Tag Archives: Pastoral Care

Revealing glory: a funeral sermon

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Your keeping vigil with your mother over the past month occurred, primarily, during the season of Epiphany. The season of Epiphany in the church calendar is all about the revelation of Jesus. And the stories that we hear during this season — the baptism of Jesus, the miracle of water to wine, and the magi bringing priceless gifts to the baby Jesus — emphasize the glory of God in the coming of Jesus into the world.

Christians have responded to the revelation of God’s glory by affirming Jesus as the divine Son of God. The season finds its climax in the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop alongside other biblical greats in Moses and Elijah. Here we witness as a foretaste of the coming glory of Easter the epitome of God’s shining glory in the blazing light of Jesus’ holy presence.

It may at first seem incongruous to talk about God’s glory on a day when we grieve the death of one beloved among us. It may at first even appear nonsense to focus on the brilliance, beauty, and blazing light of God’s presence in and around us during the darkest, coldest part of the year. As does wintertime, death may come to us as an example of God’s defeat, not God’s victory.

And yet, I do not hesitate in beginning this funeral sermon by mentioning God’s glory in Jesus. And not only because we still find ourselves in the season after Epiphany. It’s more because of whom we remember this day.

Because, for me, her life with us — even to the end — truly reflected God’s glory. In the sense that her presence conveyed dignity, respect, elegance. You told me how often she upheld values of proper etiquette and dress — especially in church! She wanted to look beautiful. God forbid you wore jeans to church!

Around New Year’s when she was very low I remember coming to the hospital to visit her. I had to wait outside in the hallway for a few minutes as a nurse attended to her. When I was finally called in to her room, I came in just as she was getting help from one of you putting her lipstick on! Even in her severely weakened, vulnerable, state, she still wanted to do what she could, to look beautiful. Glorious!

Epiphany is faith’s response to the dark, cold days of winter. Epiphany is faith’s response to the dark, difficult, painful times of our lives. Not that we deny, brush over, or try to hide that reality.

Only that we affirm, despite the loss and amidst the grief, the small nugget of hope — of beauty — within us all, as she did for herself. Your loved one was especially gifted at pointing out, recognizing and affirming that nugget in us — even when we couldn’t see it ourselves!

She truly had the gift of encouragement. And she used it! Several of you have recalled for me times when after leading a bible study or presenting music or words in worship, she would take the time to make a phone call or write a card to you afterwards. In those simple acts, she thanked you and pointed out the positive — even though you may have felt the opposite about the experience!

Earlier in her life, she exercised her gift of hospitality and invitation to newcomers to the community — inviting them over for supper or tea. Such grace goes a long way to affirm that gift of hope and faith in us so often and easily shrouded by life’s difficulties.

In doing so, your loved one was herself being transformed. Through the course of her life, in exercising her gifts of encouragement, hospitality, generosity and care, she was being transformed into the likeness of Christ’s glory. Indeed, I believe she once described to me her own life as a journey towards God.

There’s an old story (as told by Barbara Schmitz, p.35, “Changed From Glory Into Glory” in The Life of Christ and the Death of a Loved One, CSS Publishing, 1995) about a fellow who fell in love with a young woman. But he was sure that she would not be interested in him because he didn’t think he looked handsome. So with the help of a surgeon he had a special mask designed, a handsome mask that was then placed over his face. With this handsome new look, he easily won over the woman he loved and they were married.

But many years later, she discovered the trick and asked him to remove it. When he peeled off the mask, what was underneath, but a handsome face! For, after all those years, his natural face had slowly taken on the handsome contours of the mask. His face had been transformed into the likeness of the mask.

The Christian life, from baptism to death, is indeed a journey of being changed, transformed, into the likeness of Jesus Christ. And periodically, on this journey, in good times and even through difficult times, we pause to give thanks and celebrate the good, the blessing, the gift, that is there whether we always see it or not.

At this funeral service, we give thanks for the life of our loved one who now celebrates at the banquet feast of heaven. At this funeral service, we also share in a holy meal often called the Eucharist. Eucharist means “thanksgiving”. And in our thanksgiving to God for Jesus, we take one more step on that journey of being healed, being changed, being transformed, for the good.

May our lives, as did the one whom we remember today, reflect the glory of God.

In Christ Jesus, our Lord and Savior.

A funeral at Christmas

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To be grieving at this time of year brings a bag of mixed feelings, to say the least.

