soulwerker

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.

This past Sunday (the First Sunday of Advent and the beginning of the Christian Calendar), the Roman Catholic congregations across the United States got a New Year’s gift in the form of changes to the Mass (the order used for worship). Here in the Archdiocese of Milwaukee, I know there were efforts aimed at preparing congregants for the changes even though the changes were already a “done deal”. Since I’m not a Roman Catholic (or even an avid “RC watcher”), I can’t speak to the particular changes made in the liturgy or what such changes “signal” — I’ll leave it to others more qualified to make those sorts of comments.

Since I live in a heavily RC part of the country, though, these changes are “big news” — making the front page (albeit “below the fold”) of yesterday’s Milwaukee newspaper. As I read the brief article which contained reactions from parishioners to the changes, I was particularly interested in one comment. The person interviewed, after critiquing the changes as “semantics”, and stating her refusal to “learn the damn prayers”, asked the following question, “Do you come to church to be confused?”

The implied answer to this rhetorical question is obviously, “No, of course not!”  Both the question and the implied answer immediately evoked a question within me: “Why then, do we come to church?”

For some, attendance at liturgy is about fulfilling a religious obligation. For others, it’s about comfort and solace. For others, it’s about reconnecting with something stable and consistent in the midst of a time of intense fluidity and change. For others, it’s about connecting with fellow worshipers and enjoying a sense of community. For others, it’s about a bit of inspiration or maybe helpful advice about how to live one’s faith in the world outside the four walls of the worship space. For others, it’s about receiving the Sacraments and contemplating the Mysteries of the depths of God. There are probably plenty of other answers to the question of attendance at worship, but I’m guessing most of us don’t intentionally attend worship to be confused (by the liturgy, the Scriptures, the sermon or anything else that might occur during the worship time on any given week).

My next question then is, “Why shouldn’t we be confused?”

With so much liturgical planning focused on “right order”, aren’t we ever the slightest bit confused about appropriate ways to acknowledge our disordered lives? If the liturgy is a drama in which we literally act out our beliefs about God, the Church and ourselves, aren’t we ever confused by our nagging doubts? When the liturgy moves easily from one set of words/actions to another, aren’t we ever confused by the ways we are stuck in our faith journey?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating confusion for confusion’s sake. I’m simply wondering if avoiding confusion should be the chief aim of liturgical planning. As a liturgical Christian myself, I like predictability. I remember the first time I was able to participate in an entire worship service without once having to look at the Book of Common Prayer. I felt like I had finally arrived as an Episcopalian!

I wonder, though. Does the ability to rattle off words without ever looking at them help us internalize what we’re saying? Or are we simply comfortable with a form of liturgical autopilot, which allows us to multitask — composing our “to do lists” or planning Sunday dinner while flawlessly reciting the General Confession?

The last time the Episcopal Church in the United States revised the Book of Common Prayer, the effort took the better part of a decade. The resulting BCP (1979) was adopted some fifty years after its predecessor. The changes in liturgical expression wrought by the 1979 book angered some, dismayed others and facilitated the departure of many to other faith communities. Now, even after more than thirty years in use, there are still Episcopalians who refer to it as the “New” Prayer Book.

As I look across the congregation I serve on any given Sunday, I watch us move through the liturgy with a ease and comfort. Even folks who aren’t necessarily familiar with our particular set of words can usually follow along as we navigate the path from Opening Acclamation to Dismissal. For the most part, everyone appears comfortable.

Would some confusion be in order?

Throughout the time I’ve served as a parish priest, I have shared repeatedly (OK, ad nauseum) my resistance to the role of rector as the epitome of an ecclesiastical functionary. “The last thing I want to become,” I have intoned, “is a “branch manager for Jesus”. I simply couldn’t picture myself  spending decades of my life strolling around congregations with the metaphorical organizational oil can, applying pious platitudes in strategic locations to make sure the wheels of parochial life spun along unimpeded, so that the franchise fee (diocesan assessment) could flow up the line to keep “headquarters” happy.

