7 Easter C 2013
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEaster7_RCL.html
What does it take to be free?
Our Acts reading is a story of liberation. The anonymous slave-girl who follows Paul and his companions around suffers from several slaveries at once. Legally she was someone’s slave. She was also enslaved by the magical practices of that time. Ancient Middle Eastern magic worked like this: you knew that on your own you were powerless. So through offering yourself, or through secret magical rites and incantations, you asked or persuaded or forced a spirit or angel or demon or even a god to do what you wanted. I think our slave girl had been offered to a spirit, literally in Greek a “python”, in order for her owners to make money. Think of this as spiritual prostitution. Her slavery was legal, financial, and spiritual.
But the Way of Jesus is a way of freedom. In an instant she was cast loose of spiritual and financial slavery at least.
I wonder what life was like for that slave afterwards? It is hard to be free. It is scary. You don’t know the rules, or you have trouble dealing with the fact that there are no rules that tell you who you are and what you can expect. The three young women in Cleveland, released from 10 years of hideous captivity and abuse, are in seclusion right now. Moving from slavery to freedom can be painful and jarring.
As Christians, we move from slavery to freedom all the time. At least, we should, if we are truly people of the Holy Spirit. “But where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” says Saint Paul. A young student for the priesthood who just finished his Greek studies excitedly shared with me how learning to read a little New Testament Greek really opened his eyes. “In Bible Greek, there really is no linear past or future as we understand it” he said. “There are cases that indicate action that is completed, or action that is ongoing. Everything is part of a dynamic, unfolding kind of Now where more is constantly coming to light.”
Well, we’re not all Greek students, but we are Christians of the New Testament, and it is good to think about what the young student said. We are in that part of Eastertide season where we remember that Christ ascended into glory. That is why the Paschal candle is gone, and the awareness of empty space in the chancel is a reminder of that physical absence of Jesus. There is empty space that is not simply loss but is creative emptiness and anticipation. We are in the nine-day period of prayer before the feast of Pentecost. These days are not simply memorials, pious habits that we observe dutifully year after year. The coming of the Spirit of Jesus is a dynamic, ongoing reality. Pentecost is still unfolding in our lives, in our congregation, in the wider church, and in the world. We are literally “in Pentecost.” "Pentecost" is a better verb than it is a noun: we are "Pentecosting." So what do we do?
We honor the creative empty space in our lives. As we live, we accumulate a lot of clutter. We begin to think and act as if we cannot exist without all the things, or the ideas, or the habits that make up who we think we are. Consider the accumulation of our own lives: what has built up, in terms of things or actions or attitudes that we simply cannot release? The same applies to our congregation: we are clearing out our physical space, amidst some wincing on the part of members who have memories attached to this or that, as a sign of clearing out our minds and souls. Freedom is hard. The slave-girl had to adjust to a new life. Can we adjust to a lighter, more agile Saints Peter and Paul, where our conversations center on the Now of God and Christ and the Gospel and the dynamic future opening before us? Can we leave aside any thoughts of defeat or frustration or disappointment, or any rose-tinted nostalgia of a past that in our memory seems so wondrous?
What does it take to be free?
The Collect asks that we not be left “comfortless”. That word has become fuzzy in modern English. “Comfort” means “with strength.” With strength may Spirit come, and make us the free daughters and sons of God.
It matters—not just us, but for the world. For all creation waits with eager longing for the freedom of the children of God.
archived musings and preachments
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
When we gather...
Here is a draft intended as a response to some questions and conversations arising from our Lenten conversations and beyond. My concern has been to place into simple yet not dumbed-down words things that a newcomer might ask, or want to know in order to feel more a part of our worship life...
Above all, know that you are welcome as you are. Please feel at ease. Our worship is shaped by long tradition and an ancient wisdom, and so might look and feel different that other settings you may have experienced. Ancient Christian sources describe spiritual practice as "exercise"--think of our gathering as a new exercise routine that will take time to learn! Like other forms of exercise, the benefits will show in time.
We believe that when we gather, God is present, and our gathering itself is sacred, an experience of God's presence on earth.
Our worship space is designed to speak this truth. Notice what you see-images, architecture, sounds and even the smell of incense and candle-wax. All these are simply meant to call to mind the sacred nature of our gathering and of the conversation with God taking place.
Both music and silence may convey the mystery of God. We honor both.
Some of those serving in worship wear special clothes determined by tradition. This is meant to convey the fact that what we all do together is "holy", meaning set aside for a special purpose. Colors used change according to the season of the year, seasons that reflect on various aspects of the mystery of Jesus Christ.
You will notice that the members present change their body postures at various times. We pray with our bodies as well as with our understanding, our voices, and our emotions. Generally, we SIT to listen when we believe God may speak, we STAND when we express respectful attention or during some forms of prayer. Some choose to KNEEL for certain prayers. When crossing in front of the altar, it is our custom to BOW or to GENUFLECT ("bend the knee") in an ancient gesture of respect. We make the SIGN OF THE CROSS at various moments (when blessing is pronounced, when the Trinity is mentioned, and other times), touching the forehead, heart, left shoulder, then right. When the Gospel is about to be read we make small crosses on our foreheads, lips, and heart.
Our worship is a drama in three acts:
a) Listening to God-- we believe that the living Word of God may speak to us through the hearing of the written words of the Bible and of the preacher's sermon.
b) Responding to the God who speaks--by professing our faith, by prayer for the world and church and ourselves as one body, culminating in the Peace
c) Communing with God--giving the great "Thanks" and receiving Communion, the tangible sign and symbol of Christ knitting himself to us in the blessed bread and wine. From here we are sent out to be Christ's hands and heart in the world, serving in his name.
