Plot to Take Down The Episcopal Church

Last Saturday was the annual Diocese of Los Angeles Ministry Fair at Campbell Hall in North Hollywood. Rather than the usual format of having numerous workshops regarding various ministries, spiritual practices, etc., this year's Ministry Fair had one theme only - the current "troubles" involving The Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion. (Full coverage by the Episcopal News Service can be found here, along with a list of resources relating to this issue).

Bishop Bob Anderson (retired Bishop of Minnesota and current Bishop Assisting in the Diocese of Los Angeles) noted that the recent actions of the Primates of the Anglican Communion, as outlined in the communiqué from the Dar es Salaam Primates Meeting (February 15-19, 2007) is merely one more step in a plot that was developed by the American Anglican Council (AAC) in 2003 to take down The Episcopal Church, or rather, to "realign Anglicanism on North American soil" through "replacement jurisdiction." In December 2003, a member of that organization produced a secret document, the "Chapman Memo," outlining this strategy. (The memo even advises those reading it to "keep this document confidential" and to only share it "in hard copy only with people you fully trust.") The Episcopal News Service broke the story of the of the Chapman Memo in January 2004 (see ENS story), but most people (including our bishops) seem to have forgotten that fact (as did I). Bishop Anderson noted that if you place the Chapman Memo and the Dar es Salaam communiqué side-by-side, you can readily see that the Primates' recent actions and their communiqué are following the strategies established in the Chapman Memo.

In addition, one of the presenters noted that during breaks in the Dar es Salaam meeting, the Most Reverend (?) Peter Akinola, Archbishop of the Anglican Church of Nigeria (and Supreme Thorn in the Side of The Episcopal Church), would leave to confer with representatives of the Convocation of Anglicans in North America (CANA). It would appear that Archbishop Akinola (and other primates who are less than friendly to The Episcopal Church's position?) were taking their cues from the arch-conservatives in The Episcopal Church - from those who were behind the strategy outlined in the Chapman Memo.

To me, it raises the question, just who's running the show here?
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New Blog Site

Due to frustrations with changes at the Blog-City site, increasing difficulty of use, etc., I have decided to pull the plug on Via Schizophrenia and create a new blog site. The old site was getting a little stagnant anyway, primarily just being a repository for my sermons. While I will continue to post my sermons on this site, I am hoping to expand the range of things I post on, all while staying within the limits of the freeway of faith. I do have a few ideas of things to do, so will need to be diligent about following through.

I have re-posted my sermons and a few other posts from Via Schizophrenia, as I feel they provide a good look at the public expression of faith.

Blessings,
Michael+
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Parable of the Fearful Tenants

Fifth Sunday in Lent – Year C
Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:8-14; Luke 20:9-19
Sunday, March 25, 2007 – St. Alban’s, Westwood

Today’s Gospel lesson, the Parable of the Wicked Tenants, provides a scathing indictment against the religious establishment of Jesus’ day. What we do not specifically get in this reading, is the context of the parable. Earlier, in chapter 20 verse 1, Luke tells us that Jesus was teaching in the Temple in Jerusalem. In the lead-in to today’s lesson, the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders question Jesus about the source of his authority – about who gave him the authority to do the things he has done and to proclaim his “good news” to the people. Realizing that the Temple authorities are attempting to trick him, to get him to say something incriminating that would provide justification for having him arrested, Jesus turns the question back onto them. They in turn realize that they cannot answer Jesus’ question without eliciting a negative reaction from the assembled crowd. Jesus then tells the Parable of the Wicked Tenants as a way of answering the original question about his own authority.

In this parable, the symbolism, and the message that emerges when these symbols are woven together, is unmistakable. The vineyard is used throughout Scripture as a symbol for Israel. The vineyard owner, the man who planted it in the first place, is God. And the tenants, those charged with caring for the vineyard, with caring for Israel in the absence of the day-to-day involvement of the vineyard owner, are the religious authorities – the chief priests, scribes, and elders. There is an agreement, a covenant, between the vineyard owner and the tenants, establishing the terms of their arrangement. Three times through the course of the parable, the vineyard owner, God, sends servants to enforce the terms of the agreement. These servants represent prophets that God sent as his messengers to Israel. Like the prophets, the servants were mistreated and sent away – the tenants did not want to hear what they had to say. They hoped if they ignored the messages, they would be left alone to do as they pleased. In a final, desperate attempt to get the tenants’ attention, the owner sends his son, who is obviously a symbol for Jesus himself. Through the parable, Jesus reveals his own fate – that he would be murdered in a last desperate act by the tenants, the authorities, to retain control, to attain ownership, of the vineyard Israel.

At this point, I want to step back for a moment and take a fresh look at the parable. For a moment, let’s consider the motivations of this group of tenant farmers attempting to gain ownership of the vineyard. What is the motivation for their actions? Why are they trying to swindle the landlord out of his property? Why to they act as they do, mistreating the landlord’s servants and killing his son? Many commentaries on this parable indicate that the primary motivation is greed. The tenants are tired of working the land and then having to turn over a portion of the produce to the vineyard owner. If they are doing all the work, why shouldn’t they have the benefit of all the produce? Out of their greed, they hatch a scheme to take ownership of the vineyard through violence. That may well be the case. But I would like to propose another possible motivating factor – fear.

Placed in the context of fear, the tenants may have been fearful that the vineyard owner might cancel their contract and give the rights to tend the vineyard to another group of farmers. If this were to happen, they would be evicted and left out in the cold, with no home, with no means to earn a living, with no income to support themselves and their families. Out of their fear, they chased off the servants. This happened three times. Each time, the level of fear-induced violence escalated. The first servant, they beat and sent away empty-handed. The second, they beat and insulted. The third they wounded and threw out of the vineyard. In a final, desperate attempt to communicate with the tenants, the vineyard owner sent his own son, sure that they would respect him. But by this time, the tenants had too much at stake. Their fear had gotten the best of them, leading them down a path of increasing violence. By this time, their fears had convinced them that there really was a threat to their well-being, to their livelihood – a threat that had to be dispelled at all cost. And in their delusion, they killed the final threat, certain that they were only protecting their rights and their interests.

Yes, fear is a persuasive motivator. It can distort our perceptions of reality, convincing us of threats that don’t really exist, enticing us, encouraging us, to take a course of action that may seem warranted in this distorted view of reality, but which, in actuality, may be wholly unfounded. When fear takes hold, it drives out all other emotions. It has been said that fear is the mind-killer. But fear can do more than kill the mind. It can also kill the soul. Fear can become so insidious that it drives out all that makes us human – namely, it can drive out faith, love, and compassion.

I would venture to say that we have all experienced fear at some point in our lives. Now fear is certainly not always as insidious and as destructive as it may have been for the tenants. Admittedly, fear, when properly checked, when properly tempered by faith, love, and compassion, can serve a beneficial purpose. Fear of getting into an accident can keep someone from driving 100 miles per hour on a crowded freeway. Fear of falling can keep someone from climbing up a rickety ladder. Fear of being bitten may prevent someone from approaching an angry, barking dog. But there are times when fear can and does warp our perception of reality, despite what we may rationally know to be the truth.

