The Nativity of John the Baptist

Posted on June 24, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

How terrifying 
to give birth through these bones 
that ache with age, flesh 
that bears the scars of the hungry years; 
and nearby, Zechariah wrings out words 
with his eyes: Breathe. Just breathe. Please
do not cease to breathe. 
The birth waters reach their flood; 
over them the cries of mother and child 
embrace, their voices intertwining 
as their bodies separate. 

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The ship

Posted on June 23, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

A sermon on Mark 4:35-41 – Jesus stills the storm

Jesus, do you not care that we are perishing?

 

Many years ago, as I was preparing for ordination, I was assigned to do fieldwork at a church far, far away. This church was going through some stormy times, heavy weather. Hard and hurtful decisions were making waves, and I was close to feeling overwhelmed.

More than overwhelmed, on this particular Sunday morning I was feeling angry, and flailing. I knew that this was no way to approach my duties at the altar, so I stepped into the side chapel, knelt at the rail. I didn’t ask, “Do you not care that we are perishing?” No, my complaint was more personal: “So what, God? Do you want me to go down with the ship?”

And our compassionate, merciful, ever-loving God responded as clearly as I have ever heard them: “It’s not your ship.”

It’s not your ship. I believe that I might have been as astonished as the disciples in the fishing boat on the Sea of Galilee.

An encounter with the living God has a way of staying with a person. I have remembered and reflected on that moment from time to time. The directness of God’s address, humbling and awe-inspiring – I feel as though I recognize it in the no-nonsense approach of Jesus to the storm – Peace! Be still! Knock it off. Then he turns to the disciples and asks them, “What? What were you afraid of?”

It’s as though the storm which has become all-consuming to the disciples, for good reason, knowing the way that storms kick off, as though this storm were a little blip on Jesus’ radar, intent as he was on bringing the kingdom of heaven closer, closer to creation.

And they recognize, in this moment, that there is something way beyond what they thought was happening here. They knew that Jesus was powerful, faithful, a prophet the likes the world had not seen since biblical times. But here was something else: one who had the words to shape creation, to quell the wind and smooth the waters, the one who could speak, “Peace!” and make it happen, as the Word of God spoke light and life into being at the beginning of time.

How hard it is to hold on to that vision of eternity when we are caught up in the immediacy of the storm, sick from the motion of the waves, terrified by the torrent and the sheer noise of the wind. How natural to cry out to God, “Do you not care that we are perishing?” How astonishing to hear Christ reply, “Peace! Be still.”

It shouldn’t be astonishing, if we were of more than a little faith. If we had faith enough in the power of God over creation, over this, God’s world, and every element in it, over these, our lives that are but a breath on the wind of God’s word, “Let there be”; if we had faith enough, we could be the ones speaking peace to those suffering the storms of life all  around us. We could be the safe harbour, the becalming, the balm – and I have heard among the saints that you are, for many in your community. We have the words of life, we have the Word of God within us and beside us, before us and beneath us.

When I was very much younger, when I started going to church as a child back in Wales, I used to love looking up at the beamed ceiling that looked so much like the innards of a boat. I could make out the benches where the crew might sit, and where the curve of the prow came together above the altar. It wasn’t for years before I knew that the “nave” of a church is named, like naval, or navy, for its boat-like qualities, for being the ship in which the faithful and the foolish still gather around Jesus, wondering, “Who then is this?” Where we hear him saying, “Peace! Be still!”

It isn’t my ship, but it is our ship, and it is God’s vessel, grace for the world. That church where I heard God speaking in no uncertain terms understood that, and because of it they are not only still afloat, having ridden out the storm, but thriving in the knowledge that they are the vessel of God’s grace, providing safe passage for the good news of Jesus Christ, and a life raft for those still cast adrift, as I thought I was in that Sunday morning chapel, before the altar, before the word that cut through the noise and the chaos.

That is not to say that other storms won’t come – they will. But in the midst of them, remember that the answer to the question, “Jesus, do you not care that we are perishing” is always “Peace! Be still and know that I am with you. Be still and know that there is not a breath of wind that will not return you to me. Be still and know that in the storm and in the quiet, in the flood and in the desert, in the wind and in the whisper, God loves you.”

