This Teaching is Difficult

 

Welcome back to me! 

I was away for ten wonderful days...driving from Florida to a workshop in Byfield, MA, at Adelynrood. This retreat center is run by the Society of Companions of the Holy Cross, an order if women that has prayer and social justice at its core. 

It was next door to my prep school. That was...how you say...interesting. 

More interesting was the topic of "Into the Blackness of God" with the Rev. Dr. Carter Heyward, one of the first women who was ordained as an Episcopal priest in Philadelphia in 1974. What a treat it was to be with her and to take up the question of how can I, as a white person, enter into a relationship with God not as the "light" and "bright" and very white depiction of God, but as one who sits at the gate with those who have been--as Howard Thurman describes it--the disinherited. 

Am I able to do it? Not completely. 

Can I make an intention of working into that experience? Yes, absolutely. 

Will that come across in my preaching? 

That, dear reader, is for you to see if you sense any shift in what I am saying, and how I am saying it. 

Text: John 6:56-69

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I saw a meme the other day that made me laugh out loud.

It was one appropriate for this time…when so many are just starting another school year.

A teacher asks a student: what book made you cry?

Now…we can probably think of stories that we read in school that made us cry.

The Diary of Anne Frank. Maybe even Animal Farm by George Orwell.  A well-written novel can really tug on the heart strings…

But in this meme…the answer the student gives is not a title. It’s a meme after all…so instead it’s a picture.

And the book that makes this particular student cry?

An Algebra textbook.

And I thought, “Oh, yes! That one made ME cry. A. Lot!”

To this day…I can feel the pain in my head when I see a formula of One over X.

Maybe this was your experience as well.

Algebra…especially with Trigonometry…this teaching was difficult.

Hard to wrap my mind around it.

We hear that in our Gospel lesson that there were those who were followers of Jesus who also found his teachings about bread “difficult.”

These weren’t the usual critics and naysayers…the ones who felt threatened by this rabble-rousing rabbi of Love.

These were the ones who were ready to follow him…wanted to hear him in the synagogue in Capernaum.

But this talk…this eating his flesh and drinking his blood…talk?

No, no. This sounds like cannibalism.

It’s way too much.

It’s as if the deeper we go into this teaching that takes up chapter six in John’s Gospel…the less and less popular Jesus becomes.

Instead of gaining great crowds…people are shaking their heads and walking away.

The five thousand who ate bread and fish…and thought Jesus was such an awesome miracle worker that they wanted to make him a king….now can’t stomach his message.

We might understand that, right?

It does sound a little creepy to talk about eating flesh and drinking blood.

His Jewish followers did find this too much to take…especially since their rules of kashrut prohibited them from ingesting anything with blood.

But any of the Gentiles in the crowd would have been Greco-Roman…and they would’ve been used to the cult of Dionysus…which included a belief that eating raw meat of bulls  and drinking copious amounts of wine brought one closer to God.

For them…this suggestion of eating flesh and drinking blood would have been more normal devotional practice.

But we also need to remember that Jesus is a master of the metaphor.

The Jesus of John’s Gospel is the one who challenges us to not get so caught up in the literal and the physical and pushes us to see those things as more symbolic of something that is in us and around us and moving with us at all times.

That thing is the Spirit…the Wisdom of God…the Sophia that exists and links us to God and each other.

The flesh and blood of Jesus….the living bread….is the Spirit.

That Spirit which feeds us on a steady diet of compassionate love.

And that compassionate love is that taste of God that we get when we spend time with a friend…a loved one….or even a stranger…and listen to their story.

Find out what experience they’ve had that brings them joy.

Sit with them and be with them in moments when they’re in sorrow and pain.

By interacting and participating in each other’s lives in this way…it helps us to not only be better family members in this body of Christ…it aids in our own growth in Christ.

The more we get to know each other…and appreciate each other… the better equipped we are to hold off those cosmic powers of division we heard described in the Letter to the Ephesians this morning.

For many years…both in Tallahassee and Thomasville…I served as a mentor in the Education for Ministry program.

EfM…as it’s known in the church…is a chance for lay people to dig deeper into the Scriptures as well as learning church history and connecting their faith and the teachings of Christianity to their every day lives. As a mentor…it was my role to walk alongside these learners and provide the space for some theological conversations to happen. It was great fun…and a good lead up for me at least before I went to seminary…particularly as people wrestled with scriptures that they found confusing…or uncomfortable.

But even more than doing the type of reflection work we always did in an EfM session…my absolute favorite time in the course is at the beginning when each person gets about ten to 15 minutes to share their spiritual autobiography.

This is their story that goes beyond the vital statistics of when and where they were born…graduated from whatever school…got married or not. This was a chance for each person to share the times when they either felt God very absent…or extremely present in their lives.

And without fail…this room of six to eight people who might have only known each other’s names…and where they typically sat on Sunday morning in church…now was hearing an echo of something in the other’s story….a phrase…or an event…some experience…that would sound like a piece of their own spiritual autobiography.

It was like watching the assembly of a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle. Slowly…over the course sometimes of two or three weeks…these stories would help forge the bonds of the group as the members moved from being casually acquainted to finding their true relationship as spiritual siblings in Christ.

