Of all the clips shown of the Pope shown during his visit to the United States this week, the one that most caught my eye was a short documentary piece by CNN on an unexplained gap in the pope’s early life as a Jesuit priest in Argentina.

As the story is told, the young Jorge Borgoglio was a real hard-ass: doctrinaire, demanding, and unforgiving. In fact, his fellow Jesuits got so tired of his heavy-handedness that from 1990 to 1992 they sent him off in virtual exile to the Argentinian city of Cordoba, where he lived an almost hermetic solitude.

But through those many months of private prayer and reflection, something apparently happened to the future pope: he emerged from the experience speaking more of mercy than of judgment, more of compassion than of dogmatic correctness. He emerged, in other words, as the man we have seen this week: a champion for the poor, a prophet for the earth, a defender of immigrants, holding out hope to everyone, even those condemned to die. You might say that during his exile Padre Borgoglio discovered the meaning of what Jesus tells us in today’s gospel: that Jesus came that we might have life, and have it abundantly—not fearfully and defensively, but abundantly, joyfully, and passionately.

   Back in New Haven, Connecticut, where I most recently served as a priest before coming to Albuquerque, I made a habit of walking from time to time around the corner from my parish office to the Yale Catholic Student Center to pay my colleagues there a visit. The facility is stunning: spacious, recently constructed, and designed to be a welcoming oasis for the whole university community. Particularly noticeable is that just after entering the main door, a visitor sees Jesus’s words inscribed in large letters across the entry hall: “I came that you might have life, and have it abundantly. John 10:10.”

If the visitor pays a bit more careful attention, he or she will perhaps also notice that underneath that inscription is an oil painting of the donor who made the center possible, a fellow named Thomas Golden. In the portrait, Golden is seated in front of a fireplace, and on the mantle of that fireplace, just over Golden’s left shoulder, is a clock with its hands set to—you guessed it, 10:10—a subtle resonance with the inscription of the biblical verse John 10:10 just above.

Now, you probably know that this verse has sometimes been used to justify a crude sort of prosperity gospel—that is, the notion that following Jesus somehow leads inevitably to material wealth. But that is not the sort of abundance Jesus means. In fact, some translations render the verse, “I came that you might have life, and have it in all its fullness,” which begins to get at quite a different meaning. And as we have seen that meaning enacted for us this past week by the Pope, it clearly has to do with something more than prosperity: it has instead to do with what the Pope—and I dare say we here at St. Michael’s—are committed to building as the Kingdom of God—a kingdom that I want to describe here this morning in three words: caritas, covenant, and community.

The first of those three words, caritas, is one of the New Testament words for love, as in that famous passage from I Corinthians 13: “three things endure, faith, hope and love (caritas), but the greatest of these is love.” This love is not of a romantic sort, nor is it of the familial kind (despite the fact that I Corinthians passage gets read at almost every wedding). Rather, caritas is the spirit of fraternal empathy that causes us to reach out in loving concern to each and every person, whoever and whatever they are. Caritas involves extending God’s unconditional love, acceptance and mercy uniformly, in a genuine embodiment of the “all are welcome” about which we sang in our opening hymn.

Covenant, then (the second of the three descriptors of God’s kingdom), is derived from the understanding that to support the love with which we wish to engage the world, we must first be bound together by certain common commitments that ground our identity in Christ. In short, covenant implies that we are committed to do, what Jesus asked us to do: to break bread together, to remain faithful in prayer and the reading of scripture, to be generous in the sharing of ourselves and our resources, and to live out the Golden Rule by treating others as we would have them to treat us (a principle about which Pope Francis not-so-subtly reminded the members of Congress this past week). These commitments bind us together in a pattern of relationship—the baptismal covenant—and they are what make the caritas (the loving concern) of God’s kingdom real and tangible.

Then the third of the descriptors of the kingdom—community—reminds us that we discover these other two dimensions (caritas and covenant), only when we recognize that we are all part of striving toward what Pope Francis repeatedly named this week as the common good. The Christian view of life is unequivocally convinced that life’s meaning ultimately comes from being committed to something larger than one’s self. This after all is the core of Jesus’ teaching, as he tells us over and over that only in losing our life do we gain it, only in giving up the priority of the self to make room for the Other (whether it is the stranger, the foreigner, or the person in need) do we find a true sense of purpose and joy.

I am relatively new here at St. Michael’s—obviously. But from the day that I first arrived, I couldn’t help noticing that there seems to be a phrase almost hanging in the air around here, which is “open hands, open hearts, open minds.” (There is, for example, a sculpture in the front office called “open mind,” as if to remind us of this theme each time we come and go.) I heard vestry members use the phrase; I saw the open hands and hearts of volunteers in the food pantry, St. Martin’s shelter, and community connections; I heard staff members use the phrase; I came across it in parish publications. So it seemed natural that in setting up today’s celebration, we should claimed the obvious by adopting “open hands, open hearts, open minds” as a unifying theme for going forward together as we make this common act of renewal of ministry in this place.

Because the abundant life—the fullness of life—to which Jesus calls us is just that: a life lived in openness, openness both to the blessings that God so freely gives us, but also to the commitments to which God calls us. The abundant life is one that has such a strength of character, a generosity of spirit, and a curiosity of mind that it opens us to engage the world as it is (neither minimizing its sorrows and pains, nor overlooking its beauty); the abundant life opens us to a sense of the generosity of God’s grace and mercy (neither turning a blind eye to injustice, nor failing to do good for those who are in need); the abundant life results in an awareness of the rich complexity of life that opens us to new insight and understanding (neither forgetting the wisdom of our forbears, nor resisting the changing perspectives which experience urges upon us).

