My first memoir piece published!

 OK, I’m excited.  Here it is.  

Thanks to everyone who’s been encouraging me to keep going, and to submit pieces.

https://herstryblg.com/true/2021/7/15/a-habit-and-a-hardhat

My Easter Homily, delayed

 Alleluia!  I guess.  Sort of.

 

I don’t know about you, but I always feel behind a little on Easter Day.  Being deeply in the story means going through the shock and the grief of Jesus’ death.  It’s hard to let go of that and just rejoice.  Oh, happy day!  Thank God that’s over!  No.  

These past days we have been remembering a traumatic event.  Today is another one.  It may be joyful, but it’s still traumatic: a human has been raised from the dead.  We watched him die, but now he’s here. 

 

It’s enough to make anyone crazy.

 

So why do we go through this?  Why have generations of Christians walked this road?  

 

Many Protestant churches do not bother with Holy Week.  They don’t have crucifixes in their churches, but only empty crosses.  They seem to want resurrection without the passion.  Many people, Christians and non-Christians, see the focus on Jesus’ passion and death as morbid.  

 

And it can be.  For generations, the Western Church acted as though Easter never took, new life never came.  It’s possible to be so fixated on the cross that we deny the power of the resurrection.

 

We stand here today in the both/and.  Jesus died, a horrible death.  And Jesus rose, a shocking glorious new possibility.  

 

We need both parts.  

 

We go through the horror of Holy Week as a chance to reflect and be with our own horrors, the horrors of our own lives and the horrors of the world.  We go through it because it enacts the human condition of sin and vulnerability.

 

We rejoice at Easter because this too is part of the human condition.  Not bodily resurrection; we are promised that, but we don’t see it in our daily lives.  But we do see new life grow out of ashes.  We see people wake up seemingly from the dead.  Gang members become model citizens.  People suffering from disease become activists and inspirations.  Divorce, poverty, family death, addiction, injustice, are every day transformed into new courage and contribution.  Jesus’ resurrection is the peak of this experience, but it is not the only example.

 

If we deny the pain, we cannot find our way to the resurrection.  As a recovering addict, I know that denial just leaves us stuck in the mire.  In that place, we can’t even grieve.  

 

If we deny the possibility of resurrection in our lives, we settle for misery.  The voices in us may say we’re better off this way, without hope; we won’t be disappointed.  But those voices lie.  We will be disappointed again, we will suffer more loss, but the loss of hope does not soothe.  With hope we face disappointment, but we will also have access to joy and love and power.  

 

Today is the beginning of Easter.  We have 50 days to absorb this truth, to enter into the joy of the resurrection.  And we have the rest of our lives to live this delicious drama of being human, all of it.

 

Jesus goes before us, into the suffering and into the joy.  Mary Magdalene goes with him, and is sent.  In turn, the male apostles, and the women as well, are sent to proclaim the good news.  And now it’s our turn.

 

Alleluia!  The Lord is risen!

At the Tomb

 

I keep thinking about Sister Margaret Helena.

"Sister" was my teacher and guide when I entered religious life in 2000.  She was 96, crippled with arthritis, with Coke-bottle glasses that made her looks really mean something.  She was not a gentle, meek nun; she was a tough cookie, brooking no compromise with the Rule, and restless and frustrated with her limitations.  She was a perfect match for me, as I was pretty tough, and I wanted to live the life in its fullness, and I'm always restless and frustrated by limitations.  Her fierce love kept me in the convent in the early times (and not-so-early) when I wanted to flee.  

She died on October 30, 2003, five days before her 99th birthday and four months after I made my first vows.  We had the full old-fashioned burial, with vigil lamps around the coffin, the offices of the dead and the requiem mass.  

The night before the funeral, I sat vigil at her coffin.  I cried.  I sobbed, really.  And I told her: "Sister, I don't think I can do this without you."  She would not have wanted to hear that, but that's how it felt.

I'm remembering her today as I think about what that Sabbath day was like for the disciples.  Their beloved teacher, the one they pinned their hopes on, was dead and buried.  He had said things about rising again, but they had no idea what he meant.  There was nothing to do but sit.  And I imagine many of them said in their hearts, "Jesus, I can't do this without you."  

Jesus wouldn't have wanted to hear that.  He was training them to be more than disciples; he called them friends, he sent them to teach and heal and serve.  He didn't mean for his death to be the end of their roads.  But on that day, it probably felt that way to them.

Well, I was right on that vigil night.  I couldn't do it without her, in the way we had hoped for.  Six years later I left that community, bereft.  I knew the seed was in me, I treasured my vows, but I couldn't live them out in that way.

And yet, I was wrong.  God had not stopped working in my life.  Out of my tears I found my way to companions who shared the dream of a new community.  I brought my experience to the mix of what we were creating.  Over the years I've had to let go of some of that to make way for new forms of monastic life, but some lives on.  Sister is still with me.  More, Jesus is still with me.  If I will take the time to listen, Jesus still guides me.  If I will take the chance of following through, the Holy Spirit upholds me.  

