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Dear People of Christ Church,
For this year’s Advent series, we tried something new, an intergenerational Bible Study. From week to week, we looked at the different stories of the origins of Jesus Christ—the traditional nativity story in Luke, with the manger and the shepherds, the cosmic Christ through whom the world came to be as described so poetically in the Gospel of John, the beginning-that-is-no-beginning offered by Mark, who just launches into Jesus’ ministry with not a word about where Jesus came from. And, of course, Matthew, who gives us Joseph’s dream and the visitation of the Magi.

Each Gospel is written from a different perspective, and each one teaches us something different about who Jesus is and what God desires for us. Each time we met for our Advent conversations, we asked the question: what if this were the only story we had? What if we had magi, and no shepherds? What if we had the manger, but no cosmic poetry?

The fact is, we need all of these stories.  We need them all because we need to spend some time with different emphases—we need the cosmic Christ to remind us of God’s intimacy with the world, always and from the beginning. We need the birth of a messiah heralded by outcast and dirty shepherds, Mary a pregnant teenager with no place to stay, to remind us that God always goes to the places of powerlessness. But we also need Matthew, to tell us that Jesus is a King in the line of David,  that Jesus comes in “majesty and awe,”  too. The kings of this world aren’t the only ones with gold and frankincense.  We need the jolt of imagining God in a manger, and the familiarity of imagining the kings visiting Mary in an ordinary house.

God speaks to us in many different ways.   Whether Jesus is born indoors or out of doors, or whether the Gospel gives a story of his birth or not, the wisdom of our tradition has invited us into all of those different realities. God’s truth, even within Christian teaching, is varied.  And how much more do we need to remember that as we, with Mary, “ponder in our hearts” God’s working in the world in other faiths.
God speaks however God will, whenever God will. God speaks shepherd as well as king. God speaks more languages than we can know.

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m still mulling over the Gospel for Sunday, Jesus’ encounter with the rich young man. It’s an astonishing and tragic moment: he comes up to Jesus and bows down, offering deference and respect. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” We can imagine that maybe he’s expecting to be told he’s doing well; he says he has kept all the commandments. But something unanticipated happens—Jesus looks at him, and loves him. In that loving glance, Jesus sees him and knows him, and tells him what he’s missing: “You lack one thing. Go, sell all you own, and give the money to the poor. Then come, follow me.” The man was looking for approval, not grace. Certainly not this kind of love that will change his life. So he leaves. The text says, “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”

This, it seems to me, is as clear a picture of hell as we ever see in the New Testament. Never mind all that stuff about the eternal fire where the worm never dies we heard a few weeks ago. This is the real thing. All of the promises of God’s eternity so close he could touch it, and instead he turns his back. The psychological keenness of the Gospel story is so striking—he went away grieving. Giving in to his fear, he can’t listen to his sorrow. He walks away into hell, rejecting the invitation and love of Jesus.

There is a stained glass window at Grace Church in Medford, where my husband is the rector, that has a person with exactly the same expression as I imagine Jesus offering this young man. It’s full of compassion and love, a deep, knowing comfort. In this all-encompassing gaze, you are seen, deeply seen. All of your fears, all of your vulnerability, all of your joy and strength. And I imagine when this young man encountered Jesus looking at him like that, he just couldn’t manage it. It was too much. This is where the depth of this story really hits home—that glance. How often do I let my fear of vulnerability take over? How often do I rely on the safety of invisibility rather than the risk of transformation?

What would I do if I heard that call to sell everything I own and give it to the poor? Jesus is really clear here—it’s give the money. Not to a charitable organization that will “responsibly” dole out assistance. It’s about the cash, here, giving it up and giving it to those who don’t have any. Is this the call of the Gospel now? With every home improvement project and nice sweater I buy, am I walking step by step away from the promises of eternal life? Is it possible still to inch closer and closer, slowly, slowly, near to God’s dream of peace and justice, however often we become distracted and confused? How about you? Where are you encountering that love of Jesus, and how are you turning toward it?

Blessings,
Sara+

P.S. So—when I say I like the window—I really like the window. I sat opposite it when I was on sabbatical three years ago and sang in the choir at Grace, and started contemplating it as a tattoo. This fall I took the plunge—more about that process on my own blog.