I experienced this type of fear first hand in one of the most unlikely places I would have ever thought – in seminary. For me and most of my classmates, the majority of seminary was a great experience. We didn’t always like the massive amount of reading the professors piled on us, or the numerous research papers and reflection papers we were required to write, or the seemingly unreasonable demands placed on our time. But amongst those things that we did not like, there was one thing that we all generally agreed upon – we had developed a great community. From the very beginning of our seminary experience in September 2003, from the day we all moved onto the Block, as the campus at Seabury is fondly called, our class bonded. We helped each other move into our dorms and apartments, we attended class together, we studied together, we worshiped together, we helped each other with difficult assignments, we played together, we went out to dinner together, we complained about our professors. We shared our most intimate feelings, our thoughts, our hopes, and our fears. We laughed together and we cried together. We were more than just classmates. We were more than a mutual support system. We were more than a community. We were a family.

And then, about February or March of our senior year, Fear moved onto the Block. Fear moved in and interjected itself into our happy little family. At the time, I don’t think any of us really knew what was happening. It just seemed like our classmates, our family members, changed. They became more serious, more distant and withdrawn, less fun to be around, and more secretive.

You see, after the seniors complete the dreaded ordeal of General Ordination Exams, the week-long series of exams that test whether seminarians have successfully and adequately learned what they need to know in order to be accepted for ordination, there is a brief period of elation that the ordeal is over and we can move on with our lives and our vocations. But that quickly means the onset of another dreaded ordeal – deployment. Our minds turned toward the practicalities of trying to find what would be our first job after ordination – our first position as a clergy person.

I was one of the lucky ones. In this Diocese, you are pretty much assured of being placed in a job after ordination. But unlike here, many dioceses do not assure jobs or even have much available for new ordinands. So you are expected to beat the bushes and find your own job, often in other dioceses and others parts of the country than where you’re from. And that’s where Fear jumped in and made its ugly presence known and felt. Friend turned against friend. Family member turned against family member.

I heard stories of someone having a great lead on a job prospect, and then another classmate would find out about it and finagle his or her way into being considered for the same job. I heard stories of classmates using their political and even family connections to gain an advantage over another classmate being considered for a position. There was even outright backstabbing, with one dear friend working hard to cultivate the necessary relationships just to get her foot in the door in a diocese that was not her own. Then another classmate from that diocese found out and complained to the bishop that “outsiders” were being considered for jobs, at which point the door was slammed in my friend’s face.

Many of my classmates engaged in such tactics of manipulation and backstabbing out of fear that they would not be able to find a job. And the result of all this manipulation and backstabbing was that people withdrew and became secretive about job prospects they were pursuing, out of fear that a potential job may be snatched from them. I have to admit that even I was not immune. I felt reasonably certain that I would be placed in a position by the Diocese, so was not too worried. But after I found out that I was being considered for this position here at St. Alban’s, I became fearful that someone might try to take it away from me. When anyone asked me how things were going with deployment, I would merely answer that there was nothing specific, but that I was working with the Diocese to find something. I was as vague as possible so as not to allow anyone else the opportunity to possibly get the job that I wanted.

Everyone was operating out of fear. And because of the pervasiveness of this fear, community was damaged, if not destroyed. Our family was being torn apart. All because of fear. All because of unfounded fear about what might or might not happen.

And that’s what happened back at the parable of the vineyard. The tenants, in relationship with the vineyard owner, were uncertain about what might happen to them. Would the vineyard owner let them stay there forever? Would he throw them out in favor of some other tenants? The people, in relationship with God, were uncertain about what might happen to them. Would the people continue to enjoy their status as God’s favored ones, as God’s chosen people? In their fear, they were only able to trust in themselves, in what they could do for themselves. In a misguided attempt to gain control, their efforts led to violence and, ultimately, to the loss of the vineyard. They lost the vineyard because of fear, because of a lack of faith in the righteousness of the vineyard owner, because of a lack of faith in the righteousness of God, because of a lack of faith in God’s love and compassion for them. They attempted to gain the inheritance of the vineyard, of their very lives, by killing the son. What they did not realize is that the inheritance of the vineyard, the inheritance of God’s love and compassion, is not gained by killing the son, but by having faith in God’s Son.

We ourselves are tenants of a vineyard, graciously bestowed upon us by a righteous, faithful, and beneficent landlord. God has given us stewardship over a rich and fertile field – this place called St. Alban’s, the field across the street called UCLA, this glorious heritage called The Episcopal Church. Just as in Jesus’ time, we too live in turbulent times, or as our Rector is fond of saying, “we live in interesting times.” So much is uncertain. Will we be able to grow? Will we be able to meet our financial obligations? Will we be able to attract students from UCLA? Will we be able to keep them? What will happen to The Episcopal Church? Will we continue to be part of the Anglican Communion?

All of these, and many other questions weigh heavily on our hearts and minds and souls. Questions about our lives, about our parish, about our ministries, about our broader church. I wish I had some answers. But the truth is I have as many questions as you do. But what I can offer is a very important message from today’s Parable of the Wicked Tenants – from today’s Parable of the Fearful Tenants. And it is this – in attempting to discern the answers to all our questions, we have a choice. We can react out of fear, as did the vineyard tenants. We can operate out of fear, which will lead us down a path of withdrawal, of insulation, down a path that will close off community when we need it the most, down a path that leads to violence – if not physical, certainly emotional and spiritual. We can operate out of fear, which will lead us to isolation from God’s graciousness, from God’s unbounded love and compassion. Or, we can choose to operate out of faith – faith in God’s love and compassion toward us, faith and even certainty that we are God’s chosen people, that we are heirs to his love and compassion, and as such, the certainty that we are called to share that love and compassion within these walls and beyond.

We are the new tenants to whom the vineyard is given. Rather than operating out of fear, let us have the faith and the foresight to be more responsive to God’s purposes, to boldly proclaim the truth of the Gospel, and to be witnesses to God’s unlimited love and compassion.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday– Year C
Isaiah 58:1-12; Psalm 103; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Wednesday, February 21, 2007 (7:00 am) – St. Alban’s, Westwood

Today is the beginning of our journey through the season of Lent. Today, Ash Wednesday, is the time of preparation for this 40-day journey– a journey in which we will walk with Jesus during his 40 days of temptation in the wilderness, in which we will talk with Jesus through his periods of testing and anguish as he faces the last days of his life. But Lent is more than just walking with Jesus on his journey toward the cross. It is also our own journey, in which we take the time to examine our own lives as we prepare for the most amazing event to happen in the history of humanity.

In this season of penitence, Christians have traditionally focused on performing various Lenten disciplines. Today’s Gospel lesson specifically discusses three such disciplines that have come to be associated with this season – almsgiving, or helping those in need; prayer; and fasting. Of course, performance of any or all of these disciplines is not specifically restricted to the season of Lent. As Christians, we should be practicing these disciplines throughout the year, particularly those of almsgiving and prayer. Fasting, on the other hand, tends to be reserved for more penitential times, such as Lent.

