Miguel Escobar
April 20, 2019 Easter Vigil “Because the needy are oppressed, and the poor cry out in misery, I will rise up, says the Lord.” This line happens to be from Psalm 12, but really, it could be from almost any book of Bible. The sentiment is woven throughout the Old and New Testaments because over and over again we hear God expressing a special love, a protective concern for the poor, the outcast, the refugee, the widow, the orphan -- the people, in other words, who have always been pushed to the edges of society. Now, I have to admit that I particularly love the King James Version of this line which reads, “For the oppression of the poor, for the sighing of the needy, now I will arise, saith the Lord; I will keep him in safety from him who puffeth at him.” There’s a lot there, obviously, but it’s Easter so let me focus only on where God says “I will rise up.” ---- "Porque los indefensos están oprimidos, y los pobres claman en miseria, me levantaré, dice el Señor". Esta línea está en Salmo 12, pero en realidad, podría ser en casi cualquier libro de la Biblia. El sentimiento existe en muchas partes del Antiguo y Nuevo Testamento porque una y otra vez escuchamos a Dios expresando un amor especial, una preocupación protectora por los pobres, los marginados, los refugiados, las viudas, los huérfanos; en otras palabras, la gente que siempre ha sido empujada a las márgenes de la sociedad. Ahora, debo admitir que en particular amo la traducción King James de esta línea que dice: "Por la opresión de los pobres, por los suspiros de los indefensos, ahora me levantaré", dice el Señor; Lo mantendré a salvo de aquel que lo insulta.” ---- “‘I will rise up’ says the Lord.” But rise up from what? One of the most moving aspects of the Easter Vigil service is that we begin in the darkness of the crucifixion and only gradually emerge from there. We also begin with stories -- troubling stories, if we’re honest -- stories that should tell us that whatever this salvation is, it’s not mystical and it’s not abstract. Because the stories are about the life and death and survival. In one passage we hear of desperate people fleeing slavery, saved at the very last moment by a devastating act of God. In another, we hear of a son about to sacrificed by his own father, again saved at the very last moment. We also hear of Jesus - an innocent man - unjustly crucified, dead, and buried. Rising after three days, yes, but note -- Jesus rises with wounds still fresh, with wounds still on. And through all these troubling stories and complex images, I hear that line again and again “Because the needy are oppressed, and the poor cry out in misery, I will rise up, says the Lord.” For me, these texts call me back to something I believe with every fiber of my being -- which is, that if you are looking for God and where God is in the world today, then let’s take those stories seriously. We have to look at where people are desperately seeking to escape slavery today, at where people are being sacrificed on the altar of religious hatred today, we have to look at where people are being crushed by poverty and injustice today. Because these ancient stories tell us that that is where God is too, rising up. --- “‘Me levantaré, dice el Señor.’" Pero levantarse de qué? Uno de los aspectos más conmovedores del servicio de la Vigilia Pascual es que comenzamos en la oscuridad de la crucifixión y emergemos gradualmente de allí. También comenzamos con historias, historias inquietantes, si somos honestos, historias que insisten que esta salvación de Dios, no es mística ni abstracta. Tiene que ver con la vida y la muerte y la supervivencia. En un pasaje escuchamos de personas desesperadas que huyen de la esclavitud, salvadas en el último momento por un acto devastador de Dios. En otro, escuchamos acerca de un hijo a punto de ser sacrificado por su propio padre, nuevamente salvado en el último momento. También escuchamos de Jesús, un hombre inocente, injustamente crucificado, muerto y enterrado. Por supuesto, sabemos que Jesús se levanta después de tres días, pero siempre debemos acordarnos que Jesús resucita con las heridas frescas. Y a través de todas estas historias inquietantes e imágenes complejas, escucho esa línea otra y otra vez... "Porque los indefensos están oprimidos, y los pobres gritan en la miseria, me levantaré, dice el Señor". Para mí, estos textos me recuerdan algo que creo con cada fibra de mi ser, que es que si estás buscando a Dios y dónde está Dios en el mundo hoy, debes tomar esas historias en serio. Debemos mirar dónde la gente está buscando desesperadamente escapar de la esclavitud hoy, donde la gente está siendo sacrificada en el altar del odio religioso hoy, tenemos que mirar dónde la gente está siendo oprimidos por la pobreza y la injusticia hoy. Porque estas historias antiguas nos dicen que ahí es donde también está Dios, levantándose. ---- A short story. Like many people today, I was not raised in a religious household, but God rose up for me at a critical time in my life. I was fourteen, my grandfather, who I adored, was dying of skin cancer, and like many teenagers I was taking it all in, trying to understand why things are the way they are. My grandfather, Eusebio Castilleja, was from Mexico. He came the United States in 1950s and he and my grandmother and my mother and her siblings were all migrant farmworkers. And it was a hard life. Decades later, when I was a child, I remember going to many, many funerals -- very often of family members who had died of cancer. And I remember my aunts and uncles telling stories of how when they were out in the fields, crop dusters would fly overhead and would drop pesticides directly on their skin. And I remember hearing this and realizing something cold and dark and evil about the world, something that had to do with power, and powerlessness, and poverty, and the way in which our world crucifies whole groups of people. All of this hit really home for me when my grandfather began dying of skin cancer. I remember the last time I saw him was in a darkened room, with a single candle burning. Now to the world, he was nobody. Just another immigrant Mexican. But to me - and as I would later discover, to the Church - he was a person with dignity. My conversion happened when I saw a priest show up and treat my grandfather with dignity. My conversion was deepened when I noticed it was my aunts who were grounded in faith who had the backbone to care for him in his last days. My faith was reaffirmed when I realized that even his medical care came from a Catholic hospital. And so when he died, somewhere in the midst of that sadness and grief I heard something like God saying “Because the needy are oppressed, and the poor cry out in misery, I will rise up.” ---- Una historia corta. Como muchas personas hoy, no me criaron en una casa religiosa, pero Dios se levantó en un momento crítico de mi vida. Cuando tenía catorce años mi abuelo, a quien yo adoraba, estaba muriendo de cáncer de piel. Y como muchos adolescentes, estaba observando todo, tratando de entender por qué las cosas son como son. Mi abuelo, Eusebio Castilleja, era de México. Vino a los Estados Unidos en la década de 1950 y él, mi abuela, mi madre y sus hermanos eran todos trabajadores agrícolas migrantes. Y fue una vida dura. Décadas más tarde, cuando era niño, recuerdo haber ido a muchos, muchos funerales, muy a menudo de familiares que habían muerto de cáncer. Y recuerdo que mis tías y mis tíos contaban historias de cómo, cuando estaban en el campo, los fumigadores volaban por encima y dejaban caer pesticidas directamente sobre su piel. Y recuerdo cómo esto me hizo ver claramente algo frío, oscuro y maligno sobre el mundo, algo que tenía que ver con el poder y la falta de poder, y la pobreza, y la forma en que nuestro mundo crucifica a grupos enteros de personas. Todo esto me impactó fuertemente cuando mi abuelo comenzó a morir de cáncer de piel. Recuerdo que la última vez que lo vi fue en una habitación oscura, con una sola vela encendida. Ahora al mundo, él no era nadie. Otro inmigrante mexicano. Pero para mí, y como descubriría, para la Iglesia, él era una persona digna. Mi conversión ocurrió el día en que vi a un sacerdote presentarse y tratar a mi abuelo con dignidad. Mi conversión se profundizó cuando noté que eran mis tías que tenían fe quienes tuvieron la fortaleza para cuidarlo en sus últimos días. Mi fe se reafirmó cuando me di cuenta de que incluso su cuidado médico provenía de un hospital religioso. Y así, cuando murió, entre la tristeza y pena, comencé escuchar a Dios diciendo: "Porque los indefensos están oprimidos y los pobres gritan en la miseria, me levantaré". ---- “‘I will rise up’ says the Lord.” This is the promise that our ancient stories and deepest wells of wisdom tell us over and over again. And in Jesus, we celebrate the way that God rose up even after a shameful death and is rising still today. A final point: There are a lot of different images of Easter Jesus out there. There’s Jesus the Victorious, Jesus the Joyful, there’s even Jesus in Disguise. But oftentimes there’s a detail that gets forgotten in these more triumphant versions of Easter Jesus, which is that Jesus returns with wounds still on. It’s true. Not tomorrow but next Sunday Christians will hear the story of a doubting Thomas - which is nothing less than the story of the risen Jesus showing his disciples his fresh wounds. When I think about how God is calling us to join in the risen life, to join him in bringing a measure of dignity and care for the oppressed and the poor in our world, I think about how Jesus shows up with his wounds still on. It tells me that this love work, this justice work, this Gospel work has to come from deeper within us; we have to move from abstraction to include the heart, the gut, and all the painful parts we may not even now be able to give voice to, that’s how deep it must go. For it is in times like these, when we are talking about life and death and survival, that God is rising up, is risen, and the question that remains is whether we will bring all of ourselves to that work. ---- "’Me levantaré’ dice el Señor.” Esta es la promesa que nuestras antiguas historias y más profundas fuentes de sabiduría nos dicen una y otra vez. Y en Jesús, celebramos la forma en que Dios se levantó incluso después de una muerte vergonzosa. Un punto final: Hay muchas imágenes diferentes de Jesús Resucitado. Está Jesús el Victorioso, Jesús el Alegre, incluso hay Jesús disfrazado. Pero a menudo hay un detalle que se olvida en estas imágenes triunfantes de Jesús resucitado, que es que Jesús regresa con las heridas aún frescas. Es verdad. No mañana, sino el próximo domingo, los cristianos escucharán la historia de Tomás quien duda, que es nada menos que una historia del Jesús resucitado mostrando a sus discípulos sus heridas frescas. Cuando pienso en cómo Dios nos está llamando a unirnos a la vida resucitada, a unirnos a él para traer una medida de dignidad y cuidado por los oprimidos y los pobres de nuestro mundo, pienso en cómo Jesús aparece con sus heridas ya frescas. Me dice que esta obra de amor, esta obra de justicia, esta obra del Evangelio tiene que venir desde lo más profundo de nosotros; tenemos que pasar de la abstracción al corazón, a incluir todas las partes dolorosas a las que quizás ni siquiera podamos dar voz. Porque es en momentos como estos, cuando estamos hablando de la vida, la muerte y la supervivencia, que Dios se está levantando y la pregunta que queda es cómo nos llevaremos completos a ese trabajo. ---- "Porque los indefensos están oprimidos, y los pobres claman en miseria, me levantaré, dice el Señor". Amen. “Because the needy are oppressed, and the poor cry out in misery, I will rise up, says the Lord.” May it be so. Amen.
