Weekly Reflection December 15

Visiting a parishioner in the hospital the other day, I bumped into two of the therapy dogs that  roam the floors, visiting those who are sick, recovering, and, often times, isolated.  One was a golden retriever.  The other--Murphy--looked like a blonde labradoodle.  Both were excited to see me or anyone who would pay them a scintilla of attention. 

The encounters--and watching Murphy saunter down the hallway beside his handler, peering up at passers-by--made me reflect upon the progress that has been made in introducing therapy pets into the range of support given those in a hospital, care facility, school, or any other institution.  It also made me consider the issue of incarnation. 

As it is Advent and as we are St. Francis, it may be only fitting that pets and incarnation are used in the same sentence.  Of course, we often think about incarnation in its narrowest sense as the person and life of Jesus.  Emmanuel.  God with us.  And this certainly is the season when we reflect upon that reality. 

Yet, there continually exists an element of surprise to the way that God comes to us and how God remains with us.  The birth of Jesus is no different.  On one hand, the birth narratives are fairly impressive:  An angel chorus, a cosmic anomaly in the natal star, eventually three astrologers.  However, on the other hand, the incarnation is extremely vulnerable, with an uncertain viability, and an even more ambiguous veracity.  According to the story, a baby emerges in the cold of night, surrounded by cattle, and attended to by the dregs of society--shepherds. 

If God were shooting for incarnational validity beyond the shadow of a doubt, God chose a very interesting way to show it.  We prize strength and power and control.  God--in the Christ child--enters in weakness, powerlessness, and frailty.  Thus, from the very beginning of the Jesus story, we are alerted that, if the opening story is any example, there will be plenty of surprises along the way.  Along the way of Jesus' life  in which there is doubt there.  And along the way of our own lives.  Like it or not. 

And that, often, is the problem with incarnation.  We don't always like it.  It involves our flesh.   And regardless of how wonderful and mysterious and beautiful our flesh may be, our flesh also possesses limits and wears out and is not always so presentable.  Which is, perhaps, part of what is so amazing about the incarnation in Jesus.  It underscores that that place--our flesh in all its wonder and beauty as well as it warts and worries--is precisely where God enters in.

Which brings me back to the therapy dogs in the hospital and the miracle and surprise of the incarnation that comes through our furry friends.  Again, these are not the most powerful or in control animals.  Nor were they even accepted in this therapeutic way for maaannnny years.  Yet, in their simplicity and innocence and desire for companionship--in their weakness, powerlessness, and frailty--they allow for healing and connection and wholeness to occur.  This is a little miracle that happens on the end of a leash.  I don't know about you, but I also think it is a part of God's continuing incarnation in our lives and an enfleshment that continues to surprise.
  
Blessings.

Mark    

December 8 post

As Robin Rice notes in her Advent Meditation, Advent was initially a penitential season, a time for confession.  Thus, this reflection considers the practice of confession and, perhaps, a different perspective on something so common to our worship and life together.
*   *   *   *
One of the more memorable worship expierences that I have had took place in the mid 1990's.  I was supply preaching at a church in Fairfield.  The liturgy was quite familiar and Lutheran.  At the very beginning of the service, a rite for confession and forgiveness prepared us for worship.  As the congregation settled in for the confession and silence began to fill the sanctuary, a little boy expressed the reality of his situation but also articulated a wisdom transcending the moment.  Amidst the silence, he turned and spoke to his mother but loud enough for everyone to hear, "This is hard!"

This is hard. 
Oh, yes it is.

Of course, he was talking about being quiet, silent, and for a four year old, the truth was spoken.  The serendipity of the moment, however, was that he also expressed what was true for everyone else in the room.  It's hard to confess our sins.  It's hard to admit our shortcomings, our failings, our disappointments, our frailty, and our humanness.  Certainly, there are moments when it is very easy to acknowledge when we have come up short--and usually too obvious.  Nevertheless, there are at least two ways that we have trouble with confession.

To begin with, we all struggle to varying degrees with that all-too-human attribute of hubris.  Invariably, there are moments when we are convinced of the rightness of our thought or action or cause, and thus it is very difficult to acknowledge a fault, particularly when we believe none exists.  Thankfully, this is not the norm for most, and we ebb and flow between healthy self-knowledge and those moments of mis-reading the reality of the situation.  So, confession can be hard, because it is hard to be honest with ourselves in all moments and in all events.

The greater issue, however, when it comes to confession (and what makes it so hard) is that most people probably beat themselves up with the confession.  If I could sum up in three words what I believe many people feel when we talk about confession, those words would be:

Bad
Bad
Bad

Indeed, within the tradition of the Church, there is a great catalog in certain circles of all the things that we do to fail God, fail each other, and fail ourselves.  And, for too long, engaging in confession has been more like blunt force, beating us up, rather than a surgical incision that addresses the issue or issues in life and speeds healing.

Ironically, the hard part of confession is moving out of the negative tapes that play in our mind (Bad. . .Bad. . .Bad) and moving into the refreshing proclamation of pinpointing the particular things that cause us to stumble; hearing and trusting the pronouncement of forgiveness, grace, and a clean slate; and then living into the fullness of that freedom that God offers.

Indeed, the very Greek word--harmartia--from which we receive the English word sin has no negative connotation or moral declaration.  It simply means that we "missed the mark", as in, we were aiming at the bull's eye, and our shot missed a little to the left or right.  Thus, confessing our sins is not a laundry list that need leave us wailing with the Psalmist, "I am a worm and not a man."  Rather, confession is the very thing that returns us to reality, acknowledges the truth in life, and gladly hears the divine word of grace.