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To speak in parables

Posted on June 13, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

To speak in parables:
to open the teeth and loose the tongue,
to taste truth beyond the metaphor,
spit out outrageous similes
for God, who is similar to nothing
and almost everything;
to explain them to his friends:
to draw near with a kiss,
the marrow of the message,
to extract from the sea a grain
of salt and let it become upon the tongue
almost everything.

… he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples (Mark 4:34)

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The having of forgiveness

Posted on June 6, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

It seem to me that the way to remain
unforgiven is to look forgiveness in the face
and to mistake it for something altogether
other, like a child in a hall of mirrors
who sees distortion as reality and recoils
in horror and inconsolable;
it is not reasonable to reject mercy forever,
not to look for beauty between the seams
of the fairground illusions that obscure
our vision of infinity, the scope
and limit of grace.

____________________________________

As difficult as this passage is to read and reflect upon, I appreciate the translations that lean into the having of forgiveness, as though it is always within our grasp, if only we will see it, reach out for it, recognize it for what it is, instead of rejecting it for what it isn’t. Mark 3:28-30

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Pride

Posted on June 2, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

There is something heart-breaking about Jesus’ reaction to the Pharisee’s suspicion of his sabbath intentions. He is angry, and he is grieved by their hardness of heart. This is not a case of judgement alone, but of grief that some will not accept the gift of mercy, the blessing of rest, the liberating love of God that Jesus has come to bring, and to demonstrate, and to live out.

The Pharisees are not bad people. They are not being picky for the sake of it, not in their own eyes at least. They are trying to keep the faith in an age of occupation, appeasement of the Romans, questioning of the old ways that, they believe, everyone understood. There are echoes today of their grief, their judgement and anger that led to their hardness of heart. And they are afraid, not necessarily nor only for their own power and influence, but because they genuinely worry that if they let one thread of their tapestry of traditions loose, the whole thing might unravel.

And fear is a distraction to faith. When they attend the synagogue, instead of looking first to their prayers, to the God they know, they watch to see what Jesus will do, this newcomer, this upstart; to see if he is worthy of their condemnation.

It is no way to approach the living, loving, liberating God, and it is a crying shame that they cannot help themselves.

Of course, we’ve each had our own moments, haven’t we, of looking at someone and saying, silently or aloud, “We don’t do that here,” or “That’s not how we do it here,” or even, “How could you even think that?” I don’t think it’s just me. And where does that distraction come from – because it is a distraction? That voice of criticism is a distraction from the great mercy of God that has brought us to this place, despite all of the judgements we have escaped, or been excused, or waded through over the years.

Jesus’ response, as always, is telling. In the first place, walking through the wheatfields, he tries to explain to the Pharisees that the sabbath is not a burden to be shouldered – which would be ironic, given that it is the day to lay down one’s work – but that the sabbath is a gift from God to humanity. It is not designed to rule over us, but to relieve us, to refresh us, to restore us to the joy in which God first created us.

A Jewish friend once described the sabbath as the day on which we do nothing improving, since at the end of Creation God saw all that God had made, and it was very good; the day on which we remember that what God has made is enough for us, and that it is very good, grains and wheatfields and all.

Then, having delivered his lesson, Jesus goes to the synagogue, and when he sees a man in need of healing, he has no hesitation. Because the sabbath is a gift of rest, of release, of refreshment, of joy; because it is a feast of liberation, freeing us to enjoy God’s gifts to God’s creation. And he saw nothing wrong with extending that liberation, that joy, that healing on the sabbath. He saw nothing incongruent between the law that remembers God’s goodness to us, and doing good to another.

The Pharisees did not wish the man with the hand in need of healing any harm. They just wished that he would come back on Monday to have it dealt with. His injury was not life-threatening, they reasoned; why risk infringing upon the law in order to heal it? My goodness, the echoes that we hear of their reasoning today, around the healthcare of pregnant people, the admission of asylum seekers, the making of a ceasefire. How bad to let things get before it becomes worth advocating mercy over holding some philosophical, legal, political, or religious line. See also, gun violence and the obstacles to gun regulation.

