Part of my regular Christmas season celebration is having dinner with an old college friend (which is so much more literal now, since it's been almost 20 years since we graduated). The conversation and dinner go like this: wine and bread, accompanying the "Do you remember" chat. On to appetizers, with the catch me up on what you're doing. And the main course, where it takes about 15 minutes for us to get to the good stuff: the I'm not perfect, what was I thinking, and while I share this, I'll need another glass of wine conversation.
Then we linger over dessert, laughing over the people and events who made us doubt or cry or furious since the last time we had dinner.
"So my ex-husband is moving out-of-state," she offered (and yes, she read this and I have total permission to share the conversation).
She took another bite of some thirty-layer chocolate cake. I waited for her to say she was sad, that she realized feelings or something else.
"Is it bad that I'm so happy I can't stand it? That I'm delighted that he's LEAVING? That, while I don't hate him, I don't want him in my life and soul anymore, that his moving feels like an answer to my prayers?"
Their relationship had been troublesome and difficult for both of them, and running into him unexpectedly (or having him pop into her life, as he had done when she'd asked him to leave her alone) was bad. In fact, it sounded like his leaving was a good thing, giving her holy space. She smiled and let out a breath. "Good. I wondered if being a good Christian meant that I shouldn't feel like that."
I enjoy these moments of priesthood, where, because a bishop and other priests laid hands on me, I have the canonical authority and the Holy Spirit's authority to absolve. I love the moments even more when I get to remind people that forgiveness is not amnesia, nor is it allowing someone to live in your soul rent-free.
Oh, yes, we all have these spiritual squatters in our lives, the people - ex's, acquaintances, coworkers, family members, random people with whom we've gotten entangled - who live rent-free in our souls. Spiritual squatters often manifest as people who turn on that holy voice that says, "End this." Generally, when I am talking with friends or parishioners or random people, I don't feel that vibration in my soul that says, "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" We humans, though, will feel that danger instinct kick in, ignore it and walk right into the emotional trap. We may want to end the relationship, but as soon as we do, some voice, either the other person's or that annoying "good girl" who is part of our souls, keeps saying, "But you can't just evict someone from your life."
Yes, you can.
As one good friend puts it, relationships, friendships and otherwise, should be like plowing through reasonably good soil. Yes, you'll hit a rock every now and then, but when it feels like you're plowing through concrete all the time, drop the reins, leave the plow, and walk away from the field.
In other words, evict those who are living in your soul rent-free.
We usually engage these spiritual squatters out of fear: fear that evicting them from our lives will hurt too much, will be a mistake, or will signal that we aren't good because we couldn't be friends with such a soul-sucking person. Or we labor under the magical thinking that if we just work hard enough, the relationship will be okay.
The holy truth is that there are people in the world who we encounter, perhaps even build some relationship with, but find that talking to them or being in relationship with them is hurtful and unsafe to us. From the ones who are predators and unsafe emotionally and physically to us on one end to the people who will just constantly deplete our energies and time when we engage them on the other end, these soul-suckers are boundary-less wonders who need some holy eviction papers from our lives.
I've found that when we admit our souls have an unwanted occupant and we've been allowing them that sacred space, God does Her own miraculous work. The place in ourselves that we were so fearful would be a big hole when the soul squatters left turns out to heal rather quickly, if it even existed at all. We discover that our boundaries are in tact, our soul is complete, and that we have many, many people in our lives who will affirm our decision to evict. Then we can do our own spiritual work on why we engaged this situation, but that's holy work done later, not with the soul-squatter around.
Our selves and souls are too valuable to allow people to live rent-free, to engage constantly those who are simply not good for us, and our instincts (and great friends) will let you know who these people are in your life. Forgive them, yes. Forgive yourself, too. Wish them no ill will, and send them on their way, either simply out of your life.
Or out of state.
Either way, the eviction notice has gone out.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The Holy No
It is only the ability to say no that makes yes a thing worth saying. It is only the ability to say no that makes saying yes mean anything. It is only someone with the ability to say no, even to God, that God could possibly work with in the redemption of the entire creation.
