May 19, 2013
The Feast of Pentecost 
Leave-taking from the parish
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

The Feast of Pentecost, when we honor the gift of the Holy Spirit, has had a timely way of weaving itself into my life. On this day in 1964, when I was 13 years old, I was confirmed. On this day in 1982, when I was 31 years old, I was ordained a priest. And on this day in 2013, now that I am 62 years old, I part company with you.

The Holy Spirit is with us at all times, of course, but when we invoke it on special days - like baptisms, weddings, ordinations, and today - I believe that the Spirit responds, and becomes particularly active. When we bring open hearts and a faithful intention to these moments, something stirs within us, among us.

I have felt this movement vividly over the past weeks, as I have been preparing for this day. The Spirit has been stirring me as I have taken leave of one group after another, as I emptied out my office, as I have read your stories of what we’ve shared in the many cards and letters you’ve given me, and especially on Friday night as you overwhelmed me with that unbelievable party. I’m still stunned.

My heart is stirred with gratitude for the generous love and support you have always shown me and my family, as I bounce from memory to memory, from things we have accomplished together to births and deaths and precious small moments of intimate connection when time has stood still. I am privileged to have been allowed into those times.

I am stirred to wonder about my future - how will what I have done find new expression as I move into a dramatically different life? But I’m also wondering the same about you. How will the Spirit take what you have experienced over the last 30 years and more, and guide you to new expressions of who you are?

Recently I’ve had many conversations with many of you that have gone something like this: “Brian, thank you for bringing this or that into our community.” Then I say “But I didn’t do it alone. We did these things because of who we are.” Then you say “Yes, but it wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Well, this can go back and forth forever, like the chicken and the egg, but I get the last word! So today I’d like to point out some qualities that are now imbedded in the DNA of St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church - in you, that is - and wonder about where they might take you next.

First, you are diverse. Some of you are confident in your faith, some are happily seeking, and others are deeply skeptical inquirers who don’t know what you believe. You are straight, gay, lesbian, transgendered, adopted, single, married, partnered, and of many races, ethnicities, and ages. You know that this is God’s church, God’s altar, and every child of God belongs.

Over the years your diversity has embraced a Jewish congregation, a Coptic Orthodox church, an Urban Indian congregation, Zen Buddhist teachers, Hindu chant, and now, Lutheran and UCC pastors on staff. You worship like meditative monks at 7:30, informal family at 9, tasteful traditionalists at 11:15, and bicultural compadres at 5pm.

Second, you are survivors - no, make that “a people who thrive in adversity.” You not only endured 16 years of an adversarial, punitive bishop; you used that time as an opportunity to stand up and come into your own, reaffirming the most important things. You came through an arsonist’s fire, pulling together and becoming stronger than before. You were the only Episcopal congregation in this country who undertook a capital campaign and major construction project during the worst economy since the Great Depression. You’ve got a lot of nerve.

Third, you are builders. 62 years ago, you created a new mission on a dirt road and alfalfa fields in the wilds of the North Valley. Recently, you created a new mission of your own in the Village of Corrales, now a parish of its own. You started up a Contemplative Center, with prayer groups, conferences, and retreats. You were among the founders of St. Martin’s Hospitality Center for the Homeless. You created a unique form of liturgical music at 9:00 that takes the best of contemporary ensemble playing and delivers it with heart and soul. And you built this house of worship and the Ministry Complex next door.

Fourth, you are leaders. In your 63 years, you have nurtured 23 people - 10 of them women - towards ordination. 2 became bishops, 2 became the bishop’s Canon to the Ordinary, and 1 was the 1st native New Mexico Hispanic priest of the diocese. And right now, 3 more are up and coming. You’ve always known what a deacon is, and always had at least one, doing what deacons are uniquely called to do. Dozens of Lay leaders initiate and run ministry groups with authority, some of whom have been here less than 6 months. Having once been pariahs, a number of you are now taking over the diocese!

Finally, and most importantly, you are seekers. This can be quantified through the array of spiritual programs and groups and retreats and pilgrimages you generate, more than any other parish I’m aware of. But this dimension is far more than anything that can be quantified.

People walk in here and know it is a holy place, a place suffused in prayer. Your worship is deep, immediate, and real. It is normal here to have several trained spiritual directors who are companions to dozens of seekers, and to utilize a Discernment Guild that is already central to the spiritual work you have in transition. You may not know how unusual all of this is, ironically, in the church.

Now clearly, it has taken many people, a whole village, to develop these qualities. One person cannot, and has not, done it alone. And these qualities will go forward with you into your next chapter. You can’t help but be yourself. And you will attract a leader who is attuned to these qualities, who will partner with you to express them in new ways.

So my message today is this: in the transition ahead, rely upon these qualities to see you through. God has given you these gifts, and you already know full well how to use them. So use them in the next year or two of transition.

As a diverse community, bring in all the variety of voices and experiences to hear the Spirit. You have wisdom and strength in diversity. Trust it. When disagreement and problems arise, don’t worry, and don’t be in a hurry to resolve it. Those tensions are a part of what happens when diverse points of view come together, and because of them, an unforeseen, better path will open before you.

As survivors and thrivers, enjoy the relative chaos. Like sailors during a storm, lash yourselves to the mast and laugh at the wind and the rain. You’ll come through just fine.

As builders, create a good transition. There will be plenty of time later to make plans with a new Rector for your future, so for now, be present to what is before you, and craft a good transition. Be creative, patient, and true to yourselves.

As leaders, don’t wait for someone else to determine what will happen next, or when or how it will happen. Be leaders to yourselves, and together with God and your bishop, shape your own becoming.

And as seekers, entrust it all to God. The Spirit has always been in your hearts, in your midst, in all that you do. God will not fail you, but will, in fact, guide you exactly where you need to go.

You need only to be like a canoeist, gliding down the river, through rapids and doldrums, danger and peace, but always attentive, awake, occasionally making adjustments in direction or pausing on the banks to consider the next move. The water, the Spirit, will do the rest. You don’t need to force your way downriver.

At this fork in the river, we part company, each of us about to round a bend that will take us into territories that neither of us can yet see. We’re both a little nervous, but I hope that like me, you are also excited. And I hope that you are willing to trust in God’s Spirit, who stirs the depths this festival day, in order to empower and guide us into new life.

May 5, 2013
The 6th Sunday of Easter
Integrate the Teachings
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

It is a strange coincidence that during the last month of my time with you as Rector, we have had readings from that section of the gospel when Jesus is also taking leave from his friends. Since his resurrection, Jesus has come and gone, as I do from time to time. But now he is really going, and not coming back, as is true for me.

