YEAR A 2022 christmas eve

Christmas Eve, 2022
Isaiah 9:2-7
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-20
Psalm 96

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

Now that the sun has set, I can safely say, Merry Christmas to you all.  To those foolhardy enough to come out tonight, as well as those joining us online at home.  It has been a bitterly cold couple of days across the country, which has led us to check in on our family and neighbors, even more than usual.  To make sure they’re okay, and that they have everything they need.  And in many ways, this fits perfectly with the entire concept of Christmas:  That God was born a human being and became one of us, fully human, in every sense of the word.  Needing help from those around him.  Our savior was born as a helpless baby; God has taken on human flesh.

And there are important changes in our world because of that.  God becoming human is a reminder that life is sanctified, a stamp of approval on creation.  As we are told in the creation story in Genesis, we are made in the image of God.  And Jesus taking on human form completes that cycle.  You could say,  we are made in the image of God, and now God is made in the image of humans, in the person of Jesus.  And, what’s more, every single person is made in the image of God.  Whether we like it or not, God’s image is standing right in front of us, sitting right next to us.  Gay, straight, or trans, Democrat or Republican, Ohio State or Michigan fan.  No matter what we think of that person, we are looking at the image of God.

And thinking back on the story we heard, just imagine what the glorious angels thought of those lowly shepherds.  What the shepherds thought of the selfish innkeeper.  What humble Mary thought about the angel Gabriel.  What Joseph thought about his mysteriously pregnant fiancee’.  And later on, what the wise kings  thought of the disgusting manger setting.  Each and every one of them made in the image of God.  None of these people belong together.  And yet, here they are, altogether, in one of the most well-known stories ever told.

And why are all these people gathered together tonight?  Well, the shepherds told us:  because this thing has taken place.  This event brings them all together.  The shepherds say to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place.”  This thing.  They don’t even know what to call it; they certainly don’t understand it; they don’t even know what has happened.  But they leave their flocks behind, because this thing has taken place.

Which leads me to ask, what brings you here tonight?  Why did you bundle up and drive on over to this lovely old building with the red doors?  I’m sure some are home visiting family, and it’s a tradition.  Some came because you come every year.  Some because your grandparents came every year.  Some came because your mom made you.  Some because you like to sing the Christmas carols, or look at the pretty lights.  Some because it wouldn’t be Christmas without coming to this place, on this night.

But why?  Why do we go through all this, despite the weather and the hassle and whatever else?  Why are any of us here tonight?  Well, the answer is THIS THING.  We are here because this thing has taken place.  And we keep coming back.  We come out of hope.  We come out of duty.  We come to see the spectacle.  We come wondering if it all just might be true.  We are all in the same boat here.  Whatever you think about God and Jesus and humanity the rest of the year, you’re here tonight.  Because of this thing that has taken place.

The story is the same every year.  And it will never change, no matter why it is that we show up.  Because THIS thing has taken place:  God, the creator of all that is, has come to dwell among us.  The One in whom we live and move and have our being has shown up, and keeps showing up.

In the midst of despair and sadness and tragedy and grief, there is also hope and joy and laughter and babies.  Because God has come to dwell among us, and is still here.  Don’t ever lose sight of that point: because Jesus was born this night, God dwells among us.  No matter what or why or how, this thing HAS taken place, and it changes everything.
Merry Christmas!

Amen

MACCA Advent Service

Thoughts on The Innkeeper
St. Jacob’s Lutheran Church, Massillon OH
Luke 2:1-7

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

First off, I used to play in a band.  And we actually played two concerts in this church.  The most-recent of those was in 1987.  So . . . it's good to be back

So the assignment for the preachers these four Wednesdays in Advent is to put ourselves in the place of one or more of the characters in the Christmas story.  I decided it would be fun to go with the Innkeeper, since I had some thoughts about that already in my head.  Except here’s the thing:  There really isn’t an Innkeeper in the story.  At least not in the way that there are shepherds, or Joseph, or angels.  The only mention of an inn is in Luke, the verse we just heard, and that mention is simply “because there was no place for them in the inn.”

An Innkeeper might be implied in our 21st century hearing, but there certainly isn’t one in the text.  The inn itself is just sort of mentioned as an afterthought.  An explanation for why they’re out back in the stable.  We aren’t given a whole lot to go on here, but we can imagine.  

First of all, I’m intrigued that it says, “There was no room for them at the inn.”  Is that because nobody wants all that noise in the room next to them?  Is it because the last place a pregnant mother wants to give birth is at a crowded inn?  And it raises the question, did the innkeeper reject them, turn them away, or is it that there just isn’t any room?  Both of those questions can sort of turn back on us.  Jesus is coming.  Do we reject him?  Or do we turn him away because there’s just no room for him in our lives?

Of course, that idea could be used to make you feel bad for focusing too much on buying presents and stuff.  Like I could shake my fist at you and ask, “ARE YOU MAKING ROOM FOR JESUS THIS CHRISTMAS?”  But that’s not really my style, and it’s not very grace oriented, is it?  I’d be chased out of a Lutheran church for suggesting that you could be guilted into welcoming Jesus.  Martin Luther would put me on his naughty list.