While everyone else is celebrating and enjoying the festivities of the season, you are also working through the loss of a dear [mother, wife, grandmother, sister, great-grandmother, aunt] and friend. Well-meaning friends may try to cheer you up because they do not want you to be a damper on the holiday spirit.

You may not know whether to stay at home and grieve, or go out to those get-togethers you’ve been invited to and try to be cheerful. Christmas is a challenging time to do the work of remembering, crying, grieving, and feeling sad.

But I would encourage you to do it anyway — to embrace the ambivalence of, on the one hand, expressing your grief when you need to; and, on the other, continuing to observe the season of holy birth. And it’s not all that inconsistent with a deeper meaning of the Christmas story:

After all, I can’t help but to think how that first Christmas must have felt for God the Father in heaven. The Gospel John tells us that in the beginning, the Word — Jesus, God’s Son — was with God. But because of the age-old, human rebellion against God, God nevertheless loved us so much God sent Jesus to be born into the world.

Think about what this cost God: That first Christmas was for God and Jesus a separation of sorts — a breaking of the intimate communion that they had shared from before the beginning of time. That’s a long time of being together! God, I am sure, can feel for the loss of someone with whom you have lived day-in and day-out for most of your life.

And worse yet, the way that God the Father and Son were going to be re-united was by Jesus’ death as a human being, on the Cross of Calvary. Christmas, thus, made Easter possible. The joy and priceless gifts of Christmas and Easter were wrought from the divine sacrifice of separation, loss and death.

In other words, birth and death are connected. In every birth, there is a death; in every death, there is a birth. So it is not inappropriate that we gather for a funeral service in the very season in which we celebrate a holy birth. It was the birth of God in our world that eventually gave the world the promise of new life and resurrection. It was the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem two thousand years ago that made it possible for us today to claim the promise of new life, eternal life, for your dearly beloved.

You spoke of your loved one as a “mother hen” of not only your immediate family, but of the neighborhood. She taught not only you but many of the kids living on this street how to swim. She demanded obedience to her rules — around the pool and around the table after school. An Opera music fan, she demonstrated motherly love by listening to Billy Idol and the Beatles only so she could relate to her teenage children. Her strong, motherly, supportive, family-oriented qualities will remain enduring memories and qualities in your own lives, even though she is now separated from you by death.

A separation in birth is similar to a separation in death. But both yield the gift of new life. I have an identical twin brother; and we have been very close all our lives long. So, this wonderful story about two twin babies, in their mother’s womb, rings true for me: Safe and secure, warm and fed, these twin babies slowly and quietly grew.

But when it came close to the time of birth, they began to fear what was about to happen. They didn’t want to leave the womb which had been their warm and comfortable home for so long, the place where they had everything they needed given to them. The prospect of leaving this warm and familiar place, and venturing into the unknown outside the womb, just terrified them.

But they also had this inkling that there must be something outside this womb, and someone, a mother, outside this womb caring for and loving them. They sometimes even heard loving voices coming from outside the womb.

And so they were ambivalent at best, fearful at worse, but couldn’t do anything about it. The time came for them to be born, and they just had to do it.

They cried as they were born into the new air and light. They coughed out fluid and gasped the dry air. And when they were sure they were born, they opened their eyes — seeing life after birth for the very first time.

What they saw, were the beautiful eyes of their mother, lovingly gazing upon them, as they were cradled in her arms. They knew they were home.

Your beloved has come home, and is seeing the loving eyes of God gazing upon her this day. And we all, whether on earth, or in heaven, are held in the safe and secure arms of God who loves us for eternity.

Who’s feeling the pressure?

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Feeling the pressure lately?

You’d have to live on a different planet if you didn’t notice in the people around you — in the malls, community centers, sports venues, wherever people gather — and perhaps in yourself, too: a heightened intensity, pace and anxiety.

There are people to please, stuff to buy, items to check off the list, more food to digest — and only a couple more weeks till Christmas! Traffic’s snarling, noise is rising, patience wearing thin in crowded places.

Feeling it yet?

But maybe the pressure you feel isn’t associated with the typical distractions of the season. Maybe you’ve simply refused to participate in all the hubbub. Good on you. But maybe the pressure you feel has more to do with a personal challenge you face at this time.

And discordant it can feel — especially when everyone’s supposed to be in a jolly mood. How can you feel happy when your health is failing, or you’re facing bankruptcy, or your marriage is on the rocks, or you’ve just lost your job, or anticipating the first Christmas without a loved one? The pressure to make things right weighs heavily. Maybe you’re not up to it. Maybe you just want to give up.

