Carrying Christmas with us

The Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

St. James’s, West Hartford

Christmas Day II

Isaiah 62:6-12, Titus 3:4-7, Luke 2:1-20, Psalm 97

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

I was having a conversation with a friend recently about the busyness and stress of our respective lives. We talked about how this time between Christmas and New Years when our offices are closed and our email inboxes slow to a steady trickle rather than a daily flood, feels like the eye of the storm. Kids are off from school. There’s time for games and naps or simply lounging on the couch with a good book. There’s an ease and a peacefulness in the daily schedule that seems the polar opposite of our day to day professional lives. We know we will have to return to that life and that world. To the challenges we know are coming and those that will surprise us. 

And yet, I find myself longing to figure out how to carry the joys and the peace of this time with me. It’s just the same way I feel about our liturgy this morning. So often the holidays can feel harried and stressful. Did I get the right gifts? Will the dinner turn out okay? Maybe it wasn’t a good day to try a new recipe? Will everyone get along? What if someone brings up politics or the economy or religion? Will we go home mad at each other? Wait, wait - isn’t Christmas supposed to be about joy and celebration - why do I feel so stressed out? 

And then we come here. To this peaceful sanctuary (and if there are any small children here, know that their presence and their sounds do not disturb that peace, they merely add to the joy). We get to hear and sing beautiful music. We get to hear the familiar Christmas story. We get to be fed in Word and Sacrament. If we let the liturgy wash over us, we can, even if only for a few minutes find that peace that indeed passes understanding. 

And it can be fleeting. Our to do lists. Our anxiety about time with extended family or our sadness at being without those we love today. Or the heaviness of the news headlines. Something. Anything will creep back in and our brains will start going. And before we know it, we are miles down a mental road and the peace is gone. 

How do we hold on to it? Well, I think our Gospel today might have some wisdom for us. Pay attention to the last few lines. The shepherds have come to visit Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They are in awe - full of wonder and excitement - telling the story of the angels’ appearance to them in the hills. Sharing all the angels said about who Jesus is and why his birth is so significant. And what does Mary do? Note what it says: “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Hmm. Note that it does not say that Mary entertained the shepherds making tea and serving them. Note that it does not say that she debated with them about what the angels said nor did she dismiss their experience because she already knew that truth. No, she treasured the fact that others were affirming what she already knew about the baby in her arms. And she pondered their words in her heart. 

Oh. You mean she focused on the positive? On the gifts and blessings of the moment? You mean she took a few minutes for herself to think quietly? Hmm. For those of us who like to do, who like to be busy and productive and helpful this whole idea of pausing and slowing down and thinking quietly can seem anathema. 

And I am beginning to wonder if there isn’t something to Mary’s behavior that might hold the key to carrying a little of the peace and calm of this morning into the rest of our daily lives. Because no matter what, the demands of our daily lives and the world will come back to us, perhaps even as soon as we walk out the door this morning. 

So, how might we become more like Mary. What would it look like to “ponder something in our hearts”? Notice again that Mary does not get up to do a task nor does she start in on a monologue or a long conversation. It’s just a moment. The story goes on. The shepherds leave, and anyone who has ever been around a newborn baby knows that moments of literal peace and quiet are few and fleeting. 

So, the Gospel is not asking us to completely transform our daily schedules and meditate 10 hours a day. The invitation is to follow Mary’s example. To ponder things in our hearts. To take just a moment to reflect, to be grateful, to focus on the blessings even in the midst of the chaos and flurry of daily life. 

The peace we know in this place, in these days, need not be completely fleeting. We can find it again, for today we celebrate that God has come to dwell with us, to know the fullness of the human experience. So, no matter what the world may throw at us, we need only take a moment to pause and ponder, to remember that the love of God and the peace of God are right there if only our hearts are open to receive it. Amen. 

 

Hope in the Middle of the Night

 Rev. Molly F. James, Ph.D.

