Water or Wine?

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
January 14, 2007; 2nd Sunday after Epiphany, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(John 2:1-11) -- On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, "They have no wine." And Jesus said to her, "Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come." His mother said to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you." Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, "Fill the jars with water." And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, "Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward." So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, "Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now." Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.
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Many years ago I read a novel, set in the Far East. It was the story of the journey of a man who had been embittered by the treachery of his aunt and uncle who stole his family's prosperity and position. To restore honor and justice, he executed fierce revenge. But then he was left to rebuild his life from the ruins of his anger.

The book traces his long process of growth and transformation, culminating in his pilgrimage to echo cave, a dark round cave where he is left alone, sealed inside. His teacher leaves food, water, a lantern, and this instruction: "When you truly learn tolerance, the resistant forces that separate you from realizing the nature of yourself will melt away..." The teacher gives him a tablet. On the tablet is written:
THE CAVE IS A SYMBOL OF YOUR INNER BEING.
IT CAN BE FILLED WITH DARKNESS OR WITH LIGHT.

He is left, alone. Sealed in the cave. There he must confront himself. There is no one to perform for. There is no reason to pretend or to fake anything. He must face his real self. His deepest fears arise in his thoughts, and he feels very dark inside this cave. But when he thinks of his deepest loves, he finds that he feels lighthearted and thankful inside this cave. He makes a discovery that the nature of his inner being is dependent upon his attitude. He says of this discovery, "Gradually, it dawned on me what an attitude was, ...a way of acting or feeling. An attitude was formed by clinging to a feeling. Attitude was belief, and belief controlled our view of life. I held my breath, barely breathing, realizing that every time I have become fixed in my attitude, my attention became locked."

THE CAVE IS A SYMBOL OF YOUR INNER BEING.
IT CAN BE FILLED WITH DARKNESS OR WITH LIGHT.

He emerged from the cave enlightened, fixing his attitude upon that which was light.

These jugs of water in the story of Jesus' turning water into wine at the marriage in Cana, these jugs of water seem to me to be a metaphor not unlike the metaphor of the cave. In his Gospel, John calls this miracle a sign, a metaphor to be listened to at a deep, symbolic level.

Inside these jugs is watery life -- pale, colorless, without taste or flavor. This is the life of duty; its function is to try to keep things clean, washing over and over the stuff that inevitably gets dirty over and over.

Jesus changes this water into wine -- rich, colorful, with taste and sparkle. This is the life of celebration, whose function is abundant joy, where hearts are warmed in community.

I know of certain people who, when they walk into the room, bring a life and energy that seems to brighten the whole space. I've been to parties -- not unlike this family wedding in our Gospel -- celebrations which seemed to be full of joy and conviviality. Sometimes that joy simply reflects the happy energy of that community and its mutual affection spreading out over the whole. Sometimes it is a particular person who literally is the life of the party. I leave such events smiling, feeling warm and thankful for the communion and fellowship we have enjoyed. There are also people who seem to suck the air out of a room and to carry a cloud around wherever they go. There are people who can turn wine into water.

What is it that turns water into wine? There is a Spirit that enlivens; it seems to come out of the inner being -- the inner being which can be filled with darkness or filled with light. The enlivening Spirit is ubiquitous, appearing anywhere, any time. I remember Dr. Gerald Walton as one of those people who has that light which enlivens. He was an English professor at Ole Miss. I signed up for an elective class just because he taught it. The class was Grammar. Can you think of anything more boring than a Grammar class? Jerry Walton made it a delightful experience. He had Spirit. He had a spiritual gift for teaching. He could make grammar interesting.

Spirit has something to do with attitude and belief. When we cling to negative and defensive feelings, we create negative and defensive attitudes and beliefs which control our view of life. We have choices about what attitudes we nurture. When we think of our deepest fears, our cave can become very dark. When we think of our deepest loves, our cave can become lighthearted and thankful. Darkness or light? Water or wine? Where are your feelings? What feelings create your attitude? How does your attitude capture your attention?

For a moment, I'm going to offer a self-indulgent diversion. All of this conversation about wine and "spirits" has brought back an old memory. One of my father's lifelong friends was a man he went to law school with. They were from neighboring towns and served together in the Mississippi Legislature. Dad's friend eventually became a judge. His name was Noah S. Sweat, Jr., but everyone knew him by his nickname. He was "Soggy" Sweat, and I remember him from my childhood as the life of the grown-ups parties.

