Four months

Four months ago, the worst of Irene had struck our beloved state of Vermont. These scenes had already taken place: Rte 4 had already washed out in Mendon, Rutland was flooded and there was so much we did not know.

Irene barrelled through Vermont a week after I resigned because I had finally extracted from the wardens that they would not call me as rector.

As Vermont Public Radio has had an update today on where things are for people affected by Irene, I realise that in my own way, I have been carrying all this stuff on my heart.

No wonder I am sad every time I drive into Plymouth Union and see the wreckage caused by Irene. I think of Sue, whose house was destroyed by the brook that ran by it [in picture; she put up the 'house for sale' sign as a joke]. I think of the elderly couple in the house two over whose house was condemned. And I think of the people down the road whose house still stands but the first floor needs total gutting.

My situation is so minor in the great scheme of things. But it is inextricably woven into the story of Irene. Thus, the retrospectives throw me back to those last days of August which were so crazy.

Christmas Day sermon

[Preached at Church of Our Saviour, Killington, VT]

I have been greatly amused and intrigued over the discussion that has ensued after the media got a hold of the story that the mega-churches decided not to have services today. The pundits and blogosphere have had a field day with the news. Mind you, the last time Christmas landed on a Sunday was back in 2005 and before that 1994, so things surely have changed a bit since then or have they?

Nope. I do find it rather astonishing that economics have trumped faith. I can understand the minute congregation whose supply priest has to drive 65 miles one-way to get to the church, perhaps pondering not having a service on Christmas Day. But when everyone lives close by? Apparently the humungous churches in Texas decided it would cost too much to open their doors on Christmas morning. A spokeswoman for one of the megachurches said that 500 volunteers, along with staff, are needed to run Sunday services for the estimated 8,000 people who usually attend. She said many of the volunteers appreciate the chance to spend Christmas with their families instead of working, although she said a few church members complained.

The way some of the churches are getting around not having services today is clever: one enterprising church is handing out a DVD it produced for the occasion that features, in their words, a ‘heartwarming contemporary Christmas tale.’ Their spokesperson said, ‘What we’re encouraging people to do is take that DVD and in the comfort of their living room, with friends and family, pop it into the player and hopefully hear a different and more personal and maybe more intimate Christmas message, that God is with us wherever we are.’ That church considers itself a pace-setter and one that reaches out to the unchurched. They figure that the unchurched are not apt to come to church on Christmas Day anyway, especially since there are plenty enough services the night before.

Some observers of church growth wonder at this decision, given that Christianity is an evangelistic religion. One professor mused: ‘What about the people in society without strong family connections? The elderly, single people a long distance from family, or people who are simply lonely and for whom church and prayers would be a significant part of their day?’

What about them? Is this birth of Christ an individualistic or communal event?

Meanwhile, the other counter-cultural faith groups, the Catholics, Orthodox, Episcopalians and Lutherans do gather on Christmas Day because for them Christ’s birth needs to be celebrated in community. It doesn’t much matter to these faith traditions whether Christmas Day lands on a Sunday or not; for us, it is one of our major feasts and, therefore, there is no question about holding a service.

The mystery of God coming amongst us in the incarnation, in Jesus, our brother, is way, way too large to comprehend on just one night… or even the next morning… and so we keep coming back again and again, Sunday after Sunday. Still, this Sunday is extra-special because it is our usual day of gathering and it celebrates Christ’s birth.

Whatever your reasons are for coming this morning, I am glad you are here. I am glad there are companion pilgrims who understand the necessity for coming to church today—not just because it is a feast day or Sunday, but because, yes, indeed, it is Christ’s birth and we need to break bread together and be fed and celebrate his birth together, not alone.

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The late Patricia Wilson-Kastner suggested that ‘Jesus became flesh so as to show forth the love of God among us, a love which is not merely an expression of good will, but the power of an energy which is the heart, core, and cohesive force of the universe.… Christ is the human expression of God to us, and thus we must try to understand what God meant in Christ… Christ is not simply the new male person, but one who shows all persons how to live. As a human he shows us what human self-possession and self-giving are. Thereby Christ shows us the link between divine and human, the cosmos and its conscious inhabitants.’ (1)

As though she had read the early 20th century Spanish poet, Antonio Machado, or Machado had spoken with her about who and what this Heart is, Machado’s poem, ‘Last Night’ puts into more concrete imagery who the Heart is that lies at the centre of our faith.

Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking 
out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

O water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive 
here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs
and sweet honey

from my old failures.

Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

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How is God-with-us, Christ, the Incarnate One, manifest in you? How are you aware of the Heart of Love that lies at the centre of our world, at the centre of the universe? Are there moments when you have a fiery sensation inside you? Are there moments when something moves you to the point of tears? How is God the aqueduct that moves through your soul and nourishes it?

How, also, do you respond to the wonder of God incarnate? For our faith is profoundly communal and part of living a life of faith is to reach out to those around us.
 
John’s prologue makes clear that in God there is communion, unity, love and light, and from this communion, all creation flows. And this movement finds its fulfillment as the Word became flesh to lead human beings into a new communion with God, to become one with God.

Just as water flows to keep the earth alive, and our hearts beat to keep us alive, so does God’s love sustain all creation. And God’s heart is more vast—for ‘the heart of God is unbelievably kind.’

On this Christmas morning, may we dream that spring is breaking out in our hearts. May we dream that our failures have been made sweet. May we dream that the fiery sun that dwells in our heart bring us light and tears to our eyes. May we dream and then come to know that it is God we have inside our hearts which, as they joy in love, it’s because God Incarnate is our Joy, our Love, our Heart.

END NOTE
(1) Patricia Wilson-Kastner, Faith, Feminism and the Christ.

Christmas Eve sermon

[This sermon is not being preached anywhere but on the internet.]

No longer can I hear the story of the nativity with the same ears or see it with the same eyes of my imagination. For a long time, my heart has ached upon hearing the words, ‘O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie....’ Having gone to Bethlehem, no longer a little town, my vision of the place has changed.

The basilica, Christendom’s oldest complete and working church now devoted to Jesus’ birthplace, like so many other places in the Middle East, is a place of dispute. The Orthodox run the old part of the church where one gains access to the grotto that is the birthplace of Christ whereas the Franciscans hold masses in an adjoining church that is a smaller duplication of the older basilica. Elsewhere in the complex, Armenians worship.

The birthplace of Jesus is marked by a large star that most recently dates to 1717 and was also a source of dispute in the 19th century. Regardless of who wants the star in place and who does not, the star is clearly in a cave which was the typical place for animals to be kept as well as for women to give birth. Facing the star is the place where the manger was, just a couple of footsteps away. To venerate both, one must kneel down and stick one’s head under an altar and be careful not to bang one’s head against the suspended votives that surround the two spots.

The day I visited Jesus’ birthplace, things were not flowing smoothly in the basilica for the simple reason that Senator John McCain was visiting. He and his entourage swept past the long queue of people to descend the steep stairs into the grotto. The rest of us hoi poloi were left standing, waiting and waiting and waiting.

To leave Bethlehem to return to Jerusalem, one has to go through the partition wall, the thirty-foot high barrier that separates Israel from Palestine. It is forbidding, foreboding with its concertina wire up top, the gun turrets every so far, the huge sliding doors that allow army vehicles into the space between the two countries. Pedestrians walk through a cattleshoot-like tunnel to leave Palestine, enter the security area before exiting into Israel. The Palestinian side of the wall is covered by graffiti — exceptionally artistic paintings — whereas the Israeli side is barren.

Just as it is impossible to separate out the political from the spiritual today, so it was in Jesus’ day. Why should the Son of God be born into such a humble family, to an unwed mother who should have been cast off and rejected? Why should the Holy Family have had to scrounge for housing were it not for the census — a census dictated by an occupying force, the Romans. Then as now, the land where Jesus was born was under dispute. Most of all, why should God have chosen to irrupt into history at that point in time in that small person of a fragile baby?

Every year we come face-to-face with the mystery of the Incarnation, God-made-flesh, Emmanuel, in Jesus the Christ. Every year we have to grapple with the paradox of the splendour of God’s universe and the particularity of the crib. Every year we are reminded that the soft wood of the crib becomes the hard wood of the cross and that through this tiny infant humanity was redeemed. It is an awful lot to contemplate. In some ways, we avoid it all by the frenzy of shopping and preparing the household for guests and fancy meals. The mystery of the Incarnation is so mind-boggling when one gets down to it, that one chooses to focus on the candles and sentimentality of imagined perfect Christmas celebrations instead.

Underneath all the lights, wrappings, feasts, music and commotion, though, lies our simple human need to know that we are loved… loved beyond measure by the same God who created the universe and the Son of Humanity. That assurance is what we really seek. We yearn to hear God’s heartbeat under our ears, to know that God is as close as our breath.

