Dear People of Christ Church,
This week at our Episcopal Church class we talked about the shape of the liturgy. In the Episcopal Church, that’s also to have a conversation about what we believe theologically—we “do” theology as we “do” church. It’s also to have a conversation about our history, since the way our practices have changed is also part of the story of how our context has changed. The Episcopal Church is part of the Anglican tradition (Anglican just means "of England"—we are one of the many branches of a tree that reaches back to the Reformation in England in the 16th century), and the Anglican tradition is very, very wide in its variety of practices.
This past Sunday, though, with our combination of incense and jazz mass, was definitely an unusual pairing. There are places where you hear saxophones in church, and there are places where you smell incense every week, but they are not frequently in the same place. AND we got to sprinkle holy water at the baptism! Putting them together is not so much a “more is better” attitude—it’s not always—so much as it’s a way of thinking about liturgy in terms of embodied experience. Church is the only place most of us ever sing. It engages our souls and bodies in a new way. Watching the incense rise and being enveloped in the sweet smell of frankincense reminds us that our prayer moves out of our sight and into the heavens, that all of our senses are part of our encounter of God in the world. Why in the world would we want church to be less engaging than our regular lives?
Worship, at its best, should be a time to connect with mystery and transcendence. We don’t just go to church to hear a nice sermon (though hopefully the preaching is engaging enough to come back). We don’t just go to church to be fed at communion and buoyed enough to slog through the rest of the week. It’s not just about coffee hour and having good conversation. Hopefully church is about instilling in us a certain way of seeing that can permeate all of our lives. We practice our faith—not just in the sense of completing particular tasks, but also in the sense of inculcating a particular attitude toward the world.
The Episcopal Catechism, which I absolutely adore in its paradoxical duality of precision and openness, tells us that a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward invisible grace.” We need the sacraments and our embodied worship to remind us to look behind what we see, to remember that what you see isn’t always what you get. God’s vision is exponentially broader than our own. (I did hear recently that the real test of Christian faith in implausible things was not believing that Jesus could be present in bread at communion, but that the wafers we use are actually bread…that’s a point for a different day.).
How does church help you practice your wider vision? How could our practices at Christ Church do that better?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Ascensiontide, Season for Uncertainty
Dear People of Christ Church,
In my sermon on Sunday I was thinking with you about the uncertainty of Ascensiontide. Not like “tide” like waves, but like time (—in the church we just stick “tide” as a suffix to whatever we want to extend past its traditional expiration date). The disciples experience Jesus as having been lifted away from them, literally into the sky. Renaissance paintings just show feet at the top of the canvas. However that spatial metaphor works or doesn’t, I said, in my sermon, there is something decidedly new in the disciples’ experience. Jesus was with them in the post resurrection experiences, and then he wasn’t. He stopped showing up with breakfast on the beach, stopped walking along with them pretending to be a stranger, stopped telling them not to be afraid. All of that just stopped. In our Gospel for Sunday we hear Jesus talking about sending the Holy Spirit, that he has to leave for it Spirit to show up. The Greek word is “advocate”—the Paraclete.
Easter season might be the liturgical season for joy, but if there were a liturgical season for uncertainty, ascensiontide would be it. In our lives, uncertainty doesn’t have a season. There is always plenty of it to go around, anytime. Just like you don’t need Lent to realize your distance from God, you don’t need a painting of the tips of Jesus’ feet to know ambiguity. The invitation to think about it in an intentional way comes from the disciples—this time of year we are trying to hang out with them for a while in this in-between space.
We’ve been doing a lot of that in Easter season, just hanging out with the disciples and seeing what’s going on. I think of that as one of the goals of preaching—to bring us all into the text and see what’s happening, listen in on those long-ago conversations and see what’s there for us. Taking the disciples up on their invitation can feel kind of like a strange choice to make, admittedly. It takes a certain willingness to suspend disbelief, not to know the answers ahead of time about what you’ll find, and just jump in. The past is the past, but through Scripture it’s a living past that touches the present in an unexpected way. We are in community with those disciples and with Jesus as we are in community with each other.
