CHRISTMAS DAY, 2012 10:00 a.m. - Low Mass with Carols The Parish of Ss. Peter & Paul, Portland
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Biblical scholar and teacher of preaching Fred Craddock tells the story of a missionary sent to preach the Gospel in India toward the end of World War II. After many months, the time came for him to return home for a furlough.
His church wired him the money to book passage on a steamer; but when he got to the port city, he discovered that a boatload of Jews had just been allowed to land temporarily. These were the days when European Jews were sailing all over the world, literally looking for a place to live. These particular Jews were now staying in attics and warehouses and basements all over that port city.
It happened to be Christmas, and on Christmas morning, this missionary went to one of the attics where scores of Jews were staying. He walked in and said, "Merry Christmas."
The people looked at him as if he were crazy and responded, "We're Jews."
"I know that," said the missionary. "What would you like for Christmas?"
In utter amazement, the Jews responded, "Why, we'd like pastries, good pastries, like the ones we used to have in Germany."
So the missionary went out and used the money for his ticket home to buy pastries for all the Jews he could find staying in the port. Of course, then he had to wire home, asking for more money to book his passage back to the States.
As you might expect, his superiors wired back, asking what had happened to the money they had already sent. He wired that he had used it to buy Christmas pastries for some Jews.
His superiors wired back, "Why did you do that? They don't even believe in Jesus."
He wired in return: "Yes, but I do!"
Jesus will not always be found where we expect to find him. We tend to look for him in the easy, the nice, the clean, the pristine, the proper: we look for him in churches and in other Christians, in Scriptures, and in our Christmas carols, in church-sanctioned activities and clearly-defined tasks of ministry. But if these are the only places we are looking for him, then we're not looking in the stable, in the dirt and the straw and the deprivation where the real story, the actual birth took place.
We are not looking for him at a shopping mall a few blocks down 82nd Avenue from us. We are not looking for him in the faces of children and their mentors brutally murdered by a crazy man with a powerful weapon available to the public. Or at the little ones who will be forever traumatized by that horrible day a week ago last Friday.
Michel Quoist, the late French Roman Catholic priest who's quite famous for Prayers, his monumental small book of personal, and yet very profound, prayers for everything from "Prayer in Front of a Dollar Bill" to "Prayer of a Priest on Sunday Evening." He wrote about Christmas:
I am not made of plaster, nor of stone, nor of bronze. I am living flesh throbbing, suffering. I am among men and women and they have not recognized Me. I am poorly paid, I am unemployed, I live in a slum. I am sick, I sleep under bridges, I am in prison. I am oppressed, I am patronized. I sweat men's blood on all battlefields. I cry out in the night and die in the solitude of battle. And yet I said to them: "Whatever you do to My brothers or sisters, however humble, You do to Me."
Gathered at Bethlehem's manger, we are poised between love's completion or frustration, between love's triumph or tragedy. God's enfleshment in Jesus is love's risk. It is God's vulnerability. God's fullness made empty. God's richness made poor. God's "otherness" become flesh and blood--for us and for our salvation. The power of response is in our hands.
Let us pray, then, for the gift of recognition, which is indeed the message of Christmas. Today we can contemplate together what has unfolded at Bethlehem and acknowledge the meaning of Jesus as the holiest, riskiest sacrament of God's love that ever occurred.
"The things she knew let her forget again:
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the strange old men piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.
Let her have laughter with her little one.
Teach her the endless tuneless songs to sing.
Grant her the right to whisper to her son the foolish things one dare not call a king; keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of roughcut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.
Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go,
And boast his pretty words and ways,
And plan the proud and happy years that they shall know together, when her son is grown a man." (Dorothy Parker)
Delivered by the Rev. Phil Ayers
archived musings and preachments
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The Christmas sermon I need to hear
Christmas 2012
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearABC_RCL/Christmas/ChrsDay1_RCL.html
Light is for traveling.
