He Finds Us Wherever We Are On The Blue Orb: A Homily For Easter Sunday

Preached at All Saints Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, on April 5th, Easter Sunday.  Readings: Jeremiah  31:1-6, Acts 10:34-43, John 20:1-8

Jesus said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?

I often try to begin a homily by trying to connect scripture with something happening in the world, but today I’m going to go outside the world.  Sometime tomorrow, on Easter Monday, the four human beings aboard the Artemis spacecraft will travel around the moon.   They will transit the moon’s dark side, the hemisphere that is forever turned away from the sun.  During this time the astronauts will be cut off from radio contact with earth, and as they travel around the moon, they may beat the record of Apollo 13 as travelleing the furthest away from Earth as anyone has ever been.  

Now I confess that like most preachers, I love a good metaphor, and as a child who was allowed to stay up and watch the moon landing, I’m a sucker for a space metaphor.   Last night at our Vigil service, Father Gordon spoke of the risen Jesus coming into the light.  The return of Artemis from the dark side of the moon, coming back into the sun’s light and regaining contact with home, can be one way of helping us understand the miracle of Easter Sunday.

After all, both the Easter story and the Artemis journey involve a large rock, on the far side of which is darkness and the unknown, and when it is rolled aside, or orbited, there is the return to light and reconnection.   It’s a tempting metaphor, but when we consider it, the differences are greater than the similarities, and those differences may help us understand Easter the better.

I’m not an engineer, but I’ve known enough of them to know that they are never happy until the unexpected and the possibility of failure are reduced as much as is humanly possible.  Mistakes are analyzed and improvements are made; think of the Challenger and the catastrophic failure of the O-rings.  The Artemis may well be the most over-engineered machine in human history.  It’s trajectory and the time of it’s return from the dark side of the sun will have been calculated to the second.   Countless hours will have been spent designing and planning to reduce risk and uncertainty.

The Resurrection of Jesus, however, is the triumph of the unexpected and the impossible over what humans then and now know to be real.   Jews believed that Elijah and Moses were taken up into heaven, but no one had been raised from the dead, unless you count Lazarus whom Jesus had raised. 

The chief priests worried that the body might be stolen and rumours of Jesus’ return might be spread, but they did not expect resurrection.  The disciples, scattered and demoralized, had not expected it.   As Fleming Rutledge puts it, they had seen their beloved master mocked, beaten, and “pinned up to die like an insect, an object of utmost contempt and public disgust”.   When Mary goes to the tomb in John’s gospel, she takes no expectations with her.  There is only her grief and her immense sorrow.

Ask anyone who has grieved, and they will tell you that death is terribly real.  If you’ve been with a loved one at the time of death, you will recall the moment that they were truly gone, and only the cooling shell was left.  I recall the moment I poured the ashes of my wife Kay into her favourite lake.   There was a brief swirl of dust on the surface of the water, and then nothing to say she was ever there.  Death is real.  Grief is real.  Absence is real.

If Easter is to be understood as the return of Jesus to life, then it will be rejected by anyone who values reason, evidence, and proof.  I’ve known many churchgoers, and some preachers, shy away from the actual resurrection because it seems so unbelievable.   It’s far easier to say that the disciples experienced some renewal of hope, some spiritual sense of communion with Jesus, than it is to say that the Jesus rose from the dead, stood before them, spoke to them, and comforted them.  I love John’s gospel for it’s account of the resurrection.   The focus is firmly on one person, Mary, and the terrible reality of her grief.   Several times she is described as “weeping”.   Jesus sees the weeping Mary and knows her, whereas she mistakes him for the gardener.   Perhaps her eyes were dim with tears, and certainly, to see her friend alive is the last thing she is expecting.   After all, no one in the gospels really understands what we understand, that Jesus has defeated death.  

