abundant life

*From Horizons, the weekly snippets of what I'm reading, finding helpful, shared with St. C's Vestry and leaders.*

Grace and peace! My shared learnings this week come from the Trinity News, a magazine of Trinity Wall Street. This particular article (viewable here, at Abundant Life) examines a farming project of the Episcopal Church, which seeks "to engage young people in caring for the earth, making a meaning contribution to the community, and listening to God in the midst of all of it." Specifically, young people enroll in year-round internships.

Here are some highlights from the article:

Q: Katerina, when your friends from college or your friends from childhood say, "So what are you doing now?" what do you tell them?

Katerina Friesen: I tell them that I am working on a farm, living in an intentional community, learning about agriculture in the United States, and a little bit about the food systems from a different way of growing food.

Q: What made you join?

KF: I think that what brought me to this place was its focus on the transformation of itself, of myself, and of the surrounding community. It's really a project about forming connections where there are disconnects.

This community was really about thinking about where our food comes from, having a sense of gratitude for the hands that have worked to prepare it, and forming new relationships with the ground and with the people who are going to consume it.

Q: What have you learned about compassion, what does that word mean to you, in light of this experience?

KF: I started going to a church in Oxnard, to a Spanish service so that I could actually know and share communion with people who don't have enough to eat on a day-to-day basis. And I think some of that desire has come out of this project. Gratitude for our abundance has made me long to be in community and share Christ's supper with people who don't have that kind of abundance, who are living out of scarcity.

Q: You mentioned gratitude as a reason for being here. What has the Abundant Table Project taught you about gratitude?

KF: What the land gives you is such a joy and a surprise. It's like a miracle in a way. Part of the gratitude I think is for our own ability to work and to see the fruits of our labor right before us. Everything that comes out of here is a gift. We came here and we didn't really didn't know much about farming. It was obviously something beyond us: the good soil, the sun, all these things that come together and are really all gifts of God.


Peace.
Jonathan+

Can you sue your pastor for malpractice?

This Thursday, April 22, 7 - 8 p.m, St. Christopher's by-the-Sea is hosting a conversation around the first of three weeks' questions. This week, we ask the question, 'Can you sue your pastor for malpractice?' The conversation that comes with this question considers why our expectations are (generally) much higher for our doctors than they are for our clergy.

My prayer is that everyone in the congregation would make at least one of these evening conversations. These sessions are opportunities for you (and me) to be challenged and encouraged by voices from within the Christian Church, especially as we consider what it means to live in our lives the things we profess on our lips.

I pray this finds you well. See you Thursday night.

Peace.
Jonathan+

a Good Friday meditation

Once upon a time there was a forest full of trees, and it wasn’t so much the trees but the one tree that caused the trouble. You know the story. The woman; the fruit; and the man. Serpentine transgressions. Was it gluttony, lust, or pride, I wonder. Peek a boo with God. Selective hearing, maybe. Exile, swords of fire.

A friend of mine said, “avocado.” Avocado? Yes, he said, the fruit that marked the sin. He was probably projecting, but I wonder sometimes what fruit would be shiny enough, just ripe enough, enticing enough that I would dismiss God’s voice to me.

Before too long, the man and the woman were fruitful, found with child, but that had long stopped being an obvious good thing. And it’s fruit again, the parent’s sin, the cry of Abel’s blood. And Abel’s blood’s still crying. Good God, is Abel’s blood still crying.

And every night on channels one through nine, you can see him, hear him, they call him different names, but you can still hear Abel’s blood.

And it’s Abram and Sarai, Moses, Elijah, David, Elisha, Jonah, God bless him, and Nahum and all of God’s prophets, his judges and kings, the high priests of the people, trying to give God back his blood.

Sometimes I pray when I hear it, and sometimes I laugh when I hear it; other times, when I hear it, I sink into my sofa and drip through to the ground, the weight of the sadness slaying my tears and as heavy -- oh, as heavy -- as the flickering light is blue against the wall.

They sprinkled blood, not Abel’s, on their beaten, wooden, doorposts that first, black night called Passover; that first last night in Egypt, just as God commanded. Prefigured Lamb of God. The Egyptians were howling; God, he was faithful, and the Hebrews walked out on dry land. Pillars of cloud. Columns of fire. And the Hebrews walked out on dry land.

But college freshman everywhere will tell you, when they’re talking to you at all, that unexpected freedoms are the hardest kind to handle. And the people who walked free from their mud bricks in Egypt had a hard time believing that the One who had freed them from their mud bricks in Egypt, would keep them, could keep them, from their mud bricks in Egypt. That they would be cared for. That God would bring them home.

And so, in an ironic twist, somewhere along the wandering road, somewhere among the endless, numbered, days that followed, the people who wandered and followed griped one time too many, and God brought back the snake. You know, the one that started the whole mess in the first place. He brought him back. With friends. Satan had been busy. Snakes to bite their heels. Some were even dying.

