Tuesday, May 31, 2011
This week I write with sad news of the death of John Johnson, who has been in hospice since last fall. I say it is sad news because I am sad. As our burial rite says, John himself is busy making his alleluias at the grave, secure in the arms of his creator. Still, I will miss him. John called me up last summer and invited me to come up and talk with him about his plans for burial, as he felt his time was near. I've visited him every week or every other week for almost all of the last year. I will miss those visits, puzzling together over the mysteries of life and death. He was ready to go, but I was not ready to say goodbye-I don't know if the living are ever ready. John's sons live scattered across the country, so his burial will be later in the summer when everyone is able to get here.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
from May 19: Episcopal Church, Old & New
Dear People of Christ Church,
Yesterday evening, our Introduction to the Episcopal Church class continued. The topic for was "The church's stance on contemporary moral issues." As with last week when we tried to cover the Bible, prayer, liturgy, and the sacraments in 90 minutes, we definitely had our work cut out for us, but still managed to have a great conversation.
The Episcopal Church is known for being a distinctive combination of traditional liturgy and "modern" social practice-or, as the comedian (and Episcopalian) Robin Williams puts it, "All of the pageantry, none of the guilt." On the "traditional" side, we share a deeply historic faith. The Episcopal Church is a daughter of the Anglican church (Anglican just means "of England" and we are still part of the worldwide Anglican Communion). But our history goes back before the church in England broke from Rome. Our confession of the Nicene Creed is 1600 years old, and our sacraments go back to the practice of Jesus. We gather, as his disciples did, in the breaking of the bread, and we, as they did, baptize in the name of the Trinity. At the same time, we are also a "modern" church-we ordain women and married people, support the right of people to limit their family size as they feel called, and respond to human sexuality in dialogue with the wider culture. What we sometimes forget, though, is that some of what is often called "new" really isn't-we're just being faithful to the theology we've shared for hundreds of years.
Early Anglicans talked about how the church was like a three legged stool, supported by Scripture, tradition, and reason. All three have equal claim-otherwise, you fall off! Too much Scripture, and you are worshipping a book instead of a living God. Too much reason, and you elevate human knowledge above mystery and faith. Too much tradition, and you find yourself in a museum, not a church.
This approach has real consequences for the practice of the church in the world. While it is true that women have only been regularly ordained since 1971 (Hong Kong was the first-the US followed in 1974 and 1976), it is not new theology that says this is finally OK. In our diocese, where gays and lesbians can legally be married, it is not "new theology"' that says that they should be offered the full benefit of the support and blessings of the church. It is our reason informing our tradition, reading Scripture for clues about how love is of God and how all love is to be honored. It is reason that looks at what homosexual practice was understood to be in Biblical times, and seeing how that's quite different from two people pledging their love as long as they both shall live. It is tradition that looks at the practice of marriage and thinks, "Gosh, it seems like marriage really helps society and it helps people keep their promises. Sounds like something everyone should have access to."
So, too, with women-the church is part of the world. It is a comparatively new thing that the world has "gotten" that women are equal to men. It's too bad that the church didn't figure it out first, but as the wider culture started to understand, so, too, did the church. But the church did so in applying its same old categories of analysis to the contemporary world-it didn't invent new justifications or new ideas. God is still the creator of all, and God is still a creator who named creation-all of it-good. God still wants to see the gifts of every person used to the fullest. This is a tradition that honors a Holy Spirit who still speaks.
When Henry the VIII wanted to get a divorce back in the sixteenth century, he was protesting the wider issue of a distant pope having say in English affairs. He wanted, in effect, for the church to respond to lives as they are lived, where they are lived. He wanted for decisions to be made close to the ground, in the same place where they impact people's lives. So, too, now: the Episcopal Church is nimble enough to allow same sex marriage in states where it is legal, but to allow dioceses (and, even congregations) where the people don't support it (either legally or theologically) to abstain.
Diversity, too, is the name of the game-we unite in prayer, but recognize that each of us may pray and believe differently. Queen Elizabeth I famously said that she did not "desire windows into men's souls." Each of us can believe differently, but coming together in those sacraments and those creeds feeds us in our differences. Not everyone has to agree on sexuality, or on abortion, or on the death penalty-but when we come to the altar, we are all equally fed-and there is enough for everyone. Thanks be to God!