At the root of my admittedly exaggerated pronouncements was an unsettling suspicion. I worried that through the decades of its existence, my own corner of the Church Universal (the Episcopal Church variety) had substituted being a smoothly operating, mild mannered, non-profit service organization which “helped” people (mostly pledge-paying constituents) for the hell-busting, darkness-invading, principality-toppling, turn-the-world-upside-down through the power of the Holy Spirit, get-in-or-get-out movement that the New Testament described and early Church leaders envisioned. I didn’t know what sort of priest I would become, but “company man” was not on the list of vocational aspirations.

The more I said stuff like the foregoing, the more certain I was of my sincerity, and the more I was blinded to the fact I was becoming the very thing I so vehemently rejected. Yesterday, I ran headlong into the wall of my own limitations. My formation as a priest gave me a solid grounding in biblical interpretation, Christian theology and Church history. I know how to lead worship, design a liturgy and prepare a sermon. I can teach a Sunday School class. I can write carefully worded letters and newsletter articles. I learned the importance of the “non-answer” answer, so that I could appear to say something when not much was being said. I learned active listening skills and the rudiments of how to “be present” with people in the times of trial and struggle that come along with living this life. Every bit of that formation was necessary. Every smidgen of it valuable.

Except.

Except that my formation as a priest reinforced the Greek-philosophy-inspired bifurcation of life into two separate worlds (“spiritual” and “everything else”). Except that my formation presupposed I would mostly be dealing with the “spiritual” issues of faith and doubt, without considering how those issues might impinge upon decisions people would make about how to spend their time, invest their money or raise their children. Except that my formation assumed that as a white, middle class cleric I would serve a mostly white, middle class congregation, which would deal with mostly white, middle class, suburban issues (a.k.a.: “First World Problems”!).

For all of my expensive training (over $100,000 worth, counting tuition, living expenses and supplies), I wasn’t schooled in concrete problem-solving; rather I was trained to “live with the questions” and “embrace ambiguity”.  As wonderful as my time in seminary was, it offered me little guidance about how to deal with the complexities of people’s lives when those needs outpace the ability of a local congregation (or even a local municipality) to meet. How is any clergy person supposed to traverse the path of “pastoral care” when good listening skills are exhausted and the conundrum of pain and suffering remain? How is a priest to “be present” with the realization that very little he will say (or do) can untangle the circumstances, effect meaningful reconciliation or provide a long term solution to the insoluble problems so many people live with day in and day out?

Thankfully, people trust me enough as their pastor to share the difficulties of their lives and their relationships. They even assume there is some value in sharing those things. Perhaps a few of them believe I have some sort of ability to provide practical assistance in times of need. I confess, given what people seem to be dealing with in their “everything-else-lives”, knowing how to sing the Magnifcant, load a thurible with incense or find the date of Easter in 2025 using the table at the back of the Book of Common Prayer seem arcane bits of knowledge at best.

Faced with these limitations of my own formation and my own innate “skill set”, I can now fully understand the temptation toward administration, “vision casting”, and “restructuring”. I can also see why tweaking the personnel on a committee or learning the latest fundraising trick is so seductive. I think I finally understand why so many priests wind up cleaning the bathrooms, cutting the lawn or shoveling snow. Sitting with the realization of one’s limitations is unsettling to say the least.

No preaching about the Church prevailing against the gates of hell means anything until people are busted out of their own private hells. Singing about Christ being the Light of the World in liturgy doesn’t mean much for people who dwell in the darkness of depression and dependency or in the shadow of violence. Wrestling against the principalities of the world sounds like a waste of time to the person who is wrestling with a growling stomach or can’t find a warm place to sleep or hasn’t had a hug from a loved one in decades. Turning the world upside down for Jesus is all well and good for people with nothing else to do, but what about those in our midst who long to have their worlds right side up for a change?

Once upon a time, the Apostle Paul had a painful situation (he called it a “thorn in the flesh”). On a number of times, he prayed for deliverance and relief from the difficulty. The response he received from the Almighty went something like this, “My grace is sufficient for you, for [my] power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Far be it from me to compare my frailties as a pastor to the sufferings Paul endured, but I do think there’s a “word of the Lord” in this passage for me today.

