Advent

Posted on December 6, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

Dangerous moments in a darkened womb;
the unfamiliar arrhythmia of travel, the
fresh, tart taste of fear filtered through amniotic fluid,
lullaby of strange sirens steering the weary; sunk
in your swaying sea, time contracts creation
to a singularity still awaiting your advent.

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Mangled time: a love story

Posted on December 3, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

Advent is not the most comforting season of the liturgical year. It itches with anticipation. It scratches at the walls like a prisoner counting out the days. It mangles time, mixing up what has been with what will be, preparing for a new birth and the end of the world. There’s a good reason that Advent gets its own special calendars.

And there can be little doubt that we live in mangled times, when the sirens of wars long thought settled are raised as the curtains open on another act in a theatre where everyone had already gone home. Mangled times, when the business of government is carried out by night and in secret, while sexual harassment has been happening in broad daylight all around us. Mangled times in which the lives of children are threatened by the sudden advent of gunfire. Mangled times, in which the words of the gospel, the words of the prayers of many nations are wielded as bludgeons and as weapons, and used to condemn instead of to comfort.

It is tempting to skip to the end. It is very tempting to cling to that one small word in the first line of today’s gospel: “after.”

After that suffering, the outrageous slanders and assaults of life, after all these things, there will be judgement, righteous and justifying and terrifying and final.

After all these things, there will be resolution, an end to the suspense of one thing after another.

After all these things, there will be revelation, and the fears that have nibbled at our heels will be illuminated and dispelled by the brightness of salvation, and our sins will be bleached out by the disinfecting light of a thousand suns and our vision will be exploded by the final face to face encounter with our God. After all these things.

But we live, as WH Auden said, “for the Time Being,” and “in the meantime.”

Even Jesus had to live, in his incarnate life, one moment at a time. He submitted willingly to the discomfort of the season labelled, “in the meantime.” In the Garden of Gethsemane, he prayed that the hour might pass from him: that unit of time, of anticipation, of dwelling in the itchy and scurrilous and uncomfortable present, with no way to hurry on to the end, and no hope for sleep. He was too present for that. His disciples did fall asleep, even after all of his warnings: the weight of waiting was too heavy for them, and it pulled their bodies to the ground and their gaze down to the void, to avoid the moment when, had they been able to pay attention, they might have found the moment of utmost clarity, the climax of the drama of the love of God played out among us, the humanity of Christ stretched to its limits by this moment of fear and anticipation, and redeemed by the perfection and endurance of his love.

One of my children, when she was very young, missed the end of almost every Disney cartoon movie, because whenever anything remotely frightening happened, she would deal with it by going straight to sleep. Baby lion king gets caught in a stampede? Just go to sleep. Dinosaurs see giant fiery meteor hurtling towards earth? Sleep.

This instruction of Jesus was aimed at such children. Stay awake! he urges; even when the light is loud and the sky is eldritch and especially when the signs of the times are worrisome; when storms disturb the vessel, and rock the boat: do not close your eyes, or turn your head away. Stay awake.

I get the need to take a break. I get the need to sleep – trust me, I am all about taking naps these days, post-mono. But sleep can be another way to manipulate time, to rush through to the end.  And if, like those garden disciples, or that small child, we fall asleep at the first sign of trouble or discomfort, we miss the love story. We miss the love story that is God’s relationship with this world, in this season, with this people; the revelation, the awakening, the glorious drama of God’s love enacted in our midst.

Last week, a group of pastors and Christians gathered to read scripture to the Senate. As our government discussed their tax plans, these religious leaders read 2,000 verses from the Bible describing God’s determination that the poor should have good news preached to them. That’s a love story.

Earlier this summer, a mob with torches marched towards an Episcopal church in Charlottesville where people of peace had gathered to pray. Surrounded by lit tiki torches, those disciples sang, “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine … Jesus gave it to me, I’m going to let it shine.” Few of them slept well that night, but that, too, was a love story.

