Trinity Sunday, 26 May 2013

Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31; Psalm 8; Romans 5:1-5; John 16:12-15

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox 

In the third year of her widowhood, my maternal grandmother began “keeping company” with a widower gentleman in her town.  One evening she went to his house to cook dinner for the two of them, as his housekeeper was away for a family reunion.   

Cooking in someone else’s kitchen is always a dangerous proposition, because you never know what you’re going to find.  What she found was a whole lot of not much.  She reported later that “He didn’t have any onions, he didn’t have any celery, he didn’t have any bell pepper—I couldn’t even get started!”

 

This was a formidable accusation, as any cook from Louisiana or east Texas will tell you.  Equal amounts of chopped onion, celery, and bell pepper form the beginning of many very fine recipes in that part of the world—and in fact, those three ingredients are collectively known as “The Holy Trinity.”  Without them, my grandmother could not proceed.  Nothing could happen in that kitchen without the Holy Trinity.

 

To prepare for many guests, you need a lot of it.  To feed only a few people, you need less.  Sometimes even one onion and one bell pepper would be too much, so you save what is left over for next time.  And there will always be a next time, perhaps even the same day.  The Holy Trinity is always needed; and the Holy Trinity is always available.

Today is Trinity Sunday, the day the Church recalls and gives thanks for THE Holy Trinity—the doctrinal confession of God as simultaneously One-in-Three and Three-in-One.  Much ink has flowed to describe this doctrine; many tears and much blood have been shed in the promotion of (and resistance to) its formularies.  (If you want a taste of some of the controversies, look on page 864 of the Prayer Book, where you will find the Athanasian Creed, a substantial—and complex—statement of Trinitarian theology.)

The early church had to wrestle with the question:  If God is One, as the faith tradition of Israel confesses, then what do we make of Jesus, crucified and risen from the dead, ascended into heaven, who promised to come again to make all things new?  And what of the Spirit of truth, promised by that same Jesus, evident among the followers of Jesus—is this Holy Spirit also part of God’s very self?  And how is it so?

It took five hundred years, and a great deal of partisan political wrangling, to come up with a statement that everyone in the Church could sort of agree on.  And even now it’s still up for discussion and debate.  Even our regularly used faith statements, the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed, say somewhat different things about that three-in-one relationship. 

But really that’s the main point—that it is a relationship.  As fine and well-crafted as our words on the subject may ever be, they are exactly that: our words.  We are attempting to describe something beyond words; to say that which is ultimately unsayable, which is Mystery.   

Some of the early Christian writers used a wonderful Greek word for this unsayable mystery:  perichoresis.  From the prefix “peri-”, meaning “nearby, around, in the same vicinity” and “chorein”, from the verb meaning “to move, to make space.”  “To make space nearby; to move around in a certain area.”  Dwight Zscheile, in his book People of the Way: Renewing Episcopal Identity, defines it as “circulating around the neighborhood.”  It’s the word from which we get our English word “carol”, as in Christmas carol.  A carol was a dance—the participants stood in a circle holding hands, a soloist would sing the verses alone, and then everyone would sing the chorus together while they danced the steps appointed.   

You can’t “go caroling” alone.  You have to have others with you.  Perichoresis, the motion, the dance of the Holy Trinity, points to the lively relationship, and the constant movement and energy, present in the Godhead, into which we are invited as the people of God.  So says St. Paul to the Christians in Rome in the epistle reading; so says Jesus to his friends at the dinner table in the gospel reading this morning.   

The Holy Trinity is not something that “happened” long ago in history, or far away in Heaven beyond our reach.  The Dance of Trinity is ongoing, and present even here and now.  God circulating around, over and under and in and out, moving and grooving, hopping and bopping and reaching out to catch hands with those who stand nearby, to call each of us into the dance as well.  To draw us into that lively, energizing, joyous God-life in this place, at this time. 