While all of these are worthy and noble disciplines, I think the message of today’s Gospel lesson is less about specific disciplines and more about the way we are to approach our spiritual disciplines. Throughout this lesson, we are met with the refrain, that the respective disciplines should be done in secret, in which case, “your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” In effect, Matthew is saying that spiritual disciplines are not to be outwardly visible signs, done for show, to garner approval from others or to show how others how pious and devout we are. Rather, they are to be a private matter, purely between us and God. That is not to say that religion and our relationship with God is purely a private matter. Certainly not! What this means is that our attention needs to be turned inward, not in an act of isolation, but in a mode of reflection.

Through reflection and self-examination that accompanies our engagement in spiritual disciplines, we may learn something about ourselves, about our spiritual progress, and about our relationship with God. In the emptying of ourselves through almsgiving and fasting, we hopefully find that that physical emptiness is filled with the presence of God. We hopefully find that the lack of physical sustenance is replaced with the spiritual sustenance which only God can provide – a sustenance that is ultimately far more satisfying and life-giving. In reflective engagement with, and receipt of sustenance from, God, we find that our participation in various spiritual disciplines has an impact not only on how we relate to God, but also how we relate to others. Ultimately, the treasures that are stored up for us are personal and spiritual growth, attained through engaging in spiritual disciplines and the self-examination of how these disciplines affect us and others.

Regardless of what spiritual discipline you have chosen to undertake this Lenten season, I invite you to accompany it with significant time spent in prayer, reflection, and self-examination. Explore how engagement in the discipline is affecting your life. Explore how the discipline is affecting your relationship with others. And explore how the discipline is affecting your relationship with God. Without such reflection and self-examination, the pursuit of a spiritual discipline during Lent will do little, if any, good. Make your Lenten discipline count for something – do it in a way that will benefit your personal and spiritual development. Do it in a way that will benefit your relationship with yourself, with others, and with God.

The growth that can occur through our Lenten journey leads us from our present life, into death, and to new life. In the process, we are required to confront our own sinfulness, to repent, and to be reconciled with God and with others. Therefore, it is appropriate that as we prepare for this journey through Lent, we mark ourselves with ashes, with the traditional sign of mourning and penitence, with the sign of death and the recognition of our own sinfulness. But these ashes we will receive in a few moments are not solely signs of sin and death. They are also a sign of God’s grace and mercy. They are a sign of hope for rebirth, made possible through God’s unending love for us – a love that is evidenced by the events that occur at the end of this Lenten journey; a love that is evidenced in Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem, where he is tried, convicted, and sentenced to death; a love that is evidenced by Christ’s willingness to be crucified for our sake; a love that is evidenced by his resurrection to new life – a new life in which we all share at the end of this Lenten journey.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Transfiguration (Hawaiian-Style)

Last Sunday After the Epiphany – Year C
The Transfiguration of Our Lord
Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 1 Corinthians 12:27-13:13; Luke 9:28-36
Sunday, February 18, 2007 – St. Alban’s, Westwood

During my recent trip to Hawai’i, I became aware of an apparent shift in the awareness and embracing of the ancient Hawaiian culture. I had lived in Hawai’i 30 years ago, when my father was stationed at Kāne’ohe Marine Corps Air Station, on the windward side of O’ahu. During my three years there, I learned some things about the native culture, primarily through classes in Hawaiian cultural heritage that were part of the public school curriculum. This entailed some basic education into the history of the Hawaiian Islands, the various peoples that populated the Islands nearly a thousand years ago, and about the every day life of the ancient, native Hawaiians. Other than that, there was little evidence of native Hawaiian culture in my every day life, other than the fact that nearly all the place names and street names were in the Hawaiian language. The most notable exceptions were the kitschy hula shows and ersatz Hawaiian music performed in such tourist traps as Waikīkī for the benefit of non-locals.

My first clue as to this apparent renewed embrace of the ancient Hawaiian culture was in the names I saw printed on maps and street signs. Unlike 30 years ago, many of the words had extra symbols used to indicate the lengthening of some vowels and the use of glottal stops. These changes in the use of the Hawaiian language have been made in an attempt to return to a truer representation of the native language – to correct errors in pronunciation that have occurred because of insensitive, non-native speaking makers of maps, signs, and the like. But this is only part of the movement to embrace and revitalize the native Hawaiian culture.

One of the primary, and most impressive, areas of renaissance that is occurring is in the traditional Hawaiian art forms of hula, song, and oli, or chant. While on Maui visiting my friend Moki, he was able to get us tickets to a show by Keali’i Reichel and the students of his hālau, or hula school. Keali’i is one of Hawai’i’s most popular recording artists and an award-winning kuma hula, or hula master. He has dedicated his life to this renaissance of traditional music and hula, as well as teaching others about all aspects of his native language and culture. He is striving, through his art, to dispel long-held stereotypes of Hawaiian culture, and to preserve the authentic culture of his people, lest it be lost for eternity, or worse yet, perpetuated in some sort of inauthentic, bastardized form.

One of the key things Keali’i is doing through his Hālau Ke'alaokamaile is to raise up new masters in the arts of Hawaiian song, oli, and hula so that these art forms will not be lost with the passing of his generation. In fact, at the concert I attended, he introduced the five students he has selected to be the next generation to lead the hālau and carry on his work. In the speech introducing his successors, Keali’i stated that his work and that of his hālau is to preserve the traditional art forms, yet to present them in ways that speak to and reflect the lives of the people today. Not only that, but the hālau must always be looking into the future to determine how these art forms may be adapted and interpreted for future generations – all this while retaining the continuity and integrity of the ancient forms of song, oli, and hula. I thought this was such a beautiful and noble goal – to look to the past, to interpret for the present, and to create a legacy for the future.

For me, today’s Gospel lesson is our own version of Keali’i’s vision. In this story of the transfiguration, Jesus, along with Peter, James, and John, go up on a mountain to pray. While praying, Jesus is transfigured, his appearance becoming dazzling white, radiating in resplendent glory. In the midst of this manifestation of Christ’s glory, two figures appear – Moses and Elijah – the two greatest figures of the Old Testament. After talking with Jesus, they are preparing to leave, when a cloud comes upon the mountain and the voice of God comes from the cloud, proclaiming “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him” (Luke 9:35).

The figure of Moses represents the Law. The figure of Elijah represents the Prophets. Together, these two, the Law and the Prophets, form the heart of the Hebrew Scriptures, what we know as the Old Testament. The appearance of Moses and Elijah point to the tradition of the past – the tradition into which Jesus was born and raised. They represent the tradition which served as the foundation for all that he believed, all that he proclaimed. This tradition of the Law and the Prophets points the way to the Messiah who was to come and be the salvation for all humanity. On that mountaintop, the tradition of the past, in the form of Moses and Elijah, meet Jesus in the present. As Jesus would tell his disciples after his resurrection, “These are the words which I spoke to you while I was still with you, that all things must be fulfilled which were written in the Law of Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms concerning Me” (Luke 24:44). Jesus, in his present, through his birth, life, ministry, death, and resurrection, fulfilled the Law and the Prophets. In fulfilling the tradition of the past, he maintained continuity with that tradition, upholding its integrity and its validity.

