How do we keep the dream alive today?

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

A reflection offered at the community celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr, hosted by Lakeshore Christian Church, Euclid, Ohio

One year ago today, I stood in a room downtown before a federal judge, and I took an oath, and some words were said and some papers handed down and at the end of it all, I had become a citizen of these United States.

The judge, offering some remarks towards the end of the ceremony, spoke of the service of citizenship, of the responsibility of all people to work together for the common good. He offered his opinion that our society is as good as we make it, and that if we want to live well together, we owe one another our best efforts on behalf not only of ourselves but of the smallest of us all, our best efforts to make this country the best it can be for everyone within its borders, and an example and a promise to those beyond them. It was up to us, he told us, to make the most of what we had been given.

Deciding to become a citizen of this country was, for me, as much a spiritual as a political  choice. As a newly-ordained minister, I asked, how could I serve the people of God right here, all around me, unless I committed to being here in body as well as spirit, wholly and truly, working with my mind as well as my heart, my treasure as well as my talent, my vote as well as my voice, for the good of this community, this society, this small piece of God’s good creation?

Working for justice, working for peace, working for the common good, for the good of the whole community and every member of it, is gospel work.

Martin Luther King, Jr, in his Dream Speech, quoted the prophet Isaiah and his vision “that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.” (Isaiah 40:4-5; Martin Luther King, Jr, August 1963; source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/17/i-have-a-dream-speech-text_n_809993.html)

When we come together as families of faith, as communities of the children of God bound together by the promises of God, and we recognize that what unites us in God is way more important and essential than anything that divides us, then we begin to live into that dream.

When we work together as communities of faith to remove the high obstacles that stand in the way of equality, of equal access to all of the benefits that this country has to offer, then we are living into that dream.

When we seek out the rough places, and soothe them and smooth them, we live into that dream.

When we pledge to protect the life and safety of all of God’s children, by promoting peace and reducing violence, refusing to be seduced by the myth of security through ever-increasing force, choosing instead peace, promise, respect and love for one another, then we keep the dream alive.

When we look beyond the labels and see instead people, people who care for their parents, their children, their beloved friends, their faithful companions, people who love one another, and we share with them the blessings that we have received, then we keep the dream alive.

When we choose to meet one another on level ground, making straight the paths between us, talking straight with one another, and treating one another with dignity and with the honour due to each one made in the image of God, then we keep the dream alive.

Fifty years ago this August, Dr King reminded us of the “fierce urgency of now.” He said, “This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.” (Martin Luther King, Jr, August 1963; source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/17/i-have-a-dream-speech-text_n_809993.html)

We know that we live in difficult and dangerous times; we know that we struggle to get past that which divides us, which keeps us paralysed and would prevent us from building bridges across those valleys, building roads around those mountains which Isaiah would see wiped away.

But in the eyes of the prophets, challenging times are a clarion call.

And when we recognize that there is no time like the present to do the right thing, that there is no time like the time that God has granted us on this earth to work for justice, when we give thanks that we have the opportunity and the responsibility of proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favour, liberty to the captives, good tidings to the afflicted, the binding up of the wounds of the brokenhearted,  [Isaiah 61:1-2] now, this year, in our own times and our own place, then we keep the dream shared by all the prophets alive. Amen.

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Year C Epiphany 2: Sermon for Annual Meeting Sunday

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

In another year, perhaps this sermon will sound more like an annual report. For today, since I was only here for a quarter of last year, I feel as though I’m still finding my way around a little; there are light switches that I am only just discovering the location of, and although we have begun to get to know one another a little better, I know that you still have many stories to share with me, ones that I am eager to hear.

On the other hand, today’s epistle reading does seem like a perfect fit for an annual meeting morning. We are reminded, in a timely fashion, that there are varieties of gifts which are granted us by God for the building up of the common good; there are varieties of service, and of action and effect, but the same Spirit motivates them all, if they are destined to build up the whole people of God.

The gifts that Paul enumerates seem, in some ways, a little esoteric for us today, a little far removed from our daily experience and a little less than practical. But perhaps that is the formal, biblical language getting in the way. And since one of the gifts he mentions is the interpretation of tongues, let’s look again and see what we can find that speaks to us.

