Sermons Archives Page 11 of 12 - Cranbrook Christ Church Anglican

The Joy of Vulnerability

The 4th Sunday of Easter is traditionally celebrated as Good Shepherd Sunday. All our readings this morning had to do with sheep and shepherds—but I’m not going to talk about any of that. I want to focus on the last line of the gospel. Jesus said, “I came that you may have life, and have it abundantly.”
Part of this abundant life is to talk about the joy of being vulnerable. That’s a strange concept. We don’t like to be vulnerable. “Never let them see you sweat”, the commercial tells us. So where’s the joy?
The idea comes from the work of Brene Brown, who researches vulnerability, courage, and shame. She started her research convinced that life is all about connection, about connecting with ourselves, with others, and with God. This is what gives meaning and purpose to life, she thought.
But as she began to talk to people, they told about being disconnected. Instead of being loved, they told stories of heartbreak … of not being good enough, not being smart enough, not being beautiful enough. They told stories about shame and fear, what she calls “excruciating vulnerability.”
So she decided to change her research focus, to study vulnerability, figure it out, and then outsmart it.
In thousands of stories and interviews, she discovered that people who have a strong sense of worthiness also have a strong sense of love and belonging, and — most surprisingly of all — that they were willing to be vulnerable. They had the courage to embrace their vulnerability, believing that what made them vulnerable also made them beautiful.
It smacked her upside the head like a baseball bat. The purpose of research, she says, is to study things so you can control and predict stuff. And what she discovered was that to be connected meant to give up being able to control and predict. To be connected was to be vulnerable. “Vulnerability is at the heart of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears that it’s also the birthplace of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love.”
We don’t like to be vulnerable, and usually we try to deal with vulnerability by numbing it … by pushing it down … by hiding it so we don’t have to face it. We cover it up. We have a martini. We go shopping. We try to make ourselves look perfect. We pretend that everything’s ok.
It occurs to me that this is partly what that first Easter was all about. There is so much pain, confusion and vulnerability in all these stories.
Easter morning — the women come to the tomb to prepare Jesus’ body for final burial. But the tomb is empty. And they don’t have a clue what’s going on.
Mary stands outside the tomb weeping, and mistakes Jesus for the gardener, asking him where they’ve put the body.
Thomas won’t believe, he can’t believe that Jesus is alive “until I put my fingers in the holes in his hands and side.”
Two disciples walk home to Emmaus, blinded by grief, their hopes dashed.
Mark’s gospel ends with the notice that the women “fled from the tomb for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”
In Jesus, they had become connected. Now Jesus was gone, and they became incredibly vulnerable, and their lives were filled with pain.
The thing is that it’s exactly in these places where the early disciples meet the risen Lord. In their pain and vulnerability, joy and life and hope are born again.
That’s the message of Easter. In the midst of death, life triumphs. In the midst of confusion, God’s love surrounds us. In the midst of pain, God holds us close. In the midst of vulnerability, joy and creativity and life are born.
Brene Brown is also a Christian. In a brief interview, she tells her story. “You know, I thought that faith would say, ‘I’ll take away the pain and discomfort.’ But what faith really says is ‘I’ll sit with you in the pain of life. I’ll walk with you always. I’ll never let you go.’”
We also find this at the heart of Psalm 23. We walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but we are not alone. God walks with us.
The heart of the gospel which gives us life is this simple and profound truth: God is with us. Through everything in life, God is with us. We are not alone, God is with us.
The gospel does not promise that life will be easy or painless. The gospel is not that God somehow magically takes all our troubles away. The gospel is not that we will be rich and successful and happy.
The gospel is that in the midst of everything that life throws at us, in the midst of joy and sorrow, in the midst of pain and healing, in the midst of death and life, God is with us. God is with us.
One of the things I noticed this year about the story of Thomas is that when Jesus appears in his resurrection body, he shows up with the wounds still visible.
Now, if I were writing the story, the wounds would be gone. Jesus would be perfect. In the resurrection, I’m going to be skinny. Better yet, I’m going to be buff, with a well–defined six–pack instead of this keg I’m carrying. I won’t have diabetes. I’m going to have all the energy I want. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
But Christian faith doesn’t tell the story that way. Jesus shows up with wounds.
Our Christian faith refuses to gloss over the fact that we are wounded people. There is pain in our life. We are going to hurt. Sorrow is unavoidable. We have broken dreams. We have fractured relationships. All of those wounds shape our identities and they shape how we think about life and reality and God.
We are wounded and broken people. But it is what we do with those wounds that is at the heart of faith.
Usually we come to church pretending that everything is ok. We wear our “Sunday best” and we hope no one notices the hurt underneath that nice veneer.
I often think church ought to be more like AA. “Hi, my name is Yme, and I’m broken. I need help. I can’t do this alone.” Couldn’t church be a community where we speak honestly about the pain in our lives? What happens in AA is that as the men and women are open and honest about their pain, they find a source of healing and hope.
I’m convinced that as we dare to become vulnerable in community, we will feel the gift of God’s grace touching us in those vulnerable places in our lives, holding us, cherishing us, healing us. In the moment we dare to become vulnerable, healing begins. Joy is born. We open ourselves to the possibility of life—deep, profound and abundant life.
We are wounded people. But those wounds will not bleed us of our lives or our vitality. The promise of God is that life can still be whole and good. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”
I read a story recently about Rami El Hanan, a Jewish man in Israel. His 14–year–old daughter had been killed by a Palestinian suicide bomber in Jerusalem.
In the midst of his overwhelming grief, he was introduced to an organization that brought together Palestinians and Israelis who had lost children and loved ones in the endless Middle Eastern conflict.
He was skeptical, but went to the meeting. He was angry at all Palestinians, but as he stepped off the bus, Palestinians greeted him with tears, with hugs, and with peace. They told each other their stories.
He writes, “I was 47 years old, and for the first time in my life I saw Palestinians as human beings instead of terrorists.” He tells of a Palestinian named Bassam Aramin who became a best friend. Bassam had also lost a daughter, murdered in cold blood by an Israeli soldier.
Rami and Bassam met each other in their wounds, and now they work together out of those wounds to bring peace to a place that knows so very little peace.
I read his story, and I was gob–smacked when Rami ended his story, “We are still wounded, but now I know for certain that ‘Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.’”
May we be able to say the same. May we, like Rami and Bassam, like Jesus, like those early disciples, have the courage to be vulnerable, and in that vulnerability receive God’s grace to transform our world with light and warmth, with healing and peace.
May we in the midst of our daring to be vulnerable discover the joy of God.
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
May 7, 2017 (4th Sunday of Easter)
Psalm 23
Acts 2: 42–47
John 10: 1–10