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I was out of the office for a few days at the Making Excellent Disciples conference, a program of the diocese. The aim is to support mentoring and leadership training for newer ordinands, and I’ve had the privilege to journey as a mentor to Jack Clark, the assistant rector in Sudbury, over the last two years. One of our workshops today was on how the church is called to be prophetic. What does it mean to tell the truth when truth telling virtually ensures not everyone will be on board with you? How do you make room for conversation and mutual discernment? As we sat down one of the participants asked where our stones were—I thought he was talking about some crafty project with rocks or something—but he was really joking about whether we were going to stone our presenter, a fate met by many a prophet either literally or metaphorically.

We like when truth is spoken to power…as long as it’s our truth. There is always a fine line in finding the right way to bring politics in. Anything that has to do with power is political—it’s just part of life. On the one hand, if you sincerely want to lead on an issue, you have to actually think about how effective your proclamation is going to be. On the other—sometimes you just need to SPEAK and let the chips fall where they may. Jumping into the pulpit or your staff meeting and letting loose on what you think about Guantanamo, however, just may not be a great strategy to try to advocate for recognizing the dignity of every human being. Silence, though, also doesn’t seem to be the answer. Jesus had plenty to say about who had what and how people cared for each other in in real life—real cities and communities and families—not just in the abstract. He taught in a world not so different from our own, in that respect.

Our workshop leader on prophetic ministry was Cameron Partridge, a good friend of mine and, though he wouldn’t claim the mantle of “prophet” for himself, he has had a goodly prophetic ministry for our diocese and the wider church in advocacy for the concerns and inclusion of transgendered people. Cameron and I were ordained together in 2004, he the first trans man to be a priest in our diocese—Christ Churchers may also remember him as being here for Adah’s baptism as her godfather. He’s also filled in for me on a Sunday at least once or twice! Part of our conversation included a reading of the book of the prophet Jonah. If you haven’t read the book of Jonah lately, please do yourself a favor now and read the whole thing (it will take five minutes). One of the more resonant things about Jonah is that, while he grudgingly calls Nineveh to repentance, he totally doesn’t want to. Jonah argues with God, throwing tantrum after tantrum. But God stays in relationship, loves Jonah, and loves Nineveh. They work it out. Once he’s called to be a prophet, Jonah doesn’t straighten up and obey God—he wrestles and argues and wonders and sighs. He’s real. He trusts God with his whole self, and God trusts him. I think the wholehearted relationship between God and Jonah is a good model for what it is for parish ministry to grapple with the prophetic. They have a real relationship. They listen to each other. They’re safe.

Who challenges you in your life to think like a prophet? When have you had the courage to speak? Where do you think this community is called to do that work?

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
Blessings on this week of Epiphany!
This year through both Advent and Christmas I’ve continually felt drawn toward the multiplicity of our narratives—from Matthew to Mark to Luke to John, the church has long told many stories to explain our faith. To be religious is to be bound by a certain set of questions and symbols, but at the same time to hold a radical openness to truth—to stand at the doorway of Scripture and see shepherds at the manger on our left and Magi at the house with Jesus on the right and be able to extend our arms wide and say to both, “yes,” “thank you,” “Amen.” The shepherds teach me that God’s truth is revealed in some unlikely corners of society; the Magi teach me that the revelation of truth sometimes comes from far away.

There is much in the media this week over the attacks against the satirical French newspaper Charlie Hebdo, in which twelve staff members were shot this week in an attack apparently by Islamic fundamentalists. Is religion the problem? One of my favorite authors, Salman Rushdie, says it is, and calls it “a medieval form of unreason,” and says religion deserves our “fearless disrespect.” Certainly I have little sympathy for homicidal fundamentalists, but it seems unuseful to lump every impulse toward transcendence and mystery in the same category. Religious violence has endured through millennia. The Egyptians oppressed the Hebrews and the Spanish Inquisition oppressed non-Catholics. Christian fundamentalists have bombed abortion clinics and now Islamic fundamentalists attack cartoonists and school girls. The thing those all have in common is contempt and violence, not religion. Charlie Hebdo was contemptuous (and from what I’ve seen, probably racist, too)—but not violent, and not deserving of murder. It’s cruel irony that one of the police officers murdered in the attack was Muslim, risking his life to protect those on the magazine who pilloried his prophet.

So what to do? As thousands in France held up their pens in support of the writers and artists who were killed on Tuesday, as a religious person I hold out two open hands. I hold out open hands for mystery, for attentiveness and for curiosity. Open hands to say that I don’t come to Scripture—or even my own life!— with certainty, but with faith. I’ll imagine the magi in the stable and give thanks for the holy strangeness of kings in a barn. I’ll imagine the shepherds at the house and hope that their lambs don’t wander into the kitchen. I’ll get out of bed every day to meet my own chaotic life of distraction and wonder—parenting and preaching and learning and falling and getting up again—through all of it so grateful for a faith big enough to hold the pieces together.

