Who are we? Who are we to become?

My sermon today is based on Mark 8:27-38.

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The scene may sound very familiar to us these days.

The candidate huddles with his top aides. They go over polling data and focus group results. They take the temperature of the voters, and the candidate asks: “What are they saying about me?”

“You are the messiah,” replies the chief campaign consultant, known in the business as “Rock.”

Shush, the candidate says. If you say that out loud, the voters will crucify me. Get thee behind me Satan!

One way of hearing this passage from the Gospel of Mark is that Jesus is a candidate trying to gauge how his message is playing with the electorate. He knows the answers, but wants to hear if the voters – and his consultants – are catching on yet.

They aren’t quite yet.

So the candidate does something crazy. He goes rogue. He tells his consultants: to win this election, we will have to go to Jerusalem, the heartland of the opposition. For Peter, aka “Rock” the campaign consultant, this is not what he had in mind when he signed onto this candidate.

Are you nuts? There aren’t any votes in Jerusalem!

It is as if Mitt Romney were to say, let’s go to San Francisco, or Barack Obama were to say, let’s go to Salt Lake City.

Well, that’s one way of looking at this, as a test of his followers: the voters.

But what if this story is not about a campaign, or focus groups, or consultants or voters? What if this is not a test of the disciples at all? What if Jesus asks the question – “Who do people say that I am?” – because he really wants to know the answer. What if he is still trying to figure this out himself?

What if this story is a continuation of last week’s story when Jesus learns about himself.

Last week, we heard an extraordinary sermon from University of Virginia Professor Valerie Cooper.

She talked about how the gospel of Mark is a messy gospel, and it portrays Jesus at his most human – a human being who learns and grows as we do.

In the story last week, a Syrophoenician woman comes to Jesus because her daughter is sick. She is from a different country and has a different religion than Jesus. He rebukes her by calling her a dog.

But she says even the dogs get crumbs from the table. It is a messy story.

As Professor Cooper explained, the incident becomes a huge learning experience for Jesus. He discovers by her humility that his mission is not to single tribe or religion but to all people of every tribe and nation.

That story is a turning point for Jesus, and the daughter is healed, and then another man – a stranger – is healed. And then we get to this story.

I have been thinking all week about Professor Cooper’s sermon, and wondering if today’s story is a continuation of last week’s story.

Is Jesus still wondering what it means to be “messiah”?

When he asks his followers – what do people think? – maybe this messiah really needs his followers to help him with the answer.

By asking, by drawing us into the conversation, Jesus is redefining what it means to be “messiah.” He is human, able to learn, to grow, to be in relationship with people by being open to them – and sometimes it will take all his divinity to be that open. In this conversation, it dawns on him where this will go:

Ultimately this messiah will suffer as we suffer, and die as a human being, and point the way beyond the grave.

To be messiah is not to be a powerful dictator but a servant among us, especially in our hardest moments.

Peter wants Jesus to fix things, to use his God authority like a mighty Roman emperor or a Greek God like Zeus. Jesus can’t and won’t. Therein lies their conflict with Jesus and his followers.

To be messiah means giving up the idea of being a fixer, a rescuer, and instead become a healer, and the One who leads us to new life from the ashes.

Jesus discovers his true self is to walk into the night with those who hurt, to share in their wounds, and then walk with them toward healing and hope – to Resurrection itself.

There is an unavoidable paradox to the gospel story today. This idea of bringing healing and hope does not always lead to immediate tranquility for the healed or the healer.

And Peter sees exactly where this is going too, and he objects strenuously. Peter asks: Can’t we do something different?

But Jesus says we need to go where life is precarious, where life is treated as cheap. We need to confront the powers of the world that robs us of life; to confront evil itself. And in his day, that would be Jerusalem.

This week we got very painful remainder of the precariousness of life with the killing of U.S. ambassador to Libya, Chris Stevens, a courageous servant who had worked tirelessly to bring freedom and peace to that very troubled corner of our world.

He was one of the good guys.

Sometimes events far away strike close to home. Ambassador Stevens’ family are long-time members of my congregation in Sacramento, Trinity Cathedral, where Lori and I were for 18 years, and where I was ordained a priest and served as an associate.

I’d ask that you keep the Stevens family especially in your prayers.

Most of the wounds in our world don’t make headlines, but the people who are hurt and wounded are no less in pain.

As followers of Christ, we are called to be servants especially to the hurting, not out of regard for our worldly status, and not because we might get a reward, but because it is where Christ would have us go.

Jesus puts this squarely: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

This is not about an intellectual set of precepts. It is about having the heart of servant – and that begins by being vulnerable to our own wounds. That is precisely what Jesus means by taking up your Cross.

But I stop myself right here and ask: Why would anyone do that? Sometimes I feel like Peter. Let’s go somewhere else. The Cross is not where I want to be.

It is a wonder that Jesus had any followers at all. This is a hard road to follow; it is much easier stay in our comfort zones.

Yet people all over the world do follow this way of the Cross; they open themselves to others and in so doing find their own heart of healing.

And it happens right here in this place.

Here in our parish, we have many who live as servants among us:

• Our highly trained Stephen Ministers who meet regularly with those who are lonely, hurting or ailing;

• Our volunteers at the Episcopal Thrift Shop on Rio Road;

• Our hospital visitors who go to the bedsides of the sick;

• Our University commission and those who befriend and serve dinners for our UVA students. 

• Our Martha’s Guild volunteers who extend hospitality to everyone;

• Our Eucharistic Visitors who bring Communion to the home-bound; our PACEM volunteers who assist the homeless; 

• Our Salvation Army volunteers who feed people living on the street;

• Our IMPACT social justice network volunteers who work across religious lines for change in our community so that maybe one day no one will be on the street or out of a job. 

• Our ushers, choir members, musicians, Eucharistic ministers, acolytes, readers, intercessors, Altar Guild, Flower Guild and all those who make our worship come alive. 

• Our annual giving team that makes all of this possible.

And there are more, many more servant ministries here at St. Paul’s.

Later this morning, you will get an opportunity to join one of these ministries. We are hosting our annual parish picnic outdoors, and you can enjoy fried chicken, and while you are there, signup for one or more of these ministries.

Each of these ministries brings transformation to our community and the world. But at least as important is how these ministries transform us by how we serve.

Jesus had a question for his followers – who do people say I am?

We could ask a similar question of ourselves: Who are we?