We don’t know how Jesus speaks her name, “Mary” , though I like to imagine it is with affection, as one speaks to a friend.  And while his refusal to let her hold onto him is mysterious, there is a definite connection between the two.   I heard it said that Jesus may well long to hold her, but knows he can’t.  It’s a comforting thought.  But more comforting, I think, is the promise that Jesus’ return from the dead has created a new kinship and new connection to God:  “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”  So as is always the case with John’s gospel, there is deep theology, but there is also very personal and human relationship between the divine and the human.

Let me finish by returning briefly to our friends on Artemis.  On their way towards the moon, they discovered something that a previous generation of astronauts discovered.    The entire blue orb of the Earth in their capsule windows, a sight not seen by humans for many years.  As I listened to the NASA feed, I heard the crew speak in awe and humility of how the sight of earth reminded them of their common humanity and kinship with all the people back home.  In that moment of technological and scientifc achievement, they had what might be described as a mystical experience.

John’s gospel of course begins witb a similar cosmic mysticism.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.  He was with God from the beginning, through him all things were made”.  This “mighty word” as the hymn puts it can defeat sin and death, but still find the time to appear to and comfort his friend Mary.  Jesus has the time to do this, because all time is his, and as a shepherd, he will always seek out his own.

So if it comforts you, give yourself permission to think of yourself as Mary, with all of your burdens, whatever pains or sorrow yor loneliness you may carry.  You are just one human amidst the billions who live on that blue orb, and yet you are known to Jesus.  He is with you, as he is with you.   He calls you brother, sister, friend.  He is light, and he is love.   Death cannot hold him back, and death cannot keep you from him.  This Easter Sunday, as he does every day,  wherever we may be on the blue orb of the Earth that he created, Jesus comes to each of us,  as Saviour, brother, and friend, and he will always be with us, in the land of the living.

 

What We Need to Know on Good Friday

 Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 3 April, 2026.  Texts: Isaiah 52:13-53; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4:14-16,5:7-9, John 18:1-19:42.  

Some of you will perhaps have watched the recent installation of Sarah Mullally as the new Archbishop of Canterbury.  Or, to use her full title, the Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally, Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire, and 106th Archbishop of Canterbury.

I was amused at the time of her installation when one journalist said she was the first woman Archbishop in 1400 years, as if before that there had been other women archbishops.   Another journalist didn’t mention her by name, but mentioned the name of her husband, as if if it was enough to describe her as a wife and a woman.  

In fact, the new Archbishop is supremely accomplished.  Before she was ordained in 2001, she was the government’s Chief Nursing Officer for England, and she was the first woman to be the Bishop of London, in which role she was quite successful.  But, on March 25th, during her installation service, none of this mattered.

At the start of the service, when she performed the ritual knocking on the outside door of the cathedral with her crozier, she was received by a group of schoolchildren.  The ceremony began with them asking: 

“Who are you and why do you request entry?”

The Archbishop says

“I am Sarah, a servant of Jesus Christ, and I come as one seeking the grace of God, to travel with you in his service together.

The Children say

“Why have you been sent to us?”

The Archbishop says “I am sent as Archbishop to serve you, to proclaim the love of Christ and with you to worship and love him with heart and soul, mind and strength.”

The Children say “How do you come among us and with what confidence?”

The Archbishop says “I come knowing nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified, and in weakness and fear and in much trembling.”

Our own Bishop Andrew, who was there, said recently that there was no mention of her resume or of her earthly knowledge or achievements.   In that moment, what mattered was that she was Sarah, a servant of Christ and of his church, and all that she needs to know and profess is Jesus Christ and him crucified.

Those words are the same words that Paul used when he presents his credentials to the church in Corinth.  In his first letter to that church, Paul writes that “I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ and Him crucified”.  For Paul the message of the cross was all that mattered.   In a world which worshipped power and wisdom, the message of the cross spoke of abundant love poured out for all.    Likewise the work of the Spirit, the gift to all who keep the cross in their hearts, is a gift which gives us access to what Paul calls “the mind of Christ”, the infinite reservoir of love and humility which allowed the lord of the starfields to become the servant of our sinful humanity.

