Paul’s words in our second reading today immediately make me think of our parish. Philippi, in Macedonia, is Paul’s first mission on the European continent. The community there is a small outpost of God’s Love, a first step in bringing the Good News of Jesus to a new part of the world. This Philippian mission is our forebear in a way, the small seed which grew into the Western European Christianity which we Anglicans inherit. Like us at St. Ambrose, the Philippian community began as a mission church, a small community with a big heart for one another and for Jesus Christ. Following Jesus isn’t easy for them, or for Paul, their founder. When Paul writes to the Philippians, he’s in prison, awaiting what could be a death sentence from Rome. And yet, he’s joyful and hopeful for the future of this community that he has planted. “I thank my God every time I remember you,” he exults. He is joyful because, in good times and bad times, the Philippians have been there for him, for one another, and for Christ’s mission in the world.
Toni Brennand sent me an email awhile back that expresses the kind of confident joy that Paul is describing. She wrote to tell me about a former parishioner here named John Greaves. Toni interviewed John shortly before his death as part of her project to learn more about the “Great Generation” of World War II veterans. Looking back at her notes, Toni found the following words from John: “I don’t have any family close by. I know that I’m on the ten-yard line and heading for the goal post. So for those last ten yards, I want to experience the love of my family at St. Ambrose… It is my anchor.” Like Paul in prison, John knew that the community in this place would carry him in his time of need, supporting him with the loving hands of the Lord whom they all followed.
The word that Paul uses to describe this kind of community relationship, this sharing of love, is koinonia. We often translate this Greek word as “fellowship,” like it’s a kind of model for coffee hour or something. In reality, though, koinonia is more like the common investment in an enterprise, like a communal partnership. When we say that St. Ambrose Church is a place of friendship and fellowship, we’re not just enjoying barbecues and teas and chatting in the courtyard. We should claim more than that. We are promising that we will each support one another and God’s mission here with all of our gifts, investing in one another, sharing our lives to bring God’s healing grace to the world.
Take a look at St. Ambrose, our patron. He’s described as “a passionate little man with a high forehead, a long melancholy face, and great eyes.”[1] He was a man of learning and possessed the gift of oratory. He was also a fierce and brave leader, who stood up to the powers-that-be. During the turbulent days of 4th-century church politics and strife, Ambrose, a lawyer, was sent to Milan as Roman governor. His task was to maintain order in the region. The story goes that, as he stood up one day to plead for moderation and peace, a child in the crowd cried out, “Ambrose, Bishop!” The whole assembly then took up the cheer. Not only was Ambrose a lay person at that point, he was still just preparing for his own baptism. A role as bishop was the last thing that he expected or wanted for his life. Surprised and dismayed, Ambrose was unanimously elected Bishop of Milan. Baptized, ordained, and made bishop, he ended up as one of the four “founding Fathers” of the Western Christian Church. He was also thrown headlong into managing difficult years of conflict and controversy.
Can you imagine? What if Charlie White started chanting, “Walter, Bishop!” Or “Kristy, Bishop!” and everyone in Colorado took up the cry? What if your name were called out like that? Would you run? Or would you follow the call of community, despite the shock, despite having your life turned upside down? If you’d feel like running, you’re certainly not alone. It took me thirty years to listen to God’s call to become a priest. Even then, I’ll never forget that first day of hospital chaplaincy training: the boot camp of the priesthood. Not yet in seminary, I stood at the nurse’s station with a newly printed “chaplain” badge hanging around my neck like a noose. “This is your new chaplain,” the supervisor cheerily announced, and all eyes turned to me, bright with hope. “Don’t call me a chaplain!” I wanted to holler. “I’m not really a chaplain! Can’t you see?!” And yet, there I stood--I was their chaplain, and they needed me, ready or not.
What’s it like to say “yes” to God’s call in community? Many of us here today could describe it: we have among us wardens, vestry members, ministry leaders of all sorts. We are often called to things beyond our wildest imaginations. We’re often called to exercise gifts that we don’t even know we have, to step out of our comfort zones for the good of others. Yes, there are limits. Sometimes we need to rest. Sometimes we need to receive, rather than to give. And sometimes our gifts just don’t match up with a certain need. You wouldn’t want this math-challenged priest to do Jill’s work as bookkeeper, for example, or to be in charge of gardening. All the plants would surely die under my care, like they do at my house. And yet, in Christ, we are all called to koinonia; we are called to invest in one another, to share in God’s work in this place.
The Pandemic has worn us all out. It has turned our souls inward and away from the community that we used to be. But I still hear the true and important words that Paul shares with us today. “I [too] thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the work of Christ from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion.” Our size doesn’t matter. Our average Sunday attendance doesn't matter. Our quiet location here behind a fence, away from the city … that doesn’t really matter, either. What matters is our sharing--each of us, young and old--our sharing with one another and with the world, in all that is grace and love.
In
today’s Gospel, the powers and principalities of John the Baptizer’s day are
set before us in great detail. They are set before us so that they can fall
away to reveal a scruffy, little-known desert prophet—a prophet through whom God’s light shines into the
world. I hear:
In the second year of the Corona Virus Pandemic, in the first year of the presidency of Joseph Biden, in the second year of the governorship of Jared Polis of Colorado, in the second year that Sam Weaver was Mayor of Boulder, when the Most Reverend Justin Welby was Archbishop of Canterbury, the Most Reverend Michael Curry was Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church, and the Right Reverend Kym Lucas was Bishop of Colorado, a Word of overflowing love and of promised release came to the people of St. Ambrose… and called them out into the hurting world. Can you hear it, too?
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