Moses said, “What the heck, God?” and God had Moses fashion a separate snake, this one made of bronze, and put it on a pole; the people were told to look on the pole in order to be saved. And the ones who did were saved. And some millennia later, the disciple Jesus loved, the one called John, he saw that snake, and called it Christ.

Which brings me to a second tree that caused the trouble. One tree from the forest. You know the story. A man. With some women. And some men. They found him in a garden, with their torches, flaming swords. Sound familiar? Exiled Son of God. Or at least that was the goal.

The disciples had swords, too, but there would be no battle here. No second spill of Abel’s blood. The cup first drunk at Passover, now come before the Lamb. And Peter, who would have fought for him, would not, will not, die with him, and the cock crow names the hour.

They gave the man a trial, the people did. Or close enough to one for their intentions on that day. And they dressed him like a king, and pranced before the powers, and the powers lost their power to the madness of the night. The night as dark as blood. The day that looked like night. And they crucified our Lord.

Once upon a time, this mother, she could smile. But darkness knows no friend.

Two trees by which to see the grief, to hear the cries and taste the blood of wars that will not cease. The rivers flowing blood. Infernal blue light flickering. But eyes to see and ears to hear pick out a pin-prick hope against the darkness, amidst the blood, if faint, if far off, flickering. And this is the pin-prick hope -- God’s own happy sadness -- the moment despair loses hope, becomes futile -- this is God’s secret: the two trees are one tree and his wounds heal the first.

The flaming sword extinguished now, Life’s tree holds high its fruit; and Christ himself, pressed, crushed, for us, becomes the very wine of heaven.

And heaven prepares the song.

Amen.

the God we didn't want

This article appears in the March edition of St. Christopher's Chronicles...

This is all God’s doing: it is he who has

reconciled us to himself through Christ.

- St. Paul, to the Corinthians

Easter is such good news that we sometimes forget that the particular occasion our Lord had for rising was that we killed him, presumably because we wanted a different-looking god. That’s the story of Palm Sunday. He didn’t appear cut out for it. We wanted a proud king with a strong hand, and by strong, we meant violent. We didn’t want to overthrow the corrupted powers of this world, so much as we wanted to have them be for us -- that is, to have them at our disposal. He got so close to us. And to all the wrong people. He changed the rules. We wanted a warrior and what we got was a mute (forgetting God’s promise to speak through the “still, small voice”). He went out so softly. So we cry out, “Crucify,” even if we think that we, had we been there, might have acted differently, and we prepare our “Alleluias,” and we stuff our Easter eggs, and only if we’re lucky will we discover that we still want other gods.

Stanley Hauerwas reminds us that the earliest Christians were accused of being atheists because the declaration, “Jesus is Lord,” was judgment on all the other lords -- the other gods -- in Rome. “Jesus is Lord” leaves little room for bunkmates.

So Holy Week is here, and I didn’t get the Jesus that I wanted. If I took the time to think about this, I could name my frustration at the difference between the god that I wanted and the Jesus I got as the sin for which I need God’s forgiveness. The Good News of the Jesus I got is that this Jesus, this God, is rich in forgiveness.

Thank God, he is rich in forgiveness.

We’re told that after the resurrection, the disciples were locked behind closed doors, for fear of the Jews. They probably weren’t less afraid to see a risen Savior. If love lives in that space wherein one person says to another, “I’m glad that you exist,” they had betrayed their love of him in the most fundamental way: “We wish you were dead.” “We have other things to be doing just now.” And then, by the hand of a friend, he was dead. The disciples may have been sad, but also relieved. And so when they see the risen Savior, it is not obvious Good News for them. What will this mean for them?

But as it turns out, it is still the Good News. Glory to God, it is such very Good News! That the love of God is not undone by them -- or by us; by their failings -- or ours; even by our wanting other gods.

The baptismal liturgy begins with these words: There is one Body and one Spirit; There is one hope in God’s call to us; One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism; One God and Father of all. There is one God. What’s more, he is risen! Best of all, this risen God -- Jesus Christ -- he’s come back! Come back even for us.

*Spoiler alert*

Alleluia!

"Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."

Courtesy resolution present on the Council theme at the 106th Diocesan Council of West Texas.

Right Reverend Sirs, Friends in Christ of this 106th Diocesan Council:

WHEREAS, the Committee on Reconciliation has helpfully called to this Council’s attention guidelines and methods for the development of mutual understanding and careful listening; and

WHEREAS, the bishops of this diocese have commended to this Council’s practice said methods of mutual understanding and listening;

THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED that this Council affirm those good things which we by careful listening have heard and received from one another, including and most centrally the Scriptural admonition, so often here cited, to relieve the burdens of bears, in this and every land: grizzly bears; polar bears; black bears; koala bears; teddy bears; and particularly those bears in the state of Hawaii; and

(the bartender said, bear, why the big pause?)

