I was raised in a small Christian tradition that was very conservative on a number of questions, and one of those was worship. Like Christians in the first centuries, that tradition still worships with no instruments. Instead, it is straight a cappella hymn singing.Read more at the Tribune's website here.
And though I’ve learned to love the rich Anglican musical heritage, some days I still miss a good four-part gospel number.
Monday, April 29, 2013
We'll be singing with Shirley one more time
My April 29, 2013, column for the Grand Haven Tribune, We'll be singing with Shirley one more time,
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
A Loving Death
A couple weeks ago, at the our diocesan Spirituality Retreat, Bishop Gepert asked us to take a few minutes to reflect on what Gospel story we find ourselves most drawn to. He urged us to share the first one that immediately came to mind. Then, after we went around and shared what stories came up, he invited us to spend some time reflecting about how our life story connects with that Gospel story.
For me, the first story that came to my mind was this: the Restoration of Peter.
If you would have asked me years ago what story would come to mind, I don't think I would have picked this one. However, ever since my last pilgrimage to the Holy Land I have been captivated by this story.
One of the places we visited during that pilgrimage was the Church of the Primacy in Tiberius. It is a lovely church along the lake shore that commemorates Peter's restoration. For Roman Catholics, it also commemorates Christ's final and clearest statement about his primacy and his pastoral role among the other apostles and the broader church.
Do you remember the story?
After the resurrection, Peter still hasn't seen the resurrected Christ. He says to his friends, "I'm going fishing." The others say they'll go with him. They head out on the Sea of Tiberius and fish all night, catching nothing...
While I had always thought of this story as being the Restoration of Peter (as I even described it above), that is the more Protestant understanding. In much of Catholic thought, the story is often seen as a restoration and ordination of sorts. Peter is not only restored—he is commissioned for ministry.
At the Church of the Primacy, there is a statue depicting this scene. When I first saw it, I was stunned and captivated. Peter kneels before Christ, clearly overwhelmed by what is happening in this moment. Christ doesn't look normal, he looks other-worldly, as though the Resurrection has changed him. He extends one hand over Peter in an act of ordination and with his other hand he offers Peter a crozier—the symbol of episcopal ministry.
It's clearly a piece of art, not intended to be an historical depiction of this event. And as a piece of art, I find it powerful and moving.
For a long-time, I thought Christianity was primarily about grace and knowing that I was saved regardless of my own failings and weaknesses. And it is, of course, significantly about that. During this time I loved books like Brennan Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-up, and Burnt-out. Books like this taught me the beauty and truth of God's completely free and extravagant love. They were the warm milk upon which every young Christian must feed.
However, I've been slowly moving beyond that.
Well, not really beyond that, that's not the right word.
Because in some ways, extravagant grace has become even more important alongside of a deepening understanding of what the working out of my salvation looks like. The deepening understanding for me is the sense of call, the sense of being sent... and the fear of what that entails.The deepening understanding is about how accepting my calling to be sent deep into the the heart of my parish community... how this is a part of my own salvation.
When I was in discernment of ordination and then in seminary, a common narrative was how so many people wanted to run from the call. I remember one mentor saying that unless someone approached the concept of ordained ministry with great fear and trembling, they probably approached it wrongly. And that always made me feel a little guilty, because I wasn't scared of ordained ministry. I was excited and thrilled to receive this call, to be affirmed in something I had wanted to do almost my entire life.
But now, approaching the five year anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood, I think I understand the fear bit better. Because I understand that priestly ministry truly is a daily participation in the sacrifice and death of Christ. I understand that it is a constant giving up, a constant letting go, a constant laying down of yourself on behalf of the community and the church catholic. After having been called to walk through a few small deaths in my practice of ministry, I see how sometimes the clear path forward, the clear path deeper into the community, is one that will inevitably require death.
And perhaps that is why moving "beyond" the simple milk of God's unexpected and extravagant grace to the inevitable sending into ministry that every single baptized Christian has is not actually a moving beyond at all. It's a moving deeper.
Because one of the deepest gifts my spiritual director has given me is the connection between a deep and passionate love affair with God and service to that God in the Christian community.
Peter received his calling in the context of repeated questions from Christ regarding Peter's love for Jesus. Over and over again, Jesus asked Peter if he loved him and with each affirmative response Jesus sought to cast Peter's gaze broader, insisting that love of Christ involved feeding Christ's flock.
This connection is what saves any baptized Christian, lay or ordained, from allowing their practice of ministry to destroy them. We are all handed a certain type of death from our Lord, a cross to pick up. But when we accept that cross—symbolized for Peter in the crozier—we accept it with our eyes locked upon a Christ who loves us and who invites our passionate love.
The death to which are called may be scary, but it is the way into divine love.
Loving Christ without the death through which we feed Christ's body—that is, loving Christ without a participation in his Eucharistic self-offering—will only ever keep Christ at an arm's length. It will not allow our very selves to be formed after the mind of Christ.
Feeding Christ's body without a strong connection to the love of Christ will result either in a lack of authenticity or burn-out. We will find ourselves consumed or we will find our care exhausted. We will be left hurting and looking for the redeeming healing grace of God.
In order to love, we must hear the call to die in self-offering service. In order to serve, we must be grounded first in a relationship of passionate love.
I don't have this all worked out. I feel like I'm only now brushing the edges of this mystery. But more and more I can smell the charcoal from the fire. More and more, I hear Christ asking my spirit, "Do you love me?" I hear Christ inviting me to respond, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you."
And with each year, with each day in the life of ministry, I see more clearly the loving death into which I am invited.
For me, the first story that came to my mind was this: the Restoration of Peter.
If you would have asked me years ago what story would come to mind, I don't think I would have picked this one. However, ever since my last pilgrimage to the Holy Land I have been captivated by this story.