We can mean well, but if we do not err on the side of mercy, Jesus is teaching us, showing us, living out for us, then we are in error.

Yesterday, I joined our bishop and several dozen other Episcopalians in the Pride in the CLE parade and festival, amongst other activities. As we processed through the streets of Cleveland, proclaiming with our banners, t-shirts, and presence that God loves you, no exceptions, we encountered only a handful of protesters; literally, fewer than five. But they did make me sad, and perhaps a little angry. I was angry when they hurled insults at friends of mine, just for proclaiming the love of God. I was saddened, grieved at the messages they were sending out to those around us, that they had absorbed into their own hearts: that God’s love is somehow conditional, limited.

Because I think that the message that Jesus is sending here is that we do not need to deny that we are hungry, aching, withered, beloved and loving, marvelously (fabulously) made; but to know that God feeds us, heals us, restores us, loves us; that this is what sabbath is about: resting in the love of God.

On the way out of the festival, I ran into a friend whom I know from our work against gun violence. We watched as a single man remained to tell all who passed by what he thought God’s love meant. And as we watched, we were led to wonder whether, in fact, that stream of love, acceptance, joy that was passing before him and around him might, in time, lead him to conversion, to know the deep and abiding love of God.

Because they would not soften their hearts, the Pharisees went out and found the Herodians, who were no friends of theirs, to plow themselves even further into error. And Jesus was angry, because he knew their hearts, and grieved for them, because he knew what they were missing: the liberating, loving, life-giving gift of God’s creative and tender mercy.

So, let me spend this sabbath not distracted by my own petty judgements, but in awe of God’s gracious mercy, so as not to grieve the heart of Jesus, and so that not to calcify my own arteries with pride, but to shine with the light that God has placed within this earthen body, the spark of creation, the light of the world, the love of Jesus.

Readings include Mark 2:23-3:6 and verses from Psalm 139

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Sabbath

Posted on May 29, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

Sabbath jubilee:
release for the withering will,
slow unfurling of a sharply-curved grasp
to rejoice in defiant mercy,
revolutionary rest;
the gift and obligation to lie
down like a branch strewn
before the quiet feet of God

After a hiatus, #preparingforSundaywithpoetry returns to dance with Jesus, the Pharisees, the wheat field, and the man with the hand in need of healing: Year B Proper 4, Mark 2:23-3:6

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Trinity Sunday: I and we

Posted on May 26, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

Have you ever been in a floatation tank? You know, one of those sensory deprivation set-ups filled with salt water that makes you float as though you were in the Dead Sea; or as though you were back in the womb. Even the pod is shaped like a womb, or an egg.

I know you weren’t expecting that, but bear with me (pun intended). As I was floating there on Friday, I thought of Nicodemus, wondering how a person might possibly be born twice. I contemplated what it might be like to use this time to ask God what new life I might be called into today, emerging from the salty waters of the pod, since God, whose Spirit first brooded over the waters of creation, is always making all things anew.

Nicodemus’ question, though not unreasonable, is the question of one who misses the metaphor that is the Word of God; a Word that represents so much more than himself. But there is merit to Nicodemus’ attempted analysis of birth and rebirth.

When we are first born, we become individuated for the first time, taking our own breath, our own nourishment, completely dependent still, but beginning to differentiate ourselves as “I”. One of the early learnings of a baby is that she is herself, and not someone else; that she has a body that is not someone else’s body, and a mind that is curious about everything that is not “I”, or “me”. She hasn’t learned grammar yet.

When we are reborn, by water and the Holy Spirit, the instruments of baptism, we are reborn into community. We are learning to remain differentiated, but also to be reintegrated into the Body of Christ. We are both “I” and “we”, “me” and “us”.

On a human level it makes so much sense. When we are born as individuals, we are placed in the arms of another: a mother, a father, a kinship carer, nurse or midwife, eager adoptive parent – someone who continues to hold us as the waters of creation cradled us in the womb. Rarely, and tragically, are we alone.

When we are reborn into community, into the Body of Christ, we remember that, for all the work one has done to become oneself, we belong to one another, and not to ourselves alone.

