End times, rapture, now what?

In recent days, we've heard quite a bit about "rapture" and "end times" and "doomsday." A self-styled biblical prophet predicted the rapture would happen Saturday, but alas, May 21st came and went, and the world kept on spinning. People made jokes and a few people gave up their life savings. It is a sad story, really, and in the end, not very funny.

We live in anxious times, and perhaps that is why the story of the prophet-of-doom from Oakland had legs. I've not commented on this, mostly because I've been much wrapped up in other things closer to home and family than the fate of the planet.

Maybe it is that the rapture came, and we are all right, but we didn't notice, and now we have work to do on this planet that is ours to do.

And so I turn to poets.

Franz Wright won a Pulitzer Prize a few years ago for his book, Martha's Vineyard. He is a regular contributor to The New Yorker. His next book, God's Silence, speaks of the longing to know what comes next, and in his own dark way, pokes fun at our own self-centeredness in needing to know what comes next. His poems speak of the grace in the dark spaces. He is the son of a friend of mine, and it was my privilege to be host him a few years ago for a reading of God's Silence. It was an extraordinary afternoon.

I give you two of Franz's poems that have something to do with all of this rapture business, and is better than any analysis I could give you:

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Franz Wright

FOR FRANK STANFORD


The scheming and chattering
mind's abrupt sense
in the night of its being


surrounded by mind,
unendingly, starrily
dwarfed and encircled


by mind whose voice
is silence, utter
silence unequivocally


kind . . .

The first bird

talking to the last stars –


maybe it was you
who woke me today in the dark;
I know you're still around here somewhere.


I love you, therefore you are here.
For the first time in days I got dressed;
and I walked outside this morning,


and I saw a new heaven and a new earth.




HELL


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

God's Silence: Poems by Franz Wright, Alfred A. Knopf, 2006
Art by Kathrin Burleson

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+

The Christ of Epiphany: Reassuring us to stay in the game

We've had a delightful series of homilies from members of the St. Paul's congregation on Wednesdays at Evening Prayer at 5:30 pm. If you haven't come lately, you are missing a richness in thought and word. Yesterday we were treated to a homily by Ashley Faulkner, who is a Ph.D. graduate student in English at the University of Virginia. His homily is based on Mark 11:27-12:12. Here is Ashley's text:

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We know there’s a feast of the Church called “Epiphany,” that falls on January 6th, every year. We know the name of it comes from the Greek word meaning a “showing forth,” and that it refers to when the Christ-child was revealed to the Magi, the wise men from the east who followed a star. Christ shone forth, that is to say, to the nations, to the gentiles, to not just one people but to the whole world. It is a feast for rejoicing in that Incarnation. Come Lent, that star will dim a little—only to show forth most brightly at the Resurrection. But we haven’t gotten that far yet.

At the time of Epiphany, we are still, as it were, naively happy. At the coming of this child. And our naive adoration cannot be confined to one day. Childlike, we don’t know when to quit partying. And this “Epiphany” will give its name to an entire liturgical season. We have only come to the middle of it now, and it’s the 16th of February. That’s ok.

At other times, in seasons of penitence, we will remember the suffering of Our Savior—the Man of Sorrows. We will take solace that He suffered as we have suffered, and we will know that he understands our burdens. And we will be called to repentance when we think that Christ suffered for us.

Save all that, though, for Lent. This is not the time.

In this season, the Christ we see is the radiant son. The Christ we see is not just solacing, he’s encouraging. He gloriously reassures us to stay in the game. He reminds us we’re on the winning side. And in our readings throughout Epiphany, we the Church dwell on those special occasions when Christ shows himself forth in glory. The Transfiguration. The wedding at Cana—where Christ presumably danced. The miraculous baptism in the Jordan, when the Holy Spirit descended like a dove, and the voice of God was heard.

The voice of God spoke, at any rate. As we see in Mark 11, some didn’t want to hear it. Some couldn’t be honest about what they’d heard—couldn’t be honest even with themselves.

