YEAR C 2025 st timothy sunday

St. Timothy Sunday, 2025
Isaiah 42:1-7
Psalm 30:1-5
2 Timothy 1:1–8
John 10:1–10

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

Today we celebrate St. Timothy Sunday.  Our “patronal feast,” as it is called.  And we have good reason to celebrate our 189 years of ministry in Massillon, and beyond.  This parish has done some amazing things, and we have a proud history of helping our neighbors.  From setting up trade schools in the basement, to building a chapel for our black neighbors after the Civil War.  Over the centuries we have fed people, and educated people, and entertained people, and been good neighbors for a long time.  And I know we will continue to do even more in the future.

We also have some dark periods in our parish history.  
In 1851, at a Christmas Eve service, a young girl named Abby was accused of “spirit rapping,” because noises were heard during the priest’s sermon.  She was charged with disturbing a religious service, and an actual trial was held in Cleveland, which was covered by the local media for several days.  The judge dismissed the case for lack of evidence.  And life went on.
 

In 1873, Fr. Wallace Probasco came to St. Timothy’s.  In the earliest versions of our parish history, his red-headed wife is disparagingly described as drawing attraction from the the older men of the parish, and riding her horse around town like a “common hussy.”  But that was probably just the anger talking, since she refused to visit her priest husband as he died of smallpox, for fear it might damage her delicate complexion.  More recent editions of the parish history are a little kinder to her.  And life went on.

In 1877, Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke took over at St. Timothy’s, and he lasted just 8 years.  As our parish history puts it, “An unsub­stantiated story says that after a secret vestry meeting he was asked to resign. A Southern  Democrat [right after the Civil War] he had alienated some of the congregation by his political views.”  And life went on.

The point of my telling you these stories is, we can celebrate our history, while also acknowledging where we’ve gone off the rails.  And life has gone on.

And this week, as we celebrate our parish history, many people are celebrating the inauguration of our new president.  Nationwide, 49% of the people voted for him.  In Ohio, 55% of the people voted for him.  In Stark County, 61% of the people voted for him.  Which means, 61% of our voting neighbors wanted the things that are starting to happen, and will happen in the years ahead.  On Monday, as fires continued to rage in southern California, we withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement, joining an elite group of four countries, which now includes Iran, Libya, Yemen and us.  As we have clawed our way back from Covid, and the threat of avian flu and other diseases continues to grow, we have now withdrawn from the World Health Organization, and paused funding for medical conferences and cancer research.

Lots of other things happened this week as well, such as pardoning people who assaulted and killed police officers at the Capitol on January 6th, because we back the blue, and support law and order.  And, closest to me, the Federal Government now says that trans people do not exist.  As the proud parent of trans person I can tell you this one is patently false.  Trans people do exist, and you have met one, and eaten meals with one, and heard one sing in our choir.  But 61% of my neighbors wanted this denial of my child’s existence, and so here we are.  Welcome to Stark County Fr. George.

You might be among the 61% who are celebrating the inauguration of the new president, and I sure hope the price of eggs finally does come down.  But some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  And not just for our own children.  When ICE comes back again to raid the Freshmark plant—which they most certainly will—I worry about what happens to the children who come home from school to find their parents are suddenly gone.  Seriously.  What happens to them?  Those are real kids, who live ten blocks away from us, no matter the price of the eggs they pack into the cartons we buy at Giant Eagle.  So yeah.  Some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But 61% of the people in Stark County wanted exactly this.

Now I know some of you are thinking, “Hey, Fr. George promised not to preach politics from the pulpit.”  And, yes, I did promise that.  Because you’d hate to follow in the footsteps of the Southern Democrat Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke and be run out of town on a rail.  But I’m not talking about politics or elections; I’m talking about the results of politics and elections.  I’m not telling you who to vote for, or my opinions on legislation.  I’m just telling you about the real-world consequences in the real world we live in because 61% of the people told us they wanted this world.

And this seems as good a time as any to tell you that on Thursday, someone called the church office and left a l-o-n-g and rambling message about how disgusted he was by what a Bishop in another Diocese said to the president during her sermon, explaining how she could not possibly know that people are frightened right now, and how he would never join our church, and that the Episcopal Church leadership is absent because they have their heads stuck up a “woke hole.”  Left that message.  On our church voicemail.  A faith community 400 miles away from that sermon.  We’re in for quite a ride the next four years, I can tell you that.

But there is nothing political about what I’m saying.  I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name or political party.  I am just reminding you that we are heading into a period of great suffering for the people around us, including people you know and love.  People who are going to need protecting, and support, and allies.  And for the next four years, some of us are going to be sad, and angry, and worried, while knowing that 61% of the people we run into in the grocery store wanted exactly this.