The Trinity, the way in which we understand God as both Three and One, if I might venture onto thin theological ice, is illustrative of this. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit are three Persons, each one an “I”, a “me”; yet they are One God. They are, you might say, the epitome of the royal “We”. They are differentiated, yet indissolubly united.

I’m going to back away quickly now. As soon as we step onto the theological ice, it begins to crack. As Jesus tells us, if we can’t even understand on a human level that dance between I and We, Me and Us, individuality and community, the ways in which we belong to one another – well then what hope is there for us to understand the heavens and their eternal dance?

And we do misunderstand so often. We set up individualism against community, when each of us was known by God before we were formed in the womb, as unique as a snowflake; and each of us is made in the same image, the image of God. We are fractals, made to fit together. Each of our stories is part of the story of the love of God for the world, for the people that God has made. Together, only together, do they become something greater than each one, a metaphor, a word that speaks beyond itself.

We have a habit, as humans, of choosing one thing over another, insisting that it must be this way or that, “I” or “we”, “us” or “me”; worse, “us” or “them”. Earthly or heavenly things, when Jesus has already shown us that he can be both, and and that through him, looking to him, even we mortals may know eternal life. When the Trinity has shown us that they can be both One and Three, “me” and “we”, without ever making it about “us” and “them”.

And it is a dance, a balancing act. If we succumb to groupthink, to being only “we”, we miss the unique gifts that God has given each one, the unique truth of each life. That is when “we” strays into the territory of “us” and “them”; and how can we love one another if we will not see one another as neighbours, as distinct people crafted in the dignity of the image of God?

But if we fall the other way, into “my way” and no other, how can we dance together?

Well, enough theological rabbit holes, thin ice, dance parties, and mixed metaphors.

The Catechism of the Book of Common Prayer describes the mission of the Church as being “to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.”

And isn’t that what we’ve just been talking about? The re-membering of that unity which honours the diversity of persons, just as the Trinity so elegantly demonstrates for us; that unity with God and with one another that makes us whole, that makes us strong, that brings such joy, that is so necessary in these divided and divisive times.

And, to Nicodemus’ question, I think that does require that we are born anew again and again in the Spirit, that we are open enough, humble enough, trusting enough to ask the question, Who is God calling me to be today, in the context of community and a changing world? To place ourselves repeatedly into the process of adoption as children of the living God, and heirs of eternal life. Not to fall into the polar traps of “us and them” or rugged individualism, nor to give up our identity – which is a gift from God – but to offer it as a gift to our neighbour, in gratitude to God, and ready, by repentance and restoration, to remain curious about the ways in which others can help us to find our place in the Body of Christ, in the fractal image of God.

Throughout our scriptures, God uses the pronouns “I” and “We” interchangeably, and we are each one made in the image of God. We are the Body of Christ. What we shall become, as the first letter of John (1John 3:2) tells us, has not yet been revealed, except that we shall be like God, in blessed unity, diversity, and love. What joy there is in that!

 Thus may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all, evermore (2 Corinthians 13:14). Amen

Texts: Romans 8:12-1; John 3:1-17

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Pentecost – Prophesy!

Posted on May 19, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

Prophesy!

Prophesy to the four winds, prophesy to the dry bones, prophesy to the lit up and to the broken down. Prophesy.

What shall we prophesy?

Prophesy a gospel that is not dry as dust but living and fresh, drunk on its own good news, that Jesus loves us, that God is with us, that the Holy Spirit is as close as your next breath, and as animating.

Prophesy because the gospel of mercy is not irrelevant nor to be relegated to the pages of the Bible; it is essential for our lives together; mercy for the sinner, even more than for the saint. Prophesy because we need more faith in the power of forgiveness if we are to live together.

Ezekiel saw graphically the aftermath of war and how it desiccates our humanity, makes it brittle and corruptible, but the power of God is not depleted by our capacity for conflict. God does not give up even on the dry bones.

Prophesy!

What is it that is holding us back? Are we afraid to appear foolish, drunk on the Holy Spirit, naïve to be so full of new hope? They said it all of Jesus, too. They said that he was drunk, that he was mad, that he had been deceived by a demon. They were wrong.

