Are You Ready for Christmas? ( 12-24-09 )
The Traveler’s Room ( 12-21-09 )
Two Advent words: Rejoice and Repent ( 12-13-09 )
The Sharp Edge of Expectation ( 11-29-09 )
Testifier to the Truth ( 11-22-09 )
A sermon preached at Christmas, December 24/25, 2009, by the Reverend William C. Parnell at Christ Church, Hackensack
Are you ready for Christmas? I can’t tell you how many times I have asked or been asked that question in recent days, or for that matter over many years. It is a common refrain as we navigate the busy-ness of our holiday season. The pace of life picks up. There are lights to be strung and ornaments to be hung. There are presents to be bought and wrapped. Holiday parties to attend. Meals to be prepared and shared. If you have children in your life that adds a whole ‘nother layer to the festivities with their endless stream of activities – I will confess my shock when I learned of a friend’s daughter’s 10 pm rehearsals for a holiday dance recital. We structure our lives around that relentless march toward that immovable deadline – December 25. But what I think we really love about that question, “Are you ready for Christmas?”, is that it is an invitation for us to vent about the hectic pace of our lives and how much we all have on our plates. We can bemoan how last weekend’s snowstorm interfered with our shopping plans. We can complain about how crowded the stores are. We can compare notes about how much is left to do and how little time is left to do it in. You know the range of responses, all the way from the knowing roll of the eyes to the resigned “whaddaya gonna do” shrug to the out-and-out litany of lament about being overwhelmed, and frankly, if someone smugly responded that they were totally organized and thoroughly prepared I’m not sure I would believe they were from the same planet. Nevertheless, Christmas will not budge whether we are ready for it or not. Are you ready for Christmas? It’s here!
If you are not ready for Christmas, you stand in holy company. Mary and Joseph weren’t ready either. When Mary received the announcement that she was pregnant, her first response was, “How can this be?” The news was shocking and the possibilities for how the story would unfold daunting. Joseph struggled with the situation, we are told, until only in his fitful sleep could he see a way forward. The Roman occupying government made the circumstances even more challenging by an announcement of their own – a census requiring the temporary relocation of people to their hometowns, hence the journey to Bethlehem. No transportation other than a donkey and their feet. No room reservation. No hospitality other than the kindness of an innkeeper who offered shelter in the barn. Were they ready for what was about to happen? Hardly. Christmas won’t budge off December 25th regardless of whether we are ready, but babies decide to budge whenever they darn well please. It matters not whether the setting is a barn or the back seat of a taxi cab or the most inconvenient moment, when the time comes it is right then and there, ready or not. Are you ready for Christmas? The baby is coming!
A parishioner related the story of asking a service worker that very common question, “Are you ready for Christmas?” The person she was asking was a young woman, a Mexican immigrant, a mother of young children. Of course, what she had in mind in asking was presents for the children, holiday plans, and all that, and perhaps sensing that for a young mother working at least one minimum-wage job those tasks would be a challenge. I’ve never met her, but I’ve known many like her whose desire to make Christmas special comes up against the reality of too many hours at work and too little money in the wallet. The young woman paused for a moment, and then said, “I’m ready for Christmas in my heart.” The circumstances of this Christmas for her, and for many, are challenging at best when gauged by commercial standards, but that young woman knew something that can get lost in the Christmas rush: If we are not ready for Christmas in our hearts, no mad dash of preparation, no treasure trove of gifts, no whirl of celebration will get us ready for the Christ Child to be born, because there is but one place in you and me where God chooses to dwell – our hearts.
Now I want to ask you something: Are you ready for Christmas in your heart? Twenty years of ordained ministry have taught me that is a difficult question for many of us, perhaps all of us. How often do we begin a conversation about our spiritual health a bit awkwardly or with a sense of self-doubt about whether we are worthy companions for Christ? In fact, back up a minute: How often do we engage that conversation at all? As difficult as the holiday preparations may be, taking care of all the trappings and trimmings of Christmas is a piece of cake compared with the question of whether we have prepared a home in our hearts for God to dwell. I wonder, in fact, how much of our mad dash toward Christmas is a way of avoiding that most essential question. But here’s the problem with that: You can’t wrap your heart up and tie a bow on it and call it Christmas. It is only a heart that is open, receptive, and I dare say broken, that will be ready to receive the Christ Child. Are you ready for Christmas… in your heart?
