What's in a name?

Last Friday at Coffee Table Communion, inspired by Tabitha’s response when Peter calls her by name (Acts 9:40) and by the Gospel passage where Jesus says that his sheep hear his voice, we spent time sharing stories about our names.  I thought I knew my story, but the group helped me see more.  I hope that my story might spark something for you.

Shane is not the name I was born with; or at least it’s not the name my parents gave me.  My parents named me Barbara.  I couldn’t find a nickname or a version of it that felt right.  Later I learned it means “stranger,” and it matched how I felt.  I just never felt at home with my name.

Then, when I was 11, I saw a woman named Shane.  I knew that was my name; I also knew that only crazy people changed their names.  But inside me, I dreamed of Shane.  She was strong and capable and not afraid.  I would tell myself stories about her, but I never considered changing my name.

In my late twenties I did a lot of therapy.  At some point I decided I could in fact change my name, that it was important.  For my 28th birthday, I legally changed my name to Shane Phelan.  And my whole life changed.  Literally.  Later that year I got sober and returned to graduate school.  I began to build a relationship with God.  Over time I healed in many ways, and my love affair with God deepened.  I got that God loved me too.

It turns out that Shane is a version of John, which means “God is gracious.”  That’s my story.  I went from being a stranger to being a sign of God’s grace.  

I believe that Shane is my God-name, the name by which God was calling me all along.  As long as I said, “that’s not my name,”  I couldn’t hear.  Once I claimed my name, I could hear the call.  I don’t know why or how that works, but it seems right to me.

Years later I struggled with the name “Christian.”  That was the name of persecutors and oppressors.  But eventually I realized it was my name too.  Letting myself answer to that name opened another door of love and joy, beyond what I thought was impossible.  And the joy just keeps coming.

In the book of Revelation we hear that each of us has a secret name.  I suspect that for most of us it’s even a secret to us.  And I don’t know that Shane is my secret name.  But through this experience I’m learning about the power of our names.

What is your name, your true name, your God-name?  Have you heard God whisper it?  Claim it.  Claim it for yourself, and for those whose lives you touch.  Let me know what you find.

Sermon at St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Church, Poughkeepsie NY, April 17 2016

Thank you for welcoming me today.  I am an Episcopal priest, but for several years I had the joy of pastoring a Lutheran congregation as it lived and worshipped with an Episcopal one.  I learned a lot from that, not least an appreciation for Lutheran love of the Gospel.  There truly is an evangelical spirit in the ELCA that I need and love.

One of the most powerful elements of that time was the effort on both sides to cross boundaries.  The Lutheran congregation had become unable to support themselves financially, and they had few members.   The Episcopal congregation offered them a place to worship, and gradually they began to talk of melding into one congregation.  In  those years we learned about our common roots and about our differences.  

In the end they didn't meld.  Many people feared losing their identity as Episcopal or Lutheran.  We joked about being “Lutherpalians,” but the jokes covered some real anxiety.  What is a Lutherpalian?  Where do they belong?  Why would I want to be one, when I could be a garden variety Episcopalian or Lutheran?  The Episcopal church continues, but the Lutheran one decided to close.   Some members stayed with the Episcopalians they had come to love, but most did not.  And many Episcopalians who left during the years of experiment returned when things returned to "normal."

These questions about boundaries and about identities are not new to our generation.  We are looking at them anew these days, as many are striving for the unity of the Church.  But these questions and fears go back before the birth of the Church; they are basic to human nature.

We can hear echoes of these early contests in our readings today.  We read that those who worship God and the Lamb come from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.  Now, scholars divide on just how diverse this body is.   Some think that today’s passage is about the diversity among Israelites at the time rather than about all the people of the earth.  For others it’s important to expand that field, to hear that “great multitude that no one could count” as extending beyond the borders of Israel to encompass all people who worship God in Christ.  The fact that we still debate it tells us how hard it can be to know where the boundaries are.

