Maundy Thursday

The more Holy Weeks and Easters I live through and participate in, the more I’m aware of how these holy days test our willingness, even perhaps our ability, to believe all that we claim to believe about Jesus the Christ and what that means for our own discipleship.  Worshipping the risen Christ is relatively easy; following Jesus of Nazareth, getting our hands dirty, getting down on our knees as servants to others, dealing with the world’s filth, taking on the world’s nastiness so that others might be cleansed and free, not so easy.  What’s even harder, perhaps, in a culture that promotes independence and self-reliance, is to allow another to serve us that way.  That makes us dependent and vulnerable, and a willing vulnerability just might be one of the most difficult of all of Jesus’ virtues to emulate.

“Do you know what I have done to you?” Jesus asks the twelve.  Not what I’ve done for you, but what I’ve done to you.  Do we know what he has done to us?  He has ‘set us an example’ – an example of humility and service, of vulnerability and love.  And we are invited to follow his example.

Famished

Famished is not a word found in the lexicon of most youngsters. But I do recall when my children were younger they would often say “Mom, I starving!” when they wanted something to eat. I would point out that they weren’t really starving, they were merely hungry; perhaps very hungry, but that’s nothing like starving. I wanted to help them understand that for many people in the world the lack of food was a situation both life-threatening and ongoing, unlike in our house where it was merely annoying, inconvenient, and more to the point, temporary.

The gospel for the First Sunday in Lent tells us that Jesus was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by the devil, and that “he ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished.” Famished: another word for “starved” or “starving.

The devil tests Jesus at his weakest and most vulnerable moment, tempting him, after all those weeks without food, to turn an ordinary stone into a simple loaf of bread. What harm could possibly come of a miracle like that? But though he is starving Jesus refuses, knowing that there is more to being “filled” than filling one’s belly, even when that belly’s been empty for forty days.

This has me wondering: when my own spirit is famished, how do I respond? Do I allow my fatigue and weakness to keep me from looking for what it is that I truly need? Is it possible for me to be so spiritually starved that I stop seeking, having lost sight of the end and instead settling for substitutes that both require and promise less? Such substitutes are numerous, easy to find and to rationalize; few would think less of me for being satisfied with any of them - all those stones that might so easily and conveniently be turned into bread, when what I really need is to seek more intently and intentionally the presence of God.

What Max Knows

Two-and-a-half year old Max recently began attending our parish. He comes nearly every week with his grandmother, a very active member of the congregation who is committed to helping Max understand that Jesus loves him and that the church is a friendly, welcoming place (I had baptized Max when he was an infant). Max attends our preschool class, held during the second half of the Liturgy of the Word (the young ones leave after the gospel and return just before the Peace). For the remainder of the service, he sits agreeably with his grandmother, sometimes "reading" the prayer book or hymnal, occasionally imitating the presider’s gestures during the Eucharistic Prayer.

Max’s grandmother often serves as a chalice bearer in our liturgy, which means she comes forward just before communion is distributed to give the wine to worshippers at the chancel rail. She asked if Max could accompany her into the chancel the first time he visited, since she couldn’t leave him alone in the pew. I was happy to say yes, knowing that some people might object, not knowing how Max would behave, but willing to take the risk. He was golden! He stayed quietly near his grandmother as she made the rounds; when communion was over the server had an extra vessel to be returned to the sacristy, and didn’t know what to do with it. “Give it to Max,” I said. She did, and he proudly and carefully carried it around the corner to be cleaned and put away. Since then, Max has become a regular whenever she serves, receiving communion alongside her at the outset then standing calmly in the chancel until all is finished.

The bishop recently visited, and grandmother was scheduled to serve. She asked if she should find a substitute or leave him at home that day. I assured her it would be fine to bring him up; the bishop was delighted. After the service he was speaking with the Vestry, and the conversation turned to children and the virtue of letting them experience liturgy vs. being taught “about” it in a Sunday School class. Like most of us in the parish (and this was not, initially, an easy change to manage) the bishop believes that children learn about God, Christ, and the church by participating in sacred acts of worship rather than being told about what they mean. It is how they know, he told us; then asked us, “What do you think Max knows?”

I’m grateful to Max’s grandmother for bringing him so faithfully. And whatever choices Max and his family make later in life, I pray that these formative experiences he’s having now will stay with him, and that he will hold on to these memories and to the knowledge that God loves him and the church does, too. Max has been “sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever”. He may not be able to articulate that now, but surely, that is what Max knows.

