For Dr. Siburt

Today, as I was finishing up some things at the office before going home, I came across the news that a former professor of mine from Abilene Christian University is nearing the end of his life. Charles Siburt serves as Associate Dean for Ministry Programs and Services at the Graduate School of Theology at ACU. He's been battling cancer and now his family reports that his battle is reaching its conclusion.

I took his Introduction to Christian Ministry class in the fall of 2006, during my final year at ACU. I had moved into the Episcopal Church, was searching for an Episcopal seminary where I could do my Anglican Studies year, and was deep in the discernment process for the priesthood.

It was a time of real turmoil for me in many ways. The task of moving into another denomination is always difficult—being in seminary makes the difficulty particularly acute. Though Dr. Siburt was always supportive of my sense of calling, the same could not be said for all of my professors.

This Intro to Ministry class is, I think, a bit legendary. Dr. Siburt has worked with congregations throughout the Churches of Christ and has seen his fair share of struggle and conflict. The class is intended to be a guide for healthy and successful ministry and it was full of important truths and thought-provoking stories. My own highlighted notes include important words of wisdom to a young person training for ministry. Two particular points stand out to me on the first page of notes:

• "The first few years in ministry are often lethal, deadly. You've learned some stuff and its all true. However, you don't know what you've got until you've put it into practice with a community."
• "You will live and die on the sword of unspoken expectations. Survival depends on figuring out what the unspoken thing they really want is."

To be honest, though, my notes from his class are rather sparse. Other than the handful of words of wisdom and a tremendously thick binder of articles and resources he gave us, the rest of the class exists in my memory and in my soul. The heart of the class was the stories he told of his experience working with congregations around the country, helping them and their clergy reach places of greater health and more faithful ministry.

For my final paper for the class, I had to write a paper about "My Dream for Ministry." After I read about Dr. Siburt's return to Abilene and that he was beginning his final journey home, I opened up my notes from the class and came across it. I hadn't looked at it in quite a while, years probably.

I read through it, surprisingly enjoying the memories of that rather tumultuous fall. It felt strange, now on the other side. When I wrote the paper, I had only been in the Episcopal Church a couple of years. I reflected in the paper on how the discernment process might wind-up with a response that I was not called to the priesthood. In the paper I talked about how I would be OK with that because I trusted my community to help me hear the Spirit.

And now here I am. A priest in the church.

Tonight, about five and a half years later, I'm struck by how much of that paper still resonates with me. In particular, the section on "my ideal role" is fascinating. It describes, almost perfectly, my current position at St. John's. And all the hopes for that position... they are all still deep within my heart as I think of my current cure here in Grand Haven.

I want to work in a community where I can settle down with a wife and spend the vast majority of my life working alongside a community. I want to be visit them in the hospital, bringing them holy unction and Eucharist. I want to bless their marriages and weep with them if their marriages fall apart. I want to baptize their children and stand alongside of them when they bury their loved ones. I want to live the Christian life with a parish, finding ways to encourage them to see their own lives as the fourth order of ministry in the church. As our catechism says,

Q. Who are the ministers of the Church?
A. The ministers of the Church are lay persons, bishops, priests and deacons.

Q. What is the ministry of the laity?
A. The ministry of lay persons is to represent Christ and his Church; to bear witness to him wherever they may be; and, according to the gifts given them, to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world; and to take their place in the life, worship, and governance of the Church.

I want to urge the community on to consciousness of the social realities of our community and the world. I want to learn along with them how to reflect theologically upon our life. I want to find my voice with them to speak against the injustices of society. Even more than that, I want to find ways, along with the community, to concretely work to change those injustices, recognizing the dignity of every person created in the image of God.

