*More* is not a Number

Before any of what follows, I want to affirm the two-word prayer my good friend and the prior at the St. Anselm community taught me to pray to God:

"More, please!"

"More, please!" is better than "Thank you." Better, even than "This meal's delicious!"

Of course, if "More, please!" is better than these things, it is because "More, please!" implies both of these things. Maybe better, "More, please!" embodies them. "More, please!" doesn't simply inform the giver that the gift has proven nourishing but demonstrates the act of being nourished, with all the trust and vulnerability and delight that act entails.

I am a fan of any prayer that expresses the gratitude and enjoyment of "More, please!" to God.

Now, to what follows. I want to distinguish the prayer my friend taught me from the Disease of More that is infecting and debilitating faith communities and, probably also, the larger society.

In eight years of ordained ministry, I have met, come alongside, consulted, and partnered with many people to whom God has given beautiful dreams that require growing into - from where they are to somewhere else. Oftentimes, as in a church community, the community will rightly recognize the help she needs to get to the new place, or that the involvement of a larger number of people and resources is a part of the dream God has given them. This makes sense. Christians, after all, have been made partners in Christ's ministry of reconciliation.

Here, though, is where things frequently bog down. When you ask people-with-dreams, the answer to questions about the money or physical presence of others necessary to realize the dream too often is only: "More."

More people. More young families. More staffing. More volunteers. More funding. More pledges.

Here's the problem with this kind of more: you can get more and still not have it. More, by definition, is that which you don't yet have. This kind of more acts in the opposite direction of "More, please!" gratitude. This kind of more is the more of desperation, and it plants the seed of the lie that there is never enough. This kind of more tells those around you that you will take everything they have and, very likely, still feel empty.

Campus ministers are especially vulnerable to the Disease of More because the larger church has historically underfunded campus ministry. If you say you need more, maybe the larger church will compromise and simply not cut your funding. Fair enough. More can be a useful bargaining chip. More can also feel tired and sad.

At a national gathering of Episcopal campus ministers, I listened to several colleagues talk about needing more money. So I began to go around the room, asking each person - without any context - what her/his ministry would do with a gift of $50,000. "Are you offering?" one asked me. "No," I said. "I am asking. I want to hear your dreams."

Last year, I led a team that organized the first Acolyte Festival in the Diocese of Milwaukee. At the next to last planning meeting, I asked the group, "Do we want to have a numerical attendance goal for this event?" The group said yes. We tossed numbers around before settling on 125-150. For an acolyte festival! What does that even mean? The number was ambitious, given the circumstances, but we decided we were up for the challenge.

"What do we need to do to take steps toward that goal?"

We decided to make phone calls to clergy and youth leaders. Multiple calls, with follow up. On each call, we'd explain that we were throwing an Acolyte Festival. We had done a lot of lead up publicity, so most people we talked to knew this already. We'd talk about how we imagined the day, what it was for, and some of our underlying goals - to bring youth and young adults together to celebrate their sometimes invisible service to the church and to introduce youth, especially, to the idea of campus ministry.

Then we shared our goal. "150 adults and young people." Skeptical laughter was not uncommon at this point. We'd continue: "There are approximately fifty faith communities in our diocese, so we figure that each church will need to bring three people for us to meet our goal. Of course, some will bring more, some less. But the goal for each community is three. Being realists, we think it would be great if 40% of the people who are invited by people they trust say yes and decide to come. So we're asking you to think of and invite 6-8 people who trust you to the event. We'll send you detailed information by email, and we'll call to follow up. If we can help in any way, please let us know."

We didn't hit 125. We did have a touch more than 100 attend! Even though we fell short of our goal, the event was a big success. Later, we learned we had scheduled the festival during the diocesan military academy's spring break. According to the chaplain there, he had thirty acolytes who would otherwise have been a captive audience. Ah well.

This is the point: having a specific number and a plan toward that number made our planning infinitely more relational and gave us a ton of opportunities to retell the story that had given each of us a heart for the event. We participated in over 80 one-on-one phone calls, asking for 400 personal invitations, relishing the chance to tell the story of the dream God had given us and to explain how we believed a goal that felt beyond us wasn't as beyond us as any of us imagined.

