Jesus: 'I am the Light of the world'...a sermon by Jan Robitscher

“Again, Jesus spoke to them, saying,

‘ I am the light of the world.’”
(Jn. 8:12)


Year 1: Epiphany VI
Jan Robitscher
Evensong
St. Mark’s Church
February 13, 2011

Psalm 19
Isaiah 62:6-12
John 8: 12-19



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

So, here we are, in the midst of the service of Evensong, as the sun is setting, singing God’s praises, in the middle of the Season of the Epiphany--or “showing forth” of God in Christ--the Season of Light.

But in a way, it would be hard to tell, as we are surrounded by electric lights that almost obliterate the difference between day and night. And what of all those candles? Are they not superfluous? And yet we do watch the sky darken and catch the light mediated by the stained glass and we must admit that our world is often a pretty dark and scary place, especially at night. Sometimes all the lights of our streets and cities--and even here--only mask our anxiety. Maybe we really are afraid of the dark. Maybe we really are comforted by those candles. Maybe they remind us that we do need Jesus to be our light. But how does this happen and what does Jesus mean anyway claiming himself to be “the light of the world” (?) And what does this mean for us?

I think the way in might be through the words of the Phos Hilaron, the hymn “O Gracious Light” that we sang just a few moments ago. It dates from at least the 3rd century and is among the oldest of Christian hymns in continuous use. Basil the Great (d. A.D. 379) speaks of this hymn as so ancient that no one knows its author. (The Hymnal 1982 Companion, Vol. Two, p. 24) It was sung as the lamps were lit (and still is in Orthodox Vespers--you can see it and hear it on YouTube). Let’s look at the words again from the Book of Common Prayer (p, 64):

Said: O Gracious Light.
Pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven.
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!

It is here that we find the very claim Jesus makes of himself in our Gospel reading: I AM the light of the world. The hymn-prayer addresses Jesus: Phos hilaron--O gracious light, quite literally, O happy--O hilarious light--Jesus, the Light that is the source of our joy and our peace as night approaches. Jesus, the merciful and redeeming light, not only of the People Israel, but of the whole world. Jesus, the Light that the darkness cannot overcome.

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing thy praises, O God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

It is in this second verse that we find the purpose of all these lights and especially all the candles we see. They remind us, who have not seen Jesus in the flesh, that we are surrounded by God in Trinity of Persons and unity of being. Jesus is right here. Knowing this, we will pray for protection through the coming night.


And the final verse:
Thou art worthy at all times
to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O giver of life,
and to be glorified through all the worlds.


Here another translation and tune might be helpful:
Sung: O Son of God, O source of light,
praise is your due by night and day.
Unsullied lips must raise the strain
Of your proclaimed and splendid name.
Words: William C. Storey, Morning Praise and Evensong
Music: Notre Dame, Jan Robitscher


Unsullied lips... The same joyful light--Jesus--is also a searching light. This light will show us our sins, each and all of us--but it will also be a purifying and merciful light. In this way, we are able to “praise God with happy voices”, no matter how we feel at the moment, for God is worthy of such praise always. And Jesus is not only our light, for us, individually, but for us as a community here; not only for the dark streets of this neighborhood or this city or even our country, but for the whole world.

And Jesus said something else, beyond tonight’s Gospel reading: he said, “YOU are the light of the world.” If we follow Jesus the Light, then what we do in this world matters. We must be the Light of Jesus for those in the darkness of poverty or sickness or prison or despair or, like the people of Egypt in recent days, yearning to be free.

So we gather here for Evensong and hymn the setting sun, light the lamps and sing the praises of Jesus the Light of the world. And we will go from here carrying that Light into a dark and weary world so much in need of that Light--that gracious, happy Light; that light no darkness can extinguish; to whom be praise and glory for ever and ever. AMEN.




COLLECTS AT THE PRAYERS


We thank thee, O God, that thou didst give thy Son Jesus Christ
to be the light to the world, and that in him thou has revealed thy
glory and the wonder of thy saving love. Help us to love thee who
hast so loved us; strengthen us for the service of thy kingdom; and
grant that the light of Christ may so shine throughout the world
that [people] everywhere may be drawn to him who is the saviour and
Lord of all, and the whole earth be filled with thy glory; through the
same Jesus Christ our Lord. AMEN.

(Parish Prayers, Frank Colquhoun, Ed. #103)



A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, who hast given us grace at this time with one accord
to make our common supplication unto thee, and hast promised
through thy well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered
together in his Name thou wilt be in the midst of them: Fulfill now,
O Lord, the desires and petitions of thy servants as may be best
for us; granting us in this world knowledge of thy truth, and in the
world to come life everlasting. AMEN.


Let us bless the Lord.

Thanks be to God.

The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the
fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. AMEN.