It’s not always high drama. Many years ago, my grandmother lived on a quiet street opposite a couple called Fred and George. Every morning, as sure as they woke up, Fred and George would look out of their window to see that Dorothy had opened the curtains in her window. They loved their neighbour in the simplest, quietest, most faithful way. The morning that Dorothy’s curtains stayed closed, Fred called her son, and he came to the rescue and picked her up off the floor, and Dorothy’s life was saved, and her son’s heart was moved, awakened by gratitude, turned just a little towards this loving family whom he had found it a little difficult to understand. That, too, is a love story.

Advent is by far and away not the most comforting season of the year. We use its calendars to count it down, count it out, urging resolution, waiting for it to be over, and a new thing begun. There is too much to do, and time seems to have telescoped.

But Emmanuel is not a promise of the future, nor an episode contained by the past. It is the very status and posture of God, to be with us, to be engaged among us, ever present, always present, God with us.

This is a love story, this gospel within which we live and move and have our being.

And here we are, on day one of a new chapter, a new act, with the whole ocean of purple and blue stretched out before us, and we can huddle in the bottom of the boat, and try to sleep through the unpredictable waves and weather, or we can take the hand of the one who loves us the most of all, step out in faith, and walk on water.

Amen.

_________

This post has been updated to correct a mangled quote.

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Kamehameha and Emma

Posted on November 29, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

A homily for the service of Evensong at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio

King Kamehameha IV was no saint, by some accounts. Or at least, if he was a saint, he was still not the kind of “good guy” into whose hands you would want to put a gun. His close friend and personal secretary would have attested to that, since the king shot him not once, but twice: the first time only slightly, and by accident; the second in a drunken, jealous rage, inflicting a wound that would eventually prove fatal.

After the shooting that would lead to the death of his friend, Kamehameha was overcome with grief and remorse, and was persuaded only with difficulty not to renounce his throne, and stand trial as a civilian for his crime. He lavished loving care upon his friend and victim, but the patient died a couple of years later. Soon, that grief and guilt was compounded by the death of the king and queen’s young son, Albert, and it is commonly believed that it was a broken heart that exacerbated the king’s asthma and led to his own early death at the age of only twenty-nine.

They say that only the good die young; but the short life of Alexander Liholiho, otherwise known as King Kamehameha IV, tells another truth: that the line between saint and sinner does not divide one man from another, but runs, perhaps a little off-centre, through them all. As Jesus once told a person on his knees before him, “No one is good but God alone.”

We celebrate Kamehameha and his Queen, Emma, for good reason, and they are commemorated with the same gospel as we just heard on Sunday for good reason.

In a literal and concrete response to the gospel, they built a hospital. They knew the gospel imperative to take care of the sick, and the poor, and the needy, and they responded with practical and substantial assistance, raising money and using their influence to provide healthcare in the wake of a devastating epidemic of illness among the islands. It is said that after the death of the king, Emma devoted her life to continuing such good works, and promoting schools, churches, and programmes to care for the poor and the sick.

These two monarchs are commemorated with the same gospel as we read on Christ the King Sunday, because they modelled their reign on public service, serving as shepherds of their people, and feeding the flocks entrusted to them with justice and mercy, except, it seems, for the occasional accident.

They also called on missionaries from the Church of England to help them spread the common prayer of Christianity across their people and their islands. In his last years, the king spent much of his time translating the Book of Common Prayer into the Hawai’ian language, and making plans to build a cathedral, which was finished finally after many efforts by Emma after the queen’s death. It was dedicated to St Andrew, on whose feast day the king had died.

In his preface to his translation of the Book of Common Prayer, Kamehameha explained the urgency of his project. He saw it as a holy calling for people to be joined together in a common prayer, a united voice of praise, thanksgiving, and petition, undistracted by the need for novelty or invention. He wrote,

The prayers having been prepared of old, the Psalms ordered, the hymns sanctioned, the rites and offices authoritatively established, then, indeed, we can worship with all our mind, and all our heart, and all our strength …

But he also alluded to his own, more personal need for prayer, for the community of prayer to lift his own heart:

This is a book for every day and every hour of the day. It is for the solitary one and for the family group; it asks for blessings in this this world as well as in the world to come; that we may be guarded from all manner of harm, from all kinds of temptations, from the power of lust, from bodily suffering, and also that we may find forgiveness of our sins.

