Carrying the News

Poet Laureate Billy Collins writes:

It has been calculated that each copy of the Gutenberg Bible required the skins of 300 sheep.

I can see them

squeezed into the holding pen

behind the stone building

where the printing press is  housed.

All of them squirming around

to find a little room

and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible to count them.

And there is no telling which one of them

will carry the news

that the Lord is a Shepherd,

one of the few things

they already know.

I am drawn to this poem certainly because of its imagery, but more so because it compels me to think about the nature of God as we approach this Trinity Sunday, and to consider my response as one who loves and seeks to serve the Lord.

In the readings from Isaiah and from Revelation, we have this incredible imagery of the God of splendor, the Holy One seated on the throne, worthy of unending praise. I love this image of the magnificent God that I was taught to worship as a child. I learned to read from the United Methodist hymnal. And I still know by heart so many of those “big hymns” that we sing to the immortal, invisible, God only wise.

How might we respond to this image of God in our lives?

This is where I start to get a little silly and let my mind wander into the world of the poem.

If sheep were a little smarter, a little higher order, would some be eager? “Ooh! Ooh! Print it on me! I want one of the good pages.” How many of them—how many of us—would be like Isaiah: humbled by our acknowledgement of sin and eager to carry the Word of the Lord among the people?

But sheep are rather docile, so maybe another response would be “yeah, whatever, I’ll take a page.” Though I do not doubt for a moment that the revelation to John was a deeply spiritual experience for him, there is a part of me that sees something rather passive in his role—dutifully recording the vision he is given, then mailing it out in seven directions and letting the readers take it from there. I’m ashamed to admit that there have certainly been times when I’ve settled for delivering a message when I could have witnessed to the Word in my life.

The poet reminds us, however, that the Lord is a Shepherd, and that the sheep are secure in knowing this. And it is from that image that I find the example of the disciples to be the most comfortable, and indeed the most compelling, response.

I like the disciples. They give me hope. The Gospels aren’t particularly kind to them and Jesus himself gets impatient with their lack of understanding on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes when I read the Gospels I can’t help but think, “Bless their hearts, they’re just not very bright.”

But they do have one thing that gets me excited—they are the ones called to be the messengers and witnesses of the triune God we worship and celebrate this day.

As practicing Jews, the disciples were of course familiar with God the Father, maker of heaven and earth. They were faithful companions of his only son our Lord. And as we heard last week, it was through them that the Holy Spirit revealed itself on the Day of Pentecost.

It was only when all three pieces of the puzzle came together in their experience of the one true and living God that they really understood how they were called to be in the world. It was only then that they became the apostles whose teaching and fellowship we commit to continuing in our baptismal covenant, in the breaking of the bread and in the prayers.

And don’t you love the way this comes full circle?

When we proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ, when we seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves…isn’t that just another way of saying, with the prophet Isaiah, “Here am I, send me?”

When we commit to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being, aren’t we too sharing a vision of a new heaven and a new earth, as surely as John saw all things new in the revelation on Patmos?

There’s no telling which one of us will carry the news that the Lord is a Shepherd. That’s not ours to decide, or even to know. It is for us to decide, however, that we will embrace the call to discipleship—discipleship infused with the fullness of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

Amen

Do You Hear What I Hear?

No matter how many times I experience the practice of reading the Day of Pentecost passage from Acts in many languages simultaneously, I never get used to it.

The second voice takes me by surprise.

The third voice unsettles me.

And as the cacophonous chatter builds, I ride an arc of feelings from surprise, through anxiety, and finally to a place not of hearing words and languages, but of knowing the presence of the Holy Spirit in the rush of it all.

However, in my close reading of this familiar passage over the past week, I was struck not by the many languages that the apostles were given to speak, but by the writer’s emphasis on the crowd’s ability to hear. Listen to their reaction:

Are not all these who are speaking Galileans?

And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?

In our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.

In this reading, the crowd seems to assume not that the apostles were speaking in many languages, but that somehow a common language was being heard by each person in a way that he or she could receive.

That shift in emphasis, that change in perspective, is powerful. It raises some very exciting possibilities for me as one who strives to live fully into a life of stewardship.

My first reaction is to jump back to our reading from Genesis.

I realize, of course, that in this passage from Genesis the Lord was speaking to a very different situation. But for me as a post-Acts Christian, if you will, I take great hope from the notion that nothing we propose to do will be impossible if we are able to understand one another.

