Marsh Chapel Sermon Archive

By Marsh Chapel

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Mark 1: 21-28

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Jesus greets us today through the inner voice, your inner voice, nudging by and through the inklings of faith, in your own experience.  You are listening and so are drawn to faith, through the spiritual nudges of the Gospel, in tradition and in confrontation and in response.

Three inklings of faith are announced today, in the Gospel According to St. Mark.   We shall trace their emergence in our hearing, and attempt to apply them to our spiritual benefit.

Tradition

First, notice the lingering power of tradition.  Not traditionalism, but the forms of inherited tradition.  The dominical voice bespeaking inklings of faith whistles through the willow branches of tradition.

Jesus speaks.

When does he speak?  On the Sabbath. Where does he speak?  In the synagogue.

How does he speak?  As a teacher.

All three of these aspects of his speaking are named for us, though we might have inferred two of the three from just the mention of one, or another.  They go together—holy time, holy space, holy words.  The gospel means to emphasize by repetition.

There is, at the outset, a regard, a lingering respect for what has been, for what one inherits.  For tradition, though not traditionalism.  The Sabbath is the occasion.  The synagogue is the setting.  The role of teacher frames the message.

A time of rest and refreshment, Sabbath, here receives Jesus’ blessing, at least in the manner of his recognition and participation.   Sunday can be a time of Sabbath rest.  A time for sleep, for recovery, for reading, for gathering.   We are a sleep deprived people, somnambulant in a sleep deprived culture.  So a traditional occasion, a time for retreat and renewal can feed us, if we let it.  There are none so weary as those who will not sleep.

Following my sermons, some arise inspired and some awake refreshed.  Both are good outcomes.  Both!

Likewise, synagogue, a coming together, is a traditional form.  It means, a gathering together.  Blessed are the hosts, for they shall be called the cooks of God.   When you have had a hand in gathering together a gathering together, you have brushed close to something good, something godly.  How we feel the force of this, mid-Covid, an inkling known in pain in the breach.

So, too, the role of the teacher.  A familiar role, a familiar social location.  It is not in some exotic form that Jesus greets his hearers today.  The form is familiar, the teacher.  We may sometimes look too far, too wide for what we most want and need, when nearby, familiarly so, our health awaits.

Sabbath, synagogue, rabbi.  Tradition.  Here Jesus is more than willing to don the raiment of inheritance, to be harnessed by the yoke of tradition.  Jeremiah recommended the old paths.  Matthew prized every jot and tittle.  We hunger for those voices that will help us translate the tradition into insights for effective living.

So, a Chapel, and so a Sunday service. Some memories of college years, here, will be connected to the particular sound of our choir.  Some recollections of exams passed or nearly passed, will be held in earshot of a meal or a trip or a talk, here.  Some remembrances of things past, even of hard moments of loss or regret or disappointment, will have about them a shaft of light through stained glass, an echo of truth through scripture read, an admission of prayer needed and offered.

Our gospel today, which offers inklings of faith, notices the lingering power of tradition.

It is in the midst of this house, this lineage, this inheritance that Jesus speaks, not absent it.

His hearers are astonished.  He is not confused in their hearing with their hearing of the scribes, his usual opponents in the flow of this gospel.  They know a different voice when they hear it.  A voice, nudging you today, a hum, a whisper, an inkling of faith.

But we are not told what exactly made the voice authoritative.

Like last week, in the calling of the disciples, the two sets of brothers.  We are told nothing, there, about what made them move, what caused their decision, what set them free.  And this week, in the authorization of teaching, we are told nothing about what made the sermon so good.  Only that it was.

Confrontation

Second, notice, and how can you help it, the centrality of confrontation.  Here there is an unclean spirit loose, loose amid the holy time and place and role.

A voice of authority calls out his nemesis.  We are straightway here in the realm of apocalyptic, cosmic apocalyptic, battle.

I can remember the first burial, now nearly thirty years ago, in which such wailing occurred in my hearing.  It was startling, as, for many, here, it was last week.  But it was true and real.  That is, now and then, people still ‘cry with a loud voice’, sometimes, in church.

Our worldview is not cosmic apocalyptic confrontation.  We do not see a convulsive as one demon, of an unclean sort, challenging another Jesus demon of an authoritative sort.  We are late modern people, women and men who do not cry out in public, unless we are at a sporting event, drinking heavily, or about to call the police into a domestic dispute.  Maybe, in compensation, that is why sports and drinking and all become so central to us.

Authentic authority involves confrontation, not just pleasant courtesies of disagreement, but genuine squaring off.  To your roommate you finally say: ‘One of us is wrong and I think it is you.’  To your boss you finally say:  ‘Look, do you want to do my work or will you let me do it?’  To your political economy (known by the way for good reason as ‘capitalism’ not ‘laborism’, because capital rules labor in capitalism) you finally say:  ‘One way or another my son needs a job.’  To your good friend, gently, you say: ‘I am sorry you feel that way.  Goodbye’.  To your spouse you say:  ‘You can have me or him but not both at the same time’.  To your warring world you finally shout:  ‘My son is not your cannon fodder’.

One thing I truly admired about my dad was how he easy he was around confrontation.  A man would stand up and shout and carry on a church meeting, walk out of worship the next Sunday, or send a blistering hand written hate note to the pastor, and my dad would shrug and smile and say, ‘I like to see him get worked up.  It is worth the price of admission just to see him so angry.’  Less naturally and more slowly, I too have learned to honor and receive anger.  Mark would understand.

Here Mark is starting his gospel, with a confrontation.  The verb here rendered ‘be silent’ (so polite) means ‘to muzzle’.  Be muzzled.  Shut your trap. (so J Marcus, loc. Cit.).  Matthew begins his public gospel with the Sermon on the Mount.  Luke begins his public gospel with the sermon in Nazareth.  John begins his public gospel with the wedding in Cana (again, Marcus).  But Mark?  He begins with demons and confrontation.

When we get angry, we get in touch with something deep inside, something not necessarily at all related to what we think we are angry about.  We are not so very far from the ‘unclean spirit’ of Mark 1.  We are complicated creatures.

You see and hear this again in a play from a few years ago, ‘Freud’s Last Session’, an imagined conversation between Sigmund Freud, the great psychologist, and C. S. Lewis, the great apologist.  Bombs are falling on London.  Freud is suffering with mouth cancer.  Lewis is struggling with his young man’s sexuality. And through it all—the question of God.  Freud and Lewis confront each other. They lock horns for 90 minutes of verbal combat.  Each memorizes and delivers the equivalent of two Sunday sermons.  They square off and argue.  Good.

There is no resolution—how could there be in 90 minutes?  But there is confrontation, in and through which, it may be, there is an inkling of something, and inkling of faith.

It takes sometimes the inkling of exorcising power, finally, of love, to move us.

Response

Third, response.  Notice the response.  The emphasis falls on an acknowledgement of an authenticity in the nudges to faith.  Inklings with authority.  ‘With authority…a new teaching…he commands…even the demons obey…his fame spread throughout the north country’.   It works.  Whatever he said, whatever he taught, it helped somebody.  We wish we knew what it was!

Yet, there is a quieter wisdom in the silence of Scripture here.  If we knew, we would be tempted just to repeat rather than to rehearse.  We need to have the tradition, in the moment of confrontation, translated into insights for effective living which, in response, we can use.  That is authentic authority in the full.  If we knew that he used the 100^th Psalm, we would repeat it every Sunday.  If we knew he preached on Jeremiah, we would invariably do so.  If we knew he taught specific proverbs, we would ignore the rest.  No, there is freedom in the silence of the gospel, here, a freedom to live and love with authentic authority.  To respond.  And you?

I am committed to the life of faith because the best people, leading the best lives, in my experience, have shown inklings of faith.  I respond to the freedom and love I see in other people of faith, now 65 generations after the exorcism in Capernaum, and the response all across Galilee.  In other lives I have seen glimpses of what I could be and do, if I would only straighten up and fly right.  Some of those lives are in this room.  Some are in memory.  Some are out there waiting to be introduced.  Don’t kid yourself.  Especially, especially in a University setting, people are taking your measure.  Good.  Your example counts, matters, lasts, works.

Tradition and confrontation evoke a response.  The unclean spirit leaves.  The congregation murmurs.  The report goes forth.

Let me turn it around.  When you fail somehow, and we all you do, sometime, you know the negative influence of your own response.  Give yourself some credit then, on the up side of the ledger.  Dean Jones gave me a book.  Professor Jones listened with care.  That TA gave me the benefit of the doubt.  I will always be grateful for what Chaplain Jones did for me.  Let me say to those of us thirty years old and more:  eyes are watching, ears are listening, minds are considering what path to take.  Your example makes a difference in their response, right here, right now, right at Marsh Chapel.  We are forever teaching and learning, learning and teaching.

Someone taught you.  A High School band director?  A Latin teacher in college?  A chemistry professor who lingered with you in the lab?  Who?

One responded to her Latin teacher.  Another responded to his science teacher.  One responded to her history teacher.  Another responded to her family matriarch.  One responded to his theology professor.  As Carlyle Marney put it:  “Who told you who you was?”

The music is playing all around us, all through us, in our triumph and in our tragedy.  We just need to respond.  To lean over, and turn the dial, and set the music free.

This is the power of Bach today.  Inklings of faith are found in real response.

The Gospel According to St. Mark starts off with inklings of faith, inklings of faith.  When you are searching for a sense of, then hunt around a healthy bit of lost tradition, and for a courageous and cleansing moment of confrontation and  for a real and personal, public response.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 01.31.2021 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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John 1: 43-51

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It is not only an ethical imperative that directs us to love our neighbor.  To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger, heal the sick and visit the prisoner.  Should we do these things?  Yes, we should.  Is it our Christian duty to do them?  Yes, it is.  Is this a moral imperative for us, to follow the teachings of Jesus?  It is so.  Then is this the gospel, the good news for today, for the Lord’s day?  Well, we might say it is not the whole of the Gospel.  In the Gospel, not only an ethical imperative, but also, and more so, a divine gift awaits us in Jesus the Christ.  You will see the heavens opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man. You will see the heavens opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.

Let us receive the divine gifts of this day, in the midst of all manner of personal, communal, national and cultural challenges.

Over the last 15 years, in concert with a tradition dating back several years before, we have honored the memory of Martin Luther King Jr. upon this Sunday.  Often, though not this year, this is also the Sunday at the opening of Spring term, a kind of winter Matriculation.  Year by year, we have tried to probe the depths of our legacy, our inheritance, here at Boston University and here at Marsh Chapel, of the voice, mind and heart of Dr. King, whose beautiful, unique and aspirational monument greets us upon Marsh Plaza.  Over the years, voices in concert with his have been lifted here, on the third Sunday of January, prophetic, true, and loving voices: those of the Rev. Dr. Walter Fluker (four times), Mr. Christopher Edwards, Esq., the Rev. Dr. Jennifer Quigley, the Rev. Dr. Peter Paris, Ms. Liz Douglass, the Rev. Dr. Elizabeth Siwo-Okundi, the Rev. Dr. Karen Coleman,  and also the Dean (three times), including last year, January 2020,  in our service celebrating the opening of the Howard Thurman Center (along with Dean Kenn Elmore and Director Katherine Kennedy).  (April 2018 also included 10 days of events and services, fifty years after King’s assassination, culminating in sermons here at Marsh Chapel by Cornell William Brooks and especially of Governor Deval Patrick.)  For Martin Luther King Jr. Sunday this year, this fifteenth year, we listen solely to the voice of King himself, in words all, including every undergraduate, should want to read and know and hear, out of Martin Luther King’s 1963 Letter from Birmingham Jail.

The work of ethics can open a world us to a world of angels. When you feed the hungry, then you may be christened.  When you clothe the naked, you yourself may be given a confirming gift.  When you welcome the stranger, it may be own joy in eucharist that emerges.  When you heal the sick, you might just find your own anointing and absolution.  And when you visit the prisoner, it is your own soul that is fed.   We are directed ethically to the periphery of life (hunger, nakedness, loneliness, illness, abandonment) so that our ethical zeal can carry us higher.  John knew well, perhaps best in Scripture, that morals and ethics only take us to the foothills.  There is a great high mountain before us.  We find our way toward this height when, by surprise, in the midst of our work and duty…we are accosted by God, by the angels of God.

So, it is, for those who will hear, some nearly sixty years later, words from Martin Luther King, in the finest document remaining from the civil rights era, his Letter from Birmingham Jail.  Those in prison, from Paul of Tarsus to Nelson Mandela, have long had wisdom to share.  They have time to think, and so, something to say.  The finest document from the civil rights era, now nearly sixty years past, is this letter.  Its burden of truth, carried in soaring prose, is largely conveyed in these words:  impatience, justice, time, love, disappointment, and hope.  In the quiet of this winter weekend, with all that swirls about us across this great land of the free and home of the brave, let us carefully meditate together on the gospel as heard through these words from Birmingham.  For we too, now in January 2021, sorely need the nourishment of impatience, justice, time, love, disappointment, and hope.

As we enter the next chapter of American history, the central, lasting, troublous, challenging matter of race, of racism, of anti-racism meets us head on and head long.  This is not only an ethical set of issues.  Rightly seen, rightly heard, this can be a gift of God to us.  Perhaps, at Marsh Chapel, as a University pulpit, we have both the responsibility and the opportunity to place some of this near future work in the context of angelic words, none finer than those of Letter from Birmingham Jail.  On completing the Ph.D. I went to our neighborhood college, a young Jesuit school, and asked to teach.  The Religion Chair, a wonderful woman and Tillich scholar, a former religious, said, ‘You want to teach?’  So, she assigned me the Introduction to Religion Course, which I taught for two decades there, everything you never wanted to know about World Religions, Judaism, Christianity and yours truly.  I asked about the curriculum.  That is up to you, she replied.  Except here (she looked over at a photo of Daniel Berrigan) we always require the Prophet Amos, and Augustine’s Confessions and…Letter from Birmingham Jail.  Wise counsel.

1. Let us meditate on impatience:

For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear… with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant 'Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied."

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God- given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging dark jab of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million  brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six- year-old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children…then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and (we) are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.

2. Let us meditate on justice:

One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that "an unjust law is no law at all".

Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas: An unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal law and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust... Paul Tillich said that sin is separation. Is not segregation an existential expression 'of man's tragic separation, his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness?