"For he is our peace; in his flesh
he has made both groups into one..."
(Ephesians 2:14)

Eve of Holy Cross Day,
Evensong
I Kings 8:22-30
Psalm 46, 87
Ephesians 2: 11-22
Jan Robitscher
St. Mark's Church
CDSP, Berkeley, CA
September 13, 2009

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

Today is Sunday, the Lord's Day, and it is also the eve of Holy Cross Day. Derived from the dedication of church buildings in Jerusalem where the Church of the Holy Sepulcher now stands on September 14, 335. Tradition has it that in the process of overseeing the work, St. Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine, found a relic of the true cross. This date also marked the dedication of Solomon's Temple hundreds of years earlier. But more than the dedication of church buildings or the finding of relics is the focus of this Feast: the cross, which, in many and varied forms, has remained an object of veneration for the gift of Jesus' death and resurrection for our salvation. But it also brought to mind a story:

Several years ago, I watched an ABC Television Special on religion in America. The program featured those large “mega-churches” that resemble shopping malls and seem to attract enough people to fill them. As he toured one of these churches, Peter Jennings noticed that there was no cross to be seen anywhere. When he asked the pastor about it, the reply came, “Oh, the cross might get in the way.” I think I was as startled as Peter Jennings was!

But I have to admit it’s true. The cross does seem to get in the way. While some folks don’t like to see it at all, we see the cross all the time and tune it out. We Episcopalians can’t bear to look upon a crucifix (there is one in this room, but you will have to look carefully to find it!) Instead, we have the cross that is carried in procession, or the ornamented cross over the Rood Screen, the brass cross on the High Altar, or the crosses we wear. We make the sign of the cross and forget it as an instrument of an awful death or its origins in baptism. Maybe we would notice if churches were adorned with a more modern form of execution...

We don’t like the cross because it puts death in the middle of our Alleluias; it reminds us of the betrayal and failure that led to Jesus’ death. In the middle of our successes, it recalls the times we have failed to trust God and one another. We hear Paul’s words that “[God] did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us...”(Rom. 8:32) and this does not fit our image of a merciful, loving God. Or the beautiful Philippians Hymn which tells us that Jesus gave himself completely, even to death on a cross. And we hear Jesus' words, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, and take up their cross and follow me.” (Mark 8:34) This is strong stuff! But if we will look at the cross--contemplate it, gaze upon it--there we will find the Good News.

It is interesting that Christians in the first centuries after Jesus’ death never depicted him suffering on the cross. This was probably not denial (they knew how horrible a death it was) but for their safety, until Christianity became legal. The empty cross, a symbol of the resurrection, did not become popular until the Reformation. The suffering Christ did not appear until around the 6th century. Celtic crosses are particularly striking. In one type Jesus is there, but not suffering. Rather, he is gazing straight ahead with arms outstretched. The hands, however, are much larger--all out of proportion--as if to gather the whole world into an embrace. Jesus said:
"And I, when I am lifted up from the earth,
will draw all people to myself."

But what is the Good News of Jesus' crucifixion? Jesus’ self-offering on the cross was the ultimate demonstration of God's forgiveness--that God still loves us in spite of our sinfulness. It restores our trust in God’s ability to redeem even the most awful of failures; it proclaims that evil and death have been defeated. Most of all, it is the ultimate sign of reconciliation. Hear again the words of St. Paul:
But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been
brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace: in his
flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down
the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. (Eph. 2:14)

How much we need to hear this--and believe it--in the midst of a divided Church, a polarized society and a warring world! It is Jesus' death on the cross, which is beyond all our opinions and politics--that is the source of our peace and reconciliation. To bear the cross, then, is to be willing to suffer for the sake of Jesus (as many reconcilers do), and to take up the call of Paul's words in another letter:

...[I]n Christ God was reconciling the world to himself,
not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting
the message of reconciliation to us. So we are ambassadors
for Christ... (2 Cor. 5: 19-20)

The goal of the Christian life is to be brought to God by way of Jesus’ death and resurrection--and then to bring each other to God--and finally to bring the world to God. Here is the most wonderful redemption of such an awful death!

Look at the cross--contemplate it, gaze upon it-- there we will find the Good News.


Perhaps the simple words of the 19th century hymn writer Walter Russell Bowie put it best:
O love that triumphs over loss,
we bring our hearts before thy cross,
to finish thy salvation.

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







THE COLLECTS AT THE PRAYERS

FOR THE HUMAN FAMILY
O God, you made is in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus your Son: look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne, through Jesus Christ our Lord. AMEN.

FOR THE CHURCH
Gracious Father, we pray for your holy Catholic Church. Fill it with all truth, in all truth, with all peace. Where it is corrupt, purify it; where it is in error, direct it; where in anything it is amiss, reform it. Where it is right, strengthen it; where it is in want, provide for it; where it is divided, reunite it, for the sake of Jesus Christ thy Son our Savior. AMEN.

