Death to Jesus

DEATH TO JESUS!

I logged on to Facebook early this morning to post some photos of our beautiful Maundy Thursday service to the parish page and there on the screen near the top of my newsfeed, one of my friends had posted “DEATH TO JESUS!” as a status update.

He wasn’t kidding or being ironic. He means it.

What should our response be?

Do we shrug, like Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians and just accept that “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing”? Do we rejoice, as Jesus suggests in the Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account”?

Do we argue? Do we point out the amazing humanitarian work being done by so many Christians in the world? Do we try to find the weakness in his argument and beat him rhetorically with citations of scripture? Do we point to leading lights like the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King?

Well, let me tell you something about my friend. He’s heard it. Trust me.

You see, this isn’t some guy who was raised in a radically atheist household, brainwashed from an early age to think that religion – and Christianity in particular – is dangerous hogwash.

Nope, he’s the son of a minister. The gay son of a Pentecostal pastor, from a community that is sometimes casually referred to as “Bible beaters.” It’s not a bad aphorism, actually, since short of being actually struck with the book itself, my friend has endured all manner of assault and abuse. He has had the Bible hurled at him mercilessly. He has been threatened, pummeled, humiliated, shamed and wounded in the name of Jesus Christ.

In fact, if anyone is to be blessed for being reviled and persecuted and for having all kinds of evil uttered against them on Jesus’ account, it’s my friend.

How does someone get so angry that they put “DEATH TO JESUS!” on their Facebook page on Good Friday? Easy. They grew up in a church.

“Oh, but,” you say, “not all churches are like that. My church is not like that.” Well, yes it is. There isn’t really “this church” and “that church.” There is only “the church,” the whole body of believers. The whole, universal church is the Body of Christ, and the wounds that Thomas demanded to see are right there in front of us, gaping and raw and ugly. Like Pilate, we want to wash our hands of the things that are done to the Body of Christ. “That’s not our fault,” we say.

The ancient Israelites understood that sin was communal, rather than individual. That’s why God destroys entire cities, why all the Egyptians suffered plagues even though it was really only the Pharaoh causing problems. And so in Holy Week when we sing

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?

Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee.

‘Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee: I crucified thee

it’s not just about our private but also our collective failures. The church has left a trail of victims in its wake. When the Bible is used to denigrate, insult, marginalize, subordinate, exclude, diminish, we cannot remain silent.

When I say “we cannot remain silent” I’m not talking about rising up in righteous indignation and pointing more fingers and saying “You all did this, clean up your mess.” We can’t draw imaginary lines across the wounded Body of Christ and say this part belongs to the Episcopalians, and that part belongs to the Catholics, and this part belongs to the ELCA and this part to the Missouri Synod, this part to the Southern Baptists and this part to the American Baptists. We’re responsible for this, and you’re responsible for that. All we’re doing is breaking the Body of Christ over and over and over again.

When the Samaritan came upon the man bleeding and dying by the side of the road, he didn’t chase down the Levite and the priest and shame them for their carelessness that almost resulted in an innocent man’s death. He went and ministered to the wounded man. It’s easy to see the Christ-figure in the Samaritan, the unreasonably generous comforter and the healer, but we shouldn’t miss the Christ-figure in the wounded and dying man, too.

DEATH TO JESUS!

As the nails were being driven through his hands and feet, Jesus said, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”

Tonight it will be my great privilege to chant the Passion Gospel at the Solemn Liturgy of Good Friday. Personally, it is the most important thing I do all year. I’ve always had kind of a hard time imagining this strange, blood thirsty crowd demanding an innocent man’s death. Crucify him! Crucify him!

Well, now I’ve actually seen it. I have a face and a name to put on that crowd. I’ve seen someone calling for Jesus’ death. In exactly the way that we say, “Jesus died for our sins,” this man is standing there basically shouting “Crucify him!” because of the pain that we have inflicted on him; he’s that hurt and that angry because for him the church has never been anything but a horrendous source of torment. And he just wants this whole Jesus thing to die.

He doesn’t need us to forgive his blasphemy, we need him to forgive ours.

And, fortunately, strangely, wonderfully…Jesus’ death on the cross will work the healing that we need.

God's Promises & Our Expectations

Luke 1:26-38

The Gospel appointed for the Fourth Sunday of Advent this year* (Lectionary Year B) was Luke's tale of the Annunciation, the Archangel Gabriel's visit to young Mary to announce that she will conceive a child by the Holy Spirit.

