Sunday, January 23

This morning's sermon is available. Click to download and listen.

Sunday, January 23

Sunday, January 16

Andrew's sermon today about incarnation was particularly interesting since, as he noted, this is an aspect of Biblical doctrine that is often substantively unexplored and, as he noted, addressed in a formalistic way.

A significant phrase for me in what Andrew said this morning was stated not in the sermon itself but in the prayer that preceded it. He talked about "continuous creation." The idea that incarnation continues in our lives is closely related to possibilities of reading the Bible not just as historical narrative but simultaneously also as allegory: the Child is perennial reborn and God incarnate is always with us. Something else that really resonated with me was the notion that spiritual growth, growing more fully into perfect freedom by following God's way is a gradual journey. When I was doing prison Ministry in Ohio's jails, I had an opportunity one Sunday to speak with a quiet, sensitive and intelligent young African American man who had clearly been led by poverty into a life of economic dependence on the drug trade. He was perplexed and saddened because he wanted to have faith but had not had a dramatic spiritual experience or "prison conversion" as he would have hoped for or expected on the basis of the variant on Christianity he had been taught in his upbringing. We had been talking about St. Paul on the road to Damascus, and this man was hoping for the scales to fall from his eyes and to see clearly. We talked about how maybe that doesn't happen all at once for most people, that revelations can be partial, as Andrew said: "surprises", experiences of God in the personal and in mundane places, like a walk in the forest, a garden, or even a prison.

I also really appreciated the suggestion that perhaps those who claim not to believe in God have not had the nature of God explained appropriately. This idea sheds new light on the hyperbolic debates of folks like Christopher Hitchens and those who mirror him in Evangelical circles. Failure to define terms broadly or sensitively enough leads to foolish debate. Or criticism of Christianity by some as patriarchal when the key element of Christ's incarnation rests itself on a moment that disrupts patriliny completely: Joseph embraces Jesus as his son despite the fact that he is not the biological father. Or the debates between creationist and evolutionist "scientists", which rest on a failure of imagination to appreciate that continuous creation can include the processes of science.
... which makes me think of a country song:
"His fingerprints are everywhere
I'd just slow down to stop and stare
opened my eyes and man I swear
I saw God today."
-George Strait

Rebecca B.

Sunday, January 9

This morning I found myself thinking about kings. Not surprising, since it's Epiphany Sunday. We sang "We Three Kings," and Andrew explained the galette des rois to the children. One of our readings was about King Herod trying to protect his throne by finding the young Messiah. But what especially struck me this morning was how undeserving the child-king Jesus was of those gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Perhaps because I've been feeling undeserving lately of all the gifts I've received, but it struck me that young Jesus hadn't done anything to merit the gifts he was brought. They were truly just "gifts."

Andrew's sermon seemed so relevant this morning. The wonder and awe, the mystery of the miraculous, that is what's it's all about. There are so many things that we don't understand with our mind, that we can only feel in our soul. I don't know why I've been blessed with so many good things: a happy home, health, God's great gift of condescension to mankind... But I do know I can accept them, and keep my eyes open to the wonder and awe of it all.

Maureen.

Sunday, January 2

Our own Peter Rombeek was in the pulpit this week, click below to listen to his sermon, "Knock, Knock."

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

Sunday, December 26

Joyous Christmas! Below you'll read memories of Christmas Eve's past. This morning, I invite you to share your Christmas memories in the comments: at St. Andrew's church or at home with family; your first Christmas away from home; experiencing Christmas as a parent, excited children rising early; or spending the morning in quiet reflection...

Share a Christmas memory!

Christmas Eve Reflections

I love Christmas Eve. It has always been one of my favourite nights of the year.

Okay, I imagine I'm not the only one who feels that way; it's a pretty common sentiment. Having grown up in St. Andrew's, I have attended at least one of the Christmas Eve services in every year that I can remember, but one. I thought to kick off any bloggy celebrations of Christmas, I would share some of my memories of Christmas Eves past.

