Let Us Decrease

In John 3, we hear the wily baptizer in a different light. Instead of the fire and brimstone-laden messages he usually hurls, he softens and shows his humility and piety. His disciples witnessed Jesus baptizing and they ran to tell John; they didn’t think it was right that Jesus was pulling people away from their current master. “Rabbi, the one who was with you across the Jordan, to whom you testified, here he is baptizing, and they are all going to him.”(John 3:26) Instead of puffing up and becoming self-absorbed, John simply says, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30). It takes John less than the blink of an eye to correct his disciples, show his humility, and step out of the way so that Jesus’ work remains uninhibited.

How often do we do this? Are we the type of disciples who puff up and get in the way? Our ministries and works are important to us—they fulfill us to a holy level and allow us to feel useful to the Kingdom. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that, yet I wonder how deeply that self-gratitude is buried. Our tendency to do works comes from a good place, a God place. But all too often we become enamored with our own abilities and forget for whom they are intended to glorify. I don’t believe this is intentional all the time, yet it still occurs. We become gatekeepers—kings and queens of our little fiefdoms. Our humility takes a backseat to our pride, our self-worth.

What about increasing the glory of God? How can we become part of the furniture rather than the main attraction?

The answer is simple yet convoluted: We must remember that God gives us the gifts to enact ministry, yet others hold gifts like ours as well. Instead of being afraid of losing our positions, or being untrusting of someone else being able to do the task as well as we would, shouldn’t we let them increase so that we can decrease? In order to keep ministries fresh, new ideas and new leadership is often the recipe of success.

But more importantly, it keeps us humble.

We don’t become so tied to our roles that we forget our identities. Decreasing doesn’t mean we become obsolete; decreasing isn’t diminishing. Instead, this idea of decreasing allows us to move out of the way so that others get a better glance at Christ, to whom all glory belongs, while simultaneously still doing the work He calls us to do.

That type of humility lends itself to piety, which in turn lends to spiritual renewal and growth. If we can simply allow ourselves to be the vessels through which ministry and the Word is carried out, then the ‘work’ of God becomes living and transcendent. We become more by becoming less. And the ministries of God take on new life.

Let God increase. Let us be less so that we can be more.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Being 'Us'

In Tuesday’s Morning Prayer, we heard about Gideon and his army of 32,000 soldiers. The Lord instructed Gideon to march toward the East and conquer those lands by force. Yet, upon arrival, God does something interesting: He tells Gideon to keep “only those who lapped water from the river,” and to “send the ones who cupped their hands back to their lands.” Rather quickly, the army’s number dwindled from a great mass of 32,000 to a meager 300.

Sparta, anyone?

Outnumbered and vastly overwhelmed, Gideon takes his second, Purah, and infiltrates the camp of thousands, just to hear what they’re saying. God told Gideon that he’d feel better about his chances once he heard the stories for himself. When he arrived at the camp, he heard the soldiers speaking to one another about dreams and omens, and he was convinced. Hurrying back to his encampment, he rallied his troops, sieging and seizing those lands and defeating that army.

The point of this history lesson is two-fold:

I think they should make a movie about Gideon and his army and call it “The Other 300”; and second, God doesn’t need thousands to conquer. Our God just needs us to be faithful and show up.

So many churches in the United States and across the world are small. Their largest complaint seems to be, “We need more people in order to be viable. We need to get young families, increase money, start new ministries, get the older generation involved more, and not change how we do things at all.” Of course, this is a bit tongue-in-cheek but there’s a nugget of truth within. We often request ‘more’ when we already have what we need. We refuse change in the name of tradition, to a poor fault. We seek to build bigger storehouses and deeper bank accounts when in reality, God used a guy dressed in camel’s hair to usher in Jesus’ coming.

That guy ate bugs and didn’t own anything except a rad hairdo and a wily sense of ministry. And he shaped the beginnings of the Church.

