This past summer, a friend of mine went overseas to participate in an archeological dig. From just the pictures she posted on Facebook I saw her donning a wide-brimmed sun hat and kneeling over carefully turned earth with trowel in hand. She was uncovering a mystery hidden from sight for thousands of years. 

I wonder what she uncovered – a fossil, a bone fragment, a sherd of pottery, a tool or utensil from a bygone age? Or, maybe, as I like to imagine, she was discovering a round, stone decal on which words or images were inscribed, carefully and meticulously sculpted. 

All these possibilities reveal a story, a narrative, of lives lived and cultures celebrated, lives and cultures far removed from our day and age.

Sometimes the truth of someone’s life is not easily accessible nor perceptible, at least from the surface. On the surface of things, we don’t get the complete picture. On top of that, no one can easily plumb the depths to uncover the totality and truth of one’s life buried deeply beneath the surface.

On the surface we conclude many things about what we see, good and bad. We may conclude it’s not worth digging beneath the surface. To uncover it all may be too much for us, even if we wanted to.

When God created Michael, God imprinted an aspect of the divine onto Michael life. Like a potter or sculptor, God fashioned Michael to reflect some unique manifestation of God’s self (Genesis 1:27).

Over the course of Michael’s life, the earth, the world, weighed down heavily on him – as it will onto all of us. Layer upon layer, year after year, the sediment collects and the dirt, sand, and roots which pack down over top the true manifestation of Michael’s life. 

How he positioned himself, responded to the weight of it all, had something to do with how deeply hidden his beauty and true self was hidden from us. Of course, other factors affected the course of his journey as well. But there is a deeper truth to behold in our contemplation of and thanksgiving today for Michael’s life.

Even when you who were closest to Michael struggled in loving him, God is like my archeology friend. God, on bended knee, is faithfully and persistently dedicated to uncovering the original work of God. There is a promise, after all, from scripture told by the prophet Isaiah: That God will never forget the work of God’s hands – “I have inscribed you,” God says, “on the palm of my hands” (49:15-16).

God has etched your being onto God’s own being. And so, God can never forget you, and will always remember each and every one of us no matter how deeply we are buried under the weight of the world.

And sometimes, as God continues to faithfully work at digging, uncovering, and chipping away the packed earth from our souls, we get a glimpse of what lies underneath. We catch a glimmer of grace.

Some of you witnessed moments, revelations, of what lay deep beneath the surface of Michael’s life just days before he died.

He hugged you. He told you he loved you. He held the words of the Lord’s Prayer close to his heart, and confessed this prayer warmed him when he was cold. Graciously, these revelations rose to the surface of his life for you to behold.

God will never stop, with each one of us, until life has gone full circle to the way it was in the beginning, so we can realize our true, unencumbered, unique self, beloved eternally by God. This is the promise of faith. 

Thanks be to God.

Strive first for the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 6:33)

Not long before she died, Bev shared with me a childhood memory: On her way to Sunday School with her brother, they ran across the yard and down the street. But alas! Dressed in her Sunday best, she tripped right into a puddle of mud, splattering her pretty dress. She didn’t end up going to Sunday School that morning, but the reason I think she remembered this incident was because of what happened next …. (I’ll tell you at the conclusion of the sermon!)

In her mind Bev strived for the higher ideal. In that sense, her vision was skyward, upward. Bev’s standard was golden. Her thinking, sharp. Her ideals cut to the chase. And there was no arguing.

Striving is about looking up. Almost every time Bev came to worship recently, she would take my arm at the door on the way out, and look me in the eye and say, “Psalm 121”. This is the Psalm she wanted read at her funeral, I think to represent her ideals. There’s this energy about looking up for help, far and away, to that high, transcendent point just beyond reach.

This section from the Psalms in which we find Psalm 121 is called the “psalms of ascent” reflecting the inspiration of the song writers singing their way up the path toward the city of Jerusalem. Coming up the path you couldn’t help but look up at the magnificent gates entering the city. “I look to the hills from where is my help to come? My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth…”

Heaven and earth. Heaven is for striving and looking up. Heavenward represents our deeply felt longings and aspirations not yet fulfilled. Striving for the goal, the destination, where upon the mountaintop in that beautiful imagery from the prophet, the Lord will make a feast for all, and death will be no more (Isaiah 25).

But the Psalmist doesn’t stop at heaven. “My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth.

The downside of only looking upward is that we will trip and fall when things get messy on the ground. Looking downward from time to time is part of the journey of faith, maybe a part we want to avoid, deny and skip over all together. But looking downward is the only way forward in faith.