The Possibilities of Advent

I remember an old advertisement for MasterCard that featured Broadway legend Angela Lansbury; it ended with her saying “Master the possibilities!” Of course no one can ever master all the possibilities, and most of us probably don’t want to. But the ad hinged on getting people to think beyond their ordinary goals to the fact that so much more might be possible as long as they didn’t have to pay for all of it at once.

In the season of Advent God calls us to “master the possibilities”. But where the credit card companies ask us to overextend, open our wallets, and acquire more that we need (a particular hazard at this time of year), God asks us to slow down, to stop, even; to open our hearts, and to be prepared to acquire God’s gracious gift of salvation, which is both free and priceless.

Advent allows and invites us to begin afresh. Jesus tells us to be watchful and alert to that which is both unexpected and unexpectedly present. John the Baptizer urges our repentance, a literal “turning around” of our hearts and minds so that we may level our own hills and valleys and prepare a pathway free of twists and turns that allows the Lord access to our lives and vice versa. An angel announces a pair of impossible, holy births to two stunned couples.

There’s nothing new here, yet it bears repeating, year after year. God’s gift is not one to be garnered on the run, in the midst of a host of other tasks and distractions. The Incarnation doesn’t belong somewhere on a list; it is the list. It must be received intentionally, and nurtured in relationship. The Divine is taking on the human condition. Let’s make room, and time, for that. Let’s pray for the boldness of the Baptizer, the courage of Mary, the fortitude of Joseph, the insight of Elizabeth. Let’s make the coming of Christ real for us and for our world.

Got Vitality?

There’s so much advice these days for congregations looking to increase their vitality. Just what is it that makes a faith community “vital”? How can one spot the congregation that has a healthy, growth-filled future? Our diocese is looking at congregation vitality with a keen eye these days, and initiating programs to help ensure that over time, every congregation has an opportunity to become or continue to be a dynamic, life-giving community.

So I’ve been thinking about traits that, to me, point to a place that exhibits that dynamism and is engaged in positive ways with its own members and with the outside world. Here are a few things that I think are important:

1.      Its members like each other. I know, I know, Christians are commanded to love one another (not to mention our enemies), bear one another’s burdens, etc. Part of living in community is learning to love people one isn’t even particularly inclined to like. But when the members of a community know how to enjoy each other’s company, have fun together, and exhibit genuine friendship toward their fellow worshippers, that’s no mean feat. It shows. And it’s attractive.

2.      Its members like each other so much that they look for opportunities to share that with new people. I suppose that sounds counter-intuitive: if you’re all so happy together don’t you want to preserve that by protecting your boundaries? But a strong, faithful community is always looking to share its own particular “good news” with the world.

3.      They are not anxious. This doesn’t mean they ignore challenges or are in denial when some unexpected crisis occurs. But they trust God, and they don’t let anxiety become a partner in their common life. They don’t “feed the virus”.

4.      They tackle the aforementioned challenges creatively. They realize that yesterday’s solutions are pretty much guaranteed not to be the answer to solving today’s problems, especially if they are pursuing a more vital and hopeful tomorrow. They are open to the Spirit’s leading, and to ideas from within (and beyond) the group.

5.      And speaking of creativity, they understand that the God they worship is the source of all creation and all creativity. Since they are made in the image of the Divine architect, that creativity informs everything they do.

6.      They know that worship is a two-way street. They don’t show up to be entertained, or with a litmus test of acceptable liturgical practices. They intentionally engage in the worship and praise of God, the proclamation of the word, the celebration and administration of the sacraments. They don’t sit with arms folded across their chests, stand without moving, or kneel with their faces buried in a prayer book. They understand that liturgy, like so much of life, is relational; and they are as aware of their fellow worshippers as they are of the God they worship.

7.      They respect their church’s leadership, lay and ordained. They respect them enough to challenge them if they feel the need, and to speak with them directly when they disagree with a decision the leadership has made or a position they have taken. They don’t triangulate or gossip, and if they encounter others doing so they nip it in the bud for the sake of the whole community.

8.      They truly understand that this life, and the good things in it, are transitory. At the same time, all are gifts from God to be enjoyed, cherished, and shared. They live in this tension, and love out of it.

So, there’s my list, and it's not exhaustive. Some are no-brainers, to be sure, but we tend to forget them when we get caught up in daily routine, mundane tasks, or crises of a more significant nature. What would you add to the list?

