Real Presence

A sermon preached by Canon Anne E. Kitch

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Easter, May 3, 2012

“So many years since I saw you last,” writes the poet David Whyte in a poem called “Remember.”

So many years since I saw you last,

that I couldn’t recognize

your brotherly presence

even as you sat beside me.

So many memories hidden

from a busy present,

that I ate with you without seeing you,

a stranger amongst other strangers,

talking, talking

about nothing in particular.

I wonder, were we ever to meet

with God as we still lived

and breathed, would we do exactly

the same thing,

let time go by

exchanging

pleasantries

about the weather,

not even knowing

how to ask the question?

So many years since I saw you last. As Jesus prepared to die, he loved. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. (John 13:1)He loved them all, even the one he knew would betray him. With love, he washed their feet. Even the one. With love, he shared bread with them. Even with the one. Jesus again and again offering his love, even when it would not be received. Jesus employing a generosity that he meant to be generative, to generate more gifts of love. Very truly I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me and whoever receives me receives him who sent me. (John 13:20). I wonder.

I wonder, were we ever to meet

with God as we still lived

and breathed, would we do exactly

the same thing,

let time go by

exchanging

pleasantries

about the weather,

not even knowing

how to ask the question?

What we know, and what I believe the poet knows, is that we meet God all the time.  In all sorts of everyday people and places. Very truly I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me and whoever receives me receives him who sent me. Jesus calls us, invites us, commands us not only to give love, but to receive love, because this draws us closer to God. Remember.

REMEMBER

So many years since I saw you last,

that I couldn’t recognize

your brotherly presence

even as you sat beside me.

So many memories hidden

from a busy present,

that I ate with you without seeing you,

a stranger amongst other strangers,

talking, talking

about nothing in particular.

I wonder, were we ever to meet

with God as we still lived

and breathed, would we do exactly

the same thing,

let time go by

exchanging

pleasantries

about the weather,

not even knowing

how to ask the question?

Once we were one

and now we are two

and the second has grown

and forgotten the first.

The ancient love

we felt a mere fable now,

a story across time,

a distant recognition

across the table,

an ache beneath

the glance and

the seemingly necessary,

ordinary request

to pass the salt.

                                                            (David Whyte)

Very truly I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me and whoever receives me receives him who sent me. We are called to open our eyes and hearts and selves to receive the love of Christ in all sorts of places and from all sorts of people and in all sorts of everyday actions—even in the ordinary act of passing the salt.

Easter in the Wilderness: Come, rejoice!

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;
love lives again, that with the dead has been:

Love is come again
like wheat that springeth green.

 
In the grave they laid him, Love whom hate had slain,
thinking that never he would wake again,
laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:
 
Love is come again
like wheat that springeth green.

Forth he came at Easter, like the risen grain,
he that for three days in the grave had lain,
quick from the dead my risen Lord is seen:
 
Love is come again
like wheat that springeth green.

When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
thy touch can call us back to life again,
fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
 
Love is come again
like wheat that springeth green.

John Macleod Campbell Crum (1872-1958)
The Hymnal 1982, 204

Wilderness Yearning: Holy Saturday

April 7, 2012

Will your loving-kindness be declared in the grave?
   your faithfulness in the land of destruction?    Psalm 88:3, 12


As the morning becomes full, my house is still sleeping. Yesterday we gave ourselves to the telling of the passion. My daughters gathered with other youth to offer the gift of solemn devotion to their congregation. Flute and oboe. Voices layered together in song and intercession and words of wisdom. Young feet walking the way of the cross creating space for all to follow.

We left in silence, we left Jesus in the tomb, we left spent.

God promises rest. But this is not yet it. This is the waiting, the vigil, the brink. Love is with the dead.



copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012

Wilderness Yearning: Good Friday

 
April 6, 2011


Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, where are you going?’ Jesus answered, ‘Where I am going, you cannot follow me now; but you will follow afterwards.’ Peter said to him, ‘Lord, why can I not follow you now? I will lay down my life for you.’ Jesus answered, ‘Will you lay down your life for me? Very truly, I tell you, before the cock crows, you will have denied me three times.  John 13:36-38

The morning has broken, the night is spent, the cock has crowed. Now I must live in the aftermath of my inadequacy.

Last night an older woman knelt before me and gently, reverently washed my feet. Then I, in turn, knelt before a young girl on the edge of womanhood and cradled each foot in my hands, washing off the dust of wherever her desert journey has taken her.

Last night the moon was full as we walked across the parking lot. The fullness of time.

Last night I slept soundly.

But today,
today even as the sun unwraps before me the gift of a dazzling spring morning,
today is only darkness.

How will I find my way?



copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012

Wilderness Yearning: Maundy Thursday

April 5, 2012

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. John 13:34-35


I give you a new commandment. The phrase runs through my head as a kind of mantra as I contemplate the tasks of the day ahead. New commandment. Mandatum novum. Maundy Thursday.

I give you a new commandment. I have enough trouble with the old ones, I think. Especially that one about not wanting what others have. Although I am sure my day could be well spent wrestling with any of them.

In another part of the house, I hear my daughter practicing piano. Recently her proficiency has jumped to a whole new level. Now the strains wafting through our old house are Bach and Dussek and Haydn. She is more diligent than I ever was at her age—or any age.

She starts and stops, repeating phrases, working with just on hand, then the other. Bit by bit she connects notes and adds layers of tone, tempo, and expression. Phrases become movements, which in turn are miraculously transformed into sonatinas.

I give you a new commandment. Mandatum novum. Love one another as I have loved you. This will take some practice.


copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012

Wilderness Yearning: Wednesday in Holy Week

April 4, 2012
 
Listen to me and answer me;
   I have no peace, because of my cares.
I am shaken by the noise of the enemy
   and by the pressures of the wicked.  Psalm 55:2-3

Is snacking on pretzels really breaking my Lenten fast, I wonder, as I carry a handful back to my desk with me. After all, pretzels are a traditional Lenten food.

I am hungry today. I ate a full breakfast, then two tangerines, and now these pretzels. I brought lunch from home, but I am already contemplating going out instead. Maybe even getting dessert.

I realize the pretzels themselves are not the problem. It is snacking that is off limits for me during Lent.  But that is not really the issue either. It is the hunger. What I hunger for, yearn for, is not something the pretzels can fill.

I am acquainted with this hunger. I recognize that the only way to assuage it is to abandon myself completely to the emptiness. I discern the temptation to stop short of the bareness that precedes new life.

I know all this. Nevertheless, I put one more salty bit into my mouth.


copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012

Wilderness Yearning: Tuesday in Holy Week

April 3, 2012


Help me, Lord, for there is no godly one left;
   the faithful have vanished from among us. Psalm 12:1


The strands of palm leaves tucked behind the corner of my mirror are already dry and brittle.

We stood among the damp palm branches last Saturday preparing them for the ritual to come. Mothers and grandmothers, we pulled the fronds from the water, split them and folded hundreds into crosses, leaving others long and lean. All the while telling stories, and partaking in the giving and receiving of parenting advice.

And with us too the teenage girls who had cajoled one another into being there, texting their incentives. They told their stories as well, but in that space they also overheard the tales of older women.

Now the palms have been dispersed and along with them the stories. The joyous procession is two days past.

I sit alone and cannot seem to find my way into the narrative of life. Dry and brittle. Help me God.



copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012