In spite of the fact that most of us don’t think we quite measure up to God’s standards, in fact it is only in the ordinary, imperfect circumstances of our lives that the extraordinary work of God can be done. It is in that moment, not when we choose but when God chooses, when the remarkable can invade the bland, when the transforming presence of Christ identifies the day and the hour to burst forth in our lives. God chooses not the perfectly-thrown pot but the ones with chips and cracks… Moses with his twisted tongue, Peter with all his stubbornness and stupidity, Magdalene overwhelmed with sickness of body and mind, and Mary an unwed girl who had only her “Yes!” to offer in response to the angel’s greeting. It is the story of countless saints who knew themselves to be the greatest sinners. It is there, in that moment when the ones who don’t quite measure up nevertheless rise to the occasion that God breaks in and transforms the world, using the broken to heal and the ordinary to accomplish the remarkable.
The British poet U. A. Fanthorpe, the first woman nominated to be Professor of Poetry at Oxford University, captures this ordinariness of holy circumstance in her poem BC:AD about the birth of Jesus.
This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future's
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.
This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.
This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.
And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.
Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams, writing in Where God Happens (2005), reminds us that it is in the mundane, the commonplace, that the holy happens. He writes, “here we are daily, not necessarily attractive and saintly people, along with other not very attractive and saintly people, managing the plain prose of our everyday service, deciding daily to recognize the prose of ourselves and each other as material for something unimaginably greater — the Kingdom of God, the glory of the saints, reconciliation and wonder.”
I am continually amazed and amused by the Internet, and this year I finally broke down and became a member of Facebook. For that matter, so did Christ Church. I got such a kick when, soon after Christ Church launched it’s Facebook page, on my computer screen popped up this message: Christ wants to be your friend. And the simplest way I can communicate the central truth of the birth of Jesus is this: Christ wants to be your friend. God cares about us so much as to come and live among us. It doesn’t matter whether you’re ready or not. It doesn’t matter if the circumstances are difficult. It doesn’t matter whether you think you are worthy of his friendship. Why? Because Christ has chosen you as his dwelling. You are that barn in Bethlehem, far from ideal but the very place where hope can be born. Your heart is that manger, worn smooth by the cares of your life and polished with your dreams and the very place where love can rest. In your body Christ is swaddled, yours are the hands and the feet and the muscle of his work in the world around you, the very place where compassion and reconciliation is enfleshed among neighbors. Let this message pop up on the screen of your mind: Christ wants to be your friend.
Long ago, an angel startled a young woman with the news that she would bear God into this broken world. She had no idea why she was chosen, but she understood that her hope rested on God dwelling within her, and to that she opened her heart and said “Yes!”. The angel’s greeting has been repeated by those who join her on that journey of hope from generation to generation: Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Ready or not, Christmas is here. The day is now and the baby is ready to be born in the manger of your heart. To all who hope, to all who seek and dream, the angel brings a message: Hail, hail to you who are full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among people, and blessed is the fruit of your life, Jesus.
Now let me ask that question again: Are you ready for Christmas… in your heart?
A reflection given by The Reverend William C. Parnell on Homeless Memorial Day, December 21, 2009, at the Bergen County Housing, Health and Human Services Center.
It’s great to see all of you here tonight. I miss you! Now that so many of you are not coming through the parish hall doors of Christ Church every day, I have to come down here to see you, but I’m so happy that we have this wonderful new Center where all the services available to you can be located in one place.
Someone said to me earlier, “Nice accent,” noting that my Atlanta drawl has survived nearly 16 years of living in New Jersey. Every time I head south to visit family or friends, it’s like getting a booster shot for the accent! Back in the spring, I was in Atlanta, and I had occasion to visit a house that had existed since well before the Civil War. It was a farmhouse that had been preserved as a window into a different time.
