Light at the End of a Tunnel

PROPERS:         2 EASTER, YEAR C    

TEXT:                 ACTS 5:27-32; JOHN 20:19-31

PREACHED AT HOLY TRINITY, PENSACOLA, ON SUNDAY, APRIL 28, 2019.

ONE SENTENCE:        The world was transformed by the proclamation of Jesus’                                    resurrection.         

                                    

            There is an indelible image in my mind.  It could be called a resurrection image.

            I have had the pleasure of traveling to Israel 12 times.  Out of all those trips, a few moments take my breath away. It happens every trip.

            Let me set the scene for you. Our tour bus is traveling through a tunnel – long and dark.  Everyone on our bus is tired – weary from the day’s visit to the Dead Sea, Masada, and Qumran.  The bus trip has taken us – in just under and hour – from the lowest point on the face of the earth, to the high country just to the west, in the Judean hills.

            We find ourselves traveling through the tunnel.  It is dark.  We are tired. And then it happens.

            First, we see a glimmer of light from the tunnel’s end.  It grows brighter and brighter.  And then, suddenly, the view erupts brilliantly. Off to the left of the bus is the ancient walled city of Jerusalem – symbolizing the hopes and fears of all the years.

            There, in the brilliant sunlight, within a one-mile square area, is the holiest site in all of Christianity, the holiest site in all of Judaism, and the third holiest site in all of Islam.  There, within eyesight, are the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Wailing Wall, and the Dome of the Rock.  The most sacred plot of land in all the world.

            From darkness to light.  From the focused dimness of the long tunnel to the brilliance of the holy view.  All in a moment’s time.

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            That seems to me to be a spot-on image of the dramatic change of life that took place on that first Easter morning.  The darkness of the grave gave way to the brilliance of Sunday morning. The silence of the tomb gave birth to new life. “O, death, where is thy victory? O, grave, where is thy sting?”

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            We can all name moments in which we have had our eyes opened by stunning experiences or events.  My generation would identify JFK’s assassination, Neil Armstrong’s first step on the moon, the Challenger disaster, and the attacks of 9/11.  Earlier generations would connect with the attack on Pearl Harbor or perhaps VJ Day.

            Believe it or not, important as those days were, they pale in comparison to the arc of history of a particular period.  The Axial Age.

            In looking back, historians and philosophers have identified a key pivot point in history – the eighth century BC to the second century of the Christian era. It is from that era that much of the foundations of our world were built.

            It was during that time nations began forming from local centers of power. The Greeks and Romans arose as powers – as would the Byzantines later.  People began thinking cosmologically – wondering about the place of their world among God’s creation. Various philosophies came into being. Trade between regions spread culture and knowledge.

            Before that time, there was an emphasis on local gods – gods for particular places; gods of fertility.  New, broader understandings of the divine began to emerge.

            The world was becoming, at the same time, more complex and interconnected.

            It was into that era that Jesus came.  His life is barely noted in the secular historical records of that time. But what happened after his execution has enlivened that story and has lit the burning coal of hope in the lives of 100 generations.

            That first Easter morning – the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox – was, to the world to come, like coming out of the tunnel of history.  A brilliant light of hope was seen and embraced by a people that had dwelt in darkness for many centuries.

            The effect was gradual.  But as the lesson from the Book of Acts said today, those who had been touched by the life, death, and resurrection of the itinerant rabbi could not fail to tell that story.  And those who witnessed the new light – in the form of the Risen Jesus – began to spread the word. Thomas, who doubted, gave way to Paul, who went from persecuting the new faith to spreading the Good News to the known corners of the earth.

            It was a new world.  Death ruled no more.  The power of sin had been vanquished.

            We are residents of that new world.  We live enveloped in grace and hope. It was as if the world had come out of a long, dark tunnel.

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            On July 16, 1945, another era was born.  The world left another tunnel. The light which it created held potential for the end of the world.

