Overwhelming

I am considering the word “overwhelmed.”

I cannot unsee the news photography: cars sinking, dramatic rescues, coffins floating down streets overwhelmed by the Flood;

an airbag deployed, overspilling its plastic cage, overwhelming the object of its zealous protection; she is shaking.

A friend is overwhelmed with love, kindness, generosity; the best kind of deluge.

I am overwhelmed by a flash flood of story, emotion, reaction, and the prevailing requirement to remain calm in the face of the storm.

Overwhelming is the grace of God, which is not drowned nor diminished by our tears of gratitude, joy, or desperation;

overwhelming, so that sometimes, I have to hold my breath, dive deep to find it.

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Off centre

The hedgerow maze boxes me in,
walls me out through another false turn.
In the centre hides perfection,
unbreakable cypher, impassive God.

Out in the margins of error,
the elbow crook of one more dead
end, lies Jesus, sprawled as though
we were not hopelessly lost at all.

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The cross and the lightning rod

A sermon for Year C Proper 15: August 14, 2016
Jeremiah 23:23-29; Psalm 82; Hebrews 11:29-12:2; Luke 12:49-56

“I came to bring fire to the earth,” Jesus declares.

It is almost as though the cross itself were a lightning rod for trouble, division, and sin.

“I came not to bring peace but a sword,” he says, and we wonder, what happened to “blessed are the peacemakers.” What happened to “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”

The cross as a lightning rod, drawing the flightning crossire to the earth, laying it to rest in the ground.

Hate, cursing, abuse: they do not happen in a world at peace, where there are no enemies, no abusers. In the meantime, peacemaking is hard work, and not for the faint of heart. It does not pretend that there isn’t trouble; there is no peace without justice, after all.

The cross is not a magic wand, or a totem against trouble. It is a lightning rod.

A couple of weeks ago, Giles Fraser wrote about the sacrifice at the altar of Fr Jacques Hamel, an elderly priest in St-Etienne-du-Rouvray, in northern France. Teenaged extremists, bent on trouble, division, and sin killed him during the prayers of the Mass, sacrificial act.

Fraser wrote,

 I have no time for the idea that Jesus is sacrificed on the cross to appease an angry God. If that’s true, then God becomes the enemy of humankind and I am against him. No, Jesus absorbs the violence that comes from us not from God. He receives our blows, our punishments, our disdain. And, despite his innocence – or, rather, precisely because of it – he refuses to answer back in kind. No more an eye for an eye.

In other words, the sacrifice of the cross is the non-violent absorption of human violence. The offer of love in return for hate, even to the point of death. This is the horrendous price that peace is sometimes asked to pay. This is what makes the eucharistic sacrifice life-giving and not some historical death cult.

And this is how Fr Jacques died, says Fraser: rehearsing the sacrifice of the cross at the altar. The lightning rod for sin and division and despair is rendered life-giving by the transformation of Christ of death to life, of hatred to love, of abuse to forgiveness.

Peace-making is less about winning, still less about fighting, than it is about justice, mercy, and love.

And what shall we say of the two Muslim clerics murdered in New York as they walked home from Friday prayers? Did they not also, in their way, absorb the fire aimed at our hearts, run it into the ground?

I read the obituary of another priest this past week. This one, Edward Daly, lived in Northern Ireland, and was raised up as a bishop during the Troubles because of his leadership, and his propensity for peace-making. He first came to public notice

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Detail from BBC footage take in 1972

after the so-called Bloody Sunday massacre, when he was filmed leading a group of men, waving a bloodied white handkerchief to hold the fire of the soldiers, as they carried a dying young man out of danger. He had given the boy last rites, he later told the cameras, before leading the way past the rifles and bullets, being their lightning rod, to run further violence to ground before it could reach them.

The cross is not a magic wand to bring peace at a stroke. It is not a talisman to ward off sin.

The prophets against whom Jeremiah warns dream their dreams and ignore reality. They would have God favour them, for no other reason than they favour themselves. They would have God save them, for no other reason than their own self-interest.

But the chosen people of God are not chosen for themselves alone, but to be harbingers of God’s word for all people; to be bearers of God’s standards, of justice and peace, for all people; to be lightning rods for sin and despair, running it into the ground, for the protection of God’s good earth and all who live in it.

That is the way of the cross.