But Jesus did not merely tow the party line with respect to the tradition of the past. His mission, his calling, was not to simply reiterate that which had been passed down through the ages. His calling was to provide a new interpretation of the cherished tradition. His calling was to be a new interpretation of that tradition. At his baptism, occurring just prior to the start of his public ministry, God spoke from heaven and proclaimed, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:21). These words were spoken by the Father directly to his Son, commissioning him to follow that path that would provide the new interpretation of the tradition for this age. Now, at the transfiguration, God proclaims similar words – “ This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him” (Luke 9:35). These words are not spoken to Jesus, but to the disciples. God is giving them a revelation – to them is revealed the true glory of Jesus, of his true form as the Son of God, breaking through his humanity. And these words are giving the disciples a commission – to listen to what Jesus has proclaimed. With that proclamation, Moses and Elijah disappear. The words of Jesus supersede those of the Law and the Prophets. While based on the tradition, on the Law and the Prophets, the words of Jesus are a new interpretation for the disciples, a new foundation on which to build their lives and their ministries.

In the wake of this revelation, of this new commission, Peter proposes that they build three dwellings – one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. Peter wants to freeze this moment in time. He wants to commemorate this place as holy. But that is not to be. That cannot be. For the commission given by God to the disciples to listen to Jesus, to listen to and live into the new interpretation of the tradition, requires more from them than basking in Jesus’ glory on this holy mountain. True faithfulness will require them to follow Jesus – to follow him as he turns his face to Jerusalem – to follow him to the cross.

Not only does the transfiguration point to the tradition of the past and provide a new interpretation of the tradition for the then present. It also points to an even newer interpretation that is yet to come. In the conversation between Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, the disciples hear them “speaking of [Jesus’] departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.” While they may not have understood the exact meaning of these words, in time, in hindsight, they would come to understand that this was a reference to Jesus’ final journey to Jerusalem, where he would be tried, condemned, and crucified. In Jesus’ transfiguration, the disciples, and we, have a glimpse of the glory of the Son of God at his resurrection. In hindsight, the disciples would know that they had witnessed a foreshadowing of Christ’s return in glory. They had received a revelation of the new interpretation of the tradition which would be the foundation for their lives and ministries. They had received a foreshadowing of the new tradition that would turn the world upside down – the resurrection of their Lord and ours.

In this one story, the disciples witness a summation of the totality of salvation history, past, present, and future. In the brief events of this story, they look to the tradition of the past, they witness the interpretation of that tradition for their present, and they are provided with a revelation of an even newer interpretation that would become a legacy for the future.

The legacy that Peter, James, and John glimpsed in Luke’s rendition of the transfiguration is our present, and it is our future. It is a present and future built on the traditions of the past – on the tradition of our Jewish forefathers and foremothers, the tradition of the Law and the Prophets, the tradition portrayed in the rich complexity that is our Old Testament. Our present and our future are built on that tradition, reinterpreted through the birth, life, ministry, death, resurrection, and ascension of a man from a backwater town in Galilee who lived 2,000 years ago. Our present and our future is built on the reinterpreted tradition as told in the stories of the gospels and the letters that comprise the New Testament – the interpretation of the Old Testament message, made new and reinterpreted in light of the epiphany of God Incarnate, Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

The story of the transfiguration is one of change. But it is not random change. It is systematic change built upon age-old tradition, transformation that continues to honor our past, maintaining a connection to that past, reinterpreting the past in new and exciting ways – in ways that will not only affect our present, but will form the foundation for even newer and more exiting reinterpretations that will be our legacy to, for, and in the future. This is emphasized by Paul in his first letter to the church in Corinth. “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we shall see face to face” (1 Cor. 13:11-12).

In the midst of change, in the reinterpretation of the tradition, in the transformation of the tried and true, we are faced with uncertainty. We see in a mirror, dimly. We can sort of make out what the image looks like, but it is still dim, distorted, unclear. It can be a disconcerting place to be. It can be disorienting, even troubling. It is easy to long for the past, for the old tradition which was so well-known, so comfortable, so safe. But Jesus’ example in the transfiguration, Paul’s words to his flock in Corinth, show us that we are not called to stay in that old place, that place of safety and comfort. We are constantly called to be transformed, transfigured into something new, something more beautiful than we currently are.

Here at St. Alban’s, we are living in that place of uncertainty. Seventy five years after our founding, we are not what we were in the past. Seventy five years ago, Bishop Johnson had a vision for this place, to build a chapel to serve the new University of California campus that was being built across the street – of course, there wasn’t a street there at the time – it was all just open ranch land. So, in 1931, our first building was constructed – the building we now know as the chapel. Over time, our numbers ebbed and flowed, constantly presenting new challenges as to how to do church, as to how to be church. We have constantly had to reinterpret our tradition, to adjust to the changing demands on our facilities, staff, and programming. Just in the last few years, we have been through considerable changes, again, necessitated by the need to reinterpret our history and our tradition, so as to continue to be in a better position to meet the needs of UCLA, to be the Episcopal Church in Westwood, to be in the best position possible for this time to be the Body of Christ in this place. That was Bishop Johnson’s vision, his legacy to us. Rather than bemoan the fact that things are not what they used to be, rather than long for what has been lost, we must instead look to the present, and to the future. We must honor what we were, and then build on it as we reinterpret the tradition handed down to us and prepare to hand it on to the next generation.

We live in a fast-paced world that is constantly changing. Our society is changing. The Episcopal Church is changing. Our parish is changing. Admittedly, change is not always easy. It is not always comfortable. But it is a fact of life. But that does not mean that we have to forget about where we came from. We do not have to abandon what we hold dear. In his transfiguration, Jesus provided us with an example of how to meet the changes and challenges facing our society, our national church, our parish, and our individual lives. Our task is to figure out what it looks like to be the transformed Body of Christ in these turbulent times and circumstances. But the one lesson we must keep in mind, the lesson illustrated by the transfiguration, and the lesson of such visionaries as Keali’i Reichel, is to look to the past, to honor our tradition, and cherish it for what it provides; to interpret for the present in ways that honor and stay connected with tradition; and in the process, to build the foundation for our legacy to the future. That is our calling as the Body of Christ – to continually reinterpret our past in a way that will create a new foundation on which to build our lives and our ministries.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Wedding Feast at Cana

Second Sunday After the Epiphany – Year C
Isaiah 62:1-5; Psalm 96 (96:1-10); 1 Corinthians 12:1-11; John 2:1-11
Sunday, January 14, 2007 – St. Alban’s, Westwood

I’ve always liked the story of the wedding feast at Cana. Perhaps it’s because I enjoy a really good wine, and that is one of the central images in this story. But I had never spent a lot of time considering what about the story delights me so much, other than the imagery. I had never really taken the time to figure out what the story of the wedding feast says about our relationship with God and with Jesus Christ.

As I prepared to preach on this lesson, I did as I usually do – I read through the lesson a number of times and just allowed the images to wash over me. Some of the usual images came to me. There was the image of Mary, the typical worrying mother, thinking she needs to do something when the wine runs out, or rather, to have her son do something. Frankly, that image always bothered me a little. What business was it of Mary’s? It wasn’t her party. Why was she so worried? Even after Jesus told her to basically mind her own business, she continued to push. She went to the servants and told them to do whatever Jesus told them. She essentially forced Jesus to take action, even though he had already told his mother that the matter was none of his or her concern.