Knowing that God loves us unconditionally and immeasurably will not take away the pain there is. God’s love won’t find us a job or housing or restore the ravaged hillsides and rivers of Vermont to their pre-Irene status. God’s love will not end cancer or improve the economy or bring back lost loves and friendships. Those sufferings are part of the finitude of humankind, they are the human condition. These limitations do, however, challenge us to make a difference — to bind up the broken-hearted, to heal the sick, to give water to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to give food to the hungry, to visit those in jail. For those of us who know and love God, we are called to change this world to one where God’s mercy and justice — God’s jubilee — break into this otherwise incomplete and shattered world.

By struggling to infuse our world with God’s grace, we continue in the spirit that brought us Jesus who, as God made flesh, showed us God’s love. Jesus, the Alpha and the Omega, the source, the beginning — he, of the father’s love begotten.

We yearn for peace, we yearn for a healed world… and most of all, we yearn for God.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Come, fill our hearts.

Come, break down the walls that separate us.

Come, show us God’s love so that we might show it to others.

Come close once again.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

[pictures taken in February 2011]

IASCUFO communiqué

First of all, there has got to be a shorter name for this commission so it does not have such a long and bizarre acronym.

In the name of the Holy Trinity and grateful for the gracious guidance of the Holy Spirit, the Inter-Anglican Standing Commission on Unity, Faith and Order met in Seoul, Republic of Korea 2 to 9 December 2011.

In preparation for the forthcoming meeting of the Anglican Consultative Council (ACC-15) in 2012, the Commission devoted its third meeting to consolidating its work in the five areas initially identified as falling within its remit in 2009.

These areas of work involve:

1. reflecting critically on the Instruments of Communion and the relationships among them. Our discussions continue to develop the potential of these in the wider contexts of Anglican and ecumenical ecclesiological reflection;

2. studying the definition and recognition of churches;

3. providing a variety of materials to assist in the reception of the Anglican Communion Covenant. The guide which we produced during the past year is being augmented by a short video presentation which will be made available from the Anglican Communion website;

4. assisting the Communion in its engagement with the complex processes involved in reception. This includes receiving from one another and embracing the fruits of ecumenical dialogue and of Anglican theological reflection at all levels in the Communion. In our work as a Commission, we have become increasingly and acutely aware of the importance of this task in the life of our churches;

5. considering the question of transitivity, that is, the way in which regional ecumenical agreements between churches which are members of different global communions in one geographical area affect or extend to other parts of the Communions;

Aware of our mandate to promote the deepening of communion between the churches of the Anglican Communion, we emphasised the importance of being a fully representative group, and we greatly regret that some of our members were not present. We re-affirmed the significance of the Anglican Communion Covenant for strengthening our common life.

[...]

They just keep hammering away at why the Anglican Communion needs this so-called covenant... this thing at which the Virginia Report hinted, then the Windsor Report, both of which dreamed of finding a way to rein in the wayward ones. Horrifyingly enough, even though these reports never were accepted by the General Convention, their ideas have gained far too much credibility and traction.

I feel as though this covenant is a hydra: every time we stamp it down, it grows another head.

Symbols

This spring I was given a typical Salvadoran aumbry, handmade by someone who used to work for the Fernando Llort taller in La Palma and hand-painted by the diocesan treasurer of the Episcopal Anglican Church of El Salvador. The giver, someone who went to El Salvador with me in March intended for us to use it this coming winter when we moved worship into the parish hall. But it was not meant to be and so the aumbry came home to live for the time being on the downstairs front hall table.

Once I had moved out of the parish office, everything associated with me came home. The bottle of water from the River Jordan, the blessed oil from Church of the Holy Sepulchre, incense from right around the corner from the church, my communion kit with reserve sacrament, ashes for Ash Wednesday — all those outward signs of the mystery found in the sacraments needed a place to reside. The Salvadoran aumbry was just the spot and everything fit.

Last night I opened the door to the aumbry to look at these symbols. I wonder how long it will be before I will once again be anointing the sick, putting the oil of chrismation on the forehead of the newly baptised, adding River Jordan water to the water poured into the font, taking the Sacrament to the shut-in or ill, burning incense and using all these outward signs of what it means to be a priest in community, a relational priest.

A priest without a community is nothing. At least that is how I feel right now. I know I am a priest but I am wandering in the desert, a pilgrim moving from church to church to church but not having a place to call home right now. I am truly in between places, trying to be still to hear God's still, small voice.

So this aumbry takes on more meaning than before because not only does it serve as a reminder of a wonderful trip to El Salvador but it also is a reminder of priesthood and the hope that once again some day these oils and incense and water will not be tucked away but in an office and church to be used midst the community.