Author Archives: mbj

Ascend with Christ, Live with Joy

Today is the Sunday after Ascension Day, which we marked on Thursday.  The Bible gives two different accounts of the Ascension.  One comes at the end of Luke’s Gospel and completes the story of Jesus’ life on earth; the other comes at the beginning of the Book of Acts and launches the stories about the early church.  In both cases we are told that Jesus was crucified and that he rose from the dead and appeared for forty days to his disciples.  At the end of those forty days, the risen Christ withdrew from the disciples’ sight.  He no longer lived bodily on earth with his friends, but, as we hear in the Book of Acts, “he was lifted up, and a cloud took him from their sight” (Acts 1:9).  As Luke’s Gospel describes the Ascension, here is what happened: “… [Jesus] led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them.  While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.  And they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy; and they were continually in the temple blessing God” (Luke 24:50-53).

The other day I was having lunch with my friend Andrea Ayvazian, the pastor of the UCC church in Haydenville, and we got to talking about how curious it is that Luke says that the disciples responded to Jesus’ ascension “with great joy.”  Joy?  Why joy?  The disciples had already said goodbye to Jesus once.  They had watched him suffer a brutal death and had felt the anguish of forever letting him go.  Then, to their amazement, he had come back as the risen Christ, truly himself but now shining with divine glory.  For forty days they had been blessed by his presence among them; they had received his forgiveness, guidance, and strength.  And now he was leaving them again, never to appear in such visible, tangible form!  You would think that they would have felt bereft!  That they would have been heartsick at grieving yet another loss!  Today’s Collect suggests as much, with its poignant appeal to God, “Do not leave us comfortless.”

So why did the disciples feel such joy?  During the ten days between Jesus’ withdrawal from the disciples’ sight and the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, the disciples were living in an in-between time – the risen Christ had left them, and the fullness of the Spirit had not yet come.  Yet they were filled with joy, rather than with sorrow and anxiety.  How was that possible for them, and, maybe more to the point, how might that be possible for us?  For we know what it’s like to live in an in-between time.  We experience it as individuals, when something comes to an end and the new has not yet come, when we find ourselves in-between, waiting for someone or something, not sure what will come next or how things will turn out.  We know that in-between space as a community, too, for our rector left Grace Church a while ago, and, even though we enjoy the very capable leadership of an interim rector, we wonder who the new rector will be and how God in Christ will find fresh expression among us.  It can be difficult to wait during an in-between time, and easy to become worried, irritable, or impatient with our selves and one another.  So why is it that the disciples, in their own in-between time, were filled “with great joy,” and what value did they find in waiting?

I’ll offer three possibilities.

First, they received this in-between time as a gift in which to absorb what God in Christ was doing for them.  To use the traditional imagery: at Christmas, God in Christ descended among us, becoming fully human, and on Ascension Day, God in Christ ascended back up to heaven, carrying with him all that is human – and in fact all of creation – into the heart of God.  The Ascension marks the complete reunion of earth and heaven, of matter and spirit, of human and divine.  Thanks to the Ascension, every aspect of life, every aspect of our selves, has been infused with the life of God.  There is nowhere we can go, nothing that we can experience, that God does not share with us. 

So I imagine that the disciples joyfully used the period after Jesus’ ascension to absorb what had happened and what it meant.   What it meant for them, as it means for us, is that everything that is in us, every part of us – our anxiety, our despair, our distractedness, our inertia and impatience – everything, the parts of our selves that we like and the parts of our selves that we don’t like – has become transparent to God.  There are so many parts of our selves and of the world around us that we want to avoid, scorn, and push away – we don’t welcome them, they are too painful, maybe they frighten us – but lo and behold, God is found there, too.  God is everywhere now; there is nowhere we can go, where God is not.  The love of God in Christ embraces it all.

So the ten days between the Ascension and Pentecost, just like the interim period between one rector and the next, give us a precious opportunity for self-examination, as individuals and as a community.  Are there parts of yourself, or of this community, or of the world that you think are beyond God’s reach?  Thanks to the Ascension, everything in us as individuals and as a community, and everything in the whole wide world, is now held in God.  Nothing is left out.  All of it has been redeemed.  All of it can be transformed.  All of it is open to God’s grace. 