More doesn't build relationships or tell stories. More doesn't disclose the depths of the dream God has given you. More is easier because it takes less time to say. But more isn't vulnerable and doesn't hold you accountable. More doesn't invite you to consider what your dream looks like to the ones from whom you are asking participation or help. More doesn't ask the ones who believe in your dream to imagine their part in that dream, such that it becomes their dream too.

Of course, numbers can limit. If a goal is too small, the community might surrender the opportunity to be surprised by what God can do through them and the moment. And, fair enough, God's promise to Abraham and Sarah was a promise they wouldn't be able to count. My prayer for the next Acolyte Festival will be, "More, please!" And/but/then/also, I'd ask the leaders for a number. Not too limit us,  but to physically orient our leadership in the direction of the limitless promise of God - a step at a time, and in a way that compels us to risk the dreams God has given us with one another, in whose company those dreams no doubt will change, transform, and - with God's help - surprise.

New Names & No Swords: Trusting God's Promise to Sarah and Peter (and Us)

Homily for 3/1/2015, St. Francis House Episcopal Student Center.

Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Psalm 22:22-30; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38

Abram and Sarai get new names from God: Abram becomes Abraham and Sarai becomes Sarah. 

And even not knowing the Hebrew - what’s behind the new names - it feels like the old names are now standing up straight. Like their backs are upright. A hidden muscle spasm of the soul has been released. Abram and Sarai are compact, hunched over. Not crippled, maybe, but crumpled. “Abraham and Sarah” feels expansive and full.

Sure enough, the language bears this image out: in the Hebrew, Abram is “an exalted father”; Abraham is a “father of many.” Sarai is a “princess”; Sarah is a “princess of many.” The emphasis, says God, is - yes - on the lineage Abraham and Sarah now stand to receive but also - and maybe more so - on the blessing God will arrange for others through them. Abraham and Sarah will be blessed to bless. The blessing they are given is in the context of a world in which their blessing, generously extended, will bring life to unexpected and barren places.

But that’s to skip ahead. The immediate import of God’s change of their monikers means that Abraham and Sarah will never again be able to hear their names called in a crowded bar without first thinking of the One who calls them up to make the promise: the Lord. It is the Lord who insists on the promise that makes Sarah laugh: Abraham and Sarah will have children of God; not one or two; not three or four or five. The descendants of Abraham and Sarah will be more than the sands that get stuck in your swim trunks and more than the stars that fill a clear North woods’ sky.

I was informed in sixth grade - in a junior high locker room before gym class (by a twelve year old who smelled like a predictably combination of deodorant, dirty socks, and sweat - and who could be counted, he assured me, as an authority in these matters) that one doesn’t give oneself a nickname. Only someone else can give you a nickname. Which is why most people are hesitant to tell you theirs: many times, nicknames represent embarrassing stories. Or strange encounters. Or secrets told in the confidence of a sheet fort at a slumber party. Or peculiar things about ourselves we wouldn’t have noticed or thought to say about ourselves. Nicknames - when you play by the rules of this twelve year old expert - are a bit like hearing your voice played back to you on a cassette or mp4 recording. You get a glimpse of how others see and hear you, and at best it’s surprising, and at worst it’s not flattering, and so we wonder if the names we are given in gym rooms by the people with whom we share such things really fit us very well at all. 

And it’s both good and bad, right? We are as likely to doubt the sincerity of a complimentary nickname as we are to fear the truth of those less flattering.

I am not surprised when we’re told, later on, that Sarah has a hard time accepting a name as beautiful as the one God gives her: the one attached to the promise she cannot believe. The new name - and the promise - must have felt a bit like wearing someone else’s clothes. 

Sarah does not surprise me, because I sometimes have a hard time imagining what it looks like to let God’s word about me be the most true word about me. I wonder if you can relate. The word that says that I am not my success or my status; that I am not my career or my country of origin; that I am not, even, first of all Texan. 

That, above all, I am loved. That, having put on the garment of Christ, I am attached to a promise I cannot believe. That we, in a true sense, have been given new names. That the Lord has extended the promise of Sarah and Abraham to you, and has likewise give you a new identity in Christ - this is the foundation and beating heart of your baptism, to which Lent calls each of us to reconnect.