Now it didn’t mean that everyone in the room necessarily “liked” each other. It did mean that they learned how to love each other enough…and be honest with each other enough…that when we times got tough and feelings got raw…they were able to work through their disagreements and remain one body…in that one Spirit.

Through building relationships…across racial…sexual…language…ethnic…ability…age…any kind of differences really…we build up trust.

We remove fear and anxiety.

And we make a way for each person to enjoy the loving…liberating…and life-affirming gift of what it is to experience the freedom that comes from God.

That’s what Jesus was offering as the flesh and blood that would enliven everyone’s flesh and blood if they accept it.

So many would not or could not.

Then…and even today.

The reality on the ground…both then and now of what it can feel like living under empirical forces…and mean-spirited politics…we might find this teaching of trusting in Love too difficult.

But I am often reminded of the words that get repeated so often in Scripture…both in the Old Testament and the New: do not be afraid.

In the words of the psalmist:

No good thing will the Lord withhold *
from those who walk with integrity.

O Lord of hosts, *
happy are they who put their trust in you!

In the name of our one holy and undivided Trinity.

 

  

 

 

 

 

Standing on Sacred Ground and Marching Forward: a sermon at UCT

Texts from the Common English Version of the Bible

Exodus 3:1-15; Matthew 16:21-28

“Moses saw that the bush was on fire, but it was not burning up.” I’m sure many of us would find it hard to imagine a bush that is on fire but isn’t being destroyed. So is it any wonder that Moses…who had thought he was simply moving his father-in-law’s flock to another area to graze…would be drawn to such a curious sight? We can also imagine how unnerving it must have been for Moses to hear, from this fiery bush, God calling him by name. And perhaps we can sense the power of this moment when God, in the manifestation of this flaming bush, tells Moses not to come any closer. “Take off your sandals—the ground where you are standing is holy.” Moses is in the presence of a power beyond all powers and is about to receive the charge to confront an earthly power and take a stand on behalf of his oppressed Israelites in Egypt.

Let’s remember that Moses was simply tending sheep and goats. According to the mythology, he was a Hebrew baby boy who was rescued by the Egyptian king’s daughter. He was also supposedly a stutterer, and he had run away after killing an Egyptian who he saw abusing his fellow Israelites. In other words, Moses was not some perfect and polished figure. Now, he’s being tapped to go beyond himself to do extraordinary and mighty works of justice.

In the reading we had from today’s Gospel, Jesus talks of the trials he is about to face as he heads toward Jerusalem. He rebukes Peter for trying to put up a fight over Jesus’ destiny. And he reminds Peter, and all the others with him: “If any of you want to be my followers, you must forget about yourself. You must take up your cross and follow me.” Forget yourself, take up your cross, follow me. Those are words that can really leave a lump in the throat.

Three images: a burning bush, sacred ground, the cross.

In his book, “The Bush Was Blazing But Not Consumed,” the Rev. Eric Law uses the burning bush image from Exodus as his jumping off point to talk about how faith communities can build multicultural relations within their churches. He notes that a bush that’s on fire ought to be disintegrating into ashes. That’s what happens when fire meets leaves and branches, right? The fact that this bush can be on fire and NOT be destroyed is Law’s metaphor for God amid heated tensions, or flaming rage and anger. Think about it: God is showing up in the form of this burning bush because God has heard the cry of the Israelites. They are oppressed. They are under the thumb of the Egyptians. Their passions are all aflame and God is in that heat but God is not destroyed. Instead, this fire has consecrated the ground on which Moses is standing.

This burning has become, as Law describes it, a holy fire and an example of how people of different racial and ethnic backgrounds can have passions and experiences that can be blazing, but through commitment to a listening process, faith communities can become places where multiculturalism thrives. If, however, a community doesn’t engage in the honest and sometimes difficult work of a true listening process, the danger is that it will stoke those same burning embers of the past into an unholy fire that will not only burn the bush but will take the whole house down with it as well. Since the Rev. Law works as a consultant on multiculturalism, he has seen examples of when a faith community gets it right…and has also witnessed those who get it wrong. Often, the ones that fail are the ones that weren’t really invested in listening to anyone but themselves and whatever was their predominant racial and ethnic outlook.

We can take that example beyond faith communities…and even beyond the continued difficulties that we face in our country on race and ethnicity. We seem to be isolating ourselves from each other based on whatever differences we have or that we perceive to have. We seek out media sources that confirm our worldview. We stop talking to each other. We unfriend each other on Facebook. We retreat to our corners and refuse to engage with anyone we don’t like. This probably feels safer.

But it really isn’t. Because whether we like it or not, that same burning bush is steadily glowing and alight and is consecrating the ground upon which we stand even today. Especially for those who feel strongly that stewardship of the earth is important, we are constantly reminded that the same God who told Moses to stand on sacred ground and hear the command to go speak truth to power on behalf of the people is always reminding us that we must do the same. And this fire in the bush is also the fire in the belly that will give us the power to speak and to know that we, too, are on sacred ground when we stand for justice for the earth and all that inherit this planet.

