Category: From the Clergy

On December 21 (the Winter Solstice), an unusually bright star appeared in the southwestern sky about an hour after sunset. Caused by the convergence of two planets, Jupiter and Saturn, this was a celestial event that occurs only once every 800 years. Could this have been the star in the East that the Magi followed as they sought the newly born king? Probably not, but it caught our attention and provided a welcome diversion from the pandemic as we prepared to celebrate the birth of our Savior.

The theme of light is central to our understanding of the Incarnation (Christmas) and Epiphany. Think of how many Christmas carols, hymns, and Biblical narratives celebrate light penetrating the darkness. Today we take it for granted; but, until modern times, darkness was total and dispelling it was no simple matter. So the metaphor of light in the darkness has had tremendous significance through the ages.

One source of light is the morning star. In the Old Testament we encounter it in Numbers (24:17), Job (38:7), and Isaiah (14:12). In the New Testament it appears in 2 Peter (1:19) and twice in Revelation (2:28 and 22:16).  “I, Jesus, . . .am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star.”  In Matthew’s story, it may have been the star that led the Magi to the manger.

The light of the Christmas star is celebrated in the great hymn, How Bright Appears the Morning Star (number 496/497 in our hymnal), written by Philipp Nicolai in 1597.  Responding to a devastating plague in his village, Nicolai included both the poem and the tune in his book of meditations, “A Mirror of the Joys of Everlasting Life.” It became an instant hit and has been included in hymnals ever since. Composers and poets have based numerous works of art on its text and its tune.

I am especially fond of the chorus from Felix Mendelssohn’s unfinished oratorio, Christus, which combines the Numbers citation with Nicolai’s hymn.  During my time as organist-choirmaster at Christ Church, Raleigh, this became a choral tradition for the Sunday closest to Epiphany:

Behold a star from Jacob shining,

And a scepter from Israel rising,

To reign in glory over the nations.

Like some bright morning star is he,

The promise of the coming day,

Beyond the night of sorrow.

Break forth, 0 Light!

We, our joyful hearts uplifting with thanksgiving,

Hail the brightness of Thy rising.

As I gazed at the Christmastime convergence of the planets on December 21, I couldn’t help but hum the tune of Nicolai’s hymn and to give thanks for the greatest gift of all, God incarnate in the newborn child. How may we follow that star today?

Let us celebrate the light of Christ that dispels the darkness. Blessings and peace to you in this new year.

David

The people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined. Isaiah 9:2

One of the questions Kathryn asked the kids (and some helpful adults) for our virtual impromptu Christmas Pageant this year was about the shepherds:

Why were the shepherds the first ones invited to see the baby Jesus?

Maybe we have heard the Nativity story from Luke so many times we forget to ask questions like this. I can’t wait to hear what people said in response to this, and all the other questions Kathryn posited to them on Christmas Eve. I have found myself thinking about the shepherds ever since I read the question. Why were they first?

At first glance, a quick answer might be that they were nearby. Another answer might be that since God chose to show up in this life as a tiny helpless baby to an unknown couple in a small town outside all power and influence and importance, that it makes sense that the first to hear of God’s arrival came to a bunch of shepherds, themselves equally low in social, political, and economic status. It certainly tracks that the humble God would reveal himself first to a group of equally humble working folk.

Beyond that though, I think the shepherds are on my mind this week because I identify with them more this year than any other. They are sitting outside, in complete darkness (not having any street lights or light pollution outside the tiny hamlet of Bethlehem). They are trying to stay awake, stay safe and keep their sheep safe. I imagine they might even be a little tired of the other shepherds they are forced to keep company with for safety reasons. Who knows how many nights they have been hanging out together? The night seems very, very long and very, very slow. Chances are, even when they venture into town, they aren’t greeted with open arms, viewed with suspicion, smelling pretty sheep-like.