Blessings,
Sara+
Yesterday evening, our Introduction to the Episcopal Church class continued. The topic for was "The church's stance on contemporary moral issues." As with last week when we tried to cover the Bible, prayer, liturgy, and the sacraments in 90 minutes, we definitely had our work cut out for us, but still managed to have a great conversation.
The Episcopal Church is known for being a distinctive combination of traditional liturgy and "modern" social practice-or, as the comedian (and Episcopalian) Robin Williams puts it, "All of the pageantry, none of the guilt." On the "traditional" side, we share a deeply historic faith. The Episcopal Church is a daughter of the Anglican church (Anglican just means "of England" and we are still part of the worldwide Anglican Communion). But our history goes back before the church in England broke from Rome. Our confession of the Nicene Creed is 1600 years old, and our sacraments go back to the practice of Jesus. We gather, as his disciples did, in the breaking of the bread, and we, as they did, baptize in the name of the Trinity. At the same time, we are also a "modern" church-we ordain women and married people, support the right of people to limit their family size as they feel called, and respond to human sexuality in dialogue with the wider culture. What we sometimes forget, though, is that some of what is often called "new" really isn't-we're just being faithful to the theology we've shared for hundreds of years.
Early Anglicans talked about how the church was like a three legged stool, supported by Scripture, tradition, and reason. All three have equal claim-otherwise, you fall off! Too much Scripture, and you are worshipping a book instead of a living God. Too much reason, and you elevate human knowledge above mystery and faith. Too much tradition, and you find yourself in a museum, not a church.
This approach has real consequences for the practice of the church in the world. While it is true that women have only been regularly ordained since 1971 (Hong Kong was the first-the US followed in 1974 and 1976), it is not new theology that says this is finally OK. In our diocese, where gays and lesbians can legally be married, it is not "new theology"' that says that they should be offered the full benefit of the support and blessings of the church. It is our reason informing our tradition, reading Scripture for clues about how love is of God and how all love is to be honored. It is reason that looks at what homosexual practice was understood to be in Biblical times, and seeing how that's quite different from two people pledging their love as long as they both shall live. It is tradition that looks at the practice of marriage and thinks, "Gosh, it seems like marriage really helps society and it helps people keep their promises. Sounds like something everyone should have access to."
So, too, with women-the church is part of the world. It is a comparatively new thing that the world has "gotten" that women are equal to men. It's too bad that the church didn't figure it out first, but as the wider culture started to understand, so, too, did the church. But the church did so in applying its same old categories of analysis to the contemporary world-it didn't invent new justifications or new ideas. God is still the creator of all, and God is still a creator who named creation-all of it-good. God still wants to see the gifts of every person used to the fullest. This is a tradition that honors a Holy Spirit who still speaks.
When Henry the VIII wanted to get a divorce back in the sixteenth century, he was protesting the wider issue of a distant pope having say in English affairs. He wanted, in effect, for the church to respond to lives as they are lived, where they are lived. He wanted for decisions to be made close to the ground, in the same place where they impact people's lives. So, too, now: the Episcopal Church is nimble enough to allow same sex marriage in states where it is legal, but to allow dioceses (and, even congregations) where the people don't support it (either legally or theologically) to abstain.
Diversity, too, is the name of the game-we unite in prayer, but recognize that each of us may pray and believe differently. Queen Elizabeth I famously said that she did not "desire windows into men's souls." Each of us can believe differently, but coming together in those sacraments and those creeds feeds us in our differences. Not everyone has to agree on sexuality, or on abortion, or on the death penalty-but when we come to the altar, we are all equally fed-and there is enough for everyone. Thanks be to God!
Blessings,
Sara+
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Dear People of Christ Church,
Though this week, I've been lamenting the recent grayness of the skies, the week after Easter I had some marvelous time off in my new garden, planting for the summer and acquainting myself with the pleasures of the yard. When we lived in Waltham we were on a steep hill, complete with 20 foot rock face behind the house. It was beautiful in its own way, but not exactly conducive to enjoying the sunshine--so one of the things we really wanted in our new house when we moved was more outdoor space. Last Friday I got to try out our new battery powered lawnmower (heavy, but still easier than pushing 2 children in a stroller). What a pleasure. I'm sure the novelty will wear off at some point, but for now, I am happy to be mowing the lawn. We also did some planting-cucumber, tomato, peas-then got broccoli, more tomatoes, and lettuce from Waltham Fields' seedling sale. The fact that food could actually come out of the ground is kind of magical.