Open hands, open hearts, open minds. These are the markers of the true abundance, the true fullness, to which Jesus calls us, and which Jesus offers us. This is the life that once desolate Padre Borgoglio discovered in his dark night of the soul, and he has never been the same. And the same Spirit that worked such a miracle in him, is working it in us as well. Just look around you: the signs are there, in the open hands, hearts and minds that are the true heart and soul of St. Michael’s parish. Thanks be to God!

(And by the way, as you leave church today … check what time it is on the new clock in the entry hall. I’ll give you one guess.)

John 1:47-51
29 IX 2013 Michaelmas
St. Michael and All Angels
The Rev. Canon Daniel G. P. Gutierrez

Let us bow our heads, close our eyes and open our hearts  to the one who is greater than we.   Lord I humbly pray that some word that is heard, be thine.

Worry.  I do not like to worry.  I find it draining, I am anxious, uncertain, I try to go at it alone and usually mess things up.  I like security.  It is comforting and liberating - it provides a sense of ease.  I use the word “security”  expansively be it financial, personal, safety, relational.  I have found that when I feel secure it is usually because, I trust in something. When you stumble someone or something will steady you.

When you blindly grasp in the darkness there is a knowing that a hand will be there to meet yours.  I was blessed to witness what I call a “blessed assurance” reflected in the marriage and last years of  Arnold and Bernice Fletcher.  They married young during World War II, and raised three beautiful daughters.   They did not change the world with brilliant acts, yet their faith and lives were examples to many. 

There were no poems written about their devotion, yet many could have been written. 

Whatever difficulty that entered their lives, including the tragic death of a daughter, they faced it, trusting.  They know that they were spoken for - by one another.  After 50 years of marriage, a cruel thief began to steal Bernice from Arnold.  Because of the disease, they moved from their beautiful home to small assisted living apartment.  

Yet, they were together.   From assisted living apartment to one small room in a nursing home, and they were still side by side.  Bernice’s world consisted of constant care, a distant stare and arms moving rhythmically.    Arnold patiently sitting nearby.  Listening for her breathing, watching if she rustled, From early morning through late at night, he watched over his beloved Bernice.  

One time when their only grandson came to visit, Arnold gently reached through the rails to hold her hand and spoke to her softly.   Bernice, someone is here to see you.  When she heard Arnold’s voice, her arms stopped moving.  Her clutched fingers grasped his hand and for a few moments, she was calm. 

From the recesses of her soul, a place without speech, where there was no clarity, Arnold’s voice lovingly slipped through the distance.  In that instant, it was as if she understood that her love, her life, was near.    Although her memory was taken, she did not need memory, like a favorite song, she knew his voice by heart.

In remembering that moment and in today’s Gospel, I thought of how Jesus is always nearby - if we realize it.  The first disciples follow Jesus. When invited by Phillip, Nathaniel seems doubt that this man called Jesus is real or that he is something something special.  In fact in the preceding verse - he is downright sarcastic.

When Jesus calls out to him and describes his character,  Nathaniel is stunned.  He asks in a demanding tone “‘Where did you come to know me?”  Not “where did you see me?” or  “who told you/”  In an instant,  he realizes that God has always been in his life, close by, watching, tending, hoping.   That Jesus was in his life, long before he met Jesus. When Nathaniel comes to the realization - he is changed.  

How different things must have been 2000 years ago.  To question the presence in our lives and then have Jesus walk into our lives.  Then suddenly, be changed.  To feel trust, to be liberated, not to worry, to have a new life and new world.  Imagine.  But nothing has changed, it seems we have.  Maybe our openness to Christ has closed over time.  And I am sure we can justify the reasons.

Maybe we have a difficult time accepting that we can be loved or that God is truly capable of love.  How can God love my enemy, even worse - how can God love me.  It is easier and less binding to believe that God spends all eternity judging and rejecting us.   Yet throughout the Bible, the Eucharist, the cross and resurrection, the message is the same.  I know you, you are mine.   We are spoken for by the mouth of Christ. 

Or maybe we can rationalize intellectually. How can Jesus know me?  Yes, these are great stories about some guy who lived over 2000 years ago, he has outstanding messages that I want to live by, great moral stories,  appears in stained glass windows.  Yet you want me to accept that his presence is always near?  Prove it. We want answers instead of questions, understanding instead of desire, clarity instead of mystery.   Yet, how do you explain the unexplainable. How do you define mystery.

I could not explain that millisecond when my breath was stuck  in my chest when I understood that Bernice was grasping for Arnold’s hand and struggling to listen to his voice.  I cannot explain the wonder I feel in a sunset,  the feeling of holding my son in my arms, the pain felt at the death of someone we love.  How do you explain love? 

Maybe we do not recognize the possibility of these moments have their origins in God.

Or maybe the reason is that we are at a point in life where we just do not feel that Jesus is close or really care.  The pain of illness or the cloud of depression leaves us no room to seek or feel.  The world, the pressures, the divorce, the problems with the kids, the bills, they all seem to set me apart from Christ.  Yet somehow, there is a calm in the storm, a sense of relief, a voice that seems to speak.