But how about this idea.  Maybe the Innkeeper is actually being a gracious host.  Like, imagine that the Innkeeper sees Mary is about to give birth.  The inn is crowded with noisy strangers.  And in an act of compassion, the Innkeeper takes her around back and finds a quiet stable for her to bring this baby into the world.  Maybe the Innkeeper is compassionate and caring, rather than someone who slams the door in the face of stressed-out parents.

My thinking is that the Innkeeper is all of these.  A perfect metaphor for whatever you need to see.  Some of us don’t have room for Jesus, and need to be reminded to make room for Jesus in our lives.  And some of us need to look outside ourselves, and to be reminded to watch out for those who need our help.  The Innkeeper is sort of the perfect blank slate for all of us at Christmas time:  Some of us are ready.  Some of us turn him away.  Some are making extra steps to make others comfortable.  

And in a way, it doesn’t matter how the Innkeeper treated Mary and Joseph when they knocked on the door.  Because Jesus came into the world either way.  Whether welcomed or rejected, this baby is coming.  Salvation is coming, ready or not.

The song we’ll be singing in just a few minutes captures this idea perfectly, in my opinion.  The fourth verse says, “O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray, cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today.”  Our hearts, our lives are like that manger.  And you notice that it’s not up to us to get that manger ready for Jesus?  The song asks for God to cast out our sin and enter in.  The Innkeeper might have rejected Jesus; the Innkeeper might have had compassion and set Mary up as comfortably as possible.  But it is God who sends the baby, whether we are ready or not.  Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.  Indeed.  Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

Ordination of the Rev. Maureen Major

Ordination of the Rev. Maureen Major
Isaiah 6:1-8
Psalm 132:8-19
Philippians 4:4-9
Matthew 9:35-38

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

As we heard, Paul wrote to the Philippians, Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

We’ll come back to this in a few minutes.  But first . . .

This is the first Ordination I’ve ever preached at.  I’ve been to a few, and been ordained twice myself.  So let’s start with that famous opening line from Admiral Stockdale at the 1992 Vice-presidential debate:  Who am I, and why am I here?

I’m Fr. George Baum, Rector of St. Timothy’s Church in Massillon, where the football comes from.  I was Mother Mo’s fieldwork supervisor, and I’m here to support her, and also to preach this sermon.  Now, if I ask you who you are you and why you are here, your answer will be different from mine.     Mother Mo’s answer will certainly be different from all of ours. As will Stephen her husband’s answers. And the Bishop’s answers, and so on. Each one of us will have a different answer to those two questions.  Who am I and why am here? 

Now, the Philosophy major Mo Major knows there are deeper existential questions at play here.  Because it gets to the heart of our existence to really probe these questions.  Who we are, and why are we here, and who God created us to be, and who we will one day be. They’re not the same for any of us, because we are constantly changing. 

I am going to risk alienating some of my clergy colleagues by saying that I am a big fan of Process Theology.  (We burn our bridges where we dare.)  But one aspect of Process Theology is that part of us remains the same, and yet we are constantly changing, being shaped by our experiences.  Always being lured into what we were meant to be.  And at the same time, never what we will one day be.

I have had the unique privilege of watching Mother Mo growing into the person God is calling her to be. And she has had a unique vantage point of watching me continue to grow into the priest God is calling me to be.  Point being, we are who we are, and yet we are always changing.

There’s a scene in Oscar Wilde’s, “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” where Lord Henry says, "You don't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.”  Dorian responds, ”I should have objected very strongly this morning.”  And Lord Henry says, “Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”  We are who we are, and we are always changing.

Today is a landmark day.  But it is also really at heart just all of us watching Mo continuing to respond to God’s call on her life.  And it is also a landmark day for the Universal Church. Because as Mo becomes a priest, the Church itself will be changed as well.  Ordination to the Priesthood feels like the end of the road. Crossing some finish line. But it’s not. It’s more like opening a gate, into an endless field of possibilities.

It all led up to this . . . so that this can lead to something else.  You will be made a priest so that you can do priesty stuff.  A long and twisty process to get you here, and the process has transformed you to do the next thing.  And here’s a secret that I’m probably not supposed to tell you:  The next thing will never be what you expect it to be!  Many people will say, this is the most important day of Mo’s life.  But I will paraphrase the great homer Simpson and say, It is the most important day of Mo’s life . . .  so far. 

Who am I and why am I here?  Mo will have even different answers to those questions when she leaves this room today.  She entered as a deacon, and she will leave as a priest, but will still be a deacon.  I don’t want to go too far down this inside-church-baseball track, but this is because of what we call “ontological change.”  These Ordination mysteries mark a change in who we are, and they cannot be lightly undone.  Mother Mo will always be a Deacon, and starting tonight, she will always be a Priest.  

