get up, jonah...

The snow is falling softly on our Berkshire hills this morning making the town feel quiet and peaceful. The Governor released designated funds for emergency winter housing yesterday so some of our most vulnerable friends will have shelter from the storm tonight. Our grocery shopping is done. Lucie romped with me for a spell in the cold. And Di is attending to pile after pile of dirty laundry. In other words, we're settling in for three days of quiet retreat from the world as this old year ends. Next week will be full getting ready for Sunday's interfaith concert and worship, to say nothing of starting to clean out my study at church in anticipation of my final few weeks of ministry. It seems like a good time to lay low and be still, yes?

Carrie Newcomer recently wrote, "It has been a year of challenges for so many of us, ongoing concern, heartbreak and rebuilding. It has also been a year of wide eyed wonders, small daily miracles, friendship, resilience and a tenacious kind of hope - the kind of hope Parker J. Palmer describes as holding in creative tension all that "is" and all that "should and could be," and everyday taking some action to narrow the distance between the two." This resonates with me. It is a good time to take stock of these truths. Like many, I need serious quiet time to let the wisdom of the past year bubble up to the surface. I know it is deep within, but not immediately accessible. So, starting today I will take a three day fast from both Facebook and blogging just to sit and listen to what the Spirit is quietly saying to my heart.

Yesterday's insights from Fr. Richard Rohr continue to reverberate in every part of my being.

The word change normally refers to new beginnings. But transformation more often happens not when something new begins but when something old falls apart. The pain of something old falling apart—disruption and chaos—invites the soul to listen at a deeper level. It invites and sometimes forces the soul to go to a new place because the old place is not working anymore. The mystics use many words to describe this chaos: fire, darkness, death, emptiness, abandonment, trial, the Evil One. Whatever it is, it does not feel good and it does not feel like God. We will do anything to keep the old thing from falling apart.

For almost 36 months I have walked this road of transformation. A new reality eventually took hold of my heart - a small, quiet spirituality of tenderness - but it has been a long time a'bornin. While on sabbatical in Montreal, my old calling came to closure in ways that were experiential and clarifying. What was not at all certain, however, was what would happen next. To use Rohr's paradigm, what was needed was, "patience, guidance, and the freedom to let go instead of tightening our controls and certitudes." So I wandered and waited, fretted too much from time to time, and trusted that the way of Christ's mercy was where I wanted to be - and in good time the path was revealed. 

Perhaps Jesus is describing this phenomenon when he says, “It is a narrow gate and a hard road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matthew 7:14). Not accidentally, he mentions this narrow road right after teaching the Golden Rule. Jesus knows how much letting go it takes to “treat others as you would like them to treat you” (7:12). Transformation usually includes a disconcerting reorientation. Change can either help people to find a new meaning, or it can cause people to close down and turn bitter. The difference is determined by the quality of our inner life, or what we call “spirituality.” Change of itself just happens; spiritual transformation is an active process of letting go, living in the confusing dark space for a while, and allowing yourself to be spit up on a new and unexpected shore. You can see why Jonah in the belly of the whale is such an important symbol for many Jews and Christians.

I remember saying to my church leadership early in my return from sabbatical:  "Something is going to be different now. Something within me, for sure, and maybe among us. I just don't know what that means yet. I trust it will be revealed, but apparently not without some uncertainty." This was unsettling for us all. Rohr observes that "we are a culture of progress and efficiency, impatient with gradual growth. God’s way of restoring things interiorly is much more patient—and finally more effective. God lets Jonah run in the wrong direction, until this reluctant prophet finds a long, painful, circuitous path to get back where he needs to be—in spite of himself! Looking in your own “rear-view mirror” can fill you with gratitude for God’s work in your life." But it takes a lot of time and stillness and trust to get there. Listening to the "deep “yeses” carry you through. Focusing on something you absolutely believe in, that you’re committed to, will help you wait it out."

I absolutely believe/trust God's grace as revealed in Jesus Christ. I absolutely sense that this is best expressed in my life through small acts of tenderness. I absolutely know that I am not very good at living into these two truths. And that is why my whole existence is being transformed away from busyness and into the quiet. Into the music. Into the prayers. And into the writing. That is why the Spirit kept leading me back to L'Arche Ottawa, too. My favorite Bruce Cockburn song, "Get Up, Jonah" cuts to the chase.

a spirituality of music and grace: taste and see...

