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Feb 02 2025
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Be Still to See, Be Still to Shine

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park

February 2, 2025: The Feast of the Presentation/Candlemas

Happy Candlemas, friends! 

Chances are, you’ve rarely if ever celebrated Candlemas before, because Candlemas rarely falls on a Sunday.  It is the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord, which occurs 40 days after the birth of Jesus.  In the Jewish tradition, 40 days after giving birth, the mother would perform purification rites, and 33 days after circumcision a child would be presented to God with sacrifices at the Temple. Mary and Joseph offered two turtle doves, which was the gift a family of little means would offer.   

I used to work with a priest who really geeked out over Candlemas.  So I’m familiar with a few obscure facts.  For instance: Candlemas occurs on what some would call a “cross-quarter day.”  Cross quarter days are the four days that fall midway between the solstices and equinoxes.  So today we are right in the middle of the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox.  The days are getting longer, and I even noticed a few trees in my neighborhood beginning to bud.  We are officially coming out of winter.   

Candlemas is a time when we celebrate this growing light by blessing candles used in worship and at home.  I love candles.  Not the heavily scented kind—just plain old candles that cast the most beautiful light—a light that is gentle, but dangerous if left untended… a light that can be passed on and shared without being diminished… a light that moves and dances like a living creature.  When I think of the light of Christ, the light in each and every one of you, I don’t think of headlights or flashlights or ceiling lights or flood lights… I think of candlelight.  I think of that warm glow and how mesmerizing it can be.  Your light inspires me, and I thank God for it daily. 

The story we remember every Candlemas, is the story of Simeon and Anna, and what they see in Jesus.   

Simeon and Anna are both quite old.  Anna is an 84-year old widow who practically lives at the Temple and Simeon proclaims he can finally die having seen the Savior of the world in Jesus.  Simeon and Anna are nearing the end of their lives, but that does not stop them from seeing and proclaiming new life.   

And how did they see this new life in a little 6-week old baby?  If you have spent much time around babies, you know that 6-weeks is about the time they start to light up and respond with recognition and wonder.  It is a magical time.  So of course anyone who encountered Mary and Joseph with 6-week old Jesus might have been smitten with the child.  But Simeon and Anna are more than just smitten.   

They saw something in Jesus that could only be seen through the eyes of prayer, faith, hope and discernment.  They did not just see the child before them—they did not just see the reality before them—they saw the hope of what was to come in the very presence of God. 

I wonder, how can we have eyes like Anna and Simeon?  How can we see beyond the thing right in front of us grabbing our attention and see not just the now, but imagine and have faith in the promise that is to be? 

Simeon was guided by the Spirit.  How do we open ourselves up to that same guidance?  Anna worshipped and fasted and prayed at all hours of the day and night.  How can we practice that same posture of listening and intimacy with God in our time? 

Well, there are a lot of things we can do… we can show up to church to marinate in the community of faith, as you are doing this morning.  We can study the Bible, on our own or with one of our multiple Bible studies.  We can pray the daily office, either by opening up our prayer books or opening one of several Morning Prayer apps.  So much good can come from worshipping, studying, and serving together. 

But there’s one key ingredient for any of this study or prayer or worship to really sink in. And it is perhaps the hardest ingredient to come by because it’s nothing you can do.  In fact, it is the absence of doing.  It is to become still—it is to sit in silence.   

I know this can be especially hard to do when it feels like the world is falling apart.  I have heard so many stories this week of people losing their jobs, or people losing their funding, or people losing their lives.  Our community of federal employees and federally funded non-profits are suffering so much right now, and to do nothing feels like the worst possible advice, I know. 

But to become still and listen for the wisdom of God within you is not nothing.   