Beyond COEXIST

Last evening the Clergy Association of my local community held our annual Thanksgiving Eve celebration. It’s tradition that goes back over 25 years (no one can recall exactly how long) and well attended by local residents. This year we gathered at a synagogue, with a Presbyterian minister preaching. Our village is home to over two dozen worshipping communities; though fewer than half were represented by their clergy or other leaders, the diversity was extraordinary. The assembly’s participation as a group was limited to a litany that spoke more to our history as a nation than to anything particularly religious, along with the singing of “America” and “Harvest Home” (which I have always interpreted to mean the eschaton, thus not particularly an interfaith hymn, but maybe that’s just me). Rather than try to find prayers and readings that were universal and therefore watered down to the point of meaninglessness, we practiced the Assissi method wherein each tradition’s representative does a reading or prays a prayer from that tradition as the rest of us listen respectfully and participate inwardly as we feel able to do.

As we participated – Jew, Muslim, Baha’i, Protestant, Roman Catholic, Anglican, Christian Scientist – I thought of so many things: the fragile truce brokered just that morning between Israel and the Palestinians; the persecution suffered by members of the Baha’i faith in parts of the Middle East. I met, for the first time, the new and very young iman recently called to serve the local mosque whose primary membership is composed of Bosnians – a people who know all too well the meanings of the words persecution and genocide. He chanted a portion of the Quran in Arabic – it was haunting and lovely and nasal and so different from the style done in our churches. The rabbi chanted, too, in Hebrew, and two local cantors offered solos or led us in song. I was moved by the testimony of the pastor of one of the Roman Catholic parishes as he thanked the community for helping him shepherd his congregation through the loss of three young men this past summer, students or recent graduates of the local high school, victims of accident and suicide.

Afterward the congregation offered us wonderful hospitality as we greeted neighbors. An elderly gentlemen approached my female deacon and me (still vested in cassock and surplice with those wonderful “Anglican sleeves”), saying that he had always championed the rights of women and he was so glad to see women clergy participating. “Can you please speak with the leadership of the Church of England?” I asked him, and we all smiled.

What strikes me in particular when I attend this service every year is the emphasis society puts on giving thanks “for” – both the necessities of life and the “stuff and fluff” that we want but know that we don’t really need. As people of faith, we don’t just give thanks for; we give thanks to – to the Holy One who is the source of all blessing, all joy, and yes, all diversity. All blessed and meaningful Thanksgiving to all!

Dots

Last week my husband and I saw a production of the Stephen Sondheim/James Lapine musical Sunday in the Park with George. The show is inspired by Georges Seurat’s 1886 painting “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte”, which hangs in the Art Institute of Chicago; its creators have imagine a series of interrelated back stories involving the artist and the subjects – human, animal, and inanimate – that inhabit Seurat’s work. What’s notable about the painting is Seurat’s technique of chromoluminarism (the use of color and light, commonly called “pointalism”). The entire painting is – dots! The artist uses colors in various combinations of small dots to create colors and shapes. Several colors blend to become another color not by mixing paint on the palette or canvas but by allowing the eye to do the work of combining them visually. I’m told that Sondheim and Lapine spent many hours in the Art Institute, studying and observing the painting. This is evident in both the musical score – lots of staccato whenever Georges is painting – and the lyrics. When the characters describe their afternoon “on an island in the river”, for example, they sing of “Sunday by the blue-purple-yellow-red water.”

At one point Georges invites a fellow artist to his studio to view the work in progress. Jules cannot distinguish the shapes and colors; he only sees the dots. Georges explains that he must step back, get into the proper light, and let his eyes form the people, animals, and landscape that inhabit and cover the canvas. Up close, one sees dots. Viewed from a distance, an entire, complicated scene emerges. Color and light. It’s all in the perspective: how one looks, how one sees. Writing in Broadway: The American Musical (Applause Books, 2004), Michael Kantor and Laurence Maslon note that “[Seurat] put hundreds of thousands of dots on that canvas. And every one was a separate decision. Some people say there were five million individual decisions. And that’s what art is.” 

Five million individual decisions. Five million “dots”. Five million representations of reality that are only complete and comprehensible when viewed from the perspective of the whole, because none of them exists in isolation. Just like us, just like life. Which is why, from time to time, we all need to back away from the confines of our own limited vantage points and look at the whole. Step back, and view the entire canvas. Move into the light, and let the colors emerge.