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The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
April 7, 2019 Lent 5-C John 12 We are nearing the end of our Lenten journey, just a week away from Jesus’ triumphant entrance to Jerusalem and the mysteries of his betrayal, death, and resurrection. As we approach these solemn observances, one could say: the table is set. And as we hear in today’s Gospel lesson from John, this is a table set for a truly strange party. Jesus is at table with Martha and Mary in the home of Lazarus, the man he raised from the dead. Just when Martha is serving the food, Mary, out of nowhere, breaks open thousands of dollars’ worth of perfume. Instead of dabbing it on his neck and wrists, however, she pours it on his feet and wipes her hair with it. When it comes to dinner parties, we’re already way outside of normal territory. But just then, we hear the only halfway normal sounding thing that anyone says or does in this entire story--and the words come from Judas. These are not rich people, and Jesus has been preaching about and among the poor. Judas just points out the obvious: that this is a huge waste of money. But Jesus winds up the dinner conversation with this: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” As is true of so much of scripture, the scene from this dinner is full of meaning that makes the most sense in the context of everything else Jesus says and does. And when you look at it that way, you can see that this is, in fact, a meal that teaches us about love. Look at the love between these people. Lazarus, the host of this dinner—he was the only person to bring Jesus to tears. Jesus loved him so much that he brought him back from the dead—and now he is back to eat with him and his sisters. After such a miracle, how could Mary contain her love for Jesus? Wouldn’t you do the same for the person who gave your brother back to you? You see, this is not a normal dinner party because there is no need for the usual things we do to signal our comfort with one another in a social situation. The things moving this dinner forward are not chit chat or etiquette or even good food. This is a dinner driven by love. Deep love. Extravagant love. When that kind of love is present at table, the guests know they are feasting at a heavenly banquet. Jesus taught his friends to love extravagantly, without condition or limit. He taught them to love one another more deeply than they would have imagined—to love one another in spite of their flaws and their disagreements. And having done that, there was no way they could do other but love him in the same way. And that is what it looks like to be a Christian. It is the work and the reward of following Jesus. To sit at table with the people God has given you and to love with all that you are and all that you have. To love and to love…extravagantly. When you see this scene this way, all of a sudden Judas’ comments look out of place. The Gospel makes it clear he is a thief and would have wanted to steal the money this perfume is worth. But there’s more to it than that. Mary is pouring out more than a bottle of perfume. She is pouring out her heart. She is affirming everything Jesus has taught her and holding back nothing. Judas would have her put the perfume back in the bottle. Or at least just spritz it out a little and keep the best part in. But there’s no halfway in Jesus’ extravagant way of love. There is no excuse for withholding our acts of kindness and acceptance toward one another. Jesus told us to love God and love one another with all we have. No conditions or grudges or dogmas or politics or theories. Just love. Love can’t be kept, sealed tight in the perfume bottle. It wants to be spilled out and used for anointing. That is love. Many people are disturbed by what Jesus says in this Gospel passage. It sounds like he is saying that he matters more than the poor. I’ve spoken to clergy who say they just ignore what Jesus says here. But is he wrong? Jesus says, “you will always have the poor with you.” Two thousands years after these words were spoken, there are 900 million people living on less than two dollars a day. That’s what the World Bank uses to define extreme poverty. Do you know how many of those people live in this country? The United States is the wealthiest nation that has ever existed. Still, somehow, there are 1.5 million people who live on less than two dollars per day right here at home. And I would argue that it is a hollow sort of work to try to serve the poorest among us without love—and not just any love, but the extravagant love of Jesus. I know a couple of people who work in the secular world of global economic development. Agencies like the United Nations Development Program and UNICEF are the most sophisticated tools humanity has ever created to serve the world’s poorest citizens. They are mostly filled with people devoted to the cause of helping humanity. And yet, sometimes sophistication and smarts can do more harm than good if they are deployed without love. One friend of mine used to work in one of the poorest countries of the world for one of these organizations. Her office commanded multi-million dollar budgets to fund programs in areas ravaged by poverty. Part of her boss’ job was to make field visits to these various programs to observe how well they were working and to meet the program officers on the ground. I’ll never forget the story my friend told me about one of these visits. The program was in a remote village far from the capital where the office was, and the roads there were in bad disrepair. So instead of driving, her boss decided to fly there—by helicopter. Apparently the cost of the trip itself would have funded the program for a year. When the helicopter arrived over the clearing in the village where it was supposed to land, my friend could see that the people living in the village had set up a banquet in order to welcome her boss. They had set out one of the few tables they had and covered it in precious food, and around the meeting area they had put out rows of the flimsy sort of plastic chairs you so often see in the developing world--the only chairs they had. But as soon as they began do descend, it was obvious what the problem was. If you’ve ever been around a helicopter, you know they are incredibly loud, and more than that, the propellors whip up violent air currents around them. So as this team of helpers descended to the ground, they simply watched as their aircraft blew away the chairs, and the table, and the food. When they got out to greet their hosts through the horrible noise, they just looked around at the destruction their arrival had caused. Friends, we are a helicopter people. In this Lenten season of self-examination and repentance, in these final weeks before we approach the holiest mysteries of God, we must confront the fact that we live in a society whose instinct resemble Judas more than Jesus. When it comes to love, we are a stingy people. It is our collective instinct to encase ourselves in a flying ton of metal and arrive at the dinner party in a tornado of our own making. We do this because we are afraid of love. We do this because we have forgotten how to be vulnerable, how to sit at our Lord’s feet and anoint them with all we have that is precious. We are a stingy people, a Judas people, a people who live in fear of the extravagant love God shows us at every possibility. We are a wealthy people who act as if we live in a time of scarcity, hoarding an ever-growing pile of treasure. And to what end? If Jesus Christ were to come in our midst, do you think we would have to good sense to open up Fort Knox and pour our gold out at his feet? Do you think the magnates and billionaires would wipe his feet with their hair. I think not. We are a people with every reason to love one another, but who for some strange reason are choosing to withhold that love. In this time of peace, in this time of prosperity, in this unprecedented time of good and plenty, we have turned on one another. We are in a constant search for the scapegoat. We are quick to blame and slow to listen. And it is tearing our society apart. And most shockingly of all, American Christians have become a people who are stingy with Jesus. In fact, we are often even worse than Judas. If our churches are not temples of extravagant love for all God’s children, then the people within their walls are doing little more than mumbling about the common purse. If churches are not intentional sites of racial reconciliation, then they are not seeking to heal the centuries of spiritual hatred that fuel our nation’s great sin. If churches do not fall at the feet of queer people who come to them, then they are rejecting the ways of extravagant love that the Holy Spirit is moving through God’s people. If churches place barriers to any person as they approach the table of this feast, if churches are not striving to make everyone feel the love of God in God’s holy house, then they are falling prey to the spirit of stinginess that has infected the world around us. There is much of which we must repent. But you see, this is the first and necessary step. Because there is a motion from stinginess to extravagant love. It is the motion of Judas to Mary, of the seated one to the one lying prostrate at Jesus’ feet. At this strange dinner party, it is the guest on the floor who occupies the position of honor in God’s eyes. And look: there is a table, right here, waiting to be set. Because this, too, is a strange and awesome meal. It is one in which Christ is not only the guest, but the sacrifice. For us, extravagant love moves us from the chair to the floor. For him, it moves from the chair to the table itself. What can we do but pour out our precious perfume? What more can we offer him but our devotion to him and open heart to one another? What response is there to this extravagance of love but to love extravagantly? God has placed this extravagant love in our hearts. It does not belong in a bottle. Let the love in your be poured out, and the sweet fragrance will be smelled up to the highest heaven. Amen. The Rev. Steven Paulikas