One year, my father made quite a mark on Christmas Eve. He was part of the performance of a play in the service, but not obviously so. In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, my father didn't shave. Before heading to the church, he did not put on his best suit. He didn't even sit in the pew with the rest of us.

The play began, and shortly after the first lines were recited, a scruffy man in the back row objected, causing a bit of a to-do and seemlingly interrupting the first scene of the play. Yes, it was my father. His role was that of a skeptical outsider who would come to the church and learn about Christmas. He relished this role, and he was quite pleased when one of his friends admitted that he (the friend) was about to get up in case this scruffy looking ne'er-do-well needed to be escorted out, not recognizing my Dad.

As a youngster, I, too, participated in a number of Christmas Eve services, beginning as a member of the junior choir, and later performing in plays and with the bell choir. I specifically remember one Christmas Eve play. It was not the typical pageant. It was not a pageant at all. It was set as a father talking to his children. It was a series of lessons explaining not just the Christmas story, but reason for Christmas and the need and joy of folloing Christ.

The play was directed by one of the choir members, Doug. Doug would pass away when I was 16, but throughout the years he spent at St. Andrew's, Doug's love and compassion was always evident. He was as devoted to the church and the children as he was the choir. Unfortunately for Doug, this particular performance hit a bit of a snag. Doug was directing, but not acting... or at least, he wasn't planning to act. Shortly before Christmas, the man who was to play the role of the father had to drop out, and Doug did not have the time to find a replacement or learn the lines. He stepped right in, though, with the script taped inside a book used as a prop. From what I recall, it was a near seamless performance. Certainly, it went better than anyone would have guessed a few days earlier.

As I became a teenager, St. Andrew's revived it's senior bell choir, and Christmas Eve performances quickly became a staple. Each year, whether led by Sue or Kerry, we would be there, ringing out carols for the congregation. At first, we would perform at the Family Service, inhabiting the choir loft. It was rather magical to be up there, after years of watching the choir from below (it would also be a precursor to future Christmas Eves spent in the choir loft). Sitting up there offered a front row seat to one of the more memorable Christmas Eve performances I have witnessed, as one year my uncle, Ewen and Archie performed a trio of We Three Kings.

During the mid-1990s, I developed a different Christmas Eve ritual, one separate from my parents. As I approached the end of my teen years, my cousin and I began ushering on Christmas Eve. We were asked one year and, since there was no longer a senior bell choir, we decided to give it a go. It was, in many ways, a natural step. We had always been active in Christmas Eve services, whether performing in plays, singing in the junior choir or playing the bells; now, we were greeters, and as greeters we gained a whole new perspective on the Candlelight Service.

Ushering at the north door offered an interesting perpsective to the Christmas Eve service. We would not encounter as many "regular" attendees of St. Andrew's. We would be blessed meeting visitors, both from within the city and elsewhere in the world, and seeing old friends who were no longer able to attend St. Andrew's on a regular basis. Occasionally, we would even see friends we knew, but whom we never knew had a connection to the church. Upon ushering once, we made a point of ushering on Christmas Eve for many years to come.

Of course, ushering on Christmas Eve offered some unusual challenges, at times. There was one year where a bat found its way into the Narthex. With the aid of Maurice, then the church officer, we attempted to give the bat an escape, leaving all the doors open for the bulk of the service (making for a rather chilly sanctuary). The bat never did leave, but flew up into the bell tower instead.

Christmas Eve 2002 was quite strange for me. My mother was in the hospital. She would be in a coma for the majority of the holiday season, and we didn't know if she'd emerge. As difficult as I knew it would be, I still felt the need and desire to go to the Candlelight Service. I was a little wary. I knew there would be questions about my mom, and I wasn't sure how well I'd handle them. I also knew that there was no place I would feel more comfortable or comforted. I settled into the pew and never felt any regret for my decision. Despite all that was going on, it was like so many Christmas Eves of the past. In all honesty, I don't particularly remember the service. I don't remember the hymns or anthems. My memories are much different. I remember, again, spending a Christmas Eve with my cousin. As our repsective church attendance became more sporadic, we no longer saw each other on the weekly basis as we had while growing up. Having yet another evening with him was important.