It was a simple, small wood-frame house. In one room was a bed frame strung with ropes, on which a feather mattress rested. The ropes would be pulled taut, giving rise to the expression “sleep tight.” In another room was a spinning wheel for turning cotton and wool into yarn, and a loom for weaving fabric. There were homemade toys for children, and as was true in most communities back then, nearly everything that was consumed was grown or caught nearby, and made among neighbors and shared.
But the most interesting thing to me was this: a small room at one end of the front porch. Nothing fancy, just a bed and a wash stand. It was the Traveler’s Room, where anyone who was on a journey could stay and receive the hospitality that the family had to offer.
It was a time when there weren’t hotels in most places, where traveling even short distances was sometimes long and difficult, so travelers needed a place to sleep and to bathe. The vehicle of choice was a horse and maybe a buggy, but instead of filling up at the gas station, horses needed to be fed and watered and wheels repaired. Restaurants were scarce, and so travelers needed food.
So the Traveler’s Room was a pretty radical act of hospitality, a way of caring not just for neighbors, but for total strangers as well, and helping them to move on safely and securely toward their next destination, and ultimately toward home.
The Traveler’s Room struck me because I think that’s what we’re doing here at this new Center. What has been created here is really a Traveler’s Room, albeit a Traveler’s Room for about 90, with meals served to even more! This is a place where whatever the Bergen County community can offer to those in need, whether neighbor or stranger, is gathered and offered.
Unlike back then, now there are hotels and motels, plenty of restaurants and fast food places, and on many a corner is a station for feeding the horses under our hoods. But one thing hasn’t changed, there are still plenty of people who need a Traveler’s Room where care is offered just because it should be, and where the welcome mat is out for those in need.
A Prayer for Homeless Memorial Day
Dear God,
We gather on this longest night of the year to stand in the light of your love, your comfort, and your hope. We gather to remember each one, here and across our nation, who have no place to call home tonight, who live on streets and in parks, in shelters and on borrowed sofas.
We gather to remember each one who must worry about where their next meal is coming from, whether health care and medicine will be affordable or available, whether the next paycheck will be the last, whether help will be there when it is needed most.
We gather to remember each one who has died on the streets, of exposure, or violence, or neglect.
But we also gather not just to remember, but to look forward in hope as well.
We give thanks for this new Center where neighbors in need can find help and resources, for the leadership of elected officials in its creation, and for the partnership of social service and health care agencies in its operation.
We give thanks for each one who works here or volunteers here, and for those who contribute of their generosity.
We give thanks for each one who comes through these doors seeking support and comfort, and we pray that here the welcome will be warm and the counsel wise.
We give you thanks for each one who will stay here, that their time will be refreshing and renewing, and that each one will find the resources and support, the companionship and the hope to take the next steps toward health and home.
And we give you thanks for those who no longer need to stay here because they have a place of their own to call home.
Help us all to be good neighbors to one another that our communities may flourish.
On this longest night of the year, dear God, we gather to remember and we gather to hope. Give us strength for the journey.
Help us to know that, even though the night may be long, morning will surely dawn.
Help us, in the midst of our worries and cares, to treat one another with compassion and respect.
Help us to live generously toward one another, because what you give, when it is shared, is more than enough.
And help us all to understand that, even when it seems we don’t have much, we are precious in your sight.
Amen.
A sermon preached on The Third Sunday of Advent, December 13, 2009, at Christ Church, Hackensack, by The Reverend William C. Parnell, Rector.
Philippians 4:4-7
There are two words that stand out for me in today’s readings: Rejoice and repent. They are words that, at the very least, provide contrast, and they may in fact leave us feeling conflicted. One word comes to us today from the apostle Paul, the other from John the Baptizer. One word says don’t worry, the other speaks of fleeing in fear. One speaks of peace surpassing understanding; the other an ax being taken to the root of a tree and chaff being burned. But they are both Advent words – words which help us prepare for a meeting with God. Perhaps the message really is, we need to do both: Rejoice and repent.
