A Little Self-Involved? Try Looking Outward! – a sermon for Lent 2A, John 3:1-17

Trinity copyWhen I was just a kid, I had what can best be described as an adolescent crush on a teacher. Looking back on it now, I’d have to say that I fell head over heels in love with my teacher. It was the kind of love that only a 13 year-old girl could have; so intense and all consuming. I came to believe that this teacher was the wisest, kindest, most interesting person in all the world. This teacher knew more than anyone else, especially my parents. This teacher was cooler, funnier, more daring and definitely more in tune with my life than anyone I had ever met. I was convinced that if I could only be just like this teacher would mean that I too would be cooler, funnier, more daring and definitely more in tune with life. So, like most adolescent girls who are suffering from a crush I became obsessed with this teacher. I was young and I was in love, and like most thirteen year-old’s the I was convinced that the world revolved around me, so I set about pursuing my passion. This teacher taught English, so naturally, I decided that when I grew up I too would teach English. This teacher loved poetry, so I too became passionate about poetry.

One day this teacher announced that we could gain extra-credit if we wanted to enter a local poetry writing contest; and even though I was pretty sure that year I’d be getting a mark that would be somewhat better than an A, I began to write poetry. I was very serious about my poetry writing.  I carried a pad of paper with me everywhere I went, and I began to ruminate about my life. I don’t remember any of those early attempts to wax poetical, but I do remember that each and every one of those poems was about me; me and my life, me and my unrequited love, me and my passion, me and the horrible way that no one paid much attention to me. Me, Me, Me, Me, it was all about me.

As the time drew near for us to submit our poetry to the competition, my teacher announced that there would be a special class after school, so that those of us who were planning to enter the competition could get some feedback on our efforts. So, by the end of the week, I would have to choose one of my great works for feedback. I spent hours pouring over one poem in particular. Tinkering with the words, trying to get things just right. I was so very proud of the final draft. I’d carefully copied it out on to a crisp piece of foolscap. Arranged the letters in the middle of the page so that they looked just so. I could hardly wait for school to be over so that I could rush to see what comments my beloved teacher had placed in the margin. There were barely a handful of us who stayed after school.

Looking back on that scene, we were a nerdy little crew. I was positively breathless as my teacher handed my offering back to me. To this day, I can’t remember a single line of my great work, but I can tell you word for ward what was scribbled in red in the margin of the ever so white foolscap. “A little self-involved, try looking outward.” I was devastated. How could anyone be so cruel? I’d poured my heart out only to have it stomped on by the indifference of truth. Continue reading

WHY: by Nina Simone in honour of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Recorded on April 7, 1968 – just three days after the assignation of Dr. King, recorded live at the Westbury Music Fair. There’s a rawness to this performance that speaks volumes. The song was written by Nina Simone’s bass player Gene Taylor.

Amazing Peace by Maya Angelou

Amazing PeaceOccasionally we replace one of the Sunday Bible readings with a contemporary. On the First Sunday of Advent three years ago (Advent 1A) we used the poem “Amazing Peace” by Maya Angelou. It was first recited at the lighting of the National Christmas Tree in Washington. Since then it has been illustrated by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher. The poem captures the longing for peace that permeates the Advent and Christmas seasons. 

Amazing Peace Maya Angelou

Be the Crack that Lets the Light Shine In – a sermon lamenting the election

img_0693Our readings included Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 and Luke 21:5-19, our Contemporary Psalm was “Anthem” by Lenard Cohen

Listen to the sermon here

“There is a time for everything,

a season for every purpose under heaven:

a season to be born and a season to die;

a season to plant and a season to harvest;

a season to hurt and a season to heal;

a season to tear down and a season to build up;

a season to cry and a season to laugh;

a season to mourn and a season to dance;

a season to scatter stones and a season to gather them;

a season for holding close and a season for holding back;

a season to seek and a season to lose;

a season to keep and a season to throw away;

a season to tear and a season to mend;

a season to be silent and a season to speak;

a season to love and a season to hate;

a season for hostilities and a season for peace.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

 

“The birds they sang

at the break of day

Start again

I heard them say

Don’t dwell on what

has passed away

or what is yet to be.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”  (Anthem by Lenard Cohen)

 

What a season we are in; a time to grieve, a time to weep, a time to harken back through the ages to seasons when our ancestors spoke of rending their garments.

