All of the gospel writers are clear in reporting that the resurrection of Jesus was a bodily one. Mark is probably the most enigmatic in that we don’t hear about any post-resurrection appearances of Jesus – merely the reality of an empty tomb and a missing body. Matthew, Luke and John do tell of Jesus appearing in the flesh – and doing things which ghosts and phantasms cannot … like eating broiled fish.

But Luke and John also go to great lengths to emphasize that there is something significantly different about the appearance of the resurrected Christ. Something has changed so much that nobody recognizes him: Mary Magdalene thinks he’s the gardener; the two disciples on the Emmaus Road talk with him all afternoon and mistake him for a stranger; the disciples fishing in a boat and can’t catch anything until a man on the shore tells them to cast their net on the other side. In every case, the risen Christ is unrecognizable.

The Gospel authors are not specific about what has changed about Jesus – just that something dramatic has changed to the point where his closest friends can’t tell who he is. But, the writers are also clear that at some point, Jesus reveals himself: in calling Mary by name, in the breaking of the bread, in the invitation to touch and see his hands and feet. What this tells us is that Jesus has been made anew in a bodily resurrection.

And a bodily resurrection is important. Jesus is not a ghost, a spirit or a hallucination. The claim of a bodily resurrection stood in contrast to the heresy of Gnosticism which claimed the resurrection of Jesus was a spiritual one. Gnostics rejected the material world as evil while elevating the spiritual as superior. Gnostic writings spiritualize Jesus to the point of rejecting the goodness of the incarnation. In fact, much of Western Christianity has fallen into the Gnostic trap of dualism which separates matter from spirit which leads us to elevate things “spiritual” and reject and denigrate those things deemed “of the flesh.” This leads us down an idolatrous path of rejecting that which God created and called “very good.” (Genesis 1:31) The bodily resurrection is a sign of the redemption of our own bodies and by extension that which God has created. On this Earth Day, we would do well to consider the dangers of the Gnostic heresy of dualism which has rendered creation something “second class.” The incarnation of Christ in the person of Jesus is central to our faith and Christ’s bodily resurrection reminds us that he shares in our humanity and in the substance which makes us what we are and makes us anew. But if Jesus’ resurrected body has changed so much as to be unrecognizable, it gives me pause to wonder about when and where Christ shows up in bodily form right now and how we might react – especially when he shows up in a person we don’t expect, one easily overlooked or on the margins.

This happened to me one Sunday morning in the summer of 2008. I had just finished the process of closing the congregation I was first called to out of seminary and was spending the summer filling in for priests while they were on vacation. I had been called to fill in one Sunday for Taylor Smith, rector of Grace Church, Elkridge (yes, another Grace Church right next to the railroad tracks). They have three services each Sunday and their 9:00AM contemporary service worships in their Parish Hall which is 2 miles away from the historic church. So after conducting the 7:30AM service, I had to race over to the Parish House for the contemporary service and then back to the historic church for the 11AM worship. Taylor had called me on the phone prior to my arrival and had prepared me for what to expect. He told me about the more relaxed liturgy of the contemporary service, including their tradition that all the children come up during the Offertory and gather around the altar for the Eucharistic prayer. “Now I’ll warn you,” Taylor said, “These kids will do everything to distract you when you’re trying to consecrate the elements. I hope that won’t scare you off.” I told him that as a mother there’s very little that can knock the cheese off my cracker. Little did I know what Christ had in store for me.

As we began the 9:00AM contemporary service, I noticed a mother sitting in the back row near the door with her daughter who was about 7 years old. I could tell just by looking at her daughter that something was different about her. She stared into space as she rocked to the music, her eyes would dart around the room during the spoken word and her hands would flail. It turned out this little girl was severely autistic and could not speak. She could answer yes/no questions with a nod or the shake of her head. Watching her and how her mother interacted with her made me think about how rarely we see special needs children, youth or adults in our churches on Sunday mornings – and I was thankful she was there.

When it came time for the Offertory, just as Taylor had warned me, all the kids came forward and gathered around the altar – leaning on it, looking over the chalice, fiddling with the missal book (I had memorized Eucharistic Prayer A just in case they tried something). And then I looked down to my right, and there she was … the girl with autism. She was joined to my right hip and wasn’t going to let anybody get between me and her. I leaned over and asked her if she wanted to help me. She nodded. I gave her the job of taking the stoppers out of the wine cruet for the prayer – she did so and smiled at me.

I made it through the Eucharistic prayer with all these fidgety kids around me and when it was time to recite the words of invitation to Communion, I glanced down to my right, took the basket of bread and handed it to my newest Eucharistic minister: “Would you hold this up for me?” She took the basket and nodded. I raised the chalice, she raised the bread: “The Gifts of God for the People of God. Take them in remembrance that Christ died for you and feed on him in your hearts by faith with thanksgiving.” We lowered the elements together – it was amazing how she had such a feel for the liturgical movements.

I communed everyone around the altar and the kids all returned to their seats … except for my new friend. She wasn’t going anywhere! I asked her if she wanted to help. She nodded. I gave her the basket of bread and asked her to hold it for me. She followed me around to the front of the altar and held the Body of Christ for me as I gave everyone Communion. We finished by taking Communion back to the folks who because of their disabilities could not come forward to receive the sacrament. She led me to each person who had not come forward - she was going to make sure everybody received Christ that day!

We returned to the altar and put the basket of bread and the chalice down. I knelt down and said, “Thank you for all your help.” She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me … and then returned to her seat. I was in tears by then and I confess I don’t remember how I got through the closing of the service. But I do know this: the risen Christ was there – embodied in a little girl whose disability caused her to be overlooked in so many places: a little girl who could not speak but who knew Christ’s love in the breaking of the bread and wanted nothing more than to share his Body with all of us.

When you are a parent of small children, it sometimes feels like you are on an unending quiz show. You spend a lot of time answering questions and there are times you could swear your children were playing “stump the chump” with some of their questions. Claire was a past master at the game. When she was about 6, she approached me and asked, “Mommy, do you know what ‘ohana’ means?” Hmm … ohana … sounds vaguely Hawaiian. I responded, “No honey, I can’t say that I do. Do you know what ‘ohana’ means?” She very confidently said, “Yes! ‘Ohana’ means ‘family.’” I replied, “Oh, that means you and I are ‘ohana.’” She said, “Yes! Ohana means family – and family means nobody gets left behind.” Whoa! I thought that was pretty profound for a six year old. I later came to learn this was a line from the Disney movie Lilo & Stitch – but the premise, nonetheless, is sound. Ohana means family – and family means nobody gets left behind.