Some of you have asked will I be worshiping here; or coming back to do weddings, blessings, or funerals? Will I continue to be in touch personally or via email with anyone who so desires? Will I link the parish to a blog or website where I post written or audio files?

The answer to all these is no. Part of the reason for this is so I don’t complicate things for the new leadership that will be here. But it’s for me, too. I really need time to turn the page and see my life and vocation in a new context, among new people, outside of this role I have inhabited for so long with you.

So in these weeks, Jesus and I are preparing to depart. The scene from the gospels is the Last Supper, right before Jesus is arrested and crucified. In last Sunday’s gospel, Jesus said to them "Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; but where I am going, you cannot come.”

When Jesus spoke this way, his friends probably replied “For 3 years I’ve come to rely on your preaching and teaching and spiritual guidance. What will I do without that?” Some of you have said something along these lines to me in the past weeks. It’s hard when you’re about to lose a relationship that nourishes you in a way that none other quite does.

In today’s gospel Jesus responds to this concern. He says "I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.”

I hope this will be true for you, too. Everything I have taught and preached and talked with you about over our time together - hopefully you have internalized it enough to not be dependent on me continuing to say it. Hopefully whatever is useful in we have shared will have taken root in you, and is now being watered by the Spirit. And if not, there are other teachers, other books, other guides who say the same things.

But at some point, when the teacher leaves, when the books have all been read, it comes down to you and the Holy Spirit. This is when integration happens, when you internalize, on your own, what you have learned from others.

How do we do this? At any time of our lives - not just in this instance - how do we make real the words we hear in scripture, in poetry, or on retreat?

You know how it goes. We are affected when we hear things like this: 
Blessed are the pure in heart; have no anxiety about anything; the kingdom of God is at hand; love everyone without reason, for we are all one; blessed are the peacemakers and those who thirst for justice; you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free...

These words are beautiful when we hear them, but as long as we don’t integrate them into our daily life, it’s like it says in the letter of James - If any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.

We try to remember what is important. And so we write it down in journals, we post it on sticky notes on the mirror, we assiduously take notes when we attend a class, we keep mementos that will help us remember peak moments. But then we turn around, and forget what we were like in the mirror God once held up to us.

To use another metaphor - it’s like eating a delicious meal: satisfying at the time, but then we’re hungry again a few hours later. Why, if we don’t internalize the teachings, even if we were to hang around Jesus himself for several years, it would be the same: “Ah, the Sermon on the Mount. That was a nice meal...Oh dear, I’m hungry again.” Look at his disciples. They were with him 24/7 for 3 years. But they kept forgetting.

Knowing this, Jesus assured his friends I will send a helper, an advocate, the Holy Spirit, who will come to you and teach you everything, and lead you into all truth. This is the key. On our own, it is very difficult to integrate the teachings we so long to live. Like the disciples, we all need a helper of some kind. That helper, after all the teachers and books and sermons and retreats, is the Holy Spirit. And the great thing is, this helper is within us.

And how do we learn from this teacher within?

If you are a person of faith, if you are sincerely open to God, if you ask for God’s help, then, I am convinced, the Spirit honors your intention, and goes to work. Whether you feel or know that the Spirit is moving in you doesn’t matter in the slightest.

When you pray, you can be confident that there is a kind of partnership, a silent dialog, going on all the time. As St. Paul said the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

So the Spirit is within, and helps us if we call upon this help. But most importantly, it is when we really try to live out the teachings of our faith in our daily life that the Spirit’s work of integration really takes place. This is where we become doers of the word, and not hearers only.

When we find ourselves angry at another person and choose to turn from resentment to understanding, the Spirit helps us integrate the teaching of forgiveness. When we are restless and impatient, and we choose to turn from distraction and try to settle in to God’s presence, the Spirit helps us integrate a sense of God’s peace. When we anticipate the worst about our future but then determine not to live in fear, the Spirit helps us integrate the reality of faith.

Some say “have confidence in yourself.” That’s good, but I would also say “Have confidence in the Spirit within you.” If you open your heart to God, and if you ask for help to be a doer of the Word in your everyday challenges, then you will find that the Spirit does come to your aid. In this partnership, God is working at least as hard as you.

Be confident in, and patient with, God’s slow work in you. You will come to know that purity of heart that Jesus called blessed. You will experience more joy and more heartache, which are both a part of the depths that God takes us into. You will love more cleanly, more freely, as Christ did. And you will learn how to move from anxiety to the peace of God that passes all understanding.

You’ve heard it all by now - Jesus’ teachings, how to pray, the possibility of waking up to the divine dimension here and now, our unity with all people, and the call to serve - and if you haven’t heard it, you will, in due time. With all that you hear, and with the Spirit within, you already have everything you need. It is up to you and the Spirit to make it real.

April 28, 2013
The 5th Sunday of Easter
Love 
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor


Our readings today paint a sweeping view of God’s all-encompassing love, and an invitation from Christ to live into that love.

In the story from the Book of Acts, we hear of Peter’s conversion to Paul’s point of view: that Gentiles, not just Jews, are part of God’s family. Peter hesitates, but with the help of a disturbing vision, he comes around, finally concluding Who was I to try to hinder God?

And so God’s boundless love for everyone - slave and free, poor and rich, Gentile and Jew, clean and unclean - broke the Jesus movement wide open to everyone. No distinctions, no hindrance anywhere. All are beloved. This story reminds us how God has always pushed humanity, just as God pushed Peter, to remove all hindrances to love - in our day, between man and man, woman and woman.

The theme of love continues. In the Psalm, all creation sings of God’s love - sun, moon, stars, angels, fish, beasts, young and old. And in the reading from Revelation, we get a vision of a new creation, where God comes in love, making a home among mortals, wiping away every tear and ending all suffering and death.

Finally, in the gospel, Jesus, in his last words to friends before he is arrested and crucified, sums up everything he has said and done in a new commandment: Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.

And so love makes no distinctions between types of people. Love fills the universe and all beings everywhere. Divine love comes to us and makes its home among us. And we are encouraged to live into this vast realm of love, by loving one another. Love is the deepest reality; it is at the center of our Christian faith; and it is our highest calling.

In Hinduism, there are four yogas, four spiritual paths that emphasize different pathways to God. While integration of all four is the goal, teachers sometimes emphasize - and people are often drawn to - one of them more than the others. Jnana yoga is the path of wisdom and understanding. Karma yoga is the way of action and service. Raja yoga is the path of meditation, which includes the physical postures we’ve all become so familiar with. And Bhakti yoga is the way of love, which includes both devotion to God and compassion for others.