We Had Hoped …

Luke tells us that two disciples were walking home from Jerusalem to Emmaus that first Easter. That walk … although it may have only been 7 miles … like an eternity. It felt like forever.
Early that morning, the women found the tomb empty. They had come back and told the disciples, but they couldn’t make any sense of what had happened. There is only massive confusion. And now, two disciples are going home, to Emmaus.
One of them was named Cleopas. We don’t know the name of the other. Most artists paint two men journeying home, but I’m inclined to think that it’s more likely that it’s Cleopas and his wife.
For now, they are trudging home, with heavy, heavy hearts. They are in so much turmoil, so much pain. They’ve lost their friend. They’ve lost Jesus. He had made their lives so much brighter.
When he was still with them, they felt so alive. He told them about a world which was more whole, more just, more loving, more compassionate. It would be a world of peace and wholeness.
But now everything has failed. They can’t make sense of anything anymore. Here’s the thing about that first Easter … the good news of resurrection and life bursts into a world in which everything seems lost. It’s a word of life, but it comes in the midst of death and confusion and dashed hopes.
They are trudging home. A stranger joins them on the road. What are you talking about? And through their tears they begin to tell him … about Jesus … a mighty prophet … but the leaders took him and handed him over … he was condemned … he was executed.
Then come three words which break our hearts. “We had hoped …”
We had hoped that Jesus would be the one to redeem Israel.
We had hoped …
Haven’t we all uttered those words?
We had hoped that the diagnosis would be different. We had hoped our child would recover. We had hoped we could fix our marriage. We had hoped to travel in our retirement. We had hoped that the cancer would go into remission. We had hoped our church would grow. We had hoped that the depression would lift. We had hoped this job would last.
We all know the pain of dashed hopes.
I remember when I was diagnosed with diabetes. I came home from the doctor’s office, fell into a chair at our dining table and started to weep. My life no longer made sense. It felt like a death sentence. But what I remember most about that day was my 5–year–old daughter Yvonne climbing into my lap, wrapping her short arms around my neck and holding me. After a while, she just said very quietly and simply, “It’s going to be all right Daddy.”
In that moment, Yvonne was Jesus for me. She spoke a word of life to me.
The news of Easter comes to us in this way. Easter surprises us with news we can scarcely believe. The good news of life comes in the midst of pain, grief, loss, death.
But before we can believe this good news, we need to name our pain, our loss, our grief.
That’s one of the wonders of this story. Jesus comes alongside these two disciples. They are so burdened with grief that they don’t recognize him. He invites them to talk about their grief, to name their sorrow. He walks alongside them and listens.
That’s what Jesus does. The good news we hear and live out is that Jesus shows up and listens as we speak the truth of our lives, the truth of our pain, the truth of our grief and loss. Jesus shows up, and invites us to name our loss. As we name it, we begin to make some sense of it. We don’t erase the pain. We recognize that it is part of our life and we begin to move through it.
I dare to believe that the church can be a place in which we can name our loss and our pain and our dashed hopes. This is a place where we can be honest about that kind of stuff. This is a place where we can weep.
And when we name them, we find that they have less of a hold on us.
Here’s where we see Jesus, I think. Last week, in my annual “joke sermon”, I suggested that we find Jesus in laughter. I believe that’s true. I also think we find Jesus as we name our pain and loss. I’ve said before that when we laugh, which we cut the monsters of our world down to size. I think the same thing happens when we name our pain. We cut that monster down to size. It stops being such a huge and fearsome thing.
As we name it, we make room where we can once more hear God’s word of life. God’s powerful love drops into our lives like a seed, taking root and growing within us. We discern once more that God’s promise and presence surprise us with the hope that life is a real possibility in the midst of the death that surrounds us. And not just living … abundant life.
Like Cleopas and his wife, we are also on a journey. For some of us it may be only 7 miles. For others, it might be 70 or 700 miles. Jesus walks the journey with us. “Tell me what’s going on,” he suggests gently. And as we walk together, we talk and Jesus listens. Our whole life is a conversation, a dialogue. We bring our hopes—dashed or still growing. We bring our questions—spoken or still lingering in the deepest recesses of our hearts.
We had hoped …
And when Jesus responds to these two, “How foolish, how slow–hearted to believe you are …” I don’t think it’s a rebuke. I read these words as a lament, as Jesus’ own grief that they are suffering this pain.
And as Jesus walks with them, he begins to teach them. They have Bible Study on the road. He helps them to see patterns in Scripture, patterns in their own life, which provide a whole new context.
They reach their home.
And here’s the most surprising thing of all.
The invite him into their home. They lay out the supper.
And Jesus, who is the guest, becomes the host.
He takes the bread. He blesses God for the food. He breaks the bread. He gives it to them.
Luke writes, “Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
This is Eucharistic language. So come to the table, my beloved brothers and sisters. Come with your questions and your fears, your doubts and your hopes. Come. Here again, we discern that Jesus is present with us. Here we hear Jesus whispering to our souls, “Tell me what’s going on.” Here we gather as a community who loves God, and which loves one another, supporting and encouraging and praying for one another.
Here, we know again that Jesus is with us. Here, we know again that we are an Easter people. Here, we know again that our trust in God is deep and whole and true. Here, we know again that God’s promises are powerful words of life in the midst of death.
Come and be surprised once more by God’s incredible grace.
Christ is risen. Alleluia! (The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!)
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
April 30, 2017 (3rd Sunday of Easter)
Luke 24: 13–35
Acts 2: 36–41
1 Peter 1: 17–23

