We were just ordinary men trying to make a living - out in the fields all night, guarding the flock, keeping watch. We had seen a lot of strange things, at night, out in the fields. We had our share of bear stories, wolf stories; we'd fought lions.
But we had never seen anything like this. Right in the middle of an ordinary night, right in the middle of an ordinary job, something broke through from a realm beyond our sight.
A choir of heavenly messengers filled our eyes. Unto you, they sang - unto you! Salvation comes, the king is born, God has fulfilled his promise. Go and see: go into the town and look for a baby, an ordinary baby, all wrapped up and ready for bed, but sleeping in a manger -- that's him.
That BABY is God incarnate: a baby lying in a manger, gently breathing, his folks standing by. This is the sign of God that everyone has been waiting for. This is the Messiah, the King of Kings, the Son of David, Christ Almighty -- don't you want to tell somebody about it?
We're no angels. We're just shepherds, working the night shift on a far hillside. The mother herself saw no angels tonight, only us -- bringing the message, confirming what she knew in her heart, that today, in the City of David, is born a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.
How then on an ordinary day are you to recognize the Christ Child? How is he born in your life -- in your town?
You go about your business in your ordinary way -- and yet: something extraordinary is happening even now, in your heart, in your life, in your will. Christ is being born. God has sent his Redeemer to you, to establish the way of peace, to bring righteousness and peace to the world he has made, to the person he has made, to you.
JRL+
Christmas, Christmas Eve, Luke 1:1-20, John 1:1-14 (15-18), Isaiah 9:2-7, Titus 2:11-14,Isaiah 62:6-7, Psalm 96, Psalm 97, Psalm 98, Titus 3:4-7, Hebrews 1:1-4
Herbert O'Driscoll, The Word Today (Anglican Book Centre)
Fred B. Craddock et al., Preaching through the Christian Year (Trinity Press International)
St Alban's Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
in the waiting room
Last Tuesday I made a mistake: I went to Urgent Care without my copy of War and Peace. I had a long wait. I am not sure I used it as well as I could.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel a bit like waiting to be treated in Urgent Care. You get a few promises up front, and are told to wait.
Hours go by. What is going on? When will I be seen? Have I been forgotten? When will I be treated? When will I be whole again?
But that’s not it. There is more to the story.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel even more like reading War and Peace. While you are in it, it is totally absorbing. Then eventually you finish the book.
All those characters, all those people you have met, even friends you have made among them, now disappear into a past memory, only a haze. You are no longer in the world of the novel: now you are in the “real world.”
Of course characters in a novel are merely shadows in a play. But we might feel like that ourselves, sometimes. This world may seem a brief and transitory place. Real life lies ahead, as well as all around us (though hidden), in the mystery of Christ and of the Resurrection.
And this is like Paul’s comment, “now we see as through a glass darkly: then we shall see face to face.” Imagine what it will be like to see Christ in person.
Every week when we take communion, and at holiday times like Christmas when we remember loved ones, we put ourselves in touch with not only those who like us see through a glass darkly, those who are living, but also with those who have gone on before us to see God face to face. We ourselves are not ready, we protest, for such a blessing. Just a little bit more time, please.
In his mercy God is preparing us so that when we do meet him face to face, in the life to come, we will be able to stand it. That “glass darkly” is a little like the smoked glass you used to watch an eclipse through; it kept you from being dazzled by too much light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King’s full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:
In fearless love and hope uncloyed
For ever on that ocean bright
Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed
Deeper and deeper plunge in light.
(John Keble, “Fourth Sunday in Advent”, The Christian Year)
We need to be prepared, so that—not on our own merits but by the grace of Christ—when we see God face to face we will be able to stand it.
A foretaste of that glory is ours today, in the mystery of the coming of Christ. And a foretaste of that mercy is ours as well, for God came to us not in the form of a ruler or a man of power (much as we might have hoped for that) but in the form of a helpless baby. He comes as prince of peace.
As Luther said, “Divinity may terrify us. Inexpressible mystery will crush us. That is why Christ took on our humanity, save for sin, that he should not terrify us but rather that with love and favor he should console and confirm. …he is come, not to judge you, but to save.”