What are you finding in this season of uncertainty? Pentecost is coming up on Sunday and we turn toward the Holy Spirit, her rushing wind and tongues of fire. But we have a few more days of quiet. What have you heard here?
Blessings,
Sara+
In my sermon on Sunday I was thinking with you about the uncertainty of Ascensiontide. Not like “tide” like waves, but like time (—in the church we just stick “tide” as a suffix to whatever we want to extend past its traditional expiration date). The disciples experience Jesus as having been lifted away from them, literally into the sky. Renaissance paintings just show feet at the top of the canvas. However that spatial metaphor works or doesn’t, I said, in my sermon, there is something decidedly new in the disciples’ experience. Jesus was with them in the post resurrection experiences, and then he wasn’t. He stopped showing up with breakfast on the beach, stopped walking along with them pretending to be a stranger, stopped telling them not to be afraid. All of that just stopped. In our Gospel for Sunday we hear Jesus talking about sending the Holy Spirit, that he has to leave for it Spirit to show up. The Greek word is “advocate”—the Paraclete.
Easter season might be the liturgical season for joy, but if there were a liturgical season for uncertainty, ascensiontide would be it. In our lives, uncertainty doesn’t have a season. There is always plenty of it to go around, anytime. Just like you don’t need Lent to realize your distance from God, you don’t need a painting of the tips of Jesus’ feet to know ambiguity. The invitation to think about it in an intentional way comes from the disciples—this time of year we are trying to hang out with them for a while in this in-between space.
We’ve been doing a lot of that in Easter season, just hanging out with the disciples and seeing what’s going on. I think of that as one of the goals of preaching—to bring us all into the text and see what’s happening, listen in on those long-ago conversations and see what’s there for us. Taking the disciples up on their invitation can feel kind of like a strange choice to make, admittedly. It takes a certain willingness to suspend disbelief, not to know the answers ahead of time about what you’ll find, and just jump in. The past is the past, but through Scripture it’s a living past that touches the present in an unexpected way. We are in community with those disciples and with Jesus as we are in community with each other.
What are you finding in this season of uncertainty? Pentecost is coming up on Sunday and we turn toward the Holy Spirit, her rushing wind and tongues of fire. But we have a few more days of quiet. What have you heard here?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Each Could Understand the Other
Dear People of Christ Church,
Lots going on in the coming weeks, with this Sunday being back to our usual first Sunday of the month children’s sermon, May 8 the Mother’s Day Walk for Peace, and May 15, Pentecost Sunday! This year at Pentecost we’ll have our parish jazz ensemble (let Daniel know if you want to play), and the baptisms of the O’Toole family, and even, if the altar guild sets it up, a rare Sunday morning appearance of incense! We also read the Pentecost story in all our various languages, so please let me know if you want to contribute to the reading.
We were talking about all of the varieties of Christian denominations in the Episcopal Church class last week. We are not a “Pentecostal” church, with speaking in tongues and dramatic worship, but we do celebrate in the light of Pentecost. On that first Pentecost, told in the book of Acts, the diversity of human community was all in one place. We think Waltham is diverse! Jerusalem had more cultures, more languages, more beliefs than we could imagine, all in one place. Even more people than usual were in Jerusalem for Pentecost on that day 2000 years ago—50 days after Passover, they gathered to give thanks to God for Mt Sinai, when God called the people of Israel into covenant. So it wasn’t only the ordinary diversity of Jerusalem, it was every last breed of traveler and pilgrim, on top of all the year round inhabitants of Jerusalem, pagan, Jewish, Christian, all there to give thanks.
All there, and all very seriously divided by substantial issues—the question of circumcision, of women, of dietary laws—all of these topics were incredibly contentious. We argue over different issues today, but they are no less—and probably no more—fervently debated. Last week’s story of Peter being told that no one should call profane what God has called clean is a prologue to all of the astonishing unity given in Christ. The lives of all God’s people are treasured. No one is “unclean,” a fact our brothers and sisters would do well to remember in conversations about gender and bathroom usage!