We are longtime shareholders at Waltham Fields (see my March, 2007 post about it on the e crier blog page so I feel some closeness to the gifts of the land, but it feels somehow different when it's in your own space. I've been reading Michael Pollan's book on gardening, Second Nature, more memoir than instruction book. At its heart is a critique of the metaphors we've used over the years for natural world. His judgment of lawns notwithstanding ("nature under totalitarian rule"), I'm pretty convinced by his assessment of the whole mess we've gotten into, in how we contrast nature and culture. Libraries, schools, factories are culture; rivers, lakes, and fields are nature. In the usual telling, these are separate spheres-nature is acted upon, and culture acts. If you're feeling more romantic, you can talk about nature as unblemished, virgin, pure, innocent. But separating them is a false dichotomy. Unless you want to go back to the dinosaurs, nature has always been subjected to the whims of human intervention. Whether it be invasive species accidentally introduced into a new environment or plants hybridized to generate certain characteristics, humans leave their mark on nature everywhere. And we certainly cannot separate ourselves from it. Seeing pictures of the flooding in the south and due to recent storms has made that clear. When the US Army Corps of Engineers blew a hole in a levee to save the town of Cairo, Illinois, they flooded 130,000 acres of farmland. Technology helps, but creates its own complication as well.
Our Christian faith gives us some tools for thinking about this. We began, our stories say, in a garden-an image no less potent for being a mythological one. We were given "dominion"-power, yes, but a particular kind of power. We are dependent on nature, and so taking care of it is also taking care of ourselves. Each day of creation concludes, "God saw that it was good." Creation is good-a good gift, given to us. We have not always seen it this way-more often, we have been like selfish three year old, given a book only to rip the pages apart assuming daddy will give us a new one when we demand one.
There is something theological in what we have been given, in tilling it and caring for it, but also in enjoying it. Pleasure in the garden is a spiritual question, as is helping those whose "gardens" have flooded. (See more from Episcopal Relief and Development) Digging in the dirt or walking by the pond across the street from my house, I know myself to be one small part of nature. There is something very comforting in knowing my smallness in that wider scheme. Humans have devised immense powers of destruction, but this world that God has made is also way, way, bigger than us. That seems to me like an icon, a window, into God: we are entirely dependent on the land, intimately connected to it. But it the sheer magnitude of nature's vast otherness also puts us in our rightful-and small-place.
Blessings,
Sara+
Though this week, I've been lamenting the recent grayness of the skies, the week after Easter I had some marvelous time off in my new garden, planting for the summer and acquainting myself with the pleasures of the yard. When we lived in Waltham we were on a steep hill, complete with 20 foot rock face behind the house. It was beautiful in its own way, but not exactly conducive to enjoying the sunshine--so one of the things we really wanted in our new house when we moved was more outdoor space. Last Friday I got to try out our new battery powered lawnmower (heavy, but still easier than pushing 2 children in a stroller). What a pleasure. I'm sure the novelty will wear off at some point, but for now, I am happy to be mowing the lawn. We also did some planting-cucumber, tomato, peas-then got broccoli, more tomatoes, and lettuce from Waltham Fields' seedling sale. The fact that food could actually come out of the ground is kind of magical.
We are longtime shareholders at Waltham Fields (see my March, 2007 post about it on the e crier blog page so I feel some closeness to the gifts of the land, but it feels somehow different when it's in your own space. I've been reading Michael Pollan's book on gardening, Second Nature, more memoir than instruction book. At its heart is a critique of the metaphors we've used over the years for natural world. His judgment of lawns notwithstanding ("nature under totalitarian rule"), I'm pretty convinced by his assessment of the whole mess we've gotten into, in how we contrast nature and culture. Libraries, schools, factories are culture; rivers, lakes, and fields are nature. In the usual telling, these are separate spheres-nature is acted upon, and culture acts. If you're feeling more romantic, you can talk about nature as unblemished, virgin, pure, innocent. But separating them is a false dichotomy. Unless you want to go back to the dinosaurs, nature has always been subjected to the whims of human intervention. Whether it be invasive species accidentally introduced into a new environment or plants hybridized to generate certain characteristics, humans leave their mark on nature everywhere. And we certainly cannot separate ourselves from it. Seeing pictures of the flooding in the south and due to recent storms has made that clear. When the US Army Corps of Engineers blew a hole in a levee to save the town of Cairo, Illinois, they flooded 130,000 acres of farmland. Technology helps, but creates its own complication as well.