March 31, 2019 Lent 4-C All Saints’ Church Luke 15 Today is Laetere Sunday—Laetere from the Latin word “rejoice.” There is an old church tradition about why this Sunday is the one during Lent when we should rejoice, but I’ll tell you the real reason—it’s because Lent is more than half over! So rejoice! Our disciplines and mortifications and fasts are more than fifty percent done. Or your sense of gnawing guilt that you’re not doing anything for Lent is half-over. And if you aren’t feeling any of those things, then maybe you can just rejoice that Easter is on its way—or that the days are getting longer. You get the point. There’s not a whole lot to celebrate this time of year, so we might as well make something up. So what is there to rejoice about in the story of the prodigal son? That impudent younger brother who runs off with his share of the family money and proceeds to blow it all on stupid stuff. There’s not very much joy for him in this parable. I think I know how he feels: embarrassed, out of control, exposed, ashamed. His poor father—having to deal with this wayward son of his must have brought him to the brink of despair. It’s a horrible tragedy for him. Then there’s the brother, who has the least to rejoice over of the three. You know, I’ve developed a theory about this parable over the years. We’re tempted to put ourselves in the place of the prodigal, the ones who have strayed from our heavenly Father and need to come home. But I think that casting ourselves as him is actually kind of narcissistic. After all, it’s the leading role. And there’s something sort of rugged and exciting about him. Imagine the things he saw and experienced! There might actually even be a part of us that wants to be him. But in reality, if you’re here in church, you’re probably not very much like the prodigal son at all. You’re probably much more like…the dependable older brother. The reliable but boring one who does his duty and sticks close to home, follows the rules, tends to everyone’s needs…and winds up watching his father slaughter the fatted calf to celebrate his underserving, no good, irresponsible brother. Yes, friends, I think it’s true. There aren’t too many prodigals here this morning—they’re all sleeping off a hard night of partying or on some exotic vacation they can’t really afford. And isn’t there just a little part of us that’s jealous? I think this is one of the reasons there’s so little joy in so many churches—because the small number of people who still bother to come and offer themselves to a community of faith are resentful of our brothers who are off being prodigal. In fact, as the story shows, it’s the older brother who has the hardest role and the most to overcome spiritually. And here we all are. So what about that rejoicing Sunday, after all? It’s in there, and there’s much to rejoice over. Because no matter how much tragedy occurs, no matter the lengths to which people go to act against their own interests, no matter the pain and heartbreak of separation, in God’s creation, nothing is lost. Nothing is lost with God. Even the most hopeless case, even those things that seem to be as far from each other as east is from west. People, relationships, hope, justice, community, faith, love—because all of these thing are from God, they will never be lost. Instead, they are all held together in God’s precious embrace, forever. The Jesus who tells the parable of the prodigal son goes on to tell other stories. The woman who searches for her lost coin. The shepherd who abandons his 99 sheep to find the one lost one. This is the same Jesus who eats with the lost people of his time, the sinners and the tax collectors. This is the Jesus who preaches a Gospel of God’s love for all people in a brutal age. And finally, this Jesus offers himself to be lost to the world and to us…only to rise again and restore all that had been hidden from sight. This is the reason to rejoice this Sunday. The prodigal son ruined his life. He disgraced himself and his family. And yet—he was not lost. The self-righteous elder brother lost his perspective and his compassion, yet that too was restored. And the father—he had lost a son. Can you imagine the pain? Can you feel the gaping hole in his life, that of a child who was gone from him? There is perhaps no greater sorrow in life. I think of him trying to take joy in his prosperity, taking strength from his first son, yet always carrying with him this grief of the absence of his other child. But all was not lost. His son returns to him, and it is a miracle. Kill the fatted calf! Call a feast! Because that which I have counted as lost is now found. Truly, one of the great mysteries of the Christian life is the gift of seeing that all things are held together in God’s creation. Doing so is a challenging discipline. It requires us to squint through the distractions of this life while searching for the distant horizon. It means that we must at the same time accept the suffering of loss while trusting that that which we miss is being held in an embrace we cannot see. And yet when we are able to have this faith, there is cause for rejoicing, just as the father does when his son comes home. The more days one spends on this planet, the more there is to lose. We lose time and opportunities as the months and years slip by, chances to do those things we wish we would have figured out way back when. We lose ways of life, and even the memory of how we once lived. There is always the danger of losing innocence and wonder at the majesty and complexity of life. And most painfully, we lose people. Relationships torn apart by dispute, or circumstance, or even death. We lose friends and relatives, companions and family, spouses, parents and even children. Sometimes the depth of these losses flashes before us through the loss of something seemingly small. I’m always shocked at the total sense of loss I feel when I leave an umbrella on the subway realize I’ve dropped a dollar bill on the ground by accident. But you see, these are just proxies, stand-ins for all the rest of the loss I’ve experienced in my life. Ultimately, I can buy another umbrella, and a dollar won’t set me back. But if I thought about the vast treasure that has slipped through my fingers, I’m not sure I’d ever get over it. The Gospel teaches us today that the thing that slips through your fingers is caught in the palm of God’s hand. That doesn’t meant that our losses are trivial or that we shouldn’t mourn them. Our suffering is as real as that of the out-of-control prodigal, or the rueful brother, or the heart-broken father. But in those moments of greatest despair, we can still find a glimmer of hope—a hope that joy is not extinguished, but merely hidden, for a time. And that in the end, all that is lost will be restored, that the broken pieces will rise again and form a new joy--changed, yet resurrected. There’s something about a church that lets us live out this parable. All Saints’ Church is 151 years old. It was founded in 1867, right after the end of the Civil War. As messed up as our own times seem, I can only imagine what the spiritual reality of being American in that year was. The country was only just recovering from catastrophic loss. All the lives of the men and women lost in the war, the loss of a sense of the country together as a whole nation. Even amid the great joy of freedom for former slaves, there was the beginning of a new era of mourning, grieving for the hundreds of years of suffering that could now be looked back upon with a measure of distance. It was in such a time of loss that this church was founded. And over the century and a half since then, the losses have just continued. We console the sick and suffering and bury the dead. The fortunes of our parish have risen and fallen with circumstances beyond our control. And at times we have been brought very low. And yet, here we are, this morning. An assembly gathered to hear the Word of God—a word that proclaims boldly, without hesitation, that the losses of today belong to today alone, and that all shall be restored in God’s time. It is that God we worship this morning, and the fact of our being together is one small piece of evidence that this promise is true. The prayers we offer today will not be lost, just as the prayers of our ancestors were not lost. So friends, rejoice! All is not lost. Nothing is lost. All that is good comes of God, and God is eternal. When the lost parts of God’s creation seek return, God will rush to embrace them, just as the father rushed to embrace his prodigal son. And on that day, the fatted calf will be killed, and there will be a great feast, with all the heavenly host gathered around the table, reunited, restored, resurrected. Rejoice, for what was dead has come to life, and what was lost has been found. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
March 3, 2019 Feast of the Transfiguration All Saints’ Church Luke 9:28-36 If I look a little bit bleary-eyed this morning, it’s because I just returned late last night from a board meeting. But don’t feel too bad for me. First of all, it’s the board of Episcopal Relief & Development, and it’s an honor to do anything to support our church’s amazing work throughout the world through this organization. Second, the meeting was in Puerto Rico. So while you all were digging out from the snow, I was at least looking at the sun from the window of our conference room. Our meeting was in Puerto Rico so that we could learn about Episcopal Relief & Development’s disaster response and preparedness programs there. It was incredible to actually see the impact of the contributions you and I made following Hurricanes Irma and Maria, those terrible storms that many in our own congregation were affected by. On Friday, we went to the lay education center of the Diocese of Puerto Rico, where we heard from church leaders, medical professionals, and others about the devastation of the storms and the suffering they brought to the island. But as Puerto Rico rebuilt, a remarkable thing happened. In the words of Bishop Rafael Morales, the Diocese of Puerto Rico was transformed into la Diócesis de Esperanza, the Diocese of Hope. I’m going to quote him once again, so don’t think this is my own analysis. Bishop Morales said that as the hurricanes were approaching, most people had the kind of laid back attitude that’s a hallmark of Puerto Rican culture, one of the things that makes the island’s people so charming and kind. But as the magnitude of the storms became apparent, a sense of dread set in. He said he realized that he and his people were not prepared for what was to come. Later that day, we saw the result of this lack of preparedness when we visited the coastal town of Loíza. During the hurricanes, a storm surge swept up over the beach and flooded practically every building in the town. We had the chance to meet with parishioners at San Filipe y Santiago Apóstoles, the local Episcopal Church, and speak to them about their experience. All three said the same thing: “perdimos todo.” We lost everything. They said they had very modest houses and not many possessions before the storm, but in the aftermath, what little they had was totally gone. To make matters worse, the same was true of