FOR THOSE WHO INFLUENCE PUBLIC OPINION
Almighty God, you proclaim your truth in every age by many voices: Direct, in our time, we pray, those who speak where many listen and write where many read; that they may do their part in making the heart of this people wise, its mind sound, nd its will righteous; to the honor of Jesus Christ our Lord. AMEN.

FOR THE MISSION OF THE CHURCH
Everliving God, whose will it is that all should come to you through your Son Jesus Christ: Inspire our witness to him, that all may know the power of his forgiveness and the hope of his resurrection; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. AMEN.


Images: (1) Celtic Cross by William Burns (ink and color Pencil).

V. Let us bless the Lord.
R. Thanks be to God.

“The Bread that I shall give
for the life of the world is my flesh.”
(Jn. 6:51)

Year B Proper 14
2 Samuel 18: 15, 31-33
Psalm 130
John 6: 35, 41-51
Jan Robitscher
St. Mark’s Church
Berkeley, CA
August 9, 2009

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

My encounter with the sixth chapter of John’s Gospel, which we have over several weeks each summer, began with a poster on the wall of my college dorm room. It had a loaf of bread and a glass of wine and it read:

JESUS OF NAZARETH REQUESTS
THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT A BANQUET TO BE GIVEN
IN HIS HONOR

It was a reference to the Eucharist, and I took it as a personal invitation. But then I encountered the very verses of our Gospel reading today, and especially the last verses--
I am the living bread that came down from heaven.
Whoever eats this bread will live forever; and the
bread that I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh.

For the life of the world... I was as perplexed as the disciples and wondered: Did the Gospel writer get it right? Has Jesus taken leave of his senses? Today I hope to leave you with the assurance that John did indeed get it right and that Jesus meant what he said in this passage and in the even harder words that follow it, which I will leave to next week’s preacher. My journey toward the meaning of these words continued:

Just after college and graduate school, I made a retreat at the Convent of St. Helena in Augusta, GA. I needed a couple of days of quiet and hoped to write a sermon while I was there on almost this very text (actually next week’s readings). On the bus trip from Atlanta, I thought of the sisters, of the place itself and of the home-made bread that is the hallmark of all their meals--and of the bread they made (and perhaps still make) for the Eucharist--all special experiences. Then my thoughts turned to the sixth chapter of John’s Gospel: bread...from heaven...manna...flesh...Jesus... Soon my eager anticipation became a feeling of being overwhelmed by the Gospel passage.

I arrived at the convent in time for Noonday Prayers and lunch. As I entered the Refectory (their dining hall) my eyes caught a large banner on the wall which read:

THE PURPOSE OF ALL BREAD
IS TO BECOME THE BODY OF CHRIST

Moving closer, I read and re-read the banner. Rebellious thoughts arose: “No! Not ALL bread. Only the bread of the Eucharist, duly consecrated.” It was a hard saying, indeed, that was on that banner--every bit as hard for me as Jesus’ words were for his disciples. Not the reassuring invitation of the poster on my dorm room wall. And for the next three days I would be confronted with those words at every meal. I pondered the invitation on the poster and that banner and wondered: Which one is right?


And what do the words of Jesus in our Gospel reading have to do with the banquet invitation of my dorm room poster or the banner on the Convent wall?

Let’s start small. I’ve been thinking a lot about friendships--how they are formed and sustained. Suddenly I realized that, at some point, I have shared a meal with every close friend I have. How I wish I could have this experience with everyone here, but there are people here today who can attest to this. The defining moment of a close relationship is when friends literally become companions--ones who share the bread.

My experience of companions--sharers in the bread--expended when, several years after I made that retreat in Georgia, I moved out here to Berkeley and experienced the hospitality around food that is a hallmark and charism of this parish and, a few years later, began to teach at the School for Deacons. As our own Deacon Ellen (on sabbatical this summer) has said on many occasions, the diaconal call and ministry are bound up in proclaiming the Good News to, praying for, and serving with the marginalized of all kinds. I am still teaching at the School for Deacons and at every class session we are at a Eucharist in which we pray for the needs of the world. Shortly after that I began to help with Hot Meals here at St. Mark’s. “Friend” became “Friends” in a larger way, and I began to understand a little of what Jesus meant when he said:

The bread that I shall give for the life
of the world is my flesh.

The ultimate experience of being a companion is here at this Altar. At one level, it is the way in which we become one with Jesus. That is what Communion means. Certainly this is true for each of us, individually. In that sense, the poster on my dorm room wall was correct:
JESUS OF NAZARETH REQUESTS
THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT A BANQUET TO BE GIVEN
IN HIS HONOR

But it is much more. We don’t have to read far in the headlines--or far from this place--to see a world hurting and so badly in need of the life for which Jesus died. Whether far-away wars in the Middle East or the Anglican Communion divided, or within this very room, we can be aware of the world and each other and know that there are many needs. Community, after all, comes from the same root as Communion. We are what we eat. When Jesus gives himself for us, we become his Body, and we are expected, as St. Paul says so well in our second reading, to give ourselves to others--friends and enemies alike--in his name.