My grandmother died in 2000, five days after I was ordained.  About a year later, I had a dream about her.  I saw her not as I knew her in life, but a much younger version of herself.  She was seated at a table in a large ballroom, wearing a sparkling light blue party dress.  Seated next to her was my grandfather, who had died many years before; on her other side was Henry, her “gentleman caller” who was my second grandfather in almost everything but legal fact.  The music of Benny Goodman was playing in the background, as they all got up to dance.  Sometimes Gram was dancing with my grandfather, while Henry stood by and bounced and clapped along; sometimes she danced with Henry while my grandfather did the bouncing and clapping. Sometimes Henry and my grandfather danced together, while Gram kept the rhythm going.    

At the time, I took that dream to be one of reassurance, a word of comfort.  “I’m all right, you don’t have to worry about me.”  And I think that is still a right meaning, but there’s more to it. 

I think that dream was a glimpse into the very life of God which we name as Trinity: the ongoing, active, joyous movement of God-in-Godself that creates and sustains and redeems the entire cosmos, and each of us in it.  That reaches out to clasp hands with those who stand nearby, so that we may be drawn into that life and motion.  So that we may reach out, to clasp hands with those who stand near, that they too may be drawn into this life and motion, this holy dancing life-giving energy we call the Trinity. 

My brothers and sisters, may it be so for us.  May it be so among us.

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

The Day of Pentecost, 19 May 2013

Genesis 11:1-9; Acts 2:1-21; John 14: 8-17, 25-27

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

“When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all gathered together…”  They were gathered together for the feast, for the celebration, for the remembrance. 

Fifty Days after the Passover, the feast of Pentecost was a spring thanksgiving festival, remembering the giving of the Torah (The Teaching or Instruction, not “Law” in the way we usually mean that word) at Mt. Sinai. God appeared in fire on the mountain, and gave that teaching to Moses, and called the children of Israel as God’s chosen people. 

We see that gift commemorated in our window here nearest the pulpit; the green and purple trumpets of the prophets are lifted to call the people together; to hear the teaching of God for the good of God’s people and God’s creation.  To call them to instruction, symbolized by the scrolls of the Torah there at the base of the window’s icon.  To summon them to repentance (metanoia): to turn from the objects and actions which distract and destroy, to bring them back to their Creator, the giver of Life and all things.  

The Day of Pentecost was already a big day, one of the great pilgrimage occasions, so there were lots of pilgrims in Jerusalem that year; lots of strangers double-booked in overcrowded inns (perhaps some even sleeping in the barn with the animals); a veritable Tower of Babble in the streets. 

Suddenly, into this warm, closely-packed, high-volume scene, with no warning whatsoever: Wind. Fire.  Light and air, motion and sound, even greater than the noise already in the streets.  The disciples have been waiting for something to happen—and happen it does.   

 

Today the Church is sent out from the place where they have waited.  Today the closed doors of the Upper Room are blown off their hinges, and the followers of Jesus are hurled out into those busy, babbling streets to become witnesses of what they themselves have seen of God’s power over the powers of death and destruction, messengers carrying words of hope, forgiveness, and new life into the towns and countries into which they will go.   They are infused with the breath and life and words and power of God, through the gift of the Holy Spirit.  

 

And see—the green and purple trumpets of the prophets are there too.  In our Pentecost window, beneath the descending dove and holy fire, undergirding the whole scene, promising that the teaching, the wisdom, the way of life that God has promised his people is still there.  “In those days” says Peter, quoting the prophet Joel, “I will pour out my Spirit upon all people: young and old, men and women, slave and free.”  Not only for those in Judea and Jerusalem, not only for the inner circle, no.  The Way that leads to the life of God is now available to all people, regardless of who they are or where they are.  Or when.

 

They who have seen and experienced the power, the mercy, and the love of God displayed in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, now take that experience with them into the world, to share it with everyone they meet.  It has transformed their lives; now they will be agents and instruments of transformation in the lives of others.    

 

Whoever has seen Jesus, has seen the Father.  In the passage from John’s gospel, Jesus tells the disciples that they too are “in God”, and that they will do the works that they have seen Jesus do, and more.  What have they seen?  Water turned to wine; strangers welcomed and blessed in order to bless their own communities and neighbors; thousands fed with seemingly inadequate resources; the blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, the dead are raised to new life.

