Recognize

CHRISTMAS DAY, 2012 10:00 a.m. - Low Mass with Carols The Parish of Ss. Peter & Paul, Portland
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Biblical scholar and teacher of preaching Fred Craddock tells the story of a missionary sent to preach the Gospel in India toward the end of World War II. After many months, the time came for him to return home for a furlough.

His church wired him the money to book passage on a steamer; but when he got to the port city, he discovered that a boatload of Jews had just been allowed to land temporarily. These were the days when European Jews were sailing all over the world, literally looking for a place to live. These particular Jews were now staying in attics and warehouses and basements all over that port city.

It happened to be Christmas, and on Christmas morning, this missionary went to one of the attics where scores of Jews were staying. He walked in and said, "Merry Christmas."

The people looked at him as if he were crazy and responded, "We're Jews."
"I know that," said the missionary. "What would you like for Christmas?"

In utter amazement, the Jews responded, "Why, we'd like pastries, good pastries, like the ones we used to have in Germany."

So the missionary went out and used the money for his ticket home to buy pastries for all the Jews he could find staying in the port. Of course, then he had to wire home, asking for more money to book his passage back to the States.

As you might expect, his superiors wired back, asking what had happened to the money they had already sent. He wired that he had used it to buy Christmas pastries for some Jews.

His superiors wired back, "Why did you do that? They don't even believe in Jesus."
He wired in return: "Yes, but I do!"

Jesus will not always be found where we expect to find him. We tend to look for him in the easy, the nice, the clean, the pristine, the proper: we look for him in churches and in other Christians, in Scriptures, and in our Christmas carols, in church-sanctioned activities and clearly-defined tasks of ministry. But if these are the only places we are looking for him, then we're not looking in the stable, in the dirt and the straw and the deprivation where the real story, the actual birth took place.

We are not looking for him at a shopping mall a few blocks down 82nd Avenue from us. We are not looking for him in the faces of children and their mentors brutally murdered by a crazy man with a powerful weapon available to the public. Or at the little ones who will be forever traumatized by that horrible day a week ago last Friday.

Michel Quoist, the late French Roman Catholic priest who's quite famous for Prayers, his monumental small book of personal, and yet very profound, prayers for everything from "Prayer in Front of a Dollar Bill" to "Prayer of a Priest on Sunday Evening." He wrote about Christmas:

I am not made of plaster, nor of stone, nor of bronze. I am living flesh throbbing, suffering. I am among men and women and they have not recognized Me. I am poorly paid, I am unemployed, I live in a slum. I am sick, I sleep under bridges, I am in prison. I am oppressed, I am patronized. I sweat men's blood on all battlefields. I cry out in the night and die in the solitude of battle. And yet I said to them: "Whatever you do to My brothers or sisters, however humble, You do to Me."

Gathered at Bethlehem's manger, we are poised between love's completion or frustration, between love's triumph or tragedy. God's enfleshment in Jesus is love's risk. It is God's vulnerability. God's fullness made empty. God's richness made poor. God's "otherness" become flesh and blood--for us and for our salvation. The power of response is in our hands.

Let us pray, then, for the gift of recognition, which is indeed the message of Christmas. Today we can contemplate together what has unfolded at Bethlehem and acknowledge the meaning of Jesus as the holiest, riskiest sacrament of God's love that ever occurred.

"The things she knew let her forget again:
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the strange old men piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.
Let her have laughter with her little one.
Teach her the endless tuneless songs to sing.
Grant her the right to whisper to her son the foolish things one dare not call a king; keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of roughcut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.
Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go,
And boast his pretty words and ways,
And plan the proud and happy years that they shall know together, when her son is grown a man." (Dorothy Parker)

Delivered by the Rev. Phil Ayers

The Christmas sermon I need to hear

Christmas 2012
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearABC_RCL/Christmas/ChrsDay1_RCL.html


Light is for traveling.

Just the other day we drove through the usual Portland winter mix of daytime murk and rain. I strained to see out of the windshield. The windshield wipers, de-fogger, and the outside washer did not seem to clear the glass. I realized that the inside of the windshield was lightly covered with a haze that comes simply from people breathing. Only if that would be washed away could enough light break through to let me see.

And light breaking through is necessary to travel anywhere.

Another Christmas has arrived, thank God. Frederick Beuchner said that no matter how commercial and crass and clichéd we have made it, we simply cannot quite ruin Christmas. This is due to the absolute power, the unthinkably pure and bright Light that has blazed upon us, the outrageous claim that not only in the polite and well-ordered portion of our lives, but in the darkest corners, in the earthiest and most shadowy parts of our lives and of our world, uncreated Light has blazed forth. I have seen the gentle light of a single candle in a quiet room. I have also seen a lighthouse beam lance dazzlingly across storm-tossed waters. I have seen gentle, silent dawn. I have also been blinded by a headlamp in my eyes when I lay lost and helpless in a tunnel in a Missouri cave. I have opened a door in a tenement apartment to reveal the lonely, impoverished elderly woman living in fear in a crime-infested neighborhood. I have seen the Light, in many different forms. I suspect you have too.

It’s all light, and at the risk of using another old cliché it is all good. The Light reveals us and reveals what we need to see. The Light reveals what is real. In the New Testament the same word is used for “truth” and “real.”

But we do get used to the dark. That’s good, because darkness is everywhere and if we could not adapt then we could not survive. Eyes grow accustomed to the dark, if we wait long enough. People grow accustomed also to other forms of darkness—sadness, hopelessness, fear, oppression, poverty…how easily things become the “new normal”, and we accept what before seemed unthinkable. Most recently we have been tempted to accept as normal a world filled with violence and with the ready availability of weapons that should never find their way into the hands of the irresponsible or the mentally ill, perhaps into no one’s hands at all.

But the Light that has come into the world, the Light of the Incarnation, the light of Christmas, chases away every shadow and allows us to see clearly. All we need to do is clear our sight just a little, just like clearing the glass from inside a windshield.

A contemporary church thinker sent out a post entitled “The Sermon I need to hear this Christmas.” I think his title works well as a question—what is the sermon you most need to hear this Christmas?

That is a question worth chewing on, and perhaps we can all chew on it during these 12 days of Christmas. I share with you the sermon I most need to hear this Christmas, because preachers usually preach what they themselves most need to hear, what they most need to work on.

This Christmas I most need to hear the message of the Angels, that born long ago in the city of David was the Messiah, the Lord. I need to hear that that birth is not a long-ago truth, as beautiful as that truth may be. I need to hear that the Son of God is always being born, in our midst, especially among the poorest and most forgotten. I need to hear that God-made-flesh is born in me, is constantly coming to birth in me, that the new Light of Bethlehem is the new Light made flesh in my flesh. This is no new idea; it is good solid orthodox faith. So many saints and scholars have said it. So many quiet people have lived it. That gift, the birth of the Christ-light in me and in you, is the gift that lies always at the foot of the Christmas tree and lies at our feet ready each day of our lives. All we need do is unwrap it.

I most need to hear that the Light of the world shines not only in a lovely church service and in cherished family gatherings, but also in the darkest and most sorrowing places of the world. The ever-new Light shines in Newtown even though the grieving people there are not sure if it is time to celebrate it. It shines in Palestine, in Bethlehem of today which is surrounded by a 25 foot high wall that would keep the shepherds from visiting the manger without passing through a checkpoint. It shines in the shadowy corners of the city where homeless people will huddle tonight, just another night of seeking warmth. If these dark places threaten to eclipse the Light of Christmas, then I have not heard the message of the angels and have not opened my eyes to see the true Light that enlightens everyone, everywhere, for all time.

And I most need to hear that the Light of the Incarnation, the Light of Christmas, will follow me from this place and will follow me after this night and the day after, and will stay with me to throw light upon my path. I need to hear that during whatever challenge or trial the days ahead might hold for me and for the world, the Light will show me what to do and give me strength to do it.

And I most need to hear that I shall not be alone, that the Company of the Light, those who seek to live by the Light of Christmas, of the Christ-Mass, are with me, both here in this church and abroad in the world. I need to hear that others who seek and serve and delight in the Light will be with me, will join hands with me, and that together we will be vessels of the Light of Christ in a world that has adapted to the shadows.

That’s the Christmas sermon I need to hear.

Light is for traveling. We are here so briefly, together, by the light of candles, basking in the glow of song and prayer and sacrament. When we leave, we will switch on headlights or bicycle lamps, or maybe walk by the glow of street-lamps to find our way home. Light is for traveling. The world grows accustomed to stumbling in darkness. May we gently wipe our eyes and our hearts, that we may receive each day the uncreated Light that illumines our souls.

Tears and joy

Advent 3C
http://lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv3_RCL.html

Today is Gaudate Sunday – Literally “Be Joyful” Sunday. It is quite a paradox – this command to be joyful - standing in stark relief to the overwhelming sadness of this week. I do not think there are adequate words to make sense of the violence, the loss, the pain, the darkness of our world that was so violently made clear in Connecticut and in Clackamas this week. So this is real – at first all we can do is wail and cry and pray: Here is a prayer from a Christian Century in response to Friday’s shootings:

God of the broken-hearted,
God of the broken heart,
Receive our sighs
too deep for words.
In your time
by your grace
heal us.
In this meantime
hold us
as we weep.
Hold us and rock us
with the rhythm
of your own
grief-struck
quaking
body.
Amen

We start there, crying the tears that are our own, and crying the tears that belong to the God of love. Perhaps this is where the paradox of joy enters, that we have a God who weeps and wails at this loss.

