Seeing Differently

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Seeing Differently

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Second Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 12, 2017

I wonder how you’re doing on your Lenten journey.  How your fast is coming, or the thing that you decided to take on instead of giving up something—how’s that going?  Several friends this week have mentioned to me that they’ve just not done as well as they’d hoped.  That the plan to give up wine at dinner was over by Thursday.  That the intention to hit the gym each morning was, well, not happening each morning.  That chocolate seemed just too irresistible to keep from having just one little bite.

I don’t want to make light of Lenten fasts.  They are important ways that the Church keeps a holy Lent—that we keep turning our attention towards God.  Fasting—or even taking on a new discipline—can help us become more aware of how we’re relating to the world, to God, to one another; it can help us repent—change—be the people God has created us to be.  And that’s a good thing.  If your Lenten fast is going well, keep it up. 

But a Lenten fast can also be used as a way for us to try and grab control of our own salvation.  If I can just get this fasting thing down right, God will be pleased with me, and I’ll be a better person, a better Christian.  I’ll finally get it right!   Have you ever had any of those feelings?

Today in our gospel reading we hear the story of Nicodemus, a leader of the Jewish people, a Pharisee, a scholar of the law.  He comes to Jesus secretly, under cover of night even, to talk with him.  Is Nicodemus testing Jesus?  Investigating him?  Is he flattering him when he says, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” (John 3.2b)  Or is he truly interested in learning what Jesus is there to teach?  It seems as though he’s being earnest, because he makes a fundamental mistake—he misunderstands what Jesus is telling him.

Jesus replies, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” (3.3)  What I grew up hearing, though, and what is probably what you remember hearing, is a bit different.  The Authorized version renders Jesus’s response to Nicodemus like this: “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” (3.3) 

There it is, that phrase “born again.” 

When I hear that phrase used in our popular understanding of Christianity, I think of “born again Christians.”  Folks who have had a life-changing encounter with the living God.  People that can point to a mountaintop experience, often an emotional encounter, something like Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus where he was struck down by the blinding light of God’s presence—where he was changed.  Something maybe like John Wesley’s experience at Aldersgate, when he felt his heart strangely warmed.  A particular moment that folks can point to and say, there it is.  On this date I encountered the living God.  I was born again.  I became a Christian.

In divinity school I was in a class with a broad range of students from Catholic and evangelical traditions.  A guest lecturer, a Roman Catholic nun, was telling us about her experiences in the base communities in Latin America and her work there with liberation theology.   As she was telling us her story, as she invited questions, a young woman, a classmate, raised her hand and asked, “But Sister, when did you become a Christian?  When were you born again?”

The nun smiled and replied, very seriously, “Well, I suppose I’ve always been a Christian.  I was born to Christian parents.  I was baptized as an infant.  I have always been part of the Church, the body of Christ.”

It was as though they were speaking two different languages—the two languages of the Church, catholic and reformed, two different traditions, talking about the same thing.  The young woman wanted to know when the nun had found Jesus; but the nun had never lost Jesus!  She’d always walked with him.

This idea of being born again can be used to draw lines, to exclude, to determine who’s a good Christian, who’s really Christian, and who’s just culturally identifying, walking alongside, talking the talk.  Who’s in and who’s out.  Who’s saved, and who’s not.

If the idea of being “born again” seems strange to you, take heart, for it seems strange to Nicodemus as well, and trying to understand what Jesus means, he presses the question.  How can anyone be born a second time?  Nicodemus recognizes the linguistic turn in Jesus’s speech; the Greek word anothen can be translated as again, from the beginning, or, in the sense that the NRSV uses, from above, from on high, from heaven.[1]  The sense that Jesus is trying to impart, and that Jesus clarifies, is that Nicodemus must be reborn from God.  That Nicodemus must re-orient his world view towards the kingdom of God.  He must learn to see differently, to be born of water and the spirit.

