Mansions for Emmanuel
December 18, 2011
Readings for the Fourth Sunday of Advent
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26
Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38
The Collect: Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at St. Clement’s Episcopal Church in Berkeley CA on December 18, 2011. (Watch a vlog of this sermon here)
May the words of my mouth and the mansions of our hearts be pleasing in Your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Amen.
One of the first things I picked up from the Episcopal Church was saying “The Lord be with you,” a call-and-response practice mostly unknown to the evangelical communities within which I grew up. I love this salutation and have come to appreciate all of its variations. Although most Episcopalians respond to the “Lord be with you” by saying “And also with you,” here, of course, we respond by saying “And with thy spirit,” which is also what most Roman Catholics are saying now with their new Roman Missal. At the church where I was confirmed in Pasadena (All Saints Pasadena), we would say “God dwells within you” and then respond “and also within you,” as a kind of Episcopal “Namaste” (which in Sanskrit means “the divinity within me bows to the divinity within you.”). And I have heard that you can identify a Jedi as Episcopalian if they respond to the phrase “May the Force be with You” by saying “And also with you.”
This ancient greeting is known as “Dominus Vobiscum” which is Latin for “The Lord be with you.” It became an official church salutation in the sixth century, when the Council of Braga decreed that bishops and priests should salute the people with “Dominus Vobiscum” and the people respond, “Et cum spiritu tuo,” as was the custom in the East.[1] Although its ecclesiastical use probably dates back to apostolic times, we will see that its use as a greeting is older still.
Today’s Gospel describes the Annunciation of Our Lord Jesus Christ to the Blessed Virgin Mary, an event portrayed by countless artists, including Leonardo Da Vinci[2], Raphael, El Greco as well as the stained glass artist who made the Annunciation Window here at St. Clement’s.
This event is so significant to the Church that it actually has its own feast day, called “Lady Day” by the Church of England, and is appropriately celebrated nine months before Christmas Day, on March 25th. This important event begins when the Angel Gabriel shows up[3] and says to Mary, “The Lord be with you.” Mary’s response to this greeting is fascinating: “She was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” (Luke 1:29). Now if Mary had grown up in the Episcopal Church, she would have been less bewildered by this greeting and would have responded, “And also with you” or “And with thy spirit.” Instead, she pondered what sort of greeting this might be. Now we use this greeting often, in our Eucharist, at the beginning of Vestry meetings, at the beginning of prayers and whenever we need to quiet a room full of Episcopalians. But I wonder how much of us actually consider the meaning of this greeting that we so often use and which has almost come to define us as Episcopalians and Anglicans. So this morning, I invite us to ponder more deeply, along with Mary, what sort of greeting this might be, especially in light of the Annunciation.
Gabriel’s greeting in Greek is ὁ κύριος μετὰ σοῦ (ha kyrios meta soo), which translated literally is “The Lord with you,” The Lord “meta” you. Prepositions in Greek are packed with multiple meanings. “Meta” can mean “beside, with, along with, after, among, or behind.” It would not be too much of a stretch to translate the phrase as “The Lord is within you,” which would be especially appropriate for Mary since tradition understands the time of the Annunciation as the time of conception, which is why Annunciation Day is celebrated nine months before Christmas Day. So we can understand this greeting (The Lord be with you) as a profound proclamation of the Incarnation.
Gabriel continues, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. Behold, you will conceive in your womb, and bring forth a son, and will call his name ‘Jesus.’ He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever. There will be no end to his kingdom.”
Now it is a challenge for us to make sense of the virgin birth in our post-Enlightenment age, but it helps to remember that the authors here are communicating a theological truth more than any scientific fact.
Karen Armstrong calls theology a “species of poetry.”[4] When the Gospel authors wrote about the virgin birth, they were using this “species of poetry” to proclaim the power of the Incarnation, which held a particular message for Mary and also holds a message for us. That message is that “God is with you. Furthermore, God is within you. And God is doing something inside of you right now. You might not feel it right now. In fact, you might feel empty and confused right now (as Mary most likely did), but I want you to know that God is at work within you. And you will give birth to something beautiful, something that will change the world eternally for the better.”
That message of the Incarnation is inherently proclaimed in the Dominum Vobiscum, in “The Lord be with you.” Every time we say this to one another we are making a bold assertion of the Presence of God here and now, among us and even within us. We are proclaiming the Incarnation in each of us, in the mansions of our hearts.
