The Rev

One of our local Missions at St. Stephen's is at "The Ford Home" The Ford home is a retirement home for Ladies and Katie (our rector is Katie's people) makes

weekly visits to the Ford Home. I am not sure who enjoys it more Katie or the Ladies. Katie and the ladies both look forward to the visits.

The gospel lesson this morning is another post-resurrection appearance by Jesus. In last week’s gospel Jesus appeared to the disciples and Thomas by entering a room through a closed door. This Sunday Jesus appears to two people along the Emmaus Road. The road to Emmaus is not on any map. It is in truth whatever road we take today. It could be Hwy 69 to Mount Vernon, or Interstate 64 to Evansville for a day shopping; or going home to Illinois on I-64 (since our bridge is closed). The road to Emmaus could be a plane flight, a train ride, a bus trip; or it could be a halting and painful path from the bed to a chair where we spend the day gazing out the window. On every Emmaus road there is the possibility that we will not be traveling alone; a stranger may come across our path or travel with us, or walk beside us. We may or may not recognize the one who joins us.

When God decided that the time was right for Abraham and Sarah to have a child he announced his plan to them in a personal visit. Three strangers came to Abraham’s tent in the middle of the afternoon and they were welcomed by Abraham and given food and drink. Did Abraham know the identity of these strangers? The holy strangers brought incredible news to this octogenarian couple. What would have happened if Abraham had shut the flap of his tent against them and sent them away?

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus himself, told his disciples: "I was a stranger and you took me in." In the Letter to the Hebrews, the writer suggests that a stranger may turn out to be an angel in disguise. John Koenig, who teaches at The General Theological Seminary in NYC, (in his book on New Testament Hospitality), writes that often in scripture "rather than burdening or threatening us, the stranger comes to teach the deeper lessons of life and to enable ministry." Koenig continues, "…We must return to the biblical vision of strangers, that broader vision that counters the risks [and fears] inherent in radical hospitality with God’s loving embrace of all nations. In this gracious space…strangers received will enlarge our total well-being rather than diminish it."

In this story which Luke presents to us, we see Jesus as the unknown, unrecognizable stranger who offers hope to the two grieving strangers. He offers comfort in the midst of their disappointment and he offers them a glimpse of God, which is all they needed at this moment. It is Jesus as this stranger who becomes their spiritual guide.

Imagine for a moment, if the two disciples on the road had refused to let the stranger walk with them, talk with them, eat with them. Would they have had any good news to share with the other disciples? The table at Emmaus reminds us that there is a profound connection between eating and knowing. This knowing that we experience at the table comes both as a deep comfort and also as a challenge. The knowing that happens in the breaking of the bread requires something of us. This kind of knowing calls us to move beyond relying solely on our intellect. It requires that we open our eyes and open our hearts (our entire being, even) to the ways in which Christ reveals himself in those with whom we eat. Every –part of this story, the opening of scripture, the breaking of bread, the open eyes, the excited witness – all of it hinges on one profound act: welcoming the other in our presence.

In the second lesson this morning taken from the first letter of Peter, he talks about purifying our souls by obedience so that we can have mutual love and then he implores, "…Love one another deeply from the heart." For our ears to awake to the sound of God’s voice and our eyes to be open to his presence we have to love each other deeply. It’s important to Jesus that we as his followers enter this sacred mystery that happens when we gather together friends and strangers alike, people we love and people we disagree with, people who are like us and people who are different from us. In this moment, at this altar, or at the dining room table, the living room, the meeting hall, the airplane, the mall, anywhere we gather is the place that we recognize that the sustenance we need comes from Jesus through others. We are hungry in these shared spaces not only for physical food, but food for our souls.

This past week was the 40^th anniversary of the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. King’s vision, which he repeated in various ways over and over was for a nation where there would be no strangers due to racial differences. In his 1963 speech in Washington, DC he ended with these words, "…we will be able to see the day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands…" Parker Palmer, a Quaker theologian, suggests it is often "the stranger who is the bearer of truth, which might not otherwise have been revealed." The stranger is vital to us, he writes, because God uses the stranger to shake us from our conventional points of view, to remove the worldly scales of assumption from our eyes.

