Darrow Woods: Writer of Things

One enormous privilege of my recent sabbatical was the opportunity to travel, especially when it meant returning to places that have been important in my formation as a person of faith. In late June I was about 90 minutes south of Atlanta, on a farm near Plains, Georgia. I lived and worked there as a volunteer during a break from my seminary training, almost 30 years ago. It is called Koinonia, and is an ongoing experiment of intentional Christian community. People commit to living as a kind of village, sharing at least one meal a day together, praying together, and working to earn a living as farmers, and offering ministries of compassion, and justice, and service to the neighbours around them.

I hadn’t been back for 25 years. Many who were in the community in my time have long since moved on, or died. I walked around the farm with my daughter Naomi, telling stories about people I knew, work we did together, and fun we had. It seemed to all come to life in my heart, and my imagination as we wandered. I showed her the garden where we picked tomatoes at sunrise, before the heat of the day. I described how an over-ripe tomato could burst, and explode a hot red mess in your hands when you tried to pick it. I told her about the flies that would circle, drawn to the red stickiness. I don’t think I sold her on farm labour as a future vocation.

I was sad to see the house I shared with 3 other volunteers had been demolished to make room for a playground. I’d wanted to show her the places in the wall that bore bullet holes. When this community was founded as a colour-blind, equal opportunity place of inter-racial harmony in the early 1940’s, there were death threats from some local folks. This was, after all, the deep south. That old farmhouse protected Clarence and Florence Jordan, who helped found Koinonia, and their children, but they never repaired the bullet holes. They were battle scars, or marks of the struggle, reminders of how serious it can be, to follow your faith.

I was consoled to find the library much as I remembered it. It is a two room building only a little bigger than the average Oakville backyard garden shed. It now bears a sign naming it in memory of Fran Warren. Fran was the gentle-spirited Quaker woman who served as librarian for many years. I spent a lot of time in the library, partly because it was one of the few buildings on the farm with a window air-conditioner, to protect the books from the high humidity. It was also where my volunteer group met for bible study, and where we taught English as a second language to migrant workers from Mexico and El Salvador.

Librarian Fran led a small group in Quaker worship early on Sunday mornings. We gathered under the shade of a big pecan tree, and sat in silence, to open ourselves to the presence of God. Fran’s tree is still there. It is not far from the commercial kitchen where I learned to can tomatoes, and pears, and peaches, preserves put up in the late summer, to add colour and sweetness to meals all winter.

Naomi and I had just walked by the big old pecan tree, and I was telling her about Fran, and Quaker worship. Naomi mentioned she needed to use a bathroom. The closest was at one end of the commercial kitchen. I led her to the door, and helped her find the bathroom. As we entered the building, I realised with a thrill of wonder and joy, that the screen door I had just pulled open is actually one I made in the woodshop, when I was a volunteer. In those days, and probably still today, when they could fix something on the farm rather than buying new, they would. When given the task of repairing a very beat-up screen door, I decided to just build one. I was amazed it was still there.

I told Naomi about the door. I think she took a picture. Naomi thought I should write my name on it. I decided my autograph would just look like graffiti to the people who now live and work at Koinonia. It is enough the door is still there. That is all the mark I felt I needed to make on this special place. More important to me is the mark the place, and the experience has left on me. I learned so much about faith, and prayer, and community while I was there. Lessons I am still pondering, and trying to live out. How can we work together, where we are, to share God’s love with a hurting world, and leave our mark, in the here and now?

In our Old Testament story we heard about an ancient tradition, of using blood from a sacrificed lamb to mark the door posts and lintel of every house containing a Hebrew family. For those of you, like me, who have never framed a house, the lintel is the horizontal beam above a doorway, supported by the posts or timbers on either side. The practice was to mark the top beam, and the two side posts of the front door with the blood from a freshly sacrificed lamb. This was in the time Moses led a struggle for the freedom of Hebrew people. They were being used as slave labour under the rule of the Pharaoh, the king of Egypt. Some may remember this from Sunday School.

Moses, born a Hebrew but adopted and raised as Egyptian royalty, had access to the court of Pharaoh. Moses went to Pharaoh, and asked him to set his people free. Not surprisingly, the Pharaoh was reluctant to give up his hold on a cheap labour supply, and refused. As the story unfolds, Moses tells the king that he is speaking for the God of the Hebrews. They have a series of conversations on the topic, and each time Pharaoh refuses to free the Hebrew slaves, God tells Moses to tell the king that plagues will be visited upon Egypt. The plagues get ever more gruesome, beginning with all the water in the land turning the colour of blood, moving on to an infestation of frogs, and progressing to a thick unnatural darkness that fell over the land, so thick it could be felt. The very last, and worst of the plagues was the death of the firstborn of all families of Egypt.

