Oct 31 2019 Revelation 5:11-6:11

I looked and there was a pale green horse!

This is precisely those parts of Revelation I have yet to understand. Beasts, and horses, and scales, bow and crown. I’ve had dear friends try to explain it, and I may have for a while. And every time I read it, I’m stuck, imagining a lamb opening seals, with different colored horses carrying different representative things. I definitely am no scholar on Revelation, but I believe it’s largely referencing the evil Roman world, and Christ’s dominion over it. Between the historical context of the time of the writer, and my struggle with allegory, that’s about all I’ve got.

Having said that, Revelation is interesting to me for a few reasons. First, it’s often what many Christians point to about the dramatic next coming of Christ. Think, Left Behind. Given that the images were conjured during a specific place and time, I’m uncertain they hold as truths now. We are not fighting Rome. Yes, sure there are similarities in our current world, and probably have had similarities in every age since the writing of Revelation. But I’m not sure that Christ’s return will be in the mystical, grandiose way of Revelation. I’d rather assume Christ returns every time we see and serve Christ in each other. Maybe that’s heresy, but that’s what I’ve got.

I recently read a book about darkness and spirituality, by Barbara Brown Taylor. One of the things she describes is that before the advent of incandescent lights, not so many years ago, people spent much more time in the dark. Night would fall, and much of the hustle and bustle had to stop, because you couldn’t see. There is some evidence that people spent more time resting in the dark. Not so much asleep, but in something we’d now call dozing or lucid dreaming. Not quite asleep, but not quite awake. Her theory is that much of Scripture stories occur during dreams, and it may be during that time, when everyone started resting at 6:00pm. She actually recommends that we try to do that periodically, live with the cycle of the sun. I tried it one evening when I came home from work, and headed to my darkening bedroom at 7. It was a long, quite, restful couple of hours before I actually went to sleep. And I’d had plenty of thoughts, although no pale green horses.

Finally, when I read Revelation, I think of that Celtic concept of a thin place, a place where the Holy and the worldly are very close. I think John had that, when he was writing Revelation. He was of this world, but he was connecting with the Holy. I can imagine the John was a heavy intuitive imaginative guy. As someone who’s not, my thin places don’t involve pale green horses, or at least they haven’t so far. There are a few places in the world where I’ve felt God’s presence is closer, holy and beautiful man-made and natural places. A hill top outside Bellingham Washington, the cathedral in Cologne, the empty grounds at Machu Picchu.

But more frequent and more meaningful to me are the thin places I encounter through other people. When I worked at the community breakfast, with hundreds of people living on the streets, I frequently encountered thin spaces, where I felt very close to God’s kingdom. In my better moments when I look with compassion on my sick loved one. Generally these moments come when I encounter Christ in another person, unexpectedly and seemingly in the ‘wrong’ place. 

This morning, I’m thinking about if there’s a way I can build in more intentional dark time. While I wake up when it’s dark, I immediately turn on lights. And in the evening, it generally gets dark, I turn on lights, I go lay down, I turn off lights. I wonder if my rest time could be occasionally more aligned with darkness, maybe one day a week. That sounds like a sweet and restful luxury. Maybe I head to the darkening bedroom when the sun sets, and I rest. I’m also thinking about my thin places, about where I sense God’s presence more imminently. Ultimately, I believe God’s presence is all around, so my sense of thinness has more to do with my awareness, rather than the reality of God’s presence. All of this tangential talk from Revelations story of red, white, black and pale green horses.

Oct 30 2019 Psalm 119: 49-72

Teach me discernment and knowledge, for I have believed in your commandments.

Lately, I’ve enjoyed watching people who have a better sense of the difference between discernment and knowledge. And seeing this sentence makes me ponder each.

Knowledge seems to me to be something largely external and factual. Having knowledge is important, and mostly just a matter of memorization or recollecting. I have knowledge about my bike route to work. Knowledge is the foundation of most everything we do. As a child we learn to walk and run and eat. As an adult, we learn how to drive and vote and cook. Those things we know.

And knowledge is critical. But while knowledge is necessary, it is not sufficient. We need also to make judgements or decide about those things we know. We need to effectively apply wisdom to our knowledge in order to discern how and when to act. Discernment tells me not to ride my bike when it’s icy. Not to run in the street, not to cook liver in my house. In order to cook anything, I definitely need to have the knowledge of how to cook. To cook good food, I have to discern what my beloveds will eat, and what will taste good. But discernment is more than just the equation of my knowledge + my wisdom = good discernment.

Discernment is also holding space for the Holy Spirit to join in the discussion. Left to my own devices, I too frequently rely on knowledge alone. I increasingly am trying to allow wisdom into my thoughts, although less than I’d like to admit. And I’m really really trying to hold space for the Holy Spirit in my decisions, actions and comments. 

This morning I’m thinking about how precious discernment is, how it acknowledges that I do not, in fact, have all of the information, facts or wisdom to make the best decision or the best comments. There is something outside of me that, if invited in every action, decision, and word uttered, will mix with my unique blend of knowledge and wisdom. Left to my own fast-paced, self-reliant tendencies, there’s not much room or need for the Holy Spirit to join in the conversation. But I am a better person when I do hold that space, when I remember that My Knowledge + My Wisdom + Holy Spirit = Discernment. Today, I hope to intentionally hold space, however briefly, for what I do, say, and think. Even acknowledging this step I hope will help.

Oct 29 2019 Matthew 10:16-22 Commemoration of James Hannington and Companions

Beware of them, for they will hand you over to councils and flog you in their synagogues; and you will be dragged before governors and kings because of me
James Hannington was a priest in the late 1800’s, who served as missionary bishop in Eastern Africa. He was seen as a threat by King Mwanga, who ultimately captured him and his party. After a week cruel treatment, he and his companions were killed.

The appointed reading for this commemoration is this bit from Matthew, where Jesus is telling his followers that they’ll be persecuted because of him. Not only persecuted, but flogged in the very religious institutions from which they came – the synagogues. Because of Jesus, the religious leaders will be threatened enough to flog Jesus followers, presumably in the name of religion. But the persecution doesn’t stop there. Governors and kings will also persecute them. Basically, everyone in power – religious, royal, political – will persecute Jesus followers. This is not a pep talk anyone really wants to hear.

James Hannington felt that persecution, to the point of death. And yet, he persisted. They knew the risks in general, and knew that to continue in their Gospel proclamation was deadly.

Maybe I’m splitting hairs, but I don’t think it’s Jesus’ message that gets people martyred – even Jesus. I remember a conversation I had with a former boyfriend of my daughter. He couldn’t get behind Christianity, being a well-read, antagonistic teenager. He knew Christians did horrible things, and couldn’t suspend his new-found critical thinking on the basic concept of God. After many cups of coffee, he and I agreed that at its most basic, there really isn’t anything about Jesus that is threatening or wrong. Love God. Love your neighbor. Who could argue with Love?

It turns out it’s our own politics, or judgements, or hierarchies that take offense. We cannot be the best, or the richest, or the most powerful, or most pious, if we share our wealth and our power, if we Love the other.

It’s not Jesus’ message that gets martyrs in trouble. It’s when that extremely simple message of love runs head long into power. It’s the threatened power that is dangerous, not love. I saw something yesterday that said that it wasn’t religion that killed Jesus or MLK, and I’d add Hannington. It’s the fact that the politics of the powerful are threatened by love.

To get in trouble or to be martyred because of showing, sharing and proclaiming God’s Love is not short-sighted. It’s absolutely looking at the long-game. It’s not love that’s the problem.