The drama that is played out in the midst of that storm is sometimes obscured by the wind and the thunder and the rain, noise and damage. But in the centre, standing still, is the cross. It is the old priest before his altar, turning wine into blood, giving life to his communicants. It is the young priest before his people, showing forth the sign of sacrifice, red on white, boots on the ground, carrying the fallen, anointed with oil. It is the cleric drawing fire simply by the way he is dressed for prayer. It is the one who turns aside anger, running it into the ground, offering another cheek, another chance, another way.

It is the priesthood of all believers, that great cloud of witnesses, walking in the way of the cross, blessed lightning rods.

But notice, it is not the purpose of the lightning rod to be destroyed by the storm. Far from it; the lightning rod has the capacity, by its design, its materials, its placement, to draw that dramatic and dangerous fire into the earth, rendering it, in ideal circumstances, almost harmless. For your creator has made you well, and with a purpose.

The purpose of the cross is not to harbour death, sin, violent division. It is designed rather to run it to ground. In the act of crucifixion, resurrection, ascension, the drama of Christ converts violence into silence, death into life, sacrifice into mystery.

“I came to bring fire to the earth,” says Jesus, “and how I wish that it were already kindled.” But do not be afraid of the storm.

 

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August

The cicadas are praising God
incessantly;
while my last frayed nerve
curls with the rising humidity,
they sing, and play their tiny violins,
an orchestra of prayer.

I would join them, but
my soul is having a bad hair day,
refuses to come into the light.

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Year C Proper 14: faith, hope, and a promise

A promise delayed, but not deferred ...

You know all of those charts – we’ve all seen them – showing how much wealth is in the world, how much food, how much of God’s good plenty to go around? Enough that no one should be hungry, if only we could learn how to share. Enough that no one should feel that their life simply doesn’t matter.

Jesus is often obscure in his messages to his disciples. Like any good teacher, he has an annoying habit of offering more questions than answers. But not this time.

“Sell your possessions, and give alms,” he says. You can’t get much clearer than that. “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

“Ah, but we live in the real world,” we say. Have we lost faith in the coming of the kingdom of God?

“Faith,” writes the author of the letter to the Hebrews, “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

What do we, living in the real world, consider articles of faith? I hope for an end to ISIS activities, and the diminishment of violence and violent rhetoric around the world; but I do not place my faith, my hope, in politics. My faith is in God, and the living Christ.

I do not see too much progress in the reconciliation of races, in the elimination of racism, in the equity of opportunity, and privilege, and power. But after all, my faith is not in history, nor in legislation, no matter how worthy and important. My faith is in the Spirit of God that moved upon the waters, bringing life into being, one life, and it was good. My hope is in the goodness of God, and of God’s kingdom.

It helps that I have a comfortable life in which to wait, I acknowledge that. But I would be more than foolish to place my faith in the stock markets, or the invisible finger on the scale.

There are those, the letter writer adds, who died without seeing their promise fulfilled. We know about that, too. We know about the promise delayed.

The choice that our faith offers us is whether to continue in hope, knowing that God is good and will come through, whether in our lifetime or another; or whether we turn cynical, and fall asleep, or turn away, or try ourselves to play God.

What happens when the promise is delayed?

The example of Abraham is not as instructive as we are sometimes given to understand. He is held up as a model of faith, reckoned to him as righteousness; but in the face of delay, and a crumbling decay of hope, he and Sarah decided to edit God’s promise, and design a detour so that they might achieve the same means by another way.

God promised that Abraham and Sarah would have a son, even as old as they were, and that this would be a sign of God’s promise. But at a certain point, Abraham and Sarah had a conversation in which they agreed that this was ridiculous, impossible, could never happen. And so they decided to use Hagar.

They decided to use Hagar.

Hagar was a slave. She was Sarah’s slave. Maybe she was well-fed, well-housed, perhaps well-treated, until her mistress decided otherwise and tormented her into running away. No matter; what is abundantly clear is that Hagar was a slave, and at this point in the story, she became Abraham’s sex slave, and Sarah’s reproductive slave.

Sarah and Abraham would not wait on God’s promise, they would not keep faith with the covenant, and they used and abused Hagar because hope was not enough for them. They decided to play God with the promise and with this poor Egyptian woman, and I have to say, I think they got it wrong.

Fortunately, my faith is not in Abraham and Sarah, but in the living God and the new covenant that Christ has made with and for us.

Because that is just where Abraham went wrong. God’s promise was not a fairy godmother’s wish for Abraham and Sarah, the wave of a magic wand. It was a covenant. It was part of a relationship which said, “I will be your God, and you will be my people.”