I couldn’t help but think of that as I prayed with this week’s Gospel reading from John. This story features Thomas, who has come to be known as … “Doubting Thomas,” right? Second only to Judas, Thomas often is viewed in a negative light over this reading. There is a reason I had you put down your bulletin inserts today. I used a different translation this morning … the “AAV” (that’s Anjel’s Authorized Version … not available in stores!). Did you hear the word “doubt” in that reading? No. Doubt is not Thomas’ issue. In fact, doubt is a constituent element of our life in faith. The opposite of faith is not doubt – the opposite of faith is certainty. If you’re certain of something, do you need faith? Of course not.

Poor Thomas has been labeled the one who “doubts” because of how Archbishop of Canterbury Lancelot Andrewes and his team translated the word a;pistoj for the 1611 King James Bible. This word is the negation of the word pistoj which means “belief,” “faith,” and “trust.” So a more accurate rendering would be to say that Thomas was “Unbelieving Thomas” or “Faithless Thomas” – which is far beyond doubt.

If we recall back to the 11th chapter of John, when Jesus prepares to go to raise Lazarus from the dead, it is Thomas who says to the disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” It is faithful Thomas who is prepared to die with his Lord. But that isn’t what happened. Instead, Jesus has been arrested, tried, convicted and crucified – and Thomas and the other disciples are cut adrift … or so it seemed. For whatever reason, Thomas is not present when Jesus first appears to the disciples. When the disciples tell Thomas what happened in his absence, Thomas just can’t go there – once burned, twice shy. He declares that unless he can touch the wounds of Christ, he will never, ever believe.

Now there are those Christians who would tell you that one who believes in Christ and reject that belief is worse than an unbeliever who never heard the Gospel. If that’s true … why did Jesus return for Thomas? Jesus could have just rejected Thomas in turn, right? But instead we hear that Jesus returned … specifically for Thomas. You see, Thomas was ohana … and family means nobody gets left behind.

Now when one uses the words “left behind” these days in a Christian context, thoughts often turn to the series of books by the same title written by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins which espouse a theology known technically as dispensationalism but more commonly called rapture theology. There are various nuances of dispensationalism, but the core of it is attributable to an ex-Anglican priest named John Nelson Darby in the mid-19th century. In a nutshell, rapture theology states that when the Second Coming of Christ occurs, the true believers will be raptured or taken up to heaven with Christ and the unbelievers will be left behind to face a 1,000 year reign of the Antichrist who will then be defeated when Christ comes a third time at the end of all things. At that point, the believers will be taken to heaven and the unbelievers will be annihilated.

But there’s a big problem with this. If we take the entire body of Scripture as a whole, there is no reference to a third coming of Christ. None … zip … zilch … nada! We state it clearly every Sunday: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again (not Christ will come again for some, but leave others behind to face tribulation, and then come back again but only for the believers). Scripture just does not say that. So, when I field those inevitable questions about what I think of the rapture and the Left Behind books, I answer plainly: It is heresy – pure, unadulterated heresy! Read those books as science fiction if you will, but do not base your belief on how Christ will come again on them.

Instead, return to the Scriptures … return to this passage in John. Thomas, the unbelieving faithless one, is the very one to whom Christ comes! This is good news! Jesus asks him why he has been faithless and encourages him to believe. It is then that Thomas exclaims, “My Lord and my God!” – the very first disciple to claim Christ as God.

It is the great, deep desire of our Creator to reconcile the whole cosmos back to his heart. St. Gregory of Nyssa essentially said that the whole of creation is spun out of God’s heart and is destined to return there. We are God’s ohana – and so are all the people whom you meet and interact with every day. Some of them believe and some do not. But if what holds true for Thomas holds true for all of us, it is the will of God that not one should be lost. And if Christ reached out to Thomas, as the Body of Christ we are to reach out to others to tell the good news of God’s saving grace in Christ. This is our call – to reach out in Christ’s love to God’s ohana … because family means nobody gets left behind.

“Now among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, ‘Sir, we wish to see Jesus.’”

As a liturgical church, we observe the various seasons of the Church year and we read their corresponding lectionary readings each Sunday. In Lent, we shift away from our focus on the Gospel of Mark, which has been our focus in this Year B scripture reading cycle, and we jump into the Gospel of John for Lent and much of the fast approaching Easter season. The Gospel of John does not get its own dedicated year of lectionary readings – and that’s probably a good thing. I liken John’s gospel to a fine fleur de sel salt – you know, that expensive “shi shi” salt you can buy in gourmet shops. In proper amounts, it enhances your food. Too much and your blood pressure spikes, you get bloated, and you blow a whole lot of money. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing. John’s gospel is one that needs to be read in small doses as its imagery, textual iconography, ponderous literary devices and circular referencing can overwhelm you. I always felt John needed a good editor. But no matter, John was who he was and the Gospel is what it is.

In today’s reading we hear that some Greeks came to Philip and said, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” John juxtaposes sight and blindness on several occasions in his narrative and seeing becomes a metaphor for knowing – for being in relationship. In the passages just prior to where our Gospel reading starts today, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem has taken place and the Pharisees have said, “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!” The world becomes incarnate in this group of Greeks who want to see Jesus.

But what I find troubling is that we never find out if these Greeks ever saw Jesus. We know Philip went and told Andrew and they together went to Jesus, but then Jesus "answers" them with a discourse on how the “hour has come” and how the death of one grain can bear much fruit and what it means to lose your life for the sake of gaining eternal life. Truth is, Jesus really doesn't answer Philip at all! I found myself praying with this text and standing in Philip's sandals and thinking after Jesus finishes this discourse I would have said, "Well that’s interesting Jesus, but I have some Greeks here who want to meet you."

Maybe, just maybe, we’re supposed to be disquieted about this lack of resolution, especially given that it is the outsiders, the Greeks, then Gentiles, who come seeking Jesus. The term gentile in first century Palestine denoted one who did not know God. How ironic that those who do not know God are the very ones who want to be in relationship with Jesus – the very Word incarnate. In fact, those for whom Jesus ostensibly came, the Jewish people, have a mixed reaction to Jesus. Some are coming to believe and others, especially the “professional religious types” are absolutely set against him.

I believe the desire to see Jesus, to be in relationship with him, is very present all around us and within us. Don’t each of us come here wanting to see Jesus? I believe every person who walks through those doors is seeking something and many want to see Jesus – but do they? When people come here do they see Jesus or do they see our religion?

