The First Sunday of Lent

Luke 4:1-13
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread." Jesus answered him, "It is written, 'One does not live by bread alone.'" Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, "To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours." Jesus answered him, "It is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'" Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,' and
'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'"
Jesus answered him, "It is said, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.


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

Welcome to the desert. We get the sense from the gospel text this morning that, just as Jesus spent forty grueling days in the desert, on this first Sunday of Lent, we are also entering our own wasteland…our own 40 day journey through a spiritual desert, called Lent.

Now I know a little something about living in a desert. I lived for four long years in the West Texas town of Abilene. This is a place where tumbleweeds literally tumbled down the dirt alleyway behind our rickety little apartment. Where a few times a year the sky would grow dark and a thick layer of red dust would quickly descend and cover the town. These dust storms were like sandpaper to the face. Throughout the long summer you could count on the sun beating down with blazing temperatures near the century mark. It didn’t help that our little Honda’s air conditioner broke during the middle of one of those hot West Texas summers. One year it had been so hot and dry that a plague of millions of big black beetles squeezed their way from the dry cracks in the dirt and invaded our town. I remember the beetles crunching underfoot on the library steps and how we plugged up the cracks under our doors with old T-shirts to keep the beetles from creeping in. Now there are beautiful things about a desert, like the big blue sky with nothing to block your view, but overall, let me assure you, living in a desert is a harsh and empty existence.

This wasn’t the only desert I found myself in during my four years in Abilene. I also found myself in what you might call a spiritual desert. There were times during my four years in Abilene that I found myself not even moving my mouth during the singing of a hymn at church. I had long periods without prayer. There were times that I questioned my faith deeply. What was ironic, though, was that I was supposed to be on a religious mountaintop, not in a spiritual wilderness. I was in seminary after all. But while my mind worked overtime, my soul was dry and empty. I was in a spiritual desert….

Now in our gospel text this morning, we heard about Jesus living for 40 days in a desert. Jesus was “famished” the text says—hungry, thirsty, hot. You can imagine that living in a desert for 40 days might make you a little thirsty and hungry, not to mention dusty, sweaty, sunburnt. And here the devil—the very personification of evil—tempts Jesus with turning stones to bread. To make a little snack for his empty stomach, a tall glass of lemonade for a parched throat. This is something Jesus will do for his followers (remember water to wine and the multiplication of loaves and fishes)—but something he won’t do, here in the desert for himself. Something greater was at stake in this story. Jesus wasn’t about to sell his own integrity to the devil for a bite to eat.

We can easily see that Jesus’ experience in the wilderness wasn’t just physical, but also spiritual. Jesus came face to face with his deepest temptations. These weren’t just temptations with food and drink, but about the core of his identity. The devil—that gnawing inner voice of selfishness—tempted Jesus on a deeply spiritual level. Here Jesus was being tempted with the offer of complete power and authority on earth…if only he would sell his soul. And since we know Jesus was tempted in every way like us, we know that these temptations were indeed real for Jesus. True doubt must have entered his mind. Doubt about who he was and what he really believed in and stood for. This is the kind of doubt that comes to you in a spiritual desert.

We might have a tendency to read stories of Jesus’ temptation retrospectively with our rose-colored Easter glasses on. As if Jesus never had doubt and never had fears and was never tempted by anything. But this morning, we are challenged to read this text realistically through our dark Lenten glasses. Where temptations, where loneliness, and where the feelings of guilt, are all real, persistent, and pervasive. Even for Jesus.

There is another biblical story, this one in the Old Testament, about another desert experience, alluded to in this morning’s text from Deuteronomy. After God delivered the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, they went wandering in a Middle Eastern desert for not forty days, but forty years. This was also a time of temptation and doubt for the Israelites. Even though their God had brought them out of extreme suffering, we read stories about their losing faith in God. They would have rather gone back to Egypt. There they had enough good food and clear cold water. There was no worrying where their next meal will come from. Out of fear, they built for themselves a golden calf idol, hoping that perhaps this god would make things better. The Israelites were desperate to leave the desert.

