This week, I’m passing on a bit from Walter Brueggeman, whose book I read this week while home on a sick day: Sabbath as Resistance: Saying No to the Culture of Now. I’ve written a lot in this space about feeling impatient about social justice and the Advent of Christ’s restoration of all things—I’ll try to be faithful to that holy impatience. Unholy impatience, however, is the kind I fall into more often. Short tempered with my kids when they take what seems like EIGHT YEARS to brush their teeth. Impatient in traffic, trying to avoid the distracting allure of the little red notifying sign that I have a Facebook message from someone. These kinds of impatiences are habits of thought absorbed in our technological world, when it feels like anything worth having must be eligible for overnight shipping, and anything worth doing must be able to be finished in an afternoon.
Here’s what Brueggeman says about that.
The divine rest on the seventh day of creation has made clear:
a. that Yahweh is not a workaholic
b. that Yahweh is not anxious about the full function of creation and
c. that the well-being of creation does not depend on endless work (6).
Hear that? Creation doesn’t depend on your constant work. It doesn’t even depend on God’s constant work. Sabbath, Brueggeman says, is as necessary to God as it is to us—and rather archly reminds us that God did not just “check in” on creation on God’s day off. God knew it would be fine.
Sabbath, Sabbath, Sabbath. Rest, faithfulness, joy.
I feel like I’ve been writing and preaching grief and tragedy for too many weeks, and the sin of our world is still glaring, still there. But we will not be made more compassionate or more fruitful in our work in refusing to trust God. I’ve been so moved by all the stories of protest that have come out recently—high school students all over Boston leaving their classrooms, Harvard Medical School students in their white jackets leaving their lecture halls. To cease to operate in the usual economy of accomplishment and “business as usual” seems to me a sacramental response. The holy is revealed in the ordinary.
There is often a complaint that protest actions don’t directly impact the issues the protestors want changed. Blocking a highway entrance does nothing against police violence. Laying down on the street does nothing directly to end the racism that leaves black children more likely to be expelled from school than their white peers. 9 years of the Waltham peace vigil (see below), has not ended any wars. Those critiques may be compelling, but both racial injustice and war politics are so woven into our judicial and economic system and into our very habits of mind that there is no simple chain of cause and effect, anywhere. The critique just doesn’t fit.
Justice comes in God’s time, with all of us needing to pray and hope and work and, yes, rest. We already know the end of the story. Jesus was born among us. God, in our midst. God just came to be with us. The birth of a holy child has no apparent causal relationship to the end of sin and suffering. Still in one week at the manger we will adore him, still we have confidence that the child, Emmanu-el, is God with us. Still, that light will shine.
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Friday, December 12, 2014
Finding Jesus in the Nearest and Furthest
Dear People of Christ Church,
Last night, I had the opportunity to attend a peace vigil at Medford City Hall in commemoration of the second anniversary of the Sandy Hook Shootings. It was organized by an interfaith group and spearheaded by Grace Church, where my husband is the rector. The vigil was held in the city council chambers, with a long row of empty seats at the head of the room with pictures of each of those killed. For more than ten minutes, children (mostly from Grace Church—kids I know) each took the mic one by one and read out the names of those who had been killed as someone at the lectern shared something about them—one was an avid soccer player, another loved horseback riding, one had moved to Newtown just two months earlier. My son Isaiah (7) took two names, anxiously awaiting his turn and trying to pronounce each syllable carefully.
80-100 of us were gathered—some kids, some parishioners from Grace and other congregations—and I’m sure that at some point in the evening we all teared up at least once. The apparent randomness of the violence—looking at those smiling faces, truly, it could have been one of my own children. I remember where I was when I heard about the shooting—I was in a van in Tanzania, on a pilgrimage/mission trip with Bishop Shaw and several other clergy and lay people from the diocese. Tom got a text from the diocese letting him know what happened, and we all prayed for a few minutes on the way. At that time, it seemed like there would be real energy for reform—that we would not permit our country to be a place where such things happened. And yet, and yet, one study lists 95 school shootings in the last two years (including both college and K-12 schools). That’s once a week. None has been “as bad” as Sandy Hook, but each one is too many.
Yesterday among all the dead, we prayed for Nancy Lanza, too. I imagine her heartbreak, too, in that moment before she was killed that she realized what was happening, remembered when her son was 6 or 7, the same age as those he killed. And of course the violence of Ferguson, Staten Island, and Cleveland were not far away. Sandy Hook six year old Noah Pozner could have been my son. Eric Garner could have been my father.
I heard a wonderful quote from Dorothy Day recently, which I can’t lay hands on to attribute exactly, but it’s something to the effect that we are called to love those in need as though they were Jesus. Not because they ought to act like Jesus, but simply because they are Jesus. That’s the trick—to see divinity in places that are foreign to us, to be willing to ask the Holy Spirit to intervene in the gaps between us.
I think some of what seems so hard about seeing Jesus in those who differ from us is that we need God’s grace to do it—we fool ourselves too often that we can do everything on our own, but in truth it’s more complicated than that. We need God’s grace all the time—to find Jesus in the nearest and the furthest.
As always, I’m short on answers and long on meandering questions. Where did you see Jesus this week? In those who are far or those who are near? In both? In neither? As our kids and I talked about on Sunday, what are you doing to prepare a way for Jesus this Christmas?
Blessings,
Sara+
Last night, I had the opportunity to attend a peace vigil at Medford City Hall in commemoration of the second anniversary of the Sandy Hook Shootings. It was organized by an interfaith group and spearheaded by Grace Church, where my husband is the rector. The vigil was held in the city council chambers, with a long row of empty seats at the head of the room with pictures of each of those killed. For more than ten minutes, children (mostly from Grace Church—kids I know) each took the mic one by one and read out the names of those who had been killed as someone at the lectern shared something about them—one was an avid soccer player, another loved horseback riding, one had moved to Newtown just two months earlier. My son Isaiah (7) took two names, anxiously awaiting his turn and trying to pronounce each syllable carefully.
80-100 of us were gathered—some kids, some parishioners from Grace and other congregations—and I’m sure that at some point in the evening we all teared up at least once. The apparent randomness of the violence—looking at those smiling faces, truly, it could have been one of my own children. I remember where I was when I heard about the shooting—I was in a van in Tanzania, on a pilgrimage/mission trip with Bishop Shaw and several other clergy and lay people from the diocese. Tom got a text from the diocese letting him know what happened, and we all prayed for a few minutes on the way. At that time, it seemed like there would be real energy for reform—that we would not permit our country to be a place where such things happened. And yet, and yet, one study lists 95 school shootings in the last two years (including both college and K-12 schools). That’s once a week. None has been “as bad” as Sandy Hook, but each one is too many.
Yesterday among all the dead, we prayed for Nancy Lanza, too. I imagine her heartbreak, too, in that moment before she was killed that she realized what was happening, remembered when her son was 6 or 7, the same age as those he killed. And of course the violence of Ferguson, Staten Island, and Cleveland were not far away. Sandy Hook six year old Noah Pozner could have been my son. Eric Garner could have been my father.
I heard a wonderful quote from Dorothy Day recently, which I can’t lay hands on to attribute exactly, but it’s something to the effect that we are called to love those in need as though they were Jesus. Not because they ought to act like Jesus, but simply because they are Jesus. That’s the trick—to see divinity in places that are foreign to us, to be willing to ask the Holy Spirit to intervene in the gaps between us.
I think some of what seems so hard about seeing Jesus in those who differ from us is that we need God’s grace to do it—we fool ourselves too often that we can do everything on our own, but in truth it’s more complicated than that. We need God’s grace all the time—to find Jesus in the nearest and the furthest.
As always, I’m short on answers and long on meandering questions. Where did you see Jesus this week? In those who are far or those who are near? In both? In neither? As our kids and I talked about on Sunday, what are you doing to prepare a way for Jesus this Christmas?
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, December 5, 2014
Advent Waiting for (Truly) All Lives to Matter
Dear People of Christ Church,
As I mentioned in my sermon on Sunday, this week I continue to feel very “Adventy”—longing, hoping for the restoration of all things in Christ. Our reading from Isaiah on Sunday begged for the intervention of God—“Oh, that you would tear down the heavens and come down!”—the prophet speaks for a people lamenting that even their most righteous deeds are not enough.
There are no easy answers. It’s easy to say “Don’t be racist,” but harder to change the fact that our society still struggles with the legacy of years of inequality and injustice, structures of poverty and prejudice that entrap generation after generation. Yesterday, again, another grand jury chose not to indict another police officer for killing an unarmed black man. Eric Garner’s death was ruled as a homicide, and still, no indictment. As Garner said he couldn’t breathe, did the man choking him realize he was taking a life with his own hands? That one of God’s own beloved children was dying? Did he realize his own belovedness at the time? Did he remember he was created for more than fear?
The reason these grand jury cases are so troubling is that the message is that there is no chance—no chance—to ask if something illegal happened. The job of a grand jury is not to decide whether someone is guilty or innocent; its job is to decide whether there’s a question. The protest phrase “Black Lives Matter” is not to contradict the sentiment that all lives matter; it’s to contradict the idea that Michael Brown’s and Eric Garner’s (and so many others’) lives don’t. And that’s the message being sent here. In his testimony Darren Wilson described Michael Brown as looking like “a demon.” Wilson was afraid and felt threatened, but this comment exposes the attitude that the black man in front of Wilson did not seem human. That’s not a reasoned, personal decision based on evidence; that’s a response absorbed by living in a world in which certain lives may not quite be worthy. It’s sin, personal as well as communal.
This goes far beyond the question of police training or practice. As I said on Sunday when we dedicated altar linens in Jim Hewitt’s memory, there are great people who are police officers. And it’s not a zero sum—for one doesn’t mean against another. This is about all of us. When we don’t talk about race and racism, that’s on all of us. When we pretend that everyone gets a fair chance in America, that’s on all of us. When we don’t see our brothers and sisters of all races, economic circumstances, and nationalities as worthy of protection—that’s on all of us. We grow up in a society torn by racism—that’s not our choice. But it is our choice to acknowledge racism and its impact on us—or not.
In my sermon on Sunday I talked about waiting for Jesus. Waiting for reconciliation, waiting for justice. This Advent waiting isn’t passive—it’s the kind of waiting, Mark Allen Powell says, that people in love do. Edge of your seat, heart in your mouth, waiting, longing for the one you love to come. That’s the waiting we’re called to in Advent—to wait for Christ as though we could see him coming already. And this waiting for the one we love is about loving those Jesus loves. The imprisoned, the imperfect, the riotous, the weeping. It’s love in action, love in protest, love in reality. It’s love that has the power of God to confront injustice, to know that all of us are created by one God who loves us, a God who will accompany us in difficult conversation and forgive us when we fail.
Blessings,
Sara+
++
Wondering what you can do to remember that all lives matter? Check out the Enough is Enough Rally planned at Boston Common tonight at 7pm for the Garner family; stop by the Immigrant Experience potluck that WATCH is hosting at 6:30 (at First Parish); give for gift cards for GLBT teens for our Christmas Outreach. Next week, think about joining our bishop and diocese at the vigil for an end to gun violence on the anniversary of the Newtown School Shooting. There is far to go, and much love to give.
For some fascinating research on the science of prejudice, see this essay on Bill Moyers; for an opportunity to explore your own biases, take the “Implicit Association” Test (there are quizzes both for gender and race).
As I mentioned in my sermon on Sunday, this week I continue to feel very “Adventy”—longing, hoping for the restoration of all things in Christ. Our reading from Isaiah on Sunday begged for the intervention of God—“Oh, that you would tear down the heavens and come down!”—the prophet speaks for a people lamenting that even their most righteous deeds are not enough.
There are no easy answers. It’s easy to say “Don’t be racist,” but harder to change the fact that our society still struggles with the legacy of years of inequality and injustice, structures of poverty and prejudice that entrap generation after generation. Yesterday, again, another grand jury chose not to indict another police officer for killing an unarmed black man. Eric Garner’s death was ruled as a homicide, and still, no indictment. As Garner said he couldn’t breathe, did the man choking him realize he was taking a life with his own hands? That one of God’s own beloved children was dying? Did he realize his own belovedness at the time? Did he remember he was created for more than fear?
The reason these grand jury cases are so troubling is that the message is that there is no chance—no chance—to ask if something illegal happened. The job of a grand jury is not to decide whether someone is guilty or innocent; its job is to decide whether there’s a question. The protest phrase “Black Lives Matter” is not to contradict the sentiment that all lives matter; it’s to contradict the idea that Michael Brown’s and Eric Garner’s (and so many others’) lives don’t. And that’s the message being sent here. In his testimony Darren Wilson described Michael Brown as looking like “a demon.” Wilson was afraid and felt threatened, but this comment exposes the attitude that the black man in front of Wilson did not seem human. That’s not a reasoned, personal decision based on evidence; that’s a response absorbed by living in a world in which certain lives may not quite be worthy. It’s sin, personal as well as communal.
This goes far beyond the question of police training or practice. As I said on Sunday when we dedicated altar linens in Jim Hewitt’s memory, there are great people who are police officers. And it’s not a zero sum—for one doesn’t mean against another. This is about all of us. When we don’t talk about race and racism, that’s on all of us. When we pretend that everyone gets a fair chance in America, that’s on all of us. When we don’t see our brothers and sisters of all races, economic circumstances, and nationalities as worthy of protection—that’s on all of us. We grow up in a society torn by racism—that’s not our choice. But it is our choice to acknowledge racism and its impact on us—or not.
In my sermon on Sunday I talked about waiting for Jesus. Waiting for reconciliation, waiting for justice. This Advent waiting isn’t passive—it’s the kind of waiting, Mark Allen Powell says, that people in love do. Edge of your seat, heart in your mouth, waiting, longing for the one you love to come. That’s the waiting we’re called to in Advent—to wait for Christ as though we could see him coming already. And this waiting for the one we love is about loving those Jesus loves. The imprisoned, the imperfect, the riotous, the weeping. It’s love in action, love in protest, love in reality. It’s love that has the power of God to confront injustice, to know that all of us are created by one God who loves us, a God who will accompany us in difficult conversation and forgive us when we fail.
Blessings,
Sara+
++
Wondering what you can do to remember that all lives matter? Check out the Enough is Enough Rally planned at Boston Common tonight at 7pm for the Garner family; stop by the Immigrant Experience potluck that WATCH is hosting at 6:30 (at First Parish); give for gift cards for GLBT teens for our Christmas Outreach. Next week, think about joining our bishop and diocese at the vigil for an end to gun violence on the anniversary of the Newtown School Shooting. There is far to go, and much love to give.
For some fascinating research on the science of prejudice, see this essay on Bill Moyers; for an opportunity to explore your own biases, take the “Implicit Association” Test (there are quizzes both for gender and race).
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Thanksgiving Joy and Sorrow
Dear People of Christ Church,
Whenever I send out the e-crier during Thanksgiving week, I always share the litany from the prayer book for thanksgiving—a very theological idea for a secular holiday. This year, though, in addition to my gratitude for my life and our life together in this parish, I’m also carrying a heaviness of heart for our country, for the family of Michael Brown, and for all of the conflict, sorrow, and oppression that we are all enmeshed in in twenty first century America. There are so many wise people analyzing and speaking on this, so I won’t add to the sound waves other than to invite you to prayer and to remind us of our faith in a God who “makes all things new,” who also needs our hands and voices to make justice in the world. Every life, of every person of every color, matters. For an excellent reflection, see this from Bishop of Washington Marianne Budde and Dean Gary Hall of the National Cathedral. Our readings for the first Sunday are about keeping awake; we need to be awake not just to where Jesus is coming, but where we need to bring him.