Tearing their clothing, the fabric that protects them from the elements.

Tearing the fabric that adorns their body, the fashion that identifies them, shows the world who and what they are ripped and torn as they throw themselves down to the ground and wail in their grief.

In these past few days, the sound of rending garments has haunted my very being as if the fabric of civility is torn in two and our hopes and dreams as timid as we allow them to be, are ripped asunder.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth can only begin to express our grief.

What we need is the ululation, that long, wavering, high-pitched scream, the kind of howling that has long since got out of fashion in our civil society.

“We asked for signs

the signs were sent:

the birth betrayed

the marriage spent

Yeah the widowhood

of every government —

signs for all to see.”

Our hopes and dreams of a new season had barely begun to surface.

When our own demons tore the curtain asunder to reveal the reality that white supremacy and male supremacy, are not going gently into the great night.

“Ah the wars they will

be fought again

The holy dove

She will be caught again

bought and sold

and bought again

the dove is never free.”

Women grabbed as once again misogyny is worn as a badge of honour.

Walls erected.

People of colour taunted with lynching ropes.

Our fragile planet groaning under the pressure of our filth, threatened by the ignorance of powerful deniers who now wield the power of the richest purse. 

“Ah the wars they will

be fought again

The holy dove

She will be caught again

bought and sold

and bought again

the dove is never free.”

Conversion therapy is on the books again.

Tired tropes of white supremacy.

Muslim bans, deportation squads, treaties broken, pipelines built, clean coal replacing suspicious solar, as our energies are directed and distracted by promises of taking back and making great again.

“The holy dove is never free.

The wars they will be fought again,”

 water-boarding and torture back in vogue again.

Even generals cower before visions of their new commander-in-chief, promises to “bomb the shit out of them” as the generals wonder who are “them.”

Let’s build a wall. Let’s build it high.

Let’s dig a moat. Let’s fill that moat with crocodiles.

Let’s keep them out.

What a season this is.

Only the promise of winter can cheer our hearts, the drifting snow, the promised birth.

Let Jesus come.

Let Christmas mirth distract us here.

Jesus saves.

But Christians cheer.

They’ve found their saviour.

“Two Corinthians” is their guy.

Pussies be damned we hear them preach.

What a season this is.

I’ve struggled wondering what to say to you this morning; what hope can I offer?

When the message of the one we profess to follow has been used in ways that have convinced 81% of white evangelicals to vote for change such as this?

The majority of Roman Catholics joined in.

33% of the women who voted cast their lot with a misogynist.

75% percent of those who voted profess to be Christian.

Jesus weeps.

The curtain is torn.

Wars and rumors of wars.

“The holy dove

She will be caught again

bought and sold

and bought again

the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”

“Here we stand.”

We Canadians.

Convinced that we are above it all.

Polite and kind are we.

Have a nice day.

Your welcome.

Excuse me.

“Here we stand.”

We who have yet to elect a female prime minister or a prime minister of colour.

Our last prime minister called for a burka ban and a barbaric practices hotline and we had already elected him 3 times.

But we’re not them.

No orange tan, just pretty locks of hair and a name that takes us back to simpler days when the just society, and multiculturalism inspired a mania whose child now feeds our arrogant notions of sunny ways.

We’re not them.

Our fingers point to the racist south while First Nations die in a slow creeping genocide.

It’s been a year since McLeans’ announced that our Indigenous peoples are incarcerated at ten times the rate as other Canadians.

 

But we are not them, despite the fact that our Indigenous peoples are murdered at more than six times the national average.

