Christmas Eve

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
December 24, 2011

Christmas Eve

My grandmother was a great collector of S&H Green Stamps. For those of you who were born after 1975 or so, Green Stamps, or their cousin Gold Bond stamps, were the precursor of the current redemption programs such as bonus points, frequent flyers miles, or cash back. Whether Green Stamps or frequent flyer miles, the principle is the same: the more you spend, the more stamps or miles you earn, which you can redeem for various items, travel, or a rebate check. In my grandmother’s day, life was low-tech, so when she went to the store she received 50, 10, or one point stamps based on how much money she spent and which store she was in. The stamps were dispensed by a machine that had a dial on it like a rotary dial phone, another relic of the past. The stamps had to be licked, and then they were put into a collection book that had 24 pages. When all the pages were filled, at 50 points per page, the books could be redeemed for household items and other things. I know this Green Stamp trivia because my sister and I took great delight in licking Green Stamps and sticking them in the redemption books, and our grandmother took great delight in figuring out what to get with her Green Stamp books at the local Green Stamp store. So far as our grandmother was concerned, she was getting things free, regardless of how much money she had to spend in the process.

So, whenever I hear the word "redemption," or "redeem" or "redeemer," despite my theological education, my mind goes immediately, not to Jesus, but to Green Stamps. Redemption is a pretty cut and dried process by which we save up something we earned until we have enough points or stamps to redeem them for something we want. The theology of Green Stamps would then be something like "if we are very good, and earn enough points in our lifetime, we can redeem those points at the end for eternal life."
Fortunately, the theology of Green Stamps is not the theology of Christmas. Tonight/this afternoon, we hear some form of the word "Redeem" at several points in our prayers and readings. We just prayed the words "Grant that we, who joyfully receive him as our Redeemer, may with sure confidence behold him when he comes to be our Judge." In the reading from Titus, we heard "He it is who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own." In our Eucharistic prayer, we will pray "We celebrate the memorial of our redemption, O Father, in this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving." On Christmas Eve, we welcome the Redeemer of the World who comes to us as a baby and is greeted by shepherds and angels.

How are we to understand the redemption that comes to us this night in the Christ child? Tonight, instead of instructions about how to earn enough points to merit redemption or salvation, we get a story about the birth of a baby at an inconvenient time, in an inconvenient place, to unwed parents who are probably a still a bit baffled about how all this came to be, complete with a great light display and singing angels, and some shepherds who leave their sheep to their own devices and to go visit this newborn baby. What do we learn about our own redemption from this stranger than fiction story?

First, we learn that redemption is an act of God and nothing we can earn, no matter how many points we try to save. From the story of Gabriel’s visit to Mary announcing that she has been chosen to carry the Christ child, to Mary’s visit to Elizabeth and the recognition of the child within Mary by Elizabeth’s unborn child, to the events of Jesus birth, God is the primary actor in this story. The angel says to the shepherds "I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord." The Shepherds probably did not even know they were waiting for a Savior. They had certainly done nothing to earn the privilege of being the first to hear the news. Redemption-salvation-is God’s work, not ours, and a gift, not anything we can earn.

Secondly, redemption breaks in on us in the midst of our everyday lives. Mary and Joseph were traveling to Bethlehem to be registered, presumably for the purpose of paying taxes, when Jesus was born. The shepherds were tending their sheep when the angel appeared to them out in the fields. No meals had been planned, gifts purchased, or special events organized. The Christ child was born-redemption entered the world- in the midst of people doing ordinary things. But that does not mean that everything stayed the same. In the Christmas story, the shepherds did return to their sheep, but they did so glorifying and praising God. Mary, no doubt exhausted and a bit confused by her strange visitors, treasured the words of the shepherds and pondered them in her heart. Salvation is an extraordinary gift that we experience in the midst our ordinary lives, in the here and now, but salvation also changes our lives in ways we cannot predict or control.

