Dear People of Christ Church,
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Tomorrow is the end of this long Advent journey, with John the Baptist and Mary and all the rest. From Alicia’s Children’s sermon about how God makes straight the crooked places and makes the mountain a plain, to Bishop Alan’s time with us reminding us that “bedlam” and “Bethlehem” have a lot in common, we have traveled some distance.
We will, I imagine, never come to Christmas Eve after the journey of Advent and find ourselves completely ready. Whether it’s the unsent Christmas cards or the charity requests piling up, or the present list that’s not been written, much less checked twice…there is often so more to do. And yet, and yet, Christmas comes anyway. We spend all of this time with John the Baptist being told to “prepare the way” that we forget that God can travel on the bumpiest of roads. That’s what God does. Neither our negligence nor our faithfulness will speed or delay the unfolding of God’s time.
So today, rather than continue with more words, I invite you instead to take a breath. (If you want words, there will be a Christmas editorial from me in the Waltham News Tribune tomorrow, based on this last week’s message about our many Gospel stories). Now, take a deep breath. Imagine that God has already received every offering you have to give—your kindness to God’s people, your attention to the “least and lost,” your worries, your fear. Because when given to God, even your fear is a gift—God so wants to be able to care for you, and came to be born with us for this.
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S. I’m experimenting with putting sermons online—if you missed last week, it’s on Soundcloud. Hopefully Christmas Eve will go up tomorrow night, too!
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Thursday, December 17, 2015
New Visitations
Dear People of Christ Church,
For this year’s Advent series, we tried something new, an intergenerational Bible Study. From week to week, we looked at the different stories of the origins of Jesus Christ—the traditional nativity story in Luke, with the manger and the shepherds, the cosmic Christ through whom the world came to be as described so poetically in the Gospel of John, the beginning-that-is-no-beginning offered by Mark, who just launches into Jesus’ ministry with not a word about where Jesus came from. And, of course, Matthew, who gives us Joseph’s dream and the visitation of the Magi.
Each Gospel is written from a different perspective, and each one teaches us something different about who Jesus is and what God desires for us. Each time we met for our Advent conversations, we asked the question: what if this were the only story we had? What if we had magi, and no shepherds? What if we had the manger, but no cosmic poetry?
The fact is, we need all of these stories. We need them all because we need to spend some time with different emphases—we need the cosmic Christ to remind us of God’s intimacy with the world, always and from the beginning. We need the birth of a messiah heralded by outcast and dirty shepherds, Mary a pregnant teenager with no place to stay, to remind us that God always goes to the places of powerlessness. But we also need Matthew, to tell us that Jesus is a King in the line of David, that Jesus comes in “majesty and awe,” too. The kings of this world aren’t the only ones with gold and frankincense. We need the jolt of imagining God in a manger, and the familiarity of imagining the kings visiting Mary in an ordinary house.
God speaks to us in many different ways. Whether Jesus is born indoors or out of doors, or whether the Gospel gives a story of his birth or not, the wisdom of our tradition has invited us into all of those different realities. God’s truth, even within Christian teaching, is varied. And how much more do we need to remember that as we, with Mary, “ponder in our hearts” God’s working in the world in other faiths.
God speaks however God will, whenever God will. God speaks shepherd as well as king. God speaks more languages than we can know.
Blessings,
Sara+
For this year’s Advent series, we tried something new, an intergenerational Bible Study. From week to week, we looked at the different stories of the origins of Jesus Christ—the traditional nativity story in Luke, with the manger and the shepherds, the cosmic Christ through whom the world came to be as described so poetically in the Gospel of John, the beginning-that-is-no-beginning offered by Mark, who just launches into Jesus’ ministry with not a word about where Jesus came from. And, of course, Matthew, who gives us Joseph’s dream and the visitation of the Magi.
Each Gospel is written from a different perspective, and each one teaches us something different about who Jesus is and what God desires for us. Each time we met for our Advent conversations, we asked the question: what if this were the only story we had? What if we had magi, and no shepherds? What if we had the manger, but no cosmic poetry?
The fact is, we need all of these stories. We need them all because we need to spend some time with different emphases—we need the cosmic Christ to remind us of God’s intimacy with the world, always and from the beginning. We need the birth of a messiah heralded by outcast and dirty shepherds, Mary a pregnant teenager with no place to stay, to remind us that God always goes to the places of powerlessness. But we also need Matthew, to tell us that Jesus is a King in the line of David, that Jesus comes in “majesty and awe,” too. The kings of this world aren’t the only ones with gold and frankincense. We need the jolt of imagining God in a manger, and the familiarity of imagining the kings visiting Mary in an ordinary house.
God speaks to us in many different ways. Whether Jesus is born indoors or out of doors, or whether the Gospel gives a story of his birth or not, the wisdom of our tradition has invited us into all of those different realities. God’s truth, even within Christian teaching, is varied. And how much more do we need to remember that as we, with Mary, “ponder in our hearts” God’s working in the world in other faiths.
God speaks however God will, whenever God will. God speaks shepherd as well as king. God speaks more languages than we can know.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, December 10, 2015
The Light Shines in the Darkness
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’m reeling a little from the horrifying rhetoric coming out of certain corners of Christianity and American politics. Whether Jerry Falwell, Jr. exhorting the students of Liberty University to carry guns to “end those Muslims before they walked in and killed us” or Donald Trump wanting to bar Muslims from entering the United States, it seems like whatever level of “too far” I think I’ve heard one week, the next week it goes further.
That’s not my Christianity and not my country. As Shane Claiborne pointed out in a response to Falwell, Jesus carried a cross, not a weapon. When Peter moved to defend him from the Romans and cut the solider’s ear off, Jesus said no. Always, always, the way of Christ is the way of non-violence. I don’t pretend to always live as Jesus invited us, but I hope to recognize it when I see it in others, and hope that I turn away from vengeance when I find it in myself. The power of peace and love is what makes resurrection happen, the power of God in Jesus and for us. We are called to repent, to turn away, from the violent logic of the world that says that you just need to be faster with your own gun before someone else comes at you with theirs.
As Jerry Falwell, Jr. demonstrated last week (as have any number of domestic terrorists who call themselves Christian), Christianity as a whole, not just individuals, has need of repentance and conversion. Just as peace-seeking Muslims don’t recognize their faith in ISIS/Daesh, I don’t recognize my Jesus in Falwell, and I certainly don’t recognize my faith in those who would exclude or promote violence against Muslims. Whether the Crusades, or the Inquisition, or violence perpetrated against Native Americans, there are many examples when our faith, too, has failed to live up to the invitation of Jesus to love.
Again and again, I keep coming back to that reading we hear as part of the first Sunday after Christmas—“the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” I need to keep telling myself this. It is too dark otherwise not to keep lifting up the light. I have to remember that the violence of anti-Muslim hatred—even when perpetrated by those who call themselves Christian—will not win.
The darkness now, though, is very dark. I read a facebook post from a Muslim activist, Sofia Ali-Khan, who talks about how the rhetoric is no longer ignore-able. She invites allies to check in with the Muslims they know, to learn, to stand in solidarity. The causes of big political hatred can seem beyond us, but the reality is that hatred is transmitted person to person, and the place where hearts are changed is from person to person. That could be a gentle “Well, no, all Muslims don’t believe in terrorism” when a friend seems to imply otherwise, to a quiet smile at a woman in a head scarf at the grocery store. These are not earth shattering gestures, but they hold up light in a terribly dark time.
That’s what’s at stake at Christmas—the light coming to be born in this darkest time of the year (literally as well as metaphorically). We are working to make a world for that light to shine as well as looking for ways to allow that light to shine in our own hearts, in quiet and peace.
What does that look like for you these days?
Blessings,
Sara+
This week I’m reeling a little from the horrifying rhetoric coming out of certain corners of Christianity and American politics. Whether Jerry Falwell, Jr. exhorting the students of Liberty University to carry guns to “end those Muslims before they walked in and killed us” or Donald Trump wanting to bar Muslims from entering the United States, it seems like whatever level of “too far” I think I’ve heard one week, the next week it goes further.
That’s not my Christianity and not my country. As Shane Claiborne pointed out in a response to Falwell, Jesus carried a cross, not a weapon. When Peter moved to defend him from the Romans and cut the solider’s ear off, Jesus said no. Always, always, the way of Christ is the way of non-violence. I don’t pretend to always live as Jesus invited us, but I hope to recognize it when I see it in others, and hope that I turn away from vengeance when I find it in myself. The power of peace and love is what makes resurrection happen, the power of God in Jesus and for us. We are called to repent, to turn away, from the violent logic of the world that says that you just need to be faster with your own gun before someone else comes at you with theirs.
As Jerry Falwell, Jr. demonstrated last week (as have any number of domestic terrorists who call themselves Christian), Christianity as a whole, not just individuals, has need of repentance and conversion. Just as peace-seeking Muslims don’t recognize their faith in ISIS/Daesh, I don’t recognize my Jesus in Falwell, and I certainly don’t recognize my faith in those who would exclude or promote violence against Muslims. Whether the Crusades, or the Inquisition, or violence perpetrated against Native Americans, there are many examples when our faith, too, has failed to live up to the invitation of Jesus to love.
Again and again, I keep coming back to that reading we hear as part of the first Sunday after Christmas—“the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” I need to keep telling myself this. It is too dark otherwise not to keep lifting up the light. I have to remember that the violence of anti-Muslim hatred—even when perpetrated by those who call themselves Christian—will not win.
The darkness now, though, is very dark. I read a facebook post from a Muslim activist, Sofia Ali-Khan, who talks about how the rhetoric is no longer ignore-able. She invites allies to check in with the Muslims they know, to learn, to stand in solidarity. The causes of big political hatred can seem beyond us, but the reality is that hatred is transmitted person to person, and the place where hearts are changed is from person to person. That could be a gentle “Well, no, all Muslims don’t believe in terrorism” when a friend seems to imply otherwise, to a quiet smile at a woman in a head scarf at the grocery store. These are not earth shattering gestures, but they hold up light in a terribly dark time.
That’s what’s at stake at Christmas—the light coming to be born in this darkest time of the year (literally as well as metaphorically). We are working to make a world for that light to shine as well as looking for ways to allow that light to shine in our own hearts, in quiet and peace.
What does that look like for you these days?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Prayer and Action
Dear People of Christ Church,
When in my sermon on Sunday I talked about the place of fear in American culture, about the latest shooting in Colorado when a gunman murdered three people at a Planned Parenthood clinic, I did not expect so soon to need to review my comments in light of yet another attack, yet another tragic scene of mayhem and tragedy. Whether at the hands of Christians or Muslims or white supremacists, our world knows tragedy, suffering, and evil. Jesus knew these as well.
What I said on Sunday still holds—the Gospel good news of Jesus’ invitation to lift up our heads and not be afraid (Luke 21:25-36). Even as the National Rifle Association insists that guns make us safer. Even as every politician, from Donald Trump to Barack Obama, insists that war can lead to peace, Jesus tells us to lift up our heads and not be afraid. Even as it seems the world is spinning out of control, Jesus’ answer is the same: do not be afraid.
An image from the New York Daily News front page response to politicians’ weak announcements of “prayers for the victims” declares boldy that “God isn’t fixing this.” Some people have said they’re condemning prayer, but I don’t think that’s it at all. The condemnation is of empty prayer, prayer that isn’t backed up by action. We do need to pray. Sometimes it feels like it’s all we can do, and surely it’s the first thing we should do. But we also need to allow our prayers and God’s will for the world to soak into our lives, to permeate every cell, so they also lead us to act. The guns used in the San Bernardino shooting were purchased legally. The guns were operating as intended. God can’t fix that. God can only fix us.
And the Spirit moves in the world. That’s the other thing—Advent reminds us that God is acting. That’s where there is cause for hope. Hopefully, we will cease to fear each other. Hopefully, as the Spirit moves in the world, Muslims will cease being targeted for their faith. Hopefully, as the Spirit moves in the world, our hearts and minds will be moved to act to prevent violence. My friend Tom, who pastors at First Lutheran, told a story today in our interfaith clergy group about how he had gone to the Mosque on Moody Street the day after the Paris attacks to ask how he and his congregation could be of support in the days ahead. Imam Abdallah told him just one thing—to know that Islam is a religion of peace and love. Peace and love. As a Christian, I don’t want to claim the person who committed the attacks in Colorado last week any more than he wants to claim any terrorist acts committed in the name of his religion. We need to know and respect one another for who we are.
Finally, in our prayer and sadness, it seems important also to remember that these are the places where God enters. I’ll share this quote from Jean Vanier, a theologian who founded the L’Arche communities for those who are developmentally disabled and those who are not to live together.
Our brokenness is the wound
through which the full power of God
can penetrate our being and transfigure us in God.
Loneliness is not something from which we must flee
but the place from where we can cry out to God,
where God will find us and we can find God.
Yes, through our wounds
the power of God can penetrate us
and become like rivers of living water
to irrigate the arid earth within us.
Thus we may irrigate the arid earth of others,
so that hope and love are reborn.
– Jean Vanier
The Broken Body (1988, Paulist Press). Quoted by Suzanne Guthrie at www.edgeofenclosure.org
Blessings,
Sara+
When in my sermon on Sunday I talked about the place of fear in American culture, about the latest shooting in Colorado when a gunman murdered three people at a Planned Parenthood clinic, I did not expect so soon to need to review my comments in light of yet another attack, yet another tragic scene of mayhem and tragedy. Whether at the hands of Christians or Muslims or white supremacists, our world knows tragedy, suffering, and evil. Jesus knew these as well.
What I said on Sunday still holds—the Gospel good news of Jesus’ invitation to lift up our heads and not be afraid (Luke 21:25-36). Even as the National Rifle Association insists that guns make us safer. Even as every politician, from Donald Trump to Barack Obama, insists that war can lead to peace, Jesus tells us to lift up our heads and not be afraid. Even as it seems the world is spinning out of control, Jesus’ answer is the same: do not be afraid.
An image from the New York Daily News front page response to politicians’ weak announcements of “prayers for the victims” declares boldy that “God isn’t fixing this.” Some people have said they’re condemning prayer, but I don’t think that’s it at all. The condemnation is of empty prayer, prayer that isn’t backed up by action. We do need to pray. Sometimes it feels like it’s all we can do, and surely it’s the first thing we should do. But we also need to allow our prayers and God’s will for the world to soak into our lives, to permeate every cell, so they also lead us to act. The guns used in the San Bernardino shooting were purchased legally. The guns were operating as intended. God can’t fix that. God can only fix us.
And the Spirit moves in the world. That’s the other thing—Advent reminds us that God is acting. That’s where there is cause for hope. Hopefully, we will cease to fear each other. Hopefully, as the Spirit moves in the world, Muslims will cease being targeted for their faith. Hopefully, as the Spirit moves in the world, our hearts and minds will be moved to act to prevent violence. My friend Tom, who pastors at First Lutheran, told a story today in our interfaith clergy group about how he had gone to the Mosque on Moody Street the day after the Paris attacks to ask how he and his congregation could be of support in the days ahead. Imam Abdallah told him just one thing—to know that Islam is a religion of peace and love. Peace and love. As a Christian, I don’t want to claim the person who committed the attacks in Colorado last week any more than he wants to claim any terrorist acts committed in the name of his religion. We need to know and respect one another for who we are.
Finally, in our prayer and sadness, it seems important also to remember that these are the places where God enters. I’ll share this quote from Jean Vanier, a theologian who founded the L’Arche communities for those who are developmentally disabled and those who are not to live together.
Our brokenness is the wound
through which the full power of God
can penetrate our being and transfigure us in God.
Loneliness is not something from which we must flee
but the place from where we can cry out to God,
where God will find us and we can find God.
Yes, through our wounds
the power of God can penetrate us
and become like rivers of living water
to irrigate the arid earth within us.
Thus we may irrigate the arid earth of others,
so that hope and love are reborn.
– Jean Vanier
The Broken Body (1988, Paulist Press). Quoted by Suzanne Guthrie at www.edgeofenclosure.org
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Thanksgiving Blessings
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—for a secular holiday, Thanksgiving is a very theological idea. The other thing I always share at this time of year are resources around end of life issues. We live in the shadow of the cross, but the light is cast by resurrection—our faith gives us a freedom to consider our death as a time when “life is changed, not ended,” so we can be brave in discussing these questions even if the wider culture tells us it’s “morbid” or “negative.” It’s real, and pretending we won’t die does not make it so.
Every summer, 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, and there will be print copies in the entryway narthex on Sunday.
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—for a secular holiday, Thanksgiving is a very theological idea. The other thing I always share at this time of year are resources around end of life issues. We live in the shadow of the cross, but the light is cast by resurrection—our faith gives us a freedom to consider our death as a time when “life is changed, not ended,” so we can be brave in discussing these questions even if the wider culture tells us it’s “morbid” or “negative.” It’s real, and pretending we won’t die does not make it so.
Every summer, 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, and there will be print copies in the entryway narthex on Sunday.
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+
Thursday, November 19, 2015
A Container for Grace
Dear People of Christ Church,
Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who are making our annual stewardship and roof campaign possible. From stewardship co-chairs Heather and Chris Leonardo who have invited us into our dreaming and reflecting on our past, present and future, to Michael Mailman reminding us of how the light comes through the windows and Jonathan Duce presenting us with the shingles that had blown off the roof, to Doug telling us the story of our 2011 campaign and how his family had just joined, and how far we’ve come since then. I spoke in my sermon about how our building is a container for grace—how this is a place where transformation happens. Whether people coming for AA, or Chaplains on the Way contemplative prayer, or REACH’s trainings on elder violence or yoga for survivors, or each one of you, your imagination caught by some indescribable something that reminds you of how God is present and moving in your life—750 Main Street is a place where things happen.
