Living in Dystopia

These are strange days…

I feel like we live in the beginnings of a dystopian novel. It all started with news about a mysterious virus across the world. People didn’t take much notice of it, at first; we just went on with our lives and prayed for those infected…over there, wherever there was. Then, cases cropped up in Europe and other parts of Asia. People began wearing masks in public; toilet paper became a commodity; rumors started circulating. Now, businesses are closed, people are locked behind closed doors, and everyone is hunkering down for the foreseeable future.

But unlike a dystopian novel, this is reality. However, like that same novel, there are heroes who will help right our situation. They don’t come in the form of angsty teens, set out to flip a current status quo. Instead, the heroes of today are reading this article. One of them is the grocery store attendant; the mother of three who is desperately trying to keep it together while dealing with throngs of scared and ravenous consumers. On her team she has the shelf re-stocker—a young man picking opportune moments to take needed supplies and make them available for purchase; the cleaning crew that comes in and kills germs with their weapons of sanitary salvation; the managers who ensure that goods will continue to be available. This is just one battleground.

In another part of our story, we have healthcare professionals of all kinds: Janitors, Nurses, Administrators, Doctors, Volunteers. All of these form a super-team of brave individuals who are putting themselves in danger to care for those afflicted. Twenty hour shifts are commonplace for most of these folks; their days containing little sleep, they continue to serve while they fight to find a way to heal. For them, rest is fleeting and danger is immanent.

Yet again, elsewhere in our tale, we discover small bands of vigilantes roaming the streets and taking food to the hungry, caring for those who can’t do so for themselves, and making trips to the pharmacy for medicine for pre-existing conditions that have little to do with this virus. The stories go on and on. A myriad of heroes are showing up in all facets of life, doing their part to counteract the effects of this antagonistic pandemic.

And, lest we forget, we haven’t mentioned the main protagonist of this story. The one we all must look to for hope. For grace. For comfort. For healing.

Our faith places us alongside the people mentioned above. Just like they’re doing their part to combat this virus, we also have ours to play. Our faith in Christ must shine brighter than ever, our prayers must be shouted louder and more frequently. Our misgivings must be placed at the altar of the One who has already defeated death and overcome adversity. We must pray for the heroes out there: the people who stock shelves, the doctors, the nurses, the food-delivery folks, the janitors, the trash collectors, the volunteers. And, if possible, we will continue to be some of those folks, too. Because this isn’t the end of our story. Our tale started well over two thousand years ago and will continue to be told for generations. This is simply a point in the book of life that will challenge us to be better than we were, to reach for faith and hold on tight when the days become difficult.

All of us has a role to play in this story. Whether it’s on the front line or in a darkened room, we can all impact what’s happening around us. Be kind to one another, remember that we’re in this together. Set aside petty grievances and look beyond them. Pray without ceasing, love without condition, serve without fear. Check on those who are more vulnerable to this moment and see if they need your help. If you’re among the vulnerable, reach out and someone will take your hand. There’s nothing we can’t do if we band together and act as intended, operating like the Body of Christ in a broken world.

Continue to take meals to folks. Continue to pray. Continue to bring hopeful words to the hurting. This is not our final chapter. Our story lives on through you.

Be heroes.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Be still...

Over the past few days I’ve seen a recurring trend: Do nothing for Lent. These words have been disseminated via a video, an article, and a conversation with three different people. I saw the article first, found here, entitled, “A Not-So-Radical Proposal for Lent: Do Nothing”. Immediately my eyes rolled back and I thought, ‘Oh boy, here we go…another excuse to not give anything up.’ But I read it, anyway. As I read, my presupposition was destroyed; the writer wasn’t encouraging a spiritual laziness—he was suggesting a spiritual openness. I finished the article and two words kept brushing against my mind…be still. I sat with that for a moment and then moved on.

A bit later in the day, I came across a video (found here) from one of my colleagues in the Diocese of Oklahoma, The Rev. Dr. John Toles. In it, Fr. John talks about giving up versus simply giving; he says the act of giving up is more about our personal willpower whereas the act of giving is a testament to one’s relationship with God. When talking about giving up versus giving, he says, “…But what does that have to do with your relationship with God? How does it enhance that relationship, deepen that relationship? Not only with God, but with the people around you, with the community?” He goes on to speak about giving ten, fifteen, or thirty minutes a day to God…without necessarily doing anything. Again, those hushed words touched my consciousness…be still. As my calendar dictates my life, I realized I was about to be late for a meeting, so I stood up, gathered my things and headed out of my office door.