Lastly, redemption is not a private matter. The story tells us that the skies lit up and the heavenly host sang out the news of Jesus’ birth. The message of the angel was one of great joy for all people. After visiting the newborn Jesus, the shepherds "made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them." The redemption of the world is not ours to do with as we please, as if we were in control of it. Redemption is a gift that we cannot control or contain, so our whole lives speak to the work of God in the world.

Rather than being something we can earn, own, and control, redemption is God’s claim on us. In Jesus, God has claimed us as God’s own, not just for special occasions, but for always, and not for our own personal enjoyment, but so that our whole lives can speak to the love and work of God in the world, and not just in the future but now. "For to you is born this day" in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord."

Amen.

The Third Sunday of Advent 2011

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
December 11, 2011

3 Advent B

At Christ Church, one of our most festive and unique feast days is Christmas in July. Each year, on the second Sunday of July, we sing the Christmas hymns, hear the Christmas story, and offer gifts for the baby Jesus at the creche. Our gifts are socks and underwear for children who do not have such things. We bake dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies to take out into the community to share our Christmas joy in July. If you are a guest this morning, you may wonder why on earth we do this. We celebrate Christmas in July to acknowledge the fact that the Christ Child is born among us at unexpected times and in unexpected ways and not just according to our calendars.

One of the things people have told me they like most about Christmas in July, and one of the things I like most about Christmas in July, is that this celebration of Christmas is virtually hassle free. The only gifts to purchase are the socks and underwear. They don’t need to be wrapped and there are not exactly crowds at the stores when we go to buy them. We make Christmas cookies, but that is not exactly a chore in the middle of July. We can come to church on Christmas in July and listen deeply to the stories, sing with abandon, and welcome the Christ Child undistracted by all the typical holiday busyness. And we love it.

However, despite our love for Christmas in July, with its minimal preparation, our scripture readings in Advent call us to do the work of preparation so we are ready to welcome Jesus into the world. Last week, we saw John the Baptist out in the wilderness offering a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. We heard John say to the people "The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie his sandals. I have baptized you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit." John wanted the people to prepare their hearts for the one who would come after him.

This week, we hear from John again, but this time he sounds a bit different. This week we hear that John came to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. John is the one sent to point the way toward Jesus. Unlike last week’s gospel lesson from Mark, where the focus was on John as one who baptized for the repentance of sins, in this gospel, John baptizes, but we’re not told why. When the priests and Levites ask John who is his, John only answers in the negative: he is not the Messiah, not Elijah, not the prophet. John’s whole identity was to be the one who pointed the people to someone else, who directed the people to the light of the world; the Word made flesh.

We hear something similar In the reading from Isaiah. The prophet has been sent by God to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners. Isaiah is writing to a people in distress who need to hear some good news. But Isaiah is not bringing good news, comfort, a garland and a mantle of praise just so the people feel better about their dismal situation. Isaiah is bringing them those gifts so that they can build up the ancient ruins, raise up the former devastations, and repair the ruined cities. Isaiah is bringing the people hope so that they can then get about the business of restoration. And when that happens, all who see them shall acknowledge that they are a people whom the Lord has blessed. In other words, Isaiah preaches comfort, so that the people can rise up and rebuild that which was lost, and God’s glory will be seen through out the world.

