soulwerker

When was your last Christmas surprise? Was it when a beloved family member showed up, unannounced for the holiday? Or was it when someone gave you a gift you didn’t even know you wanted until you opened it? Or was it when you were alone, watching the lights on the tree twinkle and you had a sudden awareness of an expansive peace flooding your heart? When was your last Christmas surprise?

Most of us have heard Luke’s version of the Christmas story so many times we can almost quote it word for word — just like Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas. We look at a creche and each one of us immediately begins to engage the story from our own perspective:

Some of us enter the story from a place of imagination. Maybe we think about Mary and Joseph, alone in the dark, while Mary, a child herself, pushes a baby into a ragged world of uncertainty, hardship and pain. Maybe we imagine the smell of the cave crammed with livestock. Or maybe the moms among us remember their own labor to give birth and wonder what it must have been like for Mary to give birth to Jesus with only Joseph, her betrothed, to serve as the midwife. A few of us may think about Joseph, who will undertake the responsibility of raising a child who belongs to only God-knows-Who.

Others of us will view the story from the squinty-eyed perspective of rational analysis. We have lots of unanswered questions! Beyond the fantastical claim that Mary was a virgin, we happen to know that this story wasn’t written down until well after the events were purported to have happened. How do we really know this story is true? What if the Gospel writer simply made it up for dramatic effect? And if the writer did such a thing, how are we to trust anything else in the story? And the bit about angelic choirs serenading shepherds in the middle of the night? Yeah, sure. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?

But regardless of whether we’re faithful believers, fanciful romantics or fervent doubters, there’s one thing that we all hold in common as we engage the story. Nothing about it is a surprise for us. And maybe that’s to our detriment. The believers cannot be surprised by the glory of this birth. The romantics cannot be surprised by the grittiness of this birth. The doubters cannot be surprised by the grace of this birth.

Yet, this story isn’t about us or about angels and shepherds or even about Mary and Joseph. This story is about God. This story is about a God who refuses to astound us with special effects. This is a God who shocks us by showing up in out of the way places amongst people on the margins who struggle for their daily bread. This is a God who awes us, not with thunder claps and lightning bolts, but with the whimpers and gurgles of a newborn swaddled in cloth. This is a story about a God who is too big to fit into our expectations of grandeur and certainty, but who takes up residence within the confines of humanity’s history embodied as a helpless infant. This is a God who enters moments of grime and doubt and transforms those moments into unexpected grace.

A year ago, we gathered to celebrate Christmas in this place after anxious hours of watching and waiting following the murder of a Wauwatosa police officer just a block away from Trinity Church earlier in the day. We prayed for Jennifer and all of those whose lives have been cut short by acts of violence. We knelt after Communion and sang Silent Night — just as we’ll do again in a little while.

There in the candlelight last year, I was surprised by Christmas all over again. No, I didn’t hear a Voice from above or see any angel choirs. My questions about the tragedy of human violence toward other human beings were not answered. My disappointment at the injustices we continue to foist upon one another in the name of the free market or the good of the nation or even religion itself did not magically disappear. My raw grief from the recent loss of my father to cancer wasn’t suddenly assuaged.

No, my Christmas surprise came as I looked around this room that night. The surprise of Christmas came in the form of the familiar faces of my sisters and brothers in Christ. I saw the faces of folks who had lived life — with all of its ups and downs, its changes and chances — and still had the audacity to pray. I saw the faces of folks who had struggled with their faith and yet still had the willingness and the courage to trust. I saw the faces of folks who were far from naive, and who were still unwilling to give in to the cynicism of our age. In the glow of the candlelight, in the simple melody of an oft-sung carol, I caught a glimpse of God’s presence…embodied in God’s people.

The raw, unfiltered message of Christmas is this: God so loved this world, that God would not, could not, remain far off from it. God took on human flesh in real time in a real place with real people. This coming of God to a backwater town to first-time parents from the wrong zip code reminds us that the God we worship is the God who inhabits all the wrong places at all the wrong times so that every place and every time can be redeemed. This God who comes to all the wrong people is the God who will not forsake any one of us. This God who displays the greatest power through the greatest helplessness is the God who comes to us in our own moments of helplessness and pain with the assurance that we are never, ever alone. This God who lives in eternal relationship as Holy Trinity is the God who invites us into ever-deepening relationships — both with God and with one another.