My friends, today we come to see and to cherish Jesus Christ and him crucified.    We come to the cross at a time when so many in our world are attracted to visions of arrogance, power, and cruelty.   We come to the cross amidst calls for detentions,  deportations, deprivations of status and citizenship.   

We come to the cross to see the powers and lies of the world exposed as the vain and threadbare things they are.  Where some would worship golden statues and surging markets and  planet-eating technology, we come to a God who breaks them by means of the offering of his broken body, given for all humanity.

The man on the cross, that rejected messiah, that beaten prisoner, that suffering servant, takes the powers of the world and exposes them as the dead and deadly things they are, and in doing so, he ushers in a second creation, one of freedom, love, and dignity for all the beloved children of God.

Beloved, this place we have to come to may be as bleak as its name, Golgotha, the place of the Skull, but it is the cradle of a new world.  Today we learn all that we need to know, Jesus Christ, and him crucified.

Choosing the Darkness: A Homily for Maundy Thursday

 Preached Thursday, April 2, at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto.

Lections:  Exodus 12:1-14, Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, John 13:1-17,31b-35

You may think you’re here by choice.  Maybe you volunteered to assist in worship tonight, maybe you’re here because choir practice follows our service, or maybe you’re here because you are one of those rare people who enjoy all the mystery and richness of Holy Week.   Well, those are all good reasons for you to be here, but, my friends, let’s be clear that none of us are here by choice.  We’re here because Jesus wants us to be here (I am indebted to Fleming Rutledge for this idea - see her The Undoing of Death, 2002 pp 69-77).

“You did not choose me but I chose you.”   So says Jesus to the disciples in John’s gospel, after he has washed their feet in the upper room.  We can imagine that by the time he says these things, the disciples are already somewhat dazed by what has happened.   Their teacher has done the work of a servant by washing their feet.   One of their number, Judas, has left after Jesus accused him of treachery, a stark reminder that Jesus will soon be taken and killed.  Jesus has given them a new commandment, that they “love one another” (Jn 13.34), and he has promised that his Father will send them the Holy Spirit.  

In other words, Jesus promises the disciples that they are chosen because they are God’s beloved friends, and will never be left alone, no matter what happens.

  

Jesus says and does all of these things as he prepares to go into darkness.   He lays down his robe as he will lay down his life.  The lord of the universe accepts the humiliating role of the servant as he will accept the humiliation of the cross.  As he cleanses their feet, he cleanses their sins.   As the beginning of the gospel reading tonight says, “he loved them to the end”.  Jesus goes into the darkness because he loves his friends, because he loves us. 

Tonight, as our worship ends,  the church will be stripped of its finery.  We will leave in silence and darkness, a reminder that our lord has chosen the silence and darkness of death for our sakes.   Our lord Jesus has chosen to go into darkness.  We know he will return in glorious light, and all will be well, but tonight, let us hold onto this moment.   Let us hold onto this awful and wonderful knowledge, that our lord has chosen the darkness because he has chosen us.   

Compassion and Strength: A Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent

 Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, on 22 March, 2026, the Fifth Sunday of Lent.  Readings for this Sunday:  Ezekiel 37:1-14; Psalm 130; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45

43 When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” 44 The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

One of the abiding memories I have of my hospital training before my ordination was of visiting a couple after their child was stillborn.   I will never forget the scene.  The father was a large bear of a man, and he as holding a little wrapped bundle and sobbing uncontrollably.    The mother on the other hand was surprisingly serene.  She had her arm around the man and was gently comforting him.   I have never before or since witnessed such raw grief and such compassion.   

Compassion is the only human answer to grief, I think, but compassion can be hard.  One of the greatest tests of love and friendship is to come alongside someone in their moments of deep grief.   It can take courage, because death and grief are terribly, shatteringly real.  It’s harder when the person grieving is also angry.    We wonder what we can say, or how we can explain tragedy.     Real compassion refuses trite words like “This is all part of God’s plan”.   Real compassion just holds your hand, sits with you, and makes the coffee, because that’s about all that we can do in the face of grief.