NO we are not them, even though our Indigenous peoples must survive on 40% less than the average wage in Canada.

We are not them.

139 active drinking water advisories in 94 First Nations communities across the country, more than 1000 missing and murdered indigenous women and girls and to which we say,

“Have a nice day

your welcome.”

We are not them.

Even if it is true that by almost every measurable indicator Canada’s indigenous population suffers a worse fate and more hardship than the African American population in the United States.

We are not them.

We are not racist.

“The birds they sang

at the break of day

Start again

I heard them say

Don’t dwell on what

has passed away

or what is yet to be.”

 

There is a season turn turn turn, to every purpose under heaven.

Jesus saves.

And here we stand, right smack in the middle of a season in which the Gospel and the church are associated with bigotry, racism, misogyny, sexual assault, climate change denial, and persecution of people based on ancient myths interpreted as facts.

Here we stand, an inclusive, progressive, science loving, historically critical, knowledge loving family that continues to struggle with the teachings of Jesus, refusing to take the Bible literally while trying to take it seriously.

Here we stand, convinced that we can do no other.

Opening our arms wide, extending a promise of radical welcome.

 

“Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”

Ring the bells that still can ring:

the bells of justice

the bells of hope

the bells of peace

the bells of joy

“Forget your perfect offering.”

The cracks are there for all to see.

The light shines in.

And still we sing.

And still we stand.

Trusting that every tear will be wiped away.

That all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.

LOVE will turn our mourning into dancing.

Here we stand for we can do no other.

Ring the bells that can still ring.

The LOVE that is God is the only hope I have to offer you in this strange season that we are in.

The LOVE that is God is the best hope that we have to give.

There is a crack in everything.

Be that crack.

Let the light come in.

Ring the bells that can still ring.

Be that crack.

Let the LOVE come in.

BE THE LOVE SHINING IN.

                            

 

Baptism Opens Us to MORE – a sermon on Psalm 139 and Luke 18:15-17

wesleyListen to the sermon here

Copy of the Baptism Liturgy here

Know Thyself – a sermon for Advent 2C – Luke 3:1-6

knowThyselfQuotes from John Shelby Spong’s essay “Looking at Christmas Through a Rear-View Window” and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poem Gnothi Seauton: Know Thyself

Listen to the sermon here

Baptism – Opening to the MORE – two baptism sermons

Evelyn AdeleThe opportunity to baptize my lovely granddaughter brought with it the task of preparing a sermon on the sacrament of baptism. So, I diligently prepared a carefully thought out sermon for the occasion. Standing in the pulpit after reading the Gospel text from Matthew  19:13-15, the sight of all seven grandchildren challenging the abilities of their parents and grandparents to maintain order and decorum gave me pause. Fortunately our pulpit at Holy Cross is on wheels, so I quickly pushed it aside and reached into my missal for a folder I had placed there so that during the announcements I could draw the attention of our members to some very good news about the success of a child of the congregation. The folder contained a story which I proceeded to tell in place of my carefully prepared sermon. You can listen to the story here. I am indebted to the author, Travis Dermott for providing the good news on this very happy occasion. As promised, the text of the carefully and lovingly prepared, undelivered sermon is provided below. 

Listen to the story here

When someone places a newborn human in your arms, it opens you to MORE. Humans have a strange relationship to MORE. Most of us spend our entire lives longing for more, looking for more, hungering for more, desiring more, striving for more, waiting for more, searching for more. Holding a newborn in your arms opens us to the power of MORE. I’m not talking about the more that the world so often gets caught up in seeking, more stuff, more money, more things, more wealth, more land, more resources, more power, more sex, more popularity, more gadgets, more food, more, more, more, more, for me and mine, more. I’m talking about the MORE with a capital M. MORE. The kind of MORE a newborn baby lying in your arms opens us to is the kind of MORE that poets, storytellers, artists, musicians, and messiah’s have been trying to capture for centuries. Holding a newborn in your arms opens us to this MORE because the reality of this new little being connects us to some Beyond ourselves.

