james

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower.  He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit.  Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.  You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you.  Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.  I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.  If you abide in me and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.  John 15:1-8 (NRSV)

Holy and righteous God, you are the author of life, and you adopt us to be your children.  Fill us with your words of life, that we may live as witnesses to the resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

My snappy introduction (Dr. Watson would be so proud) involved the old-time radio program Fibber Mcgee and Molly, and ended with the joke: “As the fly said when he got stuck in the strawberry preserves, I’ve been in much worse jams than this.”  Much pity laughter ensued.

In our Gospel reading this morning, Jesus makes another one of his I am statements that He is so famous for in the Gospel of John.  Earlier in the book he said, “I am the light” “I am the bread of life” “I am the door.”  “I am Good shepherd.”  In last week’s reading he said, “I am the way the truth and the life.” And, now, as he prepares his disciples for his imminent arrest, torture, death, and resurrection, He says, “I am the true vine, you are the branches…”  further on, he states, “Abide in me as I abide in you.”

Like the other I am statements, this one is a rich metaphor which gives us insight into Christ’s true character. We don’t have time to unpack all of the gems that this metaphor offers us, but I would like to focus on several aspects of one of the key words in the passage.  I want to dwell on the word “abide.”  In this passage Jesus uses the word “abide” over and over; 9 times in 8 verses.  Clearly, he wants to emphasize to his disciples the importance of abiding, of remaining, of showing up and sticking around.  But, it seems like a rather odd thing to say to them right after he finished telling them that where he is going they cannot follow, and right before leaving them in the hands of the people who wish to murder him.  So what did Jesus mean when He said, “Abide in me as I abide in you?”

To understand this a little better I want to look at another passage in John’s Gospel where Jesus uses a related metaphor, and in which our word abide plays a prominent roll.  In John chapter 6, starting in verse 51 Jesus says,

“I am the living bread that came down from heaven.  Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” The Jews then disputed among themselves saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.  Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day;  for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.  Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”

This bread of life passage together with the true vine passage sparks in us a powerful image of what it means to abide in Christ.  Because we believe that mystically, mysteriously Christ is present in the bread and the wine of the Eucharist, when we consume the bread and the wine we are in a way following Christ’s admonition in John 6 to eat his flesh and drink his blood.  But this Eucharistic meal is not like any other meal.  Yes, we consume it, we put it in our mouth, chew and swallow, but then it, or more exactly Christ which is present in it, consumes us.  Through consuming we are consumed by the love and peace and presence of Christ.  The Eucharist is a way that we are connected to Christ.  It is a way to abide in Him, as He abides in us.  In fact, when we use the word Communion in place of Eucharist, we can see the connection: To commune with someone means to abide with them. Through Communion we abide with Christ.  But of course, there is another dimension of Communion that we also see in our Gospel reading.  When we participate in Communion we are not only communing with God, but with each other.  The disciples at the last supper were not just eating with Christ, they were eating with each other as well.  We are not isolated from each, here on these altar rails when we receive the Eucharist.  We are participants in the mystical body of Christ which unites all believers, all Christians everywhere and in all times.

Father Terrence Lee, a beloved former canon here at St. John’s, tells the story of the first time his grandfather set foot in the Episcopal church.  It was in the South, during the height of segregation.  When Fr. Terrence’s grandfather entered the church, he was surprised to find that there were both black and white members of the congregation present.  When it was time to go down and take communion, he and his wife went down and knelt at the altar; on either side of them were two white men.  When the common cup of wine came their way, the man next to Terrence’s grandfather drank, and then Terrence’s grandfather drank from the cup, and then his grandmother, and then the white man next to them drank, without hesitation or pause, and then on down the line.  That was day Terrence’s grandfather became an Episcopalian.  He was shocked he had been allowed to drink from the same cup as these white men.  At the altar rail, he had not been treated differently because of his skin.  In the midst of a culture of separation, of distrust and of hate, he found at Communion, a different reality of unity, trust, and love. That is what communion is about.  That is what abiding is about. We cannot abide in Christ unless we also abide with each other.  This is sort of a radical concept; as branches we cannot be rugged individuals trying to go it alone.  Who ever heard of a vine with only one branch?  If such a thing exists it certainly isn’t healthy.