People sitting in darkness, living in darkness, waiting. Something like our lives in the middle of a global pandemic. Waiting in the wilderness for some new light, some hope, something, anything to change so we can safely gather together, wash off the sheep-smell, I mean, not worry about exposure…

Why were the shepherds first ones invited to see baby Jesus?

Maybe because that night they needed to see light more than anyone else. That night they stood for all of us waiting in the darkness. They were ready to hear a message of peace, of God’s great goodness, and of God’s mercy for the whole world, that included them.

Wherever you are, waiting in darkness, may you see God’s light in your life. May you experience the angels welcoming you into God’s presence. May you sniff the sweet head of the little baby Jesus and know peace.

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

Stephanie+

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TvegJ3wRLFE

“Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.  Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned. . . .

“The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

“Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked straight, and the rough places plain:

“And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.” (Isaiah 40:1-5, King James Version)

These familiar texts begin last Sunday’s readings from the Hebrew Scriptures.  Written at a time of exile, when the people of Israel had been deported to Babylon, they provided assurance of the love and care which God still had for them.  As we endure exile in so many ways, they offer consolation, hope, and a call to action.

How are we in exile?  We are isolated from one another, fearing infection of a life-threatening virus.  We are facing systems of racial discrimination, oppression, bitter political division, difficult relationships, trauma, loneliness, anxiety, and more.  A health concern can shake us to the core and hurl us into the wilderness, exiled from our own bodies.  We wonder — is God really there?

Last Sunday, Bishop Anne offered guidance to help us find our way back to God.  She began with humility:  it’s not all about us; we are not in control.  What a relief, to be reminded of that!  She continued with hospitality:  our Lord is already present, inviting us into the divine presence at the same time that we invite that presence into our lives.   And that all gives us hope — as Isaiah promises the Babylonian exiles, and us, in that wonderful passage.

I have always loved that chapter of Isaiah.  As a hospital chaplain, I often read portions of it to patients, easing their anxiety, as well as mine.  The whole book of Isaiah contains many such passages, which have inspired others through the ages.  One of these was Charles Jennens, an eighteenth-century aristocrat and friend of George Frideric Handel.  In 1741 Jennens, a devout Christian, compiled a series of Biblical texts that told the story of our Lord — the promise, the life, death, and resurrection.  He urged Handel to set them to music.  The result is the masterwork that we love today — Handel’s Messiah.

Jennens drew on the King James Version of the Bible, along with the psalm settings in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer.  Of the 81 Bible verses which make up the entire text of Messiah, 21 come from Isaiah.  Whenever I read or hear any one of these familiar verses, I can’t help but hear Handel’s inspired music.  For me, singing a text, or hearing it sung, communicates its message many times more forcefully that just reading it.  So I draw comfort and hope from the opening movements of Messiah — settings of the first five verses of Isaiah 40.

As you hear this familiar music, listen for the sensitivity with which Handel treats Isaiah’s text.  In “Every Valley,” for example, relish the exuberance with which the word “exalted” is set; the “crooked” melody that then becomes “straight;” and the unrestrained joy that emanates from the chorus “And the glory of the Lord.”

May you be comforted, supported, and most of all, welcome God into your hearts as you live this text and music.  May we all heed Isaiah’s call to action:  comfort ye my people.  Advent blessings to all of you, dear friends.

David

I’ll confess to you now: I don’t really like looking back. One of my favorite authors, Emily P. Freeman, has a practice of looking back and reflecting on what she learned each season, and during Covid-times, she has started a weekly reflection on Instagram using her camera roll to look back at her week and find what was different, what she learned, where she found joy.

This is a wonderful practice, and yet I struggle with it. Something about the idea of looking backwards to things that cannot be changed, mistakes made that can’t be taken back, words that can’t be unspoken. That is hard for me. I much prefer the quick confession each Sunday: “by what we have done and by what we have left undone,” and leave it at that. Let’s move on to what is ahead.

I once heard Ann Richards, former governor of Texas in the mid-90s, bold and outspoken, say that she wanted to live her life with no regrets. That spoke to my heart at the time, but as I get older, I realize it is impossible. There will always be regrets. There will always be those things “done and left undone.”