 

But they will not—they cannot—do any of these things on their own.  They must be taught and guided by “the Advocate” whom Jesus will send.  “Advocate”= “Helper, comforter”; from the Greek word  Paraclete, from para-, “for the purpose of” or “with”; and kalao, “to call.”  One who comes alongside, to guide and direct.  The disciples must “abide in Christ” (John 15:4) that the life of Christ may be evident in them.  

J. Philip Newell’s Listening For The Heartbeat Of God, our Wisdom Wednesday discussion book recently, made much of the image of listening—paying careful and constant attention to the voice of God present among us and to each of us.  That “still, small voice” is an invitation to trust.  It is an invitation into faith…not faith in a series of propositional statements ABOUT God, but into faith in the continuing presence and guidance OF God, revealed through Scripture, and tradition, and human thought and reflection on experience—listening for the breath of the Holy Spirit, which (as the Gospel of John says earlier) “blows where it will, and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from or where it goes.  So it is with those who are born of the Spirit.”   

As followers of Jesus we believe that Spirit is given to each of us, and to all of us together.  We remember in our baptism—even if we don’t remember the baptism itself—that we were given gifts for ministry.  Each one of us has a gift, or more than one, for ministry in Christ’s name.  How will we make use of those gifts?  For it is to this that Jesus calls us, this day of Pentecost, in this town of Augusta, in this year 2013.   

From Paul Fromberg, rector of St. Gregory of Nyssa, SF: Pentecost in a single line: Jesus says to us:  “You are my beloved, do as I do, be as I am.” 

My brothers and sisters, may it be so with us.  May it be so among us, today and always.

 

Fourth Sunday of Easter, April 21, 2013, Year C

Acts 9:36-43; Psalm 23; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30

Preached by Ian Lasch

           My mother has a plaque hanging in her kitchen right by the door that says, "I know God won't give me anything I can't handle. I just wish he didn't trust me so much." It's attributed to Mother Teresa, and it’s a wonderful sentiment. The only problem is that, at least in my experience, it isn't entirely true. You see, we live in a world where bad things can and do happen, even to the best of us. We live in a world where the celebration of the end of a marathon in Boston can change in an instant to the horror of three deaths and nearly 200 injuries, dozens of which required amputation, or where a quiet night in a quiet town outside of Waco can turn into the tragedy of a dozen killed and two hundred injured out of a community of just 2,500. We live in a world where, all too often, we’re given more, sometimes much more, than we alone can handle. What comfort do we have in a world like this?

          That is likely the same question that was being asked by the friends and family of Tabitha in our reading from Acts. Tabitha was a disciple of Christ, about whom we know only that "she was devoted to good works and acts of charity." In the midst of doing good things, still she was torn from them. Her friends are consumed with grief. They send for the apostle Peter, but when he gets there, they are still overwhelmed. Unable to understand or to cope, they simply weep. Bad things, it seems, can happen to good people. But in his letter to the Romans, Paul says that just as we were baptized into Christ's death, we are baptized into his resurrection, and we could have no clearer example than Tabitha. Our comfort is that she dies, and then she lives. The resurrection is hers, and it is ours.