One of the places we visited during that pilgrimage was the Church of the Primacy in Tiberius. It is a lovely church along the lake shore that commemorates Peter's restoration. For Roman Catholics, it also commemorates Christ's final and clearest statement about his primacy and his pastoral role among the other apostles and the broader church.
Do you remember the story?
After the resurrection, Peter still hasn't seen the resurrected Christ. He says to his friends, "I'm going fishing." The others say they'll go with him. They head out on the Sea of Tiberius and fish all night, catching nothing...
Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, ‘Children, you have no fish, have you?’ They answered him, ‘No.’ He said to them, ‘Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.’ So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, ‘It is the Lord!’ When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the lake.Jesus has prepared breakfast for them, cooking over a charcoal fire (the same word used to describe the fire at which Peter warmed himself while denying Christ). Three times Jesus asks Peter if he loves him. Three times Peter says he does, only to hear Jesus respond, "Feed my sheep."
While I had always thought of this story as being the Restoration of Peter (as I even described it above), that is the more Protestant understanding. In much of Catholic thought, the story is often seen as a restoration and ordination of sorts. Peter is not only restored—he is commissioned for ministry.
It's clearly a piece of art, not intended to be an historical depiction of this event. And as a piece of art, I find it powerful and moving.
For a long-time, I thought Christianity was primarily about grace and knowing that I was saved regardless of my own failings and weaknesses. And it is, of course, significantly about that. During this time I loved books like Brennan Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-up, and Burnt-out. Books like this taught me the beauty and truth of God's completely free and extravagant love. They were the warm milk upon which every young Christian must feed.
However, I've been slowly moving beyond that.
Well, not really beyond that, that's not the right word.
Because in some ways, extravagant grace has become even more important alongside of a deepening understanding of what the working out of my salvation looks like. The deepening understanding for me is the sense of call, the sense of being sent... and the fear of what that entails.The deepening understanding is about how accepting my calling to be sent deep into the the heart of my parish community... how this is a part of my own salvation.
When I was in discernment of ordination and then in seminary, a common narrative was how so many people wanted to run from the call. I remember one mentor saying that unless someone approached the concept of ordained ministry with great fear and trembling, they probably approached it wrongly. And that always made me feel a little guilty, because I wasn't scared of ordained ministry. I was excited and thrilled to receive this call, to be affirmed in something I had wanted to do almost my entire life.
But now, approaching the five year anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood, I think I understand the fear bit better. Because I understand that priestly ministry truly is a daily participation in the sacrifice and death of Christ. I understand that it is a constant giving up, a constant letting go, a constant laying down of yourself on behalf of the community and the church catholic. After having been called to walk through a few small deaths in my practice of ministry, I see how sometimes the clear path forward, the clear path deeper into the community, is one that will inevitably require death.
And perhaps that is why moving "beyond" the simple milk of God's unexpected and extravagant grace to the inevitable sending into ministry that every single baptized Christian has is not actually a moving beyond at all. It's a moving deeper.
Because one of the deepest gifts my spiritual director has given me is the connection between a deep and passionate love affair with God and service to that God in the Christian community.
Peter received his calling in the context of repeated questions from Christ regarding Peter's love for Jesus. Over and over again, Jesus asked Peter if he loved him and with each affirmative response Jesus sought to cast Peter's gaze broader, insisting that love of Christ involved feeding Christ's flock.
This connection is what saves any baptized Christian, lay or ordained, from allowing their practice of ministry to destroy them. We are all handed a certain type of death from our Lord, a cross to pick up. But when we accept that cross—symbolized for Peter in the crozier—we accept it with our eyes locked upon a Christ who loves us and who invites our passionate love.
The death to which are called may be scary, but it is the way into divine love.
Loving Christ without the death through which we feed Christ's body—that is, loving Christ without a participation in his Eucharistic self-offering—will only ever keep Christ at an arm's length. It will not allow our very selves to be formed after the mind of Christ.
Feeding Christ's body without a strong connection to the love of Christ will result either in a lack of authenticity or burn-out. We will find ourselves consumed or we will find our care exhausted. We will be left hurting and looking for the redeeming healing grace of God.
In order to love, we must hear the call to die in self-offering service. In order to serve, we must be grounded first in a relationship of passionate love.
I don't have this all worked out. I feel like I'm only now brushing the edges of this mystery. But more and more I can smell the charcoal from the fire. More and more, I hear Christ asking my spirit, "Do you love me?" I hear Christ inviting me to respond, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you."
And with each year, with each day in the life of ministry, I see more clearly the loving death into which I am invited.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Wrestling with a Consistent Ethic of Life
My February 27, 2013, column for the Grand Haven Tribune, Wrestling with a Consistent Ethic of Life,
He was approached by a representative from one of our elected officials and asked if he would support a bill that would exclude health insurance carriers from covering pre-existing conditions of adopted children.Read more at the Tribune's website here.
Knowing that this politician was “pro-life,” my parishioner pushed a bit, asking how that made sense. “So, you’re telling me that you support forcing someone in poverty to have a child, but then if that parent chooses to give the child up for adoption, you also support allowing a health insurance company not to cover any pre-existing conditions that child has.”
The representative paused for a moment and then said, “I suppose we hadn’t really thought about that.”
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Invited: One Reflection on "Ashes to Go"
I will admit, when I first heard about the movement known as "Ashes to Go"a few years ago, I was rather suspect. I agreed with its many detractors who said that the apparent motivation of convenience behind the movement was flawed. They insisted (and many continue to insist) that the imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday is meant to be experienced in a community. It needs to be placed alongside of the reading of Scripture, the proclamation of the Gospel in a homily, the Litany of Penitence and the celebration of God's grace in Holy Eucharist.