So what about the cross? Well, it is all fine and dandy to feel that flaming righteousness as we stand for justice, peace, equality and fairness for all people. That makes for great bumper stickers and talking points. But it also is liable to meet with resistance, push back, or worse violence. It’s a whole lot safer to “like” a rally or march event on Facebook than to actually attend it. We can say “Black Lives Matter” but will we actually talk to people in positions of authority about why we believe it’s important to listen to the pleas of black people about why they don’t think they matter, and then join with our brothers and sisters in changing the culture to make them true equals? Again saying it is one thing, but when Jesus tells Peter and the disciples that they must “forget about yourself” and “take up your cross and follow me,” he is being just as fiery as that burning bush and is telling them…and us so many centuries later…that if we, who stand on this sacred ground, want to be true to his mission of love and justice, we must put our trust in God and go sometimes to those places we do not want to go. We must engage in those issues and with those people whom we would just assume avoid. It is not enough simply to stand on the sacred ground and hear the call to action. We must be ready to keep going forward and actually act on behalf of justice for others and not just ourselves. May we be ready.

The Sin of Ungratefulness

Heading into Sunday, I knew I was wanting to pick something from the Gospel of Luke as the launching pad for our Education for Ministry group to use as the starting point for a theological reflection. Year Two had just finished reading the Gospel according to Luke, and Years One and Three would not be totally unfamiliar with the contents. My week had been so busy and hectic that I didn't have time to see what the lectionary had in store for Sunday. So, how fortuitous that the Gospel lesson just happened to be the parable of the prodigal son.

Separate from my group, I did my own theological reflection as I listened with my very lesbian ears to the oh, so familiar parable. It started with the criticism of Jesus for eating with--ahem--sinners. The unclean. The outsiders. The untouchables. These were all the type of company Jesus liked to keep, and the holier-than-thous of his day were aghast. This is actually what prompts Jesus to tell a series of parables about various lost and founds, but our lectionary diviners decided to spare the deacons a longer passage than what the prodigal already provided. As many times as I have heard the story (we even used it at my dad's funeral), I found myself deeply moved by the narrative of a son who goes off, blows all of his inheritance, ends up lost and lowly when he decides the only thing to be done is to return home to his father, and beg to be treated as a hired hand instead of a son. The father, upon seeing his younger son and without hesitation, runs to greet him and insists on having a huge party to celebrate this lost one. Meanwhile, the older and loyal son who never once did anything to disgrace his father hears all the hub bub and asks, 'What's all this then?' When he hears that the younger son returned and that everyone is celebrating this particular sinner, he fumes. The father goes out to meet him and the older son rails and complains about the party. The father, unfazed, listens intently and lovingly reminds the older son that he hasn't forgotten all that the older has been and done. But--c'mon, son--let's celebrate the return of our lost one. The story ends there. We don't know if the older son ever comes around to seeing the joy in the face of his father.

I mentioned that my lesbian ears were hearing this story, and unlike previous times, I found myself connecting the introduction of what inspired Jesus to tell this parable (the complaining people about him eating with sinners) to the response of the older son to the party his dad threw for his wayward younger sibiling. The "How dare you?!" response is one that felt very much like what is happening in the Anglican Communion at the moment with the insistence that The Episcopal Church be punished for having the audacity to love those whom the world despises namely it's LGBTQ members. The protest and posturing against my particular kind and my church has been painful to witness, and the lengths to which some have gone, with reports and covenants and any way possible to turn a religion of love and welcome into one of law and "right thinking only" has left me puzzled. Much in the same way I think the father in this parable must have felt initially at his oldest son's pouting. And the father reminds the oldest son that by celebrating the youngest doesn't mean that the father loves the oldest any less; in fact, how much more could he love him since he knows that the oldest has been with him the whole time? And, as the father notes, we have reason to rejoice because the one who left has come back and our family has been restored to its threesome. Similarly, at a time when the skepticism about religion in general and Christianity specifically is on a meteoric climb, we should rejoice and be glad in those moments when the lost and those who had rejected the church or felt unwelcomed and excluded dare to cross the threshold of the red doors to come in on a Sunday morning. To complain that this has somehow demeans God or the Anglican Communion is churlish. And I think that's what Jesus was driving at with his nattering naysaying audience. To criticize him for hanging with "the wrong kind" of people was the type of mean-spirited and judgmental behavior that would guarantee that the love of God would not be spread, and definitely would not reach those who could stand to come into its embrace.

While the younger brother may have sinned by demanding his inheritance and then squandering it on living the high-life, the older brother is committing a sin of failing to see the blessing his father had already bestowed by loving him and giving him all that he had year-in and year-out. Celebrating the return and reconciliation of the lost one should be a joyous occasion. And it's that joy manifested in us that will spread the love of God to the people who are still searching to find their way home.

Getting Connected Again

I don't think there's a season in the church year that has a more profound presence in my life than Lent. No matter what state of mind I might be in as the season approaches, no matter how late or how early it comes, there is something about this season, and how I enter it that always seems to be a little unexpected, and definitely chock full of what we called in massage school, "Learning Experiences." This time is no different.

In my previous entry, I put up the Trinity icon by Rublev. The word that comes to my mind when staring into that image is "connection." The more I contemplated that "connection" and the interconnectedness of the Trinitarian nature of our God as captured in that image, the more I began to think about the relationships I have with family, friends, clients, church members, well...everyone. I realized that, lately, I have felt at times walled off from having a connection to people, and I think that has caused me to suffer. 

