Seeing and Sharing the Savior

Ms Angela Shelley
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Presentation of our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple
February 2, 2020

Lord, you now have set your servant free

to go in peace as you have promised;

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,

whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations,

and the glory of your people Israel.

It probably began as just an ordinary day at the temple. After all every day is 40 days after somebody’s birth. It was an ordinary day that became extraordinary. Mary went to the temple as part of the ritual purification following childbirth, and brought Joseph and Jesus along. Such a tiny baby, Jesus still swaddled and nestled against his mother’s body on that 40th day.

Then something strange happened. Or maybe we should say, something else strange happened because the last 40 days had been full of strangeness – giving birth in the stable with the mysterious midwife; those shepherds who arrived that night as if they were family; and those wise men who hosted the oddest baby shower ever. Nothing had been ordinary since the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary those months ago to announce that she was having a baby.

Now it’s forty days since that baby was born and Mary bundles him up and takes him with her to the temple. And there Simeon appears, one more strange man, an old man, “righteous and devout”; led by the Holy Spirit to the temple that day. He’s been watching and waiting for the fulfillment of the promise of the Holy Spirit that he would not see death until he had seen the Messiah.

He’d been waiting and watching for a long time; it must have been years. Hoping the promise would be fulfilled; making extra trips to the temple just in case this was the day. Then suddenly it is the day.

I’ve always imagined that Simeon’s eyesight was poor in his old age, that he could barely make out the figures before him. But he somehow saw– by the power of the Holy Spirit – somehow knew that he had seen the Savior, the Light shining in the darkness.

So Simeon reached out his arms and received the infant Jesus. All his waiting and watching, all his hopes were fulfilled. His name, “God has heard” is at last realized. So he began praising God with words we still sing today:

Lord, you now have set your servant free

to go in peace as you have promised;

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,

whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations,

and the glory of your people Israel.

Even in the dim light of the temple, with Simeon’s faded vision, the “Light to enlighten the nations” shone brightly. Simeon’s hopes – the hopes of the whole world – were fulfilled at last. Praise, blessing, and prophecy poured forth from Simeon.

I have a small icon of this scene: Mary is at the center, clad in blue, of course, holding the infant Jesus on her lap. Joseph stands over her left shoulder and at the bottom is Simeon, kneeling and bending toward Jesus who has his hand on Simeon’s head in a gesture of blessing. Simeon holds Jesus’ tiny foot and kisses it.

When I shared this icon with the children in Church School, they noticed this detail. One of them asked, “Eww! Why’s he kissing his feet?!”
“Oh,” I said, “Baby feet are sweet; people love to kiss baby feet.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to kiss mine!,” exclaimed one of the children.
The others readily agreed.
“Besides,” I continued, “he’s kissing Jesus’ feet to worship him. Because this isn’t just a baby with sweet feet. He, this tiny, squirming baby, is Very God of Very God.”

So Simeon kisses Jesus’ feet and worships him with all his being. He at last has seen salvation.

Mary and Joseph are amazed at these words of praise. But Simeon isn’t seeing a vision, for there on the margins of the temple, another voice joins in the praise. Anna the prophet, the elderly widow who’s lived at the temple for many years, praying and fasting. She too realizes what she’s seen, who she’s seen. Very God of Very God.

Like Simeon, Anna cannot keep silent. She “talked about the child to all who were looking for the liberation of Jerusalem.” I imagine Anna talking about “the child,” about Jesus, not just that day, but every day, every day for the rest of her life. Because she's seen salvation, and that's all she can talk about.

I imagine, that like the women at the empty tomb who were the first to proclaim the resurrection, I imagine that Anna continued to proclaim the news of the Savior she had seen. Because she's seen salvation, and that's all she can talk about. We too have seen the Savior. We too have been set free. Perhaps not to die, but to live, to live into our highest vocation, the vocation of praising God.

We too have seen the Savior and we have been set free to praise God, to share the Light that enlightens the nations, to tell all who are looking for liberation that salvation has come. Everywhere we go, people are looking for light to enlighten the darkness of our world. Some are waiting and watching, watching in hope. Others long for light, but dare not hope.

There’s so much darkness in our world – and not just the darkness of midwinter. Sometimes it seems the darkness is overcoming the light. But we who’ve encountered the Light of the World have hope, hope that the light will overcome the darkness.

There’s so much fear in our world. Both young and old, citizens and immigrants, conservatives and liberals. It seems like everyone is afraid. Everyone is wishing for something different, for true peace. But only a few dare to hope, to wait and watch in hope, to act in hope.

As Fr Stephen frequently reminds us, hope is our vocation. Waiting in hope, watching in hope, acting in hope. It’s what we are called to do as followers of Christ. We are called to hope, to look beyond the current darkness, to claim the light of Christ, to shine the light of Christ, to be the light. We’re called to join Simeon and Anna in praise and thanksgiving, in proclaiming that Christ has come, that Christ is the light of the world.

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,

whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations.

Because Christ is the light of the world, the light that shines in the darkness, we process today with candles and we bless candles to use in our worship and to take home from this holy place back to the holy places of our everyday lives as we seek to bear the light of Christ in our everyday lives.

We admire the witness of Simeon and Anna and hold them up as icons of faithfulness. But they probably were ordinary people like us, people who loved God and who over time developed muscles of faith and faithfulness.

Faith is both a gift and the result of habit. “The Holy Spirit was upon Simeon” and Simeon responded to the Spirit’s guidance. Anna “worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer.”

They both inhabited the temple, the place of public worship, the place where their individual faith could be strengthened in community, because even people gifted in faith need the support of community.

We too need community to strengthen our faith and witness. We need community to help us listen for the voice of the Spirit and to give us courage to follow the Spirit. We need the prayers of our community and we need to join in the prayers of our community. Those prayers give hope and light in ways we cannot even grasp.

We encounter Jesus, the light of the world, the salvation of the world, in prayer, in community, in service, and in the sacraments

In an act more intimate than Simeon receiving Jesus in his arms, more intimate even than his kissing the foot of Christ, we receive body of Christ in the Eucharist, we take his body into our bodies that we may become the body of Christ in this place and in the world.

In the mysteries of the sacraments and in the holy boredom of the daily office, in the mundanity of everyday life, we encounter Christ; we meet him in ordinary and extraordinary ways. The question becomes how we are going to respond to this encounter, what we’re going to do about it.