In a time in my seminary career where some professors were becoming increasingly difficult to work with, unhappy with my decision to leave the Churches of Christ, Dr. Siburt let me write honestly about where I was and where I dreamed of being some-day. He encouraged me, having no difficulty seeing that Christian ministry is Christian ministry, regardless of the tradition. In his classes I as given a language and vision of healthy ministry, one that enabled me to talk with clarity about my call whether I was sitting in front of the diocesan Commission on Ministry or whether I was explaining it to a confused relative.

And through it all, Dr. Siburt never stopped smiling, never stopped loving me, never stopped encouraging me to step forward into the ministry God was calling me, to love the people of God with whom I'm called to live, to listen for the dancing voice of the Spirit always calling us forward.

Over these next few days or weeks, as he spends his final time with his family, I'm going to be praying for him. But a significant portion of the content of those prayers will be gratitude—gratitude for all the gifts his wisdom gave me and countless other ministers across the Christian Church.

Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

God the Father,
Have mercy on your servant.
God the Son,
Have mercy on your servant.
God the Holy Spirit,
Have mercy on your servant.
Holy Trinity, one God,
Have mercy on your servant.

From all evil, from all sin, from all tribulation,
Good Lord, deliver him.
By your holy Incarnation, by your Cross and Passion, by your precious Death and Burial,
Good Lord, deliver him.
By your glorious Resurrection and Ascension, and by the Coming of the Holy Spirit,
Good Lord, deliver him.

We sinners beseech you to hear us, Lord Christ: That it may please you to deliver the soul of your servant from the power of evil, and from eternal death,
We beseech you to hear us, good Lord.
That it may please you mercifully to pardon all his sins,
We beseech you to hear us, good Lord.
That it may please you to grant him a place of refreshment and everlasting blessedness,
We beseech you to hear us, good Lord.
That it may please you to give him joy and gladness in your kingdom, with your saints in light,
We beseech you to hear us, good Lord.

Jesus, Lamb of God:
Have mercy on him.
Jesus, bearer of our sins:
Have mercy on him.
Jesus, redeemer of the world:
Give him your peace.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Let us pray.
Deliver your servant, Charles, O Sovereign Lord Christ, from all evil, and set him free from every bond; that he may rest with all your saints in the eternal habitations; where with the Father and the Holy Spirit you live and reign, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Christ will open the kingdom of heaven to all who believe in his Name, saying, Come, O blessed of my Father; inherit the kingdom prepared for you. Into paradise may the angels lead you. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.

From Out of Idleness

To insure the greatest efficiency if the dart
the harpooners of this world
must start to their feet from out of idleness,
and not from out of toil.
~Herman Melville

This quote from Melville is found on the first pages of Eugene Peterson's new book, The Pastor: A Memoir. It was given to me as a gift this past Christmas, a gift I was excited to receive. Ever since I began studying religion in college, ever since I began the intentional preparation for parish ministry, I've found clergy memoirs to be some of the most important reading I can do. They nourish my spirit and challenge my assumptions over and over again, enabling me to glimpse—just for a moment—what a life of ministry looks like from the other end.

Peterson's memoir is, as I expected, powerful and moving. It pushes me to reconsider my own perspectives and assumptions regarding priestly ministry. I'm reading it from Colorado, during a family vacation here. I think that is perhaps why that quote at the very beginning, that quote about idleness, has stood out to me so much. Though cross-country skiing, hiking, snow-shoeing, and all other outdoors activities are not idleness, strictly defined, this time is still an idleness of sorts.

I mean, heck, I have time to read a book.

The timing of this vacation was not ideal in terms of parochial life. Our Annual Parish Meeting is this coming Sunday, the day after I get back in town. I worked hard in the week before I left to be prepared, to write reports and ensure everything was lined up for a smooth parish meeting. But it's been hard this past week, as I've sought rest, relaxation, and re-creation with my family to remain in a place of idleness. The draw of work is always in the back of my mind. Though I turned on my e-mail vacation auto-responder, I've still been keeping my eye on e-mails as they come in. I've even, dare I confess, responded to a few.

It's hard to find a place of idleness.