On a very different note, but yet another question of life and death, I also want to pass on resources for conversations about end of life care. Every year, our own Rob Atwood, a social worker for hospice care and I lead a conversation about planning for the end of life. What kind of medical interventions do you think you want? Who is authorized to make those decisions for you? What hymns shall we sing at your funeral? Answering as many of these questions in advance as possible is one of the greatest gifts you can give your loved ones. The guide Rob and I put together is here.
Some other resources:
MOLST Medical Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment is a Massachusetts state document that presents clear and concise summaries of choices that are made at the end of life; this is filled out by a patient in cooperation with their doctor
A 2013 WBUR story on home death care has fabulous information. One of the people they interview likens it to the choice for a home birth as not right for everyone, but still a right that everyone has.
The Conversation Project was founded by journalist Ellen Goodman and has locals like Liz Walker and Donald Berwick among their advising team, has great conversation starters and a “starter kit” you can download to get yourself thinking about what you want for the end of your life.
Finally, the Litany for Thanksgiving…
Let us give thanks to God for all the gifts so freely bestowed upon us.
For the beauty and wonder of your creation, in earth and sky and sea,
We thank you, God.
For all that is gracious in the lives of your people, revealing the image of Christ,
We thank you, God.
For our daily food and drink, our homes and families, and our friends,
We thank you, God.
For minds to think, and hearts to love, and hands to serve,
We thank you, God.
For health and strength to work, and leisure to rest and play,
We thank you, God.
For the brave and courageous, who are patient in suffering and faithful in adversity,
We thank you, God.
For all valiant seekers after truth, liberty, and justice,
We thank you, God.
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
We thank you, God.
Above all, we give you thanks for the great mercies and promises given to us in Christ Jesus our God;
To Christ be praise and glory, with you, O Father, and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Whenever I send out the e-crier during Thanksgiving week, I always share the litany from the prayer book for thanksgiving—a very theological idea for a secular holiday. This year, though, in addition to my gratitude for my life and our life together in this parish, I’m also carrying a heaviness of heart for our country, for the family of Michael Brown, and for all of the conflict, sorrow, and oppression that we are all enmeshed in in twenty first century America. There are so many wise people analyzing and speaking on this, so I won’t add to the sound waves other than to invite you to prayer and to remind us of our faith in a God who “makes all things new,” who also needs our hands and voices to make justice in the world. Every life, of every person of every color, matters. For an excellent reflection, see this from Bishop of Washington Marianne Budde and Dean Gary Hall of the National Cathedral. Our readings for the first Sunday are about keeping awake; we need to be awake not just to where Jesus is coming, but where we need to bring him.
On a very different note, but yet another question of life and death, I also want to pass on resources for conversations about end of life care. Every year, our own Rob Atwood, a social worker for hospice care and I lead a conversation about planning for the end of life. What kind of medical interventions do you think you want? Who is authorized to make those decisions for you? What hymns shall we sing at your funeral? Answering as many of these questions in advance as possible is one of the greatest gifts you can give your loved ones. The guide Rob and I put together is here.
Some other resources:
MOLST Medical Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment is a Massachusetts state document that presents clear and concise summaries of choices that are made at the end of life; this is filled out by a patient in cooperation with their doctor
A 2013 WBUR story on home death care has fabulous information. One of the people they interview likens it to the choice for a home birth as not right for everyone, but still a right that everyone has.
The Conversation Project was founded by journalist Ellen Goodman and has locals like Liz Walker and Donald Berwick among their advising team, has great conversation starters and a “starter kit” you can download to get yourself thinking about what you want for the end of your life.
Finally, the Litany for Thanksgiving…
Let us give thanks to God for all the gifts so freely bestowed upon us.
For the beauty and wonder of your creation, in earth and sky and sea,
We thank you, God.
For all that is gracious in the lives of your people, revealing the image of Christ,
We thank you, God.
For our daily food and drink, our homes and families, and our friends,
We thank you, God.
For minds to think, and hearts to love, and hands to serve,
We thank you, God.
For health and strength to work, and leisure to rest and play,
We thank you, God.
For the brave and courageous, who are patient in suffering and faithful in adversity,
We thank you, God.
For all valiant seekers after truth, liberty, and justice,
We thank you, God.
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
We thank you, God.
Above all, we give you thanks for the great mercies and promises given to us in Christ Jesus our God;
To Christ be praise and glory, with you, O Father, and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, November 21, 2014
To Be the Body of Christ
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, it was a pleasure to distribute the thank you notes written on Sunday in response to Sarah Staley’s stewardship talk, which you can see here. Many of the notes were general in nature—thanks to all who make the church “go”—from altar guild to readers to building maintenance to children’s education—so even if you didn't receive a personal one in the mail, please know that it matters that you are here.
It matters—and not just because of what you do, but because being the church is a less and less common endeavor. The results of a nationwide study of Episcopal Congregations were published this month, and the news for our denomination is not great. The median Episcopal parish had 77 people in church in 2003, which then dropped to 66 in 2009, and dropped to 61 by 2013. People just don't go to church as much anymore.
Over the last ten years, the average Sunday attendance of Episcopal Churches has declined twenty-four percent. We can point to all kinds of things outside ourselves to explain why this is the case. Sports are taking over every family’s life, not just those who want to go to church. All households are impacted by the change in work expectations, where we’re all attached to our digital tethers 24 hours a day. And that’s those of us fortunate enough to be employed and to have time “off” in the first place. There’s no end to work or homework, or anxiety. To claim, then, that one ought to make it a priority to sit in a 115 year old building for an hour every Sunday—every Sunday?!?—when the rest of our lives are so chaotic sounds pretty crazy. Isn't it more compassionate just to stay home and take a nap? Can’t you pray from the couch? Is God worth praying to if God can’t find you there?
In some ways, this is the “time” version of the piece I wrote last week about how important it is to give our money to the church. Spending time and money are both ways to signal our commitment. I said last week I give money to church because church helps make me who I am. I’m fed, supported, loved by God. That’s true for time, too, but when it comes to actually showing up for church, the reverse is also true; me going to church makes the church who it is.
The church needs everyone not just to fill seats, but to be faithful to the vision God has for us, a substantial part of which is being together, bodily. One thing I was struck by in the thank-you’s was that several people thanked each other for being an inspiration to them—you are teaching each other to be faithful. When each of you show up, it makes it easier for the others to do that. For you to hear each other’s voices, to smile at each other’s kids, to laugh when the sound system malfunctions. To celebrate at baptisms and marriages, and to mourn for the dead. There are plenty of things that your church community needs you to do, but the most important thing is just for you to be. Church is on a human scale. We can enrich our community with all the blogs and facebook posts in the world, but we still need to be in the same room together.
Christ Church has been growing steadily over the last ten years—there was a big jump between 2006 and 2008 of 15%, and then from 2008 to 2013 another 11% of growth. That’s pretty fantastic…only 25% of other congregations have had similar growth. But for it to keep going, you need to keep going. You are smart, dedicated, loving and faithful. You come from all different backgrounds and live in all different kinds of households. You are the Body of Christ. Thank you.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, it was a pleasure to distribute the thank you notes written on Sunday in response to Sarah Staley’s stewardship talk, which you can see here. Many of the notes were general in nature—thanks to all who make the church “go”—from altar guild to readers to building maintenance to children’s education—so even if you didn't receive a personal one in the mail, please know that it matters that you are here.
It matters—and not just because of what you do, but because being the church is a less and less common endeavor. The results of a nationwide study of Episcopal Congregations were published this month, and the news for our denomination is not great. The median Episcopal parish had 77 people in church in 2003, which then dropped to 66 in 2009, and dropped to 61 by 2013. People just don't go to church as much anymore.
Over the last ten years, the average Sunday attendance of Episcopal Churches has declined twenty-four percent. We can point to all kinds of things outside ourselves to explain why this is the case. Sports are taking over every family’s life, not just those who want to go to church. All households are impacted by the change in work expectations, where we’re all attached to our digital tethers 24 hours a day. And that’s those of us fortunate enough to be employed and to have time “off” in the first place. There’s no end to work or homework, or anxiety. To claim, then, that one ought to make it a priority to sit in a 115 year old building for an hour every Sunday—every Sunday?!?—when the rest of our lives are so chaotic sounds pretty crazy. Isn't it more compassionate just to stay home and take a nap? Can’t you pray from the couch? Is God worth praying to if God can’t find you there?
In some ways, this is the “time” version of the piece I wrote last week about how important it is to give our money to the church. Spending time and money are both ways to signal our commitment. I said last week I give money to church because church helps make me who I am. I’m fed, supported, loved by God. That’s true for time, too, but when it comes to actually showing up for church, the reverse is also true; me going to church makes the church who it is.
The church needs everyone not just to fill seats, but to be faithful to the vision God has for us, a substantial part of which is being together, bodily. One thing I was struck by in the thank-you’s was that several people thanked each other for being an inspiration to them—you are teaching each other to be faithful. When each of you show up, it makes it easier for the others to do that. For you to hear each other’s voices, to smile at each other’s kids, to laugh when the sound system malfunctions. To celebrate at baptisms and marriages, and to mourn for the dead. There are plenty of things that your church community needs you to do, but the most important thing is just for you to be. Church is on a human scale. We can enrich our community with all the blogs and facebook posts in the world, but we still need to be in the same room together.
Christ Church has been growing steadily over the last ten years—there was a big jump between 2006 and 2008 of 15%, and then from 2008 to 2013 another 11% of growth. That’s pretty fantastic…only 25% of other congregations have had similar growth. But for it to keep going, you need to keep going. You are smart, dedicated, loving and faithful. You come from all different backgrounds and live in all different kinds of households. You are the Body of Christ. Thank you.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, November 14, 2014
Why, Exactly, Give to Church
Dear People of Christ Church,
This past Sunday we had our first speaker as part of our stewardship series. These three Sundays of November we imagine what it would be like to be fully offer ourselves—all that we are and all that we have—to God. Maureen Fowler gave us a wonderful beginning in inviting us to think about the barriers that keep us from giving our gifts. Everyone was invited to write their responses to the talk on slips of paper throughout the pews, and we gathered them in a (confidential) offering basket to be blessed with the food for Grandma’s Pantry and our gifts of money for the work of the church.
As you all know, we haven’t distributed pledge cards yet, the idea being to first spend some time thinking and praying about what we will give. In her talk (which you can watch here), Maureen talked about how when tithing was first created, there were no 5 K races for breast cancer. There was no Land Trust or Community Day Center. There was no fundraising for mosquito nets to fight malaria or subsidizing children’s education. There are a lot of things you can give your money to. And, arguably, a la Matthew 25—when Jesus says “when you did it to the least of these you did it to me”—when you give to all of these other fantastic things, you are most certainly saying yes to that call to serve God in others.
So the question you may have asked yourself is why, exactly, giving to church is a good use of your money. The parish heating bill is $20,000. Do you really want to be part of that? As well as we’re growing at Christ Church, parishes all over the Episcopal Church are in decline. Are our pledges propping up a dying institution? Maybe you’d come closer to God staying home and praying in silence. Maybe you’d come closer to the Jesus who is in solidarity with “the least of these” going out into the world and giving to every person on every street corner who asked you to. What kind of positive investment is this, really, apart from all the spiritualized “shoulds” and “oughts?”
Like anything, your answer may not be my answer. But here’s one idea. The reason I give a ton of money to church is that I think being part of church makes me who I am. Being part of a church cultivates in me the vision to see the people on the street who ask for money. Being part of church gives me the vision to see why giving to care for God’s creation is part of practicing my faith. Being part of church helps me to be nourished in ways I didn’t even realize I was hungry. I wonder if giving to church makes it possible for you to be who you are, too.
Being part of church makes it possible for me to make a bigger impact than I could on my own. I can’t invite a yoga class for trauma survivors to meet in my living room, but REACH has organized one to meet in our parish hall every Monday for eight weeks. I don’t want to host an anger management class in my own basement, either, but here on Tuesday nights there’s one that has met for five or six years. I can’t be home every Friday morning to hand out food for seniors or diapers on Saturdays, but my parish pledge goes to that work.
I can’t celebrate the Eucharist by myself—no “Take, eat, this is my body given for you,” eucharistic as sometimes it felt when I was nursing my babies. Practically, I also give to church because when I come to hear Sarah Staley talk about holy gratitude next week, I want the heat to be on, and it falls to all of us to help make that happen. I give to church because no matter where God and I may find each other throughout the week, knowing we will meet at a place and time makes it that much more likely I can meet God in all places and times.
Blessings,
Sara+
This past Sunday we had our first speaker as part of our stewardship series. These three Sundays of November we imagine what it would be like to be fully offer ourselves—all that we are and all that we have—to God. Maureen Fowler gave us a wonderful beginning in inviting us to think about the barriers that keep us from giving our gifts. Everyone was invited to write their responses to the talk on slips of paper throughout the pews, and we gathered them in a (confidential) offering basket to be blessed with the food for Grandma’s Pantry and our gifts of money for the work of the church.
As you all know, we haven’t distributed pledge cards yet, the idea being to first spend some time thinking and praying about what we will give. In her talk (which you can watch here), Maureen talked about how when tithing was first created, there were no 5 K races for breast cancer. There was no Land Trust or Community Day Center. There was no fundraising for mosquito nets to fight malaria or subsidizing children’s education. There are a lot of things you can give your money to. And, arguably, a la Matthew 25—when Jesus says “when you did it to the least of these you did it to me”—when you give to all of these other fantastic things, you are most certainly saying yes to that call to serve God in others.
So the question you may have asked yourself is why, exactly, giving to church is a good use of your money. The parish heating bill is $20,000. Do you really want to be part of that? As well as we’re growing at Christ Church, parishes all over the Episcopal Church are in decline. Are our pledges propping up a dying institution? Maybe you’d come closer to God staying home and praying in silence. Maybe you’d come closer to the Jesus who is in solidarity with “the least of these” going out into the world and giving to every person on every street corner who asked you to. What kind of positive investment is this, really, apart from all the spiritualized “shoulds” and “oughts?”
Like anything, your answer may not be my answer. But here’s one idea. The reason I give a ton of money to church is that I think being part of church makes me who I am. Being part of a church cultivates in me the vision to see the people on the street who ask for money. Being part of church gives me the vision to see why giving to care for God’s creation is part of practicing my faith. Being part of church helps me to be nourished in ways I didn’t even realize I was hungry. I wonder if giving to church makes it possible for you to be who you are, too.
Being part of church makes it possible for me to make a bigger impact than I could on my own. I can’t invite a yoga class for trauma survivors to meet in my living room, but REACH has organized one to meet in our parish hall every Monday for eight weeks. I don’t want to host an anger management class in my own basement, either, but here on Tuesday nights there’s one that has met for five or six years. I can’t be home every Friday morning to hand out food for seniors or diapers on Saturdays, but my parish pledge goes to that work.