            J. Robert Oppenheimer, the brains behind the Manhattan Project, watched in the New Mexico desert as his “gadget” exploded into a burst of light brighter than many suns.  He had helped birth the atomic age.  The first atomic bomb was a success.

            Yet Dr. Oppenheimer did not feel ecstatic.  He thought, “What have we created?” The words of the ancient Hindu book, the Bhagavad Gita arose in his mind: “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

            His emotions at that moment were understandable.  The world had shifted on its axis because of the elemental powers which had been unleashed.  In all likelihood, the world would never be the same.

            But contrast the two scenes: The earth-shattering explosion of a small ball of plutonium, releasing the core energy of the universe; and the quiet of a vacant tomb, completely without a corpse, with carefully folded burial linens.

            All light is not equal. I ask you:  Where do you find your hope?  Which light illumines your path?

            For Christians, we have emerged from a tunnel into new life.  The darkness has given way to the brilliance of a new day. We see clearly.  The world has changed.

Fire to be Redeemed

PROPERS:         MAUNDY THURSDAY         

TEXT:                 EXODUS 12:1-4, 11-14; JOHN 13:1-17, 31b-35

PREACHED AT ST. PETER’S, BON SECOUR, ALABAMA, ON THURSDAY, APRIL 18, 2019

ONE SENTENCE:        The deliverance symbolized in this week is a gracious gift                                    and can be unwrapped by our receiving and sharing it.

         

                                    

            “This month shall mark for you the beginning of months,”God tells Moses and Aaron.  It is the eve of the first Passover – the beginning of the Hebrews’ deliverance from slavery in Egypt.

            The beginning of months. Indeed, for all the meaning it has assumed, this is the week of weeks.  It is in this week that God’s movement collides with the brokenness of the world.

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            In the wee hours of Good Friday, March 28, 1997, a fire broke out in St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Starkville, Mississippi.  The church building, beloved by more than 2,000 parishioners, burned to the ground on Good Friday. It lay in smoking ruins at the end of Holy Week.

            I was Rector at Church of the Resurrection there. We were shocked beyond words. More poignant symbolism could not be imagined.

            Until this week – the week of weeks. Notre Dame Cathedral, the beautiful cathedral located on the Seine River in Paris, met a similar fate.  Much of its historic edifice was consumed by flames that leapt scores of feet into the air.

            These fires, destroying houses of worship, are metaphorical.  That is, they point toward something else.  They symbolizesome aspect of life.

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            In this case – in this week of weeks– they point us toward thehuman condition at the time of the Hebrews’ slavery in Egypt and Jesus’ final week of earthly ministry.  

            Face it:  Our world is broken. The world was broken in Egypt for the Hebrews (and even though they didn’t notice, it was broken for the Egyptians, too).  The world was broken in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago – as the teeming crowd praised Jesus when he arrived, and then watched as the Romans crucified him.  And it is broken today.

            Human efforts to reach the height of existence – to reach dominance, power, and affluence – lies in a smoking heap.  Those aspirations are idolatry. And we flail about, seeking to find the next thing, whether that is technology, politics, economics, or something else.

            It is analogous – again, symbolic– to the Tower of Babel.  The higher we reach, the more we strain, the more we become splintered, divided.

            We should all be humbled.  Like the ashes of a great cathedral, we should acknowledge that we need help to rise anew.  The ways were not working for the Hebrews in Egypt.  They were not working in Jerusalem in Jesus’ day. And we have ample evidence our ways are not working.

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            The Gospel reading from John is instructive. It is about aroad less traveled.The passage tells us that a willingness to serve one another is the way to follow Jesus.  That simple act of washing the disciples’ feet symbolizes all of Jesus’ teachings – loving one another, turning the other cheek, giving your cloak to another person, not returning evil for evil.