Note that the focus here, as in Acts, is not on speaking, but on hearing. We don’t actually have to speak the same language; our strength comes from the much harder work of hearing one another. If we can manage that, we can achieve anything.

The second thing that excites me about this emphasis on hearing of God’s deeds of power in my own language is recognizing that this moment of Pentecost is something that any one of us can experience firsthand, at any time. It is not confined to a moment in the history of the early church, nor to a single Sunday in the liturgical year.

Sometimes we experience it in those “big moments” of hearing the Holy Spirit and knowing how we are called to be God’s people in the world. Perhaps more often we feel the Holy Spirit moving in those little, every-day moments as we live into our baptismal covenant, seeking and serving Christ in others and loving our neighbors as ourselves.

This Spirit-led way of life is precisely what we mean by “stewardship,” defined broadly as “all that we do, with all that we have.”

When we understand ourselves to be stewards of all our many kinds of abundance, we grow into the truth that we are, first and foremost, stewards of the Gospel. Before we talk about time and talent, and certainly before we bring money into the conversation, we are called to be stewards of the Good News of God in Christ.

We are stewards of the hopes, and dreams, and prayers of our brothers and sisters in Christ, called to minister not just to one another, but to those beyond our walls, beyond our borders, even beyond our understanding. The church budget is but one of the ways we express this common ministry. It is a living document of our faith. It expresses our values; it explains how we will act out our commitment to live as stewards of the Gospel.

Take a fresh look at the church budget as a source of insight into who we are and what we do, a source of hearing the word of the Lord in action through worship, program, and outreach. Think about the invitation to support that budget as a Pentecost moment—a moment when the Holy Spirit moves through you and among you, inspiring you to give generously and joyfully.

Nothing we propose to do will be impossible if we understand one another, and hear the Holy Spirit at work in our midst.

Amen

Heaven Can Wait

“I wish I could go to heaven. I don’t want to die; I just want to see what it’s like and then come back. I wish people could go to heaven without dying.”

The good news was that my five-year-old didn’t want to die. The more urgent concern was that her mother had to think of a response.

“Well, you know Sweetie, there are stories in the Bible about people who went to heaven without their bodies dying in the way that we think of dying. It’s called ascending.”

Really? Now we’re on to something. How does one go about it? Could Charles Branson add this to his long-range plan for Virgin Galactic? We know the bishop; could she help?

“But it’s pretty rare. In the whole history of people we only know of three who have done it. Remember when I told you that after he was on the cross, Jesus died for three days, and then he came back and spent some time with his friends, comforting them and helping them know what to do next? Well, when he was done with that part he ascended.”

Of course she wanted to know who the other two were. (Why do I talk myself into these corners?) Elijah for sure. Who was the third? Moses? Possibly—all we know was that his body was never found. Or was it Enoch? I don’t remember…and her attention span has expired anyway.

So many years later, this conversation stays with me. I revisit it on this Ascension Day to ask, If I could go to heaven without dying and then come back, would I want to?

Remember Plato’s allegory of the cave? A small family group has lived their entire lives in a primitive cave, their backs to opening so that all they can see are the shadows of things, playing on the back wall of the cave like a puppet show from the street above.

What would happen if they were to leave the cave. What would it be like for them to discover that everything they know about the world is but shadow? And once they had discovered the light and color and vibrancy of the real world, could they be content going back into the cave? Having seen face-to-face, could they settle for a mirror dimly?

Which brings me back to the question: If I could go to heaven without dying and then come back, would I want to?

Could I stand to just for a moment join my voice with Angels and Archangels and with all the company of heaven, singing and proclaiming the glory of God’s name, then return to the life I love?

I’ve decided on “no.” I prefer to be a steward of the here and now, to delight in all that is, seen and unseen. Our pleasure in what God has created, our discernment of how God would have us be in this time and in this place, are calls to stewardship as surely as our commitment to tithe or our practice of the baptismal vows. God delights in the joy I take in my family, in exploring new places, discovery the little nooks and crannies of the Earth. God wants me to love every minute of this life, to use my talents as a good and faithful servant.

I live into the assurance that the life of the world to come will come…in due time.

Today, heaven can wait.