Hindus consider Jesus as a master of Bhakti yoga. They recognize that he was all about the heart: love of God and neighbor, mercy for those who suffer. Love is the primary vehicle, the practice, the spiritual method by which Jesus’ disciples journey into God. Jesus himself said that all the law and the prophets come down to this: Love God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. And love your neighbor as yourself.

When we consider these four yogas, it is obvious to us that they must be learned. They don’t happen overnight. They require patience and practice. Wisdom and understanding comes through years of study and reflection. With action and service, it takes time to lose our naiveté and learn more effective and longer-lasting ways to be helpful to others. Meditation and physical yoga is an art that is cultivated through practice. But love? Do we know that the spiritual path of love must be learned, like all the others? Can we be patient with ourselves as we learn to love more fully?

In popular culture, love is often portrayed as something that comes over us like a tsunami. And it can. It came over me 35 years ago. We are struck from without; there is no gradualism, just a complete knowing that fills us.

Popular culture also portrays love as affection toward others we like. We speak of how we love children or elderly people, or how comfortable we feel around the those who are “the salt of the earth,” or how we enjoy hanging around certain people who are like bright lights everywhere they go. This kind of love that comes naturally to us is a joy, because when we love in this way, what we like is reinforced. Love can make us feel good.

But falling in love and feeling affectionate isn’t all there is to love. Love can get really hard, when it means hanging in there when we’d rather leave the room. Love can be an attitude of basic human respect for even our enemy. It can be the choice to accept another where they are, even if we don’t understand them.

In these kinds of situations, it is obvious that love takes time, commitment, patience, and learning. It is an art, a discipline, and certainly, a spiritual path. This path isn’t just there if we happen to feel it and absent if we don’t. It is something we choose again and again, something to give ourselves to, something to keep aiming towards.

One of the ways in which we can learn to love those whom it isn’t automatic to love - which can include, at times, those who are closest to us - is to try to feel for the other, to step out of our own perspective and see things from their point of view.

Why are they doing what they are doing, or feeling what they feel? What brought them to this point? Can I have empathy for what they are going through? In asking these kinds of questions, we leave self behind. There is only her or him, and how we might best respond.

It’s really quite simple, yet very difficult to do: to temporarily drop our own preferences and convictions about the way others should be, and see the other as they are. But with love, we go further than acceptance. We learn to feel with the other. That’s what the word compassion means - to be “co-passionate,” to “suffer with.”

Years ago I found myself in a very painful, adversarial relationship. Like anyone else might do, I complained about the injustice of it; I tried to change the other, and when that didn’t work, to wish the conflict away.

But at some point it became a spiritual path, a part of my own growth. I had learned enough about myself - about my fear and disappointment and unrealistic expectations - to move further on this spiritual path, towards love. By and by, love took the form of being able to say, I wonder what private hell he went through that makes him be the way he feels he has to be. I felt for him, and genuinely hoped he would find his way. And this was a form of love.

As Philo of Alexandria, a contemporary of Jesus, put it: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.

For some of us, however, the hardest person with whom to practice this spiritual discipline is ourselves. Some of us are awfully hard on ourselves, especially when we fail, or when we’re lost. We seem to have no sympathy for ourselves.

It is in these times that the higher self - the more mature self, or the Spirit within, call it what you will - must take a step back from how we think we should be, accept ourselves, and have some feeling for ourselves. The higher self can then advise the struggling self to curl up into a ball, talk it out with someone else, or just be patient, because learning is a process, and because nothing is permanent.

There are many other things that could be said about the lifelong spiritual discipline of learning to love more freely. But it always has something to do with getting the self out of the way - or in the case of loving ourselves, getting an idea of the self out of the way. In this sense, Jesus’ other admonition - to deny ourselves - lies beneath the great commandment to love.

In this great season of Easter, this time of resurrection, we celebrate the work of God in making all things new. God is doing a new thing in you, making you a new creation, as you give yourself more fully to the joy and the discipline of love.

April 14, 2013
The 3rd Sunday of Easter
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
Receiving and Giving

Poor Peter. Much to his confusion, the risen Christ had been coming and going, no explanation. Here today, gone tomorrow, back again. They were sitting around, wondering what to do. So Peter decided Enough of this. I have to get back to my life, my work. I’m going fishing.

It was night, and they fished until dawn, catching nothing. Just after daybreak, a figure appeared on the shore, suggesting that they cast their net on the other side of the boat. Sure, buddy, whatever. But they did, and pulled in a miraculous catch of 153 large fish, probably far more than they had ever caught before. It was then that Peter realized that the man on the beach was Jesus. He leapt into the water, and swam ashore.

So the story begins with God’s free and extravagant generosity. The miracle was an object lesson in what Jesus had taught and done all along. He had said I came that you might have life, and have it abundantly. He fed over 5,000 people with a few loaves and fishes. Those who love God, Jesus said, will bear much fruit. My joy will be in you, and your joy will be complete. Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

So the miraculous catch of fish was yet one more demonstration of God’s generous love, which Jesus was so fond of doing. And then things turned in a very different direction. After they enjoyed their breakfast on the beach, Jesus took Peter aside and asked 3 times Do you love me? And each time that Peter replied Yes, Jesus looked at him and said Then feed my sheep. Give yourself away in the service of others. The last time, Jesus went on - If you take this all the way as I have, Peter, here’s what’s going to happen: they will bind you and take you where you do not wish to go. This was a prediction of Peter’s eventual martyrdom, the sacrifice of his very life.

At this point, Peter must have had emotional whiplash. He was trying to follow Jesus, but where was this path headed? Towards the abundance, fruitfulness, and success that the catch of fish signified? Or towards the sacrifice, self-denial, and failure that Jesus spoke about so darkly?

It would be both, of course. And so it is for us as followers of Jesus. Abundance and sacrifice. Receiving blessings and giving ourselves away.

But neither of these are what is often claimed of them. On the side of abundance there is some version of what is often called the “prosperity gospel.” If you give yourself to God, if you believe hard enough, if you tithe, if you are the sort of person God loves, then you will be rich; you’ll be healed of disease; you will be protected from all harm. Life will flow your way, and you can just smile and rake it all in. For it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

On the side of self-sacrifice there is the stereotype which makes it seem impossible for most of us: Mother Teresa of Calcutta, voluntary poverty, living among those who suffer the most. We wonder - if I were a real Christian, wouldn’t I, like them, have to give up everything? Or maybe, like Martin Luther King or Gandhi, I’d stride courageously to the front lines of the battle for justice, and go down in glory.

The first extreme - the prosperity gospel - is a twisting of Jesus’ teachings, often used as a clever ruse to get people to give more of their money with the promise of a big payoff. The second extreme - voluntary poverty and martyrdom - is a vocation reserved for very few, a special calling that grabs certain people and won’t let them go.