everyone they knew in their town. I simply cannot imagine what it would be like to wake up one morning with all my possessions swept away or soaked beyond usefulness—only to realize that every one of my neighbors had suffered the same loss. One member of our group asked what kept them going. At the same time, they all said: “unidad y fe”. Unity and faith. Abagail, a grandmother who had lived in Loíza her whole life, said that nobody in the town has any enemies, because after the storm, they realized they were all in it together. I couldn’t help but think of last weeks’ Gospel reading, when Jesus tells us to love our enemies. What would it be like to live in a place where no one had any enemies? And faith. They all said they never doubted God’s goodness toward them. It was their faith that saw them through. Again, I couldn’t help but admire them, and to think at the same time how much stronger my own faith would have to be if I had lost everything I had and had to find a way forward. It was incredibly moving to meet and get to know these unified people of faith—who happen to know one another through their local Episcopal church. And knowing their stories, it was all the more remarkable to see Loíza some 18 months after the hurricanes. Houses have been rebuilt, and a newly resurfaced road connects the area to San Juan. As a result, the town and its beautiful beaches have been connected to the tourist grid. Madre Ana Rosa Méndes is the vicar of San Filipe y Santiago Apóstoles. She told me that for the first time, people want to come to visit Loíza. The church is hoping to rebuild a destroyed community building into a food distribution center for people still living without food security. And perhaps most importantly, Loíza has been hooked in to the powerful network created by the Diocese of Puerto Rico with the help of Episcopal Relief & Development. This is a network dedicated to planning for the future. Because Irma and Maria caught the island off guard, the Diocese discerned that its most urgent ministry need was to be ready for future natural disasters. The result was a program called REDES, an acronym that means “network” in Spanish. REDES brings together churches, government agencies, law enforcement, businesses, and health care professionals to ensure that when the next storm comes, the people of Puerto Rico will not have to suffer the indignities of 2017—100 days without electricity, large parts of the island without food or water for weeks, a total collapse of communications, the sick stranded without medical care or medicine. The scars of the past are most definitely still there. But in this Diocese of Hope, there is plenty of hope to go around in places like Loíza. There’s no romanticizing the pain and suffering of the recent past. But according to the very people who lived through this trauma, their home has been transfigured, changed from a site of ruin into a place that shines with the light of the future. Friends: when we hear the story of Jesus transfigured on the mountaintop, we hear the story of God working in our midst today, changing what is ordinary and predictable into the divine light of hope and love that is God’s very essence. When Jesus brought his disciples up the hill, they had no idea what they would see. Imagine these four men, Jesus, Peter, John, and James. They had been traveling on foot throughout Galilee. This week, I stayed at the Best Western; they relied on the hospitality of strangers. I packed a bag to go with me; they were told to drop everything when they went to follow Jesus. They must have been tired, dirty, smelly, and overwhelmed by all they had seen. Then this: the stink and dust of this ordinary life transfigured into a bright and shining light in the blink of an eye. And along with it, the appearance of the great patriarchs of the faith. And a great voice proclaiming: “This is my Son, my Chosen: listen to him!” Listen to him. It is no accident that in this mysterious and holy moment, the command from that awesome voice is that we listen to him. What does he tell us? To love God with all we have. To love our neighbor as ourselves. To pattern our lives on his and acknowledge that all we have comes from him. To give ourselves over so fully that we know that our neighbor’s tragedy is our own. Do these things, live this way, and you too will witness this transfiguration. You will see the grime and filth of the world transformed into a bright and holy light. That light will shine through you, and the rays that pass through you will enlighten those living in darkness. This is what the people of Loíza understood and told us. For them, the Transfiguration is not an abstract thought; it is their reality. Even when the storms swept away all they had, the water could not take away their faith, and that faith became the guiding light that led them into a new and transfigured world. On the flight home last night, I was thinking about Transfiguration Sunday nine years ago. On the Saturday before the Feast of the Transfiguration in 2010, I was also in a plane, high above the Appalachians, returning from a week’s work trip on the Gulf Coast. I went with a team from my former parish to help rebuild homes in Mississippi towns that were still damaged from Hurricane Katrina, which had swept through the area over four years before. As it happened, we were taking part in a program organized by Episcopal Relief & Development. As our climate changes, more and more people will have the experience of losing everything they have. The story of Loíza, the story of the Gulf Coast, the story of Superstorm Sandy here in New York—this story is going to be repeated over and over again. And every time it is, we need to be unified. We need to be people of faith. We need to tell a different story, the story of Jesus on the mountaintop, transfigured before the eyes of his disciples. We need to look for his light shining through the darkness of apparent destruction and to heed the voice that calls out, imploring us to listen to him. The good news is that our Church is doing this very thing, and has for quite a while. The Diocese of Puerto Rico—the Diocese of Hope—isn’t going anywhere. Your prayers for the work of Episcopal Relief & Development and your contributions to this work have helped make this transfiguration a reality. As our Lenten journey begins, you will find Lenten Devotion Booklets from Episcopal Relief and Development at the back of the church. Take one home with you. Read the daily reflections. Learn more about the life-changing work that’s being done around the world on Episcopal Relief & Development’s web site. There’s more information at the back of the booklet—if you’re looking for stories of transfiguration, this is a great place to start. But most of all, let us, in this place, be a people of unity and faith. Let us pause for a moment on this mountaintop to bask in the glory of our Lord. Soon we will walk back down into the valley. But for now, God’s light shines brightly for us to see. Glory to God in the highest. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
February 10, 2019 All Saints’ Church Epiphany 5-C Isaiah 6 Think for a just a moment this morning about the holiest place you’ve ever been. At some point in all our lives, we find a spot that we absolutely know is hallowed ground, a place set apart from the rest. It could be a religious place—a church building or a site of pilgrimage. It could be a place in nature, somewhere where you were overwhelmed with the beauty of the created order. Or it could be a spot where something extraordinary happened, an event from the past that changed the world or that means something to you personally. Think for a moment about this holy place. What does it look like? How did you feel there? Were you aware of something beyond yourself? Did it fill you with awe and terror? Did it inspire you and soften your heart? Did it make you want to fall down on your knees or to jump up or to scream out or to sit in reverent silence? Do you tell people about it, or is it a secret you keep to yourself because you don’t think people will understand? Do you try to go back there, or was it a once-in-a-lifetime experience? And most importantly, how has this place shaped you as a person? What has it inspired you to do, to say, to act differently or more fully, to turn back or to turn forward or to turn around in a circle--just because you knew in this moment, in this place that you were in the presence of God? There is no denying the power of that place, of that experience of holiness. In fact, it may be one of the reasons you are here this morning—because you remember that time—maybe not necessarily in the front of your mind, but in your deep soul, in that part of you that holds the most important memories. Or maybe because you have a sense that such a thing exists and you want to feel it for yourself. Or maybe even because you have felt that holiness—right here in this temple. If that’s the case, then we have no choice but to say, with the prophet Isaiah, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of hosts. The whole earth is full of his glory. The passage from Isaiah we hear this morning is a vision of that profound sense of the holy. Isaiah sees the Lord sitting on a throne, like a king robed in glory. There are angelic beings flying around him, six-winged seraphim with sleepless eye. And the hymn they repeat to one another is nothing but a proclamation of the transcendent divinity in whose presence they exist. Holy. Holy. Holy! Words so sacred we repeat them in our liturgy as we approach the mysteries of the Eucharist, echoing the words of the seraphim who surrounded the Lord’s throne. Kadosh kadosh kadosh, Adonai tz’vaot m’lo khol haaretz k’vodo. A hymn so hallowed it is recited at the heart of the central prayer of the Jewish liturgy, the Kedushah. There is no mistaking that Isaiah is in the presence of God, and the sense of holiness is completely overwhelming. He is confronted with his smallness in the face of God’s complete holiness that fills the entire earth. He proclaims that he is a man of unclean lips, and in that moment, one of the seraphim touches his mouth with a hot coal from the fire at the altar. This is the sign that from now on, Isaiah will speak truth that has been given to him by God. His experience of standing in the presence of God’s holiness changes his life forever and equips him to become a prophet of the Lord. Holiness is something that can never fully be defined. It is like Isaiah’s vision, in which he sees only the hem of the Lord’s garment, but not the entire picture. It is something that is felt and experienced, but can never be replicated or fully explained. And yet