dancing in the dark...

This will be hard to leave...

No doubt about it: this view has grounded my wandering mind and nourished my anxious heart in season and out. So, too, this room. It is the repository of 40+ years of ministry, music, and memory - longer still when a few foundational record albums make the cut. 

Yesterday, after two plus years of talking - and a three year transition from full time ministry into a part-time gig and then retirement - we met with a realtor. I needed a catalyst to clarify our next steps. And make no mistake about it, discussing selling our home of 11 years in the Berkshires unlocked a ton of catalytic energy. Fear. Joy. Anxiety. Nostalgia. Excitement. Doubt. And memories. 

Today I am feeling fragile and curious.  Part of me is asking: what are we doing and where will we live next? "Only Thou knowest, Lord" said the prophet Ezekiel and I hear both trust and timidity in those words as they take up residence within. Simultaneously I hear the Boss whispering, "Can't start a fire, can't start a fire without a spark, this gun's for hire even if we're just dancing in the dark." 



We know we are being called to spend more time in Canada: I have a deepening commitment to L'Arche Ottawa, and, Di yearns to grow her on-line teaching work. I will be playing more music with our new ensemble, and, we want to find a smaller, more rural home base for our time in the US. After all, there are grand babies to cherish here and daughters and sons-in-law to love. Some of the most sacred times we have ever experienced have taken place around our respective tables. And let's not forget that time has come today to de-clutter our lives and take another plunge into simplicity. In so many ways, now is the time to act - and there's even a fighting chance we might do better than breaking even!

A beautiful passage of Scripture penned by St. Paul resonates with me today: we see by faith and not by sight. (II Corinthians 5: 7) It is a corollary to another Pauline poem: now we see as through a glass darkly, then we shall see face to face. (I Corinthians 13: 12) I have wrestled imperfectly with this truth for my adult life: anxiety and trust are always embracing and dancing in the darkness of my soul. Sometimes one leads, then the other. Like the apostle wrote in Romans: I know what I want to honor, what I want to do, what I want to celebrate; but so often do the exact opposite at first. At the same time, I know through experience - and by faith - that when I trust the deeper call of love, then peace comes with the morning. The trials remain. The ups and downs continue. There will always be Good Friday as well as Holy Saturday before Easter Sunday. Both the dance and the darkness will continue in new forms until at last the dance is done. Until then, my prayer is to remember and trust that "we see by faith and not by sight."

We're off to Montréal soon to mark the one year anniversary of Di's credentialing as an ESL instructor. It has been almost a year since our last visit and we miss it. So there will be a lot of discussion, silence, and prayer about how to take this next step by faith. Here's an old Bruce Cockburn song that I just learned. It feels right...

communion is the heart of creation: thoughts on st. john's gospel.

NOTE: From time to time during the liturgical season of Eastertide I will be sharing a thought or two about St. John's gospel. The more time I spend with it, the greater clarity it brings to my sense of call in my new incarnation. Funny, I thought I was done with ministry only to discover new possibilities in new/old ways. As I pray them through I have started to realize that they all arise from chapter one: St. John's prologue.

The story of so-called Doubting Thomas is always the gospel reading for the Sunday after Easter in the liturgical churches. Other Reformed congregations experiment with Bright or Holy Humor Sunday during which laughter becomes an integral part of the worship experience. Right out of the gate, let me note that I am not a big fan of the way Holy Humor Sunday tends to manifest itself in Protestant congregations. The Eastern Orthodox origins of this celebration teach that God played the biggest joke on the world by raising Jesus from the dead. So please don't get me wrong, I am totally down with this, and celebrate laughter and tenderness in worship. That is why the week following Easter was set aside for feasting, light and joy in the first place. Why not reclaim a whole week for fun and celebration following the Easter revelation rather than cram it into an hour on the lowest worship attendance Sunday of the year? I simply find that the anemic or cheesy humor that too often shows up in place of liturgy is wildly unsatisfying. In my experience, form has tended to triumph over content here, leaving weak jokes, modest gags, and weird decorations to shape the flow of worship. What I find myself wondering is: why bother?  

To complicate matters, my evolving theological understanding of Easter seeks to honor the divine mystery of Christ's resurrection, but increasingly in ways that reflect the quiet, intimate and profoundly little revelation of that day. St. John's gospel for Thomas Sunday notes that Jesus shows up on Easter inside the upper room - not in the Temple or market place - but among a small group of friends. He then breathes on them, invoking the gift of the Holy Spirit, prayerfully offers the peace that passes understanding (mystical wisdom) and asks his friends to spread God's radical grace in the world in a manner mirroring his own ministry.

Like many throughout the ages, Thomas misses the first mystical encounter, so he raises questions about what actually took place in the Upper Room. Faithfully the wounded healer returns a week later to share another inner blessing with his small circle of friends. He then invites Thomas to personally encounter the resurrection mystery by touching - experiencing and entering - his broken body. Jean Vanier writes: "It is moving to see how Jesus meets and accepts Thomas just as he is: Jesus accepts the challenge without complaint or criticism." Please note, however, that it is his wounds that Jesus asks Thomas to embrace. 