(Roland H. Bainton, ed., The Martin Luther Christmas Book, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1948, p. 40)
Salvation, however, does not wait. The message of Jesus, and the joy of life with him, is not postponed until some later time, after death or the second coming. It is present with us here and now, brought forth for us first in the tiny manger-dweller we meet on Christmas morning.
In this humble and innocent form comes to us the majesty of God. In other words, we find God not in inaccessible realms of glory but in day-to-day, even humble, form.
And we continue to find him, in practical terms, in loving God in our neighbor.
“You have Christ in your neighbor. You ought to serve him, for what you do to your neighbor in need you do to the Lord Christ himself.” (Luther, p. 38)
Even as we place our neighbor in the place of Christ, serving God in our neighbor, we begin to take on the characteristics Christ showed for us on Christmas morning.
He, the Son of God, being above all angels, did not take equality with God as a thing to be grasped onto, but allowed himself to be emptied into the form of a child, a helpless human infant. And then he began to serve.
“For unto you is born this day—that is, unto us. For our sakes he has taken flesh and blood from a woman, [so] that his birth might become our birth. I too may boast that I am a son of Mary. This is the way to observe this feast—that Christ be formed in us.” (Luther, p. 44)
And this is the secret: Christ in you, the hope of Glory. This is the season of a new birth—not only the birth of the Messiah 2000 years ago but also his emergence within our lives, as we become formed into the people God has called us to be.
JRL+
December 23, 2007
Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel a bit like waiting to be treated in Urgent Care. You get a few promises up front, and are told to wait.
Hours go by. What is going on? When will I be seen? Have I been forgotten? When will I be treated? When will I be whole again?
But that’s not it. There is more to the story.
Waiting for the Christ to come may feel even more like reading War and Peace. While you are in it, it is totally absorbing. Then eventually you finish the book.
All those characters, all those people you have met, even friends you have made among them, now disappear into a past memory, only a haze. You are no longer in the world of the novel: now you are in the “real world.”
Of course characters in a novel are merely shadows in a play. But we might feel like that ourselves, sometimes. This world may seem a brief and transitory place. Real life lies ahead, as well as all around us (though hidden), in the mystery of Christ and of the Resurrection.
And this is like Paul’s comment, “now we see as through a glass darkly: then we shall see face to face.” Imagine what it will be like to see Christ in person.
Every week when we take communion, and at holiday times like Christmas when we remember loved ones, we put ourselves in touch with not only those who like us see through a glass darkly, those who are living, but also with those who have gone on before us to see God face to face. We ourselves are not ready, we protest, for such a blessing. Just a little bit more time, please.
In his mercy God is preparing us so that when we do meet him face to face, in the life to come, we will be able to stand it. That “glass darkly” is a little like the smoked glass you used to watch an eclipse through; it kept you from being dazzled by too much light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King’s full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:
In fearless love and hope uncloyed
For ever on that ocean bright
Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed
Deeper and deeper plunge in light.
(John Keble, “Fourth Sunday in Advent”, The Christian Year)
We need to be prepared, so that—not on our own merits but by the grace of Christ—when we see God face to face we will be able to stand it.
A foretaste of that glory is ours today, in the mystery of the coming of Christ. And a foretaste of that mercy is ours as well, for God came to us not in the form of a ruler or a man of power (much as we might have hoped for that) but in the form of a helpless baby. He comes as prince of peace.
As Luther said, “Divinity may terrify us. Inexpressible mystery will crush us. That is why Christ took on our humanity, save for sin, that he should not terrify us but rather that with love and favor he should console and confirm. …he is come, not to judge you, but to save.”
(Roland H. Bainton, ed., The Martin Luther Christmas Book, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1948, p. 40)
Salvation, however, does not wait. The message of Jesus, and the joy of life with him, is not postponed until some later time, after death or the second coming. It is present with us here and now, brought forth for us first in the tiny manger-dweller we meet on Christmas morning.
In this humble and innocent form comes to us the majesty of God. In other words, we find God not in inaccessible realms of glory but in day-to-day, even humble, form.
