Grave Digging

I have found the life of a parish priest to be endlessly interesting, drawing me into places and encounters I would never have imagined.  Which is how yesterday I found myself, early in the morning, in the memorial garden digging two graves as snow softly and quietly came down.  Now, these are graves only meant to accommodate the ashes of the dead, not a full size casket so it wasn't particularly strenuous, just unexpected.  But I'll share something else I wouldn't have expected.  It was deeply gratifying to do this final task for someone entrusted to my care by God.  I have always found the whole foot-washing thing a little creepy and invasive, but I think that in digging out these two small graves I discovered in new and more visceral way what it was that Jesus was trying to show us.  There was a dignity in this small service I was able to render, and I found myself thankful.

I should also confess that I had some help, from my daughter.  I appreciate that grave-digging isn't the usual kind of father-daughter bonding experience but it happened something like this.
Me:  I have to go over to the church now
Daughter:  Can I come Daddy?
Me:  Well, I have to clear the snow and dig some holes
Daughter: why do you have to dig holes?
Me:  Well, two people died and we're burying them today.
Daughter: Can I help?
Me: Well... I guess so - put on your snow pants

And off we went.  She's only four so it's unlikely she will remember the details of this day, but I won't be surprised if something of it doesn't lodge within her memory somewhere.  I know I'll never forget.

Jesus and stuff

So it's been awhile as I've been trying to find a new rhythm in a whole new way of life.  But it is my hope to work some things out here and not just keep them rattling around in my head.

Last week’s gospel reading in the lectionary was from the gospel of Luke and it describes Jesus at the beginning of his public ministry going into the synagogue in his home village and reading a short passage from the writings of the prophet Isaiah.  What he read was this:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

And then it says that Jesus proclaimed to the audience that "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

The inference here is that Jesus is claiming that Isaiah is referring to Jesus, ie that Jesus is the one anointed by God to lead the Judean people to a new relationship with God; that he (Jesus) is the long-anticipated Messiah.

So if that is true, then this passage serves as Jesus’ mission statement.  What is of interest to me is that Jesus’ self-described mission is not inherently religious, at least not in the way that we think of religion in this culture.  Jesus’ mission is primarily political; only the restoration of the blind’s sight is apolitical.  Though even there, we can look at how disabled persons are treated in first century Judea and construct a political subtext.  In other words, Jesus’ mission has nothing to do with going to heaven, or personal morality but instead has everything to do with creating a just society.

In comparing life in most modern industrialized societies to life in the Roman Empire, we live in paradise.  And American and European culture is inherently Christian in its assumptions and perspectives, that perhaps it is no surprise that institutional Christianity is on the wane – so much has already been accomplished.

Of course, that’s probably not true.  The Church thought it had accomplished Jesus’ mission back when the emperor Constantine came around to their way of thinking 1700 years ago.  The great historian of the church, Eusebius, implies just that and believes the takeover of the church by the imperial court was God’s greatest victory (mind you he saw it the other way ‘round).

But I do find it depressing, as a Christian, to see many of my so-called brothers and sisters leading the fight to maintain the old, unjust societal systems created to maintain hierarchies of privilege.  My reading of the bible does not lead me to see Jesus’ life, death and resurrection as something so small as a fear based system of moral rectitude designed to deliver me to some otherworldly realm of ease.  Rather, I see an invitation to immerse ourselves in the messy world so that we, emboldened and made fearless by Christ’s actions, can demand and implement changes in human society to create a more just world.

And by the way, the bible suggests that the return of Christ is the descent of heaven so that it and earth are one and the same.  Where do we get the idea that our destiny is a disembodied eternity?

This was the sermon I preached at St Luke's Evangelical Lutheran Church on the Epiphany.  Their pastor (Pastor Wanda Childs) and I did a pulpit swap.  It was a first and lot of fun for me to preside at a Lutheran service.  To see Pastor Wanda's sermon at my regular venue, you can find it here.

Epiphany, RCL year C, 2012

Today is Epiphany, and in this season we weave together the stories of the Magi and their gifts and the Baptism of Jesus in the river Jordan as we contemplate the heralding and announcement of the arrival of the Lord which we have anticipated in Advent.  At Christmas, God has become incarnate and now in Epiphany, that manifestation of God begins to affect our world.

