(Song: "Happily Ever After" by He is We)
2 Corinthians 21b-33:
But whatever anyone dares to boast of—I am speaking as a fool—I also dare to boast of that. Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I. Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman—I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning. Three times I was shipwrecked; for a night and a day I was adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked. And, besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus (blessed be he forever!) knows that I do not lie. In Damascus, the governor under King Aretas guarded the city of Damascus in order to seize me, but I was let down in a basket through a window in the wall, and escaped from his hands.
This was one of the Daily Office readings a while back. Several things popped in my head while I was driving on my monthly trip to two of my "country hospitals."
You know, back at the time the Epistles were written, "letters" were just a lot different sort of thing than they are now.
Electronic communication has made it so we can literally have "conversations" across the world that are very close to approximating real conversations--at least, in most cases, "close enough for government work."
But 2000 years ago, a letter was a very big deal.
Think about this one along with me. People of that era had to accept that we might meet people once. They might stay with us for a time that would now be excruciating (weeks to months!) But when they went on their way, it was a very real possibility the guest would never be seen again in the host's lifetime. Disease, robbers, wars, the Roman way of doing business, and short life expectancies were very closely held realities--especially if one belonged to a new religious sect whom the Roman Empire didn't like very much.
So for them to care enough to write a letter, that really meant something.
Also, it wasn't like these letters could be dropped in a mail slot and be guaranteed delivery. The Epistles were carried by messengers. People had time on their hands. They could be copied. They could be copied badly. The originals could get damaged and the copies used as "the" letter. Education wasn't standardized. People who could not read or write had to depend on other people to translate sentiments correctly. Language varied from region to region.
In short, a lot could go wrong--much as how it goes when we played "telephone" or "gossip" as a child. The message could get pretty garbled. These facts alone are why I am not a Biblical literalist. At best, when we read the Epistles (or any other book in the Bible, for that matter,) we are given a glimpse of the author's sentiments but anything beyond that, can't always be taken at face value. People also circulated the news by circulating a copy of the letter. More chances for poor copy quality.
It also meant the letter writer had a lot to say...and that since the possibility always existed they would never see each other again, the writers tended to be a lot more "emo" than we are used to seeing in letters. Sometimes the writer's emotions got the best of him or her, and we find situations where the writer might be ranting about something that happened months to years ago, and any response to that rant would have a similar delay--so misunderstandings could fester and brew in a way different than the way you and I would nurse grudges or have spats or feuds.
I used to be upset about all the stuff in Paul's letters that dissed women, and I still get mad at how fundamentalists use parts of it to bash gays and lesbians in committed relationships. But the more I understand the nature of these letters, the more I come to believe Paul was simply a dedicated, passionate guy, and all of us, when we truly love what we are called to do or be, can be overcome now and then by "temporary madness." I've come to give Paul the benefit of the doubt for all the things he said that irritate or inflame me, and not even engage in fights with fundamentalists about it, other than to state my above premise about temporary madness.
Reading this passage in 2nd Corinthians reminds me of one of the Desert Fathers who was also prone to whipping people with the "Look what all I've done for YOU," stick--St. Jerome.
St. Jerome was notorious for writing very angst-filled letters to his friends in this vein. But both men had a real habit of going, "Look what all I have put up with for your sake, dammit! Then you all act like you don't even care!"
One wonders if St. Jerome's friends, and in Paul's case, the church in Corinth, didn't scratch their heads over these sorts of letters, knowing it was not months later and barely remembering what someone was upset about to begin with. Nowadays, we'd pick up the phone and try to hash it out, or meet for coffee, and we could at least work on what's ailing the relationship within minutes to hours, not months to years.
One wonders if, as these letters got circulated, what the different churches said to each other. "I don't get it! He likes the church in Rome! But he chewed us a new one!"
Or maybe the reverse happened. "Ha, ha ha! He likes us better'n you!"
But the Epistles are wonderful windows into a facet of human nature--what really affects people. What hurts them. What grieves them. What gives them joy. What gives them hope. We see Paul lay himself bare because of the times he lived and the nature of communication then, in a way we would not do in the 21st century. Oh, we might have those kind of conversations. But we would probably not put them in the format of a lengthy letter.
It serves two purposes.
One purpose is to be reminded of our own rawness when we truly love something but don't always understand our own emotions in it. I think about all the consternation that can happen in families, even families in which the members love each other very much. I think back to the tales that get told at everyone's family reunions, where family members ended up never speaking again over some totally little, ultimately stupid thing. The rawest splits in families sometimes occur over the tiniest details. Not to mention we carry our family baggage everywhere we go in our non-family world.
So it's not surprising that the early Church had problems the minute it switched from being a group of disaffected Jews to a hodge-podge of Jews and Gentiles. It's not surprising that the cultural milieu of Galatia was different than the one in Corinth.
That brings up the other purpose. It teaches us that it's easy to feel victimized when we are passionate about something.
I think about my own diocese.
The Diocese of Missouri is long but not very wide. It is the entire eastern half of Missouri. It is headquartered in St. Louis. It stretches from St. Louis to Columbia/Jefferson City/Rolla in the "short" direction, and from Kirksville to Poplar Bluff in the "long" direction.
Now, truthfully, our diocese is a relatively calm, happy diocese in the Episcopal Church. I am very fond of our Bishop. I am convinced he takes his role as Chief Pastor of the Diocese very seriously.
