Finding God in the Dark
Darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day. Psalm 139
At our parent retreat on Saturday afternoon, we talked about what we found frightening about the dark. When we were little, were we afraid of the dark? Most of us were. On Saturday, we named some things that were frightening about the dark. We were afraid of imaginary types of things--hobgoblins and ghosts and zombies were top of the list. We were also afraid of things that were real--rabid foxes (someone grew up in the country)and burglars (for the city folk). For almost everyone who was afraid of the dark as a child, the number one reason was being all alone and separated from our parents. A light in the hall was a help. A voice responding to our cries was even better. A loving hug that all was well was best of all.
At one time or another in our lives as adults, we wake up at night and can't go back to sleep. Our minds are racing with many thoughts and worries. When we can't sleep, some of us get up, turn the light on and work. Some of us turn the light on and read ourselves back to sleep. Some toss and turn the rest of the night. Some stay in the dark and say a memorized psalm or prayer. I often think that if I just get comfortable once again, I'll go back to sleep. So, I often toss and turn for a while. In my better moments, I remember that God is in the dark night with me. I recite Compline to myself to connect with God--and often I am asleep before I get to the psalm portion of Compline. I also remind myself that when I wake in the night, it is usually because I have overdone myself at work. I try gently to remind myself to take it easy. I imagine that when I do these things, God smiles.
I can't say that I do remember that God is in the night with me every time. Sometimes I just toss and turn and think. When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark. I needed a light on in the hall. Sometimes I would cry out and be comforted when my mother answered or, better yet, came to sit on the edge of my bed until I went back to sleep. Now, inner fears can surface in the night. God is there. In the dark. Right there next to me on the edge of the bed. God is there all along.
What do you do when you can't sleep? Can you find God in the dark?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday after Lent IV--March 28, 2009
Crossing Over Part Two
And leaving the crowd behind, the disciples took Jesus with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Peace! Be still!" Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, "Why are you afraid? Have you still not faith?" And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?" Mark 4: 36-41
In my sermon at the Lenten ecumenical series at Union Baptist on Wednesday, my sermon theme was "crossing over." Now we all cross over thresholds in all through our lives. We learn to walk and walk across the room into our parent's waiting arms. We learn to cross the street. As adults, we cross from one neighborhood to another as we go to work and back home again. Sometimes I wonder to myself how many times I've crossed North Avenue off of 1-83 as I make my way to school and home and church. Crossing over is part of the repetition that brings God's love to us in our ordinary routines.
But then there is a crossing over such as the disciples find with Jesus in Mark's gospel. There is that time when we are called to step into the boat, go out into the wind and waves, and cross over into a place that we fear and dread. Sometimes that's the only way for us truly to trust God. To get in the boat when we least want to get in the boat. A surgery. A death. Leaving a relationship. Confronting the other. Embracing the other.
On Wednesday, I told a story about my time in South Africa and a time that I had to get into the boat, ride the wind and the waves, and cross over into a new way of living. Near St Francis Church in Walkerville, there is an elderly group home called Abbeyfield. During my time, eight proper British ladies lived there. At the back of the property was a one-room shack. In that one-room shack lived Delores--Abbeyfield's maid. I would see Delores when I came to celebrate a monthly Eucharist with the ladies. She would often come in for communion from the kitchen. Then, I didn't see her for a good long time. One day, I received a call from one of the ladies. Would I come and visit Delores--she was back and very ill.
The day I arrived to visit Delores, the ladies were waiting for me. They explained that she had gone home to the Orange Free State (about a day's journey) because she was ill. However, she had come back. Her family had asked her to leave. They had disowned her. Delores had AIDS. As I crossed the yard to visit her, I had to ask Jesus to be with me. AIDS was making its way across South Africa from Durban to Johannesberg slowly. This was my first AIDS visit in Africa. What would the visit bring? I entered the shack. It was dark. I couldn't see a thing. Gradually, I saw a figured huddled uner several blankets on a simple cot. As I came closer, it was Delores. Horribly thin, shaking with fever. She asked for communion. As she took the Body and Blood of Jesus, I noticed her face and mouth were covered in sores. I sat with her and held her hand. There wasn't much to say except pray. Pray for Jesus to ride with her through this storm. After I visited Delores, she died a few days later.
I will always think of Delores as the face of AIDS in Africa. In her suffering, there were many crossing overs. The English ladies of Abbeyfield were asked by Jesus to get in the boat and care for a black woman. They crossed over into a new life and became her only family at the end. Delores had to cross over and come to Abbeyfield to find a home where she could die with dignity and peace. That's what mission is all about --crossing over into a new land. Stepping in the boat when we are ful of faith and when we are fearful. Knowing that Jesus is with us with every waves. Where has God asked you to get in the boat this Lent?
And leaving the crowd behind, the disciples took Jesus with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Peace! Be still!" Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, "Why are you afraid? Have you still not faith?" And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?" Mark 4: 36-41
In my sermon at the Lenten ecumenical series at Union Baptist on Wednesday, my sermon theme was "crossing over." Now we all cross over thresholds in all through our lives. We learn to walk and walk across the room into our parent's waiting arms. We learn to cross the street. As adults, we cross from one neighborhood to another as we go to work and back home again. Sometimes I wonder to myself how many times I've crossed North Avenue off of 1-83 as I make my way to school and home and church. Crossing over is part of the repetition that brings God's love to us in our ordinary routines.
But then there is a crossing over such as the disciples find with Jesus in Mark's gospel. There is that time when we are called to step into the boat, go out into the wind and waves, and cross over into a place that we fear and dread. Sometimes that's the only way for us truly to trust God. To get in the boat when we least want to get in the boat. A surgery. A death. Leaving a relationship. Confronting the other. Embracing the other.
On Wednesday, I told a story about my time in South Africa and a time that I had to get into the boat, ride the wind and the waves, and cross over into a new way of living. Near St Francis Church in Walkerville, there is an elderly group home called Abbeyfield. During my time, eight proper British ladies lived there. At the back of the property was a one-room shack. In that one-room shack lived Delores--Abbeyfield's maid. I would see Delores when I came to celebrate a monthly Eucharist with the ladies. She would often come in for communion from the kitchen. Then, I didn't see her for a good long time. One day, I received a call from one of the ladies. Would I come and visit Delores--she was back and very ill.
The day I arrived to visit Delores, the ladies were waiting for me. They explained that she had gone home to the Orange Free State (about a day's journey) because she was ill. However, she had come back. Her family had asked her to leave. They had disowned her. Delores had AIDS. As I crossed the yard to visit her, I had to ask Jesus to be with me. AIDS was making its way across South Africa from Durban to Johannesberg slowly. This was my first AIDS visit in Africa. What would the visit bring? I entered the shack. It was dark. I couldn't see a thing. Gradually, I saw a figured huddled uner several blankets on a simple cot. As I came closer, it was Delores. Horribly thin, shaking with fever. She asked for communion. As she took the Body and Blood of Jesus, I noticed her face and mouth were covered in sores. I sat with her and held her hand. There wasn't much to say except pray. Pray for Jesus to ride with her through this storm. After I visited Delores, she died a few days later.