Indeed, in prayer book formularies prior to our most recent prayer book, the BCP 1979, the relationship between naming and the moment of baptism was explicit. While ritual baptismal customs understandably and rightly change with time, the underlying truth remains: the name you received in your baptism is Christ’s own, and so you are a child of God’s promise.

Peter is one of the first followers of Jesus to receive a new name. His first name was Simon. In fact, in Matthew’s gospel, Peter gets his new name just seconds before the episode we hear Mark tell today and just after confessing Jesus as the Messiah of God. In Mark’s gospel, following Peter’s profession of faith, Jesus foretells his coming death and resurrection. The disciples get queasy at the mention of blood. Peter speaks up. Jesus and Peter throw down.

Unlike Matthew’s gospel, which ends the story on a high note, Mark’s gospel shows Peter, like Sarah, finding it hard to trust his new name, finding it difficult to trust through a plan that looks like the cross. “God forbid,” he says, to which Christ responds with his famous, “Get behind me, Satan” line, which I’m sure Pete appreciates in front of his friends. Like Sarah, Peter is in the process of being blessed to bless, to bring life to new and unexpected places. But Peter is no dummy, and the cross seems like a stupid place to look for new and unending life.

Later, we are given a vivid picture of Peter’s mistrust when a motley crew of soldiers, servants, and religious officials approaches Jesus at Gethsemane, to arrest him, and a disciple - John’s gospel says it’s Peter - draws his sword and cuts off a servant’s ear. 

If I am like Peter - like Sarah - like Abraham - like the others - if I am like Peter, I wonder what parts of my life still betray my mistrust in the promise that comes with the new name God has given me. Beloved. Child of God. Clothed with Christ. Blessed to bless. 

Maybe you, like me, are aware of true things about your life that make your body hunch over, like Peter’s, like Sarah's, crumpled in on itself, one hand clenched tight to the sword, you know, just in case? Maybe not violently. But certainly fearfully. After all, the sword here is more than a weapon of war; it is a symbol for everything we do to protect ourselves from our fear that God might fail God’s promise, or that God’s way won’t deliver - that God’s way won’t “work.”

But what life would be possible - what life would be open to you - if those hesitations in your body and those spasms of your soul could release? If belief in the Messiah could translate even a little more fully into the trust of your body toward the promise of God? What is it, exactly, you are afraid still of losing? Where do you imagine your greatest need for protection from trusting?

Today, let the sacraments, the Scriptures, and this community of faith conspire to remind you that, above all, you are loved. That, having put on the garment of Christ, you are attached to a promise that maybe you cannot believe. That you, in a true sense, have received a new name.

The emphasis, says God, is - yes - on the blessing you now stand to receive but also - and maybe more so - on the blessing God will arrange for others through you. Like Abraham and Sarah, you also have been blessed to bless. The blessing you have been given is in the context of a world in which that blessing, generously extended, will bring life to unexpected and barren places.

So, take heart. Take heart, and come. You who have been baptized into the death and resurrection of Jesus and have received a new name - “child of God!” - tonight, one more time, come to the table, and stretch out your hands and reach with your life toward the promise of God. Together, with me, let us put down our swords.

Amen.

Practical Resources for Lenten Practices

• #livinglent "is designed to be a simple and scaleable reflection that anyone, including groups, can participate in. All that is necessary is a camera, smartphone or other device to take a picture or short video with, and people to help recreate the scene."

• An ecumenical carbon fast. The Catholic site has the best calendar overview for the whole season of Lent; the Anglican/Episcopal site has the best daily prayer, via blog. It's the same project.

• The Mission of St. Clare. The Daily Office - Morning Prayer, Noonday Prayer, Evening Prayer, Compline - has never been so accessible.

• Common Prayer for Ordinary Radicals. Another wonderful resource for those exploring rhythms of daily prayer; Common Prayer features a strong social justice and education component.

• Podcasts from Taizé. Featuring a small collection of 10 minute devotionals as well as a weekly recording of the hourlong Saturday night prayers at Taizé.

• Silence

• The Exhortation. For a couple of Lents now, it's been my practice to choose a small portion of the Book of Common Prayer to read at the same time each day. Last year, I chose the 5 questions of the baptismal liturgy concerning daily life and practice. This year, I will be reading the Exhortation, with its emphasis on discerning the Body and living toward reconciliation with my sisters and brothers in Christ. 

