Christmas Eve 2021

Christmas Eve 2021 “The world can be divided into two types of people: those who love Ted Lasso and those who haven’t seen it yet.”i If you’ve been following us here at St. Thomas this past year, you will know that I was late (and a little reluctant) to watch the Emmy-winning Apple TV show titled after its main character Ted Lasso. My friend and colleague here discovered the show pretty early and after her initial enthusiastic recommendation, she would periodically say, “Have you watched it yet?” This summer just as the 2nd season was coming out, I finally succumbed to her gentle yet zealous encouragements to “just watch it, you’ll see!” Here is what I found. Ted Lasso is an American college level football coach who is hired to coach for a premier soccer league in England. He’s never played soccer before, doesn’t really understand all the rules, and he has all sorts of misadventures because of the differences in how we use the English language and in the different culture. But here’s the thing. The show isn’t really about soccer. It’s about humanity—what forces drive and motivate us and about how we are all a strange mix of light and dark, of hope and self-interest, of kindness and smallness. Ted is this intriguing character because he carries in him an unrelenting optimism that sees potential in people and helps invoke the best out of most of the people around him. In the first episode, on his first day of work at his new job at fictional AFC Richmond Football club, Ted walks into the locker room and then tapes up a handwritten sign on a yellow piece of paper. The sign reads “Believe.” Throughout the two seasons, Ted refers to the sign occasionally, sometimes just by tapping it with his hand as the players watch him walk through the doorway into his office. And I think, when you boil it all down, the success of Ted Lasso in this current moment in our common life is that we all are desperately looking for, longing for, something or someone to believe in. We long to remember how the light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. We look for the hope of the promise that kindness, vulnerability, and forgiveness can change the world. This time of year, we hear a lot about believing. We watch movies about how the power of belief can help bring about magic in this old, tired world. One meditation on Belief says it this way: “This time of year we’re told to “believe.” But what does that mean? Judging from the movies to believe means to believe in magic, or Santa, or romance, to be optimistically wishful and naïve. In many Christian circles to believe means to think, as in believing certain doctrines are true. But the word “believe” comes from old English, rooted in German, belieben—to love. In scripture to believe means to give your heart: to lovingly entrust yourself, not to an idea but to a person.” ii We know the people who walked in darkness; we are them. We long to give our hearts to something or someone, to put our trust in something greater than ourselves. The Medieval mystic Meister Eckhart wrote, “we are all meant to be mothers for God, for God is always needing to be born.” In order for Jesus to be born on this night so many years ago, his mother Mary first had to say yes to God’s invitation. She had to give her heart to God, to put her trust in God in an unexpected and unprecedented way. Joseph, also, was given a chance, a dream, a moment when his initial no to being the father of Jesus changed to become a yes, and he, too, gave his heart and his trust to God. That is the gift of this most holy night—the old, familiar story reminds us of how normal people, not so different from us, said yes when God’s messenger showed up in their lives asking for them to believe, inviting them to believe, to trust, to give their hearts and to help give birth to God. It’s a reminder of how regular people—Mary, Joseph, the shepherds—witness and participate in the birth of Emmanuel/God with us and how they gave their hearts to him, upending both their own lives and the entire world. This year-maybe above all years-we have longed to believe in something, in someone. We have longed to give our hearts to someone or some cause that is worthy. We have longed to be saved from ourselves and all the craziness that is going on in the world around us. The gift of this night is the reminder that through the birth of Emmanuel-God with us-God shows us that God is with us, that God invites us to give our heart, our trust, ourselves to God. And when enough of us say yes to God, God will change the world. It has already happened, and it will happen again. Ti. his line is taken from an article for Mr. Porter by Dan Rookwood: Fashion: Swearing Is Caring: A Few Choice Words From The Breakout Star Of Ted Lasso | The Journal | MR PORTER ii. https://unfoldinglight.net/2021/12/17/believe/