And I’m also telling you where I am, as your priest.  Like it or not, you have a priest who—barring some outside intervention—is going to be sad, and angry, and worried for some time to come.  But I am still your priest, no matter who you voted for, and no matter who you support in the political realm.  So see?  I’m not preaching politics after all!  I’m just asking you to care.  Asking you to care about people who are going to suffer.  A lot.

But at the same time, we are still here celebrating St. Timothy Sunday and preparing for our Annual Meeting.  Our gospel street preacher is probably outside right now with his plastic bullhorn getting ready to terrorize us after the service.  (Which is all the more incentive for you to stick around for the luncheon and Annual Meeting, so you don’t have to hear him call you a sodomite as you walk to your car today.)  But he’s allowed to be out there.  The First Amendment supports his freedom to do that—for those who still believe in the Constitution  And he doesn’t actually disrupt our services, like Abby’s alleged spirit rapping did back in 1851.

We’ve been through a lot these past 189 years.  And God willing, we will be through a lot for many years to come.  But I can’t help but think we are at an inflection point as a parish, while living in a country that is also at an inflection point.  Are we willing to honestly look at who we are and who we want to be?  Are we willing to put aside partisan talking points and things we see online to honestly talk to each other?  Or are we more inclined to take the easy path.  Be reflexively angry at someone who disagrees with us.  To shut out those who get their news from a different source.  To reject those of a different tribe.  And that goes in both directions, believe me.

St. Timothy’s has held together through an actual Civil War.  Through two World Wars.  Through panics and depressions and presidential assassinations and civil unrest, and more than one pandemic.  And yet here we are.  Battered, and damaged, in an aging building that never stops leaking.  But here we are.  We can do this because we have done this.

Some of us are really hopeful right now, but some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But we are in this together.  And that’s the most important thing.  Together.  Let’s keep talking.  Let’s keep loving our neighbors as ourselves.  And let’s keep trusting God to guide us into the future.  A future where one day, by the grace of God, not any single one of us will have to wake up feeling sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  As our own state motto says, “with God all things are possible.”  May God make it so.  May God make it so, and may God continue to bless St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 epiphany 2

Epiphany 2, 2025
Isaiah 62:1-5
Psalm 36:5-10
1 Corinthians 12:1-11
John 2:1-11

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

So, as you know, we have four Gospel books in our Bible.  They are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  The first three (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) are called the Synoptic Gospels, because they sort of line up in details, chronology, emphasis, and language.  (Syn-optic, like “same view.”)  You can find Jesus calming the stormy sea in all three synoptic gospels, but not in John.  You find the raising of Lazarus in John, but not in the synoptics.  

John’s gospel is big on symbolism and metaphor, sometimes changing the order of events—like the Last Supper—for full symbolic impact.  Whereas Matthew and Luke tell us about the birth of Jesus, and Mark starts at the Baptism of Jesus, John starts before the beginning of the world, saying in the beginning was the Word, and the light shines in the darkness.  You can think of the synoptics as being like biographies of Jesus, and John being like a long-form poem about the meaning of Jesus’ life.  Point being, John’s gospel is packed with symbolism and metaphor, so it is quite different from the others.

Today, we heard from John the story that we commonly call “The Wedding at Cana.”  And as soon as you hear that title, you probably think, “Oh yeah.  That time Jesus turned water into wine.  Got it.” And then start thinking about something else.  This is always the downside of Bible stories being familiar to us.  Or any stories, for that matter.  We’ve heard it before, we know the main point, let’s move on.  And, whenever we do that, we miss the opportunity to hear God speak something new to us in the text.  It’s important for us to remember that the Bible is a living text, and no story can ever be fully understood.  Especially no story from John!

So, let’s look closer at what we actually heard today, keeping in mind how different John’s gospel is.  Our story opens with “on the third day.”  The third day from what?  We don’t know.  John doesn’t say.  How weird is that?  “And the mother of Jesus was there.”  This is the first time that the mother of Jesus is mentioned in John.  And—get this—John never tells us her name.  Not in all of his writing does he call her Mary.  If it weren’t for the synoptic gospels, we would not even know Mary’s name.  And yet, at the foot of the cross, Jesus tells John to behold his mother, and his mother to behold her son.  So it’s not like Mary isn’t important to John.