That we may find forgiveness of our sins. Kamehameha knew that too often we, even good Christians we, are the cause of injury and affliction to one another; we are the ones who provoke the need for the hospitals and care of the poor that we are called to provide. Too often we are the very ones who cause others to cry out to God in prayer, “Deliver us from evil.” The line between saint and sinner, good and evil runs a little off-centre through each of us.

The call of the gospel, even the gospel we read today, is not only to service, but also to repentance, to the recognition of real and actual injury committed in the pursuit of our own life and happiness, and to the commitment to make amends in the sight of the one who sits upon the throne of judgement. It is in the pursuit of that reconciliation that we are invited to seek and serve Christ in all others, loving our neighbours as ourselves.

Kamehameha wrote,

The Church has not left us to go by one step from darkness into the awful presence and brightness of God, but it has prepared for our use prayers to meet the necessities of every soul, whether they be used in public or in private.

In the gathering shadows of the evening of the year, as we yearn as if by force to turn the earth back towards the brightness of the lengthening days which are yet to come, whatever the necessity of our own soul for healing, for repentance, for renewal, we gather as recommended by a king, a sinner, and a saint, to find a staircase wrought by rituals and mysteries practiced through the ages by the church, a ladder of lightening shadows fleeing before the awful presence and brightness of our God.

Amen.

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The Shepherd King

Posted on November 26, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

The readings for Christ the King Sunday (RCL)

Last week, I mentioned that we have a tendency to project our own images of authority, as flawed and as fallen as we know them be, on to God; and then today we celebrate Christ the King Sunday.

Of course, the king in this parable is seated on the throne of judgement, and we read all kinds of our own prejudices, pride, and self-righteousness into that role. But show me a king who acts like a shepherd, who gets in amongst the livestock, who knows his sheep from his goats – this is not a king who depends upon our pomp and ceremony to find his authority. Show me a king who identifies most closely with those whose station in life is most humble – the “least of these” – not for political purposes nor to bolster his popular image, but out of empathy, compassion, love.

That is the king described by Jesus, by his words, by his actions, and by his very life among us.

The judgement that he describes is the same judgement as the prophet Ezekiel promises to the people of God, the sheep of God’s hand. “I will feed them with justice,” says the Lord.

And what is the justice with which they are fed?

“I will seek the lost. I will bring back the strayed. I will bind up the injured. I will strengthen the weak.” All of these things come first. The justice of God is grounded and founded and finished in compassion. And woe to those who forget that the love of God and the love of our neighbours is the root of all justice, and the end to which God’s will bends.

“I will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep,” says the Lord, or between the sheep and the goats, says the king of the parable, “Because you pushed with flank and shoulder and butted at the weak animals with your horns.”

Because you fed yourselves first, and because the bleating of the hungry lambs fell on deaf ears, so now you will go hungry, and wait your turn while they are blessed, and fed, and restored to good health and good spirits, because such is the justice of God: that those who have the most need of grace and mercy get it first, and in great abundance.

This is not an argument for buying one’s way into heaven with good works. It is a reminder to live as though the commandments were true: that to love God and to love one’s neighbour is the best way to bring heaven on earth; that those who have the most among us have the greatest obligation to find their way down from the pedestals upon which power and influence, wealth and worldly success are enthroned by our current and enduring culture.

The message for the church – for our church as we enter a new season, waiting expectantly for the Advent of Christ; a new season as we celebrate 90 years in this city and community – the message for the church is that our call is first to love. Our call is first to bring that good news of the love of God to those who need it the most – the lost, the lonely, the hungry, the neglected. That is the call of the church. The meal that we celebrate together at Christ’s table is a morsel of the feast that we are called to share with the world.