I’ll give you a contemporary example.  One of the most successful activists in recent memory is the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Did you know that King had a rule of life—both for himself and for anyone who would join him in the work of non-violent protests?  As a follower of Jesus, King’s rule of life was shaped by his faith to sustain his faith.  It was a rule of 8 steps: 

  • Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus. 
  • Remember always that the nonviolent movement seeks justice and reconciliation, not victory. 
  • Walk and talk in the manner of love, for God is love. 
  • Pray daily to be used by God in order that all might be free. 
  • Observe with both friend and foe the ordinary rules of courtesy. 
  • Seek to perform regular service for others and the world. 
  • Refrain from violence of fist, tongue, or heart. 
  • Strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health. 

It’s a pretty comprehensive list, right?  I have kept this rule of life visible on my desk for a decade of ministry because I need these reminders as a spiritual leader in the Christian faith. 

But did you catch that first step?  Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus. Meditate daily. Another word for meditation we often use in the Christian tradition is contemplative prayer. This prayer form is one of stillness and quiet.  And I don’t really mean stillness of body, though that is often helpful—but stillness of mind.   

It sounds impossible, right?  To still one’s mind in this fast-paced life with a non-stop news cycle and constant connectivity?   

Friends, I could teach a whole class on this… not because I’m an expert, but because I’m so well versed in trying and failing and trying again. 

But we do not have time for a whole class, so I will offer you two small practices instead. 

One is for Sunday mornings.  When you enter this space for worship on Sundays, greet the people around you—that’s important.  You need to see the face of Christ in your neighbor.  But then sit or kneel and get quiet for a moment.  Close your eyes and say to yourself and to God: I am here.  I am here.  And then open your eyes and be here, with God, be present to this moment and this place and this worship we share. 

Another is for every other day of the week.  Think of a time of day when you can take a 5-minute break to be still with God.  You don’t need your Bible, you don’t need your prayer book, you just need to gather your heart up in the heart of God by setting a timer for 5-minutes and sitting still.  You have to set a timer because at first 5-minutes will feel like an eternity.  At which point you’ll realize just how rarely we allow ourselves to become still. 

I’m asking you to do this, not because meditation is good for your health (it is) or because contemplative prayer helps with both ADHD and emotional regulation (it does) … but because I want us to have eyes like Simeon and Anna.  I want this church to be able to trust the Spirit’s guidance as Simeon did, or to be able to speak up from a place of discernment, as Anna did.   

This church and this world need your prayer.  This church and this world need your stillness so that you can stand firm in the changelessness of God as everything around us seems to spin, spin, spin.   

May you find time this week to be still with God, and may that stillness help the light of Christ in you, burn bright like a flame.  Don’t let anyone [blow] it out… let it shine.  Amen. 

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Jan 05 2025
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The Fourth Wiseman

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park 

January 5, 2025: Christmas 2, Year C, With Baptisms

Today we hear the familiar Christmas story in anticipation of Epiphany.  Today the magi that have traveled far across the dessert, following a star they believed to be a sign of a newborn king, today they find the child named Jesus. 

And how many wisemen greet Jesus this day? 

Our Gospel text does not say.   

Our tradition tells us three wisemen arrived, and the nativity scenes we bring out in Advent would seem to profess the same, but nowhere in the Bible is a number specified. 

About ten years ago, Jay and I were in Puerto Rico shortly after Christmas. Because I had spent a lot of time in Spanish speaking countries, I knew that Epiphany was quite the celebration.  I remember visiting friends in Argentina one year and being shocked to find people at the mall lined up to have their picture taken—not with Santa—but with the three kings!  Well in Puerto Rico, Jay and I kept coming across various depictions of wisemen… only they were traveling in a group of four rather than three.  That is when we learned the story of Artaban, the fourth wiseman. 

Legend has it that Artaban was on his way to meet the other three wisemen so they could make the difficult and dangerous trek across the dessert together, but he encountered an old man near death who needed care.  So, Artaban stopped, sold one of three pearls he was bringing to Jesus, and used the money to provide for the man in need.  When Artaban finally arrived in Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph had already fled to Egypt to protect Jesus from Herrod’s decree that children be killed.  Artaban sold another of the pearls meant for Jesus to save a child Herrod would have killed.  Artaban continued searching for the Christ child for years and years, hearing stories of this Jesus who healed people, but always too late to meet the king he searched for.  One day, on his way to Jerusalem, Artaban sold the final pearl to save a young woman from slavery.  And then, at last, Artaban meets Jesus at the foot of the cross.  As both men near death, Artaban laments that he is too late to serve this king, and that he has nothing to offer Jesus.  But Jesus tells Artaban that when he served the old man at the start of his journey, or saved the young child, or delivered the woman from slavery, he was indeed serving Christ: “Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto me.”   