I can’t celebrate the Eucharist by myself—no “Take, eat, this is my body given for you,” eucharistic as sometimes it felt when I was nursing my babies. Practically, I also give to church because when I come to hear Sarah Staley talk about holy gratitude next week, I want the heat to be on, and it falls to all of us to help make that happen. I give to church because no matter where God and I may find each other throughout the week, knowing we will meet at a place and time makes it that much more likely I can meet God in all places and times.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, November 7, 2014
Fully Alive, to Joy and Grief
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, of course, I’m still reeling a little after Bishop Tom’s funeral on Saturday, which was just marvelous. You can find the text of Brother Geoffrey’s sermon here. One of the things that I have long loved about being an Anglican is that our worship is actually intended to accomplish something—at Holy Week I always talk about how we do the last week of Jesus’ life, with foot washing and prayers at the cross and celebration of the resurrection. It’s not an abstraction. The funeral on Saturday, too, did what it was supposed to do.
We laughed at stories like Tom telling a visitor to the monastery who asked about it that he was the only one wearing a cross because he was “monk of the month.” We cried when we sang “King of Glory, King of Peace,” Tom’s favorite hymn. We cried when the silence seemed to stretch forever when Brother James, who was to begin the Prayers of the People, just couldn’t speak.
We shared in the Eucharist that is the Body and Blood of Christ who unites us and in whom we find our peace, in whom, the dead are not dead and we all rise to life again. We cried—again—when the brothers sang the Song of Simeon—“ Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised/ For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.”
And so he is set free, and so are we.
There’s a really important tension to hold when we stand in the middle of life and death. We can say that Tom is set free, along with all of those names we printed in the bulletin on Sunday for All Saints Day, and believe that he is free and sees the glory of God face to face. We hold that reality in one hand. We treasure that promise that Jesus Christ has gone before us and by the grace and miracle of God defeated the power of death. In our other hand, we hold the reality that life is a wonderful, astonishing, and precious gift. In its messiness and mud as well as in its joy and laughter, life is a gift. To welcome death as also a gift is not to diminish the importance of our course on earth—holy as the dying was, the living was holy, too.
Brother Geoffrey quoted the second century bishop Irenaeus of Lyon—“the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Fully alive includes grief as well as joy. For now, I’m trying to take my time for both.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, of course, I’m still reeling a little after Bishop Tom’s funeral on Saturday, which was just marvelous. You can find the text of Brother Geoffrey’s sermon here. One of the things that I have long loved about being an Anglican is that our worship is actually intended to accomplish something—at Holy Week I always talk about how we do the last week of Jesus’ life, with foot washing and prayers at the cross and celebration of the resurrection. It’s not an abstraction. The funeral on Saturday, too, did what it was supposed to do.
We laughed at stories like Tom telling a visitor to the monastery who asked about it that he was the only one wearing a cross because he was “monk of the month.” We cried when we sang “King of Glory, King of Peace,” Tom’s favorite hymn. We cried when the silence seemed to stretch forever when Brother James, who was to begin the Prayers of the People, just couldn’t speak.
We shared in the Eucharist that is the Body and Blood of Christ who unites us and in whom we find our peace, in whom, the dead are not dead and we all rise to life again. We cried—again—when the brothers sang the Song of Simeon—“ Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised/ For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.”
And so he is set free, and so are we.
There’s a really important tension to hold when we stand in the middle of life and death. We can say that Tom is set free, along with all of those names we printed in the bulletin on Sunday for All Saints Day, and believe that he is free and sees the glory of God face to face. We hold that reality in one hand. We treasure that promise that Jesus Christ has gone before us and by the grace and miracle of God defeated the power of death. In our other hand, we hold the reality that life is a wonderful, astonishing, and precious gift. In its messiness and mud as well as in its joy and laughter, life is a gift. To welcome death as also a gift is not to diminish the importance of our course on earth—holy as the dying was, the living was holy, too.
Brother Geoffrey quoted the second century bishop Irenaeus of Lyon—“the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Fully alive includes grief as well as joy. For now, I’m trying to take my time for both.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, October 24, 2014
From Fear to Trust
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I wanted to pass on part of our food for discussion from our Tuesday group. Heather Leonardo passed on the poem from Marilyn Sandberg for our conversation about church and spirituality.
When They Revolutionize the Cocktail Parties
Marilyn Sandberg
“Hello, what are you afraid of?”
“Death.”
“Me too.”
“When you hear a Mahler symphony?”
“No, when I wake up in the night.”
"Me too."
“Nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”
The stark simplicity of the scene is riveting; how often do we hear something earth shattering and then sweep it under the rug with polite chatter? It would, for sure, be quite a revolutionary cocktail party if we were this honest with each other.
That question, of course, brings me to church. When is church more like a cocktail party than a revolution? Is that really what God wants for us in community? In my sermon on Sunday, I was talking with you about how we are made in the image of God—that we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, but that we belong to God and are invited to live from that holy knowledge. This is something that our former bishop Tom Shaw, who died last week, so exemplified. His security in his identity as rooted in God made space for others to live from that reality as well. ;His life was an example of holy living, but also holy dying; he never pretended that everything was “fine.” But even when it wasn’t “fine” in the usual sense, when he was dying and there were no more treatments, it was all still good. He lived in full view of the gift of his 69 years, often remarking how much better it had all turned out than he expected. If you didn’t see his video meditation on the end of his life, please do look for it here:
Tom talks about his gratitude and, sure, his desire to live for another 25 years, but he talks about his trust in God. One of the reflections left on the page of SSJE, Tom’s monastic community, used the expression of how we can allow fear to “melt into trust.” When do you long for your fear to “melt into trust?” What is that moment like?
On Tuesday I felt this so powerfully as we gathered for our Eucharist after our education. My kids don’t usually come, since with a 25 minute drive home it’s way past their bedtime once we’re finally done, but since it was a vestry night for their dad, they got to come along with me. During the service Adah, just turned five, was totally losing it—no matter how many times I asked her to be still, she was crawling up the pulpit and down the stairs, making faces and laughing during our quiet reflection time. I love seeing your kids enjoying themselves (even, yes, sometimes in “inappropriate” ways in church) but when I have to lead a service, it’s much less endearing when it’s my own kids I want to have under control. So I was a bit distracted and cranky, trying to extend us all some compassion. I am surely thankful for the grace extended us by the other 10 people gathered!
In any case, I had a “fear melting into trust” moment during the Eucharistic prayer. Finally understanding that it was truly not possible for Adah to control herself at 8:00 on a school night, I scooped her up and had her on my hip. I’m used to holding her, of course, but with two arms! When the time in the prayer came for the elevation of the bread and wine, of course, I shifted her over—and I’m strong, but 40lbs is a lot of pounds on one arm. Holding her, though, and holding the bread on the other hand and saying those words “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you,” I had a knock-your-socks-off moment of realization—This. Is. True. And I trusted it—trusted God, and that moment, and my parenting, and my kid and the marvelous and strange journey it is to be a parent and a priest, sometimes at the same time. And, with Tom, I give thanks.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I wanted to pass on part of our food for discussion from our Tuesday group. Heather Leonardo passed on the poem from Marilyn Sandberg for our conversation about church and spirituality.
When They Revolutionize the Cocktail Parties
Marilyn Sandberg
“Hello, what are you afraid of?”
“Death.”
“Me too.”
“When you hear a Mahler symphony?”
“No, when I wake up in the night.”
"Me too."
“Nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”
The stark simplicity of the scene is riveting; how often do we hear something earth shattering and then sweep it under the rug with polite chatter? It would, for sure, be quite a revolutionary cocktail party if we were this honest with each other.
That question, of course, brings me to church. When is church more like a cocktail party than a revolution? Is that really what God wants for us in community? In my sermon on Sunday, I was talking with you about how we are made in the image of God—that we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, but that we belong to God and are invited to live from that holy knowledge. This is something that our former bishop Tom Shaw, who died last week, so exemplified. His security in his identity as rooted in God made space for others to live from that reality as well. ;His life was an example of holy living, but also holy dying; he never pretended that everything was “fine.” But even when it wasn’t “fine” in the usual sense, when he was dying and there were no more treatments, it was all still good. He lived in full view of the gift of his 69 years, often remarking how much better it had all turned out than he expected. If you didn’t see his video meditation on the end of his life, please do look for it here:
On Tuesday I felt this so powerfully as we gathered for our Eucharist after our education. My kids don’t usually come, since with a 25 minute drive home it’s way past their bedtime once we’re finally done, but since it was a vestry night for their dad, they got to come along with me. During the service Adah, just turned five, was totally losing it—no matter how many times I asked her to be still, she was crawling up the pulpit and down the stairs, making faces and laughing during our quiet reflection time. I love seeing your kids enjoying themselves (even, yes, sometimes in “inappropriate” ways in church) but when I have to lead a service, it’s much less endearing when it’s my own kids I want to have under control. So I was a bit distracted and cranky, trying to extend us all some compassion. I am surely thankful for the grace extended us by the other 10 people gathered!
In any case, I had a “fear melting into trust” moment during the Eucharistic prayer. Finally understanding that it was truly not possible for Adah to control herself at 8:00 on a school night, I scooped her up and had her on my hip. I’m used to holding her, of course, but with two arms! When the time in the prayer came for the elevation of the bread and wine, of course, I shifted her over—and I’m strong, but 40lbs is a lot of pounds on one arm. Holding her, though, and holding the bread on the other hand and saying those words “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you,” I had a knock-your-socks-off moment of realization—This. Is. True. And I trusted it—trusted God, and that moment, and my parenting, and my kid and the marvelous and strange journey it is to be a parent and a priest, sometimes at the same time. And, with Tom, I give thanks.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, October 17, 2014
From the Margin, Against Casinos
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, our Gospel brings up the question of "Church vs State"—Jesus is tested by the Pharisees and Herodians about whether or not to pay their taxes. Disarming the debate, he famously looks at the coin and declares that it's got Caesar's face on it, so they can give it back to Caesar. Those things that belong to God, they go to God.
I’m increasingly aware that we vote in just a few weeks, and there are some pretty important ballot initiatives on the table. The rubber of faith and our politics is about to hit the road.
It seems worth it here to mention a difference that I think is important to keep in mind when we think about politics and church. There's a difference between being partisan and political. We get into all kinds of hot water when we are partisan—supporting particular candidates or political parties—and not just because of our IRS status, which would be on the line in that case. Being political, however, is just part of what it is to be human. Politics is all about power—who has it and who doesn't. As Christians, our task is to look for those who have less power and stand with them. This is basic "What Would Jesus Do" stuff—prostitutes and tax collectors and widows and orphans. We're on their side. People of faith can disagree with integrity with each other on how to solve particular questions of power in society (immigration, social welfare, etc.), but advocating on the side of those on the margins just isn't up for debate. I’m reminded of the Stephen Colbert quote—"If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn't help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we've got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don't want to do it." Ouch.
In any case, there is certainly a moral dimension to all four questions, but I’m particularly concerned about the questions on earned sick time and casino gambling in Massachusetts. There is currently no job protection for those who need to miss work to care for themselves or a sick child, parent, or spouse. The ballot initiative also protects time spent attending to the effects of domestic violence on themselves or a dependent child—this is really important!
For people of faith, I think the gambling question is potentially trickier. Well, actually, it's not. But it seems like it is. When it comes to "social ill" issues, I’m usually on the harm reduction side of the equation; let’s not legislate people's bad behavior. Gambling is quite different, though—it isn't just about individual choice, it’s about how it creates a whole social climate and feeds a predatory industry. In the clear words of Doug Fisher, bishop of Western Massachusetts, "Jesus came to bring Good News to the poor. Casinos are BAD NEWS for the poor. We follow Jesus." In state after state, the promises made by gambling advocates that they create jobs are repeatedly shown to be wildly overestimated. Every quarter spent on a slot machine is one quarter not spent at a local business. It appears to be a "done deal" that Massachusetts will be the latest state to adopt casino gambling, but it's not. Every voter has the power to say that this is not in our best interest.
From a more traditionally moral standpoint, do I have a problem with gambling in itself? This is probably the moment to admit that after my family met some card playing kids at an Appalachian Mountain Club hut last week the first thing my son did when we got home was to get out his piggy bank to buy a set of poker chips like the ones he played with there. I’d make a bad Puritan. A multi-million dollar casino backed by organized crime folks, however, isn't a bunch of kids with plastic coins. Massachusetts could be the first state where the citizens repeal a deal that politicians have made in favor of gambling. Let's do it!
For the full text of the bishops' statements, see here.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, our Gospel brings up the question of "Church vs State"—Jesus is tested by the Pharisees and Herodians about whether or not to pay their taxes. Disarming the debate, he famously looks at the coin and declares that it's got Caesar's face on it, so they can give it back to Caesar. Those things that belong to God, they go to God.
I’m increasingly aware that we vote in just a few weeks, and there are some pretty important ballot initiatives on the table. The rubber of faith and our politics is about to hit the road.
It seems worth it here to mention a difference that I think is important to keep in mind when we think about politics and church. There's a difference between being partisan and political. We get into all kinds of hot water when we are partisan—supporting particular candidates or political parties—and not just because of our IRS status, which would be on the line in that case. Being political, however, is just part of what it is to be human. Politics is all about power—who has it and who doesn't. As Christians, our task is to look for those who have less power and stand with them. This is basic "What Would Jesus Do" stuff—prostitutes and tax collectors and widows and orphans. We're on their side. People of faith can disagree with integrity with each other on how to solve particular questions of power in society (immigration, social welfare, etc.), but advocating on the side of those on the margins just isn't up for debate. I’m reminded of the Stephen Colbert quote—"If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn't help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we've got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don't want to do it." Ouch.
In any case, there is certainly a moral dimension to all four questions, but I’m particularly concerned about the questions on earned sick time and casino gambling in Massachusetts. There is currently no job protection for those who need to miss work to care for themselves or a sick child, parent, or spouse. The ballot initiative also protects time spent attending to the effects of domestic violence on themselves or a dependent child—this is really important!
For people of faith, I think the gambling question is potentially trickier. Well, actually, it's not. But it seems like it is. When it comes to "social ill" issues, I’m usually on the harm reduction side of the equation; let’s not legislate people's bad behavior. Gambling is quite different, though—it isn't just about individual choice, it’s about how it creates a whole social climate and feeds a predatory industry. In the clear words of Doug Fisher, bishop of Western Massachusetts, "Jesus came to bring Good News to the poor. Casinos are BAD NEWS for the poor. We follow Jesus." In state after state, the promises made by gambling advocates that they create jobs are repeatedly shown to be wildly overestimated. Every quarter spent on a slot machine is one quarter not spent at a local business. It appears to be a "done deal" that Massachusetts will be the latest state to adopt casino gambling, but it's not. Every voter has the power to say that this is not in our best interest.
From a more traditionally moral standpoint, do I have a problem with gambling in itself? This is probably the moment to admit that after my family met some card playing kids at an Appalachian Mountain Club hut last week the first thing my son did when we got home was to get out his piggy bank to buy a set of poker chips like the ones he played with there. I’d make a bad Puritan. A multi-million dollar casino backed by organized crime folks, however, isn't a bunch of kids with plastic coins. Massachusetts could be the first state where the citizens repeal a deal that politicians have made in favor of gambling. Let's do it!
For the full text of the bishops' statements, see here.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Church for the World
Dear People of Christ Church,
Thanks to everyone who came out for our domestic violence month service on Monday! It was incredibly moving, and we’ll leave out our candles that were lit on Sunday. There were around 25 people there—a mix of Christ Churchers, folks connected to REACH, our partners in the event, and neighbors from around town who had never been to a service before. It’s always hard to measure the impact of things like that. I’d rather have just two people who walked away amazed and comforted than 100 people who were there but not that interested—and by that measure, it was great. For a follow up, we’re having a brown bag lunch at Christ Church next Wednesday at noon for those who want to talk more. Please see below for some other great events REACH is organizing this month!
