January 29: Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 15; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; Matthew 5:1-12

Karl Barth advised preachers to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other.  That goes for bloggers too, I guess.

Donald Trump, are you listening?

“. . . and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8)

“LORD, who may dwell in your tabernacle?  Who may abide upon your holy hill?  Whoever leads a blameless life and does what is right . . . shall never be overthrown” (Psalm 15:1-2, 7)

“God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong . . . so that no one might boast in the presence of God” (1 Cor. 1:27-28).

Got it yet?

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth . . . Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy” (Matthew 5:5, 7).

Parker Palmer says that disillusionment is one of the great accidental sources of contemplative awareness.  When we are disillusioned, we lose our illusions.  We become aware of what is, rather than how we’d like it to be.  It is a painful way to contemplation, but if contemplation is an honest confrontation with reality, disillusionment is essential.

This week we’ve heard that both the Dakota pipeline and the Keystone will be cleared to go forward, devastating the earth and all the inhabitants near these monstrosities.  The wall is being planned.  Refugees are being turned away.  We’ve seen foreign aid cut for family planning and abortion services.  We’ve seen a blank check to ignore the Affordable Care Act, sending millions scrambling to find a way to get what they need to live.  And more is on the way.  We’re used to seeing Washington in bed with Wall Street; now Washington IS Wall Street, blended in a weird way with white supremacists and isolationists of all stripes.

Now, I don’t expect that this will change because of today’s Scriptures.  I don’t believe Donald Trump believes in God, or cares what any god might think.  But I believe, and I care.  I believe that these words are inspired by the Holy Spirit.  The question today is, how will that belief and these words shape my life?  Will I let them take me beyond despair or self-righteous anger to transformation in the midst of this new face of empire?

I need to be meek, and merciful, and pure of heart: more than ever.

I need to believe that our weakness binds us together and makes us a sign of God’s love.

I need to do justice, and love kindness, and walk humbly with God: in marches, in emails and letters, in our neighborhoods, even, God forbid, in our churches or faith communities.

In the depths of Communist rule in Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel organized underground theater and writing groups.  Like Nelson Mandela, he went from political prisoner to President.  He doesn't put his trust in God so much as in “man,” but the human spirit he invokes we know as the Holy Spirit dwelling in our hearts.  The path of non-violent resistance and mercy looks like foolishness to many, but it is the power and the wisdom of God.  May you, may I, may we follow that path faithfully today and in the days to come.

January 27

Today the Episcopal Church remembers Lydia, Dorcas, and Phoebe, three servants of God who were integral to the development of the early Church.  Finally, women are being seen and remembered on our calendar.  With their inclusion we get a bigger picture of ministry and discipleship.  It doesn't always mean leaving everyone and speaking in public.  Just as crucial are the people who open their doors to others, those who clothe and feed people, those who quietly encourage or teach.  

I'm always balancing my desire to go out and proclaim with my desire to make a place for others to come to.  The joy of community is that we can take turns doing both, and more.  As more people come to live as Companions, that flexibility will grow.  We also have to balance the call to live simply with the need to have a nice enough space to welcome guests.  It's a relief to remember that there's no one best way to serve.

How do you live out your love of God and others?  I'd love to hear.  However you do it, thank you for being part of the great chain of love.  Blessings on you and your ministry (yes, that's what it is, don't be shy).

January 25: Conversion of St. Paul

Acts 26:9-21; Psalm 67; Galatians 1:11-24; Matthew 10:16-22

This is one of my favorite feast days.  I relate to Paul on so many levels.  His passion, his desire to connect, his arrogance and insecurity - I know myself to contain all that.  I relate to Paul's willingness, or compulsion, to turn on a dime and follow this new call.  And while my conversion experience was not as dramatic as his, the consequences for my life were pretty drastic. 

In 2000 I left my job teaching political theory and women studies and entered an Episcopal convent.  I think of that sometimes as my time in Arabia, preparing me for mission.  I lost a lot of friends with that shift, not so much because they rejected me as because I withdrew with that move.  I couldn't hold together the old and the new for a long time.  Eventually I circled back to integrate those lives, but it took time. 