The Easter Laugh

Jesus was walking around heaven when he noticed a wizened, white–haired old man sitting in a corner, looking very sad.
“What’s wrong, old fellow?” asked Jesus kindly. “This is heaven. The sun is shining, everything you could ever want is right here—you’re supposed to be blissfully happy. What is it?”
“Well,” said the old man, “you see, I was a carpenter on earth and I lost my dearly beloved son at an early age. And I was hoping to find him here in heaven.”
Tears sprang to Jesus’ eyes. “Father!” he cried.
The old man sprang to his feet, bursting into tears, and shouted, “Pinocchio!”
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For 12 years now, we have been celebrating the Easter laugh on the Sunday after Easter. The tradition seems to have begun in the 4th century with a golden–tongued preacher and bishop named John Chrysostom. In a sermon, he pictured the risen Christ confronting the devil and laughing because God played a joke on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. He encouraged his people to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection on the day after Easter with laughter and joy. He called it the risus paschalis, the Easter laugh. What better way to celebrate the triumph of life over death?
It’s a wonderful way of reminding ourselves that at its heart, our faith is a joyful thing … and even with all the bad jokes I tell, you look forward to it. I know you do.
ab
After getting all of the Pope’s luggage loaded into the limo, the chauffeur notices that the Pope is still standing on the curb.
“Excuse me, Your Holiness,” says the chauffeur, “Would you please take your seat so we can leave?”
The Pope responds, “You know what? They never let me drive at the Vatican, and I’d really like to drive today.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t let you do that. I’d lose my job! What if something should happen?”
“There might be something extra in it for you,” says the Pope. Reluctantly, the chauffeur gets in the back as the Pope climbs in behind the wheel. The driver quickly regrets his decision when, after exiting the airport, the Pontiff floors it, accelerating the limo to 105 mph.
“Please slow down, Your Holiness!!!” pleads the worried chauffeur, but the Pope keeps the pedal to the metal until they hear sirens.
“Oh, dear God, I’m gonna lose my license,” moans the chauffeur.
The Pope pulls over and rolls down the window as the cop approaches, but the cop takes one look at him, goes back to his motorcycle, and gets on the radio. “I need to talk to the Chief.”
The Chief gets on the radio and the cop tells him that he’s stopped a limo going a hundred and five.
“So bust him,” says the Chief.
“I don’t think we want to do that, he’s really important,” said the cop.
The Chief exclaimed,” All the more reason!”
“No, I mean really important,” said the cop.
The Chief then asked, “Who ya got there, the Mayor?”
“Bigger.”
“The Prime Minister?” The Chief asked.
“Bigger.”
“Well,” said the Chief, “Who is it?”
“I think it’s God!” the cop exclaimed.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well for one thing, he’s got the Pope as a chauffeur.”
ab
George Burns once said that the secret of a good sermon is to have a good beginning and a good ending—and to have the two of them as close together as possible.
Laughter is one of the hallmarks of a healthy life. It is also the sign of a healthy spirit. Desmond Tutu, one of my heroes, used laughter to make his point all the time. And whenever you see him, he’s always smiling, laughing, having a good time. Laughter is a tool to help us deal in a healthy way with the difficulties of life.
ab
A reporter on CNN heard about a very old Jewish man who had been going to the Western Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time. She decided to check it out, and found him at the Western Wall, praying. After about 45 minutes, she approached him for an interview.
“Pardon me, sir. How long have you been coming to the Western Wall to pray?”
“For about 60 years.”
“60 years! That’s amazing! What do you pray for?”
“I pray for peace between Christians, Jews and Muslims. I pray for wars and hatred to come to an end. I pray for all our children to grow up safely as responsible adults and to love their fellow man. I pray that politicians tell us the truth and put the interests of the people ahead of their own interests.”
“How do you feel after doing this for 60 years?”
“Like I’m talking to a brick wall.”
ab
The Bible also is full of laughter. When Abraham and Sarah have a son in their old age, they name him Isaac—which means “Son of Laughter”. Many of Jesus’ parables have situations which make us laugh out loud. Our Psalm this morning ends, “In your presence there is fullness of joy and in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.”
This is our faith. We celebrate a story of life in all its fullness. It’s a story of goodness and wholeness, justice and peace, healing and new life.
ab
A blond goes into the Post Office to buy some stamps for her Christmas cards. She says to the clerk “May I have 50 Christmas stamps please?”
The clerk says “What denomination?”
The blond says “God help us. Has it come to this?” In exasperation she says “Give me 22 Catholic, 12 Anglican, 10 Methodist and 6 Baptist.”
ab
Donald Trump goes on a fact–finding visit to Israel. While he is on a tour of Jerusalem he suffers a heart attack and dies. The undertaker tells the American diplomats, “You can ship him home for $50,000, or you can bury him here in the Holy Land for just $100.”
The diplomats discuss this for a minute, and tell the undertaker that they want Trump shipped home.
The undertaker is puzzled and asks, “Why would you spend $50,000 to ship him home, when you could bury him here for only $100? With the money you save you could help pay back some of the deficit, help the homeless or help the elderly.”
The American diplomats replied, “Long ago a man died and was buried here; three days later he rose from the dead. We just can’t take the risk.”
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I’ve told you before about my clinical depression. One of the things I learned when I finally came out of it was that I had forgotten how to laugh. Life had become a heavy burden, and it ground me into little bits. So for me, this kind of laughter is a powerful sign of good health, emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
The laughter of faith comes when we know that we are living out of God’s abundance. If we are constantly pinching pennies, if we are worried, if we live in fear, if we live in anxiety, if we are never satisfied with our lives … we lose the ability to laugh. What a tragedy! Laughter says that we are content, that we know we are blessed, that we delight in life, that we are ravished by the beauty of the world, that we enjoy our lives and our world.
Someone once said, “What I have learned … is that the more you expect from life, the more your expectations will be fulfilled. By laughing, you do not use up your laughter, but increase your store of it. The more you love, the more you will be loved. The more you give, the more you will receive.”
Ain’t that the truth?
G.K. Chesterton once wrote: “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly. Never forget that the devil fell by force of gravity. He who has the faith has the fun.”
May the holy laughter of Easter fill your lives. May God’s healing love embrace you in every moment of your lives, and may the last laugh of Easter fill your lives with hope and delight. May you live in the light of the risus paschalis, the Easter laugh each day of your lives. Most importantly, may you, when you go out into the world, take the Easter laugh with you.
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
April 23, 2017 (2nd Sunday of Easter)
John 20: 19–31
! Peter 1: 3–9
Acts 2: 22–32