We have enough. We are enough. Whether we have 70 or 700 on Sundays and throughout the week matters little; what matters is the depth of faith we possess to do the work God calls us to do as us. ‘Us’ as we are, not as we think we should be. In a world that seemingly tears itself apart and departs from faith, we are the frontline army. We’re the ones wielding swords slashing away at evil with loving words. We bear shields as bulwarks against a tide of hunger, loneliness, exclusion and depravity. We put on the armor of love in hopes that when we march into the world it will see us as a beacon and not a group of do-gooders who don’t put their hearts where their mouths are.

God doesn’t need a big army. God desires a strong one.

Whether your church has twelve or two hundred; millions or pennies; three chapels and a sanctuary or a small room; you can do the same impactful ministry that your desires call for ‘more’ in other areas.

Let’s be us. God calls each of us by name to be ministers in our own right—not to change into something we’re not, but to strengthen who we are in Him. That’s the Church I serve in my heart, the Church of the future. The Church of the past. The rag-tag rebellion and the vast army. Big or small, we’re all giants.

Let’s make this Church a present. The gift to the world that Jesus Christ was, is, and always shall be.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

A Kind Awakening

I stopped seeking joy, that’s where it started.

Every day was another trudge through the norm: get up, go to the church, put out fires, make some phone calls, have some meetings, go home, cook dinner, eat, fall face first into a fictional book until I went to sleep. While all of those moments were useful, I began to notice that there weren’t many moments of ‘aha’ alongside them. So caught up in the worries of the world and the church, I’d forgotten my natural joy for life; the thing that kept me excited and ready for the next challenge.

This was three weeks ago.

Then someone I trust asked for some time with me. Shrugging noncommittally, I walked to my office, sat down, and waited. They nervously adjusted themselves in the chair adjacent to mine and said four words that struck like a hammer to my soul: “You aren’t the same.” Continuing, they went into detail, “You have always had a sense of joy around you, of happiness. The last year, you’ve seemed tired, sad, and temperamental. Some of the others are noticing, too. Not too many—maybe three or four—but enough to let me know that I’m not the only one. We love you and we need that version of you back, wherever he went.”

I sat back and didn’t say anything for a minute.

What could I say? You try doing this. You manage your sense of joy when everything seems to be going wrong; when people are dying left and right; when…when…when did I lose my joy?

We talked for a little while longer, them telling me about their life and me listening externally while my mind scurried around trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Then I realized, my fervent curiosity about the goings-on and wonders around me had disappeared, only to be replaced by a sense of the slogging automaton currently residing in my shell. We parted ways after about an hour and I left the office, a bit broken.

I didn’t want to be the person I was becoming. I wanted to be the curious and excitable man that I’ve always been—the one people laugh at and shake their heads with smiles on their faces. I wanted my joy back, dammit! But wanting and finding are two different things. I knew I had some work to do, and so I started.

I began with the little things: Asking how Trina was doing and then listening when I arrived in the morning; making phone calls to parishioners and old friends, taking time to share a conversation that meant something other than just going through the motions and playing at keeping tabs. I started reading fun trashy LitRPG a little bit more and put away the doldrum of “things I should read so people will thing I’m smart.” I sat outside on the patio instead of inside in the dark. I went for beers with a friend. And I looked at my wife, my home, and my life with new eyes. God hadn’t left me at all. God was being shoved aside so that I could trek on and do the work without distraction.

Yesterday evening, I sat outside on the back porch and watched the dogs play. Unbeknownst to me, my wife had come home and was staring at me through the back door (creeper). She didn’t have to say why, as, when I noticed her, I also noticed that I was smiling. For no reason. She walked outside and asked, “What’re you smiling about? You look…peaceful.” I just hugged her and welcomed her home, knowing that I was coming home myself—to myself.

I wonder how many others out there have been caught in the slog. I wonder how many people have shoved God aside to ‘get the work done’ and stopped living…really living. I wonder with wonder how long I would have gone on like that without someone who loves me taking the time and telling me. I wonder at their courage.

If you’re struggling and don’t know it, call a friend and ask. If you’re feeling empty and don’t know why, take some time to do some self-inventory. I’ll give you the same advice that is often given to me: You can’t serve others from an empty vessel. And my friends, my cup hath not runneth over for quite some time. But it’s starting to refill, thanks be to God and a good friend.

