Lex Orandi Lex Credendi - The Rule of Prayer is the Rule of Belief

During our Lenten series last year, we explored our liturgies of confession and absolution as a way of understanding God’s grace in the midst of human brokenness.  We recognized that each of the prayers of confession and pronouncements of absolution found in the Book of Common Prayer and Book of Alternative Services offer slightly different nuances as to how we understand our human frailty, brokenness and sinfulness, and slightly different expressions of God’s forgiving, healing and restoring grace.  One of the points discussed in our time together is that Anglican theology has typically been expressed in the shared prayers of the church, in “common prayer,” as it were.  Common prayer is not simply the name of a time-honoured prayer book, but an evolving tradition of praying together, across time and space. We pray the prayers of our fathers and mothers who have gone before us, and in doing so join with them in worship and praise. At the same time, though, new prayers emerge from the depths of our shared stories and experiences in the present day.  Our prayers become a part of the tradition. If we listen carefully to the words of prayer found in our tradition, words that are frequently grounded in Holy Scripture, we hear the story of God’s encounter with humanity come alive to us.  When we pray these prayers, we are swept into that sacred story.  We become a part of the story and it becomes a part of us.

During the Hong Kong Continuing Indaba Encounter, many of us were struck by the words of the confession that was being used in the Church of Hong Kong.  It was exactly the same as the words we pray in the Canadian modern Eucharistic liturgy, with the exception of the lines that have been bolded:

Most merciful God,

we confess that we have sinned

against you in thought, word and deed,

by what we have done,  and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart;

we have not loved our neighbours as ourselves.

We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.

For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ have mercy on us,

Forgive what we have been,

Amend what we are,

And direct what we shall be,

That we may delight in you will, and walk in your ways,

to the glory of you Name. Amen. (The Holy Eucharist, Rite Two, Hong Kong Sheng Kung Hui)

We attempt to pray our prayer of confession each week intentionally and thoughtfully.  The words are a part of us and many of us can pray them without the book.  When a text becomes a part of us in such a way it is a gift.  It is a resource upon which we can draw in times of need.  We have the words to call out to God when we have done something wrong, even when we do not have a prayer book in front of us.  And yet, words like these, as dear as they are to us, can become stale at times.  We long for the spirit to wake us from our slumber.  I think that for many of us from the Canadian team, we were awoken that first day in Hong Kong when these words broke the pattern to which we were so accustomed.  At first, it was slightly frustrating – the prayer we knew and loved so well was interrupted. Quickly, though we realized it was a divine interruption, an interruption that proclaimed, “Sleeper wake! Rise from the dead and Christ will shine on you!”   These few additional words jarred us and then opened us to new possibilities, new hope, new grace: “Forgive what we have been, amend what we are and direct what we shall be,” are words that invited us into the story of grace in a new and meaningful way.  They are entirely consistent with what we believe, and yet, their sense of newness helped us to prayer an old familiar prayer in a fresh and thoughtful way.  As the week unfolded, many of us worked this additional line into our theology of confession and absolution, our theology of sin and grace, and into our theology of hope.   We believe as we pray and pray as we believe.

c. 2012, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

What a Mighty Love Was Thine... A Message for Christmas, 2011

See Amid the Winter’s Snow…

See amid the winter’s snow,

Born for us on Earth below,

See, the tender lamb appears,

Promised from eternal years!

One of my favourite Christmas Carols is See Amid the Winter’s Snow. Although it was voted one of England’s favourite carols (at least according to the BBC website) many do not seem to be familiar with it.  It is a great Victorian carol with words from Edward Caswall (1814-1878), set to the tune “Humility” by John Goss (1800-1880). Caswell is also known for several other favourite Victorian hymns, perhaps the best known being When Morning Gilds the Skies, and Earth Has Many a Noble City.  Goss is known for composing the tune to the perennial favourite, Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven.

 The carol See Amid the Winter’s Snow, is one of those carols that captures the deep theological mystery of Christmas, that profound and moving reality of God with us.   The first two lines of the second verse makes this proclamation, at once majestic and humbling:

Lo, within a manger lies,

He who built the starry skies …

The God who created the heavens and the earth is found in the lowliest of estates, lying in a cattle trough.  The one the universe cannot contain allows himself to be contained in the womb of Mary his mother.  The one who knew neither time nor space enters into time and sleeps on bed of straw.  The one whose majesty is beyond compare condescends to make himself known in the most humble of conditions, a child in poverty.  The one who is beyond human comprehension becomes the one who can be cradled by loving human arms.  The mystery of Christmas is that the God who is above and beyond all, chooses to be a part of our small world and a part of our lives. 

Sacred infant, all divine

What a mighty love was thine,

Thus to come from highest bliss,

Down to such a world as this?

As we look about the world around us, it may seem at times that it is not worth saving, that things have gone from bad to worse and that it is beyond repair and restoration.  But through the eyes of God, it is worth it, we are worth it. The world and all its people are worth saving and are of immeasurable value to God.  Yes, the creator of the universe cares for this world and loves all its people, so much so that from highest bliss, he comes to us as a little child.  What a mighty love was thine. 

Thus, as Christmas comes one again, we extol that mighty love with our hymns and carols of praise and humble gratitude.  We sing our carols to give thanks, we sing them to remind ourselves of the love of God poured out for us, and we sing them to offer a word of hope to the world and those around us that the loving God is forever reaching out to us in the sacred infant of Bethlehem.

Hail, Thou ever blessed morn!

Hail, redemption’s happy dawn!

Sing through all Jerusalem:

Christ is born in Bethlehem!

The Choir of St. Paul's Cathedral, London

I and Thou, and Indaba

Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.

Earlier this month, members of the the Diocese of Toronto (along with members of the Diocese of Jamaica and the Cayman Islands, and members of the Province Hong Kong) had the privilege to be part of a pilot project in the Anglican Communion called Continuing Indaba. Continuing Indaba is part of an ongoing listening project in the Anglican Communion in which we seek to journey together in unity amidst the issues that threaten to divide us. There are many things that divide us as Anglicans, not least of which are issues concerning human sexuality, but beneath the surface and the presenting issues that ignite conflict are deeper differences, many cultural, some linked to our varied and differing experiences of colonialism, and others linked to the shape of Christianity and Churchmanship we inherited and which endure in our post-colonial contexts.

When relationships break down, it is easy to caricature the other, and to deride the opinions and positions held by the other when they are so different from own. This is especially true when a vast geographical distance separates us as well. But the question was asked, what if we were to meet face to face? What if we were to welcome one another into each others’ homes, parishes and communities, and into each others’ lives? What would be the gifts that we would share and receive? What if we were to become vulnerable to each other, to become like children to one another, and to practice welcoming hospitality to one another, in spite of our differences?

And so we met for eight days. Part of that time was in the setting of the Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine, and another part was in local parishes, in local communities. I have been asked what the entire experience was like. I have half-jokingly responded that it was a bit like being in group therapy for eight days. It was hard emotional work, but fruit of the labour was wonderful. It was more than a week of group therapy, though; it was a time to journey honestly and authentically through the challenging questions we face and ask seriously the question, is there a future to this relationship? To our great surprise, we realized that we had only barely begun the work of relationship; and as the bud of that relationship began to open, we knew the joy of sisterhood and brotherhood. Our time together was punctuated by moments of depth, both painful depth and joyful depth.