Last week, I spoke of my commitment to radical hospitality and asked you how we might be Christ for all who walk through these doors. In our recent conversations during our Lenten series, I was reminded of how difficult our traditions can be for a newcomer. When someone new comes in, they are confronted with a confusing array of bulletins, hymnals and Prayer Books, oh my! We don’t make it easy, do we? Those of us who either grew up in this church or, for all intents and purposes might as well have, forget how daunting it can be just to figure out this worship thing on Sunday morning.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love our Anglican heritage and when done well our liturgy is utterly majestic and lifts the spirit. I’m not advocating putting giant projection screens in the front of the church for PowerPoints or ditching our liturgy for something else. But I do ask myself and I ask you, how might we reach out in welcome to help those who come here so they can see Jesus through our traditions rather than in spite of them?

I was reminded of something that happened when I was in the fourth grade attending Good Shepherd Lutheran Church in Concord, California. This church was an enclave of Lake Wobegon Norwegian Lutherans in the San Francisco East Bay. My family were Danish Lutherans on my mother’s side, so we were the “outsiders” in a sense. But other than that, it was a pretty homogeneous group. In 1974, on a lovely warm sunny Sunday, the organ prelude was augmented by the sound of about 25 thundering Harleys roaring into the parking lot at Good Shepherd. It was the day the Hell’s Angels show up at our church. Yes, you heard me right ... the Hell's Angels came to church that Sunday.

It seems the Hells Angels have a pact that if a member falls off their motorcycle or has an accident they have to attend church on Sunday as penance. So, evidently, one of the locals dropped his bike and they decided to show up at Good Shepherd Lutheran in their full biker regalia – leathers, chains, bones hanging off their chains, artwork on their jackets that wasn’t exactly church appropriate. It was a rather intimidating sight to behold and it raised the anxiety level in the congregation a bit. But a couple of them slid into a pew with one of our older Norwegian ladies and she had her service book open to the first hymn. She looked at the biker who had just sat down next to her and gave him the polite “church nod” to acknowledge his presence. She then looked down at her service book, looked up at the biker again and, realizing these bikers didn’t have a clue what to do in church, she handed the opened book to him, pointed to the opening hymn and said, “We start right here.” I continued to watch her during the service coaching these bikers on how to use the service book and making sure they were on the right page! Now I don’t know whether or not these Hell’s Angels showed up because they wanted to see Jesus, but I do know this: you betcha that Norwegian lady showed ‘em Jesus. And she showed them Jesus through her traditions not in spite of them. May we go and do likewise.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

These words from God spoken to Jeremiah were words of comfort and hope to the Israelites in exile in Babylon. I’ve always loved this passage and when the going has been rough in my life’s journey, this promise is one to which I return. This passage was our focus and promise at yesterday's parish retreat as we came together to begin our conversations on how God is working at Grace Church and where we are being called to serve the Lord.

I believe it is also the promise of hope and a future for Grace Church. I have only been with you a very short time: two months as your supply clergy and just over three months as your priest-in-charge. In this time, we have seen signs of hope and a future. When I arrived at Grace, our average Sunday attendance was around 18; since Christmas, that average Sunday attendance figure has increased to 25-27. When I arrived at Grace, there was no opportunity for Bible study; today we have a group who meets every Tuesday to encounter the word of God in a fresh way. When I arrived, Sunday morning was the only service offered; now in addition to Sundays, we have a mid-week contemplative healing service which averages eight people each week and brings in people who cannot otherwise worship because of work or family commitments. When I arrived, we only had two youth; today, we have seven and the number continues to grow (admittedly Stuart and I contributed two of them!). When I arrived, we had to shuffle schedules between a regular supply organist and our own Janet Roberts to make sure we had music on Sunday mornings; today I am pleased to announce that we have a new organist starting on a trial basis beginning on Maundy Thursday. God is surely blessing us as we, in the words of 1st Peter, become “living stones built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood.”

This year is certainly one of transition. In my first year here with you, I am committed to the following goals:

1. Deepen the spiritual practices at Grace: It has been my experience that when congregations get clear on their need for regular, disciplined spiritual practices and commit to them, they become healthy and vital. There is a rich tradition of sacramentally centered spirituality here at Grace – from regular celebration of the Eucharist, to healing services, to regular offerings of sacramental reconciliation, to study of the Bible and other spiritual writings.
   
2. Get to know the members of Grace: I want to know you as individuals and as part of the Grace family. To that end, I’m trying to find ways we can spend time together in fellowship – and not always here within the walls of the church. Through shared meals, conversation, and times of recreation (especially as the weather is warming up), I hope to get to know you as you also get to know me.
   
3. Focus on radical hospitality: The Church is a unique entity in that it exists not only for those who are here on Sunday mornings, but is also exists as much (if not more) for those who are not here on Sunday mornings. Sadly, many congregations view their existence through the lens of how they can survive and newcomers often are seen as new resources to be tapped rather than honored guests of Christ who need our hospitality. When someone comes into Grace, there is a reason … and often there is a wound. The wound may be a longing for something more than what the world can give. It may be something deep: depression, death, anxiety, physical or mental illness, dislocation, loneliness. Every person who comes here comes seeking Christ. Our Benedictine monastic tradition tells us to welcome all guests as if they were Christ – for indeed, they are. Grace is already a warm, friendly place – but how can we do even more for our Lord’s sake?
   
4. Raise up lay leadership: There is a reason our catechism reads, “Who are the ministers of the Church? The ministers of the Church are laity, bishops, priests, and deacons.” The laity is mentioned first for a reason – you are the largest order of ministry. In fact, there are places you can take Christ where I, wearing a collar, cannot. So, what is your passion? Where do you encounter the living God in ways which can bring life and light to others? How can I help you live into your baptismal covenant?
   
5. Improve communications: I have been working to find ways to keep our members informed on what is happening at Grace. Many of you are receiving our weekly emails and pastoral updates. While I know not all of you have email, I do know we lack the staff and money to attempt anything beyond this medium of communication at this time. Given the slow delivery of mail due to the reorganization of the Postal Service, most local churches are abandoning their newsletters in favor of email communications. What I have seen, is how those of you with email make a point to call those who do not have email and share the news with them. This is a healthy sign of how Grace’s members care for each other and I appreciate how you show the love of Christ in this way.
   
