Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m writing this afternoon thinking of all the newness of the year at the same time as I think of the way the past stays with us. The Stations of the Cross we received from St John’s Bowdoin Street continue to linger at the back of the church and still we’re in conversation about what we’ll do with our new guests. Praying the Stations of the Cross (away from Jerusalem, that is) is a Christian practice dating back about 500 years. In it, we trace the events of Christ’s passion. The prayer form we use is found in the Episcopal Book of Occasional Services. Representations of them are often hung in churches to offer a visual image to the prayers. The “original” stations of the cross are in Jerusalem—where Jesus is believed to have actually walked—and called the Via Dolorosa or Way of Sorrows. Those have been a pilgrimage site since the 5th century. (more about all of this on Wikipedia, of course.)
1: Where did they come from?
When a parish closes or merges with another congregation, the diocese has an open invitation to other communities to request items from the closed churches. Over the summer, Sasha and Phil Killewald visted the open house at St John’s on our behalf. St John the Evangelist has an amazing history—they were the parish that Harriet Beecher Stowe’s father was a member of. Isabella Stewart Gardener went there, too. The monks now in Cambridge worshipped there as well when they first came to the United States from England. And our own Marjorie Hartman’s father was a member there, too, which led to her encouraging us to take them as well! We’re continuing to learn more—Erin Jensen has been doing some research on the studio that produced them in the late 1800’s (around the same time Christ Church was built).
2: How was this decision made?
Vestry made the decision after an open call for congregational input. During the month of September we published pictures and announcements in the ecrier and announced on Sundays that the congregation should offer input to the vestry. We offered a field trip to St John’s to visit them (no one took us up on it). After 3 weeks of open input, on September 22 the vestry had a lively conversation, considering many of the questions I mention here and considering the congregational input. The group unanimously voted to invite them to come. Because St John’s wasn’t yet formally closed, they weren’t available until November.
3: Isn’t it a little, um, “Catholic” to have the Stations of the Cross?
You don’t see them in every Episcopal church, but there is nothing inherently Roman Catholic about them. I grew up in an Episcopal church that did stations of the cross every Friday in Lent—they still do. Our stations come from an Episcopal church. It’s true that the Roman Catholic Church has a strong legacy praying the events of Christ’s Passion that the stations invite. Many Episcopal Churches don’t have them—as, indeed, Christ Church didn’t until 2008 when we installed the small photos of the ones from Westminster Cathedral since 2008 (we sometimes left them up through the year, and sometimes took them down after Lent).
4: Won’t it change the look of the church to have so much white plaster up?
It’s possible, but my sense is that the windows and the brick will hold their own. The Stations of the Cross are large, but our church is very very large. Given the layout of the church and windows, the sight lines toward the front of the church won’t be changed—they won’t be hung as close up to the front as the font or the piano, for example. And since they’re white, the color on the windows would be dominant.
5: Some of them are broken. Won’t it be expensive to fix them? And how are they getting hung, anyway?
We’ve received several donations specifically for the Stations of the Cross. The expenses are not coming out of the parish budget. Funds will go toward building frames that will make it possible to hang them, and the frames will support them to make them more durable as well. We also have some leads on professional art conservators, who might be asked to weigh in as well. We are still exploring whether it makes sense to hang them on existing infrastructure or if we will anchor them in the brick work.
6: What if it’s terrible?
If it’s terrible, we can always do something different. The decision on final placement hasn’t been made yet—stay tuned. And, as we said in the open comment period, please talk to your vestry!
Blessings,
Sara+
Showing posts with label liturgy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label liturgy. Show all posts
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Pure Grace and Earthiness
Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m writing early this week on Ash Wednesday, grateful for the opportunity the holiday—such as it is—offers to remember our creatureliness. When it comes down to it, Ash Wednesday isn’t a holiday—it doesn’t commemorate anything about our story of faith or any particular person we remember or any event in the life of Jesus. Ash Wednesday instead is a gift the Holy Spirit has come to offer the church through our practice. It has nothing to do with our virtue or our accomplishment. I’m pretty sure it’s not our own cleverness. It’s just pure grace.
“Wait a minute, Sara. I just got home from church and I listed my sins in excruciating detail—I sin against creation, against others, and against myself. What do you mean it’s pure grace? Shouldn’t grace feel good? Why can’t the church be logical for once? Isn’t this just another time the church says people are bad?”
Well, sure. There is that.
It doesn’t feel good like a massage or a nice curry or a walk at sunset. Still, there’s something almost exhilarating about the honesty that Ash Wednesday invites us into. We spend a lot of time in this life trying to look like we lead well-curated, well-organized lives in which our kids always say clever things and our spouses never get annoyed with us. Social media has not improved society in this way. In the US, at least, self-reliance is right up there with cleanliness and godliness. This month I’ve been reading Amanda Palmer’s book The Art of Asking, (based on her 2013 TED talk of the same name) which starts with her story about being paralyzed at letting her husband help her financially. He’s rich and famous (the writer Neil Gaiman), and she’s mortified about what accepting help from him will mean for their relationship and her identity as an artist. Under it all, she concedes, is her terror at vulnerability—we’re all afraid to be vulnerable. You don’t have to be a famous artist to be afraid of that (see also: anything Brene Brown has ever written).
Ash Wednesday just pulls the rug out from all of that. There’s no pretending. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. That’s it. We are beloved and wondrously gloriously blessed by God, but we are still dust. Ad’ham, made of the earth and to earth we will return. What a relief! I’m not perfect and I don’t have to pretend. Widening the view toward eternity puts life in more rightful perspective—both in terms of our frailty and in terms of our power. If we are dust and will return to dust, we can also take some risks once in a while. Longing to be perfect is a pretty heavy burden to bear. You don’t have to.
The other thing that’s great about Ash Wednesday and its focus on our earthy dirty selves is that it’s only one day. We take ONE day to look at all of this, and then we’re done. Boom, on to Lent, on to the actual repentance part. And repentance is great—we can always turn around, we can always go in a new direction, we can always try again. Lent is about all the ways we’re not stuck in our sin.
Jesus was waited on by angels in the wilderness.
Does God want less for you?
Blessings,
Sara+
I’m writing early this week on Ash Wednesday, grateful for the opportunity the holiday—such as it is—offers to remember our creatureliness. When it comes down to it, Ash Wednesday isn’t a holiday—it doesn’t commemorate anything about our story of faith or any particular person we remember or any event in the life of Jesus. Ash Wednesday instead is a gift the Holy Spirit has come to offer the church through our practice. It has nothing to do with our virtue or our accomplishment. I’m pretty sure it’s not our own cleverness. It’s just pure grace.
“Wait a minute, Sara. I just got home from church and I listed my sins in excruciating detail—I sin against creation, against others, and against myself. What do you mean it’s pure grace? Shouldn’t grace feel good? Why can’t the church be logical for once? Isn’t this just another time the church says people are bad?”
Well, sure. There is that.
It doesn’t feel good like a massage or a nice curry or a walk at sunset. Still, there’s something almost exhilarating about the honesty that Ash Wednesday invites us into. We spend a lot of time in this life trying to look like we lead well-curated, well-organized lives in which our kids always say clever things and our spouses never get annoyed with us. Social media has not improved society in this way. In the US, at least, self-reliance is right up there with cleanliness and godliness. This month I’ve been reading Amanda Palmer’s book The Art of Asking, (based on her 2013 TED talk of the same name) which starts with her story about being paralyzed at letting her husband help her financially. He’s rich and famous (the writer Neil Gaiman), and she’s mortified about what accepting help from him will mean for their relationship and her identity as an artist. Under it all, she concedes, is her terror at vulnerability—we’re all afraid to be vulnerable. You don’t have to be a famous artist to be afraid of that (see also: anything Brene Brown has ever written).
Ash Wednesday just pulls the rug out from all of that. There’s no pretending. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. That’s it. We are beloved and wondrously gloriously blessed by God, but we are still dust. Ad’ham, made of the earth and to earth we will return. What a relief! I’m not perfect and I don’t have to pretend. Widening the view toward eternity puts life in more rightful perspective—both in terms of our frailty and in terms of our power. If we are dust and will return to dust, we can also take some risks once in a while. Longing to be perfect is a pretty heavy burden to bear. You don’t have to.
The other thing that’s great about Ash Wednesday and its focus on our earthy dirty selves is that it’s only one day. We take ONE day to look at all of this, and then we’re done. Boom, on to Lent, on to the actual repentance part. And repentance is great—we can always turn around, we can always go in a new direction, we can always try again. Lent is about all the ways we’re not stuck in our sin.
Jesus was waited on by angels in the wilderness.