Please know that we welcome all questions, we engage all reflections, and we hope your time with us will be food for your ongoing journey.
Above all, know that you are welcome as you are. Please feel at ease. Our worship is shaped by long tradition and an ancient wisdom, and so might look and feel different that other settings you may have experienced. Ancient Christian sources describe spiritual practice as "exercise"--think of our gathering as a new exercise routine that will take time to learn! Like other forms of exercise, the benefits will show in time.
We believe that when we gather, God is present, and our gathering itself is sacred, an experience of God's presence on earth.
Our worship space is designed to speak this truth. Notice what you see-images, architecture, sounds and even the smell of incense and candle-wax. All these are simply meant to call to mind the sacred nature of our gathering and of the conversation with God taking place.
Both music and silence may convey the mystery of God. We honor both.
Some of those serving in worship wear special clothes determined by tradition. This is meant to convey the fact that what we all do together is "holy", meaning set aside for a special purpose. Colors used change according to the season of the year, seasons that reflect on various aspects of the mystery of Jesus Christ.
You will notice that the members present change their body postures at various times. We pray with our bodies as well as with our understanding, our voices, and our emotions. Generally, we SIT to listen when we believe God may speak, we STAND when we express respectful attention or during some forms of prayer. Some choose to KNEEL for certain prayers. When crossing in front of the altar, it is our custom to BOW or to GENUFLECT ("bend the knee") in an ancient gesture of respect. We make the SIGN OF THE CROSS at various moments (when blessing is pronounced, when the Trinity is mentioned, and other times), touching the forehead, heart, left shoulder, then right. When the Gospel is about to be read we make small crosses on our foreheads, lips, and heart.
Our worship is a drama in three acts:
a) Listening to God-- we believe that the living Word of God may speak to us through the hearing of the written words of the Bible and of the preacher's sermon.
b) Responding to the God who speaks--by professing our faith, by prayer for the world and church and ourselves as one body, culminating in the Peace
c) Communing with God--giving the great "Thanks" and receiving Communion, the tangible sign and symbol of Christ knitting himself to us in the blessed bread and wine. From here we are sent out to be Christ's hands and heart in the world, serving in his name.
Please know that we welcome all questions, we engage all reflections, and we hope your time with us will be food for your ongoing journey.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
At the House of Shame
6 Easter C 2013
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEaster6_RCL.html
In the Old Testament, God cares for those on the margins.
The old Law commanded us to care for the widow, the orphan, the stranger and the foreigner, for those on the margins. Workers in the fields were commanded to not completely strip their fields at the harvest, to leave the margins of their fields untouched so those who were “on the margins”—the poor, the strangers—could come and gather grain.
In the Gospel, Jesus does more than care for those on the margins. He goes to the margins, and makes the margins the new center.
The pool at Beth-Zatha was a place for people on the margins. The name Beth-zatha can mean either “house of mercy” or “house of shame.” Both applied—think of a soup kitchen or a shelter: it is a merciful idea and it is needed by desperate people, but you may not want one on your street and you probably don’t want to be seen eating there. The pool was even a sketchy place religiously—some scholars think it was dedicated not to the God of Israel, but to Asclepius, the Greek god of healing.
On the holy Sabbath, Jesus goes to the sketchy House of Shame.
He picks some guy, some chronically ill guy, a regular. He asks him a powerful question: “Do you want to be made well?” Two miracles happen. One is Jesus’ command: “Stand up, take your mat, and walk.” The other is that the man obeyed, choosing to believe that there really could be a different life besides lying on a mat at the House of Shame.
He stands, he walks. And it was a Sabbath.
A lot of sacred rules were broken that day. If Jesus wanted to be thought well of, he should not even have been seen at the ol’ House of Shame. It was sketchy and half-pagan. Why be there if you are trying to make a positive impression on the influential and the pious? And the Sabbath? The abandoned are still the abandoned on the other six days of the week. Why not plan these things at a decent place and on an acceptable day so you are not breaking some of the most fundamental laws of the tradition? Why?
Because Jesus goes to the margins. Jesus makes the margins the new center. The margins are where the Gospel happens.
If we wish to follow Jesus, then we too will go in heart and mind and body to the margins. We here at SPP have been on a journey these several years learning how to reach out to those on the margins, to welcome them here, to remember that it is on the margins that the Gospel happens. Today, most people who come to us, even those who appear prosperous and independent, feel that they are in some way “on the margins.”
When we follow Jesus to the margins, we recognize that we too are marginal people, that we are as much “on the edge”, broken and in need as are they. Christian faith arises when we acknowledge a deep need. Ancient tradition spoke of the poor as blessed because they cannot escape the evidence of their utter dependence on God. We on the other hand are tempted to act and feel as if we are self-sufficient and not in need. On the margins we realize what Jesus meant when he said “Blessed are you poor…”
It is a gift to walk with Jesus on the margins. The risen Jesus, the source of all life, reveals that the margins are actually the center. Those broken and lying at the House of Shame are revealed as blessed. What happened that day at the House of Shame was holier than all the Psalms and all the incense and all the prayers offered across town at the Temple. Today, we stand with Jesus at that strange pool named the House of Mercy and the House of Shame. We blink in the sunlight, surprised and humbled and shaken to our souls as he turns his gaze to us in turn and asks, “Do you want to be made well?”