6. Increase our commitment to total stewardship: “But who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort? for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee.” (1 Chronicles 29:14) This familiar passage which we hear in our worship reminds us that all that we are and all that we have is merely on loan from God from whom all things come. Stewardship is often relegated to the “sermon on the amount” each fall; however, it is more than this. Stewardship is how we manage all aspects of our lives: from the food we eat, to the clothing we wear, to the cars we drive. How do we best live in harmony with the earth and each other? This is a stewardship question.
   
   But make no mistake – stewardship is also about money! It is about how we make decisions and prioritize what is of ultimate worth. Jesus’ teachings focused more on wealth and how we relate to it than any other single topic. It takes money to support the mission and ministry at Grace. It takes $1,736 per week or $248 per day of income to cover our current expenses and as you will see in our budget later, we have a significant shortfall.
   
   Stuart and I are personally committed to the minimum Biblical standard of a 10% tithe as a starting point for our financial giving. We committed to tithing when I was ordained and called to The Gathering and I credit The Rev. Gene Bolin with challenging us to step up to this level of financial commitment. He had preached and practiced the tithe prior to his departure and I could not in a clear conscience preach what I did not practice. In one year, Stuart and I took the leap and moved from a 4% level of financial support to 10%. It was not without a bit of anxiety; however, this new commitment made us much more conscious of how we made choices about money and where we had been wasteful. When we ended that first year, we found we had actually given 12% of our income away to the church and other charitable causes.
   
   Stuart and I are commitment to the tithe and Grace receives the lion’s share. I do not say to boast, for the only thing in which I can boast is in Christ and him crucified. I merely say this to be clear that when I speak of stewardship and the tithe, I am not expecting of you that which I do not expect from myself and my family. And so, I encourage each of you to prayerfully consider how you support the ministries here at Grace, not only with your time and talent, but also with your treasure by committing to a plan of proportionate giving.
   

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” We have a bright future here at Grace. The Spirit is moving among us, filling us, and using us to embody the Gospel of Jesus Christ. May we continue forward in faith, in hope, but most of all, in Christ’s love.

John stands out as one of my favorite hospice patients. He was in his mid-60s and dying of lung cancer. When our hospice team arrived for his initial visit, he welcomed us into his home. He was personable, very friendly, and extremely intelligent. Each of our team members introduced themselves and gave a brief introduction to their role on the team. When it was my turn to discuss spiritual care and the role of the chaplain, he listened very politely and then informed me he was an atheist. I said, “Really? Me to … I’m a ……. theist. I just put a longer pause in the word.” We both laughed and I then told him that my role was not to convince or convert him – my role was to help him find meaning in these last days, weeks or months of his life. I asked him where he found meaning in his life and he said, “My family, my music collection, and science – especially cosmology and physics.” I told him I liked science too (which seemed to surprise him). I offered to have us try out a couple of visits and if he felt it wasn’t helpful, then we could quit – no harm, no foul. He agreed and we began to have visits every two weeks. They were the LONGEST pastoral visits I’ve ever had with anyone. Seriously! I would get to John’s house about 1 or 2 o’clock in the afternoon and we’d talk about all kinds of things … and then look at our watches and realize 4 hours had passed.

I intentionally avoided God talk with John because I didn’t want him to see me as the stereotypical Christian out to win his soul for Jesus before he died. In the words of the baptismal covenant, I needed to respect the dignity of every human being – even if that other human being didn’t believe in God. However, in every single visit, John would find a way to interject God talk. It started out as cynical jibes about the “Santa Claus in the sky” people believe in and how he could, with his intellect, probably get me to lose my religion. I told him, “That’s what you think! You’re a little late in the game – I lost ‘religion’ back in 1975 when I became Episcopalian. It’s Christianity’s original ‘disorganized religion.’” That’s when he told me his middle daughter had converted to Christianity and was married to the son of one of our Episcopal deacons. God does have a sense of humor!

As John and I entered into a deeper trust relationship, the cynical comments slowly ebbed away. John shared with me his fears about having a bad death and how he’d never seen a good death. We began to talk about how cosmology and theology were beginning to converge, especially in string theory. And then he told me about the God he didn’t believe in – the one he learned about growing up in a stern, severe Calvinistic faith tradition.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m bashing John Calvin. He gave much good to Christianity in the Swiss Reformation – especially when it comes to God’s passion for social justice. But Calvin was not a trained theologian – he was an attorney by education. And so, it is not surprising that Calvin’s image of God is that of judge and jury rolled into one. The God that John heard about in his church was a harsh judge who saved some and damned others: a God just waiting for you to mess up so he could smite you! When he shared this with me, I said, “Wow … that’s not the God I believe in either John. Maybe I’m an atheist!”

John then asked me, “Well, if you don’t believe in that God, what God do you believe in?” I replied, “John, I believe in a God who is beyond the rules. A God who is beyond tribal religious affiliations where some are ‘chosen’ and therefore ‘saved’ and others are ‘unchosen’ and therefore ‘damned.’ A God who is way beyond the ability of my pea brain to comprehend and yet so intimately within me that this God lives between the subatomic particles of stardust that make up my body; a God who passionately loves all of creation and infuses that creation with life and light; a God whose fiery love has consumed me before I could even comprehend loving myself; a God who is more me than me. That’s the God I believe in John – a God beyond the rules.” John appeared a bit stunned by my answer because it took him a few moments to reply. He said, “I’ve never heard any clergyperson talk like that about God.” I said, “Maybe it’s about time you did.”

A few weeks later, I had my last visit with John. I didn’t know it would be, but after all he was in hospice care. During our visit, John turned the conversation towards God. He said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about our last conversation – the one where you talked about the God you believe in.” I said, “Really?” He said, “Yes. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. You know … I could believe in that God.” I was stunned. He then leaned toward me with a conspiratorial grin on his face and said, “Maybe … we need to rescue God from religion.” I said, “Yes, John. We need to regularly rescue God from religion.”

That’s Jesus is doing in today’s gospel: rescuing God from religion. The Jewish system of worship had evolved from a God who was wild and free – who showed up not through elaborate rituals but in burning bushes and pillars of cloud and fire. A God worshiped in a tent of meeting or at the ford of a river – a God without boundaries. But as the people became settled, the image of this God was tamed – boxed up in an Arc of the Covenant and housed in a Temple made by human hands where only the High Priest could enter. This Temple structure also developed a system of purity laws creating spaces where only some people could enter and others were excluded. It was a system which imaged God as wholly other and separated from humanity – a God “out there.” And when we image God as completely out there and separate from ourselves, we will always image a God of judgment instead of a God of mercy and grace. It is only when we realize that God is within and through and between all things that we can image a God who through mercy and grace can achieve justice.