So what is the kind of abundance that Jesus talked so much about? And what is the kind of self-sacrifice - which Jesus also talked a lot about - that most of us are called to?

I think of “abundant life” as an appreciation of life’s fulness. At one time, this might be a lavish feast with friends; at another, it is the wonderful, empty clarity that comes from fasting. Abundant life is enjoying a blossoming spring garden, but it is also accepting the depth of pain that comes with grief or sickness. Life’s fulness is the loving comfort of others, and it is also the knowledge that ultimately we stand alone before God. The abundance that Jesus lived and promised is the richness of a life fully lived.

But abundant life also comes in the form of spiritual gifts that help us to appreciate - or at least accept - the more difficult parts of a fully-lived life. For it becomes possible to live through darkness and suffering when we know God’s presence in prayer; when we have what St. Paul identified as fruits of the Spirit: faith, hope, love, patience, wisdom.

Abundance, then, is not limited to enjoying things that go well for us. Abundance is the capacity to experience everything fully, darkness and light, with an open heart and a sense of trust. The gifts that come from the Spirit make this possible, and when we are grounded in this place, life is truly bountiful.

And self-sacrifice? Well, I’m no Mother Teresa or martyred prophet, so for me, the sacrificial life is not especially obvious or dramatic. It is, rather, a willingness to get out of the way so that I might serve the greatest good for all concerned.

In doing this, we still consider our own needs and desires. But we do so in relation to others’ needs and desires. We seek harmony between both. And we sometimes submit our sense of what is right or necessary to the discernment of the group. All this is a form of self-sacrifice, because it is willing, when need be, to deny the primacy of the self over others.

This view comes out of contemplative understanding of reality, which is a fancy way of saying that we are all one. There is no such thing as an isolated self. My happiness is related to yours. Our common harmony is my personal harmony. If one suffers, we all suffer. And there is far more wisdom in us than in me.

Abundance and sacrifice are directly related. We receive spiritual gifts from God in order that we might give them to others. That is the purpose of spiritual gifts - not just for our own enjoyment, but for the good of all. As our church’s new rite of blessing same-sex couples makes very clear, we are blessed by God in order to be a blessing to others.

Peter could not have followed Christ to martyrdom without having been the recipient of God’s abundant life. We cannot sacrifice freely, lovingly, joyfully, without feeling that there is always yet more within. You cannot deny yourself if there is no self to deny. When we are stressed out, we have nothing left to offer to others. A well that is empty has no water to give.

And so we have to keep going back to the well. We take days off, we go on vacation, hang out with friends or family, eat the foods we like, spend quiet time alone in prayer and reflection, and we say No to outside demands - whatever it takes to nurture ourselves and be nurtured by the Spirit. Some might call this selfish. But we only seek God’s abundance again so that we can give it away. It is like the tide coming in and going out.

One day Jesus met a woman at a well. She had had a hard life - several marriages, and other failures and disappointments that led her to speak of her thirst, her emptiness. You get the sense that she is restless, perhaps desperate. Jesus said to her that if she drank of God’s Spirit, it would become in her a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.

When we are grounded in God, when we seek the gifts of the Spirit, when we welcome the richness of life in good times and bad, it becomes in us like a spring that naturally overflows to others. We don’t have to think about being a good person and nobly or dutifully helping those in need. When there is a need, we respond. When necessary, we drop our preference and serve. The spring of spiritual water gushes up and over.

Jesus encouraged us to receive God’s abundant life, all around and within us. He also invited us to not hold this abundance tightly, where it will quickly sour, but to give it away, that all may be blessed by God’s extravagant generosity. 

Easter
March 31, 2013
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Here’s a little a story about a turning point in my life that many of you have heard before. When I was 24 years old, one day I was hitchhiking in Vermont. A rumpled old man - probably my age now - pulled over in a rumpled old VW bug. Turns out he was a Baptist minister. We got to talking about religious figures of the past, and I mumbled something about all of them teaching basically the same thing. He looked at me and said “Well, that may be partly so, but Jesus is the one who rose from the dead.”

I said “Well, that’s true...” and the conversation drifted off to other subjects. But when I got out of the car and walked down the street, about halfway down the block I stopped dead in my tracks and asked myself “What do you mean, ‘Well, that’s true?’ How do you know this, Brian? And what difference does it make to you?”

Those questions led me eventually to claim as my own the Christian faith I had grown up with, and more than that, to dedicate myself to living in God. Within 2 years, I was enrolled in seminary.

The resurrection has always been at the very center of the Christian faith. And it should be - unless you dismiss it as a fable - because what happened is phenomenal. Consider this: a human being, a spiritual teacher, was executed and sealed in a tomb, and laid there dead for 2 days. He then somehow, on his own, vacated that tomb.

Over the next 50 days, he appeared to hundreds of eyewitnesses who later spoke and wrote about it. He walked through closed doors and yet ate fish with his friends, showing up here and there without time to get from one place to another.

So this spiritual teacher had transcended the limitations of time, space, and so-called physical laws. He was victorious over death, having become an eternal spiritual being, alive and universally present in a way that is beyond human comprehension. He was one with God.

If we believe that this might have actually happened, what do we do with it?

For many Christians, the resurrection is simply proof that Jesus was God’s man, a kind of demonstration of divine power given in order to convince. It’s a pretty spectacular feat, and so it gives credence to theological claims about Jesus: that he was God in the flesh, the second person of the Trinity, that he was sent by God to be a sacrifice that would cancel the debt of human sin, and that if we believe all these ideas, he will take us to heaven instead of hell in the afterlife.

The problem is, all these ideas came long after the resurrection. They were doctrines staked out afterwards, over a period of 300 years. So I’m not interested in the resurrection as a theological proof. I want to know what impact it has had on real people’s lives, and what difference it might make to me, to you. I’m still considering the question that Baptist minister raised in me 37 years ago. Let’s begin with the impact the resurrection had on the first disciples. But to do that, we have to go back further, to set their experience in context.

During Jesus’ lifetime, that motley gang of fishermen, independent women, the disgraced and the outcast that we call the disciples heard Jesus teach some pretty specific things:

Don’t just love those who love you; love everybody without regard for merit, the good and the bad alike. Live simply and spiritually, for the pursuit of material pleasure and security in itself is a dead end. Open your heart to those who are poor, in prison, sick, rejected by society - they are the salt of the earth and will lead you into the kingdom of God. Don’t be a slave to tradition and religious rules; be a seeker, looking for your own answers. Die to your ego, your need to prove that you are good and right; look instead to God’s goodness and be humble. Be honest about your shortcomings, but then forgive yourself; you’re only human. Wake up; God is fully present everywhere, here and now, in everything and everyone.