Paul isn't ashamed of his past.  He persecuted the group he is now trying to grow.  But he knows that his experience is a gift.  God grabbed him and turned him, and is using him.  He is exhibit A of the wisdom of God that can look like foolishness (1 Cor. 1:21).  He proclaims a Gospel that scandalized people then, and now.  Suffering?  Undergoing?  What kind of God is that?  He says that is the God who unites humanity and divinity, and shows us how to do the same.  

I try to follow that God.  I still fight with my reptilian brain, with my fear of suffering, but I believe the promise too.  I want to live full out, not holding back, pouring out all I have for the love of God and you.  I am still me, as a Paul was still Paul, but I am transformed by the love of Christ.  I pray that you know that love, that you find yourself dislocated and overwhelmed by that love, and that you get your bearings and share with others.  If this has happened to you already, I pray that it happen again.  Dislocation is a door to contemplation, as Parker Palmer says.  See!  Our God is with you.

January 24: Ordination of Florence Li Tim-Oi

Jeremiah 17:14-18a; Psalm 116:1-2; Galatians 3:23-28; Luke 10:1-9

If you don’t know Florence Li Tim-Oi’s story, go on line.  She was the first woman ordained a priest in the Anglican Communion (when the male priests had left or been targeted), but forced to refrain from functioning as one after the war.  She eventually moved to Canada and resumed her priestly duties.  Inspiring, frustrating: the Church in a nutshell.

Our readings reflect that duality.  We read Paul’s statement that in Christ there is neither male nor female (nor slave or free, for that matter), but we know that he also accommodated himself to both slavery and women’s silencing.  For centuries we’ve been reading this passage and explaining it away.

Today we can’t let it slide.  Today women’s rights and dignity are being threatened in ways we thought we were done with.  Russia’s government is preparing to decriminalize domestic violence.  The U.S. government is led by a man who grabs women’s crotches, calls it pussy, and gets away with it.  He has ordered a ban on all international aid that might possibly go for abortions, and a larger ban on family planning awaits.  The numbers of people trapped in slavery continue to rise.

And yet, Paul’s words are true and clear.  In Christ there is neither female nor male.  Or there’s both, and more.  In the kingdom of God, in the dream of the Holy One, we are a wide spectrum of beautiful children grown up to become heirs and stewards.  This is where we need to stand: not simply opposed to another’s agenda, though that follows from our stand, but rooted and grounded in Christ.

Thank you, Florence.  Thank you, Philadelphia Eleven and all that first generation.  Thank you, you who work for the dignity of all.  May you be blessed and strengthened to make the difference you dream of.

January 22: Third Sunday in Epiphany

Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 5-13; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23

There’s a lot comfort for me in these readings.  Of course, “comfort” derives from the Latin “con fort,” with strength; it used to mean forcing soldiers to move forward, not making them feel good.  That’s good news, given these readings.  There’s a lot of comfort here.

I hear Jesus calling me, every day.  Unfortunately, I don’t hear as clearly as Andrew and Peter and James and John; there’s more static for me, more chances to second-guess.  But I hear it, and I try to follow.  This call is not “comforting” in the comfortable sense; it is more like a poke in the behind, the other kind of comfort.  I am comforted in the peace that comes, even in the midst of the storm, when I do my best to follow.

The other kind of comfort comes for me when I read Paul’s reminder that “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”  I’m not comforted by thinking of anyone perishing, though I know what he means; there is a kind of death by asphyxiation when we rely only on our reason to get us through.  No, the comfort comes in remembering that this foolish and crazy life I’ve followed may actually be life in the power of God.  It seems that way, as I look at the blossoming happening within me and around us here.  My rational mind would say, “Get a regular job!  Save money for yourself!  Who knows what’s going to happen?  You can’t count on anyone or anything to take care of you.”  But my soul, my heart that’s been captured by this giant love, says to trust and follow.  It says that if I stick close to Jesus things might get messy and scary, but I will find my life.  And so far my soul speaks crazy truth.

