Enjoy the Drive

The drive wasn’t the hard part, it was the journey after I reached my destination that started the real work. Six hours. Six hours from Schrödinger’s cat—a la 2008. When the phone call came, my twenty-seven-year-old brain told the teenager that inhabited it what was going on: My Father was about to die. Had he already done so? Or was he hanging on—albeit in a state of unconsciousness—in order to have both of his people tethered to him as he left this existence? Why hadn’t I come up more frequently throughout the last two months? Was she going to be okay…would she make it through this? She’d been alone for so long, taking care of him and working full-time, all while trying to maintain the mountain of medical bills and crushing debt incurred from a single-income family and one very irresponsible ‘adult’ child. My mother’s journey began long before my full grasp of her situation. Of our situation.

“They said I should call you and tell you to come back…to say goodbye,” words that would inexorably change the way I viewed the world, life and death, and my relationship with my mother. In six hours, watered by tears streaming freely from dangerously unfocused eyes, I grew into a man as I drove. Of course, that was only the beginning; after he died later that next day, the world changed. My sense of duty vaulted from a lockbox within my soul and dug its claws into my consciousness with painful purchase.

For the next few years, I attempted to become the son my mother had always deserved—at least to my best ability. I became a husband to my wife, rather than a roommate who was madly in love with the person he saw just a few precious moments in between our work schedules. I became driven toward lofty and—at that point—seemingly untenable—goals. I wanted to become a good man for them, to try and fill the gaping hole in all our lives, to try and fix the broken nature of our family, to earn the love that two women had given for so many years prior. And the respect of a man whose words would never relay the sentiment. No matter how much I achieved, he’d never again be able to tell me he was proud. I still search for those whispers…I’m still met with silence.

The next part of the journey and the previous chapter of my life met like two thunderstorms threatening to rip apart my soul. I didn’t want to look ahead; in that direction, the ways of hardship and endurance loomed with eager embrace. Oh, I knew I had to face them…but I didn’t want to—I wanted the ability to travel backward and recover what had been permanently lost: Time.

In the end, time is all we have. Time teaches us; it is the great mentor, the everlasting tormenter, the salve to grievous wounds. It cannot be earned in excess—only the present allotment is given, no more, no less, no matter who we are or what we do. What we choose to spend our allowance on, the most precious of currencies, is how we are defined. Our past matters, for it is that which shapes our present and informs our future. How will we dole out this non-renewable resource? Will we utilize methods of unseemly medication to pass it, becoming an ‘extra’ in our own life’s movie? Or will we choose to be the main character—the person who accepts fate with faith, loss with grace, and help from others with gratitude.

Often, probably too much, I think about those days. I think about that day in particular—the day of the drive and the journey thereafter. Of the change it beckoned and the man I am today because of it. Not all drives, both literal and figurative, have the same destination. Some will lead us to places of insurmountable joy and ineffable peace. Others will find us in wreckage, limping away with bruises too deep to see. And sometimes, what feels like familiar road is simply untraversed highway which looks identical but is very different from that which we’ve previously experienced.

This particular written stream of consciousness has a point, well…many points throughout, but a main one at its heart. Time is the only part of the future that exists in certainty. The seconds will continue to tick away, taking part of us with them. Which parts do we want them to take? Do we want to continue soldiering on, unwilling to be changed by our experiences, giving time lesser portions of ourselves with which to remember us by? Do we want to practice insanity by expecting the same outcome without changing the way we spend time’s income? Can we look at our world and honestly say that we’re doing what we can to make it better for ourselves and our neighbors—and, those who love us the most? Or are we simply driving along, uninhibited by the precursors of our current trip, only to find ourselves straining to see through unfocused eyes?

Use your time wisely. Sometimes it won’t be easy; and there’s something to be said for ‘wasting time’ as a means by which to heal, refresh or otherwise reset. Make more trips to see your parents—or during Covidtide, to call them—if they’re still alive. Take initiative in building existing relationships; you never know when one of you won’t be there anymore. Break the habits of self-depreciation and self-imposed thoughts of worthlessness; you were created by a being who stands out of time and watches your life in total, not in segments. God knows your worth, and so should you. No matter what you’ve done prior to today, time has the added benefit of allowing you to step into tomorrow as the person you wanted to be, the day before.