Maybe today’s task is to admit my ignorance, uncertainty and ineptitude and remain open to the Spirit’s guidance and trust for God’s grace. Maybe I can put aside my big picture idealism, leave the salvation of the world God’s in hands where it belongs and do the work I’ve been given to do with gladness and some focus (singleness of heart). The provisions I’ve got for this work of priesthood are bread and wine, water and oil, the Scriptures and the prayers. Sometimes these provisions seem meager in the face of so much need (like crumbs scattered on an ocean of famine). But these provisions will have to do, and for the record, these have been the Church’s only provisions for centuries!

Maybe my work isn’t about fixing stuff — maybe it really is about sitting in the brokenness — beginning with my own.

The season of Advent begins tomorrow, marking the beginning of the Christian calendar. This shorter liturgical season commences four Sundays before Christmas. It is a time of preparation as the Church readies to celebrate the Feast of the Nativity and ruminate upon the  mystery of Incarnation — “God-with-us”, in the flesh, in the person of Jesus of Nazareth.

Advent has a two-fold focus: anticipation and commemoration. The first half of the season is anticipatory — looking forward to the at-any-moment “moment” when the promise of Christ’s return is fulfilled. This notion that “Christ will come again”, while part of our liturgical verbiage and ecclesiastical heritage, isn’t something we Episcopalians spend very much time thinking (or talking!) about. We’re nervous about being perceived as superstitious or non-rational, so we’ve tended to do our best to ignore the Tradition’s insistence that the First Advent of God-in-the-Flesh foreshadows a Second Advent at the end of time as we know it.

We’ve been more than willing to cede such eschatological discussions to other parts of the Church. This has been to our detriment. I would argue our reticence to engage such a conversation has actually eviscerated our understanding of Christian ethics (flattening our ethical discussions to squishy forms of nebulous do-goodism). This has resulted in much of our  involvement in social justice looking more like partisan politics than an engagement in the overt proclamation of the coming Kingdom of God.

When the First Sunday of Advent happens to fall on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the difficulty of keeping our competing calendars (ecclesial and cultural) coordinated is writ large. In the aftermath of familial celebrations, feasting and perhaps a bit of Black Friday shopping, we are more ready to take a nap than to keep awake. More worried about the next day at work than “the last day” of all time. More ready to lounge around in pajamas than to put on “the armor of light”. More ready to think about the coming (way back then) of “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” in the manger than to consider the (very unlikely, we’re certain) advent of Jesus, the Son of God, coming again “in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead.” More worried about how we’ll get through this life than how we’ll rise “to the life immortal”.

After twenty-plus centuries, the waiting game is getting old. Most North American Mainline Christians have moved on. If there’s something to this far-fetched notion of a Second Advent, we’ll let God work out the details. We’ve got life to live and we can live it with very little thought about such things. We can’t simply sit around on a mountain somewhere straining our eyes up into the sky hoping to catch a glimpse. Besides, we don’t do ridiculous stuff like that. We have too much fun satirizing those who do!

In the Gospel of Luke (19:12-26), Jesus tells the “Parable of the Pounds” (recorded in the Gospel of Matthew as the “Parable of the Talents”). While the details of each version are different, both parables are eschatological in scope; the servants are given resources to use in their master’s absence, but don’t know exactly when their time for making use of those resources will be “up”. They know the master will return. They simply don’t know when. In Luke’s version, though, the master gives a word of instruction after he has distributed the money to the servants:

“Do business with these until I come back.” (Luke 19:13, New Revised Standard Version)

“Operate with this until I return.” (Luke 19:13, The Message)

“Occupy till I come.” (Luke 19:13, King James Version)

The first two weeks of Advent provide opportunity for the Church to reflect on the year past with an eye trained toward God’s unfinished future. How have we been doing in our business of proclaiming Good News? How are we operating in service of the Kingdom that is both present and is to come? How are we occupying ourselves?