This is a place where things happen for us and for our city. Where the hungry are fed at Grandma’s Pantry, the wet baby gets dry at Diaper Depot, and our Sunday School classes invite our children into times of wonder and joy at the stories of God’s living Word.
Our 2011 campaign is on track—bathrooms and carpets and parking lot are all being funded and rolling along, but to avoid jeopardizing all of that good work we need to attend to the roof. When he started working here last summer, Daniel, our music director, didn’t know that it sometimes rains over the organ! So there is much to do, and so many people passionate for the work of God who are doing it. If you weren’t in church, please check out their videos on youtube. I’m also sharing a recording of my sermon here.
Finally, I can’t let this week go without offering some words about the current moment in our country regarding Syrian refugees. The fact that a Syrian passport was found near one of the terrorist’s bodies after the attacks in Paris has led fully half of US governors, including our own Charlie Baker, to say that Syrians are not welcome in their states. Not only are the vetting processes for refugees coming to the United States among the most stringent in the world, to single out a single nation as somehow more suspect than any other is simple intolerance. You can read their whole letter here, but let me close with these words from Christian leaders across the state, including our own bishops Alan and Gayle, as well as Mass Council of Churches Executive Director Laura Everett:
Refugees do not bring terror, they are fleeing from it.
As Christians we try to live our lives in accordance with Jesus’ Great Commandment—to love our neighbors as ourselves. We want safe homes, the freedom to worship, stable governments and opportunities to thrive. Our Syrian neighbors desire the same. Our faith also teaches us to welcome the stranger. Syrians seeking refuge, as well as the Somalians, Bhutanese, Iraqis, Central Americans and others, are neighbors worthy of our welcome and in need of our care. Our nation is founded on this welcome. We must make sure that we do not allow fear to overwhelm us, crowd out our compassion, or fundamentally change our character. We refuse to live as a Commonwealth scared of those unlike us.
Amen, Amen, Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who are making our annual stewardship and roof campaign possible. From stewardship co-chairs Heather and Chris Leonardo who have invited us into our dreaming and reflecting on our past, present and future, to Michael Mailman reminding us of how the light comes through the windows and Jonathan Duce presenting us with the shingles that had blown off the roof, to Doug telling us the story of our 2011 campaign and how his family had just joined, and how far we’ve come since then. I spoke in my sermon about how our building is a container for grace—how this is a place where transformation happens. Whether people coming for AA, or Chaplains on the Way contemplative prayer, or REACH’s trainings on elder violence or yoga for survivors, or each one of you, your imagination caught by some indescribable something that reminds you of how God is present and moving in your life—750 Main Street is a place where things happen.
This is a place where things happen for us and for our city. Where the hungry are fed at Grandma’s Pantry, the wet baby gets dry at Diaper Depot, and our Sunday School classes invite our children into times of wonder and joy at the stories of God’s living Word.
Our 2011 campaign is on track—bathrooms and carpets and parking lot are all being funded and rolling along, but to avoid jeopardizing all of that good work we need to attend to the roof. When he started working here last summer, Daniel, our music director, didn’t know that it sometimes rains over the organ! So there is much to do, and so many people passionate for the work of God who are doing it. If you weren’t in church, please check out their videos on youtube. I’m also sharing a recording of my sermon here.
Finally, I can’t let this week go without offering some words about the current moment in our country regarding Syrian refugees. The fact that a Syrian passport was found near one of the terrorist’s bodies after the attacks in Paris has led fully half of US governors, including our own Charlie Baker, to say that Syrians are not welcome in their states. Not only are the vetting processes for refugees coming to the United States among the most stringent in the world, to single out a single nation as somehow more suspect than any other is simple intolerance. You can read their whole letter here, but let me close with these words from Christian leaders across the state, including our own bishops Alan and Gayle, as well as Mass Council of Churches Executive Director Laura Everett:
Refugees do not bring terror, they are fleeing from it.
As Christians we try to live our lives in accordance with Jesus’ Great Commandment—to love our neighbors as ourselves. We want safe homes, the freedom to worship, stable governments and opportunities to thrive. Our Syrian neighbors desire the same. Our faith also teaches us to welcome the stranger. Syrians seeking refuge, as well as the Somalians, Bhutanese, Iraqis, Central Americans and others, are neighbors worthy of our welcome and in need of our care. Our nation is founded on this welcome. We must make sure that we do not allow fear to overwhelm us, crowd out our compassion, or fundamentally change our character. We refuse to live as a Commonwealth scared of those unlike us.
Amen, Amen, Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Big Dreams
Dear People of Christ Church,
Last Sunday, parishioner Maria Aleman invited us to think about our “big dream” for Christ Church. She talked about how delighted she and her wife had been to find a community where they could ground their marriage in their faith. She talked about how Christ Church reaches out into the community in welcome and love. She said her big dream was for us to be a place for learners—where a school could ground people in love of God and love of knowledge. Or a place for newcomers to the US who need to learn English, to offer support and instruction for those in need of new skills. She talked about her big dreams. What are your big dreams?
A colleague of mine recently described me to someone as the priest from “the diaper church,” because we are known for our outreach to families in need. When I first started working here the parish used to hold 4 rummage sales a year, taking over the whole lower hall for months at a time. Our “white elephant” room was well known around town. I once received a phone call from someone asking, “Is this the church where you come and get people’s stuff when they die?” Indeed we were. We’re also the senior food pantry church, the church that has a Ugandan Church, and “the big stone church.” Those are all ways that we’ve been known, and are known. How do you know us?
Maria’s talk got me thinking about how my big dreams have changed over the years. When we started planning our work on the entryway narthex and our tower in 2011, we learned that the whole structure was unstable, from the floor of the narthex to the cross at the top—at that point, the big dream was that no one would risk bodily injury coming to church! Those dreams were dreams I never even imagined we’d need to tackle—and while it sounds modest to dream about a secure building, in the year 2015 it’s actually not. Waltham has said goodbye to Immanuel Methodist and to the Evangelical Covenant Church, both beautiful, historic churches that were once part of the lifeblood of our town. The Episcopal Church in Wayland closed last summer, and we’re receiving the Stations of the Cross from St John the Evangelist, which closed this fall.
So, yes, my dreams do include the stability of our building, because I love what other dreams it makes possible. My big dreams are of a place where everyone knows that God loves them, that Christ can be found in every single person. My big dreams are of a place that gets to be the church that really, truly welcomes everyone, where you walk in and think, “Wow, something is happening here that is getting me curious about what God might be doing in my life.” My big dream is of a place where you can lose yourself in transcendence and awe and then walk out the doors and remember that Jesus is hanging out on the park bench as well, not only met in bread and wine. My big dream is that we can remember that, to paraphrase the prayer book, we come for “strength, as well as solace, for renewal, as well as forgiveness.” My big dream for Christ Church is that we become a place where we take risks together, knowing that Christ’s heart beating in us makes us strong. My big dream is that wandering toddlers bless us all with their sense of freedom while elders bless us with their wisdom and generosity.
What’s your dream?
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S. Here’s the link—apologies for the cut off! (watch here).
Last Sunday, parishioner Maria Aleman invited us to think about our “big dream” for Christ Church. She talked about how delighted she and her wife had been to find a community where they could ground their marriage in their faith. She talked about how Christ Church reaches out into the community in welcome and love. She said her big dream was for us to be a place for learners—where a school could ground people in love of God and love of knowledge. Or a place for newcomers to the US who need to learn English, to offer support and instruction for those in need of new skills. She talked about her big dreams. What are your big dreams?
A colleague of mine recently described me to someone as the priest from “the diaper church,” because we are known for our outreach to families in need. When I first started working here the parish used to hold 4 rummage sales a year, taking over the whole lower hall for months at a time. Our “white elephant” room was well known around town. I once received a phone call from someone asking, “Is this the church where you come and get people’s stuff when they die?” Indeed we were. We’re also the senior food pantry church, the church that has a Ugandan Church, and “the big stone church.” Those are all ways that we’ve been known, and are known. How do you know us?
Maria’s talk got me thinking about how my big dreams have changed over the years. When we started planning our work on the entryway narthex and our tower in 2011, we learned that the whole structure was unstable, from the floor of the narthex to the cross at the top—at that point, the big dream was that no one would risk bodily injury coming to church! Those dreams were dreams I never even imagined we’d need to tackle—and while it sounds modest to dream about a secure building, in the year 2015 it’s actually not. Waltham has said goodbye to Immanuel Methodist and to the Evangelical Covenant Church, both beautiful, historic churches that were once part of the lifeblood of our town. The Episcopal Church in Wayland closed last summer, and we’re receiving the Stations of the Cross from St John the Evangelist, which closed this fall.
So, yes, my dreams do include the stability of our building, because I love what other dreams it makes possible. My big dreams are of a place where everyone knows that God loves them, that Christ can be found in every single person. My big dreams are of a place that gets to be the church that really, truly welcomes everyone, where you walk in and think, “Wow, something is happening here that is getting me curious about what God might be doing in my life.” My big dream is of a place where you can lose yourself in transcendence and awe and then walk out the doors and remember that Jesus is hanging out on the park bench as well, not only met in bread and wine. My big dream is that we can remember that, to paraphrase the prayer book, we come for “strength, as well as solace, for renewal, as well as forgiveness.” My big dream for Christ Church is that we become a place where we take risks together, knowing that Christ’s heart beating in us makes us strong. My big dream is that wandering toddlers bless us all with their sense of freedom while elders bless us with their wisdom and generosity.
What’s your dream?
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S. Here’s the link—apologies for the cut off! (watch here).
Thursday, November 5, 2015
The Search for Justice
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week our Old Testament reading is from Ruth—we leave Job, and move into several weeks of Old Testament texts about women. Naomi and Ruth this week, Hannah in the book of Samuel next week. Then before we know it, it’s Advent! In trying to come up with something that speaks to a week of elections, though, I find myself back with Job.
Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. (Job 1:21).
Job comes to mind not because I feel particularly long-suffering about any of the results of the elections this week, but more because I was looking for something to put in context both the joy and sorrow of human politics. Whether your candidate won or lost, it’s worth it to remember that as vital as these contests are, God’s presence with us is unchanging. Unfolding, yes, revelatory, yes, contextualized, yes, but still unchanging.
No matter who the mayor is, there are still hungry to be fed. No matter who the president is, there will still be peace to build. No matter who sits on city council, there will still be those for whom we must advocate. This fall, my husband’s church spent several weeks reading the beatitudes for their adult formation time. Noah and I walk together almost every morning, and our conversations would often turn to what each of us were thinking about for work. His refrain for the conversations at Grace Church during that time was always, “Not a tweak.” To dry the tears of the weeping? Not a tweak. To see how the poor are blessed? Not a tweak. To give your cloak as well as your shirt? Not a tweak. To be serious about making peace? Again. Not a tweak. You can’t just go on ahead with business as usual with a little extra sprinkling of discipleship on top. The invitation is for our faith in God to be woven throughout our lives, not an extra cherry to make things look nice.
If we are serious about being disciples of Jesus, our whole lives will require a turning toward the good news of God in Christ. It’s not about giving to the poor when you happen to have money in your pocket; it’s about making sure you don’t come up empty handed when it’s time. If you never have cash in your pocket, you can honestly and kindly say “No, I don’t have any change,” when someone asks. It’s a little like confronting a kid after Halloween who has chocolate streaked over their chin with the question of whether they have any candy. With open hands, the kid says, “No! Of course not! No candy here!” but only because he just stuffed it in his mouth.
Electoral politics are important, but will also only take you so far. As clear as it seems to me that Jesus would vote for “my” candidate, I am also aware of the caution offered by, I think, Anne Lamott: You know your faith is in trouble when you assume that God hates the same people you do.
So wherever you land this election week Thursday, here’s my prayer.
May your heart be enlarged by the compassion of Christ, your vision widened by a God who holds everyone precious in the divine sight, your mind set on fire by the Spirit’s relentless search for justice. Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week our Old Testament reading is from Ruth—we leave Job, and move into several weeks of Old Testament texts about women. Naomi and Ruth this week, Hannah in the book of Samuel next week. Then before we know it, it’s Advent! In trying to come up with something that speaks to a week of elections, though, I find myself back with Job.
Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. (Job 1:21).
Job comes to mind not because I feel particularly long-suffering about any of the results of the elections this week, but more because I was looking for something to put in context both the joy and sorrow of human politics. Whether your candidate won or lost, it’s worth it to remember that as vital as these contests are, God’s presence with us is unchanging. Unfolding, yes, revelatory, yes, contextualized, yes, but still unchanging.
No matter who the mayor is, there are still hungry to be fed. No matter who the president is, there will still be peace to build. No matter who sits on city council, there will still be those for whom we must advocate. This fall, my husband’s church spent several weeks reading the beatitudes for their adult formation time. Noah and I walk together almost every morning, and our conversations would often turn to what each of us were thinking about for work. His refrain for the conversations at Grace Church during that time was always, “Not a tweak.” To dry the tears of the weeping? Not a tweak. To see how the poor are blessed? Not a tweak. To give your cloak as well as your shirt? Not a tweak. To be serious about making peace? Again. Not a tweak. You can’t just go on ahead with business as usual with a little extra sprinkling of discipleship on top. The invitation is for our faith in God to be woven throughout our lives, not an extra cherry to make things look nice.
If we are serious about being disciples of Jesus, our whole lives will require a turning toward the good news of God in Christ. It’s not about giving to the poor when you happen to have money in your pocket; it’s about making sure you don’t come up empty handed when it’s time. If you never have cash in your pocket, you can honestly and kindly say “No, I don’t have any change,” when someone asks. It’s a little like confronting a kid after Halloween who has chocolate streaked over their chin with the question of whether they have any candy. With open hands, the kid says, “No! Of course not! No candy here!” but only because he just stuffed it in his mouth.
Electoral politics are important, but will also only take you so far. As clear as it seems to me that Jesus would vote for “my” candidate, I am also aware of the caution offered by, I think, Anne Lamott: You know your faith is in trouble when you assume that God hates the same people you do.
So wherever you land this election week Thursday, here’s my prayer.
May your heart be enlarged by the compassion of Christ, your vision widened by a God who holds everyone precious in the divine sight, your mind set on fire by the Spirit’s relentless search for justice. Amen.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Deeply Seen by Jesus
Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m still mulling over the Gospel for Sunday, Jesus’ encounter with the rich young man. It’s an astonishing and tragic moment: he comes up to Jesus and bows down, offering deference and respect. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” We can imagine that maybe he’s expecting to be told he’s doing well; he says he has kept all the commandments. But something unanticipated happens—Jesus looks at him, and loves him. In that loving glance, Jesus sees him and knows him, and tells him what he’s missing: “You lack one thing. Go, sell all you own, and give the money to the poor. Then come, follow me.” The man was looking for approval, not grace. Certainly not this kind of love that will change his life. So he leaves. The text says, “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”
This, it seems to me, is as clear a picture of hell as we ever see in the New Testament. Never mind all that stuff about the eternal fire where the worm never dies we heard a few weeks ago. This is the real thing. All of the promises of God’s eternity so close he could touch it, and instead he turns his back. The psychological keenness of the Gospel story is so striking—he went away grieving. Giving in to his fear, he can’t listen to his sorrow. He walks away into hell, rejecting the invitation and love of Jesus.
There is a stained glass window at Grace Church in Medford, where my husband is the rector, that has a person with exactly the same expression as I imagine Jesus offering this young man. It’s full of compassion and love, a deep, knowing comfort. In this all-encompassing gaze, you are seen, deeply seen. All of your fears, all of your vulnerability, all of your joy and strength. And I imagine when this young man encountered Jesus looking at him like that, he just couldn’t manage it. It was too much. This is where the depth of this story really hits home—that glance. How often do I let my fear of vulnerability take over? How often do I rely on the safety of invisibility rather than the risk of transformation?
What would I do if I heard that call to sell everything I own and give it to the poor? Jesus is really clear here—it’s give the money. Not to a charitable organization that will “responsibly” dole out assistance. It’s about the cash, here, giving it up and giving it to those who don’t have any. Is this the call of the Gospel now? With every home improvement project and nice sweater I buy, am I walking step by step away from the promises of eternal life? Is it possible still to inch closer and closer, slowly, slowly, near to God’s dream of peace and justice, however often we become distracted and confused? How about you? Where are you encountering that love of Jesus, and how are you turning toward it?
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S. So—when I say I like the window—I really like the window. I sat opposite it when I was on sabbatical three years ago and sang in the choir at Grace, and started contemplating it as a tattoo. This fall I took the plunge—more about that process on my own blog.
I’m still mulling over the Gospel for Sunday, Jesus’ encounter with the rich young man. It’s an astonishing and tragic moment: he comes up to Jesus and bows down, offering deference and respect. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” We can imagine that maybe he’s expecting to be told he’s doing well; he says he has kept all the commandments. But something unanticipated happens—Jesus looks at him, and loves him. In that loving glance, Jesus sees him and knows him, and tells him what he’s missing: “You lack one thing. Go, sell all you own, and give the money to the poor. Then come, follow me.” The man was looking for approval, not grace. Certainly not this kind of love that will change his life. So he leaves. The text says, “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”
This, it seems to me, is as clear a picture of hell as we ever see in the New Testament. Never mind all that stuff about the eternal fire where the worm never dies we heard a few weeks ago. This is the real thing. All of the promises of God’s eternity so close he could touch it, and instead he turns his back. The psychological keenness of the Gospel story is so striking—he went away grieving. Giving in to his fear, he can’t listen to his sorrow. He walks away into hell, rejecting the invitation and love of Jesus.