And, for your own sake, take the time you’re given and make it matter. Work can wait. The house will get cleaned eventually. That project in the backyard will still be there tomorrow. But the people you love may not be. Call an old friend today. Forgive a past transgression. Forgive yourself for ‘not being there in time’ whatever that means in your context. Take time with the time you’ve been given and devote some to yourself, too. Rough roads lie behind us, but the drive continues nevertheless. And the journeys that begin after arrival are unknown. It’s time for me to accept that, and be a better steward of the moments I have now. I hope you do the same. I know I will, with God’s help.

Enjoy the drive.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

#Adventward

Have you ever not known something, and been made to feel inadequate because of it? When I was growing up, my grandmother—Grandine—did her best to instill a measure of propriety into my otherwise heathenistic methods of approaching the dinner-time ritual. At the onset of my padawan learning, Grandine didn’t speak to me with the grace of a master; she expected that I already knew how to conduct myself (I was seven, y’all), and so she’d make comments on how I’d hold my fork; how I’d set the table wrong; how I’d put a napkin on my lap the wrong way; and the list goes on.

She was never mean about it, outright. Looking back, I can remember her words and now see them as meant to be humorous, but still a little biting—not toward me, but toward my parents. She was a graceful woman, and a kind person; she, in fact, was one of the kindest people I have ever known. But in this one respect, she expected something of me—and of my folks—that she considered to be public knowledge. She expected a certain behavior at the dinner-table, the propriety with which she was raised had to be universally practiced, didn’t it? Surely, everyone, knew what it was to utilize proper etiquette while eating…

Eventually, her passive comments turned to instruction. Instead of sending playful jabs, she started the work of teaching me how to conduct myself—in her eyes—properly during meals. She taught me how to set the table, correctly. She taught me how to hold a fork. She taught me to rise and clear the table for others at an appropriate time. She taught me the propriety with which she was raised, and thus, how to be an active and proper participant in mealtime.

Now, some of you may be thinking, “Damn. Your grandmother seems a bit harsh, a bit snobbish.” That’s not the case. As I wrote earlier, she was a lovely person full of joy and encouragement. It was this one area within which she had ‘rules’ that she learned at a young age, and she was of the opinion that everyone should abide by them.

Now, to Advent. Over the course of many years, including this one, I have watched as Episcopalians become lesser versions of ourselves as Advent approaches. We make passive comments about decorations and songs; we—in what some may consider good fun, others not so much—borderline ridicule people for premature celebration of Christmastide. It is as though we expect people to conduct themselves accordingly, as we do, within the season approaching Christ’s Incarnation.

And sometimes, it comes across as condescendingly erudite.

Perhaps instead of posting on Facebook, IG, or Twitter—yep, I’m talking to you my clergy friends across the social networking spectrum—those sarcastic lines and passive pejorative comments, we should take a step back and think about what we know vs. what the world knows. Our knowledge is esoteric, considering the wider population of society. Most people haven’t ever heard of Advent, much less understand what it means. We tend to forget that we don’t live in echo chambers—something we often preach against in other contexts—and we end up attempting to be funny with crass statements that just come across as rude, undignified, or flat-out pompous.

What if we explained it? Over and over again. What if we approached Advent the way we wished others would, yet doing so in an additional way? Perhaps writing and speaking on what Advent is rather than shooting off at the keyboard or podium, we could share our knowledge and make it a little less esoteric, a little more intentional, and a lot more meaningful. It’s no wonder people don’t understand the Episcopal Church and all our intricacies—we assume too much as a people of less than two million within a body of over four hundred million. It might be time to stop being expectant, and start the journey of Advent with new legs. Our annual walk toward Bethlehem could include some new travelers, instead of holding out proverbial hands that mock and scorn those who are racing past us to get there, early.

If we were to teach kindly, without condescension, holding love and education in balance, more of the people around us would most likely understand why we have particular behaviors and practices, rather than thinking of us as uptight, scrooge-like Christians that want to take away their joy.

Maybe #adventword should be joined with #adventward—moving forward to bring others into a deeper understanding, rather than holding that knowledge for ourselves and poking holes in our neighbor’s sense of joy. We don’t need Advent police. We need Advent instructors. That’s what John was…

…that’s what we should be.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

The Greatest of These...