I will always think of Delores as the face of AIDS in Africa. In her suffering, there were many crossing overs. The English ladies of Abbeyfield were asked by Jesus to get in the boat and care for a black woman. They crossed over into a new life and became her only family at the end. Delores had to cross over and come to Abbeyfield to find a home where she could die with dignity and peace. That's what mission is all about --crossing over into a new land. Stepping in the boat when we are ful of faith and when we are fearful. Knowing that Jesus is with us with every waves. Where has God asked you to get in the boat this Lent?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday and Wednesday after Lent IV--March 24 & 25
Crossing Over
On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, "Let us go across to the other side." Mark 4:35
I've been praying over this passage for a few days now. It is the passage that I am preaching on at the Lenten Ecumenical Service at Union Baptist on Druid Hill Avenue this noonday. The rest of the passage is about Jesus and disciples in the boat when a great storm arises. The wind lashes at the sails and the waves violently rock the boat. Amidst the clamor and fear, Jesus calmly sleeps in the bottom of the boat. All curled up like a cat in the sun, I imagine, while bedlam and choas are all around him. Finally, the disciples wake him up. "Don't you care about us perishing in this storm?" they ask. Jesus essentially says what he often says---don't be afraid, I am with you, have faith. Then Jesus calmly, deliberately, stills the storm. Everyone arrives on the other side of the sea intact.
My theme for the sermon is "Crossing Over." I'll report tonight on how I actually preached this text and theme. When you read this, think of yourself as the preacher. How would you preach this passage? What immediately comes to mind when you imagine yourself in the boat?
On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, "Let us go across to the other side." Mark 4:35
I've been praying over this passage for a few days now. It is the passage that I am preaching on at the Lenten Ecumenical Service at Union Baptist on Druid Hill Avenue this noonday. The rest of the passage is about Jesus and disciples in the boat when a great storm arises. The wind lashes at the sails and the waves violently rock the boat. Amidst the clamor and fear, Jesus calmly sleeps in the bottom of the boat. All curled up like a cat in the sun, I imagine, while bedlam and choas are all around him. Finally, the disciples wake him up. "Don't you care about us perishing in this storm?" they ask. Jesus essentially says what he often says---don't be afraid, I am with you, have faith. Then Jesus calmly, deliberately, stills the storm. Everyone arrives on the other side of the sea intact.
My theme for the sermon is "Crossing Over." I'll report tonight on how I actually preached this text and theme. When you read this, think of yourself as the preacher. How would you preach this passage? What immediately comes to mind when you imagine yourself in the boat?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday after Lent IV--March 23, 2009
Our Mission in the World
The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; and dust shall be the serpent's food. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, says the Lord. Isaiah 65:24-25.
Yesterday evening gave me much food for thought. At our Inquirer's Class, we had a spirited discussion about our role in the world. We've been reading Brian McLaren's book on reclaiming the ancient Christian practices. McLaren argues that three practices are essential to Christian life: the contemplative practice( our individual relationship with God through prayer and silence), the communal practice (our worship life in a gathered community), and our missional practice( our ministry in the world). All three practices are essential to a full life in Christ and inform one another--kind of like the Trinity! (but that's a topic for another day) On the topic of mission, we each shared where we find that we share the love of Christ with another in the world. Responses ranged from working with women in recovery to doing odd jobs for friends and relatives. All were clear signs of mission.
After class, I attended the service for Diocesan Peace in the Middle East which Memorial hosted this month. As part of the reflection, Wendy Shuford read a story about the hardships and injustices at the checkpoints in the Gaza strip. She told a moving story of a Palestinian man who had his leg amputated outside of the Palestinian area. He was coming back to bury his amputated leg in the burial area of Palestine. When he died, he wanted to have his leg buried with his body. He was held up for ten hours at the checkpoint while soldiers determined if the leg held explosives, if the proper papers existed, if the leg really was his leg. During what must have been a horrific experience, someone waited with this man. It was a Jewish grandmother. She waited with him to make sure that he got through the checkpoint to his home with his leg. At the checkpoints in Gaza, there is a ministry of presence in these Jewish grandmothers. Every day, they show up and document ill-treatment and abuse and just plain incompetence at these checkpoint. They are working for peace--one day, one individual at a time.
I am inspired by their story. I wonder if I could state my daily mission in the world so clearly. That will be one of my spiritual inquiries for the week. How do I work for peace and justice each day?
The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; and dust shall be the serpent's food. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, says the Lord. Isaiah 65:24-25.
Yesterday evening gave me much food for thought. At our Inquirer's Class, we had a spirited discussion about our role in the world. We've been reading Brian McLaren's book on reclaiming the ancient Christian practices. McLaren argues that three practices are essential to Christian life: the contemplative practice( our individual relationship with God through prayer and silence), the communal practice (our worship life in a gathered community), and our missional practice( our ministry in the world). All three practices are essential to a full life in Christ and inform one another--kind of like the Trinity! (but that's a topic for another day) On the topic of mission, we each shared where we find that we share the love of Christ with another in the world. Responses ranged from working with women in recovery to doing odd jobs for friends and relatives. All were clear signs of mission.
After class, I attended the service for Diocesan Peace in the Middle East which Memorial hosted this month. As part of the reflection, Wendy Shuford read a story about the hardships and injustices at the checkpoints in the Gaza strip. She told a moving story of a Palestinian man who had his leg amputated outside of the Palestinian area. He was coming back to bury his amputated leg in the burial area of Palestine. When he died, he wanted to have his leg buried with his body. He was held up for ten hours at the checkpoint while soldiers determined if the leg held explosives, if the proper papers existed, if the leg really was his leg. During what must have been a horrific experience, someone waited with this man. It was a Jewish grandmother. She waited with him to make sure that he got through the checkpoint to his home with his leg. At the checkpoints in Gaza, there is a ministry of presence in these Jewish grandmothers. Every day, they show up and document ill-treatment and abuse and just plain incompetence at these checkpoint. They are working for peace--one day, one individual at a time.
I am inspired by their story. I wonder if I could state my daily mission in the world so clearly. That will be one of my spiritual inquiries for the week. How do I work for peace and justice each day?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday after Lent III--March 20, 2009
In the in-between
It is now Friday and I am just getting used to being out in Western Maryland. My routine is set for the week. Yet it is time to think about coming back to Baltimore. Like any vacation or time away, it is a time to transition. Much of our life is entering into communities and ways of life, moving back to older communities, and moving on to new ones. There is the transition from family home to school, school to college, college to work, work to retirement. There are family members who move on to eternal life to be replaced by the newborn. There are friends left behind in a move and new friends gained in a new place. Our life is full of deaths and new births in many ways.
I've been thinking quite a lot this week about Judith Mosley. Judith Mosley is a longtime Memorialite who moved to New Mexico a couple of years ago. She left behind several strong communities who supported her day in and day out. Before she had time to establish new ties, she was diagnosed with ALS or Lou' Gehrig's disease. ALS is a neuromuscular disease that has no cure. Judith now would like to spend her last days in Baltimore. She has certainly been in the in-between. This week she was to fly back to Baltimore; however, when the medical team arrived to take her to the airport, it became evident that the disease had progressed to the point where she could no longer sit upright in an airplane. Now, the only way to get Judith home is for her to fly on an air ambulance which is $12,500. As friends try to raise the money to get her to Baltimore, we realize that so many are in the in-between these days. Money worries, health issues, relationship uncertainties. Judith's situation makes all of our in-betweens more pronounced and, at the same time, small by comparison. One thing is certain--it is hard to be at the end of one's journey on earth and be in transition with one's daily surroundings. The spiritual journey is transition enough. Please pray for Judith, her caregivers, and all who love her.
It is now Friday and I am just getting used to being out in Western Maryland. My routine is set for the week. Yet it is time to think about coming back to Baltimore. Like any vacation or time away, it is a time to transition. Much of our life is entering into communities and ways of life, moving back to older communities, and moving on to new ones. There is the transition from family home to school, school to college, college to work, work to retirement. There are family members who move on to eternal life to be replaced by the newborn. There are friends left behind in a move and new friends gained in a new place. Our life is full of deaths and new births in many ways.