I began to mitigate for this disconnect with Shrove Tuesday. I made the trip to my church in Thomasville, dealing with the frustrations of stop-and-go traffic for several miles up 319 to spend the time with my church family. When I got there, most of the tables were already filled, but there was still space at the one with a couple of adults and five very rambunctious children. Anyone who knows me is aware that my decision to not have children is intentional. It's not that I don't like kids; I just don't want the responsibility of trying to raise them. Children always seem generally afraid of me. I figure I must look ominous or strange to them because I am a very tall woman with very short hair and broad shoulders. Adults often times can't discern that I'm biologically a woman because I dress and appear more masculine, so kids being bewildered is something I have just come to expect and don't take personally. These children, with the exception of the baby, were up and down and all-around throughout the dinner, keeping their great-grandmother on the move as well. When it was time to go, great-grandmom discovered she'd locked herself out of her truck. Now what? The kids were squirming, and she had to wait for another family member to come to the rescue.

I may not be the best with kids, but I am an aunt, and I greatly enjoyed the years my niece and nephew were young children because I could invent all kinds of scenarios with them and basically do improv. I noticed the three boys of this quintet had toy trucks and cars. Their great grandmother had told them to stay in their seats, something I thought was never going to happen given all that I had seen happening. So, "crazy Aunt Sue" decided to make an appearance. I got one of the boys to give up a truck to me. 

"OK, guys, here's the game: I'm going to send this truck across the table, and you have to stop it before it goes off the table. And the rule is: You can't get outta your seat!" The boys grinned and nodded. 

"Vroom! Vroom!" I started with rolling the truck back and forth as if it was winding up to go into action. The boys focused intently on the truck, and as it rolled across the plastic table top, they took their respective vehicles and smashed it with much glee. Then they sent it back across, and I snagged it before it could leave the table. Their older sister decided she wanted in on this and announced that she and I were a team. And we played this way for about 15 to 20 minutes, allowing great grandmom the chance to keep her eyes out on the two youngest and their rescuer. By the end of the evening, I could tell that these kids who had always looked at me with a vague suspicion now were seeing me as "one of them." A barrier had come down to let the light of Christ shine between us.

Unfortunately, playing with the children meant that I had missed my EfM member who was waiting for me to deliver her books to her. I looked up her address, which wasn't far from the church, and drove over to knock on the door. She was delighted to have the personal service and asked if I wanted to stay a moment and have some tea. Normally, the introverted person that I am, I would have come up with a reason why I couldn't possibly stay. Given that Tallahassee is about a 50-minute drive to the south it wouldn't have been unreasonable for me to want to get home. But I thought I had no real rush to get back, and this was such a hospitable offer, that I could make the time. And so I did. We enjoyed some orange-spiced tea and conversation which ranged over shared stories of church experiences and our respective family lives. By the end of the evening visit, we remarked that while both of us had been together and sitting with each other in choir neither of us really knew the other very well. As I drove home, I considered how good and energized I was feeling from having had the time with a member of this church family that I'm part of in Georgia, and playing with children in the parish hall. And a little piece (or maybe a big piece) of my Lenten discipline came into focus. 

I needed to cut back on the time I spend on the social media time suck called Facebook. I had become programmed to tune into FB almost from the instant my eyes opened in the morning to when I put my head down at night. It's become the crutch for how I connect with people...without really connecting with them. No eye contact. No silences. And no way to discern body language, especially if the person's profile picture is of their dog. Hitting "like" on a post had replaced actually conversing about a topic. It's just so much easier to click a "like" than to actually go experience what the person is advertising or discuss it any further. 

Lately, with the presidential political season heating up, I have found myself not having conversations but arguments with people. (Are Americans memories so short? Do they really always believe the hype without looking for the substance?) Such encounters online were leaving me bitter. And my conversational skills were suffering. I attended Ash Wednesday, received the mark of the smudgy cross on my forehead, and, upon exiting the church, I removed the Facebook app from my iPhone and later my iPad. I can still get on FB from a laptop or through the web, but that takes more work and effort. I am not pledging not to go on and lurk and post, but I am curtailing my activity and the absence of ease of having the app is so far working. 

I hope this leads to improving my relationships. And to those who miss my many posts, I'll be back, but perhaps with a new appreciation for how much I prefer your personal connection rather than the virtual. 

Getting Crazy With the Feeding

Sermon 9 Pentecost 7-26-2015

Year B, John 6:1-21 (Proper 12)

At the General Convention in 2012…the one before the meeting that just concluded earlier this month…our Presiding Bishop-elect, Michael Curry, preached a sermon in which he was calling on all of us to be “crazy Christians.” Not crazy in a bad way. Crazy in the Jesus way. The crazy “Jesus way” means doing the unexpected and the unprecedented, things that result in the building up of people and giving them that power that comes from the love of God.

The story of the feeding of the five thousand in today’s Gospel is definitely a crazy Jesus moment. In fact, this is crazy enough that it’s one of the few stories that is in all four Gospels in some form or fashion. Only Luke tells us of the Prodigal Son; Matthew and Mark have a Caananite or Syrophoenician woman depending on who is relating the story. But all four evangelists thought this feeding of the five thousand needed to be mentioned.