Chapel of Our Lord

October 22, 2024

Eph. 2:11-22; Psalm 85:8-13; Luke 12:35-38

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

‘Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit.’ Really, God? Really? Haven’t you noticed we are anxious and tired? I really could use a good night’s sleep, and maybe an extra nap to boot. Trying be a good parent, a good priest, a good Christian, a good human, all while perennially being inundated with news headlines about war and rocket attacks here, fire and hurricane and flooding there, plus the systemic realities of poverty and racism and gun violence - it’s exhausting. And there is so much anxiety around us about what is going to happen in our country in the coming weeks. God, could we please have a day off? Or maybe we could just take a nap and you could wake us up when the world is safer and more stable? 

Of course it would be easy to be weighed down by this passage, especially if we are feeling worn out. And then there is repeated use of the word “slave.” A word that is historically and theologically laden. A word that ought to make us shudder and wish we could banish its reality for our vocabulary and the world. And yet we know that as much progress we may have made in the political world with constitutional rights and voting acts, the dreamed for reality of equality for all people is not realized. And human slavery still happens across the world in far more hidden ways today. Oh my, there is so much heaviness in this chapter. 

God, I am still wanting that nap. Oh wait, you are saying it wouldn’t be very Christian of me to just curl up and ignore the realities of the world? Oh wait, there might be more to this all if I keep reading? Oh, you mean I shouldn’t just jump to my own conclusions and simply reinforce my own ideas and feelings. There might be some value in staying open and curious? Hmmm. Okay, I’ll keep reading. 

Okay, so there is something about being blessed if we stay awake and alert. Note, actually I did what I often do when I am struggling with a passage - I went to read the Message version. I am glad I did. It offered a very helpful perspective:  “Lucky the servants whom the master finds on watch! He’ll put on an apron, sit them at the table, and serve them a meal, sharing his wedding feast with them. It doesn’t matter what time of the night he arrives; they’re awake—and so blessed!’” As usual Eugene Peterson has made the passage come alive. Imagine waiting up into the dark of night only to have the leader return, full of joy and grace, and willing to make a meal for us? That really does change things doesn’t? And not just because you all know I love a good meal!

The end of this passage changes everything. It puts the stress of the beginning in a whole new light. Maybe God is simply acknowledging the harshness of the current realities. And reminding us sometimes it is literally or figuratively the middle of the night, and we are anxious and trying to keep busy. Then what? Well, actually if we can stay awake, if we can do our part, if we can have faith and trust in God and those around us, there is tremendous hope. 

Because guess what? God does not leave us alone with our thoughts and our anxieties. God is present. In fact, God is present with us to offer joy and sustenance to get us through until morning. Now, it may not always come in the literal form of a feast cooked for us, although I would certainly love that! It will come in the form of joys and blessings that will sustain us through our challenges. And here’s the thing. They are there. In beautiful warm sunshine, in the smile and the presence of a friend, in an expected piece of good news, in the opportunity to do work that brings us joy, in the gift of gathering together in this space for worship, in the simple joy of time to savor a cup of coffee or a favorite treat. We just have to open our eyes, we have to stay alert to them. 

So, my friends, I hope in the midst of all the challenges in our lives and in the world, we can hold on to the hope and the sustaining truth of this passage. Things may seem dark at the present moment, but we are never alone. And if we stay alert, we will continue to be surprised by the blessings - small and large- that come our way. Amen. 

Love and Hope in the midst of Violence and Pain

 

Rev. Molly F. James, Ph.D.

DFMS Noonday Prayer

March 29, 2023

Feast of John Keble: Psalm 15; Romans 12:9-21; Mark 1:9-13

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

Oh my friends. We have been here before, and I don’t like it one bit. There was the original idea I had for a sermon at the beginning of this week. And then someone walked into an elementary school and shot children and teachers. Again. Our hearts are breaking. Again. 

It is hard to find words. There is just pain and anguish. And fury at a country that loves its guns more than its children. 

I think all of you know that I assisted Trinity, Newtown and our bishops in the wake of Sandy Hook, so there is a particular pain in watching another elementary school go through this horror. Especially since it has been more than a decade. Benjamin Wheeler should be in high school. He should have his driver’s license, and be beginning to think about where he is going to college. 

