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Father Tim’s sermon for February 24th, 2019

Published on by Tina Shippey
Jesus in the Desert, by Ivan Kramskoi

Genesis 45:3-11, 15
Psalm 37:1-12, 41-42
1 Corinthians 15:35-38, 42-50
Luke 6:27-38

Click here to access these readings.

        To much joy and many accolades from the children, we are going to be changing our seasonal colors again soon.  We’ve been in green for six or seven weeks, and, after Ash Wednesday, we’ll be in the long months of purple.  And you’ll probably remember from my sermons before and during Advent, purple is the color of contemplation, reflection, and penitence.  Purple marks the times of the year when we sit down, alone or in community, and look at our lives in a mirror, strengthen ourselves and deepen our faith.  It is a quiet time, a calmness before the storm.  But the storm in this case is Easter, when light and life and joy is poured out upon us by the Spirit.  In this time of Lent, we remember and witness in our own hearts the last gasp of Death before the Resurrection, when Jesus rose above death and made the whole creation new.

        This time of reflection, though, is not often easy.  These times of muted colors, when we turn to face the darkness of the world and the darkness of ourselves as well, are not easy.  And it is not a coincidence that the time of Lent follows the season of winter, and that time just before the coming of spring.  Oregon seems particularly apt for a dark, cloudy, stormy Lent.  I wrote this sermon on Saturday morning, when it was cold and rainy and still.  And so it may seem like the best cure for the dark and dreary is for a nice dose of joy, to turn up the lights, lighten to some happy music, and sing and dance.  And doing so may certainly help, but doing so would ignore the wisdom that is in the dark and stormy times, not just of the seasons but in our own hearts as well.  In Lent, the Christian tradition says, “God is here as well.”

        And we know that God is here in the dark times, because Jesus was here when he walked on this earth.  Lent is forty days long, a number that is pretty rife with symbolism in the Bible.  Noah’s ark was out on the sea for forty days and forty nights; the Israelites wandered in the desert for forty years; and Jesus was tempted in the desert for forty days.  And on the cover of your bulletin, I’ve put a magnificent and haunting picture of Jesus in the desert.  It’s a 19th century oil painting by Ivan Kramskoi.  When I think of Jesus in the desert, I often think of him as stoic before the devil, denying each temptation with an easy wave of the hand.  But Jesus wasn’t annoyed by the devil; he was tempted.  In this image, Jesus remains strong and steady, but there is deep grief written all over his face and in his clenched hands.  God, in Jesus Christ, knows the dark times of this world and our hearts, because he lived through them, too.

        Now, during Lent, we are called upon by our Church to take on some practice or discipline.  And we do this not as some kind of self-improvement scheme but instead to help us see God more clearly in the world.  I remember one of the first times I took part in Lent, I gave up my mornings.  Now, I really, really, really like to sleep in, so I thought, hey, that’s something that I think is good, so why don’t I give them up for a few weeks?  I’ll wake up early, maybe pray a bit, read from a devotional book, and start the morning right.  Yes, that’s what I’ll do.  And I failed.  In those forty days, I think I got up a total of three times, and once I fell asleep in the chair while reading.  And part of the reason I failed is because I really, really, really like to sleep in, and my will-power is at about zero in the morning, but also because I did it because I thought I should do it.  I thought it’d be good for me, that God wanted me to get up early in the morning, because that’s just a good thing to do.  My discipline was more about me than it was about God.

        And it was around this time, as I was struggling with my disciplines, that our bishop, Michael Hanley, told a story about his own struggles.  He also met with failure, and he also realized that some of his practices were more about himself than about God.  And so he did something very simple: he sat down with God and said, “God, where do you want me to be today?  How can I do your will?  How can I give your love to your people today?”  And after praying, he wasn’t hit with a great epiphany of what to do or how to serve, but each time he sat down with God he asked this question again.  And just by praying this way, just by looking away from what he saw was his failure, he turned himself, each day, more and more fully to God.  This is what we should be doing in our practices.  If there’s a “goal” of Lent, this is what it is.

        Our practices are seeds.  St. Paul writes that we don’t sow the body that is to be, but a bare seed.  And what he means by this is that we don’t start in perfection.  We aren’t baptized into a full and perfect faith that never falters and never fails.  We may come into moments of beautiful clarity and presence before God, but then we see again the grief of the world, and we despair; or a loved one dies, and we doubt; or we speak an evil word, and we lose hope.  And we think: my faith is so weak, what good is such weak faith to God? 