In John’s version…we know it’s close to Passover, which is the biggest Jewish holiday and remembers, with the unleavened bread and bitter herbs, how Moses helped to lead his people out of slavery in Egypt. Jesus and his disciples have crossed over to the Sea of Tiberius. And a large crowd has gathered to follow after him as he continues to minister and heal people. Jesus sees all these folks, turns to Philip and says:

“Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”

And while John doesn’t give us this detail, you can almost get this visual of Philip looking back at Jesus, his head kind of cocked like that RCA Victor dog, staring at him and—in contemporary terms—saying, “Seriously?!?!”

“Six months wages’ would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.”

Even Andrew, who shows signs of some optimism when he notices the boy with the five loaves and two fish, is just as puzzled. “But what are they (these loaves and these fish) among so many people?” If you’ve seen the movie “Inside Out” you might see Andrew’s emotions at play here with the initial Joy at seeing the loaves and fish…only to become pessimistic when Sad gets ahold of the control panel as he surveys the large numbers before them.

Jesus, undaunted, has the crowd sit down on the grass. He takes the bread and the fish, raises it up to give thanks to God, breaks it, then he has his disciples distribute the food. And--lo and behold—everyone got as much as they wanted and they were satisfied. And when they collected the leftovers it filled twelve baskets, a reference to the twelve tribes of Israel. Even the gathered fragments get pulled together to feed the people.

That’s crazy!  At least by the standards applied in the world’s economy. In the world’s economy, somebody should have been hoarding and leaving others empty-handed. Or someone should have been complaining that by giving bread and fish to this group of one thousand would mean that these other four thousand were getting something less than their fill. There’s a finite number, and some will win and many will lose.

But this is the economy of God. And in the economy of God, five loaves of bread and two fish is more than enough and not only feeds those present on a mountainside but will feed all of those who come seeking. And nothing, and nobody, is lost.

This is the Eucharistic feast in John’s Gospel, the same Eucharist that we will remember and celebrate here in a short while. In the same way that the crowd was gathered, we will come to the table, shoulder to shoulder, people of all ages, all different backgrounds and all sorts of conditions, and we will each receive exactly what we need to sustain us and keep us in relationship with God and each other. No matter who you are or what you do or where you on your spiritual journey, you will be fed.

John will emphasize this point about the Eucharist later in this same Gospel chapter. If our lectionary diviners had wanted to go on (which would have meant poor Deacon Scott would have had to read an even longer passage), we’d hear Jesus say, “I am the bread of life,” which is even more satisfying than the loaves of barley bread this crowd had consumed. This is the same bread, that body of Christ, which we receive. And by bringing that body into ourselves, it nourishes the spirit within and empowers us to go share that power with others. Because there is plenty of God’s power and love to go around.

Jesus knows, and is telling everyone with ears to listen, that he too will be raised up, and broken in death, but he will overcome death in the resurrection and in this way…this crazy Jesus way…everyone will come to have eternal life because nothing, absolutely nothing, will defeat God and God’s love for all of creation. Not even death! This teaching, this type of discipleship that requires trusting that there’s enough Love for everyone and that Love is stronger than death, was a little too much for some to handle and they walked away. Some still do.

But there are many who don’t. There are still those of us who come to this table of God…a smaller scale version of what is the larger heavenly banquet...not for solace only, but for strength. We come not just for pardon only, but for renewal of our resources so that we can be the light of the world and the salt of the earth. As we look around in our communities, whether it’s in Thomasville, Cairo, Camilla, or even in Tallahassee, there are people who will be shocked and pleasantly surprised if they were to encounter Christians who exhibit the kind of generosity and willingness to help one another that makes five loaves and two fish into a feast. Too often, the people who we call “the unchurched” have felt, for whatever reason, that they weren’t invited in to discover they have a place at the table. Perhaps in their experience they were specifically told to stay away. Or maybe they’ve bought into that message that somehow you have to prove your worthiness, or wear the right clothes, or pass some other test of human design to gain acceptability in order to cross the threshold of the church door.

I once was providing massage therapy at a Wounded Warrior event organized by the diocese of Florida. This soldier was really talkative and had a little bit of that tough guy edge to him. He told me he wasn’t much into religion, but he appreciated being at this church camp. Then he looked at me in curiosity as I was working on his bicep:

“Are you part of the church?”

I smiled. “Yes, I am. I’m an Episcopalian.”

He laughed. “Well, I’ll be!”   

Even the massage therapist was a Christian. It gave this guy something to think about as he experienced receiving kindness and caring beyond his expectations. We were everywhere…pouring out that love of God that had been poured into us through the Eucharist, and offering it back to those suffering from the wounds of war.

As the modern day theologian Henri Nouwen says, the transformation that happens at the table makes us more than individuals but a community:

the living Christ, taken, blessed, broken, and given to the world.  As one body, we become a living witness of God's immense desire to bring all peoples and nations together as the one family of God.(Daily Meditation,“The Body of Community,” from “Bread for the Journey.”)

Having been fed, we end with praying that we have the strength and courage to love and serve God with gladness and singleness of heart through Christ our Lord. It’s not always easy, but it is our calling as members of this one Body into which we are baptized.