Seeking, Finding, and Being Found

Acts 16: 9-15

I was sitting at the breakfast table on the first Sunday morning of my first trip to South Africa. It was a gorgeous summer day, just between the summer solstice and Christmas. Lots of fresh air and sunlight. Out of nowhere came the most unearthly sound. A high, strong, human sound. I had never heard, or even imagined, such a sound before.

It was a modern-day Lydia, making her way up the street toward the park where she would meet with the women who gathered there to sing, to pray, and to worship God. As she walked, her ululating came not from the back of her throat, but from the depth of her soul.

Ululating is a deep tradition among African women. Physiologically, men can ululate, but culturally it belongs to the women. It is brought forth in times of deep emotion—joy and sorrow, grief and celebration, despair and fulfillment. In his memoir[i], Nelson Mandela talks at length about the Rivonia Trial and the 1964 court ruling that ultimately sent him to Robbin Island. At the moment when he was led from the courtroom following the verdict, he writes simply, “and in the gallery, the women ululated.” It was that sound beyond words that he carried with him into the unknown.

On this particular Sunday, however, my Lydia ululated for joy and in fellowship.

In those days it was still common for household workers to live on-site, a carry-over from their apartheid days when restricted travel made it impractical to go home at the end of a day. And so as she made her way up the street, women would come out from the various houses to join her. My in-laws happen to live almost at the top of the street, very close to the park. By the time I heard them, it was a party…and they were just getting started.

We meet a very different Lydia in the gathering by the river, just outside the gates of Philippi. This Lydia is not merely a businesswoman, but a dealer in purple cloth. Her trade is with the wealthy and the ruling classes. She has connections. She is the head of her own household, accustomed to being in charge and to getting her way.

Yet for all her success, she can’t quite shake that inner sense that something is missing. She can’t put her finger on it exactly; the only thing she can name is the yearning. Even though she has an established worship life, she remains a Seeker.

Like most Seekers, Lydia didn’t actually know what she was looking for. She could not have described it, but she knew it when she heard it. Her response was one of faith—in worship and in the baptism of her entire household—as well as one of radical stewardship. The Seeker was found by her Lord, and on hearing the Word she went all in…in all that she did…with all that she had.

But there’s another story of radical response to the word of the Lord in this reading: Paul took a pretty bold step outside his comfort zone, don’t you think?

Working from little more than a vision, and a sketchy one at that, Paul pulled up stakes, made some fairly complicated travel arrangements into a completely unknown part of the world, and pretty much trusted that things would make sense when he got there. And even when he got there, he still wasn’t “there”! No—he had to leave the safety of the city gates and go to a place where he suspected their might be a gathering place for prayer and worship.

But he went. He kept going until he found that place where he was called to be.

All of this begs some pretty uncomfortable questions for us, the 118^th generation to live into the covenant of Holy Baptism in a time when the media would have us believe that faith is fading, that churches are in decline, that we may as well cut our losses.

Yet, as we all know, there’s always another way to look at statistics.

In this case, if half of our neighbors consider themselves to be spiritual, but only 18% name their faith as important to them and a slightly smaller15% value the time they spend in worship…it’s safe to say that we know a lot of Lydias.

So the question becomes, how will we engage our own radical stewardship of the Gospel?

How will we open our hearts to listen…and to say yes to transformation and renewal?

How will we step outside our comfort zones? How far are we willing to go to reach the Seekers in our midst?

How will our congregations, with their deep heritage of living into the Gospel in the daily life and work of their members, move from the defensive posture of scarcity to the invitational attitude of discernment and faith, creating a vision of vitality as a faith community?

These are not easy questions. They don’t have easy answers. Nevertheless, I do not doubt that when we get there, God’s people will be glad…and sing for joy…joy beyond words.

Let us pray:

Gracious God,
through a vision you sent forth Paul to preach the gospel
and called the women to the place of prayer on the Sabbath.
Grant that we may be like Paul
and be found like Lydia,
our hearts responsive to your word
and open to go where you lead us. Amen.[ii]

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[i] Mandela, Nelson. A Long Walk to Freedom: The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela. Abacus Publishing, 1995.

[ii] http://lectionary.library.vanderbilt.edu/prayers.php?id=138

Trivial Pursuit

My day was not off to a good start.

I had taken my car in for a routine oil change and tune-up. Something unrelated had gone wrong in the process and now it refused to let the mechanic make it happy. It was entirely possible that I would be shopping for a new car before the week was out.