Even in the midst of Jerusalem’s diversity, a glorious outpouring of the Spirit gave birth to the church. Pentecost teaches us that Church is more of a verb than anything else. Church happens when each of those different people heard what the other was saying, even though they spoke different languages, even though they came from different places, and probably believed pretty different things. Pentecost teaches us that church isn’t a club. It’s not about like minded people coming together to improve themselves, or even coming together to improve the world. Pentecost is about a new reality, a reversal of those old divisions and desires for ownership and control that came to be at the tower of Babel, that ancient precursor of division. Pentecost is about our souls and bodies being a home for Jesus Christ.
On Pentecost, each could understand the other; but each understood in his or her own language. The languages—the differences—were preserved. The Gospel is about unity, not homogeneity. We are unified in our love of God, in the grace of the Holy Spirit that we have each received at baptism. But the song of that love is sung with different words in all of our lives.
One of my favorite prayers in the prayer book shows up in some different places—
—at the Easter Vigil, but also Good Friday, and the liturgy for ordinations. Our church is a “wonderful and sacred mystery.” We don’t quite know how it really works, or why. How some relationships begin, how others end. So much comes down to mystery—an invitation to us for humility, I think, to remember we don’t have it all figured out. How is it that we in the Anglican Communion can share a faith and be so different? What would it be like, really, to truly trust in God?
O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: Look favorably on your whole Church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquility the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by the One through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Lots going on in the coming weeks, with this Sunday being back to our usual first Sunday of the month children’s sermon, May 8 the Mother’s Day Walk for Peace, and May 15, Pentecost Sunday! This year at Pentecost we’ll have our parish jazz ensemble (let Daniel know if you want to play), and the baptisms of the O’Toole family, and even, if the altar guild sets it up, a rare Sunday morning appearance of incense! We also read the Pentecost story in all our various languages, so please let me know if you want to contribute to the reading.
We were talking about all of the varieties of Christian denominations in the Episcopal Church class last week. We are not a “Pentecostal” church, with speaking in tongues and dramatic worship, but we do celebrate in the light of Pentecost. On that first Pentecost, told in the book of Acts, the diversity of human community was all in one place. We think Waltham is diverse! Jerusalem had more cultures, more languages, more beliefs than we could imagine, all in one place. Even more people than usual were in Jerusalem for Pentecost on that day 2000 years ago—50 days after Passover, they gathered to give thanks to God for Mt Sinai, when God called the people of Israel into covenant. So it wasn’t only the ordinary diversity of Jerusalem, it was every last breed of traveler and pilgrim, on top of all the year round inhabitants of Jerusalem, pagan, Jewish, Christian, all there to give thanks.
All there, and all very seriously divided by substantial issues—the question of circumcision, of women, of dietary laws—all of these topics were incredibly contentious. We argue over different issues today, but they are no less—and probably no more—fervently debated. Last week’s story of Peter being told that no one should call profane what God has called clean is a prologue to all of the astonishing unity given in Christ. The lives of all God’s people are treasured. No one is “unclean,” a fact our brothers and sisters would do well to remember in conversations about gender and bathroom usage!
Even in the midst of Jerusalem’s diversity, a glorious outpouring of the Spirit gave birth to the church. Pentecost teaches us that Church is more of a verb than anything else. Church happens when each of those different people heard what the other was saying, even though they spoke different languages, even though they came from different places, and probably believed pretty different things. Pentecost teaches us that church isn’t a club. It’s not about like minded people coming together to improve themselves, or even coming together to improve the world. Pentecost is about a new reality, a reversal of those old divisions and desires for ownership and control that came to be at the tower of Babel, that ancient precursor of division. Pentecost is about our souls and bodies being a home for Jesus Christ.
On Pentecost, each could understand the other; but each understood in his or her own language. The languages—the differences—were preserved. The Gospel is about unity, not homogeneity. We are unified in our love of God, in the grace of the Holy Spirit that we have each received at baptism. But the song of that love is sung with different words in all of our lives.
One of my favorite prayers in the prayer book shows up in some different places—
—at the Easter Vigil, but also Good Friday, and the liturgy for ordinations. Our church is a “wonderful and sacred mystery.” We don’t quite know how it really works, or why. How some relationships begin, how others end. So much comes down to mystery—an invitation to us for humility, I think, to remember we don’t have it all figured out. How is it that we in the Anglican Communion can share a faith and be so different? What would it be like, really, to truly trust in God?