We serve a king who gets down and dirty in the sheep pen, who sets out himself to find the lost lambs, and who feeds his own flock with justice.

This is a king who doesn’t seek praises in the highest heaven but who scrambles on the earth to rescue the lamb from the lion, and to free the ram from the thicket.

We can do no better than to love him. To love Christ is not only to praise him in the highest but to serve him in the lowliest and most humble fashion we can find.

And then there is the good news for the lost and lonely lambs themselves.

Then there is the compassion from which God begins, and on which the gospel is founded and grounded, the love of God that seeks out the separated and the ashamed, the poor in spirit and the mournful, the meek and those who are troubled of heart and heavy of soul.

This is the God, this is the shepherd and the king who takes off his crown, puts aside his royal robes, closes the door to his throne room and sets out into the wilderness to find precisely those who need him the most; who hears the faintest bleating and follows it to the source; who gathers up the sick, the dying, the hungry, the faint-hearted, the foolish, the bereft, and carries them home in his own loving arms, and feeds them with love, which is the source of his justice, and mercy, which is the sweetness of his grace.

This is Christ, who set aside the trappings of heaven, the clothing of the kingdom of God, and who became as one born with nothing but the image of God which every child of God bears, so that we might know God seeking among us to restore the fallen, the frail, and the fearful to God’s good and perfect peace.

This is the king whom we serve, who renders just judgements, who separates the sheep from the goats so that they might find no further harm, but be fed with justice, each according to her need; a justice that is founded and grounded in compassion, and weighted towards mercy.

This is the king whom we serve, who shed his royal robes and was clothed with flesh to seek and serve us, his sheep, with the love and devotion of a down-in-the-dirt shepherd.

This is the king who was, and is, and will come again; and anticipating his Advent, we pray Amen: Come, Lord Jesus.

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Telling

Posted on November 21, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

We are not Survivor.
They took our bodies down,
stripped and swaddled, spiced
and laid, restless.

We are not Victim,
though they nail us
to whatever piece of wood
they find to hand.

We are Resurrection.
Bury us deep as you dare,
our tendril roots beneath
bare earth will tangle, break
the surface tension, green
the guards will faint away
for fear of our awakening.

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Revolution

Posted on November 19, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

How many years is it since the Declaration of Independence?

How many since slavery was ended as a legal practice in these United States?

And how is it that after all this time, we read a parable that includes a king, or a slave-master, and our first thought is, “Well, that must be God”?

Two centuries since we claim to have outgrown these modes of authority and outright oppression, we still make God in their image. Two thousand years since the birth of the Christ, we still struggle to see God as God is most clearly and intimately revealed to us: which is in the person of Jesus; a nobody from Nazareth,

who, though he was in the form of God,
did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,
being born in the likeness of men. (Philippians 2:6-7)

Taking the form of a slave. So, who represents God in this parable again?

You know how in folk tales and fairy tales, it is always the third son or daughter, the most humble and least likely to succeed who is the only one to get it right?

What if the kingdom of heaven will be like this:

There once was a rich man. Never mind that he had built his fortune on dubious business practices and upon the backs of slaves – families and generations of people unfree. He was rich, and successful, and self-satisfied. So he decided he deserved to go on a nice, long vacation.

While he was gone, he chose three of his slaves to make some more money for him in his absence.

The first slave was, let’s say, connected. He did some wheeling and dealing, a few unsavoury favours, and he was richly rewarded. Never mind that some of his business was not strictly legal, let alone ethical; he made his master money, even after the percentage we can assume he kept for himself.

The second slave knew that the easiest people to make money off of are those who don’t have any; desperate people. He used his stake to open a payday loans and cash-checking business, unrestricted by government regulations, and it turned out to be a nice little earner, too.

The third slave looked at the money his master had given him.