Though similar, these two desert experiences—Jesus’ and the Israelites’—are different in one respect. The Israelites were constantly seeking to evade their desert experience. God provided manna, but they wanted gourmet food and drink, their milk and honey...now. Enough of this manna! They were ready for the Promised Land. In contrast, Jesus embraced his desert experience. In fact, he walks into the desert of his own accord.

These two ways of living in the desert hold a lesson for us as we enter Lent. This is not a festive time. Lent is our spiritual desert. We symbolize this by replacing the flowers with dried, crooked twigs of wood. The colors are purple for penance. We recite The Great Litany as confession for our sin. There are no “Alleluias.” Easter is not yet here. We cannot hurry Easter up, make the time pass more quickly, or arbitrarily decide to celebrate it before its arrival. Rather, we walk into the desert, and orient ourselves here in the desert. We do not enjoy our time, but we must embrace it. This will be a hard time. This is a time when we come face to face with our temptations. We come face to face with our doubts. We come face to face with our losses. It is a time to be endured.

We must enter the desert deliberately.

I personally first came to realize this spiritual dimension to the desert during Lent 2004, when I found myself on a spiritual retreat at the Holy Cross Monastery, an Episcopal Monastery on the West bank of the Hudson River in New York State. Now here was another kind of desert. During early spring the trees were still bare of leaves, no sign of life. The cold Hudson River flowed past the windows of the monastery, leaving a chill just glancing at it. A monastery by nature is a Spartan atmosphere, a desert no matter the season. It is simple and empty. The chapel with its cold stone tiles and white washed walls. There was no religious decoration. For Lent, the one cross at the east end of the church was covered with canvas: God’s face was hidden, or so it felt. These monks took daily vows of silence, which we were invited to partake in, from nine in the evening until after breakfast the next morning, every day. We got up in the middle of the night to say prayers, as we yawned and rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. This was a kind of self-imposed spiritual desert, at a lonely monastery during Lent 2004.

But what I learned about Lent at the Holy Cross Monastery was that a spiritual desert is not spiritually empty: it is full of doubt, fear, anxiety, and uncertainty; here our spiritual lives become open before us against the backdrop of severity. We learn our weaknesses, we number our fears, we count our losses, name our temptations. In the blazing harsh light of the desert, these hidden things become very clear.

Perhaps we, like the Israelites, prefer to avoid the kind of clarity the desert provides. We would rather be comfortable, stay secure, in an easy land nowhere near the desert. But the way out of the desert is the way through it; to deny the reality of the desert is simply to fruitlessly wander it, as indeed the Israelites did, for forty long years. It is Jesus who shows us that desert doubts and temptations must be accepted if they are to be conquered. Like Jesus, we must walk into our own deserts knowing that there our deepest fears and strongest doubts will confront us. For if we do, the desert will teach us that it is the fear of doubt that paralyzes our spiritual life, not doubt itself. Doubt is the flip side of the coin of faith. Doubt is not the opposite of faith, but an integral part of faith itself.

The surprise of the desert, the place we feel very alone—alone with our fears and doubts and struggles, the place where we feel that God is very far away—the surprise, is that God is not far away at all. Rather, God is in the desert. We read in Matthew and Mark that at the end of his temptation, Jesus is tended by angels from God. We read of God’s faithful nurture of the nation of Israel throughout the forty years in the desert. This is a little counter-intuitive, because when we are in our spiritual deserts, or in the midst of doubt, or loss, we may feel so far away from God. But in our vulnerability, our emotional and spiritual nakedness, God draws near, just within arms’ reach.