So his followers joined the movement, wandered around the Galilee together, doing their best to follow these teachings. And when we read the gospels, we see that they failed pretty spectacularly. All the way through, and especially at the end when things got hairy, they were just as messed-up as any other random group of humans. But as my rumpled Baptist friend pointed out to me years ago, everything changed with the resurrection.

When I was in the first year of seminary, my New Testament professor shook up the class in the first few weeks of the semester by telling us “Look - We know that Jesus of Nazareth had a following, caused trouble, and was executed in the usual horrific manner of his day. Sensibly, his friends and followers fled for their lives. They were scattered, frightened, and confused.”

“We also know that after a short period of time, these same people were transformed, finding courage, passion, and unity as a community of faith, and even the ability to sacrifice their lives when persecuted.”

“We have no idea, however, what happened in between. Here’s the important thing: they attributed their transformation to Christ’s resurrection. They said that Jesus was with them again, not just in memory, but in reality, helping them live into his message with an even greater power than he did as a teacher.”

Here’s the difference: before the resurrection, Jesus was a leader to follow, a man who presented a coherent body of teachings that could be critiqued, ignored, or appreciated from a distance. After the resurrection, Christ entered into the hearts of any who opened themselves to him. He remade them from within. He fulfilled the ancient prophecy of Jeremiah:

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, "Know the Lord," for they shall all know me.

What does this mean for you and me? It means that like Jesus’ disciples during his lifetime, we can listen to the wisdom of this venerable spiritual teacher and try our best to follow it. And like them, we will fail. There’s no shame in this. But as St. Paul pointed out so clearly, it can become a vicious circle - trying harder, failing again, feeling guilty, never measuring up.

The way out of this trap is what the early Christians discovered with the resurrected Christ: We cannot become like Christ by imitating him. We become like him by embodying him. We do this by listening deeply to his teachings, yes, but also opening our hearts to his presence within; receiving his very Body and Blood into our body and blood in communion; praying with an icon of his image or using his holy Name, like a mantra; hanging around with others who also look to him as their center, their guide; and otherwise letting his companionship seep into us as a transformative influence.

As his influence increases, we become sensitive to the ways that we block his movement within us, and we do what we can to remove those barriers. Over time, we find that we naturally live his teachings, because it is he who is living them through us. Everything about us that is not Christly eventually sloughs off, and what is left is a Brian-flavored, or Elizabeth-flavored, or Don- or Maria-flavored version of Jesus.

It is then that we know what St. Paul meant when he said It is no longer I who live, but Christ in me. And elsewhere, We have the mind of Christ. And as he wrote in a letter to the church in Ephesus, I pray that...Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith...I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.

Alleluia. Christ has risen from the dead. Christ has risen in all those through the centuries who have welcomed his presence. And Christ is risen through us, in our day. Alleluia, Christ is alive, and always will be. 

Good Friday 
March 29, 2013
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

After all these years, there are still things in our rich tradition that jump out and surprise me: passages of scripture or prayers we recite regularly that I’ve never really heard before, at least in the same way.

This year when I was standing at Kathryn’s desk, preparing the bulletins for Holy Week liturgies, I read quickly through the ones for Good Friday. For some reason, I imagined myself as someone walking in off the street who had never been to a Good Friday service before. What would they experience? Betrayal, beating, distress, scorn, blood, abandonment, packs of encircling dogs, bones out of joint, death, and the grave.

I looked up and said to Kathryn “This is really dark.”

It is dark, the darkest day of the year. And yet millions are drawn to it, all over the world. We always have been. There’s something so compelling about it - an innocent man of love and truth, beaten and hung on a cross, earthquakes and darkness, weeping and despair - described in great detail and laid bare for all the world to see. And yet we come, drawn to it as if it were a magnet.

It’s like the attraction to Ash Wednesday - “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Or Dia de los Muertos, with all those grinning skeletons dancing, drinking, getting married. Or the thousands this day on pilgrimage to Chimayo, carrying crosses, re-enacting the Passion. Or Gothic vampire movies, now so popular with young teenage girls.

Are we morbid? What is all this about?

None of us wants to experience suffering or death, and yet we know it comes to all of us. And when it comes, we will not be in control, for it has a life of its own. So perhaps with these ghoulish stories and depictions, we are cautiously trying to make friends with it, so it won’t seem so chaotic, so powerful. After all, isn’t what is known and acknowledged less frightening than what is unknown and repressed?

Maybe by playing with skeletons and vampires, and by praying our way through someone else’s suffering and death, we bring it in closer, but not too close, so that we can make it more familiar, less terrifying, and gain some sense of control. It’s like the old saying “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

But there are times when we can’t embrace the darkness. A devastating loss, a debilitating disease, violence, and even the facing of our own real death when it comes - these things can be impossible to make friends with. They come along like tornadoes, and we are overwhelmed, out of control. No matter how many Good Fridays we’ve been through, we’re not prepared. What do we do then?

In the years I have walked with others through times like these, I have only seen two things that seem to help. And they both are ways in which Jesus himself endured his own Passion.

The first is a return to the present moment in God. By an act of the will, we can choose to focus our attention not on what is churning around in our brain - Why did this happen, how badly this might turn out, what it will be like if it does - but rather, on what is actually happening right now. We look at what we know, not at what we do not know. And what do we know, right now, at any time?

We know the physical sensations of our body, whether we are well or sick, comfortable or in pain. We know what comes through the other senses - what we see, hear, and touch. We know the people who surround us, the love we give and receive. We know the sky above, the earth below our feet. And we know God’s Spirit, always here.

In times of suffering, it is a very simple yet powerful shift to move from what is churning around in our brain to the moment at hand. It takes us away from what might be possible and grounds us in what is actual. This, I believe, is part of what Jesus was talking about when he spoke of the kingdom of God. It is here; it is now; it is among you; it is within you, he said.

Even when things are not going well, even when there seems to be chaos, there is our breath. There is the comfort of love, the sunlight through the window, the stillness that opens up and reveals the divine dimension. Returning to the kingdom of God in this present moment, we can move from panic to peace, regardless of our external circumstances.

I think that Jesus carried this sense of the divine dimension, the kingdom of God, through all his trials. I think that when betrayal, arrest, humiliation, and suffering came to him, he was at the same time open to something else, something that could not be harmed or taken away from him. This doesn’t mean that he was tranquil, unperturbed - he was human, like all of us. But I imagine that he was also in touch with the divine dimension, even at the end. How else could he have said, at the end, when things were at their worst, “Into your hands I commend my spirit”?