In 1952 the Mississippi Legislature was considering legalizing liquor. Representative "Soggy" Sweat rose to offer what became a rather famous speech that, years later, he could be coaxed into repeating from time to time. Representative Soggy Sweat, 1952:

You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whisky.

If when you say whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it. But;

If when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman's step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life's great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it.

This my stand, and I will not compromise.

I've thought of composing my own version of Soggy's speech clarifying my feelings about religion. If when you say religion you mean that superstitious fear that conjures tribal magic to confirm the narrow prejudices of the chosen and to consign to hell all others -- then certainly I am against it. But if, when you say religion, you mean the open willingness to cooperate humbly with the unqualified love of the divine compassion and justice of Almighty God -- then certainly I am for it... and so forth. Diversion over. Back to where we were.

I know within the cave of my own heart there is both light and darkness, both heaven and hell, both fear and love, both water and wine. When I anxiously try to control life motivated by my fears and needs, I begin to drown in a pale, colorless, jug of darkness without taste or sparkle. But when I surrender my life trusting the presence of Christ right here right now, I experience abundant life and a certain freedom from anxiety that brings flavor and sparkle and Spirit.

The cave is a symbol of our inner being. It can be filled with darkness or with light. We can emerge from our cave enlightened daily, fixing our attitude on the One, who is light.

The jars can be filled with water or wine. Feeling the presence of Jesus makes all the difference.

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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373

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Come Fail With Us!

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
January 7, 2007; Feast of the Baptism of our Lord Jesus Christ, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Luke 3:15-17, 21-22) -- As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize youwith the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."

Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."
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"Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?"

"I will, with God's help."


That's one of the questions of the Baptismal Covenant. In the midst of this unique sacrament of Baptism -- full of idealism, promise, and hope -- when we imagine the heavens opening and the voice of God declaring to each baptized person, "This is my beloved child!" In the midst of this glorious sacrament we concede a crucial expectation. We will fail. "Whenever you fall into sin," the Prayer Book says. You will fall into sin. So make your promise now, that when you do, you will repent and return.

That is why we make provision for confession regularly available in our worship and prayer. If you pray the Daily Office, there is the opportunity to confess each day. During most Eucharists we share a corporate confession of sin. The Sacrament of Confession itself is available by appointment at any time, over and over, whenever and as often as you need it. Tradition holds that one of the gifts of receiving communion is the gift of forgiveness. Each time you leave the communion rail, you leave forgiven, loved, and free, and we celebrate the Sacrament of the Eucharist every Sunday, as well as other times during the week.

But you can be baptized only once. Baptism is permanent, unrepeatable and indelible. In baptism you are marked as Christ's own forever, and there is nothing you can do about it. You can choose to live into your baptismal identity, or you can choose to renounce and deny it. But God in Christ always lays claim to you and accepts you as God's own child. There are good Christians and there are bad Christians; there are angelic Christians and there are hellish Christians; but if you are baptized you are a Christian; and you belong -- forever.
him in

Have you heard the one about the man rescued after 20 years on a desert island? A rescuer appears and is astonished to find that the castaway has built several imposing structures.

“Wow!” the rescuer says. “What’s that beautiful stone building overlooking the bay?”
“That is my home,” the castaway says.
“And what about that building over there, with the spires?”
“That,” the castaway says, “is my church.”
“But wait!” the rescuer says. “That building over there, with the bell tower. What is that?”
“That’s the church I used to belong to.” [from Bill Tully's sermon, noted below]

We live in a competitive consumerist culture. We expect to be able to choose from many brands of the same product. Well that works just fine when buying a car or selecting an entertainment. But for the deepest experiences of relationship, there is great value in the permanence of commitment. It seems that we are wired in such a way that we get to the deepest core of relational truth through consistent practice, over time, within community.

We have been given the Sacrament of Marriage as a school for love. There are deep lessons of love that can be only learned when we commit ourselves personally, permanently to one other person. Marriage is one of the containers for that unique practice of love.