I want to challenge you to bear the light of Christ with joy and thanksgiving; to faithfully share the hope that is ours; to dare to be guided by the Holy Spirit; and to tell others how you encounter Jesus, the Savior…the Light to enlighten the nations.

Amen.

Come and See; Go and Shine

The Rev’d Deacon Samuel Vaught
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany
January 19, 2020

“I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.”

In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Well, it’s winter in New Haven—for at least this weekend. And while January has been surprisingly kind to us so far, we know what this time of year means for us here in the Northeast—cold mornings, gray days, and those dark, dark nights. I will never forget my first winter in New Haven, in 2016/2017, when I moved here to live in Saint Hilda’s House. It was the kind of winter that made spring feel like a surprise—a genuine miracle—when it finally arrived. Growing up in the Midwest, I was used to the cold, and the snow, but what I was not prepared for was the dark—those dark evenings here on the other side of the time zone from Indiana, where the sun had already gone to sleep by the time I would leave IRIS at five in the afternoon and walk back home here to 84 Broadway. Light had never felt more precious to me than it did that winter. And to be honest, after three more New Haven winters, the onset of the dark still catches me off guard, and spring still feels like a miracle.

With so much of its history in the northern hemisphere, it’s no accident that the Church focuses a lot on light at this time of year—we need it. Advent, with its wreath of lights, giving way to candlelit Christmas Eve masses, giving way to Epiphany, to the bright, shining star that led the wise men to Jesus’ home. In two weeks we’ll bless candles and celebrate the Presentation of the infant Jesus in the temple in Jerusalem—Candlemas—falling nearly halfway between the darkest day of the year and the first day of spring. At all times of year, but especially now, the Church proclaims light in the darkness.

To the world at this dark time of year comes a light— a light to this city, a light to this region, a light to the nations. At this dark time of year comes Jesus. Jesus comes as an Israelite, out of Israel—from God’s chosen people, from the people who are called as a whole to be a light to the nations. We know from Isaiah’s prophecy, and from the entire Old Testament, of Israel’s call to be this light. “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified,” God tells his people. And as Christians, followers of the Messiah of Israel, we proclaim that in Jesus, this light from God’s people has shined, has shined for all people, for all nations, for every person in this dark world. Isaiah continues, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” Yes, Jesus comes for his people Israel, but he comes also for the Gentiles—for those in the northern hemisphere and those in the southern. For those in the east and for those in the west.

And in the Gospel of John, right at the beginning, John the Baptist, like one who has stayed up all night just to get a glimpse of the dawn, like a watchman for the morning, points him out to us—points us to this light: “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” And again the next day, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” Here is your light, wintry Israel. Here is your light, wintry world.

But it’s a funny kind of light, isn’t it? Not quite what we would have expected the light to the nations to look like—surprising, like that distant and miraculous spring. The disciples of John who heard him point this Jesus out go and follow, to see what he’s all about. “Rabbi, where are you staying?” they ask him. “Come and see” is all they get. No itinerary, no manifesto, no agenda. Just an invitation—an invitation to come, and see, and stay with him. One of them, Andrew, brings along his brother Simon, soon to be Peter. And when they get up the next day, it’s time to go—to Galilee, to a wedding where strange things will happen with water and wine. And then to Jerusalem, to a life on the road. “Rabbi, where are you staying?” Not in one place, seems to be the answer. “Come and see.”

So they do. They come and see this light, always on the move, never still, showing up in the most unexpected places. Befriending sinners, eating with tax collectors and prostitutes, touching lepers, conversing with Gentiles—Samaritans, even—at a well. They come and they see this light break rules—like heal on the Sabbath—do mind-blowing things—like feed five thousand people with just some bread and some fish. They hear this light speak in funny ways—I am the good shepherd, I am the bread of life, I am the vine, and you are the branches. They witness this light that cannot be contained, that refuses to let all the things the world cares too much about—like propriety, or class, or ethnic distinction, or even the rule of law—get in its way to send out light and warmth and truth to the darkest, coldest corners of this wintry world. They witness this light stretch out its arms on a cross, to draw the whole world to itself. To give itself completely, so that there may be no more darkness.

On you too, this light has shined. To this winter morning, to this city, to this very place, the light of Jesus Christ has come. And the thing about this light—it’s likely just as unexpected, likely just as unusual, likely just as offensive or scandalous here as it was in Galilee all those years ago. For you see, the light of Jesus has a way of showing up where we least expect it. Like in the face of a neighbor living on the street, whom we’d rather ignore. Or in a conversation with that stranger who’s been quite literally taking a stand for peace every Sunday for years on the other of this east wall. Or in that tired and frustrated commuter behind you at the stop light, about to lose their patience. Light in the line at the Community Soup Kitchen, in fellowship over a hot meal. Light in a circle of people, supporting one another through addiction and recovery. Light in a word of scripture that you suddenly hear differently or for the very first time when the lector reads it. In a hug or a handshake at the peace. In a small piece of bread in your hand and a small sip of wine on your lips. Light. All around you, even in the January darkness. Light. Inside you. In your body, on your skin, in your eyes.

“Rabbi, where are you staying?” we might ask him ourselves. “Come and see.” Come and see where our Lord might be calling you outside of these walls. When mass is over, when the business of the annual meeting is adjourned, when the lunch dishes have been cleared away, come, or go, rather, and see. See where he is staying in your life, where he is staying in your neighborhood, where he has set up shop. Light a candle. Follow the star. Find that light in the darkness. Find it and shine it on someone who needs it. Let it shine on you.

We’re probably in for another of those dark and gloomy New Haven winters. And while spring is coming in the future, no matter how unbelievable that sounds, light has dawned today. A light to the nations. A light to this city. Won’t you come and see? Amen.

Merry Christmas

The Rev’d Deacon Raul Ausa-Velazco
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Christmas Day
December 25, 2019

May I speak to you in the name of God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Merry Christmas! Or, as some of you may prefer, Happy Christmas!

As a child learning English, I always found the distinction quite confusing. In my native Spanish, it was simply “Feliz Navidad.” And yet in English, I noted how every year, I would hear “Merry Christmas” at school, from friends, and on television; but our English family friends would always sound just a bit different when they wished us a “Happy Christmas.”

So I was always quite curious about this slight difference in word choice. After all, happy and merry mean the same, or at least similar things. Merry sounds like the more older, more formal word, and some of us might associate formality more with the UK than with the US. And knowing the common religious and linguistic origins of American and English culture, it just seemed strange to me that at some point “merry old England” began to eschew its merriment. So I sat down and did some research.

