Saints of God

Revelation 7:9-17 | Psalm 34:1-10, 2 | 1 John 3:1-3 | Matthew 5:1-12

This All Saints’ Day 2020, more than a few people are drawn to the beatitudes, especially “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Our lengthy necrology this year is a visual indication of the grief that all of us bear. Names might recall images and memories to those who loved them, and the stark reality of the fatalities by violence and injustice and the devastation caused by covid-19 bind us in our humanity, in our mortality. One day, we know not when, our names will appear on such a list, by those who love us well.

That’s why we grieve, isn’t it? If someone dies and we have no connection with them, not even an ounce of empathy in our connectedness in our common humanity or as part of creation, we don’t really mourn, do we? When we are sad that Sean Connery died, for instance, it’s not because we knew him personally (unless you’re so fortunate!), but because he meant something to us personally. We valued the presence he carried, the roles he played. When we have a physical reaction to the death of George Floyd and tremors that still erupt to this day at all that his death revealed, it’s not because we knew him personally, but that we realize our connectedness with him, his family, with our systems and institutions. Whether we identify with him as a Black man as part of a Black family or whether we realize our identity in the officers, we have reason to mourn deeply, not only for what has been lost but at what is still being killed every day.

And yet . . . our readings this day point toward a great multitude singing praise, consisting of those who have come out of the “great ordeal” and now worship before God who shelters them, provides for them, and “wipe(s) away every tear from their eyes.”

I’m still processing this, but when we mourn, it seems we’re not so much expressing sorrow for those who have died and who now presumably sing among the saints, but we lament our own loss, express regret over what we’ve done or left undone in relationship with the other, and/or question the meaning and purpose of it all. We have customs or traditions to help us deal with all of this in the moments after, and thankfully we have therapy for the lifetime of contending with the grief we carry, but once a year on this day (which delightfully falls on a Sunday this wild and turbulent year), we focus not on our own mourning but on all the Saints.

We are fortunate to carry all the Saints’ in our name, making this also our patronal feast day. I say we’re fortunate because it means we have great diversity in whom we focus on as our patronal Saint. We don’t have just one–we have them all! In a church where we focus on God’s love for all, this couldn’t be more appropriate. It’s also why our mural depicts different persons, harkening back to Saints’ of our past. But they’re depicted in contemporary forms. I’ll write this up more eloquently later so we can share it widely, but let me give you an overview of how it came to be and what it means.

When the idea of a mural was presented, the idea itself was already summoning a depiction of saints, though in the abstract. I happen to have a budding artist with a desire to do mural work, and trusting his creative process, I gave little description though showed him an abstract example. He drafted the image we voted on through our congregational poll, and we have the mural we see today, merely two years after we have moved into this space, and we have brought All Saints’ to life here.

He mentioned to me that he was pulling elements of traditional saint imagery, items associated with saints to persons in the mural. We didn’t talk about this. As he was getting started, I conversed with these images, asking them what they mean to me. I’m thankful for all the Lent Madness brackets I’ve read and all the Morning Prayers I’ve prayed through Mission St. Clare, which shares a commemoration of the saint of the day. Our Christian predecessors have amazing stories, even if sometimes they’re amazingly ordinary.

I started at the left, looking at the mural drawing. With the bishop crook, he’s named “Ed Curry.” Of course this shepherd to me recalled Bp. Edward Demby, the first Black bishop in the states (“The 1916 General Convention opened the way for African Americans to become suffragan bishops with responsibilities over African American churches in the racially segregated South.”). Bp. Demby was suffragan bishop here in Arkansas and among Province VII, given charge over the Black congregations in the state. He served from 1918-1939, and you can read a detail of his life in Black Bishop, a book our current Bishop Benfield commended to me for a project in a history class while I was in seminary. When I was showing the completed mural to family friends, one asked me if this was Jesus. I smiled and said, “It could be. We all have the presence of Christ to share,” and then I told him about Bp. Demby. I also said it speaks to our current Presiding Bishop Michael Curry. Thinking on it now, it also represents the arc of our work toward racial justice and reconciliation. From 1916 when General Convention allowed Black men to be suffragan bishops to when Michael Curry was elected Presiding Bishop in 2015 is 100 years of ongoing work, perseverance, and faith. Our Vans-wearing bishop of the mural is pointing forward, in a gesture of blessing. We still have work to do.

“Maria is next.” Whether calling to mind the Holy Mother or la Virgen de Guadalupe, she also speaks to our Hispanic culture, its prominence and importance in our community. The Virgin Mary is usually accompanied by a lily and depicted reading a book. Hopefully our Maria empowers our Latinas, inspires us all to stand tall, not neglecting wisdom of tradition and learning nor our feminine expressions of God.

We were reminded that since it is 2020, what depiction of saints would we be creating if we didn’t honor our healthcare workers? “Lucas,” in his scrubs, channels St. Luke, the physician. Maybe someone was just discharged from the hospital after weeks on the ventilator, which seems like a miracle after all the charts he’s had to close with time of death. Maybe he’s just wrapping up a three-day shift, throwing his mask to the wind in the safety of his own yard. Maybe it’s 2023, and the pandemic is behind us, but we can almost hear him sing, “Amen! Blessings and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen!”