Following our time together, I began to think about, and to read the work of the great Jewish philosopher and theologian, Martin Buber. The seeds to explore Buber were planted last fall in the visit of a former teacher. We had not seen each other in over twenty years, although we had had some recent wonderful correspondence. When we met we simply embraced each other, a few tears fell, and he quoted Martin Buber, “All real living is meeting.”

All real living is meeting.These words come from Buber’s beautiful little book, I and Thou. In that work Buber suggests that we cannot conceive of ourselves, except in relationship to the other. This is done in two ways. There is either the pairing of I with it/he/she; or there is the pairing of I with Thou (or you). In the world of I-he/she/it, we seek to control the world, shape it, and understand it. We are the subject, and everything else is object. The object, the he/she/it of the other is to studied, classified, explained, understood, theorized about. We are detached from the other, set apart from it, distinct from it. “I” is over “here” observing the “he/she/it” which is over “there.” This, according to Buber is the realm of experience. We seek to understand the other by learning about it, or him or her.

But the realm of I-Thou (I-You), Buber claims, is the realm of relationship. It is the place where hearts meet; it is the place where we see in each other the “I” of subjectivity; where we behold rather than experience; where we are indeed drawn into the life of the other, and where we realize that there is no “I” without “You.” It is the realm in which we are not longer objects to each other, no longer he/she/its to each other, but “Thou,” but “You”, and hence beloved. We encounter one another, and with the other, behold the eternal “Thou” and are drawn into the great “I-Thou” world of our creator. This is not the objective world of experience, but the realm of encounter, the realm of relationship, in which our shared subjectivity is woven together in a divine tapestry, where our individual steps move in concert with the other in a divine dance.

For me, the struggle of Indaba was the toggling between the realms of experience and relationship. At least part of our mandate seemed to be to offer an experience of the Canadian Church (and alternately an experience of Jamaican and Chinese responses to this experience), and an experience of how each of us do things (in particular, theology, sexual ethics, youth ministry, and social justice & engagement) in our own contexts; to experience how we understand and engage our mission and ministry in unique ways. It seemed to me, though, that the harder we tried to demonstrate who we were, the more difficult understanding became. We manufactured a program to give people from far and wide an experience of us, and yet it seemed like they still didn’t get us, and we still didn’t get them. Customs and traditions and ways of doing things seemed even more baffling and troubling.

However, at the heart of Indaba, and dare I say, at the heart of the Christian life, is another way of being, a way that moves beyond and more deeply than the way of experience, and that is the way of encounter, the way of relationship. This is the “I-Thou” relationship of which Buber speaks. The genius of Indaba was not so much that we learned about each other and experienced each others’ worlds, but rather that we encountered each other, that through living and being together for a time, even through bafflement, we grew in relationship with one another. Through encountering each other, beholding each other as beloved children of God, and hence the beloved of our beloved, we became no longer objects to be understood by each other, no longer he/she/it, but I and You, I-Thou. We encounter one another and behold within each other the eternal I and the eternal Thou, in a dance of reciprocity and mutual subjectivity. In our Indaba encounter, it was surprising how quickly, through the grace of the abiding presence and promise of the Holy Spirit in the Church, we moved from I-he/she/it, to I-Thou, and the interesting thing is that an unexpected gift began to emerge, namely, some very small seeds of understanding.

Buber concedes that the I-Thou moments of life are fleeting moments, but they are moments that inform and transform the everyday world of I-he/she/it that we inhabit most of our waking hours. Relationship shapes experience, not the other way around. Understanding does not come primarily through an experience of learning about each other, through objectivity, but through a relationship with another, through an encounter, when heart meets heart, when I meets Thou, when we realize that there truly is no “I” without “Thou” and that I and Thou are one.

This is the truth behind the saying of Jesus, “whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.” In the faithfulness of welcoming each other, not as he/she/its, but as Thou, as another I who beholds me as Thou, we welcome another, Christ our God, who takes us beyond the surface layers of our lives and into the deeper places of encounter and relationship. When we plunge into this authenticity, through the risk of hospitality and welcoming, we are given the greatest gift of all, namely, through relationships formed with new friends, the friendship of Christ our God.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Back Pew

Anglicans love the back pew. I suppose an interesting social history might be written on the subject putting forward all sorts of reasons that the front pews remain empty while the back pews are always occupied. I have heard several reasons put forward over the years, the most interesting being the suggestion that occupation of the back pew dates back to the days of pew rents. The pews and boxes in the middle of the church were the “property” of those who paid for them, while benches along the walls, at the back and in the gallery were open to those who could not afford to pay the pew rent. I have no idea if this is true or not and I can’t even remember where I heard it. I once asked my English grandmother why no one ever sat in the front pew of a church. She told me that it was kept free just in case the Queen showed up. Again, I don’t know if there’s a kernel of truth in that somewhere, but as a child I certainly believed it. It does seem to be in concord with the concept that those of a certain socio-economic class and social status get the best seats in the house, while those less fortunate should be satisfied with what is left over. Fortunately, in the eschatological scheme of things, “the last shall be first.” It’s just too bad that the church has had such a hard time hearing its own Gospel. I have been in churches with side aisles pews where it was painfully obvious that a greater number of visible minorities occupied those seats.

Even if the Anglican attachment to the back pew had its origins in pew rents, I don’t think that there is anyone alive in the Canadian Church today that would remember pew rents. Thus it is unlikely that those who sit in the back pews today do so because of the historic influence of pew rents. It is more likely that those who warm the back pews of the church do so out of a desire to remain slightly anonymous, slightly at a safe distance, participating fully, but with caution. Even long-time churchgoers seem to like to sit as close to the back as possible. Perhaps it is akin to the student who sits at the very back of the classroom with collar up, sunglasses on and the peak of the ball-cap turned downward, exuding the attitude, “teach me if you dare.”

My father, who is a retired Hydro executive, once told me of some sort of industry meeting that he attended at which the late Archbishop of Toronto, Lewis Garnsworthy, was keynote speaker. Lewis Toronto is reported to have extended his index finger, gazed across the expanse of the room, and uttered in his own inimitable style, “Don’t think you people at the back intimidate me; I’m an Anglican bishop!”

Whatever the origins of the back pew phenomenon, the back pew continues to hold an allure for Anglicans. Even if we place a sign midway through the nave inviting people to sit ahead of the sign (as was the summer custom in my home church), the pleading will be ignored and at least one or two faithful will fly the Anglican flag high from the back pew.

At a recent clergy event in the Diocese of Toronto (at a church that shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty), along with my good friend Fr. Jason Prisley, I was looking for a place to sit. We jokingly said that we should try out the back pew and see what all the fuss was about. We headed to the back of the modern nave and Fr. Jason began to laugh, “Dan,” he exclaimed, “you have to get a picture of this! This is the classic Anglican back pew!” He was right. A quick glance revealed the startling find that although the building was only about ten years old, the back pew was well worn! The contrast with the pristine penultimate pew is quite amusing (see accompanying photo).