The second thing that seems to help when we are overwhelmed with difficulties is the big picture. When our friend Ellen Novak died last fall at the much-too-young age of 61, leaving behind two teenage children and a life she loved, she had managed to get to the big picture.

After months of fear and resistance, after feeling that her life was closing down and ending badly, it began to open up. In that opening she could see her whole life, her children’s lives ahead of them, the sweep of humanity, life and eternity, earth and heaven. And it gave her peace.

Every religious tradition, including ours, offers some kind of continuation of life beyond the 8 or 9 decades (if we are fortunate) that we enjoy here on earth. Whether it is heaven or karma or a return to the Source from which we came, there is a conviction that this is not all there is. Spirit is unhindered by time and space, by what we call the physical laws of nature, unhindered by death. We are a part of a reality not only beyond the material plane, but beyond our imagination.

Jesus knew this, of course. At his trial, he said to Pilate, who threatened him with death, “My kingdom is not of this world.” And he comforted the thief hanging on the cross next to him by saying “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Today, in our solemn remembrance of those gruesome last hours in Jesus’ life, we are doing something that is pretty dark. We draw near to the darkness in the hope of reducing its power over us. We face it in the hope of learning something from it.

As we peer into this darkness, we see that this it is filled with God’s loving presence, that the kingdom of God is even there. And as we stay there, looking yet more deeply, we also see that it opens up to a reality beyond our imagination, to eternity. This is why we call this Friday “Good.”

Holy Indifference
March 17, 2013
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

The story begins so strangely, yet it sounds so offhand: Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Wait. Can we back it up a bit? Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead? Just a little dinner party with a resuscitated corpse. “So, Lazarus, what was death like?”

The 3 siblings - Martha, Mary, and Lazarus - were some of Jesus’ best friends. They lived in the outskirts of Jerusalem, in Bethany. Along with thousands of other pilgrims, Jesus and his disciples were making their way to the holy city in preparation for Passover. So they stayed at their friends’ house for a few days.

Martha was serving the guests, as she does in another story, and Mary was sitting in devotion at the feet of Jesus, as she does in that story, much to Martha’s irritation. And then, as if it weren’t strange enough that Lazarus was sitting around with them, it gets even weirder.

Mary takes out a jar of very costly perfumed oil. Judas, the disciples’ treasurer, quickly calculated the value at 300 denarii. According to most of the first 10 internet entries I googled on the subject - and that makes it a fact - this would be about $6,000. That’s some pricey oil. I assume this means Jesus’ friends were wealthy, and a large house would explain how they could take in the whole group of pilgrims that night.

And then Mary, this dignified woman of means, does something that shocks them all. She takes Jesus’ bare feet in her hands, pours some of the precious oil over them, rubs them, and then wipes them with her hair.

We’ve become so accustomed to this story - and a parallel one in the other gospels that takes place at a dinner with some Pharisees - that it’s lost the element of surprise. But can you imagine it happening at your next dinner party?

Jesus’ disciples are outraged. Supposedly the issue is that the $6,000 could have gone a long way towards helping the poor. But I wonder if the real bone of contention wasn’t about the sheer inappropriateness of her gesture, and Jesus’ lack of reaction to it.

Jesus’ friends probably wished that he would have quietly said to her “Woman, I appreciate the sentiment, but really. This is not the time or place for this sort of thing. Make an appointment through my assistant, and later on, we’ll meet in my office and have a rational conversation about whatever is troubling you.”

Instead, Jesus received what Mary was doing. In that moment everything stopped; time stood still. While others were fidgeting with embarrassment, Jesus opened his heart, looked into her eyes, and received what was offered. It was a holy moment for Mary, a pure moment of love, despair, surrender, God knows what. And Jesus honored it.

Jesus didn’t really know what had brought Mary to this desperate act. Her history was probably a mystery to him, and to everyone else in the room. But unlike the others, he didn’t push her aside and demand an explanation. He didn’t complain about the waste of money.

He created a space for her, trusting that what she was doing would help her move forward in her walk of faith. Perhaps that’s the really shocking thing. Jesus gave her room to do what she needed to do.

Last weekend, the Vestry and clergy were on retreat together and one evening, we were telling bizarre church stories. There were some doozies. Mine was about a time in my first year of ordained ministry. It was at Grace Cathedral, a very formal and massive Gothic church in San Francisco, where I first worked as a priest.

During one of the Eucharists, the service began with some liturgical dancers perched around the altar, where I sat in my stall, next to the director of the dance group. As the procession wound down, a woman walked in front of the high altar and began to take her clothes off. All of them. I turned to the director next to me and asked “Is she one of yours?” She replied “No. Is she one of yours?”

Right about then the poor woman was frozen at the altar, not knowing what to do next. I nodded to the Verger, and he glided over as if this had all been planned, slipped his robe over her shoulders, and gently led her out. Later, we learned she had offered herself to God, and when nothing happened, she became confused.

Now on one level this became for me one of many strange tales of San Francisco’s endearing eccentrics. But over time, I have wondered about that woman. I have thought about her desperate and completely committed act of religious devotion. What led up to it? What was she hoping for? Did God respond to her self-offering?

Because Episcopalians value good order in liturgy above all else, we acted in a way that we would never have in a meeting or coffee hour. We didn’t cry out; we didn’t call the cops. The show went on, and we accepted her, as Jesus had accepted Mary that day in Bethany. And I hope our lack of reactivity served her well.

Those of you who are parents know that sometimes this is the best thing we can do for a child who is throwing a fit. He yells and thrashes about on the floor of the grocery store, demanding that we buy that bag of candy. We’re embarrassed, but if we’ve got our wits about us, we don’t jerk him up by the arm and threaten him with bloody murder. We stroll on, calmly suggesting that if he doesn’t come with us now, he might end up walking home.

Sometimes children need to freak out. But more importantly, they need to know that we aren’t frightened or harmed by it. They need our constancy. It’s like going out into the desert when we’re going through a very hard time. The open land, the sky has a kind of holy indifference to our troubles. It just remains there for us, calm and accepting. This is a a kind of love, for it provides something bigger than our problems, something real and true and spacious. In this expanse of love, God’s grace has room to move, and a little healing happens.

People ask why God seems so indifferent to our need. We go into prayer pleading, questioning, looking for an answer, a sign. Nothing seems to happen. We interpret this as absence. But it’s not. It’s a gift, a gift of loving presence, an infinite Yes. And often, that holy, spacious place is all that is needed for God’s hidden grace to work, so that we can move past where we’re stuck.