The pain is real. No doubt we all have our own stories where we have been closer or more connected to the horrors of gun violence - in supermarkets, in neighborhoods, in religious communities, in night clubs, in so many places where people gather to seek the simple joy of being together. 

So what do we do with all this pain? Well, I think the Holy Spirit has given us a gift in the midst of all the challenges. Our readings and the commemoration of John Keble. That passage from Romans . . . Let love be genuine. . . Don’t seek to do vengeance. Don’t act in spite or hate. Indeed. The only way forward is to keep being grounded in love. To keep acting out of love. Over and over again. 

And find all the small ways we can be a prophet for God and for Love. That’s what John Keble is most known for - preaching a sermon to the legal community and government leaders to criticize them for forgetting God. For seeing the Church as a mere institution and not a prophetic messenger of God’s love. May we not fall prey to the same error. May we find our ways to preach God’s love wherever we are. May we not lose heart even when it seems things will not change. 

I found myself thinking of John Lewis this week. Do you remember when he spent hours sitting on the House of Representatives floor advocating for gun control?

There was a photo that went around social media from the March in Selma, with the caption of something like: “I don’t think John Lewis is afraid of the gun lobby.” 

I found myself thinking of him and so many others in the civil rights era who persisted and persisted - even when things looked very bleak, even when children were dying. They did not give up. They did not turn to violence. They kept marching. They kept sitting. They kept showing up, until the laws changed. All the residents of Nashville today can sit at the same tables in a restaurant because John Lewis and his fellow college students staged sit-in after sit-in enduring humiliation and arrest until the laws changed. Side note, if you haven’t seen the documentary “Good Trouble” I highly recommend it. 

So in the midst of our pain this week, let’s remember John Keble and John Lewis. Let us remember that even a single person can indeed make an impact. Let us remember the truth that they proclaimed with their words and their lives: Love always has the last word. Amen. 

Homily for my Dad

The altar at Cathedral of St. Luke. The kneeler was given in memory of my Dad's mom.

                                            

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Homily for Eliot Field

Lamentations 3:22-33; Psalm 46; 1 Corinthians 13:1-7; Luke 24:13-35

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

“Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” The Road to Emmaus is the story of the holy, of God’s very person and presence, being made manifest in the midst of ordinary life. Jesus meets the disciples while they are walking on the road. But they are so self focused, so distracted that they do not realize the resurrected Christ is walking along with them. It is not until they stop to rest and eat at the end of the day, that they realize who had been their companion on the way. 

For all of us who had the privilege of traveling with my Dad - walking, hiking, sitting on a train or boat, bus or plane - or the gift of sitting next to him at a dinner table, we know something of what the disciples experienced. We know how God can be made manifest in the course of conversation and a meal. My Dad was someone who lived with gratitude for the present moment. He paid careful attention to the beauty of his surroundings, and especially to the people he was with. I like to think if he had been walking with the disciples on that road, it might not have taken him so long to recognize Christ’s presence among them. Because even in the midst of the ordinary moments and interactions of daily life, my Dad was always on the lookout for the holy, for the extraordinary. He knew that God - God’s very being and love - were most evident to us in the midst of our interactions with each other. 

And there is a far more profound truth being communicated in the story of the disciples on the road. It is not only that God’s love and presence are made manifest to the disciples that day. It is the fact that the resurrected Christ is walking with them. There in their midst is the truth at the heart of the Christian faith. The truth that God is always at work, even in the midst of the most difficult of circumstances. Even in the midst of tragedy and loss and pain and heartbreak. God is present. The horrors of life, the evil realities of this world, never have the last word. Hope is real. New life is possible. Love is stronger than death. That is the beautiful truth of Easter morning. And the glorious reality is that truth was not just for the disciples. It was not just for that first Easter. It is a truth that continues to be manifest again and again in our lives and in the world. 

The best compliment I think we can give to a person of faith is that their life pointed us to God. Their life pointed us to hope, to beauty, to love, to the reality that there is more to life than we can comprehend. My Dad was such a person. A person willing to embrace the mystery, that there is so much we cannot fully understand. Remarkably acknowledging all that is beyond the limits of human comprehension can be a source of comfort. It is an act of surrender, of turning it over. 

