Louise Browner Blanchard

A Sermon for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany

St. Mary's Sermons , ,

By: Louise Browner Blanchard, Rector

 

Third Sunday after the Epiphany

Matthew 4:12-23

Stop

Smile

Look around

 I remember the question as if it were yesterday. It came during the most idyllic time of my not-quite-35-year-old life. Even the weather was perfect – one of those rare Richmond summers with abundant sunshine and no humidity. Buck and I were blissfully happy. We had a beautiful little boy and another one on the way. We were surrounded by loving family and friends. I had recently been able to stop working for what I, at least, fantasized was forever. I truly believed that we had achieved this wonderful life, and that we were just at the beginning of how it was going to be, happily ever after.

Buck was traveling in Europe for his job as a lawyer, and he had stopped to visit his firm’s office in Brussels, Belgium. I wasn’t even sure where Brussels was, and I didn’t really care since I was just settling into my-life-as-it-was-meant-to-be right here in Richmond, Virginia. But I was eager to hear how Buck liked it and looked forward to living vicariously through his experience.

That night, when he called, he got right to the point. “How would you feel about moving here?” His tone was more or less casual. Yet I knew the moment that I heard the question that it was as serious as any since he had asked me to marry him. Every reason in the world not to move to Brussels came flooding into my brain, and yet I also knew in that instant that we would be moving to Brussels. It felt bigger than both of us, scary beyond imagining, and, at the same time, what we were meant to do. Even though I wasn’t really used to thinking about things in this way, I had a profound sense that God was calling us. And almost imperceptibly, our focus shifted from what we wanted to do to what we were meant to do, and that, somehow, we would be ok.

I have since learned that God’s idea of ok and mine are a bit different. My idea of ok is tidier, more constant and predictable, safer. I thought that the hardest part would be the move itself. Little did I know! Buck and I embarked on a life that has been in many ways joyful beyond belief, but it has been complicated and messy, too, and sometimes heartbreaking. Our ideas about who we are individually, together, and in the wider world have been turned upside down and inside out. Not once have I wished that we had said no, but following a call is not always easy.

So I have a lot of compassion for Peter and Andrew and James and John. Perhaps their lives as fishermen weren’t what we would call idyllic, but they were predictable and steady. They more or less knew what each day held: wake up early, gather their nets, and head out onto the sea to catch food that would sustain them and others. Day after day, their lives kept beat to the rhythm of tides and waves as they cast their nets and pulled them in, over and over. Whether the day was calm or stormy, they knew how to react. It was in their bones, passed down through generations of their forefathers who had been fishermen, too. Why would they expect anything to change, and why would they want it to? For all that we can tell, their lives were good: they were surrounded by family and lifelong friends, they knew their work and did it well. It sustained them and likely others as well. They weren’t seeking a call. But a call was seeking them. “Follow me.” And somehow when they heard it, they knew that they had to answer “Yes.”

They were, after all, following in Jesus’ footsteps, who, if you think about it, was also answering a call. We know next to nothing about how Jesus lived most of his adult life, although tradition holds that he was a carpenter like his father Joseph…a profession – like fishing – that was predictable, steady, and useful, and passed down through generations. But at some point, Jesus, too, answered a call, and not just once, but again and again, throughout his life and unto his death. Look at what we know about him. First, he answers the call to baptism. Next, he submits himself to the challenges and temptations of the wilderness. Then, he leaves his hometown Nazareth and begins to gather a community of people who were also willing to answer a call. “Follow me,” he says. He sets about teaching, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing disease and sickness. “Follow me,” he says and sets about showing us how to live.

And, as Jesus continues to reveal to his followers then and now, an essential part of how to live is the ongoing discernment of God’s call. Jesus manifests that discernment in sudden encounters with presumed enemies like the centurion’s servant and the Canaanite woman, and with outsiders like the leper and the demoniac. He engages with and heals all of them, and as he follows the call to do so, expands our awareness of the breadth of God’s kingdom. Jesus also manifests that discernment in private and public prayer throughout his life – all the way to the garden in Gethsemane, when he prays, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me…” and on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He perseveres, and as he follows the call to do so, opens our understanding of the depth of God’s kingdom. The course of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection teaches us that God is always with us, but only in following Jesus and answering God’s call do we truly become aware of God’s presence. Only in acting like Jesus and answering God’s call do our lives truly become transformed. It rarely happens in one fell swoop – even for Jesus. But as he demonstrates, “follow me” is the refrain that leads all of us toward the fulfillment of our lives in God’s kingdom.