I don’t know what your path will take you to.  I do hope and pray that you will follow boldly and whole-heartedly.  For your sake, for the world’s sake, be a fool for Christ today.

January 20, 2017

Dear God,

Lead us from death to life,

from falsehood to truth.

Lead us from despair to hope,

from fear to trust.

Let peace fill our hearts,

our world, our universe.

Let us dream together,

pray together,

work together,

to build one world

of peace and justice for all.

     -Amonymous

January 19

2 Corinthians 5:14-20

This is the annual Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.  This year the prayer sheet I received lists this passage as the guiding Scripture for the week, using one verse each day as its theme.  Elizabeth and I are reading it together each day.  Today, day 2, the verse is 5:15: "And he died for all, so that those who live might no longer live for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them."  There's a lot of ideas packed into that one sentence.  What does it mean to die for us?  For all?  And what does it mean to live for him?  I don't have all the answers (or even many), but I have a few thoughts.

Living for Christ doesn't mean getting a church job or becoming a professional missionary.  One thing it means for me is that we don't have to continually start from the beginning and draw only on our resources.  We are in Christ, our lives have meaning as part of the larger healing of the world.  We receive energy and power and hope through this context.  In turn, we spread this context - we live in the reign of God, here and now.

On another level, I think we live "for" Christ, in place of Jesus the human who lived in a particular time and place.  A prayer attributed to Teresa of Avila names us as the hands and feet of Christ in the world.  We are charged with doing the work of Christ - healing, freeing, proclaiming, forgiving.  As later verses make clear, this is the work of reconciling humans with God.  It's not a one-time deal.  Each day we begin again, looking for the life that fills and guides us and looking for where to carry that to others.

I no longer live for myself.  That's a relief.  Living for myself is lonely and barren.  Living for others can verge into codependency and control.  Living for Christ means my concerns don't have to be the center even of my own life.  I have a bigger picture and bigger possibility.  The one who showed me the way through death to life is enabling me to show others.

Where are you aware of living for Christ today?

January 17 Tuesday: St. Antony

Mark 10:17-21

I jumped the regular calendar today to read the Gospel that sent Antony into the desert.  I won't tell you the story, you can look it up.  The short version is that he heard this and sold everything, gave it away, and left for the desert.  A typical convert!  Didn't he have a priest to tell him not to be so literal?  Surely Jesus didn't mean to actually do that!  

No, Antony was looking for the whole deal.  He heard the call, and he followed.  He did not go alone, or first, as the legend says, but he went.  More remarkably, he stayed.  He deepened in prayer and in wisdom.  Over time others came for advice and inspiration.  Some followed the same call.  People are still doing it today.

Four years ago today Elizabeth and I made our first declaration of intent to enter religious life.  We felt a call, and we followed.  We didn't know one another, really.  We didn't know whether we could live together or work together, or how long our money would hold out.  All we knew was that we needed to move in together and pray to know what to do next.  We haven't been as thorough as Antony about giving everything to the poor, or leaving our families, but we have renounced private ownership and shaped our lives around the call to pray and to listen for God in one another.  And the path is a path of life.

Spend time with this reading today.  Ask yourself what Jesus is calling you to, and notice how you respond.  There is not one right way; we don't believe God likes our way better than the way of marriage and family.  The right way is the one that takes all you have to give and makes more life from it.  If you aren't living that way, ask God to show you your path.  Ask for the patience to keep listening and watching, and the courage to follow it when you see it.

January 16, Monday

 

Mark 2:21-22

 ‘No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old cloak; otherwise, the patch pulls away from it, the new from the old, and a worse tear is made. And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; otherwise, the wine will burst the skins, and the wine is lost, and so are the skins; but one puts new wine into fresh wineskins.’