An act of faith to trust that even in the midst of that which we cannot fully understand, even as we are going through life, at times like the disciples, distracted, afraid, grieving, or uncertain, God is with us - pointing us to the future with hope and love. 

That was what my Dad did. Pointed us to the future with hope and love. It was especially evident in the care and attention he took for each conversation. Whether you had come to him for legal advice or life advice or for help on a worksheet from school or just had the opportunity to sit next to him at dinner, he was fully present to whatever questions you had, whatever might be weighing on your heart or your mind. You would feel as though sitting with you and your question was the most important thing he had to do all day. This joy of conversation, of connection, of learning together, were central to who he was and how he lived.

All of us gathered here, all of us who have had the privilege of sharing some piece of our journey, walking some portion of the road of life with the remarkable human being who was Eliot Field, have benefited from his wisdom and grace. Whether it was because he taught us some scientific fact, helped us out of a sticky legal situation, invited us to marvel at the splendor of creation, or inspired us to be more graceful and pay more attention in the present moment. 

He has left us a multifaceted legacy. You can find his name in legal briefs and court cases. His influence in improved processes and more compassionate, rational municipal governments. In the speed of Jesse’s backhand. In the napkins and first aid kit in my car. In the fact that all his grandchildren know how to ski and hit a tennis ball. In the fact that meals on that Dresden hilltop still stop so we can all stand in awe as the sun sinks slowly behind the White Mountains. We will remember him in so many actions and places. Perhaps most of all, though, we will remember and honor him in how we are in the world. When we hold on to the lessons of the Road to Emmaus and all the meals and conversations we have shared. When we slow down and pay attention. When we trust that hope is real and love always has the last word. When our first reactions are patience, grace, and good humor. When we look for the holy in the midst of the ordinary. 

Whenever you have one of those moments in the days and weeks and years ahead. I hope you will pause. I hope you will remember. I hope you will smile. And I hope you feel that my Dad is smiling right there with you. Amen. 

All will be well. Really.

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

St. Alban's, Simsbury, CT

Psalm 23; Acts 9:36-43; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30

Julian of Norwich, May 8, 2022

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

Good morning all. It is good to be back with you in person. Happy Easter. I am so grateful that Easter is a whole season. It is not just a day. We get to spend fifty days celebrating the truths at the center of our faith - that hope is real, new life is always possible, and love is stronger than anything, even death. 

In addition to being the fourth Sunday of Easter, it is also the feast day of Julian of Norwich. For me, that makes it a day when I get to visit with an old friend. Julian is one of the five thinkers about whom I wrote in my doctoral dissertation. So, she is indeed an old friend who just about lived with me for years!

Given how much I value her wisdom and insight, I could probably come up with reasons why her message was relevant any day of the year. And yet I think she has some particularly important messages for us as the people of faith in the midst of all that is going on in our lives and world right now. Here we are, more than two years into a global pandemic. The realities of war, poverty, natural disasters, gun violence, racism, and all the forms of oppression that keep us from realizing the kingdom of God here on earth, are ever present in our headlines and our communities. Not to mention whatever challenges we are all dealing with in our own families and relationships. It is enough to leave us feeling exhausted and even despondent at times. I would imagine all of us have had moments or even days where all the challenges of the present time feel overwhelming. This is why I am so grateful for the Easter season, for Psalm 23, and our readings today. Together with the life and writings of Julian of Norwich, they ground us in our faith and provide a sure foundation for our hope. They all affirm for us that we are never alone in the midst of challenges and that the love of God is stronger than everything else. What I love about our readings today and about the life and writings of Julian is that they offer a hope that is grounded in experience. They do not offer rose colored glasses or just blithely assure us all will be well. They acknowledge the reality of the valley of the shadow of death and remind us that God is leading us out of that valley. We can look ahead with hope. 

