Last Sunday after the Epiphany, Year A

Exodus 24:12-18
Philippians 3:7-14
Matthew 17:1-9

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

On Candlemas Day last year, 2004, I drove up to Staten Island to bury our beloved Fr. Meisel, the rector here from 1961 until 1984. About fifteen or twenty of us, family and friends, stood out in the cold under a beautiful, crisp blue sky, said prayers over his snowy grave, sprinkled holy water over his coffin, and said good-bye. He was laid to rest with his mother and father in their family burial plot. It was a sad moment, but a satisfying close to a good death, a great blessing for a dear soul and his loved ones. Two days before at his requiem mass I had said that his death makes a Baptist of me because I know he's with God, that he has entered the new, risen life, that he has become a more complete and whole human being than ever.

Wednesday last week, Candlemas Day, 2005, I drove back up to Staten Island. Again, I went up to engage in our Lord's ministry. Fr. Major gave me the tremendous honor of baptizing his daughter. We had a lovely Evensong and made a new Christian. Matilda was born again, her life renewed. She is now, and forever, a member of Christ's body. Grafted into the source and purpose of life, she has become more complete, more whole, more a person. We popped the champagne and celebrated new life. I got back to Washington in the wee hours of Thursday morning, and after a nap, when the sun had risen, I got a call and ran off to administer the Last Rites.

I love that symmetry of death and birth. One is so painful, the other so happy, but each is a step forward into Christ, deeper into the mystery and the rich potential of life, each leading to the fullness and completion of life. I am now so firmly and deeply immersed in the Church I tend to take for granted what I have received: the enormous strength of a spiritual home, the sense of self, the purpose and wholeness, the power of belonging to what is eternal.

I remember only three occasions being at a church service before I went to college. Then during the spring term of my sophomore year, I had the unfortunate necessity to attend a series of funerals. I went to three in about a month, wholly out of care for the survivors. I had little sense of what was happening at the services, but each service left a mark on me. The first was in a contemporary, light filled church, way up in the hills; it had huge plate glass windows looking out into the woods and rolling hills. The second was in a traditional, stone, Gothic-revival building. The third was in an enormous, modern, semi-circular, and very dark Greek Orthodox church.

Each service was liturgical, but otherwise the feel of each was very different, except in one incredible way. I was an extremely ignorant and proud heathen, a convinced hedonist, but I was deeply impressed by how the immediate families received so much support from their church. It occurred to me: if I died, what community did I have? I knew that I had many loving family members and friends, but I had no orientation toward eternity, no sense of a future beyond death, no reason for hope, no spiritual home, no belonging. There would be no liturgy, no historic rites, no corporate act of prayer, no grounding or foundation. It was a spooky feeling.

One of the innumerable benefits of being a Christian, and particularly a Christian in this parish, is belonging to a spiritual family, having a community through which we know our purpose in life and make sense of life, a community which grounds our being. If tomorrow I were whisked off to serve the rest of my life in a church in the Seychelles, I'd forever treasure this community in which I was ordained and married and baptized my child. It will always be a spiritual home, a place that has so nurtured my relationship to eternity, to God.

The parish church is not a building. It's a community of people, a gathering of Christians, a place where we belong, a place where we receive support from other Christians, a place where we have a spiritual home, a spiritual family. One of the essential purposes of a family is to help us grow. A family's nurture helps to develop our character, to strengthen our capacity to love, to become more godly. That's what a spiritual family should also do. Our relationships, our friendships here are unlike many others we have. They begin at the altar, where we humbly receive our Lord and have union with him and with one another. They are based upon a mutual understanding that relationships are the way we grow in Christ, that the way we treat one another is the way we treat Jesus. How we handle our relationships shows us where our spiritual lives are.

The purpose of every Christian congregation is to nurture us so we become better Christians. We're trying to grow as individuals and as a community. That means we can't be complacent. When we say things are good enough, that's the beginning of spiritual atrophy and death. If we want spiritual growth, if we want more godly character, and that's what our Lord calls us to, then we have to be open to change.

The Leopard is an elegant, beautiful, poetic novel tinged with melancholy and loss. It recounts the slippage of an aristocratic Sicilian family during the reunification of Italy and the growth of egalitarianism in the mid-nineteenth century. The Prince, the Leopard, laments the resulting changes, gradually losing his place in society, sharing it with hyenas, jackals, and sheep. The world in his age, as in most every age, was being turned on its head; there is always decay from which springs new, different life. The Prince's favorite nephew says, "If we want everything to remain as it is, it will be necessary for everything to change."1

Change is unavoidable. The variable is our response. Do we fear it or welcome it? Is it an opportunity for growth or a threat? God is with us, and so there's no reason for fear. As this parish changes, we are not becoming something alien; we are not breaking from our past. We learn from other congregations, other Christians, but we don't model ourselves after another congregation. We change by building upon our strengths, honoring our history, growing in faith. We change to become better Christians.

