when I grow in compassion and step away from denial and fear...

One of the multiple challenges of being a sacramental theologian in the Reformed tradition is grace. Not that grace itself is a challenge as much as is the magical thinking that has surrounded it for 500 years. In a manic drive to purify itself from all vestiges of medieval Roman Catholic Manichean practices - a spirituality that celebrated flagellation, severe fasting or an obsession with the seven corporeal acts of mercy (feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, sheltering the homeless, visiting the sick, befriending the prisoner, burying the dead, and giving alms to the poor) - some Protestants insisted that "grace alone was salvific." That is, intimacy with God and eternal forgiveness could not be purchased through good works as trust alone was all that was necessary. Other Reformed believers rejected the time-tested spiritual practices of contemplation and Eucharist because these rituals and rites had become dominated by an elite caste of priests. And, of course, Luther's objection to buying forgiveness in advance through the purchase of indulgences gave shape and form to the anti-Catholic activity of the emerging Reformed tradition.

I have long likened many (but not all) of my Reformed and Reforming ancestors as theological adolescents: like teens of any era, they alone believed they held a monopoly upon the truth. And in throwing away the externals of Roman Catholic piety, the baby was discarded with the bath water. Many lost touch with the mystical tradition of prayer. Even more came to affirm what Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace" - the notion that because God forgives everything and everyone, one could always ask for forgiveness, receive God's grace and then return to sin without impunity - pure magical thinking of the most vulgar type. 

Today my worship reflection explored why John's gospel tells us that the first thing Jesus did after his baptism and selection of disciples was to take his posse to a wedding banquet.  John insists that our final destination in life and life beyond life is a feast - not the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth - but rather a sacred and wonder filled wedding banquet. He also posits that while this is God's promise for us all, to realize it in the here and now requires some effort. As Tom Petty would have it: you HAVE to put on your party dress - and show up!  Karl Barth put it like this: “In the last resort, it all boils down to the fact that the invitation is to a feast, and that he who does not obey and come accordingly, and therefore festively, declines and spurns the invitation no less than those who are unwilling to obey and appear at all.”

Jean Vanier writes: “In order for us to be men and women who share the new wine of Christ’s love with others we must first live into the truth of who we truly are for we cannot deny our wounds and grow in love, but rather must learn to welcome (our wounds) and discover the presence of God in the very places that cause us pain.” Our honesty - and prayer and trust in God's grace - allows the ordinary water of our lives to become holy and sacred wine, just as Jesus changed the ordinary water of ancient ritual into the fruit of the vine for the celebration. The challenge for many contemporary believers in the Reformed tradition is that they don't really believe they have to make an effort to embrace grace. The magical thinking and vulgarity of cheap grace is all too alive and well.

At worship's close, I was asked: "How do you know this is happening, the transformation within into holy wine?" I paused and then replied, "When you grow incrementally in compassion. It doesn't happen all at once, but it will never happen if we don't confront our darkness and invite God's grace to transform it." We waited silently for a few moments in the receiving line as that took up residence within. Then my friend nodded and said, "Yes, when I grow in compassion and step away from denial and fear." We embraced and knew that it was all about grace - and that there was nothing cheap about it. There were other meetings to attend today and then some hard and heart-breaking hospital visits, too.

But it was a good day - and the new wine increased.

birthday delights...

It is a crisp, dry autumn day in the Berkshire. In a few hours we'll take the train into Manhattan - and a cab to Brooklyn - to celebrate the fourth birthday of our grandson Louie. He now has a strong and vibrant baby sister, Antonia, whom we can't wait to get to know better, too. If the weather holds, we'll all party in the park tomorrow before heading back home for worship. If the weather is against us, the celebration moves to the family's brownstone in Sunset Park. Wherever we wind up, it will be a delight.

My heart rejoices in two truths today.  First, it is a blessing and privilege to live this close to the extended family. It was complicated and expensive to enter into the ordinary celebrations of the year when we were in Tucson. I loved every minute of being in that magical place. We nourished friendships that continue to last beyond the limits of time and space - we'll be there in mid-January for a bit of sunshine - but we always missed our loved ones on the East Coast. Now, in these later years with my approaching retirement, we are close enough to regularly connect for dinners, birthday and holidays. Sometimes, just because we miss one another, too.