The Rt. Rev. Stacy Sauls, in the ordination sermon of 20 December 2010
We don't usually think of, "No" as a holy word, a word of God. But it is. It is, in fact, perhaps one of the most important holy words. It is a word of choice, of boundary, of safety, and of, in fact, love. It is a word that reminds us the great responsibility of choice we humans have as we interact with each other and with God. We have options. We can discern. We can say, "Yes," and we can say, "No."
As children, we hear, "No," to protect us. No, don't touch that light socket. No, don't put your hand on that hot stove. No, don't play under the house (seriously, I've said this). We also learn to say no as children to protect ourselves and to begin to learn that we are not simply automatons, but little human beings with the ability to choose, although too many no's result in a time-out and a slightly aggravated parent.
Somewhere in our development, emotionally and spiritually, we learn to hear no as only rejection. And it is, at times. But even those rejections have kept me personally out of trouble and several unfortunate relationships with guys whose p.r. was better than the product. Even as grown-ups, we still need to hear, "No, don't touch that. It's bad for you."
No is a valuable guide in our journey. It serves as a rudder, a word that can direct us in our lives and in our ministries, as well as protect us. The nativity story in Matthew has Joseph rationally deciding quietly to put Mary away, to tell her, "No, I will not marry you." Then he has a dream in which an angel of God says to Joseph, "No, don't do that. Wrong decision, my friend."
Or something along those lines, but we get the picture. No is the word that guides Joseph back on track, that aligns himself with Mary's, "Yes," and with God's plan of salvation. Joseph makes a decision, and God says, "No." Joseph doesn't spend time wringing his hands over how he was wrong or, even better, telling four or five friends how he is actually right and no one will affirm him, not even God, so he will do it his way, anyway. Nope, he just hears God's, "No," regroups, and changes course.
We do, of course, get the edited version. I suspect there was a bit of hemming and hawing about the dream, if not a dash of, "OMG, an angel visited me!" But we do get the point.
Joseph, too, could have said no to God, and God would have resorted to Plan B (or whatever version of the plan God was on at the time). Which makes Joseph going back to Mary and doing as God asked that much more powerful.
We all hear no's in our life. We do. And we say no, as well. Some are unfair. Some are wrong (yes, we make mistakes). And some are exactly what we need to hear or say at that time. Those no's are the hidden jewels in our lives, the ones that give us a prism to view decisions and choices. Truth is, in faith, our yes's to God are intertwined with no's. To say yes to one ministry inevitably means saying no to other ministries. For me to serve as rector of one parish meant saying no to others. And therein is the great value of no, that it means we have to chose and we have to let God and others choose, as well.
What do we do with the no's we hear in our lives? Do we get angry and badger the other until s/he is beaten down and enslaved by our need to hear yes, until the other simply says what we want to hear, regardless of whether it's true or not? Do we dismantle and attack the one who said no because we feel rejected, never allowing ourselves to hear their no as a guidepost in our lives, suggesting another direction or opportunity for growth? Or do we find a way to feel whatever hurt we may feel at "no" while offering ourselves to God to change direction, to reconsider, and to rethink?
Hey, I never said hearing "no" was easy. The holiest things in our lives aren't.
No is a holy word. When we hear it with our selves and souls, it can keep us from heading too far afield in our lives or give us time to develop so when we do hear yes, we are ready and willing. When we encounter those who refuse to hear our no's, we encounter a person who doesn't want us to exercise our power of choice in relationship, but instead wants us to be as s/he defines us, not who we truly are. When we learn and mature enough spiritually and emotionally to sink into the holiness of no, we more fully become the someones with the abilities that God can work with in the redemption of the entire creation.
To read Bp. Sauls' complete sermon, click here
The Rt. Rev. Stacy Sauls, in the ordination sermon of 20 December 2010
We don't usually think of, "No" as a holy word, a word of God. But it is. It is, in fact, perhaps one of the most important holy words. It is a word of choice, of boundary, of safety, and of, in fact, love. It is a word that reminds us the great responsibility of choice we humans have as we interact with each other and with God. We have options. We can discern. We can say, "Yes," and we can say, "No."