Let’s take the hard one first: Repent. That is John the Baptizer’s word, and he doesn’t hold back from telling his hearers just how badly they are in need of repentance. “You brood of vipers!” he says. And it seems that those coming out into the wilderness to hear John could be rather venomous. Some we relying on their privileged status as the religious elite and they are told that pedigree doesn’t matter unless they are willing to have faith inform action and share their wealth with the poor. Some are tax collectors greasing their palms with excessive collections, likely from the most vulnerable, and they are told to collect only what is due and no more. Some are soldiers who use their power and authority to extort, or threaten, or falsely accuse, and they are told to stop preying on others and start protecting them. In each case, privilege and greed and power were the root of abuse, and John hauls out the ax.
Repent is an Advent word that calls us to examine what is amiss in our lives and to take steps to change it. And I want to note that all of the examples called out by John have to do with our treatment of others. I point that out because we live in a self-improvement culture, where many messages focus on me rather than us, where change is individual rather than corporate. Both may be needed, but too often we stick with the former, where we have only our own wills to battle, rather than engaging the latter where whole societal systems need changing. And while individual improvement is healthy and wise, the gospel concern seems to be less about going on a diet than about seeing that neighbors don’t go to bed hungry, to give an example. The Advent call to repentance pushes us to do a better job of caring for one another, and it’s worth noting that if we do that we’ll likely wind up taking better care of ourselves. Repentance may mean something as personal as taking the initiative to mend a broken relationship, or taking the time to look in on an elderly neighbor, or simply saying something nice to that service person who is working extra-long holiday hours. Or it could mean something larger, like calling a legislator to advocate for accessible health care for everyone or marriage equality or some other matter of justice, or checking to see what the local food bank needs this week, or making decisions that help us to live more responsibly and gently with the earth. It doesn’t always have to be a big step; it’s the many small steps taken by each of us that make a big difference.
This Advent some of us are reading Joan Chittister’s book, “Wisdom Distilled from the Daily,” which interprets the monastic Rule of St. Benedict for all of us. One very important clause of the Rule has to do with how others are perceived: “Let every guest be received as Christ,” the Rule reminds the community. And I realize as I ponder that phrase how critical it is to that Advent word Repent. We are in the midst of this little season of expectation that Christ is coming into the world and into our lives. What an act of repentance to seek Christ in everyone we meet! What an act of faith to care for Christ in others! That turns us from fleeing in fear toward embracing one another.
But there is a second Advent word today, and that word is Rejoice. Today in the church’s calendar is traditionally known as Gaudete Sunday, the Latin word for rejoice. It’s what that rose-colored candle in the Advent wreath is about, a reminder, literally, to lighten up and brighten up. The passage we hear today from Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi is one of my favorites, but it is also one of the most challenging. Come on now, tell me… Do you really feel like rejoicing always? Well if you’re like me, that is a bit of a stretch, since there are times when I had rather indulge in many other emotions, like complaining or worrying or whining, before I get around to rejoicing. But Paul reminds us that rejoicing can change the tone and the course of things, even when things are really bad. At its core, rejoicing is about remembering that God is near, as the old spiritual says, “soon and very soon.” And if God is near, that is cause for rejoicing even in the midst of trouble. The question is, how do we do that? How do we cultivate the kind of attitude that helps us to always rejoice?
Paul gives us three pointers about that. The first is, be gentle with one another. Gentleness is a way of moving toward rejoicing. It is a matter of adopting a language of welcome and gratitude and compassion with one another, contrasted with the language of privilege, greed and power, and, even in the midst of conflict, to remember that just because we disagree doesn’t mean we have to be disagreeable. Gentleness means not demonizing those who are different or who oppose our point of view. Gentleness means being thankful for the wisdom and experience of others, because it might just give me a new perspective. Gentleness means being willing to respect another rather than control another. And one caution: I think in this Advent season, when we often hear the language of “meek and mild”, it’s important to remember that gentleness does not mean being a doormat. Gentleness is a trait of children of God who recognize other children of God.