Of course, there are heinous acts and sins that we are fully aware of in hyper-connected world.  And, of course, societies develop ways of addressing these acts.  Yet, for the average worship attender, darkening the doorway of a church generally means you are already willing to acknowledge responsibility for your life.  Thus, the art of confession is not supposed to be that which invites us to wallow in a pool of self-criticism and guilt.  The art of confession begins with the Imago Dei--the image of God--imprinted upon each of us. Created good.  It moves from this reality into an acknowledgment of where and when the mark has been missed, and then lives with the reality of a loving and gracious God, swift to forgive and eternal in mercy.

The trick for us who do confess and experience absolution is that far from holding it over those who may not, we are invited to replicate the grace and forgiveness that has been shown to us.  We are to replicate the love and mercy given us toward those whom we meet in life.  We are to replicate the compassion and kindness permeating our life and share it with the larger world And that may just be the hardest part of all.

Blessings.

Mark    

Weekly Reflection--October 30

Semper Reformandum or Always Reforming is one of the vestiges of the Reformation, which we will observe this Sunday.  (Actually, one may more appropriately refer to the theological and ecclesialogical changes of the 16th century in the plural--reformations--than as a monolithic Reformation.  Indeed, there were many types of reforms and reformers.)  The dictum Semper Reformandum was adopted by a group of Lutheran clergy regarding, in part, their relationship to the Roman Catholic Church.  While many reformers--Martin Luther himself included--saw the end of the Reformations as a reunion with a reformed Roman church, the Semper Reformandum group, at a critical point, saw the movement as making a break with Rome, and they would never look back.    The very nature of the Church, in their mind, was to always reflect upon what we do and constantly reform ourselves so that we remain faithful to the Gospel.

The Gospel, interestingly, was the cause for the Reformations.  Well, actually, it was all the abuses in the name of the Gospel that led to the Reformations.  Yet, the heart of the Gospel is what spurred this movement on.  That is:  Sola Gratia.  We are save by grace.  And while there were a few other Solas (Fide--Faith, Scriptura--Scripture) that followed, this understanding that the Godhead reconciles us with God's self and calls us into new life freely and without our effort--by grace-- is quite radical.  

There would be--and continue to be--all sorts of individuals who would want to qualify this grace.  The grace, they argue, comes through faith.  Faith involves a certain assent to various truths and can quickly become yet another "work" that we do to gain God's favor.  So much for enjoying the gift!   

Luther and other reformers would have nothing to do with this system of "works".  Grace--God's unconditional love, particularly and fully expressed in the person of Jesus Christ--is the beginning, middle, end, height, depth, and breadth of everything.  We have not done anything to earn it, and we are invited to participate in the divine life freely and fully aware that we are considered the beloved of God.  (I often wonder what the world would look like if we truly believed and were able to internalize this profound promise.)    

Of course, with all the political posturing and upheaval at the time of the Reformations, the idea that grace extended also to those who didn't quite believe in the same way as we might led to the slaughter of thousands during the religious wars of the 16th century.  Seemingly, we have an endless ability to corrupt even the most grace-filled concepts of the tradition.

Yet, grace and its promise have endured, and we, as Lutherans and Episcopalians, are the inheritors of this wonderful assurance.  (The great Anglican Thomas Cranmer studied with Luther and other European reformers and brought incorporated these ideas into the Anglican tradition.)  However, I suspect that this concept remains foreign to many and baffling to most.  The posture of grace certainly is not what we experience in the world at large.  In the world, we must produce.  We must be active and proactive.  We need to be able to point to all that we have accomplished so as to hold onto our job if not also justify our existence.  At a point, this is unavoidable.  At another point, it is sad if it is the only way we understand our life and our being.

A story of Luther that I love, perhaps, gets at the serendipity and reality of grace.  Many psychologists have interpreted Luther's conflict with the Roman Catholic Church as a byproduct of his terrible relationship with his father.  Luther was Hector Projector!  The Roman Church became the father figure against which he rebelled.  

  

However, some work has been done on the letters that Luther and his father were exchanging prior to Luther nailing the 95 theses on the Castle Church door at Wittenberg, ostensibly beginning the Reformations.  What these scholars have found is that Luther and his father had reconciled.  Far from a rebellion against an ecclesiastical father figure, Luther's actions were empowered because of the confidence and love that he realized from his own father.  Some might even say this was grace in action!

And, perhaps, that is how it is with us as well.  The very real relationships that we experience are the ones that either express or reject the grace that God showers upon us unconditionally.  When we encounter love that is unconditional and freely given from those closest and most important to us, it is transformative.  When we encounter such love, we often want to replicate it, share it, give it away. . .freely!  When we encounter such love, we are glimpsing--or better yet, we are glimpsed by--God.

Happy Reformation.

Blessings.

Mark

Weekly Reflection--October 23

We are in the midst of the pledging season within the church.  The monies that are pledged for the ongoing ministry of the parish help the vestry develop a budget for us to live by in the coming year.  Oftentimes, this activity is referred to as stewardship.  Too often, unfortunately, it is only pledging that is associated with the word stewardship.   