But the ground, the soil, that we are sown into is pictured on the front of your bulletin.  Our ground, the thing that nurtures our seed, that gives it nutrients and water and warmth, that life-giving ground in which we grow is Jesus Christ.  And haven’t you experienced this life before?  Those times when you’ve prayed, “God, I need your help to get through this” and you find that, somehow, you can; or just that person you really needed to talk to calls up or walks in; or the grief lessens just a little bit so that you can see where to go next?  In our lives, be they in conscious practices of turning to God or us just going about our business, in all our lives we encounter these moments of life, of renewal, of hope, strained or free.  These are encounters with God, even if, or especially if, they are small.

We are about to enter into Lent, and Lent is something we prepare for.  A week or so ago, I gave you a challenge, and I gave the people at our Soup Supper last Wednesday a similar challenge.  And I’ll give it to you again this morning: God has planted seeds in our faith and in our lives, and God is right now nurturing those seeds.  Where is God calling you, right now, to focus.  To which seed, or which sapling, or which young tree, is God calling to you to tend and nurture with him?  How is God asking you to not only observe Lent but make it a holy, life-giving Lent?

Fr. Tim’s sermon for February 17th, 2019

Published on by Tina Shippey
Traditional Icon of Jesus healing

Jeremiah 17:5-10
Psalm 1
1 Corinthians 15:12-20
Luke 6:17-26

Click here to access these readings.

        I have a friend who comes from a part of the country where you don’t say “God bless you” after someone sneezes.  So, when we were hanging out, and I would sneeze, there would be just silence.  And I thought this was pretty awkward.  Where I grew up, saying “bless you” was an automatic response.  You just said it, and if you didn’t, you were being pretty rude.  So I told him this, and he rolled his eyes and said, “Oh come on, you don’t need a blessing each time you sneeze.”  We teased back and forth, and then, later, when I sneezed, he rushed over from the other side of the room, patted my hand, looked at me with a comforting (and sarcastic) face and said, “Tim, God bless you.”   

        Let’s turn for a moment to the Eucharist.  During our service, there are a number of very important moments, and one of them is the blessing of the bread and the wine.  Now, this happens towards the end of the prayer we use, so I say, “Therefore, we proclaim the mystery of faith:” and you all say, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”  “We celebrate the memorial of our redemption, O Father, in this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.  Recalling his death, resurrection, and ascension, we offer you these gifts.”  Now pay attention: “Sanctify them by your Holy Spirit to be for your people the Body and Blood of your Son, the holy food and drink of new and unending life in him.”  Sanctify them (I always feel like I should add “please” here) – Sanctify them, bless them (that’s why I make the sign of the cross) to be the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.  One of our other prayers, prayer D, says it (I think) better: “Lord, we pray that in your goodness and mercy your Holy Spirit may descend upon us, and upon these gifts, sanctifying them and showing them to be holy gifts for your holy people, the bread of life and the cup of salvation, the Body and Blood of your Son Jesus Christ.”  But whatever the words, what I’m doing is blessing the bread and wine.  I could easily say, “Bread and wine, God bless you.”

        We use the word “bless” a lot.  We say “bless you” if someone sneezes or if they’re in a tight spot.  We visit with the sick, the tired, the hungry, and the downtrodden, which is a blessing even if we don’t use the words.  We bless our food, we bless others when they travel, or when it’s their birthdays.  We even, sometimes, bless God, which is one of the older forms of blessing.  So, with all these sorts of blessing, what does it mean to “bless” something or someone?

        In short, a blessing is a sign or prayer for grace.  Saying “You have been blessed” is recognizing God’s grace in a person’s life.  During the Eucharistic prayer, I pray that God’s grace is made manifest in the bread and the wine.  Blessing God is recognizing that God, and nothing else, is the source of all the grace in our lives.  One early Christian leader (whose name I can’t find, unfortunately, but who I think was St. Augustine) said that we should be blessing things all the time.  And this is to say that we should be looking for and recognizing and telling other people about God’s grace all through the live-long day.  Because God’s grace is all around us, and we should recognize and live in that grace always.