“Hilda” plays and sings along with his praise. Hildegard of Bingen was ahead of her time in more ways than one. In the 12th century as a nun, she lived into her vocation fully, sharing her visions, her writing, music, and knowledge. Her creativity and pursuits extended into things dramatic and scientific, but she gives us an example of what it means to give glory to God for all our inspiration and direction, despite what adversities we experience. (Aside from being an intelligent, prolific woman of the time, it is also suggested that she suffered migraines.)

Kneeling as if at a prayer bench, “Pauli Harris” is praying us all up, leading the way for all. Pauli Murray was lawyer, women’s and civil rights activist, and Episcopal priest (the first Black woman in The Episcopal Church, 1977). Barbara Harris was the first woman consecrated bishop in the Anglican Communion (not just TEC) in 1989. As someone who had registered voters in Mississippi during her summer vacations and had been on Freedom Rides and to Selma with MLK, Jr., in the 60’s, the threats she received as a Black woman now bishop were likely not new to her. She was renowned for her outspokenness, a voice that we now have in memory as she died in March of this year (Murray died in 1985). Both of these women are depicted with their hair short and tinged with gray in their later years, and they radiate their love of God.

The burly saint at the end with his deer companion could be none other than “Francis.” With increasing climate turmoil, Creation needs our attention and care. While we focus on Francis at our pet blessing every year near his feast day on Oct. 4th, we don’t often emphasize his vow of extreme poverty. He turned away from a life of material comfort and turned completely toward Jesus Christ, proclaiming the gospel with his whole being.

Undoubtedly, those who knew these Saints in their lifetime mourned their loss–Bishop Harris still today. And yet, we celebrate them, commemorate them (show respect). We may not know what happens when we die or have complete faith in the accuracy or reality of John’s revelation, but we do know that this side of the kin-dom, we keep those whom we loved alive in our memories–not just our memories but in our lives.
What of grandma’s sayings do we still say or dishes do we make? What prayers do we repeat or beautiful lines do we quote? How do we stand strong in the face of oppression and persecution and still radiate the light and love of Christ? How do we inspire others to sing praise to God, delighting in the life that we know here and now, no matter how difficult and heart-wrenching it can be?

The communion of saints with whom we celebrate and feast with in every Eucharistic prayer is here and now. Stories of Saints centuries ago are not all that dissimilar from our contemporaries. We are more connected than we realize. We are not isolated or alone, not even in our grief. There is one Body and one Spirit. There is one hope in God’s call to us. One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism; One God and Father of all. May this be our comfort and our inspiration, now and forever more.

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What Are We Begging For?

1 Kings 19:1-4, (5-7), 8-15a | Psalm 42 and 43 | Galatians 3:23-29 | Luke 8:26-39

Leave it to the gospel to alert us when things are not okay, when there’s something we’re called to notice and maybe even wrestle with. Surely your ears perked up when we’re told a man with demons met Jesus, a naked man at that, one who lives in the tombs. As if that weren’t “interesting” enough, the demon(s) speak to Jesus, naming him as “Jesus, Son of the Most High God” and begging not to be tormented, which results in Jesus casting out Legion into a herd of swine that then rushes off to drown in a lake. This is our Holy Scripture. This is one of many stories that can give us pause as we wonder, “But what does it mean? What is God saying to God’s people?” As we reaffirm nearly every time we engage in scriptural study, the Word of God can mean many things to different people in various contexts. An important question to ask–and faithfully discern–is where does this holy story intersect with our lives? Before we can match anything up, we have to look closely at what we’re given from as many angles as possible. I’m not going to get to all of them, but there are three in particular that offer a greater depth of understanding.

The spiritual aspect of this story takes main stage, for the focus here is on an exorcism. We don’t talk a lot about exorcisms in The Episcopal Church, but we, too, have exorcists, and the bishops know who their diocesan go-to person is. (It’s not me!) Even though the disciples grapple with understanding who Jesus is, this man possessed by Legion knows right away who Jesus is. (A Roman legion was about 5,000-6,000 men.) The demon knows the command Jesus has over the realm of spirit, which exceeds any physical power as neither chains nor shackles could contain the man before. The demons must also know something of the compassion Jesus has, appealing to the Son of God not to torment them, leaving the demons to their inherent destruction even to the point of self-destruction, for even though they begged not to be ordered to go back into the abyss, when the swine drowned, the demons ended up in the abyss anyway.

The personal or individual aspect of this story is inherently spiritual, too, but in a different way. Focus for a moment on one man possessed but then exorcised and healed by Jesus. We’re told that he sits “at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind.” This man, in his right mind, speaking for himself and not for the demons, begs of Jesus to let him go with him basically to become another one of his disciples following him on his way. But Jesus sends him away, to return to his home. In his home he is to “declare how much God has done for (him).” Jesus will give the demons what they want but not the man who’s been restored? Yes. It’s not hard to imagine his disappointment, as we’ve all had prayers that were, at least to us, unanswered (we didn’t get what we said we wanted). And yet. . . The man went to his home and proclaimed what Jesus had done for him and became, along with the disciples, a prominent voice for the Gospel among the Gentiles. This man was himself a Gentile. This man had been transformed by his encounter with Jesus, and what is more powerful than hearing about the transformation of someone who is like you? Transformation is a powerful thing.

