God's Beloved Children

This morning, as I do every month, I was celebrating the Eucharist with the Sisters of Saint Anne, an Episcopal Convent in Arlington. I had brought along my son, Isaiah, and my mother, who’s visiting this week. Since the service is at 8 am and I couldn’t let him off at daycare before, the idea was for my mom to hold Isaiah during the service, and then we’d drop him off on the way home. Of course, it was not so simple.

 I should preface this by saying that even though they see each other fairly infrequently Isaiah loves my mother. She is much more fun than I am, and this week Isaiah has enjoyed himself immensely. But once I got behind that altar, Isaiah wanted mama, now, please, and cried and cried. My mother tried to calm him down but he was not interested. The sisters love Isaiah—the nuns are retired now, but years ago they had a school and children were always at the center of their life together. But all the smiles and peek-a-boo in the world from these sweet ladies was not enough to distract him. So after I read the Gospel, I invited Isaiah to come up and help with the sermon. Securely attached to my hip, all was right with his world again. He stayed there through the Eucharistic Prayer and all the way to the end—the one-handed Fraction was a little rough, but I think it turned out okay.

 

The Gospel for the day rather cryptic, so I had already decided to preach on the Epistle instead:

 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, just as he chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love. He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace that he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. (Eph 1: 3-6)

 Every spiritual blessing is ours. God our Creator has chosen us, before the foundation of the world. God chose us for adoption, to be beloved children through Christ, according to the pleasure of God’s will. As I reflected on this passage with the sisters, I wondered what it would be like if each of us were so aware of our connection to God as children are aware of their parents. Young children are so observant, so aware at every moment of what their parents are doing. What if we were so aware at all times of what God, our beloved abba were doing? (Abba is the term Jesus used, more akin to “daddy” than “father”) What if, at the invitation to come close to God, we remembered the child’s inclination to run toward love?

 Instead, when we feel we are separated from God, it becomes all the harder for us to come near. Sin and anxiety make it harder for us to see that God is right there with us. And as my mother pointed out as we left, when we’re separated from God it becomes all the harder for us to see love in other places. Isaiah just wanted me, but forgot how much he loves his grandmother. But the circle goes both ways—when we are near to God, we are also more open to the love of our families and friends that surrounds us on every side, too.

 Take a moment now to dwell in God’s desire for you: that “glorious grace bestowed on us in the Beloved.” Nothing can separate you from that.  Not your worry, not your anger, not your grief. God is with you, longing for you, even there. Thanks be to God.

October 9: Abundance and Worry

This week, I’ve been thinking about the economy, in all its whirling uncertainty. It’s all so abstract—I heard that a stack of 700 billion dollar bills would reach 54 miles into the sky, but that doesn’t help me understand the recent bail-out any better. The amount is staggering.   Now we know, too, the crisis isn’t confined to the United States, either—it’s worldwide, stretching all the way to China. As a non-financially oriented person myself, I have a hard time understanding what’s really going on—how bad is it? What do we do? How did we get here? Who can I blame?  All of these swirling questions contribute not just to worry, but to a deep, deep uncertainty about the future.  And this is the week we get our pledge cards! How can I give to church when I don’t even know what I’ll have for myself?

 There’s a strain in Christian spirituality that says, simply, don’t worry. It’s faithless to worry. If you worry, then you doubt God’s providence, generosity and care.  But I don’t buy it.

 It’s not faithless to worry. What is faithless is to allow ourselves to be paralyzed by our worry. It’s faithless to let your worry crowd out your prayer or your ability to hear the needs of others.  Jesus says,” I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10).  What does “abundant life” mean in a time where fear and scarcity seem to be the order of the day? Every time you hear the news, it’s about how there isn’t enough. How can Jesus claim that there is not just enough, but plenty? 

 We have a hard time seeing it, but we have glimpses of that dream of God “… the Lord will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear. (Isaiah 25:6)  As we come together for the sacraments each Sunday, the Body of Christ feeds us, and we taste that abundant life for ourselves. As we hear the promises of Jesus in Scripture, we taste it. As we hear sing the hymns, we taste it. As we greet each other at the peace, we taste it.  As food is distributed at Grandma’s Pantry, we taste it.

 We trust God whose son Jesus Christ became human, and walks with us—not God, “out there,” but risen Christ, Holy Spirit, Creator and Father, right here.  We don’t just “trust God” in the abstract—we trust God in each other. We don’t just sacrifice in the abstract—we sacrifice for, and, importantly with, each other.  There is plenty to be worried about. That is okay. There is an opening, here, to invite God into that space of concern and care. There is no reason to insist that everything is fine when it clearly is not. But what our prayer can do is align us in our worry, to share the burden with God. This doesn’t mean that there is nothing to carry—but it reminds us that we don’t carry it alone.