Our Christian faith gives us some tools for thinking about this. We began, our stories say, in a garden-an image no less potent for being a mythological one. We were given "dominion"-power, yes, but a particular kind of power. We are dependent on nature, and so taking care of it is also taking care of ourselves. Each day of creation concludes, "God saw that it was good." Creation is good-a good gift, given to us. We have not always seen it this way-more often, we have been like selfish three year old, given a book only to rip the pages apart assuming daddy will give us a new one when we demand one.
There is something theological in what we have been given, in tilling it and caring for it, but also in enjoying it. Pleasure in the garden is a spiritual question, as is helping those whose "gardens" have flooded. (See more from Episcopal Relief and Development) Digging in the dirt or walking by the pond across the street from my house, I know myself to be one small part of nature. There is something very comforting in knowing my smallness in that wider scheme. Humans have devised immense powers of destruction, but this world that God has made is also way, way, bigger than us. That seems to me like an icon, a window, into God: we are entirely dependent on the land, intimately connected to it. But it the sheer magnitude of nature's vast otherness also puts us in our rightful-and small-place.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 5, 2011
On Killing Osama Bin Laden
This week, I’ve found myself uneasily watching and listening for news of the responses around our country—and the world—to Osama bin Laden’s death. The images of people celebrating and dancing, hailing “victory” and “USA, USA” frankly just make me uncomfortable. I was living in New York City at the time of the terrorist attacks of 2001, and remember at that time as well feeling strangely out of sync with the rest of the country’s response; military retaliation at that time felt like the wrong decision. So, too, now jubilation at bin Laden’s death feels wrong as well.
At the same time, I cannot say that I can imagine another outcome. I can’t imagine a trial, a prison cell, a conclusion, to the nightmare of violence and bloodshed that has happened over the last 10 years (and before, given bin Laden’s previous attacks). There is no conclusion; those who are dead will not come back to life. We won’t get back that serene life we lived before “the war on terror,” (whatever that means now). I will not forget the sense of extreme anxiety and panic of being in New York in those days after the attack—neither will I forget the palpable sense of relief I felt six weeks later, leaving the city for a weekend in Vermont. But I went back, and lived in New York for another three years. That uneasy feeling did subside, but the sense of out-of-sync-ness never quite did. I still grieve that something that felt at the time like “my tragedy” (which of course, it wasn’t) had been used to justify bringing tragedy on others.
Tragedy is the word here—it’s tragic on all fronts. Tragic, so many lives lost; tragic, the failure of imagination; tragic, this whole web of violence we are stuck in. Bin Laden himself was one face of violence; a teenager caught in gang crossfire is another—as is his killer. But it is never good news when someone is killed. It is good news that the military works courageously. It is good news that intelligence agents figured out where he was. It is good news that people love this country and want to serve. But there is no justice in killing, even those who perpetrate terrible, terrible acts. Last Sunday I was talking with Gene and Jose at coffee hour and learned of the killing of Muammar Qadaffi’s son and grandchildren—again and again, more tragedy. We become immune to it. Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya. Where next?
As Christians, we try to reach for another truth. Not “might makes right,” but “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” The resurrection is the result of God’s sacrificial love, Christ’s unwillingness to trade evil for evil. The resurrection says that death never has the last word. The crucifixion was not the end for Jesus, and it wasn’t the end for the Christian story. Christ was raised for all—not just for those who “deserve” him.
At the end of the day, it may be that how we feel doesn’t matter much. And I’m certainly not going to tell anyone else how to feel. Feelings are just that—feelings. They’re information. We don’t, exactly, control them. You’re not a bad person if you’re happy about bin Laden’s death. You’re not a paragon of moral restraint and virtue of you aren’t. But we can pay attention to what they are, and consider how we respond to them. How do we pray about our feelings? How do we ask that “holy angels may us in “paths of peace and goodwill,” as the prayers in the evening office say? How can we reach out, in love, to those who suffer? To Muslims, against whom hate crimes have increased dramatically in the last few days? To those who serve in the military, who sacrifice so much? To those who dedicate themselves to peace, giving us the imagination to see a different way of life?
