on the sixth day of Christmas (December 30, 2017), my True Love gave to me the gift of hope

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, on this day, repeating an annual cycle – one day’s step from the end of a calendar year and one day’s step from the next – the world equally annually (alway?) seems enshrouded in winter’s gray of indifference and intolerance, inequality and iniquity.

Yet You, O gracious God, pour Your Self into the flesh of a baby of lowest earthly estate born to an unwed mother, laid in a feeding trough for animals,(1) and, hounded by authorities seeking his death, made to be a refugee.(2)

This, Your stupendous story pregnant with expectation, this Your stupefying mystery impregnable to all opposition, bears…is the light of hope that You and Your will, Your Word of Love incarnate(3) conquer all.

Amen.

 

Footnotes:
(1) See Luke 2.1-7
(2) See Matthew 2.13
(3) John 1.14

on the fifth day of Christmas (December 29, 2017, Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury), my True Love gave to me the gift of courage

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, Your servant Thomas Becket, opposing the usurping lusts of King Henry II, who would make the church his vassal, a slave to the crown, was slain at the very altar of Your worship.(1)

By Your Spirit, grant unto me the courage that resists the surrender of making strifeless-peace with worldly principalities, secular or ecclesial, and, thus, vigilant, dares speak to the self-serving sins of power the truth Your unconditional love and justice.

Amen.

 

Footnote:
(1) Thomas Becket (1119-1170), Archbishop of Canterbury (1162-1170), acclaimed as a saint and martyr by the Roman Catholic Church and the Anglican Communion, engaged in conflict with King Henry II of England over the rights and privileges of the Church and was murdered by followers of the king in Canterbury Cathedral on December 29, 1170.

on the fourth day of Christmas (December 28, 2017, The Holy Innocents), my True Love gave to me the gifts of sympathy and sensitivity

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, Herod, frightened by the fulfillment of the prophecy of the one born king of the Jews(1) and infuriated by the trickery of the magi who would give him no word of the location of the Christ Child, sent his legions to strike down all the children of Bethlehem.(2) Unto this day, innocent children suffer at the despoiling hands of human traffickers and the despotic hearts of rulers who, engaging in war, kill, maim, and make refugees of their own people.

By Your Spirit, e’er sharpen my sympathy, ne’er dull my sensitivity to suffering, yea, by the sword of Your Spirit pierce my heart to its beating, bleeding core, that I, whene’er and where’er and howe’er, alway can and will stand on the side of Your holy innocents.

Amen.

 

Footnotes:
(1) See Matthew 2.1-8
(2) See Matthew 2.13-18

on the third day of Christmas (December 27, 2017, St. John, Apostle and Evangelist), my True Love gave to me the gift of steadfastness

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, Your Son Jesus spake that his most-loved disciple, John, would remain until he came again.(1) So, it hath been and is that through his work as an evangelist, his word standing the test of time o’er two millennia and spanning the world-round, John hath remained a stalwart witness of the good news of Jesus ‘til that hour of his return.

By Your Spirit, may I, in my day and time, as long as You grant me breath and strength, continue to be a steadfast witness of the gospel. Amen.

 

Footnote:
(1) See John 21.20-24

on the second day of Christmas (December 26, 2017, St. Stephen, Deacon and Martyr), my True Love gave to me the gift of sacrifice

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, Your servant Stephen, called by the first apostles to the ministry of service, proving himself imbued with Spirit-wisdom, went forth to proclaim the good news of Your Son Jesus; for the sake of which he, sharing the fate of Your Son, was slain.(1)

By Your Spirit, may I, emboldened by Stephen’s witness, holding fast to the soul of sacrifice, make no treaty with the temptations – seek no solace in the siren-songs – of comfort and convenience.

Yea, may I alway incline the ear of my heart to Your Apostle’s word: “In the presence of God and of Christ Jesus…I solemnly urge you: proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching.”(2)

Amen.