But everything is also about to change for Stephen Major.  Last September he underwent his own ontological change when he became a husband.  And now, he’s going to be married to a priest.  The ones closest to us see the changes most dramatically, because they know us the most intimately. This morning, Stephen woke up married to a Deacon.  Ah, this morning. But you have lived since then. 

And of course, everything is also about to change for the people of St. James Church.  The good people of this parish are willing to take a chance on someone new, knowing that who you are and why you are here are always changing as well. You are not who you were, you are not who you’ll be, but you know why you are here.  And now, this Sunday, you will once more have a priest standing at this Altar, bringing the priesthood into your midst.

Back to where we started . . . Philippians.  I feel like Paul gives us the answers to our two questions tonight.  Do you want to know who you are, and why you are here?  Think about whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

Sounds almost desperate, doesn’t it?  Like Paul has stripped things down to their essentials.  Think about those things.  It’s like, when Sam says, “there’s still some good in this world Mr. Frodo.”  It’s a ray of hope, in case you run into the absolute depths of despair.  Like Paul is saying, if you live in NE Ohio as we approach the winter solstice, look for this light.  Think about these things.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

And if we think about these things, with God’s help, we will know who we are, and why we are here, and where we are going.

God bless Mother Mo and Stephen Major.  God bless the people of St. James Church.  May you all be reminded every day who you are, and whose you are, and why you are here.

Amen.

Installation of Fr. Alex Barton

Installation of the Rev. Alex Barton
Church of the Redeemer, Lorain OH
Joshua 1:7-9
Psalm 146
Ephesians 4:7, 11-16
John 15:9-16

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

For those I haven’t met, my name is Fr. George Baum, I am the rector at St. Timothy’s Church in Massillon, where the football comes from, and I’m honored to be here with you on this festive night.  I grew up in Niagara Falls, where the carbon plants used to be, which is very close to Buffalo, where the steel mills used to be.  And now we live in Massillon, where the steel mills used to be, and we’re gathered tonight in Lorain, where the steel mills used to be.

The common thread there, of course, is the phrase, “used to be.”  So many cities in this part of the country hit their peak of success in manufacturing a particular thing that was once in high demand.  The people who owned those plants and mills got rich, and the workers got by.  When factories close down, the rich folks move on to the next thing, and the workers tend to be stranded, needing to find new ways to support their families, in a town that has lots of empty buildings.  And that cheerful opening obviously brings me to the sewers of London in the 19th century. 

Henry Scott Holland was an Anglican priest in the slums of London in the 1890s.  He campaigned for better sanitation in the city’s poor districts, and was told to stop interfering in secular affairs, because priests’ opinions don’t belong in such earthly matters.  You know, stay in your lane, as they say.  His response was, "I speak out and fight about the drains because I believe in the Incarnation.”

When I first read this, I thought it was the most profound thing I’d ever heard.  As he later wrote, “The more you believe in the Incarnation, the more you care about drains.”  I find it’s such an important and moving idea.  And when I quote that line to people . . . well, I tend to get a blank stare in response.  You know, like I say to someone, “It’s like, the more you believe in the Incarnation, the more you care about drains, right?”  Nothing.

Okay.  The “Incarnation.” This is the fancy word for God becoming a human being.  To incarnate something is to bring it into the flesh, right?  So the Incarnation of God is just church speak for Jesus’ being born in Bethlehem—same name as the steel plant outside Buffalo.  Now we already make the connection between people’s physical wellbeing and the Incarnation, even if we don’t know it.

When you put your loose change in the Salvation Army kettle.  When you cook a bunch of turkeys for people on Thanksgiving.  When you offer community meals with produce from the church gardens.  When you gather up toiletries and fill an entire room with them to give away to your neighbors in need.  Whether we know it or not, we are proclaiming the link between the physical person of Jesus and caring for people’s physical needs.  We could say, the more you believe in the Incarnation, the more you care about children having enough food to eat.

Church of the Redeemer and Fr. Alex have already done so much together, and it looks as though you are just getting started!  You’re making the rest of us look bad.  And that’s why I’ve often thought, if I could serve at any church in the Diocese, I would choose to work alongside Fr. Alex and the people of this parish.  And if you tell anyone in Massillon I said that, I will deny it till my dying breath!  But together, you all seem to be doing the exact work that Jesus would have us do, rather than what Jesus himself would do.

And speaking of that, I’ve never found it helpful to ask ourselves the question, “What would Jesus do?”  Asking ourselves what Jesus would do sets up a whole list of things we cannot possibly do, including ushering in the Kingdom of God and redeeming all creation.  I feel like a more helpful question we might ask is, say, “What would Karl Marx do . . . if Karl Marx believed in the Incarnation of Jesus?”  Not what would Jesus do, but rather what would a Christian version of Karl Marx do?  That gives us a completely different list than what Jesus does.  A list that is directly connected to the Incarnation of God and caring about the drains.