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that the careful listening of this Diocese affirm the bishops’ commendations to empty the pews and shoot our horses in conjunction with the recently unveiled one hundred and nineteen year mission development plan advanced by strategic officer John Rayls and the Diocese, and modeled in the parish of Trinity, Junction, and

BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED that even the least careful listening hears and recognizes the constant laughter of the Spirit so present in this People, who, sharing in God’s joy, affirm here their delight in their joy as God’s Church for the life of the world --

Oh, I almost forgot. I can see God’s House from here.

Right Reverend Sirs, we so move.

members of a body made possible by forgiveness

(From the February edition of the St. C's newsletter.)

“Fasting bears no fruit unless it is watered by mercy.”
Peter Chrysologus, Bishop of Ravenna [450]

The priest holds up bread, says, “This is my Body, given for you.” Moments later, a cup, another promise, and gift: “This is my Blood of the new Covenant, shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Slightest silence, holy reverence, and the prayer swiftly moves on.

Quickly spoken, quickly gone, this moment is nevertheless the defining moment for this and every community of faith, indeed for the whole Church: Jesus‘ words recalled, spoken by the community of faith, at the very same time creating the community of faith. Or how else do we stand before God, with one another, as one Body? We eat the bread of the Body; drink the cup of forgiveness. We are members of a body made possible by forgiveness.

“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”

The Catholic Church teaches that Jesus made Peter his “Rock” on which the Church was built so that the Church would never forget her need of forgiveness. After all, the reasoning goes, whatever your sin -- whatever your need of forgiveness -- you are surely not worse off than Peter: “Look here,” he told her, “I don’t know that man!”

Of course, few of us would openly claim to be better off than poor Peter, either. I know firsthand the depths of what it must mean for Christ to include me in his People. Forgiveness, for me, is not idle, but is instead the daily basis and foundation for my offering my prayers and my life as your priest. Forgiveness is the means by which I absolve your sins and at the same time say, “Pray for me, too -- a sinner.”

Forgiveness is the life of the Body.

One of you asked me recently if I’d figured out yet what a broken place St. Christopher’s is. I vaguely recall offering some polite answer, but I vividly recall the voice in my heart, as if shouting, “Of course! So I’d prayed!” What else would we offer? What else might be healed? What need would we have for forgiveness?

You and I can experience the insecurity born of illusions of self-sufficiency just about anywhere. That’s not new. That’s not novel -- that’s the norm. And it’s more than boring -- it’s despairing. But to find a people living with the courage to be broken and so to be truthful, to be in need of the Savior who has spoken forgiveness, now that excites me.

So now you and I, the people called Church, we wander into Lent. Most of us have been here before. A necessary evil, we think: like the dentist beseeching us every six months to floss well. “Close your eyes, don’t look directly at it, nod a little, and it will pass. Easter’s coming.” And of course it is. But listen now: be careful that you do not miss this moment, the very thing that will be your life. For make no mistake, Easter will not erase your need for forgiveness so much as cement God’s declaration of it. The grace of Easter morning begins in the mourning darkness: the truthfulness to speak into the silence the things that keep us from growing closer to God.

Be not afraid! Forgiveness is the hope of God’s People; forgiveness is the joy of God’s People. This Lent, may we who seek Christ find his words meant for us: “You are forgiven.”

And may we keep a Holy Lent.

celebration of ministry

(Sermon preached at a Celebration of Ministry, St. Christopher's by-the-Sea, Portland, TX, on December 1, 2009, where -- according to the custom of the diocese -- the just-installed Rector is invited to preach.)

Celebration of Ministry

Joshua: 1:7-9

Psalms: 133 and 134

Epistle: Romans 12:1-18

Gospel: John 15:9-16


This is a blessing. Look at you! Look around. Strange faces. Friends, family. Can I say you clean up well? Together, joined in praise. Bishop Reed, clergy. Of course, our St. Christopher’s family. The prayers of countless others with us. Thank you for being here, for your presence, your prayers.

It says on this program that we are here tonight to celebrate a ministry. Let’s do it! But whose? How exactly does this work? Are you celebrating my ministry -- am I celebrating yours? Though we both have our separate histories, do we begin on this evening one new ministry? Many of you, when I first got here, asked me some version of “what do I call you?” I had two thoughts at the time: number one, just don’t call me John, and two, I hope they don’t call me the minister. It has been my humbling privilege to meet you as ministers; to come alongside, at your invitation, to serve you in ministry. Tonight, to be with my ministers, is all joy and blessing.