It’s hard to measure our impact as church—I can’t remember who said it, but there’s something about how a church is the only organization that doesn't exist solely for the benefit of its members. We are called into community for the benefit of the world, and that’s quite different from calculating our worth in cost benefit analyses of dollars and our own personal positive feelings. What is at stake is the good news of God breaking into the world—and that’s much, much bigger.
The good news of God in Christ broke into the world when someone said to their pastor after the service on Monday “That woman was telling my story, too.” The good news of God in Christ breaks in when—I am not exaggerating—the heat is on on Sunday, even when the oil bill has been tremendously high, but you, dear souls, pay your pledges, so the water in the baptismal font doesn't freeze. The good news of God breaks in when someone says, “Wow, I never thought I could feel this comfortable in church. Thank you for being so welcoming.” Each one of you reading this has had a part in making that good news break into the world. When you put your last five dollars in the plate, when you came to church that one time even though you didn't feel like it—these commitments that bring us beyond ourselves are part of how God helps us show up for each other. It’s how God’s work gets done even in our little grudging lives—and how God sometimes even, ever so little, opens our hearts more and more to each other’s love.
The church has always existed to be a counter cultural organization—the powers and principalities have always said that might makes right and our importance comes from our power over others and not our faithfulness. In today’s culture, though, the culture against which the church has always tried to be “counter” is even—um—counterier. We can’t rely on a general assumption that people go to church, and therefore will set up the life of a community around that. In the name of pluralism, I’m fine with that—I don’t want to live in a world where a traditional Sunday Christian practice is upheld at the expense of other traditions. I do, though, want to be part of a church that calls us into being part of God’s mission, in offering us substantial ways to wrestle with God’s desires for our world and God’s whispering in our lives. How can Christ Church be that for you? Where does God want you to go? How can the rest of us support you in that?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thanks to everyone who came out for our domestic violence month service on Monday! It was incredibly moving, and we’ll leave out our candles that were lit on Sunday. There were around 25 people there—a mix of Christ Churchers, folks connected to REACH, our partners in the event, and neighbors from around town who had never been to a service before. It’s always hard to measure the impact of things like that. I’d rather have just two people who walked away amazed and comforted than 100 people who were there but not that interested—and by that measure, it was great. For a follow up, we’re having a brown bag lunch at Christ Church next Wednesday at noon for those who want to talk more. Please see below for some other great events REACH is organizing this month!
It’s hard to measure our impact as church—I can’t remember who said it, but there’s something about how a church is the only organization that doesn't exist solely for the benefit of its members. We are called into community for the benefit of the world, and that’s quite different from calculating our worth in cost benefit analyses of dollars and our own personal positive feelings. What is at stake is the good news of God breaking into the world—and that’s much, much bigger.
The good news of God in Christ broke into the world when someone said to their pastor after the service on Monday “That woman was telling my story, too.” The good news of God in Christ breaks in when—I am not exaggerating—the heat is on on Sunday, even when the oil bill has been tremendously high, but you, dear souls, pay your pledges, so the water in the baptismal font doesn't freeze. The good news of God breaks in when someone says, “Wow, I never thought I could feel this comfortable in church. Thank you for being so welcoming.” Each one of you reading this has had a part in making that good news break into the world. When you put your last five dollars in the plate, when you came to church that one time even though you didn't feel like it—these commitments that bring us beyond ourselves are part of how God helps us show up for each other. It’s how God’s work gets done even in our little grudging lives—and how God sometimes even, ever so little, opens our hearts more and more to each other’s love.
The church has always existed to be a counter cultural organization—the powers and principalities have always said that might makes right and our importance comes from our power over others and not our faithfulness. In today’s culture, though, the culture against which the church has always tried to be “counter” is even—um—counterier. We can’t rely on a general assumption that people go to church, and therefore will set up the life of a community around that. In the name of pluralism, I’m fine with that—I don’t want to live in a world where a traditional Sunday Christian practice is upheld at the expense of other traditions. I do, though, want to be part of a church that calls us into being part of God’s mission, in offering us substantial ways to wrestle with God’s desires for our world and God’s whispering in our lives. How can Christ Church be that for you? Where does God want you to go? How can the rest of us support you in that?
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, October 3, 2014
One of these things is not like the other one
Dear People of Christ Church,
In his letter to the Church in Rome, Paul tells the people, “weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice.” This week, in preparing for two very different liturgical events, I’m mindful of how broad our task is in being the church. On the one hand, we have a children’s sermon on Sunday and blessing of the animals. In church. All your dogs and birds and snakes and lizards are welcome to come to our 10am service. We did it for the first time last year as part of the liturgy, and it was great. For those pets who might not be ready for church, photographs and stuffed animals are welcome to join in their place. Our celebration this Sunday is in observance of the feast day of St Francis, October 4. He renounced a life of wealth and power in favor of a joyful simplicity, going into the wilds outside Assisi, so full of the Gospel that he preached to the birds. It will be quite a party!
At the same time, I’m preparing for our service the next day, for domestic violence awareness month. We have several speakers coming from REACH (www.reachma.org) to share personal and practical perspectives, and our own Anna Jones will be preaching. The service will be broadly ecumenical—your Roman Catholic as well as your non-faith practicing friends will be comfortable—so please come and invite everyone. Domestic violence has been much in the news lately with the NFL players’ conduct and the recent one year anniversary of the murder of Waltham resident Jennifer Martel, but those high profile cases only highlight the reality that many struggle with every day, no matter what’s going on in the media. 1 in 4 women have experienced domestic violence. 1 in 3 women who are murdered in the US are killed by their partner. Our culture is not doing well.
It’s strange to do something so serious so close to something that’s so, frankly, frivolous, with an arguably tenuous connection to the actual ministry of a decidedly un-frivolous saint. And maybe that’s an appropriate reticence, to acknowledge that one of these things is not like the other one. At the same time, I’m watching allegations and recriminations swirl at my seminary, General Theological Seminary, the Episcopal seminary in New York. General is the seminary that tries to be the most traditional and the most historic, while cautiously being open to the world and the inclusion of women and GLBT persons (which the other “traditional” Episcopal seminaries have not). Eight faculty members announced a strike, suspending teaching and saying they couldn't work with the dean and president. The board, in response, “accepted their resignations”—though they didn't exactly intend to resign—and so the accusations continue. No classes are in session, but lawyers on all sides are getting down to work.
General Seminary was not a particularly good fit for my desires for theological education; I didn't “enjoy” my time there, though I am grateful to have had three years to live in New York City. I have some fond feelings, as I was married in the chapel (the current dean was in my class, as it happens, and organized the potluck for the reception), so am not unaffected by the conflict. I don’t think it’s a simple labor issue of betraying striking workers, but I also think the dean has some reconciling to do. Collaboration wasn’t exactly part of our curriculum. Still, a la Romans, it’s possible to hold two different notions in our hearts and minds simultaneously. I can say that General was not a good fit for me, but I still hope for its future. I can say that Kurt, my friend and the dean, made some bad decisions, but ultimately was trying to adapt to a changing world—and General Seminary, in my option, has a lot of adapting to do so I’m cautiously on board with that. Maybe ironically, he did too much work trying to adapt the seminary to a changing world and not enough work adapting himself (a full media rundown can be had at www.episcopalcafe.com).
In the meantime, as always, we pray for a lot of things. We pray for those experiencing and healing from domestic violence. We pray to have the grace and power to support them, pray that we can be part of creating a world where violence is never overlooked. We pray in thanksgiving for God’s creation and for all the furry and scaly friends that call us home. And I pray for General, too, especially for the students who need to get back to work.
Blessings,
Sara+
In his letter to the Church in Rome, Paul tells the people, “weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice.” This week, in preparing for two very different liturgical events, I’m mindful of how broad our task is in being the church. On the one hand, we have a children’s sermon on Sunday and blessing of the animals. In church. All your dogs and birds and snakes and lizards are welcome to come to our 10am service. We did it for the first time last year as part of the liturgy, and it was great. For those pets who might not be ready for church, photographs and stuffed animals are welcome to join in their place. Our celebration this Sunday is in observance of the feast day of St Francis, October 4. He renounced a life of wealth and power in favor of a joyful simplicity, going into the wilds outside Assisi, so full of the Gospel that he preached to the birds. It will be quite a party!
At the same time, I’m preparing for our service the next day, for domestic violence awareness month. We have several speakers coming from REACH (www.reachma.org) to share personal and practical perspectives, and our own Anna Jones will be preaching. The service will be broadly ecumenical—your Roman Catholic as well as your non-faith practicing friends will be comfortable—so please come and invite everyone. Domestic violence has been much in the news lately with the NFL players’ conduct and the recent one year anniversary of the murder of Waltham resident Jennifer Martel, but those high profile cases only highlight the reality that many struggle with every day, no matter what’s going on in the media. 1 in 4 women have experienced domestic violence. 1 in 3 women who are murdered in the US are killed by their partner. Our culture is not doing well.
It’s strange to do something so serious so close to something that’s so, frankly, frivolous, with an arguably tenuous connection to the actual ministry of a decidedly un-frivolous saint. And maybe that’s an appropriate reticence, to acknowledge that one of these things is not like the other one. At the same time, I’m watching allegations and recriminations swirl at my seminary, General Theological Seminary, the Episcopal seminary in New York. General is the seminary that tries to be the most traditional and the most historic, while cautiously being open to the world and the inclusion of women and GLBT persons (which the other “traditional” Episcopal seminaries have not). Eight faculty members announced a strike, suspending teaching and saying they couldn't work with the dean and president. The board, in response, “accepted their resignations”—though they didn't exactly intend to resign—and so the accusations continue. No classes are in session, but lawyers on all sides are getting down to work.
General Seminary was not a particularly good fit for my desires for theological education; I didn't “enjoy” my time there, though I am grateful to have had three years to live in New York City. I have some fond feelings, as I was married in the chapel (the current dean was in my class, as it happens, and organized the potluck for the reception), so am not unaffected by the conflict. I don’t think it’s a simple labor issue of betraying striking workers, but I also think the dean has some reconciling to do. Collaboration wasn’t exactly part of our curriculum. Still, a la Romans, it’s possible to hold two different notions in our hearts and minds simultaneously. I can say that General was not a good fit for me, but I still hope for its future. I can say that Kurt, my friend and the dean, made some bad decisions, but ultimately was trying to adapt to a changing world—and General Seminary, in my option, has a lot of adapting to do so I’m cautiously on board with that. Maybe ironically, he did too much work trying to adapt the seminary to a changing world and not enough work adapting himself (a full media rundown can be had at www.episcopalcafe.com).
In the meantime, as always, we pray for a lot of things. We pray for those experiencing and healing from domestic violence. We pray to have the grace and power to support them, pray that we can be part of creating a world where violence is never overlooked. We pray in thanksgiving for God’s creation and for all the furry and scaly friends that call us home. And I pray for General, too, especially for the students who need to get back to work.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, September 19, 2014
Fall 2014 Education
Dear People of Christ Church,
Today I’m super excited about plans for fall Tuesdays for all ages—as we did last in Lent, Erin Jensen is graciously leading a program for kids concurrent with the adult program. We’re adopting the same format as worked well last Lent, with groups meeting at 6pm for everyone to eat dinner together, and then kids and adult separating from 6:40-7:30. Then we rejoin for Eucharist at 7:30 for those who want to stay, and welcome group 2, a second adult module that begins at 8pm after the service. The 8pm group will again be facilitated by Anna and Victoria, and my partner for the earlier group will be Heather Leonardo.
But what is the program? God, dirt, and love: Five Conversations about Things that Matter. Each week we’ll have a different topic and begin with readings from Scripture or other writings to begin with, and then explore what their meaning is in our own lives. The schedule, so far, is:
9/30: Spirituality + Church
10/7: Creation + Place (all ages together for the early group)
10/14: Family + Relationships
10/21: Peace + Justice
10/28: Money + Stewardship
The kids will be doing a similar program, but with some activities around the topics in addition to the Bible study. Erin Jensen will lead the program for school aged kids, and we’re hoping to offer some more nursery-like care for the younger ones.
One of the things vestry has been working on is discerning around different opportunities for us to be in deeper community with each other—to go beyond coffee hour (great as coffee hour can be, of course). I got the idea building on last fall’s group, which read the book Free: Spending your Time and Money on What Matters Most—and was thinking about, exactly, we do build our lives around what’s most important.
How can church be a place of nourishment and grounding, rather than just another thing to compete with already-full lives of kids’ sports and work meetings? What are the places you love, the dirt that calls you and makes you want to care for creation because you love it, not just because you ought to? What makes our families and partnerships tick? What does Scripture say about the relation between God’s love and human love? How can we honestly engage in financial decision making, to share our resources in important ways but also enjoy the fruits of our labor?
I know what my questions are—what are yours? Each group will have leaders, of course, but the content and direction of the conversation will be different for each group. See you then!
Blessings,
Sara+
Today I’m super excited about plans for fall Tuesdays for all ages—as we did last in Lent, Erin Jensen is graciously leading a program for kids concurrent with the adult program. We’re adopting the same format as worked well last Lent, with groups meeting at 6pm for everyone to eat dinner together, and then kids and adult separating from 6:40-7:30. Then we rejoin for Eucharist at 7:30 for those who want to stay, and welcome group 2, a second adult module that begins at 8pm after the service. The 8pm group will again be facilitated by Anna and Victoria, and my partner for the earlier group will be Heather Leonardo.
But what is the program? God, dirt, and love: Five Conversations about Things that Matter. Each week we’ll have a different topic and begin with readings from Scripture or other writings to begin with, and then explore what their meaning is in our own lives. The schedule, so far, is:
9/30: Spirituality + Church
10/7: Creation + Place (all ages together for the early group)
10/14: Family + Relationships
10/21: Peace + Justice
10/28: Money + Stewardship
The kids will be doing a similar program, but with some activities around the topics in addition to the Bible study. Erin Jensen will lead the program for school aged kids, and we’re hoping to offer some more nursery-like care for the younger ones.
One of the things vestry has been working on is discerning around different opportunities for us to be in deeper community with each other—to go beyond coffee hour (great as coffee hour can be, of course). I got the idea building on last fall’s group, which read the book Free: Spending your Time and Money on What Matters Most—and was thinking about, exactly, we do build our lives around what’s most important.
How can church be a place of nourishment and grounding, rather than just another thing to compete with already-full lives of kids’ sports and work meetings? What are the places you love, the dirt that calls you and makes you want to care for creation because you love it, not just because you ought to? What makes our families and partnerships tick? What does Scripture say about the relation between God’s love and human love? How can we honestly engage in financial decision making, to share our resources in important ways but also enjoy the fruits of our labor?
I know what my questions are—what are yours? Each group will have leaders, of course, but the content and direction of the conversation will be different for each group. See you then!
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, September 12, 2014
Forgiving Again
Dear People of Christ Church,
Peter came and said to Jesus, "Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" Jesus said to him, "Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.
77 times.
Peter, here, in the Gospel we’ll read this Sunday, thinks he is going after the gold star. He knows Jesus is a big fan of forgiveness—so, he thinks, I’ll just suggest some wild number of times to forgive, and he’ll be impressed with me. As usual, Jesus blows him out of the water—not 7, but 77.