O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: Look favorably on your whole Church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquility the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by the One through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Dwelling Closer to the Ground
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week we had a terrific first “Intro to the Episcopal Church” class, with about 9 people gathered to talk about our questions, curiosities, and longings for God’s “new thing” happening in our spiritual lives. It’s so exciting to see how the parish changes and grows—almost none of the 9 people gathered at that table were members a year ago, and there they all were, from Catholic and Evangelical and Lutheran and Methodist and all backgrounds in between. This thing that is the church is a living body, not a building or a list of names.
In my sermon on Sunday I was talking about how, in the Gospels we hear the story of Jesus being Jesus Christ, in the book of Acts, which we read every Sunday in Easter season, we hear the story of the church becoming the church. Rather than one single appointed leader taking the place of Jesus, it’s the church—the whole gathered body—that takes on his ministry and presence in the world. Peter and Paul and Mary Magdalene were all important, but it wasn’t just one of them who carried on the work of God in the risen Christ…that takes a whole church.
The church is the Body of Christ, and it needs all of us to be that.
God in the church needs the curiosity of those returning to faith after a time away.
God in the church needs the hunger for community of those who are looking for a place of transcendence and belonging.
God in the church needs the attentiveness to justice and peace of those who dare to ask the hard questions and sit with the hard answers.
God in the church needs your passion for the environment, for children, for elders.
Maybe most important, and first, God in the church needs just your presence. God needs your love, your reverence, your longing for stillness and simplicity.
This past Sunday in our Episcopal Church class we talked about how the basic impulse of Anglicanism, all the way back to King Henry VIII and his somewhat sketchy motivations, is about trying to dwell closer to the ground. In our governance, in our thinking, in our theology, we are all about trying to think and pray in response to the world as it is. When Christ Church developed our parish vision statement a number of years ago we settled on a description of the parish as “grounded in tradition, yet open to the world.” This Sunday, we’ll hear the story in Acts about how the early church grappled with its diversity—Jews and non-Jews didn’t eat together, ever, in ordinary life, much less form a whole community around sharing a meal! But God gives the church a vision of broad inclusion that makes space for every kind of person and every kind of food. One of the best lines in all of Scripture is in this story—“Who was I to hinder God?” Who are we to hinder God? Where is God breaking through your barriers and obstacles this week? Where are you becoming more deeply part of God’s church that needs all of you?
Blessings,
Sara+
This week we had a terrific first “Intro to the Episcopal Church” class, with about 9 people gathered to talk about our questions, curiosities, and longings for God’s “new thing” happening in our spiritual lives. It’s so exciting to see how the parish changes and grows—almost none of the 9 people gathered at that table were members a year ago, and there they all were, from Catholic and Evangelical and Lutheran and Methodist and all backgrounds in between. This thing that is the church is a living body, not a building or a list of names.
In my sermon on Sunday I was talking about how, in the Gospels we hear the story of Jesus being Jesus Christ, in the book of Acts, which we read every Sunday in Easter season, we hear the story of the church becoming the church. Rather than one single appointed leader taking the place of Jesus, it’s the church—the whole gathered body—that takes on his ministry and presence in the world. Peter and Paul and Mary Magdalene were all important, but it wasn’t just one of them who carried on the work of God in the risen Christ…that takes a whole church.
The church is the Body of Christ, and it needs all of us to be that.
God in the church needs the curiosity of those returning to faith after a time away.
God in the church needs the hunger for community of those who are looking for a place of transcendence and belonging.
God in the church needs the attentiveness to justice and peace of those who dare to ask the hard questions and sit with the hard answers.
God in the church needs your passion for the environment, for children, for elders.
Maybe most important, and first, God in the church needs just your presence. God needs your love, your reverence, your longing for stillness and simplicity.