This Lent a group of us are reading Archbishop Justin Welby’s book Dethroning Mammon: Making Money Serve Grace (London: Bloomsbury, 2016).  The book is about how we distinguish between the kingdom of God, the values of Jesus, and the priorities and organization of the world—mammon.  In short, who is it that we look to rule the world—is it money, economic systems, the flow of goods and services?  Or is the love of Jesus the first organizing principle?  Is it the love of God, revealed in Christ, that rules our lives, and the way we behave in the world?

The first thing that the Archbishop says is that we must learn to see differently.  That we value what it is we see, so we must begin to see the world differently—through the eyes of Jesus.  He gives as an example Lazarus.  Mary and Martha are busy hosting parties; they are productive.  But we don’t know anything about Lazarus—what is his worth?  What can he produce?  Taking a page from Jean Varnier’s L’Arche communities, communities where people with and without disabilities live side by side in community and companionship, Welby wonders if perhaps Lazarus was different in some way—whether he had a disability—and if that might account for why we don’t hear much of his story in the gospels—why we don’t hear about his value to the community he inhabits.  But he has value to Jesus, who sees differently.  And whatever Lazarus’s story, Jesus raises him from the dead.  Jesus sees him, wants to be in relationship with him, and brings him back from death into life, community, and relationship. 

Welby invites us to see differently—to see as Jesus sees.  To take the risk on valuing even what the world doesn’t value.  To believe that there is more than the world offers.  To believe that, in truth, God so desires to be with us that he sends his own son to save the whole world.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.  Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” (3.16-17)

Welby invites us to see differently. To see through the eyes of Jesus.  Jesus invites Nicodemus to see differently.  Not to be born for a second time, which Nicodemus realizes is physically impossible, but to die to sin and self, just as we do in our baptism, and to rise to new life—to live as God teaches us to live—in the hope of new life, complete love, abundance, and joy.  Nicodemus, you must be born from above, Jesus tells him.  You must be born by water and the spirit.  You must see the world differently—through the eyes of God’s great love.

John Wesley knew that way of seeing.  Not just intellectually.  He had a moment when he felt it, in his very being, there at Aldersgate, when his heart was strangely warmed.  While in a bible study hearing Luther’s preface to the Epistle to the Romans, Wesley writes that “while [the speaker] was describing the change which God works in the heart through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone, for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death.”[2]

It was that realization for Wesley that warmed his heart:  that “…God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.  Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” (John 3.16-17) 

That’s what Jesus is inviting Nicodemus to see.  His new life, his being born from above, is to see with those eyes that see differently—that see that the greatest gift, the greatest thing of value, is God’s own love.  That God has given God’s very self to secure that relationship.  To draw us to him. 

And when we realize the value that we have to God, when we realize how God values us, we can begin to value the world around us differently.  To love one another as he loves us.

That’s the work we’re called to do this Lent.  Our fasting, our prayer, our study of scripture—our taking on and our giving up—all of these things we do so that we cansee more clearly.  So that we can see the world through God’s eyes.  So that we can see one another through Jesus’s eyes of mercy and love.  So that we can see ourselves as loved and redeemed.

That’s what it is to be born from above.  To see the world differently.  My friends in Christ, I pray that, this Lent, we may be born of water and the spirit—born from above.  That we may see differently.  I pray for us a holy Lent.

 

 

 

[1] Jerome Neyrey, SJ, in notes for vv 3-5 in the gospel of John, The New Oxford Annotated Bible, NRSV with Apocrypha, 4th ed, Michael Coogan, ed.  Oxford:  OUP 2010, p NT 1886.

[2] Entry for May 25, Journal of John Wesley, ed. Percy Livingstone Parker.  Chicago:  Moody, 1951.  Online at https://www.ccel.org/ccel/wesley/journal.i.html (accessed 3/11/17).

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Get up – and do not be afraid!

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Get up – and do not be afraid!

I don’t know about you, but for me, this week has been such a welcome relief from the cold of winter.  And I am plenty glad to see the snow cover go.  We never had a snow cover in the South when I was a child, so it’s something that’s taken some getting used to—and I’m not opposed to it—I quite like it some winters—but this year I was glad to see it go.  Even though we know more cold is in store, things are beginning to bud here, bulbs poking up through the ground—evidence that spring may indeed be around the corner.