Kafka tells a story of a little girl who was late coming home. When her mother inquired about where she had been she shared that she had stopped to help a friend who had broken her doll. When the mother asked if she had helped fix the doll the girl proclaimed, “oh no, I do not know how to fix it. I stopped to help her cry.” We cry and pray today for our own grief and for those who are too sad, too angry, too lost to do it for themselves.

This broken world – this is where God chose incarnation – vulnerable flesh – a quiet light in a world already filled with darkness. There were perhaps not guns, but he chose to come into a world in which a King would kill innocent babes to secure his reign, where oppression and occupation dictated daily life…and he chooses to come now, into this world where innocents continue to die – a world as much in need of a savior as ever. We wait again to experience his choice to come willingly into this darkness, to love its people.

And so it is the wisdom of these lectionary texts and of the traditions of the church to command joy in the face of the evil of the world. Because, as Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near” and the story of our faith would proclaim that this violence, death, and pain do not have the final word but that “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it!”

So, what does it mean to be joyful in the face of such tragedy? The readings today give us a very different picture of joy than we expect. They tie up this experience of joy with repentance, with hope when things seem lost, and with generosity. The theme of joy here is this: Hope and generosity must rule our hearts even when we are tempted with fear and despair.

After getting the crowd’s attention with colorful comparisons of the crowd to a frightened, spawn of snakes John presents the first step in the life of Joy… “bear fruits worthy of repentance”.

To talk of repentance in the midst of tragedy perhaps seems harsh. And I want to be clear that I am not in any way suggesting that these events are God’s wrath in response to our sinfulness, but am talking about that sense of repentance in which we are able to see the ways that our choices embrace rather than reject a culture in which such tragedy could happen. All of the readings today, to some extent, equate the depth of joy with turning away-repenting from- death.

Can we tolerate asking ourselves today what parts of our existence contribute to a culture of death? Can we, like the crowds stand before John and our God and ask, “what then shall we do?”

One thing I believe repentance means today is a turning away from what would be our natural response to violence: fear, a desire to lock ourselves away, to choose protection above connection to the marginalized people of our world…we would wish to seek comfort. But John doesn’t let the crowds fall back into comfort and safety. He defines this fruit, this joy, very differently. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” They will not be able to hold onto the safety of their careful planning or to their strength, they are asked to risk their safety and comfort for their neighbor. He asks for an act of trust and hope. Here it is again, hope and generosity must win over fear and despair.

What does this mean for us today? I imagine a contemporary writing to include language like: “If you have power, use it for the powerless. If you have a voice, speak for the unheard. If you have been heard, give your ear to the discounted. If you have been loved, love the unloved.”

What is it we hold onto that John would challenge us to share? In what places do we allow fear and despair to trump hope and generosity? Do we trust that in sharing we will experience joy?

I think it is a natural temptation, but one we must resist, to respond to the events of this week with fear of those struggling with mental illness. Every day that we open our doors here at Saints Peter and Paul we are gifted with the face of Christ in the poor and his voice in the often confused, lost words of those who are plagued by insanity. We could, right now, choose to close our doors, or at least our hearts, out of fear. But joy means holding on to hope for each of those souls. It means trusting and giving even when we are afraid. If we have ten dollars we give five…if we have two cups of coffee we give one. And maybe like Kafka, Paul’s message echoes that of John: “Rejoice in the Lord always (not sometimes…not only when times are good) again I say rejoice. Let your gentleness be evident to all” –Hope and generosity not fear or despair. And how can we do this? Well, Paul proclaims, “the Lord is near!” Weeping beside us, lighting the path in the darkness. This is the source of our hope, the motivation of our generosity.

As we light the pink candle this week we are called, like Mary, so long ago, to sing a song of rejoicing to the lord - even in the face of very real brokenness - and to wait expectantly for Light to come into the darkness of the world.
Gadaute!
Amen.

Preached by the Rev. Tracy LeBlanc

Casting off

1 Advent C 2012
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Advent/CAdv1_RCL.html


It was my job to cast off the lines.

My earliest memories are of salt water and my father’s boat. In those days, back on Long Island, any working-class guy could have some sort of leaky wooden boat and old, worn-out motor and spend time out fishing. That was Dad’s great joy, and so little Kurt just like my older brothers before me would be bundled in a stained orange life-vest and would help Dad get the boat ready.

There was a lot of “get ready”—mixing the gas and oil in the old-fashioned orange tank, gathering the gear and loading it. The boat would rock gently, tied up there next to the old wooden dock with its planks bleached grey by sun and salt. But finally the time would come—the time to cast off.

It was my job to move first to the stern, then to the prow, and slip the loops at the end of the ropes off of the cleats that held our old boat safely to the worn, familiar dock. It was a moment that placed us in the ancient tradition of sailors and voyagers, even if we were only going a couple of miles out to fish. The weight of the boat would hold the line too tight to easily slip off the cleat, and so I would have to exert a moment’s effort to pull the line taut, then suddenly slacken it so for a moment it was loose enough to lift from the cleat. As I slipped the final loop from the cleat, I would always glance down, and even the oily water next to the dock would seem deep and mysterious below our fragile wooden shell.

Finally, a shove would give the boat enough of a surge of motion away from the dock that it would float free, rocking gently, making itself and we who depended on it creatures of the restless water. A philosopher said that you never cross the same river twice. It is even more true of the sea—it is restless and ever-moving, never the same from moment to moment. I would sit and as the motor sputtered into life and the boat surged forward, I would feel a momentary thrill, a sinking in the pit of my stomach as if I were flying. You never knew what awaited you, even in the harbors and bays of Long Island. You never knew where the voyage would take you, once you had cast off.

“Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…”

Most of us love Advent and find many words to express that. This first Collect of Advent is filled with contrast—“cast away”, “put on”. This Advent it is the “cast away” part that snatches my heart. I love this Collect, but often find myself a little embarrassed by that expression “works of darkness.” I am certainly a sinful man, self-absorbed and petty, but my sinfulness never quite seems to live up to the ominous grandeur of “works of darkness.” Voldemort and Sauron and the White Witch in fantasy books do “works of darkness.” My sins seem to lack the kind of evil courage and initiative implied by the majesty of “works of darkness.”

But there are many “works of darkness”, and most of them are not fame-worthy. I also remember, when we would cast off from shore how many years ago, how littered and shabby and drab was the dock and the shoreline where we would ready the boat. No one would want to spend any more time on that grubby shore of Centerport Harbor than they needed to.

The “works of darkness” can be that familiar and drab and hope-less place where we have been accustomed to hang out in, for no good reason other than it is familiar. What is our equivalent of the dry, dirty, familiar harbor-side in our own lives? A faith that has grown cold and routine? Habits of resentment or self-pity? A general hopelessness that does not cripple us, but casts a shadow over every day? A pattern of distraction, of noise or virtual communication or repetitive entertainment, that keeps us from seeing the heart-breaking beauty and wonder of the world around us? Or keeps us from seeing the pathos and silent courage and struggle of those around us?

Today our patron Saint Paul reaches out in hope and love and pity to us, wishing that we ccould recover that beauty and delight that we may have lost even without our knowing. “Night and day we pray most earnestly that we may …restore whatever is lacking in your faith… And may he so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.”

A Celtic Christian said, “Jesus is the memory of what we have forgotten about God.”

As we cast off on this Advent Sunday, what have we forgotten? What is lacking in our faith? What part of our hearts has grown weak, even without our knowing?

Years ago, we would usually cast off before dawn. As it rose and fell with the surge, I used to imagine that the boat itself was remembering that it was not just a rickety old wooden shell flipped upside-down on sawhorses in our yard. It was a free creature of the sea, part of the surge and swell and power of the waves.

The sun would rise and turn the waves into gold and fire. We too were creatures of the sea, and of the dawn, part of the surge and the light. I would wake up from the drowsy, chilly walking dream in which I had helped to get the boat ready to cast off. That’s right, I would think. I remember. That’s why we came. This is who we are. This is why we cast off.

Looking for the king?

Christ the King 2012


Barbara Lundblad, a professor and ‘blogger, tells this of her friend Delores Williams. Delores grew up in the South and remembers Sunday mornings when the minister shouted out: “Who is Jesus?” The choir would shout back, “King of kings and Lord Almighty!” Then, little Miss Huff, in a tiny soft voice, would sing her own answer, “Poor little Mary’s boy.” Back and forth they sang – KING OF KINGS…Poor little Mary’s boy.

On the feast of Christ the King, we cannot and should not fill our minds with images of a regal Jesus seated in majesty without hearing little Miss Huff say softly, “Poor little Mary’s boy.” Any language, any image we borrow from the archaic world of royalty enthroned with pomp and panoply needs the counterpoint of Miss Huff’s truth—that this King is an anti-King, a King whose royal robes are rags and whose throne room is the place where, as the ‘60’s song said, where the ragged people go.

This feast is a latecomer to the calendar. A Pope created it in 1925. I think he took a long, horrified look at the tyrannies and dictatorships and ideologies that were brewing to make the 20th Century such a blood bath and placed this feast as a contradiction to all those forces. A simple Sunday feast is a fragile statement to make against the forces of power and violence.