God’s New World

Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
That’s how we greet each other throughout the 50 days of this Easter season.
Easter is not a time for long sermons trying to explain the unexplainable.
Today we celebrate. Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
Today we sing and dance and rejoice in the power of God’s life. Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
Today we tell stories. Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
Today we marvel at the awesome love of God. Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
We tell stories of the triumph of God’s love and God’s life. Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
The heart of Easter is the gift of life.
Karl Barth, a 20th century theologian, once said that “the goal of human life is not death, but resurrection.”
That does not mean that death is not a fearsome reality. What it means is that death does not have the final word. It means that as an Easter people, we trust that the last word is the love of God. That’s what we celebrate here today — the goal of human life is resurrection.
Thomas Wright, former Bishop of Durham, writes that “The message of Easter is that God’s new world has been unveiled in Jesus Christ. You are now invited to belong to it.”
Karl Barth and Tom Wright both point to something important, which is that Easter doesn’t end. It continues in the lives of God’s people. Resurrection is God’s ongoing action in our lives and in the life of the world.
And our world needs to hear this good news. Our world needs to hear a word of life and grace.
In the midst of gas attacks in Syria, the dropping of the MOAB in Afghanistan, drought in northeastern Africa, refugees drowning as they crowd into boats seeking a new life—surely our world needs to hear a word of life.
In the midst of a crisis of homelessness in Canada and Cranbrook, in the faces of people who have given up and can only console themselves through addiction to ever more harmful drugs—surely our world needs to hear a word of life.
In the midst of a growing hostility in North America against those who are different than us, in the midst of fear and hatred against Muslims and Jews, in the midst of prejudice against gay and lesbian and transgendered brothers and sisters —surely our world needs to hear a word of life.
In the midst of anxiety about the economy, about health care, about education, about aging—surely our world needs to hear a word of life.
God is unveiling a new world in Jesus Christ. You are being invited to belong to it.
Poet Wendell Berry in talking about urges us to “practice resurrection”.
So whenever we live as witnesses to the fact that the word of life is stronger than the word of death—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we show in our lives that the word of love is more powerful than the power of hatred—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we reach out to other people with compassion and grace—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we live in profound trust that God is healing our world and our lives—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we bless diversity and share good news—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we live with courage and love—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we refuse to give up on the presence of life in our midst and whenever we refuse to give in to despair—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we work in partnership with God for the healing of creation—we practice resurrection.
Whenever we bend towards the love which renews our lives and makes the world a place where all share in the wealth of the universe—we practice resurrection.
“The message of Easter is that God’s new world has been unveiled in Jesus Christ. You are now invited to belong to it.” Alleluia! (Alleluia!)
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
April 16, 2017 (Easter Sunday)
John 20: 1–18
Jeremiah 31: 1–6
Colossians 3: 1–4