As soon as I turned the corner out of my office and into the hall, someone stopped me. They needed a moment to talk, and I had just a few minutes, but we went back into the office and sat down. While the conversation was and is private, one thing I’ll say is that those two words didn’t whisper in the back of my mind, again; this time, I said them out loud in response to this individual’s questions. Be still.

An article, a video, and a living conversation took place within the span of two hours, all with the same message: Be Still. Today begins in what can arguably be noted as the busiest liturgical season of the year. Starting today, clergy everywhere will begin the work of Lent; lay people will also begin this work. I have to wonder what meaning we will take from this season if we enter it with a task-oriented mindset. Is the important question of Lent, “What will I give up?” Is it, “Will people show up for service?” Or even, “How will I manage to do all the things I’m supposed to do in order to observe a holy Lent?” I think these are appropriate questions, but I don’t think they’re the first questions we should be asking. Instead, I wonder if we should start by asking, “God, how can I get closer to you? How can I make myself available and be still long enough to hear your voice and heed your call in my life?”

“Can you help me to Be still?”

Entering Lent, my prayer for all of us is that we will make time to take time with God. The season can be overwhelming for Christians attempting to strengthen our relationships with God and each other. We want to do all the ‘things’ that come along with Lent, but in reality, I think the most important item on that to-do list is the one we miss most often: We must make time to be still with God. Whether that means taking a ten minute walk instead of scrolling through social media, sitting in silent reflection or prayer instead of watching a thirty minute program, or taking a moment to say something loving to a neighbor and greeting them in the name of God, we can make long-lasting impacts in short amounts of time through ‘being still’ and taking a break from our to-do’s.

This Lent, learn to be still. If you already know how, then practice it. If we do this, the thing we give up to God will be the most meaningful gift we have…

…ourselves.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

February 6th, 2020

On Tuesday, it was business as usual. I made some calls, wrote some ‘stuff’, checked facebook…you know, all the things a priest should be doing. The world was normal—or at least the normal to which we’ve all become accustomed—and nothing was out of the ordinary. I checked the weather and saw that it was going to snow so I canceled service on Wednesday. In my head I thought, “yeah, yeah…we’ve heard this before. You say it’ll snow and then tomorrow arrives looking the same as it did, today.”

Well…here’s to you weatherpeople. You got it right.

I awakened on Wednesday to a world that I haven’t seen in quite some time. A blanket of snow had been stitched on the roads, yards, and houses around me. Our back porch had a drift that was up to my knees; I know this because…yep, you guessed it…I walked into it. I turned around and opened the door, calling to Kevin. I wanted him to experience his first snow; I thought he’d be excited. I thought, “Man, he’s not going to think twice; he’ll jump in and go at it, immediately.”

I was wrong.

Kevin, fully adorned in his red snow-suit, took a few steps out onto the porch, looked at the snow, looked back at me, and then sat down staring in utter disbelief. He looked at me, again, with a question in his eyes. He seemed to ask, “Erm…dad…what is this? Where is the backyard? I am confused and I refuse to go any further without explanation.” Now, I have always considered myself a fairly patient individual. Typically, I would’ve coaxed him into the yard, bit by bit, encouraging him to go and experience the ‘newness’ out there. Not Wednesday. Not a bit. I bent down and gave him a little shove out into the snow; no warning, no coaxing, just BAM! Experience this new cold, wet, strange stuff that you’ve never seen before without any warning! Looking back, I feel a little bad (very little) because of the shock that he must’ve experienced, but hey…it was pretty cute and he is a resilient and curious animal. He skidded into the snow, and from then on out, it was on. That little fifteen pound animal plowed his way through the four or five inches of snow like he was a bulldozer hired to clear a lot. Watching him sent tears of laughter streaking down my face. It was so funny that I had a hard time breathing. He tore from one side of the yard to the other, making little Kevin canals throughout the area. For the rest of the day while he was inside, the only thing he wanted to do was go back out there and play in the snow.