If you look at the Annunciation window here at St. Clements, you will notice a feature that is included in almost all portrayals of the Annunciation: that is, the Annunciation Lily or the Madonna Lily. Gabriel holds one in his hand while two other Annunciation Lilies decorate the upper frame. The lily symbolizes the purity of the Virgin, especially as the lily among the thorns. And this lily among the thorns also holds a message of the Incarnation for us: Among all of the apparent thorns in our lives, in our families, in the church, in the Anglican communion, and in the world, God is present and God is growing something beautiful. Mary, of course, must have felt surrounded by thorns in a world that would quickly anathematize her for her out-of-wedlock pregnancy. Mary had to trust Gabriel’s proclamation that God was present and at work within her in the midst of her fear and confusion.
There is also a message for us within Mary’s perplexity for this promise of God’s Presence. The Greek word for perplexed is related to the word that is translated elsewhere as “terrified”, which is used to describe Zechariah’s response to his angelic visitation, a few verses earlier. The promise of the Incarnation, when taken seriously, can easily arouse fear and certainly awe.
The words of the Advent hymn capture well the fear and awe aroused by the incarnate Presence: “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand. Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand…At his feet the six-winged seraph; cherubim with sleepless eye, veil their faces to the Presence, as with ceaseless voice they cry, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia! Alleluia, Lord Most High!’”
The divine presence that we recognize and honor in each other whenever we say “The Lord be with you” is the same Presence that makes angels cover their faces, that calls all mortal flesh to silence and that demands our full homage. So it is no surprise that this greeting and promise of God’s Presence aroused fear in Mary. In the same way, it may arouse great awe in us, if we take it seriously.
The 16th century Christian Mystic Teresa of Avila who was from a family of Jewish converts to Christianity and is one of the three female “Doctors” of the Church (a title given to individuals who have contributed to Church doctrine), wrote a Treatise called The Interior Mansion. In it, Teresa maps out the mansion of the heart, where, she says, God dwells. As we move deeper into the center room of God’s presence within us, we grow in awe and wonder and humility and we also learn how to see that same divine presence in others, especially those who persecute us and make life difficult for us. She says those characteristics are signs of the divine presence within.[5]
By taking the promise of God’s incarnate Presence within us seriously, we allow God to grow something beautiful in us. And in doing so, we echo Mary’s words: “Let it be to me according to your Word.” In this way, we come to see our hearts as homes for the divine. Or as the Mystics claim and as today’s Collect declared, we come to see our hearts as mansions for the One called Emmanuel, who is “God with us”. Amen.
[1] Catholic Encyclopedia http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/02729a.htm, December 18, 2011.
[2] For a reflection on Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting at the Uffizi art gallery in Florence, see http://deforestlondon.wordpress.com/2009/03/
[3] The text says, “In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God…” (Luke 1:26). This refers to the sixth month after John’s conception, as in 1:36.
[4] Karen Armstrong, Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (NY: Random House, 2004), 248.
[5] For more on Teresa of Avila, see Teresa of Avila: The Interior Castle, trans. Kieran Kavanaugh OCD and Otilio Rodriguez OCD from The Classics of Western Spirituality (Mahwah NJ: Paulist Press, 1979).
Ember Letter: Advent 2011
December 16, 2011
Dear Right Reverend J. Jon Bruno,
Warm Advent greetings to you at this season of thanksgiving and expectation. I have come to treasure these opportunities to reflect on the last quarter as I write my ember letters to you. On this December Ember, I have been thinking about Thomas Merton, whose feast day was a few days ago.
Thomas Merton said, “It is in the ordinary duties and labors of life that a Christian can and should develop his spiritual union with God.” My ordinary duties and labors of life have involved studying, lecturing and preaching. I have already preached three times at St. Clement’s in Berkeley, most recently at the Thanksgiving service alongside the Rev. Dr. Mark Richardson (President and Dean of CDSP), who presided. Also, I quoted Thomas Merton in one of my recent sermons.[1] This semester, I have given lectures on comparative theology, spirituality, the Jewish Talmud, and the Desert Fathers and Mothers. I also spoke at a Breakfast for Emerging Scholars in the Study of Christian Spirituality at the American Academy of Religion conference in San Francisco. As a student, I have been delving into the ethical and liturgical traditions of Anglicanism, with a particular focus on the Eucharist as a resource for non-violence and reconciliation. After an in-depth conversation about the ethics of William Stringfellow, the Rev. Dr. John Kater asked me to serve as his Teaching Assistant for his “Anglican Tradition and Life” course next fall. And after his speaking tour at five Episcopal churches in the Bay Area (including two stops at Grace Cathedral), theologian James Alison and I discussed the possibility of him serving on my dissertation committee.[2] He said he would be happy to serve on my committee and then urged me to apply to a summer school program in the Netherlands this July, to study the anthropological roots of violence in order to find paths of non-violent reconciliation.