Just the other day we drove through the usual Portland winter mix of daytime murk and rain. I strained to see out of the windshield. The windshield wipers, de-fogger, and the outside washer did not seem to clear the glass. I realized that the inside of the windshield was lightly covered with a haze that comes simply from people breathing. Only if that would be washed away could enough light break through to let me see.
And light breaking through is necessary to travel anywhere.
Another Christmas has arrived, thank God. Frederick Beuchner said that no matter how commercial and crass and clichéd we have made it, we simply cannot quite ruin Christmas. This is due to the absolute power, the unthinkably pure and bright Light that has blazed upon us, the outrageous claim that not only in the polite and well-ordered portion of our lives, but in the darkest corners, in the earthiest and most shadowy parts of our lives and of our world, uncreated Light has blazed forth. I have seen the gentle light of a single candle in a quiet room. I have also seen a lighthouse beam lance dazzlingly across storm-tossed waters. I have seen gentle, silent dawn. I have also been blinded by a headlamp in my eyes when I lay lost and helpless in a tunnel in a Missouri cave. I have opened a door in a tenement apartment to reveal the lonely, impoverished elderly woman living in fear in a crime-infested neighborhood. I have seen the Light, in many different forms. I suspect you have too.
It’s all light, and at the risk of using another old cliché it is all good. The Light reveals us and reveals what we need to see. The Light reveals what is real. In the New Testament the same word is used for “truth” and “real.”
But we do get used to the dark. That’s good, because darkness is everywhere and if we could not adapt then we could not survive. Eyes grow accustomed to the dark, if we wait long enough. People grow accustomed also to other forms of darkness—sadness, hopelessness, fear, oppression, poverty…how easily things become the “new normal”, and we accept what before seemed unthinkable. Most recently we have been tempted to accept as normal a world filled with violence and with the ready availability of weapons that should never find their way into the hands of the irresponsible or the mentally ill, perhaps into no one’s hands at all.
But the Light that has come into the world, the Light of the Incarnation, the light of Christmas, chases away every shadow and allows us to see clearly. All we need to do is clear our sight just a little, just like clearing the glass from inside a windshield.
A contemporary church thinker sent out a post entitled “The Sermon I need to hear this Christmas.” I think his title works well as a question—what is the sermon you most need to hear this Christmas?
That is a question worth chewing on, and perhaps we can all chew on it during these 12 days of Christmas. I share with you the sermon I most need to hear this Christmas, because preachers usually preach what they themselves most need to hear, what they most need to work on.
This Christmas I most need to hear the message of the Angels, that born long ago in the city of David was the Messiah, the Lord. I need to hear that that birth is not a long-ago truth, as beautiful as that truth may be. I need to hear that the Son of God is always being born, in our midst, especially among the poorest and most forgotten. I need to hear that God-made-flesh is born in me, is constantly coming to birth in me, that the new Light of Bethlehem is the new Light made flesh in my flesh. This is no new idea; it is good solid orthodox faith. So many saints and scholars have said it. So many quiet people have lived it. That gift, the birth of the Christ-light in me and in you, is the gift that lies always at the foot of the Christmas tree and lies at our feet ready each day of our lives. All we need do is unwrap it.
I most need to hear that the Light of the world shines not only in a lovely church service and in cherished family gatherings, but also in the darkest and most sorrowing places of the world. The ever-new Light shines in Newtown even though the grieving people there are not sure if it is time to celebrate it. It shines in Palestine, in Bethlehem of today which is surrounded by a 25 foot high wall that would keep the shepherds from visiting the manger without passing through a checkpoint. It shines in the shadowy corners of the city where homeless people will huddle tonight, just another night of seeking warmth. If these dark places threaten to eclipse the Light of Christmas, then I have not heard the message of the angels and have not opened my eyes to see the true Light that enlightens everyone, everywhere, for all time.
And I most need to hear that the Light of the Incarnation, the Light of Christmas, will follow me from this place and will follow me after this night and the day after, and will stay with me to throw light upon my path. I need to hear that during whatever challenge or trial the days ahead might hold for me and for the world, the Light will show me what to do and give me strength to do it.