Now perhaps only the last line of that story is biblical, for we have heard Jesus say these same words elsewhere in Matthew’s gospel. 

But there is something to be learned from this legend: Everyone’s journey to seek Jesus looks different.  There is no one way to discover the Christ child.  Your journey may start at a young age, or it may start later in life.  Your journey may be with companions, or parts of it may be in solitude.  Your path might be pretty direct with few deviations, or it might be a winding and unpredictable path.   

No matter who you are, or what path you take, it is never too late to discover Jesus.  It is never too late to follow Jesus. 

And, if you are like Artaban, you may discover Jesus again and again!  If you are seeking and serving Christ in all persons, as our Baptismal covenant requires us to do, you will discover Jesus in the people you serve: whether it be passing the peace right here at church, dropping off a meal, driving someone to an appointment, teaching children in Sunday school, inviting a new face out for coffee, volunteering at the winter shelter, or asking the clerk at the grocery store how their day has been… you will see the face of Jesus every time you open your heart up to another person—another pilgrim on the path—another wise child of God. 

Today, we get to celebrate the journeys of four people being baptized into this community of faith: Brett, Ava, Evelyn and Stevie.  Each of them has their own path, and it is theirs to walk.  But today we commit to accompanying them on their journeys.  Today we commit to supporting them in their walk with Christ.  Today we commit to seeing the light of Christ in them and sharing our own light as they find their way and we find ours. 

Are we ready?  I think we’re ready.  Amen. 

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Dec 24 2024
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Real Hard Hope

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park 

December 24, 2025: Christmas Eve, 9pm

When I was six years old, my mother had a baby.  I was convinced the baby’s arrival would be the best day of my life.  I wanted a baby sister so badly.  I knew that this new baby sister would be the best companion, a constant outlet for me to show the world just how responsible I was. She would be adorable, and she would adore me. 

Imagine my surprise when the child finally arrived—a tiny perfect baby BOY. 

Mind you, I already had a younger brother.   

When my dad came to pick us up from school and take us to the hospital to meet this new “bundle of joy,” it was raining.  Somehow, my dad had the forethought to take pictures of our responses to the news, (this was in the day of giant Minolta cameras you had to wear on a strap around your neck—not just something you could whip out of your pocket to snap a quick reaction).  So somewhere in my boxes of keepsakes live two pictures: One of my brother, holding a frog he just caught, looking oh-so-joyful; and one of me, holding an umbrella, looking oh-so-annoyed. 

Of course, all my disappointment vanished the moment I met my baby brother.  I announced to my parents that he would be sleeping in my room.  And eventually, they acquiesced to my demands. 

Several weeks later, I saw pictures of my baby brother’s birth, taken with that same Minolta camera.  And I was horrified!  To my six-year-old eyes, it looked like a murder scene!  He was covered in blood and slime, an awful blue-tinted umbilical cord was attached to his belly, and he was crying—screaming by the looks of his squinty eyes and wide-open mouth.  What a scary mess it is to give birth! 

And this is how God chooses to come into our world.   

This mess is how God chooses to love you and me and this whole messy world. 

Our God is a God who does not shy away from the mess, but literally enters into the mess. 

Our God is a God who chooses not to squash the weak and the vulnerable, but chooses instead to become a weak and vulnerable child, nursing at his exhausted mother’s breast, in order to know-and-then-share the strength and power of love in a real and palpable and intimate way. 

Every year, the idea of Jesus’s audacious entry into this world takes my breath away.  It is simultaneously humbling and awe-inspiring to ponder, just as Mary pondered “all these things” in her heart. 

And, it gives me hope.   