Of course, the term stewardship rightly underscores the use of our gifts for the ongoing ministry of God at St. Francis.  This certainly is stewardship.  However, if that is all we associate with stewardship, then we are, as the apostle Paul said, most to be pitied.  Stewardship is not synonymous with fundraising.  Stewardship is all about care.  Care for what we have been given.  Care for the facilities and programs in our charge.  Care for those with whom we worship.  Care for the larger creation.  Care is stewardship rightly understood.  Thus, it is not a "fall pledge drive", rather it is a daily and lifelong activity in which we are all engaged.  At times we may be more aware of how we are caring, but the call to care never ceases, and the care that we provide--to self, to family, to friends, to parishioners, to the other, and to the larger world--expresses the fullness to which we have incorporated the hospitality and grace teachings of Jesus and the radical love of God.

Another term that usually gets short shrift or is avoided by many in the mainline churches is evangelism.  Too often we associate this word with door-to-door proselytizing or in-your-face EVANGELICAL preachers who we would rather turn off than listen to.   

However, many years ago a wonderful liturgist in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America--Paul Nelson--offered a wonderful reflection on, of all things, the connection between worship and evangelism that I have never forgotten.  Basically, he said they are the same thing.

What he meant was that evangelism comes from the Greek root euangelion, which means to bring good news.  Hence, the street corner preachers and door-to-door proselytizers don't have it completely wrong.  They truly believe, regardless of how tone deaf and/or over-the-top they are, that they are bringing good news to people.  The message of Jesus Christ saves.  Kind of hard to argue with that.

Yet, while the form of the presentation has a lot to be desired on the part of rabid evangelicals, the call to spread the good news is one that extends to all of us.  And we all have our unique ways of spreading that good news, which is:  God loves you unconditionally in Christ.  End of sentence.  Period.  No more.  And no qualifications!   

God.  Loves.  You.  Unconditionally.  In.  Christ.

What Paul Nelson realized (and what so many people realize) is that worship, at its core, is all about sharing that message with whomever is present.  In prayers, scripture readings, hymns, anthems, sermons, the creeds, more prayers, the peace, and the Eucharistic liturgy, the fundamental and critical message is that God loves you unconditionally in Christ.  So, worship is intimately connected to evangelism.   

Of course, those who are familiar with St. Francis understand that the "sell" is pretty soft--no in-your-face altar calls--and the atmosphere is appropriately western, modern, and respectably normed to the gatherings of many mainline churches and organizations in southern Fairfield County.  What we should not forget, however, is that even though the message comes in ways that we may find easily digestible, the message, nonetheless, is quite radical.

God loves you unconditionally in Christ.   

Who says that?  In a world that demands conditions and people to pull themselves up by their boot straps, the message of Christianity is that it's already been done for you.  There is nothing that we do that saves us.  Even the ability to assent to this grace of God is, itself, something that has been done for us.  Think of it.   

God's love.  Unconditionally given.  For you.

Thus, the extension of worship as a form of evangelism is to lead to further evangelism in the many and various ways that we, in all our diversity and uniqueness, can express, offer, and embody it to the world.  We all are evangelicals.  Though we need not be tone deaf and in-your-face.  We are evangelicals in that we are called to share the good news--God loves you unconditionally in Christ--in the many ways that we can.  Sometimes we say it.  More often than not we live it.  We extend a helping hand to someone in need.  We mourn with those who mourn or rejoice with those who rejoice.  We bring communion to or visit a shut-in.  We work for justice for those in our community or in the world who have been denied justice. We work for peace.  And on an on.   

Thus, we recognize that not only are worship and evangelism related.  Indeed, all of life may be considered an opportunity for worship and, thus, evangelism.

Blessings, 

  

Mark

Weekly Reflection--October 9

Just yesterday Cathy Ostuw, Jim Quinn, and I participated in a meeting put on by the Diocese of Connecticut regarding the upcoming Diocesan Convention (October 21 & 22) and certain resolutions coming before the convention.  The meeting had a "town hall" quality to it, with presentations from various members of the Program and Budget committee and the bishops, and then an opportunity for questions from those gathered for the evening.

The information disseminated was rather stark.  Like many other religious organizations, the Diocese has experienced reduced support from the 178 or so congregations in Connecticut.  Given this scenario, the budget is being cut substantially this year, and a renewed effort to invite all the parishes to participate fully and equally in the life of God's mission in the church is a part of one of the resolutions for the convention.   

Clearly, these kinds of discussions--amidst an uncertain economy and local communities seeking to support ministries in their own locale--can be quite unsettling.  And there was an expected amount of hand wringing.   

However, what struck me throughout the evening was the honest and open engagement with the issues facing the Diocese from a perspective of abundance and not scarcity; from an acute awareness of the gifts of life and not the capriciousness of life; from an eye to the opportunities that lie ahead and not a fixation upon the barriers.  It was, from my perspective, refreshing.   

Specifically, there was an historical perspective that Bishop Douglas gave regarding our current context that I found extremely helpful.

Bishop Douglas began by noting that the church throughout time has mirrored the culture around it.  Some might say, "Duh!" but it is a reality that we often forget.  Furthermore, to understand that the church follows various structures and movements of the culture is to recognize the intrinsic change that is a part of our life and life together in society and in the church.  (This, of course, does not mean that all change is good nor does it mean that all change is bad.  Simply put:  Change is.  And we are invited to evaluate that change time and again.)

What this has meant for the 20th century is that while big government--the New Deal-- and big business were prominent elements of the first part of this century, so too was the rise of big Church.  Dioceses became more centralized and grounded in one location.  The national church began to grow and develop programming for the Church as a whole.  The face of the organized institution at this time would not have been recognized by those in the 19th century.  With the rise of the bigger church, there also was a corresponding mirroring of the cultural regulatory milieu that marked the latter decades of the 20th century.   

Again, it is not that these traits are necessarily good or bad.  They simply are.