How many times do I have to forgive. How many times do I have to feel the tightening in my throat, the stinging in my eyes, the sense of exposure. How many times, again and again. 13 years later, now, and probably 23, 10 years from now.
Today, the thirteenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, how many times do I have to tell the story. My first day of seminary. Living 2 ½ miles from the World Trade Center, the chapel bells ringing and ringing. How many times remember the blue of the sky, how many times grieve war without end, today as President Obama commits the US more deeply into strikes against militants in Syria and Iraq. How many times forgive. Not just terrorists, not just politicians starting wars, not just myself, for feeling like I’m not doing enough to work for peace. How many times. How many Saturdays will Sue and Jose and Norm and friends stand on Waltham Common keeping vigil for peace, as wars turn into other wars.
Yes. I am tired of remembering and tired of forgiving.
Forgetting, of course, is not an option. Last year in this space I complained about the “Never Forget” slogans about 9/11/01—nobody’s forgetting that it happened. Maybe, though, we are forgetting about the long work of mourning and forgiving, and the way that forgiveness means living differently. Maybe we’re forgetting about that initial drive not to be defined by the attacks themselves. My seminary classmates and I were all gallows humor in 2001—you HAVE to have another piece of pie, because otherwise “the terrorists win”—you have to go to the movies, buy some beer, finish your ten page paper— or “the terrorists win.” There were many examples. President Bush at the time said we should go shopping—unfortunately he wasn’t kidding.
“The terrorists” is not a moral category. Violence, however, is. The “powers of evil that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” (as the Baptismal Covenant puts it) is a moral category, too. And violence does win when we respond to violence with violence. That’s the whole point of the cross—it becomes the way of life because Jesus lived, and died, in peace and love. Only the full, self-emptying love of God can overcome death. Difficult to translate into foreign policy, for sure, but what’s the alternative? More death? Today President Obama said Americans never give into fear. But it is not fearless to march into another war.
The call to peace is complicated. It’s messy. The way is not always clear. In our own lives and in the world, we have to tell the story again and again. We forgive again and again. We get angry again and again. But in the labyrinthine ways of the will of God, our spirits do come closer. We can live into the power of Christ that transforms the world through love. As Martin Luther King Jr said, “hate is too great a burden to bear.”
Blessings,
Sara+
Peter came and said to Jesus, "Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" Jesus said to him, "Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.
77 times.
Peter, here, in the Gospel we’ll read this Sunday, thinks he is going after the gold star. He knows Jesus is a big fan of forgiveness—so, he thinks, I’ll just suggest some wild number of times to forgive, and he’ll be impressed with me. As usual, Jesus blows him out of the water—not 7, but 77.
How many times do I have to forgive. How many times do I have to feel the tightening in my throat, the stinging in my eyes, the sense of exposure. How many times, again and again. 13 years later, now, and probably 23, 10 years from now.
Today, the thirteenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, how many times do I have to tell the story. My first day of seminary. Living 2 ½ miles from the World Trade Center, the chapel bells ringing and ringing. How many times remember the blue of the sky, how many times grieve war without end, today as President Obama commits the US more deeply into strikes against militants in Syria and Iraq. How many times forgive. Not just terrorists, not just politicians starting wars, not just myself, for feeling like I’m not doing enough to work for peace. How many times. How many Saturdays will Sue and Jose and Norm and friends stand on Waltham Common keeping vigil for peace, as wars turn into other wars.
Yes. I am tired of remembering and tired of forgiving.
Forgetting, of course, is not an option. Last year in this space I complained about the “Never Forget” slogans about 9/11/01—nobody’s forgetting that it happened. Maybe, though, we are forgetting about the long work of mourning and forgiving, and the way that forgiveness means living differently. Maybe we’re forgetting about that initial drive not to be defined by the attacks themselves. My seminary classmates and I were all gallows humor in 2001—you HAVE to have another piece of pie, because otherwise “the terrorists win”—you have to go to the movies, buy some beer, finish your ten page paper— or “the terrorists win.” There were many examples. President Bush at the time said we should go shopping—unfortunately he wasn’t kidding.
“The terrorists” is not a moral category. Violence, however, is. The “powers of evil that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” (as the Baptismal Covenant puts it) is a moral category, too. And violence does win when we respond to violence with violence. That’s the whole point of the cross—it becomes the way of life because Jesus lived, and died, in peace and love. Only the full, self-emptying love of God can overcome death. Difficult to translate into foreign policy, for sure, but what’s the alternative? More death? Today President Obama said Americans never give into fear. But it is not fearless to march into another war.
The call to peace is complicated. It’s messy. The way is not always clear. In our own lives and in the world, we have to tell the story again and again. We forgive again and again. We get angry again and again. But in the labyrinthine ways of the will of God, our spirits do come closer. We can live into the power of Christ that transforms the world through love. As Martin Luther King Jr said, “hate is too great a burden to bear.”
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, September 5, 2014
Chasing Newness
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, we’re back to our regular schedule at 8:30 and 10. It’s been nice to have a more relaxed pace on Sunday mornings with just one service, but I miss our 8:30—it’s quiet and contemplative and I pray so well with that shape of liturgy! We’ll bless backpacks and laptops and lunch boxes and whatever else you bring—prayers for new beginnings and new endeavors.
A lot is new, but a lot is the same. Still, there is a spiritual quality to newness. Paul writes to the Church in Corinth that whoever is in Christ is a new creation. In the book of Revelation, the fantastical vision is of a new heaven and a new earth. In Ezekiel, God promises a new heart and a new spirit. Why do we need all this newness? Aren’t things fine the way they are?
Yes, yes, and no.
Putting my son on the school bus to 2nd grade this week, I was vividly aware of how much everything changes, and fast. Next fall his sister will be on that bus with him—to kindergarten—how I became the parent of school aged children already is anyone’s guess. I have a front row seat to everything new in their lives, but there’s plenty new in my life, too, and yours, I’ll bet—new presences as well as new absences. Not all the new is shiny and compelling; sometimes it’s raw and tender. When someone we love dies, we change, too. There’s newness of tragedy, too, when we thought the world was safe and it turned out not to be. The stray bullet out of nowhere and the tumor that doesn’t shrink both bring their share of newness, a kind we’d never wish on anyone, nevermind seek for ourselves.
I wonder, too, about the newness in ourselves that we don’t notice. Our brains are primed to crave novelty—we want new stuff to buy, new stuff to look at—the pleasure-centers in our brains light up and crave that kind of transient newness again and again. We can be insatiable. But it takes more sustained attention to seek the spiritual newness that, I think, is more like what the apostle Paul and the prophet Ezekiel are talking about. What’s the newness that comes when you let go of a fear? What’s the newness that comes when you make a commitment, the newness that comes out of faithfulness over time or learning something about yourself you’d never seen? What fears have you released over the years? What anxiety over status or appearance or the judgment of others have you let go?
What is the new, really new, that you’re looking for? Something more solid than novelty, but a good and life-giving change? Let me know what you’re thinking about, and let’s talk about how we can support each other in those ventures. I’m still planning for October Tuesday education, so give me your ideas.
But still bring your STUFF that brings newness on Sunday… your new diaper bag or lunch box (daughter Adah has one with a transformer on the front with flashing lights for eyes). The gear might not change your life, but it’s still fun.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, we’re back to our regular schedule at 8:30 and 10. It’s been nice to have a more relaxed pace on Sunday mornings with just one service, but I miss our 8:30—it’s quiet and contemplative and I pray so well with that shape of liturgy! We’ll bless backpacks and laptops and lunch boxes and whatever else you bring—prayers for new beginnings and new endeavors.
A lot is new, but a lot is the same. Still, there is a spiritual quality to newness. Paul writes to the Church in Corinth that whoever is in Christ is a new creation. In the book of Revelation, the fantastical vision is of a new heaven and a new earth. In Ezekiel, God promises a new heart and a new spirit. Why do we need all this newness? Aren’t things fine the way they are?
Yes, yes, and no.
Putting my son on the school bus to 2nd grade this week, I was vividly aware of how much everything changes, and fast. Next fall his sister will be on that bus with him—to kindergarten—how I became the parent of school aged children already is anyone’s guess. I have a front row seat to everything new in their lives, but there’s plenty new in my life, too, and yours, I’ll bet—new presences as well as new absences. Not all the new is shiny and compelling; sometimes it’s raw and tender. When someone we love dies, we change, too. There’s newness of tragedy, too, when we thought the world was safe and it turned out not to be. The stray bullet out of nowhere and the tumor that doesn’t shrink both bring their share of newness, a kind we’d never wish on anyone, nevermind seek for ourselves.
I wonder, too, about the newness in ourselves that we don’t notice. Our brains are primed to crave novelty—we want new stuff to buy, new stuff to look at—the pleasure-centers in our brains light up and crave that kind of transient newness again and again. We can be insatiable. But it takes more sustained attention to seek the spiritual newness that, I think, is more like what the apostle Paul and the prophet Ezekiel are talking about. What’s the newness that comes when you let go of a fear? What’s the newness that comes when you make a commitment, the newness that comes out of faithfulness over time or learning something about yourself you’d never seen? What fears have you released over the years? What anxiety over status or appearance or the judgment of others have you let go?
What is the new, really new, that you’re looking for? Something more solid than novelty, but a good and life-giving change? Let me know what you’re thinking about, and let’s talk about how we can support each other in those ventures. I’m still planning for October Tuesday education, so give me your ideas.
But still bring your STUFF that brings newness on Sunday… your new diaper bag or lunch box (daughter Adah has one with a transformer on the front with flashing lights for eyes). The gear might not change your life, but it’s still fun.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Racism, healing, and providence in the real world
Dear People of Christ Church,
On Sunday in my sermon, I was wrestling with the idea of God’s providence—God has a redemptive plan and will give us what we need—and the idea of our freedom, a crucial aspect of the gift of human life. The idea of God’s will sometimes can seem like it conflicts with our will. This came up in the context of the story of Joseph, forgiving his brothers for selling him into slavery, as he ascends to the heights of power and ultimately saves their lives when famine strikes. How does God allow terrible things to happen to people? If God was planning for him to be powerful and wealthy, couldn’t God have just as easily have prevented him from getting thrown into that pit in the first place? Does the positive outcome outweigh the suffering?
So, too, with our Gospel on Sunday—Jesus behaves terribly toward a Canaanite woman looking for healing for her daughter—he calls her a dog. In response, she bests him—even the dogs get the crumbs, she snaps. BAM. Even Jesus needs to be converted sometimes. Was he testing her? Treating her cruelly to see how she’d behave? I don’t think so. Jesus’ encounter with her shows us that even the Son of God can be transformed, that transformation is essential, like freedom, to what it is to be human.
Jesus was transformed—he was pushed out of his previously narrow assumption of what he was called to do. Joseph was transformed—he forgave his brothers for their violence, and saw God’s hand in the world around him. God was working there, but I reject entirely the notion that God intended the events that lead up to them. Our world is a place where God dances—but it’s not always God’s choreography from the beginning.
I can point to all kinds of places I need to be transformed, and this week, I’m particularly aware of where our country needs that grace, too. A study was released on Tuesday that said that 37% of white Americans believe that the shooting and protest in Ferguson, MO raises important conversations abut race. 80% of African Americans think so. So, just for the record, let me say: The events of the last ten days raise important issues about race. Our country is an amazing experiment of seeking equality, democracy, and fairness (see my July post about patriotic humility). There is a lot that we get right. But the evidence at how we think about difference, and how people of different races are treated in the courts and in law enforcement, makes it clear to me that we’re not all there.
God’s providence means that there will be reconciliation, there will be salvation. But, like Jesus and the Cannanite woman, like Joseph and his brothers, we have to take some risks around vulnerability and truth-telling. What could we do at Christ Church to more faithfully embody God’s healing for this world? Where does God’s providence lead us in fighting racism and confronting prejudice?
I’ll close with a prayer I found from the Episcopal Diocese of Alaska, and their anti-racism work:
God, Creator of all things, we come broken with a heart that has been torn like Jesus on the cross, the cross that draws together your children of many colors.
You know our suffering.
We ask in Jesus' name that you heal your people.
Where there has been unearned advantage because of the color of our skin,
give us courage to repent and to fight the injustice and sin of racism.
Holy God, who created all colors of people, allow us to honor your light in every soul.
Help us to see you in one another, to hear your voice in all people, and to work to end racism in our church, our communities, and the world. Amen.
Blessings, Sara+
On Sunday in my sermon, I was wrestling with the idea of God’s providence—God has a redemptive plan and will give us what we need—and the idea of our freedom, a crucial aspect of the gift of human life. The idea of God’s will sometimes can seem like it conflicts with our will. This came up in the context of the story of Joseph, forgiving his brothers for selling him into slavery, as he ascends to the heights of power and ultimately saves their lives when famine strikes. How does God allow terrible things to happen to people? If God was planning for him to be powerful and wealthy, couldn’t God have just as easily have prevented him from getting thrown into that pit in the first place? Does the positive outcome outweigh the suffering?
So, too, with our Gospel on Sunday—Jesus behaves terribly toward a Canaanite woman looking for healing for her daughter—he calls her a dog. In response, she bests him—even the dogs get the crumbs, she snaps. BAM. Even Jesus needs to be converted sometimes. Was he testing her? Treating her cruelly to see how she’d behave? I don’t think so. Jesus’ encounter with her shows us that even the Son of God can be transformed, that transformation is essential, like freedom, to what it is to be human.
Jesus was transformed—he was pushed out of his previously narrow assumption of what he was called to do. Joseph was transformed—he forgave his brothers for their violence, and saw God’s hand in the world around him. God was working there, but I reject entirely the notion that God intended the events that lead up to them. Our world is a place where God dances—but it’s not always God’s choreography from the beginning.
I can point to all kinds of places I need to be transformed, and this week, I’m particularly aware of where our country needs that grace, too. A study was released on Tuesday that said that 37% of white Americans believe that the shooting and protest in Ferguson, MO raises important conversations abut race. 80% of African Americans think so. So, just for the record, let me say: The events of the last ten days raise important issues about race. Our country is an amazing experiment of seeking equality, democracy, and fairness (see my July post about patriotic humility). There is a lot that we get right. But the evidence at how we think about difference, and how people of different races are treated in the courts and in law enforcement, makes it clear to me that we’re not all there.
God’s providence means that there will be reconciliation, there will be salvation. But, like Jesus and the Cannanite woman, like Joseph and his brothers, we have to take some risks around vulnerability and truth-telling. What could we do at Christ Church to more faithfully embody God’s healing for this world? Where does God’s providence lead us in fighting racism and confronting prejudice?
I’ll close with a prayer I found from the Episcopal Diocese of Alaska, and their anti-racism work:
God, Creator of all things, we come broken with a heart that has been torn like Jesus on the cross, the cross that draws together your children of many colors.
You know our suffering.
We ask in Jesus' name that you heal your people.
Where there has been unearned advantage because of the color of our skin,
give us courage to repent and to fight the injustice and sin of racism.
Holy God, who created all colors of people, allow us to honor your light in every soul.
Help us to see you in one another, to hear your voice in all people, and to work to end racism in our church, our communities, and the world. Amen.
