Dear People of Christ Church,
Tomorrow is Epiphany (if you have a hankering for church, St Paul’s in Bedford is doing a noon service). One of my favorite lines in the Gospels is this short description of the Magi as they leave Bethlehem:
And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.
What is this other road? Did they always follow the instructions given in dreams? What are all the other roads we take or don’t take? Maybe they learned from a bad experience that you should always listen to that stuff? The Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken has always seemed a bit self-congratulatory to me—the narrator seems to boast that it’s “made all the difference” they took the road less traveled—but Matthew’s Gospel is so matter of fact about it that you wonder if there must be more to it.
Thinking about the alternate roads often becomes an exercise in nostalgia—thinking about what might have been if we’d done something else (or thinking about who we were when we made those decisions), we are easily blinded to the graces of what is. On the other hand, a la my annoyed interpretation of Frost, there can be a brittle defensiveness to being sure we did the right thing. But the magi are drama-free; they just know that Herod’s out to get them, and they keep going.
In addition to Magi’s attentiveness to their dreams, the other thing I also love is that they found the other road. We don’t have stories about them returning to Herod because they knew how to do things differently. They were attentive not just to their internal senses, but to what was around them. This is hard: often times we get absorbed into our own personal realities and don’t notice anything else. There’s also an opposite temptation, to be so externally focused we lose our bearings and can’t hear anything from our interior selves. They all are in conversation; it’s more of a double helix than two poles to balance.
Tomorrow, with the Magi we leave Bethlehem, all on our own roads. The light of the manger will be brought to all corners of the world in this season of Epiphany to the extent that we bring it with us. We’re celebrating Jesus’ baptism on Sunday, so we’re reminded of how we are one in Christ as members of one another and the church; in that same double helix way of interior and exterior, we travel together and apart.
What will you bring with you as you leave the manger? What will you leave behind?
Blessings,
Sara+
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Thursday, December 29, 2016
The Work of Christmas
Dear People of Christ Church,
Blessed Days of Christmas to you! I’m away from the office until January 2, but wanted to pass this on to you as you make your way through these twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany. I’ve shared it before; it comes from the theologian Howard Thurman, published in his book, The Mood of Christmas and other Celebrations (1973).
When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart.
Please come on Sunday for Christmas Lessons and Carols at 10am (no 8:30 service). On Sunday, January 8, we’re back to our regular schedule with children’s education at the 10am service and our usual 8:30 spoken Eucharist as we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus that kicks off Epiphany season!
Blessings,
Sara+
Blessed Days of Christmas to you! I’m away from the office until January 2, but wanted to pass this on to you as you make your way through these twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany. I’ve shared it before; it comes from the theologian Howard Thurman, published in his book, The Mood of Christmas and other Celebrations (1973).
When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart.
Please come on Sunday for Christmas Lessons and Carols at 10am (no 8:30 service). On Sunday, January 8, we’re back to our regular schedule with children’s education at the 10am service and our usual 8:30 spoken Eucharist as we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus that kicks off Epiphany season!
Blessings,
Sara+
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Now, Take a Deep Breath
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!
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!
Friday, January 9, 2015
On (Not) Getting Our Stories Straight
Dear People of Christ Church,
Blessings on this week of Epiphany!
This year through both Advent and Christmas I’ve continually felt drawn toward the multiplicity of our narratives—from Matthew to Mark to Luke to John, the church has long told many stories to explain our faith. To be religious is to be bound by a certain set of questions and symbols, but at the same time to hold a radical openness to truth—to stand at the doorway of Scripture and see shepherds at the manger on our left and Magi at the house with Jesus on the right and be able to extend our arms wide and say to both, “yes,” “thank you,” “Amen.” The shepherds teach me that God’s truth is revealed in some unlikely corners of society; the Magi teach me that the revelation of truth sometimes comes from far away.
There is much in the media this week over the attacks against the satirical French newspaper Charlie Hebdo, in which twelve staff members were shot this week in an attack apparently by Islamic fundamentalists. Is religion the problem? One of my favorite authors, Salman Rushdie, says it is, and calls it “a medieval form of unreason,” and says religion deserves our “fearless disrespect.” Certainly I have little sympathy for homicidal fundamentalists, but it seems unuseful to lump every impulse toward transcendence and mystery in the same category. Religious violence has endured through millennia. The Egyptians oppressed the Hebrews and the Spanish Inquisition oppressed non-Catholics. Christian fundamentalists have bombed abortion clinics and now Islamic fundamentalists attack cartoonists and school girls. The thing those all have in common is contempt and violence, not religion. Charlie Hebdo was contemptuous (and from what I’ve seen, probably racist, too)—but not violent, and not deserving of murder. It’s cruel irony that one of the police officers murdered in the attack was Muslim, risking his life to protect those on the magazine who pilloried his prophet.
So what to do? As thousands in France held up their pens in support of the writers and artists who were killed on Tuesday, as a religious person I hold out two open hands. I hold out open hands for mystery, for attentiveness and for curiosity. Open hands to say that I don’t come to Scripture—or even my own life!— with certainty, but with faith. I’ll imagine the magi in the stable and give thanks for the holy strangeness of kings in a barn. I’ll imagine the shepherds at the house and hope that their lambs don’t wander into the kitchen. I’ll get out of bed every day to meet my own chaotic life of distraction and wonder—parenting and preaching and learning and falling and getting up again—through all of it so grateful for a faith big enough to hold the pieces together.
At Epiphany, we remember the magi following a star and listening to the invitation in their dream to go home by another way. What new path are you on today? What’s the power of your faith against violence? Where do you need the stars to illuminate your road?
Blessings,
Sara+
Blessings on this week of Epiphany!
This year through both Advent and Christmas I’ve continually felt drawn toward the multiplicity of our narratives—from Matthew to Mark to Luke to John, the church has long told many stories to explain our faith. To be religious is to be bound by a certain set of questions and symbols, but at the same time to hold a radical openness to truth—to stand at the doorway of Scripture and see shepherds at the manger on our left and Magi at the house with Jesus on the right and be able to extend our arms wide and say to both, “yes,” “thank you,” “Amen.” The shepherds teach me that God’s truth is revealed in some unlikely corners of society; the Magi teach me that the revelation of truth sometimes comes from far away.