(Jesus) responds to Thomas' need and cry even if this need comes from a lack of trust. Moved to tears, Thomas places his had into the side of Jesus with love and respect and cries out: My Lord and my God... In these two apparitions (earlier to Magdalene outside the tomb) we are asked to contemplate the risen body of Jesus, a body that reveals the wounds inflicted upon him. A gaping hole remains in his side, big enough to fit a hand, a whole remains in his hands and feet big enough to fit a finger. These wounds are there for all ages and all time, to reveal the humble and forgiving love of Jesus who accepted to go to the enter end of love. The risen Jesus does not appear at the powerful one, but as the wounded and forgiving one. (Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus,pp. 344-45)

The story of Thomas closes with an admonition: "(Thomas) believed because he has"seen." But blessed are those who have not seen and chosen to trust." (John 20) This is not a big, funny, or triumphant story. It is an invitation for us to touch the wounds of the world and discover Christ therein. The "empty" Cross of the Reformation - symbol of resurrection - too often rushes past the agony and suffering of the Crucifix. We ache to get through Good Friday. We yearn for a bright Easter. We long for the feast, not the fast. To which tradition says: spend some time with Thomas and his questions first. Forgiveness and faith will come but they are always mixed with tears and brokenness; this is the only way into enter the party. Anything less smacks of cheap grace. 

This is the wisdom - the logos - that kicks off St. John's prologue, too: "In the beginning, before all things were, the Logos (God's wisdom) was. The Logos was with God, present to God, turned toward God; and the Logos was God. In the beginning, the Wisdom was in communion with God." 

Later this week I will wrestle with this more fully, but for today let me note the following:

+ A deeper meaning of logos, which has been translated into English as the word, is more nuanced. "It is the vision or plan of God - the inspiration behind the spoken (and written) word. The "word" and the "thoughts" of God are the same. In fact, I would dare to call logos "wisdom." (Vanier, The Gospel of John, p. 1) The wisdom of creation creatively embraces life, death and resurrection: this is the order of the cosmos.

+ Our English text goes on to say that "the logos was with God." But Vanier insists that a more intimate and accurate translation would be "the Word was in communion - unity - with God." This is critical for it provides a lens through which to understand the point of our existence. "Goethe writes that in the beginning there was action. But in John's gospel it is said that "In the beginning, before all things were, there was unity and communion." In other words, unity precedes creation - and a quest for unity drives every expression of creation. (Vanier, ibid)

My calling - our purpose - the rhythm of the cosmos - is to live creatively and in communion with the agony of Good Friday, the mystery and emptiness of Holy Saturday, and the quiet presence of the resurrected but wounded Messiah on Easter. There is grief, gratitude and joy all together in such communion. The blessings are not sentimentalized nor are they a gory fetish. Easter is neither trivialized nor idealized. And for this complexity, I give thanks to God this day.

credits:
1) https://www.artranked.com/topic/Doubting+Thomas
2) https://tammytourguide.wordpress.com/2013/07/12/saints-alive-londons-saints-and-sinners/
3) http://www.fluxmagazine.com/street-artist-yola/

nourishing revolutionary love...

Earlier this week I played music a ton of music. I listened hard to get the songs right, loved every minute of working through all the complicated kinks of off-tempo measures I didn't easily understand, rejoiced like a child when we got them right two times in a row, and reverently took-in constructive suggestions about how to play my parts better. Over and over we practiced parts of certain songs - wood-shedding and botching them up without embarrassment - until there was enough muscle memory and artistic nuance to let the organic beauty of the music soar. On Sunday afternoon, we'll do it again.

Why? I have long believed in the restorative power of music. Creating beauty through music has been a life-time spiritual discipline. It is personal prayer as well as soul food generously shared in public. In many ways, bringing music to a gathering of individuals is secular worship: part ritual, part cleansing, part quest for common ground, and part invitation to live from the heart for a moment in time. As a student and practitioner of non-violent social change, music is also a force that evokes faithfulness and solidarity in times of terror. John Lewis has said repeatedly: when the dogs and fire hoses were turned on us in the Civil Rights movement, it was our singing together that empowered us to hold on. My experience has been that when these truths embrace, music becomes a creative expression of non-violent resistance to oppression. It is simultaneously an aesthetic, sensory challenge to the status quo, and, a tender invitation into this generation's movement of revolutionary love that can "dismantle injustice and remake the world around us - and within us."

Ours has become a utilitarian culture, addicted and obsessed with bottom lines.We measure community, faith, hope and love from the perspective of immediate gratification. Parker Palmer recently noted that our national commitment is no longer to educate our children, but to push them through a test. Even if it requires cheating, all that matters in contemporary education is the outcome. He went on to wonder: in his fleeting last moments of life, did MLK ponder his effectiveness - the outcomes of his revolutionary love - as he bled out? Or, was he at peace on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis knowing that he had already "been to the mountain top?" I trust the later, but such is a minority report in 21st century America.