I've been thinking quite a lot this week about Judith Mosley. Judith Mosley is a longtime Memorialite who moved to New Mexico a couple of years ago. She left behind several strong communities who supported her day in and day out. Before she had time to establish new ties, she was diagnosed with ALS or Lou' Gehrig's disease. ALS is a neuromuscular disease that has no cure. Judith now would like to spend her last days in Baltimore. She has certainly been in the in-between. This week she was to fly back to Baltimore; however, when the medical team arrived to take her to the airport, it became evident that the disease had progressed to the point where she could no longer sit upright in an airplane. Now, the only way to get Judith home is for her to fly on an air ambulance which is $12,500. As friends try to raise the money to get her to Baltimore, we realize that so many are in the in-between these days. Money worries, health issues, relationship uncertainties. Judith's situation makes all of our in-betweens more pronounced and, at the same time, small by comparison. One thing is certain--it is hard to be at the end of one's journey on earth and be in transition with one's daily surroundings. The spiritual journey is transition enough. Please pray for Judith, her caregivers, and all who love her.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday after Lent III--March 19, 2009
Waiting
I waited patiently upon the Lord; he stooped to me and heard my cry. Psalm 40:1
Waiting has never been easy. It's something that we all have to learn to deal with on a regular basis. With our new "instant" messaging--e-mails, chats, twittering, we hope that everyone will be available when we need them. When we have an urgent e-mail ( and what we define as urgent is always up for examination), we hope that our e-mail recipient is on-line at that moment, ready with an answer. It's as if the world is just waiting for us and our questions. When we are under a good deal of stress due to time pressures (which are almost unrealistic on occasion) or personal issues, it is easy to get frustrated.
I continue to be transfixed by Kathleen Norris' book on Acedia. In it, she talks about waiting. In particular, she shares a time when she was in charge of keeping financial records for companies. Her new software added amazing feats of organization, yet, in order to save her time as a bookkeeper, she had to wait a few seconds for the computer to do its task. One day, she became frustrated at the wait. She decided to time the wait. The wait was 10 seconds! 10 seconds! There have been instances when I've felt the same way. When you sit down, pause and think about it, it seems ridiculous. Yet who of us hasn't felt that way?
Norris writes about how this has always been the case. When the zippy stage coach was invented, some folks bemoaned the loss of days on horseback or foot--when there was time to smell the roadside flowers or speak to a fellow traveler resting under the tree. The stage coach led folks to expect to get to Philadelphia in one day instead of two. Expectations increased. Frustration with slowness abounded.
When I am in Western Maryland and am working, I do check our Sunday bulletins and publications. I come to the library once a day. Sometimes I don't get an answer right away on a question or two. Sometimes I am not available for a question. Is it really that important? Sometimes I get anxious about my inability to be present at all times, yet is that ever really neceaary for any of us? Communication does work at this mountain pace. I think about my usual week--when I am running between meetings, checking bulletins and goldenrods. Is there a calmer way to live and still get the information out? Is waiting such a bad thing? The prophet Isaiah tells us that those who wait on the Lord renew their strength. Good advice.
I waited patiently upon the Lord; he stooped to me and heard my cry. Psalm 40:1
Waiting has never been easy. It's something that we all have to learn to deal with on a regular basis. With our new "instant" messaging--e-mails, chats, twittering, we hope that everyone will be available when we need them. When we have an urgent e-mail ( and what we define as urgent is always up for examination), we hope that our e-mail recipient is on-line at that moment, ready with an answer. It's as if the world is just waiting for us and our questions. When we are under a good deal of stress due to time pressures (which are almost unrealistic on occasion) or personal issues, it is easy to get frustrated.
I continue to be transfixed by Kathleen Norris' book on Acedia. In it, she talks about waiting. In particular, she shares a time when she was in charge of keeping financial records for companies. Her new software added amazing feats of organization, yet, in order to save her time as a bookkeeper, she had to wait a few seconds for the computer to do its task. One day, she became frustrated at the wait. She decided to time the wait. The wait was 10 seconds! 10 seconds! There have been instances when I've felt the same way. When you sit down, pause and think about it, it seems ridiculous. Yet who of us hasn't felt that way?
Norris writes about how this has always been the case. When the zippy stage coach was invented, some folks bemoaned the loss of days on horseback or foot--when there was time to smell the roadside flowers or speak to a fellow traveler resting under the tree. The stage coach led folks to expect to get to Philadelphia in one day instead of two. Expectations increased. Frustration with slowness abounded.
When I am in Western Maryland and am working, I do check our Sunday bulletins and publications. I come to the library once a day. Sometimes I don't get an answer right away on a question or two. Sometimes I am not available for a question. Is it really that important? Sometimes I get anxious about my inability to be present at all times, yet is that ever really neceaary for any of us? Communication does work at this mountain pace. I think about my usual week--when I am running between meetings, checking bulletins and goldenrods. Is there a calmer way to live and still get the information out? Is waiting such a bad thing? The prophet Isaiah tells us that those who wait on the Lord renew their strength. Good advice.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday after Lent III--March 18, 2009
It's a beautiful spring day in March! Welcome the spring by taking advantage of this day in some way. Take a walk, breath in the air. If you are caught in the office all day, make an evening walk a reality. Eat dinner on the patio. Make a quick trip out to spy a star or two. Herald the spring! More tomorrow....I'm going outside!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Tuesday after Lent III--March 17, 2009
St Patrick's E-Mail Jig
Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy.
Happy St Patrick's Day! Today I find myself in Western Maryland and everyone is wearing green. When I am in Western Maryland, there is a feeling of being in a monastic frame of mind. Our house does not have landline phone service, television service or an internet connection. The cellphone service depends on the weather--and how thick the air is---really! Voicemail messages are delayed for a few hours. At the house, it really does have a sense of being away from it all. I have a sense of Sabbath---and this is because I am more separated from modern technology. I can access it, but I have to make an effort.
If I want to check my e-mail, I have to go to the local library where there is free wireless service. I can work on sermons, letters, teaching outlines and more from home off-line but cannot use the internet. That means that I can only really check my e-mail once a day--if that often. If I had been at home or the office in Baltimore today, I would have checked my e-mail at least twice and probably three times by now. If we are always connected, can there ever be a time of Sabbath? So, whenever I am here, I wonder what it would be if I had a discipline of checking my e-mail once a day---even when in Baltimore. When the e-mail or web is available at all times, it is so easy just to check one more time within the space of an hour or so. Before I know it, time that could be used to research and write or complete a project that takes good concentrated work is gone. Is checking e-mail frequently a sign of acedia or sloth? Sometimes I think it is. A way to procrastinate and keep from the important work at hand.
Do you have a discipline with e-mail that allows you to use its benefits and not get caught in the addiction of constant contact?
Ah well, it's time to leave the library and go home. No more checking in for today. Time for some sabbath.
Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy.
Happy St Patrick's Day! Today I find myself in Western Maryland and everyone is wearing green. When I am in Western Maryland, there is a feeling of being in a monastic frame of mind. Our house does not have landline phone service, television service or an internet connection. The cellphone service depends on the weather--and how thick the air is---really! Voicemail messages are delayed for a few hours. At the house, it really does have a sense of being away from it all. I have a sense of Sabbath---and this is because I am more separated from modern technology. I can access it, but I have to make an effort.
If I want to check my e-mail, I have to go to the local library where there is free wireless service. I can work on sermons, letters, teaching outlines and more from home off-line but cannot use the internet. That means that I can only really check my e-mail once a day--if that often. If I had been at home or the office in Baltimore today, I would have checked my e-mail at least twice and probably three times by now. If we are always connected, can there ever be a time of Sabbath? So, whenever I am here, I wonder what it would be if I had a discipline of checking my e-mail once a day---even when in Baltimore. When the e-mail or web is available at all times, it is so easy just to check one more time within the space of an hour or so. Before I know it, time that could be used to research and write or complete a project that takes good concentrated work is gone. Is checking e-mail frequently a sign of acedia or sloth? Sometimes I think it is. A way to procrastinate and keep from the important work at hand.