One might think, given a cursory reading of Benedict's rule, that idleness is a bad thing. Indeed, chapter 48 of the Rule begins, "Idleness is the enemy of the soul." The chapter goes on to describe a schedule of daily manual labor that is an essential part of the Benedictine life. But it says more than that. In the midst of this section on work, Benedict says, "After the sixth hour, having left the table, let them rest on their beds in perfect silence; or if anyone may perhaps want to read, let her read to herself in such a way as not to disturb anyone else."

The "sixth hour" or "sext" is the office said at noon. It is often followed or preceded by lunch. To wit, in this section, Benedict instructs that after lunch the monks are to take a nap.

Or if they don't want a nap, then to go ahead and read, just don't bother those who are taking a nap.

There is a type of idleness that is indeed an enemy to the soul, this is idleness that is often called "sloth." One of the seven deadly sins, sloth is dangerous to the soul because it creates acedia, or a lack of care for the world. Sloth is a lazy inactivity that both stems from not caring and that creates a level of detachment from the world around us.

But I don't think that this slothful idleness is what Melville was writing about. I don't think this slothful idleness is what Peterson was thinking of when he chose to place Melville's quote at the beginning of his book. I think the idleness of Melville and Peterson is the one Benedict places, ironically enough, smack dab in the middle of a section about work.

Because idleness is essential to faithful work.

Originally, when I was getting ready to take this vacation, I was thinking I wouldn't want to do this again. I was thinking I wouldn't again want to go on vacation and then arrive back in town the day before a significant moment in the life of the church. But I wonder if there might be wisdom in this. I wonder if, perhaps, there might be wisdom in starting to my feet this Sunday not out of work, but out of idleness.

It certainly makes me grateful to work in a diocese where our bishop insists upon a weekly time of idleness. In diocesan language, the priest is expected to maintain "a 48 hour period each week devoted solely to personal and family use." It's hard to do and like vacation I don't always do it perfectly.

But I'm getting better.

I'm getting better at holding on to times of idleness. I'm getting better at laying down my harpoon and resting against the side of the boat. I'm getting better at turning on some of my favorite music as I work through e-mails in the afternoon (probably the strangest spiritual discipline I've ever had suggested me by a spiritual director). It's not the afternoon nap of the monastery, but it is forcing my mind to take a step back, to relax...

And I find that the work that proceeds from idleness is less flurry of activity and more careful and intentional... less batting at the air and more a careful harpoon thrown at the anxiety which infects our world.

This Sunday is a big day in the life of our parish, any Annual Meeting in any parish is a significant moment. So I'm getting ready for it, my feet propped up in front of me, a fire in the fireplace, my wife leaning on the couch next to me slowly slipping into a nap, and the snow lazily falling down around us. This is a preparation for work that can only be accomplished through a sort of holy idleness.

And I think it's a small part of my very salvation.

O Emmanuel

Note: This post is the seventh and final in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O Emmanuel, our king and our lawgiver, 

the hope of the nations and their Saviour: 

Come and save us, O Lord our God. 

Everyone wants a sign, some sort of certainty that their faith is not staked upon a fantasy.

The Lord offered to give a sign to Ahaz. Ahaz was king of Judah for a time during what's known as the divided kingdom. Israel had joined forces with Aram (Syria) to attack Jerusalem. The story in 2 Kings tells us that the Lord sent Isaiah out to meet Ahaz, telling Ahaz to have courage because the Lord would protect him. Israel and Syria wanted Jerusalem for their own, but the Lord would strengthen Ahaz so he could protect it. Yet, the Lord warned Ahaz, “If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all.”

And then the Lord offered Ahaz a sign.

Ahaz refused, saying he would not put the Lord to the test. But the Lord knew that Ahaz was not speaking from a place of deep faith, but from a place of deep fear. The Lord knew that Ahaz did not refuse the sign because he trusted God, but because he was terrified of what might happen to him. (And Ahaz was already arranging an alliance with Assyria, hoping they could protect him.)