O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in your good time enable us al to stand reconciled before you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen
At the same time, I cannot say that I can imagine another outcome. I can’t imagine a trial, a prison cell, a conclusion, to the nightmare of violence and bloodshed that has happened over the last 10 years (and before, given bin Laden’s previous attacks). There is no conclusion; those who are dead will not come back to life. We won’t get back that serene life we lived before “the war on terror,” (whatever that means now). I will not forget the sense of extreme anxiety and panic of being in New York in those days after the attack—neither will I forget the palpable sense of relief I felt six weeks later, leaving the city for a weekend in Vermont. But I went back, and lived in New York for another three years. That uneasy feeling did subside, but the sense of out-of-sync-ness never quite did. I still grieve that something that felt at the time like “my tragedy” (which of course, it wasn’t) had been used to justify bringing tragedy on others.
Tragedy is the word here—it’s tragic on all fronts. Tragic, so many lives lost; tragic, the failure of imagination; tragic, this whole web of violence we are stuck in. Bin Laden himself was one face of violence; a teenager caught in gang crossfire is another—as is his killer. But it is never good news when someone is killed. It is good news that the military works courageously. It is good news that intelligence agents figured out where he was. It is good news that people love this country and want to serve. But there is no justice in killing, even those who perpetrate terrible, terrible acts. Last Sunday I was talking with Gene and Jose at coffee hour and learned of the killing of Muammar Qadaffi’s son and grandchildren—again and again, more tragedy. We become immune to it. Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya. Where next?
As Christians, we try to reach for another truth. Not “might makes right,” but “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” The resurrection is the result of God’s sacrificial love, Christ’s unwillingness to trade evil for evil. The resurrection says that death never has the last word. The crucifixion was not the end for Jesus, and it wasn’t the end for the Christian story. Christ was raised for all—not just for those who “deserve” him.
At the end of the day, it may be that how we feel doesn’t matter much. And I’m certainly not going to tell anyone else how to feel. Feelings are just that—feelings. They’re information. We don’t, exactly, control them. You’re not a bad person if you’re happy about bin Laden’s death. You’re not a paragon of moral restraint and virtue of you aren’t. But we can pay attention to what they are, and consider how we respond to them. How do we pray about our feelings? How do we ask that “holy angels may us in “paths of peace and goodwill,” as the prayers in the evening office say? How can we reach out, in love, to those who suffer? To Muslims, against whom hate crimes have increased dramatically in the last few days? To those who serve in the military, who sacrifice so much? To those who dedicate themselves to peace, giving us the imagination to see a different way of life?
O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in your good time enable us al to stand reconciled before you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen
From April 7, 2011 Social Change
This Lent, as maybe you have, I've been receiving daily emails from the Ecumenical Lenten Carbon Fast. Each morning, I find a suggestion for ways to reduce my impact on the earth. Some days, I open them and feel good-"use cloth bags when you go shopping." Easy! I do that! [Nearly always. Nearly]. Other days, I get the daily email and think, "No way!" For example, I'm just not going to be able to dry my clothes on a line outside in New England, in winter, with 2 small children. And sometimes, I get them, and barely read through before I'm distracted by something else. I assume my experience with this is fairly typical; some hits, some misses.
I calculated my household carbon footprint at the Nature Conservancy. Compared to the average American, we seem to be doing OK-73 tons vs. the American average of 110 for a family of four. Compared to a global average of 22 tons, though, we're pretty extravagant. Many groups (including all the sites linked from the Carbon Fast email and the Nature Conservancy, above) offer chances to "offset" your carbon emissions-you pay for the planting of trees or other environmental sustainability efforts to try to remedy the emissions you generate-but how effective that is, I can't be sure.
No one claims that an email a day will transform your life. That there is such a thing as a "Carbon Fast" at all, though, shows how our society has changed. Environmentalism is a movement as much as it is a series of tasks, our consciousness slowly being raised and our behaviors slowly coming around. We are now beginning to understand the cost of our lifestyle; it can't go on forever.
That's how social change happens; it always starts somewhere. The anthropologist Margaret Mead put it this way: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
This past Monday, I had occasion to think about social change at the Massachusetts State House, where I attended a press conference to encourage the legislature to add "gender identity and expression" to existing nondiscrimination legislation in Massachusetts. The Commonwealth already has laws to protect gays and lesbians from unfair discrimination in housing, health care, and employment, but those who are born a different gender from the one with which they identify are vulnerable, and face some of the highest rates of harassment and violence.
