The Sound of Silence

The other day I was talking on the phone with a friend. Mid-sentence—as we lamented the losses of normalcy—he stopped and asked, “Has it always been this bad, and we were just too young to notice or pay attention?” I didn’t have a real answer so I deflected with humor, “Man, I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t been paying attention during this conversation, much less the last forty years.” We both laughed, and then there was silence for a moment. A very long moment.

We said our goodbyes and hung up, and then the silence fell upon me, again. Has it always been this bad? I sat in my idling truck, staring at the front door of the church—I didn’t even remember arriving—and stayed with the moment. I thought about the special days that had passed and the ones coming up; how they had felt different and how they might continue to feel that way. I thought about friends I deeply missed seeing, and how much I wanted this isolation to end. Then, still idling in the driveway, I looked at the closed doors of the church.

And I wept.

Those tears were composed of grief and loss, but they also contained droplets of hope. The church was still standing, even with the doors closed. The church was at home, watching tv or working; playing with children or teaching students online; weeping along with me, or simply sitting in silence, waiting for someone to call. The church had left the building, and was doing its best to live through the latter part of the first phrase of that famous Dickens’ novel. The church has been forced out of its comfort zone and scattered, but faithfully continues to carry on in hopes of a new normal, a reincarnation of togetherness and homecoming.

The church—and by now you know I mean all of us—has been living in Advent since Easter. We have rejoiced in resurrection yet we have been sitting on the edge of our couches waiting for the good news to come. The news of a new life, a new world, a hope fulfilled that we can all be one body again, in the same place at the same time. My idling truck seemed to be another example of that feverish waiting—a vehicle churning and firing, fueled and ready to go somewhere, yet having to remain in park until the destination was opened and the way made clear.

While we wait for a reincarnation of life as we knew it, we enter into a season awaiting the Incarnation of life as we know it. It has deeper meaning for me this year, this Advent. In truth, sitting silently in my truck with the engine thrumming and the outside noise whooshing by, I realized that—just like holding my breath on a silent night, waiting for the world to change while it bustled with the trappings of preparation—I was holding my breath with hope renewed for the morning. There is hope on the horizon. While it may feel like a mirage sometimes, and the thirst for it can be overwhelming, that hope is what sustains us and is real: It’s the hope of Jesus Christ which lives inside us, kindled by the fire of the Holy Spirit and fueled by the grace of God.

The Way is coming. The Truth is coming. The Life is coming. That Incarnation that saved the world once and for all is worth the wait, worth the days and weeks ahead, and worth the trials we’ve lived through this long. And it’s absolutely worth taking a moment to sit in silent anticipation of what’s to come, preparing ourselves to shift gears and get moving again. Snapping out of my reverie, I shut off the engine, and stepped outside. I took the keys to the kingdom, to the house of God, and I unlocked the doors with that hope burning inside me. I filled the candles with oil. I started preparing for the weeks to come. I prayed for the return of the King. And I thanked God for the church; praying for its safe return home. And then I realized…

Advent has begun.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

For Things Yet to Come...

The Collects offer us quite a few options for prayer. We can pray for the weather and for the land; we can pray for travelers—even astronauts; we have options for Saints, pastors, lay persons, ministries, commerce and industry…the list goes on and on. I know this because I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to the Book of Common Prayer (let’s be honest, I’m a nerd when it comes to everything). So, I took my nerdlike tendencies and searched for a suitable non-partisan prayer that would hopefully help during this week’s upcoming election process, and for the needs of our worldly context concerning COviD, unrest, isolation... I found one.

Page 258: For the Nation

“Lord God Almighty, you have made all the peoples of the earth for your glory, to serve you in freedom and in peace: Give to the people of our country a zeal for justice and the strength of forbearance, that we may use our liberty in accordance with your gracious will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

It’s a perfect prayer in an imperfect time. 2020 has proven itself to be one of the toughest years of my life. COvID notwithstanding, other influences have made their mark as this year trudges on into the depths of shadow and the unknown. Add back the disease running rampant in our world and catastrophe takes on a new level. Someone the other day jokingly commented this, “I wonder what the season finale of 2020 will be? Surely it can’t get any worse…” I wanted to make them go outside and turn around three times and spit, or curse, or do something to take away the bad juju they’d unwittingly just given life.  

