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.

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.

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.

On the Journey: A Funeral Homily

Below is the homily I preached for the funeral of my grandmother. She passed away last week and her funeral was yesterday. Though we knew her passing was coming, the grief is still profound. I miss her very much... and look forward to seeing her again on the other side of God's redeeming love.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Iola Donna Vee Cramer, 80 years old, of Harrison, passed away on Thursday, December 13, 2012 in Clare, MI. Iola was born on April 4, 1932 to Peggy Hayne and Devere Hill. She was married to Harold Cramer on October 16, 1948 in Saint John’s, MI. Harold and Iola resided in Harrison since 1979. Iola enjoyed cooking—particularly pies—and traveling with her husband. They both enjoyed garage sales—though Harold was probably a bit more of the softie when it came to buying things than Iola was. Harold and Iola traveled all over the United States in their motor home and loved spending the winters in Zephyr Hills, FL. They had friends all over.

Surviving are her two sons, Jerry and his wife Valerie Cramer of Grand Rapids, MI, and William and his wife Rumiko Cramer of Clovis, NM. Three daughters, Sally Arnett and husband Augie of Ovid, MI; Linda Boisclair; and Patsy Howard and husband Philip of Monteray, TN. Numerous grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews.

Iola was preceded in death by her parents, her brother, Devere Hill, and her daughter, Peggy Cramer.

My name is Jared Cramer. I am one of Iola’s several grandchildren and I am honored to be ask to lead this funeral service and to give this funeral sermon.

It’s strange. When my father, Jerry, called me and told me that Grandma has passed away, a flood of several emotions went through my soul. I was almost immediately reminded of that rainy day in Tennessee four years ago when he called me to tell me that Iola’s husband, my Grandpa, had died. I remember that day sinking down onto the steps of the seminary I was studying at, tears flooding down my cheeks as the grief nearly overwhelmed me.

I felt strong emotions as well learning of Grandma’s death, emotions of grief and pain and sorrow, but other emotions as well, emotions that were difficult to untangle and understand. When talking about it with my wife, Bethany, I said how I think my own grieving for Grandma really began in earnest the last time I visited her in Clare, MI. Grandma was happy, not wearing her glasses but apparently watching TV nonetheless. I remember she was watching an Earnest movie. She seemed really happy to see me… but it wasn’t because she recognized me. Her mind had been slipping for years and when I visited her last I was just a nice young man who had come to say hello. I’m sure that within her there was some twinge of memory, some sense that she knew who I was, but it wasn’t visible. As Bethany and I drove away, the tears rolled down my cheeks as I knew the person who was my grandmother was slipping away.

Several of Grandma’s family have expressed that though this moment is hard—because it is always hard to say goodbye to someone you love—they also have a deep sense of joy. There is joy in this day, knowing that as Grandma journeyed from this mortal life she has journeyed to her beloved husband, Harold, and her daughter, Peggy. The loss of Peggy on the cusp of adulthood was a grief that neither Grandpa or Grandma ever recovered from. It’s been years since Grandpa has had a good pie—I’m confident that in whatever follows this life, no one can make pies like Grandma’s—and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see her.

Scripture has all sorts of various images and stories about what happens after we die, all sorts of ways of understanding what our existence looks like. Sometimes we read of Paradise, other times of Abraham’s Bosom, of Sheol, or of the New Jeruaslem, or Heaven. And theologians and Christians have gone back and forth for centuries trying to figure out what we believe happens after we die. Do we go immediately to heaven? Do we sleep until the last judgment? What’s the calendar? What’s the schedule?

Grandma and Grandpa, as far as I knew, were never ones for calendars or schedules. You and I live our lives scheduled down to the last minute of every hour, we know where we need to be and when we need to be there. And perhaps when they were younger, when Grandpa was still working at General Motors and they had kids in school, perhaps their lives were more scheduled then… but in the years I knew them that was never the case. There was always enough time for Grandma and Grandpa, enough time to sit around with family, to drink coffee—cold coffee even—all day and night long. There was always enough time to sit around a fire, to sit next to the person you love, to try to make something beautiful out of a piece of wood or a two-liter bottle. There was no rush—there was simply great joy.