The geography of our diocese is big enough, though, that it is very easy for one part of the diocese to feel "disconnected" from another. Up here in Kirksville, I can barely imagine Poplar Bluff even being in our diocese. I can't imagine what is the same about us or different about us, and of course my tendency is to think "Oh, they're much different than us, and they can't possibly have much in common with us." The same goes for when I imagine the parishes in the Ladue/Clayton area as opposed to us. They're in a well-heeled part of St. Louis. We're out in the sticks. How can they possibly care about us and us about them?
Then of course, there's the most convenient way to feel disconnected from the diocese--we can play the "outstate Missouri vs. St. Louis" card. All of us outstaters are prone to that one, simply because it seems the bulk of the "action" in the diocese is in the St. Louis area--most of the cool discussions, workshops, retreats, etc.
But you know, in so many ways, we really can't play those cards in good conscience like we used to, and maybe we shouldn't be so quick to do that (myself included.) I certainly agree there are times they should be played. Just not as much as we historically played them.
For one thing, even with a small budget, our diocese has been able to offer online book discussion and study groups through the Episcopal School for Ministry, even with a distinct lack of funding. They've been resourceful in using available free/inexpensive technology for that. No, it's not the same as the real thing. It's not Blackboard. But it is good enough to plant the seeds of more communication among the faithful for purposes of sharing and participating.
Another ace in the hole is that we have a wonderful diocesan communication director. I just got my iSeek in my e-mail yesterday, and I am always amazed at how much I learn about what's going on in the diocese from it. I can honestly say that iSeek has been a major player in my life for feeling "connected to the diocese."
Finally, we have social networking. Probably the #1 thing that has connected me to the diocese is Facebook. I think about how I know so many more people in my own diocese than I used to as late as two years ago. It started when I got brave enough to befriend "friends of friends" in the diocese.
But what I am seeing is a way of building the church in a healthy way--without episodes of "temporary madness" like Paul was prone to--that connects this diocese together in a way the early Church could not even dare to dream. It puts us poised to create real relationships and do real live mission in the diocese in a way that could not be done in traditional models of mission.
It's exciting to me, frankly, and I find myself wanting to learn more and more from those who are pioneers in it.
Like the "He is We" vid I posted with the song "Happily Ever After" says--we all have a story to tell. Why aren't we telling it to each other more than we are?
Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
--Collect for Ash Wednesday, p. 217, Book of Common Prayer
As many of you know, I always do a study project for Lent. This year, I decided to meditate and study upon each of the collects for each week of Lent in the Book of Common Prayer. Since we start off the season on Ash Wednesday, I pasted the collect for Ash Wednesday above.
This is a collect that certainly reflects the penitential theology of earlier versions of the Book of Common Prayer. We have a delicate balance in our Anglican heritage with some of the words that carry over from the original Elizabethan-era language in the first prayer books. Many of us struggle with some of the older language in it--words like "wickedness" and "wretchedness." Many people don't realize that the 1979 Prayer Book--the one we presently use--created major shifts in our theology. It was a major outward sign that we were moving from being more "penitential" to being more "incarnational" in our theology. Eucharist moved from being once a month in most parishes (with Morning Prayer being the worship form for most Sundays) to weekly.
One of the hardest things for folks when they start or renew a journey of faith, and start to participate in a worship community, is when a word or phrase or symbol leaves them cold, or becomes a stumbling block in that journey. I remember when I first returned to a church community, I was stumbling over words and challenging them left and right. It was almost like "them's fightin' words."
"Wretched" was one of those words.
"Wretched" is one of those words that I want to yell back at--"I'm NOT wretched! Don't throw that 'sinner' stuff at me! I KNOW I'm a sinner already! I came back here because I wanted to feel BETTER than that!"
Also, Ash Wednesday is a piece of our church where people tend to very strongly "choose up sides." Folks tend to either be "all about it" or "want nothing to do with it"--especially that "imposing ashes" part. The ones that are okay about it, it's more or less about "an acceptance of our mortality." The ones that are not, it feels very personal--"I don't need dirty ashes put on me to be told I'm a dirty person." I find it interesting that people okay with it, it tends to be seen as "outside of a view of self," and the ones not okay with it, it is strongly connected to "self" and much more visceral.
I've always found it a little paradoxical that even though I can be very prone to visceral dislikes of things, I have always been okay with the "ashes" thing but it is some of the words in the Prayer Book that viscerally eat on me in the Ash Wednesday liturgy--more so when I first came to the Episcopal Church than of late. The word "wretchedness" was one of those words.
Words are awful triggers for me. Any time I've been in a situation where I've been on the short end of it, I have had to struggle with certain collections of words that became strongly hooked in my mind to "the abuser(s)." If I were to tell you my most common trigger in situations prone to re-ignite an old stress in me, most of them are words. The kicker is that the words can be uttered by someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the abusive situation, and would never imagine they "did" something that causes me stress. A very key feature in relieving my own anxieties is to "take words back for my own use." I have learned a part of my healing is taking ownership of those words again for a better use--and to no longer acquiesce power to the abuser for the use of the word or words. But that also means it is not helpful for me to school others "not to use that word." When I teach others to avoid my "trigger words," they are just perpetuating the power the abuser had on me, and transferring power to themselves over me.
One of my growing edges is to simply accept that words are just words.
In the case of the word "wretch," It is a huge trigger for me with "Bad religion I've experienced."
It reeks of every tent revival I've ever peeked under the tent at, when I was a kid. It reminds me of a traumatic time I was caught peeking under the tent at a revival in my home town and dragged to the front and told I was going to hell. It stinks of every hellfire and brimstone street preacher that ever accosted me. Those experiences left me feeling very violated, in a psychological sort of way.