Lest we be too hard on those who keep the back pew warm, let us remember that they are not the only ones guilty of claiming a particular ownership over their ecclesiastical seating. Those in the chancel have their special places: the bishop’s throne, the rector’s stall, the choir pews. Is it any wonder that the laity wish to stake their claim? In one parish in which I was a student, I was told of an elderly man who had carved his initials into a certain pew as a boy and he sat in that same pew all his days. A clergy spouse I knew always sat next to a pillar no matter which church she was in. One could ponder the psychology of that piece of seating strategy for some time. We are all familiar with the stories of those who have been told, “You’re sitting in my pew.” Perhaps some readers will have been accused of this when visiting another church. I know of a bishop’s spouse who had this happen in a church in this diocese. Ouch.

So, to be fair, not all Anglicans have a need to sit at the back. There are some (few) who do enjoy sitting up front, and as a preacher, I do appreciate the opportunity to make visual contact with people in the congregation without the aid of opera glasses. It seems, though, that we do like to carve out our particular favourite spots in Church. We all have niches in ministry, and perhaps the little niches we carve out in the nave (and chancel) in some way reflect that. Maybe, when we get too concerned about where people are sitting in the church, we should for a moment consider the alternative: the empty pew. Perhaps we should simply be grateful that God’s Holy Spirit has drawn folk into the Church at all, no matter where they choose to sit.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

The Canadian Churchman's Round-up, #1 - A Compendium of Thoughtful Anglican Blogs

The Anglican blogosphere seems to be dominated by a group of stridently conservative bloggers whose voices tend to be overpowering. As you will all know, your friendly neighbourhood Canadian Churchman eschews association with any particular “church party.” I am pleased to be in conversation with church-folk of all types and read blogs that are intelligent and fair. I am not interested in close-mindedness or in highly polemical blogs. I do read the latter, from time-to-time, as an exercise in understanding, but I will not promote or commend them. There are, however, some very excellent, broadly-minded, Anglican writers out there in internet-land. Your Canadian Churchman feels that it is worth highlighting their work, and as such, I hope to offer this “round-up” feature on a semi-regular basis to commend their work to readers of this blog, with the view to building a community of bloggers who speak from the centre. I would be happy to learn of new blogs that are worth sharing.

This past Sunday was Trinity Sunday, a Sunday that is reputedly feared by preachers, but several of the Churchman’s online friends have posted very thoughtful homilies. For example, The Vicar of Wakefield tackled the subject head on in a reflection on the Nicene Creed. In as sermon entitled “On Belief, Doubt, and the Nicene Creed,” he has written, “I think of the creed as the skeletal structure of our faith. We each have bones and frames that look more or less the same, but the way we flesh them out, the way we bring them to life, is different for each of us.” For the Vicar, the Creed is both inclusive and yet, in its brevity, permissive. To recite the Creed rather than asking parishioners to sign on to complicated confessional statements or subscribe to hundred page catechisms is a truly Anglican way of growing into our faith.

Over at Refractions, in a post entitled, “From Entitlements to Practices,” the Rev. Dr. Michael Thompson took his lead from our Lord’s Divine Commission offered at the end of St. Matthew’s Gospel to make disciples through baptism in the name of the Trinity. He ponders the tension between discipleship and membership, reminding us that while membership is touted as something having privileges, for Christians “membership comes with a covenant, a purpose.” He goes on to articulate that purpose as expressed in the baptismal covenant.

Fr. Michael Marsh, at Interrupting the Silence, has written about “The Choreography of Love,” as a way of understanding the Trinity. Fr. Marsh stands in awe of the doctrine of the Trinity, and when speaking about the Trinity, much like speaking about love, he recognizes that words often fail us and lead us astray when we try to articulate what both the doctrine of the Trinity and what love mean to us. He helpfully offers up the language and analogy of relationship as a way into understanding the Triune life.

The Rev. Dr. Richard Leggett at Liturgy Pacific does not seem to have posted a Trinity homily, but has a fine homily for Pentecost entitled, “Would that All God’s People were Prophets,” in which he reflects on the vocation of a prophet: “For us the prophets do not foretell the future; they ‘forth tell’ God’s word to God’s people in particular times and particular places.” Given the “epic fail” of a recent rapture-predicting American preacher, his words serve as a solid reminder as to what a prophet is called to do and of our shared vocation to prophecy as inheritors of the Holy Spirit at the first Pentecost.

Fr. Tay Moss, long-time blogger and everyone’s favourite Ninja Priest, has posted some intriguing thoughts of “the Church-as-folding” after reflecting on a piece of origami. He brilliantly suggests an approach that can take us beyond what he delightfully dubs, “the confetti of postmodernism.”

The Rev. Maggie Dawn’s Pentecost reflection considers the word “inspiration” and views it as a gift to western culture, art and literature, descended from that first Pentecost. She also offers some thoughts on what that means to her as an author.

Rudolf Bultmann famously asserted that the three-tiered universal is an impossible article of faith in the age of the wireless. This is why the Ascension can be such a difficult subject to preach on. In a homily entitled, “Where is he Going?”Dr. Andrew McGowan, over at Andrew’s Version, offers some cogent and helpful thoughts on what the Ascension means, both in terms of the absence and abiding presence of Jesus, with the assistance of a classic text from St. Theresa of Avila.

On another note completely, Laurel Massé at Voice of the Swan has written thoughtfully in her post, “The City that Never Sleeps,” about ministry in the city and has shared a friend’s wonderful prayer for the life and work that goes on in New York City.

This should give you just a sampling of some of the many thoughtful homilies and reflections that Anglicans are posting these days. The Canadian Churchman hopes that you will visit these sites regularly, make comments on them, and commend them to others. Look for further installments of “The Canadian Churchman’s Round-up” in the not-too-distant future.

Fr. Dan

God Endures Unchanging On - A Reflection for the 160th Anniversary of Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford

One hundred and sixty years is something to celebrate; but let us never forget who it is that we proclaim in our shared life, and in whose ministry we rejoice today. Let us give thanks and praise to Christ our God.

Often, I take a moment to study the faces of the past rectors of Trinity Church, so wonderfully displayed in the Upper Room (our Narthex). I feel deeply humbled to follow in the footsteps of such faithful clerics. Many of these are remembered fondly by our current generation, but as my gaze wanders back across our 160 years of history, I soon realize that many of my predecessors are but names and faces, and a few of them just names. The contours of their ministry are no longer within the landscape of our gaze. They served, and they served faithfully, and their faithfulness is now known only to God. I wonder what challenges they faced in their ministries. I wonder what joys they knew and what tragedies they ministered through. Perhaps it does not matter; what matters is that their faithfulness has served to bring us to this day.

More important than the faithfulness of any priest, though, is the faithfulness of God’s people who make up the local church. I can now look upon another wonderful display of photos and clippings, prepared especially for this celebration, and see faces that have lived and faithfully served in this community. Some of them I know while others are fondly remembered by our senior parishioners. There are many faces that do not grace the display and are remembered only to God. How humbling it is for us to know that we are but one generation in a long line of faithful Christians in this place who have served the living God. Consider for a moment how the faithfulness of our mothers and fathers has served to bring us to this day.