Or are we afraid of disappointment? Oh, we of little faith, do we worry that each setback, each assault of the world will be the one to finish our faith, and so we ask too little, and sink beneath the waves? How, we ask, can we prophesy life when death is all around us?

Ask Ezekiel. Prophesy!

Perhaps we just don’t know where to begin.

The disciples were gathered all in one place, as they did regularly for prayer and fellowship, and the breaking of bread. When the Holy Spirit blew the doors open and let loose the dream of the kingdom of God, the vision of the Risen Christ into the marketplace, they did not hold back. And though they might readily have feared being misunderstood, the Holy Spirit herself made translation, and though some mocked, many joined them in hope. And where else was hope to be found, in those days?

Prophesy!

Take heart, be of good courage, for we have the help of the Holy Spirit, the advocate who is by our side to testify for us, the comforter who enfolds us and will not let us fall, our sustainer, who is closer than our breath, and more life-giving.

The breath of the Holy Spirit is stronger than the dry kiss of death. Ask Ezekiel.

It is not naïve to preach peace in the midst of war, nor disarmament in a country that has turned homes into arsenals and loaded them with danger. It is not naïve to advocate instead for mercy, for grace; it is the will of God that these dry bones should live, and be filled with the Spirit of God, the dream of the kingdom of God, the vision of resurrection.

Prophesy, then. Imbibe freely from the Gospel, the word of new life. Rehydrate our faith in the waters of baptism. Let the fire of the Holy Spirit fan a passion for the love of God. Then you shall know that when God has spoken, God will act; for the Word of God that was in the beginning has never fallen silent yet, but still calls forth light, life, order from the chaos, humanity from the dry ground.

Prophesy, that these dry bones may live.

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This world

Posted on May 12, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

A sermon for the Seventh Sunday of Easter, the Sunday after the Ascension, at the Church of the Epiphany, Euclid. This sermon draws on elements of the homily I delivered on Ascension Day at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland

Even those of us who didn’t grow up memorizing Bible verses know by heart John 3:16. For God so loved the world …

When Jesus prays for his disciples, when Jesus prays for us, who will become his disciples generations later, when Jesus prays he casts the world as a dangerous place, even an ugly place in its tendency toward hate; and yet still, he sends his disciples into the world, just as Jesus himself was sent into the world, that all who know him and see God’s love in him might know the life that is eternal. That they may know the joy that God takes in the world, the joy that Jesus knew in this world, despite everything.

Despite everything. It is tempting to look upon the state of the world and see only the negative aspects that present themselves to us only too readily. We see too much of war and of division, of sin and of despair. We see too much of death.

Some of you see and take notice of the board that stands in the hallway, tallying the deaths from gun violence this year alone, in this country alone, not even including deaths from suicide, since those data are squirrelly of late. Some of you probably prefer to look away. We all hate to see the numbers rise, whatever we think of the stories behind them. This week, we know at least one story behind the rise in the number of children who died. One of those numbers lived down the road from here, a toddler of two years old who found a loaded gun. 

And now, of course, we know of one of the adults, too, who was killed last night just along our street.

Sometimes we wish that Jesus had prayed to take his disciples out of this world. But, “God is not elsewhere”,[i] as I heard in the words of Esther de Waal at a retreat this week. God is not elsewhere.

Jesus is praying these words right before he gets up from the table and heads out into the Garden where he will be arrested, put on trial, and crucified. We hear them days after the Feast of the Ascension, when the disciples watched with wonder as the Risen Christ was taken from their sight once more, and lifted up to heaven. And what we hear is how much God loves this world.

The Ascension is not the anniversary of Jesus leaving us, but the confirmation that he is God with us, Emmanuel.  Ascension completes that perfect cycle of incarnation and glory. It confirms that the heavens are not so removed from the cares of God’s children that they cannot be heard. Jesus shows us that God is not immune to the cares and sorrows of this world, nor helpless against them, despite the evidence of the Cross, and our ongoing wars and sin, the mess that the world is in. No matter, it is not God-forsaken. They saw him die, yet he is living. They saw him leave, yet he is very near to us. They heal in his name, cast out demons, raise the dead. For God so loved the world …

In his prayer, Jesus asks God to sanctify his disciples, to sanctify us, in the truth, and he is the truth, and the way, and the life. Jesus asks God, then, to steep us in his life, so that God’s love for the world might seep into our souls. And he asks God to send us, to send his disciples into the world, that the world might know that love. Because God knows, the world needs it badly.