Meeting the stranger, the one who is so different and so unknown to us, is an occasion of grace. It is an opportunity – a rich opportunity – to experience the love of God and the presence of the risen Christ. St. Benedict included in his rule of life for monasteries this imperative: "All who arrive as guests are to be welcomed as Christ." Why would anyone not be welcomed as Christ is probably the best way to think of this rule of Benedict’s? You never know someone you thought of as a stranger, someone different than you, someone who differed with you, might just end up being quite a revelation. AMEN.

In the year 1855, a man named Joseph Scriven wrote a song, which he hoped would comfort his mother. Scriven was living in Canada, an ocean crossing away from his mother in England. The song, “What a friend we have in Jesus”, came from the depths of his sorrowing soul. Scriven had been engaged to marry twice – once in England and again in Canada – both times the woman he loved died before they could be married. One young woman drowned in a tragic accident and the other 10 years later died of pneumonia shortly before their wedding. Scriven wrote these words in the last verse of what has become a beloved hymn:

In today’s gospel lesson we find Jesus being a faithful friend to a family of two sisters and a brother. At first this seems like a story about Jesus’ tragic insensitivity to his friends. The brother in the story, Lazarus, is seriously ill. Jesus has spent time in this family’s home. Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters, know that Jesus has the power to heal their brother.

We know this family. In other gospel accounts we know that Mary loved to listen to Jesus as he taught and Martha loved to show Jesus her skills of hospitality by cooking him her best dishes, fussing over every detail; even being chided by Jesus for being too busy – too fussy – with the details. These sisters, who know Jesus as their friend, send word to him that Lazarus is dying. Surely he will come immediately for his friends.

Jesus responds with words that seem cold and uncaring to us. In fact they could be construed as cruel. Jesus says, “It is God’s will that Lazarus should die, so the Son of God can be glorified.” Of course we know by now that the miracle that Jesus will perform with Lazarus is going to be one of the “signs” in John’s gospel.

This word “sign” is a technical term which the writer of John’s gospel uses to refer to a “special revelation”. These “revelations or signs” in John’s gospel – there are 7 of them – are meant to reveal to us who Jesus is and what his mission was in life. It is clear that John wrote in a way that set these signs, which were miracles, into Jesus’ teaching ministry to reveal Jesus as the Son of God. After these signs Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem and the cross. John is telling the story of Jesus’ life in a way that will come across as logical and concise. As a good writer, John takes the critical moments of Jesus’ ministry and creates steppingstones for us to follow in understanding Jesus. The miracle Jesus is going to perform with Lazarus is going to be the last of these “signs”, perhaps the most important sign of all because it points to the cross and God’s authority over even death. Jesus’ words here about Lazarus dying so that God can be glorified could be John’s way of making a point that what is coming is important. Lazarus dying before Jesus got there presents us with a question which perhaps we all have felt. “Where were you Jesus when I needed you? Where were you when my sister or brother, my child, my mother, my father, my friend, needed you?”

The story is full of details. Mary and Martha send a message to Jesus, their friend. Lazarus is dying. Lazarus your friend, the one whom you love is sick unto death. Surely you will come for him. But Jesus doesn’t come… and he doesn’t come. They sit by Lazarus’ bed as he dies and weep for the want of Jesus’ presence. But he is not there. The reason for his not coming is not important, it does not matter. All that matters is that we prayed to Jesus and he didn’t come.

John says that Jesus waited two days and then he goes to Bethany. Martha sees him coming down the road and runs to meet him. She gets right in his face, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When I read this I say, “You go Martha, give it to him!” Martha pulls back a bit then and says, “Even now you can do something, for whatever you ask from God, God will give to you.” Perhaps Martha decided to soften her words a bit, but in reality she has thrown down a gauntlet of significant proportions. Mary continues this forthright questioning of Jesus, saying, “If you had been here, our brother would not have died.” Here we find from Mary and Martha the question that all who are faithful ask when our prayers are not answered, “Where were you Jesus?” “Why were you not here when we needed you?”

When Jesus comes to Mary he sees her tears. All around him Lazarus’ friends are weeping. Jesus says to Mary, “Where have you laid him?” As they are going to the tomb, there is little conversation. It is hard to talk when you are overcome with emotion - our throats close and ache. We ache with the need to sob, to keen out our sorrow and pain. John records this fact, “Jesus began to weep.” Though people were talking all around him, Jesus could not talk for crying.