More important than the faithfulness of priests or people, though, is the faithfulness of God in Christ. What makes the church more than just a society of people and clergy is the love that binds us together in Christ. What make us more than a family is the faithfulness of the one who gave us life, redeems that life, and empowers us to live into the divine likeness. The most important thing, and may we never lose sight of this truth, is the faithfulness of the God. The faithfulness of God is what has brought us to this point and what will move us forward. In another hundred years when our successors take a long gaze backward and wonder who we were and ponder our faithfulness, be it ever so fragile, they will be sure of one thing, that we served, and that they serve a faithful God who shall never leave nor forsake.

The words of a favourite hymn comes to mind:

“…Frail as summer’s flower we flourish, blows the wind and it is gone, but while mortals rise and perish, God endures unchanging on.”

So let us “praise the high eternal one” for his unending and unchanging faithfulness, for his faithfulness shown in and through our mothers and fathers in this parish, for our frail faithfulness, and for his faithfulness yet to be expressed in generations yet to be.

A happy 160th anniversary to you all.

Fr. Dan Graves

Thou Hatest Nothing Thou Hast Made -- A Reflection for Ash Wednesday, 2011

Almighty and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that thou has made, and dost forgive the sins of all those who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting ours sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

-The Collect for Ash Wednesday

God hates nothing that he has made. This is perhaps the most difficult truth we profess as Christian people. There are times in our lives when it is hard to believe that God loves us. We find ourselves to be broken, and yes, even as the old collect says, wretched. Oh, the times that I have wept at being unequal to the task that has been set before me and the mistakes that I have made along the way. If we are honest with ourselves, we will all be able to readily identify moments in which we have failed miserably at something we so confidently undertook. No one wishes a job to end in termination. No one plans on a marriage ending. No one sets out to fail a course or drop out of school. We take up tasks with the best and noblest of intentions, with every hope and belief that we shall see them through to completion. However, it is a reality of life that we shall all fail at one time or another. Sometimes we are not the only one to blame, but more often than not, we have played our part. What shall we do with the guilt and shame we carry over the mistakes we have made?

From time-to-time individuals will appear in my office or drop by the church. I may know them, or sometimes they are complete strangers. The thing they have in common, though, is that they are carrying a burden. The burden they invariably carry is the burden of a wrong, a mistake, or some unfinished business that has weighed heavily on their hearts. Often, words to this effect are spoken: “How can God love me? How can God forgive me after what I have done?” I think that most of us have felt this way at least once or twice in our lives.

God does love us though, even when we are at our worst and even when we fail in the most destructive ways possible. The question really is, “can I forgive myself?” Often we cannot forgive ourselves for the pain of the mistake is too great. Because we cannot forgive ourselves, we cannot believe that God could forgive us. Fortunately, though, our God is a God who forgives us and who loves us through every deep valley that we travel. As Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount, “God makes the sun rise and set on the evil person as well as the good person.” Sometimes we are that evil person, and yet God has a heart big enough to embrace us, even when our hearts are broken into pieces. God has a will strong enough to set us upon the paths of righteousness even when our will has drawn us from the path of life.

Thus, when people come to me -- and I venture to say when anyone who is weighed down with regret over things done and left undone comes to any of us as Christian people -- it is our sacred task to proclaim the truth of the Gospel, that God loves them, for he hates nothing (and no one) he has made. Every one of us is precious in his sight. Every one of us, broken as we may be, is worthy of being put back together, every one of us has a place around his table and chair at his warm and loving hearth. Perhaps the greatest Lenten discipline of all might be not to give up something precious, but to share something precious, namely, this word of hope, this word of God’s love, to those who journey without hope and have no sense of his love.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Arise, Shine - A Reflection for Candlemas 2011

The lections through Epiphanytide radiate with themes of light. As we are gradually drawing away from the longest night, it may seem as though we remain in an unending season of longest nights, for even days filled with sunlight are fleeting. But the days are getting longer, even if this reality is not always perceptible, and the light is returning. While we move forward, slowly, through this dark time, the Scriptures continue to sing out about the light that comes into the world, the light that enlightens our darkness; both the darkness around us, and the darkness within us.

We move forward into a time of year that is difficult for many. There are many who make the pilgrimage south and abroad, not only to escape the cold, but to seek warmth and light. I am convinced that “seasonal affective disorder” is no imagined malady, but truly the result of living in a climate in which we are deeply deprived of light at this time of year. We desperately need to know the light is returning. We desperately need to hear from the lips of a trusted friend that darkness will not cover the face of the Earth forever. We need to know that a day will come when we will feel the warmth of the rising sun once again on our faces.

The darkness of the days and the length of the nights may make our personal moments of darkness seem all the more impenetrable. During this season we have felt some loss in our community through the deaths of dear friends. Many will be on personal journeys through illness, unemployment, and trying times of various sorts. Oh, that the light would come!

Yet, we continue to celebrate that light, even when it seems so fleeting. We continue to bask in its rays, even when the clouds clear for just a moment. We continue to read the words of our sacred story about the light, the true light, our Saviour, even though as the annual joyous celebration of his coming slips at once quietly into our past and distantly into our future.

Then appears a day on our horizon: it is not the end of the night, but let us call it the early morning watch. February 2nd is known to most as “groundhog day” – will he or will he not see his shadow? Shall winter end soon, or shall it continue for six more weeks? Christian people celebrate this day for another reason, though, and we call it The Presentation of the Lord in the Temple, or Candlemas. Like its secular sister, it falls at the midway point of the duration of Winter, but unlike its secular sister, Groundhog Day, which is filled with ambiguity about the return of the light, on Candlemas we proclaim boldly, once again, that the light has not been put out; that the light shines in the darkness; and that the darkness never has, and never will, overcome it. The spring shall come! The sun shall rise! Light breaks forth! Alleluia!

In the springtime, the Easter reality that we proclaim, that Jesus is Risen, is reinforced in the lengthening of days, the return of the light, and the return to life of the earth. But here at mid-winter, at Candlemas, we have no such signs, only faith and hope. Thus, in such a faith and with certain hope we gather to bless and light candles and proclaim our hope in the light of the world, in an Eastertide that is but a distant vision, but we do so without ambiguity but basked in the Light that never goes out.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

God is not Dead nor doth he Sleep - A Reflection for Christmas, 2010

In 1861, the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, following the tragic death of his wife and the outbreak of the American Civil War wrote a poem entitled “Christmas Bells,” which has come down to us as the carol, “I heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” It tells of a man who hears the bells ringing Christmas morning, but the tragedy of his life has made him deaf to the Good News and glad tidings they proclaim:

“Then in despair I bowed my head; ‘There is no peace on Earth,’ I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth good will to men.”

For many, these words will resonate. For each of us there will be moments and events, both in our personal lives and in the world at large, that seem to rob us of our hope, and rob us of our joy. For many, a loss that occurred around Christmas time makes this season all the more difficult.