As children, we hear, "No," to protect us. No, don't touch that light socket. No, don't put your hand on that hot stove. No, don't play under the house (seriously, I've said this). We also learn to say no as children to protect ourselves and to begin to learn that we are not simply automatons, but little human beings with the ability to choose, although too many no's result in a time-out and a slightly aggravated parent.
Somewhere in our development, emotionally and spiritually, we learn to hear no as only rejection. And it is, at times. But even those rejections have kept me personally out of trouble and several unfortunate relationships with guys whose p.r. was better than the product. Even as grown-ups, we still need to hear, "No, don't touch that. It's bad for you."
No is a valuable guide in our journey. It serves as a rudder, a word that can direct us in our lives and in our ministries, as well as protect us. The nativity story in Matthew has Joseph rationally deciding quietly to put Mary away, to tell her, "No, I will not marry you." Then he has a dream in which an angel of God says to Joseph, "No, don't do that. Wrong decision, my friend."
Or something along those lines, but we get the picture. No is the word that guides Joseph back on track, that aligns himself with Mary's, "Yes," and with God's plan of salvation. Joseph makes a decision, and God says, "No." Joseph doesn't spend time wringing his hands over how he was wrong or, even better, telling four or five friends how he is actually right and no one will affirm him, not even God, so he will do it his way, anyway. Nope, he just hears God's, "No," regroups, and changes course.
We do, of course, get the edited version. I suspect there was a bit of hemming and hawing about the dream, if not a dash of, "OMG, an angel visited me!" But we do get the point.
Joseph, too, could have said no to God, and God would have resorted to Plan B (or whatever version of the plan God was on at the time). Which makes Joseph going back to Mary and doing as God asked that much more powerful.
We all hear no's in our life. We do. And we say no, as well. Some are unfair. Some are wrong (yes, we make mistakes). And some are exactly what we need to hear or say at that time. Those no's are the hidden jewels in our lives, the ones that give us a prism to view decisions and choices. Truth is, in faith, our yes's to God are intertwined with no's. To say yes to one ministry inevitably means saying no to other ministries. For me to serve as rector of one parish meant saying no to others. And therein is the great value of no, that it means we have to chose and we have to let God and others choose, as well.
What do we do with the no's we hear in our lives? Do we get angry and badger the other until s/he is beaten down and enslaved by our need to hear yes, until the other simply says what we want to hear, regardless of whether it's true or not? Do we dismantle and attack the one who said no because we feel rejected, never allowing ourselves to hear their no as a guidepost in our lives, suggesting another direction or opportunity for growth? Or do we find a way to feel whatever hurt we may feel at "no" while offering ourselves to God to change direction, to reconsider, and to rethink?
Hey, I never said hearing "no" was easy. The holiest things in our lives aren't.
No is a holy word. When we hear it with our selves and souls, it can keep us from heading too far afield in our lives or give us time to develop so when we do hear yes, we are ready and willing. When we encounter those who refuse to hear our no's, we encounter a person who doesn't want us to exercise our power of choice in relationship, but instead wants us to be as s/he defines us, not who we truly are. When we learn and mature enough spiritually and emotionally to sink into the holiness of no, we more fully become the someones with the abilities that God can work with in the redemption of the entire creation.
To read Bp. Sauls' complete sermon, click here
Monday, December 20, 2010
Bullies
There is a lot on the news lately about bullies. Bullying is the problem du jour. Attractive celebrities make cool videos about bullying. We can hear our mothers’ voices in the back of our heads saying: “when you grow up, this will all get better.” Well, we are grown up.
We have grown up, and amazingly enough, the bully has grown up as well. Maybe the hair pulling has stopped, but the ability to inflict pain remains. The name calling has changed and taken on a new level of sophistication.
We are not being pushed off swings, but we are being pushed around. Bullies do not use their fists as much, but they still manipulate, control, and threaten. And we still feel frightened, belittled, and even demoralized.
All the experts say that bullies are cowards really, but a coward with power over another person is still dangerous. All the experts say that bullies have low self-esteem, but when someone is so low, they aim low blows. The question is still the same: what do we do when confronted by a bully?
My impulse is the same as third grade: run! Apparently, everyone else has the same impulse because those bullies still exist. My other impulse is to find a brick, wait for the bully to look away, and then brain the bully. Unfortunately, while that may be satisfying, it would probably lead to meeting more bullies in prison. So what do we do?