And I most need to hear that I shall not be alone, that the Company of the Light, those who seek to live by the Light of Christmas, of the Christ-Mass, are with me, both here in this church and abroad in the world. I need to hear that others who seek and serve and delight in the Light will be with me, will join hands with me, and that together we will be vessels of the Light of Christ in a world that has adapted to the shadows.
That’s the Christmas sermon I need to hear.
Light is for traveling. We are here so briefly, together, by the light of candles, basking in the glow of song and prayer and sacrament. When we leave, we will switch on headlights or bicycle lamps, or maybe walk by the glow of street-lamps to find our way home. Light is for traveling. The world grows accustomed to stumbling in darkness. May we gently wipe our eyes and our hearts, that we may receive each day the uncreated Light that illumines our souls.
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearABC_RCL/Christmas/ChrsDay1_RCL.html
Light is for traveling.
Just the other day we drove through the usual Portland winter mix of daytime murk and rain. I strained to see out of the windshield. The windshield wipers, de-fogger, and the outside washer did not seem to clear the glass. I realized that the inside of the windshield was lightly covered with a haze that comes simply from people breathing. Only if that would be washed away could enough light break through to let me see.
And light breaking through is necessary to travel anywhere.
Another Christmas has arrived, thank God. Frederick Beuchner said that no matter how commercial and crass and clichéd we have made it, we simply cannot quite ruin Christmas. This is due to the absolute power, the unthinkably pure and bright Light that has blazed upon us, the outrageous claim that not only in the polite and well-ordered portion of our lives, but in the darkest corners, in the earthiest and most shadowy parts of our lives and of our world, uncreated Light has blazed forth. I have seen the gentle light of a single candle in a quiet room. I have also seen a lighthouse beam lance dazzlingly across storm-tossed waters. I have seen gentle, silent dawn. I have also been blinded by a headlamp in my eyes when I lay lost and helpless in a tunnel in a Missouri cave. I have opened a door in a tenement apartment to reveal the lonely, impoverished elderly woman living in fear in a crime-infested neighborhood. I have seen the Light, in many different forms. I suspect you have too.
It’s all light, and at the risk of using another old cliché it is all good. The Light reveals us and reveals what we need to see. The Light reveals what is real. In the New Testament the same word is used for “truth” and “real.”
But we do get used to the dark. That’s good, because darkness is everywhere and if we could not adapt then we could not survive. Eyes grow accustomed to the dark, if we wait long enough. People grow accustomed also to other forms of darkness—sadness, hopelessness, fear, oppression, poverty…how easily things become the “new normal”, and we accept what before seemed unthinkable. Most recently we have been tempted to accept as normal a world filled with violence and with the ready availability of weapons that should never find their way into the hands of the irresponsible or the mentally ill, perhaps into no one’s hands at all.
But the Light that has come into the world, the Light of the Incarnation, the light of Christmas, chases away every shadow and allows us to see clearly. All we need to do is clear our sight just a little, just like clearing the glass from inside a windshield.
A contemporary church thinker sent out a post entitled “The Sermon I need to hear this Christmas.” I think his title works well as a question—what is the sermon you most need to hear this Christmas?
That is a question worth chewing on, and perhaps we can all chew on it during these 12 days of Christmas. I share with you the sermon I most need to hear this Christmas, because preachers usually preach what they themselves most need to hear, what they most need to work on.
This Christmas I most need to hear the message of the Angels, that born long ago in the city of David was the Messiah, the Lord. I need to hear that that birth is not a long-ago truth, as beautiful as that truth may be. I need to hear that the Son of God is always being born, in our midst, especially among the poorest and most forgotten. I need to hear that God-made-flesh is born in me, is constantly coming to birth in me, that the new Light of Bethlehem is the new Light made flesh in my flesh. This is no new idea; it is good solid orthodox faith. So many saints and scholars have said it. So many quiet people have lived it. That gift, the birth of the Christ-light in me and in you, is the gift that lies always at the foot of the Christmas tree and lies at our feet ready each day of our lives. All we need do is unwrap it.