Because that question leads us to fight against systemic injustice, to defend those who are oppressed, to help those who are out of work, to give food to the hungry, to make sure everyone has enough.  That question would lead us to buy up abandoned property to plant organic gardens, and use the produce to cook food to feed our neighbors delicious healthy meals.  Doing all the kinds of things that the church should be doing everywhere all the time.  In a very real sense, the Church of the Redeemer is redeeming the Church . . . from the inside out.  “The more you believe in the Incarnation, the more you care about drains.”  You folks believe in the Incarnation, and it shows.

But enough of me talking about you.  Let’s talk about marriage.  That gospel reading we just heard, from John, is often used at weddings and is also used at a celebration of new ministry, like this one.  As we heard, Jesus says, “If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”  And I think our immediate takeaway is, “Oh no!  I have to keep a bunch of commandments in order to abide in the love of Jesus?”  I can hardly keep my calendar straight, how am I going to keep all these commandments?  If it’s up to me, I stand little chance of abiding in God’s love.  And that’s true.  However . . .

Jesus goes on to say, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”  It turns out, it’s just one commandment.  It’s not a long list of behavior modification requirements that we can never fully achieve.  It’s just one thing:  Love one another.  But there’s a catch!  Love one another as I have loved you.

As I have loved you.  And that’s exactly why I love using this reading at weddings.  Because we can then ask ourselves, okay, so how does Jesus love us?  And the answer is, unconditionally.  Jesus loves us for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, and even beyond that veil when we pass into the arms of angels.  Jesus loves us unconditionally, and that is how we are to love one another.  Without regard to any of the things society tells us are important.  Without regard to status, or wealth, or social position, or anything else.

And when it comes down to it, this celebration of a new ministry is very much like a celebration of marriage.  The people of the Church of the Redeemer and Fr. Alex Barton are finally getting hitched tonight!  For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.  You are all taking your relationship to the next level, where you will abide together in the love of Jesus, keeping his commandment to love one another as Jesus loves us.

And the love you have for one another is what will carry you into the future together.  A future of feeding those who are hungry.  Of reclaiming blighted plots of land and turning them into a source of food.  Of welcoming every person who walks through those doors and loving them unconditionally.  In short, of caring about the drains.

Fr. Alex, people of Redeemer, you are an inspiration to so many across our Diocese and beyond.  May you continue to walk in love, as God loves us.  May you abide in the love of Jesus, following his commandment to love one another unconditionally.  And may your ministry among the people of Lorain continue to be a beacon of hope, and a reminder to all who meet you that God has not given up on this world, and God still cares very much about the drains.

Amen.

Rhea Oberlin Hollar

Rhea Oberlin Hollar, 11-4-22
Psalm 121
Romans 8:14-19, 34-35, 37-39
Psalm 23
1 Corinthians 15:20-26, 35-38, 42-44, 53-58

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

In most cases, when it comes to planning a funeral, I find myself sitting with family members suggesting which readings to choose, and I usually end up choosing those readings myself.  As you probably know, this was not the case with Rhea Oberlin Hollar.  The readings for this service were chosen long ago, as was the music for this service.  The one person who had input on what we will hear and sing today was Rhea.  The rest of us are just along for the ride.

And I have to say, I wish more people took time to plan out their own funerals.  Because, in some ways, doing so sends a message to those of us who gather to honor and to mourn.  In a way, it’s one final act of evangelism.  A chance to remind the living that there is hope, that God is present, and that we will be together again.  And, I can tell you, Rhea chose well.

For example, as we heard in Paul’s letter to the Romans, there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God.  We sort of give intellectual assent to that claim, but I think we also carry around a secret list of the exceptions.  Nothing can separate us from the love of God . . . except, you know, drinking and smoking, or voting for the other party, or loving the wrong kind of person.  We all want to add the “except for” to Paul’s words.  But the word here is “nothing.”  Nothing can separate us from the love of God, not even death.  Nothing.  We are safe, and we are loved.  Thanks for that reminder Rhea.

And then that reading from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.  How a seed has to die in the ground before it can blossom into what it was meant to be.  There is no better metaphor to hear at a funeral than this one.  What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable.  A seed goes into the ground, and a beautiful flower comes forth.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?  Where indeed!

And then, we come to the beloved 23rd Psalm.  And many of us share a love of that little piece of ancient poetry.  Maybe it’s the pastoral imagery.  Or maybe it’s the assurance of God’s presence in our lives.  Or maybe it’s just that final line, about dwelling in the house of the Lord forever.

But what I really love about Psalm 23 is the actual language of the part that gets translated as God’s goodness and mercy following me.  The Hebrew word that becomes “follow” is actually more aggressive: like chasing, or hunting down.  Goodness and mercy don’t just follow us home, like a stray kitten, or something.  No, God’s goodness and mercy hunt us down, like a tiger.  We cannot escape them, even if we wanted to.  And notice that it is not God’s wrath that hunts us down: no, we are being relentlessly pursued by God’s goodness and mercy.