When you wake up in the morning, remember God and the life to which he calls you, as ministers, where do you start? How does one succinctly describe the business, the mission, that we pray, as Christians, to be about? What is the heart of the life we Christians pursue?

I first took these questions seriously at Wheaton College, where I studied economics alongside friends who would have rather died than do the same -- bible majors, physics, communications majors, and even one very attractive Spanish major who later changed my life when she said “yes”. Studying with this hodgepodge collection of friends, it was hard to believe on some days that we shared a common calling -- a common ministry. It had so many varied expressions, different directions. Sometimes our studies kept us from seeing each other at all over the course of a week. We were a mix of missionaries and musicians and future mortgage brokers. What did it mean that we shared of one life?

The college’s answer and reminder to that question was a simple phrase -- the phrase on which the institution was built: For Christ and His Kingdom. For Christ and His Kingdom. A sort of shorthand for the summary of the Law: love of God and love of neighbor. For Christ and His Kingdom: Naming both the One who calls and the task to which he calls, namely life with those he loves. (Hear the echo of our gospel read this evening: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”)

Some years later, I found myself, with Rebekah, at another strange church, this time in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. We didn’t know a soul, save for the two brave friends who made the trip out east with us. The priest, when he welcomed us, used words that would become familiar and true: he prayed that Holy Family would be for us and all who came to that church a place of challenge and rest. Challenge and rest. I think of St. Augustine’s confession that his heart is ever restless until it finds its rest in God. But what could it mean for that rest to also serve as constant challenge? And why in God’s Name would I pray for that?

Still later, found with strangers, again, this time at Duke’s Divinity School: eight or so of us, the first class of the newly founded Anglican/Episcopal House of Studies, folks from all over, and in a time when you didn’t have to be from all over to wonder what you might possibly have in common with another Anglican. This time, the reminder, the motto, was a picture: Roots down, walls down.

For Christ and His Kingdom.
To be a place of challenge and rest.
Roots down, walls down.

Three threads; one fabric. I wonder, have you caught it? In each one is present the mystery of communion with God: namely that he stubbornly insists on including the others. The mystery of communion with God: that he stubbornly insists on including the others. Confession time. I like Christ, rest, and roots. Not as keen on Kingdom, challenge, and the loss of security and space that walls down represents. Still, one may have confidence that the Gospel is faithfully proclaimed and pursued where these seemingly distinct aims are held up together; where loving God is not separable from loving that which God loves.

In the most real sense, then, you and I celebrate one ministry because there’s only one ministry to share: that of receiving and witnessing the love of the Triune God -- Father, Son, and Spirit -- for his church and the world. Or as St. Paul better put it: we who are many are one, because we share of one bread.

Enough preaching.

I want to tell you, finally, about a fourth strange group of people: the odd mix of Search Committee and Vestry who helped discern God’s call to us in this place.

We met for the interview, here, in the Eucharist. Yvette and Mike Sullivan, at their home, graciously hosted the next leg of conversation where, over dinner, we prodded, explored hopes, wonders, and vision; I wondered what calling Rebekah and I might share with these strangers. I didn’t even fish!

So I listened, and prayed: Lord, what do they have in common? What is the heart of the life these Christians pursue?

“We are the Church,” you told me. “We cherish the reach of our small groups. We strive to reach out; to bring Christ to the world.” “We want opportunities for spiritual growth, spiritual mentorship with one another.” One of you said that “we want a pastor who’s OK making mistakes,” and sensing an opening, I quickly assured you I was good at making mistakes, but your deeper longing for the life not of right answers but of grace was conveyed. Then the words came. The words came like holy whispers of the Spirit; and it’s important, I think, that the words came from you:

Deeper, wider. Deeper, wider. That’s what I heard when I listened to you.

Deeper, the desire for every person who seeks God in this place to be able to pursue that relationship as deep, as far, as she has will to engage; knowing that depth like this requires the help of holy friends. Wider, the desire for us in this place to reach out, invite, stretch in grace, so that the world might know the same grace by which we pray to live.

Deeper, wider, ministering from the deep well of Christ’s love for us and for others.

For Christ and his Kingdom.
To be a place of challenge and rest.
Roots down, walls down.
Deeper and wider.

The resonance of your call with the two-part harmony of the faith I had come to know and enjoy was then -- and is now! -- resounding and clear. Yes, it is challenge, but this is the challenge for which you and I prayed! This challenge is the heart of what has brought us together. It’s the image of St Christopher bearing the child through the waters, knowing in the waters the presence of Christ. You and I, too, brought together by waters, the Spirit-drenched waters of baptism by which, with God’s help, we will continue to sing our new song: Deeper and wider. Into Christ; with the stranger; Alleluia!; forever. Deeper and wider, together, in the love of our God.

Friends, this calls for celebration.

Amen.