Chrism Mass of Holy Week 2024

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Isaiah 6:1-8

 

Chrism Mass 2024

 

You are here today because someone spoke a word of God into your life.  Someone planted the seed.  Someone, at some point, became the first person who was convinced you were called to be set apart.  To be a priest.  Or to be a deacon.  To be an ordained minister of the Gospel.

 

For me, it was my paternal grandparents: Bob and Sharon Williamson.  And they first spoke that word into my life when I was just a boy.  The dawning days of my vocation were not of biblical proportions.  I didn’t get the divine drama of the scene in Isaiah, no sweetness of temple incense or angelic vision; my lips were not singed with a live coal.  Instead, what I remember most of those early days is a very particular scent: it was this overwhelming floral perfume, wafting from the dish of decorative soaps – certainly my grandma’s addition to the home.  They looked like little glossy roses.  And they were peach because, at least in my memory, everything in that bathroom was colored peach: the dress of the crocheted women who, for some reason, stood on the toilet tank, the monogramed towels, the puffy toilet seat that never stayed up.  And, of course, the soaps.  I’m not sure why everything was peach, but it was the 80’s.

 

As a child, I would escape the vanilla-hint of pipe smoke in the hallway and just be enveloped in the aroma of those soaps.  And then I would hop into the bathtub to be washed and saved.  When I was a little child, my grandma had me invite Jesus into my heart every time I took a bath at her house.  I guess she wanted to be sure – really sure.  And so we had this routine.

 

On those overnights, my grandpa, a United Methodist pastor, had his own way of caring for my soul.  He would show me the books in his study.  He would tell me the stories of the Bible, show me how he prepared his sermons, talk to me about his faith in Jesus.  And then, in the evenings, after dinner, the three of us would often play Bible Trivia – the one in the white box with the pastel-tinted rainbow. 

 

In retrospect, I can see that my grandparents were always preparing me for the life they were convinced God had in mind.  Years before I even considered seminary, years before I discovered the Episcopal Church, they were speaking this future into existence, speaking the word of God into my life.  Before I could envision, they saw the vision.  And like the prophets of old, they shared what they had been given.  When I was a boy, they told me that one day I would be a preacher.

 

You are here today because someone spoke a word of God into your life: a grandparent, a parent, a friend, maybe a priest or a bishop.  Someone recognized your gifts, someone saw something special, and spoke a word that changed your life.  Someone confirmed the stirring in your soul.  And you surrendered your heart to this calling.

 

Like the prophet Isaiah, you responded to God: “Here I am; send me!”  You responded to God even though, at the time, you did not, and could not, truly understand the life you were accepting.  You did not yet know the weight of wrapping a collar around your neck – and how it changes the ways in which people see you, the ways in which you see yourself.  You did not yet know the authority your words would carry.  You did not yet know what it would feel like to be so respected and so disrespected.  You did not yet know the deep honor of guiding a family through a funeral or the crazy mixed feelings of trying to pull together a wedding.  You did not yet know the immense joy of the font or the breathless wonder you would find in the immediate presence of the holy mysteries of the altar.

 

You did not yet understand the complex beauty of the ordained life.  You did not yet know how hard it is.  This work that we do is not easy, neither is it simple.  It demands the very best of us.  Some weeks it takes more than it gives.  In this calling, your heart will be broken.  Your hopes will hit walls.  Your best ideas will fall flat.  You will be called to make excruciating sacrifices.  And those around you will be required to share your sacrifices – even though they did not choose them.  Some days you will cry and want to walk away. 

 

But there are also immense privileges that come with the collar.  People will love and trust you more than you think you deserve.  People will put you on a pedestal; they will hang on your every word.  They will treasure your advice.  They will invite you into the vulnerabilities of their lives.  They will believe what you say about God.  Hold all of that with humility – as an honor, not as an opportunity. 

 

By virtue of your ordination, you have very publicly taken on the life of Christ.  You have vowed to pattern your life after his, to represent Jesus in this world.  Your collar will draw eyes and attention.  The world is watching.

 

It is important that you let them see you lose.  One of the hardest lessons of this particular life runs very contrary to the ways of our culture and our world.  It is advice I have given to every person who has approached me with an interest in ordained ministry: to do this work, you must be willing to take losses.  You are meant to help people see Jesus: the one who emptied himself, the one who humbled himself, the one who accepted the cross.  Jesus had every opportunity to establish his greatness, to grasp success, to prove his opponents wrong in humiliating fashion.  Instead, for us and for our salvation, he took the loss.

 

There will be times in your ministry in which you will want to win, to crush someone who hurt your feelings, to embarrass someone who intended to humiliate you.  You will be tempted to win the arguments and defend yourself.  Because, like me, you are human.

 

And while it can feel good to prove a bothersome person wrong or triumph in a theological argument, it is love that wins souls.  Earn the right to pastor by your gentle kindness.  Ask questions that cut through the pain instead of rushing to answers.  Listen deeply and hold the hurt that people bring your way.  Be gracious enough to admit the limits of your own knowledge and your own abilities.  It can be embarrassing to be human but your people need to see your humanity.  They need to know that you love them enough to, at least occasionally, concede.  They need to know that you are willing to love and trust them more than they deserve, too.  “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourself.”

 

In the end, it is not your win-loss record that people will remember.  They will only remember that you cared, that you gave your heart to this calling.  They will remember your humble service and your disarming mercy and your generous love.  They will remember the Jesus that they saw in you.

 

Once upon a time, someone asked you if you had ever considered ordained ministry.  Not because they knew you would be a great orator or because they thought you would run an efficient vestry meeting.  But because they saw the goodness of your heart and the kindness in your life.  They glimpsed your humility.  They saw Jesus in you.  And knew that you would be a gift to the Church.

 

You are here today because someone spoke a word of God into your life.  Someone confirmed the stirring in your soul.  And you surrendered your heart to this calling.  Like the prophet Isaiah, you responded to God: “Here I am; send me!”  And I am glad you did.

 

May the Lord who has given you the will to do this odd and wondrous ministry give you the grace and power to perform your work faithfully.