Why is the Son of God crying? Why is Jesus weeping? Is it for Lazarus, his friend? Is it for those gathered around the tomb, the crowd, who still don’t believe? That’s the opinion of most scholars. They say that Jesus is weeping for the unbelieving crowd. But at times like these we are not scholars; we are people who have known the pain of losing someone we love. In our hearts we know that Jesus is weeping for Lazarus. We know that Jesus is weeping for Mary and Martha and for all who pray, “Come Lord Jesus,” and nothing happens. He weeps for all who are ready to go, but not ready to leave. And for all those who have questions, hard questions, who know that death, while it is part of the natural course of life, is not all right.

Here is the shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept.” For those of us who find it hard to memorize bible verses, this is one to remember, “Jesus wept.” Remember it and call it to mind when questions and disappointment with God overwhelm you. Remember it when the reality of mortality – your own or someone you love – consumes you. It won’t get you out of those situations. But you will know that Jesus knows you and your anguish. He weeps with you, for you and considers your tears, precious because he feels them on his own face.

Woody Allen said, “When I die, all I want is just a few of my good friends to gather around the casket and do everything in their power to bring me back to life.” We are fortunate indeed because Jesus is our friend. In John’s gospel Jesus is always pictured as a divine figure. He is always in charge, always in control. He is a triumphant figure. Except here at Lazarus’ tomb. Here he weeps because he is a friend and his friendship and the demonstration of his love and care meet us in our rawest and most human need.

When the question is asked, “Who is he?” then Jesus is the resurrection and the life. He is the divine Son of God who restores our life, daily, and in the midst of death. When the question is asked, “Where were you? If only you had been here…” then Jesus is our friend. This friendship, as the songwriter Joseph Scriven knew, is that which comforts us in the questions of life.

The story doesn’t end with weeping or questions. Jesus orders Lazarus out of the tomb. He comes out. He is given new life. That’s when we remember the words that Jesus said to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life, whoever believes in me shall never die.” This is the sign that John wants us to know. This is the place where Jesus is revealed as more than a prophet. Jesus is resurrection and life – not just one but both. At some later point Lazarus will die again. Resurrection doesn’t bring death to an end. Resurrection brings life to a start. Amen.

Sermon preached by the Rev. Martha A. Honaker at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, in New Harmony, IN on March 9, 2008.

The song “What a friend we have in Jesus” has public domain access. This sermon is inspired by a sermon by The Rev. Fred Kane, “What a friend we have in Jesus.” Some of Fred’s words have been used here.

The story we just heard is familiar. We relive it every year. Everything in us is ready for this story. Our winter – weary hearts are ready for the oncoming springtime rituals. We are anxious for the redemption of budding trees bursting forth into full leaf, the sound of the songbirds and the smell of new earth being turned over.

This monumental story with its week long pilgrimage through triumph, betrayal, agony and death leads us to the exhilaration of new life on Easter morning. This fits our mood. We have been through the nastiness of snow and ice, cold, rain and mud and we want some evidence of new life. Yes, it is still cold outside but we know that Easter is just a week away. In seven days Easter will be here. We have plans for the meal, gotten our Easter outfits together and our family will gather. Our nerve fibers are stretching toward this moment. We are ready to get on towards resurrection and new life.

Our other longing is to slow down and let this story unfold before us. Our inward instinct is to let this go along at its natural pace. This is the story at the heart of our faith. Every movement of this week tells us something important about who we are and what we believe. We know this story so well so we race through it and skip ahead to the end – we gulp it down without tasting the individual moments. What if some of those moments turn out to be bitter or sour with disappointment…what if we taste tears? It is better to get it down and get to the end quickly.

The passion story is mirror of our conflicting desires. We are ready to greet Jesus as king with palms and hosannas, ready for the stone to be rolled away – we are ready for the sweet breezes of spring. In the midst of these desires we also want to know how this betrayal happened. What is our part in the story that will unfold this week? How could adoration turn into a fear so powerful that it required death? What is it about this Jesus that inspires such strong emotions?