Last week, John the Baptist called us to prepare ourselves for the coming of Jesus by making room in our hearts for Jesus by clearing out the debris of our souls. We need to do that. This week, John calling us to prepare the world around us for Jesus by testifying to the light. We need to do that, too. We’re not talking about preaching hell fire and brimstone here. We are talking about using our lives to testify to the Light, as John did, to bind up the broken hearted and bring good news to the oppressed in order to point to the glory of God as Isaiah did. We do that when we serve at the Rainbow Table, when we bring food and work at the Food Pantry, when we gather gifts for Horace Mann Elementary School, when we host a Christmas concert and offer hospitality to those who have sometimes found themselves less than welcome in a church. But I believe that we can also do that when we cook for our friends and family, when we give gifts, when we offer hospitality or do all the other work of preparation that comes with getting ready for Christmas. The question is not whether the shopping, cooking, cleaning, wrapping, decorating, hosting, and partying distracts us from the true meaning of Christmas. The real question is how all of our pre-Christmas activity can testify to the light-to the one who is to come. The decorated home, the beautifully wrapped gifts, the wonderful meal- all of these can be ends in themselves or they can point others to the Light that is to come. Christmas in July reminds us that the Christ Child is born among us when we least expect him, whether we are ready or not. And that is certainly true. But Christmas in December, with all the busy activity, reminds us how to use all our lives to testify to the light, to point to Christ Child. If we allow all of our pre-Christmas activity to point to the One who is to come, rather than to ourselves, perhaps our busyness will be less frantic and we will be well practiced for bearing witness to the Light all year long, with all we do.

Amen.

The First Sunday of Advent 2011

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
November 27, 2011

1 Advent B

Last Spring, my husband had the opportunity to spend two weeks in the West African nation of Liberia. Don was part of a delegation from our Diocese that is exploring the possibility of a companion relationship with the Episcopal Church of Liberia. Before Don went to Liberia, I knew very little about the civil wars in Liberia that destroyed the very fabric of life in that country. But since then, a good bit of my extra-curricular reading has been about Liberia, particularly in the form of memoirs. These memoirs, by current Liberian president Ellen Johnson Sirleaf and Leymah Gbowee, both winners of the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize, and by Helene Cooper, a White House correspondent for the New York Times, all describe the time of the civil wars in graphic detail. What they describe is the utter and complete breakdown of civilization, as war lords and their lieutenants recruited child soldiers, some as young as 8 years old, and demanded mind numbing brutality toward rival factions. The result is the total destruction of the infrastructure of an entire county. Now, even after years of relative peace, there is still no running water, electricity, or phone service much of the time in most of Liberia, even in Monrovia, the capital city. The unemployment rate is 85%, and opportunities for education, even at the elementary school level, are severely limited. Fourteen years of civil war destroyed roads, bridges, and buildings- the infrastructure of an entire country that is just beginning to be rebuilt after some 6 years of relative peace. There is simply no money.

Boh the reading from Isaiah and the gospel reading for the first Sunday in Advent reflect situations eerily similar to the situation in Liberia and in other war torn countries. In Isaiah, the Hebrew people of the 6^th century BC have returned to Jerusalem from their exile in Babylon to find their holy land ransacked, burned, looted and basically unlivable. There is nothing left. While they were in exile, they dreamed of their return home to Jerusalem, and how happy and easy life would be there. The reality was the opposite of their dreams. In this morning’s reading, we hear the people beg God to come down and be known to their adversaries so that the nations would tremble at God’s presence. The people acknowledge their sin, and God’s anger, even as they remember God’s powerful deeds in the past, and they trust that God will act again on their behalf.

In the gospel reading, Jesus has just described a scene that could have come right out of Liberia, or Bosnia, or Rwanda, or Iraq. In the verses immediately prior to this passage from Mark, Jesus described such horror that "those in Judea must flee to the mountains, the one on the housetop must not go down or enter the house to take anything away; the one in the field must not turn back to get a coat. Woe to those who are pregnant and nursing children in those days. For in those days there will be such suffering, such as has not been from the beginning of creation until now." In response to the depths of that suffering, a suffering the people were actually experiencing at the hands of the Romans when Mark’s gospel was written, we hear Jesus say "But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in heaven will be shaken. Then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with power and great glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds." Keep awake, Jesus says, for you do not know when the master of the house will return.

