point, joy seeks a way through the veil, I say bring it on. If you want to listen to Christmas songs, trim the tree on Thanksgiving (or Halloween for some of you), and wear ugly sweaters before December 25th, I think you’re well within your rights to do so. After all, we need a little warmth in the depth of winter.

Instead of plaguing you with incessant sermons about how to avoid Christmas, I’m going to keep talking up the importance of Advent while urging you to enjoy both. Wear your sweaters, listen to your music, but also keep in mind that preparation is necessary for everything. Just as you will make multiple trips to the store, make multiple trips to the church. Just as you will watch holiday movies and gather around friends and family, make sure you’re also watching out for your own faith. Nurture it, cherish it. And remember that Advent is a component of that faith, a season in which to take a closer look at the life we live in God.

But it isn’t a reason to forgo joy. And enough is ‘enough’.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+