Today I sit at Jesus' tomb, with my companions.  And I remember all those I've buried, all those who have tried to teach me and strengthen me.  I grieve this day, but I know, I know, that my Redeemer lives.   That is enough for today.

It's Here. The Way of the Cross Opens Before Us

 It's been three weeks since my last post.  When Lent began I planned to write at least every Sunday.  So much for plans.

Three weeks ago life got really complicated.  It's better now, but it took a while.  We've had medical issues of various sorts, and planning for Holy Week on Zoom.  And I had good news: my first piece of memoir writing was accepted, to be published in July.  In the midst of all that, I plumb forgot to post here.

Now it's Palm Sunday, and we're entering into the heart of Jesus' story.  Yes, his birth is important; without his incarnation, we wouldn't have the rest of his story, or of our own.  And yes, his ministry is essential, his teaching forms us today.  But his central teaching is this: there is no life without death, there is no new life without relinquishing the old.  There is no new possibility unless we are willing to die to who we have known ourselves to be, what we have "known" to be true, what we have held out as most important in our lives.

"Those who love their life will lose it; those who lose their life for my sake and for the Gospel will have eternal life."

Thomas Keating's Welcoming Prayer sums up this path of discipleship.  He welcomes all that comes to him, and he lets go of all that might obscure the way:

"I let go of my desire for power and control.  I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval and pleasure.  I let go of my desire for survival and security.  I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person, or myself."

To call this a tall order is to minimize it.  This is the central challenge of our lives, to stare all of this in the face and mean it.

This is what Jesus did at the end.  He let go.  He "welcomed" this hard path, as he trusted that it was the only way forward.  He trusted that it was not the end.  In the garden he prayed to have it be otherwise; on the cross he cried out his fear; but he did not abandon his certainty that this was what God called for, and that God had promised new life would come.

As we walk with him, and with Mary Magdalene this week, take some time to reflect: where am I holding on to how I think things must be?  Where am I still clinging to some version of my life?  Where is God calling me to let go?

The challenges of this past month have planted in me the desire to let go more.  They were hard enough without my resistance; resistance just makes things harder.  So now I'm praying to let go, to welcome it all, to walk with Jesus and trust in Jesus' God.  Mary (all of them!)  is with me, with us, grieving and remembering and hoping against hope.

May you lose your life this week.  May you find the risen Christ at the end of the journey, offering you more than you can ask or imagine.  May it be so.

Cleansing the Temple

Ouch.

As I read today's Gospel (John 2:13-22), I felt the pinch.  I thought of Paul's words: "Do you not know that you are God's temple and that God's spirit dwells in you?" (1 Cor. 3:16)  So I had to look.

I looked in my heart, in my actions.  In my temple, I found lots of things beside the presence of God and the worship of God.  I found a money-changer, and someone selling doves.  I found myself putting my comfort in front of prayer.  I found places where I hold myself out as a woman of prayer, while I go to the mailbox looking for checks.  I found lots of times when I "welcome" people to the house of God, to the Companions community, without really seeing them.  I see the insanity of thinking I'm in a position to welcome others to a house that is not mine.  My temple is a mess.

This Lent has been powerful for me so far.  Even before it began I was being challenged to see the ways I cut people off or keep them in place.  I've seen more of my lack of trust in God, my compulsion to control others to feel safe, my racism.  I'm seeing more and more the cost of my perpetual haste - the sloppiness and lack of attention I can give to what and who is given to me to notice.  I'm daunted by the size of my mess.

I'm really not being hard on myself here.  I'm being honest.  Isn't that what Lent is for?  I'm actually excited, as I begin to face the mess in my temple.  I don't know what happens later, but I can smell potential, in the same way we can see possibility when we clean our homes.  What might I notice, and do differently?  How might I be a better of ally of BIPOC, a better Companion, a better friend and sister?  No, I'm excited.

So I pray: Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.

All the pictures of this scene, following John, emphasize Jesus' anger and violence.  It may be holy zeal on his part, but I don't want to think of God's cleansing in me as the act of an angry, violent God.  I think of God showing me the mess and giving me tools to get to work.  God is not angry, but God is also not co-dependent!  In answer to my prayer, God says, "Here you go."

What are the tools I'm given?  First, God gives me inner eyes to see the mess and the desire to clean up. These don't start with me; they are a gift in themselves.  Then God hands me the glass cleaner, so I can see myself better.  Now it's time for the dust rag of humility, letting me see others more fully.  God offers the broom of willingness to sweep away the distractions that get between me and God.  But a broom isn't enough.  To really clean, I need the mop: renewing my baptismal covenant, letting myself be washed again in my heart.  And not least, God shows me the door to take out the trash!  Prayer, more prayer.  Letting go of the dust, the dirt in my soul.

Then I can look again.  Better, I can ask a companion I trust to look with me.  Did I miss something?  Probably.  Just like cleaning my house, I do what I can see at the time.  But I also get to notice where the shelves are clean, the floor is clean, the mirror is looking better.  I can stop sneezing from my own dust and start breathing deeply again.  I can look outside.