it is precisely because of all these reasons that holiness is such a powerful part of the human experience of God. One way to think of our perception of God is on a sort of sliding scale. At one end is what we could call “imminence” or God immediately with us. This is the God of the everyday, God sitting beside you, God in your morning coffee. This God walks with me and he talks with me and he tells me I am His own. The imminent God is comforting and intimate. It’s nice to have time with my God in the garden. But there’s a problem with this God. If God gets too intimate, then God is really nothing more than a good friend, one I can rely on in my times of need and share my personal joys with. This God leaves a lot of questions unanswered. Who or what created the heavens and the earth? Who makes the sun rise and set, the winds blow and the ocean crash? Who presides over wars and times of peace? We are here for but the blink of an eye—isn’t there some awesome presence that has been here from the beginning and will be here after us? This is the perception of God at the other end of the sliding scale, the end that can be called “transcendence.” This is the way Isaiah sees God—clothed in splendor, seated on his throne in the Temple and attended by angels. There is no doubt that this God’s ways are not our ways, nor His thoughts our thoughts. This is the God of holiness. This God’s kingdom stretches the length of the universe, and this God’s reign began at the foundation of time, which itself is God’s own creation. We are fortunate, like Isaiah, to catch just a glimpse of this glory, and when we do, it changes our lives forever. We may not be able to walk in the garden with this God, but a moment in the presence of this holiness will shake the core of the human soul. Christianity proclaims the impossible. Our faith claims that the Jesus we worship occupies the entire scale between imminent and transcendent. It says that there is no way to explain the love of God other than to say that it is both with us all the time and towering over us like a celestial king on a throne. How else can you explain a savior who will walk with you in the garden but is also the Word from the beginning? This is what the early Christians were trying to do when they taught that Jesus is fully human and fully God, fully imminent and fully transcendent. Peoples’ preference for one side of the scale or the other slides back and forth over time. Going to far to one extreme or another shuts out important parts of our understanding of God. For most of history, we thought of God as more transcendent than imminent. And here’s the thing: we happen to be living in one of those odd times when the understanding of God may have skewed just a little bit too far to the imminent, the God with us side of the spectrum. 21st century American Christians seem to be pretty comfortable with the idea that God is extremely and intimately interested in the minutae of our lives, that our prayers for every little thing are heard and answered. There’s something nice and comforting about that. This preference for imminence is reflected in the way Americans worship, our casual, everyday way of approaching God. I was shocked the first time I encountered a church with movie theater seating and a coffee bar in the lobby. Our music, worship language, and even the way we dress looks and feels far more like our everyday lives than they did for our forebears—even for Episcopalians! But the danger comes when we skew so far toward the imminent that we lose the awe of the transcendent. When we lose the memory of the Lord on his holy throne, we discard the otherness of holiness that reminds us that our place in God’s creation is actually very small. When we forget that Jesus is as much God as he is human, we ignore the fact that he belongs to everyone and not just me. You may have seen that the White House press secretary recently said that God wanted Donald Trump to be president. This is a theological statement that forgets God’s transcendence, that God’s concerns aren’t necessarily my own, and that, believe it or not, God belongs not just to the victor but to the vanquished. It seems the pendulum might be swinging back, that people are searching for the holiness of otherness in their lives. If you follow writing about Christianity, you might have noticed a steady trickle of articles about people drawn to formality, not comfort, in worship. The Church of England has seen an uptick in attendance at cathedral Evensong services, where the beauty of music and words hovers inside ancient buildings. It may just be that something is stirring within our collective spirit, calling us back to this transcendent God. Regardless of our own tastes, God is looking on, looking down from the great high throne. Those holy places are still out there. You may even be in one at this moment. And if you’re ever in search of such a place, just listen for the song of the seraphs: Holy, Holy, Holy Lord. The whole earth is full of his glory. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
February 3, 2019 Epiphany 4-C 1 Corinthians, 13 All Saints’ Church Every year, some of the world’s richest and most powerful people gather in the Swiss ski resort of Davos for something called the World Economic Forum. The event features talks and panels with experts who talk about important global issues. This year, some 1500 private jets arrived at the nearest airport. I’ve never been, but if you ever want to take me on your private jet, let me know. There was one panel this year that went viral. One of the panelists was named Rutger Bregman, an economist from Holland. He said to the crowd of millionaires and billionaires that the real economic issue facing the world that no one wanted to talk about was what he called “tax evasion,” or the fact that most of the people in the room pay less in taxes proportionally than working people in their countries. Dr. Bregman was the one who got the most media attention for his comments. Aside from the courage it takes to say what he said to that crowd, I wonder if that’s also because he used a curse word in his comments. Stay tuned to see if I give that tactic a try in my sermons. Anyway, I was intrigued, so I decided to watch the whole panel, which was actually way better than just the tax thing. The next person to speak was Winnie Byanyima, the executive director of the charity Oxfam global. She said that in 2018, the wealth of the world’s billionaires increased by 2.5 billion dollars every day. At the same time, the wealth of the bottom half of the world’s population by wealth actually decreased by 500 million dollars a day. That means that roughly 3.8 billion people were basically transferring their wealth to the tiny group of people gathered at Davos every day last year. But the next person to speak was Jane Goodall. You remember her—she’s the British anthropologist who did all that amazing work with chimpanzees in the 60’s and 70’s. On the panel next to her, she had a stuffed animal monkey holding a banana. I found that a little weird, but I got over it once she started talking. She was asked the question, “what’s gone wrong?,” as in, how have we gotten to a point as a people where this inequality exists. To answer, she praised animals, and especially the primates she’s worked with. But then she outlined how vastly more intelligent human beings are than chimps and apes. She marveled at the human capacity both for achievement and for self-destruction, and she said that the reason for the cycle of we find ourselves in today is that, we have broken the link between intellect and wisdom. Jane Goodall said, “if we think of wisdom as love, compassion, and making decisions not based on how will this help me now, how will it help my bank account, how will it help my next political campaign, but how will this decision I make help future generations—that link seems to have been broken.” Then she asked, “how do we address that?” Well, we’re addressing it right now, right here, this morning. In this place, we believe that the wisdom that Jane Goodall calls “love” is Jesus Christ. He shows us what it means to be wise and loving. He shows us what the extraordinary things a human being can do, by living in love and offering compassion especially to the most vulnerable among us. He teaches us that the stranger is our neighbor and that everyone matters. He stood with the poor and was himself poor to his final day, and in doing so shows us that glory is not to be found in earthly wealth or power, but by walking in love all our days. It is this same Jesus who tells us not to store up treasure on earth, where moth and rust corrupt, but to store treasure in heaven, because where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. And this Jesus most definitely wouldn’t go to Davos. But I promise I’ll look for him when you take me there on your private jet. If the reason we are suffering as a people from greed, the reason we are so gleefully destroying our planet, the reason a tiny group of people are hoarding wealth from the poorest among us is that we have lost the link between intellect and love, then let us learn what love is and what it does. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. Paul wrote these words in his first letter to the Corinthians as a gift to them, and it’s a gift we continue to receive today. He tells us what he learned from his faith in Christ because he knows it is the thing that will restore the link between intellect and wisdom, the thing that will heal the life of a single person, or a community, or the whole world. Love is patient. You’ve probably heard this reading at a wedding—at least that’s the last time I heard it, at a wedding I was officiating. I wondered at the time if the couple really listened to Paul’s words. Love is patient. You need a lot of patience to spend your life with another person, because it’s hard. Without patience, there’s no such thing as a real and lasting human relationship. Love is kind. How could love be anything but kind? And the opposite is true too—whatever is not kind is not loving. Even a parent who disciplines her child is doing it out of kindness, even if her child doesn’t understand that at the time. Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. Oh my. I can think of some people in the news who should hear about this one. Love is not envious because it has nothing to envy. When you have love, you already have everything you need. Love is not boastful because when you have love, you know it is a gift from God and not something of your own creation. Love is not arrogant or rude because those have nothing to do with love, and when you see that someone is being arrogant or rude, you know what they need most is some love. You might have heard these words a thousand times, and they might sound simple. But just think for a second about how powerful they really are. Think for a second about what Davos would be like if everyone got together to talk about love. Think about how people’s lives would be different if we had a love-driven economy and not a wealth-driven one. Think about how differently we would treat the environment if we actually loved people who are being affected by climate change or whose homes will disappear in the coming decades. If we can reconnect the link between intellect and wisdom, if we can put love at the center of our thoughts, then there will truly be no end to what we as a people can accomplish! At the end of Chapter 12 of this same letter, Paul tells us to strive for the greater gifts. Now he tells us that these gifts are faith, hope and love, and that of these three, the greatest is love. He tells us that love never ends. Why would we devote ourselves to anything else? Why would we waste a single moment of our lives striving for anything other than this amazing love? Why would we inspire our fellow human beings to do anything but to fill their lives with this almighty, eternal, and world-changing love? Love is the greatest of the gifts that we have. This love is that treasure you can store up in heaven. It is where your heart should be. It is the great commandment and it is our salvation. This love is God, and there is nothing, life or death or angels or rulers or things present or things to come—there is nothing that can separate us from this loving God of ours in Jesus Christ. Do we see through a glass, darkly? Yes. Are there clanging symbols and noisy gongs in our time? My Lord, sometimes that’s all I can hear. But though we may only see in part today, one day we will know fully. And when we do, we will know the fullness of this love. Because the greatest of all these things…is love. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
January 27, 2019 Epiphany 3-C 1 Cor. 12 All Saints’ Church January is usually the month when I force myself to think about my body. The reason why January is pretty simple: it’s the month after December, when the round of holiday meals and other forms of indulgences makes turns my body into something that’s not a whole lot more than a receptacle for food and drink. By the time January rolls around, I realize that if I don’t start paying more attention to my body, it’s probably going to do something to force me to pay it attention. I’m sure may of you have similar experiences and struggles. We all know what a sick and disordered standard our culture sets for our relationship with our bodies. On top of that, there is no way to get through life without at some point facing health issues or disability or just the inevitable changes that our bodies go through over time. One thing that ten years in ministry has taught me is that if you are struggling with some issue having to do with your body at any given moment, even if you think you’re the only one, your actually probably in the majority of people. And yet, what would this life be without these bodies of ours? Each one different, each one designed with such complexity and attention to detail. These bodies that carry us through life–when it comes down to it, they are the only thing we have that occupies space in this world. It our bodies that remember our joys and our sorrows. It is our bodies that let us reach out in love or defend ourselves from harm. We only truly understand pain and woundedness, comfort and pleasure because of our bodies. For these reasons and more, our relationship with our bodies is a profoundly spiritual matter. For some, that will sound like common sense. For others, it may be something you’ve never thought about before. But there’s no way around it, especially for Christians, who worship a Savior who understood precisely what it meant to live in one of these human bodies of ours—and whose body we are now a part of. This is precisely what Paul writes about in his First Letter to the Corinthians. He says, “just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. Now YOU are the body of Christ, and individually members of it.” Now you are the body of Christ. All those things that bodies do—that’s what we are now. Jesus was one person, and we are many, but each of us together now make up his body—because his body is no longer in this physical realm of ours. His body on this earth…is us. Even if you’ve heard this passage from First Corinthians a thousand times, meditate on it again this morning. Now you are the body of Christ. The growth of this body is his growth. The wounds of this body are his wounds. Where these feet stand, he stands. The hands that reach out from here are his hands. Where we smile, he smiles. Where we cry, he cries. You have nothing to occupy space in this world but your body. In the same way, there is nothing to be Jesus’ real presence in the world—but us. We are his cells and sinews the bones. We are his soft tissue, the kind that is so easily hurt. We are his strong arms, the kind that can hold a person in despair. We are his gathering embrace, large enough to enfold all humankind. Now we are the body of Christ. When Paul was writing, that body was a relatively young body. But since then, that body has been crucified and has resurrected countless times. Jesus Christ suffered on the cross and died. So too must this body die, so that on the third day it may rise again, wounded, but alive so that it may proclaim the deep mystery of God’s eternal and unshakable love. This proclamation happens not so much in words as in the simple miracle of the existence of the body—Christ’s body—which, now, is us. All this may sound kind of poetic. And it is. When Paul says now we are the Body of Christ, he is using a metaphor. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Some truths are so beautiful that they can only be expressed in metaphor. That’s why so much of faith is expressed in poetry. Aside from paying attention to my body, my other new year’s resolution for 2019 is to read more poetry. Like any resolution, I feared this one. Will I actually do it? Is it too weird or unrealistic? A month in, it turns out that getting more poetry in my life has been much easier than paying attention to my body. My body I have mixed feelings about. Poetry I don’t. I love it and I always have. So resolving to read poetry every day for me has been like committing to eating a big slice of delicious chocolate cake. Pretty easy. And it turns out that one of the best ways to get more poetry in your life is to hang out in church. There is never a Sunday when we don’t indulge ourselves in several beautiful poems, from the ancient couplets of the Psalms to the Greek verse that pops up so often in the New Testament to the devotional poems set to music in our extraordinary hymnals. We worship in poetry because sometimes it’s only poetic language that has the power to express the inexpressible, to give words to the eternal truths and mysteries that we enter into when we worship God. Now you are the body of Christ. It’s a brilliant line of poetry. Believe me, I’ve read a lot of poetry. It’s really the only way Paul had to explain what he saw: a group of believers in Jesus who needed to be told of the spiritual power of their body. I am beating heart, you are the keen eyes; she is the strong legs, he is the knowing mind. All of it true. All of it poetry. All of it a shocking message for us: that Jesus Christ is right here, right in our midst, occupying space—the shocking message that NOW we are the body of Christ. Last week, the poet Mary Oliver died. When I first read her in high school, I thought her metaphors and images were too simple, to kind. I preferred the kind of poetry that was more rough and tumble. But over the years, I came to see how so much of what she was saying sounded, well, like the poetry of Scripture. Intense, shocking messages that can change your life. Messages like: Now you are the body of Christ. Incidentally, Mary Oliver was a lifelong, devout Episcopalian. When I saw that she had died, I felt like an old friend I had never met was now gone. I even cried. But the amazing thing about spiritual leaders like her is that even when they are no longer here in body, a part of their body continues on in us. Here’s what Mary Oliver had to say about the body. This is an excerpt from her poem, “Evidence”: As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in the world that can hold, in a mix of power and sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas, ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue. Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable. Now we are this body, the one full of detail, the one that wants to polish itself and to love other bodies. Now we are this sacred vessel in the world that can hold treasures in a mix of power and sweetness. Now we are this body. Now we are the body of Christ. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
January 6, 2019 Feast of the Epiphany All Saints’ Church Nerd alert: today is the Feast of the Epiphany, which is always on January 6. The last time Epiphany fell on a Sunday was 2013. You see, because Epiphany is always celebrated on a fixed date it’s like Christmas in that it’s always falling on a different day of the week. And since we’ve gone full nerd, I might as well tell you that Epiphany was being observed by Christians about 75 years before they started celebrating Christmas, meaning it’s an older and originally more important feast. But that’s a different sermon. Anyway, Sunday, January 6, 2013, the last time Epiphany was on a Sunday. On that day, I worshiped at the Roman Catholic cathedral in the city of Trier, in Germany. It’s an old Roman bath town—a lovely place not far from Luxembourg, where my godson and his parents—my good friends—were living. I was visiting them after celebrating Christmas here at All Saints’. My godson wanted to sleep in, so my friend and I drove from their house through the rolling countryside on a bright morning. We got there early, so we walked along the Mosel River and looked at the Roman ruins. Construction on the original cathedral in Trier began in the late third century, when this part of Europe was on the outskirts of the so-called civilized world. The liturgy was simple and lovely. The deacon read the story of the wise men following the star from the East to find the Christ child—in German, of course, but I guess I already knew the story so that was fine. From what I could understand, the priest preached a nice little message. We left the cathedral, and