Do you have a discipline with e-mail that allows you to use its benefits and not get caught in the addiction of constant contact?
Ah well, it's time to leave the library and go home. No more checking in for today. Time for some sabbath.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Monday after Lent III--March 16, 2009
Urban Amish or Ubermotivated?
His disciples remembered that it was written, "Zeal for your house will consume me." John 2:17
Yesterday's lectionary readings for the Third Sunday of Lent were intense. The Ten Commandments, Paul's famous lines about the cross being a stumbling block, and Jesus turning over the tables in the temple. There was law and judgment bristling in the air. In the midst of the readings was Psalm 19. Lovely Psalm 19 that reminds us that "the law is perfect and revives the soul." Say what?
In my sermon, I decided to argue that, yes indeedy, the law does revive the soul. And here's my angle...the law is essential to combat one of the great temptations of human living...the sin of acedia. Say what times two? What was that word? ACEDIA. According to Kathleen Norris in her recent, intriguing book Acedia and Me, acedia was thought to be the eighth deadly sin---until the powers that be came up with seven. In its Greek root, acedia means "the absence of care." A person afflicted with acedia refuses to care, but, more often than not, is incapable of doing so. Acedia was the great temptation of the ancient mothers and fathers of the desert. It is the great enemy of us all.
It seems to me that acedia can flourish not just in the solitude of self in the desert but in the solitude of self in the modern world. In fact, Norris writes that "acedia is not a relic of the fourth century or a hang-up of some wierd monks, but a force we ignore at our peril...Our busyness can't disguise the suspicion that we are being steadily diminished, not so much living as passing time in a desert of our own devising."
In my sermon, I talked about the ubermotivated--how our blackberries and cells, our twittering and blogging (gulp), our FaceBooking and multitasking--can keep us so busy that we have no time to sift fact from fiction, the important from the unimportant, what we should care about from the irrelevant. How do we know where we should place our zeal and passion if we don't have any space to think about such things? That is assuming that we are not so tired from our hectic lifestyle that we have any energy left to summon up an iota of passion or zeal.
Of course, there is the way of the desert...becoming the urban Amish. I just heard about that term--it is someone who eschews electronic mediums for personal, old-fashioned forms of communication---letter writing, meeting in person. However, I don't think this is totally realistic. First off, you'll still have to deal with acedia because the monks of the ancient desert didn't have any of these tools and still battled the "noonday demon." More importantly, our electronic medium are hugely valuable communication tools. It would be folly on many levels to leave them by the wayside and separate oneself from the world. So...here's the tragic gap topic for this week: What's the middle ground between ubermotivated and urban amish? How do we battle the demon of acedia in this modern age? I think the law and tradition have a gift to give us. That's my blogging topic for the third week of Lent. Stay tuned and tell me what you think.
His disciples remembered that it was written, "Zeal for your house will consume me." John 2:17
Yesterday's lectionary readings for the Third Sunday of Lent were intense. The Ten Commandments, Paul's famous lines about the cross being a stumbling block, and Jesus turning over the tables in the temple. There was law and judgment bristling in the air. In the midst of the readings was Psalm 19. Lovely Psalm 19 that reminds us that "the law is perfect and revives the soul." Say what?
In my sermon, I decided to argue that, yes indeedy, the law does revive the soul. And here's my angle...the law is essential to combat one of the great temptations of human living...the sin of acedia. Say what times two? What was that word? ACEDIA. According to Kathleen Norris in her recent, intriguing book Acedia and Me, acedia was thought to be the eighth deadly sin---until the powers that be came up with seven. In its Greek root, acedia means "the absence of care." A person afflicted with acedia refuses to care, but, more often than not, is incapable of doing so. Acedia was the great temptation of the ancient mothers and fathers of the desert. It is the great enemy of us all.
It seems to me that acedia can flourish not just in the solitude of self in the desert but in the solitude of self in the modern world. In fact, Norris writes that "acedia is not a relic of the fourth century or a hang-up of some wierd monks, but a force we ignore at our peril...Our busyness can't disguise the suspicion that we are being steadily diminished, not so much living as passing time in a desert of our own devising."
In my sermon, I talked about the ubermotivated--how our blackberries and cells, our twittering and blogging (gulp), our FaceBooking and multitasking--can keep us so busy that we have no time to sift fact from fiction, the important from the unimportant, what we should care about from the irrelevant. How do we know where we should place our zeal and passion if we don't have any space to think about such things? That is assuming that we are not so tired from our hectic lifestyle that we have any energy left to summon up an iota of passion or zeal.
Of course, there is the way of the desert...becoming the urban Amish. I just heard about that term--it is someone who eschews electronic mediums for personal, old-fashioned forms of communication---letter writing, meeting in person. However, I don't think this is totally realistic. First off, you'll still have to deal with acedia because the monks of the ancient desert didn't have any of these tools and still battled the "noonday demon." More importantly, our electronic medium are hugely valuable communication tools. It would be folly on many levels to leave them by the wayside and separate oneself from the world. So...here's the tragic gap topic for this week: What's the middle ground between ubermotivated and urban amish? How do we battle the demon of acedia in this modern age? I think the law and tradition have a gift to give us. That's my blogging topic for the third week of Lent. Stay tuned and tell me what you think.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday after Lent II--March 13, 2009
The Treasures of Nature
Ask the creatures, they will tell you. Job 12
Treasures of the heart are certainly those we love. For me, another deep source of treasure is found in nature. For many cultures, animals are markers of the presence of the Holy Spirit. When I was installed as Rector of Memorial, a bat flew from the rafters, down the center aisle and out the front door during the sermon. I got a call from a colleague the next day that this was a sign of the Holy Spirit. I've had folks share with me that after a loved one died, a bird or animal visited them for a few days...perching on the window or appearing in the yard. These persons were sure it was their loved one saying that everything was going to be all right.
During my sabbatical, I spent a good deal of time on the outdoors deck at our home in Western Maryland. I continue to make that my reading, writing and journaling spot. Beginning with the sabbatical and continuing on until this day, I feel blessed by the frequent appearance of one of God's creatures. One day, I heard a strange buzz near my head as I read on the deck. When I looked up, there was nothing to be seen. I wondered if it could be a bumblebee or another type of insect. But the noise wasn't quite right. Later in the morning, I heard the noise again. This time I was daydreaming so I spied the noise-maker. It was a beautiful green and blue hummingbird. Its tiny wings whirring, the hummingbird flitted up close to me---so close I could touch it--and then whirred away into the trees. I felt that it was a sign from God. I'n not sure what sign...but a sign to me that all was well. The hummingbird immediately made me happy. Over the past three years, the hummingbird makes a regular appearance when I appear on the deck to read. I have never had a bird come so close before. We are friends. Somehow that hummingbird is trying to teach me--what could be the teaching?
In what ways has a creature of God taught you?
Ask the creatures, they will tell you. Job 12
Treasures of the heart are certainly those we love. For me, another deep source of treasure is found in nature. For many cultures, animals are markers of the presence of the Holy Spirit. When I was installed as Rector of Memorial, a bat flew from the rafters, down the center aisle and out the front door during the sermon. I got a call from a colleague the next day that this was a sign of the Holy Spirit. I've had folks share with me that after a loved one died, a bird or animal visited them for a few days...perching on the window or appearing in the yard. These persons were sure it was their loved one saying that everything was going to be all right.