I believed all that for several years.
Then, last year, as I was sitting in a room with my fellow clergy in the Great Lakes Chapter of The Society of Catholic Priests in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada, one of my brother priests spoke up. "When I stood at the onramp of the hi-way today, I had all kinds of people stop. One of them was a trucker who came to me with tears in his eyes saying that because of his job this was the only way he could get ashes on this day. He was so grateful."
The story stopped me in my tracks and my critical approach began unraveling.
So, this morning, at 7:30am, I pulled into a parking lot at Walgreen's here in Grand Haven. I took a big sign out of my car and set it at the corner of the busy intersection that store is located at. I put on my cassock, surplice, and stole and I threw my heavy wool cloak around my shoulders. I then took a small container of ashes (and a cup of coffee) and went and stood at the corner. The sign proclaimed "Ashes to Go" and I was going to figure out what this experience was like.
The first thing I noticed is that it is cold. My goodness is it cold in Michigan in the middle of February. The weather was in the mid-twenties when I got out there and it didn't warm much as the morning went on. I kept my leather gloves on unless I was imposing ashes and shortly after my coffee ran out, a parishioner who had driven by came and brought me a hot chocolate from Starbucks. By the time I left, my feet were nearly numb and I was standing there with my cloak wrapped tight around me.
So, yeah, it was cold.
But the other thing is this: I could not keep from smiling. This is a big busy multi-lane intersection and I got to see a whole lot of cars go by. Some people looked at my confusedly, others waved cheerfully. I got a few peace signs and several thumbs up signs. And I spent the whole two hours I was out there grinning like an idiot. It doesn't seem very somber or Lent appropriate to be grinning like a fool while you are standing near a sign inviting people to be reminded of their mortality... but the joy I experienced was irrepressible. I loved each and every person that drove by and I hoped so badly that they could see that it my smile.
I didn't get a lot of traffic. To be honest, I only wound up giving ashes to two people the entire two hours I stood out there. I think I needed more and bigger signs. I don't know, I'm not an Ashes to Go professional. I'm just an amateur looking for a way to interrupt people's lives with the Gospel message of love wrapped in death, that strangely beautiful message of this day.
I hope that for those that didn't stop, I served as perhaps a sign of some kind, perhaps a reminder. Maybe some of them hadn't realized it was Ash Wednesday and I reminded them to find out when their church was having services. That would be pretty awesome.
Maybe some of them were confused and then googled "Ashes to Go" when they got to work. I thought about that and realized they'd find all kinds of essays and blog posts with Christians fighting about whether or not it was appropriate. That made me a little sad. I don't want the unchurched (or de-churched) to have the idea reinforced that us Christians just like to argue about everything. I hope they know that we argue about this sort of thing because we love God and them, because we want to be faithful. I hoped that... but worried they'd just scratch their heads in confusion.
And I really hope, man oh man do I hope... I hope that some of the people that drove by saw a priest in strange garb with a ridiculous smile on his face and maybe it made them smile. Maybe it provoked the thought that not only is there freedom in those ashes, but there could be joy there as well. I hope they saw the love that was in my eyes as I watched them drive by, as I waved at small children who thought the whole thing looked so cool, as I smiled for drivers who snapped pictures with their cell phones.
And I hope they found me to be an invitation.
Because that's what Ash Wednesday really is after all. It's not the entirety of the Christian Gospel. It's not the entirety of what discipleship looks like. Heck, it's not even the entirety of the Season of Lent. Ash Wednesday is an invitation, and invitation from the church to step back for a moment and to make a choice over these next forty days to pattern your life more deeply after the life of Christ.
I hope those who stopped and those who drive by found themselves invited into something more, something deeper...
I'm headed back out there in a few minutes. Maybe as I stand out there from 4:30pm to 5:30pm I'll be able to catch those commuters on their way home. Maybe they'll have time to stop now, time they didn't have in the morning. Maybe they just needed a reminder, a small nudge, that this day is more than any of us ever expected it to be.
I believed all that for several years.
Then, last year, as I was sitting in a room with my fellow clergy in the Great Lakes Chapter of The Society of Catholic Priests in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada, one of my brother priests spoke up. "When I stood at the onramp of the hi-way today, I had all kinds of people stop. One of them was a trucker who came to me with tears in his eyes saying that because of his job this was the only way he could get ashes on this day. He was so grateful."
The story stopped me in my tracks and my critical approach began unraveling.
So, this morning, at 7:30am, I pulled into a parking lot at Walgreen's here in Grand Haven. I took a big sign out of my car and set it at the corner of the busy intersection that store is located at. I put on my cassock, surplice, and stole and I threw my heavy wool cloak around my shoulders. I then took a small container of ashes (and a cup of coffee) and went and stood at the corner. The sign proclaimed "Ashes to Go" and I was going to figure out what this experience was like.
The first thing I noticed is that it is cold. My goodness is it cold in Michigan in the middle of February. The weather was in the mid-twenties when I got out there and it didn't warm much as the morning went on. I kept my leather gloves on unless I was imposing ashes and shortly after my coffee ran out, a parishioner who had driven by came and brought me a hot chocolate from Starbucks. By the time I left, my feet were nearly numb and I was standing there with my cloak wrapped tight around me.
So, yeah, it was cold.
But the other thing is this: I could not keep from smiling. This is a big busy multi-lane intersection and I got to see a whole lot of cars go by. Some people looked at my confusedly, others waved cheerfully. I got a few peace signs and several thumbs up signs. And I spent the whole two hours I was out there grinning like an idiot. It doesn't seem very somber or Lent appropriate to be grinning like a fool while you are standing near a sign inviting people to be reminded of their mortality... but the joy I experienced was irrepressible. I loved each and every person that drove by and I hoped so badly that they could see that it my smile. I didn't get a lot of traffic. To be honest, I only wound up giving ashes to two people the entire two hours I stood out there. I think I needed more and bigger signs. I don't know, I'm not an Ashes to Go professional. I'm just an amateur looking for a way to interrupt people's lives with the Gospel message of love wrapped in death, that strangely beautiful message of this day.