So tonight, dear people of God, I invite you to embrace these next few, holy moments. Breathe deeply into the stillness that is right now. No matter where you are on your spiritual journey, whether you are a staunch believer, a hopeless romantic or a definitive doubter — Christmas is here for you. Allow yourself to be surprised by God in this holy season. Christmas is here and it arrived as it always does — with a baby, gift-wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger — Jesus, Son of Mary and Son of God.

One year ago today I knew my dad’s death was imminent, but I didn’t know the exact day (December 15). No one knew there would be a horrific shooting at an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut (December 14). Here in Wauwatosa, we didn’t know there would be a tragedy in our own backyard during the early hours of Christmas Eve morning, when a young police officer, Jennifer Sebena, would be killed while on duty by her own husband. Since last December, I have buried others’ loved ones, other innocent people have died as a result of gun violence and other police officers have been killed or wounded in the line of duty. Life goes on, doesn’t it?

I still remember, as a ten year old, lamenting to my dad on December 27, “It will be a WHOLE year until Christmas comes again, it takes SO long!” To which he responded, “The older you get, the shorter the years.” He was thirty-three at the time.

These past two days have provided a wonderful opportunity to sit still for a bit and think back over this year. Sometimes in the plowing ahead from task to task, appointment to appointment, deadline to deadline, I can forget that the life I’m living is the only one I will get. At the end of my days, the measure of my “success” at living this gift won’t be an empty e-mail inbox, a bucket list with all of the goals checked off, or even that I managed to mostly please most of the people most of the time.

Maybe my measures will be: Did anything in my life (beyond the color of my plastic collar) give witness that I was a person of faith? Did I tell my loved ones enough that I loved them (and beyond telling, did I manage to live the love I professed)? Did I hear the birds singing over the chatter in my head? Did I manage to come alongside and encourage others in their faith journey, or did I take the short cuts of guilt and emotional manipulation? Did I notice the phases of the moon or the annual march of Orion across the sky? Did I value people over things? How often did I neglect the thousands of ways this life is a gift, because I was too fixated on some problem or another that, in the end, probably wasn’t much of a problem at all?

Today is the last day of “ordinary time” in the liturgical year. Tomorrow is the first day of Advent, a season of waiting and watching, a season pregnant with possibilities. Tomorrow will also be the beginning of the last month of this calendar year. Beginnings and endings. Always beginnings and endings.

I understand that calendars are, in some ways, artificial markers of time. Barring any unforeseen tragedy, tomorrow for me (and anyone else who happens to read this post) will likely look a good deal like today does. I all too easily fall into the trap of living as if I’ve got a God-given right to go right on living. And when I fall into said trap of unconsciously moving from thing to thing, I forget to remember this life — all of it — is a gift that comes to me one day at a time.

Now only a few months away from my fifty-fifth birthday, my dad’s words from all those years ago make much more sense. Last December seems very close indeed. So for today, I will spend some time thanking God for my dad. I will spend some time praying for a society in which we do not seem to have the moral or political will to address the complexities of gun violence. I will light a candle for Jennifer. And I’ll go for a walk, breathe in the weather, and hope to hear at least one bird sing a song.

Dawn points, and another day prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind wrinkles and slides. I am here or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.  (from East Coker by T. S. Eliot)

Thanksgiving is a time for family and friends, or at least that’s how this national holiday has come to be observed over the decades. Even though I grew up in a very religious family, our local congregation always celebrated the occasion on the Sunday prior. Our pastor (somewhat judgmentally) annually made a point of saying there was no use in having a worship service on Thanksgiving Day since, “no one would be there.” From childhood through my early adulthood, I had never attended a worship service on Thanksgiving Day. And then I became an Episcopalian.

Even with the theological ambiguity of observing a liturgy which commemorates an overtly a “national” holiday, every Episcopal congregation with which I have been connected has either gathered on Thanksgiving Eve or on the Day itself. One congregation always had a ginormous cornucopia filled with all sorts of fruits and vegetables, which were donated to a local food pantry following the liturgy. Another congregation has, for decades, served a hot turkey luncheon to the homeless who make their abode under the shadow of the church’s bell tower. The short story is, Episcopalians of a certain generation would never, ever miss the chance to come to liturgy to sing “We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing,” and “Now thank we all our God with hearts and hands and voices.” They would even dutifully listen to their clergy hold forth on the necessity of thanking God the other 364 days of the year!