 

Footnotes:
(1) See Acts 6.1-7.60
(2) 2 Timothy 4.1a, 2

on the first day of Christmas (December 25, 2017, Christmas Day), my True Love gave to me the gift of the blessed babe born in the Bethlehem manger

Note: These prayers, one for each day of the twelve-day Christmas season, in which my True Love is God, follow the pattern of that well-known 18th century English carol with a number of the days illumined by the observances of the Church calendar.

O gracious God, I thank You for the gift of Your Son, Jesus; Your Love enfleshed in our mortal frame to be Emmanuel, “God with us” and to reveal to us who You are and who, from the dawn of creation, You have meant us to be by making us in Your image.

By the daily nurturance of Your Spirit, may the Christ Child be born again in the womb of my soul that I may grow, day by day, I pray, into the fullness of His likeness.

Amen.

first come, first served?

a sermon, based on Luke 2.1-14, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, at the late-night service on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2017

She gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

Joseph and Mary, responding to the census decree of Emperor Augustus, journeyed from Nazareth, standing exhausted on the doorstep of a Bethlehem inn. It was full. Others had arrived ahead of them. First come, first served. But the innkeeper wasn’t heartless. He sent them to the stable. It was better than nothing. And that night Mary gave birth.

Tonight, I wonder about that innkeeper in the years that followed that night. In the years after Jesus began his public ministry. In the years when he made a name for himself, preaching, teaching, healing; some calling him “Rabbi”, others “Messiah”. I wonder if innkeeper ever wondered: “I wish I had had room in the inn.”

Tonight, I wonder about us, we who stand at the doors of our lives as innkeepers, choosing what and who we let in and keep out. The food we eat and don’t. The places we go and don’t. The people we meet and with whom we associate and don’t. The thoughts we contemplate, the feelings we embrace and don’t. The memories we entertain and don’t. The words we say, the deeds we do and don’t.

And, like Augustus, we’re emperors of the domain of our lives. Daily, we take a census. We count. Time, energy, money. Blessings and troubles. Appointments and commitments. Our days; calculating how much we can accomplish and, perhaps at times, contemplating how many we have left.

We’re innkeepers, the doors of our lives swinging both ways, letting in, keeping out and census-takers, always counting.

Tonight, I wonder if what we value, thus, allow into our lives, reflects who we are? Is there a match between what we embrace and what we embody? Harmony between what we believe and how we behave?

Ideally, yes. Yet we know sometimes it just ain’t so! Sometimes, we choose wrongly and count poorly. But in the pressured, split-second timing of daily living, we must deal with whatever or whoever comes first. Sometimes the most urgent thing is not the most important thing. Sometimes what separates the two is only a slight difference in the shade of significance. Whatever the case, though we want to make room for what matters, we must deal what’s at hand; what comes up now and next; like innkeepers following the rule of first come, first served.

Tonight, we celebrate the birth of Jesus. He is the meaning of Christmas. And that meaning is peace: “Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.”(1) Christmas proclaims the reunion of earth and heaven, the reconciliation of what is, that is, the way we are and what is meant to be, that is, the way God created us. Peace born not only in Jesus, but also in us that every part of our lives is reunited, reconciled. That our choices of what and who we let into our lives and, yes, what and who we keep out, match who we are. That there is clarity and consistency in what we think and feel, intend and do. That we can live ever-attentive to what matters and no longer first come, first served.

 

Illustration: Detail of The Adoration of the Shepherds (Adorazione dei pastori) (1609), Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610)

Footnote:
(1) From the hymn, Hark, the herald angels sing; Words by Charles Wesley (1707-1788)

our name is “Christian”

a sermon, based on Luke 2.15-21 and Galatians 4.4-7, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on the Feast of the Holy Name, January 1, 2017

“After eight days had passed, it was time to circumcise the child; and he was called Jesus.”