Jesus isn’t just turning over some tables just to stick it to the man – he’s turning over the very image of God! When Jesus references tearing down the temple and rebuilding it in three days, John’s gospel tells us the Pharisees don’t get it. They think he’s talking about a cold, stone building. But Jesus is talking about his body and the God who lives between the subatomic particles thereof. And what is true for Jesus is also true for us. As the great mystic St. Paul said in 1st Corinthians 6: “… do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own?” Or as 14th century mystic Meister Eckhart puts it, “God is more you than you.” And when we image God as infused in and through and between our entire being, then and only then can we know God’s love, mercy and grace and trust it will lead us into justice.

And isn’t this what our liturgy says? Our Rite 1 Eucharistic prayer states it most eloquently: “And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy and living sacrifice unto thee.” The sacrifice is no longer a dead animal – it is living and it is us. God wants us … all of us: our selves, our souls and bodies. And God wants a “reasonable” (not perfect), “holy” (whole and at peace with God) and “living” (not dead) sacrifice to incarnate the good news of his love, mercy and grace to a hurting world.

So yes, John, I'm carrying on the work we started: to rescue God from religion. From where does God need to be rescued for you? From what false images does God need to be liberated? Are you ready to be loved completely and passionately by God? Are you ready to love the God beyond the rules?

In his book The Cost of Discipleship, German Lutheran pastor, pacifist and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” I offer you a paraphrase this morning: When Christ called you, he bid you come and die. This isn’t exactly a popular message. Many churches and preachers shy away from this stark reality – Christ called us and bids us come and die. It’s never been a comfortable message and frankly we’d all rather avoid it (myself included!). However, our gospel reading today makes us face this truth as we hear of Jesus facing another temptation.

One of the challenges of our lectionary is it can cause us to compartmentalize the life of Jesus into sometimes seemingly disjointed and discreet events. Last week we heard about Jesus’ baptism and how he was driven into the wilderness and tempted by Satan. Many Bibles even have a heading reading “The baptism and temptation of Jesus” over last week's reading. As if Jesus was baptized, then he endured 40 days of temptation and then, well, he was done with that. “Baptized – check! Temptations – check! OK, what’s next?” It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that throughout his ministry Jesus was beset by temptations. Anytime you see Jesus being opposed by the Pharisees, the Sadducees, or even his own disciples, there is an underlying temptation to sell out his message to the expectation, wants and needs of others.

This is the temptation Peter puts before Jesus after hearing him speak plainly about what lay ahead of them in Jerusalem: rejection by the authorities, suffering, death, and resurrection. Jesus knew that to continue in what he had been called by God to do, it meant death … and resurrection. But the disciples, perhaps most especially Peter, couldn't comprehend rising on the third day – all they heard was “suffering, rejection and death.” And for Peter, and likely the other disciples too, the idea of the Messiah, the Anointed One, being killed was not part of their cultural and religious expectations. The Messiah was to restore Israel – death didn’t fit the image. Besides, the movement was just gaining steam – look at all the crowds who are following you, Jesus. You can’t be killed – we need you here with us! The movement won’t survive without you! While Mark is silent on the actual content of Peter’s objections, we can only imagine these might have been part of his argument. But when Jesus notices the disciples and how they were watching this unfold, he resists the temptation to sell out and says, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Jesus then calls the crowd to join the disciples and continues to teach about what following him means. It means taking up your cross and dying – dying to your own small, selfish, finite, egocentric limited life so that you could be resurrected to live a larger life in God. And I don’t think Jesus was just talking about the big “D” Death of our final breath which leads to the big “R” Resurrection. I think he’s talking about a lifetime cycle of dying and rising – what I think of as lowercase “d” deaths and lowercase “r” resurrections. I consider these smaller deaths and resurrections as periodic testing to prepare us for the final exam.

I am persuaded that a big part of my vocation as a priest is to teach you how to die … and it’s a lesson I’m simultaneously learning alongside you too. I lost count of how many big “D” deaths I’ve been privileged to witness in my ministry as one who ministered to nursing home residents and shut-ins at Calvary UMC or in my work as a hospice chaplain. However, I do know some deaths were better than others. Those who did the big “D” death well were ones who could lean into the trust in God they had learned through dealing with the many little “d” deaths in their lifetime. When you trust in God, you begin to learn that little “d” deaths are followed by little “r” resurrections. And when you can trust this process to work in the micro-economy of God's creation on earth, you can be more trusting that it will work in God’s macro-economy of heaven.

And what are those little “d” deaths? Well, they take many forms in our lives and we all have different ones. Essentially, anything you experience which feels like failing, falling and frustration. Perhaps it’s getting fired from your job, or failing a test or a class, or failing your children, or failing your spouse. Maybe you lied or cheated someone and your false image of being the perfect parent, spouse, friend, or worker gets shattered. Maybe it’s the death of a relationship or the loss of people you love. All of these are little “d” deaths of one sort or another and when you’re in the middle of these deaths, you can start to wonder if life will ever be normal again.

Yogi Berra was not just known for his baseball career with the New York Yankees. He was also a master of malapropisms – sayings that make you say “Wait … what???!!” Things like, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over” or “You can observe a lot just by watching” or “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” But this week’s gospel lesson brought to mind my favorite “Yogi-ism”: “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

It’s not your imagination – we heard the first part of this gospel reading back in January on the Baptism of Jesus. We’re getting a few more verses here – the rest of the story if you will – where Jesus emerges from the water and is immediately driven into the wilderness for a 40 day period of testing and this becomes the timeframe we revisit each year in the season of Lent. Lent begins in baptism and ends in resurrection.

As a young child, I was raised Lutheran and to be honest, the only thing which made Lent different from any other time of the year was the purple paraments on the altar and pulpit. We really didn’t mark the time of Lent by doing anything radically different. You see Dr. Luther made sure we confessed we were in bondage to sin and could not free ourselves every single Sunday, so the whole sinful nature of humanity was pretty well covered 52 weeks out of the year. We did have Holy Week services, but liturgically, they pretty well looked like a Sunday service too, albeit with different scripture readings.

My cousins, on the other hand, were Roman Catholic. They did Lent. They had to give something up and fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday with all the other Fridays being “meatless.” When I became Episcopalian, I figured that was close to Roman Catholic so I told my mom I was going to give up homework for Lent … you can only imagine how that went over. I had about the same response when I tried to give up chores too.