How are we to understand Jesus’ words, when there seems to be so little real evidence that Jesus will actually return when things get bad enough? How much worse do things have to get than the complete breakdown of civilization, where brutality, self-interest, and sheer terror reign? Does this have to happen all over the entire globe for Jesus to return?
In her book "Mighty be our powers," Leymah Gbowee tells the story of how Christian and Muslim women, completely disenfranchised and brutally treated during the civil wars in Liberia, made a difference in bringing about peace in that county. These women of two different faiths, who had never before worked together, seized the power they had, which did not look like power at all- their power as widows, as women who had lost their children, as women who had been brutally violated, as women who had been denied a future, as women whose anger needed to be channeled in productive directions- and used that power to work for peace. Gbowee drew heavily upon chapter 54 of Isaiah, a chapter from the same era of Israelite history as the reading we heard this morning. She read to the women "Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed, do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace, for you will forget the same of your youth, and the disgrace of your widowhood you will remember no more." And "for the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed."

The Liberian women did not believe that God would come and rescue them, but that God would work through them to rescue Liberia. They remembered what God had done for them in the past, and trusted that God would act again, just as the Hebrew people did when they returned from exile in Babylon to find their homeland destroyed and unliveable. And God did act through the Liberian women and their courageous work for peace, which came at great personal cost and tremendous risk to their lives. God was faithful. God did show up, and God gathered women from all over Liberia, the four winds of Liberia as it were, to bring about peace in their war-torn country.

Today, we begin the season of Advent, the season of waiting for the Christ Child to be born in our midst and to return in glory. Some days, that hope seems as pointless as the hope of the Liberian women Leymah Gbowee writes about. Advent, however, is not just about waiting for God to act or just about hoping for a better future. We are not passive observers in the Advent drama. Advent is about being attentive, staying awake so to speak, being open to the ways God is calling us to use what power we have, which may not look like power at all, so that the Christ Child may be born among us. When we do that, no matter what the cause of our suffering, no matter the depths of our despair or the breakdown of our lives, the promise of Isaiah, the promise of the gospel, and the promise of Advent, is that God will act.

Amen.

The Image of God

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
October 16, 2011

24 Proper A

Several years ago, Don and I went to Chicago over Don’s fall break to visit our old stomping ground from the days when I was in seminary. We also wanted to visit my aunt and uncle who we had not seen since I graduated. The path from our hotel to their house is pretty direct as the crow flies, but fairly tricky given Chicago construction and traffic, even on a Sunday evening. When we arrived at their house and my uncle came to the door, I was stunned for a moment to be looking at the clear image of my grandfather, his father. My grandfather had died some 15 years earlier, so clearly I was actually looking at my uncle. But Uncle George bore an uncanny and unsettling resemblance to his father that I had not seen when Uncle George was a younger man.

In my family, and perhaps in yours, we take great interest in discovering family traits in each other, whether they are personality traits, like intelligence, or a sense of humor, or physical traits, like a big nose or small ears. Growing up, we often heard about how much someone resembled Aunt Emily or Uncle George, or about how our mannerisms were those of our grandparents or great grandparents. My young nephew looks just like my brother and my father and he acts just like my sister. It seems important that we know who we look like, that we understand whose image we carry. That image gives us a sense of our identity and of our place in the family. That image also connects us to our story, a story we often don’t know until someone tells us.

Jesus is talking about these kinds of images in this morning’s gospel lesson. The Herodians and the Pharisees are once again trying to trap Jesus. So, they ask Jesus whether or not it is lawful to pay taxes to the Emperor. Surely this time, they have trapped Jesus. If Jesus says "no, it is not lawful," then the Romans can try him on charges of treason. If Jesus says "yes, it is lawful," he will have betrayed the Jews, his own people, because the Jews believed that paying taxes to Rome was to endorse the foreign occupation of Israel. Jesus is once again in what seems to be a no-win situation.