Not the kind of wistful misleading hope that comes from watching Instagram reels on how to create the perfect curtains from table-cloths, or from reading the latest self-help book, or from hearing your boss’s promise that next year will be the year you finally make partner, or from any given list of new year’s resolutions. 

But the real, gritty hope of Jesus entering a messy world in a world of mess. 

The real hope of a friend loving you from afar because that’s the only option after they’ve been deployed.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

The real hope of successfully co-parenting a child you love just as much as the former partner you once loved.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

The real hope of bravely facing death after a long battle with whatever it is attacking your body.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

When real hope is born, it’s born with stretch marks and labor pains and deep groaning and careful breathing.   

Real hope doesn’t just fall in our laps, but is boldly pushed into this world with blood, sweat and tears.   

And friends, no matter what hope you are birthing into this world, because hope is always waiting to be born, you are not alone.  God is that ever-present midwife coaching you to breathe and push and breathe and push and breathe and push.   

That coaching looks different for each of us.  You might receive it through a prayer, a partner, a parent, a colleague, a teacher, a poem, a memory, an encouraging look, a hand-squeeze, a community of faith like this one right here.  You are not alone.  You are never alone. 

The same God who chose to be born in the mess of childbirth begs to be born in your mess, too.   

God longs to be with you: Immanuel, God with you, God with us. 

The birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus all point to the wild and wonderful truth that God loves you, God longs to be with you, and God will never leave you. 

Be near us, Lord Jesus; we ask thee to stay  

close by us for ever, and love us we pray.  

Bless all these dear children of God in thy tender care  

and fit us for heaven to live with thee there. 

Amen.  Merry Christmas. 

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Dec 01 2024
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Show Us Something New

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park 

December 1, 2024: Advent I, Year C 

Nothing says the beginning of Advent like a little apocalypse.  I really do mean that.   

Every year, at Thanksgiving, we start preparing for Advent and Christmas.  In my house this means making sure the kids’ wish lists are updated on Amazon for the sake of my in-laws who start asking in October if I have updated said lists yet.  It means washing new Christmas jammies I always give the kids on the first Sunday of Advent.  It means pulling out the Christmas decorations so Jay can make our home look appropriately festive and silly with too many inflatables.  It means playing our favorite soundtrack: A Charlie Brown Christmas. 

And it means coming to church to hear the world is coming to an end. Every. Single. Advent. 

Here’s the thing.  When Jesus says: “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves…” it is good news.  I know it doesn’t sound like good news to those of us who would like as little disruption as possible in our already full and complicated lives, but friends, this is good news. 

To the people listening to Jesus as he spoke these words, this was a message of hope!  It promised an end to oppression, marginalization and grief.  It promised a kingdom of peace instead of Roman rule.  It meant worshipping God without risk of imprisonment or death.  It meant an end to families being separated and scattered as they fled persecution.   

That is why Jesus says: “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”  Your redemption is drawing near!  Relief is coming!  The kingdom of God is near!  The end of one world is giving birth to something new, something good. 

And to us, living our full and complicated lives, it is good news, too.  Because as much as we don’t want one more disruption, one more change, one more transition to troubleshoot… I think it is possible that there’s another way—perhaps a better way—to approach life.  The end of one way of doing things could indeed give birth to something new, something good. 

This, really, is what I love about Advent.   

Advent invites us to do the opposite of what the world around us is doing—to slow down when everyone else is speeding up.  Advent invites us to stop, pause, pay attention, take stock of what is actually serving our life with Christ and one another, and what needs to end for the sake of new life. 

You may have noticed that instead of singing/saying the Gloria or a “Song of Praise,” we sang/said the Kyrie: Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. 

These are penitential words.  We are asking for mercy because Advent, like Lent, is a season of reflecting on what is getting in the way of our relationship with Jesus.  In Lent, we are preparing our hearts and our lives for resurrection.  It is intentional work to make space for the Risen Christ to change us.   