In Bethlehem, Mary gave birth to her firstborn son, wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger.[1] Eight days later, following tradition, he was circumcised, bearing on his body the mark of God’s ancient covenant with Abraham, the outward and visible sign that he was a member of a people. Also, in accord with the custom of many ancient peoples who conferred names upon their children to indicate the roles they would play in the life of their societies, this child was called “Jesus”, the outward and hearable sign of his life’s labor. Jesus, the Greek form of the Hebrew, Joshua, and the Aramaic, Jeshua, means, “God is salvation” or more succinctly, “God saves.”

Thus, the angel Gabriel’s prophetic word to Mary was fulfilled: “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.”[2]

This Feast of the Holy Name, coming on the first day of the calendar year, reminds us who we are and whose we are. We, children of God, belong to God as revealed in Jesus and in his prophetic life of love and justice. A life of compassion for all without condition and a life of challenge to the comfortably self-satisfied to act on behalf of the marginalized and disenfranchised.

So, we can understand why in our practice of baptism, the rite of initiation into the church, the community of Jesus’ followers, only the first name of the one to be baptized is spoken; never the surname of one’s earthly family. The reason (historically well known that it went without saying, now, long left unsaid, not well known) is that in baptism one is given a new surname of the universal, spiritual, and eternal family into which one is adopted by God through the Spirit: “Christian.” (So, the Apostle Paul testifies, “God sent his Son…so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, ‘Abba! Father!’”)

In baptism, one is christened. Named for Christ, who we are bidden not so much to worship, that is, stand by or sit back and adore him, for he, in saving us, has done it all and there’s nothing more we need do, but rather to follow, to continue his life and labor. As he was and is, as he did and does, we, bearing his name, are to be and do in the world.

My sainted Baptist grandmother, Audia Roberts, often said to me, “Remember your name.” She was referring neither to my familial surname, Abernathy, nor the name she bore and bestowed as my middle name, Roberts, but rather my baptismal name, Christian. She desired that I remain ever mindful of whom I represented in the world, whose life I was to reflect, whose labor I was to do. (Honestly compels the confession that I failed more than I succeeded. Still do! Nevertheless, as then, so now, the call abides!)

The words of our Baptismal Covenant express what this life and labor, our life and labor look like:[3] Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

After eight days, the child was circumcised and named Jesus. In this, may we hear our calling in this New Year. That our minds and hearts, souls and spirits be circumcised. That we allow ourselves to be cut to the quick, cut to the core of ourselves with an awareness of our name, Christian, and its meaning and, thus, the proclamation of our purpose. That we are to have compassion for all people and to challenge the comfortable to care for all even, especially when, most uncomfortably, it is we ourselves whom we must confront.

 

Photograph: me preaching at The Washington National Cathedral, Friday, January 27, 2006 (by Walt Calahan)

Illustration: Circumcision of Jesus (1503), Mariotto Albertinelli (1474-1515), Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy

Footnotes:

[1] Luke 2.7, paraphrased.

[2] Luke 1.31

[3] The Book of Common Prayer, pages 304-305; my emphases.

is it possible?

 a sermon, based on Luke 2.1-14, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, December 24 and 25, 2016

“She gave birth to her firstborn son…and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

A mother lays her newborn baby in a filthy feeding trough for animals in a dark, dank, rank stable because there was no room in the inn. It doesn’t matter why. The heartless negligence of an innkeeper’s refusal to find lodging for a needy family, the blameless coincidence of the inn already filled by others coming to be registered, or something else. Whatever the reason, this story often is viewed as a sad depiction of privation and exclusion.

I see it as a story of hope. Hope that reflects our desire for the way we want life, the world to be. A desire deep and abiding precisely because it is seldom achieved and whenever realized, never long-lasting.

Hope is why this story has mesmerizing power. Why we read it every year. Why we gather annually to hear it. All to remind ourselves of the way things are meant to be.

So, let us listen again.

This baby, according to his-story, grew up and for many in his time was and, according to history, for countless over two millennia is the embodiment of love, the kindness for which our souls cry, and justice, the fairness for which our hearts hunger. This baby found no room in the inn and was laid in a manger.