3. Let us meditate on time:

I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: “but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth."

Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely rational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of (those) willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation…Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.

4. Let us meditate on love:

Was not Jesus an extremist for love: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." Was not Amos an extremist for justice: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: "I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus." Was not Martin Luther an extremist: "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God." And John Bunyan: "I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience." And Abraham Lincoln: "This nation cannot survive half slave and half free." And Thomas Jefferson: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal ..." So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love?

5. Let us meditate on disappointment:

I have looked at (our)beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious-education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: "What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices…

Yes, these questions are still in my mind. In deep disappointment I have wept over the laxity of the church. But be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. Yes, I love the church. How could I do otherwise? l am in the rather unique position of being the son, the grandson and the great- grandson of preachers. Yes, I see the church as the body of Christ. But, oh! How we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists.

6. Let us meditate on hope:

Perhaps I have once again been too optimistic. Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom…They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment.  

I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America's destiny…We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands.

Angels of God, ascending and descending…Hear the Gospel in the voice, the voice of Martin Luther King, Jr., meditation on impatience, justice, time, love, disappointment, and hope.  You and I will need some measure of divine impatience with what is wrong, in this next year.  You and I will some measure of divine justice to seize what is right in the next year. You and I will need some measure of time, Kairos time not just Chronos time, to do the right things in the right ways at the right times in the next year.  You and I will need some measure of love to bring meaning to work in the next year.  You and I will need some honesty about disappointment, and its depths, to endure the challenges of the next year.  And most of all, you and I will need some measure of hope, that which we do not see but wait for with patience, in the next year.  May God bless us all.

Let us pray:

In a season of stagnation, dear Lord, make us impatient.

In a season of unfairness, dear Lord, help us yearn for justice.

In a season of delay, dear Lord, cause us to prize our time.

In a season of decay, dear Lord, inspire us by love.

In a season of disappointment, dear Lord, grant us courage to be.

In a season of desire, dear Lord, may we hope for what we do not see.

Amen.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in Services Honoring the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 01.17.2021 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Mark 1: 4-11

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A voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased’.  

There are some weeks when good news seems hard to come by.

Late in November, 1963, with youth hockey around the corner, and at last some new skates that fit, a lingering pallor covered our town, after President Kennedy tragically was shot.   There was an evening prayer service, but good news was hard to come by.  ‘We are a nation drenched in sorrow’ began Jan’s dad’s, my father in law’s rewritten sermon for that Sunday.

A decade later, with some of us studying abroad, preparing to teach college Spanish literature—a dream deferred to another lifetime, the war in Vietnam was reportedly ending, with helicopters carrying out the remaining soldiers and staff from a rooftop in Saigon.  ‘How do you ask a man to be the last to die in a mistaken war?’ aptly asked one then young, now veteran national leader.  A nation chastened, broken, without bearing or mooring, and little good news to be had.

A bit more than a decade later, 1988, a plane down in Lockerbie, but we rehearsed that last week, did we not?

Of a Tuesday morning, a bright one, an autumn bright morning, September 2001, some of us headed out for work, wondering what we had just seen, or what had we seen?, in the skies above the Towers above the city that never sleeps.   Little sleep, and very little good news, there was in that week of 9/11.  The evenings were given over to community worship, and on Friday the churches come 11am were packed.  The dangling chads of Broward County the year before were forgotten.

On this very avenue, in April of 2013, with the blasts of Beacon street still reverberating in mind and memory, every evening that week brought, right in here in Marsh Chapel, some manner of worship service, and gathering, for healing and help.  None of it fully adequate, all of it offered to God and neighbor on behalf of a better future day, days and weeks when there would be more news of a better sort.  A promissory note, within the notes of grief and loss.

Early November of 2016 brought another set of days, a week, weeks let us say, of confusion and despair regarding that fall’s election.   In hindsight, we see a bit better why.  What many meant by choices in 2016 was not the meaning of those choices.  What one meant was not, and is not, what it means.  What you meant is not what it means.  What it means is found not in intention but in consequence.  The road to hell is paved with good intentions.  We all can attest to that from our own experience, and our own behavior.  It was hard to scare up much good news that late autumn.

There are some weeks when good news seems hard to come by, and this week is one such.  Yet these serial reminders of dark days past are meant, as you rightly surmise, to recall that we did make it through them, and we will get through this, too.  We did make it through them, and we will get through this, too. Not unscathed, and hopefully not unchanged, but together, we will make it through.

Coming into this week already we faced challenges aplenty.  A climate reeling out of control.  A pandemic claiming 350,000 lives.  A political culture, a culture cooked politics, for politics is ever downstream from culture, putting people at daggers drawn.  A community of communities seeing, in full, for the first full time it may be, the ravages and damages of racial bias, hatred, and prejudice.  And pain, the pain of every day.

Now this week.  On top of all other this (Thursday) morning’s blaring headline, ‘TRUMP INCITES MOB’.  4 dead, not in Ohio this time, but in the nation’s capital city,  and inside the nation’s capitol building.  Insurrection with presidential incitement. One wonders about the future of the party of Lincoln.

January 6, 2021. For the rest of history, for the rest of our lives, we shall have to live with, and attempt by faith to live down, both to live with and to live down, such utter calumny, such tragic, needless, heedless yet revelatory disaster.  It is an apocalyptic—a revelatory—moment, hundreds wrecking the capitol, with hardly a single arrest to date, encouraged by a wantonly graceless leader, and with 6 Senators, 6 Senators (Cruz, Hawley, Hyde-Smith, Marshall, Kennedy, Tuberville), and much other congressional cattle (Jonah 4:11), continuing to feed its root cause. For while this sermon is being recorded Thursday late afternoon, January 7, 2021, we cannot be at all sure what further difficulty and distress may visit us, in this current week of scarce good news, by Sunday when the sermon is heard, January 10, 2021.  One said, ‘this is like 9/11, except we did this to ourselves’.

But at some preconscious level, somewhere down in the declivities of the country’s psyche, we had a sense that this was coming.  We did not want to admit it.  We hoped against hope to be wrong in that premonition.  We hoped to whistle past the graveyard for another few days.  Yet we remembered, dimly, our upbringing, ‘don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned’. We have had four years of warning, advisement, signs along the pathway of this premonition.  So we are not surprised, and have no reason to be.  It has been as plain as the nose on your face, even as plain as the nose on my face, at least since Charlottesville.  It is no wonder, no surprise, that the 25^th Amendment remedy is now rightly, and wisely, under full consideration.  For a lot can happen in two weeks.

So, the community of faith gathers come Sunday, January 10, 2021, to listen, pray, and prepare.  You have come this morning, by radio or internet, to listen, pray, and prepare.  And to wonder.  Just what is the gospel, the good news for this Lord’s Day?

With you, I weep for my country and its people.  More so, I pray for my own people, my own congregation, our University, our listenership, you and your loved ones, near or far or very far away.  It must be admitted, that there are some weeks when good news seems pretty hard to come by.  This is one.

Still.  The preacher’s role is to announce the gospel in interpretation of and accord with the Scriptures. Scripture gives us the chance for the long view.  Scripture gives us a deep grounding, with heaven a little higher and earth a little wider. Thank goodness we have the Holy Scripture to which to turn, from which to  learn, with which to listen, pray and prepare.  Silver and gold have I none, but that which I have I give thee. (Acts 3:6).  Listen. Pray. Prepare.

Listen.  The Gospel of Mark was written for listening.  It emerged over long time, with the earliest Christians reciting and recalling their Lord, his love, and their shared shaping by that love, in faith, beginning in baptism.  They listened, morning and evening, Sunday by Sunday, and over time, in direct response to weeks both empty and full, they began to write down for future generations what they had heard.  Today we have such an account, that of Jesus’ baptized.  Today we have such a lesson, the hearing of a voice.  Today we start again into an unknown future, within earshot of that same divine voice, ‘This is my Beloved’.  For all our failure, for all manner of sin and death and meaninglessness, for all that is wrong, and there is much, especially just now, there is a voice, ringing out and calling to us.  A voice from heaven.  ‘A voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased’.   Yes, this is a scandalous particularity, to name One the Beloved, to call out One with intimacy (‘with you’), to identify One, baptized in the Jordan, ‘with Thee I am well pleased’.   Yet for generations women and men have found this particularity strikingly universal, and lastingly, eternally real.  Especially in weeks when good news is scarce.  And in our time, into dimensions of common ground that may cause us work and make us uncertain, we will want to learn to listen, and listen again.  Listen.  Listen.  Listen.

Pray.  What a tremendous spiritual gift is our Psalter.  Remember Samuel Terrien teaching us: :  Here are 700 years of psalms, 1000-400bce.  For the psalmists, Yahweh’s presence was not only made manifest in Zion.  It reached men and women over the entire earth.  The sense of Yahweh’s presence survived the annihilation of the temple and the fall of the state 587bc.  Elusive but real, it feared no geographical uprooting and no historical disruption.  Having faced the void in history and in their personal lives, they knew the absence of God even within the temple.  The inwardness of their spirituality, bred by the temple, rendered the temple superfluous. (279)  In other words, they knew how to live through and out through godless weeks.  Our psalm today, Psalm 29, ancient and redolent with glory, recalls for us how to pray.  From your youth you have known.  Adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication.  The ACTS forms of prayer.  Adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication.  One is a word of glory, echoing the glory of God that thunders.  Glorify God and enjoy him forever.  A word of glory. One is a word of contrition, by which we begin every service at Marsh Chapel.  Prayer is not only a matter of individual or even personal attention, a certain sitting silent before God.  Prayer is also the voice, the responsive voice, of the people of God, echoing in antiphonal chorus, the call, the bowing before glory.  GLORY!   All have sinned, all have fallen short of that primordial glory.  All.  A prayer of contrition. One is a word of gratitude.  In such a week, it may simply be a prayer of gratitude that things are not yet any worse.  A piercing memory of an 87 year old woman who had hidden, and been hidden, from the Nazis as a child evoked this the other day: “During the war, we didn’t know if we would make a day. I didn’t have any freedom. I couldn’t speak loudly, I couldn’t laugh, I couldn’t cry…But now, I can feel freedom. I stay by the window and look out. The first thing I do in the morning is look out and see the world. I am alive. I have food, I go out, I go for walks, I do some shopping. And I remember: No one wants to kill me. So, still, I read. I cook a little bit. I shop a little bit. I learned the computer. I do puzzles. (1/3/21, Toby Levy, NYT).  A word of gratitude. One is a word of longing, desire, incantation, supplication.  Dear God, guide us through these murky moments, like those we have seen in the past, let us pray, and let our learning now make us stronger later.  A word of supplication. Prayer takes some set aside time, some quiet, some intentional focus.  Pray.  Pray.  Pray.

Prepare.  The whole of Scripture begins with the divine preparation, in creation, and in speech.  ‘Let there be…’  And what might that be, let there be?  Light.  Watch for the rays of light in the dark.  Watch for the rays of light in the dark.  Wednesday morning, before all, well, chaos, broke loose, a newly elected Senator from Georgia was interviewed.  He was raised in public housing, one of 12 children.  Whatever the day, his dad had them all up before dawn.  Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning, he was reminded.  Yes, but that’s the thing about the morning, he responded, it begins in the full dark, it begins at dawn, before daybreak.  Senator Warnock learned to prepare, shining his shoes every morning, before daylight, to get ready, to be ready.  His parents gave him the gift of faith before daybreak.  So.  Light.  Watch for the coming rays of light.  Nor does light shine only in the heart, but also, even moreso, in the heart of the community.  Individuals need to prepare, but so do communities.  Senator Warnock went to Morehouse College, where his dean, Dean of the Chapel the Rev. Dr. Lawrence Carter, who has preached three times in the last three years from this Marsh pulpit, greeted him.  Now Senator Warnock went on to earn a PhD from Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York (I believe I have heard of the school) and has since been in the pulpit of historic Ebenezer Church, Atlanta, for many years.  But Dean Carter reminded me in conversation Wednesday morning, that when his parents dropped him off at Morehouse, Rafael Warnock had not a dime to his name.  His parents could give him only what they had, their powerful, limitless, ceaseless love, pride and belief in him.  Their powerful, limitless, ceaseless love, pride and belief in him.  Not much?  Well.  It seems to have been enough, just enough.  That’s the thing about the morning.  It begins in the dark, in preparation, awaiting the word… LET THERE BE LIGHT.  Prepare.  Prepare.  Prepare.

People of God.  Listen!  Pray!  Prepare!  And hear again the gospel:

A voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased’.  

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 01.10.2021 at 10:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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John 1: 10-18

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¹⁰ He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. ¹¹ He came to what was his own,^[a] and his own people did not accept him. ¹² But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, ¹³ who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

¹⁴ And the Word became flesh and (dwelt) among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son,^[b] full of grace and truth. ¹⁵ (John testified to him and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’”) ¹⁶ From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. ¹⁷ The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. ¹⁸ No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son,^[c] who is close to the Father’s heart,^[d] who has made him known.

Preface

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Christmas at a social distance need not be Christmas at a spiritual distance.  Hear the good news.  The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  There is a physicality at the dawn of faith, through the echoes of faith, welling up in the gift of faith.  There is a physique to faith, your faith, the faith of the church, the faith which has seized us and seizes us still, a faith in flesh and bone.  As Paul Lehmann taught us long ago: God is at work in the world to make and keep human life human. God is at work in the world to make and keep human life human.  God works through people, through human agency. Incarnation, poetically and wondrously pronounced in John 1, reminds us so, and recalls to us the lasting power of human agency, people, like you, God's people at work in the world. God's work must truly be our own. There are many who will scoff at human agency: 'uh oh, oh no, go slow, veto'. Not you. You know you can make a difference for the good, the true, and the beautiful. YES YOU CAN. Your prayer is that of Howard Thurman. Your motto is that of John Wesley. Your carol is that of his brother Charles.

Howard Thurman:

When the Song of the Angels Is Stilled
When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart.

John:

Do all the good you can.

By all the means you can.

In all the ways you can.

In all the places you can.

At all the times you can.

To all the people you can.

As long as ever you can.”

Charles:

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
risen with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.
Hark! the herald angels sing,
"Glory to the new born King!"