Today’s gospel is about that willingness to acknowledge God, and it’s especially suited to the season of Epiphany. We as Christians are all familiar—all too familiar—with those times when we’re looking for God. When we’re calling on God. When Christ seems to be asleep, and our boat is storm-tossed. But what about those times when God shines forth in glory? When Christ is walking beside us? Will we know Him? Will we acknowledge Him? Will we believe Him and believe in Him?

We make much of the importance of having faith, even when God seems far away. Will we walk with Him when he stands beside us? That is the question of Epiphany. We wait to hear the voice of God, yes. But do we argue with him as soon as he begins speaking?

St. Augustine, writing on this gospel of Mark 11 says that those who argue with God have “shut themselves up against him.” Knock, he says, and God’s truth will be opened unto you. But when we argue with God, we barricade the door. If you’re at all like me, you often know better than God. Let’s try to be less knowing.
The Risen Christ is walking with us, as with those two disciples on the road to Emmaus in Luke 24. Christ is with us, will we acknowledge Him? Even the disciples on the road beside Him did not recognize their Lord. Until.

Until he took bread, and blessing it, broke it and gave it to them. And they did eat and understand.

One way Christ is with us—showing Himself forth in Epiphany—is in our fellow Christians. They have taken the bread. They understand. They have entered into the body of Christ, and they walk beside us. We can at least listen to them, yes?
Let’s listen more, and talk less. (Even I am going to stop talking—in a moment—just to set an example.)

I find if I can’t be bothered to listen to God—to meditate and pray—I can at least practice listening to other people. And God—it turns out God’s rather resourceful—God finds ways to speak to me through those people. Christ is showing himself forth in those humble mangers every day.

But before I stop talking and go back to listening, I’d like to leave you with a poem, if I may. It’s by one of my favorite poets, Alice Meynell. It is called, “The Unknown God.”

ONE of the crowd went up,
And knelt before the Paten and the Cup,
Received the Lord, returned in peace, and prayed
Close to my side; then in my heart I said:

‘O Christ, in this man’s life—
This stranger who is Thine—in all his strife,
All his felicity, his good and ill,
In the assaulted stronghold of his will,

‘I do confess Thee here,
Alive within this life; I know Thee near
Within this lonely conscience, closed away
Within this brother’s solitary day.

‘Christ in his unknown heart,
His intellect unknown—this love, this art,
This battle and this peace, this destiny
That I shall never know, look upon me!

From that secret place
And from that separate dwelling, give me grace.

Amen.

Art by Kathrin Burleson

Our Vestry Covenant: “Bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

You may recall from a post a few days ago that our Vestry discussed at length at its winter retreat what it would mean to make prayer our first priority as a board of directors. What would that look like? How would our business be shaped by that?

Our retreat was built around our reflection on the Letter to the Ephesians 4:1-16 wherein Paul talks of "equipping the saints" through love and discerning Christ's guidance for our faith community. Part of our discussion included looking at a model covenant for how we conduct ourselves as a Vestry. How do we communicate with each other? How do we do we listen to rach other and hear the Holy Spirit guide us?

Since the retreat, we've been working on a Vestry covenant for our Vestry this year, and we adopted it at last night's meeting. Here it is, and I invite your comment:

St. Paul's Memorial Church Vestry Covenant 2011

Recognizing that the Holy Scripture as interpreted through reason and tradition will be our authority governing our behavior and relationships with one another and with the congregation, we acknowledge the directive in Ephesians (4:1-6) to “lead a life worthy of the calling to which [we] have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

We will bear with one another in love by:

1. Creating and nurturing within the Vestry a safe and trusting atmosphere in which all members can feel safe and confident in expressing their thoughts and opinions,
2. Seeking to validate, appreciate, acknowledge and understand the unique gifts of each Vestry member,
3. Listening with compassion to all; discouraging gossip; redirecting misdirected messages appropriately (in the interest of encouraging direct communication with the person most reasonably able to hear and act),
4. Respecting confidentiality for sensitive matters,
5. Following St. Matthew’s principle (Mt. 18:15-17) for conflict resolution: speaking first with the individual alone; if to no avail, speaking again with the individual together with another Vestry member and then, if necessary, referring the matter to the entire Vestry.
6. Practicing forgiveness,
7. Supporting other Vestry members through times of difficulty,
8. Nurturing a servant attitude in the Vestry.