Do you remember in the temple when Jesus had the Pharisees hand him an unclean coin, and he saw the face of Caesar in it?

The third slave looked at the money in his hands and he saw the labour of the slaves who had built his master’s fortune, and the lives of the unprotected, unrewarded masses over whose graves this money had been minted, and he felt a little bit sick.

So he went to the slave cemetery, and he dug a hole in the ground, and he buried the silver, and whispered into the earth, “This belongs to you.”

When the master came back, he and his first two slaves were well pleased with what they had done. Then came the third slave.

“I know,” said the slave, “that you are a harsh man, and a thief, reaping what you didn’t sow and harvesting where you never planted. I will not participate in such an economy of corruption and greed, which buries the poor in debt and undermines the grace of God proclaimed through the dignity of every person.”

The master was furious, not because of the money, of which he had enough, but because the slave had dared to tell him the truth about himself, and to demand his repentance.

“Oh no,” said the master, “let the rich get richer and the poor go hang. And you can get out of my sight.”

And he threw the slave out of the privilege of his presence.

And that is where Jesus met him, and called out to him, “Well done, good and trustworthy slave; you good and faithful servant. Enter now into my joy, and enjoy my inheritance.”

Now, I don’t want to push the parable too far. In particular, I am concerned that I might be unfair to the first two slaves, who never asked for their position. Perhaps they were not, after all, seduced by the corruption and greed of their master. Perhaps, knowing that he was a harsh man, they were simply afraid to disobey, or perhaps, never having known freedom, it never occurred to them that they could choose a different way.

But if they knew the God of the gospel; if they knew the gentle authority of Jesus and the loving commandments of God; then it would have been a whole other story.

And if the slave owner had known and obeyed God – well then there would have been a revolution, in which

the hungry are filled with good things,
and the rich sent empty away.
the powerful are brought down from their thrones,
and lowly lifted up;
and the proud are scattered in the imaginations of their hearts. (Luke 1:51-53, para)

A far cry from a system in which those who have plenty get more, and those who have none have what little is left taken from them.

You can apply this parable to any number of things that are going on in our world right now: from tax reform to Puerto Rico, racial inequality to healthcare, or the status of women and others who tell their stories of men who try to take what does not belong to them. We live in a broken system.

Two centuries after the Declaration of Independence, a century and a half since the Thirteenth Amendment, and after two millennia of preaching the birth, death, and resurrection of the Christ, we are still prone to fall back on familiar figures of authority, and to forget the revolutionary promises of the gospel.

Whether out of fear or seduction, we still get sucked into the ways of the world, instead of standing up for God’s economy of grace.

The third slave knew a better way. He was a leader in Christian ethics and proclamation. He was not satisfied with the corruption of the flesh, but he held out for justice.

He believed the stories of the women who poured out the pain and humiliation they had been hiding inside. He opened the coffers of the rich and wasted their money on the disinherited, on the poor, on the unprofitable dead. He sowed love in the ground, and watched it grow in the people who had nothing better to hope for. He was a one-man Magnificat. And he had the courage to call for repentance from the rich and powerful, from the man, who was not impressed.

But that is where Jesus met him, and called out to him, “Enter the joy of my inheritance.”

Enter the joy of an inheritance where all are loved and find their place; where all are fed and found worthy of mercy and of grace. Where there is no more male or female, slave or free, founding father or foreigner, but only the family of God come together around one table to give thanks, to find grace, to enter into the joy of our Master.

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Spoken and unspoken

Posted on November 17, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

I’ve been a bit quiet on the blog lately. Like many of you, I have been sitting under the pile of stories avalanching over my newsfeed, uncertain whether to say, “me too,” or simply to bear witness to the pain that too many people share.

Some of the stories we could tell are too trivial for notice. Others stay buried because their bones come with too many pounds of flesh, which refuses to decompose even over the decades. I am not surprised that a 14-year-old would turn around forty years later to discover that her story of abuse is still hanging around her neck, its hand dangling over her breast, and that she is as unprepared as she ever was to swat it away.