When his mother started in on him to do something, he said his hour had not yet come. This says to me that he was not ready to reveal himself to the rest of the world. Yet, in what certainly appears to be the next moment, Jesus does act. Perhaps, after reflecting on the situation, Jesus decided there was no better time than the present for him to act – for him to begin his public ministry.

What better place to reveal himself than through the performance of a miracle at a very public event like a wedding? The choice of place is an important indicator. It says a lot about what is important to Jesus, and by extension, to God. It says a lot about who Jesus is. Weddings are cause for celebration – for public celebration. We know that Jesus did not shy away from celebratory occasions. The Gospels are full of stories of Jesus eating, drinking, and generally having a good time with all sorts of people. In fact, the Pharisees even accuse him of being a regular party animal – dining with tax collectors and sinners, of being a glutton and a drunkard. Personally, I think they were just jealous because Jesus got invited to all the cool parties and they didn’t. At any rate, Jesus’ predilection for attending dinners and other celebrations shows that he was not about being all ascetical and somber. He was about enjoying life in a very communal way, about sharing joyous times with family and friends.

This desire for joy and celebration is evidenced at the wedding feast at Cana. Perhaps it was this overriding desire that got the better of him and caused him to change his mind about revealing himself. After all, the party had run out of wine. How can you have a celebration without wine? There is not quicker way to kill a party, short of inviting the Pharisees, than to run out of wine. So to prevent this from happening, Jesus chose to act – he chose to provide what was needed for the party to continue. By changing the water into wine, Jesus revealed himself, and God, to be concerned with the happiness of humanity – with the joy of the party guests.

Jesus providing what is needed for the banquet to continue is an appropriate image for Jesus himself. Because of God’s love for us, because of God’s concern for our well-being, because of God’s desire to be in relationship with us, God provided what was needed for us to continue in joyous celebration of our life and relationship with God – Jesus Christ himself. The banquet that we call the human race was on its way to destruction and despair. To keep the banquet going, we needed something to enliven it, to enliven us. And God provided what we needed in the form of Jesus – a savior who would care for us and lead us in a new direction – not down a path of destruction and of despair, but down a path of new life and of hope. With Jesus, the banquet does not end, but promises to continue forever.

Yes, the occasion of a celebratory banquet is certainly fitting for Jesus’ revelation of himself to humanity. Throughout the New Testament, there are stories of other banquets and feasts, with the allusion to the fact that these are pale images of the eternal heavenly banquet that awaits us all – a banquet where God and Christ are the hosts and we are the honored guests. The manner in which Jesus begins his earthly ministry points out what we can expect not only in our lives here on Earth, but for eternity.

But this revelation of himself did not occur at just any banquet. The fact that Jesus’ first miracle took place at a wedding feast is also poignant. Weddings are about new life – the new life together of the bride and the groom. Jesus chose to reveal himself to humanity not just at any social event, but at an event celebrating love. This is a celebration of the beginning of a new life together for two people, of the formation of a new family, bound together in love. This reveals Jesus’ desire for us to live together in a community of love, as a family. Throughout the Old Testament, God is imaged as a bridegroom, and his people are imaged as the bride in whom God delights. Similarly, the New Testament uses imagery of Christ as a bridegroom. By revealing himself to humanity at the wedding banquet at Cana, Jesus invokes this imagery of God as bridegroom, foreshadows himself as bridegroom, invokes the image of us, his people as bride – bound together with Christ to form a family of faith, of which he is the head.

Then there is the act of changing water into wine – a pretty cool trick. Frankly, I was hoping that after my ordination to the priesthood, I would be able to do that one. It could come in real handy at parties. But, apparently that is not one of the gifts conferred at ordination. But back to the wedding feast. We are told that Jesus turned the water into wine, and that it was obviously top shelf. He did not turn the water into the same old glug that was being served at the wedding. This was not Ripple or even Two Buck Chuck. This was the really old, really expensive stuff that you save for very special, intimate occasions with your family or closest friends – not what you would serve at a large party of relative strangers – and particularly not what you would serve after most of the guests were already tanked. I have always wondered why Jesus turned the water into the really good stuff. If he felt like he needed to do something (thanks, Mom), why not turn the water into the same old stuff that had been served all evening? No one would be the wiser. Why call attention to himself by producing wine of a better quality and vintage than what the guests had already been drinking?

Here again, just as the venue for Christ’s first miracle, for his revelation to humanity, reveals something about our relationship with God and with Christ, so, too, do the particulars of the miracle reveal something about that relationship. In this simple act (for him), “Jesus inaugurates his ministry with a vivid enactment of the gift he has to offer” (O’Day, 536). Let’s start with the water. Water is a common substance, found in everything in creation. We ourselves are about two-thirds water. Water is nothing special because it is so common – comprised of two very ordinary elements – hydrogen and oxygen. But at the same time, it is so necessary to life. Life as we know it could not exist without it. In his miracle, Jesus takes this common, ordinary, substance and makes it into something special – wine. While wine is a fairly ordinary drink in many cultures, we still associate it with festive occasions. If you want to turn an ordinary dinner into a special event, you pop the cork on a bottle of wine. If you want to celebrate something, you open a bottle of wine. As the psalmist tells us, God made wine “to gladden our hearts” (Ps. 104:15). This miracle reveals that in Jesus, the common, the ordinary, is made special, is made extraordinary. Through Jesus, we have a gift that is meant to gladden our hearts – to bring great joy to all who partake.

The amount of wine produced is also significant, in more ways than one. The Gospel tells us that the water was in six jars, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. That’s 180 gallons of water. That’s 180 gallons of wine! That’s certainly an extravagant amount of wine. That’s more wine than could possibly have been needed to end out the banquet. But it is “the extravagance (of the amount of wine produced) [that] is at the heart of the miracle.” In this miracle, we are “shown the superabundance of gifts available through Jesus” (O’Day, 538). He is able to provide us with more than we could possible want, need, or imagine. His grace is limitless.

But abundance is not the only issue. There is also the issue of quality. As we noted, Jesus did not just turn the water into any old wine. He turned it into a top quality vintage. It is apparent that God’s grace, bestowed through and manifest in Jesus Christ is not only about abundance – it is also about quality. Not only is there 180 gallons of wine, but there is 180 gallons of really, really good wine. Not only is God’s grace limitless, it is also comprised of the best of the best. God doesn’t just want us to have good things. God wants us to have the best possible things. And that’s what God provides in and through Jesus. The wine steward’s words to the bridegroom “‘you have kept the good wine until now’ have a double meaning. They work on the level of the story line, but the steward’s words also inadvertently witness to the deeper truth. He attributes the good wine to the beneficence of the bridegroom whose wedding is being celebrated, when in fact the wine derives from the beneficence of Jesus, the true bridegroom” (O’Day, 538).