To one is given the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge, given by the same Spirit. William Barclay understands this to be the difference between understanding and factual knowledge, or the spiritual wisdom which has bright ideas and the kind of practical know-how that gets things done (William Barclay, The Letters to the Corinthians, in The Daily Study Bible Series, rev. ed. (Westminster, 1975), p.109). It might be that the argument between religion and science that we hear so much about is a misunderstanding of the way in which both of these ways of understanding the world are gifts of the one who created it: religion, to discern the hand of God behind and beyond creation, and science, to understand how God has crafted the world and how it works. Both are given by the same Lord, for the common good, to lift up the welfare of all. The pragmatist and the poet, the engineer and the artist, the dreamer and the practical soul, each is necessary to the good of the whole.

Faith, we are told, is a gift given to one, while healing and miracles are given to another. Faith keeps us hoping, and healing helps us to live into that hope. We encourage one another in different ways, but the same God encourages us all. It is interesting, isn’t it, that faith is considered a personal gift; we tend to think that we should all have the same amount of faith, but it may be that if faith is a gift given to one, then the doubt of another is also a gift, designed to provoke our curiosity, our questing for God, our seeking for assurance, and the foil to the gift of faith to the one who is calm and confident, the reason that this one’s faith is indeed a gift offered for the good of the whole.

To another is given the gift of prophecy, of telling it how it is, of telling the truth to power, of calling to account the people of God, offering oracles of challenge and of comfort in the tradition of the prophets. And their neighbour has the gift of the discernment of spirits, to know when the prophet is on the right track, and to offer correction when he gets carried away. Similarly, one person has the gift of translating another’s words, another’s prayers, for the good of the gathered audience.

We need each other, Paul says; no one knows the mind of God, fully, completely. We walk as best we can in discipleship, as ones who confess that Jesus is Lord, but we need one another, in community, sharing the gifts of the Spirit as they are shared amongst us all, for our common good.

The list which we have here is clearly not exhaustive. We haven’t even begun to talk about love, hospitality, perseverance, the gift of creating order out of chaos, one of which personally I always stand in awe, prayerfulness, playfulness. We haven’t talked about the gifts of tact and of evangelism, of generosity of spirit and of the keeping of the communal memory, gifts which we know are present in this community and granted by the Spirit of God for the good of the whole, for the building up of the common good of the people of God.

And let’s not neglect to appreciate the unexpected gifts. A friend once told me of her Spiritual Director’s advice in a time of grief and sorrow: that even tears are a spiritual gift. It is given to some to celebrate the world’s joys, and to some to inspire the world’s idealism, and to some to carry out the work that idealists forget about, the hard graft that gets things done; and it is given to some, she said, to weep for the lost, to grieve with those who mourn, to bear the wounds of the brokenhearted. An unexpected gift, but a gift all the same, to the individual, and to those whom she serves, whose burdens she shares.

There is a variety of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone.

Many of you are probably familiar with the idea of a spiritual gifts inventory: a way of identifying your own gifts, the ways in which God most readily works in and through you for the good of your own faith life and for the common good. They can be useful tools for deciding where to apply your energy, where God is calling you to serve, which varieties of activities you will most enjoy and find most fruitful in your own Christian ministry.

What I would like to propose us doing together over the coming year is some work on a communal spiritual gifts inventory: what are the gifts of this parish community as a community; how are we best placed to do the work of God in the world; what will energize and enrich us, knowing that we are following the lead of God’s Spirit, the promptings of God’s Spirit through the gifts that we have been given?

This work is meant to inspire rather than to restrict; to open horizons and raise our vision. A friend and colleague said at the beginning of this week that the lesson of the miracle at Cana is that where our resources end, that is where God’s resources begin, or kick in. But the epistle tells us that God’s resources are already shared with us, and that God puts us together to extend them, to build up the common good.

With this in mind, I want to thank those who have served in various capacities, in various activities, and in various ways during the past year: the Vestry and wardens, and their treasurer and clerk, the search committees that introduced Peter and me to this parish, those involved in music, worship, in hospitality and outreach, in prayer and pastoral care, in programming and in practical assistance of all kinds. I want to thank each of you that comes together Sunday by Sunday to join your gifts to those of the people around you to lift up the voice of the people of God in praise and thanksgiving, and to do the work that God has called us to, to celebrate together as the Body of Christ, those inspired by the Spirit to proclaim that Jesus is Lord.