So what might we do to embrace our own Lenten desert? Many of us have traditional Lenten disciplines. The Israelites wanted their gourmet dinners, but Jesus fasted; some of us might choose to fast, to give up chocolate, ice cream, meat. Jesus responded to the devil with deeply ingested biblical wisdom; some of us might choose to attend one of the special Lenten studies offered here at St. Barnabas. Jesus entered the desert without any possessions; some of us might choose to clean out our closets, downsize our accumulated possessions. I encourage you to engage in whatever practice is beneficial to you; whatever practice enables you to strip away the pretense of security which we all cling to in our daily lives, and enter the uncertainty of the desert. These traditional disciplines are not an end in and of themselves, but they are pointing to deeper spiritual realities. They are tools to unearth our temptations and weaknesses in the deepest most hidden parts of our souls, so that we can lay them bare for God on the floor of this desert. They allow us to bring our brokenness and sinfulness, our fears, doubts, and our losses…. And in our honesty, in our transparency, in this void, we will find that God is indeed in the desert. Amen.

The Feast of Christ the King

John 18.33-37
Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”


The Feast of Christ the King…. I had never heard of this….

You may not know I am not a cradle Episcopalian. I first became a Christian in another denomination fifteen years ago when I began High School. The church I came from, where my mother had grown up, and which my wife and nearly my entire extended family are still members of, is what you might call the lowest of the low-church churches. On the whole, that tradition is not very fond of Christian feasts and holidays. You’re more likely to hear a Mother’s Day sermon than a Christmas sermon. Even Easter often goes uncelebrated. Instead of “Christ is Risen,” you might hear the phrase “Every Sunday is Easter.” Needless to say, I had never even heard of Advent or Epiphany, let alone the Feast of Christ the King.

It was only in seminary that I first discovered the richness of the liturgical year, and began to appreciate the formative significance of Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter, and Pentecost, the major seasons and days of the church year. So when I recently chose to preach on the Feast of Christ the King, I realized that I had no idea of its liturgical or theological significance. So where better to turn than our Book of Common Prayer; I was quickly disappointed, however, when I couldn’t find a mention of Christ the King anywhere. Instead, the Book of Common Prayer merely calls today “The Last Sunday after Pentecost.”

So we might just think of today as the last Sunday of the liturgical year. We have followed this year through Christ’s birth, death, resurrection, exaltation, and most recently a long period of ordinary or what some people call “green” time, reflected in the predominate liturgical color of our vestments and hangings. We may be tempted to think of this green time that we’ve been in for more than half the entire year as being devoid of theological meaning, for there is no particular feast capturing our attention. We might think that the business of the church really gets done mostly during the holy and high holy days. But in fact, Jesus’ life of thirty years (as well as our own) was a majority of green time. Green time symbolizes time of growth. This is when most Christian formation happens, through the everyday events of normal life. So we might think of today merely as the last day in a long period of time, just before the exciting part of the Church Year begins. But we would be wrong.

Through a little research I learned that this holy day was in fact instituted in 1925 in the Catholic Church by Pope Pius XI, and later placed as the last Sunday of the liturgical year. As described in his encyclical, the Pope intended the feast to be an antidote to secularism. He sought to emphasize Christ’s sovereignty as a way to combat a secularizing culture. So, historically, this holy day has roots in a view of Christ as the King who can conquer culture and bring it under his dominion. Christ is seen as having an absolute empire, even extending to civil affairs.

This research left me feeling unsatisfied about the meaning of the Feast of Christ the King for us today. In particular, this did not seem to square with the gospel text for today. So what does the first resource for our faith—Holy Scripture—and particularly the gospel for the day have to say to us about Christ the King?

There is no denying that Scripture uses the image of King as one of the many images to help us understand exactly who Jesus is. Jesus is said to come from the royal line of King David and he is called by some “The King of Israel.” One of his followers anoints him with oil, a symbolic action that the Jews used to “crown” their kings. Jesus rides on a colt into Jerusalem near the end of his life, as, according to Luke, his followers shout: “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” Jesus is portrayed by the later apostles and theologians as a king reigning over the kingdom of heaven.

