Let there be light

“This is a time of miracles.”

The way he said it was matter-of-fact. In a recent conversation with a church leader, I asked him about his feelings concerning the pandemic and peoples’ responses in ministry. He said that he was blown away by the amount of support within communities; people were helping each other without pause, starting new ministries, and strengthening existing ones. Also, he was proud of the way people were engaging ‘church’ in new ways. Just like us, his people are trying new things in order to keep connectivity flowing and communication going.

In short, this is a time of miracles.

Last year on March 8th, The Episcopal Church of the Resurrection held its final in person worship service, pre-pandemic. None of us knew it at the time, but that service would be the last moment we would all be together, marching into the building with gusto, willing and ready to worship Jesus. And also looking forward to some good coffee and food, afterward. I remember the following Monday morning, well. We (the clergy) received a communication from Bishop Ed that all churches would be ceasing in person worship until further notice, so we could play our part in stopping the spread.

My heart dropped.

While I agreed with his bishopness’ decision, the flurry of ‘Holy moly, what are we going to do to keep services going and people connected and money coming in and…and…and…” ran through my overloaded mind. But, after that short interlude into insanity, I sat back and started. First, we went to YouTube University and learned how to film. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Episcopalians—for the most part—aren’t particularly known for our technological savvy. After making a few calls, and more than a few trips to BestBuy, we were ‘ready’ to begin our first video production within four days. Using antiquated software, we edited it, and sent it out to the congregation. That was the first week. That was the first miracle.

As the months drove on, and the pandemic raged, we instituted new options for our community: A Sunday morning lectionary (bible study) series; a Wednesday evening Zoom chat session; a Thursday evening Evening Prayer service; a calling ministry; online vestry meetings; changes to our feeding ministry so that we could continue ensuring the delivery of sustenance to those home-bound individuals unable to get food for themselves. The list goes on. We even leveled up and hired someone with expertise to run the cameras and edit the videos—because we knew we needed help. Those were the next miracles.

And then, we got to come back.

For six glorious weeks, we came back to worship. We had every precautionary measure set in place and opened the doors—albeit with restrictions—for ‘business as semi-usual’. Then, alas, a few vital persons contracted Covid and, just like that, we were back to the virtual world. All those of whom were infected skated through without dire consequences, thanks be to God, and we started over. Yet, we remained online for safety purposes. Thankfully, only smatterings of our population contracted the virus and also made it through. Yet another set of miracles.

Now, we’re in the midst of Lent. Almost a year, to the day, of being separated by pandemic. Yet hope has reared its beautiful head, once again. With the advent of vaccinations and the efforts of healthcare workers, people are being aided—slowly but surely—with medicine in order to stave off another influx of insidiousness. As such, on March 28th, Palm Sunday, we will march back into the church. I can think of no better time in which to re-enter our small Theo-polis than one in which we literally begin the service by marching together from outside to in—stopping at the doorway to pray, and entering into fanfare via the organ.

Life has been more than difficult. Everyone is stir-crazy. The economy is hurting. Our hearts have broken a few times. But healing is on the horizon. Hope has unsheathed a mighty sword to cut through the bars of our pandemic prison, and soon we will enter into this church once again… And we will enter it at the beginning of Holy Week.

A few more weeks, my friends. Twenty-five days until we can be back, with restrictions, in our pews and see each other face to face. And just one more reason to say…

This is a time of Miracles.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

An Unexpected Journey

If Easter is the grand exit from the confines of Lent, then Ash Wednesday is its threshold. As a matter of fact, the three days prior to the first Sunday of Lent can be thought of as the ‘front porch’ of our penitential entrance into the house of spiritual growth. It is through this first day and days succeeding, that we find ourselves stepping into a journey—where it will take us is not entirely clear. Our practices throughout Lent leave indelible marks upon our souls, creating holy scars that strengthen relationship with God and fortify faith in God. Ash Wednesday’s physical mark mirrors that desire, and helps to serve as a reminder of our mortality with humility. It provides an outward sign that we are beginning the journey anew—stepping into the wilderness with Jesus for forty days with crosses on our heads and hope in our hearts. We know the journey will be difficult at points, yet we cross the threshold of Ash Wednesday nonetheless inspired to deepen relationship with the Almighty.

Unafraid? Not necessarily.

Unaided? Absolutely not.

Much like Gandalf’s mystical mark on Bilbo Baggins’ door—you know, the one that informed the dwarves that this was the place they were supposed to be—the mark on our heads informs us much the same. That mark on the door led the group of rag-tag individuals within on an unexpected journey. The moment those bumbling, disorganized and hungry beings entered that house, they formed a company of adventurers; they didn’t know what lie ahead, but they believed the journey would yield extraordinary outcomes. In a sense, we are much like them. We are searching for a place to be; for someone to mark us so that we can begin our unexpected journey, ending in a miraculous outcome. Often times we do not know what lies ahead, but we accept the mark anyway—we hold hope for successes along the way and prepare ourselves for the failures. When we fall down, the dust reminds us from where we came—and we get back up. When we experience joyful moments, we praise God for the momentary thin space and then proceed, knowing that God is ever-present and still following us since our exodus from Eden.