It is impossible to get away from John the Baptist during Advent. This week, the second Sunday of Advent, we hear:

John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. (Mark 1:4)

And next week, the third Sunday of Advent:

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

John the Baptist shows up in all four of the Gospels. He preaches a baptism of repentance and makes it clear that he is not the Messiah. He is simply pointing the way toward Jesus. He is kind of a scary dude. He makes repentance sound awful. Or maybe that is my own brain that simply refuses to believe that repentance might bring grace, not punishment.

To repent is to turn. We see this reflected in the language of the baptismal covenant. We turn away from sin and death as we turn toward new life in Christ. I wonder, in order to accept the grace offered by God, that our reflection during repentance might include the good things, not just what we regret?

Perhaps repentance starts with an acceptance of both. It is not a quick phrase spoken during confession, hoping then that I can forget, God can forget, and those I might have hurt with my actions might forget the things done and left undone. Repentance looks at it all; it reflects back on both the good, the bad, and the ugly, and offers it ALL up to God. And God takes it all, just as Jesus took ALL our sins with him to the cross.

This is NOT to say that we should replace the word repentance with “reflection.” Repentance does get our attention, and we do need to pay attention to turning our hearts toward God and away from the habits, thoughts, and behaviors that are destructive to our selves, souls, and bodies. You most likely know what those things are for you. I certainly do.

What I am suggesting is that we begin repentance with acceptance. Acceptance of the good and the bad. I am suggesting that acceptance will help us to look for grace, rather than expect punishment and retribution. And if we are busy looking for grace, it is much easier for us to offer grace to others.

This is a very long post to say, my Advent practice this year is going to be about taking Emily P. Freeman’s advice, and reflecting more. Making peace with my resistance to look back. Accepting both the good and the bad. Looking for grace within it all. It means sitting down, quieting my mind, and answering some reflection prompts from Emily or others that I might find. It might mean some quiet at the end of the day to reflect on my day. (A practice called Daily Examen.) It might mean a series of pictures at the end of the week on Instagram. Let me know if you’d like to join me, and we can share ideas about how to do this.

As we approach Thanksgiving, like many of you I am reminded of the many blessings in my life for which I am grateful. 2020 has certainly made that challenging for most of us. But, in a unique way, it has also allowed us to see and appreciate the world differently. Through countless Zoom meetings we have been invited into homes we may not have visited before. Some of us have had the space to reimagine what our work/life balance may look like. Because I’m working from home, I’ve had time to watch the garden blossom, grow, and settle in for another winter. I’ve also enjoyed more afternoon walks with my family.  

I am also grateful for each of you. I would never have imagined that I would be completing an internship during a pandemic. But you have made it work. And you have welcomed me with virtual open arms and in-person air hugs. I’m so appreciative of the ways so many of you have reached out to me, encouraged me, and welcomed me to participate in the life of Nativity. This period of discernment has been enriched by my time with your community. I’m so very grateful for the opportunity to try new things, to learn more about the life of the Church, and to make new friends.  

And, I’m grateful for your sense of joy. As someone dropped into the life of Nativity, I have been amazed by the joy you share. Even in the middle of a pandemic the love, the sense of community, and the excitement you share is palpable. So this Thanksgiving I will be pausing to give thanks for each of you and for the many ways you are shaping my discernment and my vision of what a future life of ministry may be.  

Thank you!

Phillip Bass

This week, as we await results of the election, I find myself drawn to Sunday’s gospel — the parable of the wise and foolish virgins at the wedding feast (Matthew 25:1-13).

Many themes emerge in this story: a festive wedding banquet; light vs. darkness; waiting; drowsiness; preparedness; judgment. Supposedly it is intended to warn us to remain alert, ready for Jesus’s return; but there are numerous other messages as well. Stay tuned for Stephanie’s sermon next Sunday!