The story says Hebrew families were to each sacrifice a lamb, and mark the doorway of their home. When the Angel of Death flew over all the dwelling places of Egypt, those marked by the blood sign would be spared. They would be passed over, without harm. This may be the origin of the name Passover for the festival that celebrates the liberation of the Hebrews from slavery. After this, Pharaoh allowed Moses to lead his people out into the wilderness.

In all the centuries since, Jewish people have commemorated these events with the Passover Festival. They no longer practice animal sacrifice, but they do repeat the story, and remember the marking of the doorways with blood. The story got me thinking about the outward signs of our faith. Can people tell when they pass by our homes, or first meet us, what we believe, and how we might be living it out? What are the visible signs of our faith?

I heard someone say if baptism left a permanent mark, like a cross tattoo on our foreheads, perhaps less people would bring their children to church to be christened. When I heard that, I immediately thought about faith groups that are recognizable, simply by their appearance. Old Order Mennonites we see at St. Jacob’s who dress very plainly. There are the Sikhs who wear turbans. There are Hindu women who daily put on the bindi, the little circle of colour on their forehead, between their eyes. There are Muslim women who choose to wear the hijab, although I have heard that this is as much a cultural symbol as it is a religious one.

Apparently in ancient Rome, when Christians were still being persecuted, the symbol of a fish was used as a kind of secret code that allowed one believer to reveal themselves to another. We might think wearing a cross would work in the same way today, but I’m not sure. I think some who wear a cross do so for decorative, or dramatic, or even ironic purposes.

So for me at least, the question remains. When people look at us, or as they get to know us, can they tell we are followers of Jesus? Hopefully they could see it if they came to worship with us today. We will break bread and pour the cup, and we have been singing hymns and making prayers, and reading from the Bible. We will ask for God’s blessing, and we also make our offerings, our own kind of sacrifices. These are all activities of our organized religion. But when we leave here today, will these things leave a mark on us? How will we each be living signs of God’s love? Amen

There is a rhythm to community life here at Westminster. For those living in the college, the day begins with breakfast at 8 am, followed by morning prayers at 8:30. Many of the students are busy preparing for exams, but still take turns leading worship. Most mornings there are faculty, students, and sabbatical guests like myself, gathered for prayer. (There is also a chapel service after lunch.)

The worship space reminds me of the chapel at Appleby College in Oakville, and also the chapel at Mepkin Abbey, a Cistercian monastery in South Carolina. The traditional “choir” design means that members of the community face each other for hymns and prayers. There is something very good about that. The faces and voices of other people praying are for me, as important a message as the content of the readings, and the words of reflection offered. In community we are witnesses to each other, of the reality of prayer in our lives, and of our faith in the “larger other” that is the focus and direction of our praying.

I knew as I was preparing for this part of my sabbatical adventure that I would need to apply a discipline to my days. It could be so easy to fritter the time away. It can be so easy to pass through the time we are given, without noticing, relishing, loving, learning, feeling gratitude. These times of prayer with people, in the chapel serve to frame the days, and draw my attention to what is within the frame.

The student who led prayers this morning is Nick, whose life before preparation for ministry in the United Reformed Church included achieving a Ph.D. in Welsh and English Literature. He read to us from Exodus 3, which is the story of Moses’ encounter with the burning bush. That story reminds us of the potential that each place we sit or stand can be holy ground for us. Nick also shared a poem from one of his favourite writers, the Welsh poet and priest R.S. Thomas:

The Bright Field

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000)

My last post was about St. Peter’s, a tiny and ancient church a few steps away from Westminster College. On Friday I spent a few hours at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. There has been a church on that site for hundreds of years longer than the little Cambridge church, but the current cathedral is a relative new-comer, as it is “only” about 300 years old. Coming from Canada, where the age of most buildings can be measured in decades rather than centuries, it is mind-stretching to consider time, and continuity of presence, in this way. For someone who is accustomed to worship in a sanctuary that holds at most 140 people it is also a challenge to hear the still small voice of God, within a space where you could comfortably hold several tennis (or cricket) matches that would never interfere with each other.

This is a view of the approach to the cathedral. I wish I could have taken photos inside, but it is, after all, what they call “a working church”.

Outside of scheduled worship times, if you wish to go to the cathedral to pray, there is a side-chapel which can be entered without paying for admission. To access everything else, you need a ticket.

I cannot imagine all that is involved in the management and maintenance of such a huge physical plant. I have no idea how much money flows through this place. I read that in 2011 when an Occupy London emcampment was set up in front of the cathedral it was claimed St. Paul’s was losing 20,000 pounds a day.