Coming back to our Gospel passage, when Jesus says that those who abide in him will bear fruit, we see from the context of the passage that one of the things he specifically has in mind is love for one another.  Just a couple verses later, in verse 12, he says, “this is my commandment: that you love one another”.  And throughout Jesus’ farewell address in John 13, 14, and 15, He says it over and over, “Love one another.”  This is echoed in our epistle reading from 1 Peter, “Finally, all of you, have unity of spirit, sympathy, love for one another, a tender heart, and a humble mind.”  When we abide in Christ, this will invariably be the fruit, that we will also abide in love with each other.

We must not forget in all of this, that today is the sixth Sunday of Easter.  The events described in our Gospel reading occur before the Resurrection, but they were written down afterward, and because we are a Resurrection people, we come to this reading with our Resurrection goggles on.  If you leave out the Resurrection, our text is a rather confusing and disappointing one: Christ tells his disciples to abide in him and that he will abide in them, and then he goes off and dies, and his disciples abandon and deny him in the process.  The end.  But, fortunately for the disciples and for us, the story does not end there.  Christ came back to life, and this One event changes everything, it marks the everything that we do and say and read and listen to.

Reading this passage through the lens of the Resurrection is not without precedent.  Listen to a meditation on the image of the Vine as it relates to the Resurrection written in the fourth century by St. Cyril of Jerusalem:

“A garden was the place of His Burial and that which was planted there said, I am the vine!  He was planted therefore in the earth in order that the curse which came because of Adam might be rooted out.  The earth was condemned to thorns and thistles, but the true Vine sprang up out of the earth, that the saying might be fulfilled, Truth sprang up out of the earth, and righteousness looked down from heaven.”

I love this image.  The true vine, chopped down by death and buried only to shoot forth out of the ground again with new life.  This is our hope.  This is reason we are here.  The reason we are Christians.  This is the reason we sign for this in the first place.  In little while there will be a baptism here, and the Resurrection is what Baptism is all about.  Baptism represents dying to the old life and being reborn anew in Christ.  It is the sign of a new creation, a new Resurrection reality.

We are called as branches abiding in Christ to be participants in this new reality.  When we abide in Him, we have no other choice; healthy branches make fruit; and that fruit is our witness of the new reality of Christ’s Resurrection, our witness to the all-powerful, death-defying, reconciling love of Christ for all the world.  The world is a dark place, full of death, and hopelessness.  The world needs our witness, our fruit born of Christ’s new reality.  War, natural disaster, oppression, and sickness: the world could use the joy, and hope that the True Vine offers through us, his branches.  As Barbara Johnson puts it, we as Christians are called to be Easter people in a Good Friday world.  This is why Peter admonishes us to love one another and to live in unity of spirit, why we must not repay evil for evil, why we must keep our tongues away from deceit, turn away from evil, and pursue peace.  These things, love, truth, unity and peace are the hallmarks of Christ’s new reality.  These things are the fruit we are called to bear, and they just so happen to be the fruit the world so desperately needs.  Not the grapes of wrath—we have the grapes of wrath—but the grapes of love and reconciliation.

But as Jesus says, we can do nothing, unless we abide in Him and He in us. The good news is that we don’t have to worry about Christ keeping His end of the bargain.  We may choose NOT to abide.  But Christ never chooses this.  He has promised never to leave or forsake us. In a way we are stuck with Him and He is stuck with us.  But, there are truly worse jams than this. [more pity laughter]  I am reminded of the wonderful Easter hymn (youtube/oremus hymnal) that we have been singing, particularly the fourth verse which is based on Romans chapter 8, verses 38 and 39:

Jesus lives! our hearts know well/

nought from us his love shall sever;/

life, nor death, nor powers of hell/

tear us from his keeping, ever./

Alleluia!