We will maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace by:

1. Joining with the Vestry in submitting matters to prayer,
2. Upholding the final decision of the Vestry,
3. Refraining from gossip and personal attacks,
4. Consciously seeking to abandon self-serving agendas and attitudes.

We will lead a life worthy of the calling by:

1. Faithfully attending Sabbath worship,
2. Engaging in study of the Scriptures,
3. Committing to Christian living through regular sacrificial giving and participation in the St. Paul’s pledge program,
4. Being faithful to the St. Paul’s mission statement.

Painting: "Epiphany Times Three" by Kathrin Burleson.

I sing of a night in Bethlehem

We had a wonderful Advent Festival of Lessons & Carols on Sunday evening. Many kudos to Associate Rector Nik Forti and Music Director Daniel Hine for the brilliance of this service. They took a traditional format and added poems and music that gave us depth and set this service apart from any other I've ever experienced. Our readers were eloquent, and our musicians sparkled.

Among the many high points was a poem read by Gillian Breckenridge to a musical accompaniment from a harp played by Margaret Lee. They warmed the cockles of my soul. Here is the poem:

Don Oíche Úd I MBeithil

I sing of a night in Bethlehem
A night as bright as dawn
I sing of that night in Bethlehem
The night the Word was born

The skies are glowing gaily
The earth in white is dressed
See Jesus in the cradle
Drink deep in His mother's breast

And there on a lonely hillside
The shepherds bow down in fear
When the heavens open brightly
And God's message rings out so clear

Glory now to the Father
In all the heavens high
And peace to His friends on earth below
Is all the angels cry

(Translated by Seán MacRéamoinn)

Painting by Kathrin Burleson.

The Love of Morning

Thank you for the comments on yesterday's topic. It was a difficult subject; thank you all for being thoughtful and considerate, and hearing what I was trying to say even if you didn't agree. Thanks for leaving politics out of it.

Our friend Karen in Tennessee, always with her heart of a poet, sent this gift along. In its own way, I think it fits what we were talking about yesterday.

The Love of Morning

By Denise Levertov

It is hard sometimes to drag ourselves
back to the love of morning
after we've lain in the dark crying out
O God, save us from the horror . . . .

God has saved the world one more day
even with its leaden burden of human evil;
we wake to birdsong.
And if sunlight's gossamer lifts in its net
the weight of all that is solid,
our hearts, too, are lifted,
swung like laughing infants;

but on gray mornings,
all incident - our own hunger,
the dear tasks of continuance,
the footsteps before us in the earth's
beloved dust, leading the way - all,
is hard to love again
for we resent a summons
that disregards our sloth, and this
calls us, calls us.

Art by Kathrin Burleson

A prayer by Maya Angelou for your day

I keep a yellowing piece of newsprint in the back of my Daily Office book. On it is a prayer by poet Maya Angelou. I posted this prayer here on this blog almost two years ago, so perhaps it is time again to share it with you. I've prayed this frequently of late, with so many in our midst who are hurting, and so many others who are joyful (especially the graduates!). We live in a holy mix of people. Here again is Ms. Angelou's prayer...

Prayer

Father, Mother God,
Thank you for your presence
during the hard and mean days.
For then we have you to lean upon.

Thank you for your presence
during the bright and sunny days,
for then we can share that which we have
with those who have less.

And thank you for your presence
during the Holy Days, for then we are able
to celebrate you and our families
and our friends.

For those who have no voice,
we ask you to speak.

For those who feel unworthy,
we ask you to pour your love out
in waterfalls of tenderness.

For those who live in pain,
we ask you to bathe them
in the river of your healing.

For those who are lonely, we ask
you to keep them company.

For those who are depressed,
we ask you to shower upon them
the light of hope.

