Confirmation: Finding Peace in God

Our world is rocking.  If it is not Beirut, it is Paris.  If it is not our parents’ dementia, it is our child’s autism.  If it is not saving for our retirement, it is a layoff.  Can’t we find one place where we can rest and be at peace?

As Christians we know that the only source of peace is God, for us revealed in Christ.  We can be tempted to seek it in the institutions that point to God; in the people who lead in the name of the Holy.  But what we know is that real security and identity lies in the Source of all Being.  Our faith links us to this common trust.

On Sunday at 5:30 p.m. we will gather with our Bishop to incorporate new disciples into our community in the rites of confirmation and reception.    I encourage you to sleep in on Sunday morning and to show up in the evening to demonstrate your support for these folks who join us in seeking and making peace.  We will mark the last Sunday after Pentecost:  the Reign of Christ—an ironic celebration that the power of God is revealed in the crucifixion at the hand of the Empire.

As we prepare for Advent which follows I am reminded of this poem by William Butler Yeats.

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.
    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?