But I did notice that in the Episcopal Church, Lent felt very different from my Lutheran experience. Not only do we change the colors and strip things down, we drop the “A-word” from our liturgy. We do the Great Litany on the first Sunday in Lent (Lutherans didn’t have that) and the Penitential Order began our other Sunday services. Sometimes our deacon would read the long exhortation and Holy Week had its own special liturgies in the Prayer Book. It had a very different and a very somber feel. As a youth I felt like it was kind of a … 40 day bummer festival with its focus on our sinfulness and hymns sung in a minor key.

And I find this sense of gloom about Lent to be pretty common – not just in Christians. A few years ago, I was watching Jon Stewart talk about his Jewish faith and the practice of atonement during the High Holy Days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He said, “We have 10 days where we focus on our sins and repent of the wrongs we’ve done. 10 days – that’s it. You Christians have Lent … 40 days of Lent. Even in guilt you people pay retail!”

But instead of observing the 40 day bummer festival this year, I want to invite you to look at Lent a bit differently and I especially want you to remember your baptism. We began our Lenten observance last Wednesday when each of us had the sign of the cross made on our foreheads with palm ashes and we heard the words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Having the sign of the cross made on your forehead is to remind you of your baptism. In our baptismal rite, the bishop or priest makes the sign of the cross in holy oil on the forehead of the newly baptized and says, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.” Forever means forever. And every time the sign of the cross is made, whether with the oil of the infirmed during holy unction, or after being confirmed, or in a blessing, or with ashes, each of these times you receive the sign of the cross, you are to remember your baptism.

St. Gregory of Nyssa, and I’m paraphrasing him here, essentially said that we are created out of the very heart of God and at our baptism we begin our return back to God’s heart. Our baptism begins our return home. And this is good news. But the road home is not a straight or easy one and it is marked by fallings and failings which emanate from Sin and its power over us. Yet the fallings and failings which appear to take center stage in Lent are a necessary part of learning to live a resurrected life of grace. Only when we are painfully honest with ourselves about our own faults, “our own most grievous faults,” can we come to a position of holy humility. And when we reach that place of humility, we find God already there, ready to pick us up, put the fine robe and ring on our finger, and welcome us home with love and mercy. It is a paradox that the very thing we feel most shame over is the very thing which, when we’re honest about it, brings us into a more deeply trusting relationship with the one who first loved us. And it all begins with our baptism when the road home is opened for us.

The disciplines of these 40 days of Lent – be they almsgiving to our Nickels for Nurses program, or giving up meat on Fridays and donating that money to the poor, joining our Soup Supper and Study, or turning off the TV and instead spending some time with a good spiritually challenging book, or fasting from excessive carbon consumption – all of these practices are meant to make you mindful of your relationship with God, with each other, and with creation. These disciplines are designed to remind you that you are on the way home and to bring you into a posture of gratitude for what God in Christ has done for you. And it all begins with your baptism.

Come gather ‘round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.

It doesn’t matter whether you are old enough to remember the original Bob Dylan recording of this song, or perhaps the Peter, Paul and Mary cover of it … or if you are young enough to be thinking, “Bob who??”: this folk classic speaks a universal truth … the times are changing. It is often said the only thing constant is change, but we humans love/hate relationship with change. Some changes we welcome and others we do not want and yet cannot control.

Regardless of whether change is bidden or not, wanted or not, all change involves the loss of something and we fear what we might lose. This fear even extends into the Church. Why do you think there are so many denominational “changing a light bulb” jokes? Like “How many Episcopalians does it take to change a light bulb?” I’ve heard two answers to this. Either, “What do you mean change that light bulb? My great-grandfather donated that light bulb and it will not be changed!” or “Three – one to change the light bulb, one to mix the martinis, and the third to tell us all how much better the old bulb was. As Christians, we follow a savior who came to change a lot of things, but ironically, we have trouble accepting change in the church as much as we do in our lives. So, what happens when the waters around you have grown? Do you swim, or sink like a stone? How do you respond in the face of inevitable change? Today’s readings from 2nd Kings and Mark speak to the human desire of holding on to what we have and the necessity of letting go when change comes to us.

In our first reading, we hear about the final journey of Elijah the Tishbite, prophet of God. Elijah and his protégé Elisha are traveling away from Gilgal and eventually to cross the Jordan. In an effort perhaps to ease the pain of parting, Elijah repeatedly tells Elisha to stay here while he goes on. But Elisha’s repeated response is, “As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” I experienced many families and friends who by their words and actions essentially said what Elisha said to their own loved ones as death approached. I recall one woman in particular: her name was Joanne. She was a cradle Episcopalian and lived in an assisted living facility in Hagerstown. She died of lung cancer at the age of 58. Joanne’s mother and sister lived out of the area and she didn’t have any close family in Hagerstown – but she built a family from the many friends she made at the assisted living home. Joanne’s greatest fear was that she would die alone. But she didn’t need to fear this – everyone who knew her said they would be there for her up until the end. The woman who ran the beauty shop in the facility assured Joanne that when the day came, she would close the shop and sit with her until the family arrived. “As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” When Joanne entered her final hours, she was unconscious and when I arrived I saw five of Joanne’s friends already in her room – just sitting with her so she wouldn’t be alone. When her family arrived we began the litany for the dying as she stopped breathing. I gave Joanne her last Communion and everyone in the room shared the sacrament. Finally, we commended her to God and when we all said the final “Amen,” Joanne’s heart stopped. As long as she lived and as the Lord lived, we would not leave her.

But just like nothing could completely prepare Elisha for his master’s departure and he would tear his clothes in grief, nothing could totally prepare us for losing Joanne either. We all broke down in tears – there is something about the finality of death that hurts. No amount of head knowledge can prepare any of us for the finality of parting. We don’t know just how long Elisha stayed on that side of the Jordan River grieving, but if we read a bit past where our lectionary ends, we hear that he picks up the mantle of Elijah, goes back to the Jordan, strikes the water and calls upon the name of the God of Elijah – and the waters part and he returns to Israel. Elisha returns, but not as the same person. This grief and pain of parting has transformed him and he is now ready to continue the work of the prophet.

Our gospel text is also about change and transformation – both of Jesus and his disciples. Mark begins by telling us it is six days later: later than what? Well, it’s just been six days since Peter has declared Jesus as the Messiah and this declaration is linked to the Transfiguration. So Peter, James and John go up the mountain with Jesus where they see Jesus changed in front of them. His robes become dazzling white – Mark says they were whiter than any bleach could get them (forget new and improved Tide, this is way better than that!). Then Elijah appears with Moses and they are talking with Jesus. This vision confirms for the disciples that Jesus can’t be Elijah and he can’t be Moses – so Peter’s declaration is true!