So the Lord gave Ahaz a sign anyway: Immanuel.

“Look,” the Lord said, “The young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.” Isaiah also prophesied that the country Ahaz had trusted in to help him (Assyria) would instead come and lay waste to Jerusalem. Israel would be carried off into captivity by Assyria and destroyed. Later, Judah would also be carried off into captivity by Babylon. God's people would be taken from their land and the supposedly everlasting covenant of Abraham and David would seem to be revoked.

O come, O come, Emmanuel, 

and ransom captive Israel, 

that mourns in lonely exile here 

until the Son of God appear. 

Eventually, the Persian empire came to power and Judah was returned to their homeland. They rebuilt the temple but never fully retained sovereignty over their land. For a brief period during the 2nd century BC, it appeared as though the revolt led by the Maccabees would give the Jewish people sovereignty. However, the Seleucid empire regained control. In 63 BC, Pompey captured Jerusalem for Rome, subjecting the Jews to Roman rule.

And it was into this context that Mary received news that she would give birth to the Messiah... the captivity of God's people appeared about to end.

But you need to remember the sign of Immanuel. The word literally means, “God with us.” The young woman would give birth and the child would be called “God with us.” In the context of exile and captivity, where God seems profoundly absent, this name of "God with us" becomes so very important. No longer will we feel lost. No longer will we feel as though there is always someone on our back, pressing us down. No longer will we search the skies and search the ancient texts for some sign that God is still around.

God will be with us.

God with us.

Some of the Jewish people thought the Messiah would come and give them political freedom. Instead the Messiah came and suffered alongside of them. Many thought the Messiah would return to them the power that had been stolen, instead the Messiah came and spoke up for the powerless. Many thought the Messiah would be a sign that God was for them. Instead, the Messiah was actually God with them, right alongside of them.

Now, you and I may not be in exile. We may not be in captivity. But we share the same confusion as some of the first century Jews, thinking that the kingdom is about political power or the success of our particular agenda. Who would have thought that Immanuel was actually just what it says: God with us? We will no longer be alone. We will no longer search desperately for God's presence in our life.

Look, a young woman is about to give birth. She doesn't look like the mother of a king. She's a unwed pregnant teenager, after all. But look, look so very carefully and take note. Because the child she will bear will be called Immanuel.

The child will be Emmanuel.

God will be with us.

God with us.

O Emmanuel.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O Rex Gentium

Note: This post is the sixth in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O King of the nations, and their desire, 

the cornerstone making both one: 

Come and save the human race, 

which you fashioned from clay. 

We are all just clay, after all. We seem to do everything we can to forget that fact. We wrap ourselves in fancy clothes, strive to own nice cars and houses, to have powerful and impressive jobs—anything we can think of to hide the fact that we are just clay.

We form ourselves into ethnic groups, tribes, states, nations, so that we can point at other clay and say how much better we are than them. We go to war to protect the illusion that we're more than clay. We get offended whenever anyone even suggests we might be less than what we want to believe we are.

We want so desperately to believe we're more than clay.

O come, Desire of nations, 

bind in one the hearts of all mankind; 

bid thou our sad divisions cease, 

and be thyself our King of Peace. 

The children of Israel were God's chosen people. God pointed at them in their clay-ness and said, “I choose you.” They often thought that meant that they weren't clay, and so they got into all sorts of trouble. In actuality, though, God chose Israel to be a light to the nations, to clarify once and for all that being clay was not a bad thing... but that it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Israel was meant to display the glory of being just clay so that all nations could see their true nature. Because prophets and sages told Israel the truth: they were beloved clay.

One of my professors from Sewanee recently published a book. I haven't read it yet, it's on my bookshelf waiting for me, but I absolutely adore the title: Beloved Dust. We are all beloved dust. We are all beloved clay.