            There is a small portion of the Gospel which jumps out at me.  Hear the words again:

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know what I am doing, but later you will understand. Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

            The simple fact of that passage is this: In order to show mercy, we must receive mercy.  In order to show love, we must receive love.  In order to give grace, we must receive grace.  In order to serve, we must be willing to be served.

            That gift – the fullness of God’s love – is what is being offered to you today. It is being offered here in the washing of feet, and in the body and blood of the Holy Eucharist.

            When we are so washed and so transformed – so touched by the gracious hand of God – we will be able to rise out of the ashes to new life in Jesus.

Striving for the New Creation

PROPERS:         4 LENT, YEAR C         

TEXT:                 2 CORINTHIANS 5:16-21; LUKE 15:1-3, 11b-32

PREACHED AT HOLY TRINITY, PENSACOLA, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 31, 2019.

ONE SENTENCE:        As Paul Tillich notes, what matters is a “new creation.”  

                                    

            You have heard me refer to Paul Tillich here before.  He was, arguably, the greatest theologian of the 20^thCentury.

            Tillich was born in Prussia – an area of modern-day Germany – in 1886. His father was a Lutheran pastor. Tillich, too, was ordained at age 26 and became a military chaplain during World War I.

            He continued his academic pursuits. His public lectures brought him into conflict with the Nazis who had come into power in 1933.  He was dismissed from his teaching position at the University of Berlin.

            Another great theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, author of the Serenity Prayer, had already fled from Germany to the United States. He invited Tillich to come to America’s welcoming shores.  Tillich did, and took up a teaching position with Union Theological Seminary in New York.

            It was there in 1955, after more than a 20 year teaching stint, that Tillich preached a retirement sermon – a sermon that was among his finest (and his sermons were excellent).  The sermon was entitled The New Being, and it is based on our second lesson today.

            Tillich hears Paul’s words:

If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!  

            What is this new creation?  Tillich grounds his approach in Paul’s Letter to the Galatians – Chapter 5, Verse 6:

For in Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision counts for anything; the only thing that counts is faith working through love. 

            The great theologian is saying that nothing counts for anything except reflecting a New Creation – which is characterized by faith acting through love.

            The church has historically said that this approach is to clarify the early understanding that there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; between Jew and Pagan. Tillich says the difference is greater.

            He contends that Paul’s words read down through the ages say that nothing matters other than the New Creation.  No institution, no ideology, no political philosophy, no creed. 

            He says that it does not matter if a person is a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, a Hindu, a Buddhist or member of any other faith tradition if that person does not embody the New Creation in Christ.  Nor are those folks excluded from the covenant community if they do manifest that New Creation.

            He goes on to say that rituals of any tradition – as he says with the Jewish rite of circumcision – do not make any difference, in and of themselves, without the New Creation.

            Since Tillich preached that sermon in 1955, he was bound by the times.  He listed the various political philosophies in vogue and said that they do not provide what is essential to the person of faith.  He listed Fascism, Communism, Secular Humanism, and Ethical Idealism.  No matter how high the ideals and aspirations of a movement, they do not bring the New Creation.

            What we need to hear, I think, is that we are called – as are all people – to manifest the New Creation that is provided through the life and teaching of Jesus – and that is seen in a life of faith, acting through love.  If we do not, we are like Paul’s description in First Corinthians – “a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.”

            All of this sounds like our presiding bishop, Michael Curry, calling us to follow the Way of Love. He expressed it so well in his sermon at the Royal Wedding last summer.  If we are not motivated by love, we are not motivated by Christ.

            You may ask:  What does this New Creation look like? How will I know I have reached it?

            I would respond to the second question first.  It is an elusive goal.  It is similar to catching smoke in your hands.  You may do it one moment and not the next; one situation and not another.  But the message is to keep trying.  You are human.  Sometimes you will realize the goal; other times, not.

            The first question: What does the New Creation look like?

            We have an excellent example in the gospel lesson today – the Prodigal Sonor, more accurately, the Loving Father.