We know that “merry Christmas” is the older usage—it’s attested to from letters and songs dating back all the way to the Middle Ages, including the still-popular “We Wish you a Merry Christmas.”

We also know that at some point, there was a deliberate move in the 19th century, especially among the upper classes, to down-play the “merry” aspects of English Christmas culture. Indeed, “making merry” was quite different in medieval England than anything we have probably experienced. Their Christmas was not a quiet day of church, presents, and dinner with the family.

Rather, after a season of prayer and fasting through Advent, Christmas was a raucous 12-day festival of drinking, feasting, and dancing in which everything was done to celebrate and imitate the world being turned “upside down.”

In churches, boys were given the mitre and staff of their bishops, and declared ‘boy bishops’ through the festival. More significant was the Lord of Misrule, who was a peasant elected by lots to be in charge of the revelries of Christmastide, who would then lead the poor peasantry in drunkenly parading to the doors of the rich to demand that they pay “tribute” or taxes, as lords did throughout the rest of the year. Often there was a tacit threat of violence should they refuse. It was for these reasons that the celebration of Christmas was banned by Puritans and Congregationalists in Connecticut and New England, in some places up until the 1800s.

Yet all of this-- That the old orders were now inversion of old orders, heeding of children, the poor drinking and eating their fill, the wealthy and powerful paid tribute to lowest among them--

All of this was to celebrate the amazing reversal and inversion, the turning-upside-down of world that had already occurred, and which John describes in this morning’s gospel.

Unlike Matthew and Luke, John doesn’t offer us a narrative of Jesus’ birth, despite the fact that he almost certainly had come across the Matthean and Lucan narratives. We don’t get any angels, shepherds, or wise men. There’s no shining star or dramatic flights in and out of Egypt. Instead, he offers an amazingly beautiful piece of poetry that has become so beloved and so central to us Christians that for centuries it was read at the end of every mass, as we do in this parish during high mass in Advent.

What is it about these words that moves us so? What is it about this message that led our forebears in the faith to forget the many cares of their lives and party for 12 straight days as if the world had suddenly been transformed?

Echoing the words that begin the Book of Genesis, “In the Beginning,” John brings us back to the beginning of the human story. In the beginning, God created a perfect order that he called “good,” an order in which all creation lived in harmony and humankind walked with and shared their life with God. Then, through sin, we fell away from that perfect creation and became separated not only from God, but from each other. Time and time again, God called us back to that life which had been intended for us: through the law, through the prophets, through God’s very voice coming down from the heavens. And yet time, and time again, we failed to listen and seemed to fall even farther away from the Creator’s loving embrace.

And yet our God never gives up or abandons us—instead, God decides to do something new. God decides that if we will not come to God, God will come down to us.

This is the turning point in the biblical redemption arc:. This is the moment when God reaches out Godself and does that which we have been unable and unwilling to do—in Christ, God bridges the gap between heaven and earth and begins the renewal of all creation. This blessed morning is the beginning of the miracle of salvation whereby this same Christ by his cross and resurrection will save and transform the world!

And this is the great joy and hope of Christmas: that while we sit in darkness, the light comes to us and even all the darkness of the world cannot overcome it. That though we live in a world blighted by sin, suffering, and injustice, God does not leave us to fend for ourselves, but breaks into it and renews and reorders it. God gives us God’s very self—all powerful, almighty, and omnipotent, in a weak, vulnerable, precious child, that we might adore him, fall in love with him, and give ourselves to God in return.

Orthodox Christians sometimes critique Western Christians, and especially Anglicans, for our emphasis on Christmas as our most-celebrated holy day, rather than Easter. We might think they have a fair point, especially when we compare our rich history of Christmas carols and Christmas Eve celebrations with the fact that The Episcopal Church didn’t even have an authorized Easter Vigil liturgy until the 1970s. But when we read and meditate on St. John’s prologue, when we consider the amazing thing that occurs this blessed morning and all that will come after it, when we realize that this marks the beginning of the new creation that will be heralded in by this blessed child, perhaps we can be excused for our excitement! And perhaps we may even wonder why we don’t do more in our own time to make merry and celebrate the fact that this morning, God has indeed turned the world upside down.

In the words of John Sullivan Dwight,

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

Till he appear’d and the soul felt its worth

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn….

Truly he taught us to love one another;

His law is love and his gospel is peace.

Chains shall he break for the slave is our brother;

And in his name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we

Let all within us praise his holy name.

Amen.

Merry Christmas.

Fear Not

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Eve of the Feast of the Nativity
December 24, 2019

One of the great joys of the Christmases of my childhood was riding in the backseat of the station wagon with my family to look at Christmas lights in the neighborhoods of our town.  We’d drive miles to see a light display--and there were some spectacular ones.  One of my favorites was Miss Betty Humphrey’s house.  Miss Betty was the tax commissioner, and she lived nearby in an inconspicuous ranch home with a big front yard.  Every Christmas she’d put together a light show that had cars lined around the block.  Each year we’d ride by to see what Miss Betty had put out for Christmas decorations.  Our childhood delight was never disappointed at Miss Betty’s.

There were lights all over her house, twinkling along the eves and around the doors and window frames.  The shrubbery were covered in colored lights and there were yard signs that gleamed “Noel!” and “Merry Christmas!”  There was not one but two lighted nativity scenes--with Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in a manger lit up from within, glowing with the optimistic promise of electric Christmastide.  One year there was a camel.  And always, alongside the figures at the manger, somehow Frosty the Snowman and Santa Claus crept in as well.

It was a delightful spectacle to behold--and my joy and anticipation approaching Miss Betty’s, waiting our turn in the long line of cars snaking around the block, was matched only closely by the disappointment at how quickly the scenes moved by--and how far away they soon were in the back widow of the station wagon.

The electric glow of Christmas promise faded as we pulled away--and as we went in search of other, lesser, light displays.

I am grateful for Miss Betty and her gift to the community--the joy and hope that she displayed in the extravagant decorations she brought to her front yard each year.  My heart is still warmed, and I get that soft fuzzy feeling when I think about it.

I have a warm feeling about our own crèche at the font, at the back of the church--the grotto-like shelter, the stable with manager and animals, the little dog, the holy family, and the shepherds and their sheep--and the little infant Jesus in the manger. 