Speaking of reconciliation, another Thomas Merton quote comes to mind: “As long as we are on earth, the love that unites us will bring us suffering by our very contact with one another, because this love is a resetting of a Body of broken bones.”[3] I heard the Right Rev. G. Porter Taylor reference this quote in describing the tensions throughout the Anglican Communion. The quote echoed through my head and heart this last weekend when I attended my first Diocesan Convention and considered the proposed resolutions on Israel-Palestine. The quote also came to mind when I visited Church of Our Saviour on Sunday, where I sensed both the pain and promise of “a resetting of a Body of broken bones.”
It was an honor and delight to receive communion from you at the Diocesan Convention last Friday just as it was an honor and delight for me to serve communion as a Lay Eucharistic Minister to the parishioners of Church of Our Saviour last Sunday.
Finally, I will confess feelings of doubt, impatience, disconnection and insecurity as I am trying to seek God’s will for my life in academics and ministry. In the midst of these fears, I have found some comfort in the words of what has become known as the Thomas Merton Prayer: “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”
In Christ the Way,
Daniel DeForest London
[2] James Alison. http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/
[3] Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation (New York: New Directions, 2007), 72.
God Speaks in the Language of Resurrection
December 7, 2011
Ten years after 9/11 and on the 70th anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack, it is appropriate to reflect with the Archbishop Rowan Williams on war and peace. In Writing in the Dust: After September 11, Williams invites his readers to sit with their emotions and inclinations (no matter how disturbing) in what he calls “breathing spaces” while offering insight on Christian responses to violence and terror.
Peering into the Darkness
In reaction to the terrorist attack of 9/11, the Archbishop humbly and soberly asks, “What are we prepared to learn?” (xii).[1] In asking this question and taking it seriously, Williams peers into some of the darkest crevices of the human heart and psyche, where he confronts the existential fear and rage that animates and perpetuates the human cycle of violence. Instead of repressing this fear and replacing it with the jingoistic jargon of vindication and vengeance, Williams looks carefully at the fear, analyzing and articulating it in such a way that readers find themselves peering into their own shadows, whether they want to or not. Within these shadows, we realize that we “might be committed to a God who [seems] useless in a crisis” (8), that we can easily confuse the self-giving love of a martyr with the self-hating violence of a suicidal killer (3,10), that we so often tend to scapegoat and de-humanize the ‘other’ (Jews, Muslims, etc.) in ways that simply fuel the fire of war and, in perhaps the most troubling words of the book, we face the very real possibility that “the distinction between what the US forces are doing and what was done on September 11 will be academic” (34, my emphasis).[2]
Williams does not penetrate this darkness for shock value or in order to speak ill of US foreign policy, rather, he seeks to acknowledge and use “the rage and revengefulness as a way of sensing a little of where the violence comes from” (24). Williams’ invitation can be hard to swallow for those who have lost loved ones in the 9/11 attack, but his approach is nevertheless profound and deeply “Christian” (in the best sense of the word) regarding our response to violence. “The trauma,” he writes, “can offer a breathing space; and in that space there is the possibility of recognizing that we have had an experience that is not just a nightmarish insult to us but a door into the suffering of countless other innocents, a suffering that is more or less routine for them in their less regularly protected environments” (59). Williams elaborates on this empathetic “door into suffering” by helping us to understand more intimately the Palestinian-Israeli deadlock in which both sides have experienced terrorist attacks similar to 9/11. Certainly, if everyone heeded Williams’ call to see our trauma as an opportunity for deeper empathy and forgiveness rather than as a justification for further violence, then the ethical issue of war and peace would become mostly irrelevant.
How to Grieve Humanly
However, as human history attests, most people do not heed William’s call to see trauma as an opportunity for empathy. This is partly because, as William himself acknowledges, such “seeing” is hard work and it requires peering into our own darkness, which often frightens us. “There is a particularly difficult challenge here,” Williams admits, “to do with making terms with our vulnerability and learning how to live with it in a way that isn’t simply denial, panic, the reinforcement of defenses” (57). Coming to terms with our vulnerability and our own inner violence is what the archbishop calls grieving humanly: “If, as St. Augustine says in his Confessions, we can fail to ‘love humanly,’ then surely we can also fail to grieve humanly, to grieve without the consolation of drama, martyrdom, resentment, and projection” (72).