I hope you’ll find this message useful, and my story is taken as one with intent for you to do the same. And if you’re one of the lucky unscathed joyous ones? Use your joy to impact others, to infect them and make them see the good around them. People like you are doing God’s work right now, and you’re the ministers we need…the ones the world desperately cries out for.

To my friend: Thank you.

To my wife: I love you and am thankful for you.

To my people: It’s nice to be back. And I’ll be waiting for those of you who are away, too.

To my savior: Through you I live and move and have my being. Without you, I am nothing. With you, I am me. Thank you, Lord, and keep the grace coming.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Wanna Get Away?

Sometimes we just need to get away from it all. The stress, the concerns, the heartache, the bad news; all of it. With each addition to our proverbial plate, the weight seems to become heavier and heavier. Something small could happen, but alongside everything else, it feels like a ton of bricks has just been added. This sense of overwhelming is burdensome, it’s hard, it’s never-ending when you’re in the middle of it. So, how do we cope? What mechanisms are in place for us to deal with the amount of stress in our lives, in our hearts, on our minds?

Again, Scripture helps us. Jesus continually walks away from the crowds and his friends throughout his life. He doesn’t throw his hands up and say, “You know what, I think I’ll just leave and let all this fall apart. It isn’t worth it.” He knows better. He knows that he’s here for a purpose, and that his duty is literally a life then death scenario. But he takes time away. Away from it all. He doesn’t go to beaches or to mountains—he does that when he preaches. Instead, we see instances of Christ walking away from his amigos to do one thing:

Pray.

Christians, especially nominal ones or jaded ones, will often talk about prayer as an after-thought. “Yeah, I’ll pray, but first I have to do something about all this chaos. I have to fix things.” That’s not the way it works, friends. We don’t jump into action and try to solve our own issues (or those of others when asked) before we pray. We pray first. We get away from it all, even for five minutes, and we convene with God. That vital moment of silent prayer is the catalyst for our actions afterward. If we don’t take it, we’re not doing it right. If it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me. If Christ, God incarnate, needed time to pray before striking out again and dealing with the various tasks set before him, then why don’t we? Why wouldn’t we?

There’s a term for this, it’s called ‘Functional Atheism’. FA is when we espouse a belief in God, say that we’re Christians and that God has us, but then choose to find our own way first rather than consult Him. Many of us fall into this trap of trying to fix our own problems without seeking the God who defeated death. Surely that death slayer can hear us when we cry out and give us strength. Give us answers. Or simply give us peace. One of the three always occurs. ALWAYS. Whether it be grief, or loneliness; poverty or relationship woes; sickness or depression—our God wants to be there with us. He doesn’t want us to be there, and he never places us there, but just like Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the garden, God follows us into the unknown. Even when we’re thrust out into it against our desires.

I would encourage you, and myself, to pray first, then act. Without a daily prayer life, none of this gets easier. It’s like taking on the act of pushing against the ocean—it can’t be done, and we all end up getting swallowed by the deep water. Prayer isn’t a magic balm to every situation in terms of ‘fixing’ things that are wrong. But prayer is a conversation with someone who loves us more than any other being in the universe—someone who understands us to our marrow. If you’re struggling, pray. If you’re lonely, pray. If you’re sick or hurting or despondent…pray. God will send someone or something to you, whether it be an old friend or new, a bumper sticker or a t-shirt saying. Something will jump out at you because you asked for help. God is always here, God never walks away. So why should we wait to seek Him? We shouldn’t. When we feel the need to get away, the answer is right before us, just as it always has been. We should step aside, walk a small distance (whether literally or figuratively) and know that God is right behind us. He will listen, and you may not get what you want, but you’ll always receive what you need.

Pray. Believe. Act. Repeat.

The rest will follow. And the ‘rest’ will follow.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

God is There

Death is not the end. We preach that, we teach that, we live by that creed. But death is still something that deeply affects us. People often search for the ‘right’ words to say when someone they love is going through grief, but the secret?

There are no right words.