Today’s gospel fully acknowledges the reality of death.   Lazarus, Jesus’ friend, is dead.  He is entombed in a cave, the entrance sealed by a stone.   Decay has settled in.  The body stinks.  Furthermore, death lurks round about as menacing potential.  Jesus has already attracted much negative attention from the authorities, and Bethany is near Jerusalem, the seat of power.   The disciples warn Jesus that he could be killed if he gpes to Lazarus, and when Jesus does go, they seem to accept that they may be killed with him.  So we need to acknowledge the reality of death in this story, as Jesus does.

Jesus in the story experiences both compassion and grief.  He makes the decision to go be with his friends, even though he knows the risks involved (we’ll leave aside for the moment why he delays the trip).  He goes because “[he] loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus” (11.5).   He faces their grief, but he also faces their anger, for when they both say “Lord, if you had been here, our brother would not have died” (11.21, 32).  What both sister’s mean, clearly, is “but you weren’t here”.  Sometimes being with the grieving means bearing the brunt of their anger. So Jesus does what a compassionate friend would do, but he is also grieving himself.

It’s sometimes quoted humoursly that the shortest verse in all of scripture is “Jesus wept” (Jn 11.35) but we need to dig past our complacency to really appreciate those two words.   John has already twice told us that Jesus loved Lazarus, and many of those watching take this as a sign of love.   And just before this, when Jesus sees Mary and others weeping for Lazarus, Jogn tells us that “he was greatly disturbed in spirit (KJV uses the word “groaning”) and deeply moved” (Jn 11.33).  

How do we imagine Jesus’ tears?   Do you see him dabbing a few drops from his eyes?  Do you see him with his face in his hands, struggling for composure?  Do you see him having what we call an “ugly cry”, face contorted, wracking groans from his throat, eyes and nose streaming?  I cried like that once in my life, the day my wife Kay was cremated, and part of me wants to think that Jesus had a ugly cry, because it means I can connect my God with my experience.   Can we dare to say that Jesus’ tears were for the whole human condition?

I know I would want to say that, because, otherwise, what was the point of his trip to Bethany?  We can get hung up on Jesus’ decision to delay this trip until Lazarus is dead, so that the miracle is greater (“so that the Son of God may be glorified through it” 11.4),, but that’s part of John’s focus on Jesus performing a series of signs to show his identity and God’s glory.  Surely the point of the story is that Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, and that he does so, not as a theological display, but out of sympathy and love.  And of course, this story, situated just before Jesus enters Jerusalem for the last time in John’s gospel, and situated in time for us just two weeks before Easter, is to show that Jesus has, and will, overcome death for our sakes.

So this is a story about Jesus’ compassion, but it’s also about his power.  I said early on that death in this story is real, and surely that is the  point.  Death is real, and it’s the enemy in this story, as it’s the enemy of our human condition.   And Jesus brings more than compassion, be brings power, the power that brought creation into being and he brings the glory of the Father.   This is a fight that Jesus accepts, and it’s a fight that he wins for all of us.   Because when Lazarus shuffles out of the tomb, and Jesus says “unbind him”, I think he’s unbinding all of us, freeing us from all the things that oppress us.

Last week I talked with a man who said he had had a good life but he had recently been diagnosed with a very aggressive type of cancer and his prognosis was bleak.    He told me that he was willing to talk to God, maybe even ask for help, but he didn’t want to commit to any particular idea of God, and he didn’t think he could accept the Jesus of the Nicene Creed, and he didn’t believe in the physical resurrection of Jesus.  I didn’t try to correct him or tell him that he was wrong, but I did ask him, since you know that your cancer is real, wouldn’t you want a God who is just as real?