There is a stained glass window at Grace Church in Medford, where my husband is the rector, that has a person with exactly the same expression as I imagine Jesus offering this young man. It’s full of compassion and love, a deep, knowing comfort. In this all-encompassing gaze, you are seen, deeply seen. All of your fears, all of your vulnerability, all of your joy and strength. And I imagine when this young man encountered Jesus looking at him like that, he just couldn’t manage it. It was too much. This is where the depth of this story really hits home—that glance. How often do I let my fear of vulnerability take over? How often do I rely on the safety of invisibility rather than the risk of transformation?
What would I do if I heard that call to sell everything I own and give it to the poor? Jesus is really clear here—it’s give the money. Not to a charitable organization that will “responsibly” dole out assistance. It’s about the cash, here, giving it up and giving it to those who don’t have any. Is this the call of the Gospel now? With every home improvement project and nice sweater I buy, am I walking step by step away from the promises of eternal life? Is it possible still to inch closer and closer, slowly, slowly, near to God’s dream of peace and justice, however often we become distracted and confused? How about you? Where are you encountering that love of Jesus, and how are you turning toward it?
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S. So—when I say I like the window—I really like the window. I sat opposite it when I was on sabbatical three years ago and sang in the choir at Grace, and started contemplating it as a tattoo. This fall I took the plunge—more about that process on my own blog.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
I Give my Heart To
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’m delighted to share that our Tuesday night education for all ages went off swimmingly, with about 15 of us gathered for dinner, conversation (both a kids’ section and one for adults), and Eucharist. We all looked at the same lessons from the book of Kings—the adults with text and the kids with felt and wood. We heard about the prophet Elijah, as he was fed by ravens, supported by a widow, and imparted his “Spirit” to Elisha, his prophetic successor. Godly Play defines a prophet as “someone who comes so close to God and God comes so close to them, they know what God wants.” I am not a prophet and I’m not sure who in our world now I’d offer that appellation, but I know that the prophetic call is part of our faith, even if we wouldn’t adopt that identity. To be close to God and listen for what God wants—both for the world and for ourselves.
In Scripture, there’s a unity between the prophet and God’s desire—God’s desires become their desires. And, maybe, their desires become God’s desire. God provides, not always as they might want, but as God wills. Someone in Tuesday’s conversation laid it straight on the table—“Am I really supposed to believe this?” That someone lived in the wilderness and didn’t starve because the birds fed him? That the widow who gave him her last morsel of food had a miraculous bag of flour and bottle of oil that never ran out? Here, as I often do, I find it’s helpful to hold the meaning of “belief” a little lightly. I believe in the wonder of a God who makes something out of nothing, in ways both small and great. I believe that, as we remembered the prayer of St Francis on Sunday, “in giving we receive,” and that each of our small generosities add up to something enormous and holy, something that’s only possible in community. I believe in a world in which three women at our service for domestic violence month could get up in front of the church and speak the truth about their experience, that they were done wearing masks or pretending things were fine. That going forward is not the same as “moving on.” That those who are hurt by violence and evil can respond with love, kindness, and generosity without giving those who hurt them the last word. These are all prophetic tasks, whether or not those who embody these graces would claim that title for themselves.
So yes, yes I do think we can believe it, but maybe more in the traditional Latin sense of the word credo, rather than the usual sense of the English. Credo means “I give my heart to.” Sometimes it’s intentional, choosing to invest ourselves in something bigger than ourselves. Sometimes we slip into it, like falling in love unexpectedly. And sometimes it’s something like faith, where the answer is sometimes yes, and sometimes no, but step by step we walk the path together.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week I’m delighted to share that our Tuesday night education for all ages went off swimmingly, with about 15 of us gathered for dinner, conversation (both a kids’ section and one for adults), and Eucharist. We all looked at the same lessons from the book of Kings—the adults with text and the kids with felt and wood. We heard about the prophet Elijah, as he was fed by ravens, supported by a widow, and imparted his “Spirit” to Elisha, his prophetic successor. Godly Play defines a prophet as “someone who comes so close to God and God comes so close to them, they know what God wants.” I am not a prophet and I’m not sure who in our world now I’d offer that appellation, but I know that the prophetic call is part of our faith, even if we wouldn’t adopt that identity. To be close to God and listen for what God wants—both for the world and for ourselves.
In Scripture, there’s a unity between the prophet and God’s desire—God’s desires become their desires. And, maybe, their desires become God’s desire. God provides, not always as they might want, but as God wills. Someone in Tuesday’s conversation laid it straight on the table—“Am I really supposed to believe this?” That someone lived in the wilderness and didn’t starve because the birds fed him? That the widow who gave him her last morsel of food had a miraculous bag of flour and bottle of oil that never ran out? Here, as I often do, I find it’s helpful to hold the meaning of “belief” a little lightly. I believe in the wonder of a God who makes something out of nothing, in ways both small and great. I believe that, as we remembered the prayer of St Francis on Sunday, “in giving we receive,” and that each of our small generosities add up to something enormous and holy, something that’s only possible in community. I believe in a world in which three women at our service for domestic violence month could get up in front of the church and speak the truth about their experience, that they were done wearing masks or pretending things were fine. That going forward is not the same as “moving on.” That those who are hurt by violence and evil can respond with love, kindness, and generosity without giving those who hurt them the last word. These are all prophetic tasks, whether or not those who embody these graces would claim that title for themselves.
So yes, yes I do think we can believe it, but maybe more in the traditional Latin sense of the word credo, rather than the usual sense of the English. Credo means “I give my heart to.” Sometimes it’s intentional, choosing to invest ourselves in something bigger than ourselves. Sometimes we slip into it, like falling in love unexpectedly. And sometimes it’s something like faith, where the answer is sometimes yes, and sometimes no, but step by step we walk the path together.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Blessing our Created Nature
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’m excited to be planning for an action-packed week ahead, with some very odd juxtapositions. On Sunday we’ll have our annual St Francis Day blessing of the animals at the 10am service—worshippers of all species will be welcomed with a blessing and sign of peace. I think we usually end up with more stuffed animal friends than living ones, but I hope if you’re a pet owner you’ll consider bringing, if not your pet, a picture of them. At my house we are not pet owners—our cat and dog both died within two months of each other 6 years ago, and to be honest we haven’t looked back. Caring for young children has seemed like enough for me. But…
There’s always a “but.” This summer a woodchuck moved into our yard. At first we thought there was just one, but there are distinctly now a fatter one and a thinner one, and with that combination I can only guess that there might be smaller woodchucks on the way. They ate our cucumber plants, but for the most part left the garden alone. The thing I appreciate about them is the sense of surprise they bring—my daughter races to the window at breakfast to see if “Chuckie” is also eating. In the hymn attributed to St Francis, “All Creatures of our God and King,” we sing the praises of creation and God’s blessing and provision for us. Watching for our woodchucks makes me feel part of a wider whole, a creature dwelling beside others. At least as long as the woodchucks continue to behave themselves reasonably well!
If on Sunday we remember the goodness and delight of our created nature, on Monday we remember the tragic dimension our relationships sometimes take, when grace and trust are replaced by control and the desire for power. In our service for hope and healing from domestic violence we’ll sing, pray, and listen to the voices of survivors. Alison (who is returning to her unmarried name of Shea, no longer Lasiewski) will sing, Anna Jones will preach, and MJ from Reach who also spoke last year will be joined by Marisa, also from Reach. The centerpiece of the service will be a time of candle lighting, when people are invited to come forward and light a candle of prayer for themselves or another. This year I’m glad to have as a partner Pastor Angel from Santuario Waltham, a new Spanish-speaking Lutheran congregation beginning in Waltham, based at First Lutheran Church.
It’s an ecumenical service—there won’t be communion, and, if you’ll pardon the term, it’s not terribly “Jesusy.” But I will be thinking of the crucifixion and resurrection, about how even in the most terrible places of suffering and pain the love of God finds a way to come through. Even though sharing the sacrament is important to our community, there is something lovely about making space for others to pray together, to set aside “my” practice for something that more people can share.
Blessings on these cooling fall days, and the presence of God in every aspect of our lives.
Peace,
Sara+
This week I’m excited to be planning for an action-packed week ahead, with some very odd juxtapositions. On Sunday we’ll have our annual St Francis Day blessing of the animals at the 10am service—worshippers of all species will be welcomed with a blessing and sign of peace. I think we usually end up with more stuffed animal friends than living ones, but I hope if you’re a pet owner you’ll consider bringing, if not your pet, a picture of them. At my house we are not pet owners—our cat and dog both died within two months of each other 6 years ago, and to be honest we haven’t looked back. Caring for young children has seemed like enough for me. But…
There’s always a “but.” This summer a woodchuck moved into our yard. At first we thought there was just one, but there are distinctly now a fatter one and a thinner one, and with that combination I can only guess that there might be smaller woodchucks on the way. They ate our cucumber plants, but for the most part left the garden alone. The thing I appreciate about them is the sense of surprise they bring—my daughter races to the window at breakfast to see if “Chuckie” is also eating. In the hymn attributed to St Francis, “All Creatures of our God and King,” we sing the praises of creation and God’s blessing and provision for us. Watching for our woodchucks makes me feel part of a wider whole, a creature dwelling beside others. At least as long as the woodchucks continue to behave themselves reasonably well!
If on Sunday we remember the goodness and delight of our created nature, on Monday we remember the tragic dimension our relationships sometimes take, when grace and trust are replaced by control and the desire for power. In our service for hope and healing from domestic violence we’ll sing, pray, and listen to the voices of survivors. Alison (who is returning to her unmarried name of Shea, no longer Lasiewski) will sing, Anna Jones will preach, and MJ from Reach who also spoke last year will be joined by Marisa, also from Reach. The centerpiece of the service will be a time of candle lighting, when people are invited to come forward and light a candle of prayer for themselves or another. This year I’m glad to have as a partner Pastor Angel from Santuario Waltham, a new Spanish-speaking Lutheran congregation beginning in Waltham, based at First Lutheran Church.
It’s an ecumenical service—there won’t be communion, and, if you’ll pardon the term, it’s not terribly “Jesusy.” But I will be thinking of the crucifixion and resurrection, about how even in the most terrible places of suffering and pain the love of God finds a way to come through. Even though sharing the sacrament is important to our community, there is something lovely about making space for others to pray together, to set aside “my” practice for something that more people can share.
Blessings on these cooling fall days, and the presence of God in every aspect of our lives.
Peace,
Sara+
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Tradition, Pageantry, and New Additions to the Christ Church Nave
Dear People of Christ Church,
Blessings on the first days of fall!
I’m excited to share the news that on Monday the Christ Church vestry took a vote, based on parishioner feedback, to adopt the Stations of the Cross from St John the Evangelist, Boston. Marjorie Hartman told me that her father had attended church there when he first came to the United States and that he had always loved the pageantry of the Episcopal Church, eventually leading him to our own Christ Church. That’s the same thing that I loved about St John the Evangelist, too, when I interned in the year 2000/01 before I went to seminary. I was sad to hear that the space was closing as a parish (it’ll become condos, most likely), but I’m so delighted to have a little piece of that sacred place here.
There was a time when the Anglican tradition made a huge fuss about rejecting anything that seemed more in line with the Roman Catholic side of the church. Not politely, such things were dismissed as “popish” idolatry. In the mid 1800s, a group based at Oxford began a revival of heretofore “Catholic” practices, like incense, candles, and more formal ritual, coupled with a commitment to ministry in the city. The response? In 1874 the ‘Public Worship Regulation Act” sent clergy to jail for wearing chasubles (that’s the big tent-like garment worn by the priest at the Eucharist in some churches). Using wafers at communion and water in the wine—all pretty non controversial now—were also suspect.
Kneeling at communion had long been a political question. In 1552 a text was written that came to be known as the “black rubric” because it was pasted in afterwards clarifying that worshippers were to receive communion kneeling, but not to get any ideas about the traditional (Roman Catholic) understanding of transubstantiation: For as concernynge the Sacramentall bread and wyne, they remayne styll in theyr verye naturall substaunces, and therefore may not be adored, for that were Idolatrye to be abhorred of all faythfull christians.
The black rubric has come out of there since then and our Anglican view of what the sacraments mean has broadened, somewhat, and become a little depoliticized. Every church still has their own traditions about their practices, but the wider world just doesn’t view things in those categories quite the same way. Are you “low” church or “high” church? The distinction seems pointless. I hope to lead our worship into good church, to be able to pull out all the stops with incense and bells and all the rest once in a while, but also to be comfortable enough that we understand that our prayer is to help us to give glory to God, not our own performance.
Blessings,
Sara+
Blessings on the first days of fall!
I’m excited to share the news that on Monday the Christ Church vestry took a vote, based on parishioner feedback, to adopt the Stations of the Cross from St John the Evangelist, Boston. Marjorie Hartman told me that her father had attended church there when he first came to the United States and that he had always loved the pageantry of the Episcopal Church, eventually leading him to our own Christ Church. That’s the same thing that I loved about St John the Evangelist, too, when I interned in the year 2000/01 before I went to seminary. I was sad to hear that the space was closing as a parish (it’ll become condos, most likely), but I’m so delighted to have a little piece of that sacred place here.
There was a time when the Anglican tradition made a huge fuss about rejecting anything that seemed more in line with the Roman Catholic side of the church. Not politely, such things were dismissed as “popish” idolatry. In the mid 1800s, a group based at Oxford began a revival of heretofore “Catholic” practices, like incense, candles, and more formal ritual, coupled with a commitment to ministry in the city. The response? In 1874 the ‘Public Worship Regulation Act” sent clergy to jail for wearing chasubles (that’s the big tent-like garment worn by the priest at the Eucharist in some churches). Using wafers at communion and water in the wine—all pretty non controversial now—were also suspect.
Kneeling at communion had long been a political question. In 1552 a text was written that came to be known as the “black rubric” because it was pasted in afterwards clarifying that worshippers were to receive communion kneeling, but not to get any ideas about the traditional (Roman Catholic) understanding of transubstantiation: For as concernynge the Sacramentall bread and wyne, they remayne styll in theyr verye naturall substaunces, and therefore may not be adored, for that were Idolatrye to be abhorred of all faythfull christians.
The black rubric has come out of there since then and our Anglican view of what the sacraments mean has broadened, somewhat, and become a little depoliticized. Every church still has their own traditions about their practices, but the wider world just doesn’t view things in those categories quite the same way. Are you “low” church or “high” church? The distinction seems pointless. I hope to lead our worship into good church, to be able to pull out all the stops with incense and bells and all the rest once in a while, but also to be comfortable enough that we understand that our prayer is to help us to give glory to God, not our own performance.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Rest in Peace, Paula
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I write with a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy at the amazing gift of the ten year anniversary of ministry celebration on Sunday—truly, it is a marvelous gift to be your priest—and sadness, with the death yesterday of Christ Church friend Paula Tatarunis. Paula had been on a complicated road of recovery from an AVM in her brain that came to light in February, and had been in various states of consciousness since then, almost recovering in April and having a setback when her brain began to bleed in a procedure intended to prevent future strokes. Paula was a brilliant, creative, dedicated, thoughtful, and just generally remarkable human being. She went from lurking in the back pew to being in charge of the altar guild in about five minutes, and helped to keep the choir together in some pretty lean times. She read everything from classical and medieval theology to inter-church debates over Anglican polity with the same intellectual fervor, humor, and some skepticism. She was a doctor at the clinic at Lawrence Memorial in Medford, but had also spent time as a “jailhouse doc” at MCI Norfolk, with a deep passion for justice for the men who were incarcerated there. Paula never rested on anything so simple as tradition or custom in her own spirituality, but was unfailingly dedicated to embodying the wider church tradition, setting the altar with a military precision pretty impressive for someone who was more of a pacifist.
Over the years, Paula came to find that she and Jesus were working through some differences that felt irreconcilable to her. The amount of translation she found herself needing to do to be in church was just too much. The mystery of God for Paula was silence and stillness, out taking pictures of dead weeds. God was harder to find for her in the particularity of Jesus and the practices of the church. We emailed off and on throughout her sojourn away—she was always still wrestling, always still seeking. Last December she came one Sunday and as we were emailing afterwards said it felt good, but that she felt like her vocation was in the outer darkness. She had so much light, though. It was a privilege to be her priest and a daunting wonder to plan her funeral for this Saturday.
I don’t know how other clergy do it, but I fall in love with each of you every single time, and it’s always bound for heartbreak. I cry at your funerals and your baptisms, just astonished at the grace of God and the fleeting nature of it all. This, of course, is the way of the cross—it’s the shape of human life that loss and grief weave through unbearable beauty. One of the graces of the time of accompanying Paula through her journey these last months has been getting to know her husband, Darrell, who, though he dismisses himself as an “agnostic Jewish heathen” shows a love for his wife so deep I can only see God there. The way of the cross is the way of life, as, too, resurrection. Whatever Paula finally thought about the theology of the Trinity, I am so sure that Jesus was just as in love with Paula as those of us who were blessed enough to know her in her life.