I think the line I appreciate the most from the Collect above is, “Give to the people of our country a zeal for justice and the strength of forbearance.” The word forbearance appears in scripture in a few different forms: 

·      hypomeno – to patiently endure (Matthew 10:22; Matthew 24:13; Mark 13:13; Luke 2:43; Acts 17:14; Romans 12:12; just to name a few passages)

·      epieikes – gentle, considerate (Philippians 4:5; 1 Timothy 3:3; Titus 3:2; James 3:17; 1 Peter 2:18)

·      makroqumia – patience, forbearance, fortitude, long suffering (Romans 9:22; 2 Corinthians 6:6; Galatians 5:22; 2 Timothy 3:10; 2 Timothy 4:2; 1 Peter 3: 20)

Endurance is something to which the people of this world are becoming more and more accustomed. But the trek isn’t easy; many people have become tired of the climb, the uphill trudge through daily—and varying—desolate circumstances. I pray that we all will remember the prayer above, and that the divine forbearance given to us by our Creator will sustain us in the worst of moments. This election, this pandemic, this world…none of these are permanent. They are simply penultimate stages on the way to an ultimate plane: That place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting. Have strength. Be patient. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. Love God.

And in the darkness that precedes the dawn, allow that forbearance to fill you with hope for the future.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

The Truth Behind the Trappings

I don’t know that we’ve entirely embraced the myriad of changes that 2020 has elicited. However, I think we’re doing a decent enough job navigating our ‘new world’ for the most part. But one thing that strikes me is this: COVID cropped up at a time in which we were—aside from Easter—about to enter a stretch wherein the activities and functions of the church would occur at a slower pace. This isn’t to say that we wouldn’t still have had events and gatherings, but they wouldn’t have happened with the frequency of a normal year. So, we adapted, we stayed in, and we hunkered down to protect ourselves without feeling like we’d ‘missed’ too much. Of course, we have missed a great deal in other areas of our lives—vacations, etc—but the church has done a fairly decent job of remaining connected and executing worship well. 

But the holidays are upon us. Soon, Hallow-Thanks-Mas will come. Usually, we host an open house for trick or treaters. Usually, we host a Thanksgiving dinner for football watchers and turkey eaters. Usually, we dress up the Nave for Advent and then again for Christmas. As with everything else, this year is anything but ‘usual’.

We’re going to miss quite a bit of what we would typically experience…at least I will. I’ll miss seeing the 100-200 people come in costume and fellowship in our Parish Hall’s Halloween House; I’ll miss cooking for everyone and wearing my Dallas Cowboys jersey to Church. I’ll miss seeing fifty poinsettias surround the altar and all the accoutrements alongside.

But I’m wondering if we haven’t ‘missed’ something in prior years that perhaps will be able to be seen this year, and it’s this: Have we missed a bit of the meaning behind these holidays and that for which they stand? 

Halloween precedes All Saints’ Day—a day in which we remember those who walked before us, who taught us by their actions and words how to be better versions of ourselves. We make a big deal of it, marching in to fun tunes and flying kites, making banners and having potlucks. So much goes into the planning of the day that sometimes I miss the meaning of the day: To give homage to the Saints, and to pray to God that I can join them one day after my work is done. This year gives us the opportunity to focus on that, because we can’t do the big show.

Thanksgiving—the only ‘secular’ holiday that gets its own Collect of the Day (page 246, BCP)—stands as a day for us to come together, uniting us in solidarity and culture, all being thankful for the blessings of God’s creation. We sometimes forget that component amidst the whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, planning, traveling, and revelry. This year gives us the opportunity to focus on that—the importance of the day and what it means, because we still have much for which to be thankful. We can also look at past years’ holidays and be thankful for the family and friends that surrounded us then; maybe that will prompt us to complain a bit less about the logistics in the coming years, being truly thankful for the opportunity to be together.

And then there’s Advent and Christmas. Talk about a month of stressful preparation and setup. We can’t decorate this year per our normal. We may not be able to hold the sacred service of Midnight Mass—and even if we do, it won’t look the same or be set up the same. The beauty of the season may have to be seen for what it really is, aside from the trappings: The anticipation and glorification of Jesus Christ’s Incarnation. While it may ‘look’ different, perhaps we will be able to engage this season fully, without the distraction of the stuff we have to do to make it beautiful. In reality, it already is.

I’m going to miss the holidays as we’ve previously known them. I’ll miss the costumes, the community dinner, and the church looking like the North Pole. I love all of it. But instead of allowing the absence of those moments to negatively impact our sense of joy, we should dig deeper and pay closer attention to what the holidays really are: Holy-days. I wish us all the most joyous of Holydays, ones wherein we can live in to the depth of our faith and be truly thankful for that which we have, as well as that which we are currently missing. If we do this, then perhaps next year (hopefully) when things turn toward a new normal, we can remember the reason for these seasons and appreciate them all the more—having spent time diving into the meaning without the logistics. That way, when the logistics return, we’re ready to fully immerse in both—the look and feel of the holidays, which we now know as Holydays. 