Blue Christmas 2021

Blue Christmas 2021 December 15, 2021 Years ago, I was visiting a parishioner in the hospital. When I walked into her room, she looked up at me from where she was slumped in her chair; her eyes were shadowed with pain, and she said, “I know God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, but this feels like too much.” I flinched and opened my mouth to respond, and then I thought better of it because hospital rooms and funeral homes are not the places a priest should be arguing theology with her people when they are hurting. But I suspect, there are some of you here tonight who have been wounded by someone saying those words to you in the face of suffering or tragedy—that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle-and so I want to spend a couple of minutes tonight reflecting on what we do believe about God in the midst of suffering. Spoiler alert: the God that is captured in that horrible saying is not the God I believe in or follow. (I don’t think I have to say this to y’all, but I’m going to say it anyway, just in case. It is better to stay silent in the face of suffering—both someone else’s or your own—than to say to someone else or yourself that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.) When I was pregnant with our daughter, my husband David and I went with some friends to see a Cirque de Soleil performance. Before the performance started, they had these clowns wandering through the audience as entertainment. Somehow, I caught the attention of one of the clowns, and he came over with a giant stack of empty wrapped packages. He proceeded to entertain the crowd by trying to stack package upon package in my lap, which also contained the medium-sized baby bump that was Mary Margaret. And what added to the show was my fiercely protective husband seated next to me, who kept taking package by package off my lap into his own while he and the clown made angry gestures at one another. Friends, God is not like some clown putting on a show and piling things up in the laps of already hurting and vulnerable people. God is the one who loves us, sitting right next to us, trying to help us bear some of the burden. We see this at work in both the Isaiah reading and the gospel reading for tonight. God’s chosen people of Israel are hurting, and God reminds them, that God is strong and righteous and ready and eager to help them. In the gospel, John the Baptist hears about Jesus while imprisoned and sends his disciples to find out if Jesus is really the messiah. In typical Jesus fashion, Jesus answers the question enigmatically saying, “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them.” Those who are weak or vulnerable are being restored to strength; those who are hurting are being comforted. This is spoken by Emmanuel, God with us—who has no interest in testing the limits of “what we can handle.” God created us to be in relationship with God and each other. Bad things happen, sometimes because of our own decisions or the decisions of those we love and sometimes they just happen—we don’t know why. But the God of love who sent Emmanuel to be with us does not want us to suffer. God longs to be fully reconciled with us and for us to live our lives in peace and whole-heartedness, and God is willing to come along-side each one of us to help us bear our burdens and sorrows. There’s a story I read this week that is attributed to the writer Elizabeth Gilbert. It gets to the heart of why we are here tonight, why we gather, what God promises to do for us, and what we are called to do for one another. Here’s what she writes: “Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here. But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom. ‘Folks,’ he said, ‘I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water.’ It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious? Oh, he was serious. At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river. We live in a hard world, my friends. Sometimes it is extra difficult to be a human being. Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you have a bad day that lasts for several years. You struggle and fail. You lose jobs, money, friends, faith, and love. You witness horrible events unfolding in the news, and you become fearful and withdrawn. There are times when everything seems cloaked in darkness. You long for the light but don’t know where to find it. But what if you are the light? What if you are the very agent of illumination that a dark situation begs for? That’s what this bus driver taught me, that anyone can be the light, at any moment. This guy wasn’t some big power player. He wasn’t a spiritual leader. He wasn’t some media-savvy influencer. He was a bus driver, one of society’s most invisible workers. But he possessed real power, and he used it beautifully for our benefit. When life feels especially grim, or when I feel particularly powerless in the face of the world’s troubles, I think of this man and ask myself, ‘What can I do, right now, to be the light?’ Of course, I can’t personally end all wars, or solve global warming, or transform vexing people into entirely different creatures. I definitely can’t control traffic. But I do have some influence on everyone I brush up against, even if we never speak or learn each other’s name.” She concludes, “No matter who you are, or where you are, or how mundane or tough your situation may seem, I believe you can illuminate your world. In fact, I believe this is the only way the world will ever be illuminated, one bright act of grace at a time, all the way to the river."