Rhea lived her life hunted down by God’s mercy and goodness, and she did not mind getting caught.  And receiving that goodness and mercy from God, she turned right around and passed it on to others, her family, her friends, and her church.  I hope you will find inspiration in that, and continue to do the same in your own lives.

In these readings this morning, we have heard of God’s love and mercy.  We have heard that we do not need to be afraid.  We have heard that nothing can separate us from the love of God.  And that God’s goodness and mercy will never stop pursuing us.  These are good lessons for us to hold onto as we leave this place.  No one is ever beyond the reach of God, and nothing can ever separate us from the love of God.  Because everyone is constantly being chased by God’s love and mercy, even when we see them no longer.  God loves you, and God will catch you, no matter where you are.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?  Where indeed!

Amen

Massillon Tigers Prayer Service, 2022

Tigers Prayer Service
10/22/2022
Hebrews 12:1

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

So, I didn’t grow up around here.  I grew up in Niagara Falls NY, which is near Buffalo.  (Go Bills!)  The high school I went to had about 1,200 students, which is pretty close to what Washington High School has these days.  We had a football team, and I played in the marching band.  Our stadium—if you could call it that—seated, maybe, 500 people.  And I never once saw the stands filled in my four years of playing in the band.  So, of course, that’s how I thought high school football worked.

Imagine my surprise when I moved to Massillon six years ago to become the priest in this church.  A high school football stadium that holds over 16,000 people!  More than 30 times the size of my high school stadium!  A stadium that is filled for most games, and is always filled for the rivalry game.  I hate to sound like an outsider, but this is just crazy to me!  I definitely had a completely different experience than people who grow up in Massillon have.

Which got me to thinking this year . . . why is that?  Why is the only remaining Paul Brown stadium so big?  And how can it possibly still sell out when the school only has around 1,200 students?

And, well, you know the answer before I even say it.  The reason is because of the great cloud of witnesses.  It’s not exactly the same as the great cloud of witnesses mentioned in the reading from Hebrews we just heard.  But the idea is the same.

All those people who keep coming out to cheer you on, they are your cloud of witnesses.  In the good years and in the bad years, the people of Massillon stand behind this team.  They support you as athletes, they support you as students, and they support you as people who will go on to support the ones who come behind you.  Massillon has always had a strong and important football team, because Massillon has always had strong and important people.  You are not the first, and you won’t be the last.

Which brings us to today.  Everyone in town feels like this is their game, like this is their day to beat McKinley.  And—in a way—it is.  But for each of you sitting in this room today, there’s something more.  Because this literally is your game and your day, in a way that no one else will ever know.

Whether you are throwing a ball, or blocking a tackle, or carrying water to the players, or calling the plays from the sideline, this game is your game.  You are the ones who will play this game, in front of—and on behalf of—that great cloud of witnesses who are supporting you, and who will always support you.

Massillon is a unique place, and I am proud and honored to host this prayer service for you each year.  Whether or not we share the same faith tradition, we are still each made in the image of God.  The God who creates, redeems, and strengthens us this day, and all the days to come.  May God bless you all, and may God keep you safe today, and every day.

Amen.

Bishop Search Retreat

Bishop Search Committee Retreat
Feast of the Transfiguration
August 6, 2022
Luke 9:28-36

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

For the past eight months, our Bishop Search Committee has been striving to hear the voice of the Holy Spirit. To be guided in our candid conversations, and our careful reading, and our painstaking decisions.   And you all have been led by that same Spirit to submit yourselves to this extensive and intrusive process.   (I imagine you’ll be grateful if you don’t have to write another essay any time soon.)

It has been a true blessing to gather together in person these past few days, to continue our discernment with one another, finally in person.  God willing, and the people consenting, someone in this room will be the 12th Bishop of Ohio. And, no matter what happens, I am just thankful that it won’t be me.

Because the job of Bishop is hard, and lonely, and grueling. And nobody can possibly do it on their own.  And that’s why our next bishop will have staff, and have resources, and have the support and prayers of the people . . . and have Jesus.  And the greatest of these is Jesus. 

Today is the Feast of the Transfiguration, at least in the Episcopal Church.  As we heard, Jesus and a few disciples go up the mountain.  Jesus is praying, and he turns this dazzling white.  And suddenly, Moses and Elijah are talking to him.  After this breathtaking scene, they’re about to leave and Peter makes that curious offer to build some lodging for them (possibly for reasons connected to the festival of booths).  But also to—you know—stay up there on the mountain together.  They’ve seen Jesus and Moses and Elijah, together, in a literal mountaintop experience.  Why would you ever want to leave that behind?  Let’s all just stay right here, basking in this dazzling transfiguring moment!  But instead . . .  they come down.  Jesus comes down.

Jesus doesn’t stand up there on the mountain, shining in glory, calling out, “Come to me all who are strong, and accomplished, and self reliant!”  He does not remain on the mountaintop, glowing with magnificence saying, “You that are worthy, ascend to where I stand in all my radiance.”  He doesn’t stay there . . . because we cannot climb up.  We cannot climb up to the glory of Jesus.  We cannot get ourselves to where Jesus is.  And since we cannot climb up, Jesus comes down . . . to get us.