Which brings me to the third aspect of understanding this story: the corporate or collective level. What happen with the masses? The swineherds saw what happened and ran off and told everyone in the city and the country. All the people who could came to see for themselves and saw one of their own–whom they had cast out, remember, whom they had chained and shackled and left naked and in the tombs–healed (in his right mind), clothed, and sitting at the feet of Jesus. Did they rejoice in the man’s healing? Did they now beg of Jesus as the demons and then the man had? They did not rejoice; in fact, we’re told they were afraid. They didn’t beg, but we are told they asked Jesus to leave “for they were seized with great fear.” It’s actually after the people ask Jesus to leave that the healed man begs to go with Jesus, and I don’t blame him one bit. The man knows what these people are capable of, and now he sees them afraid. When people are scared, it generally doesn’t make them act any better. I overheard one son ask the other what he would do first in the case of a zombie apocalypse, and after his brother’s response he said that the first thing he would do is try to calm down because he would be freaking out and would need to calm down to think clearly. Our former demoniac is thinking clearly; he’s in his right mind. And he wants to go with Jesus and his crew, not stay with these people who are afraid of staying in the presence of the power and mystery of Jesus, Son of the Most High God.

As I see it, it is just as scary now as it was then to live within the realm of Jesus Christ. It’s a place where power as we understand it can be overturned, where life as we know it can be changed forever, and where resistance in the form of fear battles forces of supreme love. If we’ve been in that battle ground and emerged transformed, with greater understanding, we want to stay in that place. Yet so often that’s not where we’re called to be. God may send us back to the battleground to proclaim how much God has done for us, to share our transformation story with others. We may, like Elijah, be sent back to the wilderness, to carry on until our work is truly done. We may, like Paul, be sent ever outward, travelling as far and wide as we can to proclaim the Good News that through faith in Jesus Christ we are children of God, wholly and inclusively. 

It may be hard, but the healing we know from our deepest wounds reveals the power of God in ways that only wisdom of experience can convey. It’s why outreach workers in the Oxford Houses are supposed to be people who have been through the Oxford House model themselves. It’s why the best counselors have done the personal work themselves. It’s why the voices of those living in poverty are the most powerful testimonies to why we need to advocate for change. It’s why those who have immigrated and those who have fled their countries of origin as refugees are the only ones who can help people in power understand how to fix what is fundamentally missing or broken in our current systems and institutions.

Faced with Truth, we understand real, liberated, restored power, and for those of us functioning with temporal, materialistic power, we realize our weakness, our lack of understanding, and some of the depths of what is unknown. Only when we’ve swam in those depths and came ashore with a tale to tale do we have any idea of te power at play, the grandeur and greatness of God. Evan Garner, the rector at St. Paul’s in Fayetteville contributed to the “Reflections on the Lectionary” in Christian Century on this passage from Luke (June 5, 2019, p. 21). He very astutely writes,

“Sometimes the terror we know is more tolerable than the peace we cannot imagine.”

Our demons are still legion. Addiction of all kinds, mental health issues, poverty, racism, fear, and hatred . . . there are many. And when we get closer to knowing the peace, love, and liberation through Christ, it can seem like if not be that we are confronted with our own demonic cocktail, made specifically for us to chain and shackle us in the tombs. But I don’t think this is where we’re left in our understanding of this story.

The question becomes, “What are we begging for?” What are we asking for that will truly satiate us? What are we asking God of that no matter how it gets answered, when we hear the voice of God in the silence, we’re willing to go where God leads? Most often the spiritual journey doesn’t take us any farther than our own home but takes us to great depths in spiritual maturity.

Vulnerable, shackled by all the societal norms that surround us, with the freedom from the tombs of death promised by our faith in Jesus Christ, what is it that we beg for to experience true liberation? In our Noon Bible Study, we’re reading Rachel Held Evans’ Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again. She writes about Jacob wrestling with the angel until he gets what he asks for, even if his encounter leaves him with a limp. In the reading guide provide on the website, we’re invited to consider what we would be willing to wrestle God about through the Bible. What is it that we long for? What would we be willing to beg of God, or are we too afraid of what God can do? Eternal life in God through Christ or destruction empowered by our limited self? The life lived in Christ is not an easy one, but our joy and gladness are inextricably tied to the light and truth of God. Therein lies our ultimate liberation, something worth begging for.

 

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On Being Provocative

1 Samuel 1:4-20 | 1 Samuel 2:1-10 | Hebrews 10:11-25 | Mark 13:1-8

We now draw toward the end of this Season after Pentecost, often called “ordinary time.” Ready or not, Advent is only two weeks away. It is in this “green” Season after Pentecost that we also often call it a “growing time.” Not only is it in the summer months, wrapping up at the harvest, but it is also a time when we hear and learn about Israel and her kings and about the faithful people of God, imperfect as they may be. Any time we engage in scripture, to hear, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest–as our collect says–we are invited to step into the story wholeheartedly to understand how it relates to us now, even though the distance between then and now, let alone between here and there, is so great. Our learning shapes and grows us, too, in our understanding. While we may be growing on the outside, more likely than not there is also growth and formation happening within us.