I hope that for those that didn't stop, I served as perhaps a sign of some kind, perhaps a reminder. Maybe some of them hadn't realized it was Ash Wednesday and I reminded them to find out when their church was having services. That would be pretty awesome.
Maybe some of them were confused and then googled "Ashes to Go" when they got to work. I thought about that and realized they'd find all kinds of essays and blog posts with Christians fighting about whether or not it was appropriate. That made me a little sad. I don't want the unchurched (or de-churched) to have the idea reinforced that us Christians just like to argue about everything. I hope they know that we argue about this sort of thing because we love God and them, because we want to be faithful. I hoped that... but worried they'd just scratch their heads in confusion.
And I really hope, man oh man do I hope... I hope that some of the people that drove by saw a priest in strange garb with a ridiculous smile on his face and maybe it made them smile. Maybe it provoked the thought that not only is there freedom in those ashes, but there could be joy there as well. I hope they saw the love that was in my eyes as I watched them drive by, as I waved at small children who thought the whole thing looked so cool, as I smiled for drivers who snapped pictures with their cell phones.
And I hope they found me to be an invitation.
Because that's what Ash Wednesday really is after all. It's not the entirety of the Christian Gospel. It's not the entirety of what discipleship looks like. Heck, it's not even the entirety of the Season of Lent. Ash Wednesday is an invitation, and invitation from the church to step back for a moment and to make a choice over these next forty days to pattern your life more deeply after the life of Christ.
I hope those who stopped and those who drive by found themselves invited into something more, something deeper...
I'm headed back out there in a few minutes. Maybe as I stand out there from 4:30pm to 5:30pm I'll be able to catch those commuters on their way home. Maybe they'll have time to stop now, time they didn't have in the morning. Maybe they just needed a reminder, a small nudge, that this day is more than any of us ever expected it to be.
A Short Ash Wednesday Liturgy
The priest invites the penitent,
Dear Child of God: I invite you, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a Holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God’s holy Word. And, to make a right beginning of repentance, and as a mark of our mortal nature, let us now bow before the Lord, our maker and redeemer.
The priest imposes ashes, saying,
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Both say the Confession,
God of all mercy, we confess that we have sinned against you, opposing your will in our lives. We have denied your goodness in each other, in ourselves, and in the world you have created. We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf. Forgive, restore, and strengthen us through our Savior Jesus Christ, that we may abide in your love and serve only your will. Amen.
The priest pronounces God’s forgiveness, to which the penitent responds, saying, Amen.
Priest Go in peace and pray for me, a sinner.
There's Freedom in those Ashes
My February 13, 2013, column for the Grand Haven Tribune, There's Freedom in those Ashes, also reprinted below:
It is a strange thing to tell someone that she or he is going to die. I know there are professions regularly faced with this reality, particularly the medical field. I know there are people for whom our mortality is a truth that surrounds every moment of their work. And as a priest, I know I spend more time around death than the average person. But still, it is a strange thing to tell someone that she or he is going to die.
When many people think of Lent, the first thing that comes to mind is the idea of “giving something up.” Even those who are not a part of traditions that observe Lent likely know friends or family who give up things like sweets, alcohol, meat, or something else during Lent. At the least, we see the signs for specials on McDonald’s fish sandwiches on Fridays in Lent! As a child growing up in an evangelical church along the Lakeshore, I was fascinated by this idea of “giving something up” for a season. The first time I actually mustered the courage was in college—I gave up soda.
Over the years, though, I’ve come to realize that the season of Lent is about more than simply giving something up. Rather, this season is about a time of reorientation. The season comes from the ancient church practice wherein converts to the Christian faith spent this season preparing for their baptisms at Easter. Eventually, they were joined by their brothers and sisters, fellow Christians who spent the days leading up to Easter in solidarity, praying and fasting with the converts to the faith. And, of course, the season resonates with the final weeks of Christ’s journey to Jerusalem, as we focus particularly on Christ’s invitation to each one of us to deny ourselves, pick up our crosses, and follow him.
Each year, it seems, Ash Wednesday is a bit more difficult for me as a priest. As I develop deeper relationships with parishioners, it becomes a strange act to smudge ash on their heads as I say, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Last year, as one of our oldest parishioners knelt at the rail, I felt tears come to my eyes as I said those ancient words. Surely she knew that she would one day return to dust—I just didn’t want to think about it.
At the beginning of Lent we are all reminded, priest to pastor to parishioner to visitor, that this life we live is very short. We spend so much time accumulating possessions, trying to manufacture security, fooling ourselves into thinking that this all lasts for ever. But as the pieces of ash are wiped on our foreheads, someone reminds us that we really are only dust after all—beloved dust, but dust nonetheless—and to dust we shall return.
And I think there is a profound freedom in this unsettling message.
Because it means that you and I shouldn’t worry so much about securing our positions, about winning the latest political or theological or cultural battle. We are reminded that each of us is not nearly as strong as we think we are and that some day everything we have fought so hard for will disintegrate into dust and ashes.
So we are freed—we are freed to love instead of spend. We are freed to forgive instead of begrudge. We are freed to open our minds to those who are different than us, knowing that they can teach us God in unexpected ways. We don’t have to hold onto everything as tight as we think we do because we are all beloved dust.
