soulwerker

Plenty of people are writing the story of 2011 — what happened, who died, what started, what ended — the story in events, pictures and people. Plenty of other people are offering all the usual advice about appropriate resolutions for the new year, while simultaneously explaining to us the likelihood most (if not all) of our resolutions will come to naught — good intentions dashed to pieces on the rocky shores of day to day living. Sure, the “last day of the year” and the “first day of the year” are arbitrary. A “new year” begins tomorrow only because of the tacit agreement throughout most of the world to observe it as so.

I think I’ve learned a few lessons this year, though, and as I think back over the previous 365 days, it seemed “meet and right” (and maybe even my “bounden duty”) to reflect on what 2011 has taught me. Here goes:

I learned that I’m happiest when working on a “big goal”. The Tour de DioMil (http://www.tourdediomil.weebly.com) was my sabbatical project and represented the biggest physical challenge of any sort I had ever undertaken. The goal of raising a bunch of money for three charities, meeting my fellow Episcopalians throughout southern Wisconsin and seeing the countryside in the process was an idea that “came to me” — and unlike so many previous big ideas — I actually followed through on this one! In the end, I had the privilege of riding 538 miles in nine days (with two rest days), and together with other participants in the Tour and the steadfast support of Trinity Church in Wauwatosa, WI, we raised a bit over $20,000 in the process. The memories of those two weeks will remain with me as long as I have a memory.

I learned that I don’t have to do all the work — that others will help if asked. For all the joy that the Tour represented for me, it would have never happened were it not for the consistent and dedicated work of LOTS of people! Details aren’t generally my passion, but I was delighted to discover that other folks were willing to help me realize my dream…and that there were plenty of people who were energized by the goal.

I learned that I love to meet new people and experience new places. My trip to Ireland was my first ever trip outside of the United States. I learned so much about hospitality while I was there, as a guest in a little village of 300. I really learned the value of neighborliness, of slowing down, and of relishing a meal with friends. I can hardly wait for my next trip and I look forward to going with my family next time! This is a great, big world. It’s so easy to let our world get smaller and smaller. And at the risk of sounding trite, I want my mind to expand through the last (hopefully) half of my life, not constrict with the opinions and attitudes that result from cultural myopia.

I learned that I do better work when I take care of myself. OK, there has been so much written about this in the wellness field, it should be a given, but the tendency toward cranking out lots of hours in hopes of somehow proving something to others is an addictive-like behavior that is glorified in our culture and deeply embedded in my family of origin. I’m doing better since my return from sabbatical in October, but there’s still some opportunity for improvement.

I learned that I can say “No” and the world won’t end. Upon my return from sabbatical, I stopped doing some things that I had been doing — things that were time/energy consuming, but gave me very little satisfaction in return. When I jettisoned those things from my schedule, I discovered the joy that came from being just a bit less harried and rushed.

I learned that time invested in one’s primary relationships is indispensable for the growth of those relationships. There is no “quality” time without “quantity” time. Sometimes the most important thing one can do is to do nothing at all with the people with whom we share our lives. As a priest, I often pray with folks during their last days and hours in this life — and the cliche is true — no one ever says, “You know, Gary, I wish I had spend more time at work.” This year, I began to learn that lesson for myself too.

Finally, I learned that I’d rather be known as a person of prayer than an “effective rector”. Now, I don’t think those two things are mutually exclusive, but during my sabbatical, I came to understand it’s easier to do “rector-stuff” than it is to sit still and pray.  Of course, once I identified my desire to be a better “pray-er” I began to confront my struggles with the enterprise. So, I haven’t arrived as a person of prayer, but I think I’m a bit further down the path.

As I look back over the year — with its ups and downs; things done and left undone; successes and failures — I’m delighted to report I’m facing into the waning hours of 2011 with a feeling of settledness that hasn’t often been a part of my internal emotional wiring. In a break from years past, I haven’t crafted a long list of resolutions to carry with me into tomorrow. Instead, I’m going to endeavor to take my 2011 lessons into 2012. I resolve to build on those lessons and see where the Spirit leads. That should be enough.

A couple of days ago, my brother-in-law’s mother died. She had been dealing with a myriad of health issues over the past dozen years, but her death was still very much unexpected. There is never a “good time” to lose a loved one, but somehow, losing a loved one during this particular season always magnifies the loss. I first met Dot over twenty-five years ago, during a time in my life when I was struggling with all sorts of things — relationship issues, employment uncertainty, a battle with depression to name a few. I received firsthand the healing benefit of Dot’s down-home hospitality. I won’t be able to attend her funeral tomorrow, December 23rd, because my work in Wisconsin requires my presence here. 