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEaster6_RCL.html
In the Old Testament, God cares for those on the margins.
The old Law commanded us to care for the widow, the orphan, the stranger and the foreigner, for those on the margins. Workers in the fields were commanded to not completely strip their fields at the harvest, to leave the margins of their fields untouched so those who were “on the margins”—the poor, the strangers—could come and gather grain.
In the Gospel, Jesus does more than care for those on the margins. He goes to the margins, and makes the margins the new center.
The pool at Beth-Zatha was a place for people on the margins. The name Beth-zatha can mean either “house of mercy” or “house of shame.” Both applied—think of a soup kitchen or a shelter: it is a merciful idea and it is needed by desperate people, but you may not want one on your street and you probably don’t want to be seen eating there. The pool was even a sketchy place religiously—some scholars think it was dedicated not to the God of Israel, but to Asclepius, the Greek god of healing.
On the holy Sabbath, Jesus goes to the sketchy House of Shame.
He picks some guy, some chronically ill guy, a regular. He asks him a powerful question: “Do you want to be made well?” Two miracles happen. One is Jesus’ command: “Stand up, take your mat, and walk.” The other is that the man obeyed, choosing to believe that there really could be a different life besides lying on a mat at the House of Shame.
He stands, he walks. And it was a Sabbath.
A lot of sacred rules were broken that day. If Jesus wanted to be thought well of, he should not even have been seen at the ol’ House of Shame. It was sketchy and half-pagan. Why be there if you are trying to make a positive impression on the influential and the pious? And the Sabbath? The abandoned are still the abandoned on the other six days of the week. Why not plan these things at a decent place and on an acceptable day so you are not breaking some of the most fundamental laws of the tradition? Why?
Because Jesus goes to the margins. Jesus makes the margins the new center. The margins are where the Gospel happens.
If we wish to follow Jesus, then we too will go in heart and mind and body to the margins. We here at SPP have been on a journey these several years learning how to reach out to those on the margins, to welcome them here, to remember that it is on the margins that the Gospel happens. Today, most people who come to us, even those who appear prosperous and independent, feel that they are in some way “on the margins.”
When we follow Jesus to the margins, we recognize that we too are marginal people, that we are as much “on the edge”, broken and in need as are they. Christian faith arises when we acknowledge a deep need. Ancient tradition spoke of the poor as blessed because they cannot escape the evidence of their utter dependence on God. We on the other hand are tempted to act and feel as if we are self-sufficient and not in need. On the margins we realize what Jesus meant when he said “Blessed are you poor…”
It is a gift to walk with Jesus on the margins. The risen Jesus, the source of all life, reveals that the margins are actually the center. Those broken and lying at the House of Shame are revealed as blessed. What happened that day at the House of Shame was holier than all the Psalms and all the incense and all the prayers offered across town at the Temple. Today, we stand with Jesus at that strange pool named the House of Mercy and the House of Shame. We blink in the sunlight, surprised and humbled and shaken to our souls as he turns his gaze to us in turn and asks, “Do you want to be made well?”
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Peter's dream
5 Easter C 2013
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEaster5_RCL.html
When I was younger, if I were asked to name the miracles of the New Testament, I would have come up with a list like this:
The resurrection of Jesus
The raising of Lazarus
The multiplication of the loaves and fishes
The healing of lepers
Giving sight to the blind
There are more, of course. You could name more.
Now I am older. I have walked many streets. I have found there heartbreaking good as well as terrifying pain, loneliness, and rage. I have also walked the streets of my own heart, and there I have met the same loneliness, rage, and pain.
Ask me now to name the miracles of the New Testament, and I will come up with a different list:
The conversion of Saul, from a deadly religious zealot to a servant of Christ
The unity of the Christian assembly
The forgiveness of Jesus given from the cross
There are more, of course. You could name more. One is told to us today:
The inclusion of the Gentiles
This Sunday good old Peter, old flip-flop undecided Peter, tells us in fear and trembling why he is no longer a good predictable religious man like his momma taught him. This was not a safe or an easy journey. The early Jesus-movement was not only a Jewish movement, it was a Jewish movement very preoccupied with who was in and who was out. That is a very natural human instinct. In fact it is a natural function of religion per se. Scholars of religion in general say that the purpose of religion is to make sense of overwhelming chaotic reality, to mediate the enormous powers surrounding us. Most religions are instinctively conservative—they try to keep everything stitched together so things do not get too crazy. This is especially important when the times are dangerous or out-of-control. One piece of stitching things together is making it clear how one belongs to the faith-community, so we know who is in and who is out.
When communities are frightened or threatened, they get even stricter and more harsh about who is in and who is out. With the Temple destroyed and everyone scattered, the Judaism of the time was very threatened and very frightened. The Jesus-believers were simply among them, trying to stay together, trying to make sure they were still among those who were “in.”
Then, an unlikely miracle occurred to an unlikely man. Peter had a dream, a disgusting and disturbing dream, where he is told to eat snakes and jackals and buzzards and swine. Peter is even more grossed-out than we would be—it is not only nasty meat, but the Bible said it is unclean and God forbids it. Three times the heavenly picnic-cloth is held in front of Peter, and three times the voice scolds him, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.” Then Peter wakes up, probably nauseated and confused, only to hear someone knocking at the door.
It’s Gentiles. Goyim. Outsiders. Pig-eaters. Statue-worshippers. Enemies. Peter still needs one more nudge from God, this time not in a dream—go with them, and make no distinction between them and you. Walk with them, speak with them, eat with them.