Advent 3C

Advent 3C_2021 December 12, 2021 “What, then, should we do?” John the Baptist has burst onto the Advent scene in full force today, calling his listeners (and maybe, us?) “a brood of vipers” and challenging them to repent to prepare for the coming of God’s messiah. “What, then, should we do?” They ask him not once, not twice, but three different times. And it could just as easily be us asking the question with sincerity, a little bit of hope, and a whole lotta longing. We wouldn’t mind repenting, we’re just not really sure how to do it. “What, then, should we do?” The Old Testament scholar Walter Bruegemann writes this about prophets: “A prophet is someone that tries to articulate the world as though God were really active in the world. And, that means on the one hand, to identify those parts of our world order that are contradictory to God, and on the other hand, it means to talk about the will and purpose that God has for the world that will indeed come to fruition even in circumstances that we can’t imagine. So, what that gives you is both judgement and hope.”i. So, when the people come to John the Baptist in today’s gospel reading, and they continue to ask him again and again…”What then should we do?”, John’s great gift is that he is a person of vision who knows exactly who he is (not the Messiah but the one pointing to him) and that he has a very clear understanding of who his listeners are and clear vision who they could potentially be. He sees the shortcomings and the possibilities of each of them and of the world around them. He tells each one what they need to do in order to bear fruits worthy of repentance, and each prescription has to do with looking outside of themselves and their own issues and treating others with justice and mercy, gentleness and charity. The poet Audre Lord wrote to her friend and fellow poet, Adrienne Rich: “Once you live any piece of your vision, it opens you to a constant onslaught of necessities, of horrors, but of wonders too, of possibilities.”ii That is what John the Baptist offers his hearers: “possibilities”. It is the possibility of the good news—how we can be, how we will be changed for the better. The prophet invites his audience to open their eyes to the challenges and the possibilities of the world around them and to live more fully into the hope, the possibilities. He invites each one to become a little prophet in their own lives, holding in tension the challenge and the possibility and becoming a part of the Kingdom of God in how they contribute to bringing the possible to fruition. What, then, should we do? May we open our eyes to the world around us-to both the challenges and the possibilities. May we hear the invitation of the prophet to let go of those parts of ourselves, those “things that we do again and again that do not help deepen life.”iii And may we offer to God and the world around us “the fruits worthy of repentance”-obeying the call to look outside of ourselves and our own issues and treating others with justice and mercy, gentleness and charity. May we be God’s agents of hope and of possibility in a world where we believe God continues to act. i. Walter Brueggemann and Kenyatta Gilbert, What Does It Mean To Be Prophetic Today? From the daily email of Inward/Outward Together—Church of Our Savior Washington DC ii. From a sermon I preached at St. Peter’s by-the-Sea, Gulfport, MS on December 13, 2009 iii. https://unfoldinglight.net/2021/12/06/pruning/