I most need to hear that the Light of the world shines not only in a lovely church service and in cherished family gatherings, but also in the darkest and most sorrowing places of the world. The ever-new Light shines in Newtown even though the grieving people there are not sure if it is time to celebrate it. It shines in Palestine, in Bethlehem of today which is surrounded by a 25 foot high wall that would keep the shepherds from visiting the manger without passing through a checkpoint. It shines in the shadowy corners of the city where homeless people will huddle tonight, just another night of seeking warmth. If these dark places threaten to eclipse the Light of Christmas, then I have not heard the message of the angels and have not opened my eyes to see the true Light that enlightens everyone, everywhere, for all time.
And I most need to hear that the Light of the Incarnation, the Light of Christmas, will follow me from this place and will follow me after this night and the day after, and will stay with me to throw light upon my path. I need to hear that during whatever challenge or trial the days ahead might hold for me and for the world, the Light will show me what to do and give me strength to do it.
And I most need to hear that I shall not be alone, that the Company of the Light, those who seek to live by the Light of Christmas, of the Christ-Mass, are with me, both here in this church and abroad in the world. I need to hear that others who seek and serve and delight in the Light will be with me, will join hands with me, and that together we will be vessels of the Light of Christ in a world that has adapted to the shadows.
That’s the Christmas sermon I need to hear.
Light is for traveling. We are here so briefly, together, by the light of candles, basking in the glow of song and prayer and sacrament. When we leave, we will switch on headlights or bicycle lamps, or maybe walk by the glow of street-lamps to find our way home. Light is for traveling. The world grows accustomed to stumbling in darkness. May we gently wipe our eyes and our hearts, that we may receive each day the uncreated Light that illumines our souls.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Tears and joy
Advent 3C
http://lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv3_RCL.html
Today is Gaudate Sunday – Literally “Be Joyful” Sunday. It is quite a paradox – this command to be joyful - standing in stark relief to the overwhelming sadness of this week. I do not think there are adequate words to make sense of the violence, the loss, the pain, the darkness of our world that was so violently made clear in Connecticut and in Clackamas this week. So this is real – at first all we can do is wail and cry and pray: Here is a prayer from a Christian Century in response to Friday’s shootings:
God of the broken-hearted,
God of the broken heart,
Receive our sighs
too deep for words.
In your time
by your grace
heal us.
In this meantime
hold us
as we weep.
Hold us and rock us
with the rhythm
of your own
grief-struck
quaking
body.
Amen
We start there, crying the tears that are our own, and crying the tears that belong to the God of love. Perhaps this is where the paradox of joy enters, that we have a God who weeps and wails at this loss.
Kafka tells a story of a little girl who was late coming home. When her mother inquired about where she had been she shared that she had stopped to help a friend who had broken her doll. When the mother asked if she had helped fix the doll the girl proclaimed, “oh no, I do not know how to fix it. I stopped to help her cry.” We cry and pray today for our own grief and for those who are too sad, too angry, too lost to do it for themselves.
This broken world – this is where God chose incarnation – vulnerable flesh – a quiet light in a world already filled with darkness. There were perhaps not guns, but he chose to come into a world in which a King would kill innocent babes to secure his reign, where oppression and occupation dictated daily life…and he chooses to come now, into this world where innocents continue to die – a world as much in need of a savior as ever. We wait again to experience his choice to come willingly into this darkness, to love its people.
And so it is the wisdom of these lectionary texts and of the traditions of the church to command joy in the face of the evil of the world. Because, as Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near” and the story of our faith would proclaim that this violence, death, and pain do not have the final word but that “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it!”
So, what does it mean to be joyful in the face of such tragedy? The readings today give us a very different picture of joy than we expect. They tie up this experience of joy with repentance, with hope when things seem lost, and with generosity. The theme of joy here is this: Hope and generosity must rule our hearts even when we are tempted with fear and despair.