What do we do when we are confronted by a bully? What do we do when that bully is our coworker, a clergy person, a neighbor, a sibling, or a spouse? What do we do when our self-esteem is systematically being stripped away?
It is when we are being bullied that we feel the most alone. We feel powerless. Will anyone help us escape? Will anyone be able to stand up against the foe?
But that is what we have to do, isn’t it? We have to stand up against the bully. We have to stand up against the bully alone because no one else is willing or able. We, alone, may even have to withstand the bully’s blows. We must stand toe to toe.
We must stand toe to toe with bullies, wherever they are. We do not have to swing back, but we have to stand up. We must stand up even when we are vulnerable and weak and frightened of the blow to come. We must stand up even when no one else will stand up with us.
Will standing up vanquish the bully? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes the bully will stop. Sometimes the bully will pound in your skull. Most importantly though is that standing up will vanquish our inner bully who works overtime to tear down our confidence. And as those experts say, bullies like to prey on those who have low self esteem. As your confidence grows, so does your strength (and safety from bullies).
It is a wonder if bullies will ever eventually disappear. Can we train children out of bullying? Can we confront ever instance of bullying? Will bullying ever really go away? Or will the aggressor and victim just change positions? Will it get better?
I believe it will get better. We have an image of that time and place, where the lamb and wolf lie down together. The playing field is leveled and no one is left out of the game. It will get better when the victim and aggressor will sit together at the table in God’s peaceable kingdom. Until then…
We have grown up, and amazingly enough, the bully has grown up as well. Maybe the hair pulling has stopped, but the ability to inflict pain remains. The name calling has changed and taken on a new level of sophistication.
We are not being pushed off swings, but we are being pushed around. Bullies do not use their fists as much, but they still manipulate, control, and threaten. And we still feel frightened, belittled, and even demoralized.
All the experts say that bullies are cowards really, but a coward with power over another person is still dangerous. All the experts say that bullies have low self-esteem, but when someone is so low, they aim low blows. The question is still the same: what do we do when confronted by a bully?
My impulse is the same as third grade: run! Apparently, everyone else has the same impulse because those bullies still exist. My other impulse is to find a brick, wait for the bully to look away, and then brain the bully. Unfortunately, while that may be satisfying, it would probably lead to meeting more bullies in prison. So what do we do?
What do we do when we are confronted by a bully? What do we do when that bully is our coworker, a clergy person, a neighbor, a sibling, or a spouse? What do we do when our self-esteem is systematically being stripped away?
It is when we are being bullied that we feel the most alone. We feel powerless. Will anyone help us escape? Will anyone be able to stand up against the foe?
But that is what we have to do, isn’t it? We have to stand up against the bully. We have to stand up against the bully alone because no one else is willing or able. We, alone, may even have to withstand the bully’s blows. We must stand toe to toe.
We must stand toe to toe with bullies, wherever they are. We do not have to swing back, but we have to stand up. We must stand up even when we are vulnerable and weak and frightened of the blow to come. We must stand up even when no one else will stand up with us.
Will standing up vanquish the bully? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes the bully will stop. Sometimes the bully will pound in your skull. Most importantly though is that standing up will vanquish our inner bully who works overtime to tear down our confidence. And as those experts say, bullies like to prey on those who have low self esteem. As your confidence grows, so does your strength (and safety from bullies).
It is a wonder if bullies will ever eventually disappear. Can we train children out of bullying? Can we confront ever instance of bullying? Will bullying ever really go away? Or will the aggressor and victim just change positions? Will it get better?
I believe it will get better. We have an image of that time and place, where the lamb and wolf lie down together. The playing field is leveled and no one is left out of the game. It will get better when the victim and aggressor will sit together at the table in God’s peaceable kingdom. Until then…
Thursday, December 16, 2010
People Look East!