To Follow More Nearly

Lent has been a time for us to reflect more deeply on what it means to us to be Christian people. A prayer written by 13th century Bishop Richard of Chichester helps us with this discernment: “Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly, day by day.”
Several people from our congregation have shared parts of their faith journey with us. They have let us into their lives and their relationship with God, and it has been a privilege. Today, I invite Ken Wellington.
X X X
Thank you so much Ken.
When we talk about our faith, we tell stories. Our faith is not a set of rules or a series of propositions. Faith is about the story of our life. It’s the story of a relationship.
Holy Week marks the central story of our faith. It’s a story of crucifixion and resurrection. We begin with a story which we often call the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem. But honestly, it’s not much of a triumph.
Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey. The way Matthew tells the story, it’s a nursing donkey, a jenny, with her colt trotting along beside her.
Matthew quotes the prophet Zechariah, for whom the donkey was a humble animal, an animal of peace, a sign of the breaking of the implements of war. This is a different kind of king. Jesus comes in the name of love as one who bears peace within himself. Jesus rides a peace–donkey into Jerusalem.
This is not the kind of triumphal entry we would think of. There’s not much triumph and victory in this story. Jesus rides a peace–donkey, not a magnificent horse. He’s surrounded by a group of peasants making a bit of a racket, not an army coming to impose order. And just a few days later, he is executed as a criminal. Not much triumph here.
But that’s exactly the point. The way of Jesus is deliberately different from the ways of this world. Jesus’ way is the way of non–violent, self–giving love.
It’s a striking coincidence that on a day when much of Canada is commemorating the battle of Vimy Ridge, in the church we don’t. We commemorate a king who comes to bring peace, who comes to make us a people of peace.
The church has had a hard time remembering that we follow someone who rides a peace–donkey. Too often, the church has sought power and influence. Too often the church follows a Theology of Glory. We look for God only in the good, the beautiful, the strong, and the powerful.
But the way of Jesus is a Theology of the Cross, which looks for God in exactly those places where we most feel God’s absence: in pain, in humiliation, in suffering, in weakness and foolishness and death.
A Theology of Glory is concerned with health and happiness and prosperity.
A Theology of Glory centres on what God can do for us; on how our faith can make us more popular or wealthy or successful or influential.
A Theology of Glory is all about us—our power and our control. It’s about winning in life, about living large. A Theology of Glory is about making our life better.
But the Theology of the Cross is harder. It is primarily concerned with God—with who God is, with God’s purposes, with God’s love for the world, and with how God calls us to live as faithful followers of Jesus.
A Theology of the Cross is concerned with what looks like failure, with what appears to be disaster, with what seems to be the utter and complete absence of God in our most desperate and trying moments.
A Theology of the Cross helps us remember that we are mortal, that we are dust, that we are imperfect and that positive thinking cannot change our lives. We need help.
A Theology of the Cross is honest about life and death; it acknowledges the place of suffering and pain in our lives. The stories we have heard here during Lent were honest stories of both joy and sorrow, challenge and healing.
A Theology of the Cross is harder. It calls us to give ourselves away for the sake of the gospel. But it is precisely on the cross where we see God’s love fully and starkly portrayed.
In the gospel, Jesus calls us “if you want to follow, take up your cross and follow”. Paul echoes that in Philippians this morning: “Let the same mind be in you as was in Christ…” Then he goes on to sing about how Jesus emptied himself, even to the point of death. God’s response to Jesus’ faithfulness was to raise him again. Let the same mind be in you … y’all do the same thing Jesus did.
This is hard stuff. We are talking about dying…dying to ourselves…dying to our own desires and our own wants…dying to our own agendas the living the agenda of God’s gospel purposes.
That’s tough stuff. We are talking about giving ourselves away. We are so used to striving for ourselves, to working hard for our own purposes. But the heart of our faith calls us to a life of service and love. The gospel calls us to give ourselves away.
Y’all do the same thing Jesus did.
But we don’t just give ourselves away for its own sake. We give ourselves away for the sake of God and God’s purposes in the world. We give ourselves away in service for the healing of others. We give ourselves away in loyalty to God. We give ourselves away in deep and enduring trust that God honours us as we do so.
And when we take that seriously, then the cross of Christ also becomes the cross of Yme, the cross of Ken, the cross of Joyce, the cross of Dave, the cross of Deb and Anne and Ed and Susan.
And there, on the cross, God finds us and God raises us to new life and God heals our souls. We cease our relentless pursuit of wealth and happiness and success…and as we do so, God can find us and come to us and heal our lives.
We take up our cross and follow. We place ourselves in the hands of God. We continue to walk on our journey of learning to see God more clearly, love God more dearly, and follow more nearly.
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
April 9,2017 (Passion/Palm Sunday)
Matthew 21: 1–11
Philippians 2: 5–11
Isaiah 50: 4–9a