“Christ the King” is a paradox, a paradox as deep as that choir shouting its proclamation and little Miss Huff whispering her deeper, more powerful truth. The early Christians were very clear that proclaiming Christ Jesus as Lord was a very different thing than proclaiming Caesar as Lord. The Christians were seen by the Romans as subversive, enemies to peace and order, worshipping a Jew who had been executed under Roman law. Merely suggesting that there was any king besides the Emperor was treason. Proclaiming that this Jesus was King was treason and insult both.

Is it still treason? If not, is that because we have forgotten the scandal, the outrageous nature of the Kingship of Christ? Have we placed King Jesus, the rejected and abused and condemned King, in a safe seat dressed in Caesar’s robes? Have we forgotten how astounding it is that we proclaim the marginalized and rejected One as King?

Thomas Merton wrote:

“Into this world, this demented inn, in which there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ has come uninvited.
But because he cannot be at home in it –
because he is out of place in it,
and yet must be in it
- his place is with those others who do not belong,
who are rejected because they are regarded as weak;
and with those who are discredited,
who are denied the status of persons,
and are tortured, exterminated.
With those for whom there is no room,
Christ is present in this world.”

If we wish to see Christ the King, do not look in a palace. Do not look in a place of power or prestige. Do not look where everyone sits content with their privileges or their rightness or their security.

Look instead to the rejected, to those invisible, to those whom we are tempted to dismiss with pity or with condescension. Look to those for whom each day is a struggle to simply exist, who do not have the luxury of a sense of security. And look too at the impoverished, vulnerable, wounded parts of ourselves, those parts that do not fit, that are inconsistent, those parts that we least wish to own or admit.

It is with those and it is there, in those forgotten parts of our world, that Christ the King stands at home. It is there that the pure love and grace of God shines forth. Into this world, this demented inn, the uninvited One whose own people did not receive him—here he reigns. Here he is strong. He stands because he has not been offered a chair, or he finds a cardboard box, or he takes a plastic chair with dozens of others in a crowded waiting room. Here the love and humility of our King shines forth with hope.

Everything from nothing

Proper 27 B 2012
1 Kings 17:8-16; Ps 146; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44


Facebook reported this week on Jose Mujica of Uruguay, proclaimed “the world’s poorest president.” Mujica drives an old Volkswagen Beetle, lives in a farmhouse with his wife and dog, and donates 90% of his salary to charity.

The comments after the article were full of praise for Mujica’s example. But President Mujica falls short of the unnamed women in the Bible today. He has a nice salary to give away. They did not.

I always felt it unfair that Elijah first asked the unnamed widow in Zarephath for some of the last of her food. Why doesn’t God through the prophet simply help her out, first promise her an endless supply of meal and of oil and THEN ask for some dinner? And what happened after that poor widow in the Gospel gave her last two cents to the Temple? Did Jesus send one of the guys scurrying after her to hand her a few coins out of their traveling purse?

It is a luxury to be rich enough to give. It feels good, like the day we gave $5 to Trumpet Man as he sat at the on ramp on the Hawthorne Bridge. It was not our last $5. What if it were? Where is the Gospel in these stories?

Maybe the Gospel is found here: it is when we think we have nothing to give that we have everything to give.

Today is a good and rich day. We gather after the Mass to share food generously prepared. We gather to be with one another, and weall enjoy that. And we gather to share hope and vision for our future as a congregation. We have begun to talk of “renewal” this year. That conversation will go on, but for today we all may speak to where we feel our parish is called this coming year.

The Vestry and clergy will take this input and form a budget with a mission focus for 2013. And in the weeks to come, we shall be invited to commit to this vision, to this ongoing energy of God’s own fire and invitation among us. It is a time of vision and a time of choice.

All during my time here, we have been tempted to think of Saints Peter and Paul as “small”, as “struggling”, even as “broke” and “poor.” The truth is we are not so small, we are not so struggling, we have been blessed in so many ways, and others have been very generous with us. Over and over we have tried to fight the language of poverty and of scarcity.

Perhaps we need to look at things a different way. Perhaps we need to listen deeply to what God says in his Word. If we’re rich, we’re rich, and like President Mujica we may do generous things with our wealth. If we are poor, well then: when we feel we have nothing to give, then we have everything to give. The poorest people can claim the dignity of giving back, of living generous lives. People who come to our doors hungry often insist on picking up litter or doing other chores in order to give back. A crumpled dollar bill will be left on a table at Brigid’s Breakfast.

If we are feeling we have nothing extra, nothing more to give, then we have everything to give.

We can give ourselves wholly to the inspiration of God as the Spirit leads us. We can give ourselves to the molding, transforming Spirit of God as Spirit shapes us into a community both new and old. We can take a chance on a vision, on a dream. Remember: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail.

And we can smile at President Mujica, knowing that we have taken his example one step farther.

There's blind, and then there's blind

Proper 25 B 2012
Jeremiah 31:7-9; Ps 126; Hebrews 7:23-28; Mark 10:46-52


“My teacher, let me see again.”

Jamie turned the big truck he was driving onto Martin Luther King Drive. Five of us were on our way to Diocesan Convention. The final sessions were soon to begin, including vote on a resolution asking us to start every parish meeting with the question, “How will what we are doing here affect or involve people living in poverty?”

We passed a group of men standing on a corner very near to the Convention Center. When the truck slowed, they looked up and held out their hands. One man even took a step into the street.

The light changed and our truck moved on. Only as we left them behind did we really see them. They were day laborers, working below minimum wage for hard manual labor. When our truck slowed they hoped that we were going to stop and offer them work.

“My teacher, let me see again.”

When we gather for Mass, we call out again and again on the holy Name of Jesus. We ask for grace, for forgiveness, for help, for peace, for healing, for new life. Our words are more elegant than the straightforward prayer of blind Bartimaeus today: “Son of David, have mercy on me.” But a great Anglican mystic once said there were two basic prayers: “Thanks, thanks, thanks” and “help, help, help.” Today’s prayer and others like it in the Gospel ultimately became worked into what is called the “Jesus Prayer”—“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.” For many devout Christians, the Jesus Prayer is not simply a lovely brief prayer. It is a way of life and of seeing.

Asking Jesus for mercy, for the rich loving-kindness that is at the heart of Christ, and knowing our own deep need, is the essence of Christian prayer. We pray to be healed of the blindness that tempts us to believe that we are self-sufficient. We pray that our eyes be open to the deep need in ourselves, and the deep need and pain of those around us.

The heart of God is broken by the pain of the world, by our pain. When we rest in that deep compassion, we see and are seen by the God who gives us the grace of true sight.

True sight looks with love and compassion on the whole world. True sight sees the invisible suffering in our own midst, on our own street corners, among our own fellow-parishioners, in those who pluck up the courage to come among us, in those whom we ourselves might meet if we pluck up our own courage and go from here with our eyes opened by the compassionate Christ.

“My teacher, let me see again.

Let me see, good and loving Lord, your eyes of mercy upon us. Let me be lost without fear or shrinking in the depths of compassion I see in your gaze. Let me see that, like blind Bartimaeus in the Gospel, I too am blind, to those around me who struggle in silence, to those from whom I turn my own gaze lest they disturb my serenity. Let me see my own poverty and loneliness and pain, Lord, so that I may understand anew how to be patient and compassionate with each person who also walks the way of struggle and of pain.

Let me see the goodness of those who love in the midst of pain, who find the way to reach beyond their own pain and weariness to care for others. Let me see that amidst the disillusion and discouragement of the world, your hand is at work and your heart beats still.

The divine mercy is so deep, the divine compassion is so boundless, and our need is so great, that all we can do is ask. To ask is to hope.

Out of all the crowd on the road out of Jericho, only Bartimaeus heard the Son of God say, “Tell him to come here.”

Elephant walk

Proper 24 B 2012
Isaiah 53:4-12
Psalm 91:9-16
Hebrews 5:1-10
Mark 10:35-45


How would you stop a mad elephant?

Lawrence Anthony was a researcher and activist on behalf of African elephants. He worked in a large elephant preserve that he and other workers tried to guard from poachers.

Many of the elephants did not appreciate being penned up in the preserve. Often they would break out in the most ingenious ways. Once outside, the elephants are legally considered “rogues”, and rogue elephants may be killed without penalty.

Once day the electrified fence signaled another breakout. Lawrence drove alone to that sector and found the most fierce and intelligent elephant of the preserve, a wild female and head of her herd, bashing down the electric fence so she could lead her herd out of the compound. This elephant was known to have a quick temper and a very aggressive nature.

Lawrence had no tranquilizer gun and no backup, and only a fence separating him from danger, a fence that was almost dismantled. On a fierce, loving impulse that surprised even him, he simply walked up to the rampaging elephant.

The elephant stopped her work to tear down the fence and stared at Lawrence fiercely. She trumpeted angrily and prepared to charge.

Lawrence stood his ground. He held out his arms with palms open to show he had no weapon. He opened his mouth and shouted, “NO! You can’t do that! If you leave, you will be killed! You can’t leave! Stay here. I will stay with you.”

The elephant and Lawrence stood near one another for several minutes, she trumpeting and menacing and he standing his ground, helpless if she chose to charge.

Finally, with one more stare and a toss of her trunk, the female turned and led her herd back into the safety of the preserve.

