Heroes and Heroines Fail?

Most people have or have had a hero or a heroine in their lifetime. Some may wear capes, some may deliver presents alongside eight tiny reindeer, some may wear scrubs, while others don puffy suits and walk on the moon. For many of us, our parents and extended family are also heroic—although it is important to acknowledge that this isn’t the case for everyone. In our youth, our parents seem invincible; they know so much! They teach us to walk, to speak, to ride bikes; they disappear for hours on end and come home filled with enough energy to still play with us and continue to teach new and exciting things.
 
Then, around the age of twelve to thirteen, our heroines or heroes start to become ‘less’ in our minds. As we age, the luster surrounding mythical crusaders and our loved ones, fades. We begin to see cracks in the armor of these valiant beings—that they are human after all, or that they simply don’t exist. The sleigh and reindeer are fake, and someone has been stealing our teeth this whole time; OR our parents become human and we start noticing that their energy is waning. Either way, our world-view is diminished somewhat because of our own arrogance. We start to think that we know more. We begin to think that they know less. We stop taking the advice of those who reared us into existence and taught us to tie our shoes, instead choosing to speak to them with condescending tones and very little patience.
 
Picture this borrowed example:
 
A young child’s first word is duck. Every day, all day long, the only word that comes out of their mouths is ‘duck’. “Duck! Duck…duck, duck, duck…” and so it goes. The parent/guardian smiles deeply with joy, knowing that their offspring is beginning to understand the world—all those sacrifices and sleepless nights are bearing fruit as the first words form. For weeks, ‘duck’ is the only word they hear—yet it is the sweetest sound, like a symphony of joy playing on repeat.
 
Years later, more words are formed. These, unlike the first, come in waves of good and bad; the symphony is diminished a bit. Sometimes the child-turned-young adult says harsh words. Sometimes it’s so bad that they actually cause pain to the one who taught them to speak. Tears of joy turn to ash and are replaced by tears of frustration and anger. “Where did I go wrong? How did we go from ‘Duck’ to ‘You don’t care about me’”? Parents become the target of everything wrong with our lives, and we often place blame where it doesn’t belong.
 
Then, one day, the parent is telling a story on the phone or in a living room and the adult child interrupts, “You’ve already told me this.” With little patience, the child cuts off the story, trying to move on to the next ‘thing’. The parent, eyes misty and heart hurting, looks at the child and says, “Remember your first word?”
“Yes, of course…it was ‘duck’, why?”
“I remind you just because I want you to know that I never got tired of hearing your voice, even if it was the same thing over and over…”
 
That’s what we do to our heroes and heroines. We diminish them, then we prematurely silence them in many ways. We retire them early, in terms of advice or wisdom, and then realize too late that we should’ve listened to that story one more time, or waited patiently while they searched for the word they’d lost in their minds.
 
God is our parent. Our ultimate parent. During our youth, God is heroic—giving his only son, forgiving our sins, granting our prayers, and just being awesome all the time. That’s God for a child. We never blame God for anything in those early years—we just know that God loves us and we love God…and if bad stuff happens, we wonder why but we know that our parents and God will still love us. We ask God to take care of our friends. Then we get older. The world takes a darker tint and our experiences lead us to depressive states. Suddenly, instead of saying ‘I love you, Jesus’, some people challenge his existence. Rather than folding our little hands at night before bed and praying for our moms and dads, we turn off the lights and stare blankly at the ceiling, thinking about the next day.
 
And sometimes we just give up on God’s same ol’ stories and become impatient—waiting on another miracle or answered prayer to appear. When it doesn’t, we get angry and stop listening. God stops becoming our hero and heroine, and instead becomes a source from which all blame and anger can be cast. We forget our bible stories, we stop spending time in prayer, we stop thinking about others and hyper-focus on ourselves.
 
Just like the parent from the example earlier, God sighs too deep for words. Ever-patient, he waits for us to return, holding ready with a longing embrace. God remembers that our creation wasn’t to be subservient and robotic—that would be pointless. Instead, that memory is of a race created to love one another and love God, back. Our harsh words and thoughtless actions undo this image, separating it from the one intended. Our God, our hero, is diminished every time something bad happens.
 