So I imagine that being one reason for the disciples’ joy.  A second reason was that they trusted Jesus’ promise that he would send his Holy Spirit.  So they prayed.  In fact, they practically threw themselves into prayer.  Luke’s Gospel ends with the words, “they were continually in the temple blessing God” (Luke 24:53), and early in the Book of Acts, Luke speaks of the disciples “constantly devoting themselves to prayer” (Acts 1:14).  Jesus is always ready to meet us when we pray, for we pray with him and in him; in fact, you might even say that when we feel the impulse to pray, that it is the living Christ within us is that is drawing us to pray.  In today’s reading from the Gospel of John, we overhear Jesus praying for us: “that they may all be one.  As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us… I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one” (John 17: 21, 23a).   SSJE Brother Mark Brown points out that “If Christ is in me, and Christ is in you, we have something in common. We are no longer separate. We are no longer separated by so many miles – or by race or class… We have something of our essence in common.”

Prayer is what held the disciples together after Jesus ascended into heaven, and in praying in union with him they discovered how intimately connected they were to each other.  Prayer is what can hold us together, too, in this in-between time, this time of transition.  Prayer can fill us with joy, as we put our trust in the coming of the Holy Spirit and in the good things that God has prepared for us.

Finally, here’s a third reason that the disciples were filled with joy when Jesus ascended into heaven: they were a band of people who were convinced that the kingdom of God had come among them and that they had an essential part to play in making that kingdom real.  Theologian John Dominic Crossan points out that John the Baptist had a monopoly, but Jesus had a franchise.¹  John the Baptist centered his ministry around himself, which meant that if the powers-that-be killed John the Baptist, his ministry was over.  But Jesus shared everything he had with his friends; he gave his power away; he passed everything he had to us, and entrusted it all to us.  So, as John Dominic Crossan says, “By the time the authorities came for Jesus, the Kingdom movement could no longer be stopped simply by executing Jesus.” 

We see that in today’s marvelous story from the Book of Acts, when Jesus’ followers were arrested for disturbing the city (Acts 16:16-34).  With Jesus’ life, death, resurrection, and ascension, a movement began, a movement that stretches straight from the ascension to Grace Church and beyond, a movement in which we have each other, and cherish each other, and find Christ in each other, and encourage each other to bear witness to Christ’s saving love in the world despite all the forces of injustice and oppression.  We are free to choose this life, this destiny, or not.

So, yes, it is true that news reports from around the world give us plenty of reminders of human malice and violence, but it is also true that in Christ we can practice kindness and respect in all our own relationships, and can join peace and justice movements that advocate for policies that build a world that is free and just and safe.  Yes, it is true that atmospheric levels of carbon dioxide have reached levels not seen for millions of years,² but it is also true that we can quit business as usual and join the movement to protect life on this planet.  Last week in Washington, D.C., I watched a climate statement get signed by the leaders of the Episcopal Church, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, and the Church of Sweden, committing them “to leading a conversion of epic scale, a metanoia, or communal spiritual movement away from sin and despair toward the renewal and healing of all creation.”  We feel sadness and alarm for our ailing earth, but we can renew our resolve to take part in the urgent work of healing.

There is cause for joy in this in-between time, cause for giving thanks, cause for lifting our hearts as Jesus ascends into heaven and we await the coming of the Holy Spirit.  If we have the faith and strength to face life’s challenges, it will be through the One whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.  It will be through the One who lived and died and rose for us.  When the celebrant calls out, “Lift up your hearts,” we have the joy of calling back in reply, “We lift them to the Lord.”

1. http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Christianity/2004/04/Jesus-Kingdom-Program.aspx

2. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/11/science/earth/carbon-dioxide-level-passes-long-feared-milestone.html

The LORD is my shepherd

“The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures
and leads me beside still waters.” (Psalm 23:1-2)

Sometime this week the first balmy days of spring arrived.  Magnolia is now in bloom, Barn Swallows and Eastern Phoebes have returned, lilac is in leaf, and over in Hadley you can stand in front of Whole Foods and – if you’re up for it – suck deep into your lungs the aroma of cow manure.  Spring is with us in all its beauty, and this morning, as planned, we are celebrating Creation Sunday, the Sunday closest to Earth Day, which is tomorrow.  But good luck to preachers (like me) who planned to preach this morning about the natural environment, because all week our attention has been riveted not to our gardens nor to the well-being of planet Earth but rather to the bombings at the finish-line of Boston’s Marathon, and then to the suspense and drama over the ensuing days as the City of Boston was locked down and the manhunt intensified. 