But Jesus cannot be tricked by the Herodians and the Pharisees. Jesus asks for a coin and asks whose image appears on that coin. The answer, of course, is that the emperor’s image is on the coin. So Jesus says "Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s." When the people heard this, they were amazed, and they left him and went away.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I had been there that day, I might have left amazed, but I would also have left confused. The issue is far from settled by Jesus’ answer. How do we know exactly which things belong to the emperor and exactly which things belong to God? What is it, exactly, that we are to give to each? Rather than providing us the direct and clear answer we want, Jesus leaves us with more questions than we started with.

Whose image is on the coin? The image of the emperor is on the coin, so the coin belongs to the realm of the state and can be used for the purposes of the state. Simple enough. But what about the things that are God’s? How do we know what they are?

As the Pharisees and Herodians well knew, in the first chapter of the book of Genesis, we are told exactly in whose image we are made... whose image and likeness we bear. "So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them." (Gen. 1:27) What belongs to God, what bears the image of God, is nothing other than humankind. We are made in the image of God and we have the image of God woven into every fiber of our being. While we may have great Aunt Martha’s smile, or Uncle Henry’s big nose, it is the image of God that is imprinted on our souls.

Jesus is not giving out tax advice this morning when he tells the Pharisees and Herodians to give to the emperor what is the emperor’s and to give to God what is God’s, . When it comes to the issue of what we are to do with our money, Jesus is calling us to remember in whose image we are made and to whom we belong. Then Jesus calls us to remember in whose image every human being is made and to treat every human being with the dignity and concern due a person whose soul is imprinted with the image of God. In a few weeks, on Christ the King Sunday, our own feast day at Christ Church, we will hear Jesus say "When I was hungry, you gave me food. When I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me. When I was naked, you gave me clothing, When I was sick, you took care of me. When I was in prison, you visited me." Jesus, the Son of God, reminds us that when we care for another human being, we care for the image of God that dwells within that person, and when we turn our back on that person, we turn our back on God. Jesus’ primary concern is not about the lawfulness of paying taxes, but with how we use who we are and what we have to care for the image of God that wells in all people.

In the reading from Exodus this morning, Moses needs reassurance from God that God is with him in the journey through the wilderness and to the Promised Land. Moses asks God for three things: for God to show Moses God’s ways, for God’s presence to go with the people, and for God to show Moses God’s glory. God agrees to all of those requests, but then God says, "you cannot see my face; for no one shall see me and live." Through out the Hebrew scriptures, the presence of God is known, the glory of God is revealed, and God is gracious and merciful. But the tradition of the Hebrew scriptures is the face of God cannot be seen. Perhaps we are not to look at the face of God directly because the place where human beings are to find the face of God is on each other.

Amen.

The 10th Anniversary of 9/11

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
September 11, 2011

9/11

The image of 9/11 that collects the horror of that day for me, and perhaps for you, is the image of the collapse of the south tower in an enormous cloud of ugly smoke. At that point, the people on the ground stopped staring at the raging fire burning in the sky and began to flee. One particular image is of people running through the streets of New York with the billowing cloud of dust and ash appearing to chase them out of harm’s way if it did not catch them first. As the morning progressed, there would be many more images of horror as the events of the day unfolded in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington. But the image of that cloud of darkness tumbling to the ground while holding countless lives is the one that has stuck with me. On the one hand, many people were able to out run that cloud and reach safety. But on the other hand, there was no place for anyone to run where we could hide from the horror of that day. Today, we honor the memory of those who died, we stand with those who grieve and suffer, and we give thanks for the many acts of heroism and kindness. As Christians, we continue to wrestle with how to live faithfully in a world where a cloud of fear and uncertainty seems to hover continually.

In our reading from Exodus this morning, we hear about another cloud. A pillar of cloud came between the army of Israel and the army of Egypt as the Israelites fled Pharaoh’s army. We see Moses stretch out his hand and watch God part the waters so the Israelites can pass through the sea on dry land, and then we may want to shut our eyes as the waters close back over the Egyptians. As the Israelites travel through the wilderness to the Promised Land, they are led by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Both pillars were signs of God’s presence and guidance as the cloud sheltered the Israelites from the heat of the sun and the fire gave them light to travel by night.