At Epiphany, we remember the magi following a star and listening to the invitation in their dream to go home by another way. What new path are you on today? What’s the power of your faith against violence? Where do you need the stars to illuminate your road?

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, our Gospel brings up the question of “Church vs State”—Jesus is tested by the Pharisees and Herodians about whether or not to pay their taxes. Disarming the debate, he famously looks at the coin and declares that it’s got Caesar’s face on it, so they can give it back to Caesar. Those things that belong to God, they go to God.
I’m increasingly aware that we vote in just a few weeks, and there are some pretty important ballot initiatives on the table. The rubber of faith and our politics is about to hit the road.

It seems worth it here to mention a difference that I think is important to keep in mind when we think about politics and church. There’s a difference between being partisan and political. We get into all kinds of hot water when we are partisan—supporting particular candidates or political parties—and not just because of our IRS status, which would be on the line in that case. Being political, however, is just part of what it is to be human. Politics is all about power—who has it and who doesn’t. As Christians, our task is to look for those who have less power and stand with them. This is basic “What Would Jesus Do” stuff—prostitutes and tax collectors and widows and orphans. We’re on their side. People of faith can disagree with integrity with each other on how to solve particular questions of power in society (immigration, social welfare, etc), but advocating on the side of those on the margins just isn’t up for debate. I’m reminded of the Stephen Colbert quote—“If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn’t help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we’ve got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don’t want to do it.” Ouch.

In any case, there is a certainly a moral dimension to all four questions, but I’m particularly concerned about the questions on earned sick time and casino gambling in Massachusetts. There is currently no job protection for those who need to miss work for to care for themselves or a sick child, parent, or spouse. The ballot initiative also protects time spent for attending to the effects of domestic violence on themselves or a dependent child—this is really important!

For people of faith, I think the gambling question is potentially tricker. Well, actually, it’s not. But it seems like it is. When it comes to “social ill” issues, I’m usually on the harm reduction side of the equation; let’s not legislate people’s bad behavior. Gambling is quite different, though-it isn’t just about individual choice, it’s about how it creates a whole social climate and feeds a predatory industry. In the clear words of Doug Fisher, bishop of Western Massachusetts, “Jesus came to bring Good News to the poor. Casinos are BAD NEWS for the poor. We follow Jesus.” In state after state, the promises made by gambling advocates that they create jobs are repeatedly shown to be wildly overestimated. Every quarter spent on a slot machine is one quarter not spent at a local business. It appears to be a “done deal” that Massachusetts will be the latest state to adopt casino gambling, but it’s not. Every voter has the power to say that this is not in our best interest.

From a more traditionally moral standpoint, do I have a problem with gambling in itself? This is probably the moment to admit that after my family met some card playing kids at an Appalachian Mountain Club hut last week the first thing my son did when we got home was to get out his piggy bank to buy a set of poker chips like the ones he played with there. I’d make a bad Puritan. A multi million dollar casino backed by organized crime folks , however, isn’t a bunch of kids with plastic coins. Massachusetts could be the first state where the citizens repeal a deal that politicians have made in favor of gambling. Let’s do it!

For the full text of the bishops’ statements, see here.

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
Peter came and said to Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.
77 times.

Peter, here, in the Gospel we’ll read this Sunday, thinks he is going after the gold star. He knows Jesus is a big fan of forgiveness—so, he thinks, I’ll just suggest some wild number of times to forgive, and he’ll be impressed with me. As usual, Jesus blows him out of the water—not 7, but 77.

How many times do I have to forgive. How many times do I have to feel the tightening in my throat, the stinging in my eyes, the sense of exposure. How many times, again and again. 13 years later, now, and probably 23, 10 years from now.

Today, the thirteenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, how many times do I have to tell the story. My first day of seminary. Living 2 ½ miles from the World Trade Center, the chapel bells ringing and ringing. How many times remember the blue of the sky, how many times grieve war without end, today as President Obama commits the US more deeply into strikes against militants in Syria and Iraq. How many times forgive. Not just terrorists, not just politicians starting wars, not just myself, for feeling like I’m not doing enough to work for peace. How many times. How many Saturdays will Sue and Jose and Norm and friends stand on Waltham Common keeping vigil for peace, as wars turn into other wars.