        And yet when we come to our gospel reading today, we may be surprised (like the people of the first century were surprised) that Jesus calls the poor, the hungry, and those who mourn: blessed.  Where is the grace in being poor?  Or being hungry?  Or being hated?  Luke doesn’t record them, but you can probably imagine the faces of people when they heard this: what in the world is Jesus talking about?

        The grace that Jesus is talking about, though, is not in being poor but in the way, and the fact that, God is with the poor.  All throughout the gospels, and all throughout the Bible as well, we constantly hear that God is with the poor and the outcasts.  From the laws and the prophets through God’s incarnation in Jesus Christ, time and time again God shows that he is with those who are at the bottom of society.  Gustavo Gutierrez, a modern theologian, has said that this isn’t because the poor are somehow better than others, either morally or religiously, but “simply because they are poor and living in an inhuman situation that is contrary to God’s will.”

        There is a grace in knowing this.  For when you’re poor, or hungry, or in despair, the world becomes grim and terrible.  This is especially the case with despair: for despair is not simply “grief”, which can be healthy.  We grieve for good things that are lost, or broken, or forgotten, and this grief, if directed to God, can heal us and make us whole.  But despair is different.  When a person is in despair, that despair becomes their world.  Even the light of the sun becomes a sorrow to them.  Despair denies that any power, any effort, any hope, even God himself, can overcome one’s sorrow, that despair itself is king of the universe.

        Jesus reminds us, instead, that we have a deeper identity.  How much money we have, how much food we have in our bellies, how much joy or sorrow we have in our hearts – these things don’t define us.  We are defined, each of us, by our relationship with God.  Our identity is not in the bank, on our voter registration card, or in the sort of car we drive; our identity as human beings is in Jesus Christ.  And for someone who is poor or in despair, who has nothing, not even hope, knowing this is a grace.  For someone who is rich, or full, or happy, on the other hand, the idea that our money or mood can change is something scary.  We who “have” want to pretend that we’ll always have.  But how easily may those good things in our lives become idols we put before God.

        This is, of course, why we do things like the food bank, and why we invite people to our breakfast and dinner ministries: not just because it’s kinda fun to help people and, hey, the stoves’ on anyway, but because whether you’re poor or rich, hungry or full, in the depths of sorrow or the heights of joy, you’re still a child of God.  Christ is in each of us, working for the glory of God.  But the world we live in doesn’t look like God’s kingdom.  And so we do what we can, with our hands and with our prayers to make that grace and love of God more fully manifest in this world.  For, in the end, God has blessed us, like Abraham, so that we too may be a blessing. 

Fr. Tim’s sermon for February 10th, 2019

Published on by Tina Shippey
The Miraculous Draught of Fishes – James Tissot

Isaiah 6:1-8 [9-13]
Psalm 138
1 Corinthians 15:1-11
Luke 5:1-11

Click here to access these readings.

          There is a resurrection in our gospel reading today.  It’s not the resurrection of Lazarus, where a man who has been dead walks out of his tomb.  And it’s not the Resurrection of Jesus, where our savior, having been crucified, is raised from the dead for the Salvation of all Creation.  These are grand and beautiful resurrections that shake the foundations of the world.  And these miracles as powerful now as they must have been when they happened.  But the resurrection we hear about this morning in the gospel is quieter and simpler than these.  This of course doesn’t make it any less than a miracle, for it’s the resurrection of a man from despair.

          Now, Simon Peter, who we know as the great St. Peter, the one who sees Christ Transfigured on the mountaintop, the one who falls asleep in the garden and who denies Jesus three times, that St. Peter who the basilica in Rome is named after, this St. Peter was, at first, a fisherman.  His job was to go out onto the sea, catch fish, then go back, and sell them at the market.  And as any fisherman knows, some days there were good catches, and some days there were bad catches.  On those good days, he would eat, and on the bad days – maybe he wouldn’t. 