Thought the Magi seek the King of the Judeans, they themselves are not followers of the One God, but their compulsion to follow that brilliant light in the sky to Bethlehem is the first sign that the arrival of the Messiah of Israel is an event of worldwide importance and cosmological magnitude. 

The savior of Israel, it says, is the savior of the world, the light over Bethelehem is meant for all eyes to see, it’s brilliance meant to chase away the shadows and darkness which enslave our world.

The whole effort of God’s Covenant with Israel, the thousands of years of waiting have been building to this, the Incarnation of God in Jesus.  And this God-child arrives in the most unlikely of places, born of a virgin in a stable, a helpless child born of poor parents far away from their small village.  The God of all that is, seen and unseen, arrives quietly in the margins of life.

And that God should come this way, quietly, at night, as a human child says something profound to us.  That our world is capable, and not just capable, but worthy – worthy of holding and nurturing the divine.

The Christ child is a bold pronouncement that we matter, our lives matter and that to be born and to live is an act of divine love.  And that this life is not something merely to be endured, some sort of cruel test to decide whether we get to wear wings and play harps for all eternity, but something to be savored and the very essence of God’s creative action in the universe.

We believe Jesus to be fully divine and FULLY human.  He was a man with dirty fingernails and callouses, who lived with all of the difficulties, troubles and annoyances which beset us.  And in the midst of a human life he still followed, wholly, God’s will, even though, as the gospels attest, he himself would have rather avoided it.

In the individual stories of the Bible we see the intersection of God and human lives and the human imagination.  And taken all together the Bible stories tell us the salvation story, the grand narrative of God’s efforts to create out of chaos and to gift life into the cosmos.

But for us, it can be hard to see God’s actions in our own lives.  It is easy to see faith as a response for something God did a long time ago.  In Christmas itself, we look back to events that occurred over two thousand years ago.  And truthfully, in our individual celebrations of Christmas, we are half living in the Christmases past, remembering the joys and losses of the Christmas seasons past.

And our lives in the church can be the same.  We remember how things used to be.  In too many churches we remember how much better things used to be.  But perhaps our memories are not so good as we might believe.  The four gospel writers don’t even agree on all the details of the birth of Jesus, Mark doesn’t even comment on it at all.  I suspect that if I were to poll everyone here today about the Christmas story, nearly all of us would mash together the individual gospel stories, plus some stuff from our hymns and maybe a TV Christmas special or two to come up “the Christmas story.”

But I suspect also, that by and large we would all come up with the salient points, that Jesus was born, that his arrival heralded great things, and that throughout, God was present and active.

And so it is with all of our faith stories, the details aren’t always as important as the great themes and the trajectory of the story.  I think it is important that there is no Book of Jesus.  Jesus left us no written works, no book of laws, no pithy sayings, nothing.  No, instead Jesus left us his friends.  And he commanded his friends to tell others and to have those others tell even more.  And so on and so on until someone told you and me about Jesus.

And that’s what church is about.  It’s a place where we discover our own story in the midst of God’s story.  And it’s the place where, hopefully, we gather the means and the courage to go and tell someone else.

And that’s what Epiphany means, revelation – the sharing and showing of something.  So we gather here, to remember certainly, but also to be reminded of God’s great care for us, God’s great love for us.

The arrival of Christ and his revelation to the world is a bold pronouncement that we need no longer live in fear of the powers of darkness which suffuse our world. It is meant to embolden us not to turn our backs on the world but to engage it fully, to take hold of it and to transform it in light of the life, death, and resurrection of our Lord Jesus, the Christ.  This Epiphany is our permission, no - our command to continue that pronouncement, that Revelation, that Life - so that one day, no one will live in fear but all will live within the hopefulness of Christ.  Amen.

We are marching...

It's been a busy first couple of months as I've been learning to fulfill my role as pastor.  It is a joy beyond words to be in this community, to lead them in worship and to be with them as, together, we experience and discover God's work amongst us and within us.  This weekend I was at my first Diocesan convention here in West Virginia.  I confess I'm not a big one for legislating, but I enjoyed myself and was pleased to be there.  However, as I'm not technically canonically resident in WV yet (still belong to Oregon until December) I did get an opportunity to slip away during some of the legislative business.