A small light that shines in our darkest night.   And we cannot explain nor understand it.   A favorite author[1] wrote -  Consider how the sun continually lights our daily world yet we cannot see light except in what it touches.  Though the sun burns constantly and holds everything living within its pull, though it sends its power across millions of miles.   It is unseen for all that way, until it hits a simple blade of grass or makes the web of a spider a golden patch of lace.

In the same way, the presence of God powerfully moves between us unseen, only visible in the brief moments we are lighted, in those moments we know as love.  For just as we can look at that spider web and never see its beauty until it reveals itself in sudden light, we can look upon the nearest face, again and again, never seeing the beauty in each other, until one or both of us is suddenly revealed. It is there until we finally realize it, God is always close.

Maybe this week, let’s open ourselves to the possibility.  In our private moments, walking up to communion, sitting at work or in the darkness of your night,  ask God, “how do you know me?’  Sit back and listen for that silent voice, reach out your hand and grasp whatever is placed in yours. Notice the light that has traveled billions of miles to reflect on your life.  God speaks to us through the heart, not only through the mind.

Somehow I have to believe that in much the same way, Bernice knew by heart Arnold’s voice, our own heart senses that God is near.  That realization was ingrained inside Nathaniel when Jesus called him so that he was forever transformed.  It will change each one of us in much the same way.

To patiently await morning when we only feel the darkness.  Purely Love when hate is all we feel. Struggle upright when broken. Breathe when suffocated.  Or to bravely step forward in hope with Fr. Clark knowing that Jesus is near, walking this parish journey with you.   This assurance provides the type of security that money, a locked door, or a closed heart will never protect.

After Bernice left his world.  I sat with Arnold and we would talk about catching red fish in the Gulf, his daughters, granddaughters and the life that he and Bernice created together.  When talking about his Bernice, he would get a faraway look in his eyes.  “She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen.”  he said. ‘She gave me 61 years of her.  God was good to me, giving me Bernice.  He loved me and I loved her.”

The two are buried next to each other in a small cemetery in Texas,  Arnold knew that in the end he would see the two people who were always with him Bernice and God.  But more importantly,, he understood that the love of Bernice  and the love of Christ, although he could not see them, were still with him

So this week be silly, irrational and take one minute out of your day.  Ask Jesus, “how do you know me”  You may find a surprising response and as a result find within yourself something stronger, braver, trusting, kinder, and holier that anything we could have every imagined.  Hold your hand out, lean against him, he knows you because he is always there.  Your may never see God in the same way ever again.

___________________________________

[1] Mark Nepo in The Book of Awakening

Sermon – St. Michael and All Angels
Michaelmas
September 30, 2012

Happy birthday, St. Michael and All Angels! Today you are 62. I have been thinking about what 62 looks like. It is an age of beauty and wisdom. At 62, we know something of who we are and what our growing edges are. We also know something about who we are not. It is the perfect age to acknowledge the ways God is at work in our midst. A birthday is a good time to pause and see God all around us. Where do you see God at St. Michael’s? I started a list, but it’s just a start because I could never name all the ways God is moving among us.

•    The stories from J2A and Navajoland mission teams in recent weeks.
•    The Eucharistic visitors who take communion to those who can’t be here on Sundays.
•    Emma and Sasha who are baptized into our community this morning.
•    In the stories we hear as we share our lives over coffee, in adult formation, or other gatherings.
•    In the music and liturgical art that stir us each week.
•    In a new building for youth to grow as a community.
•    In a lively seniors ministry.
•    In each of you.

So on this birthday, I invite you to join with me in reflecting on where God is in this place. In the first reading today, Jacob says, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!” (Genesis 28:16) It is good for us to see where God is moving among us and give thanks. Do this, not in secret, but tell someone else over coffee after worship today where you experience God at St. Michael’s. It is our birthday, after all. Do not waste an opportunity to name your gratitude out loud.

It is especially powerful that Jacob has the encounter with the angel. He is not the model of good behavior. Jacob has stolen his brother Esau’s blessing and conned him out of his birthright. He is fleeing for his life when he meets God in the wilderness. He discovers that there is nowhere he can go to escape God.

Our feast day scriptures today give us battles and angels. While it is tempting to avoid this great battle in heaven, it has given me pause to reflect on the battles going on in and around us. We are battling life-threatening illnesses, relationships that are hurtful, old wounds that continue to suck the life out of us, financial stress, uncertainty about our future, destruction to our planet, systems that oppress the most vulnerable in our society…the list is never ending.

We make our way through this battleground of life and witness the road rage from someone who has no patience for those who drive too slowly, the bored cashier in the store who has no interest in customers, the ones who spout off a long litany of complaints to anyone who will listen…it seems easy to find people who are unhappy and negative. Who wants to be surrounded by such negative energy? I find myself worked up by a negative encounter and holding tightly to my own negative reactions when I remember the words of Philo of Alexandria “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.”

These words call us to see people differently. We can look more honestly at our own battles and remember to show compassion to others. Last weekend, we had a gathering for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered friends of St. Michael’s. Twenty-eight of us sat in a circle and introduced ourselves by naming what brought us to this gathering. In that circle were many stories of the pain of trying to reconcile our sexuality with our faith. It is never a given that all the parts of our lives will flow easily together. It is hard work to reconcile all of who we are and it is tempting to separate parts of ourselves into boxes rather than acknowledge the fullness of who we are. Many of my days include conversations with people who are seeking to be whole, but we have too long discarded parts of ourselves or ignored them. It takes courage and compassion to embrace all of who we are and to heal the broken parts.