This past Sunday in our Episcopal Church class we talked about how the basic impulse of Anglicanism, all the way back to King Henry VIII and his somewhat sketchy motivations, is about trying to dwell closer to the ground. In our governance, in our thinking, in our theology, we are all about trying to think and pray in response to the world as it is. When Christ Church developed our parish vision statement a number of years ago we settled on a description of the parish as “grounded in tradition, yet open to the world.” This Sunday, we’ll hear the story in Acts about how the early church grappled with its diversity—Jews and non-Jews didn’t eat together, ever, in ordinary life, much less form a whole community around sharing a meal! But God gives the church a vision of broad inclusion that makes space for every kind of person and every kind of food. One of the best lines in all of Scripture is in this story—“Who was I to hinder God?” Who are we to hinder God? Where is God breaking through your barriers and obstacles this week? Where are you becoming more deeply part of God’s church that needs all of you?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Great News About the Roof
A version of this message is also going out to the parish mailing list—we really want to be sure you get it!
We write with amazing news on several fronts.
First, we are thrilled to let you know that we have received 32 pledges for our roof campaign, for a total of $106,038 committed over the next several years toward the work so desperately needed at Christ Church this year. From our newest to our oldest members, from graduate students to professional families to retirees, it is only through the strength and diversity of our congregation that we have met this incredible milestone.
We write with thanks for the generosity of this parish, but also with the equally astonishing (and perhaps even less expected) news that our insurance provider, Church Insurance, has agreed to pay for the roof replacement itself due to a catastrophic hail storm over the summer that further impacted our already fragile roof. Because we did not know what the outcome of the insurance evaluation would be or the scope of the covered repairs, we began our campaign at the same time as we began pursuing that claim. The good news is that much of what is required is covered. The vestry authorized Wellesley Roofing to pursue the claim on our behalf, and they have successfully navigated that process along with our building committee and wardens. An independent adjuster has approved the work for the roof proper totaling $203,000 and the work is scheduled to begin in early to mid-May.
We also knew, as has become clear, that a roof isn’t “just a roof.” In addition to the roof itself, siding, under roof decking, gutters, and downspouts will also need to be replaced. At this moment, we are in discernment over an additional $61,000 of work that has been proposed for things like gutters, siding, and an additional decking system for water sealing and insulation. More structural issues may come up as we begin demolition, as well.
If you’d like to talk more about what is to come or share any concerns, please contact wardens Chris Leonardo or Sasha Killewald. Doug Whittington can answer any questions about the roof process as well. Given that the project is happening very soon and pledges are given over a period of years, we are in contact with the Diocese to discuss our financing options. And, of course, our 2011 capital campaign continues, with renovations of downstairs bathrooms and more to come.
All thanks to you and to God for the amazing things happening at Christ Church!
We write with amazing news on several fronts.
First, we are thrilled to let you know that we have received 32 pledges for our roof campaign, for a total of $106,038 committed over the next several years toward the work so desperately needed at Christ Church this year. From our newest to our oldest members, from graduate students to professional families to retirees, it is only through the strength and diversity of our congregation that we have met this incredible milestone.
We write with thanks for the generosity of this parish, but also with the equally astonishing (and perhaps even less expected) news that our insurance provider, Church Insurance, has agreed to pay for the roof replacement itself due to a catastrophic hail storm over the summer that further impacted our already fragile roof. Because we did not know what the outcome of the insurance evaluation would be or the scope of the covered repairs, we began our campaign at the same time as we began pursuing that claim. The good news is that much of what is required is covered. The vestry authorized Wellesley Roofing to pursue the claim on our behalf, and they have successfully navigated that process along with our building committee and wardens. An independent adjuster has approved the work for the roof proper totaling $203,000 and the work is scheduled to begin in early to mid-May.
We also knew, as has become clear, that a roof isn’t “just a roof.” In addition to the roof itself, siding, under roof decking, gutters, and downspouts will also need to be replaced. At this moment, we are in discernment over an additional $61,000 of work that has been proposed for things like gutters, siding, and an additional decking system for water sealing and insulation. More structural issues may come up as we begin demolition, as well.
If you’d like to talk more about what is to come or share any concerns, please contact wardens Chris Leonardo or Sasha Killewald. Doug Whittington can answer any questions about the roof process as well. Given that the project is happening very soon and pledges are given over a period of years, we are in contact with the Diocese to discuss our financing options. And, of course, our 2011 capital campaign continues, with renovations of downstairs bathrooms and more to come.
All thanks to you and to God for the amazing things happening at Christ Church!