After getting the crowd’s attention with colorful comparisons of the crowd to a frightened, spawn of snakes John presents the first step in the life of Joy… “bear fruits worthy of repentance”.
To talk of repentance in the midst of tragedy perhaps seems harsh. And I want to be clear that I am not in any way suggesting that these events are God’s wrath in response to our sinfulness, but am talking about that sense of repentance in which we are able to see the ways that our choices embrace rather than reject a culture in which such tragedy could happen. All of the readings today, to some extent, equate the depth of joy with turning away-repenting from- death.
Can we tolerate asking ourselves today what parts of our existence contribute to a culture of death? Can we, like the crowds stand before John and our God and ask, “what then shall we do?”
One thing I believe repentance means today is a turning away from what would be our natural response to violence: fear, a desire to lock ourselves away, to choose protection above connection to the marginalized people of our world…we would wish to seek comfort. But John doesn’t let the crowds fall back into comfort and safety. He defines this fruit, this joy, very differently. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” They will not be able to hold onto the safety of their careful planning or to their strength, they are asked to risk their safety and comfort for their neighbor. He asks for an act of trust and hope. Here it is again, hope and generosity must win over fear and despair.
What does this mean for us today? I imagine a contemporary writing to include language like: “If you have power, use it for the powerless. If you have a voice, speak for the unheard. If you have been heard, give your ear to the discounted. If you have been loved, love the unloved.”
What is it we hold onto that John would challenge us to share? In what places do we allow fear and despair to trump hope and generosity? Do we trust that in sharing we will experience joy?
I think it is a natural temptation, but one we must resist, to respond to the events of this week with fear of those struggling with mental illness. Every day that we open our doors here at Saints Peter and Paul we are gifted with the face of Christ in the poor and his voice in the often confused, lost words of those who are plagued by insanity. We could, right now, choose to close our doors, or at least our hearts, out of fear. But joy means holding on to hope for each of those souls. It means trusting and giving even when we are afraid. If we have ten dollars we give five…if we have two cups of coffee we give one. And maybe like Kafka, Paul’s message echoes that of John: “Rejoice in the Lord always (not sometimes…not only when times are good) again I say rejoice. Let your gentleness be evident to all” –Hope and generosity not fear or despair. And how can we do this? Well, Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near!” Weeping beside us, lighting the path in the darkness. This is the source of our hope, the motivation of our generosity.
As we light the pink candle this week we are called, like Mary, so long ago, to sing a song of rejoicing to the lord - even in the face of very real brokenness - and to wait expectantly for Light to come into the darkness of the world.
Gadaute!
Amen.
Preached by the Rev. Tracy LeBlanc
http://lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv3_RCL.html
Today is Gaudate Sunday – Literally “Be Joyful” Sunday. It is quite a paradox – this command to be joyful - standing in stark relief to the overwhelming sadness of this week. I do not think there are adequate words to make sense of the violence, the loss, the pain, the darkness of our world that was so violently made clear in Connecticut and in Clackamas this week. So this is real – at first all we can do is wail and cry and pray: Here is a prayer from a Christian Century in response to Friday’s shootings:
God of the broken-hearted,
God of the broken heart,
Receive our sighs
too deep for words.
In your time
by your grace
heal us.
In this meantime
hold us
as we weep.
Hold us and rock us
with the rhythm
of your own
grief-struck
quaking
body.
Amen
We start there, crying the tears that are our own, and crying the tears that belong to the God of love. Perhaps this is where the paradox of joy enters, that we have a God who weeps and wails at this loss.
Kafka tells a story of a little girl who was late coming home. When her mother inquired about where she had been she shared that she had stopped to help a friend who had broken her doll. When the mother asked if she had helped fix the doll the girl proclaimed, “oh no, I do not know how to fix it. I stopped to help her cry.” We cry and pray today for our own grief and for those who are too sad, too angry, too lost to do it for themselves.