To find out, we must answer another question each day of our life: How will we share God’s love with the rest of our world? How will we take up our Cross not to die, but to live?

And when we do, who will we become?

AMEN

Art by He Qi
By James Richardson, Fiat Lux

What inside you is thirsty for the living water?

Today's gospel reading John 4:1-15 is the story of the Samaritan woman at the well. Jesus pauses on his journey back to Galilee. He and his followers have taken a route through Samaria, considered by their pious countryman to be unclean, not because of the water but because of the people who live there.

Jesus breaks several religious, gender and social taboos by asking a Samaritan woman for a cup of water. She is startled that a Jewish man such as he would ask her, an untouchable, for a cup of water.

Then he goes all mystical on her.

"Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink the water that I will give them will never be thirsty," he tells the woman.

She responds by asking for his water "so that I may never be thirsty."

I am struck by many things in the story, and many have preached it from many directions. It is a declaration of faith in Jesus as the "living water." It is a story of a woman who sees him for who he is and responds by following. That may be lesson enough from this story.

But there is more.

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well is a story of Jesus reaching the untouchable, the one who others consider foreign and unworthy for a holy man to reach. She is the wrong gender, the wrong religion, the wrong ethnicity. That makes the story a clarion call to the followers of Jesus to reach the outsiders, the untouchables, the lowliest in our own country. Who are the untouchables for us? The homeless? The alien? The poor? Who are the religious untouchables in our land? Jesus reminds us that the water of his living well connects us all together. If we really are followers of Jesus, we will go to the well and find the people who live there and invite them to have a cup of water.

John's Gospel is also a mystical gospel, and it can be heard as a story of the inner life, not just the outer life. The entire gospel can be heard as a pathway for how Jesus draws people to a deepening awareness of their union with God, and a deepening awareness of what they need to change inside themselves to be living in the fullness of their life with God.

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well invites each of us to ask a very hard questions about ourselves: What is untouchable inside each of us? What is poor in ourselves? What inside us is thirsty for the living water?

Art: "Samaritan Woman at the Well," by He Qi.

The way of followership

My sermon today touches on all of the lessons appointed for the day: 1 Samuel 3:1-10(11-20), Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17, 1 Corinthians 6:12-20  and John 1:43-51.

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Today we come to a very open-ended story:

Jesus goes to the Sea of Galilee. When Phillip, Peter, Andrew, and Nathanael see him, they drop everything and follow Jesus. 

Just like that. 

What did they see that so compelled them? And what was inside themselves that made them follow? 

Many of have speculated over centuries about why the first disciples followed. Had they known Jesus since childhood? Were they waiting for a signal from him for when this great project would begin? Or did they just happen into this like Nathanael?

None of the gospels tell us. 

Maybe we are to find these answers in how we ourselves choose to follow.
We get a common thread lacing through all of the biblical stories we hear today. 

The thread is followership. 

The young Samuel hears the voice of God in the night and he follows the voice wherever it leads. 

The psalm declares God is always with us and knows us better than we know ourselves.
The apostle Paul dishes up hard medicine for followers about their harmful behaviors. 

And the Gospel John gives this story of how the first followers of Jesus begin their followership with no real idea of what would happen or where they were going, but they went anyway. 

The topic of followership is not one we hear much about in our world today. We would rather talk about leadership.This great university across the street devotes enormous resources and intellectual power to the training of leaders, and don’t get me wrong – this world needs great leaders. 

Yet, our society doesn’t place much value on followership. I checked Amazon.com yesterday, and it is currently selling 71,136 books on leadership. 

There are only 187 titles with the word “followership.” 

We would rather look up to great leaders and dissect what it takes to be a great leader. 

We are in the throes of a presidential election that, at some level, is a debate about the nature and quality of leadership. 

We rightly celebrate the leadership of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. this weekend.
But what of being a follower? 

There is no holiday for followers. 

Dr. King would be the first to tell you that without followers who stood their ground…
without followers who withstood the taunts; without followers who withstood the fire hoses and the jail cells, and the beatings and death itself; without followers, Dr. King’s leadership would have been absolutely worthless. 

Dr. King would be the first to tell you that followers make the difference. Followers always make the difference. 

You and I make the difference. 

In a very real sense, our parish is embarking on a new season of followership, or to use the church term: discipleship.

This winter, we are engaged in a season of discernment and listening so that we can become clearer about the path that God would have us follow as a faith community. 

We may not be faced with fire hoses and jail cells, but we are no less faced with challenges in our personal lives, and in the life of our congregation that require courage and strength, and especially require deep listening for the presence of God in our midst and within ourselves.

I hope you will pick up one of these. It summarizes a year of work by our Vestry and a task force that has examined the context and challenges facing us as a parish. 

And I hope you will sign up for a listening group. There is information about them in this.
Everyone can participate because everyone has something to contribute from your life experience and your experience of being in this church. 

This season of listening to God’s call in our parish can be extraordinary of we are open to it.
Yet some may find the concept of discernment uncomfortable, or risky, or even fraught with peril – and in it is. 

After all, haven’t we met or heard about mentally unstable people who claim they are speaking for God? Shouldn’t we question whether we are hearing “God” or just our own voices? 

Yes. 

That is why we do this together. 

All of the biblical lessons today underline this theme as well: that God is with us, but God is not easy to hear or see, and you should never blindly follow. 

We are human, we are not God. We make mistakes. Everyone in these stories questions.
The lessons today also provide a map for authentic listening and discernment. Let tell you what I hear in these lessons that can help us: 

Discernment begins with open-mindedness. Nathanael was open to Phillip bringing him to meet this unknown Jewish rabbi, Jesus, and Nathanael was open to what he experienced.

Nathanael had many pre-conceived ideas about who the messiah would be, but he was open to a new epiphany that would turn his previous notions upside down. 

Listening takes perseverance. 

Listening may take more than one try, as it did for Samuel in the Old Testament today.
Samuel and Nathanael both make mistakes, but they keep at it – they keep coming back – and that is another reason why discernment should be done in community. 

We need each other to do this. 

We can only know if our discernment is legitimate if we test it with other people. We need to always be open to the possibility that we’ve heard things wrong, that we didn’t get it right, that we heard only our prejudices speaking. 

From that springs humility, a word rarely heard in our culture. Our epiphanies will come not out of our arrogance or the certainty of being right, but from a sense of confidence that the Spirit dwells in us as individuals and as a community. 

Look for the surprising. 