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Salt and Light

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Salt and Light

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
February 5, 2017

‘You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.  (Matthew 5.13)

What do you think of when you think of salt?  I generally always think of those old blue boxes with the girl with the umbrella on them—the Morton salt box—“When it rains, it pours,” the marketing slogan said, in a reference, I suppose, to how the salt was non-caking—how it would pour even in humid climates.  That was a useful thing in the South where I grew up; my grandmother would put rice grains in her salt shaker to try to keep the salt from caking.  Maybe she hadn’t found Morton’s, or maybe even its anti-caking properties couldn’t stand up to the high humidity of South Georgia.  The issues of clumping notwithstanding, salt is something of a commodity in my mind, right along with sugar and flour, fairly inexpensive at the local market.  I’ve had a box of sea salt now in my cabinet for at least ten years; it’s survived at least four moves and is still a quarter full.  I’m not hanging onto it because I think it’s particularly valuable.  I’ve just been sparing on the salt usage—and I don’t want to waste it, so I haven’t thrown it out.  It’s just as good now as it was then.  And Morton’s advertising notwithstanding, it’s not clumped a bit as far as I can tell.  I haven’t thought a bit about it as a valuable thing to hold onto.

That’s not how the ancient world would have viewed salt, though, is it?  Salt would have been extraordinarily valuable.  I use salt occasionally to bring out the flavor of a vegetable that I’m cooking, or even some meat, but before refrigeration, not that long ago, salt would have been a mainstay of preserving food.  Think of salted, dried fish; bacon and ham; and even corned beef.  The salt serves to dry out the food and prevent the growth of bacteria that would spoil it.  Today we can put fresh foods into the refrigerator or the freezer, but even a hundred years ago salt still would have been an important method of food preservation, as it was in Jesus’s day.   

This value that salt has for preservation made it important to local economies, then.  Salt could be traded—first  mined from underground deposits or collected from evaporative techniques—and then transported along trade routes to cities to be sold in markets.  The production of salt—and even more its trading—became important economic activities in the ancient world.  If you’ve ever been to Salzburg in Austria, the birthplace of Mozart, you’ll have seen the medieval fort and castle built on a ridge high above the town—Hohensalzburg—evidence of the importance of the salt trade to this region—and to the fortunes of the Archbishops of Salzburg. 

So one thing that Jesus is saying about the salt—and about us—is that it’s valuable.  We are valuable.  “You are the salt of the earth.” You are valuable to God—we are valuable to God.  Not like those little packets of salt that come in your take out meal—or like the salt canister in your cupboard—but like something rare that has to be mined from the earth, or distilled from the sea—that has to be carried over long distances.  You are rare, you are valuable. You are the salt of the earth.

That value is intrinsic.  That value has to do with being made in God’s image.  With being redeemed by Jesus Christ in his birth, his death, and his resurrection.  That value has to do with being sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.  We belong to God in Christ—and we find our worth, and our value, there, at the foot of the cross.  We are God’s.

But that intrinsic value can be eroded, our gospel reading seems to say.

“But if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?” Jesus asks.  Now, we know that salt is a mineral—actually a compound—sodium chloride.  But the salt you might dig up from a mine or take from the ocean has other things in it, too—other things than the sodium and chloride that give it flavor, that affect its taste.  If salt is stored somewhere wet, the salt itself, the sodium chloride, can leech away, leaving the other minerals behind, substances that don’t have the flavor-enhancing characteristics of the salt, that don’t have the preservative properties—that don’t have the value of the salt.  The goodness of the salt—the bits you want—have washed away.

Last Sunday we heard the beatitudes—the part of the sermon on the mount, Jesus’s own preaching, that reminds us “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted...  Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are the merciful…the pure in heart…the peacemakers…”  Those teachings of Jesus that give us a view of the kingdom of God, the values of the very heart of God.   Mother Kathryn told us that the beatitudes themselves are embodied in Jesus—that he is a living beatitude.  That vision found in Christ gives us a hope for what the world can look like when we live according to the reign of God. When we love God and one another as God has loved us.