Jacob is a scoundrel. He is no hero. He has done terrible things and betrayed his family. He is selfish and greedy and now he is running because he is terrified to face the consequences of his actions. He flees into the wilderness, but you and I know that the wilderness isn’t where we go for refuge. It is where the wild things live. It is where we lose our way. We may find ourselves face to face with the reality that we could die here.

It is curious to me that Jacob’s encounter in the wilderness wasn’t with a wild beast, but with an angel. My friend Jan Richardson asks, “How will we see the angels if we don’t go into the wilderness? How will we recognize the help that God sends if we don’t seek out the places beyond what is comfortable to us, if we don’t press into terrain that challenges our habitual perspective? How will we find the delights that God provides even—and especially—in the desert places?”

(http://paintedprayerbook.com/2012/02/23/first-sunday-of-lent-and-the-angels-waited/#.UGXdB0KhDzI)

When I am talking with people, I am stunned at the courage they summon to face the angels in the wilderness. I am humbled by their commitment to wholeness and the vulnerability that is required for us to fully enter the struggle. This struggle will lead to embracing the parts of us that we’d rather ignore. No one said it would be easy, but does it have to be this hard?

Yet in spite of the difficulty there is grace and hope. Here is what God said to Jacob, “I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring…all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I promised you.” (Genesis 28: 13-15)

Jacob who has betrayed and cheated is given a promise that he and his offspring will be a blessing to all people! It takes my breath away to encounter a God so full of grace who will not leave us and who always keeps promises. Jacob wakes from sleep and recognizes that God is right there in the wilderness. It is astonishing that God shows up in our struggles and vulnerability and promises to be with us.

On our birthday as a congregation, the angels show up to speak the truth, to show us our task in the world and to remind us that God will not leave us. Like Jacob, may we wake from sleep and recognize the presence of God here. May we understand that we are to bless all of God’s people. May we see the beautiful buildings we inhabit at St. Michael’s as places where God dwells. May we understand that we who have received so much from God, are to be carriers of God’s grace and compassion to all.

October 2, 2011
The Feast of St. Michael and All Angels
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor


Today, the feast of St. Michael and All Angels - or Michaelmas - is a kind of parish birthday. We are blessed to have with us Fr. Daniel Gutierrez, who was raised up as a priest out of this parish, and who has gone on to assist our bishop as Canon to the Ordinary. Welcome home, Daniel.

A birthday seems a good time to share with you some thoughts about where we have recently come from, and where I think we are going. So this will be less a sermon and more a State of the Parish talk.

Today, we are enjoying a number of significant programs that assisting clergy and many of you have built up over the last few years.

• The dedicated folk running our Food Pantry, together with Deacon Jan, brought it to a place of real consistency and strength. We’re now able to offer food to many more of our neighbors here in the Valley.
• Fr. Daniel and his crew created the 5:00 Sunday Eucharist, a wonderfully intimate, alternative form of worship and community. It is now being taken forward to its next stage by the Rev. Susan Allison Hatch and a freshly-energized group of lay leaders.
• Fr. Christopher and dozens of teachers deepened our ministries with children and youth. He and a group of Re-Imaginers brought us closer together through listening to one another’s stories and passions. A number of you also worked with him to create events, parties, and pilgrimages, which have strengthened our sense of community.
• A lay group doing pastoral work with Deacon Judith has significantly broadened our ability to reach out with home and hospital visits, spiritual direction, support groups, and intercessory prayer.
• Finally, as these ministries were growing over the last few years, we realized that we needed more room to house them. You committed $1.4m to build our beautiful Ministry Complex. It is now filled with delightful activity nearly every day, enabling us to be generous and creative in our use of space.

So as I look back over the last few years, I’m amazed at your faithfulness and dedication. We are, as Bishop Vono has said many times, a model of what a congregation can be when it is responsive to the Spirit.

And now as I look ahead, I think about where the Spirit might be taking us next. Since my return from sabbatical, I’ve seen four signs of the times we’re in. These are the areas where I have real enthusiasm and commitment, where I want to focus our energy over the next couple of years. They will help us evolve to our next stage of community life.

The first sign I see is that some of the ministries we’ve developed have been fairly clergy-dependent. Where this is true, we miss out on the kind of consistency, diversity, and breadth that can only come from group lay leadership.
And so over the next couple of years, I want to build leadership teams in every area of ministry that rises above a certain number of participants. They will deal with the big picture, by planning ahead, learning best practices, evaluating their work, recruiting new leaders, and nurturing volunteers. They will learn about publicity and communications, how the staff can support them, budgeting and fundraising, and connecting with the wider church’s activities in their field.

I am currently in the process of hiring part-time ministry staff who will help develop these leadership teams. I’m excited about the idea of working closely with this new staff, sharing ideas and overlapping and integrating our activities. And as lay leadership teams develops, the role of ministry staff will be less about the management of details, and more what we are called and trained to do – to offer theological, pastoral, and spiritual support for the ministry you are carrying out.