There were hundreds of visitors while I was there, and a huge staff to guide them and see to their needs. I saw two priests in long black cassocks (very high Anglican!) and wondered if they just hung around, ready to chat with people. I realized later they were waiting for a group to arrive for a wedding rehearsal. I watched them go through the particulars of the service in the Order of the British Empire Chapel in the crypt, below the main sanctuary. (While researching this entry I learned that someone in the wedding party must either be a member of the OBE, or related to someone who is, to be able to use the chapel.)

This is a place built to the glory of God. It is also, it seems to me, a concrete and visual representation of a stratified and privileged-based society. This is where Prince Charles and Lady Diana were married, and where they held the funeral for Margaret Thatcher.

Inset in the walls and the floor of the crypt, in the lower level of the cathedral, are memorials to bishops and viscounts, painters, poets, politicians, and other prominent people. I confess I do not know who most of them are. The only “person” I was interested in “visiting” was William Blake, the artist and mystic, and I was not able to find his spot. I was overwhelmed by the statuary and engravings, and could not really take it all in.

In the photo above, near the ticket to St. Paul’s, you can see a diagram of the galleries above and around the dome of the cathedral. I climbed the 257 steps up to the Whispering Gallery, which is like an interior balcony, that rings around the inside of the dome at a height of 30 metres above the main floor. Another 119 steps took me up the outdoor Stone Gallery, which offered a view of the streets below, from a height 53 metres above the main level. This was also a good place to take in some fresh air, and catch my breath before ascending another 152 steps, to the Golden Gallery, which is up 85 metres, and affords amazing views of the surrounding city.

As I ascended I was remembering the times I have climbed the steps of another iconic structure, the CN Tower. The journey up to the Golden Gallery was in some ways more challenging, even though it is not nearly as high. The staircase winds very tightly in some places, and there are some very narrow passages on the way up (and down). Later, as I was walking the Millenium Bridge across the Thames to the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, I stopped several times to gaze back at the dome, and marvel a bit that I had just been up there.

Standing on Ludgate Hill, the highest point in London, St. Paul’s Cathedral was until 1962 the tallest building in the city. The dome is still prominent and distinctive, in a skyline that offers a lot of competition.

My journey from St. Peter’s to St. Paul’s has left me pondering. I am doing a lot of reading and thinking these days about the future of the Christian church as an institution. I tend to think of the church as a movement. An organization with a lot of history, and a lot of subsets and groupings- but basically a people. As my Sunday School training taught me:

“The church is not a building..
The church is not a steeple..
The church is not a resting place..
The church is a people…”

Does the Christian movement need cathedrals, blessed “CN towers” that draw the eye’s attention, and silently proclaim, “Here we are”?

This is the spire of St. Peter’s. the smallest church in Cambridge. It dates from the 11th century. The building is no longer in regular service, but it is open daily for people to drop in. It is a quiet, peaceful, prayer-soaked place just a few steps away from a busy intersection.

St. Peter’s is just a short walk from Westminster College. I visited today after lunch, with three Westminster students- new friends. Henriette, originally from the Netherlands, is a church youth worker who is preparing for ordained ministry. Morna and her family moved from Pakistan. Her husband is a minister, and she has an M.Div, but was not able to live out her call to ministry in her home country. She is now updating her qualifications, in preparation to be ordained. Bruno is also preparing for ministry. He grew up in Italy, but has been in Great Britain for many years.

It was Bruno that first mentioned St. Peter’s.
He likes to walk over from the college to pray in this ancient sanctuary.
He led us through the door, and it felt like stepping back in time,
or at least into a timeless place.

Here are Bruno, Henriette and Morna standing near the altar.
My photo does not do justice to the stained glass window behind them.

Here are Morna, Henriette and I at baptismal font that has stood in this place for 10 centuries. Behind the display of information about the church there is a pull-rope for the bell. We were there around 2 o’clock, so we took turns ringing out the hour. We assumed that historical trust that preserves the site would not leave the rope in place, if they did not want us to ring the bell!

The four of us pilgrims, from Italy, the Netherlands, Pakistan, and Canada, sat in this ancient church, and prayed together in a silence weighty with the prayers of a millennia’s worth of fellow travellers. In their own ways, all those seekers were looking for what we look for- signs of God’s loving presence, and a sense of how to live in response to that love.

(exterior of Westminster College, Cambridge,
photographed carefully to exclude signs of construction work!)

I have been making a point of getting out for a walk each day, in addition to my daily runs. Partly because I need the fresh air and exercise, but also because walking is a great way to get out and see, and hear, and smell, and experience where we live. Yesterday I went out in search of a barber shop. Not a fancy (and over-priced) styling salon/spa! There are several of those in Cambridge City Centre, which seems to be the touristy, upscale part of town.