This is what God does for us in prayer. God accepts whatever we need to do, to say, whatever we need to ask for, just as Jesus accepted Mary’s act of desperate devotion. In that container of love, what began as a fit can calm down and become something else. Sometimes as the larger view opens up to us, the very questions we originally brought to prayer cease to be important.

And it is what we can do for others. The parish is a good place to practice this. Sometimes people act inappropriately. They get mad, they cry, they voice unreasonable expectations. They’re not always rational. That’s okay. As long as they’re not hurting anyone, let them do what they need to do. God knows - yes, God knows, even if we or they don’t know - what brought them to this moment. When nobody kicks them out, when they’re invited up to the altar like everyone else to receive God’s grace, when next time we see them, we don’t avoid them but greet them with a smile, a little healing happens.

We use the word “community” a lot here. This is an example of what real community is, and what it can do. It can provide an open place, a container, a holy indifference that receives us all as we are, not reacting, sometimes not even needing to talk about it. We abide, and we go on, together. As we learn to do this in this school of faith we call a church, we can then take it into our homes, our places of work. We can be that same container for anyone, whenever it is needed.

This is what Jesus did for Mary that day. It is what God does for us in prayer. It is what we can do for others. And in that open space of love, beneath the surface, hidden to our eyes, God’s grace is given room to move, and to heal. 

March 3, 2013
The 3rd Sunday of Lent
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

We want life to be predictable, orderly, fair; we want it to make sense. There’s nothing wrong with that. Much of life actually turns out that way. We get up in the morning and do our routine. We go to work, where there are procedures, plans, progress. When we go to the doctor, we usually get a diagnosis and treatment, and we get better. If we obey the law, the police leave most of us alone. If we’re good to others, generally they are good to us.

Without this predictability and fairness, we’d live in constant anxiety. And so it is a good thing, and it is natural to try to create and maintain it.

But this isn’t all there is. There is also disorder, unpredictability, meanness, and injustice. Some people don’t get a clear diagnosis and effective treatment. Some are stopped and harassed for the crime of Driving While Black. Some are innocent victims of war, mental illness, or domestic violence.

And so here is the conundrum: on the one hand, we seem to have some measure of control. Most of the time, we can create a healthy, safe, and sensible life for ourselves. But on the other hand, there are no guarantees, and we can’t completely prevent disorder and unfairness. How do we live with this?

This was the problem that faced those in our gospel story today. They went to Jesus, who had a reputation as a wise rabbi, and brought up a horrible current event everybody knew about: Pilate’s soldiers attacked some people who were in the very act of worship at the Temple in Jerusalem. Their own blood was mixed with the blood of the sacrifices they were making. It’s like those in our own day who are gunned down or bombed in churches, synagogues, mosques. What kind of God would allow this?

Jesus’ answer to them is basically this: You’ve assumed this happened to them because they were worse sinners than you, and therefore you’re safe. That’s not true; you’re sinners too. So don’t assume that nothing bad will happen to you. Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.

Now I don’t particularly like this answer, because it sounds to me like Jesus thinks that everyone, being sinners, deserve God’s punishment. I wonder if it is an example of Jesus’ humanity - that he shared some of the beliefs of his day, a few of which we don’t hold any more: like the one about demons causing seizures and mental illness.

But there is something in his answer that I think is true, and it strikes at the root of a very common but mistaken assumption: that if we do the right things, life will always go well for us. He says that it doesn’t work this way. Bad things happen can happen randomly to anyone, and it isn’t always related to whether we deserve it or not.

Which brings us back to our dilemma. How do we live with the normal fairness of life that is occasionally interrupted by random unfairness? How do we try to be good, knowing that usually this results in good, and then deal with things that don’t fit this formula?

There are many who answer this by saying that this proves that there is no God. For God is either fair - in which case bad things wouldn’t happen to good people - or unfair, in which case your so-called “God” is not worth worshiping. Others say that everything happens “for a reason,” that God has a plan for everyone that includes even random and unjust suffering.

But neither answer satisfies me. I just don’t believe that God has to fit into our ideas of being fair or making sense. That would make God as small as our comprehension, and that is pretty scary. God is not a big human who thinks and acts and plans as we do. God is Spirit, the Source of all that is, seen and unseen.

While Jesus may not give us a way to deal with our dilemma, the first lesson from Exodus does. It is one of the most powerful and mysterious passages of all scripture, and it is at the heart of the Judeo-Christian faith.

Moses encounters God in the desert in the form of a burning bush that is flaming, but never consumed. Impossible. Can you imagine? A voice then tells Moses - who is a former slave, now a lowly sheepherder on the lam after having killed an Egyptian guard - that he will be the liberator of his people. He is to go to the great Pharaoh himself and tell him that God wants him to free the Israelites.

Right. And just whom shall I say has sent me? The answer is stunning. I AM that I AM. Being itself sends Moses. I AM, the God who IS, who is all existence, is God.

This moment in the desert is a revelation of who God is. And in that very moment, Israel begins to worship one universal God, not many gods. Israel enters a relationship with the divine that is imbedded in all existence, not a mythological super-person in the sky. And the Israelites now are asked to accept that this divine existence is mystery, beyond all comprehension, even beyond our understanding of right and wrong, fair and unfair. I Am that I AM, and that shall be enough for you.

Like the rest of us, the people of Israel sort of got this and sort of didn’t. From time to time they made idols, little deities that were easier to understand and manipulate. Here and there they believed - and wrote scriptures saying - that if you don’t sin, God will protect you from harm, that if you make the right sacrifices God will reward you.

But then, at other times, they would return to the mystery of I AM, the God who refused to answer Yes or No, who sometimes refused to answer at all, and worshiped this God anyway. The place where we see this most definitively is in the book of Job. After all Job’s pious and rational friends have tried to explain Job’s tremendous suffering in ways that might make sense out of tragedy, the final answer from God is this: Where were you when I created the heavens and the earth?

And so it is with our own attempts to make sense out of difficulty. Today many of you will receive anointing for healing. Every week we pray for God to act, to intervene, to do something about the suffering of those we love, and the suffering of the world.

And yet we know that what we ask for may or may not happen. This disturbs us, and some eventually give up on God. But if we are to be faithful to our Judeo-Christian tradition, this 3,000 year-old wisdom, we will take a different approach. We will ask for what we need, and we will let go of the outcome. God - the unfathomable I AM - has ways that we should not presume to understand. God’s love and healing and grace are not limited to how we think they should operate.

And so our faith is not faith that something in particular will take place. It is faith alone. It is trust alone. We place our trust not in outcomes but in the unfathomable goodness of God. When we step back from the present difficulty, we see that good often comes out of bad things. And even if we can’t see this, we step back further, and see that in human history, goodness tends to prevail. And even if we can’t see this, we step back even further, and trust that while God’s love may not win the day in this world, it does in eternity. Ultimately, there is nothing to fear.