In Advent, we are preparing our hearts and our lives for incarnation—for God with skin on.  And because the season is shorter and the time is especially frenzied, we have to be that much more intentional about making space for God to be born once more.  Everybody knows that babies take up time and space—they upend our lives!  And this baby, this Christ child, this God person growing in the womb of an audacious young woman, this Jesus cannot come into our lives without upending our lives.   

So, friends, how will you prepare for the end of the world and the start of something new? 

How will you “be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down,” and how will you “be alert at all times, praying for strength.” 

Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica suggests that love is what strengthens us, and that love is what sets us apart and makes us holy.  I actually really love his prayer that the church would be “abounding” in love.  It speaks to an abundance of love, yes, but the word “abounding” sounds to me like a cup-running-over kind of love.  May you have more love than you know what to do with.  May you love one another excessively.  May your love spill over into everything you do and everyone you meet. 

Even and especially when it feels like the world is coming to an end—may you love with abandon.  Even and especially when you cannot tell up from down and you feel dizzy and disoriented by the changes you see around you, may an overabundance of love be what carries you, holds you, and keeps you steady.  Even and especially when your hearts are “weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life,” may you find the will to love 

Jesus says: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” 

Jesus is the Word incarnate, love incarnate, God with us. 

Stop.  Pay attention.  Make space for Christ to be born once again in you. 

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.  Turn our lives upside down and show us something new, something good. Amen. 

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Dec 23 2012
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letter press

whisper words of wisdom

This was my first time preaching in the parish I grew up in as a teenager.  It was especially meaningful to see so many familiar faces, as many people are already home for Christmas.  It was also a perk to see my college New Testament professor on the front row, which reminded me that I once wrote an exegesis on this same passage for her class… and got a bad grade.  She challenged me to look for something more–and I am grateful!  Only downside was my lack of voice.  Despite being the first to bed Saturday night, cups and cups of tea, and lots of TLC… I could barely get out a whisper.  The Rev. Tom Crittenden could not have been a more gracious host, especially under the quiet circumstances.  I hope to come back–next time in “voz alta!”

From http://artsandfaith.com/index.php?showtopic=20124

Fourth Sunday of Advent, Preached at R. E. Lee Memorial Episcopal Church, Lexington, VA

Micah 5:2-5a   *  Hebrews 10:5-10  *  Luke 1:39-55

Oh Lord, uphold thou me that I may uplift thee.  Amen. 

Several weeks ago, when I peaked at the lectionary for the fourth Sunday of Advent to see what I might be preaching on in my childhood parish, I could not help but sing as I opened to Luke’s Gospel.  “My soul doth magnify the Lord…” You see, where I live and worship at seminary, this is a text we sing every evening in chapel.

Immediately, I started thinking of all the cool things I could say about Mary.  How Mary has been depicted in art—from the most grandiose of stained glass windows, to the simplest of roadside shrines.  How Mary has been depicted in music—from Bach’s Magnificat to The Beatle’s Let it be.  All the many ways we encounter Mary in our day-to-day life, and how or why that is.

But then I paused, and realized I was getting carried away.  For if we look at Mary’s words in Luke’s gospel today, we see that every note she sings points not to herself, but to God.  And if we consider that we are a mere two days away from celebrating the birth of Christ, and a mere nine days away from the bloodshed of innocent children and teachers in Sandy Hook—what then do the words in today’s scripture offer us in this moment, now.

We started this morning with words from Micah—a prophet before Jesus’ time.  He says of the coming ruler: “he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord…and they shall live secure… and he shall be the one of peace.”  Is this not what we are longing for in this season of Advent and in this time of grief and bewilderment?  Do we not long to be fed, to be strengthened, to be secure—do we not long for peace?  Indeed I believe this to be the cry of our hearts, even as we have cried real tears this week.

And yet, do we believe in this “one of peace” that Micah promises?  We see the word “believe” a lot this time of year.  “Believe” is written across Christmas cards and even across the Macy’s building in New York City.  Depending on whom you ask, the word could be used to describe our desired relationship with Jesus, Santa or both.  Believe.

This is where Mary comes in.  This is where she speaks to us.  It is her response that teaches us how to respond to the events of our lives and to the coming Christ.