As much as people seem surprised to encounter women in the Bible, we do so more often than we might realize. Today’s story of Hannah exhibits this internal and external growth quite well. While it is the conception story of the child who would become King Samuel, it’s not told through the lens of his father or even of the high priest of the time, though both make an appearance. It’s the plight of Hannah, Samuel’s mother that draws us into the tale. Hannah, second wife of Elkanah, is faithful yet barren. Even though she’s childless, she has the love of her husband, who makes no effort to hide his favoritism and seems shocked that his love alone doesn’t satisfy her (as if all she should need is a good man to make her happy, right?!?). Not only does her husband not fully understand her distress, but she is also constantly provoked by Penninah, Elkanah’s first wife who has sons and daughters. In case we’ve forgotten, fertility was considered a gift from God, and even though Penninah provokes her severely, irritates her because she hasn’t borne children, Hannah doesn’t rebuke her. Hannah internalizes her grief. She weeps and fasts, and one day she goes to the temple to pray.

It wasn’t the custom, apparently, to whisper one’s prayers or to pray silently. (Remember the scribes who say long prayers? They probably say them just loud enough to be heard over everyone else so people can make sure they are there.) Hannah is saying her prayers much like I say morning prayer, mouthing the words but not making much noise. Some days my prayers are more fervent than others, and I can only imagine the intensity in which Hannah prayed to God.  And Eli, the priest nearby, sees her and accuses her of being drunk, making a spectacle of herself. Hannah fills in the blanks for him. She knows he thinks her a worthless woman. But with the strength of a hemorrhaging woman seeking healing, with the persistence of a woman seeking an exorcism for her dying daughter, with the audacity of the woman at the well to speak out for herself, Hannah confesses her trouble and grief. She has “been pouring out (her) soul before the LORD.” If Eli is anything like most men I know, when faced with a woman pouring out her soul, her truth, he faces his own inadequacy and knows there isn’t a thing he can do aside from get out of the way or empower her in her own strength. Eli, in his blessedness, offers her a blessing, that God might grant her her petition. He doesn’t need to know what it is. When we are agents of God’s work in the world, we often don’t and most of the time can’t know toward what end we are working.  Whether it’s from Eli or God or both, Hannah seeks favor and goes on her way.

“And her countenance was sad no longer.”

A change has occurred in Hannah even before she conceived. Like Job Hannah persists in her faith. Like many who want something so dearly, she bargains with God, promising her would-be child to be a faithful Nazirite. In keeping with tradition, she names the child so that his story, her story, would be remembered: Samuel, meaning “asked of the LORD.” Instead of a psalm today, we get what’s often called “Hannah’s song,” though it was likely written later and put into her story because it has the exaltation of God and the attribution of might to God, the kind that takes what is and makes it what God would have it be. It’s an inner transformation that also had outward signs. It wasn’t just the growth of a baby bump but also the change in Hannah’s countenance that showed a change had taken place, that some kind of grace had been internalized.

As Episcopalians who believe in sacraments, this is not unfamiliar to us. Sacraments by nature are outward and visible signs of inward, invisible grace. Holy Eucharist and Baptism are our two Sacraments, but we have other sacramental rites, like marriage, confirmation, unction, ordination, and reconciliation. I venture that we have sacramental moments in our lives, especially at births and deaths, when we perceive something of grace a little more tangibly than at other times, when we sense that what is holy has made itself known, if not visible. Even if we want to ignore the sacramental experiences of our lives, we can’t unknow them. It’s a hard thing to deny when the holy breaks into our lives, and I venture to say that it’s a beautiful thing when we facilitate that occurrence.

So what if instead of being provocative like Penninah, irritating those who are already drowning in grief and woundedness, we became provocative like Hannah, extolling the greatness of God? What if we become provocative like the preacher in Hebrews suggests: provoking “one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another.” See, there’s a little tongue-in-cheek there, still the chance to irritate one another in a negative way, but there’s a way to provoke one another to gladness, to laughter, to joy, to companionship, toward Christ.

Bp. Tom Breidenthal from Southern Ohio, who was our speaker at clergy conference this year, spoke about the church reclaiming its role in the center of public life, as being part of the body politic in a Christian way, not in a powers and principalities kind of way. He spoke about the early house churches that became basilicas, how the open space in the middle was where everyone gathered for corporate worship, how the side chapels were like the markets and offices that lined the open space. He mentioned Philander Chase, the first bishop of the Ohio Mission Territory and how he agreed with the importance of having the church at the center of public life. I mention this because Pastor Clint Schnekloth mentioned to me that urban planners often don’t have churches in their master plans any more. It’s not part of the grid. When I brought this up to Bp. Breidenthal, he said it just emphasizes the importance of doing work outside of four walls, or even without walls. (Yeah, he didn’t know our story.)

Well, we still have churches in our town, in our community. We have ours now, too. How provocative are we? Are we irritating, arousing anger in others out of spite or to put others down? Are we Penninah-provocative?

Or are we Hannah-provocative? Through our suffering and prayers, do we seek God’s guidance to transform us into agents of God’s will? Do we do the work necessary to change our outlook on life so that rather than put others down we can lift one another up, challenging each other in good deeds and love? So when we see another church doing good work, maybe we can help them reach even more by joining in on their effort, as we’re doing with the Thanksgiving boxes with Community Church (the Nazarene church downtown).