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Stations of the Cross
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, our Stations of the Cross really came home (for more Q and A about them and where they came from and why, see this from January. For pictures from St John’s Bowdoin Street and the installation at Christ Church, see my own blog, SaraIwrites.
They are striking and surprising and brand new and at the same time look like they’ve been there since the church was built. They are, in fact, from the same time period—they’re dated 1888, but the woodwork that David Moseley created for them matches the church in a completely phenomenal way. (David is a longtime friend of Christ Church—he did the repair work in our new combined outreach space for Diaper Depot/Grandma’s Pantry and is married to Cathy Hughes’ older daughter Betsy). As happens so often, the thing that surprised was not the thing that I thought would be remarkable. I expected to react more strongly to the overall sight of them, but that’s not the most interesting thing.
This week I was here for Tuesday evening formation and had my kids along. For whatever reason, the only other person who came was Andrea, so we chatted for a while but by 7:30 figured no one else was planning to come. I told my kids to pack up their stuff, we were leaving, but 6 ½ year old Adah declared that she was not ready to leave church. I asked her if it was because she wanted to have communion and she said no, she just thought we should have church. So Adah and Andrea and I decided to do the liturgy for Stations of the Cross. (Older brother Isaiah decided to hang out for a while and play video games for a few minutes, but ended up joining us later).
So, so often, my children make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise, and that’s what happened that night. After having been dragged along during the installation of the frames for two hours on Sunday, they had already spent a lot of time with the pieces and they were over it. “Art,” Adah had declared on our way to Waltham that afternoon, “is boring.” I don’t know what it was that made her not ready to leave, but as we stayed and went around the church, I heard the words of the liturgy in a different way. By the time we got to the station where Jesus meets his mother, Adah was beginning to regret her desire to stay. At that moment, though, I became profoundly grateful to be there with them. To look at Jesus trying to hold both his cross and take his mother’s arm while my own kids bounced around, I imagined her thinking of the days when Jesus was small. I thought about her wanting to protect him and being unable to. The line “A sword will pierce your own soul, too” in the prayers made me think about how much all of those we love face, and how we can’t protect them. We can only trust God for them and on their behalf.
The thing about our particular stations of the cross that continues to show me new things is how they offer a wider lens on the events of the Passion. You can see the two criminals along side of whom Jesus was killed. You can see the detail of Jesus and his mother and all the people around them. There are people everywhere all around in them—how often have you thought about all the people who just were around when Jesus was on his way to the crucifixion? It’s not just him and the Romans and Simon of Cyrene.
The Stations of the Cross do change the dynamic of the space. I suspect it will take us a while to figure out exactly what they mean. I do know that in seeing the events of the Passion displayed as they are, that I also see the events of the Resurrection in a new way. The other thing in the church that is that same light color is the baptismal font. It no longer sits by itself in the corner, but ties in with the movement around the church. Also crucially, the Stations of the Cross circle the space, but the altar is still at the center. That’s the place where we still meet Jesus in the Eucharist. By seeing the crucifixion in a new way, by really seeing it, we see the Resurrection in a new way. They go together.
Again and again, that’s what I’m most grateful for about being a Christian. It’s not some happy pastel fantasy that everything works out in the end and we should just keep our chins up. Jesus weeps and suffers. He loves. He fears. The Stations of the Cross help me see all of those aspects. We are all here because we believe, or want to believe, in resurrection. But we all also know pain. Walking the events of Christ’s passion, we see where God has gone before.
Blessings,
Sara+
Miss the sermon on Sunday, March 13? It’s here.
More pictures from moving the Stations of the Cross from St John's, Bowdoin Street, to Christ Church, Waltham!
This week, our Stations of the Cross really came home (for more Q and A about them and where they came from and why, see this from January. For pictures from St John’s Bowdoin Street and the installation at Christ Church, see my own blog, SaraIwrites.
They are striking and surprising and brand new and at the same time look like they’ve been there since the church was built. They are, in fact, from the same time period—they’re dated 1888, but the woodwork that David Moseley created for them matches the church in a completely phenomenal way. (David is a longtime friend of Christ Church—he did the repair work in our new combined outreach space for Diaper Depot/Grandma’s Pantry and is married to Cathy Hughes’ older daughter Betsy). As happens so often, the thing that surprised was not the thing that I thought would be remarkable. I expected to react more strongly to the overall sight of them, but that’s not the most interesting thing.