I needed to clear my head and do something positive, so I jumped in my loaner car and headed for the gym. I checked in, headed for the locker room, started to change…there were no socks in my bag. Seriously? No socks.

I’ll walk the dog instead. That will be good for both of us.

By the time I got home it had started to rain.

Now I’m really feeling sorry for myself.

And guilty.

I’m feeling guilty about every stupid little thing that’s going wrong because this particular bad day happens to be Tuesday, the morning after the Boston Marathon.

In the midst of it a wise friend said, “The relatively small problems of our lives don’t pause when there are these big tragedies going on.”

She reminded me that the very fact that I had these little inconveniences was a sign that life goes on. Life is always, on some level, still normal, even in the storms that rage.

This brings to mind a recent editorial in the Los Angeles Time in which the writers lay out a method, complete with diagram, on How Not to Say the Wrong Thing. It turns out that not saying something stupid around the ill, the aggrieved, the bereaved, and others who rely on us for offerings of presence comes down to one simple rule: comfort in, dump out.

Here is how clinical psychologist Susan Silk describes what she calls her “ring theory,” which, she points out, works for any kind of crisis: medical, legal, financial, romantic, you name it. [i]

Draw a circle. This is the center ring. In it, put the name of the person at the center of the current trauma….Now draw a larger circle around the first one. In that ring put the name of the person next closest to the trauma. Repeat the process as many times as you need to. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Parents and children before more distant relatives. Intimate friends in smaller rings, less intimate friends in larger ones. When you are done you have a Kvetching Order….

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens…. That’s the one payoff for being in the center ring.

Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.

When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours,…listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you’re going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn’t, don’t say it….

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are,…that’s fine. It’s a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.

Comfort in, dump out.

My friend and I were able to talk about my anxiety and frustration because we were in the same ring—we both live at a distance from Boston, and we had both quickly confirmed that the Marathon runners and volunteers we knew were safe. Kvetching about something else, something that was trivial in the grand scheme of things yet a real and present stress to me, didn’t take away from our equally real and present concern for those in closer rings. This was where we were; it was OK to meet each other there.

In her gift of just a few supportive words, my friend freed me to unapologetically pray to St. Eligius, the patron saint of car mechanics, and to pray for those in any kind of sorrow or danger, for victims of terrorism, for first responders, and for those who do great harm.[ii] She freed me to appreciate the trivial inconvenience of everyday life.

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[i] http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407,0,2074046.story

[ii] http://episcopalmaine.wordpress.com/

Feed My Sheep

In this week’s Gospel reading, John manages to capture every single one of the deepest emotional, spiritual, and financial anxieties that I inhabit.

And yet, as I read and re-read this passage, I find themes that are oddly comforting, that give me confidence and hope.

I am struck by how John makes a point of telling us that the disciples’ net was not torn.

When the disciples lower the net, approaching their need—in this case their need for food—from a new perspective, they encounter overwhelming abundance, an abundance that requires the combined strength of six men to manage.

And they are provided with a net that is so strong, so well sewn and soundly woven, that the weight of this catch just isn’t a problem.

John shows us a God who goes way beyond the cliché of not giving us more than we can handle. John shows us a God who proactively equips those who heed his voice with the tools and the strength to be stewards of what they receive.

In the net that is not torn, John shows us the God who blessed Bill Gates not just with the talent to generate unprecedented wealth, but with the strength to use that wealth to strive for justice and peace among all people, and further the dignity of every human being.

In the net that is not torn, John shows us the God who is at work in the life of a woman named Carol. If I told you her full name, I doubt that any of you would have ever heard of her; she doesn’t get much press. But if you were a single parent in a small town on the Ohio-Indiana border, Carol would be famous.

At some point as you adjusted to your new and frightening circumstances, Carol would have taken you by the hand, looked you in the eye, and said, “I have raised six daughters, by myself, on an income of $15,000 a year. You are going to be OK.” And then she would proceed to teach you everything she had learned about living with what she had, rather than fretting about what she did not have.

In their vastly different contexts, Bill Gates and Carol choose to respond to the world around them from the basis of what they have, finding a sense of deep joy in their practice of generosity.

The disciples model this same joy as they come ashore.

Notice how they completely abandon the practicalities of dividing the fish into fair shares, cleaning it while it’s fresh, and salting it so it will last into an uncertain future.