And because all good gifts come from God, I would like to end with the prayer of General Thanksgiving found in our Book of Common Prayer, to thank God for you all:

Let us pray.

Accept, O Lord, our thanks and praise for all that you have
done for us. We thank you for the splendor of the whole
creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder of life,
and for the mystery of love.
We thank you for the blessing of family and friends, and for
the loving care which surrounds us on every side.
We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best
efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy
and delight us.
We thank you also for those disappointments and failures
that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on you alone.
Above all, we thank you for your Son Jesus Christ; for the
truth of his Word and the example of his life; for his steadfast
obedience, by which he overcame temptation; for his dying,
through which he overcame death; and for his rising to life
again, in which we are raised to the life of your kingdom.
Grant us the gift of your Spirit, that we may know him and
make him known; and through him, at all times and in all
places, may give thanks to you in all things. Amen. -BCP, 836

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An anniversary

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

It is not lost on me that as I board the plane for our nation’s capital Sunday night, it will be on the first anniversary of its becoming “ours.” For me, this nation was “yours,” and I was categorized as an alien – green tentacles optional – until one year ago Sunday. Thank you for having me.
So a year on, what is the difference between “yours” and “ours”? What has changed? Have I?
One month after that day, a school shooting a little too close to home, and far too close to two children whom I had taught in Sunday School, reminded me of some of the things I had worried over before we came here. Could I live in a country with so many guns? Would I feel safe in a neighbourhood where deadly weapons might legally hide behind any given respectable suburban door?
Most of the time, it hardly seemed to make a difference. Bad things happen anywhere; tragedy strikes, anger lashes out, or despair; such is the universal condition.
When this place was “yours,” and I was an alien, I could turn the other cheek, look away and pretend that this was not causing me a problem, so it was not my problem.
It wasn’t exactly true, but as a working model, it served; and anyway, I didn’t feel as though I had a lot of choice.
Now, this place is ours. I am involved; I am invested. My children are growing to adulthood in the society that we have created and whose future we will choose together. I do not want to worry about it. I do not want to be afraid for them, or for their friends, the children I taught in Sunday School, the children who trust us to keep them safe and to make their world right. I cannot any longer close my eyes and ears to the seductive lies that greater force enforces peace, that violence restores justice, that fear offers finer protection than kindness, that our security depends not on loving our neighbours, but on arming ourselves against them.
As I board the plane for Washington Sunday night, I will have just left a community celebration of the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr, who spoke fifty years ago in another context of the “fierce urgency of now.” We cannot wait for justice. We should not wait for peace.
An editorial in my local paper this morning reflecting on the President’s gun control initiatives said that “the president’s suggestions can help … But only if he and an aroused public refuse to be silent again.”*
A year ago I was granted a voice, even though I speak with an accent. I will no doubt use it to laugh and cheer on Monday, and I pledge to continue to use it to support the fiercely urgent business of justice, peace, and the welfare of all people in the year to come.

*The Plain Dealer, January 18, 2013, A7, Editorial: “No backing down on anti-gun effort”

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Year C Epiphany 1: For us, and for our salvation

Posted on January 13, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

After Christmas, after Epiphany, we come to the baptism of Jesus. In a way, this story is the culmination and confirmation of everything that has happened up to now. An angel announced his conception. Faithful even before he was born, cousin John, who would grow up to baptize the people, leapt in his mother’s womb at the news of Jesus’ gestation. More angels lit up the night sky and sang terrifyingly to proclaim his birth. Wise men offered gifts. An old man in the temple, and an older woman, prophesied great things about him, that he would redeem the nations and Jerusalem. John, all grown up, paved the way for his arrival on the riverbank, talking him up, announcing that “one greater than I” was coming, and coming soon.

There was a lot of excitement, a lot of expectation, one might say, a whole lot of hype to live up to.

And when Jesus had been baptized, along with all of the people, and had come out of the river to pray, the heavens opened, and the Holy Spirit came upon him in bodily form, as if a dove, and a voice came from heaven, the voice of God, name him as a son, a beloved child, one in whom the divine parent delighted.

It is a culmination and a confirmation of everything that Luke has been telling us up to now. It is true, he is telling us, it is real, there can be no doubt that this Jesus is the Messiah, is the long-awaited redeemer, is the One, because the voice of God, the very voice that spoke creation into being, has announced it.