Paul’s second pointer is, don’t worry. I don’t know about you, but I wish they had a vaccine for that one. And yet, I know that I’ve never solved one thing by worrying about it. Fundamentally, worry is about fear taking over from faith. Refraining from worry isn’t about denying the reality of concrete and difficult situations, but rather it is about allowing faith, not fear, to shape our reality. When we’re fearful we circle the wagons or brace ourselves for the onslaught; we close ourselves off and become rigid. When we’re faithful we open ourselves to the possibilities that God has in store for us, including the ones we can’t see at the moment. A word that seems to have fallen by the wayside is “providence,” probably because it came to be associated in the minds of many with God as some kind of cosmic micro-manager who determines every aspect of our lives and that we get what we deserve. Instead, providence means that in all things, even the things that are far from perfect, even downright awful, God is working for good, creating possibilities and providing resources, shaping a path that we can’t see. Providence is, I think, not just a theological concept but an attitude about living that says God is on the way, loving, inspiring, and guiding. Far from closing ourselves off, providence invites us to open ourselves up. That is an attitude that can give us the vision to see hopeful possibilities in otherwise hopeless circumstances.
And finally, Paul’s last pointer is, pray, and not just by asking for what we need but by giving thanks for what we have. Ask God for what you need. Offer up fears and tears. To borrow a phrase applied to Santa Claus, make your list and check it twice. But prayer, if it is restricted to a wish list, is partial at best, not because God isn’t going to hear our requests, but because we are forgetting the blessings we have already received. The companion to supplication is thanksgiving, counting our blessings and naming them one by one. In a parish I served previously, we sometimes used a form of the Prayers of the People which contained biddings where people could offer prayers, and then a separate place for thanksgivings to be named. The former was often filled with verbalized prayers for all kinds of needs, but most often during the thanksgiving time there was silence. I suspect this had more to do with Episcopalian reserve than ingratitude, but I still wonder what prayer would look like if we did as good a job of articulating our blessings as we do our wants. It might just give us a new attitude about the things that need to improve if we view them in the light of the grace we have already received.
Advent is a season that keeps me on my toes. It focuses me in the midst of the holiday rush and calls me aside to repent and to rejoice. And it tells me again and again that God is on the way, soon and very soon. Repent today… the time is short; the need is now. And rejoice always… eternity is yours, today and every day.
A sermon preached on The First Sunday of Advent, November 29, 2009, at Christ Church, Hackensack, by The Rev. William C. Parnell, Rector.
Luke 21:25-36
“I think you are about to go through a very difficult time,” she said. She was a slight, older Jewish woman, a therapist, who had just heard me pour out a litany of hurts, confusion and fears in our first meeting. She nailed it in that simple sentence, neither placating nor predicting doom, but simply acknowledging that there are periods in the lives of people which are hard to bear, and that I had just passed entered the gates of such a journey.
The Gospel according to Luke was written at such a time as well, a compilation of eyewitness stories and interpretations of them that most likely appeared 50 to 60 years after the death of Jesus, and also after the destruction of the Temple, the heart of the Jewish community, in 70 C.E. by the Roman armies. Luke was writing to a people who were in that strange landscape that follows catastrophe, when life has shifted dramatically, when people are navigating around the rubble of their lives and the way forward is unclear.
This passage, along with its parallels in Matthew and Mark, is sometimes called “the little apocalypse.” Advent, you see, is a season of expectation, of looking for God to show up, whether in a stable in Bethlehem or in some equally unexpected place in your life or in mine. But it would be fair to ask, in this season of brightly decorated store windows and decorated homes, why the gloom and doom scenarios of Advent? Do we really need all that talk of fainting and fear and foreboding in today’s Gospel? Can’t we just sing a few carols and unwrap some presents and call it Christmas?
If my experience is any indicator, it is the times of turmoil and challenge when God is apt to show up and bring about something new. Perhaps it is then that we are most receptive to God’s intervention, most open to receiving what God has to offer. After all, it’s not that we are averse to apocalyptic scenarios… witness the popularity of disaster movies, the latest version being 2012 which revives the Mayan Long Count calendar to predict the end of the world in just under two years. But the big screen provides a safe distance from which to view disaster, and we can all walk out into the fresh air and neon lights and go eat Chinese. No, it is when the difficult time is up close and personal that we find ourselves most in need of a Savior, when the collapse of our adult plans can only be redeemed by a Christ Child.