There is much in the media this week over the attacks against the satirical French newspaper Charlie Hebdo, in which twelve staff members were shot this week in an attack apparently by Islamic fundamentalists. Is religion the problem? One of my favorite authors, Salman Rushdie, says it is, and calls it “a medieval form of unreason,” and says religion deserves our “fearless disrespect.” Certainly I have little sympathy for homicidal fundamentalists, but it seems unuseful to lump every impulse toward transcendence and mystery in the same category. Religious violence has endured through millennia. The Egyptians oppressed the Hebrews and the Spanish Inquisition oppressed non-Catholics. Christian fundamentalists have bombed abortion clinics and now Islamic fundamentalists attack cartoonists and school girls. The thing those all have in common is contempt and violence, not religion. Charlie Hebdo was contemptuous (and from what I’ve seen, probably racist, too)—but not violent, and not deserving of murder. It’s cruel irony that one of the police officers murdered in the attack was Muslim, risking his life to protect those on the magazine who pilloried his prophet.
So what to do? As thousands in France held up their pens in support of the writers and artists who were killed on Tuesday, as a religious person I hold out two open hands. I hold out open hands for mystery, for attentiveness and for curiosity. Open hands to say that I don’t come to Scripture—or even my own life!— with certainty, but with faith. I’ll imagine the magi in the stable and give thanks for the holy strangeness of kings in a barn. I’ll imagine the shepherds at the house and hope that their lambs don’t wander into the kitchen. I’ll get out of bed every day to meet my own chaotic life of distraction and wonder—parenting and preaching and learning and falling and getting up again—through all of it so grateful for a faith big enough to hold the pieces together.
At Epiphany, we remember the magi following a star and listening to the invitation in their dream to go home by another way. What new path are you on today? What’s the power of your faith against violence? Where do you need the stars to illuminate your road?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, December 19, 2013
The power of story
December 19, 2013
Dear People of Christ Church,
The pageant is tonight! The pageant is tonight!
I'm not sure how it came to pass that churches took on the habit of having children act out the Christmas story, but I am so grateful for it. There's something about the Christmas story that's easy to think we've got it all figured out; it's so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time. All the heavy theology about human nature and divine nature and all of them coming together can sound so abstract as to be meaningless. At the same time, the manger where we think we've been so many times seems like the house where you grew up, knowing each loose board and creaking step all the way down in your bones. Somehow actually acting it out makes it more and less familiar; our pageant script has a rather sassy innkeeper and innkeeper's spouse, and it just makes you wonder: What was it like to go from door to door looking for a place to stay? What did Mary ponder in her heart those moments after Jesus was born, he heart crushed by wonder and love at the same time? Why haven't you pictured a ladybug there at the scene?
Anything in our spiritual lives that can get us to ask questions, to interrogate our habitual ways of understanding is always fruitful. Part of what faith does is to ease our pain; of course it does, and should, help us feel "better." In faith we know that love is eternal and our souls are kept safe at God's breast. In faith we know that the powers of death are already vanquished. But faith can also lead us to become too comfortable, to forget that God desires our doubts as well as our certainties. By encountering our faith stories as story, we can be a bit more playful, letting our minds wander a little into new visions and new dreams.
Scripture is great about this; much as we forget, each Gospel treats the birth of Jesus in a different way. Luke offers us the evocative manger scene we enact at the holiday and hear on Christmas Eve. But this Sunday, we'll also hear the first part of the Nativity story according to Matthew, in which the location of Jesus' birth isn't mentioned at all-and it's Matthew that gives us the Magi entering to visit Jesus in a house (they don't show up to the manger at all, actually). In Mark, there's no nativity, and in John, we get that beautiful prologue about the Word and the Light shining in the darkness. Again, no manger, no magi. Still, going toward the power of new questions and new visions, I still like the nativity scene that mashes them all together.
So for tonight-what are those idle imaginings and questions you bring? What do you see dancing around the edges of the Christmas story?
See you soon!
Blessings,
Sara+
Dear People of Christ Church,
The pageant is tonight! The pageant is tonight!
I'm not sure how it came to pass that churches took on the habit of having children act out the Christmas story, but I am so grateful for it. There's something about the Christmas story that's easy to think we've got it all figured out; it's so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time. All the heavy theology about human nature and divine nature and all of them coming together can sound so abstract as to be meaningless. At the same time, the manger where we think we've been so many times seems like the house where you grew up, knowing each loose board and creaking step all the way down in your bones. Somehow actually acting it out makes it more and less familiar; our pageant script has a rather sassy innkeeper and innkeeper's spouse, and it just makes you wonder: What was it like to go from door to door looking for a place to stay? What did Mary ponder in her heart those moments after Jesus was born, he heart crushed by wonder and love at the same time? Why haven't you pictured a ladybug there at the scene?
Anything in our spiritual lives that can get us to ask questions, to interrogate our habitual ways of understanding is always fruitful. Part of what faith does is to ease our pain; of course it does, and should, help us feel "better." In faith we know that love is eternal and our souls are kept safe at God's breast. In faith we know that the powers of death are already vanquished. But faith can also lead us to become too comfortable, to forget that God desires our doubts as well as our certainties. By encountering our faith stories as story, we can be a bit more playful, letting our minds wander a little into new visions and new dreams.
Scripture is great about this; much as we forget, each Gospel treats the birth of Jesus in a different way. Luke offers us the evocative manger scene we enact at the holiday and hear on Christmas Eve. But this Sunday, we'll also hear the first part of the Nativity story according to Matthew, in which the location of Jesus' birth isn't mentioned at all-and it's Matthew that gives us the Magi entering to visit Jesus in a house (they don't show up to the manger at all, actually). In Mark, there's no nativity, and in John, we get that beautiful prologue about the Word and the Light shining in the darkness. Again, no manger, no magi. Still, going toward the power of new questions and new visions, I still like the nativity scene that mashes them all together.