            The Prodigal Son, seeking forgiveness, and the Father, forgiving, are wonderful models of the New Creation.  Their actions reflect their motivations.

            The older brother, who resented the younger one, has yet to be made a New Being. He continues to rely on legalisms and what seems right.  On a human level, he is right.  On the divine level – the level to which Christ calls us – he is not yet a New Being.

            You may have already taken on the life of the New Being.  That may be your manner of life. At the very least, you probably know someone who has reached that way of being.  

            But most of us can attain that New Being in the same way a musician gets to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice. Like all other elements of walking in faith, we strive, we fail, we fall down, we turn about, we give ourselves over to Higher Power, and we continue to strive.

            It is in following the one who most clearly lived the life of the New Being – Jesus, the Christ – that we find the way to being made new.

The One Who Shall Not Be Named

PROPERS:         3 LENT, YEAR C         

TEXT:                 EXODUS 3:1-15; LUKE 13:1-9

PREACHED AT HOLY TRINITY, PENSACOLA, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 24, 2019.

ONE SENTENCE:        God will be who God will be – regardless of our efforts to define and constrain the divine being.         

                                    

            It has been said that the best theology today is being done on the silver screen.  That may well be true.

            Also, some of the most memorable.

            I suspect that most of us here have seen the memorable Cecil B. DeMille production of “The Ten Commandments”.  The lead role of Moses was, of course, played by the late Charlton Heston.

            The movie is essentially a depiction of the life story of Moses – born into a Jewish family in Egypt when Pharaoh had ordered the death of all Jewish infants; hidden in a basket amid the bulrushes of the Nile River; found by Pharaoh’s daughter and adopted into the royal family; he became a prince of the powerful nation.

            But life did not go well for him, and he took refuge in the Wilderness – becoming a shepherd, living a life of solitude. Until the moment depicted in the first lesson today.

            We are to assume that this desert God has pursued Moses.  That desert God has found Moses at the foot of Mt. Horeb – what will become known as Mt. Sinai.  It is foreboding-looking volcano rising out of the surrounding desert floor and will later figure prominently in the Exodus story.

            Moses, tending his father-in-law’s flock, sees a bizarre sight on the side of the mountain – a bush that is afire, but is not being consumed.  And drawn like a moth to a flame, he approaches this mysterious apparition. 

            A voice speaks to him out of the flaming bush – and that voice calls him to deliver God’s chosen people from slavery in Egypt.  Moses, reasonably, asks, “Whom shall I say sent me?”

            It is at that moment that we reach the high point – the climax.  Moses is asking this God’s name.  It was believed that having something or someone’s name gave you control over that person or being.

            The flaming bush sidesteps the question: “I am who I am… Tell them I amsent me.” That is known as the Divine Tetragrammaton – the four Hebrew letters yud-hey-vav-hey.  The Latin letters are YHWH, from which we draw the name Yahweh. Faithful Jews will not pronounce the word.  The name of God is too sacred.

            My Old Testament professor was named William Augustin Griffin.  He was a modern version of an Old Testament prophet. He said those four Hebrew letters could also be translated as “I will be who I will be.” Other ways – equally faithful – of translating those four letters include “He-who-is”and “He-who-calls-into-being.”

            God is sidestepping Moses’ question.  He is telling Moses, “I will not be controlled.  I will not be put in a box.  I am the ground of being.  I am the source of all things.”

            God is making the most profound self-revelation to be made before the incarnation of Jesus as Christ.  And he makes it clear to Moses – and us – that “I will have my own way.”

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            I heard an interview with Barbara Brown Taylor this week.  She is a well-known Episcopal priest and internationally-famous preacher living in Georgia.  She was asked by the interviewer how she defined God.

            Her response was much more profound and articulate than I could quote, but the essence was, “God is the glue which holds all things together… The mysterious force of creation… The uniting spirit which intends good… The force which unites creation and cares for each of us.”