This morning, I’m thinking about martyrs, and how their actions are simple and compelled by a pure trust in God, and living out Love. It’s not that they’re doing anything contentious, or argumentative. Rather, it’s the simplicity and radicalness of unconditional Love that is so incredibly threatening to the worldly powers. While I’m unlikely to be faced with a life threatening choice to proclaim God’s love, I hope that I’m able to continue to profess God’s love in the face of political, religious and royal power.

Oct 28 2019 Isaiah 28: 9-16

One who trusts will not panic.
How simple, and how true. In my current world, I have a good amount to be panicky about. My loved one has decided to stop taking medicine. To be fair, it did not appear to be making them healed, but perhaps slightly better. What I don’t know is how it made them feel, which apparently was not good. So no medicine means a deeply unsettled time, both within their head, and within my house. And the unsettledness in that one area, impacts my resilience and patience in every other area of my life, including work, and other relationships.

Our house is in a space of suspended action, with us all waiting to see what will happen next. A very wise and loving friend reminded me, however that waiting for the next situation obscures the current situation. I’m so busy looking for the forest, I cannot see the trees in front of me. Planning and predicting what will happen in 12 months or 5 years is frankly dumb, because there are genuinely so many factors that are both uncontrollable and yet-unknown, it makes no sense. Rather, focus on today and the world as it is. Because that’s how it’s likely to be for quite a while.

As someone who’s been successful at work because of my strategic planning prowess, this is tricky for me. I like to set a course, and move towards that destination. The problem now, is that despite my best attempts, I can see and affect nothing, beyond today. Previously, I had an illusion that I was paving the way to a desired outcome; that’s been my life’s work, but that is absolutely not possible now.

That lack of any ability to predict or affect my tomorrow could be quite panic inducing. Panic gets closer in the middle of the night. But panic is absolutely a sign of a lack of trust. Despite my personal inability to manage this, I do believe tomorrow or next month or 2020 is in God’s capable care. I have absolutely no idea what that looks like, and that’s a little unnerving. But perhaps I can leave the panic aside, and replace it with a deep trust in God. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how my personal sense of effective planning and impact are being shattered, and maybe that’s ok. I’m pretty sure God’s future plans for me and my crew are better than anything I could script, or at least I desperately hope so. So today, I need to focus on the trees before me, and trust that God’s got the rest.

Oct 27 2019 Luke 10:27-37

Go and do likewise.

Jesus has encountered the lawyer who wants to know what he needs to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus gives his standard answer. Love God. Love your neighbor. The man wants to get a few more details, maybe because he was genuinely unclear, or because he was trying to get enough details that he could get out of the obligation on a technicality. So the lawyer asks Jesus to clarify, just who is his neighbor?

Jesus proceeds to tell the story of the ‘good’ Samaritan. A man is mugged, and left on the side of the road. An political and religious leader each pass the man, averting their eyes, and walking past. A Samaritan, the hated enemies of the Jewish people at the time, is the one who stops, takes care of him, and puts him up for the night in a hotel. Jesus asks the lawyer, which of these men should be considered a neighbor to the victim. The lawyer answers, the one who shows mercy. Jesus responds, ‘go and do likewise.’

I understand a little about political boundaries and borders, and employment law, and the economics of a workforce. But I do not see that there is any room to be has hurtful and unwelcoming to the stranger as our country has become. In modern times, some of our political and religious leaders are doing the same thing as the priest and Levite in the story, walking by, averting their eyes. Or reducing the number of refugees allowed in this country.

On its own, this move is not consistent with Jesus’ command. But the reasoning is equally bad. The government is proposing a reduction in the number of refugees worldwide, to free up Homeland Security to address the ‘crisis’ at our border with Mexico. There definitely is a crisis at our border; crushing poverty, hopelessness, unemployment. Who is my neighbor?

But the US doesn’t intend to work to meet those needs. Instead, we want to walk past the hurting even quicker. Better yet, build a structure so we don’t have to see them at all.

To be clear, I absolutely understand that open borders are problematic for government. But it’s the government leaders and lawyers that Jesus was talking to. If our primary concern remains our economics and politics, we are no different than the legalistic questioner of Jesus, who’s trying to figure out just how far God’s love is to be shared. Jesus makes it precisely clear. Go and do likewise.

I also understand that there are people who’ve been working on these issues for months and years, and my comments may seem like I’m an armchair quarterback. But it simply takes 20 minutes of reading scripture to feel absolutely convicted about my previous apathy. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how short the distance is between reading Jesus’ words, and how clearly I see where we need to hear and heed his words today I’m not a immigrant and refugee protester. I’ve never seen the ‘crisis’ at the border. But I vote. And I have money. And I have prayer. I wonder what would happen if every other wonderfully intentioned, armchair quarterbacking Christian read Scripture, felt convicted, and took action.

Oct 26 2019 Psalm 30

Then you hid your face from me

This is one of those psalms that go from happy to sad to scared to praising in a few verses. Just two verses before, the psalmist says, “when I was secure I said, I shall never be disturbed”. Then he goes on that “then you hid your face from me.”

I’m intrigued by the choice of words, you hid your face from me. It reminds me of playing peek-a-boo with small children. The first couple of times a parent covers their face, the child is in terror. Where did my loved one go? How could they have disappeared? Then, before the wailing begins, the blanket is removed, and the loving parent is miraculously returned. Eventually, this becomes a game. The face is hidden, and slowly the child’s terror is replaced with curiosity, and eventually anticipation of the parent’s return.

We know that as the one who hides our face, we didn’t really ever go anywhere. It’s a child’s limited understanding of the world that creates the terror. The psalmist is likening God’s apparent disappearance to a parent, hiding their face. In our limited understanding of the world, we are in terror.

But like the parent, God doesn’t really go anywhere. We can’t see or can’t sense God’s protective presence, and so we, like the toddler, panic. 

This morning, I’m thinking about whether we can get to that place where the terror is turned into curiosity and eventually, anticipation. God does not abandon us. And I even doubt whether God would hide God’s face. But certainly there are times that I sense God’s protective, loving presence more than others. But in those times where there’s a sense of absence, God is not absent. God is never absent. Sometimes I can’t see as clearly, but that doesn’t have to equal panic.

I have known people who get to those dark places, and sense God’s face is hidden, or God has abandoned them, or the notion of God was fabricated all along. I know from my experience that I cannot convince anyone else about God’s presence, if they don’t have the same experience – especially if they’re in a dark place. That makes me wonder how to hold on, when I go through those moments where I feel God’s not present. No one will likely be able to convince me, any more than I can convince anyone else. To me, that’s where faith comes in. 

There times when I fully believe in all I say and practice in my Christian world. There are other times when belief is waning. At those times, and in those darker times of disbelief, or sense of abandonment, where all I can do is have faith. Faith that the psalmist is right. God hasn’t abandoned me. God wouldn’t. I’m in those moments of terror, when I cannot see God, when it seems God has hidden God’s face. Faith is what you have, when belief is questioned. God, grant me faith to remember that you will never leave, even if I think you’ve hidden your face.

Oct 25 2019 Ezra 3: 1-13

But many of the priests and Levites and heads of families, old people who had seen the first house on its foundations, wept with a loud voice when they saw this house

The first temple had been destroyed in Jerusalem. The temple, which the faithful believed was where God was present and worshipped. This story from Ezra describes the people back in Israel, gathered in Jerusalem, building altars to worship God. But they were sad, because the ‘foundation of the temple of the Lord was not yet laid’.

So they go about building a second temple in Jerusalem. They worked and worked, and finally laid the foundation. But alas, the religious leaders of the time and elders wept, when they saw it.