What a week it has been.  We’ve been in shock.  We’ve wept over the death of innocents.  We’ve been forced to consider the softness of the human body, how vulnerable it is to being wounded and maimed.  We’ve seen how swiftly a day of accomplishment and joy can be transformed into a scene of unbearable carnage and loss.  We’ve watched a vital metropolis turn into what looked like a ghost town, its streets emptied of everything but police vehicles, and its people (quote-unquote) “sheltered in place.”  We’ve had a brief taste of the fear that millions of people the world over feel daily who are subject to violence from war, drones, or terrorist attack.  We’ve felt gratitude for the courage and selflessness of everyone who rushed to tend the wounded, to comfort the bereaved, to search out the perpetrators and to protect the city.  After five long days we exhaled with relief when the second suspect was caught, though our sense of triumph was tempered by remembering those who suffered injury and those who died.

Here on this Good Shepherd Sunday, I invite us to hold before God’s loving eyes all that we’ve witnessed and heard, and all that’s been stirred up within us.  I invite us to take a few moments together in silence to breathe in the love of God.  With every breath in, we receive the love of God; with every breath out, we let go into God.  As we breathe love like this, I invite us to bring to mind images of the week just past, and to let them be touched or blessed by the Good Shepherd, who knows us each by name.  We have witnessed trauma this week, and we’ve also witnessed acts of courage and kindness, so let’s give ourselves the gift of silence as we bring ourselves consciously into the presence of the One who abides with us, who sustains us, and who will never let us go. 

(Silence)

Strong and gentle Shepherd of our souls, we lift up to you everything that is in us – our fear and sense of helplessness; our confusion and bitter anger; our aching sorrow for the waste, the loss, the pain; our gratefulness for the goodness that dwells in so many people’s hearts; and our determination to end violence and to build a culture of peace.  Help us to resist quick judgments and the lust for revenge.  Give us bold and compassionate spirits, and fill us with the deep peace that comes from knowing: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4).   Amen.

It is good to abide in the presence of Jesus the Good Shepherd, for especially in a turbulent or fearful time, we need that kind of grounding.  We need to attend to the inner voice of love that is sounding deep within our hearts, when so many of the outer voices around us are frightened or cynical or shrill.  As Jesus says in today’s Gospel, “My sheep hear my voice.  I know them, and they follow me” (John 20:27).  When we hear that voice and sense that presence, we know that we’re not alone.  We know that we are sustained by a power greater than ourselves.  We know that we belong to a love that will never die, and that nothing and no one can destroy.  And when that love springs up again within us and around us, like grass pushing up through the asphalt, our spirits revive and we open ourselves to the possibility that the power of God, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine (c.f. Ephesians 3:20).

You who know me know by now that violence against the Earth is what has most captured my attention.  The violence that human beings take out against each other mirrors the violence that we take out against the Earth, and the Good Shepherd’s love impels us to become healers of violence in every way we can. 

So at the end of last summer, when a friend invited me to help organize a “Climate Revival” in downtown Boston, I immediately said yes.  To me the word “revival” conjures up images of an open tent, a crowd of people singing with fervor, and a breeze of hope blowing through the air.  I admit it – this is all fairly imaginary.  I’ve never been to a revival, much less helped to lead one.  But what really caught my attention was the idea of a “climate” revival.  What if we created an event that inspired Christians of every denomination to roll up their sleeves and set about doing some serious climate-healing?  What if we brought together top leaders of many branches of the faith and mobilized a religious movement to protect life on this planet?  God knows that we need a movement like that, for the Earth is under violent assault.  As Bill McKibben pointed out in a recent article,¹“…the Arctic – from Greenland to its seas – essentially melted last summer in a way never before seen.  The frozen Arctic is like a large physical feature.  It’s as if you woke up one morning and your left arm was missing.”

I don’t want to incite panic, but only if we see and face the physical trauma that our planet is undergoing will we break out of our denial and inertia.  And only if we root and ground ourselves in the love of God will we break out of our helplessness and despair, which tell us that it is too late to change course, that efforts to protect life as we know it on this planet will be defeated, and that catastrophic climate change is inevitable.

I give thanks that a movement to strengthen environmental sustainability is arising around the country, a movement that demands an end to dependence on fossil fuel, an end to oil subsidies, an end to environmentally risky projects that jeopardize and pollute eco-systems. 