And we continue to find him, in practical terms, in loving God in our neighbor.
“You have Christ in your neighbor. You ought to serve him, for what you do to your neighbor in need you do to the Lord Christ himself.” (Luther, p. 38)
Even as we place our neighbor in the place of Christ, serving God in our neighbor, we begin to take on the characteristics Christ showed for us on Christmas morning.
He, the Son of God, being above all angels, did not take equality with God as a thing to be grasped onto, but allowed himself to be emptied into the form of a child, a helpless human infant. And then he began to serve.
“For unto you is born this day—that is, unto us. For our sakes he has taken flesh and blood from a woman, [so] that his birth might become our birth. I too may boast that I am a son of Mary. This is the way to observe this feast—that Christ be formed in us.” (Luther, p. 44)
And this is the secret: Christ in you, the hope of Glory. This is the season of a new birth—not only the birth of the Messiah 2000 years ago but also his emergence within our lives, as we become formed into the people God has called us to be.
JRL+
December 23, 2007
Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church
Edmonds, Washington
Friday, December 21, 2007
Jed Smith Christmas
Today we delivered Christmas gift bags to children at Jed Smith Elementary School. The kids were thrilled to see Santa. One young boy was so excited to get a small box of crayons. I heard others excited about their new socks. It was touching and great fun.
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.
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.
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Santa (Randy Cheek) with a student from the school.
You can see all the pictures here.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Katharine Jefferts Schori for President
Here's an excerpt from a remarkable article written by Teresa Morrison for The Advocate.
I firmly believe that within a generation the antigay hate speech Bishop Schofield so freely espouses will receive as little tolerance as we do today, and I look forward to a time when men like him will wish they had quietly harbored hatred rather than staking their reputations on it. Meanwhile, Bishop Jefferts Schori and other proponents of inclusion will be credited with having furthered the integrity of their faith institutions as dynamic, relevant forces in the 21st century.
Non-Episcopalian gays and lesbians might not think we have a dog in this fight, but we all have a vested interest in the outcome. We find ourselves in a very rare position here, one so unfamiliar to LGBT people we can scarcely grasp its significance: In the determination of the U.S. Episcopal Church to take a stand for our equality and inclusion, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose, while the folks fighting for us risk their political and financial footing in the Anglican Communion, the third-largest Christian body in the world, which is far more sympathetic toward your Bishops Schofield than to the progressive platform embraced by Bishop Jefferts Schori and the majority of her church’s 2.5 million members.
We never asked Episcopalians to take up our fight. Rather, it seems, their spiritual path has led them to believe that we aren’t any less deserving of ministry or recognition or even consecration simply because we happen to be unpopular sexual minorities. I wish that weren’t an extraordinary concept in 2007, but it is. And Bishop Jefferts Schori has hardly blinked in a year of denominational strife that has seen her character and her commitment to her religious office questioned, challenged, dismissed, and maligned.
In this age of gay bashing from all sides, it isn’t often we encounter a religious leader—or any leader—willing to bulldog for our rights, especially when faced with such a potentially high cost to herself and the institution she represents. What I wouldn’t give for such genuine representation in our elected officials.
When I consider the trail of broken promises left by those we helped to elect, Bishop Jefferts Schori's position becomes that much more remarkable. Reacting to the secession vote in San Joaquin, she not only refused to retreat from her position, she reiterated it: “We deeply regret their unwillingness or inability to live within the historical Anglican understanding of comprehensiveness. We wish them to know of our prayers for them and their journey. The Episcopal Church will continue in the diocese of San Joaquin, albeit with new leadership.”
I keep meaning to bake that woman a cake.
In my fruitless search for a presidential candidate who not only believes in my essential equality but is willing to say it out loud and stand by his or her position when the inevitable attacks come down, I wonder if any money I may have set aside to donate to that elusive candidate’s campaign might not be better spent tithing to the Episcopal Church. At least there I know my support will go toward furthering my rights, not sending them to the back of the bus—or throwing them under it.
Like others who have read this article, it makes me proud of my Church. You can read the whole article here.