I’ll tell you a funny one, because it’s painless, and has an ending, with a side order of satisfaction.

Like the punchline to a tasteless joke, we don’t remember the endings to them all.

Anyway, the funny one: I had just finished working in the pub kitchen by day, and I was a waitress at the nice hotel by night. There was melon on the appetizer menu. Cue much hilarity and many boob jokes among the large party table of men whom I was serving, and whose tip was definitely penance for the sins they knew they committed against me over the course of the evening to come.

The next morning, the pub job over, I started a fresh gig at the delicatessen across the street. The manager introduced me to my new co-workers, including a nice young man who had been out celebrating his birthday the night before with a dinner party at the nearby hotel. He had the decency to turn as red as a radish.

I tell you this one, so that we can laugh, and turn our backs for another century or so on the graveyards full of other, rotten bodies.

But late one night, by the full light of the moon, we will command them to rise and account for their stench.

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This world

Posted on November 8, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

What can we do when the Communion of Saints itself comes under fire?

This morning’s reflection for the Episcopal Cafe.

Sunday morning, and the church was dressed in white, an island hour between the green of Ordinary Time. We celebrated that extraordinary time, eternity, which spans here, now, and then, world without end. We remembered those who had opened our hearts to the eternity of love, grief, and gratitude that marks human existence. At one point in my sermon, I said, “We are the Communion of Saints” to those who pass by, waiting to be surprised by a glimpse of that which lies beyond the next breath.

Then, the news. Our candles were barely cold before the heat of grief, outrageous death, rekindled our cries, our prayer.

Quickly, the conversation in some church circles turned to our security, and whether it was time to join the American arms race, to defend ourselves, our prayers, our neighbours whom we love against acts of violence that, with their increasing toll, seem less and less random.

A word of scripture whispered in my ear, and would not let me go.

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” (Romans 12:2)

It is not naiveté that invites me to open our doors, to welcome the stranger, to continue resolutely vulnerable to danger, as well as to epiphany. It is the way of the cross. It is the hospitality of the Communion of Saints. It is, if Christ is to be believed, the way of Life.

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Blessed saints

Posted on November 5, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

The readings for All Saints, Year A

I had a dream a few months after my mother died. It was the beginning of winter, as it is now. The holiday shopping season was getting underway. I haven’t started on that yet; but in my dream, I was loaded up with parcels and bags, waiting at a stop light for the pedestrian walk sign. My father was at my side. As we waited, I began to feel more and more burdened by all of the things I was carrying. My back ached; my bones hurt. As we waited, and a cosmopolitan crowd of people gathered around the light pole – “from every tribe, people, and language,” as one might say – I discovered that my aunt and my late uncle had made their way next to us. As the walk sign lit up, they began to lift the parcels and bags out of my arms as we crossed the road, until there was nothing left for me to carry, and I was able to walk easily and upright, to meet my mother, standing on the other side. The living and the dead were all jumbled together in that busy crosswalk, sharing the burdens of grief and love, lightening the load for one another.

There were no white-robed martyrs in my vision; my dreams have always tended to be a little more down-to-earth, and not entirely subtle. But the message was lighter than air.

If the vision of white-robed martyrs continually worshipping God before the throne of heaven is a bit of a disconnect from your daily life, then I would invite us to remember that our worship of God is rooted in love: in the love of God, which necessitates the love of one another.

Those who have gone before us have not turned their backs on us in order to turn towards God; rather, they now see us through the lens of God, seeing us as though through the eyes of God, with all of the compassion, forgiveness, grace that the gaze of God entails. One day, that vision will be ours, too.

But most of religion – any religion – has less to do with what happens to us when we die than what we do while we are alive. I read once, for my sins, the book 90 Minutes in Heaven. Towards the end of the book, when he is sufficiently recovered to get out and about, the author describes sitting in a restaurant with another man, a Baptist minister, who had the audacity to presume that most of the other people in it were on their way to hell.