From the beginning of the written human experience, the east has been symbolic of birth and rebirth, of creation and recreation. The sun rises in the east to begin each new day. Genesis tells us that God created the Garden of Eden in the east. The powerful east wind of the breath of God drove back the waters of the Red Sea and created a path of liberation for the Hebrews. Even the star of the Magi showed itself in the east. St. John of Damascus instructed early Christians to adore the risen Christ facing east, the place where Jesus ascended to heaven and where he will come again. Early churches were built with their altars facing east so that priests and laity together could celebrate the Eucharist facing the symbolic direction of new life in Christ. Christian burials spoke of hope from the east. Graveyards abound with the feet of the deceased pointed east so they can stand to face the returning Christ. Slaves probably started this custom of burying the dead facing east, because east was not only the direction of the return of the liberating Christ, it was also the direction of home - Africa.
For Christians and Jews, East is more that a simple map direction. It is our reminder that we are a people of hope in our home with God, no matter how distant that hope or home may seem at times. And there are times when our hopes and homes seem far away.
Before the Common Era, in the late 6th century, King Nebuchadnezzar decreed that the Jews must leave Israel and Judah. Thus began the Babylonian Exile, a period of about forty years where God’s chosen were forced to leave their homes and families and live in a foreign land. They were forced to leave the temple, which would eventually be destroyed. For our modern faith, we understand the presence of God as with us always, but for the ancient Jews, the temple was it. No other place to worship. No other place to gather for formal prayer. So to be sent out of the land and away from the temple really was, to many, being sent away from God.
That feeling of exile is a very human experience. Being forced from our homes and lives as they were or as we think they should be. Forced to leave everything and everyone behind, not knowing if we’ll ever see anything familiar again or feel joy again. Even, maybe feeling exiled from our faith and our hope, that all our joy is behind us. We may never experience the tragedy of the Babylonian Exile, but in our world and lives, people are still exiled. We are exiled. Violence tears apart communities and families, flinging them from their land and their lives. Poverty and financial anxiety crush hope in all parts of the globe and in our communities. Human failing exiles those who want to be included. Death exiles us from loved ones, at least for now. And darkness finds all of us in our lives. Tragedy, unfortunate circumstance, sadness, and grief enclose us in the valley of shadows. In short, we all have times in our lives where hope and home seem far away. We all experience exile into sorrow and darkness, to places where we are mired in unhappiness, tragedy, and life gone awry.
While the holy season of Advent is one of anticipation and waiting, it is also a season where we can admit the difficulty of human life. During this time of year, we are all vulnerable to moments of grief and sadness for loved ones who have died, for disappointments of the past year, for anxiety about the coming year, or for those places where life seems to have jumped completely off the track and hope is too far away to see. Advent is a season where we remember the stories of our ancestors and their exiles into sadness and darkness. In readings and hymns, we hear their laments and their cries, which don’t sound that differently from the laments of our world today. Grief and sorrow are not competitive events; everyone’s wounds hurt. God never asks us to pretend bad things don’t happen in life or that we don’t feel lost and alone, and I worry for those who skip over the grief, who ignore their pain. In our confession of pain and sadness, God finds space to remind us that hope and home are never far away.
The Scribe Baruch tells Jerusalem, banished from their land, their families, and feeling exiled from their God, to take off the garment of sorrow, and put on the robe of God’s love. Look east, and see hope, see the future, see the glory of a new day. Baruch’s words almost sound pithy. “Hey, I know the past few decades have been really, really bad, but chin up, God’s still God and Israel will walk safely with her Lord,” he writes.
Pithy, maybe. But Baruch’s words are true, no matter how difficult they may be to hear. And honestly, words of hope and comfort are some of the hardest words for us to hear when we are exiled in the grief of our own worries and troubles. Too often because others are trying to minimize our experience of exile or to redeem darkness. Redemption is God's purview. And redemption is what the prophets tell us -that our hope in God is never lost. We have to trust that God is God, that God is comforting those in distress, and that God never leaves us alone.
We are humans living life that is not fair or even fun at times. Tragedy, sorrow, disappointment, and grief are simply facets of the human experience. Advent acknowledges that, despite the happy gloss our culture puts on the season. The wisdom of Advent also reminds us that we are God’s, and that hope and love are always with us. God is with us, loving us and comforting us when we are glorious and loving us when we stumble and fall and make a huge mess of things.