Now if only I could stop here! If only I could wind up this nice Social Gospel sermon and sit down. But it goes on and gets harder.

Jesus’ identification of himself with the bread must have shocked his hearers. Even so, they would have heard the words literally--and they would have heard in them deeper meanings than our English translations can impart. For to Jewish and early Christian ears, “Flesh” and “Blood” meant far more than physical (and separate) parts of the body. “Flesh” meant one’s whole person: body, soul, mind and spirit. “Blood” meant the very essence of life, itself.

But knowing this did not keep Jesus’ hearers from disputing among themselves at his words, “I am the bread which came down from heaven.” They didn’t understand how this could be--and we can’t, either. What matters is not HOW Jesus becomes present in the bread and wine of Communion, but THAT he does become present, and gives himself to us each time we come to receive him. Jesus answered the dispute not by explaining HOW he would “get into “the bread and cup, nor did he brush the whole thing off as an empty symbol. Instead, he impressed upon them that if they wanted life--life with any meaning--life for the world--eternal life--they would have to partake of the Lord of Life, himself.

What difference should this make in our lives? Here is where the words of Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians speak to us more directly. The Eucharist, as lovely as it is, does not stand apart from our actions in the world. Or, to put it another way, each time we receive Communion, we leave here carrying Jesus within ourselves and to each other and to the world. So, says Paul, to each of us and to the Church:

Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and
wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind
to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another as God
in Christ has forgiven you.

To receive Communion, then, is to become companions in the deepest sense--those who share the bread of life that Jesus gives. But there is that banner:

THE PURPOSE OF ALL BREAD
IS TO BECOME THE BODY OF CHRIST

Besides bringing us individually into union with Jesus, being a companion of Jesus at this Altar also gives us a different world-view. It helps us pray “for the life of the world” and enlarges our definition of “friend”. It helps us see where help is needed and energizes us (as St. Teresa says) to be “Christ’s hands and feet in the world. It helps us grow as a community, both in our love for one another and in our desire to bring more people here. In receiving Communion, we not only rededicate ourselves to our baptismal vows “to seek and serve Christ in all persons...”-- we ask to see everything through Jesus’ eyes.

In the end, though, Communion is larger than our individual or even our corporate journeys. “Eucharist” means “thanksgiving” and is the way Jesus gave us to remember--literally to re-member--his death and resurrection--the bread of his flesh that he gave for the life of the world--until he comes again.

And what about the poster and the banner? Which one was right?

I think they are both right, but perhaps in unexpected ways. I wonder: What if the poster on my dorm room wall was an invitation not just for me but for all of us?
JESUS OF NAZARETH REQUESTS
THE HONOR OF YOUR [plural--all of you--all of us] PRESENCE
AT A BANQUET TO BE GIVEN
IN HIS HONOR


What would happen if, instead of reducing Communion to a common meal, we elevated all our meals as mirrors or echoes of the Eucharist? What if, as the banner said,
THE PURPOSE OF ALL BREAD
[really] IS TO BECOME THE BODY OF CHRIST?

Come to this banquet at Jesus’ invitation. Come longing to receive the whole person of Jesus. Most of all, come in thanksgiving for his love in giving himself as bread “for the life of the world.” Then, together, let us be willing and ready to carry Jesus from this place into a world both beautiful and hurting, so that all may know the Good News of his love.

“Master, we have worked all night long,
but have caught nothing...”

Click on image to enlarge.

Jan Robitscher
St. Mark's Church
Evensong

(Luke 5:5)
Year C Epiphany 5
Judges 6:11-24a
Psalm 85: 7-13
Luke 5:1-11
February 8, 2009

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

As we enter tonight?s Gospel story, Jesus needs a place from which to preach. So he borrowed Simon?s boat for a podium, sat down in it and taught the crowds. It must have been something to see! Whether or not they recognized Jesus as God?s Son, the sermon must have been a good one.

But just after that Jesus goes from “preachin? to meddlin?”. He commands Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch..” Now times were hard. Very hard. Whether they had not worked hard enough or the fish were elsewhere (or perhaps over-fished) did not change the reality: No fish, no food. God must have seemed very far away.

Does this sound at all familiar? It would be easy to feel Simon?s panic. “Master, we have worked all night and caught nothing. But if you say so...”

Every day we hear about and experience more and more of our new economic reality. Unfathomable amounts of money has gone to bailouts, and a good portion of that has been wasted by CEOs on high living, while the Stock Market has fallen sharply. Millions of people have lost their jobs and their homes and businesses. This has touched us right here in Berkeley. The face of hunger in America is changing, so that many in food lines are working, most making choices between food and rent or medicine. And even if we still have a job and a home, our appetite for cars and other material things has helped bring about the climate change that is drying up our water supply. The problems are not just ours. They encompass the whole world. We feel Simon?s panic,“We have worked hard all night and caught nothing.” We wonder: Where is God in our new economic reality?