The second sign of our time is that we are beginning to spread out into the diocese and the wider church beyond. We have people elected and appointed to offices, and others who participate in diocesan and regional events. We’ve got our people at San Gabriel’s in Corrales, St. Martin’s with the homeless, St. Mark’s, and in the diocesan office. A number of our members are in discernment about ordained ministry, which may take them afield.
We’re also planning to train other congregations in what we’ve been doing for years – discernment groups, lay pastors, Hispanic ministry, and support for gay and lesbian Episcopalians and their families.

All of this is possible because the diocese is much more healthy and vibrant, and because it is beginning to value the significant experience that we have to offer. It is time for us to spread our wings.

The third sign: we will have financial challenges, but we also have the resources and commitment to meet them. Every year, we must raise $700,000 in pledges to cover operations. Over the next two years, unless we’re prepared to make hefty mortgage payments out of our operating fund, we will need to raise an additional $650,000 to pay off the remaining debt on our Ministry Complex.

This is a bit daunting, considering the economic climate we’re in. But what is amazing is that you have been consistent in keeping your financial commitments to this community you care about so much. And every year, more of our households understand the connection between enjoying being a part of this wonderful community, and making a financial pledge to support it. Over the next few years, I know that we will have to be frugal, but I also know that we will always have enough.

Finally and most importantly, I am reading another sign that goes back to what I talked about when I first returned from sabbatical in June. It is time to recommit to our essential grounding in the spiritual life. My new ministry staff and I will make this our highest priority in every area of ministry.

The purpose of this parish – the purpose of any religious community – is to provide a holy space where seekers can authentically encounter the divine; where we can mature in spirit; and where we can learn how to more faithfully serve God in this broken world. That’s why we exist.

The parish is, as St. Benedict said about the monastery, a school in the Lord’s service. In this school we learn how to pray, to forgive, to challenge one another in love, to celebrate diversity, to open ourselves to the Spirit, and above all, to trust in faith. This happens when we attend to the way we do what we do together. For how we are together is far more important than whatever we might accomplish.

************

So these signs – <em>strengthening teams of lay leaders; broadening our presence in the wider church; meeting our financial challenges; and re-committing to our spiritual foundation </em>– these signs point to where I believe we are headed in the next few years. I’m energized about these things, and I intend to return to them again and again to focus our attention, our time, and our resources.  

Lastly on this parish birthday, I need to tell you how very grateful I am to be sharing this life with you. Almost every day, I really do enjoy coming to work. And I have complete confidence in you, and in the Spirit among us, that we will continue to evolve in creative ways, as we always have over the last 61 years. Happy Birthday, and thank you for helping St. Michael and All Angels be what we are.

Sermon 10/3/10
Bonnie Anderson
St. Michael and All Angels
Albuquerque, NM

Let us pray,
O God, when work and responsibility wrap around our lives like a woolen cloak, and wonder is closed off from our lives, throw aside our protection. Guide us back to those places where our soul lies open to the cool breath of mystery from your spirit. We ask this in the Name of the Creator, the Sanctifier and the Redeemer, Amen. (prayer, unknown author)

For centuries the imagination of artists and poets, writers and actors have depicted angels, messengers of God, images of angels conquering evil, casting out demons and protecting the good. St. Michael, the Archangel is a favorite subject for artists.

Defeated by the Archangel Michael and his allies, Satan loses out in heaven and,  like a caged animal, Satan lashes out on earth. Evil, present and active on earth, but not all powerful. We can imagine, or form a mental image of something not physically present, when we hear these vivid descriptions of the war in heaven.

As a child, the story of the conquest of the dragon by St. Michael and his allies, triggered my imagination and introduced me to the perception of a spiritual realm that simply was not present in my physical reality.  Imagining these forces at work on my behalf, of course in my imagination, they were always deployed to protect me, gave me a sense of safety and courage that I could not have found in my  reality. When imagination is sparked, the creative juices flow and lives are changed. Michaelmas and the story of St. Michael and his allies is about the depth of wonder and possibility.

Our imagination allows us to visualize through the eyes of our heart. We imagine God, who knows how many hairs are on our head, God, who holds us each the apple of God’s eye, in our heart’s eye, we can see ourselves hidden in the shadow of God’s wing.  Protected and safe.

The account of St Michael and the archangels and other equally compelling accounts in the Bible, put our imagination on high alert and stimulate the eyes of our heart to form a mental image of something not perceived as real and not present to the senses. Through imagination we see a spiritual realm that we cannot perceive with our physical senses.  
Imagination allows us to form a mental image of something not perceived as real and not present to the senses. As Albert Einstein said, “logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere”.

Imagination is an important part of our spirituality.

Long ago the mystical Celts had a name for places that give us an opening into the magnificence and wonder of the presence of God. They called them “thin places”.  Marcus Borg, in his book, The Heart of Christianity, describes a thin place as “anywhere our hearts are opened”. In Thin places, the boundary between the two levels, becomes very soft, porous, permeable. Thin places  are places where the veil momentarily lifts and we behold (the ‘ahaah of The Divine’) all around us and in us”.

Although many people describe their experience of a thin place as an actual physical place where the spiritual realm is alive and evident to them, The desert perhaps, or a body of water, a cave or even something small, like the inside of a flower.  I think that there is a thin place inside each of us, nestled close to our spirit, maybe within our spirit. As our imagination is brought to bear on a known reality through our mind’s eye or the eyes of our heart, a slight shift in our understanding occurs and the thin place opens and allows us to behold the truth of the Divine.  
I have come to understand the “thin place” as a connection between what we have imagined or perceived as Holy and our on-going reality present to the senses . The boundary between our spiritual self and our “worldly” self becomes deeply connected and we have gone someplace new – into the unknown.   
 