All the theological poetics we can muster, all the poetical theology we can risk, all the words set to music and music made for words, all the musical words, all verbal music, all, and more, that we can find and more than all that we can shape, we shall need, this Christmastide Sunday, and every Sunday through 2021, to herald the gospel, the faith of flesh and bone, the physicality of faith.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Light A Candle

We have never been far from academia—Colgate, Syracuse, Ohio Wesleyan, Columbia, Cornell, McGill, Lemoyne, University of Rochester, now BU.

Our friend Bob worked at Syracuse University for four decades.   He and his wife Connie started coming to our church out of an old family connection, on her side, and because his Boy Scout troop met in the building, on his side.   She was an architect, community leader, financial developer, and outgoing spirit.   He was quiet, kind, soulful, and real.   You could swap stories with him about Eagle Scout courts of honor, about trading neckerchiefs at the National Jamboree, about Philmont Scout Ranch and the Tooth of Time.

Bob worked in a small office on campus.  We will need some archaeological tools to describe his life’s labor.  He supported students who needed AV and other equipment.  In the chaos of his little nest, he could find for you all manner of treasures:  carbon paper, white out, typewriter ribbon, film strip projectors, carousel slide projectors, screens, amplifiers, ditto paper, pens and pencils, and virtually anything else you, dear student, might need, some decades ago, for your class presentation due in two hours, due early tomorrow morning, due in 10 minutes.   In the joyful freedom of pastoral ministry, as that church grew, the minister could go and visit Bob, and watch the nearly endless stream of orphaned students stampeding their way to his little room.  He didn’t hector them:  your lack of planning is not my personal crisis…proper planning prevents poor performance…be punctual and do everything at the appointed hour.  No.  He just helped.  He just quietly and joyfully helped.  One winter a middle-aged former minister, working on another master’s degree, came by to speak about Bob: “I watch him.  He is salt and light.  He would give you the shirt off his back.  He is there for students.”

On weekends he took his scout troop to be enveloped in the natural world, usually deep into the Adirondacks.  There he taught a love of the created order, a respect for the history of places, and the rudiments of leadership: ‘affirm in public, criticize in private’, and other lasting truths.  Big eyes covered by big glasses, a big smile, and silent except for laughter.  He never bought a thing on credit.  Not his house, not his car, not his camping gear.  He taught his four children that same frugality.

Connie predeceased him by some years, but until Bob died a few winters ago, one could know and smile to think that at least one Christian walked the earth, in the shadow of the Carrier Dome.

As we were trying to get that urban churching rolling, we one year arranged a December dish to pass dinner.  We sang some carols, maybe 100 of us or so.  We had asked three of our people just to tell a Christmas story, as our fairly humble program that snow-covered evening.  Bob’s was the last.

As a 20-year-old he had gone to England, as part of a bomber crew in or about 1941.   During our own national and international upheaval, pandemic 2021, we may want to recall stories and courage from his generation. He told us, simply, about being away from home for the first time.  About having a photo of his girlfriend, Connie.  About his mom and dad and sister.   He said that his only thought was to hope that he would see them all once more.  Connie.  His Mom.  His Dad.  His sister.  “I would like to get home alive”.  This was his prayer, as it is for some in hospital today.  Christmas came, but the service men were not allowed any decorations.  No candles on land that might be lit and so shine and so guide enemy bombers.  Bob noticed that their rations came in cardboard boxes with a coating of paraffin on them.  So, when he had time, he would sit in front of Connie’s picture, that December, and using his scout knife he would peel off the paraffin, storing it in a number 10 can.  By Christmas Eve Bob had enough for three candles, each with a short wick made of shoestring in the middle.   That night as plane after the plane took off, he set up a little table in the rear fuselage.  Flying home, as they leveled off, he and the crew, except for the pilot, gathered at the little table.  He was afraid maybe the paraffin wouldn’t work.  But after a while, all three candles were lit, burning now in the dark sky over the cliffs of Dover and over the English Channel.  After a long silence, one of the men recited a psalm.  Then they said the Lord’s prayer.  Bob prayed his hope to get home.  Then together, without much singing talent and without any practice, they quietly sang a carol, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Glory to the Newborn King’.  “I would like to get home alive”, Bob said, as the candles dimmed, flickered and went out.

From that personal Christmas remembrance, we all caught a glimpse of the origins of Bob’s matured humility, kindness, and integrity.  His faith in flesh and bone.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Faith is a Walk in the Dark

Before Jesus there was John, before the Christ there was the Baptist.  Jesus was a contemporary of John.  John prepared the way for Jesus.  As we listen with word and music, perhaps we can ponder the power of faith in flesh and bone.

Before Christmas there is Advent, before the incarnation is the anticipation.  The feast of Christmas, so this Lord’s day, comes after the penitence of Advent.  The joy of birth comes after the anxiety of expectation.  As we listen with word and music, today let us ponder the mystery of faith in flesh and bone.

Before tradition there is event, before understanding there is experience.   The rolling voice of the Baptist is the event through which we each year pass in order to come to our understanding of Christmas, this Christmastide Sunday.

Before Matthew there was Mark, before teaching there was preaching, before catechesis there was kerygma. We will listen this year, 2021, mostly to Mark.  Last year, Matthew, this year, Mark. Matthew is an interpreter of Mark.  Mark is the model for Matthew.  As we listen with word and music, perhaps we can ponder the power of change, especially for those living outside.

Before John the Gospel there was John the prologue to the Gospel, John 1, our reading today, wherein the Baptist gives way to the Christ:

Seasoned Religion said that the end was near. John says the beginning is here.

Earlier Religion saw the end of the world. John preached the light of the world.

Inherited spirituality waited for the future coming of the Lord. John celebrated the Word among us, full of grace and truth.

Earlier Religion feared death, judgment, heaven and hell, in the by and by. John faced them all in every day.

Seasoned Religion clung fiercely to an ancient untruth. John let go, and accepted a glorious new truth, and hugged grace and freedom.

Our inheritance, and Matthew and Mark and Luke and Paul and all looked toward the End, soon to come. But John. John looked up at the beginning, already here. They said with Shakespeare, “All’s well that ends well”. John replied, gut begonnen hap gebonnen, “well begun is half done”.

John alone had the full courage to face spiritual disappointment and move ahead. So, we memorize 8:32: You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free!

We face the need to change from inherited untruth to new insight and imagination.  New occasions teach new duties, time makes ancient good uncouth; one must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of truth.

Truth: faith in flesh and bone.

Truth, at Christmas, outside, in the cold, at night, in a manger. Outside, as communities of color, needing but fearing some of their neighborhood police, both needing and fearing their own police, in the year of Taylor, Arbery, Floyd, Hill and others. Outside, as those along the borders, sometimes, without principle and without apology, stripped of their children.  Outside, hunting for a meal, with children in tow.  Outside, with employment lost, bereft of purpose or place or position or power.  Outside, fearing, fearing pollution and pandemic and politics and prejudice and pain.  Outside, and without, even, the indoor beauty of a church, or the indoor beauty of a choir, or the indoor beauty of a gathered and loving congregation, a truly addressable community. El Greco best painted the incarnation, worn fingers and bowed heads, and wrinkled brows, and outdoor clothing, shepherds abiding, abiding, abiding.   All, and all, at a Christmas social distance.  Incarnation comes, into a world of hurt.  Faith in flesh and bone.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

The Holy Scripture assumes a multi-generational perspective, no more so than in the narratives of Christmas.  Real change takes a long time, generations of time, when it comes at all.  Do you remember what you were confronted with a generation ago?   For some of us, another December in that same Syracuse neighborhood, 32years ago, it was the sudden announcement on a bitter snowy night, to a stunned basketball crowd in the Carrier Dome, that a plane with many of our own neighborhood students, our own Syracuse University students, and students from other regions including Boston, had crashed in Lockerbie Scotland.  The portent of that moment in 1988 eluded us, eluded all, but it was a harbinger of the struggles of the next thirty years, in one limited, horror and tragedy.  182 passengers died; 270 in total died; 35 students from SU died, and some from other Universities, including one from Boston University.  A few days ago, as this sermon was gestating, a newscast recast that moment, noting ongoing legal challenges, and retelling the story of Lockerbie.   It brought back that night, and the silent 30,000 in the Dome, after the game, and the walk home.  Over the hill and through the cemetery where now both my parents have since been buried, side by side.  Through the dark and cold, wind and snow.  The darkness of sin.  The cold of death.  The snowfall of the threat of meaninglessness.  Sin, death, the threat of meaninglessness.  To trod through these, again in 2021, we shall need some faith, faith in flesh and bone.  Faith to face and face up to the mystery of death, the tenacity of sin, the bitter temptation of meaninglessness.  Maybe the challenge of the year past, in manifold dimensions, has been just this.

Coda

All the theological poetics we can muster, all the poetical theology we can risk, all the words set to music and music made for words, all the musical words, all verbal music, all, and more, than we can find and more than all that we can shape, we shall need this Christmastide Sunday, to herald the gospel, the faith of flesh and bone, the physicality of faith.  We shall need the flesh and bone of ordinary grace, to live the daily truth of faith.

And the word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Speaking of such.  A friend, Kerry Loughman, recently wrote:  “Hope you and your family are well in this crazy, COVID time.  I have a small poem for you… We live opposite a Brookline elementary school in Coolidge Corner and every day these children were my daily blessing. I watched from my third-floor window all last spring and into the summer. “

Every afternoon, around four,

a wheeled flock of boys

flies down my city street

on bikes, scooters, skateboards,

more skilled than scared, and

raucous with it. Contrapuntal

eurhythmic beats play concrete

sidewalk sections 'til they dare

to launch off curbs, catching air,

helmet plumage drafting down,

fledging into a new reality.

Masked avengers, they swoop

into games of capture and release;

capture the invisible flag,

release time's arrested breath,

spread mojo on all our viral fears.

Circuitous flights around the school,

capture and release of joy.

They go round and round:

a circumlocution of boys.

‘Capture and Release’, by Kerry Loughman

10.08.2020

A circumlocution of boys.

In a moment we will hear again the ancient liturgy for eucharist.  We are not together to receive together the bread and cup.  But we are together in relationship, by memory, in hope, through prayer.  And with a little imagination, with eyes closed and hearts open, we might allow the familiar, ancient prayers of communion, to bring us into communion.

So, travel with a little imagination…Imagine Eucharist at Marsh Chapel.  Stand to sing… Pause to reflect… Step out into the aisle… Look at and look past Abraham Lincoln and Francis Willard…Receive cup and bread, bread and cup… Kneel at the altar to pray… Stand in communion with the communion of saints…Here is the bread and cup of friendship…Imagine, if you are willing, your own funeral, say right here, and a congregation reciting together a creed, a psalm, a hymn, a poem.  Imagine, if you are willing, a congregation currently in diaspora, but just now, by the word spoken, a gathered and thus addressable community, you and I and all together.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 01.3.2021 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Galatians 4: 4-7

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Preface

The birth of Christ places before us a new possibility.

We can live in a new way.

“Christ is alive and goes before us, to show and share what love can do.  This is a day of new beginnings.  Our God is making all things new”.

You can continue to live in the old way.

Or you can live a different life, living the gift of faith.

Paul’s Christmas Gospel

Paul writes to the Galatians:  But when the time had fully come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption, as children.

Paul of Tarsus rarely is mentioned at Christmas.  He never saw Jesus and knew almost nothing of the birth.  Or of birth.   Of Christmas, he says only:  “born of a woman, born under the law”.  (Gal. 4) A human birth, still in the dark shadow of religion.

Paul is our earliest, best witness to the primitive Christian church.  Yet he says nothing about any of the things we take for granted in this season:  Mary, Joseph, manger, Bethlehem, shepherds, Kings, Herod, Rachel weeping.

In fact, you may have ruminated a little about how Paul might have approached our reading from Luke 2: 22-40, composed some thirty years after Paul’s own (legendary) death in the Roman coliseum.  How would the celibate rabbi have thought about Mary and a complicated birth?

More basically, more biologically, how would a man like Paul have connected, if at all, with the multiple nursery scenes found in the first three gospels?

You will admit, if pressed, that there are few things more bemusing than listening to men talk about child birth.  All the gospels and almost 2000 years of Christmas sermons fall beneath this judgment.  What do we know about it?

And Paul?

How can men--how could Paul--possibly fathom the pain, change, and transformation of childbirth?  Especially when this birth is not just birth but--Incarnation?

Which brings us to Christmas 2020 and the stunning news that Paul, more than all, “gets it”!    Better than virtually any other piece of the New Testament Paul names the Christmas Gospel with utter precision in Galatians 4: 4-7.

This verse of Holy Writ, read for this Christmas Sunday, places a claim on you and me.  If Paul can “get it”, if Paul can receive the grace of Christmas, the gift of faith, and faith is ever and only and always a gift, then there is hope for everybody.  Especially for you this morning if you feel at some distance from the Christmas traditions, the old stories, the church’s habits and patterns.  Especially if you feel, that is, a little on the outside.  Come COVID, we are all, by some measure, on the outside. Here is Christmas.  And Christmas is all about God’s love for the outside.  Paul—what a friend we have in Paul!—changed, was changed, became a changed man, in the full morning light of Christmas.

There is a place, a bit earlier in his collection of letters, that gives us the full picture.  In the earliest piece of our New Testament, 1 Thessalonians, as he describes his happy relationship with one of his first churches, Paul offers us a glimpse of the gospel, the Christmas gift of faith.  We will lean on Thessalonians to interpret Galatians.  Paul wrote, For we were gentle among you, like a nurse taking care of her children.  For we were gentle among you, like a nurse taking care of her children.  It is Christmas testimony that we can live in a new way!

The coming of Christ changed Paul. Christmas changed Paul. From Pharisee to freedom fighter.  From lawyer to preacher.  From religion to faith.  From law to gospel.  He has been given the “wings of the morning”.  There is no other way to interpret his self-designation, a Christmas nametag if ever there was one, here in 1 Thessalonians.  Nurse.