The Spirit may be speaking to us from unexpected corners, and that often takes a whole community to see and hear. 

Psalm 139 proclaims that the One who knows us more deeply than we know ourselves will find a way to speak to us in a way that that is unique to each of us. 

You may hear God in a physics equation or in the soaring notes of a Mozart concerto. 

That also means the Spirit can reach the person sitting next to you in ways unique to him or her. When you honor the next person, especially when it is hardest, you honor the Spirit, and that is the definition of humility living in community. 

Next comes healing. 

We need to ask whether our followership brings about healing to the whole community, or brings about harm. Healing starts with healing for each of us. 

It is exactly what the apostle Paul is driving at in his letter today. He asks us to take a hard look at what corrodes our relationship with God and corrodes our relationship with each other. 

For us, what gets in the way? Possessions? Addictions? Callousness? In what ways do we abuse our bodies, this great gift from God? 

Heal yourself and we will go a long way to healing our community. 

Then we must ask: Who around us needs healing? Who is poor and neglected, lonely and forgotten? Do we hear their voices? When we do, we are close to hearing God. 

Next comes resolve, and with it, courage. 

We need to put one foot in front of the other, one day at a time, just like Samuel and just like Nathanael. We are called to do something and do it well, and not be hamstrung by endless analysis. 

Our actions will bring new insights, new epiphanies, new inspiration, new discernment.
Our path of discernment will have many turns and surprises, and there will be rocks along the way. True followership – true discipleship – is not easy. 

We will be transformed as individuals and as a community – and we will change the world by our followership. 

Dr. King’s followers changed everything in our world, nothing was ever the same again because they listened with openness, they spoke with humility, and they acted with resolve.
They knew how to follow with courage. 

And you know what else? Those are same qualities great leaders have as well: listening, openness, humility, resolve and courage. 

May it always be so with us here at St. Paul’s.
AMEN.

Art by He Qi

The Raising of Lazarus and the emptiness of Hell

Today comes the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead, found in John 11:17-44, the only place in the New Testament where the story is found. Jesus goes to the tomb where his friend, Lazarus, has been dead for three days. He hears the anguish of Mary and Martha, and so Jesus orders the dead man to come out, and then tells the startled onlookers "Unbind him and let him go."

For many it is a dark, broody disturbing story. Jesus weeps, Jesus is "disturbed in spirit." The dead man has a stench, we are told, and his new life will not last long. The authorities, hearing of this, immediately begin to plot the death of both Jesus and Lazarus.

The incident can also be heard as a foretelling of the Holy Saturday story of Easter, when Jesus himself goes into the tomb, and to Hell itself to unbind everyone and let them go. The unbinding of people in Hell is at the heart of message of the Gospel, and makes Jesus more than a mere rabbi or wisdom teacher. It is why we describe Jesus as "Savior" and divine.

You will note there is no "Jesus died for your sins" in these stories, and maybe that is another reason the story is hard to take for some. This unbinding comes as a pure act of love with no strings attached, no conditions. Lazarus has not asked to be saved, but salvation comes to him.  It makes all this the harder to comprehend. Humans don't act this way. Only the divine is capable of that.

The placement of the story of Lazarus on the last day of Christmas and the Eve of the Epiphany is meant, I think, to show us the true meaning of the light of Christ coming into our lives. It's not really about magi bearing gifts to Christ, but Christ bearing gifts to us. This light comes in the hardest moments and at the gates of death itself. It is a reminder that Christmas is inextricably connected to Easter and the Resurrection and the empty tomb.

Many theologians have tried to explain this, and many a preacher, including me, has tried as well. The poets sometimes explain this better with fewer words, so I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite contemporary theologians and with a short poem:

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“With this we can say… that Hell exists, as the Church has always maintained; nevertheless it is perfectly possible that there is nobody at all there.”

James Alison, Raising Abel, 1996

HELL

But if they were condemned to suffer
this unending torment, sooner or later
wouldn’t they become the holy?

Franz Wright, God’s Silence, 2006

Art: "Mary, Martha and Lazarus," by He Qi

What keeps you from seeing who is walking beside you?

Today is Youth Sunday, and our young people will be narrating an enactment of the story of the

disciples on the road to Emmaus, based on Luke 24:13-35. I preached a homily at 8 am on the story. Here it is:

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“Their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” 

What kept them from recognizing who was walking beside them?

What keeps you from recognizing who is walking beside you?

Two men – disciples of Jesus – are walking down a road talking about the astounding, preposterous news from women who tell them that the tomb of Jesus is empty.

As they walk along, a stranger joins them on the road.

“Their eyes were kept from recognizing him,” the gospel account tells us.

I’ve often wondered what kept their eyes from recognizing him.

Was it their grief? Is it their sadness? Or the horror of the crucifixion?

Or was it their doubts and their inability to trust the women who told them about their experience?

Or was it the sheer strangeness of all they were encountering? The gospel does not tell us. 

Maybe it was something they carried with them, something very personal? A burden, a disappointment, a failure?

They thought Jesus would be the leader the had waited for, the messiah to redeem Israel. But now their hopes were dashed on the Cross.

Maybe they were just wrapped up in their disillusionment and they just could not see who was walking beside them on the road. They were somewhere stuck in Good Friday.

There is a United Church of Christ pastor in Atlanta, Shannon Michael Pater, who puts it this way: “Easter does not always come in three days. Stones are rolled away, but sometimes we stay in the tomb.”*

The two disciples, engrossed in their darkness, walk on with this stranger, who tells them many things, but still they do not see.

Not until they arrive at an inn, and not until this stranger takes bread, blesses it and breaks it, do they see the Risen Christ in front of them. They see him finally in the act of sharing a simple piece of bread, in sharing a meal. Finally they recognize him in the blessing.

Now they get it.

What gets in your way of seeing?

This story of the two disciples walking on the road to Emmaus puts the question squarely before us. What gets in our way of seeing the Christ in front of us, the Christ in each other, and the Christ in the people around us?

What keeps us from recognizing the Christ in total strangers? Who do we overlook in our daily life and work?

Who brings you blessings, and yet you do not see?

It was not until the disciples on the road to Emmaus were open to the surprise that they finally saw the blessing that was theirs to claim all along.

They caught the newness of this in the very familiar words of a table blessing. The common suddenly became uncommon, the old and familiar became new and different. Nothing for them was ever the same again.