Children are the stewards of imagination in western society. Our socialization often tempers our imagination, facing imagination off with physical reality. In such a situation in the “real world” physical reality is regarded as legitimate and imagination as frivolous.
As adults, in our learned efforts to be in “control” as theologian Walter Bruggeman says, “ We seek to ‘enlighen’ what is before us and to overcome the inscrutable and the eerie in order to make the world a better, more manageable place.” That management works just fine while we are awake, and most of us are pretty good at keeping the light, power and control on 24/7.

 But we have to sleep, don’t we and it is then, that we are vulnerable to the imagination, vulnerable to even more mystery, dreams.

In his Christian Century article entitled, “The Power of Dreams in the Bible”, Walter Brugemann writes that dreams, the unbidden communication in the night, were imagined by the ancients to be one venue in which the holy purposes of God come to us.

As an example, in our reading from Genesis, Jacob, on the run after tricking his brother, has to stop to sleep. After putting a stone under his head (yikes) he goes to sleep and dreams of angels coming and going, he dreams of God speaking to him and promising him safety and God’s companionship. Upon awakening, Jacob’s life is redefined by the promise that came to him in a dream.

I would say that the people of St. Michael’s have a great imagination. Perhaps the vision of your ministry came to you in a dream. I don’t know. Perhaps your courage comes from really knowing that God loves you, but  your imagination is stellar.  

Years ago you imagined a community that welcomes all people, an inclusive community. You have built that community.

More recently, you imagined a ministry space, your imagination led you to see a new ministry complex, what it would be like, what it would be used for, who it would serve, how it could help in God’s work in the world. You took your imagination and laid it over the physical reality, and you built it.

Instead of sitting in wondrous awe, the people of St. Michael’s have taken action. You have applied what you have learned through scripture, you have listened to each other and you use your imagination.

Your faith is active, and now, yet again, it is time to reimagine St. Michael’s. What is God calling you to do at this time, How is God acting in your life?

All the people of God are all equal partners in this enterprise, all are called to deliver God’s message of redemption to a hurting world.
Lay people, The Book of Common Prayer tells us that we, the laity are the ministers of the Church. It really does, in the Catechism on page 855 – in answer to the question, Who are the ministers of the Church? It says that “the ministers of the church are the lay persons, bishops, priests and deacons”.

The Catechism also tells us that the ministry of lay persons is “to represent Christ and his Church; to bear witness to him wherever they may be; and, according to the gifts given them, to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world; and to take their place in the life, worship, and governance of the Church”

To fully grasp the call of the laity, to fully live our response to that call we need to reimagine ourselves, not just at St. Michael’s, but all across the Episcopal Church. We need to embrace what William Stringfellow called the “radical interdependence and reciprocity between the functions of the priesthood and the laity in the total ministry of the Body of Christ in the world”.
Let’s imagine: what would it be like if the lay people of St. Michael’s really made good on all the promises we make when we pray the baptismal covenant?
What if we set our heart and mind and imagination to do these things. Listen:
Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread and in the prayers?
Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall in to 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 say some significant things at a Baptism;  but if we do not mean what we say, then it does not really matter what we say, does it?
So let’s imagine that the people of St. Michael’s practice and model the radical interdependence that Stringfellow talked about. I refer to the There are 2 million lay people in the Episcopal Church as the sleeping giant. What if St. Michael’s, through their own courage, faith and imagination helped to awaken the giant by example?
Reimagine St. Michael’s. But don’t look in the physical realm for spiritual answers. Pay close attention to the spiritual realm: dreams, in imagination expressed, in the thin places of our soul.
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, "Surely the LORD is in this place-- and I did not know it!" And he was afraid, and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Struggle and Joy
Oct. 4, 2009 Michaelmas/St. Francis 
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Today is the feast of our patron saints – St. Michael and All Angels. This year it falls on the same day that the church celebrates its most famous deacon, St. Francis of Assisi. 

This gives us an opportunity to smash this unlikely pair together and see what new thing emerges. One thing that came out of it here in this room is a fantastic cornucopia of plants, animals, saints, angels, and color. 

I’d like to explore a theme that is common to both Michael and Francis. It is a story of struggle. Michael contends against evil; Francis confronts corruption and indifference. But it is also a story of joy. For Michael and Francis, in the midst of struggle, there is victory and transcendent peace.

With Michael, this story is played out in broad, mythic strokes. He and his angels fight against Satan in a war in heaven. Michael is victorious, but the war continues on earth, because the devil is cast down here among us. We must now fight against evil. However, we know that in this battle, too, God will ultimately be victorious. It is a cosmic, eternal story of darkness and light, conflict and resolution. 

With Francis, this same story of struggle and joy is played out through the complexity and contradictions of a human life. And it is with his story that I would like to remain awhile. 

First, the struggle. Coming out of a wealthy family that was part of the social elite in Assisi, Francis chose to live in poverty and in service to people that society routinely ignored or openly mocked - lepers, the mentally ill, the poor. He lived with them, on the margins of town. And for this, he was ridiculed, rejected, disowned by his father. What happened to our son and friend Francis? Where is our troubadour, our party boy? Why did he turn his back on a very successful family business? The fool!