At this point Peter blurts out, “Rabbi, this is great! Let’s build three dwellings – one for each of you!” Peter, in his terror, makes an attempt to hold on to this holy moment by building something. We might chuckle at that, but how often do we desire to seize the moment and stay there? Jesus, in this transfigured vision, is very much changed in the eyes of his disciples – they’ve had a glimpse of his glory, a prefiguring of the resurrection. Holding onto the glory sounds pretty good at this point, but Jesus does not reply to Peter’s offer. Instead, the three disciples hear the voice from the now descended cloud saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” In the Greek, this command to listen renders more like, “listen and keep on listening to him.” The voice commands them to listen to Jesus and keep on listening to him because the times are about to be changing. Jesus will be glorified … but that glory will not come by an easy path – it will come through death on a cross.

We are at a spiritual turning point, a time of change, in the church year. The season of Epiphany, with its central theme of “Who is Jesus?” is ending. This Wednesday, we begin the Lenten journey of asking the question, “Who am I in relation to Jesus?” We begin by facing our own mortality with the imposition of ashes on Wednesday. It is a season of self-examination and penitence – a season which challenges us to spiritual change. 

Our spiritual growth does not happen when things are going well for us. If we could, we would avoid all suffering and pain in our lives. It is only when change comes, welcome or not, and we face the inevitable losses which accompany change that we are able to deepen our spiritual lives as we adapt to new realities. We may try to fight change. We may try to hold on in desperation to that which we love or think we can’t live without. But like Elisha and Peter, we cannot cling to what is or what was. Instead we are called to step out into an unknown future leaning solely on a radical trust in God.

Elisha knew this. He was compelled to move forward in his ministry without his beloved Elijah. Peter, James and John do not stay on the mountain with Jesus, but go forward with him to Jerusalem. Admittedly, things will not go as they plan there and the stark reality of the cross will make the disciples scatter in fear. But the changes which come in Holy Week and Easter will turn the whole world upside down as Christ’s death destroys the power of Sin and Death once for all.

Jesus did not come to this earth to make some fine-tuning adjustments to our lives. He came that we might be utterly and completely transformed. That’s some change! Our Orthodox sisters and brothers have a saying: “God became human in Jesus so that we might become divine.” Our lives are full of changes and losses which will, eventually, lead us back to the very heart of God. We Christians are a people called to change and transformation as we live a life of radical trust in God.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.

__If you had told me back in 2001 when I started my journey towards ordination that I would be where I am today, I wouldn’t have believed you. You see I had it all planned out! I was going to attend a good Episcopal seminary, probably VTS. After that, I would likely be called to be an assistant at a program sized parish for a few years and later I would seek a call to be the rector of a large pastoral to program sized congregation. Yep, that’s how it would all happen, right?

Well, not exactly. Instead of going to VTS, I ended up going to a Lutheran seminary (and I received an excellent education there). And instead of a full-time call to be an assistant rector somewhere, my first call out of seminary was to close a congregation. That sure wasn’t in my plan. It also wasn’t part of the plan to face unemployment before the first anniversary of my ordination. And it wasn’t in the plan that I would end up serving a Methodist church part-time because there are no full-time calls open in the diocese. I wasn't going to be in urban ministry at St. Luke's Franklin Square either. And I wasn't going to go back to my home congregation for nine months. And don't even tell me I'd spend almost two years as a hospice chaplain. No way! That was not going to happen!  I had it all planned out, don't you see?

It’s said that we make plans, and God laughs. I guess I've been a major source of comic relief for the Almighty. Things don’t always work out the way we think they will, but that doesn’t mean we don’t think about outcomes or get emotionally invested in how we think things should be.

Naaman had that problem. He was a powerful man, very important general to the King of Aram, but he had leprosy. Now leprosy was a catch all term for a lot of skin diseases and we really don’t know what Naaman had, but leprosy was feared and if you could find a cure, you’d definitely want to get it. Naaman’s wife has a Hebrew servant girl who tells her it’s too bad Naaman isn’t in Israel because there’s a prophet there who would cure him of his leprosy. Eventually, Naaman makes his way to Elisha’s house and gets pretty annoyed when the prophet merely sends word through his messenger to go wash seven times in the Jordan and he’d be clean. Elisha also knows that the healing of leprosy isn’t about him having special powers, but is about the power of God alone to heal. But Naaman doesn’t quite get it, so he blows up. “I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy!”  Whoa, wait a minute … hold the phone. His wife’s servant said there is a prophet who could cure him of his leprosy. She didn’t say anything about some elaborate ritual he would do to bring about this cure!  But somewhere between hearing about this cure and his arrival at Elisha’s doorstep, Naaman has dreamed up this elaborate liturgy about how Elisha would cure him. He would come out? Stand and call on the name of the Lord his God? Wave his hand over the spot?  Wow! That’s a liturgy worthy of an Anglican! Naaman is not only invested in a definite outcome of receiving a cure, but he has also concocted the exact process by which it would happen.

Now the leper in Mark’s story has a very different approach. This healing story begins a series of vignettes in Mark portraying Jesus as a crosser of social and legal boundaries. But we must recognize that the leper actually violates the boundary first. In the Levitical codes, a leper was not supposed to engage anyone. They were to walk with their hand over their upper lip and cry out “unclean, unclean” as they came near anyone so that people could avoid them. Instead, this leper approaches Jesus, not with a cry of “unclean, unclean,” but with a cry bidding Jesus to come to him. This leper invites Jesus to come along side him … and Jesus does. He then says, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” Or, in the AAV (that’s “Anjel’s Authorized Version … not available in stores), “If you desire, you have the power to cleanse me.”

The key to his statement is in the “if.”  We only have one word for “if” in English, but the Greeks had two different ones:  ei and ean. Ei is the “if of certainty” as in, “If I touch a hot stove, I will burn my hand.”  We know the outcome, it’s a no brainer. Ean, on the other hand, is called the “if of uncertainty” as in “If I win the lottery, what would I do with the money?” That’s a very uncertain if!  It is this latter type of “if” we find in the leper’s words and it is followed by a form of the verb to choose, wish, will or desire which also suggests an uncertain outcome. What we can make of this is that the leper is not invested in a specific outcome; he isn’t taking this healing for granted as a done deal at all. Unlike Naaman who is highly invested in how it should all turn out and exactly how it will go down, this leper is actually making a faith statement. He says that Jesus has the power to cleanse him regardless of whether Jesus chooses to exercise that power or not. If the AAV ever gets published, I’d probably render it as, “You have the power to make me clean. Regardless of whether you want to or not, you have the power to make me clean.”  Jesus responds by being moved with compassion, accepting the boundary crossing first proposed by the leper, and heals him.

