![]() St. Peter’s, Charleston - Epiphany 2025 - January 9, 2025 at 6 pm Bishop Ruth Woodliff-Stanley shared a sermon for the first service in the next chapter of the historic St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Charleston (West Ashley), as it looks to reopen later this year. Epiphany is the time when we see the light. The light that is within us, and all around us. Writer Jarod Anderson says there is an old story about herons. “While hunting in the twilight shallows,” he tells the reader, “herons can produce a strange, luminescent powder, pluck it from between their feathers with their spear-like beaks, and sprinkle it on the dark water to attract fish.” It is only a tale. And yet, a tale that contains, as most tales do, the seed of holy truth. For, herons are magical creatures. If you have ever studied one, you know this about them: they are patient. And, they notice things with much care and attention. Like the way the light moves across the water, how it shifts over the course of a day as schools of fish swim. How dark and light play together as the fish move toward the surface. How the moonlight shines down upon them as they fish. Herons notice these things. I once became a student of a particular heron. I spent a month at the beach. That was before becoming a bishop. This heron appeared my first day. A great blue heron, mere feet from me at the water’s edge. It would have been enough to get one day with this exquisite bird, but this heron occupied the same stretch of beach for the entirety of my stay. I watched this winsome creature ever so slowly walk a small patch of sand, back and forth, taking all the time a day contains. Herons are mentioned twice in the bible—and only as animals not to consume. All we’ve got from scripture is—yeah, herons, don’t eat them! Not our most inspiring scriptural reference. I guess the gift is, they were mentioned. So we know they were around. I wonder if the Magi met magical creatures on their journey to pay homage to the Christ child. Magical creatures like the long beaked blue heron, moving lithely in the bulrush at dusk, making almost no noise, with movement so slow as to quiet even these seekers, accustomed though they were to strange new places. I wonder if they stopped to marvel at such a creature by starlight, even on their way to greet the king of kings born in a manger. And I wonder, too, if Peter ever watched a heron while he was fishing. Or when he pondered how to love Jesus at dawn after breakfast on the beach. I wonder if he ever noticed a heron moving slowly. Or reaching into the water with long slender beak to pluck out a fish. I wonder, if in all his tempestuous, bold and blustery movement, Peter ever stopped to notice a heron carefully surveying the waterfront, with beady eye peering as if to the infinity point on the horizon. And coming to our own story this night of a place called St. Peter’s, this parish was begun by a Charleston layman in response to the inspired preaching of a gifted circuit rider named Daniel Baker in what became known as the Beaufort revival of 1832. I wonder if that fiery circuit rider, blessed Daniel, might also have watched a grace filled heron standing like a still pool at the edge of the marsh as he prayed before delivering his sermons. When he arrived in Beaufort, Baker faced a public severely divided. Andrew Jackson had just defeated Henry Clay in a sweeping presidential election victory. The enslavement of human beings was becoming utterly pervasive. South Carolinians were divided in their loyalties between Jackson and Calhoun because of the nullification crisis, the tax issue of their day. Tensions ran high in local communities; Beaufort was no exception. But when Baker came to preach, all of that changed. The Beaufort Gazette described his impact on the town in this way: “Politics were forgotten. Businesses stood still. The shops and stores were shut. The schools closed.” The Gazette writer expanded: “Distinctions were laid aside. Christians of all denominations met and worshipped together, …and the cordiality of their mutual attachment was a living commentary on the great precept of their Teacher, 'Love one another.' Animosities long continued, were sacrificed; coldness and formality were forgotten. Our community seemed like one great family.” Sounds like blue heron magic blanketed the Beaufort shores on those nights while Baker spoke. For all of his passion, it seems blessed Daniel slowed down enough to go deep. He made the connection with the flock. Luminescent preaching beckoned new souls to follow Jesus and bury old divisions. The Gazette report is as good a description as I’ve heard of Beloved Community, that elusive phrase we have made our tag line in this diocese—we are, we say, Becoming Beloved Community. It is good to know our roots in this effort run deep, and that they run right through this historic parish of St. Peter’s. Like the people of Beaufort when Baker arrived, we are a divided community in this nation of ours. Racism, political loyalties, tax issues—it all has a familiar ring. We, like the spiritual ancestors of this parish, have need of the luminescent heron powder that can beckon weary souls to bury old divisions in light of a more compelling vision. There is an intersection of two forces that yields wisdom—courage—like that of St. Peter, and Daniel Baker. And patience, like that of the great heron, standing almost motionless at water’s edge, watching, beckoning the fish. Here at the edge of our new beginning at St. Peter’s, we need both. The courage and the patience of our spiritual forbears. We are called to take bold steps. And, too, we are called to pay very close attention, to stretch the wingspan of our hearts, our souls, and our imagination, slowly. Together, these two spiritual gifts of courage and patience will yield a luminescence that can beckon others to this place. A college professor, Megan Bergman, returned to her Carolina roots after the pandemic and bought a boat she donned The Night Heron. Seeking to learn the coastal waterways here, yearning for what she did not know exactly, she set out night after night in the inland waterways. Now, she returns each season. Paying attention to each bend, to every creature, she is becoming like the great bird for whom she named her vessel. “It takes a certain determination to stay tethered to the lives and places that matter to you, to steer full-selved into the divine chaos, knowing that it will change on you as soon as you have your bearings,” she says. “Migratory birds know this instinctually,” she continues, “and yet each year they chance the voyages between their different homes. The plan never fully comes together, but we take the risk of dreaming, again and again.” (Megan Mayhew Bergman) You are a bit like those birds, chancing voyages between your different faith homes—coming here this night from various churches to lend your support, to discover what the Spirit might be doing here. I am grateful, as I know Rev. Courtney and Deacon Marionette are, that you have embarked on this adventure with us. I wonder, as we set out on this voyage, here in this holy place, if we might become night herons, people whose wisdom emerges carefully, attentively—yes, sometimes in eager action, like that of Daniel Baker whose revivals seeded this venture, and like that of Peter, this historic parish’s patron saint. But also in slowing down, in being mindful of each detail, watching the waterfront of this place, noticing when the fish surface and what they seek. I wonder, most of all, if we can take the risk of dreaming again and again, even and especially when our plans do not fully come together. For no venture such as this one is absent the occasional headwinds and stormy seas. And sometimes, the best dreams are dreamed in turbulent times. Something mystical and holy is coming full circle in this place. From Peter wondering how to love Jesus at dawn on the beach, to a revivalist named Daniel Baker, to this very moment, we are coming round to where we began. This is the night we see the light. The light that is within us, and all around us. You are the night herons of this holy place we call St. Peter’s. Risk dreaming again and again. Move as if you have all the time a day contains. Make this place luminous. Blessed Epiphany.
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Bishop Ruth Woodliff-StanleyThe Rt. Reverend Ruth Woodliff-Stanley was elected by the Diocese of South Carolina in May 2021, and consecrated as a bishop on October 2, 2021. Archives
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