As I reflect on the arch of my ministry, the gestalt of creating and performing music in public has been foundational. Not only does sound resonate in our flesh, music touches our emotions and minds, too. How we respond, consciously as well as beneath and beyond our consciousness, is a marvelous
mystery that holds the potential for healing. I thought of this last night after a few hours of working together with musicians I love, trust and respect. Two truths strike me as useful to note:

+ First, jazz master Wynton Marsailis has noted that the trust and disciplined intuition of musical comrades on the bandstand simultaneously creates an experience of vulnerability and cooperation among the players; and, shows the audience what is possible in a world where listening, commitment and creativity are blended with respect and joy. When performers are in the groove, when each and all are hearing what is taking place in the moment while anticipating the possibilities of what might yet develop, a synergy happens that is mystical. The players are energized, lifted into a place of beauty greater than their individual gifts and possibilities, that is pure grace. It is a prospect impossible to own or control yet always anticipated, if only in the most amorphous way. At the same time, those who are experiencing the blessing of the bandstand can find themselves equally strengthened and renewed. The skill and shared compassion of the players is contagious for those who are willing to be touched. It doesn't happen at every performance. The realities of both musicians and audience always shape what is experienced, as well. But when the stars are aligned in a way beyond comprehension, heaven and earth meet as hope and justice embrace in a kiss.

+ Second, once the miracle of the bandstand is encountered, it cannot be denied. It can be forgotten or ignored. It can be dismissed or denigrated as emotionalism or manipulation. But for the pure of heart, when music touches our hearts as pure gift, sensuality and spirituality become real. We know beyond words that solidarity is possible and compassionate trust is the way through the darkness. Even mistakes can lead to new discoveries for those listening well and willing to use their skills with love. Jazz pianist Herbie Hancock tells of a time in Paris with the Miles Davis band that he was playing a well rehearsed tune when out of nowhere he hit a clunker. Davis looked at him out of the corner of his eye and proceeded to echo the wrong note on his trumpet. Miles made the chord "right" in a way that turned Hancock's mistake into a new road to explore. Davis covered the slip-up with humor, grace, respect and genius - and Hancock learned what grace can mean in life.



Please don't misunderstand: I am not saying that those who have tasted this forgiveness in music are consistent in sharing it. We're not. Such is the human condition. Rather, what I know is that when my errors in playing are accepted and transformed into something beautiful by my band mates, I have been schooled in grace. I have been taught the way of gratitude. And it is up to me to pass on to others as good as I have been given.  And that continues to be why I insist on doing music in church - and beyond. When we taste and see, we are forever transformed.

As our small jazz ensemble of vocalists, guitar players, piano maestro and bass player prepare for our January 7, 2018 gig, I give thanks to God for what I have experienced. I pray, too that we might share it in a way that is palpable and true. 

coming sunday, january 7, 2018 @ 2 pm

On Sunday, January 7, 2018 @ 2 pm (open house at 1 pm) I am thrilled to announce that we are presenting the Four Freedoms "Songs and Sounds of Solidarity" concert at First Church.  (for more information, check it out @ https://www.facebook.com/events/380609329043389/)

This event represents both the culmination of a full year of creative alternatives to the current climate of fear and hatred in the US as well as a dream come true for me personally. Since arriving in the Berkshires 10+ years ago, I have longed to host an interfaith music event. There have been modest successes and failures over my tenure here - including some creative Thanksgiving Eve outings - but nothing like this. Somehow it is fitting that during my last month of professional ministry we're finally able to pull it off.

Three regional poets will bring their wisdom and beauty to this mix along with Roman Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Buddhist and Sufi musicians. Anglo, African American, European and Latino songs will be shared in solidarity with immigrant sisters and brothers- and communities of color - who are under attack in these once United States. And, some of my dearest musical colleagues are reuniting with me to rework Herbie Hancock's take on Peter Gabriel's "Don't Give Up." A few loved ones will remain MIA - but Hal will join the ranks - as we shake it up one more time. If you are free on the 7th of January, consider joining us for a grand old time at the start of the New Year.

music expresses that which cannot be said...