 You’ll receive your pledge packet this Sunday in church, (we’ll mail it to you if you aren’t here). Before you fill it out, take a deep breath. Ask for the grace to see the invitation to pledge as an opportunity to exercise trust and to draw near to God.  Pray for the grace to see how God shares your worry, and ask God how you can share the grace of God’s peace with others.

 

St Francis

On Tuesday at our education series, “Commit,” we talked about how we become Christians—about baptism. We talked quite a bit about how—or, indeed if—our identity as Christians puts us in opposition to our dominant culture. There are, we decided, definitely values of “the world” that we would reject—“more is better,” for example—but we acknowledged that as widespread as the Christian faith is in our cultural context, that alone does not put us out of synch with what’s around us. Your interpretation of the faith answers that question—not just your claim of the label “Christian.”

One Christian who has had a very clear view of the relationship between Christian faith and the world is Saint Francis of Assisi. We remember him these days more with celebrations of creation than abstinence from worldly pleasures, but his life teaches us about both of those. This week, we’ll observe the Feast of St Francis with a celebration of blessing of animals on Saturday afternoon—bring your pets at 4:00 pm, and we’ll thank God for all the gifts we receive in their companionship with us. Of course, stuffed animals and pictures of pets are welcome, too. On a personal note, one of my cats died this week, so I will be especially mindful of her.

Francis was born in Assisi, in 1182. His father was a very wealthy cloth merchant, and as a child, Francis would have planned to join his father’s successful business when he grew up. But Francis was converted to Christ, and resolved to give everything up for poverty. Francis found his home in nature, freed from possessions. He gave up all conventional pleasure—money, sex, food—for a brown wool robe and a begging bowl. He wanted to be poor, to be free. St. Francis, in fact, didn’t really do a great deal of anything; Francis’ example was in the way that he was. In poverty and community, Francis embodied simple joy. He embodied joy in difficulty, in hunger, and in cold. He embodied joy in enticing others to come and be “fools for Christ;” (1 Corinthians 4:10)—to forget about productivity, forget about consumption, forget about accomplishment, and just focus on the love of God.

The people of Assisi were deeply alarmed by Francis’ behavior. Most people thought he was crazy, giving up everything his father had worked for, all the accomplishment and wealth and respect. In one story, Francis’ father finds him preaching in the town square. He is horrified that this bizarre son is embarrassing him. He lashes out at Francis the only way he knows how—to threaten to take everything from him. But Francis isn’t threatened at the prospect of losing material possession. He strips off all his clothes and gives them back to his father.

One description of Francis’ life talks about him as “the most popular and admired, but probably the least imitated; few have attained to his total identification with the poverty and suffering of Christ.” I’m not convinced, though, that Francis would have appreciated this, though intended to be praise. For Francis it wasn’t about accomplishment or praise; it was about freedom.

I don’t know what Francis would think about the fact that we bless animals in celebration of him—probably, he’d be glad that we are willing to be, even just for an afternoon, “Fools for Christ,” remembering God’s blessing even in the more playful corners of our lives. Probably he would also hope that we would feed a few hungry people on our way to church. Whether you have a pet to bring or not, please come this week—we’ll meet on Saturday on the lawn (by the St Francis statue, of course!) at 4:00.

Seek the Lord

This week, I wanted to share with you a few pieces of nature writing I read recently. Whenever the seasons change, I always find myself paying more attention to what’s going on in my environment. I check the weather constantly, secretly rooting for cooler days and turning leaves at the same time as I dread having to turn on the heat and face the oil bill.

 Fall is captivating to us, novelist Chris Bohjalian says, because it reminds us of our mortality.  

The whole of autumn is about transience. The entire natural world seems to be shutting down, moldering, growing still. The days are short, the nights are long, and everything looks a little bleak . . . except for those leaves. Those kaleidoscopically lovely maples and birches and oaks allow us to gaze for a moment at the wonder of nature and to accept the inevitable quiescence of our own souls. Like so much else around us, it's not the leaves' beauty that moves us: It's the fact their beauty won't last. (Boston Globe, Sept. 22)

 The leaves are dying, brilliantly and raucously, sparing nothing as they go.  Even though we speed up every fall with more activity, more work, there is still part of us that is preparing to hunker down for the long winter that is to come.  Our technologically focused 21^st Century life seems separate from nature, but fall reminds us of what we already know.  The cycles of creation, birth and death, are part of our life, too.