But surprisingly enough, this story of Luke’s is not only about Jesus. If we read carefully this particular account of the baptismal story, we see that Jesus was not alone, nor just with John, when this took place. All of the people had been baptized, and Jesus too. Perhaps he went last; perhaps he had been in the midst of them. At any rate, the whole community had gathered at the river to celebrate their baptism together, and Jesus was among them. He took his place as one of them, as one of the community of the faithful, and it was in that context, in the community of faith, that God singled him out and fell upon him bodily, as if to embrace him, and spoke to him in a voice like thunder that seemed to come out of nowhere, out of clear blue skies.

It was in the context of the whole community of faith that the Samarians received the Holy Spirit at the hands of the apostles, and it was the whole community of faith, the faithful people of God that God addressed through the prophet Isaiah in our first lesson:

But now this says the Lord, he who created you, he who formed you:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.
For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Saviour.

Do not be afraid, says God, I am with you. I have named you, I have claimed you as my own. When you are plunged into the waters of chaos, I who tamed the chaos and ordered creation out of the waters that covered the earth will redeem you and bring you back to dry land; the rivers shall not overwhelm you, and I will not let you down, I will not let you drown.

Do not be afraid; though the Holy Spirit burns like fire, you will not be consumed. Only the chaff, the protective layers that you thought that you needed but which you have outgrown, only that which keeps you from me, will be burnt away. My Spirit will fall upon you like fire, but you will feel her touch as the feathers of a dove, gently brushing away the ash.

I have named you. You are my daughter, you are my son, you are mine.

You have heard it said that God spoke at each our our baptisms: You are my son, my beloved one; you are my daughter, with whom I am well pleased.” But God did not say that to any of us in isolation. We are beloved together of God; we are not only children, any of us, but we are embraced in God’s family, and we are called to extend that embrace to all of our brothers and sisters, each one of God’s children, until they also know themselves to be beloved of God, cherished children, beloved of God with no exceptions.

The Holy Spirit came to Jesus in bodily form, wholly, fully, incarnate, because we are, we live in bodily form. We hear with our ears when someone pays us a compliment or lends us a kind word. We are satisfied in ourselves when someone offers us food or a cup of water; we are grateful for a hug or a healing touch. Even when we see God in the sunrise or sunset over the lake, we are seeing God’s embodiment in creation, in the orbit of the earth, in the movement of the planets, what we used to call the heavenly bodies.

And so our baptismal covenant calls us to love one another not only in spirit and in truth, not in ideas and prayers only, although they are vital, but in bodily form, in the giving and receiving of gifts, in the feeding of the hungry, in the blessing that comes from abiding friendship and companionship, in caring for one another’s bodily safety and wellbeing and joy. It calls us to care for all of God’s creation, the world around us which some have called body of God, to treat it gently and kindly as a fellow creature, another part of the creative act which gave us breath. It calls us to take seriously our name as the Body of Christ; a body which can offer an embrace, which can offer sustenance, which can offer protection and healing to those in need.

Some time ago, some miles away, long before I was ordained, I met a woman who was having trouble forgiving herself for something, and having trouble believing that God forgave her either. We talked a while, and at a certain point in the conversation, I asked her what it would take for her to know that God forgave her. She said, ‘I need some sort of a sign.’ I heard myself ask her whether the sign could be that a person came to her, to talk to her, in the name of Jesus Christ, and told her with certainty that she was forgiven and beloved by God. And she agreed that that could work.

Make no mistake, I was terrified at the idea of offering myself as a sign from God, but I have come to believe that the Holy Spirit was indeed working through my bodily form that day to tell this young woman, ‘You are my daughter, my beloved, and I still love you.’ And I believe that the Holy Spirit can at any time call upon any of us to become that bodily sign of God’s love and salvation, to be the Body of Christ that we are called to be.

After Christmas and Epiphany, after the private message of the angel to Mary, after the seclusion of the stable where she gave birth, which was opened up after all to the animals and to their shepherds; after their coming out to the temple and his coming forth to the river, Jesus’ baptism was an event, a party to which all of the people were invited. It was a culmination and a confirmation of all that had gone before, and it marked the beginning of a very public ministry which would span continents and centuries in its influence, in its impact, which continues today as long as his body endures.