This broken world – this is where God chose incarnation – vulnerable flesh – a quiet light in a world already filled with darkness. There were perhaps not guns, but he chose to come into a world in which a King would kill innocent babes to secure his reign, where oppression and occupation dictated daily life…and he chooses to come now, into this world where innocents continue to die – a world as much in need of a savior as ever. We wait again to experience his choice to come willingly into this darkness, to love its people.
And so it is the wisdom of these lectionary texts and of the traditions of the church to command joy in the face of the evil of the world. Because, as Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near” and the story of our faith would proclaim that this violence, death, and pain do not have the final word but that “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it!”
So, what does it mean to be joyful in the face of such tragedy? The readings today give us a very different picture of joy than we expect. They tie up this experience of joy with repentance, with hope when things seem lost, and with generosity. The theme of joy here is this: Hope and generosity must rule our hearts even when we are tempted with fear and despair.
After getting the crowd’s attention with colorful comparisons of the crowd to a frightened, spawn of snakes John presents the first step in the life of Joy… “bear fruits worthy of repentance”.
To talk of repentance in the midst of tragedy perhaps seems harsh. And I want to be clear that I am not in any way suggesting that these events are God’s wrath in response to our sinfulness, but am talking about that sense of repentance in which we are able to see the ways that our choices embrace rather than reject a culture in which such tragedy could happen. All of the readings today, to some extent, equate the depth of joy with turning away-repenting from- death.
Can we tolerate asking ourselves today what parts of our existence contribute to a culture of death? Can we, like the crowds stand before John and our God and ask, “what then shall we do?”
One thing I believe repentance means today is a turning away from what would be our natural response to violence: fear, a desire to lock ourselves away, to choose protection above connection to the marginalized people of our world…we would wish to seek comfort. But John doesn’t let the crowds fall back into comfort and safety. He defines this fruit, this joy, very differently. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” They will not be able to hold onto the safety of their careful planning or to their strength, they are asked to risk their safety and comfort for their neighbor. He asks for an act of trust and hope. Here it is again, hope and generosity must win over fear and despair.
What does this mean for us today? I imagine a contemporary writing to include language like: “If you have power, use it for the powerless. If you have a voice, speak for the unheard. If you have been heard, give your ear to the discounted. If you have been loved, love the unloved.”
What is it we hold onto that John would challenge us to share? In what places do we allow fear and despair to trump hope and generosity? Do we trust that in sharing we will experience joy?
I think it is a natural temptation, but one we must resist, to respond to the events of this week with fear of those struggling with mental illness. Every day that we open our doors here at Saints Peter and Paul we are gifted with the face of Christ in the poor and his voice in the often confused, lost words of those who are plagued by insanity. We could, right now, choose to close our doors, or at least our hearts, out of fear. But joy means holding on to hope for each of those souls. It means trusting and giving even when we are afraid. If we have ten dollars we give five…if we have two cups of coffee we give one. And maybe like Kafka, Paul’s message echoes that of John: “Rejoice in the Lord always (not sometimes…not only when times are good) again I say rejoice. Let your gentleness be evident to all” –Hope and generosity not fear or despair. And how can we do this? Well, Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near!” Weeping beside us, lighting the path in the darkness. This is the source of our hope, the motivation of our generosity.
As we light the pink candle this week we are called, like Mary, so long ago, to sing a song of rejoicing to the lord - even in the face of very real brokenness - and to wait expectantly for Light to come into the darkness of the world.
Gadaute!
Amen.
Preached by the Rev. Tracy LeBlanc
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Casting off
1 Advent C 2012
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv1_RCL.html
It was my job to cast off the lines.
My earliest memories are of salt water and my father’s boat. In those days, back on Long Island, any working-class guy could have some sort of leaky wooden boat and old, worn-out motor and spend time out fishing. That was Dad’s great joy, and so little Kurt just like my older brothers before me would be bundled in a stained orange life-vest and would help Dad get the boat ready.