Today’s gospel text from John is taken from the passion narrative—the last week of Jesus’ life, but here today Pilate’s interrogation of Jesus’ identity is highlighted. Pilate asks “Are you the King of the Jews?” Not being a Jew himself, but a gentile, Pilate wonders why Jesus has been brought before him, since some honor Jesus as King, while others want him dead. Jesus could have said: “Yes, of course I am a king; now can you please release me so I can go tend to my kingdom, or do I have to send forth my great army of disciples to smite you?” Instead, while Jesus does hint at something about his kingdom, he doesn’t answer a straightforward “yes” or “no.” Jesus dodges the question. So Pilate repeats: “So you are a king!?” But Jesus dodges again, answering: “You say that I am king.”

Why doesn’t Jesus respond straightforwardly? This is, perhaps, frustrating to us. One can imagine that maybe Pope Pius XI found it frustrating; surely it would have been easier to establish a Feast for a Christ who actually claimed the title “King.” On this day when we celebrate and proclaim Christ’s kingship, the gospel text forces us to ask, why didn’t he claim it himself?

Jesus doesn’t deny he is a king but he knows that saying “yes” won’t communicate the truth of his kingship either. He’s not that kind of king. Part of Jesus’ evasive answer is helpful here. Jesus says: “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over…. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Ironically, we have here in this story a representative governor of the secular king—the Roman Emperor Tiberius—interrogating a figure whom we today celebrate as the more significant King. These Roman leaders have a history of using force and abusing power, which they will shortly unleash against a peaceful Jesus. And Jesus isn’t interested in going head-to-head with this secular authority. So Jesus’ answer is careful not to confuse Pilate that he is a violent king. His kingship is not like that of Tiberius’ and his power is not like that of Pilate’s. Jesus won’t turn his disciples into an army to defeat his enemies. Jesus is neither a Conqueror nor an imperial power.

Pilate’s question was “Are you a king?” but a better question for us might be “What kind of king is Jesus?” This is a question Jesus might actually have answered. Even in his response to Pilate, Jesus is clear that he is not preoccupied with victory through force. His kingship is something other. Pope Pius XI’s intent was to establish Christ as King as a challenge to secular power. Jesus does, indeed, pose a challenge to secular power; but it comes in an odd form. Jesus’ challenge to the ruling power of the world does not come in the form of setting himself up as an opposing King. Instead, his challenge comes from underneath, from a position he takes with the powerless.

For it is with and among the powerless that Christ chooses to make his kingdom, a kingdom very different from Pilate’s province or Tiberius’ empire. Through his teachings in the gospel we can piece together an image of what this other kind of kingship and kingdom looks like. Christ’s kingdom is a place that is near us, among us, but something that is also beyond us, hoped for, and expected. It is a place where diseases are cured and injustices righted. It is a place where money doesn’t equal power and authority. It is a place that is for everyone, but especially for the poor and weak and people on the fringes of society. It is a place of repentance and humility. A place centered around the gospel of transformation and reconciliation. It is a place where God’s will is done.

Jesus is the kind of King who will foster these realities. The kingship of Jesus is not so much his authority over, but his relation to his kingdom. So in some sense, while Jesus might be thought of as a Conqueror over the systemic evils that plague this world, he does not Conquer by force, but by love and example. Jesus encourages rather than enforces. Jesus inspires rather than imposes. Jesus becomes an example for us through his unselfish deeds and actions. He calls us to participate in and further the work of his kingdom. He leads us by getting his hands dirty, rather than sitting upon his throne. Jesus is not a Conquering King.

And so Christ the King’s challenge to secular power comes in an odd form indeed: a challenge to the habits and assumptions of the mighty, in the form of a King who chooses not even to claim the title, a King for the powerless, with no throne but with dirty hands, with no army but with a message of peace.

Jesus as king is not a leader who rallies us to fight violently or radically against culture or the forces we fear. Instead, he motivates us to imagine an alternate king and kingdom of peace and love that will energize ourselves and others in the everyday green time that characterizes our lives. Not just to imagine, but he motivates us to have the faith to create it through the work of our own hands, which are Christ’s hands on earth. To feed, clothe, educate, and assist the poor. To protect, support, and empower women and children at risk. To participate in dialogue and action that will help end inequality and draw together people divided by race and class. To refuse to believe that power lies only within force and wealth. Christ is King wherever we work to create these realities for ordinary people, in the details of daily life, with God’s help.