No matter what we say, death still causes pain to us. It’s not as easy as Scripture makes it, “Death, where is thy sting?” Well, honestly Bible person, it’s stinging in my heart because I lost someone dear to me. That’s where its sting is. Of course, the Scriptures aren’t talking about pain, they’re referring to the finality of death. And that’s where I feel like we make mistakes. We misinterpret the Bible as saying, “Don’t be sad, don’t go through grief—you should have bigger faith than that.” That’s not how it was intended. At least, in my addled mind.

Death is a part of life, part of the cycle that makes up the human condition. I’ve accepted that. I accept that we will all lose people we love to bodily death. I accept that we (mostly) also hold hope of the resurrection and that our faith will guide us through loss. What I don’t accept? That grieving is not allowed. If you show me a person who says, “You know, you shouldn’t be too sad, they lived a long life,” OR “You know, God has them now, so you should be happy!” Show me that person…and you may see a priest turn into a cage fighter.

It's okay to be sad. It’s okay to grieve. Hell, if you don’t grieve, I’m actually a little more worried about you than normal.

The beautiful thing about that grief? (And perhaps the only beautiful thing)…God grieves with us. As any good parent would, God is always there, ready to carry us through the toughest of times—the times when we’re so aggrieved that we can’t see through the sea of tears flowing from our eyes and the ocean of sadness floating in our hearts. God is there. When we are angry at a loss that makes no sense. God is there. When we’re too young to lose a parent, too in love to lose a spouse, too lost and feeling betrayed when we lose a child. God is there.

When we continue to bury people we love, again and again…

God is there.

To be part of someone’s life is an honor, a privilege to possess the currency of love with which we afford each other’s memories and time. There is no greater possession than the relationship we have with those we love. When death occurs, the sting is there—but not the Sting of forever. That’s the truth of the Good News. When we are able to grieve in a holy way, it means that we understand that alongside all the other feelings surrounding our losses. It’s the only way we can continue on—knowing that no matter how we feel, God is there, and the relationship we had with whomever we lost mattered.

Lately, we’ve lost quite a few folks to death, but heaven gained quite a few souls to run the streets of gold. It isn’t easy to think of it that way, but it’s what sustains me. It’s what allows me to continue on, knowing that I believe in the resurrection, and that I know we will all eventually go to that place where there is no sadness or grief, no pain or sorrow, but life everlasting. It also allows me to grieve. To shed holy tears for Rick. For Joe. For Judy. For Wil.

For Duane.

For every person that our community has lost, I mourn. Yet, I choose to stare death in the face and not back down. Because behind me, within me, and around me, God stands ready. With arms of love open and willing to embrace me, and you, in those tough moments. Because I know death isn’t the end. It’s just the end of this part of life. And it hurts. But that hurt is worth the life lived in love. And I’ll do it over and over again, I’ll hurt in those moments because of the blessing God gave me through that person’s earthly life.

So. I grieve. But I do so with my head held high. Because God has his hands under my chin, reminding me to look ahead and hold my faith closely. That one day, I will be a saint alongside my lost ones, and on that day, I’ll rejoice. Because, while I may grieve here, while I may feel death’s sting, I know that my redeemer lives.

And I know that love is still here, and joy will seep through the cracks of our broken hearts, because of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Because God is here.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Thankfulness

I think being at home so much over the last year(s) has many of us going crazy. We wanna be out there, in the world, adventuring! But, alas, we’re masked vigilantes just trying to fight off the insidious plague. And it’s so frustrating to have hope of an end—only to be given the gift of a new strain and a longer path to recovery. So, the trudge continues. And yet, throughout all of this, I’ve come to appreciate ‘home’ a little more.

I’m thankful for my home, for the ability to have a place of shelter. I’m thankful for the little odd jobs around the house that have been put off in lieu of ‘greater things’. I’m thankful for the little beasts that nap on my lap as I write articles and make phone calls. I’m thankful for my home.