What's on your list? Share your own practical resources for Lenten practices in the comments below! 

Peace to you as we begin this Lenten journey.

JRM+

The Monstrance & the Dark (The Nightmare that Shook Me Awake)

This past Friday morning - in early pre-dawn hours - I had a couple of old-fashioned, shake-you-awake, bedlam-and-terror nightmares. I woke up, both times, in the typical way: utterly disoriented, sweating, panting, having had what I thought was the best of my courage completely exposed, flailing my arms out to each side, grasping for something - anything - that/who might comfort or console or understand. I hadn't had dreams like these in years.

Both dreams involved the church.

Looking back, it's not that strange, I guess, that both nightmares involved the church: since becoming a priest, "church" had always held a shadow side of fear for me, one that regularly touches the realms of dreams. At the start, it was the embarrassingly predictable and recurring dream that plagued me for my ministry's first few early years; the dream in which the procession begins and I, the preacher, continue to rationalize the time I have left for sermon preparation, until I am there, at the pulpit, and time has run out. Now, very often, I preach without notes, which helps me laugh more at myself and those early dreams.

Of course, it is not a surprise to me that laughter, even at nightmares, comes easily, after the fact. Most of the time, the dread that seizes the dreamer is only tangentially connected to the details of the dream. So I don't expect you to find my Friday morning nightmares frightening.

Even so, I do want to share one of them with you.

____

I was there, in a church. Not sure which one. Familiar, but strange. I was under the strong impression I was presiding, but also that I did not know for sure. There were a bunch of us. Clergy and acolytes. An elevated altar, a good-sized congregation, strong light flooding the windows into the nave,  beautifully brightening the colors of the gathered assembly, as well as that of the space. No stained glass needed. Smoke, some incense. A crowded bottleneck caused by liturgical furniture at the base of the stairs leading up to the altar, where most of the clergy and others in vestments were gathered.

At the appropriate time, I went down the stairs, let by the acolytes, to read from the Gospel. I remember being frustrated by the bottleneck. Each of us was in the other's way, it seemed, no matter which way we turned. While it looked like a mess, it was how excruciatingly long the mess made the procession that bothered me most. I blamed myself and went up to the altar, after the reading, with a renewed sense of focus and resolve toward the Eucharist. Didn't matter. Minutes later, the bottleneck was still not alleviated, even by the absence of any liturgical activity in the space. It was nobody's fault. Or everybody's fault. Perpetual chaos.

Later, I stepped out to the sacristy, I think, for some water. It was crowded there, too. Clergy and acolytes. Altar guild. Back and forth from the sanctuary. Changing vestments. Checking mirrors. Rehanging frontals. Replacing flowers. In the middle of the service.

It was at this point that I felt my panic start. I was trapped in the sacristy.

Some minutes later, the traffic eased, and I had a clear path back to the sanctuary. But by then, I was starting to despair that the service was really headed anywhere. Before I took the clear path back into the church, I looked to my friend and colleague, Gary, and confessed my suspicion that this was a dream. "And if it's a dream," I said, "my subconscious will have discovered that more than anything else I want to share the Eucharist. Having discovered this - if it's a dream - my subconscious will, of course, never allow the Eucharist to be celebrated. Quick: hit me twice in the face, so that I can be glad that this is not a dream and that the patience I'm being asked to show is the ordinary patience of human process and not that of a tortured dream." Gary was all too happy to oblige, and I smiled a relief, soon lifted, as I woke up from the dream.

That was it. All of us, gathered for a Eucharist that would never be celebrated. Because, on some level, we didn't want to celebrate it. Or we wanted the other stuff more. Or we thought the other stuff was what made the Eucharist possible. Like we'd forgotten how it worked. Too damn distracted or detailed or whatever else to discern the Body of Christ in our midst.

Or maybe we weren't too distracted at all, but I was only impatient. Another possibility, I thought. That Eucharist, though, was never going to happen.

I freaked.

____

All good bad dreams have their daytime inspirations. Like late night bad pizza. Looking back, mine was, I think, the morning prayer I attended the previous day at the Catholic student center. I joined the student community for fifteen minutes of an hour long time of mental prayer in front of the blessed sacrament before participating in morning prayer, the solemn exposition, and benediction. It was a time of both holy patience and discernment of the Body. If was a quiet time in fierce contrast to the bustle of the dream.