Paul refers to himself and his way of living as “gentle as a nurse”.  Gentle?  Paul?  Apparently so, at least now and then.    And then, “nurse”.  In our COVID era, we readily and rightly and with great gratitude and respect think of heroic nurses, first responders.  It is right for a quiet moment, here, just to think of all that nurses and others have given, to us and others, this year, 2020.  And now some receiving vaccines, a modern miracle if ever there was one, even as we converse here this morning. Yet here, in Paul’s letter, the word does not refer to white gowns, medical degrees, stethoscopes, or medications.  It means the other kind of nurse and nursing, the nurse-maid.  We learn this, even without reference to the Greek, from the rest of the verse, a “nurse caring for her children”.  The word, ηπιον, means wet nurse or nursing mother.  The image so jarred one early copier, one early scribe, so much, that he added an extra letter to one text to “clean it up” and change the meaning.  Paul is staggeringly clear, however.  He describes himself as a wet-nurse, like a woman nursing a child!  Paul, that is, is referring to his own new way of living as a kind of nursing, as intimate, physical, personal, vulnerable, self-giving.  As in, well, as in nursing a child.

You may find this astounding, that one who could speak so harshly of his opponents in Galatia (it is Christmas and we will avoid a direct citation) could understand himself by analogy with a mother and child in the moment of nursing.  If the birth of Christ can move Paul that far, how much more can Christmas do for you and me!

A generation ago, I discovered, James Clarke had a similar insight, writing about Paul’s self-designation as a nurse maid:

Here is conversion in great might.  It is easy to think of Paul as the missionary who made Europe and Asia his parish and lifted Christianity out of its Palestinian cradle; as the warrior who fought the good fight of faith and whose sword seldom rested in its scabbard; as the statesman who conceived vastly and executed daringly; as the theologian who handled the huge imponderables and grand peculiarities of the faith with ease and judgment; as the personality, powerful and decisive, who cut his signature deeply into the life of his time; as the mystic who beheld the faraway hills of silence and wonder, and whose great theme was “union with Christ”.  But it strains the imagination to picture him, who was so imperious, in the gentle and tender role of nursemaid.  Truly there is no limit to the converting power of God in Jesus Christ. (IBD loc cit)

Yet Clarke climbs only half the mountain.  Yes, it does astound our imaginations to picture Paul as a mother with a child at the breast.  What is doubly astounding, however, is to realize, fully to intuit, that Paul understood himself this way! Paul understood himself this way!  Paul, at his most converted, could see his life in a new way, a marvelously new way, as different from all he had lived before as a nursemaid is different from an imperious religionist.

Paul may not have known the account narrated in our reading from Luke 2 today.  He may not have had any more idea than we do about the exact nature and detail of these birth narratives.  He probably would have been somewhat surprised by their imaginative peculiarity.

But the meaning of Christmas he fully knows.  Paul ‘gets it’.

Your Christmas Gospel

And, so may we, mais oui, may you and I, ESPECIALLY, if you are not easily or closely enthralled by magic stories, birth miracles, speaking wombs, nursery rhymes, and angel voices.  Paul hears the truth of it all, and his life changes.  Ours can too.

Paul may not have known the Christmas stories we do, but his pastoral life embodied the incarnate love of God in Christ, physical intimate, personal, vulnerable self-giving, gentle as a nurse-maid.

Ours can too. Yours can too.  You can live in a new way.  You can.

It is the way of the turned cheek, the offered cloak, the second mile.  It is the way of love for those who are not lovely.  It is the way of the love of enemies.  It is the way of forbearance.  It is the way of tenderhearted forgiveness.  It is the way of prayer for those who persecute.  It is the way of God, who is kind to God’s ungrateful and selfish children.  Gentle as a nurse…

A famous leader, once, and sadly, scornfully disdained the “turn the other cheek approach”.  You had to wonder whether his Methodist Sunday School had shown him Paul’s letters. Maybe he was absent that day.

Christmas gives birth to the daily, very real possibility, starting again for you at noon, the real potential that you can live in a new way.  Christmas gives birth to the life and death decision for or against Jesus, for the new path or the old.

If Paul can “get it”, all can.  This is the change that God works (GOD works) in the human heart.  The God who said “let light shine out of darkness…” It is the gift of faith.  Faith comes by hearing.  Hearing by the word of God.

We live in age of violence, even global and extreme violence.   Certainly cultural, verbal, rhetorical violence. But this is Christmas!   With Luke we may marvel at the mystery of Christ.  But with Paul we may practice the partnership of the Gospel, living as gentle as a nurse with her children.

We can live in a new way.  The world does not lack for promise, but only for a sense of promise.  But how?

Three Applications

First. We can live as those who look forward to a gentler world community.  In a year, 2020, of manifold and multiple difficulties that included environment, virus, government, race and loss—pollution, pandemic, politics, prejudice and pain, we can afford to listen to the strange language of the Bible, and of Paul.  All of us listening this morning, liberal and conservative, democrat and republican, urban and rural, blue and red, hawk and dove.  We can all share the horizon of hope for peace on earth, good will to all.  We can look out for ways to “soften the collisions” that will come in our time.  As Inman says, in that great old novel Cold Mountain, life is riddled with “endless contention and intractable difference”.  Collisions are virtually inevitable.  But they can be softened.

Our guide here is the great quintessential liberal British philosopher, Isaiah Berlin:

Collisions, even if they cannot be avoided, can be softened.  Claims can be balanced, compromises can be reached:  in concrete situations not every claim is of equal force—so much liberty, so much equality; so much for sharp moral condemnation, so much for understanding a given human situation; so much for the full force of law, and so much for the prerogative of mercy; for feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, healing the sick, sheltering the homeless.  Priorities, never final and absolute, must be established. 

Of course, social or political collisions will take place; the mere conflict of positive values alone makes this unavoidable.  Yet they can be minimized by promoting and preserving an uneasy equilibrium, which is constantly threatened and in constant need of repair—that alone is the precondition for decent societies and morally acceptable behavior, otherwise we are bound to lose our way.  A little dull as a solution you will say?  Yet there is some truth in this view.

Not just some truth, much, much, much truth.

Second.  We can work toward a gentler local community, in the heart of the city, in the service of the city. More than you know, you transform the culture around you with every act, every choice.  Remember…

Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low.

         He shall feed his flock like a shepherd.

         And the glory, the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.

         And all flesh shall see it together.

         Since by one man death came, so by one man shall come the resurrection of the dead. (my favorite)

         Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto him!

So, they received Christ. Here is a door held.  There is a criticism softened.  Here is a preparation made.  There is a courtesy extended.  Here is a listening ear.  There is a gesture of welcome. As we follow our course let us not become coarse.

One Christmas decades ago, when we lived in NYC, Lily Tomlin produced a single actor play.  One night a street person stumbled into the theater and was treated roughly.  She made the paper by stopping her performance, guiding the man to center stage and quietly addressing the audience: “Let me introduce you all to--a fellow human being.”  She gave him a seat.

At our best, Marsh Chapel and this community both set a fine example of liberal gentleness, even gentility.  (That is a compliment to you, by the way.  Just so you know.)  It is not just what you do that counts, it is how you do it.

At our best, we can live together, watching over one another in love, and treating one another “as gently as a nursemaid”.  Men and women both.   I can be even more personal.  The Christmas Gospel in its Pauline cast directs me as a minister.  It gives me the courage to be, to be a pastoral administrator, and to be so with gentle care.  Now I will admit that the phrase, “pastoral administrator” is something of an oxymoron, two words that contradict each other.  Like jumbo shrimp or United Methodist.  Either you are pastoral or you are administrative, tender or tough.  But here is Paul, the Great Tough Apostle to the Gentiles, identifying his way of being with that of a woman, a tender mother, breast feeding her kids.  That means time spent.  That means some tolerance for untidiness.  That means a willingness to admit imperfection, some fruitful slobbery sloppiness.  That means a habit of being that is more rounded than rectangular, more organic that engineered, more maternal than mechanical.  That means not to worry when things aren’t perfect and not to listen when others want them immediately perfect.  Life is messy.  Community life is particular messy.  That means a willingness to go the second and third mile, as you would for your infant.  That means risking getting bitten.  That means burping and wiping and holding.  And especially that means a fierce focus on the future of now young life!  That sounds like hard work!  Manger work.  Nursery work.  New Creation work.

Third.  We can become gentler people, one by one.  Christmas too can become a season as gentle as a nurse.  Someone wrote, mimicking, yes, Paul, in 1 Cor 13:

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, but do not show love to my family, I’m just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies, preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully adorned table at mealtime, but do not show love to my family, I’m just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, carol in the nursing home, and give all that I have to charity, but do not show love to my family, it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes, attend myriad holiday parties and sing in the choir’s cantata but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops cooking to hug the child.

Love sets aside decorating to kiss the spouse.

Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn’t envy another’s home that has Christmas china and table linens.

Love doesn’t yell at the kids to get out of the way, but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love bears, believes, hopes, endures all things, and never fails.

Board games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust.  The gift of love will endure.

A Time to Choose

This is the spiritual change that God (and God alone) works in the human heart.  “Born to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth”.  Here are the birth pangs of the new creation.

Gentle globe, gentle community, gentle soul.

Are you ready to live in a new way?

For their parts, the ancients were caught off guard.  So the Kings meandered, the shepherds shuddered, the cattle were low and lowing.  There was no ready expectation of Jesus, a poor Messiah.  No, there was no prepared expectation for God touching earth in a manger.  “A smoking cradle”, said Karl Barth, is all we have of Christmas.   How about you?  Are you ready for Christmas?  That is, are you, as did Paul, able and willing and ready to receive the gift of faith? That is, are you, as did Paul, able and willing and ready to receive the gift of faith?

Merry Christmas!

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 12.27.2020 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Romans 16:25-27

Luke 1:26-38

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A Preface

If we listen with the ears of the heart, the sounds of Christmas may just envelop us, its echoes of faith may revive us.  And heal us.

A voice, Gabriel, fear not.

A cough, Joseph turning.

A shuffle, Shepherds moving.

A murmur, a shudder, a shake.

Cattle, lowing.

The crisp crackle of hard soil, snow and ice, under foot.

Distant laughter, ribald and rough, out from the inn.

And Mary.  Mary.  Her yawn, her sigh, her song, her cry.

If we listen with the ears of the heart, the whole creation sings in ecumenical chorus, and the sounds of Christmas heal us by enveloping us in a circle of love, whose circumference is without measure.

You know, our time, and world and culture are fixed on limits.  We lean more on what we can count, than on what we can count on.  (repeat). Christmas inquires about our sense of limits, and reverberates with echoes of faith, a robust cosmic faith.

Our lips may echo such faith, even if our habits muffle such faith. Health care, for all or for some?  Good education (with books, safety, discipline, respect), for all or for some?  Employment (most people just need a job and a home), for all or for some?  Civic protection for all or some?  Heavenly hope, for all or for some?  We do tend to live and move and have our being as if the very temporary distinctions we so prize had, somehow, a lasting life.

Here is a Christmas pronouncement of a broad peace, the prospect of love and peace, on earth.  On earth.  With Gandhi along the Ganges.  Beside Tutu on the southern cape.  Along the path of the Dalai Lama in farthest Tibet.  In Tegucigalpa with the church Amor, Fe Y Vida. This is no religious quietism: cold, careful, efficient, first mile, changeless, fearsome, depressed.  No, this is Christmas:  warm, open, effective, second mile, free, growing, creative and hopeful!

A Tale of Two Tales

The early church told two stories about Jesus.  The first about his death.  The second about his life.  The first, about the cross, is the older and more fundamental.  The second, about the manger, is the key to the meaning of the first, the eyeglasses which open full sight of the first, the code with which to decipher the first.

Jesus died on a cross for our sin according to the Scripture.  That is the first story.  How we handle this story, later in the year, come Lent and Easter, is a perilous and serious responsibility, given the myth of redemptive violence in which so much of our national and global thinking is now enmeshed.  This morning, we do light a virtual candle, light a candle, for our siblings across this great land, 300,000, 300,000, taken by COVID, to a farther shore and a greater light. We wail for them, even as Rachel and others wailed long ago.  Yet this week, across the globe, the first vaccines appeared, including right here in the USA. In Canada, first responders were pictured receiving vaccination.  A country of 36 million, and a government that has already purchased 80 million vaccines.  Those receiving, and those watching, wept.  To remember the past year, and now the approaching vaccine, a latter-day miracle for sure, is to weep, with Rachel, at Christmas.

That is, the first story, the death story, the story of Jesus’ death, another season’s work, needs careful, careful handling.  Today I might briefly say again what we have said each year in Lent:  Remember that it is not the passion of Christ that defines the Person of Christ, but the Person who defines the passion. Remember that it is not the suffering that bears the meaning, but the meaning that bears the suffering…that it is not the cross that carries the love but the love that carries the cross…that it is not crucifixion that encompasses salvation, but salvation that encompasses even the tragedy of crucifixion. The resurrection follows but not replace the cross, for sure. Still, it is also true that the cross precedes but does not overshadow the resurrection. It is Life that has the last word.  Later in the year, come March and April, and who knows what life will be like by then?, we shall return to story one.  At Christmas, we listen for story two, the story of Jesus’ life, the story of Jesus birth, and its echoes of faith.  I wonder:  are you ready, Christmas Sunday 2020, ready in a new way and ready for the first time or the first time in a long time, to hear the susurrations of faith?  Have you faith?  Where is your faith?  How is it with your faith?

Last Saturday in the later afternoon it rained heavily.  That meant the best walk home, from Chapel to residence, did lie through the long hallways of the College of Arts Sciences, where my mother worked as a secretary in 1951, putting her husband through seminary, when the building was spanking new.  From the chapel, the portico will keep you dry, and then take you into the building.  The building is regularly teeming with echoes, voices, greetings, laughter, discourse, lecture, music, all.  By that late hour, all was silent.  Not a person, not a peep, not a word, down the long, lovely hallway of the College of Arts and Sciences. Solitude of a COVID sort, CORONA cause, CORONA based.  Solitude.  And echoes and ghosts at every step.  A meeting here, years ago.  Two lectures there, years ago.  An Academy graduation speech, here, many years ago.  A memorial reception for a lost student, there, years ago.  And meetings, meetings, meetings.  Now: silence, los sonidos de la silencia, Solitude.  Here a photo of a colleague whose memorial we celebrated in 2017.  Here a reminder of a past curriculum.  And all about, nothing, nothing but quiet, with the rain falling fast outside.  In the atrium, a pause, amid the ghosts, and amid the silence.