Right now the daily Eucharistic lectionaries and the daily office readings are both beginning Mark, so there's a lot of overlap.  This is the second time I've read this in a week, and it seems fitting for the beginning of the year.  Each time I read it I wonder, what if you put old wine in new skins?  But I know that's not important.

Paul describes Christianity as a graft onto the root of Israel.  Luke and Matthew go to pains to demonstrate that the movement is in fact "old," because in the Roman worldview old was good.  But here Jesus seems to question that.  How does his message fit with what has gone before?  And how does the message we receive today fit with what previous generations thought and did?  In our world, where new is often privileged over old, we still expect our churches to be what they were 50, 100, 1000 years ago.  How do we blend the old and the new?

We say that the Companions are standing at the border between what has been and what is emerging, weaving a new tapestry out of old and new threads.  But that is tricky business, as Jesus says.  The old threads are heavy and solid, sometimes encrusted with layers of grime and assumption.  The new ones are beautiful and shiny, and untried.  Their strength hasn't yet been tested.  I'm reminded that we need to "shrink" the new threads a bit before weaving them with the old.  Here at CMA we experiment a lot.  We have designed a formation process, we have a covenant and a rule, but they are constantly being evaluated rather than simply followed.  And we ourselves are being shrunk (not so much soaked in wine, except metaphorically!).  We are being grafted into the larger body of Christ, bit by bit.

This calls for discernment, and obedience.  Obedience is listening to God, listening to one another.  It requires us to detach from our views and desires enough to see how God is actually moving, whether our way is the right way for that moment, and to let go if needed.  It means honoring the "old cloth" while we are weaving something new.  And, to use Jesus' other metaphor, if means having patience to let the new wine start to mature and show its flavor.

Where is the cloth, or the wine, of your life today?  What is needed from you in this area?

January 15: Martin Luther King Day

Second Sunday in Epiphany

Isaiah 49:1-7; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9; John 1:29-42

We had a great discussion at Coffee Table Communion this Friday, centered around this passage from Isaiah.  I had never really noticed the image of the servant speaker as a polished arrow in God's quiver.  After our Advent retreat on darkness and light, I see the quiver as a sort of womb.  The servant is a precious instrument, saved for a special purpose.

But the servant doesn't see that.  The servant feels like a failure, sees all his effort going to nothing.  And I think of the many people who have struggled for years to bring social justice and climate awareness to our attention, who have labored to feed and equip and honor others, who fear that all their efforts have been in vain.  I think of feminists of my generation who see women still abused and underpaid and overworked, of advocates for racial justice who see us sliding into new pits of old evil, of those who depend on others for their very survival who are watching the social fabric fray under them.  And I hear the servant: "I have labored in vain."

And now God says, "I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth."  The promise stands, and expands.  The servant can't see the fruit of her labor, but the prophet calls her - calls us - to be faithful and steadfast and stand in hope.

This doesn't mean that we are going to see better times, or times that look better.  It means that God's picture is painted in colors I can't see, on a scope I can't grasp.  But I can trust that I am beloved, and aimed at a purpose.  God called me before I was born, and called you.  Time in the quiver is designed, like a womb, for maturation and strengthening.  There will come a time for each of us to find our voice, to speak clearly and strongly on behalf of the reign of God.  Perhaps that time is now.

Blessed Martin Luther King Jr., pray for us.

January 13

I'm back; did you miss me?  I had a wonderful retreat, filled with peace and new insight.  It's a real blessing to take retreat at the turning of the year.  Each year I review the year past, and I ask God to lead me into the new year.  I make a declaration about what that year will be for me - it's a way of focusing my attention, sometimes at an unconscious level. 

A declaration is not a resolution.  I can make and break those at record speed, and be discouraged when I fail or falter.  A declaration is about who I am, who I show up as.  Intentions around actions follow from my declaration.  Last year my declaration was “I am the healing power of love.”  And all year that showed up for me: not only as me bringing more love to others, but also being healed by love.  Declarations don’t always work in a linear way.  Being, not doing.  