To sanctify and to send. We talked on Tuesday night at Bible study about how this is the ordination of Christ’s disciples, of us as Christ’s disciples. We are sanctified, and we are sent into the world to proclaim the good news of God in Christ, to seek and serve Christ in all people, to respect the dignity of every human being, to continue in the fellowship and the prayers as disciples of the living and loving Lord Jesus Christ. All of us, not only those we call and collar as ordained, but every one of us for whom Jesus has prayed is sanctified and sent, steeped in his life so that it might seep into our souls and bring to the world the love for it in which God delights. 

I didn’t know what to do with that news when it came out, about the child, so I did what I could. I prayed, and I reached out to those I know to have been involved in serving that family and that scene, the first responders who had to swallow their own feelings in order to be present to others in that moment. I told them how much I felt for them, and that they are in our prayers. We will continue in the work that has been given us to do to offer an avenue to remove unsafe guns from unsafe homes and hands, but in this moment, all that we could do was offer our love.

After the Ascension, Luke writes that the disciples went down from the mountain praising God and singing, filled with joy and thanksgiving. There would still be crosses lining the roadsides outside Jerusalem, bandits on the steep road down to Jericho, but the disciples were not discouraged by the state of the world, because Jesus had sanctified them, and sent them into it with the determination of love and the challenge of joy. 

Alistair McGrath describes in “I Believe”, through “the Acts of the Apostles, Luke tells us that the disciples left the mountain of the ascension and plunged themselves headlong into the needs of the world for which Christ died. They preached and healed; they proclaimed the good news to all by word and deed.”[ii] Doesn’t that sound familiar?

They embraced and embodied the learning that Jesus is no longer confined to a single time and place but has shown us the love of God that is not confined nor constrained, that it is present and available in the exercise of love, humility, in every act of mercy made to everyone made in the image of God. Ubi caritas, ibi Deus est: where there is love, there is God. 

God is in the tears. Christ is in the tender hands that wipe away the water and the blood. The Holy Spirit is in the prayers that hold the broken-hearted, in sighs too deep for words. God is in the aid vehicles and the ambulances. Christ is in the homes of the hostages, occupying the empty seat. To paraphrase the Revd Dr Munther Isaac of Bethlehem, God is under the rubble of our world, and has overcome it.[iii]

And yes, God is in the joy, too, the love that makes the heart sing. God is not elsewhere, for so God loves the world.

And so we are in it, ordained, sanctified and sent, to steep the world in the love of Christ, to let his love seep into its soul. And as we go about that business of mercy, Jesus is still praying for us, thanks be to God. 

[i] Esther de Waal, Seeking God: The Way of St Benedict (Canterbury Press, 1999), 49, via Google Books

[ii] Alister McGrath, “I Believe”: Exploring the Apostles’ Creed (InterVarsity Press, 1991), 74

[iii] “God is under the rubble” is the title of a sermon by the Revd Dr Isaac Munther, pastor of the ELCA Christmas Church in Bethlehem. https://sojo.net/articles/god-under-rubble-gaza

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Destined

Posted on May 7, 2024 by Rosalind C Hughes

One was destined to be lost
so that the ninety-nine could wonder
why a good shepherd would leave them
alone to go looking for the lamb of perdition,
imagining him already fallen beyond rescue
into the valley filled with shadows and death.
Why look for trouble, they bleated,
turn your ankle searching low and high
for the touch of his nuzzle when you find him
ready to run from you again?
So go the ninety-nine, safe in the fold,
piling their secret and insecure sins
upon the name of the one they call
lost beyond redemption;
so goes the shepherd, taking up the staff again
and calling, calling out the name
of the one destined to be lost.

#PreparingforSundaywithpoetry early edition. Year B Easter 7 John 17:12b

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