The cloud we remember from 9/11 was certainly not the cloud that protected us from our enemy. The clouds of 9/11 were clouds that contained human life, and the hopes and dreams of a country. If anything, those clouds remind us of our vulnerability, not our strength, the absence of God rather than the presence of God, and certainly death rather than life. What are we to do with the strong emotions the images of 9/11 evoke within us?

By some divine coincidence, in the gospel lesson appointed for today, we hear Peter ask Jesus "Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" Jesus said to Peter "Not seven times, but seventy times seven." And then Jesus tells Peter a parable about forgiveness. In the parable, the slave who was forgiven his great debt proceeded to refuse to forgive the debt of his fellow slave. The forgiven slave has his fellow slave thrown in jail until that slave can pay his debt, despite the forgiveness he himself has received. When the lord finds out about the actions of the forgiven slave, he hands the forgiven slave over to be tortured until he can pay his entire debt. Because he could not forgive his fellow slave, the once forgiven slave will now be bound to his debt forever.

Granted, Peter asks Jesus how many times he must forgive a member of the church, and when we think about the atrocities of 9/11 we are not thinking about fellow church members. However, the basic principles of forgiveness that Jesus gives us in his parable apply to all occasions where suffering has been inflicted by another human being. If we think that forgiveness is about condoning evil and pretending that atrocious events never happened, I think it is safe to say that forgiveness will never happen, whether we are talking about terrorism, abuse, violent crime, betrayal, or any of the many human acts that cause pain in our lives. God does not want us to condone evil or act like atrocities never happened. But God also does not want us to let our anger and bitterness bind us to those harmful actions. Nelson Mandela, the great South African leader who spent 27 years in jail during apartheid, is quoted as saying "Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies." When we forgive, we refuse to let the actions of another person own us and we release those actions to God, who is the judge of all deeds and the healer of all pain. When we forgive, we mirror the action of God, who has forgiven us. Jesus’ parable reminds us that when we withhold forgiveness, we withhold from others that which has been generously given to us.

The cloud that sheltered the Israelites by day and was a sign of God’s presence with them could not be more different from the dark cloud of dust and ash that descended on New York, and Washington, and Pennsylvania 10 years ago. The cloud of 9/11 seems to be, if anything, a symbol of the utter absence of God and the triumph of evil. As Christians, however, we are called to remember that the cross itself seemed on Good Friday to be the utter absence of God as Jesus cried "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me" and the triumph of evil as darkness covered the earth during those hours . 9/11 has challenged us as Christians to claim our identity as people who believe that out of the ashes of Good Friday, God brought new life on Easter. The worst tragedies of our lives do not negate the love of God. The Good News of the gospel is not that we are always safe, or that forgiveness will always be easy, or that it will never look like evil has triumphed. In the letter to the Romans, Paul wrote "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus." The gospel message is that the ashes of Good Friday will never have the final word. As we mark the 10^th anniversary of 9/11, let us live with the humility of people who have been forgiven and the courage of people who believe that out of the ashes of death, Easter life will rise.

Amen.

All Saints Sunday

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
November 7, 2010

All Saints Day

One afternoon about two years ago, I received a call from the husband of my close friend and mentor of about 35 years. His wife, my friend, had been sick for a year. I had been to Arkansas to visit her twice during that year and both visits were deep and rich. We talked some about her illness, a lot about our respective churches, and shared memories of past times. We had the kind of relationship where we could be apart for several years and then pick up right where we left off, like no time had elapsed at all.