Anyway, then we get to the section where Jesus and his mother are talking.  Because of the liberties in translation that people have taken over the years, we tend to see this as Mary saying, “Do something!” and then telling the servants to do whatever Jesus tells them.  But the language is a lot more vague than that.  And there are missing verbs and stuff.  It’s more like Mary actually says, “They have no wine,” and Jesus says, “What to me and to you, woman.”  And—lest you worry—calling his mother “woman” is not insulting, as we’re apt to take it.  It sounds rude, but it is not.  You know, different culture, different language.  More concerning is that there is no verb in the sentence, “What to me and to you.”

And then we get Mary saying, "Do whatever he tells you,” which sounds very controlling, and suggests she knows what’s going to happen.  But what she really says is, “That which he might say to you, do.”  Which is more like saying, if he should happen to tell you to do something, go ahead and do it.  And then we get to what you and I always think of as the miracle part of the story.

Jesus tells them to fill the ritual stone jars with water, draw some out, and take it to the banquet manager.  When he tastes it, he is amazed that they saved the good wine for last.  But look at how strange this is in the text.  John never says, “And then by an amazing miracle, the water turned into wine!”  Because that’s not the point of the story.  Even though we think it is the point of the story, it is not.  John adds the transformation into wine as just a little detail along the way.  “When the steward tasted the water that had become wine . . .” which is like saying, "When the steward tasted the water that was in the cup . . .”  The fact that it had become wine is not the point of the story.

We latch onto the transformation into wine because it looks like a magic trick, and we love magic tricks.  But if you look at who knows what in the story, you can see it is not a magic trick, because no one is amazed by the transformation.  The narrator provides the transformation as a little detail.  The boss doesn’t know where the good wine came from, but credits the steward.  The servants know where it came from, but they don’t know that it turned into wine.  The guests know nothing about any of it.  And that’s because turning water into wine is not the point of this story.

The point of the story of the wedding at Cana is that best wine was saved for last.  The time when you would be expecting something mediocre, or worse, that is when Jesus gives us the best.  God never offers just enough, or an adequate amount.  The Psalms and the Prophets’ writings are filled with talk of feasts, and banquets, and ever-flowing streams.  Glimpses of heaven, put into the language of the here and now.  God’s magnanimous generous nature is always to give more than we can ever ask or imagine.  A glimpse of the heavenly banquet and wedding feast, where the best is yet to come.

So, let’s talk about the stone jars.  In Jewish ritual practice, any clay pottery that became defiled had to be smashed, never to be used again.  However, Rabbis had decreed that vessels made from carved stone could not be defiled, and so they were used for ritual washing, among other things.  At the wedding at Cana there were six of these jars, each holding 20 to 30 gallons of water.  so, that’s somewhere between 120 and 180 gallons.  Gallons.  With a G.  That’s a lot of wine!  These jars are holding the best wine.

These stone jars are a crucial part of the story, but they don’t do anything.  We think of these jars as a prop, just sitting there, empty and unimportant.  But they are where the miracle takes place!  And, as I’ve said, the miracle is not in the transformation of water into wine.  No, the miracle of this story is that Jesus always gives us more than we can ever ask or imagine.  The chief steward is not amazed that it was wine; he was amazed that it was the best wine.

And since John’s gospel is packed full of symbolism and metaphor, I’m going to take a cue from John and suggest this for us to ponder . . .

Those six stone jars are like our hearts, and maybe like our lives.  Not something to be smashed and destroyed when defiled by sin, but definitely in need of refilling, refreshing, and renewing.  There are times in all our lives when we think of ourselves like those jars:  insignificant, empty and unimportant.  And in those times, we should remember God’s unending regard for the least, the little, and the lost.  Like in Mary’s Magnificat, God lifts up the lowly, and gives to those in need.  We should remember those stone jars.

We are transformed by the love of God in the moments when we least expect it.  And when Jesus refills us, when we are filled with the refreshing water of life, we are then poured out for the world, transformed into a generous serving of the best God has to offer the world.  The miracle is not in the transformation that God works in our lives; the miracle is that it is always the best.  Given for everyone, with more than enough for all.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 baptism of jesus

The Baptism of Our Lord
Isaiah 43:1-7
Psalm 29
Acts 8:14-17
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Although I forgot to mention it last week, for those who are interested, there’s a basket of chalk in the parish hall, along with instructions for chalking your door for Epiphany.  Some people say that chalking the door brings good luck, or keeps evil spirits away.  But that’s not why we do it.  We put chalk on our doors to remind ourselves that God is with us, not to dispel demons.  As I remind us, over and over again, God does not save us from trouble; God saves us in our troubles.

We worship a God who specializes in resurrections, new beginnings, hope for the hopeless, love for the unloved.  All the miracles of Jesus are about setting things right: restoration of sight, healing of disease, raising the dead back to life.  Chalking our door reminds us that Jesus is with us; that’s why we do it, despite what troubles might come our way.