So, when my brother-in-law asked me to provide a few resources to assist in the family in planning the funeral, I did what any preacher would do. I wrote a sermon. I offer it here for a couple of reasons: 1) as a tribute to Dot and 2) for all of those who have lost loved ones in the past year and are facing this Christmas without a family member for the first time.

We often hear that Christmas is a season of hope. Christians say our hope is not futile — because such hope is made possible through the Resurrection. 

God bless you, Dot! May you rest in peace and rise in glory.

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She was a fixture in that front door. Anytime someone pulled into the driveway in front of her house — before they could even get out of the car — she was standing at the door. OK, let’s be honest, Dorothy liked to know what was going on, and she was always interested in seeing who was going up and down “her” road. But any time someone got out of the car and started toward the fence, the visitor could be fairly confident that Dorothy would offer them a greeting and an invitation. “Hey there!” she’d say…and then in the second breath, “Come on in the house.”

Once inside, there was usually a pitcher of “liquid hospitality” in the form of iced tea (sweetened heavily, of course!), and Dot was usually insistent enough that you would likely have a glass (or two!). If you stayed longer than 15 or 20 minutes, there was a good chance Dot was going to do her best to feed you. And she usually accomplished this task too! Before her health declined, Dot could whip up a stove full of food — the sort of food that would make the cooks at Cracker Barrel jealous — “good, old Georgia food,” she called it.

Conversation at the front door. Conversation in the living room. Conversation in the kitchen. Conversation between sips of iced tea. Conversation over black-eyed peas, rice, cubed steak and gravy. The open hospitality of eating together. The give and take of conversation.

Dot would listen to your stories and she would give you some of hers. Sometimes a simple chat about the weather would lead you to telling Dot things you hadn’t intended to tell her. Sometimes you’d be chatting along and she would offer you her opinion — directly and with little fanfare. You didn’t have to agree with Dot’s point of view, but that reality never stopped her from giving it to you — the facts as she saw them. She was tenacious that way.

The English word “conversation” comes from a Latin word which means “to change”. To have an exchange of words, a sharing of ideas, a meeting of human hearts — these are the sorts of things that change us. Dot might have never known it, but she changed (quite often for the better), every person who was the beneficiary of her hospitality.

It’s no accident that when the biblical writers imagined “life with God” in the fulness of the time we call “eternity”, their imagery often pointed towards a place and time where people could talk — to one another and to God — uninterrupted, unimpeded and without fear. When the prophet Isaiah calls to mind the great Day of the Lord, he imagines a feast (Isaiah 25:6-9). What better way to get to know folks than to eat with them? (I’m guessing Dot would offer a hearty “Amen!” to that!)

When John sees his vision of the Heavenly City in Revelation, he imagines a place free of the pain and sorrows that surround us here — not unlike the pain and suffering Dot experienced during the last few years of her life. To be with God is to be in a place where there’s plenty to eat and drink. To be with God is to be in a place where there’s an absence of fear, separation and dread. To be with God is to be in the place where God Almighty holds the Kleenex to wipe away every tear from every eye. (Revelation 21:2-7)

When Jesus tells his disciples of his impending departure (John 14:1-6), he promises them that there is a place reserved for them in his “Father’s house”. The King James Version of the Bible says there are “many mansions”. Bottom line — each of us is promised a place where we are known — known more deeply than we can imagine this side of eternity. We are known and loved by the God who loved us enough to enter fully into the human condition — living this life and dying our death. This is the God who insistently invites us to share in the eternal hospitality promised to all people through Jesus, the Christ.

Dot will missed. Her family and friends will mourn her passing from this life. Her closest loved ones will grieve and cry in the days ahead as they learn to navigate their lives in her absence. Grief, sorrow, mourning and loss — these are the natural human emotions which are a part of the experience for those of us who remain after a loved one dies. But when we face the starkness of death, we do not do so as people with no hope. As Christians, we are comforted by the faith that tells us the end of this life is not the end of it all. We have faith in the One who said, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.” We hold fast to the assurance that there will come a time when we will see our loved ones again, in the light of an eternity with the One who never leaves us or forsakes us.

In God’s house there are many mansions — enough room for us all — and there just may be one with a screen door. And who knows? When we walk up the steps, toward that screen door, we might just hear, “Hey there! Come on in the house.”