Cradling a newborn you can’t help but wonder and marvel at the miracle of life itself. Gently rocking a newborn in your arms opens you to the powers of the cosmos coming together for billions and billions of years to create life. Gazing down at a newborn softly breathing in your arms fills your heart with emotions so powerful that in just an instant you can fall in love. Adoring a newborn in your arms transforms you out of the confines of the ordinary and mundane and into the reaches of time itself as you search for signs of ancestors long gone in tiny features that draw us into futures as yet unknown. And just when you think your heart is going to explode from the shear magnificence of the miracle in your arms, suddenly the newborn in your arms opens up the power of their new little lungs and you can’t help but be stunned by this tiny little creature’s ability to turn your world upside down. Continue reading

Raging Storms are All Around Us – a sermon for Pentecost 4B – Mark 4:35-41

lift every voiceIn addition to being Fathers’ Day, today was National Aboriginal Day, the beginning of Pride Week celebrations, and yesterday was International Refugee Day. All of these events were overshadowed by the tragic events in Charleston on Wednesday. The Gospel text from the Gospel of Mark tells the story of Jesus stilling the storm and calming the waters. Our worship begin with the singing of what has become known as the African American anthem, Lift Every Voice and Sing.  Listen to the sermon here

A Little Self-Involved? Try Looking Outward! – a sermon on John 3:1-17

Trinity copyWhen I was just a kid, I had what can best be described as an adolescent crush on a teacher. Looking back on it now, I’d have to say that I fell head over heels in love with my teacher. It was the kind of love that only a 13 year-old girl could have; so intense and all consuming. I came to believe that this teacher was the wisest, kindest, most interesting person in all the world. This teacher knew more than anyone else, especially my parents. This teacher was cooler, funnier, more daring and definitely more in tune with my life than anyone I had ever met. I was convinced that if I could only be just like this teacher would mean that I too would be cooler, funnier, more daring and definitely more in tune with life. So, like most adolescent girls who are suffering from a crush I became obsessed with this teacher. I was young and I was in love, and like most thirteen year-old’s the I was convinced that the world revolved around me, so I set about pursuing my passion. This teacher taught English, so naturally, I decided that when I grew up I too would teach English. This teacher loved poetry, so I too became passionate about poetry.

One day this teacher announced that we could gain extra-credit if we wanted to enter a local poetry writing contest; and even though I was pretty sure that year I’d be getting a mark that would be somewhat better than an A, I began to write poetry. I was very serious about my poetry writing.  I carried a pad of paper with me everywhere I went, and I began to ruminate about my life. I don’t remember any of those early attempts to wax poetical, but I do remember that each and every one of those poems was about me; me and my life, me and my unrequited love, me and my passion, me and the horrible way that no one paid much attention to me. Me, Me, Me, Me, it was all about me.

As the time drew near for us to submit our poetry to the competition, my teacher announced that there would be a special class after school, so that those of us who were planning to enter the competition could get some feedback on our efforts. So, by the end of the week, I would have to choose one of my great works for feedback. I spent hours pouring over one poem in particular. Tinkering with the words, trying to get things just right. I was so very proud of the final draft. I’d carefully copied it out on to a crisp piece of foolscap. Arranged the letters in the middle of the page so that they looked just so. I could hardly wait for school to be over so that I could rush to see what comments my beloved teacher had placed in the margin. There were barely a handful of us who stayed after school.

Looking back on that scene, we were a nerdy little crew. I was positively breathless as my teacher handed my offering back to me. To this day, I can’t remember a single line of my great work, but I can tell you word for ward what was scribbled in red in the margin of the ever so white foolscap. “A little self-involved, try looking outward.” I was devastated. How could anyone be so cruel? I’d poured my heart out only to have it stomped on by the indifference of truth. Continue reading

Commemorating Julian of Norwich (1342-1416)

Julian of Norwich Between pastorDawnOn this her Feast Day, let us commemorate Julian of Norwich, who is perhaps one of the greatest English Mystics. Although she has never been canonized by the Roman Catholic Church she is venerated in both the Lutheran and Anglican churches. Julian is the author of the first English book ever to have been written by a woman: Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love.