The bishop talked about how this struggle was different from others he'd been part of; Bishop Shaw has been a vocal supporter of same sex marriage, which he said was in some ways an easier issue. Nearly everyone knows someone who is gay. Awareness is slower to catch on, though, when fewer people are part of a particular group--one of the reasons Bishop Shaw is speaking out at this time. I care a lot about justice, I hope, as much as anyone, but if my daughter's godfather (who is transgendered and moderated the panel) hadn't invited me, would I have attended? I hope so. Our Bishop was there for the same reason-we are all learning. Learning, but not exactly in an intellectual way. We are learning how the will of God slowly unfolds and how, as our bishop said, none of us are free when all of us are not free. Our humanity is bound up in each other's.
Slowly, slowly, our consciousness shifts. This Sunday we'll have a presentation about the ONE campaign's work with AIDS in Africa. Thirty years ago, churches turned away from AIDS victims; now congregations across the globe, this Sunday, are hearing stories of what can happen when people receive treatment. Jesus raised Lazarus-people today are raised, too. Slowly, the silence is broken and the sin of sitting idly by is revealed.
Change happens slowly, and on so many levels; hearts, heads, communities, governments. It can take hard work to even imagine a new way of life, never mind actually bringing it to be. The most important part is the conversation; the way people get to know each other and hear other experiences. In our chapter for our Tuesday night study, we read about how Jesus often appears to be a stranger-even (especially!) those first resurrection appearances were deeply, deeply foreign. The disciples did not expect to meet him; how often do we expect to meet Jesus in those who differ from us? How closely are we listening for the stories, being willing to change our lives?
I calculated my household carbon footprint at the Nature Conservancy. Compared to the average American, we seem to be doing OK-73 tons vs. the American average of 110 for a family of four. Compared to a global average of 22 tons, though, we're pretty extravagant. Many groups (including all the sites linked from the Carbon Fast email and the Nature Conservancy, above) offer chances to "offset" your carbon emissions-you pay for the planting of trees or other environmental sustainability efforts to try to remedy the emissions you generate-but how effective that is, I can't be sure.
No one claims that an email a day will transform your life. That there is such a thing as a "Carbon Fast" at all, though, shows how our society has changed. Environmentalism is a movement as much as it is a series of tasks, our consciousness slowly being raised and our behaviors slowly coming around. We are now beginning to understand the cost of our lifestyle; it can't go on forever.
That's how social change happens; it always starts somewhere. The anthropologist Margaret Mead put it this way: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
This past Monday, I had occasion to think about social change at the Massachusetts State House, where I attended a press conference to encourage the legislature to add "gender identity and expression" to existing nondiscrimination legislation in Massachusetts. The Commonwealth already has laws to protect gays and lesbians from unfair discrimination in housing, health care, and employment, but those who are born a different gender from the one with which they identify are vulnerable, and face some of the highest rates of harassment and violence.
The bishop talked about how this struggle was different from others he'd been part of; Bishop Shaw has been a vocal supporter of same sex marriage, which he said was in some ways an easier issue. Nearly everyone knows someone who is gay. Awareness is slower to catch on, though, when fewer people are part of a particular group--one of the reasons Bishop Shaw is speaking out at this time. I care a lot about justice, I hope, as much as anyone, but if my daughter's godfather (who is transgendered and moderated the panel) hadn't invited me, would I have attended? I hope so. Our Bishop was there for the same reason-we are all learning. Learning, but not exactly in an intellectual way. We are learning how the will of God slowly unfolds and how, as our bishop said, none of us are free when all of us are not free. Our humanity is bound up in each other's.
Slowly, slowly, our consciousness shifts. This Sunday we'll have a presentation about the ONE campaign's work with AIDS in Africa. Thirty years ago, churches turned away from AIDS victims; now congregations across the globe, this Sunday, are hearing stories of what can happen when people receive treatment. Jesus raised Lazarus-people today are raised, too. Slowly, the silence is broken and the sin of sitting idly by is revealed.
Change happens slowly, and on so many levels; hearts, heads, communities, governments. It can take hard work to even imagine a new way of life, never mind actually bringing it to be. The most important part is the conversation; the way people get to know each other and hear other experiences. In our chapter for our Tuesday night study, we read about how Jesus often appears to be a stranger-even (especially!) those first resurrection appearances were deeply, deeply foreign. The disciples did not expect to meet him; how often do we expect to meet Jesus in those who differ from us? How closely are we listening for the stories, being willing to change our lives?
