When the LORD Won't Let You Sleep

So this is a blog? 

Do reader’s read this blog when they choose to read?

Does it depend on what the blogger blogs?

My name is Graham, and I am the lay missioner at Southside Abbey. We are a quirky church to say the least, with the homeless and the over-housed hanging out over pizza and chili. If you want to know more, stop by The Hart Gallery on a Friday night at 6:11pm and worship with us. It will be no less than a genuine, awkward human interaction with a brooding sense of the divine hovering all about.

With no further ado, let us continue on to what I actually intended to talk about, namely, the Old Testament lectionary reading for this upcoming Sunday: 

1 Samuel 3:1-20

¹Now the boy Samuel ministered to the LORD before Eli. 

And the word of the LORD was rare in those days; there was no widespread revelation. 

²And it came to pass at that time, while Eli was lying down in his place, 

and when his eyes had begun to grow so dim that he could not see, 

³and before the lamp of God went out in the tabernacle of the LORD where the ark of God was, and while Samuel was lying down, 

⁴that the LORD called Samuel. And he answered, "Here I am!" 

⁵So he ran to Eli and said, "Here I am, for you called me." 

And he said, "I did not call; lie down again." 

And he went and lay down. 

⁶Then the LORD called yet again, "Samuel!" 

So Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, "Here I am, for you called me." 

He answered, "I did not call, my son; lie down again." 

⁷(Now Samuel did not yet know the LORD, 

nor was the word of the LORD yet revealed to him.)

 ⁸And the LORD called Samuel again the third time.

 So he arose and went to Eli, and said, "Here I am, for you did call me." 

Then Eli perceived that the LORD had called the boy. 

⁹Therefore Eli said to Samuel, "Go, lie down; and it shall be, 

if He calls you, that you must say, 'Speak, LORD, for Your servant hears.'" 

So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 

¹⁰Now the LORD came and stood and called as at other times, "Samuel! Samuel!"

 And Samuel answered, "Speak, for Your servant hears." 

¹¹Then the LORD said to Samuel: "Behold, 

I will do something in Israel at which both ears of everyone who hears it will tingle. 

¹²In that day I will perform against Eli 

all that I have spoken concerning his house, from beginning to end. 

¹³For I have told him that I will judge his house forever for the iniquity which he knows, 

because his sons made themselves vile, and he did not restrain them. 

¹⁴And therefore I have sworn to the house of Eli 

that the iniquity of Eli's house shall not be atoned for by sacrifice or offering forever." 

¹⁵So Samuel lay down until morning, and opened the doors of the house of the LORD.

 And Samuel was afraid to tell Eli the vision. 

¹⁶Then Eli called Samuel and said, "Samuel, my son!" 

He answered, "Here I am." 

¹⁷And he said, "What is the word that the LORD spoke to you? 

Please do not hide it from me. 

God do so to you, and more also, 

if you hide anything from me of all the things that He said to you." 

¹⁸Then Samuel told him everything, and hid nothing from him. 

And he said, "It is the LORD. Let Him do what seems good to Him." 

¹⁹So Samuel grew, and the LORD was with him 

and let none of his words fall to the ground. 

²⁰And all Israel from Dan to Beersheba 

knew that Samuel had been established as a prophet of the LORD.

NKJV

Did both of your ears tingle?

There is a lot that can go into interpreting a passage like this. We could delve into the history, context, and culture. When was it written? Who was it written to? What seems to be the author’s intent? We could talk about Eli’s no good sons, using their religious privilege to abuse women. Or we could talk about the character of Samuel, the first son of a barren woman dedicated to a life of ministry in the temple. This is, after all, a story about real people in a real place, and as such, there is an almost overwhelming amount of complexity.  And then there is God mucking about in the middle of it. 

Ultimately, I am the most curious about this “LORD” character. What is God doing waking everybody up in the middle of the night? Wouldn’t a mid-morning call be a little more civil? Doesn’t he know he is ruining their entire night?  This is the season of Ephiphany, when God reveals himself like a light in the darkness. Why is he moving around in the shadows?

 Can you imagine how exasperated Samuel and Eli must have been getting? They had spent a long day in the temple praying, offering sacrifices, and expiating the guilt of thoroughly screwed up human beings before a perfect and holy God. That’s exhausting.  Samuel thinks Eli keeps calling for him. He recognizes authority in the call, but Eli keeps denying it’s him. Why is the old man messing with him? 