When Elizabeth greets Mary she exclaims, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  Elizabeth explains her proclamation a bit more when she says, “Blessed is she who believed.”

You all know the story that directly precedes this exchange.  There was young Mary, minding her own business, when the angel of the Lord, Gabriel, came to her and said, “Surprise!  You have found favor with the Lord, and you’re going to have a son, and you’re going to name him Jesus, and he’s going to be the Son of God.”

And blessed, lowly, young Mary responded: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

Wow.  Wow!  Blessed is she who believed indeed!  Here am I.  Let it be.  Quite possibly the bravest words ever spoken by a young girl.

You know my favorite thing about these words?  That they were spoken at all.  Mary is a self-proclaimed servant of the Lord.  The Greek word for servant used here is ἡ δούλη and can also be translated as handmaid or slave.  In other words, Mary didn’t have to say anything at all.  You could argue that she had no choice but to be obedient.  But Mary speaks!  She responds.  She asserts her own agency in the Christmas story.  Here I am, let it be.  Simple, yet powerful words.

Now that we’ve reviewed why it is that Elizabeth calls Mary blessed, let’s see what we can learn from Mary’s song that follows.

Mary exclaims, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” The words used for soul and spirit, ψυχή and πνεῦμά are used interchangeably throughout the bible and both derive their meaning from the idea of moving air, like breathing. ψυχή and πνεῦμά are not used to connote different parts of our being, but the whole of our being. That which animates us and makes us ourselves is that which rejoices within Mary.

It is the same beingness in Mary that magnifies the Lord.  To magnify is to exult or make great. It is as if Mary’s soul, Mary’s being, is making God bigger. And indeed as Mary’s belly grows with the gestating Son of God, one cannot help but acknowledge the magnification.

While Mary realizes that all generations shall call her blessed, she immediately points to God as the cause of blessing: “for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.” It is God’s might, God’s deeds, God’s mercy, and God’s strength that Mary exults.  This points to Mary’s humility, contrary to “the proud in the imagination of their hearts” that God scatters. If anyone could “imagine” herself proud, surely it would be the mother of God.  And yet Mary says, no, it is God who deserves the glory.

So how do Mary’s responses of “Here I am… Let it be… Glory to God…” how do they inform our response in this very strange and special moment we find ourselves in?

I think the “Here I am” calls us to be in the present.  It’s not a “Wait just a sec…” or “Were you saying something?” or “I’ll be right with you…” but I’m here.  Right here.  And I’m listening.

The “Let it be” may sound a bit passive, but it’s not.  It would be passive to say nothing at all.  The “Let it be” calls us to believe.  It calls us to acknowledge that which seems crazy and foolish and indescribable and unbelievable—to realize the absurdity of God making Godself a vulnerable, nursing child—to realize the absurdity of a maimed and broken King rising to victory over death—to realize the absurdity of God seeking out the lowly, seeking out us, to make God’s presence bigger and magnified in the world—to look at all of that together and say “Let it be…” I believe.

To believe is a tall order.  And it’s Mary’s “Glory to God” that shows us how to bridge the gap between knowledge and faith.  Mary looks on her own lowliness and seems to say, “I know it’s crazy… but look at God.  Look at all God has done and is doing.”

Did you notice all of Mary’s acclamations are in the past tense?  She’s already living into the promises—God has done great things, God has shown strength, God has scattered the proud and lifted up the lowly, God has fed the hungry.  Not “God will” but “God has.”  The God Mary points to is not far off in the distance, but right there with her.  Because Mary knows she needs God to be with her if she is to have the courage to believe, and we need the same.  Emmanuel.  God with us.

For nine days we have mourned the nonsense of lost little ones.  In two days we’ll celebrate the nonsense of God with skin on.  The vulnerability of these two moments is not lost on us.  And it’s hard to know how to respond.

But we look to Mary today, and we hear her response.  And it is my prayer that we will find in Mary’s song the courage to sing our own song of: Here I am… Let it be… Glory to God.

Amen.

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