In the first Scripture reading for this funeral liturgy, we hear in the Wisdom of Solomon, “But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be a disaster, and their going from us to be their destruction; but they are at peace.” I’ve always found immense beauty in the poetry of this text, “In the eyes of the foolish they seem to have died, and their departure was thought to be a disaster.” And though it’s unlikely that many of us think Iola’s going from us was a disaster, though we rejoice that she has now moved closer to her beloved Harold and her much missed Peggy, though we rejoice in that… it would simply be untruthful to say that there is no disaster in this.

Because I know there is disaster and destruction in my heart. I’m grateful my wife got a small chance to know Grandma, even to get a handwritten recipe from her for a casserole. And I did begin my grieving when she didn’t recognize me the last time I saw her, but there is still disaster in my heart and in my soul because with her gone the world has irrevocably changed. There is that much less joy, that much less light, that much less pie, that much less beauty.

And I suppose that’s one of the reasons I truly hang onto these words from the Wisdom of Solomon. Because given all of our doubts and fears about what happens on the other side of death, the promise of that first verse is profound: “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God and no torment will ever touch them.” Grandma has journeyed on and we, her family and friends, have gathered to wish her well. That’s really what a funeral is, after all, it is a time when family and friends gather to pray for someone who has died, to wish them well on their journey.

Grandma always did love to travel, and now we gather almost like we used to at their motorhome, with Grandpa in the driver’s seat as they carefully back out the driveway (sometimes to the terror of those watching). We gather here to say goodbye, to wave, to pray, to wish her well, and to whisper to one another that it’s OK, that her soul is held in the hand of God himself and the torments of old age, the torments of grief as she missed Peggy and Harold, the torments of the slow slipping of a mind, all of those torments have gone. These torments shall never touch her again.

And I think this is where my confused emotions upon news of Grandma’s death come into play. Because in some ways I feel like a small child again. I want to climb into that motorhome. I want to be with her. I want to be with my Grandpa. I want to be with all of those I love who have been taken from me through the ravages of death, all of those who come to mind anytime you and I gather in a room like this one. I want to knock on that somewhat tinny door of the motorhome and say, “Please, Grandma, can I come, too?”

I feel like the disciples did in our Gospel reading for today. Jesus is telling them that he is leaving and that they’ll be coming along behind him. I feel like doubting Thomas who asked, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

Do you remember what Jesus’ response to that question was? Jesus said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” In effect, Jesus tells the disciples that the path to the Father, the path to him, is not one that will be marked by rigid points of theology or doctrine. Theology is important. Doctrine is important. But the way itself is not in a book or in an essay. The way is Christ himself. The way is a person, a person who lived a life of deep love.

And so, as badly as I want to follow along the path Grandpa and Grandma have traveled, as much as my heart feels the destruction of their departure, the blessed truth of the Gospel is that we do know the way along that path. We know the way along the path they are traveling. It is a way that Grandma certainly modeled. She lived a life of kindness and love, a life of generosity and grace. She knew that following Jesus had a whole lot more to do with the way you treated people than it did with knowing the right answers to a few questions. The way is there, the journey into God is laid out for you and for me. As we seek to live lives inspired by Iola Cramer, inspired by all those we love who have gone before, lives of generosity and hospitality, lives of love and kindness, as we do that we discover that we are indeed on this journey with them. We have not been left alone.

And we trust, we trust that as we commend Iola to Almighty God, that we do not say goodbye. Remember the words from Wisdom, it is in the eyes of the foolish that this Christian appears to have died. She has not died. In the words of the Book of Wisdom, “Her hope is full of immortality… because God tested her and found her worthy of himself.”