Today's gospel, the story of Jesus' Transfiguration, is about overcoming fear in the presence of change. Transfiguration means ‘change' or ‘metamorphosis.' The disciples see this change and react in fear, and Jesus touches them and says, "Arise, and do not be afraid." Seeing God's glory is nothing we should cling to, but it should change us. God's glory is not static, but ever present and transforming lives. Peter, James, and John come down from the mountain changed people, more sure of God's presence with them, more sure that this unknown, frightening path they were on with Jesus was holy and good. Seeing God's glory encourages the disciples to take greater risk to follow Jesus.

The parish's annual meeting is one of many appropriate points in the year to consider how we've changed and matured spiritually, how we're taking risks to follow Jesus more faithfully. This last year has been a period of real growth, and I don't really mean numerically, although nearly a fifth of our pledges this year are new pledges. That's great news. The real growth here has been spiritual. We've become more focused, more purposeful about being better followers of Christ.

We are raising our expectations, asking for more responsibility, more commitment, more accountability. One vestry member who term is expiring today pointed out to me that three years ago vestry members were only expected to come to vestry meetings, and now vestry members are expected to lead in ministry, to take responsibility for an aspect of the parish's ministry.

Our congregational culture is maturing in many ways. Together – and I very much include myself – we are improving our understanding of the nature of Christian ministry – that it's not something only for clergy. Father does not necessarily know best, nor is he the best suited to handle every pastoral situation. We are developing ways to empower every parishioner to engage in Christian service and for everyone to take responsibility for our corporate ministry.

Jesus calls every one of his followers to engage in ministry. Increasingly I shy away from using the word ‘volunteer.' Volunteer sounds like someone is doing a favor. Ministry is about fulfilling the holy vows made at our baptism; ministry is a calling from our Lord. The benefit of Christian service is doing it; it is its own reward. Serving on the altar guild or the servers guild or serving dinner to the homeless at N Street Village – these are obviously Christian service, but just as much so is doing the dishes here after a party or shoveling snow.

We also have a pastoral responsibility toward each other. In the hour of our need, and we all have them, we should expect to be cared for, to know that we'll be supported. And on the other hand, we need to be there for one another to give support. Becoming a better Christian means being Christs to one another; it means serving, caring for, loving one another. That's true, authentic, orthodox, catholic Christianity. It's a two way street. Jesus healed and ministered to all who sought his care, and he also allowed himself to be served by others, by sinners and foreigners who served him food, by Mary who washed his feet with her hair and tears, by the woman who poured expensive ointment over his head.

And it's not only being Christs to one another, it's being Christs to everyone, perhaps especially to strangers. It's hospitality and care for all people. It's reaching out to people different than us, those with different backgrounds and experiences and lifestyles and values. In considering what ministries to offer, instead of asking, "What do I need? What do I want?", we're learning to ask, "What does the next new person through the door need? What does the person who's not yet here need? What does our neighbor need?" We don't look inward, but outward. These are tough changes, but they make us better Christians; they make us warmer, more joyful, more complete people. This is how Jesus changes lives.

A couple of weeks ago, Fr Gabriel Myers spoke to us at coffee hour about life at Saint Anselm's Abbey, his Benedictine monastery. He spoke quite frankly about the difficulties they faced as a community. He said that they were a content, comfortable abbey, that they have vital, important ministries, but that they've not had a new monk in seventeen years. In explaining why that was, he said that people don't like to change their ways. He mentioned the need to reach out and to make others feel comfortable, that old-timers had to conform their ways to new people instead of only expecting new people having to conform. Again, it's a two way street. The question is not simply: what do I want, but what does the new person want?

I love the way things are here. This is a powerful spiritual family, for which I am eternally grateful. The way we will continue to be that far, far into the future is by reaching out and trying to serve the needs of other people, especially people who have little or no experience in the Church. It's sharing the gospel, the precious things, the tremendous gifts, which God has entrusted to us. Jesus has transfigured our lives and continues to do so, and he call us to help him do that in every person.

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

1. Giuseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa, The Leopard, ch. 1 (1958, translated 1960).