Later, at coffee with a friend who is also an intern for the Catholic community, we asked each other about the gifts we see in the other's tradition. He mentioned the prayer book and hymns. The Episcopal heart for social justice and action. C.S. Lewis!

I mentioned the silence. The deep grounding in prayer. The theology that comes from the prayer.

The naming of gifts in the other's tradition was a personal expression of a corporate intention toward reconciliation and friendship: my friend and I are inviting our communities to join in each other's times of prayer throughout the season of Lent. "Of course you all can come to morning prayer," my friend said. "Maybe on the other days, though. We only do the solemn exposition on Thursdays. I wonder if your community wouldn't find that too strange."

"Huh," I said. "Maybe. I hadn't thought about that."

My friend's concern was that it would seem like idolatry, "if you don't believe the bread has been changed, I mean," he said.

We talked eucharistic theology for a bit, before circling back.

"It's not the monstrance that would make it idolatry," I said. "(And I don't think your exposition is idolatry.) For Episcopalians, idolatry would be to discern the presence of God in the sacrament and not find in that encounter the resources and imperative to discern and serve Christ in our sister and brother, our neighbor. For us, that's a primary work of our baptism: to seek and serve Christ in all persons. Time spent in front of the Eucharist is time learning to discern the presence of Christ. Before the eucharistic elements, I am reminded that nothing else in this life is more important than the presence of God before me. I can rest in God's 'enough.' The patience we learn there becomes patience out here - a conviction I heard this morning in your tradition's morning prayer."

We went on to talk about Sam Wells and the instincts and imagination with which the liturgy gifts and equips God's people for faithful improvisation as a part of God's story in and for and alongside the world. And, remembering my friend's equal appreciation for and amusement at C.S. Lewis' popularity among Catholics, I shared Lewis' observation from The Weight of Glory that

Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If [that person] is your Christian neighbor [she/he] is holy in almost the same way, for in [her/him] also Christ vere Latitat [Latin, “truly hides”]—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

____

Just today, it struck me how squarely that conversation with my Catholic friend intersected the St. Francis House community's ongoing exploration of the relationship between prayer and love and action, the focus of our Wednesday night conversations this semester. Unsurprisingly, our community has borrowed from our Catholic sisters and brothers along the way, looking closely at the life and witness of Dorothy Day and also at the heritage we share through the desert mothers and fathers of the early church. I am glad for the nearness of a tradition that can at the same time name the gifts of my own and put flesh and blood on practices from which my tradition can continue to learn.

If does not surprise me when Catholics and Episcopalians end up needing each other to discern the Body in our respective midsts. Indeed, I would be surprised if the discernment can be rightly done with only the Catholics and Episcopalians present. After all, in the other - says Lewis - Christ is.

As my nightmare laid bare but did not explain, to live - to abide - where Christ is requires attention and work. But mostly, it requires remembering that Christ is there to be discerned. God, give us the patience and impatience and whatever else we may need - the holy desire - to prioritize the good work of discerning the Body - on the altar and in each other.

And God, thank you for holy friends and the love that casts out fear.

The Rock in My Pocket (Stuck with a Church Built on Peter)

"What's in your wallet?" Samuel L. Jackson asks.

Thanks for asking, Samuel L., but I won't tell. Not here.

I will tell you what I keep next to my wallet - that is, in my pocket - in addition to the lifelines that are my iPhone and Case pocket knife.

A rock.

The rock in my pocket used to rest in the water. I picked it out from the shoreline of the only public access point around the Sea of Galilee, in the town of Tabgha, Israel. As it happens, this access point is also home to a church: the Church of the Primacy of St. Peter.

I am sure it is strange for an Anglican/Episcopalian to value a rock from the Church of the Primacy of St. Peter, such that he considers the rock - a large pebble, really - as fundamental to his daily rhythm as his iPhone, with its attendant and essential access to Facebook and Instagram. Stranger still: that I so value this rock, even as a non-Catholic, has everything to do with the teachings of a pope! - a pope who, like most of the popes before him (and presumably many of the ones after him) cites the primacy of Peter as the underpinnings of the papal office, the See of St. Peter, which, of course, is a sore spot for Protestants - even theologically complicated Protestants like the ones you find in the Anglican/Episcopal church - like me.