Personally, I love Jesus as a teacher, but what seals the deal for me is that Jesus can fight death and win.   I’m not really interested unless that part of his story is true, and I think that’s the point of the Lazarus story.  I want a Jesus who can call us all to come out of our tombs.  I want a Jesus who can bring the stillborn to life, like the one I saw all those years ago, or the one lost at birth last week to parents I know.  

I want a Jesus who can stir the ashes, who can knit the bones together and give all the dead breath and life.   So I put my faith in the Jesus who raised Lazarus, the Jesus who has the compassion to stand with us in our times of sorrow, who has the power to raise us and unbind us.   And, since the Lazarus story continues in John’s gospel with a party, I put my faith in the Jesus who will sit with us and laugh with us, because he is, after all, our loving friend.

Sighted By The Shepherd: A Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent (A)

Preached at all Saints, Collingwood, on Sunday, 15 March, 2026.  Readings for this Sunday, the Fourth in Lent (A):  1 Samuel 16:1-13; Psalm 23; Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-4

Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. (Jn 9.32)

If you’ve been coming regularly through Lent this year, you will remember that we’ve heard a series of long readings from John’s gospel.  Today’s, about the man born blind, may be the longest of these readings.  Indeed, I felt for Father Gordon as he read it, and thought that if there was ever the church equivalent of the military fitness tests that he and I once did, then reading this gospel would probably be part of that test.

At the heart of today’s gospel is a story of healing which serves as a sign of Jesus’ identity as the son of God.  Healing has been much on my mind lately, because as some of you know, healing was the focus of this winter’s Après Ski series, which ended last night.  Every Saturday from mid January to last night, we heard healing stories and prayers from both the Old Testament and New Testaments.   We learned that healing miracles were a particular focus of Jesus’ ministry, and that Jesus and the Holy Spirit give power to the disciples and apostles to heal in God’s name.

At each of the Après Ski services we heard meditations from members of the regional clergy team as well as laypeople, and so today, I’d like to draw on some of those meditations to help us understand our gospel reading and what it might mean to us who in are turn are looking for all kinds of healing.

So let’s begin the elephant in the room, skepticism.  We are blessed with more medical resources than any generation in human history,.  These resources are there to mend us and cure us, but we should not put our faith solely in MRI machines, or in drugs or an excessive concern with wellness.   As Sharon Goldsworthy noted in her talk last night, it’s good and right to believe that God can work through the skill of medical practitioners, but from time cures and recoveries happen that can’t be explained.  Our skepticsm shouldn’t overcome our belief that God can and does heal in answer to prayer.  In our gospel story today, the Pharisees refuse to believe that Jesus has acted to heal the man born blind, despite his testimony.

Second, tesimony and belief are important.  The climax of the story is not the curing of the man born blind, because you don’t put the climax of the story at the beginning.  Rather, the climax of the story is when the man says “Lord I believe” and worships Jesus.  Scripture reminds us consistently that healing begins with belief.   Belief can take many forms.  In her meditation, Rev Sharon pointed to the nameless Hebrew slave girl who encourages her master, the Syrian general Naaman, to seek healing from theSo Jewish prophet. Elisha (2 Kings 5: 8-14).   Even though she is enslaved and far from home, this girl trusts that her God is still merciful and good, even to her captor.    

And in one of her meditations, Rev Amy reminded us that sometimes healing is about taking the hand that Jesus offers us, as when Jesus asks two other blind men, “Do you believe that I am able to do this?”   So faith that Jesus wishes to be with us and to help us is part of healing.   It’s noteworthy that at the end of today’s gospel, Jesus calls the Pharisees blind, in a spiritual sense, but also signifying that they do not want what Jesus has to offer.