During my sabbatical, I spent a good deal of time on the outdoors deck at our home in Western Maryland. I continue to make that my reading, writing and journaling spot. Beginning with the sabbatical and continuing on until this day, I feel blessed by the frequent appearance of one of God's creatures. One day, I heard a strange buzz near my head as I read on the deck. When I looked up, there was nothing to be seen. I wondered if it could be a bumblebee or another type of insect. But the noise wasn't quite right. Later in the morning, I heard the noise again. This time I was daydreaming so I spied the noise-maker. It was a beautiful green and blue hummingbird. Its tiny wings whirring, the hummingbird flitted up close to me---so close I could touch it--and then whirred away into the trees. I felt that it was a sign from God. I'n not sure what sign...but a sign to me that all was well. The hummingbird immediately made me happy. Over the past three years, the hummingbird makes a regular appearance when I appear on the deck to read. I have never had a bird come so close before. We are friends. Somehow that hummingbird is trying to teach me--what could be the teaching?
In what ways has a creature of God taught you?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday after Lent II--March 12, 2009
Treasures that do not fade
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:19-21
Here is one of my favorite scripture passages. As we prepared to move to Africa, this passage became my touchstone as we let go of many of our material possessions through yard sales and gifts to friends rather than put our possessions in storage. This past year, we did a similar move as we moved from a large Rectory to a two-bedroom apartment. At some point, as we pondered whether to keep this chair or that box of saved pictures, I thought back to this passage--a passage that allowed us to make that big move to South Africa.
What really is our treasure? You can always ask yourself: if my house caught on fire, what would I save? The closest I have come to my own answer to that question was the evening of the last burglary at our home in South Africa. We were about a month from moving back to the States and were home for a night in the middle of traveling around the country with friends. We went to dinner and when we returned home, we noticed that our back door had been broken. The steel bars that protected the wooden door were lried apart and the wooden door gashed almost in two. As we entered the house, we saw that nothing had been taken. In a flash, we realized that we had come upon the burglars just as they had begun their evening's work. They were surely hiding in the bushes close by. Fear immediately set in. We knew that we could easily become the victims of serious physical crimes. In my heart, all I wanted to do was to get our children away from the situation. Bryan told us to take one car and drive to a parishioners. He would quickly close up the house. We all got to our parishioner's home safely.
The next morning we returned home to find everything gone. Since we had sent our large possessions ahead, there was not much furniture to take. However, all our clothes were gone including my stoles and vestments. My cloth bible cover had been ripped from the bible (I still use that bible as my main bible). Towels, sheets, everything was gone. But in that moment I knew that the most important thing--my treasures--were still with me. Bryan, Jack and Anna were all fine--if a little shaken. In the days right after the burglary, I kept repeating, "Everyone is all right. No one was hurt." In South Africa, too often, burglaries and robberies ended in truly horrific violent crime. I felt blessed.
In this tough economic times, what are your treasures? In a moment when you are forced to choose what to take with you, what would you do? What really matters?
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:19-21
Here is one of my favorite scripture passages. As we prepared to move to Africa, this passage became my touchstone as we let go of many of our material possessions through yard sales and gifts to friends rather than put our possessions in storage. This past year, we did a similar move as we moved from a large Rectory to a two-bedroom apartment. At some point, as we pondered whether to keep this chair or that box of saved pictures, I thought back to this passage--a passage that allowed us to make that big move to South Africa.
What really is our treasure? You can always ask yourself: if my house caught on fire, what would I save? The closest I have come to my own answer to that question was the evening of the last burglary at our home in South Africa. We were about a month from moving back to the States and were home for a night in the middle of traveling around the country with friends. We went to dinner and when we returned home, we noticed that our back door had been broken. The steel bars that protected the wooden door were lried apart and the wooden door gashed almost in two. As we entered the house, we saw that nothing had been taken. In a flash, we realized that we had come upon the burglars just as they had begun their evening's work. They were surely hiding in the bushes close by. Fear immediately set in. We knew that we could easily become the victims of serious physical crimes. In my heart, all I wanted to do was to get our children away from the situation. Bryan told us to take one car and drive to a parishioners. He would quickly close up the house. We all got to our parishioner's home safely.
The next morning we returned home to find everything gone. Since we had sent our large possessions ahead, there was not much furniture to take. However, all our clothes were gone including my stoles and vestments. My cloth bible cover had been ripped from the bible (I still use that bible as my main bible). Towels, sheets, everything was gone. But in that moment I knew that the most important thing--my treasures--were still with me. Bryan, Jack and Anna were all fine--if a little shaken. In the days right after the burglary, I kept repeating, "Everyone is all right. No one was hurt." In South Africa, too often, burglaries and robberies ended in truly horrific violent crime. I felt blessed.
In this tough economic times, what are your treasures? In a moment when you are forced to choose what to take with you, what would you do? What really matters?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Wednesday after Lent II--March 11, 2009
The Mighty Leviathan
On the fifth day God said, "Let the waters bring forth living creatures." So the wind awakened the waters into life. Great sea-monsters were born. Gleaming fish swarmed the seas. Winged birds of every kind rose out of the waters. Creeping things crawled from the sea. Wild animals ran free. And the cattle roamed the grasslands. God saw that it was good. Earth was alive with its creatures. And there was evening and morning, creation's fifth day. Translation of Genesis 1 by Philip Newell
Have you ever been fascinated by the Loch Ness Monster? When I was a little girl, there were stories of the great dragon-like sea-creature living at the bottom of the Scottish lake. Like the UFO sightings, there is talk from time to time of something large seen arising on the surface of Loch Ness. Such tales have been around for centuries. Celtic legend recounts that St Columba saw a young boy swimming across the loch (lake) when a great sea monster arose and began swimming after the boy. St Columba rebuked the monster. He does not kill the monster. He does not try to tame the monster. He does his best to keep the monster from using its awesome power for ill instead of good.
We are all fascinated by what lies in the deep--in the dark cave---at the bottom of the well. In Lent, it would be helpful to be fascinated at what lies in the depths of our soul. We'd rather stick to the whereabouts of the Loch Ness monster or Big Foot. What lies in the depths of our souls can be a very powerful force. It can be a force used for good or for ill. It is important that we know what lies there. It is important to confront those parts of ourselves that lie deep inside. For if we do not know the power of our deep, we often are controlled by the power of those memories and feelings. How do we get a handle on this? Is it just to big too handle? Isn't it just better to wonder and marvel about mythic creatures than to wonder and marvel at the mythic creature within?
The power of liturgy--especially the power of Lent and Holy Week--can help us to touch that powerful deep within us. As we move closer to the most sacred week of the Christian year, we can prepare through opening our hearts and souls to God in prayer. That's what the Lenten discipline is really all about--getting in touch with our deep. Just a few minutes of silence or prayer time in the morning or evening can be enough. Coming to Sunday worship is even better. Preparing ourselves to attend the drama of the Holy Week services is a sure bet to touch the deep. Learning to be still before God and opening to God's Spirit allows us to relinquish the death grip we have on the deepest part of ourselves--the deepest part that is most holy and most powerful. The deepest part that we most fear but is the way to wholeness and life.
Is there sometime that you feel in touch with the deep within? Have you felt it within a worship service? Have you felt it in the vastness of God's creation and creatures?
On the fifth day God said, "Let the waters bring forth living creatures." So the wind awakened the waters into life. Great sea-monsters were born. Gleaming fish swarmed the seas. Winged birds of every kind rose out of the waters. Creeping things crawled from the sea. Wild animals ran free. And the cattle roamed the grasslands. God saw that it was good. Earth was alive with its creatures. And there was evening and morning, creation's fifth day. Translation of Genesis 1 by Philip Newell
Have you ever been fascinated by the Loch Ness Monster? When I was a little girl, there were stories of the great dragon-like sea-creature living at the bottom of the Scottish lake. Like the UFO sightings, there is talk from time to time of something large seen arising on the surface of Loch Ness. Such tales have been around for centuries. Celtic legend recounts that St Columba saw a young boy swimming across the loch (lake) when a great sea monster arose and began swimming after the boy. St Columba rebuked the monster. He does not kill the monster. He does not try to tame the monster. He does his best to keep the monster from using its awesome power for ill instead of good.