I don't know; maybe this doesn't sound like a project you want to get into.  But I find that each time I do it, I'm happier.  Yesterday I gave the car its spring cleaning, and I like knowing that it will last longer and do better than if I had let it go.  My soul is infinitely more precious than the car!

If you think your soul is maybe in need of spring cleaning, go to it.  God be with you.

Take Up Your Cross

“If any want to become my followers, let them take up their cross and follow me.”

Wow.  That doesn’t sound like good news to me.  

I want to follow Jesus.  I love seeing people restored to health, to soundness of mind.  I love his words of love and forgiveness.  I admire his union with God, and I want some of that myself.

But the cross?  To the people of his time, this is not a metaphor.  The cross is a daily presence for them, a brutal reminder of Roman power and cruelty.  I don’t want to even think that there’s a cross with my name on it.

I thought Jesus came to bring life.  Abundant life.  Is this a contradiction?  Or a test?  What is this?

It’s not a contradiction, or a test.  It’s a very challenging invitation.

In Jesus’ time, people watched him die this horrible death.  Many of his followers also died in this way.  But somehow, more and more people decided that what Jesus promised was worth the price.  Over the next years, thousands of people would die on crosses.  More would die in amphitheaters, torn apart by animals.  Over the centuries some would be drowned, or stoned, or burned, or or lynched, or shot.  Many would die at the hands of others who claimed to be following Jesus. 

In our time, people marched in Selma, in Birmingham, in Moscow.  People faced mobs and police and armies.  From poor peasants to archbishops, people faced into their fear and took up their crosses.   

No one forced this on them. 

The cross is not something other people put on us.  That is just suffering and oppression.  Jesus doesn’t want us to intentionally aim at suffering, or allow ourselves and others to be passive victims.  His is a message of empowerment and liberation.

The cross is the path to life only when we pick it up.  When we actively choose to face the danger, when we risk our comfort and safety to follow Jesus more faithfully, our lives begin to expand.  

There are lots of dramatic examples, but they are not the only crosses we encounter.  More commonly we face the cross in our daily lives.

When do I pick up my cross?  When do you pick up yours?

When I apologize to someone I’ve injured.

When I acknowledge my failures, either of omission or commission.

When I hold my tongue when I’d like to argue or offer advice

When I raise my giving toward a tithe, and give it to causes that Jesus would recognize

When I make consumer choices in line with care for creation

When I make time to pray, and serve, which limits my leisure time

When I speak out on a topic that might draw controversy or opposition

When I acknowledge my faith in the face of others who would disdain it

Some of these sound pretty tame compared to hanging from a Roman cross.  But they are actually more challenging.  I might hang on a cross with hatred in my heart.  I might curse my oppressors while they kill me.  And then, Jesus says, my bravado earns me nothing.  The goal is not to lose my life; the goal is to live, to save my life.

So what is this life that I’m promised if I pick up my cross?

“I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly.”

I’m not promised survival, a longer life.

I’m promised a full life, a life of meaning and purpose and joy.

That’s the secret.  That’s why all those people, past and present, picked up their crosses.  They had discovered what it was to be fully alive, to be the person God had created them to be.  And they had learned that backing down would cost them that fullness of life.

Perfect love casts out fear.

I’m not there yet.  

But I do want to follow.  

I want to go there. 

 

Jesus, hold on tight to me.  Yell in my ear, help me hear you over the roar of my fear.  Stretch out your arms and gather us all.  Amen.

Wilderness

 

Yesterday I was talking with someone who mentioned that he had always assumed that growth is about confronting things and making people change.  He is learning that that isn't true.  I need to learn that too.  I think Jesus can teach me about that.  Maybe you too.

When Jesus goes to the wilderness, he wasn't there to make anyone change: not himself, not others.  He likely knew that he'd be confronted by his "demons," his desires and fears, but he didn't go for self-improvement.  He was driven by the Spirit to allow himself to be cleansed of anything that stood between him and God, him and God's mission for him.  I'm certain he grew through that experience, he came out equipped for the ministry and the sacrifice he performed, but he didn't do that through his own power.  He prayed, he listened, and he obeyed the word he heard.  He didn't even make himself change!  He let God take care of that.  Anything that might be a barrier to his purpose would be purified by God, not by making himself change.

For me, growth is about letting myself be confronted, and letting God change me.  When I let myself be confronted by others, or by my conscience, I open a channel for God to work.  It usually involves grieving some relationship or opportunity that has gone awry, and forgiving myself and others, and waiting for God to show me a better way.  I don't like doing this work.  But I don't know an easier way; I don't know any other way that will take me back to God and myself.

As we enter into Lent, I'm praying to be open to God's word and love.  I know that will mean confrontation with myself, and perhaps with others.  Jesus did after all confront others, and Paul tells us to "teach and admonish one another in all wisdom."  But it's not up to me to change others, or even to change myself.  It's up to me to notice what is put before me, and to ask God for courage and strength to withstand the temptation to evade it.  

