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.

Table Talk - The Way, the Truth, & the Life

The Good News of Jesus Christ according to the Evangelist, John (14:1-14):


Jesus said, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going." Thomas said to him, "Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?" Jesus said to him, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him."

Philip said to him, "Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied." Jesus said to him, "Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, `Show us the Father'? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it."

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The Questions for Discussion over Dinner Were:

In your personal life, in this community, or in another community - 

where have you experienced Jesus as the Way?

Where have you experienced Jesus as the Truth?

Where have you experienced Jesus as Life?

One person answered that they experience Jesus as Life in the gathering of family. 

Another said that they hear Jesus as Truth in music. 

A few of our youngest members said that they experience Jesus as the Way in Church – which got an “amen” from some of the adults.

Concluding Reflection:

People these days often come across this verse in which Jesus says that he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and they tend to interpret it in one of two ways.  People who tend to hold more “conservative” views, on the one hand, will say that this verse means that Christianity is the only true religion – this verse means that Christianity is the only Way; Christianity is the only Truth; Christianity alone offers real Life.  And “liberals” on the other hand react to that saying, “No, no, you’ve got it wrong; that can’t be right.”  They say that this verse means that Christianity is a Way – a way to the Truth, a way to abundant Life.

A plague on both your houses! 

Both interpretations overlook one simple point.  In this verse, Jesus doesn’t say that Christianity is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.  Rather, Jesus says, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.”  This verse isn’t talking about your “religion.”  It’s not talking about your personal beliefs.  It’s not talking about your opinions on spirituality. 

In this verse, Jesus is saying that when you encounter the Truth, you encounter him.  When you really encounter Truth – the kind of truth that draws you to it, that transforms the way you see, that convicts you of the life you’ve been living, and sets you free – you encounter Jesus.  And where Jesus is, there the Father is also.

Jesus is saying that when you participate in Life in all its abundance, you participate in him.  When you realize that your own life is not your property but a gracious gift from God freely given in Christ, then you realize that Jesus is as close to you as the air your breathe and the thoughts you think.  And when you live more fully into the gift of abundant Life, then you find that you’re participating in the very life of Jesus.  And where Jesus is, there the Father is also.

Jesus is not saying that Christianity is the Way.  Jesus is telling us that he is the Way.  He is the Way because he and the Father are one.  He is the Way because he is the love of God made manifest in a person.  He is the Way because we participate in his life when we live into the gift of abundant life God has graciously given to us.  He is the Way because we encounter him whenever we encounter the Truth.  He is the Way because he is the Father’s way of showing us how much he loves and cares for us.  

 

In Christ the Bottom Holds

This is the week that Christ dies for us, which can obscure the reality that Jesus lives for us. This life is made holy by Jesus' presence. Through Christ, God has sung songs, danced at weddings, wept at a friend's grave, been put on trial, and prayed for deliverance. Through Christ, God knows the cool wetness of rivers like the Jordan and the warmth of his mother's loving embrace.

This Holy Week, through Christ, God knows what it is to be betrayed, abandoned, arrested, imprisoned, beaten, and what it is to suffer and be murdered. Christ is there with us, sharing our joys and sorrows along with us and nothing is too great for Christ's shoulders to bear, because these shoulders have already borne the Sin of the world. Christ is with us in our highs, lows, and every place in between.

I don't know where the bottom is for you. Maybe early in your life, when your father died unexpectedly. Maybe yet to come, losing a battle to cancer. Maybe a terrible divorce, a failure of nerve, or betrayal of a friend. Maybe a life of extended hardships and brokenness, never being able to make things better. I don't know where the bottom is for you, but I know this: Christ is there. In pain, in sorrow, in loss, in betrayal, and even in death: Christ is there. Even at the bottom, Christ is there redeeming the seemingly irredeemable and reconciling the seemingly irreconcilable.

In these posts, I usually tell stories about Southside Abbey. Today I share someone else's story. Time, geography, and Dean Trotter's great-niece have given me permission to share it.

Jess Trotter was Dean of the Virginia Seminary in the 1950s & 1960s, beloved by students and faculty. He, his wife and their teenage son lived in a house on the Seminary grounds, near the chapel, where Dean Trotter was always present at “Good Ol' Morning Prayer.”

Battling depression, the Trotters' son succumbed to the terminal symptom of that disease and took his own life in the house so near the seminary chapel. For days following, Dean Trotter came to chapel services and said nothing. Days turned into weeks. He was present for chapel services, and still he said nothing – participating in the service as much as his heart would allow – hearing the healing words, even if unable to utter them. Dean Trotter lost weight and his health declined.

Weeks turned into months and still no words from Dean Trotter. One day at the end of Good Ol' Morning Prayer, Dean Trotter stood up, climbed the steps into the pulpit and addressed his congregation. The chapel knew sheer silence as he spoke . . .

“I have seen the bottom and Christ is there and in Christ the bottom holds.”

I don't know where you bottom is – maybe early in your life; maybe yet to come; or maybe right now – know that Christ has been there, is there now, and will be there, making even the depths of our lives holy with his very presence. This Holy Week we see the bottom and we are not surprised to find that Christ is there and in Christ the bottom holds.

This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation'sVital Practices Vital Posts blog on April 16, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.