So I will explain.

To begin, we should acknowledge that the Church of the Primacy of St. Peter could easily have been named something else. For example, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was once called the Church of the Resurrection, which I very much prefer. Similarly, the Church of the Primacy of St. Peter might well have been called the Church of Peter's Reinstatement, the Church of Forgiveness, or (even) the Church of an Unexpected Fish Breakfast on the Beach.

Any of these names would have fairly accounted for why there's a church at this particular spot along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The church is the spot, says the tradition, where Jesus finds and engages his first disciples - his friends - while they are fishing, post-resurrection. On that early morning, Jesus eats fish with the disciples around a charcoal fire (Jn 21). Later, Jesus has a one on one with Peter, "reinstating" (say all the bold Bible headlines) the one who was last seen denying his Savior in the hour of Jesus' trial. Of course, Peter had had his better moments - Peter is the same one on whom Jesus had earlier promised to build his church (Mt 16)! Thus the necessity for - and significance of - this moment of reinstatement. Primacy it is.

Cue the Reformation, and this is where things get fun.

Or sad.

Everybody wants to be first - or "most right," or "closest to God," or "God's favorite"- but none of us is very good at remembering for long what, in God's Kingdom, it means to be first, or closest, or God's favorite.

In Called to Communion, written by then-Cardinal Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI writes at length about the primacy of St. Peter in a way I immediately recognized, when I read it, as compelling and true. He says that Peter's being made the head of the church is the risen Christ's way of communicating that the foundation of the church is forgiveness. Not just offered. Received. To be church is always to know one's need of forgiveness; is to live and move and be with others out of an awareness of the forgiveness we've, in Christ, received.

We can only give what we have. What we have is forgiveness and our need of it.

If it had been James or John, it might have been different. One might have wondered, "What special quality of leadership did each or either of them, uniquely, bring to the table?" If had been Matthias, much later, a necessary distance from the first motley crew might have been inferred. Sure, there from the beginning, but not close enough to have failed as spectacularly as the starting lineup.

Instead, it's Peter. The first. And the winner is forgiveness. As Jean Vanier writes - echoing Bonhoeffer, and countless saints before him - each of us comes to the community of faith with our ambitions, agendas, dreams, and goals. And every ambition, agenda, dream, and goal fails us - kills us - until it dies, and we realize that the only real purpose living in community is to forgive the other seventy-times-seven, and to be forgiven at least as much. Moreover, the risen Christ is not simply the possibility of such a community; he is the necessary center. Because Peter is the head of the church.

That the church is built on forgiveness has not made me Catholic; but it has given me Catholic friends. And more-than-me liberal friends. And Big E Evangelical friends. And Lutheran friends. And more-than-I-can-count Methodist friends. Muslim friends. Doubting/doubtful friends. Truthful friendships, all. Because, with forgiveness, and like our first parents, I am learning I do not need to hide.

So I carry this rock in my pocket. Because Peter is the rock, and Peter names forgiveness and my need for it. The rock in my pocket is as an hourly challenge to the ambitions, agenda, dreams, and goals I would impose on my sisters and brothers in Christ before I am reminded how and why this miraculous community of belonging came to be, and also toward what end.

The rock in my pocket challenges but also consoles me. When I come to my neighbor with an agenda to impose, I am challenged; when I come to my neighbor with every awareness of my own inadequacy, not knowing what it is I have to offer, I am reminded. In every moment, I have only what I've carried to that moment, but I do have, and can give, what I've carried: forgiveness.

Christ's own forgiveness. The possibility and ministry of reconciliation. To be asked for. Offered.

And received.

Prayer and Action: The Early Church

Two Wednesdays ago, the UW Episcopal community explored and discussed the life and witness of Dorothy Day. Tonight, we're looking at themes related to prayer, love, and action, from the very early church. Here's the very loose outline.