I squinted as we stepped out into the winter sun as it struggled to rise in the sky. I felt light, renewed. It felt holy to be in that place on that day—so far from home, but nonetheless connected. Connected to my dear friends even though they lived far away, connected to people everywhere around the world who would hear the story about the star this morning, connected to the people who had been hearing this story in this very spot for 1700 years. On Christmas, we celebrate the incarnation of God, the birth of a human child to Mary, the God-bearer. On Christmas night, our imagination is filled with the image of Mary and Joseph kneeling at the manger, and the local shepherds coming to pay homage to the newborn Lord. It is a domestic scene, a stunning tableau of God’s immensity and majesty on display in the lowliest of places. But on Epiphany, we learn that even though Jesus is just a little child, he cannot be contained by the limits of the human imagination. Jesus belongs not just to Mary and Joseph or even to the shepherds, Jesus belongs to the world, and even to the cosmos. Jesus comes not just for you and me, but for everyone and everything. This story we read today from the Gospel of Matthew—it’s a strange one. It seems like it comes out of nowhere, really. What is this star? Who are these men, and what do we call them—kings, wise men magicians? Why are there three of them and not just one or two? They’re from the east, supposedly—but where in the east? The Gospel provides no answers. Over the years, people have tried to fill in the answers, giving the men names, writing songs about them, even fixing this otherwise arbitrary date to the morning they found Jesus. But the Gospel never really gives you the details. And why? Because we will never know as much as God does. Because this Jesus is not just my Jesus, the ones who knows my joys and my sorrows, my sins and the longing of my soul. He is your Jesus too. And he is the Jesus of people, like the three wise men, who are complete strangers. He is the Jesus of Park Slope and the Jesus of Trier. He is the Jesus of the Roman Empire and the Jesus of the American Empire. He is the Jesus of people not only who I don’t know, but whose existence I can’t even comprehend. He is the Jesus of everyone and everything. He connects us all to one another, near and far, past, present, and future. That’s what makes him God. Not my God, a little baby idol I can put on my shelf to worship as I please. But Emmanuel, God with us, manifested to the nations of the world. His glory is proclaimed by the stars themselves so that all may see it. We need the Epiphany because there is a profound spiritual danger in pretending that my God is my god and not yours. Of course we all rely on God in our own personal moments of need and of celebration. I do believe that God knows the concerns that weigh on my heart, the ones I can’t help but raise up in prayer. I’m always looking for ways that I think God might be acting in my own life. The danger comes in when I forget that God is doing that for everyone else too. Because if Jesus only cares about what happens to me, then I can start to believe that he really doesn’t care about what happens to the people I don’t know or understand. If Jesus just belongs to me and not to them, then their very existence can become an aggravation to me. This is the kind of thinking that is at the heart of neglect, cruelty, and violence. And it can really only be healed by accepting the mystery, the enormity, the impossible-to-comprehend fact that this Jesus belongs to strangers from the east as much as he does to me. Leo the Great was pope in the mid fifth century and one of the most important theologians in Christian history. He presided over the church in a time of political upheaval, when Rome was flooded with migrants from throughout the Empire, and he galvanized the Church to welcome them and serve their needs. Leo believed that the Epiphany told the story of faith as much in his time as in the time of Jesus. Here’s what he said in a sermon he preached on the Feast of the Epiphany while he was pope: The day, dearly-beloved, on which Christ the Savior of the world first appeared to the nations must be venerated by us with holy worship: and today those joys must be entertained in our hearts which existed in the breasts of the three magi, when, aroused by the sign and leading of a new star, which they believed to have been promised, they fell down in presence of the King of heaven and earth. For that day has not so passed away that the mighty work, which was then revealed, has passed away with it, and that nothing but the report of the thing has come down to us for faith to receive and memory to celebrate; seeing that, by the oft-repeated gift of God, our times daily enjoy the fruit of what the first age possessed. And therefore, although the narrative which is read to us from the Gospel properly records those days on which the three men, who had neither been taught by the prophets' predictions nor instructed by the testimony of the law, came to acknowledge God from the furthest parts of the East, yet we behold this same thing more clearly and abundantly carried on now in the enlightenment of all. According to Leo, Jesus was revealed to all the nations, not just in former times, but in all times—not just to our nation, be even to those far corners of the world our minds can scarcely imagine. His light enlightens all people. His light is like the light of a star, belonging to no one person and visible to all people. It is this Jesus who is the oft-repeated gift of God, as Leo puts it, and with each passing year, as we receive this gift again, we behold more clearly and abundantly that he came for the enlightenment of all. May the light of God shine in your lives. And the more brightly it shines, may you see ever more clearly that it is the same light shining in the hearts of all people in all places. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
December 24, 2018 Christmas Eve All Saints’ Church Welcome to All Saints’ Church on Christmas Eve. It does not matter who you are, where you’re from, what you believe or don’t believe—you are most welcome here. It is hardly a chore for a group of Christians to welcome strangers on Christmas. Actually, making space for everyone is one of the biggest joys of this holiday. Jesus was born in a manger because there was no room at the inn. There is plenty of room for you here. And for anyone who has ever felt unwelcome somewhere on Christmas, well, that’s what we call a sin. This can be a tough time for a lot of people for reasons totally beyond your own control. Maybe something happened in your family that makes you feel uncomfortable being with relatives or unwelcome at the Christmas table. Or you’re missing a loved one who has departed this life. Or you just don’t like all the stuff that goes along with Christmas. This feast is here to gladden your heart and to bring joy into your life. Because when Jesus was born, he came into the darkest parts of the world—a world filled with violence, poverty, sadness, and inequity. That’s where God took on flesh—and that’s where God is most present, even today. So whatever brings you here tonight is a good reason. Maybe you never miss a Christmas Eucharist. Or your family dragged you here. Or you just wanted to check it out. They’re all good reasons, and each of those reasons will add beauty to your life today. Because tonight we are bathed in beauty. The beauty of a dark midwinter night. The beauty of this historic building. The beauty of this ancient liturgy. And of course, the incredible beauty of music brought to us by Arturo and his orchestra. Thank you to all of you remarkable musicians for offering your talents to us on this special evening. This Christmas, I’ve been thinking a lot about beauty. One of the reasons for this is that 2018 was one of those rare years when I actually kept my new year’s resolution from January. I decided to visit museums as often as I could. It was a simple thing, but it meant that all year long I was exposed to beauty—often just when I needed it. And let’s face it: there are a lot of those times nowadays. Let me ask a pretty simple question: where we stand today, do you all think there’s too much beauty in the world, or not enough? I’m not talking about fake beauty, the kind of fantasy pictures you see on Instagram and glossy magazine covers, the kind of staged beauty that doesn’t reflect what life is really about. I’m talking about the kind of beauty that’s here in this house tonight—the kind of beauty that points toward holiness. Of course there’s not enough of it. The simple fact is that we’re living in an ugly time. It seems that crudeness is all around us. Words aren’t being used to convey beauty, but to hurt people and make them feel small. Images are cheap and disposable, not lasting and inspiring. And the way we act toward one another…It’s not stunning. Of course, it would be easy to pick on our political system. Oh, and just in case you’re visiting from out of town, the current president lost the voting precinct of this church by about 103%--it’s a fact; you can check it. But it’s way too easy to point the finger at one person or people you’ve authorized to represent you. I’m talking about the kind of ugliness that pervades our common life. The kind that wants to punish the vulnerable and the sick. The ugly pictures of racism and xenophobia that confront us all the time. The harshness with which children were treated this year in this country. And the image of a society that seems to have chosen cruelty over decency and respect for every one of its members. Jesus was born into all this same ugliness. In the world of his birth, raw power and status were the only things that mattered. Whole groups of people—including the Jewish family of which he was a part—were oppressed just because of who they were. Grinding poverty was the reality for most people. And in the middle of all this ugliness, the Son of God was born to a family that suffered along with the rest of us. As if to prove the point, he came into the world in the muck and filth of a barn. He was laid in the animals’ slop trough for his first sleep. This was the beginning…of a beautiful life. Looking back, it was beautiful from that very first night—a bright shining light in the midst of ordinary darkness. From the humblest of beginnings, the Christ child grew into the person who brought untold beauty into humanity. He showed us what it looks like to live a beautiful life: to heal the sick, offer hope to the downtrodden, render no one evil for evil, proclaim release to the captive and justice to the oppressed. He was truth in a