We have trouble today imagining how this threw Peter’s world upside-down. We have to try and imagine what his culture and assumptions were saying to him, what he was feeling—fear, disgust, confusion. Who was God, what was truth, how can I go against the literal meaning of the Bible, who will we be if we are with these people, if they are with us, if they are us? And even if I accept this, what if someone sees me with them? What will the rest of the believers say and do to me if I tell them how I have changed my mind and heart?
But there were two miracles that day. One was this transformation in Peter. The other was, when the other believers heard Peter stammering out in fear and trembling his unbelievable story, they paused in silence, then rejoiced saying "Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life." God makes no distinction between the outsiders and us.
And this is how a strange little Jewish sect changed. The Jesus-movement would have remained a forgotten historical footnote for archaeologists, a half-hour show on The History Channel. Instead it became a community that grew and that lives today and that still remembers this strange, upsetting, healing dream. Good thing for us: looking around, I see no one, myself included, who had a Jewish mom. We're here because of Peter's dream.
The Christian community lives Peter’s dream over and over. When Celtic missionaries overcame their hatred of the invading Saxons and began to make monastic communities with them, Peter’s dream came alive. When Bartolome de Las Casas and other voices began to speak against slavery of both Africans and Native Americans, Peter’s dream came alive. When women gained voice and leadership in both church and culture, Peter’s dream came alive. When amidst fear of losing members and pledges we had a change of heart and mind over lesbian and gay and bisexual and transgendered folks, already our own members, Peter’s dream came alive. When this parish first reached out to Spanish-speaking neighbors and began to learn how to welcome them and form community with them, Peter’s dream came alive. When we look up on any given Sunday and see among us the stranger, the homeless, the one different, the one whom our instinct says is not-us, and God nudges us to reach out, to welcome, to acknowledge the Christ in them, then Peter’s dream comes alive.
We are most the church when we let God nudge us from comfort to the discomfort of welcoming the other—the stranger, the previously unclean according to our assumptions, the outsider, and learn how to walk and eat and live with them. Each time this happens, we move from being a sect, a private gathering, and become the Church all over again. This is how the Church first came alive. This is how the Church comes alive today.
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEaster5_RCL.html
When I was younger, if I were asked to name the miracles of the New Testament, I would have come up with a list like this:
The resurrection of Jesus
The raising of Lazarus
The multiplication of the loaves and fishes
The healing of lepers
Giving sight to the blind
There are more, of course. You could name more.
Now I am older. I have walked many streets. I have found there heartbreaking good as well as terrifying pain, loneliness, and rage. I have also walked the streets of my own heart, and there I have met the same loneliness, rage, and pain.
Ask me now to name the miracles of the New Testament, and I will come up with a different list:
The conversion of Saul, from a deadly religious zealot to a servant of Christ
The unity of the Christian assembly
The forgiveness of Jesus given from the cross
There are more, of course. You could name more. One is told to us today:
The inclusion of the Gentiles
This Sunday good old Peter, old flip-flop undecided Peter, tells us in fear and trembling why he is no longer a good predictable religious man like his momma taught him. This was not a safe or an easy journey. The early Jesus-movement was not only a Jewish movement, it was a Jewish movement very preoccupied with who was in and who was out. That is a very natural human instinct. In fact it is a natural function of religion per se. Scholars of religion in general say that the purpose of religion is to make sense of overwhelming chaotic reality, to mediate the enormous powers surrounding us. Most religions are instinctively conservative—they try to keep everything stitched together so things do not get too crazy. This is especially important when the times are dangerous or out-of-control. One piece of stitching things together is making it clear how one belongs to the faith-community, so we know who is in and who is out.
When communities are frightened or threatened, they get even stricter and more harsh about who is in and who is out. With the Temple destroyed and everyone scattered, the Judaism of the time was very threatened and very frightened. The Jesus-believers were simply among them, trying to stay together, trying to make sure they were still among those who were “in.”
Then, an unlikely miracle occurred to an unlikely man. Peter had a dream, a disgusting and disturbing dream, where he is told to eat snakes and jackals and buzzards and swine. Peter is even more grossed-out than we would be—it is not only nasty meat, but the Bible said it is unclean and God forbids it. Three times the heavenly picnic-cloth is held in front of Peter, and three times the voice scolds him, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.” Then Peter wakes up, probably nauseated and confused, only to hear someone knocking at the door.
It’s Gentiles. Goyim. Outsiders. Pig-eaters. Statue-worshippers. Enemies. Peter still needs one more nudge from God, this time not in a dream—go with them, and make no distinction between them and you. Walk with them, speak with them, eat with them.
We have trouble today imagining how this threw Peter’s world upside-down. We have to try and imagine what his culture and assumptions were saying to him, what he was feeling—fear, disgust, confusion. Who was God, what was truth, how can I go against the literal meaning of the Bible, who will we be if we are with these people, if they are with us, if they are us? And even if I accept this, what if someone sees me with them? What will the rest of the believers say and do to me if I tell them how I have changed my mind and heart?
But there were two miracles that day. One was this transformation in Peter. The other was, when the other believers heard Peter stammering out in fear and trembling his unbelievable story, they paused in silence, then rejoiced saying "Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life." God makes no distinction between the outsiders and us.
And this is how a strange little Jewish sect changed. The Jesus-movement would have remained a forgotten historical footnote for archaeologists, a half-hour show on The History Channel. Instead it became a community that grew and that lives today and that still remembers this strange, upsetting, healing dream. Good thing for us: looking around, I see no one, myself included, who had a Jewish mom. We're here because of Peter's dream.