The Climate Revival² is scheduled for next Saturday, and as you know, the Presiding Bishop is coming to preach, as is the national leader of the United Church of Christ, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Bill McKibben have sent in video recordings.  It will be the region’s largest and most denominationally diverse gathering of Christian leaders on the issue of climate change.

But here’s the thing.  The violence that took place in Boston this past week may prevent us from holding this event, which is to be at Old South Church and Trinity Church on Copley Square, just steps from the finish line of the Marathon.  Will the police shut us down?  Someone told me right before this service that today’s Boston Globe reports that a memorial run will be held in Boston that day and that it will cover the last mile of the marathon – in which case, the Climate Revival might have to be postponed.  I don’t yet know.  But I hope that we’ll be able to hold it, for all who come will have an opportunity to mourn our losses, and, just as importantly, an opportunity to deepen our confidence in the power of the Risen Christ and to strengthen our resolve to become living witnesses to the power of Resurrection.  In one way or another, people will be gathering next Saturday to bless the place in Boston that has been so violently assaulted.

Even if you can’t join us, or even if the Revival is postponed, I hope you’ll enjoy today’s special coffee hour, where you can sign postcards advocating for clean energy, pick up some low carbon tips, and make a donation to plant trees.  If you like, you can support the Nature Conservancy’s initiative to Plant A Billion Trees,³ a dollar at a time, in the Atlantic Forest of Brazil, which is one of the world’s largest and most endangered tropical forests.  Tropical forests are the lungs of the Earth, releasing oxygen and storing enormous amounts of CO2, so let’s make those lungs strong.  Or you can chip in to buy a new tree for Grace Church, which we hope to plant on Pentecost.  This afternoon at 3:00 o’clock in the Parish Hall we will show the movie “Gasland,” an award-winning film about fracking, and we’ll be serving free popcorn. 

In a few moments we will baptize a wonderful little girl, Gianna Mattrey.  As much as I’d like to, I can’t promise that Gianna – or any of us the rest of us – will always feel safe.  I can’t promise that her life will always feel comfortable.  I can’t promise that she won’t experience times of heartache, that she won’t face periods of difficulty, challenge, or loss.  But what I can promise is that she will be sustained every moment of her life by the mercy and tenderness of God.  What I can promise is that the Good Shepherd will give her life meaning, purpose, and joy.  What I can promise is that the Good Shepherd will call her by name, and that wherever she goes, she will be at home in God’s heart.

May the Good Shepherd extend His loving arms over Gianna, over us, over the City of Boston, and over the whole Creation. 

Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. (Psalm 23:6)

1. “Is the Keystone XL Pipeline the “Stonewall” of the Climate Movement?,” by Bill McKibben, April 8, 2013 (This piece was first published on TomDispatch)

2. For information and updates, check Facebook or http://www.macucc.org/events/detail/1104

3. Learn more at plantabillion.org.

Somewhere in the dark

“How priceless is your love, O God! */ your people take refuge under the shadow of your wings.” (Psalm 36:7)

We gather tonight in the world that Jesus knew, a world that is wracked by violence and fear.  We live in a world in which more than three thousand children are killed every year in the United States by gunfire, a world in which a man can force his way into a school and leave twenty children dead.  We live in a world of struggle and loss and sorrow, a world in which some people wrestle with despair all their lives and must exert every ounce of strength to keep hold of the desire to live.  We live in a world of drones and wars and melting glaciers, a world that seems sometimes to be spinning past anyone’s control, a world in which we can’t always hold back the forces of darkness – it is too late, they have already been unleashed.  Jesus knows this brutal, frightened, desperate world of ours.  As we move into Holy Week, the tension around Jesus is rising to a breaking point.  The civil and religious authorities are plotting to take his life and looking for a way to arrest him.  The powers of evil are gathering – relentless, implacable, and ready to strike.