For years, I broke out in a sweat over the song "Amazing Grace." Seriously. A song that was beloved by so many was like fingernails on the chalkboard for me. When I began to be part of a faith community again, the first time I did Ash Wednesday upon my return, I literally felt the breath knocked out of me over the word "wretchedness."
But one of the things I've learned to do with words, to reduce their power in my psyche, is to study them and take them apart. I often discover how we think of them in our present vernacular is not how they started out. "Wretch" is one of those words.
"Wretch" comes from the Old English word "wrecche/wrecca." It originally meant to be exiled or driven out--a person exiled, or a stranger.
That knowledge was a light bulb for me.
It wasn't about me, it was about where I was.
That makes sense, really.
When I don't feel right about myself, or don't feel right about my actions, or have that soul-sickness from not being within the place my Baptismal Covenant demands of me, I do feel exiled--self-exiled. God didn't drive me out. I drove myself out.
The word "wretch" wasn't about me, it was simply about a spiritual GPS point.
For the first time this year in the liturgy, the word "wretch" didn't take the breath out of me--it didn't even blip my radar.
What I noticed this year was, instead, I heard the line "you hate nothing you have made," loud and clear. I heard the messages of God's infinite love for me--and that my waypoint on the spiritual GPS map had nothing to do with it.
I'm going to let you all in on a little secret--Lent feels very, very different for me this year.
This year, I feel literally held in the balance of mortality and immortality--the recognition of only having a finite time in this world in which I can ripple it, while at the same time feeling like we are allowed multiple do-overs in it.
I feel hope and faith in this season like I've never felt it before. I feel very intentional about being in the "now."
But it really is feeling like I'm being held in this balance, rather than the old feeling of having a foot in each world and them pulling against each other until I am doing the splits.
I can't really describe it yet, other than that. At the end of the 40 days, perhaps I can--and I hope some of you all can travel alongside of me and feel it in yourselves along with me.
(Thanks to Dave Walker of the Cartoon Church blog)
John 1:19-28:
This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” He answered, “No.” Then they said to him, “Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said. Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him, “Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.
Now, this is actually the Gospel text of the Daily Office reading for the day before Ash Wednesday, but it is still stuck in my head today.
Have you ever noticed, when the "important" people in the Gospels are asked who they are, they never answer directly? When Jesus is asked who he is, elsewhere in the Gospels, his answer is "Who do you say that I am?" In our passage above, John answers the same question by saying who he is not.
It reminded me of the discomfort of other people's projections.
I was really really little when I first discovered when people do that.
I've blogged before about my late uncle Richard. He was killed in a hunting accident when he was eleven years old, and I was eight months old. I really don't have a memory of him. But I know from old pictures he was very fond of me. From the moment I was brought home, he wanted to carry me everywhere and be with me, and they used to have to scold him repeatedly for "bothering the baby when she was asleep." My grandmother told me he used to "have conversations with me," telling me all sorts of things.
So in a sense, I feel like I had a relationship with him, even though I don't remember him. All my life has been a tense balance between a yearning that I wish I could have consciously known him vs. a joy that he knew and loved me.
But growing up, something that used to be a great source of irritation was when something I did, just because I was "doing what I was doing," reminded my mom and grandparents of Richard.
Let's say I was reading a story book. I used to read story books aloud, with expression, even when I was barely able to read. I was wanting to be heard for my reading the story. Nothing got my goat when one of the grownups would go, "Look. Remember when Richard used to love that book?"
I'd be doing something and it was always Richard, who was dead for years, who got the attention.
"Remember when Richard did that?"
"Oh, that was Richard's favorite toy, too."
"Richard used to sit and do that for hours. Remember that?"
I remember when that was going on, it used to make me really angry. What I wanted to do was stomp my foot up and down and yell, "I'M NOT RICHARD! I'M ME! Doesn't anybody care that I'm doin' it?" But I knew I dared not do that, because I knew he was dead, and I didn't want another dose of the "You are an only child, but I'll be damned if you're going to act like a spoiled only child," shtick. Besides, there were all these weird "Richard boundaries" in the house that I dared not cross. They were like land mines. I hated those land mines because they made people quiet, or made them cry, or at the very least, I felt they were angry at me that I had somehow impugned the memory of "St. Richard." Things like the drawer full of toys in the bottom drawer of my grandmother's chest of drawers that I would be spanked for, if I dared take them out and play with them. Things like following my grandfather to the cemetery--it was made clear to me he went there by himself. Things like looking in the little book of poems and art he made for my grandmother that she kept under the doily of her bedroom dresser.
I used to think, "If I'm not supposed to mess with these things, why do they put them out where I know where they are?"
Then there were all the accidental transgressions. Some of those things I did "just being me" that reminded of Richard, would make them cry and be all somber. I would be thinking "What'd I do?" and then the light bulb would go on and I'd realize I'd crossed another "Richard boundary," even though by accident, and it would be very confusing. Many times I was wanting them to be proud of me, or laugh with me, and somehow "what I did" made them sad, and although over time I came to realize it was not "my fault," it felt like my fault.
It has only been very recently that I have recognized that I could never admit I carried jealousy and resentment over that for many years, and that bits and pieces are still there. You see, although I don't remember Richard, I do love him. When I see the old family pictures of how fond he was of me, I realize that even for only the eight months we knew each other, I was very loved by him, and I feel like some day, when we are both in the same place, I will recognize that love and be able for the first time to share it. There have been times I have in odd ways, felt his presence. So for many years, it just felt "wrong" or "bad" for me to have these angry feelings about those boundaries I grew up trying to negotiate, or those times I wished people looked at me and saw me instead of him.