Occupation is an act of taking up space. Advent challenges the Church to take up space in the world — to spread out and proclaim the Good News; to refuse to be confined to a Sunday-morning-only expression of personal piety; to resist being silenced in the name of propriety.  Occupation is a vocational act. Advent stresses that the Church’s vocation is to stand with those whom the rest of the world prefers to stomp on. Part of the way we operate as the Church is to give voice to those who don’t have one — to work strenuously for justice and peace as an outward and visible sign of our belief that salvation (God’s wholeness) is for the whole person (and the whole world!) — and that this salvation infiltrates and redeems every single aspect of life. Our vocation is the hope-filled notion that working against all odds for “the least of these” is precisely how we’re supposed to be the Church in a culture hell-bent on telling us that certain situations or groups of people are hopeless.  Occupation is a political act. Advent reminds us of the Church as polis (a people) that lives its common life in a way which witnesses to the abundant life promised by Jesus. Such a common life reorients us (and anyone who cares to notice us) to an understanding that abundance is more than the balance in one’s checking account, the acquisition of the latest electronic gadget or wearing the shiniest gemstones around one’s neck. In a culture which stresses “more” — more power, more control, more money, more, more, more — the Church is the polis which gives witness to the idea of neighborly abundance in which God provides enough…for everyone.

How well are we occupying ourselves? Most congregations are very busy this time of year, but are we occupied with things that distract us from our occupation? The first two weeks of Advent could well be a corrective to our tendency to sentimentalize and privatize the Gospel. God is at work in the world. Christ will come again. Occupy till he comes.

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Collect for the First Sunday of Advent, Book of Common Prayer, page 211).

At a recent meeting of the Trinity Church Vestry, we spent a good deal of time talking about the term, “spiritual leader”. We discovered we did not have a clear understanding of this phrase which we’ve tossed around for quite some time. Some of us feel inadequate to have such a description “put on us”. We are all in agreement that serving on the Vestry of an Episcopal Church is about more than simply  “managing the temporal affairs of the parish”. But what is this elusive “more”?

I confess, the more I think about the verbiage, “spiritual leader”, the less I think I know what it means. I have conflicting understandings. On the one hand, in any organization, for the good of the organization, there will be some order — some way the group agrees to live out its common life. Yet, on the other hand, those of us who attempt to follow the way of Jesus are all too aware of his exhortation that, “the greatest among you will be the servant of all” and his warning not to employ authority as a way to “lord it over others.” Finally, I’m also ambivalent about the recent movement within North American Mainline Protestant circles to rely heavily on leadership literature from the corporate world with little reflection on how such literature corresponds (or doesn’t) with the Gospel our respective Churches seek to embody.

I am coming to believe that at least one aspect of this discipline of spiritual leadership has to do with developing a certain comfort concerning loose ends and ambiguity. In an attempt to begin a conversation about this topic within our Vestry, I wrote some about it in an e-mail I sent them this past Wednesday. What follows is some of what was contained in that e-mail (edited so that it makes more sense for a wider readership):

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The work of “process” is difficult. It requires patience and a willingness to wander around in a good deal of ambiguity. It can sometimes feel a bit like slogging through a swamp in hip waders while carrying a sack full of rocks in each hand. The work of truly listening to others can be exhausting. We discover that even when we are using the same set of words, those words can have different meanings to each individual.

The easiest work any vestry can do is the task stuff — checking items off of project lists, making decisions about expending/conserving funds, reporting out on what has been done or needs to be done. At the end of a meeting full of such task work, we can walk away with a feeling that the time was well spent and productive, because there are “accomplishments” that can be specifically articulated. Who doesn’t want to “get things done”?

But the movement to embrace “completion” as a goal of parochial life is seductive. It can lead us to begin to see fellow parishioners (or fellow vestry persons) in an instrumental fashion. In this mindset, we are only as good to each other as our last good contribution to the last good accomplishment. We begin to make judgments about what sort of value a person (including ourselves!) has to the community solely based on the contributions he/she is able/willing to make.

The first job of being “spiritual leaders” it seems to me, is to get comfortable with the idea that we may be doing our best work when it doesn’t look like we’re working. In a culture which increasingly values more work with less resources (people/relationships be damned, full speed ahead!), both the parish and the vestry can model a different way of living. We can be the place where we offer each other the grace of generous listening and thoughtful speech. Our community can become a place where we intentionally respect each other’s dignity. This can be the place where we come to recognize Jesus’ presence among us every time we gather (because we understand he’s almost always disguised in the faces of our fellow parishioners). This work of “becoming community” will never be completely done. But part of being spiritual leaders, I think, is getting comfortable with the process of the journey, enjoying each other’s company along the way and trusting that the Spirit is always at work (even when we don’t recognize it).