In other words, it’s not just a series of stories in the Bible, and it’s not just the story of how Buck and I moved to Brussels. It’s all of our stories individually and, even more importantly, together. Jesus started his work by calling Peter, Andrew, James, and John, and forming a community. We – all of us, together – are their descendants, and the command is the same. “Follow me.” Where will that be? We spent a good part of last year discerning answers to that question. That was the beginning, not the end, of our work together. God is seeking us. It is up to us to answer. And our life together depends on it.

Like Peter, Andrew, James, and John, we will make plenty of missteps and mistakes along the way. But, like Peter, Andrew, James, and John, we are called to listen for the voice that urges us to follow because, however hard and scary it may seem, that is the path to God’s kingdom, to moving each of our lives from the realm of ourselves into God’s wider purpose, and to the peace which passes all understanding. As poet William Alexander Percy reminds us:

The peace of God, it is no peace,

but strife closed in the sod.

Yet let us pray for but one thing –

the marvelous peace of God.

A Sermon for the Holy Name

St. Mary's Sermons , ,

by Louise Browner Blanchard, Rector

The Holy Name

Luke 2:15-21

Names are curious things. My given name, Louise, never seemed strange to me until I learned that it means “famous warrior” or “renowned fighter,” neither of which is how I think of myself. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been more comfortable with my nickname, although since it’s Weezie, I try not to be too critical of other people’s names. Still, there are names that can’t help but grab your attention. For example, the late Frank Zappa was a legendary musician, composer, songwriter, actor, filmmaker, and producer, but one of his most enduring legacies is that he has children named Dweezil, Moon Unit, and Diva Muffin. In recent years, other celebrities have named their children Apple, Bear, Blue, Bronx, and North, to name a few, and God only knows why, but there’s bound to be a story behind each one.

Names tell stories. When Buck and I were expecting our first child, we thought we had come up with the best name possible. We knew that he would be a boy. Buck didn’t want him to be a junior, but we loved the idea of family names. We thought it would be nice to honor our fathers, and we came up with the idea of naming our son with his grandfathers’ middle names: Buck’s father’s middle name was Eley and mine was Robert. We thought Robert Eley Blanchard was quite a handsome name…until I told a friend one night what we were thinking. Steeped in Southern tradition, she thought that we were brilliant, because where we heard “Robert Eley Blanchard,” what she heard was “Robert E. Lee Blanchard.” She thought we were even more clever because his initials would be REB…reb.

Now there was nothing wrong per se with any of that, except we hadn’t even thought of the name in that way, much less intended it. That was not the story we wanted our son’s name to tell. We were simply trying to honor our own two fathers, and we had wanted our son’s name to tell that story. We didn’t want to spend the rest of our lives explaining the distinction, and we certainly didn’t want our son to have to explain it. Instead, we named him after a favorite uncle, which is a different, but wonderful, story in itself.

Jesus’s name tells a story, too. The story begins when angels visit Mary and Joseph. In Luke’s gospel, the angel Gabriel visits Mary to tell her that she will bear a son and name him Jesus. Matthew’s gospel tells a similar story about Joseph; an angel appears to him in a dream and tells him that Mary will bear a son, whom Joseph is to name Jesus. Each of the angels reminds Mary and Joseph not to be afraid.

The story continues, of course, when the angels’ promise that Mary will bear a son comes true and then when Mary and Joseph do indeed name that baby Jesus. That naming is what we celebrate today, the eighth day of Christmas, New Year’s Day, and what is known in the church as the Feast of the Holy Name. Under the Law of Moses [Leviticus 12:3] and the customs associated with it, a baby was circumcised and named on the eighth day after his birth. Thus, when Mary and Joseph named their baby Jesus, they were following both the law and the angels’ instruction to name him Jesus. The Feast of the Holy Name recognizes that the naming of Jesus was both a fulfillment of the law (that the child is named) and of God’s purposes (that the child’s name shall be Jesus).