That last thing we want to hear this time of year is a word like the one from Malachi. But at least we can relate to the rhetorical question Malachi poses here in anticipating the coming of the Lord: “Who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears?” (3:2)

It certainly isn’t what we feel we need — a little more sweetness, softly falling snowflakes, quiet, rest, peace. We envy those who claim they ‘feel’ Christmas in the air, and chide ourselves for whatever circumstances sour our mood in any pressure-filled moment.

Indeed, trying to get the right feeling is part of our problem. Getting in the right mood may very well be causing us the undue pressure. Because we have to feel right before we can truly celebrate the Lord’s coming. And if we’re not feeling the right things, then how can we celebrate?

The text of Malachi 3:1-4 appears in one of the signature choral works of this season, Handel’s Messiah. Indeed, the music of the season can affect how we feel. Music can get us all emotional; music stirs the heart’s strings, makes us feel good and lifts us up. It can also — as it does with the Messiah — “sing the Word, and proclaim the good news” (Deborah A. Block and Seth Moland Kovash, Feasting on the Word, Year C Vol.1, p.30-31).

After the first presentation of Messiah in London, England, in 1741, Handel wrote to a friend: “I should be sorry if I only entertained them. I wished to make them better.”

Handel’s confession suggests that the message of the season needs to go beyond feelings, beyond sentimentality. At some level, if we are to make it through (read, ‘survive’) this season so full of pressure, we will need to go beyond feeling good to doing good.

But wait a minute, now! By doing good, aren’t we just adding to the pressure?

Let’s take a closer look at the text from Malachi and see for what purpose we experience the “fullers’ soap” and “refiner’s fire” (v.2) — phrases often associated with God’s judgment.

But why did the people in the post-exilic, second temple period (circa 500 B.C.E) receive this word — this pressure-laden word — to be righteous in the first place? What is the underlying purpose of the pressure to present themselves as “acceptable” or “pleasing” offerings to God (v.4)?

Well, God is coming! And God is coming unexpectedly, “suddenly” (v.1).

Which can only mean God is coming despite us. Whether we perform or not. Whether we do all the right things or not. Whether we get everything done in time or not. Whether we feel like it or not.

You know, God desires to be in our presence. God wants to be with us because God loves us. God created each one of us, an image of God’s divinity in our being.

Whatever we do, then, it is not for our sake, but God’s. Whatever little act of compassion we give to another, whatever singular act of mercy we offer, whatever gift from the heart we render — these are not for our glory or benefit, but God’s glory, God’s purposes, God’s mission.

The purpose of the “refinement” that we endure in this life, is not punishment for any wrongs we have committed, any sins that we will continue to commit. The end game of any burden we carry through this life is restoration with God, union with God and one another.

That’s why we do the work. Because the end of history will be good, no matter what. The promise of Malachi is that our offerings “will be pleasing” to God. The promise of this restoration with God is sure. It will happen, and it will happen under God’s control and in God’s time. The refining is not waiting for us to feel good about it.

So, what do we have to lose in doing the right thing whether or not we feel like it yet, whether or not we feel we’re up to it? As Martin Luther once instructed: “Sin boldly, and trust in God even more.” I don’t think Luther was encouraging any one to sin. But he was emphasizing the need to take a risk for the sake of God. And not to worry about results, reputation or reaction. Just do it!

Although by 1751 Handel was blind, until his death he conducted Messiah as an annual benefit for the Foundling Hospital in London which served mostly widows and orphans of clergy. The intent was not just to entertain and make everyone feel good. Handel’s hope was to make people better and just. His ear was open to the prophetic word: “Present offerings to the Lord in righteousness” (3:3).

Christ is coming. So, let’s prepare the way of the Lord. And do good.

(Hint: And after doing some good it will make us feel good, too!)

What is truth? Part 3: In the doing

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Pilate asks Jesus, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). He answers his own question moments earlier by pointing to the power of action; Pilate asks Jesus, “What have you done?” (John 18:35).

If Pilate wondered what the truth about Jesus was, he nailed it — perhaps instinctively — by laying this abstract question about truth firmly in the realm of behavior and action.

“They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love” goes the popular song. They will know who we are by what we do. The truth will be told more as a reflection of what is done than by what is believed or thought of.