            I thought of the great theologian Paul Tillich who described God as “the ground of being.”

            God’s self-revelation to Moses… Barbara Brown Taylor’s attempt to describe God… Paul Tillich’s theological definition… all tell us the same thing: “God will be who God will be.  Do not try to put God in a box.”

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            One of the great issues in theology is theodicy – God’s justice.  It raises the question of Why bad things happen to good people.

            We profess belief in a God who is all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving, and all-present.  Yet, evil still exists.  Illness still wracks human lives.  Disasters strike various places.  Humans are inhuman to others.  On and on…

            The questions of theodicy resist answers.  Perhaps God is telling Moses – and us – that “I will be who I will be.”He will not be constrained.  He will not be second-guessed. He will not be put in a box.  He will not be limited by human definitions.  He remains beyond our ability to understand fully.

            That was the essential point being revealed to Moses. Yes, Moses was being called into a cauldron of trouble.  Yes, the task would be daunting. Yes, the years ahead – wandering in the wilderness – would be difficult. 

            But remember this: “I am the one who calls into being… and I am calling you to rescue my people.”

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            Think of the gospel lesson for a moment.  The passage from Luke tells the story of a man who has a non-bearing fig tree. The landowner is frustrated after three years of the tree being barren.  He tells his gardener to cut down the tree. 

            We might be tempted to do the same – or, figuratively, to give up on a person.

            But, the gardener takes a different view.  “Let’s give it another chance. Let me work with it.  Let me tend it a bit.  Then we will see what happens.”

            I am convinced that is what God does with us.  He gives us another chance.  He tends us.  He loves us. And he loves those that we might give up on.

            Perhaps… just perhaps… God is being who God will be.  And he is letting the world have a chance to work things out.  Sure, that is hard for us.  We would like for everything to be resolved right now.  We would like for figs to be on the tree when we want them. We would like to understand.

            But God stands astride history, time, creation, and all levels of being. Ultimately, he will be who he will be. And we rest, forever, in his hands.

The Common Roots of Faith

PROPERS:         2 LENT, YEAR C         

TEXT:                 GENESIS 15:1-12, 17-18

PREACHED AT HOLY TRINITY, PENSACOLA, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 17, 2019.

ONE SENTENCE:        Trust, as in the gift of faith, provides the assurance of transformation.

                                    

            Thirty-four years ago today I preached my first sermon – as I described it, “with live ammunition.”  I was invited to preach at St. Paul’s Church, in my hometown of Meridian, Mississippi, as a first-year seminarian.

            To say I was nervous is a monumental understatement. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, might describe it.

            But preach, I did.

            The gospel was from the old Episcopal lectionary.  It was the Fourth Sunday in Lent – also St. Patrick’s Day, but that didn’t matter – and the gospel lesson was John 6:4-15.

            That passage is one of the versions of a very familiar story – the feeding of the multitude.  The unique twist in John’s version is that it was a young boy who offered all that he had – five barley loaves and two fish.  That meager offering was used by Jesus to feed the 5,000 Galileans who had gathered on the grassy hillside.

            One boy. Two fish.  Five barley loaves.  And a whole lot of faith.

            The message I saw in that passage was that the young boy’s offering served as the catalyst for the feeding of thousands, and a story which is handed down through the ages.

            It is extraordinary what faith – that is, trust– can do.

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            In the first lesson today, from the Book of Genesis, we have the continuing story of Abram – even before he has become known as Abraham, the patriarch.

            Our lesson is from the 15^thChapter of Genesis.  Abram had received God’s call three chapters earlier – Chapter 12. He has moved from modern-day Turkey, to modern-day Iraq, all the way to Egypt.  And he did this as a faithful response to God’s call.

            Biblical scholars, both Jewish and Christian, will tell you that there are as many ways to interpret a story as there are to peel an onion.  That is certainly true with the Abraham saga. What I am sharing with you is barely scratching the surface of what sages have seen over 3,000 years.