And then, it's up to me to let the angels minister to me.  They're all around.  Can you see them?

Blessed and holy Lent to you.

Silent Night

 

For me, music is the center of Christmas.  Music brings me to presence, it gets inside of me - or comes from inside of me, I don’t know which.  Or both.  In music, inside and outside meet.  

Just as music is the center of Christmas, Silent Night is the center of the music.  Silent Night marks the pivot point between Advent and Christmas, the time of quiet and stillness in which Christ steals into the physical plane.  

The service begins with full lighting.  The church is full of wreaths and boughs of pine and red ribbons, and maybe candles at each pew.  Sometimes there is incense, just enough to get the scent without causing too much sneezing. 

We open with a vigorous hymn:  “O Come All Ye Faithful,” usually.  Then comes “Angels We Have Heard on High,”  and the readings and the sermon.  There is another hymn before the Gospel, and an anthem before the communion.   As we move into the Great Thanksgiving and turn toward communion we keep singing, ancient words of praise.  Then, with a little quiet organ music, we go forward to receive the Body and Blood of this newly born Christ.  It’s all magical, capturing even the people who don’t really believe the official version; they can feel and hear that something special is happening.

But for me, the peak of the service comes after communion.  We each return to our pew and kneel in silence. The lights are turned down, or off.   In the quiet and dark, candles are lit.  We each received a small candle on entering the church, and now the flame is passed from person to person.  We hold our candles, and we sing “Silent Night.”  It is slow and gentle, moving up and down the scale, floating up and pausing.  It’s like holding your breath, only you’re singing.

“Love’s own true light.” “Radiant beams from thy holy face.”  “Sleep in heavenly peace.”  Light and sound come together.  I can see the light, as gentle as the sound.  I can feel the presence of God, within me and around me.  I could kneel here forever, but now it’s time to go.

  After Silent Night has been sung, the closing prayer signals a return to normal time.  Our breath is moving again now, as we prepare for “Joy to the World” and its busier descant.  There’s a place for all of these moods, all of these songs.  Send me out with joy and alleluias; but first gather me in with silence and peace.  I’ve had my moment, and I carry it in my heart until I can get home and be quiet again.

Sometimes I’ve been in places where they don’t sing Silent Night after communion.  It’s never felt right to me.  Silent Night is for this moment, this quiet and peace before we stand and prepare to leave.  Time stands still here.

When we don’t sing Silent Night after communion, I go home in peace anyway.  I stand out under the stars, and I sing it softly to myself, to the universe.  That’s the real moment of Christmas, where the stars and the song join together.  Heaven opens, and angels pour down.

Anniversaries

 I know I haven't been writing here very often, but I really need to today.  December 12 is a major feast for me.  It is the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, She who watches over the peoples of the Americas.  This would be lovely in itself, but it's not the reason it's huge for me.  December 12 is the date of two major anniversaries in my life, the twins pillars of my vocation.

On December 12, 2020, I became a postulant at the Community of St. John Baptist in New Jersey.  This is the beginning of the monastic journey, as the entrant learns about the life and discerns whether this path might be right.  For me it was a moment of being embraced.  I came into the little chapel and stood before the Superior, and she led me through a short declaration of my intent and the community's reception.  The novice director led me to my new stall in choir, where I found my prayer book and a little card, handmade.  Beside an icon of Mary were the words in gold: "Behold the handmaid of the Lord."  On the back were my name, the date, and my postulancy.  I still have that card on my desk.  I see it every day and give thanks.

On December 12, 2009, I was ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church.  At that point I was living apart from the community, and a year later I was "dispensed" from my vows.  The Church could say that, but I knew that my vows were for life, to God; I just didn't know how and where I would live them out.  Eventually God sent me to Elizabeth and we built a new container.  But on that day in 2009, the Sisters were there along with my several church communities.

For years I've said that my monastic vocation is the deepest layer, that my priesthood is secondary to that.  But this year that has changed.  I'm sensing now that the whole journey is one thing, one big God arc.  When I entered the convent people said I should be a priest.  I said no, for many years.  And that was right: I had a lot to learn before I could even begin that process.  I still do.  But priesthood is not secondary.  It's just as much a part of me as my vows and my hunger for God.  It's all one.  

So I wonder: are there threads in your life that look disparate, even opposed, that might instead be one tapestry that God is weaving under your very nose?  Where does tension point to new integration beckoning?

I am eternally grateful to the CSJB Sisters, and to Phillip Wilson and the Church of the Redeemer, and to David Desmith and St. David's Church, to confessors and directors and mentors and everyone who walked with me on that journey.  And I give thanks for all those who continue with me now, and show me more when I think I'm done.  And I give thanks for Guadalupe, watching and guiding me.

May God bless you and keep you; may God make her face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; may God lift up her countenance to you, and give you peace.

 

Welcome to Advent!