So for tonight-what are those idle imaginings and questions you bring? What do you see dancing around the edges of the Christmas story?
See you soon!
Blessings,
Sara+
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
From 12 27: The Work of Christmas
A version of last weeks email ran as an editorial in the Waltham News Tribune on December 21; read it here.
Rev. Sara is with her family until Jan. 2; she leaves the following passage from theologian Howard Thurman.
The Work of Christmas
by Howard Thurman
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the Kings and Princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins.
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry
To release the prisoner,
To teach the nations,
To bring Christ to all,
To make music in the heart.
Rev. Sara is with her family until Jan. 2; she leaves the following passage from theologian Howard Thurman.
The Work of Christmas
by Howard Thurman
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the Kings and Princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins.
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry
To release the prisoner,
To teach the nations,
To bring Christ to all,
To make music in the heart.
From 12 20: The Christmas Moment
Dear People of Christ Church,
It's so nice to be back writing to you, particularly knowing how well things have gone in my absence! I am so thankful to Rev. Norm Faramelli for holding down the fort, and to Sharon in the office for managing everything so smoothly behind the scenes. And there are not enough thanks and blessings for Jonathan, your senior warden, Victoria, and all the vestry! At the root of it all is my gratitude to God for all the ways God has made this such a strong church and to each of you who make it what it is. Since it's the end of the year, I also offer thanks to those who have made financial pledges for 2013-get those cards in!
So what have I been up to?
My initial goals were writing poetry and singing, and for September, November, and December, I was immersed in those projects. I met with teachers affiliated with Bethany House of Prayer (for poetry) and Episcopal Divinity School (for singing), and have collected a few things I've written which hopefully soon will reach the light of day and into a readable form. I attended church on Sundays with my family at Grace Church, Medford, where Noah is the rector, and sang in the choir there, which was so much fun. So. Much. Fun. I was happy to see many of you when I came to church on December 2 before taking off for Africa. My trip to Tanzania and Uganda was amazing-beautiful, heartbreaking, fascinating-the adjectives continue. I wrote and posted pictures whenever I had internet access at my personal blog- www.saraiwrites.blogspot.com -and you're welcome to take a look.
Finally, Christmas. Throughout my time in Africa, my thoughts returned often to all the hustle and bustle that must have been taking place at home, none of which was evident where I was. I did, however, see Christmas everywhere. Why Christmas? Because Christmas is the time when we look to God, most ultimate power of the universe, born in powerlessness.
In this Christmas moment, God has chosen the weakest possible place to show us who God is. At Christmas we learn that God will always go to the place of the least power. God will go to the kids we met in Tanzania who have no access to health care within 100 miles. God will go to the Ugandan teenager whose parents have died of AIDS and whose grandmother is dying too and can't take care of her. To the twelve year old who doesn't have enough food and gets dizzy from his HIV medicine. To the fifteen year old who has become the head of her household and goes out to sell charcoal before school.
To Newtown, and to all victims of gun violence. To the new immigrant struggling to learn English and the elder who stretches to make ends meet by the end of the month. To the gay teenager coming out to his parents, unsure of how they will react. All of those places of weakness and struggle are where God will be born. All of those people will not be abandoned. God will be born, too, in places of justice-making. Where Ann Nyangoma, the director of the education program we visited offers comprehensive family support and school tuition to sponsored students. Where Bishop Maimbo of the Anglican Diocese of Tanzania helps his parishes start microcredit programs and build capacity for local hospitals. Where the Community Day Center of Waltham offers a refuge from the street. All of these are images of Christmas, where a different vision of power comes to be. Not the power of wealth or influence, but the power of vulnerability and love.
There is nothing wrong with presents at Christmas. But that version of giving isn't the whole story. Christmas isn't just about giving. It's about being changed, top to bottom, and bringing that change into the streets. Celebrating the birth of God born in a truly marginal place-among people who are oppressed, who society turns away from-how will we be moved? How will we turn away from imaginary conflicts over public displays of religion and look at where God can actually be found?
How will we hear what God asks of us, and how will we respond?
Blessings,
Sara+
p.s. Visit www.maserekafoundation.org for more on the group we spent time with in Uganda; my
blog is at www.saraiwrites.blogspot.com
It's so nice to be back writing to you, particularly knowing how well things have gone in my absence! I am so thankful to Rev. Norm Faramelli for holding down the fort, and to Sharon in the office for managing everything so smoothly behind the scenes. And there are not enough thanks and blessings for Jonathan, your senior warden, Victoria, and all the vestry! At the root of it all is my gratitude to God for all the ways God has made this such a strong church and to each of you who make it what it is. Since it's the end of the year, I also offer thanks to those who have made financial pledges for 2013-get those cards in!
So what have I been up to?
My initial goals were writing poetry and singing, and for September, November, and December, I was immersed in those projects. I met with teachers affiliated with Bethany House of Prayer (for poetry) and Episcopal Divinity School (for singing), and have collected a few things I've written which hopefully soon will reach the light of day and into a readable form. I attended church on Sundays with my family at Grace Church, Medford, where Noah is the rector, and sang in the choir there, which was so much fun. So. Much. Fun. I was happy to see many of you when I came to church on December 2 before taking off for Africa. My trip to Tanzania and Uganda was amazing-beautiful, heartbreaking, fascinating-the adjectives continue. I wrote and posted pictures whenever I had internet access at my personal blog- www.saraiwrites.blogspot.com -and you're welcome to take a look.
Finally, Christmas. Throughout my time in Africa, my thoughts returned often to all the hustle and bustle that must have been taking place at home, none of which was evident where I was. I did, however, see Christmas everywhere. Why Christmas? Because Christmas is the time when we look to God, most ultimate power of the universe, born in powerlessness.