One of my former teachers, Hank Langknecht, posted something on facebook before Christmas which struck me as brave, but true, and somewhat counter to all those “Jesus is the reason for the season” bumper stickers and taglines:

“You (and I and all creation) are the real ‘reason for the season’; Jesus came to serve not to BE served,” he said.

Jesus came for us. Jesus, the beloved Son of God in whom God was well pleased, whom the Holy Spirit embraced bodily, came among us, lived with us, loved us, was baptized alongside us, because God loves us, and has called us each by name, and has promised to redeem us, and to be with us always; and Jesus came to serve that promise.

Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my child, my beloved,”

And if you had been there, wet from the river, the drops of water running off you and mingling with those dripping from Jesus and from John and from your sister and from your cousin and from your neighbour and from the strange woman from along the way, drops of water running together into rivulets running back into the river ready to baptize whoever comes tomorrow, mightn’t you have remembered Isaiah, and the words that God had spoken to all of God’s people:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you…
Because you are precious in my sight, and honoured, and I love you …

Amen.

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Waving goodbye

Posted on January 10, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Whenever we left
she wept, never knowing which
time would be the last.

(Sometimes, poetry is simply laying the ghosts out in the daylight.)

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In bodily form

Posted on January 9, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

When our bodies betray us, let us down,
we berate them, hesitate to call them holy,
when, after all, they are the
sacrament of God’s creative genius,
each featherlight touch a reminder of
the love that engendered our creation,
redemption, adoption; each whisper
an echo of the voice of heaven.

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Telling stories: extracts from a sermon on Jesus in the Temple, aged twelve

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

I have a weakness, I confess, for all things biblical, especially stories, especially imaginative retellings of biblical stories, or poetry, or words, words, words …

I am drawn like a moth to a flame to a new fictionalized gospel account, to a new, poetic odyssey through the epic stories of the Old Testament. I think that the reason that I love these books is that they indulge the curiosity which I have about what else is going on behind the words that we read. In my scholarly books, I have the answers to what the Greek words mean, where and how they are used in other places, clues as to what the writer was trying to convey between the lines; but too much imagination, the flights of fancy to which a storyteller is prone or a poet pulled, are discouraged. But sometimes it is just too tempting to wonder what was going on behind the words of the stories we read.

What, for instance, was Jesus talking to the scholars of the Temple about, when he was twelve years old and left all alone in the city?

My fictional guides tend to agree that Jesus must have been looking for some clue as to where he had come from, some details to fill in the whispers that he must have heard about the strange circumstances of his birth, with all the angels and the shepherds and kings and the like. After all, he must have heard something, and what child would not want to know more? He had been born in the south, near Jerusalem, and a trip like this would be a prime opportunity to seek out the years-old gossip that must have accompanied such a strange nativity, such an unusual occasion.

In Anne Rice’s novel, Christ the Lord, Out of Egypt, Jesus is worried about the children of Bethlehem that Herod did away with. He knows that he and his family escaped into Egypt, and that others did not, and he lives with the guilt and the fear and the wonder at what happened. He seeks out a rabbi, one of the men whom Herod consulted to find out the time and place of the Messiah’s birth, and the man describes to young Jesus what happened. He faints away, and spends the three missing days in the household of the rabbi, recovering. Eventually, he comes once more before the rabbi, and this is how the encounter ends, in the account according to Anne Rice:

“There was a stool there. I don’t think I’d ever sat on a stool before. I did as I was told.
‘You’re a little boy,’ he said, ‘and I forgot that you were a little boy. A little boy with a heart.’
‘I wanted to know the answers to my questions, Rabbi. I had to know the answers. I would never have stopped asking.’
‘But why?’ he asked. ‘The child born in Bethlehem has been dead for eight years, as you said yourself. Now don’t begin to cry again.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘And the virgin mother, who could believe such a thing.’
‘I believe it, Rabbi,’ I said. ‘And the child’s not dead. The child escaped.’
For a long moment he looked at me.
And in that moment, I felt all my sadness, all my separation from those around me. I felt it so bitterly.
I felt that he was about to dismiss what I had said, about to say that even if the child had somehow escaped Bethlehem, it was all just a story, and Herod’s butchery was all the more a horrid thing.
Before he could speak, however, I heard voices that I knew very close by.
My mother and Joseph were there.
…Much was said quickly. I couldn’t follow all of it. Joseph and my mother had been looking for me for three days.
The Rabbi praised my answers to his questions, when I had been with the other boys. …
When we were out in the bright light of the Great Court, my mother took me by the shoulders:
‘Why have you done this?’ she asked. ‘We’ve been in misery searching for you!’
‘Mother, I must know things now,’ I said. ‘Things I’m forbidden to ask you or Joseph. I must be about what it is that I have to do!’” (Rice, 290-1)