In today’s gospel reading, physical healing is in this case the restoration of sight, but as Rev Amy and others noted in their Apres Ski meditations, healing can take many forms.  Sometimes it can be an afflcition like being mute, or lame, or paralyzed, and sometimes it can be freedom from demonic influence.  In all the gospels, healing begins with Jesus seeing and caring for the burdens that we carry.   These burdens can be various.   Rev Amy noted that healing can be more than physical - it can come when we are feeling hopeless, or as she noted in a passage from Matthew, when we are “helpless and harassed”.    In our gospel reading today, the man is harassed and oppressed by the religious authorities when he refuses to deny that Jesus has done a good thing by healing him.

Sometimes, healing is about Jesus bringing people out of isolation.   Rev Gordon and others noted that often in the gospels, healing returns people to their families and comunities.   The healing of lepers in is one example.   In today’s gospel, the man born blind pays the price for speaking up for Jesus because he is expelled (literally thrown out, ekballo) from his synagoge community (this is a common Johannine theme, tensions between Jews who decide to follow Jesus and those, the majority, who don’t recognize Jesus as Messiah).   So what I think is the most important line in the entire gospel comes at verse 35:  “Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him he said”.  This is Jesus acting out his mission as the Good Shepherd (see Jn 10), who has come to bring the lost back to the fold,

Being “helpless and harassed” can be because of  physical or mental illness, or depression, or poverty, or addiction, or being unhoused.    In such situations, our situation is inevitably worse when we are isolated.   We feel that no one cares, that no one can help us, and we give way to despair.   Healing begins when Jesus searches for us as a shepherd searches for a lost sheep.   

Likewise healing begins when the church as a community of disciples joins in that search, makes room for the lost sheep, and sees them as a valued member of the community.   On Thursday night, the Rev. Maggie Helwig gave a talk on her book about an unhoused community, Encampment.   She said that the church’s mission includes firmly believing and acting on the principle that all people are created equally by God, that all people bear the divine image, and that all people are worthy of love.

To summarize, healing is about God’s desire that we flourish in our lives.   In our gospel reading, healing is about sight, but as we’ve seen throughout our Après Ski series, healing can take many forms.   Perhaps the best way to understand healing is not necessarily health, as in an end to a disease or a disability, but wholeness, meaning inner peace and trust that we are loved and upheld by Godard by their community.

I would say too that our prayers for healing should not just be for ourselves, but for God’s work in bringing the created world to a better place, to be the world that God always intended it to be.  When Jesus spits on the earth and turns it into mud, that is surely an echo of God’s act of creation in forming Adam from the clay.  When we pray for healing, we are praying to God the Creator, trusting that God is not finished creating good things. In a world where so much energy is devoted to hate and destruction, our prayers for healing align us to God’s good creative purposes, and our prayers express the hope that God’s good work is not yet finished.   When we pray for healing, we are joining our thoughts, energies, hopes and actions to those of God, the same God who loved the world into being, and who will not stop until that world is healed.

Hope Is Better Than Resilience: A Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, and Good Shepherd, Stayner, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, on 8 March, 2026, the Third Sunday In Lent.   Readings for this Sunday: Exodus 17:1-7; Psalm 95; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42

“…we also boast in our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, 4 and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,” (Romans 5:4-5)

One of the modern virtues, it seems to me, is resilience.  When people speak of someone’s resilience, they usually mean it as a compliment.   To be resilient means things like being unflappable, quickly bouncing back from a crisis, or, as Shakespeare put it, suffering “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”.   Resilience is sometimes equated with the lyrics from that Kelly Clarkson song, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.   

The problem with resilience is duration.  For how long can a person be resilient?   If we’re talking about a load-bearing wall, say, then we expect that wall to be resilient 24/7, every day.   But people aren’t designed to be reslient for ever.   We need a break.   If you think of that old David Bowie/Queen song, “Under Pressure”, there’s only so much pressure we can take.  And the problem with the “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” mentality is that it only works if you’re not killed, but the odds are against you.  You won’t grow infinitely stronger.  At some point you’ll be killed.   

St Paul didn’t know the word “reslience” but he did understand the idea of pressure.  Indeed. the Greek word he uses in Romans for “afflictions” (“we also boast in our afflictions”) is thipsis, which literally means “pressure” or “pressing together” though he also uses it in the sense of “affliction” or “suffering”.  