Yet, the remarkable Good News that rings out into the brokenness of our world and the brokenness of our dreams is the news of a God that willfully chooses to be with us when hope seems lost and joy forsaken. It is the news of a God who seeks us out, and allowing the pains of this life to take their course, offers a gentle hand, stretched out in love. It is the news of a God who, having journeyed with us through the changes and chances of life, brings new life and light to our hearts in the person of Christ Jesus. In Christ Jesus, hope returns and joy is rekindled.
That transforming power rings out in the final verse of Longfellow’s poem,

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail with peace on earth, good will to men.”

Truly, God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. The bells peal out for us this Christmas seasons with Good News and glad tidings of great joy. They chime a sound that recalls us to the reality of a Christ that is born into our midst, who not only journeys with us, but recreates us that we might indeed make the angel song of “Peace on Earth, good will to all people” our song, too.

May the Holy Child of Bethlehem bring you joy and peace this Christmastide.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Reflections on the Journey Part II - Photographer's Choice and a Proprietor named Al

I never knew or cared much about photography, but one of the most interesting and stimulating places I have ever known was a tiny little camera store named Photographer’s Choice. Names can be misleading because the store really should have been called “Al’s Choice.” Al was the name of the proprietor of this gem of a place. He was born in Kentucky and came to Canada during the Viet Nam war. He had an interest in and talent for photography. At some point he opened up his own little camera shop in Richmond Hill, and what a store it was! Photofinishing and cameras were really just a front – a front for the most eclectic and amazing intellectual and cultural centre in town. For me, it was the place of my intellectual and cultural coming-of-age.

Photographer’s choice was the name on the sign, but Al had business cards also made up that touted the store as the “Richmond Hill University Off-Campus Bookstore.” Now, it must be understood that there was, indeed, no Richmond Hill University. Therefore, there was no campus which would house an “on-campus” bookstore, with whom Al’s store was ostensibly in competition! However, the name said something of the ethos that Al was trying to evoke – counter cultural, or more properly, sub-cultural. The rules and guidelines that shaped what was sold were Al’s own, and reflective not only of his own interests, but I think, of his own intellectual and cultural journey. Thus, amongst the many dusty academic volumes and other historical classics (I remember complete sets of Churchill’s Histories), there were shelves and shelves of pocket books – Science Fiction, Westerns, and Mysteries. There were some types of popular literature that were strictly off-limits, though: “We don’t do Harlequins,” I remember Al once saying very sternly. I also remember him telling me that true Science Fiction readers detest the term “Sci-Fi” and prefer “SF”, as an abbreviation of the more acceptable “Speculative Fiction.” It was a tiny place, but there was always something that would capture the imagination.

Al could generally find anything that you wanted. There was a basement that was “off-limits” to customers. If you asked about a book that couldn’t be found on the store shelves, Al would refer to an old-fashioned card catalogue in metal box that was buried under piles of papers on the front counter and finger his way through it. This catalogue was the skeleton key to the mysteries of the mysterious basement. I was a pretty big Sherlock Holmes fan back in the mid-eighties and I was just starting to read about Conan Doyle’s influences and his imitators. I had heard about stories of a detective named “Raffles.” I asked Al about it. He rubbed his moustache, pulled out the card catalogue, found a card and said in his best Kentucky voice (which I’m sure he enjoyed playing up), “Mister Juuustice Raaaffles?” A smile came across my face, and I exclaimed, “That’s it!” delighted at the discovery. Giving me a funny little half smile, he descend into what I imagined must have been a catacombs. After what seemed like quite an eternity, he returned with a little hardback red coloured volume, about 80 years old, and said, “Is this it?” It was. I’m sure I paid him about $1.75 or $2.00 for it and went away happy. I must confess though, that I began to read it and lost interest after the first couple of pages. Having devoured all of Holmes, I was looking for a new seven percent solution, and Mr. Justice Raffles was not destined to become the new drug of choice.

It was probably a few weeks later that I returned to the store. Al asked me what I thought of Raffles and I told him I couldn’t really get into it. “What you should be reading,” he said, “Is Nero Wolfe.” He explained to me that Nero Wolfe was the perfect cross between the English drawing room detective story and the hard-boiled American private eye thrillers. Wolfe was a 300 pound Montenegrin private investigator that never left his office on business. When he was not tending his orchids on the third floor of his New York brownstone, he used his superior intellect to solve mysteries behind from behind his desk. His leg-man, the competent Archie Goodwin, did all his investigative work and provided the American P.I. angle. Goodwin told the stories from his perspective, in the tradition of Dr. Watson. Al gave me a Nero Wolfe novel to read but warned me, that I would not be able to stop reading Wolfe novels if ever I started. Like all good drugs, the first one was free. But for some reason, I was not able to get into it either. I never told Al, because he had been so generous in giving me the book, no charge. I think at fourteen or fifteen years old, I was just too narrow-minded and found it difficult branch out and try something new. Thankfully, Al did not give up on me, and I will say that to this day that he and his store were crucial in opening my mind to new intellectual and cultural delights, of both the “high-brow” and “popular” sorts. I think I first became a listener of CBC radio in his store.

Al was also interested in comic books. In addition to photofinishing, cameras, photography accessories, and used books of all sorts and conditions, he also sold comic books. Indeed, he had another set of business cards that read, “Comic Collectors’ Choice.” Like many gangly unpopular, non-athletic kids of my era, I was an avid comic book reader and collector. Batman was my comic of choice. Al was very tolerant of my devotion to the caped crusader, but sought to educate me in the finer contributions to the canon of sequential art. “Have you ever heard of the Spirit?” He asked once asked me, in effort broaden my horizons in the field of panelogogy. Of course I hadn’t, because my only daring moves in comic book land was to occasionally perform the heretical act of betraying my DC masters by buying the occasional Marvel Comic book the featured the Amazing Spiderman. “Let me show you the Spirit,” he said, once again preparing me as a catechumen about to be inaugurated into a sacred mystery. He prowled around under that ever-present mass of papers on the counter – it always amazed me that whatever Al needed was close at hand under those papers – and drew forth a vintage “Spirit Section.” He explained to me that Will Eisner, the writer and artist, drew a short comic book every week (with the help of his studio assistants) that would be inserted in Sunday papers all across America during the 1940’s, these were known to seasoned panelogogists as “Spirit Sections.” He explained that Eisner was trying to break out of the superhero mode and tell human interest stories. He was an early innovator in graphic storytelling, combining words and images on the page with different shaped panels and panel action creating a pacing and timing that created and affective response in the reader. He also introduced me to the “graphic novel,” a literary art form more-or-less created by Eisner in the 1970’s with the publication of his graphic novel, “A Contract with God,” where Eisner began to explore the human condition more deeply in lengthy narratives and interrelated short-stories about New York city life. Eisner’s work was mind-blowing. My love affair with Eisner continues to this day (indeed, in our last house, I our spare bedroom was called “the Eisner Room” as it was decorated with several framed Eisner prints). I introduced his work to my wife Athena and she has used his stories in her English classes. What I learned from Eisner (and so many of the other writers of popular fiction to whom he introduced me) was that the various media of popular culture, including the comic book, could be the means for exploring and communicating serious themes and ideas about our shared human condition.