I met Nicole when I was twenty-five. She was—and still is—the most beautiful person I’d ever seen; I knew from those first few weeks of correspondence, that I would forever cherish the time I was given to spend with her in my life. What I didn’t expect? To fall so deeply in love with her family, too.

Nicole and I were raised with stark differences. She was brought up in a farming community; I was raised in an oil town. She was sheltered. I was decidedly not (a credit to my parents, not a complaint.) So, when I met her family for the first time, I’m sure the culture shock was electrifying, to say the least. Their beloved, sweet, innocent Nic showed up with this long-haired, ear-pierced, bartending wannabe rock-star. I smelled like the cigarettes I smoked and I dressed like the love-child of 90’s grunge and 2000’s version of preppy. A confusing and disorienting sight, to be sure.

Her family welcomed me, smiling and nodding—not quite sure what to think. But they were kind and accepting. The greatest of these, was her grandmother.

Virginia Phillips.

Virginia had a way about her, an air of strength that emanated from her small frame. Somehow, you knew you were in the presence of someone special, the presence of a master-seamstress that held this family together, weaving them with love. She chuckled a bit when she met me—an unassuming laugh that didn’t hold me in judgment, but also let me know that I’d better have substance under that swagger. Her granddaughter was a precious treasure to her, and I’d better treat her as such.

I hope I didn’t ever disappoint in that, and I continuously strive to live up to those expectations.

I write today, because someone else will give Virginia’s eulogy tomorrow. I’m certain it will be beautiful, as Virginia was a beautiful soul. It is effortless to write about her because of the way she lived, the way she loved, and the way she included everyone around her into her family. She had this radiance about her that shined, brightly. Soft-spoken, she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard; when Grandma spoke, the room listened. It wasn’t because she was demanding. It was because she was wise—and she was comforting with that wisdom rather than harshly critical. She shared it in love.

She also had a smile about her that kept a secret, just on the tip of her tongue. It was a secret you wanted to learn; what did that smile hide? What was I missing? It was a knowing visage—but one that never made anyone feel unwanted. Her eyes helped hide it, too. She didn’t need to say much because her eyes did most of the talking. When she listened to someone speak, that piercing gaze saw through the shell of the conversation into the depth of your intent. She was a force. She was country-class. She was beloved. The secret she held? Love everyone, no exceptions.

And she embodied the title of Grandmother, because of how grand that secret made her.

My heart breaks for Nicole, and her family. I know what it is to lose someone so special, and yet, to be grateful for a life that touched and shaped mine. That’s who she was to Nic. Someone who nurtured and shaped her into a loving and caring woman; a woman—and to this we can all agree—who is, herself, a point of light in our lives. Virginia’s legacy lives on in Nicole, and I’m grateful to be a bystander in the wake of that awesome shadow.

We have all lost people this year. Well, most of us, anyway. Covid knows no skin tone or socio-economic class; it knows no creed or religion; it knows no age or health-range. Our grief is deepened daily as we watch those around us succumb to this insidious and rampant plague. None of us is safe from its touch, either physically or emotionally. So, as we travel to say farewell to Virginia, we take with us other names inscribed on our hearts: All those who have died this year—Saad, Janie, Sean, Ruth, Mark, Mike, Dolores …Virginia. And so many more. But their lives were lived with love in their hearts and joy on their faces. These people, though gone, will leave a lasting impression on our souls. Thankfully, we have each other to lean upon, to grieve alongside, and to love.

That’s what this community means. It means loving through our differences when that love is most needed. Putting aside our grievances so that we can mutually carry our grief. Nicole and I are blessed by each of you reading this, as we hope you are blessed by our love in return. Know that we hold you in our hearts and prayers; that no matter what, we will continue to hold hope as our ally and not give in to despair. That we will remember those giants who taught us how to live; and carry on that lesson to generations yet to come. That the smiles we hold now contain the secrets of our ancestors, just waiting to be shared.

That our eyes hold the light of Christ, and penetrate the darkness of this current time, allowing us to see through a glass darkly, yet still glimpse hope. May our grief be holy, our faith remain strong, and our love for one another never waiver. May we remember our loved ones who have left us; but also remember our loved ones who are still here.

And may we continue this journey together, knit tightly by the bonds of faith, hope, and love.

…the greatest of these being love.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

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+