It has taken five decades to admit that it was okay for me to have these feelings of jealousy and resentment. But I think it simply took many years of having a rich, full, rewarding life of my own, and recognizing his life was tragically cut short at age eleven, to have the ability to do that. It was only until I could be at peace that my life is an okay life--a better than okay life, in fact--that I could be free to be understand my mother's and my late grandparents' grief and sorrow. To lose a child in his or her childhood is one of the most devastating things in this world. Once I could share their grief, rather than see it as an oppositional force in my life, it didn't take long for me to realize these jealousies and resentments are not worth having. After all, had he lived, there would have been different jealousies and resentments that would have cropped up. I would not have grown up jealousy or resentment-free. No one does.
But back to John the Baptist. I get where he is coming from, and I understand his forthrightness in his answer in a different way. First, he knows he's not the Messiah. He knows it in his heart. He doesn't want anyone to be falsely led that he is. He knows he cannot live up to that. He earnestly desires for those coming to him for baptism to continue to look for the Messiah and await his coming. But I also hear in his answer that little wish to be seen for who John is. "I'm not the Messiah! I don't want to be the Messiah! But won't y'all just notice me for me a little bit? Can't you notice what I'm trying to tell you for all our sakes?"
One of the things that has cropped up among my friends and connections is that, in the last couple of years, people come to me and tell me the things that bug them, or sadden them, or make them afraid, and ask me,"Will you pray for me/them/it?" In one sense, this is flattering, but that's not what I usually feel. I feel uncomfortable. What I want to tell them (and sometimes do) is "I'm not ordained, you know. I don't have any more special powers than you do with this. My prayers don't have any more special stuff than yours or anyone else's. I can't absolve you. I can't do any more than you can."
But their answer is sometimes, "But you're such a spiritual person. This matters to me."
I get so very uncomfortable about that. I know every NOT spiritual thing I am. I know who I am NOT. I don't ever want to pretend I am "more" than them, and I don't ever want to lead someone on. But I have also come to realize arguing with them about who I'm not, sidetracks the issue. It doesn't address their spiritual need.
The way I have mostly learned to find my way through that one is by suggesting, "You know what? Let's pray together about this. I'll start, and maybe something will come to you that you want to say about this. Then I'll finish it up."
What I have come to discover is what I can be in this scenario is the catalyst. I've found if I start the prayer, they can usually find their own words in it. I've discovered this is what I can add to this and still be "just me" and not let my own discomfort of who I'm not, get in the way.
The other thing I often do is encourage them that their own prayers are very powerful, and not to ever discount them. I try to make others feel that they have this ability to be the spiritual person they desire to be--that they don't have to depend on others for that task.
In short, I have not made peace with this totally--but I recognize John the Baptist probably hadn't either, and I am in good company.
The final thing that comes to mind, as I ponder my own history of dealing with "I'm NOT Richard," is something that was very important in my growing up. My grandparents were crucial to my stability growing up. If they had not lost their son, perhaps they would not have had the desire to bond to me and shape my life the way they did.
Well, you know, God lost his son too.
Many of you all know I am no fan of "substitutionary atonement." I really don't think Jesus died to pay any unpaid bills on our behalf. That just seems cheap and manipulative to me. I don't want a relationship with a God who manipulates us with our unpaid bills and threaten us with it like a celestial repo man.
But I can understand a God who wants to love us because his own son's life was cut down short--who mourns and grieves and misses his own child--and still desires to love in that way. I can understand that God very well. I can bond with that kind of God as the object of his love.
As we begin Lent, I think that this year, rather than obsessing and dwelling on all the things where I fall short, my task is to simply accept who I am not, and rejoice in a God who wants to love me like his own child.
("St. Francis Preaching to the Birds," Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York; courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)
My little sisters, the birds, much bounden are ye unto God, your Creator, and always in every place ought ye to praise Him, for that He hath given you liberty to fly about everywhere, and hath also given you double and triple rainment; moreover He preserved your seed in the ark of Noah, that your race might not perish out of the world; still more are ye beholden to Him for the element of the air which He hath appointed for you; beyond all this, ye sow not, neither do you reap; and God feedeth you, and giveth you the streams and fountains for your drink; the mountains and valleys for your refuge and the high trees whereon to make your nests; and because ye know not how to spin or sow, God clotheth you, you and your children; wherefore your Creator loveth you much, seeing that He hath bestowed on you so many benefits; and therefore, my little sisters, beware of the sin of ingratitude, and study always to give praises unto God.
--Saint Francis of Assisi's "Sermon to the Birds" - c1220
I've been dealing these last few months with some long-buried memories. As expected, all the bad ones came to the surface first, like scum. But over time, the bad ones have subsided to some degree and long buried good ones have started to surface.
It had been a while since I had been in the pulpit for one of my lay preacher stints at Trinity. As I started to work on this thread earlier in the week, I actually started thinking for the first time ever about "where my preaching comes from." As I've said earlier, I've had a lay preacher license in our diocese now for almost a year and a half. It's something I have thoroughly enjoyed as one of my ministries. But I have spent much of my early time with this license mostly exerting a lot of mental energy making sure I'm "scholarly correct" in my themes. As a non-seminary trained person, I have felt a little academically less qualified than the collared set, and it is my nature to dwell on the things in which I feel less competent and capable.