Perhaps it is best not to get in a hurry to get to Easter morning. Maybe we need to stay awhile with the “rest of the story.” Perhaps we need to feel the weight of the cross on our shoulders and the crush of the angry crowd with death on their minds. We need to sit at the table and taste the bread and wine, wash the ordinary feet of brother and sister alike and feel the power of betrayal working in our midst.

This Passion Sunday invites us into the story so that we won’t miss the chance to live in a new way. Amen.

Sermon preached by the Rev. Martha A. Honaker at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on March 16, 2008.

There is an anecdote that we hear sometimes around Christmas. There are four seasons in our lives: One – you believe in Santa Claus, two – you don’t believe in Santa Claus, three – you are Santa Claus, and four – you look like Santa Claus. I wonder if there is a similar anecdote in our spiritual lives. There are 4 seasons of our spiritual lives: One – you believe in the resurrection of Jesus, two – you don’t believe in the resurrection of Jesus, three – you live as though Jesus is resurrected, and four – you begin to resemble the resurrected Jesus.[i]

On this Easter morning we have before us a reading from Paul’s letter to the Christians in Colossae which directs us to let Jesus’ resurrection become the good news that changes our lives. Paul writes, “So if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth, for…your life is hidden with Christ in God.” In Eugene Peterson’s excellent translation of the Bible he phrases this passage in this way: “If God raised you together with Jesus, then try to see the world the way Jesus sees it (that is, from heaven). Understand how Jesus sees things. Don’t just look at everything the way people do. For you died to yourself when you became a follower of Jesus. Your new life is hidden in Jesus with God.” [ii]

It is not easy for us to try to see the world the way Jesus sees it. Our lives are daily beset with images of suffering and distress – what the poet Robert Burns called, “man’s inhumanity to man…” Often we find our own minds are filled with words that describe people in negative, prejudicial, and demeaning ways. Within each of us is a holocaust of words that holds others hostage to our fears, frustrations and prejudices. It takes time and effort to untwist our thinking and resurrect a new openness in our hearts.

Corrie Ten Boom was born in Amsterdam in 1892. She became a watchmaker like her father. In 1940 the Nazis invaded the Netherlands where the Ten Boom family lived. By 1942 Corrie and her family were active in the Dutch underground, hiding refugees and Jews from the Nazis. Eventually Corrie and her whole family were arrested and sent to concentration camps. Corrie’s entire family died in the camps, but because of a mistake on the part of a clerk, Corrie was released in 1944. For the next 40 years of her life, Corrie devoted herself to writing. In one of her books Corrie compares our lives in Christ to a piece of needlework. Our eyes are able to see only the wrong side of the piece. We see all of the loose threads, the knots hastily tied and uneven stitches going every which way. But from heaven God sees the right side of this piece. From that view point every stitch is beautiful, the pattern is obvious and the knots anchor the work giving it permanence.

Having eyes to see the world as Jesus sees it means allowing the resurrection to become a part of us – so much so that we live it in everything we do. The event of Easter morning – the resurrection of Jesus – means that by faith we have been raised with Jesus. This is not some sort of future reality that will come our way when we die. It means that we are right now raised with Jesus in his resurrection.

The author Frederick Buechner reminds us that “the resurrection means the worst thing is never the last thing.” [iii] What we see and seek in our lives is largely determined by what we believe. For the Ten Boom family their belief in Jesus’ resurrection led them to take enormous risks to save the lives of others. When Mary Magdalene and the other Mary encounter Jesus risen from the dead at the tomb he tells them to not be afraid, and to go and tell the brothers that they will see him in Galilee. Jesus tells Mary to “go,” but not in the usual sense of the word go. The word that is used here means to lead one’s life, to continue on one’s journey, to follow after a teacher. Mary leaves the garden path at the direction of Jesus, to set her foot on another path – the path of a disciple who will see the world with resurrection eyes.

In April of last year at Virginia Tech, a young South Korean student named Cho shot and killed 32 students and professors before committing suicide. Marian and Chris Hammaren’s daughter Caitlin was one of the students killed. The day of the shooting, Marian tried to call Caitlin but there was no answer on her cell phone. Finally the Hammaren’s made the 10 hour trip to Virginia Tech, driving through rain and snow and getting there late in the evening. They were told then that Caitlin had died in the shooting spree. Over the next several days they cleaned out Caitlin’s room and attended a service for all of the people killed. It seemed impossible to understand that they would never hear from Caitlin again. Just before they headed home, the authorities returned Caitlin’s laptop. Marian opened the laptop and saw a small strip of paper taped just above the screen. The note said, “God, I know that nothing can happen that you and I can’t handle together.” Caitlin’s mother knew that she had taped those words there because she totally believed them.