“Preserve the works of your mercy…”

Usually when we think of “preserving” anything, we try to make it invulnerable, safe from harm. We seal fruit and vegetables in airtight jars and call them “preserves.” We buy safe cars, we take out insurance policies, we save for a rainy day. We preserve our heads with bicycle helmets and preserve our buildings with alarm systems. We want to make ourselves invulnerable to being hurt, and keep from losing what we have.

But is this how God “preserves” what is most precious in God’s eyes? Is this the way of Jesus?

Isaiah presents a different vision of how God “preserves the works of his mercy.” We hear echoes of Holy Week in his haunting words, “Surely he has born our griefs, and carried our diseases…upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed.” The power of God comes to us, not in a powerful and invulnerable leader, but in a very vulnerable form, in the form of someone who suffered as we do, who did not shield himself from the violence and abuse that the cruel and the threatened dished out. We are tempted to think of our Savior as all-powerful and never losing his calm and assurance, but that is not the Gospel we have been given. “In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission.” The Son of God knew not only pain but also fear and anxiety, and he prayed for himself and for deliverance from suffering.

This is how new life has come into the world. What about us? Jesus’ question to James and John is meant for us as well. “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?" The difference between a mere fan of Jesus and a disciple of Jesus is out willingness to have our life look more like his. So serve, as he did. Walk in the world as he did. Seek the way of Jesus, the way of the Cross, the way of openness and vulnerability. It is the way of true peace.

I am not advocating leaving here to cancel our insurance policies of throw out our bicycle helmets. But in our lives we do not get to keep to ourselves anything we have been given, not even our sense of assurance and peace. Instead we are to serve as he served, will what he wills, and not belong to our anxieties and fears. As a church the way to a future that is “safe” is not to try and hug to ourselves what little we think we now have. The way that God wishes to “preserve the works of his mercy” is not to draw a wall around ourselves, but to risk giving our lives away, to meet the stranger and the outcast, to be with those in pain and desolation. In the strange world of the Gospel, we stay safe by taking risks and becoming vulnerable.

Lawrence continued his strange work with the wild elephants, making himself vulnerable over and over again with them, especially when they were angry or frightened. They never became cuddly pets or tame elephants, and he never treated them with anything but the respect that a wild creature deserves. Lawrence suddenly died of a heart attack. His body was laid out in his own research facility. Only hours after his death, the rest of the staff was startled by the appearance of two wild elephant herds who came into the research compound. They stayed, and for two strange days the researchers went about their business threading their way between wild elephants whom they would never approach normally, who never made a threatening gesture towards any human there. Then the elephants quietly drifted away. An elephant wake perhaps? One thing is sure—the elephants honored the one who risked his life to be vulnerable to them so that he might save some. So did the Son of God. And so are we to do, if we wish to follow in his footsteps.

Grace before and behind

Proper 22 B 2012
Amos 5:6-7,10-15; Psalm 90:12-17; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31


G.K. Chesterton, famous Roman Catholic author of last century, faced those who pointed out how distant was the life of the Church, comfortable and established, from the teaching of Jesus. Christianity has failed, they said. Chesterton replied that Christianity had not failed. Christianity has simply never been tried.

I think Chesterton probably agreed with gentle Mahatma Ghandi, who once said that he loved Jesus Christ but he was not sure if he had ever met a Christian. Remember that Ghandi lived in an India with plenty of English Anglicans in residence, and in charge.

We hear again the Gospel story of the rich man who wants to be, really wants to be, a disciple of Jesus. You would think that Jesus would welcome this man to his circle of followers—he’s enthusiastic, sincere, devout, a good-hearted soul. Since Jesus and his circle of traveling disciples needed financial support, we might call it “strategic” for Jesus to make it easy for this man to join the group. If Jesus were the average Episcopal rector, he would have paid an early newcomer call on this guy and invited him quickly to brunch! “Oh yes, the pledge card is right there under your plate!”

But no—Jesus would have flunked those seminars that teach clergy how to make it easy for newcomers to join your church. Instead, there is one more obstacle, one more requirement—“go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me."

How hard it is to enter the Kingdom of God!

Today, if we are blessed, we hear these words as if for the very first time. For we church-people they are a shock. Jesus’ stark words spice up the bitter broth that the prophet Amos serves up: “O you who turn justice to wormwood, and bring righteousness to the ground…you trample on the poor.” In an uncertain economy, when all of us know people who have lost jobs, lost homes to foreclosure, his words have a chilling contemporary ring:

you have built houses of hewn stone,
but you shall not live in them;
you have planted pleasant vineyards,
but you shall not drink their wine.

Truly “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”

Today when we hear these powerful, confrontational words, we can choose to shrug them off as words from an age not our own. Or, we can take shelter in the assurance that Amos and the Lord Jesus are speaking about someone else. They are talking about those truly rich people who live in another part of town (and we know where; it’s always a part of town other than our own). Or they are talking about truly bad and brutal people who obviously love their riches more than God and who obviously grind poor people’s faces into the ground. If we do any of these, however, we risk becoming disciples of the man in the Gospel who “goes away sad” after hearing Jesus. We risk concluding that the fierce, seductive teaching of the Bible and of Jesus is not really meant for us.

Or we can do something else.

We can lay bare our souls and lives to the Spirit of the living God and allow the Spirit to search our hearts and motivations. We can risk that we are the same as those disciples who hear the conversation between Jesus and the rich man and who react in horror: "Then who can be saved?" "Look, we have left everything and followed you." Look, we have showed up here week after week, month after month, year after year, Mass after Mass, Vestry meeting after Vestry meeting. We have served this church, we have given of time and talent and treasure. We have even served the poor at Brigid’s Table or Rahab’s Sisters. What did it all mean? Did it get us anywhere?

The answers come as freely as the challenges—“For God all things are possible.” “We have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens”…who has passed through everything we have, who understands our fears and our questions and even our quiet failings. Grace goes before us, grace follows after as the Collect says. Those who leave their old life to live my new life on the road will receive richly, says Jesus. Life on the road is not one smooth journey. It has potholes and stops, wrong turns and falls.

But grace goes before us, grace follows after. Always we begin again. We begin again together with one another—the Church is a gathering of people who are not afraid to begin again. Only those who hear the hard words and dare to ask the hard questions and who wait to hear the hard answers will move more deeply into the life of Jesus, into the mystery of the Gospel. But grace goes before us, grace follows after.

The power of daily Office

This long but very rich post by Derek Olsen, given at a conference of the Episcopal Fellowship of Catholic Priests conference in Baltimore. Daily Office--its indispensable power to shape and form our conscience as a people of God and of justice...