No, the disciples’ immediate response is to celebrate God’s bounty in the company of their beloved Jesus. They instinctively gather to bless, break, and share a common meal, offering the first fruits—or in this case, the first fish—of their morning’s labor.

This ritual of blessing, breaking, and sharing is repeated over and over again in the lives of the disciples and in the early church. It is integral to our own lives as Christians: In our Easter Vigil and with every celebration of Holy Baptism, we renew our promise to continue in the apostle’s teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers.

In this promise, we also commit ourselves to the risks of intimacy that make Peter so irritable this morning.

***

The February night was bitterly cold.

The man caught our attention simply because he didn’t fit the landscape. In a cafe full of clean, casually dressed couples, parents with small children, and little clusters of friends, the dirty, unshaven man with his arm in a sling and dried blood around a gash in his forehead didn’t make sense.

He asked if he could sit for a moment. He pulled out a chair, settled himself heavily, and asked my husband if he had any spare change.

In the silence that followed I leaned forward, “We will not give you money, but I would be happy to buy you dinner.”

He shifted uncomfortably, sighed, looked around. He put his good arm on the table, raised his head to look directly into my eyes, and in a soft, even voice, “Dear, I am an alcoholic.”

“I understand. When was the last time you ate?”

“Two days ago. But really, just some spare change.”

“We will not give you money,” I repeated. “You are hungry. I will pay for a sandwich. It’s cold. Maybe some soup.”

He held my eyes for what seemed like an eternity, then finally, “OK, just a sandwich like you’re having I guess.”

My head started swimming as I was snapped back into my surroundings. The ambient light was suddenly glaring. The background music was grating. My half-eaten dinner turned my stomach.

This was not the serene wood-between-the-worlds of C. S. Lewis. This was the hard and confusing space between the comfortably vague fundraising thermometers of our community services and the uncomfortable immediacy of discipleship.

While the voice had merely asked for some change, the eyes of Christ had asked, “Do you love me?” And they weren’t the eyes of the cleaned up risen Christ from my Art Appreciation class; it was the beaten, rejected, broken Christ whom we promise to seek and serve in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.

I am still amazed that I had the presence to say, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”

I still can’t believe that “buzz off” was overcome by a deeper impulse to bless, break, and share the resources at hand—in this case a sandwich, the fleece blanket that we kept in the car, and some advice on where he could meet up with truckers who might help his progress toward destination.

But thanks be to God, when we choose the way of abundance, we find that we do indeed have the strength to live out our Baptismal Covenant in all that we do, with all that we have. We find that we are in fact willing to risk intimacy for the sake of living the Good News.

Our abundance might not be as obvious as Bill Gates’. Our encounters might not be as dramatic as a homeless person plunking himself down at a restaurant table. But each of us, in our own way, encounters the question, “Do you love me?”

Jesus challenges each of us to engage our time, our talent, and our treasure as stewards of the Gospel when he says to Peter, “Feed my sheep.”

Amen

Mostly Dead Is Still Alive!

The setting of this week’s Gospel reading sounds like many of the meetings I’ve attended lately: A small band of deeply committed, faithful disciples trying to figure out what to do when things seem to be falling apart. Too often their numbers are both dwindling and aging, energy is flagging, buildings need attention, and changes in their surrounding communities have left them wondering where mission and ministry fit in the grand scheme of things.

A few weeks ago at the Northeast Ecumenical Stewardship Council’s biennial conference, the keynote speaker made a point that speaks deeply to this scenario: You can’t die twice.[i] It doesn’t matter if the things you try don’t bring the results you planned—at least you tried something. And if each effort to engage congregational growth and development reaches a few new people, energy will accumulate and new life will become greater than the sum of its parts.

So how do we live into the miracle of a church that’s only mostly dead?[ii]

First, think like a church planter. If your community did not have an Episcopal presence, if you were starting from scratch to bring the message of the Gospel and the life of the Baptismal Covenant into a place, what would you need? You would need a place to gather, a core group of people, and a clergy presence, right? Chances are pretty good that those are exactly the things that a declining already has.