The miracle at the wedding at Cana is one of abundance, of quality, of extravagance. It is one of transformation and of new possibilities. This miracle “is significant because, in showing forth the unprecedented grace of Jesus, it reveals the glory of Jesus and anticipates his ultimate moment of glorification, his death, resurrection, and ascension. The extravagance of Jesus’ act, the superabundance of the wine, suggests the unlimited gifts that Jesus makes available. Jesus’ ministry begins with an extraordinary act of grace, a first glimpse of the ‘greater things’ to come” (O’Day, 540).

We are all guests at the wedding feast. We have been invited to share in a celebration of love. We have been invited to share in a celebration of new life and of hope. We have been invited to celebrate a community of which we are a part, a family bonded together with one another and with Jesus Christ, the bridegroom. We are invited to partake of his unlimited grace, freely offered. In this gracious gift, Christ has taken what is ordinary and made it extraordinary. If Jesus can do something as fantastic as taking some plain old water and turning it into top-quality wine, imagine what he can do with something even more wonderful like a human life. Imagine what more he can do with a collection of human lives, like this community here gathered.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


References

O’Day, Gail R. “The Gospel of John: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflection.” In Vol. IX of The New Interpreter’s Bible. Edited by Leander E. Keck, et al. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995.

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First Sunday as a Priest

Today I presided at the Eucharist for the first time, twice. The 8:00 service went off without a hitch – everything went very smoothly. And Moki gave an absolutely beautiful and inspiring sermon (see sermon text). After the service, I got some very positive feedback. People really liked the way I did the Eucharistic Prayer, how I slowed down at certain points to make it more meditative, giving people a chance to think about what the words mean.

The 10:00 service was not quite as smooth. I made one blunder during the Eucharistic Prayer. After the Lord’s Prayer, I had a slight moment of disorientation. I thought there was supposed to be a musical fraction anthem, so I waited. When nothing happened, I looked at Vivian (the Minister of Ceremonies), who kind of motioned for me to continue. So, I did a said fraction anthem. Then, after I said the “Gifts of God for the people of God” piece, I looked down at the paten and saw the whole priest’s hose and realized that I had not actually done the fraction. My breaking of the host was supposed to be Jim’s cue to start the music for the sung fraction anthem. I felt like an idiot. But no one seemed to notice.

For the Eucharistic prayer, I chanted all the appropriate parts. I did okay, but not as well as I could have. This was for two reasons. First, I started developing a cold yesterday evening, which made it difficult for me to control my voice and to hit some of the notes. And second, I was really nervous. Not only was there a larger crowd, but also my parents were there. But after church I talked with both Vivian and Jim (the Music Director) and both said they thought I did pretty well for a first time.

Moki gave another wonderful sermon – this one different from the one at 8:00 (see sermon text). There were some parts that were similar, and the overall message was essentially the same, but the words and illustrations were different. It was a very moving sermon – a real blessing.

After the service, I was talking with a couple of parishioners. One of them asked me if I felt different now that I was a priest. I told her I felt a little different. She then said that I looked different – I carried myself differently, seemed to have more confidence, and had a more spiritual air about me. She thought I seemed like a different person than I was before my priesting.

After church, Moki and I went to Santa Monica and had lunch at PF Chang’s on Wilshire Blvd. Then we walked along the 3rd Street Promenade and looked in some shops. When we were done with that, I took him to LAX and then went home. Overall, it was a great day. Very tiring, but definitely satisfying. It was a good kind of tired.

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Moki's Sermon at the 10:00 Liturgy

Following is the text of the sermon delivered by the Rev. Moki Hino at the 10:00 liturgy on Sunday, January 7, 2007 at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church, Westwood for the occasion of my first celebration of the Eucharist.


Two thousand years ago a group of wise men – some say they were astrologers, some say they were magicians – took a leap of faith and set out on a journey across the Eastern desert and followed a star – a star of peace, a star of hope, and a star of love. And at the end of their journey, they found the Christ child, the Messiah, and they were overwhelmed with joy.

Four hundred years later, another group of people took a leap of faith and set out on a journey over a different kind of desert – a vast, deep, blue desert, the Pacific Ocean, sailing in double-hulled outrigger canoes from the Marquesas Islands in the South Pacific and north toward a land – a land they had no certainty was there. It was a leap of faith. They had no idea what they would find at the end of their journey, if anything at all. The only thing they had to go on was the knowledge that a golden bird, the plover, that flew to the Marquesas from the north and never settled on water but only settled on land. And after watching this, they deduced that there must be land somewhere north in that vast region beyond the blue ocean. And so they set off, and as they sailed north, they looked at the night sky and watched constellations like the Southern Cross disappear behind them, but they also noticed groups of stars that they had never seen. And then one night they saw the star Arcturus, and below it they saw the silhouette of the Hawaiian Islands, the islands that became their new home. They were overwhelmed with joy and named this zenith star Hokule`a, the star of gladness.

This first group of Polynesian sailors charted a course from the Marquesas to Hawai`i and shared the knowledge with others who came in waves from the Marquesas, from Tahiti, and from other islands in French Polynesia. And on every subsequent voyage they would set out in their double-hulled canoes, sail north, and look for and follow Hokule`a, the star of gladness, to the islands of Hawai`i. And as they settled there they began to develop legends, lore, and tenets - legends, lore, and tenets based on lives connected to the land and lives connected to the sea. I ka olelo o ke ola, I ka olelo o ka make. In the word there is life, in the word there is death. Mohala i ka wai ka maka o ka pua. Unfolded by the water are the faces of the flowers. O na hoku no na kiu o ka lani. The stars are the spies of heaven.

But the one I like best is the old Hawaiian saying that at birth, God gives each of us a bowl of light that reflects God’s goodness, that reflects God’s purity, and that reflects God’s love. And we hold our bowls of light in front of us wherever we go and those around us take it in, embrace it, bask it in, delight in it. But sometimes there are rocks along the paths in our lives and we pick them up and place them in our bowls – when we do inappropriate deeds, when we say unfortunate things, when we hold unsuitable thoughts. And as we go along, sometimes our bowls become so full of rocks that very little light can come through – and we have trouble giving glory to ourselves, we have trouble giving glory to others, we have trouble giving glory to God. We each hold a bowl of light. And in it we each hold a bowl of rocks. This is part of human life.

Not long ago – maybe six or seven years back, Michael held a bowl of light and, like all human beings, in it he held some rocks. And one day he felt a stirring that said, “Something isn’t right. Something needs to change.” And with that stirring, that thought, he took a rock out of his bowl and some of his God-light came through. “I feel called to ordained ministry, to Holy Orders.” And with that thought, he took another rock out of his bowl and even more God-light came through. He talked to his parish priest and another rock came out, more God-light came through. Together they formed a discernment committee, another rock came out, more God-light came through. He undertook a ministry study year – another rock out, more light came through. He went before the Commission on Ministry and the Bishop – we’ll take out two rocks for that one! The light continued to grow stronger. He quit his very lucrative job, sold his house, and moved into a cramped studio apartment at seminary – not in warm and sunny California, but in cold and windy Chicago- and another rock came out more light came through. He spent a summer in a hospital with the sick, with the dying, with their loved ones – another rock came out, more light came through. He graduated from seminary and headed home to California. Another rock came out and more light came through. And then yesterday, he said, “I will,” in front of you, in front of me, and in front of seven bishops. Six times he said it, “I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will.” And the rocks flew out of his bowl like they were flying out of a popcorn machine. And Michael’s light came through and the bishop lay hands on his head and confirmed what God had already decided, making Michael a priest, and for that one special God-filled moment he holds a bowl of pure light, shining so strong that it’s as if it rises above him on the wings of that golden plover for all of us to see, that Hokule`a, that star for wise men from the East to follow, that star for the Polynesian voyagers to follow, that star for you to follow, that star for me to follow, that star for all of us to follow. That Hokule`a, that star of gladness, that star which is God.