Can we remember all that we’ve learned through the stories of those who have gone before and remember the words of Jesus who continually shows us the exemplar way to be provocative for the will of God? The disciples marveled at the grandeur of the stones of the temple and surrounding buildings, but Jesus told them it would all be thrown down. The disciples hadn’t internalized what Jesus said about the temple having been built by the money taken from the widows’ houses. Jesus may have had to slip through the crowd to escape capture a few times, but he didn’t shy away from proclaiming truth to all who would listen. He would stand in the temple, in a boat, in a cave, on a hill, in the field, in the marketplace, and he would provoke his listeners, inciting in them an emotional response. If they didn’t like what he said, wasn’t it usually because they had something to lose, some attachment, possession, or power they didn’t want to sacrifice. If they were already weak, oppressed, or downtrodden or maybe even open-hearted and adventurous, the words of Jesus had a way of landing in their heart and mind and drawing them nearer to him, encouraging them to follow him along the Way.

How do the words of God provoke us today? How does the Eucharist speak to us? How are we empowered to go forth and incite the love of God in the world around us? Even if we, like Hannah, offer our prayers in silence, our actions will speak loudly to our faith and hopefully provoke others in a good way, too.

 

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The Only Way is Through

Isaiah 50:4-9a | Psalm 31:9-16 | Philippians 2:5-11 | Matthew 26:14-27:66

If only the passion narrative were a “choose-your-own-adventure” story where we could make the decisions of the many characters and craft a story that wasn’t so heart-wrenching and tragic. If only our faith let us show up for Christmas and Easter to celebrate the glorious news of Jesus Christ’s birth and resurrection. If only all the stories throughout the Bible revealed the joy and faith and hope and love so we could truly celebrate being Christians and share that happiness with others. If only we weren’t so quick to run away or avoid the pain and suffering of reality.

May your hearing of the the Gospel reading today set the tone for and enrich your experience of Holy Week. It’s important that we tell the story year after year. Like our Jewish ancestors who insisted on the telling of the Passover and the observance of holy days that united them as a people delivered, a people favored by God, we, too, must tell our story and observe our holy days: our identities depend upon it. There’s insistence for all peoples and tribes to tell our stories so our children and our children’s children know and never forget who we are and where we’ve come from; it makes us stronger, these common bonds. Sharing our stories within our families and outside our comfort zones has a way of keeping our connection with reality and our dependency upon the grace of God in check.

Consider this:

Sitting with a convict who has admitted to heinous crimes, I can give testimony to the power of God to forgive him, offer redemption and wholeness, if he prays to God with repentance because I, too, have sinned (even if it’s nowhere near his crimes). He sees me as a prosperous woman in society. I must be living life right, so he wants to do what I’m doing. He wants God’s favor to be with him, too, because up to this point in his life, he can’t remember a time that didn’t reek of the stench of smoke and mildew, sweat and blood, and other things he’s trying to be polite and not mention. This makes me feel like I’ve done right, that I’ve shown him the right way. He’s going to be a better person because I’m a better person. I’m going to make him more like me.

But what about this alternative:

Sitting with the same convict, I can listen . . . not just to his crimes but to all the burdens he’s been carrying for some time: where the smoke and mildew came from, whose sweat and blood. Listen without judgment as he recounts the stories of his youth, revealing the dysfunction of his family and his parents’ so-called friends and how he thought he found a sense of belonging with his friends in school, but it turned out to be a re-creation of another mess tied up in drugs and crime. His truth-telling unfolds like a never-ending stream, and I watch as he won’t let the tears fall from his eyes until he sees my tears fall unbidden.

He looks down and away as the truth and tears stream together. All I can tell him is that the only one who knows the depths of his pain and suffering is Jesus. I won’t dismiss his doubts; rather, I share stories of those who have also questioned, “Why me?” I remind him that it’s okay to be wary of those who profess righteousness because even those who praised Jesus as he entered Jerusalem stood aside or joined the masses to have him crucified. Who’s to say we would have done differently?

I hardly know what I’m saying because a force greater than myself is flowing through me to him. I trust it to be Spirit, and I feel it to be Love. It must be what living with the mind of Christ is like. I feel small and insignificant but feel like I will never let go of the faith that holds me in the embrace of the Almighty and makes me strong. It’s not my strength that broke the floodgates of the wounded man before me. Only Jesus Christ, who persistently did what no one should have been able to do, what no one was supposed to do . . . Only Jesus Christ who faced, mostly in opposition, all manner of authority and power and still rode into town on a donkey without any sort of defense–not even fear . . . Only Jesus Christ who let us choose what would be done, knowing it meant showing us the way of suffering and death . . . Only Jesus Christ who “holds all things together” (Col 1:17) releases us into the freedom of true Love.

We deceive ourselves if we skip the arduous journey to the cross this week. Yes, we know the full arc of the story, but if we take some time to sit with the stations of the cross or just pray with this reading from Matthew, what do we find ourselves resisting? What do we want to skip over? What do we think we already know enough about? What are we already “right” about?

Jesus, who enters our world through a willing, unmarried young woman, who shows our world that things aren’t always what they seem, brings the divine into our world right smack dab into the mess of things as they are and shows us all how to go through it. We’ll die, yet we’ll live. This is the way of the cross. This is our story. This is who we are as a Christian people.

In Matthew, we are told that Judas realized too late how pointless his betrayal was, how greatly he had been used to no good end. Whatever he thought he was getting out of the deal, it had been an illusion. Things weren’t as they seemed, and he had so completely lost hope, he rejected life altogether. If only Judas had seen. If only Judas had been there. If only Judas had persevered through the despair, he, too, would have tasted and seen the glory of the Resurrection, the power of redemption, and hope everlasting while still in the flesh.

