Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I've been reading up on Anglican practices around the Eucharist. We had our meeting on Sunday to talk about what we'd like to do moving forward here, and talked about it as vestry as well. The summary is, in the words of Marcia Luce: "If they want to dip, let them dip!" That's the upshot of the thing, but as I have been discovering, it's a lot more complicated than that-and more personal, too.
I was raised to be a drinker, even as a young child. No one, that I can remember in my church growing up, was a dipper. It was just what you did. I was reminded of this a while ago when my dad served as a LEM here at Christ Church and he presented the chalice to a rather perplexed Isaiah, who hadn't had it before but seemed OK with it. In my own spirituality, the sacraments are incredibly important to me; the sense of being fed, spiritually and physically, in the Eucharist is entirely what brought me back to church after I'd spent an angry adolescence away from it. I love celebrating with you on Sundays, and administering communion to each of you is my favorite part of my work as a priest. A smiling and excited 2 year old, a distracted teenager, a child-wrangling parent, and the creased palm of an 80 year old-I get to witness the faith of so many different people as they receive the sacrament, and it is a privilege.
A simple privilege... until I start to think too hard about it. I was away this fall when the bishops made their "no intinction" policy, so I didn't have a chance to do much teaching about it. Coming back, I was sad to see the number of people who didn't feel comfortable receiving the wine by drinking, so I am glad that we had a chance to reconsider the policy. The thing is-I'm still a drinker. And that being my personal experience and faith, I still encourage you to drink from the chalice, too.
We celebrate the Eucharist because we are doing what Jesus said to do; he took one cup, and shared it among the disciples. What we do at the rail is pretty far removed from an actual meal, but it seems important to me to do what we can to keep it in that realm; including real sips of real wine from a real cup. But that's my preference. As a seminary-trained priest, I could come up with a theological treatise on why you should do it my way, but that's not the way of our Anglican/Episcopal tradition.
There is a difference between a theological opinion and a matter of faith. It is a matter of faith that we receive the sacraments-a matter of faith that you should come to church, and participate in them, and that Jesus loves us and died for love and was raised. But it's a matter of theology whether you should drink or dip, and in that theology, it's a matter of where Christ best meets you, as an individual. And that is a question only you can answer. The Anglican Church is big on theological dialogue-not so much big commandments for how you should live your life and practice your faith. So... drink. Unless you want to dip.
We will make some new efforts at keeping the cup clean for everyone, but there is no way to be entirely germ free. The Anglican Church first took up the question of bacteria in the chalice during the Plague, when they enacted the Sacrament Act of 1547: The "most blessed Sacrament be hereafter commonly delivered and ministered unto the people... under both the kinds, that is to say of bread and wine, except necessity otherwise require." Necessity, in that case, being risk of illness. But we have to keep that fear of risk in perspective. Life is risky; that's why we have seatbelts and immune systems. Every time we are exposed to a germ, it doesn't mean we'll get sick. In their theological statement on the common cup during the SARS epidemic in 2003, the Anglican Diocese of Toronto wrote:
Our liturgy of faithful remembering must not make the avoidance of all risk the primary criterion -which would mean avoiding any authentic celebration of the Eucharist. After all, this gathering at table is of no practical use whatever (a morsel of bread, a sip of wine do nothing to fill the belly). But at the symbolic level, the bread and wine are food for life, a meal of hope, a banquet "rich in delights and suited to every taste."(Wisdom 16:20)
May our Eucharistic feast be rich in all delights, and delicious to our souls.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
from December 27, 2007: Jean Vanier
I hope you had a wonderful and warm Christmas celebration this week. It was my son’s first Christmas—at nine months old, he was just as interested in eating the wrapping paper as playing with his new toys. We had a great service here on Monday, and the church looked beautiful thanks to the many helpers who stayed after to decorate on Sunday. Thanks especially to Ginny Lombardo, the director of our altar guild, who coordinated all of our flowers and decorations.
On Sunday as I drove home from church, I heard an interview on NPR with Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche communities (see www.speakingoffaith.org to listen, or ask me and I can make you a CD of it). They began in France, but there are now houses in many countries, including the US. Members with developmental disabilities are at the heart of the community, and others share their life with them in community. Those whom society might disregard as unhappy, or sad, or helpless have a profound gift to share with those who share their lives with them. As we befriend our own vulnerability and suffering, and the “least of these,” we are better able to receive the healing that God offers all of us. Vanier talks about the L’Arche communities as not a solution, but as a sign. They cannot house every person with a developmental disability. They cannot reach every one who might benefit from their teachings. They cannot end war, or prejudice, or even make a systemic change on behalf of those for whom they work. They are communities of love. That’s all. They are a sign of what is possible in love, as people are transformed.