When I arrived at Trinity, the custom of a Eucharistic celebration on the morning of Thanksgiving was very much alive, but like so much in our culture, this custom is in some degree of flux. As it became obvious to me that attendance at today’s liturgy would be the lowest since my arrival, I couldn’t help but think of the many Trinity folks who were faithful Thanksgiving Day liturgy attenders, and who are no longer with us. Some have moved away, but most of them have moved on from this life — now resting in the hope of the resurrection. I remembered several of them specifically — where they sat in the nave for worship; the way they would smile during the Peace; how they enjoyed telling me about previous rectors in this place; and most of all, how much they loved God and the Episcopal Church. These folks were all a part of the generation that is passing away. I am thankful I was privileged to be their pastor for a while. I am grateful to have known such faithful souls who gave so much of their time, energy and money in order to pass the gift that is Trinity Church on to generations that will follow them on this little corner in Wauwatosa.

The present reality for our congregation is that, on Thanksgiving Day, most of our folks are in one of two distinct groups. Some are the people who are traveling to see other people — whether across town or across the country. Others are the people waiting to receive the people who are traveling to see them. Either way, this has been a busy week of preparation for today’s celebration. As I think about it, my heart is warmed with the thought that, throughout today, the good people of Trinity Church will gather with relatives and friends all across the country. They will share stories and catch up on old times. They will snap pictures and take videos to record the events of the day. More than a few of them will have to take some time to cheer for/jeer for their beloved Packers. And, I am quite sure, at some point today, they will offer a prayer of Thanksgiving to the Good Lord for all their blessings. These are good and holy things and God will be glorified.

For those of us who gathered inside the church building today, the liturgy was simple. We offered some prayers. We listened to some music. We heard the words of Scripture. The Spirit was present as we prayed for friends and loved ones; those who are in need of healing and the ministries throughout our area that work tirelessly to offer healing and help. We exchanged the Peace of Christ with joy and compassion. We gathered around the Holy Table and celebrated the Eucharist. We prayed the Lord’s Prayer. We shared the Holy Food and Drink of new and unending life. This was a good and holy thing and God was glorified.

Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered together, there I am in the midst of them.” For the record, though, Jesus is very much present when thirteen are gathered too. Thanks be to God. Happy Thanksgiving!

I frequently joke that the month of October is the most intense time of the church year besides the liturgical season of Lent. October is the time when, in many churches, the budgeting process is in full swing for the following year. Stewardship (of the financial sort) looms large as leadership begins contemplating what ministries will/will not receive funding come January 1. Special gatherings, meetings, events and such are packed in on evenings and weekends. E-mails fly back and forth across cyberspace. At our parish office the phone traffic takes a noticeable upturn. Every year I tell myself I won’t get caught up in the flurry and fury. Every year I remind myself to go easy on the scheduling. Every year I ignore my own self talk.

And then…every now and then, the Spirit manages to get a word in edgeways. The word for me came this past Thursday afternoon (All Hallows’ Eve) as I contemplated a homily I was to give at Nashotah House, the local Episcopal seminary, later that evening. Actually, it was more like a few sentences than a word, and though I would never be so bold as to claim I had “heard” a Voice from above, I did have some thoughts…and these thoughts flooded me with a peacefulness that had eluded me through most of October.

“You didn’t come to faith by yourself. Neither did anyone else. Many communities of faith have nurtured you through the years. You share in ministry within the context of a specific community of faith. The call to nurture others in the faith never ends and is never a solitary task.”

Granted, this is pretty basic stuff. Nothing overwhelmingly profound. At the same time, the implications of communal life are easily overlooked/forgotten/ignored in a culture hyper-focused on the individual. This is the point of the Feasts of All Saints and the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed — to remind us that we don’t do this life on our own and we don’t do our faith on our own. We are connected — through Baptism and Eucharist; through family and friendship; through prayer and service — to each other; even when the “others” aren’t as saintly as we’d like them to be. We are connected — even when we don’t want to be — to those workaday, flawed and broken saints we wish would go away and leave us alone. These two holy days provide the opportunity to remember. We get to remember that we haven’t “arrived” spiritually yet. We still have our own jagged edges — like shards of broken stained glass. Perhaps in remembering our sharp edges, we will be a bit more compassionate towards the sharp edges of others.