Does God want less for you?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Church for the World
Dear People of Christ Church,
Thanks to everyone who came out for our domestic violence month service on Monday! It was incredibly moving, and we’ll leave out our candles that were lit on Sunday. There were around 25 people there—a mix of Christ Churchers, folks connected to REACH, our partners in the event, and neighbors from around town who had never been to a service before. It’s always hard to measure the impact of things like that. I’d rather have just two people who walked away amazed and comforted than 100 people who were there but not that interested—and by that measure, it was great. For a follow up, we’re having a brown bag lunch at Christ Church next Wednesday at noon for those who want to talk more. Please see below for some other great events REACH is organizing this month!
It’s hard to measure our impact as church—I can’t remember who said it, but there’s something about how a church is the only organization that doesn't exist solely for the benefit of its members. We are called into community for the benefit of the world, and that’s quite different from calculating our worth in cost benefit analyses of dollars and our own personal positive feelings. What is at stake is the good news of God breaking into the world—and that’s much, much bigger.
The good news of God in Christ broke into the world when someone said to their pastor after the service on Monday “That woman was telling my story, too.” The good news of God in Christ breaks in when—I am not exaggerating—the heat is on on Sunday, even when the oil bill has been tremendously high, but you, dear souls, pay your pledges, so the water in the baptismal font doesn't freeze. The good news of God breaks in when someone says, “Wow, I never thought I could feel this comfortable in church. Thank you for being so welcoming.” Each one of you reading this has had a part in making that good news break into the world. When you put your last five dollars in the plate, when you came to church that one time even though you didn't feel like it—these commitments that bring us beyond ourselves are part of how God helps us show up for each other. It’s how God’s work gets done even in our little grudging lives—and how God sometimes even, ever so little, opens our hearts more and more to each other’s love.
The church has always existed to be a counter cultural organization—the powers and principalities have always said that might makes right and our importance comes from our power over others and not our faithfulness. In today’s culture, though, the culture against which the church has always tried to be “counter” is even—um—counterier. We can’t rely on a general assumption that people go to church, and therefore will set up the life of a community around that. In the name of pluralism, I’m fine with that—I don’t want to live in a world where a traditional Sunday Christian practice is upheld at the expense of other traditions. I do, though, want to be part of a church that calls us into being part of God’s mission, in offering us substantial ways to wrestle with God’s desires for our world and God’s whispering in our lives. How can Christ Church be that for you? Where does God want you to go? How can the rest of us support you in that?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thanks to everyone who came out for our domestic violence month service on Monday! It was incredibly moving, and we’ll leave out our candles that were lit on Sunday. There were around 25 people there—a mix of Christ Churchers, folks connected to REACH, our partners in the event, and neighbors from around town who had never been to a service before. It’s always hard to measure the impact of things like that. I’d rather have just two people who walked away amazed and comforted than 100 people who were there but not that interested—and by that measure, it was great. For a follow up, we’re having a brown bag lunch at Christ Church next Wednesday at noon for those who want to talk more. Please see below for some other great events REACH is organizing this month!
It’s hard to measure our impact as church—I can’t remember who said it, but there’s something about how a church is the only organization that doesn't exist solely for the benefit of its members. We are called into community for the benefit of the world, and that’s quite different from calculating our worth in cost benefit analyses of dollars and our own personal positive feelings. What is at stake is the good news of God breaking into the world—and that’s much, much bigger.
The good news of God in Christ broke into the world when someone said to their pastor after the service on Monday “That woman was telling my story, too.” The good news of God in Christ breaks in when—I am not exaggerating—the heat is on on Sunday, even when the oil bill has been tremendously high, but you, dear souls, pay your pledges, so the water in the baptismal font doesn't freeze. The good news of God breaks in when someone says, “Wow, I never thought I could feel this comfortable in church. Thank you for being so welcoming.” Each one of you reading this has had a part in making that good news break into the world. When you put your last five dollars in the plate, when you came to church that one time even though you didn't feel like it—these commitments that bring us beyond ourselves are part of how God helps us show up for each other. It’s how God’s work gets done even in our little grudging lives—and how God sometimes even, ever so little, opens our hearts more and more to each other’s love.
The church has always existed to be a counter cultural organization—the powers and principalities have always said that might makes right and our importance comes from our power over others and not our faithfulness. In today’s culture, though, the culture against which the church has always tried to be “counter” is even—um—counterier. We can’t rely on a general assumption that people go to church, and therefore will set up the life of a community around that. In the name of pluralism, I’m fine with that—I don’t want to live in a world where a traditional Sunday Christian practice is upheld at the expense of other traditions. I do, though, want to be part of a church that calls us into being part of God’s mission, in offering us substantial ways to wrestle with God’s desires for our world and God’s whispering in our lives. How can Christ Church be that for you? Where does God want you to go? How can the rest of us support you in that?
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, October 3, 2014
One of these things is not like the other one
Dear People of Christ Church,
In his letter to the Church in Rome, Paul tells the people, “weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice.” This week, in preparing for two very different liturgical events, I’m mindful of how broad our task is in being the church. On the one hand, we have a children’s sermon on Sunday and blessing of the animals. In church. All your dogs and birds and snakes and lizards are welcome to come to our 10am service. We did it for the first time last year as part of the liturgy, and it was great. For those pets who might not be ready for church, photographs and stuffed animals are welcome to join in their place. Our celebration this Sunday is in observance of the feast day of St Francis, October 4. He renounced a life of wealth and power in favor of a joyful simplicity, going into the wilds outside Assisi, so full of the Gospel that he preached to the birds. It will be quite a party!
At the same time, I’m preparing for our service the next day, for domestic violence awareness month. We have several speakers coming from REACH (www.reachma.org) to share personal and practical perspectives, and our own Anna Jones will be preaching. The service will be broadly ecumenical—your Roman Catholic as well as your non-faith practicing friends will be comfortable—so please come and invite everyone. Domestic violence has been much in the news lately with the NFL players’ conduct and the recent one year anniversary of the murder of Waltham resident Jennifer Martel, but those high profile cases only highlight the reality that many struggle with every day, no matter what’s going on in the media. 1 in 4 women have experienced domestic violence. 1 in 3 women who are murdered in the US are killed by their partner. Our culture is not doing well.
It’s strange to do something so serious so close to something that’s so, frankly, frivolous, with an arguably tenuous connection to the actual ministry of a decidedly un-frivolous saint. And maybe that’s an appropriate reticence, to acknowledge that one of these things is not like the other one. At the same time, I’m watching allegations and recriminations swirl at my seminary, General Theological Seminary, the Episcopal seminary in New York. General is the seminary that tries to be the most traditional and the most historic, while cautiously being open to the world and the inclusion of women and GLBT persons (which the other “traditional” Episcopal seminaries have not). Eight faculty members announced a strike, suspending teaching and saying they couldn't work with the dean and president. The board, in response, “accepted their resignations”—though they didn't exactly intend to resign—and so the accusations continue. No classes are in session, but lawyers on all sides are getting down to work.
General Seminary was not a particularly good fit for my desires for theological education; I didn't “enjoy” my time there, though I am grateful to have had three years to live in New York City. I have some fond feelings, as I was married in the chapel (the current dean was in my class, as it happens, and organized the potluck for the reception), so am not unaffected by the conflict. I don’t think it’s a simple labor issue of betraying striking workers, but I also think the dean has some reconciling to do. Collaboration wasn’t exactly part of our curriculum. Still, a la Romans, it’s possible to hold two different notions in our hearts and minds simultaneously. I can say that General was not a good fit for me, but I still hope for its future. I can say that Kurt, my friend and the dean, made some bad decisions, but ultimately was trying to adapt to a changing world—and General Seminary, in my option, has a lot of adapting to do so I’m cautiously on board with that. Maybe ironically, he did too much work trying to adapt the seminary to a changing world and not enough work adapting himself (a full media rundown can be had at www.episcopalcafe.com).
In the meantime, as always, we pray for a lot of things. We pray for those experiencing and healing from domestic violence. We pray to have the grace and power to support them, pray that we can be part of creating a world where violence is never overlooked. We pray in thanksgiving for God’s creation and for all the furry and scaly friends that call us home. And I pray for General, too, especially for the students who need to get back to work.
Blessings,
Sara+
In his letter to the Church in Rome, Paul tells the people, “weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice.” This week, in preparing for two very different liturgical events, I’m mindful of how broad our task is in being the church. On the one hand, we have a children’s sermon on Sunday and blessing of the animals. In church. All your dogs and birds and snakes and lizards are welcome to come to our 10am service. We did it for the first time last year as part of the liturgy, and it was great. For those pets who might not be ready for church, photographs and stuffed animals are welcome to join in their place. Our celebration this Sunday is in observance of the feast day of St Francis, October 4. He renounced a life of wealth and power in favor of a joyful simplicity, going into the wilds outside Assisi, so full of the Gospel that he preached to the birds. It will be quite a party!