Jesus healed the sick. Jesus spent time with the outcasts. Jesus crossed the boundaries of social norms to speak with women and touch lepers. Jesus broke laws which were stupid. Jesus spoke of God’s truth and love.

Truth is something we do. While intellectual truth can be stimulating, it does not fulfill all of our needs. God calls us beyond mere understanding and words and translate those thoughts into concrete action in the world. Meaningful engagement with the world is a prescription for truth-discovery.

What action stands foremost in Jesus’ encounter with Pilate? And how does this action reflect the truth about God? In this scene between Pilate and Jesus, Jesus invites Pilate to belong by listening to Jesus’ voice (John 18:37). We’ve heard that before, haven’t we? — Listening to Jesus’ voice …

Read John 10:1-16. There, Jesus describes himself as the loving shepherd who takes care of his sheep. He calls them by name, and they know his voice. Jesus is the good shepherd who wants his followers to have life, and have it abundantly.

Even to Pilate, Jesus gives himself to be his good shepherd. Even to the man who has power to condemn him to death. Even to those who hate and kill and are so lost in sin, Jesus offers himself in love, grace, mercy and forgiveness.

This is always Jesus’ invitation to us, and to all people. Jesus invites us to belong to his community. Jesus invites us to the truth which we will know in his love, compassion and grace.

We will know that truth in the loving actions of those around us, belonging in community. And we will receive that truth when we come home to ourselves and face the truth about our lives. And we are called to live as active witnesses to the action of God in the world.

What do you see God doing in the world around you and in the lives of people you encounter today? And what does this action reveal about God’s truth?

Amazing grace funeral

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Amazing Grace. We say this, sing this, today – and express it on many different levels – Amazing Grace.

But how can God’s grace be amazing, when doing what we do today reminds us again of the hurt and pain of losing Grace a couple of months ago? How can God’s grace be amazing when it sometimes feels like it means nothing, that God is distant, disconnected and uninterested in our plight here on earth – especially when we suffer?

Amazing Grace. And yet, when we remember Grace, in a sense she was amazing because she brought to you and to all those people she met in her life, the blessing of her commitment, her creativity, her dedication, her humour, etc., etc. Yes, Amazing Grace! Thanks be to God!

The funeral of Lincoln Alexander was set for October 26. He was the first black Canadian Member of Parliament and former lieutenant-governor of Ontario.

Last weekend I watched the morning news on TV announcing details of his funeral. And then the news switched to the faces of some of his family, friends and politicians who shared some generous words about their loved one.

She gave the profound image of his hands. After all he was a big, tall man. How this person was related to Lincoln Alexander I did not catch. But what she was going to miss most, she said, were those hands of his holding her, and providing comfort and support to her in times of need.

And then, in the midst of her speech, the news clip ended abruptly, moving onto the next news item, something to do with the presidential debates south of the border. In the style of throwing out fast-paced, short sound-bite news segments, the TV news report gave me the impression that she had in fact more to say. It left me wondering, and wanting for, how she finished her comments.

Your beloved Grace is no longer with you. The death of a loved one can sometimes feel like an abrupt ending. No matter how old or how young we are at the end, it may feel like there was still more to say, still more to do – things that we will never now know, experience or witness on earth. And that hurts.

I’ll never know for sure what Lincoln Alexander’s loved one said to end that media scrum which never got to air. And I’ll never know in precise detail, this side of heaven, what exactly lies for me and for you and for Grace beyond the gate of death.

But I do know this: It’s not over. The meaning and value of our lives do not evaporate into nothingness even though our bodies die. Even though the ‘channel is switched’ so to speak.

Because the story, the Word, continues, even though I am not there! Even though I can’t see it all the time, I am held in the loving arms of my Creator forever. That story never ends.

Beyond death, I will continue to be embraced by the hands that fashioned me even before I was born (Psalm 139:13-18). Even more so – that my God will take me home and return me into the arms of Jesus (John 14:1-6). I will be joined forever in the household of heaven with all the saints, and shine in the pure joy and brilliance of all that is of God. This is Grace’s story now.

In the meantime, we on earth are not separated from those who have died. There are characteristics, personality-traits, memories of Grace all of which you now hold dearly in your heart. And which in some tangible, mysterious way, manifest themselves in our lives. I encourage you to look for those “Grace” moments. You may have already experienced some of these moments of recognition — being aware of a holy connection with the mystery of Grace’s spiritual presence.