Now, beyond our utilitarian obsessions, we are becoming a people flirting with fascism. Madelaine Albright put it like this in yesterday's NY Times: 

Today, we are in a new era, testing whether the democratic banner can remain aloft amid terrorism, sectarian conflicts, vulnerable borders, rogue social media and the cynical schemes of ambitious men. The answer is not self-evident. We may be encouraged that most people in most countries still want to live freely and in peace, but there is no ignoring the storm clouds that have gathered. In fact, fascism — and the tendencies that lead toward fascism — pose a more serious threat now than at any time since the end of World War II. 
(https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/06/opinion/sunday/trump-fascism-madeleine-albright.html)

Our culture works overtime celebrating that which is course, rude, cruel, and mean-spirited. The so-called "art of the deal" so shapes our collective soul that we have lost touch with truth, goodness, and beauty. Indeed, we are woefully ignorant of the warning Alexandr Solzhenitsyn prophesied in his 1970 Nobel Peace Prize testimony: beauty can save the world. For those who have forgotten who Solzhenitsyn was - or never knew - he served as a Russian soldier in WWII who was later imprisoned in Stalin's work camps. He rose to be an author of international repute for One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch, Cancer Ward, and Matryona's Place. In 1973 his Gulag Archipelago documented the horrors of communism's forced prison camps.  Awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1970, Solzhenitsyn did not travel to Stockholm for fear he would be denied re-entry to his beloved Mother Russia. In 1974 he was banished from his homeland, moved to the US in exile, and returned in 1994 after the fall of communism. 

One day Dostoevsky threw out the enigmatic remark: "Beauty will save the world". What sort of a statement is that? For a long time I considered it mere words. How could that be possible? When in bloodthirsty history did beauty ever save anyone from anything? Ennobled, uplifted, yes - but whom has it saved? There is, however, a certain peculiarity in the essence of beauty, a peculiarity in the status of art: namely, the convincingness of a true work of art is completely irrefutable and it forces even an opposing heart to surrender.
(https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1970/solzhenitsyn-lecture.html)

The heart of his speech centered on his experience as an artist: tyrants tremble when beauty and truth embrace and are shared. When art articulates truth and goodness to the wider world, beauty evokes solidarity from all sectors of society. Allies outside of Russia who read Solzhenitsyn's fiction were emboldened to advocate for freedom of expression within the Soviet Union. These alliances strengthened one another by creatively shining the light of beauty into the darkness. Even when truth and goodness were shackled, unable to find free expression, beauty ascended. It awakened the collective conscience. It broke individual hearts. It gave shape and form to what human beings hold in common. And in time it was able to literally tear down walls. 

Our era, while nothing like the grim purgatories of Soviet terror, is caught in a web of lies and fear-mongering. Some people of faith have forsaken the ethics and values of Jesus - like honoring the stranger as the Lord, doing unto others as we would have them do unto us, loving our enemies, and trusting the way of the Cross - in exchange for a new culture war founded on  the possibility of a Supreme Court nominee. Others are concerned only about instant gratification. And more and more mistrust the press, elected officials and their neighbors. In such a polarized time it is rare for opponents to meet and recognize one another's common humanity. But, it still happens in our culture from time to time through music...

Think of country artists Tim McGraw and Faith Hill calling for common sense gun laws. Or Bruce Springsteen calling out police violence against African Americans in "41 Shots." Or John Mellancamp's duets with
Me'Shell Ndegeocello or country singer Travis Tritt. Or country giant Garth Brooks taking on homophobia or domestic violence. Or Mary J Blige teaming up with U2 on "One."


For a moment in time, these artists and many, many others break through our collective fear to embody a loving alternative. In this, I believe that music
nourishes our better angels. It puts us back in touch with our deepest truths. And it evokes both the tears of lament and the laughter of joy without diminishing either. 

God has given us gifts to enter the hardness of this hour but the holy "words" must become "flesh." We have been given compassion to stand with the forgotten, love to embrace the despised and broken; music to express our deepest truths; and treasured sisters and brothers of every size, shape, gender, race and class to help us carry the load when it all becomes more than we can bear. Music and tenderness in community are sacred resources given to us for reclaiming the common good.

the gospel of john: a lens for making sense of my commitments (part one)

NOTE: On and off over the time between Easter and Pentecost I am going to think creatively about the Gospel of John. I want to draw on a variety of solid scholarship - and poetry - to connect some loose ends that have been waving around my soul for at least 40 years. Maybe more. This will be my unhurried attempt to listen to the sacred text in partnership with a variety of partners including Jean Vanier, Amy-Jill Levine, Ray Brown and John Sanford. This is one way for me to to stay engaged in the larger life of the church. It is also a way for me to better make sense of my life commitments as they ripen in retirement.