Over the next 4 months, the Hammaren’s struggled to come to terms with their daughter’s death. They read books and sought help, but the way forward was hard to see. One late summer day, Marian was sitting in the backyard, reading when out of the blue, the words in Caitlin’s computer sounded in her head. “Nothing can happen that you and I can’t handle together.” But this time they were personal, for Marian. Deep in her being she believed them for herself. She knew with utter conviction that she would see her daughter again.[iv] The worst thing in her life was not going to be the last thing.

It is tempting for all of us when life challenges us, to stay rooted to that spot – even if the spot is a miserable one, or one that will make us cynical and bitter. Sometimes the familiar is easier to cling to even though it is a poor substitute for the hope we need. We can become rooted in hatred or self pity – rooted in our fears or our aspirations. The things we are rooted in will determine the way we see other people and life.

There are two messages before us on this Easter Day, 2008. Paul tells us to be rooted in the resurrection and let it become the lens through which we view the world and those around us. And Jesus bids us, like Mary, to “go.” Go with faith, go with joy, because there is no place you can be where I am not.

To live is to move – only the dead lie still. The resurrection isn’t a happy ending to a troublesome week, it is a happy beginning to the rest of our lives, lives we are called to live with resurrection power being transformed day by day into the image of Jesus.[v] Amen.

Sermon preached by the Rev. Martha A. Honaker at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in New Harmony, Indiana on March 23, 2008.

[i] Judith Johnson-Siebold, Waterford UMC, Waterford, NY USA

[ii] Eugene Peterson, The Message

[iii] Whistling in the Dark, Frederick Buechner

[iv] Guidepost Magazine, “Please pick up” by Marian Hammaren

[v] Anne Le Bas (the last paragraph) Sermon on PRCL.

The lessons this morning are a picture of transformation. In the Gospel lesson we find the disciples, still in Jerusalem, hiding themselves behind closed doors. They are consumed by fear, unable to move. Fast forwarding to the lesson from the Acts of the Apostles we find Peter, less than a year after the death of Jesus, boldly and without reservation, proclaiming Jesus’ resurrection to anyone who would listen. Moving forward in time again - in Peter’s first letter to the churches of Asia, written early in those first 30 years of his ministry, Peter writes passionately commending faith in Jesus Christ to the believers. “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him…”

These lessons present a remarkable transformation from fear to proclamation to confidence. An important question to ask is, “What happened to cause this transformation?” The resurrection of Jesus, the empty tomb event, was no doubt part of the inspiration that propelled Christianity forward. But how did the disciples conquer the fear that kept them locked behind doors? What sent them out to proclaim Jesus Christ to others?

The philosopher and teacher, Ken Wilber writes about the two functions of religion in our lives. Religion, according to Wilber acts in a horizontal movement in our lives as it gives meaning to the self. Through myth and story, rituals and revivals we are able to make sense of, and endure the slings and arrows of what Wilber calls “outrageous fortune.” Religion helps us translate our human experiences as we are consoled, fortified, defended and promoted by our inner sense of self in relationship with God. He calls this function of religion “translation” because it facilitates an understanding of our lives in the world and gives us meaning.

The other function of religion for Wilber is a vertical movement which he calls “transformation.” This transformation does not fortify our “selves” in the world but it utterly breaks us apart. It is not consolation but devastation, not entrenchment but emptiness, not complacency but explosion, not comfort but revolution. In traditional Christian terms what Wilber is talking about here is dying to self, or as he would put it transcending the self. Translation – the horizontal movement gives us a new way to think or feel about the reality of our lives. Transformation on the other hand is vertical and it allows us to not simply translate the world’s reality but transform it. Contentment with reality is not a part of transformation, nor is it simply finding solace in the midst of the world.[I]

The disciples, in their post-resurrection encounters with Jesus are able to make the journey from translating their lives in light of their experience with Jesus to being transformed. It is their transformation that unleashes the power of the gospel.