Some people get it and... well, some never will: I am referring to a spirituality of music. Victor Hugo wrote: "Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." That gets close, yes? Beethoven noted that: "Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life." In my experience, music unifies my body with my mind and heart. It allows me to know from the inside out what Psalm 85 calls the "marriage of heaven and earth" - that sense of God's "steadfast love and faithfulness embracing; God's justice and compassion kissing one another (in an embodied ways) while trust springs up from the earth and right relations gaze down from the sky" - a sensual, spiritual energy of encouragement that transcends race, class, gender and nationality.

My judgment about those who get it and those who don't must not be taken as a moral indictment. It isn't. Nor am I condemning the aesthetic sensitivity of those who do not encounter music like me. Rather, I am trying to give expression to what I know - and it is different from the way many meet the mysteries of music.  Mickey Hart, drummer extradinaire of the Grateful Dead, feels it as the primal beat of Mother Earth's heart pounding throughout creation. "Life is about rhythm. We vibrate, our hearts are pumping blood, we are a rhythm machine, that's what we are... In the beginning, there was noise. Noise begat rhythm, and rhythm begat everything else." That is how the creative love of the holy speaks to me: through rhythm, through harmonies, through melodies and lyrics so sweet they break my heart open and then heal it, too. Some folk groove on Aquinas or Augustine or Hildegaard. Not me. Even after all these years those doors remain locked. But let Herbie Hancock deconstruct a Joni Mitchell song or Lisa Fischer rework the Rolling Stones? I am lifted to another zone that is pure soul food.

Same goes for playing music with those I cherish, trust and respect: when it all comes together, that too is a taste of heaven on earth. Perhaps that's why I am so excited to be making music again with my "brother from another mother." l love Hal. I value his skilled soulfulness. And I often resonate with where he is willing to let the music take us if we just listen carefully.  It is so sweet that he is not only going to join us for what will be my last gig at First Church - the Songs and Sounds of Solidarity for the Four Freedoms Coalition on Sunday, January 7, 2018 @ 2 pm - but will work with me on music for worship the following Sunday, January 14, 2018, too. Our hope is that soon we'll get a whole set together to take out there and see what happens. It is a blessing that I not only want to experience, but to share.

telling my part of the story at christmas...

At the close of a gloriously full day of comfort, joy and feasting with my precious family, a thought came to me about the nature of my Christmas Eve sermons: I almost always choose the pastoral rather than the prophetic path.  Pope Francis and the Rev. Dr. William Barber stand on platforms quite different from my own. They speak to a broken world - and their messages are challenging in all the right ways. My calling, however, has mostly been to a specific people in a discrete place and time.  And while we recognize and engage in the issues of our day, from standing with refugees, women and people of color to advocating with our friends in both the LGBTQ and peace movements, the words of our high holy days sound different from those of national/international leaders.  Indeed, they are much more personal and far more tender.

In the past, some have been annoyed when I make this distinction between what might be spoken to the cameras when all the world is watching and what I share with 100 people on any given Sunday morning or Christmas Eve. Ministry for the long haul recognizes that in the local church, most of the prophetic work takes place in small groups of study, action and reflection. There are obvious times for bold, formal messages that take on the injustice and cruelty of the status quo. But I have found that most Sunday mornings - or Christmas Eves -are not the best time to start such a process.  It always makes sense for Pope Francis to call out the short-sighted policies of the United States towards Palestine on Christmas Eve: the whole world is watching Bethlehem. The Archbishop of Canterbury rightly gives great attention to the violence and hatred that right-wing ultra-nationalists inflict upon our society.

But for me as a pastor of a small, local church in a modest city located in the hills of Western Massachusetts, my Christmas Eve work is to lovingly remind those who gather that Christ's invitation to love comes in small, forgotten, broken and often invisible ways to those with power or too much to do. In the cycle of Christian stories,  Christmas Eve begins our education in the upside-down realm of Jesus who arrives as Messiah in the flesh of a poor child rather than a mighty monarch.  Indeed, the arch of the Christian story is a way for us to shape and evaluate our own actions:  do they honor what is forgotten and overlooked? Do they mature through a time-tested wisdom tradition? Do they take on the status quo so that the vulnerable are protected, the lost are embraced, the lonely find community and the hungry are fed? Do we pick up our own Crosses rather than remain silent in the face of fear, prejudice and oppression? Are we willing to live into our highest values - even unto death - or do we deny what is true and hide in privilege like the disciples? From the story of Christmas through the Triduum, we have been given a way to reflect on our lives. 