Around 1986, Al offered me a job in his store. Ostensibly, he needed someone to help him expand his comic book business, and at the wizened age of 16, I suppose I provided that. Of course, I jumped at the chance. What it provided me though, was my first real adult friendship outside the relationships of family and teachers. Al was a mentor of sorts, but more importantly, he was a friend. He was the same age as my parents, but had lived a very different life. He came here during Viet Nam, and he had experienced the culture of the sixties and seventies in a way my parents had not. He had a love of both high literature and popular culture that allowed us to connect in a way I could connect with so few other people, especially adults. Al had the gift of always meeting me where I was, and then leading me along the road into new and wonderful literary and cultural places. It wasn’t enough to stay with Sherlock Holmes, one must graduate to Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe; one should read not only Batman but also Eisner’s Spirit, and explore the hidden world of Dennis Kitchen’s underground comix. This simple transitions are metaphors for the deep sort of growth and transitions a young person must take in their coming of age.

Al’s store was also a place of meeting people and it attracted a group of eclectic and eccentric people. In a future installment I will speak about a man named Woody, who introduced me to Joseph Campbell’s works one day in Al’s store.

Stores like Al’s are a lot of fun, but rarely an economic success. But I suppose in the grand scheme of things, that’s the point, and a word we so desperately need to hear today in our world in which public sphere of the polis has been replaced by the idol of the economy. I learned that economic success is not the most important thing. I know the important role that Al played in my life and the opportunity that his store provided for creating community and nurturing relationships amongst those who sought just a little bit more than the rest of the world was willing to offer. Culture is created in such places and it is a non-pretentious culture that says no to the banality homogeneity and enforced paradigms of success. Such places are places of intellectual and spiritual odyssey, and indeed places where a young person can come of intellectual and cultural age in the beauty of an eclectic landscape. Places like this come and go, and I am glad that I found mine. And glad that I found Al.


I think it was around 1989 or 1990 that the store closed. I was off to university by then. Al and his family moved down to southwestern Ontario and we lost touch for many years. Photographer’s Choice disappeared, replaced for a time by an upscale ladies’ consignment store and latterly a jewellery store. I regularly visit Photographer’s Choice in my dreams. Sometimes the dream involves realizing that the store never really went away and Al is still there behind the counter, ready to introduce me to some new book or thought that will forever change my intellectual world. Sometimes the dream involves Al returning and setting the store up again, and inviting me to be his partner. If our dreams reveal to us our unfinished business, I think these dreams are about the unfinished business of being formed as human beings. We are forever “works in progress”, especially with respect to our inner landscapes. These dreams remind me that I will never be finished being formed until the Good Lord brings me to completion. When I dream of that special place from days gone by I am reminded that the work of inner growth and maturity is ongoing.


Five or six years ago, when I began spending a lot of time in my car, I decided to begin listening to books on tape. At a visit to the local public library I found a talking book CD of the Nero Wolfe novel, “The League of Frightened Men,” read by Michael Prichard. I borrowed it and began listening. Al was right, if ever I started, I would be hooked. And so I was. As I began to undertake a life of ministry, I realized how important it was to have moments of pure escapism but escapism need not consist of mindlessness. I have learned that Nero Wolfe mysteries provide a world of characters and intellectual stimulation that joyfully fill my moments of distraction. I rushed home and looked for that old Nero Wolfe novel that Al gave me in 1984. As I never discard anything I knew that I would find it after some exploration – nothing. Somehow, over the years and a couple of moves, it had inexplicably vanished without a trace. To seek out old copies I have frequented many wonderful used book shops and now own (and have read) most of the Nero Wolfe books; but as wonderful as those shops are, none of them are Photographer’s Choice, and none of the proprietors are my friend, Al.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

For the Prologue to this series, click here.
For Part I of this series, click here.

Reflections on the Journey Part I - A Chorister Named Ron

Note: For the Prologue to this series, click here.

I have always strenuously resisted identification with any particular form of churchmanship or association with any particular church “party.” I tend to stay away from such self-identifying terms as “high church” or “low church”; “Anglo-catholic” or “Evangelical”; “conservative” or “liberal.” This is not to say that I don’t have particular leanings in the direction of some of the above labels, but in the spirit of the great nineteenth century theologian, F.D. Maurice, I have never felt inclined towards aligning myself with any particular “brand” of Anglican churchmanship. I believe that Anglicanism draws together the beauty of these various strands, not creating a dull homogeny, but a rich tapestry. To devote so much of oneself to one strand is to miss the beauty of the whole. As such, I prefer the simple designation “churchman” for that is who I am, neither “high” nor “low,” nor any of the above assortment of colours. Rather, I like to think that I have the strands of each woven into the fabric of my Christian identity.

I was introduced to one of those strands, the Anglo-catholic strand, by a chorister named Ron. As a young man in my early twenties, upon returning home to the parish church I knew as a child (St. Mary’s, Richmond Hill), I was invited to join the choir. This invitation came about because I had sung in a high school choir with the son of a St. Mary’s parishioner. After about a month of being back at St. Mary’s, this parishioner recommended me to the choirmaster who invited me to join. I suppose I was ill-equipped to sing as one of two tenors in a church choir as I had little technical knowledge of church music and only an average voice.

I attended my first rehearsal, was assigned my cubby-hole for keeping my music, a folder, a cassock and surplice, a number (#21, as I recall), and placed next to an older English gentleman named Ron. I’m not sure how old he was, but he was a retired high school art teacher, and thus probably in his late sixties or early seventies. I was one of the youngest members of the choir. The only ones that were younger than me were the priest’s son, who sang bass, and a girl who sang soprano. They were both in their teens. With the exception of them, everyone in Church seemed old to me in those days. At that first rehearsal, I took my place next to Ron, and began to sing, not knowing what I was doing and scarcely hitting a proper note. I’m sure that first rehearsal must have been painful for those around me, but over the years Ron taught me how to sing church music. I still treasure a copy of “Carols for Choirs I” that he passed on to me in my early days in the choir.

Ron had been a chorister since a boy in England. He had always sung in church choirs and he knew every tenor line of every hymn by heart. It was easy to learn to sing sitting next to Ron, all I had to do was listen. If I was a bit flat, sometimes he would gently say “up.” Occasionally, he would ask the organist to play a measure or two again even though he knew it well, just to help me along. To this day, when I struggle to capture the tenor line of a particular hymn, I close my eyes and listen for his voice.

I learned something else from Ron, though, and that was the glories of the Anglo-Catholic Tradition. Anglo-Catholicism is a certain brand of churchmanship that treasures the beauty of the liturgy, holds a “high” view of the sacraments, and a deep appreciation and connection with the historic traditions of the Church. Ron was deeply steeped in Anglo-Catholic piety. The Anglo-Catholic sensual nature of Anglo-Catholic liturgy is very attractive to artists, and Ron was an artist. His piety was of a deeply humble, sort though. He was not the sort of pretentious high churchman that is so often the subject of parody and caricature; rather, he was a quiet and joyful man with a wonderful smile, and engaging laugh, and playful spirit. Most importantly, though, appreciated the beauty of holiness and sought to incorporate it into his own spiritual landscape.