The Second Sunday of Advent-Year C

Advent 2C December 5, 2021 It was like something out of a nightmare. The New York City Subway had dumped us out into a futuristic concourse with no windows or exit signs. We had no idea where we were, if we were above or below ground, or how to get out. And everything was this unnatural white color. Many around us moved with purpose as if they knew exactly where they were going, while other kindred spirits wandered around aimlessly in the futuristic wilderness trying to find the exit that would get us to the World Trade Center Memorial. Finally, after we had walked from one end to the other, I saw it, a light shining on it as if illuminated from heaven. A map. We rushed eagerly forward and searched for the sign that would help set us free: the tiny star in the circle with those blessed words “You Are Here.” But here’s the thing, even after we saw where we were, we couldn’t make sense of the map or of the landscape around us, so we couldn’t figure out how to get out. So, we wandered a bit more until we happened upon an escalator to take us up to the surface and out to freedom. Our gospel reading today from Luke’s gospel is the gospel equivalent to the star in the circle with the words “you are here.”i. Luke is writing in a very specific time, in a very specific context, to a very specific people. And he is showing them, and us, exactly where they are in the moment before Jesus’s birth. He’s giving them a map of the landscape and helping them orient only to tell them that God is about to change the landscape in dramatic ways—"Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth…” So what do we do, how do we find our way when given a map and then being told that the landscape is about to change dramatically? That’s where Zechariah comes in. Our lectionary gives us another portion of Luke’s gospel today in place of the Psalm. It’s known as Canticle 16 or the Song of Zechariah in our Prayer Book, and I’m really grateful for its presence in our readings today because Zechariah is an interesting character who is not so different from us. We don’t see this in the portion for today, but Luke gives us another “you are here” moment in the telling of the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth. He writes, “In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was a descendant of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.” One day, Zechariah was minding his own business, doing his priestly work and offering incense in the holy of holies in the temple, and the Angel Gabriel appears at the altar. (If we learn anything from Luke’s gospel it is that the Angel Gabriel as God’s messenger is one of the ways that God dramatically changes the landscape in an instant.) Gabriel tells Zechariah that he and Elizabeth are going to have a son who will be a prophet like Elijah, filled with the Holy Spirit. And his job will be to “make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” But Zechariah scoffs and questions Gabriel saying, “‘How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.’ And Gabriel, knowing that Zechariah needs a little help in changing the landscape, replies, “‘I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.’” So Zechariah is silenced for at least nine months, and in that silence and space, his own landscape changes. After John is born and he can speak again, Zechariah is filled with the Holy Spirit and he sings this song that we have recited together today—a song that remembers God’s goodness to God’s people and promises more good things to come in the immediate future. In his months of silence, Zechariah recognizes where he actually is and allows God to change the landscape all around him. As one of my colleagues put it, “If you never prepare for something new, you’ll never be ready for anything new. Zechariah is this old priest who learns he’s going to have a child and he scoffs. He isn’t ready for something new, so he’s struck silent to be able to prepare.”ii And the amazing thing is that Zechariah uses that time to prepare for John’s birth and in that process, he becomes clearer on the nature of the God who he loves and serves. Change happens. The landscape can shift around us suddenly in an instant—like with an unexpected diagnosis, with the unexpected death of someone we love, with our world shutting down over the course of a weekend in 2020. And the landscape can also shift gradually as we wait and watch as our oldest child prepares to leave for college, as we pray and discern if it’s time to move out of our lovely home that is filled with so many memories and comforts into a place where we can age more easily and gracefully. The gift of Advent is that it is a season that invites us to prepare for change, to prepare for a change in landscape. It’s an opportunity for us to find the star on the map of our spiritual lives that says, “You are here,” and to take inventory as we begin to open our hearts to expect and prepare for change. Your invitation this week is to think about this. On the map of your life, with the star in the circle that says “you are here”, where exactly is that? Name that place to yourself or to someone you love and trust. And begin asking God to help you prepare for change. i. This idea came from my friend the Rev Jen Deaton. She shared it with our preaching group on December 1 and asked us to reflect on the question of what “you are here” star with a circle looks like in this moment of our life. ii. This comment came from my friend The Rev Kevin Goodman in the same conversation as listed above.

