Author: Mark Nabors

A sermon for the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 16
Education Sunday
August 27, 2023

Every Wednesday, one of my duties is to send a sermon title to Sallie Culbreth. If you don’t know Sallie, you should. She’s an angel among us. I send her my sermon title, and she sends it on to the Sentinel Record. She often even makes graphics advertising what to expect, like this week. Well, today I’m going rogue. If you came expecting me to preach on “Presenting our Sacrifice,” I am sorry to disappoint. 

A sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 15
August 20, 2023

Just who do you think you are? Has anyone ever asked you that, perhaps with a tone revealing that they certainly don’t think of you in the same way? 

The question is central in today’s gospel–who do you think you are? I’ll be honest: this passage has always been a challenge for me. Maybe it has for you, too. Let’s dive in and take a close look. 

A sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 14
August 13, 2023
First Sunday at St. Luke’s

Do you remember learning to swim? I learned at a summer daycare program. The day I learned, I went up to the edge of the pool. Johnny, the swim teacher, was in the water waiting for me to jump in. “Hey, Mr. Johnny! Should I jump in?” “I dare ya!” Johnny replied. Even as a child, I had my pride. I couldn’t turn down a dare. So without any other options, in I went. Splash–right into the arms of Johnny. 

A sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 10
July 16, 2023

“Listen! A sower went out to sow.” Of all of Jesus’s parables, this may have the most memorable start. We know what comes next–the sower throws seed indiscriminately on all kinds of ground. Sometimes the seed sprouts; sometimes it doesn’t. When it does sprout, sometimes it thrives; sometimes it doesn’t. 

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 8
July 2, 2023

I have a vivid memory from my childhood. I was probably around 8 years old. It’s dark, and we are on our way to the hospital for me to have yet another surgery. That was the year I had one surgery every two to three months. The recovery was painful, and just as I felt I was about healed I had to go back. In the darkness, in the backseat, I remember feeling as if no one around me really understood what I felt. I did not feel like anyone could really see me–that is, I didn’t feel like anyone could understand what I was dealing with. I felt alone, and my questions to God went unanswered. As I’ve grown, I have wondered what my mother, alone in the front seat, was thinking about on that dark drive. Knowing what her son would go through in a couple of short hours must have been painful for her, too. How helpless she must have felt. 

Have you been in that kind of dark place before? Alone, afraid, unsure of what comes next but knowing you would rather go another way? Perhaps we can understand a little bit of what Abraham and Isaac are going through today. 

Our reading from Genesis takes us to the binding of Isaac. Abraham and Sarah have waited for God’s promise to be fulfilled their whole lifetimes. Sarah is soon to die. And God tells Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. Child sacrifice was not unheard of at that time and in that part of the world. For all of human history, people have sacrificed children to their gods, usually in the face of unprecedented hardship, when they feel backed into a corner. They think they can satisfy their gods if they can give them what is most precious: their children. And today, Yahweh tells Abraham that such a sacrifice will be required of him. 

It feels barbaric. It feels cruel and terrible and unnecessary. It feels wrong. It’s supposed to, in a sense. I think we, along with Abraham, are meant to be horrified by this request. If we’re not horrified, we are ignoring our humanity and our God-given sense of justice.  

I wonder what the experience is like for Isaac. Perhaps he was a little like me in that backseat, along for the ride, wondering why, trying to figure things out in the dark. “We have the wood and the fire, father. But where is the sacrifice?” Maybe he was asking hoping his father would put him at ease. He may have known whom the butcher’s cleaver was for. 

I wonder what that experience was like for Abraham? Perhaps a little like my mother’s on that drive to the hospital. This is something he must do, but the pain he feels is overwhelming. He wishes he could step into Isaac’s place, but he cannot. 

I have often imagined Abraham bargaining with God when God tells him to sacrifice Isaac. I have imagined Abraham refusing God at first, negotiating, counter offering, then reluctantly going along with it. But the text doesn’t say that. There’s no indication that Abraham does that. Instead he goes along with what God requires, trusting, as he says over and over today, God will provide. Why? 