May God, through the mercy and grace of Jesus Christ, find us likewise worthy of himself. And may God give us the strength and faith to see through our grief to the blessed hope that at the end of this broken and hurting creation, there will come a time when God’s love will conquer all and every living thing will be drawn to God through the mercy of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Women Bishops: Can the Church Yet Find Her Voice?

I have found myself a bit unsettled in the aftermath of the Church of England's General Synod vote on women bishops. In case you don't follow Anglican news as closely as some, let me bring you up to speed. If you already have followed this debate, you can ignore the next three paragraphs...

The Church of England has ordained women as priests since 1994 (having approved their ordination in 1992). In contrast, the Episcopal Church first ordained women as priests "irregularly" in 1974, regularizing them in 1976. Our first female bishop, the Rt. Rev. Barbara Harris, was ordained in 1989. Since the ordination of women as priests in the Church of England, there have naturally been calls for them to be ordained as bishops as well. In 2005, 2006, and 2007, the General Synod of the Church of England voted to remove legal obstacles to the ordination of women as bishops. Since then, the work has been to find a way to move forward with their ordination while still providing some sort of pastoral response to clergy and laity who don't approve of the ordination of women as bishops. Several proposals have been attempted, but there has yet to be a successful vote enacting one.

The most recent draft measure has been approved by 42 out of 44 diocese in the Church of England. It has the clear support of a majority of the members of the church. However, in the midst of the process, the House of Bishops introduced an amendment that offered some further concessions to conservatives in the church. Due to worries that this amendment would hurt its ability to pass, the General Synod in York postponed decision to a later Synod. That Synod, which met earlier this month, voted the measure down. It passed with an over two-thirds majority in the Houses of Bishops and Clergy, but it failed the required two-thirds majority by six votes in the House of Laity.

The failure of the measure has produced a mammoth of opinion articles and essays. Some have suggested that Parliament should step into this established church with its own solution to the problem. Others are hoping that another way can be found forward for this to be considered soon, rather than having to wait until 2015 to consider the question again. And, of course, there have been a myriad of voices decrying this failure of movement as symptomatic of the larger failures of the Church of England.

Alright, now that we're all on the same page, let me share why I am a bit unsettled. Many of the opinions expressed in the aftermath of the vote have declared that the Church of England needs to "get with the times." They've insisted that society has moved on with gender equality and so the church must as well, so that it is reflective of society. They've suggested that the Church of England is hopeless backward, lost in the dark ages, and that the movement to the ordination of women as bishops is a part of its need to modernize.

And I find all of that tremendously disappointing. I find it disappointing because it is yet another example of Anglican Christianity being handed and opportunity to speak deep and profound theological truth and instead choosing to use the language and ideals of our broader society.

Let me be frank. Women should be ordained as bishops. Absolutely and positively this should happen. However, it should not happen because the church needs to "modernize" or "get with the times" or move on with the rest of society. None of these are sufficient reasons to change such a core question of theology and ecclesiology and the fact that this is all most people seem to muster when arguing for the ordination of women to the episcopate is a tragedy.

Rather, women should be ordained bishops for solid theological reasons. All humans are created in the image of God, gender complementarity is a dead-end that is only ever read into Scripture. Sections of the Bible that talk about a woman and man becoming one flesh are beautiful images of the coming together of two human beings. However, the gender complementarity some see in those texts also assumed, in ancient times, that women were of lesser value than men. To be blunt, women were "receptacles" into which the man would put the whole of human life, which was contained in his seed.

We don't buy any of that as being true. We have indeed moved on from such ancient perspectives upon which was built generations of misogyny and even violence against women.

However, the call to ordain women as bishops involves more than recognizing our modern understandings of biology and psychology. The call to ordain women as bishops comes from the theological ideals that have followed the development of our psychological and biological understanding.

