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Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m writing this afternoon thinking of all the newness of the year at the same time as I think of the way the past stays with us. The Stations of the Cross we received from St John’s Bowdoin Street continue to linger at the back of the church and still we’re in conversation about what we’ll do with our new guests. Praying the Stations of the Cross (away from Jerusalem, that is) is a Christian practice dating back about 500 years. In it, we trace the events of Christ’s passion. The prayer form we use is found in the Episcopal Book of Occasional Services. Representations of them are often hung in churches to offer a visual image to the prayers. The “original” stations of the cross are in Jerusalem—where Jesus is believed to have actually walked—and called the Via Dolorosa or Way of Sorrows. Those have been a pilgrimage site since the 5th century. (more about all of this on Wikipedia, of course.)

1: Where did they come from?
When a parish closes or merges with another congregation, the diocese has an open invitation to other communities to request items from the closed churches. Over the summer, Sasha and Phil Killewald visted the open house at St John’s on our behalf. St John the Evangelist has an amazing history—they were the parish that Harriet Beecher Stowe’s father was a member of. Isabella Stewart Gardener went there, too. The monks now in Cambridge worshipped there as well when they first came to the United States from England. And our own Marjorie Hartman’s father was a member there, too, which led to her encouraging us to take them as well! We’re continuing to learn more—Erin Jensen has been doing some research on the studio that produced them in the late 1800’s (around the same time Christ Church was built).

2: How was this decision made?
Vestry made the decision after an open call for congregational input. During the month of September we published pictures and announcements in the ecrier and announced on Sundays that the congregation should offer input to the vestry. We offered a field trip to St John’s to visit them (no one took us up on it). After 3 weeks of open input, on September 22 the vestry had a lively conversation, considering many of the questions I mention here and considering the congregational input. The group unanimously voted to invite them to come. Because St John’s wasn’t yet formally closed, they weren’t available until November.

3: Isn’t it a little, um, “Catholic” to have the Stations of the Cross?
You don’t see them in every Episcopal church, but there is nothing inherently Roman Catholic about them. I grew up in an Episcopal church that did stations of the cross every Friday in Lent—they still do. Our stations come from an Episcopal church. It’s true that the Roman Catholic Church has a strong legacy praying the events of Christ’s Passion that the stations invite. Many Episcopal Churches don’t have them—as, indeed, Christ Church didn’t until 2008 when we installed the small photos of the ones from Westminster Cathedral since 2008 (we sometimes left them up through the year, and sometimes took them down after Lent).

4: Won’t it change the look of the church to have so much white plaster up?
It’s possible, but my sense is that the windows and the brick will hold their own. The Stations of the Cross are large, but our church is very very large. Given the layout of the church and windows, the sight lines toward the front of the church won’t be changed—they won’t be hung as close up to the front as the font or the piano, for example. And since they’re white, the color on the windows would be dominant.

5: Some of them are broken. Won’t it be expensive to fix them? And how are they getting hung, anyway?
We’ve received several donations specifically for the Stations of the Cross. The expenses are not coming out of the parish budget. Funds will go toward building frames that will make it possible to hang them, and the frames will support them to make them more durable as well. We also have some leads on professional art conservators, who might be asked to weigh in as well. We are still exploring whether it makes sense to hang them on existing infrastructure or if we will anchor them in the brick work.

6: What if it’s terrible?
If it’s terrible, we can always do something different. The decision on final placement hasn’t been made yet—stay tuned. And, as we said in the open comment period, please talk to your vestry!

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, of course, I’m still reeling a little after Bishop Tom’s funeral on Saturday, which was just marvelous. You can find the text of Brother Geoffrey’s sermon here. One of the things that I have long loved about being an Anglican is that our worship is actually intended to accomplish something—at Holy Week I always talk about how we do the last week of Jesus’ life, with foot washing and prayers at the cross and celebration of the resurrection. It’s not an abstraction. The funeral on Saturday, too, did what it was supposed to do.

We laughed at stories like Tom telling a visitor to the monastery who asked about it that he was the only one wearing a cross because he was “monk of the month.” We cried when we sang “King of Glory, King of Peace,” Tom’s favorite hymn. We cried when the silence seemed to stretch forever when Brother James, who was to begin the Prayers of the People, just couldn’t speak.

We shared in the Eucharist that is the Body and Blood of Christ who unites us and in whom we find our peace, in whom, the dead are not dead and we all rise to life again. We cried—again—when the brothers sang the Song of Simeon—“ Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised/ For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.”