Perhaps you are the sort of person that observes Lent every year with great solemnity. Perhaps you are the sort of person who barely has heard of the season. Regardless, I’d invite you during this time to accept the church’s invitation to look at your life. Consider what sins, what prejudices or ideologies may have trapped you. Find a local church perhaps that offers Ash Wednesday services—it’s ever too late, I know St. John’s is not the only one who offers an evening service! Discover the freedom and grace in those ashes. Practice a Holy Lent, not just by giving up a treat for a few weeks, but by being willing to enter into the dust and suffering of the lives of those around you. Practice a Holy Lent by answering God’s call to do your part to answer and heal that suffering.
It is a strange thing to tell someone that she or he is going to die. I know there are professions regularly faced with this reality, particularly the medical field. I know there are people for whom our mortality is a truth that surrounds every moment of their work. And as a priest, I know I spend more time around death than the average person. But still, it is a strange thing to tell someone that she or he is going to die.
When many people think of Lent, the first thing that comes to mind is the idea of “giving something up.” Even those who are not a part of traditions that observe Lent likely know friends or family who give up things like sweets, alcohol, meat, or something else during Lent. At the least, we see the signs for specials on McDonald’s fish sandwiches on Fridays in Lent! As a child growing up in an evangelical church along the Lakeshore, I was fascinated by this idea of “giving something up” for a season. The first time I actually mustered the courage was in college—I gave up soda.
Over the years, though, I’ve come to realize that the season of Lent is about more than simply giving something up. Rather, this season is about a time of reorientation. The season comes from the ancient church practice wherein converts to the Christian faith spent this season preparing for their baptisms at Easter. Eventually, they were joined by their brothers and sisters, fellow Christians who spent the days leading up to Easter in solidarity, praying and fasting with the converts to the faith. And, of course, the season resonates with the final weeks of Christ’s journey to Jerusalem, as we focus particularly on Christ’s invitation to each one of us to deny ourselves, pick up our crosses, and follow him.
Each year, it seems, Ash Wednesday is a bit more difficult for me as a priest. As I develop deeper relationships with parishioners, it becomes a strange act to smudge ash on their heads as I say, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Last year, as one of our oldest parishioners knelt at the rail, I felt tears come to my eyes as I said those ancient words. Surely she knew that she would one day return to dust—I just didn’t want to think about it.
At the beginning of Lent we are all reminded, priest to pastor to parishioner to visitor, that this life we live is very short. We spend so much time accumulating possessions, trying to manufacture security, fooling ourselves into thinking that this all lasts for ever. But as the pieces of ash are wiped on our foreheads, someone reminds us that we really are only dust after all—beloved dust, but dust nonetheless—and to dust we shall return.
And I think there is a profound freedom in this unsettling message.
Because it means that you and I shouldn’t worry so much about securing our positions, about winning the latest political or theological or cultural battle. We are reminded that each of us is not nearly as strong as we think we are and that some day everything we have fought so hard for will disintegrate into dust and ashes.
So we are freed—we are freed to love instead of spend. We are freed to forgive instead of begrudge. We are freed to open our minds to those who are different than us, knowing that they can teach us God in unexpected ways. We don’t have to hold onto everything as tight as we think we do because we are all beloved dust.
Perhaps you are the sort of person that observes Lent every year with great solemnity. Perhaps you are the sort of person who barely has heard of the season. Regardless, I’d invite you during this time to accept the church’s invitation to look at your life. Consider what sins, what prejudices or ideologies may have trapped you. Find a local church perhaps that offers Ash Wednesday services—it’s ever too late, I know St. John’s is not the only one who offers an evening service! Discover the freedom and grace in those ashes. Practice a Holy Lent, not just by giving up a treat for a few weeks, but by being willing to enter into the dust and suffering of the lives of those around you. Practice a Holy Lent by answering God’s call to do your part to answer and heal that suffering.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Rest Your Head, Sacred Child
One of the unexpected delights of parish ministry for me has been how much affection I develop for our children. Though I have only been at St. John's for a little over two and a half years, I have begun that wonderful experience of watching children grow up. And I love the time I've spent with them, the ability to tell them stories from the Bible, to tell them how loved they are by God and their church.
The kids are a true joy of parish ministry.
A few weeks ago, on one of our "Messy Church" Sundays, where we put the children at the center of our community worship, I had a particularly powerful experience of this.
The children had joined me in the Gospel procession, standing around me as I proclaimed the Gospel for the day. We went back to the chancel steps, where I sat down and read to them from the book Some Things Are Scary by Florence Parry Heide. We talked about how things are scary sometimes, and how Advent is a time when we as a church remember that things are scary around the world (and even in our lives) while at the same time hoping and waiting for God's return. We talked about how even when things are scary, we can know that God is with us because it was in a very scary time that God became human in Jesus.
Later, during the offertory, as the bread, wine, and alms were brought to the altar, the children joined in that procession, too. As they were coming up into the altar area, one boy whispered to a friend, "Wow, I never thought I'd be able to be up here." My microphone was off and I told them it was OK, to come stand right up near the altar. I told them how the altar was a holy place, that it was special, but that didn't mean it was scary. That just meant that we loved it and treated it carefully, like with anything special.
Once all was ready, I began the Great Thanksgiving. Something you eventually realize as a priest, particularly when you are a solo priest, is how quickly the Eucharistic Prayer becomes muscle memory. The words themselves become almost memorized, the actions become fluid and almost automatic. It becomes a particular discipline as a priest to remain present in the prayer, grounded in the holy now of God's people asking God to turn simple bread and wine into Christ's presence.
About halfway through the prayer, I noticed one of the younger girls in our parish had rested her head on the altar. Her right arm was folded, her head laying upon it, and she watched the bread and the wine while I prayed. This made one of the boys nervous, and he tried to reach to her to tell her not to lay her head on the altar... but he couldn't reach without making a scene and so he decided to stay where he was.