I headed “up the hill” on Castle Street, and walked until I felt I was some distance away from the more preserved and historic area, and into more of a “working class” neighbourhood. I found an actual barber shop, owned by a friendly man who lives in a nearby village, and whose accent and way of being spoke more of “town” than “gown”.

The shop, and the haircut itself were very much like what I am used to getting on Kerr Street in Oakville. The conversation was friendly, and down to earth. Leaving the shop, I wandered a little further away from the college-y area, and began to see more people that did not look like students, or staff, or faculty of the many institutions of higher learning. At one point I was stopped on the street by a man asking for pocket change. I had none, and apologized for that, and resolved that I would start carrying some with me. (I should also spend some time figuring out what each of these strange coins are worth!)

There are homeless people in Cambridge, just as there are in Oakville, and other very prosperous communities. Cambridge, according to the barber, is one of the wealthiest cities in the UK. There is a lot of scientific research and development here, and Cambridge is a bedroom community for people who take the train into London each day for work. (Again, just like Oakville!)

If I was not already aware of, and grateful for, the tremendous privilege of being here, my momentary encounter with the man who asked for change is a reminder that I am a very fortunate person. I have been given the gift of time to be away, and of a comfortable and welcoming place to be.

I should learn more about the Cheshunt Foundation, which has funded this sabbatical time at Westminster College. I have no idea where the funds derive from, that are being used to pay for my lodging and meals, and access to libraries and resources of Cambridge University.

My younger self would have rankled at the idea of some wealthy family giving a portion of their fortune to a college, but still retaining enough to live well. I still struggle philosophically with how wealth is shared (or not) in our world. But these days, in this time and place, my primary response is not one of judgement, but of gratitude for all that I am receiving.

I went out for a run on Monday evening in Cambridge, England. I turned right as I went out the gate of Westminster College, and set out on Madingley Road. I can’t actually tell you what direction I was going. I usually rely on my GPS watch to create a real-time map as run, but it seems to be having difficulty making adjustment to its new environs. I only had a vague idea of where I was headed, but was hopeful I could find my back to my home away from home. I also felt that if I got truly lost, I could stop and ask for directions.

This seems an apt metaphor for these early days of my sabbatical. I have thought about this gift of time for months, and worked on plans. But I am still headed down a new path. I have never done this before. I am aware of moving into unknown territory, and of the fact that I have already received so much help and encouragement as I head out.

The United Church of Canada has had a clergy sabbatical policy since 2006. It allows every minister who is in a continuing pastoral relationship with a congregation for five years or more to take a sabbatical of at least 3 consecutive months. I am combining the sabbatical leave with my annual vacation. I stepped away from my duties at Trinity United Church in Oakville, on May 1, and will return after Labour Day. The congregation, and individual members have been very supportive of my sabbatical hopes.

For the first full week of May I helped lead a retreat for 13 people who are in the Ontario Jubilee Program in Spiritual Formation and Direction. We were at the Five Oaks Centre near Paris, Ontario. I was able to begin each day there with a 6:30 a.m. run, following a route I had already explored with my car. The path I ran tonight, leaving from the College gate, was all new to me.

Westminster is a centre for learning that serves the United Reformed Church, formerly the Presbyterian Church in England. There is a foundation (The Chesahunt Foundation) attached to the college which provides support for clergy sabbaticals. Thanks to their generosity, I am in one of the oldest university towns in the world, carrying a card that names me as a visiting scholar. I look forward exercising the privilege I have been offered, to explore in the libraries of the other colleges.

I am also invited to take my meals in the college dining room. At lunch and dinner on Monday, and for Tuesday’s breakfast I sat at table with faculty and students, and was invited in to the conversation of the community. I met a pastor from New Zealand who is here to work on her D. Min. thesis on the topic of multi-culturalism in her denomination, the Presbyterian Church in New Zealand. I have also met several students in different stages of preparation for ordained ministry.

Regular classes have finished for the spring term, and the students are busy finishing projects, and preparing for exams. There is a feeling of hushed, studious urgency here. The students are friendly while at table for meals, but they also do not dawdle- they head back to their work.

The reflection at Tuesday morning chapel was about the rhythm of work, and rest, of time to abide in God’s presence, and time to move, and learn, and grow. I may not know exactly where the paths here will take me, but I have the growing sense that I am in a good place.

Lately I’ve been running 3-5 miles a day on a treadmill. I am fortunate to be able to afford good running shoes- but even so, my feet take a beating. Callouses, and occasional blisters serve to remind me to have compassion for those who are on their feet all day. They may not have a good or safe place to rest.

 How beautiful it is that travelers on the streets of Vancouver, seekers of God knows what, have a place to pause on their journey. How amazing, and important it is, that there are followers of Jesus willing to care for the tender soles, of these tender souls, who need help. How encouraging it is to know money given to the Mission and Service Fund of the United Church, supports act of kindness and mercy simply because there are acts of kindness and mercy that need doing.