In this Christmas moment, God has chosen the weakest possible place to show us who God is. At Christmas we learn that God will always go to the place of the least power. God will go to the kids we met in Tanzania who have no access to health care within 100 miles. God will go to the Ugandan teenager whose parents have died of AIDS and whose grandmother is dying too and can't take care of her. To the twelve year old who doesn't have enough food and gets dizzy from his HIV medicine. To the fifteen year old who has become the head of her household and goes out to sell charcoal before school.
To Newtown, and to all victims of gun violence. To the new immigrant struggling to learn English and the elder who stretches to make ends meet by the end of the month. To the gay teenager coming out to his parents, unsure of how they will react. All of those places of weakness and struggle are where God will be born. All of those people will not be abandoned. God will be born, too, in places of justice-making. Where Ann Nyangoma, the director of the education program we visited offers comprehensive family support and school tuition to sponsored students. Where Bishop Maimbo of the Anglican Diocese of Tanzania helps his parishes start microcredit programs and build capacity for local hospitals. Where the Community Day Center of Waltham offers a refuge from the street. All of these are images of Christmas, where a different vision of power comes to be. Not the power of wealth or influence, but the power of vulnerability and love.
There is nothing wrong with presents at Christmas. But that version of giving isn't the whole story. Christmas isn't just about giving. It's about being changed, top to bottom, and bringing that change into the streets. Celebrating the birth of God born in a truly marginal place-among people who are oppressed, who society turns away from-how will we be moved? How will we turn away from imaginary conflicts over public displays of religion and look at where God can actually be found?
How will we hear what God asks of us, and how will we respond?
Blessings,
Sara+
p.s. Visit www.maserekafoundation.org for more on the group we spent time with in Uganda; my
blog is at www.saraiwrites.blogspot.com
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Dear People of Christ Church,
A blessed last few days of Advent to you!
So many thanks to our Pageant Stars (pictured right) and Director Erin Jensen. Our kids did a wonderful job of bringing the Christmas story to light this past Sunday, with a potentially record-setting number of 27 participants!
It has, though, felt like a short season of preparation, when both the calendar and our own hectic lives conspire to make Christmas seem early. Christingle Party and Pageant on the same day? Never again, please! Christmas is, of course, not sooner; it is the twenty-fifth of December, same as always. And, same as always, there is something ELSE that seems more pressing that sitting down to do the real work of contemplation and preparation, of "making room" in our hearts for the birth of Christ. I recently read someone refer to Christmas as "the feast of Nicene Dogma"-Nicea being the ecumenical council when Jesus' nature as both fully human and fully divine was officially adopted by the church, in 325-and while it doesn't sound very romantic, it's not a bad characterization of the holiday.
Christmas is the day-the day when we celebrate that God became human in the person of Jesus Christ. Two natures, fully human and fully divine. Amidst all the presents and the food and the preparation, God becomes one of us. This is a big deal, because it says a lot about God-a God willing to be one of us, to be powerless as a baby, to have to learn as a little child, to be rebellious as an adolescent (remember that time he ran away from his parents in the Temple?), to be tested as a young man, and to suffer as we all, invariably, will. It says a lot about God, but it also says a lot about us.
The God of our salvation, coming to be with us in THIS sometimes joyful and sometimes sorry state of affairs. What that says about God is that God is infinitely willing to bridge hardship and suffering to be with us in our suffering. It means that nothing we could ever undergo is alien to the heart of God. It also means, most powerfully, this: when God became human, we got a chance to be closer to God. Athanasius of Alexandria put it this way in the fourth Century:
The Word of God indeed assumed humanity that we might become God...so many are the Savior's achievements that follow from his Incarnation that to try to number them is like gazing at the open sea and trying to count the waves.
Each one of us is a wave of reconciled humanity, changed toward grace and liberated from our sin, that is, liberated from our separation from God. No more retaliation, no more defensiveness, no more revenge or "eye for an eye." Just love and peace. Love and peace for each of us-every last one of us, no matter what. That's the gift we're given at Christmas.
Thanks be to God!
Christmas Blessings,
Sara+
A blessed last few days of Advent to you!
So many thanks to our Pageant Stars (pictured right) and Director Erin Jensen. Our kids did a wonderful job of bringing the Christmas story to light this past Sunday, with a potentially record-setting number of 27 participants!
It has, though, felt like a short season of preparation, when both the calendar and our own hectic lives conspire to make Christmas seem early. Christingle Party and Pageant on the same day? Never again, please! Christmas is, of course, not sooner; it is the twenty-fifth of December, same as always. And, same as always, there is something ELSE that seems more pressing that sitting down to do the real work of contemplation and preparation, of "making room" in our hearts for the birth of Christ. I recently read someone refer to Christmas as "the feast of Nicene Dogma"-Nicea being the ecumenical council when Jesus' nature as both fully human and fully divine was officially adopted by the church, in 325-and while it doesn't sound very romantic, it's not a bad characterization of the holiday.
Christmas is the day-the day when we celebrate that God became human in the person of Jesus Christ. Two natures, fully human and fully divine. Amidst all the presents and the food and the preparation, God becomes one of us. This is a big deal, because it says a lot about God-a God willing to be one of us, to be powerless as a baby, to have to learn as a little child, to be rebellious as an adolescent (remember that time he ran away from his parents in the Temple?), to be tested as a young man, and to suffer as we all, invariably, will. It says a lot about God, but it also says a lot about us.
The God of our salvation, coming to be with us in THIS sometimes joyful and sometimes sorry state of affairs. What that says about God is that God is infinitely willing to bridge hardship and suffering to be with us in our suffering. It means that nothing we could ever undergo is alien to the heart of God. It also means, most powerfully, this: when God became human, we got a chance to be closer to God. Athanasius of Alexandria put it this way in the fourth Century:
The Word of God indeed assumed humanity that we might become God...so many are the Savior's achievements that follow from his Incarnation that to try to number them is like gazing at the open sea and trying to count the waves.