Happy Holydays, my friends…

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Hiding in Plain Sight

One of my favorite short stories is “Harrison Bergeron” by Kurt Vonnegut. A dystopian tale, the story unveils a world stricken by false fairness: Beautiful people are burdened with ugly masks; strong people with bags of birdshot; graceful people with weights and shackles; intelligent people with ear devices that send shocking sounds to disrupt their thought processes. The narrative invites the reader into a world of people hampered from being their true selves, all in the name of creating a false equality. News anchors have speech impediments, ballerinas are weighted down as to be less graceful—you get the point.

The end of the story sees Harrison—a fourteen-year-old male—escape from government custody. He’s seven feet tall, handsome, extremely intelligent, and graceful. He crashes onto a televised ballet stage and proclaims himself the new emperor—something only someone continuously mistreated and held back would do.

"Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a

greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can

become! "

A seemingly societally-imposed insanity has gripped him, yet his true desire is to be seen, to be heard, and to be his best self. Stripping away his mask and all the hampering devices placed upon him, he stands tall and beautiful. The rest of the story you can read for yourself (I found it here), but I’d like to concentrate on Bergeron’s act of shedding his weights, his burdens, and—against what the world tells him to be—showing his true self. He’s so heavy-laden prior to this that he can’t possibly be sane, but can we blame him? The world has taught him that he is to be diminished, that he should take on burdens to hide his created beauty. He defies that, even to his own death, just for a moment of pure freedom and expression of self. But the world soon forgets his death, including his own parents, because they’re so heavily indoctrinated into the counter-intuitive normal that society has allowed to become status quo.

Right now, we’ve been asked to wear masks. But in reality, we’ve always worn them. We wear them to cover our insecurities, our weaknesses, our deepest pain. Right now, we are burdened by financial hardship and have been handicapped by forced separation. We’re separated for our own safety, for once being a valid reason; we’re struggling financially because of the lack of work out there and the lack of businesses’ ability to conduct their trades. But in reality, we’ve always been burdened by hardship at some point, financial or otherwise; in reality, we’ve always been handicapped by forcibly separating ourselves into a ‘us vs. them’ mentality.

Now is a time where we can make a choice. We can choose to blame the current context for the rise in separation from one another, for the continued economic gap that sees impoverished people fall farther into debt and despair, and we can keep wearing our masks—blinded to the truth of this world.

Or we can choose to truly follow Jesus.

Didn’t Jesus say, “Come to me all you who are heavy-laden and I will refresh you?” These masks are heavy, y’all. They cause us to look down and plough ahead, trudging forward in the muck and mire of worldly enticements. What if we let them go? Not the ones that we are physically wearing—those are arguably actually doing something—but the ones we’ve been wearing all along? What if we were to let each other see the beauty with which we were each created, disallowing societal influence to instruct us on how we are to treat one another?

We are each burdened by something. It’s time we allow the masks to fall down so that the burdens can follow. We are unique. We are beautiful. We are created equally in spirit, but our bodies are painted with the beautiful array of God’s palette; we are different hues, sizes, and genders. We are different thinkers and believers, but aren’t we also supposed to let the same mind of Christ be in us as is in Him? In a time where we can’t see each other’s faces, our words and actions matter more than ever. We must lay the burdens of preconceived notions and division down. We the people of God hold these truths to be divinely evident: That we shall love God, love our neighbors, and love ourselves. We don’t need the armor of the figurative masks we wear—they don’t protect us, they wear us down and separate us.

As Harrison died in order to truly live for a moment, let us die to Christ and remember our true identities…the people behind the masks, and watch what we become. After we and the rest of the world witness that, forgetting won’t be possible.

Then we will see and hear each other again…

…or maybe for the first time.

Faithfully, 

Fr. Sean+

This is Us

“You’ll get out what you put in.” It was a confirmation class with the youth and the adults, so I wanted to say anything that would grab their attention. I’d prepared notebooks and slideshows; I’d spent time on the phone with seasoned clergy and lay leaders; I’d ‘put in’ quite a bit. My hope was that they’d all read, mark, and inwardly digest the materials—I mean, didn’t we all? What I had missed was essential to my own growth…it’s the main piece that I got out: People are different, not having the same passion for church nerdery as others. For some, that class was a means to pacify parents, partners, or peers; for others, it was a deeply connected conversation with God which led to confirming baptismal vows spoken on their behalf or from their own lips. In hindsight, my opening statement to that class was probably not as powerful as I’d intended…most likely (like everything else) it was received by those who were there in earnest and it fell on deaf ears by those who weren’t. Their experience had little to do with how I had prepared and more to do with the desire they held to learn.