Just in case you don’t know much about the life or times of Julian, let me give you a brief synopsis. Her name “Julian” is taken from St. Julian's Church in Norwich where she lived as an anchorite for many years. An anchorite is someone who lives a solitary existence in a cell attached to a church. They have a window into the Church to watch mass being celebrated and a window through which they can serve as a counselor to the people of the world, but they do not generally leave their cell. She lived like that for decades! Don't I wish I could have called her up when we all went into lockdown in 2020 to learn how you live well in circumstances like that.

Julian was born in the late 1300s and died in the mid 1400s. She lived through the Black Death, a plague that came multiple times in the 14th century and took approximately 40% of the population. Hear that again - 40% of the population. She would be marveling at all the advances of modern medicine and how many people are surviving and recovering from the virus. Recent reports from the WHO put the mortality rate for COVID worldwide is about 18%. 

Julian is famous for her writings. It was a rare thing in the 1400s for a woman to be able to read and write, but Julian was definitely a scholar who knew her Scripture and the theology of her day well. She had a series of visions during an illness which she then spent many years reflecting on and writing about. Her writings are collected in a text known as Revelations of Divine Love.

If she is known in popular culture at all, she is known for her saying, “All will be well. All will be well. And all manner of things shall be well.” Taken out of context this can seem like a pollyanna statement that seems to completely disregard the realities of the present moment. But Julian was not oblivious to the realities of pain and suffering. She knew them well in her own life, and in the lives of the people who came to her for counsel and advice. 

Julian lived in a time where, as scholar Barbara Tuchman notes, “death was to be met any day, around any corner.” The fragility and sacredness of life was a truth she knew all too well. Suffering and hardship were an expected part of daily life. Her conviction that all will be well is a deeply meaningful one, precisely because it is a statement of deep faith and hope born out of a daily life where things rarely went well. It is a statement that believes there is more to life than what we can see in the present moment. It is a belief that tomorrow can and will be different than today. It is a belief that there is always the possibility of more, the possibility for new life, for transformation, even in the midst of our darkest moments. 

Julian lived and wrote a theology that is also beautifully articulated in the 23rd Psalm. It is the steadfast belief that no matter what shadows we may have encountered, no matter how we are struggling through the valleys of life, we can trust that we never walk alone and that the valley is not our destination. There will be rest and still waters. There will be a feast spread before us. Our cup indeed overflows. And it's important to note that neither the Psalm nor Julian would say that feast, that rest, are only found in the next life. Remember it says that God spreads out a table in the presence of our enemies. There is hope and much joy to be found even in the midst of whatever struggles we face. 

That bit about rest and care for our bodies is key. Reading the writing of Cole Arthur Riley has helped me to better understand the connection between rest and salvation. She notes that in Scripture the two are often connected, as they are in our Psalm or in that familiar prayer, "in returning and rest we shall be saved." Riley writes, "What a peculiar answer to the valley of the shadow of death. You might expect God's response to be to have people rise, to empower them to fight. But God's answer is unapologetic care for the body. The deepest yet most neglected of needs." (This Here Flesh, 147). And she goes on to say, "Yet when we invite people into spirituality, too often rest is reduced to an inner posture someone should adopt while exhausting their body. And she cautions us, "If the 'salvation' you have been promised requires you to do and say more, you can be rightly suspicious of it." (148)

I don't think we necessarily need to go to the extreme of becoming an anchorite like Julian. We don't need to spend our lives separated from the world. No doubt, though, we could all use a little more rest. I don't necessarily mean sleep, although that certainly counts. We need the rest that restores our souls. The rest that grounds us in the truth of God's presence and reminds us that all will be well, even if it isn't today. 

So in this Easter season, when the days are lengthening and creation is bursting forth with beauty, when we are surrounded by messages that say we need to do more and have more, we can pause and renew those practices that restore our souls. Maybe it's time outside, maybe it's conversation with a friend, maybe it is opting to sit down and savor a cup of coffee or a meal instead of eating standing up in our kitchen or while we drive. Maybe it's a new book or an art project. Maybe it's just taking a few minutes each day to be, to reflect with gratitude on the gifts of our surroundings and our companions on the way. Whatever it is for you, I hope you will find ways to rest and restore your soul in the weeks ahead.