Of course, God remained faithful to the promise, despite Abraham and Sarah’s detour, despite our unfaithfulness:

“I will be your God, and you will be my people.”

People of the kingdom of God, in which the meek inherit the earth, and the poor are blessed, and the prisoners, the slaves, the captives are set free. In which swords are beaten into ploughshares, and war is no longer studied, except as a subject of ancient history.

We meet this morning the day after the anniversary of the first use of nuclear weapons as an act of war.

We meet in a world still waiting for the ploughshares to outnumber the guns.

We meet at a time when the meek are mocked for harbouring hope, and the poor are as likely to be blamed as blessed.

What do we do when that promise is delayed?

We know that we are part of the promise, that we have a part to play in God’s plan, in God’s kingdom. Whatever we do to act on the promise of the kingdom of God, it must be for all of God’s people. We cannot focus on the promise to ourselves and forget our neighbours, much worse use them for our own purposes.

Abraham and Sarah used Hagar to further their part in the promise at her expense. They forgot that she had her own relationship, her own covenant with the living God, just as valid and vivid as theirs. God spoke to Hagar directly more than once. She was not expendable, exploitable, in God’s economy.

Jesus said to his disciples, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Risk believing in the promises of God, says Jesus. Have faith. Risk the faith that the promise is not for us alone, but also for Hagar, that there is enough of God’s mercy for everyone. Spend hugely on the welfare of others, and know that there is enough for all. Do not forget to bless the poor, nor to lean into the wisdom of the meek.

Have faith that God will be true to the covenant, be assured of the kingdom of God, sight unseen. Live now as people of the living God, children of the promise.

Follow in the way of the cross, knowing that only such boundless sacrificial love rebounds as glory.

Would that this world could see such faith.

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Collateral

I do not know what will grow, whether

the markets will bustle with plenty,

or if the barometer’s fall will pressure

them into silence ahead of the storm;

I know that this morning a child

said her father’s name for the first time,

and another broke her mother’s heart,

while in between, the fierce starlings fought

over tiny seeds fallen from the feeder

that you had hung out for the sparrows.

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Year C Proper 11: echoes of eternity

Vanity, all is vanity: A brief reflection on the lawn.

Ludwig van Beethoven was, for the latter portion of his life, profoundly deaf. A musician to his core, he could so easily have fallen into cynicism and despair (and often did); but he had an overarching conviction that he had a purpose – a God-given purpose – in his art that transcended his present suffering. Also, he had great affection for his brothers.

He wrote to them:

…from childhood my heard and mind were disposed to the gentle feelings of good will, I was even eager to accomplish great deeds, but reflect now that for six years I have been a hopeless case, aggravated by senseless physicians, cheated year after year in the hope of improvement, finally compelled to face the prospect of a lasting malady …

what a humiliation when one stood beside me and heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone heard the shepherd singing and again I heard nothing, such inidents brought me to the verge of despair, but little more and I would have put an end to my life – only art it was that withheld me, ah it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce …

Patience – it is said I must now choose for my guide ….

Divine One thou lookest into my inmost soul, thou knowest it, thou knowest that love of man and desire to do good live therein…

The writer of Ecclesiastes tended liberally towards the attitude of cynicism and despair. Yet even he, when pushed, agreed that in the end, the overarching theme of God’s creation supercedes our little place within it.

Jesus quotes Ecclesiastes in his story of the rich man, who seeks to “eat, drink, and be merry.” He confirms the source of our cynicism, when we live only for ourselves; that when we live only to ourselves all is vanity. There is no goal that may sustain us past its completion, or its defeat, or beyond the knowledge of our certain death, if we hoard ourselves into this life alone.

But what transcends such cynicism is God. What transcends is love, enduring relationship. What transcended for Beethoven was music, art, creativity, those things which bridge the chasm between here and eternity, give us glimpses of might be, beyond our sight, our understanding, our hearing.

When the brother came to ask Jesus to divide up the family inheritance, Jesus refused. He would not divide their spoils only to leave them spoilt and divided. He wanted them to find something beyond the division of baubles and come together as brothers, in the recognition that what they share: one lifetime, infinite possibilities under God; that these things are far greater than what they divide up.

In the final years of his life, profoundly deaf and increasingly ill, Beethoven composed his ninth and final symphony. Undefeated by life’s cynicism, he included in it a choral setting of Schiller’s Ode to Joy. He never heard it sung, but he directed its premier, to the deep joy and satisfaction of those with ears left to hear.