Last Sunday after Pentecost-Christ the King-Year B

Last Sunday after Pentecost—Christ the King Sunday November 21, 2021 Today I would like to tell you two tales of two very different bunnies. The first bunny is named Barrington Bunny. Barrington is the only bunny in the whole wide forest, and he is sad and lonely because he cannot go to the other animals’ Christmas parties--he cannot climb trees like a squirrel or swim like a beaver. And he doesn't have a bunny family of his own. Barrington is crying alone in the snow on Christmas Eve when the wise wolf whose eyes are like fire appears before him. The wolf tells Barrington that all of the animals of the forest are his family, and that he, as a bunny, has his own special gifts. He can hop, and he is furry and warm. As Barrington is hopping home filled with hope and a plan to help the members of his family (all the different animals of the forest), a blizzard wind begins to blow, and he comes across a young field mouse who is lost from his family. Barrington tells the mouse to not be afraid, that he will stay with him, and because he is a bunny, he can help keep him warm. In the morning, when the young mouse's parents find him, Barrington has died in the night keeping the little mouse warm. And the wolf comes and keeps watch over Barrington's body all Christmas Day. The second bunny is named Foo Foo. You see, Little Bunny Foo Foo was hopping through the forest. And out of nowhere he inexplicably scoops up a field mouse and bops him on the head. Then, down comes the good fairy, and she says, “Little Bunny Foo Foo, I don’t want to see you scooping up the field mice and bopping them on the head. I’ll give you three chances. And if you do, I’m gonna turn you into a goon!” Well, we all know what happens. Whatever inexplicable forces that are at work in Little Bunny Foo Foo’s soul to make him want to bop the innocent field mice on the head do not abate, in spite of the good fairy’s warning, and he burns through his three chances, getting turned into a goon in the end. These two stories of two different bunnies are actually two different pictures of kingship that we need to consider on this Last Sunday after Pentecost which is also known as Christ the King Sunday. The Foo Foo way of kingship is a way of might and violence. Foo Foo is bigger and stronger than the field mice and he exercises his power over them until someone stronger than him comes along and punishes him with more violence. The Barrington way of kingship is a way that knows and experiences suffering and loneliness, a way that reaches out to others out of that shared pain and offers a comforting presence even to the point of sacrificial death. We all know suffering, loneliness, tribulation. And most of the time, we are like the communities who John's gospel and Revelation are being written to. We want a strong, Foo Foo like King who will come in and bop all our enemies on the head and rescue us from our suffering. That is the world's way. But Jesus is not a Foo Foo like King. "My kingdom is not of this world," he says. “The way of using might to bring about victory, the way of violence, the way of ‘bopping the little ones on the head’ (or even turning the bullies into goons) is not my way,” he tells us in that one simple phrase. His is the way of Barrington Bunny: the way of staying beside those who are suffering, the way of sacrifice, the way of peace and a love that eventually conquers everything-even death. If we are to be his followers, the citizens of his kingdom, then that must be our way too. Which kind of bunny will you be? Whose way do you follow?