 Here in West Park, we have been longing for Advent.  At its origin Advent was 40 days long, like Lent, beginning on November 12.  By the 13th century, however, the four-week Advent had become the norm in the West.  Over time the longer Advent became forgotten.  However, with the Revised Common Lectionary, the last three weeks of "ordinary time" do introduce the theme of ending and return.  There is a small but growing movement to restore this longer Advent.  We've decided to join.

One of the virtues of this shift is that we get a few weeks before the full cultural insanity of Christmas takes over.  Advent now is not only shorter than its origin; its meaning and power are eclipsed by the larger social context in which many of us live.  Beginning Advent early lets us begin to reflect and anticipate, and the longer season deepens our awareness of what is to come.

Of course, this is all hypothetical for us, as we begin this experiment, but it's our hope - an Advent word!  And don't we need that now?

So what does this mean?  We began our liturgical new year last Sunday.  We have begun using our office for Advent at Matins and Vespers, with appropriate antiphons and hymns and prayers.  We haven't begun to light candles yet; we just got started!  We are changing the altar colors.  We are pondering what other changes we might make to mark this time: not as penitential as Lent, but meaningful.

If you are curious about this shift and how to do it, here's a good place to start:  

http://www.theadventproject.org

It's never too early to pray: Come, Lord Jesus.

Renewal

 I'm returning from two months sabbatical.  Most of it was at home, so it wasn't a complete get-away, but that proved to be useful.  Time away is relaxing, and may lead to insight, but the real point for me is to renew and deepen my commitment to the monastic life, to the Companions, and to life with Elizabeth.  In our daily lives we get on tracks that may not serve us, and without time to reflect and talk they turn into ruts.

I did get some time away, at the beginning and the end, but I did not get the extended trips I had planned.  And because I didn't, I was available for other opportunities: an Enneagram workshop that opened up a lot for me, and a weekly writers' group that is teaching me and inspiring me.  And because I was here, Elizabeth and I could have good conversations.  Together, over these past five months, we have indeed been renewed.

Which leads me to what I want to focus on.

We had gotten used to people not joining us in residential monastic life.  Elizabeth held out hope that someone would come, but I was frankly resigned.  I had stopped talking or writing about it, and I was open to the possibility that God really wanted us to be the only ones, to be the seeds for the larger Companions community, which is indeed growing.  But the sabbatical reignited that desire in me.  When I told Elizabeth, she immediately said, "Yes! We need to tell people again!"  So here I am.

I know this may not seem the time to be considering whether you have a monastic vocation, but I think it's perfect.  COVID is shaking us all up, sometimes forcing us to reconsider our priorities and choices.  And the conviction of call, the mutual discernment, are slow processes.  So now may not be the time to visit (unless you've quarantined for two weeks!), but it may be the time to ask yourself, is this something I have put off, or put away in a dark corner of my mind?  Might God be inviting me to "sell all" to buy the pearl of great price?  Might I dare to look?

This question is not just for women.  We decided long ago that if men felt a vocation we were open.  If you are trans or non-binary, same thing.  We are interested in you, and in what God is up to in you.

You may be thinking you're too old.  Well, I don't know.  I'm no spring chicken myself.  The question is, are you young enough at heart to be open, to be a beginner, to trust others in your life?  Are you brave enough to try?

I don't know.  You may have other objections.  But if you feel the nudge, give us a shout and let's talk about it.  We are not out to harm you; if it feels wrong, we will tell you.  But it just might be right.

Our email is companionsma@gmail.com.  Start praying; if not for yourself, please pray for others to find their way, and for us to be ready to receive them.  God bless you in your vocation, whatever it may be.

In the Boat

 I keep thinking about last Sunday's Gospel (Matthew 14:22-33).  There's just so much in this story.  It's easy to make it into a simple point:  Get out of the boat!  Trust Jesus!  But going to "the point" cuts out so much that's worth pondering.

Why does Jesus send the disciples on ahead?  There's no one answer.  Today I'm going with: the whole thing is an experiment, for them to see what life is like without him.  They set off, and things get hard: the wind blows against them.  They row harder.  It's not working.  At this point they're not afraid; they're just tired and stressed.

Then Jesus comes strolling along.  He's not struggling.  He's cruising.  Now they're afraid: this makes no sense.  Is that a ghost?  He says no, it's me.  Peter isn't sure, but he's willing to be convinced: if it's you, command me to do what you're doing.

Now, I love this moment.  It sounds like a test, and in a way it is, but if Peter didn't already believe somehow he wouldn't risk meeting the challenge.  A demon could command him to get out of the boat, and he'd be fish food.  But when Jesus says "Come," he does.  He already believes that this is Jesus, albeit doing things he's never seen him do.  He doesn't follow perfectly, but he does follow.  He gets to experience walking on water.  I bet he remembers this after Jesus has left.

The other disciples don't even try to get out of the boat.  They, not Peter, are the ones of "little faith."  They'd rather stay in their boat than risk following Jesus in this crazy way.  Row, row, row.  Keep trying.  Do what makes sense.