Each one of us is a wave of reconciled humanity, changed toward grace and liberated from our sin, that is, liberated from our separation from God. No more retaliation, no more defensiveness, no more revenge or "eye for an eye." Just love and peace. Love and peace for each of us-every last one of us, no matter what. That's the gift we're given at Christmas.
Thanks be to God!
Christmas Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Dec. 23 Holiness in retrospect: Remember
I hope your Christmas preparations are going well, that your Advent has been a satisfying time of reflection and preparation. As Christmas approaches on Saturday, it's easy to dwell on all the prayers unsaid, all the things we might have squeezed into this time of preparation but didn't. Advent is short! Either way, though, the holiday will come, Christ will be born, and we will be joined to God.
I shared the following poem in this space a few years ago, but thought I'd sent it out again. It comes from the poet Mary Oliver (a fellow Episcopalian) from her book Thirst.
The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist
Something has happened /to the bread/ and the wine.
They have been blessed./What now? /The body leans forward
To receive the gift/ from the priest's hand,/ then the chalice.
They are something else now/from what they were/ before this began
I want/ to see Jesus,/ maybe in the clouds
or on the shore,/ just walking,/ beautiful man
and clearly/ someone else/ besides.
On the hard days/ I ask myself/ if I ever will.
Also there are times/ my body whispers to me/ that I have.
What I appreciate about the poem is that truth about the retrospective nature of so much spiritual experience. We don't always recognize the importance or power of what we are undergoing at the time; sometimes the power or profundity takes a while to filter through our consciousness. As they walked with Jesus on the way to Emmaus, the disciples just knew "a stranger;" it was only afterwards that they asked "Were not our hearts burning within us as we walked?" (Luke 24:32) We don't typically spend our days gape-mouthed at the Beauty of Creation or the Grace of Our Salvation In Christ. We don't realize our hearts are on fire. We get distracted; we are busy; we just don't see what's right in front of us. After one of my kids has had a bad night I don't even see things that are materially in front of me, much less spiritually so. Oliver points to how we still know Christ's presence even in our forgetting. As the bread and the wine become "something else" after they are blessed, we do, too-but it can take a while. Somehow our bodies know what has left the forefront of our minds.
At Christmas, as Oliver says, our bodies whisper-God has been here. God has been with us. Be silent. Remember. Remember.
I shared the following poem in this space a few years ago, but thought I'd sent it out again. It comes from the poet Mary Oliver (a fellow Episcopalian) from her book Thirst.
The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist
Something has happened /to the bread/ and the wine.
They have been blessed./What now? /The body leans forward
To receive the gift/ from the priest's hand,/ then the chalice.
They are something else now/from what they were/ before this began
I want/ to see Jesus,/ maybe in the clouds
or on the shore,/ just walking,/ beautiful man
and clearly/ someone else/ besides.
On the hard days/ I ask myself/ if I ever will.
Also there are times/ my body whispers to me/ that I have.
What I appreciate about the poem is that truth about the retrospective nature of so much spiritual experience. We don't always recognize the importance or power of what we are undergoing at the time; sometimes the power or profundity takes a while to filter through our consciousness. As they walked with Jesus on the way to Emmaus, the disciples just knew "a stranger;" it was only afterwards that they asked "Were not our hearts burning within us as we walked?" (Luke 24:32) We don't typically spend our days gape-mouthed at the Beauty of Creation or the Grace of Our Salvation In Christ. We don't realize our hearts are on fire. We get distracted; we are busy; we just don't see what's right in front of us. After one of my kids has had a bad night I don't even see things that are materially in front of me, much less spiritually so. Oliver points to how we still know Christ's presence even in our forgetting. As the bread and the wine become "something else" after they are blessed, we do, too-but it can take a while. Somehow our bodies know what has left the forefront of our minds.
At Christmas, as Oliver says, our bodies whisper-God has been here. God has been with us. Be silent. Remember. Remember.
Dec. 16: Grappling with hope
Dear People of Christ Church,
This weekend, we have several opportunities for celebration of the coming holiday. Saturday, we'll join together with St Peter's for a party with a Christingle service. Christingle was introduced to us a few years ago by a Christ Churcher who'd experienced in when he was working in England-it's a beautiful service of light and song (and a lot of candy, in the form of an orange covered in gumdrops-truly something for everyone). That will be at 3 pm on Saturday. Sunday, I hope you'll join us for our Christmas Play-"A Child is Born." It will take the place of most of the Liturgy of the Word (the beginning part of the service when we have Scripture readings, the sermon, the creed, and prayers). We'll open with a hymn and the Gospel, but then enjoy the play and the carols that are part of it.
This Advent, I continue to be gripped by hope. Not a "yes we can" kind of hope (though that kind is all fine, too)-but an almost argumentative, confrontational hope. I have felt a little like Jacob, wrestling with the angel. In the story in Genesis, Jacob is traveling back to Caanan, when he is attacked by a stranger, with whom he wrestles all night, and knocks his hip out of joint. Finally, the morning comes and the angel asks him to let him go, but Jacob says, "I will not let you go, unless you bless me." There's something in this story about holding on to a promise of God-the promise of blessing, in Jacob's case-and contending with God that it be realized. I feel a little like the hope of Christmas is something I'm wrestling with. I want it; I want to believe in peace and justice and the kingdom where the lion lies down with the lamb and swords are bent into ploughshares, but I have such doubt, too.
Looking around our world, it's hard to see how love will win out in the end. But those are the promises of the prophets and the promises of Christ. I believe them, but their fulfillment seems so far away. I want to hold on to that hope more strongly, really to possess it and live through it. It's a palpable desire-almost like romantic love, where the beloved is the only thing you can see.
Our own experiences, though, are through earthly time, and we are bound by it. God's promises aren't confined by that linearity. As part of the Eucharistic prayer, we say "Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again." The divine reality isn't quite as chronological as that, though. In the resurrection, the battle is already won-death no longer has the last word. Yet wherever we look, there is death-death in our economic system that favors rich over poor, death in the abundance of war, death as we act out of fear rather than love. So we are praying for the grace to live in that hope, to act on it, to bring those promises of justice to reality, at same time as we celebrate the coming of that baby who changes-has already changed, and will change-absolutely everything.