 We continue to move through the church season of Epiphany. We began with the story of the Magi, travelers who also spent a lot of time on the road, following the star to the place where they met the newborn Jesus. I wonder if their feet received the care they needed after their long journey.

 Within a couple centuries of Jesus earthly ministry, the story of the wise travelers became one of the most important told and retold to new followers of Jesus. This story offers the hopeful message that the love, the peace, the signs of God at work in our world, that the Magi sought, are for everyone.

 There was a question at the beginning of the Jesus movement of whether or not you had to be Jewish first, before you could follow Jesus’ ways. The Magi story was used to say, “God’s love is like a shining star in the sky, and this light is meant for everyone.”

 That is a message that does not get old, and still needs to be communicated.  After more than twenty centuries, the Jesus movement still has a lot of work to do.

 Speaking of work- this might be a good moment to check in to see if anyone brought their homework from last week. Do you remember? I asked you to think about these questions:

 What is the essence of our faith?

What is the most important thing we have to pass on to the world, and the people around us?

I would love to hear what came to you, as you pondered these thing. (Several members of the congregation shared their thoughts.)

This is good, to check in with each other on matters of faith and life.

This morning we are using, with revision, parts of a re-covenanting service that originates with John Wesley. Wesley was a priest in the Church of England who saw people needed help to bring their faith out of the sanctuary, and into the everyday. He did not limit his preaching to the pulpit, but took to the streets, and spoke to thousands of people who would never set foot in a church. He organized new believers into small groups that met regularly so members could encourage each other, and challenge each other, and help each other live out their faith. They helped each other stay on track, and walk a better path in their life of faith.

The leader would ask each member in turn, “How is it with your soul?” and the whole group would listen. They studied scripture together, prayed together, and worked together on projects to help others. Wesley understood, and taught, that the work that Jesus’ followers do together not only can help spread the message of love, and help people, but it also serves to shape and form our hearts, our souls, our lives.

 I have been thinking lately, with gratitude and amazement at some of the ways our congregation and its people serve as God’s hands and feet in this world.  My list is incomplete, but points to some opportunities there are to serve, to learn, to grow, while making a difference.

 -attending worship- boosts our spirits, and those of others

-helping on Sunday morning, with music, ushering, reading scripture, doing announcements, running the powerpoint

-taking up collection- bringing your offering

-taking care as a steward of what happens to the money we collect

-ongoing support of Trinity, and the White Gift program, Roofs for the Roofless, Helping Educate Liberia’s People

-supporting Darrow’s salary allows him to serve in the community as an emergency on-call chaplain at the hospital

 -teaching Sunday School- building the faith of the children in our care, and pushing us to learn and grow

-helping with the communion service at Queens- nurturing community and growing relationships

-the ministry of prayer- the prayer list

-Trinity Young at Heart- provides fellowship and care to many people

-giving to the United Church of Canada Mission and Service Fund supports work in the wider world, such as the footwashing in Vancouver that we saw in the video clip

 The movement John Wesley started was called Methodism. At first the name was a put down, by those who made fun of the strict, methodical program Wesley and his followers taught. Over time, the movement grew into a new branch of the Christian Church. The Methodist Church was one of the three denominations that joined together to form the United Church of Canada in 1925.

 Wesley taught that baptism, and later confirmation as members of a church are outward signs of the covenant between each of us and God. God has promised to be our God, and love us, and strengthen and guide us, and help us. In return, our covenant calls us to learn and grow in our faith, and to live it in all parts of our lives.

 Wesley thought it was helpful to offer people the opportunity to re-new their covenant relationship with God, and with their fellow believers. Wesley tended to have these covenant services around New Year’s- it seemed like a good time to make a fresh start.

 This morning we will all have the opportunity to renew our faith commitments.  After we make the prayers, you will all be invited to come forward to receive communion. Once you have done that, you are also invited to go to the baptismal font, dip your fingers into the water, and make the sign of the cross on your forehead. This is not a baptism- but a symbol of your faith, or at least your desire to believe. This is a chance to say to ourselves, to God, and to each other, that we are continuing on our journey of faith. Amen

In the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day my email box fills up with shopping reminders from florists, and other merchants I have dealt with online. Apparently, nothing would express my love better at this time of year than a dozen red roses, or a new computer, or even a gift certificate for an oil change. Just as with Christmas, enterprising advertisers have mostly taken over the holiday, and turned it to their advantage.

The Christian calendar of saints actually has more than one character named Valentine.  There are a variety of stories and traditions, but my favourite legend says Valentine was a Christian priest who lived and died over 1700 years ago, during the reign of the Roman Emperor Claudius II.