Were they sad at the second temple foundation? Sad because it wasn’t the first? Grieving because the first was destroyed? Maybe all of the above. But we do the same thing. Something bad happens, we pine for things to be better. But when they are made better, we aren’t as happy as we’d thought should have been.

Maybe the second foundation, or for us, the restored bits of our lives perpetually remind us of what was taken, or broken or destroyed. In high school, I had a bike stolen, and although I got a new one, I was perpetually ticked that I needed to get a new one at all. Instead of reveling in my new bike, I was mad that I didn’t have my old one, mad at the meanness of someone who stole my bike. But wouldn’t it be better if we could just be grateful, unlike the chief priests, that a second foundation has been built?

Or maybe we become unrealistically nostalgic for the first temple, measuring every subsequent thing by an exaggerated image of the first. I don’t genuinely remember what the bike was like that was stolen, but if you were to ask me about it, I think it is a combination of every good bike I’d had up to that point. First loves can be like this, or first jobs, first years in love. Ah, the good old days. 

 This morning, I’m thinking about how easy it is to cry over the laying of the second foundation, as opposed to being ecstatic because it’s being laid at all. I’m hopeful that today, I let the idealized and romantic notions of the first temple go. I hope I can let the grief go over the destruction of first things. And instead, offer shouts of joy for the second.

Oct 24 2019 Matthew 12: 15-21 Commemoration of Fr. Hiram Hisanori Kani

Here is my servant, whom I have chosen

It’s amazing to me that our country interred approximately 120,000 people, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It’s more amazing that nearly 75,000 of those people were US citizens. What’s even more amazing, and disappointing is that I didn’t know anything about this, until I learned about it as an adult, living on the west coast. And by interred, it’s fair to say these children of God were put in concentration camps, on US soil, by US officials. Ordered by a president I’d like to like – FDR.

Fr. Kani was an Episcopal priest who served in western Nebraska in the 1930s. He ministered to US soldiers who were imprisoned for going AWOL, and the Japanese community in western Nebraska and eastern Colorado. On Sunday, December 7, 1941, after celebrating the Eucharist, Fr. Kani was detained. He was not allowed to tell his family where he was or even let them know he’d been detained. He was given a “Class A” rating, or someone who was the most ‘potentially’ dangerous Japanese American. He spent the next two years in concentration camps, for the sole reason of being of Japanese descent.

Forty years later, President Jimmy Carter ordered reparations be paid for this wrong-headed internments. Fr. Kani was offered reparations which he declined. He told his bishop, “I don’t want the money. God just used that as another opportunity for me to preach the gospel”.

When I was discerning a call to ordained ministry, I was posed with the question of what makes me angry. I didn’t have a good answer, because anger is not generally one of my go-to emotions. But this makes me angry. That the US would put citizens in concentration camps, for any reason. That we conveniently omit these bits of our history. That this was carried out by the US government with authority granted by the very citizens swept up. That FDR ordered it. That we keep repeating this horrid practice of demonizing ‘the other’, whether it’s through building a wall, separating children from their parents, or deporting people legitimately seeking refuge.

Having said all of that, Hiram Kani is an example of how to live through and thrive through this. He was forced in a concentration camp by the US government, and when offered reparation payment, refused. He saw his time as an opportunity to do God’s work. He must have fully believed that while God may not have put him in the camp, he was called to do God’s work while there.

This morning, I’m thinking about how I am called to be God’s servant; about how crappy situations aren’t the story, or bad choices, bad breaks, bad policies, bad politics. I am called to be God’s servant, to share God’s good news in whatever circumstance. Focusing on the circumstance unfortunately lets me stew, get worked up and angry about something over which I have little or no control. What I can control is my beliefs, understanding and actions. 

If Fr. Kino had focused on the wrongs that had been done to him, I can imagine he would have taken the money, and believed it still insufficient reparation. How could any amount of money repair that breach of trust and decency? But instead, he saw himself as God’s servant. Focusing on his call, he was able to use the crappy situation to God’s good.

Today, I want to remember that I’m called to be God’s servant. To talk about and show God’s love and grace, regardless of my situation. If I focus on what’s wrong, there is no amount of reparation that could repay me for what I feel I’m owed. Or my loved ones. But if I focus on God’s good news of love and grace, I can see that I am indeed called to be God’s servant. Here. Now.

Oct 23 2019 Matthew 10:16-22

[D]o not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time; for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.

If only I could remember this, every day, every minute, before I open my mouth. I’ve experienced this occasionally. And mostly when I’m very intentional about listening to God. Sometimes, when I pause before speaking, something comes out of my mouth that isn’t what I thought I was going to say. Sometimes I just come up with a witty response that is snappy, but not of God. But sometimes, something more loving and grace-filled leaves my mouth and I marvel every time.

I’ve experienced this also with writing. When working on a sermon, I work and stew, and nearly every time, there comes a point where ideas and words flow. I fine tune, but even with that, there comes a point where I know it’s right. It’s the right idea and right words. I’m not suggesting I hear a still small voice, or that Jesus gives me the ‘thumbs up’. But there is a peaceful sense of right-ness. In all honestly, there have been a few times I don’t get to that place with a sermon; it never quite feels right. But Sunday comes anyway. But those are very very infrequent.

I also experience this sense of the Holy Spirit offering the words when I write in the morning. I start simply with a phrase that strikes me, from the morning prayer readings. I put it at the top of the page, and start writing. I’ve no idea where it’s heading when I start typing, but words flow. It’s actually a joy to see what happens and where it turns out. More poignant for me is the acknowledgment that my witty, logical, introverted self does not have to 1) shy away from writing or speaking things that I don’t think I’m good at 2) be in charge 3) make sense of everything.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that everything I say or write is divinely inspired; far from it. Nor do I think that every time I’m in a pickle, the Holy Spirit will always give me the right words. But I do believe that if I’m in a pickle, I’m always better off giving Her the space to make an appearance. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how grateful I am to have the opportunities to speak and write things when I don’t know what I’m doing, and how wonderful it is when the Holy Spirit does show up. For the next few very busy days, I want to remember that I don’t need to worry about what to say or write; I need to make space for the Holy Spirit to make Her appearance. Come, Holy Spirit, come.

Oct 22 2019 Matthew 11: 25-30

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

Weary. That’s a good word. Rest. That’s a better one.

Yesterday, we returned from a quick weekend away. A trip we couldn’t have taken without angels who shared their home with us in Florence, and angels who shared our home in Portland. Deep, deep gratitude for both.



As we were driving back, I was noticing my increasingly heavy burdens. Our loved one was very anxious. They have refused continuation of the doctor prescribed medicine, in favor of self medication. Unfortunately, the medicine of choice has some immediate positive effects, but documented long term nasty effects on this illness. Our loved one was working themselves in to a lather, about needing their drug of choice.

On the drive, we spent about an hour on the phone with our loved one, and another 30 minutes with psychiatrists and counselors. With their scattered brain, it was difficult to assess what was really happening. But what was clear was they were scared, defeated, frustrated, tired of being sick and wanting someone to lift their heavy burdens. If only I could have.

By the time we arrived home, the counselor was with them, not wanting to leave her alone, for threats of jumping off our 25th floor balcony. Again, unlikely, but unnerving. We returned, there was some yelling, some negotiating, talk of involuntary hospitalization, but eventually, a blessed de-escalation.

This morning, my burdens feel heavy. But if I think of it, theirs are heavier. I’m not stuck with an addled brain. I’m not unable to work, to think clearly. I’m not scared or angry, without money or hope. I’m not being shuttled around between doctors and counselors who can’t seem to address any of that.