Advent is not so much a prophecy of doom and gloom as it is a reminder to stay hopeful in the midst of the difficult times, and to stay alert during the easy times lest we forget that God might show up then as well. “Stand up and raise your heads,” Luke quotes Jesus as saying, “because your redemption is drawing near.” Luke’s caution to us is that we not get “weighed down” with “dissipation or drunkenness or the worries of this life,” so that we will miss God’s arrival, whenever that may be and whatever the circumstances. Or as Eugene Petersen translates that verse in The Message, “Don’t let the sharp edge of your expectation get dulled by parties and drinking and shopping.”
That therapist said to me after many weeks of lament, “You’re beginning to put the pieces together and see where you’re headed.” The difficult journey was yielding something new, a promise cloaked in anxiety that was beginning to appear. Luke spoke to his people at a time when the dust was beginning to settle and they were beginning to make plans for how they would be the people of God in a new way, not mourning what was but looking toward a future that they would create with God’s help. In other words, there was hope. Advent is the Church’s little season of hope, even in the midst of disaster, disease, or death, that God is on the way, that God’s promise will appear. The root meaning of apocalypse, after all, is revelation. Advent is the call to keep our eyes and ears and hearts open for what God chooses to reveal.
Nelson Mandela, who was imprisoned for 27 years in the struggle against apartheid in South Africa, writes in his autobiography, “I have found that one can bear the unbearable if one can keep spirits strong even when the body is being tested. Strong convictions are the secret of surviving depravation. Your spirit can be full even when your stomach is empty. I always knew that some day I would once again feel the grass under my feet and walk in the sunshine as a free man. I am fundamentally an optimist. Part of being an optimist is keeping one's head pointed toward the sun, one's feet moving forward.”
Jesus pointed toward a fig tree as a sign of hope. For the people among whom he lived, the image of sitting under one’s fig tree was a symbol of peace, contentment, and closeness to God. One of the last trees to blossom in Palestine, its flower meant that winter was surely over, and that the season of growth and fruitfulness had begun for all. Advent comes at a time of year when fig trees aren’t given to blooming. It is getting colder and darker outside, and all our strings of lights and Santa Clauses can’t change that. They can, however, be a reminder that there is hope, that the dark, cold seasons of our lives don’t last forever, and that the time for growth and fruitfulness will arrive in God’s time. Disaster movies aside, even the Mayans knew that: the end of the Long Count was for them a time of celebration of the completion of a natural cycle, not a forecast of the end.
Perhaps this is your season of a difficult time. Raise up your head; there is hope. Now may be a time of turmoil but the day will come when you see the fig tree bloom and you will know that God is near.
Perhaps you greatest concern is where to get the best buy of the season. Don’t forget to watch and wait and listen; the greatest gift isn’t found at the mall, but in the manger. Look for God, not in the bargain bin, but in the blessings of your life.
Perhaps the next event on your calendar isn’t a little apocalypse or the end of a Long Count, but a big party. Have a good time, but don’t lose sight of the reason for the celebration. Stay sharp; don’t lose your edge. You won’t want to miss it when the Guest of Honor appears.
A sermon preached on The Last Sunday after Pentecost (The Harvest Festival), November 22, 2009, at Christ Church, Hackensack, by The Reverend William C. Parnell, Rector.
John 18:33-37
“You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”
Today is the final Sunday of the church year. It has come to be known, within the last century, as the Feast of Christ the King, that designation thanks to Pope Pius XI in 1925. The occasion in the Church’s calendar was the 16th centenary of the Council of Nicaea (from which we got the Nicene Creed), but the contemporary occasion was the rise of fascism within Europe. The seeds that would ultimately grow into the Holocaust were being planted; a carefully crafted message of nationalism and ethnic superiority was taking hold that would result in the extermination of millions. The pope was less celebrating the anniversary of an ancient church council than sending a message that those whose power was rising were still subject to the power of God.