Through his resurrection Christ has conquered the disease of sin, and the drought of death, and has therefore enabled us, his branches, to abide in him, the True Vine, now and forever.  Amen.

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St. John's Cathedral - http://www.flickr.com/photos/teofilo/2355834250/

                This Advent season, I will have been an Episcopalian for one year.  For those of you with the patience, fortitude, or whatever else it may take, I offer the story of my Christmas miracle.  Hopefully, many of you will read this soon enough to invest serious, personal introspection into your celebration of Advent.  It has literally changed my life.  Like Scrooge, I was rescued from damnation by supernatural intervention – Like the Wise Men, I was led to the Truth by celestial signs – Like the shepherds, I learned to sing about joy to the world.

                When I was twelve, my family’s move to a trailer park in a rural town just south of Albuquerque meant an increase in living standards.  We had been living in the city’s only definable ghetto – affectionately referred to as the “warzone” by townies.  Honestly, my broken family did their best to insulate me and my siblings from the gangs, drugs, and societal ills that seem to accompany poverty.  I was a married adult with children before I really appreciated just how destitute my family was when I was growing up.  In fact, I never knew it was odd for someone’s parents to raid their piggy bank for money in order to buy a can of soup so that the family could eat dinner until I was at a private college, rubbing elbows with students fretting about maintaining a 2.0 GPA so that their parents wouldn’t take away their Lexus and $1,000.00 per month spending allowance. 

                I feel like this is necessary background for appreciating the fact that I have always loved Christmas, always.  My family’s inability to lavish me with gifts, vacations, and parties didn’t seem to lessen my appreciation for the cultural juggernaut that is Christmas.  The sights, sounds, and spirit of Christmas have always captivated me in spite of poverty (- perhaps, because of poverty?).  I am literally like the father played by Matthew Broderick in “Deck the Halls.”  I have two Christmas trees, 100 wall feet of lighted garland, 5 wreaths, 48 hours of Christmas music on iTunes, a partridge in a pear tree, etc, etc that I cannot wait to dive into every year (it goes up on Thanksgiving day and stays up until well past January 1 – a fact that drives my brother absolutely insane).  I am obnoxiously cheery for 6 weeks before and all the way through Christmas, and then obnoxiously depressed for all of January and February because it’s over.  I think it bears repeating, I LOVE CHRISTMAS.

“There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”
~ Erma Bombeck (1927-1996), American author and humorist.

               You can probably imagine, then, the disquietude I felt over something that happened three years ago.  Christmas had always been symbolic to me of the good that could still come out of humanity.  Being around people who are tying to be the best they can be is intoxicating.  I have always loved Christmas, in part, because it represents what humanity can accomplish under the right circumstances.  My wife and I had just moved into a new house, had our second child, and I had turned our entire home into a wintery wonderland.  Coming from a broken home, I was seriously under the impression that my father’s neglect would be some how atoned for by my own careful fathering.  So, one night, late in December of ’06, I was struck by the onset of a harrowing realization that I had lived my life up to that point as an attempt to right my parents’ wrongs, but that such a thing could never be accomplished.  Everything was about fixing my broken childhood and, therefore, counterfeit: my love of Christmas, my desire to have a healthy family, my pursuit of education, hell, even my faith seemed counterfeit.  There, in my upstairs living room in front of an immaculately decorated Noble Fir that could have been in a display case at Macy’s, I began to sob uncontrollably.

“The earth has grown old with its burden of care
But at Christmas it always is young,
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair
And its soul full of music breaks the air,
When the song of angels is sung.”
~ Phillips Brooks (1835-93), American Episcopal bishop, wrote ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.

St. John's (2) - Albuquerque

               My wife came in to check on me and we shared one of those tender moments in a marriage that galvanizes the union between two people (it was far too emotionally intimate and spiritually significant to share here – I hope, though, that anyone reading this knows what  I mean from experience).  She prayed with and for me, and I began a slow recovery from the shock that I experienced.  However, when a year had passed, I found myself manically celebrating Christmas, desperately hoping to revive the wonder and joy that it had given me all of my life.  I was pathetic.  It was like watching a small child cling to the lifeless body of a parent that was murdered before their innocent eyes.  Christmas was dead, and try as I might, it could not be revived in my heart.  I put on the right face, I smiled and laughed at the right times, but I spent that entire holiday season in sheer terror that I had forever lost something very special to me.