Wouldn’t it be nice to take change that readily? Kevin didn’t know that the same ground existed under the new white blanket of snow; for all he knew, I had maliciously taken away his known territory and replaced it with something foreign. But, when pushed, he just accepted it and moved along. People are decidedly—for better or worse—not dogs. We do not accept change without explanation; we do not appreciate new things thrust upon us without proper preparation. And, in the event we are prepared, change is still difficult.

A change is about to happen to this church family. We started out small and we’ve lost a few members along the way to various reasons, but we are about to lose someone who has meant so much to the life and growth of this place that it is impossible to type into sentiment. This Sunday, Jeanne Oden says goodbye to Episcopal Church of the Resurrection. While she will come back and visit, she’ll no longer be in the pews every Sunday. Her infectious smile won’t be readily returned by virtue of its absence. The lack of presence of her friendship, counsel and leadership within these walls will be much like the new snow was to Kevin, at first: Terra Incognito. Jeanne has given herself to this place in so many ways that it is impossible to list them all. She’s been the Altar Guild directress, a vestry person, a communications guru, a Daughter of the King, and so many other titles. But she’s also—and more importantly—been a friend and a beloved member of this community.

As we get shoved into the snow on Sunday, for those of you who know her, remember that the same ground she helped us grow on is still there. We may be hesitant to rush out onto it, but it’s what we have to do. Every time someone departs this place, we feel that loss. But we have also been blessed with new people whom God sends to not replace but to refill our ranks so that we can continue on in the work we have been given to do. To Jeanne, I say this: You are beloved, you will be sorely missed, and you always have a home here. Godspeed on your move and enjoy your new snow; it’ll be strange at first, but knowing you, you’ll jump right in. To the rest of us, I say this: We are going to experience ‘new snow’ at quite a few points in our lives together. How we approach it is what matters. We will continue to find new ways in which to connect, love and care for the community around us. We will continue to make lasting relationships with one another and those who we have yet to meet. We will do so in the name of God; we also do so because that’s who we are, and we come from a long line of love: Sandy, Henry, John, Jim, George, Marcy, Monty, Debbie, Tom and Tawana, Bee, and now Jeanne, alongside so many others. Our lives are enriched because we shared them with the folks above and with each other. So, here’s to fond memories and new snow; let’s continue to make Resurrection canals.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

January 30, 2020

I wrote something yesterday morning concerning forgiveness and the way in which we arrive at our decision to either forgive or delete. As with any writing, I read it back to myself and thought it was clear, concise and evinced the type of theology I hold.

Then I heard another voice.

With so much going on in the world, we seek comfort in many sources, chief among them for most is entertainment. We watch movies, sports, attend concerts, etc… Inevitably, we end up finding ourselves fans of someone. First for their craft; we watch them do the things that we never could, or never had the opportunity to do. After a few years, we become super-fans. If something happens in their lives, it’s easy to over-look, to allow ourselves to have a sense of temporary blindness to terrible acts of human nature. Ray Lewis killed a man. He’s in the Hall of Fame. That’s just one story, but there are many, many more.

I’ve been a Kobe Bryant fan my entire adult life. I literally watched him every season, in most of the games (I won’t say all, but pretty close); I watched him, rooted for him, celebrated when ‘we’ won and mourned when ‘we’ lost. I’m a Lakers fan, through and through. I always will be. But I was also a Kobe fan.

And as much as it pains me to admit, I was a blind Kobe fan.

When someone dies, the last thing we should do is defame their character; especially when the death of one of their children is alongside. As humans, it’s alright to grieve and feel a sense of loss—it’s expected. As Christians, and especially as a Christian leader, it’s not okay to absolve the acts of someone who committed violence against another human, and then proclaim them a hero in the aftermath of their death, no matter how sad. The truth is, someone held a mirror up to me yesterday and spoke some truth that I needed to hear. There’s another person in this story of a soon to be Hall of Famer—a young woman who was sexually abused. The pathology reports speak for themselves, so the question of guilt isn’t one of legality, it’s one of humanity. There’s a young woman out there who was assaulted and then publicly shamed for being ‘promiscuous’. But here’s the thing, as another writer put it: Just because someone chooses a lascivious lifestyle doesn’t mean they deserve to be dismissed as a victim. It also doesn’t automatically ensure that every sexual encounter is consensual.