In churches, we commonly talk about our life as on a spiritual journey. We walk on a spiritual path, each our own way, and that is true enough.

The path can take us on an intensely inward journey, encased in the “interior castle,” as medieval mystic Teresa of Avila called it.

Yet, often overlooked is that we are on this journey as a community, with each other. Yes, each of us must walk in our own way, but we are walking together. This does not have to be a lonely path. Even solitary monks gather together to share a meal and escape the interior castle.

When we gather here each Sunday, when we share the bread and wine of our Holy Eucharist, we are like those first two disciples on the road to Emmaus.

Standing at the table, kneeling at the altar rail, we open ourselves to seeing each other, and I pray, open ourselves to the surprise of being blessed by each other.

With these blessings comes a large responsibility. We are called to reach outside ourselves, and touch the hurt and wounds of the world. The walls of our interior castles must have openings that others may see in and we see out.

Our spiritual path can lead us to places most of us would rather not go, and that is why we need the strength of walking together in community.

It is in those difficult places – in hospital rooms, homeless shelters, jail cells, or in an almost forgotten friendship – where we become the hands and face of Christ for someone else on their road to Emmaus.

But to walk that path, we need to ask again: What keeps you from seeing who is in walking beside you? AMEN.

* Commentary by Shannon Michael Pater, Feasting on the Word, 3 Easter.
Painting, Road to Emmaus, by He Qi.

Today: One-thousand posts on Fiat Lux

This is the 1,000th posting on Fiat Lux. One-thousand.

I must admit that many of my posts -- okay, most -- are not particularly memorable. But I hope a few are. And, as an ex-journalist (and no newshound is really ever an ex), I appreciate milestones, and 1,000 is a good one for looking back.

I started this blog nearly three years ago as Lori and I were preparing to embark on this zany crazy idea of moving from our comfortable nest in the West to the faraway wilds of Virginia.

I wasn't quite sure what I had in mind with this blog other than chronicling our adventure to East of Reno and giving me a platform for my meandering thoughts, theological ramblings and otherwise, and giving you a place of conversation with me.

I hope you consider this blog a blessing if for no other reason than it has given me a parking place for stray ideas and stories so that they don't clog up sermons more than they do.

The topics here have roamed the map, from the Virgin of Guadalupe to my own reporting from the floor of General Convention in 2009 in Anaheim.

There have been 169 references to biblical passages (who says we Episcopalians don't read the Bible?). The most frequently cited Old Testament book is Isaiah; the most frequently cited in the New Testament is the Gospel of Luke. The most frequently referenced 17th century Anglican divine is Jeremy Taylor; the most frequently cited contemporary theologian is James Alison.

I must say I am awestruck by how many readers come here. As of last night, Fiat Lux has been viewed 107,849 times. It has gone from a handful of readers in June 2008, to an average of about 150-200 per day.

Readers come from all over the world. This week we've had readers from the North Slope of Alaska to Capetown, South Africa; from San Francisco to Parañaque, Philippines, and many places in between.

The most intriguing frequent visitor comes from a server located at The Royal Veterinary College in London, which my tracking software shows is located right where Lambeth Palace is located. Hmm, what to make of that?

In the last 1,000 posts, the most frequently viewed item is a prayer by Mother Teresa that I put here in 2008, and if you want to see it again, click HERE.

This blog has gone semi-"viral" twice. When I re-posted a video of a weather report done in Anglican chant, it became an overnight sensation in the monasteries of Romania, thanks to a link sent to the monks by a friend who had been a Peace Corps volunteer in Romania. You can see that video again by clicking HERE (and it's still funny if I do say so).

Last week we went semi-viral again, this time because someone posted on Facebook an item from my blog by Garrison Keillor about Episcopalians that I had lifted from Salon.com and re-posted last December. We've had more than 1,000 hits on that item since last week. You can read it again (and keep this count going) by clicking HERE.

I've much enjoyed bringing you these items as they strike my fancy. A regular feature has been "The Monday Funnies," and I've run that for 89 Mondays, with a few time-outs for Holy Week and somber news events. Most of the jokes come from my friend Patrick Hill, who lives in the El Dorado Hills above Sacramento in California.

It's also been my pleasure to bring you poems from time to time, and most of the poems are gifts from my friend Karen Claussen Bishop who lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. Lori and met Karen and her husband Jim on a hiking trip in Southern France many years ago. The most frequently posted poet here is Mary Oliver followed by Beat poet Gary Snyder.

You may not have noticed this, but all of the poems on Fiat Lux are re-posted onto another blog linked to this one. You can find the poems of Fiat Lux by clicking HERE.

Now and then I write something original and I hope some of those reflections have been worthwhile. I've stayed out of politics (mostly); I think you can find better commentaries elsewhere. Once in awhile I dip into church politics, but again, I think you can find better commentaries elsewhere.

Among the pieces I am particularly fond of is the series on prayer two years ago during Advent; you can find the first installment by clicking HERE.

I tried to add to the discussion on the morality of the death penalty with a lengthy reflection I wrote last summer after the sentencing of two young men who were convicted of murdering a young friend. You can read my death penalty reflection by clicking HERE. The item got 11 posted comments, which is a lot for this blog, and many more private emails.

I've also tried to give you a glimpse of my own story and my own prayer life, as I did a few days ago with an item about a "thin place" that is hugely important in my own spiritual journey. You can read that by clicking HERE.

When we drove east to Virginia in 2008, I wrote a travelogue along the way, including a post driving through Kansas pointing out the Oz museum. You can read that one and see more photos by clicking HERE.

I've stayed mostly out of doctrinal disputes because I think they bring more heat than light. But I took a stab at original sin, forgiveness and salvation, and I appreciate the kind comments from many of you especially those of you who couldn't quite follow my reasoning or agree with me. You can read that series on original sin beginning HERE.

I've had a great deal of fun picking the artwork and photographs for Fiat Lux. Among the artists I've used the most are the legendary Chiura Obata, and lesser known contemporary artists including He Qi and Kathrin Burleson.

I've relied on some very talented photographers, particularly Bonny Bronson, Dudley Rochester and Diane Wakat. I've taken a few of my own, including the photo, right, of St. Paul's at dawn a couple of weeks ago when I was opening up on a Sunday morning.

For the most part, comments left here have been respectful and enlightening, and I much appreciate the wisdom others bring to this space.