          Then Jesus comes, and he performs a miracle.  Now, there are many times in the gospels where the people understand who Jesus is.  There are times when the skies clear, and they see Jesus clearly as the Son of God.  And then their eyes cloud over again, and they forget and act all selfish and proud and deceitful again, but there are times – small times, short moments – when it all makes sense.  Peter has one of these moments here in today’s gospel.  He sees the miracle of the fish, he can hear the ropes straining against their load, perhaps even the fisherman cheering and laughing aloud at the catch.  And he might remember all those times when he came home with an empty boat, and perhaps cursed and hated his trade.  And he looks to Jesus, and he sees clearly as a man who can do what he cannot.  The miracle strikes him at his heart, and it strikes him perhaps even more deeply because it’s about what he knows  best in all the world.  It is not just “a miracle” but a miracle about his very life.  And he knows that, like Moses with the Burning Bush, he’s standing on holy ground.  And knowing this, his legs can no longer hold him, and he falls to the ground.

          “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

Have you ever said these words?  Have you ever recalled, with dawning grief and horror, something you’ve done in your life and known, just known that you were a sinner?  I don’t know about you, but I have.  These are my words just as they are Peter’s.  For they hurt us, our sins.  Those times when we cheated or lied or spoke words of hate because we didn’t know any better or, perhaps, just maybe, we really spoke them because we wanted them to hurt.  And in our pain, in our sorrow from our own sins, we wonder, like Peter, how God can really keep his promise to love us.  And that makes the pain even worse.

          And yet here – here in the middle of all this pain – is the second miracle.  It’s not the miracle of the fish, the one that everyone can see; it’s the miracle of a resurrection inside the heart of this fisherman named Simon Peter.  For it is at the moment when Peter pushes Jesus away, that very moment when he shoves away the Lord with shaking hands, that God comes close to him.  And it’s important to hear what Jesus says, and what he doesn’t say.  For Jesus does not say, “Oh, Peter, get up, you’re embarrassing me”, or “Oh, yes, you are a sinner and you’ve been very naughty, but I can still use someone broken like you”, or even “Yes, well, I’ll just whisk all that sin away for you and we won’t talk about it again.”  No, Jesus says, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

          Now, when we talk about spiritual gifts, we often talk about what we’re already good at.  We match what skills people have with what is needed in the community, and we call these skills “spiritual gifts.”  I can write decently, have an ear for listening, and can lead a group of people, and that’s what you need for being a priest, so maybe I should be a priest.  I read a joke online once, where a young person who had a pick-up truck came to church, and the pastor discerned that this person had the spiritual gifts of helping people move furniture.  Jack over here is a teacher, so you teach; Edith can speak in tongues, and Ron can interpret them, so you go and do that.  And while figuring out what good things God has given us, and using those things for ministry, is important, I think we often forget how much resurrection there is with spiritual gifts.

          Here’s a personal story.  I think I’ve told it before, but, hey, stories are made to be told twice.  When I was in college, I was a horrible public speaker.  I was so anxious, and so terrified, that when I had to do anything in front of the class, I panicked.  I remember once standing behind a podium and mumbling for five minutes before the teacher had pity on me and sat me down.  Sure, I loved talking to people, and I enjoyed teaching in very, very small groups.  I don’t know what it was, but the idea of standing in front of people terrified me.

          But then, on my first day teaching, all that changed.  It was in Japan, and I was led to the front of a class full of eager 7th graders, introduced in a language I was still struggling to understand, then left – alone.  There they were, a class full of students, all staring at me, waiting, expectant.  I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and taught.  And I was okay.  I didn’t mumble, I didn’t cry, I didn’t faint away – I taught.  And ever since that moment my fear of public speaking has pretty much disappeared.  What happened, I think, is that God gave me a gift – not a new gift, God didn’t give me some skill that I never had.  No, he took my love of telling stories or tutoring one or two students, and he enlivened it, renewed it, resurrected it to help me teach more people – and, one day, to speak to others as a priest.

          Simon Peter the fisherman became St. Peter the apostle.  And Jesus didn’t do this by changing Peter but by renewing him.  And this call came when Peter had fallen to his knees in despair.  And Jesus takes that despair, and the man on his knees, and lifts them up, and breathes new life into them.  And those things over which Peter despaired became the place of his rebirth as a disciple of Jesus Christ.

          Now, I don’t often end sermons with homework, but I’ll do so today.  This week, take some time and consider how Jesus is working in you.  What is Jesus trying to resurrect in you?  And I don’t mean just what he’s trying to make new so that you can use it for the benefit of your family, church, and society (though maybe he is).  But what part of you have you said, “God probably doesn’t love this part of me.”  What have you given up on that, maybe, Jesus hasn’t?  What hope, that you thought dead, is Jesus kneeling before and saying, “Do not be afraid”?  For we should not forget: Christians are a resurrection people.  We are an Easter people.  And that means that Jesus – not death, not despair, not tears or pain or sorrow – but Jesus has the last and final word.