The grace of God is truly amazing. It’s a wonderful play on words, isn’t it? We are talking about the grace of God and we are talking about Grace who was amazing. Amazing Grace.

Thank you God, for Grace. Thank you God for your grace. Hold us all in your Amazing Grace. Amen.

Bridging the gap

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Mark 10:35-45

Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink…” (Mark 10:39)

When we first stepped on the bridge spanning the wide, flowing river, our ten year old son stopped short. It was windy. He said he was afraid the strong winds could blow him off. He refused to walk over.

A few weeks later when we were giving a walking tour of our new home-town to visiting friends, the path took us over the bridge. Engrossed in showing all the sites to his friends, our son made it three-quarters of the way across before he realized what he was doing. I could see by his wide-eyed expression that he had, for the most part, forgotten his fear. He was focused on his friends rather than himself.

I often miss the extraordinary promise implied in Jesus’ words to his self-absorbed disciples. They had been walking to Jerusalem listening to Jesus speak about his suffering and death. Understandably, those who followed Jesus were afraid (Mark 10:10). Were James’ questions about finding a seat in heaven next to Jesus simply an attempt to find security amidst the ominous implications of Jesus’ words?

Fear of the world often drives us, above all, to find security. We are afraid of terrorism, so we start preemptive wars. We are afraid of failing, so we act to secure our reputation rather than take bold and necessary steps forward. We are afraid of what we don’t understand in others who are different from us, so we cocoon behind fortress walls with like-minded people rather than build bridges of cooperation and compassion.

When Jesus says, “the cup that I drink you will drink…” he is making his disciples a promise – a promise that one day they, too, will no longer be driven by fear; that one day they will act boldly, motivated not so much by self-preservation but by the Gospel.

This, too, is a promise made to me and to you. It’s not an easy way. But when our focus resolves itself on others, we no longer act according to our fears but according to the way of Christ Jesus.

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How do you let go?

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How long shall we cling?

I am reminded of winter these days as temperatures are falling, and so are the leaves. Well, most of them anyway.

It was wintertime last year while walking when I stopped in my tracks. I heard something I had not heard in months. And it sounded out of place amidst the quiet wintry solitude of frozen rivers, snow-laden trees and crunching snow under foot.

I heard leaves rustling in the winter wind. I looked up into the branches of a giant oak tree most of whose brown, dried leaves did not fall to the ground in October.

These leaves were still hanging on despite the fact they were basically dead. And despite the sub-zero temperatures and the wind-chill factor. They sure were clinging! Talk about stubborn! They had refused to surrender to the natural change of seasons.

I sometimes worry that by moving forward in my life with big, life-changing decisions, I will lose something important to me. And so I hang on to the present circumstance like a crutch. Better the devil you know, right?

The rich man thought he had it in the bag by “following all the rules” of his religion (Mark 10:20). His question — “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:17) — was rhetorical. In a manipulative, self-congratulatory way, he approached Jesus — even kneeling before him. He had self-righteously fooled himself into believing he already knew the answer. The gospel writer doesn’t even assign the rich man a name, underscoring the fake, surface nature of the man’s presence.

But Jesus cuts through the crap, skims the fat off the top, and goes to the jugular! Indeed, “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword” (Hebrews 4:12). Jesus sees through the rich man’s pretense, and uncovers the real, authentic person beneath the surface. There he finds an enslaved heart, and brings to light the truth:

In order for the man to be liberated and set free, he has to surrender what owns him, what captivates and grips his soul: For him — it’s material possessions. For someone else, it might be different. But he has to learn, if he wants to grow, to let go and not hold on to those things that keep him stuck.

It is not in hanging on, but in letting go when faith makes sense. Faith, for Martin Luther, was more an attitude of trust and self-abandonment. He wrote, “Faith does not require information, knowledge and certainty, but a free surrender and a joyful bet on God’s unfelt, untried, and unknown goodness.”

This may seem impossible, even undesirable. We don’t want to let go of those things that have defined us for so long. Whether we are talking about buildings, or investments, or our image, our special collections of treasurers we keep in our homes — how can we do this?

Those leaves that were clinging on to the oak tree through the winter would eventually have to let go. Why? Because the new buds in Spring will push them off, whether or not they like it!

Will we wait until forces beyond our control compel us to let go? When a crisis happens? When we no longer have any choice but to yield to the inevitable?

But have we heard the promise of God, here? Because we’re not letting go of whatever we need to let go of into nothing. Our choice to release our grip isn’t a release into emptiness. In our letting go we are making a certain bet on God’s goodness.