Today I give thanks for the blessed company of all faithful people and the communion of saints, the ones who were superstars and the ones who were super-pains.

The question has been posed to me twice — first, on June 9, 2002 and then again on December 14, 2002: “…will you, in accordance with the canons of the Church, obey your bishop and other ministers who may have authority over you and your work?”

The prescribed answer (indeed, the only answer available!) is: “I am willing and ready to do so…and I do solemnly engage to conform to the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church.” This obedience to authority — the authority of the Scriptures (affirmed to contain all things necessary to salvation), the authority of the chief pastor (a.k.a., “bishop”), and the authority of the church’s rules and regulations (a.k.a., “canons”) — informs what it means to be “ordained”. This vow of obedience with its accompanying submission to things and people beyond one’s own individuality, is at the core of living “under orders”.

At the heart of being a priest is the notion of a communal and collegial ministry. As a priest I share in the ministry of the Church. I share this ministry with laypersons, deacons and bishops. In particular, I share a local (meaning diocesan!) ministry with a bishop and I am privileged to share a parochial ministry with a few hundred folks gathered as Trinity Episcopal Church in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin.

Most of the time the interrelatedness and connectedness of this ministry is pure gift. Oh sure, like any group of folks, we have our ups and downs — but for the most part, I am constantly amazed at the ways the wind of the Spirit hovers over the chaos of church life and gives birth to the beauty of new creation, the wonder of new life and the mystery of rekindled love. On a day to day basis, life in the Church looks remarkably unremarkable. Nothing much happens. The usual round of liturgies, coffee hours, meetings, meals and activities mostly hum along without much of a hubbub. One year leads to the next. Before you know it, a decade has passed. And then something happens.

Last week, such a thing happened. Nearly a year after the General Convention of the Episcopal Church authorized a provisional rite for the blessing of same-sex unions, the Bishop of Milwaukee, in his role as chief pastor of our diocese, informed the clergy that he was unable to allow that rite to be used within our diocese at this time. I do appreciate the Bishop’s struggle in this matter. Nevertheless, this decision was difficult to hear — for me, for a number of my clergy colleagues and for many of the parishioners of Trinity Church. 

I am under orders. I have vowed obedience. I live in community. The task before me now is to work within the Church, locally expressed as the Episcopal Diocese of Milwaukee, to see that we fully embrace the vows we make at every liturgy of Holy Baptism…the vows to “seek and serve Christ in all persons” and “to respect the dignity of every human being.”

I have said (somewhat flippantly) in the past that “the collar comes equipped with a muzzle”. But silence is not synonymous with obedience. My vows require obedience. My convictions require both words AND deeds.

Last week, I had the privilege to be the presenter for the spring clergy conference in the Episcopal Diocese of Northern Indiana. We spent an entire day reflecting together on the ways in which congregational life can be both gift and challenge. We told some stories. We laughed. We prayed. A good and (hopefully) fruitful day for those present.

I was also invited by the Bishop of Northern Indiana to offer the homily at the closing Eucharist. When he told me the lessons that would be appointed for the day, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I knew the sermon my clergy colleagues would hear would be the very one I heard on my grandpa’s front porch 38 summers ago. And I gave John Wesley Crider full credit! God rest his soul!

Now, my maternal grandfather wasn’t a preacher. He was a farmer — a sharecropper. He was an avid reader with a pointed wit. He was a keen observer of people and life. He also took a good deal of pleasure in poking at my adolescent illusions of intellectualism.

The sermon from Grandpa happened this way. We were sitting on straight back, wooden chairs looking out across the cotton and soybean fields that surrounded his modest house. The Louisiana heat was oozing off the crops. The sun was blazing. He had just taken a fresh dip of his favorite snuff, and readjusted his broad-brimmed farmer’s hat when he queried, “You fancy yourself a student of the Scriptures, don’t you now?”

“Yes sir,” I replied with probably a tad too much eagerness.

“Well then, let me tell you, with all due respect to the Apostle Paul, he knew nothing about farming.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you read the part where old Paul says something about Apollos planting and him watering and God giving the increase?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, like a typical preacher, he left out one very important detail from his metaphor.”

“What?”