Fr. Tim’s Sermon for February 3rd

Published on by Tina Shippey

Jeremiah 1:4-10
Psalm 71:1-6
1 Corinthians 13:1-13
Luke 4:21-30

Click here to access these readings.

          I want to begin this morning by talking about the liturgy.  So open your BCPs for a second to page 355.  This is the beginning of our celebration: the Holy Eucharist: Rite Two; very nice.  And how does it begin: the priest stands in front of everyone and says, “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” And the people say, “And blessed be his kingdom, now and for ever.  Amen.”  Now, why do you think we begin this way?  Because we could begin in a lot of different ways.  I could say, “Hi there, everyone.”  “Hi Father Tim!”  or “How was your week?” “It was great Father Tim!”  But we don’t.  We begin with this.  How come?

          [pause and listen to answers]

          Okay, now turn the page over to 357.  Here in the middle we have the lessons, right?  A member of the congregation gets up and reads part of the Bible.  And when they’re done, what do they say? “The Word of the Lord” “Thanks be to God.”  Why do we say that? [pause]  Again, we could say something else.  We could say. “That’s all, folks” or “That’s all I feel like reading.”  No, we say “The Word of the Lord.”  Why?

          [pause for answers]

          Okay, one more.  Close your BCP and look up.  This is something I was taught in Eugene and found in Sewanee a lot, too.  Did you notice that, every now and again during the liturgy, I bow.  Do you know when?  It’s at the name of Jesus Christ. “For you alone are the Holy One, you alone are the Lord, you alone are the Most High, Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit” etc.  Why do you think I do that? [pause]  This is something I’ve taken on.  You see, I have a wayward mind.  And as I lead you in the liturgy, often my mind says, “Hey, what’s up next” and “Are you ready to read the collect” or “Oh no, should I be standing up right now?”  I try to focus my attention, but sometimes – maybe I’m sleepy, maybe my mind just is on overdrive – I can’t.  And so I bow at the name of Christ.  I bow as a physical prayer, and that prayer, if I put words to it, would be: Jesus, focus me on you, and you alone.  And that gives me focus, so I can lead you all in prayer.  Praying in the name of Jesus Christ, and focusing on his name specifically, is a powerful, powerful thing.

          Where we start is important.  Howwe begin is important.  Now, we humans are so often doers.  And we sometimes get caught up in what we’re doing and how we’re doing it, and we forget about what’s most important: Jesus Christ.  I had this problem often when teaching.  There was always just so much material to get through, so many lectures to give, so many parts of grammar or writing or books to explain, that I often fell into thinking that just “giving information” was my job.  I had forgotten that my job wasn’t just to explain how to use commas correctly or the themes in Beowulf but to nurture the living image of Jesus Christ in my students.  And when I taught that way, when I tried to stuff commas and proper thesis statements and the form of a sonnet into their heads, I always failed.  But when I started (as I was reminded by some good teachers) when I started by loving Christ in my students, then, and only then, was I able to really teach.  Because knowledge isn’t only just facts; it’s love.

          We hear this same thing in the Bible quite often, and especially in our readings this morning.  For God comes to Jeremiah and says, “I’ve got something for you to do.”  And how does Jeremiah respond?  He says, “But I am only a boy.”  I’m just a kid.  How can I be a prophet like you want me to be?  And what does God say?  “Ahh, well that’s what you are now, but I’ve known you before you were a boy, before you were born, before you were even conceived, I knew you.  I know your foundation, and it is from here, not from you boy-ness, that I tell you: go and be a prophet for my people.

          It’s in the gospel, too.  Jesus stands up and proclaims that he is the fulfillment of the promise of Isaiah.  And the people around him say, “Wait a second.  We know this guy.  He’s just Joseph’s son.”  Or in the same scene in Matthew: “Isn’t he the son of a carpenter?  Isn’t he Mary’s son?” And Jesus may have said, “Yes, but I am more.  Look at the foundation I stand on.  Look at who I am.” 

