The children

Children, children, children. Children running away from violence and poverty in Central America, children sent back to violence and poverty in Central America, children killed on a beach in Gaza, children hungry and unsafe on the streets of these United States, children deathly ill with cholera in South Sudan. Cry out, o stones.

I first posted this lament on Facebook about 12 hours ago, Wednesday July 16, 2014.

Photo: Reuters, Gaza, July 16, 2014

In the sanctuary and on the streets, alleluias and shared bread

Text posted first on Facebook last night.

 

Brewer Fountain, Boston Common

Two profoundly beautiful worship experiences today.

The first in the morning at Emmanuel Church in the City of Boston with Mendelssohn anthem; let's-tackle-this-one sermon with focused biblical analysis by the Rev. Pam Werntz; three baptisms; thanksgiving for 10 years of marriage equality; bread and wine blessed and shared; the final Bach cantata of Emmanuel Music's 2013-14 cantata season, glorious in praise and beauty. Candles and the play of light. Alleluias in hearts and voices.

The second, also with alleluias, a bit later in a very different setting: on Boston Common with Common Cathedral (often spelled common cathedral w/ no caps) in a congregation of mostly homeless men and women with some housed people as well, a dynamic young woman leading worship, and a youth group serving sandwich lunch before the service. A message of God's unconditional love for all and of God's very presence in our midst, a highly participatory service, with a structure but a lot of spontaneity (same structure as the other Sunday Eucharist but much simpler, pared down), and heartfelt Prayers of the People. Ragged at the edges in all the right ways, reverent, raw, with much assurance of forgiveness and comfort. Bread and grape juice blessed and shared. Sunlight, clouds, wind, the play of light.

Communion and contemplation in both places. And welcome. And song. And healing.

Not either/or. Both/and. The Church is a wide, deep, and diverse reality. Alleluia.

Emmanuel Church before the liturgy, 5th Sunday of Easter

Photos here are of parts of the worship space, the physical context. I don't take photos during worship; we do have photographers at Emmanuel who document some of our celebrations;  photographers and writers about common cathedral respect the anonymity and privacy of participants.

Body. Christ. Bodies.

"You cannot claim to worship Jesus in the Tabernacle, if you do not pity Jesus in the slums... It is folly --it is madness-- to suppose that you can worship Jesus in the Sacraments and Jesus on the throne of glory, when you are sweating him in the souls and bodies of his children." 

-- Bishop Frank Weston at the 1923 Anglo-Catholic Congress

"Will you do the same this Christmas...?"

When the world was dark
and the city was quiet,
you came.
You crept in beside us. 
And no one knew.
Only the few
who dared to believe
that God might do something different.
Will you do the same this Christmas, Lord?
Will you come into the darkness of tonight's world;
not the friendly darkness
as when sleep rescues us from tiredness,
but the fearful darkness,
in which people have stopped believing
that war will end
or that food will come
or that a government will change
or that the Church cares?
Will you come into that darkness
and do something different
to save your people from death and despair?
Will you come into the quietness of this town,
not the friendly quietness
as when lovers hold hands,
but the fearful silence when
the phone has not rung,
the letter has not come,
the friendly voice no longer speaks,
the doctor's face says it all?
Will you come into that darkness
and do something different,
not to distract, but to embrace your people?
And will you come into the dark corners 
and the quiet places of our lives? 
We ask this not because we are guilt-ridden
or want to be,
but because the fullness our lives long for
depends upon us being as open and vulnerable to you
as you were to us,
when you came,
wearing no more than diapers,
and trusting human hands
to hold their maker.
Will you come into our lives,
if we open them to you
and do something different?
When the world was dark
and the city was quiet
you came.
You crept in beside us.
Do the same this Christmas, Lord.
Do the same this Christmas.

from Cloth for the Cradle, Iona Community

read at the Carol Sing at Emmanuel Church, Boston

Image (unattributed) from the blog What the Helfer

Vigil of 1 Advent: God's patience and God's impatience

Do you have an Advent wreath? Do you light Advent candles? Did you light the first candle tonight? Will you wait for tomorrow?

This is your virtual lighting of the first candle. Take a moment (or two) to gaze at the flame here, the wooden match lighting the purple candle. Simply gaze. There is no need for words. Some may come to you later. Or not.