As Christians, we do not live our new life in Christ so that bad things won’t happen, but to support and sustain us when bad things do happen. We do not pretend that life is filled always and only with joy, but that life is a complex blend of light and darkness, and that somehow, someway, God needs the darkness so we can see the comforting light. Comfort may be God’s work alone, some act of love , mercy, and understanding in the sole purview of the Almighty, and our job is simply to trust in the Holy Comforter.
So may we indeed have the grace to hear the message of the prophets: not only the message of our call to prepare the way of the Lord, but also by remembering that our hope is in God. May we know deep within our valleys of sadness and despair that our comfort is with God, even when we’re not sure how that comfort will happen or even if it can happen. And may we lift up our heads and hearts, heavy with whatever sorrow, grief, or desperation we may have, and look to the place of new birth, of new life and resurrection, and of new hope.
So people, look East, and sing today. Love the lord is on the way.
From the sermon preached at St. Michael the Archangel Episcopal Church's Service of Solace.
For Christians and Jews, East is more that a simple map direction. It is our reminder that we are a people of hope in our home with God, no matter how distant that hope or home may seem at times. And there are times when our hopes and homes seem far away.
Before the Common Era, in the late 6th century, King Nebuchadnezzar decreed that the Jews must leave Israel and Judah. Thus began the Babylonian Exile, a period of about forty years where God’s chosen were forced to leave their homes and families and live in a foreign land. They were forced to leave the temple, which would eventually be destroyed. For our modern faith, we understand the presence of God as with us always, but for the ancient Jews, the temple was it. No other place to worship. No other place to gather for formal prayer. So to be sent out of the land and away from the temple really was, to many, being sent away from God.
That feeling of exile is a very human experience. Being forced from our homes and lives as they were or as we think they should be. Forced to leave everything and everyone behind, not knowing if we’ll ever see anything familiar again or feel joy again. Even, maybe feeling exiled from our faith and our hope, that all our joy is behind us. We may never experience the tragedy of the Babylonian Exile, but in our world and lives, people are still exiled. We are exiled. Violence tears apart communities and families, flinging them from their land and their lives. Poverty and financial anxiety crush hope in all parts of the globe and in our communities. Human failing exiles those who want to be included. Death exiles us from loved ones, at least for now. And darkness finds all of us in our lives. Tragedy, unfortunate circumstance, sadness, and grief enclose us in the valley of shadows. In short, we all have times in our lives where hope and home seem far away. We all experience exile into sorrow and darkness, to places where we are mired in unhappiness, tragedy, and life gone awry.
While the holy season of Advent is one of anticipation and waiting, it is also a season where we can admit the difficulty of human life. During this time of year, we are all vulnerable to moments of grief and sadness for loved ones who have died, for disappointments of the past year, for anxiety about the coming year, or for those places where life seems to have jumped completely off the track and hope is too far away to see. Advent is a season where we remember the stories of our ancestors and their exiles into sadness and darkness. In readings and hymns, we hear their laments and their cries, which don’t sound that differently from the laments of our world today. Grief and sorrow are not competitive events; everyone’s wounds hurt. God never asks us to pretend bad things don’t happen in life or that we don’t feel lost and alone, and I worry for those who skip over the grief, who ignore their pain. In our confession of pain and sadness, God finds space to remind us that hope and home are never far away.
The Scribe Baruch tells Jerusalem, banished from their land, their families, and feeling exiled from their God, to take off the garment of sorrow, and put on the robe of God’s love. Look east, and see hope, see the future, see the glory of a new day. Baruch’s words almost sound pithy. “Hey, I know the past few decades have been really, really bad, but chin up, God’s still God and Israel will walk safely with her Lord,” he writes.
Pithy, maybe. But Baruch’s words are true, no matter how difficult they may be to hear. And honestly, words of hope and comfort are some of the hardest words for us to hear when we are exiled in the grief of our own worries and troubles. Too often because others are trying to minimize our experience of exile or to redeem darkness. Redemption is God's purview. And redemption is what the prophets tell us -that our hope in God is never lost. We have to trust that God is God, that God is comforting those in distress, and that God never leaves us alone.