Women should be ordained as bishops because they are every much in the image of God as men are. Women should be ordained as bishops because it is abundantly clear that they have clear charisms to this ministry, clear gifts of the Holy Spirit present in their lives and ministry, gifts that are particularly suited for episcopal ministry. Women should be ordained as bishops because they can serve as an image of the priestly Christ just as much as a man can—indeed, they can sometimes even provide that image more faithfully than men.

It is my deep and profound wish that more people would follow the leads of such leading theologians as Sarah Coakley who has done what every other church leader should be doing—providing cogent and compelling theological reasons for the ordination of women to the episcopate. The sociological reasons, the political reasons, even the social justice reasons all may be important, but on their own they are insufficient.

There are important and profound theological reasons for affirming our sisters in Christ and their calling by God to episcopal ministry. If the Church of England, if Anglicanism as a whole, truly wants to reclaim its voice in the world, it cannot do that by simply mimicking the arguments of the world. Instead, we must declare the bold theological truth that all people are created in the image of God and called by God to ministry. We must declare with conviction, based upon careful study of our Holy Scriptures and well-thought out theology, the call of the Gospel in our modern world.

We must, once again, find our voice.

Lullaby

I remember sitting on my grandmother's lap, curled up, as she sang quietly to me, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away."

There is something powerful, almost primal, in the practice of singing to a child, rocking them back and forth as they somehow find solace and peace in the lilt of a familiar song.

My grandmother singing voice is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. You can feel the love that rests in each and every word. When I was a child, I remember my siblings and I trying to stump her on songs, believing that she seemed to have a song for almost everything.

I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, and the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses...

When I first started attending the Episcopal Church, I absolutely loved the hymns and anthems but found them rather difficult to sing. I was raised on Gospel hymns, a very different style of music than Ralph Vaughan Williams melodies and plainsong. Over these past several years though, I've developed a lot of love for the Anglican musical tradition. Old Gospel hymns still run through my head. Someday, when I have a child, I'll hold that child close and sing Gospel music to her or him. But I'll also sing other music, other songs I've learned.

The day thou gavest Lord is ended, the darkness falls at thy behest. To thee our morning hymns ascended, thy praise shall sanctify our rest...

This summer, our parish has been trying Morning Prayer with Communion one Sunday a month, experimenting with what it's like to pray Morning Prayer as a community. Since this has largely gone out of fashion these days, the difficulty is that we don't know the canticles anymore. We've been working at it though and each month when that first Sunday rolls around, I feel like the singing gets stronger.

Come let us sing to the Lord, let us shout for joy to the rock of our salvation, let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and raise a loud shout to him with psalms...

I went to visit my grandmother a few weeks ago. She's in assisted living now. She's having trouble remembering things and gets confused. I sat there on the small bed with her, my head nuzzled against her shoulder with my younger sister sitting on her other side doing the same. I didn't know what much to say, except over and over again, "I love you grandma, I love you grandma, I love you grandma."

Perhaps one of the reasons music affects us so is because it is such a relational thing. We hear songs sung to us by those we love. We sing them in response to our own children. I know when I sing the Venite (the one that begins, "Come let us sing to the Lord,"), to this day I think of sitting next to Robert Partin in the choir pews at Heavenly Rest in Abilene, TX. To this day it makes me smile.

I think probably the worst thing in the world is watching relationships slip away and change. I want everyone to be around forever. This has been, for me, one of the hardest parts of parish ministry, the realization that, in the end, I cannot force a relationship someone does not want with me. Even harder, as the years at my parish go by, is the knowledge that inevitably, year by year, funerals will become more and more difficult as I grow to love people more and more.

It hurts to feel a relationship slip away, whether through death, the slow fade of a mind, moving, anger, frustration, fear, or just the continuance of life. It hurts something awful.

I remember, when I was a child, sitting attentively on a church pew next to my grandmother at the M-21 Church of Christ. I remember the preacher telling us that heaven was going to be filled with singing, for all eternity we could just sing and sing and sing. I remember smiling at that as I held my grandmother's hand.