My job as pastor of a local church is to invite people back to this path with hope and vigor.  I give thanks for the national and international preachers who have a stage on which to call out the violence. My calling, to borrow a phrase from T.S. Eliot, is less grand: I am to be a lesser poet, reminding those in our house that a fresh start is always possible. God is with us. May we humbly watch for the light to grow within and among us as we walk towards Epiphany.

o come let us adore him...

One of the sacred mysteries that often eludes secular control-types in or outside of the church involves worship - particularly preparing for our various high holy days. What I have discerned after nearly 40 years of practice is that I need to be attentive to the Spirit with: a) extended silence without busy work; b) time to "walk around with the Scriptures" as the late Ray Brown used to advise to hear what they are saying at a deep level; c) a measure of solitude to listen to what God is saying within my own heart (a la Henri Nouwen); and d) lots of prayer.  As an intuitive with a mystical bent, filling-out-the-forms or phoning it in doesn't cut it for me at this time of year - or during Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Ascension Day or Pentecost either. In fact, I have never once taken an old sermon and re-issued it. Never. I may have reapplied lessons that I've learned or reworked time-tested stories. And I am sure I have repeated myself out loud from time to time, too. But NEVER has it been acceptable to simply fill-in-the-blanks even during Ordinary Time! And sadly, this is not the work model that defines most of contemporary life.

When I started in this gig, I often became frantic as the High Holy Days dawned. Until my dying day, I must beg forgiveness from my children for becoming too tightly wound, snappish and harsh. I hated to be around myself so I can only guess what they experienced!  Eventually, I started to let go of trying to say too much on Christmas Eve - and trying to look like I was busy. For a number of years I simply let the lessons and carols speak of God's grace and beauty. From time to time, the woes of this world demanded a prophetic word at Christmas so I gave that a shot - especially during the last two years. But, as a rule, I learned not to say too much and to give myself LOTS of quiet time and space - often physically away from the grind of the local church - so that I might hear what the Spirit is saying to the church. Anything less is crazy-making for me.

I know that those who don't "do" worship don't get this. It is counter-intuitive to the multi-tasking, one-size-fits all frenzy that defines the current business model. Like Henri Nouwen used to say, "Please don't start a conversation off by saying, 'I know you are sooo busy but... If I am too busy to listen to you - or the Spirit of the Lord - then I am NOT doing my job." To be sure, at this time of year there are often those who try to make their lack of planning into my emergencies. I'm hip to those games and rarely fall into that trap. All the more reason to step back and let the quiet call the shots.

So here's the insight I have learned after trying to do Christmas Eve in every wrong way possible:  this is a little, small, tender and quiet holiday. The polar opposite of the secular hoopla.  It is all about the baby. Yes, babies are earthy and demanding, vulnerable and afraid, who demand an enormous amount of energy in order to love and care for them well. Nevertheless, this is not a time for too much. It is a time, as the carol says, "to come and adore him." Let that be enough. That's why for the past 15 years, I often get away from the grind for a few days to prepare my heart for adoration. If I don't, I can't hear the still small voice of the Lord trying to bring comfort and joy into all the season's demands. Driving to and from Ottawa has become for me an almost monastic time for prayer. And this year, it was just what the doctor ordered.

Now I am ready. Now I have taken the time to be still and know that the Lord is still the God of heaven and earth. Now, like the Psalmist sang, I have quieted my heart like a child resting upon her mother's breast. And I can sing faithfully:  O come let us adore him.

thinking about christmas eve.

Thinking deeply about my final Christmas Eve message this week. The liberation

theologian, Leonardo Boff, once wrote:

How does one understand that this man, with his individual and datable history, is at one and the same time God? What greatness, sovereignty, and profundity must he not have revealed and lived in order to be called God? What does “God” mean now? What sort of human being is he, that we can make such an assertion about him? What does the unity of the two – God and man – concretely signify in a historical being, one of our brothers, Jesus of Nazareth? This is one of the central facts of our faith that sets Christianity apart from other religions. Once Christianity affirms that a man is at the same time God, it stands alone in the world. We are obliged to say it: This is a scandal to…all the religions and pious peoples of yesterday and today who venerate and adore a transcendent God: one that is totally other, who cannot be objectified, a God beyond this world, infinite, eternal, incomprehensible, and above everything that human beings can be and know.