The point is not that we go higher. The point is that Jesus comes down. And whether you are a layperson, a Deacon, a Priest, a Bishop, or the Archbishop of Canterbury, Jesus comes down for you.

We don’t know where our paths will take us when we leave this place.  But we can all leave reassured that the same Spirit is still moving among us, and that the glorified Jesus has come down to get us.  To get all of us.  No exceptions.  Come down to us Lord Jesus, for we cannot climb up.

Amen

For David Sparkes

For David Sparkes, 6-24-22
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 23
Revelation 7:9-17
John 6:37-40

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

I first met David about 8 months ago.  We were looking for an Organist, and he came to our October Blessing of the Animals; but he brought along his resume’ instead of an animal.  We chatted for a bit, and he came back a few days later for an audition, and we hired him on the spot.  

About a month later, we were getting ready to do our first-ever All Souls service—where we honor those we have lost, by reading their names during the prayers.  A couple days beforehand, David asked if he could come in and speak to me about something.  We sat at a table in the parish hall, and he struggled and stammered about someone he wanted to include in that list of names.  Told me all sorts of things about Sid, and the Lutheran assemblies they’d attended together, and went on and on about how important Sid was to him, and how long they’d been together, and then sheepishly pushed a copy of something like an obituary across the table, looking at me with a wary gaze that suggested, “I wonder if it’s okay to trust you with this information?”

And, though I didn’t say it out loud, my first thought was, “David, the fact that you are gay is the least surprising thing about you!”  David was like an onion. You just keep peeling layers, and there’s always another surprise behind that one. Born to English immigrants during WW2.  Student of Virgil Fox.  Avid engineering enthusiast.  Child prodigy.  Obsessed with trains.  And . . . Perfect attendance School Bus driver?  Roller skating champion?  There seemed to be an unlimited supply of surprises within David.   This very white British man could play the black national anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” better than any organist I’ve met.  David couldn’t seem to understand how to open an email, but he texted on his phone with abandon.  Just an endless onion of surprises.

During David’s final stay in the hospital, our Choirmaster Andrew and I went up to visit him one morning.  I offered some prayers, and anointed David with oil.  Andrew sang a lovely hymn.  And we drove the hour back to Massillon in silence.  If you know Andrew, you know that an hour of silence is an eternity of time!  But Andrew was silent because he was writing an email to the choir on that drive.  And one of things he said in that email bears repeating.

As he wrote to our choir members, “I was not prepared to see [David] so diminished, particularly how a man who loved to talk so much has been reduced to inarticulate groans. But I'm reminded of the Scripture from Romans that ‘the Spirit helps us in our weakness.... and intercedes for us in groanings too deep for words’." 

A man who loved to talk could no longer speak.  And his voice is now silenced forever.  And, so, we speak for David. We tell his stories. Since David cannot speak for himself, we will speak for him. Telling of his life, and keeping his memory alive, in the days, weeks, months, and years to come. The legacy of this onion of surprises will go on.  But there is more!

As we heard in the gospel reading just 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.”  Jesus promises that he will lose nothing the Father has given him, but will raise it up on the last day.

And this means, David has not gone anywhere he has not already been all along. If Jesus is with us, then David is with us.  Jesus meets us at his altar in the bread and the wine. Jesus has not let go of David, and Jesus will not let go of you.

And I am convinced that as we gather around this altar, with the Saints of every time and every place, David is with us.  And David will once again be singing with us.  David gave his voice to Jesus, and David has his voice back, because Jesus does not lose what is his.  David and Sid will both be singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” right along with all of us. And it will be a beautiful sound indeed, because Jesus loses nothing that the Father has given to him.  Not David, not Sid, not you, and not me.

Amen.

For Fr. Erv. Smuda

 Fr. Erv Remembrance
June 18, 2022

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

There is a little triangle of Episcopal Churches in this part of Stark County, and Fr. Erv played them all.  St. Mark’s, St. Paul’s, and St. Timothy’s where I am rector.  Historically, parishioners have often moved around among these three parishes, based on their family’s needs, and what each church was able to  offer in that season of their lives.  Because of this, some families ended up with Fr. Smuda as their interim priest at more than one location.  Which kind of undermines the purpose of an interim, when you think about it.

As I thought about Erv’s lengthy transitional ministry, I realized he was sort of like John the Baptist.  Preparing the way, and making the paths straight.  Of course, that simile quickly breaks down because it puts a whole lot of other clergy in the role of Jesus, and we sure know that isn’t true!

But without Fr. Erv serving as interim rector at St. Timothy’s for over a year, I never would have stood a chance of succeeding as rector.  Erv provided the cooling off period.  The pressing of the pause button.  Someone willing to step in and take whatever the people want to throw at him.  It takes a special kind of person to do that.