          Ministry is about Jesus.  Our liturgy is about Jesus.  Church is about Jesus.  We can’t forget that.  And that doesn’t mean that we always have to be talking about Jesus.  When we’re at the food bank, we don’t sit people down and ask, “Have you heard about Jesus?” as if he were a movie or a new book.  No, we hand hungry people a bag full of food and we let them know, whether it be with words or without, that they are safe and loved.  In doing so, we’re telling them about Jesus.  And for Soup Suppers or Prayer Breakfast, do we drag people in and say, “Here’s who Jesus is”?  No, we invite them to come, pray that they will, and eat with them first.  We share our time, our resources, our gifts, and our love, and on this foundation – which is Jesus – then we begin teaching about the faith. 

          And don’t get me wrong: there are some people who need to hear the name Jesus and to hear it directly.  I’ve had many times, especially in my hospital chaplaincy, where people would talk about their grief and sorrow and depression and loss and I’d just have to stop them and say, “Jesus loves you.”  And this wouldn’t cure their illness or their depression, but you could see, visibly, a weight lifted off their shoulders.  And there are some days for me when things are going just terrible, I feel wayward and exhausted.  Then I remember, bow slightly at the name of Jesus Christ, and set my heart to Sunday and the Eucharist.  And I am fed.

          But whatever the case, we always start with Jesus.  And we do this not because he was just a good teacher or said some great things, but because Jesus Christ is the foundation of all Creation.  Do you remember the beginning of St. John’s gospel?  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Jesus isn’t just our co-pilot or a friend we go to when we’re in trouble.  No, Jesus is the source of life – all life.  All our effort, all our ministry, each time we feel joyful or hopeful, each instance of healing, be it a miracle or just nature going its way – all of it is because of God in Jesus Christ, through the Spirit.  It’s all about Jesus.

          And so as we live our lives as Christians, start with Jesus.  The BAC and I are going to take that awesome ministry board we created last week – the one with all those ideas and prayers and gifts and hopes – we’re going to take it and look at how we can do better and further ministry in Coquille.  And we’ll begin that effort with Jesus.  And in the year to come, we’ll be walking with God and with the people of this city in those ministries.  But whatever we do, be it Soup Suppers or Thursday Eucharist or something we haven’t even seen yet but that God has in store for us – whatever it is, let us always begin with Jesus.

Fr. Tim’s Sermon for 18 November 2018

Published on by Tina Shippey

Painting by Jeff Watkins

Daniel 12:1-3
Psalm 16
Hebrews 10:11-25
Mark 13:1-8

Click here to access these readings.

            We are, at last, in the final weeks of the season of Pentecost.  We have only this week and next week, and next week is something special.  This week is the last “normal”, green week of Pentecost.  Soon we’ll be in the thick of purple for Advent.  We’ll switch from reading the gospel of Mark each week and start reading the gospel of Luke.  Then it will be the Christmas, then Epiphany, Lent, and Easter: those seasons where we live with the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  But for now, the season of Pentecost, which is the season of the Church, is almost over.

            I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our readings over the past few weeks have been settling into this feeling of “being over.”  We’ve been hearing the promises of the Old Testament and of Revelation, of some great End that may come with grief and anguish, but which will lead to a new beginning.  We read in Hebrews this week of a change, how priests used to sacrifice every day for the people, now have given away to Christ, whose sacrifice is once and for all.  The need for sacrifices is over, for Christ died on the Cross and Rose again.  And this sense of “ending”, of “being over”, is mirrored in the seasons of the world, so that as the days get darker and the year draws to an end, we read from the Bible of anticipation, of waiting, and of things that are finished. 

            We Christians are a people of ends, but also of new beginnings.  We are called to die to our sins daily, to reflect on how we have lived in the past, and to bear our own cross.  Yet we are also called to new life in Christ.  We are called to nurture the seeds of God within us, to pray in the Spirit, and to live lives of fullness and hope and love.  We are to die, and we are to be reborn.  And through these deaths and resurrections in our lives, which we experience each and every day, we are led deeper into the life of God in Jesus Christ.  This is the Christian life.  Our prayers nurture the Spirit within us; in the Sacraments we meet and are healed by God; and we encourage one another, in the Spirit, to a life of ministry to the sick, the lonely, and the needy of the world.  And although we still sin, and sin daily, our Christian lives lead us closer and closer to God, until that last day and that final death, when Death and Sin are at last left behind and we enter into the fullness of God.