During the past three years, different colleagues have mentioned to me the work of Cynthia Bourgeault. Both an Anglican priest and theological scholar, Bourgeault has been exploring how the Christian doctrine of God as Holy Trinity both guides the wisdom of the cosmos and gives shape and form the the mystic's path of embodied compassion. Her articulation of the "law of Three" - affirming, denying and neutralizing activity - shares a spiritual kinship with both the life, death and resurrection of Jesus in Scripture as well as the theological construct of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Other examples of the law of three might include Hegel's understanding of time as the inspired movement from thesis to antithesis towards synthesis; or the materialist analysis of history according to the Marxist dialectic. The three jewels of Buddhism - seeking personal refuge in the Buddha, practicing the truth of Dharma (the teachings of the Buddha) and doing so in community, Sangha - are yet another paradigm of three that helps seekers discern patterns and meaning within the mysteries of existence.  The feminist archetype of the Triple Moon - maiden, mother and crone - is still another way the law of three organizes the wisdom and energies evoked by the moon's waxing, full and waning phases to bring order to the chaos.

Three weeks ago, in the middle of band practice, we paused to talk about what our own search for patterns of order has revealed. Where have we found clues that offer a measure of meaning or purpose? What wisdom has accrued in our respective ups and downs? We both held an awareness of the synergy "the law of Three" holds albeit from different perspectives. Going deeper, we spoke of how as musicians we resonate with a dropped D tuning on our guitars (lowering the bottom E string a full step below standard tuning.) In Western music, this key is often used for rejoicing. It grounds the listener in the beauty of life while pointing to the possibilities still to come. Think Bach, Schubert or Mozart. Or "The Wind" by Yusuf Cat Stevens. It was intriguing to discover that we both loved this vibration and go to it often.

In my Christian tradition another organizing lens that brings order out of the chaos is the liturgical seasons. Each of the discrete seasons express part of the wisdom human beings have distilled from reality: Advent/Christmas/Epiphany ask us to practice patience, trust and anticipation; Lent evokes the mystery of suffering, darkness and uncertainty in our experience; Easter points to the still and small presence of the holy that breaks through our failures in unexpected ways; Pentecost holds the promise of inspiration and peace beyond our control; and Ordinary Time invites believers to apply the unforced rhythms of grace to our everyday lives. Other spiritual traditions use the movement of liturgical feasts and fasts to celebrate a wisdom born of order, too. Think of the journey of wisdom honored through the Jewish year of feasts and fasts. Or Islam. From keeping sabbath to ordering our days with prayers at morning, noon and night, liturgies can be another tool to train us in discerning patterns of meaning.

Which brings me to one of my own spiritual, intellectual resources for discernment: taking the time to write down my personal questions and insights concerning my faith commitment. It seems that I have done this at least twelve times over the course of 53 years. Starting with my confirmation class in 1965 and call to ministry in 1968, I have been intentional about clarifying for myself what I believe and why. Like St. Bob Dylan testified: I will know my song well before I start singing. Mostly what I have learned over this time, however, is how much I don't know at first. I may just have a tune. Or a poem. Or a hunch. With enough time and patience, I can then start to clarify what I suspect these clues mean. And in doing so, I move towards a conscious affirmation of faith. These writings have included various visions of ministry statements shared with each of the four congregations I have served, preparations for being a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, a doctoral dissertation, a proposal for sabbatical, and my reflections on a call into retirement. 

Now, as yet a new phase of spiritual engagement is taking shape, I am drawn

again to the task of clarifying for myself what I believe - and why. As the Bard of Vermont puts it: "Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” He adds that it important to pay particular attention to those moments when tears appear:

You never know what may cause them. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you’ve never seen before. A pair of somebody’s old shoes can do it…. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next. (Beyond Words)

During the days between Easter and Pentecost, I will be using the Gospel of John to help focus my search for clarity - and here is why. In his commentary on St. John's gospel, Drawn to the Mystery of Jesus Through the Gospel of John, and the companion synthesis, The Gospel of John/The Gospel of Relationship, Jean Vanier reworks the Prologue of chapter one into this brilliant, theologically profound poem:

In the beginning
before all things
communion was:
communion between God
and the "Logos"
- Wisdom.

In part two of my reflection I will take these words deeper as they bring order to the chaos and hope to my broken heart. I will also playfully share some thoughts about the equally stunning second part of this poem:

At one moment in time
the Widsom/Logos
became flesh
and entered history.
Sacred Wisdom came to lead us all
into this communion
which is the very life of God.

Grace and peace until then.

credits:
1) St. John's Bible: The Gospel of John
2) Robert Lentz: Holy Wisdom

honoring the small presence as the heart of easter...

It is simultaneously serene and stimulating to be back in my Berkshire study today. On the morning after the Feast of the Resurrection, it is once again snowing. This always evokes a certain stillness in my soul that the hillside seems to share: the woods look tranquil, traffic noises are muffled, fewer people step out of their homes, the muck and mire of the season are blanketed with an unblemished frosting, and, at least for a few hours, the very air is hushed. Most everyone in these parts feels sick unto death of winter - yet once again Mother Nature reminds us that we are not in control. Spring will arise eternal in it's own sweet time, so "be still and know that I am God" seems to be the order of the day.