The Christian community lives Peter’s dream over and over. When Celtic missionaries overcame their hatred of the invading Saxons and began to make monastic communities with them, Peter’s dream came alive. When Bartolome de Las Casas and other voices began to speak against slavery of both Africans and Native Americans, Peter’s dream came alive. When women gained voice and leadership in both church and culture, Peter’s dream came alive. When amidst fear of losing members and pledges we had a change of heart and mind over lesbian and gay and bisexual and transgendered folks, already our own members, Peter’s dream came alive. When this parish first reached out to Spanish-speaking neighbors and began to learn how to welcome them and form community with them, Peter’s dream came alive. When we look up on any given Sunday and see among us the stranger, the homeless, the one different, the one whom our instinct says is not-us, and God nudges us to reach out, to welcome, to acknowledge the Christ in them, then Peter’s dream comes alive.
We are most the church when we let God nudge us from comfort to the discomfort of welcoming the other—the stranger, the previously unclean according to our assumptions, the outsider, and learn how to walk and eat and live with them. Each time this happens, we move from being a sect, a private gathering, and become the Church all over again. This is how the Church first came alive. This is how the Church comes alive today.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
A place we do not know
Easter Vigil 2013
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEasVigil_RCL.html
Most people I know are more familiar with Good Friday than Easter. I am too.
Good Friday is where our very human lives, just as they are, meet the pain and unfairness of the world. Good Friday is the tears at loss and death. Good Friday is the deep sigh we draw when, once again, humanity lives up to our darkest and most pessimistic expectations. Good Friday is when the doctor comes in the consultation room with our test results and closes the door before pulling a chair close to ours. Good Friday is our parents aging, the innocent suffering, the homeless poor going on being homeless and mentally ill and living right where they are.
We know Good Friday. We know what to do, we know how to manage unmanageable pain. We know our place.
Tonight we come to a place that we have not known before.
The women who came to the tomb knew who they were and what they have come to do. They have seen the violent death of their teacher and friend and, although they were heart-broken, they were probably not surprised. Like women in all poor places, those places now optimistically called “the developing world”, these women knew abuse, sorrow, and loss. In traditional cultures men die violently and children die young. In such cultures women absorb abuse and have their loved ones torn from them and it is they who have to bind up wounds, feed everyone who is left, and arrange the dead decently for burial. This they know.
They knew where they had left Jesus. They expected to find him right where they left him. Their only worry was “who will roll away the stone?”
From there on, things got interesting. And the women found that none of their reasons for coming to the tomb made any sense any more. It is strange how an utter and complete surprise, a surprise that reverses everything you thought you knew about your life and the lives of others and your world and your reality—how that is terrifying, even if the news really is good. Even animals in the woods will circle suspiciously around unexpected food, suspecting a trap.
An empty tomb. A missing Jesus. Young men who seems to know what is going on. “He is not here.”
I think anyone in their right mind would be confused, or afraid, or run away terrified.
And that is the experience of resurrection according to the Gospel. That shock, that amazement, that feeling of blundering through a doorway into a large and unexpected room filled with light.
No Easter is just another Easter. Each proclamation calls forth new shock, new surprise, new amazement and awe. And so now, what do we do? What is it to be Easter people?
Thomas Merton said, “The risen life is not easy…It is also a dying life.” We walked through Lent admitting once more that we need to learn to walk with the Master. This past week we walked with him to Jerusalem, to the lonely garden, to Calvary. And now, where do we go?
Easter faith is embodied in those word, “He is not here…He has gone before you.”
Merton thought that many Christians hold a faith not of the living and risen Christ but of the dead Christ, the object of a cult, treating Christ as a “holy thing, a theological relic.” We know where we left Jesus, said Merton, and our only anxiety is how to roll away the stone so we can get to where we last left him. We do the same when we make our religion and our customs and our ideas something to hold on to with a death-grip. This grip does not allow the Spirit to say new things to us, to lead us in new directions, to animate us to new mission, to open our minds to new insights even when those insights are startling and strange. We know how to rustle the dry bones of Ezekiel. We do not know what to do when Christ puts new flesh on those bones and fills them with life.
Easter-faith is the faith of a people on the move, a pilgrim people. An Easter person is committed to allowing Christ to set him or her free, to dissolve any chains holding us to oppression or sadness or despair, to lead us into new and surprising life. An Easter church is a community that asks “Where is Christ leading us now?” and dares to listen for Christ to answer. And once we hear the answer, then we get up and move. “He has gone before you…”
Tonight allow wonder and awe to break into sadness and gloom. Tonight allow the astounding news to dispel sadness and despair. Tonight allow the strangeness of Easter news and Easter hope and Easter joy to break open the closed places of our hearts. We do not need any more practice handling the expected sadness and struggle of our lives. We need our prison-houses broken into, our weary expectations shattered, our darkness dispelled. We need to have every gloom and shadow whirl away like dingy startled pigeons.
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Easter/CEasVigil_RCL.html
Most people I know are more familiar with Good Friday than Easter. I am too.
Good Friday is where our very human lives, just as they are, meet the pain and unfairness of the world. Good Friday is the tears at loss and death. Good Friday is the deep sigh we draw when, once again, humanity lives up to our darkest and most pessimistic expectations. Good Friday is when the doctor comes in the consultation room with our test results and closes the door before pulling a chair close to ours. Good Friday is our parents aging, the innocent suffering, the homeless poor going on being homeless and mentally ill and living right where they are.
