(Christmas Eve) -- Holding a Baby

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 24, 2008; Christmas Eve, Year B
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Luke 2:1-20) -- In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for see-- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us." So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.
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A couple of weeks ago Suzanne Stoner and I went down to Little Rock to visit several people who were ill. Among our stops was a visit in the Children's Hospital neo-natal ICU to see Mandy Bunch and Melissa Evans' little newborn baby Nicholas. As we were on our way, driving down I-40, Suzanne began to opine about the feel of a sleeping infant your arms.

What a joy it is to hold a baby as it sleeps, lying there, surrendered to you in complete trust and deep peace. Children seem to feel heavier when they are asleep, don't they? When you are holding a baby, you feel both a sense of thrill and of responsibility. How awesome it is, to hold this mysterious life in your arms -- protecting, nurturing, comforting. You always have a heightened degree of awareness when you hold an infant, don't you? You are alert to its presence and attentive to any need.

Some moments, when your focus is entirely upon the baby in your arms, time seems to stand still. You look, and marvel at this mysterious life. You want to ask the child, "Who are you? What are you thinking? What future awaits you? How can I love and cherish you adequately?" And then the words in your imagination seem to slide away, and you simply look. Enthralled. Thankful. Sometimes the stillness of deep peace descends. We were thinking about that in the car on the way to Little Rock.

Later that day in the hospital Suzanne held little Nicholas in her arms. He slept, at peace even in the presence of tubes and wires and monitors, the technical professional bustle of the neo-natal unit. She sent such love and hope to him. Quiet words of care and encouragement. The claim of belonging to this little child who is both the child of God and our child as well. Glistening tears; beaming smiles; the nurturing back-and-forth looks of a loving family. Nicholas slept; held in trust, this vulnerable life.

I watched, and I joined my prayers to theirs. Silently I asked God's blessing upon Nicholas and upon this devoted couple who willingly brought this life into the world, knowing from the womb that he would be a child of "special needs." Nicholas is not unlike the child of Mary – conceived under awkward circumstances, Jesus brought his own constellation of special needs, including a darkness that the old man Simeon foresaw, a sword that would pierce through a mother's soul. I asked God's strength to be with this family in their darkness and in their light. I felt deep thanksgiving and wonder. And then I just gazed, enveloped in this communion of faith and hope and love.

In Archbishop Anthony Bloom's little book Beginning to Pray, he relates an episode from the life of Father Silouan, a Russian artisan who came to the monastery, and was put in charge of a workshop where young peasants from distant villages would come to work for a year or two as indentured assistants to raise cash they could get in no other way. One of these peasant-assistants was also named Nicholas. Part of Father Silouan's management of these assistants was to pray secretly for them.

In the beginning I prayed with tears of compassion for Nicholas, for his young wife, for the little child, but as I was praying the sense of the divine presence began to grow on me and at a certain moment it grew so powerful that I lost sight of Nicholas, his wife, his child, his needs, their village, and I could be aware only of God, and I was drawn by the sense of the divine presence deeper and deeper, until of a sudden, at the heart of this presence, I met the divine love holding Nicholas, his wife, and his child, and now it was with the love of God that I began to pray for them again, but again I was drawn into the deep and in the depths of this I again found the divine love. (Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray, p. 113, 1988)

I think I felt some of that, standing, watching Suzanne hold another Nicholas within the arc of the love of his parents' adoration.

One of the most startling things we Christians say about God is that God comes to us this way. God comes to us as a child. On Christmas we celebrate a God who pours out the divine nature into the life of a newborn infant. This is one of our core, foundational pictures of God.

We worship a God who comes to us with such complete humble vulnerability, that God trusts the divine life entirely into our arms like a baby. God invites us to embrace and hold tenderly God's very Being as we would hold an infant – an intimate mystery, alive as though sleeping in our arms. There is a certain heaviness to it, but what joy. You hold within you the absolute love of divine life. Feel the presence. Be aware. Look. Listen. God is with us. Immanuel, we sing: the Name that means, "God with us."

Like holding a child, there is a certain thrill and responsibility that comes with holding God's life in your arms. There is joy and thankfulness, there is also a necessary awareness and alert attention.

When each of our children was tiny, we had a front pack that we used to bind the little one close to us while we went about our daily business – getting the groceries, fixing dinner, talking on the phone, typing, even going to church. Regardless of what the task at hand might be, there was always a certain part of our awareness that was conscious and awake to the presence and needs of the child, bound closely to our heart.

Life in God's presence is like that. It is like carrying and alertly caring for the loving mystery of the divine presence at the center of our being. God yields the divine life into our hands, silently alive, but ready to awaken with needs for our attention and love for our receiving.