I find such serenity stimulating. My inner proclivity towards anxiety has long trained me to avoid slowing down. I now long to nourish it. Fretting and hyper vigilance were good resources back in the days of danger and dysfunction. Now they have outlived their usefulness and exhaust me. A beloved spiritual director used to say, "You learned a lot of skills growing up in an alcoholic family where violence often hid just around an unknown corner. Now it is time to use those skills for something beyond survival. Now is your season for contemplation, listening, and loving." He was right, of course, but living into such wisdom is hard won. To embody the upside down blessings of God in the flesh demands death before the resurrection: "for whosoever shall save her life will lose it, but whosoever loses that life for my sake shall find it." (Mt. 16: 24) To paraphrase Fr. Rohr: the Cross has become the work of the second half of my life. "For what does it profit us to gain the whole world, but lose our souls?"

In the past week I have been to Ottawa and back - spending part of Holy Week with my L'Arche community - before going to Brooklyn to share Easter with our grandchildren and their dear parents. Each visit was holy in its own way: at L'Arche I was able to be a part of the community foot washing ceremony, play music, and join the Stations of the Cross liturgy; in Brooklyn, we decorated Easter eggs, sang lullabies, feasted, laughed, talked, walked babies, blew bubbles, and rejoiced that the precious gift of new life has saturated us all after a year of trials. As this was the first Triduum in nearly 40 years that I have not celebrated Eucharist, it was also a time uniquely charged with personal significance.

This was a little Easter. A quiet Easter. In some ways even a silent Easter. In the past, the whole of Holy Week was ensconced in public activities: ecumenical, city-wide Palm Sunday processions, rehearsals and liturgies, well-advertised invitations for Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter Sunday, dressing the Sanctuary, and community reflections on the meaning of each and all of these sacred events. Not so this year. There were no trumpet fanfares, no triumphant choral anthems, and no bold explosions of Spring flowers bursting into my observances. Rather, what I experienced in the quiet songs and silences of this year's Holy Week was a presence. Clearly I claim it as the presence of Christ Jesus, but differently from the ways I have searched for him before. The introduction to Jean Vanier's "Way of the Cross" liturgy for Good Friday set the stage:

Who has believed our message: Isaiah described the man of sorrow who was rejected and despised and he continued: 'The punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.' (Isaiah 53:5) This prophecy foreshadowed Jesus, a man of sorrow, despised and crucified. Who would believe that by dying this man could give us life? Who would believe that the crucified of our world could give us life? Certainly inspired by this text, the early Church loved to sing the words of Paul:  "He, who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient to death - even death on a cross!" (Philippians 2: 6-8) 

Like other contemporary theologians of liberation, Vanier writes that the life, death, resurrection, ascension, ministry, spirituality, and witness of Jesus was not a big event. It was never triumphal and rarely public. "He was a small and weak Messiah," read the words of our Stations of the Cross bulletin, "one who sought not power, but the communion of hearts." So was born yet another "aha" moment that has its origins in my sabbatical epiphanies of three years ago. I heard Vanier linking Tillich, Luther, Niebuhr, Soelle, Rohr, Reuther, Bourgeault, Nouwen and Hall together for me: in Jesus, God has become small for us - vulnerable and tender, hidden in weakness - showing us the essence of God's heart so that our hearts might become whole. Vanier continued:

Jesus took the road of subservience. He went down into darkness and human weakness to take on everything but he was to rise again, with all his brothers and sisters in humanity, to his beloved Father. Jesus invites all of us to follow him on this downward journey in order to rise with him in the glory of the Father. 

For six hours driving home from Ottawa I wondered where I have known this "little Jesus" - the presence who is often with me quietly - who is so very different from the Christ proclaimed in public. On Saturday, the liturgical time between the Cross and the resurrection when tradition teaches that Jesus descended into the mysterious darkness of hell, I saw a guest editorial by Vanier on line: "Most Christians think of the Resurrection as a victory of life over death. Finally, Jesus has won." That was certainly how I have historically celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection. If Easter was the highest and holiest of our days - and it is - then our celebration must be bathed in bold expressions of strength. I know this is not the humble and tender spirituality of Jesus. It is the paradigm of power and grandeur put into practice by wealthy, Western Christendom. It is the ceremonial form of  the 1%'s hegemony of culture. It is the theology of glory. And still I often went with the flow of the dominant culture. Canadian theologian, Douglas John Hall, cuts to the core when he writes that a theology of glory corrupts the wisdom of the Cross:

The "religion of progress" (George P. Grant) serves only to blind human beings to the reality of their own and their neighbors' vulnerability, pathos and suffering. When the Christian religion allows its witness to stray so predictably from the cross of the Christ to its "glorious denouement," it is simply lending itself to the deceptive project of the technological society—which is (as Ernest Becker so poignantly argued) "the denial of death." When we turn the story of Jesus into a success story, we both cheat ourselves out of its depth and effectively banish from our purview all those (and they are billions now) whose actuality precludes their giving themselves eagerly to stories with happy endings. The gospel of the cross is not about rescuing us from our finitude; it's about a compassionate God's solidarity with us in our (yes, perhaps impossible) creaturehood and the slow grace of divine suffering-love which, without pretending finality, ef­fects its social and personal transformations from within. (https://www.christiancentury. org/article/2010-08/cross-and-context)

