Sermon at St. George's, Newburgh NY, June 21 2015

Thank you for inviting me to be with you today.  As I stand here, I’m mindful that you are sitting like Jesus’ first disciples, in the nave.  The nave, the main body of the church, gets its name from the Greek word for ship, naos.  It’s where we get our word “navy.”  The imagery of the church as a ship is ancient and powerful.  We see it in the ribbed, vaulted ceilings of so many churches.  We are all in the ship, and God is in charge.  Somehow, in this ship, we hope to be safe.

But so often it doesn’t work out that way.  Life has storms.  We face times when we are rightly afraid of drowning.  Our mortgage way be underwater.  We may be up to our necks in debt, or in work.  We may look back at our life and see where our ship has sailed, and we missed it.  Loved ones die, and we feel ourselves sinking.  As we face global warming and climate change, we may literally be faced with water where before the ground was solid.

How do we respond to those storms?  Usually, our basic instincts come to the fore.  

We try to outrun the storm, to row harder.  

Or we turn back to the safety of what we know, even if it hasn’t worked so well or times have changed.  

Or we get mad.  We blame God, or other people, or ourselves.  That part of us that thinks there should no storm in our life gets into action.

The people in our lives may try to help us at this point.  They may help us outrun the storm or run for safety.  They may help us blame others, mistaking that for comfort.  But rarely can they make the storm go away entirely.

In the Gospel for today, the disciples are upset.  The storm is rising, their feet are wet, and Jesus is asleep.  Instantly, they think the worst.  Doesn’t he care?  They’ve been following him, listening to him, watching him perform miracles.  Now he’s asleep.  Doesn’t he care?

The disciples don’t have to ask this question.  They don't have to think he doesn't care.  They could wake Jesus and say, “we need your help.”  They could say, “we’re afraid.”  But they immediately go to a story of abandonment.  “He may be powerful, but he doesn’t care.”

We see in the Gospels that despite all that they witnessed Jesus do and say, over and over his disciples doubted him or ran from his message.  The very ones who were closest to him struggled just like everybody else to trust in him when they were confronted with something that they didn’t understand, or something that instilled fear in them.

I think many of us in the ship of church find ourselves in this place during storms.  We grow up hearing that God is all-powerful, and all-knowing, and all-loving.  So when storms come, we have to wonder: is one of these not true?  

When our beloved ones die too young, when people live in slavery or oppression, which part of God do we let go of?  

Many people decide that God doesn’t care.

When we believe God doesn’t care, we take back our lives.  We rely on ourselves again, on our ability to outrun the storm.  Or, if it’s clear the storm is winning, we despair.  Then we have two problems: we have the storm, and we have our sense of abandonment.

Perhaps Jesus is not the one who is asleep.

Perhaps Jesus can sleep through the storm because he is awake to God.  He trusts so deeply, he is so united with God, that he does not fear.  

This word, “Do not be afraid,” is one of the main themes of the Bible.  Over and over, God and God’s messengers say, “Do not be afraid.”  

They don’t say, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”  That would dismiss us.  There is a lot to fear, but we don’t have to be afraid.  The storms are real, but so is God’s love.  Jesus is fully awake to that love, and to the power of that love, and so he can sleep in the storm.

The faith that would keep fear at bay is a faith that does not reduce God to a pacifier.  God’s power is not like human power.  It is not about making the world to our specifications, eliminating danger, or following our judgments of how things should be.  

God’s power is the steady flow of love that can strengthen us through the storms.  Our task is not to outrun the storm, but to stand firm, awake to God’s loving presence.

This is what Jesus knows.  When he asks about the disciples’ faith, he asks us to dig down past our instinctive responses to storms, to hold fast to the handrails and ropes of our faith so we don’t make matters worse.  

We may feel fear, but we don’t have to live in fear.  We don’t have to obsess.  We don’t have hunker down and control everything.  

We don’t have to get angry or bitter.  

We can open our hands and our hearts.  

We can take a deep breath, maybe have a good cry and a cup of tea.  

We can pray to know what to do, and do it.  

We can breathe peace, as Jesus did.

In this ship of church, we can hold one another.  We can pray for those who are struggling, and let them know they aren’t alone.  We can offer help, as we are gifted.  We can tell stories of times when we thought the water would overwhelm us, times we survived.  And we can eat and drink together, and find refreshment.  Together, we can wake up to God’s presence within and among us.