There was a lot of “get ready”—mixing the gas and oil in the old-fashioned orange tank, gathering the gear and loading it. The boat would rock gently, tied up there next to the old wooden dock with its planks bleached grey by sun and salt. But finally the time would come—the time to cast off.
It was my job to move first to the stern, then to the prow, and slip the loops at the end of the ropes off of the cleats that held our old boat safely to the worn, familiar dock. It was a moment that placed us in the ancient tradition of sailors and voyagers, even if we were only going a couple of miles out to fish. The weight of the boat would hold the line too tight to easily slip off the cleat, and so I would have to exert a moment’s effort to pull the line taut, then suddenly slacken it so for a moment it was loose enough to lift from the cleat. As I slipped the final loop from the cleat, I would always glance down, and even the oily water next to the dock would seem deep and mysterious below our fragile wooden shell.
Finally, a shove would give the boat enough of a surge of motion away from the dock that it would float free, rocking gently, making itself and we who depended on it creatures of the restless water. A philosopher said that you never cross the same river twice. It is even more true of the sea—it is restless and ever-moving, never the same from moment to moment. I would sit and as the motor sputtered into life and the boat surged forward, I would feel a momentary thrill, a sinking in the pit of my stomach as if I were flying. You never knew what awaited you, even in the harbors and bays of Long Island. You never knew where the voyage would take you, once you had cast off.
“Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…”
Most of us love Advent and find many words to express that. This first Collect of Advent is filled with contrast—“cast away”, “put on”. This Advent it is the “cast away” part that snatches my heart. I love this Collect, but often find myself a little embarrassed by that expression “works of darkness.” I am certainly a sinful man, self-absorbed and petty, but my sinfulness never quite seems to live up to the ominous grandeur of “works of darkness.” Voldemort and Sauron and the White Witch in fantasy books do “works of darkness.” My sins seem to lack the kind of evil courage and initiative implied by the majesty of “works of darkness.”
But there are many “works of darkness”, and most of them are not fame-worthy. I also remember, when we would cast off from shore how many years ago, how littered and shabby and drab was the dock and the shoreline where we would ready the boat. No one would want to spend any more time on that grubby shore of Centerport Harbor than they needed to.
The “works of darkness” can be that familiar and drab and hope-less place where we have been accustomed to hang out in, for no good reason other than it is familiar. What is our equivalent of the dry, dirty, familiar harbor-side in our own lives? A faith that has grown cold and routine? Habits of resentment or self-pity? A general hopelessness that does not cripple us, but casts a shadow over every day? A pattern of distraction, of noise or virtual communication or repetitive entertainment, that keeps us from seeing the heart-breaking beauty and wonder of the world around us? Or keeps us from seeing the pathos and silent courage and struggle of those around us?
Today our patron Saint Paul reaches out in hope and love and pity to us, wishing that we ccould recover that beauty and delight that we may have lost even without our knowing. “Night and day we pray most earnestly that we may …restore whatever is lacking in your faith… And may he so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.”
A Celtic Christian said, “Jesus is the memory of what we have forgotten about God.”
As we cast off on this Advent Sunday, what have we forgotten? What is lacking in our faith? What part of our hearts has grown weak, even without our knowing?
Years ago, we would usually cast off before dawn. As it rose and fell with the surge, I used to imagine that the boat itself was remembering that it was not just a rickety old wooden shell flipped upside-down on sawhorses in our yard. It was a free creature of the sea, part of the surge and swell and power of the waves.
The sun would rise and turn the waves into gold and fire. We too were creatures of the sea, and of the dawn, part of the surge and the light. I would wake up from the drowsy, chilly walking dream in which I had helped to get the boat ready to cast off. That’s right, I would think. I remember. That’s why we came. This is who we are. This is why we cast off.
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv1_RCL.html
It was my job to cast off the lines.