          What comfort do we have in a world like this? Well, John wrote us a prophecy that applies just as much in our time as it did in his. This portion of the Revelation is set in the midst of the opening of the seven seals, the part of the book so harrowing that it’s what gave the word apocalyptic its meaning. The four horsemen are unleashed with the first four seals. With the fifth, the souls of those slaughtered for the word of God have cried out for judgment and vengeance... and been told to wait. With the sixth, there is a great earthquake, the sun goes black, the full moon becomes like blood, stars fall to the earth, the sky vanishes, and mountains and islands are moved. Everyone on earth hides in caves, fearing the wrath of the Lord. As John is asked, "Who are these, robed in white?" the seventh seal awaits, which will give seven angels seven trumpets, which will unleash yet more horrors on the world. We know the answer must be important, because it's one of only two or three places in the entire book where the images shown to John are explained. But our answer doesn’t come from John himself; John can’t say. He’s witnessing horror and tragedy, image after image, not unlike the photos from Boston and from West that we’ve seen on TV for the past week. In the midst of all this awfulness and suffering, John gives up. He doesn't know who those robed in white are. In his misery he fails to recognize himself. Just as we, reading these words in the wake of tragedy millennia later, fail to recognize ourselves. You see, it’s us, all of us, who are robed in white. We are the faithful of God who have washed our robes white in the blood of the Lamb, both at the time of our baptism and every week, here, at His table. Our comfort is that this is not some future prophecy that may yet come to pass, but a promise to each and every one of us, for now and forever, that we will hunger and thirst no more. Sun and scorching heat and terror will not strike us. The Lamb will be our shepherd and he will guide us to the springs of the water of life.

          What comfort do we have in a world like this? The comfort of Christ, our Good Shepherd, telling us today that we, his sheep, hear his voice. That he knows us, and not just as some acquaintance. He knows us so thoroughly that he feels, as intimately as we do, our pain and suffering – even in times like these, horrific beyond comprehension. He knows us so thoroughly that he even knows our doubt. We have a savior who understands what it means to cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Knowing our pain and our doubt, he promises that no one and nothing will ever snatch us out of his hand.

Though we may sometimes be given more than we can handle alone, thanks be to God, we don’t have to. You see, our comfort is that we also live in a world where our Good Shepherd is always with us. We live in a world where, even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we need fear no evil. Because we live in a world where when we struggle, and when we suffer, and when we weep... God wipes away every tear from our eyes.

Third Sunday of Easter, Year C, April 14, 2013

John 21:1-19

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

 

Once again, as it has been for many years on this day…

          …the annual pilgrimage to the holy city has taken place;

Once again… within the gates of the sacred precincts,

          …the necessary rituals have been enacted with all due decorum and ceremony;

Once again…the holy pilgrims are preparing to depart and return home.

          Indeed, some have already departed.  

Peter and James and John, Nathaniel and Thomas the other disciples have left Jerusalem and returned to Galilee in the north, back home again.   

(What? You thought I was talking about a golf tournament?**)   

Once again, it has been a grand and glorious festival.

Now it is time to go home, to get back to normal. 

Except that Normal has moved. 

Normal is no longer where it was, when it was last seen.

 

Normal fled the night they walked with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane,

          and there Judas met them with the temple authorities,

          and Jesus was arrested and led away under guard,

          and all the mechanism of the Roman imperial political system was set in motion against him.   

Normal was destroyed on Friday when Jesus hung on the cross for three hours,

          and then cried out one last time and was silent.

 

Normal was redefined at dawn on the third day,

          when Mary Magdalene stood weeping at the entrance to the empty tomb,

          and then realized in shock that the one whom she had mistaken for the Gardener

          was her beloved Rabbi and friend, risen from the dead.

          At first, she did not recognize him.

          She didn’t know who he was. 

          And then all at once, she knew.

          And that knowing changed everything.   

Peter and Andrew, James and John and the others have all been in Jerusalem, they have all been at the festival, they have all seen all of these things—and they are ready to get back to normal.  Whatever that might look like. 

“I’m going fishing,” Peter declares.  “We will go with you,” they answer.  Resurrection or no resurrection, they still have to make a living.  Fishing is what they know.  So that’s what they do.  All night and into the early morning hours.  They cast the nets, and draw them in.  Over and over.  And nothing—not one undersized lake trout, not one old shoe, not one broken piece of pottery.  Nothing. 

They are back home again in Galilee, fishing in Lake Tiberius, also known as the Sea of Galilee.   It was here that Jesus had established his reputation by walking on the water, stilling the storm, and feeding thousands of people with bread and fish.  They are back in familiar territory; they know the habits of these fish in this lake.  They are doing the best the know how to do, and yet it just doesn’t seem to be getting them anywhere.  They are tired, they are discouraged, they are wondering “What is wrong here?  I just don’t get it.” 