Those boundaries were already being crossed by the time that the book of Acts was written.  Today we hear the powerful story of Peter raising Tabitha from the dead.  There’s a whole other sermon in that.  Today I want to notice the way the Jesus movement deals with boundaries.

As a way in here, let's notice the fact that the author feels that he needs to translate Tabitha’s name into the Greek.  Why does he do that?  Probably because he is telling a story about Aramaic-speaking disciples to a Greek-speaking audience.  He’s already translating.   Boundaries are being crossed in the telling of the tale.

Then there’s the end of this passage.  While Peter stayed in Joppa, he stayed with Simon, a tanner.  Now, in Judean society of the time tanners were near the bottom of the social scale.  Their work made them unclean according to purity laws.  When Jesus was alive, it’s likely that Peter would not have gone near Simon.  But things have changed.

Since Jesus left them, the disciples have spread out a bit.  Some have gone on mission to Samaria, another place off limits to good Judeans and Galileans.  Philip has converted an Ethiopian eunuch, another person who would be counted as unclean.  Saul has experienced his moment of encountering Christ, and has been cured of his blindness by someone whom he persecuted in the past.  Everywhere we turn, people are getting mixed up by this Holy Spirit.

This shouldn't come as a surprise.  When Jesus was alive he consistently went to people who were looked down on or outcast.   He welcomed the lowly and chastised the privileged.  He did not exclude anyone, though plenty of people excluded themselves from his company.

Marcus Borg argues that Jesus turned the purity system with its "sharp social boundaries" on its head. In its place he substituted a radically alternative community characterized by compassion, by inclusivity and equality, and by a focus on real soul transformation rather than external conformity.   And Garry Wills writes, "No outcasts were cast out far enough in Jesus' world to make him shun them, not Roman collaborators, not lepers, not prostitutes, not the crazed, not the possessed." 

Here, in Christ, is where Simon the tanner meets Tabitha, who was likely quite wealthy.  She gave of her resources to those on the margins and served them.  Over and over, we hear this theme.  Those who came together shared what they had.  The Macedonian believers will send money to support the leaders in Jerusalem who have devoted themselves to preaching and teaching.  Distance and language did not separate them.

Here, in Christ, is where those with two houses meet those who have none.  If we do not meet those others, whoever they are, we must ask ourselves where Christ is.  Historically our churches have mirrored the boundaries of our culture, whether lines of race, class, or language.  We have too often mirrored boundaries of gender and sexuality within our congregations.  Where, then, do we meet Christ?  Where does Simon meet Tabitha?

I need to ask myself who I spurn as unclean or unworthy.  Who do I turn from, refuse communion with?  Who do I refuse to see as my neighbor?  What boundaries have I drawn around myself?  

Even if we cross boundaries important to our culture, we may find ourselves drawing new lines of enclosure.  These are often lines of doctrine.  Who is really Christian and who is not?  Who is enough like me for us to worship and serve together?  How far down the road can we go together?

John tells us that all who belong to Jesus hear his voice.  John suggests that some of us do not belong, that our lack of belief or our doubts mean we don’t belong.  This is the counterpoint to the inclusive vision of the other Gospels.  I think it is best understood as the words of a group that was engaged in a fight over identity, a group for whom the opponents become a threat rather than potential partners.  

It’s important to note that the communities associated with these writings generally did not survive.  The focus on clear boundaries and the sense of oppositional identity weakened them rather than strengthening them.  They became a sideline to the main movement, remembered through this powerful Gospel and other works but no longer a living body.

There are times for drawing boundaries, but if these boundaries are too rigid they become enclosures by which we imprison ourselves.  Jesus devoted his life and teaching to crossing boundaries.  All of us are his sheep.  He welcomes us all into the flock.  When we wander, he calls and watches.  Some of us answer in one language, others in another, but his call is the same: love one another as I have loved you.

May we hear, and may we have the courage to follow wherever he leads.  Amen.