I think it’s because Abraham knows God. Abraham knows that God is not some capricious, unaccountable, thunderbolt-hurling deity. Abraham knows that God is faithful. Abraham knows that God has promised Isaac, and Abraham knows that Isaac can be trusted in God’s hands of love and mercy. So Abraham goes forward in trust and faith: God will provide, God will provide, God will provide. 

In Hebrew, that phrase, “God will provide,” is actually “The Lord sees.” The Lord sees a way even when we cannot see a way. The Lord sees even when we find ourselves going up a mountain with all we hold dear under threat of losing it all. The Lord sees even when we find ourselves in the darkness wondering why, grappling with suffering, helplessly hoping for the light. The Lord sees, even when our sight is limited. The Lord sees our future, and we are held in his hand from here to there. Abraham knows that, and Isaac will know it, too. My mother knew that, and I learned it in time. The Lord sees; the Lord is faithful and trustworthy; we can withstand whatever test is in front of us, for we are held in God’s hands. 

But beyond that, there is a greater promise embedded in this story of the binding of Isaac–a greater vision that Abraham cannot see yet, that will not be seen until the coming of the Messiah centuries after Abraham and Isaac. In the binding of Isaac, we see a promise of the atoning and sacrificial death of Christ, the Son of God, for our sins and the sins of the world. 

The Lord sees. The Lord sees how we are held hostage by sin and death. The Lord sees the dominion wrought over us by forces that seeks to corrupt and destroy the creatures of God. The Lord sees how we are wracked with grief, sorrow, tears, pain, suffering, hardship, despair, and hopelessness. The Lord sees those painstaking journeys up mountains, those car rides through incomprehensible darkness. 

The Lord sees and the Lord provides. The Lord does not forever send some stop-gap measure, a ram in the thicket. The Lord does not require the most precious blood of our children from us like those capricious and unaccountable false gods. The Lord sees that we cannot help ourselves, so the Lord provides himself. The Lord sees our need for redemption, for hope, for peace with God, for the love of God, so the Lord sends his Son into the world, not to condemn the world, but so that the world through him might be saved. 

The Lord sees and gives his only begotten Son–God’s very Self for our sin, to cover us, to heal us, to make us whole and to draw us up into the life and love of God. And by this and this alone, the domineering cycle of death is stopped. The vicious circle that leads parents, even today, to sacrifice their children to the gods of this world is stopped and put on notice. For God has seen, and God has provided us his very self–on offer, on the cross, on the altar of God as Body and Blood. 

Like Abraham and Isaac, Mother and I still had that dark road to travel. We all have those roads, those paths of pain, that helplessness. But we are not alone, and it’s not all up to us. For God has gone ahead of us to the cross, and walks with us now to help us carry our crosses from death to resurrection. Like Abraham, may we have the grace and the faith to confess, even in despair: the Lord sees, and the Lord will provide. 

A sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 6
June 18, 2023

The angel said to me: “Why are you laughing?”
“Laughing! Not me. Who was laughing? I did not laugh. It was
A cough. I was coughing. Only hyenas laugh.
It was the cold I caught nine minutes after
Abraham married me: when I saw
How I was slender and beautiful, more and more
Slender and beautiful.
            I was also
Clearing my throat; something inside of me
is continually telling me something
I do not wish to hear: A joke: A big joke:
But the joke is always just on me.
He said: you will have more children than the sky’s stars
And the seashore’s sands, if you just wait patiently.
Wait: patiently: ninety years? You see
The joke’s on me!”

This poem, called “Sarah,” by the 20th century American poet Delmore Schwartz is a creative reimagining of today’s reading from Genesis and the exchange between Sarah and the heavenly visitors. Sarah, the wife of Abraham, is told at the age of 90 that she will not be barren forever, but that she will, indeed, bear a child. She laughs. Who wouldn’t? Abraham himself laughs at this promise in another place. I would probably laugh, too. Today, it is Sarah who laughs, because she has heard this before. God has promised an heir already. God has doubled down on that promise, more than once already. And yet there is so much that makes this promise seem ridiculous on its face. So Sarah laughs–skeptically, mockingly, dismissively, ironically, perhaps a little like a hyena. “So numerous shall your descendants be, Sarah.” “Yeah, sure God, whatever you say.” 