Services for Paula will be at Christ Church this Saturday at 1pm, with a larger memorial service with poetry and jazz planned for late October.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I write with a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy at the amazing gift of the ten year anniversary of ministry celebration on Sunday—truly, it is a marvelous gift to be your priest—and sadness, with the death yesterday of Christ Church friend Paula Tatarunis. Paula had been on a complicated road of recovery from an AVM in her brain that came to light in February, and had been in various states of consciousness since then, almost recovering in April and having a setback when her brain began to bleed in a procedure intended to prevent future strokes. Paula was a brilliant, creative, dedicated, thoughtful, and just generally remarkable human being. She went from lurking in the back pew to being in charge of the altar guild in about five minutes, and helped to keep the choir together in some pretty lean times. She read everything from classical and medieval theology to inter-church debates over Anglican polity with the same intellectual fervor, humor, and some skepticism. She was a doctor at the clinic at Lawrence Memorial in Medford, but had also spent time as a “jailhouse doc” at MCI Norfolk, with a deep passion for justice for the men who were incarcerated there. Paula never rested on anything so simple as tradition or custom in her own spirituality, but was unfailingly dedicated to embodying the wider church tradition, setting the altar with a military precision pretty impressive for someone who was more of a pacifist.
Over the years, Paula came to find that she and Jesus were working through some differences that felt irreconcilable to her. The amount of translation she found herself needing to do to be in church was just too much. The mystery of God for Paula was silence and stillness, out taking pictures of dead weeds. God was harder to find for her in the particularity of Jesus and the practices of the church. We emailed off and on throughout her sojourn away—she was always still wrestling, always still seeking. Last December she came one Sunday and as we were emailing afterwards said it felt good, but that she felt like her vocation was in the outer darkness. She had so much light, though. It was a privilege to be her priest and a daunting wonder to plan her funeral for this Saturday.
I don’t know how other clergy do it, but I fall in love with each of you every single time, and it’s always bound for heartbreak. I cry at your funerals and your baptisms, just astonished at the grace of God and the fleeting nature of it all. This, of course, is the way of the cross—it’s the shape of human life that loss and grief weave through unbearable beauty. One of the graces of the time of accompanying Paula through her journey these last months has been getting to know her husband, Darrell, who, though he dismisses himself as an “agnostic Jewish heathen” shows a love for his wife so deep I can only see God there. The way of the cross is the way of life, as, too, resurrection. Whatever Paula finally thought about the theology of the Trinity, I am so sure that Jesus was just as in love with Paula as those of us who were blessed enough to know her in her life.
Services for Paula will be at Christ Church this Saturday at 1pm, with a larger memorial service with poetry and jazz planned for late October.
Blessings,
Sara+
Welcome, Discomfort
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, as hopefully we all are, I’ve continued to be moved by the European migrant crisis. I came across a book of sermons by Walter Brueggeman, an Old Testament scholar, where in a sermon about a passage in the book of the prophet Isaiah he writes this:
There is something about [Jerusalem] that forgets the very mandate of fidelity that makes a city work. There is nothing here about removing these failed poor and making them invisible, deporting them because they are an economic inconvenience. No, because widows and orphans are not an inconvenience. They are a measure of the health of the city, to be measured in terms of justice and righteousness, and Jerusalem has failed that measure (p 50).
Jerusalem failed—our world has clearly failed, too. Refugees are not an inconvenience. Homeless people are not an inconvenience. Victims of addiction, war, environmental devastation. Not an inconvenience, but a signal of health or ill health. That’s about the world. No one is an inconvenience to the heart of God. Yes, we are failing. Yes, I falter. But it’s not hopeless.
The harsher realities of the world, a world where children are abandoned and whole swaths of people dismissed as criminals, have always been so. Whatever Jesus himself meant the time he said that the poor would always be with us, over the last two millennia, at least, so far he’s right. But economic poverty exposes spiritual poverty, and meeting economic need fulfills spiritual need. It goes both ways. The thing I love about Brueggeman’s point is that this is that it offers enough of a breather from the usual guilt/shame/despair cycle to allow for the breath of God to enter. It is only when it appears that the problems of the world and our souls rest in our own power that we get lost. If there is no hope, then that makes it awfully easy to do nothing.
I’ll share again here the prayer I offered on Sunday as part of the children’s sermon. It’s based on one from Thomas Keating, a Roman Catholic priest who has worked to return contemplative prayer and meditation into the Christian tradition.
Welcome, welcome, welcome.
I welcome everything that comes to me today
Because I know that God is with me.
I welcome the world
I welcome joy and sadness
I welcome fear and delight.
I welcome my friends
I welcome those who are difficult for me to love
I let go of my need to be in charge
I let go of my need for people to think I’m the best
I open myself to the love of God.
I open myself to the love of God.
To which, today, I would add: I welcome the discomfort of seeing those who are in pain. I welcome the feeling that I want to do more to help. I welcome the opportunity to see those here who are in need, asylum seekers to the United States who are in no less need than those across the ocean. I welcome the opportunity to ask hard questions, at how our hearts are moved and when, and what makes them blind. Welcome, welcome, welcome.
And what can you do?
Check out Refugee Immigration Ministries,
based in Malden works with local communities to marshal support, from spiritual resources to homestay. Talk with each other about whether a new ministry could be right for Christ Church.
Be informed. What’s a migrant? A refugee? Why is the difference important? Read here.
Remember you’re part of the wider church, and pray. Remember Muslim brothers and sisters who experience violence because of their faith. Ask how your Christian faith can be deepened by knowing those who are different from you. Check out this from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, as hopefully we all are, I’ve continued to be moved by the European migrant crisis. I came across a book of sermons by Walter Brueggeman, an Old Testament scholar, where in a sermon about a passage in the book of the prophet Isaiah he writes this:
There is something about [Jerusalem] that forgets the very mandate of fidelity that makes a city work. There is nothing here about removing these failed poor and making them invisible, deporting them because they are an economic inconvenience. No, because widows and orphans are not an inconvenience. They are a measure of the health of the city, to be measured in terms of justice and righteousness, and Jerusalem has failed that measure (p 50).
Jerusalem failed—our world has clearly failed, too. Refugees are not an inconvenience. Homeless people are not an inconvenience. Victims of addiction, war, environmental devastation. Not an inconvenience, but a signal of health or ill health. That’s about the world. No one is an inconvenience to the heart of God. Yes, we are failing. Yes, I falter. But it’s not hopeless.
The harsher realities of the world, a world where children are abandoned and whole swaths of people dismissed as criminals, have always been so. Whatever Jesus himself meant the time he said that the poor would always be with us, over the last two millennia, at least, so far he’s right. But economic poverty exposes spiritual poverty, and meeting economic need fulfills spiritual need. It goes both ways. The thing I love about Brueggeman’s point is that this is that it offers enough of a breather from the usual guilt/shame/despair cycle to allow for the breath of God to enter. It is only when it appears that the problems of the world and our souls rest in our own power that we get lost. If there is no hope, then that makes it awfully easy to do nothing.
I’ll share again here the prayer I offered on Sunday as part of the children’s sermon. It’s based on one from Thomas Keating, a Roman Catholic priest who has worked to return contemplative prayer and meditation into the Christian tradition.
Welcome, welcome, welcome.
I welcome everything that comes to me today
Because I know that God is with me.
I welcome the world
I welcome joy and sadness
I welcome fear and delight.
I welcome my friends
I welcome those who are difficult for me to love
I let go of my need to be in charge
I let go of my need for people to think I’m the best
I open myself to the love of God.
I open myself to the love of God.
To which, today, I would add: I welcome the discomfort of seeing those who are in pain. I welcome the feeling that I want to do more to help. I welcome the opportunity to see those here who are in need, asylum seekers to the United States who are in no less need than those across the ocean. I welcome the opportunity to ask hard questions, at how our hearts are moved and when, and what makes them blind. Welcome, welcome, welcome.
And what can you do?
Check out Refugee Immigration Ministries,
based in Malden works with local communities to marshal support, from spiritual resources to homestay. Talk with each other about whether a new ministry could be right for Christ Church.
Be informed. What’s a migrant? A refugee? Why is the difference important? Read here.
Remember you’re part of the wider church, and pray. Remember Muslim brothers and sisters who experience violence because of their faith. Ask how your Christian faith can be deepened by knowing those who are different from you. Check out this from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Blessings,
Sara+
Blessed by the Things that Surround Us
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’m thinking about stuff, preparing for our blessing of backpacks—and phones, ipads, briefcases, brooms, and whatever else you use to make the magic of your work or school happen. Things surround us—books and papers and clothes and dishes and whatever else. On the one hand, I do my best to try to feel unattached. I remember my time this summer in the stark, empty beauty of the Utah red rock wilderness, “needing” only everything I could carry five miles into the woods. Listening to Scripture—Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.—I try to extend this to clothes and books and whatever else I get distracted by.
On the other hand…there can be a thin line between being anti-materialistic and falling into the trap of our disposable culture. Lose one water bottle? Get another. Computer slowing down? You’ll just need a new one soon, go ahead and get it now. It’s just stuff. I recently read Marie Kondo’s book The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up, and it’s 100% materialistic—but in a very careful way I really appreciated. The author is Japanese, and it’s grounded in kind of a Shinto spirituality that asks where you’ve come from and how you want to live your life. After you figure that out, how do your possessions support you in that? If your sister gave you a sweater that you hate and every time you see it hanging in your closet you remember how she doesn’t really know you, it’s time to let it go. It has fulfilled its purpose of being given, and you can say thank you and goodbye and stop feeling bad every time you see it. The question is whether things spark joy. If not, let them go with gratitude. It goes perhaps without saying that in the face of the rampant disrespect for human beings evinced in the European refugee crisis (and some of the toxic language in the US around immigration) that the question of our materialism is pretty minor.
Of ultimate importance or not, in the Christian tradition, we do have a long legacy of blessing things. It’s not 100% heretical to think that our things can bless us back, that God is able to be present with us as we encounter the world around us. I don’t know what Marie Kondo would think about the special candelabrum to be used on St. Blaise’s Day (February 3), for blessings throats. But the material world is important. Jesus was resurrected in his body, and famously told Thomas to put his hand in his side. Our bodies are holy. The earth is holy. These are material things, and they matter, though as with all things the invitation is to keep perspective, not to confuse the thing that helps point us toward God with the immaterial unsayable true nature of God.
Our material surroundings are part of the story of Christ Church, too. In seminary there was an expression that always came up in our liturgics classes: “The building always wins.” You can try to make the most airy, contemporary and laid back liturgy, but if you’re doing it in a space that has more in common with a cave, it’s just not going to happen. But things still grow and change. The building of Christ Church has been as much a living thing as the congregation over the years—it’s changed and grown. In 2006 we put in the freestanding altar in memory of Bob Hughes Sr, and the cross that hangs over the high altar was a gift from Muriel Nurse in memory of her mother. She told me the story of how she and Father Bill had chosen it out of a catalog and “hoped for the best” waiting for it to be shipped from England. 42 years later, I think it still works.
So our building, and our community, continues to grow and change. See the announcement from vestry below about the Stations of the Cross—another decision, another opportunity to say “yes” to something new or “no, that’s not right for this place.” Please let us know what you think, and don’t forget to bring your backpack or gear for work or school this Sunday!
Blessings,
Sara+
This week I’m thinking about stuff, preparing for our blessing of backpacks—and phones, ipads, briefcases, brooms, and whatever else you use to make the magic of your work or school happen. Things surround us—books and papers and clothes and dishes and whatever else. On the one hand, I do my best to try to feel unattached. I remember my time this summer in the stark, empty beauty of the Utah red rock wilderness, “needing” only everything I could carry five miles into the woods. Listening to Scripture—Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.—I try to extend this to clothes and books and whatever else I get distracted by.
On the other hand…there can be a thin line between being anti-materialistic and falling into the trap of our disposable culture. Lose one water bottle? Get another. Computer slowing down? You’ll just need a new one soon, go ahead and get it now. It’s just stuff. I recently read Marie Kondo’s book The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up, and it’s 100% materialistic—but in a very careful way I really appreciated. The author is Japanese, and it’s grounded in kind of a Shinto spirituality that asks where you’ve come from and how you want to live your life. After you figure that out, how do your possessions support you in that? If your sister gave you a sweater that you hate and every time you see it hanging in your closet you remember how she doesn’t really know you, it’s time to let it go. It has fulfilled its purpose of being given, and you can say thank you and goodbye and stop feeling bad every time you see it. The question is whether things spark joy. If not, let them go with gratitude. It goes perhaps without saying that in the face of the rampant disrespect for human beings evinced in the European refugee crisis (and some of the toxic language in the US around immigration) that the question of our materialism is pretty minor.
Of ultimate importance or not, in the Christian tradition, we do have a long legacy of blessing things. It’s not 100% heretical to think that our things can bless us back, that God is able to be present with us as we encounter the world around us. I don’t know what Marie Kondo would think about the special candelabrum to be used on St. Blaise’s Day (February 3), for blessings throats. But the material world is important. Jesus was resurrected in his body, and famously told Thomas to put his hand in his side. Our bodies are holy. The earth is holy. These are material things, and they matter, though as with all things the invitation is to keep perspective, not to confuse the thing that helps point us toward God with the immaterial unsayable true nature of God.
Our material surroundings are part of the story of Christ Church, too. In seminary there was an expression that always came up in our liturgics classes: “The building always wins.” You can try to make the most airy, contemporary and laid back liturgy, but if you’re doing it in a space that has more in common with a cave, it’s just not going to happen. But things still grow and change. The building of Christ Church has been as much a living thing as the congregation over the years—it’s changed and grown. In 2006 we put in the freestanding altar in memory of Bob Hughes Sr, and the cross that hangs over the high altar was a gift from Muriel Nurse in memory of her mother. She told me the story of how she and Father Bill had chosen it out of a catalog and “hoped for the best” waiting for it to be shipped from England. 42 years later, I think it still works.
So our building, and our community, continues to grow and change. See the announcement from vestry below about the Stations of the Cross—another decision, another opportunity to say “yes” to something new or “no, that’s not right for this place.” Please let us know what you think, and don’t forget to bring your backpack or gear for work or school this Sunday!
Blessings,
Sara+
Shards and Shares
Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m delighted to be back writing in this space again, and so grateful for our ministry together as well as the space for reflection and time away. Thanks to senior warden Victoria Sundgren and junior warden Sasha Killewald for holding down the fort when I was away, and especially for Sasha’s kind words in this space two weeks ago about my work! Parish ministry really is a strange and wonderful, and most particularly, shared thing. Christ Church didn’t belong to Frederic Fales, the first rector of Christ Church (though our parish halls are now named for him), and it doesn’t belong to me. The ministry of this place belongs to God, and we individually and jointly are honored to participate in it.
This year when I was away, I found myself returning to the idea of wilderness. Much of our vacation this year was in Utah—canyons and red rock wilderness that stretches for miles and miles and miles, climate and landscape totally unlike the northeast. Mostly we hiked, and mostly the beasts of the wild kept to their own corners—except one backcountry trip when a rattlesnake got too tail-shakingly close to 5 year old Adah and we woke to find that a mountain lion had been through our campsite. Creation is a complicated place—we humans imagine that we are at the top, but it’s not that simple.
One of the most striking experiences we had over vacation was visiting first Mesa Verde National Park, and then the Ute Mountain Tribal Park just over the border in New Mexico. Both are home to literally millions of artifacts of the ancestral pueblo people who lived in the area between around 650 and 1300. We toured cave dwellings and pit houses with guides from the National Park Service Mesa Verde and with a Ute guide at the tribal park, and the views of history are so different. At the Ute Tribal Park, the artifacts were scattered around. Black and white pottery sherds were in mounds not far from the side of the road, exposed to wind and rain and, even more perilously, eight year olds. We picked through them and found our favorite designs. At Mesa Verde, artifacts like that were behind glass—old-style museum history, not living history. The National Park Service guide talked about the astonishing mystery of why such an archaeologically advanced culture would pick up and leave—maybe drought, maybe warfare, crop failure or over hunting. The Ute guide just said that it became clear to them that it was time to leave, so they left. It was time. They were supposed to go at one time, and supposed to leave at another. Allowing the artifacts be where they were was part of honoring the past.
Planning fall liturgy with Daniel, our director of music, our relationship to the past is a living question. Instead of potsherds, we have prayers. We worship a living God who moves in our lives today, but our forms are 2000 years old. How often do we sing the traditional Gloria, how often a more contemporary song that praises God in different language? How do we “sing to the Lord a new song” (Psalm 96) in our lives today?
Blessings,
Sara+
I’m delighted to be back writing in this space again, and so grateful for our ministry together as well as the space for reflection and time away. Thanks to senior warden Victoria Sundgren and junior warden Sasha Killewald for holding down the fort when I was away, and especially for Sasha’s kind words in this space two weeks ago about my work! Parish ministry really is a strange and wonderful, and most particularly, shared thing. Christ Church didn’t belong to Frederic Fales, the first rector of Christ Church (though our parish halls are now named for him), and it doesn’t belong to me. The ministry of this place belongs to God, and we individually and jointly are honored to participate in it.
This year when I was away, I found myself returning to the idea of wilderness. Much of our vacation this year was in Utah—canyons and red rock wilderness that stretches for miles and miles and miles, climate and landscape totally unlike the northeast. Mostly we hiked, and mostly the beasts of the wild kept to their own corners—except one backcountry trip when a rattlesnake got too tail-shakingly close to 5 year old Adah and we woke to find that a mountain lion had been through our campsite. Creation is a complicated place—we humans imagine that we are at the top, but it’s not that simple.