Two thousand years ago, wise men in the desert found hope. Four hundred years later, Polynesian voyagers from the Marquesas Islands found hope. Yesterday, a new priest found hope. They followed a star. But the Epiphany story isn’t just the wise men’s story. The Epiphany story isn’t just the Polynesian voyagers’ story. The Epiphany story isn’t just Michael’s story. The Epiphany story is your story. The Epiphany story is my story. The Epiphany story is a story that belongs to all humankind. Each one of us holds a bowl of God-given light. And as life goes on, we each put rocks in our bowls. It’s an inevitable part of the human experience – jealousy, resentment, self-doubt, anger, fear, self-righteousness, complacency. And yet in spite of all of it, the Christ child at the end of the star redeems us. The Christ child at the end of the star redeems us at Christmas, The Christ child redeems us at Epiphany, The Christ child redeems us at Easter. The Christ child at the end of the star redeems us at baptism and every time we renew our Baptismal Covenant saying, “I will, with God’s help.” We’re redeemed when we come to this table, this table over which, in a moment, your new priest will preside. This table of spiritual nourishment, this table of spiritual renewal. This table where we say, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” When we set our hearts on that, it’s one moment in our lives where we, too, hold a bowl of pure light in front of us, in front of our neighbors, in front of Christ.

What will you do with your bowl of light? In a moment we will recite the Baptismal Covenant and we will make some very serious promises. My prayer for you, for me, for all of us this morning is that we will continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers. That we will continue to persevere in resisting evil, and that when we fall into sin, we will repent and return to the Lord. That we will continue to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. That we will continue to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves. That we will continue to strive for justice and peace among all people, and that we will continue to respect the dignity of every human being.

We’re called to follow the star. We’re called to follow the star and go beyond the four walls of this church building and into the world with our bowls of light, beacons of God’s goodness and stars of gladness, serving those who have yet to come through our doors, whether it’s our students across the street at UCLA, our hungry people who need a meal this morning, our sisters and brothers living with chronic diseases like HIV/AIDS, or those in our midst, who like us, need the help of others, need the help of others to take the rocks out of their bowls so that their light can shine forth – shine forth as stars of peace, stars of hope, stars of love, stars of gladness.

The wise men in the desert followed a star. The Polynesian voyagers followed a star. Michael followed a star. You can follow the star. I can follow the star. We can all follow the star, the Hokule`a, the star of gladness – and so can our sisters and brothers out there – with your help, with my help, and with God’s help. And may the Hokule`a, the star of gladness, lead you to the Christ child, the Messiah. May the star of gladness lead you to peace, to hope, and most of all, to love.

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Moki's Sermon at the 8:00 Liturgy

Following is the text of the sermon delivered by the Rev. Moki Hino at the 8:00 liturgy on Sunday, January 7, 2007 at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church, Westwood for the occasion of my first celebration of the Eucharist.


I lost my father quite suddenly in a boating accident thirteen years ago, December the 28th, right between Christmas and New Year’s. It was a sad time. And about ten days later, around the time of what would have been the Feast of the Epiphany, I got a sympathy card from a cousin that I tucked it away and saved, for it had some of the most beautiful words I have ever read, words by Sarah Williams:

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

And I have love the stars fondly - the stars that represent hope, the stars that represent dreams, and the stars that represent possibilities that are larger, that are grander, that are more vast than our world, that are larger, that are grander, that are more vast than ourselves, that are larger, that are grander, that are more vast than our fears.

The world of Joseph and Mary two thousand years ago is a time of darkness to many – it is a time of political tyranny, oppression, fear. And in the midst of this world, a child is born, a star rises in the night, and wise men feel compelled to follow the star across the desert and to the child, and when they find him, they are filled with joy. And after offering their gifts, the frankincense, gold, and myrrh that are the tools of their trade, they leave for their own country by another road, hopefully filled hope, dreams, and a sense that things that seem unattainable are now attainable. Christ is in their midst.

In the 1890s my great-grandparents in Hiroshima and Yamaguchi, Japan lived in a time of darkness – it was a time of political tyranny, oppression, and fear – all in the wake of the Tokugawa Shogunate and the Meiji Restoration, where Admiral Perry sailed into Tokyo Bay and forced the Emperor to open Japan’s doors. Japan, a country that had been closed off and isolated for over three hundred years became open, and dreams and hopes of places beyond its shores became possible – places like the Hawaiian Islands. My great-grandparents followed a star to the sugar plantations of Hawai`i.

In the darkness of their night – their poverty and their desperation – in the darkness of their night an Epiphany star, a glimmer of hope shone in the hearts, minds, and aspirations of my great-grandparents and, like the wise men, they set out on a journey across a vast, deep, and blue ocean desert in search of a dream. They followed a star. And yes, there was hardship. Seasickness, harsh work in the hot sun of the Hawaiian sugar fields, fear of the overseer’s leather whip as he rode by on his horse. But my romantic side wants to think of my great-grandparents under the Hawaiian skies, with no ambient light, looking at the stars and shooting meteors the way I do in my home in Hawai`i today, the way I do when I need that God-shot telling me that there is hope and that what may seem unattainable might actually be attainable. After all, my great-grandparents – plantation workers from Japan - lived to see their children and grandchildren become educated enough to work as teachers, accountants, Army Majors, Air Force Colonels, attorneys, insurance executives, judges, diplomats, biologists, engineers, systems analysts, bank managers, pilots, and the list goes on to include great-grandchildren who became architects, actresses, and even priests. My great-grandparents left their country by another road and they, too, loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

It is said that the wise men not only offered gifts, but also sacrificed and shed the tools of their trade as astrologers and magicians when they followed the star and presented the Christ child with their frankincense, their gold, and their myrrh. Not long ago, your new priest did much the same, shedding a healthy pay check, a comfortable home, an honorable job, presenting the Christ child with the frankincense, gold, and myrrh of his trade so that he could follow a star, saying yes to God’s call, busting through the fear of the night that swirled around him saying, “You’re not ready, you don’t have what it takes, this must be some kind of mistake,” and setting off on a journey – a journey to seminary – not in warm and sunny California, but in cold and windy Chicago, and then coming back to his own country by another road – a road that was paved by worship in the Seabury chapel, academic formation in classrooms, a summer in a hospital ministering to the sick, to the dying, and to their loved ones, developing relationships with people who have become lifelong friends, and then finally, yesterday, saying, “I will,” so that your bishop could lay hands on his head, confirming what God had already decided, and making Michael a priest. Michael followed a star and came back to his country by another road. He, too, loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

Two thousand years ago, wise men in the desert followed a star. A hundred and twenty years ago, my great-grandparents followed a star. A few years ago Michael followed a star, a journey that culminated yesterday in his ordination to the priesthood. They followed a star.