“Advent is concerned with that very connection between memory and hope which is so necessary to man. Advent’s intention is to awaken the most profound and basic emotional memory within us, namely, the memory of the God who became a child. This is a healing memory; it brings hope. The purpose of the Church’s year is continually to rehearse her great history of memories, to awaken the heart’s memory so that it can discern the star of hope.…It is the beautiful task of Advent to awaken in all of us memories of goodness and thus to open doors of hope.”
~ Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Ratzinger), Seek That Which Is Above, 1986.

                This all happened to coincide with a bevy of church and professional issues that were serving to clarify that God was calling me out of the Assemblies of God.  Consequently, in the fall of 2008 I began to brainstorm with my brother-in-law (who was having the same kind of church and professional quandaries) how we were going to rescue Christmas (and our own spirituality) from the clutches of the oblivion known as American consumerism.  Then it happened,  I latched on to the idea of attending the Episcopal cathedral for Advent services.  Having only ever known Pentecostal and Charismatic churches, I thought I would have recognized the leading of the Spirit a little sooner – how’s that for irony, huh?  We knew that not only our ideas of Christmas, but also our ideas of “Church” needed a drastic overhaul; and we were searching for something to fill the void.  The Advent liturgy seemed like the perfect way to test whether the Church could rescue Christmas.  [Allow me to make a quick aside here: the time I spent trying to resuscitate my joy for Christmas was also spent chronically attending church services, church musicals, church pageants, and every other obnoxious derivation thereof.  The trite and shallow "Jesus is the reason for the season" mentality that most of those I came in contact with displayed was just as repulsive as the blatant consumerism of the secular crowd.  I thought, "My God, this is our freakin' holiday - it's THE CHRISTIAN HOLIDAY and these people can't even do it with any kind of meaningful ceremony or substance.  We're all screwed!"]  I am pleased to announce that Christ and His Church can indeed rescue Christmas even from the clutches of consumerism.

“The liturgy of Advent…helps us to understand fully the value and meaning of the mystery of Christmas. It is not just about commemorating the historical event, which occurred some 2,000 years ago in a little village of Judea. Instead, it is necessary to understand that the whole of our life must be an ‘advent,’ a vigilant awaiting of the final coming of Christ. To predispose our mind to welcome the Lord who, as we say in the Creed, one day will come to judge the living and the dead, we must learn to recognize him as present in the events of daily life. Therefore, Advent is, so to speak, an intense training that directs us decisively toward him who already came, who will come, and who comes continuously.”
~Pope John Paul II, address delivered December 18, 2002.

                Hopefully, you have caught on to the fact that I am a person moved by beauty, ceremony, symbolism, and the like.  Thus, I knew it would be necessary for me to attend the high liturgy at the diocesan cathedral (which, luckily, is in Albuquerque).  My wife and I chose to attend St. John’s 11:00 am service which uses a full choir, the organ, and the rite II liturgy from the BCP.  The choir and congregation sang “O’ Come, O’ Come, Emmanuel” during the procession, and it was the most beautiful service I have ever attended.  I still have a hard time explaining the meaning that the Anglican liturgy has for me – my language is still thoroughly charismatic, so I can only tell you that in that Advent service I experienced a “move of the Holy Spirit.”  I sobbed, just like I had in my living room when I knew Christmas was dying in my heart – when I knew that my Christian walk had reached one of those pivotal points of change.  I sobbed, because I knew that I had found home, because I knew that I had a meaningful way to worship again, because I knew that my family had a place to foster the joy and wonder of Christmas.  The Lord, Christ, blessed me with a Christmas miracle.