And someday, I hope with all my heart, on the other side of eternity, when all the anger and fear and loss of this world has been healed, when we are able to love one another fully for who we truly are—not who we want people to be, I hope that on that day, I'll be able to dip my toe into the glassy sea. And I hope that as I peer into that singing crowd I'll see some faces that have disappeared over time, faces that may even be surprised at seeing an tired fallible guy like me.

And I hope that we'll find each other in that crowd—no matter what happened in the ages in between this day and that. I hope we'll find each other.

And I hope we'll smile.

And I hope we'll sing.

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior...

D.Min, Year Two: Percy Dearmer and the Teaching of Addai

Well, one more year of my Doctor of Ministry program is behind me. Last night I turned in my last paper for "Types of Anglican Theology." This puts me halfway through my coursework. I'm rather pleased with both final papers I wrote for this summer and hope they're worthwhile. The Dearmer paper, in particular, represents the beginning of my research on what will likely be my Doctor of Ministry project: a critical analysis of Percy Dearmer's work followed by a complete re-write of The Parson's Handbook for twenty-first century, post-Liturgical Movement, ecumenical, Anglican Christianity.

Sounds like fun, eh?

Aware that some strange souls out there might be interested in one or the other of these papers, I'm posting them both here for download.

Types of Anglican Theology, class taught by the Rev. Dr. Mark Chapman, Vice-Principal of Ripon College, Cuddesdon, Oxford (and man with an excellent English professor beard, exactly what one might expect)
Prayer Book Catholic: The Work of Percy Dearmer in Context and Contemporary Liturgical Renewal

From the introduction...

Of all the figures of late nineteenth and early twentieth-century Anglicanism, perhaps the most ignored and misunderstood is Percy Dearmer. Over the course of several decades, he entered a time of confusion and upheaval and argued for a particular approach to Anglican worship founded upon sound principles. His influence is far greater than has often been acknowledged. His ideals shaped the way generations of clergy and lay people think about worship.
Furthermore, Dearmer’s approach to the church is one that still bears insights for today’s practice of Anglican Christianity. At times, when reading him describe the state of the church in his day one hears surprisingly similar echoes to struggles of our own times. A careful exploration of Dearmer’s context and approach should yield important insights for contemporary clergy and lay people who seek today to worship God in the beauty of holiness.

An Introduction to Ancient Eastern Christianity, class taught by Dr. Charles M. Stang, Associate Professor of Early Christian Thought at Harvard Divinity School in Harvard University (and prof that will absolutely rock J. Crew fancy shorts and shirts while teaching—otherwise known as the opposite of what one might expect)
The "Teaching of Addai" and a Fourth-Century Eastern Theology of Ministry

From the introduction...

Everyone loves a good apocryphal miracle story. Well, perhaps not everyone. But oftentimes apocryphal and pseudepigraphical literature from the first few centuries of the church is explored primarily for its fantastic accounts of miracles and legends relating to the supernatural power of Christ or the early apostles.
A case in point is the Teaching of Addai. The two most fantastic aspects of this story are the healing of King Abgar by Addai (as a result of the former’s written request to Christ himself) and a legend relating the discovery of the true cross by someone named Protonike. Most who study this text do so for the Abgar legend. Those who aren’t interested in that section explore this text for the Protonike legend.
I would argue that neither of these stories are central to the Teaching of Addai. Rather, this text is precisely what its title suggests, an account of the teaching of the apostle Addai. More specifically, it is an account of the shape and order of Christian ministry, as brought to Edessa by Addai and continued by Addai’s disciples. The author of the final version of the text we have today took a pre-existing Edessene legend in the Abgar narrative, combined it with a rewritten story of the discovery of the true cross, and then wove around them a theology of ministry that seeks to find its grounding in apostolic authority, catholicity, and a warm relationship with the state and empire. An exploration of the Teaching of Addai will display a robust theology of ministry that seeks to refute the competing visions of the day and to legitimate and secure Edessene Christianity (as described by the author) as the authentic expression of Christianity.