It’s a feeling that I always associate with the angels--their song of “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” 

Miss Betty’s crèche scene however, and indeed our own, didn’t have any angels.  Maybe they’re too hard to re-create--maybe they don’t lend themselves to polystyrene molding and internal illumination.  Maybe they’re too beautiful and awesome to form into something so earth-bound.  But they weren’t there.  And so I’ve been thinking about angels this past week.  And about that association, that feeling, of “peace on earth” that I’ve had with them for all these years--that warm soft glow we may feel at Christmastide.

Last Sunday I assisted in Sunday School as Angela Shelley taught, and we told the story of the angel Gabriel’s visit to Joseph--just as Gabriel had visited Mary--God’s messenger telling Mary and Joseph about the child that was to be born, the very Son of God.  Angela reminded the children of something Mother Kathryn has taught them--that whenever angels show up, they begin their heralding, their announcement, with a reassurance:

Fear not.

Gabriel said it to Mary.  Gabriel said it to Joseph.  The angel of the Lord--probably Gabriel again--says it to the shepherds out in the fields with their sheep.  Fear not!  For behold, I bring you tidings of great joy!

Why is Gabriel so concerned with fear?  Is it that an angel is terrible and awesome to behold?  That’s certainly likely.  I suspect angels are far more fierce and terrifying than the soft things we pin to our Christmas trees and send in our greeting cards--the Hallmark imaginings of Christmas joy and peace. 

But I also suspect that something quite different is going on.  What if the angel knows that the shepherds--that Mary--that Joseph--that you and I--are already afraid?

What if the experience of fear is not related to the appearance of the angel--after all, an angel has no will of its own; it is only a messenger, doing the will of God.  What if the experience of fear is instead about the knowledge of evil in the world?

In the story from our beginning, the scriptures of the book of Genesis, Adam and Eve eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil and, armed with this knowledge, suddenly know shame.  They are cast out of the garden.  Do they feel fear?

Certainly the shepherds knew a hard life.  On the margins of society, living rough with the sheep, they inhabited the open spaces, protecting their sheep--sources of wool and of food.  They would have been poor at best in a land occupied and controlled by the wealthy.

Augustus, away in Rome, has called for all the world to be taxed--all the known world--and so Joseph, a carpenter, a laborer, takes his pregnant fiancée, up to Bethlehem.  There’s not even room there for a place to stay, and so they end up with the animals.  Joseph was afraid--what would people say?  Mary was pregnant and they weren’t even married yet!  Mary was afraid--she was a young pregnant girl who couldn’t even explain rationally how things had gotten to this state.  A visit from an angel?  A child who was to be born because it was the will of God?  She had been caught up in the action of God’s own Holy Spirit, at work in her life--unpredictably, astonishingly, amazingly.  And fearfully.

The Jewish world, all of Palestine, was full of fear.  People on the edges of the empire, taxed by the Roman government far away, their land occupied, their temple within mere decades destroyed.  To hear the historian Josephus tell it, the streets of Jerusalem ran with blood around the time of the fall of the Temple--even with Josephus’s characteristic exaggeration, things were not good.  There was division, strife, turmoil in the land.  People were afraid.

And aren’t we, too, living in an age of fear?  Of division?  In a time of wealth and prosperity the likes of which have never been known before, the fabric of our society is still torn by fear.  One part of our land is certain we’re encountering a constitutional crisis in our government; another is certain that things have never been better with our government--and we are afraid to talk to one another.  Our family members, children, loved ones, maybe even our selves suffer in the grips of addiction--or struggle under the loss of employment.  Men and women are homeless  and hungry in our streets, or groaning under the weight of engines of mass production.  Our young children, not unlike the Holy Innocents of Jerusalem, are victims of gun violence.  Are we not afraid?

Oh that an angel would come down and proclaim, “Fear not!  For behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people!”

And that, friends, is exactly what happened.  Two thousand years ago in Bethlehem, into a world as broken and sinful as our own, in a time as precarious and treacherous as our own. 

An angel came down--to proclaim the truth from above--that God’s love was made flesh and dwells among us.

That God, God’s own very self, has come into this world--not in the soft electric glow of manufactured candlelight--but in the agony and bloody sweat of struggle and despair.

That God’s own Son has come among us--to bring hope, transformation, and healing. 

That God is reconciling all things to God’s own good purposes--to God’s own self.

That’s why the angel brings this message--Fear not. 

That’s why Jesus says the same thing -- over and over again to his disciples.  The thing we hear over and over again in scripture.  Fear not!

The peace and joy we feel in our hearts this Christmas season is real, but it’s not because of the light up figures, or the kindness of strangers, or the gifts we’ve given one another--though those things can be signs that point to peace and goodwill.  That warm feeling of joy is not just because of the song of the angels, though they point to its source.

That feeling, friends, is hope.  In the midst of a sinful and broken world, hope is breaking forth in us--the hope that not only has God come among us, Emmanuel, but that God is among us even now--in the rocky places, in the grief, in the fear--and that at the manger, and at the cross, we find that God sees us in our sin, in our brokenness, that God sees the sin and evil that breaks our hearts--just as it breaks the very heart of God.

Fear not, the angel says.

Fear not, our Lord says.

God is here.  God sees and loves you.  And God is with you, even until the end of the age, Jesus says.

That’s the work of the Incarnation--that God comes among us and will not let us go. 

Tonight, as you feel the warm glow of the candles, the goodwill and peace of Christ that fill the room, as you experience the presence of Christ in the crèche and in the sacrament of the altar, as you meet Christ in this place and in the loving faces of one another, hold onto that feeling--not as a once-a-year occurrence, but as the reality that perhaps on the other days of the year we have failed to see.

And if you feel  despair tonight, or loneliness, anxiety, or desperation, hold fast and know that God is there with you.  Emmanuel has come among us and is here.  The things that break your heart are the things that break the very heart of God--but God cannot be broken.  Not even death can conquer the love that is God--the love that God has for you. 

The shepherds heard the song of the angels--Fear not!  Glory to God! Peace!  And they ran to Bethlehem to meet this infant, this savior of the world, this babe, this Hope made flesh.

That’s why we went back each year to Miss Betty’s yard to see her Christmas lights.  It was about more than just the good feeling.  It was a promise, at least once a year, that all those cars, streaming around the block, were in it together.  We were looking for hope.

And that’s why we’ve come here tonight.  To hear again the message of the angels.  To see for ourselves that God is faithful. That God is real.  That love conquers all things.