And speaking of Jesus' being with us, today we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord.  It’s a big deal in the Christian Church; it gets its own Sunday every year.  And in today’s version of his baptism, from Luke, we have John the Baptist with his dramatic speech to set the stage.  He’s really building Jesus up to be a scary guy, baptizing with fire, a winnowing fork in his hand, with unquenchable fire!  The drama is off the charts here.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you JESUS!”

And then Luke writes, “when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also was baptized . . .”  That’s it.  That’s the entrance.  Jesus gets baptized right along with everyone else—a parenthetical thought on the Feast Day of Our Lord’s Baptism.  Luke doesn’t give us any details about the baptism.  Jesus is just . . . baptized along with everybody else.  Or, as Luke says, right along with “ALL the people.”  All the people were baptized, and Jesus also was baptized.  Kind of an understated entrance for the guy John the Baptist has been stumping for, isn’t it?  I mean, the set-up seems a little overblown.

But, of course, you know what happens next.  Jesus is praying, the heavens open up, the Holy Spirit descends in the form of a dove, and there is a voice from heaven saying, “You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  Whole theological careers have been built on this sentence.  And mine will not be among them.  There are too many questions about what this means for Jesus’ own sense of his Messianic identity for me to wade into.  But this voice from heaven sounds remarkably similar to what comes just prior to the reading we heard from Isaiah this morning.

In Isaiah 42 we read, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.”  Of course, we might conclude that Luke intends for it to sound remarkably similar, and that’s why it does.  But the echo is certainly there, and it would make the connection clear for anyone familiar with the writings of Isaiah.  

And just after that prophecy, in today’s reading from Isaiah, we have a series of promises.  I have called you by name and you are mine.  Do not fear; I am with you.  You are precious in my sight.  I am the Lord your God, your Savior.  These are promises to God’s people.  These are promises to you and me.  

And these texts from Isaiah parallel the announcement at Jesus’ baptism along with the people.  I mean, ALL the people.  Isaiah 43:2—When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.  When you pass through the water, God is with you.  You are God’s beloved child.  In you, God is well pleased.  And how do we know God is with us when we pass through the water?

Because as we heard, Jesus meets the people being baptized in the water, and God is well pleased.  Jesus joins with each of us in the waters of baptism, just as he meets us at this Altar in the sacrament.  When Jesus joins us in the baptismal water, the water overflows with promise--forgiveness, new life, God calling us by name, God proclaiming us beloved. Like Jesus, we are named precious, honored, and loved. God is with us always; we do not need to be afraid, because Jesus is the fulfillment and embodiment of God's promise.

And, after meeting us in the water, Jesus meets us in every circumstance, every season of life, even in the moment of death—especially there. From the water, Jesus walks with us on the journey of our lives, ending at the cross, and the empty tomb. Jesus has gone before us, and is always with us, whether or not we chalk our doors.

But there’s a sticky point in the Baptism of Jesus, and maybe it’s a thought you’ve had yourself, and it is this:  If Baptism is for the remission of sin (you know, forgiveness of sin), and since Jesus is without sin, then why does Jesus have to be baptized?  Why does Jesus get baptized along with ALL the people?  Well, two thoughts on that . . .

First, we kind of have the shoe on the wrong foot here.  It’s not that Jesus is baptized like us; it’s that we are baptized like Jesus.  Jesus isn’t doing what we do in baptism; rather, in our baptism, we are doing what Jesus does.  We are joining in the baptism of Jesus.

And secondly, baptism is not a requirement; baptism is a gift.  God doesn’t love us because we have been baptized.  Instead, we get to be baptized because God loves us.  And that’s particularly clear when we remember those words from Isaiah.  God says when you pass through the waters I will be with you.  Which is quite different from saying, after you have passed through the waters, I will consider loving you.

And as we saw in today’s gospel reading, when ALL the people were baptized, Jesus was with them.  Not just watching them from the shore, nodding in approval.  No, Jesus is baptized with them.  Not in some special, private, rock-star baptism, but right along with them.  
Which suggests that rather than looking up to heaven for God, maybe we should look around the room.  Because that’s where Jesus is.

In our own Baptismal Covenant, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.  We renew that covenant every time we witness a baptism.  Every time we see someone get confirmed.  Every time the Bishop visits.  Every Easter.  And today as well, on the Baptism of our Lord.  And, as with all the promises we make in church, we make the promises along with the phrase, “with God’s help.”  We promise to do the impossible, with God’s help.  To seek and serve Christ in all persons, with God’s help.  Because God is with us.