The 14th century devotional treatise The Mirror of our Lady recounts one particular edifying story. A Cistercian Abbot went into the choir one morning to sing the office of matins. As he stood singing his office, he saw a devil walking to and fro among his monks with a large bag tied around his neck. He seemed to be catching things coming from the monks’ mouths and stuffing them into his bag. When the devil came to the Abbot, the Abbot asked, “who are you?” The devil replied, “I am just a lowly Devil named Titivullus, and I must perform the office given to me.” “And what office is that?” asked the Abbot. The devil explained, “I must bring my master 1000 bags a day full of failings, unsaid or mis-said words that occur in reading or singing from your order or else I will be severely beaten!” From this point, the mirror goes on to talk about the importance of diligence in the office. However, I’m sure that at some point, some wise Cistercian teacher has pulled the moral out of the story in an easy and memorable form: “beat the Devil: be attentive!” This was probably accompanied with the helpful illustration—verbal or otherwise—of the poor demon Titivullus getting wailed on with a stick by a bigger and meaner demon because all of the Cistercians sang their offices well and he missed his quota again! “Beat the Devil: be attentive!”
If you don't remember anything else that I say today, I want you to remember that: “beat the devil: be attentive.” Of course, these days, there's no way that Titivullus could get the job done; I imagine instead whole sets of infernal landscaping crews with blowers and mowers gathering up the words and paragraphs and pages left unsaid, drifting like blizzards in the chancels and choirs of our churches today. And that is a shame.
When people think of Anglo-Catholics or Anglo-Catholicism or even Catholic Anglicans, they tend to think of vestments and smoke and sacraments, clusters of candles, and racks of rosaries; the daily office – not so much. And yet, the daily office is a central liturgical discipline that grounds so much of what we do. The Mass and the Office are not alternatives, they are complements. To cleave to the Catholic faith East and West is to give the daily office the honor and the attention – and the attentiveness – that it is due.
The two public rites of the church – the holy Eucharist and the daily office – have the same primary purpose: the worship and glorification of God. And that always has to be kept central. But the secondary purposes are different. The Eucharist is mystigogical and leads us into the heart of the mystery of Christ. The office is catechetical and instructs and forms us in the foundations of the faith. Now, you might be wondering… The dominant theme of our time together is the Anglo-Catholic social tradition. So why am I taking up time talking about the office? (Or, as I’ve heard some Episcopal clergy say, why are you spending your time talking about prayer when you should be talking about justice issues!) It's because the Anglo-Catholic social conscience must be formed, it must be crafted, and the distinctive characteristic that differentiates a secular drive for a just society from one formed in the Catholic Anglican tradition is the process and method of its formation. The greatest tool that we have for molding a Christian social conscience is Scripture itself, and more particularly, the attentive practice of the daily office.
The wellspring of the Western liturgical tradition and particularly the monastic practices that have nourished it is the concept that the liturgy provides an ordered and bordered encounter with Scripture. Again, the liturgy provides an ordered and bordered encounter with Scripture .This is true of the Eucharist, it's even more true of the office. It was true of the Sarum offices that the reformers received, and the Anglican offices received an additional infusion from Cranmer’s own Protestant love of the Scriptures.
Alright, so what do I mean by ordered and bordered? When I say “Ordered”, I mean that the Scriptures are laid out in a sequential pattern that provides maximal coverage of their contents, and this pattern is repeated on a set basis. In his preface to the 1549 Book of Common Prayer, Cranmer explicitly refers to the 9th century monastic legislation stipulating that the whole Scriptures should be read every year during the Night Office. Anything that didn’t get read in the Night Office would be read to the monks at mealtimes to make sure it got done. Cranmer’s own scheme attempted to echo this earlier monastic goal. By having four readings a day—two at each office—and making each one a chapter in length, he set up a pattern where the New Testament with the exception of the Book of Revelation would be read through three times every year, and the Old Testament would be read through once (excepts for some sections of Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, and Ezekiel. And a few other bits. Even when a Protestant says “All of Scripture” he doesn’t really mean it…!). These days, our prayer book lectionary uses shorter readings and only three of them so, when used faithfully, we’ll get through the majority of Scripture every two years. There are two main purposes for this ordering of Scripture. First, it gives you that foundational familiarity with the text. When you hear just a snippet at Mass, then you’ll recognize it, and know where it goes and have a sense of what all is happening around it. Second, it’s not enough to get this grounding once. Rather, it’s repeated year after year after year. It’s formational. We don’t just get to know the Scriptures, we get saturated in them. So—that’s what I mean when I say that the Scriptures are “ordered.”
Ok—so, what do I mean by “bordered?” By “bordered” I mean that we don’t get handed the Scriptures flatly. Instead, we are given—through the Offices—a set of interpretive lenses that direct our reading and hearing of these texts. The Church year is one of these lenses; the seasons bring their own perspectives on the Scriptures. But so are the texts that we place around them. In the Sarum days before Cranmer, a variety of antiphons used to help facilitate this goal. Lines brought in from other parts of Scripture—or repetition of a significant verse—would open a new perspective, slightly shift the way that you heard a familiar text. However, the Refromation did away with most of these in the name of simplification. The texts that we repeat the most are the ones that guide us in everything else. In both the classical structure of the Daily Offices and in our Anglican, and particularly Episcopal, adaptation of it, the most important lenses that direct and shape our encounter with the rest of Scripture are the psalms and the canticles. These Scriptural songs give us our main interpretive entre into everything else that we encounter in the Offices. Through their repetition, we are given the hermeneutical keys to unlock the rest of Scripture and, in turn, to form us into a catholic social conscience. The psalms and canticles give us borders that help guide our reading of everything else.
Remember when we were talking about “ordered” and I said that we go through the Scriptures in a pattern that’s measured in years? St Benedict’s Rule laid down for the Western Church the common monastic tradition of going through all 150 psalms every week and he allowed that as a concession to the weakness of his day because it was said that real monks used to go through all of them every day. In Cranmer’s adaptation, he scaled it back even further and put the psalms on a one-month cycle, and that’s what we have in our prayer book. Actually, the official Daily Office lectionary uses a seven-week cycle but the monthly version is found written into the body of the psalter itself. Different orders around the church do it different ways as well; while the Brotherhood of St Gregory and the Order of Julian of Norwich both use the monthly cycle, the Order of the Holy Cross go through it every two weeks like many of their Roman Catholic brethren. No matter if you’re on a one-week or seven-week cycle, that’s a lot of psalms and a lot of repetition of a lot of psalms and so their particular perspective on the Scriptures end up influencing (whether subtlety or obviously) everything else that we read.
And if that’s so for the psalms, it’s doubly true for the canticles. While our current book has multiplied our options, there’s a select set that from the time of Benedict in the fifth century have been prayed daily that has shaped our understand of what the Gospel message is all about: The song of Mary, the Song of Zechariah, the Song of Simeon, the Song of the Three Young Men, and the Te Deum sometimes called the Song of Augustine and Ambrose are key texts for us.
Thus: The Catholic Anglican tradition sees the Mass and Office in continuity with one another. The Mass is mystagogical, the Office is catechetical. The Office gives us an ordered and bordered encounter with Scripture. We go through most of it in two years and the chief interpretive lenses that the Office provides for directing our understanding of Scripture as a whole are the psalms and the canticles.
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The reason the psalter was chosen for its constant repetition in the Office is because it has been recognized from the time of the Early Church as unique among the books of the Bible. One of the clearest expositions of this comes from Athanasius in his letter on the Psalms to Marcellinus where he pulls out two characteristics in particular. The first special characteristic of the psalms is that they are a microcosm of the rest of Scripture. Athanasius writes: “Each book of the Bible has, of course, its own particular message—[and he goes on to list what some of those are]— Each of these books, you see, is like a garden which grows one kind of special fruit; by contrast, the Psalter is a garden which, besides its special fruit, grows also some of those of all the rest. [And then he goes on to connect a wide variety of psalms to events in the historical books of the Old Testament.] You see then, that all the subjects mentioned in the historical books are mentioned also in one Psalm or another; but when we come to the matters of which the Prophets speak we find that these occur in almost all.” Here, of course, Athanasius is talking about witnesses to Christ, and he offers another long section where he connects the psalms up to a long list of items from the birth, life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. Of course, these days we not only recognize that the psalms contain messianic passages that the Church properly associated with Jesus but also that the Evangelists themselves used both passages and themes from the psalms in their own constructions of the Gospel narratives. So the psalms really do act as a microcosm. They contain all of the major genres of Old Testament writing from histories, to wisdom, to legal material, to prophetic curses and destruction oracles, as well as promises of hope and salvation, and also both represent and prefigure a host of New Testament themes—recalling that the New Testament quotes more from the Psalms than any other book of the Old Testament.
Now, having said that, we need to recognize the necessary corollary; if the psalms are a microcosm of Scripture, if they represent a summary of Scripture, a condensation of Scripture, then they have to be profoundly interpretive. When you summarize something, it means that you’re pulling out the key points. There’s not space for everything so the central items get selected for summarizing. Thus, the psalms don’t just summarize things, they put their own particular spin on them, they infuse them with their own particular angle such that when we encounter these out in the wider Bible, our perspective has already been shaped by the approach that the psalms have taken in highlighting what’s of primary importance.
So, the first special characteristic of the psalms is that they are a microcosm of the rest of Scripture. The second special characteristic of the psalms is their focus on interiority—they speak to the inner life of the individual and the community more consistently than any other set of texts. Athanasius says it this way:
Among all the books, the Psalter has certainly a very special grace, a choiceness of quality well worthy to be pondered; for, besides the characteristics which it shares with others, it has this peculiar marvel of its own, that within it are represented and portrayed in all their great variety the movements of the human soul. It is like a picture, in which you see yourself portrayed and, seeing, may understand and consequently form yourself upon the pattern given. Elsewhere in the Bible you read only that the Law commands this or that be done, you listen to the prophets to learn about the Saviour’s coming or you turn to the historical books to learn the doings of the kings and holy men; but in the Psalter, besides all of these things, you learn about yourself.