Peering out the back of the station wagon, looking up, necks craned back, to see the angels in the night sky, or gazing at this altar--at one another--we are all looking for hope.

And here it is, right in the manger, right at this altar, right in our very hearts.

The Word is made flesh. God’s love has come among us.

Fear not.

Come and adore him.

And take that message of hope from this place out into the world.

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Heaven

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Third Sunday of Advent
December 15, 2019

In this homily for the third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, the Rector invites us to rejoice in God’s saving work—and reflects that not only does God come among us—but that God draws us ever closer to God—into the reign of God that we call Heaven. Stir us up, O Lord, and draw us to yourself!

Working for the Kingdom

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost
November 17, 2019

In this homily for the twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost, the Rector invites us to consider how God uses our lives and our work to invite us into an awareness of God’s kingdom. Lifting up the witness of Saint Hilda, the deaconesses who named their House after her, and the present day Hildans and parishioners of Christ Church, he reflects on how God uses our own gifts to show God’s kingdom come near.

Under the Shadow of God's Wings

The Rev’d Armando Ghinaglia
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost
November 10, 2019

Under the Shadow of God’s Wings

Keep me, O Lord, as the apple of an eye; hide me under the shadow of thy wings.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Our psalm this morning is a striking song—in the psalmist’s words, “hear the right.”[i] We ask the Lord to “hearken unto” our “prayer,”[ii] to “visit” our “heart,” to “prove” us, to see that there is “no wickedness” in us.[iii] With the psalmist, we call to the Lord for protection: “Show thy marvelous loving-kindness, thou that art the Saviour of them which put their trust in thee.”[iv]

And what, one might ask, does the Lord’s loving-kindness look like? “Keep me as the apple of an eye; hide me under the shadow of thy wings from the ungodly that trouble me,” from those who “compass me round about to take away my soul.”[v]

“Keep me as the apple of an eye; hide me under the shadow of thy wings.”[vi]

The verse is beautiful, and for over a thousand years, those words have been part of the service of Compline. Still, the first half is admittedly strange, even to our ears. “Hide me under the shadow of thy wings” seems obvious enough. But “keep me as the apple of an eye”? In our day, “apple of your eye” or “apple of my eye” probably means something like the thing we love or cherish most, and so the verse comes across as “Keep me in your sight like the one you love most.” And that’s not a bad prayer by any means. But it’s not what the psalmist means here. The Hebrew, Greek, and Latin all render the phrase “keep me as the pupil of your eye.”

In that context, the parallelism here makes more sense: keep us safe, the way that people shield their eyes from damage; hide us away, the way a bird shields its young from danger. In both cases: Lord, gather us in; hold us so close to you—to your mind and to your heart—that we might, as it were, become one with you.

As Christ himself says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, . . . how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.”[vii]

Now, it may well be our prayer much of the time—if not most of the time—that the Lord would hide us under the shadow of his wings, that God would “defend[] [us] from all adversities which may happen to the body and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul.”[viii] In a broken and sinful world, we could hardly pray otherwise.

The circumstances of this life—financial hardships, relationship problems, health issues, whatever they may be—lead us to pray that God would guard and protect us. Lord, help me have enough to pay my bills this month. Lord, help me love my partner or my parents or my siblings the way I want to and the way I should. Lord, help me get through this pain or this anxiety or this sickness. All of these are good prayers, even necessary, because they lay bare the deepest desires of our hearts and they remind us that we are utterly dependent on God for all “good things.”[ix]

But there is more to God protecting us than merely making sure we live a long and undisturbed life here on earth or that we receive all the material or physical blessings we desire. The end of our psalm from today doesn’t make it into the lectionary, but it points in that very direction: O Lord, “deliver my soul from the ungodly,” “which have their portion in this life,”[x] and “I will behold thy presence in righteousness, and when I awake up after thy likeness, I shall be satisfied with it.”[xi]

To be hidden with God isn’t simply to be protected. It’s to be hidden with Christ. And as the disciples knew well, being hidden with Christ doesn’t mean that no harm will ever happen to us.[xii] Sometimes it means being hidden with him in his healing and miracles; sometimes it means being hidden with him in his suffering and death, to pass through the “refiner’s fire” and the “fullers’ soap.”[xiii] In ways we may not appreciate fully in this life and may only understand in the next, God the Father has already hidden us under the shadow of the wings of Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit.

As the book of Deuteronomy has it, not only does the “eagle stir up its nest and hover over its young”; it also “spreads its wings, takes [] up [its young], and bears them aloft on its pinions.”[xiv] In that way, we find in Deuteronomy, “the Lord alone guided Israel . . . and set him atop the heights of the land.”[xv]

The Spirit has stirred our hearts to seek God’s face in Jesus Christ.[xvi] And by water and the Spirit, Jesus has gathered us together[xvii] in his body,[xviii] and in the shadow between the Ascension and the Second Coming,[xix] our “life is hidden with Christ in God.”[xx] More than that, God has “borne [us] on eagles’ wings and brought [us] to [him]self.”[xxi] For Jesus himself “stretched out his arms upon the cross”[xxii]; he has taken us up and borne us aloft with him[xxiii]—along with all our griefs and sorrows and burdens[xxiv]—so that they, like the wounds in his hands and feet and side, might be transformed,[xxv] and so that we, like him, might live forever.[xxvi]

Hiddenness with Christ in God bears with it the seed of the promise that suffering does not have the final word—that if “we suffer with him,” we will “also be glorified with him.”[xxvii] For we who are “buried with him in baptism” are “also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised Christ from the dead.”[xxviii]

Perhaps only then will we be “satisfied,” “behold[ing] [God’s] presence”[xxix] “face to face.”[xxx] For then we shall know all things fully, “even as [we] have been fully known.”[xxxi]

This is God’s “marvelous loving-kindness,”[xxxii] and this is our hope.[xxxiii]

Keep us, O Lord, as the apple of an eye. Hide us under the shadow of thy wings. Amen.