 The other piece I wanted to share with you is from Verlyn Klinkenborg, from Sunday’s New York Times.  Writing from a trip to northern Finland, he talks about the quiet,

deep in the forest north of the Arctic circle. Listening in the silence, at first he is disturbed by how little he hears—to fill the sound, he throws rocks, stamps his feet. A week later, things are different. Standing in the same spot he hears not deafening silence, but rushing water.  He writes,

Why had I not heard it that first night? The answer, I suppose, is that I was too busy not hearing the things I’m used to hearing, including the great roar that underlies the city’s quietest moments. It had taken a week to empty my ears, to expect to hear nothing and to find in that nothing something to hear after all. (NYT, 9/21/08)

 Nothing is something to hear--I think what both writers are pointing to is the way we do, or don’t, attend to our surroundings and our created nature. Our mortality is with us in every moment, but we forget.  We think technology can fix everything, and we try to engineer ourselves out our own mortal, fleshy selves. Accustomed to the sounds of ordinary city life, Klinkenborg is aware of how in their absence, they are still with him—he hears that they are not there, but doesn’t hear what is. Many of the blessings of our life are right in front of us, but we are quick to overlook them.

 The second song of Isaiah from the rite for Morning Prayer says, Seek the Lord while he wills to be found; call upon him when he draws near. The Lord always wills to be found, and is closer than we know.

  [My description of these articles is fine, but please look them up for yourself!  

Bohjalian: www.boston.com/bostonglobe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2008/09/22/death_and_the_lesson_of_the_leaves Klinkenborg:   www.nytimes.com/2008/09/21/opinion/21sun4.html

September 18: Election Season

Skimming through an editorial in the New York Times this afternoon, I noticed with a start that election day is in six weeks. Six weeks! It seemed like the primary season would never end, and so it seems like the election never will either—but it will end, and very soon.  I have to admit that I am completely drawn into the circus.  With simultaneous excitement and groaning, I can’t wait to hear the next outlandish thing—God’s will is for a gas pipeline?  Outrageous!— They spent  how much on that jacket?! And I get so upset at what seem to me to be clearly unfair attacks at “my” candidate. It is a little like being 14 years old: a roller coaster of emotion of high and low, with a pretty distant relationship to reality.

 The problem, of course, is that it trivializes the whole process. Talking about Michele Obama’s dress or Sarah Palin’s glasses distracts us from what’s going on, but like a moth to flame, here we all are. There is so much at stake in this election—our nation’s response to the climate crisis, the chaos in our economy, the future of American engagement in the world—this is not a little thing.

 This election, as all elections do, comes down to our values. Not the media stereotype of “values voters” that we heard about in 2004, some amorphous group supposedly motivated by their antipathy to same sex marriage, but the real values of our Christian faith. What kind of world do we want to live in?  What hard choices are we willing to make? Will we avoid easy answers to our problems if it means protecting the environment? Will we take the risk of dialogue over rushing to war?   Who will be on the Supreme Court, and what historic decisions will they make?  Do we phrase our hopes for our world in terms of fighting “them”  (whoever “they” happen to be at the moment) or do we believe that God’s dream of peace can actually be realized? That’s the will of God that I’m looking to serve. 

  I know that all of us in our parish community don’t agree on the issues.  We would not be much of a community if the world looked the same to each one of us.  In my sermon on Sunday, I shared a prayer for us to be able to hold our opinions as you might hold a bird in your hand. Hold on too tightly, and its fragile wings are crushed.  Hold on too loosely, and the bird flies away.  What’s hard is that we have to hold our opinions and fight for them, but not fight against our brothers and sisters who disagree with us. The troubling thing in this election is that that we seem to be doing exactly the opposite.  The campaigns fight each other on personality, not policy.  Rather than respecting each other and entering into a dialogue on what’s actually going on in our country, we are threatening each other and not talking at all about our situation—and time is short.  Let’s pray for campaigns that address our need for a just, peaceful, and secure society, not our desire for more gossip.

 Here’s the prayer for our Nation from the Book of Common Prayer—a little “traditional” sounding, but lovely.