We are humans living life that is not fair or even fun at times. Tragedy, sorrow, disappointment, and grief are simply facets of the human experience. Advent acknowledges that, despite the happy gloss our culture puts on the season. The wisdom of Advent also reminds us that we are God’s, and that hope and love are always with us. God is with us, loving us and comforting us when we are glorious and loving us when we stumble and fall and make a huge mess of things.
As Christians, we do not live our new life in Christ so that bad things won’t happen, but to support and sustain us when bad things do happen. We do not pretend that life is filled always and only with joy, but that life is a complex blend of light and darkness, and that somehow, someway, God needs the darkness so we can see the comforting light. Comfort may be God’s work alone, some act of love , mercy, and understanding in the sole purview of the Almighty, and our job is simply to trust in the Holy Comforter.
So may we indeed have the grace to hear the message of the prophets: not only the message of our call to prepare the way of the Lord, but also by remembering that our hope is in God. May we know deep within our valleys of sadness and despair that our comfort is with God, even when we’re not sure how that comfort will happen or even if it can happen. And may we lift up our heads and hearts, heavy with whatever sorrow, grief, or desperation we may have, and look to the place of new birth, of new life and resurrection, and of new hope.
So people, look East, and sing today. Love the lord is on the way.
From the sermon preached at St. Michael the Archangel Episcopal Church's Service of Solace.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Joy before us
Christians are people of hope. It may be hard to believe but true. We are people of hope, like Annie singing about the sun coming out tomorrow we are looking for that sun. We look forward- the tomb is empty, the Lord is on the move. Joy is ahead of us.
Joy is ahead of us, and yet, sometimes it feels like joy is behind us. If you have suffered a trauma (a death, relationship implosion, personal or professional failure) you know what I am talking about. Sure, you are working through the hurt with healing on the horizon, but is joy still out there?
We feel like joy is in the realm of childhood. Once you have been dragged kicking and screaming from that childhood by trauma, it seems that the Garden of Eden is closed with an angel with flaming sword at the gate. Joy was easy before, laughter was easy before. Now, well, you are grown up and you know better.
We are people of hope, but do we have joy? Will we have joy again? It seems impossible. It is impossible…for us. It is impossible for us because joy is a miracle, and we cannot make miracles.
Joy is a miraculous gift, striking at an unknown time in an unknown place, like a thief or bridegroom. When joy strikes, we are offered the opportunity to take that gift. We can say yes, or we can say no. Surprisingly or not surprisingly, healing travels with joy, and so does great risk.
Joy travels with healing and risk. Joy urges us forward. Joy encourages us to say yes even with the possibility of personal danger and loss looming. Joy is before us, glorious with scars in its hands and feet waiting for the Christian to follow with hope.
Joy is ahead of us, and yet, sometimes it feels like joy is behind us. If you have suffered a trauma (a death, relationship implosion, personal or professional failure) you know what I am talking about. Sure, you are working through the hurt with healing on the horizon, but is joy still out there?
We feel like joy is in the realm of childhood. Once you have been dragged kicking and screaming from that childhood by trauma, it seems that the Garden of Eden is closed with an angel with flaming sword at the gate. Joy was easy before, laughter was easy before. Now, well, you are grown up and you know better.
We are people of hope, but do we have joy? Will we have joy again? It seems impossible. It is impossible…for us. It is impossible for us because joy is a miracle, and we cannot make miracles.
Joy is a miraculous gift, striking at an unknown time in an unknown place, like a thief or bridegroom. When joy strikes, we are offered the opportunity to take that gift. We can say yes, or we can say no. Surprisingly or not surprisingly, healing travels with joy, and so does great risk.
Joy travels with healing and risk. Joy urges us forward. Joy encourages us to say yes even with the possibility of personal danger and loss looming. Joy is before us, glorious with scars in its hands and feet waiting for the Christian to follow with hope.
Does this look like love?
This is the season of love incarnate. Well, actually, every season in the Christian church is about love incarnate in some form, but Christmas is where we are right now. Stay tuned for other theological musings about incarnate love for other seasons.