When her husband called that afternoon, the news was not unexpected. The situation was deteriorating rapidly and my friend was only expected to live a few more hours, or a day at best. While the news was not unexpected, it was crushing nonetheless. I was in Ohio, where I was supposed to be, and she was in Arkansas, where she was supposed to be. I knew I could not get to Arkansas in time, and really did not feel called to be there. So I asked her husband "What can I do?" Of course, I thought he would say "Keep us in your prayers." Instead, he said "Just get out there and be the best priest you know how to be."

On All Saints Day, we remember those who have gone before us. This feast day is a favorite for many of us. The music, the candles, and the names evoke powerful emotions within us as we remember those who, in the words of the Burial service, "we love but see no longer." On All Saints Day, we remember and celebrate the lives of those who have gone before us, those who were famous, those of whom there is no memory, and everything in between. We remember those whose lives touched our own, as well as the people the church has named the "official" saints, like St. Peter or St. Mary. All Saints Day evokes tears of both joy and sadness as we celebrate these lives that are now lived in the nearer presence of God, and we pause for a moment to simply dwell in those memories.

The danger on All Saints Day is in becoming overly sentimental about those who have gone before us, simply dwelling for a moment in our memories, letting the music and the prayers wash over us, and dreaming of a future in which God will reunite us with those who have gone before. In the gospel lesson this morning, Jesus jolts us into the reality of the present with the words we know as the beatitudes. The reassuring words "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God" quickly become "Woe to you who are rich for you have received your consolation." The comforting words "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh" become "Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep." Jesus begins the beatitudes with words of comfort which quickly turn to words of challenge and judgement. These are not the words I want to hear on All Saints Day.

Jesus is giving us a stern warning against putting our trust in those things that feed us, keep us warm, pay our bills, cause us to laugh, or make us popular. And that point is well taken. However, Jesus fed thousands of hungry people with a few fish and loaves of bread. Jesus had mercy on tears of grief and raised the dead. Jesus befriended the poor and the outcast, healing the lepers and the blind so they could rejoin society and be productive. Jesus certainly did not glorify hungry, sorrow and poverty with his actions. If Jesus worked so hard with his actions to feed the hungry, comfort the sorrowful, and lift people out of poverty, what could his words this morning possibly mean?

On All Saints Day, Jesus does not tell us that hunger, poverty, and misery are good things. What Jesus does tell us, and what the lives of the saints remind us, is that if we insist on feeding ourselves, by ourselves, we will be hungry. If we try to heal our grief by ourselves, we will mourn. If we insist on believing that our riches, whatever they are, are entirely of our own doing and for our own use only, we will be poor beyond measure. The beatitudes remind us that it is Jesus who feeds us, heals us, and blesses us. When we understand that, we can do the seemingly impossible things Jesus asks of us. We can love our enemies. We can do good to those who hate us. We can bless those who curse us and pray for those who abuse us because we know we are not called to do those things on our own. We can do what seems to be impossible, which is what we are called to do as people of God, because we know that it is Jesus who works through us.

On All Saints day, we remember those who have gone before us, not as an act of sentimentality or as a way to dwell in the past momentarily. We remember those who have gone before us because they remind us with their lives to let Jesus work though us so that we can be the people God calls us to be. We sing the great hymns, light the candles, read the names, and say the prayers, not just because they make us feel good, but because they remind us that we, like all the saints, are called to live as the people God created us to be. When I asked my friend’s husband what I could do in the face of her death, he did not say to me "light a candle, say a prayer, or sing a really good hymn." He said "Get out there and be the best priest you can be." The saints in our lives are the ones who call us, who challenge us, to trust in Jesus and get out there and be the people God calls us to be.

Amen.