I encourage you to hear these words again, because God says to you, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you . . . For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

God loves you.  Exactly as you are.  And whether or not there is chalk on your door, Jesus is always with you.

Amen.

The Burial of Wendy Little

Wendy Little, 1/10/25
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 23
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

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

Wendy was always on the move.  She traveled the world because she wanted to see things, and learn things, and visit exotic places.  And then, when she got back, you would hear all the stories—some of them quite bizarre, I must add.  But Wendy was always on the move.

Later in life, when her doctor told her she needed exercise, Wendy took to walking.  Actually, I should call it power walking.  You’ve never seen someone with a walker move so fast!  Since we live around the corner from her house, we were on her route.  And any time I was out grilling in the driveway, I could count on hearing Wendy’s walker racing up the block.  Determined to get her steps in.  Always on the move that Wendy.

And not just physically.  Though Wendy was firm in her political positions, she was always willing to hear what others had to say.  More than once she called the office, or spoke to me after church and said, “You know, I’m a Republican, but I agree with what you said, and I’m glad you said it.”  To be clear, I am careful not to preach politics in church, but to Wendy it was important to start these sentences by telling me where she stood politically, even though it wasn’t a political sermon she was talking about.  But she was always willing to move . . . at least a little.

In the passage I read from John’s gospel a few minutes ago, Jesus says “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”  Everything and everyone will come to Jesus.  And Jesus promises that he will lose nothing the Father has given him, but will raise it up on the last day.  Jesus walks with us throughout our lives, no matter how fast we go or how much we are on the move.

Wendy was always on the move.  But in all her travels, she has not gone anywhere she has not already been all along, which is safely in the palm of God’s hands.  Jesus says he will lose nothing that has been given to him.  Not Wendy, not you, and not me.  No matter where we travel, no matter how much we move, Jesus is holding us throughout our entire lives.  And—more importantly—Jesus is also holding us in death, because Jesus does not lose what is his.

Wendy has traveled to a new place, and one day we will join her there.  And she will most certainly have even more interesting stories to tell as we walk together, if only we can keep up with her.  God bless Wendy Little, and God bless you.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 christmas 2

Christmas 2, 2025
Jeremiah 31:7-14
Psalm 84:1-8
Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a
Luke 2:41-52

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

So, here we are on the 12th Day of Christmas.  I hope you’re enjoying the 12 drummers drumming.  (It’s getting a little crowded in our house at this point.)  The Christmas season is almost over, we’ve just entered a new calendar year, and Epiphany starts when the sun sets tonight.  Things are changing . . . quickly, whether we’re ready or not.

Accepting change is very hard.  The most recent example for you and me right now is probably the appearance of the number 5, since I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s had to cross out 2024 and write 2025 on something.  We say that change is good, and that we embrace change, and change is for the better and all that; but when it comes right down to it, change is hard.  Especially hard when we don’t want things to change.  Still, the change keeps coming.

But first things first, to change the subject . . . The question we’re all honestly asking ourselves right now:  Three days?  They were searching for Jesus for three days?  I have often lost track of my kids for three minutes, and in some settings three hours, but THREE DAYS???  And when they find Jesus, Mary says to him, “Your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.”  Well there’s an understatement, huh?  “Great anxiety” doesn’t begin to describe it I’m sure.  On the other hand, part of me expects Jesus to say, “Well you’re the ones who left me.”  And, of course, that’s why he’s Jesus, and I’m not.

And the next question is, how did that happen, anyway?  How do you just leave your eldest child behind and not even notice for a whole day?  In fact, I think that question is so distracting that we risk missing the rest of the story.  It’s especially strange because this is the only story we have from Jesus’ childhood.  Only Luke has any mention of the early years of Jesus’ life and this is it.  We get one childhood memory between his birth and the start of his ministry, and it’s: Hey, remember that time we left Jesus in the Temple for 3 days and didn’t notice?

But two things to point out here:  First, Mary and Joseph are traveling with a large group of people.  It’s not like they’re climbing into their hatchback with an empty carseat in the back, not noticing that their only child is missing.  As the text says, “they assumed he was within the group of travelers among the relatives and friends.”  I am only dwelling on this to try to get us past what is probably a glaring obstacle in our modern minds.  And, Mary’s reaction on finally seeing her boy sets the right tone.  She has been worried sick about him.  Searching “in great anxiety.”  Great anxiety is something we can all relate to I think.