So quickly, I need to dispense with this being about me. Yes, my burdens are heavy. And yes, I can try again and again to share those burdens with Christ. I can find rest in Christ. I can hold those thoughts together. I deeply believe there is hope in Christ, and I can access that hope. Granted, some days better than others, but I am certain that hope is there if I can just get there. 

This morning, I’m thinking about my loved one who has a very heavy burden, and cannot hold it together to find rest in Christ. They cannot conceive of a God who will give them rest; the illness feels so much bigger than God’s love and grace. From where I sit, it feels almost true. Almost bigger. Almost too much. Certainly for my loved one, and by extension, for me.

We all carry burdens of our own, and we carry burdens on behalf or due to other people. Today, I want to keep my eyes focused on all of the burdens I carry. My grief, sadness, disappointment, dashed expectations. I want to be aware of those I carry on behalf of my loved one – grief, sadness, dissapointment, dashed expectations – plus feeling sick, confused, hopeless, abandoned. On behalf of both of us, I want to leave those with Christ, and find rest.

In my perfect world, I will find rest for me, and my loved one will find rest. And if that rest for them is currently illusive, I need to find a double measure of rest in my soul, and do everything I can to share Christ’s rest through me for my loved one. I need to find rest for our souls.

Oct 21 2019 Psalm 25

The sorrows of my heart have increased; bring me out of my troubles. Look upon my adversity and misery and forgive me all my sin.

Today we return to Portland after three days away with dear friends. Our sick loved one has not made it easy. Dozens and dozens of texts, imploring us to help them, threatening us, angry, nonsense texts. And the folks who are caregiving have been spectacular! There has always been a cloud of worry and wonder, so we weren’t quite able to disconnect, but it was more of a break than we’ve had in a loooong time.

So as I imagine returning, I read the words of the psalmist with a heavy heart. The sorrows of my heart have increased, O Lord. Please bring me out of my troubles. The part this morning that strikes me is the last bit; forgive me all my sin.

In the midst of my house drama, it’s incredibly easy for me to misbehave. I can be reactionary, judgmental, and far less compassionate than I intend. And while my reactions might be provoked and even justified, there’s nothing about my situation that causes my bad behavior. They are in fact separate things.

Yes, my home is complicated, and my loved one is very sick. Yes, my vacation was not entirely carefree. Yes, I return today to – who knows what. Yes, there’s a heaviness in my heart and a certain amount of misery. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But none of that demands, commands, or requires my bad behavior. I do not need to respond in kind. As a matter of fact, I’m called to respond with God’s love and grace. 

This morning I’m thinking about how the conditions around me are, in fact, not causal, to the conditions within me. There is nothing about my life that justifies any bad behavior or sin on my part. Nothing. Maybe it’s explainable, or understandable. Today, I want to see or increase the separation between what I see – the conditions around me like misery – and my actions – like being unnecessarily pissy or short. Forgive me my sins in the sight of the misery, sorrows and trouble. They do not have to be related.

Oct 20 2019 Luke 10: 1-20

Whatever house you enter, first say, “Peace to this house! And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you.


Jesus is sending out 70 people to do God’s work. He tells them to carry no purse or sandals. They were not to ‘be prepared’, but rather in God’s providence. They were, however, to offer peace to the house.

I like the idea of peace being something that can be conferred to a house and its inhabitants. It’s as if peace is a thing that can be transferred or refuted. I have been to places that feel peaceful. Often they’re places where others before me have intentionally brought or fought for peace – some places of worship either inside or outside. I wonder whether it really is a thing – peace. I wonder if in the future, scientists will be able to see or prove that peace is present in some places or spaces, and not in others.

One of the challenges of my current world, is that my house doesn’t frequently have that sense of peace. Walking in, it feels disrupted and unsettled.

What would it look like or how would I share that sense of peace on my space? Maybe it’s more intentional peace-offering whenever I arrive. Peace to this house. Maybe it’s something like a Mezuzah, the Jewish piece of parchment on which text from Deuteronomy is written – Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and might, and bind them on your hand, forehead, and the doorpost of your home. Not that a Mezuzah would be a talisman, but a beautiful reminder of God’s presence in a place.

My husband and I are out of town for a weekend getaway with dear old friends. It’s nice to be away, although texting makes away a relative term. Yesterday, we received dozens of texts from our sick loved one, resplendent of drama and language to which we’ve become accustomed. But by early afternoon, the drama died down, and we’re left with 2 days more of peaceful away. 

This morning I’m thinking about how to bring that sense of God’s peace on a place, on my home when I return. Peace to this house. Maybe I cannot command others to be peaceful, but I can invite and invoke and confer God’s peace through me upon that space.

Oct 19 2019 Matthew 11: 7-15

What then did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces.

Jesus is talking to the crowds who’d gone to see John the Baptizer. He’s trying to figure explain to them who John was, and who John wasn’t. He eventually gets to the conclusion that John is a prophet, and moreover, the one Isaiah writes about, “See, I am sending a messenger ahead of you”. John, Jesus was saying, was the one sent to talk about the way things are to be in God’s kingdom, in the person of Jesus.

For a slight digression, I’ve always appreciated John the Baptist. As someone described as a prophet, John helps explain what prophets are and aren’t. They aren’t fortune tellers, as much as they are truth tellers. Prophets describe the way things should be in God’s kingdom, and contrast that to how things are in today’s kingdom. That sounds like fortune telling, but it’s more about holding out the practical, world application of something that might be theoretical, or hard to imagine, like God’s kingdom come. Deacons are called to be prophets, and to keep that vision of God’s kingdom in the front of people’s mind.

Before Jesus gets to the conclusion that John is a prophet, he reminds the crowds what John is not. He asks if they went looking for someone in fine soft robes, and then says that people in soft robes are found in palaces, not in the wilderness where they went to look for John. 

This morning, I’m thinking about our unquenchable desire for soft robes, and those who wear them. I believe it was in Gulliver’s Travels where the people are telling Gulliver he should be wearing a shirt of soft silk. He’s aghast, wondering why he’d wear something that would rip and not stand up to his life. No, he’d continue to wear his rough, but sturdy shirt. I remember thinking that was brilliant.

But I have the equivalent of soft robes. I try to find others with soft robes. Isn’t that what advertising is all about? Wear this brand of clothing – never mind that it needs to be dry cleaned, and isn’t even very comfortable. Or those high heel shoes. Really? Most sales are trying to get us to get softer robes, fancier cars. Why? Is it the status we think those things reflect? Or do we really enjoy them?

Not only do we want these things for ourselves, we also go seek them out in others, like the crowds looking for fanciness when they were seeking John. We idolize the rich and famous, the stylish and the palace-residing. Are we trying to see what we might be? How the other half lives?

It’s interesting to think about where we look for things, and where we overlook them. John was probably nothing much to look at. No fancy robes, just a wild-haired, bug eating guy. In today’s world, we might see lots of folks who look and talk like John. Would we give them the same credence as we do a well-heeled speaker?

A few years ago, I was working at a homeless breakfast, and a woman with green-tattooed eyebrows was offering advice. She wasn’t much to look at, but she was a prophet, to be sure. She talked about the gratitude she had for the sun which had just come out, and that she believed her stuff would dry out from last night’s rain. She said that God made sure that there were little bits of sun, thrown in her days and nights. Always.

Today, I want to seek the wild-eyed prophet, and stop worrying about my soft robes.

Oct 18 2019 Psalm 103 – Commemoration of St. Luke

The Lord is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger and of great kindness.