A fair number of folks at St. Timothy’s never knew any rector other than my predecessor.  The people had no experience with how to call a priest, or how to prepare to do that, or how to celebrate what they had done in their history, or how to take an honest look at what needed to change.  

And in partnership with the Diocesan staff, Fr. Erv Smuda walked them through all that.  He brought stability and stasis and—essentially—neutral ground.  I will be forever grateful to Fr. Erv for making the paths straighter for me, for raising the valleys, and making the rough roads smoother.  And because of all that—though I am clearly not Jesus—the comparison to John the Baptist still holds up for me.  Thank you Erv, for all you have done for so many who came after you.

Amen

Ecumenical Lenten Service

MACCA Lenten Service
4/6/2022
John 21:15-17

Preached at Christ Lutheran Church, Massillon OH

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

So, when the pastors got together to plan out these Lenten services, they decided we should all preach about one of our favorite stories about Jesus.  I wasn’t able to attend that meeting, which is how I ended up both hosting and preaching this year.  But I do love love this idea of identifying stories we love about Jesus.  Just sort of not tied to anything, apropos of nothing, tell me a story you love about Jesus.

And this one we just heard—with Peter and Jesus standing on the shore after the resurrection—this is one of my all-time favorites.  Sure, it’s out of order to be talking about what happened after the resurrection when we’re still in Lent.  But I’m an out of order kind of priest.  But no matter the order, this is still one of my favorite stories about Jesus.  Because it’s the story I need—every day.

Okay.  So, as I said, this story comes after the resurrection.  Jesus has just met the disciples on the beach, and he cooked breakfast for them.  Which, to me, is just a fascinating detail!  And then after he feeds them, Jesus has a conversation with Simon, aka Peter.  Jesus asks him, “Do you love me more than these?”  Peter says, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”  Jesus says, “Feed my lambs.”

Again, Jesus says to Peter, “Do you love me?”  Peter says, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”  Jesus says, “Tend my sheep.”

And again, Jesus says to him, “Do you love me?”  Peter feels hurt because Jesus has now asked him the same question three times.  And Peter says, “Lord you know everything; you know that I love you.”  And Jesus says, “Feed my sheep.”

Three times Jesus prompts the profession of love from Peter.  And three times Peter answers that he loves Jesus.  Notice, that three times Peter affirms his love for Jesus.  And what is the opposite of affirming something?  Denying, right?  Just next week, while Jesus is on trial before Pilate, Peter will stand in the courtyard outside.  And three times someone will ask Peter if he is one of Jesus’ disciples.  And all three times, Peter will deny knowing him.  Three times Peter denies Jesus; then the rooster crows.

And in this reading we just heard—which happens after all of that—Jesus comes to Peter, and redeems this triple denial.  Here, Jesus seeks out Peter, and leads him to redemption.  Jesus comes to Peter and brings him back to life.  Why do I say that?  Brings him back to life?

Well, take a moment to put yourself in Peter’s place.  Imagine how devastated he is by now.  Think back to Peter’s bold claim that all the others might fall away, but  “I will lay down my life for you.”  And Jesus tells Peter, before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.  And, then, he does.  There in that courtyard, on the night Jesus is on trial, after insisting he would lay down his life for Jesus, Peter is outside the building, lying to escape laying down his life for Jesus.  Not once.  Not twice.  But three times.

Any of us who did what Peter had done would feel we were beyond redemption.  We would think there is no chance to be forgiven for that kind of denial, at that most important moment.  Even hearing Jesus himself say “you’re forgiven” is not enough.  But three times?  Is that enough?  Jesus sends Peter a strong message with the three questions.  He doesn’t yell at him.  Doesn’t embarrass him in front of the others.  Doesn’t make him feel bad.  Doesn’t even ask him if he is sorry for what he has done.  

Jesus asks Peter if he loves him; then tells Peter to feed and tend his sheep.  Three times he asks him the same question, and Peter gets it right all three times.  

Except, not really . . . Jesus does not ask Peter the same question all three times.

As you have probably heard, the Greek language has more than one word for love.  Eight, in fact.  But in English, love is love, and the context is the only thing that can give us more information.  In Greek, the three main kinds of love are eros, philios, and agape.  You can get a sense of their meaning by how we bring them into English.  Eros gives us erotic love, maybe we could say romantic love.  Philios gives us brotherly love, love for our neighbor—as in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love.  And then agape is usually thought of as the perfect selfless love, the kind of love God has for us.  Agape love is what we see in John 3:16, where God so loved the world—unconditionally—the kind of love that would give God’s only son.

So, here’s the big thing:  the first two times, Jesus asks Peter, “Do you agape love me?  Do you love me perfectly with a selfless love?  Would you lay down your life for me?”  But Peter responds with, “Lord, you know that I philos love you.  I love you like a brother.  I love you as my friend.”  The first two questions and responses are the same.  “Do you love me selflessly, like God loves?”  “Lord,  I love you as my brother.”  That’s the first two times.