The other night I dreamed I was driving a truck.  It was older, beaten up, but functional.  I turned onto a road that got really bad quite quickly, but I trusted the truck, and I trusted my ability to drive the truck through this bad spot.  But suddenly the road ended, washed out.  Before me was a pool, almost a pond. There was no way forward for the truck, or for me, unless I swam.  I tried to back out, and the front of the truck - the drive mechanism, the engine - came off and stayed stuck in the mud.  I knew I'd have to walk back out.  That's where the dream ended.

Truck.  Boat.  It's the same thing.  I think I can drive this puppy, I can handle the rough road on my own with my old familiar tools.  But I'm ignoring the signs telling me this road is a mess.  I pass two people who watch me go by.  For all I know they could have helped me, but I'm certain I can do this.  I'm in my boat/truck: I've got this!  Until I don't.

For me this week, Matthew is talking about the contrast between rowing on my own and walking with Jesus.  Jesus knows the easier, softer way.  It involves a lot of prayer, a close connection to God.  Both ways involve effort, but in the end Jesus' way works when mine doesn't.

Now I'm walking back out to a more open, stable place, and asking God to direct me.  Show me where to go, and how.  I will do my best to listen and follow.  How about you?

Come, Let us Sing to our God!

 

Holy Currents

I'm reading Eric Law's book, Holy Currencies, while attending the Kaleidoscope Institute annual conference (via Zoom, of course).  When I read the daily office reading from Acts yesterday (3:-1-11), I was reminded of what he says about currencies.

Law explains that the idea of money as "currency" originated about 400 years ago.  The word derives from  "current," and the reason for the name is that, like water, money only helps when it flows.  Money is not to be hoarded, but to be passed along.  If it doesn't flow, it begins to stagnate and rot.

Seen in this way, Law argues that money is only one of many "currencies" that enrich and sustain people.  Just as important are things like relationships, truth, wellness.  These flow like money; they too are currencies.  We may lack some of them, but we can build on those we do have.

In the reading, Peter and John are walking toward the temple when they meet a lame man who asks them for alms.  Peter and John "looked intently at him" and Peter said, "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk."  And the man stands up and walks, and leaps, and praises God.

In his condition, the only thing the lame man can imagine that might help him is money.  He has people who lay him at the gate so he can beg, but apparently no one who can or will support him so he need not.  He asks for the only currency he can expect.  Peter and John, however, have received the Holy Spirit.  And, like money, it cries out to be shared.  It manifests here as the capacity for wellness, for healing.  Rather than turning away and saying, "I can't help," they give what they have - which turns out to be so much more than any money they might have given!

So I'm thinking about the Holy Spirit, and all the ways she flows for the health of the body of Christ.  I'm wondering about what currencies I have, and what I can share and give away.  I think language is one of mine, so I'm trying to share with you.  That's bound up with relationships - even with those of you I don't know, don't correspond with.  I'm offering what I have received.  But where else can I enter the circuit of gift?  Where do you, can you, will you?

Go, be a blessing.  You will receive more than you can imagine.

Mary Mag Day Continued

Last night we met via Zoom for our annual celebration.  I gave a brief reflection on our texts, Colossians 3:12-18 and John 20:1-18.  Here it is.

If we were gathered in person, we wouldn’t have this sort of reflection offered by one person.  We’d have a simple liturgy with lots of conversations around it.  But this year is unusual, to say the least.  So, although we may still have conversations with one another, I get to say a few words.

We have two readings to frame our life together, readings we share every year.  The Gospel tells the story of Mary Magdalene encountering Jesus and receiving her commission to tell others what she has seen.  She becomes the apostle to the apostles.  Now, Mary doesn’t have a lot of dialogue in the Gospels, so we need to pay attention when she speaks.

When she recognizes Jesus, she says, “Rabbouni!”  Teacher!  Jesus is her teacher, her rabbi.  She follows him and learns from him, and, when she is commissioned, she shares what he has taught her.  I believe that her words to the other apostles were only the first of many times she taught and testified.  

As we walk with Mary, we follow Jesus.  We learn from him.  And much of what we learn is summarized in the Colossians passage.  Colossians tells us how to treat one another in the community, but Jesus taught the disciples to proclaim the reign of God everywhere.  How we treat one another here in this community is simply a training ground for being with everyone.  The point is not to have a lovely oasis safe from the world, but to have a base for moving into the world and calling forth the awareness of the reign of God that is already present.

Mary’s other line is the key to her proclamation.  “I have seen the Lord!”

She doesn’t expound doctrine.

She doesn’t explain.

She says what has happened to her, and in so doing she invites us into mystery.

Mystery is our deepest fuel for the journey.  It is the destination, but it’s also the source.  When we touch mystery we are moved to explore, to journey.

As we journey with Mary Magdalene, we follow into the mystery, hoping to see what she saw and to be addressed as she was.  We pray to be given a word to share with others as she was.

So right now, what is your word?  

As you sit, can you hear a whisper from that garden?

Your name, spoken like a breeze.  A breath.

A presence, real but impossible to box in or reproduce or cling to.

A message.  A word, a phrase.