And may those moments of rest ground you in Julian's conviction that All shall be well. No matter what today or this week or next week bring, we can hold fast to that beautiful truth. All shall be well. Amen.

Reflections on Baptism, Judgment, and Hope

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Grace, Hartford, CT

Baptism of our Lord, January 9, 2022

Psalm 29; Isaiah 43:1-7; Acts 8:14-17; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard, and may that point us to the Living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” These lines from our first reading from Isaiah are heartening and comforting in the midst of all the challenges we are facing - in our own lives, in our community, and in the world. Rising case numbers - practically everyone we know is ill, quarantining because of an exposure or recovering from COVID. There are real worries about whether essential services will continue to be available in the days ahead with so many people out sick. And then there are all the systemic issues that we were already facing as a world before this current surge - climate change, poverty, injustice, systemic racism . . . the list goes on. 

I would really like to just stop right there in that passage and hold on to those affirmations. The rivers will not overwhelm us. The flames will not consume us. I need those truths because there are moments, and there are days when it feels overwhelming. How can we possibly deal with one more thing, one more challenge, when we are already exhausted from the last two years?

I was doing okay, until I got to the Gospel. At first I am thinking, Feast Baptism of our Lord, that’s good. Always good to be reminded of our baptism. Always good to be reminded that just like Jesus, we are beloved of God. Goes well with our passage from Isaiah, an affirmation of God’s love and care for us. And then we get this line: “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” And I want to start arguing with God with the author of Luke, with our Lectionary Committee, with whoever might listen.

Wait a minute! What is this bit about unquenchable fire and judgment in the midst of a happy story about Jesus baptism? Lines about fire and judgment make me nervous. As many of you know, I consider myself a recovering perfectionist. I take my mistakes, my errors, my sins very seriously - a bit too seriously most of the time. I don’t find passages like this helpful because they feed my perfectionist tendencies . . . after reading a passage like this my perfectionist self can say “See! It does matter how you behave! Watch out, you better be the wheat or else!” NOT HELPFUL! I am quite capable of giving myself a good guilt trip without adding on the fear of judgment and fire and punishment. 

I have often struggled with the theme of judgment and punishment in our Scriptures. Especially since the passages seem to show up right alongside times of joy and hope. Advent is quite a mix of joyful expectation and stories of judgment. It is tempting to just focus on the comforting parts, like those lines from Isiah, but the questions of judgment and punishment are right there in the Gospel, and I believe in facing my fears, so I can’t just let them slide by. 

Shortly after 9/11 I read a book of essays by Eugene Kennedy that helped me think about these passages of judgment differently. As you likely remember there was lots of talk of judgment in the days and weeks following 9/11 - who was to blame? who was now burning in hell for their sins? But Kennedy says that we have got it all wrong if we think that the wheat or the fruitful trees are one set of people and the chaff or the unfruitful trees are another. 

Kennedy writes of those who died on 9-11: “Their voices, taken from phone calls and emails and the recollections of friends, blend now into one message, one voice like a canyon echo coming back to us out of the ruins: ‘I love you,’ said in a thousand ways the true harvest of these good people’s lives. The good grain so overflowed that it covered over the patches of human stubble in their lives . . . They defined themselves and what life and faith are all about in the commitment to the relationships in their lives.”  When we look at all those people from all sorts of walks of life - a real cross section of humanity - who perished on that day, we should see the good - the overwhelming good in them, for as Kennedy goes on to say, that is what ultimately matters to God.  Kennedy writes, “What is good and bad in us grows together. On judgment day, God harvests only what is good in us, for that is what is eternal, and ignores the weeds that belong to time.” 

Reading these words lifts a weight from my shoulders. They comfort me because they remind me that God can see the big picture - and God pays much more attention to who we are and how we live a life of love - than to the times we messed up. They also give me a much more hopeful picture of Judgment Day. I have always struggled with the idea that God sends people to hell as a punishment. The image Kennedy offers fits more with the understanding of judgment that I have developed over the years, with thanks to theologians like Julian of Norwich, C.S. Lewis, and Rowan Williams. While there may be a moment of reckoning, a moment of cleansing when we come face to face with God at the end of our lives, we need not fear it. God is not some arbitrary judge. God is the God we know and love. God is loving and merciful - ALWAYS. Hell is not eternal damnation for our sins; hell is a choice we make. God is always reaching out to us, always offering mercy. Always willing to remind us that we are beloved - just as we are. We are beloved because we belong to God. And God has given us free will, so we have the option to accept that mercy or to reject it. If we choose to turn our back on God, then we will know hell, for hell is the only place where God is not. 