When I was studying for my ‘competency exams’ to become an ordained deacon, one of the areas to study was Scripture. It was to be a closed book test, and beyond that I didn’t know what to expect. So I read and took notes on the whole Bible, trying to commit to memory important things, dates, quotes, locations. And I relied on some little hints I’d made myself.

I’m not suggesting this is any way to identify Gospel writers, but for me, it worked. My way to identify the Gospel writers? If the writer sounded like a legalistic rule-follower, my bet was Matthew. If it sounded like a second grader telling an excited story, “And then he went here. And then he did this. And then we saw that”, Mark. If it included language I didn’t understand, talk about visions, and poetry, or focused a lot on bread or water, John. And finally, if it was about humans interacting, loving and hurting each other, full of emotion and easy to relate – if it was a story that struck a positive note with me, it was likely Luke. This simplistic description actually served me well for the exam. I mention this because Luke has always been the Gospel writer to which I most relate. This is because Luke tells a story of Jesus, like the Psalmists line, that is full of compassion and mercy - very human traits. 

Luke’s Gospel contains the song of Mary, “My soul magnifies the Lord”, the familiar nativity story, complete with shepherds and a manger, and many familiar parables, such as the prodigal son. Luke also includes quotes from Jesus on the cross not found elsewhere, such as “Forgive them Father, for they do not know what they are doing”. It’s in Luke’s Gospel, we hear about Jesus appearing to the disciples after his resurrection, telling them to look at his hands and feet. Luke also wrote the book of Acts, which tells equally human relatable stories about the earliest church, how is disciples continued on after his ascension.

More than any other Gospel writer, Luke provides me an account of Jesus’ life, and the lives of the earliest church with which I can relate. I read the stories and can see myself in them, or I can imagine the reactions of the people in the story. Luke was a physician, and there are a lot of healing stories about Jesus in Luke’s Gospel.

Reading Luke and any of the other Gospel writers provides me with the clear impact the writer has on the story. Even though there are four Gospels, each which account the same basic story, they are very different. They were written by different people, for different audiences, with different intent. Luke’s writing is, to me, the most human, the most heart wrenching, the most relatable. Luke’s Jesus I can get to know. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how with my reading of different Scripture authors I’m developing some preferences to their style and story. It makes me think about how through the ages, and into the future, people have been and will be writing about their impression and interaction with God. How those writings are all true reflections, based on the face of God they see, and the person doing the writing. It makes me want to read other people’s reflections of God, to learn more about God through other people’s lenses.

Oct 17 2019 Matthew 10:34-42

Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me

This is a tough read. And tough to navigate to good news. But this morning, I’m feeling it. Here’s where I see this today.

We are all fallible humans – my kids, my husband. I’ve vowed to love and cherish my husband, and support and love my kids. And there are times where what they want would be something other than what God desires. If I’m going to have blind allegiance to someone, I’d prefer to put my trust in God, rather than fallible humans, even if I’m married to one. Tie goes to God.

In my home, my husband and I are dealing with a challenging caregiving situation, with a very sick loved one. Occasionally, we disagree about how to proceed, or what would be in their best interest. And while it’s relatively easy to see that my husband is a fallible human and God’s will should be the right path, it’s sometimes (frequently) harder for me to acknowledge that I’m fallible, and God’s will should be the right path.

We both intend to do right, and still sometimes both want to be right for the wrong reasons. If I believe God to be a better guide than mother, father, daughter or son, perhaps God’s path is better, in the midst of parenting/caregiving disagreements with my husband. If I could stop, and invite God into that moment it might be easier to navigate. That might take our fallible human self-serving interests out of the equation. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how to let God into the parenting and caregiving disagreements I have, about how my deep love of other humans might be better served if I put their interests - and mine - behind the pure love of God. That might make a whole lot of things a whole lot easier.

Oct 16 2019 I Corinthians 14:13-25

Nevertheless, in church I would rather speak five words with my mind, in order to instruct others also, than ten thousand words in a tongue.

Paul is going on and on about speaking in tongues. About how while it may be a gift from the Spirit, and may be holy language, no one can understand it. I had always wondered about speaking in tongues. It’s not a big part of my Anglican tradition. But I did have a priest in the Seattle area who could speak in tongues. Once he showed a group of us. It was other-worldly.

More intriguing, I saw a group of people speaking in tongues in Malindi, Kenya. We were working at an orphanage, and one of the young adult leaders was holding a church service. My younger daughter and I were in the room. They were reading the Bible, both in Swahili and English. I helped reading – in English – ha. After some reading time, they started speaking in tongues. There were about 8 of us in the small room, and with all 6 of them were speaking rapidly, at the same time, with a vacant expression, in something that was not Swahili. I must admit it was nearly frightening.

Were it not for my previous experience with someone from my faith tradition doing the same thing, I’m sure I would have been skeptical and it might have seemed comical. That’s unfortunate for me to admit, but true.

Speaking in tongues is not something I imagine I have a charism for, although there is something about it that seems valuable. In both first-hand experiences, the people who were speaking in tongues seemed to give themselves over to something holy. I’m not sure that sense of abandon is in me. And even if it was, I’m not sure I’m in touch with the Holy within me, to let it come out that way.

It seems from Paul’s lengthy coverage of this topic, speaking in tongues was something more frequent and equated with good holiness. He’s warning the people of Corinth that while speaking in tongues may be praying with the Spirit, one needs to pray with the mind – with words – so that anyone else can understand. I value Paul’s counsel, having been in room with 6 others speaking in tongues, and 2 of us looking bewildered.

It does seem like an all or nothing proposition – speaking in tongues. You either fully abandon yourself to the Spirit and let the Spirit speak through you, or you’re in your mind, using your 5 words. I wonder if there’s any middle ground. Is there a state of abandonment where we can turn over to the Spirit and still have our minds engaged? 

This morning, I’m thinking about how to abandon myself and soul to the Holy Spirit, in some way that similar to what happens when people speak in tongues, but not quite. I’m wondering if it is a thing at all, or if it really is like an on-off switch; you either speak in tongues, fully abandoned to the Holy Spirit, or you speak your five words with your head. I’m intrigued by exploring the space between these too, perhaps looking for something more like a dimmer switch.

Oct 15 2019 Commemoration of Teresa of Avila

“Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world.”


Teresa of Avila was born in 1515 in Spain. She joined a Carmelite religious order. She battled illness for many years, and was deep in pray during her times of illness. Eventually she decided that the order had strayed from Christ’s call, and founded a ‘reformed Carmelite’ order, and began numerous other reformed houses, which were very strict, and entirely cloistered. She was known as a person of deep prayer, and mystic.

As a person of the world and a person of action, I always feel challenged to read about these early church mystics. It’s a life I can’t imagine. It’s a way of deep prayer and vision I cannot imagine. And generally, their writings are full of imagery and poetry that don’t resonate. That’s not to say the writings aren’t beautiful, and genuine. They’re just very different from how I think and process things. I suspect much of Teresa’s writing would fall in that category. But the quote of hers that was included in the Morning Prayer summary from Mission St. Clare, resonated deeply.

Christ has no body now but yours. As a person of faith who believes God-in-Jesus was fully human, and lived and died, and was resurrected and ascended to God, God-in-human form is not here any more. While I also believe God-in-the-Spirit is in all of us, and that God-the-Creator is great enough to fix or console anything here on earth, I love the image that in the absence of God-in-Jesus, we are it. We are the eyes that he looks compassion on the world. The hands through which he blesses the world, and the feet through which he walks to do good.