Why?
 
What did we ever do to earn grace? What have we ever done to deserve prosperity or love? What right to we have to demand miracles and answered prayers from a God who already gave everything to keep the doors of eternal life opened? On the same token, why do we treat our parents the same way? Those who taught us to hold a fork, put shoes on the correct feet, and tried to love us to the best of their ability; don’t they deserve a bit more patience and a lot less blame? Doesn’t God? If loving God and our folks is contingent upon recurring blessings, then that’s not real love—that’s a transactional relationship. “If you do this, I’ll do that” shouldn’t be our reason to love the people around us, and it damned sure shouldn’t be the reason we love God.
 
It turns out that our heroes and heroines never fail us—we fail them. Just like we continuously fail God. Yet, throughout all those failings, God remains with us just waiting for us to accept that the free will in this created life is what takes it away or makes it better—not because some cosmic being arbitrarily decides who lives and dies, who’s rich or poor, who’s loved or hated. When terrible things happen to us, I hope we remember that we have a choice in those moments: We can choose to blame God or our parents, or we can choose to remember that this is a life in which we can’t control everything and sometimes, stuff happens. It’s what we do after that matters. We can still see our Creator and parents as heroes and heroines. With the latter, we can love them through the later years and remember that they changed our diapers once, too. That they were patient when we didn’t know the words. That they stayed up late with us, losing sleep, so that we could cry while being held.
 
With God, we can remember that we did nothing to deserve the spark of life. We can recognize that God isn’t to blame for all the crap that happens in this world; that he always cares and is willing to hold us while we cry, rejoice, or are simply in need of love.
 
And then, we can become the heroes and heroines that our parents are.
 
And then, we can become the children of God that he so desperately longs for us to be.
 
Faithfully,
 
Fr. Sean+

The God I Serve

Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s a question accompanying most conversations regarding the existence of God. The question of theodicy—the apologetic which addresses the existence of evil in the face of a benevolent God—is one that plagues people, sowing doubt in the hearts and minds of those trying to discern the existence of God. It makes sense from a pragmatic view. If God is omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient, then shouldn’t God prevent atrocities? Shouldn’t God have saved my loved ones from dying? Shouldn’t God keep me from being homeless, depressed, lonely, sick, and/or the victim of violence?

But that’s not how any of this works.

We were created in the Imago Dei—the Image of God. Instilled in us was and is free will to make decisions based upon our relationship with God and with others. We don’t live a quid pro quo life in relationship with God; it isn’t transactional, “If you do this for me, I’ll do that for you.” Many times, people without belief (and, to be honest, many people with belief) resort to this type of human understanding. We tend towards the meritorious lifestyle—a life lived by earning what we have or being praised/raised up for our deeds. While this is a good lesson in capitalism, it’s a poor theology to hold. We can’t expect God to answer every prayer we have, as we don’t know the mind of God nor do we hold the power to subvert nature. God holds that power; but if God continuously subverted nature’s free will due to our desires, then nature would cease to have free will, entirely. The same is said for us.

The choices people make in life can lead to violence—someone chooses to commit a crime against their neighbor, against an organization, or any other number of instances. When we pray for peace, we are not doing so with the expectation that God will cease all violence in the world—to do so would be to take away the free will with which we were created. Instead, we pray for peace without particular expectation—we pray in hope that God will instill in us the courage to spread the good news of Jesus Christ, thereby changing hearts on the ground rather than from ‘on high’. It is within God’s power to wash violence away from the planet, but again I stress that God would be changing God’s beloved creation. We would no longer be able to make choices for ourselves, instead becoming indentured servants to a tyrannical being who created us solely to worship without question or choice. That’s not the God I serve.