And the second thing going on here has to do with the gospel of Luke.  When you read Luke’s Gospel, you’ll notice that everything points to the Temple.  Jesus is always heading for the Temple.  The Temple is the scene of all the big confrontations.  For Luke, Jesus’ destiny is always in the Temple.  It’s the most natural place for him to go; it’s sort of his default destination.  If you’re looking for Jesus in Luke’s gospel, you should probably start in the Temple.

Mary asks, “Why have you treated us like this?”  She’s not ready for this kind of change.  And so she makes it a story about Mary.  But, really, who wouldn’t?  At this point, she doesn’t really know the full truth about Jesus.  And, personally, I’m willing to consider that Jesus doesn’t know the full truth about Jesus, either.  To Jesus, it seems only natural that he would be in the Temple.  And when I was 12 years old, it seemed only natural to me that I would be at the candy store.  Jesus responds to his mother (and it’s worth noting, this is the first time Jesus ever speaks in the gospels), he asks “Why were you searching for me?  Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  It’s almost as if Jesus hasn’t noticed the change of focus either.

Then Luke adds, “But they did not understand what he said to them.”  Well of course they didn’t!  They don’t know that when Jesus says “My Father’s house,” he’s not talking about Joseph’s place.  To Jesus (and Luke), it’s only natural for Jesus to be in the Temple.  

So Jesus disappeared, his parents found him, he seems surprised that it took them so long, and then the gospel reading today closes with this:  “And Jesus increased in wisdom and years, and in divine and human favor.”  That seems like an odd phrase, doesn’t it?  It kind of sounds to me like, “And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph lived happily ever after.” And Jesus increased in wisdom and years, and in divine and human favor.  Or actually, it sounds more like it’s the beginning of a story, rather than the end of one.  Maybe even like the end of an introduction to a story.

Just before that, we see Mary doing what Mary does in Luke’s gospel:  Pondering these things in her heart.  Well, our translation today uses “treasured these things.”  Mary treasures these things in her heart, because she does not understand, but she also ponders them, and turns them over to try to understand.  Pondering is a good word for this, since it implies an activity, an action on her part.  These are not precious little memories of Jesus’ childhood to store away in a scrapbook and bring out to show friends at parties.  She ponders, trying to understand.

Mary ponders these changes in the boy Jesus, just as we ponder the changes we continue to go through.  We want the baby that we had just twelve days ago.  Safely tucked in his crib, no crying he makes in the silent holy night.  A baby, we know how to handle.  Change the diapers; feed the baby; wrap the baby in warm clothes.  Babies we understand.

I think that’s one of the reasons Christmas is so comfortable for us, and for everyone, really.  We embrace the “little 8 lb 6 ounce newborn baby Jesus, don’t even know a word yet, infant cuddly, but still omnipotent.”  Because that’s how we like Jesus to be.  We don’t want him to change into an adult.  And it’s tempting to think that the Christmas story is the biggest part of the life of Jesus—given how our society treats Christmas—like it’s all just details after December 25th.  But, honestly?  It’s not.  Christmas is just the way to start the story.

And the fact that we moved from his birth 12 days ago, to his circumcision on Wednesday, to his first words in the temple at the age of twelve today kind of drives home the point.  Christmas is important because it is the start of our redemption story.  And for that reason, on some level the whole Christmas story is like the phrase, “Once Upon A Time.”  It starts the story, but it sure isn’t the point.  I mean, it’s a big deal that God walks among us, don’t get me wrong.  But the point of the story is yet to come.

Things have changed quickly these past 12 days.  Jesus is out of the crib and taking on the world.  Suddenly he’s twelve years old and giving us clues as to where this story is going.  And, like Mary, we’re already confused.  We’re already wishing he’d just stay put, surrounded by animals and shepherds and wise men.  Stay right there in that manger and don’t ever change, little Christmas Jesus.

But that Christmas Jesus has moved on.  The crib is empty.  And now we follow him on this journey that takes him to the cross and leads us to the empty tomb.  It’s one, long, wondrous story that begins with his birth, and takes us to our rebirth.  From the empty crib to the empty tomb, a lot is going to change for us in the next few months.

And here’s the thing:  Jesus is not confined to a manger scene.  And Jesus is not confined to this building.  As we heard, Jesus is out in the world now too, busy doing the work that the Father sent him to do: bringing restoration to the people, and restoration to our relationships.  Jesus has come, and God walks among us.  And you and I will continue to ponder all these things in our hearts, knowing that the salvation story is just getting started.

May God continue to remind us that Jesus is out in the world with us, among us, wherever we may be.  Yes, we have anxiety, and yes we are all a little bit confused, but Jesus is with us here in God’s house, and also with us out in the world.  Emmanuel: God is with us.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 feast of the holy name

Holy Name, 2025
Numbers 6:22-27
Psalm 8
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 2:15-21

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

Well, on this Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus, January 1st, New Year's Day, I am going to read to you the same sermon that I read every year on this day, because I need to hear it, even if you don't.  