“Weeding! There’s lots of work that has to take place to make sure the crop doesn’t get choked out by all sorts of stuff. You don’t just plant it and hope for the best. You gotta sweat over those plants. You worry over ’em. You tend ’em. They take your time, from sun up to sun down. Day in and day out. Sure there’s lots out of our control — like the weather and such, but the farmer has to keep working the field. He can’t stop until harvest time.

Oh, and while I’m at it, with all due respect to Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, that bit about the fields being ripe to the harvest? Don’t Jesus make that sound so simple? Go out and pluck off a few bushels of the harvest and go about your business? Not likely!

You see, Gary, every time I hear that Gospel passage, all I can picture in my mind is a field of cotton — acres and acres of fluffy white bolls — so inviting, so promising. But there’s a catch. To harvest the crop takes a toll. The plant does not willingly give up its fruit. Anyone who’s ever picked cotton has had their hands and arms shredded in the process, even if they’re using gloves and wearing long sleeves.”

We sat in silence as Grandpa allowed his sermon to sink in. Then he said, “But Paul and Jesus did mention something very important. We can’t go it alone. We’re all laborers in the field of the Lord. We need each other.”

I didn’t say “Amen.” But I should have. Instead, 38 years after the fact, standing in front of some fellow clergy, I added a final paragraph onto Grandpa’s sermon. It went something like this…

We are sent into the world on a Gospel mission — where there’s planting and watering and weeding and harvesting to do in the name of the Lord. Some of the work isn’t glamorous. Sometimes the work of ministry isn’t very efficient. Sometimes it looks like a lost cause altogether. But we go on about our work. Faithfully serving where God has called us, aware that we’re not alone, giving thanks that God has given us fellow laborers to help us shoulder the load. We plant seeds we’ll never water. Weed fields that seem like a waste of time and energy. Water plants that may not bear fruit for generations. And every great once in a while we get to participate in the joyful labor of harvesting from fields in which we expended no previous effort. And through it all, it is God who gives the increase.

(Thanks, John Wesley!)

Last week, I received a gift. The gift of an invitation from someone I don’t even know. The invitation wound up as a link in my Facebook feed. The link was to the blog of the Right Reverend Doug Fisher, the Episcopal Bishop of Western Massachusetts. In the post from last Friday, the bishop noted that while the Episcopal Church is very good at inviting people to a Holy Lent (after all, we’ve got words for such a thing on page 264 in the Book of Common Prayer!), we are a bit weak on inviting people to soak up all of the opportunities present within the Great Fifty Days of the Easter Season. The bishop then offered his own invitation to a Holy Easter. I read it and reread it and realized, it was the precise “word from the Lord” I needed to hear. In fact, I shared the invitation at the conclusion of my sermon in yesterday’s liturgies.  I share it here to remind myself that I’ve signed on to living Easter as a season and not simply as the finish line to the Lent/Holy Week marathon:

Dear People of God: In the weeks after the Resurrection of Jesus, the apostles overcame their fears, and experienced forgiveness, peace, joy, amazement, and hope. Their hearts burned within them as they understood the scriptures in a whole new way. They ran from place to place, telling the Good News. They were filled with New Life.

I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to a Holy Easter Season. Take into your souls the words of the angels, “Do not be afraid.” Face your fears. Forgive someone — perhaps even yourself. Allow yourself to be amazed at what God is doing. Read the scriptures and find the God of love. Go on an adventure. Try new things. Get creative. Use your imagination. Expand your horizons. Be joyful — God has a hold on you and will never let go. Tell others the Good News. Practice mercy, compassion and hope. Be on the lookout for Resurrection — in your life; in others’ lives; in this great and glorious world! Alleluia! Amen.

(Bishop Fisher’s blog may be found at: http://bishopfisherblog.wordpress.com)

This has been a wonderfully busy Lent! I didn’t get to everything I wanted to do. “Things left undone” seems to be a perpetual state of church life. On the upside, though, I have been thrilled with all of the ways folks at Trinity Church have read, prayed and served their way through this holy season. Parishioners have been faithful. They’ve been prayerful. They’ve even been joyful (yes, such an attitude IS permissible in Lent)!

Lent can be a slog, though. Five weeks ago today, I stood on a street corner and imposed ashes on any passerby who asked for a smudgy cross and a prayer. Here in Wisconsin, that unseasonably warm Ash Wednesday is a pleasant memory as we contend with January-like temperatures with only ten days remaining in March. The cold, the prospect for snow and the relentlessness of Lent is enough to try the soul — and there’s plenty of Lent left to go.