We can’t let ourselves be fooled by illusion, by quick fixes or cheap promises that guarantee us a bypass over the pain and suffering of life. We can’t succumb to normalcy of oppression and domination. We can’t let ourselves forget our story, that it’s our job, our responsibility, to live our lives in the way of Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit — because Jesus showed us that we can, with God’s help.

It’s going to mean reading even more of the Bible to tune our ears to hear God’s guidance and remember God’s power, mostly through the stories of those who walked the way before us. We have to talk to strangers, listen intently to our neighbors near and far, and get outside our comfort zones. Most importantly, living in the way of Christ means loving without judgment, loving and living without fear because we know who truly holds the power of Life.

As we walk through this week, we will open our hearts and minds to remember. We’ll taste hope. We’ll be afraid. We’ll worry. We’ll face death. And we’ll sleep, knowing the Son will rise to greet us Easter morning. But we’ve got to go through hell first.

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“Nothing complicated about it”

When thinking about how we move through the day, I’m more likely to imagine a digital clock ticking the minutes and hours away as we scurry from home to school to work to lessons and sports to home to bed. So much of our day is guided by appointments and obligations, most that make our lifestyle possible and others that make our lives enriched, and we consider ourselves privileged to do all this.

Then I come across something like this, reading out of a book I happened upon in our church lending library:

“In ancient times people found it natural and important to seek God’s will. With little spiritual guidance and in utter simplicity, they heard from God. There was nothing complicated about it. They understood that every moment of every day presented an opportunity for faith to fulfill a responsibility to God. They moved through the day like the hand of a clock. Minute after minute they were consciously and unconsciously guided by God.” -Jean-Pierre de Caussade in Abandonment to Divine Providence*

I confess that I do not in every moment think first about how my next move will “fulfill a responsibility to God.” While I may occasionally think, “God, what would you have me do?”, it doesn’t often enter my mind when I am making my daily rounds around the house or through our city’s streets. I’m more likely to be caught up in my own thoughts about what I have or haven’t accomplished on my unwritten to-do list. We are creatures of habit, and my routine is about what I need to do next, what I’m expected to do. It shouldn’t be a surprise that our society is primarily full of egocentric people, taking care of ourselves before everyone else because our primary thoughts are typically about ourselves. It’s natural for us to put #1 first, whether that be me, my family, my country, etc.

What would it be like if it were “natural and important to seek God’s will,” to hear from God, to move through our day “minute after minute . . . consciously and unconsciously guided by God”? De Caussade has a way with words (even in the translation) that points both toward a simple yet profound beauty. This beauty comes to me even as I see photos of the horror of the Syrian refugees and read the clamor of American citizens advocating for rights to marry or to live without fear.

The guidance of God contrasts sharply to the suffering and oppression at hand. Any action that is born of hatred and violence, of fear and anger, does not align with what I understand to be God’s will, that we love God and our neighbor. Christians aren’t the only ones who believe this, either.

Perhaps that’s why there’s nothing really complicated about it. If we let God’s will guide our next move, we move in compassion. If we believe in God, in God’s unconditional love for us, it is our faithful responsibility to share this love with others, including ourselves. This means that we surrender to the will of God: we surrender to experience the tremendous freedom that is found in the power of unconditional love. It’s not popular. It’s risky and counter-cultural. It makes us vulnerable because we open our hearts and become an easy target. I think God knows this kind of love well.

I’m going to replace the battery in my watch, the watch my husband gave me as a gift. I cannot promise that every time the minute-hand moves that I will first be thinking of God, but de Caussade said we can be “consciously and unconsciously guided by God.” When I fail to ask for guidance, may my faith guide me even when I’m unaware.

*As found in Nearer to the Heart of God: Daily Readings with the Christian Mystics, Bernard Bangley, ed., 2005

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Where God Dwells

The Scripture Texts for Proper 16, Year B, Track 1:

1 Kings 8: 1, 6, 10-11, 22-30, 41-43 | Psalm84 | Ephesians 6:10-20 | John 6:56-69

John 6:56-69: Jesus said, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” He said these things while he was teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum.

When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not believe.” For Jesus knew from the first who were the ones that did not believe, and who was the one that would betray him. And he said, “For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.”

Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”


 

What comes to your mind when you think of the word “dwell”?

It’s a lovely word to me, one that seems to pull the mouth into a smile just by forming the word. And the smile is naturally appropriate as it also makes me think of both my sense of home and well-being combined into one.

For most of us, what comes to mind when we consider where we dwell is that place we call home, that place where we are comfortable, where we can be who we are without pretense, without being judged. And because we are comfortable there,we remain for a time, staying however long we intend, hopefully on our terms.

Our home is our dwelling, our nest of well-being.

Often we shape the space around us to match our personalities or our aim for productivity. Sometimes, as is the case for architects ro designers, dwelling places are created for others.

I suppose King Solomon was an architect of sorts,overseeing the construction of a temple, the Temple that would by no means contain God but would at least be worthy of housing the name of God. The ark of the covenant–which is said to have held the very tablets that Moses carried–could reside in the Holy of Holies, and when the faithful needed a place to turn toward God in prayer or move toward God in pilgrimage, they could turn or move toward the Temple. The presence of God dwelled in that holy place but not only there. 

“The glory of the LORD filled the (whole) house of the LORD,” and “even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain” the LORD our God.