The Roman Army was having trouble recruiting enough soldiers to fight its wars. It seemed that many young men (no women in the army in those days) would rather stay home and start a family than go off to some distant land to defend the Empire. Claudius’ bizarre solution was to pass a law forbidding marriage.

In this version of the story, Valentine defied the will of the Emperor, and the power of the entire Roman state, by secretly marrying couples, so that the man would then be exempt from military service. There is something totally appropriate, and also totally ironic, about joining people together in marriage so that they would not have to fight.

Increasingly I think about God as not just the source of Love, but think that God actually is that love, that animates us, energizes us, and frees us from the traps of our despair, small-mindedness, greed, and need to control others.

A couple of weeks ago I was locked into an argumentative power struggle with one of my kids, and became so frustrated with the situation that I just needed some time to breathe, and to be quiet. I gave myself a time-out, and sat alone for a few minutes. I realized quickly that I had no idea how to resolve the argument, which really means I knew there was no chance of making this awful, awful child come around to the right way of thinking, and living, by agreeing with me. I felt stuck. And angry. And absolutely right in my convictions, whatever they were.

It took a while, but I did calm, and cool, and then warm up again. My heart opened, and I remembered that I actually like this child- both of them actually. Whatever the issue was between us was small compared to the love I have for them.

Love really does have the power to overcome divisions between people. Love may not solve the disputes, but because love is for every person, and does not want to leave anybody out, Love warms us to the desire to not let differences keep us apart. Love is bigger than our differences. Love is bigger than us, and our small ideas and opinions, no matter how right we are!

Maybe we can use Valentine’s Day to celebrate the power of God, and God’s love, to make the things that we allow to separate us seem smaller than the things that we share in common.

As the Winter Games get rolling in Sochi, I have to confess that I was having a hard time getting into the Olympic spirit. The stories coming out of Russia these days about the active persecution of gay and lesbian people are awful. The apparent unwillingness of the International Olympic Committee to recognize this as a human rights concern, and not merely internal politics, has been disappointing.

A week or so ago I saw an inspiring video, that does not take on the Olympic Movement, or the Russian Government, or even the human tendency we seem to have, to always find someone to put down, or blame for the problems in the world. It shows a group of people who were gathered in Stockholm, who decided to reach out with love.

Our story today is about the Magi, those mysterious wise men from the East, who ventured far from home, to follow a sign in the sky, a star they believed would lead them to a child born to be the king of the Jews. This story has inspired pilgrims, and other people of faith, for thousands of years.

Over the millennia, many details have been added to the original story in Matthew’s Gospel. We don’t actually know how many made the journey. The idea of three comes from the number of gifts. Our tradition says three, and calls them Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, but those names were added to the story sometime around the 6th century. In some traditions they talk about there being as many as 12 travelers.

There is no further mention in the Bible of the Magi after they leave Mary and Joseph and the baby, and having been warned in a dream, head home a different way to avoid King Herod. Traditions built up over time to continue their story. Some believe the Magi continued to travel for many years, and they met up with the Apostle Thomas while he was on his way to India, after the first Easter. That legend goes on to says that Thomas baptized them, and they later became bishops.

Another tradition says Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine found their buried remains, had them exhumed, and brought to Constantinople. Later the bones were moved again, to the Shrine of the Three Kings at the Cologne Cathedral. According to tradition the remains of each Magi were carried on a different boat, which is reflected in the old carol “I saw three ships come sailing in”.

Epiphany, the name for the day when we tell the story of the Magi, is not a Bible word. It has its roots in the Ancient Greek words epi which means upon, and phaino, which means shine or appear. It was used to describe the sun’s appearance at the dawn of a new day, or revelation or manifestation of God to a worshipper, which is also called a theophany.

The celebration of Epiphany highlights the idea that God’s love as we learn of it through Jesus was not just for the Jews. The story of these holy ones of another religion bearing gifts for the newborn babe was interpreted to mean that Jesus’ message is God’s gift to all people. The image of the star appearing, and being noticed by non-Jewish people said that God’s light and love is shining for us all. In Jesus’ time, and in the centuries after, missionaries took up the work of passing on the message of God’s love, to anyone willing to hear it.

In the earliest Jesus movement, even before people began using the word Christian, followers met together in each other’s homes, or in public places like the courtyard of the synagogue. They did not have buildings, or hymn books, or paid staff. They were just people coming together to pray, to sing, to break bread, and to remember the stories about Jesus. They shared their food and other belongings with people in need. They found hope and meaning in coming together, that gave them strength, and renewed purpose, and courage with which to live their lives.