You find depicted in it all the movements of your soul, all its changes, its ups and downs, its failures and recoveries. Moreover, whatever your particular need or trouble, from this same book you can select a form of words to fit it, so that you do not merely hear and then pass on, but learn the way to remedy your ill. Prohibitions of evil-doing are plentiful in Scripture, but only the Psalter tells you how to obey these orders and refrain from sin. Repentance, for example, is enjoined repeatedly; but to repent means to leave off sinning, and it is the Psalms that show you how to set about repenting and with what words your penitence may be expressed.
So, here Athanasius is pointing to the personal and interior quality of the Psalms. No other book of Scripture—with the sole exception of Job—contains such intimate expressions of personal feeling. Not only intimate but uncensored as well in ways that sometimes both shock and offend us. Of course, as Athanasius reminds us, what shocks and offends may be a reflection of what we do not wish to see in ourselves.
That’s the second special characteristic of the psalms, the emphasis upon interiority. And indeed, this is one of the ways that the psalms place their own interpretive spin on the other biblical material. Sometimes the psalms give a flat account of something: In the beginning God created stuff. But far more often, the psalms embedded their summarization of other biblical events into personal or communal pleas: God, we’re having a really hard time right now. Hey—remember that time in creation, when you created all of that stuff? We could really use you to do something like that for us now. The psalms don’t just recall the mighty acts of God, they show us how, in prayer, we remind both ourselves and God himself of the mighty acts done on behalf of our ancestors and gives us the courage and the boldness to beseech God’s mercy for mighty acts here and now.
Thus—those are two reasons coming from the Early Church why the psalms get such a special place: they’re a microcosm of the rest of Scripture, and they also give us a particular view of the internal spiritual life of the people of God.
Alright—so, the forming of the catholic social conscience. Which is what we’re here to talk about… Through our attentive practice of the Daily Office, the psalms and canticles of the Office give us an interpretive lens through which we experience the rest of Scripture. There are three fundamental concepts within the psalter that are crucial and inescapable elements of the catholic social conscience. First, they show us the center—that is, they define a reality where all creation is oriented towards God and participates together in the mutual worship of God. Second, they emphasize the rule of law—that is, they emphasize that justice is a key attribute of God and that justice, righteousness, and equity must be central values for us because they flow directly from the identity of God himself. Third, they form us in the habit of empathy because they place in our mouths the words of the poor, the marginalized, the oppressed, and they invite us to see the world through those eyes, and to recognize the injustices seen through those eyes. I’ll unpack each of these in turn.
First, once again, they show us the center —that is, they define a reality where all creation is oriented towards God and participates together in the mutual worship of God. We see this most clearly in the lauds psalms—147 to 150—and in the Te Deum and the Song of the Three Young Men. The Song of the Three Young Men, the Benedicite, is a 2nd century BC or so expansion of Psalm 148 that calls sequentially upon all parts of the created order to praise God: “O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.” Then we proceed from the Cosmic Order with the angels, the heavens, the sun, moon, showers and dews, frost and cold, nights and days to the Earth and its creatures with the mountains and hills, the whales and all that move in the waters, the fowls of the air, the beasts and cattle and finally proceed to the people of God, the priests of the Lord, the servants of the Lord, the spirits and souls of the righteous. This is nothing less than a doxological ontology: things have and persist in existence to the degree that they recognize and praise the Creator who created them. There is a center, there is a source, there is a stable point around which everything else that is anchored. And it is God. God himself has made us and not we ourselves.
This is a crucial point in establishing a social conscience of any kind. There is something greater. There is something beyond us and beyond our desires to which we are accountable. Our desires and appetites, the desires and appetites of those who currently hold political, economic, or social power, stand accountable to something greater, to something more permanent, more stable and more real than they are—than we are. It is from this place and in orientation to this reality that we are able to offer a critique of existing systems—even existing systems within which we find ourselves ensnared. We renew this orientation in our acts of worship and praise. As Evelyn Underhill reminds us, the heart of true worship is adoration: she writes, "For worship is an acknowledgement of Transcendence; that is to say, of a Reality independent of the worshipper, which is always more or less deeply coloured by mystery, and which is there first." This adoration, this acknowledgement of Transcendence, this reality independent of ourselves of which Underhill speaks is the pure and unadulterated praise that we find ourselves called to in the psalms: “Kings of the earth and all peoples, princes and all rulers of the world; Young men and maidens, old and young together. Let them praise the Name of the Lord, for his name only is exalted, his splendor is over earth and heaven.” Notice that the political powers here get put on notice. But the psalms are happy to get even more explicit than that: “Praise the Lord, O my Soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live; I will sing praises to my God while I have my being. Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, for there is no help in them. When they breathe their last, they return to the earth, and in that day their thoughts perish. Happy are those who have the God of Jacob for their help! Whose hope is in the Lord their God; Who made heaven and earth, the seas, and all that is in them; who keeps his promise forever…” The very strong message here is that all—all—political powers and systems are transitory and ephemeral in the face of God and in the face of the reality that endures beyond even the full span of creation. There is a standard—and you ain’t it.
The other part of this is that as all creation persists and perdures in and through its ceaseless praise of God, all of creation stands as fellow witness with us to the creating Word. When we despoil and disdain the created order and fail in its stewardship with which we have been tasked, we presume to cease that which is not ours to silence. As we diminish creation, the universal song of praise to God is likewise diminished.
So—that’s the first concept in the psalms and canticles for the formation of a catholic social conscience: they show us the center—that is, they define a reality where all creation is oriented towards God and participates together in the mutual worship of God. We stand rightly within this order when we join in acknowledging God as the center and ground of all being and when we offer the respect due to our fellow witnesses to the glory of God.
The second fundamental concept in the psalms and canticles is that they emphasize the rule of law—that is, they emphasize that justice is a key attribute of God and that justice, righteousness, and equity must be central values for us because they flow directly from the identity of God himself. One of the things that’s so fascinating about this is how often we see it in direct relation to the first—the worship of God flows directly into praise for his justice: “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness; let the whole earth stand in awe of him. For he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth, and with righteousness to judge the world and the peoples with his truth.” For those of us who pray the Morning Office in Rite I we hear these words almost every morning. It’s composed of two snippets from Psalm 96 that have been grafted onto the end of Psalm 95. And that’s entirely appropriate because these two psalms form part of a block from 93 to 99 that celebrate God as king and that underscore this tight connection between the universal praise of God and the universal justice of God. Thus we get the end of 96: “Tell it out among the nations: The Lord is King! He has made the world so firm that it cannot be moved; he will judge the peoples with equity. Let the heavens rejoice and let the earth be glad; let the sea thunder and all that is in it; let the field be joyful and all that is therein. Then shall all the trees of the wood shout for joy before the Lord when he comes, when he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world with righteousness and the peoples with his truth.”
The end of Psalm 98 resounds with the same theme: “Shout with joy to the Lord, all you lands; lift up your voice, rejoice, and sing. Sing to the Lord with the harp, with the harp and the voice of song. With trumpets and the sound of the horn shout with joy before the King, the Lord. Let the sea make a noise and all that is in it, the lands and those who dwell therein. Let the rivers clap their hands, and let the hills ring out with joy before the Lord, when he comes to judge the earth. In righteousness shall he judge the world and the peoples with equity.”
One word on this judgment language: We Christians can sometimes hear this with the wrong ears and take this the wrong way. In so many of our traditions, judgment is about sin and you’re always going to come out on the short end of the stick, and thus the judgment of God is something to be feared rather than rejoiced over. (Why are the trees so darned happy about this? Do they really hate me that much?) C. S. Lewis in his writings on the psalms gives us a very helpful frame of reference to better hear this as the good news that it is. He says that too often we hear judgment and think of it as a criminal proceeding where God is going to put us in the dock and find against us. The judgment here in the Psalter, however, is best thought of as a civil case—it’s a property matter. The world is not as it should be. Things are not the way that God intended. The resources of the land and seas, the bounty of the earth are not distributed as they ought. The good news here, the reason why the trees and woods and floods rejoice is that God is going to set things to right. The goods that God intends for us will be apportioned as he designed. This judgment is good news because of the justice and equity of God.
Implicit in this judgment, however, is that there are those who are taking more than their appointed share. There are individuals and cliques and powers and systems that accrue benefits to themselves that were intended for others. Remember that psalm we mentioned a second ago, the one that said, “put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth”? The first half of that psalm which I quoted is a call to the praise of God; the second half hammers this point home: “Happy are those who have the God of Jacob for their help! Whose hope is in the Lord their God; Who made heaven and earth, the seas and all that is in them; who keeps his promise forever; Who gives justice to the oppressed and food to those who hunger. The Lord sets the prisoners free, the Lord opens the eyes of the blind; the Lord lifts us those who are bowed down; the Lord loves the righteous; the Lord cares for the stranger; he sustains the orphan and widow, but frustrates the way of the wicked. The Lord shall reign for ever, your God, O Zion, throughout all generations. Hallelujah!”
From here, of course, it’s a clear and easy jump to the Song of Our Lady that has grounded Evening Prayer for lo these many centuries: “He hath showed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things and the rich he hath sent away empty.”