But the third time Jesus asks the question, the third time he changes it.  This time, Jesus doesn’t ask Peter if he loves him with that perfect love, that agape love, the love that would lay down one’s life, would never deny or abandon him.  No, the third time Jesus asks Peter, “Do you philios love me?  Do you love me as a brother, a companion, a friend?”  And Peter’s response is the same as the first two times.  Peter says, “Lord, I love you as my brother.” 

Jesus, in this third question, comes to meet Peter where he is.  He does not ask Peter to become perfect.  And, he does not keep asking until Peter makes a promise Peter knows he cannot keep.  It’s not as though, after the resurrection, Peter suddenly becomes able to live up to his promise to lay down his life for Jesus.  Amazingly, what seems to have changed in Peter is his ability to see himself as he really is.  He no longer claims to love perfectly.  He no longer claims to love as God loves.  What Peter tells Jesus is that he is able to love Jesus as a brother, a friend, a neighbor.  And that’s where Jesus meets him:  where Peter is.  Where Peter lives.  Where Peter knows himself to be.

And that is why I so very much love this particular story about Jesus.  Because he meets Peter where he is.  And rather than demanding that Peter change, Jesus changes.  Finally, Peter knows he cannot come to meet Jesus where Jesus is.  So instead, Jesus comes to meet Peter where he is.
We all make lofty promises to God about how selfless we will be.  About how we’re willing to change our ways, and lay down our lives, and love God perfectly.  And, of course, it’s only a matter of time until the rooster crows for you and for me.  And what is God’s response to us?

Does Jesus cast us aside?  Throw us out?  Insist on a perfection we can never achieve?  No.  Never.  God is always turning toward us.  Jesus is always walking beside us, exactly as we are.  Jesus did not give up on Peter, and Jesus will not give up on you.  Jesus always meets us where we are.  Thanks be to God.

Amen

Funeral of Judy Wigginton

Burial of Judy Wigginton, 1/17/22
Isaiah 25:6-9
Revelation 21:2-7
John 14:1-6

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

In the gospel reading we just heard, Jesus is talking to his disciples at the Last Supper.  He is explaining to them that he must depart from them, but that they need not be afraid.  And he says, “You know the way to the place where I am going."  And then Thomas says to him, "Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”  Leave it to Thomas to point out the obvious question.  Thomas was not afraid to say the thing that everyone in the room is thinking, but will not say.

I think Judy Wigginton was a lot like Thomas in this way.  Those who knew Judy know that she would just flat out say the thing she was thinking.  Sure, she might tone it down a bit as she said it, but I never had any doubt where Judy stood on things.  Toward the end of last year, she pulled up outside the church and handed me her offering envelope and said, “I’ve increased my pledge this year, even though the priest is a little too liberal for me.”  And I said to her, “Judy . . . if you think your Episcopal priest is too liberal . . . I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

But Judy kept showing up.  Through the days, and years, and decades, Judy kept coming.  She served on every possible committee, chaired things, served as treasurer of things, helped start the book club, maintained the Altars, and on and on.  The priests would come and go, liberal or conservative or in between, and Judy kept showing up.  She was the very model of what it means to belong to a church, and to give your life to it.  And all the while, she kept on speaking her mind, and letting people know what she thought.

I once found a note in the Vestry minutes, written by Judy and one of her friends chastising the priest for not properly using the Priest’s Cross in the correct way during the procession!  I don’t know how this all played out in your relationship with Judy, but I can tell you that I never had to spend one minute asking myself, “I wonder what Judy Wigginton thinks about this?”

Which brings me back to Thomas.  You remember the other well-known story about Thomas?  It’s the one that gives us the phrase Doubting Thomas.  After the resurrection, the other disciples had seen Jesus, and they’re telling Thomas about it.  And he says, unless I see Jesus with my own eyes, I cannot believe.  Thomas did not shirk from hard questions.  He said what he was thinking, even if it was unpopular with those around him.  He brought his gift of forthright speech to the Church, and we honor Thomas for that.

And, today, as we just heard, Jesus tells the disciples, “You know the way to the place where I am going." And our outspoken friend Thomas, says, Um.  Excuse me.  Jesus?  Yeah, um, we don’t even know where you are going. How can we possibly know the way?  And Jesus answers him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”  Turns out, Thomas and disciples did know the way, because Jesus is the Way.  And you know why we know that Jesus is the Way?  Because Thomas asked the uncomfortable question, that’s why.

Our beloved Judy knew the Way.  And I am convinced that that is why she was so bold in saying what she thought, in asking the questions nobody else would ask.  She could say that her priest was too liberal to the priest himself!  And I am convinced that she knew I’d be okay with that, because we shared an understanding:  

The understanding we shared is that Judy knew the way, and I know the way, and you know the way, because we know Jesus Christ.  And everything else is just details along our journey home together.  We know the way.  And even better than all that, the Way knows us.  The world is a better place because God gave us Judy, and now in our grief we are sending her back to God.  Jesus has prepared a place for Judy, and Judy knows the Way to that place.  Thanks be to God.

Amen.