God is too immanent, too transcendent for any one house or dwelling place.

Even though God is too big, we still try to put God some place, don’t we? It’s easier if we keep God stationary so we can feel like we’ve got something figured out, but maybe our ancestors were keeping God’s dwelling a little too separate, exercising personal piety a little too vigorously, or allowing other gods–pagan or material–to get in the way of true relationship with God. We as humanity needed a different understanding of God, so God came along and shook things up for us by sending Jesus.

Jesus defies what we thought we knew about God, exceeding the limits of our understanding. God can’t be just all out there because Jesus is all here, too. As Episcopalians, we have a leg up on being a both-and kind of people, but in the days of our forefathers and foremothers, Jesus was rocking the boat.

Jesus, Son of God, Word made flesh, did not cloister himself in a curtained room in a temple or in a place set apart. Sure, he retreated for prayer, but what we mostly have are accounts of Jesus in the midst of the people–and not just with his inner circle but also with those with whom he shouldn’t mingle.

So, where did Jesus dwell?

Both Matthew and Luke capture Jesus telling a would-be follower that “The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (Mtw 8:20, Lk 9:58). Jesus never really stayed any one place for too long. It wasn’t like he had a private jet or a chauffeur taking him from place to place, either. He walked.

The experience of your environment changes as you walk: you see, hear, and smell things you hadn’t noticed before. Your sense of distance shifts, as you realize that it’s not really possible to do everything you thought you needed to do in one day.

If you’re lucky to have sidewalks, you notice how well-maintained they are . . . or aren’t, especially if you’re pushing a stroller or cart or are dependent on a wheelchair.

You notice trash and the weather and the condition of your own body. Perhaps you feel the glances or stares of the people passing you by. You’re vulnerable not only to the elements but also to the hospitality of others, particularly if you’re homeless. This is the way Jesus took, walking along the paths of the people, without a comfortable bed to call his own.

Where did Jesus dwell, then?

I venture to say that while he lived and walked among the people, he truly dwells in the Father. It is in God that Jesus has his true home and well-being. Jesus tells us that if we eat him and drink his blood, we dwell in him and he in us. The only thing separating us from dwelling with Jesus is our own willingness to take him fully into our lives.

This teaching is difficult, as the disciples themselves said. It goes against some basics of Jewish tradition on one hand and common sense on the other. The flesh is reserved for the offering in the Temple, and the blood, the essence of life, was God’s alone. Observant Jews wouldn’t think of eating the flesh or drinking the blood. And now Jesus is also saying, “Consume me to dwell in me and I in you.” We are to eat our dwelling?

Jesus doesn’t say take a nibble every now and then. The Greek word (TρωγωΝ) means to chew. Take him in and chew, ingesting fully. Take Jesus all into your life, your being, for it is the only way to dwell in God.

Jesus means what he says.

Where does that leave us?

It leaves us where Jesus says it does: God dwelling in me and me dwelling in God. Anywhere. Everywhere. There is no place that we can go or will go that God isn’t there or hasn’t always been.

The God of Solomon that we couldn’t conceive of containing is the same God that’s telling us, showing us, that God exists in the confines of our physical reality, too. God’s presence is all-inclusive, fully transcendent.

When we allow ourselves to dwell in the spiritual realm, we, too, transcend to experience unity with God, dwelling with God. Our awareness doesn’t generally allow ourselves to stay long in this divine union, but knowing that it’s possible, that it’s ours to claim–it’s what the mystics ultimately proclaim and what our psalmist today yearns for:

to dwell in the presence of God.

It is with and through God that we seek to live our lives because that is the only assurance of joy we have, where our happiness resides.

Like Peter, we’ve discerned that there is nowhere else to go, no one else to follow because we have experienced the presence of God, tasted the sweetness of the Breath of Life. Once we believe and know — like Peter and the faithful disciples —that Jesus is the Holy One of God, we realize that even if we turn away from the hard road ahead, we will know no peace, we will not find the beloved dwelling of God, no matter where we live physically or with what we surround or preoccupy ourselves.

It is no insignificant thing that we come together on Sundays and other occasions for the sacrament of Holy Communion. We come to the table to eat the flesh and drink the blood, and if we never thought about it before, we know now that one of the consequences is that we dwell in Christ, and Christ dwells in us. We are willingly saying with our outstretched hands,

outstretched_hands

“God, dwell in me.”

We, who have been marked as Christ’s own forever, are one way through which Christ moves about in our world today. We don’t enclose ourselves in the church as if it were a fortress, but we do, like Paul says, put on the whole armor of God and walk out of this place knowing the Lord dwells within us.

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It’s Not a Problem; It’s an Opportunity

I once heard it’s good feng shui to have your fridge full of food.  My grandpa always kept his car full of gas.  My grandma always had a pantry full of canned goods and a freezer so full of food you could barely shut it, let alone fit another bag of frozen anything in there.  My mother-in-law usually has at least two of everything, mainly so she can share with the family — thanks to the good deals she finds.

There’s a good fortune there that can easily be taken for granted.  Their ways of being and doing things rely upon being able to sustain them.  They have the resources to do so.  I didn’t realize how fortunate I was as a kid.  I knew others relied on school lunch programs.  I knew there were homeless kids and adults, that even if they had a make-shift home, it didn’t necessarily mean they had electricity or running water.