This year, 2017, I’m keeping that declaration; I’m still working on healing through love.  But I’ve named the Year of Availability.  I want to be more available to people I know and love, and to people who come into my life.  I tend to fill up my calendar to where I'm not available to those spontaneous moments where God shows up, so part of this intention is cutting back on calendar appointments.  Ironic, isn't it?  In order to say yes, to be more available, I have to say no to a lot of things my ego thinks is a good idea.  I can already feel myself relaxing.  I still have the same things to do, and they will get done, but in a less driven way.  

Availability isn't just about my calendar, of course.  The deeper issue is my emotional and spiritual availability.  My intention is to be more open, more available to what others are saying and feeling.  This is important to me personally, but I'm also feeling urgent about availability on behalf of CMA.  2017 looks to be the year when others start to consider residential vocations with us, and I dearly want to be available to them.  It is my deepest desire to see a residential community, vowed and covenanted, temporary and life-long, living this joyful journey together.  I don't want to miss people who might be part of this dream, nor can we afford for me to be so driven about it that I can't discern well with those who approach.  So this year I'm declaring myself available - to God speaking in me and through others, and to you.  Let's see what happens!

Is there a declaration you want to make, a stand you want to take this year?  Who will you be in 2017?

January 6: The Epiphany

Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14; Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.”

No matter what.  No matter that today you’re sick, and the power has gone out in a storm, and you're alone.  No matter that you fought with your best friend, your spouse, your lover.  No matter that the church you count on to radiate glory is fallen into disrepair and despair.  No matter that the bills are sitting in a pile.  No matter what, your light has come.  Arise, shine.  If you can’t arise, then sit and shine, lie down and shine; but shine.  The glory of the LORD has risen upon you, and no one can take it from you.  No government, no bank, no boss, no court; no priest or minister; no one.  It’s here, now, waiting for you.  It’s a treasure beyond gold, and incense, and myrrh, beyond a bulging bank account, beyond your health.  It’s a treasure beyond life as you know it.  And no one, no thing, can separate you from it.

Give thanks today for the gifts you have received, and those you have been able to give.  Give thanks for the glory, for the light, and for the darkness that lets you see your need.  Give thanks.

We will be in silence from tomorrow until January 12.  I will be switching off all devices.  I’ll be back on January 13.  This has become my own version of lectio divina, so I plan to continue (with occasional absences).  Thank you for walking through Advent and Christmas with me!  May you be blessed on your journey, not stopping until you reach the one your heart longs for.

January 5

1 John 3:11-18; Psalm 100; John 1:43-51

Ouch!  I feel challenged by John’s letter.  “We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another.  Whoever does not love abides in death.”

I love to hear the promise of abundant life, and to call others to new and abundant life.  But it’s easy for me to overlook what is needed for that to happen.  It can sound like a consumer good - “get your abundant life here!”  It can be preached that way.  But John is right.  Any life that focuses only on me and my needs is not only not abundant; at some point it shades into death.  

John is prone to either/or thinking, so his only alternative to love is hate.  I’m not so binary.  I think there are shades between these.  Yet his point is taken.  The more we love, the more we live.  The more I withhold, the less I have.  Long before I get to active hatred, I have withdrawn my concern and goodwill and affection for others.  Then, when hatred pokes its head in the door, I mistake it for a friend.  I think, “Someone understands me.”  “Someone isn’t judging me for being angry or resentful.”  But that someone is death.  It grins at me and tells me I am fabulous, I don’t deserve to be frustrated or denied anything.  It tells me that my life would be great if only those others got out of my way or did my bidding.  It lies.

Abundant life means abundant love.  Jesus conquers death by smothering it with love.  He walked into it full of love, and transformed it by the alchemy of his love.  He invites me to do the same.

I admit it.  I’m afraid to lay down my life for another.  I’m afraid of the expense of buying fair trade products and food that doesn't kill the earth, I’m afraid of the emotional toil of living and caring for others who won’t always be who I want them to be, I’m afraid of reaching out to people I don’t know or who are radically different from me.  But I’m more afraid, in the end, of missing my chance for what Jesus knows.  I’m more afraid of losing my chance for life.