And, of course, Jesus’ name itself tells a story. In Hebrew, the name Jesus means “Savior” or “Deliverer.” Both in his person and his name, Jesus reminds us that he was and is the salvation from whatever evils – political, social, and spiritual – have bedeviled us from the time that he lived on earth until now…and for all time. His name itself invokes his presence; as he promised his disciples, “where two or three gathered in my name, I am there among them.” [Matthew 18:20] The Prayer of St. Chrysostom, familiar to so many of us from the service of Morning Prayer, echoes that promise: “Almighty God…you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them…” [Book of Common Prayer, 102] The third century theologian Origen noted that Christians “draw their courage not from incantations but from the name of Jesus and from the commemoration of what he has done.”[1]

And that is how the story of Jesus’s name continues in our lives. We remember his name by the stories of his life, death, and resurrection, and we are ourselves healed and inspired. We recall his name in the sacraments of our liturgies, and we are reminded of his ongoing presence among us and our challenge to be more like him. But there is more, and this first day of a new year is a good time to remember that the power of Jesus’ name is not limited to study and worship. His name itself reminds us that rebirth, redemption, and resurrection are the heart and soul of who we are. His name itself reminds us that his story is our story.

So in this new year, resolve to call upon the gift of Jesus’ holy name. Let the name itself be your prayer. Say it often. Say it wherever you are. Silently or aloud. You’ll discover that you are both more aware of the divine presence in everyday life, in those around you, and in yourself. As Brother Curtis Almquist of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist says,

Knowing someone’s name gives a certain access, intimacy, and power. You have Jesus‘ name. Use it. Breathe the name of Jesus as you make your way through the day. Breathe the name of Jesus for yourself and for others, those far off and those who are near. Jesus will live up to his name for you. Breathe the name, use the name “Jesus,” because there is power and identification in claiming and using and sharing a name.”[2]

Names tell stories. Jesus’ name reminds us that we are all part of his story. In this new year, let him be a part of yours.
[1] Arthur A. Just, Jr., ed. Luke, Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture. New Testament (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003), 44.
[2] Curtis G. Almquist. The Twelve Days of Christmas: Unwrapping the Gifts (Lanham, MD: Cowley Publications, 2008), 57.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent

St. Mary's Sermons ,

by Louise Browner Blanchard, Rector

The Third Sunday of Advent

Matthew 11:2-11

 “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

Today, that’s the question a very different John the Baptist from the one we saw last week asks the disciples to ask Jesus. A week ago, huge crowds from Jerusalem and throughout Judea were converging on him in the wilderness, clamoring for him to baptize them in the River Jordan. He was full of bravado: dressed in camel’s hair, eating locusts and wild honey, and exhorting those who came to see him to repent. He was a prophet, fully aware of the power that he wielded. He also knew what he was talking about: someone more powerful than he was coming. 

John had recognized that that more powerful person was Jesus since before either of them was born. It was John the Baptist who leapt in his mother Elizabeth’s womb when a pregnant Mary visited, John who fulfilled the prophecy to “prepare the way of the Lord,” John who saw the heavens open and the Spirit of God descend on the newly baptized Jesus, and John who heard the voice of God declare, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

But now John’s not so sure. He’s alone in a prison cell, far more subdued than the confident wild man who confronted us last week. His outspokenness had eventually offended Herod, the Roman-appointed king of Judea, who imprisoned him. The time in prison has taken its toll, and the John we see today is vulnerable and in distress. He’s heard about the growth of Jesus’s ministry—the preaching and the healing, the disciples—but here he sits alone in jail, facing the likelihood of his death by gruesome execution. Is this what the coming of the Messiah means for him? Is this what it means to “prepare the way of the Lord”? It’s not surprising that John feels forgotten, even forsaken. He can’t help but ask for some reassurance: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

It’s a question that comes up for most of us sooner or later. We’re doing the best we can, living as faithfully as we know how. Some of us may do so better than others, or at least appear to, but the truth is that we want to be good children, siblings, spouses, parents, and friends. Most of us make the world a better place. We want to help those less fortunate than we and contribute to the betterment of society. We want to embrace the notion that the best is yet to come. For many of us, our faith helps us make sense of how to do that, both in the ways that it prescribes a path for living and in the ways that it offers comfort along the way. 