Perhaps you know that feeling as well.  I know I do.  When we do our best, and seem to be getting nowhere at all.  Heart and soul all in, and yet nothing—not even an old waterlogged shoe.

At dawn, the weary fishermen see someone standing on the beach.  It is hard to see anything after the long night, and they don’t know who is calling to them: “You haven’t caught anything there, have you?”  “No, nothing.”  (Peter probably appended some smart-aleck comment under his breath about the wiseacre knowing so much about fishing over there…)  “Cast the nets once more, and you will find some.” 

And they cast the nets once more.  And something begins to happen.  The ropes begin to pull, the surface of the water begins to splash and boil with tails and fins flipping and flopping, eyes and gills sparkling blue and silver, red and gold in the morning sunlight.  They seize the ropes and haul with all their strength to bring the nets into the boat, nets that groan and strain under the stress of trying to hold the abundance of fish.  They see what their eyes had longed to see; they know what their hearts had desired to know.  “Normal,” once more, was shifted from its customary place. 

All at once, they knew.

And that knowing changed everything. 

Peter is the first to speak the word: It is the Lord!  In his quick-tempered enthusiasm he jumps into the water and makes for the shore as fast as he can; the others stay in the boat and follow as quickly as they are able.   

Jesus greets them, with a fire for warmth, and a meal of fish and bread. 

A small breakfast gathering is enough; there is no need to feed five thousand hungry pilgrims today.  They do not talk much; there is no need for much talk today. 

This is “the third time” we are told, that Jesus appears to the disciples after the resurrection.

Now back at home in their ordinary circumstances,

          Jesus is present with them in their daily occupations.

The frustrations and setbacks of those daily occupations

          have been miraculously transformed by Jesus’ presence with them.

 Jesus meets them where they are, and feeds them a simple meal, in the midst of their everyday lives.   

This is now what Normal looks like. 

Jesus asks Peter: “Do you love me?”  Not once, but three times. 

Three times Peter is invited to affirm what Peter had three times denied,

          on the night of Jesus’ arrest. 

Three times he had been asked “Do you know this man?” and had said No;

Three times Jesus brings him back home to himself, asking him “Do you love me?” 

There is no rejection; there is no judgment;

          There is only welcome and warmth, and a simple meal,

          and the chance to say “Yes, I love you” for real and for ever.

Last of all, he tells them:  Follow me.  Come with me Peter, walk the way that I will show you.  Come with me, James and John.  Come with me, Nathaniel and Thomas.  You don’t know where the way will lead you, but you know who your leader is.  You don’t know all the twists and turns of the journey, but you walk in the light of the risen Christ, who goes before you and leads you deep into the life and heart of God. 

That invitation is for us as well.

Come and eat the simple meal.  Come and be welcomed and forgiven and restored.

Come walk the way of my holy pilgrims, good people of St. Augustine of Canterbury Church.   

We don’t know for sure where or when Jesus will appear—but when he appears, we will know.   

And that knowing will, and does, change everything.  

Amen.

 

** This sermon was preached on the Sunday of the 2013 Masters’ Tournament in Augusta.  

Easter Day: The Gardener. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”

I Corinthians 15:19-26

John 20:1-18

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

 

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! 

They knew that he was dead.  That much was beyond question.  Mary Magdalene, Peter, John the Beloved Disciple, Nicodemus, Mary his mother…they had seen it happen.  They had heard the screams and cries of pain, the crack of the leg bones of the crucified men being broken to hasten death, the final gasps for breath.  They had held him in their arms, washed his body and wrapped it in the strips of linen.  They had placed him in the cave, had heard the stone being rolled into place and finally the dry, dusty silence that followed.   

They had been silent all that night, and the following day and night.  It was the feast of the Passover, a great day of rejoicing and celebrating in Jerusalem, and the noise of the crowds of pilgrims was tremendous.  Mary, Peter, John, the others…they did not celebrate.  They might go through the motions, prepare the meal and set the table, but their hearts found it impossible to celebrate the day.   