We have been given the Sacrament of Baptism as a school for growing into our full humanity. There are things about being human that we can only learn when we commit ourselves personally, permanently to the community of God's people. I have long treasured this insight from Anthony Bloom: You will find stability at the moment when you discover that God is everywhere, that you do not need to seek him elsewhere, that he is here, and if you do not find him here it is useless to go and search for him elsewhere because it is not he that is absent from us, it is we who are absent from him.

We experience the presence and activity of God in community with other human beings. We learn the love of God through love of neighbor.

Baptism is our gateway. Baptism is a ritual drowning. It is a way of concretely enacting our intention to deny ourselves. In the waters of baptism we die to the illusion of our own self-sufficiency. When we emerge from the baptismal waters we are no longer our own, we are Christ's. We give up going it alone and ask for help. We are promised that help forever, for we are God's own children. The context for the experience of the present help of God and of our own growth into the fullness of human life with God is uniquely accomplished when we live as members of Christ's Body, the Church.

I picked up this from an acquaintance, Bill Tully of St. Bartholomew's Church in New York:
In February 2003, Christianity Today featured Bono, lead singer for the rock group U2, and his campaign for churches around the world to become more involved in the fight against AIDS. Bono emerged as a star example of the unchurched Christian doing good.

Having once been involved in a loosely structured Irish fellowship, Bono now seldom goes to church. He does pray. He likes to say grace at meals. He has a favorite Bible translation. But he doesn’t want to be pinned down.

"I just go where the life is, you know? Where I feel the Holy Spirit," Bono said. "If it’s in the back of a Roman Catholic cathedral, in the quietness and the incense, which suggest the mystery of God, of God’s presence, or in the bright lights of the revival tent, I just go where I find life. I don’t see denomination. I generally think religion gets in the way of God."

You don’t have to be Bono to say that. A lot of people say that. That's a script that I have heard almost word for word from a variety of people.

In an editorial, the magazine appreciated Bono’s thirst for social justice, yet criticized his lack of churchly commitment. "Any person can stand outside the church and critique its obedience to the gospel. Part of God’s call on a Christian’s life is to walk inside and die to self by relating to other human beings, both in their fallenness and in their redeemed glory." That’s a wonderful definition of the church. That's what we’re really good at offering -- difficult people who are both fallen and glorious. Want experience with that? We can provide it. That's what happens in community. As Parker Palmer says, "Community is that place where the person you least want to live with always lives. ...And when that person moves away, someone else arrives immediately to take his or her place.

[Continuing from Bill Tully] Christianity Today reports that it got a flood of letters defending Bono's staying away from church, most of them arguing, as one reader did, that not attending church doesn't take away a person's beliefs or salvation, because "Jesus Christ is more fair than that."

Fairness is not really the point. The point is whether one can maintain balance, solidarity or any real staying power of faith and practice without having others along the way.

The magazine concludes, "Clearly, Bono has chosen to keep his distance from the church, or at least to stay in the shallow margins of the pond, where he can dash for the shore at need. He has plenty of company." (Sermon, Belonging & Staying, stbarts.org/sermons/ser010905.htm)

Today what we want to is to drown some people in the deep waters of God's life. And if you want to risk going deep, and experiencing love and human life to its fullest, you'll have to do it committed to a group other human beings. There is a dimension of depth which is only available when you commit yourself to the particularity of permanent relationships. Our way of offering that in the Church is the unrepeatable Sacrament of Baptism. Because once you have been baptized, you can't get away from God. You belong.

So if you want to be real -- really real -- stay. Come fail with us! And whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord. That's the way we all learn how to be whole.

Christmas Eve Sermon -- "Our Dear Lord Baby Jesus"

Preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas December 24, 2004

In the rather tacky, slapstick comedy movie Talladega Nights, comedian Will Ferrell plays a NASCAR driver named Ricky Bobby. Some of you know I love NASCAR. It's part of my Sunday afternoon ritual. So I had to see the movie. There is a scene where Ricky Bobby is saying the blessing at the family dinner table. He starts the prayer with the invocation, "Dear Lord Baby Jesus." And after he has given thanks for all the fast food on the table and offered thanks for everyone gathered there, he continues, "Dear Lord Baby Jesus, we also thank you for my wife's father, Chip. We hope you can use your Baby-Jesus powers to heal him and his horrible leg." As he warms up for his next intercession, continuing, "Dear Tiny Infant Jesus..." his wife interrupts him saying, "Ah sweetie. Jesus did grow up. You don't always have to call him Baby. It's a bit odd and off-putting to pray to a baby." "Well, look," says Ricky Bobby, "I like the Christmas-Jesus best, and I'm saying grace. When you say grace, you can say it to grownup Jesus, or teenaged Jesus, or bearded Jesus, or whoever you want." So Ricky Bobby continues his prayer, "Dear Tiny Jesus, in your golden fleece diapers with your tiny little balled up fist..." and the whole table launches into an argument about what kind of Jesus is the right kind of Jesus. It seems that our culture might agree with Ricky Bobby. Our culture likes the Christmas-Jesus best. Christmas is the most accessible of our Christian feasts. What is more universally appealing than a newborn baby? Defenseless and innocent, every infant is a symbol of hope, a new beginning. Christmas is a celebration that is easily embraced. It's the only time of the year when all of the radio stations sound alike. We hear Christmas carols in our cars, in our shops, and on our commercials. It's not like that at Easter, although for our faith, Easter is a far more significant event. But you don't hear Easter hymns played on the radio. And most of the commercial attention focuses on the coming of spring and the coming of the bunny. It is easier to like the Christmas-Jesus than the Good-Friday-and-Easter Jesus. What we find as we live through the whole Church Year is that there are many pictures of Jesus, many different aspects of his being. At Christmas we celebrate the wonder of God's coming to us in such gentle and humble grace as through the birth of a child to a peasant couple in Bethlehem. The images of the story lend themselves to the warm fuzzies of romanticized nativity scenes with kneeling shepherds, angelic choirs, peaceful animals, and the exotic magi. Underneath is a more complex picture. This family is displaced. They have returned to their tribal hometown because of the census ordered by the Emperor. Such a census allowed the occupying Roman authorities to tax the people more thoroughly, and so fund their own oppression. The family is temporarily homeless, and must count on the charity of others. There are dark overtones here. Earlier this morning we listened to the song attributed to Mary, the Magnificat, which imagines a reversal of power and economics in which the mighty are cast down and the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are filled and the rich sent away empty. It is a revolutionary text. Soon this family will become refugees fleeing the political violence of their home. There is so much more in this picture than "Dear Tiny Baby Jesus in your golden fleece diapers." When this Jesus grows up and wears a beard, he will be a complex and complicated figure. He will challenge the social, political, and economic conventions of his day. He will touch and heal lepers and unclean women whom it was illegal to touch. He will declare a kingdom that is greater than Caesar's. He will open his table fellowship to people who do not even try to be good. He will treat foreigners and those from other religions with the same compassion and generosity he offers his own kindred. He will reject the expectations for a military Messiah who would punish and drive away the unjust and the enemy by force. Instead, he will turn the other cheek and go the extra mile with courageous nonviolence in the face of abusive power. He will expose the religious corruption of the Temple and challenge the authority of the state. He will demand daily bread and a full day's wage even for those who work but one hour. He will freely forgive the prodigal and call the most-righteous-ones hypocrites. This is not a child's story. But it is a life-giving story. It is a story that does not shrink in the face of tragedy, injustice, exploitation, and alienation. It is the story of God embracing everything -- everything that happens to human beings -- from birth to death. It is God with us, healing brokenness, overcoming oppression, and reconciling estrangement. In the fourth Christian century, St. Ambrose gave word to this sentiment with this prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, you are for me medicine when I am sick; you are my strength when I need help; you are life itself when I fear death; you are the way when I long for heaven; you are light when all is dark; you are my food when I need nourishment. So on Christmas we pray happily and expectantly, even innocently, to our "Dear Lord Baby Jesus," singing with joyful angels and wondrous shepherds, knowing that this is only the beginning of the story. Later, when we need something more than the "Dear Tiny Infant Jesus," we know there is a grown up, fully mature Jesus who has confronted everything that can threaten us, and has triumphed through it. Fourteen centuries after Ambrose, in 1868, as a wounded United States struggled to recover from civil war and from the assassination of its President Abraham Lincoln, the Rector of the Episcopal Church of the Holy Trinity in Philadelphia, Phillips Brooks wrote this: O holy Child of Bethlehem descend to us we pray; cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today. We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel! Merry Christmas!