Being thankful is a lost art, because of how bad things have been. I lost sight of how blessed I am, how blessed most of us are, in the midst of the covid chaos. We’ve all lost people we love. We’ve all been affected by the infection. There’s a pervasive sadness that seems to seep into our bones. Because of this, thankfulness has started wearing a mask. We don’t even recognize it as readily as before; we don’t see with the optimistic eyes that we used to.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. If you’re struggling, and believe me when I tell you that you’re not alone, there are still things to be thankful for in this life. You have people who love you. You have a roof over your head. You have a God who cares more for you than any of us will ever comprehend. Maybe in our grieving what is lost, we can find gratitude for what has been gained. We have gained strength—we know what we’re made of and more importantly, we know that we are more than just a bunch of people who say random words for an hour on Sundays. We are a community and we have each other.

We have made a home.

I’m thankful for our home. For the people who do the odd jobs that seem to go over-looked. I’m thankful for a place of shelter that surrounds me with love at least one day a week. I’m thankful for the little ones that run around and make noise and create smiles with their presence. I’m thankful for our home, and thankful that we’ve built it on an unshakeable foundation of love.

I’m thankful for you. I hope you know that. And I hope you can begin to feel gratitude if that’s something you’ve been missing. Because we have much for which to be grateful.

Mostly, I’m thankful for the peace that passes all understanding in the moments of despair. And that faith has allowed us to be thankful even when all looks bleak. Keep up the prayers, and keep your hearts uplifted. God is with us, and nobody can stand against us. Not Covid, not doubt, not death. We are the body of Christ.

We are thankful.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

The Difference of Faith

I think New Year’s Eve is such a letdown. It’s never quite lived up to expectation. When we’re younger, we get all dolled up, put on our best outfits and attitudes, and go out merry-making for the night. We talk of dreams and resolutions, of best-laid plans and hopes for the new dawn. And then the dawn happens, and we’re the same (some maybe a little worse for wear). We sluggishly move about, still grasping for that sense of newness from the prior evening; yet, it has already been diminished at the first sound of something going awry. Little by little, that chipping away occurs. The new year that we’d hoped to chisel into a shining beacon slowly becomes a distorted version of itself—somehow lesser than we had imagined.

It happens most years. At least, it used to, before faith becomes a true presence in our lives.

Fourteen years and four days ago, my family went through unspeakable pain. The new year had dawned and hope was on the horizon. My dad’s transplant had gone well and the doctors were more than optimistic that he’d make it through. Eight days later, he died from something totally unexpected. The crushing sense of defeat was palpable. None of us knew where to turn, where to lay our frustrations and grief. We were lost for a long time, searching for ways to reclaim the lives of joy and love that we’d lived prior to his loss. Finally, with nowhere else to turn, and after a couple of years—yes, years—of heartache, we started seeking God again. None of us were against God, but we were nominal Christians; people who espoused faith but only when things were normal or good. I want to be honest about that. Church was so low a destination on Sundays that it didn’t even eclipse going to the store for Sunday football beers. It just wasn’t in our maps app. Our GPS wasn’t pointed to GOD, it was headed in other directions.

It took time to make that turn, to reroute our lives and face the only source big enough to handle the immensities of our hurt. It took time to look at God, not from afar, but from the vantage point of our knees, begging Him to accept us back home and to help lift the burdens of our troubled spirits.

Fast forward to these past few days. Again, our little family has been torn asunder. Yet, even with the gaping chasm left by Duane’s absence, we are different. We have been refined. Sure, we’re sad—unmistakably and deeply torn—but it’s different. The love is no less and the loss is overwhelming, but we have something we didn’t have before.

We have faith. Real faith. Not the faith that crumbles away at the first sight of misery, but the power of belief that sustains, guides, and gives reassurance. It’s this faith that has been the difference all along this lengthy process of Duane’s battle. He had it, too. I remember multiple conversations from my dad’s death and have been replaying them in my mind and comparing them to the one’s we’re having now. What a change, and what a boon. The realization that God doesn’t ‘do’ anything to us, rather than having already done everything for us is miraculous. None of us are happy right now, but none of us are hopeless, either.

If I were to give any advice to my younger self, it would be to seek God first rather than last. To ground myself in good soil of perfect love rather than seeking the hard paths on the periphery. I have watched my mother turn from an angry soul to an accepting servant. Her remarks and outlook have been wondrous to behold—she understands now, because she has the kind of faith only brought about by living into it every day, not just the ones that are good. I have watched my wife, Nicole, do the same. And I have seen it in myself.