world of lies and life and a world obsessed with death. And above all, he was perfect love. This is true beauty, and this life, lived beautifully, became our salvation. **Christmas reminds us that that same beautiful life can constantly be born within us. It’s why we celebrate it every year—to be reminded that no matter how ugly things get, the beautiful life of Jesus is always waiting, patiently, ready to appear. His love can become our love, because he offers it to us as freely as a babe offering a smile. That’s true beauty—and those who accept it become beautiful themselves. One of the most beautiful things I saw this year was when our Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry, preached at the royal wedding this spring. To be honest with you, I had no plans of watching it at first. Call me a bad Episcopal priest, but I don’t really care that much about the royal family. But once I heard Bishop Curry was preaching, I was up at 5am that morning and ready to go. Because that man has beautiful things to say. That morning Bishop Curry said: “There’s power in love”. Do you remember that moment? Those princesses in the big pink hats looking like they were going to laugh as this loud American bishop started his sermon. But he didn’t care. He kept going. “There’s power in love. Don’t underestimate it. Don’t even over-sentimentalize it. There’s power, power in love.” I think at this point in the sermon it was just starting to hit the 1 billion people watching that morning what was happening. Michael Curry, descendant of American slaves, was standing in the royal chapel in Windsor. And he was preaching about…the power of love. To me, it felt like centuries of history were crumbling. And I started to forget about all the ugliness, because this man of God was taking his 15 minutes of the world’s attention to remind us all that Jesus came into the world for love’s sake. He went on. “Ultimately, the source of love is God himself: the source of all our lives. There’s power in love. There’s power to help and heal when nothing else can. There’s power in love to lift up and liberate when nothing else will. There’s power in love to show us the way to live.” Love shows us the way to live—and not just to live any life, but the way to live a beautiful life. For Christians, that love is Jesus. That’s why God comes to us as a little child. Because you know you love that child, and that child loves you too. That love draws on our deepest instincts. There’s power in love to show us the way to live. That’s the power of love—and it’s so powerful that we call that love God. That’s what this night is about. That’s what makes this night so beautiful. That’s what this whole religion is about. And if anyone has ever told you that being Christian is about anything other than love, they’re wrong. Listen, I’m a priest! If there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s to tell you that. This faith—it’s not about rules or showing face or some institution that you may or may not care about. It’s not just about your personal relationship with Jesus or how often you go to church or how you vote. And it’s CERTAINLY not about hating immigrants, women, and gay people. Those things are ugly. But Jesus is beautiful. So faith in him is about love—a love so beautiful that even the child in a manger can still touch our hearts. It’s about love that is self-giving, sacrificial, and embraces every human being. It’s about love because Jesus is nothing less than the love of God in human flesh. And, friends, that flesh of yours, that meat on your bones, it’s full of love too. Because Christ is born not just in Bethlehem, but in Park Slope too. He is born now and for all time, and the love that was born with him shines forth every time we let it be born in us and through us, in our choices and our actions, in our beliefs and our relationships. Like Mary, we carry within us the capacity for Christ’s beauty to be born through us. This is a strange and ugly time. But if you’re looking for beauty, it’s right in front of you. Look no further than yourself. Look no further than that manger, the place where the power and beauty of love comes to reign forever. Amen. The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
December 9, 2018 Advent 2-C All Saints’ Church Luke 3:1-10 Advent is a season of repentance, so today I would like to concentrate on the most boring part of the Gospel lesson. You just heard it, so you know what I’m talking about. Luke, Chapter 3: In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius…blah blah blah. All those names of middling Roman governors of weird-sounding places. And poor Deacon Jennifer having to pronounce those names! Ituraea. Lysanias. At least Abilene sounds familiar, although I doubt many people here have actually been to Abliene, Texas. Can you imagine if someone wrote a similar story today and it was read two thousand years from now? “In the second year of Donald Trump’s presidency, when Andrew, son of Mario, was governor of New York and Phil Murphy was governor of New Jersey…” Who cares?! Any one of our acolytes could write a better beginning to a story. The thing is, Luke is a great writer. So why bother with this level of detail? This specificity of time and place that seems so irrelevant to us today? Here’s why: because salvation doesn’t just happen in the abstract. Redemption isn’t just a concept. Grace is more than an idea. God works through real things, events, and people—times and spaces that we know and can feel and touch. There is no such thing as an ordinary day in God’s time. There is no such thing as a godforsaken place. Every moment, every spot on this globe and beyond—all of it holds within it the Word of God, because all of it was created by God. We see this in the story of John the Baptist. John is not a supernatural being. He is John, son of Zechariah, a priest of the temple. The angel announced John’s conception to his mother, Elizabeth, but even this miracle happened to specific people in a specific time and place. John begins his ministry or prophecy in the Judean wilderness. His was not a general word offered to all people at all times. Instead, he went out on the fringes of his own society to those people—real people—who never really had anyone come out to their little corner of the world. They lived in the time of Emperor Tiberius when Pontius Pilate was their governor, somewhere between 26 and 29 AD. You can still visit the towns and farms of the area. Real people. Real places. The real and living Word of God. That real and living Word of God—that’s Jesus. John the Baptist makes the way ready for this Word that will come into the world to meet and transform the lives of people where and when they are. In this season of Advent, we are not awaiting the coming of an idea or a philosophy of life. We are keeping vigil because we know that that child who was born in the backwater provincial town of Bethlehem to simple people will ALSO be born into our own lives. We know that he is at work even in this bizarre time, to this people alive now, whether we deserve him or not. You see, this is the power of prophecy, the power that John and Isaiah before him exercised. The power of the prophet is to remind the world that God is holding us all accountable. There is no way for any person to hide from God, no corner of history that is free of God’s justice, no secret cave for a person to hide in. Greed and cruelty, injustice and terror, all the evils of this world—God sees them all and is responding, even now, with justice for the wronged, kindness for the abused, and the Spirit of love to cover this planet that we are trying so hard to destroy. You know, it’s taken me a long time to come to believe this stuff. I used to think that great people, great thinkers, great events in history, and the rest of us are just kind of floating along under their influence. I didn’t really believe that the specifics of everyone’s lives and times mattered—and I mean “Matter” with a capital M, matter in the big picture, cosmic sense of mattering. God made all people and places and times and God is working through all of them, so that, in the words of Paul, all things could work together for salvation. All things work together for salvation! That includes the most mundane, ordinary things we encounter. So think about it for a second. God made that day, and God made you and me. God made the people you love and the people you can’t stand. God made the best days of your life and the worst ones. John the Baptist might not have mattered to the Roman history books. He may have been born in a backwater and preached to powerless people in a forsaken place. But he mattered. His words mattered in the time and place he spoke them. They matter even now, because even now they are preparing the way for Jesus to enter this confused and broken world that so desperately needs him. Who are you? What is your life story? How on earth did you find yourself here, on this December morning, in this building, listening to a litany of names of people you never would have heard of otherwise? I’m asking you these questions because the answers matter. They matter because God is working out a plan of salvation through the very facts of your life and mine. They matter to God, because God made this day and every other day you have been alive—and all the other days too. God made Brooklyn and New York; God made Mario and Andrew Cuomo and even Donald Trump. Talk about radical theology! We happen to live in these times, but even these times are pregnant with holiness just waiting to emerge. That’s what we do in Advent. We wait for the way that God is working in our own time and place to be revealed for all to see. We wait, patiently, expectantly. We wait even when it makes no sense at all still to have hope in anything. We wait because we know there is a mighty word stirring, and when that word is made flesh, all of our longings will come to fruition and the righteousness of God will be the glory of all people. That’s something worth waiting for—and there’s something about this time and this place that is pushing forward divine history to get us to that point. December 9, 2018 is a holy day. December 10 will be too, along with December 11. Park Slope is the site of salvation. So is all of Brooklyn, and New York, and…New Jersey. You get the point. God is here, even now. So let us prepare the way of the Lord and make his paths straight. Because every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be made low. And the crooked shall be made straight and the rough ways made smooth. And ALL flesh shall see the salvation of God. Amen. |
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