Vanier says,
Living in community I discovered who I was. I discovered also that the truth will set me free, and so there's the gradual realization about what it means to be human. To be human is that capacity to love which is the phenomenal reality that we can give life to people; we can transform people by our attentiveness, by our love, and they can transform us. It is a whole question of giving life and receiving life, but also to discover how broken we are.
As I prepared for my Christmas Eve sermon, I kept thinking of Vanier’s phrase: “not a solution, but a sign.” In the Gospel of Luke, the shepherds are told of the Messiah: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." I think that the L’Arche communities maybe are signs of our solution—the reality of God in our midst. The birth of Jesus Christ for us is both solution and sign. The gift of Christmas to us is a gift of love—both the gift of love for us, and a call TO love each other, especially the rejected and the outcast, as part of our life as Christians. Vanier’s experience in community is that in loving those whom society rejects, we are able to come to terms with—and even find life in—the most broken parts of ourselves. (this might sound familiar to readers of theologian Henri Nouwen—his experience living in one of the L’Arche houses was very important to him).
This Christmas (there are nine whole days of Christmas left, all the way to January 6), I hope you can find some time to sit in prayer and receive that gift of healing that Christmas gives us. There are always disappointments in life—there is always tragedy and sorrow great and small. Think about how God’s birth with us as a needy, vulnerable child can help you to see the sanctification—the making holy—of your vulnerability and need, and how God calls you to reach out to others in their need.
On Sunday as I drove home from church, I heard an interview on NPR with Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche communities (see www.speakingoffaith.org to listen, or ask me and I can make you a CD of it). They began in France, but there are now houses in many countries, including the US. Members with developmental disabilities are at the heart of the community, and others share their life with them in community. Those whom society might disregard as unhappy, or sad, or helpless have a profound gift to share with those who share their lives with them. As we befriend our own vulnerability and suffering, and the “least of these,” we are better able to receive the healing that God offers all of us. Vanier talks about the L’Arche communities as not a solution, but as a sign. They cannot house every person with a developmental disability. They cannot reach every one who might benefit from their teachings. They cannot end war, or prejudice, or even make a systemic change on behalf of those for whom they work. They are communities of love. That’s all. They are a sign of what is possible in love, as people are transformed.
Vanier says,
Living in community I discovered who I was. I discovered also that the truth will set me free, and so there's the gradual realization about what it means to be human. To be human is that capacity to love which is the phenomenal reality that we can give life to people; we can transform people by our attentiveness, by our love, and they can transform us. It is a whole question of giving life and receiving life, but also to discover how broken we are.
As I prepared for my Christmas Eve sermon, I kept thinking of Vanier’s phrase: “not a solution, but a sign.” In the Gospel of Luke, the shepherds are told of the Messiah: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." I think that the L’Arche communities maybe are signs of our solution—the reality of God in our midst. The birth of Jesus Christ for us is both solution and sign. The gift of Christmas to us is a gift of love—both the gift of love for us, and a call TO love each other, especially the rejected and the outcast, as part of our life as Christians. Vanier’s experience in community is that in loving those whom society rejects, we are able to come to terms with—and even find life in—the most broken parts of ourselves. (this might sound familiar to readers of theologian Henri Nouwen—his experience living in one of the L’Arche houses was very important to him).
This Christmas (there are nine whole days of Christmas left, all the way to January 6), I hope you can find some time to sit in prayer and receive that gift of healing that Christmas gives us. There are always disappointments in life—there is always tragedy and sorrow great and small. Think about how God’s birth with us as a needy, vulnerable child can help you to see the sanctification—the making holy—of your vulnerability and need, and how God calls you to reach out to others in their need.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
One Step
This week, our Tuesday daytime book group concluded our conversations about The Lemon Tree, by Sandy Tolan. I mentioned the book in my sermon on Sunday; our Gospel told the story of Jesus weeping for Jerusalem, and Bashir and Dalia are the contemporary face of what Jesus is talking about, a Jerusalem that "kills its prophets." The title comes from a lemon tree, planted at the home of an Arab family in Palestine. When they are driven out during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, Dalia's family, having escaped the holocaust, occupy the house. Dalia grows up being told that the Arabs who had lived there before simply fled. Why would they leave such a nice house, she wonders as she grows up, but doesn't pursue the line of thought until Bashir appears at her doorstep, wanting to see the house his own family had been forced to leave years before, when he was a child.