For the past several years, there’s been plenty of debate as to the most appropriate, least-likely-to-offend, seasonal greeting for general use in our culture of religious pluralism. “Happy Holidays!” presently seems to be the greeting of choice — like peppermint-infused hot chocolate, it’s meant to go down smooth, leave a sweet aftertaste and offer a bit of warmth in a season all too often characterized by frenetic activity, overextended credit limits and unreachable expectations of familial perfection. “Happy Holidays!” is intended to gloss over the opportunities and difficulties of living with the myriad of religious differences that simultaneously entwine us to one another and estrange us from one another . Most importantly, the phrase is presently employed as a way of gutting religious language from public discourse (and attempting to keep religion conveniently covered under the blanket of privatized piety).

The irony in using “Happy Holidays!”, of course, is the phrase calls attention to the very thing our culture seems to take great pains to avoid — the notion that there are some things (including some days!) that are to be set apart as “holy”. The reason we have this “Holiday Season” isn’t because it’s a great opportunity for retailers to add profits to their bottom lines, but because, centuries ago, some days were devoted (set aside) for religious observance. These “Holy Days” (whether marking the winter solstice, commemorating the miraculous eight days of God’s provision for the Jews, or celebrating Christians’ belief in the coming of God-in-the-Flesh in the person of Jesus of Nazareth), were sacralized as opportunities to reflect, to worship, to party, to feast, to drink and to let go (if only for a little while) of the self-absorption that seems so much a part of the human condition. These sacred days provided time for pause — a “break in the action” — for folks to rediscover their connections to each other, to the world around them and to their understanding of the Reality beyond them. “Holy Days” mark out a specific time to stop, step out of the cells of unexamined routine, get still, remember one’s identity and get one’s bearings in the middle of this Mystery called Life. “Holy Days” still offer such opportunities — even if we sometimes neglect to see them.

Happy Holy Days!

Nine years ago today, God was willing (along with my Bishop!), the People consented, and I was ordained to the sacred order of priests in Christ’s one holy catholic and apostolic Church (of the Episcopal variety). That moment, on a late autumn morning at Christ and St. Luke’s Church in Norfolk, Virginia was a culmination of years of effort (a.k.a.: discernment) — scores upon scores of meetings, residential academic/vocational training, letters, forms, reports, examinations and everything else  that comprises the dizzying labyrinth commonly called “the ordination process”. By the time I was ordained, literally hundreds of people — laypersons, bishops, priests, deacons, faculty, family and friends across three parish churches, two dioceses and a seminary  — had made the investment of time and energy (as well as significant amounts of money!) to see that event come to pass.  To be ordained a priest isn’t simply to follow one’s own “career path”. Priesthood is a communal event. Priests are formed by the whole people of God for the service of the whole people of God in this amalgamation of the Baptized called “Church”.

Even though December 14, 2002 marked a particular point in this journey of priesthood, I was far from “done”. Ordination didn’t finalize anything, rather, that liturgical action set plenty of things in motion. For the past nine years I’ve been learning about what it means to live as a priest — to live the “ordered life” in the midst of a Christian denomination in transition and in a culture increasingly suspicious of “organized” religion. Much of what constitutes the vocation of priesthood cannot be taught in a classroom. The real lessons of priesthood are learned in the crucible of the ebbs and flows of life.

How am I “different” today from the newly-minted priest of nine years ago?

I’m probably still too quick to talk, but hopefully I’ve learned that I don’t need to fill every available silence with the sound of my voice. I love to laugh, but I am more aware than ever that my laughter cannot come at the expense of others. I know I can tend toward cynicism so I’m learning to temper this tendency with compassion. I am more certain these days that the “politics of Jesus” are edgier than the partisanship of Democrats or Republicans will ever be. I’m pretty sure most things around the parish aren’t matters of life and death (in spite of the way we often behave). I think I’m better able to live with my limitations of time and energy — even as I wrestle with the ever-present pangs of guilt about all the things “left undone” at the end of a day, a week, a month and a year. I’m learning to live with the awareness that, invariably, even when I don’t mean to do so, I disappoint, frustrate and anger people. I’m doing a little better at acknowledging the ways I disappoint, frustrate and anger folks and asking for their forgiveness. I hope I’m getting better at being less defensive. I’m still trying to curb my penchant for over-explaining things. I am better able to accept God’s timeline is eternity and I’m not even a bit player in the drama of salvation (while at the same time recognizing I’ve got to give my part in the drama my best shot). I’ve given up the search for the magic formula of church growth — instead, I’m searching my soul to be a more consistent follower of Jesus — for now, I think that will have to do.