I don't know if you have ever seen a significant part of your public identity shift before your inner eye, but it is sobering. Humbling. Disorienting. That is part of this Easter's blessing for me: I saw with penetrating clarity the disconnect between the still, small voice of Christ's presence within; and, some of the ways I have ignored him in public. Vanier's words were clarifying:

The disciples of Jesus were certain that he was the Messiah; he spoke with great authority, he performed amazing miracles. The last of these miracles was the resurrection of Lazarus. They were sure that something great would happen on the feast of the Passover, the anniversary of the great liberation, something which would show clearly that Jesus was the Messiah, the one who had been announced in the psalms as a victorious king.

But what in fact happens? There is no victory. Jesus is condemned to a horrible death. He is stripped of his clothes and of his dignity. He is crucified. His disciples are shattered. Jesus was not the Messiah after all – he couldn’t be, because the Messiah was one who would be triumphant, who would win. So they run away; they fall into a world of depression. They had given everything for Jesus; now they are completely lost. They had been mistaken about him all along. Some, no doubt, even feel angry with Jesus. On Easter morning they find it difficult to believe the women who tell them that they have seen Jesus alive. It can’t be true. The women must be imagining things. Two of the disciples leave the group for Emmaus. Others remain behind locked doors. They don’t know what to do. Then, suddenly, Jesus is among them, even though the doors have not been unlocked. And all he says is, “Peace to you”. He looks at each one of them with eyes of love and of forgiveness.

Like the Lord's first followers, I too have looked for a strong, powerful and triumphant Messiah. I've preached this Christ and wanted him to be real. But this Jesus never shows up. It is a lie and Jesus is "the way, the truth and the life." Jesus remains small. Hidden. A presence beyond the seductive illusions of power. Like those who first loved him, I often misunderstood both his wisdom and his way. Like the other men in his early cadre, I have run away and betrayed him, too. That's not pious hyperbole, but a simple fact. And then, after my fussing and fuming, after my busyness and my addiction to glory, that still small voice and presence from beyond the Cross returns and says, "Peace." Shalom.

Nothing more. (On the first Easter) Jesus lives with each one (of his disciples) in a moment of communion, which is forgiveness. The feast of Easter, the feast of liberation, is essentially the feast of the forgiveness of God. His followers, who had lost faith in him, are liberated from their guilt and shame. Jesus loves each one of them - and he loves each one of us. He wants us all to be alive, to be fully loved and fully loving. He wants us to be “Easter people”, people of the resurrection, people who accept forgiveness, and who forgive others. So often we forget this message of the Gospel. We are taken up by the things of the world. We want to win more money and more power... and Jesus comes simply to forgive, to give his peace.

This year Jesus was among us at our Easter feasting in Brooklyn. It wasn't a traditional public Eucharist - and I missed that - and I will have to figure out new ways of doing public worship, too. Still, as our little family recalled the ways new life, healing, hope and love had come into our midst after a year of fear, anguish, hurt and confusion I heard over and over in my heart: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed.

a seed must die...

For Holy Week 2018, Di has suggested I start a journal entitled "The Road to L'Arche." It won't be for publication - even in blogging form - but rather a written reflection on thoughts, insights, events, quotes, pictures and essays that speak to my journey into pastoral ministry 40 years ago - and out. Having read Henri Nouwen's journal, The Road to Daybreak: a Spiritual Journey for Lent, I am going to start later today. I will have 5+ hours to ponder all of this yet another time as I drive to Ottawa for a few days with Mountainview House. 

In addition to Holy Week liturgies, I will share some extended time with my friends being a part of their ordinary life rituals of house cleaning and preparing supper. Kathleen Norris wisely calls these "the quotidian mysteries: laundry, liturgy and women's work." she writes, "The ordinary activities I find most compatible with contemplation are walking, baking bread, and doing laundry."

The Bible is full of evidence that God's attention is indeed fixed on the little things. But this is not because God is a great cosmic cop, eager to catch us in minor transgressions, but simply because God loves us--loves us so much that we the divine presence is revealed even in the meaningless workings of daily life. It is in the ordinary, the here-and-now, that God asks us to recognize that the creation is indeed refreshed like dew-laden grass that is "renewed in the morning" or to put it in more personal and also theological terms, "our inner nature is being renewed everyday". Seen in this light, what strikes many modern readers as the ludicrous details in Leviticus involving God in the minutiae of daily life might be revisioned as the very love of God.