With the changes coming at the Diocesan level, Bishop Douglas underscored that we are in a different time in the first part of the 21st century.  A time that he noted was marked by the need to network.  A wonderful example that he gave was the structural similarity between the Tea Party and the Occupy Wall Street groups.  They may not necessarily co-exist on the same end of the political spectrum, but they are related in the loose networks that have arisen and created the movements themselves.  They are not top down.  They are organic.  They are not centralized.  They are diffused.  They are not a labrynthine bureaucracy.  They are a loose affiliation of individuals gathered around particular commitments.

While this analysis is largely descriptive  and not prescriptive, it does help frame the context and landscape that we find ourselves in as 21st century believers.  Indeed, Bishop Douglas noted that he does not know how everything will play out and how the Church and is missional efforts will look in the near and far future.  That the Church will not look the same is a pretty safe bet.   

I, for one, hope that the beautiful sanctuary spaces that we are privileged to worship in remain and a vibrant community continues to live into God's future in this place.  I also know that the changes that come are inevitable, and it is not so much my--or our--ability to control the change that is important.  I prefer to believe that the way that we engage the questions that arise from the changes--with grace, with humility, with understanding, with transparency, and with love--are more important.  For, as in the meeting last night, these elements were clearly on display among those who spoke and acted recognizing God's abundance, gifts, and opportunities amidst the very realness of life.  It was and is nothing less than refreshing.   

Blessings, 

  

Mark

Weekly Reflection -- September 25

Invariably, many of the calves that were born on our northern Minnesota farm just had to enter the world at 2AM in the morning.  The cycle that our farm was on placed the calving season in March in Minnesota.  It was still cold, yet you'd have days where the spring melt teased you, and the barnyard looked like a miniature Mississippi delta, with tiny rivulets running everywhere.  The 2AM birthing would generally go unnoticed; the newborn calf greeting my dad when he stopped by to feed the cows in the morning.   

At other times--when you knew that a young heifer was going to struggle to birth its calf--you were on call throughout the early morning hours.  A little tap on the shoulder while you slept, and the command, "Get your clothes on.  We need to pull the calf," were all that you needed to wake up and get to the barnyard.  The cow would be resting in a pile of straw, her breath white and cloudy with each exhalation and her eyes wide open seemingly wondering what is going on!   

A little incandescent bulb shed a soft light onto the birthing scene but not enough to help find the calves hooves that protruded from the back of the cow.  One of us would hold a flashlight for a better view, while the other person--usually my dad--would slip two chains around the hooves of the calf.  We then  engaged in pulling with each contraction, hoping to aid and hasten the birth of the calf before it was too late.

At times the pulling would go on for a long time.  Other times the calf slid quickly out, afterbirth and all, and we quickly cleaned the film off her nose so that she could breathe.  The cow, meanwhile, was attentive to the calf immediately, drying her off and encouraging the young lungs of the calf by licking her vigorously across her body.   

The sight on the farm within a few weeks was one of new life.  Black and brown calves kicked their heels up and chased each other around the barnyard exuding the vibrancy and vigor of life.   

Unfortunately, there were calves who were not so lucky.  Whether they were compromised by a difficult birth or caught a bug, there were always "runts" in the herd.  Some were able to make miraculous turnarounds.  Others  never really had a chance.  It wasn't for lack of trying, however.  

We would bottle feed the calves, place them under heating lamps in the barn, and--when things were really dire--we brought them into our house and fed and cared for them in the hopes that they would be able to turn the corner toward health and strength.  The odds were never good.

It is with memories like these and numerous other experiences that I come to the first Sunday in October--the Feast of St. Francis--with a deep appreciation for the beauty and wonder of creation, the intimate relationship that humans can possess with animals, the power and life of so many types of creatures, and the fragility of the animal kingdom and our own limits within the larger order.  I like to think such reflections connect to the spirit of St. Francis and his perspective of and posture toward the larger created order.

We celebrate the Feast of St. Francis with an annual pet blessing that honors the relationship we possess with God's creatures, gives thanks for the time that we have together to share, and, at a deep level, recognizes the fragility of life and asks for blessings on those creatures for whom we care and love.   

This year, we will do things a little differently than years past.  We will hold the blessing at the Barlett Arboretum at 4:00 PM,  on Sunday, October 2, and we will hold the service with the members of Christ the Healer.  We hope that the neutral location, along with being a wonderfully natural setting, will also encourage those in the neighborhood to attend.  Regardless the location, please mark your calendars for next Sunday, October 2, at 4:00 PM for our annual Feast of St. Francis Pet Blessing.  It is a wonderful event and an opportunity to give thanks for the gift that we experience through the presence of animals in our lives.

   

Blessings, 

  

Mark

Weekly Reflection--September 18

 With fall almost here, the activities of youth returning to school, the light lingering a little less longer with each day, and the packing away of summer gear and pulling out sweaters and fleeces mark the shift from one season to another.

At St. Francis, another marker is the gathering of a small group of individuals from the parish to review grant applications from various social service agencies in Stamford and agencies in the greater U.S. and abroad with whom we have a personal connection. 

On behalf of the parish, this committee will distribute close to $30,000.00 in grants.
In tough economic times, this commitment on the part of the parish is vital and, I believe, central to and an outgrowth of our Christian faith.