There is comfort and hope here: For, in God’s economy nothing is lost. In some mysterious way, even though I feel like I have lost something dear when I let go, I can trust that someday God will use what I have lost and reconcile it to my life again.

The rich man went away grieving. I hope the story didn’t end there. I hope that after the rich man had some time to think about it, he would have returned to Jesus. That’s all.

That’s all we need to do: Turn to Jesus with an open and honest heart. Why wouldn’t we? You see, when Jesus told him to sell all, the scripture inserts the phrase that “Jesus loved him” (v21). Jesus loves us, first and foremost — and it’s not a fake love, it’s real! 

How is this possible, when obviously this man is missing the mark? How can Jesus love such a sinner?

Yet, when we turn our hearts to Christ, we discover that God accomplishes what we cannot, and what often comes as a surprise to us. I like the Scots Confession (1560) written shortly after Martin Luther’s death (1546): It says, “… God accepts our imperfect obedience as if it were perfect, and covers our works, which are defiled with many stains, with the righteousness of his Son.”

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:15-16).

God will complete the “good work” begun in each of us (Philippians 1:6) — that nothing good in our lives will ever be wasted, but will further the reign of Christ on earth. This means that those who do not have what I have will benefit from my “letting go”. And in so doing, I, too, will receive abundance from others — whatever I need.

All things are possible with God, even sticking a camel through the eye of a needle (Mark 10:25). We can’t conceive of God’s wonders. But it’s not about us. It’s about what God can do.

And God can do anything. Even bring justice and peace where it doesn’t exist now. Even feed the hungry, raise up the poor, humble the proud and mighty. Even overcome the greatest challenges we face.

So, I can be bold and let go even when it’s not easy — but important and necessary. And then watch and wait for the new thing that will sprout in Spring.

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On whom have I given up?

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“First of all, I urge that thanksgivings should be made for everyone (I Timothy 2:1)

Let’s face it. Even the most mature, enlightened and experienced of us need to confess: There are those we have given up on.

Mitt Romney may have given up on half the population in the United States. Unwise to admit, politically.

And yet haven’t we all, personally? That is, given up on those who annoy us to no end. On those who are different from us. On those whom we know we can’t change for the better. On those who appear to threaten our sense of security and stability. On those who are very near and dear to us who have fallen away from the faith. On those we pretend to have some measure of control or influence over, but who have rebelled against our wishes and desires. On the infirm, the elderly locked away in their homes or on the ward. Those in prison, incarcerated for committing some crime. On our political leaders. Have we given up on them?

Have you given up on that dream, a hope for your life? Have we given up on ourselves, tragically, when all options seem closed to us?

There’s a kind of resignation that comes with giving up. After having argued, reasoned, persuaded and tried oh so long and hard. After having endured tension and animosity for a long time. After trying so hard and so long.

Finally, enough is enough. We find ourselves at the end of our rope. I give up on them! I don’t want anything to do with them anymore. I don’t want to dream anymore!

Talking about politicians, I think it was Bill Clinton who said, “You become old when memories of the past outweigh your dreams for the future.” Have you given up?

And we turn to the scriptures to justify our resignation, where Jesus counseled his disciples in a specific situation to “shake the dust off your feet” (Mark 6:11); Jesus, who gave us words we use to rationalize not caring for the poor (Mark 14:7). We turn to Paul, who in another situation encouraged his followers not to associate with the ‘immoral’ (1 Corinthians 5:11).

Our anger, fear and anxiety lead us to insulate ourselves from others — creating fortresses and cocooning in places and routines that preserve our sense of self. As our world gets narrower and we dig ourselves deeper in the rut of isolation, our hearts harden and we fight harder to exclude others from our vision.

And then, surprise! We encounter the Gospel which states in no uncertain terms that in “God’s world there is no them and us. There is no them. Only us.” (@JamesMartinSJ)

In Paul’s first letter to Timothy Paul encourages Timothy to pray for all people, for God desires ALL people to be saved (1 Timothy 2:1,4). Not just our friends. Not just those who agree with us. Not just those with whom we get along and are just like us.

But those very people who annoy us. Those who are different from us. Those with whom we have little in common. Those who do not listen nor agree with us. Those who intimidate us. ALL people.

Maybe I need to keep praying for these folks, and not give up on them. Because God Almighty Maker of heaven and earth surely hasn’t. God has not given up on them.