The justice and equity that stands as a primary characteristic of God must be a plumb-line for us as well. The justice and equity of God demand that we insist upon and advocate for the just rule of law. Rule of law is a very simple concept: it’s the notion that there is a system of standards that apply equally to everybody. The rules are the same for everybody. No matter your power or your prestige. That’s equity. Now, I’m a privileged 21st century American. This culture is all I know and every once in a while I need to be reminded that the way I live and the justice system that I take for granted is an anomaly within the long stretch of human history. This way of life is the exception—not the norm. When I taught preaching at Emory’s Candler School of Theology, one of the best sermons that I heard in my four years of teaching was from a Nigerian Anglican priest working through a passage from Deuteronomy—it was a celebration of and a stirring call for the rule of law. Which is tenuous at best in his homeland. It opened my eyes. I can assume it. We can assume it. And when we start assuming it is when we stop safeguarding it. The justice of God, the equity of God demands that we open our eyes to ensure that the rule of law is being carried out even in our remarkably well-run systems here in America and Canada. The psalms insist on God’s concern for the widow, the orphan, the stranger, the blind and disabled—in short, those who had no voice or power and thus no recourse to justice in the patriarchal and often capricious justice of the first millennium BC. Our own social conscience is formed and aligned with the Scriptural witness when we ensure that the poor and marginalized in our communities are receiving their just due under law. That the justice modeled by God is being practiced by our courts and systems. In the grand scheme of human history, it’s only fair to say that they’re doing a much better job than they could be and yet they still fall far short of God’s vision for justice.
The Scriptures speak of sin, and our own lives can attest to its reality and power. Thanks to the enduring power of sin we must be watchful lest those in positions of power and privilege use their prerogatives for oppression. Vested systems of power, whether that be in governments or corporations or the church itself, need to be held accountable to the rule of law and the demands of both justice and equity that it requires. This attention, this attentiveness, is part of the preferential option for the poor that has driven so much of Roman Catholic social teaching in the 20th century.
So—that’s my second point: the psalms and canticles emphasize the rule of law—that is, they emphasize that justice is a key attribute of God and that justice, righteousness, and equity must be central values for us because they flow directly from the identity of God himself.
The third key concept for a catholic social conscience from the psalms is that they form us in the habit of empathy because they place in our mouths the words of the poor, the marginalized, the oppressed, and they invite us to see the world through those eyes, and to recognize the injustices seen through those eyes.
I’m an educated straight white male from the American middle class, meaning that I’m in the upper class globally, with a steady paying job and a house that my wonderful wife lets me live in. I’ve got it good. And that’s who I am. I can’t be anyone other than who I am. These combined conditions can create a perspective that assumes that everyone has had and will have the same advantages that I have. But how do I get a clearer picture of the world as it really is and as it is experienced by the millions and billions who have not had the advantages I have? So how do I transcend myself? How do I raise myself out of my cultural ghetto for a broader and more informed view of the realities of the world? Certainly, travel, seeking out the experiences of others, directly serving the poor and the homeless and addicted at the South Baltimore Station with my parish are all good things. But these experiences are magnified and aided by the daily reminders tucked into the psalms about life in a situation far, far different from mine.
Old Testament scholar John Day calls the individual lament psalms the “backbone of the Psalter.” Depending on how you classify them, almost one third of the psalms, 46 of them fall into this category. If you add in another thirteen or so communal laments we’re definitely at over a third and quite a lot of the individual and communal thanksgiving psalms start from a situation of need and desperation. When we pray these psalms, we take into our mouths the pleas, complaints, and cries of those who know oppression, who have experienced loss and injustice. Sometimes the laments are familiar to us. Sometimes they offer us comfort because we recognize in a voice almost three thousand years old a shared experience of betrayal or attack. At other times they imaginatively invite us into these experiences and challenge us to relate to them. They engage our empathy, then require us to exercise it, to stretch it, to understand the world in a different way, to see life through other sets of eyes, eyes that have seen things that many of us here have not seen and, honestly, that I earnestly pray we never see.
One of the hardest sets of psalms to wrestle with are those we refer to as the imprecatory psalms, the cursing psalms. And even bits that make us recoil pop up in some of the other, nicer, psalms. If you’re curious which ones these might be, all you have to do is take at the Daily Office lectionary in the back of your prayer book. They’re the psalms that are marked as optional; they’re the verses that have parenthesis around them to let you know that you don’t really have to read them. I want to take a look at one of these. I want to invite us to consider this psalm from an empathetic point of view.
Psalm 137 starts out so beautifully. In fact, the whole first section of it is a favorite of many people. Furthermore, my sources from the generation before me tell me that there was even a very popular folk song based off of it: “By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered you, O Zion. As for our harps we hung them up on the trees in the midst of that land. For those who led us away captive asked us for a song, and our oppressors called for mirth: “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” How shall we sing the Lord’s song upon an alien soil? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill. Let me tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.”
There you go—beautiful, plaintive, a true cry from the heart. Then we get these verses:
Remember the day of Jerusalem, O Lord, against the people of Edom, who said “Down with it! Down with it! Even to the ground!” O Daughter of Babylon doomed to destruction, happy the one who pays you back for what you have done to us! Happy shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!”
We’re shocked and offended by these verses. Is that seriously in the Bible? Certain atheists take joy at pointing out the horrible sentiment expressed here at the joy of baby killing and offer it up as an example of the warped mentalities of religion.
A little context is helpful here. This psalm dates shortly after 587 BC when the Babylonian armies sacked Jerusalem for a second time. They’d already been there ten years earlier when Judah rebelled against their Babylonian overlords. The first time, many of the leaders (including the prophet Ezekiel) were taken off into exile in Babylon as a warning against further revolts. The rulers of Judah didn’t listen and they didn’t learn. They revolted again and the second time the Babylonian retribution was unrelenting. The city was entirely leveled to the ground, the Temple was utterly destroyed. The vast majority of the population was put to the sword and those who survived were taken to Babylon in chains. The Babylonian client states in the region were welcome to whatever was left behind and Edom in particular savaged the refugees. The book of Lamentations gives a more sustained sense of the devastation and despair while the oft-overlooked book of Obadiah explains in detail Edom’s betrayal of Jerusalem and calls an oracle of wrath upon them for their actions.
That’s the background of Psalm 137; that’s the experience of these singers who refusing to sing a song of joy in their captors’ land. In short, they are wishing against Edom and Babylon the horrors already visited upon their homes, their families, their children. So—is that an excuse, does that experience make these lines ok? No—of course not. If you’re offended by these lines, then congratulations: that means your moral sense is intact. But what these lines should cause us to do is not to question the morality of God or the psalmist but to try and wrap our heads around the kind of horrific experiences out of which this kind of plea makes sense. I’ve never experienced the brutal sack of my homeland, and I pray I never will. I don’t want to understand this psalm. And yet, the stark reality of the situation is that there are multitudes of people around the world, both victims and veterans—some of whom are in our congregations—who understand this only too well.
When I take these words into my mouth, I am forced to consider what kind of experience that must be, what depths of pain would cause otherwise rational and faithful people to make this kind of plea to God. I have never had this experience of oppression, but the Psalter places it before my eyes, my heart, and my imagination. In praying these alien lines, I am forced into an exercise of empathy that will broaden my soul. Likewise I can say: “Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth. For the arrogant have risen up against me, the ruthless have sought my life, those who have no regard for God.” Or “My enemies are saying wicked things about me: When will he die, and his name perish?” Even if they come to see me, they speak empty words; their heart collects false rumors; they go outside and spread them. All my enemies whisper together about me and devise evil against me” or even “I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me.” While I cannot honestly claim these words as my own, I can imaginatively extend my own experiences of betrayal and trouble to better understand them, and as resources in my conversations with those who know them far more intimately than I. And that’s important too: I’m not trying to suggest that the regular praying of the psalms in the Office is a substitute for actually engaging the people in your communities in these situations. What I do believe, though, is that your encounters with them may well be aided as a result of this sort of diligent—attentive—empathetic exercise.
So that’s the third fundamental concept from the psalms: they form us in the habit of empathy because they place in our mouths the words of the poor, the marginalized, the oppressed, and they invite us to see the world through those eyes, and to recognize the injustices seen through those eyes.
A catholic social conscience is formed in a number of ways. However, I will contend that it must start with the Scriptures. Yes, healthy devotion to the Eucharist will lead to care and concern for the poor as well, but the connection between the two is mediated by Scripture. And, indeed, there have been many times and places where the social conscience has lagged far behind the devotion for want of that critical mediating term. A regular discipline of praying the Daily Office nourishes the soul with the psalms and canticles that have the potential, have the opportunity, to shape these concerns with in us and see aid us in seeing them more clearly throughout the rest of Scripture. When we allow the psalms to speak their wisdom to us, they will form in us the conviction that God is the center and the source by which all other systems and powers are critiqued; that the justice, righteousness, and equity that characterize God himself must be reflected in our societies and systems; that we can transcend ourselves and situations by exercising our empathy and broadening our souls to the experiences of others. But it doesn’t happen on its own. Simply running through the words isn’t enough. All of the catechetical and formational potential of the Daily Office, all of the potential of the Psalter and the canticles, all of the potential of the Scriptures is for nought without the discipline of attentiveness. “Beat the devil: be attentive.”
Praying the Office just every once in a while isn’t enough. It has to become a discipline. That doesn’t mean that if you miss it once you’re lost or anything, but its power lies in the force of habits. Habits of mind, habits of devotion, habits of thought. That’s what transforms us—patterns of life.
Same with the psalms. The benefits that we’ve talked about only occur with attentiveness. If you are not being attentive, then you could just as well be reading the sports page. It is only while reading these words with our minds and our hearts engaged, with our souls open to the movements of the Spirit, that they can unleash their potential to melt our hearts of stone.
It is only when we bring these habits of devotion, the wisdom gained from these words, together into a hurting world that the circuit becomes complete. The spiritual wisdom from the psalms and from the Office must impact our actions and our advocacy. We must translate in our very limbs what God is calling us to do. Behold—he says—I am making all things new. Behold, now it breaks forth, do you not perceive it? Well, we will—but only if we’re attentive.

