SERMON 2 Epiphany 1/14/2007

[THE GOSPEL STORY WAS TOLD INSTEAD OF READ John 2.1-11] One day Jesus and his mother and his friends go to a wedding in Cana of Galilee. Cana is a little peasant village—and weddings are big deals in Cana and in most such villages in Jesus day. A wedding brings together two families and a wedding is a sign of promise—hope that the community is going to continue and be strengthened. A wedding is an occasion of joy and feasting. Usually eating in the village is a kind of meager and boring event—making do with whatever you can get together. But, at a wedding, the party and feasting usually goes on for a whole week, and there is every kind of food and wine and there’s lots of dancing and singing. And there is worship. In fact a wedding is a time when you expect to encounter God in the joy and the blessing. At the door you dip your hands in the water of purification to prepare yourself for that meeting with the divine. You get ready—as ready as you can-- given who you are—to meet God—at the wedding. A few days into the party while Jesus is talking with his friends, his mother comes up to him and in that voice she says, ”They have no wine.” You know that tone of voice. . . the one that no matter what the actual words are--means, “”you--do something! “Woman, what’s that to you or me?” . . .To make his point, Jesus whips out his Blackberry and takes a look at his calendar. “My hour has not yet come.” . . . Then in that way she has, she just turns to the servants and says, ”Do whatever he tells you,” and she walks away. mothers… This is not what he has in mind. He has a plan and this isn’t it. But, of course, he looks around, and notices for the first time that the jars for the rites of purification are large—huge even for this village crowd. Water for the rite of purification really doesn’t have to be that much—enough would be more like the holy water we have at the doorways here—where a little dab will do you. Oh, well, he shrugs to himself mostly. Maybe this is you-know-whose timing. “Not my timing but yours be done,” he mutters under his breath. “Fill the jars with water,” he says to the servants. He stares right back at them as they fix their doubting eyes on him. “Go on.” And, so they do as they are told—with only a few remarks. And maybe with a bit of a rebellious spirit they fill those jugs to the tippy-top. “Draw some out and take it to the wine steward.” They do. [The water has become wine]; the steward tastes it and this is what he says, in a loud, “I’m a big deal kind of person” voice, ”People usually serve the best wine at the beginning of a feast—like on the first day—and then as the party gets wilder and wilder they serve the bad stuff—when no one will really notice. But you have saved the best until now. . . .Like Amazing! No one except Jesus, his friends, and the servants know where all that wine comes from—and oh, yes, his mother… she knows. For them, right there at that little peasant wedding, they catch a glimpse of the glory of God. Right there. Even his mother sees it. THIS IS THE GOSPEL OF THE LORD. What a story. John is careful to tell us its not a miracle story, it’s the story of Jesus’ first sign. A sign is something like an ambulance siren or police lights flashing—a sign isn’t the real thing, but it points to the real thing. It points to the deep thing—the true thing. This is Jesus’ first sign—it points to God. And it happens at a wedding. Weddings are big deals—even today they are. People cry at weddings. Sometimes I think they are crying for grief—losses in their own lives—dreams that have died, relationships gone south, times in their own lives when they haven’t lived up to their promises. Sometimes they are crying out of joy—and hope—hope that the couple—two people can really live out their vows over time—and that their love for one another will transform them into more and deeper and truer people than they were before they had lived into that love. Sometimes it’s a mixture of joy and grief—of dreams dashed and hopes for the future. They cry because they feel vulnerable—almost as vulnerable as the couple do when they pronounce their promises in front of their community. Love makes you vulnerable. It does that. People still dance and sing and feast and drink at weddings—to differing degrees and with differing styles—but a wedding is an occasion of joy—and people clap and cry out hurrah! and congratulations! and best wishes! and God bless! And when a wedding is in church with a priest presiding the couple come not only to make their promises in the context of their community, but also to seek God’s blessing on their relationship—on their love. They come in hopes that they will be met by God here. Kind of like we come here on a Sunday morning. Weddings are so laden with emotion that sometimes people involved forget that the occasion is really about celebrating the love of the couple, their commitment to each other, and their wild hope that God will continue to bless their relationship--that God’s love will in fact flow through them to each other and out into the world. Once I once rashly informed God that I would no longer officiate at wedding for anyone under 70 years of age. This occurred after a particularly painful experience I had officiating at a wedding where the groom’s bachelor party seeped into the church and the bride’s mother had a tantrum. I despaired and drew the line. I was about as successful as Jesus was in consulting his Blackberry. Oh, well…I’d forgotten God’s presence in the midst of that very human celebration—God’s