I firmly believe that within a generation the antigay hate speech Bishop Schofield so freely espouses will receive as little tolerance as we do today, and I look forward to a time when men like him will wish they had quietly harbored hatred rather than staking their reputations on it. Meanwhile, Bishop Jefferts Schori and other proponents of inclusion will be credited with having furthered the integrity of their faith institutions as dynamic, relevant forces in the 21st century.
Non-Episcopalian gays and lesbians might not think we have a dog in this fight, but we all have a vested interest in the outcome. We find ourselves in a very rare position here, one so unfamiliar to LGBT people we can scarcely grasp its significance: In the determination of the U.S. Episcopal Church to take a stand for our equality and inclusion, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose, while the folks fighting for us risk their political and financial footing in the Anglican Communion, the third-largest Christian body in the world, which is far more sympathetic toward your Bishops Schofield than to the progressive platform embraced by Bishop Jefferts Schori and the majority of her church’s 2.5 million members.
We never asked Episcopalians to take up our fight. Rather, it seems, their spiritual path has led them to believe that we aren’t any less deserving of ministry or recognition or even consecration simply because we happen to be unpopular sexual minorities. I wish that weren’t an extraordinary concept in 2007, but it is. And Bishop Jefferts Schori has hardly blinked in a year of denominational strife that has seen her character and her commitment to her religious office questioned, challenged, dismissed, and maligned.
In this age of gay bashing from all sides, it isn’t often we encounter a religious leader—or any leader—willing to bulldog for our rights, especially when faced with such a potentially high cost to herself and the institution she represents. What I wouldn’t give for such genuine representation in our elected officials.
When I consider the trail of broken promises left by those we helped to elect, Bishop Jefferts Schori's position becomes that much more remarkable. Reacting to the secession vote in San Joaquin, she not only refused to retreat from her position, she reiterated it: “We deeply regret their unwillingness or inability to live within the historical Anglican understanding of comprehensiveness. We wish them to know of our prayers for them and their journey. The Episcopal Church will continue in the diocese of San Joaquin, albeit with new leadership.”
I keep meaning to bake that woman a cake.
In my fruitless search for a presidential candidate who not only believes in my essential equality but is willing to say it out loud and stand by his or her position when the inevitable attacks come down, I wonder if any money I may have set aside to donate to that elusive candidate’s campaign might not be better spent tithing to the Episcopal Church. At least there I know my support will go toward furthering my rights, not sending them to the back of the bus—or throwing them under it.
Like others who have read this article, it makes me proud of my Church. You can read the whole article here.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Blessing Same-Sex Relationship
On Saturday, December 8 I was given the opportunity to bless the union of Richard Stapler and Michael Mendez at Trinity Church in San Francisco. While I love weddings (I've officiated at well over 200) this service was special. It was my first blessing service for a same-sex couple. It was done during a remarkable weekend on which we hosted two Tibetan Buddhist monks at Trinity Cathedral in Sacramento. It was also ironic that both the blessing service and the mandala occurred on the same weekend that the Doicese of San Joaquin chose to leave the Episcopal Church.
Mandala Overview
From December 6-9 we hosted two Tibetan Buddhist monks who created a sand mandala of the Medicine Buddha in the East Transept of the Cathedral. It was a remarkable experience. Close to 5000 people came to the Cathedral and our Sunday morning services were over-full. Here are some links to images and articles:
Articles I wrote for the Sacramento news and Review:
Radical Hospitality
Sand Mandala
Audio of Sunday (Dec. 9) sermon
Sacramento Bee slideshow
Sacramento Bee article
KCRA slideshow
KCRA video
Trinity Cathedral's Photobucket page
Turtle Vision images
Message from Mike Halfhill of the Dalai Lama Foundation:
On behalf of the Dalai Lama Foundation Sacramento Area Chapter I would like to thank everyone who helped make this event a beautiful and fulfilling experience for many. Our community has been uplifted and strengthened through the efforts of Trinity Cathedral, Spiritual Life Center, East West Books and Sacramento Friends of Tibet as hosts along with the DLF. I would like to give a special thanks to Trinity Cathedral and Dean Brian Baker for their overwhelming hospitality and support in allowing the use of their facilities for the monks to be there and share their Sacred Healing Arts with us. It is a living testament that we can come together and work side by side with great respect for each others traditions. I would also like to thank the media for acknowledging this as a newsworthy event. Thank you all.