In a few days the liturgical marathon that is Holy Week will commence with Palm Sunday. I’m genuinely excited. I used to joke that Holy Week is the closest thing Episcopalians have to a week-long revival. Too bad we sometimes view this most sacred week in the Church calendar as something to “get through”. I understand that there are a myriad of details and a blizzard of bulletins. I know there are sermons to prepare and logistics to coordinate. But for clergy, well, to use the parlance of the secular world, this week is the reason we’re in business!

I know everyone “in the real world” has to figure out how to attend liturgies in and around work schedules, vacation schedules, school schedules and everything else that is life. I understand that for many parishioners to be at the liturgies we’ve scheduled means they are leaving things “undone” in the rest of their lives. This is the reality I never, ever want to forget as one who lives in and around church and gets paid for the privilege.

I hope plenty of folks will get to come to worship during the eight days between Palm Sunday and Easter. Goodness knows there are plenty of opportunities to do so. The realist in me knows that people make the decisions they need to make. The optimist in me hopes lots of people will attend and find their lives changed as a result. The pastor in me will be praying for the folks present and absent — praying that this Holy Week the Way of the Cross will be particularly meaningful and the arrival at the empty Tomb a moment of mystery-inspired celebration.

The dust has almost settled from Ash Wednesday. In my own case, that meant a fourteen hour day, with four liturgies at Trinity Church, Wauwatosa as well as a few hours standing on the corner with clergy from other area churches (Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian and Roman Catholic) praying for folks on a street corner in front of our local Starbucks as a part of the grassroots movement called “Ashes to Go”. By the end of the day, our group had prayed for over 150 folks, heard plenty of stories, witnessed tear-filled eyes, held hands of those who were hurting for one reason or another, and had people literally bound up to us with big smiles on their faces, thanking us for our efforts.

I’ve learned over the past several weeks that there are a number of people who have reservations about this practice of imposing ashes out in public. I think some of their concerns are worthy of consideration. Certainly taking an action requires reflection upon the action taken. I’m not so much interested in defending the practice or arguing with folks who have a different view of it than I do. Instead, all of the arguments for/against “Ashes to Go” have had me thinking about other practices that are prominent around parish churches during this season.

At the parish I serve, we are offering an additional mid-week opportunity to worship and receive the Eucharist. We are praying Morning Prayer early every weekday morning. We’ve mailed two lenten devotional booklets to everyone on our mailing list. We are conducting a weekly evening class for adults. I’m teaching a Sunday afternoon class on prayer book spirituality. We’ve got a special Sunday morning adult forum class planned. All of this is in addition to the regular round of weekly liturgies, committee meetings and pastoral concerns that occupy the day to day life of any parish. In the midst of the lenten fast, we’ve got a smorgasbord of activities to feast upon.

Most of the things that are happening “at the parish” are for the benefit of parishioners, even though they are certainly open to the public. My hope is these additional opportunities will nourish parishioners’ spiritual lives and equip them to better serve their Lord in the world about them. Yet, for all of the energy that we will expend through this season, we will remain mostly invisible to the community around us. We will continue to be the red brick building on the corner with the lovely welcome garden. All of this is well and good. But aren’t we called to more? And if we are called (as I believe we are) to “go into all the world”, what does that “going out” look like in a distracted, conflicted culture where religion is consistently pushed to the realm of private devotional practice?

At the end of this season, most of us who work inside the walls of a church building will collapse into a heap at the conclusion of the final Easter Day liturgy. Shortly after that, folks will begin to turn their attention to summer vacations and outdoor activities. By the beginning of June, the average Episcopal Church will enter its summer stasis as planning begins to ramp up for another round of insider activities that will begin in September. 

I think instead of arguing about the merits/dangers of “Ashes to Go”, I’m going to figure out a way to stand on some more street corners…to talk with and pray for the folks who pass by. I don’t think such behavior will increase the Sunday attendance at the parish I serve or resolve our budgetary challenges. I’m pretty sure it won’t do much to get people to contemplate their life’s mission or make radical changes in their politics. But it just may plant a few seeds of Good News. I could go for a bit more of that. Seeds out of ashes? Stranger things have happened.