To Simon's credit, he was at least able to hear Jesus? command and obey it. “If you say so, I will let down the nets.” Jesus? command must have seemed preposterous--counter to anything he knew about fishing. But the result of his obedience was a catch of fish so large he needed to call for help, and Simon recognized that Jesus, the Lord, was the source of his great catch.

Overwhelmed by the miracle, Simon fell at Jesus? feet and cried, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Like Isaiah, Jeremiah, or Gideon (from tonight?s first reading) before or saints and martyrs after him, the recognition of being in the very presence of God, of Jesus, often in their darkest hour, seemed too much and they too unworthy. Perhaps we know best the opening lines of George Herbert?s poem “Love (I)”:

Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin...

Surely Jesus knew Simon's sins as well as he knew Simon would catch a load of fish, but that did not matter now. Jesus had other plans for Simon and his fishing partners--plans that would change the world. But there was a catch, so to speak. “Do not be afraid.” said Jesus. “From now on, you will be catching people.”

Do not be afraid. Nothing in Simon's past, or yours or mine--no amount of sin, could keep Simon (later named Peter)--or can keep us-- from doing the work Jesus has for us. But, like Simon, we must be willing to listen to him (and he often speaks through other people and events) and to do as he asks.

Fortunately, Simon, and James and John were able to take Jesus at his word and lay hold of the grace that he offered, even if they had no idea what it meant for their future. Moreover, they had the courage to to trust that others would catch fish for the table so they could leave everything--boats, nets and all--and follow him. Were it not for their obedient actions, their willingness to drop everything and follow Jesus, in spite of their sins or whatever else hindered them in the past, we would not be here at Evensong today.

In a few moments we will say the General Thanksgiving. In that prayer, we will declare our trust in God as the source and provider of all that sustains us as we pray in thanksgiving “for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life”. (BCP. p. 71) And we will ask for the grace to “show forth [God?s] praise not only with our lips [as we do here in liturgy and music], but in our lives, by giving up ourselves to [God?s] service”, just as Simon and his companions did. And who knows? With God?s help, our “catch”, whether of people or whatever else God plans for us, may be very large, indeed!

CLOSING PRAYERS

Prayer from Salisbury Cathedral

Help us, Father,
to live like Jesus,
to live freely and joyfully,
willing to take risks for love;
willing to trust ourselves to your wisdon when we cannot see;
willing to believe that even out of the troubles of our lives
and the tragedies of our times
you can always bring new life both for us and for our world;
through Jesus Christ who is Lord of this time and of eternity..

(from Heart in Pilgrimage: Prayers in Salisbury Cathedral
by Hugh Dickenson, The Dean of Salisbury)

“Keep alert; you do not know when
the hour will come.”
(Mark 13:33)

Year B Advent I

Jan Robitscher
St. Mark’s Church
Berkeley, CA
November 30, 2008

Isaiah 64:1-9
Psalm 80: 1-7, 16018

I Corinthians1:3-9
Mark 13: 24-37


With inward pain my heartstrings sound,
my soul dissolves away;
Dear Sovereign, whirl the seasons round,
Dear Sovereign, whirl the seasons round,
And bring, and bring the promised day,
And bring the promised day.
(Early American Hymn-from An Advent Sourcebook, p. 4)



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

Today we begin another Church Year. It is the season of Advent, which means literally “to come to”--primarily God to us--and us to God. It is a season of waiting, of hoping, of longing--and, especially in these times, impatience, despair and frustration. Hoping and longing. Already and not yet. Trying to keep our focus, our intention on waiting in hope is the work of this season. But what are we waiting for? And, when we are impatient, why does it seem that God does not hear our cry?

Advent always begins for me with a vision of the cosmos--deep space, “galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses”1 --a peaceful and silent scene of God’s pristine creation. Close your eyes just for a moment and imagine it.

But then I see the ring of space junk around the earth and I remember again the Story, beginning with the creation and the stories of Adam and Eve how for their disobedience they were expelled from the garden, and how that propels the whole story of Salvation History. Look at the windows around the church, you will see it there. We hear it each week in the eucharistic prayer. And we will see it play out writ large over the seasons of the Church Year between now and Pentecost.

I think of the People Israel; their Exodus from slavery, their wanderings in the desert, both physically and spiritually; how they received the Law, then begged God for judges and kings, and still they wandered from God. And God sent them prophets (lots of prophets) who came with dire warnings and imploring prayers:
But you [God] were angry, and we sinned...We all fade like a leaf
and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away...Do not be
exceedingly angry, O Lord... (Isaiah 64: 5, 9)

The Psalms are full of both the exhortation to wait patiently upon God and the cry of impatience in bad times:
Restore us, O God of hosts;
show the light of your countenance and we shall be saved. (Ps. 80:3)

And we want to cry out:

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!”