Paradoxically, I think it's my struggle with that hope that makes it feel all the more promising; as something outside of myself, I sense its reality, even as it's something I feel I don't fully have. So I guess I am not having such a peaceful Advent after all, but I'm grateful for it. What are you being gripped by this Advent? What are you longing for?
Blessings,
Sara+
This weekend, we have several opportunities for celebration of the coming holiday. Saturday, we'll join together with St Peter's for a party with a Christingle service. Christingle was introduced to us a few years ago by a Christ Churcher who'd experienced in when he was working in England-it's a beautiful service of light and song (and a lot of candy, in the form of an orange covered in gumdrops-truly something for everyone). That will be at 3 pm on Saturday. Sunday, I hope you'll join us for our Christmas Play-"A Child is Born." It will take the place of most of the Liturgy of the Word (the beginning part of the service when we have Scripture readings, the sermon, the creed, and prayers). We'll open with a hymn and the Gospel, but then enjoy the play and the carols that are part of it.
This Advent, I continue to be gripped by hope. Not a "yes we can" kind of hope (though that kind is all fine, too)-but an almost argumentative, confrontational hope. I have felt a little like Jacob, wrestling with the angel. In the story in Genesis, Jacob is traveling back to Caanan, when he is attacked by a stranger, with whom he wrestles all night, and knocks his hip out of joint. Finally, the morning comes and the angel asks him to let him go, but Jacob says, "I will not let you go, unless you bless me." There's something in this story about holding on to a promise of God-the promise of blessing, in Jacob's case-and contending with God that it be realized. I feel a little like the hope of Christmas is something I'm wrestling with. I want it; I want to believe in peace and justice and the kingdom where the lion lies down with the lamb and swords are bent into ploughshares, but I have such doubt, too.
Looking around our world, it's hard to see how love will win out in the end. But those are the promises of the prophets and the promises of Christ. I believe them, but their fulfillment seems so far away. I want to hold on to that hope more strongly, really to possess it and live through it. It's a palpable desire-almost like romantic love, where the beloved is the only thing you can see.
Our own experiences, though, are through earthly time, and we are bound by it. God's promises aren't confined by that linearity. As part of the Eucharistic prayer, we say "Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again." The divine reality isn't quite as chronological as that, though. In the resurrection, the battle is already won-death no longer has the last word. Yet wherever we look, there is death-death in our economic system that favors rich over poor, death in the abundance of war, death as we act out of fear rather than love. So we are praying for the grace to live in that hope, to act on it, to bring those promises of justice to reality, at same time as we celebrate the coming of that baby who changes-has already changed, and will change-absolutely everything.
Paradoxically, I think it's my struggle with that hope that makes it feel all the more promising; as something outside of myself, I sense its reality, even as it's something I feel I don't fully have. So I guess I am not having such a peaceful Advent after all, but I'm grateful for it. What are you being gripped by this Advent? What are you longing for?
Blessings,
Sara+
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
from December 27, 2007: Jean Vanier
I hope you had a wonderful and warm Christmas celebration this week. It was my son’s first Christmas—at nine months old, he was just as interested in eating the wrapping paper as playing with his new toys. We had a great service here on Monday, and the church looked beautiful thanks to the many helpers who stayed after to decorate on Sunday. Thanks especially to Ginny Lombardo, the director of our altar guild, who coordinated all of our flowers and decorations.
On Sunday as I drove home from church, I heard an interview on NPR with Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche communities (see www.speakingoffaith.org to listen, or ask me and I can make you a CD of it). They began in France, but there are now houses in many countries, including the US. Members with developmental disabilities are at the heart of the community, and others share their life with them in community. Those whom society might disregard as unhappy, or sad, or helpless have a profound gift to share with those who share their lives with them. As we befriend our own vulnerability and suffering, and the “least of these,” we are better able to receive the healing that God offers all of us. Vanier talks about the L’Arche communities as not a solution, but as a sign. They cannot house every person with a developmental disability. They cannot reach every one who might benefit from their teachings. They cannot end war, or prejudice, or even make a systemic change on behalf of those for whom they work. They are communities of love. That’s all. They are a sign of what is possible in love, as people are transformed.
Vanier says,
Living in community I discovered who I was. I discovered also that the truth will set me free, and so there's the gradual realization about what it means to be human. To be human is that capacity to love which is the phenomenal reality that we can give life to people; we can transform people by our attentiveness, by our love, and they can transform us. It is a whole question of giving life and receiving life, but also to discover how broken we are.
As I prepared for my Christmas Eve sermon, I kept thinking of Vanier’s phrase: “not a solution, but a sign.” In the Gospel of Luke, the shepherds are told of the Messiah: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." I think that the L’Arche communities maybe are signs of our solution—the reality of God in our midst. The birth of Jesus Christ for us is both solution and sign. The gift of Christmas to us is a gift of love—both the gift of love for us, and a call TO love each other, especially the rejected and the outcast, as part of our life as Christians. Vanier’s experience in community is that in loving those whom society rejects, we are able to come to terms with—and even find life in—the most broken parts of ourselves. (this might sound familiar to readers of theologian Henri Nouwen—his experience living in one of the L’Arche houses was very important to him).
This Christmas (there are nine whole days of Christmas left, all the way to January 6), I hope you can find some time to sit in prayer and receive that gift of healing that Christmas gives us. There are always disappointments in life—there is always tragedy and sorrow great and small. Think about how God’s birth with us as a needy, vulnerable child can help you to see the sanctification—the making holy—of your vulnerability and need, and how God calls you to reach out to others in their need.