TV Tray Communion

Since we moved we don't have access to the daily Eucharist at the monastery. Fortunately we who are living here are both priests, so we can share Eucharist ourselves (of course, some would say wherever two or three are gathered, but that's another topic). So, along with Friday's Coffee Table Communion, we have begun having "TV Tray Communion" on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. We sit on the floor of our little chapel, and we have a very informal, and very powerful, 15-minute Eucharist.

I was moved to tears when we first did this, but not surprised by that; after all, we had just moved, we were in this new place, and so grateful for this intimate time. What does surprise me is how moved I am each and every time we celebrate in this way. God really does seem to show up for me more powerfully the simpler the liturgy gets. I imagine that first meal where Jesus said, "This is my body; this is my blood." Jesus is so intimately present here, on the floor, on the tray, on my tongue, in my heart. It's almost more than I can bear to look across the tray to Elizabeth, whose heart is also bursting.

We move from there right into "chapter," reading from our charism, covenant, or rule, and discussing the day ahead. It's the perfect way to start the day.

Thank you, God, for coming among us and inspiring us. Breathe your Spirit into us and send us out to share the good news. Bless all who read this, all who share bread with others, and especially those whose hunger is not satisfied. Bring us all to feast at your table. Amen.

A Faith Encompassing All Creation

Hi everyone,

Each month in our newsletter we mention books we've been reading, together or individually.  It occurred to me that others of you might like to read along.  The Covenant Companion Candidates have monthly readings on monastic life, prayer, and contemporary issues, so some of what you see is what we are reading together.

This month we are reading A Faith Encompassing All Creation: Addressing Commonly Asked Questions about Christian Care for the Environment, ed. by Tripp York and Andy Alexis-Baker.  We chose this before we remembered that April hosts Earth Day, but now we can honor it this way.

This book has short essays on questions and objections that come up among Christians.  If you are part of an environmentally-attuned faith community some of these questions may seem silly or obvious, but many of us encounter these questions regularly.  Even if we think we know about the environment, it's good to spend time linking it to our faith.  

Our covenant has a section devoted to "love of creation."  It's the section we seem to struggle with the most.  That's why we chose this book.  We want to do more, and we want to be more articulate about why we want that.

So join us, even if only in Facebook space!  Our book discussions happen on the first Friday of each month.  Perhaps you can find some friends and share with them, and let us know what happened.  And pray for our fragile earth, our beloved, overloaded earth.  Peace be with you!

Easter Conspiracy!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

When I hear these words, I think of two spies meeting for the first time.  They're looking for their contact, whom they will recognize by their response.  

Psssst!  Christ is risen!

This is not too far off from the experience of the first disciples.  Their leader had been executed as a criminal, a threat to the Empire.  They were terrified.  Those who hadn't fled had gone into hiding together.  The terror turned to confusion, and then wonder and joy, as they encountered the risen Christ.  But this joy could not be widely shared without marking them as co-conspirators with the crucified one.  

Psssst!  Christ is risen!

When the imperial persecutions ended and Christianity was defined by empire, the conspiracy (literally, the breathing-with) of those who encountered the risen Christ continued.  It continued within the official Church as its breath, as its renewing source of life.  Sometimes the conspiracy was persecuted as heretical, sometimes it was ignored as "an idle tale" told by women (Luke 24:11).  Sometimes its passwords were co-opted by officials for their own purposes, leading to confusion about God's dream for us.  But the conspiracy, the breathing-together of disciples, continued.  It continues today.

The trauma of the Passion is vivid and enduring.  We see it today in the lives of those enslaved and those who enslave, in the tortured and the torturers, in the prisoners and those who imprison, in the hungry and the overfed, in homeless shelters and mansions full of drugs.  The Passion continues.

But so does Resurrection.  Every time the forces of "this world" think the conspiracy has been crushed it springs forth.  This is how the Spirit works.  It cannot be extinguished.  Like Jesus breathing on the disciples that first Easter morning (John 20:22), the Spirit breathes on us and through us as we carry the words of hope.  As Companions of Mary Magdalene, who first announced the password, we are conspirators - conSpiritors - of resurrection.   As Christians, we conspire to manifest the Kingdom of God.