We are all fascinated by what lies in the deep--in the dark cave---at the bottom of the well. In Lent, it would be helpful to be fascinated at what lies in the depths of our soul. We'd rather stick to the whereabouts of the Loch Ness monster or Big Foot. What lies in the depths of our souls can be a very powerful force. It can be a force used for good or for ill. It is important that we know what lies there. It is important to confront those parts of ourselves that lie deep inside. For if we do not know the power of our deep, we often are controlled by the power of those memories and feelings. How do we get a handle on this? Is it just to big too handle? Isn't it just better to wonder and marvel about mythic creatures than to wonder and marvel at the mythic creature within?
The power of liturgy--especially the power of Lent and Holy Week--can help us to touch that powerful deep within us. As we move closer to the most sacred week of the Christian year, we can prepare through opening our hearts and souls to God in prayer. That's what the Lenten discipline is really all about--getting in touch with our deep. Just a few minutes of silence or prayer time in the morning or evening can be enough. Coming to Sunday worship is even better. Preparing ourselves to attend the drama of the Holy Week services is a sure bet to touch the deep. Learning to be still before God and opening to God's Spirit allows us to relinquish the death grip we have on the deepest part of ourselves--the deepest part that is most holy and most powerful. The deepest part that we most fear but is the way to wholeness and life.
Is there sometime that you feel in touch with the deep within? Have you felt it within a worship service? Have you felt it in the vastness of God's creation and creatures?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Monday after Lent II--March 9, 2009
Treasures from the Well
Jesus called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel will save it. Mark 8:35-36
Sometimes the times that are most difficult in our lives are the most critical to our spiritual growth. The crosses that we each carry in our lives are strange treasures. Margaret Silf, an Ignatian spiritual writer, talks about "going to the well" of our lives. A well is a place where we find the water that gives us life; yet, a well is dark, deep and frightening. For the Celtic Christians, a well was a sacred place. As Silf says, the well "is the source of life that is only reached by descending into the depths of a deep, dark shaft....To risk the journey to the bottom of the well demands courage. For many of us, that journey into darkness only happens when circumstances force us into an encounter with "rock bottom." Must such an encounter be negative?" (Margaret Silf, Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way).
Over my life, I have found that the "well experiences" in my life, the crosses that I am called to bear, have been transformative for me. At first, the experiences seemed only negative. After some time, I find that transformative treasures lie within a time of loss or suffering. This past week is always a difficult week of the year. The first week of March contains the anniversaries of the deaths of both my parents. Each year I have to work hard to fight the feelings of loss and grief--even many years out from the actual events. However, if I can stay especially close to God through prayer--even and especially when I am feeling low--grace happens in a tremendous, miraculous way to bring me hope. This year, on March 7th, the anniversary of my mother's death, I was honored to officiate at the funeral of Anne Irvin.
Anne Irvin is the mother of Anne Madison. Anne Madison is the creative genius behind the Anglican rosary beads. Her mother, Anne, came to Memorial to live with Anne and her husband Greg about five years ago. She has suffered from confusion and frailty. After a slow physical and mential decline, she died last Sunday. Her funeral was a celebration of a life well lived. A life that involved being a single mother, a cellist, a teacher, a weaver. Anne loved Cursillo. Her funeral was a celebration of her life. As Monty Howard sang the Cursillo song "Des Colores," I found myself smiling with joy as I walked down the communion rail. As the sun streamed through the church windows, I realized again that God's love and the love of those we see no longer surrounds us always. I realized that every time I celebrate the life of someone who has died as their parish priest, I am made whole in my own grief and loss just a bit more. Some folks would say: how could you be at a funeral on March 7th? I've realized that a funeral full of joy was the very best place for me to be last Saturday. For those "well" experiences in our lives, sometimes the only place to heal again is to go to the well. The place of deep feeling. The place of deep loss. To realize that at "rock bottom," there is God's love.
How do you find a place to heal from loss? What do you do to find hope and the love of God on an anniversary of a loss?
Jesus called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel will save it. Mark 8:35-36
Sometimes the times that are most difficult in our lives are the most critical to our spiritual growth. The crosses that we each carry in our lives are strange treasures. Margaret Silf, an Ignatian spiritual writer, talks about "going to the well" of our lives. A well is a place where we find the water that gives us life; yet, a well is dark, deep and frightening. For the Celtic Christians, a well was a sacred place. As Silf says, the well "is the source of life that is only reached by descending into the depths of a deep, dark shaft....To risk the journey to the bottom of the well demands courage. For many of us, that journey into darkness only happens when circumstances force us into an encounter with "rock bottom." Must such an encounter be negative?" (Margaret Silf, Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way).
Over my life, I have found that the "well experiences" in my life, the crosses that I am called to bear, have been transformative for me. At first, the experiences seemed only negative. After some time, I find that transformative treasures lie within a time of loss or suffering. This past week is always a difficult week of the year. The first week of March contains the anniversaries of the deaths of both my parents. Each year I have to work hard to fight the feelings of loss and grief--even many years out from the actual events. However, if I can stay especially close to God through prayer--even and especially when I am feeling low--grace happens in a tremendous, miraculous way to bring me hope. This year, on March 7th, the anniversary of my mother's death, I was honored to officiate at the funeral of Anne Irvin.
Anne Irvin is the mother of Anne Madison. Anne Madison is the creative genius behind the Anglican rosary beads. Her mother, Anne, came to Memorial to live with Anne and her husband Greg about five years ago. She has suffered from confusion and frailty. After a slow physical and mential decline, she died last Sunday. Her funeral was a celebration of a life well lived. A life that involved being a single mother, a cellist, a teacher, a weaver. Anne loved Cursillo. Her funeral was a celebration of her life. As Monty Howard sang the Cursillo song "Des Colores," I found myself smiling with joy as I walked down the communion rail. As the sun streamed through the church windows, I realized again that God's love and the love of those we see no longer surrounds us always. I realized that every time I celebrate the life of someone who has died as their parish priest, I am made whole in my own grief and loss just a bit more. Some folks would say: how could you be at a funeral on March 7th? I've realized that a funeral full of joy was the very best place for me to be last Saturday. For those "well" experiences in our lives, sometimes the only place to heal again is to go to the well. The place of deep feeling. The place of deep loss. To realize that at "rock bottom," there is God's love.
How do you find a place to heal from loss? What do you do to find hope and the love of God on an anniversary of a loss?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Friday after Lent I--March 6, 2009
Herald the Spring
In the rising of the sun and its setting,
in the whiteness of the moon and its seasons,
in the infinity of space and its shining stars
you are God and we bless you.
May we know the harmony of heaven in the relationship of the earth
and may we know the expanse of its mystery within us.
from Philip Newell's Celtic Treasures
In the midst of Lent, the heralds of spring are here. On my day off, it was time to be outdoors. The first bike ride of the spring was calling. Out to the NCR trail. It was hard going with snow and ice melting and the bike tires glumping in the mud. But I was outside on the bike! All creation was out as well. Especially the birds. A bright red cardinal flew across my path. The sparrows were building their nests. A hawk flew in the tree above me. The woods were aflush with song and all manner of chirpping. I felt a new energy. Spring is here.
Now I know that there will be more cold weather--even a late March snowstorm. But all God's creatures know that spring is around the corner. Even the community cats at Clipper Mill are out and about. There was great excitement in the apartment when my dog Futhi and cat Mr Kitty spied the black cat in the woods hunting for game. There is hope in the air when the creatures of God stir. Even in Lent.
Being outdoors always brings me back to myself--the person God has created me to be. And that's certainly in keeping with the Lenten journey. On this beautiful March weekend, spend some time outside and see if that is true for you. Here's a Mary Oliver poem to get you going:
Such Singing in the Wild Branches
It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves--
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness-
and that's when it happened.