We are the salt of the earth.  But if salt has lost its saltiness, how can it be restored?  If we aren’t living into this vision of the kingdom of God, not just in the future, but here and now, how can we be the people that God has made us to be?  We can’t just sit around on the shelf like the Morton’s salt canister!  We have to actively DO the thing that God has made us to do—to BE the people God has made us to be.  God calls us to action—to doing—to being.  Let’s not lose our saltiness, Jesus seems to be saying.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu and his daughter the Rev’d Mpho Tutu van Furth have written a book entitled Made for Goodness.  The Tutus’ premise is that God has made us for goodness—to live in the realm of the possibility of the kingdom of God—to live as though that kingdom has come—to love like Jesus in the world around us.  Anything that is NOT goodness is not us—is not what God has made us to be.  Anything that is NOT goodness is not salt—it’s just the detritus that collects when the salt washes away.

So what does that look like, to BE salt?  To let your light shine, as the gospel says?  “You are the light of the world…  Let your light shine before others so that they may see your good works and give glory to your father in Heaven.”   And I want to be clear—being salt, letting your light shine—those aren’t ways to earn grace, to earn salvation—they’re just being who it is God has made us to be.  Anything else is, well, putting our light under a bushel basket, Jesus tells us!

So how do we shine?  How do we keep our saltiness?  How do we live differently, live as Christians, as the body of Christ, in this world?

Maybe out of our abundance we give something to others.  Sure, it makes sense for self-preservation to hold onto everything we have, to build up walls for our protection, to close ourselves off when we’re afraid—but in Jesus we already have everything we need.  We are salt.  We are light.  What if we share some of that with the world?  A little light, a little salt, goes a long way.  

Today we’ll go down to the green and share the word of God, share the Eucharist, share a sandwich with the community that gathers there each Sunday afternoon.  You’re invited.  Come make a sandwich.  Come share in the fellowship, in the thanksgiving that is Christ’s body and blood, with the body of Christ.  Come share some salt and light.

Maybe out of the great love we’ve been given we share some to turn the other cheek, as Jesus says, even in the face of great wickedness.  I’m reminded of how stunning it was when last year, when parishioners at Bethel AME Church in Charleston were slaughtered by a white supremacist, that their relatives and brothers and sisters in Christ called out to spare the murderer the death penalty.  They called out for forgiveness.  They asked God’s mercy on the killer.  Even in the face of that great evil they were able to live by the love of Christ that they knew so well.  They were salt and light.

Rosa Parks, who was born 104 years ago yesterday, was salt and light.  As Mtr Kathryn referenced Dr King last week, Ms Parks exercised creative maladjustment when she refused to obey an unjust law.  She gave catalyst and courage to the Montgomery bus boycotts—she threw her salt into the game and enlivened the discourse on race and human rights in our nation and the world.  And that was no accident, right?  It took work and planning—and a whole lot of people working together—and a whole lot of the Holy Spirit moving—but Ms Parks was willing to be the salt in that mix—to be the salt, to shine her light for God. 

There’s a whole lot of light, a whole lot of saltiness in the body of Christ.  It doesn’t take only the extraordinary acts of heroism like those of the Charleston martyrs, or of Rosa Parks, though they can be examples for us, and the salt they’ve shared has enlivened the world.  But it also takes ordinary acts of Christian courage.  A word here, a sandwich there.   Little bits of salt that help the dough rise.  Little places of light that come together to share the blazing glory that is the light of Christ.

My friends, we are made for goodness.  Be salt in this world.  Be light in the darkness.  Be the love of God that you share with everyone you meet.

 

 

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Jesus, Beatitudes, and Us

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Jesus, Beatitudes, and Us

I want to try to focus on three things today.

1. What the beatitudes are not.
2. What the beatitudes are.
3. What Jesus as beatitudes means for our “creative maladjustment”

FIRST:

What the beatitudes are not: As I read this passage, the beatitudes are not concepts, ideas, plans for self-improvement. They are not suggestions, commandments, goals. They are not protocols for entering the Kingdom of God, they are not a manifesto for changing the world, they are not prescriptions on how to polish our halos. No, they are not primarily about us. In reality they are primarily about Jesus. They bear his identity. And that is true of all Scripture.