I have a duty as a Christian leader to speak against violence of any kind. I have a duty to myself as a human to do the same. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who uses his voice to perpetuate a system of blindness; who reinforces the thought that just because someone is mesmerizing in their field, we should make exceptions when their lesser humanity shows it’s head. These words aren’t easy to type, and believe me when I tell you how upset I am about Kobe’s death and the death of his daughter, Gigi. He was still young and he had his hand in quite a few wonderful things that benefitted the communities around him. But he committed an atrocity, whether or not the legal system agrees. He did something that we cannot allow to be swept under the rug: he was a human who played a game well, treated most other people well, was a fantastic father and an intelligent man—yes, he was all of that—but he was also harmful to someone who’s life will never be the same. Someone who now has to hear how wonderful he was while remembering how horrific her encounter was with him. No amount of money from the settlement will restore her dignity. No amount of time will take away the painful memories of that night. And as a Christian man, Priest, and human, I have to walk back some of my utter devotion to him, as painful as it is. God asks better of me. God asks me to be honest with myself and the people around me. So here I am, a day later, trying to do that. I don’t think Kobe should be deleted from the annuls of history; he’s done good things for people, and he played the game better than most…better than all but one. But he also hurt someone. Deeply. And now, other people who have experienced something similar also have to watch as someone who represents the perpetrator in their own experiences is lauded as a hero. It isn’t right. We have to get to a place where we, as a society, can help rehabilitate people and hold them and ourselves to a higher standard—or in the least, a standard of doing no intentional harm. We have to speak out against violence against anyone,  women and men, and say, “Not a hero. He turned into a good man, but he did something in his past that must be remembered simply because of the lasting effect it had on the person he did it to.” It’s bothered me to the point of not sleeping last night, because I knew that I’d not articulated my theology of forgiveness well enough to try and encapsulate the player I loved alongside the man that disappointed me and hurt someone else.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. But I write this in support of those whose voices have been silenced, for those who have experienced pain and shouldn’t have to have a clergy person, or any leader, laud someone who has done something like this. We are all human, we will all do something in our lives that will darken our souls—no matter the level of ‘bad’. My belief is that grace found Kobe in the latter half of his life, and that he and his daughter are together. But I don’t want to make it seem like I’m ‘ok’ with what he did because of who he turned into. Someone has to stand up and say the hard things. That’s my job. This is the truth that I have been given to share; I’ve been convicted for my words yesterday, so today I write and shine a light on the truth of a man who lived a life cut short by tragedy, but also a life with a moment of darkness that stained his legacy, and more importantly, harmed another human being. I hope you see the point I’m attempting to make, but let me be as clear as possible: Sexual, Emotional, Physical, or Spiritual violence against anyone is not acceptable. Certainly, with God’s grace, nothing is irredeemable, but it doesn’t mean we forget that it happened. I appreciate you reading this, and again, please understand how difficult it is to write. We live in a world where violence is a reality. There’s a difference between acknowledging that we’re fallible people and making someone a hero regardless of what they’ve done.

My condolences to the Bryant family. A parent should never lose a child. A spouse has a hard road ahead when they lose their partner. I will continue to pray for his family, for his daughter Gigi, and for him. But I will also lift up the victim in prayer, the one who relives this right now. And every other victim of assault. It isn’t a liberal thing. It’s a human thing. And I’m trying to be a better one.

Sean+  

January 29th, 2020

Do we really believe in forgiveness? I mean really. Every single human that has ever been born (with the exception of one) has committed sin, in one way or another. What’s interesting to me is that, as a people, we have decided which sins count and which ones don’t. But the reality is this: We really just condemn people based on the sins that we dislike the most; for some, it’s murder, others it’s lying, and the list goes on. This has been brought home in extraordinary ways this past week with the death of Kobe Bryant. The amount of opinions concerning his legacy are overwhelming; some people say that he’s a hero, while others maintain that he shouldn’t be remembered as anything other than a criminal. Why does it have to be either/or? Why can’t we acknowledge that Kobe did some spectacular things in his life, and also committed some egregious sins against his neighbor? Why do we have to refuse one side in favor of the other?