And a quickened, sharp awareness, a COVID moment:  Solitude has its own beauty.  Solitude has beauty.  It is harsh beauty.  It is a dark beauty.  And it is a discomfiting beauty for those of us who thrive on presence, conversation, gathering, and human being, morning to night.  But a beauty still.  I wonder:  does your faith have space for such solitude, such harsh, dark, discomfiting beauty? Does mine?  When it gets quiet enough, there can be a hearing for the echoes of such faith.

So, we recall at Christmas, the birth story.  Who was Jesus?  What life did his death complete?  How does his word heal our hurt?  And how does all this accord with Scripture? One leads to the other.

This second, second level story begins at Christmas, and is told among us to interpret the first.  Christmas is meant to make sure that the divine love is not left only to the cross, or only to heaven.  Christmas in a troubled world, a world of pollution, pandemic, politics, prejudice and pain, is meant to remind us, all of us, that you do not need to leave the world in order to love God.  Alf Landon said, “I can be a liberal and not be a spendthrift”.  We might say, “I can be a Christian and not reject the world around”.  Christmas is meant to open out a whole range of Jesus, as brother, teacher, healer, young man, all.  Christmas is meant to provide the mid-course correction that might be needed if all we had was Lent.  And the Christmas echoes are the worker bees in this theological, spiritual hive.  Easter may announce the power of love, but Christmas names the presence of love.  Jesus died the way he did because he lived the way he did.  Jesus lived the way he did so that he could die the way he did.  That is, it is not only the Passion of Christ, but the Peace of Christ, too, which Christians like you affirm.  What good news for us at the end of 2020!  We together need both passion and peace.  Such a passionate year we have had.  Theologically, globally, culturally, politically, ecclesiastically, we have exuded passion this year.  Now comes Christmas again to announce that there is more to Jesus than passion.  There is the matter of peace as well.

Creation and Redemption

With great effort, the ancient writers join the God of Creation with the God of Redemption.  The coming of the Savior does not limit the divine care to the story of redemption, but weaves the account of redemption into the fabric of creation.  There is more to the Gospel than the cross.  The ancient writers did sense this and say it with gusto:  angels to locate heavenly love on earth; shepherds to locate love on ordinary earth; kings to empower the sense of love on earth; a poor mother to locate physically the Prince of Peace, the Lord of Love, in the womb of earth, and remind us of the physique, the physicality of faith.  The location of love is earth, and its circumference is without limit.  God’s Christ is without limit.

God’s Christ.  The Christ.  Echoes of faith.

Ah, the Christ. There are many rooms in this mansion.  In the Hebrew Scripture, as translated into Greek long ago, Christ referred to Cyrus the King of Persia, who at last freed the Jews from their bondage in Babylon.  'The Christ of God' later Isaiah calls King Cyrus. Echoes of faith.

Then Christ meant the messianic conqueror who would bring apocalyptic cataclysm, the end of things as we know it, the reconstitution of Israel, and the reign of God--the main wellspring of hope for those breathing and sweating in Jesus’ day, including Jesus.  Echoes of faith.

Christians then began to use the term to refer to Jesus, who spoke Aramaic, rode a donkey, recited the Psalms thinking David wrote them all, walked only in Palestine, never married, and was crucified for blasphemy or treason or both.  Echoes of faith.

A while later Christ, in Paul, becomes the instrument of God's incursion into the world, to recreate the world, and is known in the cross and the resurrection. Echoes of faith.

Still later, when the Gospel writers pick up the story, Christ is the Risen Lord, preached by Paul, and narrated by unknown silent ghost writers who somehow put together the story of his earthly ministry, always spoken as a resurrection account, and always seen, if seen, in light of Easter, but interpreted through the faith of Christmas, and its echoes. Echoes of faith.

John takes another trail, in the telling of the Christ, because for John none of the above really matters at all, save that Christ reveals God--wherever and whenever there is way, truth or life, there is Christ.  Echoes of faith.

Still later, and drawing on all the above and more, the early Christian writers painstakingly and painfully tried to fit all this into neo-platonic thought, involving natures and persons, the human and the divine, the seen and the unseen, and described Christ in creeds, perhaps best and for sure first in the Apostles' Creed--only Son, Lord.  Most of the options then have been laid out by 325ad or so, to be regularly and fitfully retried and rehearsed into our time.

John Calvin could write that we really can't say, definitively, where Christ, as Lord, begins or ends.  Alpha, Omega…echoes. Leo Tolstoy wrote a Christmas Story about this once.  "Where Love is, Christ is".   Story two.

The lovely decorated Christmas tree in your living room, with its natural grace adorned by symbolic beauty, is meant to connect the God of Creation with the God of Redemption.  The story of Jesus the Christ, and his love, is as wide and large and limitless as the refraction of light throughout all creation.

We felt it, a bit, last Sunday, in the virtual open house, our congregation gathered by zoom, with voices greeting us from California, Iowa, Indiana, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, New York, Florida, Virginia, and most all the New England States.

Once we visited in the home of a friend whose lovely tree sported a particularly wonderful ornamentation.  Oh, he had placed upon the boughs the more usual collection of angels, bulbs, lights, tinsel and all.  But here and there, slowly illuminating and slowly darkening, there were five lighthouses.  I had never seen a lighthouse as an ornament.  As we shared life and faith in the living room, the slowly illuminating and slowly darkening lighthouses, all five, caught my imagination.   With Wesley we affirm five means of grace, ever available, and savingly so, amid the branches and brambles of life.  These are saving, Christmas echoes of faith. Prayer:  as close as breath.  Sacraments:  in the closest church, weekday and Sunday, or maybe a love feast, at home, in pandemic.  Scripture:  take and read, read and remember, remember and recite.  Fasting:  we might say walking, exercise, attention to discipline and diet.  Christian conversation:  a word spoken and heard that just may be healing enough to be true, or true enough to bring healing.  Even in a sermon on the Sunday before Christmas.

An Invitation

At Christmas we can listen, and remember.  We are most human when we are lovers.  Are we lovers anymore?  Where love is, Christ is.

If we listen with the ears of faith, the whole creation sings in ecumenical chorus, and the sounds of Christmas heal us by enveloping us in a circle of love, whose circumference is without measure.

You may decide today to lead a Christian life.  To worship every Sunday.  To pray every morning.  To tithe every dollar.  To take up the way of peace, by loving and giving.  You may decide upon this path this morning.  Do.  An echo of faith may catch you up, with a susurration, a whisper:

The birth of Christ is for you.

His way of life is for you.

His manner of obedience is for you.

His church is open to you.

His happiness is for you.

His love is for you.

His death is for you.

His life is for you.

His discipline is for you.

If we listen with imaginative ears, the sounds of Christmas, and its echoes of faith, envelop us and heal us.

A voice, Gabriel, fear not.

A cough, Joseph turning.

A shuffle, Shepherds moving.

A murmur, a shudder, a shake.

Cattle, lowing.

The crisp crackle of hard soil, snow and ice, under foot.

Distant laughter, ribald and rough, out from the inn.

And Mary.  Her yawn, her sigh, her song, her cry.

AMEN.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 12.20.2020 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Mark 1: 1-18

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Dormant

We rested alone in the dormant, dormant quiet of Thanksgiving 2020, as so many did.  There were walks and talks.  There was time for reflection and reading, as well as distance learning about dearest loved ones, by way of the current, sometimes helpful, technologies.  A red, bright red, maple leaf floated our way.   Leaves were there for the kicking and kicking up.  We both resisted and bowed to the beckoning of disagreeable chores put off, now waiting and awaiting attention, with no earthly excuse for avoidance.  Something to clean, something else to toss, something further to give off, something even to cherish, and, perhaps…something to discover or recover.

In the evenings we nestled in to see some news, not that much is newscast any longer, and then, as moved, to return to stories and novels and films and sequels.  We had left off the Crown after two seasons, a good while ago, and made our way back into the next.  We had stood outside Buckingham Palace, with long hair in 1972, then recently wed in 1978, then with a church tour of Methodism and its ghosts 1995, and then, overjoyed, on holiday in 2017, en route to view John Wesley’s tomb in Westminster Abbey.  We worshiped there, seated that august and August Sunday above the stone marked for William Wilberforce.  Would you go back?  To London?  In a New York minute…Marsh Chapel, Gothic in design, exudes an English spirit—the garden in the poem of Sir George Sitwell, the corner stone atop two further stones from Oxford University (St. John’s College and Jesus College) and the inscription, Boston University’s pedigree is traced directly to Oxford University, England.(Cambridge is both on and meant for the other of the river.)  The University Arms, said Daniel Marsh, ‘connect Boston University both with the town of Boston, England, and also with the University of Oxford.’   And for good reason:  Mr. Wesley, an Oxford don, brought through fierce preaching a vigorous gospel, the reformation faith, to the English poor, in mine and in field and in city and on ship and in prison.  Our heritage is thus, personal, denominational, professional and religious.  So, we are inclined to watch the show.

At one point, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, is accosted by his mother, an eccentric and brilliant nun, recently transposed to Buckingham Palace from a humble nunnery in Greece.  He interrupts her kneeling prayer, after years of disconnection.  She, mentally troubled, in story, cared for by Sigmund Freud, and he, a kind of orphan, left alone in the world.  In the heart of the talk she abruptly asks him a question.  And what about your faith?  And what about your faith?  Have you faith?  A question of which Mr. Wesley would have been, would be, proud.  What about your faith?  He honestly, suddenly answers:  dormant.  My faith is dormant.  She murmurs, she mourns, she gasps, she then says, That is not good.  Find yourself a faith.  Find yourself a faith.  At the end of the episode, you see them walking away, arm and arm, into an English country garden.

And you?  What about your faith?  It is a serious question, even, maybe even especially, in a dormant time.  Perhaps, sensing this, you have for a moment allowed the car radio to linger at religion, in worship, this morning.  Perhaps, sensing this, you have turned on or turned toward a few minutes of music, Scripture, prayer, and preachment.  A dormant Thanksgiving may have given you pause, or a pause, coming now into December.  Pause before illness.  Pause before randomness.  Pause before mortality.  Pause before God.  Faith, dormant faith, wakes up in that kind of pause.  A dormant pause brings, or can, the dawn of faith.  Pause to pray in the morning.  Pause to recite a psalm mid-day.  Pause to listen in care when another speaks.  Pause to write an encouraging word.  Pause to push your mind in study, not for what informs but for what transforms.  Pause to recover a joy in generosity.  Pause to make a plan to worship, come Sunday, just as now, well, you are doing.  Faith is dormant unless it wakes up in these moments of pause.

Of course.  What other realm of life or experience do we know that opens itself with no investment?  No investment in funds leads to no gain in growth.  No investment in exercise leads to no gain in health.  No investment in study leads to no gain in learning.  No investment in equality leads to no gain in justice.  No investment in difference leads to no gain in community.  No investment in friendship leads to no gain in friends.

Your faith, how is it with your faith?  If the answer is ‘dormant’, come this dormant Advent, you may want to invest yourself, say, in Scripture, say, in its serious study, say, or for what is shows in life, vital moments of awakening, life’s woke times.

Advent

That is, you cannot come to Christmas unless you cross the river Jordan…

Between you and the 12 days of grace in the feast of Christmas 2020 there runs an icy river, four weeks of Advent 2020, the journey in preparation…

You cannot get across alone, or without cost, or without preparation, or without getting wet…

You will need some investment here…

This beginning, Advent, is like all others—uncertain, difficult, scary, hard…

In these weeks there is set aside a time of preparation…

The voices of our ancestors, forebears, precursors in faith cry out in our covid 2020 wilderness experience…

In today’s readings, three distinct voices resound.  The voice of the prophet Isaiah. The voice of the John the Baptist.  And the voice of the St. Mark, the author of the earliest gospel and its beginning….

The voices come out of the great, distant past, cloaked in antiquity, hooded in mystery, shrouded in misty history, covered by the winds and dust of time.

Our Scripture is holy, is the word of God, because week by week, we read and listen, here, for the divine word.  Where else would we possibly want to be, come Sunday, than in earshot of that Word? We stand on the shoulders of the ancients, stretching back two and three thousand years, for whom also these words were holy.  They outlast us, these words of holy writ.  They uplift us.  They reshape us.  They return us to our rightful minds.  The authority of Scripture lies in a very pragmatic garden of practice:  we do this every week, all the 4,000 Sundays of our lives.  Scripture acquires authority out of its long-time traditional use.  Scripture exudes authority as the mind, our gift of reason, explores the caverns and caves, the stalactites and stalagmites, the dark recesses of venerable words.  Scripture pierces the heart with authority, in our own hearing, our own recitation, our own living, our own experience.  Tradition, reason, and experience crown Holy Scripture with--authority.

Listen, then, in love, to the voices of our ancestors, forebears, predecessors who also wrestled with the question of faith, the waking of faith at the dawn of faith.

Second Isaiah

The year is 540bce.

In the dark days of exile, the second prophet Isaiah recalled for his people the nature of faith.

How difficult it is to be away from home, to be alone, to be cut off from the people and places that mean most to you. You college junior you. All travelers know this, as do all human pilgrims.  Your life is a journey, a spiritual journey wrought in meaning, fraught with meaning, fought for meaning, taught by meaning.

The preparation for good news may even begin in the dark lost hurt of exile, like a birdsong before dawn. Dormancy…can be the dawn of faith.  The book of Isaiah stops at chapter 39, a hard stop.  The book of Isaiah begins again, heard today, in chapter 40.  Isaiah could hear the early singing of the birdsong of hope long before any of his contemporaries.  The people of Israel, through a series of tragic decisions, guided by a series of misguided leaders, found themselves enslaved to a foreign king. Our gospel of the Prince of Peace is born out of a strife-torn experience.  Our confidence in the God of Hope is born out of a record of nearly hopeless moments in the community of faith.

What makes faith possible in a time of exile?  What makes hope possible in the wasteland of a desert?  What makes faith possible in pandemic?

Faith comes from a mixture of memory and imagination and vision.  Faith, like its first cousin, hope, comes from trouble.  Over 45 years of ministry, when the question has arisen, “Where did your faith come from?’, ‘Whence, Faith?’, the answer invariable runs something like this: “well, a long time ago, I was in a deep kind of trouble, and, here is what happened…’ Faith comes out of trouble.  The dawn of faith is in the dormancy of trouble.  Faith, like cousin hope, is real faith when it is most what you need.  And faith comes in trouble, in times of trouble, in exile, in times of exile.  Ours this year, 2020 is such. An exile.  And some days we feel it to the marrow bone.