The idea of anyone “boasting in their afflictions or suffering”, as Paul puts it, seems on the face of it absurd.  There are monsters, like Pete Hegseth and his master, who boast in the sufferings of others, thus revealing their morally deficient character.  But the many people suffering under bombs and missiles as I write this, whose homes have been leveled and who are living under tents or tarps, what can good can they say about their stuation?   What can they boast of?  

Paul goes on to say that “endurance produces character”, which is true, in that there are always some brave and good souls who run towards the explosions so they can dig out and help the trapped and injured.    Such people surely display good character.    And while Paul goes on to say that “character produces hope”, hope can seem illusive in the face of great suffering.    When there are more explosions than there are helpers, it’s hard to see hope lasting for long.  So again, resilience only gets us so far, and after would lie cynicism and nihilism if it wasn’t for our faith.

Here’s something that a Christian and a cynic/nihilist would agree on, that suffering is meaningless.   The Christian writer and monk Thomas Merton once write that “Suffering has no value and no power of its own”, which means that there is no reason to be proud of our resilience.  Suffering, Merton wrote, only has value accidentally, because it brings us to the mercy of God in Christ.

On the cross, Jesus accepted suffering and death because of love for us.  As Paul says in our second lesson, “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us” (Rom 5.8).   Lent brings us closer week by week to the cross, the place where we know that we are saved because Christ takes all suffering, ours and his and gives them into the infinite love of God, which destroys all evil and all death.

This brings us back to what Paul says about how “character produces hope”.  The lesson of the cross, therefore, is hope.  The character or trait of the Christian is to put one’s hope and faith and love in the love of God shown in the cross.  If we resist God’s love, and only love ourselves, then suffering will always seem evil because it only threatens to destroy us, and so there no resilience, no hope.  But if we love God and love others as God leads us to love them, then our suffering ultimately does not matter.   But as Merton says, the Christian knows that suffering will only destroy that which in us does not matter,  because what truly matters is the love of God which saves us.

Last Sunday in John’s gospel we heard John’s famous line, “for God so loved the world”.   Let this be our hope, then, that only the love of God in Christ and in us can save a world that seems so full of suffering. 

Keeping Calm and Faithing On: A Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent

 Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, and St Luke’s, Creemore, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, on 1 March, 2026, the Second Sunday in Lent.   Texts for today:  Genesis 12:1-4A; Psalm 121; Romans 4:1-5, 13-17; John 3:1-17

 

“… in the presence of the God in whom [Abraham[ believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist”.  (Romans 4:17

This last week I went to a Town of Collingwood event on heritage buildings and how to look after them, which was interesting and useful, because our parish has two heritage buildings.   But it also occurred to me that our faith has a heritage aspect, in that it is handed down by those who have gone before us.  

It would be interesting to go around the church this morning and hear your stories of how you came to believe.   Maybe for some it was a personal decision, reached entirely independently of anyone else, though I suspect that such cases are rare.  For most of us, I would be willing to bet, our faith depends on the faith of someone who was an example to us.   Perhaps it was a priest, or a Sunday school teacher, a friend or a neighbour, or somebody you read about.  Whoever it was, somebody’s belieif, their acts of kindness and encouragement, their serenity in the face of adversity, or some combination of those things, made us more willing to believe in God and to follow Jesus.

So history is important because our faith as Christians is founded on the past.   As John Kirby reminded us in the latest issue of All Saints Alive, our vestry meeting last Sunday was the 170th such meeting in our parish’s history.   Today I’ll be going to St Luke’s, Creemore, for their vestry meeting, and they’ve been holding vestry meetings for 175 years.   Vestry season reminds us that we are here because of the faith, labour, and generosity of those who went before us.   As the hymn “The Love of Jesus Calls Us” puts it, we are blessed by “the generations who faithfully believed”.