The more outrageous account, from Christopher Moore’s Lamb, finds Jesus looking not for the innocents of Bethlehem but for the magi, the wise men who prompted that crisis with their seeking out of the Messiah; wise men who might be expected to offer Jesus some wisdom about his destiny and his origins. Jesus’s best friend, Biff, is narrating:

“What we did was stay in the Temple while Joshua grilled every priest, guard, even Pharisee about the Magi who had come to Jerusalem thirteen years before. Evidently it wasn’t as big an event for others as it was for Josh’s family, because no one had any idea what he was talking bout.
By the time he’d been at it for a couple of hours he was literally screaming into the faces of a group of Pharisees. ‘Three of them. Magicians. They came because they saw a star over Bethlehem. They were carrying gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Come on you’re all old. You’re supposed to be wise. Think!’
Needless to say, they weren’t please. ‘Who is this boy who would question our knowledge? He knows nothing of the Torah and the prophets and yet berates us for not remembering three insignificant travelers.’
It was the wrong thing to say to Joshua. No one had studied the Torah harder. No one knew scripture better. ‘Ask me any question, Pharisee,’ Joshua said. ‘Ask anything.’ (Moore, 98)

Of course, these are novels, they are fiction, they are entertainment, and I mean no offence to you or to the gospel by quoting them from the pulpit. It’s really, after all, no different than reading the children’s story on Christmas Eve; the Holy Spirit can speak to our imaginations in many ways, to open up, to elucidate, to illustrate, perhaps is the better term, the scriptures.

But at the end of my little trawl through some little books of faithful fantasy, I am no closer to knowing just what it was Jesus talked about with the scribes of the Temple, or why he spent so long there, leaving his family frantic with worry about him, his friends to wonder.

The point of the story seems, in the end, to be less about what happens within it than that it happened at all. The point seems to be that Jesus was there, in the temple, with the wise ones, learning and asking questions and giving smart answers for three days.

The account that occurs in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas closes a book full of incredible and fantastical stories about Jesus’ childhood; stories about childhood disputes, deaths and resurrections, capricious blindings, cursings and blessings, Joseph’s parenting skills; it’s a second-century collection of stories that did not make it into our biblical canon, probably for very good reason, which may have evolved out of the imaginations of writers a lot like my modern fictional guides. But it ends with this story that we read in the gospel of Luke, and it includes the story almost word for word. It doesn’t fantasize, it barely embellishes; it receives the news just as it is, that a twelve-year-old Jesus sits in the temple with his elders and learns at their feet, and loses track of time, and shows astonishing wisdom, then leaves to go home with his parents, to grow up some more. This, even in the context of a fantastical collection of fairy stories, is wonderful enough to be written down just so.

The point is, we might conclude, that Jesus, born as he was to the sound of angels singing and the gifts of shepherds and kings, had some growing up to do, had some learning to embark upon. The point is, that as blessed with inherent and eternal wisdom as he was, Jesus learned from others, from studying scripture, from asking questions and answering them, from the give and take that comes from studying with others in the context of worship. Even Jesus did Bible Study.

Recommended reading:

Testament, by Nino Ricci (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2002);

Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, by Anne Rice (New York: Knopf, 2005);

Not recommended, as such, in case it offends, but I enjoyed it immensely: Lamb, by Christopher Moore (New York: Harper, 2002). One might want to begin with his disclaimer on p. 443, “This story is not and never was meant to challenge anyone’s faith; however, if one’s faith can be shaken by stories in a humorous novel, one may have a bit more praying to do.”

I also read Philip Pullman, The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ (Canongate, US, 2010), which is quite a different affair, “a story about how stories become stories,” to quote the cover; interesting.

Your picks?