Boff doesn't claim as some do that this religion is better - it isn't - but it is unique. Yes, there are fundamental similarities in our respective calls to justice and compassion. And yes other faith traditions have their unique insights into the holy, too. But the revelation of the incarnation - the Feast of the Nativity - is that God is with us in our shared humanity. Of course there is a transcendent dimension to the sacred, but the scandal of the Christian tradition moves beyond generalities to the particulars of compassion and justice in a unique way.

The photograph of a sculpture outside St. Martins in the Fields in London makes this clear. So does Jean Vanier's insistence that the way God comes into our humanity is through cherished vulnerability: God comes to us in a tiny package. And God is nourished through the very real flesh of his mother's breasts. This graphic recently posted on Face Book kicks up the incarnational truths of Christmas.  There is littleness and earthiness, vulnerability and intimacy, the invitation to cherish, nourish and change. I still don't have my quiet and tender Christmas Eve homily yet. But I've been walking around with these ideas for a few days praying they might lead me somewhere faithful.

resting at the close of advent three...

On the third Sunday of Advent, as I prepare to head out for another quick retreat with my friends at L'Arche Ottawa, I found myself reflecting on the tender aspect of John the Baptist. For nearly 40 years I have been listening to these texts but never once realized that St. John's gospel never speaks of John as the Baptist - always the witness.  In my worship notes, I put it like this:

One of the most beautiful affirmations in the Christian tradition is the Angus Dei: the Lamb of God. It enters the Christian imagination early in St. John’s gospel, when Jesus traveled across the Jordan River to Bethany, where his wild man of the desert cousin, Yohanan, was ritually purifying people in a sacramental bath, symbolizing the forgiveness of sins by the grace of God.

· We know him as John the Baptist, but St. John’s gospel never gives him that title. Rather, in this story, John is the witness – the martyria in New Testament Greek – the one who always points to the Messiah. His testimony is clear: he is not the Savior, not the Lamb, not the prophet, and not Elijah. No, Yohanan was a witness, a voice crying out in the wilderness with his whole being that God’s light was shining by grace even in our darkness.

· John’s Hebrew name is one clue: Yohanan literally means “Graced by Yah” one early Hebrew word for God – or as we would put it: “God is Gracious.” Another is his description in this gospel as a witness. We get our English word, martyr, from the Greek root martyria meaning one who stakes his or her life on some-thing as true. It is used 45 times in 21 chapters in St. John’s story of Jesus – yet another clue by emphasis, I think – asking us to pay attention to this witness who publicly yet humbly gives over his life so that we might pay attention to the grace of God in Jesus.

“Behold,” observes John the first time he meets Jesus, “the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” On this Third Sunday of Advent, I think there are three questions for us to consider. First, is our witness to the world as people of faith public or merely private? Second, is it clear, certain, something beautiful and compelling or is our commitment to Christ fuzzy, hackneyed or habitual? And third, do we live our commitment to Jesus in humility rather than belligerently or even punitively? The story St. John’s gospel gives us of John the Baptist is a model for how we might live into the light of grace in the world. One writer put it like this: “Like the man whose name was John, the church is sent into today's world as a witness. Focusing specifically on the texts for Advent 3, let me characterize this witness as public, certain, and humble… three qualities that are in tension with the spirit of our age.” (Working Preacher, Mark Allan Powell, December 14, 2014)

How many times have you heard something said out loud about Christianity that you have found offensive, stupid, embarrassing, untrue and/or mean-spirited? There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think to myself: how in God’s name can ANYONE who loves Jesus – the man for others – the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world by grace – do or say that!?!

· And by THAT I mean any of the vicious nonsense that haunts contemporary Christianity: giving our elected leaders a pass on sexual harassment or predatory acts played out upon children. Pandering to white supremacists – fear mongering against Muslims – demonizing the GLBTQ community – proposing tax policies that pauperize the poor, victimize our vets, bleed the working middle class and line the pockets of already rich folk with tax breaks? I understand this ideologically, but NEVER in the name of Christ.