At the same time, I’m preparing for our service the next day, for domestic violence awareness month. We have several speakers coming from REACH (www.reachma.org) to share personal and practical perspectives, and our own Anna Jones will be preaching. The service will be broadly ecumenical—your Roman Catholic as well as your non-faith practicing friends will be comfortable—so please come and invite everyone. Domestic violence has been much in the news lately with the NFL players’ conduct and the recent one year anniversary of the murder of Waltham resident Jennifer Martel, but those high profile cases only highlight the reality that many struggle with every day, no matter what’s going on in the media. 1 in 4 women have experienced domestic violence. 1 in 3 women who are murdered in the US are killed by their partner. Our culture is not doing well.
It’s strange to do something so serious so close to something that’s so, frankly, frivolous, with an arguably tenuous connection to the actual ministry of a decidedly un-frivolous saint. And maybe that’s an appropriate reticence, to acknowledge that one of these things is not like the other one. At the same time, I’m watching allegations and recriminations swirl at my seminary, General Theological Seminary, the Episcopal seminary in New York. General is the seminary that tries to be the most traditional and the most historic, while cautiously being open to the world and the inclusion of women and GLBT persons (which the other “traditional” Episcopal seminaries have not). Eight faculty members announced a strike, suspending teaching and saying they couldn't work with the dean and president. The board, in response, “accepted their resignations”—though they didn't exactly intend to resign—and so the accusations continue. No classes are in session, but lawyers on all sides are getting down to work.
General Seminary was not a particularly good fit for my desires for theological education; I didn't “enjoy” my time there, though I am grateful to have had three years to live in New York City. I have some fond feelings, as I was married in the chapel (the current dean was in my class, as it happens, and organized the potluck for the reception), so am not unaffected by the conflict. I don’t think it’s a simple labor issue of betraying striking workers, but I also think the dean has some reconciling to do. Collaboration wasn’t exactly part of our curriculum. Still, a la Romans, it’s possible to hold two different notions in our hearts and minds simultaneously. I can say that General was not a good fit for me, but I still hope for its future. I can say that Kurt, my friend and the dean, made some bad decisions, but ultimately was trying to adapt to a changing world—and General Seminary, in my option, has a lot of adapting to do so I’m cautiously on board with that. Maybe ironically, he did too much work trying to adapt the seminary to a changing world and not enough work adapting himself (a full media rundown can be had at www.episcopalcafe.com).
In the meantime, as always, we pray for a lot of things. We pray for those experiencing and healing from domestic violence. We pray to have the grace and power to support them, pray that we can be part of creating a world where violence is never overlooked. We pray in thanksgiving for God’s creation and for all the furry and scaly friends that call us home. And I pray for General, too, especially for the students who need to get back to work.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, April 17, 2014
What Holy Week Asks Us...
Dear People of Christ
Church
By now, you've heard my pitch about why you should do Holy
Week, so this year I'm not going to give it. The fact is, I don't know why you
should do Holy Week. I'm thinking about why these stories still have something
to say to us so many years later. Maybe in some of these questions you'll find
your answer. Maybe in these questions you'll discover that Holy Week has
already come to you, and you want to go there with others in worship as well.
Tonight, at our Maundy Thursday service, we read the story
of the Last Supper. Jesus alarms everyone by kneeling on the floor to wash the
disciples' feet, Peter says: "Lord, you will never wash my feet." He
fears the vulnerability, the intimacy this will create. Now, I wonder how often
we still try to shut God and each other out of our lives; is it that we'll
never let anyone see us cry? Never admit how much something hurts? Never tell
another how they've hurt us?
Late into the night, we sit in Vigil with Christ in the
sacrament. Church-speak calls it an "Altar of Repose," but there
isn't much that was restful about that last night for Jesus. When we sit and
pray with him, we stay awake-one of us will be in witness there all night,
trying to offer our prayers and presence. What is the long night that you're
experiencing now? Whose long night are you sitting with, in support of someone
you love?
Friday, we reverence the cross, a sign of torture and
suffering. Jesus goes to the cross in taking on the worst of human cruelty,
taking it on for love, unwilling to respond to violence with violence. What is
at the cross for you? What is the pain that you are trying to keep for
yourself? Is it possible to share it with God there? Or does the cross hold
something else? Is there something that God is longing to share with you, some
work in the world that you are being asked to take up your cross to accomplish?
Is there some witness to God's peace, some relationship to nurture that God
asks of you?
Saturday, we celebrate. We really, really celebrate. But
first, we watch and listen. With the new fire at the front steps, we remember
the light of Christ that could not be extinguished. We hear the stories of the
Old Testament where God stayed with God's people, again and again, offering
life out of death and comfort in suffering. We renew our baptismal promises and
ring in Easter with bells and rejoicing. What will be raised for you?
Sunday-we celebrate some more! We celebrate for weeks and
weeks, into Easter's Great Fifty Days.
Thanks be to God!
Blessings, Sara+
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Grace, penitence, and the Elf on the shelf
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, my facebook feed has been roughly divided evenly among two hot topics in church geekery: pronouncements on the Elf on a Shelf and pronouncements on the eternal war between blue and purple for Advent colors. You will be forgiven if you did not realize these debates were a thing.
As Henry pointed out in church on Sunday when I asked what was different and he exclaimed, "You should be wearing green!" you've probably noticed that the colors have changed for church. Advent is purple, after such a long season of green since Pentecost last June it's no wonder Henry thought it was Just Wrong. He's not the only one who would say that, though, as the partisans in the Blue vs Purple war are all aflutter. Remember what other season is purple? LENT! Do you immediately think of Lent's solemnity and penitence when you think about Advent? You probably don't. Enter: blue. The tradition of using blue for Advent is a medieval tradition that goes back to a knot of ritual practices from the Salisbury Cathedral in the eleventh century that were distinctly English as opposed to Roman. They were Anglican before Anglicanism was cool but also still really "Catholic," pre Reformation as it was. And so in the late nineteenth/ early twentieth century enjoyed quite a revival, today revealing itself in the use of "Sarum blue" in Advent.
The idea with blue is that it visually shifts the emphasis to expectation, not penitence; Lent is when we thing about amending our lives, not Advent. It reminds us of Mary, too. So why don't we use blue at Christ Church? Because in defining Advent against a too-sin-focused Lent, we miss the boat on both Advent and Lent. It's not that our usual understanding of Advent needs less Lent. It's that our usual understanding of Lent needs more Advent (and, of course, we're not going out to spend a bunch of money on new altar hangings).
Here's the thing. What Lent and Advent both have in common more than penitence is grace: the joining of human and divine at Christmas happens for everyone and for all time. You don't earn it. You don't prove yourself. Nobody's reporting back to tattle. Whether you read the Gospel of Matthew (magi) or Luke (shepherds) the birth is heralded by some pretty sketchy characters. Like the resurrection we prepare for in Lent, it's an act of crushing generosity and love that flattens any of our own pretensions to earning our way in. It's a pure gift. Here's where the elf on the shelf comes in: that sucker is supposed to be watching, reporting back to Santa every night. Elf on the shelf is old-style Ash Wednesday, when we catalogue our failures and focus on all the ways we don't measure up. But we only do that for one day-we don't spend a whole season on it, and it's always grounded in the love of God that makes it even possible for us to withstand that honesty.
As a parent of young children I don't hold anything against anyone for trying to extract some better behavior for a time. I also love the idea of an enchanted world where the humdrum stuff that surrounds us come to life. Have you seen Dinovember? You probably want to give your kids Christmas presents, right? Because it's fun. You don't love them any less when they're behaving badly. I mean, the elf probably makes them happy too, but I just wonder if it could seem a bit less failure oriented? Christmas is about so much more. And so is Advent, and Easter, and Lent. Now I have to go find my coffee cup because I think St Peter climbed out of his icon and hid it again.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, my facebook feed has been roughly divided evenly among two hot topics in church geekery: pronouncements on the Elf on a Shelf and pronouncements on the eternal war between blue and purple for Advent colors. You will be forgiven if you did not realize these debates were a thing.
As Henry pointed out in church on Sunday when I asked what was different and he exclaimed, "You should be wearing green!" you've probably noticed that the colors have changed for church. Advent is purple, after such a long season of green since Pentecost last June it's no wonder Henry thought it was Just Wrong. He's not the only one who would say that, though, as the partisans in the Blue vs Purple war are all aflutter. Remember what other season is purple? LENT! Do you immediately think of Lent's solemnity and penitence when you think about Advent? You probably don't. Enter: blue. The tradition of using blue for Advent is a medieval tradition that goes back to a knot of ritual practices from the Salisbury Cathedral in the eleventh century that were distinctly English as opposed to Roman. They were Anglican before Anglicanism was cool but also still really "Catholic," pre Reformation as it was. And so in the late nineteenth/ early twentieth century enjoyed quite a revival, today revealing itself in the use of "Sarum blue" in Advent.