Blessings, Sara+
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Church in the world: Anchored but open
Dear People of Christ Church,
Back from vacation, I'm glad to be settling back in with you, but so aware of how much changes. I was almost to Wyoming, where Jim Hewitt grew up, when I got the news that he died. I was so, so sorry to hear it. Jim was the junior warden (working with Marcia Luce as senior warden) when I began at Christ Church 9 years ago, and his unfailing sense of generosity, respect, and overall kindness covered my many errors in leadership as a relatively new priest. I remember one particularly tough call (the circumstances of which now escape me, so I assume it turned out fine) when, as senior warden, Jim looked at me with a kind of devilish glint in his eye and cheerfully declared, "Well, you're the CEO!" Which of course I wasn't, but his confidence in me made me much more brave than I felt at the time.
That's the magic of church; we are here, not because we are the same, but because we are one. Most of American culture is constructed on the assumption that you want to be with people who are like you; you watch either Rachel Maddow or Glenn Beck, and never the twain shall meet. In church, we have the latitude to be a bit more creative. Jim taught me that in a profound way.
Church is changing, the world is changing. St Paul would have been incredulous at the notion that churches would own large buildings and pay their clergy to preach, teach, fundraise, and run them like non-profit organizations. In the late nineteenth century, Frederic Fales would have been shocked that in addition to English, we also had services in Luganda (St Peter's Ugandan) and Spanish (Missionary Church of Christ) all held under the same roof, with French thrown in once in a while with Mission Maranatha's occasional rentals. Fifty years later, Francis Webster would have thought we were crazy to let a secular organization use our east lawn for an environmental education program-you didn't have to create meadows at the turn of the century. Fifty years after that, George Ekwall, rector from 1930-1960, would think that a man on the altar guild was an April fool's joke (nevermind women instead leading the service!).
But church is a living, breathing, recreating thing. It's a thing that's dying and a thing that's being raised. Churches aren't intended to be fortresses against the scary world outside. Instead, we're called to be as porous as we can-not to say "yes" to every whim, but to look at a broader sense of our mission and our gifts, to look around ourselves and be rooted enough to be open. It's Episcopal Churches in St Louis holding prayer vigils for Michael Brown and for peace in the city. It's Good Shepherd, Watertown, hosting a kids' craft table at the farmer's market. At the same time as we are anchored in the eternity of God, we are also called to look around us at the world as it is now. I'm grieving Jim but I also know that he's still part of the same holy Church as I am. He's returned to God's eternity; I just catch it like a hummingbird flitting just out of the corner of my eye. But I know it's still there.
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8: 38-39).
Amen, Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
Back from vacation, I'm glad to be settling back in with you, but so aware of how much changes. I was almost to Wyoming, where Jim Hewitt grew up, when I got the news that he died. I was so, so sorry to hear it. Jim was the junior warden (working with Marcia Luce as senior warden) when I began at Christ Church 9 years ago, and his unfailing sense of generosity, respect, and overall kindness covered my many errors in leadership as a relatively new priest. I remember one particularly tough call (the circumstances of which now escape me, so I assume it turned out fine) when, as senior warden, Jim looked at me with a kind of devilish glint in his eye and cheerfully declared, "Well, you're the CEO!" Which of course I wasn't, but his confidence in me made me much more brave than I felt at the time.
That's the magic of church; we are here, not because we are the same, but because we are one. Most of American culture is constructed on the assumption that you want to be with people who are like you; you watch either Rachel Maddow or Glenn Beck, and never the twain shall meet. In church, we have the latitude to be a bit more creative. Jim taught me that in a profound way.
Church is changing, the world is changing. St Paul would have been incredulous at the notion that churches would own large buildings and pay their clergy to preach, teach, fundraise, and run them like non-profit organizations. In the late nineteenth century, Frederic Fales would have been shocked that in addition to English, we also had services in Luganda (St Peter's Ugandan) and Spanish (Missionary Church of Christ) all held under the same roof, with French thrown in once in a while with Mission Maranatha's occasional rentals. Fifty years later, Francis Webster would have thought we were crazy to let a secular organization use our east lawn for an environmental education program-you didn't have to create meadows at the turn of the century. Fifty years after that, George Ekwall, rector from 1930-1960, would think that a man on the altar guild was an April fool's joke (nevermind women instead leading the service!).
But church is a living, breathing, recreating thing. It's a thing that's dying and a thing that's being raised. Churches aren't intended to be fortresses against the scary world outside. Instead, we're called to be as porous as we can-not to say "yes" to every whim, but to look at a broader sense of our mission and our gifts, to look around ourselves and be rooted enough to be open. It's Episcopal Churches in St Louis holding prayer vigils for Michael Brown and for peace in the city. It's Good Shepherd, Watertown, hosting a kids' craft table at the farmer's market. At the same time as we are anchored in the eternity of God, we are also called to look around us at the world as it is now. I'm grieving Jim but I also know that he's still part of the same holy Church as I am. He's returned to God's eternity; I just catch it like a hummingbird flitting just out of the corner of my eye. But I know it's still there.
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8: 38-39).
Amen, Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Prayers for Listening
Dear people of Christ Church,
This week, I'm praying for the Middle East, for listening there and listening everywhere. Wednesday's Daily Office reading had the story of Jesus weeping for Jerusalem, which felt particularly poignant given the heightening of conflict that's erupted in the last week. Scripture tells the story of the people of Israel-those descended from Jacob, whom we're reading about in our Old Testament lessons this summer. Jacob wrestling with the angel is a far distance from rockets fired into Gaza.
As Christians, we are given a place to stand that offers us some resources. I heard a story once about someone asking Ghandi about what he thought about Christianity and he said something to the effect of "I think it's great. Christians should try it out!" The not-so-subtle critique there being that his own enacted philosophy and practice of nonviolence were more consistent with the teaching of Jesus than those who follow him. Ouch. Non violent change is slow, impractical, and expensive. But practically, it is the only thing that can actually work. Trouble is, so often in politics and global conflict it seems that violence is the only way. This is a deadly thing to be so confident about.
I heard an interview last week on my way to church on the show, On Being, about the religious founding of our country. Yes, absolutely, it was founded on Judeo Christian values-I can share that perspective with the Hobby Lobby. The difference, though, and the founding attitude I think we need more of now (notably apart from the desire to impose our beliefs on others) is humility. Steven Waldman said that the major difference between religion in public life now is that we no longer have a sense of humility about our nation. We can get this wrong. We do get this wrong. Often! In America the Beautiful, we sing our prayer for God to "mend [America's] every flaw" because there are flaws. How are we, as a country, treating the most vulnerable? How are we coming to the aid of those in need, in our own borders and out of them, and in the boundary in between? Not very well, right now.
Along for peace in Israel and Palestine, pray, pray, pray for a sense of humility to enter our conversations. In my sermon on Sunday I was thinking about how our failure to be in relationship with those whom we differ is the source of so much conflict-if you're not in relationship, you can't listen. The Hobby Lobby isn't listening to scientific research about birth control, and the Supreme Court isn't listening to women. A border patrol agent almost by definition can't listen to the child who's just turned himself in. Listen, listen, listen.
And pray:
O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
...Prayer for the Human Family, BCP 815
Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
PS: For some good witnessing to the power of presence, see how St John's Episcopal Church in McAllen, Texas, is aiding asylum seekers in partnership with Episcopal Relief and Development. Also for a nice rendering of Earth and All Stars, which we sing this Sunday in the praise of the Lord for boiling test tubes and knowledge and truth, see here.
This week, I'm praying for the Middle East, for listening there and listening everywhere. Wednesday's Daily Office reading had the story of Jesus weeping for Jerusalem, which felt particularly poignant given the heightening of conflict that's erupted in the last week. Scripture tells the story of the people of Israel-those descended from Jacob, whom we're reading about in our Old Testament lessons this summer. Jacob wrestling with the angel is a far distance from rockets fired into Gaza.
As Christians, we are given a place to stand that offers us some resources. I heard a story once about someone asking Ghandi about what he thought about Christianity and he said something to the effect of "I think it's great. Christians should try it out!" The not-so-subtle critique there being that his own enacted philosophy and practice of nonviolence were more consistent with the teaching of Jesus than those who follow him. Ouch. Non violent change is slow, impractical, and expensive. But practically, it is the only thing that can actually work. Trouble is, so often in politics and global conflict it seems that violence is the only way. This is a deadly thing to be so confident about.
I heard an interview last week on my way to church on the show, On Being, about the religious founding of our country. Yes, absolutely, it was founded on Judeo Christian values-I can share that perspective with the Hobby Lobby. The difference, though, and the founding attitude I think we need more of now (notably apart from the desire to impose our beliefs on others) is humility. Steven Waldman said that the major difference between religion in public life now is that we no longer have a sense of humility about our nation. We can get this wrong. We do get this wrong. Often! In America the Beautiful, we sing our prayer for God to "mend [America's] every flaw" because there are flaws. How are we, as a country, treating the most vulnerable? How are we coming to the aid of those in need, in our own borders and out of them, and in the boundary in between? Not very well, right now.
Along for peace in Israel and Palestine, pray, pray, pray for a sense of humility to enter our conversations. In my sermon on Sunday I was thinking about how our failure to be in relationship with those whom we differ is the source of so much conflict-if you're not in relationship, you can't listen. The Hobby Lobby isn't listening to scientific research about birth control, and the Supreme Court isn't listening to women. A border patrol agent almost by definition can't listen to the child who's just turned himself in. Listen, listen, listen.
And pray:
O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
...Prayer for the Human Family, BCP 815
Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
PS: For some good witnessing to the power of presence, see how St John's Episcopal Church in McAllen, Texas, is aiding asylum seekers in partnership with Episcopal Relief and Development. Also for a nice rendering of Earth and All Stars, which we sing this Sunday in the praise of the Lord for boiling test tubes and knowledge and truth, see here.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
We are Here! Wild Goose Festival 2014
Dear People of Christ Church,
Last week, my family and I drove 925 miles (and, again, 925 back) to the Wild Goose Festival, our second time joining other Christians and questioners for a four day festival of "justice, spirituality, and music." Thankfully this year we came out of the Cherokee National Forest with no wild tow truck stories as we did last year! I'm not sure how many hundreds of people were there, but it's kind of a pop-up Christian community of campers, speakers, and musicians, with a combination of Episcopal progressivism and evangelical Jesus-fervor. Wild Goose is a good example of how Christians of many different stripes can learn from each other.
Some of the speakers were big names, both in the Episcopal Church (music workshop with Ana Hernandez) and in the wider world, including, a rousing altar-call to social justice sermon by the Rev.William Barber, leader of the Moral Mondays movement in North Carolina. I also heard Jim Wallis, founder of Sojourners talking about racism as America's original sin. Most of the time, though, I hung out in the "Carnival" tent. It was hosted by the Carnival de Resistance, a crew of poets, dancers, artists, and activists. Also academics: Jim Perkinson talked about American white supremacism and how living in inner city Detroit and learning from the African-American community there had saved his soul. Ched Myers, whose work I've long been interested in, talked about the Christian invitation to love our watershed, not just change our light bulbs because we ought to.
From their welcome sign:
We wish with our bodies to contradict claims that civilization has made about how necessary its gifts are to a life well lived and again to playfully produce, if not proof, some early evidence that a life of another stripe might be realistic, even necessary.
In addition to all of these great ideas and discussions, The carnival space felt liturgical. At the end of one session we wandered into, we were invited to greet each other with this: "We are here! We are here!" which would not have been out of place (maybe without the puppets and face paint) here as we pass the peace on Sunday mornings.
We are here! This is the human interaction that says, "I see you, and yes, we are here. We have been created for more than buying and selling. We have been created to see each other." We are here! We see each other! We remember! We remember, not just each other, but everyone. Poor people in Detroit whose water is getting shut off. New immigrants, whether or not they have the correct paperwork. People you disagree with. Women who have lost their right to their full health care benefits. We are all here. God made me. God made you. Before we're supposed to "witness" God's love to each other, God invites us to witness the Other in the first place, see each other at all. Jim Perkinson pointed out that the beginning of the Gospel-the beginning of the Gospel, that we so often remind ourselves is "good news"-is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. The cry is the beginning.
All of this raises the question: how are we seeing each other? How do we see each other here at Christ Church, as well as those not within our doors? How do I live out these values in my comparatively comfortable life? What was great about the Carnival tent was the shimmering, holy joy of finding a way to live differently: the bean bag toss game "Cleanse the Temple" to remind us of Jesus' invitation to faith without commerce, the puppets, the parades, the anti-clock tower that asks, "Do you have time or does time have you?"
I imagine-I hope!-I will spend some more time thinking about this. One of the talks I went to was called "Slow Church," about how very, very long it takes to establish yourself in a community and to listen to what the community needs, to respond authentically to those who are there and where God might be leading not necessarily with more programs, but with more attention. As we finish our ninth year together rand enter the tenth, I am grateful for all of you traveling together with our little carnival!
Blessings,
Sara+
(For a longer reflection on this, and to see pictures and links to all the speakers, look at my post on my own blog.)
Last week, my family and I drove 925 miles (and, again, 925 back) to the Wild Goose Festival, our second time joining other Christians and questioners for a four day festival of "justice, spirituality, and music." Thankfully this year we came out of the Cherokee National Forest with no wild tow truck stories as we did last year! I'm not sure how many hundreds of people were there, but it's kind of a pop-up Christian community of campers, speakers, and musicians, with a combination of Episcopal progressivism and evangelical Jesus-fervor. Wild Goose is a good example of how Christians of many different stripes can learn from each other.
Some of the speakers were big names, both in the Episcopal Church (music workshop with Ana Hernandez) and in the wider world, including, a rousing altar-call to social justice sermon by the Rev.William Barber, leader of the Moral Mondays movement in North Carolina. I also heard Jim Wallis, founder of Sojourners talking about racism as America's original sin. Most of the time, though, I hung out in the "Carnival" tent. It was hosted by the Carnival de Resistance, a crew of poets, dancers, artists, and activists. Also academics: Jim Perkinson talked about American white supremacism and how living in inner city Detroit and learning from the African-American community there had saved his soul. Ched Myers, whose work I've long been interested in, talked about the Christian invitation to love our watershed, not just change our light bulbs because we ought to.
From their welcome sign:
We wish with our bodies to contradict claims that civilization has made about how necessary its gifts are to a life well lived and again to playfully produce, if not proof, some early evidence that a life of another stripe might be realistic, even necessary.
In addition to all of these great ideas and discussions, The carnival space felt liturgical. At the end of one session we wandered into, we were invited to greet each other with this: "We are here! We are here!" which would not have been out of place (maybe without the puppets and face paint) here as we pass the peace on Sunday mornings.
We are here! This is the human interaction that says, "I see you, and yes, we are here. We have been created for more than buying and selling. We have been created to see each other." We are here! We see each other! We remember! We remember, not just each other, but everyone. Poor people in Detroit whose water is getting shut off. New immigrants, whether or not they have the correct paperwork. People you disagree with. Women who have lost their right to their full health care benefits. We are all here. God made me. God made you. Before we're supposed to "witness" God's love to each other, God invites us to witness the Other in the first place, see each other at all. Jim Perkinson pointed out that the beginning of the Gospel-the beginning of the Gospel, that we so often remind ourselves is "good news"-is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. The cry is the beginning.
All of this raises the question: how are we seeing each other? How do we see each other here at Christ Church, as well as those not within our doors? How do I live out these values in my comparatively comfortable life? What was great about the Carnival tent was the shimmering, holy joy of finding a way to live differently: the bean bag toss game "Cleanse the Temple" to remind us of Jesus' invitation to faith without commerce, the puppets, the parades, the anti-clock tower that asks, "Do you have time or does time have you?"