And second, the older I become, the faster time moves - especially for little lives like Louie and Antonia. My computer is filled with pictures documenting my grandson's growth - and changes - starting with our first meeting in Maimonides Hospital a day after his arrival and continuing through our recent trip to give momma a wee break a few weeks ago at the start of Rosh Hashanna. I pray that we will have a comparable cache of pictures of dear Antonia as the years unfold, as well.  

My father, who passed three years ago this week, used to tell me he cherished being Granddad. "It is a whole new way of loving," he once said in an unusually candid moment of vulnerability. After a pause, he added, "You'll love it, too." He was right.

Footsteps on stairs, 

little feet pounding, running, 

child faces peeking round the kitchen door,

 expectancy alive, dancing in their eyes. 

They know that love is always here 

waiting just for them. 

Each one thinks he is favorite; 

in his or her own way, it is true. 

Each is the most special 

not for anything they say or do, 

just for being. 

We have our rituals - breakfast French toast and bacon, 

back rubs and funny faces, 

movie nights, 

ice cream after church, 

backyard camp outs, 

lots of love, laughter. 

Happy takes me by surprise 

each time I look 

in my grandchild’s eyes.

(Faye Lanham Gibson)

living into the heart...

One of the on-going challenges I wrestle with has to do with integrating and/or shedding my public persona as pastor with my unfolding spirituality. Yes, I know I have blathered on about this dilemma often in the past few years - yet still it continues to be daunting. While reading The Life You Save May be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage, an extended reflection on how Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, Walker Percy and Flannery O'Connor explored their own religious questions through acts of writing, I found myself drawn back to my own discernment in a fresh way. Author Paul Elie is masterful in blending the biographical and literary insights of these four modern saints. And his prose invites introspection for this book is as much a spiritual pilgrimage as it is biography.

A pilgrimage is a journey taken in light of a story; and in The Life You Save May Be Your Own Paul Elie tells these writers' story as a pilgrimage from the God-obsessed literary past of Dante and Dostoevsky out into the thrilling chaos of postwar American life. It is a story of how the Catholic faith, in their vision of things, took on forms the faithful could not have anticipated. And it is a story about the ways we look to great books and writers to help us make sense of our experience, about the power of literature to change-to save-our lives. 
(Amazon) 

Time and again, I recognized aspects of my own quest for self-understanding and vocational clarity in Elie's description of Merton and Day. Both yearned to live an integrated spirituality that was sacramental and contemplative. Both also intuitively knew that their life of faith was a critique of American consumerism. As they ripened over the years - and became more settled in their counter-cultural commitments - a seasoned tenderness shaped their words and actions. Think of the iconic photograph of Dorothy Day sitting in solidarity with striking farm workers while surrounded by seething and armed policemen. Or Thomas Merton's light hearted but profound engagement with Asian Buddhist monks. They learned to shrink the gap between their public and private lives - and that quest drives me, too.

Certainly this has been part of my journey since returning from Montreal: one of the reasons I no longer feel myself to be a pastor - as much as I love visiting and being in prayer with my people - is that I want my heart to be fully present in all my living. I yearn to have my time integrated with my deepest values. I need my friends to be a part of my ordinary experiences. And, if you want to be healthy and reasonably professional, that is simply not possible in contemporary ministry. 21st century ministry is always a public relationship. It is defined by necessary and exaggerated boundaries. It is our current way of being in but not of the world.

And, after all these years, I find it to be extraordinarily lonely. Perhaps that is part of the paradox of ministry: there are intimacies I have been welcomed into during some of life's most demanding and beautiful moments; but then, after standing on holy ground with those I have loved and comforted, I am asked to compartmentalize our encounter and keep my distance. It is possible to do this, of course. And for nearly 40 years I have practiced doing so with clarity and conviction. But like so much of contemporary living that celebrates commodified relationships and professionalized acts of the heart, there is a schizophrenia to this as well. I understand that boundary violations of the most destructive types - from sexual exploitation of innocents to the manipulation of hearts and bodies by devious spiritual leaders - have wounded God's beloved, giving just cause to our current professional caution. I honor and respect the sacred nature of confidentiality, too. And, as one of my cherished retired clergy friends wrote to me recently: There comes a time when we have no more room in our hearts or souls for the secrets of others and must close that door forever.