Sometimes I talk to people who say they don't know how to pray. Have you ever held an infant in your hands? Well then, you know how to pray. Hold the life from life tenderly and intimately in the center of your being. Speak thankful words of hope and love. Be alert to whatever need draws your attention. And, from time to time, just sit, and look, in silent adoration.

Do you want to pray for someone else? Let the same loving arms with which you hold the divine child embrace the one you wish to pray for, bestowing love and recognition, asking for the blessing of choice and the glimpse of possibility for that one's emerging life.

Jesus taught us to pray with childlike trust. He prayed to Abba, a child's name for God – like Dada or Mama or Papa. Tonight we join the conversation between Jesus and Abba in the communion of love that flows between the Father and the Son, whom we know as God's Spirit, the breath that breathes life into us all.

Make a picture in your mind's eye. See a picture of the manger on that Christmas night so long ago. The star beaming its light from heaven; the hovering protective care of Joseph; the maternal arms of Mary, gently, lovingly holding the child who surrenders divine life into her keeping.

That same picture dwells within your heart. The divine light shines upon you, bringing life to your inmost being, where you hover with protective care and gently hold the love of God surrendered into your keeping.

Have you ever held a baby in your arms? You know what God's life feels like. We celebrate that life coming to us this night. Let us rejoice and sing happy songs; let us nurture and care for the love that is entrusted to us; and let us live alert, thankful lives, filled with the goodness that is entrusted to us, this night and forever.

"Shhh Papa! Be quiet and still!" my friend's three year old granddaughter said to him as they sat together on the living room floor while she arranged and re-arranged the little creche with her tiny fingers. "Shhh Papa! Be quiet and still! The baby Jesus is asleep and if you are still, you can hear the angels singing."

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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

More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org

"Who Are You?"

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 13, 2008; 3rd Sunday of Advent, Year B
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(John 1:6-8, 19-28) -- There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, "Who are you?" He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, "I am not the Messiah." And they asked him, "What then? Are you Elijah?" He said, "I am not." "Are you the prophet?" He answered, "No." Then they said to him, "Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?" He said, "I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, `Make straight the way of the Lord,'" as the prophet Isaiah said. Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him, "Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?" John answered them, "I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal." This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.
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"Who are you?" the authorities asked John. John is remarkably clear about his sense of self and about his vocation. "I am not the Messiah." There were many expectations about the coming Messiah. Most of those expectations had Biblical roots; some expectations were contradictory and debatable. John quickly stepped out of that triangle, disidentifying himself with whatever projections others may have about the Messiah.

Many expected that Elijah would return as a precursor of the Messiah. The questioners were familiar with the oracle from Malachi: "Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the land with a curse."

They ask of John, "What then? Are you Elijah?"
"I am not." John immediately deflected from himself whatever expectations they might have had about the return of Elijah.

I'm not sure about their third question: "Are you the prophet?" Maybe they were referencing Deuteronomy 18:15 which says that God “will raise up a prophet like Moses… I will put my words in his mouth and he shall speak all that I have commanded him.” To that identity, John also answers, "No."

Well then, who are you? Define yourself, John.

"I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord,' as the prophet Isaiah said."

William Faulkner famously said, "The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past." John the Baptist invokes the past; he invokes the memory of Second Isaiah, the great prophet of the 6th century bce Babylonian Captivity. We heard his voice last week in that poetic passage that begins, "Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God." Sometime before the Persian king Cyrus defeated the Babylonians in 538, this Isaiah spoke of the renewal of hope. He imagined a highway from Babylon through the desert all the way back home to Jerusalem.

John picks up Isaiah's vision and urges people to return to their home. He used the ritual of baptism as a cleansing new birth to facilitate that passage home. Wash yourself. Become pure again. Renew your hope. God is doing great things. Prepare. I will cleanse you with water, but God is bringing on a future more powerful than any of us can accomplish. "Make straight the way of the Lord." Come home.

"Coming home" is one of the phrases we use to describe our own sense of knowing who we are and where we come from -- knowing who and whose we are. Each Sunday as we come to this holy place, we return home. We come to the waters of baptism, where we were given our truest identity, as children of God. We let the past become present again, touching the water of baptism in the font; and if our ears are attuned, we may hear once more the voice that split the heavens at our own baptisms, declaring: "This is my child, my beloved."

"Who are you?" they ask. "I am God's child," we answer, and the baptism of our past is alive yet again.

In just a few days we will remember God's coming among us as a child, and the past of Christ's birth will come alive to us yet again.

Hear the Advent call. "Make straight the way of the Lord." Renew your hope. God is doing great things. Prepare. "Make straight in the desert a highway for our God."