Eli is wondering what the heck is wrong with this kid who keeps waking him up. Why can’t the kid just go back to sleep?

Then Eli realizes something else is going on.  God, that troubling God they worship, is getting himself involved. I love the line “Now the LORD came and stood and called...” God is intervening with, what  sounds like, a very physical presence. Can you imagine the Creator God of the cosmos standing in your hallway and calling your name?

Then God puts Samuel in an extremely awkward and even dangerous position. Samuel has to condemn the very person in authority over him. Eli provides everything for Samuel. Eli can ruin Samuel’s life.  Why is God asking a child to deliver this troubling message to his elder? 

You have to credit Eli, who, even though he hears the words from a boy, knows that they are the LORD’s words. It is a fascinating response, “It is the LORD. Let him do what seems good to him.” 

Is the correct response? Should he have pleaded with God? Is he actually repenting or just resigning himself? Should he have gone out and drove his sons out the temple? Out of the body of Israel? 

Perhaps.

I think of the other characters in the Bible who struggle against God. David pleading for the life of his bastard son. Abraham bargaining against the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Moses convincing God to not wipe-out all the Israelites. Habakuk decrying the seeming absence of God in the violence that plagued his society. Mary asking Jesus to miracle up some new wine. Jesus asking the Father if there is any way forward besides crucifixion. There is no one answer, but there seems to be space for asking.

So struggle with God. Listen for his voice. Obey. God may be troubling, but God is also Love.

I Had an Epiphany! No Wait, a Theophany!

I want to begin this week's post by wishing everyone a holy Epiphany-tide. Epiphany is a church word that gets tossed around outside of the church. Often my first response when I hear someone say, “I had an epiphany,” is: “no you didn't!” I know I am reacting to how the word gets used, but something about the word Epiphany has to do with our ability to see the “striking appearance.” The onus is on the individual and not the Divine.

In the Eastern Church they use the word, “Theophany,” meaning a vision of God. It is tough to corroborate, but theophany feels more about God's revelation of God's self, not our personal self's ability to see that revelation.

This flies in the face of the more-than-opportunistic advertise-at-every-opportunity of consumerist culture. God isn't just going to use the super-bowl commercial to get our attention. God can use the ordinary too, like eyelashes or splinters. God has used salt, light, water, mud, bread, and wine to get our attention. Occasionally God shows up in something miraculous like a burning bush, but for a mystic like Julian of Norwich, it was due to a hazelnut that she knew the whole world exists because God loves it. God is always there: revealing and revealing despite our – at times – poor perception.

At times aspects of the Episcopal Church can get me down. As a denomination, we often find ourselves glamorized with the glamorous. At this point in my journey following Jesus, I am less and less concerned with where (or if) someone went to seminary, what books he or she has written (or read), if he or she works in the Episcopal Mecca or Medina (New York City or Los Angeles). This Theophany Season, I am intentionally taking the Eastern road – looking for how God is revealing God's self all around me. I am walking the mystic's path – looking for how God is revealing God's self through what is already happening – what the Holy Spirit is doing – all around me.

One whole day into this intentional journey, here is the truth that has been revealed to me...

In my music career, people would talk about the “best drummer ever” or something like that. The superlative musician in question was invariably the herald's favorite. (Not that I am against favorites – Southside Abbey's warden prayerfully reminds herself daily: “I am God's very favorite, and so are you.”) But favorite does not equal best. I'm going to go on record and state that the best drummer is not Neil Peart, John Fishman, Steve Gadd (although I might entertain this argument), or Mike Clark. The best drummer in the world is a field worker in Cuba cutting sugar in a cane field or a stamp-canceller in a Ghanaian post office – using rhythm in their vocation everyday until it doesn't seem like work anymore. It is someone that – odds are – we will never hear about, because they don't put cane field workers or postal employees on the cover of magazines.

This makes me think about our beloved church. There are lots of people doing lots of really effective ministry that we may never hear about, because they are not marketing themselves, they are marketing Jesus. They are speaking the language of our sacred story through their vocation. As Paul put it: “We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake” (2 Cor. 4:5).