On the one hand, recent reports show that poverty is on the rise in the United States.  The most recent report that I heard had the poverty rate inching up one percentage point.  (I always find using percentages important to categorize, and I also cringe with the knowledge of the millions of people who are a part of that one percent.)  The need has always been great, and the need continues to increase.  Stamford, while enjoying certain benefits and buffering because of location, is no different than other communities throughout the country.  Our call as Christians is to look for Christ in those who are in need.  Matthew 25 is our constant reminder of this reality:

Then the King will say to those on his right, "Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what's coming to you in this kingdom. It's been ready for you since the world's foundation. And here's why:

   I was hungry and you fed me,
   I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
   I was homeless and you gave me a room,
   I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
   I was sick and you stopped to visit,
   I was in prison and you came to me."

 "Then those 'sheep' are going to say, "Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?"  Then the King will say, "I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me-you did it to me."

(translation from

Eugene Peterson's "The Message" ) 

On the other hand, as others have said before, budgets are moral documents.  They articulate what we believe and hold to be important in life and our life together.  A church's budget is no different.  Along with the $30,000.00 that we budget for Outreach and the almost $50,000.00 that goes to the diocese as a part of our assessment to aid the ministry of the larger church, St. Francis underscores its commitment to the care and support of others.  

This is no small task, and, particularly when others are cutting back on support, it is a crucial commitment that we make.  As our readings from last week on forgiveness reflected, Christianity is not always easy.  Demands are made upon us to see the hand of God at work in the world and to practice at participating with that hand to bring about a little more of the presence of God wherever we find ourselves. 

I am moved by the commitment that St. Francis has made and continues to make regarding Outreach.  Thank you for your part in supporting this vital ministry.  Thank you also to those who serve on the Outreach committee and are extremely diligent in their review of the grants, follow up with the agencies, and involvement in understanding the issues that agencies and individuals face in our community and elsewhere.  (The committee is ably led by Cathy Ostuw and includes:  
Annie Hartigan,
Betsy Adams,
Bud Prenevost,
Dom Principe,
Freddy Paine,
Julia Wade,
Kim Henderson,
Kimberly Miller,
Patricia Lydon,
Ralph Nazareth,
Stacy Pryce

We always have room to grow, and there are more tangible options throughout the year to participate in "hands on" outreach where we come face to face with the Christ in "the other".  I hope that you may avail yourself of these options throughout the year.  Yet, whether you roll up your sleeves or take out your pen, let us never forget that we are connected to those in need, and Christ calls to us in and through them daily.

Blessings, 

  

Mark

Weekly Reflection--September 11

I am sorry for the delay of this weekly bulletin; I was hoping to have a radio interview regarding 9/11 as a part of the "Going Deeper" section, but that will have to wait for another week.

This weekend is quite busy in the life of the parish, our community, and the nation. 

At St. Francis, we are kicking off the program year with Christian Education starting up, a sung service at 8AM, and the choir returning to support worship at the 10AM service. 

I invite everyone to join in.  Invite a friend.  And enjoy a little ice cream following the 10AM service! 
Alison Quinn and Nancy Geary deserve special recognition for all that they have done in putting together the curriculum for the kids for the coming year and organizing volunteers. 
THANK YOU
Alison and Nancy!!!!!

Of course, we all, the larger community, and the nation formally remember the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  It is amazing that we find ourselves at this point.  Ten years later.  It seems like only yesterday.  And, yet, it also seems surreal and a part of an even more distant past.  Time has frayed the immediacy of the event, however we do not forget, and with each anniversary, there is a reliving of that heinous and calamitous day.

I invite you all to join in an InterFaith Council remembrance of 9/11 this Sunday evening at 7:00 PM at Temple Beth-El on Roxbury Road.  If you can attend, please register as a shuttle will leave from St. Leo's to the Temple Beth-El. (You can get information to attend on the header of this note.)  

I don't know about you, but with the significance of the 10th anniversary, it almost seems like we are being inundated with a barrage of constant reminders, remembrances, and reflections.  Starting almost two weeks ago there is continual reporting of the many sides of this tragic day and the myriad lives that have been forever impacted by the events of 9/11/2001. 

Indeed, it is appropriate and important to remember in this and many other ways.  It also is can be extremely overwhelming.  And the events of that day were, of course, overwhelming.  Efforts to capture the event, the emotions, the fear, the horror, the anger, the outrage, the cost, the implications, the trajectories of lives and a nation in its aftermath all pale and seem so limited before the enormity of the event itself. 

I think that, perhaps, that is why the remembrances and the anniversaries are so important for they allow us to--a little at a time--see a portion of something so large that we can never see and comprehend the entire piece.  Piece by piece we perceive and piece by piece we come to understand, certainly not completely but, as is our lot, in part.  (Thus, I believe that the idea of heaven to know in full as we have been fully known resonates profoundly in moments and times like these.)

Furthermore, as many churches and synagogues were filled with people seeking solace, safety, understanding, and meaning the first weekend after 9/11, it is interesting to notice how, after that initial influx, there has been a steady exodus from religious institutions.  And who can blame those who have--what we casually call in religious circles--"lost" their faith. 

Confronted by the horror of such an event, stripped of the illusion that we control our lives and destiny, faced with the capriciousness of the evil acts of immoral actors, and engaged with the question-that-is-prior-to-all-the-other-questions: 
Where is God?
are we surprised that people would be shaken to the core and, in the case of some, reject what heretofore had been foundational?

In the funeral homily in the "Going Deeper" section there is a segment where Father Duffy despairs over what has happened.  A fellow priest slips him a piece of paper with a quote from the book of Lamentations:

The favors of the Lord are not exhausted. His mercies are not spent. Every morning,
they are renewed. Great is his faithfulness. I will always trust
in him.  