Come and See

We are taking the opportunity during Lent this year to reflect on what it means to us to be Christian people. A prayer written by 13th century Bishop Richard of Chichester helps us with this discernment: “Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly, day by day.”
This prayer helps us reflect on questions such as these in Lent: What does it mean for us to see God more clearly? What does it mean for us to love God more dearly? What does it mean for us to follow Jesus more nearly?
This year, I have invited 4 people from our congregation to tell you about their faith. Joyce Aasland, Deb Saffin and I have shared parts of our faith journey with us. Today, I invite Anne McMichael.
X X X
Thank you so much Anne.
One of the things I have noticed as people have talked about their faith is that we tell stories. Our faith is not a series of propositions. Faith is about the story of our life. It’s the story of a relationship. It’s a story of growing and falling, going on and falling back, succeeding and failing, reaching out and pulling back in.
We’ve been hearing the same kinds of stories in our gospel readings this Lent. These are stories of people who encounter Jesus. Nicodemus came to Jesus in the dark, and talked with him about being born of the Spirit, being born from above. The woman of Samaria met Jesus at the town well and talked about the gift of living water which springs up in us. Last week, we met a man born blind who slowly came to see Jesus. Today, it’s a story about the death of Lazarus, who was raised again. It’s a story of Jesus giving life in the midst of death.
In each of these stories, there is an invitation to come and see. It’s an invitation to faith—to see God more clearly, and then to love God more dearly, and then to follow Jesus more nearly.
These are stories of life, stories of growth, stories of renewal, stories of transformation.
And stories—well, you’ve just got to live them. You can’t reduce a story to a set of ideas. You live out the story of your life and your faith day by day by day.
Once, when I was in a youth group, I received the gospel in a nutshell. The idea behind the activity was to write a verse of scripture on a piece of paper and stuff it literally in a nutshell and hand it to someone.
At the time, I thought it was a silly thing to do. Today, I still think it’s a silly thing to do. You can’t just fit the gospel in a nutshell; the gospel isn’t a fortune cookie piece of wisdom.
We live it out day by day. As we live it out, we find life. Jesus invites people to “Come and see.” Jesus invites us to undertake a journey, a pilgrimage. Come and see.
It’s been a wonderful thing for me to listen to people share their lives and their faith here during Lent. It has touched my heart.
What about your own journey? How would you tell your story? Where has God touched your life? Where have you learned to see God more clearly? To love God more dearly? To follow Jesus more nearly?
Where have you failed? How have you picked yourself up and begun again? Or better, how has God picked you up and helped you begin again?
How have you been strengthened? In worship? In prayer? In reflection? In coming to the table to be fed? In serving the world? In every part of your life?
Faith doesn’t come in a nutshell. Faith is an invitation. Come and see. And then it takes our whole lives to live it out. Day by day … learning to see God more clearly. Day by day … learning to love God more dearly. Day by day … learning to follow Jesus more nearly.
We don’t do it alone. God’s spirit journeys through our life with us. As we journey, we become more aware of God’s love which never lets us go
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
April 2, 2017 (5th Sunday in Lent)
John 11: 1–45
Ezekiel 37: 1–14
Romans 8: 6–11