Francis struggled with his order, too. He was caught up in a high vision: that the religious community he started would become a social movement, transforming medieval Europe and the church of his day. Devoted to a life of prayer, preaching the love of God, and serving the poor, they would be living examples of Christ on earth. They would overcome class division and the corruption and indifference of both church and society. They would turn people’s hearts to love. 

But by the end of his life, Francis was convinced that his social movement had failed. In his embrace of poverty, simplicity, and service, he had seen nothing but struggle, and very little to show for it. In spite of the thousands who had flocked to his new order, the poor and the sick were still ignored, the church was as corrupt and divided as ever, savage religious wars went on, and his order became so concerned with authority and security that, in disgust, he resigned as leader.

And Francis was a tortured soul internally, too. To the end, he was haunted by a God he didn’t fully understand. His constant prayer was “Who are you, my dearest God, and what am I, but your useless servant?” God would always remain a mystery to him. He felt that he could never adequately express his faith, that he was an inarticulate bumbler. He was hounded by temptations of lust, anger, self-righteousness, and impatience. Francis wrestled with his faith. 

But this is the amazing thing. In the midst of all this struggle, all throughout it, Francis was also a man of joy. Even as he despaired about the church, the world, and his own soul, there was peace and an energetic light that wove its way through him. 

Paradoxically, as he renounced a worldly life, he was free to fully enjoy the world. Knowing that he didn’t possess anything or anyone, he possessed everything. Like Jesus, he was at home with hunger and plenty, mourning and dancing, health and disease. He saw all creation as alive, calling it sister moon and brother wind, sister water and brother fire, mother earth and sister death. He was at home in the family of creation.

Francis’ joy spilled over as he drew thousands into his vision of a revitalized life, a renewed church and world. They would not have flocked to him had he not radiated the truth of a transformed life. He was a living saint who showed them that they, too, could be made new, gulping in the abundance of God’s love, and pouring it out freely to others. 

And so his life was woven together with struggle and joy, suffering and happiness, conflict and peace. He never reached a permanent state of bliss, and he never was free from human struggle. He embraced the paradox of both at once. 

This is hard for us to do. For we usually think in linear terms. Stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. After A ends, you go to B, which then goes to C and D. Set your goals, overcome obstacles, and achieve results. 

But Francis’s life shows us that struggle does not finally end, and then we then reach joy. It is interwoven with it. One hour we live under oppressive, dark skies, and in the next we breathe the open desert air. One day we believe that all shall be well, and the next we are not so sure. At one point we feel God’s presence and a clarity about our purpose, and at another we say “Who are you, God, and what am I?”

We may make progress in our spiritual journey - and I believe we do if we apply ourselves to it - but this journey will never be anything but hills and valleys. We shall never spiritually evolve to the point where we are free from dark moods, frustration, or hardship, and then dwell permanently in peace and happiness. 

It isn’t enough, however, just to recognize that life has its ups and downs. Everybody knows that. The question, the spiritual quest, is how to move through both with grace, with some sense of equanimity, with hope, perspective, and patience. The quest, for Francis and for us, is how to find a through-line with God, instead of being a victim of life’s inconstancy. 

What Francis and other saints teach us is that this through-line comes as we cultivate a life of faith. I’m not talking about the kind of faith that tries to convince ourselves that everything will work out for us. I’m talking about the kind of faith that learns to trust – to really place our trust - in God, no matter what. 

We have some choice in this, you know. When things are going badly for us, we can let ourselves be taken by the drama and unfairness of it all; we can become absorbed in the dark cloud; we can scramble to make it go away as soon as possible. 

But we can also choose to trust. We can choose to believe that the Spirit of life is always working, even in this. We can welcome our difficulty as something good, rather than defending ourselves against it as an enemy. We can see God in both brother sun and sister death. 

I know that this is much easier for some than for others. Some of us grew up distrusting life for very good reasons, and we have much to overcome. But the issue is the same for everyone – to cultivate trust. Every time we choose this option – and it is always offered to us – our faith becomes a little stronger. Then, when we have the experience of embracing whatever life sends our way, and find that there is good in it, our faith is confirmed.

If we cultivate faith, there will always be a through-line of grace. Our darkness will always be penetrated by light. Struggle will have, underneath it all, a foundation of joy. We come to know peace in the midst of conflict, gratitude in deprivation, and transcendence even as we are fully engaged in the problems of this world. 

This is the gift that Francis, by his life of struggle and joy, offers to us. It is the gift that Michaelmas offers, too – that even though there be war in heaven, even though the devil and his angels have been cast down to earth and live among us, the victory is God’s, and joy is ours.

Michaelmas 
Sept. 28, 2008
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Every year when Michaelmas rolls around, part of me wishes that we had a different patron saint. Perhaps Francis, who preached to the birds and kissed the leper. Our patron saint Michael leads God’s army, destroying and excommunicating the enemies of God. He fights a holy war against evil, and we all know what horrors have been wrought out of that myth. 

But then I think of those sacred battles here on earth that seem to pit angels against demons, where God’s purposes seem to be at stake. There are those who have to fight in order to protect God’s green earth, or to bring about basic human rights for all of God’s children. I think about how so many of us on both sides of the aisle feel that in this election cycle and economic crisis, we are in a fight for the soul of our nation, a potential turning point that cannot be made without great struggle to bring it into being. I also know, as we all do, that inner spiritual and emotional healing and growth can be a sacred wrestling match. 