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Epiphany

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Epiphany: A lightbulb moment. A parish church. A cake, a tradition. People going down to a snowy river in Russia to renew their baptismal promises in the freezing waters. The other Christmas. Magi, wise men, kings; gold, frankincense, myrrh; Herod and his horror story. Twelfth nights, feasts of lights, Epiphany. A small Greek word which hides a world of traditions and imaginings, stories and symbols in its short syllables.

In popular dramatic stories there is often a prophecy which may or may not be about to come true: think the Matrix, think Harry Potter. If the prophecy is fulfilled in the presence of those witnessing the story, the world will be changed, the whole world order will be altered, and the hero of the story will rise vindicated. If not, everyone will look a little bit foolish.

Isaiah prophesies the coming of the light to the people of God. Arise, shine; for your light has come. He speaks of camel trains coming with the wealth of nations, kings streaming to the brightness of the light which will emanate out of Zion. They will bring gold, and frankincense.

Isaiah doesn’t mention myrrh.

Herod would have known enough of his Bible to remember these prophesies when the wise men came. He was terrified, because he knew that in the stories, the prophecy is always fulfilled, and the old authorities always suffer defeat and defamation when it is, and the whole world order is changed: the proud are scattered in the imaginations of their hearts, the hungry are fed, and the rich are sent empty away. Herod was rich; he did not want to be sent away empty.

Herod tried to be cunning, to pretend to fall in with the plans of the wise men, to pretend that good news for his people was good news for him (little did he know that that was, in fact the truth). He tried to outsmart the wise ones, to outgun the angels, to undo the words spoken by the prophets,

“Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice,” and replace them with laments.

What did Herod think would happen? What did he think that he could achieve? Did he truly believe that by trampling the ten commandments underfoot he could obliterate the law of God? Did he think that by eating the words of the prophets and spitting them back out as curses that he could change God’s mind, God’s promises to God’s people? Did he think that by hiding behind his fear he could trick God into fearing to visit the light upon God’s people, that by spreading a cloak of darkness and deep gloom across the land, that vale of tears, he could smother and snuff out the light?

What he did, instead, was to throw into sharp relief the light of God’s salvation as against the status quo of oppression, abuse of power, and the strength of greed and violence. The moon never looks so bright in the daytime as it does on a dark, deep midnight.

The star has already arrived over the city of Bethlehem, and the wise men have completed their journey; they have offered their gold, their frankincense, their myrrh. Interestingly, they were not tempted to hang around to find out what happened next with this remarkable child that they had travelled so long and so far to find. They simply dropped off their gifts and left, going home by another road.

“Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn;” but they did not stay, even though the work is not over; the end is just beginning – we know where the Christ child is born, we know where he grows up, what he teaches, what he preaches, how he lives, how he dies, how he is raised. We know that the prophecies are true and have been fulfilled in our presence. So what happens next?

For Herod there is fury, outrage, atrocities.

For the wise men, there is the long journey home. Do they ever hear the news that comes out of Judea? Do they ever wonder what happened to the family to whom they gave all that gold, and frankincense, and myrrh? Has their journey changed them, or do they simply go back to their books and their charts and their academic pursuits?

For Mary and Joseph and the child there is another journey, into Egypt, to escape the coming storm.

And what of the star? Does it still shine in the darkness, or has it burned itself out by the rising of the sun in the east?

We have come, it seems, to a crossroads in the story. We have to choose which path to follow: to worship briefly, then return home unchanged, uplifted but ultimately the same as ever, excited to have found the baby king, but untempted to stay and see his life unfold.

Or we can run away, follow the holy family into Egypt, keep our heads down, stay close but draw no attention to ourselves, in case the fury of the forces that be are visited upon us, wait, bide our time against the injustice that we hear and see around us, waiting for a better time to come to pass.

I do not think that we want to follow Herod. I do not think that we want to follow Herod; but I know that the danger of institutions is to value the status quo more than the journey into the light; to value status more than justice; to value stability more than salvation.

When the Pharaoh did his similar thing with the young children of the Hebrews in the days of Moses, there was an underground resistance movement, led by the midwives, who secreted as many children as they could, who by their gentle subversion saved many lives. Then, there was Moses, who albeit by accident infiltrated the corridors of power and ended up challenging the authorities from the inside, eventually standing before Pharaoh and in a faltering but firm voice ordering, “Let my people go.” There are always those who are willing to stay, to stand up against the darkness, to shine a light on injustice, to put the spotlight on oppression and make it sweat, who work by the light of the night sky, like the midwives, or in the bright glare of the palace, like Moses, to set God’s people free.