God sees us in our weakness and loves us dearly, not in spite of our weakness, but right through to the depths of our weakness. Saint Paul knew this, that's why he wrote the arguing and schismatic church in Corinth, reminding them that there was a profound treasure in their clay-ness. The treasure of being beloved of God.

God loves us in our weakness. All of the things in our lives we anxiously try to paint over, God caresses with the hand of the Potter, transforming our weakness into God's divine intention. And thus our weakness is beautiful. Nations war and rage. The Spirit whispers, “Peace. You are all beloved.”

Groups split and split, each claiming superiority over the other. The cornerstone reaches out and grasps the two bitterly divided groups and joins them. Remember, it was the stone that the builders rejected that has become the cornerstone. The builders thought it was weak and clay, but in that weakness God's glory was revealed. In that weakness, the stone has lovingly connected with the weakness of all humanity, drawing all things together into one new structure. And every stone therein is beloved of God.

War and rage no longer. Put down your need to prove yourself. Discover that you are beloved and that the Other is beloved as well. The King of all beloved clay is coming and our hearts will be bound into one.

O Rex Gentium.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O Oriens

Note: This post is the fifth in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O Rising Sun, 

splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness: 

Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death. 

At this time of the year, it can get awfully dark. I'll get home from work at the parish and my wife will be coming home late. Sometimes she had work to do, or some shopping to catch up on, so I'll have that first hour or so home by myself. On those days I'll often go downstairs, maybe play some Halo, and then come back upstairs when Bethany gets home. It'll only be about 6:30 or so, but it's already getting dark outside.

And we'd expect that, because it can get awfully dark at this time of the year.

Those families who live on tough hourly wages, working to make Christmas happen for their families, find themselves farther and farther behind and wonder how they will make it to January 1. Others who feel the persistent absence of loved ones feel it more acutely during the holiday season. And with all the joy and happiness all around, those for whom this month is hard wind up cold, lonely and squinting to see in the dark.

Because it can get awfully dark at this time of the year.

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer 

our spirits by thine advent here; 

disperse the gloomy clouds of night, 

and death's dark shadows put to flight. 

The early church usually celebrated Eucharist with the priest facing east, a position known in liturgical-speak as celebrating ad orientem. After Vatican II and the Liturgical Renewal movement of the twentieth century, this position became more commonly known as “celebrating with your back to the people.” And that's unfortunate, because it was not really about the priest doing magic while the people peered around the priest's back. It was much more about the priest standing in the same direction as the people, ascending to the altar with them and for them, and celebrating Eucharist with everyone facing a transcendent God (instead of everyone gathered around and facing the priest as the center of focus).

And they called it ad orientem.

That's latin for “to the east.”

The priest would stand and face the rising sun, offering to God simple bread and wine and asking God to become present for the people in those offerings. The priest would stand and face the rising sun in defiant expectation that Jesus was coming again. There would be a certain type of coming, a certain type of advent, in Eucharist, but Eucharist was much more than that, Eucharist would stretch us, reaching forward to Christ's second coming. In the midst of a world in love with Power, the priest would stand and defiantly face East, confident that he would see Christ come again in the bread, but also knowing there was a day when Christ would come on the clouds of the East and return.

Far too often in the church we hide the darkness in our lives. We pretend it's not there, that everything is light and beautiful. But in reality, there are places of oppressive darkness that terrify us.

So we all face the priest as the priest faces us, watch the priest do the Eucharist, and smile, believing it's OK. And that's fine. There are benefits to the priest celebrating ad populum, facing the people. I'd never try single-handedly to change a parish's practice in that area.

But every now and then...

Every now and then...

Every now and then it would do us some good to stand up and face the east. To stand up in defiance of a world that thinks it is in control, to stand up in defiance of all the darkness that creeps into our lives, to stand up in defiance of all of that, face the east, and tell one another that Christ will come on the wings of dawn and spread warm light throughout the world.

Not bright garish light that will make us shrink back.