And what now?

I’ve got some praying to do. I’ve got some reading to do. I’ve got some visiting to do. I’ve got some writing to do. I’ve got some preaching and teaching to do. I’ve got some thanking and some encouraging and some serving and some leading and some following to do. I’ve got some laughing and crying and loving and living to do. The tenth year of my life as a priest begins tomorrow…December 14, 2012 is right around the corner! (God willing, of course!)

Charles is a Lance Corporal in the United States Marine Corps. He has been in Afghanistan since August of this year and is scheduled to serve there until April 2012. Just last week, his unit, while on a routine patrol, was shredded by the explosion of an IED. One of Charles’ buddies lost both legs in the blast. Several civilians, including a young girl, nine years old, were injured as well. The little girl lost a leg and bled out as Charles held her in his arms and yelled for a medic. Charles is twenty years old.

I don’t know Charles. I only met his dad, Rick, a few minutes ago, in the Starbucks in Fernandina Beach, Florida. I overheard Rick say to the barista, “I’m here to pick up some coffee to send to my son in Afghanistan, hopefully, it will get there before Christmas.”

Rick and I struck up a conversation while he was standing at the counter, waiting on Charles’ coffee to be ground. He told me the story about last week’s IED attack on his son’s unit. As he talked about his son, Rick carried the simultaneous expressions of “proud” and “worried” parent. He told me, “Yes, things are winding down there, but it’s still very, very dangerous. Most folks know that truth intellectually, but I live with it every day and my son faces it every moment he’s there.”

Rick also shared with me his daily prayer for his son and the other service personnel stationed in combat zones, “I pray for their safety, and I also pray their hearts won’t become hardened by the evil that is war.” He then allowed that both prayers are tall orders. We both agreed it would be a good while before we know how the latter prayer will be answered in the lives of those who return from spending time in places most of us couldn’t locate on a map or even pronounce properly.

Yet again, I was aware of the invisibility of this now decade-long war for most of us. Service personnel continue to serve, continue to bleed, and continue to die. Civilians are caught in the crossfire of the violence — even little children. Parents, spouses, siblings and children of our service personnel pray for the safety of their loved ones, mourn their deaths and live with the wounds (physical, mental and emotional) that come home with their loved ones after a tour of duty. I’m not really interested in the “rightness” or the “wrongness” of this particular war at this point. The prospect of winning a theoretical argument (whatever my particular political viewpoint) has little impact on the reality of what men and women are suffering — in service of this country — in real time, a half a world away.

Seventy years ago today, in an action that continues to “live in infamy”, war came to the United States. The attack on Pearl Harbor galvanized this nation’s response.  Eventually, millions of people served in the U.S. Armed Forces in places throughout Europe, Africa, and all over the South Pacific. As I have talked to veterans of World War II through the years, I have learned that the horrors of war are a given. Some of them have told me stories of losing buddies, walking through the carnage of a battlefield and seeing things that have haunted them in their dreams for their entire adulthood — over sixty five years. I have also talked to people who lived through the World War II years “Stateside”.  Their lives during those years were times of rationing (gas, sugar, meat, rubber and other commodities).  For those who lived on the coasts of the U.S., there are memories of blackouts and the constant fear of submarine attacks or an invasion of some sort. Back then, no one was able to ignore the fact this nation was at war. Everything here was impacted by what was happening “overseas”.

There is an impact on this country as a result of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. That impact in terms of lives lost and lives irreparably wounded cannot be calculated. The economic repercussion of these actions is currently tabulated with so many zeros as to be essentially incomprehensible. The other cost that we’ve not talked about though, is the cost of conducting a war in which the general populace remains largely unaffected. Does waging a war become an easier  option to exercise when it doesn’t affect our trips to the mall? How can we wrangle over the next American Idol, fantasize about Dancing with the Stars and expend so much time Keeping up with the Kardashians while our fellow citizens are slogging through mud, dodging snipers and living under threat of sudden death from an explosive device at any moment? How does plastering a “We Support our Troops” bumper sticker on our automobile only fuel our disengagement? Wouldn’t figuring out a way to  get these men and women out of harm’s way as quickly as possible be a better way to support them?

Standing in Starbucks with Rick, the war came home to me as a parent. My son was a pre-schooler when this war began. He’s now a freshman in high school. My guess is, even though my son knows there’s a war going on, he wouldn’t necessarily say that our country is “at war”. This distancing of the general population from the horrors of war is disconcerting. I wonder, “How have we all colluded in keeping this war hidden from ourselves?”