blessing in the mess of it all. The truth is that the Old Testament and the New have all kinds of images of marriage and weddings as metaphors describing the relationship between God and people—between God and us. Isaiah is full of dreams for the people that carry them beyond their present reality. He speaks to a forlorn forlorn people who having survived exile and have now returned to their land that seems so barren and forsaken. But, says Isaiah, they are so beloved by God that God will marry their land and rejoice over the people as a groom rejoices over a bride. The people will get a new name --no longer will they be called Forsaken—now they will be My Delight is in Her. My Delight is in You. Kind of like the voice Jesus heard at his baptism isn’t it? “You are my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” This is who we are at the deepest truest level. People in whom God delights. Imagine that if you can. That’s who you are. Weddings and marriages aren’t the only metaphors for God’s loving relationship with people. And marriage isn’t the only model in the Bible or in our lives for deep intimate long-lasting relationship. Our lives are filled with relationships that nurture us and transform us over time in ways that are signs that point to the ways God’s love and grace make us new people. Mothers and their children, fathers and their children, old friendships, partners, grandparents and grandchildren, …my son had a soccer coach who left his loving imprint on the character of the boys he coached, teachers and mentors, the list goes on and on. We are made for relationship and deep loving relationships are places where we learn about the risks, and abundance and steadfastness of God’s love. For surely whatever else this first sign points to it points to the abundance of God’s love and grace. Jesus’ response to his mother’s insistence goes way beyond what she would have expected. 120-to-180 gallons of wine. Fine wine—the finest—the best saved to the last. In John’s gospel “Jesus’ hour”—the one he says is not yet come—is his death. In John’s gospel Jesus’ death on the cross is the point where the glory of God is most clearly visible. The signs throughout the gospel lead us to that moment of glory. Where the enormity of God’s love, God’s loving embrace of humankind takes Jesus to the depths of what it means to be human—takes Jesus to that place of greatest vulnerability—the place of death. There is no place we can go that is not married to God. No place we can go where God is not. No place of scarcity where God’s abundant steadfastness cannot be found. No place of emptiness so deep that it cannot be filled to the brim with God’s love. For John, that is the last and best sign. This sign is just the first. It takes place at a wedding feast. It is noticed only by some. It points to the God of abundance—the God among us—the God of surprises and newness. Because, of course, weddings are new beginnings. The people being married come with their histories of course, they aren’t newborns. But their commitment to one another and to their relationship transforms them and makes them new. They may even take on a new name. It used to be that women in this culture took on the name of their spouses. Today more and more couples are taking on a hyphenated name or a new name entirely. This recognizes that they are entering new territory. I’ve been thinking about that new name. Isaiah tells us our new name is My Delight is in you. Our names are important aren’t they? Our names carry a history and they carry a promise. When my brother died one of my sons chose to take on the name Moore to honor his uncle—so now he’s Christopher Moore Backman. Some of us spend a lifetime trying to live up to our names. Think about being named Martin Luther King. Some of us change our names and pick one that we’d rather live into than the one that was given us. And of course, others give us names too. I wonder what name this community has. –what others call us. This Church of the Incarnation. There have been times when I wanted to change our name to Incarnation Parish—just because its shorter and easier to write on baptismal certificates. We get mail here sometimes to the Church of the ReIncarnation. But what do others call us? Sometimes when I tell people what church I belong to, they say things like, “Oh, I know! That little redwood church on Mendocino.” or “That Cute Little Church on Mendocino.” Some people call us “The Living Room Church.” Maybe part of what Fr. Matt was saying in our ad last week was that we here in this place want to live into the name of “God’s Wild Abundant Transforming Love & Hospitality to All Church.” Maybe that’s the name we’re being invited into. Because here’s the deal. God has given us a new name: My Delight is in You. That’s the kind of name we cannot incarnate, put our flesh around, grow up into, without being transformed into more than we’d ever dreamed we could be. It’s something we may have known when we were infants, but most of us have forgotten how to live as God’s beloved. It’s more than we dare let ourselves imagine. It’s kind of like asking for a case of 2 buck Chuck and getting 180 gallons of Silver Oak cabernet! We come here seeking God’s love, thinking if we’re lucky we’ll eat a tiny wafer, drink a sip of wine, catch a glimpse of glory, get a few sprinkles. . . instead we get a new name. A new beginning. And, the most real of all relationships with the One who says, My Delight is in You. God’s Wild Abundant Transforming Love and Hospitality to All Church.