25th Sunday after Pentecost-Proper 28B

25th Sunday after Pentecost-Proper 28B November 14, 2021 We don’t realize how much we rely on landmarks until they are no longer there. In two different times in my life, I’ve lived someplace where major landmarks have disappeared in an instant. Even though I had only lived in New York City for a couple of weeks before September 11, 2001, in my 3 years there, I never got used to the gap in the downtown skyline where the twin towers once stood when I’d go for a run south on the West-side Highway. On the Mississippi Gulf Coast, the whole landscape was wiped out and irrevocably changed when Hurricane Katrina came ashore. Parishioners who had lived there their entire lives told me stories about how, after Katrina, they would get lost traveling well-known routes because all the distinguishing landmarks were gone, so they never really felt like they knew where they were at any given time. When I moved there 4 years after Katrina, they still hadn’t replaced street signs, so anytime I would try to go somewhere off my regular path, I would often get lost. You should probably know that I often find myself “directionally challenged.” Just last weekend, a companion and I decided to walk to dinner from St. Mark’s Church in Brunswick where we’d had the opening service of convention. It actually took us a while to realize that we had gotten lost on the three-block trip to the restaurant, and when we called my husband to come get us, we finally realized that we had walked in the opposite direction of the restaurant—this is with ample street signs and my phone’s gps. But even for people who are not directionally-challenged like me, it is easy to get lost when known landmarks are wiped away. The community that the writer of Mark is addressing knows something about this. As one commentator writes, “Mark was likely written during (or just after) the disastrous Jewish revolt against Roman imperial occupation in Palestine (66 – 70 CE). Mark’s world was shattered and shaken to its core. The Roman armies vanquished the rebellion and destroyed the Jewish temple, desecrating what for Jews was nothing less than the sacred heart of the world. The message of Mark’s Gospel is thus a message of hope proclaimed in the midst of catastrophe, grace in the midst of violence and ruin. To really hear it, we have to listen from a position of desolation, chaos, and bewilderment; we have to listen alongside the traumatized soldier, the displaced refugee, the pregnant teenager, the addict and his heartbroken family…. This is where Mark lives. These are the depths from which Mark proclaims God’s good news.”i So, it makes sense that in our portion of Mark for today, we see the disciples begging Jesus for certainty. We, who have seen many of the landmarks of our world shifting for the last 18 months, can certainly understand that longing for a sure foundation, for known landmarks, when the world around us feels like it is in chaos. The Hebrews reading is a portion of a sermon to a dispirited congregation. The preacher is addressing a congregation that is suffering from decline; he is addressing a flock who is “tired and discouraged about the way evil seems to persist in the world. As a result the congregation has begun to question the value of being followers of Christ. Attendance at worship has begun to falter, zeal for mission has waned, and the kind of congregational life that is rich with love and compassion has begun to dissipate.” ii It’s interesting to me that both Mark and the Hebrews reading end up in the same place—hope. In the gospel reading, Jesus doesn’t offer his disciples certainty but he does offer hope, telling them that God will come to the rescue “in spectacular fashion: righting wrongs, routing wrongdoers, and thereby inaugurating a new era of justice and compassion.” In similar fashion, the author of Hebrews urges his congregation saying, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” What might that look like—that holding fast to hope—what might that look like for us in a world where many of our major landmarks were taken away from us in March 2020 and if they are being built back, many of them look very different from before? Last weekend at Diocesan Convention, our bishop Frank Logue shared the gift of a road map for the journey in the form of a question that had been shared with him by a fellow bishop. That question is “what does faithfulness to Jesus look like in this moment?” “What does faithfulness to Jesus look like in this moment?” It doesn’t necessarily offer the certainty that the disciples and many of us long for. It does, however, offer us a new landmark when all around us seems in chaos, and it is helpful reminder of both how we might continue to hold fast to hope, and it is also a reminder that “he who has promised is faithful.” Asking ourselves “what does faithfulness to Jesus look like in this moment?” gives us the road map, for one small step at a time and reminds us that Jesus is walking the path right beside us. It helps us move forward together until we recognize the landmarks around us or until we find a completely new path and the courage and hope to follow it. i.https://www.saltproject.org/progressive-christian-blog/lectionary-commentary-for-twenty-sixth-week-after-pentecost ii. I quoted this in a previous sermon I preached in 2012, but I cannot find where the original quote came from. https://www.saltproject.org/progressive-christian-blog/lectionary-commentary-for-twenty-sixth-week-after-pentecost