I was compelled against my instincts to moderate (review) comments before posting because a few were nasty and several were commercial spam. The tactic worked. The purveyors of nastigrams seem intimidated by the prospect of being reviewed before posting, and the spammers have gone elsewhere looking for easier targets.

As for the future of Fiat Lux, I intend to keep doing this while I can and while my interest level stays steady. Somehow I have managed to bring you one new posting nearly every day, and maybe that's because my journalism blood runs deep. I've taken a few breaks and probably will again, but my goal is to bring you something new every day.

As for changes, there will be a few. Fiat Lux needs a facelift. We've had the same template for all these three years, and it's time for a new look. The baby being baptized in the upper left (that's my hand), will be starting school soon enough; we probably need a new icon. There are newer templates with more features, including captions for photographs. So don't be too startled when you open this up and it looks different.

The meaning of Fiat Lux is "Let there be light," and that is my personal mission statement, and the mission statement of the great university that educated me, my sister and my parents (the University of California). The current look has a lighthouse in the upper left corner and I will maintain the lighthouse theme. But we might need a new lighthouse. The lantern atop St. Paul's (see top photo by Bonny Bronson) evokes a lighthouse, and I suspect it will be displayed more prominently on this page in the near future. Stay tuned.

I think it appropriate to wind up with a poem. This one was sent yesterday by Karen (of course!) and I think it fits a few themes here today. Enjoy:

The Blue

By Billy Collins

You can have Egypt and Nantucket .
The only place I want to visit is The Blue,
not the Wild Blue Yonder that seduces pilots,
but that zone where the unexpected dwells,
waiting to come out of it in the shape of bolts.

I want to walk its azure perimeter
where the unanticipated is coiled, on the mark,
ready to spring into the predictable homes of earth.

I want to stroll through the pale indigo light
examining all the accidents about to rocket into time,
all the forgotten names about to fly from tongues.

I will scrutinize all the surprises of the future
and watch the brainstorms gathering darkly,
ready to hit the heads of inventors
laboring in their crackpot shacks.

A jaded traveler with an invisible passport,
I am at home with this heaven of the unforeseen,
waiting for the next whoosh of sudden departure
when, with no advance warning, to tiny augery,
the unpredictable plummets into our lives
from somewhere that looks like sky.

Finally, dear reader, thanks for coming on this ride with me and these 1,000 posts. Send me your ideas, your comments and your prayers. Blessings to you and yours always,

James+

Part III: Original sin, arguing with God, forgiveness, healing and a few other Big Hairy topics: My theological reflection

I’ve taken you on a roundabout theological journey the last few days, starting with questions about the concept of “original sin” as an explanation for the brokenness of the world and the calamities we endure. If you are still with me, thank you and congratulations for coming this far.

As my reflection has unfolded, I’ve seen “original sin” not as a transmission of wrongful acts by a proto-human (Adam and Eve) but as an allegorical statement of the human condition of being born into disconnection from God.

I might add that the original author of the original sin doctrine, Augustine of Hippo, viewed the Bible primarily in allegorical terms.

As an Augustinian Christian, this brings me ultimately to the story of Jesus, but also raises questions about finding the meaning in Jesus dying on the Cross. Often Christians use the shorthand “Jesus died for our sins” to explain the crucifixion, but that phrase has some disturbing implications for how we view God.

The phrase comes partly from a Christian interpretation of the “Binding of Isaac,” the biblical story of Abraham nearly killing his son, Isaac in Genesis 22:1-24, discussed yesterday. In this strain of Christian interpretation, Jesus becomes the lamb – the substitution – for the sacrifice of Isaac, who represents us, hence we call Jesus “the lamb of God.” He died so that we might be spared of being sacrificed ourselves, or the “atoning sacrifice.”

But there is something deeply troubling about this concept of atonement. It leaves us with a blood-thirsty God demanding a blood ransom of his own son for human wrongdoing. And if Jesus is divine, is God killing himself?

And if this was a ransom to get us off the hook from our own sins, why is the world still a mess and full of evil and sin? The ransom didn’t seem to work.

There is another way of seeing the Abraham-Isaac story (see yesterday’s post) and that might also bring us to another way of looking at the meaning of the Cross. But rather than getting bogged down in theological abstractions, let me tell you a few stories:

In my time as priest (and even before) I've heard many stories of people who have had experiences of the Holy coming to them in an extreme crisis; a friend nearly dying in a car accident, and feeling enfolded by the arms of God; patients in hospitals seeing a gleaming face; a woman who thought she was about to lose her daughter to cancer and then feeling the presence of the Virgin Mary.

Recently a young mother told me how one of her children suffered a terrible accident and nearly died. The doctors told her they weren’t sure they could save her son, that it was touch-and go. As she waited in the hospital, she felt she was standing on the edge of the most terrible abyss imaginable.

And then she felt this amazing unexpected presence, and a voice telling her “I love you. I will hold you. I don’t know how this will come out, and it may not come out the way you want, but I will be with you, and I am never going to let you go. I will love you forever and I will always love your son. I will always be your companion.”

Call him Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or the Hand of God, the divine came to each of these people and absorbed their pain. Each of these hurting people saw and experienced a divine presence in a way that spoke to them personally, and each felt their burden lifted from them.

To me, all of those experiences come from Christ speaking from the Cross. The woman in a car accident had not “sinned” – nor had the young boy who nearly died, nor his mother. None of them deserved to be standing at the abyss.

This was not about a ransom or a sacrifice. It was about Jesus being with them because he had been there before, on the Cross, on the edge of the abyss and beyond.

The message each heard was not about moral failings, but about unconditional love in the worst moment of their lives. The salvation they received was not delayed for their afterlife, but came then and there. Jesus spoke to them from the same place of suffering where they were suffering. He could do that because he had been there.

The story of Jesus, as it unfolds in the gospels, is a story of how he willingly lived with fractured people in their broken places to the point of going to his death with them. He sought out the hurting and the sick, touched them when others thought they were dirty, healed them of their wounds, and traded places with them when they died.

The point of the Cross is that Jesus was willing to dwell with us in our most painful place imaginable. By sharing our pain and showing us we are loved unconditionally, he also points us to a life without fear, here and now by reconnecting us with our creator. It is not about an insurance policy for the next world, but about a way to live in this world.

The biblical stories of healings by Jesus are not about cures that make bodies invincible – that never happens in the stories – and that, I would suggest, is a huge clue about the underlying “original sin.” The healing that comes from Jesus is about reconciling people with God so that they might live no matter what happens to their bodies. Even Lazarus, raised from the dead, passes from this earth again.