Don’t be afraid to be a little crazy with seeking to serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor…no matter who they are… as well as yourself. Show the world your craziness by striving for justice and peace, and respecting the dignity of every human being. Be crazy enough to live and love life in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

https://youtu.be/XnFBrFfHvZg

End of 2014

Here in the United States, we're hours away from saying, "Good-bye!" to 2014. I am fine with seeing this year go away and become part of the history books. The year had a difficult and sad beginning for me. Multiple airplane trips north with delays, cancelled flights due to ice and snow in Atlanta, and unexpected stays in Baltimore and Jacksonville...all were part of the difficulties and trauma associated with the eventual death of my mom. She passed away on February 7th, and I was back with my partner in New Hampshire for my birthday for her funeral a week later. 

Losing my mom was different than when I lost my dad. Dad's death awakened my faith; mom's death put it more to the test. This might account for why I haven't been posting as much on this blog during the year. She was my most avid reader and would comment regularly. With her gone, this space has sometimes felt as if I'm talking to the trees, and just another reminder of her death. I started this blog in the wake of my dad's death and as a way of processing my faith journey, particularly as I returned to a church that had a reputation for homophobia before it split in October, 2005. With my mom's death, I also experienced something of a more symbolic death in having left that church in Tallahassee to join my new congregation, St. Thomas in Thomasville, GA. There I am opening to new life. I'm singing in the choir, serving as a Eucharistic Minister, lector and will be leading an EfM group. And my discernment process continues. In Georgia, it's allowed to continue because my sexual orientation doesn't pose a problem. 

Which brings me back to my faith. It has suffered some knocks but it hasn't waivered and, in fact, has been sinking deeper roots to draw up the Source to keep me centered. Something about having lost an important and central figure in my life has made me reflect on the importance of letting go of certainty and holding onto things. The worst pain seems to come from becoming overly attached to people, places or things and expecting that nothing will change. The one thing that will always remain is that Source which continues flowing like a constant river and even as all other things fall away and become part of my memories, I can continue to drink from that river. Without it, I don't know how I'd manage.

This blog will continue. I will post as I am moved to share that drink with all of you. Happy New Year and may 2015 bring new lessons. 

  

Respecting the Dignity of Every Human Being

On Thursday of this week, I put up a friendly message as my status: "Happy Beltane to all my dear Pagan/Wiccan friends!  May those traveling to FPG (FL Pagan Gathering) arrive safely."  Several of my Pagan buddies hit the "like" button.  But what was striking was the comment from one of my devoutly atheist friends.

"You are awesome! You are the perfect example of being accepting, not hating!"

I appreciated the comment, and it made me stop and think a little.  First, about what kind of Christians this person has encountered in her life.  I've heard it said that the leading cause of atheism is Christian intolerance and bigotry.  The other thing it made me think about is the pledge that all of us in the Episcopal Church make when there is a baptism.  We are asked to renew our Baptismal Covenant, which begins with stating our belief in the nature of God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  And then we are asked five questions about how we will take responsibility, with God's help, to live out our lives in following the teachings of Christ.  The last of those questions being:

"Will you strive for justice and peace among all peoples, and respect the dignity of every human being?"

Again, we all answer, "We will, with God's help." 

Respecting the dignity of every human being, for me, includes recognizing that my path of Christianity is an excellent one for me, but God may have other paths and other plans for other people.  Not everyone is going to be an Episcopalian.  Not everyone is going to be Christian.  But this doesn't make them wrong and it certainly doesn't negate the real possibility that they, too, are entering into a life of seeking and finding the Universal Love that exists all around us.  My theology is confirmed in the recent readings we've been doing in the EfM program.  Year Four has been assigned a book called, "My Neighbor's Faith," which is a collection of essays from people of many different faith backgrounds as they encounter people from other traditions and enter into dialogue with them.  Sometimes, these are chance meetings, and sometimes they've occurred in more structured environments like a spiritual retreat.  And pretty much always, the dialogues will highlight a revelation to the author of a long-held prejudice against "the other" that gets turned on its head.  Love will do that.  One of the essays, written by a rabbi who happened to get into a cab driven by a fundamentalist Christian in Syracuse, New York, captured the attention of both me and one of the other members of our group.  In this discussion, the rabbi was asked pointedly by his cabbie what he thought about Jesus (the driver had already spotted the man's kippah).  The rabbi tried to get by with saying he thought Jesus to be a great teacher.  But the cabbie pushed him: if that's true, then why didn't he believe he's the path to salvation?  The rabbi's answer was brilliant:

"I can believe that Jesus is a great teacher without believing that he's God's son and the only path to salvation. One truth doesn't negate the other.  I can love Jesus in my way.  And you can love Jesus in yours. There is room for both of our understandings of Jesus.  I don't believe you have to be wrong for me to be right."

Like the cabbie in this story, my eyes popped open and I was so thrilled to read such a succinct and wonderful statement of what I believe to be the awesome Truth.  My belief in Jesus does not make someone else's non-belief wrong.  We're just looking at the life and witness and glory of Christ through different lenses.  If only we could all relax into that idea, I believe that there would be less strife and less demand to be right.  And ultimately, I think it could ease so much tension in the world, at least around this very contentious point about religion.