We were meeting in Martinsburg, which as it turns out, is only 20 miles from Winchester, Virginia. I have long desired to go there because in May of 1863, my great-great-grandfather, Alexander White managed to get himself killed there when his right leg was shot off by a Confederate cannonball.  Alexander White was a private in the 12th WV US Infantry.  Nearly 40 years old with 4 kids at home, he enlisted in the Union cause, marched 90 miles from home and died in his first battle.

I've often pondered what possessed him to enlist and what it must have been like, crouching behind a stone wall, the bullets and artillery shells bursting and ricocheting around him - the grey clad soldiers moving inexorably forward.  And I wonder what price me and my family might have paid from his absence in the lives of his small children (my great-grandfather was about 11 or 12 when he died).  Family Systems Theory suggests that such a traumatic event would surely have left its mark down the generations.

After a short tramp through the woods near an elementary school, I found the remains of the very stone wall behind which my ancestor had sought refuge.  I was torn.  I had feelings of pride in his willingness to defend the republic and expand freedom.  It seemed no small irony to be there on the 150th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation.  But also, I felt a little angry that he would leave his family and perhaps bequeath to us a painful legacy.

As I stood in the woods, peering over the remnants of the wall, instead of a raging enemy I looked out on a school playground and several children and their families playing in the late summer sunshine.  And as I looked out on the peaceful scene presented to me, I believed that perhaps it had been worth it after all.  I called my own father and spoke briefly and I felt blessed.  We perhaps cannot control the paths into which our lives fall, but I am thankful that along those roads, no matter where we are, God is there waiting.

At the office

One of the perks of my new position is that I am provided with a very nice office.  Actually, it's too big to be an office, it's more of a study which is not the same as a library (that's across the hall).  As you can see from the picture, I don't own anything like enough books to make the shelves look anything but bare.  I have air conditioning, internet access, a printer, I even bought a Keurig coffee maker - I really have no reason to leave.

But that's kind of what bothers me.  I worry that I'll be too tempted to hole up in here and not go out into the world where I'm supposed to be - sharing the Good News and making visible the invisible hand of God.  I've only been here a week, so I can't speak knowledgeably about the parish or my predecessors, but I have to wonder at what effect the introduction of large rector's offices has been on the church?  Mind you, the walls that aren't bookshelves are concrete block, but when this building was built in 1955, the priest must have thought this office was paradise compared to the likely space he must have occupied in the former small brick church which had been bought from the Methodists 20 years earlier when they needed a bigger space.

Having an office feels alot like settling in and settling down.  This is hardly an original thought, but Christianity like the Judaism from which it sprang, seems its most authentic self when it is on the move, on a pilgrimage.  The Israelites were promised a land of milk and honey - but both of those are things you get on the hoof and not things you get by making permanent camps; they're the food of nomads and not of farmers. Jesus himself said that the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.  If the church is truly the body of Christ, shouldn't we be at least a little concerned that we have nice comfy pillows in big fluffy beds on which to lay our heads?

Acts 29...

I am feeling very fortunate right now.  This past Sunday I started my new job as the parson* of a parish church, and I’m still feeling a significant high.  It is an amazing feeling to finally, after years and years of discernment and study and navigating the shoals of the institutional church, be able to do what I feel compelled and called to do. 