Every year, on January 1st, our secular society celebrates New Year’s Day, while on the same day the Church is celebrating the Feast of the Holy Name, Jesus.  As we heard on the Sundays leading up to Christmas, the name Jesus literally means, “God saves.”  So we lift up the name of Jesus on this day, not because the word itself is special, but because it is a constant reminder of the promise: God saves.  Jesus means, God saves.

But I want to talk about a different name for a moment today: Janus.  Janus was the Roman god of beginnings and endings, gates, transitions, time, doorways, and passages.  Our month of January gets its name from Janus, and you can see why.  When the odometer of the calendar rolls over, it’s a beginning, and an ending, and a doorway, and a gate, and so on.

The god Janus is always depicted as having two heads: one facing forward, and one facing backward.  Seeing the future, and looking at the past.  And how fitting this is for how we view the start of the new year.  We look back at the past year, and we also give some thought to how things will be in the new year.  And, every year, we look back in judgement, and make resolutions about how things will be better, how we will be better.  And that’s why so many people feel dispirited at the turn of the calendar: because when we look backwards, we can be disappointed in ourselves and others.  And thanks to the Romans, we have Janus, who is always looking backward, always judging, always disappointed.  Just the kind of god human beings would make up, when you think about it.

But then we have Jesus, who is always looking forward.  When we confess our sins together, we hear in the Absolution that God forgives all our sins through our Lord, Jesus Christ.  ALL our sins.  But we still see them, don’t we?  We still lie awake at night with regrets over something we said to someone in third grade, or whatever.  We can see all our mistakes and failures and disappointments clear as day, because just like Janus, we are always looking backward.

And we also look backwards to define ourselves and others.  We explain our identities by looking to the past.  Here’s my degree; here’s where I served in the military; here’s my Eagle Scout badge.  Obituaries and resume’s are by definition an accounting of the past.  They look backward.  We naturally look to the past to tell who someone is.  We want to know, “How did you get here?”

But God always looks forward, not backward.  And the promises we make in church are always forward, never backward.  The priest asks a couple about to be married, Will you love, comfort honor and keep each other?  Before a person is Baptized, the priest asks Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons?  And the candidate says, I will, with God’s help.  We always ask “will you.”  We never ask “have you.”  It doesn’t matter how you got here.  It matters that you are here.  Again, God always looks forward, not backward.

Because when God looks backward, God sees nothing: all your sins have been erased.  They’re not there.  When God looks back there is nothing but Jesus: God saves.  Your sins, your mistakes, your regrets, those are no longer known to God.  They are only known to you.  God’s hindsight sees nothing but goodness and forgiveness and Jesus.  Because God saves.

May God give us all the grace to see our lives as God sees them, always looking forward, because of the Holy Name of Jesus: God saves.

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 christmas 1

Christmas 1, 2024
Isaiah 61:10-62:3
Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
John 1:1-18
Psalm 147

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

Merry Christmas!  I hope you’re enjoying those five golden rings today.  In these 12 days of Christmas, we celebrate the birth of The Word made flesh, Jesus our Lord.  As we heard from John, the Word has been here from before the beginning of creation.  “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”  All things.  And in case it isn’t obvious, “all things” includes you!  The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit work together in creating everything that is.  Including you.

So, this means the Word has always been here.  But the Word made flesh is what’s new and different.  Jesus is the spoken Word of God in human form.  We often call the Bible the word of God.  But the Bible is the written word of God, developed over the ages.  The Bible testifies to the Word of God, but it was not here at the beginning of creation.  The Bible is not the same as the spoken Word.  Jesus is the spoken Word.  And you’ll remember that all of creation was spoken into existence.  The spoken Word has always been here, from before the very beginning.  That Word is not going anywhere, and that Word is never far from you.  That same spoken Word is the light that we heard about in John.  In the beginning was the Word.  Before there was anything.

Which brings us to the light, shining in the darkness.  I believe that the times when we feel farthest from God might just be the very times we are the closest to God. Because in tragedy and pain, all the frivolous distracting diversions of life are taken away. Because the light shines in the darkness. When everything is bright and cheery and 60 degrees on a winter day, we might not notice a candle flickering in a corner.  But when times are darkest, when we are searching, when we need hope, that is when we notice a little candle, because the light shines in the darkness.  And the darkness does not overcome it.  Does the darkness try to overcome the light?  Well, just take a look around you.  The darkness is always trying.  Always trying.