But mainly, we cross the threshold with unrestrained longing. We long for the Risen Christ. We long for the redemption and reconciliation of humanity. We long for our sins to be washed away, for the dust to settle, and for the journey to continue in new life; while simultaneously longing for vestiges of the marked joy we felt when first encountering Christ.

Will we linger on the threshold of Ash Wednesday? Or will we embrace the desperate longing and put one foot in front of the other, embarking on that unexpected journey into Lent…

…remembering our baptism, being sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with oil and ash as Christ’s own, forever.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Give and Take

As a kid, I did chores. I don’t mean to brag, but I was a chore expert—I could make beds and dust furniture, vacuum floors and do dishes better than anyone I knew. Mainly I completed my tasks out of fear for retribution from my parents; I liked freedom to roam and wished to avoid solitary confinement. But I also knew that, if I completed my duties as assigned, I’d receive compensation of some sort. The merit system was alive and well in our home, and I played that system to its fullest. I would give my time and talent, and then my parents would give me their treasure. What a great system.

This allowance was one of mutual benefit. Something was given, something was received, by all parties involved. In the case of dereliction of duty, laziness was given and punishment was received. In the case of fulfillment of duty, praise and prizes were received. This is how we understand relationship as humans—a system of merit and demerit, ‘you get what you give’ ideology. While it may work between parents and children, or even employers and workers, this is not how it works with God…and I think we forget that. Or we simply map our human ways to God’s ways. Dreadful, that. And woefully ignorant on our part. 

While God is parent to each of us, the grace given by God is free. That treasure that we so eagerly seek whether it be in the form of money, power, promotion, curatives, love—all of those things are not given because of something we’ve done to earn them. God doesn’t work that way, and too often we act as though that’s the relationship. We act good, God ‘blesses’ us. We act poorly, God ‘punishes’ us. While I think there are outlying circumstances in which this could be the case (especially in the Old Testament), God doesn’t withhold grace due to our accomplishments or failures; nor is that grace bestowed from a sense of being deserved. It isn’t earned grace; it’s free, unconditional, and abundant.

So why then do we blame God for the lack of ‘good’ in our lives? When a loved one dies, why are we angry at God? When we lose a job, or a friend; when someone we love gets sick or hurt; when things just aren’t going our way… Why do we blame God and rail against the creator of the universe, stating, “I’ve given you this, or done that; why haven’t you rewarded my acts…my faith!?” Too often I witness this within myself and those around me. And it begs the question:

Are our memories so short?

Do we not remember that God front-loaded our existence with a gift greater than any we could ever earn? Do we forget that, in our human system of give-and-take that God gave us a human form of Jesus and we took it away? We killed him. And every time we lament that which we don’t have, or become angry about something tragic in our lives and then place that blame on God, we continue to kill him. God didn’t have to give Christ to us; Jesus was and is an eternal gift that we neither deserve or earned. God doesn’t have to answer our prayers—yet we find instances of the miraculous within our midst on a daily basis. Don’t believe that last part? The very fact that you’re reading this is a miracle—how else would you explain that you have eyes to see and sentience to understand? You didn’t create those, God did. In the giving of Godself, we were made perfect by sacrifice. And how do we return that favor? We give God grief over that which we still don’t have. I often wonder if God has run out of ways to prove his love for us. How many miracles do we need? How many promotions? How much money? How much love? How many affirmations from others? Just exactly how much grace is enough to finally sate our appetite for happiness?

God gives and gives and gives. We take and take and take. We do it to each other, too. We live in a moment when lamentations are more audible than prayers of thanksgiving—yet isn’t Jesus still the one who died for us? We blame God for not answering this cry for help out of isolation and despair, yet weren’t we made with minds that created technology to connect us? My real concern is this: I don’t think we’re angry with God for abandoning us—I think we’re angry with God for not giving us what we want and how we want it.

Times are tough. People are sick. People are dying. God isn’t doing that—Covid, violence, poor eating habits, and nature are to blame. Maybe it’s time we give to God without expectation for more, because quite frankly, we’ve already received the most treasured possession God ever created…

Our lives. And the life of Jesus Christ. That’s how much God loves us. When we didn’t do our part, God still gave us a reward—the reward of eternal life. I need to remember that more often, so I thought maybe you did, too.

Faithfully, 

Fr. Sean+

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+