After the service, my cousin ran in to a friend of his who was on the verge of joining our church. The three of us spent an hour chatting after the service; that's no exaggeration. The church officer practically had to kick us out at 1:00 am.

A year later, Christmas Eve 2003, my mother was gone, having succumbed to leukemia the previous August. My cousin's friend that I had met a year earlier had become my fiancee, and for the first time in ages I attended the Family Service, as she was singing. For the late service, I was giving one of the readings. My reading was paired with an anthem written by my mother when she was a student under Carmen Milligan. It was an experience as wonderful as it was painful.

There was another beauty to that evening, for once again there would soon be a Mrs. McLeod sitting in choir loft. And for the following four years, I would join her, spending Christmas Eves in the same loft that grandmothers, grandfather, uncle, aunt and mother had for years and years earlier.

2008 saw my exodus from the choir. Relatedly (and more importantly), that would be the first Christmas Eve I would spend with my daughter. Though I would miss the magic of the choir loft, the magic of fatherhood would more than suffice. For the first year or two of her life, my daughter developed a rather peculiar sleeping pattern, generally staying awake until 11:00 pm, or, regularly, much later. Tiring as such a schedule was, I thought it would work to my benefit on Christmas Eve, so the daughter and I decided to make our way to the Candlelight Service (my wife would be there anyway, still being in the choir). As you can imagine, a thoughtful plan and a baby do not always co-exist. My daughter decided that she did not want to be in the service after about the first verse of the first carol sung. Consequently, I spent the entire service in Narthex wearing a sleeping baby.

It was, however, rather fitting. After all those Christmas Eves that saw my cousin and I ushering, spending much time in that Narthex, it felt quite like coming home, but this time I had a wonderful baby girl with me.

This year, there will be no Candlelight Service for me. The entire family will be going to the early service. There had been some thoughts of having our daughter participate in the pageant, but, as with babies, a thoughtful plan and a toddler do not always co-exist.

But it matters not. There will still be carols; there will still be family; there will still be the Christmas story. And, most of all, there will still be joy. Through excitement, challenge, sorrow and comfort there has always been joy. It's Christmas Eve; what more need there be?

So... what memories and feelings do you have about Christmas Eve?

Nails and Spear

Two Sundays ago, we sang the hymn, What Child Is This? The timing was quite fortuitous as I was listening to it a week or two ago, and thought it might make a good post here at Sunday Lunch (and I would like to thank my dear wife for not covering this topic in her blog post from Sunday). The version to which I was listening, however, was not a traditional one; I was listening to a version arranged and recorded by Sufjan Stevens. It is, in my estimation, a wonderful re-interpretation of a classic carol.





This version demonstrates the timelessness of this piece, as it can find a home in both traditional and popular music. In that sense, it is an apt reflection of the joy we derive from Christ - joy that is eternal, everlasting. Granted, many other traditional carols have been given a modern glass (including others by Mr. Stevens), but the eternal nature of this piece is evident in more than just this new arrangement.

To me, the pay off of the piece comes in the second to last verse. It is not just about the musical tension, but the lyrical tension as well. It is rare the Christmas song that will offer such a harsh and brutal line as this:

Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.

Christmas is not usually a time in which we deal with such violent and bloody imagery. Advent is a time of Peace, Joy, Love and Hope. Generally, we sing of the star, the peaceful night, the innocent babe, the shepherds and the three kings. It is not a time that we focus on the Passion. Especially in light of the popular adoption of Christmas - and, for good or ill, Christmas has become a cultural holiday, not just a religious one - the atmosphere is joyous. It's lights and peace and goodwill towards men.