Business ethics don't really work for the Body of Christ, nor do those of the so-

called helping professions. Pastors are not lawyers, nor are we doctors, nurses or psychological counselors. Rather we are women and men called to nourish the love of Jesus in the lives of broken and wounded people. Our work is about presence and integrity, not programming and administration. It is about opening up God's grace to those who have been slammed by shame. It is about cultivating community in a lonely and confusing culture. In a word, it is about opening our hearts to one another in Christ's love. Yes, there is an old aphorism that "even the Pope needs a Confessor."  Clergy need a reality check from time to time and our own source of external accountability. At the same time, I have experienced the sterile and even demoralizing limitations of our current practices. We denigrate the movement of the heart in lofty terms. We restrict and even diminish the movement of the Holy Spirit within and among us. And I sense it is starving Christ's church and malnourishing its pastors.

I wonder what my young clergy friends think of this conclusion? My older lay friends, too? What alternatives to the current public/private bifurcation of ministry have you discovered? As I bring this chapter to a close, in anticipation
of a more integrated spirituality, I am eager to know how you have addressed this in your lives? 

Maybe this quote from Jean Vanier cuts to the heart of the matter? When he discovered that he thrived during the quiet and secure morning prayers of the monastery, but fretted and anguished over his daily work caring for hurting people, he refused to institutionalize this split:  "All that inner pain obliged me to go more deeply into the (emerging) spirituality of L'Arche."

It was important for me to find unity in my being, not to have just a deep spirituality early in the morning and the business for the rest of the day. I had to find how to put love and prayerfulness into all my activities and bodily gestures, into all the cleaning and washing up, into all the chores and togetherness of community living... How does Jesus (teach us) this?  He asks us to follow him on a path of littleness, forgiveness, trust, communion and vulnerability without giving up at other moments our role of responsibility where we exercise authority with force and justice, kindness and firmness. Jesus invites us to live the folly of the Gospel, not to judge others, but to be compassionate, to forgive and to love to the end, even to loving our enemies. And this is impossible unless we removed our garments and become poor and naked before God. (Essential Writings, pp. 84-85)

letting go is hard - and healing

Nearly three years ago during Advent, I joined a local colleague in an on-line retreat. Formed and sponsored by Abbey of the Arts (check it out @
http://abbeyofthearts.com/about/) under the direction of Dr. Christine Painter, this 40 day discipline involved reclaiming time for contemplation, journal writing for critical inner reflection, sharing observations with 30+ other pilgrims and listening for the call of the Spirit in our hearts.  A few months earlier, I had returned from sabbatical in Montreal. Both encounters made it clear that not only was I being called to close my life as a minister in the local church, but that a new ministry beyond the parish would be revealed when the time was right. My local colleague grasped this truth - as did many of the on-line spiritual directors - but I have hesitated owning this as truth. Indeed, it has taken me nearly three years to embrace it in all its power, sorrow, blessing and promise.

That is just how I am:  I hold on to things for a LONG time. I am a SLOW learner. I seek to stay connected and explore ALL possibilities for stability before diving into radical change. And, apparently, I need to anguish over my choices before I can accept them.  In a letter posted on today's "Abbey of the Arts Note from Your Abbess," Dr. Painter writes:

Autumn is the time of transition, of the earth's turning, with the balance of light and dark in the northern hemisphere tilting toward the dark season and the invitation to release the excess we carry and rest into growing Mystery. It is a season of initiating these great movements across the globe of birds, fish, and mammals following an instinctual call. I am taken with the mysteries of migration, the inner knowing that rises up in them to embark on a journey, the impulse to swim and fly across great expanses of earth and sea in search of a feeling of rightness that season.

She also quotes Marianne Worcester who has noted that:

Fin and feather, flesh, blood and bone: the earth calls its creatures to leave the familiar, turn again into the unknown; to move steadily and continuously and at great risk toward an invisible goal, expending great energy with the possibility of failure.

That is precisely what the past few years have felt like: a longing to let go fed by a fear of possible failure.  And then, without full clarity, there came a moment when I knew beyond fear that now was the time to move on. And as I have done so, God is opening new possibilities for me to serve in the spirit of Christ's love.  Dr. Painter's words ring true to me right now:

I think of the ancient desert monks who each knew that one day they would have to leave behind the familiar and venture out into the wilderness to seek a space of radical encounter with God. Or the Irish monks who felt called to a particular kind of journey called peregrinatio, which was a pilgrimage for the love of Christ without a destination in mind. The practice was to step into a small boat called a coracle, without oar or rudder, and let the current carry them to the place of their resurrection. They yielded their own agendas and plans to the current of love, trusting in this deeper wisdom at work in water and wind, on behalf of the One who opens the way before us.