But for people like us, with our palatial church buildings and our strong social standing, the Episcopal Church, with its National Cathedral and its historic presence, we would be wise to be vigilant against the decay of our zeal for justice for the poor, the marginalized, those denied the rights that others of us enjoy, those cast off to fend for themselves when the bottom falls out of their world. We would be wise to guard against the petrifying of our longing for peace, the righteous indignation that accompanies outrages against innocents, the pursuit of a more peace-loving, gentle society. We would be wise to seek guidance to avoid the digression of our pilgrimage towards the kingdom of God and fuel to prevent the dimming of our light.

We are named the Church of the Epiphany, and the Epiphany is the coming to light of God among us, God’s salvation for all peoples, God’s glory. That is what we are called to show forth, not only today but all of the time, and it is a tremendous privilege and an awesome responsibility.

But before we become overwhelmed by the weight of such glory, let’s consider whose Epiphany we celebrate. This Epiphany, this making manifest the divine among us, is not ours. Herod could not thwart God’s purpose, and we, fortunately, cannot hide or turn off God’s epiphany, God’s light; even if we close our eyes, it will still be there, shining like a beacon of hope in the darkness. It is not a lightbulb, ahah moment when we finally see the light. It is not the dawning realization of three amateur astronomers that something is funky with the night sky. It is not the fearful reckoning of an ancient prophecy. It is not getting just the right evangelism strategy or bright idea for a five-year parish plan. It is God’s light shining in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

We are named the Church of the Epiphany, and the Epiphany is the coming to light of God among us, God’s salvation for all peoples, God’s glory, Jesus, the Son of God, God made manifest in the particular person born in a poor stable in Bethlehem, and adored by the magi, who brought him gold, and frankincense, and myrrh, God who has blessed us by coming among us, by loving us, by leading us toward the light. Thanks be to God.

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Following

Posted on January 4, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

The brightness beckoning, reckoning
light years away, in the beginning, there was a star
which now calls them from afar to follow,
stumbling in the daytime, in the forests,
fog-filled valleys, rallying with breathless joy
on the mountaintop where all is clear,
by the river reflecting, calling, falling into
intrigue and deceit, despondency when
questions turn hostile, visas are denied, barricades erected,
then the twist: the sudden smiling of a greasy guard,
the gifts of the king, the proverbial poison chalice.
Gold, frankincense, myrrh and mirth,
great joy to find a starlit sky
and beneath it, the world laid out to cry
with the voice of a newborn, piercing the night.

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A GOEs prayer, reblogged

Posted on January 1, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

(Thinking this year especially of RoseAnne and Beth at a Starbucks in Bexley, Columbus.)

All-knowing God,

Grant, I humbly beg you, to your servants quick and lively words, and nimble fingers. You have inspired them from their beginnings: let them remember who it is who called them, and endowed them with the wit, will and wherewithal to follow. Of your mercy, remind them to be merciful to themselves, and to treat themselves as tenderly as any other of your children. And when the day is done, let them sleep soundly, so that they may be ready to do it all again tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Through your Son, who bid them follow, and your Spirit, who moved their feet, one God altogether,

Amen.

(See one previous post about GOEs here: https://rosalindhughes.com/2011/09/15/general-ordination-exams/)

Rosalind C Hughes's avatarover the water

My prayer for those (especially Jon, Adam, Lisa, Michael, Linda, Katherine, and Jennifer) taking GOEs (General OrdinationExaminations set by the General Board of Examining Chaplains of the Episcopal Church) this week:

All-knowing God,

Grant, I humbly beg you, to your servants quick and lively words, and nimble fingers. You have inspired them from their beginnings: let them remember who it is who called them, and endowed them with the wit, will and wherewithal to follow. Of your mercy, remind them to be merciful to themselves, and to treat themselves as tenderly as any other of your children. And when the day is done, let them sleep soundly, so that they may be ready to do it all again tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Through your Son, who bid them follow, and your Spirit, who moved their feet, one God altogether,

Amen.

(See one previous post about GOEs here: https://rosalindhughes.com/2011/09/15/general-ordination-exams/)

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