The call to grieve humanly is clearly a challenge and, for some, maybe an impossibility. The archbishop’s invitation to respond with deep reflection and compassion to the atrocities of 9/11 can easily be construed as naïve and wishful thinking. After such a horrifying trauma, there is a human need to discharge, often violently. Williams acknowledges this: “We weren’t completely sure at first, most of us, but it was, of course, violence we turned to. Not surprisingly, because we felt, most of us, that there really was nothing else we could do. A long programme of diplomatic pressure, the reworking of regional alliances and a severe review of intelligence and security didn’t feel like doing anything. There needed to be a discharge of the tension” (31). He explains that the war on terror and the need to capture bin Laden were born out of this need to discharge. However, he also warns, “the drama of a martyr’s fate for bin Laden would give another turn to the screw” (32). The human need to discharge violently always leads to more violence (the “tightening of the screw”) and, according to Jacques Ellul, “Violence begets violence—nothing else.”[3] Williams looks carefully at this human need to discharge, rightly critiques it and then wants us to (somehow!) simply let go of the human need to discharge in order to “grieve humanly.” Here, the archbishop betrays his naivety. How does one simply let go of the human need to discharge? Can one dismantle the inner violence and darkness simply by looking at it? acknowledging it? writing about it? Williams admits that it is hard work to peer into our darkness, but he does not fully equip his readers to deal with their own inner violence and darkness. He is naïve to assume that his readers will simply dispel the darkness within through the power of empathy and forgiveness. Furthermore, he is irresponsible in leading many to confront their own inner violence without equipping them to handle it. In other words, he is inviting us to “play with fire” when many of us our still “children.” Friedrich Nietzsche, who knew well the destructive power of inner violence, spoke wisely when he said, “When you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.”[4] Rowan Williams gazes long into the abyss and compels us to do the same, but what do we do when the abyss stares back at us? What do we do when the “breathing space” becomes a gaping hole of darkness and destructive forces?
God Speaks in the Language of Resurrection
What do we when our inner violence needs to be discharged? Do we direct it towards others in a way that perpetuates war and scapegoating and dehumanization? The archbishop strongly urges against this. But then where else can we direct the violent discharge? Towards ourselves in a way that leads to self-abuse, self-destruction and suicide? The archbishop does not seem to address this, but would certainly condemn it. So then, where can we direct the violent discharge?
One answer can be found in the archbishop’s description of the way in which God speaks. In the chapter titled “Answering Back,” he describes the “miracle” of dispelling darkness and violence, which is “made possible by the way in which God speaks.” God understands that we need to discharge violently and that violence is the language by which we speak: “God speaks one language, and human beings respond in another. God speaks to say, ‘Don’t be afraid, nothing will stop me welcoming you’” (26). In saying this, God invites us to direct our inner violence onto him, the only One who can truly take it and dispel it. God does not respond to our violence with more violence. Williams writes, “The speech of God is silenced by death,” explaining that human violence killed and still kills the incarnate Logos. “But,” according to the archbishop, “God is unable, it seems, to learn any other language, and speaks again in Jesus’ resurrection” (26). When we speak to God in the language of human violence, God answers back by speaking to us in the language of the resurrection. It is only by continually engaging in this conversation with God that we can begin to speak the language of resurrection to our own inner violence and to the violence around us. In doing so, we allow the power of the resurrection (which is divine forgiveness for all human violence) to dispel the power of war and death and darkness. When we learn to speak the language of the resurrection into the abyss, the abyss no longer stares back at us. Instead, we begin to see the abyss as the Empty Tomb, the sign of God’s ultimate forgiveness for our violence, which transforms us, within our world of war and terror, into agents of forgiveness and peace.
[1] All quotes from Rowan Williams, Writing in the Dust: After September 11 (Grand Rapids MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2002) unless noted otherwise.
[2] “From the point of view of a villager in Afghanistan whose family has died in a bombing raid, a villager who has probably never heard of the World Trade Center, the distinction…”
[3] Jacques Ellul, Violence: Reflections from a Christian Perspective (Harrisburg PA: Seabury Press, 1969), 100.
[4] Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Random House, 1989), Aphorism 146.