[i] Ps. 17:1.
[ii] Id.
[iii] Ps. 17:3.
[iv] Ps. 17:7.
[v] Ps. 17:8-9.
[vi] Id.
[vii] Mt. 23:37; Lk. 13:34.
[viii] BCP 218 (Collect for the Third Sunday in Lent).
[ix] Mt. 7:11.
[x] Ps. 17:13-14 (emphasis added).
[xi] Ps. 17:16.
[xii] See Ps. 10:6.
[xiii] Mal. 3:2.
[xiv] Cf. Deut. 32:11.
[xv] Deut. 32:12-13.
[xvi] See Ps. 27:11; 1 Cor. 2:10; 2 Cor. 4:6.
[xvii] See Jn. 3:5; Tit. 3:5.
[xviii] See Eph. 5:30.
[xix] See Col. 2:17.
[xx] Col. 3:3.
[xxi] Ex. 19:4.
[xxii] BCP 362 (Eucharistic Prayer A).
[xxiii] See Eph. 2:6; Col. 3:1.
[xxiv] See Is. 53.
[xxv] See Jn. 20:27.
[xxvi] See 2 Cor. 4:14; Jn. 6:51.
[xxvii] Rom. 8:17.
[xxviii] Col. 2:12.
[xxix] Ps. 17:16.
[xxx] 1 Cor. 13:12.
[xxxi] Id.
[xxxii] Ps. 17:7.
[xxxiii] Cf. 1 Pet. 3:15.

Wrestling

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
October 20, 2019

In this homily for the nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost, the Rector invites us to consider Jacob’s struggle with God—and invites us into our own persistence in the struggle against sin and evil—with a confident hope in God’s goodness that God has already prevailed.

Sermon for the 17th Sunday after Pentecost

Mr Raul Auza-Velazco
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost
October 6, 2019

What Are We Worth?

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost
September 1, 2019

In this homily for the 12th Sunday after Pentecost, the Sunday before Labor Day, the Rector invites us to think of how we value one another—and how we are valued ourselves. Are we slaves to productivity? Or do we recognize ourselves, one another, and all Creation as made in the image of God—beloved by God simply because we exist?

Keeping the Sabbath, Keeping Love First

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
August 25, 2019

In this homily for the 11th Sunday after Pentecost the Rector welcomes the 10th class of Saint Hildans to the parish and invites us all to think about how keeping Sabbath and doing good works is a way to keep God first—to reveal God’s love throughout all the world—God’s love for every last person, every last corner of the world, every last bit of Creation. All is beloved of God. Do our lives reflect this truth? Do our actions reflect this reality? Together let us proclaim the love of God in all that we do and say, with our lives, with our very selves.

Hope in Division

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
August 18, 2019

In this homily for the 10th Sunday after Pentecost the Rector invites us to consider that perhaps the divisions in our society and in our world are merely the last gasp of death-dealing systems of oppression that are crumbling in the face of the kingdom of God that has drawn near in the presence of Jesus Christ. We’re invited to have hope and to take courage: to proclaim the values of the kingdom—to live as though it’s come near—and in the surety of the promise of Jesus Christ that it is coming.

Mary, the Bridge

The Rev’d Tuesday Rupp
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Feast of St Mary the Virgin, Mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ
August 15, 2019

In this homily the Rev’d Tuesday Rupp, rector of Saint Paul’s Church in Woodbury, Connecticut, reflecting on the image of Mary in mosaic in the church of Saint Sebastian in Istanbul, invites us to think of Mary as the saint for all people who serves as a bridge between the earthly and the divine, the now and the not yet. Mary gives us hope for the life of God’s kingdom that is to come.

Don't Hold Back

The Rev’d Nicholas Porter
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
August 11, 2019

In this message of hope, the Rev’d Nicholas Porter, Executive Director of Jerusalem Peacebuilders, shares stories of Abram and of Julian of Norwich—along with the stories of the participants of Jerusalem Peacebuilders—inviting us to not hold back—to give ourselves to God—and to expect that God is faithful. The actions of individuals can make a difference, Fr Porter reminds us, when we act in love, responding to God’s love for us. Dare we believe, as Julian did, that God is faithful—that God is all powerful, and that God is all loving, and that God will do everything God says?

Jesus Frees the Demoniac

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Second Sunday after Pentecost
June 23, 2019

Then people came out to see what had happened, and when they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. And they were afraid. (Luke 8:35)

In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. 

       When I was younger, I had an aunt and uncle who lived in DC.  My uncle had been to medical school at Georgetown, and sometimes when we would visit, if we were in Georgetown, he would point out the steep steps used for a scene in the 1973 horror film The Exorcist.  At the time, I had never seen the movie, but later on I did, and I began to realize why for my uncle these steps, indeed any of the images from the movie itself, had become part of the imagery of our popular culture.  My uncle could just assume that we’d know what the steps were.  And I’ll bet that you have some images from that film in your own parlance, even if you’ve not seen it—demons that throw people down stairs, that make heads spin around, that lift bodies off the ground in spasms and fits—dramatic stuff that makes for very good shock value if nothing else.  The Exorcist and movies like it captures our popular imagination—the sheer drama of the scenes arrest our attention and shock us, scare us, thrill us—take us out of our normal every day images of the world, if at least for just a moment, in a medium that is safe—up there, on the screen—unreal, imaginary, pretend—something we can stand outside of and observe.

       But in reality, of course, exorcism is nothing like the event portrayed on the silver screen—it’s simply a prayer for the deliverance of evil.  Remember when we ask baptismal candidates if they renounce Satan, the evil powers of this world, and the sinful desires that draw them from the love of God?  This is an exorcism—a prayer for deliverance from evil, a turning towards God.  Not nearly as dramatic as the scene in the movie—or even as the scene in our gospel lesson today--the story of a man possessed by demonic forces.  Demons have him bound up, evil controls his life.  He can’t keep his clothes on, he lives among the tombs; even when he is shackled with chains, he breaks them and runs off into the wild.  Evil has had a real impact on his life—where and how he lives. 

       To be clear, in this story, there is no indication that the man himself is evil—rather, we learn that he is possessed by evil.  We know that evil is something we can do--and it’s something that can be done to us--or happen to us.

       And today we’d probably call what’s happening to the man schizophrenia, or psychosis. Perhaps a psychiatrist could help him with medication.  Medical personnel might even carefully restrain him to keep him from harm--or to keep his actions from hurting others.  We might describe his “possession” as a chemical imbalance, or a structural difference in his brain.  While our understanding of possession might be different, we can still understand that he would feel the effects--recognize the thing that binds his life up, that makes his days feel as though he is possessed by demons.

       We recognize in this story, in this man’s situation, the reality of evil--and in our own lives today.  The impact of sin, of evil, of brokenness--whatever word and category fits for the situation--the impact is real.  The thing itself is real.  When the demonic spirits that bind the man leave him, we see them go.  We see the impact of evil when the spirits they enter a herd of pigs, which then run into the lake and drown. 