For the days that remain here, I know there will be times of grief - letting go is very hard for many of us - maybe a bit of celebration - for we did some wonderful things here together - but mostly I think this season calls for my silence.  I have loved God's people here. They have loved me too. I am grateful for this love. And now it is time for a pilgrimage into a new way of loving. "Swans and swallows, whales and salmon make the long arduous journey to give birth to the new lives breaking forth in them. The monks wandered in search of wild places that could break apart their own expectations and judgments, to let the new life being offered to them come forth...The soul's migration demands the long, slow journey in a holy direction, calling us only to follow the impulse of love." (Painter)

It is clearly time for another retreat. I will join the on-line community for "Honoring Saints and Ancestors: A Retreat for the Season of Remembrance" (check this out @ http://abbeyofthearts.com/programs/online-classes/honoring-saints-and-ancestors-online-retreat-for-the-season-of-remembrance/  ) and then be away in Ottawa before US Thanksgiving for a few days of formation with some of the assistants at L'Arche. "Be still... and know that I am God."

soul music along the way of the Cross...

As I keep working at my closing reflection re: the wisdom of Jean Vanier at 89, an essay that still needs some time to ripen, I have discovered I am singing two songs in my heart.  This has often been the way I "hear" the word of the Lord in my everyday life - and so it continues even in these closing days of pastoral ministry.  To note that I have been singing and playing these songs in one manner or another for most of my adult life only points to their growing importance. As I practice compassion and tenderness both for myself as well as those I am leaving in ministry, it seems wise to let these songs rise to the surface and speak to this moment.

Song number one is Lesley Duncan's "Love Song." I heard it on Elton John's second album, "Tumbleweed Connection" during my freshman year of college. It was the only tune on this 1970 masterpiece not composed by Bernie Taupin and Elton John. It stands above all the others given the gentle acoustic guitar foundation and hushed vocal harmonies. To me, it sounds mystical and prayer-like - a fresh invitation to trust God's grace in reality - even 47 years after its release. Each chorus begins with a solo voice. The song builds as two additional harmonies are added before closing with a question: do you know what I mean? Mostly this evoked the melancholia I have experienced in ministry. The lyrics and music speak to the cost of loving and staying true to love. And my take is that this looks a lot like the Cross. Christ invites us to pick up our own Cross and follow. Sometimes we are ready, sometimes not; and sometimes picking up our Cross to follow Jesus in love doesn't make linear sense at all.

I hear the joy and sorrow of this Cross in the brief instrumental interlude. Elton John sings nonsense words to an overdub of voices in competition with the ebb and flow of waves on an ocean beach. These sounds draw my attention to the mystery and misunderstanding of the Cross. The mystery of being embraced by love is mixed into - and even hidden within - our ordinary experiences. Sir Elton's voice floating over the everyday conversations of ordinary people gives this shape and form: here I am in the midst of you Jesus tells us. I have felt the Lord's presence in community and cherish it. It is a beauty that empowers me to live by trust not sight. At the same time, however, the voices, the waves, the laughter and the busyness beyond the music continues to pulse beneath the closing chorus - do you know what I mean? Have your eyes really seen? - pointing to the equally abiding loneliness that is true of a life given to the foolishness of the Cross. It is always both/and when it comes to the paradox of the love of Jesus.



Song number two, "I Am A Pilgrim," by Merle Travis, grabbed my attention on the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's 1972 opus:  Will the Circle Be Unbroken.  With an easy country swing and stripped down accompaniment, the man behind "Dark as a Dungeon" sings clearly about his journey of faith. "I am a pilgrim and a stranger, travelin' through this wearisome land..." This, too feels like a heart song for me these days as I close one chapter but open a whole new realm of being faithful. Living the love of the Cross does make you a pilgrim - and often a stranger - in a culture built upon violence and conspicuous consumption. It is a wearisome land. At the same time, Travis sings of his hope that "if I could touch but just the hem of His garment" his soul would be whole. 