For those of you toiling for Jesus in relative obscurity, let me use this platform to offer heart-felt thanks and blessings. If you are talking to college students about Jesus in Michigan, if you are starting a street ministry in North Carolina, if you are celebrating Holy Communion daily with a handful of the faithful in New Jersey, if you are hosting a medical mission at your rural Oregon parish, if you are practicing counter-cultural radically inclusive welcome in suburban Texas, if you are expanding the affordable housing options in Minnesota, if you are trying to engage in justice ministries with secular Vermonters, if you are in ecumenical conversations about greening food deserts in Ohio, if you wait in contemplation in New Mexico’s high desert, or if you are quietly, faithfully doing the work of Jesus that will probably never land you on the cover of a magazine...

Thanks be to God for your ministry and for your willingness to serve. May God bless you and the fruits of these ministries. 

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on January 8, 2015. It has been reprinted here with permission.

In the Name of the Refugees

A few years ago I was part of a large staff that afforded me a big, cushy office. I had lots of wall space for posters – Jesus Died to Take Away Your Sins, Not Your Minds – and the like.

Beyond the standard fare, I also had a reprint of a poster produced by the Diocese of Ohio from 1938. The poster depicts Mary, with the baby Jesus clutched in her arms, mounted atop a donkey. Joseph looks behind to see if he is being followed. It bears the phrase: “In the Name of These Refugees . . . Aid All Refugees: Through Interest – Friendship – Gifts.” This reprint came from Episcopal Migration Ministries and – while we may not use words like Refugee anymore – I love the sentiment. This is a time of year to treasure the vulnerability of God as the baby Jesus in our hearts.

These days, whenever I see a baby, I marvel. We were all once that size. We were all dependent upon someone to feed us and bathe us and change us and make sure we didn't suffocate or get sick or throw up too much. We were all completely dependent upon others for care and love. We were all that small. . . and through the Mystery of the Incarnation, so was God.

My mind returns to that poster originally printed in 1938: who would have been the Refugees who would have been aided through friendship, interest, and/or gifts in 1938? Who would have been vulnerable in 1938? The world was on the brink of destruction. Humanity was acting pretty far-from-human. As we break through the veil of Advent, we see that Christ comes to us – in the form of the vulnerable – once more.

Do I miss my big, cushy office? Some days, but on those days I like to think about that poster. Christ Jesus did his work in this world in an ordinary body, with ordinary people. God came to dwell with us in the most vulnerable way. When we encounter the vulnerable or when we ourselves are those vulnerable, we have the opportunity to see God, present in that relationship. What a gift to receive.

Merry Christmas.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on December 25, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.

What Am I Thankful For?

A few weeks ago Sarah Weedon, a senior from the School of Theology at Sewanee and the seminarian assigned to Southside Abbey, preached at our Friday evening worship.
By way of reminder, I will share a little of how our preaching works in our community – ­­ one that is two-thirds to three-quarters people who are in transitional housing – motels, cars, camps, abandoned buildings, streets, etc.

The preaching style at Southside Abbey begins by inviting conversation based upon a question or two. After Holy Scripture is proclaimed, the preacher asks a question and our worshipers break into small groups for discussion. We try to be intentional that these groups represent something of the diversity of the community – homeless people and millionaires, PhDs and people who are illiterate, many ethnicities, immigrants from Sudan, Guatemala, Russia, and even folks from the upper Midwest. 

When I preach, I try to be a part of as many of these small groups as possible. When we gather back together as a group, the homilist preaches something of a capstone homily, trying to integrate what he or she has heard with what he or she has prepared for the week – often jettisoning all of that hard work in favor of something someone in the community has shared. My all time favorite is the time an African American man shared this: “I'm a black, homeless, jobless man and I just talked about Jesus with a white, female zoo-keeper. Where else could this happen? That is church to me!” All of this takes place in the holy space as we eat dinner between the bread and wine of Holy Communion.

This particular week, Sarah invited us to reflect upon the things in our life we hold in tension. When she called us back together from our conversations, she asked people to share – as they felt called – with the wider community. That's when Chris nervously stood up. Chris is a big guy, whose hugs cause me to wonder if one of my ribs might snap. A blue teardrop tattoo on his cheek brands him as someone who has paid a debt. He had been a part of our community for only a few weeks when he shared – with shaking in his voice – the things he holds in tension:

“On the one hand, I'm trying to walk the good walk. I'm trying to be a good man. The kind of man that my grandmother would be proud of. I'm trying to follow Jesus and not do some of those bad things I have done in the past. On the other hand, I'm homeless and an ex-con. I spent twenty-five years in the pen. Not that I want to live that kind of life ever again or the kind of life that put me there, but . . . people have these expectations of me – of what kind of man I am – because I'm homeless and I've done time. But I want to be good. I want to do good.”