Meanwhile, the "heart" part of it has been more or less evolving on its own, without much interference from my frontal lobes.
About a year ago, the first time I had the opportunity to supply for the Presbyterians, I was nervous about the fact that unlike at "home," when all I have to do is preach and the priest presides, I would also be responsible for leading their worship from start to finish.
My Priest Associate had tried to put me at ease by saying, "Well, didn't you ever play 'preacher' as a kid?"
"NO!" I shot back. "I rode my bike, played ball, and played with action figures and building toys like Tinkertoys!"
I realized just recently, that statement wasn't accurate.
I had been asked a question in a different venue that went more like this: "What are some things you remember about your earliest awareness of God?"
When I got to thinking about it, two memories popped into my head that I had long forgotten. I have found that I really don't remember much at all about my childhood. I have bits and pieces, and I have recollections of stories other relatives have told me, but not a lot of stories that I actually remember. What I tend to remember are the "moods" associated with the stories. I tend to remember "stories told TO me" better than the actual experiences. I kind of remember themes of the experiences. Many of these stories in my memory run together into some almost "prototype" stories, and they actually seem to be more than one story quilted together.
But as I pondered this question, the first memory that emerged was I could remember me, sitting on my grandparents' porch with my two dogs, "telling them about my Sunday School lesson." As I sort of thought harder about it, I could remember I often did that, or told them a story out of the Bible. I remember the dogs sitting and cocking their heads and listening intently to me. I also remember having "Dog Eucharist" on the porch with them, with saltines and water.
The other memory I had came to me when I recently went back to the cemetery where four generations of my family are buried to pay my respects. The gravestones of both my great-grandparents and my great-great grandparents look like a lectern, with an open book carved on the top in stone. Time has weathered the stones so I don't know if any particular Bible verse was chiseled onto the book.
As I stood out there and looked across the cemetery, another memory popped in my head. When I was old enough to ride a bike, I used to ride out to the cemetery and play in the cemetery. Sometimes other kids would go with me, and sometimes I would go alone. I remember making up stories about the names on the graves and we kids telling them to each other like ghost stories. But what I remember about those trips alone was there were a lot of times I climbed onto either my great-grandparents' or my great-great-grandparents' headstones and told the stories in my Sunday School lessons.
So I realize that when the question was posed to me the first time, I was thinking along the lines of "playing with other kids." When it got asked of me in a different way, I remembered that I "preached" to my dogs, and to the birds in the cemetery. That was a time I would never have ever seen a female doing that in real life.
What's odd is I really don't remember much at all about BEING in Sunday School. That is just kind of a fog. I remember the mood, though. I remember I didn't care for it much. I don't remember why. I wonder if it was because I didn't sit still well, or tended to blurt out the answers, or something like that. I remember liking "big church" okay but not really liking Sunday School all that much. I don't remember winning any prizes or any of my Sunday School teachers in particular.
But yet one of the things I remember feeling pretty good about was preaching to animals and birds. I find it interesting that a good memory of the process was telling the stories, not so much learning the stories. Both these memories are memories of being outdoors.
It makes me realize why things like the recent course I did on "Praying with the Elements" had value to me. Some of my earliest, deepest connections and awareness of the presence of God occurred outside, and they involved wanting to share the stories. It makes me realize that much of the core of the spiritual parts of me have not moved far from what really rooted me to God.
I find myself being incredibly grateful for them.
“Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary, use words.”--St. Francis of Asissi
This morning, I am slated to do one of my semi-regular lay preaching gigs at Trinity-Kirksville. I have done this enough now I am starting to feel comfortable in the pulpit, but I don't deny that there's a little bit of nervousness on my part as this will be the first time I'll be preaching in front of our new vicar...and she's a good preacher. But I drew a good topic--the Transfiguration--and I totally dig the Transfiguration, even though I don't totally "get" it.
In fact, I have been blessed in my years since my return to the church by being exposed to SEVERAL good preachers. Some of them have been right in my "home pulpit." Some of them are pastor friends and lay preachers in other denominations. Some are my Facebook and blogging friends, both clergy and lay preachers in the Episcopal church, whom I've enjoyed both reading their Sunday best, and hearing podcasts of them. I don't dare name names for fear of leaving one out...but you know who you are. Oddly enough, although some of them are male, most of them are female. (Or maybe not "oddly enough." Part of what brought me back in a church door was full altar rights for XX chromosomed humans in the Episcopal Church. So perhaps it's a natural outgrowth of that, that makes most of my favorite preachers female.)
None of them would fit in the same box. They are of radically different backgrounds--cradle Episcopalians, Roman Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, Congregationalist, Presbyterian, Methodist--just to name a few. Their styles range from the solidly academic, to the pastoral, to the poetic, to accomplished storytellers.
But one of my consistent favorites is Nadia Bolz-Weber, who blogs as Sarcastic Lutheran. You can read one of her recent sermons here. She's the pastor of an ELCA mission church in Denver, House For All Sinners And Saints, and well...part of her style is quite rad and postmodern, and part of her is quite rooted in the ancient practices, and all of her is rooted in the fundamental tenets of the Lutheran Church. The YouTube link I posted above is from a recent conference where she was one of the speakers. I find myself very drawn to her preaching style, which she discusses in this article.