From Ron, I learned the externals of Anglo-Catholic devotion: when to kneel and stand, how to genuflect and when to bow, when to cross oneself in the liturgy, and a profound devotion upon the sacrament of our Lord’s body and blood in the Holy Eucharist. He did not so much as instruct me with words but with the gentleness of his actions and personal liturgical piety. From time-to-time I would ask him why he did certain things, and his answers were usually short but helpful. For example, one Sunday I turned to him and asked him why we did not say “Alleluia” after before and after the fraction sentence (the “Alleluia” is printed in brackets). He whispered back “It’s not a festival.” And it made perfect sense. Festivals were a time for Alleluias.

I suppose in the several years that we sang together, I never really knew Ron that well on a personal level. I knew that his first wife had died of cancer and that he remarried. I had met his second wife and his two sons on several occasions as they attend only on festivals (and shared in the Alleluias). I know that he taught art. Before he died he painted a picture of the Blessed Virgin and gave it to the church anonymously. I always knew it was his work though, as the initials R.S.P. at the bottom betrayed his anonymity. Along with my “Carols for Choirs” I also treasure a copy of an Anglo-Catholic missal that he gave me during one rehearsal.

I never became an ardent Anglo-Catholic, but thanks to a chorister named Ron, certain aspects of the piety of that tradition are woven inseparably into my own spiritual landscape. And thanks to Ron, who now sings in the company of the saints in an incense-filled hall in heaven, I know well the sacred songs of our tradition.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Reflections on the Journey: A Prologue

Every few years or so, usually when I move, I find an old photocopied document entitled “Reflections on the Journey.” It is about ten pages long, stapled at the top left corner and now has a water stain on the front cover from resting on the top of a shelf underneath an air conditioning line that was prone to freeze up and then melt. It was produced in 1992 by the people of my home parish, St. Mary’s Anglican Church in Richmond Hill, as part of their Lenten journey in that year. Parishioners were invited to write and share reflections on how God had moved in their lives.

I have kept this little document since then and whenever it pops up I peruse it for a few moments, reading over some of the selections. These moments are usually filled with the requisite nostalgia as I see the names of many who have meant and continue to mean much to me on my own faith journey. The nostalgia deepens when I think of those who are now in heaven. The sentimentality of the nostalgia gives way, however, to a profound sense of gratefulness and thanksgiving when I begin to read the substance of those reflections. Some of the stories are quite simple, while others are deeply personal. All of them, though, bear witness to a profound reality, which is the presence of God in the life of the people of God. While the collection contains the thoughts of priests and theology students, it also contains the reflections of a broad selection of the whole people of God. Some of these people were deeply involved in the life of the parish when I was a young man, and while some of them articulately expressed their faith quite regularly, there are others for whom this must have been an exercise in vulnerability. It can be very difficult to talk about our faith, not because it is not important to us, but because it is very important to us. Our faith journey is at once about the most interior part of our lives and the same time about how we relate to the world. It shapes our identity personally and politically (I mean the latter in the true sense of our participation in the “polis” or society). I think that most of us are afraid that if we stumble in articulating our faith journey, not only do we feel that we have “let down the side”, but that maybe something core to our being has been unmasked as a fraud. Often, we have an inner confidence based on some experience of the divine, and yet we are afraid that if we articulate that experience, someone will assault it, and as a result assault us at our deepest level. Thus, many Christians buy into the modern notion that our religion should be a private thing and not for public consumption.

What occurs to me, though, as I re-read that old St. Mary’s booklet, is how much my faith journey is strengthened by hearing the stories of the faith journeys of other Christians, especially those who were people that were formative in my life as a young man. I don’t look upon these people as somehow crazy or deranged (as I am sure many of them felt they would be taken as the put pen to paper to share their stories), rather I am heartened and my own faith is enlivened. I think this is probably the reason why Christianity is a religion that revels in telling the stories of saints. The lives of our spiritual mothers and fathers are a testimony that we are not alone, much less victims of some sort of mass delusion, as we walk this pilgrimage of faith. And of course, although it might not seem the case as we read the stories of the great saints, all saints are flawed people. Indeed, most saints really are ordinary people. It is the presence of God in their lives, and in ours, which makes us all extraordinary.

The courage of those men and women in 1992 to share a small piece of their faith journey continues to resonate and inspire. Their risk of vulnerability has become to us a gift. As a priest, I am asked from time-to-time by outsiders the question that so few people in the church ever ask. “How did you know you wanted to be a priest?” Or, “When did you ‘get the call?’” I am sure other clergy have heard these questions. These are honest questions posed by people who are asking us to be vulnerable with our story. And even for a priest that is hard. It is hard because most of us never had that ‘lightning bolt’ moment. More importantly, it is hard because it is difficult for us to be vulnerable with our stories, too. The larger question for me, though, has always been less about being called to be a priest and more about sensing and believing in the presence of God in Christ in my life. Perhaps there are some stories there to share; stories that involve people in my life carrying the light of Christ, that illumined my path at key moments along my journey. To that end, in future posts I will endeavour to stir up the courage to share some of those moments, in the way that those courageous St. Mary’s parishioners did those many years ago, in the hope that it will begin a process of storytelling for all of us that holds before us the reality of God in our midst. I would love to hear your stories, too.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

On Obedience - Can an Outdated Metaphor Still Hold Meaning?

The opportunity to preach at the Holy Eucharist at the Convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine this past Tuesday gave me the chance to reflect on whether two difficult passages of Scripture that use slavery as a metaphor for obedience (Titus 2:1-14, Luke 17:7-10) can still hold meaning for us today. What follows is that reflection.

“Tell slaves to be submissive to their masters and to give satisfaction in every respect.”
-Titus 2:9

“We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!”
-Luke 17:10

It needs be said at the outset that both the passages from Titus and Luke offer words about slavery that rightly disturb our modern ears. In most cases, our lectionaries skillfully excise such passages that might tempt us to justify slavery on account of the biblical text. Yet, somehow today, a simple Tuesday in ordinary time, two of these passages creep in and beg our attention. Perhaps this is a good thing as it reminds us that there are difficult passages of Scripture with which we must wrestle, lest we fall into the error of holding to a “canon within a canon” of Scripture. Thus, we must ask ourselves what we might learn from such texts that grate against our notions of justice, equality and human rights.

It should thus be said that the use of the metaphor of slavery is, of course, time sensitive. The metaphor, as it was used in the days of Jesus and St. Paul, is not a metaphor that appeals to us any longer; yet, as with any metaphor it is not the sign, but the thing signified by the sign that is intended as the focus of our attention. The thing signified in this case, is the virtue of obedience. The use of the slave metaphor is only a tool, or a means, to set before us the matter of obedience. We might substitute the metaphor, or indeed, even rewrite the parable in Luke in terms of employee and employer, or soldier and officer, or perhaps even parent and child, or perhaps even members of religious orders and their superiors, or priests and their bishops, to understand the meaning of these texts in our contemporary context. Obedience remains very much an important aspect of our existence. We seem to live under the illusion today that in our egalitarian and democratic society we do not have legitimate hierarchies of obedience, but they abound, and can be found without too difficult a glance.