Having recently posted a brief reflection on synchronicity, it will be enough to observe that yesterday's music-making with Hal was grounded in a new song he calls "Little Things." What's more, one of the readings for Tuesday in Holy Week comes from the upside-down experiences of St. Paul and the community of Corinth who writes:

For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, "I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart." Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe. (Some) demand signs and (others) desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block and foolishness to those (addicted to the contours of our culture.) But to those who are the called, from every tradition, Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength. Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God. The Lord is the source of your life in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification and redemption, in order that, as it is written, "Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord." (I Corinthians 1: 18-31)

What's more, today's gospel likewise cuts to the chase when St. John notes that close to his end Jesus told his disciples: "Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life." (John 12: 24-25)

My take away, to be developed more thoroughly and vigorously at a later date, is that there has been a consistent downward mobility to my calling. A growing attraction to the little things, the wounded ones, learning to trust my weakness albeit imperfectly so that God's grace and peace might increase. In Peterson's reworking of the Sermon on the Mount in The Message Jesus teaches: "You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought." (Matthew 5: 3-5) 

That's what these early days of retirement feel like to me: a journey into the still to be revealed little blessings of the quotidian mysteries. Not having to be involved in the soul-sucking aspects of pastoral ministry has freed me from being exhausted. And hurt. And angry. It has also given me the space to sense that I still have a "pastoral" role to play in whatever time remains in my life. But not as a leader. Not as one in charge. And not as one who is boldly engaged in a public life. Rather, as Nouwen writes in his own journal, now is a time following Jesus in the little things. His description of Good Friday at L'Arche Trosly is brilliant. It has shaped my prayers throughout Lent and will guide my heart as I head to Ottawa in a few hours.

Pere Thomas and Pere Gilbert... took a huge cross that hangs behind the altar from the wall and held it so that the whole community could come and kiss the dead body of Christ. They all came, more than four hundred people - handicapped men and women and their assistants and friends. Everybody seemed to know very well what they were doing: expressing their love and gratitude for him who gave his life for them. As they were crowding around the cross and kissing the feet and the head of Jesus, I closed my eyes and could see his sacred body stretched out and crucified upon our planet earth. I saw the immense suffering of humanity during the centuries: people killing each other; people dying from starvation and epidemics; people driven from their homes; people sleeping on the streets of large cities; people clinging to each other in desperation; people flagellated, tortured, burned and mutilated; people alone in locked flats, in prison dungeons, in labor camps; people craving a gentle word, a friendly letter, a consoling embrace, people - children, teenagers, adults, middle-aged, and elderly - all crying out with an anguished voice "My God, my God, why have you forsaking us?

Imaging the naked, lacerated body of Christ stretched out over our globe. I was filled with horror. But as I opened my eyes I saw Jacques, who bears the marks of suffering in his face, kiss the body with passion and tears in his eyes. I saw Ivan carried on Michael's back. I saw Edith coming in her wheelchair. As they came - walking or limping, seeing or blind, hearing or deaf - I saw the endless procession of humanity gathering around the sacred body of Jesus, covering it with their tears and their kisses, and slowly moving away from it comforted and consoled by such great love. There were signs of relief; there were smiles breaking through tear-filled eyes; there were hands in hands and arms in arms. With my mind's eye I saw the huge crowds of isolated, agonizing individuals walking away from the cross together, bound by the love they had seen with their own eyes and touched with their own lips. The cross of horror became the cross of hope, the tortured body became the body that gives new life; the gaping wounds became the source of forgiveness, healing and reconciliation. 

A new chapter is opening, a new journey is beginning - and now it is time to pack.

photo credits: dianne de mott

perfumed oil on the feet of the Lord...

A friend posted this Thomas Merton quote yesterday on Face Book. It comes from... hold on... 1948!

It is true that the materialistic society, the so-called culture that has evolved under the tender mercies of capitalism, has produced what seems to be the ultimate limit of this worldliness [of gratification of natural appetites for pleasure and reputation and power]. And nowhere, except perhaps in the analogous society of pagan Rome, has there ever been such a flowering of cheap and petty and disgusting lusts and vanities as in the world of capitalism, where there is no evil that is not fostered and encouraged for the sake of making money. We live in a society whose whole policy is to excite every nerve in the human body and keep it at the highest pitch of artificial tension, to strain every human desire to the limit and to create as many new desires and synthetic passions as possible, in order to cater to them with the products of our factories and printing presses and movie studios and the rest.

So far as I can tell, life in these semi-United States haven't gotten better when it comes to the manipulation of our artificial tensions or synthetic passions since Merton's time. Indeed, as Neil Postman put it in 2005, "We were keeping our eye on 1984. When the year came and the prophecy didn't, thoughtful Americans sang softly in praise of themselves. The roots of liberal democracy had held. Wherever else the terror had happened, we, at least, had not been visited by Orwellian nightmares."

But we had forgotten that alongside Orwell's dark vision, there was another - slightly older, slightly less well known, equally chilling: Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Contrary to common belief even among the educated, Huxley and Orwell did not prophesy the same thing. Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley's vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think... When a population becomes distracted by trivia, when cultural life is redefined as a perpetual round of entertainments, when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk, when, in short, a people become an audience, and their public business a vaudeville act, then a nation finds itself at risk; culture-death is a clear possibility.