The God I serve is the God of compassion and feeling. The God I serve is the one who freely gave a Son to redeem the world. The God I serve doesn’t rejoice in our hardships or cause them; but does walk with us—or carry us—through them if we have the hearts to ask. God doesn’t always cure depression, anxiety, cancer, violence, poverty, racism, hatred, or anything else in answer to our prayers. Instead, those prayers serve as a living conversation between us and God that allows for hope in otherwise hopeless situations. Our faith in God shouldn’t be based upon “What have you done for me, lately?” but rather, “Thank you for what you’ve done, already; please be with me, always.” It isn’t easy to live this lifestyle, to live into the faith of that which is not seen yet believed. If it were easy, then belief would be cheap and this life wouldn’t be necessary. We’re here to minister to each other, love one another, and try to fill the voids created by others’ disbelief through discipleship and patience. Why? Because of what comes next.

That’s what eternal life offers us—the promise of a place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing but life everlasting. This plane is made to be lived upon in faith, hope, and love. Faith that God will make all things new; hope that joy and comfort will prevail over fear and hatred; love that surpasses all understanding, the love of God who gave Himself up on the cross in the form of Jesus Christ. When bad things happen to good people—or anyone, really—it shouldn’t be a question of whether or not God exists.

It should be a moment to rise up and claim the good news of Jesus Christ in the face of everything else. If we do that—if we can be faithful in the midst of tragedy, hold hope when all seems lost, and love even when we don’t understand ‘the other’—then we will begin to live into that created image in which we were lovingly created. And that’s all we can really ask for, because it’s all God asks of us.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

What Can You Do?

One of my favorite movies is “Big Trouble in Little China”. It’s probably the best horrible movie in existence. The lead character is Jack Burton; a truck-driving, tank-top wearing, long-haired wiseacre with charisma and a few loose screws. You know…the normal hero for the eighties/nineties. In the opening credits of the ‘film’, Jack spouts off a series of one-liners from his CB, while truckin’ in the storm. One of those odes to writing is this:

“…just remember what ol’ Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big ol’ storm right square in the eye and he says, ‘Give me your best shot, pal. I can take it.’”

The bravado! The gusto! Jack Burton is unflappable. Well, until faced with an eight-foot lightning-throwing demi-god, but then I think we can all agree that it’s time to run. Jack has this confident stride and smooth talk that he exudes throughout the movie, yet you get glimpses of what’s underneath during the real moments.

I think we’re all like this. We don’t want to show the world our insecurities or our faults—we’d rather pretend that ‘we can take it’ and keep moving, unscathed. God forbid we have weak moments; heaven help us if we just need to sit down and take a breather! Because we don’t want to project our problems onto anyone else. We’d rather post the best pictures of our lives on Facebook than tell the whole story of what happens in between those photos—the grief, the hardship, the stress. As long as we show the world a smiling face, everyone will think of us as worthy leaders, teachers, accountants, doctors, etc… So what can you do?

But the truth is far more complex than that. Because we are broken, each of us in our own way. Some have less resiliency than others, some have more acute stressors. Some struggle with depression while others fight the battle of alcoholism. Some hold deep insecurities. Some hold fear of failure. Some just feel alone. In this world, sometimes we can’t ‘take it’ all. We need help. We need people to hold us up without fear of reprisal or judgment. Sometimes we just need someone to say, “You know what? You don’t have to pretend that everything is okay when it isn’t. I’m here for you and I’ll listen.” That’s what Jesus wants for us. Jesus wants us to love one another and be able to lean upon our friends and fellow travelers during the storm. Because more likely than naught, our friends and fellows are struggling with something, too.

That makes community life all the more important. Real community doesn’t care about who you are in the world or what title you hold. Real community only cares about you—the real you, the one that is fallible, bumbling, joyful, sad, wicked-smart, insecure, savvy…all the things that you are at one point or another. Real community cares for those things because that’s the Imago Dei—the image that God has for us. To be together. To be real. To not let the little things divide us or drive us away, but instead to allow for the valleys to be walked through together and not alone.

What can you do? I think that needs to change into, “What can ‘we’ do?” instead.