Can you imagine the surprise, when the prophets and sages and faithful men and women pondered and hypothesized and prayed about how the incarnate God of love would appear, to discover a baby. A little baby, born in a barn. We may get all cute about a barn at Christmas, but if you've ever spent time in one, it stinks. Cow poo stinks. Sheep wool stinks. Dirty hay, piles of stuff that doesn't lend itself to being scraped off the bottom of your shoe easily, and animals chewing cud and regurgitating. And having been around babies, they don't always smell like a rose, either.
The p.r. people were thinking, "Why not a palace throne room? Even the portico of a nice house? But a barn?"
Oh yes, a barn. Among the least of these. We perhaps should have taken the hint at God's incarnation that love almost always looks a bit unusual and unexpected. Holy love, the pure, honest kind that lifts us up and salves our wounds, is rarely decorated with lace and trimmings. In fact, in my experience, when someone wraps up their proclamations of love with lace and sayings that fell out of a Hallmark card, it's more about appearances than love.
Love incarnate in our lives is also a bit unusual and unexpected. Love's incarnate acts are subtle and imperceptible, even. The funny card in the mail. The moment in the crazy day or week or month where you hear, "Oh, let me take care of this." The quiet morning before an insanely busy day. The memory of a loved one that flashes across our hearts and causes us to smile or laugh. The acts that respond to needs in a good and helpful and healthy way. I have a great pair of Italian leather shoes with the downside of having some coated shoestrings that always, always come untied when I wear them. While walking with one of my friends who loves me, I had to stop for the hundredth time to tie my shoes. Until he knelt beside me and double-knotted my shoes. They are still tied, those knots of love.
Love is patient, love is kind. It looks out for the needs of others without thinking about how others will be beholden to them, without keeping others on some proverbial string. Love blooms where it's planted - barn, homeless shelter, or on the front porch rocking chairs with a glass of bourbon and silly stories. Love doesn't tell you constantly how life without that type of love will be bad, but stands fearlessly and courageously with you (and will also tell you it's okay to be scared). Love laughs at inappropriate moments, cries the ugly cry, and ties uncomplicated knots that rarely come undone.
Love came down at Christmas, just to remind us what it really looks like.
Can you imagine the surprise, when the prophets and sages and faithful men and women pondered and hypothesized and prayed about how the incarnate God of love would appear, to discover a baby. A little baby, born in a barn. We may get all cute about a barn at Christmas, but if you've ever spent time in one, it stinks. Cow poo stinks. Sheep wool stinks. Dirty hay, piles of stuff that doesn't lend itself to being scraped off the bottom of your shoe easily, and animals chewing cud and regurgitating. And having been around babies, they don't always smell like a rose, either.
The p.r. people were thinking, "Why not a palace throne room? Even the portico of a nice house? But a barn?"
Oh yes, a barn. Among the least of these. We perhaps should have taken the hint at God's incarnation that love almost always looks a bit unusual and unexpected. Holy love, the pure, honest kind that lifts us up and salves our wounds, is rarely decorated with lace and trimmings. In fact, in my experience, when someone wraps up their proclamations of love with lace and sayings that fell out of a Hallmark card, it's more about appearances than love.
Love incarnate in our lives is also a bit unusual and unexpected. Love's incarnate acts are subtle and imperceptible, even. The funny card in the mail. The moment in the crazy day or week or month where you hear, "Oh, let me take care of this." The quiet morning before an insanely busy day. The memory of a loved one that flashes across our hearts and causes us to smile or laugh. The acts that respond to needs in a good and helpful and healthy way. I have a great pair of Italian leather shoes with the downside of having some coated shoestrings that always, always come untied when I wear them. While walking with one of my friends who loves me, I had to stop for the hundredth time to tie my shoes. Until he knelt beside me and double-knotted my shoes. They are still tied, those knots of love.
Love is patient, love is kind. It looks out for the needs of others without thinking about how others will be beholden to them, without keeping others on some proverbial string. Love blooms where it's planted - barn, homeless shelter, or on the front porch rocking chairs with a glass of bourbon and silly stories. Love doesn't tell you constantly how life without that type of love will be bad, but stands fearlessly and courageously with you (and will also tell you it's okay to be scared). Love laughs at inappropriate moments, cries the ugly cry, and ties uncomplicated knots that rarely come undone.
Love came down at Christmas, just to remind us what it really looks like.
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