From March 31 2011: On Giving
Dear people of Christ Church,
This week, we have our monthly summary of the work of your vestry. Particularly notable is that we are in the beginning stages of considering consultants for a capital campaign to supplement historic preservation funds (hopefully!) to be received from the city of Waltham.
A few weeks ago, junior warden Sarah Staley and I attended a conference about church stewardship. In a session called "Money: The Big Taboo" presenter Nick Carter, president of Andover Newton Seminary, talked about how often when we talk about stewardship we get the theology all wrong. We don't give because what is "ours" isn't really ours and we "should" give back to God what belongs to God. We give because we want to be part of things. We give time and money to things we value in support of them, but also--and maybe most importantly--to celebrate. Generosity--giving--is essential to who we were created to be.
In the next issue of the Christ Church Quarterly, you'll hear about so many things to give to--the garden (some very exciting things to come!), to Haiti for our "Easter pigs," to so many ways we try to support the mission of God here. And, yes, eventually (a while off, yet)... a capital campaign. This Sunday, we have our children's Sunday with special diaper collection. There is so much need.
For today, though, just take a moment to pray in thanksgiving for all you have--things you have received, and things you are able to give.
This week, we have our monthly summary of the work of your vestry. Particularly notable is that we are in the beginning stages of considering consultants for a capital campaign to supplement historic preservation funds (hopefully!) to be received from the city of Waltham.
A few weeks ago, junior warden Sarah Staley and I attended a conference about church stewardship. In a session called "Money: The Big Taboo" presenter Nick Carter, president of Andover Newton Seminary, talked about how often when we talk about stewardship we get the theology all wrong. We don't give because what is "ours" isn't really ours and we "should" give back to God what belongs to God. We give because we want to be part of things. We give time and money to things we value in support of them, but also--and maybe most importantly--to celebrate. Generosity--giving--is essential to who we were created to be.
In the next issue of the Christ Church Quarterly, you'll hear about so many things to give to--the garden (some very exciting things to come!), to Haiti for our "Easter pigs," to so many ways we try to support the mission of God here. And, yes, eventually (a while off, yet)... a capital campaign. This Sunday, we have our children's Sunday with special diaper collection. There is so much need.
For today, though, just take a moment to pray in thanksgiving for all you have--things you have received, and things you are able to give.
Welcoming the stranger
From May 6, 2010
This week, we met for our last class in our Episcopal Church intro. We talked about Anglican/Episcopal resources for personal prayer. There are as many ways to pray as there are people to pray them, but one of the most characteristically Anglican ones is the Daily Office. (for E Crier Meditations on the daily office, look at the ecrier blog page—I’ve posted a few reflections up there that I did before I started archiving there). Today, our office gave us a text from Leviticus, which made me think of the national debate on Arizona’s new immigration law:
When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God. (Lev. 19: 33-34)
Yesterday, I was talking with an acquaintance and mentioned we were going to Arizona to visit my in-laws. Arizona? Is it safe there? It’s been all over the news!” Perplexed, I said, “Safe?” “Yes,” the person responded, as if assuming I must live in a cave, “All the illegal immigrants. That’s what’s been all over the news.” “Oh, I said. Actually, my in laws have been active in trying to get rid of that law. But it’s perfectly safe.” And then I made a googly eye face at Adah, and was the conversation had ended.
I was troubled by it for a while; immigration is such a complicated issue and there’s no way I could do it justice here, but immigrants as a group are not dangerous! For the most part, they are people, like anyone, trying to make a life for themselves and their families. Whether they have legal documents or not, everyone pays taxes. One statistic I saw says that illegal immigrants pay 7 billion—with a “B”—dollars in social security taxes and 2.5 billion in Medicare taxes. They will never receive any benefit from either system.
We could talk all day about evidence about what immigration does for our country. Biblically, though, it doesn’t matter at all whether people are good” and hardworking or “bad” and just sitting around the house all day. We are all equally created in the image of God and we are all equally loved and treasured by our creator. In the Baptismal Covenant we promise to respect the dignity of every human being—and there aren’t any loopholes to that. Immigration is a complicated issue, and I don't have an easy fix---but a law that makes it a crime to buy groceries without a passport is not part of the solution.
The Leviticus line quoted above is one line in a series of laws that we often skip over in our readings in church. The holiness code also has rules about kindness to the poor—a few verses before the one above, it also says “You shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest…you shall leave them for the poor and the alien.” It explicitly says NOT to collect everything that is yours—it expects the “poor and alien” to make their way through your field and take what they find—they aren’t supposed to have to ask.