And so he is set free, and so are we.
There’s a really important tension to hold when we stand in the middle of life and death. We can say that Tom is set free, along with all of those names we printed in the bulletin on Sunday for All Saints Day, and believe that he is free and sees the glory of God face to face. We hold that reality in one hand. We treasure that promise that Jesus Christ has gone before us and by the grace and miracle of God defeated the power of death. In our other hand, we hold the reality that life is a wonderful, astonishing, and precious gift. In its messiness and mud as well as in its joy and laughter, life is a gift. To welcome death as also a gift is not to diminish the importance of our course on earth—holy as the dying was, the living was holy, too.

Brother Geoffrey quoted the second century bishop Irenaeus of Lyon—“the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Fully alive includes grief as well as joy. For now, I’m trying to take my time for both.

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I wanted to pass on part of our food for discussion from our Tuesday group. Heather Leonardo passed on the poem from Marilyn Sandberg for our conversation about church and spirituality.

When They Revolutionize the Cocktail Parties
Marilyn Sandberg

“Hello, what are you afraid of?”
“Death.”
“Me too.”
“When you hear a Mahler symphony?”
“No, when I wake up in the night.”
“Me too.”
“Nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”

The stark simplicity of the scene is riveting; how often do we hear something earth shattering and then sweep it under the rug with polite chatter? It would, for sure, be quite a revolutionary cocktail party if we were this honest with each other.

That question, of course, brings me to church. When is church more like a cocktail party than a revolution? Is that really what God wants for us in community? In my sermon on Sunday, I was talking with you about how we are made in the image of God—that we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, but that we belong to God and are invited to live from that holy knowledge. This is something that our former bishop Tom Shaw, who died last week, so exemplified. His security in his identity as rooted in God made space for others to live from that reality as well. ;His life was an example of holy living, but also holy dying; he never pretended that everything was “fine.” But even when it wasn’t “fine” in the usual sense, when he was dying and there were no more treatments, it was all still good. He lived in full view of the gift of his 69 years, often remarking how much better it had all turned out than he expected. If you didn’t see his video meditation on the end of his life, please do look for it here:

Tom talks about his gratitude and, sure, his desire to live for another 25 years, but he talks about his trust in God. One of the reflections left on the page of SSJE, Tom’s monastic community, used the expression of how we can allow fear to “melt into trust.” When do you long for your fear to “melt into trust?” What is that moment like?

On Tuesday I felt this so powerfully as we gathered for our Eucharist after our education. My kids don’t usually come, since with a 25 minute drive home it’s way past their bedtime once we’re finally done, but since it was a vestry night for their dad, they got to come along with me. During the service Adah, just turned five, was totally losing it—no matter how many times I asked her to be still, she was crawling up the pulpit and down the stairs, making faces and laughing during our quiet reflection time. I love seeing your kids enjoying themselves (even, yes, sometimes in “inappropriate” ways in church) but when I have to lead a service, it’s much less endearing when it’s my own kids I want to have under control. So I was a bit distracted and cranky, trying to extend us all some compassion. I am surely thankful for the grace extended us by the other 10 people gathered!

In any case, I had a “fear melting into trust” moment during the Eucharistic prayer. Finally understanding that it was truly not possible for Adah to control herself at 8:00 on a school night, I scooped her up and had her on my hip. I’m used to holding her, of course, but with two arms! When the time in the prayer came for the elevation of the bread and wine, of course, I shifted her over—and I’m strong, but 40lbs is a lot of pounds on one arm. Holding her, though, and holding the bread on the other hand and saying those words “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you,” I had a knock-your-socks-off moment of realization—This. Is. True. And I trusted it—trusted God, and that moment, and my parenting, and my kid and the marvelous and strange journey it is to be a parent and a priest, sometimes at the same time. And, with Tom, I give thanks.

Blessings,
Sara+

Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m passing on a letter to the diocese from Bishop Shaw, received this week. His date of retirement, as you may know, comes with the consecration of our new diocesan Bishop, Alan Gates, in just a few short weeks on September 13. This will be his last letter to us, as he says that Alan will take on such communication in the future. Bishop Tom was diagnosed with cancer not long after he announced his retirement in 2013, and has been a remarkable witness to the power of God’s love and healing in the midst of illness and the reality of death. His illness for him has been an occasion to trust in God, rather than fury against misfortune. Tom’s graceful sharing of his experience has been a profound gift, particularly for me, as I have been so shaped by his ministry. Please keep Tom and Alan in your prayers in these next weeks, as well as Tom’s family and his brothers at the Society of St John the Evangelist.
-Sara
* * * * *
My Sisters and Brothers,
As my date of retirement nears, I want to be in touch with all of you and to thank you for your continued expressions of care and concern. We have known since the beginning, when I was diagnosed with brain cancer in May of last year, that we are dealing with a difficult kind of cancer. We have been hopeful in the therapies we’ve pursued over these months, but we now know that for me there is no cure. At the recommendation of my medical team, I’ve now decided to pursue a course of treatment that will provide a good quality of life, though for how long, we can’t be sure.