Christmas Tree
This was originally written for Trinity's newsletter.
Yesterday (Monday before Christmas Eve) we got our Christmas tree. Andrea and I drove up to Apple Hill and tromped through a muddy tree farm. It was a rainy day. We pushed through wet branches and found the right tree. We cut it down and hauled it to the car. We stopped at a winery for a tasting and bought a case of wine to have for Christmas parties. (It was our first time visiting a winery in the foothills.) We got home just in time to get the kids from school. We had to drive them around to their various activities, help with homework, etc. After attending an elementary school band concert, we hauled the boxes of decorations down from the attic. We put on Christmas music, lit a fire, made cider and got to work. Of course each of these items, mentioned in passing, took more time than expected. We had to find the Christmas music. It was our first fire of the season so we had to find all the necessary equipment and split some wood. The cider, well that was pretty straightforward.
The tree, however, was not. The tree that looked so perfect in the pine forest, was too tall for our living room. And it was very fat. And it had odd bulges. Of course I didn’t measure the height of the tree until after I brought it into the house and tried to set it up. Then I had to cut the tree down to size (in the house) and as a family we muscled it into its stand. I got to work trimming the bulges and thinning it so it would fit in the room. I was tired and grumpy as I lay on the floor adjusting the stand so the tree would stand straight(ish). By the time the lights were strung, it was well past bedtime. But the tree was up, music was playing, the fire was lit and hot cider was consumed and one of the Baker family traditions (including the grumpy dad) was observed one more year.
The day of tree getting and decorating has always been for me a symbol of Christmas and of my life. It is a great deal of work. There is much to be done. And it would be easy to see this day as a chore rather than a blessing. It would be easy to be distracted by the business of it all and miss the joy.
Of course the whole point of Christmas is to show us that all of life is a blessing. God is with us constantly. And at least this year I’m blessed with a glimpse of that presence in my family, in my church and in my too-big, oddly shaped Christmas tree.
Yesterday (Monday before Christmas Eve) we got our Christmas tree. Andrea and I drove up to Apple Hill and tromped through a muddy tree farm. It was a rainy day. We pushed through wet branches and found the right tree. We cut it down and hauled it to the car. We stopped at a winery for a tasting and bought a case of wine to have for Christmas parties. (It was our first time visiting a winery in the foothills.) We got home just in time to get the kids from school. We had to drive them around to their various activities, help with homework, etc. After attending an elementary school band concert, we hauled the boxes of decorations down from the attic. We put on Christmas music, lit a fire, made cider and got to work. Of course each of these items, mentioned in passing, took more time than expected. We had to find the Christmas music. It was our first fire of the season so we had to find all the necessary equipment and split some wood. The cider, well that was pretty straightforward.
The tree, however, was not. The tree that looked so perfect in the pine forest, was too tall for our living room. And it was very fat. And it had odd bulges. Of course I didn’t measure the height of the tree until after I brought it into the house and tried to set it up. Then I had to cut the tree down to size (in the house) and as a family we muscled it into its stand. I got to work trimming the bulges and thinning it so it would fit in the room. I was tired and grumpy as I lay on the floor adjusting the stand so the tree would stand straight(ish). By the time the lights were strung, it was well past bedtime. But the tree was up, music was playing, the fire was lit and hot cider was consumed and one of the Baker family traditions (including the grumpy dad) was observed one more year.
The day of tree getting and decorating has always been for me a symbol of Christmas and of my life. It is a great deal of work. There is much to be done. And it would be easy to see this day as a chore rather than a blessing. It would be easy to be distracted by the business of it all and miss the joy.
Of course the whole point of Christmas is to show us that all of life is a blessing. God is with us constantly. And at least this year I’m blessed with a glimpse of that presence in my family, in my church and in my too-big, oddly shaped Christmas tree.
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