Join the conspiracy.  Dare to look at your neighbor and say, "Christ is risen!"  Show them what that means through your life and actions.  And teach them how to answer: "The Lord is risen indeed!"

Alleluia!

Moving Day!

Today is the day!

This morning we pack up and move to our new home in Accord, NY, about 40 minutes west of the monastery.  We have been busy planning and packing, so not very present here, but we are very aware of your prayers and support.  Thanks to those of you who have written and/or donated to make this move easier.

This past Sunday's first two readings were just perfect for us as we prepare to move.  If you've wondered why I haven't been writing - I've been busy living into these promises!

Through Isaiah (43:16-21), God promises to do a new thing.  No matter how good it's been (or how bad), we are advised to leave it behind to look for what God is up to now.  I need to hear this.  We've had an amazing time of growth these past three years, but I can get into fear about the next step and imagine that God will suddenly stop carrying me/us forward.  I'm grateful to our clearness committee for naming that fear as a lie and a temptation.    So we go forward with eager anticipation: "forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, [we] press on toward the goal for the prize of heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus" (Phil. 3:13-14).  Like Paul, I've lost or let go of a lot to follow Jesus.  I had a lot of gains: tenure, security, interesting work.  "Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of . . . the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord" (3:7-8).  Yup, it's true.  My former life, my former lives, were good lives.  But compared to what I'm living now, compared to a life centered on the risen Christ, it's all loss.  

Somehow, we know, this is the next step.  It's scary and risky, but any wilderness journey is.  We're not alone.  May you know yourself to be surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, and may you too know Christ Jesus.  And may you look for that road, and follow it.

And have fun!

Our deepest hope for this move is that it will open us to new members and ministry.  We don't have a lot of space, but we will have two guest beds (and couches and air mattress . . .).  We look forward to welcoming guests and inquirers, for a short visit or a longer stay.  If you are curious about monastic life lived in a new key, don't be shy!  Our door is open!

We also plan to have gatherings of various sorts, so stay tuned to this page and our newsletter for announcements.  

In the meantime, please keep the prayers coming - they mean so much!

Sermon at Christ Episcopal Church, Warwick NY, February 28 2016

We are now solidly in the season of Lent.  For many people, Lent is a time to do without, to show our allegiance to God by suffering.  We look forward to Easter as the time when the restraints can be thrown off: we can watch TV again, or eat sweets, or stop praying so much.  Lent in this scenario is like training for an event rather than starting a new life.  God becomes the judge of the event.

But the deeper meaning of Lent is both more promising and more challenging than this.  Lent is the end of winter, when our resources are at their lowest.  The earth is quiet, at least on the surface.  In the days before international food delivery, Lent was the time when stocks ran low and people ate simply, and ate less, from necessity.  Lent was a time to remember that our lives are fragile and limited, and to give thanks for what we have.

Lent can still be that time. Lent is the season to repent and return, not in place of other times or as an occasional event, but as a way of starting over down the path of life.

Today’s readings remind us of this central Lenten theme.  We hear of God’s love for us in the Exodus story, and the psalmist returns God’s love with eager devotion.  But the Epistle and the Gospel call us forcefully to rethink our path and choose life.

Jesus has just been warning his followers about the need to act rightly and not delay.  They respond by asking him about some Galileans who were killed by Pilate.  Now, this may seem like a strange thing to bring up, but for Luke’s original audience it’s very pertinent.  Those first Christians often endured persecution from the Romans, and they were trying to understand how a loving God could let that happen.  Their answer was to accuse the victims of sin.  

This is a temptation for all of us.  My life would be so much simpler if I could be sure that bad things only happen to bad people.  If I could believe that, I wouldn’t have to cry for those who suffer.  I wouldn’t have to worry that I might be next.  If I could be sure that bad things happen only to bad people, and if I could be sure that I’m not bad, I could feel safe.