In short: It’s not always all about me.

To be clear, I hate it when people say that. “It’s not always about you, Sean.” Yeah, I know. I didn’t intentionally think it was. Thanks for making a statement that adds anger to frustration. And also, thanks for the emphasis on my name…THAT makes it much easier to receive. If you know me, you know that I struggle with a sense of perfectionism that stems from insecurity—this has to go right or my worth will be diminished. And as you’re reading this, I wonder if you’ve thought, “Well, so far this article is all about you…lol. What’s the point?”

Well, it’s not all about me.

We live in a current climate of chaos. Our worth is tied up in our beliefs, our aspirations, our work, and our practices. And yet, our worth has nothing to do with what’s going on. A pandemic happens: Some prepare for the long-haul and shut themselves in, while others make statements like, “It’s fake, there’s nothing going on out there any more dangerous than the flu.” Part of the pandemic life is wearing a mask—and yet even there we can’t agree, choosing instead to make a stand for or against them. “If you don’t wear a mask, you don’t care about me.” “If you make me wear a mask, you don’t care about my beliefs.”

Well, it’s not all about you. Sometimes doing something that makes someone else feel safe is necessary, even if you don’t agree. And in that same sense, shaming someone for their lack of belief in masks is tantamount to shaming someone’s lack of belief in God. We don’t win hearts by attacking atheists—we win hearts by sharing our thoughts, listening to theirs, and continuing to live in a way that starts and ends with love. The same could and should be said about how we interact in every other conversation. Our worth isn’t tied up into what we perceive as right—it’s already been vaulted to the highest possible point by virtue of our creation in the Imago Dei. So why fight about masks—do you think you’re going to get through to people who disagree either way? I’m sure some of you want to disagree with me, right now, about masks. “Science proves…” “My rights are violated…” Yes. To both. But again, it’s not all about you. Masks are required to be most places these days; we don’t need the added insult of name shaming on those who disagree. And masks are required to be most places; disagreeing won’t change the rules.

We also find ourselves within an election year. “If you don’t vote Republican/Democrat, you don’t care about your neighbor; you aren’t Christian; you must be an idiot (actual words I’ve seen from church people around the country). “If you’re an independent, you’re wasting your vote, one that could go to my side.” Again, it’s not all about you. People are going to disagree. Period. It’s something in our created nature that allows us to exercise free will, at will. Do the statements and arguments help? Not really. If someone wanted to change their mind, they would have long before you or I got to them with our super genius words and apologetics. Our worth isn’t tied up in that, either.

Again, our worth comes from a long line of love by virtue of the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Nothing. Else.

We’re making everything about us, when in reality, we might want to stop and think about why. This Pandemic will be here for a while. This election year is going to happen and the results will be what they will be. People will write things and we will disagree. People will say things and we will want to argue. But if we’re interacting in our daily lives as true followers of Jesus—Love your neighbor, Love God, love yourself—then shouldn’t that mean that we stick to the stuff that we can change?

Violence has no place in our society.

Poverty is the root of most of our problems.

People shouldn’t be shot in classrooms, on streets, in cars, or in their homes.

A person’s skin color—including white—doesn’t make them evil or good. It makes them human.

Loving your neighbor is hard. Loving yourself is hard. And yes, sometimes loving God can be hard. But we still have to do our best.

In God’s eyes, it IS all about you and me. We are the center of God’s world—the beautiful creation made manifest through love and divine design. Fluffy words don’t make that statement true: It’s true because God said, “I AM…and you shall be made in my image.” So maybe we do get out what we put into things. If we put in hateful words, we get back hateful words. If we put in arguments to satisfy our own beliefs, we get back broken relationships. However…If we put in love, we will receive grace—the love of God. If we put in time to listen, we will receive someone else’s perspective and have the opportunity to grow from that experience. If we put others before us, we will get out of our own way and perhaps make this world a bit better than we found it.

It isn’t about you. It isn’t about me. It’s about us.

And we need us to make it through these times.

All of us.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Community, what is it good for? Absolutely everything.

How do you define the word “Community”, and what does it mean to you?

Is it something simply convenient? A group that can be entered and exited with the seasons; or is it something deeper, something more intentional?