Yes. I am tired of remembering and tired of forgiving.
Forgetting, of course, is not an option. Last year in this space I complained about the “Never Forget” slogans about 9/11/01—nobody’s forgetting that it happened. Maybe, though, we are forgetting about the long work of mourning and forgiving, and the way that forgiveness means living differently. Maybe we’re forgetting about that initial drive not to be defined by the attacks themselves. My seminary classmates and I were all gallows humor in 2001—you HAVE to have another piece of pie, because otherwise “the terrorists win”—you have to go to the movies, buy some beer, finish your ten page paper— or “the terrorists win.” There were many examples. President Bush at the time said we should go shopping—unfortunately he wasn’t kidding.

“The terrorists” is not a moral category. Violence, however, is. The “powers of evil that corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” (as the Baptismal Covenant puts it) is a moral category, too. And violence does win when we respond to violence with violence. That’s the whole point of the cross—it becomes the way of life because Jesus lived, and died, in peace and love. Only the full, self-emptying love of God can overcome death. Difficult to translate into foreign policy, for sure, but what’s the alternative? More death? Today President Obama said Americans never give into fear. But it is not fearless to march into another war.

The call to peace is complicated. It’s messy. The way is not always clear. In our own lives and in the world, we have to tell the story again and again. We forgive again and again. We get angry again and again. But in the labyrinthine ways of the will of God, our spirits do come closer. We can live into the power of Christ that transforms the world through love. As Martin Luther King Jr said, “hate is too great a burden to bear.”

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
Last week, my family and I drove 925 miles (and, again, 925 back) to the Wild Goose Festival, our second time joining other Christians and questioners for a four day festival of “justice, spirituality, and music.” Thankfully this year we came out of the Cherokee National Forest with no wild tow truck stories as we did last year! I’m not sure how many hundreds of people were there, but it’s kind of a pop-up Christian community of campers, speakers, and musicians, with a combination of Episcopal progressivism and evangelical Jesus-fervor. Wild Goose is a good example of how Christians of many different stripes can learn from each other.

Some of the speakers were big names, both in the Episcopal Church (music workshop with Ana Hernandez) and in the wider world, including, a rousing altar-call to social justice sermon by the Rev.William Barber, leader of the Moral Mondays movement in North Carolina. I also heard Jim Wallis, founder of Sojourners talking about racism as America’s original sin. Most of the time, though, I hung out in the “Carnival” tent. It was hosted by the Carnival de Resistance, a crew of poets, dancers, artists, and activists. Also academics: Jim Perkinson talked about American white supremacism and how living in inner city Detroit and learning from the African-American community there had saved his soul. Ched Myers, whose work I’ve long been interested in, talked about the Christian invitation to love our watershed, not just change our light bulbs because we ought to.

From their welcome sign:
We wish with our bodies to contradict claims that civilization has made about how necessary its gifts are to a life well lived and again to playfully produce, if not proof, some early evidence that a life of another stripe might be realistic, even necessary.

In addition to all of these great ideas and discussions, The carnival space felt liturgical. At the end of one session we wandered into, we were invited to greet each other with this: “We are here! We are here!” which would not have been out of place (maybe without the puppets and face paint) here as we pass the peace on Sunday mornings.

We are here! This is the human interaction that says, “I see you, and yes, we are here. We have been created for more than buying and selling. We have been created to see each other.” We are here! We see each other! We remember! We remember, not just each other, but everyone. Poor people in Detroit whose water is getting shut off. New immigrants, whether or not they have the correct paperwork. People you disagree with. Women who have lost their right to their full health care benefits. We are all here. God made me. God made you. Before we’re supposed to “witness” God’s love to each other, God invites us to witness the Other in the first place, see each other at all. Jim Perkinson pointed out that the beginning of the Gospel-the beginning of the Gospel, that we so often remind ourselves is “good news”-is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness. The cry is the beginning.

All of this raises the question: how are we seeing each other? How do we see each other here at Christ Church, as well as those not within our doors? How do I live out these values in my comparatively comfortable life? What was great about the Carnival tent was the shimmering, holy joy of finding a way to live differently: the bean bag toss game “Cleanse the Temple” to remind us of Jesus’ invitation to faith without commerce, the puppets, the parades, the anti-clock tower that asks, “Do you have time or does time have you?”

I imagine-I hope!-I will spend some more time thinking about this. One of the talks I went to was called “Slow Church,” about how very, very long it takes to establish yourself in a community and to listen to what the community needs, to respond authentically to those who are there and where God might be leading not necessarily with more programs, but with more attention. As we finish our ninth year together rand enter the tenth, I am grateful for all of you traveling together with our little carnival!

Blessings,
Sara+

(For a longer reflection on this, and to see pictures and links to all the speakers, look at my post on my own blog)