Maybe what I need to give up, if anything, is the presumption that somehow it is I who is going to save them, change them and make them into the person I want them to be. Maybe what I need to give up is the belief that it is I who will manufacture the life I want to live.

Maybe my job is to keep hoping, keep praying, keep being the person God made me to be. Maybe my job is to persist in a gracious disposition to those I encounter in my day. Maybe my job is to take the risk to reach out in love — and leave the rest up to God. Maybe my job is to let the Christ in me see the Christ in you.

Yes, that’s my job. But it is not my job to ever, ever, give up on anyone — including myself. My dreams. And God. And the person who I can’t stand.

How can I do this, and maintain this sense of compassion for all?

Listen to this story entitled, “The Old Man and the Gulls”, written by Paul Aurandt (in ‘Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story’, quoted in ‘Heaven Bound Living’ Standard Publishing, 1989, p.79-80):

It is gratitude that prompted an old man to visit an old broken pier on the eastern seacoast of Florida. Every Friday night he would return, walking slowly and slightly stooped with a large bucket of shrimp. The sea gulls would flock to this old man, and he would feed them from his bucket.

Many years ago, in 1942, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker was on a mission in a B-17 to deliver an important message to General Douglas MacArthur in New Guinea. But there was an unexpected detour which would hurl Captain Eddie into the most harrowing adventure of his life.

Somewhere over the South Pacific their plane became lost beyond the reach of radio. Fuel ran dangerously low, so the men ditched the plane in the ocean…For nearly a month Captain Eddie and his companions would fight the water, and the weather, and the scorching sun. They spent many sleepless nights recoiling as giant sharks rammed their rafts. The largest raft was nine by five. The biggest shark…ten feet long.

But of all their enemies at sea, one proved most formidable: starvation. Eight days out, their rations were long gone or destroyed by the salt water. It would take a miracle to sustain them. And a miracle occurred. In Captain Eddie’s own words, “Cherry,” that was the B- 17 pilot, Captain William Cherry, “read the service that afternoon, and we finished with a prayer for deliverance and a hymn of praise. There was some talk, but it tapered off in the oppressive heat. With my hat pulled down over my eyes to keep out some of the glare, I dozed off.”

Now this is still Captain Rickenbacker talking…”Something landed on my head. I knew that it was a sea gull. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. Everyone else knew too. No one said a word, but peering out from under my hat brim without moving my head, I could see the expression on their faces. They were staring at that gull. The gull meant food…if I could catch it.”

And the rest, as they say, is history. Captain Eddie caught the gull. Its flesh was eaten. Its intestines were used for bait to catch fish. The survivors were sustained and their hopes renewed because a lone sea gull, uncharacteristically hundreds of miles from land, offered itself as a sacrifice. You know that Captain Eddie made it.

And now you also know…that he never forgot. Because every Friday evening, about sunset…on a lonely stretch along the eastern Florida seacoast…you could see an old man walking…white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, slightly bent. His bucket filled with shrimp was to feed the gulls…to thank and remember that one which, on a day long past, gave itself without a struggle…like manna in the wilderness.

This story is about ‘not giving up’ — on several levels. Not giving up on life — even in the midst of desperate circumstances. Not giving up on God — for before the sea gull was caught, the surviving men praised God, said their prayers and sung a hymn. Not giving up on hope, even when all seemed hopeless.

And, finally, not giving up on giving thanks. The persistence that trumps a ‘giving up on’ kind of attitude is giving thanks over the long term. Not-giving-up is born from an attitude of gratitude. Thanksgiving is grown in the heart, over the long haul. Captain Eddie Rickenbacker didn’t start living gratitude after his miraculous survival story; it was already being cultivated before it. It is about learning to see whatever good there is, even in the direst of situations — and giving thanks for any glimmer of grace therein.

I like the way Mary Jo Leddy in her book, “Radical Gratitude”, wrote about the gratitude expressed by the birds at the start of a new day; she writes:

“There is a moment each day when it is morning before it is morning. Darkness still hovers over the deep. Those who wait for the dawn can hear it even before they see it. At first there are only the slight sounds of attunement as a chorus of birds assembles: twits and trills, chirps and peeps, and even the occasional squawk. Slowly they gather into one great concerted song of supplication: Let it begin! Let us begin! May it begin again! They are of one accord. They do not take the dawn for granted. When it bursts upon them, once again, as on the first day of creation, they give thanks once again for this once only day, to begin. The birds know, as we sometimes do, that the light does not dawn because of our singing. We sing because the dawn appears as grace.”

