From the Psalms:
O that today you would listen to his voice!
(From the Daily Office Lectionary – Psalm 95:7b (NRSV) – March 8, 2013.)
Today we are asked by the Episcopal Church’s Lectionary to use Psalm 95 as the invitatory at the Daily Office of Morning Prayer. Whether we recite the whole psalm or the abbreviated text we call The Venite, we say these words: “Oh, that today you would hearken to his voice!” (as the Prayer Book renders them). Lent is a season that calls us to pay attention to God, to be involved in God’s world, and to be aware of God’s presence.
The year I was in residence in Berkeley, California, at Church Divinity School of the Pacific working on a Certificate of Anglican Studies, there was a homeless man who habitually hung out on Euclid Avenue. One often encountered him along the stretch between the seminary and the north gate of the Cal Berkeley campus where there are several businesses including bars and restaurants. Although he would frequently be there panhandling, just about as often one would find him asleep in one of the non-business doorways, his long legs stretched out onto the sidewalk. I can remember stepping over his legs on more than one occasion. When he was awake and begging, he was usually respectable in his asking for handouts, but too often for comfort he could also be rude and offensive. He was clearly disturbed, possibly schizophrenic and also possibly dangerous, as I learned when I tried to engage him in conversation one day. Given that he was of a similar age to me and given the things he yelled at me liberally sprinkled with abusive obscenities, I suspect that he might have been a Vietnam veteran. I never tried to talk with him after that, but if he was panhandling when I passed by, I would give him whatever change was in my pocket, usually around a dollar; I must confess, however, that just about as often (or perhaps more often) I would find some excuse to cross the street before reaching him. What I never did was try to get him help, to find him shelter, or food, or medical care . . . nor, it seemed, did anyone else.
Today on the Episcopal Chuch’s sanctorale calendar is the commemoration of Geoffrey Anketell Studdert Kennedy, an Anglican priest and British army chaplain during World War I. A poet, Studdert Kennedy, wrote a poem entitled Indifference which touches on the admonition of Psalm 95:7b and my Berkeley experience:
When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree,
They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary;
They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,
For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap.When Jesus came to Birmingham, they simply passed Him by.
They would not hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die;
For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain,
They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain.Still Jesus cried, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,”
And still it rained the winter rain that drenched Him through and through;
The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see,
And Jesus crouched against a wall, and cried for Calvary.
I’ve no idea what became of that man on Euclid Avenue in Berkeley, California . . . but I know who he was.
“O that today you would listen to his voice!”
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Father Funston is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Medina, Ohio.
Some years ago, during the summer of 2000 to be exact, I was one of about a dozen adults who chaperoned 87 teenagers on a ten-day tour of northern Italy. One of the pieces of advice given our group by the organizing tour guide was that the young ladies would not be allowed into Italian cathedrals wearing shorts or tank-tops. She suggested that they take with them, and always have on hand a light-weight over-blouse and a large scarf that they could tie around their waist to form a sort of skirt. This caused no amount of amusement among our group 17- and 18-year-old, Twenty-First Century, American girls, but it only took one time being escorted out of a church by a stern Italian nun for them to realize how serious the advice was and to never again forget to put on their overshirts and their wrap-around skirts. 
It’s called bibliolatry and it’s been around a long, long time. The dictionary definition of bibliolatry is “excessive reverence for the Bible as literally interpreted.” What I most enjoy about modern bibliolatry is that it denies that it is bibliolatry in the most circular and bibliolatrous of ways. 
Despite the tradition that the Psalms were written by King David, any good commentary will tell you that this Psalm was written probably in the first decades of the Sixth Century BC, at around the time of the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians circa 598 BC. Some scholars would even suggest that it was written as late as the Maccabean era (circa 165 BC). Personally, I tend to go with the earlier date; the Psalm’s description of wide spread destruction of religious meeting places seems more in line with the pre-Exilic invasion.
As I read the lessons and Psalms of the Daily Office lectionary for today, this was the passage that spoke loudest to me, but I did not want to write about it. I tried to reflect upon and author a meditation about some other bits of the Scriptures appointed for today, but my thoughts kept returning to this one. 
Several years ago – 33 to be exact – Bruce Dern starred in a little-remarked movie entitled Middle Age Crazy; it dealt with the main character’s midlife crisis of turning 40 years of age. 
A few days ago I wrote about my interest in superstring theory, m-theory, and the multiverse concept which springs from my life-long love of science fiction and the especially the “alternate reality” sorts of tales. I suggested that Jesus’ miracles might have been accomplished by his somehow accessing an alternate reality to affect this world; that would imply some sort of access to knowledge of those other universes.
Every time I recite Psalm 19 with its words of praise for the Law, I am caught up short by verse 12. In verses 7-11 we read that the Law is perfect and just, that it provides wisdom and rejoicing, that it is more desirable than gold or honey, and that in keeping it there is enlightenment and reward. Then comes the kicker, “Who can tell how often he offends? Cleanse me from my secret faults.” In other words, despite all the grandeur and wonder of the Law, no one can actually keep it!
In The Book of Common Prayer on page 264 you’ll find the beginning of the liturgy for Ash Wednesday. If you were here on that day which marks the beginning of this season we call Lent, or in another church to be marked on your forehead with the cross of ashes, to be reminded of your mortality with the familiar words, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you will return,” you will also have heard the Lenten admonition which the presiding priest reads at each Ash Wednesday service. It begins at the bottom of that page and comes in the service after the reading of the lessons of the day and the preaching of the sermon.
In our gospel lesson today, Jesus turns water into wine. He does so, somewhat unwillingly it seems, because he and his mother are at a wedding banquet and the couple is about to run out of wine for their guests. Mary brings this to Jesus’ attention because she apparently believes he can do something to save the hosts from embarrassment. At first, however, he seems disinclined to do anything about it. Not the least bit phased by her son’s reluctance, Mary tells the servants to do whatever he tells them, and she goes back to the party. I have always imagined that as she turned away Mary gave Jesus the same sort of look my mother would give me when I tried to not do as she wanted, the same sort of look I’ve seen my wife give our children. So . . . Jesus turns water into wine, and (as you will see) not just any water into not just any wine, but really good wine! Now, one supposes that Jesus could have done something else to assist the wedding couple, but he chooses to do this, to turn water into wine.