Just as Christmas is the culmination of Advent, the feast of Christ the King, “The Last Sunday after Pentecost,” is the culmination of green time. As we, together, strive to bring Christ’s kingdom into the everyday reality in which we live, we find that yes, Christ is indeed King.

Evangelism & Conversion

Mark 6: 7-13
Jesus called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits. He ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics. He said to them, "Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them." So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.


Evangelism… Conversion…

For a long time, these two words—conversion and evangelism—provoked images in my mind of self-appointed preachers eager to exploit others in the name of religion. “Evangelism” and “conversion” were religious four letter words. Dirty words.

Our gospel text today doesn’t use these two words exactly…. But “evangelism” and “conversion” are the main ideas in Jesus’ instruction to the twelve. Jesus sends his disciples out two by two with a particular mission, message, and method suitable for that context. The disciples are called to go out and evangelize so that the people will be converted. Evangelism and conversion are essential to our gospel text this morning. Certainly, these are two words with which we Christians must come to grips.

For many Christians today, the words “evangelism” and “conversion” still mean something like making Christians out of those who have different beliefs. That process normally involves another Christian “evangelizing” the non-Christian, who then in turn has a “conversion” experience. This is likely to be a very personalized experience of religious guilt and repentance.

Something like this describes my own initial coming to faith. At age fourteen a Boy Scout leader of Southern Baptist flavor attempted to convert me during an intense Texas thunderstorm; he made me fear for my eternal soul in view of the impending rapture—you know, all that “Left Behind” stuff. In response I took it upon myself to read the gospels in the course of two weeks, and in them I encountered a Jesus of compassion, not of condemnation. Soon after that I told my mother I must start attending church, and after some conversations and study, I was baptized. My experience was clearly a “conversion.”

After my “conversion” you could accurately call me a fanatic. I had a closet full of Christian T-Shirts. I carried a Bible in the halls of my high school. But I firmly believed my particular doctrines were the only correct ones. And I was compelled from somewhere deep within to convert others myself. On one particular occasion I remember attempting to evangelize a classmate in high school—an Episcopalian! While I was probably quite insistent and perhaps a little belligerent, I was impressed by his patience and surprised that he had coherent reasons for his own beliefs, however unbiblical I may have thought they were. You see, the impulse towards evangelism, whatever other psychological reasons there may be, is rooted deep within some because of their own profound experiences of conversion.

I have traveled some mental distance since I was a student in high school. A few years ago in seminary a professor of pastoral ministry asked me what my theology of evangelism was and I replied that I didn’t believe much in evangelism. I had seen my fair share of emotional manipulation and Christians believing their way was the only way….

And so today I am trying to re-embrace the ideas of evangelism and conversion. I am trying to understand anew those words I once fully embraced, and then later winced at.

We must reclaim these words “evangelism” and “conversion,” because they are Christian words. They should not be monopolized by those who wish to manipulate under the guise of the word “evangelism.” And they should not even be monopolized by those who are sincere, but feel compelled to make everyone in their own image. These words “evangelism” and “conversion” are good ones. These are ideas our Jesus of peace and compassion meant seriously.

So, then, what are conversion and evangelism re-envisioned? One way of considering what conversion might be is to examine those times we’ve experienced conversion or a change of heart. Most of the time I only know I’ve experienced conversion some time after the fact. These experiences are unexpected and become most clear in retrospect. These are the moments that clarify the essential meaning of life. I realize a truth more deeply in a way that I haven’t previously. I experienced this in my first reading of the gospels. Not only did I learn some of the story of the person I would claim as Christ, but I learned something more deeply and essentially about myself—that I was called to a life of compassion.

Sometimes these moments happen alone, when we find within ourselves a connection to our essential being. I have had moments like this recently when reflecting as a new father on my childhood and inner emotional life. I have had moments like this when reading a good fiction book or watching a good movie that so hit on the reality of human experience that I was compelled towards compassion. Conversion draws us more deeply into our true and godly selves.