· It strains credulity – to say nothing of grace – to hear Christians equate hatred and greed with the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world! Beloved, that testimony stands in opposition to the very words of the Lord’s mother who sang: my spirit rejoices in God my savior for… the Lord has looked with favor upon the humbleness of his servant… scattering the proud in the imagination of their hearts, bringing down the powerful from their thrones and lifting up the lowly, filling the hungry with good things and sending the rich empty away.

It has never been true, but now more so than ever before for those of us in the USA who trust in God through Jesus Christ, to confess that our faith can never be treated as merely private affair. It wasn’t a private matter for John the Baptist. It clearly wasn’t a private issue for Jesus or the prophet Isaiah or the Blessed Virgin Mary. So why do we believe that our faith must be held quietly within and never offend, question or challenge the status quo? 

 I read the perfect summary of what our silence has created: training our children never to speak about religion or politics in public has created a culture where NOBODY knows how to talk civilly about religion and politics with another. With prescient clarity, 75 years ago Gandhi presciently said that: “those who tell us that religion and politics don’t mix have no understanding of either religion or politics.” What do these words from the prophet Isaiah sound like to you?  “The Lord has anointed me… to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor… I the Lord your God love justice and hate your robbery and wrongdoing.

I know that many come to worship seeking only comfort and joy - and I believe that comfort and joy are essential - at the same time arrogant, belligerent and ugly acts of religion only protect the privileged. So what does our public life of faith look like?  Roy Moore and his bravado? Or the humble witness pointing to Christ Jesus?  The sneering and brash fundamentalist Press Secretary for the current regime, Sarah Huckabee Sanders? Or the mother of our Lord and her Magnificat?

Jean Vanier put it like this in his commentary on the gospel according to St. John. Jesus needed one to prepare his way because people would never have expected to look for the Messiah in the form of a poor, peasant baby or a homeless, itinerant rabbi: "Jesus did not come in power and majesty but as a lamb, in humility and littleness… Jesus was not spectacular. He dressed simply. He did not live in the desert of the prophets nor the mansions of royalty, but in an obscure village with ordinary people like us… further, Jesus came into the world from out of the womb of a woman who some thought was tarnished… an ordinary woman who shared with him her presence, her love, her warmth, even the nourishment of her breasts… "

Humility matures in community, beloved, making mistakes, by falling down, by getting it wrong and asking for forgiveness, by carrying one another’s burdens, by being silent when we want to shoot off our mouth, by learning that we must decrease so that Christ might increase within and among us in community. May your witness and mine be one that honors the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

farewell good and faithful servant...

NOTE:  Today I celebrated what I hope is the last memorial service in this ministry. To a packed church of 300+ people, friends and family, we laid our brother in Christ, the Rev. Dr. John Messerschmitt, to rest. I was grateful to God that his family - and a variety of others - found a spirit of peace and acceptance in the ceremony. I was particularly glad that my words resonated and even helped John's daughters and beloved wife. My homily is as follows... farewell, good and faithful servant.

Our friend and brother – your husband, father and grandfather – our colleague and co-conspirator for com-passion and justice in the world, John, is gone. For each and all of us, the word UNEXPECTED has taken on a new burden since John’s passing two weeks ago was, as we say, UNEXPECTED. It was a shock, a stab in the heart, an emptiness that continues to reverberate in mysterious ways in our souls.

To be sure, we give thanks to God that John’s end time was not prolonged or bleak. Carol has said that there was a peace that passed over John when he breathed his last that was reassuring and grace-filled. Those who have witnessed such a paradoxical blessing understand exactly what St. Paul taught when he assured us that we do NOT grieve as those who have no hope. Just a few weeks before John’s death I reiterated that promise to those gathered for worship on All Saints Day – we do NOT grieve as those who have no hope – and yet grieve we must. John would not have counseled us otherwise: a pastoral therapist to the end he would have told us to make certain not to stuff our feelings or run away from them with distractions or denials. And then to trust that in God’s own time, our grieving would lead us out of emptiness into a darkness that would, in time, move us towards a quiet peace.

It is a journey we never really get over or resolve; but with time and support we learn to live with it in new ways. Like the ancient Psalmist of Israel sang:

I wait upon the Lord, my soul waits and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, yes, more than those who watch for the morning. O Israel, trust in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love and great power to be healed.