This is what a verse remembered does for us.  It frees us to hope for what is not yet seen.  A song like Isaiah 40, well sung, frees us from the tyranny of the present, the oppression of the right now, the slavery of the moment.  We get free to dream of another time or two.  Oddly, the best thing about the study of theology is that it frees us from the 21^st century.

The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ may involve a newfound capacity to hope, to hope against hope, to hope for what yet cannot be seen, to hope and to hope and to hope.  The song and marrow bone of faith comes calling out just before sunlight, at dawn.

Isaiah overheard and foretold another voice, another prospect.  He sensed what was not yet visible.  Who hopes, anyway, for what he sees? So he cried out:

The voice of one crying in the wilderness

Prepare the way of the Lord

Make his paths straight

The Baptist

The year is 27 ce.

It is the year of the courage of the Baptist. It takes a peculiar spiritual strength in faith to find the grace to…step aside.   John the Baptist created a commotion with his call to confession of sin.  He called, and the people came.  They had a common mind, at least to the point of acknowledging their need.  Like Isaiah, he was, he is, one of our venerable ancestors, forebears, precursors.

John came out of tradition—the tradition of the prophets.  His role and work were not alien to the long history before him.   So, when he went out in his rough clothing, into a harsh desert, to speak unpleasant but true words of warning and judgment, he did so out of a common understanding that prophets might just come along every now and then.  They might call the city of Jerusalem to repent every now and then.  They might direct the people of Israel out to the river bank every now and then.  They might point to God every now and then.

John spoke directly to his people.  He challenged his generation to look hard at the way they had lived, and with a spiritual plumb line to measure themselves according to the law of God.  What one has no sin to confess?  What one has no fault to regret?  What one has no desire to be made clean? What one would not, given the chance, wash in the Jordan and start over?  Who has not tossed and turned at night, in the dark, awaiting the dawn?

Friends.  Politics lies downstream from culture, and culture downstream from religion, and religion downstream from…faith.  The dawn of faith is at the headwaters of all the rest, for all the cultural amnesia of such today.

The Baptist reminds us of the distance between our dreams and our deeds.

But the lasting word of the Baptist is not about his own work at all.  Like the church to this day, finally, he exists to point to Another, the thong of whose sandals none is worthy to loosen.

For all his accomplishment, at the pinnacle of human endeavor, right religion, John finds, in faith, at the right time, the grace to make space.

The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ may involve a willingness, at the right time, to  make space for someone else, to step aside.  For you, one day, the gospel may evoke a willingness to step aside.  Or, one day, not so much the willingness, but the reluctant courage to do so.

John felt that nudge,and so he cried out:

After me comes he who is mightier than I

The thong of whose sandals

I am not worthy to stoop down and untie

John Mark

The year is 70ce.

With others, Mark could have found a more pleasant way to begin his gospel.  He might with Matthew have offered a long list of names of great saints and sinners past, and then told a story about wise men from the east.  Or he might with Luke have started with thrilling birth stories, retelling the birth of the Baptist and of Jesus, to Elizabeth and Mary, and then recounted the advent of the Son of God among humble shepherds, in a humble inn, in a humble town, on a humble night.   The Gospel of John even begins with the beginning of time and Jesus rounding the unformed cosmos as the divine word, logos.

As plain as the nose on your face, though, Mark starts simple and bare.  No frills, no varnish, no make-up, no extras.  Like Paul, Mark says nothing about the birth of Jesus, or young man Jesus, or the family of Jesus.  He begins with the river Jordan, and John, a man dressed in camel’s hair.

This gospel begins with a barren, bleak moment in the icy dark, along a cold river, faith dormant in exile.

The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ may well involve just such a cold, and foreboding start, a beginning that in that way is like all beginnings, from the infant cry at birth, to the coughing susurration at death, and every new venture in between:  a little quiet, a little cold, a little wild honey.  And hovering somewhere nearby…the divine possibility of a divine possibility.  So, Mark writes: The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

Let us pause to shrug off our dormancy.  Let us awake.  Together, let us begin the journey.

Coda

With Second Isaiah, in a time of exile, we will face down the loneliness we feel, and will explore a newfound capacity to hope.  In a period of discouragement, we will accept the courage and the capacity to wait, to wait without idols, to wait for the living and true God, whose messengers do come, in the fullness of time.

With John the Baptist, in a period of anxiety, an age of anxiety, when our own service has been rendered, and our own work is done, we will look for that saving willingness, the grace to make space, to make way for Another.

With John Mark, in an age of pestilence and dislocation, when change in work or health arrive, we will face the harsh difficulty of a cold, new beginning.  We will rely on faith, the faith of our ancestors, forebears, precursors, those who came before, who also knew the icy cold of the river Jordan.  We will name our precursors, honor them, remember them.  At a dinner table.  In the comfort of a family conversation.  In the discussion and dialogue of real national debate.  In divine worship, as the Scriptures are read and the Word is proclaimed.  And in the communal silence of eucharist, today a spiritual eucharist.

In a moment we will hear again the ancient liturgy for eucharist.  We are not together to receive together the bread and cup.  But we are together in relationship, by memory, in hope, through prayer.  And with a little imagination, with eyes closed and hearts open, we might allow the familiar, ancient prayers of communion, to bring us into communion.

So, travel with a little imagination…Imagine Eucharist at Marsh Chapel.  Stand to sing… Pause to reflect… Step out into the aisle… Look at and look past Abraham Lincoln and Francis Willard…Receive cup and bread, bread and cup… Kneel at the altar to pray… Stand in communion with the communion of saints…Here is the bread and cup of friendship…Imagine, if you are willing, your own funeral, say right here, and a congregation reciting together a creed, a psalm, a hymn, a poem.  Imagine, if you are willing, a congregation currently in diaspora, but just now, by the word spoken, a gathered and thus addressable community, you and I and all together.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 12.6.2020 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Matthew 25:31-46

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May we be blessed with liberal helpings of grace, gratitude and generosity, both to receive and to give, in this singular Thanksgiving season.

Grace

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of grace, in this season of needed grace.

We hear in Matthew 25 today a ringing valediction, a ringing acclamation of grace.  Although it is found in no other gospel, we feel and sense today’s parable as the very word of the Lord, pronounced in full, in an unmediated way.  We are haunted by it:  as you have done it to the least, you have done it to me (repeat).  A last word, a valediction, a last will and testament, sure, unshakable and downright clear.  We are still rightly measured by the way we treat those at the dawn of life, those at the twilight of life, and those in the shadows of life.  As you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.

A valediction, a last word, carries an acute power.  In a way, the Bible is a long chain of valedictions.  Jacob, Moses, Elijah, David, Job, Jesus, Peter, Paul. Especially, read again the second half of the Gospel of John, a wondrous, fulsome valediction.

One type of valediction is a concession.  It is a grace to concede--at the end of a contest, or race, or election.  There is a powerful poignancy of a particular kind, a riveting poignancy, in a concession rightly rendered.  It has a power like no other.  For all the joy one finds in acceptance and celebration at victory, there is a deeper reach in the concession.  We think of Abraham Lincoln, after a loss, saying he was like a boy who stumbled and found he was ‘too hurt to laugh and too old to cry’. Adlai Stevenson quoted him a century later.  There is a kind of courageous offering on the part of those who will stand and offer themselves, who then are defeated or rejected, and then have the grace to step forward and offer support to their opponent, for the greater good. We could use such a liberal helping of grace today.  In our Methodist tradition, at the election of general superintendents, the grace of acceptance is often surpassed by the grace in concession.  It takes more courage, more grace, to concede in defeat than to accept in victory.  A liberal helping of grace.

Another type of valediction is a farewell, perhaps at retirement.  What kept me going to our denominational annual meetings, as the years progressed, was the chance to listen to the soon to be retired,superannuated clergy, reflecting in five minutes on fifty years of travel, labor, and discipline.  They were the truest words, many joyful, some somber, of the conference gathering each year.  Or, think of University life, as students graduate, on the one hand, and as faculty and staff step down, on the other.  This University, it should be said, thanks to offices of President and Provost, has lived a proud commitment to these moments.  What you say at the end, in leave taking, has a lasting power.  In ministry, the way you leave is the most important thing you do.  I suspect the same could be said for other professions, other callings.

Another type of valediction comes at a point of change, of separation.  In one setting, as we prepared to itinerate from one pulpit to another, the children of the church were guided to offer their own shared valediction, during a children’s moment.  They were encouraged to say two things:  thank you, and, goodbye.

Yet another mode of valediction comes at the grave.  Here the life, not the voice, speaks, or others give voice to the life now departed, dearly departed.  We shall struggle in covid time, and following covid time, to match these moments aright.  We have not been able, 250,000 deaths later, fully, fully to validate in valediction, the lives our dearest loved ones, and the lives of others in our communities.  We shall need to find other and further ways to do so, into the unforeseen future.  It is a heap of work, necessary and good work, that lies ahead.

With grace, Matthew concludes his gospel in words that ring surely and truly--of Jesus.  Now, as you have come to see, and perhaps dislike or regret, Matthew cloaks his teachings, including the last judgment—hungry, thirsty, stranger, naked, sick, imprisoned—in apocalyptic garb—Son of Man, angels, sheep and goats, glory, eternal punishment, eternal life, though not as harshly here as in some of our parables earlier this fall.  Many, including beloved Rudolf Bultmann, found apocalyptic language and imagery entirely useless, the husk of antiquity shrouding the kernel of truth.  Yet, even the apocalyptic dress has something for us, which today, late autumn 2020, we may be ready, in part, to receive.  Apocalyptic faces squarely the unyielding powers around every individual, the principalities and the powers, the powers that be, and admits the ravenous darkness therein—technology, weaponry, plague, resentment.  Apocalyptic faces squarely the transience of life, the brevity and difficulty embedded in even the best of life—the fragility of inherited norms, the fragility of venerable insitutions, the fragility of acculturated kindnesses taken for granted.  Apocalyptic, ever consolation literature fore and aft, keeps an eye on the far horizon, the freedom beyond fragility, and the promise of a new heaven and a new earth, freedom for lives and communities redolent with gratitude and grace and generosity. (John Collins of Yale, years ago, reminded us of this)

We hear today in St. Matthew 25, the gospel valediction, the gospel in gracious valediction.

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of grace, in this season of needed grace.

Gratitude

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of gratitude, in this season of gratitude.

Let us be mindful this Thanksgiving, off gratitude, as was Howard Thurman, who was a hundred years head of his time fifty years ago, so he is still fifty years ahead of us.  As is our long time custom here at Marsh Chapel, on this Sunday we remember his poem, his paean, his hymn to generosity:

Today, I make my Sacrament of Thanksgiving.

I begin with the simple things of my days:

Fresh air to breathe,

Cool water to drink,

The taste of food,

The protection of houses and clothes,

The comforts of home.

For all these I make an act of Thanksgiving this day!

I bring to mind all the warmth of humankind that I have known:

My mother’s arms,

The strength of my father

The playmates of my childhood,

The wonderful stories brought to me from the lives

Of many who talked of days gone by when fairies

And giants and all kinds of magic held sway;

The tears I have shed, the tears I have seen;

The excitement of laughter and the twinkle in the

Eye with its reminder that life is good.

For all these I make an act of Thanksgiving this day

I finger one by one the messages of hope that awaited me at the crossroads:

The smile of approval from those who held in their hands the reins of my security;

The tightening of the grip in a simple handshake when I

Feared the step before me in darkness;

The whisper in my heart when the temptation was fiercest

And the claims of appetite were not to be denied;

The crucial word said, the simple sentence from an open

Page when my decision hung in the balance.

For all these I make an act of Thanksgiving this day.

I pass before me the main springs of my heritage:

The fruits of labors of countless generations who lived before me,

Without whom my own life would have no meaning;

The seers who saw visions and dreamed dreams;

The prophets who sensed a truth greater than the mind could grasp

And whose words would only find fulfillment

In the years which they would never see;

The workers whose sweat has watered the trees,

The leaves of which are for the healing of the nations;

The pilgrims who set their sails for lands beyond all horizons,

Whose courage made paths into new worlds and far off places;

The saviors whose blood was shed with a recklessness that only a dream

Could inspire and God could command.

For all this I make an act of Thanksgiving this day.

I linger over the meaning of my own life and the commitment

To which I give the loyalty of my heart and mind:

The little purposes in which I have shared my loves,

My desires, my gifts;

The restlessness which bottoms all I do with its stark insistence

That I have never done my best, I have never dared

To reach for the highest;

The big hope that never quite deserts me, that I and my kind

Will study war no more, that love and tenderness and all the

inner graces of Almighty affection will cover the life of the

children of God as the waters cover the sea.

All these and more than mind can think and heart can feel,

I make as my sacrament of Thanksgiving to Thee,

Our Father, in humbleness of mind and simplicity of heart.

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of gratitude, in this season of gratitude.

Generosity

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of generosity, in this season of needed generosity.

As you have done it to the least of these…

Today, as a nation, we yet await a full, national, coordinated, generous response to the pandemic, as in:  here is what we are facing; here is what we have done; here is what we need to do;  here is the probable duration of our efforts;  here are the greatest risks; here is what you can do (cleanliness, distance, testing, tracing, masks).  And one more thing:  this will take a long time, and will be very hard, but together we can and will meet the challenge.  Together we can do this.

To do so, we will need the grace of honesty confronting loss.  We have a checkered history here: there have been 200,000 opioid related deaths since Oxycotin was approved in 1995, for instance.  The number of US children without health insurance rose by more than 400,000 between 2016-2018, for instance.  NYT 3/24/20.  (Think about doctor visits, annual physicals, sick care, dental care, all).  And now 250,000 dead in this covid 190 corona virus time.  Of course, in plague, we think of Albert Camus.  We will need his honesty.

Plague or no plague, there is always, as it were, the plague, if what we mean by that is a susceptibility to sudden death, an event that can render our lives instantaneously meaningless.  This is what Camus meant by the ‘absurdity’ of life.  Recognizing this absurdity should lead us not to despair but to a tragicomic redemption, a softening of the heart, a turning away from judgment and moralizing to joy and gratitude”(Alain de Botton, NYT, 3/22/20.)