And I’ve been thinking a lot recently, as I’ve begun to take up this ministry, about those who have gone before me.  This was initially prompted by a gift I received at my (very recent) ordination.  My former home parish is an amazing place, and I understand its rate of growth-rate is in the top 4% of Episcopal parishes, which is remarkable.  Things haven’t always looked so rosy though, just a few years ago its future looked cloudy – a fairly new parish (established in 1983 or so) it has had its ups and downs and has gone through some difficult transitions.  But before even the first Bible study was held, the vision of a parish in the rapidly expanding west Portland suburbs existed in the eyes of one Lincoln Eng.  And through all those years and ups and downs, Lincoln and his wife Mabel were a part of the life of the parish and stayed steadfast no matter what.  Lincoln, the Venerable Lincoln Eng, had been archdeacon of the Diocese of Oregon and had a great personal story of overcoming adversity and intolerance as he sought to live out his calling as priest.  Earlier this year though, Lincoln died; but at my ordination his wife Mabel gave me his prayer book.  It’s covered in what looks like a bright red handmade cloth cover with a floral pattern cloth cross stitched onto the front.  Lincoln had gone to the trouble of using a label maker and tape to create homemade tabs for each section.  Actually, this is so useful that someone should make a set and sell it to everyone who uses a prayer book; in fact maybe I will$$.  It also has Lincoln’s notes written in red pen throughout – Lincoln was apparently a fan of inclusive language because every “Him” and “Father” is crossed out and substitutes written in.  This past Sunday, this was the prayer book I used to lead the services.  And so, in some way, my ministry picks up where his left off and it really struck me that this is how our faith has been carried on for two millennia from one generation to another.  And though I already knew that in my head, Lincoln’s prayer book brought it home to me in my heart.

And so as I was walking through the church where I have just started this Sunday, I stood in the hall looking at the pictures of my predecessors smiling beatifically forever from their (very large) portraits.  I am also continuing the work of these priests, which like Lincoln’s prayer book was a comforting thought because in this chain of ministry I can see that my work is only of a season. Which is a real relief.  I’m just a day laborer in the vineyard of the Lord, the management of the vineyards is not my task.  That belongs to God.  The ultimate success of the Christian movement does not rest on my shoulders, my job is to show up and labor faithfully and when this season ends to pass along my tools to whomever comes next.  Someday it will be my smiling face, frozen in a moment in time, staring down on another new priest (and I AM confident that there will be many more after me) as they take up this task we call vocational ministry.  And that’s comforting too.  As I begin I hope and pray that I have the fortitude and steadfastness shown by Lincoln and all the saints who have gone before.

*Deacon-in-charge seems an awkward title and I like the old-school sound of Parson - now I just need a flat-brimmed black hat!

...and his kingdom will have no end

by Hans Memling

All the hoopla surrounding Queen Elizabeth II of Britain's Diamond Jubilee has me wondering about the line in the Nicene Creed where we say that Christ will return and that his kingdom will have no end.  If diamonds are for 60th anniversaries, what do you get for your 1000th - unobtainium perhaps?

Here in America, I think despite our revolutionary heritage, we kinda sorta like monarchs.  The British Royal Family is possibly more popular her than in Britain and certainly judging from Walt Disney's fare anyway, princesses are very popular.

But even more so, our view of the President's role in our national life as well as the kind of promises that Presidential candidates make, many people seem to wish they were electing a king (sorry, no queens just yet) instead of an executive functionary whose real role is to carry out and enforce the laws and policies enacted by Congress.  Being Commander-in-Chief, especially in an age unconstrained by legal niceties like declaring war, is a powerful power aphrodisiac which may have contributed for a desire for someone to come along and make things right.  Its too bad that most people today, unlike the founders, don't study Roman history; because if they did people might not be so eager for a strong President.

But I digress, sort of.  What exactly do we think of Christ's coming kingdom?  Monarchy works pretty well in Britain because the monarch really doesn't have the ability to exercise any real power.  She is a figurehead and a living embodiment of state authority, but I don't think she could yell "off with his head" and expect anyone to listen.  Surely that isn't what we mean by Christ's kingdom though do we?  Or is it?

Do we really want a king to whom we must pay obeisance?  Someone who will judge us (living and dead) and whose judgment has no appeal?  Or do we expect to be Abrahams haggling with God over the fate of those consigned to punishment?  Will expect a God who will conform to our will?  Somehow I'm thinking that's not how it will play out so what does that mean to us in our lives right now?  

Well, actually I'm not so sure.  If I think that the Spirit is leading me to take a particular stance or to vote a particular way and I lose does that mean that I discerned incorrectly or that evil has carried the day?  In our national politics and our church (Episcopal Church anyway) we seem to choose the latter more often it seems to me.  Frankly, I think we could all use a little more humility and submission, but hey, that's just me.