In the season of Epiphany, the focus is on the question, “Who is Jesus?”  In the case of the leper in Mark, Jesus is the one with the power to cleanse, regardless of whether he desires to exercise his power or not. Unlike Naaman, this leper doesn’t get invested in the outcome or a specific process. This is the tension we live in: how do we have a vision of what or how things should be and yet holding it lightly enough to let God do what needs to be done even if it does not match how we think it should happen.

The Christian life is an adventure and there are no guaranteed outcomes short of the fullness of a resurrected life in God. What that will look like and how it will go down is mystery. Letting go of prescribed outcomes and preconceived ideas of how things should happen is what it means to grow in our faith.

Who is Jesus?  He is the one with the power to cleanse, the power to make us whole and who promises and abundant life. Our faith challenge is to trust this power and let go of our assumptions of how it will all work out.

When our oldest daughter Claire was about three years old, she began to experience night terrors. If you’ve never experienced this as a parent, you are fortunate. Night terrors are beyond the simple “bad dream” or nightmare. When Claire had them, she’d sit bolt upright in bed screaming, her eyes open but in a fixed stare. She didn’t respond to our voices and her crying and screaming were inconsolable. After a while, she would settle down and go back to sleep – and have absolutely no memory of what happened when she woke up the next morning. Stu and I were beside ourselves on what to do.

About this same time Claire began to talk quite a bit about ghosts, monsters and dinosaurs. Claire had a very active imagination and we suspected her night terrors might be related to her talk of ghosts, monsters and dinosaurs. So after a few nights of disrupted sleep, I decided to try something – an exorcism … of sorts! Not the kind you see in the movies, mind you, nor was I going to call in the diocesan exorcist (and yes, every diocese has a designated exorcist for official exorcisms). I didn’t think this was demonic but I did think that Claire somehow felt rather helpless about these ghosts, monsters and dinosaurs she kept talking about. I thought having a ritual for chasing them away before bed might lessen these night terror episodes.

So that night, Claire and I were in her room and after I read her a bedtime story, we had a talk about the ghosts, monsters and dinosaurs. Claire admitted she didn’t like them – they were scary. I told her she had the power to chase them away because Jesus loved her. Her eyes lit up as I told her I’d help her. So, on that cold January night, we went over to the window of her room and I opened it. Claire shouted, “Jesus loves me!! Go away you ghosts! Go away you monsters! Go away you dinosaurs!” and for good measure, she added her fiercest growl, stomped her feet and waved her hands in the air after which I shut the window quickly. “Boy you really scared them off,” I told her before tucking her into bed and kissing her good night. That night, she slept soundly and without incident. Thus began a nightly liturgy that lasted several months – and she never experienced a night terror again. Rituals are important. Rituals matter.

We often lose sight of the importance of rituals in our increasingly scientific and secular culture. R. Alan Culpepper, who wrote the commentary on Luke’s gospel in the New Interpreters Bible, states:

"... The observance of religious requirements and rituals has fallen on hard times. Essential to Judaism is the praise of God in all of life. The Jewish law taught that God was to be honored in one's rising up and lying down, in going out and coming in, in how one dressed and what one ate. . . .

The pressures of secularism and modern life have again reduced the significance of ritual observances in the lives of most Christians. Busy schedules, dual-career marriages, and after-school activities mean that families eat fewer meals together. Prayer before meals and family Bible study are observed in fewer homes today than just a generation ago. For many, religious rituals are reduced to church attendance at Christmas and Easter and to socially required ceremonies at births, weddings, and funerals. The marking of both daily and special events with rituals that recognize the sacredness of life and the presence of God in the everyday is practically extinct. In the minds of many it is associated either with superstitions and cultic practices of the past or the peculiar excesses of religious fanatics. The result has been that God has receded from the awareness and experience of everyday life. Many assume that God is found only in certain places, in sacred buildings, in holy books, or in observances led by holy persons. Their lives, on the other hand, move in a secular realm devoid of the presence of the holy. Daily experiences are reduced and impoverished. They have no meaning beyond themselves, no opening to transcendence. Little room for mystery remains in the everyday as it becomes increasingly subject to secularism and technology. What have we lost by removing ritual observances from our daily experience?

The challenge to modern Christians, therefore, is to find effective rituals for celebrating the presence of God in the ordinary. We need to learn to greet the morning with gratitude; to celebrate the goodness of food, family, and friendship at meals; to recognize mystery in beauty; and to mark rites of passage … Rituals are not restrictive; they celebrate the goodness and mystery of life." (p. 74-75)

The Jewish faith in which Jesus was raise by his parents recognized the importance of ritual and seeing the divine in the ordinary everyday stuff of life. It was a way of living in relationship with God which emphasized ritual as a way of behaving your way into belief. Notice the order here: behavior precedes belief. In our Anglican way, we say, “Lex orandi, lex credendi” – the way we pray shapes the way we believe. We pray our way into our faith.

I am persuaded that our Christian faith is not about intellectual assents to doctrinal propositions about Christ as much as it is something we do - it is more caught than taught. We catch our faith through being in community, worshiping, praying, hearing the scriptures, receiving the mystical Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist, and participating in the rituals and sacraments which give shape and meaning to our relationship with God, to our lives, and to our relationships with each other.

Simeon and Anna understood this. Simeon, the devout and righteous Israelite who is holding onto a promise of seeing the Lord’s Messiah before he dies. Time is growing short for him and yet he persists in behaving his way into trusting in this promise. I cannot help but think he may have had his doubts along the way. But nonetheless, Simeon persists in going to the Temple, in observing the rituals and offering his prayers. Anna, the prophet, also persists in prayers, worship and fasting – behaving her way into her belief. Both of these elders continued in the rituals of their faith – and Christ came to them. And he came to them in a most unexpected way – in the form of a baby born to a poor family who walked 60 miles from Nazareth to perform the rituals of the Temple and dedicate their child to God. Rituals matter.

Christ likewise comes to us through the ritual sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist, the sacraments of confirmation, marriage, unction, reconciliation and ordination. As you continue to ponder the question of who Jesus is to you and to us, be attentive to these rituals but also pay attention to how Christ comes through less formal rituals: eating a meal together as a family, praying together, a hug of consolation, a kind and healing word spoken in love, or even a banishing of ghosts, monsters and dinosaurs.