Advent and Christmas are in some ways the ultimate celebration of space, the celebration of God entering human space in the most intimate way possible: by becoming human. The celebration of word become flesh, the discovery that God-the-other is also God-with-us (Emmanuel in Hebrew) -- that is the good news of Advent.

We celebrate in Advent God's invitation for us to view our space --our society, our environment, our neighbor, our own flesh-- as sacred, pregnant with justice and hope, filled with hidden treasure.

But Advent is also a celebration of time and a celebration in time.

The way in which we live time in Advent is profoundly counter-cultural. At a time when many of us are caught in the frenzy of work and in dashing about to buy presents, we Christians are invited to step into a season of muted colors, whose mood is slow, gentle, and deep --though also, as we will see in some of the season's biblical readings, disturbing at times. In Advent, light increases gradually, week by week, instead of appearing in one great post-Thanksgiving burst of electricity. (For those of you not in the U.S., there is no Thanksgiving holiday in late November, but the great burst of electricity is there.)

There is a reason for this slowing down. If we are to hear the good news that our space and God's space have become one, we have to slow down enough to hear. Sometimes this good news is spoken to us by God very softly, in ordinary ways and places, in the daily events of our lives. Sometimes this good news is simply that there is immense treasure already present in our lives and hearts: all that we need to claim the treasure is to slow down, stop, and notice it. 

If the good news is going to take root in us --once we have begun to listen or to notice-- we need to enter God's time, God's timetable. Advent is not a flashy season. It takes time for good news to sink in, for love to grow, for wisdom to ripen, for lives to be transformed, for truth to dawn in us -- much more time than our frenzy will often allow.

So in Advent, season of waiting for Christ, we take in the good news slowly, steadily, lighting candles one at at time, adding a new insight, a layer of understanding, a little layer of light every week, as around us in the Northern Hemisphere* the days grow darker.  (*If people from the Southern Hemisphere read this post, it will be interesting to hear about Advent and Advent lights from people for whom it is the middle of summer right now.)

Advent challenges our impatience and invites us to enter God's patience.

Yet Advent is also a time to enter God's impatience, a time when prophets (more on them in the coming weeks) challenge our apathy and paralysis and urge us forward, a time in which the stories and songs in the scriptures speak of a God who longs to transform our hearts, our society, and creation itself -- soon, now, urgently.

One of the challenges of this season is to figure out the connections between our time and God's time, to readjust and balance our sense of time, to discover  or rediscover --to discern-- when it is appropriate to enter into God's patience and when it is time to enter into God's impatience.

In this first night, before anything else, take time. Rest in the patience of God. All else will unfold, in God's time.

______________

This is the first post of a retreat I led last year during Advent. It appeared on the retreat's closed  blog (i.e. a blog accessible only to retreatants, not a public blog like this one) at the beginning of the retreat. I will be offering the retreat again this year, with a few changes. Information will be available here by the end of the day tomorrow, December 1.

March 25: Feast of the Annunciation

"Annunciation," lithograph by Salvador Dali.

For more art (and links to yet more art) on the theme of the Annunciation from different eras and from around the world, see here.

An Open Letter to Anne Rice

My open letter to Anne Rice, an essay on the church, its flaws, and why you can't be a Jesus-person alone in a corner, is up at the Episcopal Café.

Feel free to circulate prn.

Cross-posted on Facebook.

Epiphany: another image

Best to let this one speak for itself.

"Epiphany," by Janet McKenzie (c) 2003.

For more on this work and on the artist, see here and here (on that site, there's more on "Epiphany" here).

Epiphany: we're in reruns again

Forgive us. We've been having what some would vaguely but appropriately refer to as "writing issues" here at Acts of Hope, or maybe that's "no-writing issues." Either way, we are being ecological again this year, as we were last Epiphany, and we are recycling. That's a more positive way of putting it than saying we are laggards. Well, +Maya Pavlova is no laggard. I am.

So, once again, here is an old sermon. Epiphany only comes once a year, so perhaps most of you had forgotten it by now. Blessed feast. Don't let Herod haunt you.