And we have a vivid example of that in the way the Church year is laid out.  In the days right after Christmas, the Church observes three Holy days, which we rarely notice, because they are not allowed to replace a Sunday.  (Church nerds can turn to pages 16 and 17 of our BCP for an explanation.)  These three Major Feasts honor St. Stephen, St. John, and the Holy Innocents.  St. John is credited with giving us the Gospel of John, from which we heard the opening verses a few minutes ago.  But the other two feasts are very different.  St. Stephen was the first Christian martyr.  He was stoned to death, while Saul (who later became St. Paul) stood there dutifully holding the robes of the ones who killed Stephen.

And the feast of Holy Innocents is in remembrance of Matthew’s account of what happened after the Magi tricked Herod by not returning.  Then Herod in his rage had his soldiers go and kill every male child under the age of two.  Every year, on December 28th, the Church honors those innocent victims of Herod’s cruel injustice.  These Holy Innocents do get a day. But hardly anyone actually observes it because, you know, happy holidays and all that.

But listen to the Collect for their feast day:  We remember today, O God, the slaughter of the holy innocents of Bethlehem by King Herod. Receive, we pray, into the arms of your mercy all innocent victims; and by your great might frustrate the designs of evil tyrants and establish your rule of justice, love, and peace.

When justice, love, and peace are afoot, there’s a reaction!  The Holy Innocents’ day is placed right after Christmas, which reminds us of this connection . . . while we’re busy celebrating.  This Christmas season we rejoice at the light shining in the darkness, yes.  But the days set aside for St. Stephen and for the Holy Innocents stand as stark reminders that there is still darkness.  We welcome the light, we welcome the salvation, but there is still darkness.

It’s tempting to say, well, those other children had to die so that Jesus could live—so that the salvation of all could be accomplished.  I mean, that’s how we humans operate, right?  We’re willing to sacrifice a few people for the benefit of the larger society.  All governments around the world have some version of a cost-benefit analysis:  “How many innocent deaths can we tolerate before we put up that stop sign?”  And when we put it in terms like that, well the death of those innocent children at the hands of Herod gives us the benefit of salvation for all human beings.  I mean, it’s definitely how wars work.  We must have victory, even if it means bombing hospitals and schools.  We must occupy this land, no matter how many innocent people are killed on the way.  People made in the image of God, by the Word of God who spoke all things into existence, get dismissed as “collateral damage."

But that transactional way of thinking is not how God works. As I said on Christmas Eve, God values every person.  Every.  Created.  Person.  Trading one person for many is a human concept, yes, but it is not a Godly concept.  (And I will gladly argue with Paul about his writing on that topic.)  We would sacrifice one person to save 99.  But Jesus leaves the 99 to find the one lost sheep.  So in fact, God works the other way around.  Jesus stands our thinking on its head.  And for that reason, we dare not think of the slaughter of Holy Innocents as just needing to break a few eggs in order to make an omelet.

But back to the text we just heard.  Note that the light shines in darkness. This is not the same as saying there is darkness or there is light.  The presence of salvation does not remove evil.  Our redemption shines in the midst of the evil.  It does not remove it or prevent it.  Knowing how the story ends does not remove the suffering on the way.  But now, there is hope within the suffering, there is redemption within the evil, and there is light within the darkness.  

In this Christmas season, we would like for everything to be okay, because now we have Jesus. But we know that’s not how life works.  People woke up on December 26th—the feast of St. Stephen—still divorced, still grieving, still unemployed, still shunned and rejected by family and friends, still painfully aware of whatever darkness might surround you today.  Christmas does not wipe away the darkness.  In fact, you could say it illuminates it.  Because the light shines within the darkness.

Christmas reminds us that a light shines in the darkness.  Christmas lights a candle in the darkness.  At the darkest time of the year, we surround ourselves with lights, and candles, and singing, and decorations, as signs of hope.  We always have hope because of Jesus.  Because we know how the story ends.

Back in the late 1300’s, Julian of Norwich wrote her “Revelations of Divine Love,” which—as I like to point out—is the earliest surviving manuscript written in English by a woman.  Listen to what she says . . .
In my folly, before this time I often wondered why, by the great foreseeing wisdom of God, the onset of sin was not prevented: for then, I thought, all should have been well. . . . But Jesus . . . answered with these words and said: “It was necessary that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”  These words were said most tenderly, showing no manner of blame to me nor to any who shall be saved.

As we heard today from John—whose feast day sits right between St. Stephen the first martyr and the Holy Innocents—the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.  May God give us all the grace to always look for the light.  Because the light is there.  The light is always there.  And the darkness will never overcome it.

Amen.