This week I was here for Tuesday evening formation and had my kids along. For whatever reason, the only other person who came was Andrea, so we chatted for a while but by 7:30 figured no one else was planning to come. I told my kids to pack up their stuff, we were leaving, but 6 ½ year old Adah declared that she was not ready to leave church. I asked her if it was because she wanted to have communion and she said no, she just thought we should have church. So Adah and Andrea and I decided to do the liturgy for Stations of the Cross. (Older brother Isaiah decided to hang out for a while and play video games for a few minutes, but ended up joining us later).
So, so often, my children make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise, and that’s what happened that night. After having been dragged along during the installation of the frames for two hours on Sunday, they had already spent a lot of time with the pieces and they were over it. “Art,” Adah had declared on our way to Waltham that afternoon, “is boring.” I don’t know what it was that made her not ready to leave, but as we stayed and went around the church, I heard the words of the liturgy in a different way. By the time we got to the station where Jesus meets his mother, Adah was beginning to regret her desire to stay. At that moment, though, I became profoundly grateful to be there with them. To look at Jesus trying to hold both his cross and take his mother’s arm while my own kids bounced around, I imagined her thinking of the days when Jesus was small. I thought about her wanting to protect him and being unable to. The line “A sword will pierce your own soul, too” in the prayers made me think about how much all of those we love face, and how we can’t protect them. We can only trust God for them and on their behalf.
The thing about our particular stations of the cross that continues to show me new things is how they offer a wider lens on the events of the Passion. You can see the two criminals along side of whom Jesus was killed. You can see the detail of Jesus and his mother and all the people around them. There are people everywhere all around in them—how often have you thought about all the people who just were around when Jesus was on his way to the crucifixion? It’s not just him and the Romans and Simon of Cyrene.
The Stations of the Cross do change the dynamic of the space. I suspect it will take us a while to figure out exactly what they mean. I do know that in seeing the events of the Passion displayed as they are, that I also see the events of the Resurrection in a new way. The other thing in the church that is that same light color is the baptismal font. It no longer sits by itself in the corner, but ties in with the movement around the church. Also crucially, the Stations of the Cross circle the space, but the altar is still at the center. That’s the place where we still meet Jesus in the Eucharist. By seeing the crucifixion in a new way, by really seeing it, we see the Resurrection in a new way. They go together.
Again and again, that’s what I’m most grateful for about being a Christian. It’s not some happy pastel fantasy that everything works out in the end and we should just keep our chins up. Jesus weeps and suffers. He loves. He fears. The Stations of the Cross help me see all of those aspects. We are all here because we believe, or want to believe, in resurrection. But we all also know pain. Walking the events of Christ’s passion, we see where God has gone before.
Blessings,
Sara+
Miss the sermon on Sunday, March 13? It’s here.
More pictures from moving the Stations of the Cross from St John's, Bowdoin Street, to Christ Church, Waltham!
Thursday, March 10, 2016
We Are Worthy
Dear People of Christ Church,
I recently had some time to spend with my kindle, and found Brené Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection. I’ve read a lot of her stuff before, but hadn’t spent much time with this one. Brown’s research started out being about shame—our fear of being unworthy of love and belonging. Since love and belonging are two of the most central human emotional and spiritual needs, shame feels profoundly dangerous to us, and we try to avoid it at all costs. What’s worse, we have a tendency to further isolate ourselves when we feel shame, by bringing in secrecy, silence, and judgment of others to insulate ourselves from the pain. This then spirals out again, which leads to further isolating, further judging, and further suppressing of our feelings. The good news is that we can do things differently—if instead of nurturing our shame we nurture ourselves and remember our inherent worthiness, that cycle is broken. Reaching out to others, reminding ourselves that we aren’t defined by our failures, that we are worthy of love no matter what—Brown calls the capability for that work “shame resilience.”