"The Magi," by He Qi

With those for whom there is no room

Into this world, this demented inn, in which there is absolutely no room for Him at all, Christ has come uninvited. But because He cannot be at home in it, because He is out of place in it, and yet must be in it, His place is with those others for whom there is no room. His place is with those who do not belong, who are rejected by power because they are regarded as weak, those who are discredited, who are denied the status of persons, tortured, exterminated. With those for whom there is no room, Christ is present in this world. He is mysteriously present in those for whom there seems to be nothing but the world at its worst.
Thomas Merton
"The Time of the End Is the Time of No Room"
from Raids on the Unspeakable

The paragraph continues: For them, there is no escape even in imagination. They cannot identify with the power structure of a crowded humanity which seeks to project itself outward, anywhere, in a centrifugal flight into the void, to get out there where there is no God, no man, no name, no identity, no weight, no self, nothing but the bright, self-directed, perfectly obedient and infinitely expensive machine. This is part of a much longer Christmas essay of Merton's on eschatology, fear, and joy.

Thanks to Charlie Hawes, who began a Christmas sermon with this passage a few years ago and fixed it in my mind.

Photographs by Mev Puleo (1963-1996). These and other photographs by Mev visible here are available for purchase. Please contact Mark Chmiel at MarkJChmiel@gmail.com for further information.
 

Love's Trinity

It's always like this: I pop in to say I'm not blogging and then I blog.

I ordered John-Julian, OJN's translation of Julian of Norwich, with commentary by an Associate of the Order of Julian of Norwich named Frederick Roden, and today the book, Love's Trinity, arrived from Liturgical Press. Info and lavish praise here.

For those of you who don't know, OJN is the Order of Julian of Norwich. Yes, we have our very own contemplative order inspired by Julian in the Episcopal Church. Fr. John-Julian founded it in 1985 in Greenwich, Connecticut. Its monastery is now in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Both monks and nuns live there.

On a related note, this week I rejoice in the ordination to the transitional diaconate of my friend Deborah Brown in the Episcopal Diocese of Rochester, New York. She is a former Diocese of North Carolina resident (canonically and otherwise) now living with her beloved up there in the snow belt, where said beloved got a professor job a year ago. Deborah is an Oblate of the Order of Julian of Norwich and as such is committed to a regular practice of silent contemplative prayer as well as daily Morning and Evening Prayer.

I have no time to "read for fun" right now, but I will make time to savor a little bit of Julian every day now that the book has arrived. I am looking forward to this spiritual nourishment and happy that John-Julian, OJN has helped to provide it, and that Dame Julian's words have survived into our day.

At this same time that I saw this sight of the head bleeding, our good Lord
**showed to me a spiritual vision of his simple loving.

I saw that He is to us everything that is good and comfortable for us.

***He is our clothing which for love enwraps us,
*********holds us,
****and all encloses us because of His tender love,
************so that He may never leave us.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* *** * * * * * * * * * * He showed a little thing,
****the size of an hazel nut
***in the palm of my hand,
***and it was as round as a ball.

I looked at it with the eye of my understanding and thought:
***"What can this be?"

And it was generally answered thus: "It is all that is made."

I marveled how it could continue,
***because it seemed to me it could suddenly have sunk into nothingness
*******because of its littleness.
And I was answered in my understanding:
****"It continueth and always shall, because God loveth it;
****and in this way everything hath its being by the love of God."
In this little thing I saw three characteristics:
***the first is that God made it,
***the second is that God loves it,
***the third, that God keeps it.
****************************************from Chapter 5

The Disabled God - and some appropriately disjointed thoughts on resurrection

"In presenting his impaired body to his startled friends, the resurrected Jesus is revealed as the disabled God,” she wrote. God remains a God the disabled can identify with, she argued — he is not cured and made whole; his injury is part of him, neither a divine punishment nor an opportunity for healing.

I think I neglected to post this obituary for theologian Nancy Eieslund last month. I have finally ordered her book The Disabled God, which may be pertinent to next Sunday's sermon. (No preaching this Easter weekend, but I'm on for Low Sunday.) As may this, of course.

And then there's the rich reading in the book of Acts, the one about what we contemporary Christians mostly don't do. Except in some very poor communities, like the one I just read about in this book. Hmmm.

Kevin preached a kick-a** sermon at St. Mary's House this a.m. about the importance of how Jesus died (crucifixion) in relation to how we are to live post-Resurrection (in a way that subverts the powers that be - intentionally). There was more, but that is the part related to what I've been starting to think about for next Sunday. Of course, things could change between now and then.