The idea with blue is that it visually shifts the emphasis to expectation, not penitence; Lent is when we thing about amending our lives, not Advent. It reminds us of Mary, too. So why don't we use blue at Christ Church? Because in defining Advent against a too-sin-focused Lent, we miss the boat on both Advent and Lent. It's not that our usual understanding of Advent needs less Lent. It's that our usual understanding of Lent needs more Advent (and, of course, we're not going out to spend a bunch of money on new altar hangings).
Here's the thing. What Lent and Advent both have in common more than penitence is grace: the joining of human and divine at Christmas happens for everyone and for all time. You don't earn it. You don't prove yourself. Nobody's reporting back to tattle. Whether you read the Gospel of Matthew (magi) or Luke (shepherds) the birth is heralded by some pretty sketchy characters. Like the resurrection we prepare for in Lent, it's an act of crushing generosity and love that flattens any of our own pretensions to earning our way in. It's a pure gift. Here's where the elf on the shelf comes in: that sucker is supposed to be watching, reporting back to Santa every night. Elf on the shelf is old-style Ash Wednesday, when we catalogue our failures and focus on all the ways we don't measure up. But we only do that for one day-we don't spend a whole season on it, and it's always grounded in the love of God that makes it even possible for us to withstand that honesty.
As a parent of young children I don't hold anything against anyone for trying to extract some better behavior for a time. I also love the idea of an enchanted world where the humdrum stuff that surrounds us come to life. Have you seen Dinovember? You probably want to give your kids Christmas presents, right? Because it's fun. You don't love them any less when they're behaving badly. I mean, the elf probably makes them happy too, but I just wonder if it could seem a bit less failure oriented? Christmas is about so much more. And so is Advent, and Easter, and Lent. Now I have to go find my coffee cup because I think St Peter climbed out of his icon and hid it again.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Simple Creatures
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I'm bracing for a little madness. For the first time, we're doing Blessing of Animals in the service-plus children's choir, plus children's sermon. Like having church outside, this is a day for liturgical experimentation. There is a lot of space in the Anglican/Episcopal tradition to communicate local culture; our music, our prayers, our language all express the identity of the community in some way. This is one of the things I love most about being an Episcopalian; there is so much space for particularity even in the structured form of our service. We always open with a declaration of the Trinity. We always close with a charge to go out in the name of the Spirit or the name of Christ to love and serve. In between, we hear Scripture; we interpret it in some way, whether with a traditional sermon or other response. We bless bread and wine, we eat and drink to remember and participate in the Body of Christ.
Even working within those parameters, a lot is possible. In November we'll have our Jazz Mass, and, yes, this Sunday, blessing of animals. At the moment, my family has no pets-both Noah and I grew up with cats, and had one brief experiment with dog ownership (those who were members back in 2009 will remember the ill-fated Cyrus, my St Bernard puppy who got cancer at age 1). So I'm hopeful that each of you will bring your companions, either in the flesh or a photo. Our beloved "Lemon Bear" will probably make an appearance as well, since stuffed animals can come, too.
We bless animals around October 4, St Francis Day, in memory of a saint who was said to be so connected to nature that he preached to the birds and tamed a wild and fearsome wolf. Francis also offers a tradition of simple living, even more important for us now in such a time of ecological crisis. We are constantly burdened by more and more stuff, stuff that seems to multiply on its own when we aren't looking. As a parent I struggle with this a lot; whenever a birthday rolls around, there's the impulse to mark it with more, more more-but after just a few good garage sales this September, my kids have already stacked their closets full of more toys. It's not even just about spending money; stuff is cheap.
But stuff won't warm a cold lap, stuff won't offer a vision of sheer joy in play and creaturely delight. So, as un-simple an endeavor it may seem to be, my hope is that this crazy idea of having pets in church will help connect us to that Franciscan simplicity. A pet isn't "for" anything. They fulfill no function other than to be in community with us. We care for them out of sheer grace and generosity. In offering thanks and praying blessings for these creatures in particular, hopefully our hearts will be moved to act on behalf of creatures everywhere, to make our lives a bit greener and our world a bit healthier. We aren't separate from nature, but rather vital members of a profoundly complex ecosystem. We are creatures with needs before wants, given life by a Creator who longs for us to know the difference.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I'm bracing for a little madness. For the first time, we're doing Blessing of Animals in the service-plus children's choir, plus children's sermon. Like having church outside, this is a day for liturgical experimentation. There is a lot of space in the Anglican/Episcopal tradition to communicate local culture; our music, our prayers, our language all express the identity of the community in some way. This is one of the things I love most about being an Episcopalian; there is so much space for particularity even in the structured form of our service. We always open with a declaration of the Trinity. We always close with a charge to go out in the name of the Spirit or the name of Christ to love and serve. In between, we hear Scripture; we interpret it in some way, whether with a traditional sermon or other response. We bless bread and wine, we eat and drink to remember and participate in the Body of Christ.
Even working within those parameters, a lot is possible. In November we'll have our Jazz Mass, and, yes, this Sunday, blessing of animals. At the moment, my family has no pets-both Noah and I grew up with cats, and had one brief experiment with dog ownership (those who were members back in 2009 will remember the ill-fated Cyrus, my St Bernard puppy who got cancer at age 1). So I'm hopeful that each of you will bring your companions, either in the flesh or a photo. Our beloved "Lemon Bear" will probably make an appearance as well, since stuffed animals can come, too.
We bless animals around October 4, St Francis Day, in memory of a saint who was said to be so connected to nature that he preached to the birds and tamed a wild and fearsome wolf. Francis also offers a tradition of simple living, even more important for us now in such a time of ecological crisis. We are constantly burdened by more and more stuff, stuff that seems to multiply on its own when we aren't looking. As a parent I struggle with this a lot; whenever a birthday rolls around, there's the impulse to mark it with more, more more-but after just a few good garage sales this September, my kids have already stacked their closets full of more toys. It's not even just about spending money; stuff is cheap.
But stuff won't warm a cold lap, stuff won't offer a vision of sheer joy in play and creaturely delight. So, as un-simple an endeavor it may seem to be, my hope is that this crazy idea of having pets in church will help connect us to that Franciscan simplicity. A pet isn't "for" anything. They fulfill no function other than to be in community with us. We care for them out of sheer grace and generosity. In offering thanks and praying blessings for these creatures in particular, hopefully our hearts will be moved to act on behalf of creatures everywhere, to make our lives a bit greener and our world a bit healthier. We aren't separate from nature, but rather vital members of a profoundly complex ecosystem. We are creatures with needs before wants, given life by a Creator who longs for us to know the difference.
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
From June 7: The Trinity: More Than One Way of Being
Dear People of Christ Church,
This morning I was with the Sisters of Saint Anne in Arlington, where I go to celebrate the Eucharist with the sisters every other month. As often happens, I became aware of a feast day I hadn’t known we had! Today is the feast of Corpus Christi (the Body of Christ)—a celebration of the Eucharist. Given its early-June date, I have (happily if perplexedly) been wrapped up in the celebration of the feast twice before while traveling—once in Poland, where a black-clad elderly lady hissed at me (I think for wearing a tank top) and once in Honduras. Both had music, marvelous liturgical processions, and extreme festivity—my enthusiasm was not dampened due to my inappropriate attire.
The feast is always after Trinity Sunday, another slightly haphazard day of celebration. In my sermon with the kids on Sunday we talked about the Trinity, but I had no hope of precisely explaining it. The metaphor I offered came from St Augustine; God our Creator, our father, is the Lover; Jesus is the beloved, and the Holy Spirit is the love that goes between them. I tried to explain it by use of a basketball (for the earth, for God our creator), a figure of Jesus, and a heart—you can ask your kids if that made sense at the time. One of the commentators I read in preparation for Sunday advised clergy not to preach as though their seminary professors were seated in the congregation—a temptation, to be sure, when faced with Doctrine with a capital “D” as we have in the Trinity. Instead, she counseled, celebrate Trinity Sunday as a day just to celebrate God. That God is so present, so abundant, so big, that one way of being isn’t enough.
And, so, today, the invitation is to be thankful for the Eucharist; don’t agonize over how Christ is present, just celebrate. The official Anglican stance is the “real presence”—Christ is, for sure, present as blood and body in the bread and wine, but we have a healthy enough respect for mystery not to get dogmatic about how exactly that is. Questioning is still important—theology isn’t just for the professionals—but when we’re given a day to rejoice, let’s take it! The prayer for the Eucharist asks that we venerate the mystery of Christ’s Body and Blood, but it doesn’t stop there—it also asks God to give us the grace to “perceive within ourselves the fruit” of this intimacy with God we’re given. Give thanks to God for the food we are given in Christ, and see what wonderful things happen in your heart in response. Be fed.
Blessings,
Sara+
This morning I was with the Sisters of Saint Anne in Arlington, where I go to celebrate the Eucharist with the sisters every other month. As often happens, I became aware of a feast day I hadn’t known we had! Today is the feast of Corpus Christi (the Body of Christ)—a celebration of the Eucharist. Given its early-June date, I have (happily if perplexedly) been wrapped up in the celebration of the feast twice before while traveling—once in Poland, where a black-clad elderly lady hissed at me (I think for wearing a tank top) and once in Honduras. Both had music, marvelous liturgical processions, and extreme festivity—my enthusiasm was not dampened due to my inappropriate attire.