Dear Creator, You, the borderless
sea of substance, we ask you to give all the
world that which we need most -- Peace.

Art by Kathrin Burleson

Notes from the Other Side

I am not preaching today; we are celebrating the accomplishments of our University of Virginia students at the 10 am service, and we have two student preachers who will be in the pulpit.

Later today, Lori and I are hosting our first “Parish Tea,” a Southern tradition whereby we open our home to the parish for tea in the afternoon, followed by Evening Prayer, followed by cocktail hour.

If you are in town, please come by. Being Westerners, we’ve never done this before so we are not entirely sure what to expect (we’ve done big barbeques, but not a tea). Fortunately, we have a small army of volunteers helping out. We are looking forward to this new cultural experience.

Having a big party is precisely what we need at St. Paul’s right now. Our parish is suffering through a wave of illnesses and deaths; yesterday was the first Saturday in weeks that we’ve not had a funeral or memorial service. Alas, there are more coming up in the next few weeks.

Meanwhile, at least a half-dozen parishioners have recent diagnosis of cancers. Others have been laid up with serious debilitating maladies. The people of St. Paul’s are going through a great deal right now.

In many churches, today is called “Good Shepherd Sunday” because the gospel lesson (John 10: 22-30) focuses on Jesus vowing to find his sheep and bring them safely home no matter what. Today we hear some of the most soaring, assuring and familiar words in the New Testament:

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.”

I think these words are meant not just to offer comfort, but courage. People get sick and die. But death is a horizon over which we cannot yet see. Healing will come, either on this side of the horizon or the other. The Good Shepherd will be with us, even when we don’t see it or feel it, no matter how difficult and rocky the path may be. We aren’t alone in this walk. God is with us. We will get through this.

One of the reasons we gather as faith community is to be the face of Christ to each other, and have faith when others’ faith is faltering. When my prayers don’t come, I know you will have prayers for me.

Sometimes I wonder why we offer prayers for the sick and those who have died. Doesn’t God know all this already? Of course. But maybe God likes to hear us say the words about those who are suffering, and by our words, we connect our souls to each other. When I pray for someone who is sick, a part of me – maybe just a sliver – shares in the sickness with that person. When all of us pray, the slivers become a giant redwood.

Recently I came across a book of poems about loss, grief and recovery compiled and edited by Kevin Young, a remarkable young poet in his own right (I mentioned him HERE a few weeks ago after hearing him read at the Virginia Festival of the Book). Poetry, like prayer and art, reaches depths in our souls that lengthy prose and scientific treatises just cannot reach.

Below is a poem from this book by one of my favorite poets, Jane Kenyon. The artwork is by Kathrin Burleson (that’s how she spells her first name), who lives on the North Coast of California. This painting, entitled “Resurrection,” is the last in a series she painted on the Stations of the Cross.

Notes from the Other Side
By Jane Kenyon

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching
one’s own eye in the mirror

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness. Contrition
does not exist, no gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Reprinted in The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing, edited by Kevin Young, 2010, Bloomsbury.

The Feast of the Epiphany and its true meaning

Today is The Feast of the Epiphany, and like many things on the Church calendar, it has a murky history. The Church has never quite agreed on what it is celebrating on January 6.

The western church sees the day as commemorating the visit of the Magi (the "wise men") to the baby Jesus at the manger; the eastern church sees it as the day commemorating the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan at the hands of John the Baptist. The arguments are ancient, though the steam for each viewpoint has long dissipated.

The significance of the day is the same for both traditions. Epiphany marks the end of the 12 days of Christmas, and is a reminder of the true significance of Christmas: that God chose to walk among us as a human being, to show us that being human (and having a human body) is good; to light our way to live and love without fear of death. All of those lessons will unfold for us as the year progresses; how we hear those lessons (and if we hear them) remains our challenge.

For now, may you bask in the winter light of Epiphany; may you find wisdom and strength for all you do, and may many blessings fill your path.

Painting, "Epiphany Times Three," by Kathrin Burleson.