That is, until it doesn’t. We may escape the imprisonment that John the Baptist endured, but more of us than we can imagine will endure the less visible imprisonment of abuse, addiction, depression, and despair. And sooner or later, all of our worlds are invaded by disease and death, accidents and disasters that simply don’t make sense. The world can be a very scary place. At some point, even the most faithful among us find ourselves doubting and questioning, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

It’s as good a question as any to ask on this third Sunday of Advent. Traditionally, this Sunday is known as Gaudete Sunday, gaudete being Latin for rejoice. It marks the turning point of the season, when we focus less on preparing ourselves to be worthy of the incarnate Christ, and rejoice more in the promise that he will come again. Often such rejoicing requires some intention on our part: we don’t just receive joy; we have to cultivate it, to look for it, to practice it.

It’s one of the reasons that we celebrate Advent, this season of light, during the darkest time of the year—to practice seeing light in the darkness. The collect with which we start the season begins “Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light…” We practice casting way and putting on by looking for the light in these dark days, in the faint light of dawn and the vivid paint colors of dusk. We practice by lighting a new candle each Sunday of Advent and turning on candles in the windows and lights on the trees. We practice by reminding ourselves that we are looking for how God is at work in the world now toward the fulfillment of God’s greater promise for all time. 

In answer to John’s question, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Jesus reminds the disciples to show John some light, to tell him what they hear and see: that in the midst of the darkness of Herod’s reign, the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. In the midst of the darkness of Herod’s reign, Jesus and the disciples invite John to see that God is at work in the world.

Advent reminds us to do the same. It is easy to be sure that Jesus is the one when everything is going well, and blessings seem abundantly clear. It is much harder when darkness descends. So practice. Practice being and seeing the light, for yourself and for those who can’t see through the darkness themselves. Jesus indeed is the one who is to come. Rejoice!

A Sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King

St. Mary's Sermons ,

by Louise Browner Blanchard, Rector

Luke 23:33-43

No matter how you voted in the presidential election 12 days ago, these days it’s hard not to be mesmerized by the flurry of activity surrounding the president-elect’s Manhattan residence, Trump Tower. The building itself is stunning: 68 all-glass stories, with the name Trump emblazoned across and throughout, a five-story atrium and 60-foot waterfall in the lobby, and gold and marble detailing from top to bottom. Outside, media from all over the world jockey for space with supporters, protesters, police, and people who want to shop at Gucci and Tiffany. Limousines and motorcades deposit VIP visitors, from past and present mayors of New York to the Prime Minister of Japan, from loyal supporters to former detractors. Inside, the president-elect and his advisors field phone calls and messages from world leaders, government representatives, and celebrities, as they meet to do the very important job of choosing who will run our government in the days and weeks and years to come. The President of the United States is the most powerful position in the world, and every aspect of the unfolding transition to President-elect Trump seems to emphasize that.

What a striking contrast to the other leader we celebrate today! Today is the last Sunday in the church year before the new church year begins with Advent next Sunday. It’s known as Christ the King Sunday because it celebrates the reign of Christ for all eternity. It reminds us, as Matt noted last week, that as Christians, our hope ultimately rests in a power above and beyond this world.

So what does that hope look like? Well, at first glance, not very hopeful. This time last week, Jesus was speaking to crowds in the Temple. Now he hangs on a cross in a place that is so barren and grim that it’s called The Skull.  Religious leaders scoff at him, Roman soldiers mock him, and one of the criminals who hangs next to him derides him. This time last week, who expected that this is where we’d be? This is a passion gospel, one we’re used to hearing on Good Friday, after preparing for all of Lent to hear it. We don’t expect it here: post-election, pre-Thanksgiving, almost Advent.

Unexpected and out of order…and yet, isn’t this what happens to all of us? Life—and death—occur unexpectedly and out of order. We’re organized, we have plans, this year we had polls, our lives are unfolding in certain predictable ways. But then something happens, and everything changes in an instant. The body that we’ve faithfully fed and exercised betrays us. The person whom we assumed would always be there walks out the door. The job that seems ideal is eliminated. An accident, a crime, or a diagnosis suddenly turns our world upside down.