            Abram and his wife Sarai were elderly – he was 75-years-old at the start of his journey.  They were childless – without an heir.  Yet, God promised him that his “descendants would number as the stars” and that in him“all the nations of the earth would be blessed.”

            This was a pretty tall promise by a God of the desert night to an elderly man and his barren wife.

            But despite all the fruitless, seemingly-pointless wandering he had already done, and even though he had not yet been given an heir, Abram trusted the voice of the night wind.  Scripture acknowledges his trust, and we are told, “the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness.”

            The verses which follow are mysterious to us.  Animals are sacrificed and halved.  A deep sleep falls over Abram.  And in the darkness a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch pass between the animal carcasses.  It was an ancient covenant rite – cementing the relationship between God and Abram.

            Fast forward from that moment.  Fast forward beyond a childless couple wandering, meandering through a barren part of the world.

            Today, the three monotheistic faiths – Judaism, Islam, and Christianity – trace their early roots to that wandering Aramean, Abram.  Billions of people – in all corners of the earth – see him as a patriarch of faith.

            Those faithful Jews walking to the Wailing Wallin Jerusalem, acknowledge they descend from his faith.  Those Muslims, who enter the El Aksa Mosque only a few steps away from the Wailing Wall, see him in a similar way.    And Christians of all types – Ethiopian, Coptic, Eastern Orthodox, Anglican, Roman – walk into the sacred precincts of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher give thanks for his lineage, as well.

            Those of us – all of us – who call upon Jesus, Yahweh, or Allah, should have special reverences for Abram’s faith.

            Abram, of course, went on to be the father of Ishmael, whom the Arabs claim as their ancestor.  And he and Sarai – who became Sarah – were the parents of Isaac, who became the father of Jacob, who became the father of the 12 tribes of Israel.

            All from inauspicious, seemingly-hopeless beginnings.  In the solitude and darkness of a desert night.

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            What does this story of Abram and Sarai have to say to us?  And what does the story of the young boy’s five barley loaves and two fish say?

            It is not about magical thinking.  It does not mean that you will get rich if you just believe hard enough.  It does not mean that a better job or material blessings are on the way.

            Here is what I think it says:  If we have faith – that is, trust – God’s spirit can move through our lives and transform us in ways we cannot begin to imagine.  We can find hope where there seems to be none.  We can find peace where there is only turmoil.  We can find meaning where we only see pointless existence.  We can find God’s presence in the midst of a seeming void.

            Scripture tells us again and again – where there is faith, there is hope for transformation.  Be patient. Be still. Have faith.  Trust.

Taking the "Lite" Out of Lent

PROPERS:         1 LENT, YEAR C         

TEXT:                 LUKE: 4:1-13

PREACHED AT HOLY TRINITY, PENSACOLA, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 10, 2019.

ONE SENTENCE:        The purpose for us in Lent is both more simple and complex than we think:  It is to eliminate the barriers which separate us from a more full relationship to God.        

                                    

            First of all, please accept my heartfelt thanks for your understanding, support, and prayers during my recent surgery and convalescence.  The card and emails I received from you were heartwarming, and I am deeply grateful.

            It is good to be back with you in one piece.

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            We have embarked on the great season of Lent – the 40 days and 40 nights (plus Sundays) which precede the Easter celebration.

            We Episcopalians have a love-hate relationship with Lent.  We faithfully attend Ash Wednesday service, we wear our forehead crosses with a sense of pride, yet we grow tired of the tediousness of penitence which the season emphasizes.

            Not to mention, we miss our chocolate and alcohol, too.

            But, if truth be known, Lent has become a caricature of its original place and purpose.  It has been separated from the practice of the early church – a practice deeply rooted in the faith of the church.

            Today, Lent is about what we are going to give up.  Typically, that means chocolate, sugar, alcohol, desserts, fried foods, or other things which we recognize we need to minimize in our lives – Lent or no Lent.