One of the reasons I celebrate Saturday's march - and the young heroes who called no bull shit on us all - is that their hope gives us eyes to see: the depths to which we have we sunk, the possibilities for a safe and beloved community, the hard work of organizing necessary to climb out of the muck, and the beauty of solidarity. The gospel for the Monday of Holy Week, John 12: 1-11, tells of a young woman who shared a simple act of love with Jesus - pouring perfumed oil on his feet. 

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said,"Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?" Jesus said, "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me."

As this is one of my favorite stories, included in each of the four gospels, it has guided my heart for decades. First, Mary shared an act of extravagant beauty out of pure love with Jesus. Love was far more important than someone's bottom line. Second, her generosity upset some at the feast because they refused to grasp the sacredness of loving relationships. And third, Jesus replied that humanity will always have an obligation and opportunity to care for the wounded - the poor will always be with you - but there are also gifts given to us that arrive in the form of celebrations, beauty or extravagant love that must be honored, too. Indeed, these gifts empower us to keep caring when it isn't easy. Jean Vanier has written extensively about the importance of simple celebrations and honoring ordinary times of laughter and affection. Recently I read this - and it speaks to my heart:

Maybe the world will be transformed when we learn to have fun together. I don't mean to suggest that we don't talk about serious things. But maybe what our world needs more than anything is communities where we celebrate life together and become a sign of hope for our world. Maybe we need signs that it is possible to love each other.

Tomorrow I leave for L'Arche Ottawa to stay with my friends in Mountainview House for a few days. There will be shared Holy Week liturgies - foot washing and stations of the Cross - but mostly there will be the ordinary blessings of everyday life. It will be my first extended time staying in their home - and their invitation feels to me like perfumed oil poured out in loving friendship - my heart is full to overflowing.

credits:
https://fineartamerica.com/shop/prints/thomas+merton
http://www.praytellblog.com/index.php/2017/04/10/mary-washes-jesus-feet/

palm sunday 2018

Not much going on externally here today, but a ton is roiling around within: the present darkness within our cultural/political/spiritual chaos has been exposed by innocent and wounded youth. Yesterday's March for Our Lives interrupted our cynicism. Beyond the cruelty of the trolls and all the lies spewed by the shills for the NRA, our children showed us a better way. There are, of course, no guarantees. Niebuhr was clear that the children of darkness are usually better organized and more strategic than the children of light. Still, I hold fast to the light within the darkness. The late Henri Nouwen once wrote in his Sabbatical Journey:

We spend a lot of energy wondering who can be blamed for our own or other people's tragedies - our parents, ourselves, the immigrants, the Jews, the gays, the blacks, the fundamentalists, the Catholics.... But Jesus doesn't allow us to solve our own or other people's problems through blame. The challenge he poses is to discern in the midst of our darkness the light of God. In Jesus' vision everything, even the greatest tragedy, can become an occasion in which God's works can be revealed. How radically new my life would be if I were willing to move beyond blame to proclaiming the works of God.... All human beings have their tragedies.... We seldom have much control over them. But do we choose to live them as occasions to blame, or as occasions to see God at work?

It feels weird and a bit empty not to be in public worship this morning. I will likely slip into a late Eucharistic service this afternoon to ground myself in the rhythm of the saints. On Tuesday I head north to be with my friends at L'Arche Ottawa. My desert season of retirement holds more surprises in its early days than anyone could predict. Not sorrow, at least for me, something more akin to emptiness. And like Nouwen, I trust that even in my failings the fullness of grace beyond the emptiness and the darkness will arise. I already see the signs. The young people marching - 1 million strong in DC - hearts reaching across the great divides of race, class and gender.  To be sure, mine is a decidedly 21st century commitment to the Paschal Mystery for I trust that "everything, even the greatest tragedy, can become an occasion in which God's works can be revealed."

credits
+ Kai Althoff https://www.pinterest.com/pin/279645458088772153/

+ Marc Chagall http://aplm2013.blogspot.com/2014/04/preachers-study-year-palmpassion-sunday.html

march for their lives...

How can I write about anything today but the massive international protests against American gun violence? It was a day of hope and tears, gratitude and challenge, bold innocence calling out entrenched greed, cynicism and ideology. Like many Americans, I wept quietly reverently watching our youth stand up against the NRA. I cheered their courage calling out political hacks who would rather shill for gun manufacturers than stand up for children. For so many of us in this bitter era, it became holy ground. A children's crusade, not orchestrated by religious zealots or mean-spirited con artists, but teens who have been directly wounded by this nation's insane addiction to weapons of mass destruction. 

And just when it was about to close, Emma Gonzalez: purity emboldened by grief, wisdom embodied beyond years, gravitas communicated beyond words. 



Maren Tirabassi later summed it up with conviction and clarity when she wrote:

It was a parade
bright with symbols of hope
and shouts of protest and praise.
Those in authority may ask
the children to be quiet.

Jesus said – if they were,
the stones would rise up
and March for their Lives.

Palm Sunday will not be the same for me tomorrow - or any of us.