On Sunday as I drove home from church, I heard an interview on NPR with Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche communities (see www.speakingoffaith.org to listen, or ask me and I can make you a CD of it). They began in France, but there are now houses in many countries, including the US. Members with developmental disabilities are at the heart of the community, and others share their life with them in community. Those whom society might disregard as unhappy, or sad, or helpless have a profound gift to share with those who share their lives with them. As we befriend our own vulnerability and suffering, and the “least of these,” we are better able to receive the healing that God offers all of us. Vanier talks about the L’Arche communities as not a solution, but as a sign. They cannot house every person with a developmental disability. They cannot reach every one who might benefit from their teachings. They cannot end war, or prejudice, or even make a systemic change on behalf of those for whom they work. They are communities of love. That’s all. They are a sign of what is possible in love, as people are transformed.
Vanier says,
Living in community I discovered who I was. I discovered also that the truth will set me free, and so there's the gradual realization about what it means to be human. To be human is that capacity to love which is the phenomenal reality that we can give life to people; we can transform people by our attentiveness, by our love, and they can transform us. It is a whole question of giving life and receiving life, but also to discover how broken we are.
As I prepared for my Christmas Eve sermon, I kept thinking of Vanier’s phrase: “not a solution, but a sign.” In the Gospel of Luke, the shepherds are told of the Messiah: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." I think that the L’Arche communities maybe are signs of our solution—the reality of God in our midst. The birth of Jesus Christ for us is both solution and sign. The gift of Christmas to us is a gift of love—both the gift of love for us, and a call TO love each other, especially the rejected and the outcast, as part of our life as Christians. Vanier’s experience in community is that in loving those whom society rejects, we are able to come to terms with—and even find life in—the most broken parts of ourselves. (this might sound familiar to readers of theologian Henri Nouwen—his experience living in one of the L’Arche houses was very important to him).
This Christmas (there are nine whole days of Christmas left, all the way to January 6), I hope you can find some time to sit in prayer and receive that gift of healing that Christmas gives us. There are always disappointments in life—there is always tragedy and sorrow great and small. Think about how God’s birth with us as a needy, vulnerable child can help you to see the sanctification—the making holy—of your vulnerability and need, and how God calls you to reach out to others in their need.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Stewardship Thoughts Back from leave
I’m so glad to be back writing to you in this space. There were several times when I was on leave and came across something and thought, “I’d like to share that with Christ Church.” I was aware of how much I benefit from being in this community in addition to it being “just” my work. So it is good to be back. The bag of chocolate truffles that someone left on the table in my office also helped, and the Pageant on Sunday was fantastic—thanks to Jonathan Duce, our fearless organizer, all the parents and participatns, and especially the Hobins, who made a great holy family.
Having been away for stewardship season this year, it was sort of odd to see it in the newsletter how we crept towards our goal, without being part of the conversation. We are now at about $76,000—still about 9,000 below last year’s figure, and unfortunately $24,000 below our goal of $100,000. Those totals (which might seem a little discouraging) actually don’t quite tell the whole story. Of course we need to have the money, and certainly more is better, but fully 19 of those pledges were increases over last year. 5 of them were entirely new pledges. Looking at the numbers so far, there are some wonderfully generous people in our congregation, some increasing their pledges by thirty percent, even fifty percent.
Keeping the doors open here at Christ Church isn’t cheap; before we’ve even hired a priest, administrator, organist or sexton, we’ve already spent close to $87,000 on building maintenance, candles, and heat, electricity, and phone, and our share to the diocese. When you want to pay people to preach the sermon, play the organ, print the bulletin and take out the trash, it adds more than double that amount. Well, I can hear you saying, “I don’t know if I quite get thousands of dollars worth out of coming to church. Coffee hour is great, and Rev. Sara is fine, but come on, that’s a lot of money.”
It’s true—if you’re looking for personal satisfaction, a hot tub is probably a better investment than a church pledge. But that’s the thing—contributing to your church community isn’t about personal satisfaction. It’s nice when it feels good, but what you’re really doing when you support this church is making sure the doors can be open for everybody else. The Gospel is about all the people who haven’t heard it yet—it’s good news, and it needs to be shared. They haven’t had a chance to support this community yet. You have. Each of us has a wonderful story to tell about the work God is doing in our lives to heal us and allow us to share the love of Christ. Celebrating church every Sunday here in Waltham is part of the way we tell that story, all of us together.
So… thanks so much to those of you who have given from your hearts to keep this community going. There is a wonderful spirit in this place, I am so glad to be back here with you, and thrilled that my new daughter Adah will get to be part of it, too!
Having been away for stewardship season this year, it was sort of odd to see it in the newsletter how we crept towards our goal, without being part of the conversation. We are now at about $76,000—still about 9,000 below last year’s figure, and unfortunately $24,000 below our goal of $100,000. Those totals (which might seem a little discouraging) actually don’t quite tell the whole story. Of course we need to have the money, and certainly more is better, but fully 19 of those pledges were increases over last year. 5 of them were entirely new pledges. Looking at the numbers so far, there are some wonderfully generous people in our congregation, some increasing their pledges by thirty percent, even fifty percent.
Keeping the doors open here at Christ Church isn’t cheap; before we’ve even hired a priest, administrator, organist or sexton, we’ve already spent close to $87,000 on building maintenance, candles, and heat, electricity, and phone, and our share to the diocese. When you want to pay people to preach the sermon, play the organ, print the bulletin and take out the trash, it adds more than double that amount. Well, I can hear you saying, “I don’t know if I quite get thousands of dollars worth out of coming to church. Coffee hour is great, and Rev. Sara is fine, but come on, that’s a lot of money.”
It’s true—if you’re looking for personal satisfaction, a hot tub is probably a better investment than a church pledge. But that’s the thing—contributing to your church community isn’t about personal satisfaction. It’s nice when it feels good, but what you’re really doing when you support this church is making sure the doors can be open for everybody else. The Gospel is about all the people who haven’t heard it yet—it’s good news, and it needs to be shared. They haven’t had a chance to support this community yet. You have. Each of us has a wonderful story to tell about the work God is doing in our lives to heal us and allow us to share the love of Christ. Celebrating church every Sunday here in Waltham is part of the way we tell that story, all of us together.