But how shall we enter into these battles, and what kind of victory do we hope for? 

Recently I’ve been doing some reading in Hinduism, which has its share of holy wars. In the Bhagavad Gita, one of their holiest scriptures, Krishna gives advice to the warrior Arjuna on the eve of battle. When I went to the Asian Art museum in San Francisco recently, I saw statue after statue of Hindu gods with flaming swords, menacing eyes, and necklaces made out of human skulls. 

But the interesting thing is that Hindu holy wars seem to be more about integration of light and dark than domination of good over evil. One member of the Hindu trinity is Shiva, the god of both creation and destruction. Both elements are honored as integral to the cycles of life. Devotion is made to the powers of light and dark, chaos and order, life and death. 

I suppose the closest thing we have to this is our devotion to the cross and the resurrection, but we usually treat Good Friday as an evil over which Easter emerges triumphant. We sing I want to walk as a child of the light, I want to follow Jesus. In him there is no darkness at all. Really? 

Seven of your clergy and one lay person have just returned from diocesan clergy conference, where a kind of sacred struggle is taking place. After 20 years of exhausting polarization in this diocese, we are trying another way, under a new commission for healing and reconciliation. We told stories from our different histories, and just listened, without correction or comment. We identified those areas where we differ and those where we agree, and we started to articulate a path forward that we could all live with. All of us deeply desired - and really struggled to create -  a safe place where our differences could be acknowledged and respected, and also where our essential unity in Christ could be celebrated. 

Now I really don’t agree with about half of the others, and I will work to prevent them from doing some of the things they would like to do, but I don’t want to demonize and dominate them, to cast them out. I want to be in relationship with them, and hope that through this relationship, we will give each other space to be. This is the kind of victory I hope for in the current battle in our church: that we can stand firm in our convictions and fight for what we believe in, and as we do so, live together in respectful and loving relationship. It is will be a struggle to get there. 

Internally, in the holy war within, I have learned that it doesn’t do much good to try to defeat and cast out our so-called “negative” emotions and habits. Splitting off our anger, fear, and compulsions, they eventually rear their heads again in a new form, just when we thought they’d been put to rest. Instead, we might learn to channel our anger into action for good, embrace our fear and realize our dependence upon God, and see the passion and love for life that is the gift within our compulsions. 

Many years ago, through the practice of meditation and contemplative prayer, I shifted from a spirituality where I tried to walk as a child of the light, with no darkness at all, to a spirituality of light and dark. Sitting in silence, as my own inner demons revealed their faces again and again, I let them be: feeling them, seeing them as they are, without any effort to judge or rid myself of them. 

As I befriended these demons, they came into the open, and they lost some of their power. Because the problem with splitting off things we don’t like about ourselves is that these things only grow more powerful when they’re forced into hiding. Out in the open, they can be put in perspective, and we can even find a gift in each one of them, something that contributes to our becoming whole. 

The victory of this kind of spiritual battle is not the purity of self-perfection, which is a dangerous illusion. It is the victory of a fuller humanity, one that will always seek continuing growth, but at the same time is also able to enjoy the imperfection of what is, today. 

I think that we can apply this kind of spiritual battle to our current culture wars, the conflict between worldviews that is becoming so apparent in this election cycle. Polarized into opposite camps that demonize one another, neither can even comprehend how the other could possibly think the way they do. We want to split off the other party, dominating it once and for all. 

But no matter who wins, the other side is not going away. So we need to learn something that we are beginning to try in this diocese, and what my meditation practice taught me. Guarding our lips, even our thoughts, we refrain from making sarcastic and demeaning comments about one another, and we try to be in respectful relationship. We might befriend those that we think of as demons, and look for some gift in their presence. If you’re a Democrat, what gift might Republicans be trying to offer you? If you’re a Republican, what gift might Democrats have for you? 

Yes, we should stand firm in our convictions and fight for what we think is right. But we are one nation, one big and very diverse family, and we’re all in it together. The victory that might come out of this kind of attitude is not the triumphalism of winner-take-all, but a world where opposites live in creative tension until a new and surprising third ways emerge.

We say that God is ultimately victorious, and this is the message of the story of Michael’s war in heaven. Good wins out in the end. Or as Martin Luther King Jr. was fond of saying, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” 

What this means is that even as we struggle to move our church forward into an authentically modern expression of ancient Christianity, even as we fight our spiritual battles with inner demons, even as we contend with the culture wars and economic crises of our day, we already have a safe place in which these struggles take place. We live in God. 

Our security does not therefore have to fearfully depend upon how much fragile progress we can temporarily make in our church, in our nation, in our souls. Our security is rooted in the eternal goodness of God, who is always present, always powerful, always true. As Thomas Merton said, at any moment we can break through to the underlying unity that is God’s gift to us in Christ. At any moment we can abide in the fullness of life that the Spirit offers. 

That is our safe place in which to do battle. That is the only thing we can truly depend upon - not a new economic plan, a new president, a perfected self, or an enlightened church. Our only place of ultimate safety is in God.

So, as Krishna said to Arjuna, as Michael said to his angels, go into battle. But know that the outcome of the war has already been won, and it takes place in heaven itself, here and now, like a play within a theatre. Take your battles seriously, but not too seriously. For we live in God, and all shall be well.