In the end, there actually is solace and hope for us in all our readings today. We can trust that the fire will not consume us, nor will the river overwhelm us. Rather they will merely take away that which does not serve us. That which does not serve God. That which is not eternal. We can indeed trust in the truths of our faith. The beautiful truth we celebrate this day is that we are beloved of God. God is with us. Always. May moments of struggle or challenge or tragedy never blind us to all the good there is in the world, and in each of us. May we always remember that the good, the light, the beauty will last, for our faith affirms again and again that nothing in this world is stronger than the love of God. 

AMEN.

Advent: Waiting and Preparation

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

DFMS Noonday Prayer

Monday, November 29, 2021

Psalm 122; Isaiah 2:1-5; Matthew 8:5-13

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

Well, my friends it is Advent. It is that season of waiting. Waiting for the light. Waiting for Jesus. Waiting for that quietness described in our psalm. Waiting for healing like the centurion’s servant in our Gospel reading. Waiting for the realization of Isaiah’s prophecy that swords will be beaten into plowshares and no one will learn war any more. 

Our world is waiting. Waiting for a day when we can be less afraid of the headlines. Waiting for case numbers and death tolls to go down. Waiting for justice to be realized. Waiting for the day when we won’t all feel so exhausted and worn out. And that’s just the global waiting. No doubt we have our own versions of Advent. We are waiting in our personal lives for a change to be realized or a milestone achieved. The waiting is pervasive. And it can certainly be anxiety provoking. Waiting on its own can seem passive. As though we have lost our agency or our influence. As though whether or not anything changes or is realized is all up to external forces and the winds of chance. Blessedly, it is not. 

It is indeed true that there is much that is beyond our control. We cannot simply snap our fingers and make a sick friend well or bring the prophecy of Isaiah to fruition. And yet it would be a grave mistake to think that we are powerless in the face of all the challenges we face, individually or collectively. 

We must also remember that Advent is a season of preparation. There is indeed much we can do. We can be a light in the midst of darkness. Our presence, our work, our relationships matter. We do and can have an impact far larger than we often give ourselves credit for in day to day life. 

I have been listening to a book by British Organisational Psychologist John Amaeci called The Promises of Giants. It is a book about leadership, but it is markedly different from so many other books about leadership. It starts with the premise that we can “win” and “lead” wherever we are in life or in an organization. It also starts with the idea that our impact is enormous. We all are and have the capacity to be “giants” to others. I have found the book to be funny, engaging, and full of valuable insights. At first, John’s belief about the enormity of our impact was hard to hear. Did that mean we have to be over vigilant and second-guessing everything? By no means. Rather John reminds us that our impact, our ability to enact real change in ourselves, our communities, and the world is not about splashy moments that make headlines (although those certainly can have a profound impact). Most change happens through discipline and hard work. It happens because we set audacious goals and strive to achieve them. It happens when we are willing to do the day to day work that is often behind the scenes and unglamorous. It happens when we hold ourselves and each other accountable to inspiring standards. We have a profound impact because of who we are and the habits we have. Because of how we move through the world. We are indeed powerful, and it is up to us to decide how we use that power.

In the midst of this season of waiting, in the midst of all the challenges, it could be easy to give into fear or to buy into that critical voice that says that what we do doesn’t really matter. I hope that this Advent we will do neither. I hope we will pay careful attention to all the ways that light and love are alive in the world. All the ways in which the kingdom is breaking in. And I hope we will feel energized and inspired to be reminded that God is Emmanuel, God is with us. The Christ light is within each of us. We can indeed bring the light into the world. Together, with God, with each other, transformation is possible. Amen. 