Yet somewhere in the dark, in this world in which it seems sometimes that no one cares – we are lost – there is no meaning anymore, no longer any ground for hope – still, there is a house where someone is bending down to anoint another person’s feet.  The gesture is an act of blessing, an anointing for burial, and an expression of extravagant love.  Somewhere in the dark, a woman is turning to Jesus with tenderness and a gentle touch.  She has seen his goodness, and that goodness has called forth her own.  She has seen his strength, and that strength has called out hers.  She has experienced his generosity, and that generosity has awakened hers.  She has witnessed his desire to follow where divine love leads, no matter what the cost may be, and that desire has aroused her own.  In knowing Jesus, she knows someone whose very being proclaims what the psalmist sang, “Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens, * and your faithfulness to the clouds.  Your righteousness is like the strong mountains, your justice like the great deep; you save both man and beast, O LORD” (Psalm 36:5-6).  In Jesus, Mary of Bethany has met – just as we meet – someone who conveys the divine love that fills everything from the heights of the heavens down to the great deep, the love of God that is manifest in the evanescent, passing cloud and in the ancient, solid mountains, the love that sustains both human beings and the whole creation.  In the presence of Jesus, Mary can say with the psalmist, “How priceless is your love, O God!* / your people take refuge under the shadow of your wings” (Psalm 36:7).

We enter the darkness of Holy Week because this is where we meet Jesus, here in the darkness of the world, where the light of Christ continues to shine.  The light that we see in Jesus calls forth the light that abides within us.  Somewhere in the dark – goodness, beauty, mercy, and truth are still shining.  Somewhere in the dark, there is a house that is filling with the fragrance of perfume.  Somewhere in the dark, people who love Jesus are coming alive, rising up to bear witness to the love of God that will never die. 

You know this for yourselves.  I see so many of you reaching out a hand to visit the sick, to comfort the bereaved, to share in someone’s laughter or to ease someone’s tears!  Again and again in your lives, and in mine, I see how a small act of kindness, a decision to listen carefully and with love, a willingness to forgive or a commitment to search for reconciliation in a difficult relationship is making all the difference in opening a path to new life.  This morning I saw again the power of walking with Jesus, as bishops, clergy, and lay people from across New England and the Atlantic seaboard – including our own Doug Fisher – gathered in Washington, D.C. to pray an outdoor Stations of the Cross.  This extraordinary Holy Week Witness was organized by the bishops of Connecticut after the shooting in Newtown, and its purpose was to challenge our country’s culture of violence.  The bishops decided to take that witness to our nation’s capital in order “to say to our political leaders and to our country that we will no longer be silent while violence permeates our world, our society, our Church, our homes and ourselves.  Our faith calls us to be ministers of reconciliation, to give voice to the voiceless and to strive for justice in the name of our Lord.”

Tonight, and throughout this week, we look deeply into the darkness of the world.  With Jesus, we face the suffering, injustice, and dying that is going on around us and within us.  Yet somewhere in the dark, someone is making a gesture of loving-kindness, and a house is filling with the fragrance of perfume, the fragrance of an infinite love that darkness will never overcome.  Somewhere in the dark, those who love Jesus are already coming alive, already rising up to bear witness to the love of God that never dies. 

I want to close by reading one of the meditations that was written for the Stations of the Cross service held today in D.C.  I contributed a meditation myself, but that is not the one I want to read.  I want to close with a meditation written by Bishop Jim Curry of Connecticut.¹  He writes:

“On the evening of Good Friday every year, the Anglican Church in Maputo, Mozambique gathers for the Burial of Christ.  A black casket is carried to the front of the church and laid before the altar.  Pallbearers lift the lid from the casket and put it aside.  The bishop calls the congregation into solemn prayer.  Jesus has died.  He truly is dead.  And this service is to be his funeral.

“Two by two the members of the congregation are invited forward with these words:  Come and see the one who has died and will rise from the dead. Acolytes stand near the casket to hand flowers to each person who comes forward.  Everyone knows these flowers are to decorate his grave.  Jesus is truly dead.

“Two by two the congregants make their way to the casket to look on the one who has died and who will rise from the dead.  A thousand people come forward accompanied by the singing of a cappella choirs.  Two by two people stop at the casket, bow, and look upon the one who has died and who will rise from the dead.  Finally,” he writes, “it is my turn to come to the casket, flower in hand.  It is a holy moment.  I bow and look into casket.  And there, in a mirror, I see my own face.  I am the one who has died and will rise from the dead.

“St. Paul wrote to the Romans: ‘Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so too we might walk in newness of life’ (Romans 6:3-4).”

As we enter Holy Week, may we discover afresh that walking the way of the cross is none other than the way of life and peace, through Jesus Christ.

1. The Rt. Rev. James E. Curry, Bishop of Connecticut, Meditation for the Thirteenth and Fourteen Stations of “The Way of the Cross: Challenging a Culture of Violence,” March 25, 2013, in Washington, D.C.