I imagine-I hope!-I will spend some more time thinking about this. One of the talks I went to was called "Slow Church," about how very, very long it takes to establish yourself in a community and to listen to what the community needs, to respond authentically to those who are there and where God might be leading not necessarily with more programs, but with more attention. As we finish our ninth year together rand enter the tenth, I am grateful for all of you traveling together with our little carnival!
Blessings,
Sara+
(For a longer reflection on this, and to see pictures and links to all the speakers, look at my post on my own blog.)
Thursday, June 19, 2014
The Holy Ordinary
Dear People of Christ Church,
This Sunday, we continue our long sojourn in what the church year calls "ordinary time." Get used to the color green-you'll be seeing a lot of it. We don't call it ordinary time in the bulletin-instead we count Sundays after Pentecost (also: "ordinary"=counted after Pentecost, not just plain). Sunday, after Sunday, after Sunday, all the way to Advent. We mix it up in our liturgy somewhat-we switch the service music (the fixed parts we sing every Sunday, like the opening hymn of praise, the Sanctus, Holy, Holy, Holy, and the short piece of music we sing at the breaking of bread at communion) in the fall, for a bit of variety-but otherwise what you see this Sunday is what you'll get.
For the last two baptism Sundays, I've made the same comment about how all major Christian holidays, from Christmas to Pentecost, are a story of God coming close to us. The church year starts with Advent, with our preparing for the birth of Christ. We continue with Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Holy Week, Easter, and Pentecost. In each of these, there is an aspect of God's overture to come near; to be born with us, to be in the desert with us, to die with us, to overcome death with us. The Sundays of Pentecost don't quite have that magic. If the actual feast of Pentecost-that rush of wind and riot of language-is the romantic union of a soul with its maker, then these days of Pentecost are the next day, when the cat pees on your meditation cushion and you forgot to get vegetables for dinner. You know in your mind that God is no less present at those times, but wouldn't it be nice to have a little of that Easter magic again. You might even settle for Epiphany.
Last week I went to an interfaith Buddhist celebration and was reminded, again, of how I become a better Christian when I engage with those of other faiths. I spent half my senior year of college in India and spent a little time at a Hindu ashram when I was there, and remembered the amazing discipline of Eastern monasticism. Just the visual image of the monastic robe and bowl raises the question-how am I being faithful, day after long day, Sunday after green Sunday? It's easy to believe in God in the magic of Christmas. It's even pretty easy, (if not always pleasant) to believe during Lent, when we confess our sins and try to amend our lives. Easter? Piece of cake! But in July? In mid-October? Have you every wished someone a happy nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost?
This is not a scolding go-to-church-over-the-summer message. The Gospel is sweet and joyful news, not sour and condemning. We heard on Sunday how God created us and all of creation and named it good, and God rested. We need to rest, too. But what I wonder about the invitation that the Buddhists I met last week seem to honor so well is that there's an ease in the discipline of their faith. That doesn't mean it's easy, but that there's some sweet spot of vocation where who they are meets what they're doing. I wrote about vocation in this space last week-and I think something there is the invitation of these neverending green Sundays. God doesn't always have to meet us in flashy explosive moments, and we don't have to try so very, very hard all the time either.
Instead of inviting you, readers, into some big new adventure or challenge, for a change, this week my question for you is this: what's easy right now? What does that joy tell you about God's desire for your life and where you're headed?
Blessings,
Sara+
This Sunday, we continue our long sojourn in what the church year calls "ordinary time." Get used to the color green-you'll be seeing a lot of it. We don't call it ordinary time in the bulletin-instead we count Sundays after Pentecost (also: "ordinary"=counted after Pentecost, not just plain). Sunday, after Sunday, after Sunday, all the way to Advent. We mix it up in our liturgy somewhat-we switch the service music (the fixed parts we sing every Sunday, like the opening hymn of praise, the Sanctus, Holy, Holy, Holy, and the short piece of music we sing at the breaking of bread at communion) in the fall, for a bit of variety-but otherwise what you see this Sunday is what you'll get.
For the last two baptism Sundays, I've made the same comment about how all major Christian holidays, from Christmas to Pentecost, are a story of God coming close to us. The church year starts with Advent, with our preparing for the birth of Christ. We continue with Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Holy Week, Easter, and Pentecost. In each of these, there is an aspect of God's overture to come near; to be born with us, to be in the desert with us, to die with us, to overcome death with us. The Sundays of Pentecost don't quite have that magic. If the actual feast of Pentecost-that rush of wind and riot of language-is the romantic union of a soul with its maker, then these days of Pentecost are the next day, when the cat pees on your meditation cushion and you forgot to get vegetables for dinner. You know in your mind that God is no less present at those times, but wouldn't it be nice to have a little of that Easter magic again. You might even settle for Epiphany.
Last week I went to an interfaith Buddhist celebration and was reminded, again, of how I become a better Christian when I engage with those of other faiths. I spent half my senior year of college in India and spent a little time at a Hindu ashram when I was there, and remembered the amazing discipline of Eastern monasticism. Just the visual image of the monastic robe and bowl raises the question-how am I being faithful, day after long day, Sunday after green Sunday? It's easy to believe in God in the magic of Christmas. It's even pretty easy, (if not always pleasant) to believe during Lent, when we confess our sins and try to amend our lives. Easter? Piece of cake! But in July? In mid-October? Have you every wished someone a happy nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost?
This is not a scolding go-to-church-over-the-summer message. The Gospel is sweet and joyful news, not sour and condemning. We heard on Sunday how God created us and all of creation and named it good, and God rested. We need to rest, too. But what I wonder about the invitation that the Buddhists I met last week seem to honor so well is that there's an ease in the discipline of their faith. That doesn't mean it's easy, but that there's some sweet spot of vocation where who they are meets what they're doing. I wrote about vocation in this space last week-and I think something there is the invitation of these neverending green Sundays. God doesn't always have to meet us in flashy explosive moments, and we don't have to try so very, very hard all the time either.
Instead of inviting you, readers, into some big new adventure or challenge, for a change, this week my question for you is this: what's easy right now? What does that joy tell you about God's desire for your life and where you're headed?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Vocations of Gladness: Ten Years In
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I've been thinking about vocation, defined in such a lovely way by Frederick Buechner as "the meeting place between your deep gladness and the world's deep need." Over the weekend, I attended our diocese's ordination for the diaconate. I serve on the diocesan Commission on Ministry, the group that works with the bishop when candidates apply for ordination, so two of my advisees were getting ordained, along with Rachael Pettengill, who has worked as an intern at Grace Church, where my husband serves, and as the Protestant Chaplain at Tufts. Even Isaiah wanted to go, since Rachael has taught his Godly Play Class at Grace.
It was a big service-the church has 9 new deacons, who in January will all be ordained priest. What was especially neat was that the ordinations for our diocese were at Emmanuel Church, Boston, where I served for a year as an assistant before coming to Christ Church. So a lot of vocations came together for me that morning, as a member of the diocese as well as mother and priest, all leading up to my ten year anniversary of my ordination (today, as a matter of fact).
Processing in to the church, I remembered the feeling of being so new to the work of the church. Ten years ago, I'd just moved to Boston, had only been married for less than two years, and had no children. Though I loved the way living in New York City had made me feel like I was part of something bigger, I didn't miss the low level of stress that came with Manhattan's constant buzz or the way my very traditional seminary made me feel like such a misfit. Now, I came into that space having launched into a wonderful and strong ministry with you at Christ Church. I walked with my son, whom I couldn't have imagined at that time. I've recovered from seminary-pretty much!-and I have been blessed beyond imagining in this work.
Emmanuel Church is cavernous-you practically need binoculars to see the altar from the back. Entering in, you're engulfed by a sense of sacred space-on Saturday, with two bishops and 20 other priests and 9 ordinands, it was big. Entering in while your 7 year old walks at your side and you remember how it felt the first time you entered a church as a clergyperson, sacred space doesn't just engulf you, it slaps you in the face and punches you in the stomach at the same time, leaving you reeling and out of breath. (For another piece I wrote about priesting and mothering, in the context of church hospitality, see my blog post.)
Most often, of course, the sacred nature of our lives doesn't come quite so forcefully. The usual life of a Christian is more Road to Emmaus ("...So, I guess that was Jesus") than it is Road to Damascus ("Holy @#$, it's Jesus!"). While we sometimes get knocked off our horses, more often you have to do the work of attentiveness and patience, watching and waiting. Sometimes you have to squint so hard to see God you close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else. At those times, it's totally fair game to complain-the psalms are a great resource for complaint (at least 40% are legitimately categorized as lament, in which the petitioner prays for God's deliverance in anger, sadness, despair).
What is always true, though, is that vocation is in the context of the world as we know it. Your vocation is not to be found later, it's to be found where you are right now. Your vocation at this time might be preparing for something else-going to school, for example-but that doesn't make it any less than what you are called to do right now.
How do you understand your vocation? Do you feel like you chose it, or did it choose you? Caring for a sick parent or spouse is a vocation born out of the depths of love, not always gladness. Caring for children is a vocation, but for every time you gaze lovingly on a sleeping child, there might be three nights they refuse to be still long enough to let you get any sleep at all. Just because God wants you to do it and your deepest gladness is part of the story doesn't mean that you will always feel glad about it.
Leaning into summer, where is God calling you? Where does your gladness meet God's love and longing for the world?
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I've been thinking about vocation, defined in such a lovely way by Frederick Buechner as "the meeting place between your deep gladness and the world's deep need." Over the weekend, I attended our diocese's ordination for the diaconate. I serve on the diocesan Commission on Ministry, the group that works with the bishop when candidates apply for ordination, so two of my advisees were getting ordained, along with Rachael Pettengill, who has worked as an intern at Grace Church, where my husband serves, and as the Protestant Chaplain at Tufts. Even Isaiah wanted to go, since Rachael has taught his Godly Play Class at Grace.
It was a big service-the church has 9 new deacons, who in January will all be ordained priest. What was especially neat was that the ordinations for our diocese were at Emmanuel Church, Boston, where I served for a year as an assistant before coming to Christ Church. So a lot of vocations came together for me that morning, as a member of the diocese as well as mother and priest, all leading up to my ten year anniversary of my ordination (today, as a matter of fact).
Processing in to the church, I remembered the feeling of being so new to the work of the church. Ten years ago, I'd just moved to Boston, had only been married for less than two years, and had no children. Though I loved the way living in New York City had made me feel like I was part of something bigger, I didn't miss the low level of stress that came with Manhattan's constant buzz or the way my very traditional seminary made me feel like such a misfit. Now, I came into that space having launched into a wonderful and strong ministry with you at Christ Church. I walked with my son, whom I couldn't have imagined at that time. I've recovered from seminary-pretty much!-and I have been blessed beyond imagining in this work.
Emmanuel Church is cavernous-you practically need binoculars to see the altar from the back. Entering in, you're engulfed by a sense of sacred space-on Saturday, with two bishops and 20 other priests and 9 ordinands, it was big. Entering in while your 7 year old walks at your side and you remember how it felt the first time you entered a church as a clergyperson, sacred space doesn't just engulf you, it slaps you in the face and punches you in the stomach at the same time, leaving you reeling and out of breath. (For another piece I wrote about priesting and mothering, in the context of church hospitality, see my blog post.)
Most often, of course, the sacred nature of our lives doesn't come quite so forcefully. The usual life of a Christian is more Road to Emmaus ("...So, I guess that was Jesus") than it is Road to Damascus ("Holy @#$, it's Jesus!"). While we sometimes get knocked off our horses, more often you have to do the work of attentiveness and patience, watching and waiting. Sometimes you have to squint so hard to see God you close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else. At those times, it's totally fair game to complain-the psalms are a great resource for complaint (at least 40% are legitimately categorized as lament, in which the petitioner prays for God's deliverance in anger, sadness, despair).
What is always true, though, is that vocation is in the context of the world as we know it. Your vocation is not to be found later, it's to be found where you are right now. Your vocation at this time might be preparing for something else-going to school, for example-but that doesn't make it any less than what you are called to do right now.
How do you understand your vocation? Do you feel like you chose it, or did it choose you? Caring for a sick parent or spouse is a vocation born out of the depths of love, not always gladness. Caring for children is a vocation, but for every time you gaze lovingly on a sleeping child, there might be three nights they refuse to be still long enough to let you get any sleep at all. Just because God wants you to do it and your deepest gladness is part of the story doesn't mean that you will always feel glad about it.
Leaning into summer, where is God calling you? Where does your gladness meet God's love and longing for the world?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Holy In-Between
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, our place in the holy in-between time after Ascension continues. I spent the better part of last week's piece in this space outing myself as a potential heretic, and I suspect there will be more of that today. I felt really challenged on Sunday in our kids' sermon in trying to figure out how to teach about the Ascension; it can be 100% true even if it didn't happen exactly that way. Mostly I settled on talking with the kids about their experiences of having been left behind-we've all had times when we felt unmoored, left without our bearings and familiar supports. That's certainly how the disciples felt. Our feelings of being left behind are not the whole story-even when the disciples felt that Jesus had abandoned them-again!-they still knew that he loved them. We have their example of being faithful even in the midst of grief. We have their example that it's not faithless to grieve in the first place.
At the same time, what came next was probably not what the disciples had in mind. Pentecost is a riot of fire and language; all the disciples hear each other speaking in different languages, and a crowd comes to hear them "speaking of God's deeds of power." The crowd is not free of dissent, however-others "sneered," and accused them of being drunk. It always makes me laugh that Paul defends them from this accusation by pointing out that it's 9:00 in the morning. No, he says, it's what the Prophet Joel said would happen-the Spirit would be poured out on everyone, and everyone who calls on the Lord will be saved.
This Sunday, we're going all the way with the Holy Spirit; with, if not literal tongues of fire, some extra celebration and some extra languages to hear. Rev. Christine from our Ugandan partner church will read the Gospel in Luganda after I read it in English, and different parishioners will lend their linguistic skills from Aramaic to Haitian Creole. We'll have Steve Taddeo and friends bring the jazz and have some extra smoke from incense AND we're baptizing new baby Raven Fintzel, who's just started coming with mom Kat and dad Andrew. It's a good month for baptisms-Noah Hobin will go on the fifteenth.
As Jesus ascends it's his entry into transcendence, holy "no" to being defined by the might-makes-right-world. Death no longer has power because Jesus has confronted death and come through the tomb on the power of love. Jesus sends the Holy Spirit to be with us, to continue his work and givce us power to share in it. I read parts of Maya Angelou's Poem, Still I Rise, at the 8:30 service last week to bring us, just for a moment, into that sense of determination and wonder. No matter what comes, whether torture or scorn, fury or abandonment, insult or injury, in Christ we are defined by the power of God's holy love. This Sunday, the power comes crashing down on our heads, thanks be to God, and alleluia!
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, our place in the holy in-between time after Ascension continues. I spent the better part of last week's piece in this space outing myself as a potential heretic, and I suspect there will be more of that today. I felt really challenged on Sunday in our kids' sermon in trying to figure out how to teach about the Ascension; it can be 100% true even if it didn't happen exactly that way. Mostly I settled on talking with the kids about their experiences of having been left behind-we've all had times when we felt unmoored, left without our bearings and familiar supports. That's certainly how the disciples felt. Our feelings of being left behind are not the whole story-even when the disciples felt that Jesus had abandoned them-again!-they still knew that he loved them. We have their example of being faithful even in the midst of grief. We have their example that it's not faithless to grieve in the first place.