Have you ever laughed like Sarah? “Of course this would have to happen to me,” we might say with a little chuckle. “That’s just how things go in my life: another day, another problem,” we comment with a laugh. Maybe we are at a place where we have given up hope, where we can’t see a way forward, where we are so used to the way things have been that we cannot see how things could be any different, and all we can do is laugh–mockingly, dismissively, ironically. 

But here’s the thing about God’s promises. They are not just hearty efforts, or a promise to see what God might be able to do under the right conditions, or good intentions. They are promises that can be accounted for, written into the ledger, taken to the bank. They are sure. And just as God says, Isaac is born. And Sarah laughs again. Not like before–not a skeptical, mocking, dismissive, or ironic laughter. But an Isaac laughter that comes from a deep well of joy, from wonder at the goodness of God. Sarah has been surprised by hope, so she laughs. 

The truth is life is full of sufferings and things we cannot control. Sometimes it takes us a long while to be surprised by hope, so we give up. Just ask Sarah. The desire of her heart has not come to pass; the thing she hoped for most seems a fantasy, even too much for the promises of God. She is despondent and sorrowful. No doubt she has spent nights weeping, nights angry, nights bargaining with God, nights wondering why her. And day by day, month by month, year by year, decade by decade, it seems that her worst fears will become her destiny. Sometimes, in the face of that, all we can muster is an ironic chuckle, a dismissive laugh, to keep us from going over into the abyss.

The author of that poem I quoted at the beginning, Delmore Schwartz, knew something about despair. He knew something about how Sarah feels today before the promise is fulfilled. His family lost most everything when the depression hit in 1929. His father died in 1930. A corrupt executor embezzled most of the money away. Delmore went to college, started writing. Early on he was heralded as a big success story, the up-and-coming one to keep your eye on. People like T.S. Eliot praised his work. But then that faded away. His later work was dismissed. His life, once so full of promise, slipped into despair and alcoholism and mental illness. Delmore would die alone, anonymous and penniless, at the age of 52 from a heart attack. It would take two days for his body to be discovered. 

His poem reveals that he understands Sarah’s laugh at a deep level, at a despairing level. Her ironic guffaw was his also. I can hear him say with a dismissive chuckle, “the joke’s on me!” For him in this life, there was no Isaac, no vindication, no joyful laugh that turned mourning into dancing. If we are honest, for many people, that’s the case in this life. 

Here’s what I wish someone could have said to Delmore, what I hope someone tells me when I’m in that low place: The source of real joy, the source of that Isaac laughter, is present, even in our sufferings, even when we cannot feel anything but despair. Our peace with God, our connection to God, does not come through us, but through what God has done for us in Christ Jesus. God’s promises do not depend on us, but on God’s faithfulness, and are always yes and amen. So even in suffering, we can hope. Even in despair, we can hope. Even in fear, we can hope. We can hope, expecting that Isaac laughter to break out at any moment; expecting God to show up in a wonderful way that surprises us; expecting the great reversal from despair to joy, from doubt to faith, and even from death to life. And this hope–hope in God’s power to reverse and bring victory from defeat, life from death–this hope, St. Paul says today, will never disappoint us, for it’s a hope beyond the horizon of this life alone. 

The good news, today and every day, is that God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through Jesus. Poured out in his life, death, and resurrection. Poured out into us moment by moment. And this love of God is always faithful. 

We are not immune from suffering. We are not immune from despair. Like Sarah, the only defense we sometimes have in the face of things we cannot control is an ironic chuckle. “The joke’s on me,” Delmore says. But suffering, despair, and that ironic chuckle do not get the last word over our lives. God gets the final word, and God has promised us love and life. And even if that ultimate Isaac-laugh does not come in this life, it will come just over the horizon. Faith is trusting that–trusting that we are children and beloved heirs of God who will never be separated from God’s love for us. Faith is laughter–Isaac laughter–in the face of suffering, because we know the end of the story: God’s victory over all. 

Was it not Jesus himself who said, “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” And with us all of heaven. 