Whatever the extent to which he expected it, Jesus’s world is turned upside down by the relentlessness of those who pursue him and the betrayal of those whom he trusts. But Jesus never gives in to the temptation to use his authority in the ways that the world has come to expect. From the beginning of his ministry, when he refuses the devil’s temptations to use his power for earthly gain, to the end, when he declines to save himself from crucifixion, he embodies an awareness that the kingdom of God has a glory and power set apart from the way riches and influence are customarily wielded in this world. Jesus understands that worldly power and wealth are not gifts that require God’s intervention; people seem to acquire those pretty effectively on their own. Instead, Jesus champions the poor and powerless, forgives and heals indiscriminately, and comforts those who follow him—an assurance of God’s faithfulness now and in the world to come, wherever and under whatever circumstances we may find ourselves.

And Jesus prays. At first, he does so in the wilderness and deserted places, and indeed that continues for the rest of his life on earth. But his disciples notice his practice of prayer, and they ask him to teach them how to pray.

  • The version that is recorded in Luke’s gospel is short and to the point: “Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins, for we forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial.” [11:2-4]
  • The night of his betrayal, when Jesus is not yet fully accepting of the fate that awaits him, the disciples are witnesses to his prayerful example, when he expresses his anguish by praying. “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me,” he says, and as he gathers strength from that prayer, “yet not my will but yours be done.” [22:42]
  • And then he is where we find him this morning, on the cross, deserted by the people who have followed him and ridiculed by those who have been threatened by him. Yet once again, he prays, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.” [23:34]

The criminal who asks Jesus to remember him hears that prayer and recognizes that what is taking place is not what it seems. It seems as if those who had set themselves against Jesus have triumphed. It seems as if the crucifixion will be the end of the story. It seems as if Jesus will soon be dead, no longer a threat to the order that the Jewish authorities and Roman rulers have fought to establish and maintain. But in the horror and finality of what seems to be taking place, that one criminal recognizes the power inherent in Jesus’s prayer.

“Remember me,” he says to Jesus. “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Somehow this criminal—who likely had never met Jesus until their fates were intertwined—recognizes something other than defeat and disgrace in Jesus’s fate, and his own. Despite crushing evidence to the contrary, he sees the promise of that the man hanging on the cross next to him improbably offers. “Truly, I tell you, you will be with me in Paradise,” Jesus assures him. And in that brief exchange at the very end of the two men’s earthly lives, we, too, receive a bold promise: that even in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles and overwhelming odds, whether we are perpetrators or victims, there is something more. This is what hope looks like.

“Remember me.” It is essentially the prayer of so many people to whom Jesus brought health and healing throughout his earthly ministry. Those who were beside themselves because they or someone they loved—a child, a relative, a friend—was sick or dying. “Remember me.” Those who were hungry and gathered by the thousands to be fed. “Remember me.” Those who were outcasts because of situations beyond their control, like lepers, and people with demons, and Samaritans. “Remember me.” Adulterers and tax collectors. “Remember me.” And Jesus remembers them, every single one. He heals them and those they love. He feeds them. He calls them as his disciples. He dies alongside them. There is no situation too devastating for him not to remember.

“Remember me.” It’s our own fragile assertion that all is not as it appears to be, that illness and heartbreak, evil and destruction will not ultimately triumph, that earthly goods and power are not the last word. “Remember me.” It is a prayer born in the hope that we are not alone in the belief that, if God is indeed restoring all things in his well-beloved Son, we are included. There is something beyond death; there is strength, not weakness, in opening ourselves to it; and it can transform our lives on this earth even as it promises life in the hereafter.

On the church calendar, we have reached an end, the end of another year. It comes too quickly for many of us and not soon enough for others. We may feel unprepared for what follows, whether our own lives are in turmoil, or simply marked by an undercurrent of unease. But the unexpected appearance of the crucifixion in today’s gospel is not so much the dire warning that it first appears, but the promise of what is to come. There will be new birth, and Christ will come again. And that is a hope above and beyond this world.

Remember.