One of the most striking experiences we had over vacation was visiting first Mesa Verde National Park, and then the Ute Mountain Tribal Park just over the border in New Mexico. Both are home to literally millions of artifacts of the ancestral pueblo people who lived in the area between around 650 and 1300. We toured cave dwellings and pit houses with guides from the National Park Service Mesa Verde and with a Ute guide at the tribal park, and the views of history are so different. At the Ute Tribal Park, the artifacts were scattered around. Black and white pottery sherds were in mounds not far from the side of the road, exposed to wind and rain and, even more perilously, eight year olds. We picked through them and found our favorite designs. At Mesa Verde, artifacts like that were behind glass—old-style museum history, not living history. The National Park Service guide talked about the astonishing mystery of why such an archaeologically advanced culture would pick up and leave—maybe drought, maybe warfare, crop failure or over hunting. The Ute guide just said that it became clear to them that it was time to leave, so they left. It was time. They were supposed to go at one time, and supposed to leave at another. Allowing the artifacts be where they were was part of honoring the past.
Planning fall liturgy with Daniel, our director of music, our relationship to the past is a living question. Instead of potsherds, we have prayers. We worship a living God who moves in our lives today, but our forms are 2000 years old. How often do we sing the traditional Gloria, how often a more contemporary song that praises God in different language? How do we “sing to the Lord a new song” (Psalm 96) in our lives today?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Shifting Gears, Looking Ahead
Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m writing late this week as I get everything ready to leave for vacation. Clergy in the Episcopal Church are blessed with good long chunks of vacation—no three day weekends, but four weeks a year to take whenever I want is pretty great. Time for conferences, retreats, and education, like Wild Goose Festival where I traveled a few weeks ago, is separate. It’s great for me, but it’s also great for you—Revs Anne and Norm, who are each taking two weeks in my absence, are totally different preachers and thinkers than I, and after ten years of me rattling around in that stone building it’s important to get me out of my enclosure once in a while. My family and I will be backpacking and camping the National Parks of Utah and Arizona, so if any pastoral emergencies come up the very faithful and capable clergy of Redeemer Lexington, Revs Kate and Andrew, will be on call. I’ve got one more Sunday, though, until I’m away, so I’m looking forward to being with you this week. The Gospel is a blockbuster—in John’s version of the Feeding of the 5,000, Jesus walks on water right afterwards. One miracle isn’t enough.
Meanwhile, vestry and I have been having some great conversations about what we’d like to work on for 2015-16. I’ve been working on my own goals as well—I’d like to focus more on structuring my work time for better preaching preparation, and I want to try having regular open office hours at Café on the Common. As I get drawn up into ideas for activities and programs, though, I keep pulling back and remembering what the actual mission here is—the mission is not the program or the attendance at whatever Tuesday event is happening. The mission is the reconciliation of all people with God. If Tuesday night programs help out with that, terrific, but if they’re not, then we should do something else.
So then the question is:
What do you want to do next year?
From the beach or the mountains or Moody Street, wherever you find yourself this summer, take a few minutes to imagine with each other over time and space. I’ve created this google doc to be a big whiteboard—anybody can write on it (no google ID necessary). Throw out all your ideas, sign your name or not, just use your imagination. In the Gospel passage we read last Sunday, Jesus taught the people who gathered “many things.” What does he want to teach us now? What does he want us to teach each other?
Blessings!
Sara+
I’m writing late this week as I get everything ready to leave for vacation. Clergy in the Episcopal Church are blessed with good long chunks of vacation—no three day weekends, but four weeks a year to take whenever I want is pretty great. Time for conferences, retreats, and education, like Wild Goose Festival where I traveled a few weeks ago, is separate. It’s great for me, but it’s also great for you—Revs Anne and Norm, who are each taking two weeks in my absence, are totally different preachers and thinkers than I, and after ten years of me rattling around in that stone building it’s important to get me out of my enclosure once in a while. My family and I will be backpacking and camping the National Parks of Utah and Arizona, so if any pastoral emergencies come up the very faithful and capable clergy of Redeemer Lexington, Revs Kate and Andrew, will be on call. I’ve got one more Sunday, though, until I’m away, so I’m looking forward to being with you this week. The Gospel is a blockbuster—in John’s version of the Feeding of the 5,000, Jesus walks on water right afterwards. One miracle isn’t enough.
Meanwhile, vestry and I have been having some great conversations about what we’d like to work on for 2015-16. I’ve been working on my own goals as well—I’d like to focus more on structuring my work time for better preaching preparation, and I want to try having regular open office hours at Café on the Common. As I get drawn up into ideas for activities and programs, though, I keep pulling back and remembering what the actual mission here is—the mission is not the program or the attendance at whatever Tuesday event is happening. The mission is the reconciliation of all people with God. If Tuesday night programs help out with that, terrific, but if they’re not, then we should do something else.
So then the question is:
What do you want to do next year?
From the beach or the mountains or Moody Street, wherever you find yourself this summer, take a few minutes to imagine with each other over time and space. I’ve created this google doc to be a big whiteboard—anybody can write on it (no google ID necessary). Throw out all your ideas, sign your name or not, just use your imagination. In the Gospel passage we read last Sunday, Jesus taught the people who gathered “many things.” What does he want to teach us now? What does he want us to teach each other?
Blessings!
Sara+
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Coming Toward Democracy
Dear People of Christ Church,
I’ve written several versions of this post trying to get to the bottom of what, exactly, I was doing for my time at Wild Goose Festival last week. Part of the standard clergy employment agreement is to have two weeks of “continuing education” time. I’ve gone to Wild Goose Festival now three times as part of that, and also used the time for retreats and conferences. So there is a sense of accountability around it—our parishes generously provide for this (and offer some funding!) in addition to vacation, so I want to try to share this with you.
I’m glad to include links of everything I saw—a lot of the presentations were things the presenters have offered before, so information is easy to convey. I will be glad to send you links. But the experience isn’t about data. What it is about is the amazing sense of how God was working in the lives of the people I met and listened to. Almost every person I heard had a deep sense of Scripture. I did the math and I’ve preached at least 400 sermons. I know some things about the Bible. But the way that Mark Charles, a Navajo activist and educator, talked about how white settlers in the Americas lacked a “land covenant” with God to guide our relationship, or the way Bree Newsome talked about how Jesus worked for peace, not order, or how Tony Campolo talked about the love of Jesus moved in his heart to advocate for GLBT persons in the evangelical movement—literally, OMG.
I have heretical moments, but by and large I think my theology about Jesus is pretty sound. But that’s my theology. My passion for Jesus is more in sacrament and symbol and church and service. It’s more intellection and less clear than “Ok, Lord, I’ll climb that pole.” I’d be afraid to climb a flag pole just for the sake of the height, much less risking arrest and the legitimate possibility of being shot. But Bree Newsome pointed out that Jesus was mostly just in the Temple when he was knocking things over. He was out in the world doing his ministry where God called him to be.
So that’s my real invitation from Wild Goose Festival. Where am I muting the invitation of the Holy Spirit because of fear? Where am I unfree from a disordered attachment to comfort? In church, in my family, in my prayer? How often am I willing to do the hard work for genuine, holy, peace? To learn from marginalized voices, not because it’s my “duty,” but because Jesus is there. It’s very comfortable to say that “education” is the key to success and social mobility, and that’s often true. But where we need to lean harder on education is for people like me who don’t get arrested for failing to use a turn signal, to learn what we don’t know. As a person of privilege in this country I can be like a fish in water and not have to understand what water is. But that is not the way of Jesus.
A white anti-racist response has to come from humility. This country was founded on the theft of land and came to economic dominance through slavery. It is coming toward democracy, and is founded on some amazing ideals of freedom and equality that are coming toward being for all people. But those ideals aren’t a reality for all of its people. The inspiring part, though, is that if the truth really will set us free—and I think we have to believe it does—is that we are all on our way to the vineyard. Some will be on time, some will be late, and some will be really, really late. But as Episcopal priest Paul Fromberg said in his talk on “An apocalyptic of peace:” I don’t believe in progress. I believe in salvation.”
As a Christian I, too, believe in salvation.
Blessings,
Sara+
I’ve written several versions of this post trying to get to the bottom of what, exactly, I was doing for my time at Wild Goose Festival last week. Part of the standard clergy employment agreement is to have two weeks of “continuing education” time. I’ve gone to Wild Goose Festival now three times as part of that, and also used the time for retreats and conferences. So there is a sense of accountability around it—our parishes generously provide for this (and offer some funding!) in addition to vacation, so I want to try to share this with you.
I’m glad to include links of everything I saw—a lot of the presentations were things the presenters have offered before, so information is easy to convey. I will be glad to send you links. But the experience isn’t about data. What it is about is the amazing sense of how God was working in the lives of the people I met and listened to. Almost every person I heard had a deep sense of Scripture. I did the math and I’ve preached at least 400 sermons. I know some things about the Bible. But the way that Mark Charles, a Navajo activist and educator, talked about how white settlers in the Americas lacked a “land covenant” with God to guide our relationship, or the way Bree Newsome talked about how Jesus worked for peace, not order, or how Tony Campolo talked about the love of Jesus moved in his heart to advocate for GLBT persons in the evangelical movement—literally, OMG.
I have heretical moments, but by and large I think my theology about Jesus is pretty sound. But that’s my theology. My passion for Jesus is more in sacrament and symbol and church and service. It’s more intellection and less clear than “Ok, Lord, I’ll climb that pole.” I’d be afraid to climb a flag pole just for the sake of the height, much less risking arrest and the legitimate possibility of being shot. But Bree Newsome pointed out that Jesus was mostly just in the Temple when he was knocking things over. He was out in the world doing his ministry where God called him to be.
So that’s my real invitation from Wild Goose Festival. Where am I muting the invitation of the Holy Spirit because of fear? Where am I unfree from a disordered attachment to comfort? In church, in my family, in my prayer? How often am I willing to do the hard work for genuine, holy, peace? To learn from marginalized voices, not because it’s my “duty,” but because Jesus is there. It’s very comfortable to say that “education” is the key to success and social mobility, and that’s often true. But where we need to lean harder on education is for people like me who don’t get arrested for failing to use a turn signal, to learn what we don’t know. As a person of privilege in this country I can be like a fish in water and not have to understand what water is. But that is not the way of Jesus.
A white anti-racist response has to come from humility. This country was founded on the theft of land and came to economic dominance through slavery. It is coming toward democracy, and is founded on some amazing ideals of freedom and equality that are coming toward being for all people. But those ideals aren’t a reality for all of its people. The inspiring part, though, is that if the truth really will set us free—and I think we have to believe it does—is that we are all on our way to the vineyard. Some will be on time, some will be late, and some will be really, really late. But as Episcopal priest Paul Fromberg said in his talk on “An apocalyptic of peace:” I don’t believe in progress. I believe in salvation.”
As a Christian I, too, believe in salvation.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, July 10, 2015
Receiving Grace
Dear People of Christ Church,
As you read this I’ll be almost finished with my 900 mile drive south to Hot Springs, North Carolina, home of the Wild Goose Festival, a Thursday through Sunday extravaganza of God, peace, art, music, and muddy Christians. Hot Springs is in an area in Western North Carolina that is basically a rain forest, and with mostly tent campers, you get very comfortable with dirt. 2 years ago my family had a bit of an extra adventure when our elderly camping trailer and our not-quite-up-to-the-task Subaru were no match for the mountains. Four of us in the front of a tow truck driving 45 minutes into the mountains to retrieve our camper was an exploit we hope not to repeat, so this year we are staying in a much more portable tent.
The first time we were at Wild Goose we heard civil rights veteran Vincent Harding speak—all the more powerful now, since he died in 2014. I remember hearing him talk about the United States as an “emerging” democracy—we just aren’t all there yet, as a nation, but God is leading us on. Observing July 4 this past week in the wake of the Supreme Court’s equal marriage decision felt like our country emerged a little further, though there is still a distance to go. Fundamentally, though, our faith is about joy, not sorrow. The Gospel calls us to mourn and weep (I’ve forgotten how many of the psalms are laments, but it’s a lot), but also tell us joy comes in the morning and that we are already reconciled to God. Already.
The most incredible gift, the one that’s somewhat peculiarly difficult to receive, is the grace of Jesus—the already-forgiven places we are invited to live in. Over the last few weeks I’ve sung Amazing Grace more times than usual, mostly as a go-to hymn a lot of people just know. We sang it at the service for Charleston, we sang it because the hymn number was printed incorrectly in church two Sundays ago, and we sang it this past week at Church in the Garden when we were competing with ambulances and traffic. My favorite verse is the last one:
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.
I love this image beyond time and space, as though we could begin singing and giving thanks for God now, but there’s no way we’ll ever finish. Even after ten thousand years, still the grace of God will catch us in joy, nudging us like a four year old who just needs their back scratched a little longer at bedtime. Just a little longer. Ten thousand years isn’t enough.
Where is grace finding you these summer days?
Blessings,
Sara+
PS: please come to church this Sunday as we continue summer worship at 9:30—the incomparable Rev. Anne Minton joins us!…
Stop by and say hi between 10-12 this Saturday, too, for Waltham History Day at Christ Church!
As you read this I’ll be almost finished with my 900 mile drive south to Hot Springs, North Carolina, home of the Wild Goose Festival, a Thursday through Sunday extravaganza of God, peace, art, music, and muddy Christians. Hot Springs is in an area in Western North Carolina that is basically a rain forest, and with mostly tent campers, you get very comfortable with dirt. 2 years ago my family had a bit of an extra adventure when our elderly camping trailer and our not-quite-up-to-the-task Subaru were no match for the mountains. Four of us in the front of a tow truck driving 45 minutes into the mountains to retrieve our camper was an exploit we hope not to repeat, so this year we are staying in a much more portable tent.
The first time we were at Wild Goose we heard civil rights veteran Vincent Harding speak—all the more powerful now, since he died in 2014. I remember hearing him talk about the United States as an “emerging” democracy—we just aren’t all there yet, as a nation, but God is leading us on. Observing July 4 this past week in the wake of the Supreme Court’s equal marriage decision felt like our country emerged a little further, though there is still a distance to go. Fundamentally, though, our faith is about joy, not sorrow. The Gospel calls us to mourn and weep (I’ve forgotten how many of the psalms are laments, but it’s a lot), but also tell us joy comes in the morning and that we are already reconciled to God. Already.
The most incredible gift, the one that’s somewhat peculiarly difficult to receive, is the grace of Jesus—the already-forgiven places we are invited to live in. Over the last few weeks I’ve sung Amazing Grace more times than usual, mostly as a go-to hymn a lot of people just know. We sang it at the service for Charleston, we sang it because the hymn number was printed incorrectly in church two Sundays ago, and we sang it this past week at Church in the Garden when we were competing with ambulances and traffic. My favorite verse is the last one:
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.
I love this image beyond time and space, as though we could begin singing and giving thanks for God now, but there’s no way we’ll ever finish. Even after ten thousand years, still the grace of God will catch us in joy, nudging us like a four year old who just needs their back scratched a little longer at bedtime. Just a little longer. Ten thousand years isn’t enough.
Where is grace finding you these summer days?
Blessings,
Sara+
PS: please come to church this Sunday as we continue summer worship at 9:30—the incomparable Rev. Anne Minton joins us!…
Stop by and say hi between 10-12 this Saturday, too, for Waltham History Day at Christ Church!
Thursday, July 2, 2015
"Get Up, Girl!"
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’ve continued to watch the events coming out of General Convention in Salt Lake City with a bit more focus. One of the highlights was seeing (now outgoing) Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori’s sermon on Sunday’s Gospel text, in which a girl, a daughter of a leader of the synagogue, is healed of her illness. Even after her father’s friends tell him to stop bothering Jesus, that she’s dead and he has to just deal with it, even when those friends laugh at Jesus when he tells them that she’s sleeping, not dead, this girl’s father keeps his faith and gets his daughter back.
Talitha cum, the phrase Jesus says to the girl, is rendered by Bishop Katharine as “get up, girl!” and what a word for our church. Institutionally, the Episcopal church nationwide is in quite a lot of hot water. Membership declines, money declines, buildings decline. Jesus comes and says, “Get up, girl!” As we celebrate marriage equality coming to every state, Jesus says, “Get up, girl!” As we weep over the nine murdered at Emanuel AME Charleston and rage against Southern churches burned in white supremacist attacks Jesus says, “Get up, girl!”
Get up to celebrate, get up to mourn, get up to speak out. Don’t die before you’re dead. Jesus speaks a word to us all to be the church as fully as we can. Not the church-as-institution, as building, as provider-of-“intangible spiritual gifts” (as our donor acknowledgement letter states). But Church as people-of-God, as disciples-of-Jesus, as body-of-Christ.
This week in Salt Lake City we elected our first African American Presiding Bishop. Just as having a black president didn’t end racism in the US, having a black presiding bishop doesn’t end racism in the church. The House of Bishops passed a resolution to remove references to gender in our marriage canons, so that full marriage equality will be the rule, not the exception in all Episcopal dioceses (currently it’s case-by-case, permitted in our diocese for some time now). And just as marriage equality has become the law in our country and our church, it doesn’t end violence and prejudice against our LGBT siblings. But as Presiding Bishop-elect Curry said: we have a God, there is a Jesus, and we are part of the Jesus movement. And nothing can stop the movement of God’s love in this world. Thanks be to God!