I know a little about this yearning as well as the joy to come. When I hear the quiet trust in Travis' voice, it feels like home to me. I am also moved by the vibrant confidence of the instrumental solos in the middle of this tune. The instruments confess a "blessed assurance" while the vocals share a humility, trust and sense of humor born of the sweet peace of grace. For me, it is good to recall that the Dirt Band was living into a commitment to build bridges between generations, cultures and even history.  Bob Dylan started it when he went to Nashville and worked with session players on Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde and Nashville Skyline. The Byrds picked up on this too when they did their Sweetheart of the Rodeo album. Scruggs and Flatt and the Dillards did it in reverse when they brought their country/roots bona fides to rock and roll. No matter which direction, however, the result was the same: real country soul and gospel became new grass as rock'n'roll reclaimed its lost twang in a genre bending experiment that drove The Band, Linda Ronstadt, The Eagles, Poco as well as Hank Jr. and the Allman Brothers. 



And just so that one camp or the other got the point, this grand ol' album closed with an instrumental take on Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now." That's Randy Scruggs, 18 year old son of bluegrass master of the banjo, Earl Scruggs, doing the guitar honors.  Sweeter sounds have not been heard this side of glory, my friends.

sacramentality......

Today was all about the essentials:  cleaning the bedroom, scouring toilets, repairing a broken shower-head, washing floors and buying groceries. I have long favored home-making tasks as my way of keeping grounded in reality. As an intellectual, I spend a lot of time in books, words and ideas. Reading voraciously - and pondering these notions in my heart -  has been a blessing; I wouldn't give it up for the world. And yet, living in the realm of ideas can lead to a lofty albeit ugly misanthropy. "I love humanity," we proclaim in our hearts, "it's just people I can't stand." Been there, done that too many times to keep on keeping on, yes? That's one of the reasons why I need to take a full day out of the buysness and give it over to housework. It gives me time to get real.

I recently came upon the writing of Joy Cowley on the blog site: Sacraparental (check it out @ http://sacraparental.com/2013/07/09/the-sacrament-of-housework-1-psalms-and-proverbs/) This psalm isn't exactly my experience, but it comes close:

God of washing, God of unmade beds,
God of dented saucepans and worn-out brooms,
your presence in the most ordinary things
often takes me by surprise.

I listen to the morning news
and think of your presence
at a United Nations peace conference,
at the launching of a space probe,
or in the development of a vaccine,
or the discovery of a new planet.
Then I look down and see you
winking in bubbles of detergent.

God of washing,
God of stains and missing buttons,
wherever else you may be,
you are right here with me
defrosting and cleaning the freezer,
picking up bits of plastic toys
from the living room floor,
and each time you nudge my heart
with the warmth of your presence
recognition leaps like a song.

I know it! Oh, I know it!

God of washing,
God of vacuum cleaner bags,
God of sparrows, lilies and mustard seeds,
My house is your tabernacle.

Another blogger at Inward/Outward (http://inwardoutward.org/2015/08/18/ the-sacrament-of-work/) writes:

A spirituality of work is based on a heightened sense of sacramentality, of the idea that everything that is, is holy and that our hands consecrate it to the service of God. When we grow radishes in a small container in a city apartment, we participate in creation. We sustain the globe. When we sweep the street in front of a house in the dirtiest city in the country, we bring new order to the universe. We tidy the Garden of Eden. We make God’s world new again. When we repair what has been broken or paint what is old or give away what we have earned that is above and beyond our own sustenance, we stoop down and scoop up the earth and breathe into it new life again, as God did one morning in time only to watch it unfold and unfold and unfold through the ages.

I am currently working on another Jean Vanier essay - a synthesis of his tender and practical spirituality. Simultaneously I am trying to make a deeper connection with L'Arche Ottawa as I reawaken my commitment to music as peace-making. Let's just say that cleaning up dog hair and clutter in the bedroom, and getting the shower to work again, restored my sense that small blessings abound.

Incrementally, and never all at once, balance is beginning to return. Another poem, by David Henson, entitled, "Sacrament," gets close, too.

After Jesus climbed up
out of Death
the first thing he did
was the laundry.
He creased the shroud
that covered his face,
just so,
and placed it back
where it belonged.
He could have left it in
a messy pile
in a hurry
to file his taxes on time
or make that lunch date
to outrun death again
with a long list of errands.
But he took the time
in the tomb
to fold the laundry
like he had eternity
on his side.
Maybe it was just that
he dearly loved the marvel of
fabric,
the hands, earth, and magic
that made it,
the first thing he touched
when the wind blew back
into his beaten-up lungs.