Second, get to know your community—not the community that’s always been, but the community as it is today. Find out “who” is in the area, learn about their lives and their needs. Getting to know people, statistically[iii] and personally is a big effort—and a worthwhile investment. I once worshiped in a place where the entire town, not just the streets surrounding the church, is dead quiet on Sunday morning. The only cars on the roads were the ones going to church. But I happened to be in that neighborhood on a weekday afternoon and it was a completely different place—kids on bikes, people in yards, all sorts of life. How might this congregation learn from that? How might an adjustment in worship time (or even day) be life-giving to both the congregation and its neighbors?

Third, introduce your “new” church to the world! Our usual ways of “getting out there” are still important; don’t abandon anything that works well for you. But also consider some new ways of being in fellowship with those around you—remember, most Seekers don’t know they are seeking.

Here are two practical ideas that any congregation can easily engage:

Facebook: Here is a great article from Miguel Angel Escobar offering some very practical insights into how simple changes can make a Facebook presence significantly more effective.

http://www.ecfvp.org/posts/adventures-in-technology-in-a-mom-and-pop-store/

This article came to me just weeks after I had asked a vestry that was concerned about congregational growth whether they were using Facebook as a tool. They reacted with curiosity and skepticism: Why do churches have Facebook pages? What do they get out of the effort?

A quick survey revealed that only three or four of the members had Facebook accounts, and only one person used it regularly. They also assumed that they were probably representative of the congregation as a whole in their (lack of ) enthusiasm.

Then I asked another question: Facebook is not the culture of this group; it’s not the culture of the congregation; but is it the culture of those you are trying to reach?

…and that’s when “the light-bulb face” did the wave around the room.

Twitter: I don’t tweet. In fact, I only turn my phone on when I want to order pizza. But anyone with internet access can tweet.

So what does Twitter have to do with congregational growth? Check this out:

1. Go to https://twitter.com/#!/search-advanced.
2. Type “please pray” into the first box labeled “All of these words.”
3. Under the “Places” option, type the zip code of your church or the communities in which you minister
4. Click the search button at the bottom.

The results that come up will include every tweet that includes the words “please pray” within the designated zip code from up to seven days prior. Now all you have to do is read through them and reply “St. Swithin’s is praying for you. 123 Rural Road; Services 8 & 10 Sunday. FMI or pastoral care, 555-5555.”

That doesn’t even come close to the 140-character max for a Twitter message, but think about the power it could have in the life of someone who is putting him or herself “out there” with a need for prayer.

I tested this from my laptop and the results were great! It would be a wonderful ministry for anyone who uses the internet regularly, yet struggles to get to meetings or make specific time commitments. My husband, for example, has taken on this ministry for our congregation because he travels frequently on business; this is a way that he can reach out in the name of the church from airports, hotels, wherever he happens to be. When Robert discussed this ministry with the gentleman who coordinates Prayers of the People, he replied, “I’ve never heard of Twitter but I’m happy to pray for anyone; just send me a list on Saturday mornings and we’ll include them.”

How generous. How simple. How baptismal.

Here’s the bottom line: We know from a variety of data and media sources that about 50% of Americans describe themselves as “spiritual.” In the area where I live, about 18% of adults say that their faith is important to them, while 15% agree that it is important to attend religious services. But only about 11% of adults living in the Northeast report that they attend church regularly. This tells me that there’s some pretty low-hanging fruit if 4% of our community populations are inclined to worship but don’t and another 3% could be shown that church is worth a try.

Is reaching them also worth a try…or will we stay in the house with the doors locked, waiting for a miracle?

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[i] Mike Piazza, Co-Executive Director, Center for Progressive Renewal. http://www.progressiverenewal.org

[ii] Yes, that is a reference to The Princess Bride, a hymn to determination and perseverance if there ever was one.

[iii] I highly recommend http://factfinder2.census.gov/faces/nav/jsf/pages/index.xhtml#none

Spoiler Alert!

It never gets old. No matter how many times I hear Luke’s painful account of the women’s pre-dawn visit to Jesus’ tomb, I never fail to be drawn into the depths of their grief. The beauty of their discipleship overwhelms me. It’s over. There’s nothing left for them to do but for the one thing they can do: They can honor the body of their beloved teacher with the rituals of their Jewish faith.

Their sorrow haunts me. It’s all I can do not to shout out loud:

Hang in there!

It’s OK.

I’ve read ahead.

I know the ending.

It’s OK.

But of course those who live history in real time don’t get to read the spoiler. Our foremothers in faith had no way of knowing that they were about to receive good news—the good news. Good News that would change the course of human history. And they would be the first to hear it…and the first to proclaim its truth.