The answer is both, for me, lately. And I’m not sure that I like it…

There are groups to which I belong that serve a singular purpose, typically one that allows me to network or to gain skill at something, but one of which I can also freely leave without remorse at any given time. Take golf lessons, for example. Sure, I like the instructor and the people with whom I’m learning—and we have fun doing the things we’re there to do. But in reality, I don’t need to be there; I choose to because it helps me singularly gain skill at something that ultimately allows me to enjoy a hobby a bit more. Sometimes I’ll get lucky and meet people within the group that extend beyond the temporary, but most of the time it ends with, “Well, it was nice to meet you. Hit em’ straight and I’ll see you around.” The point being that we don’t always come together intentionally to form relationships; sometimes we come together to hone our own skills and then disband. Not in a malicious or uncaring way, but in a ‘that was fun, but I’m finished now’ way.

Then, there’s community. The place and people that feed me and that I feed in return. Not because I have to, or they have to, but because there’s something that inextricably binds us together: A common cause, a sense of purpose, a way of life.

Recently, those two types of community overlapped for me, and I learned something. It isn’t so much about which type of community we enter as it is about what we put into it. I could go to golf lessons and learn by myself without engaging others; I could be in it for me and be careless about those around me. But do they not have struggles, too? Or feelings? What if a few of them viewed me as a true friend, because they don’t have that in their normal lives? What if I’ve taken for granted the blessings of having a support system around me and simply chosen not to engage because I didn’t need anything from them? Sounds a little selfish, right?

I won’t name the community, but I will say that I just left it and have felt conflicted emotions over the ramifications of that choice. I realized that simply entering and exiting communities based upon my personal needs isn’t a Christian virtue, it’s more of a quid pro quo: You do this for me, I give you money, and we’re done here regardless of the others around us. That’s not community at all—it’s transactional living. I made some real connections with the people in the afore-mentioned group, without realizing how deep those connections impacted me. I chose to utilize my time there to grant escape and respite from ‘the real world’ and it turned out to be more work than I intended. Therefore, I left.

But the relationships I’d entered seemed to be a little deeper than I’d thought. Sure, the people will move on quickly and ‘miss me’ much the same as I will ‘miss them’, but we’ll all be fine. What does that mean? Does it mean that I didn’t give enough? Did I not take a moment to think about the transactional nature of this particular situation and then have the foresight to try and develop friendships rather than further my own agenda? That doesn’t seem to be the Christian way, either. If we’re only engaging people for what they can do for us, rather than for true connection, why even bother?

My point is this: Community—real community—shouldn’t have variations of worth. We’re either in it, or we aren’t. Church life can sometimes seem like a transactional community. We come in, pay our tithe, make our personal prayers, and leave. Transaction ended. But if we live by the example of Christ, shouldn’t we stick around and pay attention to those who are also there? What are the driving factors behind guiding us to Church—or any community for that matter? Do we miss opportunities to enrich the lives of others when we walk into situations simply concerned for ourselves?

As we’ve learned over the past few months, Church is more than just a building we visit. It’s a sense of belonging, a sense of relationship with God and neighbor. So, in that definition, isn’t there an implicit call for us to be with one another in all arenas? Can ‘Church’ also be held at AA? Yes. Is ‘Church’ present for us at the golf course? Yes. Does ‘Church’ happen online with people from around the country in chat rooms or forums? Yes.

Our free time is valuable, so we should seek to obtain as much value from it as possible. That’s one of the blessings of our local Church that enriches my life so deeply: People genuinely care for one another. Sure, we get angry from time to time and we need to step back from certain others for short periods, but overall, we’re a strongly knit group of faithful people who spread love and support by virtue of our beliefs. That doesn’t have to be contained solely within the confines of church life.

Take a look at the ‘communities’ to which you belong, this week. Why are you there? If it’s shallow, then how can you make it more meaningful both for yourself and those around you? What if every community we’re in becomes ‘Church’? Doesn’t that sound like the work we’ve been given to do, the life we’ve been called to lead? Loving our neighbor in every corner of our life rather than loving our neighbor on Sunday and Wednesday? If we all took time to see our neighbor as ourselves and love them in that way, then perhaps Church truly stops being an institution or a building, and starts becoming something…more. It starts to take over the world and offers a sense of belonging to everyone it encounters. We don’t have to pick people with whom we agree to have community. We simply have to choose to accept those with differing views and allow our own faith to guide us into a deeper understanding of one another, rather than a transactional and shallow relationship. We can’t live this life in silos, or its beauty will be diminished.

Take the resurrection community into all your other ones…see what happens. You might just change someone’s life.

And your own.

Faithfully,

When the rain's blowing in your face...