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We Belong to Christ

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We Belong to Christ

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Third Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
January 22, 2017

What a weekend this has been. On Friday we celebrated the inauguration of our 45th President, and hundreds of thousands of people watched at the Capitol, on television, and online. Saturday hundreds of thousands of women along with allies took to the streets of cities across the world to advocate for women’s rights—human rights for all people—and in protest of the election of our 45th President. 

In the media it seems as though we are a country divided—of people who have supported the election of President Trump and who find hope in his message of populism, of promised jobs, of a future that puts America first—and of people who feel left behind, marginalized, by the President’s rhetoric around minorities, his remarks about women, and his disdain for a social safety net that provides for care for the poorest among us. 

Division extends to the relationship between the new administration and the press itself; on Saturday the biggest news story—getting as much airtime as the Women’s March, it seemed—was the press secretary Sean Spicer’s first press conference in which he chastised the press on its reporting about the number of people in attendance at the inauguration. CNN and other news outlets spent the rest of the afternoon refuting Spicer’s claims—showing photos of the inauguration compared to photographs of previous inaugurations. Comparisons and competing claims of Metro ridership, photographs, and claims from news agencies and the press office and the President himself differed widely, and the disagreement was contentious.

I left the day feeling as though we were divided as a nation, as a society—that allegiances were no longer to our common civic life together but to the President’s administration or to those who oppose it.

Even the church seemed to disagree; Franklin Graham told the President that the rain at the inauguration was a biblical sign of God’s blessing. The President told the CIA that it had stopped raining as he gave his address—and that was a sign of God’s blessing. The Southern Baptist preacher in the pulpit at St John’s Episcopal Church, Lafayette Square, preaching for a private service for the President before the inauguration, cited Nehemiah, saying, “You see, God is not against building walls!” Pope Francis, for another perspective, reminded Mr Trump of the importance of care for the poor, writing: “Under your leadership, may America’s stature continue to be measured above all by its concern for the poor, the outcast and those in need who, like Lazarus, stand before our door. “ And just a day later Episcopalians were marching in the streets of major cities, filling social media feeds with images of peaceful protest. 

The church at Corinth had some disagreements, too, about who they were following. Paul has heard that the growing Christian community at Corinth is full of people that identify with the person that taught them about the Christian faith, the person that baptized them. He hears that they are competing with one another, drawing lines, claiming allegiance to Peter, to Apollos, and even to Paul himself. 

Were their theological claims so very different? Maybe. Was it just allegiance to the person who first taught them about the Way of Jesus? Perhaps it’s that. But Paul calls them back to something else, away from the individual paths, the cliques, the factions that they’ve fallen into—calls them back to the unifying power of the cross of Christ.

“For Christ did not send me to baptize but to proclaim the gospel, and not with eloquent wisdom, so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its power. For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (1 Cor 1.17-18).

The Corinthians were traders and merchants, wealthy and poor, from all over the Mediterranean region and even beyond—from all sorts of backgrounds and nationalities and belief systems. Many of them must have been Greeks and devoted to philosophical systems that prized wisdom. But here this story of a simple carpenter’s son from the backwater of Judea had come to them. And Paul, and Peter, and Apollos were telling them that this man, this human, was the revelation of God’s love—the very son of God—and that he’d been executed on the cross by the Roman government and yet rose and appeared to them again. That God’s love was sacrificial, self-offering, and couldn’t be put down by the powers of this world.

It must have sounded like a crazy story. And yet they’d believed. They’d committed to follow this Jesus. Could we blame them if they got a little off track, a little attached to the men who told them the story, the skill and wisdom they demonstrated? Don’t we in our own day get attached to the ways we hear the story of God? I follow Cranmer! I follow Calvin! I follow Francis! I follow the Episcopal Church, the Roman Catholic Church, the Baptist Church, the Presbyterian!