Kobe is my favorite athlete of all-time. I should say that, just to get it out. Watching him on the court was like watching magic happen—the things he could do with a basketball were mesmerizing. At the same time, I felt so embarrassed, ashamed and angry with him when his dark deeds were made public. I couldn’t believe that someone I enjoyed so much could do such an atrocious thing. Nothing can make up for what he did, no matter the verdict from the court. But—and most don’t know this because they stopped watching his progress, directly after the allegation—he started making changes in his life. And I kept watching.

And that’s really all we can ask of people, isn’t it? We live in a society hell-bent on deleting people immediately after they sin. We have very little room in our hearts for forgiveness—and just to make it clear: Forgiveness is not forgetfulness, nor does it make the transgression ‘go away’. Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation, nor should there be an expectation of the victim to EVER feel beholden to returning to relationship with the offender. Ever. But deleting people is also not the answer. If God were to delete us for our largest and most egregious offenses, most of us would’ve disappeared quite a long time ago, during our teens or twenties. And yet, here we are, worshiping in God’s house, trying to do better.

I have to believe that we are the sum of our actions, but we are also the sum of our intentions afterward. We cannot simply rest in a state of sin and expect salvation, but we cannot move forward if others won’t allow it. As modern theologian Nicole Ekberg said to me, “Forgiveness seems to have turned into a convenience instead of what it’s supposed to be.” I couldn’t have said it better. Too many times we expect too much of our leadership and our neighbors. Nothing will ever make what we’ve done ‘okay’, but attempting to change will make us better than we were. Forgiveness is a part of that, too. In order to be forgiven, we also must choose to forgive. Again, that doesn’t mean that the atrocity disappears or that whatever happened is ‘ok’. It simply means that we have elected to choose grace instead of the delete button. Allowing people the opportunity to change and grow is one of the most important things we can do as human beings. I am not perfect. Neither are you. Remembering that when someone else offends is perhaps the greatest action we can commit, in order to allow us to forgive while still remaining watchful. It’s a tough road to travel, but it’s the road God calls us to traverse. Try to remember that people are fallible, and not all deserve to be a part of your life; but also remember that grace is given to everyone…it’s how they receive it that matters, and how they try to change afterward. Hopefully we all earn the forgiveness given to us, in the end.

Faithfully, 

Fr. Sean+

December 11th, 2019

What We Need is Here—Wendell Berry
 
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over fall fields, we name names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

 
Hand me a shard and I will scrape away this grief. Place my hands in the wounds of Jesus’ side and let me know true pain. Lift my eyes to see the splintered wood of the cross so that I might understand sacrifice. Open my ears to the screams emanating from dark corners of the earth, so that I might hear truth. Am I Job? Am I Jesus? Am I forsaken?
 
No. No. No.
 
In the midst of sadness, joy comes in the mourning. That’s what I wrote last week. The line is from Psalm 30—but I have changed the word ‘morning’ into ‘mourning’. It resonates with me that through grief we are able to claim joy, just like through death Christ was able to claim life. It isn’t on the highest peaks of faith that we ‘find’ ourselves, but rather the valleys, below. Many of our friends and family are suffering silently, agonizing over illness, grief, despair, or loneliness—or all of the above. Yet we have something that quite a few do not. We have faith. In times such as these, faith is the last remaining vestige of sanity lost—the quiet current of insoluble grace flowing through our veins which ties us to Jesus Christ. In his blood, we find our own. In his body broken, we find our wholeness. In his act of triumphant defiance, we rise.
 
We rise.
 
We rise above grief and allow the dawn from on high to break upon us. We rise from ashes of burning lives—lives lived in a hurry to get things done, to complete the next task, to be better human-doings--to become loved human-beings. We rise and take account of that which has been provided for us. We must take refuge in the glory of God; listening rather than asking; accepting rather than forcing. Because what we need is here. There is a holy table upon which we place our hopes, our dreams, our created wares. There is a holy font with living water which can humidify our arid souls and soothe our parched begging voices. There is a table from which to feed, a pew upon which to rest, a fountain from which to drink, and a great cloud of witnesses from whom to glean strength. What we need is here.
 