Then, to focus on the suffering can seem an uncomfortable juxtaposition. Certainly, in the song it is such, but it is useful - perhaps, even, necessary - if we are to fully explore our faith, the nature of Christmas and our relationship with God. Bringing in the brutality of the crucifixion is not necessarily a reactionary measure of a Christian trying to reclaim Christmas from the popular clutches of Santa and Frosty. No, it offers insight into the eternal nature of God, man and existence. Consequently, the modernization of the music by artists like Mr. Stevens is all the more appropriate because, on a more meta level, it is an apt reflection of the timelessness of Christ as demonstrated through the construction of the lyrics; it is this construction, both in terms of the subject matter and the juxtaposition, that provides the aforementioned insight.

A few years ago, our former Minister, Greg, led an Upper Room get-together in which we discussed St. Augustine's Confessions. Specifically, we discussed Augustine's thoughts on the nature of time, and the idea that the human experience of "time" came to our species with the bite of an apple. Though humans experience time as a linear progression of events, there is no reason to believe that this way of gathering, storing and assessing information is the actual way that existence unfolds; indeed, in its purest form (a form we would have experienced before the fall, and hope to experience after our temporal life), existence does not unfold, it merely is. This interpretation of the existence of time dovetails nicely with Presbyterian theology. (It also challenges popular notions of fate, providence, free will, pre-destination and creation.)

With our flaws comes an inability to fully and properly understand the intricacies of God and His creation. In this mortal world, to gain any understanding of existence requires experiencing existence linearly, but this linear progression of time is more a human construct than an elemental truth of God's creation. As such, considering Christ's birth an individual event, divorced from the context of his earthly life and beyond, is to err (however, considering Christ's birth as an individual event is a valid coping mechanism in our broken world). In isolation, Christ's birth is not the significant event that popular culture would have us believe. Even, in isolation, Christ's death is not - if I may be so bold - of utmost importance. It was - is - His birth, His life, His pain, His death, His time in hell and His resurrection that is important.

Language is important here. I do not write that these events are important; I write that these events is important. Though we understand them in the plural, they compose a singular, and they compose a present-tense singular (for if we are to put a time constraint on the eternal, it must be the present). Conjugating our verbs to facilitate our imperfect interpretation of God's existence and creation has a purpose, but too often we let our limitations in understanding some eternal truths unduly restrict our understanding of all eternal truths.

This, then, is what What Child Is This? has brought us. It is the reminder that Christmas is not merely a precursor to the ensuing life, death and resurrection of Christ, nor a stand-alone event in Christ's life, but an inseparable part of Christ's full existence.

It is, certainly, more straightforward for us to think of Christmas, then of Good Friday, then of Easter Sunday; the sequence helps us both in processing Christ's existence as well as the 2010/2011 calendar year. We experience the joy of Christmas. Later, we experience the joy of Palm Sunday, which leads to the trepidation of Maundy Thursday, which leads to the sorrow of Good Friday and, finally, to the joy of Easter Sunday.

But these are not separate, or even sequential, events, even if our living would so lead us to believe. They are not linked by a process or a serial dependency, but are all a part of the experience of being a follower of Christ. The joy of Christmas is the sorrow of Good Friday. The sorrow of Good Friday is the joy of Easter. We cannot separate each event from one another, nor should we even try. We will distinguish between them, but such compartmentalizing is only necessary because of our broken nature. Again, it is just a construct that we require in order to approach God, after having fallen so far from Him. Artificial though it may be, it still holds value, but its value is as a guidepost on our journey to Christ. It is not the destination.

So it is good to be reminded, during this time, not just of the birth of Christ, but of the suffering and of the resurrection. Holding all these events together in our hearts will bring us greater meaning, and will bring us closer to Him.

Christmas is Good Friday. It is Easter.