            But not yet.  We live in an odd sort of paradox, we Christians.  Death and Sin are defeated, but we are still affected by them.  As the author of the letter to the Hebrews writes, “Christ offered himself for our sins once, in a single sacrifice, for all time.”  And yet, even with Sin and Death defeated, even with Christ’s great victory, we still sin.  To put it another way, we Christians are an “already, but not yet” people.  We are already forgiven, but we are not yet in the fullness of God.  Christ has died for our sins, but we not yet free of the muck and the shadows of this world.  We are an “already, but not yet” people.

            I think we kinda get what this means in our daily life.  Think of Christmas Eve: one of the great joys of being a parent is setting up on Christmas Eve.  The gifts are out, the stockings filled, the decorations tidy and finished.  Tomorrow will be Christmas, and all the gifts will be opening, and there will be joy and family and laughing, but tonight, on Christmas Eve, there is silence and stillness.  The whole house is set up, ready for the kids, but not yet, not until the morning.  Already, but not yet.

Or, here’s another image.  A friend of mine recently posted on facebook a video of a plant growing.  All the dirt was pushed up against a glass, and the seed, too, so you could see each moment.  The video was in fast-forward, so you could watch as the roots stretch out into the rich soil, first one, then another, then one would split and both would reach outwards.  Then the seed broke fully and the plant rose above the soil.  Two little leaves sprung out and wobbled as they grew larger and larger.  And at each moment, the seed was growing, and it’s growth was alive and fully, but it wasn’t yet an adult plant, not until that last moment of the video.  It was already alive, but not yet fully itself.  And my friend’s comment on the video was that this seemed like a good image to have stored away somewhere in the depth of one’s being.

            These images, I think, do a decent job of describing the idea of “already, but not yet.”  But there’s another that works better, and that’s marriage.  Helene and I were married in 2010 at a really beautiful ceremony out on the Jersey coast.  The wedding itself was right on the beach, facing inland, out under the sky, and all our favorite people were there.  It was a truly beautiful day.  Helene and I said our vows, we exchanged rings, the pastor blessed the union, and we were, in all ways, “married.”  We even had this nice, complicated document from the county to prove it.  And I thought, cool, I’m married now.  I’m a husband.  Helene is my wife.  We are “married.”

            And so we were.  We were husband and wife that summer day in 2010 on the shores of New Jersey.  But marriage both is and isn’t a one time thing.  Marriage isn’t something you do and are done with, like opening a present, or baking a pie, or tying your shoes.  Marriage is something you live into.  Marriage is a life that challenges us, tests us, encourages us, and leads us into deeper and deeper parts of ourselves, our spouses, and, truly, God.  I am married because I said “I do” to Helene (and she said it back) in a ceremony by the shore, but each day I am growing and being grown in this marriage, so that, each day, I feel more and more “married.”  And, I hope, I will continue to grow in our marriage until the day I die.  Will I ever be “fully” married?  Will there ever come a day when I say, “Okay, I got this.  Helene and I are perfect and our lives together are perfect.  I’m finished.  Time to put my feet up and reap the benefits of perfection.”  No, there won’t be.  Even with this ring, even with the words “I do,” we still have room to grow together.  Already, but not yet. 

            This is an image of the Christian life.  Like all the other sacraments, marriage is an image of our relationship with God.  Christ died for our sins, once and for all, and he defeated death, once and for all – but we Christians must live into that reality.  Christ has given us a most precious gift, but we must not only unwrap it but use it, live it, and grow with it.  As I said, this is the same for all the sacraments.  In Baptism, we are joined with God in a bond that can never be broken, but even still, we must live into that baptism and allow it to nurture and grow us into Children of God.  This is why we take the Eucharist each and every week.  This is why we gather together as a Church, and this is why we not only love one another but seek to nurture Christ in each and every person we meet.  The work of Christ is not finished and accomplished, once and for all, so that it can be done for us, like finding some kid in school who will do your homework for a dollar, or hiring someone to clean your house so you can relax when you get home. 

The work of Christ was complete, and it was fully complete, but we small little people need to enter into that fullness, to grow within it, like a little sapling in the rain and sunshine.  Christ gave us a gift, and that gift is a life lived, more and more fully, to God.