In the joy of the third week, the joy of Advent, we rise. We lift our faces over the manger in hopeful anticipation of seeing new life. We rise to worship, we rise to work, we rise to realize that we rise together. We rise to meet the face of new creation, the incarnate Word of God. We rise to thank God for the realization that what we need is here.
 
We rise.
 
Fr. Sean+

December 4th, 2019

I wonder how often we view church as a place solely for joy. It seems to me—in all of my great wisdom as a 39-year-old—that people (including myself) sometimes think church attendance and engagement is only appropriate when ‘everything is fine’. Of course, there are plenty of folks attending church regularly without the previous statement being applicable; I’m aware of that and thankful for it. But some fear that their hurts and struggles will show, that the others will see them in pain, and choose not to come until they can ‘get it together’.

I don’t have anyone in mind, right now, except for a few people—me, my wife, and a couple of others. Recently, my personal family group—a group of which I include close friends—has experienced a catastrophic and life-changing loss. Life as we know it will never be the same, and we’re all in the beginning stages of grief. There are no words to console this ache, no actions that can take place to overcome it, nor are there any plans to set in motion in order to gracefully move through it. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to take time. It’s going to hurt. And it isn’t even directly about me or Nicole—it concerns people so close to us that we feel the shockwave as though we’re standing within the blast; our hearts are shattered. With nowhere else to seek safe haven, we have but one place to turn.

God. 

But that turn doesn’t look like the movement that most would assume. This isn’t a happy-go-lucky turn…no. It’s a “Why. Why this?” type of turn. I’m not angry with God, I’m confused and hurt; and God is the only entity to whom I can turn and beg for grace and comfort. But in order to do that, I have to get up every day, put my shoes on, and step into God’s house. I have to approach the altar and lay bare my anxieties and trauma, seeking God’s comfort, hoping for the restoration of a new normal. Alas, it will take time; but if I don’t come here and do that, if I don’t allow my prayer life to remain awake, then it will take even longer—if ever—to proceed. And I need you. All of you. I need to focus on this, but in doing so, focus on everything else around me, realizing that the world still spins, even if I will it not to do so. Without this community, overcoming the deepest valleys of faith would be an impossible upward march. Without God’s grace, stepping toward God’s warm embrace would feel excruciating, because of the leaden shoes of grief and stubborn resistance. Without your smiling faces and your stories of normal life, I’d forget that life isn’t all bad, and that joy comes in the mourning...in the listening…and in the fellowship of those around me.

I wonder how many of you are experiencing something like this. I wonder how many of us struggle in screaming silence, railing against the same grace that would see us through. I wonder how many of us wander into the depths of despair, refusing to look up and search for that guiding force that we otherwise give all glory, laud and honor. If you are like me…and those for whom my heart breaks…please hear this: You are not alone, you are beloved, and if you simply reach out, you will be covered in support and love from this community—from this household of God—that seeks to lift you up and see you to the other side of the valley of the shadow of death.  

Grief and despair don’t disappear just because the holidays arrive. This season is just like any other in terms of everyday life; the unimaginable happens whether we expect it or not. However, we can use this season—this time of anticipation—to look toward better days. We are not the sum of our fears or failings, but rather the perfected creation of God who holds us in an unrelenting loving embrace. For those going through pain, God sees you. For those grieving recent or decades’ old loss, God sees you. For those in joyful transition, God sees you. For those walking the normal moments of life, God sees you. Whatever comes tomorrow, God is willing to walk alongside you (and me) if we’ll allow it. And God has sent prophets in disguise—the people sitting next to you, calling you, or missing your presence—to help with the work of restoration and that ‘new normal’. Today and every day hereafter, know that the Holy Spirit is speaking to you through the breath of those around you, if you would have ears to listen. My prayer for anyone going through the impossible is that we realize one truth: With God, anything is possible, without God nothing is worthy, and without one another, we are denying the chance for our better selves to emerge changed by grace.

As you love me, know that I love you. And God loves us all.