Perhaps, then, I would seem a little less awesome to some when I accept and love those who follow the Divine in their own way.

Pesach Meets Monday in Holy Week 2014

Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea. The Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided. ²²The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. ²³The Egyptians pursued, and went into the sea after them, all of Pharaoh’s horses, chariots, and chariot drivers. ²⁴At the morning watch the Lord in the pillar of fire and cloud looked down upon the Egyptian army, and threw the Egyptian army into panic. ²⁵He clogged^* their chariot wheels so that they turned with difficulty. The Egyptians said, ‘Let us flee from the Israelites, for the Lord is fighting for them against Egypt.’

The Pursuers DrownedThen the Lord said to Moses, ‘Stretch out your hand over the sea, so that the water may come back upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots and chariot drivers.’ ²⁷So Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and at dawn the sea returned to its normal depth. As the Egyptians fled before it, the Lord tossed the Egyptians into the sea. ²⁸The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained. ²⁹But the Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. (Exodus 14:21-29)

At tables in Jewish homes this evening, families and friends are gathered to remember the deliverance of the Israelites out of the bondage of slavery in Egypt.  There will be ritual remembrances of having to leave quickly before their bread could rise, dipping parsley into salt water, a symbol of the tears shed by the Israelites and eating bitter herbs to recall the hardships endured under the Pharaoh who did not know their ancestor Joseph.

Did the escape from Egypt happen exactly as outlined in the Book of Exodus?  Not likely.  But Jews still tell this story because it isn’t so important whether it literally happened.  Its ultimate lesson is still the same: oppressed people will be made free and those who wield power unjustly will be toppled.  

We incorporate the Exodus story into our Easter Vigil as a reminder that we, too, were part of that history.  And while our stories diverged and traveled in different parallel paths, we both are striving to live our lives in the freedom that comes from the justice and mercy of God.  

The life, death, resurrection and ascension of Christ is the Christian’s deliverance from a different kind of slavery.  Not one in which we are fleeing a tyrant who forced hard labor of making bricks with less straw and longer work hours.  In Christ, we are graced with a freedom of our hearts, minds and bodies which can become enslaved to many other “gods”: money, status, power, or a belief that God’s love has limits. 

At the table, on this first night of Passover, the question is always posed to the youngest at the table,“How is this night different than other nights?”  This is how they begin the examination of their struggle for freedom from Pharoah, and recognizing that even in today’s world, they must still commit to the work of liberation for all.  We, in Christianity, might ask ourselves this same question, “How is this Week different than other weeks?” as we embark on this journey toward the cross of Good Friday, and the hope of the Resurrection on Sunday. 

“How will this Holy Week change me?” 

“How am I still living as a slave to old habits, patterns of thought, beliefs that no longer serve as helpful in my coming to know God through Christ?”

“How do my actions present a stumbling block to others in knowing God?” 

“How can I allow myself to experience spiritual freedom that comes through Christ?”

Almighty God, whose dear Son went not up to joy but
first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he
was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way
of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and
peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives
and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever
and ever. Amen.

 

(this was the closing worship reflection I offered at the Education for Ministry group this evening.)

Rockin' the Psalms

There are many advantages to being involved in the Education for Ministry program as a co-mentor. First of all, you get to keep going with your group, listening and learning, and delighting in seeing minds open and expand as folks come to really own their participation in life and liturgy of their church and how their faith can inform and shape their actions and opinions.   And there is the bonus that you are on a listserve with hundreds of other people that are leading seminar groups across the country.

OK, sometimes that is not a bonus.  Sometimes that can be a pain in the neck because your inbox gets flooded with a gazillion emails on a topic that may not have been of any interest.  This year, most of what has been all a-buzz is the new curriculum, and the approach Sewanee is taking to presenting the material.  One big difference with the First Year approach is that rather than reading a book (or two) of the Bible while also reading the material from Sewanee which offers interpretation of the Scripture.  In the end, that's a lot of reading!  This year, those in the beginning of the program read the Scripture one week, and then read the chapter from the textbook which offers an interpretation of what they've read.  For me, that's a lot easier.  The other thing that's different is that they've changed when we'll read certain passages.  And--thanks be to God!--that means we get the Psalms now, in the middle of the program, rather than as a toss away at the end of the year.

I love the Psalms.  They are raw emotion, exuberant joy, fall-on-your-face praise of the holy.  They are laments, songs, and shouts of "Hallelujah!"   And they are the one book that comes the closest to speaking to my heart consistently every time I encounter it, which is daily with the daily office.  I love leading people in reading the psalms when we read it responsively, either by the half-verse or the whole verse.  I had such an experience last week on Wednesday when we were reading Psalm 118, responsively at the asterisk:

1	Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; *     his mercy endures for ever.
2	Let Israel now proclaim, *    "His mercy endures for ever."

3	Let the house of Aaron now proclaim, *    "His mercy endures for ever."
4	Let those who fear the LORD now proclaim, *    "His mercy endures for ever."
5	I called to the LORD in my distress; *     the LORD answered by setting me free.
6	The LORD is at my side, therefore I will not fear; *     what can anyone do to me?
7	The LORD is at my side to help me; *     I will triumph over those who hate me.
8	It is better to rely on the LORD *     than to put any trust in flesh.
9	It is better to rely on the LORD *     than to put any trust in rulers.