So… thanks so much to those of you who have given from your hearts to keep this community going. There is a wonderful spirit in this place, I am so glad to be back here with you, and thrilled that my new daughter Adah will get to be part of it, too!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
From Dec. 23: Christmas Eve Eve
I hope you are having a joyful Eve of Christmas Eve, and that we’ll see you tomorrow for our service at 7:00. Our Christmas celebrations began early with our fabulous pageant on Sunday. Even after three days of snow, we experienced the Christmas story enacted with gusto by the children of Christ Church and St Peter’s Ugandan Anglican Church who worship here on Sundays. I even got to have Isaiah with me at the altar, as he (being astonishingly calm) followed behind me as we celebrated the Eucharist. The script was funny (and biblically accurate), the costumes were fantastic, and the supporting cast of adults did a great job! Many thanks to Jonathan Duce, our director, and Alison Lasiewski and her family, who made a great holy family of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. See www.christchurchwaltham.org to see pictures.
We trudged through the snow back to church at 4:30 for Christingle, also a great event (if a bit smaller than we’d initially hoped, given the weather). A Christingle is an orange, representing the world, with a ribbon circling round, representing the love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Four toothpicks with candy on them represent the good gifts of creation (twelve candies and raisins representing the 12 apostles) and the love of God spreading in the four directions. Nothing is outside the reach of God! We sang and enjoyed the choir from St Peter’s, we ate delicious food, and sang Silent Night as the light of Christ (symbolized by our candles in the Christingle oranges) spread through the church and through our lives.
This afternoon, I invite you to a quick moment of prayer and silence before the guests arrive for dinner, before the presents get opened, before the rush carries us away. Here’s a psalm from today’s service for Morning Prayer:
Psalm 67
1 May God be merciful to us and bless us,
show us the light of his countenance and come to us.
2 Let your ways be known upon earth, *
your saving health among all nations.
3 Let the peoples praise you, O God; *
let all the peoples praise you.
4 Let the nations be glad and sing for joy, *
for you judge the peoples with equity
and guide all the nations upon earth.
5 Let the peoples praise you, O God; *
let all the peoples praise you.
6 The earth has brought forth her increase; *
may God, our own God, give us his blessing.
7 May God give us his blessing, *
and may all the ends of the earth stand in awe of him.
Let us receive God’s blessing, and stand in awe.
We trudged through the snow back to church at 4:30 for Christingle, also a great event (if a bit smaller than we’d initially hoped, given the weather). A Christingle is an orange, representing the world, with a ribbon circling round, representing the love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Four toothpicks with candy on them represent the good gifts of creation (twelve candies and raisins representing the 12 apostles) and the love of God spreading in the four directions. Nothing is outside the reach of God! We sang and enjoyed the choir from St Peter’s, we ate delicious food, and sang Silent Night as the light of Christ (symbolized by our candles in the Christingle oranges) spread through the church and through our lives.
This afternoon, I invite you to a quick moment of prayer and silence before the guests arrive for dinner, before the presents get opened, before the rush carries us away. Here’s a psalm from today’s service for Morning Prayer:
Psalm 67
1 May God be merciful to us and bless us,
show us the light of his countenance and come to us.
2 Let your ways be known upon earth, *
your saving health among all nations.
3 Let the peoples praise you, O God; *
let all the peoples praise you.
4 Let the nations be glad and sing for joy, *
for you judge the peoples with equity
and guide all the nations upon earth.
5 Let the peoples praise you, O God; *
let all the peoples praise you.
6 The earth has brought forth her increase; *
may God, our own God, give us his blessing.
7 May God give us his blessing, *
and may all the ends of the earth stand in awe of him.
Let us receive God’s blessing, and stand in awe.
From Dec. 17: The Presiding Bishop's Christmas Message
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it (John 1:5).
The world settles into winter, at least in the northern hemisphere, and life to many seems increasingly bleak. Foreclosures, layoffs, government bailouts and financial failures, continuing war on two fronts, terrorist attacks, murders of some identified only by their faith -- this world is in abundant need of light. We know light that is not overcome by darkness, for God has come among us in human flesh. Born in poverty to a homeless couple, to a people long under occupation, Jesus is human and divine evidence that God is with us in the midst of the world's darkness. Emmanuel, Prince of Peace, Divine Counselor is come among us to re-mind, re-member, and re-create. A new mind and heart is birthed in us as we turn to follow Jesus on the way. The body of God's creation is re-membered and put back together in ways intended from the beginning. And a new creation becomes reality through Jesus' healing work. Christians tell the story again each Christmastide, and the telling and remembering invites us once again into being made whole. Our task in every year is to hear the story with new ears, and seeing light in the darkness of this season's woes, then to tell it abroad with gladsome hearts to those who wait in darkness. Where will you share the joyous tale of light in the darkness?
The Most Rev. Katharine Jefferts Schori
Presiding Bishop
The Episcopal Church
The world settles into winter, at least in the northern hemisphere, and life to many seems increasingly bleak. Foreclosures, layoffs, government bailouts and financial failures, continuing war on two fronts, terrorist attacks, murders of some identified only by their faith -- this world is in abundant need of light. We know light that is not overcome by darkness, for God has come among us in human flesh. Born in poverty to a homeless couple, to a people long under occupation, Jesus is human and divine evidence that God is with us in the midst of the world's darkness. Emmanuel, Prince of Peace, Divine Counselor is come among us to re-mind, re-member, and re-create. A new mind and heart is birthed in us as we turn to follow Jesus on the way. The body of God's creation is re-membered and put back together in ways intended from the beginning. And a new creation becomes reality through Jesus' healing work. Christians tell the story again each Christmastide, and the telling and remembering invites us once again into being made whole. Our task in every year is to hear the story with new ears, and seeing light in the darkness of this season's woes, then to tell it abroad with gladsome hearts to those who wait in darkness. Where will you share the joyous tale of light in the darkness?
The Most Rev. Katharine Jefferts Schori
Presiding Bishop
The Episcopal Church
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