I also believe that God-the-creator can do anything on this earth, and doesn’t really need me, my hands or my feet. I say this because I’ve heard deeply religious folks balk at the idea that God needs my hands or feet. True enough.

Needed or not, I believe I am here to be Christ’s hands and feet. If the God-the-Holy Spirit is fully divine, wouldn’t it be easier for that fully divine, fully God in spirit to accomplish God’s will, with an extra pair of hands? Besides, many hands make light work.

This idea, that Christ has no body here on earth but ours, that’s beautiful, and it provides my literal and critical brain with something to wrestle with. It provides me with an image or concept of how I’m involved in the salvation of this world, of bringing God’s kingdom here.   

This morning, I’m thinking about mystics, and how their time of deep thought and visions can provide us with ways to think about God, and see our relationship with God and the world. Mystical writing is generally difficult for me to read, because of all of the right-brain language. But I am committed to try to learn a little more about mystics, and see what they have to teach me, just like Teresa was able to.

Oct 14 2019 Morning Prayer Hymn

To give and give, and give again, What God hath given thee; To spend thyself nor count the cost; To serve right gloriously

The Mission of St. Clare, that publishes Morning Prayer with the readings and prayers every day includes a link to a hymn to start the morning worship time. This morning’s song, started “Awake, awake to love and work”. Often, if I recognize the words, I click on the “play” button, and start my morning with a little hymn. I did not recognize these words, so I nearly didn’t click. But I did.

And it turns out, I know the tune with different words. The King shall come when morning dawns, the lark is in the sky. I don’t even think those words are in our current hymnal, which by now is nearly 40 years old. But in my head, that’s the right words with the right tune. It’s funny how music locks memories for me.

The third verse of the version linked in this morning’s prayer session includes the phrase, “To give and give and give again, what God hath given thee”. I so desperately needed to hear that this morning.

My son is in town visiting for a long weekend, from Boston. It’s a delight to have him here. I’m not sure if it’s his presence, or medicine, but my sick loved one has been really really agitated for about a week. Change is disruptive to all, especially the one who’s clinging to the world as we know it. They have been verbally abusive to all of us in the house, and last night, threw a glass on the ground out of sheer frustration. While often I can let it slide, this weekend has been hard, because I’ve been worried about them, while at the same time trying to protect my son from her abuse. By abuse, I mean name calling, vulgar talk, false accusations. It’s stinky.

And this morning, they woke up early, and said they were freaking out. The voice in their head has turned mean, and now has taken up with another voice, as opposed to being with my loved one. All of this is invisible to me, but is as real as the cold cup of coffee they’ve been coddling all morning. This morning, there were tears, and pronouncements that they cannot go on, and that the voices argued all night.

The sadness of my loved one, along with my impotence at doing anything about it is hard. And between their sense of defeat at the disease, and the words of this hymn, I’m both embarrassed by my anger, and have more resolve to keep going.   

This morning, I’m thinking about how God gives and gives and gives again, without counting the cost. Given all that is going on around me, I’m not being asked to do a fraction of God’s giving, nor does it have near the cost as is being exacted on my loved one. It is not fun, nor easy. But it’s also not something I need to do alone. But I do need to give and give and give again. And again.

Oct 13 2019 Luke 7: 36-50

‘A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they could not pay, he cancelled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?’
Jesus is dining with Simon, a Pharisee. Pharisees were not inherently bad, although they are generally used in the Gospels to spotlight dogmatic and sometimes nonsensical Judaism. I think of them as Orthodox Jews of their time.

In any case, Jesus is dining at the house of Simon, a Pharisee. A woman, the author informs us, “who was a sinner”, comes in with her alabaster jar of ointment and anoints Jesus’ feet, cries on them, kisses them, and dries his feet with her hair.

The Pharisee complains that if Jesus only knew who this woman was, and what she was, he’d never allow this. Jesus responds with this parable about the creditor, effectively saying that the woman who had more to forgive, was bound to be more appreciative, and love the debt forgiver more than the one who had less to forgive. He concludes the story by telling the woman her sins are forgiven, and that her faith has saved her. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how we include a confession in our worship services, for exactly this reason. I had a priest friend who actually wrote down on a slip of paper the things during the preceding week he felt bad about, or things he knew he’d done wrong – things he’d done or not done that created a larger gulf between him and God’s love. Before the service, he’d look through the list so it was fresh in his mind. Then when it came time for the confession, he was absolutely confessing things that were real and imminent. When he did this (as opposed to when good intentions and actions are not the same), he was more appreciative of God’s love, and grace, and mercy. He had more debt to be forgiven.

Today, I want to be conscientious about the things that I’ve done or not done. I want to see that when I don’t love God or love my neighbor, I create distance between me and God. If I don’t confess and acknowledge that distance, the distance remains, and grows with tomorrow’s foibles. The best way to close the gap is to name it, and claim it, and ask God to close that gap.

Oct 12 2019 I Corinthians 12:27 – 13:3

If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Paul continues his explanation of God made manifest in the Spirit-filled gifts given to each of us - preaching, teaching, prophesying. These little humanized bits of the Holy Spirit enable us to do something – we take those skills and talents and become apostles – people who go out and tell God’s good news, prophets, teachers, healers. So first we get the spirit made manifest in ability to write, for example. Second we use the skill as a writer. All is good so far.

But then he puts the caveat on it all. He says that if you use your skills in your vocation but do not have love, it’s all for naught. If you speak able to sway mortals and angels, but don’t have love, you’re a noisy gong. If you have prophetic powers, are super smart, and even the ultimate faith in God, but do not have love, I am nothing. And if I try to do good, giving away all my belongings, if I martyr myself for a good cause, but I don’t have love, that is also nothing.

It’s not enough that we have the Sprit-made-manifest gifts. It’s not enough that we use them. If we do not use them with and for love, it’s all wasted.

I sort of understand this in my life. I have certain skills. I’m able to use them in my work, both paid and familial. If I don’t use the skills rooted in the love of God, I can easily get derailed. I lose sight of why. On part of my job is to help people in the process towards ordination. It’s a complicated, seemingly bureaucratic time intensive process. I fully believe that all of the components are there for a reason, and I try to help folks navigate with limited bumps and detours. And on good days, I do it with love and for love. But when anyone in positions of control or power, even in administrative processes like this, when anyone in a position like that does their work without love as the source and purpose, it’s apparent.

I wonder about people who don’t believe in God, or have a very tenuous connection. They still have God-made-manifest gifts. They still do good deeds. But if they don’t do it for God’s love, does that mean they are a noisy gong? I’m going to argue, that no. If they are doing love’s work, even if they don’t name it God, they’re doing God’s work.

This morning, I’m thinking about all of the things I do in a day – write memos, make lunch and dinner, arrange meetings, prepare reports, take care of others. I do these things with the Spirit-made-manifest sills I’ve ben given. God is infused in my every action, throughout my day. So my body is fully connected to God, as I move through my world, by virtue of what I say, and do, and feel and believe. All of that is Spirit made manifest. What’s missing, without some effort on my part, is the intention to do it for Love. It’s not enough to know it’s God given gifts, or even to do it for an altruistic purpose. My actions, all my actions and thoughts need to be rooted in Love. There is a prayer in our Book of Common Prayer that many days, we conclude the morning prayer service with. It’s says this better than me.