The feast is always after Trinity Sunday, another slightly haphazard day of celebration. In my sermon with the kids on Sunday we talked about the Trinity, but I had no hope of precisely explaining it. The metaphor I offered came from St Augustine; God our Creator, our father, is the Lover; Jesus is the beloved, and the Holy Spirit is the love that goes between them. I tried to explain it by use of a basketball (for the earth, for God our creator), a figure of Jesus, and a heart—you can ask your kids if that made sense at the time. One of the commentators I read in preparation for Sunday advised clergy not to preach as though their seminary professors were seated in the congregation—a temptation, to be sure, when faced with Doctrine with a capital “D” as we have in the Trinity. Instead, she counseled, celebrate Trinity Sunday as a day just to celebrate God. That God is so present, so abundant, so big, that one way of being isn’t enough.
And, so, today, the invitation is to be thankful for the Eucharist; don’t agonize over how Christ is present, just celebrate. The official Anglican stance is the “real presence”—Christ is, for sure, present as blood and body in the bread and wine, but we have a healthy enough respect for mystery not to get dogmatic about how exactly that is. Questioning is still important—theology isn’t just for the professionals—but when we’re given a day to rejoice, let’s take it! The prayer for the Eucharist asks that we venerate the mystery of Christ’s Body and Blood, but it doesn’t stop there—it also asks God to give us the grace to “perceive within ourselves the fruit” of this intimacy with God we’re given. Give thanks to God for the food we are given in Christ, and see what wonderful things happen in your heart in response. Be fed.
Blessings,
Sara+
From May 17: Beyond Language and Vision
Dear People of Christ Church,
There are times for me, as I’m sure there are for you, when we just sort of go through the motions. I was meeting with some newcomers yesterday whose church backgrounds are more, shall we say, lively, than our historic, rather staid worship. I asked one of them what they thought of it and he said, “Well, it can be boring sometimes.” As his wife protested he assured us both—“It’s not like she doesn’t know that already!” Indeed. I do know that our worship is not what anyone would call a raucous party. We say the same prayers, the hymns can start to sound the same, and we sit, stand, kneel in all the same places from week to week. If you’re looking for spontaneity or novelty, the Episcopal church is not for you.
Still, enough of us are here, week after week, trying to come near God—beyond language, beyond vision, just, generally beyond. One of the spiritual writer Annies (I’ve heard it attributed both to Annie Lamott and Annie Dillard) says that if we really understood what we were doing in church we’d wear crash helmets; it’s that big. We are trying to squeeze eternity into a silver cup and the ultimate nourishment of our souls onto a little plate. Just what do we think we are doing?
This is where--modern and progressive tattooed lady that I am—I look way, way backward. The poet WH Auden’s response notwithstanding (he inquired of the rector of St Mark’s in the Bowery whether he had “gone stark raving mad” at the changes that came about with
Church doesn’t happen in the words, it happens in us.
Here the mystery is
Are the Words of the Liturgy Worn Out?
not an enigma to be solved; it is reality that makes us live
the more we live from it, the more we experience its inexhaustible and surprising nature..
liturgy summons forth more than reason: it calls forth desire or the heart
Nonetheless, it is not first of all to the intellect that the liturgy is addressed
There are times for me, as I’m sure there are for you, when we just sort of go through the motions. I was meeting with some newcomers yesterday whose church backgrounds are more, shall we say, lively, than our historic, rather staid worship. I asked one of them what they thought of it and he said, “Well, it can be boring sometimes.” As his wife protested he assured us both—“It’s not like she doesn’t know that already!” Indeed. I do know that our worship is not what anyone would call a raucous party. We say the same prayers, the hymns can start to sound the same, and we sit, stand, kneel in all the same places from week to week. If you’re looking for spontaneity or novelty, the Episcopal church is not for you.
Still, enough of us are here, week after week, trying to come near God—beyond language, beyond vision, just, generally beyond. One of the spiritual writer Annies (I’ve heard it attributed both to Annie Lamott and Annie Dillard) says that if we really understood what we were doing in church we’d wear crash helmets; it’s that big. We are trying to squeeze eternity into a silver cup and the ultimate nourishment of our souls onto a little plate. Just what do we think we are doing?
This is where--modern and progressive tattooed lady that I am—I look way, way backward. The poet WH Auden’s response notwithstanding (he inquired of the rector of St Mark’s in the Bowery whether he had “gone stark raving mad” at the changes that came about with
Church doesn’t happen in the words, it happens in us.
Here the mystery is
Are the Words of the Liturgy Worn Out?
not an enigma to be solved; it is reality that makes us live
the more we live from it, the more we experience its inexhaustible and surprising nature..
liturgy summons forth more than reason: it calls forth desire or the heart
Nonetheless, it is not first of all to the intellect that the liturgy is addressed
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
From April 5: Holy week
Welcome to Holy Week! I hope to see a lot of you in the next few days (a lot as in, "many" of you, and also, "frequently!")
Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter. They are, technically, one service-there's no final blessing or dismissal until the end of the Great Vigil. The word "Maundy" comes from the Latin, mandatum, which means commandment-
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." (John 13:35)
In the liturgy, we wash each others' feet-we are each others' servants. Men and women, older and younger-we are all called to serve each other. Is it awkward? Of course. Don't come in a skirt. It's a level of nearness we don't frequently experience with our friends, much less the person you sit behind in church. But is it holy? Absolutely. The disciples didn't understand what Jesus was doing at first, either. When Jesus kneels at Peter's feet, he says, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Peter is confused-an act of submission by his Lord? No way. Jesus says, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Does Peter get it, later? Much later, he does-after the crucifixion, after the resurrection, he understands just how different a Lord Jesus was. Not one who wants domination and power, but a Lord who wants to be on the floor, kneeling in front of us, comforting and consoling. A Lord whose only command is love.
The foot washing takes place between the sermon and the prayers of the people. The liturgy continues with Communion. After Communion, we strip the altar. All the hangings, all the chairs, all the cushions and candles come out of the sanctuary. We do this to prepare for Good Friday, to remind ourselves of the abandonment of Christ, and the utter absence and desolation of that day. Everyone who is present in the church is invited to help strip the altar-it's not just a performance by the clergy or leaders of the service; it's shared by us all.
For Good Friday at Christ Church, we follow the liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer. It differs in some significant ways from the regular Eucharist we celebrate on Sundays. Instead of the Prayers of the People, we hear a series of collects (aptly named "the Solemn Collects) that offer prayers for the church and the world, for those who suffer and those who seek faith). After the collects comes the central moment, the entrance of the cross. The cross we use is not an elaborate one-it's not made of nice wood, or stained a beautiful color. It's two rough sticks, bound together, that Paula found in the woods. After the cross enters, we are all invited to reverence-to bow, to kiss, to kneel, or just to stand and wonder at the mystery of that symbol, an object of shame and violence transformed into life and love. On Good Friday we don't celebrate the Eucharist. The preacher Barbara Brown Taylor has said that Good Friday is the quietest day of the year-part of that silence is not celebrating the sacrament. In recognition of our need to be fed, however, we do share communion (the bread and wine having been consecrated at the service on Maundy Thursday).
The Easter Vigil is just that-a Vigil-we enter a darkened church, after lighting the Pascal candle from a fire outside the church and then we process in singing, and hear the stories of our salvation from the Hebrew Scriptures. Halfway through the service, Easter begins!-we ring in our celebration with bells and more light (each of us will have to bring our own bell to ring). This year we have the special blessing of sharing in baptism for Jesse Foster-Stout and Rob Atwood, so blessings to them as well! The service continues with a festive Eucharist, with incense and wonderful Easter hymns. The alleluias will be back!
Holy Week is, spiritually and theologically, the high point and center of the whole church year. I often joke that if you only come to church a few times a year, these are it-you can skip the whole year if you come now. I'm kidding, but this is what our faith is really about. Having gone through the journey of Maundy Thursday, the depths of Good Friday, the watching and waiting of the Vigil-the celebration of the Easter resurrection is that much more powerful-and honest. I'll see you tonight, when it all starts. Bring your friends!
Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter. They are, technically, one service-there's no final blessing or dismissal until the end of the Great Vigil. The word "Maundy" comes from the Latin, mandatum, which means commandment-
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." (John 13:35)
In the liturgy, we wash each others' feet-we are each others' servants. Men and women, older and younger-we are all called to serve each other. Is it awkward? Of course. Don't come in a skirt. It's a level of nearness we don't frequently experience with our friends, much less the person you sit behind in church. But is it holy? Absolutely. The disciples didn't understand what Jesus was doing at first, either. When Jesus kneels at Peter's feet, he says, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Peter is confused-an act of submission by his Lord? No way. Jesus says, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Does Peter get it, later? Much later, he does-after the crucifixion, after the resurrection, he understands just how different a Lord Jesus was. Not one who wants domination and power, but a Lord who wants to be on the floor, kneeling in front of us, comforting and consoling. A Lord whose only command is love.