When my family first moved into our newly constructed house over eleven years ago, it was at the time only roughed in for central vacuum. During coffee after worship one Sunday I happened to mention I was on the lookout for what kind of central vac system to install. And Beverley Milton was first up to give her advice. “Go with Kanata Vacuum, it’s just around the corner from my place, and they’re good,” was all she said. All she needed to say.

You see, when she first moved into her house over thirty years ago, she installed floor-to-floor carpeting. Fast forward to a couple of months ago: When the new owners bought her house, that very same carpet was in such good shape they did not need nor intend to replace it. Bev’s advice was golden. Every time I vacuum at home, especially in the last couple of months, I think of Bev and give thanks.

The last time I was in Bev’s house was in the Fall last year when family gathered around her dining room table – Leslie and Bev, Susan, Scott and Marilyn, Lauren and Colin – for a delightful meal and spirited discussion. But in order to eat, to receive the good gifts of the earth, what do have to do? Well, we need to look down, from time to time.

Lord, you have put all things under their feet (Psalm 8), the Psalmist also says.

While heaven is for striving and looking up, earth is for looking down and gathering in the gifts of the moment in real time. One of Bev’s favourite sayings was: Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, today is a gift; that is why it is called the present. God is, after all, the maker of it all, of heaven and earth.

Your family gathered around that dining room every Sunday for decades. It’s a mealtime table memory I am sure you will cherish forever. Ever thankful, ever grateful, we look down to see where we are planted, where we find our place in this world. And being grateful, even if only in our memory, gives us peace, too.

That table sat on the carpet, don’t forget. Most of the time we don’t think about it, don’t notice where we are walking or sitting. We aren’t looking down at it but it’s there, holding us, grounding us, embracing us, literally. And when we do take the time to stop and look, we might notice the quality and durability of it. And give thanks.

It’s a matter of perspective, of course. I am captivated by a photo taken from a commercial airliner flying over Mount Everest, the tallest mountain in the world. From on high, the mountaintop does not look as daunting. From on high, everything is seen from a larger perspective.

Today, Bev doesn’t need to strive in her mind anymore. Her perspective in communion with God holds it all, the big picture. She doesn’t need any more to toil on the ground reaching upward and yearning for some transcendent place far up and away. Now she can look down and smile at all the good gifts on earth each one of us can still enjoy. If we will but stop and take notice.

It’s appropriate we celebrate Bev’s life today, in the neighbourhood in which she spent many years as a child growing up, in “Little Germania”, I hear the New Edinburgh area was called. In this neighbourhood over 90 years later we gather to remember her life that started in this place where she went to Sunday School, played with friends and attended school. Close to the ground. It started here. She’s come full circle. But it doesn’t end here, for her and for us.

May God bless us on our journeys of striving, of yearning, of looking upward. May we also cherish those moments when we can look down and around, even if it’s sometimes messy and maybe not quite so perfect here, to see the gifts of the earth nourishing our souls every day.

By the way, that childhood memory didn’t end with her looking down at her spotted, mud-splattered Sunday dress. It ended with her turning around and running home straight into the loving arms and embrace of her mother, who told her, it was alright.

Amen.

¹ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
   Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?
² O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
   and by night, but find no rest.

³ Yet you are holy,
   enthroned on the praises of Israel.
⁴ In you our ancestors trusted;
   they trusted, and you delivered them.
⁵ To you they cried, and were saved;
   in you they trusted, and were not put to shame …

²⁹ To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down;
   before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,
   and I shall live for him.
³⁰ Posterity will serve him;
   future generations will be told about the Lord,
³¹ and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn,
   saying that he has done it.

Last week there was a resurrection, of a kind.

The famed “men’s breakfast” at Faith Lutheran Church resumed after the pandemic had shut it down. Nearly a dozen of us from the church gathered in the same place that had been the venue for the monthly breakfast for years. We even sat in the same part of the restaurant. I couldn’t help but think of some of the guys who used to attend who for whatever reason weren’t or couldn’t be there this time.

Rolf was one of them.

Eating is what we do as humans. Perhaps that is why Jesus in his resurrection appearance to his disciples made it a point to eat “broiled fish” (Luke 24:36-42) right in front of them. He wanted to show that his resurrection did not deny the value of our humanity as people of faith.

Embracing our humanity makes all the difference in understanding God’s love for us. God doesn’t love us because we are spiritual or have achieved enlightenment in some esoteric way. God loves us just as we are because God is good!

The glory of God, Saint Irenaeus of Lyons (135-202) wrote, is the living human. We don’t experience God or get closer to God by being more spiritual, but by being more human. God comes near to us when we accept and embrace all of who we are including our human frailty, imperfections as well as all the good things that emerge from our true humanity.