All of this was happening out of the corner of my eye as I prayed, as my hands moved over the bread and the wine, and as the community asked for the Spirit of God to effect the Eucharistic miracle.
Something about it, though, has stuck with me. I mentioned it to my spiritual director this week, how powerful it was to see this young girl do this. I told her how I was glad the little boy couldn't reach her, couldn't get her attention. I love that she felt so comfortable, so at home, that she simply rested her head on the altar and watched. I love that she was more present in that moment that I am sometimes... I love what she taught me in that moment.
In chapter 31 of the Rule of St. Benedict, we get a section entitled, "What Kind of Man the Cellarer of the Monastery Should Be." Upon first glance, it might seem like one of the more arcane sections of the rule, something difficult to interpret in modern life, but there is an important line in it. Benedict writes, "Let him take the greatest care of the sick, of children, of guests and of the poor, knowing without doubt that he will have to render an account for all these on the Day of Judgment." And then, after highlighting this important task, the very next line says, "Let him regard all the utensils of the monastery and its whole property as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar."
The altar is a holy place. It is a place of reverence, respect, and grace. In Celtic terminology, you could say that it is a "thin place" in the church, a place where the spiritual and the physical world blend together....
And yet, Benedict suggests that the care the Cellarer pays to the sick, to children, guests, and the poor is the care upon which he will one day give account. He is called to care for all things in the monastery with reverence, as though they were sacred vessels of the altar... but the sick, the children, the guests, and the poor—God will be most interested in how he cared for them.
We're doing another "Messy Church" this Sunday. Once again the kids will join me in the Gospel procession. Once more they will sit at the chancel steps with me while I try to tell them how much God loves them and how that should make them live life in a certain way. On this Sunday, we'll baptize two infants, making them a part of the church. The children will be there for that, too. And then, during the Eucharistic Prayer, once more they will be invited to stand up around the altar with me.
And I have to say, I hope that one of those precious children knows that she matters more to God than any holy place in the world. I hope she rests her head on the altar, knowing that she is safe in that love.
Because each Sunday, before I leave the altar area in the exit procession, as I bend down and kiss that white linen... I always whisper a quiet thank you...
Because I need to be reminded too... reminded that I also am safe in that divine love.
So rest your head, sacred child. Rest your head and teach this young priest, still trying to learn how to do this calling well, teach this young priest once more what is truly important, what is truly sacred.
The kids are a true joy of parish ministry.
A few weeks ago, on one of our "Messy Church" Sundays, where we put the children at the center of our community worship, I had a particularly powerful experience of this.
The children had joined me in the Gospel procession, standing around me as I proclaimed the Gospel for the day. We went back to the chancel steps, where I sat down and read to them from the book Some Things Are Scary by Florence Parry Heide. We talked about how things are scary sometimes, and how Advent is a time when we as a church remember that things are scary around the world (and even in our lives) while at the same time hoping and waiting for God's return. We talked about how even when things are scary, we can know that God is with us because it was in a very scary time that God became human in Jesus.
Later, during the offertory, as the bread, wine, and alms were brought to the altar, the children joined in that procession, too. As they were coming up into the altar area, one boy whispered to a friend, "Wow, I never thought I'd be able to be up here." My microphone was off and I told them it was OK, to come stand right up near the altar. I told them how the altar was a holy place, that it was special, but that didn't mean it was scary. That just meant that we loved it and treated it carefully, like with anything special.
Once all was ready, I began the Great Thanksgiving. Something you eventually realize as a priest, particularly when you are a solo priest, is how quickly the Eucharistic Prayer becomes muscle memory. The words themselves become almost memorized, the actions become fluid and almost automatic. It becomes a particular discipline as a priest to remain present in the prayer, grounded in the holy now of God's people asking God to turn simple bread and wine into Christ's presence.
About halfway through the prayer, I noticed one of the younger girls in our parish had rested her head on the altar. Her right arm was folded, her head laying upon it, and she watched the bread and the wine while I prayed. This made one of the boys nervous, and he tried to reach to her to tell her not to lay her head on the altar... but he couldn't reach without making a scene and so he decided to stay where he was.
All of this was happening out of the corner of my eye as I prayed, as my hands moved over the bread and the wine, and as the community asked for the Spirit of God to effect the Eucharistic miracle.
Something about it, though, has stuck with me. I mentioned it to my spiritual director this week, how powerful it was to see this young girl do this. I told her how I was glad the little boy couldn't reach her, couldn't get her attention. I love that she felt so comfortable, so at home, that she simply rested her head on the altar and watched. I love that she was more present in that moment that I am sometimes... I love what she taught me in that moment.
In chapter 31 of the Rule of St. Benedict, we get a section entitled, "What Kind of Man the Cellarer of the Monastery Should Be." Upon first glance, it might seem like one of the more arcane sections of the rule, something difficult to interpret in modern life, but there is an important line in it. Benedict writes, "Let him take the greatest care of the sick, of children, of guests and of the poor, knowing without doubt that he will have to render an account for all these on the Day of Judgment." And then, after highlighting this important task, the very next line says, "Let him regard all the utensils of the monastery and its whole property as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar."
The altar is a holy place. It is a place of reverence, respect, and grace. In Celtic terminology, you could say that it is a "thin place" in the church, a place where the spiritual and the physical world blend together....
And yet, Benedict suggests that the care the Cellarer pays to the sick, to children, guests, and the poor is the care upon which he will one day give account. He is called to care for all things in the monastery with reverence, as though they were sacred vessels of the altar... but the sick, the children, the guests, and the poor—God will be most interested in how he cared for them.