The foot washing takes place between the sermon and the prayers of the people. The liturgy continues with Communion. After Communion, we strip the altar. All the hangings, all the chairs, all the cushions and candles come out of the sanctuary. We do this to prepare for Good Friday, to remind ourselves of the abandonment of Christ, and the utter absence and desolation of that day. Everyone who is present in the church is invited to help strip the altar-it's not just a performance by the clergy or leaders of the service; it's shared by us all.
For Good Friday at Christ Church, we follow the liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer. It differs in some significant ways from the regular Eucharist we celebrate on Sundays. Instead of the Prayers of the People, we hear a series of collects (aptly named "the Solemn Collects) that offer prayers for the church and the world, for those who suffer and those who seek faith). After the collects comes the central moment, the entrance of the cross. The cross we use is not an elaborate one-it's not made of nice wood, or stained a beautiful color. It's two rough sticks, bound together, that Paula found in the woods. After the cross enters, we are all invited to reverence-to bow, to kiss, to kneel, or just to stand and wonder at the mystery of that symbol, an object of shame and violence transformed into life and love. On Good Friday we don't celebrate the Eucharist. The preacher Barbara Brown Taylor has said that Good Friday is the quietest day of the year-part of that silence is not celebrating the sacrament. In recognition of our need to be fed, however, we do share communion (the bread and wine having been consecrated at the service on Maundy Thursday).
The Easter Vigil is just that-a Vigil-we enter a darkened church, after lighting the Pascal candle from a fire outside the church and then we process in singing, and hear the stories of our salvation from the Hebrew Scriptures. Halfway through the service, Easter begins!-we ring in our celebration with bells and more light (each of us will have to bring our own bell to ring). This year we have the special blessing of sharing in baptism for Jesse Foster-Stout and Rob Atwood, so blessings to them as well! The service continues with a festive Eucharist, with incense and wonderful Easter hymns. The alleluias will be back!
Holy Week is, spiritually and theologically, the high point and center of the whole church year. I often joke that if you only come to church a few times a year, these are it-you can skip the whole year if you come now. I'm kidding, but this is what our faith is really about. Having gone through the journey of Maundy Thursday, the depths of Good Friday, the watching and waiting of the Vigil-the celebration of the Easter resurrection is that much more powerful-and honest. I'll see you tonight, when it all starts. Bring your friends!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Dear People of Christ Church,
This Saturday, we celebrate Historic Waltham Day at Christ Church, with morning prayer according to the prayer book used at the construction of the church. For a liturgy geek such as myself, I find it fascinating—and encouraging—to see through history how our worship has changed and how it’s stayed the same. One of the principles of Anglicanism is that it’s close to the ground; when communities change, the liturgy has room to change as well.
Saturday’s liturgy of Morning Prayer is in accordance with the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) 1790, of the 1871 standard. Before the 1892 Edition of the U. S. Book of Common Prayer, minor changes were made, published in “standard editions” of the years 1793, 1822, 1832, 1838, 1845, and 1871. Each year’s changes were minor, having mostly to do with format and the regularization of spelling, which was not uniform in 1790. After this BCP, a slight revision was published in 1892, and wholesale revisions followed in 1928 and 1979, the version found in the pew today.
Each book reflects theological ideas and themes of the time. The Episcopal Church has always found itself on a continuum of “protestant” and “catholic,” more one or the other at different times and places. For example, the term “minister” is used in the 1790 prayer book, a more “protestant” identification than “priest,” which, along with “Celebrant” or “Officiant” is used in 1979. Other controversies included the subject of kneeling for communion and what vestments were worn. And don’t forget candles! Candles were hugely controversial. I imagine 100 years from now people will look back on the controversies of our day and wonder how we could possibly get so worked up about the things that vex us now.
Under the Books of Common Prayer 1892 and in 1928, Morning Prayer was a more commonly celebrated service of Sunday worship; Holy Eucharist was observed for special occasions or, perhaps, once a month. In 1979, the Episcopal Church returned to the earliest church practice of having Holy Eucharist celebrated each Sunday for worship. Our Current Book of Common Prayer (1979) continues to serve us well. Supplements have been published that permit for new prayers to be used in the framework of the Book of Common Prayer that offer more expansive imagery for God and more inclusive gender identifications. And no prayers today use the word “heathen!”
I warmly invite each of you to come this Saturday. I don’t know how “spiritual” it will be (after all, there is a reason all the changes that have transpired since then have been made) but it sure is interesting.
For more on our history and the builders of Christ Church, see my post from this time last year.
http://ecrier.blogspot.com/2010/07/sharing-our-legacy.html
This Saturday, we celebrate Historic Waltham Day at Christ Church, with morning prayer according to the prayer book used at the construction of the church. For a liturgy geek such as myself, I find it fascinating—and encouraging—to see through history how our worship has changed and how it’s stayed the same. One of the principles of Anglicanism is that it’s close to the ground; when communities change, the liturgy has room to change as well.
Saturday’s liturgy of Morning Prayer is in accordance with the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) 1790, of the 1871 standard. Before the 1892 Edition of the U. S. Book of Common Prayer, minor changes were made, published in “standard editions” of the years 1793, 1822, 1832, 1838, 1845, and 1871. Each year’s changes were minor, having mostly to do with format and the regularization of spelling, which was not uniform in 1790. After this BCP, a slight revision was published in 1892, and wholesale revisions followed in 1928 and 1979, the version found in the pew today.
Each book reflects theological ideas and themes of the time. The Episcopal Church has always found itself on a continuum of “protestant” and “catholic,” more one or the other at different times and places. For example, the term “minister” is used in the 1790 prayer book, a more “protestant” identification than “priest,” which, along with “Celebrant” or “Officiant” is used in 1979. Other controversies included the subject of kneeling for communion and what vestments were worn. And don’t forget candles! Candles were hugely controversial. I imagine 100 years from now people will look back on the controversies of our day and wonder how we could possibly get so worked up about the things that vex us now.
Under the Books of Common Prayer 1892 and in 1928, Morning Prayer was a more commonly celebrated service of Sunday worship; Holy Eucharist was observed for special occasions or, perhaps, once a month. In 1979, the Episcopal Church returned to the earliest church practice of having Holy Eucharist celebrated each Sunday for worship. Our Current Book of Common Prayer (1979) continues to serve us well. Supplements have been published that permit for new prayers to be used in the framework of the Book of Common Prayer that offer more expansive imagery for God and more inclusive gender identifications. And no prayers today use the word “heathen!”
I warmly invite each of you to come this Saturday. I don’t know how “spiritual” it will be (after all, there is a reason all the changes that have transpired since then have been made) but it sure is interesting.
For more on our history and the builders of Christ Church, see my post from this time last year.
http://ecrier.blogspot.com/2010/07/sharing-our-legacy.html
Friday, April 2, 2010
From March 25: Looking towards Holy Week
Next week is Holy Week: A high point of drama in the church year, leading toward the biggest holiday of the year--a holy day, Easter. I find myself feeling a little like Jesus might have as he sat at the table with Martha and Mary and Lazarus and his friends, in the Gospel story we heard for Sunday. They are having dinner together--Jesus has returned, in his inexorable walk toward Jerusalem where the confrontation will take place, a confrontation between him and the empire, the religious hierarchy and his own example of peace and equality. He knows that it's coming, but he doesn't quite know how it's going to go down--I feel a little like that about Holy Week, too, though of course I'm not confronting the powers and principalities of death and sin in such a dramatic way.
Still, I know something is going to happen. Our liturgies don't just tell us "about" what happened to Jesus, they bring us into the reality of those events in a material, as well as spiritual, way. We don't hear a story about some other people having washed each others' feet, we wash the feet of those who gather here, now. My Priest's Handbook (yes, that's the name of it) says, "If the time between Palm Sunday and Easter seems endless, it is meant to. Time is suspended as we ponder and celebrate the great mysteries of our redemption." (D.Michno). These liturgies, from the sweeping high of the Palm Sunday procession to the low of the reading of the Passion on that day, to the contemplative foot washing of Maundy Thursday and reverential procession of the Good Friday cross, to the exuberant Alleluias! of the Easter vigil bring us through these events. And it takes a long time. Our liturgical experience is designed to "get us" both in our intellects, as we think about the events of Christ's passion and resurrection, but also in our bodies and in our hearts as we enact those mysteries.