At the same time, what came next was probably not what the disciples had in mind. Pentecost is a riot of fire and language; all the disciples hear each other speaking in different languages, and a crowd comes to hear them "speaking of God's deeds of power." The crowd is not free of dissent, however-others "sneered," and accused them of being drunk. It always makes me laugh that Paul defends them from this accusation by pointing out that it's 9:00 in the morning. No, he says, it's what the Prophet Joel said would happen-the Spirit would be poured out on everyone, and everyone who calls on the Lord will be saved.
This Sunday, we're going all the way with the Holy Spirit; with, if not literal tongues of fire, some extra celebration and some extra languages to hear. Rev. Christine from our Ugandan partner church will read the Gospel in Luganda after I read it in English, and different parishioners will lend their linguistic skills from Aramaic to Haitian Creole. We'll have Steve Taddeo and friends bring the jazz and have some extra smoke from incense AND we're baptizing new baby Raven Fintzel, who's just started coming with mom Kat and dad Andrew. It's a good month for baptisms-Noah Hobin will go on the fifteenth.
As Jesus ascends it's his entry into transcendence, holy "no" to being defined by the might-makes-right-world. Death no longer has power because Jesus has confronted death and come through the tomb on the power of love. Jesus sends the Holy Spirit to be with us, to continue his work and givce us power to share in it. I read parts of Maya Angelou's Poem, Still I Rise, at the 8:30 service last week to bring us, just for a moment, into that sense of determination and wonder. No matter what comes, whether torture or scorn, fury or abandonment, insult or injury, in Christ we are defined by the power of God's holy love. This Sunday, the power comes crashing down on our heads, thanks be to God, and alleluia!
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 29, 2014
The Ascension: Belief with Head and Heart
Dear People of Christ Church,
Today is Ascension Day, which you will be forgiven for not realizing as the Thursday 40 days after Easter. It's one of the odder days of observance in the Christian tradition-we'll hear that Scripture from the book of Acts that describes Jesus being lifted up and disappearing into the clouds. It's an important one-for brothers and sisters in Roman Catholic side of the Christian family, it's a holy day of obligation (which in some places can be moved to Sunday, but not, apparently, in Boston.
We affirm the Ascension in the Nicene Creed-quite clearly, we declare that Jesus "ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father." We say this every Sunday. There's something about the literalism of the image-Jesus either did or did not levitate into the sky-that I find particularly difficult. As a doctrine, it solves some intractable issues-how, for example, would Jesus have been buried, and what would we make of his divinity alongside his holy but also mortal and dead body-but in our children's sermon this Sunday I will graciously sidestep whether it actually happened that way.Ascension Day is one of those times that, as I believe God will be gentle with me, I also will be gentle with our tradition. The truth is, I don't know. It seems implausible, but, then again, the whole marvelous story is implausible.
As contemporary believers, we just can't go back to a spatially three tiered universe of heaven, hell, and us in between. We can haz science. Why did Jesus go into the sky? Well, if you think that heaven is "up there," then that makes perfect sense. But the Ascension is much more about Jesus coming "in here."
The resurrection appearances of Jesus were a marvel, but they were also quite localized to a particular band of followers; individually Simon and Peter and James and John might have wanted to keep that exclusive connection to themselves, but Jesus is pretty clear that their relationship with him is not only a personal affair. The ascension is about the transcendence of the risen Christ, about how humanity and divinity are joined in a universal and no longer only particular way. St Gregory of Nazianzus (around 390) said that Christ's ascension is our ascension. Our humanity rose with Christ. That doesn't depend on whether or not Jesus levitated. It doesn't depend on how loudly I say the Creed or whether I am, occasionally, just too doubtful. That depends on so much more that I can't even wrap my brain around it, which, frankly, is a pretty good place for a person of faith to stand. More mystery, less judgment.
Thanks be to God (and the long legacy of Anglicanism) for that.
Blessings,
Sara+
Today is Ascension Day, which you will be forgiven for not realizing as the Thursday 40 days after Easter. It's one of the odder days of observance in the Christian tradition-we'll hear that Scripture from the book of Acts that describes Jesus being lifted up and disappearing into the clouds. It's an important one-for brothers and sisters in Roman Catholic side of the Christian family, it's a holy day of obligation (which in some places can be moved to Sunday, but not, apparently, in Boston.
We affirm the Ascension in the Nicene Creed-quite clearly, we declare that Jesus "ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father." We say this every Sunday. There's something about the literalism of the image-Jesus either did or did not levitate into the sky-that I find particularly difficult. As a doctrine, it solves some intractable issues-how, for example, would Jesus have been buried, and what would we make of his divinity alongside his holy but also mortal and dead body-but in our children's sermon this Sunday I will graciously sidestep whether it actually happened that way.Ascension Day is one of those times that, as I believe God will be gentle with me, I also will be gentle with our tradition. The truth is, I don't know. It seems implausible, but, then again, the whole marvelous story is implausible.
As contemporary believers, we just can't go back to a spatially three tiered universe of heaven, hell, and us in between. We can haz science. Why did Jesus go into the sky? Well, if you think that heaven is "up there," then that makes perfect sense. But the Ascension is much more about Jesus coming "in here."
The resurrection appearances of Jesus were a marvel, but they were also quite localized to a particular band of followers; individually Simon and Peter and James and John might have wanted to keep that exclusive connection to themselves, but Jesus is pretty clear that their relationship with him is not only a personal affair. The ascension is about the transcendence of the risen Christ, about how humanity and divinity are joined in a universal and no longer only particular way. St Gregory of Nazianzus (around 390) said that Christ's ascension is our ascension. Our humanity rose with Christ. That doesn't depend on whether or not Jesus levitated. It doesn't depend on how loudly I say the Creed or whether I am, occasionally, just too doubtful. That depends on so much more that I can't even wrap my brain around it, which, frankly, is a pretty good place for a person of faith to stand. More mystery, less judgment.
Thanks be to God (and the long legacy of Anglicanism) for that.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Called to Rejoice: Equal Marriage, Step by Step
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I'm all aflutter about the decision in my home state of Pennsylvania to allow same sex marriage. Of course, it's been the law in my chosen state for ten years (we moved here in 2004, too, the same year it came through), but this feels different. Pennsylvania is such a big state-the part I'm from is basically Ohio-and while it's may not be such a paradigm shift for Philadelphia, for Erie, this changes a lot. Admittedly there was something Onion-satire-like about the headline on the Erie Times-News: "Another same sex couple applies for marriage license."
In Massachusetts, this is old news. Still, there's something about the place where I'm from recognizing the right to marriage for all people that feels healing. My right to marry my spouse was never questioned because my beloved happens to be male, but that is not the case for one of my high school best friends, who had three weddings with her wife-one commitment ceremony, one legal NH civil union (presided over by yours truly), and one party when that civil union became a legal marriage on January 1 2011. Phew. They had to buy a lot of champagne.
Marriage is a sacrament, a gift, and a blessing. There's an old image of the church that imagines us as "the bride of Christ"-this is not an image that I feel particularly drawn toward, but it reminds us that the covenant of marriage is holy-and the failure of the church or the state to extend equal benefits to all is just an injustice. Of course I believe in separation of church and state, but I also want a wedding I officiate in church to be legal in the eyes of the state. I haven't been to Pennsylvania in years, but I still feel so grateful for this. Judge John Jones, in the PA case wrote, "In the sixty years since Brown was decided, 'separate' has thankfully faded into history, and only 'equal' remains. Similarly, in future generations, the label 'same-sex marriage' will be abandoned, to be replaced simply by 'marriage.' We are a better people than what these laws represent, and it is time to discard them into the ash heap of history"
This is the country we are becoming; we're not there yet, but slowly, slowly. This is what we say we'll do in our baptismal covenant: to strive for justice and peace and respect the dignity of every human being. With each state where marriage for all becomes a reality, we get just a little closer to making that possible. Oregon went this week, too. Now, reader, I've been sending this newsletter every week for almost nine years, and perhaps you've read this before. But it's like that parable Jesus tells in Luke 15:
Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, "Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.
Every time, every time there is a victory for peace and justice, we are called to rejoice. So today, I'm rejoicing for those two couples in my hometown who've gotten their marriage licenses. Easter continues!
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I'm all aflutter about the decision in my home state of Pennsylvania to allow same sex marriage. Of course, it's been the law in my chosen state for ten years (we moved here in 2004, too, the same year it came through), but this feels different. Pennsylvania is such a big state-the part I'm from is basically Ohio-and while it's may not be such a paradigm shift for Philadelphia, for Erie, this changes a lot. Admittedly there was something Onion-satire-like about the headline on the Erie Times-News: "Another same sex couple applies for marriage license."
In Massachusetts, this is old news. Still, there's something about the place where I'm from recognizing the right to marriage for all people that feels healing. My right to marry my spouse was never questioned because my beloved happens to be male, but that is not the case for one of my high school best friends, who had three weddings with her wife-one commitment ceremony, one legal NH civil union (presided over by yours truly), and one party when that civil union became a legal marriage on January 1 2011. Phew. They had to buy a lot of champagne.
Marriage is a sacrament, a gift, and a blessing. There's an old image of the church that imagines us as "the bride of Christ"-this is not an image that I feel particularly drawn toward, but it reminds us that the covenant of marriage is holy-and the failure of the church or the state to extend equal benefits to all is just an injustice. Of course I believe in separation of church and state, but I also want a wedding I officiate in church to be legal in the eyes of the state. I haven't been to Pennsylvania in years, but I still feel so grateful for this. Judge John Jones, in the PA case wrote, "In the sixty years since Brown was decided, 'separate' has thankfully faded into history, and only 'equal' remains. Similarly, in future generations, the label 'same-sex marriage' will be abandoned, to be replaced simply by 'marriage.' We are a better people than what these laws represent, and it is time to discard them into the ash heap of history"
This is the country we are becoming; we're not there yet, but slowly, slowly. This is what we say we'll do in our baptismal covenant: to strive for justice and peace and respect the dignity of every human being. With each state where marriage for all becomes a reality, we get just a little closer to making that possible. Oregon went this week, too. Now, reader, I've been sending this newsletter every week for almost nine years, and perhaps you've read this before. But it's like that parable Jesus tells in Luke 15:
Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, "Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.
Every time, every time there is a victory for peace and justice, we are called to rejoice. So today, I'm rejoicing for those two couples in my hometown who've gotten their marriage licenses. Easter continues!
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The wide and wonderful Anglican "maybe"
Dear People of Christ
Church
This week in our Episcopal Church class I was reminded, as
always when I pay attention, how very grateful I am to be part of the Anglican
Tradition. Every church has something wonderful about it-the
Lutherans have their focus on the grace of God, the evangelicals have their
intimacy with Jesus, the Catholics have their long history and diversity, the
Presbyterians their commitment to democratic governance...but it's our
theological breadth and flexibility where I really find myself at home.
The number of times someone has asked a simple yes/no
question and I've answered "maybe" reminds me of just committed we
are to this diversity of belief. "Do I have to cross myself?" You
can, but you don't have to. "Isn't the difference between the Roman
Catholic and Episcopal belief about communion that one believes in
transubstantiation and one doesn't?" Some actually believe in Jesus as
really, bodily present, but for others it's more symbolic. But we do teach that
it has a reality independent of our own experience. Do you
believe in the Bible literally? That's actually a pretty clear
no.
Sometimes all this ambiguity feels like maybe it's because
we're not sure-we sometimes get accused of being a mushy middle, not committed
to anything. It's not mushy at all, though-it's incredibly
centered-centered on the freedom of your conscience, and also centered on our
liturgical practice. One of my favorite Anglican quotes is (said to be) from
Queen Elizabeth, who, during all the Catholic/Protestant controversies
imperially declared "I do not desire windows into my subjects'
souls." At the same time, in consolidating the practice of the church with
worship in the English Language and independence from the Pope, an undeniable
center still holds us together and links us to each other and across time.
A unified community coalesces around prayer, even if we
differ on the particulars of that prayer. This humility around
doctrine, I think, also leads us into a constructive humility around our place
in the world. We don't have all the answers. This means that part of
our work as Christians is the work of interpretation, of contemplating new
learnings from science and psychology and philosophy and theology and how our
tradition can be in conversation with them. From evolution to climate science
to the plasticity of the human brain, we are always learning about this good creation
God has given us, and there's always more exploration and curiosity to be had.
I'll leave you with the prayer we say for the newly baptized, which I think
captures this nicely:
Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy
Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the forgiveness of sin, and
have raised them to the new life of grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy
Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to
persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in
all your works.
Amen!
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Life and death questions
Dear People of Christ
Church
I hope to see a lot of you this week-tomorrow, the art show,
Saturday, the release of our own Gene Burkart's posthumous work of collected
essays (see below), and Sunday at the Mother's Day Walk. Our walking is part of
the diocesan-wide Season of Celebration and Service in honor of Bishop Shaw. It
has been such a gift for me to be formed as a priest in his witness for justice
and peace. Please join me in honoring Tom and in walking in the path of peace
with those whose loved ones have been killed, whose deaths are not mourned with
public grief and huge ceremony, whose killers are often not found.
In other topics of life and death, on May 18 we'll have a
conversation about end of life issues with our own Rob Atwood, who works as a
hospice social worker while not helping out with Sunday readings. On
Tuesday Christ Church hosted a day-long workshop for clergy and other
caregivers about "Caring for Each Other in Life and Death" (see the
tweets at #endlifecare) put on by the Massachusetts Council of Churches-it's a
conversation whose time has come.
Medical technology can do almost anything-life can be
extended longer than ever before, and that's a blessing. I don't
want to go back to a time before measles vaccines and chemotherapy. But our
dedication to technology has also obscured the way that death is also part of
life. Our bodies are gifts from God, wonderful gifts. In
caring for ourselves we give glory to God, in using our skills and
honoring our relationships and running and sleeping and loving. But we are also
invited into a certain humility about our bodies-they are a gift, but they are
also on loan.
As always, Anglican theology is pretty nuanced on the
question. In our Church's teaching about the end of life, we
differentiate between "passive" and "active" ways in which
death may be hastened. The passive withholding of treatment is an ethical
choice; if there is no prognosis for recovery, the question becomes whether the
patient's dying process is being prolonged, as opposed to whether their actual
life is being extended. When the ballot question on (depending on your
position) physician assisted suicide/death with dignity came across, there were
Episcopalians of good faith on both sides of the issue. I do think
we need to be cautious about our judgments about what life is "meaningful"-one
of the reasons I voted against the 2012 ballot initiative was that I worried
about legitimating the notion that some lives are not worth
living. From a disability rights perspective, that's
just not a precedent I want to be part of, even as I would be in favor of some
of the outcomes of the adoption of such a law.
And there are a lot of legal issues-I learned this week that
your next of kin may be the person the hospital calls first, but if there is a
conflict with other family members about your care, only an authorized health
care proxy has the right to make the final call. So please
join us on the 17th-we'll talk about some of the medical decisions
that are made at the end of life, about Massachusetts
law concerning decision making authorization, and also (and this part is kind
of fun) planning your own funeral. There's only one way to be sure that one
hymn that you hate doesn't get played... If you can't make it check
out the booklet we put together last year here
or make an appointment to see me!
Blessings,
Sara+
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)