We needed the rain, today.

To be honest, I’m not sure whether it rained or the dew was just a bit stronger, but when I ventured out to mow the lawn (it’s 75 degrees…), I noticed the grass was too wet. It’s been a hot and dry summer lately, so I was grateful for the moisture, for the replenishment. My yard had started looking a little brown; I noticed an almost crunchy sound when walking around. I water, of course, but sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes, we need a little help from Mother Nature to inject life into our gardens, plants and grass. Lately it seemed like Mother Nature was on vacation—at least the rainy portion of her.
 
We needed the rain, today.
 
As you may have surmised, I didn’t end up mowing the lawn. But a thought came to me as I walked back inside and put up my mowing clothes: “We needed the rain, and the ‘rain’ comes in many forms.”
 
St. Teresa of Avila talks about prayer in a way that lends itself to rain. She says that, in the beginning, prayer can feel like drawing water from a well—quite a bit of work. As she continued in her spiritual practices, she noticed that the work became easier, moving from drawing water to a rainfall of the Holy Spirit. Water came abundantly rather than being worked for, or being forced out via human endeavor.
 
St. Teresa needed the rain, those days.
 
Since March 8th, ministry has felt like drawing water from stone…we didn’t even have the well. Many of us have been scurrying around, attempting to learn new skills in order to impart the same Gospel. YouTube has been sort of a well for us; it’s taken work, but we’re drawing people in and getting prayer and the message of God through. Then we took a step forward and added someone to the team who made the work easier—still not ‘rain’, but we definitely built that well. The workload lightened, spread out among us.
 
Then, this past Sunday, God made it rain.
 
I can’t describe the feeling of receiving communion for the first time in five months—and I am not insensitive to those of you who chose to stay home for good reason. I only speak from my experience at the altar, and that of taking communion again. My prayer life has seemed like drawing water from a well, alongside my ministry life. There’s only so much we can do before we reach the end of our own potential, our own abilities. Of course, we’re rooted in God and therefore sustained by the Holy Spirit and love of Jesus Christ—but it seemed harder. This last Sunday, in receiving communion and being with my church family, the rain came in sheets. It came in physical form from my eyes and the eyes of those around me; it came in spiritual form in that filling sensation brought on by the Holy Spirit; it came in mental form, knowing that our return to a new normal is closer on the horizon than it once was.
 
Sunday, we needed the rain.
 
As the week progresses, and the weeks after, I encourage you to seek the rain of prayer and grace of which God so freely provides. It sustains us, makes us grow, cools us down in the current climate, and allows us to have a refreshing drink from the ever-flowing fountain of grace. Communion was that rain for me—how does the rain manifest for you? My prayer this week is that you feel the rain, get watered by the fount of every blessing and are made new by its cascading effect. Because, as it turns out…
 
We need the rain, every day.
 
Faithfully,
 
Fr. Sean+

The Lasting Thin Space

There's a pervasive sense of wondering/wandering in my life right now:

When will things find a new normal?

What do I do with the 'extra' time?

Am I doing enough?

As these questions rifle through my mind, the answers come almost as quickly: Be still; you are beloved. It's a strange time, to be certain, but the grace abounding within turmoil hasn't gone unnoticed. While my health hasn't been all that great, I have insurance and good doctors. While the church doors have been closed, we've continued to add people to our calls and zoom meetings. While many ministry groups have been suspended, others have been created and are flourishing. God is evident in all of these moments, a presence in a veritable ongoing thin space that sustains me and brings joy in the lowest of times.

God breaking through and shedding light in the darkness happened quite a long time ago for me, but it continues to happen. I just have to be willing to listen for the shattering glass...with a sigh too deep for words, being wrapped up in the love of Christ. Often times, I choose to turn a deaf ear to that sound—the whisper of the Holy Spirit trying to soothe my soul—instead selecting a penultimate failure or sadness upon which to focus. But that is human nature, and God is there, too. God is readily available to bring us up when we fall, to carry us through the burdensome times in our lives and to dance alongside us in those moments of pure elation. Lest we forget, God created us in His image so that he could look upon us and see a piece of Himself.

As we venture into the unknown—or rather continue to the journey—I encourage all of us to keep in mind that which God so abundantly and freely shares: Grace.