Prayer and Action: the Early Church

(excerpts from To Pray and to Love, Roberta C. Bondi)

On Prayer

If a [person’s] deeds are not in harmony with his [or her] prayer, [that person] labors in vain. The brother said, ‘What is this harmony between practice and prayer?’ The old man said, ‘We should no longer do those things against which we pray.’ Abba Moses

Bondi: “Prayer is for you. Prayer is not a test of your character, an endurance contest, or a heroic task set before you.” Prayer is God’s gift for and in you.

How do you think about prayer? What is your prayer life like?

On Beginning

“A man had a plot of land. And through his carelessness brambles sprang up and it became a wilderness of thistles and thorns. Then he decided to cultivate it. So he said to his son: ‘Go and clear that ground.’ So the son went and cleared it, and saw that the thistles and thorns had multiplied…He said: ‘How much time shall I need to clear and weed all this?’ And he lay on the ground and went to sleep. He did this day after day. Later his father came to see what he had done, and found him doing nothing. When his father asked him about it, the son replied that the job looked so bad that he could never make himself begin. His father replied, ‘Son, if you had cleared each day the area on which you lay down, your work would have advanced slowly and you would not have lost heart.’ So the lad did what his father said, and in a short time the plot was cultivated.”

• What things, tasks, realities in life make it tempting to lose heart?

• When have you found unexpected life in simple obedience toward an unpromising or daunting task?

• What would a cultivated prayer-plot look like in your life?

“Do a little work and do not faint, and God will give you grace.”

Scripture

“The nature of water is soft, that of stone is hard; but if a bottle is hung above the stone, allowing the water to fall drop by drop, it wears away the stone. So it is with the word of God; it is soft and our hearts are hard, but the [person] who hears the word of God often opens his [or her] heart to the fear of God.”

When do you encounter Scripture? Do you ever intentionally seek images from Scripture to put in conversation with your own life?

patterns of love

“Whoever hammers a lump of iron, first decides what he is going to make of it, a scythe, a sword, or an axe. Even so we ought to make up our minds what kind of virtue we want to forge or we labor in vain.” Anthony

Bondi: “In order to grow in love, Christians must make choices about what kinds of patterns of love they want to grow into.”

What kinds of choices have you made? Whose own patterns of love helped shape your own?

The role of community

“The monks were convinced…that the first help they could give toward the reconciliation of the world was learning to live in and model love in their own communities. At the same time they did not believe that they would be able to act in love toward those outside their own communities if they did not first begin to love one another.”

What patterns of love can communities of faith uniquely facilitate?

Vulnerability and Interdependence

Bondi: “Learning to receive gifts is as much of a Christians discipline of love as that of giving (p107). Luke 14:7-14: We come to the table because the Lord extends hospitality to us.

“If it is my duty to get something done, I prefer it to be done with my neighbor’s advice, even if I do not agree with him and it goes wrong, rather than to be guided by my own opinion and have it turn out right.” Dorotheos of Gaza

What is it like, for you, to need help? What are obstacles to asking for help? When was help from another life-giving for you?

Forgiveness

“Abba Poemen … said about Abba Isidore that whoever he addressed the brothers in church he said only one thing, “Forgive your brother, so that you also may be forgiven.”

Most of us are too polite to intentionally wound people in ways that warrant forgiveness (we think); where are some places for forgiveness in your life?

Well Being

Bondi: “Wanting another’s well-being is not necessarily wanting what he or she wants. It is wanting another to be able to live in the love God created us for.”

What thoughts do you have about the love God created us for? What is your experience of living in the love God created us for?

How Love and Action Shape Prayer

Abba Theodore of Pherme asked Abba Pambo, “Give me a word.” With much difficulty he said to him, “Theodore, go and have pity on all, for through pity, one finds freedom of speech before God.”

How would an honesty without fear transform your prayers tonight?

Bernard of Clairvaux & The First Step of Pride

“The first step of pride is curiosity. How does it show itself? Here is an example. There stands a monk who up to this time had every appearance of being an excellent monk. Now you begin to notice that wherever he is, standing, walking or sitting, his eyes are wandering, his glance darts right and left, his ears are cocked. Some change has taken place in him; every movement shows it. These symptoms show that that monastic’s soul has caught some disease. One who used to watch over his own conduct now is all watchfulness for others.” Bernard of Clairvaux, a twelfth-century Cistercian reformer, quoted in Common Prayer, February 11.