Faith therefore is the discipline, the choice, really, to place our trust in something other than the immediate moment. It is to see ourselves in the big picture, with all people, with all creation, in the hands of a good and loving God. When we can do this, we know that all shall be well.

So today, if you seek healing for yourself through anointing, or if you stay in the pews and pray for others, make your needs known to God, and then release your grip on the outcome. But in doing so, you needn’t drift in a chaotic and meaningless void. You are in the hands of the God who IS, who always will be, the I AM of all goodness and love.

Feb. 17, 2013
1st Sunday of Lent
The Temptations of Christ
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Jesus had been baptized by his cousin John in the Jordan River. A dove had descended from heaven and, our gospel today tells us, the Spirit filled Jesus. Then, like many who have been touched by the Spirit, he felt the need to go on retreat, to spend time in prayer. He went into the desert, alone.

After 5 1/2 weeks of fasting, he was weak, vulnerable. Various thoughts and voices assailed him about what it meant to be filled by the Spirit, to be touched by God. If he was - shudder to say it - the Messiah, then he might change the world. And he could do it with personal charisma, political strength, spiritual magic.

The story of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness has always, like all stories in the Bible, pointed to something universal, transcending the characters and places of their telling. The 3 temptations of Christ represent common temptations of humanity. Each of them says something basic about how we go astray.

The first of them is the temptation to “live by bread alone,” to live a purely materialist life. This may be the primary temptation of modern American life. We are inundated with messages to consume, to get the next, better version of everything we already own. We are duped into thinking that we can get all our external circumstances to go well for us, and that this will satisfy us.

I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. When I visit there now, I enjoy many things about it: the beauty of the land, bay, ocean, city, and hills; the amazing food and beautiful gardens; the cornucopia of cafes, bookstores, and eccentric shops; the arts, music, and intellectual life.

But there is another part of me that is slightly sickened by all this. It is as if we’re all being lured into a delusion - that if we perfect our external life, if we make it really cool and trouble-free, we will achieve satisfaction and happiness. This is a lie.

Because after too long, we return to reality, to our feelings, our distracted mind, our relationships, our problems. And so an emptiness sets in, as if we’ve just been tricked into wasting our time. So we re-dedicate ourselves to the effort to find fulfillment out there somewhere, in the improvement of our external circumstances. It becomes an addictive circle.

God offers an alternative. It is not the negation of beauty or agreeable circumstances. It is the appreciation of them without attachment. It is the ability to move through them, knowing they are only temporary, being able to give it all away if needed. It is the willingness to live with our external difficulties and limitations, instead of seeing them as something unnatural and deficient. It is the knowledge that while material pleasure is something to savor and appreciate, it will not deliver deep and lasting satisfaction.

The second temptation of Christ is about power and control. The devil shows Jesus the kingdoms of the world and offers him all their glory, and authority over them. Now on one level, there is nothing inherently wrong with power and control.

I want to have some measure of power and control. When I’m sick, I want to understand what’s happening, to have the care I need, to gain mastery over what is trying to harm my body. When I’m threatened by an intrusive person, I want to stand up and make them back off. Power and control are neutral forces. They can be used for good or for evil, depending on our motivation.

But there is also a time to release them. There is a time for powerlessness and surrender. For if we think that power and control are the key to getting what we need, and when a parent, a boss, or a spouse uses them to force others to their will, power and control are twisted towards service of the ego and personal gain. When we, as a nation, insist on domination of the world’s economy and politics, it turns sour on us, and everyone is harmed.

We cannot control everything. And so sometimes we must let go and trust in something beyond our control. We must surrender to God. But to know when this time comes, to know when to use our power and when to wait in faith - this is the task of spiritual discernment. It is what is at the heart of the famous Serenity Prayer, written by Reinhold Niebuhr, and adopted by 12-step recovery programs:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can, 
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Finally, the third temptation of Christ is magical thinking. The devil says, If you are the Son of God, if God is with you, as you say, then throw yourself off the pinnacle of the Temple - God will protect you from harm, right?

We all know the temptation to bargain with God. I’ll never touch another drop of alcohol if you get me out of this scrape, okay? If you heal my child, I’ll go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life. To this, Jesus said You shall not put God to the test.

But magical thinking goes beyond bargaining. It is the belief that I can influence the course of circumstances by using supernatural forces. In the life of faith, it happens whenever, instead of just praying for what we need - as Jesus taught us to do - we believe that if we use the right hocus-pocus, if we are spiritual enough or good enough, we can make God appear and do what we want.

In faith we are asked to do something that is much harder than that: to make our needs known to God, and then to let go of the results, trusting that somehow, perhaps in ways we cannot understand, God’s goodness will prevail. 

In different ways, these three temptations of Christ, these temptations that are common to humanity, are, each of them, a form of idolatry. Perhaps that is the only sin - putting something other than God in the place of ultimate concern, trust, and hope. The ancient Jews knew this root problem, and so they prohibited idolatry in the first 2 of the 10 Commandments: You shall have no other gods but me; and You shall not make for yourself any idols.

Idolatry is not just the offering of rum and cigarettes and coins to creepy little statues. Idolatry is the conviction that if we give our full dedication to the improvement of our material surroundings and external circumstances, then we will find true and lasting fulfillment. Idolatry is the belief that acceptance and surrender is never an option, that we will only get what we need by exercising our will. Idolatry is the reliance on magical thinking, that we can make God appear and do what we want.

Our faith, as discovered by those ancient, radical Jews, as taught by Jesus and all the saints who have followed him, is to live without idols. What does this mean? It means that we are walking on a high wire without a net. It means that we place our ultimate trust in something we cannot possess, maneuver, or even prove to ourselves.

This was the genius of an ancient people who placed their trust in a God who could not be named; a God who lay beyond all comprehension and yet whose loving presence could be experienced more closely than one’s own breath; a God whose self-revelation was simply I am that I am. How do we put this God first in our lives? How do we worship this God?

We learn to look for fulfillment in slippery things like love, our state of mind, and the electricity of the present moment. We learn to be patient and wait, to hope without any content to our hope. We learn to place our trust in a Spirit who, like the wind, comes and goes where it wills.

Jesus was tempted in every way as we are. In the wilderness, after he discovered that God had inhabited him and called him to a holy life, he had to relinquish every idol until he became an empty vessel that God could use.

We enter the same wilderness in the 40 days of Lent. Discover for yourself where your idols lie, where you place your mistaken trust. And then step out on that high wire of faith.

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