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree--
and I began to understand
what the first was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing--
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky--all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you've been there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then--open the door and fly on your heavy feet;the song
may already be drifting.---from Owls and Other Fantasies by Mary Oliver
In the rising of the sun and its setting,
in the whiteness of the moon and its seasons,
in the infinity of space and its shining stars
you are God and we bless you.
May we know the harmony of heaven in the relationship of the earth
and may we know the expanse of its mystery within us.
from Philip Newell's Celtic Treasures
In the midst of Lent, the heralds of spring are here. On my day off, it was time to be outdoors. The first bike ride of the spring was calling. Out to the NCR trail. It was hard going with snow and ice melting and the bike tires glumping in the mud. But I was outside on the bike! All creation was out as well. Especially the birds. A bright red cardinal flew across my path. The sparrows were building their nests. A hawk flew in the tree above me. The woods were aflush with song and all manner of chirpping. I felt a new energy. Spring is here.
Now I know that there will be more cold weather--even a late March snowstorm. But all God's creatures know that spring is around the corner. Even the community cats at Clipper Mill are out and about. There was great excitement in the apartment when my dog Futhi and cat Mr Kitty spied the black cat in the woods hunting for game. There is hope in the air when the creatures of God stir. Even in Lent.
Being outdoors always brings me back to myself--the person God has created me to be. And that's certainly in keeping with the Lenten journey. On this beautiful March weekend, spend some time outside and see if that is true for you. Here's a Mary Oliver poem to get you going:
Such Singing in the Wild Branches
It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves--
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness-
and that's when it happened.
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree--
and I began to understand
what the first was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing--
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky--all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you've been there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then--open the door and fly on your heavy feet;the song
may already be drifting.---from Owls and Other Fantasies by Mary Oliver
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Thursday in the First Week of Lent---March 5, 2009
A Bathrobe Day of Prayer
And Esther the queen, seized with deathly anxiety, fled to the Lord; she took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body, and every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. Esther 14:1
The weekday Eucharistic liturgy gives us a reading from the Book of Esther today for the lesson from Hebrew Scripture. In fact, it is from the Apocrypha because these verses are thought to be a later Greek addition to the Book of Esther. The passage is about the power of prayer. For those familiar with the Jewish feast of Purim, Purim recounts Queen Esther's courageous intervention to save the Jewish people from a pogrom during the time of the Persian King Xerxes. Esther was a powerful women of God!
When I read these verses, I am reminded of what it feels like to have a very bad day. When the children were little, we used to read the book Alexander's Very Bad, Terrible, Awful Day to them. I don't think that's the exact title, but you get the idea. The description of Esther describes the aftermath of an Alexander kind of day...those days that you just don't want to get out of bed....because you have feeling that it is about to be one of those days yet again. Or you've just had one of those days. Or maybe you've had one of those weeks. Your car has a flat tire. You can't get the work done you need to get done because you have to call the computer company and stay on hold to get help with your non-functioning computer. There is a snow day and you have no babysitter. You know the drill.
The result is this: You wake up after the terrible and awful day or week and ....You don't want to get dressed. You don't want to take a shower. You will not answer the phone. You've had it. It's hard to imagine that this is an ancient way of prayer. But maybe it's something to think about....maybe, just maybe, a day when we hole up at home in our bathrobe might be very conducive to prayer. I know it's also conducive to a bowl of ice cream and daytime tv....but it could be conducive to prayer. No answering the phone. No worrying about appearances. Just lying on the sofa---and instead of popcorn and a movie---a time of quiet and prayer. Just you and God. God doesn't mind the bathrobe or the bad hair. God is just glad you have tuned into prayer.
What's your solution to a very bad, terribly, awful day? Try bathrobe and God.
And Esther the queen, seized with deathly anxiety, fled to the Lord; she took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body, and every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. Esther 14:1
The weekday Eucharistic liturgy gives us a reading from the Book of Esther today for the lesson from Hebrew Scripture. In fact, it is from the Apocrypha because these verses are thought to be a later Greek addition to the Book of Esther. The passage is about the power of prayer. For those familiar with the Jewish feast of Purim, Purim recounts Queen Esther's courageous intervention to save the Jewish people from a pogrom during the time of the Persian King Xerxes. Esther was a powerful women of God!
When I read these verses, I am reminded of what it feels like to have a very bad day. When the children were little, we used to read the book Alexander's Very Bad, Terrible, Awful Day to them. I don't think that's the exact title, but you get the idea. The description of Esther describes the aftermath of an Alexander kind of day...those days that you just don't want to get out of bed....because you have feeling that it is about to be one of those days yet again. Or you've just had one of those days. Or maybe you've had one of those weeks. Your car has a flat tire. You can't get the work done you need to get done because you have to call the computer company and stay on hold to get help with your non-functioning computer. There is a snow day and you have no babysitter. You know the drill.
The result is this: You wake up after the terrible and awful day or week and ....You don't want to get dressed. You don't want to take a shower. You will not answer the phone. You've had it. It's hard to imagine that this is an ancient way of prayer. But maybe it's something to think about....maybe, just maybe, a day when we hole up at home in our bathrobe might be very conducive to prayer. I know it's also conducive to a bowl of ice cream and daytime tv....but it could be conducive to prayer. No answering the phone. No worrying about appearances. Just lying on the sofa---and instead of popcorn and a movie---a time of quiet and prayer. Just you and God. God doesn't mind the bathrobe or the bad hair. God is just glad you have tuned into prayer.
What's your solution to a very bad, terribly, awful day? Try bathrobe and God.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Wednesday after Lent I--February 4, 2009
Gather the children!
Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee? Then he will answer them, "truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me." Matthew 25:44-45
As I continued to struggle with finding my way to God during my twenties and thirties, I found a home at St Paul's Episcopal Church in Alexandria. The way that St Paul's welcomed me was to baptize my son. In 1988, my son Jack was born after a tumultuous year when we lost my father and Bryan's father within months of one another. After my father's funeral at Christ Church, Alexandria, I knew--just knew--that I needed a new spiritual home. A spiritual home for myself as an adult and parent. I called St Paul's. It wasn't convenient--since I wasn't a member. I didn't know what being a member meant---and I had been an Episcopalian all my life!!! The rector and the staff made it possible for me to have Jack baptized there. That became the beginning of my renewed journey towards God.
More than that, as Jack grew and Anna was born, I found that St Paul's provided a spiritual home for my children as well. Their nursery and Sunday School was always open, vibrant and ready to receive my children with care and open arms. I never for a moment worried that Jack and Anna were not being fed while I was in church or adult education.
I do believe that when Jesus talks about feeding the hungry and welcoming the stranger, he is speaking about all of us at one time of another. On the Vestry, we've spent a good time talking about how to grow the parish to ease our deficit. The best way to grow a parish is to tend to its families with youth and children. I have been doing a good bit of praying and pondering our commitment to children and youth at Memorial Church. We have a great tradition of serving the least of our society through our Samaritan Community outreach. However, I don't think we've been as committed to our children and youth. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that if I were not your rector and my children were younger, I probably would not come to Memorial---because of the Sunday School program. That is really and truly difficult for me to say. Regardless of how much I resonated with the values of the Memorial community, I would probably find myself wanting a larger, more dedicated program for my children. I'd want my children to learn the Bible stories of the church as well as the traditions. I want them to have the opportunity to sing in a junior choir. I'd want a youth program that offered outreach mission trips and pilgrimages. As a young parent, I would probably not have the energy to take on that program and lead it into a new place. However, those are the pieces that I would be looking for in a church for that stage of my life.
As I've been led to remember how I was led back to a spiritual home to come closer to God, I remember how important for the community to be a place that valued my children. I wonder how we can create that place for our families at Memorial? Ideas? Comments?
Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee? Then he will answer them, "truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me." Matthew 25:44-45
As I continued to struggle with finding my way to God during my twenties and thirties, I found a home at St Paul's Episcopal Church in Alexandria. The way that St Paul's welcomed me was to baptize my son. In 1988, my son Jack was born after a tumultuous year when we lost my father and Bryan's father within months of one another. After my father's funeral at Christ Church, Alexandria, I knew--just knew--that I needed a new spiritual home. A spiritual home for myself as an adult and parent. I called St Paul's. It wasn't convenient--since I wasn't a member. I didn't know what being a member meant---and I had been an Episcopalian all my life!!! The rector and the staff made it possible for me to have Jack baptized there. That became the beginning of my renewed journey towards God.
More than that, as Jack grew and Anna was born, I found that St Paul's provided a spiritual home for my children as well. Their nursery and Sunday School was always open, vibrant and ready to receive my children with care and open arms. I never for a moment worried that Jack and Anna were not being fed while I was in church or adult education.
I do believe that when Jesus talks about feeding the hungry and welcoming the stranger, he is speaking about all of us at one time of another. On the Vestry, we've spent a good time talking about how to grow the parish to ease our deficit. The best way to grow a parish is to tend to its families with youth and children. I have been doing a good bit of praying and pondering our commitment to children and youth at Memorial Church. We have a great tradition of serving the least of our society through our Samaritan Community outreach. However, I don't think we've been as committed to our children and youth. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that if I were not your rector and my children were younger, I probably would not come to Memorial---because of the Sunday School program. That is really and truly difficult for me to say. Regardless of how much I resonated with the values of the Memorial community, I would probably find myself wanting a larger, more dedicated program for my children. I'd want my children to learn the Bible stories of the church as well as the traditions. I want them to have the opportunity to sing in a junior choir. I'd want a youth program that offered outreach mission trips and pilgrimages. As a young parent, I would probably not have the energy to take on that program and lead it into a new place. However, those are the pieces that I would be looking for in a church for that stage of my life.
As I've been led to remember how I was led back to a spiritual home to come closer to God, I remember how important for the community to be a place that valued my children. I wonder how we can create that place for our families at Memorial? Ideas? Comments?
Monday, March 2, 2009
First Monday after Lent I-- March 2, 2009
Standing in the Tragic Gap--Looking inside
Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him. Mark 1:14
As we enter the first full week of Lent, the movement of spiritual inquiry leads inward to self. As Lent progresses, we begin to look outwards into our community and world. However, we start with ourselves. In yesterday's sermon, I spoke about "standing in the tragic gap." This phrase is the brainchild of Parker Palmer. In his article in the recent Weavings magazine, Parker gives us a definition of what this means:
To live in this world, we must learn how to stand in the tragic gap with faith and hope. By "the tragic gap" I mean the gap between what is and what could and should be, the gap between the reality of a given situation and an alternative reality we know to be possible because we have experienced it." (Parker Palmer, the Borken-Open Heart: Living with Faith and Hope in the Tragic Gap) in Weavings, Volume XXIV, Number 2, March/April 2009)
When we talk about the tragic gap, the first place to start is with ourselves. There is always the self we hope to be and the self that we are. Most days, when we get that uncomfortable feeling that we are not living into the life to which we were called, we do anything and everything to ignore that feeling. We get busy---we watch tv, we read the paper, we do some busywork, we clean house. Some of us reach for a drink or a bowl of ice cream. Some of us look for the answer in another person's body or life. All these movements are for naught for the answer lies within.
This is the step that most of us don't want to take in Lent--the step into the darkness of self. In his classic Let Your Life Speak, Palmer talks about his lifelong struggle and judgment of institutional academia. Of this struggle he says this:
My fear of failing as a scholar contained the energy I needed to catapult myself out of the academy and free myself for another kind of educational mission. But because I could not acknowledge my fear, I had to disguise that energy as the white horse of judgment and self-righteousness. It is an awkward face, but it is true--and once I could acknowledge that truth and understand its role in the dynamics of my life, I found myself no longer embarassed by it. eventually, I was able to get off that white horse and take an unblinking look at myself and my liabilities. This was the step into darkness that I had been trying to avoid--the darkness of seeing myself more honestly that I really wanted to.....Here, I think, is another clue to finding true self and vocation: we must withdraw the negative projections we make on people and situations---projections that serve mainly to mask our fears about ourselves--and acknowledge and embrace our own liabilities and limits." (Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak, pp. 28-29, emphasis supplied)
That's the first movement of Lent. To look inside at our own darkness, acknowledge it, and so move forward with a clearer understanding of who we are as a child of God. Beloved, limited as a human being in some way, but glorious in particular gifts. We make this movement continually as we grow in Christ. One of the major times that I made this movement was in my struggle with the law (see earlier blogs!). The best clue to finding that darkness in self is to look where you are most judgmental of other people or situations. Palmer found it in his frustration and anger at the politics of academia. I found it in my attitude towards those on Law Review and big corporate firms. Where do you find you are the most judgmental? Start there and go deeper.
Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him. Mark 1:14
As we enter the first full week of Lent, the movement of spiritual inquiry leads inward to self. As Lent progresses, we begin to look outwards into our community and world. However, we start with ourselves. In yesterday's sermon, I spoke about "standing in the tragic gap." This phrase is the brainchild of Parker Palmer. In his article in the recent Weavings magazine, Parker gives us a definition of what this means:
To live in this world, we must learn how to stand in the tragic gap with faith and hope. By "the tragic gap" I mean the gap between what is and what could and should be, the gap between the reality of a given situation and an alternative reality we know to be possible because we have experienced it." (Parker Palmer, the Borken-Open Heart: Living with Faith and Hope in the Tragic Gap) in Weavings, Volume XXIV, Number 2, March/April 2009)
When we talk about the tragic gap, the first place to start is with ourselves. There is always the self we hope to be and the self that we are. Most days, when we get that uncomfortable feeling that we are not living into the life to which we were called, we do anything and everything to ignore that feeling. We get busy---we watch tv, we read the paper, we do some busywork, we clean house. Some of us reach for a drink or a bowl of ice cream. Some of us look for the answer in another person's body or life. All these movements are for naught for the answer lies within.
This is the step that most of us don't want to take in Lent--the step into the darkness of self. In his classic Let Your Life Speak, Palmer talks about his lifelong struggle and judgment of institutional academia. Of this struggle he says this:
My fear of failing as a scholar contained the energy I needed to catapult myself out of the academy and free myself for another kind of educational mission. But because I could not acknowledge my fear, I had to disguise that energy as the white horse of judgment and self-righteousness. It is an awkward face, but it is true--and once I could acknowledge that truth and understand its role in the dynamics of my life, I found myself no longer embarassed by it. eventually, I was able to get off that white horse and take an unblinking look at myself and my liabilities. This was the step into darkness that I had been trying to avoid--the darkness of seeing myself more honestly that I really wanted to.....Here, I think, is another clue to finding true self and vocation: we must withdraw the negative projections we make on people and situations---projections that serve mainly to mask our fears about ourselves--and acknowledge and embrace our own liabilities and limits." (Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak, pp. 28-29, emphasis supplied)
That's the first movement of Lent. To look inside at our own darkness, acknowledge it, and so move forward with a clearer understanding of who we are as a child of God. Beloved, limited as a human being in some way, but glorious in particular gifts. We make this movement continually as we grow in Christ. One of the major times that I made this movement was in my struggle with the law (see earlier blogs!). The best clue to finding that darkness in self is to look where you are most judgmental of other people or situations. Palmer found it in his frustration and anger at the politics of academia. I found it in my attitude towards those on Law Review and big corporate firms. Where do you find you are the most judgmental? Start there and go deeper.
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