Heavenly Father, in you we live and move and have our being: We humbly pray you so to guide and govern us by your Holy Spirit, that in all the cares and occupations of our life we may not forget you, but may remember that we are ever walking in your sight; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Oct 11 2019 Acts 8:26-40 Commemoration of Philip the Deacon

He asked, ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ He replied, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’

Philip the Deacon was one of the seven commissioned to take care of the widows, orphans and poor, frequently referred to as the first deacons. Stephan, also commissioned at the same time was well know for having been the church’s first martyr. The other five early deacons did wonderful things, I’m sure, but we don’t hear much about them.

Philip was sent by the Spirit to walk a particular road. He came across a carriage with an Ethiopian wealthy court official, keeper of the treasury of the Ethiopian queen. Not many people had carriages at that time. The Spirit urged Philip to join the man, so he ran to catch up with the carriage, and the eunuch invited him into the carriage. Just to put this part in modern day context, imagine a wealthy man who works at the Federal Reserve, keeper of the treasury in a fancy car. Running to meet the car is a scruffy and disheveled man, who asks to join him. I cannot imagine a circumstance where this would have been a logical invitation in modern day, save God’s intervention.

So Philip joins the eunuch, and notices he’s reading from the Hebrew Scripture, a story from Isaiah. Philp asks him if he understands, and the eunuch asks how he could without someone explaining things to him. Again, some context. The Ethiopian eunuch was everything that represented ‘the other’ for Phillip and the early Christians. He was serving foreign royalty, likely a person of color, and likely a castrated man. All of these attributes would have made him a stretch to Philip’s understanding of the known new Christian world of believers.

So Philip explains things, and the man is converted. The come upon some water, and the eunuch asks to be baptized. Philip, also converted, baptizes him, and immediately is taken away and the eunuch sees him no more.

Philip is put in a circumstance that stretches his understanding of God’s inclusive and radical love. That happens to deacons still, at least to me. In my head I understand and believe that God’s love and mercy have no limits, that no one is outside God’s love. Then I’m put in a situation where I meet the Ethiopian eunuch, who asks me, “how can I understand if no one shows me?”

In the world, I have a heart for the hurting and forgotten. It’s easier for me to sit with them, to share God’s love with them. In the world, I have a more challenging time with the hurters or the cheaters, or the modern day tax collectors. But God’s love extends to them too. I have served as deacon with people who either were part of the 1%, or aspired to be there. How can they understand God’s love if no one shows them?

In my home, I marvel at the challenges of the unpredictable and cruel nature of schizophrenia. I’m constantly challenged to remember that God’s love extends even to the depths of the confused and frustrated mind of my loved one. That God calls me to love too. My loved one will never utter the words, “How can I understand, if no one shows me?” But it is absolutely true. How can they know of God’s love and mercy if no one shows them. Since they don’t leave the apartment, my husband and I are the only ones who can.   

This story from Acts is often referred to as the conversion of the eunuch. I think it’s equally, if not more, a story about the conversion of Philip. This morning, I’m thinking about all of the eunuchs I am sent by the Spirit to encounter. I think about how much I am converted, every time I’m asked to be the guide or example of God’s love. Every time, my world is stretched, in all the right ways.

Oct 10 2019 I Corinthians 12:1-11

To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.
I like the idea of the manifestation of the Sprit. The Holy Spirit, something entirely spiritual, with no human form, that encompasses all that God is. In the reading the traits listed include prophesy, healing, teaching. In the world of today, the human skills include finance, caretaking, administration, building, dancing, inventing – all of the things people do in this world.

Paul is saying that Holy Spirit is transformed into these human traits. It’s not just that the Spirit provides for our individual human traits, or we receive gifts from the Spirit. These traits are the Spirit-made-human.

To me, feels entirely different than to think that I have received a gift from the Spirit. It’s another way to embody God, to see that the Holy Spirit as one part of the three-in-one-God works in me and through me every time I cook a good meal. It’s not my will, invoking a God-given gift. It’s God in the gift made active.

It’s no wonder that all of our actions, and skills and interests and abilities are all made for good. They are the Holy Spirit given human traits.

This morning, I’m thinking about the care with which I want to go about my day, with all of my God-made-concreteness being deployed for the common good. To use these traits for something less than love feels like a betrayal, like I’ve hijacked my manifested God traits for ill-will. Instead, I want to think about every movement, activity, and human trait as the Spirit made manifest, and in fact, use them for good.

Oct 9 2019 I Corinthians: 11:23-34

But if we judged ourselves, we would not be judged.
Paul is trying to explain the Eucharist, retelling the story of Jesus first sharing bread and wine, saying this is my body and blood. Whenever you share bread and wine after I’m gone, do it in remembrance of me. Paul’s advice is that the people of Corinth should practice the Eucharist, but only take the bread and wine if they’ve first examined themselves. He goes on to say that if you take communion without that self-appraisal, the act of taking communion becomes a judgement against yourself.

I almost understand his logic, and I’m sure there are lengthy works written about what he means, that I’ll never read, so apologies if this is nonsensical or heretical. To me, what this is saying is that to participate in Eucharist, take the bread and wine in the way Jesus offered, we believe is a sacrament; it is a sure and certain way to connect with God. Some days, I feel this and some days I don’t. But I believe a connection God occurs, regardless of my perception, or mood, or my feelings about the person administering communion. It’s a sure and certain way to connect.

If it’s a certainty, that I will encounter God during communion, it makes some sense that I reflect on myself, appraise my actions before doing that. God has the power to transform, renew, restore, refresh all the little bits of me, and it’s a lot easier for that to happen if I first find them, and put them on a figurative presentation platter before God, and then go to communion. If I am either actively hiding or ignorantly unaware of parts of me, God may let them lie festering until I’m ready to bring them forward. The Eucharist is a regular opportunity for that grace.

But God sees all of those bits of me that I leave behind my shiny self. When I come to the Eucharistic Table, God may be smiling sadly, shaking his head that I’ve again left part of me behind. God sees all, and may wonder when I will see.

Not only does God see, but if there are bits of me I leave at home, it’s likely other people see those parts of me too. For example, one of my uglier bits is that I really like credit for what I know. If I do something that’s right, for some reason, it’s important to me that others know I was right. Often, this bit is left behind, when I confess my sins, or self-reflect. But I’m certain it’s obvious to others. Others may judge me on that trait. But, if I reflect and judge me first, the observation of others is less like a judgment and more like a statement of fact. It’s easier to rise above judgmental statements about me, if I’ve first reached the same conclusion. Then I have the option of handing those bits of my self over to God for renewal, or to acknowledge to others, myself and God that those judgements I receive? They’re not judgments as much as they’re statements of fact. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how self reflection can greatly reduce the negative impact of judgements because it turns critical observations about me in to opportunities to bring my whole self to moments of God’s grace. When I am able to bring my whole self, God can redeem my whole self.

Oct 8 2019 Luke 16: 19-31 – Commemoration of William Bliss and Richard Ely

At his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.

William Dwight Porter Bliss and Richard Theodore Ely were two gentlemen who lived in the late 1800’s, and both committed to economic justice. Bliss professed that all Christians were responsible for the economic justice of all, because it was “rooted and grounded in Christ, the liberator”. Richard Theodore Ely was an economist and professor who argued that the Gospel was more about society, than it was about the individual, and he called on the Episcopal Church to work towards the reform of capitalism for the sake of the workers.

Economic Justice is a term that I’d thought was relatively new. I’d say it’s been the past decade since I’ve become aware of it as a concept, or a phrase. But here are these two men from over a century ago, working to address economic injustice. Neither the problem, nor the attempt to address it are new.