       Evil is real, and it has real consequences.  And while we may not suffer as this man suffered, we certainly know demons, sources and manifestations of evil, that possess us—things that bind us, that control us, that cause us and those around us harm:  those things that bind us, that control us, that keep us running among the tombs, separated from one another, separated from God.  Addiction, greed, lust, pride—even social conditions like racism, poverty, sexism, homophobia—these can be the chains of evil that bind our brothers and sisters, that bind ourselves, and separate us, hold us back, from the fullness that God intends for us in creation. 

       And we only have to look around to know the consequences of evil; our families, friends, neighbors—the entirety of society—are impacted in real ways by evil.  The pigs really do run into the lake and drown. Someone loses a food source, a livelihood, when the spirits enter these pigs.  And our relationships are really broken by personal and social ills that plague and bind us.  People are hurt, and some die. 

       I was lamenting with a colleague last week that the things we preach about Christian community--the things we read about in scripture--the expectations that we have that we love one another as Christ has loved us--these things never quite get lived out the way we want them to be.  We laughed as we named the thing that throws everything off course--the thing that keeps us from living in the fullness of the kingdom of God.  It’s just sin.  Plain and simple. Sin done to us, sin that we commit.  Anything that separates us from God--from the vision of the kingdom of God--from living in the way that God created us to live--that thing is sin. And it’s real. And we know the consequences, the pain, the brokenness that follows in its wake.

       We can see it easily in the image projected on the screen--the dramatic movie character with a head that spins around.  We can envision the ravages of pathology when we hear a brother or sister wailing in the streets of New Haven, calling out to voices that aren’t really there. We can name it when there’s a DSM category we can assign.  But evil lurks quietly in our own lives as well. 

        In the face of evil that prowls around us, we have hope in our Lord Jesus:   Jesus, who frees the man possessed by demons.  Though they are many, Jesus speaks their name and takes power over them and casts them out.  The possessed man knows the weight of the evil that binds him, and he goes to Jesus—just when Jesus steps from the boat onto dry land, there the man is, seeking him out.  And we can, too—we can ask for and receive the freedom that Jesus gives from bondage to sin and evil and death.  We can expect that sort of restoration and healing as real and work for it even now, even if it is to come more fully in the life to come.

       If we but reach out, Jesus is there, with the power to forgive, to heal, to free from evil, from sin, from death.  That is the hope of the resurrection, friends, the story that Luke is pointing us towards in these stories—that Jesus has the authority, the power, to heal and to save.  And I don’t mean a magical power; healing and restoration isn’t just flipping a switch, is it?  The healing of the sort of societal ills that lead to gun violence, to incarceration of those who have not committed crimes on our southern border, the racism and oppression of people of color in our society, the political divisions that tear friendships and families and cities and our nation—those are things worth taking on, worth seeking healing and wholeness.  Friends in recovery from addiction tell me that it’s a day to day process for them—one day at a time--and they are really honest about their need for God  in those daily decisions to stay sober, safe, and clean—they are honest that Jesus is there, unbinding them, unbinding us, from the evil that enslaves us.  One day at a time, in Jesus, it is possible.  We can work for it.  For the kingdom of God has come near.  It has come near, and is coming.

       Each month in the parish vestry meeting the whole vestry reads and reflects on a passage from scripture as part of our time together.  This month we read this particular passage.  As we shared in the room what images, words, and ideas captured our imagination, several people highlighted the reaction of the community when the man was healed.  We were surprised by the reaction.  You’d expect that people would be glad, happy even, that the man was free of the torments that had held him for so many years.  But instead, scripture tells us, “they found the man from whom the demons had gone sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. And they were afraid.” (Luke 8:35).  And again, they “asked Jesus to leave them; for they were seized with great fear.” (37)

       A member of their community was healed.  And they were afraid.

       If you’re a fan of family systems theory, the typology developed by psychologist Murray Bowen, you’ll recall that systems--groups of people, organized and behaving in particular ways--systems are hard to change.  They default to what they have known.  Change can even be frightening, anxiety provoking.  In the system that is this community in our gospel reading, the people know how to deal with the man who is possessed by demons.  They’ve chained him up, they’ve figured out how they can best handle him.  They’ve gotten used to his ranting and his tearing around town with no clothes on.  But when he is actually healed, sitting at the feet of Jesus clothed and in his right mind, they become afraid.

       What is it that’s frightening to us about change?  What is it that stops us from believing that things can actually change?  What stops us from knowing, as the man who was possessed comes to know, that the kingdom of God has come near? 

       I suspect that if the townspeople really believed what they had seen they might have tried out a different world view.  Rather than expecting that it was normal for the possessed man to be tormented, they might have expected hope and healing. 

       What would our world look like if we believed that the kingdom of God has come near?

       What would it look like if we believed that God in Christ Jesus is healing and restoring all things to himself?

       What would it look like if we were to live differently?

       We know that there is a cost to evil; that doesn’t magically go away.  Some pigs may still run over the cliff.  Our lives may be inconvenienced.  We may have to get involved, to risk disappointment, pain, fear, or even loss. 

       But there on the shore, friends, we meet Jesus--the one who can cast out all demons, who restores all things to wholeness.  The one who brings hope, healing, and new life.

       Where do you need Jesus’s healing in your life today?  What do you need to be freed from?  What evil is impacting us, what sin is tearing our world apart?  Name it, acknowledge it, and know that the kingdom of God has come near.

       Jesus is about the work of freeing us.  Meet him at the boat, feel his loving embrace, and run to tell the whole world about who you’ve met there on the shore.

Sermon for Corpus Christi

The Rev’d Armando Ghinaglia
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Feast of Corpus Christi
June 20, 2019

How shall I repay the Lord for all the good things he has done for me? (Psalm 116:10)

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I am currently serving at a church that uses Rite II for the Eucharist every Sunday. One Sunday earlier this year, the priest-in-charge there asked me what I thought about switching over to Rite I for a season. There was, after all, an east-facing altar, like the one here, that the church had used until a little over a decade ago.

 “Why not?” I thought. “It won’t be that different.” But when we got around to it, the next Sunday, I realized something for the first time.

 In Rite I and in Rite II, once everything is set up (or close to it) and ready to go, the invitation to Communion usually goes like this: “The Gifts of God for the People of God.”