Have you ever thought of that aisle in the middle of our congregation as a highway for our God? It is the path through which God comes to us and we come to God. It is our road home. Each week we come from our own wilderness experience, walking thirstily through the desert, and we come home to the table prepared for us from the beginning. And whenever we come home, we do what families always do when they return. We have a feast.

God comes to us on a highway from heaven and feeds us with the bread of life and the cup of salvation. Christ's life becomes our food and drink -- nourishing us, empowering us, forgiving us so that we start anew, cleansed, refreshed and strengthened. Enlightened by the light. Some days you can almost see a highway of light streaming from the window above our altar, descending upon us as the light from light -- bathing us in new light, filling us with the Spirit.

For, "the Spirit of the Lord God is upon [us], because the Lord has anointed [us]; God has sent [us] to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." That is the sound of another voice, present from our past. It is a later prophet writing in the tradition of Isaiah. He writes after the return of the people from exile. It is a hard time. A time of economic depression and corporate distress. A time when the challenges that face them seem bigger than their resources.

We hear this prophet speaking to us today in our hardship, in our time of economic depression and corporate distress. He comforts those of us who mourn, promising us an end to our grief and a renewal of our gladness. He tells us we will be "oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display his glory." Renewal is coming. We will "build up the ancient ruins" and "repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations."

This prophet reminds us of what we can do because of who we are and whose we are. We are God's people. We will not only survive, we will prevail. This prophet reminds us that we are called to love what God loves and to turn away from what God despises. "For I the Lord love justice, I hate robbery and wrongdoing." So do we!

The voice and light that comes to us from heaven anoints us with the Spirit of God to share in God's work of restoring justice. We are the advocates of the oppressed, the comforters of the broken, the liberators of the trapped, and the enemies of injustice. That's part of what we promised at the waters of our baptism when we were asked, "Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?" "I will, with God's help."

Let them ask us as they asked John, "Who are you?" In answer, return to your baptism. Hear the heavens open and the voice speaking of you: "This is my child, my beloved." Feel your anointing with God's Spirit, the light that brightens your highway through the wilderness.

Who are you? Return to your baptism. And hear again the defining words that call you to your mission. "Will you continue in the apostles' teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers? Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?"

We answer, "I will, with God's help."

We have come home. We know who we are. We know whose we are. We know what road to follow. Anointed, blessed, empowered. Thanks be to God.
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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
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org

Peace in the Wilderness

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 6, 2008; 2nd Sunday of Advent, Year B
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Isaiah 40:1-11)
Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid,
that she has received from the Lord's hand
double for all her sins.
A voice cries out:
"In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken."
A voice says, "Cry out!"
And I said, "What shall I cry?"
All people are grass,
their constancy is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
when the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades;
but the word of our God will stand forever.
Get you up to a high mountain,
O Zion, herald of good tidings;
lift up your voice with strength,
O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,
lift it up, do not fear;
say to the cities of Judah,
"Here is your God!"
See, the Lord God comes with might,
and his arm rules for him;
his reward is with him,
and his recompense before him.
He will feed his flock like a shepherd;
he will gather the lambs in his arms,
and carry them in his bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.

"Righteousness shall go before you, and peace shall be a pathway for your feet." (Psalm 85:13)

The presence of peace is often a sign of the presence of God. I have known people who were going through terrible trials, living in situations of confusion or threat, who nevertheless say that they have experienced a deep sense of peace in the midst of their struggle. That peace is a source of strength, meaning and direction for them, helping them to face their challenges with deep hope.

"Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. ...In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord."

From time to time, all us find ourselves in a place where we don't know which direction we should turn. How do I decide what is the better path? How do I make a pathway through my desert? Occasionally people will come to me to visit when they find themselves in the wilderness. Now I'm not a trained counselor or a therapist, but I know the spiritual traditions, and I can listen as a friend. Sometimes I can connect someone and their situation with a resource or a story from the deep wells of our religious heritage.

There is a helpful practice that comes from the tradition of St. Ignatius of Loyola. Ignatius was the founder of the Jesuit Order, and in the heritage of his spirituality, the Jesuits have done some of the church's best work on discernment. Discernment is disciplined listening that can open us to God's direction. As the Psalmist says today, "I will listen to what you are saying, for you are speaking peace to your faithful people and to those who turn their hearts to you." (85:8) According to Ignatius, peace is a sign of discernment, an indicator of the will of God.

In his early years, Ignatius was a soldier. He was wounded severely in battle, and had to spend months in hospital convalescence. He lived with intense pain. One of the ways he found to cope with the confinement and pain was to daydream actively. He found that when he used his imagination to create vivid stories and narratives it lessened his pain and helped the hours pass.

Ignatius used all of his senses as he imagined. He would see the colors of his daydreams, smell the scents, and hear the sounds. He would feel the tactile touch and taste the tastes of his stories. He created voice and conversation. He used all of his senses in active imagination.