Sometimes these moments occur in interaction with others. For example, when I’ve tried so hard to change someone else, but end up changed myself. Perhaps when in getting to know a person I disagree with or am annoyed with, I come less to care about the disagreement or annoyance and more about the person as a human being.

I think Frank Griswold says it best in a recent interview. Reflecting on his term as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, he says:

I’ve stressed throughout the last nine years conversation as a discipline. Conversation and conversion come from the same Latin root. And if you open yourself deeply in conversation to the other, you may in fact be converted in some way—changed in your perceptions by what you hear. That may not mean a change in point of view, but it may mean change at the level of the heart. You may see the other not as enemy and threat, but the other as brother or sister even though they have a different point of view. And out of that can emerge a capacity to be together in common action.[1]

Bishop Griswold hits on an important aspect of conversion here. Conversion is less about changed beliefs and more about reconciled relationships. Conversion draws us more deeply into real community—into the diversity of the people of God—into the diversity of God.

When in these moments of conversion we hit on something very true in our selves, when we encounter God in interaction with another, we are moved to refine ourselves. We attempt to adjust our counterproductive behavior. We make a step towards reconciliation. This is conversion.

These moments of conversion I’ve described in a general way are often triggered by something—an action, perhaps intentional or unintentional. The trigger might be a book or a beautiful piece of art. It might be a good conversation with a friend over coffee. I believe that “evangelism,” understood as something deliberate, ought to be seen as an attempt to elicit these moments of conversion in our common lives. Evangelism is the active attempt to draw people more deeply into themselves, their community, and their understanding of God.

And yet we know that evangelism and conversion cannot be coercive. Jesus teaches us this in our gospel passage. If the message is not welcome, move on--"shake off the dust that is on your feet." Enlightenment and change only happen if people are willing. It isn’t something that can be forced. Conversion must be natural and organic. So evangelism must also be natural and organic, not something with a plan or a handbook.

Evangelism need not mean carrying a bible to school or work. Evangelism is not preemptive. Evangelism is not selling someone on our flavor of Christianity. It isn’t even convincing someone that ours is the most tolerant denomination. Evangelism is opening the door to a deeper reality, a bigger truth, making possible the inbreaking of God into human life.

This kind of evangelism may result in conversion in unexpected form. For us Christians, our moments of conversion may lead us more deeply into our faith in Jesus. But when we trigger moments of human conversion through our deliberate way of living, we may trigger someone else into living their own different path in a deeper way. A Buddhist may become a better Buddhist. A Jew a better Jew. A Muslim a better Muslim.

Perhaps the conversion we make possible for someone else occurs in a form we do not even recognize, as God works in that life in God’s own way… not ours.

So this morning I’m not giving you a plan for Christian evangelism. Rather, I’m suggesting that we Christians not be scared of the words "conversion" and "evangelism." I’m suggesting that we open our hearts to being deeply converted to the cosmic love of God and open our eyes to the ways in which we may make that love manifest in others’ lives.

[1] Frank T. Griswold III, interview by Terry Gross on NPR’s “Fresh Air,” June 28, 2006.

A Thanksgiving for the Birth of a Child

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates

Michael Chapel
Trinity Church, Princeton, NJ
Sunday, June 25, 2006

Parents:
Jennifer J. Thweatt-Bates & J. Brent Bates

Grandparents:
Patricia P. Thweatt & Bruce T. Thweatt
Malda L. Bates & J. Leroy Bates

Celebrant:
Anne Marie Richards

Celebrant: Dear Friends: The birth of a child is a joyous and solemn occasion in the life of a family. It is also an occasion for rejoicing in the Christian community. I bid you, therefore, to join Jennifer and Brent in giving thanks to Almighty God our heavenly Father, the Lord of all life, for the gift of Clare to be their daughter. Let us say together:


Celebrant & People (The Magnificat):
My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior;
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed:
the Almighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his Name.
He has mercy on those who fear him
in every generation.
He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel,
for he has remembered his promise of mercy,
The promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children for ever.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit:
as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.