 When I celebrate in Rite II, I recite the optional line afterward: “Take them in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your hearts by faith, with thanksgiving.” And then I proceed to administer Communion with the typical and beautiful words of Rite II: “The Body of Christ, the bread of heaven.” “The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.”

 Rite I, by contrast, has two alternatives to those words of administration. But they’re long. “The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving.” “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”

 If we recited them every time you came up to the altar rail, we’d be here for hours. Still, they’re worth lingering on for a bit, because they reflect something absolutely crucial about how we celebrate the Eucharist.

 As a high school student, I remember my French teacher asking the classroom what the English equivalents of “tu” and “vous” were. I raised my hand smartly: “It’s like you and y’all!” That was not the sophisticated answer she was looking for. Silly as it may sound, the difference matters, not just in French or Spanish or other languages, but here, in our own language.

 Rite II observes that Christ died for the ambiguous you, the singular you and the plural you. Rite II leaves it to me to decide what the priest means when she says “Christ died for you.” Does she mean that Christ died for me? For some of us? For all of us? I promise I’m not blaming the drafters; it’s not their fault—that’s just how contemporary English works.

 But Rite I does something different because it’s able to, using early modern English instead. “Christ died for thee.” The Body of Christ “was given for thee.” The Blood of Christ “was shed for thee.” There is no doubt, no ambiguity, in this phrasing.

 Christ died for each and every single one of you.

Christ’s body was given for each and every single one of you.

Christ’s blood was shed for each and every single one of you.

Not just y’all, or the indefinite you or us, or vous or nous.

But you and me individually, whom God knit together in the womb, whom God calls by name, whom God loves more deeply than we could ever ask for or imagine.

 And that’s just as true for every single person outside the walls of this church.

The person walking on the streets around us. The person sitting in their car outside.

The person getting ready for a lavish meal. The person looking for shelter, or food, or water.

The person resting quietly at home. The person locked up in a detention camp.

No exceptions.

 Any worship or adoration of the Body of Christ must start with this fact: Our encounter with the sacrament of his Body and Blood is “not only,” as Thomas Cranmer writes, “a sign of the love that Christians ought to have with one another, but rather it is a Sacrament of our Redemption by Christ’s death.”

 We come before that Sacrament asking ourselves the same question as the psalmist today: “How shall I repay the Lord for all the good things he has done for me?” For freeing us from the bonds of sin and death?

 Note that the psalmist has already given us the answer elsewhere: Repayment isn’t actually possible. “We can never ransom ourselves, or deliver to God the price of our life,” we find in Psalm 49. “For the ransom of our life is so great that we should never have enough to repay it in order to live for ever and ever.” We can’t go to God and say, “well, thanks for getting me out of trouble, here’s my money, let’s call it even.” It doesn’t work like that.

 And yet the psalmist talks about repayment. If repayment isn’t about executing a transaction where we balance our budget with God, then what does God want from us?

 That we may have life, says Jesus—and have it more abundantly. That you and I may receive it as a gift, freely given, just as Jesus indeed gives his body for thee, for you and for me.

 And so, Jesus says, “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” For “those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”

 God wills that we come to the altar, to the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ, to the marriage supper of the Lamb, not unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately, in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God.

 St. Paul effectively says the same thing in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Examine yourselves, and only then eat of the bread and drink of the cup. For all who eat and drink without discerning the body, eat and drink judgment against themselves.”

 All true loves meet in those commands. First, the love of God, as we lift our voices with the Israelites in the wilderness: “All that the Lord has spoken we will do.” And our Lord takes bread and wine and makes them new: “Do this,” he says, “in remembrance of me.” And so we do—and we eat his flesh and drink his blood.

 Then, the love of neighbor, as we heed St. Paul’s warning: “Examine yourselves.” Coming to the Sacrament is not enough by itself. There can be no love or communion with God if there is no love of neighbor. As we find in 1 John, “Those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen.” Christ died for you and me. And Christ died for our neighbors, even the ones we don’t see, even we don’t like.

 So we approach the Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood with due reverence and deliberation. We pray to God for the forgiveness of our sins. We share the peace with our neighbors. We come to the altar and receive the bread and the wine.

 There’s just one last thing to attend to.

 As St. Augustine asks:

“When does human flesh receive the bread that Christ calls his own?”

 In other words, when do we know that we have been good and faithful servants? That we have done all that the Lord has told us to do?

 His answer:

“The faithful know and receive the body of Christ if they labor to be the body of Christ. And the faithful become the body of Christ if they strive to live by the Spirit of Christ, for that which lives by the Spirit of Christ is the body of Christ. . . . This bread the Apostle sets forth saying: We being many are one body. O sacrament of mercy! O sign of unity! O bond of love! Whoever wishes to live, draw near, believe, become a member of the body, that you may have life.”

How else could we ever repay the Lord for all the good things he has done for us?

Join in the Dance

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Trinity Sunday
June 16, 2019

In this sermon on Trinity Sunday, the Rector invites us to think of the Trinity as a relationship amongst the persons of the Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This relationship of self-offering, self-communicating love—given and received amongst the persons of the Trinity—is an invitation to us and to all of Creation to join in relationship with God and one another—to join in the dance of self-offering love that is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Come, Holy Ghost!

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Pentecost
June 9, 2019

In this sermon in the month of the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the Rector reflects on the events of Pentecost and asks the question, “What were the people in Jerusalem hearing that day when the disciples, filled with the Holy Spirit, spoke?” Through the gift of the Holy Spirit, people of all languages and nations heard a message of God’s love that drives out fear and hatred and invites us into unity, to wholeness, to relationship with God. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, which is given to us in Baptism, we are invited to share that message of love with the whole world.

Amazing Love! How Can It Be?

The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Seventh Sunday of Easter
June 2, 2019

In this sermon the Rector reflects on the story of Paul and Silas in Acts, inviting us to envision what fears and anxieties bind us in chains—and to imagine a world where our chains fall away, just like Paul and Silas’s did, as we become aware of the light of God’s love shining on us and all people.

As Charles Wesley writes in a hymn the congregation will sing this day,

Long my imprisoned spirit lay
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray,
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
Amazing love! how can it be
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

That's Strange!

Ms Angela Shelley
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Feast of the Ascension
May 30, 2019

In this sermon for the feast of the Ascension, Ms Angela Shelley, Children’s Ministry Coordinator, shares a story from the Parish’s children and invites us to be witnesses to the joy of the Resurrection: to tell the strange and wondrous story of Jesus’s love to the whole world.