There is an independent spiritual reality to these liturgies--or, rather, liturgy--the great "Triduum," or "Three Days" of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil are, technically, one service. There's no final blessing or dismissal until the end of the Great Vigil of Easter. Sitting here a few days before Palm Sunday, we know it's coming, but can't predict what it will really be like. I can edit and re-edit the bulletins--I could even start writing the sermons (though let's get real--there's little chance of that happening yet), and still, I won't know what it's really like to encounter Jesus at the last supper until I am on my knees in front of someone's bare feet. I won't really know what it's like until I go.
But I know I won't be going alone; as St Paul wrote to the church in Rome, Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. (Romans 26-27)
That Spirit is with us... but for now, we have a few more days of regular old Lent. Like Advent, the other purple season, it's one of preparation--we have a few more days to reflect on what we need to bring with us, or put aside, as we meet Holy Week. What do you need to do to get ready to go there with Jesus? To join in that parade with the palms, and then to acknowledge the depth of betrayal of the Passion play as we all shout, "Crucify him!"? Where do you need the Spirit to accompany you?
Blessings,
Sara+
Still, I know something is going to happen. Our liturgies don't just tell us "about" what happened to Jesus, they bring us into the reality of those events in a material, as well as spiritual, way. We don't hear a story about some other people having washed each others' feet, we wash the feet of those who gather here, now. My Priest's Handbook (yes, that's the name of it) says, "If the time between Palm Sunday and Easter seems endless, it is meant to. Time is suspended as we ponder and celebrate the great mysteries of our redemption." (D.Michno). These liturgies, from the sweeping high of the Palm Sunday procession to the low of the reading of the Passion on that day, to the contemplative foot washing of Maundy Thursday and reverential procession of the Good Friday cross, to the exuberant Alleluias! of the Easter vigil bring us through these events. And it takes a long time. Our liturgical experience is designed to "get us" both in our intellects, as we think about the events of Christ's passion and resurrection, but also in our bodies and in our hearts as we enact those mysteries.
There is an independent spiritual reality to these liturgies--or, rather, liturgy--the great "Triduum," or "Three Days" of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil are, technically, one service. There's no final blessing or dismissal until the end of the Great Vigil of Easter. Sitting here a few days before Palm Sunday, we know it's coming, but can't predict what it will really be like. I can edit and re-edit the bulletins--I could even start writing the sermons (though let's get real--there's little chance of that happening yet), and still, I won't know what it's really like to encounter Jesus at the last supper until I am on my knees in front of someone's bare feet. I won't really know what it's like until I go.
But I know I won't be going alone; as St Paul wrote to the church in Rome, Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. (Romans 26-27)
That Spirit is with us... but for now, we have a few more days of regular old Lent. Like Advent, the other purple season, it's one of preparation--we have a few more days to reflect on what we need to bring with us, or put aside, as we meet Holy Week. What do you need to do to get ready to go there with Jesus? To join in that parade with the palms, and then to acknowledge the depth of betrayal of the Passion play as we all shout, "Crucify him!"? Where do you need the Spirit to accompany you?
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Receiving the Eucharist
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I've been reading up on Anglican practices around the Eucharist. We had our meeting on Sunday to talk about what we'd like to do moving forward here, and talked about it as vestry as well. The summary is, in the words of Marcia Luce: "If they want to dip, let them dip!" That's the upshot of the thing, but as I have been discovering, it's a lot more complicated than that-and more personal, too.
I was raised to be a drinker, even as a young child. No one, that I can remember in my church growing up, was a dipper. It was just what you did. I was reminded of this a while ago when my dad served as a LEM here at Christ Church and he presented the chalice to a rather perplexed Isaiah, who hadn't had it before but seemed OK with it. In my own spirituality, the sacraments are incredibly important to me; the sense of being fed, spiritually and physically, in the Eucharist is entirely what brought me back to church after I'd spent an angry adolescence away from it. I love celebrating with you on Sundays, and administering communion to each of you is my favorite part of my work as a priest. A smiling and excited 2 year old, a distracted teenager, a child-wrangling parent, and the creased palm of an 80 year old-I get to witness the faith of so many different people as they receive the sacrament, and it is a privilege.
A simple privilege... until I start to think too hard about it. I was away this fall when the bishops made their "no intinction" policy, so I didn't have a chance to do much teaching about it. Coming back, I was sad to see the number of people who didn't feel comfortable receiving the wine by drinking, so I am glad that we had a chance to reconsider the policy. The thing is-I'm still a drinker. And that being my personal experience and faith, I still encourage you to drink from the chalice, too.
We celebrate the Eucharist because we are doing what Jesus said to do; he took one cup, and shared it among the disciples. What we do at the rail is pretty far removed from an actual meal, but it seems important to me to do what we can to keep it in that realm; including real sips of real wine from a real cup. But that's my preference. As a seminary-trained priest, I could come up with a theological treatise on why you should do it my way, but that's not the way of our Anglican/Episcopal tradition.
There is a difference between a theological opinion and a matter of faith. It is a matter of faith that we receive the sacraments-a matter of faith that you should come to church, and participate in them, and that Jesus loves us and died for love and was raised. But it's a matter of theology whether you should drink or dip, and in that theology, it's a matter of where Christ best meets you, as an individual. And that is a question only you can answer. The Anglican Church is big on theological dialogue-not so much big commandments for how you should live your life and practice your faith. So... drink. Unless you want to dip.
We will make some new efforts at keeping the cup clean for everyone, but there is no way to be entirely germ free. The Anglican Church first took up the question of bacteria in the chalice during the Plague, when they enacted the Sacrament Act of 1547: The "most blessed Sacrament be hereafter commonly delivered and ministered unto the people... under both the kinds, that is to say of bread and wine, except necessity otherwise require." Necessity, in that case, being risk of illness. But we have to keep that fear of risk in perspective. Life is risky; that's why we have seatbelts and immune systems. Every time we are exposed to a germ, it doesn't mean we'll get sick. In their theological statement on the common cup during the SARS epidemic in 2003, the Anglican Diocese of Toronto wrote:
Our liturgy of faithful remembering must not make the avoidance of all risk the primary criterion -which would mean avoiding any authentic celebration of the Eucharist. After all, this gathering at table is of no practical use whatever (a morsel of bread, a sip of wine do nothing to fill the belly). But at the symbolic level, the bread and wine are food for life, a meal of hope, a banquet "rich in delights and suited to every taste."(Wisdom 16:20)
May our Eucharistic feast be rich in all delights, and delicious to our souls.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I've been reading up on Anglican practices around the Eucharist. We had our meeting on Sunday to talk about what we'd like to do moving forward here, and talked about it as vestry as well. The summary is, in the words of Marcia Luce: "If they want to dip, let them dip!" That's the upshot of the thing, but as I have been discovering, it's a lot more complicated than that-and more personal, too.
I was raised to be a drinker, even as a young child. No one, that I can remember in my church growing up, was a dipper. It was just what you did. I was reminded of this a while ago when my dad served as a LEM here at Christ Church and he presented the chalice to a rather perplexed Isaiah, who hadn't had it before but seemed OK with it. In my own spirituality, the sacraments are incredibly important to me; the sense of being fed, spiritually and physically, in the Eucharist is entirely what brought me back to church after I'd spent an angry adolescence away from it. I love celebrating with you on Sundays, and administering communion to each of you is my favorite part of my work as a priest. A smiling and excited 2 year old, a distracted teenager, a child-wrangling parent, and the creased palm of an 80 year old-I get to witness the faith of so many different people as they receive the sacrament, and it is a privilege.
A simple privilege... until I start to think too hard about it. I was away this fall when the bishops made their "no intinction" policy, so I didn't have a chance to do much teaching about it. Coming back, I was sad to see the number of people who didn't feel comfortable receiving the wine by drinking, so I am glad that we had a chance to reconsider the policy. The thing is-I'm still a drinker. And that being my personal experience and faith, I still encourage you to drink from the chalice, too.
We celebrate the Eucharist because we are doing what Jesus said to do; he took one cup, and shared it among the disciples. What we do at the rail is pretty far removed from an actual meal, but it seems important to me to do what we can to keep it in that realm; including real sips of real wine from a real cup. But that's my preference. As a seminary-trained priest, I could come up with a theological treatise on why you should do it my way, but that's not the way of our Anglican/Episcopal tradition.
There is a difference between a theological opinion and a matter of faith. It is a matter of faith that we receive the sacraments-a matter of faith that you should come to church, and participate in them, and that Jesus loves us and died for love and was raised. But it's a matter of theology whether you should drink or dip, and in that theology, it's a matter of where Christ best meets you, as an individual. And that is a question only you can answer. The Anglican Church is big on theological dialogue-not so much big commandments for how you should live your life and practice your faith. So... drink. Unless you want to dip.