Onward into Advent,

Fr. Sean+

November 26th, 2019

Sometimes giving thanks isn’t easy. For many, 2019 hasn’t been a year of remarkable import; the grueling pace of life and public attitude of conflict have seemingly joined together in an unholy matrimony, determined to steal the joy from situations at every turn. Political environments steal joy. Money woes steal joy. Uprooting and transplanting family steals joy. Cancer steals joy. With the multiple overwhelming outliers helicoptering everyday life, it’s hard to be thankful for anything, much less be joyful.

And yet, we have much for which to give thanks—as hard as it may be to recognize. Our lives are centrally focused most of the time—and not in a bad way—but in a ‘I have a family to take care of and bills to pay’ way. But were we to simply take a breath, look around, and engage with the world around us in intentional ways, we would experience the unbreakable force that is the human spirit. Globally, endeavors are underway to improve the quality of water, air and overall life for communities in need. Thanks be to God. Nationally, projects seeking to provide assistance to those in desperation are funded by volunteers’ time, talent and treasure. Thanks be to God. Locally, this church is attempting to make a difference in the lives of the community by feeding the hungry (Mobile Meals and the Advent Project), clothing the naked (giving coats and clothing to Skyline Ministries), tending the sick (taking food and medicine to the homebound), shielding the joyous (caring for our youth and giving them a hopeful lens through which to view the world), and growing with grace.

We have much for which to be thankful, if we simply focus on the ‘good’ of life occurring around us rather than fixating on the dreary, the dark, or the desolate. Despondency can take root if we are not watered by the hope that abounds in faith. All it takes is a little perspective to see that there are plenty of people in this world still fighting to respect the dignity of every human being and protect their neighbors by loving them as themselves. This Thanksgiving, choose hope. Choose to see the good in people, seek to find the commonality that bonds us as sisters and brothers of a beautifully dysfunctional yet loving family. Far more unites us than could ever separate us, all we have to do is keep running the race. When we’re tired, we can look to others around us for support—because we have a community for that. When we’re lonely, we can call on others for company—because we have a community for that. And when we feel like the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, we can remember that the world doesn’t have the final say—because no matter what happens, God’s community exists to thwart that.

Whatever is happening in your lives, good or ill, remember that you are loved. Pull your children, your mates, your families and friends, and even people you hardly know close and be thankful for them. Life can be hard, but it doesn’t have to be hopeless. Remember that you have been marked and sealed as Christ’s own forever, and that there are people in this community who will not let you fall because they love you, they’re thankful for you, and they will walk through fire with you if you simply reach out. And for those in times of joy, be ambassadors of thanksgiving. Allow your joy to infect those around you, to uplift those in despair. Practice resurrection. Practice Thanksgiving.

And Thanks be to God that we have one another to do so.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+  

November 13th, 2019

In the sheep world (because I don’t know the technical term) the ewes and lambs have a special relationship—a strong relationship that allows for the lamb to grow strong and thrive on its own. Normally, this is the way of sheep; they birth more sheep and then take care of them. But once in a great while, what’s known as a ‘bummer lamb’ will be born. This occurs when the connection between lamb and ewe does not take place—more concisely, when the mother shuns the baby. Heartbroken, the lamb will hang its head low, barely move around, not eat, and eventually die. But there’s hope, yet.

Enter the shepherd.

When bummer lambs are noticed, the shepherd of the flock takes action. While still caring for the rest of the fold, he/she will take the bummer lamb indoors, to the dwelling place of the shepherd. They’ll sit by the fire with the lamb, wrapping it in a blanket and holding it; this mimics the affection that would have been felt by the lamb and given by the mother. The shepherd feeds the lamb, nurtures the lamb, and ensures that it feels loved and wanted. Eventually and inevitably, the lamb grows into a healthy sheep and is returned to the flock. Integration occurs, and the sheep makes relationships with other sheep around it, allowing for a sense of normality and continuance. This story is taken from the personal experience of Sheila Walsh…

It gets sweeter.

Anytime—in the event of a bummer lamb—that the shepherd goes out to call his/her sheep, the bummer lamb (now fully healthy) is typically the first creature to heed that call. It will come running to the one who cared for it, who nurtured it, who brought it back from the brink of death. While the other sheep also hear that call, it is the bummer lamb who turns into the joyful returner, leading the way for the others to join their beloved shepherd.