An inn is a lodging place for guests; a temporary house for visitors, those who are not at home. A manger is a place for food where those who hunger are fed.

This Jesus, the embodiment of love and justice, is not a guest, not a visitor, therefore he need never lodge in the inn. Rather lying in a manger, he is the feast!

Is it possible then that love and justice are the food of which we are to partake so to become what, who we eat? Is it possible that as love and justice are embodied in our lives that we, others, God will see and know that kindness and fairness are not alien or unknown, but alive and at home in this world?

If we embrace and embody that hope, then it is possible that we this Christmas Day and every day will make all the difference in this world.

 

Photograph: me preaching at The Washington National Cathedral, Friday, January 27, 2006 (by Walt Calahan)

Illustration: The Adoration of the Shepherds (1609), Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610)

when Christmas dreams are blue

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write.

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases be white.[1]

White Christmas is a lovely reminiscence about a long ago holiday setting. It has an abiding appeal. The Bing Crosby version is one of the top-selling single records globally of any time, indeed, of all time. And its sweet, easily sung tune and endearing words are meant as evocatively tender plucks to the heartstrings of human nostalgia.

Still, for many, Christmas is not “the season to be jolly”, thus making this time of year’s widespread societal appeal to be joyful as nonsensical as those meaningless, though, yes, fun to sing syllables, fa-la-la-la-la.[2]

Indeed, Christmas can come robed not in white, bright colors, but rather blue, somber hues. The reasons both vary and are many.

For some, winter’s daily twilight-tinged skies become a visual portent of an increased incidence of seasonal affective disorder, for others, depression, and for still others, a profound existential crisis of despair about life’s meaninglessness of the sort portrayed in Ingmar Bergman’s 1963 classic cinematic tragic drama, Winter Light.

Moreover, the seasonal summons to be festive can be a painful reminder of incomparable losses. The loss of loved ones in death. The loss of companionship and the coming of loneliness at the demise of significant relationships. The loss of health and personal or financial well-being. The loss of peace of mind in the harrowing shadows of end-of-the-year reflections on past, seemingly irredeemable errors. The loss of life’s purpose and direction. The loss of a sense of achievement or attainment of goals.

Furthermore, Christmas’ mercantile encouragements to spend money can provoke an anxiety to present the perfect gift, verily, to be the perfect gift-giver, whilst incurring undue debt.

O’er the course of 60+ Christmases, I have encountered in my own life’s circumstances or through the lenses of the experiences of others all of these states of body, mind, and heart, self, soul, and spirit. And I have learned and I have repeatedly re-learned the following:

To seek and to trust competent and caring mental health practitioners so to guide me through the thickets of depression…

To seek and to trust in the truth of my own inner peace with who I am and what I have so to accept my ever-present human imperfections in relation to (indeed, in rejection of) the “perfect” sentimentally-designed-and-commercially-driven images of the season…

Above all and alway to seek and to trust God; my soul oft giving voice in gratitude,[3] personalizing the words of the psalmist:

I lift up my eyes to the hills – from where will my help come?

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

He will not let (my) foot be moved; He who keeps (me) will not slumber.

He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is (my) keeper; the Lord is (my) shade at (my) right hand.

The sun shall not strike (me) by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep (me) from all evil;

He will keep (my) life.

The Lord will keep (my) going out and (my) coming in

from this time on and for evermore.[4]

Footnotes:

[1] The second verse of the song, White Christmas; lyrics and music by Irving Berlin (1942)

[2] References to the carol, Deck the Halls, the English lyrics, written by Thomas Oliphant (1862).

[3] Gratitude, that is, my mindful and humble thanksgiving for who I am and what I have (thus, ceasing to fret or to have fear about who I am not and what I don’t have) and, especially, my thanksgiving that I know God to whom I can pray.

[4] Psalm 121