Some links to check out:
Coverage of the bishops’ led march against gun violence in Salt Lake City
Christ Church Cathedral in St Louis gets up: Rebuild Black Churches Fund
Michael Curry’s remarks (the standing ovation stops at about minute 9)
More on the nuts and bolts on the legislation on marriage
For updates from the Diocese of Massachusetts folks at Convention, check out their website here
And last but not least, the video about John Obergefell and his husband I preached about on Sunday, click here. Have tissues available.
Blessings,
Sara +
This week I’ve continued to watch the events coming out of General Convention in Salt Lake City with a bit more focus. One of the highlights was seeing (now outgoing) Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori’s sermon on Sunday’s Gospel text, in which a girl, a daughter of a leader of the synagogue, is healed of her illness. Even after her father’s friends tell him to stop bothering Jesus, that she’s dead and he has to just deal with it, even when those friends laugh at Jesus when he tells them that she’s sleeping, not dead, this girl’s father keeps his faith and gets his daughter back.
Talitha cum, the phrase Jesus says to the girl, is rendered by Bishop Katharine as “get up, girl!” and what a word for our church. Institutionally, the Episcopal church nationwide is in quite a lot of hot water. Membership declines, money declines, buildings decline. Jesus comes and says, “Get up, girl!” As we celebrate marriage equality coming to every state, Jesus says, “Get up, girl!” As we weep over the nine murdered at Emanuel AME Charleston and rage against Southern churches burned in white supremacist attacks Jesus says, “Get up, girl!”
Get up to celebrate, get up to mourn, get up to speak out. Don’t die before you’re dead. Jesus speaks a word to us all to be the church as fully as we can. Not the church-as-institution, as building, as provider-of-“intangible spiritual gifts” (as our donor acknowledgement letter states). But Church as people-of-God, as disciples-of-Jesus, as body-of-Christ.
This week in Salt Lake City we elected our first African American Presiding Bishop. Just as having a black president didn’t end racism in the US, having a black presiding bishop doesn’t end racism in the church. The House of Bishops passed a resolution to remove references to gender in our marriage canons, so that full marriage equality will be the rule, not the exception in all Episcopal dioceses (currently it’s case-by-case, permitted in our diocese for some time now). And just as marriage equality has become the law in our country and our church, it doesn’t end violence and prejudice against our LGBT siblings. But as Presiding Bishop-elect Curry said: we have a God, there is a Jesus, and we are part of the Jesus movement. And nothing can stop the movement of God’s love in this world. Thanks be to God!
Some links to check out:
Coverage of the bishops’ led march against gun violence in Salt Lake City
Christ Church Cathedral in St Louis gets up: Rebuild Black Churches Fund
Michael Curry’s remarks (the standing ovation stops at about minute 9)
More on the nuts and bolts on the legislation on marriage
For updates from the Diocese of Massachusetts folks at Convention, check out their website here
And last but not least, the video about John Obergefell and his husband I preached about on Sunday, click here. Have tissues available.
Blessings,
Sara +
Friday, June 26, 2015
A Dwelling Place for God
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week the wider Episcopal Church begins their ten day General Convention, an every-three-years bonanza of church policy making and community building. On the table this year is a pending change to the canons on same gender marriage (which is permissible in many places, including Massachusetts, but not officially the law of the whole church), the election of a presiding bishop (the head of the whole shebang—Katharine Jefferts Schori finishes her nine year term), and many, many, many other proposals of varying significance.
The violence in Charleston, though, and racism in America, is still more on my mind—it feels a bit beside the point to argue the finer points of church governance (will our currently bicameral system go unicameral? Oh, the suspense!). I read one reflection from Convention about “The Elephant in the Room” being that the African Methodist Episcopal Church was founded because African Americans were not welcome in those white-dominated denominations in their day. The Episcopal Herald author offers,
In the same way that a budget is a moral document reflecting our values, perhaps it is worth considering how the agenda for our time together reflects those same values. If one were to look at the proposed agenda, would it be clear as to where God is calling us to build the Kingdom of God in our communities throughout the world?
This is a good question for all of us engaged in church work to ask—how much of our vestry agenda every month directly relates to sharing the good news of God in Christ that we are reconciled, beloved, and freed for the work of being the body of Christ in the world? How are we engaging, every day, to confront all of the “evil powers of this world that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” as we promised in our baptismal covenant along with Jane Harvey on Sunday? Instead of being fully focused on being hands and heart of Christ, how often do we instead flit in and out of doing that work? A special collection here, a fiery sermon there, and the box checked off of the to do list?
This Sunday after church, I’d like to invite anyone who is interested to spend some time looking at the Charleston Syllabus, an initiative begun by Brandeis professor Chad Williams. Both the Charleston doc and similar work on the Ferguson Syllabus preceding it (begun by Marcia Chatelain) are crowdsourced in-flux documents—(to see the whole conversation, see them on twitter at #FergusonSyllabus and #Charlestonsyllabus). So we’ll look at the list from the African American Intellectual History Society. What have you read? What do you want to read? How shall we work closer to home, to change ourselves as we change the world?
Finally, I want to offer you this prayer from Clementa Pinkney, offered just 2 months before his death. May we all be a dwelling place for God.
“Lord of all the names that we call you, we invite you into this space today. We pray that you would fill this place, Emanuel, with your love.
May we remember that the name Emanuel means ‘God with Us’ and so we invite you and we welcome you into this place.
And God we pray that you would make ‘Emanuels’ of all of us, that we may be filled with your love, for we know that only love can conquer hate, that only love can bring all together in your name.
Regardless of our faiths, our ethnicities, where we are from, together we come in love. Together we come to bury racism, to bury bigotry, and to resurrect and to revive love, compassion, and tenderness.
We pray that you would bless and empower all who are here to reach and to feel the love and to share the love.
We ask all now in reverence and holiness, may we together say, Amen.”
From Rev Mae Elise Cannon’s 5 Things White Christians Can Do in Solidarity with our Brothers and Sisters of Color
This week the wider Episcopal Church begins their ten day General Convention, an every-three-years bonanza of church policy making and community building. On the table this year is a pending change to the canons on same gender marriage (which is permissible in many places, including Massachusetts, but not officially the law of the whole church), the election of a presiding bishop (the head of the whole shebang—Katharine Jefferts Schori finishes her nine year term), and many, many, many other proposals of varying significance.
The violence in Charleston, though, and racism in America, is still more on my mind—it feels a bit beside the point to argue the finer points of church governance (will our currently bicameral system go unicameral? Oh, the suspense!). I read one reflection from Convention about “The Elephant in the Room” being that the African Methodist Episcopal Church was founded because African Americans were not welcome in those white-dominated denominations in their day. The Episcopal Herald author offers,
In the same way that a budget is a moral document reflecting our values, perhaps it is worth considering how the agenda for our time together reflects those same values. If one were to look at the proposed agenda, would it be clear as to where God is calling us to build the Kingdom of God in our communities throughout the world?
This is a good question for all of us engaged in church work to ask—how much of our vestry agenda every month directly relates to sharing the good news of God in Christ that we are reconciled, beloved, and freed for the work of being the body of Christ in the world? How are we engaging, every day, to confront all of the “evil powers of this world that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” as we promised in our baptismal covenant along with Jane Harvey on Sunday? Instead of being fully focused on being hands and heart of Christ, how often do we instead flit in and out of doing that work? A special collection here, a fiery sermon there, and the box checked off of the to do list?
This Sunday after church, I’d like to invite anyone who is interested to spend some time looking at the Charleston Syllabus, an initiative begun by Brandeis professor Chad Williams. Both the Charleston doc and similar work on the Ferguson Syllabus preceding it (begun by Marcia Chatelain) are crowdsourced in-flux documents—(to see the whole conversation, see them on twitter at #FergusonSyllabus and #Charlestonsyllabus). So we’ll look at the list from the African American Intellectual History Society. What have you read? What do you want to read? How shall we work closer to home, to change ourselves as we change the world?
Finally, I want to offer you this prayer from Clementa Pinkney, offered just 2 months before his death. May we all be a dwelling place for God.
“Lord of all the names that we call you, we invite you into this space today. We pray that you would fill this place, Emanuel, with your love.
May we remember that the name Emanuel means ‘God with Us’ and so we invite you and we welcome you into this place.
And God we pray that you would make ‘Emanuels’ of all of us, that we may be filled with your love, for we know that only love can conquer hate, that only love can bring all together in your name.
Regardless of our faiths, our ethnicities, where we are from, together we come in love. Together we come to bury racism, to bury bigotry, and to resurrect and to revive love, compassion, and tenderness.
We pray that you would bless and empower all who are here to reach and to feel the love and to share the love.
We ask all now in reverence and holiness, may we together say, Amen.”
From Rev Mae Elise Cannon’s 5 Things White Christians Can Do in Solidarity with our Brothers and Sisters of Color
Friday, June 19, 2015
Remember their Names
Dear People of Christ Church,
This Sunday, we’ll hear the story of David and Goliath, a story we all know by heart. David, so young and so small he couldn’t even move trying to wear armor, hit Goliath in the middle of the eyes and knocked him down. Though everyone said it would be impossible, with God it would happen. Waking up to news this morning of a shooting at a historically black church in South Carolina, American racism feels like Goliath and we are all still on our way to battle.
In the story, David uses the same strength and skill that has brought him victory over all kinds of wild beasts. David knows himself. The United States, though? We don’t know ourselves. We don’t know each other. We don’t know our own minds, we don’t know each others’ experiences to free ourselves from this toxic fog of racism and hatred that seeps in everywhere. The assailant at the Emanuel shooting sat in Bible Study with his victims for an hour before beginning the attack. It’s beyond chilling.
So I don’t have a ton of words this evening, but I do have the Gospel. We can pray, pray, pray and be vulnerable to the suffering of others. We can remember their names and pray for Cynthia, Tywanza, DePayne, Ethel, Myra, Susie, Sharonda, Daniel Sr, and Clementa, each beloved children who rest in the arms of their Creator. We can remember that Jesus went to the cross rather than return violence for violence.
We can note that the terrorism perpetrated against this church is in a neighboring town to the place where Walter Scott was murdered just two months ago by police, also viewed with suspicion and hatred because he was black. And we can also say that they were martyrs, not only victims. We can say it is terrorism. Pray that we—you and me—have the courage to face our own racism and our own quiescence in the face of this violence.
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. Amen. (BCP).
Please join me and members of the wider community at Christ Church on Saturday, June 20, at 6pm for an Interfaith Prayer Vigil for Peace and and End to Racism, hosted by the Waltham Ministerial Association.
Blessings,
Sara+
This Sunday, we’ll hear the story of David and Goliath, a story we all know by heart. David, so young and so small he couldn’t even move trying to wear armor, hit Goliath in the middle of the eyes and knocked him down. Though everyone said it would be impossible, with God it would happen. Waking up to news this morning of a shooting at a historically black church in South Carolina, American racism feels like Goliath and we are all still on our way to battle.
In the story, David uses the same strength and skill that has brought him victory over all kinds of wild beasts. David knows himself. The United States, though? We don’t know ourselves. We don’t know each other. We don’t know our own minds, we don’t know each others’ experiences to free ourselves from this toxic fog of racism and hatred that seeps in everywhere. The assailant at the Emanuel shooting sat in Bible Study with his victims for an hour before beginning the attack. It’s beyond chilling.
So I don’t have a ton of words this evening, but I do have the Gospel. We can pray, pray, pray and be vulnerable to the suffering of others. We can remember their names and pray for Cynthia, Tywanza, DePayne, Ethel, Myra, Susie, Sharonda, Daniel Sr, and Clementa, each beloved children who rest in the arms of their Creator. We can remember that Jesus went to the cross rather than return violence for violence.
We can note that the terrorism perpetrated against this church is in a neighboring town to the place where Walter Scott was murdered just two months ago by police, also viewed with suspicion and hatred because he was black. And we can also say that they were martyrs, not only victims. We can say it is terrorism. Pray that we—you and me—have the courage to face our own racism and our own quiescence in the face of this violence.
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. Amen. (BCP).
Please join me and members of the wider community at Christ Church on Saturday, June 20, at 6pm for an Interfaith Prayer Vigil for Peace and and End to Racism, hosted by the Waltham Ministerial Association.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, June 11, 2015
A New Take on Being the Body of Christ
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I had the privilege to sit next to Sister Simone Campbell, keynote speaker at the Episcopal City Mission Annual Dinner. She is the executive director of the Roman Catholic Sisters’ social justice advocacy organization, NETWORK. I first heard about Sisters Simone’s work in 2012, when she and her sisters began the “Nuns on the Bus” tour and offered their critique of the much-discussed Ryan budget, a budget passed by the US House that would have gutted safety net provisions for poor Americans nationwide. Subsequent trips have promoted support for new immigrants and their 2014 “We the People” tour encouraged voters to step up and claim their place at the table. I bought her book and would be interested in talking about it with a group—please let me know if you’d be up for some light summer reading! (It really is light—she’s charming and totally conversational).
One of the things that Sister Simone talked about was the image of the Body of Christ—I know, I know, you’ve thought about it before. But she didn’t talk poetically about how she thought she was the feet or the hands of Christ. She said she thought her ministry was in being the stomach acid. Yes, the stomach acid. To digest and process and get the protein and nutrients broken down and sent to where they need to go. All you need to do, she said, is find your part to play in the world—you don’t have to fix every problem, you need to find the one thing you are called to.
The other fantastic part of the evening was watching this video about the Burgess Urban Fund. The fund was started 40 years ago as the Joint Urban Fund between the diocese and Episcopal City Mission. The seeds for it were planted in 1968, when Bishop Anson Stokes offered $10,000 in response to activists’ demands to build affordable housing on a vacant lot at Dartmouth and Columbus Streets in Boston. That action set the tone for what would become the Burgess Urban Fund, named for John Burgess, the first African American diocesan bishop in the Episcopal Church. The fund grew, supported by every parish, and over the years has given five million dollars to community organizations (including our local partner WATCH!). Our own Rev Norm Faramelli has long been affiliated with ECM and tells much of the story. Watch it here! (no, really. Watch it. It’s 8 minutes, and totally worth it).
Bishop Burgess said that he wanted to show how the Episcopal Church could be relevant to the lives of the poor. That was his “one thing,” as Sister Simone said. Not a small thing, but one thing. What’s your thing? Where are you called to meet God working in the world? Are you a hand, a foot, a heart? Or maybe something more specific, like stomach acid or blood or veins? A whole body needs every part.
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S.—for another thing I wrote this week…check out my reply to a recent New York Times article on feminism and transgender rights on my blog—”Why politics needs theology: or why feminism and trans rights are part of the same train.”
This week, I had the privilege to sit next to Sister Simone Campbell, keynote speaker at the Episcopal City Mission Annual Dinner. She is the executive director of the Roman Catholic Sisters’ social justice advocacy organization, NETWORK. I first heard about Sisters Simone’s work in 2012, when she and her sisters began the “Nuns on the Bus” tour and offered their critique of the much-discussed Ryan budget, a budget passed by the US House that would have gutted safety net provisions for poor Americans nationwide. Subsequent trips have promoted support for new immigrants and their 2014 “We the People” tour encouraged voters to step up and claim their place at the table. I bought her book and would be interested in talking about it with a group—please let me know if you’d be up for some light summer reading! (It really is light—she’s charming and totally conversational).
One of the things that Sister Simone talked about was the image of the Body of Christ—I know, I know, you’ve thought about it before. But she didn’t talk poetically about how she thought she was the feet or the hands of Christ. She said she thought her ministry was in being the stomach acid. Yes, the stomach acid. To digest and process and get the protein and nutrients broken down and sent to where they need to go. All you need to do, she said, is find your part to play in the world—you don’t have to fix every problem, you need to find the one thing you are called to.
The other fantastic part of the evening was watching this video about the Burgess Urban Fund. The fund was started 40 years ago as the Joint Urban Fund between the diocese and Episcopal City Mission. The seeds for it were planted in 1968, when Bishop Anson Stokes offered $10,000 in response to activists’ demands to build affordable housing on a vacant lot at Dartmouth and Columbus Streets in Boston. That action set the tone for what would become the Burgess Urban Fund, named for John Burgess, the first African American diocesan bishop in the Episcopal Church. The fund grew, supported by every parish, and over the years has given five million dollars to community organizations (including our local partner WATCH!). Our own Rev Norm Faramelli has long been affiliated with ECM and tells much of the story. Watch it here! (no, really. Watch it. It’s 8 minutes, and totally worth it).
Bishop Burgess said that he wanted to show how the Episcopal Church could be relevant to the lives of the poor. That was his “one thing,” as Sister Simone said. Not a small thing, but one thing. What’s your thing? Where are you called to meet God working in the world? Are you a hand, a foot, a heart? Or maybe something more specific, like stomach acid or blood or veins? A whole body needs every part.
Blessings,
Sara+
P.S.—for another thing I wrote this week…check out my reply to a recent New York Times article on feminism and transgender rights on my blog—”Why politics needs theology: or why feminism and trans rights are part of the same train.”
Friday, June 5, 2015
Meditation: Learning to be a Christian, Looking to Eastern Religions
Dear People of Christ Church,
Last weekend, I was blessed to join in the Sakadawa Interfaith Celebration at the Kurukulla Center in Medford. The center had invited all of Medford and beyond to join in chanting and prayer for peace in honor of the Buddha’s birthday. Leading worship I do pray in church, of course, but it was also completely delightful to have someone else do the heavy lifting.