One thing is for sure:
No one ever thinks
of the laundry
as resurrection.
But both
never
end.

Now it is time for a stoli and cranberry as I watch PBS before dinner.

grateful to God for tom petty...

 
I loved Tom Petty. I loved everything about him from his geeky outsider looks to his fusion of Beatles/Byrds/Roots music to his own brand of Southern fried rock and soul groove. Like me, his world changed while watching the Beatles perform on Ed Sullivan. Like Little Steven (of Springsteen fame) we knew that the world had shifted with this music and "there was a way out" (of our white bread, bored realm.) I can't help but feel that his unexpected death at 66 is yet another confirmation that I am moving in the right direction with retirement. Some of his tunes became anthemic in my little life starting with "Listen to Her Heart"  and "American Girl" just a year after my first daughter came into the world.



And the brother didn't quit creating tunes that filled my soul with with joy, verve and just a little be of sass. From his homage to psychedelia, "Don't Come Around Here No More" to his cover of The Byrds' "So You Wanna Be a Rock'n' Roll Start," he kept giving life everything he had - and probably more, too. 



A few other killer Tom Petty songs have been etched into my memory in ways that will endure. Hell, I'll probably be chanting the lyrics to "Last Dance" in the geriatric ward"  "I don't know but I've been told, you never slow down, you NEVER grow old... oh my, my - oh hell yes - you gotta put on your party dress... buy me a drink, sing me a song, take me as I come cuz I can't stay long!" And how about that freakin' NASTY guitar riff that pushes everything forward?!?



The other personal favorites include: "Free Fallin'," "I Won't Back Down," "Breakdown," "Refugee," "Yer So Bad" and two from the Traveling Willburys' catalog:  "Handle Me with Care" and "End of the Line" with Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne.


Watching this video this morning is sobering: not only was Brother Roy already gone during the filming, but now George and Tom have crossed over, too. I am grateful to God for the music TP shared with the world. I am grateful for his rebellious spirit, good humor and commitment to the cause of building community with love. And I am grateful that he helped inspire my own personal soundtrack as I moved through adulthood. Be gentle with one another - and put on your party dress!

as my breaking heart joins with millions of others...

Given the once unimaginable – but now all too predictable – horror that took

place in Las Vegas over the weekend, to say nothing of the anguish being felt in Puerto Rico, Houston and parts of Florida, many of us are experiencing despair. There are no words for such grief. Nor are there any quick solutions for America’s maniacal obsession with rage. So if we are faithful to the one we know as Christ, let this be for us a time of silence and lament. Not a mere 60 second symbolic homage to Las Vegas; but a soul rattling examination of our nation’s addiction to violence.

It is in our communal DNA: from the genocide of First Nations people and lynching “uppity” citizens of color, to a culture that celebrates sexual violence against women and the buying and selling of our civic leaders by the NRA (a once righteous group helping America practice gun safety), we must come face to face with the fact that we are a people baptized in innocent blood. New gun laws are not the only solution – even if they might help. Neither is more aggressive policing a balm for our collective soul. No, now is a time to grieve and lament what we have become – and wait upon the Lord.

Americans are not well practiced in waiting upon God. We’re not very good at waiting period, but we are inept when it comes to feeling hard emotions and listening for the still small voice of the holy within the whirlwind. God knows there have been more than enough times in our history for us to become experts in such patience, but we have chosen to distract ourselves time and again. Our favorite diversion is blaming a scapegoat. This not only feeds our blood revenge but keeps us from being still. We want to be productive. We want to fix things and move on. So time after time we fall into the time-tested trap of scape-goating another so that we never take stock of our own sin. We busy ourselves with illusions so that we don’t have to grieve and listen for the word of the Lord. Sadly, without silence and grief, there can be no repentance. And without authentic repentance, we will keep doing the same violent things over and over while expecting different results.

Our tradition gives us a clue about what this moment requires. After Israel had been taken into captivity by Babylon, its best led away in chains and the first temple in Jerusalem destroyed, the once proud people of God had to learn how to lament. “By the waters of Babylon, there we wept when we remembered Zion.” In time, Babylon itself fell – and Israel returned to the land of promise. As they were rebuilding and reimagining themselves after generations of pain and shame, the prophet Isaiah warned Israel not to get caught up in ceremonies that were self-serving nor activities that were self-righteous.