Jesus takes that away from me.  Jesus reminds his listeners that we all die, and not in circumstances of our choosing.  Some of us will die suddenly, as victims of violence or accident.  Some of us will die from medical causes just as suddenly.  Some of us will have a long slow death.  And none of this has anything to do with whether we sinned or not.  Rich and poor, all races and creeds, all ages, are vulnerable.

Life is fragile, and unpredictable.  That’s why we have to turn to God now, this instant.  This is the only time we have.

“Oh God, you are my God, eagerly I seek you.”

But it’s not physical death that concerns Jesus.  That is not the standard of the quality of our life.  Jesus wants to know about our soul, our spirit.  And so often we are unclear about the condition of our soul.  As Paul says, “if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall.”

It’s easy to be confused about how we’re doing spiritually.  We can get confused by our opinions of what is good and bad, what is comfortable and what is painful.  

Here’s where the fig tree comes in.  Now, it’s normal that a new tree does not bear fruit for its first three years.  It needs to take root and develop internally before the fruit appears.  An inexperienced owner might watch this tree with frustration.  He wants fruit!  He didn’t plant this tree to watch it grown, he wants fruit!  So he’s tempted to get rid of it.

That’s what it’s like to engage in a spiritual practice during Lent and then give it up.  So many habits take time to develop, to bear fruit.  In the meantime, they are just hard disciplines.  We don’t see the point.  So we let go, just before the fruit blossoms.

The gardener understands this process.  He knows how trees grow, and he knows what they need.  He feeds the tree, hoping for fruit.

What does he feed the tree?  Manure.  

Now, if I were the tree, I might not understand.  I imagine the poor tree shaken out of its quiet by this smelly mess that it now stands in.  The tree might be saying, “This stinks!  Why did this happen to me?”  If it could, it would surely step out of the manure and wash itself off.  And in so doing, it would deny itself the nourishment it needs.

It’s easy to believe that the comfortable things are the things I need.  It’s easy to see painful times as punishment, or persecution, or just plain wrong.  This is the flip side of the owner’s point of view.  The owner wants the fruit right now.  The tree wants to bask in the sun.  Neither of them is good at the disciplines that will really bear fruit.

So often it’s the manure times that bring growth.  It’s the times when things are hard, when everything hits the fan, when I’ve stepped in it; it’s those times when I grow.  But I don’t grow by magic.  I only grow if I face those hard times with the disciplines and practices I learn by seeking God.

In Jesus’ upside-down world, it’s easy to get confused.  We might think that when times are good it’s because we’re good, because we’re gifted or hard-working or loyal.  But it may be that God knows we need help to get through, that we aren’t as strong as some others.  We might think that hard times are punishment or testing, but God may be showering smelly love on us.  It’s confusing.

It’s not our job to understand.  That’s the gardener’s job.  It’s our job to grow and bear fruit.

What is that fruit?  In the letter to the Galatians, Paul gives us a list:

The fruit of the Spirit is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Gal. 5:22-23).  He contrasts this with the “works” of the flesh.  This is an important distinction.  There is no fruit of the flesh, of the self-centered life.  There are works: malice, envy, deceit, and the like.  They don’t bear fruit, though they bring consequences: usually more of the same.

But the fruit of the Spirit is a gift.  It’s a gift that we prepare to receive, even as we can’t force it.  We can put down our roots and gather our strength, but the fruit emerges on its own.  It often surprises us as much as anyone.   When did I stop yelling at other drivers?  When did I become gentle, or kind, or patient?  It happened, if it happened, when I wasn’t looking at myself.

This is the season to turn, to rely on God, to seek God with all our heart.  It begins with the reminder that we are dust, and as we go toward Easter we learn again how fragile life is.  We remember Jesus walking into that human frailty without flinching, giving himself to become nourishment for all of us.  And in the end, we learn again that every dead end is an avenue leading to God.

May you find yourself blessed this season, as you turn and repent.  May you find God’s open arms awaiting you, and see God’s delight in your fruit.  May you rejoice as you nourish others in turn.