Feeding the Five: Cat Healy's "despedida" before seminary

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. Amen.
I am not sure of the Episcopal Church’s doctrinal stance on karma, but having spent a dozen years of Catholic school quietly dozing through sermons, it seems only just that I will soon spend the rest of my life preaching them.
What does not seem just – or right – or believable – is that in order to do this, I have to leave this community behind. It’s hard for me to accept that today is the last time, at least for a while, that I will worship in this space. I moved to Portland at age 21 and found my way to Ss. Peter & Paul not long after. In every way, this church has helped me grow up.
Now, my wife and I are spending our last few days in our empty apartment before we leave for Boston, where I will begin divinity school in a few weeks. I don’t know the next time I will nap in the youth loft between services, fix a bookshelf with Kurt’s Swiss Army knife, or ask Tracy to solve all my problems on a Sunday morning at 9:58.
My life at this church has been about transformation in the midst of the mundane – about finding the Holy in between vestry meetings, or while mopping up spills behind the altar. To me, it seems a little incongruous to be leaving on the day when we celebrate two of the biggest, flashiest, showiest miracles in the New Testament. The “loaves and fishes” story is a staple of our culture. Maybe the only miracle that’s better known is the one John tells us about just afterwards: Jesus walking on water.
And you can make whatever you want of these beautiful, impossible stories, just as you can do with all the other miracles we profess every time we gather – from the virgin birth to the resurrection of the dead. No matter how deep and original our thinking, there are only so many ways to make sense of them. We can take it on faith: believe that it’s all true, that God works impossible miracles all the time. We can rationalize: In 2006, a researcher at Florida State published a paper on the “unusual freezing processes” in freshwater Galilee, positing that Jesus was actually walking on ice. We can bite our lips and believe that, no matter what kernels of truth might be found in the Bible, these stories are mostly made up.
Or maybe, we think: Sure, I can believe that all of it happened. But that was the age of miracles. Jesus was walking on the earth then. Things like that don’t happen anymore.
And to me, this option is the smoothest, the easiest, and the most dangerous, because it allows me just the right amount of belief: I can trust in God, but not too much. I can proclaim my faith, but not so loudly that it gets weird.
The feeding of the five thousand captures my imagination as much as the next person’s, as does the classic picture of Jesus walking on the stormy sea. But I wonder if these stories have ruined us for miracles.
The Gospels are so short, compared to the fullness of the life of Jesus; they’re not a biography so much as an album of greatest hits. If we believe that the age of miracles is over, I wonder if it’s because we keep on looking for those hit singles. In the workings of God, we expect dazzle and flash. We want healing to be spontaneous, not slow and steady. We want change to be glorious, not gradual.
We want the feeding of the five thousand. Not the feeding of the five.
But think about the miracle stories that never made it into the Gospel canon – not because they were too controversial, but because they seemed too small.
Think of what we might find if we went looking for the miracles Jesus worked in the lives of his disciples: the transformation in the midst of the mundane.
Maybe we would hear about Philip’s slow recovery from an old injury that caused him chronic pain.
Maybe we would hear the miracle of Mary Magdalene’s first thirty days of sobriety.
The miracle of Andrew and Peter healing old scars from sibling turf wars, and finally becoming friends.
Maybe we would hear a story about the feeding of the five.
Believing that the age of miracles is happening right now, that the Spirit moves within us and Jesus walks beside us and that these things can change our lives, is terrifying.
It reeks of trusting God too much.
But if I think about my own life and then my life at Ss. Peter & Paul, the people I have met here and the stories I have heard, I know I have been a witness to miracles.
And if we don’t look for miracles, think of all that we miss.
No matter how strong our imagination, how broad our knowledge, and how deep our faith, it’s a struggle even to begin imagining “the breadth and length and height and depth … [of] all the fullness of God.” And this is why Paul writes of “him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.”
We imagine Jesus on an ice floe because we can’t imagine walking on water.
We imagine the loaves and fishes as an exaggeration, because we can’t imagine feeding five thousand people with a few loaves of bread.
When we try to imagine the workings of God in our own lives, what are we settling for?
In the last two weeks, I’ve quit my job, packed my house, and prepared to rip my life up by the roots, so it could be that I’m more willing than usual to rely on the fullness of God. But even if your own life is relatively stable, I invite you to explore the parts of it that could use a little strengthening from the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.
You may want to open your door to miracles. You never know what might come in.

The face of love

Let us pray - May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. Amen.

On this, my last Sunday with you (can you believe that it has been nine months already), I cannot miss the opportunity to start with some words of thanks. First, I must say thank you to Fr. Kurt, Fr. John and Deacon Tracy for their patience and graciousness in leading and mentoring me. Their willingness to include me in the liturgies of the church has been a key factor in my professional development and I am extremely grateful to all three of them. I also must thank the lectors and sub-deacons, all of whom generously shared their duties with me; your kindness has been much appreciated. Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the entire congregation on behalf of the whole Wall family your hospitality made us feel like members of the parish family from our first Sunday here and the six of us will miss being with you very much. Thank you to all of you for making us feel so at home. Here endeth the thank-yous.

The French Creole of Louisiana introduced the idea of lagniappe to American culture, a word that Wikipedia defines as “something given or obtained gratuitously or by way of good measure” or in other words, a little something extra. I bring this up only because that is how I will always remember my time at Saints Peter and Paul. When the diocese directed me here for my field education, I expected to learn about the art and science of being an Episcopal priest; I expected that my time here would be a valuable but routine step in my journey towards ordination. What I didn’t expect was the lagniappe that awaited me here. What was that little something extra, you ask? Well, it was the complete transformation of my understanding of the love of Christ in the Episcopal Church and in the world. I have been an Episcopalian my whole life and attended more churches than I can count. In all that experience, I have seen congregations that volunteer to help at soup kitchens and homeless shelters, who raise money for far-flung causes and send parishioners on mission trips to exotic places, all of which are honorable and Godly Christian pursuits. But, here at Saints Peter and Paul, we are not insulated from human suffering in the way that many other parishes are, we are enmeshed in the kingdom of God, warts and all and it is a gift that we joyfully embrace. This congregation’s authentic, tangible and intentional witness to the Gospel is that little something extra that has transformed my understanding of the real meaning of the love of Christ in the world.

We have heard a great deal about love lately. The compilers of the lectionary were single minded when selecting the readings for these middle three weeks of the Easter season and so we have heard a lot about love – a whole lot. Mother Karen gave her spin on the topic two weeks ago, Father Kurt took his shot last week and now here I am, the least qualified of the group, looking to tie up the loose ends. The word love is mentioned 75 times in the Gospels and 148 times in the epistles, by comparison the concept of forgiveness shows up only 56 times in the whole New Testament. Make no mistake, Christ intended love to be the defining characteristic of his followers.

The 1 John passage tells us that to love God is to obey the commandments. In the Gospel reading, Jesus tells us that his commandment is to love each other as he loved us. The Synoptic Gospels further elaborate on the importance of love saying that “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. ’This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matt 22:36-40). So what does all this love talk mean?


Whereas the English language uses the word love to express a broad range of affectionate feelings, in biblical Greek there were four different words for love. There was storge love, or the affection between family members. There was eros, the passionate love shared by a couple, philia the dispassionate, sisterly and brotherly love of friends and, finally, agape, the unconditional love of the Christian family. All the talk of love that we have heard over the last several weeks is of the agape variety and it is not as warm and fuzzy as you might imagine.

Joseph Fletcher, a 20th century Christian ethicist wrote, “We can say properly that Christian love is a matter of loving the unlovable, the unlikable. Indeed, it is even more radical than that in its nonreciprocity and non-congeniality…. there is nothing sentimental about Christian love…. The radical obligation of the Christian ethic to love even the enemy implies unmistakably that every neighbor is not a friend and that some are just the opposite. But Christian love (which is not a matter of reciprocity at all) is agapeic – not erotic or philic. Love wills the neighbor’s good whether we like him or not” (Moral Responsibility, pg 20-21).

This is tough stuff. The ramifications of this kind of love are paradoxical, even mind-boggling. Each of us can likely conjure up the image of a person that disturbs us, or makes us feel angry and ungenerous. Go ahead, picture that person in your mind’s eye. You may be thinking of someone you know well or maybe someone generic and anonymous. Regardless of whom you see in your imagination, that is the neighbor that you are called by Jesus to love. I am not suggesting that you must forgive those who have harmed you physically or emotionally. Nor do I claim that reconciliation is always an appropriate response to a broken relationship, but I can tell you unequivocally that Christ has commanded us to love one another and we must seek agape love for even those people who challenge our ability to love at all. If you are nursing an old wound, now is the time to start the path to healing, not necessarily by forgiving or reconciling but by opening yourself to the possibility of the transformative power of Christian love.

The nurturing of such love is vital to the renewal of Saints Peter and Paul. If we are going to grow and flourish through this kindling process, it will be because agape love is the defining characteristic of this congregation. I know that many of you are physically and mentally tired, keeping this church vibrant is exhausting work, but it is also valuable work, and I entreat all of you to dig for that last full measure of energy to revitalize this place. Montavilla needs Saints Peter and Paul as a bastion of refuge in a cold and lonely world and the Christian community needs Saints Peter and Paul as an example of Christ’s love to his people.

The theologian Charles Marsh notes that, “our sojourn into a violent and hurting world is shaped by the memory of the Christ who was born in a stable because there was no room for him in the inn” (Anglican Theological review, Fall 2009, 552). He then ironically points out that many Christians worship this homeless man on Sunday and then ignore one on Monday. Not here, you have made caring for the most vulnerable among us a cornerstone of your ministry and you are to be commended for your commitment, but this is no time to rest on your laurels. It’s time to follow Father Kurt as he leads the way to renewal. It’s time to embrace Mother Karen’s invitation to kindle the fire here. Take a few minutes to share your five favorite hymns (the forms are still in the back) and then sing them loud and proud, even if your voice is as bad as mine. For those of you with the time and the energy (and I know that some of you are preciously low on both), pick one new ministry to support. We can use more hands in the sacristy working with the Altar Guild, and a few more people on the hospitality committee would go a long way in ensuring that all the great eating that goes on around here will continue. Someone needs to mow lawn and there is always room for more sub-deacons, lectors and ushers. Of course, Brigid’s Coffee Hour and Rahab’s Sisters, the face of Saints Peter and Paul in the community, can always use more hands at the oars. Now is the time for dedicated prayer by each of you to discern how you are going to help revitalize this congregation. Saints Peter and Paul is lagniappe in Montavilla, this church provides a little something extra in the neighborhood, an extra dose of agape love that sets you apart as a haven of refuge in a cruel world – this is your calling, pursue it with vigor and joy in both your worship and your outreach.

In closing, I pray that you will see yourselves as I see you, as a community dedicated to living out Christ’s mission in the world. God has blessed you with the opportunity to be the face of his love in the community, the beauty of your witness has been transformative for me, and you will continue to transform lives as long you remain a beacon of love in the neighborhood. And remain you must. Amen


(by seminarian Sean Wall, May 13, 2012)