We are so much better when united. SO much more loving when tragedy strikes, allowing all the ‘stuff’ to simply fade into the background as we pick each other up and move through tragedy and turmoil. I encourage each of you to remember this. The effects of Covid are far from over—we will begin to see the aftermath soon. I want you to know that you’re not alone, and that you have a community that will stand with you so that your, “I can take it” turns into “My friends and I can take it, with God’s help.”

That’s what we can do. And we can do it, together.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

A Grief Observed with Love

“Are you okay?”

It’s the first question we ask when faced with someone experiencing any type of hardship. In our hearts, we know they aren’t ‘okay’; but the words inexorably tumble out of our mouths. We need to say something—anything—to engage them into conversation; sometimes out of a pure desire to assess the situation, other times because we simply don’t know what else to ask. Yet, silence isn’t an option, either. If we don’t engage, we become seemingly thoughtless bystanders, watching the horror show that is our loved ones’ tragedy. As C.S. Lewis writes in his own experience, A Grief Observed:

“An odd byproduct of my loss is that I’m aware of being an embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do. And if they don’t.”

Lewis knows. His own struggle with grief strikes the heart of the matter: He knows he isn’t an embarrassment due to his grief—he feels that he is the cause of embarrassment to others who have no earthly clue as to how they can approach him, or, leave him alone. He wants neither, and both. It’s an odd place to be in the midst of grief—much like being in a pool filled with purified drinking water while dying of thirst, yet unable to drink it; we rather prefer the taste of our own tears, gulping down more air with which to scream and rail at God—or anyone else—for our suffering. Yet we don’t want to do that alone or in the company of anyone else. It is the paradox of grief.

Then comes the inevitable, “I’m sorry”. While we mean well, what we don’t understand is that we’re asking for them to become the caring one in that moment—in our minds, this isn’t true; we really do feel sorrow for the other person. But the truth is, saying ‘I’m sorry’ will evoke an ‘it’s okay’ response. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, the other person will understand from where we’re coming and answer, ‘thank you’—but most of the time, people are too embroiled in grief or trauma to have that kind of situational awareness. We are not helping in those moments, as much as we mean otherwise.

So, now what? How can we ‘be there’ for someone without effusing meaningless phrases? What does it look/sound like to ‘help’ someone through grief? Through trauma?

I’m no expert on those two subjects, at least no more than anyone else who has endured them. Grief and trauma are contextual; at best, our job as support is to do just that: support. The question then turns from, “Are you okay?” to “What do you need?” Many times, the initial answer will be, “I honestly don’t know.” But eventually, by keeping the question alive, the answer comes. It, too, being contextual. The main thing to remember when dealing in grief and trauma is to be present. Simply sitting with someone and not saying or doing anything seems like the perfect response to Lewis’ paradox of ‘I hate it when they do. And when they don’t.’ If we can be brave enough to let our only question be about the person, not about us (Notice that I didn’t write, “What can I do for you”, but rather, “What do you need”), then we may just find a way to be present without being obtrusive.

I think back to when my friends lost their baby. There are no words, no actions that can mitigate that kind of pain. I don’t have to go through it to know that—no parent should ever lose a child. But being present with them, allowing them to speak when they wanted, cry when they wanted, all without injecting how wonderful a help I could be and without asking empty questions just to gain responses, seemed to be enough help in and of itself. Eventually they opened up, and they needed us to listen to them, to cry with them, and to hold them up.

Christ’s commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves is one that asks us to walk in their shoes, see from their perspective when possible. If not, then it is boiled down to a simple choice: Can we love without getting in the way? Are we able to not be the hero—to not need to feel like we’ve done something to help the other, and simply allow grief to happen? Our greatest weakness as compassionate humans can be to over-function in times of turmoil. If we are willing to lay down questions that we already know the answers to, then perhaps we can pick up on the silence and hear the truth of their situation through it.