            Another contemporary practice is to take onsome behavior which we have neglected.  Typically, that includes exercise.  Or fasting. It may include meditation, Bible-reading, and prayer.

            I have seen other manifestations of Lenten exhortation.  Doing good and charitable works.  Reaching out to the poor and lonely, the ill and grieving.

            All this is good and right.  But how does it connect to the earlier purposes of Lent?

            Here I begin my liturgical history lesson.  I hope it helps you understand – and grasp more fully – the power and purpose of this season.

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            In the early church – think in terms of the first few hundred years – the service was structured much as we structure this Eucharistic service. There were the two primary portions of the service – the Word of God, and the Liturgy of the Table.  The line of demarcation between the two was The Peace.

            The Word of God was in a form that would be familiar to us.  It included the gathering of the people, opening prayers, the lessons from scripture, an exposition on the scriptures (we would call a sermon), a statement of belief (later known as the Creed), and additional, all-encompassing prayers.  The Peace would follow.

            Now I don’t want us to think that we could walk into a Cyprian, Coptic, or Eastern Orthodox Church and feel right at home.  It would feel strange.  But the essential elements would be very similar. 

            This first part of the service was instructional in nature.  It was meant to illumine those in attendance.  And it was a preface to what was to come next – but not for all.

            That is because this portion – the first part of the service – was meant for all people.  All people included two groups which would not participate in the Eucharistic feast which was to come – the portion known as The Liturgy of the Table or The Great Thanksgiving.

            See, the first portion of the service was known also as The Liturgy of the Catechumens.  It was portion of the service aimed especially at those who were being prepared for baptism at the Great Vigil of Easter.  These were “the people in waiting.”

            But, there was another group who would not be joining in the Liturgy of the Table.  That group included people who had been separated from the faithful by egregious and public sins.  Lent, for them, was a time of true, deep, and profound penitence.  They were assessing their lives.  They were amending their ways.  They were turning back toward God.

            For both of these groups – the catechumens and the penitent sinners – coming to the Holy Table was not something that was done flippantly.  It was something that came at the conclusion of a significant journey.

            So. They waited.  They reflected.  They assessed.  They studied. They turned fully toward God.

            After the Peace – when the kiss of peace was exchanged – the unbaptized and the penitent sinners would be ushered out of the service.

            Giving up chocolate or alcohol… or deciding to fast or meditate… or committing to exercise… was not part of the equation.  The journey of Lent had profound impacts of the lives of the faithful.

            It had a purpose and it had an end.  When the great season of Lent was ended, the catechumens would be baptized and the penitent sinners would be welcomed back into the community of faith. And there would be a great celebration – and all would share in the Eucharistic feast.

            It was not a purposeless, liturgical version of Buck Owens and Roy Clark: “Gloom, despair and agony on me…”. It had purpose, meaning and power in the lives of those who took the journey.  Their lives would never be the same.

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            So, what does this say to us?  How do we make Lent truly meaningful in our lives?

            Luke tells us of the original Lent, when Jesus went into the wilderness for 40 days and nights.  I have seen the Wilderness – it is not an inviting environment.  Bishop James Pike, a controversial Episcopal bishop in the 1960s, went there himself, for insight and solitude.  And he perished there.

            Luke tells us of Jesus’ temptations there.  They were not insignificant – power, autonomy, a life free of God’s demands. Jesus resisted.

            The analogy for us?  

            We, too, like Jesus, must be in the world.  We journey among many temptations.  There is much demanding our allegiance, our loyalty, our worship.  We are given the latitude to break free of a life of faith, to take on a way of life that is grounded in our own interests, desires, and appetites.

            Like Jesus in the Wilderness, the call of Lent is to a call of responsive faithfulness.  We are to turn daily toward our source of life… our source of wholeness… our source of meaning.

            That is challenging.  It requires more steadfastness than giving up chocolate.  But it can transform our lives.