The words were not spoken in a vacuum or the delight of ease or success.  They were spoken in the midst of horror and loss millennia before.  The words are the expression of a profound trust.  Not that everything "works out" and we skate through life free of pain.  Rather the words express the heart of the reality of a relationship of trust with the divine.  We do not have all the answers, we are not given the secrets to the mysteries of life.  We are, however, privy to an insight that we are loved intimately by God and that this God enters fully into the mix of our lives, amidst the joy of it no less than in the pain and sorrow of it. 

Faith, in this context, is not Pollyana or a denial of reality.  It is, rather, an entrance into the fullness of reality supported by the knowledge that we are not alone, and there is no place that we go where God is not . . . even death.  Because absolutes cannot be handed down in this life and because we do not know with absolute certainty the machinations of the Holy One, a nimble faith built on trust (which never fully knows with certainty, right? But continues to what?  Trust!) and engaged with the world is a key to bringing a bit more of the presence of God into the world here and now; this posture of faith also allows us to enter into the pain of life and the remembrances of 9/11 and the other tragedies of life; and it helps us to speak in our own day the affirmation that transcends understanding: 

The favors of the Lord are not exhausted. His mercies are not spent. Every morning,
they are renewed. Great is his faithfulness. I will always trust
in him. 

Blessings, 

  

Mark 

   

 

Weekly Reflection--August 28

I don't know about you, but I struggle with prayer.  (I was going to say "sometimes" to describe how often I struggle though that doesn't quite fit the bill, and I didn't want to say "often" because that doesn't seem to capture reality either.  Suffice it to say I am caught between "sometimes" and "often" when it comes to struggling with prayer.  How about you?)

Prayer, which seems like such a common part of the religious life, and, I would imagine, for many it is something that doesn't receive a great deal of scrutiny.  Prayer is communication with the Holy.  Prayer is connection with God.  Prayer is articulation of the deep desires, longings, and hopes of humanity.  Prayer is listening for God.  Prayer is . . .these things and so many other things.

Prayer took on this puzzling state in my life early on.  I remember the adolescent prayer that asked God to provide something tangible to confirm faith in the divine.  Invariably, such prayers met with a great deal of silent response.  The explanation for such silence was that we cannot know the mysteries of God nor can we demand instantaneous proof for the existence of God.  "It" just doesn't work that way.

Furthermore, troubles with prayer continued when I was confronted by others who gladly shared their powerful prayer experiences.  Oftentimes, prayer was "answered" in a specific way that transformed the one praying.  All well and good, and certainly a blessing when health concerns or job or relationship worries weighed heavily upon the pray-er.   

The problem arose when answered prayer provided a parking spot or the answer to what trip to should take.  I appreciated the desire for and the awareness of God to be present in all moments.  I just found it hard that God was relegated to a sort of cosmic secretary, overseeing our schedule and booking the best for us.   

For the elephant in the room given this prayer scenario was the "other".  What about the elderly person who needed the parking space more than I would, or all the other variables, individuals, and needs that were relegated to answer my prayer?  There are those who will argue that prayer is not a zero sum game, and there is a plentitude of grace to go around.  Yet, intercessory prayers--particularly when we ask God to intercede for us--while powerful and important can also walk on the other side of the fine line where personal desire overwhelms greater communal or human need.  

And, I suppose, there is just such an awareness today of ALL that is troubling and tragic that we--or at least I--struggle with prayer.   

Clearly, prayer is central to our Christian tradition.  Paul counseled that we should, "pray without ceasing."  Our prayers are formal and informal.  They occupy a major part of our worship.  Our prayers extend out on behalf of those in need and the vital issues facing us as individuals, a community, a nation, and a global community.  I, therefore, am not advocating the abolition or the neglect of prayer.  I just find it difficult at times.  Which is, I think, honest.

Which is also why I have so thoroughly enjoyed reading Thomas Keating's book Intimacy with God--An introduction to Centering Prayer.

I highly recommend it.  The book does not answer all the questions one might have regarding prayer, but it is, however, a wonderful reframing of how and why one might pray.  Simply put, we do not pray to appease God or to gain something from God or to magically end suffering.    

We pray to become  more and more aware of and grounded in God's love present for us and for the world.  

Centering prayer is the development of an awareness of the presence of God and the overwhelming love God possesses for you.  As Keating notes, "The Christian spiritual path is based on a deepening trust in God. . . And it is trust that guides the intimate refashioning of our being, the transformation of our pain, woundedness, and unconscious motivation into the person that God intended us to be."

Centering prayer is not petitionary or intercessory.  It is similar to Eastern meditation, and it is, at a very critical level, sitting in the presence of Holy Love and the awareness of this love for you and deepening that awareness and the relationship with God through it.   

Again, Centering Prayer does not answer all the questions, but it opens up the framework and paradigm that I find so compelling, and which I think the world sorely needs.   

I'd love to hear what you think.  

  

Blessings, 

  

Mark

August 21 weekly post

The soft amber light of the fading sun bathing the leaves of trees in downtown Stamford during these waning days of summer creates its own sense of relaxation and the illusion, however fleeting, of things slowing down.  It’s that feeling expressed with an audible “Aaaaaaah” at the end of a long day.  Letting out a sigh and letting go of the stress and worries and commitments.  They will all be there tomorrow, but for now there is respite.  For now the focus is elsewhere.   