We know Good Friday. We know what to do, we know how to manage unmanageable pain. We know our place.
Tonight we come to a place that we have not known before.
The women who came to the tomb knew who they were and what they have come to do. They have seen the violent death of their teacher and friend and, although they were heart-broken, they were probably not surprised. Like women in all poor places, those places now optimistically called “the developing world”, these women knew abuse, sorrow, and loss. In traditional cultures men die violently and children die young. In such cultures women absorb abuse and have their loved ones torn from them and it is they who have to bind up wounds, feed everyone who is left, and arrange the dead decently for burial. This they know.
They knew where they had left Jesus. They expected to find him right where they left him. Their only worry was “who will roll away the stone?”
From there on, things got interesting. And the women found that none of their reasons for coming to the tomb made any sense any more. It is strange how an utter and complete surprise, a surprise that reverses everything you thought you knew about your life and the lives of others and your world and your reality—how that is terrifying, even if the news really is good. Even animals in the woods will circle suspiciously around unexpected food, suspecting a trap.
An empty tomb. A missing Jesus. Young men who seems to know what is going on. “He is not here.”
I think anyone in their right mind would be confused, or afraid, or run away terrified.
And that is the experience of resurrection according to the Gospel. That shock, that amazement, that feeling of blundering through a doorway into a large and unexpected room filled with light.
No Easter is just another Easter. Each proclamation calls forth new shock, new surprise, new amazement and awe. And so now, what do we do? What is it to be Easter people?
Thomas Merton said, “The risen life is not easy…It is also a dying life.” We walked through Lent admitting once more that we need to learn to walk with the Master. This past week we walked with him to Jerusalem, to the lonely garden, to Calvary. And now, where do we go?
Easter faith is embodied in those word, “He is not here…He has gone before you.”
Merton thought that many Christians hold a faith not of the living and risen Christ but of the dead Christ, the object of a cult, treating Christ as a “holy thing, a theological relic.” We know where we left Jesus, said Merton, and our only anxiety is how to roll away the stone so we can get to where we last left him. We do the same when we make our religion and our customs and our ideas something to hold on to with a death-grip. This grip does not allow the Spirit to say new things to us, to lead us in new directions, to animate us to new mission, to open our minds to new insights even when those insights are startling and strange. We know how to rustle the dry bones of Ezekiel. We do not know what to do when Christ puts new flesh on those bones and fills them with life.
Easter-faith is the faith of a people on the move, a pilgrim people. An Easter person is committed to allowing Christ to set him or her free, to dissolve any chains holding us to oppression or sadness or despair, to lead us into new and surprising life. An Easter church is a community that asks “Where is Christ leading us now?” and dares to listen for Christ to answer. And once we hear the answer, then we get up and move. “He has gone before you…”
Tonight allow wonder and awe to break into sadness and gloom. Tonight allow the astounding news to dispel sadness and despair. Tonight allow the strangeness of Easter news and Easter hope and Easter joy to break open the closed places of our hearts. We do not need any more practice handling the expected sadness and struggle of our lives. We need our prison-houses broken into, our weary expectations shattered, our darkness dispelled. We need to have every gloom and shadow whirl away like dingy startled pigeons.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Mad mercy
4 Advent C 2013
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Lent/CLent4_RCL.html
After a rainstorm and some flooding, a man walked along a riverbank to see the damage done. Rounding a bend in the river, he came upon an old man who had waded out chest-deep into the current. The old man was reaching out over and over to try and rescue a scorpion that was stranded on some snagged branches in the stream. Over and over the old man reached out his hand, and each time he did the half-drowned scorpion stung him. Watching this for a few moments, seeing the old man’s hand and arm turning blue from the venom, the man finally shouted, “Why do you keep trying? Leave that ungrateful insect alone!”
The old man turned and answered, “Don’t blame the scorpion. It is in its nature to sting. It is also in my nature to keep trying to save it.”
It is the mad nature of the merciful God that astounds us today.
We have heard today’s parable over and over. The story has many names. The most famous is “the prodigal son”, making the younger son, the party-boy, the center of the tale. He would love that. Others call it the parable of the loving father, whose parenting style is not exactly tough-love. Others call it the “resentful older son”, who often disappears in his younger brother’s shadow as, once again, the trouble child gets all the attention.
All these titles are possible. Here’s one more: the parable of the mad mercy of God.
All three of the characters are as helpless as the scorpion and the old man before their own natures. And all three are overwhelmed by the mad mercy of God.
One question to ask is, “Where am I in this story?”
Odds are that we have been the younger son at some moment in our lives. We have found ourselves far from home, or distanced from those who love us, or waking up in the middle of a mess that we ourselves have created. We “come to ourselves” as it were, come to terms with the mess we have made, and pluck up the courage to come back to where we hope we are still welcome. On the way, we rehearse the story we’ll tell anyone who will ask where we have been.
Or we have been the father, who might today be called co-dependent. We have been wounded and left behind, we have felt loss and grief and anger, but when we see the one or ones we still love, we are overwhelmed and we cast aside our resentment and our pain. Churches can be the father when we welcome someone back who has left us. We rush out, again and again, simply relieved that the one we love is still here and we can still be with them.
Or we have been the resentful older son. We have done the right thing as well as we could manage. We have shown up again and again. We have made countless meals, we have been there for partners and children and aged parents and siblings with whom we will never get along, we have dragged ourselves to work over and over on days when we wanted to be anywhere else. This is the son especially familiar to us who are faithful church-people: we’ve paid our pledges, we’ve shown up over and over, we’ve done the heavy lifting and kept things going year after year, only to see attention go to new people and new things. Where’s the justice, what’s my return?