A sermon for the Second Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 5
June 11, 2023

“As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’” Today’s gospel takes us to the calling of St. Matthew. Jesus sees an unlikely disciple in an unlikely place. Matthew, a tax collector, sitting in a tax booth, would not have expected a call from Jesus. Despised, called a collaborator with the Romans, Matthew was not the most obvious candidate for discipleship. But Jesus calls him anyway. 

Today we begin a new season of the church year. It’s called the season after Pentecost, or Ordinary Time. Last week, Trinity Sunday, was actually our first Sunday in Ordinary Time, but Trinity Sunday feels different from today and the Sundays to come. From now until Advent, with only a couple of exceptions, we will be in the green season, focusing on Jesus’s life and teaching. We will hear Jesus calling us, like he called St. Matthew, through the words he speaks. And like St. Matthew, we are not the most likely of candidates in the most likely of places to be called by Jesus. But here we are, and Jesus is calling us: “Follow me.” 

As with St. Matthew, Jesus does not give us any details. He does not say, “follow me to this place,” or “follow me for this long.” No, he just says, “follow me.” The invitation is to follow indefinitely, with no details, with no guarantees, without any warranties, without any conditions–but to follow wherever, putting our complete trust in his grace and love. 

Nor does the call to follow Jesus come easily. There is always a cost–a cost to our will, a cost to our egos. We pick up our cross and follow. But in order to pick up that cross, we must lay down some things: pride, vanity, hatefulness, old grudges, anger, envy, festering wounds. We must lay down our insistence to be in control, to always be right, to get the final word. We lay it down so that we might pick up our cross–and the crown of life. 

There is a painting by the Italian Renaissance painter Caravaggio called “The Calling of St. Matthew.” In it, we see a group of men sitting at a table counting money. We suppose this is a tax booth. Off to the side, we see Jesus and another man. Jesus is pointing, calling, inviting, beckoning. The reactions at the table are mixed. One man looks as if he is about to fall out of his chair, and he is reaching for his sword, perhaps in an automatic defensive posture. Another man is looking with interest; he looks young and naive. One man’s head is buried in the table, counting money. This is his favorite part of that day–counting what goes in his pockets. Another man, looking at Jesus, is pointing to himself, as if to say, “who? Me?” 

Art scholars have pointed out that Caravaggio never told us who St. Matthew was. It could be any of the people at that table. To some degree, St. Matthew is in each of them. And so are we. After all, the name “Matthew” literally means disciple. That’s all of us. 

Jesus shows up at the tax booth of my life. He points, calls, “follow me,” he says. Like one of the fellas in the painting, sometimes I nearly fall out of my chair, startled and surprised; and maybe I reach for my sword, put up my defenses, make my excuses. There have been times when I stare with amazement, naively–and that’s all the reaction I seem to be able to muster. There have been times when I’ve asked, “who, Lord? Me? Are you sure?” There are other times yet when I haven’t heard the call because I’ve been buried in other things, things I think are more important, like that dragon in the Lord of the Rings, obsessing over things that are passing away. I have been in each one of those places, and I bet you have, too. 

But the point is not where we are when Jesus comes calling; the point is where we end up. “I have not come to call the righteous,” Jesus says, “but sinners.” Jesus has come to call all of us, no matter where we find ourselves sitting in that tax booth: you, me, and every person on this planet. Jesus calls all of us to him, to his grace, to his love, to his life. He comes and calls–over and over and over again–pulling us forward, in stages, on the journey to the heart of God.  

A sermon for the First Sunday after Pentecost: Trinity Sunday
May 28, 2023

Today is Trinity Sunday, the day we celebrate and acknowledge that we serve and worship a triune God, three in one, one in three: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, one God. The Trinity is not just a way we seek to understand God. Rather, the Trinity is Who God is in God’s very Being, as revealed in Holy Scripture and through tradition. 

Consider our reading from Genesis. There we see all three Persons present. The Father, who orders all things. The Son is there, too, although he is not called the Son. The other name for the Son is the Word–the very Word that speaks all things into being, moment by moment. Finally, we see the Spirit, or ruach in Hebrew. Ruach can also be translated as breath or wind. The Spirit, or wind from God as Genesis says, hovers over the waters at the beginning of creation. 