(Imam, Kareem Adeeb)  

To be precise, the focus is on the end of the Ramadan fast for our Muslim brothers and sisters and the Iftar meal that marks this momentous day.  The setting for this observance by the local masjid and members of various churches and synagogues and friends of the InterFaith Council is First Congregational Church.  7:50 PM on Tuesday, August 16, the month of fasting concludes with an interreligious Iftar.   A simple community room teems with women in hijabs and flowing garments and men with beards and some sporting taqiyahs, along with teenagers in shorts and tennis shoes and grandparents in short-sleeve shirts fill this space with the cacophony of conversation and stories.  The imam, Kareem Adeeb, calls the entire group together, and, with a simple prayer declares the end to the fast.  A sweet, creamy drink is passed around.  Bananas, figs, and  pita bread are available for those seeking to quickly sate their hunger before a prayer service concludes the formal worship of this evening.   The informal worship continues downstairs with tables full of food.  Middle Eastern fare, Indian fare, and a host of other dishes delight everyone, and there is certainly something for everyone.  People mingle and, except for those in specific religious garb, it is hard to distinguish what tradition any one person is from.  The point being, I suppose, on some fundamental level, our humanity is a key connector.  The particular way that we live out our wonderment at the mysteries in life, seek to honor the sacred in our midst through the “other” and through creation, our desire for connection and community, and our efforts to support those in need are all secondary.  While important and vital to our life, they emerge from the common humanity that we share.   A short time into the meal imam Adeeb delivers an explanation regarding the month of Ramadan and its practices, the need to exercise this spiritual part of our being, and the heart of Muslim practice and engagement in interreligious dialogue that is  a wonderful expression of deep faith, a lively mind engaging the mystery and wonder of God, and a vibrant respect for the search by those in his own tradition as well as others.  It is truly inspiring and a message that more and more people need to hear.   I think about this expression--such hospitality and welcome to all who participated, a passionate engagement with one’s particular tradition, and an equal longing for connection with and respect of other traditions--versus the various other expressions of Islam in the world, and I know there is much more work to be done.  The message needs to spread.  Human connection at this level is key.

Yet, as I leave and the waning sun is overcome in Stamford only to rise elsewhere on our island home, I know these stresses and commitments will be there tomorrow.  For now, I enjoy the sigh and satisfaction of a beautiful service and meal, connecting across traditions, and the warm breeze of a waning summer night.  Aaaaahhhhh. 

 

Blessings, 

  

Mark 

  

/August 14 reflection

  I have a new found and a deeply profound respect for those who commute into New York City for work.  Along with receiving a wonderful education into the history of Anglicanism, I've also been schooled in the hectic and exhausting activity of the daily commute.  I will thankfully return to the exponentially smaller commute within the rectory next week.
 

The opportunity to experience another person's reality is a powerful thing.  We can get so caught up in our own worlds--and the rhythms therein--that we may find it difficult to imagine what life is like for another.  The past two weeks have made this abundantly clear to me.  Theoretical hypothesizing is quite different from actually experiencing time, space, and, in the instance of commuting, the crush of humanity.  It goes without saying that this actual change in our schedules can be uneasily disruptive.  

Yet, such disruptions--within reason--can be helpful to our growth and development (and certainly for our appreciation of how life may be for others).  In outdoor education, there is a wonderful phrase that seems applicable to all of life.  Getting out of your comfort zone is encouraged in low and high rope course work.  In the best of all possible worlds, and in a safe and protected environment, getting out of our comfort zone allows us to learn more about ourselves in ways we did not even know.  My comfort zone was certainly challenged this past week.

What I learned is too long for this piece, but I can say that I have gained a critical sense to the sheer exhaustion that can come with commuting.  I suppose people "get used to it" but the physical toll on this activity cannot be minimized.  Conversely, I also enjoyed and was energized by seeing a wave of humanity that is amazingly diverse and unique every single morning.  As one who grew up in the confines of rural Minnesota, I never quite get used to the radically complex amalgamation of human beings in New York City and on the East coast.  It truly is amazing and refreshing.  Lesson one attunes one to the fragility of life and the need for care.  Lesson two awakens one to the mystery and wonder of life.  Both found in the same commute.

Finally, I connect this commuting experience with the class I'm taking.  Yesterday, we were focused on one of the dismissal phrases of worship found in the Book of Common Prayer.  "Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit," is a phrase I had not stopped to consider critically.  The professor challenged the class on the implications of the phrase.  Does it mean:

 A.  That the worship is divorced from the world?  Basically, we are outside the world in worship and NOW we are heading into the REAL world.

 B.  That the world does not enter into the worship?  Basically, what we have done is true worship in the sanctuary and it has no affect in the world to which we now go.

Clearly, neither option is satisfactory.  As a tradition that is rooted in the incarnation, we seek to find ways to hold up that intersection of worship and world.  They are not divorced from each other, but they are parts of each other.  The world entering into our worship so that when we pray and commune, we do so rooted and grounded in reality.  The worship moving out into the world, so that the world is seen as an extension of the sanctuary and that the holy is potentially found everywhere and in each moment.  

While commuting is exhausting at times, I am acutely aware of how it is also a part of the world which enters into our worship, and I would hope that the awareness of the holy would impact the nature of this travel.  It's not just getting to work.  The travel, with the myriad others who make up this on-the-way-to-work community, can also be holy time.  Time and space to reflect, time and space to read, time and space to rest, time and space to dream.  Time and space where world and worship meet as they do so often in so many other parts of our life.   