All three characters are true to their natures. All three are caught up in the plot of this parable, which is the mad mercy of God.
The younger son does not even get to stammer out his excuses. He is caught up in the wild chaos of love beyond reason, love undeserved and unearned. I imagine him lying on his bed that night, wondering just what had happened and whether he could live with the abundant mercy he had been shown. What will life be like the morning after?
The father is left with the discomfort and the unresolvedness of his love poured out, the question of what happens the next day unanswered, and the irony that love shown one son kindles resentment in another.
The elder son is left with an array of questions and choices. Was his long faithfulness actually faithfulness to the real story, the story of the mad mercy of God? Did he ever really understand what kind of home in which he had lived all those years? Can he live with this new reality, or this new insight, that love is not earned, that his familiar home is a place of radical welcome and of care for the outcast, that quietly he too had found his own invisible pigpen built not of wasting money on wild parties but of his own assumptions about his father and his entitlement and of the limits of the mercy of love?
The plot of our own story is the mad mercy of God. This mercy is not a warm fuzzy feeling or mere personal assurance. To live the mad mercy of God is a daily discipline and a deliberate act of imagination. On this 4th Sunday in Lent, we are invited to recognize our world, as if for the first time, as the world of the God who is merciful beyond measure, whose nature is mercy. We are caught up in that mad mercy and asked how this will re-shape our lives, sharpen our sight, and change our church and our world.
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Lent/CLent4_RCL.html
After a rainstorm and some flooding, a man walked along a riverbank to see the damage done. Rounding a bend in the river, he came upon an old man who had waded out chest-deep into the current. The old man was reaching out over and over to try and rescue a scorpion that was stranded on some snagged branches in the stream. Over and over the old man reached out his hand, and each time he did the half-drowned scorpion stung him. Watching this for a few moments, seeing the old man’s hand and arm turning blue from the venom, the man finally shouted, “Why do you keep trying? Leave that ungrateful insect alone!”
The old man turned and answered, “Don’t blame the scorpion. It is in its nature to sting. It is also in my nature to keep trying to save it.”
It is the mad nature of the merciful God that astounds us today.
We have heard today’s parable over and over. The story has many names. The most famous is “the prodigal son”, making the younger son, the party-boy, the center of the tale. He would love that. Others call it the parable of the loving father, whose parenting style is not exactly tough-love. Others call it the “resentful older son”, who often disappears in his younger brother’s shadow as, once again, the trouble child gets all the attention.
All these titles are possible. Here’s one more: the parable of the mad mercy of God.
All three of the characters are as helpless as the scorpion and the old man before their own natures. And all three are overwhelmed by the mad mercy of God.
One question to ask is, “Where am I in this story?”
Odds are that we have been the younger son at some moment in our lives. We have found ourselves far from home, or distanced from those who love us, or waking up in the middle of a mess that we ourselves have created. We “come to ourselves” as it were, come to terms with the mess we have made, and pluck up the courage to come back to where we hope we are still welcome. On the way, we rehearse the story we’ll tell anyone who will ask where we have been.
Or we have been the father, who might today be called co-dependent. We have been wounded and left behind, we have felt loss and grief and anger, but when we see the one or ones we still love, we are overwhelmed and we cast aside our resentment and our pain. Churches can be the father when we welcome someone back who has left us. We rush out, again and again, simply relieved that the one we love is still here and we can still be with them.
Or we have been the resentful older son. We have done the right thing as well as we could manage. We have shown up again and again. We have made countless meals, we have been there for partners and children and aged parents and siblings with whom we will never get along, we have dragged ourselves to work over and over on days when we wanted to be anywhere else. This is the son especially familiar to us who are faithful church-people: we’ve paid our pledges, we’ve shown up over and over, we’ve done the heavy lifting and kept things going year after year, only to see attention go to new people and new things. Where’s the justice, what’s my return?
All three characters are true to their natures. All three are caught up in the plot of this parable, which is the mad mercy of God.
The younger son does not even get to stammer out his excuses. He is caught up in the wild chaos of love beyond reason, love undeserved and unearned. I imagine him lying on his bed that night, wondering just what had happened and whether he could live with the abundant mercy he had been shown. What will life be like the morning after?
The father is left with the discomfort and the unresolvedness of his love poured out, the question of what happens the next day unanswered, and the irony that love shown one son kindles resentment in another.
The elder son is left with an array of questions and choices. Was his long faithfulness actually faithfulness to the real story, the story of the mad mercy of God? Did he ever really understand what kind of home in which he had lived all those years? Can he live with this new reality, or this new insight, that love is not earned, that his familiar home is a place of radical welcome and of care for the outcast, that quietly he too had found his own invisible pigpen built not of wasting money on wild parties but of his own assumptions about his father and his entitlement and of the limits of the mercy of love?
The plot of our own story is the mad mercy of God. This mercy is not a warm fuzzy feeling or mere personal assurance. To live the mad mercy of God is a daily discipline and a deliberate act of imagination. On this 4th Sunday in Lent, we are invited to recognize our world, as if for the first time, as the world of the God who is merciful beyond measure, whose nature is mercy. We are caught up in that mad mercy and asked how this will re-shape our lives, sharpen our sight, and change our church and our world.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Just as in debt as my own kids
(I was honored to give this testimony before a State Subcommittee on "Tuition Equity" for under-documented youth. Good start to Lent--kn+)
I am Kurt Neilson, Episcopal priest and Rector or pastor of Saints Peter and Paul Parish on Portland’s East Side. For six years this coming October we have offered a Sunday Mass in Spanish, and that community has grown to nearly equal in size the English-speaking portion of our congregation. I wish to speak to you from these years of experience working for and with Latino congregants of widely varied immigration status.