Almighty God, who hast given us this good land for our heritage: We humbly beseech thee that we may always prove ourselves a people mindful of thy favor and glad to do thy will. Bless our land with honorable industry, sound learning, and pure manners. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion; from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defend our liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudes brought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Endue with the spirit of wisdom those to whom in thy Name we entrust the authority of government, that there may be justice and peace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, we may show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth. In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness, and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail; all which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

September 11: Pray for Peace

This morning, as you did, I woke up not particularly aware of the date. As I drove into church, though, I noticed the flag at the Plympton School at half mast, and remembered—it’s September 11. Seven years ago, I was in my first week of school as a student at General Seminary in New York City, about a mile and a half from the World Trade Center. I was sitting in class when the chapel bells started to ring, summoning the community to come together. 

 And so began the last seven years of war. War in Afghanistan, war in Iraq, war “on terror.”  What was different on September 12, 2001, was not that the world was somehow more violent or that evil was somehow more triumphant after what had happened the day before; what was different was that it was happening to me.  On September 11, 2002, a year after the attacks in the US, I was standing at a border crossing on the Gaza Strip. I was nervous about being there, but I was also nervous that I wasn’t at home in New York; what if there were more attacks on the anniversary of the first one?  It also occurred to me, though, that the violence between Israelis and Palestinians was of once piece with the violence that had caused the events of the previous year.  Standing in Gaza, I was all too aware of how many people in the world lived with that sense of fear.  It was different now, though, because I had had a taste of it myself.  The world hadn’t changed, but I had. 

There is so much violence: the violence of seemingly endless war, of course, the violence of hatred, the violence of greed. It seems that there is no way out. But we are Christians.

 We are called to a hope not of military triumph, but the hope of God’s dream of justice and peace. We know that there is a way that does not draw lines of who is in or out. There is a way of peace that does not distinguish between Israeli, Palestinian, American, or Pakistani. It’s not an easy way of peace. It’s not just sitting down and drinking tea together. It’s not wishing that things were different. It’s an altogether transformed reality that is just beyond our imaginations. It’s not easy, but it is there.

 It’s the vision of Isaiah, of the lion laying down with the lamb. It’s the vision of Amos, who called for justice to roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everliving stream.  It’s the vision of Jesus Christ, who prayed forgiveness for those who attacked him. Today, let us pray for forgiveness, too. Pray for the grace to accept God’s forgiveness for our own sins, and the grace to forgive others their sins against us.  

Many Sundays, our service ends with this blessing: “the Peace of God which passes all our understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of God’s Son Jesus Christ.” God’s peace may pass our understanding, but does not escape our grasp. Pray for the grace, and the guidance, to reach for it.

 

Salvation is near

This week, we return to our regular schedule of church in full swing, with services at 8 and 10. Since it’s the first Sunday of the month we’ll have all the kids in church with us.  Rather than the usual children’s sermon, though, we’ll get to see our Sunday School program, Godly Play, in action. Teacher Jonathan Duce will tell the Creation story in Godly Play style, so all the grownups will be able to see what it’s all about.  Christ Church has used the Godly Play curriculum for a number of years now. Based around Montessori techniques of education, it is a child-centered program that tries to respond to where the kids are, rather than transmitting some body of knowledge from “on high.”  Based around telling stories of the Bible, the children are invited to ask questions. I wonder why Noah built the ark? I wonder why there were two animals of each kind? The kids gather in a circle, hear the story, “wonder,” and then chose projects (like art or sandbox play) that help them to consider it.  After the service, we’re invited to go downstairs to the Godly Play room for an open house.

 Ideally, “wondering” is how we should all engage with our faith—the Bible is so much more a book of opening dialogue than it is a book of offering definitive commandments. Jesus taught in parables to engage his followers into his teaching, and we are called to engage, to “wonder,” too. We have to listen for the Spirit of the Scripture: what it means as a whole, not just to the letter of what any single text might say.   We are called to “wonder” about how it all applies to our lives and to the life of the world.

 We bring so much to our readings of the Bible. Individually, we bring our rich and varied life experiences. Intellectually, we bring the best of human knowledge—historical, theological, and even scientific research—to the Bible. Our experiences and our knowledge help us to frame our “wonderings” about the Scripture.  This Sunday, we’ll hear St Paul give a summary of the law—“summed up in this word, "Love your neighbor as yourself." Paul continues, “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.”  We all spend our entire lives figuring out how to love each other. Salvation is so near to us, Paul says, in this love.

Salvation is near to us.  In acts of love great and small—in writing out your pledge checks, in volunteering at your kids’ school, in working extra hours to support your family, in laughing with your neighbors, in working for peace, in praying for each other. Salvation is near as we all come back from our vacations and settle in at the altar together again.  Salvation is near as we learn new things and take on new projects this fall. Salvation is near.  Where are you nearing to your salvation?  Who are you called to love?