What can you say to that? What could a seminarian preach after that? Sarah was wiser than I would have been at that point in my career. She said she didn't know what else to say but “Amen.” “Amen” comes to us from our Jewish roots. It is a Hebrew word that means so be it. So be it. So be it, Chris. Keep trying. Keep holding those things in tension. Keep wanting to do and be good, following Jesus.

For me it was another in a seemingly endless (thanks be to God) series of moments where I am hit over the head with the reality that the Holy Spirit can speak through anyone. Anyone. That's what I am thankful for and I am thankful that occasionally the Holy Spirit even speaks through me. And I'm especially thankful that I get to share all of our adventures on the margins with you, the readers.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on November 26, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.

'Tis the Season

No. I don't mean Christmas, though area big box stores have been anticipating for a while now. As little Bobby's fingers are still stained with chocolate from his Halloween haul, out goes the Christmas candy, decorations, and general noelia. 

The season of which I write is the season of stewardship. One of the gifts that worshiping on Friday evenings gives me is the opportunity to fill in for area rectors on Sunday morning. This season of stewardship has seen me preach less on Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount and more on an absent rector’s “Sermon on the Amount.”

Southside Abbey does stewardship a little differently. We certainly do give people opportunities to give of the gifts they have been given, but we do not pass a plate at weekly worship. We are fueled financially on the high-octane mix of gracious partnerships with area Episcopal and Lutheran congregations, a handful of generous individuals and families, and the Rube Goldberg-esque Leopold grant writing machine. It makes for quite the combustible stewardship season that causes funding things like our upcoming food-truck/mobile-chapel/people-mover to be comically Holy Spirit-driven.

I don't write all of this as an appeal for checks to Southside Abbey, but as a confession. I have not asked our congregation - of which three-quarters are homeless or in transitional housing - to give financially. I have asked for gifts of time, energy, presence, skill, et cetera, but not for money. This oversight was brought to me by a homeless man, who happens to be one of the most faithful people I know.

One ordinary afternoon, he showed up at my house and handed me a money order for $250, made out to Southside Abbey. He doesn't have a house. He doesn't have a car. He may not know where his next meal is coming from, but he made a gift of such magnitude ($250 happens to be what we had spent on food that week). I confess now that I tried to stop him. I asked, "Are you sure? Wouldn't you rather spend this money on . . . " Before I could finish, he cut me off: "Don't take this away from me! Don't rob me of this opportunity to give my gift. I want to buy dinner for all my friends at church."

I guess I still have a lot to learn about faithfulness. Thanks be to God I have surrounded myself with the right teachers.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on November 13, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.

Decoding Dinner Church

I'd like to start this post with a joke.

Q: How many Episcopalians does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Change!?! Why should we change? We like the old light bulb. The Edison family donated it in 1886. See the wall plaque beneath the old bulb?

This little humor is to prepare you for the reality that we do the liturgy a little differently at Southside Abbey. Having said that, there is much about our liturgy that will be familiar, even to those who are change-phobic. We follow the four-fold shape of Gathering, Word, Table, and Sending, but we change it up just a little bit.

One of the great gifts we have been given as followers of Jesus is this sacred meal where Christ has promised to be present in, through, and with us. We celebrate this reality with bread, wine, and a meal, but in the Church we have so stylized that meal that many of our guests and sojourners can scarcely recognize the meal aspect of it.

At Southside Abbey, we are trying to reclaim that sense of a true meal in a very real way.

We begin with the Gathering time, which includes conversation, call to worship, collect, prayers of the people, confession, absolution, and the peace. Then we jump right in to the Table where we celebrate communion of the bread. Then . . . we hit the pause button.

During this liturgical pause, we go to the kitchen where everyone gets a plate of whatever we are having for dinner that evening. Sometimes our meal is potluck (that's Southern for “covered-dish”), sometimes it is wonderfully homemade by those in our community, and sometimes it is pizza, sandwiches, or soup. We feed lots of folks in lots of different ways. What might not be my favorite choice might deeply resonate with someone else and vice versa.

After returning to the table with our full plates, we hear the Holy Scriptures. Following the readings, the preacher asks a few questions that catalyze conversation in small groups. Then he or she preaches a capstone “homilette.” From there we are Sent into the world with post-communion prayer, announcements, Nunc Dimittis announcements, blessing, and dismissal.