Seeing More Clearly

We are taking the opportunity during Lent this year to reflect on what it means to us to be Christian people. One of the tools to help us with that this year is a prayer written by 13th century Bishop Richard of Chichester: “Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly, day by day.”
This prayer helps us reflect on questions such as these in Lent: What does it mean for us to see God more clearly? What does it mean for us to love God more dearly? What does it mean for us to follow Jesus more nearly?
This year, I have invited 4 people from our congregation to tell you about their faith. Both Joyce Aasland and Deb Saffin have shared parts of their journey as Christian people.
This week was supposed to be Ken Wellington’s turn. He was looking forward to it, but his wife Gwen had a mild heart attack last weekend. So we decided that Ken and I would switch places.
Now, I’m used to standing up here and thinking with you about our faith together. Sometimes in my sermons, I will give an illustration from my own life; but generally I try not to talk too much about myself. After all, it’s not about me.
But today will be different. I’ve asked the others who have done this to speak from their personal experience. Why is it important to you to be a follower of Jesus. So I will do the same.
One of the very important images for me in my personal faith is that my life is a dialogue with God. Sometimes God and I speak words of love to each other. Other times, we argue and fight. Sometimes I just ignore God—and usually regret that later on. It’s kind of like a marriage that way.
Our dialogue is an ongoing process. It shifts and changes with the circumstances of life. But just as importantly, a dialogue is a two–way street. We talk and listen to each other. It’s not just me submitting to God. It’s God and me working together to try and figure things out …
… like this. I grew up in the church. Up till I was 17, we attended the Canadian Reformed Church — a very conservative Dutch church. We went every Sunday without fail. I couldn’t wait till I was 18 so I could tell my parents where to go.
Then everything changed. My parents left that church in a very public way. I still remember a couple of elders coming to our house one night and telling my parents that they were going to lose their salvation.
And I was thrilled. Here was my chance. I could sleep in on Sundays! I didn’t have to get up and be bored out of my mind. So the next Sunday, as my parents started church–shopping, I slept in.
I was just getting up when they came home … and they were laughing and talking with some animation about what they happened in church that morning. There was something very wrong with this picture. You don’t come home happy from church. But I wasn’t going to ask!
The next week, they went back to the same church—Presbyterian—and when I woke up, they were laughing again and talking about how much fun they’d had in church that morning.
Fun? In church? No way!
It happened again the third week … and I was intrigued.
The fourth week, I went with them. By the seventh week, I was the choir director at that church. I was hooked!
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour?
I discovered a faith in which there is room to laugh, room to enjoy myself, room to be who I truly was and to grow in my identity as a person whom God loves deeply. In my own life, there is a deep joy in this relationship with God, and that joy sustains me in the tough times of life.
Shift ahead about 8 years. I was a student at UBC and living in Vancouver and attending a church there. Every once in a while, I would be asked to preach, and every time I did so, people would tell me I should become a minister.
“No thanks,” I would say. “I don’t like the hours, I don’t like the pay, I don’t like the people.”
And every once in a while, there would be niggling little thought in my head, “You should be a minister”. And I would say, “No thanks. I don’t like the hours, I don’t like the pay, I don’t like the people.”
One day, a friend of mine was talking with me about where his life was going. He wasn’t satisfied with his career choice, and we talked. He suddenly turned to me and said, “You’re going to be a minister, aren’t you?”
I was shocked. Was it that obvious to everyone else, and not to me? So I said, “No thanks. I don’t like the hours, I don’t like the pay, I don’t like the people.”
Well … you know the end of the story. Here I am. Some days, I still don’t like the hours; some days, I still don’t like the pay; some days, there are some people … well, not here of course!
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour?
Skip ahead about 20 years. I had thrown myself into ministry, and mostly it was very good. My dialogue with God was ticking along. I made lots of mistakes. I did a few things right. I grew in my faith. I learned how to be a priest. I was competent, I was confident, I was on my chosen career path …
… and my life went to hell. My marriage disintegrated in a very nasty way. My friends … well they weren’t as good friends as I thought they were. The church I was serving when this happened … some of the people wondered why God was punishing me, just like the disciples in our gospel this morning—“who sinned that this man should be born blind?” What did Yme do to deserve all this? He must have done something terrible.
I fell into a deep depression. I’ve talked about that before. Today, I see that depression as a gift. It made me more gentle with myself, more gentle with others. It made me a better priest. It made me a better person.
But at the time, all I knew was darkness. I discerned that I had forgotten how to laugh. My life was all seriousness, and it was seriously broken. The faith I discovered when I was 17 had evaporated.
And what happened is that God and I were no longer on speaking terms. We ended our dialogue. Well, I ended it. I didn’t know if God was still speaking. To be honest, I didn’t really care. I fell into the ditch of faith, and I wallowed there.
You’ll be happy to know we’re talking again. Regularly. God and I are figuring out together what life is meant to be. There is a deep joy in my life and in my soul. I laugh. I delight in life. I delight in ministry. There are some days I still don’t like the hours. There are some days I still don’t like the pay. There are some days … and some people… but overall my life is rich and I am doing work which fills me with a sense of meaning and purpose.
In some ways, my life has been much like the man whose story we heard in John’s gospel this morning. Like him, I have come to see more clearly. And the more intimate my dialogue with God, the more I have come to love God more dearly. Sometimes we sing love songs to each other. Sometimes we argue. Sometimes we fight. And as we do so, I am following Jesus more nearly.
God and I—we keep talking. And my life is immeasurably enriched by that ongoing dialogue.
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
March 26, 2017 (4th Sunday in Lent)
John 9: 1–41
1 Samuel 16: 1–13
Ephesians 5: 8–14

Living Water, Living Faith

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
March 19, 2017 (3rd Sunday in Lent)
John 4: 5–42
Exodus 17: 1–17
Romans 5: 1–11

Who are We? Whose are We?