Grace will sustain us. Grace will give us hope. Grace will consume our souls with a Holy fire that has the ability to burn off the chaff of this world and refine us into the fruitful people we were made to be. Instead of asking questions of ‘why’ and ‘how long O Lord’, I’m mindful that searching for God in the midst of this is the answer I really seek. And I’m also aware that I wasn’t there when God created the world, nor will I be here when God ultimately remakes it. It is my, and your, calling to trust in God, love one another, and continue to adapt to an ever-changing landscape of seemingly endless catastrophe. I believe that if we hold our faith dear and accept that grace which is so lovingly given, these times will be mitigated greatly. Instead of wondering and wandering, I’m going to be in this moment with you; I’m going to admit when I’m down and exude joy when I’m up, and I’m going to continue to be there to share those moments with you. Because that’s what God would have us do…because that’s what God  does.

…and if we’re created in His image…shouldn’t we do the same?

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Peace in Perspective

What gives you hope?

I remember times during my twenties when I had severe anxiety. The doctor prescribed anti-anxiety medicine for me to take, as needed, and the problem seemed to go away. But there was always a question in the back of my mind, “What if this persists or comes back?” So, after a few months of taking the medicine, I stopped. I wanted to try to get to a new normal without the aid of modern medicine. I was hopeful that it ‘wouldn’t always be like this’ and that one day I’d see myself medicine-free. But just in case, I carried that pill bottle around with me, everywhere I went. It was sort of a ‘break glass in case of emergency’ but also a, “I have it with me…I know it’s there…and that’s enough.”

It worked for years. Until recently, my anxiety has been mitigated through activity and the knowledge that I will be ‘okay’. Not everyone has the same level of this, so I don’t blanket statement my own experiences with theirs, nor do I fault anyone who relies upon medication to sustain a—to them—normal lifestyle. However, for me, having that security of just knowing the pills were available, even if I didn’t take them…helped. Immensely.

The Church has been closed for in person worship since March 9th. The doors have seen a fraction of the people walk through them that they once did, and the halls are empty just waiting to envelop old friends into a walking embrace. As I think about my own trials with anxiety, and how just ‘knowing the bottle is available even if I don’t use it’, I think about what impact that might make on our congregation.

Covid isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It’s the reality within which we live. I stand by my decision to keep the Church doors closed to this point, as I believe that we are protecting people and providing one less arena wherein Covid’s insidious nature can be proliferated. However…I also believe that there’s a sense of longing deep within many of us to see these doors opened, again.

Even if most choose not to use them.

For many, knowing that the Church is available to them—should they choose to come or not—will be a boon to their souls. I know this, because I’ve listened to you. As such, I am standing beside my decision to open up for in person worship on August 9th. There are some who will come, many will not. Both of those scenarios are perfectly acceptable. I suspect that attendance will be in the lower to middle twenties for the first few weeks. I’m prepared for that. But I also suspect that the simple fact of knowing the church is there, and open, will do much for those sitting at home thinking about her.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be sending out a concise overview of what worship will look like when we gather in person. The most important thing I want you to know is this: Whether you feel safe to return or decide to stay home, this Church will be available to you. We will continue the call list; we will continue the online worship videos; and on Sunday, we will live-stream the service. If you watch the live-stream and then watch the prerecorded video, chances are that the sermon will be different…especially if I’m the one preaching. But the important thing is that we begin the journey back into our sacred space, opening it up and giving people the opportunity to worship in person, while also giving people peace of mind at home. Because, just like I knew the bottle was there if I needed it, I believe it will help you to know that the Church is open even if you choose not to visit it in person.

Grace to all of us in this time; we will get to a new normal. I don’t know when, and I don’t know what it looks like, but I know it will come. As with all things, this, too, shall pass and we shall see the dawn of a new day.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Just Keep Rowing...together

Learning to deal with change is not something people typically enjoy. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you changed your auto insurance? Of course, I’m joking, but that’s a real thing—and shameless plug, if you need insurance, Cathy Wade at Premier is wonderful. But change is hard. We don’t like it. We resist it. “Why can’t things just go back (or stay) to the way they were?”

Over the past few months, change has been a pervasive part of our culture. From one day to the next, we don’t know what ‘new’ issue will crop up, or what new action will take the pulse of the nation. It’s a gamble to even write sermons before film days; that’s the amount of change we’re experiencing. And yet, amidst all the ongoing changes, hope abounds and words matter. Last week, I received a forwarded article written by a doctor who talks about his cancer patients and how they adapt to everyday living in the midst of turmoil. It gave me hope, to be certain; but more importantly, it gave me resolve to accept that which I cannot change and just keep going. I hope you find inspiration and perspective in the following, as I did. And I hope you keep rowing with me and your fellow humans.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Article follows:

An oncologist’s prescription for managing fear and chaos in the COVID-19 pandemic

DOUGLAS B. FLORA, MD|CONDITIONS|APRIL 12, 2020

When physicians present at medical conferences, we usually start with a slide disclosing any potential conflicts of interest to our audience. I probably need to disclose two things here. First, I’m an infuriating and inexhaustible optimist. Second, I’m a cancer doctor but also a recent cancer patient myself, and I understand intimately how it feels when your world unexpectedly spins out of control.