Mind you, my tendency is to avoid being "fans" of individual preachers. I'm in church for the whole of the liturgy, not just the proclamation of the Word from the pulpit. In fact, it's probably the least important part of the liturgy for me. I'm all about the Eucharist. A poor preacher has to work really hard to spoil my Sunday. But a good one does enhance it. A message I can mull over for days afterward keeps my mind going, and can work on the ragged edges of my heart.
I've been a licensed lay preacher for almost a year and a half, now, and I feel like I'm just getting to the place where I even have a "style." In my very first time in the pulpit, I had only one thought on my mind--"No cussing." As I worked on my lay license, my goal was to show that I was willing to put the scholarship in to at least be "Scripturally competent." I truly believe one of the wonderful things about the Episcopal Church is that our clergy is academically trained in the Scriptures. As a person who takes the Bible "seriously but not literally," knowing that history, background, and social context of the Bible is incredibly important to me. I joke that in comparison, I learned my theology off the back of a Cracker Jack box. That's not entirely true--I am, after all, enrolled in online EfM--and love the academic challenge of it.
I have also been grateful that both our Priest Associate and our recent interim priest at Trinity-Kirksville worked with me in the beginning. I felt so "out of my league" early on.
But now that the "mechanics" and a comfortable pattern of scholarship have emerged, I've had time to think about the foundation of where my own preaching style comes from. I've started to figure out part of it in conversations I've had with Muthah+. She's an Episcopal priest, but she spent a lot of her career working for the ELCA Lutherans. She wrote a wonderful post some time back on the difference between Episcopalians and Lutherans here. She told me that my "blog theology" reflects my Lutheran upbringing but my love of all things Episcopalian. There are probably even a few things that reflect that I was also dumped off on the Baptists now and then, growing up, particularly Vacation Bible School, as well as the fact that, as a kid, I used to window peep in many churches--but mostly the African Methodist Episcopal church in my home town. I do love that style of gospel music.
But ever since that conversation, I kept pondering, "But what is it? What is it that makes my style "mine?" Where is it where God and I connect in this unique snowflake kind of way?"
It was Nadia's interview in Patheos that clarified this for me.
I had sort of figured out one piece of it. One piece is that I still pretty much carry a Lutheran attitude about the concept of grace. The word "grace" is a word that floats up in the prototypical Lutheran sermon at least three times most Sundays. Now, I don't mean "grace" in the "I'm a worm," sort of way, but simply that growing up in that doctrine taught me about our utter powerlessness in our relationship with grace. I am always reminded of the sheer "I-can't-possibly-pay-this-back-EVER"-ness of it. Full bore Episcopalians are a little more incarnational about grace. The word "justification" comes up a little more.
I would describe it like this: I understand grace as Anglican theology describes it, but I think I still feel grace pretty much like a Lutheran. So a lot of what I preach about (or blog about) talks about trusting in our Baptism and the Sacraments. "Being sacramental people" and "living Eucharistically" are key features of both denominations. But with Lutherans, that feeling of grace is always in the middle of it.
Take my attitude about our beloved Book of Common Prayer. I dearly LOVE the Prayer Book. It is probably what has linked me to really being an Episcopalian now. But I have committed so much of the Prayer Book to memory without even trying. I didn't sit and rehearse memorizing these chunks of words. To me, that's my surrender to grace. I don't even theologically agree with all the words at a personal level sometime. But I believe in the power of people saying these words together on Sunday can change lives. When I preach, I refer back to lines in the Prayer Book many times. (I've even used Book of Common Prayer language in front of the Presbyterians; I just didn't tell them that's where it's from.) I have not heard a lot of Episcopalians do that in sermons, although being very hooked to the words is very Episcopalian. Changes in the Prayer Book are a big deal to Episcopalians. How we do the Prayer Book is very important to Episcopalians. It's important to me, too, but I realize the way I feel about grace makes me desire to be the Prayer Book. I suspect this is an odd little facet of my personal theology.
But the other piece of it, Nadia explains nicely in her discussion of how she looks at preaching:
"I ask what is convicting me. I have to first be convicted by something within the text before my preaching of it has a chance to transform someone else. Just like the Christian life, preaching is about dying and having new life. I hope I never preach a text as "here's the problem and here's what you can do with it." I never want to do that, because it's just not good news. Good news is when God is the subject and we are the objects. You can be convicting without being preachy."
It's that word convict that caught my eye. I blurted out, "That's IT!"
Now, I'm certain Episcopalians are convicted by the text. But I'm not certain that would be what we call it in Episcopal-speak. I'm not even sure we have a word for it in Episcopal-speak. Maybe we just assume that because we are incarnational beings sharing in Christ's full humanity and carrying a spark of his divinity, we just think that comes with the package. Maybe it sounds a little too prison-language-like for our Anglican sensibilities. I am not sure it's a word I would ever use in front of the Commission on Ministry if I were a postulant.
The word convict is this weird place where Lutherans and Baptists walk across the aisle and shake hands. Where they differ, I think, is that Baptists are very "heart" about it, and Lutherans are more a mixture of "head and heart" with it. But I realize the word convict is a very very important word in my blogging and sermonating.
I read the text. Sometimes repeatedly in this OCD version of lectio divina sort of way. But until a piece of text convicts me, I won't even pick up a book. Once it does, though, I am deep in the commentaries and cruising around on textweek.com and nosing on Facebook's "The Text this Week" page and visiting "The Hardest Question" blog site. But I definitely have to be convicted first, in a truly "in for a dollar, in for a dime" sort of way.