Homecoming 2009

Charlotte Collins Reed
Christ Episcopal Church
October 11, 2009

23 Proper B

When I was a child, my sister and I loved to visit our grandmother in her small town in south Alabama. Our grandfather had died when we were very young, and our grandmother still lived in the house they had bought in the early 1930's. The house had been rearranged and remodeled over the years, but as children we loved the thought of going to visit the house where our mother was raised. Her high school scrapbooks were still in her bedroom closet. Many of her childhood friends still lived in that small town. Our great-aunt lived in the same town in the house that her parents, our great-grandparents, built in 1939. There was a sense of history in that town, one that connected us to the people who came before us, even the ones we never knew, like our grandfather and great-grandparents. Even though we never actually lived in Headland, Alabama, there was a very real sense in which our arrival there seemed like a homecoming.

There was another sense in which returning to Headland, Alabama seemed like a homecoming when we were children. Everyone knew who we were. They might not have known our names, but they knew we were Mildred Slocomb’s grandchildren. If we went in the Piggly Wiggly, a grocery store known primarily in the southeastern United States, every cashier knew who we were. The same was true at the bank or at Mr. Ed’s diner where we went to eat hot dogs. Everyone knew that Mildred Slocomb’s grandchildren had come home to visit and everyone welcomed us, simply because of who we were.

In the gospel lesson this morning, we see a man run up to Jesus and kneel before him. We hear the man say "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" There is a very real way in which the man is saying to Jesus "Good Teacher, what must I do to know that I have an eternal home? What must I do to know that there is a place where I belong and am known forever?" Jesus reminds the man of the commandments, which the man tells Jesus he has kept from his youth. This is a good man, a faithful man. Yet he longs for more. So Jesus says to him "Go, sell what you own, give the money to the poor, then come and follow me." The man leaves shocked and grieving, for he has many possessions.

Several clues tell us that the answer to "What must I do to inherit eternal life?" is not really "Go, sell all you have, give the money to the poor, then come and follow me." First, the man asks what he can do to inherit eternal life. Typically, we do not earn an inheritance. We receive an inheritance because of who we are. We are the son or daughter, grandson or granddaughter, cherished organization or favorite charity of the person who died. Secondly, since we know this is a man with many possessions, and we know that Jesus is setting out on a journey, by the time the man actually finds a buyer for all his possessions, sells them, gives the money to the poor, then catches up with Jesus, Jesus’ journey will have come to its end in Jerusalem. And thirdly, Jesus has raised the stakes impossibly high. So high, in fact, that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for this man to enter the kingdom of God. Is Jesus really setting up this faithful man to fail in his quest to inherit eternal life? I think not. When Jesus raises the stakes impossibly high, typically we are called to look at the question a different way.

The short answer to the question "What must I do to inherit eternal life?" is "nothing." There is absolutely nothing we can do to inherit eternal life. Eternal life is a gift. When the perplexed disciples ask Jesus "Then who can be saved?" Jesus replies "For mortals, it is impossible, for not for God; for God all things are possible." We want to earn eternal life so that we know eternal life is really ours. Whether we are blessed with the riches of wealth, or intellect, or common sense, or patience, or sheer determination, if we use our gifts to earn eternal life, then we know it’s ours. But Jesus tells the man, and Jesus tells us, that this is not the way eternal life works. We have a place where we are eternally known and loved by God, a place where we belong and are known forever, simply because we belong to God. In the passage just before this one, the one we heard last week, Jesus says "Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it." There is nothing a child can do to enter the kingdom of God except show up with complete trust that she belongs there.

This weekend, we celebrate homecoming at Christ Church as we celebrate the 175^th anniversary of this parish. Some of you have come home from quite a distance this weekend, from Virginia and Florida, North Carolina, Alabama and Arkansas, to this place which has held meaning for you over the years. Others of us have not come quite so far. But we have all come home to Christ Church because we belong here, even if we left many years ago. We have come home because in some sense our identity as Christians was formed here. We have come home because we are known here and welcome here. And while we may have worked very hard while we were here, or work very hard now, none of us earned the right to be here this weekend. We have come home to Christ Church as a reminder on this side of eternity that there is a place where we belong and are loved forever simply because we belong to God.

Amen.