Then came John the Baptist, preaching a baptism of repentance. “Make straight the Way of the Lord!” John the Forerunner, preparing the way for Jesus to come. Of John Jesus said:
What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more
than a prophet. (Matt. 11:9)

And God did rend the heavens and come down--though not in a way that anyone expected: the First Coming of Christ.

That was not the end of the waiting--30 years before Jesus’ public ministry; three days in the tomb before his resurrection. Yet there were many times in his earthly ministry that Jesus did “rend the heavens” to heal the sick, give peace to those in mental distress and raise the dead, and finally trampled down death by his own death to gift us with eternal life. Eventually the disciples could look back, as we can, and see that they were never alone--and neither are we. Jesus was there all along--from the beginning, “the Word made flesh” --and he is here with us now, walking with us on our journey through hard economic times and wars and change and transition. “And remember,” he has promised, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age. This is the gift of the First Coming of Christ.

And Jesus ascended to heaven and the disciples waited until God sent the Holy Spirit upon them and the Church was born. And from its beginnings, has been waiting with expectation and longing (and, at times, great fear) for the Second Coming of Christ. St. Paul encourages us with the words he used to encourage the Church at Corinth:
[Christ] will strengthen you to the end, that you may be
blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. (I Cor. 3:9)

And the Church is still waiting for that great and terrible and joyful day when Christ will come again. We say so every Sunday in the Creed, that we believe that Christ will come to judge the living and the dead. But, says Jesus,


...about that day or hour no one knows, neither the
angels in heaven nor the Son, but only the Father... (Mark 13:32)

Three times in this Gospel passage Jesus exhorts us: Keep Awake! And we need to hear it in an age of anxiety when we would rather hibernate in the dark days and nights or rush headlong into whatever is left of the shopping season to take our minds off the news. Keep awake! Watch the Advent wreath each week as we light another candle. Listen as the music of this season gives us both expressions of Christ coming again in glory and the most tender consolations of his lowly birth. Hear the story again. Stay alert! Keep awake!

And if you are wondering what this all means or what this kind of waiting looks like, we need look no farther than our Communion anthem today to find out. Paul Manz wrote “E’en So, Lord Jesus Quickly Come” by the hospital bed of his dying son in the late hours of one dark night, so the story goes (perhaps now embellished by urban legend). With words from the end of the book of Revelation, it is at once a “Rend the heavens! cry and an act of waiting in hope, and even of letting go, knowing that God will act at just the right time. God did act, and the child lived.

Which brings me back to that opening vision of Advent: the stars of night, but this time unspoiled by space junk. I see new heavens and a peaceful earth, restored and healed. And surprises beyond our deepest longings and expectations. These are the gifts of the Second Coming of Christ.

So what do we do in the meantime? We wait. And if the times are too hard and the waiting becomes unbearable, we cry out to God:
O that you would tear upon the heavens and come down!

Or we can pray again that Early American hymn:

With inward pain my heartstrings sound,
my soul dissolves away;
Dear Sovereign, whirl the seasons round,
And bring, and bring the promised day,
And bring the promised day.

“The souls of the righteous are in the
hand of God...”
(Wisdom 3:1)


All Faithful Departed
Jan Robitscher
St. Mark’s Church
Berkeley, CA
November 3, 2008

Wisdom 3:1-9
Psalm 130
1 Cor. 15:50-58
John 5:24-27
In the Name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Yesterday we celebrated All Saints’ Day with festival hymns and banners, and great confidence that those whom the Church calls Saints (Apostles, Martyrs and those who lead heroic lives for the faith) dwell with God and we with them--the Communion of Saints. And we said bravely that “we look for the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting”.

But then the music fades and the banners are put away, we are suddenly left in silence. What then? What of those near and dear to us? After all, the earliest Church called them “saints”, too. And yet we wonder: How is it with them? Where are they? Do they remember us? Will we remember them? How will we ever fill the hole they have left? We feel so alone. Perhaps it is for these reasons that the Church invites us to gather and offers us the commemoration of All Faithful Departed.

The mystery, the human anguish, the sense of loss, the desire for continued communion... these things have from antiquity found their ritualized form of expression in each culture and age...1 One expression of these is a Mexican saying that we die three deaths: the first when our bodies die, the second when our bodies are lowered into the earth out of sight, and the third when our loved ones forget us.2 These are fearful questions that are reflected in our society by an almost absolute silence about death. But this is not the response of Christians, and here is where we can learn from the practices of different cultures. In Mexico, in the mixture of Christian traditions and indigenous cultures, death is not feared; rather, it is celebrated. Tonight we have chosen to share in a part of that celebration. Look over there! See the Día de los Muertos altar we have constructed together. Many photos stand as a testimony to those whom we love but see no longer. Like icons of the better-known saints, they are windows to God in whom they now live and move and have their being, though in a different way than we do now. That is one way we can overcome the “three deaths”.