Piper wrote:[1]

 … he paused to look around.
“Yet here we are sitting in this place, surrounded by people, many of whom are probably lost and going to hell, and we won’t say a word about how they can have eternal life. Something is wrong with us.”

I almost threw the book across the room. How the hell would this man presume to know, looking at a mess of strangers, what God intends for them? He knew nothing about them, except that each of them was an image of God, created by God for this life, on this earth, for the purpose first and foremost of God’s love.

But once I had swallowed my anger and my judgement of his judginess, here’s where I think Piper and his friend might be veering in a right direction. We live in this world as Christians, in the full and at least occasionally certain knowledge of the love of God, which is a help in our heavy times, and a joy in times of delight. We are surrounded by people, many of whom feel lost and heavy, and we often fail to share their burdens, and to offer the relief that we have found in the company of the living God, to share what we have heard and known; what might be called eternal life in the here and now.

This is the life which God has created especially for us, so that we might become fully human, creatures made in the image of our Creator, learning to reflect and resemble the divine. It is in this life that we are commanded to see one another through the lens of God’s compassion, justice, and love, to the very best of our ability.

In this life, we are the Communion of Saints to those around us, and it is our duty and our blessing to help to carry their burdens.

In this life, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” says Jesus, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Blessed are those who know that their riches come not from the world and its baubles, but from the righteousness and love of God. Blessed are those who know how to live already as though “thy kingdom” has come, doing God’s will on earth as they do in heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for even though the pain of grief and separation, the sting of loss is sharp and deep, there is comfort in finding a way through to a life that can still encompass love. There is a sad sweetness in memory, and hope in each new day.
Blessed are the meek, for in their patience, while others fight over scraps, they will inherit the goodness of creation, as those who appreciate its gifts.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will find it and be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for by their own example they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for with the eyes of their hearts enlightened, through the lens of love, compassion, and grace, they can see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are those who do not seek war for the sake of dominance, nor who preach peace where there is no peace. Blessed are those who do not paper over violent cracks but who open a way of safety for the oppressed, who support the cause of justice for the downtrodden, who show mercy to the penitent, and promote a lasting peace; for they will be called children of God.
When all else fails; when all the goodness of this life is exhausted, then blessed are you even when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on account of your lived-out faith in Jesus. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.

For those of us who are not persecuted nor reviled, then the blessings of this life are sufficient to know that God is good, that God created this life especially for us to live in love for our Creator and for one another, carrying one another’s burdens so that our days may be light, and easy to walk over, and without fear.

The promise of heaven is a reminder that we are not the first to have walked this way, nor do we journey alone, but with the help and comfort of the great Communion of Saints who regard us now through the eyes of God, and whom we shall one day see face to face, joined in wonder, love, and praise around the throne of heaven.

Amen.

[1] Don Piper and Cecil Murphey, 90 Minutes in Heaven: A True Story of Death and Life (Revell: Grand Rapids, 2007)

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Reading the road signs

Posted on October 31, 2017 by Rosalind C Hughes

Emerging from the mist of the mountain road, a yellow caution sign:

Warning: tree on the way

One would think that the first clue to this well-rooted obstacle would be the presence and stature of the tree itself, growing out of a grassy, shrubby island, large, looming, and presumably predating the road.

If it were dark, or the monsoon rains were overwhelming one’s windscreen wipers, perhaps the addition of a couple of reflectors to pick up approaching headlights might be helpful. If the tree were not otherwise able to attract the attention of the headlong driver, though, would the appeal of language really help? Was it necessary to spell it out: “There is a tree in the way”?

Of course, there will always be those who drive anyway as though the signs do not apply to them, as though they own the road, as though the trees should shuffle off to one side to let them through. As a cishet affluently educated white woman, I’ll admit to failing to check a few blind spots. Sometimes, I need to be told.

But whether or not I read the sign; even whether or not I have begun to understand the languages in which it is written, the tree is still there, in the way, and unmoved.

 

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