The book chronicles many long years of relationship which continue, even now. Dalia says they are not quite friends: "It is something beyond friendship; friends choose each other, and we have each other whether we choose one another or not." They see one another periodically, discussing their intractable positions; the house-the land-is home for both of them, but neither has peace and neither has what they truly want. Bashir is convicted and imprisoned for 15 years for a supermarket bombing; he does not say whether he has engaged in terrorism, only that the armed struggle of the Palestinians is a legitimate response. Even with the honesty and love that Bashir and Dalia clearly have for one another, their disagreement continues. Bashir is exiled-again-for his work in the intifada. Dalia comes to visit him, but he can never go back to see his house, or even the city of Jerusalem.
Ramle, Ramla; it's the same place, in a different language. Somehow, Dalia and Bashir begin to understand each other. When Dalia's parents die, she does not want to sell the house and keep the money for herself. She feels strongly that it was her home, but also Bashir's-she offers him payment for it, but he won't accept. Rather than take money, Bashir suggests that something be done for the Arab children of Ramle "because I lost my childhood there." Before exile, his left hand was blown off when he picked up an Israeli grenade. Today, Open House has a nursery school for Arab children and supports Peace Camps for Israeli and Palestinian children. (see www.friendsofopenhouse.org).
Even in this deep conflict God's grace opens a tiny window. Bashir and Dalia still disagree. Dalia sees giving up the place she'd grown up as a personal decision; politically, she doesn't advocate for reparations for all Palestinians, or the right of return. Bashir still believes in armed struggle. But it's one step, for them, that ripples out to each child who meets another child who is different from them. One thing that Dalia and Bashir share is the deep sense of exile; what we all have to pray for is that they can find a place where they can both come home.
To hear the original radio documentary that gave rise to the book, click here:
www.thirdcoastfestival.org/audio_library_2001.asp
To read Dalia's 1988 account of their relationship, published in the Jerusalem Post as "Letter to a Deportee" click here: www.friendsofopenhouse.org
Blessings,
Sara+
The book chronicles many long years of relationship which continue, even now. Dalia says they are not quite friends: "It is something beyond friendship; friends choose each other, and we have each other whether we choose one another or not." They see one another periodically, discussing their intractable positions; the house-the land-is home for both of them, but neither has peace and neither has what they truly want. Bashir is convicted and imprisoned for 15 years for a supermarket bombing; he does not say whether he has engaged in terrorism, only that the armed struggle of the Palestinians is a legitimate response. Even with the honesty and love that Bashir and Dalia clearly have for one another, their disagreement continues. Bashir is exiled-again-for his work in the intifada. Dalia comes to visit him, but he can never go back to see his house, or even the city of Jerusalem.
Ramle, Ramla; it's the same place, in a different language. Somehow, Dalia and Bashir begin to understand each other. When Dalia's parents die, she does not want to sell the house and keep the money for herself. She feels strongly that it was her home, but also Bashir's-she offers him payment for it, but he won't accept. Rather than take money, Bashir suggests that something be done for the Arab children of Ramle "because I lost my childhood there." Before exile, his left hand was blown off when he picked up an Israeli grenade. Today, Open House has a nursery school for Arab children and supports Peace Camps for Israeli and Palestinian children. (see www.friendsofopenhouse.org).
Even in this deep conflict God's grace opens a tiny window. Bashir and Dalia still disagree. Dalia sees giving up the place she'd grown up as a personal decision; politically, she doesn't advocate for reparations for all Palestinians, or the right of return. Bashir still believes in armed struggle. But it's one step, for them, that ripples out to each child who meets another child who is different from them. One thing that Dalia and Bashir share is the deep sense of exile; what we all have to pray for is that they can find a place where they can both come home.
To hear the original radio documentary that gave rise to the book, click here:
www.thirdcoastfestival.org/audio_library_2001.asp
To read Dalia's 1988 account of their relationship, published in the Jerusalem Post as "Letter to a Deportee" click here: www.friendsofopenhouse.org
Blessings,
Sara+
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