Here is where I believe this “original sin” concept is crucial.

Notice that Jesus nearly always mentions forgiveness of sin when he is healing people. The two are usually spoken of together, for example with the paralyzed man in Luke 5:17-26 who is healed and told “your sins are forgiven.” Jesus underlines three times in the story that healing is connected to forgiveness.

Yet we may ask, what sin did the paralyzed man commit? What did he do wrong to deserve being paralyzed? Luke doesn’t tell us. We should presume none at all. Nor does the paralyzed man “repent” of any "sins," or even ask Jesus to be healed (his friends do that for him). He’s done nothing to “accept” Jesus or anything else to deserve healing. He’s paralyzed and he is completely incapable of doing anything, good or evil. He is healed with no strings attached and told he is forgiven.

What then is this concept of sin and forgiveness that Jesus is getting at?

It may be that the sin Jesus is talking about is living in this fractured broken world that seems perpetually disconnected from God – the “original sin.” The paralyzed man, like Job, has done nothing wrong. But by being born and paralyzed he is living in a sort of silent paralyzed disconnection from God. He can do nothing. The forgiveness he receives is not about moral forgiveness, but about reconnection and ending the silent paralysis.

That same disconnection from God begins for each of us when we are born from our mother’s womb. The Garden of Eden is an allegory for the womb, and the “fall” of Adam and Eve an allegory of human birth.

We must be born to be human; we must learn many things including good and evil to survive. To be born is to learn how to live in a fractured broken world. To be healed and forgiven – to have salvation – is to be reconnected with God despite the brokenness of the world that we enter.

As I see it, the forgiveness Jesus pronounces is about reconciliation with God and not about moralistic dogmas. Jesus says to the paralyzed man, in effect, “You are healed, your body mended, and you are reconnected with God. The fracture with God is healed, the brokenness is now unbroken. Go now and live acting in this knowledge.”

That does not mean there are no morals or ethics, quite the contrary. Our morals and ethics spring from our compassion and connection to God and each other. We live morally and ethically because it is the right way to live, not because of an expectation of reward and punishment. Our sin – our silence with God – is forgiven, and that healing brings us back into conversation with God about how to heal this fractured out-of-kilter world we inherit by our birth.

Jesus throughout the gospels links forgiveness and healing to action, or “discipleship.” You are healed, you are reconnected to God, so get up, go forth and do something. To be a follower of Jesus – to be a disciple – is to do likewise: "Forgive others, be an agent of healing and be there with others who are on the edge of the abyss. When you do, I will be there with you because I've been there before."

This call for discipleship weaves throughout the story of Jesus, beginning even before his birth. In Luke 1:68-79, Zechariah tells his baby son, John (the Baptist), how he is to be a follower of Jesus, and it is a mandate for action to all of us:

“To give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins. By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

To walk with the way of the Cross is to agree to live in the fractured places with others because that is where Christ truly dwells. That requires being vulnerable to our own brokenness, to touching our own pain (Psalm 23): “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me…”

By being there in those painful places with others, we are also reconnected with God as they are reconnected with God. The silence ends, the paralysis is over. At the very end of the Bible, comes this declaration that the story of original sin is ended, once and for all, because God dwells with us forever: (Revelation 21:3-4):

“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”

+ + +

Thanks for coming along with me the last three days on this journey of reflection. To any who have been offended, my apologies. Where I have strayed, forgive me; this reflection is mine alone. Whether you agree or disagree, I hope it has given you at least food for thought and prayer. I am also much influenced in this view of forgiveness and the Cross by the writing of Jesuit Jon Sobrino in his book Christ the Liberator: A View from the Victims, and former-Domincan James Alison in his book Raising Abel: The Recovery of Eschatological Imagination. And now I am off to the Diocesan Council. Keep me and those who take council in your prayers.

Crucifixion art above: Folk art from Cameroon; Medieval stained glass; painting by He Qi, China; "The Ascension of Christ," Salvador Dali.

Please join me tonight for a special conversation about our mission and future as a church

Please join me tonight, and each Wednesday evening in Advent, at St. Paul's for a special conversation about the book Christianity for the Rest of Us, by Diana Butler Bass. We will meet at 7 pm after our Community Night dinner, and please come even if you haven't read the book.

You can also join in this conversation on a special blog by clicking on the book cover just to the left or by clicking HERE.

I chose this book hoping to start a conversation involving all of us about our mission and our future here at St. Paul’s. Why are we on this corner? What is God calling us to be in our second century as a parish? How will we live out our baptismal covenant to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?”

The book surveys how 15 very different churches are living out their mission in their own particular way. Some are large, others small, but all are growing spiritually and inclusively as each hears God’s call to them. The book is not a strategic plan or a statistical survey of membership growth. Rather, Butler Bass takes us on a tour of what congregations can be when faithfully hearing God’s call and being courageous enough to act. Each congregation is very different, but all of these congregations have this in common: they began by recognizing not only who they are, but whose they are, and they responded after much prayer and discernment.

I am not asking us to critique the book, but to use the book as a catalyst for our own conversation about our mission as a parish. This is very informal; it is not a committee or a task force. It is not a focus group. We won’t be marking butcher paper on the wall. But I hope we will find insights from our collective wisdom and experience – and will be open to asking the deep hard questions about our mission and ministry that we share together. And I expect we will hear a surprise or two along the way. I hope you can join me tonight and each Wednesday evening of Advent.

Nativity art by He Qi.

Dwelling in the Logos: A meditation on the Gospel of John

Each morning of late, The Episcopal Church Daily Office readings are from the Gospel of John, that most mystical, most enigmatic, most christological, most puzzling (to me) of the gospels. I've taken and taught classes on John, read a few books about the book, and still each time I read it something new jumps out at me.

The Gospel of John to me is a wrestling match, and I believe it was written to be exactly that way.

A very familiar phrase caught my attention the other day, from John 8:32: "If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."

Working it backwards, the logic goes something like this: freedom comes from knowing the truth, and truth comes not by analysis, but by being a disciple of Jesus. How? By dwelling in his "word." The saying pulls the listeners back to the beginning of John, with the soaring language about "In the beginning was the Word" and the "Word made flesh" in Jesus. The term that is translated as "word" comes from the Greek, logos, and it is not about letters on a page, but about the mind of God, or the will of God.