An essential part of our work involves us with high-school aged young women preparing for their Quinceaneras, a popular celebration of “coming of age.” In addition to a church service usually followed by a dance, we meet with the young women and their families for “platicas” or conversations helping all involved to make this moment one of meaning and maturation.
You need to know how astounding these young women are. Some are standouts at their high schools, 4.0 students involved in community service and student government and sports. Some are average kids, decent-enough grades with parents who care enough to guide them and involve themselves in their kids’ lives. Most are somewhere in between, hard-working students who keep themselves on the straight road amidst many temptations with parents who work nights and work several jobs and who consider themselves lucky to have the kind of back-straining, foot-aching work that you may have done when you were just getting started but now do no more.
In the church service, these parents stand up shyly and say in Spanish how proud they are of their daughter, how their daughter gives light to their lives, and how they hope and pray that their daughter stays to their path with whatever good example they themselves have had the energy and presence of mind to set for her. The young woman promises the same, with the help of God.
All these young women hope and pray for is a chance to continue to study, to grow, so they too can work hard and care for their aging parents and encourage their brothers and sisters and have a career where they can serve. It is an old story really—is it sentimental to call this the “American dream”, the vision that hard work and basic values shape the lives of each new group of people in this nation of immigrants? In the end, these are Americans. Over and over, immigrants have prayed for and waited for and struggled for their chance to simply participate. Mine did, and the Irish of turn-of-the-century New York bore the marks of this struggle. Your ancestors did too, unless your blood is truly Native American.
Tuition equity is no handout. These young women and young men too only want to be as in debt to Sallie Mae as my kids are. They expect nothing free.
If we establish tuition equity, there are abundant reasons from the standpoint of justice or compassion or faith-tradition to do so. I say that, if for no other reason, let’s do this out of enlightened self-interest. The young women with whom I have worked are rich in gifts and ambition and a desire to serve. Today many of their parents are laborers. In the blink of an eye, they will be the obstetrician delivering your granddaughter’s baby. They will be the elementary school teacher helping that child learn to read. They will be the lawyer assisting in the execution of your estate. They will be the clergy administering Saints Peter and Paul when good ol’ Father Kurt is just a couple of stories that the old-timers tell. They will be seated here listening to testimony from others who also seek equality. Already they are all that and more in many places. They are strong, and they are here, and they are a gift. If we help them now, we can say that we have truly helped ourselves.
I am Kurt Neilson, Episcopal priest and Rector or pastor of Saints Peter and Paul Parish on Portland’s East Side. For six years this coming October we have offered a Sunday Mass in Spanish, and that community has grown to nearly equal in size the English-speaking portion of our congregation. I wish to speak to you from these years of experience working for and with Latino congregants of widely varied immigration status.
An essential part of our work involves us with high-school aged young women preparing for their Quinceaneras, a popular celebration of “coming of age.” In addition to a church service usually followed by a dance, we meet with the young women and their families for “platicas” or conversations helping all involved to make this moment one of meaning and maturation.
You need to know how astounding these young women are. Some are standouts at their high schools, 4.0 students involved in community service and student government and sports. Some are average kids, decent-enough grades with parents who care enough to guide them and involve themselves in their kids’ lives. Most are somewhere in between, hard-working students who keep themselves on the straight road amidst many temptations with parents who work nights and work several jobs and who consider themselves lucky to have the kind of back-straining, foot-aching work that you may have done when you were just getting started but now do no more.
In the church service, these parents stand up shyly and say in Spanish how proud they are of their daughter, how their daughter gives light to their lives, and how they hope and pray that their daughter stays to their path with whatever good example they themselves have had the energy and presence of mind to set for her. The young woman promises the same, with the help of God.
All these young women hope and pray for is a chance to continue to study, to grow, so they too can work hard and care for their aging parents and encourage their brothers and sisters and have a career where they can serve. It is an old story really—is it sentimental to call this the “American dream”, the vision that hard work and basic values shape the lives of each new group of people in this nation of immigrants? In the end, these are Americans. Over and over, immigrants have prayed for and waited for and struggled for their chance to simply participate. Mine did, and the Irish of turn-of-the-century New York bore the marks of this struggle. Your ancestors did too, unless your blood is truly Native American.
Tuition equity is no handout. These young women and young men too only want to be as in debt to Sallie Mae as my kids are. They expect nothing free.
If we establish tuition equity, there are abundant reasons from the standpoint of justice or compassion or faith-tradition to do so. I say that, if for no other reason, let’s do this out of enlightened self-interest. The young women with whom I have worked are rich in gifts and ambition and a desire to serve. Today many of their parents are laborers. In the blink of an eye, they will be the obstetrician delivering your granddaughter’s baby. They will be the elementary school teacher helping that child learn to read. They will be the lawyer assisting in the execution of your estate. They will be the clergy administering Saints Peter and Paul when good ol’ Father Kurt is just a couple of stories that the old-timers tell. They will be seated here listening to testimony from others who also seek equality. Already they are all that and more in many places. They are strong, and they are here, and they are a gift. If we help them now, we can say that we have truly helped ourselves.
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