We see the Trinity present in the reading from II Corinthians. This passage commonly called the Grace, says, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.” All three, present and accounted for. 

And, of course, we see the Trinity in our gospel reading, as Jesus ascends into heaven. He says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.” Unlike in Genesis where we must analyze the text to see all three Persons of the Godhead, Jesus reveals the language of the Trinity to us. 

Perhaps more than any other mystery of the faith, the Trinity has the potential to lull us to sleep, to make us ask who cares, and to engender some misunderstandings about God’s Nature. The Trinity isn’t an easy concept to grasp–after all, God is no concept to be grasped at all, but the fullness of reality beyond our grasping. We can err too far on one side or the other–overemphasizing the differences in the Persons to the point of making them sound like three gods instead of one, or overemphasizing the unity in the Persons to the point of making it seem like there aren’t three separate Persons at all. Too much of that theologizing, and we walk away confused, and frustrated, or maybe just ambivalent about it all. 

But it’s important because it is about who God is. God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, three distinct Persons, a community of perfect, self-giving love. And God is one: One in power, one in glory, one in majesty, one in love. It is in this three-in-one, one-in-three God that we live, and move, and have our being. 

This past Wednesday, I announced that Molly and I will be moving to St. Luke’s in Hot Springs this summer. My last Sunday with you will be July 16. God is calling me to serve as their rector after four wonderful years as your vicar. Molly and I are so thankful for our time with you, for your friendship, for your love and kindness shown to us. You will always, always, hold a very special place in our hearts. While we are excited about what God has in store in a new place, we are still brokenhearted, and we leave a piece of our hearts behind with you. But we all must follow where the Spirit leads, in joy and in sorrow, trusting in the grace of God. That’s what we are seeking to do. 

Here is what the mystery of the Holy Trinity has to say to us today: Our God is not one who is so high that he cannot be touched, so lofty that he does not care for us. No, our God is One who is ever-present, closer than our own breath. Our God is One who has taken on our flesh and understands our sorrow, our anxiety, our frustration, our worry. Our God is One who fills us with his very Spirit, who strengthens us and carries us by that Spirit, and who will never abandon us. Our God is the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. And not only us as individuals, but also us as the Body of Christ at St. Peter’s/St. Alban’s. I am just one in a long succession of faithful priests who have had the honor of serving our Lord here, just as you are only one in a long succession of faithful lay persons who have had the honor of serving our Lord here. We can trust that even in transition, our God is with us, lifting us, supporting us all the day long. As we turn the page to see the next chapter in this parish, we remember that the priest is not the main character in the story. Nor are you. God, the One in whom we live and move and have our being, is the main character in the story of this church family. We serve God, we trust God, we seek to be faithful to God, and we follow where God leads. 

In his play Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote those oft quoted words: “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.” This life is full of goodbyes, and those goodbyes come with sorrow, often sweet sorrow. We say goodbye to places and people; goodbye to jobs and communities; and in the end, goodbye to life on this mortal plane. Goodbyes hurt, even if there is sweetness in them. 

Molly and I feel that sweet sorrow: sweetness, as we look with joy and anticipation at what is to come in following God’s call, but also deep sorrow, because we love all of you more than we can say. But even as we transition, we remember that we are simply moving to a different part of the same Body. And while we may part for a time, we know that we never say goodbye forever, but only for now. We will all arise on that promised morrow, as eternity eclipses time, as the Son of God descends to establish the Kingdom, as the One in whom we live and move and have our being fully and perfectly envelopes us in that loving Totality. Together, on that morrow, goodbyes shall cease, and with them their sorrow; and we shall rise with alleluias on our tongue. 

A sermon for the Feast of Pentecost: Whitsunday
May 28, 2023

“Every time I feel the Spirit moving in my heart I will pray.” So says the African American spiritual. It’s an appropriate song for today, the feast of Pentecost, because it is today that we celebrate the descent of the Holy Spirit on those first apostles. This Holy Spirit is the promised comforter, the promised Advocate, the third person of the Holy Trinity, sent to support, strengthen, and sustain them. This is the One who gives them power to accomplish what they have been called to do. 