I have come to realize that the place of conviction is the place where preaching the Gospel comes from inside of me--otherwise, I can't even begin to be authentic. Again, it's not enough to hear the Gospel, to think about the Gospel, to study the Gospel, or even to live the Gospel--it's about a deep desire to be the Gospel. Not in a delusional egocentric sort of way, but for the atoms of me to become part of the molecule of it.
This is a huge admission for me. Most of my friends know me as a "head" person. My spiritual director uses the Richard Rohr line about lettuce on me: "You can't always do this in your head. Lettuce is the only thing that has its heart in its head." I have been told before by other people, "Quit rolling that stuff around in your head and get it out in the light, where other people can see it," when they are discussing my anxieties.
But I have come to learn that this place--my "preaching place"--is a place where I become unafraid to share the authenticity of my heart.
I also recently had a long buried memory surface about this place. I'll discuss it in an upcoming post. But meanwhile, I would contend that each of us, in our own way, has a "preaching place," and I encourage you to discover yours, even if it will never be delivered from a pulpit. It's the place where we most honestly encounter God.
("The Severed Head of St. John the Baptist," Aguste Rodin, 1887, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)
“Now some of the Jews thought that the destruction of Herod’s army came from God, and that very justly, as a punishment of what he did against John, that was called the Baptist: for Herod slew him, who was a good man, and commanded the Jews to exercise virtue, both as to righteousness towards one another, and piety towards God, and so to come to baptism; for that the washing [with water] would be acceptable to him, if they made use of it, not in order to the putting away [or the remission] of some sins [only], but for the purification of the body; supposing still that the soul was thoroughly purified beforehand by righteousness. Now when [many] others came in crowds about him, for they were very greatly moved [or pleased] by hearing his words, Herod, who feared lest the great influence John had over the people might put it into his power and inclination to raise a rebellion, (for they seemed ready to do any thing he should advise,) thought it best, by putting him to death, to prevent any mischief he might cause, and not bring himself into difficulties, by sparing a man who might make him repent of it when it would be too late. Accordingly he was sent a prisoner, out of Herod’s suspicious temper, to Macherus, the castle I before mentioned, and was there put to death. Now the Jews had an opinion that the destruction of this army was sent as a punishment upon Herod, and a mark of God’s displeasure to him."
--Flavius Josephus' account of the death of John the Baptist
Sometimes, my spiritual director brings up some very touchy topics for me.
I had been relating my week to him, and one of the things I related was a small battle I had taken on against "corporate"--the corporation that owns the hospital that is the main client in my practice. I have been trying to convince them that the way they want some paperwork done is just stupid, and time consuming, and costly for my practice (of course, they don't care about MY costs as a vendor, they care about THEIR costs as a corporation,) and so far, they are not listening. Never mind their demand does absolutely nothing to further patient care. I have an ally in my connection to the matter, but all indications are above us, in the nebulous corporate headquarters, that anyone is listening.
So he looks at me and says, "You kind of like to fight authority, don't you?"
Now, this was a little laughable considering my spiritual director, who's a Roman Catholic priest, is always squabbling with his Bishop. Our meetings are often punctuated with calls from his Bishop's office.
But I respected his question and didn't react because, after all, "it takes one to know one."
"Weeeellll," I said, "It's not so much that I LIKE to butt heads with authority, but sometimes it just irritates me when authority is being stupid or petty or short-sighted."
Then he leans back and says, "But now, at the same time, you strike me as a person who is very obedient to authority. I mean, you took an oath as a physician. As best as I can tell, you have been very obedient to a higher authority--the history and traditions of medicine, the well-being of patients, things like that. You also submit to the authority of the federal government for Medicare billing, and you submit to the authority of insurance companies for reimbursement. What's up with those two sides of your personality?"
So as we talked, I realized there is an interesting paradox in my life story. Overall, under the auspices of "a higher authority," I actually grow and become a better person. But my history is one of occasionally being on the short end of a gross misuse of authority. Certain things make me distrust authority and that there will be a certain amount of conflict in me about that. It also has often resulted in me "going it alone," because I got tired of waiting on getting permission, or annoyed that no one else wanted to join me with something. Sometimes that has resulted in good things, but sometimes it has resulted in situations where I realize I had stepped over the line. I paradoxically need both "strong fences" yet will still "push at the fences."
So then he switched gears and said, "I'm thinking about one of your favorite characters in the Bible--John the Baptist."
My spiritual director has known for some time that I am quite fond of John the Baptist. I like to think of him as this Jeremiah Johnson sort of character--this mountain man sort of guy, wearing his hair tunic and eating bugs with honey. A guy like that has some pull when he's running around yelling, "Repent and be baptized!"
Likewise John recognized real authority when he saw it--he knew Jesus was the real deal, and made no bones about it. He was perfectly willing to accept Jesus' authority.
But that still didn't change the fact "the authorities" found John a dangerous element, and we are shown both in the Gospel version of the story and in Josephus' account, that both lap dancing and political unrest can have the ultimate result of your head being put on a platter.
It's a distinct lesson in "squelching the ministry of John vs. squelching the ministry of Jesus." As John Dominic Crossan put it, "John had a monopoly, but Jesus had a franchise."
John was out there all by himself. Knock off John and you've knocked off John's influence on the politics of the region.
Jesus, on the other hand, gathered 12 disciples. Knock off Jesus and you still have 12 disciples and probably some other unnamed, unseen disciples out there. They have infiltrated the tissue of the region.
My pathologist's view of it is like this: In the eyes of the Romans, John was a benign tumor, but Jesus was a cancer. How much "good tissue" would have to be removed to clear the region of the cancer?