Whenever we gather for prayer and worship, we give it all to God. Not just the polished, nice parts. Not just the parts we want to show off and impress others with.

Someone told me a story about what Rolf did years ago, before I came to Faith Lutheran, on a Maundy Thursday during Holy Week. The focus of the service was the suffering of Christ. And it is tradition on Maundy Thursday to read Psalm 22 which Jesus cited from the cross before he died. The words spoken by Jesus are recorded in the Gospel: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34)

But on that Maundy Thursday, for whatever reason, the person assigned to read Psalm 22 did not show up. The pastor at the time quickly looked for someone else to read it. At the last minute, Rolf, who was there as an usher, agreed.

But what really shocked someone there was how Rolf read it. At first, they wondered who it was. Because Rolf punched out the words in as loud a voice as he could muster: “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?” – with full dramatic effect.

Rolf gave it all. In that moment Rolf lived into the full range of his emotions, giving it all to God. And what Rolf showed in that moment, I believe, was an energy he did not often show to others, especially in the church.

You see, in the community Rolf preferred to work behind the scenes. He didn’t want to be the centre of attention. He probably only agreed to read Psalm 22 that night because on Maundy Thursday that Psalm is read from the back of the church while the altar is being stripped.

In responding to the call to read Psalm 22, Rolf perhaps had to step out of his comfort zone. But in doing so, he revealed his inner strength and truth. And conveyed the truth of the Gospel in so doing.

Jesus’ humanity was exposed on the cross, to be sure. Psalm 22 begins in lament. But it doesn’t end there. It continues into glory, as a celebration of trust and faith in the midst of agony and even death. “I shall live for him,” concludes the Psalmist. It is possible that a time of deepest abandonment can open within us feelings of peace, trust and even thanksgiving.

Rolf may not have been physically present with us at the breakfast last week. But every time the church gathers around food and drink, at the sacrament or whenever you, dear family and friends, gather for a regular meal in a restaurant or at home, we can celebrate Rolf’s life with us and around the eternal banquet feast of heaven. Thanks be to God.

Leslie loved good music. My wife Jessica and I bumped into Leslie and Bev at the NAC two years ago for a performance of The Messiah just before Christmas.

In the foyer before the concert began, we talked about what we liked about this famous oratory. One of the things I love about The Messiah, and baroque music in general, is the clear sense of timing, and how rhythm is employed to express various emotions and to move the story the music is telling forward.

Handel composed The Messiah in just three weeks, from August 22^nd to September 14^th in 1741. The timing on his brilliant composition is miraculous. How could any human being, even gifted as Handel was, complete such an epic work in just a few short weeks?

His accomplishment is an apt metaphor of the parable of the mustard seed from the Gospel today.[1] That tiny seed of a three-week period Handel needed to compose The Messiah grew exponentially to inspire the faith of countless subsequent generations and centuries.

Timing is the essence of music. Timing is the space between the notes, it is how quickly or how slowly the music is played, it is the length of the entire masterpiece. Reba McEntire wrote her song on the idea of a seven-minute time frame of meaning. Timing is critical to what God creates, and what we can do to measure the length and growth from a seed to a large tree where every bird eventually finds a home.

Leslie’s connection to worship, I sense, was grounded in the hymns we sang. Last year, we petitioned congregation members to submit their favourite hymns. And we would then include those chosen hymns in future worship services. In total, there were about sixty or so hymns the congregation submitted. Who do you think submitted by far the most, more than half of all the submissions?

Lutherans sing hymns; that’s an important part of Leslie’s Lutheran identity.

Luther’s Rose is a symbol of the Lutheran faith. Martin Luther designed each of the symbols on the Luther Rose to signify something important in Lutheran faith. Of course, Leslie loved flowers, gardening, and especially the rose. Roses were her favourite flower.

The heart is at the centre of Luther’s Rose. And the heart is associated with the love of God for us. Now the colour of the rose here is white. And white symbolizes eternal friendship and love.

In Luther’s rose the white rose petals which surround the heart also point to the realm of spirit and angels. So, the compassion of God has eternal implications. The love of Jesus points us along a journey towards the horizon, the ending of which we cannot yet see.

Along this journey of life, whether short or long, whether marked by quick, staccato notes or long, sweeping crescendos, we always hold the mustard seed in our hands and our hearts. No matter how far we are on this journey, despite the storms we encounter along the way, the smallest seed continues to hold the truth and promise of a vision of God’s eternal love, God’s never-ending compassion.

No matter what we do, or don’t do – that seed can’t get any smaller. But it can grow. In fact, it is the only thing it can do. It can only grow.