May this church be that ship.  May you find here the faith that does not give you all the answers, but strengthens you to ask the questions that matter.  May God be with you.

Toward Vows! (Or, Why it's been so long since I've been here!)

On July 22, Elizabeth and I will make our life profession as Companions of Mary the Apostle.  This is huge, the end of one long process and the beginning of another.  Now we will do the hard work of daily faithfulness.

We also begin the work of welcoming new members, as five people make their initial Candidate declarations as non-residential Covenant Companions.  This is scarier for me than making my own vows: I feel the responsibility of caring for them, being with them, not managing their process but guiding them as they grow.  This is daunting, but also a great joy for me.

In the meantime I have done some preaching and retreat leadership, and these have consumed me.  My apologies.  We've posted on the Facebook page, but I've neglected this page.  I'll post a sermon later today, I hope.

I've missed writing, and hope - plan - to return more regularly after the profession.  Please hold us in your prayers, both for our community and for our individual vocational development.

I am in awe, wonder, gratitude, love, and praise for what God is doing in my life.  May you also swim in the rich water of God's love, today and every day.

May 20, 2015; Wednesday in the Seventh Week

All week at Eucharist we’ve been hearing farewells.  We’re late in the book of Acts, as Paul goes back to Jerusalem, is arrested, and makes his journey to Rome and the emperor.  In John’s Gospel Jesus is saying goodbye and praying to God on behalf of the disciples.  Later he will return and tell Peter to tend the sheep.  It’s a week for wrapping things up.

(I just have to mention that David Letterman is also saying goodbye this week after 22 years hosting The Late Show.  Coincidence?  You decide.)

All these farewells can make me a little melancholy.  If we didn’t have the book of Acts, we might think the story ended on the beach with Peter and Jesus.  But Acts is the final “narrative” in the canonical Scriptures, so when it ends in its rather anticlimactic fashion it can sound like a dwindling away.  It just ends.  Paul is hanging around Rome, talking and waiting.  It doesn’t sound like much.

But we know the story continues.  We know because we are here today, reading these books and talking about Jesus.  And with the discovery of the apocryphal books we know that many more stories were written about Jesus and the disciples.  We’re talking about them too.  So I know these goodbyes are not really the end.

And yet, there are real endings.  Jesus leaves, at least in recognizable form.  Paul dies.  Peter dies.  Even Mary Magdalene dies, somewhere.  New generations of disciples arise, and die in turn.  There are real endings.

As we prepare for Pentecost, for a new beginning that is a continuation of the eternal Spirit’s movement, it’s a good time to consider what is left unsaid or undone.  Jesus prays that the disciples will be one, that they will be safe in body and in spirit.  Jesus tells Peter what to do next (though not very clearly, for sure).  I like to think that Paul reconciled with anyone he had a dispute with before he left for Rome.

In these last few days, is there anything you need to close the door on?  Any words left unsaid, love left unexpressed, concerns or prayers unsaid?  Is there anyone or anything you need to say farewell to?

I’ll be pondering this today, and this week.  I want to be ready for the next chapter of the life God dreams for me.  If you do too, seize this chance.  Come, Holy Spirit!

Sermon at the Monastery, Ascension Day 2015

When I first entered religious life in 2000, one sister was most responsible for my coming, and my staying.  Sr. Margaret Helena was my mentor, my amma in the religious life.  She was the one who had what I wanted - zeal, love of God, a lifetime of discipline that had brought her some joy.  Many found her intimidating, but I found her strong and loving.  She was one week short of 99 when she died, in the fall of 2003.

I had made my first vows in June.  When she died, I remember thinking, “I can’t do this without you.”  I would never have said that out loud to her - she wouldn’t have wanted that kind of dependence.  She would have wanted to know that I could go on, that I would go on.  She expected me to become superior of the community, to revive it in some way.  Sr. Margaret Helena was not big on sentimentality or neediness.  

And she was right - I could go on, and I did.  In the end, I went in directions she wouldn’t have liked.  I went out the door of CSJB.  But I did go on.  The lessons she taught me are still in me.  The love of religious life, the love of God, the honesty and determination she showed me - I carry those in me.

I imagine the disciples were in a similar situation after Jesus ascended.  They had lost him before, but he quickly returned.  Then, according to Luke’s Gospel, he leaves again at the end of Easter Day.  I imagine Luke felt a gap there, felt a need to make Jesus’ resurrection more convincing to readers, so in Acts he extends Jesus’ stay to forty days.  