Now I invite you to travel with me to the year 1597 and Unna, a remote village in the north German state of Westphalia. Here’s an all too familiar story: a terrible plague had hit the countryside. Philipp Nicolai was pastor of the local church. His parsonage overlooked the cemetery, where new graves were being dug daily. As many as 170 of his parishioners died in a week, 30 on one terrible day, until 1300 residents of Unna had perished.

In the midst of this horror, no doubt in between funerals, Nicolai wrote a series of meditations entitled Die Freudenspiegel, or “The Mirror of Joy.” Joy? How can we come to joy in the midst of great suffering? This is an important question for us, as we deal with the turbulence of a pandemic and a greatly divided country. Nicolai obviously was wrestling with that dilemma. He said, in his preface, “There seemed to me nothing more sweet, delightful and agreeable, than the contemplation of the noble, sublime doctrine of Eternal Life obtained through the Blood of Christ. This I allowed to dwell in my heart day and night, and searched the Scriptures as to what they revealed on this matter. . . .Then day by day I wrote out my meditations, found myself, thank God! wonderfully well, comforted in heart, joyful in spirit, and truly content; gave to my manuscript the name and title of a Mirror of Joy.”

In an appendix to “The Mirror of Joy” he included the text and tunes for two poems. These have become great hymns of the church. One, inspired by the parable of the wise and foolish virgins, is Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme — “Wake, Awake, for Night Is Coming,” number 62 in our hymnal. A century later, Johann Sebastian Bach, a devout Lutheran, composed one of his more than 300 church cantatas on it. His harmonization of it is hymn number 61.

Nicolai based his text on the parable in Mathew 25, as well as two other scriptures (Isaiah 52:8 and Revelation 19:6-9). Taking Nicolai’s text and tune, Bach composed his seven-movement cantata for the Sunday in which Matthew 25:1-13 was the Gospel. So it would be appropriate for us to sing that cantata this coming Sunday – if we could!

  Here is the best-known movement of Cantata 140. I’ll bet you have heard it! As you listen to it, release your tension and let the Holy Spirit speak to you through the music. May you share in the joy that Philipp Nicolai and J. S. Bach found through their faith.

Blessings and peace,

David

I have discovered a new word that I really like: cruciform. It’s not really a new word to me, but I find myself thinking about it a lot lately. It means cross-shaped, shaped like a cross. Which then makes me think about being shaped by the cross as a disciple of Jesus trying to live in a global pandemic.

To be cruciform shaped is to be formed by a pattern of living, formed by following the steps of Jesus. It means patterning our lives as a disciple on his life, and remembering that sacrifice is essential to this shape. We are formed in this shape not only by the pattern of Jesus’ life, but also by his sacrificial death on the cross and his glorious resurrection on the third day.

This weekend we enter the three-day remembrance of the church of all the saints. All Hallow’s Eve on October 31 was traditionally a time to allow the boundary between death and life to be more porous. The Feast of All Saints on November 1 is a time to remember and celebrate the saints who led exemplary lives following the pattern of Jesus, and to make their example our own. And finally, on November 2 is All Souls’ Day when we remember all who have died, all the faithful departed.

I think the communion of saints is also cruciform shaped. The people whose lives offered in the service of Jesus. The saints understood the sacrifice of the cross. All Hallow’s Eve, All Saints’, and All Souls’ reminds us that we can do so, too. Or, as the song reminds us, “for the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one, too.”

We remember too – especially living in a global pandemic, living in a politically divided election season, living in a time of high tension around racial justice, living surrounded by the reminders of lives lost because of Covid-19 – that the cross is shaped by love.

Though there may be a great deal of uncertainty next week, we are still shaped and formed by love.

No matter what you read in the news, we are still shaped by love.

Even when the world feels darker than ever before, we have been, are, and will be shaped by love.

Look around you. Where do you see the saints at work? Where do you see cruciform-shaped lives? Where do you see the patterns of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection at work in the world?