I am not, of course, a Buddhist or a Hindu, but Eastern religions have still had a profound impact on my spirituality. When I was in college I studied in India for half of my senior year and I had the chance to stay for two weeks at the Chinmaya Ashram. When I was looking for a place for my retreat, I met a woman who had gone to this community every year for forty years. “Hinduism,” she said, “basically seeks to make people happy. Meditation," she said, "will bring you bliss. The ashram is Hindu. But we don’t want to make you a Hindu. Hinduism wants you to be a better person. It wants Muslims to be better Muslims. It wants you to be a better Christian. If you learn to cultivate this now, your life will change.”
And it did. Two years later I was in seminary, somewhat to my own surprise and even more so to those around me. I think you have to practice for a lot longer than I have to achieve bliss, but there are glimmers. The thing that Buddhism and Hinduism and Christianity all share is the knowledge that true freedom isn’t to be had in always getting your way. Whether Jesus on the cross, or Gautama Buddha under the Bodhi tree, or an 80 year old Hindu woman willing to have tea with a 21 year old American girl, the basic movement beyond ego and self-interest flows in the same direction. Many deeper minds than my own have engaged in serious interfaith dialogue on this.
Buddhism, a religious sibling to Hinduism, teaches profoundly about compassion, particularly compassion for ourselves—the wellspring of our compassion for others. The teacher Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara says the thing that gets us caught is the story we tell ourselves about who we are—we get caught on our former selves and forget that the “we” we are has always been an illusion, a set of ideas that props us up to face the world, but ultimately of no more weight than a breath. These stories we tell are a deep part of the suffering we create. As a Christian, I look behind the un-substance of that breath and see the image of God in which we all are made—and the detritus of sin that separates me from living into it more honestly. As a Christian, too, I know nothing can separate me from the love of God.
I’ll leave you with one of those stronger interfaith minds than my own, the monk Thomas Merton (1915-1968).
Both Christianity and Buddhism show that suffering remains inexplicable, most of all for the [one] who attempts to explain it in order to evade it, or who thinks explanation itself is an escape. Suffering is not a ‘problem’ as if it were something we could stand outside of and control. Suffering, as both Christianity and Buddhism see, each in its own way, is part of our very ego-identity and empirical existence, and the only thing to do about it is to plunge right into the middle of contradiction and confusion in order to be transformed by what Zen calls ‘the great death’ and Christianity calls ‘dying and rising with Christ’.
Blessings,
Sara+
More on Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara here.
More on Thomas Merton here.
Last weekend, I was blessed to join in the Sakadawa Interfaith Celebration at the Kurukulla Center in Medford. The center had invited all of Medford and beyond to join in chanting and prayer for peace in honor of the Buddha’s birthday. Leading worship I do pray in church, of course, but it was also completely delightful to have someone else do the heavy lifting.
I am not, of course, a Buddhist or a Hindu, but Eastern religions have still had a profound impact on my spirituality. When I was in college I studied in India for half of my senior year and I had the chance to stay for two weeks at the Chinmaya Ashram. When I was looking for a place for my retreat, I met a woman who had gone to this community every year for forty years. “Hinduism,” she said, “basically seeks to make people happy. Meditation," she said, "will bring you bliss. The ashram is Hindu. But we don’t want to make you a Hindu. Hinduism wants you to be a better person. It wants Muslims to be better Muslims. It wants you to be a better Christian. If you learn to cultivate this now, your life will change.”
And it did. Two years later I was in seminary, somewhat to my own surprise and even more so to those around me. I think you have to practice for a lot longer than I have to achieve bliss, but there are glimmers. The thing that Buddhism and Hinduism and Christianity all share is the knowledge that true freedom isn’t to be had in always getting your way. Whether Jesus on the cross, or Gautama Buddha under the Bodhi tree, or an 80 year old Hindu woman willing to have tea with a 21 year old American girl, the basic movement beyond ego and self-interest flows in the same direction. Many deeper minds than my own have engaged in serious interfaith dialogue on this.
Buddhism, a religious sibling to Hinduism, teaches profoundly about compassion, particularly compassion for ourselves—the wellspring of our compassion for others. The teacher Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara says the thing that gets us caught is the story we tell ourselves about who we are—we get caught on our former selves and forget that the “we” we are has always been an illusion, a set of ideas that props us up to face the world, but ultimately of no more weight than a breath. These stories we tell are a deep part of the suffering we create. As a Christian, I look behind the un-substance of that breath and see the image of God in which we all are made—and the detritus of sin that separates me from living into it more honestly. As a Christian, too, I know nothing can separate me from the love of God.
I’ll leave you with one of those stronger interfaith minds than my own, the monk Thomas Merton (1915-1968).
Both Christianity and Buddhism show that suffering remains inexplicable, most of all for the [one] who attempts to explain it in order to evade it, or who thinks explanation itself is an escape. Suffering is not a ‘problem’ as if it were something we could stand outside of and control. Suffering, as both Christianity and Buddhism see, each in its own way, is part of our very ego-identity and empirical existence, and the only thing to do about it is to plunge right into the middle of contradiction and confusion in order to be transformed by what Zen calls ‘the great death’ and Christianity calls ‘dying and rising with Christ’.
Blessings,
Sara+
More on Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara here.
More on Thomas Merton here.
Friday, May 29, 2015
End of Life Conversation
Dear People of Christ Church,
Tuesday, June 2, I hope you’ll join me for our “end of life issues” conversation. This is the third or fourth year our parish has offered this time, and there just aren’t enough words to say how important it is to grapple with these hard questions.
I write about death in this space a lot. I write about death when someone beloved to our congregation dies. I write about death when we host these conversations every year. I write about death as we get close to Thanksgiving—having everyone at the table is a good time to talk about end of life questions. I think about death a lot. But thinking and writing about death a lot isn’t the same as being okay with it.
And that’s why we have to practice.
That’s why we have to talk about death again and again and again, until we can get it from our brains into our hearts and back to our brains that death is part of life, that we have reason to trust God and trust those we love, that the “One who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new live to our mortal bodies” through God’s indwelling Spirit (BCP 501). God is love. The love that makes us grieve for one another is the same love that gives us everlasting life. Our love for each other and the love of God are of one piece. God’s love weaves in and out of our own lives in each of us.
For those of us who are left behind, though, death is terrifying. We know who we are in relation to those around us. Our parents, friends, spouses, children—they help make us who we are. We fear not having those we love. Who will we be without them? So it seems easier to save up the hard conversations for later. It seems like maybe if we don’t talk about death, it won’t be real. But our denial of death doesn’t make it less real. The less we talk about what we want for the end of our life, the harder it is to face when it actually happens.
What kind of care do you want in case of a traumatic injury? Under what circumstances would you want to initiate a “Do Not Resuscitate” order? Is it important is to you to be at home when you die? What hymns do you want to be sung at your funeral? Do you want someone to offer a eulogy about you? What Gospel do you want to have preached? Are you a “many dwelling places” kind of person, or do you go for the beatitudes? Have you filled out a health care proxy form, and does your doctor have a copy? Would you consider leaving a gift to your church, or other organizations that are important to you, in your will?
The Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Rome,
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)
Thanks be to God!
For our end of life issues “workbook,” see A Christian Prepares for Death
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, June 2, I hope you’ll join me for our “end of life issues” conversation. This is the third or fourth year our parish has offered this time, and there just aren’t enough words to say how important it is to grapple with these hard questions.
I write about death in this space a lot. I write about death when someone beloved to our congregation dies. I write about death when we host these conversations every year. I write about death as we get close to Thanksgiving—having everyone at the table is a good time to talk about end of life questions. I think about death a lot. But thinking and writing about death a lot isn’t the same as being okay with it.
And that’s why we have to practice.
That’s why we have to talk about death again and again and again, until we can get it from our brains into our hearts and back to our brains that death is part of life, that we have reason to trust God and trust those we love, that the “One who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new live to our mortal bodies” through God’s indwelling Spirit (BCP 501). God is love. The love that makes us grieve for one another is the same love that gives us everlasting life. Our love for each other and the love of God are of one piece. God’s love weaves in and out of our own lives in each of us.
For those of us who are left behind, though, death is terrifying. We know who we are in relation to those around us. Our parents, friends, spouses, children—they help make us who we are. We fear not having those we love. Who will we be without them? So it seems easier to save up the hard conversations for later. It seems like maybe if we don’t talk about death, it won’t be real. But our denial of death doesn’t make it less real. The less we talk about what we want for the end of our life, the harder it is to face when it actually happens.
What kind of care do you want in case of a traumatic injury? Under what circumstances would you want to initiate a “Do Not Resuscitate” order? Is it important is to you to be at home when you die? What hymns do you want to be sung at your funeral? Do you want someone to offer a eulogy about you? What Gospel do you want to have preached? Are you a “many dwelling places” kind of person, or do you go for the beatitudes? Have you filled out a health care proxy form, and does your doctor have a copy? Would you consider leaving a gift to your church, or other organizations that are important to you, in your will?
The Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Rome,
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)
Thanks be to God!
For our end of life issues “workbook,” see A Christian Prepares for Death
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Thinking Like a Prophet
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I was out of the office for a few days at the Making Excellent Disciples conference, a program of the diocese. The aim is to support mentoring and leadership training for newer ordinands, and I’ve had the privilege to journey as a mentor to Jack Clark, the assistant rector in Sudbury, over the last two years. One of our workshops today was on how the church is called to be prophetic. What does it mean to tell the truth when truth telling virtually ensures not everyone will be on board with you? How do you make room for conversation and mutual discernment? As we sat down one of the participants asked where our stones were—I thought he was talking about some crafty project with rocks or something—but he was really joking about whether we were going to stone our presenter, a fate met by many a prophet either literally or metaphorically.
We like when truth is spoken to power…as long as it’s our truth. There is always a fine line in finding the right way to bring politics in. Anything that has to do with power is political—it’s just part of life. On the one hand, if you sincerely want to lead on an issue, you have to actually think about how effective your proclamation is going to be. On the other—sometimes you just need to SPEAK and let the chips fall where they may. Jumping into the pulpit or your staff meeting and letting loose on what you think about Guantanamo, however, just may not be a great strategy to try to advocate for recognizing the dignity of every human being. Silence, though, also doesn’t seem to be the answer. Jesus had plenty to say about who had what and how people cared for each other in in real life—real cities and communities and families—not just in the abstract. He taught in a world not so different from our own, in that respect.
Our workshop leader on prophetic ministry was Cameron Partridge, a good friend of mine and, though he wouldn’t claim the mantle of “prophet” for himself, he has had a goodly prophetic ministry for our diocese and the wider church in advocacy for the concerns and inclusion of transgendered people. Cameron and I were ordained together in 2004, he the first trans man to be a priest in our diocese—Christ Churchers may also remember him as being here for Adah’s baptism as her godfather. He’s also filled in for me on a Sunday at least once or twice! Part of our conversation included a reading of the book of the prophet Jonah. If you haven’t read the book of Jonah lately, please do yourself a favor now and read the whole thing (it will take five minutes). One of the more resonant things about Jonah is that, while he grudgingly calls Nineveh to repentance, he totally doesn’t want to. Jonah argues with God, throwing tantrum after tantrum. But God stays in relationship, loves Jonah, and loves Nineveh. They work it out. Once he’s called to be a prophet, Jonah doesn’t straighten up and obey God—he wrestles and argues and wonders and sighs. He’s real. He trusts God with his whole self, and God trusts him. I think the wholehearted relationship between God and Jonah is a good model for what it is for parish ministry to grapple with the prophetic. They have a real relationship. They listen to each other. They’re safe.
Who challenges you in your life to think like a prophet? When have you had the courage to speak? Where do you think this community is called to do that work?
Blessings,
Sara+
This week I was out of the office for a few days at the Making Excellent Disciples conference, a program of the diocese. The aim is to support mentoring and leadership training for newer ordinands, and I’ve had the privilege to journey as a mentor to Jack Clark, the assistant rector in Sudbury, over the last two years. One of our workshops today was on how the church is called to be prophetic. What does it mean to tell the truth when truth telling virtually ensures not everyone will be on board with you? How do you make room for conversation and mutual discernment? As we sat down one of the participants asked where our stones were—I thought he was talking about some crafty project with rocks or something—but he was really joking about whether we were going to stone our presenter, a fate met by many a prophet either literally or metaphorically.
We like when truth is spoken to power…as long as it’s our truth. There is always a fine line in finding the right way to bring politics in. Anything that has to do with power is political—it’s just part of life. On the one hand, if you sincerely want to lead on an issue, you have to actually think about how effective your proclamation is going to be. On the other—sometimes you just need to SPEAK and let the chips fall where they may. Jumping into the pulpit or your staff meeting and letting loose on what you think about Guantanamo, however, just may not be a great strategy to try to advocate for recognizing the dignity of every human being. Silence, though, also doesn’t seem to be the answer. Jesus had plenty to say about who had what and how people cared for each other in in real life—real cities and communities and families—not just in the abstract. He taught in a world not so different from our own, in that respect.
Our workshop leader on prophetic ministry was Cameron Partridge, a good friend of mine and, though he wouldn’t claim the mantle of “prophet” for himself, he has had a goodly prophetic ministry for our diocese and the wider church in advocacy for the concerns and inclusion of transgendered people. Cameron and I were ordained together in 2004, he the first trans man to be a priest in our diocese—Christ Churchers may also remember him as being here for Adah’s baptism as her godfather. He’s also filled in for me on a Sunday at least once or twice! Part of our conversation included a reading of the book of the prophet Jonah. If you haven’t read the book of Jonah lately, please do yourself a favor now and read the whole thing (it will take five minutes). One of the more resonant things about Jonah is that, while he grudgingly calls Nineveh to repentance, he totally doesn’t want to. Jonah argues with God, throwing tantrum after tantrum. But God stays in relationship, loves Jonah, and loves Nineveh. They work it out. Once he’s called to be a prophet, Jonah doesn’t straighten up and obey God—he wrestles and argues and wonders and sighs. He’s real. He trusts God with his whole self, and God trusts him. I think the wholehearted relationship between God and Jonah is a good model for what it is for parish ministry to grapple with the prophetic. They have a real relationship. They listen to each other. They’re safe.
Who challenges you in your life to think like a prophet? When have you had the courage to speak? Where do you think this community is called to do that work?
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, May 15, 2015
Stillness in the Whirlwind
Dear People of Christ Church,
After confirmation, parish arts day, the post office food drive, the Mother’s Day Walk, and whatever else I’ve forgotten that’s happened in the first two weeks of May, finally it feels like we aren’t sprinting toward anything.
(There is planting day on Saturday, but if the thing that’s making your life feel busy is a morning spent gardening, you have it pretty good).
ALL THE THINGS…where is there stillness?
Depends on what you mean by stillness. Longing for rest is one thing—too many Saturdays working makes Sara a dull girl—but stillness is different from inactivity. Both are necessary at ties, but stillness comes when the focus is on God, not on the outcome. Whatever brilliant or important thing that we think is so important is secondary to that faithfulness. Stillness comes when our interior lives aren’t determined by our external circumstances. That’s not to say that our external circumstances don’t matter—you have only to spend some time with the photos from the Day Center exhibit currently in the parish hall to know that material and spiritual needs are linked. But ultimate reconciliation isn’t in having the biggest team for the Peace Walk or the coolest Children’s Play Garden. It’s in how we are listening for where God finds us in community. We are called to be faithful to God’s nudging toward hospitality and solidarity—not to focus on the task to the exclusion of the call.
I imagine that our contemporary striving for stillness and comfort is not so different from the experience of the earliest church. Their anxieties were different, but there was still anxiety. Today is the feast of the Ascension—the church’s time of marking the end of Jesus’ resurrection appearances to his disciples. The Gospel story is a bit fantastical—he is raised up into the clouds out of sight—and while I believe the experience of the disciples, I’m not sure of what to make of the literalness of it—science and whatnot—but what I DO really get is the sense of uncertainty and fear that the remaining community felt. Living in the midst of uncertainty is hard. Chaos is hard. Grieving—hard. One moment the disciples knew Jesus to be there, and then he was gone.
Liturgically/poetically/metaphorically in the church we observe the ten days between Ascension (today) and Pentecost (May 24) as the time between Jesus ending his resurrection appearances, returning to the heart of God, and sending the Holy Spirit. Those tongues of fire at the wild parties of Pentecost were the promise of God’s active working in our midst for all time, sent by Jesus in God our Creator. In this time between, the absence is the presence; it’s paradoxically in this dark time that the light is being born in our hearts. I’m in the middle of reading Cheryl Strayed’s book, Wild, in which she chronicles her hundreds of miles hike on the Pacific Coast Trail from southern California to Oregon. After her life falls apart, she is reassembled on the trail, the exhaustion and pain giving way to grace and transformation. She didn’t make peace with her mother’s death because she ate dehydrated food and walked alone for four months and her feet were covered in blisters. But it was still in the midst of that adversity and loneliness that the peace came, finding herself near the end emptied of everything but gratitude to have arrived (274). Absence was presence. Even unable to see God or know God, yet God is present. It’s the stillness in the whirlwind, the intimation of rest even in the midst of striving and action. Not because we’ve fixed or changed what’s outside ourselves, but because we’ve listened to our God who whispers.
Where is your soul? Where have you found a moment of peace?
Blessings,
Sara+
After confirmation, parish arts day, the post office food drive, the Mother’s Day Walk, and whatever else I’ve forgotten that’s happened in the first two weeks of May, finally it feels like we aren’t sprinting toward anything.
(There is planting day on Saturday, but if the thing that’s making your life feel busy is a morning spent gardening, you have it pretty good).
ALL THE THINGS…where is there stillness?