Many of you who are my friends on facebook, and not regulars at the church, are the target of this writing. No matter the hole you find yourself in, seek faith. Seek that reassurance from an immovable source, the eternal God. I promise you that your life will be changed forever. That seeking can come in the form of finding a friend (like me or someone else) who has tread those roads already and can help you find a space to grow. Because we’re still growing, still getting it wrong occasionally, still frustrated and sad and lonely and all the other things. But we also have the grace of God that reroutes us back to the road of love.

I cannot imagine how we made it through without God in those first years, and I cannot fathom His absence now.

Duane has died. We are heartbroken. Yet, the peace that passes all understanding has kept our hearts and minds in the knowledge of God; and His blessings shine upon us. We are not in pieces, rather we are walking back toward peace, albeit slowly, to the Redeemer of our souls.

And what a blessed walk that is, for grief is the price we pay for love. And it’s in that grief that we walk, feeling the love we lost, as well as the love God shines upon us, along the way.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Why Should I?

Why should we come to church on Christmas Eve? I mean, we have family in town, last minute preparations are being executed, and we’re honestly at our wits’ end with anything ‘extra’. It’s so late. It’s so much easier to stay home and be with family. We can worship on Sunday…

During the season in which Jesus was born, there was a census occurring. So many people congregated in such a small area that all the inns and places to stay were at capacity. People were moving about, frantically trying to gather their families together in order to be present for the reason they all gathered. Moms were at their wits’ end. Dads were, too. The kids didn’t want to make the trip, at all. I mean, their friends were in town. Hustle and bustle. People were moving.

Then a family arrives, late in the day, seeking somewhere to stay. All the places are full, as everyone is too busy to accommodate them. They’re luckily moved to a spot in the back of the inn, a place with straw and some semblance of warmth. Thankfully, someone attended them and allowed the least possible attention. A very pregnant young female, an exhausted man, and a number of family members who had all been traveling for months. And God’s miracle was about to occur.

If the family hadn’t been expecting that miracle, I’m sure they’d have done like everyone else—allowed the season to overtake them. They’d have let the business and busy-ness overrun their days, instead of taking time to look around them for the possible beauty taking place. This is where the first question posed above enters into the fray:

Why should I go to church on Christmas Eve?

Because no one was there the first time. No one witnessed or celebrated, no one took a moment of silence. No one knew it was happening. But we do, now. Why come? Because we can celebrate the memorial with the holy family. We can honor the birth of the Incarnate Christ by virtue of dropping everything else and simply choosing to travel to the place where we know the celebration will occur. If you knew, two thousand years ago, that Christ was being born and that you could have a front-row seat, would you go?

I’d travel thousands of miles just to stand at the back.

That’s why traveling ten or fifteen, now, is really an easy choice.

I hope to see you on that silent night.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Prayer Shapes Communion

Holy Eucharist is the center of our worship every week. Sure, people enjoy the sermon (sometimes…hopefully) and the prayers of the people are meaningful for us. But it really comes down to communion; to eating the body and blood of Jesus Christ that was given freely so that we might have eternal life. That holy moment is just that: holy. Yet, many Sundays I have the feeling that communion is rushed. Maybe the sermon went long (oops) or there’s something coming after church that causes us to hurry. Whatever the case, sometimes those precious seconds spent at the rail aren’t enough.

At my last place of worship, the priest there instituted a practice that I adored. After communion, the people would segue back to their seats via the side chapel. Whichever clergy weren’t administering the sacraments that day would be sitting there, and anyone who felt the need could stop and pray with them. We’d pray aloud sometimes, and in other moments we’d simply sit and be together in silence while the rest of communion was distributed. Those were thin spaces for me, moments where I felt God’s gentle embrace. And I miss them.

Enter Sandra Capelle. A few months ago, we began talking about the pull she felt toward prayer for others. She asked me if I was interested in the possibility of offering prayer throughout the service, and I told her about the previous church’s practice. Together, we shared in a God sighting—a moment that God spoke to both of us through our vision of desiring more prayer during an already holy situation.