While I appreciate the efforts of Pope Pius, I am not a fan of the imagery of Christ the King. I will grant you, it is an image that is prevalent, probably because it has been a given that for most of human history there have been kings, emperors, dictators and tyrants who have exercised authority over most of the rest of us. The language of kingship may fall uncomfortably on Americans whose nation was born in revolt to a king and whose creed is democracy, but for most, now and in history, it is and was the order of things. And so Gabriel announces to Mary that her son will inherit the throne of his ancestor David. The Magi arrive, asking, “Where is the one who is born king of the Jews?” On his entry into Jerusalem Jesus is hailed as king. And at his trial, Pilate mockingly asks, “So you are a king?”
We say that Jesus is a king, because it is the language we know to use to convey the currency in which we operate: the currency of power. But Jesus reminds Pilate and us that his kingship is of a different realm, the realm of truth. “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” It is unfortunate that the response of Pilate to this statement is omitted from today’s reading: “What is truth?” he asks. Whether it is Pilate, or the fascists of early-twentieth-century Europe, or others who operate in the currency of power, truth is shaped by their addiction to power. Pilate asks, “What is truth?”, not because he yearns to know some ultimate reality, but because he knows he has the power to shape the present reality.
The journalist Ron Suskind, in a 2004 article for The New York Times Magazine, entitled “Faith, Certainty, and the Presidency of George W. Bush,” spoke of how “the war on terror” shaped the reality for millions. He quotes a senior administration adviser who tells him that Suskind and his fellow journalists a part of “the reality-based community.” ''That's not the way the world really works anymore,'' the adviser continued. ''We're an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality -- judiciously, as you will -- we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.''
Power creates its own reality, or so its actors think. I was struck by one phrase in today’s gospel… I had never heard it before in quite the way I heard it this time: “Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Everyone who belongs to the truth… that is a reversal of the language we customarily use for truth. We speak of knowing the truth, as though it were something our intellect could discern. We even speak of possessing the truth, as though it were a commodity to be grasped. But Jesus speaks not of the truth belonging to us, but of us belonging to the truth. It is we who are known by truth, it is we who are possessed by truth, not the other way around. And that, my friends, shifts the locus of power, whether you are a king or a slave. It is an illusion that power creates its own reality. It may exercise control for a time, it may do great good or great harm, but the currency of power is temporary and fleeting. Historians have noted that, in terms of job security, kingship is the last career you want to choose… the average reign has lasted between 3 and 4 years, and usually met a violent end.
So I choose to celebrate this day, with all due deference to the popes and kings and creators of worldly realities, not as the Feast of Christ the King, but as the Feast of Christ, Testifier to Truth. That is his own definition of his calling. Not as king, as naturally as that language may come to us. Not as the craftiest wielder of power, for that is not his currency. Instead, I choose to worship the one who testifies to the truth to which I belong. It is a truth that I see only dimly, a truth which seeks me far more than I seek it, a currency which is so often foreign in this world, but one which defines our worth in the next. It is a reality which I cannot create, even if I had the power to do so, because it is the reality that created me and which will ultimately shape me. And in Jesus, the Testifier to the Truth, I see that this reality to which I belong is the steadfast love of God, the love that possesses me and will not let me go. When power turns cruel, that is the truth. When the world turns cold, that is the truth. When the realities of our own creation fail us, that is the truth. And for that truth, in the midst of bane and blessing, I give thanks.
Nearly every time I pray, I recite The Lord’s Prayer… the prayer that Jesus taught, and a prayer which uses the language of kingship: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” (Yes, I still use the old language… sometimes!) It is a prayer which has challenged and comforted me more times than I can count, and I wouldn’t change it. But even as I pray for God’s kingdom, I know that it rests on truth, not earthly power. Thy truth possess us, Lord; thy will be done in us, Lord, among the passing kingdoms of earth, as it is in the eternal home of heaven.
Christ Church Episcopal 
251 State St. : Hackensack, NJ 07601 (201) 342-2365