We will make some new efforts at keeping the cup clean for everyone, but there is no way to be entirely germ free. The Anglican Church first took up the question of bacteria in the chalice during the Plague, when they enacted the Sacrament Act of 1547: The "most blessed Sacrament be hereafter commonly delivered and ministered unto the people... under both the kinds, that is to say of bread and wine, except necessity otherwise require." Necessity, in that case, being risk of illness. But we have to keep that fear of risk in perspective. Life is risky; that's why we have seatbelts and immune systems. Every time we are exposed to a germ, it doesn't mean we'll get sick. In their theological statement on the common cup during the SARS epidemic in 2003, the Anglican Diocese of Toronto wrote:
Our liturgy of faithful remembering must not make the avoidance of all risk the primary criterion -which would mean avoiding any authentic celebration of the Eucharist. After all, this gathering at table is of no practical use whatever (a morsel of bread, a sip of wine do nothing to fill the belly). But at the symbolic level, the bread and wine are food for life, a meal of hope, a banquet "rich in delights and suited to every taste."(Wisdom 16:20)
May our Eucharistic feast be rich in all delights, and delicious to our souls.
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Call to joy
Despite the fact that Ash Wednesday is in a week, I'm suppressing the desire to write about Lent; it isn't here yet, and there is still quite a bit of celebrating to do between now and then--one baptism and one pancake supper (and, of course, one vestry meeting--but it's possible that that isn't as much an occasion for fireworks). One of the most wonderful things about observing a liturgical year is also one of the most challenging--how in the world do we stay where we are? How can we not look forward, or look back? How to stay gazing out from the mountain top (this Sunday's Gospel) without descending into the valley of the desert (the first Sunday of Lent)?
This past Sunday, we had a children's sermon and a wonderful group of kids come up and sit together. Our Gospel was the story of Jesus calling Simon Peter and James and John. Jesus is teaching by the lake, and climbs into Peter's boat so the people can hear him better. Discouraged by not having caught anything all night, Peter lets him in and listens to him teach. Jesus tells him to let down the nets, and all are astounded at the enormous catch--so many fish it nearly sank the boat. Peter and his friends then leave everything to follow Jesus, who tells them that they'll fish for people from now on.
This story is powerful for me because it reminds me that wherever I go, and whatever I do, God is with me. God gives us our gifts to be used in the service of God. Everyone has some skill that gives glory to the One who created us. For our kids' sermon I invited the kids to write their gifts on their own fish, and the answers were as varied as our kids (though "annoying my sister" did come up twice...). Whether dancing, reading, smiling, canoeing, writing, drawing, playing piano or soccer, or just playing, our kids give glory to God, and they know it. Ella Hobin is fond of castles. So is my son Isaiah.
But we forget. We know that God takes pleasure in them just as we do, but we forget that God takes pleasure in us, too. As Brother Roger of Taizé reminds us, Christ's call is to joy, not gloom.
It's a good time to remember that call, and soak up as much as we can. It might seem paradoxical to feel a call to joy so close to Lent, but I think it's a good time for it. Brother Roger's counterpoint is instructive. The opposite of joy isn't sadness--there is plenty of that in life, and even in the life of faith there is space for it. But gloom is something else--gloom is when we are turned inward and see only our own anxiety and our own worries. It's essentially self-ish; centered on the self, it takes ME and MINE as the most important category.
So for now, there is celebration--leave the mourning to Lent, but remember that even then there is space for joy, the joyful freedom of life centered on Christ's self-giving love for us. But for today, look for both the joy and celebration that meet us and love us where we are.
Blessings,
Sara+
This past Sunday, we had a children's sermon and a wonderful group of kids come up and sit together. Our Gospel was the story of Jesus calling Simon Peter and James and John. Jesus is teaching by the lake, and climbs into Peter's boat so the people can hear him better. Discouraged by not having caught anything all night, Peter lets him in and listens to him teach. Jesus tells him to let down the nets, and all are astounded at the enormous catch--so many fish it nearly sank the boat. Peter and his friends then leave everything to follow Jesus, who tells them that they'll fish for people from now on.
This story is powerful for me because it reminds me that wherever I go, and whatever I do, God is with me. God gives us our gifts to be used in the service of God. Everyone has some skill that gives glory to the One who created us. For our kids' sermon I invited the kids to write their gifts on their own fish, and the answers were as varied as our kids (though "annoying my sister" did come up twice...). Whether dancing, reading, smiling, canoeing, writing, drawing, playing piano or soccer, or just playing, our kids give glory to God, and they know it. Ella Hobin is fond of castles. So is my son Isaiah.
But we forget. We know that God takes pleasure in them just as we do, but we forget that God takes pleasure in us, too. As Brother Roger of Taizé reminds us, Christ's call is to joy, not gloom.
It's a good time to remember that call, and soak up as much as we can. It might seem paradoxical to feel a call to joy so close to Lent, but I think it's a good time for it. Brother Roger's counterpoint is instructive. The opposite of joy isn't sadness--there is plenty of that in life, and even in the life of faith there is space for it. But gloom is something else--gloom is when we are turned inward and see only our own anxiety and our own worries. It's essentially self-ish; centered on the self, it takes ME and MINE as the most important category.
So for now, there is celebration--leave the mourning to Lent, but remember that even then there is space for joy, the joyful freedom of life centered on Christ's self-giving love for us. But for today, look for both the joy and celebration that meet us and love us where we are.
Blessings,
Sara+
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thanksgiving
A few of us met after church last Sunday to talk about our Advent liturgy. We change the service music and prayers each season to highlight particular theological themes, and also to help our best loved prayers to stay fresh in our minds. This fall we’ve used a set of prayers of the people written by parishioner Paula Tatarunis; this Advent, we’ll use a set from the Episcopal Diocese of Iowa, written by the Rev. Susanne Watson Epting. For our Confession and Post Communion Prayer, we’ll use prayers from the Anglican Church in New Zealand. Our Eucharistic Prayer and the lyrics for the service music come from our own 1979 Book of Common Prayer, so there will still be plenty in the service that feels familiar. Reaching all the way back to Queen Elizabeth in the 16th Century and the beginnings of what we now call “Anglicanism,” we have talked about how the uniformity of our worship joins us together even amongst great differences. We are fortunate to be able to use prayers from our Anglican sisters and brothers on the other side of the globe. Stephen, our organist, has written us beautiful new settings for the season which will carry us through Epiphany. Please take a moment to visit his website, where he has kindly recorded the Gloria for us to practice before Sunday. We’ll also take a few minutes to practice right before the service. www.stephensikorski.com/christchurch Thank you, Stephen!
One of the lines from the post communion prayer has especially stayed with me, and seems very appropriate for Thanksgiving. The prayer concludes, “Accept, O God, our sacrifice of praise. Accept our thanks for all you have done. Our hands were empty, and you filled them. Amen, amen.” “Our hands were empty, and you filled them”—the Christian life is all about opening our hands. God freely gives us life, love, and grace. Even the tasks set before us are gifts from God. We are called to open our hands and give thanks. Sometimes life is difficult and chaotic. It doesn’t always feel like a gift. But even in those times, Christ is with us. Our Savior suffered, too. And sometimes, life is pure grace. The other morning, as Noah and I stumbled downstairs for breakfast (earlier than I would prefer, I have to admit), he with Isaiah in his arms and me with the dog, that line occurred to me. Quite literally, our arms have been filled!
As turn our attention to the holiday, please pray especially for those who are in difficulty this week. For the sick and the suffering, for those who are in conflict with their families and for those who are far from friends. May they be blessed and held in the embrace of our God who calls us each by name, and loves us with a boundless love. Have a happy Thanksgiving!
One of the lines from the post communion prayer has especially stayed with me, and seems very appropriate for Thanksgiving. The prayer concludes, “Accept, O God, our sacrifice of praise. Accept our thanks for all you have done. Our hands were empty, and you filled them. Amen, amen.” “Our hands were empty, and you filled them”—the Christian life is all about opening our hands. God freely gives us life, love, and grace. Even the tasks set before us are gifts from God. We are called to open our hands and give thanks. Sometimes life is difficult and chaotic. It doesn’t always feel like a gift. But even in those times, Christ is with us. Our Savior suffered, too. And sometimes, life is pure grace. The other morning, as Noah and I stumbled downstairs for breakfast (earlier than I would prefer, I have to admit), he with Isaiah in his arms and me with the dog, that line occurred to me. Quite literally, our arms have been filled!
As turn our attention to the holiday, please pray especially for those who are in difficulty this week. For the sick and the suffering, for those who are in conflict with their families and for those who are far from friends. May they be blessed and held in the embrace of our God who calls us each by name, and loves us with a boundless love. Have a happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Holy Week
I hope you are having a blessed Holy Week. In many ways, this week is just like any week. Easter is coming and we are all busying ourselves with shopping lists and guest invitations, as if it were any holiday. All of the “church talk” around Holy Week can seem awfully abstract and seems perhaps less connected to what’s going on in our own day to day lives.
On Sunday, we will celebrate the resurrection of Christ. The depth of our solidarity with Christ in his suffering now will also be the depth of our joy in rejoicing with him in the victory of life over all death. Thanks be to God!
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