Over many centuries, the movement of Jesus’ followers grew larger, and more organized. They built places of worship, and appointed shepherds, or pastors, who watched over the people who flocked together. They developed rules about who could speak in worship, and what they should say. There evolved a hierarchical power structure, with regional shepherds, or bishops watching over the local church pastors. But this all happens long after the time described in our gospel story this morning.

The Magi made their pilgrimage, following the star, leaving behind the comforts of home. They could not have known exactly what they would find at the end of the long journey. When they arrived at the place where the star led them, they entered the house, and seeing the child with Mary his mother, they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

Such a long journey, and it all culminated in a short moment of paying homage and presenting gifts. And then they left.

Whatever they saw, whatever they knew in their minds, felt stirring in their hearts, and spirits, was enough for them, to validate the long journey. It was enough.

What was it that they saw, experienced, felt, knew, that made it enough? We know that they did not see what modern day pilgrims see when they go to Bethlehem today. Maybe that is for the best. The church that now stands on the traditional site of Jesus’ birth is in the midst of territory under Palestinian control, but surrounded by a wall built by Israel, and an armed force that controls passage in and out of the area.

The church itself, built over the grotto believed to be the original stable, is jointly cared for by three different Christian denominations. The members of these three groups have been known to end up in physical fights over whether or not is okay to move a chair or a ladder, or whether or not one groups hymns are too loud, and are making it difficult for another group to pray. Once a year the groups schedule a day in which they work together with community volunteers to clean the whole church. The Palestinian Police maintain a presence at the church that day, in case the tensions amongst the Christian groups escalate once more.

The pettiness of the fights amongst Christians at the Church of the Nativity is perhaps symbolic of the squabbles different faith groups get into, over who is right about what. These disagreements do little to help or inspire people who are looking for truth and meaning for their lives.

People can always seem to find things to disagree about, which is part of why there are now so many different denominations, all staking their claims on having truth to share about God.

But underneath all the differences, and all the stories, and traditions that have built up over the years, is there something pure and simple and vital, that somehow shines through?

What did the Magi see, when they visited the newborn? What was it that touched their souls?

Ever been in one of those dinner party conversations when someone asks, “If your home was burning down, but all the people had got out safely, and there was time to rescue only one or two possessions, what would you grab?”

Here is the question I want to leave you with this week, and I would love it if you thought and prayed about this, and brought the answer back next Sunday:

What is the essence of our faith? What is the most important thing we have to pass on to the world, and the people around us?

There are a lot of popular songs on the radio, and playing over the speakers at the stores, that tell stories related to the birth of Jesus. But not many songs deal with the wise men. I want to play one for you now that was recorded by James Taylor, back in 1988. It was on the album Never Die Young, and is called “Home by another way”.

Taylor’s take is that Herod is corrupt and greedy, and has his soldiers chase down the Magi for the gold, frankincense and myrhh. He does not dig into what I think really motivates Herod, which is fear. Herod cannot abide the thought that another king might appear on the scene- especially not a king who has God’s blessing.

Herod represents evil that conspires to protect the way things are, no matter the cost. In the story, the cost is borne by the Magi, who go out of their way to avoid another encounter with Herod. The cost is borne by Joseph and Mary and the infant Jesus, who travel even further out of their way, to Egypt, to avoid Herod’s forces. The cost is borne in the most terrible way by the families of all the boys 2 years and younger, living in the vicinity of Bethlehem. The story says these children were killed in Herod’s campaign to protect the status quo, and eliminate a possible rival king, before he can become old enough to start shaking things up.

This part of the story is traditionally called the Slaughter of the Innocents. It is a hard story to hear. We don’t like to be reminded of the brutal cruelty people, and political systems are willing to inflict, usually on other people’s children, to protect what they fear losing.

We might prefer to think the world has changed, and these things no longer happen. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if political systems, governments, power structures had rejected the fearful ways of Herod, and were willing to be courageous, to protect the innocent, rather than see them suffer?

Not long before Christmas I listened to an amazing interview with a Conservative Senator, Hugh Segal. The first amazing thing was that he was not defending his expense account claims. The second amazing thing was that he was talking about a vision for a different kind of Canada, that puts a higher priority on nurturing and supporting our most vulnerable people. He spoke about how different things might be, if there were a guaranteed minimum income for every person.

Segal suggests we use the federal tax system to top up every household to above the poverty line. This would eliminate the need for provincial and municipal welfare, free up money for other programs, and change the way we look at our lowest income Canadians. (I have put a link to an article he wrote on the Trinity Facebook page.)

Segal has been working on this issue for years. There is logic to his idea, but he is largely dismissed, I think largely for ideological reasons, which mask prejudice, and fear. People who are well-off seem to resent the idea that tax money might be used to raise people above poverty conditions.