Beginning this Sunday, you will be able to share in that moment, too. Sandra and whichever of the clergy who is not administering communion will be sitting in the side chapel during the Eucharist. After you receive communion, you are encouraged (yet not mandated!) to venture over and pray with them if the Spirit so moves you. I hope you will find this as holy a moment as I have in the past, and that it further feeds you in your spiritual journey. If you choose not to partake, I hope you’ll glance over and pray for those who do. Either way, Jesus is worshiped and we’re just that much closer to walking in the glow of the Holy Spirit.

Happy Thanksgiving, all. We have much for which to be thankful, and much for which to pray. In both instances, I want you to know that you’re always on my heart and your names escape my lips in my own prayers and thanksgivings. I can’t imagine being anywhere else. So in thanksgiving, I say thank you for letting me be your priest and thank you for being my family.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+

Home Again

You can’t ever go home again. It’s a phrase uttered throughout most circles at some point. I never really understood it until I was in my twenties, after the first trip back ‘home’ to see my folks. Things were just different. They weren’t bad. They weren’t better. They were just not the same. I had an instance of that this past week, too. I hadn’t been back to Las Cruces in twenty years. I’m not sure what’s more disappointing; the fact that I hadn’t been back in twenty years, or the moment I realized my old ‘home’ had actually been destroyed. I mean, it wasn’t like we were the best renters…but still…

Being in that town again brought up a few memories that I’d long forgotten. It was in that town that I first noticed the homeless population living among society. I’d been raised in a smaller city where homelessness wasn’t an issue in a town of that size. Seeing so many people in need, I decided to give away half my closet to them on Christmas Day. That’s something good I did there—probably the only thing. Because I started to remember some of the bad, too. Those memories are for me to learn from, and I don’t particularly wish to diminish my Tuesday self-esteem by revisiting them via the written word.

But memories, good and bad, are what makes us who we are. Those lived experiences create a sense of ‘home’, of “This is where I learned about myself, grew, and became better (hopefully).” I had to smile as I left that place. I don’t know how much ‘better’ I am, that’s a silly metric to measure against—but I do know that I’m at least a little wiser. And I know that I’m grateful for my time there, because it was one of many moments that made me who I am.

Many of us stepped back into buildings that we hadn’t seen the insides of for over a year, recently. Chief among these for me is church. We started so well, growing exponentially and learning about one another, giving to the needy and sharing of ourselves. We came to a number that was impressive—so many new faces and eager hearts found their way into our community. We had open-mic nights and work days. We held potlucks and parties. We built new spaces on the property and created new spaces in our hearts.

We noticed populations in need around us, and then we did something about it. Just like you all were doing before I arrived. There’s very little bad to remember from two years ago, but the learning curve was the same as that when I was younger and living in a new place. And just like that place, this one seems different now. It’s not bad, it’s not ‘better’, it’s simply changed. There are some things we won’t get back to doing. There are new things on the way. That’s just the nature of ‘never going home again’, because once you leave for any period of time, ‘home’ changes.

Because we change.

The changes we’ve all undoubtedly undertaken in the past two years will leave indelible marks on us—some external, but most on our hearts and minds. We were kicked out of many of our ‘homes’. That hurt. A lot. But the only way to move through that pain is to acknowledge the trauma that comes along with it. We have experienced something not lived through in modern history. We were isolated, quarantined, or whichever word you like to use and shut away from the world. Our homes became prisons, while our second ‘homes’—places of worship, fun, and refreshment—became unavailable. I think admitting that trauma is necessary to be able to begin the work of ‘going home’ again. If we can admit that some things will never be the same, perhaps we can start to imagine new ideas that can take root and grow into beautiful shared lived experiences with one another. Because that’s what we do. We are resilient, even if we’re tired. We’re faithful, even if we’re scared. We’re wiser, even if we feel like we’ve been making it up this whole time as we go along. And for those of us still here? Now we can come home and start again, not from the beginning, but from a place of understanding where we’ve been so that we know that we can keep going.

So that we know that we actually can come home again.

Faithfully,

Fr. Sean+