My earliest memories are of salt water and my father’s boat. In those days, back on Long Island, any working-class guy could have some sort of leaky wooden boat and old, worn-out motor and spend time out fishing. That was Dad’s great joy, and so little Kurt just like my older brothers before me would be bundled in a stained orange life-vest and would help Dad get the boat ready.
There was a lot of “get ready”—mixing the gas and oil in the old-fashioned orange tank, gathering the gear and loading it. The boat would rock gently, tied up there next to the old wooden dock with its planks bleached grey by sun and salt. But finally the time would come—the time to cast off.
It was my job to move first to the stern, then to the prow, and slip the loops at the end of the ropes off of the cleats that held our old boat safely to the worn, familiar dock. It was a moment that placed us in the ancient tradition of sailors and voyagers, even if we were only going a couple of miles out to fish. The weight of the boat would hold the line too tight to easily slip off the cleat, and so I would have to exert a moment’s effort to pull the line taut, then suddenly slacken it so for a moment it was loose enough to lift from the cleat. As I slipped the final loop from the cleat, I would always glance down, and even the oily water next to the dock would seem deep and mysterious below our fragile wooden shell.
Finally, a shove would give the boat enough of a surge of motion away from the dock that it would float free, rocking gently, making itself and we who depended on it creatures of the restless water. A philosopher said that you never cross the same river twice. It is even more true of the sea—it is restless and ever-moving, never the same from moment to moment. I would sit and as the motor sputtered into life and the boat surged forward, I would feel a momentary thrill, a sinking in the pit of my stomach as if I were flying. You never knew what awaited you, even in the harbors and bays of Long Island. You never knew where the voyage would take you, once you had cast off.
“Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…”
Most of us love Advent and find many words to express that. This first Collect of Advent is filled with contrast—“cast away”, “put on”. This Advent it is the “cast away” part that snatches my heart. I love this Collect, but often find myself a little embarrassed by that expression “works of darkness.” I am certainly a sinful man, self-absorbed and petty, but my sinfulness never quite seems to live up to the ominous grandeur of “works of darkness.” Voldemort and Sauron and the White Witch in fantasy books do “works of darkness.” My sins seem to lack the kind of evil courage and initiative implied by the majesty of “works of darkness.”
But there are many “works of darkness”, and most of them are not fame-worthy. I also remember, when we would cast off from shore how many years ago, how littered and shabby and drab was the dock and the shoreline where we would ready the boat. No one would want to spend any more time on that grubby shore of Centerport Harbor than they needed to.
The “works of darkness” can be that familiar and drab and hope-less place where we have been accustomed to hang out in, for no good reason other than it is familiar. What is our equivalent of the dry, dirty, familiar harbor-side in our own lives? A faith that has grown cold and routine? Habits of resentment or self-pity? A general hopelessness that does not cripple us, but casts a shadow over every day? A pattern of distraction, of noise or virtual communication or repetitive entertainment, that keeps us from seeing the heart-breaking beauty and wonder of the world around us? Or keeps us from seeing the pathos and silent courage and struggle of those around us?
Today our patron Saint Paul reaches out in hope and love and pity to us, wishing that we ccould recover that beauty and delight that we may have lost even without our knowing. “Night and day we pray most earnestly that we may …restore whatever is lacking in your faith… And may he so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.”
A Celtic Christian said, “Jesus is the memory of what we have forgotten about God.”
As we cast off on this Advent Sunday, what have we forgotten? What is lacking in our faith? What part of our hearts has grown weak, even without our knowing?
Years ago, we would usually cast off before dawn. As it rose and fell with the surge, I used to imagine that the boat itself was remembering that it was not just a rickety old wooden shell flipped upside-down on sawhorses in our yard. It was a free creature of the sea, part of the surge and swell and power of the waves.
The sun would rise and turn the waves into gold and fire. We too were creatures of the sea, and of the dawn, part of the surge and the light. I would wake up from the drowsy, chilly walking dream in which I had helped to get the boat ready to cast off. That’s right, I would think. I remember. That’s why we came. This is who we are. This is why we cast off.
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