It’s striking to think about shame in this way as we head into Holy Week beginning with Palm Sunday on March 20. Though we often forget it, Scripture can be profoundly psychologically insightful. Unfortunately we often do profoundly un-psychologically insightful things with Scripture!
In thinking about the crucifixion, we sometimes say that Jesus took on our shame and sin, to offer it to God, to heal us. The liturgy for the Stations of the Cross is full of this. That’s true, but Jesus didn’t do that as though we had a dirty shirt on and he took it off of us and put it on his own body. Instead. Jesus’ transformation of our humanity comes from the inside; his birth, ministry, death, and resurrection (yes, all four) symbolize God’s insistent, constant presence with us. It’s true that Jesus’ peaceful response to the violence he faced saved us. That’s true. In a very literal way, yes, we are saved by the cross. But we’re not “more saved” because it was “more worse.” We just are saved. Because God loves us. We just are worthy. Again, because God loves us.
Much is made of the crucifixion as being a particularly grisly and fear-inducing method of enforcing capital punishment. Many people were put to death in the Roman Empire, some by crucifixion, but by no means all. Crucifixion was a warning sign—it served to instill fear. That was its purpose. Yes, it was also shameful. But to say that Jesus’ death was uniquely shameful I think misses the point. The point is that Jesus’ death was not uniquely shameful. It was a way an abusive regime kept its people in line. That’s part of what’s salvific about it—that God experienced, from the inside, the worst of humanity. And God’s love would not be defeated.
We are all worthy—shame doesn’t have the last word for Jesus or for us. I’m getting ahead of us and close to Easter—there is a ways to go—but the resurrection is always true, even in the depths of Lent.
Blessings,
Sara+
I recently had some time to spend with my kindle, and found Brené Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection. I’ve read a lot of her stuff before, but hadn’t spent much time with this one. Brown’s research started out being about shame—our fear of being unworthy of love and belonging. Since love and belonging are two of the most central human emotional and spiritual needs, shame feels profoundly dangerous to us, and we try to avoid it at all costs. What’s worse, we have a tendency to further isolate ourselves when we feel shame, by bringing in secrecy, silence, and judgment of others to insulate ourselves from the pain. This then spirals out again, which leads to further isolating, further judging, and further suppressing of our feelings. The good news is that we can do things differently—if instead of nurturing our shame we nurture ourselves and remember our inherent worthiness, that cycle is broken. Reaching out to others, reminding ourselves that we aren’t defined by our failures, that we are worthy of love no matter what—Brown calls the capability for that work “shame resilience.”
It’s striking to think about shame in this way as we head into Holy Week beginning with Palm Sunday on March 20. Though we often forget it, Scripture can be profoundly psychologically insightful. Unfortunately we often do profoundly un-psychologically insightful things with Scripture!
In thinking about the crucifixion, we sometimes say that Jesus took on our shame and sin, to offer it to God, to heal us. The liturgy for the Stations of the Cross is full of this. That’s true, but Jesus didn’t do that as though we had a dirty shirt on and he took it off of us and put it on his own body. Instead. Jesus’ transformation of our humanity comes from the inside; his birth, ministry, death, and resurrection (yes, all four) symbolize God’s insistent, constant presence with us. It’s true that Jesus’ peaceful response to the violence he faced saved us. That’s true. In a very literal way, yes, we are saved by the cross. But we’re not “more saved” because it was “more worse.” We just are saved. Because God loves us. We just are worthy. Again, because God loves us.
Much is made of the crucifixion as being a particularly grisly and fear-inducing method of enforcing capital punishment. Many people were put to death in the Roman Empire, some by crucifixion, but by no means all. Crucifixion was a warning sign—it served to instill fear. That was its purpose. Yes, it was also shameful. But to say that Jesus’ death was uniquely shameful I think misses the point. The point is that Jesus’ death was not uniquely shameful. It was a way an abusive regime kept its people in line. That’s part of what’s salvific about it—that God experienced, from the inside, the worst of humanity. And God’s love would not be defeated.
We are all worthy—shame doesn’t have the last word for Jesus or for us. I’m getting ahead of us and close to Easter—there is a ways to go—but the resurrection is always true, even in the depths of Lent.
Blessings,
Sara+
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