Another way is through the music which the Choir offers tonight. Jacob Clemens non Papa lived from 1515-1555, almost all of his short (and at the end, fraught) life of 40 years in the Netherlands. Little is known about his life except that he was a priest, a composer of many choral works including masses, motets, Psalm settings, and the Requiem which comprises most of our liturgical music tonight.3 While we don’t know for whom this Requiem was written, we do know that Clemens (the appellation “non Papa”--not the pope of the same name--is more humor than humility) has infused it with an intimacy and emotion that was not common in his time. Each part begins with the liturgical chant and then continues with Clemens’ beautiful polyphony.4 I hope you will allow the music to surround you; to hold and enfold you like a lullaby and give you the words and notes to go with the pictures on the table or in your mind’s eye of those who have died.

Music reaches into us in deep and profound ways, but it, and the picture-altar we have created are not the only ways to overcome “the three deaths”. Our readings all attest to God’s unfailing care of us for this life and for the next. Indeed, all the words and actions of our liturgy bring us the Good News that “life is changed, not ended”. It is Jesus who begs an invitation to come to us in Communion to fill the holes left by our departed loved ones. And it is the Holy Spirit who prays in us when we are not able to find the words... which leads us back to the music of this night’s liturgy.

The Funeral Ikos, of the contemporary composer John Tavener, which we will hear at the end of the Liturgy, gives us another way in which to hold our loved ones before God. Here, in words gathered from the Orthodox funeral of a priest, we encounter the questions I posed at the beginning--and the answer. At the death of a loved one we are always left wondering: Why? How are they now? Do they remember us as we do them? All of these questions are a natural part of the mystery of death and of our grief. But we must listen to the very end! For, like a procession, this piece begins far away. Yet even as the questions grow more urgent and the description of death more real, the Alleluias after each verse grow more confident until they become a cry of victory. And at the very end we hear that our departed loved ones dwell in God’s presence, and we are invited to join the procession:

Let us all, also, enter into Christ,
that all we may cry aloud thus unto God:

Alleluia, Alleluia, alleluia.
ALLELUIA!

“...Son of David, have mercy on me!”
(Mark 10:47)

Year B Proper 25 (Special Healing Service)
Job 42:1-6, 10-17
Psalm 34:1-8
Hebrews 7:23-28
Mark 10:46-52

Jan Robitscher

St. Mark’s Church

Berkeley, CA

October 29, 2006

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

O lead my blindness by the hand,
Lead me to thy familiar feast,
Not here or now to understand,
Yet even here and now to taste,
How the eternal Word of heaven
On earth in broken bread is given.
(William Ewart Gladstone, 19th century)[1]

What an irritating soul was Bartimaeus! Sitting by the side of the road, calling out at the top of his voice, “Son of God, have mercy on me!” Little wonder they tried to shush him up. Although he seemed to be yelling at the air, he knew that Jesus was close by, and, though he may not have known much about Jesus, where Jesus was, there was God’s help. So he cried out all the louder, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

I can relate to Bartimaeus at lots of levels. I, too, have received my sight--but that’s another sermon. I also know something of what it is to cry out for mercy. In second grade, we had to copy long outlines and assignments from the blackboard. Even sitting in the front row, this was a daunting task. One day, I got completely overwhelmed and yelled out a 7 yr. old’s equivalent of “Son of David, have mercy on me!” The teacher, using methods we would now call abusive, silenced me and segregated me to the back of the room. Healing of the memory and forgiveness (renouncing revenge) came later when I understood more about this teacher and her problems. I can remember other times. In Junior High the children made a circle around me and began to taunt... Again, healing and forgiveness came later. But these and other such experiences only made me want to spend the rest of my life speaking and writing and working to improve the treatment of all persons--especially persons with disabilities--both within and without the Church, and cry out all the louder, “Son of David, have mercy!” Each time, in some way, I have been told “Oh Jan, sit down. Be quiet.” Still, I persist...

Back to our Gospel reading. What happened next was--really--a miracle. First, Jesus stood still long enough to hear Bartimaeus’ cry. Then, ignoring the crowd trying to hush Bartimaeus, he said “Call him here.” The fickle crowd then changes its attitude toward the blind man, saying, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” Then Bartimaeus does something remarkable: he throws off his cloak--his dearest possession--and runs to Jesus, who asks, “What do you want me to do for you?” And Bartimaeus, no longer shouting to the air for help or harassed by the crowd, asks simply, “My teacher, let me see again.”

Now, Bartimaeus could have asked for anything: fame, fortune, maybe for a less dysfunctional family or a better place in society. But he says, “My teacher, let me see again.” Perhaps he has had sight before. Yet, does he really know what he is asking? Does he really want to see the world that is both beautiful and, at times, brutal? He does not hesitate: “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus, the Son of David had mercy on him, and he was healed.