This year, we’re going to do something a little bit different during Lent. This season is a gift which invites us to take some time to reflect on what it means to us to be Christian people. We get to undertake the spiritual discipline of reflection.
A prayer written by 13th century Bishop Richard of Chichester captures this sense well (you may know it from the musical Godspell): “Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly, day by day.”
These are the questions of Lent: What does it mean for us to see God more clearly? What does it mean for us to love God more dearly? What does it mean for us to follow Jesus more nearly?
This year, I have invited 4 people from our congregation to tell you about their faith. To use completely un–Anglican language, they will give their testimony about what it means to them to be Christian people. My hope is that as they share their trust in God, we all may be prompted by God’s spirit to reflect more deeply about our own faith, our own trust, own life as we live it in the grace of God’s presence.
This morning, I invite Joyce Aasland to tell us about her faith journey.
X X X
Thank you, Joyce.
I also want to reflect briefly on our readings.
In both the gospel and the reading from Genesis, we have stories of temptation.
Immediately after his baptism, Jesus goes into the wilderness where he is tempted to deny who he was. At his baptism, the voice from the cloud announced, “This is my Son, my beloved, my cherished boy.” Now, in the wilderness, the tempter whispers, “If you are really the Son of God …”
At its heart, this story is about Jesus being tempted to forget who he is and to whom he belongs.
The same thing happens in Genesis. The whole story of creation is about God’s grace coming to birth. And now, the human couple are tempted to forget about God’s grace and goodness in their lives. They are being tempted to forget that God’s love is enough. They are being tempted to forget who they are.
The difference between the two stories is that the human couple does forget. Jesus does not. When Jesus quotes Scripture, it’s a way of grounding himself in God’s trustworthiness. Jesus chooses to trust God who has promised to care for him and for us.
We are so often tempted to forget our deepest identity as God’s people. Most of the temptations in this world don’t come as apples hanging from a tree, or a tempter whispering in our ears. They come as subtle messages that seek to undermine our identity and tempt us to forget whose we are. So many commercials suggest we are inadequate. So many headlines suggest that there is not enough to go around. And so many politicians – of all parties – contend that we have a great deal to fear.
In Lent, we remember again that our lives are rooted in baptism. God calls our name and whispers to our souls that we are loved and cherished daughters and sons of the living God. God tells us that we are so totally enough. We are God’s work of art. There is plenty to go around. We do not need to live in fear.
Beginning today in Lent, let me suggest some questions to reflect upon:
What tempts us to turn away from God?
What can help you renew your trust in God?
What does it mean to you to be a Christian person?
Lent is a gift to us, giving us space to reflect on our life in God.
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
March 5, 2017 (1st Sunday in Lent)
Genesis 2: 15–17, 3: 1–7
Romans 5: 12–19
Matthew 4: 1–11

Grounded

Too often, we think of Lent as a ‘heavy’ season. It’s a season of self–denial and penitence and discipline. We’re supposed to give something up in Lent—and usually, it’s something yummy … like chocolate, or coffee, or scotch.
But there’s more to Lent than that. Lent is not just about giving something up. It’s not just about denying ourselves something we enjoy. The purpose of it all is to get rid of some of the clutter in our lives so that we can focus more clearly on our relationship with God, our relationship with each other, and our relationship with the world. Lent is a gift.
It’s a spiritual discipline in which we focus on drawing nearer to God. Lent is a gift of making time in our busy lives to reflect on what it means for us to be Christian people.
Again, I’ve used a word we don’t much like in our society—“discipline”. We don’t want discipline. We are a society of instant gratification—instant coffee, instant emails, instant credit, instant everything. We don’t like to wait. We don’t want to delay. We want what we want and we want it right now.
Coming from the same root as “disciple”, the root meaning of “discipline” is “learning”. Self–discipline is not about becoming a better person. It’s about learning to follow Jesus more closely, more faithfully, more generously.
Lent is a gift.
I love the prayer written by 13th century bishop Richard of Chichester (you may remember it from Godspell): “Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly.”
The gift of Lent is time—time to think about our relationship with God, with others and with the world. Lent is a gift to help us make those relationships more healthy. Lent is a gift which sets us free to devote ourselves in love to God, to each other, and to the world. Lent is a gift in which we intentionally think about what it means to us to be Christian people.
We receive that gift, starting today. We mark the gift of this season with the sign of ashes. We say, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Again, the ashes and those words can be seen as something heavy. It’s a reminder of our mortality, which means that we acknowledge our limitations. We are not immortal; we are not infallible; we are not divine. We simply cannot control life.
Instead, life is given to us as a mysterious, miraculous gift. Our lives are a miracle. We are human beings, deeply loved by God. Each day comes as a precious gift.
Each moment brings with it the capacity for holiness and grace. In each day, we will find both beauty and pain. Life has an incredible, infinite capacity to touch us with hope and joy, and all of it comes to us as a gift.
So this dust, these ashes … they remind us that life is made holy because God is present. God holds us in all of life.
Christian faith is intensely material that way. At its best, Christian faith doesn’t divide life into sacred and secular. All of life is holy. Both the spiritual and the material are shot through with holiness and grace.
Dirt reminds us of heaven. The people around us are a sign of God’s presence in our lives. We smudge our foreheads with ashes, and we wear it proudly as a sign of our lifelong commitment to live as the people of God. In ordinary bread and wine and water, Christ is present.
A few years ago, in a Bible Study, we were talking about that wonderful story in Genesis about God playing in the dirt. Norman Wirzba writes it this way: “God takes a handful of dirt, holds it so close that it shares in the divine breath, and inspires it with the freshness of life. It is only as the ground is suffused with God’s intimate, breathing presence that human life is possible at all.”
Someone in the group said, “I’ve always thought that story of God making us out of dirt was a way of saying that we are grounded in God.”
What a wonderful insight. We are made of the earth, and grounded in God. It’s the same kind of insight Joni Mitchell shared when she sang, “We are stardust.”
Ashes … a holy discipline … getting rid of the baggage in our life so we can focus more clearly on God. These are the gifts of Lent. They help us focus on what is important to us as the people of God in this place.
Lent is a gift.
“Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray: to see thee more clearly; to love thee more dearly; to follow thee more nearly, day by day.”
Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt
March 1 2017
Ash Wednesday
Matthew 6: 1–6, 16–21
2 Corinthians 5: 20b–6:10
Joel 2: 1–2, 12–17a