But the Epiphany story isn’t just the wise men’s story. It isn’t just my great-grandparents’ story. It isn’t just Michael’s story. It’s your story. It’s my story. It’s a story that belongs to all humankind.

The darkness of the night is an inevitable part of the human experience – where we experience fear - fear in the form of jealousy, resentment, self-doubt, anger, self-righteousness, complacency. And yet in spite of all of it, the Christ child at the end of the star redeems us. He redeems us at Christmas, he redeems us at Epiphany, he redeems us at Easter. The Christ child at the end of the star redeems us at our baptism and every time we renew our Baptismal Covenant saying, “I will, with God’s help.” He redeems us when we come to this table, this table at which, in a moment, your new priest will preside for the first time. This table of spiritual nourishment, this table of spiritual renewal. This table where we say, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” It’s one moment in our lives where we, too, can say, “I love the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

And we know that there’s more to the story. In our Baptismal Covenant we made some very serious promises. My prayer for you, for me, for all of us this morning is that we will continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers. That we will continue to persevere in resisting evil, and that when we fall into sin, we will repent and return to the Lord. That we will continue to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. That we will continue to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves. That we will continue to strive for justice and peace among all people, and that we will continue to respect the dignity of every human being.

We’re called to follow the star. We’re called to follow the star and go beyond the four walls of this church building and into the world with love, serving those who have yet to come through our doors, whether it’s our students across the street at UCLA, our hungry people who need a meal this morning, our sisters and brothers living with chronic diseases like HIV/AIDS, or those in our midst, who like us, need the help of others, the help of others to see the star – the star of peace, the star of hope, the star of love.

The wise men in the desert followed a star. My great-grandparents followed a star. Michael followed a star. You can follow the star. I can follow the star. We can all follow the star – and so can our sisters and brothers out there – with your help, with my help, and with God’s help.

And may the words of Sarah Williams hold true for all of us today:

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

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Ordination Day

Epiphany – the feast day celebrating the revelation of God to all of humanity through the person of God’s Son Jesus Christ. What a glorious day for an ordination! At the ordination to the priesthood, the ordinand is charged by his or her bishop to “proclaim by word and deed the Gospel of Jesus Christ” to all people, declaring to them God’s love, mercy, and forgiveness. The ordinand similarly vows to “nourish Christ’s people from the riches of his grace, and strengthen them to glorify God.” In our meeting with Bishop Bruno during our pre-ordination retreat, he told us about one of his favorite icons, an icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary entitled the Theotokos (“God-bearer”). He talked about this as an image of what it means to be priest – to be the God-bearer to all those whom we serve. In a follow-up discussion, our retreat leader quoted from William Countryman, who explains that the function of priest is to point the way to the holy that is already in our midst – to help people see the holy in their lives and within themselves. By being God-bearers, by discerning and pointing the way to the holy in our midst, we are called to facilitate the on-going Epiphany of God to humanity. You couldn’t ask for a more symbolic and meaningful day to be granted the awesome privilege and responsibility of being priest than on this day.

The actual ordination day was nothing short of awe-inspiring and awe-filled. All through the pre-ordination retreat, I had many mixed feelings – anxiety, nervousness, questions as to whether I was truly ready and able to undertake such an awesome role. Those feelings and the accompanying knots in my stomach continued throughout the morning. But then, about 9:45, as we were beginning to line up for the procession into the church, I was filled with an incredible sense of peace. All my anxiety, all my questions, subsided. I knew I was ready to walk into that place, to kneel before my Bishop and have him lay his hands on my to invoke the grace and power of the Holy Spirit that would make me a priest in God’s Church. With that sense of calm, that sense of assurance that could only have been a gift from the Holy Spirit, I was able to confidently walk into the church to the processional hymn “St. Patrick’s Breastpate” (“I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity”), which happens to be one of my favorites.

The whole service was incredibly mystical and miraculous and transforming. There are way to many details to cover in this entry. But there were four definite highlights for me. The first was the sermon (see sermon text), given by the Right Reverend Michael Ingham, the Bishop of the Diocese of New Westminster (Canada). Bishop Ingham talked about the meaning of Epiphany and the meaning of being a priest. It was undoubtedly one of the best sermons I have ever heard. The second highlight was when I knelt before Bishop Bruno and he placed his massive hands firmly on my head while invoking the Holy Spirit. I wish I could remember Jon’s exact words, as he used unique biddings for each ordinand, biddings specifically related to the gifts and talents of the individual. All I specifically remember was reference to my gifts and passions for kindness, honesty, and equality. The third highlight was having the Bishop anoint my hands with oil, making them “holy hands.” What an awesome act – to realize that now my hands are now holy, and that I am charged with using those hands solely for the work of God. And the fourth highlight was the vesting in stole and chasuble, which was done by three of my seminary classmates who came for the event – the Rev. Michelle Bolt (deacon, Diocese of California), the Rev. Moki Hino (priest, Diocese of Hawaii), and the Rev. Shana Price McCauley (priest, Diocese of California), and. I was incredibly moved that classmates would travel all the way to LA for this event, and even more moved that they were the ones to vest me in the symbols of my priesthood.

Following the ordination service, as is customary, the newly ordained priests were available to give blessings to anyone who wished to receive them. I was privileged to provide blessings and prayers of thanksgiving for several bishops, a number of colleagues, parishioners, and friends. Each individual blessing was powerful in its own unique way, just as the people I blessed are unique gifts in my life. I realized, as each one thanked me for my blessing, that I was just as, if not more, grateful to them for allowing me the privilege of granting a blessing. It was a very moving and powerful experience for me.

As I was finishing my blessings, I was approached by a homeless man who wanted prayers and a blessing. He was incredibly disheveled and wreaked of alcohol. At first, I felt like I did not want to have anything to do with him. He was getting in the way of me enjoying “my day,” taking me away from spending time with friends. And then, all of a sudden I was blessed with a lesson from the Holy Spirit. I realized that the Bishop had just ordained me as priest, with holy hands to help with the hurts of the world. And here was someone who really needed healing, prayers, and blessing – someone that others merely look at and walk past. I was moved to stand there and listen to his story – a story of much pain, a story of illness and addiction, a story of self-loathing for ever having taken a drink of alcohol. I listed as he poured out his soul to me. After he was finished, I offered a prayer for healing, for him to know God’s love and to be strengthened by that love, and blessed him as a beloved child of God. In talking with Moki later in the day, he said I had learned a valuable lesson as to what it means to be a priest, that I had lived into that calling in the simple act of listening to that man and taking time with him when no one else would. As Moki said, for all we know he may have been Christ in an unlikely form. Maybe, maybe not. I will never know, but I do know that man gave me an incredible and priceless ordination gift – the understanding of what it means to be a priest and a brief glimpse at the true meaning of the vows I had taken only an hour before. For me, he made those vows more than just mere words – he embodied them, and in so doing, helped me to embody them.

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