I pray Leslie’s witness of faith, during her life and to her dying moment, can encourage us not to give up on the journey. But to carry on as far as we will go. And, knowing that in the end, no matter what we have done or left undone, there is always room in the garden, at the table, in the tree—whatever metaphor works—there is a home for you and us all.

Most people love the Hallelujah Chorus in The Messiah—and I can understand why. It is beautiful. But my favourite piece is the last one—”Worthy is the Lamb, Amen.”

Jessica and I attended another concert of The Messiah several years ago at Dominion Chalmers United Church where the orchestra did something with that last piece that I had never heard before. You see, there are rest breaks in the music. Rests are beats where nothing is played—all instruments remain silent through however many rests they need to count before playing again.

Normally, just before the last series of “Amens” is sung, there is a rest, a pause, before the final crescendo is sung to the glorious climax of The Messiah.

But this time, the conductor held the rest for at least double its time. Initially, I wondered if they were finished. The music wasn’t playing at all, and we were left waiting for a long time. Was the music finished? Did the concert just end? Was it over?

But the conductor held his arms in the air during the long pause. And held them. And held them. The air was electric. The silence was charged with anticipation. We held our breaths.

Needless to say, the music wasn’t over. The extended length of silence only served to heighten the satisfying, climatic conclusion of the music.

Did the music end when Leslie died? There is definitely a long pause. It feels like the music ended and may, likely, for a long time to come. But music is about timing. And, my friends, the music is not over just because we can’t hear it right now.

The music of Leslie’s life will never end. It’s just being played in a different realm, and on a different frequency. And we will all tune in eventually. We will all find a place in that massive tree where every one of God’s creatures finds a home, for ever. To join in the never-ending song … “Amen!”

[1] Luke 13:18-19; read also Ecclesiastes 3

It’s not the best time of year to have to bury a loved one. Christmas is already laden with so many emotions that to add another layer of fresh grief can be overwhelming.

It’s not the best time. But, then again, it’s never the right time, or a good time, to do this. Is it? Death always comes unbidden. Even as beloved GG lived under the threat of this day for many years now suffering as she did, her passing this last Sunday still jars us out of a sense of how we would live our lives.

It’s never a good time.

And yet, there are moments that remind us that there is meaning in some of it. Sometimes, there is a convergence in time and place that first surprises us. And then, if we let it, its message can sink deep into our hearts and actually give us hope.

I’ve already reminded the congregation of GG’s gift to the church years ago of our beautiful Advent Wreath. Year after year in the season of Advent—the four weeks leading up to Christmas—the large circular wreath is hauled up on guy wires and hung in place from the ceiling of the sanctuary. Its candles, shining over the congregation, have lighted our steady journey towards Christmas for many years.

Each Sunday before Christmas has a word associated with it, to help us on the journey. The four words are, in order: hope, peace, joy and love. These words describe the experience of living in faith and waiting for the coming of Jesus.

In a broader sense, the Advent calendars and wreaths with their intentional pacing and pausing on the way to Christmas build resilience in our spirit for living in these challenging and difficult times. Because to live well, we need hope, peace, joy and love in our lives.

This past Sunday is traditionally called “Gaudete” Sunday, from the Latin, “Rejoice”. On some wreaths, while the rest of the candles are all purple or blue the third candle, to signify joy, is coloured pink.

The third candle, the ‘Joy’ candle, on GG’s wreath was lighted during worship Sunday morning just moments after she died. Now, if that’s not a meaningful convergence in time and place, I don’t know what is.

Moreover, the month of the year—December—in which she died was also the month of the year she was born. And, December was the month when she first set foot in Canada after arriving from Germany a young woman full of life and ready to turn the calendar on a new year, a new beginning, and always ready for adventure.

The timing may not be the best for doing what we are doing today. But, in another sense, the timing couldn’t be better. Former Czech president and writer, Václav Havel, once gave a definition of hope that resonates with me. He wrote, “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”

So, it’s not about whether what happens turns out exactly the way we’ve envisioned it or want it to be. It’s not about my desires or preferred outcomes. That’s not hope. In this season and in these days before Christmas as the world watches and waits for something better, maybe we can lean on those moments of wonderful convergence, and trust that in the end, God’s timing is the best for us all.

From this point in time forward, the light will get brighter. The wreath will shed its full complement of light in the coming days, even as we still gather in darkness for Christmas Eve celebrations. But today we gather on the first day after the longest night of the year. From this point forward, the days will slowly but surely get longer and brighter.

That was GG’s hope and joy. And it is ours.

Amen.