Celebrant: Let us pray.

O God, you have taught us through your blessed Son that whoever receives a little child in the name of Christ receives Christ himself: We give thanks for the blessing you have bestowed upon this family in giving them a child. Confirm their joy by a lively sense of your presence with them, and give them calm strength and patient wisdom as they seek to bring this child to love all that is true and noble, just and pure, lovable and gracious, excellent and admirable, following the example of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

O gracious God, we give you humble and hearty thanks that you have preserved through the pain and anxiety of child birth your servant Jennifer who desires now to offer you her praises and thanksgivings. Grant, most merciful Father, that by your help she may live faithfully according to your will in this life, and finally partake of everlasting glory in the life to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O God of Compassion, in our thanksgiving, we remember those who have had difficult births, fully aware of the fragility of life. We especially remember our friends Joe, Laura, Sophia, and Ira. Grant, most merciful God, that Ira will grow healthy and strong and confident in the knowledge that he is truly loved. Amen.

Almighty God, giver of life and love, bless Jennifer and Brent. Grant them wisdom and devotion in the ordering of their common life, that each may be to the other a strength in need, a counselor in perplexity, a comfort in sorrow, and a companion in joy. And so knit their wills together in your will and their spirits in your Spirit, that they may live together in love and peace all the days of their life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O eternal God, you have promised to be a father to a thousand generations of those who love and fear you: Bless this child and preserve her life; receive her and enable her to receive you, that through the Sacrament of Baptism she may be sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own for ever; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.


A Beatitude of St. Clare of Assisi, in honor of whom this child is named:

Happy, indeed, is she to whom it is
given to share the sacred banquet, to
cling with all her heart to Him,

Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts
admire unceasingly,
Whose love inflames our love,
Whose contemplation is our refreshment,
Whose graciousness is our joy,
Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing,
Whose remembrance brings a gentle light,
Whose fragrance will revive the dead,
Whose glorious vision will be the happiness of all the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem. Amen.

Blessing
May God the Father, who by Baptism adopts us as God’s own, grant you grace. Amen.

May God the Son, who sanctified a home at Nazareth, fill you with love. Amen.

May God the Holy Spirit, who has made the Church one family, keep you in peace. Amen.

Katharine Jefferts Schori

With the birth of Clare I've been somewhat distracted from the events of the General National Convention of the Episcopal Church during the past week and into this week. But I was very pleased to find out on Sunday evening that Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori was elected as the next Presiding Bishop.

I liked Jefferts Schori best out of the seven candidates, since I think she has the boldest vision for the mission of the church. Jennifer is correct in saying that we liked her regardless of her being female. However, I am elated that such a positive symbol of gender equality occurred during the same week of the birth of my daughter Clare, who will grow up seeing a strong and capable female leader of the church.

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates

Clare Madalyn Thweatt Bates was born on Wednesday, June 14, 2006 at 4:09 p.m. at the University Medical Center in Princeton, NJ. She was 9 pounds 4 ounces and 21 inches long. Click here for more pictures.

The Next Presiding Bishop

This summer at the General Convention of the Episcopal Church a new Primate (or Presiding Bishop) will be elected to succeed Frank Griswold. So for those of you Episcopalians out there (or those who aren't, but are interested anyway), who do you like best among the seven nominees? I think the video interviews of the candidates at the Episcopal News Service are most enlightening, but the short biographies are also helpful.

My first choice by far after listening to the interviews would be Katharine Jefferts Schori, Bishop of Nevada, who seems the most theologically articulate and comprehensive in her global social justice vision. I also like Stacy Sauls, Bishop of Lexington (Kentucky), J. Neil Alexander, Bishop of Atlanta, and Henry Parsley, Bishop of Alabama, but the others are unimpressive to me.

What do you think? Who would you vote for right now, if you could, and why?

Does anybody still read my blog after my lengthy respite?