And yet Paul calls us back, not to the lenses through which we follow Jesus, not to the permutations of the stories, our own understanding of the wisdom we’ve received—but to the simple, unvarnished truth of the cross—this foolish message of the Son of God who comes, who is killed, and who rises. Who brings us hope. Hope that no matter what death the world deals, we are bound up in the lifesaving death and resurrection of Jesus. That everything else is dependent on that love, on that life.

We belong to Jesus—to this saving story of resurrection.

This Sunday we are squarely between the feasts of the Confession of Saint Peter and the Conversion of Saint Paul, two men that are completely different and yet follow the cross of Christ, who shows others his saving love. Peter confesses Jesus as Messiah, the Son of the living God, and Jesus names him as the Rock, the one on which he will build his Church. And yet Peter denies knowing Jesus three times there in Jerusalem. After the resurrection, as recorded in the gospel of John, Jesus calls to Peter, asking three times, Peter, do you love me? Peter replies each time yes. Jesus commands him, “Feed my sheep.” And Jesus invites him, just as at the beginning, to come and follow him.

Paul, who had by the account in Acts, persecuted followers of Jesus, standing by even at the stoning of Saint Stephen, is struck blind on the road to Damascus, when Jesus appears to him. Paul is received by Annanias, who ministers to him, and Paul’s life is changed. He goes forth from that place to proclaim the love of Jesus with as much zeal as the first apostles—as one who has met Jesus, even after the resurrection, even as we meet him.

These are unlikely characters to spread the Gospel—a man who persecuted followers of Jesus. Another who denied Jesus. And yet here they are—the most prolific apostles and evangelists of the early Church. If God can use them, won’t God surely use us?

In the gospel today Jesus invites Peter and Andrew, James & John, to come and follow him—to come fish for people. 

Even as our civil society is fractured, can we follow Jesus—can we fish for one another, throw one another a line, to share his great love? 

The cross is the thing that unifies us as Christians—that great love of God in Christ. God can use Peter and Paul to share that love—those disparate souls with their massive faults—and God can use us. 

As you navigate the world this next week, this next month, these next years, remember the thing that we are called to proclaim—the thing that unifies us—the cross of Christ that is foolishness to the world, but that to us who are being saved is the power of God. 

Come and fish for people. Come and follow Jesus.

 

 

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Hell

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Hell

The streets and the airwaves alike are now full of the virtues and themes of the season: comfort and joy, warmth and goodness, peace and love, death and judgement, death and hell. Oh wait…

Some of you may recall that in fact it was traditional to preach the “Four Last things” - death, judgement, heaven, and hell - on the four Sundays of Advent, which means we would indeed be up the last, and worst, and above all least “Christmassy” of all theological topics imaginable. But what was the last time you heard a sermon about Hell in The Episcopal Church? Strap yourselves in.

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Elves, Judgement, and Jesus

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Elves, Judgement, and Jesus

What traditions do you have in your family?  What Advent traditions, or Christmas traditions?  Maybe you have a tree that you like to put up.  Or an Advent wreath.  Or an Advent calendar even.  I love Advent calendars—opening a little door each day of Advent, marking time moving towards Christmas.  As a child lots of those traditions were bound up around Santa Claus—waiting for presents.  How many more days till Christmas meant how many more days till presents

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Funeral Homily for Stanley A. Leavy

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Funeral Homily for Stanley A. Leavy

I would like to reflect on Stan’s life and death in the context of this space, the liturgical calendar, and our Gospel reading. Stanley passed from this life to the next on the eve of All Saints. A time when the veil between heaven and earth is particularly thin. The first time I heard the name Stan Leavy was from the former rector of Christ Church, David Cobb, when I was brand new to the parish and the priesthood. David said, “Oh, yes, Stan. You will get to know who Stan is.” Then he paused, looked off to side, then looked back at me and said, “Stan, he is truly one of the saints.” And I came to find that David was right about that

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King of Kings

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King of Kings

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Last Sunday after Pentecost: Feast of Christ the King (Year C)
November 20, 2016

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