I also realize the predicament my parents were in, a stereotypical struggle of middle class America.  Keep up with the Joneses.  Make things look well and good, even if the budget is a train wreck.  Pay the medical and dental bills out of pocket; what other choice do you have?  Buy now, pay later . . . if you can.  Don’t let the kids know how hard it is.

Now my husband and I find ourselves living between these two ways of living, and I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t an opportunity to find a resolve so that our kids won’t have to struggle with the same issues.  I feel like my grandparents, who lived through the depression, wanted to make sure they never ran out, that there’s always plenty.  They also felt very strongly about paying for things with cash; buy only what you can afford.  I feel like my parents, who reached adulthood in the 70s, lived fully in the 80s mentality: get what you need (a.k.a. want), taking time to pay it back.  It provided a kind of feast or famine way of life.

Our opportunity, again, is to find what is best of each generation, and I think that relies on us being able to clearly know what is enough.

I heard that it’s best to use the full tank of gas before filling up again.  I know from experience that I feel like I’m not wasting as much money on gas when the tank if full.  (Doesn’t it seem like the top half of the tank lasts longer?)  I know that food does not last forever, even in a freezer.  It’s best to cycle through and actually use it and replace it regularly.  Some staples do last longer when frozen, so saving room for bulk flour, oats, rice and such is smart.  I appreciate credit, too, but unless it can be managed wisely and paid off quickly, it’s best to pay with cash.  Do not live outside your means.  I’m still learning this simple lesson that can be so hard to live.

I also take the opportunity to tell my kids why we don’t eat out so often, why the fridge might not be full of fresh produce, why I cannot and will not pay full price for new clothes and such (unless absolutely necessary).  I don’t tell them to make them feel guilty or ashamed; I want them to know and understand.  I also try to make sure they share in my gratitude for what is shared with us, what is given to us. As a parent, you have to know how hard this can be.

Slowly, we are learning what is enough.  Though it may feel like we’re cutting it close on having enough food and supplies, we do have enough.  We realize how little we actually need to feel sustained and thriving.  Appreciation goes a long way.  A positive attitude does make a difference.  Our time isn’t spent moping about thinking about what we lack or miss.  We have to set a standard for ourselves.  Society’s expectations and norms have proven skewed and unbeneficial.

We have the opportunity to find where the value lies in our family.  We determine what is enough for us, really and truly.  If we need to buy in bulk out of necessity to save $10 and make sure we don’t run out of toilet paper or peanut butter (you have to have your priorities!), so be it.  I have a feeling other lessons and opportunities will follow regarding learning to live sustainably.  Our awareness continues to broaden.

I am so grateful for our abundance.

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He Said It

I was trying to sit and help my eldest study for the upcoming spelling bee. Everything has felt like an effort these past couple of days, and add to that the fact that it’s after eight and in the bedtime hour. My second oldest tells us he still has homework to do, and his chores still aren’t done. Everyone seems to be a whir of activity.

The child who is supposed to be washing his lunch dishes comes running through the living room to the piano, but the water is still running in the kitchen sink.

“What are you doing?!” I practically yell at him. Maybe he’s just letting the water get hot, I try to rationalize to myself.

“I’m doing two things at once because you are all telling me to do everything,” he replies, exasperated at best, still moving, straightening up his piano things.

Alas, I feel I’ve not done a good job this day. My nine-year-old feels the need to multi-task. God bless him, the boy is as slow as Christmas and has a hard time focusing on doing one task, let alone three or more.  Often, I have to write a list out just so he knows what he needs to do, and even that can mean a day-long commitment.

Why do we have so much to do? I wonder. So much laundry. So many dishes. So much house to clean (and we’re not in an extremely large house by any means for a family of 6). So much work to be done.

I remind myself that these are the ropes. Sometimes you swing high. Sometimes you swing low. It helps keep things in perspective because as soon as I think this, I remember how grateful I am that we have all we do. We are richly blessed.

We have to be careful, though, of how much of our time we spend in the absent-minded state of doing, doing, doing. Am I showing my kids how I do motherhood, or am I showing them how to be a mother?  Am I teaching them that the only way they will get anything accomplished is if they run themselves into the ground 24/7, or am I showing them that it really is about one’s quality of being that is of utmost importance.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what I’ve said if I haven’t lived it.  I would have rather heard my son tell me he’s done his best this day to do what he can.  I would rather have seen a sleepy, contented smile on his face than the tired, sad eyes that were giving up on his homework.

When the tooth fairy visits tonight, I hope she brings another friend with a magic wand to wave over us all renewal, confidence and peace.  We’ll start again fresh in the morning light.

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Indian Summer

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This whole week embodies an Indian summer.  We’ve had our first frost.  All the trees have come aglow, and most have dropped their leaves.  I chanced upon this ginko tree at the park the day before Halloween; they drop their leaves so quickly.  Their golden leaves must be too heavy to hold for long.

And this week (which happened to include my birthday) reminds me of the renewal I feel in the fall, the creativity, optimism and groundedness.  Quite simply, I give thanks.  My blessings abound.  My gifts continue to create a beautiful harvest and provide me with plenty of work to be joyfully busy.

Even when the sun hides behind the clouds, as it undoubtedly will sometime soon, and the nighttime increases, I’ll let the Light glow from within and cherish the time to let my hands create gifts for those I love.

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