My spiritual director pointed out to me that Jesus instructed the disciples to go out and teach and preach in pairs. We talked about a crazy colleague of his from years back who would sit alone in his room and celebrate the Eucharist by himself. He confronted the guy and said, "You might be saying the Eucharistic prayer, but you're not holding Mass. You have to have two people for it to BE Mass!"
What I came to realize in this conversation was Christianity survived because it was a franchise, and what I need to always be mindful of in my own works and efforts for the glory of God is to strive to be a franchise player, not a free agent. There's too much risk in getting the heads of our good works chopped off.
That's a hard one when we consider our egos like "winning." We like wins, we like being shown in the box score, and we like being credited for the win. Even when our motives are honest, we often get hooked on the "good feelings" of our spiritual journeys, and sometimes that is a mistake. Of course we want our spirituality to feel good. That "feeling good" is what spurs us on to persevere. But not all of our journey is about feeling good. I'm reminded of a very recent quote by the theologian Richard Rohr: "Real holiness doesn't feel like holiness; it just feels like you're dying." We may well be dying into new life, but that doesn't exclude the dying feeling!
Ultimately, what it means is, when we do find ourselves butting heads with "authority," to be mindful of whether we are doing it for a higher reason, vs. our own egos. Never underestimate someone else's view of "political unrest," or the power of someone else's lap dancing!
(Fragment of extremely rare pink calcite courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)
Most loving Father, whose will it is for us to give thanks for
all things, to fear nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on you who care for us: Preserve us from faithless
fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life
may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal,
and which you have manifested to us in your Son Jesus Christ
our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the
Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
--Collect, 8th Sunday after Epiphany, Book of Common Prayer, p. 216-217
Unless one is a total liturgical calendar geek, Sunday, Feb. 27, 2011 would have slipped by unnoticed, save the events of the day. But for the liturgically nerdy, it was a very rare day in the church calendar.
The last time we had an 8th Sunday after Epiphany was in 1943. As best as I can tell, looking at a chart of Easter dates, the next time we will have an 8th Sunday after Epiphany will be in the year 2095. There are three people in our parish for whom this was the 2nd time they have experienced a Sunday like this, and perhaps some of our youngest parishioners will do so again, but for most of us, it was the only time we would live this day.
When I had discovered this fact from one of my Facebook friends, I immediately set out to find out as much nerdy detail as I could about it. I found it absolutely fascinating that since our present Book of Common Prayer was put into use in 1979, the contemporary form of this collect had never been used. Chances are, the next time this Sunday rolls around in the calendar, our prayer book will have been revised again, possibly even not just once, but more than once.
I shared this with my vicar and several other people in the parish on Sunday, and with my Facebook friends. I laughed at how it was almost a litmus test for the "liturgically nerdy." My contacts who also live on the liturgically geeky side of life also found it fascinating. The ones that don't, as expected, dismissed me lovingly as a hopeless nerd--which was all fine.
But as I pondered these little facts, a desire grew in me for this Sunday to be a special day--more special than usual. I wanted to be just a little cleaner, a little more ready, a little more grace-filled, and a little more liturgically smooth as acolyte that day.
From that thought grew another thought: Every Sunday is a special day. This is the day the Lord has made; rejoice and be glad in it. The thought kept growing, as I got in the truck and drove to church. Every day is a special day. Not just this Sunday. Not just Sunday. Every day of my life is a special day, with none of them just alike.
Why is it we hunt and hunt for "special days" in our life, and have a need to rank order everything? We even rank order holidays, liking this one better than that one. Why is it, on our worst days, we can't simply back up from it and go, "Wait a minute. Yes, there are some things about today that really bite--but I am alive to see the end of it. This is a special day, even if it is only because I survived it." But the fact is we do rank order our days, our friends, our food, and our needs.
But it didn't change the fact I wanted Sunday, Feb. 27 to be special.
Now, honestly, I didn't do much that would ever be deemed "special." I went to church. I was acolyte. I had what I would call "a good day at church," but I would never claim it was a red letter day. I did some errands. I worked on throwing more things out of the house, in anticipation of the people coming for the furniture. It was good, but not special.
So for my "special activity" for the day, I decided since this collect was possibly the most seldom-used collect in the Prayer Book, I would spend some quality time with it...and this was the line that jumped out at me:
"Preserve us from faithless
fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life
may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal..."
Well, I've certainly had plenty of those faithless fears and worldly anxieties. I am pretty sure I have more coming up. To snitch a couple of phrases from my blog friend Elizabeth, I have eaten from the family-size loaf of the Bread of Anxiety, and I have a gold level membership in the Anxiety Airlines frequent flier program. I often remark that I have a hypertrophied paranoid gland.
But next Sunday, our readings remind us of a cloud far different than the clouds of this mortal life--the cloud mentioned on Mt. Sinai as Moses received the commandments, and the cloud that was present at the Transfiguration that contained the voice of God, saying, "This is my son, the beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!"
It's a reminder that God has a tendency to speak from the fog, not from the sunny clear sky.
Maybe, in that sense, there is a purpose to anxiety.
Perhaps it means that every time we feel ourselves headed for the next gate for the next flight from the Anxiety Airlines terminal, we need to consider our anxieties as invitations--invitations to hear God in the vast cloud of unknowing. That would certainly be different. It might even be "special!" Who knows--maybe one of those opportunities is a once in a lifetime opportunity, as rare as the 8th Sunday after Epiphany!