The other thing that draws me into this reading is its shape.

The women set out on a pilgrimage—a journey to a holy place, taken as an act of devotion, thanksgiving, or penance, or in search of healing.[i] Not all of them complete the journey. When they come to tomb, only Mary Magdalene moves into the Center, where she encounters the Risen Christ.

But as with a labyrinth walk, Mary’s journey doesn’t end there. It is only half finished. She can’t just walk away changed, go on with life on a new path. She must retrace her steps back toward the community in order for her experience of transformation to be complete.[ii]

It doesn’t matter that the others don’t believe her, that Peter and John try reasonable explanations—somebody must have already been there when you arrived; the body has been moved; probably grave robbers. For the rational mind, there simply has to be an explanation.

So for now the truth belongs to Magdalene and to her alone. It is hers to hold. It is her turn to ponder things in her heart, as Mary the Mother of Jesus did at the beginning of Luke’s Gospel. The Good News is hers to shout, hers to share, hers to hold fast.

Now she knows the spoiler.

She is ahead of the others.

They’ll get there.

It’s OK.

 

Living God, long ago, faithful women proclaimed the good news of Jesus’ resurrection,

and the world was changed forever.

Teach us to keep faith with them, that our witness may be as bold, our love as deep,

and our faith as true.

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[i] Kautz, Richard. A Labyrinth Year: Walking the Seasons of the Church. Harrisburg: Morehouse. p. xiv.

[ii] Ibid. p. xv.

It Is Begun

Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?[i]

Broken. Mangled. Bruised and bloody beyond recognition. The suffering servant is abandoned. It is clear that God is not going to swoop in and save the day. The big plan for our salvation is a hot mess. And what happens next is going to be very painful, and very human.

But Jesus isn’t ready to give up. He invokes the 22^nd Psalm, a song of anguish and praise, a hymn to God’s greatness and power, no matter how bad things get.

Yet what Jesus sees when he looks down from the cross is not terribly encouraging.

First, of course, are those he doesn’t see: those who have abandoned him, run away, holed up until the worst of it passes. Some have started to reconvene at Mark’s house; others are still scattered, lying low.

Then there are those who jeer and mock him, whether for sport or from genuine scorn.

The hardest, though, are those who simply ignore him—another Friday, another batch of criminals for Rome to dispatch, another itinerant preacher who took it a little too far. The opposite of love is not hate; the opposite of love is indifference.

But in the midst of it all, there at the very foot of the cross, a little knot of people catches his eye—four women and a teenage boy, in whom Jesus finds love and hope.

His gaze falls first to Mary, his mother. She is not the first grieving mother he has seen in the course of his ministry. He knows that her anguish has no depth, no words, no comfort. He sees the sword pierce her heart with every agonized breath he labors to draw. The thing that both he and she need most in this moment is assurance.

After all we’ve read of teenage rebellion, public rebuke, cheekiness and downright sassing her, Jesus’ final will and testament, all eight words of it, ensures his mother’s physical safety, social security, and emotional and spiritual comfort.

In turning to John, Jesus draws our attention to a different face of society’s most vulnerable: a young male on the threshold of adulthood. John had been among the very first of Jesus’ disciples and was the youngest of the twelve. His devotion was without exception: Along with Peter, John had witnesses the raising of Jairus’ daughter, the Transfiguration, and the Agony of Gethsemane; he had gone ahead into Jerusalem to prepare for the Last Supper; he had followed Jesus into the palace of the high priest after his arrest.

Now, Peter has denied his Lord; only John remains.

Perhaps Jesus felt responsible for this young man, or perhaps he just instinctively knew that John needed a mom. Either way, Jesus cared for this beloved disciple in the most intimate way possible: He gave him a family.

And thus in the midst of the most barbaric torture and death that humankind has ever invented, Jesus lives into God’s creative power. He redefines family as a relational unit based on love and care, rather than on blood and lineage. He establishes not the church—that will be left to Peter—but the ecclesia, the people gathered.

With that it is finished. Jesus has done what he came to do. Our salvation is accomplished. The rest is up to us.