So, in the spirit of quiet trust, saturated with both love and honesty, let me note that as I look back on the life John lived among us, two great themes that stand out: comfort and shalom.

John expressed them in his own unique way. Yet he was clear that both comfort and shalom –what we know as peace but defined as right relations between people, creation and the sacred - were essential for the well-being of individuals and society. And he gave his time, money, energy, thought and love to enfleshing God’s shalom and comfort throughout his full and productive life. Those commitments shape this liturgy – especially the two hymns that bookend today’s celebration of John’s life:

+  God of Grace and God of Glory hails from the Protestant cathedral of social justice and creative thinking: the Riverside Church in New York City, John’s home. It is just a block away from John’s alma mater: Union Theological Seminary. And flows from the pen of Riverside’s first pastor, the dean of liberal Protestant theology, Harry Emerson Fosdick. “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage” the chorus urges us: “for the living of this, hour, lest we miss Thy kingdom’s goal, that we fail not man nor Thee” o Lord. It is a confession of sin and faith, a call to social action against our warring madness and an invitation to cast our vision upon the Beloved Community rather than the lowest common denominator of our broken culture. Further, it just sounds like John: bold, decisive, elegant and earthy.

+ The same for our closer, For All the Saints, the elegant end of life poem Ralph Vaughn Williams set to music at the start of the 20th century. It, too, speaks of comfort and peace, a rest born of a life dedicated to the cause of Christ within the real world. Not in an ivory tower nor entombed in abstract theology, but practiced every day in the flesh and blood acts of compassion and justice right here and right now.

The words of Isaiah 40 evoke John’s ministry as I knew it over the past decade, too. Comfort, comfort o my people, tell of peace, thus sayeth the Lord. Comfort those who sit in darkness bowed beneath oppression’s load. Speak you to Jerusalem, of the peace that waits for them; tell them that their sins I cover and their warfare now is over. When I first arrived, we were trying to figure out how to bring some focus to our Outreach Mission Ministry. In time, we zeroed in on four broad themes: caring for the earth, hunger, homelessness and peace. And John was down with EACH of these emphases. He was in a canoe for our river clean ups with BEAT. He was on Park Square with Berkshire Citizens for Peace and Justice nearly every Thursday. We spent a lot of time in conversation building houses on a Habitat for Humanity trip to New Orleans. And John fed others from his own well-being, too: sometimes that was with food, sometimes with his teaching ministry and sometimes it was in his service as a tutor. Comfort and shalom – healing and social justice – were bound together in the life and ministry of John Messerschmitt.

+ My first autumn in Pittsfield, John took me on a long hike along the Housatonic River near his house to see the beauty of nature – and the destruction caused by human waste and PCBs. Later that year he and Dick Noble taught me to snow shoe and cross country ski. And that first spring we all went to New Orleans with Habitat. John was a member of the search committee that brought me here, too. We spent a LOT of time together.

+ That’s why the gospel reading for this day speaks to us of John Messerschmitt, too: like the early disciples of Jesus who encountered the Risen Christ incognito at a dinner table, John relentlessly encouraged this community to make time to eat and talk with one another on a regular basis. He knew that something holy happens around the table when we break bread together. Small wonder that he was a regular at hikes and winter ski outings, harvest dinner bingo games as well as the more formal events for social justice with the Berkshire Association.

Others will soon eulogize John and share some of their special memories of him in a moment, so let me close by being vulnerable with a blessing that came to me late in our relationship: John and I didn’t always agree. Well, that isn’t exactly right; we mostly agreed on goals, but for nearly ten years we often disagreed on tactics. He was direct, I was more obtuse. He wanted his pastor out on Park Square; I believed that most of my work was in the training of the saints – the laity – to do the public work of ministry. He wanted me to take more aggressive social justice stands in the community, and I tended towards doing that with the arts and contemplation. For a long time, we differed on the how of doing church – and sometimes even hurt one another in the process. Never intentionally, but it happened.

Then two things took place beyond our mutual control that began to change and even heal our differences: 

+ One had to do with the election of this current regime and my active participation in the resistance. NOW we were on the same page. Now there were regular messages on Sunday morning – and in the Berkshire Eagle – calling out the vulgarity, selfishness, racism and greed of Washington and its swamp rats. So we often found ourselves together protesting some ugly or mean-spirited policies spewing from Washington. So I have to say something out loud I never dreamed I would utter: I give thanks to Donald Trump for creating a situation wherein John and I could claim common ground. Talk about the blessings of the Paschal Mystery, right!  Where something horrific leads us into healing and blessings!