But did you notice that we are given two versions of how the Holy Spirit shows up? In Acts, we read about the Day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit shows up like a violent wind, like tongues of fire resting on them. But we also read in John about the Holy Spirit coming to them as Jesus breathes on them. “Receive the Holy Spirit,” Jesus says. It’s far from a violent wind; it’s a gentle breath. 

What’s going on here? Why the different stories? From the beginning of the Church, we have understood that anytime there are seemingly conflicting stories in the Bible, God is trying to tell us something through them. So what is God trying to tell us through these two stories of the Spirit showing up?  

In Acts, we read that the Holy Spirit gives the apostles the ability to speak in the languages of the diverse people around them. These are just fishermen, but they are sharing the good news of God in Christ with people from around the known world. They are telling them of the love of God, about how Christ came as an infant, how he healed and taught, how he died on a cross for their redemption, and how he was raised on the third day. They are telling them that because of that, they can be reconciled to God. They can be children of God, God’s very beloved. The Holy Spirit enables them to share this message. Without this gift, they could not share this good news–at least not as effectively. 

That’s what the Holy Spirit does. The Holy Spirit comes to strengthen us, to give us power. But this strengthening and this power always has a purpose: We are strengthened and empowered to do the work God has given us to do. To share the good news of Jesus Christ, in big ways and small ways. And sometimes it feels like a violent wind, a holy fire. Jeremiah called it a fire shut up in his bones. The Holy Spirit shows up and drives us to action, pushes us to do the work we have been called to do, and it’s all clear as day. 

I remember talking with someone about this passage once. He told me, “You know, Mark, I wish I could feel the Spirit moving like that in my life, like a violent wind, like a fire. But I’ve never felt that.” I reminded him of today’s passage from John, when the Spirit descends gently as Jesus breathes on his beloved ones. It feels more like a still small voice, a nudge. He had felt that before. 

Several years ago, I knew a woman named Jane. When her husband died, I could see she was in a kind of fog. His death had been expected and a long time coming, but that doesn’t lessen the shock or the pain. That doesn’t help the grief. 

Several months went by, and I heard through the grapevine that Jane was starting something. She had had time to grieve, and now she wanted to do something. She had gone to the priest, and she was starting up a pastoral care team. This team would serve not only the members of the church, but also the people in the community. You see, she had noticed that when her husband was in hospice, there were so many people who didn’t have families, and so many families that didn’t have anyone to turn to. She had been blessed with a caring church family, but not everyone has that. Well, not yet anyway. She started a team up, just a few folks, all widows and widowers, who took care baskets down to those on hospice and their families. They said prayers with them. They gave them a church family. 

When I asked Jane about it later, she said that the idea came to her about a month after her husband’s death. And it just stuck. It was like a constant nudging, like a still small voice that wouldn’t leave her alone until she did something. It was the Holy Spirit. 

The Holy Spirit comes to us in many ways. It’s important to remember that. Pentecost Sunday is not only about remembering this mighty manifestation of the Spirit on that first Day of Pentecost, but also about seeing how the Spirit is speaking to us in our lives, even now, gently leading us in the paths that we should go, like Jesus breathing on his disciples. Believe me, the Holy Spirit is speaking to you. You just have to be willing to listen. You have to be willing to open your eyes and look for the Spirit in your life. 

“Every time I feel the Spirit moving in my heart I will pray.” How is the Holy Spirit moving in your heart? Maybe it feels like fire, like a violent wind, or maybe it feels like that gentle breath. However the Spirit is showing up, remember this: The Spirit is in your life to strengthen you, to give you power, in order that you may do what God is calling you to do, no matter how big or how small. Our job is to pray–to answer, here I am. Today, this week, how will you respond? 

A sermon for the Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 14, 2023: Mother’s Day

“If ye love me, keep my commandments, and I will pray the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter, that He may ‘bide with you for ever: e’en the spir’t of truth.” If you have ever sung in a choir at an Episcopal church, you have likely sung these words from our gospel today set to music by Thomas Tallis, the English musician and composer of the 16th century. His music has, in a sense, defined this text for me. In my mind, I cannot hear the words of Jesus in this passage from John without also hearing the music of Tallis. Such is the power of music. 