We're doing another "Messy Church" this Sunday. Once again the kids will join me in the Gospel procession. Once more they will sit at the chancel steps with me while I try to tell them how much God loves them and how that should make them live life in a certain way. On this Sunday, we'll baptize two infants, making them a part of the church. The children will be there for that, too. And then, during the Eucharistic Prayer, once more they will be invited to stand up around the altar with me.
And I have to say, I hope that one of those precious children knows that she matters more to God than any holy place in the world. I hope she rests her head on the altar, knowing that she is safe in that love.
Because each Sunday, before I leave the altar area in the exit procession, as I bend down and kiss that white linen... I always whisper a quiet thank you...
Because I need to be reminded too... reminded that I also am safe in that divine love.
So rest your head, sacred child. Rest your head and teach this young priest, still trying to learn how to do this calling well, teach this young priest once more what is truly important, what is truly sacred.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Unintended Ablutions & Unexpected Grace
This was not the way I intended it to happen.
Thankfully.
The plan was for once everyone had received communion, after the chalice and paten were wiped and put away (an act known as the ablutions), for the lights to go low while the organist begins the introduction to "Silent Night." All would then kneel and we would all sing that familiar Christmas carol together.
It is, of course, a rather common Christmas Eve practice. And though some might find it sentimental, I've always found it delightful and moving and wonderful. I think these sorts of traditions are important. I think it's important for all of us, dressed in our Christmas best, to wrinkle our clothes and kneel for a bit as we sing a song welcoming the birth of God in Christ.
The last person had taken communion. The Eucharistic Ministers and I had finished serving Communion to the Christmas Eve worshipers. We all returned to the altar, set the remaining sacrament down and bowed. The Eucharistic Ministers returned to their positions on either side of the altar and before I had begun the ablutions the lights dimmed and the music started playing.
"Whoops," I thought, "That was supposed to happen after I finished this." However, when something goes a little off in the liturgy, I've learned it is best to act as though this is what was supposed to happen. So instead of hurriedly putting the Eucharistic vessels on the credence table and kneeling with everyone else, I simply began washing them. The congregation began to sing "Silent Night" as I poured some water over the paten into the chalice.
Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright...
As the congregation sang, I performed the ablutions. I'm usually pretty efficient with them. I can perform them reverently and quickly, being done in less than a minute and ready for the service to continue. However, since the congregation was singing, I decided to take my time.
Pour the water. Swirl. Drink the water from the chalice. Wipe the paten with a purificator (a small white linen used during communion to wipe the chalice after each sip and then to dry it during the ablutions). Pick up the chalice, wipe it around the edges, and then place the purificator into the chalice. Put the paten on top and set it all down on the credence table.
It seems rather complicated, but when you do it after every service of Holy Eucharist, it become muscle memory. And since there are always some in the congregation on a bit of a rush to get to the rest of their day after Eucharist, I do try to do it reverently but efficiently. But that night, as I said, I did it slowly. The congregation sang while I did the dishes.
There is a line of thinking in liturgical circles that the priest should not perform ablutions at the altar. As my beloved teacher, now passed into the nearer presence of God, Marion Hatchett, used to say, "There is nothing edifying to the people about watching their priest do dishes." And while I do love Marion, I'm not sure I agree with him on this one. Because I find the practice of ablutions to be profoundly humbling.
In most churches, there are many things lay people do to assist their priest with Holy Eucharist. Altar Guilds set up and take down. Eucharistic Ministers assist in the distribution. Vergers make sure all things run smoothly. All baptized people take their place in the worship of the church.
But I'm a dishwasher.
When I used to wait tables, when the dish-room would fill up in the afternoon before the evening dishwasher arrived, I would pull off my black dress shirt and go elbows deep into the dishes. Dishwashers work immensely hard in restaurants, often with little pay and even less respect. I liked to try to help the dish-room be a little less demolished when they arrived. I loved the rhythm of doing dishes.
In my marriage, my wife is an amazing cook. She cooks gorgeous meals and does a truly fantastic job cleaning up as she goes. But our rule is whoever cooks, the other person does the dishes. And since she usually cooks, most nights I'm the one over the sink at the end washing up. And I love it. I love that it's my small contribution to a meal.
I love the sense of satisfaction and completion you get from dishes. Priestly ministry is work where you rarely see completion. You see bits and pieces, but the fruit of your work is almost always shrouded in mystery, hidden in souls and hearts and only ever revealed long after the cultivation. It's a job where you can wonder some days whether you are doing concrete good.
But you never wonder that when doing dishes. You know what the task is, you complete the task, and then you can stand in the clean kitchen, looking at the sparkling counter-tops and know you actually did something just then.
Like I said, I'm a dishwasher.
And that night, as I washed our dishes while the people sang, I was grateful to be a dishwasher. I was grateful for the generosity of spirit that my congregation gives me this chance to do this holy act. I was grateful that though there may be more efficient ways of cleaning up, I was allowed to wash and clean these holy vessels. I was allowed to wash and wipe, to dry and put away, while they sang.
I thought of the Holy Family, crowded in a cave and surrounded by animals. I wondered who it was who bathed the Christ child, who washed the birth off of his cold, crying, naked body. I don't know if they had a midwife with them, someone in the village who heard the crying. I don't know if Mary did it, but I doubt it because she was probably exhausted...
I wonder if Joseph did it. I wonder if as he washed this child's body he remembered how he had been tempted to dismiss Mary. I wonder if any of the doubts came back as to where this child, this child that was not his but who came from his beloved, where this child came from. I wonder if washing the child helped wash the doubts from his mind. I wonder if this simple act of love would have been healing for him.
I hadn't intended any of this to happen. Ablutions were going to happen quickly, reverently, and efficiently so that I wasn't left at the altar washing dishes. But as I was left up there in dim light, washing and drying, as the congregation sang that beloved carol, I really was grateful.