+ That was one thing that changed. And the other was that during those times of protest, we had time to talk. Yes, we talked about the issues. But time and again we especially talked about becoming older, white clergy men whose bodies didn’t work quite as well as they did when we were younger. Whose hearing and eyes and backs weren't quite as chipper as they once were - and what the hell happened to our memories? In a sign of God’s grace and glory – to say nothing of God’s upside down sense of humor and wicked sense of humor – it was on the picket line in the wind, rain or snow where we found ourselves together at the same place for the same cause, and ended up talking together like those two old guys on the Muppets Show sitting up in the balcony. It was Christ’s calling to comfort and shalom – compassion and social justice – that gave rise to a change in my heart. 

Whereas I had always valued and respected John, now there was love and affection – and even trust. God works in mysterious ways her wonders to behold, yes?  Today we give thanks to God for the life and ministry of our brother, John Messerschmitt. Today I give thanks to God for this man who always showed up here and never quit living into the promise of comfort and shalom.

let every segment of life produce its own yield...

Today I enrolled in Social Security - over the phone - and it was a breeze! To be sure, I had already done the on-line Medicare part last year so that wasn't an issue. And, we're still enrolled in the denominational health plan (for the foreseeable future.) So to be honest, the Medicare was the emotionally complicated boundary for me to cross because it screamed: YES, you are a senior citizen now. Tant pis, mais oui?  And therein lies the challenge: to accept what is real and honor it. Sr. Joan Chittister put it like this:

The secret of life is to let every segment of it produce its own yield at its own pace. Every period has something new to teach us. The harvest of youth is achievement; the harvest of middle-age is perspective; the harvest of age is wisdom; the harvest of life is serenity... There is a built-in danger in old age which, if we give in to it, makes aging one of the most difficult periods of life, rather than one of the most satisfying - which it should be. The danger of old age is that we may start acting old.

So far I've been spared that affliction: my hearing has been diminished, my back hurts from time to time, I can't lose weight like I used to and my energy level falls off after 10 pm. But my heart is still strong and my soul is open to the paradoxical invitation of the Spirit. So, like Fr. Richard Rohr says:

All great spirituality teaches about letting go of what you don’t need and who you are not. Then, when you can get little enough and naked enough and poor enough, you’ll find that the little place where you really are is ironically more than enough and is all that you need. At that place, you will have nothing to prove to anybody and nothing to protect. That place is called freedom. It’s the freedom of the children of God. Such people can connect with everybody. They don’t feel the need to eliminate anybody...

To say that I am down for this next phase of the adventure would be a gross understatement. We'll never be rich. We may barely be "comfortable" but now is the time for a whole new way of being. Que le festival commence! I play a jazz gig tomorrow night. I bury a saint of the church on Saturday - and then get our Christmas tree! On Sunday I celebrate the humility of St. John the Baptist and the wisdom of the Blessed Virgin Mary and celebrate Eucharist. And on Monday, I head off to join my friends in the L'Arche Ottawa community. By the following weekend it will be Christmas Eve and the whole family will gather for carols, worship, Eucharist, laughter, tears and story telling. Then feasting on Christmas Day with the clan and resting together. Before getting ready for a concert of resistance and solidarity to kick off the New Year. Que le festival commence!

U2 at christmas...

The new U2 album is out and I hope to listen to it before Christmas. That hasn't happened yet, but life is full when a loved one injures her back, a saint of the the church suddenly dies and you're planning the closing liturgies of a long ministry. There are some older, really potent U2 songs that cry out for posting as the Advent season ripens for believers.

One is the reworking of Greg Lake's "I Believe in Father Christmas." Check it out
and try to convince me that it doesn't evoke some of the tender hope the Christ child brings into the world...



The other is more somber, "Peace on Earth" from their comeback album, All That You Can't Leave Behind." It hurts to hear this song - and it should - given the avarice, cruelty and blind disregard for the least of Christ's sisters and brothers. Every time I hear it I am taken deeper in confession and renewal.