Admittedly, there’s a lot in Leviticus that we don’t believe in (like the prohibition against tattooing a few lines earlier)—but this is solid, “love thy neighbor” kind of stuff. What’s interesting to me, too, is that it’s in the context of prohibitions against idolatry. You aren’t just supposed to be generous to the outsider because it’s the kind thing to do; it’s because being generous to the outsider is part of what it is to be human in relation to God. It’s God’s job to be the judge and Creator; it’s our job to be created—to be creatures, and part of being a created being is to recognize your rightful place beside other created beings, which means loving and caring for them and not regarding yourself as more worthy or above them. (I could spin this out theologically about the oil spill in the Gulf, too, but I’ve already gone on for some time)
So where does this leave us on the other side of the country? Advocating, certainly, but also praying. Pray for the immigrants, pray for the police, and pray for those who suffer—on all sides of the border. Those who are victimized by crime, and those who perpetrate it. Pray for Arizona Governor Jan Brewer, too, and for all our legislators who are trying to find creative—and humane—solutions.
This week, we met for our last class in our Episcopal Church intro. We talked about Anglican/Episcopal resources for personal prayer. There are as many ways to pray as there are people to pray them, but one of the most characteristically Anglican ones is the Daily Office. (for E Crier Meditations on the daily office, look at the ecrier blog page—I’ve posted a few reflections up there that I did before I started archiving there). Today, our office gave us a text from Leviticus, which made me think of the national debate on Arizona’s new immigration law:
When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God. (Lev. 19: 33-34)
Yesterday, I was talking with an acquaintance and mentioned we were going to Arizona to visit my in-laws. Arizona? Is it safe there? It’s been all over the news!” Perplexed, I said, “Safe?” “Yes,” the person responded, as if assuming I must live in a cave, “All the illegal immigrants. That’s what’s been all over the news.” “Oh, I said. Actually, my in laws have been active in trying to get rid of that law. But it’s perfectly safe.” And then I made a googly eye face at Adah, and was the conversation had ended.
I was troubled by it for a while; immigration is such a complicated issue and there’s no way I could do it justice here, but immigrants as a group are not dangerous! For the most part, they are people, like anyone, trying to make a life for themselves and their families. Whether they have legal documents or not, everyone pays taxes. One statistic I saw says that illegal immigrants pay 7 billion—with a “B”—dollars in social security taxes and 2.5 billion in Medicare taxes. They will never receive any benefit from either system.
We could talk all day about evidence about what immigration does for our country. Biblically, though, it doesn’t matter at all whether people are good” and hardworking or “bad” and just sitting around the house all day. We are all equally created in the image of God and we are all equally loved and treasured by our creator. In the Baptismal Covenant we promise to respect the dignity of every human being—and there aren’t any loopholes to that. Immigration is a complicated issue, and I don't have an easy fix---but a law that makes it a crime to buy groceries without a passport is not part of the solution.
The Leviticus line quoted above is one line in a series of laws that we often skip over in our readings in church. The holiness code also has rules about kindness to the poor—a few verses before the one above, it also says “You shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest…you shall leave them for the poor and the alien.” It explicitly says NOT to collect everything that is yours—it expects the “poor and alien” to make their way through your field and take what they find—they aren’t supposed to have to ask.
Admittedly, there’s a lot in Leviticus that we don’t believe in (like the prohibition against tattooing a few lines earlier)—but this is solid, “love thy neighbor” kind of stuff. What’s interesting to me, too, is that it’s in the context of prohibitions against idolatry. You aren’t just supposed to be generous to the outsider because it’s the kind thing to do; it’s because being generous to the outsider is part of what it is to be human in relation to God. It’s God’s job to be the judge and Creator; it’s our job to be created—to be creatures, and part of being a created being is to recognize your rightful place beside other created beings, which means loving and caring for them and not regarding yourself as more worthy or above them. (I could spin this out theologically about the oil spill in the Gulf, too, but I’ve already gone on for some time)
So where does this leave us on the other side of the country? Advocating, certainly, but also praying. Pray for the immigrants, pray for the police, and pray for those who suffer—on all sides of the border. Those who are victimized by crime, and those who perpetrate it. Pray for Arizona Governor Jan Brewer, too, and for all our legislators who are trying to find creative—and humane—solutions.
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