The idea of spiritual ancestors who have handed down their faith to us is a prominent theme in hymns and also in scripture.   The Book of Hebrews in the New Testament, for example, includes a long section which is a sort of religious Hall of Fame of heroes of the faith that we can look to for inspiration.   And in our second reading today from Romans, Paul is focusing on Abraham as a model of belief for all believers.

Romans is in part a letter that tries to reconcile Jewish and non-Jewish (gentle) followers of Jesus in the small house churches of Rome.  Paul’s stategy here is to help these disparate believers to find common ground by pointing to their common ancestor, Abraham.  This is a bold strategy because Jews regarded themselves as children of Abraham and Paul is saying, actually yes, you are, but Abraham was not really Jew, all the law that God gave to Moses for the Jews came later.  Abraham, or Abram, as he was known then, was just a good man who believed in the promises of God, and likewise, gentlies can be good people who are saved because they believe in the promises of God.

And if we look at our first lesson, Paul is right, Abraham is truly a model of heroic faith.   Consider the story that Genesis tells.  Abram as he was known then didn’t know God at all.  He wasn’t a Jew because Judaism didn’t exist yet!  But when God called, Abram listened and obeyed, even though the request was incredible.  To just up and leave your kinfolk in the ancient world was unthinkable.  Your kin and clan guaranteed protection and belonging.   Abram was being asked to leave all that security behind.

Furthermore, God asks Abram to go to “the land that I will show you” (God doesn’t say where it is and what it’s like, he just promises that there will be a land at the end of the journey) and God further promises that “I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great” (Gen 12:    ).  How precisely God will do that when Abram and his wife Sarai are both 75 is not explained either.   Going on a bus tour or cruise with a well defined itinerary and amenities is one thing, but I’m not sure many of us senior citizen types would be keen on the kind of trip that God asks Abraham to embark on.

So yes, for Paul, Abraham is a spiritual ancestor who showed great faith and in turn received God’s grace and generosity in making him the founder of religions and, in a way, the founder of our church.   But Genesis leaves so much unside.  Was Abraham troubled by doubts as he packed his camels?   How did that conversation with Sarah go when he told her they were moving and going to …only God knows where?  What did Abraham’s son  Lot think about this?  And at night, in his tent, in the middle of the wilderness, what went though Abraham’s head?  Did he wonder if he might just have gone mad?

One of the helpful things I read this week was to think of the word faith as a verb, as in, “to faith”.   To faith, or faithing, can be understood as a process.   Think of faithing as putting one foot in front of another, one day after the next, trusting that God is both leading us and travelling with us.  Faithing is Jesus sending the disciples out to heal diseases and to preach.   Faithing is God journeying with us when our vision is clouded by doubts and sadness, as when the risen Jesus walks alongside the two disciples on the way to Emmaus.  Faithing is that Psalm 23 walk through the dark valleys that our lives sometimes take us through. Faithing is the the perseverance of a congregation meeting for yet another vestry meeting and yet another year of keeping the lights on and the doors open.

Keeping the lights on and the doors open is an example of faithing.   We do it because like Abraham we believe in the goodness of the God that keeps calling us to a better place.  We do it because we believe, like Paul, that God keeps wanting to add new members and new people’s to the family of God.  We do it because we want to honour the faithing of the generations before us who have brought us to this place.   

And we keep the lights on and the doors open because we believe in the God who does wonders, who, as Paul said, “gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist”.   Someone once said that tradition is the living faith of the dead”.  We have been given a living faith handed down by are those who have ceased their journey and who are not dead, but merely resting in God’s care.

This season of Lent is long enough that it is often compared to a journey,   Our Lenten journey will take us to Easter and the empty tomb is , will take us to a place where God will do new things and create a new existence where death and sorrow will be no more.   We make this journey not as heroes but as ordinary people that God believes in even when we struggle to believe in God.  And so,in that spirit,  let us keep calm and faith on.