 

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She’s leaving home

My eldest child left home this week. It was a lot less dramatic than you might think.

Just as the act of birthing her was fraught with all of the emotion under the sun, but revolved in the moment around the contracting of muscles and the monitoring of heartbeats, so on Monday we moved furniture and boxes, panted, ached, and ate lunch.

She had some things to finish up, so she said she would follow me home.

By the time she was ready, I had been called to attend to the next child’s travelling needs, and while I was gone, her new life came and swept her away to Buffalo.

Of course, she hasn’t really lived at home, as such, for a while; but I felt a difference entering that empty room yesterday, with boxes to stack and store, to wait for her call. There was a falling away; the room had dropped its guard. I no longer needed to pause for permission to enter. She had moved on.

She was born for this: to find new love, seek out adventure and meaningful work, to forge for herself a life she can embody.

She said that she would like a new crockpot, one big enough to cook meals for the two of them. I hope I get the right one. It is my small offering to lay at her feet, of peace, of love, of faith in her future, because what more, now, can I do?

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Ruined – a memoir by Ruth Everhart: Review

Let’s get the disclaimers out of the way first: yes, I have met the author. We are both members of an online group of (mostly) female clergy-types called the RevGalBlogPals. We both contributed to a book edited by the RevGals director, Martha Spong, called There’s A Woman in the Pulpit. And that’s how I came to be in possession of an Advanced Reader Copy of Ruth Everhart’s memoir, Ruined, provided by Tyndale House Publishers.

I met Ruth irl at the Festival of Faith & Writing this spring. We were at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. To tell the truth, I was a little intimidated. The seats she had reserved for our online group of connected strangers were in the middle of the front row. She seemed to be surrounded by people she knew. She was confident and competent and firm on her feet, seemingly on home ground.

The college scene of Grand Rapids is a fairly major character in the book; reading the background, it becomes remarkable that this woman has found such (apparent) peace in her “homecoming” here. But her memoir is, in the end, more about redemption than rape, after all.

A difficult thing to narrate, such an intrusion, invasion, injury as rape. The level of detail which Ruth provides is objectively astonishing. As an aid to reading the story of that pivotal event, it is perversely comforting. It reduces evil to its banality. It slows the pace enough for this reader, at least, somewhat to catch her breath.

The stories of Ruth’s struggle to reconcile her rape with her faith in a providential God, and the paths and rabbit holes down which her head and heart lead her, are told with little retrospect, so that at the end, we find ourselves blinking a little in the unexpected light of a life that is good after all, if imperfect; certainly not ruined. Perhaps that is the author’s way of conveying miracle, or grace.

I am one of those horrid readers who, at a certain point, has to flick to a few pages short of the end, just to be sure of her destination. Here I found Ruth’s letter to her daughters, explaining some of her purpose in writing this book. This was the retrospect, the hindsight which, for me, tidied the narrative into a comfortable structure for an uncomfortable content. The decision not to begin the book with this perspective, though, allows the reader to walk more closely, more fully with Ruth through her journey past the spectre of ruin to the spirit of redemption, and to appreciate more thoroughly her fortitude, and forthrightness as she “continues to work out [her] own salvation with fear and trembling,” as she herself quotes from Philippians 2:12.

I am still a little awed by the author, but I think for good reason. Telling this kind of truth is a feat of remarkable faith and courage. I hope that by reading this book, a little of that might rub off on me.

Ruined, by Ruth Everhart, is published by Tyndale House Publishers this coming Tuesday, August 1. It can be ordered from the publisher, from Amazon, or from your favourite book seller today. This review refers to an advance copy that may differ from the final product.

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Psalmbird

At last week’s Summer Music Camp, we learned all about David the songwriter (the one from the Bible, as we had constantly to disambiguate).

We learned to sing Psalm 23 in childlike form. We listened to Kiri te Kanawa singing “O for the wings of a dove,” Mendelssohn’s beautiful response to Psalm 55.

Today’s Morning Prayer included the verse, “I will dwell in your house for ever; I will take refuge under the cover of your wings” (Psalm 61:4), which reminded me of the second verse of our own little Psalmbird refrain that we learned on dovewing day last Wednesday.

In case you need a little ditty to hum while you watch the seagulls circle and the eagles disappear over the horizon, here is the Epiphany Summer Music Camp version of David’s psalmbirds.psalmbird

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