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+
Thursday, June 19, 2014
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+
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