I was having a blast leading this!  Even though we were reciting it, I could hear the musicality in this song of reassurance and where to place our trust.  Not in those man-made "things" but in the eternal things that cannot be so easily seen: the unseen and mysterious nature of God.  Because, with God, in God, and through God, we are given the tools necessary for us to survive even in the times when we are being put to the test.

I was a little surprised to read on the listserve that there were actually people out there who don't like the psalms.  I was also scratching my head when some mentors said that they would have preferred if there was an academic presentation of the psalms first before people read them.  But, really: do you need to have an academic review of this highly-evocative material in order to "get it"?  Yes, I suppose one might want to learn some of the "facts" behind the psalms: 119 is the longest, David is thought to have been the primary author.  But when I think that as Jesus was left to die in a painful and brutal manner, he reportedly recited the beginning lines of Psalm 22: "My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?" I have to think that this is one book in the Bible that really doesn't require a PhD interpretation as much as it requires a willingness to open to an experience of God that runs the emotional gamut.  For some, clearly, this is a challenge.

Pity.

	

Advent Juxtapositions

When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, “The Lord needs them.” And he will send them immediately.’ This took place to fulfil what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, 
‘Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
   humble, and mounted on a donkey,
     and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’ 
The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,
‘Hosanna to the Son of David!
   Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!’ 
When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’ The crowds were saying, ‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’--Matt 21: 1-11

It has been striking to me that as we enter into this season of Advent, and awaiting the birth of the Christ child, what we've been hearing in our lectionary are the stories that are either at his crucifixion or, in this case, leading up to his entry into Jerusalem, the beginning of the end of his life.  In today's Gospel assigned in the daily office, the story told is the one that we often hear on Palm Sunday, right before the procession of palms into the church.  (In the Episcopal liturgy for Palm Sunday, this is followed almost immediately with the whiplash of having the Passion Gospel where we crucify Jesus, but that collapsing of the timeline is the subject for another blog entry at another time.)   To hear this passage today was, like the crucifixion of Jesus and the conversation with the criminals that we heard on Christ the King Sunday, a little strange.  It's like we're getting to telescope into the future of the yet-unborn baby in Bethlehem...and we're still a few weeks away from that event!  

I had a chance to encounter this passage again this evening in a Lectio Divina exercise during our Education for Ministry seminar.  A person read the passage aloud, we were given some time to meditate on what we'd heard, and then each of us shared what word(s) stood out for us.  Then, we heard the passage again, and we were asked to link what he heard to our lives.  Finally, we were asked to read the passage one more time to ourselves, and form a prayer based upon what we'd gleaned from the passage.  We had the choice to share any and all of this out loud with the group.

What struck me the first time I heard the reading was the phrase, "Hosanna in the highest."  Because my brain taps into music so readily, I could hear this refrain from Palm Sunday being sung.  The sensation in my body was a feeling of warmth in my heart as I let these words and the notes of that refrain spin round and round.   When I sing these words, I have to smile, because they are words of rejoicing and praise.  

Upon the second time listening to the Gospel, I found myself brought up short when I heard the phrase, "the whole city was in turmoil."  Whoa--wait a minute!  How did we go from making a joyful noise like, "Hosanna in the highest" to "the whole city was in turmoil"?   As I sat in silence working on this dilemma, and how it speaks to my here and now, I thought about how this is one of those moments in Scripture where the spaces in-between the phrases provide the most fascinating points of contemplation.   Yes, of course, people were rejoicing at the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem... and his entry was causing a ruckus that made those who didn't know Jesus to become agitated and demanding to know, "Who is this?"   As I thought about my own life, between my efforts to stay on a path with God and follow my call with the demands it will make on me and my partner, and the ongoing issues with my mother and findng the best care facility for her, as well as a myriad of other "things" that nag at me during the course of the day, I realized that I am in a place of personal turmoil.  Into this party of my pain, anxiety, doubt and fear, comes the ultimate party crasher, Jesus Christ, to put a new disc to spin on the turntable.  What did we sing a week ago? "Crown him with many crowns/the lamb upon his throne/Hark! How the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own"?  This Christ interrupts my pity party to remind me that I don't get to weep alone.  In fact, I don't get to do anything by myself, and why would I want to go it alone anyway?   As I weighed all this in the context of Advent, I realized that this idea fits into the narrative of waiting for the birth of Christ.  Like all babies, there is much joy and excitement at the arrival of the newborn and speculations about the child's future.  The difference is that this particular baby is about to rock the world.  All babies force changes in the lives of their parents; how many of them challenge and change the lives of whole towns and villages?

So then, I read the passage silently, moving my lips, and paying close attention to the collective thoughts I had had so far on this passage.  When asked to pray, the simple words that left my mouth were these:

O God, who comes in great humility into the midst of turmoil; I welcome you to enter into mine that I might greet you with, "Hosanna in the highest." Amen.

Strike up a new song:

O Come, O Come Emmaneul, and ransom captive Israel 

that mourns in lowly exile here until the Son of God appear

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Yes!