Grief and Hope

My Dad and me

Rev. Molly F. James

DFMS Noonday Prayer 

September 15, 2021

Psalm 116:5-9; Sirach 38:9-17; 2 Corinthians 1:3-11; Matthew 24:1-8

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

“My child, let your tears fall for the dead,

   and as one in great pain begin the lament.

Lay out the body with due ceremony,

   and do not neglect the burial.

Let your weeping be bitter and your wailing fervent;

   make your mourning worthy of the departed,

for one day, or two, to avoid criticism;

   then be comforted for your grief.”

Oof. This passage hit a little close to home this week. Saturday was the 20th anniversary of 9/11. As many of you know, my cousin Ben died when the towers fell. Like so many thousands of others, our family has a face, a name, a personal connection that gives that day an additional solemnity and heaviness. And then my dad had a consult with his palliative care physician. The physician has a wonderful bedside manner. He is kind and compassionate. He listens. He offers his wisdom and expertise. He laid out the various options and gently offered what he thought the best course would be. That course was clear to all of us, including my dad. It is time for him to enter hospice care. His limited ability to swallow has meant that his body is already showing the effects of not eating. It may be weeks or even months, but it will not be long. Whether he falls or has pneumonia or his body simply continues to give out, his medical team will now only provide comfort care. 

My dad has had Parkinson’s for many years now. We knew this day was coming. We thought it might have come multiple times before when he has had a particularly bad fall or choking incident. There is, of course, lots of grief in this new reality for my family, as there has been all along the journey of this disease as we have noted each task or activity my dad could no longer do as he had. The reality of recent weeks has been such a sharp contrast from what was. 

My dad was an avid athlete. He was one of those people who possessed true kinesthetic intelligence. He could do any sport reasonably well. He could play a round of golf or join a pick up soccer or hockey game and hold his own even if it had been years since the last time he played. He taught me to ski and play tennis with unending patience. When I was little he would even ski holding me up between his legs on the steep slopes that my older brother loved. Almost without fail, he would win our local tennis tournament every year, but our good friend who was in charge of the prizes always gave the trophy to my grandmother for teaching my dad how to play. 

He has a ridiculously high metabolism - and combined with his love of being active that meant he could always eat well and lots of it. And he loves to eat. Always happy to finish anything we left behind. Overjoyed to sit with a plate of delicious food and people he loved. And he loves people. He is curious about the world. Always desiring to learn more. If he sat next to a stranger on an airplane, he would be able to tell us their life story when we picked him up from the airport. He took time to listen and to care. He always took the “Counselor” in “Attorney and Counselor at Law” part of his job very seriously. 

While these days a smoothie or a milkshake are all he can manage for food, he has not lost that joie de vivre or ability to connect with people. He made fast friends in the assisted living community where he has lived this past year. In no time at all, he knew everyone’s name, and he is beloved there. 

While our mourning is and will be deep, there is already comfort to be found in how my dad lived his life. His own father died of a brain tumor at the age of 38. This meant that my dad has spent his whole adult life knowing that life is fragile, precious, and uncertain. It was a meaningful truth he modeled for me even before my own life experience confirmed it. He has lived with grace and purpose. He has considered every day he got to have, especially the decades he got to live past age 38, as a gift. Always finding joy. Rejoicing and marveling in the splendor of creation. Reveling in the gift of time spent in conversation with those he loved. He has lived a full life and certainly shown us that what matters is the quality of our time, not the quantity. 

And I have no doubt each of us have our own stories of what we are grieving this day, this week, this year. The realities and challenges of this past year and a half do mean that we have much to grieve. It is okay for our weeping to be bitter and our wailing fervent. We can and should make our mourning worthy of the departed. And given the magnitude of our individual and collective grief, it will likely be more than a day or two of mourning. That’s okay. Contrary to the verses I quoted above, I don’t think we will or should be criticized for how we live with our grief. It is also true that we can find comfort in the midst of our grief. In lives lived fully and well. In each other. In community. In the truths of our faith - the reality of resurrection. Easter is real. Hope is real. Love is ALWAYS stronger than death. Thanks be to God. AMEN.