The first thing the resurrected Jesus does when he comes into the presence of his disciples is breathe. Before he offers his bloody hands and side to Thomas, Jesus breathes, offers his peace, and then he breathes peace on the disciples.

Every Sunday we here at St. Stephen’s offer the peace to each other. We do this in what I would call a “warm southern way.” We shake hands; hug each other, offer eye contact, and warm greetings in a lovely way. But when Jesus passes the peace with the disciples in this event, he gets really close. He invades personal space and gets in the face of his disciples, and he breathes the breath of God through his wounded body. He offers them the broken Spirit of God and calls it “peace.” Peace, wounds, and Spirit dine together during the Easter season. In Thomas’ questions to Jesus we see the grittiness and reality of Easter. Putting our hands in the wounds of Jesus means that we too are wounded by the brutality of the world.

We tend to domesticate Easter – offering it up in sentimental ways with eggs and candy – a pain-filled reality made comfortable by the resurrection. We are eager to replace the scars of the nails and spear with butterflies and rainbows. We want the comfort of Easter but Jesus breathes on his fearful disciples and sends them out to do ministry transformed by wounded breath. I wonder what this means? Does it mean that neighbor – love, and peace – making do not happen without sharing breath and personal space with another person? Does it mean that we are called to get close enough to breathe on one another? That we are to get close enough to the wounds of the world to smell them?[II]

When I was doing ministry in North Carolina several many years ago, my spiritual director was a Roman Catholic priest. I would go to him all full of my needs and concerns and after listening to me for awhile, John would say, “Faith is messy business, Martha.” It is about wounds and healing, struggle and believing, fear and transformation, hope and hurt – it is all those things and it is messy. There is nothing neat and tidy about faith – the kind of spirituality that believes “a prayer and care and you are there” is not what most of us are in this for. No, it is more like dirty hands and feet, betrayal, flesh that hurts and has needs, disillusionment, and shame. Garrison Keillor says, “We always have a backstage view of ourselves.” We let the audience see only the neatly arranged self on stage for their benefit, but behind the curtain all kinds of things are lying around: old failures, hurts, guilt and shame.

Faith is messy business. It is locking ourselves behind more and more doors, sealing off more and more rooms of our hearts to prevent our true selves from being revealed and exposed. We think we are keeping the world out but in reality we are keeping ourselves locked in. The good news of the gospel is that Jesus comes looking for us because he wants to breathe his wounded breath on us to transform us. That transformation does one thing – it sends us out in power. “Come and see what this man Jesus did in my life – why, I have been set free!” Faith is messy business. But we are not in the faith business just to be consoled and comforted by God. We are in the faith business to be transformed so the world can be transformed through us.

Today is known by most preachers as “low Sunday.” On this Sunday after Easter people stay at home tired out by their efforts on Easter. It’s a reasonable excuse. We are in many ways like the disciples, hanging on behind our locked doors looking for some “new life” comfort as we plant flowers, and wash windows waiting for summer’s warm breezes to give us life. Into this very moment of waiting Jesus bursts in to our lives and breathes on us with his wounded breath.

William Sloane Coffin, the great prophet of the United Church of Christ, who died just a few years ago, once said: “As I see it, the primary religious task these days is to try to think straight…you can’t think straight with a heart full of fear, for fear seeks safety, not truth. If your heart’s a stone, you can’t have decent thoughts – either about personal relations or about international ones. A heart full of love, on the other hand, has a limbering effect on the mind.”[III] Our hearts become full of love not because we want them to be or wish them to be. Our hearts become filled with love when we are transformed by God’s Spirit – his wounded breath. AMEN.

Sermon preached by the Rev. Martha A. Honaker at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in New Harmony, Indiana on March 30, 2008.

[I] This information is taken from an article in Shambala Magazine, Translation vs. Transformation, by Kenneth Wilber.

[II] The idea of “Jesus’ wounded breath” is taken from a sermon Craig Kocher, who is the associate dean of Duke University Chapel in Durham, NC. His sermon was called “Morning Breath” and appeared on The Christian Century website, called Blogging Toward Sunday.”

[III] I am not sure where this quote comes from in Coffin’s writings – it was in my file of quotes.