Reflecting on our Epistle reading, Sheldon Sorge writes:

For all the power and majesty of this resounding exclamation of Christ’s finished priestly work, the story of atonement does not end with “It is finished” from the cross. Rather, the cross’s obliteration of all that divides sinful humanity is only the beginning of the salvation story effected through Jesus Christ. Because of what he has done through his sacrifice on the cross, Hebrews teaches, we are free to move forward in “a new and living way” of freedom, enabled joyously to live according to the life-giving law of God.[ii]

The legacy of the cross, therefore, is not personal salvation. It is a communal witness of encouragement and hope.[iii]

Like Mary and John, we who hear these words from the cross this day are charged with new responsibilities. It falls to us to carry the Good News into our time, from this Place of the Skull to the Jerusalems and Judeas and Samarias of our lives.

In this Paschal Triduum, in the tension between death and resurrection, the question becomes:

How do we live into our Gospel inheritance when about half of our neighbors describe themselves as being spiritual, yet only 18% say that their faith is important to them and an even smaller 15% believe it is important to attend church services regularly? How do we behold our mothers, embrace our sons, engage with seekers who don’t even know they are seeking?

As we stand in this hour, on the cusp of what is finished and what is begun, let us pray…

Lord Jesus Christ, in dying you created a new family: your church led by your apostles. May we, like Mary and John, entrust ourselves to one another. May we, like them, be sure guardians of your witness. This we ask in your name, Amen.[iv]

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[i] Peterson, Eugene. The Message. Is 53:1.

[ii] Sorge, Sheldon L., in Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors. Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year C, Volume 2: Lent through Eastertide. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. P. 296.

[iii] Chakoian, Christine, in Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors. Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year C, Volume 2: Lent through Eastertide. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. P. 296.

[iv] Adapted from Perry, Tim. Blessed is She: Living Lent with Mary. Harrisburg: Morehouse, 2006. P. 93.

Feet, or Hands?

As we gather this evening to observe Maundy Thursday, many of us will be invited to participate in the ritual of foot-washing. For some, our feet will be washed by our parish priest. For others, we will engage in serving one another, having our feet washed by the person in front of us, and then in turn washing the feet of the person behind us.

For me, the latter practice is the more meaningful. It reinforces for me that in being sealed as Christ’s own, we are bound together in a web of mutual servanthood. I hold within the moment when I sat while a student who had suffered a sports injury laid aside his crutches, carefully knelt to support himself on his good knee while he lowered the more painful one, took my feet, and carefully washed them. His commitment was palpable; his determination to participate beyond his physical discomfort was a gift.

As he rose and offered me his hand, I carried his gift of servanthood with me as I in turn moved onto my knees and carefully took into my hands the foot of an elderly professor. One by one, our servanthood in relationship with one another accumulated, snowballed, grew to fill the chapel as we received and gave of our selves, one by one.

I have become aware in recent years that for some congregations the practice is instead to wash one another’s hands.

I confess that I scoffed when I first heard of this: No, foot washing is not convenient. It’s not easy. It’s messy. That’s the point! I look down my nose at people who think it’s OK to “just do our hands instead” because they don’t want to go through all the hassle of taking off their shoes. They don’t want to expose their feet. They don’t want to get water all over the place and have to clean it up.

My second reaction was a scornful, “And besides, doesn’t this turn us all into Pilate?” How can we possibly justify moving from the deepest symbolic act that Jesus purposely engaged to set an example for his followers—not just the 12 who were gathered, but all his followers across time and space forever and ever amen—to an equally powerful symbolic act of dismissal?

But now I’m having second thoughts.

Maybe there’s something to this hand washing thing, this Pilate thing.

What if we were to approach this as a moment of truth-telling? What if we could take a hard look at ourselves and admit that we all too often do wash our hands of it, whatever “it” may be….

…I wish we had better health care for everyone, but what can I do? It is what it is.

…I hate seeing so many people come to the end of their unemployment benefits, but what can I do? At least we support the food pantry.

…I know that child is in a bad situation, but my hands are tied.

…There must be a more sustainable solution, but how would it work?

Perhaps there is value in confronting those Pilate moments that challenge our baptism in everyday life. I don’t mean this as a guilt trip (though it could certainly be a big one!). Rather, I am pondering the possibilities, wondering what sparks of commitment, what seeds of ministry might come from admitting that in many ways we weren’t there when they crucified our Lord.

How might we engage hand washing not as a convenient substitute for the messy work of foot washing, but as an invitation to transformation?