 

Blessings, 

  

Mark

August 7 Post

As many of you may be aware, I have been attending an Anglican Studies course at General Theological Seminary this past week and will finish auditing the class next week.  All of this is to fulfill certain requirements to be received into the Episcopal Church, something I hope may take place--God willing--early next year.  There are a number of reasons for seeking to be received into the Episcopal Church, not least of which is that in my almost 20 years of ordained ministry almost 16 years of it have been spent in the Episcopal Church.  For all intents and purposes, I am quite Episcopalian. 

However, under the heading that you learn how much you don't know, this course of study has been extremely helpful.  To begin with, I was informed by Bishop Douglas that, though we see ourselves as Episcopal, we are part of a much larger fellowship of believers known as Anglicans.  At General Theological Seminary, I am learning that my bearings are probably more "Anglican" than they are "Lutheran".  Well, to the degree that you can essentialize anything--which is never--I am enamored of the innate flexibility that is a part of the Anglican tradition.

Rather than being a doctrinal or creedal tradition (which Roman Catholicism and Lutheranism are respectively), the Anglican tradition, at its best, expresses the following preferences:

Dialogue to Diatribe
Unity to Uniformity
Diversity to Division

Of course, in the immediate past, one might think that we have lost our way (and certainly there are those in the United States and in the larger Anglican Communion who want to force everyone into their understanding of God and, failing this, are willing to split the church).  However, I do believe that there are plenty of voices that are working for the better elements of life together that are expressed in Dialogue, Unity, and Diversity.  And I hope and trust that they will hold the day eventually. 

Regardless of the machinations of the larger church, the articulation of these preferences in the Anglican Communion makes me very happy to be at St. Francis.  I know that we don't always hit the mark as well as we might or should, but in my almost 10 years here, the ebb and flow and rhythm of life together has been marked by a desire to Dialogue--to express deeply held beliefs while also being willing to hear what other people think and feel and to respectfully discuss points of connection and disconnection.  I find that there are a wide spectrum of beliefs at St. Francis and, as far as I know, no one says that others must conform to one way of being Christian or a member of a faith community.  And the diversities that do exist among us seem not to drive us from each other, but there seems a real enjoyment of the variety of gifts that are present here. 

I like to believe that the Spirit of Christ (and of St. Francis and St. Claire and a host of others) is alive and well in those who gather week in and week out, who lead in so many ways and in so many arenas (the second collection noted this week is a prime example!), and that we endeavor to find our way in the world individually and collectively not by bulldozing a path we believe is the right way but by patiently engaging with each other and journeying together. 

So, while I continue this part of the journey at General, I also am very mindful of the blessings that are found at St. Francis and thank you for your part in it.
         

Blessings, 

  

Mark

Weekly Reflection--May 29

The following pictures seem to me the most appropriate response to the crazy machinations of doomsday prognosticator Harold Camping and those of his ilk.  Rather than get sucked into the media circus and expend any mental energy on a fantastical farce, the pictures that follow ground us and remind us of where God calls us to use our energies:  in this world, for God's people and God's world.  They are pictures taken within the last week and express the variety of activities at St. Francis (work on our buildings, concerts, Midnight Runs, clean up days!). 

As Blake Scalet aptly pointed out this past Sunday, rapture language and imagination is only a little over 100 years old.  Yet, the propensity to focus on that which is beyond us and to engage in the sturm und drang of judgment is, unfortunately, unavoidable and an interesting part of the human psyche.  However, like so many things in life, we can choose to disengage.  And the whole idea of rapture is a good thing to reject.   

 

(Hart Music Trio at Sounds Good concert)

One point of clarification needs to be voiced when discussing the end-of-times:  the misuse of the book of Revelation.  (A quick aside: a great litmus test to see if people have even a slight clue of what is found in the last book of the Bible is what they call that book.  More often than not, you will hear people refer to Revelations.  It is actually Revelation--no S.  As in The Revelation to John, which is the exact title of the book.)  

 

(Preparing the Midnight Run)

While doomsayers will create elaborate schemes for the bizarre symbolism of the book of Revelation--mainly utilized by the writer John of Patmos to protect the communities to which he wrote from the Roman persecutors of his day--they too often neglect the other texts that are present near the end of the book.

My favorite is:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. ²And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. ³And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; ⁴he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." ⁵And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new.". . .I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. ²³And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. ²⁴The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. ²⁵Its gates will never be shut by day-and there will be no night there. ²⁶People will bring into it the glory and the honor of the nations. ²⁷But nothing unclean will enter it.

 

(Alice Smith and Kimberly Miller during clean up day)

What is clear is that God brings about God's "end" (whatever that looks like).  Furthermore, the beauty of this ending in chapter 21 is that John envisions all the stuff of the world--the glory and honor of the nations--all the beauty and wonder and creativity and skill of the human race is brought into the city of God and nothing unclean will enter it.  Perhaps it is not our being pure and perfect that God desires, but God comes to us--in Christ and in the new Jerusalem--and God purifies whatever is impure in the world.  Not you.  Not me.  Not some bizarre prognosticators who are self-appointed nabobs of nothingness.  God brings about God's fulfillment.

And when we believe and trust that God is the one in charge and God is the one who has already begun the end by entering fully into  the world to redeem the world, well then our work becomes more focused.  We can be less concerned about who is in and out, and we can be more concerned about the fragility of the world in which we live or those who are discarded by others; or we can engage more fully in the life and the community we have been given to enjoy God's grace in the presence of an other and others.  This action, of course, is not filled with earth shattering visages of God or divine pronouncements, but do not be fooled:  in every act of grace and mercy, of love and healing, of engagement in and for the world a little more of the reign of God is revealed among us.  

Now, that's a vision I can live into.

    

Blessings, 

  

Mark