Click here to listen to a meditative sung liturgy inspired by Julian’s writings

Click here to download the Worship Bulletin

which includes details of the life of Julian (designed to be printed double-sided)

Love Julian pastorDawn

Mary Speaks: “The Testament of Mary” and “The Confession Stone” a Midrash for Palm Sunday

Palm Sunda 2015Judas, Peter, Pilate, Caiaphas, and John – these are the names most often heard in the stories we hear during Holy Week….the men who failed Jesus or who conspired against Jesus, their names we hear during this holiest of weeks. But what of the women who stood by Jesus, who wept for Jesus, who bore witnesses to the betrayal, the trial, the execution, and the death of Jesus. Where are their stories during this week of weeks? For centuries, the church has failed to listen to the voices of the women whose lives were intertwined with Jesus’ life. The stories of these faithful women have been hidden in the mists of time. This Palm Sunday we turned to one of those women; to Mary the mother of Jesus. Her voice has been silenced by the church. She has been confined to works of art that speak not with words. 

So, as we enter Holy Week we turn to two new works of art that give voice to Mary’s story. Anne Keith and I will do our best to give voice to Mary’s story using the words of the Irish writer Colm Tóibín whose book, “The Testament of Mary” imagines Mary as an old woman, nearing the end of her life, looking back on the life of her beloved child Jesus. You will hear cynicism in the voice of Mary who is visited by the men who will tell her son’s story; men who are determined to make a particular meaning out of Jesus life and death. Mary does not share their enthusiasm for the tragedy that robbed her of her child, nor will she twist her own story to suit their needs.

Mary’s voice will also come to you through music. Mezzo soprano, Linda Condy, accompanied by our Musical Director: Marney Curran, B.S.M., A.R.C.T., will preform “The Confession Stone: Songs of Mary” composed by Canadian Robert Fleming based on the poems of Owen DodsonOwen Dodson was an African-American poet whose work is part of what has been dubbed the Harlem Renaissance. Dodson’s poetry brings a lively humanity to the Mary empowering her voice to evoke the passion of a mother’s loss.

Both Owen Dodson and Colm Tóibín provide a powerful midrash with which to begin our Holy Week. 

Celtic Night Prayer

Video: Halianna Burhans: Music:  Rev. Will Burhans – Weight of Grace Text: John Philip Newell, Celtic Benediction: Morning and Night Prayer

Commemorating Julian of Norwich (1342-1416)

Julian of Norwich Between pastorDawnToday churches commemorate Julian of Norwich, who is perhaps one of the greatest English Mystics. Although she has never been canonized by the Roman Catholic Church she is venerated in both the Lutheran and Anglican churches. Julian is the author of the first English book ever to have been written by a woman: Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love.

Click here to listen to a meditative sung liturgy inspired by Julian’s writings

Click here to download the Worship Bulletin

which includes details of the life of Julian (designed to be printed double-sided)

Love Julian pastorDawn

The Road to Emmaus – Stephane Brozek Cordier

This Sunday the gospel text invites us to travel down our own road to Emmaus. Stephane Brozek Cordier is a poet whose words have the power to open us to our deepest wonderings as we wander down that road.

ABIDE: Carrie Newcomer and Parker J. Palmer

parker palmer Carrie NewcomerI have been a fan of Carrie Newcomer for years – her gentle way of opening me to wonder both sooths and enlightens. I can still remember discovering Parker J. Palmer when I was in seminary and having many of my assumptions about teaching challenged. So, discovering their collaboration was pure joy!!! I’ve been listening to this piece over and over again. Enjoy!!!