As hard as this is to hear and to tell, I didn’t want this time to go by without letting all of you know where things are. My medical team continues to provide me with excellent care, and I have a wonderful community of support around me. My prayer feels different from day to day. Some days there is an expansiveness to it, and on other days, it isn’t so easy, though there aren’t too many of those days. But throughout, good days and more difficult days, I feel supported by you, the people of this diocese and beyond, and by your prayers, and I’ve felt my faith life grow in significant ways. I am looking forward to what God will bring in this new time.

You know, time too often in our culture is perceived as a problem; all of us, at some point, feel we don’t have enough of it. Yet, because of Jesus the Messiah, all time is now God’s time. It is part of the unfolding of God’s glory. We are invited into it as an experience of the presence of God. I believe that is where our prayer, where our life together in gathered community, where our participation with God in making all things new is taking us: into the heart of God.

May each of us be opened to the possibility and the hope offered through God’s gift of time.

Our bishop-elect, Alan, will keep you informed of changes in my condition going forward. I continue to cherish your cards and letters, and I want to say again how much I appreciate the years I’ve served as your bishop and all that you have taught me. I plan to be part of the upcoming consecration, and I look forward to joining you in welcoming our new bishop.

Please pray for me as I pray for you.

Faithfully,
Tom

Dear People of Christ Church,

This week, I’ve been thinking about vocation, defined in such a lovely way by Frederick Buechner as “the meeting place between your deep gladness and the world’s deep need.” Over the weekend, I attended our diocese’s ordination for the diaconate. I serve on the diocesan Commission on Ministry, the group that works with the bishop when candidates apply for ordination, so two of my advisees were getting ordained, along with Rachael Pettengill, who has worked as an intern at Grace Church, where my husband serves, and as the Protestant Chaplain at Tufts. Even Isaiah wanted to go, since Rachael has taught his Godly Play Class at Grace.

It was a big service-the church has 9 new deacons, who in January will all be ordained priest. What was especially neat was that the ordinations for our diocese were at Emmanuel Church, Boston, where I served for a year as an assistant before coming to Christ Church. So a lot of vocations came together for me that morning, as a member of the diocese as well as mother and priest, all leading up to my ten year anniversary of my ordination (today, as a matter of fact).

Processing in to the church, I remembered the feeling of being so new to the work of the church. Ten years ago, I’d just moved to Boston, had only been married for less than two years, and had no children. Though I loved the way living in New York City had made me feel like I was part of something bigger, I didn’t miss the low level of stress that came with Manhattan’s constant buzz or the way my very traditional seminary made me feel like such a misfit. Now, I came into that space having launched into a wonderful and strong ministry with you at Christ Church. I walked with my son, whom I couldn’t have imagined at that time. I’ve recovered from seminary-pretty much!-and I have been blessed beyond imagining in this work.

Emmanuel Church is cavernous-you practically need binoculars to see the altar from the back. Entering in, you’re engulfed by a sense of sacred space-on Saturday, with two bishops and 20 other priests and 9 ordinands, it was big. Entering in while your 7 year old walks at your side and you remember how it felt the first time you entered a church as a clergyperson, sacred space doesn’t just engulf you, it slaps you in the face and punches you in the stomach at the same time, leaving you reeling and out of breath. (For another piece I wrote about priesting and mothering, in the context of church hospitality, see my blog post.)

Most often, of course, the sacred nature of our lives doesn’t come quite so forcefully. The usual life of a Christian is more Road to Emmaus (“…So, I guess that was Jesus”) than it is Road to Damascus (“Holy @#$, it’s Jesus!”). While we sometimes get knocked off our horses, more often you have to do the work of attentiveness and patience, watching and waiting. Sometimes you have to squint so hard to see God you close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else. At those times, it’s totally fair game to complain-the psalms are a great resource for complaint (at least 40% are legitimately categorized as lament, in which the petitioner prays for God’s deliverance in anger, sadness, despair).

What is always true, though, is that vocation is in the context of the world as we know it. Your vocation is not to be found later, it’s to be found where you are right now. Your vocation at this time might be preparing for something else-going to school, for example-but that doesn’t make it any less than what you are called to do right now.

How do you understand your vocation? Do you feel like you chose it, or did it choose you? Caring for a sick parent or spouse is a vocation born out of the depths of love, not always gladness. Caring for children is a vocation, but for every time you gaze lovingly on a sleeping child, there might be three nights they refuse to be still long enough to let you get any sleep at all. Just because God wants you to do it and your deepest gladness is part of the story doesn’t mean that you will always feel glad about it.

Leaning into summer, where is God calling you? Where does your gladness meet God’s love and longing for the world?

Blessings,
Sara+