I wonder if, sometimes, we find ourselves out of sequence with the calendar?  I wonder if anyone came here today knowing (or imagining) that you “ought” to feel a certain way, but don’t?  As your pastor, I know a few stories—your own Good Friday sufferings, and the struggles that many of you are facing, on your own behalf or that of loved ones.   

That sorrow and struggle and suffering continues to affect us all, that much is beyond question.  That the world itself, in every place, from Augusta, Georgia to Augusta, Maine, from Atlanta to Australia, still wrestles with the powers of sin and death; that too is beyond question or doubt.  Our garden here beside the church is a cemetery, and I frequently encounter people who come to be there, early in the morning, or late in the evening.  Their presence bears witness to this ongoing struggle.  They come to be with; they come to remember.  Not expecting anything in particular.   

When the worst thing that could happen, had happened, and the powers of death and destruction had had the final word, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb.  Not expecting anything in particular, early on that first day of the week; she just wanted to be near him.  She just wanted to “be with.” 

What she and the others find there is inexplicable.  It wasn’t merely “they couldn’t believe their eyes”; it simply wasn’t possible.  They saw him on the cross; they washed his lifeless body with their own hands, they laid him in the cave themselves.  To learn that this was not a grave robbery, not some twisted prank, left no explanation whatsoever.  They all are beyond confused; not knowing how to proceed or what to do next.  Peter and John drift off, heading home perhaps, or looking for the first-century equivalent of Starbucks before beginning the day. 

Mary remains: still confused, still bewildered, still frustrated beyond words.  Perhaps we know that feeling?  When there is nothing to be done, no real solution to the problem, and seemingly no way out.  All we can do, it appears, is remain there in the moment. 

She sees two figures in white robes—messengers, which is the primary meaning of the word “angel.”  She doesn’t recognize them as such, just at the moment.  We usually recognize angels only after the fact—but that’s another sermon altogether. 

She stands, still confused, still weeping.  Still not seeing what she doesn’t expect to see. 

The gardener—as she supposes—comes up to her. And asks her: “Whom do you seek?  Whom are you looking for?”  

We’ve heard that question before, earlier in the Gospel of John.  When Jesus was in another garden, in Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives, before he was arrested, twice he asked the authorities who came to arrest him: Whom are you looking for?  And twice they answered him: Jesus of Nazareth. 

This is the third time that question comes from Jesus’ lips.

The answer is the same, but not the same at all. 

Mary cannot see; she cannot recognize; she can barely speak. 

In her grief and confusion, she is like one close to death herself. 

Until he calls her name.

Until he calls her, by name. 

Then she hears.  Then she sees.  Then she speaks.

Then the breath of life comes into her,  as it did in another garden, in Eden, when God created life at the beginning of all things.   

Her shock and amazement and incredulity is just that—she didn’t expect to find him at all.  He was dead; he was buried; he was gone; that was it.  Game over. 

But God had something else in mind.  When the worst that could happen, did happen, and the powers of death and destruction had had the final word, God had another word after that.  And that word brought new life out of old death; breathed the breath of life into dust and ashes.  Faced with the worst that human sin and suffering could do, God did something even more wonderful.  A new creation comes to birth, by the power and mercy and love of God for all the creation.  The last enemy to be destroyed is death; the destruction of death has begun.  Christ first; in God’s good time, all the rest of us with him.   

She didn’t expect it at all.  None of them did.  Nor do we.

This week, in those places and situations where you are quite sure that it’s all over, the end has come, no way out…look for the angels.  You may not recognize them at first.  That’s okay. Look for the gardener, as you may suppose him or her to be, who comes to call you, in the midst of confusion and sadness and incomprehension.  Who comes, and calls you by name.  Who comes into all our places of death and destruction, to bring good news of God’s life and unconquerable love.   

And then, go tell the others.   For it is good news, today and tomorrow and all the days to come. 

Alleluia, Christ is risen!