And so, when the barista called to Rick that the coffee was ground and ready to go, I couldn’t resist. I bought the twenty dollars’ worth of coffee for Charles and his buddies in Afghanistan. It seemed to be not even close to “the least I could do”, but it was something I could do. I also hope the coffee gets there before December 25. It was Christmas Blend.

Last Sunday afternoon, I spent about forty-five minutes under the tutelage of my fourteen year old son. He was attempting to “set me up” as a character in one of his video games. To his credit, he remained patient with me as I selected all the traits and skills that would be a part of my video game persona (for this game, I chose to be “a dark elf”, skilled in sword fighting and with some proficiency in magic). Once my persona was created, then my son started the game for me.

I was lost immediately. I couldn’t keep track of when to push, pull or toggle the array of buttons, triggers and joysticks on the game controller. I ran my character into walls. Tripped down steps. And spent a fair amount of time trying to turn around and backtrack from a dead end. I won’t even begin to describe my comedic fist fight with giant rats!

Finally, my son couldn’t take watching my ineptitude any longer. He said, “Let me help, you, Dad.” I turned the controller over to him, and within a few minutes, he had loaded my character up with all sorts of equipment. He was flashing through screens so fast, my astigmatism was in overdrive. At the end of a couple of minutes, I was told, “Maybe you should search online to see if you can find some written instructions to help you with this.” Clearly, the lesson in gaming was over for the day.

To his credit, my son really does want to help me. He truly wants to share this game with me, and I want to share playing it with him. For this experiment in father/son bonding to succeed, though, I’ve got to take on the mind of a beginner and he has to learn the patience required to teach a beginner. I have to learn the language of the game. I have to develop a facility with the controls. I have to invest time. I have to practice. I have to be willing to be taught and to go through the process of making (many) mistakes and learning from the mistakes I’ve made. I have to take the risk of looking inept. And I have to remember that all of this “work” is part of the joy of the game.

I confess, as an adult, I value competency. I like knowing what I’m doing. I’ve mostly forgotten what it’s like to learn by trial and error. At this point in my life, I’ve gotten comfortable with the skill set I have. I am quite adept at avoiding circumstances which may demonstrate incompetence. As I thought about my experience at the video game controls, I couldn’t help but think of the ways I’ve self-limited my own opportunities for spiritual growth because such growth might require developing a new skill, investing time reading texts that aren’t interesting, or running into a metaphysical wall here and there.

The early followers of Jesus were called “disciples” (literally, “students”). A close reading of the Gospels reminds us that these folks struggled. They made mistakes. They failed. They often didn’t seem to understand the lessons Jesus was attempting to teach them. Their ineptitude is plastered all over the New Testament. But Jesus never took the controls away from them. He didn’t give them shortcuts. He simply walked with them while they walked into walls of misunderstanding. Somehow, though, in spite of their sputtering, bumbling, halting and confused attempts to live the Good News Jesus shared with them, they managed to do enough right, didn’t they? After all, in spite of their ineptitude (and generations of inept Christians after them!), in only twenty centuries, there are now billions of Christians living throughout the world. Yet, for all these billions of Christians, there isn’t an expert in the bunch. All of us are still learning; still making mistakes; still walking down blind alleys and into dead ends. Maybe the grace for the Church isn’t that we have finally gotten it all right, but that we keep getting some things wrong.

After all, how can the Church to be a place of practice and a laboratory for learning this way of Jesus if everyone is consumed with the fear of making a mistake? How can we expect people to participate in our parish communities if we set everything up only for the benefit of those who already know the rules? How do we create a culture in which failure and “learning by making mistakes” is seen as a valuable part of growing in “the knowledge and love of the Lord”?

The game my son is attempting to teach me is a quest. My job is to enjoy the journey through the game, unlock the mysteries in it, collect a few unexpected treasures, learn from my mistakes, become more skilled as a player and accept the expertise (and help!) of my son as a guide to assist me in the process. It sounds a bit like the spiritual life, I think.  We need companions, an inquiring heart, a discerning mind, a willingness to admit our weaknesses and a desire to have fun along the way.

I wonder if “church” would be more fun for folks if we made it a point to say from time to time, “All of us are beginners. None of us has all the answers. We’re figuring some of this out as we go. We have the benefit of learning from those who have gone before us and from each other. This is the quest of a lifetime!”

Engaging the quest — that sounds much more interesting (and fun!) than going to church.