Let the whisper sink into your soul.  Carry it as Mary did, in her heart.  

I have seen the Lord.  Alleluia.

Oh Happy Day!

(Icon of Mary Magdalene written by a Companion.)

Today, of course, is our "patronal festival" - Mary Magdalene's feast day.  There's too much to say for one post. 

I'll start by asking your prayers for those who will be making new commitments tonight.

Diane, Ernesto, and Lauren are making their first annual commitment as Covenant Companions, after being Candidates for over a year.

Shelby is making her Candidacy commitment, exploring what it means to be a Covenant Companion.

The rest of us will be renewing our vows and promises - Annie and Dario, Elizabeth and myself.

All of this, this year, on Zoom, with our covenant group, Board members, and friends in attendance.  It will be joyous, and yet poignant - as perhaps befits Mary Magdalene.  Joy, but not simple triumph.

She sees Jesus risen from the dead, but she doesn't get to cling to him.  There's new life, but it's not about going back to what was.  The past is past, except as it lives in memory.  That normal is gone forever.  

But the end of that normal is not the end.  No:  "even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we know him no longer in that way.  So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!" (2 Cor. 5:16-17).

We need to hear this today.  A lot is passing away, and what is emerging is not all pretty.  A lot of it stinks of death.  But amid the stench there are new blossoms, new frontiers of creativity and caring and leadership.  Rather than sighing for the loss of our annual in-person gathering, we are planning a "semester" of events that will deepen our practice of the covenant and our dwelling in the charism.  And tonight, because of the technology we are "forced" to use, we can include others in what is usually a private moment.  We may never be the same.  

I pray we will never be the same: we the Companions, we our country, we our world, we this blessed creation in which we are privileged to dwell.  I pray for the new creation in Christ.

In this new creation, "the love of Christ urges us on" (2 Cor. 5:14).  What I love about this is the ambiguity of the phrase.  "The love of Christ": is that Christ's love for us, or our love of Christ?  I don't really want to have to choose, whatever Paul meant.   I like to see it as a circuit - Christ's love urging me to more love, my love of Christ urging me to live no longer for myself, but to share the good news of this love.

So today, my friends and companions, let the love of Christ urge you on, encourage you, dwell in you richly.  I give thanks for all of you who have blessed us with your support and participation over the years, too many to name.  May we all know and share this new creation.

One Person's Wheat . . .

Today's Gospel is Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43.  It's the parable of the wheat and the weeds.  It got me thinking.

First, let me say that I need to leave behind Matthew's explanation of the parable (vv. 36-43).  Just like last week, when he has Jesus explain his parable to the disciples, it seems that Matthew wants to head off the very work of wondering that Jesus' parables invite us into.  By telling us what the parables mean, he makes them less parabolic, and therefore less fruitful.  So, let's leave behind his little summary and just enjoy the parable.

In the parable, there is wheat and there are weeds.  And, of course, no farmer wants weeds mixed in with their wheat.  Jesus' audience would get an image of what he means.  Let them grow together and sort it out later, lest pulling up the weeds also uproots the wheat.  At the end, we will sort them out.  OK, got that.

But here's where I've been wondering this week.

For the last month or two, we've been gathering the various grasses and wildflowers that grow on our lane and the pathway to the monastery and using them in place of flowers.  We have lovely arrangements of  - weeds. 

In past years I would have just walked by those grasses.  I might have appreciated them where they are, but I wouldn't bring them inside - I'd buy flowers, or cut flowers we had grown.  I would not be making bouquets out of weeds.  But this year, the beauty of the grasses overtook me.  I haven't been settling for weeds - I've been appreciating what they bring, the "wheatness" of them.  

So now, when I read this parable, I wonder: How can I be sure what is wheat and what is weeds?  See, it's not just a matter of not uprooting the sprouts I know to be good and nourishing - it's also a question of knowing which is which.  For all I know these weeds are wholesome in their own right!  In uprooting them, I may be depriving myself and others of potential nourishment.

Of course, there is a place for discernment.  Some things are clearly toxic - some plants, and some qualities of the soul.  But some things are less clear.  Is my impatience a weed, or is it a wild unruly flower?  Is my obnoxious neighbor (pick your version of why they are intolerable) a weed to be thrown into the fire, or wheat that can teach me something or bring a gift if properly cultivated with patience and understanding?  You get my drift.

This is not a prescription for paralysis.  In fact, Matthew's explanation leaves us both judging and impotent:  I know who is a weed, and I can trust that God will burn them.  Yuck.  No, this is an opening toward discernment, toward a more careful contemplative approach to myself and others.  Knowing that I don't always know what God finds to be useful leads me to pray as the recovery programs teach us:  I pray for God to remove every defect of character which stands in the way of my usefulness to God and to others.  That may include some things I like (my "wheat") and leave some things I don't.  Then I watch and notice, and make the best choices I can.

What's growing in your garden today?

Not as I would have it . . .