Whichever scenario we follow, the ascension and the commission agree.  Jesus commissions the disciples to carry his message of repentance and forgiveness.  Then he is carried up to heaven.  As Elisha watched Elijah go, the disciples watch Jesus go.  

And now again we have two versions of the story.  In the Gospel, they return to Jerusalem with great joy and spend their time in the Temple.  In Acts, they return to the upper room and begin to organize.  Either way, there is a notable change in their actions.  

After the crucifixion, they either hid or scattered.  They were in despair.  They didn’t know if, or how, they could go on without Jesus.  

After the ascension, they are filled with joy and purpose.  They don’t know yet what the Holy Spirit has in store for them, but they are confident that God is at work.  This confidence inspires them to get to work in turn.  Like Elisha, like Joshua after Moses’ death, this motley crew will continue the mission of proclaiming the dream of God.

But where does that resilience and renewal come from?  I could easily say the Holy Spirit, and that would be true, but it helps sometimes to look into the particular ways the Spirit works.  The Spirit has many gifts, many fruits, and we are called to tend the garden of those fruits so they can grow to their full stature.  

When the author of Ephesians wants to uplift that congregation, he prays that they will receive wisdom and revelation to know the hope to which they are called, the rich inheritance awaiting them, and God’s immeasurable power.  They need that revelation.  They are no triumphal church; they are a minority, subject to misunderstanding if not active persecution.  They need reminding that God is with them.

We all need that reminder.  When we are hurting, we need others to be our memory and hope.  Last week, as Andrew left us, people all over the world were praying for him and for you.  They continue to pray.  

As one of them, I will say that I pray not only for comfort for you all, for us all, but also for strength and courage to be the sort of people who drew Andrew to this life, and who draw others into Christ’s community of love.

Even before Pentecost, the disciples were guided by the Holy Spirit to continue to gather, to pray, to worship, to organize.  They elected Matthias to replace Judas.  They did what they could.  Sometimes, that is the best gift the Spirit can give us - just to keep doing the next right thing rather than collapse.

Before the crucifixion, Jesus told the disciples he would not leave them friendless.  He would send the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, to guide and strengthen them.   They didn’t understand before the resurrection, but it seems that after his ascension they were able to believe that.  

As we enter these ten days before Pentecost, these days of waiting, we too can trust that the Spirit is with us, waiting to show us more of who God is, who we are, and what we can do in the power of the Spirit.  We too can bless God and worship with great joy.  Visible or invisible, our God reigns.  

Why do you stand looking up to heaven?  There’s work to be done!  Come, Holy Spirit!  Empower us to be your people on earth.  Amen

Rotation Sunday, May 10, 2015

Sixth Sunday in Easter, May 10, 2015


How many of you will celebrate Rogation Sunday today, or the three Rogation Days this week?  How many of you wonder what on earth a Rogation Day is?  Go look it up on Wikipedia.
OK, that was unhelpful.  Just letting out my little smarty-mouth for a minute.  But seriously: go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rogation_days for an exhaustive treatment.
Rogation Days are the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday before Ascension Day.  Since most of us don’t go to the church during the week, the Sixth Sunday in Easter is sometimes celebrated as Rogation Sunday.  Rogation comes from the Latin “rogare,” to pray.  For Anglicans, it is a time to bless the fields, bless the parish, bless ministries.
When I lived with the Community of St. John Baptist in New Jersey, we celebrated Rogation by walking around the grounds, singing, with incense and holy water.  We blessed the convent; the retreat house; the labyrinth; the employees’ houses; the former school that is now a drug treatment center; we blessed the animals that lived there.  We prayed that all these would be sites of meaningful ministry, that people would find God through these venues and people.  It was a very powerful time for me.  When I served a parish, I instituted the practice there.
Since moving up here I haven’t celebrated Rogation.  The brothers don’t do it.  But this year I’m going for it.  Our house is a center for ministry as well as prayer and daily life.  We need all the prayers we can get!  We need prayers: for cleaning, for gardening, for the river that runs through our basement and the animals living in our walls.
Holy water - check.
Incense - check.
Songs - check.
Prayers - check.

What will you do?  If you don’t have holy water, or don’t believe in blessing water, just say a prayer.  Pray to be a center of peace, a center of life and growth, a sign of God in a world desperate for God.  Pet your animals, tend your plants, start a compost pile.  Recycle something you would normally throw out.  Give thanks for creation.  Amen!