Has that happened to you? Is there some song, some piece of music, that holds a special place in your heart, that is attached to a specific memory, a specific person? When you hear it, you are transported to a different place, a different time, to that person yet again? Couples often have songs–some piece of music that reminds them of their beloved, of their courtship, of those first feelings of love. Or perhaps some hymn sung at a funeral that brings tears, but also gratitude for that person you love but see no longer. “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” reminds Molly of her grandparents because it was sung at her granddaddy’s funeral. For Molly, the Rose E’er Blooming is not only the Christ child foretold by Isaiah, but it also speaks of Carl and Estelle Edwards, her memories of being at their home when she was a young child, their love and devotion to her. 

Such is the power of music. Memory rides on melody, piercing the protective shells we construct around our hearts, breaking into our souls, recalling sorrow and joy, erasing the divide between heaven and earth, between the past and the present. That’s why music is indispensable to faith. Music is something we have in worship because it has a special ability to open our souls to the currents of God’s grace. Our music on earth mystically joins the music in heaven, and it bridges the divide between here and there, between now and eternity, between us and God. More on this in a moment. 

Today’s gospel comes to us from the Last Supper in John. Jesus is giving his disciples his parting instructions before his death. They don’t understand what is about to happen, but Jesus is preparing them for it. Over and over at the Last Supper, he tells us to love–love him, love God, love one another, love those who hate you. He says that the world will know we are his disciples if we love one another. Jesus’s teaching, like the very being of God, is love. 

But we are sentimental creatures, and we over-sentimentalize love. We see love as a warm, fuzzy feeling we get. Jesus instructions today correct that. Love is shown in our actions–in how we live and the decisions we make. 

Jesus says we love him by keeping his commandments. We love Christ by serving one another and those around us. We love Christ by forgiving as he forgives us, by turning the other cheek. We love Christ when we are merciful, pure in heart, meek, peacemakers, poor in spirit. We love Christ when we suffer for his sake. We love Christ when we refuse to bicker and be angry with our brothers and sisters; when we refuse to see other people as objects to be used and exploited; when we do unto others as we would have them do to us; when we refuse to judge from a bloated sense of self-righteousness. We love Christ when we care for the needy and the stranger, for the widow and the orphan; when we give and give and give again of ourselves because that’s what Christ did for us. We love Christ when we speak up for those who are abused and neglected, forgotten and rejected. We love Christ when we spend time in open and honest prayer, allowing the Spirit to shape us and mold us and smooth out those places where pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth seek to devour our souls. We love Christ when we allow him to abide within us and help us grow fruit of faith, hope, and love. We love Christ by seeking to live like him. 

To put it another way, our faith must be shown in our lives; it must penetrate our souls; it must bear fruit of virtue and good works in the world; or it is nothing. Our faith must lead to real love–love of God and love of neighbor–that is seen in how we live our lives, or it is nothing. If our faith is only a matter of what we keep in our heads, only a matter of memorized statements, only a matter of intellectual assent, it is nothing. At its deepest level, faith must be a matter of the heart. Faith must be a matter of relationship–of our getting caught up into God–of harmonizing our fractured lives with the perfect Divine life of God. Our lives of faith must be like music: Our lives must be a window into who God is. Our lives of faith, lived out in real love, bridge heaven and earth, now and eternity, the world and God. 

Now, back to music. In the same way that a song on the radio might be forever entwined with the story of you and your beloved; in the same way that “Lo How a Rose E’er Blooming” is forever associated with Molly’s grandparents; the words of Jesus today and the music of Thomas Tallis are, for me, forever coupled. Such is the power of music. And such is the power of our lives of faith if we seek to follow Jesus in the real and radical and transforming love he calls us to today. Like that music, our lives can become anthems–windows into the heart of God, expressions of what God is like, melodies of how much God loves us. And maybe, someone, somewhere, will someday say, I cannot think of Jesus without thinking of you, because somehow you have shown me what following Jesus looks like, at the level of the heart and soul. I cannot think of the love of Jesus without thinking of you, because you have loved me, and you have taught me what love really looks like. I cannot think of who Jesus is without thinking of you, for your life has been so harmonized with the life of heaven that I have been pulled in, compelled to join in the music myself.