Perhaps we can observe grief first, and through invitation and patience, be a part of that grief observed.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Be at Peace, at Your Pace

What a heavy week—Holy without a doubt—but heavy. As a friend and I were talking, we likened last week’s return to in person worship to ‘drinking from a spiritually-charged theological fire hydrant.’ We both missed gathered worship, but the emotions evoked from seeing other people in the pews coupled with the messages and liturgy of the week were almost too much to contain. To put it plainly, it was a lot.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the months to come will contain as much or more of the same. Seeing people for the first time in a year brought out emotions and tears that I didn’t know I had been holding in; I hadn’t recognized the depth of sadness that had seeped into my bones over the last twelve months. I saw it on your faces, too. What a wonderful sadness—a testament to the life and vitality of Church of the Resurrection’s community—that so many of us reacted the way in which we did. It was and will continue to be a beautiful experience, if last week is any indication, the coming weeks and months will affect our senses more than we realize.

What a wonderful prospect.

The world will never be the same, post-Covid. I am not naïve enough to believe that everything will return to the way it was; yet, I am faithful enough to realize that old ways need to be made new, and that the ‘new normal’ is a resurrection in and of itself. The tears and smiles, joy and relief are all part of this new normal—and we’ve barely scratched its surface. My advice to all of us is to remember our own needs for reentering the social sphere. Be cognizant of your own abilities to take in the changes life will inevitably produce this coming year. If you find yourself overwhelmed, go back to Zoom for a moment, for a respite; that’s why its there. Eventually, the time will come when we’re all ready to embrace the new ways and marry them to the old ones, creating a hybrid by which ministry casts a broader net. But in the meantime, take care to take care. This return shouldn’t feel like a weighty burden, it should feel like a breath of fresh air.

So, as I say at the end of every service, be at peace. Don’t look forward in fear or anxiety to the changes of the coming days, rather look to them with hope as they arise. God has brought us through the hardest days of this pandemic and will continue to carry those who need more time to encounter the world in person, again. Put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginations, and allow the Holy Spirit to guide you from home, at church, or wherever you choose to be. As Jesus says, ‘Come unto me all that travail and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.’ This return is a marathon, not a sprint; there is no finish line, just the journey to be enjoyed.

Enjoy it at your pace. And in God’s peace.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

We Were Expecting...More?

Jesus turned water into wine. Can you imagine witnessing that? Imagine that you’re at a wedding; a few hours have passed and you walk to the bar—only to find that the Corona Premium has run out! Then out of nowhere, this man steps forward and gently lays his hands on the bar-top. Corona Premium labels come into view, replacing the PBR and black-label ‘BEER’ bottles. You’ve seen this, keeping in mind that you may have had a few yourself. You are amazed. Not only did the bar get restocked, but it was done so with the same beer you desired…the ‘good stuff’ in your opinion. Note: Let’s not get into which beer is good or not; let’s focus on the point…

That was Jesus’ first miracle. He turned water into wine—good wine—and everyone was amazed. Then he ventured out into the surrounding areas and performed more miracles, each with their own unique and mesmerizing aftereffects. Jesus’ lore grows by the day as people recall and recite his most recent actions until one day, suddenly people are just less impressed. Much like the first iPhone to the newest rendition, people forgot the awe with which they saw that first miracle and started to think of those moments as commonplace. They got used to it. They came to expect it. They wanted more. “Yeah, but what else can you do, Jesus? We’ve seen the wine trick…that’s old hat. You got anything more than that?”

Jesus even goes as far as to bring people back from the dead. I’d definitely place that type of miracle in the ‘Uh, yeah, hold my beer while I do THIS’ category. Still, people wanted more. He feeds five thousand with a glorified Lunchables; people want more. He walks on water and calms the storm; people want more.  

He gives up his life, in pain and agony, for the salvation of the world. People want more.

How did we become these people? And better yet, how do we return to the awe and wonder associated with our devotion to God? Being God has got to be exhausting—much like a parent that works 4 jobs to provide food and lodging for their children, only to be plagued by incessant requests for a new car or ‘fun money’ for the weekend. Thankfully, God doesn’t get exhausted, or we’d all be in a world of hurt…more so than normal. There’s still hope for us, though. There are moments throughout the year that can point to a better way of belief, a stronger bond with God.