So to paraphrase the passage: "Whoever knows me discerns my mind, and the discernment will make you a disciple and that will make you free."

The passage has been used as a commission to go forth and convert people. But do those words really do that?

Maybe it is not at all about our own doing, but about dwelling somehow in the mind of God and knowing that it is not about our own doing, but about the will and work of God. Knowing this can set us free from worry, anxiety, and the need to be in control of things.

But there are more layers to this in The Gospel of John.

A few days later in the Daily Office, we get this from John 10:16: "I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice."

The agent of action is not us, but Jesus. It is Jesus who will speak to people, and he will bring them to his flock. There are many tribes, many peoples, and Jesus is capable talking to all of them, each in a way they can hear. The emphasis again is not on us.

Could it be that the our participation in this comes through our own listening -- our own discerning, our own dwelling in the logos -- and then translating our discipleship into how we live our life in acts of service to others? Maybe it is not at all about our going forth to convert anyone to our own way of thinking, but instead being open to hearing others as they hear the Word of God in whatever way it comes to them. Maybe to be a true disciple is to be a listener, not a talker.

Can we trust that people may recognize the logos of God in ways they can hear it?

And then today we get another layer from John 10:31-42. Jesus asks his listeners to "believe" he is the "Son of God," and he leaves us dangling (for a moment) about what the phrase means. He tells us that his actions (not ours) define who he is (John 10:38): "Even though you do not believe me, believe the works, so that you may know and understand that the Father is in me and I am in the Father."

The understanding -- the conversion -- Jesus speaks of will set us free from the need to make people think and believe as we do. Maybe that is the true meaning of freedom -- to be free from human-imposed religious labels so that we might wholly dwell in the logos of God.

The Gospel of John, at its core, is a book about conversion; it is a roadmap into the way with the Risen Christ. Yet, at its core, the way contains a paradox: conversion is not ours to control, and as we get closer to the logos, we become reborn as we were always meant to be: wholly one and with God.

Art by He Qi.

The women who told an 'idle tale' on that first Easter: Alleluia Christ is Risen!

This is my sermon for Easter Sunday, based on Isaiah 65:17-25, Acts 10:34-43 and Luke 24:1-12.

Alleluia Christ is Risen!


This morning, I want to welcome you to a way of life. For some, this might be a way of life you already know. For others, this might be a new way of life.

This way of life requires holding values that are sometimes foreign in our world, values like kindness and forgiveness, or courage and tolerance that goes beyond merely tolerating.

This way of life involves welcoming the stranger because once we were strangers in a foreign land.

The tools for this way of life are patience and listening to each other, and especially going out of our way to hear the still quiet voice that comes through prayer and reflection. And I can tell you that is sometimes in short supply with me.

This way of life involves feeding the hungry, caring for the sick and poor, and sometimes, sticking your neck out – to “be bold.”

This way of life will change you if you let it.

The way of life I speak of is a life of faith.

This life of faith is based on things hoped for and not seen, and comes by hearing with all our heart and all our mind for the living God who is right here among us, who loves us with no strings attached; who loves us especially when we feel we have little or no faith at all.

This life of faith is about God who has faith in us.

The life of faith is, first and last, about living into the promise of Easter.

It is about becoming the Easter people we are created to be.

It starts with a story, a story that those who first heard it thought “an idle tale” for it sounds preposterous, unbelievable, impossible, over-the-top.

Maybe the story is so familiar to you that the details have become lost, or reduced to the size of a greeting card. So hear it again:

The story is about a peasant Jew named Yehosua, or Joshua – or “Jesus” as we have rendered his name into our Anglo-Saxon Germanic language.

Call him Joshua, or call him Jesus, he was born to a young unmarried peasant girl, Mariam, or Mary; he grew up, and he roamed the countryside, captivating thousands of people with everything he did by welcoming everyone he met – rich, poor, male, female, saint and sinner alike.

Those who followed him saw in him a new way of life coming into being, an order not based on brute power but based on love and healing, prayer and forgiveness, and justice – yes, social justice – for the downtrodden and destitute.

And then everything went terribly wrong.

The Romans arrested Jesus because he posed a threat to their settled order of things. He was flogged and put to death on a cross. His followers fled, afraid for their lives, afraid the Romans would get them next.

Then something amazing happened to these people long ago and it changed their lives – and our lives – forever.

The first to see the Risen Jesus were the women who had been with him. The Gospel of Luke tells us what happened next:

“It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.”

So it was that on the first Easter morning, the ugliness of death was swept away. The story of Jesus was not over, this new way of life was now in the open for all to see.

Jesus had gone to the Cross not to satisfy a bloodthirsty God, but to descend with us into the worst moments of life and death a human could suffer. And he did it to show us the way out, to show us how to live without fear and bring us to hope and wholeness.

Those who first saw the Risen Christ in the days we now call Easter, began to understand the real meaning of his life. They continued to write the story in the way they lived afterwards.
This story is also our story. We continue to write this story by how we live our lives.

This way of life is not just about the afterlife that we cannot yet see. This is also about how we live right now, here, today and tomorrow. Salvation does not wait until the next life but comes to us right now.

The life of faith is about living into that reality.

In the biblical tradition, faith is seen as a gift, not an achievement. But the biblical tradition also presents faith paradoxically; people go to great efforts to find the gift of faith, and sometimes the gift of faith is right beneath our nose, and we don’t see it.

Sometimes it is people around us who give us faith, who have faith for us when our faith fails.
And that brings me to the touchy subject of organized religion.

Why would anyone want to do any of this alone? The deepest questions of life, death, God, salvation, heaven and hell, are so large, so universal, so infinite none of us are capable by ourselves of finding fully meaningful answers.

This Easter season, I would invite you to join a community of faith if you don’t have one. If you live here in Charlottesville, and if any of this speaks to you, join us here at St. Paul’s. If you have been away from this church for a while, come back.

Join us – join me – and let’s explore this journey of faith together in this loving caring community.

And then we have work to do, people feed, the sick to comfort, children to rear, and a hurting world that needs every single one of us.

This way of life will change you if you let it. This way of life will change everything in this world.

This way of life begins today.

Alleluia Christ is Risen!


Art by He Qi

Holy Saturday: Jesus goes to Hell to break down the gates and let everyone out

I hope you have followed the Lenten reflections offered by members of St. Paul's. They've been remarkable, and each has underlined for me the depth and breadth of the people of St. Paul's (we've posted all of the reflections on a special blog you can read by clicking HERE).