Each morning I read several daily meditations from recovery programs.  This morning one of them included these sentences:

"With my life in God's care, fear, uncertainty, and anger are no longer my response to those portions of life that I would rather not have happen to me.  The pain of living through these times will be healed by the knowledge that I have received the spiritual strength to survive."

Well, for sure these days have a lot of portions that I would rather not have happen.  From the global, to the national, to the local, to the personal, there's a lot of disruption and interruption of my plans and desires.  And some days - some minutes of each day - fear, uncertainty, and anger do indeed crop up.  At those moments it can be hard to hear or believe that my life is in God's care.   If this is care, I want to say, what is neglect like?  If my life is in God's care, what of those whose lives are immeasurably harder than mine?  Words like the ones I quoted can sound facile.

I do believe, however, that I have been given the strength to survive.  My life is a miracle.  It was a miracle that I survived my youth, my drinking and drugging days.  It has been a miracle to be held during the times that I got lazy in my own recovery work.  I have been given the strength to survive, even before I reached out to God, but since then I have learned to thrive.  Death, loss, disorientation, financial insecurity, fallout from my history and my addictions - none of them have severed the connection to God.  God initiated that connection; I just responded.  I still respond, as well as I can.

These times are hard.  But God is strong, and fierce.  We can reach out for the strength to survive, and to thrive.  And beyond that, we find the strength to reach out to others who need to see God in the flesh, in another person.  Even behind our masks, our eyes can smile.  We can still talk.  We can share what we have.  When we do, we actually get stronger.  Abundance grows as it's shared.

So today, I will stand in the knowledge that I, that we, can weather all the storms confronting us.  Together we get through.

And today's Gospel at the Eucharist:  Matthew 11:28-30.  Go get it!

Unblocking

I can't believe I haven't posted since May!  Well, actually, I can.  I spent June in some sort of twilight zone.  I didn't write on my memoir, nor did I blog or write sermons or - anything.  As the days went on I wondered what was up.  Yes, I was unhappy with so much in the world, big and small.  But I knew there was something more.  I was reading a lot, but I wasn't finding anything to write about.  (Well, sometimes I did, but they were scary ideas I was pondering from my reading, not ready for prime time.)

Then, two days ago, I asked myself what had changed.  I realized that I had stopped doing jigsaw puzzles. I had been doing puzzles and listening to music for the first two months of "enclosure," then I decided that the puzzling was probably leading me into rabbit holes and negative thoughts.  So I stopped.

I didn't know just how much I needed that open time to think.  I knew that I did much of my writing in my head, while doing a puzzle, but I didn't know just how crucial that time was to my process.  But doing a puzzle lets my mind wander while my eyes and hands do something trivial.  In stopping it, I was depriving myself of a crucial time of reflection and composition.  So two days ago I got out an old puzzle.  And here I am, ready and eager to start again.

This experience made me wonder where else we block ourselves by dropping practices that don't seem integral to our spiritual or creative lives.  Where do I block my prayer life by letting go some little thing that has worked for me?  Something as small as a jigsaw puzzle.  Or taking time in the garden, or exercising, or calling a friend, or listening to music, or cooking, or . . . 

If you're feeling blocked or cut off from yourself or God these days, is there a little practice that you've dropped?  Is there one that might help if you started?  And if you aren't feeling blocked or cut off, how do you keep an open channel?  Give thanks for it and keep it up!

And now, back to the memoir.  I haven't been posting pieces, but I'm moving along - again.  God bless you all.

What to do? Pray.

Happy Ascension Day!

We are preaching on Sunday, so I've been pondering those readings (Acts 1:6-14) and today's reading from Luke (24:44-53).  Each of these describes what the community did after Jesus was no longer present with them.  In Acts "Luke" says that "they went to the room upstairs where they were staying.  In Luke's Gospel he says that "they were continually in the Temple."  But both readings describe the same action: they devoted themselves to prayer and praise.  Wherever they were, they knew what to do.

These days it may feel more like we're in the upper room than in the Temple.  You may be missing your church, and the general bustle of the world around you.  Or, you may be experiencing too much of it, via technology!  You may feel alone, or you may feel crowded in with others.  Whatever your situation, the message is the same.  This is a time to pray, to bless God.

It's not a time to pray because we're in trouble.  It's a time to pray because it's always time to pray.  But now, as we wait for Pentecost and the coming of the Spirit, we can pray with the memory and the awareness of the generations of other disciples who have prayed in all sorts of places, all sorts of moods and situations.  It looks like Jesus has left, but the Spirit comes and fills us.  Wherever we are.

If you're missing your local temple and your face to face community, listen to George Herbert.
Seven whole days, not one in seven,
I will praise thee.          
  - George Herbert

We are freed from the belief that only one day deserves prayer, and only one place enables us to be heard.  From our upper rooms, together with whoever is there, we can, we will, open ourselves to God.

So, as you're pondering your rule of life in this new time, you can start by praying and praising.  I'm praying for us all, and giving thanks for you and your companionship on this journey.  We never really know where it leads - it wouldn't really be God without the surprise - but we know the Spirit is with us and will lead us into truth.  Rejoice!