We have Advent—anticipatory days spent awaiting the coming of the Christ child.

We have Christmas—twelve days of jubilation regarding the Incarnation.

We have Epiphany—the revelation of God to the world, the great Theophany.

We have Lent—a period of time in which we can reflect and, with God’s help, rehabilitate our wayward ways.

We have Easter—the promise of new and unending life, ever-sustaining, never failing.

We have Pentecost—a time of fire from the Holy Spirit that, given the permission, will invade our mouths so that our lips may proclaim God’s praise.

We have Ordinary time—a time to revel and grow into the previous seasons’ actions.

So, I guess instead of saying there are moments, we could say that there is an ongoing journey with God if we simply refuse to allow the liturgical seasons to morph into ‘old hats’. We must take time to make meaningful discoveries throughout the year that will bolster our faith and allow us one step closer to the God of miracles, the Jesus of salvation, the Holy Spirit of our very souls.

If we do this, miracles make marked impressions upon our being, and cease becoming something we’ve already seen. They take new light, shining their extraordinary benefits of grace upon us and we actually take notice in appreciation. Holy Week is another moment in which we can do this. If we approach Holy Week with the mindset that it isn’t just a chance for pomp and circumstance, but an opportunity to joyfully enter the church, agonizingly witness the atrocities committed by our own, and be present at the foot of the cross so that we can witness the glory of resurrection…we may just be changed by that resurrection…

…in our home of Resurrection. And we won’t need anything more.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

The Journeymen

In August of 2017, I received a simple prayer request from an acquaintance. “Prayers, please. Going through a rough time.” I’d met the man through a barbecue competition the previous year, and he seemed genuine and a generally fun person to be around. Little did I know then that I’d met someone with whom I’d begin rebuilding—along with the people already there—the Church of the Resurrection.

Chad Yarbrough initially signed on for five months. The plan was never to stay longer; he intended to seek financially stronger employment but wanted to help out here in the meantime. It was a win-win. I needed an assistant. He needed a job. Three and a half years later, Chad found what he had been searching for—thanks be to God.

There’s so much that I can list about Chad. From manual labor around the church to helping me clean and redesign rooms for use. We painted together, put cove base on together, created newsletters, bulletins, visions for ministry, and even discovered the ever-elusive email password! We journeyed. We built. We supported each other through difficult moments—me consoling him when his OSU cowboys lost, and him bear-hugging me after the death of a friend.

You see, Chad is much more than an assistant. Chad is an apostle. Grace appears in all shapes and sizes; in this instance, grace looks like sasquatch. And thank God for that, as we needed big grace to jump-start our now thriving community. He has played the part of Santa, Putrid, confidant, and friend. He has made me leave the building to rest; he has made me eat when I forget. He reminds me to take naps when he says I’m cranky—clearly I’m never cranky—but I allowed those moments, anyway.

To say that he’ll be missed by this church family is an understatement. There will be real grief in his absence, but pure joy in the opportunities that lie ahead for him and for us. The person that fills that position will be different, but will also bring unique gifts and grace of their own. The only hole that needs be filled is the one of not seeing him every day; that will be difficult. Our business isn’t like the ones most other people operate—we’re in the business of relationship, and business has been good. I know I speak for all of us when I write that he has been and will continue to be a great friend to Episcopal Church of the Resurrection, and that he is a vital part of why we are who we are, now.

But as with all things, change is inevitable. And it isn’t bad. It’s just different. I look forward to welcoming the new Executive Assistant to ECOTR—and I’ll send that information soon, after I speak with my Wardens and gain their insights. Until then, pray for Chad’s success, and thank God for his presence over the last few years.

And Chad, I’m proud to be your friend. Thank you for making my dreams come to life around here. Thank you for being you. Well done, good and faithful servant. And as I’ve said to you every day before I leave the office, my last words will be the same:

Thank you.

Fr. Sean+

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+