Anyone who has had to deal one-on-one with the current systems knows how dis-spiriting, dehumanizing, and time-consuming it can be to apply for benefits, satisfy the conditions, pass the means tests, and do the ongoing reporting required to receive support. Segal argues these layers of bureaucracy are punitive, and expensive, and have created comfortable careers for all the fact and form checkers, inspectors, and front-line workers.

I would argue that if governments had to face the same scrutiny that charities and churches face, with regard to the ratio of administrative costs compared to help delivered, we might declare the whole welfare machine hopelessly inefficient, and top-heavy with highly paid managers- none of whom have real incentive to change things- for fear of working themselves out of their jobs.

Fear is a powerful force, that can persuade basically good people to defend the status quo, even if it clearly is not making things better.
I remember the day in 1989 when the members of Parliament voted unanimously to eliminate child poverty by the year 2000. At that time, there were 912,000 children in Canada living in poverty conditions. 24 years later we still have 967,000. 1 in 7 Canadian kids live in poverty.

It would be overly dramatic to compare this to Herod’s campaign against the infant boys. But in a country where there is so much luxury, and so much disposable income, it seems clear that if we could move through our fear of change, and away from our sense of entitlement and protectiveness of our little kingdoms, we could do so much better.

I usually don’t talk so blatantly about worldly issues. As I was editing my sermon, and realizing how I might come across, I was reminded of the words of a Brazilian Roman Catholic Bishop, Dom Helder Camara, who said, “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.”

I can assure you that I am neither a saint nor a communist. I am quite surprised at myself for saying as much as I have today. I am also surprised that I would end up quoting the words of a conservative senator. Maybe it is a Christmas miracle!

Another name, in churchy language, for Christmas is the Feast of the Incarnation. The root word for incarnation is the latin word “carne”, which means in the flesh. The birth of Jesus is seen to signify God amongst us in human form- in the flesh.

For people who follow Jesus, the place to live out our faith is in the flesh, in our everyday lives. The story of the infant born in a stable, asleep in a manger because there is no other shelter reminds us that God is absolutely aware of how vulnerable, how precarious life can be in this world.

The world can be a very cold place. Followers of Jesus are called to do what they can, to take risks, to live beyond fear and prejudice and self-interest, to embody, to put flesh on the message of God’s love. That may mean putting ourselves in the middle of hard conversations, and situations of conflict. Those may be the places where the faithful voice, that points to another way, is most needed.

It was just over a year ago, on December 14, 2012, that another slaughter of the innocents happened at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. A young man with numerous powerful firearms and copious amounts of ammunition made his way into the school, and shot many students and staff, wounding many, and killing 6 adults and twenty children.

It is an awful, awful story, perhaps made worse by the fact that in the weeks and months that followed, sales of firearms and ammunition spiked dramatically as did the number of new applications for gun permits. A powerful response to this slaughter of the innocents was to hoard more weapons, and campaign vigorously to protect the status quo, and retain the constitutional right to bear arms. A year later, and despite promises made, and calls to action by all levels of American government, it is as easy today to get access to the weapons and ammunition used to attack that school as it was before the tragedy. Fear is a powerful force in our lives.

Thank God that fear is not the only force in our lives. Thank God there is another way to get home. We do not have to follow Herod’s path. We can allow love to show us another way. A year after the tragedy at the Sandy Hook Elementary School there is another voice being heard out of the wilderness. A community based group called Newtown Kindness, that has as its mission “to promote kindness as a guiding principle of humanity. Newtown Kindness is committed to fostering compassion in children and inspiring life-long contributors to society.”

They support projects such as one by two 7 year old girls from Monroe Connecticut who raised $500 for Wounded Warriors, an organization that helps wounded military veterans. They raised this money through an event called the “Cool Carnival” because as they say, “Cool kids care”. These two girls are also working on a project to make journals for all the Sandy Hook Elementary kids to help deal with the tragedy and move ahead.

I learned about this group by accident. I was watching the Christmas episode of NCIS, and heard a song playing in the background of one of the closing scenes. I loved the singer’s voice, and the poignant words, and wanted to know more. In researching the song, which is called “Nothing More”, I learned the creators of the song are a band called The Alternate Routes. Even their name sounded good to me- it hints at going home by another way!

The Alternate Routes are based in Connecticut, and the Newtown tragedy has been on their hearts. They decided to donate half the proceeds from I-tunes sales of this song to Newtown Kindness. They also have put an invitation on their website, that people can make their own videos synched to the song “Nothing More”, and they can be uploaded to YouTube, and to the band’s website.

A lot of the home-made videos are beautiful expressions of the theme of the song, which is choosing the way of kindness and love. They leave me feeling very hopeful that it really is possible to go beyond fear, to something better. I want to show you my favourite video, which is the work of a class of grade three students, and their teacher, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

Show video. Amen