This morning's sermon (one of them - I was also at the early Vigil at All Saints') also reminded me of Krister Stendahl's excellent essay "Immortality Is Too Much and Too Little." (Originally this essay was his 1972 Nobel Conference lecture at Gustavus Adolphus College. It is available in Stendahl's book of essays Meanings: the Bible as Document and as Guide.) Stendahl's point is that we confuse resurrection with immortality of the soul. We don't proclaim the latter. We proclaim the resurrection of the body - and the victory of God's justice. Not, as Stendahl in his inimitable way put it, "what this has to do with little me."

Alleluia. Go forth.

He Qi: After Resurrection

Annunciation!

With an exclamation mark, because the angel came to Mary with big news.

Acts of Hope invites you to a little trip down memory lane:

From two years ago, here.

From last year, here.

Now, where did I put my Annunciation Day sermon from five years ago? From the pulpit of a high Anglo-Catholic church, no less. I think it is on my wheezing old hard drive which I must take to the tech-y man. You'll just have to do with the Magnificat. Much better anyway. This is the version from the Carmelites of Indianapolis's People's Companion to the Breviary.

My soul proclaims your greatness, O my God,

and my spirit has rejoiced in you, my Savior,

For your regard has blessed me,

poor, and a serving woman.

From this day all generations

will call me blessed,

For you who are mighty have made me great.

Most Holy be your Name.

Your mercy is on those who fear you

throughout all generations.

You have shown strength with you arm,

you have scattered the proud in their hearts' fantasy.

You have put down the mighty from their seat,

and have lifted up the powerless.

You have filled the hungry with good things,

and have sent the rich away empty.

You, remembering your mercy,

have helped your people Israel,

As you promised Abraham and Sarah.

Mercy to their children, forever.

************** Luke 1:46-55

Oscar Romero, ¡Presente!

A busy day, but I cannot let it pass without remembering that today, March 24, is the 29th anniversary of the assassination of Monseñor Romero.

Here's the blog post from two years ago on this day, with an illustration and links.

"Incarnation and Suffering" essay at Episcopal Café

My latest essay for the Episcopal Café is up today. It is called "Incarnation and Suffering".

The Café welcomes your comments. So do I -- both at the Café site, below the essay, and here. (If you only have time for one place, do comment at the Café.)

I hope that the essay speaks to you.


P.S. That's today's Café, and in yesterday's, you can read fine quotes on The Current Unpleasantness by MadPriest and Tobias Haller as well as a piece of the moving conversation about homeless and poor persons and our response by Wormwood's Doxy and Under There. Thank you, friends, and congratulations.

Merry Christmas to blog friends and strangers, and a little note of welcome and consolation

Dear blogging friends,

A joyous Christmas to you! I'm grateful for your presence in my life, for your visits with and without comments, and for your blogging, wherever you are on Earth. Thank you for your friendship, for inspiring me, for keeping me informed, for making me laugh. Whether or not you celebrate Christmas, I hope this day has been a happy and peaceful one for you.

If you are a new visitor to this blog and just stopping by, remember that you are a precious human being, no matter who you are. Nobody can take away your fundamental dignity and worth, even on those days when it feels as if this has happened.

If the holidays are difficult for you, remember that you are not alone. Seek out others, formally or informally, whether they have two legs or four.

If you cannot pray or meditate and are in despair or emptiness, know that this has happened to the best and most holy of people, and that absence can turn to presence. Find the words of others (the ones below are only examples; there are others) and let them accompany you. Or stand near a tree and touch it, breathing, remembering that you are a creature of earth and that somewhere, another part of creation has remembered you.

We Did Not Want It Easy, God

We did not want it easy, God,
But we did not contemplate
That it would be quite this hard,
This long, this lonely.
So, if we are to be turned inside out,
and upside down,
With even our pockets shaken
Just to check what's rattling
And left behind,
We pray that you will keep faith with us,
And we with you,
Holding our hands as we weep,
Giving us strength to continue,
And showing us beacons
Along the way
To becoming new.

*****-Anna McKenzie

Peace Is Every Step

Peace is every step.
The shining red sun is my heart.
Each flower smiles with me.
How green, how fresh all that grows.
How cool the wind blows.
Peace is every step.
It turns the endless path to joy.