Depends on what you mean by stillness. Longing for rest is one thing—too many Saturdays working makes Sara a dull girl—but stillness is different from inactivity. Both are necessary at ties, but stillness comes when the focus is on God, not on the outcome. Whatever brilliant or important thing that we think is so important is secondary to that faithfulness. Stillness comes when our interior lives aren’t determined by our external circumstances. That’s not to say that our external circumstances don’t matter—you have only to spend some time with the photos from the Day Center exhibit currently in the parish hall to know that material and spiritual needs are linked. But ultimate reconciliation isn’t in having the biggest team for the Peace Walk or the coolest Children’s Play Garden. It’s in how we are listening for where God finds us in community. We are called to be faithful to God’s nudging toward hospitality and solidarity—not to focus on the task to the exclusion of the call.
I imagine that our contemporary striving for stillness and comfort is not so different from the experience of the earliest church. Their anxieties were different, but there was still anxiety. Today is the feast of the Ascension—the church’s time of marking the end of Jesus’ resurrection appearances to his disciples. The Gospel story is a bit fantastical—he is raised up into the clouds out of sight—and while I believe the experience of the disciples, I’m not sure of what to make of the literalness of it—science and whatnot—but what I DO really get is the sense of uncertainty and fear that the remaining community felt. Living in the midst of uncertainty is hard. Chaos is hard. Grieving—hard. One moment the disciples knew Jesus to be there, and then he was gone.
Liturgically/poetically/metaphorically in the church we observe the ten days between Ascension (today) and Pentecost (May 24) as the time between Jesus ending his resurrection appearances, returning to the heart of God, and sending the Holy Spirit. Those tongues of fire at the wild parties of Pentecost were the promise of God’s active working in our midst for all time, sent by Jesus in God our Creator. In this time between, the absence is the presence; it’s paradoxically in this dark time that the light is being born in our hearts. I’m in the middle of reading Cheryl Strayed’s book, Wild, in which she chronicles her hundreds of miles hike on the Pacific Coast Trail from southern California to Oregon. After her life falls apart, she is reassembled on the trail, the exhaustion and pain giving way to grace and transformation. She didn’t make peace with her mother’s death because she ate dehydrated food and walked alone for four months and her feet were covered in blisters. But it was still in the midst of that adversity and loneliness that the peace came, finding herself near the end emptied of everything but gratitude to have arrived (274). Absence was presence. Even unable to see God or know God, yet God is present. It’s the stillness in the whirlwind, the intimation of rest even in the midst of striving and action. Not because we’ve fixed or changed what’s outside ourselves, but because we’ve listened to our God who whispers.
Where is your soul? Where have you found a moment of peace?
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, May 8, 2015
Mother's Day Walk for Peace
Dear People of Christ Church,
So many great things going on this week!
Friday night, please join us for our parish arts and talent show. There will be everything from bellydancing to singing to poetry about cats, along with pieces from the Community Day Center’s Photo Exhibit, “Homelessness Through Our Eyes.” And there will be pizza.
Saturday, come over to help with Post Office food drive. The USPS’s annual “Stamp Out Hunger” event allows you to put food out at your mailbox to be delivered to local food pantries, and our own “Grandma’s Pantry” is a grateful recipient. Often times the haul is very generous, which means we need lots of help. Please be in touch with Sally Lobo if you can make it.
Sunday, please join Christ Churchers for the Mother’s Day Walk for Peace. In the last few years we’ve had 15-20 participants—let’s make it 30 this year! Meet at 7:30 am near the B Peace for Jorge tent on the Common. The Walk benefits the Louis Brown Peace Institute, founded by Tina Chery after her son Louis Brown was murdered. Money from the walk this year will go for a new grant program for advocacy groups and a new fund for those who need assistance with burial costs when their loved ones die by violence. We’ll be walking as part of the B Peace for Jorge team, which convened under the leadership of Bishop Tom Shaw after Jorge Fuentes, a counselor for St Stephen’s B Safe Program (for which we will volunteer later this summer!), was shot walking his dog. The year after Jorge’s death, Bishop Tom did the walk and celebrated the Eucharist at the end, a tradition Bishop Gates will continue this year.
With a lot of “walk” events—for breast cancer, or hunger, or suicide—the walking can feel sort of secondary. They are an important occasion to raise awareness—to turn our attention and offer support. For several years my kids did the Walk for Hunger with Grace Medford, and I know it gave them a tangible sense of focusing their attention on those who have less than they. But there is no direct correlation between putting one foot in front of the other and ending hunger. It’s a means, not an end.
The thing about the Peace Walk that is so compelling to me is that this is a time when the walking actually DOES make a difference. Many of us never have occasion to visit places we hear about on the news where yet another young person has been shot. We aren’t confronted with the reality of not allowing our kids to play outside for fear of random gunfire. The news tells us about these crimes, and maybe we pay attention and maybe we don’t—but we forget that there are communities and churches and schools full of kids and moms and dads and teenagers who walk their dogs who confront this as reality all the time. But illegal guns are a problem for everyone. Racism is a problem for everyone. 500 people from the suburbs descending on Dorchester once a year doesn’t change much. But bit by bit, it might change us. Maybe you have a conversation with someone or maybe you see racism in a different light. Maybe just one piece of the puzzle of race and inequality snaps in place. There’s hope.
This year, it feels especially important—this year’s march isn’t tied specifically to the Black Lives Matter Movement, but of course they are related. Police officers will be stationed throughout the walk to help guide walkers—we are grateful to them! But it’s the same racism that has led many police officers to immediately find people of color suspect. It’s the same racism that still lingers as suspicion and mistrust. It’s the same racism that infects our justice systems, our schools, and our streets. One poisonous well, many different outflows. Sunday, we will be one people of God, trying to find our way back to each other and to the grace of Christ that makes us all whole.
Blessings,
Sara+
So many great things going on this week!
Friday night, please join us for our parish arts and talent show. There will be everything from bellydancing to singing to poetry about cats, along with pieces from the Community Day Center’s Photo Exhibit, “Homelessness Through Our Eyes.” And there will be pizza.
Saturday, come over to help with Post Office food drive. The USPS’s annual “Stamp Out Hunger” event allows you to put food out at your mailbox to be delivered to local food pantries, and our own “Grandma’s Pantry” is a grateful recipient. Often times the haul is very generous, which means we need lots of help. Please be in touch with Sally Lobo if you can make it.
Sunday, please join Christ Churchers for the Mother’s Day Walk for Peace. In the last few years we’ve had 15-20 participants—let’s make it 30 this year! Meet at 7:30 am near the B Peace for Jorge tent on the Common. The Walk benefits the Louis Brown Peace Institute, founded by Tina Chery after her son Louis Brown was murdered. Money from the walk this year will go for a new grant program for advocacy groups and a new fund for those who need assistance with burial costs when their loved ones die by violence. We’ll be walking as part of the B Peace for Jorge team, which convened under the leadership of Bishop Tom Shaw after Jorge Fuentes, a counselor for St Stephen’s B Safe Program (for which we will volunteer later this summer!), was shot walking his dog. The year after Jorge’s death, Bishop Tom did the walk and celebrated the Eucharist at the end, a tradition Bishop Gates will continue this year.
With a lot of “walk” events—for breast cancer, or hunger, or suicide—the walking can feel sort of secondary. They are an important occasion to raise awareness—to turn our attention and offer support. For several years my kids did the Walk for Hunger with Grace Medford, and I know it gave them a tangible sense of focusing their attention on those who have less than they. But there is no direct correlation between putting one foot in front of the other and ending hunger. It’s a means, not an end.
The thing about the Peace Walk that is so compelling to me is that this is a time when the walking actually DOES make a difference. Many of us never have occasion to visit places we hear about on the news where yet another young person has been shot. We aren’t confronted with the reality of not allowing our kids to play outside for fear of random gunfire. The news tells us about these crimes, and maybe we pay attention and maybe we don’t—but we forget that there are communities and churches and schools full of kids and moms and dads and teenagers who walk their dogs who confront this as reality all the time. But illegal guns are a problem for everyone. Racism is a problem for everyone. 500 people from the suburbs descending on Dorchester once a year doesn’t change much. But bit by bit, it might change us. Maybe you have a conversation with someone or maybe you see racism in a different light. Maybe just one piece of the puzzle of race and inequality snaps in place. There’s hope.
This year, it feels especially important—this year’s march isn’t tied specifically to the Black Lives Matter Movement, but of course they are related. Police officers will be stationed throughout the walk to help guide walkers—we are grateful to them! But it’s the same racism that has led many police officers to immediately find people of color suspect. It’s the same racism that still lingers as suspicion and mistrust. It’s the same racism that infects our justice systems, our schools, and our streets. One poisonous well, many different outflows. Sunday, we will be one people of God, trying to find our way back to each other and to the grace of Christ that makes us all whole.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, May 1, 2015
Jesus the Good Shepherd
With so many occasions for lament this week, I’m feeling drawn back toward the good shepherd we heard about in our readings and psalm last week. I admitted it’s not been my favorite image, but when in the valley of the shadow of death, the table set before the enemy is something we need again and again. This week, I want to pass along a poem I encountered from a newly discovered blog, that of Andrew King, a Canadian Anglican layman. Fast-food worker by day, poet by night, he’s set himself the goal of writing for each week of the church year. I’m grateful.
We need the shepherding of Jesus. For Paula Tatarunis, whose health has taken a turn for the worse and for her husband Darrell, who has hard decisions to make. For Nepal, for towns so remote it takes two days for rescuers to get there to assess the damage, much less offer aid. For Baltimore, for an end to racism in this country. I don’t usually watch much broadcast news, but this week I caught some of the Baltimore coverage on CNN—as they showed two single scenes of property destruction on a continuous loop. How many more people walked peacefully? How many more people cleaned up the next day? And how do the media talk about incidents like that when perpetrated by, for example, white college students? Nobody says “thug” or “riot” at those times. The valley of the shadow of death for all of us in this country is the legacy of racism that sees the bodies of people of color as less-than. As Andrew King writes, “may the cup of joy overflow for those whose suffering has been their drink.” Amen.
PRAYER TO THE SHEPHERD
(Psalm 23, John 10: 11-18)
O Lord our Shepherd,
may your flock not want
in the refugee camps
of Yarmouk, of Darfur, of Dadaab.
May life-giving pastures of nourishment be theirs
in Sudan, in Niger, in Chad.
May waters of peacefulness and healing flow
in Somalia, in Syria, in Ukraine.
And may souls be restored in our own cities and towns
where violence and hunger still live.
O Lord our Shepherd,
death shadows the valleys
and the houses and hills of our lands.
May the strength of your grace and
the assurance of your love
ever with us and ever embracing,
bring comfort to the grieving and alone.
May there be a table of reconciliation prepared
where enemies may sit down in peace
and may the cup of joy overflow for those
whose suffering has been their drink.
Let your goodness and mercy attend your flock,
O Shepherd, our Lord,
and may all your flock dwell
in the unity of your love
as long as life endures.
We need the shepherding of Jesus. For Paula Tatarunis, whose health has taken a turn for the worse and for her husband Darrell, who has hard decisions to make. For Nepal, for towns so remote it takes two days for rescuers to get there to assess the damage, much less offer aid. For Baltimore, for an end to racism in this country. I don’t usually watch much broadcast news, but this week I caught some of the Baltimore coverage on CNN—as they showed two single scenes of property destruction on a continuous loop. How many more people walked peacefully? How many more people cleaned up the next day? And how do the media talk about incidents like that when perpetrated by, for example, white college students? Nobody says “thug” or “riot” at those times. The valley of the shadow of death for all of us in this country is the legacy of racism that sees the bodies of people of color as less-than. As Andrew King writes, “may the cup of joy overflow for those whose suffering has been their drink.” Amen.
PRAYER TO THE SHEPHERD
(Psalm 23, John 10: 11-18)
O Lord our Shepherd,
may your flock not want
in the refugee camps
of Yarmouk, of Darfur, of Dadaab.
May life-giving pastures of nourishment be theirs
in Sudan, in Niger, in Chad.
May waters of peacefulness and healing flow
in Somalia, in Syria, in Ukraine.
And may souls be restored in our own cities and towns
where violence and hunger still live.
O Lord our Shepherd,
death shadows the valleys
and the houses and hills of our lands.
May the strength of your grace and
the assurance of your love
ever with us and ever embracing,
bring comfort to the grieving and alone.
May there be a table of reconciliation prepared
where enemies may sit down in peace
and may the cup of joy overflow for those
whose suffering has been their drink.
Let your goodness and mercy attend your flock,
O Shepherd, our Lord,
and may all your flock dwell
in the unity of your love
as long as life endures.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Belief, Trust, and Reciting the Creed
Dear People of Christ Church,
Continued happy Easter, everyone!
I had a great week off last week reconnecting with my family after a long and wonderful Holy Week. As I have said many times, I’m a big fan of the services of Holy Week not just because it’s “good” to go to church (which, sure, it is), but because participating in those liturgies helps me come near to God in a deeper way—beyond my over-active mind, beyond anxiety and distraction. To actually place your body on the ground in front of the cross and to hear the first bells of Easter at the Vigil is to be placed in the path of mystery: God simply dwells with you.
On Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending church with my kids at Church of Our Savior, Arlington, where one of my daughter’s classmates’ mothers is the rector. (Thanks to new parishioner and retired priest Dan Crowley for being here!) COS is a smaller space, with a round altar in the center of the church and the pews facing inward on either side. As an Episcopal Church, the liturgy was much the same, but when it came time for the Nicene Creed Rev. Malia introduced it in a new way. Not everyone, perhaps obviously is a huge fan of the recitation of the Creed. As a historical artifact, it’s a snapshot of the heresies and arguments of the early Church—not necessarily intended to be an inspirational invitation to a holy life. For every line of text, there’s a backstory of debate with proponents on all sides.
For many contemporary Christians the doctrine that Jesus was fully human and fully divine seems self-evident, but it was not so 1600 years ago. The docetics said that Jesus just seemed human. The Arians said that he was divine but still definitely subordinate to God the Father. The Orthodox theology of the Trinity as three in One and of one substance carried the day, and we still recite this explanation of our belief even now.
A trickier question is how do we believe when we say we believe. That’s between you and God. When I introduce the Creed at Christ Church, I say something like “Let us confess our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed:” my way of explaining that this is the tradition of the church and this is the articulation chosen through hundreds of years, but it’s not necessarily the most comprehensive. The deeper meaning of the words and ideas is a personal question. At COS, Rev. Malia invited the congregation to say the Creed as either We believe (the “real” words) [in one God, Jesus, Spirit, Church] or We trust [in one God, Jesus, Spirit, Church].
For an over-thinker with some trust issues, this was a fascinating shift. The Latin word credo which the word “creed” comes from means “to give your heart to.” That explanation has always resonated with me because there’s an intentionality to it. But the poetry of it also lends a certain abstraction. “Trust” has a deeper vulnerability at the center. How do I trust God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit? All the time? What does it mean to trust God in the Church? To proclaim our faith? What does it mean to join our faith with the church through time in these Creeds?
Blessings,
Sara+
Continued happy Easter, everyone!
I had a great week off last week reconnecting with my family after a long and wonderful Holy Week. As I have said many times, I’m a big fan of the services of Holy Week not just because it’s “good” to go to church (which, sure, it is), but because participating in those liturgies helps me come near to God in a deeper way—beyond my over-active mind, beyond anxiety and distraction. To actually place your body on the ground in front of the cross and to hear the first bells of Easter at the Vigil is to be placed in the path of mystery: God simply dwells with you.
On Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending church with my kids at Church of Our Savior, Arlington, where one of my daughter’s classmates’ mothers is the rector. (Thanks to new parishioner and retired priest Dan Crowley for being here!) COS is a smaller space, with a round altar in the center of the church and the pews facing inward on either side. As an Episcopal Church, the liturgy was much the same, but when it came time for the Nicene Creed Rev. Malia introduced it in a new way. Not everyone, perhaps obviously is a huge fan of the recitation of the Creed. As a historical artifact, it’s a snapshot of the heresies and arguments of the early Church—not necessarily intended to be an inspirational invitation to a holy life. For every line of text, there’s a backstory of debate with proponents on all sides.
For many contemporary Christians the doctrine that Jesus was fully human and fully divine seems self-evident, but it was not so 1600 years ago. The docetics said that Jesus just seemed human. The Arians said that he was divine but still definitely subordinate to God the Father. The Orthodox theology of the Trinity as three in One and of one substance carried the day, and we still recite this explanation of our belief even now.
A trickier question is how do we believe when we say we believe. That’s between you and God. When I introduce the Creed at Christ Church, I say something like “Let us confess our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed:” my way of explaining that this is the tradition of the church and this is the articulation chosen through hundreds of years, but it’s not necessarily the most comprehensive. The deeper meaning of the words and ideas is a personal question. At COS, Rev. Malia invited the congregation to say the Creed as either We believe (the “real” words) [in one God, Jesus, Spirit, Church] or We trust [in one God, Jesus, Spirit, Church].
For an over-thinker with some trust issues, this was a fascinating shift. The Latin word credo which the word “creed” comes from means “to give your heart to.” That explanation has always resonated with me because there’s an intentionality to it. But the poetry of it also lends a certain abstraction. “Trust” has a deeper vulnerability at the center. How do I trust God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit? All the time? What does it mean to trust God in the Church? To proclaim our faith? What does it mean to join our faith with the church through time in these Creeds?
Blessings,
Sara+
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