Ignatius found that he gravitated toward two fantasies – both narratives about how he might spend the rest of his life once he was healed and left the hospital. In one narrative, he imagined himself becoming a chivalrous knight who won honor and acclaim on the battlefield and earned the hand of a beautiful and virtuous noble woman. For hours he could create stories about his future, its drama and glory. While he was in his active imagination, his pain was distracted and he was comforted.

There was a second narrative that also gave him relief. Ignatius imagined himself becoming a great knight and explorer for Christ, traveling into uncharted places where no one had yet heard the Gospel story and being the first to bring Christ to the darkness beyond the edge of the known world. For hours he could create stories about his future explorations. While he was in active imagination, his pain was distracted and he was comforted.

But Ignatius noticed an interesting difference between the two narratives. In the moments after he had been in active imagination, when he was just biding time and attending to the businesses at hand, he discovered he experienced a very different emotional and spiritual state following each of these two fantasies. In the ordinary time after he had been in active imagination in his stories of battlefield glory and chivalrous knighthood, he found that he felt restless and even disconsolate in the hours following. But in the ordinary time after he had been in active imagination in his stories of becoming an explorer for Christ, he found that he felt peace and consolation in the hours following. That afterglow of peace, Ignatius decided, was the sign of the will of God for him, the evidence of discernment. After he was healed, Ignatius became that Christly adventurer, and with his companions took the Gospel to new and unknown lands.

I sometimes encourage people to practice that form of Ignatian discernment when they have decisions. Choose two alternatives. Use your active imagination to live into each of them. Then notice, where does your spirit go in the ordinary time afterward? Does one path leave an afterglow of peace? That peace may be the sign of the yearning of God's Holy Spirit for you, a path through your wilderness.

This week Suzanne and I visited with someone who is walking through a wilderness and finding peace as a pathway for her feet. For more than a month, our friend Katherine has been living in a hospital motel in Little Rock in order to be near the side of her sister Ann. Katherine's history has been harder than most, and her sister is the person who has most sustained and befriended her throughout her life. Ann is living with life-threatening cancer; now she is largely unresponsive, sustained by a respirator – a young wife, mother of two children – the tragedy of it all seems overwhelming. Every day Katherine is there. In her gentle, quiet way, she sits and stays bringing her gift of deep faithful love. Katherine has found a breath prayer that she recites to herself in the rhythm of the ventilator. In times when the pain is great, Katherine is present to hold Ann's hand or to pray within the helplessness. Katherine simply is, there, present. For more than a month she has been there; she eats in the cafeteria or makes something simple like soup in her room with its microwave and small refrigerator. She's careful to get to the hospital early so her sister's husband won't have to come into his wife's room with nothing but machines there. Like most families, Katherine and Ann's has some complicated and conflictive relationships. Katherine is careful to maintain her own healthy, self-defined relationship with each of her relatives. She keeps the information flowing to all, even while she helps them maintain some boundaries between them that tend to minimize the potential for continued hurt or conflict.

"In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God." Each day Katherine spends some time with her journal. She prays. To stay grounded, Suzanne suggested that she spend some time lying on the floor. Katherine says that she did her grounding in the bed; that seemed to be the closest to the floor that she could manage. She keeps herself open to the resources of support that she needs and willingly calls on them. She stays close to friends by the phone. Last week I had a message on my answering machine. Katherine had called while I was visiting with someone else, so my voice mail picked up. "Father Grisham, this is Katherine. I just wanted to hear your voice, and I guess I did. I just wanted to say 'hi' and thank you for your support. I'm doing fine. Thank you for your prayers for Ann. Goodbye."

Step by step she walks a straight path through a dark and difficult wilderness. There is something about the quality of Katherine's faithfulness that seems to be lowering mountains and raising valleys in the wrenching ups and downs that come with following a loved one through a threatening illness. Above all, she knows that this is where she should be. She is giving a gift to her sister. Around Katherine is an aura of peace.

"A voice says, ...All people are grass... The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever. ...He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep."

As God gently leads Ann, the mother sheep, Katherine her sister brings comfort, O comfort, along this wilderness road. In her, mercy and truth have met together, righteousness and peace have kissed each other. She is listening to what God is saying, for God speaks peace to God's faithful people and to those who turn their hearts toward God. She knows where she should be. She knows where she is going. Each day as she walks toward the hospital, righteousness shall go before her, and peace shall be a pathway for her feet.

In the wilderness – in all of our wildernesses – God is making a pathway. Listen, listen, O my friends, for the gentle sound of peace. The presence of peace is the sign of God's guidance. God's peace is our source of strength, meaning and direction, helping us to face our journeys with deep hope.
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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
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org