This has to be the way God cares for us. I can’t think of a more fitting analogy than that of the shepherd/lamb story above. Jesus says, “I am the Shepherd, you are my sheep.” Believing this, and knowing the human condition, I can safely assume that there are many of us who have—at one time or another—felt like the bummer lamb. We’ve felt isolated, weak, unloved—and most of the time we have people in our lives who will raise us up, uplifting us to stand on our own. I believe they are charged with the Holy Spirit and that God works through them to be shepherds in their own way. We, too, all have the opportunity to be shepherds. Look around you, and I imagine you won’t have to search very long before you see someone who is feeling isolated, weak, and/or unloved. While Jesus is the Good Shepherd, you can be a shepherd, too. It only takes a moment to change someone’s life, usually. A smile, a kind word, even allowing someone to go first in the grocery store line. But sometimes, it may take longer. It may take investing time into that person, to care for them when they have no one else, to make a phone call once a week and check in, to give them the food of love and walk them back from the brink of despair.

To give them hope again.

God calls us to be disciples and to walk in the footsteps of Christ. It is impossible to recreate that journey—we just can’t do it. We’ll mess up, commit sin, succumb to our own desires. But that doesn’t mean it’s hopeless. Because once in a while, we can follow the way of the Good Shepherd.

We may be sinners, but we can be shepherds, too.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

November 6th, 2019

Three people were stranded on an island. The first, a widow from Texas, began to search the wreckage for tools; she wanted to ensure that the trio had shelter for the evening, so she planned to build one. The second, a young college student from OU, began collecting any books they could find—quite a few had been on the plane—and he wanted to ensure that he could have enough knowledge at his disposal to know which plants to eat, how to create clean water, etc. The third, a billionaire from California, sat down on the sand and prayed. So calm and serene, the other two stopped what they were doing and asked him how he was dealing with their situation so well. The man looked up at them, then smiled and said, “Well. I belong to St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church. It’s stewardship season right now, so I have no doubt that my priest will find me in very short order.”

It’s funny because, in some cases, I can actually see this happening. But notice that all three people had individual ways in which they could contribute to the situation—aside from the humorous ending.

Stewardship does crazy things to our brains, as clergy. We sit in front of computer screens, prognosticating potential outcomes and doing our best to write faithful sermons—all the while hoping and praying that our congregations will respond well and not see us as money-hungry people. In this church, I hope we have created the ethos that stewardship comes in many different varieties, and that your clergy are not burning themselves with worry due to your extraordinary love of this place. Time, talent, and treasure are all integral, vital components of that which fuels the church for her mission in the world. Without people giving time—building shelter, showing up to workdays, joining ministries—we don’t make an impact. Without talent—people taking pictures of those moments mentioned above, people cooking for funeral receptions/wedding receptions, or people fixing things around the building—we don’t make an impact. Without people being generous with their treasure, we don’t have the money to: buy the tools to build; purchase the food to cook; pay the salaries of the music ministers, nursery attendants, administrative assistant, and clergy who all work to create a sacred space of worship.

I typically don’t let stewardship get under my skin, here. This place has proven faithful to doing what the people say they’ll do. You’ve been in the valley, you know what it is to struggle. You’re currently in (or at least it’s my hope that you feel this way) an upward advance of joy. This place is thriving…growing every day into a deeper relationship with God and with our neighbors, and with God’s help and your faithfulness, it will continue to do so.

Over the next three weeks, you’ll be hearing about stewardship, each Sunday. Not just money. Not just time. Not just talent. But all three, because it takes all three. My hope is that you will continue to give graciously and generously of those things—whether it be one, two, or all three. It takes all of us to make this work, to keep the lights on so that others who are in the dark may find their way to our doors—these doors that provide a space of the Holy, a sense of hospitality, and a place of safety to the lost, lonely and searching souls of our immediate and broader community. Bless you for your work, your time, and your loving souls.

Thank you for playing your part in what makes the Episcopal Church of the Resurrection such a shining bastion of hope for the people in and around it.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+