So, let’s put on our hip waders; grab a bag (or two) of rocks; and rejoice that there are still a few swamps to slog through together!

Today, I had an interesting conversation with a small gathering of parishioners. I was making my eighth appearance before the Trinity Book Club — a group of folks who have met for years to enjoy each other’s fellowship and to discuss books and authors that are of interest to them. The first year I was at Trinity, I was invited to address the group in November — thus, November is “my month” (in perpetuity, I suspect!).

For today’s meeting, I decided to review, for the group’s edification, one of the books I read during my sabbatical: The Pastor: A Memoir, by Eugene Peterson. This book, by one of my favorite authors, offers the reader a peek inside of Peterson’s childhood in small town Montana as well as Peterson’s take on how those experiences shaped his life. The bulk of the book, though tells the stories of Peterson’s work as a pastor in a Presbyterian congregation he “planted” in the early 1960’s, and where he remained until his retirement from congregational ministry nearly thirty years later.

I was particularly taken with Peterson’s description of the pastoral work — work which Peterson primarily characterizes as reading the stories of Scripture and weaving those stories with the stories of the people in the congregation. He served his folks as “the pastor” — the everyday exegete — who translated the great themes of creation, sin, redemption, reconciliation and judgment into the vernacular of suburban, middle to upper middle class Americans. Along the way he baptized, officiated at weddings and planted plenty of mortal remains in hope of the resurrection. Certainly there was the usual froth of administrative details along the way (the stuff he grumpily/lovingly referred to as prerequisite to “running the damned church.”) Mostly, though, Peterson saw his pastoral role as a collector and teller of stories. Hundreds upon hundreds of little stories woven into the tapestry of the BIG story of the Gospel of Jesus.

The community of faith in which Peterson was the pastor was the field he plowed for those stories. Year after year — first in one direction, then, in another. Back and forth. Back and forth. Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost through Ordinary Time and back again. Over and over and over. Year in and year out.

As I was talking to the book group, reading excerpts from Peterson’s work, I decided to ask them about one of the previous rectors of Trinity Church. I wanted to hear from the members of the group how they experienced that particular priest’s tenure — a span of over thirty-five years. I simply asked the questions, “What did he do all day?”

I was expecting they would tell me he how he visited parishioners in their home and at the hospital. I expected they would tell me about how they liked/didn’t like his sermons. I expected they would tell me about his teaching or their appreciation of his life of prayer.

What I heard instead was the phrase, “He was a good man,” repeated several time — in a tone, which at once was both respectful and a bit melancholy. They told me how he organized the Women’s Guilds and occasionally upbraided the congregation for failing to sing a hymn with sufficient verve. They told me how he yelled at kids in confirmation class who didn’t do their homework. (Just allow the concept of required homework from a confirmation class sink in and you’ll know it was a different world then!) They also told me of the ways in which he made sure the widows and orphans in the parish received tangible assistance in their need — time and time again, with gentleness and patience. For all his gruffness, he was, by everyone’s account, “Good”.

Never once did I hear about this man’s ability as a preacher or teacher. Apparently over the forty years since this rector’s departure, the vast majority, if not ALL, of the words he uttered through his years of service, have evaporated from congregational memory. Yet, he is remembered. Not because he was perfect, but because he was “good”. The folks telling me the story today seemed content that “good” was “good enough”.

I doubt this poignant reminder of the impermanence of words will allow me to stop obsessing over the preaching task, but the folks who talked with me today gave me the gift of clarity: A life that preaches is far more significant than a life of preaching. Who knows? Maybe being remembered as a “good” pastor is “good enough.” Faithfulness counts. For Eugene Peterson. For George White. And for me.

Thanks Eugene Peterson, for sharing your story, because in telling a bit of it, I was inspired to learn more about the story of the community of faith I now serve. Your story also helped me discover a deeper appreciation for the community of clergy who have spent the past one hundred twenty-five years plowing this particular field in God’s Kingdom — weaving their stories and the stories of the people they served with THE story of God’s Good News. Year after year — first in one direction, then, in another. Back and forth. Back and forth. Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost through Ordinary Time and back again. Over and over and over. Year in and year out.

They did their best to be good at it. Perhaps a few of them accomplished the feat. I get to try again tomorrow. Thanks be to God!