Advent 4, 2013

Preached at St Paul's Cathedral, Buffalo, NY on Advent 4, 2013



In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

After eight years of knowing one another and working together here, at St Paul’s Cathedral, it’s remarkable the small unimportant things I know about the Dean, and the silly things she knows about me.  For example, we know each other’s favorite Christmas carols, and will get excited on the other’s behalf when those carols come up during the Christmas season.  And, of course, knowing us, they are not the most common of carols.  They are somewhat theologically dense, by some definitions could be considered obscure, and certainly are not the kind that show up in Christmas concerts in public schools.  My favorite is Tomorrow shall be my dancing day, and it’s a carol attested as being based on lyrics from a 14^th century passion play in Cornwall, and originally written in Cornish.  The Dean’s favorite is A Stable Lamp is Lighted, and was written in 1961 by the American poet and Pulitzer Prize Winner, Richard Wilbur.

So, for those of you for whom those carols are familiar, I’m sure that the music and words are running through your brains, and, like most Christmas carols, they will stick in your head for days.  You’re welcome: that’s my little late Advent gift to you.

But, as those two carols are running through your minds, you may notice a similarity between them.  Even though 400 years separate them and even though they were written in two different languages and on opposite sides of the Atlantic, they share a form: they are intended to be sung at Christmas, but only the first part of their texts is about the events at Christmas.  Most of the lyrics in both carols are about the rest of Christ’s life.  They include lyrics about Our Lord’s baptism, His temptation in the desert, his entry into Jerusalem, His betrayal by Judas and judging by Pilate, His Passion and Death on the Cross, His descent into Hell, His resurrection and His ascension.  These are not carols summed up with shepherds, stars, an ox and a smiling baby.

Those who experienced Christ throughout His life, in all of those events referenced in the carols, would have been keenly aware of the type of Messiah that had been promised them, and that the Messiah would establish the Kingdom of Israel, and that His Kingdom would never end.  If you recall from Fr Don’s sermon last week, that Kingdom was expected to be immediate, immanent, and eternal.  It was to be triumphant.  In fact, the proclamation of the Kingdom started long before Christ’s public ministry: The Archangel Gabriel told the Blessed Virgin that her child would take David’s throne and that His Kingdom would never end; the angels told the shepherds to go see the Messiah who had been born for them; the wise men from the east came seeking the King of the Jews.  The Kingdom would be ushered in by the child in Bethlehem.  And in His ministry, Christ often told those listening that the Kingdom was close, and alluded that the Kingdom was already around them.  After His death, many thought that the Kingdom would be established at His return.

So, when is the Kingdom to be established?  Has it been already?  Gabriel proclaimed Christ as King.  Christ preached the Kingdom.  So, is it here already?

There is a theological opinion that has had a major influence in faith communities in the early 20^th century, including the Episcopal Church, that the Kingdom is both already here, and not yet here.  Christ already reigns as King, though his Kingship is still yet to come.  At first, it sounds impossible, and like a silly and meaningless theological argument.  But remember the carols.  Remember the value of pairing together things that are already unfolding, and things to be completed in the future.  At Christmas, we know that the Passion will be coming. At Christmas, the Kingdom is already and not yet.

When we start to acknowledge the Kingdom blossoming around us, we are given the grace to see the mystical flowering among the mundane.  When we accept that the Kingdom has already been inaugurated, and that heaven has been wed with earth, we open our souls to see how heaven comes among us.  Accepting that the Kingdom had been built in our midst is accepting that humanity and angels, the lost and the saints dwell in the same sphere.  As an example, the clergy of the Cathedral, like all Episcopal clergy, are charged with the solemn duty and privilege of praying the Office each day for themselves, for those under their care, and for the good of the whole Church.  Often, that means that each of us prays Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, and Compline by ourselves.  And of course, it can be a bit weird in the office when the versicle comes up: the Lord be with you.  And you respond to yourself: And also with you.  And so, there is a tradition I was taught that, when praying the Office alone, you pray the versicle as normal: The Lord be with you, and you allow the angels who have joined you to pray to respond: and also with you.  The Kingdom is both already and yet to come.

There is a famous Episcopal parish, world-renowned for the richness of its liturgy, and the beauty of its pageantry and worship.  But, last year, when I visited, I was shocked: I expected the building to be a jewel box, with every surface gilded and carved and polychromed.  I expected a riot of color and light and embellishment.

What I discovered, though, was a nave with walls of white plaster, and a monochrome carved hammer and beam ceiling, with a muted tile floor.  The nave of the church was dimly lit, and, frankly, a bit austere.  This was supposed to be a cardinal parish of the Anglo Catholic tradition in the Episcopal Church?  Where was the beauty of holiness I had thought to encounter?  Had 150 years of incense stained everything beige???

But, then I saw the chancel, the part of the church where the altar was stationed.  It was gold, marble, an explosion of sumptuous hangings and with saints peeking out from niches, seven silver lamps hanging from the gold-vaulted ceiling, 6 foot tall candles blazing on the altar, flowers blossoming at the foot of the altar and steps.

For you see, at that parish they take seriously the belief that in the liturgy, the gates of heaven are thrown open, and angels and saints join us in worshipping the Lord who comes among us: who first came among us on Christmas, and who comes among us again in the Eucharist.  At that parish, walking down the nave to receive Christ in the Eucharist at the altar railing the chancel, you immediately recognize that you have entered Heaven itself, and that you are kneeling to meet your Lord in the Sacrament, that the Kingdom is already.

When we begin to see the Kingdom as all around us, our attitudes towards others will change: we truly know that all people are our neighbors.  We experience that our beloved dead are not gone but changed.  That our kindness or smallness, our generosity or selfishness is not an act that affects just us, but resounds through all creation, and is felt both by mortals and by angels.

Advent has prepared us, through longing and penitence, to open our hearts to hope, and to journey to the Christ child at his birth among us, to rejoice in the opening of the Kingdom that his birth announces.  Christmas is often a time that we more easily experience the Kingdom as already around us: we feel the joy of the season, we are moved to charity in thanksgiving for the blessings of our lives, we take especial care for those in need.  But we see it most clearly when we see a child at Christmas time.

TS Eliot, in his poem, The Cultivation of Christmas Trees, writes about how children more easily understand the mystical, more easily enter into the wonder of Christmas.  Eliot writes “of the child, for whom the candle is a star”.

A candle can also be a star, can be a harbinger of the newborn child.  Hidden under bread and wine, Christ can come among us again.  In Advent, we can compress thousands of years of expectation into four weeks.  In carols, we can both be comforted at the birth of the Christ child, lament his suffering, and rejoice through it all. Though appearing to be neighbors, or strangers, or the poor in need of help, many of us have, as St Paul wrote, “entertained angels unawares”.

As Advent folds soon into Christmas morning, I entreat you to look around for the Kingdom at work in the world that you experience.  Look around for your King and with joy, journey to Bethlehem to welcome Him again, as he begins again building a Kingdom around us: A Kingdom that is, like us, already and not yet.