Is such the fast that I choose, a day to humble oneself? Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush, and to lie in sackcloth and ashes? Will you call this a fast, a day acceptable to the Lord? Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn and your healing shall spring up quickly; your vindicator[a] shall go before you, the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am. If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.

And what was true then, is true today: the events, the blood, the fear, the suffering, the shame and the impotence we all feel is the One who is Holy calling us to repentance. We know it. But first we must sit in sorrow and silence and take stock of the magnitude of devastation. Silence and lament awaken us to the truth and train us in humility. Grieving empties us of hubris and creates an opening for God’s grace to take up residence within in ways we can’t even imagine. St. Paul testified to this blessing after the death and resurrection of Jesus when he wrote: Now we boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope… and hope is God’s love being poured into our hearts by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 5) 

So, let us not grieve as those who have no hope. Rather let us grieve in anticipation of God’s grace that will be granted when God is ready to heal and cleanse us – and we are finally ready to wait upon the Lord. This does not mean standing idle. We will learn to wait upon the Lord by standing in solidarity with the NAACP this Thursday on Park Square in support of Puerto Rico. Or joining those in Williamstown tomorrow (Tuesday at 5 pm) calling out gun violence. We must learn to own and then repent of our privilege by casting our lot visibly with those who are not powerful. Consider it penance. Or public confession. Just know that waiting upon the Lord has a personal as well as a public component and BOTH are required at this moment in time. 

my soul is like a child...

At the close of worship this morning, one person said to me, "A little ray of light in the midst of so much darkness." That was my deepest hope for this day, so I breathed an inward prayer of quiet gratitude. The liturgy was simple - an abundance of river hymns and Eucharist - and my reflection was an invitation to live as "rainbow people." This is our time to tenderly embody and share the love of Jesus with the most vulnerable without concern for the cost. The words of Jean Vanier in his August letter to L'Arche came to mind: 

Many people are working so that our planet can remain a place of peace and not a place of destruction, a place where the life of different species can continue to flourish. They want to work for peace, non-violence and unity. Perhaps this quest for peace is only a trickle of water in front of the boiling waters of violence and fear but that trickle is truly there. It shows itself in the desire of many people to find a new way of living together. Maybe the time of frenzied individualism is beginning to diminish and make space for the desire for a life where people commit themselves together.

After Holy Communion, a few of us prayed with a brother who is hurting. Then we prepared for today's CROP Walk - an ecumenical event dedicated to raising funds and consciousness about world hunger - to close the day. Our small circle of interfaith peace-makers will like raise about $10K for Church World Service once all the individual contributions come in; our "bucket brigade" alone has gathered nearly $6,000 from their weekend collections standing out on Park Square. Like our worship, this offering is a drop in the bucket when compared to the magnitude of need. It is also a little ray of light in the midst of so much darkness. 

While speaking this morning, I knew some were yearning for more - more intellectual depth, more poetic prose, more sophistication - but I could only utter a little ray of light in the darkness. It was all that I had. And honestly, it is all that is there. Biblical theologian Walter Brueggemann has noted that we in the USA, "the richest nation on earth," are the most idolatrous of all contemporary people. 

We never feel that we have enough; we have to have more and more, and this insatiable desire destroys us. Whether we are liberal or conservative Christians, we must confess that the central problem of our lives is that we are torn apart by the conflict between our attraction to the good news of God's abundance and the power of our belief in scarcity - a belief that makes us greedy, mean, an unneighborly. We spend our lives trying to sort out that ambiguity.

After all was said and done - the offering for CROP counted, the communion table cleared, the songs sung and prayers shared - another person smiled at me and whispered, "Thanks be to God." My heart was filled to overflowing.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.
For I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

(Psalm 131)

down by the riverside: honoring the holy on river sunday...

On Sunday, October 1, 2017 we'll focus our attention on River Sunday.

It is the close of the new/old liturgical "Season of Creation" cycle. My thoughts start with this poem by Maren Tirabassi from September 27, 2017.

I am tired to tears of tweets.

I want a long story
full of narrative twists
and wondering what the motivation
of some character is.

I want a persuasive argument
that weighs opposing sides
without instant
condemnation or approval,
and recognizes values that inform
different points of view.