It is my privilege to offer the reflection for today in the Lenten reflections, and I am reprinting it below:

Isaiah 42: 5-7, Psalm 16: 8-11 , 1 Peter 3: 18-20, Matthew 27: 50-53

When I was a small child in church I got chills whenever we would recite the part of the Apostles’ Creed that proclaimed Jesus went to Hell. Stop and listen to those words: “He descended into hell."

Did the adults know what they were saying?

It was not until the fifth decade of my life that I began to understand the line. And when I did it was one of those amazing moments of clarity. I had arrived at Holy Saturday, a day that is crucial to understanding the relationship that all of humanity – indeed, all of creation – has with the Risen Christ of Easter.

On Good Friday, the first day of Easter, Jesus dies on the Cross. Holy Saturday, the second day, is when Jesus opens the gates of Hell to let everyone out. On Holy Saturday, Jesus has robbed Hell of its power. Death is the enemy, and death is vanquished.

Without Holy Saturday, the resurrection of Jesus has very little to do with us. With Holy Saturday, we go with him. Holy Saturday is the fulcrum between the Cross and Easter.

Holy Saturday is a proclamation that no one, not even those who are already dead, is beyond Grace. The concept of Holy Saturday pushes us to reconsider the all-too-human urge to put limits on God’s mercy. On Holy Saturday, Jesus comes to find us in our deadest moments not just in the next world but also in this world.

Because of Holy Saturday, Jesus not only dies for us; Jesus dies with us, and he reveals himself as God-become-human, showing us a way to live without fear. Easter becomes not just about the One, but about all of us.

Collect for Holy Saturday

O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the
crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and
rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the
coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of life;
who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one
God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Liturgical notes: Holy Saturday is remembered with a series of simple prayers and psalms on Saturday morning. If you have a chance, join me in the chapel at 9 am -- the service is quite brief.

Tonight at 7:30 pm we celebrate the Great Vigil of Easter. This is by far my favorite service of the year, and it is the most important on the Church calendar. We begin by lighting a fire, and then processing into the darkness of the church. The Great Vigil of Easter, also called the “Paschal Vigil” or the “Divine Liturgy” is the first official celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ in the Easter season.

Historically, the earliest known accounts of The Great Vigil of Easter date to the early 3rd century of the Common Era. In the ancient church, it was at this service that people, especially children, were baptized and adults received as catechumens into full communion with the Church. The Vigil is held in the hours of darkness between sunset on Holy Saturday and sunrise on Easter Day. The Great Vigil of Easter is considered to be the first celebration of Easter because Hebrew and early Christian tradition consider feasts and other great days to begin at sunset.

In the Roman Catholic, Orthodox and Anglican Communion (of which the Episcopal Church is fully a part), the Easter Vigil is the most important Mass of the liturgical year, and is the first celebration of the Eucharist during the fifty-day long celebration of Eastertide. The service begins outside with the lighting of the Easter fire, and then the congregation proceeds inside following the Paschal Candle and led by the cantor chanting the Exsultet. In darkness, we hear the story of how God’s people are delivered from darkness. Finally, we proclaim Easter and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and we celebrate our Eucharist. For the first time since the beginning of Lent, we proclaim “Alleluia!”

Art: "He is Risen," by He Qi

My experience on Palm Sunday: Descending into the Valley of Holy Week where I already dwell

On the church calendar, we officially began Holy Week yesterday on Palm Sunday. But for me, Holy Week began in early March with the deaths of several people dear to us at St. Paul’s. My experience of Holy Week this year is especially woven into the memorial services we held last Thursday for Thomas Buckley and on Saturday for Joseph “Pepe” Humphrey.

Tom Buckley was a member of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Simeon, a small church a few miles from here. His family asked if we could use our space for his service, so of course we opened our doors and our hearts. He was only 53, and died suddenly the Saturday before last. Tom was a neo-natal care nurse, and known and loved by many both inside the University of Virginia Medical Center, and in the community at large. He was a friend to many in our congregation, so a service for him with us was only fitting. We had more than 600 people at his service, and the outpouring of love for him and his family was huge.

Pepe Humphrey was a scientist of formidable intellect and achievement, holding professor posts in both the engineering and the biology departments of the University of Virginia. He was among the first people we met when we came to Charlottesville; he and his wife Sally were members of All Souls Parish in Berkeley, where I had previously served before coming here. He had been fighting cancer for several years, and it was my privilege to walk with him the last two years of his illness. To me, Pepe was a theologian; he never tired of asking where God dwelled in the workings of the universe. Pepe died March 1.

We’ve recently lost three other beloved members of St. Paul’s: Carol Hine, Kitty Olton and Charlotte Scott. It was my privilege to preside at Mrs. Olton's memorial service earlier this month; although I did not know her, I was much touched by the reflections of her children about their mother and her love of life and love of people.

So I must acknowledge at the outset that I enter Holy Week with a weariness of death, and a weariness of so much sadness. I’ve been dwelling in Good Friday for a few weeks already. I did not need the passion story to get there.

Indeed, hearing the passion story of Jesus on Palm Sunday felt particularly difficult for me this year. I could hear the cries of those who loved Jesus as he slipped from their grasp; those cries felt very real to me yesterday for they were the cries of real people right here. The story of the crucifixion so long ago seemed very present in the pain of families living now with the reality of losing someone they dearly love. As we told in church the age-old story of the passion, I found myself listening for a glint of hope, a place of rest, a moment of comfort, but I heard none – at least not in the words.

The hope for me Sunday was in the palms.

The hope was the in laughter as we circled the nave, waving our palms and having a bit of fun in church. I saw hope in the faces of our children as they carried their palms, and later as they marched back into church to the hymn “Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God.” And my hope came in seeing people – so many people – come to the Table for Holy Communion, to share with each other for a few moments in the hope of life eternal, and life where weeping is no more. The hope that will carry me through Holy Week was in the faces of kids, and in tasting the bread and wine, and hearing the music.

This is the week we descend to the valley of the shadow of death; this is the week when we march to the Cross, and the week we when we come face-to-face again with the hard questions of death and life.

Easter will come, but not yet.

Collect for Monday in Holy Week

Almighty God, whose dear Son went not up to joy but
first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he
was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way
of the cross, may find it none other that the way of life and
peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives
and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever
and ever. Amen.

Art by He Qi (Chinese)