With the arrival of COVID-19 on our shores and our lives suddenly looking as if they were cut from the pages of a Michael Crichton novel, we are all facing new fears and uncertainties previously unimagined. It’s only natural we now find ourselves seeking guidance on how best to survive in this new world. My prescription: Ask cancer patients. These patients were going about their normal lives when a cruel and terrifying reality intruded. Sound familiar? They are trained in uncertainty. They have been forced by their diseases to adapt, survive, and thrive amidst their own personal chaos. These patients’ experiences can offer valuable lessons and simple, but powerful tools we can use to adapt to the current COVID-19 pandemic.

Cancer patients must adapt to nearly impossible situations each day with grace, courage, and indissoluble hope. Real, applied hope is a powerful thing to behold. These patients embrace it. Can we tackle the coronavirus with a similar approach? I watch this hope help my patients overcome otherwise insurmountable hurdles every day. These lessons have informed my perspective as I offer this prescription to help you through the next few very difficult months: Hope on. For those of you on the frontlines working in healthcare, hope will be the fuel we burn every morning when we head to the hospital. We’ve learned this from the resolve we’ve seen in our own patients over years fighting in the trenches. You can put this to work too. Keep your own hope alive, no matter how dark it gets. This too shall pass.

However, hope alone may not be enough. We must face some grim realities. Many lives are going to be lost before another (new) normal returns. I’m reminded of a dear patient and survivor. This young mom was diagnosed with breast cancer while caring for her husband as he was dying of cancer himself. I asked her how she coped so well under such incredible stress and sadness. Her response has stuck with me for over ten years, and I’ve shared this simple phrase with hundreds of patients since: “When there is no wind, we row.” Right now, our nation has no wind to power our sails. Despite the fear of the unknown, we each need to row in order to support the normal rhythms of life. We must do our own part to preserve this critical physical distancing and move the boat a little each day as a nation. Already we see what this collective individual work and self-discipline has accomplished at the pandemic’s epicenter, as life is resuming today in Wuhan, China. If we do the hard, necessary things they did in China to isolate, test, mitigate, and separate, our own discipline will be similarly rewarded. My patients get this, and, despite all of their fear and uncertainty, I still see them rowing their own boats each day. In the coming months, the wind will return and fill the sails again … but until then, we row.

Cancer patients also learn to excel in stress management. In times of uncertainty, they strive to control only those things which they can control. Cancer patients understand that every moment matters, so they waste none. Another longtime patient and dear friend is living her best life despite an incurable stage IV melanoma. She is thriving. She works full time. She travels. She still punishes her Peloton almost daily! She reminds me that control is always within our grasp. You can do this too. Exercise. Read a great book. Pause your scrolling online to call an old friend. You must stop to consider what you can control, then, to quote this wise patient, “double down on it.” This approach to stress management is just as applicable to pandemics as it is to cancer. You cannot control thousands of spring breakers reveling on Florida beaches. Let it go. However, you can safely socially distance your family, you can religiously wash your hands, and you can help those unable to help themselves. Let go of the things you cannot control, and double down on the things you can.

Cancer patients teach us about the importance of community. They find strength in numbers and groups, whether by wearing pink ribbons, running in Races for the Cure, or attending support group meetings. A community is greater than the sum of its parts. We are more powerful together than on our own. No matter if you are in Wuhan, Bergamo, or my hometown of Cincinnati, we all share the hope for better days ahead. This infuriatingly optimistic cancer doctor sees glimmers of it already: the survival of the human spirit and real community. You can see it in the spontaneous celebrations of healthcare workers ringing from balconies in Madrid, or beleaguered nurses in hazmat suits dancing with signs on TikTok. Right now, even though it may feel like it is pulling us apart, our world is actually being pushed together by this virus, whether we realize it or not. To borrow from one of my new heroes, WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom, “This amazing spirit of human solidarity must become even more infectious than the virus itself.”

During this hard pause while our lives are at their strangest — while there is no wind — we must row. All of us. But it’s not enough to just row; we must row together. Like cancer patients, we need all the hope, resolve, and community we can muster.

If the prescription above doesn’t work for you? This cancer doctor recommends you double the dose.

Douglas B. Florais an oncologist.