St. John's - Albuquerque

Episcopal_Shield

This is an article written by Dean Mark Goodman of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John in Albuquerque, NM (Diocese of the Rio Grande), which is the Episcopal church where attend.  His intended audience is his congregation and this was originally published in the weekly “Cathedral News.”  It has been reposted here with the Dean’s permission.  The Dean also has a blog of his own: fromthedean.wordpress.com.

I believe this article speaks to both elements of the “Episcopal Drama” to which I alluded in my first post with far more clarity, grace and eloquence than I could muster. I have edited it only in that I have left out items which are of interest mainly to the Cathedral congregation and do not address the topics at hand.  I have also taken the liberty of placing in bold a few comments that were especially meaningful to me. Please enjoy.

-James Stambaugh

I write this while still attending the General Convention of The Episcopal Church, meeting in Anaheim, California.  If you have been following the work of the General Convention, you will know that it has been extensive and varied. Not only are there legislative sessions, there is also a daily Eucharist, including a grand Sunday liturgy, as well as committee meetings and hearings, gatherings to share collective ministry, and social times to deepen relationships. It will also not have escaped your attention that there is a certain level of tension that exists at General Convention. That is, one level, inescapable when you get so many people together in one place. On another level, it is a result of good and faithful people diligently trying to discern God’s will in the actions and decisions of this council. People disagree, and that’s a good thing. However, when disagreements touch deeply held convictions and challenge them, that can become very uncomfortable, even painful. As at many General Conventions, it is that sort of disagreement that has been experienced this past week.

I don’t enjoy being in that sort of atmosphere. I go to General Convention to see colleagues in ministry, share ideas with them, and meet new people from around the Episcopal Church and the Communion. I go to share in the councils of the Church and add my voice to our collective work to discern the leading of the Holy Spirit. I don’t go to observe wrangling over issues, and when it happens (which, as I said, it almost always does), the very real temptation is to become discouraged and disheartened. I felt that temptation most keenly last week, on Tuesday, after the deeply serious discussions that took place earlier in the week. It was a temptation that was given a keener edge by the acrimony that began to be displayed by various groups around the Communion in response to important decisions that had been made. “What am I doing here?” I thought. “Why don’t people just trust God to lead us and focus on ministry?” “Why must we fight with one another?” was what I felt in my heart.

It was on that same day that I attended a gathering of some of the international guests of the President of the House of Deputies, Bonnie Anderson, for an interview. These individuals included Dr. Jenny Te Paa, the Principal of St. John’s Theological College in New Zealand; Dr. Victor Atta-Baffoe, Dean of St. Nicholas’ Seminary in Ghana; Dean Rowan Smith, Dean of St. George’s Cathedral in Capetown, South Africa; among others. In answering my questions, and those of the other interviewers, these leaders spoke of lived ministry in challenging local settings. There was discussion of issues of poverty, HIV-AIDS, indigenous peoples being included in the life of the Church, raising the awareness of the status of women in areas where they are no more than property, the difficulties of funding and communications. The divisive issues of General Convention were not center stage. I was thankful for that and realized that it is this focus on mission and ministry that keeps us rooted in God:  hopeful and energized, not fearful and discouraged. I came away from that interview renewed in my understanding of why I am here.

I also came away from that interview renewed in my determination that the hot-button issues of the Church cannot distract us from the work of mission and ministry that God has set before us. This has been my intention in every church I have led, and it will be my intention here, at the Cathedral of St. John. The Church has struggled with thorny questions in every age, and God has always shown the way through them; he will do so in this instance, too. I don’t have the answers to some of these questions of our life together, nor is it up to me to state with certainly the mind of God. Our calling as Christians, I believe, is to live in faith, which means we don’t always see where we’re going. This calling is given beautiful expression in the ethos of Anglicanism, an expression of Christian discipleship that enables us to live in the midst of creative tension, wherein we go about the work we have been given to do while believing, patiently and faithfully, that God, through his Holy Spirit, will lead us where we need to go. I don’t always like living this way, but I believe it, with all my being, to be our calling.

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