It seems to me, then, that the word being proclaimed to us today is that we should not necessarily eschew relations of obedience simply because they make our egalitarian sensibilities a bit queasy. Let us be aware that relationships of obedience often arise out of competencies. For example, I am perfectly willing to be obedient to the instruction of the gas man who fixed my gas leak last week as I have no competency in the area of gas fitting. I am willing to be obedient to the teacher who is helping me to hone my skills as a student because I know that she has expertise and skill that I do not have, and yet hope to learn. The manager who has the whole picture of a workplace in mind, and also holds the confidences of various delicate human resources problems, is to be followed even when some decisions seem to make no sense. Why? Because certain people, like managers, have the burden of responsibility of holding pieces of the picture in tandem that we are not privileged to know, or indeed, have no business knowing. I am also willing (mostly) to obey the laws of the road as I drive, for the safety of all who use the roads. And I am willing to obey the laws of the land in order that we might know civil order and just governance. In the body politic, obedience is in important part of social order. This is true in the world and it is true in the Church. It need not be a tyrannical sort of thing.

When I work with those preparing for baptism and we arrive at the vow “Do you promise to obey Jesus as Lord?” this word “obey” creates considerable difficulties. Will I love Jesus? Will I follow Jesus? Will I turn to Jesus? Yes to all of the above, but to obey? We did take that word out of the marriage liturgy after all, didn’t we? Obedience causes us problems. And yet, as illustrated there are cases where we obey those in authority and the rules of society without a second thought. Why do we balk at obedience to the one who created us and love us with more depth and passion than any human love can know? Why do we have a problem with obedience to the will of God? I wonder if it is because we still, somewhere in the depths of our being, harbor unhealthy images of an angry God – God the angry parent; or God the King who punishes the seditious rebel. But is this the God we proclaim? I do not believe it is the God whereof Luke speaks, the God who has compassion for the broken, the wounded and the sinner. Nor is it the God of whom St. Paul writes to Titus, who in Christ Jesus “appeared bringing salvation to all!” Yes, God is our Judge, but oh, he is a merciful judge who longs to draw even the most rebellious of his creatures into his loving embrace and reconciling arms which were outstretched on the cross for just such a purpose. Perhaps one of my favourite quotations from that most judicious of Anglican divines, Richard Hooker, will illustrate the point and bring it home, “Be of good comfort, we have to do with a merciful God, ready to make the best of that little which we hold well, and not with a captious sophister, which gathereth the worst out of everything in which we err… the bowels of the mercy of God are larger.” Who would not offer obedience to such a merciful and loving God?

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

A New Appointment

This morning, it was announced that the Most Rev. Colin Johnson, Archbishop of Toronto, has appointed me priest-in-charge of Trinity Church, Bradford. This appointment is effective September 20th, 2010 and as such, September 19th will be my last Sunday at Holy Trinity, Thornhill. There is, of course, excitement on moving into a new appointment, but there is also the sadness that departure brings. I came to Holy Trinity in August 2007 as assistant curate under a two year appointment. I was very pleased when Bishop George allowed me to stay for an additional year as associate priest. I am grateful to God for the opportunity to minister in such a wonderful community, journeying through joys and sorrows, and forming pastoral relationships in this community. I am grateful to all the people of Holy Trinity, Thornhill for welcoming me allowing me to journey with them. I am also grateful to my mentor and friend, Canon Greg Physick for the time we shared in ministry. With such wonderful memories, leaving is never an easy thing. However, the God who makes all things new is continually calling us into new things, and God is calling the people of Holy Trinity, Thornhill, the people of Trinity Bradford, and me, each into a new thing. There are uncertainties and anxieties, but there is also the excitement and opportunity that change brings. Thus, we go forward in faithfulness to a loving God who changeth not even as we journey through the changes and chances of this wonderful life.

Even At The Grave We Make Our Song

On Friday, July 30th, I left the office and headed home, looking forward to beginning my holiday time. My final ten days in the office before my holidays were to begin were days in which I was filled with joy and gratitude at being a priest in the Church. I count it a great privilege to journey with the people of this place through moments of joy and moments of sadness. Two funerals, two weddings, a confirmation, and a couple of more wedding interviews were all features of these days leading up to vacation time. Each event was filled with such abounding grace and love. Although ready for a holiday, I was feeling grateful to God for being called into this wonderful vocation.

I arrived home that evening to the unnerving news that my sister-in-law (Athena’s youngest sister), who was expecting, had gone into labour at 23 weeks. We hurried to the hospital and it quickly became clear that the outlook was not at all good. The next morning (in a sad convergence of events, as it was also Athena’s birthday), my sister-in-law gave birth to a stillborn baby boy. What was supposed to have been a joyous beginning in the life of this young couple, gave way so quickly to shock and bereavement, and we were all left wondering, “why?”

The next evening, our family still dealing with the profound grief of this loss, I received an email from Archbishop Colin Johnson, which was sent to all the clergy of the diocese, that our former area bishop, the Rt. Rev. Taylor Pryce, had died suddenly after a very brief battle with an aggressive form of cancer. When I was a very young man of 22, Bishop Pryce confirmed me, and actively encouraged me to seek Holy Orders. I shall always remember him presiding at the liturgy with such great joy and enthusiasm. He was a man who deeply loved his Lord and Master and served him well. I shall ever fondly remember him continuing to encourage me toward a life in ministry as our paths crossed over the years since his retirement. His death came as a great shock to many of us have felt his influence in our lives and ministries.

As a priest, when I preside at the funeral and burial of those who have departed this life and await their Resurrection on the last day, I invariably offer the following ancient words found in our liturgy, which have their origin in the Russian Church:
All of us go down to the dust, and yet even at the grave we make our song: “Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!”

Sometimes, it is easier than others to make our song at the graveside. Sometimes, the Alleluias can be made with thanksgiving and without reservation. Last night I drove to St. James, Orillia, where Bishop Pryce was lying in state. I offered condolences to the family and stood before the casket of our dear bishop, and offered him a word of thanks for seeing in me the seed of a vocation when I was so doubtful. And I offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God for calling this man into his vocation as a bishop in the Church of God, and for sharing him with us for a time. It was easy to give thanks, to make my song, to praise God, and chant my Alleluia.

Tomorrow, I journey with a young couple to the funeral home as they plan their farewell to their child who knew life for but a short time and only in the warmth of his mother’s womb. How much more difficult it is to approach that graveside with a song, to form an Alleluia on our lips, when there are so many dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams. This Alleluia is a much harder one to make.

But whatever the circumstance, it is my sacred duty and most solemn privilege as a priest in the Church to go to the grave and make that song. Whether we can make sense of a death, much less a life, is not what is at stake. What is at stake is the hope we have in the fullness of Christ that no matter the shortness or longevity of this earthly life, in Christ we shall be fully known in all our divine potentiality. As we journey into the arms of our Lord we attain the perfection that so eludes us in this pilgrimage; and this is why whether it be the death of a stillborn baby or a retired bishop we unfailingly make our song, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, and proclaim that in Christ, death has not won the day.

As a priest I shall sing that song for baby Isaac as I have sung it for my bishop, and I pray that in singing it, God shall deal tenderly with my frail human heart that still harbours its silent question, “why?”