The reading appointed for this morning to accompany the two economic justice fighters is a story from Luke. The rich man is dressed in fine clothes and eating sumptuously. At his gate, is a poor man who’d be happy just to get the crumbs that fell from his table. Both men die, and the poor man is carried away to be with Abraham, which I’m presuming to be what we call heaven, although it’s not called that. The rich man goes to Hades, where he’s tormented with flames. He begs Abraham to allow the poor man to come down and give him a little water. Abraham explains that while they were alive, the rich man received his good things, and the poor man got nothing, and the rich man didn’t help at all. Now, he’s comforted, and you are not.

Living in a community with poor people sitting at my proverbial gate, this is a hard reading. I am convicted every time I walk past those begging on the street, at least twice a day, going to and coming from my bike garage. Portland is definitely above the average number of homeless, due in part to reputation and largely to the mild winters. Helping everyone I encounter would be challenging. But I try always to make human contact, look them in the eye, ask their name, make them feel seen, rather than invisible. Maybe I’m just defending my own behavior, but I don’t think this Gospel reading is condemning people who try on an individual level. 

Reading this Gospel and assuming it’s about the individual, I think bar is set differently. Are we, as individuals, doing something? Are we caring for those who have less, in some manner? Are we caring for those who have less in equal measure to how we have more? I’m hopeful that effort and intention counts, when I meet my maker, rather than absolutes.

But more important, I can read this Gospel passage from a collective societal standpoint. As Ely argued, the Gospel is about society, more than the individual. Are we as Christians in a capitalist society affecting and leading this society to take care of the poor at our gate? Are we partaking in a system that makes the rich richer, without regard to the rest? Are we blithely walking through our days and our elections, effectively creating poor men at our gate, covered with sores, and we let them get so marginalized that even the dogs lick their sores?

As a Christian, I am called to be engaged in my society to correct the economic injustices around me. I’m not sure exactly what that role is, but I’m certain there is one. I’m reminded of the advice I received when continued my education from getting a social work degree, to getting a public administration degree. A mentor said she’d started in social work, trying to help individuals. Then she’d realized that regardless of how hard she worked, the individuals would be returned to the same communities, with the same community problems. She moved towards community advocacy and organizing. After some time working with communities, she realized that regardless of how hard she worked, the communities were still constrained by the same policies and practices. She moved towards public policy. I’m not suggesting that there’s any problem with helping at any of these levels – the individual, community, society. All are needed and critical. And dealing with things at the systemic level has always rung true for me. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how the Gospel can and does speak to our obligations to individuals, communities and societies, all at the same time. I’m surprised that I haven’t made the connection between the Gospel and policy as clearly as I have this morning. Thank you, Bliss and Ely.

Oct 7 2019 Matthew 8: 28-34

Then the whole town came out to meet Jesus; and when they saw him, they begged him to leave their neighborhood.
This is Matthew’s account of Jesus healing the demon-filled men. There are two other accounts of this story in Mark and Luke. These three writers were talking to different audiences, trying to point out different stories. The three tellings are slightly different, and if I were more interested in comparing and contrasting their styles and audiences and messages, that would be an interesting rabbit hole. But other than to acknowledge that this is one of the stories that’s repeated and not exactly the same, I’m not interested.

Instead, I’m fascinated with the reaction of the townspeople. Jesus has healed two men who were so fierce, the people avoided them. The spirits of the two men saw Jesus, and acknowledged that Jesus could ‘torment’ the evil spirits. The spirits asked Jesus to send them into the neighboring herd of swine. In one powerful simple statement, “Go!”, Jesus did. The swine ran off the cliff into the sea. The swineherds ran off and told the townspeople what happened.

Instead of amazement at Jesus’ power over the spirits, joy in the healing of their fellow townspeople, or sadness over the loss of their herds, the people are apparently angry, and begged Jesus to leave their neighborhood.

It’s ironic, that in this story, the people who behave the worst by the end of the story are not the fierce men, but the townspeople. What is it they’re so upset about? Is it just about the loss of the swine?

I fear that it’s about the normalization of the other. For some reason, we seem to need to have someone who’s lower than us, less than us, worse off than us. We need to have someone to blame. We even go so far as to demonize the other. Whether it’s the homeless, criminals, refugees, corrupt political leaders, or even political leaders with whom we disagree, we ascribe so much other-ness, that they become the fierce demoniacs we try to avoid.

And the sad part is we are the ones who demonized them to begin with. We avoid immigrants. We walk on the other side of the street from the homeless. We avoid the mentally ill. We blame the political leaders. These are all conditions we created, or at least we could change.

In this story, Jesus removes those characteristics that resulted in the men’s ostracization. No longer is there anything that separates them from the rest of the townspeople. They are ready to be reintegrated into the society. Maybe not exactly as before, and maybe with different resources or supports.

The people will have none of it. They would rather have Jesus leave, than to be asked to dismantle their sense of the other, the lesser.

This morning, I’m thinking about how we do that, how we demonize people to separate them from us, and how we’d rather ask Jesus to leave than for Jesus to ask us to love. Today, I want to see those people we’ve demonized, and listen to Jesus’ command to help, heal, and love. For as uncomfortable as that might be, I’d rather be asked to love than to ask Jesus to leave.

Oct 6 2019 Acts 12: 1-17

About that time King Herod laid violent hands upon some who belonged to the church.

This section of Paul’s story of the early Christ followers chronicles the martyrdom of James, the arrest of Peter for execution, an angel’s dramatic freeing of Peter, Peter’s return to the disciples, and their disbelief. A lot happens in these 17 verses.

And despite all of that, I’m struck by the opening clause: about that time. It’s such an imprecise telling of the story. And while it refers to the preceding actions in Paul’s narrative, it’s only relatively related. About that time.

It seems that we are far too concerned with time, and increasingly so. It wasn’t that long ago when time was basically chronicled by 15 minute intervals. Quarter till. Half past. In this era of digital clocks, it’s interesting how that’s gone by the wayside. I’ve been corrected to the minute when I referred to the quarter. It’s quarter till 3. No, It’s 2:47. I stand corrected.

About 10 years ago (imprecise on purpose), my family was in Kenya. We marveled at the incredibly looseness of time. Dinner was not precisely at any time. Nor our tour. The owner of the camp where we stayed was a Dutchman. He reported that on his wedding day, his African wife was late to the wedding. Her explanation was that her family had asked her for breakfast. They’d travelled far to come, so of course she joined them. He was surprised by her lack of awareness of time. She was surprised by his obsession with it. He was surprised that she didn’t value the punctuality for the other gathered wedding guests. She was surprised he didn’t understand that the measuring of time came second to whatever that time held, in her case being with her family.

Another African I met explained that while westerners may have the watches, African people have time.

I understand that things begin at a certain time. That we need to be on time. That being late in our culture is a sign of disrespect. But I also greatly long for a space where my days are not measured in digital minutes. Or my years, by online calendars. 

This morning I’m thinking about how we tend to try to master our world, by measuring it. Whether it’s time or space, it’s as if we think that knowing precisely where we are or what time it is will better situate us in this world. And while it does, precisely, I think we lose a sense of God’s time and place, when we rely on our overly precise tools. The more precise I can place myself in time and space, the less likely it is anyone will occupy that space and time. In Paul’s narrative, there’s space. About that time. Not precisely. Not a precise minute, hour, day month or even year.

No one else can be exactly where I am, when I am. That makes our fanaticism with mastery of time and space something that isolates us from everyone else. It is also a little presumptuous, to assume that God’s created world is that measurable and precise. What about leap years? Or times when the atomic clock is adjusted?

Today, I want to revel in the space that’s created without digital clocks and GPS. I want to be in a space and time that contains other people. Thinking of my African friend’s saying, I want to enjoy God’s time, rather than my watch.