But it does not end there. For, in Mark’s good style, it says that “Immediately, he followed him on the way.” In early Christianity, “The Way” meant to follow Jesus. So he went on his way, and most likely told anyone who would listen the story of his healing encounter with Jesus.

I could stop right here and tell you (and it’s true) that Jesus cares about each of us and wants to heal us, to give us what we need to be whole and sound. In return, we thank him and follow him on the way. But I believe there is more for us--yes, US. This story is not only about an encounter between Bartimaeus and Jesus. It is about the crowd, too. It is not just a “me and Jesus” story. It is an “US and Jesus” story.

What if we, as a parish, were to live out this story? What if this story is really a story about Healing, Stewardship and Evangelism? How would it look? First, we must admit that we are sometimes like blind Bartimaeus. We can’t see what is going on, but we can admit before God that we need healing and keep crying out until God’s help comes. What if we lifted our parish up to God in this way? Oh, we know some things: that our long and wonderful history includes the collective memory (an actual memory for some who have been here that long) of the tragic death of our former Rector George Tittmann; our present budget problems; all the buildings, programs and personnel we wish we could add to what we have; perhaps a few forgotten “skeletons” in our parish closet? And beyond us, what about the divisions that threaten the Anglican Communion? What if we just lifted it all up to God? What if we took a lesson from our Amish brothers and sisters who have endured such unspeakable violence and made the choice to pray and to forgive? Or we could learn from the courageous and articulate response of Michael J. Fox to the unkind remarks of Rush Limbaugh. Can we lift up our society to God? Or our war-torn, global-warmed-out world? That’s the Healing part.

Sometimes we are like the crowd. One moment we try to hush up those crying out for help, the next we are encouraging them to come. It might be a parishioner, a committee, a clergy or staff person, or maybe a homeless person who come to us for Hot Meals. We are often impatient, unwilling to stand still long enough to hear their cry. Or sometimes no one is patient enough to hear ours. How would it be if, like Jesus, we did stand still long enough to hear our own cry, our collective community cry? What if we then took that cry to Jesus for help and healing?

From Bartimaeus, we have learned that healing is costly. Are we willing, as Bartimaeus was, to let go of our collective cloak--our dearest possession? What if we gave of ourselves--all of us in as many ways as we are able--and ask God’s help to build up this parish? To build up the larger Church? To build up our society and our world? That’s the Stewardship part.

Yet we dare not stop there! For when we receive healing or any kind of help, we must return thanks to God and then, like Bartimaeus, follow Jesus on the way. That’s the Evangelism part. We must tell the story of God’s creation, of Jesus, “God-with-us”, of the Holy Spirit blowing its healing power where it will--gently and lovingly--to anyone who will listen and even to those who don’t seem to hear. We must tell them how God is active in our lives, tell them what it really means to be an inclusive community not just in word but in action, invite them to “come and see”, as I often do to those whom I meet walking across the Cal campus to St. Mark’s each Sunday.

Now let me tell you a positive story: One Sunday over the summer, while visiting my family in Atlanta, I attended the Cathedral of St. Philip, where my brother and sister-in-law and their son are members. At Communion, I approached the Altar, led by my (now retired) guide dog, “Christmas”. An usher showed me the stairs and which way to go to receive Communion, and I did. Then, coming around and through the ambulatory, I encountered another usher who asked earnestly, “May I help you down the stairs?” Everything in me wanted to say, “No, thank you, my dog and I can do this together.” but I resisted the temptation in mid-sentence, put down the harness handle and allowed him to take my arm and help me. He told me, in so many words, that he had always wanted to do this, to help someone with a guide dog, someone who could not see, so that he or she could have a good experience of God, of church, of the Cathedral. For that moment, even though I could see, he was my eyes. For that moment, the healing presence of Jesus was there, in the midst of us. I got safely back to my place and he went away happy, his prayer finally having been answered.

O lead my blindness by the hand,
Lead me to thy familiar feast,
Not here or now to understand,
Yet even here and now to taste,
How the eternal Word of heaven
On earth in broken bread is given.


So come forward for prayer and anointing for healing. Come ready to give over your private hurts and illnesses, but also the hurts and illnesses of the Body of Christ in this parish, in the Church, in our world. Come and ask Jesus our Great High Priest who continually makes intercession for us. Ask for healing or whatever else you want and need. Come to give thanks for healing already given or some other special occasion. Come, loved ones and caregivers and stand with us. [Whether you come forward or remain quietly in prayer, listen to the music the choir has lovingly prepared, for music can be a way that God heals us, too.][2] Then, at the time of Communion, come to this Altar, the Lord’s Table, to the Healing Feast that brings forgiveness and the gift of eternal life. Finally, filled with the very life of Jesus, go into the world, ready to tell the Good News of how healing has come to this place.

[1] A Eucharist Sourcebook, p. 25
[2] Omit at 8 a.m. service.