A liberal helping of such honesty will turn us toward generosity.

To do so, we will need a liberal helping of balanced liberalism, a recollection that ‘the invisible hand of the market requires the visible hand of the government to regulate its inevitable excesses’ (Ellis on Adams, 91).  Further we shall require ‘an educated citizenry fluent in a wise and universal liberalism…This liberalism will neither play down nor fetishize identity grievances, but look instead for a common and generous language to build on who we are more broadly, and to conceive more boldly what we might be able to accomplish in concert.’  (NYT 8/27/18).  To and for the support of this liberal balance, the maintenance of a liberal balance, have been devoted the Marsh pulpit sermons in series, August to November:  they in one sense have been simply an interpretation of the gospel devoted to the reclamation and rehabilitation of a single word in spoken English, a word as both adjective and noun, the word ‘liberal’.

And when did we see thee…

Hungry, thirsty, stranger, naked, sick, imprisoned…

As you have done it to the least of these…

As Mark Twain put it, ‘it’s not the the parts of the Bible I don’t understand that worry me, it’s the parts I do understand’

I come back again to the voice of James Alan McPherson:  ‘each United States citizen would attempt to approximate the ideals of the nation, be on at least conversant terms with all its diversity, carry the mainstream of the culture inside himself (The Atlantic in 1978).  As an American, by trying to wear these clothes he would be a synthesis of high and low, black and white, city and country, provincial and universal.  If he could live with these contradictions, he would be simply a representative American.  I believe that if one can experience its diversity, touch a variety of its people, laugh at its craziness, distill wisdom from its tragedies, and attempt to synthesize all this inside oneself without going crazy, one will have earned the right to call oneself a ‘citizen of the United States’. (N.Y. Times, 7/28/16, a25).  It will take a liberal helping of generosity, given and received, to ‘live’ the contradictions without going crazy.  We can too.  You can too.

As you have done it to the least of these…

This week our friend Tom Fiedler, former BU School of Communications Dean,  spoke on Boston television, and wrote for the Charlotte Observer, about the new struggle in evangelical  Christianity,  the struggle over power vs. generosity, seen in example through the bitter conflict within the Billy Graham family.

He quotes Graham’s daughter Jerushah: “I have spoken out as much as I have because I feel that some of these evangelical leaders are tarring (Christianity) with shame,” she said, in a pointed reference to her uncle…People who don’t know Jesus are not being introduced by the leadership to the Jesus I know.” And she said she is confident that her positions on such issues as gay rights, the treatment of refugees and respect for “the most marginalized” are those that not only resonate with the future generation, but that align with those of her grandfather.

When did we see thee hungry, thirsty, stranger, naked, sick, imprisoned…

May we be blessed with a liberal helping of generosity, in this season generosity.

Grace, gratitude, generosity.  Grace, gratitude, generosity.  May our Thanksgiving tables be fully laden with liberal helpings of all three.

-The Reverend Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in Liberal Gospel: Autumn 2020 Sermons, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 11.22.2020 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

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Matthew 25:1-13

1 Thessalonians 4: 13-18

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The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel:

Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.

The dilemma of today’s parable is the dilemma of our very lives.  Much of life is simply a long wait.  Don’t we know it this week.  Don’t we know it this first week in November, 2020.  Change comes but not as fast as we would like.  Change comes but not as fully as we would like.  Change comes but not just as we would like.  So:  stand up, stand firm, stand ready, stand strong.  And watch.  For you know neither day nor hour.

Our gospel has made use of a story known elsewhere in antiquity (cf., Bultmann, HST, loc.cit).  The power of the wedding, as you know from other parts of Holy Scripture, stood at the very pinnacle of experience and religious teaching, in antiquity.   Here the gospel writer has appended a (very noble) encouragement to watchfulness, to someone else’s parable, now re-arranged near the end of the first century of the common era.

Our more trustworthy manuscripts include the bride, too, ‘ten maidens…went to meet the bridegroom and the bride’.   In fact, nowhere in antiquity do maidens await simply the bridegroom.  They await the bride.  The wedding is about the bride, friends, then and now. That is why we call these ten ‘bridesmaids’  They attend the bride, and especially in the great exultation of the translation from home to home, from parents to spouse, like the sun rising from the eastern heavens, daily, the bridegroom with the bride runs the course with joy.

So, why has the writer eliminated the bride?  He does so to make the parable fit the church’s biggest spiritual disappointment, keenly and painfully suffered by 90ad.  Disappointed hope.  Hope deferred.  Hope, like that fiery hope of 1 Thessalonians, suddenly left empty. Christ was risen from the dead which must mean the end of time which must mean his return in power and glory which must mean the soon and very soon parousia, the coming of the Lord.  But 30ad became 50ad and 50ad became 70ad and 70ad became 90ad.  And the bridegroom (here shorn of bride clearly a figure of Christ) delays.  He delays…

The original parable is not about awaiting the return of Christ, but about living through a long wait. The maidens, the bridesmaids, some prepared and some not, all have to wait.  And it is a long wait.  And that is just the point.

You may think of a woman waiting to give birth.  You may think of a population, long enslaved, waiting for justice to roll down like waters.  You may think of a war torn region, the setting for endless decades of mayhem and war and violence, waiting for the dawn of peace.   You may think of a doctoral student waiting for that final report, the dissertation--finished.  You may think of a denomination waiting the simple wisdom to affirm the full humanity of gay people.  You may think of those afflicted and infected with a deadly virus, or fearing such for their loved ones, awaiting a vaccine for healing.  You may think of a man hoping for a job and daily awaiting a letter.  You may think of a physician attending a patient suffering from a mental illness, hoping against hope for a delayed cure.  You may think of a lonely woman, a tithing Christian, waiting for a pastor to leave off further libraries and degrees and come to her church, and come to her house, and make a visit, and say a prayer.

Or, say this week, you may think of a country born with liberty and justice for all, awaiting an election resolution, with liberty and justice for all.  With all votes counted.

Whether or not the full range of doctrine and teaching in Christianity has yet convinced you to move from the worship of selfishness to the joy of generosity, surely, at least at this point, you would admit its congruence with your experience.  Faith and life both are a long wait.  And today that is just the point.

How shall we trim our lamps for the wait?  The parable moves quickly to the importance of preparation.  A little patience?  A little persistence?  Oil for the lamps during the long wait.

Patience.  The patience of Job.  Patience is a virtue. Love, joy, peace… patience.  Patient in suffering.

Persistence.  Persistent prayer.  Persistence as insistence.  To exist is to persist. Labor omnia vincit.  The persistence of Paul. Pray…without ceasing.

The life of faith, the spiritual life, carries us down into the caverns of experience.  Our steadiness in faith, our reliance on faith, are most clear to us when everything else is murky, misty, dark and dank.  Say, this week. Faith is only faith when it is all you have left.

Two registers of the spiritual life, the life of faith, down in the declivities and caves of time, are patience and persistence.   Over the course of a week, or a year, or a lifetime, one needs both.  You need both.  You need both the passive attentiveness of patience and the active resistance of persistence.

One is the brake pedal.  That is patience.  You are careening down hill.  Your plan, your work, your friendship, your marriage, your culture, your profession are going south.  You need a way to put a foot on the brakes, to slow the decline, to ease the demise.  Patience can help you to do that.  One day at a time.  Sleep on it.  Things will look better in the morning.  Patience is your way of managing the rolling ride down hill.

The other is the accelerator, the gas peddle.  That is persistence.  You are looking uphill.  The climb is before you and the incline daunting.  Your plan, your work, your friendship, your marriage, your culture, your profession are all in the balance, nothing is for sure, nothing is taken for granted.  You can rest, but later.  Now you need to put the peddle to the metal and climb the hill.  Slow and steady wins the day.  Keep on keeping on.  One step at a time.  Persistence is your way of empowering the grinding ride up hill.  As Maggie Smith writes, Keep Moving.

Both patience and persistence are underrated virtues.  They shy away from the lime light.  They don’t do well in the bright light.  But for your faith, your communal shared faith, to quicken and to continue, you will need both patience and persistence.  For sustenance, energy, endurance in the long wait, you and I need both.

Some of you are more naturally patient.  Make sure you practice persistence too.  Some of you are more naturally persistent.  Make sure you practice patience too.

Sometimes though, in the life of faith, in the spiritual life, you need more gas and less brake, more persistence than patience.

My dear friend, Dr. Jarrett, how is our Bach Experience this morning, a patient and persistent meditation on mortality, meant to teach and guide us?

Dr. Scott Allen Jarrett, Director of Music:

Since 2007, Music at Marsh Chapel has programmed the cantatas of Bach in a regular annual series feauring these works in their original liturgical design as musical sermons. In this context, it was Bach’s task to work through the theological ideas at hand. These cantatas, comprising solo arias, recitatives, choruses, and chorales, with librettos using both scripture and free poetic texts, typically last about 20 – 30 minutes. In 2017, we focused on cantatas Bach composed in July and August of 1723 during his first weeks in Leipzig as cantor at the St. Thomas Church. Each cantata is masterpiece in miniature, and we continue to marvel at the astonishing invention, creativity, and complexity revealed note by note.

Cantata 95, ‘Christus, der ist mein Leben’, takes up one of the most difficult but ubiquitous themes of Bach’s day: how to reconcile and countenance our mortality. Our program annotator writes: “Consider that pre-Enlightenment Germany saw death and devastation in the Thirty Years’ War unknown to Europe since the fourteenth century, and that Bach himself was orphaned at age ten and lost his first wife and ten of his twenty children. Death was all around; the promise of immediate salvation cultivated a cultural longing for it and served as a powerful call to faith.”

Serving to teach, remind, and also comfort, Bach drew on four different familiar hymns or chorales that serve as the foundation for this seven-movement cantata. These tunes and texts serve as a beacon to the believer — a tuneful and memorable transmission of theology: Christ, He is my Life, To die is my gain; To it do I surrender myself, With joy I go yonder. / With peace and joy I go there according to the Will of God. Death has become my sleep. / I would bid you farewell, You evil, false world. In heaven it is good to dwell. / Since Christ is arisen from the dead, I will not remain in the grave; Your last Word is my ascension, Death’s fear You can drive away. For where You are, there do I come, That I may always live and be with You; Therefore I depart with joy.

These chorales establish the orthodoxy around which the believer can begin to reconcile his own personal response and call. Musically, the four chorale settings also offer a compositional guide to the possibilities of setting chorale tunes. The first is set as an orchestral chorale fantasia with each phrase of the chorale set off by exuberant motives from the oboes and strings in G major. The second, heard as the concluding section of the first movement, casts the chorus in counterpoint with the oboes and and horn set over a more rhythmic, walking bass line. The soprano soloist takes up the third chorale, in a little aria that becomes a sweet devotional song with two oboes d’amore in unison encouraging her song. The cantata concludes with a four part setting of the fourth chorale in an expected way, with the notable addition of a fifth voice as descant in the first violin part.

The most remarkable music of the cantata is reserved for the tenor soloist, who, through his clarity of faith, teaches Bach’s congregants a possibility of their personal attitudes toward mortality. His music in the central aria is sung almost in spite of the music of the instruments, which seem to proceed on their own clock. The aural image here is one of funeral bells, or a glockenspiel in a bell tower. The strings play entirely pizzicato, or plucked, throughout, and the organ remains silent. You can imagine this sound as the inner workings of the clock played in precise and regular patterns and rhythms. Above the strings, the two oboes play their melody in parallels. The missing third note of their chords is obscured in the pizzicatos of the first violin part. And, to my ear, this further contributes to the ‘mechanized’ sound of this music – a Leichenglocken or funeral bells. The tenor joins up musically with the instruments every time he sings the words “blessed hour”, singing the third or missing note in the oboe pattern. There are so many choices here from the composer revealing a musical reality the likes of which only a Johann Sebastian Bach could imagine.

In this bizarre time of pandemic, I, like you, struggle with some sort of balance — or is it, imbalance? — of patience and persistence. Regardless, this cantata from our archive of recordings reveals the cumulative effort of our persistent focus on the study of Bach’s music and the possibility of talent assembled around it. Soprano Mary Ruth Lown, Bass Craig Juricka, and tenor Patrick T Waters have each devoted years of service as Marsh Chapel Choral Scholars. Though we don’t hear them singing live today, I wait patiently for that “blessed hour” when we will again.

The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel:

So. The dilemma of today’s parable is the dilemma of our very lives.  Much of life, as in the story, and as in the Cantata, is simply a long wait.  It is a long wait, and that is just the point.   The primitive Christian church endured such a lengthy wait through six decades prior St. Matthew, awaiting the bridegroom’s return.  And He delayed.  And He delays still.

In the interim, ad interim, come Sunday, here is an invitation for you and all.  Worship on Sunday.  Come to and toward the church.  The doors of this community of faith are open to you.

That is, you may benefit, should you seek patience and persistence, from consort with a community born in patience (that is, suffering) and persistence (that is, endurance).  Suffering produces endurance, and endurance character, and character hope, and hope does not disappoint us.  Why?  Because of the Love of God that has been poured into our hearts.  There is hardly anything happier than finding a church family to love and a church home to enjoy.  Be welcome here at Marsh Chapel.  For fifteen years I have bathed and basked myself in the genuine love and welcome of this community, to my mortal and eternal benefit.  You come too.

I can think of no better auditory invitation for you than that of the faithful person about to guide us in prayer.  Here is the voice of one of our own community lay leaders, Ms. Sandra Cole, our Marsh Chapel Membership Secretary, on whose prayer and prayers we have come to rely, month by year by decade, including and especially this week:

Ms. Sandra Cole, Marsh Chapel Membership Secretary:

God, our help and deliverer^[1]

We bow before you, anxious and fearful of what lies ahead and so we bring our concerns to you.  We have been through a searing election season, which has pushed us further and further apart as we focus an indicting spotlight on the others:  the democrats, the republicans, the independents, the non-voters, the elected officials, the candidates, the poor, the rich, the peaceful protesters, the police, and countless other others.  Some of us navigate social justice inequities as a way of life, while some of us don’t believe there’s a real problem.  We lack empathy.   Some of us feel threatened by the increasing diversity of our country. Some of us value our diversity as a source of strength.   As a nation, we are divided.  The notion of  “E Pluribus Unum”,^[2] out of many, one, is missing in action, much like the coins that bear this aspiration. We are still in the midst of a deadly pandemic that has forced us to take refuge, separated from our families, friends and communities of faith.  We indict those who, through their actions and words, refuse to believe it is dangerous.  We indict those who, through edict or action, strive to preclude the virus’ advance.