SERMON 1 Christmas 12.31.06

Christmas I (1 Samuel 2:18-20, 26 Psalm 148; Colossians 3:12-17; Luke 2:41-52 Good morning! And, Happy New Year’s Eve. We find ourselves this first Sunday in the season of living into the gift of Jesus’ birth—on the same day that the year 2006 is ending. Endings and beginnings. These days are full of endings and beginnings. On Thursday I received a call to go to the hospital to administer the last rites to a woman who is near death—as I left, Fr. Matt was on the phone answering questions put to him by a reporter from the Press Democrat. He too was interested in endings—or at least departures—the announcement by David Miller that St John’s in Petaluma has disassociated itself from the Episcopal Church. An announcement that includes the information that the congregation in Petaluma intends to take the building that has been a part of the Episcopal Church for about 150 years. Through thick and thin the parishioners of that congregation considered themselves Episcopalians and participated fully in our Diocese. But no longer—the congregation in the year 2006 has decided to leave our diocese and become part of the diocese of Argentina. At the hospital I was struck as I have been before with the similarities between birth and death. More than once I have visited a family gathered around the bed of a dying person—surrounding them with love, massaging their feet and legs, holding their hands, getting them drinks of water, supporting and comforting, strengthening and loving the person who is giving birth in a sense to their own death. I’ve been privileged to be present at births of babies too—and at least in today’s less technically medicalized world—the room is filled with the same kind of supporting, serving, love in action. Birth and death can be very alike. I thought as I left the office about how the world outside views the church—views us. About its fascination with our disagreements and our differing understandings of about morality—and its focus on the issue of sexuality. And, of course, we give the press a lot of material to work with. But, meanwhile, the life of the faithful goes on. Meanwhile there are endings and beginnings and we who gather here week in and out know that our faith has much to say and much to give us for living into the very depths of the endings and beginnings of life. For the 150 years in the life of St John’s, Petaluma and for thousands of years in places all over the globe Christians have entrusted their lives to the God of new beginnings and radical inclusive love. As we have done that we have lived together bearing with one another through countless endings, letting goes, and new beginnings. That is central to our faith. What the world outside sees perhaps as disintegration—may in fact turn out to be another of those overturnings of life “as usual” and the wrenching letting go of our zones of comfort as we greet the new thing God is doing. How are we to live in such times as these? What will sustain us through the endings and beginnings of our individual lives, our life as church, and even our lives in the larger community? I doubt that New Year’s resolutions will be enough to sustain us—those by and large being so dependent on our own doing—our own choosing and willing. Jesus and Samuel come to us this morning in their youth. Samuel had been given over to service in the temple by his mother out of her gratitude for his birth. She had been childless for many years. The linen ephod was a garment of his priesthood—its white color symbolized the purity of the One he represented. Kind of like the white albs the ministers of the Eucharist wear. I think of that once a year visit made by his parents to Samuel and the way in which his mother handed him that robe the one gift she could give him. Our text says Samuel grew up in the presence of the Lord. And this oh so familiar story of Jesus as a boy of twelve driving his parents batty by staying behind in the temple without telling them, to listen and ask questions of the teachers. A defining moment this one—Jesus telling Mary and Joseph that didn’t they know, he must be in his Father’s house? That line really is better translated as “Did you not know that I must be in the presence of my Father?” It wasn’t about a building really, it was about being with God. Being in God’s presence. Like Samuel given over to God by his parents—Jesus claims his identity here as God’s own child. Before his baptism—even while he returned with his parents, obedient to them. He knew he must be in his Father’s presence. That’s who he was most deeply. God’s own. This amazing little passage from Colossians addressed to us as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved begins with a word left out of our reading this morning. The word is therefore, and what precedes the therefore is the fact that we who have died with Christ have been raised with him. “Here there cannot be Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave, free, but Christ is all and in all,” says Paul. My granddaughter and I went to see the movie The Nativity this past week. After the birth of Christ the wisemen come and one of them gazes on the baby in the manger and says, “God clothed in human flesh.” She asked me what that meant exactly. Such a question. Divinity in human body. In human bodies. Christ is all and in all. What does that mean exactly? Paul suggests to us that if we remember that we have been raised with Christ—if we remember who we are and whose we are then we’ll have what we need to live into the endings and beginnings of our lives. We’ll clothe ourselves as Samuel did in something like an ephod—in Christ. No matter what we are actually wearing—whether we’re dressed up to go out on New Year’s Eve, or in jeans and a sweat shirt—no matter we’ll know that we are clothed in Christ. Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, whatever choices we face, whatever endings or beginnings, we’ll be given the spaciousness and graciousness to live into our lives. Live into Christ. This description of life in Christ: compassion, kindness, humility, patience, forgiveness, thanksgiving, love and peace—this is not a list of things we need to make new year’s resolutions about—not a to do list. Rather it’s a calling—it’s a description of how we are transformed in Christ by the grace of God. Christmas Day a parishioner brought one of her grandchildren to church. A grandson, whom I’d baptized maybe four or five years ago. He was about 11 then—kind of like Samuel maybe or Jesus in the temple. Now he’s a tall strapping young man with clear eyes and a firm handshake. I looked at him and wondered—I wondered if he still knew who he is. I wondered how in his life he had grown into his truest identity as “marked as Christ’s own forever.” How had God’s forgiveness so freely given to him freed him to forgive those who have hurt him? How has God’s love freed him to live into the hard work of loving others: the listening, the being willing to be changed and moved by another person, the standing with thru thick and thin that marks loving relationships. I wondered about him. I wondered about myself. I wondered about us. You and I, like Samuel and Jesus, are those called to grow up in the presence of God. That’s who we are—we are marked as Christ’s own forever. There is nothing left outside—there are no godforsaken moments—no place where God isn’t. We come here to give thanks, to let the word of God dwell within us, and to sing to God. Such simple acts—and yet they are transforming—they help us to become the people we were created to be, to bear with one another, and to find grace in all the endings that lead to new beginnings. Happy new Year. Remember who you are.