And I prayed quietly, deep in my soul, that God would continue to give me these moments of grace. I prayed that God would continue, in the midst of all the energy and action of this life, moments of grace when I could simply be still and be useful, in a small way. When I could be entrusted to wash something holy, to perform this act of love.
I thanked God that for a moment I could see what I was doing, I could see what I was called to.
All is calm.
All is bright.
Thankfully.
The plan was for once everyone had received communion, after the chalice and paten were wiped and put away (an act known as the ablutions), for the lights to go low while the organist begins the introduction to "Silent Night." All would then kneel and we would all sing that familiar Christmas carol together.
It is, of course, a rather common Christmas Eve practice. And though some might find it sentimental, I've always found it delightful and moving and wonderful. I think these sorts of traditions are important. I think it's important for all of us, dressed in our Christmas best, to wrinkle our clothes and kneel for a bit as we sing a song welcoming the birth of God in Christ.
The last person had taken communion. The Eucharistic Ministers and I had finished serving Communion to the Christmas Eve worshipers. We all returned to the altar, set the remaining sacrament down and bowed. The Eucharistic Ministers returned to their positions on either side of the altar and before I had begun the ablutions the lights dimmed and the music started playing.
"Whoops," I thought, "That was supposed to happen after I finished this." However, when something goes a little off in the liturgy, I've learned it is best to act as though this is what was supposed to happen. So instead of hurriedly putting the Eucharistic vessels on the credence table and kneeling with everyone else, I simply began washing them. The congregation began to sing "Silent Night" as I poured some water over the paten into the chalice.
Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright...
As the congregation sang, I performed the ablutions. I'm usually pretty efficient with them. I can perform them reverently and quickly, being done in less than a minute and ready for the service to continue. However, since the congregation was singing, I decided to take my time.
Pour the water. Swirl. Drink the water from the chalice. Wipe the paten with a purificator (a small white linen used during communion to wipe the chalice after each sip and then to dry it during the ablutions). Pick up the chalice, wipe it around the edges, and then place the purificator into the chalice. Put the paten on top and set it all down on the credence table.
It seems rather complicated, but when you do it after every service of Holy Eucharist, it become muscle memory. And since there are always some in the congregation on a bit of a rush to get to the rest of their day after Eucharist, I do try to do it reverently but efficiently. But that night, as I said, I did it slowly. The congregation sang while I did the dishes.
There is a line of thinking in liturgical circles that the priest should not perform ablutions at the altar. As my beloved teacher, now passed into the nearer presence of God, Marion Hatchett, used to say, "There is nothing edifying to the people about watching their priest do dishes." And while I do love Marion, I'm not sure I agree with him on this one. Because I find the practice of ablutions to be profoundly humbling.
In most churches, there are many things lay people do to assist their priest with Holy Eucharist. Altar Guilds set up and take down. Eucharistic Ministers assist in the distribution. Vergers make sure all things run smoothly. All baptized people take their place in the worship of the church.
But I'm a dishwasher.
When I used to wait tables, when the dish-room would fill up in the afternoon before the evening dishwasher arrived, I would pull off my black dress shirt and go elbows deep into the dishes. Dishwashers work immensely hard in restaurants, often with little pay and even less respect. I liked to try to help the dish-room be a little less demolished when they arrived. I loved the rhythm of doing dishes.
In my marriage, my wife is an amazing cook. She cooks gorgeous meals and does a truly fantastic job cleaning up as she goes. But our rule is whoever cooks, the other person does the dishes. And since she usually cooks, most nights I'm the one over the sink at the end washing up. And I love it. I love that it's my small contribution to a meal.
I love the sense of satisfaction and completion you get from dishes. Priestly ministry is work where you rarely see completion. You see bits and pieces, but the fruit of your work is almost always shrouded in mystery, hidden in souls and hearts and only ever revealed long after the cultivation. It's a job where you can wonder some days whether you are doing concrete good.
But you never wonder that when doing dishes. You know what the task is, you complete the task, and then you can stand in the clean kitchen, looking at the sparkling counter-tops and know you actually did something just then.
Like I said, I'm a dishwasher.
And that night, as I washed our dishes while the people sang, I was grateful to be a dishwasher. I was grateful for the generosity of spirit that my congregation gives me this chance to do this holy act. I was grateful that though there may be more efficient ways of cleaning up, I was allowed to wash and clean these holy vessels. I was allowed to wash and wipe, to dry and put away, while they sang.
I thought of the Holy Family, crowded in a cave and surrounded by animals. I wondered who it was who bathed the Christ child, who washed the birth off of his cold, crying, naked body. I don't know if they had a midwife with them, someone in the village who heard the crying. I don't know if Mary did it, but I doubt it because she was probably exhausted...
I wonder if Joseph did it. I wonder if as he washed this child's body he remembered how he had been tempted to dismiss Mary. I wonder if any of the doubts came back as to where this child, this child that was not his but who came from his beloved, where this child came from. I wonder if washing the child helped wash the doubts from his mind. I wonder if this simple act of love would have been healing for him.
I hadn't intended any of this to happen. Ablutions were going to happen quickly, reverently, and efficiently so that I wasn't left at the altar washing dishes. But as I was left up there in dim light, washing and drying, as the congregation sang that beloved carol, I really was grateful.
And I prayed quietly, deep in my soul, that God would continue to give me these moments of grace. I prayed that God would continue, in the midst of all the energy and action of this life, moments of grace when I could simply be still and be useful, in a small way. When I could be entrusted to wash something holy, to perform this act of love.
I thanked God that for a moment I could see what I was doing, I could see what I was called to.
All is calm.
All is bright.
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