*****- -Thich Nhat Hanh

Jesus,
receive our love and worship.
Show us how to give you what we have,
for nothing is too big or too small
for us to offer, or for you to use.

*****- A New Zealand Prayer Book

All of these are quoted in When in Doubt, Sing: Prayer in Daily Life.


Mary, Joseph, and the infant Jesus, ca. 1970s, "Black Nativity," National Center of Afro-American Artists, Boston.

From El Salvador, Christmas justice and joy

Caminante has posted this Christmas message from Reverendisimo Martín Barahona of El Salvador and the Anglican Region of Central America.

Once again, our sisters and brothers of the Global Center have spoken with love, faith, clarity, and courage.

Glory to Godde, and on this fragile earth, peace.

Back on the farm; reflections on home and health

I have returned to home base, after a visit home (intentional repetition of "home") with my parents who raised us in a home in another country and my brother and his beloved whose home is in two more countries. Home, home, home, home, home.

There's a meditation in that one, but for now, I am in catch-up mode at the office and in continuing mode with the stack of term papers. Church projects await as well - and the gym, to which I have sworn to return this week after an absence of weeks and weeks; most of the semester, truth be told. Not good. I am joining my buddy Paul in hauling my middle-aged arse back to the land of workouts. I've been walking and doing a bit of yoga all semester, but not enough of either. Ever since the tree fell the second week of an already packed semester, my life has been one long sleep-deprived term with less exercise than I have ever had in my adult life. Having to make choices between work and sleep, or sleep and exercise, or exercise and work, is not a healthy way of living. In Advent and as the academic semester ends, I am trying to restore the balance.

Prayer, body, Incarnation: a short passage from When in Doubt, Sing

*****Taking seriously the Incarnation –God’s presence with us in the flesh– and worshiping with awareness and participation of the body are related. We are embodied beings. God is embodied. We are images of God. The word does not exist apart from the flesh. There is also another way of looking at incarnation and Jesus’ bodiliness: not just as God’s presence with us in the form of a human person, but in the dailiness and detail of it, the way in which Jesus, in his earthly life, dealt with bodies, day in and day out: hungry bodies, sick bodies, bodies of women and bodies of men, bodies of living children and of children who appeared to be dead. The Hebrew Bible is as a rule much more sensual and embodied than the Christian Testament, but the Gospels at least have their own sense of nature and of the body whole and healed, and with this we can pray. Read the Gospels with a focus on the life of Jesus. You will find bodiliness nearly everywhere. Jesus touches eyes, ears, mouths, restoring speech and sights. He heals lame and paralyzed people. He feels the need and the urgent pull of the unnamed woman with the flow of blood who touches his cloak. He eats with reprobates and high officials, drinks wine, multiplies loaves of bread and handfuls of fish. He weeps real tears when Lazarus dies, rests weary feet in the home of Martha and Mary, and receives anointing with fragrant oil from the woman whose name we do not know but whose gesture is recorded in all four Gospels.

*****Jesus walks in wheatfields and climbs hills, goes out on the water in a boat, tells parables of seeds and trees, rock and sand. In his stories, a young man guards pigs, another seeks out a sheep, a woman kneads dough, and another sweeps her house, looking for a lost coin. A hen is an image of God, covering her chicks with homely wings. A shepherd chasing errant sheep is another figure of the divine. Even after the Resurrection, Jesus is still dealing with bodies: breaking bread on the road to Emmaus, grilling fish on the beach for his friends, showing wounds to a doubting disciple.

*****Praying with the body is related to knowing with the body. Body knowledge is real knowledge, not lesser knowledge. To know God is to know with one’s bodily self. Many of us have learned our religion through the body. Orthodox and Catholic Christians especially have spoken to me of this learning, rooted in childhood. “We Catholics,” David Toolan writes, “were a pre-Gutenberg phenomenon with a bias for the charity of God made palpable to the five senses and the sympathetic nervous system.” ...

From chapter 4 ("Praying with the Body") of Jane Redmont, When in Doubt Sing: Prayer in Daily Life (Notre Dame, Indiana: Sorin Books, 2008), 38-39. (c) Jane Redmont 1999, 2008