The Sunday after All Saints' Day-Year B

Sunday after All Saints’ Day Year B November 7, 2021 This time of year, a lot of people like to hang out in graveyards. I’ve seen lots of folks decorating their yards with skeletons, bones, and tombstones this year, and this time of year always sees an increase of interest in cemetery or haunted walking tours. Just this past week, some of us spent some time hanging out here in the Memorial Garden, our church’s very own graveyard, as we held our All Saints’ service in the Memorial Garden for the second year. We wrote the names of the Saints and our faithful departed on luminary bags that we lit up with candles and placed on different graves and on the pathways in our church’s graveyard. After the brief service, many of us lingered, talking with our fellow worshippers among the graves as we waited for darkness to fall to better see the lighted luminaries. I found it to be such a profound moment of peace in the midst of a very full week. Not so long ago, Scott Tanner oversaw a project to clean up the Memorial Garden. In addition to placing new sod and cleaning the markers, Scott ran plumblines through the garden and then straightened the grave markers to be in better alignment. One day, as Scott was out there working in the heat, I went out to check on him toward the end of the day. (He’s said it’s ok that I share all this with you.) Even though the work was grueling, and he was clearly tired, he was strangely luminous. He told me he was actually enjoying the work, and he talked about how, while he was working, he would talk to his friends and loved ones who were buried nearby where he was working, how he could almost just hear how they were responding to him—some were offering him words of encouragement while others were heckling him or still trying to boss him around even from beyond the grave. (I’m sure those of you who have been around here a while can guess who was doing what!) I couldn’t help remembering Scott’s peace and his joy when he told me that he was working among friends and loved ones as we sat among friends, both living and dead, and waited for the darkness to fall this past Monday. The Celtic people-both pagans and Christians-had a name for this. They called it a “thin place,” and they had an abiding awareness of these thin places in their lives and in their world. Harvard theologian Rev. Peter Gomes writes this about thin places: “There is in Celtic mythology the notion of ‘thin places’ in the universe where the visible and the invisible world come into their closest proximity. To seek such places is the vocation of the wise and the good — and for those that find them, the clearest communication between the temporal and eternal. Mountains and rivers are particularly favored as thin places marking invariably as they do, the horizontal and perpendicular frontiers. But perhaps the ultimate of these thin places in the human condition are the experiences people are likely to have as they encounter suffering, joy, and mystery.”i Thin places are places and moments when we recognize that the veil between our current life and our eternal life is thin, sheer, even, at times, non-existent. Thin places, both physically and spiritually, transport us to a place of homecoming and belonging. In the liturgical year, the days surrounding All Saints’ Day are one of these thin places. We see Jesus standing in one of these thin places in our gospel reading for today, as he raises his friend Lazarus from the dead and invites him to come out of his grave. And we see another thin place in the vision of the celebratory banquet in Isaiah, a joyful vision of a time when the scattered will one day be regathered and restored. Today is such a thin place in the life of this church. As we turn in our pledge cards and ask God to bless these gifts that we offer back to God from the gifts God has given us, we stand in the thin place between the past and the future here at St. Thomas. On one side are all those saints who have come before us, who have shined the light of Christ’s love for us in this place. And on the other side are those who have yet to come, to whom we are called to shine the light of Christ’s love—our companions and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the faith—generations yet to be born. We mark our place here in this thin place by making our pledge commitment and by renewing our baptismal vows—reminding and encouraging ourselves and each other of what it means to be bearers of Christ’s light in this place and in this season. Years ago, in the early days of my priesthood, I performed the funeral of a woman named Virginia Stephens. Virginia, who was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother, had been a life-long Episcopalian, and she wasn’t so different from most of those folks buried out in our graveyard. She had been secretary of the parish for a season long before I got there, was a member of the altar guild and a choir member among many other things. One of the gifts Virginia gave to her family and to me as a baby priest, is that she planned her entire funeral. (Perhaps she didn’t trust me or her family to not mess it up!?) As we processed out of the service, her grandchildren bearing her body out of the church for the last time, we sang the hymn Virginia had chosen for her exit. It was hymn 400 which we sang last Sunday and is the same hymn tune as the hymn we’re singing today. It’s a hymn, whose words are attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, and which talks about how all of creation is invited to join in praise of God the Creator. There’s an optional verse that Virginia had us sing, and singing that verse in that moment opened up a thin place for me; even now I can’t hear it without wanting to weep with a strange mix of sorrow and joy. “And even you, most gentle death/ waiting to hush our final breath/O, praise him. Alleluia!/ You lead back home the child of God/for Christ before that way has trod/O praise him! O praise him! Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” i. https://couragerenewal.org/wpccr/thin-places/