Is there someone you’ve given up on? Is there a dream, a hope, for your life you are on the verge of ditching. Make a list. And then, sometimes this Thanksgiving weekend, go down that list slowly and give God thanks for each of the people you’ve named there. Give thanks for each of those dreams and hopes you have listed there.

And then pray that their hearts, as yours, will be opened to receive the grace, love and light of God. And God will give you your heart’s desire (Psalms 20:4 & 37:4).

Amen.

Healing (Mark 7-8)

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What do the Gospel texts from Mark 7 & 8 teach about healing?

Comparing the texts reveals similarities and significant differences:

Both texts involve healing of men. In both, Jesus employs touching their ears/tongue/eyes with his hands covered with his saliva. In Jesus’ action, he definitely gets his hands dirty. And, both texts conclude with Jesus’ ordering the healed not to tell anyone about what happened.

The most significant difference is, whereas the healing in Mark 7 is immediate the healing in Mark 8 occurs in stages. After the first stage of touching, Jesus asks, “How’s it going?” And the man replies that although he can see, his sight is still blurry — the people look like trees walking around. And so Jesus does it again … finally getting it right? Good question.

Was Jesus not firing on all cylinders in this healing? Did Jesus need to attempt it the second time to get it right? I don’t think so.

I think Jesus was demonstrating a truth about healing: it’s more often than not a process that takes time and is not just about once and for all eliminating the problem.

What is healing? It’s more an approach to living with the problem rather than denying it or fighting against it.

Healing is not about Jesus coming to us in order to rid our lives on earth from any suffering whatsoever. Otherwise he wouldn’t be ordering everyone he healed to be quiet about it. Otherwise he would have cured everyone’s diseases while on earth.

Jesus was more about opening the way for all people to be made whole through the Cross and the empty tomb. Jesus still carried his wounds in his side, hands and feet — even in his resurrected body! This is important!

We are made whole when our wounds no longer define us, defeat us and cause us to harm ourselves and another. We experience healing when our wounds help us to stay humble, patient, honest and more open to trust. “Ephathah” — the beautiful word spoken by Jesus means: “Be opened!” Healing is an openness of heart, regardless of our circumstance of suffering.

And finally, our wounds — when undergoing healing in Christ — develop in us a compassion toward the weaknesses, woundedness and sufferings of others.

Hosting in action – into the public eye

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I make visits to nursing homes. I go with a purpose: to serve the elders in our community. And because I am ordained, I am given the responsibility and privilege to administer a sacramental service, in addition to offering mutual comfort, words of encouragement — and, most importantly — all done in the context of prayer.

I also go with expectation and joy, because I know encounters with my elders almost always are received with appreciation, acceptance and mercy.

Today I make my monthly visit to a dear member of our congregation, ‘Lil. She lives at the end of a long hallway in a private room adorned with flowers and pictures hanging on the wall. When I knock gently and enter, softly calling her name, ‘Lil welcomes me in. I sit by her bed as we exchange pleasantries and begin to settle into the visit. She is kind and beaming with joy at my arrival.

I assure ‘Lil that her congregation continues to pray for her, and she tells me of the occasional visit from her god-daughter who brings honey dip donuts to share with her every Wednesday evening. She particularly looks forward to that. A big smile creases across her freckled face.

I pause before inviting her to share in Holy Communion with me. I do so because ‘Lil also particularly looks forward to this sacramental connection not only with her Lord but with the whole Body of Christ on earth.

Then, the tables turn, so to speak.

She invites me to join in this special meal outside her room where there are a couple of chairs at the end of the hallway. She says she considers that place her own living room where she like to host her guests — at the end of the hallway under some picture windows looking out onto the treed yard.

I accept ‘Lil’s invitation, suddenly realizing the truth. I was the guest. And what was to be a Communion in her room would be displayed outside for all to see. What was to be a ‘private’ service would become, at least, a public witness to anyone else in the hallway.

And what is more, the transformation from a private, spiritual event to a public expression of faith came not at the initiative of a ‘religious professional’ in myself, but at the gentle behest of a 90-year-old woman of deep faith.

Our witness together came about because she was the host. Not me. The presumed host — the expert provider of a professional service — became the humble recipient of a grace: to be led by the hand of a beloved senior of the church — out of the realm of private religious observances, and into the public eye.