Though we seek your deliverance from our anxiety and fear, we, like David[3], pause to rejoice and be glad^[4] for your steadfast goodness and mercy in our lives^[5].   We are thankful that you are our ever-present help in times of trouble^[6]. We are comforted by your presence, for you lead us to the refuge of still waters and restore our souls^[7].   As we walk face these existential threats to our country and ourselves, we are fearless for we feel your presence beside us^[8].   For your faithful presence, we praise you and give you thanks.

As we praise you, we urgently seek your help.  Deliver us from the evil of our personal sins against others. Forgive us, Lord and abide with us. Walk beside us and help us to stay on course in our Christian journey.  Help us to patiently follow your guide and take the path of righteousness.  Help us to be persistent in following your direction. Abide with us so that we guard against spiritual temptation, stand firm in the faith and are bold and steadfast Christians^[9].

We pray for our country. Give us unity.  Give us peace.  Direct our elected and appointed officials in the way of wisdom and lead them on the path of righteousness^[10].

Bless the veterans who have served in peace or war, who sacrificed and fought for the freedoms we have today. For their courage, faith and hope, we are thankful.

Comfort the sick and those with broken lives and broken hearts. Take the worry from our minds, merciful Father. When we fear what lies ahead, help us to remember that you are our companion through the difficult times^[11].  Help us to keep our mind focused on you – to wait for you, Lord, for you alone are our help and shield^[12].

As a faithful people, we bring our concerns to you, sure and certain that you will hear our prayers, you will answer our prayers and that your promises will be fulfilled ^[13].  We pray these things in the name of the  Love of God^[14], the Good Shepherd^[15], amen.

And now as virtual community, let us pray his prayer^[16] together.

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation.

But deliver us from evil

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever and ever.

Amen

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

-Dr. Scott Allen Jarrett, Director of Music

-Ms. Sandra Cole, Marsh Chapel Membership Secretary

_________________________
1 Psalm 70:5
2 Continental Congress description of the Great Seal
3 Psalm 70:4 or Psalm 40:16
4 Psalm 70:4 or Psalm 40:16
5 Psalm 23:6
6 Psalm 46:1
7 Psalm 23:2-3
8 Psalm 23:4
9 1 Corinthians 16:13
10 Proverbs 4:11
11 Genesis 15:1
12 Psalm 33:20
13 Hebrews 11
14 Dean Hill’s sermon for 8 Nov 20; 1 John 4:9
15 John 10:1-16
16 Mathew 6:9-13

posted in Dr. Scott Allen Jarrett, Director of Music, The Bach Experience, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 11.8.2020 at 11:00 am

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Matthew 23: 1-12

Click here to hear just the sermon

We then, in today’s gospel, are taught to practice what we preach.

Geese return to their nesting place, that place chosen for laying eggs and sheltering the young. Every year, geese come home to their birth place, as my lake friend tells me. They are loud this year, louder than one remembers, calling, glampa, glampa, glampa. The dark skies fill with them, and then the lake, as they find their place of nesting, and some fish for lunch or dinner.

They may have come from the northwest, an hour or three earlier swinging past the burial plot of Harriet Tubman, in Auburn NY. She with her faith and pistol brought liberal hope to hearts of enslaved people, hiking along the dark riverbed of the Susquehanna, and, for many, on to that lasting neighborly land of hope, just across the St. Lawrence. She is interred near Lincoln’s opponent become ally, William Seward, who bought us Alaska. Along fly the geese, in their autumn season of travel. We too are itinerants, you and I, un-feathered but on the move, moving into a new chapter this coming week.

The geese, spread out in v formations, may then cross by the edge of Cooperstown, resting on the head of Abner Doubleday’s handsome statue, an hour or so north of Pennsylvania, that hotly contested region of Quakers and farmers, not far from Philadelphia where Benjamin Franklin gave us the post office. Remember Franklin warned us: I give you a republic, if you can keep it. Or, in addition, he might have said as well, I give you a post office, if you can keep it.

Ah the geese, reminding us of the season, the time. Others of their feather will fly along the Hudson river, too, perhaps near Tivoli, on that river’s bank, where my grandfather is buried, who left me a gold pocket watch, which one day I will give to my grandson, Charles Robert. An hour of extra sleep on All Saints

Sunday may allow us a reach of memory, to those no longer among the church militant, but now among the church triumphant. That river bank cemetery also holds our great uncle Myron, of murky but mythic family memory, who fought in the war to end all wars, then come home through Boston in 1918, and contracted the Spanish Flu, as we were regularly told growing up, and died in the second wave, March 1919. Probably there were some back then who said of that plague, it will all just go away, like magic. Except it didn’t. And, it won’t. He left a canteen, without a jacket, dented and silver colored, which came my way for camping trips, and was lost, left somewhere up Mt. Marcy in the Adirondacks one autumn. His grave is a hundred miles from our dear lady whose liberal hope, tattered but alive, still rings out in the harbor, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the restless refuse of your teeming shore, send these the lost the tempest tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Coming due east along Route 90, you nearly drove past New Lebanon without stopping, so eager to get back into the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and mesmerized by the geese overhead. Here is the ghost, the shade, the specter of Mother Ann Lee and the Shaking Quakers, eschewing body for the sake of spirit, at the edge of the mountains, such communal liberal hope they had, a great- hearted willingness to practice what they preached. They remembered the height of Jesus hope. Do we? 27 “I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, 28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. 29 If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. 30 Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. 31 Do to others as you would have them do to you. 32 “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. 33 If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. 34 If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. 35 But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return.[a] Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the selfish. 36 Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful. All these nesting places of hope, places of recollection of our own best selves. Who do you mean to be, at your most hopeful? Are we lovers anymore?

Who do you mean to be, as your own-most self? It is a riveting question, is it not, this very week.

You could come further east, along route 90 or even route 20 or even bluer highways winding into the Berkshires, which always seem dreamlike with or without the white snow frosting. Fewer geese, but some still, wending their way, flying on, calling out, glampa, glampa, glampa.

Here is Stockbridge, MA, home to Jonathan Edwards, on whose life and work we preached here at Marsh Chapel a few winters ago. He who is too much remembered for sinners in the hands of an angry God, and too little recalled for his sense of the holy, his love of nature, and his rendering of Scripture. Here is the Stockbridge Church, geese on the lawn, where Abraham Heschel gave the eulogy for Reinhold Niebuhr in 1971. Think of that ecumenical, inter-religious, capacious hope, a liberal hope, a hope in what we have in common. Niebuhr asked Heschel to preach his funeral. Stockbridge is a town like those back a bit west, along the Mohawk, in which we were raised. Raised by a community. Look back at the men and women: an insurance man, a Latin teacher, a Scout executive, a musician, the owner of a heater company, a minister, several farmers. All of the same grand old party, by the way. They taught honesty. They practiced civility. They formed a creed around courtesy. They made space for charity. They prized example. They had no truck with or patience for mendacity or perversity or self- aggrandizement. They listened to what people said, but they watched what people did. Particularly leaders. Like it says in the Bible, today, practice what you preach. Boy, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, not just in years but in habits of the heart.

We need again their balance, honesty and hope. We need to recover their magnanimity. We need the blue sky of aspiration which they saw. For such a thick cloud comes from a theological weather system in which the cold front of wrong has chased out the warm front of right, in which the low pressure of the fall has displaced the high pressure of creation, in which the radical postmodern apotheosis of difference has silenced the liberal late modern openness to shared experience, to promise and future, to common faith, common ground, common hope, liberal hope, in which the creation is seen from the cavern of the fall, not the fall from the prairie of creation, in which we have forgotten what the geese remember. Their nesting place, their birthright, their place and spirit of origin.

This is a pastoral problem. It is not just or mainly a political conflict. It is a theological contrast. It is not a matter of church coloration or religious style, it is a matter of creation, of God’s creation and the truth about creative goodness. Just how balanced is our balance between creation and fall? And God saw all that God made, and it was good. Not perfect, but good. There are a lot of things wrong. But. There are a lot of things right, too. How do we find that balance?

We locate that balance in a magnanimous hope. As the theologian said, “Thus the Spirit is the power to suffer in participation in the mission and the love of Jesus Christ, and is, in this suffering, the passion for what is possible, for what is coming and promised in the future of life, of freedom and of resurrection (212). In all our acts we are sowing in hope (213). ( J Moltmann, A Theology of Hope.)

It is two hours from the river to the ocean, from the Hudson to the Atlantic. In and across those two hours, say as the crow or even the goose flies, there lies a whole great deal of our shared history. If you get to Boston, come by Marsh Chapel, where there is a monument to Martin Luther King, Jr. I walked past it again this morning. It is mute, silent, and yet its very stone cries out, its marble makes music and sings, for those with ears to hear. It is a statue that points to a liberal hope, and so points away from much of our experience in the last four years. Yes, it points to justice, though justice is not the deepest heart of the gospel, of faith, of religion, or of that monument. It is a part, but not the heart. The heart belongs to…another word, another gospel word. Not one in opposition to the first, but one in tension and tandem with the first, and one outpacing the first. The heart of the gospel is love, and love is the marrow of the liberal hope, one true hope worthy of the name. King can teach us still: There is a liberal hope in the sometime radical practice of loving-kindness.

Last summer I was asked to offer a thought about love and transformation, for the final portion of our summer devotions. My friend from Yale Gene Outka once helped me think about this. He reminded us that Martin Luther King, Jr. advanced a compelling version of love, including love of enemies. In this affirmation, King distinguished agape from eros or romantic love and philia or friendship as follows:

“Agape is more than romantic love, agape is more than friendship. Agape is understanding, creative, redemptive, good will to all (people). It is an overflowing love which seeks nothing in return…. When one rises to love on this level, he loves (others) not because he likes them, not because their ways appeal to him, but he loves every (one) because God loves him. And he rises to the point of loving the person who does an evil deed while hating the deed that the person does. I think this is what Jesus meant when he said ‘love your enemies.’ I’m very happy that he didn’t say like your enemies, because it is pretty difficult to like some people. Like is sentimental, and it is pretty difficult to like someone bombing your home; it is pretty difficult to like somebody threatening your children; it is difficult to like congressmen who spend all of their time trying to defeat civil rights. But Jesus says love them, and love is greater than like.” (See my former teacher, James Melvin Washington, A Testament of Hope, p. 46)

Hear good news: In Jesus there is ‘a new creation, a new man and woman, a new life, a new age, a new covenant’ (Anchor, xxviii). In Jesus there is a hopeful creation, a hopeful man and woman, a hopeful life, a hopeful age, a hopeful covenant.

In a moment we will hear again the ancient liturgy for eucharist. We are not together to receive together the bread and cup. But we are together in relationship, by memory, in hope, through prayer. And with a little imagination, with eyes closed and hearts open, we might allow the familiar, ancient prayers of communion, to bring us into communion.

So, travel with a little imagination…Imagine Eucharist at Marsh Chapel. Stand to sing… Pause to reflect… Step out into the aisle… Look at and look past Abraham Lincoln and Francis Willard…Receive cup and bread, bread and cup… Kneel at the altar to pray… Stand in communion with the communion of saints on this All Saints Day…Here is the bread and cup of friendship…Imagine, if you are willing, your own funeral, say right here, and a congregation reciting together a creed, a psalm, a hymn, a poem. Imagine, if you are willing, a congregation currently in diaspora, but just now, by the word spoken, a gathered and thus addressable community, you and I and all together.

And let us practice what we preach. Come home, this All Saints Day. Come home to the place of your nesting, the place of your birth, the place of your baptism, the place of your taking wing, taking flight, your nesting place. It is a fine

place to visit, as the winter comes on, and you look for warmth, for health, for nourishment, for salvation. It is a little lake named love, a nesting place for the liberal hope:

We await a liberal hope, a hope

that our warming globe, caught in climate change, will be cooled by cooler heads and calmer hearts and careful minds.

that our dangerous world, armed to the teeth with nuclear proliferation, will find peace through deft leadership toward nuclear détente.

that our culture, awash in part in hooliganism, will find again the language and the song and the spirit of the better angels of our nature.

that our country, fractured by massive inequality between rich children and poor children, will rise up and make education, free education, available to all children, poor and rich.

that our nation, fractured by flagrant unjust inequality between rich and poor children, will stand up and make health care, free health care, available to all children, poor and rich.

that our schools, colleges and universities, will balance a love of learning with a sense of meaning, a pride in knowledge with a respect for goodness, a drive for discovery with a regard for recovery.

that our families, torn apart by abuse and distrust and anger and jealousy and unkindness, will social distance this Thanksgiving, and with or without a common meal, will show kindness and pity to one another.

that our decisions in life about our callings, how we are to use our time and spend our money, how we make a life not just a living, will be illumined by grace and generosity.

that our grandfathers and mothers, in their age and infirmity, will receive care and kindness that accords with the warning to honor father and mother that your own days be long upon the earth.

We await a liberal hope, finally a hope not of this world, but of this world as a field of formation for another, not just creation but new creation, not just life but eternal life, not just health but salvation, not just heart but soul, not just earth, but heaven.

Now, from Auburn to Cooperstown to Albany to Stockbridge to Boston, like geese in flight, we have come. They call to us: glampa, glampa, glampa. Maybe we want to pray. What shall we pray? Shall we pray in words Martin Luther King used in August of 1963? Shall we pray in words with music that Aretha Franklin sang in January of 2009? Shall we pray time honored words, written just down the street, in Boston, the nesting place of America, the place of birth for both goose and gander, your words from 1831 and a Park Street Church children’s concert and the pen of an Andover Newton graduate Samuel Francis Smith, Boston, your hymn, Boston, your psalm of liberal hope?

My country, 'tis of

Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the pilgrims' pride,

From every mountain side

Let Freedom ring.

Let music swell the breeze,

And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song;

Let mortal tongues awake;

Let all that breathe partake;

Let rocks their silence break,

The sound prolong.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in Liberal Gospel: Autumn 2020 Sermons, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 11.1.2020 at 11:00 am