I want a subtle sermon
that only jolts me awake
hours later when I am walking the dog.

I want a conversation
that could never be called a chat –
one where people
who respect one another
can let some silences settle
and consider
the words to come next.

I want a symphony,
rather than a jingle,
a photograph of the Grand Canyon
that is not a selfie,

a long community mural
on a city wall,
a commitment to therapy
in an imperfect relationship,
the beginnings of negotiation
that will not garner political perks
for maybe years,

the accompaniment
of those who have faced
natural disasters beyond photo op
and into life.

Increased character limit
was not what I had in mind.

Next, there are three biblical insights from the story of Noah to consider:

+ What are the metaphorical and theological connections between the creation story that opens Genesis 1 and the flood of Genesis 8?

+ What does it mean for us to know that throughout the early mythology of our Hebrew cousins in faith, the Earth accepts the consequences of sin and violence much as Christ does?

+ Why was the rainbow chosen to be a sign of God's covenant for both creation and the Creator?

My closing includes "Down By the Riverside" and these words from poet Maya Angelou:

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.

The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.

what do you want to do before you leave...

One of my dear friends and colleagues, Lee from Chicago, recently said to me: if there is anything you have always wanted to do in ministry but haven't yet accomplished it, make sure you give it a shot before you depart. Wise and even sobering words for me as I consider what would honor the heart of Jesus over the next 120 days. (Who is counting?) I've done most of the big projects over the past 35 years. Consequently, I don't feel a compelling drive to do anything more except... lead a closing worship series based upon Jean Vanier's writings on the mystical blessings found in St. John's gospel.

The light of God... was hidden and yet revealed in all creation... the light of the world, God, is hidden in the conscience of each person, so that we can all become children of God.

If I have learned anything during my days in ministry, it is this: unless we experience from the inside that we are truly God's beloved, we won't live like Jesus' brother or sister on the outside. We will remain trapped in the values and goals of a consumer culture. We will concentrate on ourselves - our anxiety, grief, achievements and status - rather than let love guide us in every moment. We will treat God as an add-on to our busy and even frantic existence rather than our core. We will build lives where we act like we are the crown of creation.  Jesus offers an alternative. It is quiet, hidden, rarely discerned at first because the way of Jesus is not flashy.  Vanier writes:

Why did the Word-made-flesh (the essence and totality of God's wisdom) need someone (like John the Baptizer) to prepare the way for him? Wasn't it because he did not want to be seen first of all as a powerful person, creating fear and awe in others? Jesus did not come in power and majesty, but as a lamb, in humility and littleness. John the Baptizer was a spectacular person. He attracted people because he lived like a prophet, austerely in the desert... He cried out and challenged people as other prophets did. But Jesus was not spectacular. He dressed simply. He did not live in the desert but in an obscure village with ordinary people like us. He loved to be with people who were poor or sic, people who felt rejected and excluded from society. He became their friend... It is Jesus who will lead us in and through the dailiness of life into something new: a simple, loving friendship with God where we will be free from fear, hatred and violence. Free to love people, particularly those who are weak and suffering.

My mentor, Ray Swartzback, used to say that if we couldn't make the gospel real in our broken urban centers, where human pain was obvious, there was no way in hell it could take root in our suburbs. In our affluent and bourgeois
communities. anguish is kept well hidden. Human suffering is masked beneath distractions, addictions, pretty clothes, fast cars, nice home, manicured lawns and a super abundance of activities. I knew that "Swartzy's" wisdom was true 40 years ago when I served as his pastoral intern. And after 35+ years of ordained ministry as a pastor to the middle class, I have experienced this truth in my bones.

So, I think my swan song will likely be a midwinter series using Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus as my guide. Vanier writes in the introduction:

The life of God which Jesus came to give us through a new birth and growth in the Holy Spirit.. is a life of friendship with Jesus that brings us out of self-centeredness to a centeredness in God and others - into a new (experience) of God. (It is worth noting that) the author of John's gospel refers to himself as "the beloved disciple." He never calls himself by his name and this is significant; he speaks of himself only in relationship to Jesus, as if his real value and identity flow from this relationship... By signing the gospel as the "beloved disciple," perhaps the author wants to reveal that each one of us can identify with him and become a "beloved of Jesus."

That's is my deepest hope as I prepare to close this chapter of a blessed life.