No, the Dayspring, will spread the warm light of the dawn, reaching it's tendrils out through the darkness of a fleeting night, whispering softly to our hurting hearts that everything was not as scary as it seemed.

It's OK now. The nightmare is over. The God who created us has returned and the things that frighten us must flee.

Shh, Mommy's here. Daddy's here. The mother of our souls has returned. The father of our salvation has returned. The dawn has arrived and the darkness has been forced to flee.

Face east, brothers and sisters. Stand up today and look hard at the east. Our Dayspring is about to come.

O Oriens.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O Clavis David

Note: This post is the fourth in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O Key of David and sceptre of the House of Israel; 

you open and no one can shut; 

you shut and no one can open: 

Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house, 

those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death. 

This is not your house. You don't own the keys. You cannot close the doors God opens, neither can you open the ones God has shut. This is not your house.

And isn't this a tremendous message of grace? Because if this is not your house and it's not my house, if this really is God's house, then that means this is not their house.

Them.

The Powers. Those who stake their claim of ownership on contested land, those who trade the needy for a pair of sandals, those who trade the minority for a false unity, those who turned a cold shoulder when you walked into the room... this is not their house.

Them.

O come, thou Key of David, come, 

and open wide our heavenly home; 

make safe the way that leads on high,

and close the path to misery. 

There is one key to the house of God's people and it is owned by God. It is carried by Christ. It has been passed on to the Apostles and the church that bears the lineage of the Apostles still holds those keys. But we are only stewards of the keys. They are not ours.

And the keys are certainly not theirs, it is not the Powers’ key nor the key of them that serve the Powers’ ends. They will come to the house of God and find that the locks have been changed, that the name they pasted on the mailbox is gone.

But the least of these, the voiceless, the oppressed, the small and seemingly weak will find the door opened wide. They will find that Christ has made safe the way home. The way home is now safe.

Because the keys were never theirs. They were never ours. And the door is even now about to be open. The way to salvation will be made safe for all.

O Clavis David.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O Radix Jesse

Note: This post is the third in a series of posts on the "O Antiphons" that I wrote two years ago. I'm reposting them here this year as we head towards Christmas.

O Root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the peoples; 

before you kings will shut their mouths, 

to you the nations will make their prayer: 

Come and deliver us, and delay no longer. 

“Truth,” Pilate asks, “What is truth?” Thus Power responds to God incarnate. Of course, the power of God in Christ was difficult to see for many. Few look at the pain and suffering of the cross, point their fingers, and say, “That is power.”

But the answer to Pilate's question of truth stood before him in the abused prisoner. The glory of divine power was revealed as Christ gave completely of himself for others.

Perhaps Pilate should have shut his mouth.

O come, thou Root of Jesse's tree, 

an ensign of thy people be; 

before thee rulers silent fall; 

all peoples on thy mercy call. 

This O Antiphon describes the return of the Davidic kingship. The original son of Jesse, David, was promised a throne in perpetuity. The coming Messiah would sit on that throne, in power and great glory. And yet, instead of ascending a throne, the promised Messiah was lifted up on a tree.

What kind of a sign is that?

In the 12th chapter of the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself” (John 12:32). The majesty of the Davidic kingship, culminating in the reign of a Messiah lifted up on the cross, was drawing of all people together through an act of self-giving love. In Ephesians we are told, “For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us” (Ephesians 2:14). In Christ's ascension on the cross, we see God join human suffering, we see God experience all of the things we build up as barriers between each other. Through this self-giving love, Jesus sought to “reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it.”

Drawing all things together in God.

As Father Tobias says, in the economy of God's salvation nothing goes to waste. Look around you, the Root of Jesse is coming. And the Root is not coming to secure our own power, but to jostle the world until we will stand shoulder to shoulder with our brothers and sisters and see the image of God in them. Thus the nations pray. Thus the nations, beat down by the Powers of this world, long for justice and true friendship.

Watch, God is making everything new.

O Radix Jesse.

Come.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.