Aside from the meal and resulting changes in the ministries of Word and Table, this doesn't seem so different, does it? Our Ordo is actually pretty similar to the form for Holy Eucharist from the BCP 1928 or the Penitential Order from the BCP 1979 – who would have thought that?

I know that “change” can be a four-letter word for many of us in the Church, but the Episcopal Church is one that has at our core the idea of local adaptation, overseen by our bishops. Southside Abbey is locally adapting in ways that are as inviting to those without other church homes as they are comfortable to Episcopalians.

As we approach the changes in liturgical season and church and calendar year, I invite you to think about this idea that my former rector, Donald Fishburne, shared with me . . . Think back on your life to everything you would call a blessing. Maybe this was falling in love, the birth of children or grandchildren, reconciliation of a broken relationship, or just anything you can think of that you would call a blessing, even a hard blessing like the death of a loved one who has suffered for far too long. Now, did not all of these blessings carry with them some aspect of change? I'm not saying that all changes are blessings, but . . . if we resist change, we also resist blessings.

I close by wishing, “Blessings,” upon those who read this post - especially if you have made it this far. If you are maybe interested in some change too, Southside Abbey freely shares all of the liturgies we develop on our website under the “Open Source” tab.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on October 30, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

For those of you keeping track, I haven't posted in a while. I have been away on sabbatical. Sabbatical is dedicated time to embrace that seventh day of creation – resting in God's presence – to return recharged and ready for whatever the Holy Spirit has in store next.

Over-functioner that I was, I decided I would have the a superlative sabbatical. I booked leadership conferences at Bexley-Seabury, academic coursework at two universities, a thesis-writing-boot-camp, three full vacations, and several speaking engagements. Those who saw my sabbatical schedule would joke, “Great, but when are you going to rest?” Maybe I thought I didn't need it.

Sabbatical went well enough at the beginning. I got to see my parents and help my mom downsize. Then I got word of some family tragedies and had to return for a funeral. During the one week that I had nothing else booked, I decided to remodel our guest bathroom as a surprise for my wife who was visiting her family. She was “surprised” to return to a half-destroyed bathroom and a very sick husband.

I felt pretty bad pretty quick. I thought this was the standard summer sinus infection and would pass with the usual course of antibiotics. Nope.

To make a very long story short, I was admitted to the Cardiac Care Unit of our local hospital with pneumonia and an infection of the heart lining, where I stayed for four days on heavy-duty intravenous antibiotics. I went down hard. A cardiologist came in and started to talk about options. If the antibiotics didn't work, we would have to talk transplant. Wait. What!?! Heart transplant!?! I'm thirty-five and still in decent shape! This was not part of my sabbatical agenda. Then the cardiologist gave me fodder for preaching, pastoral care and blog posts I will use the rest of my career: “The heart has no defenses of its own.” Don't take this as medical advice, but the heart is covered in a sack that can fend of all kinds of nasty stuff. Once those defenses are beaten, there is nothing else to protect the heart.

God worked through the prayers of many and through my earnest bargaining and the antibiotics did their job. There was no need to talk any further about a transplant. Apparently I do still have work to do on the planet. But, I did have to stay in bed for essentially the next two months; slowly, slowly regaining my strength. I had all these plans for sabbatical and God said, “rest with me.” Guess who won?

I share all of this, because I learned a whole lot by going through a situation I would not wish on anyone. Even before this happened the sabbatical taught me that I was doing too much. Now I am doing less; doing what I can. Proceeding slowly. But this is not one of those “What could you give up?” kind of blog posts. Because here's what I really learned...

Something happened in that hospital. Yes, I was on some heavy drugs but that wasn't it. College wasn't so long ago: I remember what that feeling and that wasn't it at all. Sometime after my wife was asked to leave so I could rest, and my bishop and former rector had come to say prayer with me, I had another visitor. In the middle of the night, I began to feel the overwhelming presence of love in the room. I became aware that I was being bathed in the love of Christ. What else could it be? I experienced healing, like a miracle. I turned a corner that night physically, but the real transformation was spiritual. The whole thing made my very Episcopal self quite uncomfortable. Maybe that love of Jesus that we talk so much about had finally penetrated all the defenses that I had put up. In that moment, when my heart was most vulnerable, I knew the love of Jesus. My heart was defenseless to God's love.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on September 30, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.