Andrew OHC, Alleluia

May 7, 2015

Brother Andrew OHC died yesterday.  He had struggled for several years with pulmonary fibrosis, and finally his lungs gave out.  He was on a vent for five days, until his family could gather, and then in accordance with his wishes the vent was taken out.  The monastery is in silent retreat these days, so conversation is limited.  Elizabeth is out of town, and I'm here alone except for the cats.  The silence is hard, but seems appropriate.
Just last week Andrew was saying that he had no fear of death.  He loved his life, he was in no hurry to die, but he was ready when it came.  Did he sense how near it was?  Or did he, rather, know that it is always near, in a way that most of us can choose to ignore?  Whichever it was, I'm glad to have had that time with him.
This morning I went down the hill for Matins with the brothers.  Since we're in Easter, we began with the Pascha Nostrum, the Easter hymn to resurrection.  Death is overcome, Alleluia.  It was powerful, poignant, to say these verses together today.
I'll tell you the honest truth.  I don't know what death brings.  I don't know what resurrection means, or will mean.  Someone said to me, "you'll see Andrew again."  I have trouble with that.  I believe that we are gathered into God at death, but I don't believe that the "I" writing this will survive - my memories, my thoughts.  So who is the "I" that would see "Andrew" again?  I don't need to know.  "I" am not likely to know.  And that's OK with me.
Like all the greatest mysteries, death is best approached not through science or proof of argument, but through poetry and imagery and sacrament.  In those ways we go beyond the boundaries of "I" and "you," beyond life vs. death, beyond contradiction to paradox.  So while I don't know anything about life after death, I nonetheless feel clear that Andrew lives in God, with the saints in light.  He was a harpist in life, so I'm sure he is now.
I loved Andrew.  I love Andrew.  He was a blessed, cussed man, complex and multifaceted.  He believed in us, in the Companions, even when we diverged from his idea of what a "monastic" community should be and do.  If consciousness survives, we will probably drive him crazy over the years.  Then, when I die, he'll tell me all about what we did wrong.  And he will love me, and I will love him as I do today.
Beloved Jesus, receive your servant Andrew into your loving arms.  Hold a place for me, so that I may dance to his music in your presence.  Until then, blessed Andrew, pray for us.

Sunday, May 3 2015

It's Sunday morning and I haven't even looked at the scriptures for today.  I've been on vacation with my family, reading the daily office readings but nothing else.  Now I'm up at 4 a.m., frustrated that I can't sleep.  I'm honoring my commitment to write every week, but I don't know that I have anything to share.

I turn to the lectionary and look: Acts 8:26-40, 1 John 4:7-21, John 15:1-8.  Phillip and the Ethiopian, Jesus the vine, and love.  My pulse starts to slow as I read.  

I've been worried the last two days in a way that often happens for me when I visit my siblings.  They are both very successful.  They've worked hard and managed their money and their families.  Now we're all in the neighborhood of 60.  My sister thinks of retiring.  My brother has kids in college, but has saved and planned.  All is well.

And me?  I left teaching in 2000, gave away almost everything to follow Jesus.  I have some little pots of money here and there, and a little Social Security built up, but no plan.  I'm getting by these days, we get by as Companions, but we have no long range plan.  We have no endowment.

This summer we will make our final vows as Companions.  We will pool our remaining assets and trust one another, and God, to be enough.  I've felt ready for this grand adventure for a while, but when I visit my siblings I wonder: am I nuts?  Is this joyful faith, or just avoidance of reality?  Will I really feel God's love and no regret when I'm struggling to get into a Medicaid facility, trying to find enough to eat and pay rent?  Nothing in my family's history prepares me for this.

I pray to know what to do.  If I'm supposed to go get a regular job with benefits, show me.  But how will I know?  John says that "perfect love casts out fear" (1 Jn 4:18).  So probably God is not in the fear.  If I'm to change my path, it will more likely show up as the need to serve in some new way.  Some way that pays money.

For now I'll continue on this path, because I don't see any other.  I'm simply getting too much joy from watching others grow, from building this extended community.  If God is in this, I pray She will continue to house and feed us.  Please pray for me, for us, for guidance and the removal of fear.

Jesus is the vine.  "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." (John 15:7).  Lead me, Jesus.  Lead us all.