Come, let us pass from death to life.  Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.

January 4

1 John 3:7-10; Psalm 98:1-2, 8-10; John 1:35-42

“What do you want?”  

Peter Block stresses the importance of good questions for building community.  Good questions demand engagement: they need to be “ambiguous, personal, and stressful.”  They take us to accountability and commitment, to vulnerability and possibility.

Jesus asks, “What do you want?”  It’s a great question.  It calls for vulnerability, for sharing deep desire.  The disciples don’t do so well with it - they’re still protecting themselves.  They answer, “Where are you staying?”  That’s not what they want, or want to know.  They want abundance of life, meaning, community, hope.  That’s why they’re following John.  Now they want to know why John points at Jesus.  But they aren’t ready to ask.  If they ask, they will be accountable for what they do with the answer.  They will be forced to choose whether or not to follow, even if only down the street.

Block says that questions are more powerful than answers, because answers close doors rather than opening them.  So what is Jesus to do?  His answer is not an answer.  He continues to invite the disciples into choice and commitment: “Come and see.”

Here we are in a new year.  It’s a great time to wonder.  More than a plan, more than resolutions, the beginning of the year calls for good questions.  Soon we will take our winter retreat, and the wondering will gather steam.

What do you want?

January 3

1 John 3:1-6; Psalm 98:1-2, 4-7; John 1:29-34

“Even that which has been the means of our making progress - if we are too intent on holding on to it, possessing, and reifying it - can be transformed into an obstacle and a brake.  It can become an instrument of mediocrity that prevents us from advancing in our experience, both as Christians and as human beings.”  - Raimon Panikkar, The Experience of God

Part of John’s brilliance lies in his awareness of this truth.  He knows he’s been called, and that he’s been faithful, but he also knows that he is not the end of the road.  He knows that there’s more for his disciples than he can teach them.  He points them to Jesus for the next stage.

But then the stumbling block.  As John’s Gospel and letters make clear, for him - and for many other Christians since then - the last word has been spoken.  Jesus, as we understand him right now (or as we have translated him since King James, or the Council of Trent, or Jerome, or in the earliest Gospels) is the end that becomes a stumbling block.  The God that Jesus manifests is made into an object, a person with the qualities attributed to “Him” by people long ago, and our loyalty to that object and those qualities becomes the mark of our faithfulness.  Without meaning to, our desire to follow faithfully becomes a barrier.

This weekend I met a priest whose vision of God is expanding beyond what he understands, and he’s afraid.  I’ve been afraid of the same thing, and it was comforting to know that I’m not alone.  And when I hear him, and read these words from Panikkar, I know it’s a good sign to be at the end of the familiar road.  John knows that.  Jesus knows it.  I’m in good company.

Where are you opening to something new and unfamiliar in your life?  Pray for the courage to let it unfold.  You are not alone.  I’ll be praying with you.

January 2

1 John 2:22-29; Psalm 98:1-5; John 1:19-28

"Who are you?"  The people who came to John weren't asking his name, if by name we mean "John." They are asking, what are you?  What part do you play in the world?  And behind that they're asking, should we listen to you?  Are you a problem, or the answer to our prayers?  As they ask about baptism we hear, Who do you think you are, doing this?  What should we make of you?

John gives an answer like a Zen koan: "I am a voice crying in the wilderness: prepare the way of the LORD."  We are not to look for the source of the voice, but to listen to what it says.  But of course, usually when we hear a cryptic message we want to know about the messenger.  Why should I listen to this one?  What credentials or authority do they have for this message?  That's a reasonable request.  When we're listening for God, however, reason can be a stumbling block.    I'm waiting for credentials and missing God's call.  In fact, the demand for credentials can be a way of ignoring the call, delaying or looking for a loophole.

Some questions for you today:

Where have you heard a voice crying in the wilderness?  Did you listen?  What did it say?

Who are you?  If someone asked you for an account, what would you say?