Angels at St. Paul’s

Posted by stpauls on December 24, 2010 under Sermons |

Earlier this year, we lost an angel, our angel. We were left behind and we were struggling not unlike the shepherds in the story from the Gospel according to Luke¹, which we just heard. However, our angel’s disappearance wasn’t at all like the disappearance of the angels in the Gospel, because our angel was not an ordinary angel.

I first met our angel shortly after I had moved to Vancouver. And our first encounter wasn’t really “angelic.” In fact, it was scary!

I first encountered the angel here at St. Paul’s. I was standing in this very pulpit and had just started my usual three-hour sermon, when all of a sudden one of our entrance doors, flung open – and there he was! I looked. I was dumbfounded. But he only got started and nothing could stop him. There was determination in his eyes and there was determination in his step as he came right down the centre aisle.

I had no clue what to do. But, hey, I had to get through three hours of sermon material – and I was determined too. So I just kept on preaching.

Our angel didn’t pay much attention to what I had to say, though. That, by the way, is something he had in common with some of our choir members, right?

As the angel kept on walking I got more nervous. What would happen next, what would he do? Would there be a commotion? Would there be a scene? Eventually, fear took over. Yes, I was afraid. And I wasn’t the only one. This wasn’t some kind of apparition, an imagination of my mind. Others saw what was going on, too. Nobody was listening to me anymore. I wasn’t even listening to myself anymore. We were all fixated on the angel marching down the aisle.

When he finally reached the chancel steps, it happened:

He genuflected, crossed himself, stood up again, turned around, and as fast as he had entered, he had left.

Yep, that was all. Nothing more and nothing less. No scene, no commotion, and no need to be afraid. In fact, quite the opposite.

Over the next few years, the angel reappeared a few times doing the same thing, the same ritual. And yes, that is what it was, at least on the surface. It was a ritual – his ritual – or so it seemed.

However, one of our liturgical servers first observed that our angel would usually appear when something profound was going on here at St. Paul’s, something not necessarily earth-shattering, just something profound, something in our worship or in one of our many ministries such as our study groups, or the Labyrinth, or the Advocacy Office, or “Our House.” The angel always appeared when we celebrated a bit more intentionally the ways in which we encounter and the ways in which we listen to the Holy One in this sacred place. As if to challenge us to embrace our core identities of worship, hospitality, healing, and reflection, the angel’s presence – as short as it was – was always very apropos. The ritual wasn’t just the angel’s ritual anymore. It had an impact on us. It drew us beyond what we thought we were. We were pushed beyond our comfort zone and something was revealed to us anew.

This is why we called him “angel.” He appeared in order to bring a message.

Eventually, we discovered his name: Gerry. Of course, it was very clear that Gerry wasn’t a member of the angelic host and not just because he didn’t have wings. No, Gerry was of our flesh and blood.

But still, he was an angel, at least for us. He might not have known about it and probably did not intend this, but his action reminded us of what is essential. And it showed us that nothing really can sever our bond with God: not shame, not fear, and not even the embarrassment of well-meaning Anglicans.

And by letting nothing stop him in his worship of God, Gerry moved us from fear to peace, too. Words were never spoken, but his genuflecting, his crossing himself, his short worship of God in the middle of our service, all this sang as loud as the angelic choir in the fields of Bethlehem: “Glory to God in the highest and peace, yes, peace on earth: peace to you and to me and to the whole cosmos.”

In the end, this is the truth that is at the heart of the story that we have just heard, regardless of whether angels with wings flutter around shepherds or not. The legend set in the fields of Bethlehem reveals a truth that is first and foremost theological and not historical. The story reveals God’s yearning to embrace us and restore us. It tells of God’s desire for us to “do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God.”² It breaks through our fear and proclaims peace. It speaks of God’s love as something as tangible as the touch of an infant. And it makes God’s compassion concrete in the open arms of a human named Jesus.

And it is the job of angels – in whatever from – to remind us of this heart of the story. When we get lost in details, when we wonder and discuss if a virgin birth is really possible or if Jesus could really have been born in Bethlehem, angels challenge us: “Yes, it makes sense to critically analyze and yes, it is always appropriate to question. But, as important as this all might be, is that really all you worry about? Isn’t there our world that needs saving? Aren’t there children starving? Haven’t too many little ones been exploited, abused, or sacrificed on the killing fields of your wars? Isn’t the earth yearning for relief and a better stewardship? Don’t racism, sexism, homophobia, and social injustice destroy the dignity of each and every human being? Isn’t isolation, fragmentation, self-absorption, and self-gratification threatening the very fibre of what it means to be alive?”

Angles break through our fear and ignorance and they bring us back to what really matters. Angels make sure we won’t get lost. Angels sing into our darkness of God’s fear-conquering love and angels send us on the way back to the Light.

And this is exactly what Gerry did for us, too.

Yet, Gerry also struggled with life.

He lived on the streets, panhandled on the corner of Thurlow and Davie, and often, he was drunk, even drunk out of his mind.

Yes, by worldly standards, Gerry was no angel. But still, God chose him, God sent him to us, God made him a messenger, something the world would have never done. When he came here those Sunday mornings, he interrupted the service. Yes, he did. But he also interrupted our complacency and reminded us of what is essential. In and through Gerry, God affirmed once again that the open arms of the child in the manger are really meant for each and every one of us, whoever we are and wherever we find our selves on the journey. God saw Gerry in ways we couldn’t and affirmed the deep mystery of Christmas in Gerry’s life – and consequently in our lives, too.

Christmas proclaims that no life is too puny, too dark, too pained, or too screwed up. Salvation is not about us beating ourselves up or trying to strive high to reach an unbelievably distant god, who seems to constantly whack his finger in disapproval.

No, God, our true God, comes the other way, seeking us out – not despite who we are, but because of it. God comes to be with us, comes to walk our ways, comes to speak our language, comes to listen to our words, comes to open her heart to our concerns, comes to restore us to the awesome beauty that God created in us, comes to heal our pains and sorrows, comes to forgive our trespasses, and comes to reveal wisdom, justice, and peace here on earth and in ways we understand. God comes to be born of our sister Mary as one of us, so that we don’t have to search God in faraway places or in a heaven out of reach. And God comes to experience the fullness of our lives, including death, so that even in that darkness God will not abandon us, but will lead us through death into life. Death does not have the final word. God’s love is stronger.

Into this life-giving love, Gerry disappeared this summer when he died, unexpectedly and suddenly. And we could now just go back to our routine, after all, no more angel…

But I don’t think it works like this. I believe God will send angels to us again. God will send angels into our darkness, into our complacency, and into our fear. God will send angels that will sing once more: Glory to God in the highest and peace, yes, peace on earth!

[The Reverend Markus Duenzkofer delivered this sermon on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2010.]