Last night I was talking to a friend who attends a different parish, which had their Christmas pageant this past Sunday. It was a hilarious story of confused children and general chaos; things definitely did not go as expected. "It was a complete zoo," he remarked, and then both of us suddenly remembered that Jesus was born in a barn in the middle of the night, and decided that probably hadn't been exactly what Mary had envisioned, either.

This set me to thinking about Gabriel's announcement. The angel tells Mary that her son "will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."

What must Mary have imagined that would look like?

I'll bet, as she knelt and said, wonderfully, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord," that it never occurred to her that nine months later, after having endured a long, arduous journey in the last days of her pregnancy, she wouldn't even be able to give birth in a house, but out in the stable, surrounded by animals, and they'd have to sleep outside. Could she have imagined having to put her newborn into a trough for his first cradle? What must that have been like for her faith? Did she say to herself, as she reclined or squatted in the hay and the mud among the stalls, "Oh, who cares, I'm giving birth to the Savior!" or, perhaps, did she feel a sense of frustration and resentment? "The angel didn't say anything about this!"

Did it give her pause? I suppose the fact that she got pregnant while still a virgin gave her sufficient proof that God was at work in her life in a pretty spectacular way, but she must have wondered why God would want or even allow the future king of Israel to be born in such inconvenient and somewhat shameful circumstances; as St Ambrose wrote in his famous Advent hymn, "Marvel now, both Heaven and Earth, that the Lord chose such a birth." Did she perhaps think maybe she was entitled to a slightly easier time of it, having agreed to carry God's son in her womb for nine months? The Gospel of Matthew tells us that for a time Joseph considered divorcing her, and we can only imagine what the reaction from her family and friends might have been. Did they lie and say the child was Joseph's? Or did she say, "No, an angel visited me and told me I would become pregnant by the Holy Spirit, and, voila!" Would her friends and family have believed her? It was probably a very difficult time, and now, after putting up with all that, here she is in the mud, in the cold, no comfortable place to lie down, no place to wash up. Ugh.

"The Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever."

How did Mary imagine herself, as mother of the king? Did she envision Israel free from its Roman occupiers, free from the corrupt, violent, illegitimate Herodian rulers? Did she see herself living in a palace -- in Jerusalem, or maybe on the coast? Did she imagine a future life of peace and prosperity, with her son reigning into his old age, the father of an unbroken dynasty of Davidic kings? In her darker, weaker, frustrated moments did she say to herself, "Someday, you'll be in the palace"?

Instead, she got a son who was, certainly, wonderful in many ways, but must also have been a source of worry and frustration. He just sort of wandered around, and while he was a great teacher and healer, he didn't seem to be getting himself ready for the promised kingship. As the years wore on it must have gotten harder and harder to imagine that Israel would ever be free from the Romans. Every popular revolt against them was mercilessly and bloodily crushed. How was her son who was maybe in Capernaum today, maybe in Samaria, maybe in Bethany, going to end up being chosen king? No one even knew who he was. Was he somehow going to figure out how to lead an army into Jerusalem? His friends certainly weren't going to be much help; a couple of fishermen, a former tax collector and others of uncertain backgrounds. Bunch of slackers, all of them -- heck, James and John actually left their father in the boat and went and followed Jesus around the countryside.

The one time he did come home to visit, he went into the synagogue and told the assembly that he was the fulfillment of Isaiah's prophecy; the villagers were so outraged they nearly pushed him off a cliff and chased him out of town. Mary and her other children went to go see Jesus where he was teaching, and when told that his mother, brothers and sisters were here, he could only say, "Who is my mother? Who are my brothers and sisters?"

"Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God."

Well, he has a funny way of showing it.

And then came the end, suddenly, out of nowhere. One day you hear a rumor that he's headed for Jerusalem, and then a message -- maybe a friend or relative, maybe one of the apostles. "Jesus was arrested late last night and taken to Pilate."

That could only mean one thing.

There was no habeas corpus, no bill of rights. Commentators over the centuries have marveled, like Pilate himself, that Jesus didn't seem to want to say much in his defense. But truly, what could he have said that would matter? It was a show trial, a pretense of justice. No appeals. No right to a jury, no attorney. And by the next afternoon, he was dead.

And not just dead; arrested in the dark of night, dragged before the officials and an angry mob, summarily condemned and then beaten, viciously. Flogged. A crown of thorns mashed onto his head. Spit on, hit with reeds and poles. Forced to carry the instrument of his own execution through the city streets. His friends, terrified for their lives, had mostly abandoned him.

But there, on that gory hill, was John, Mary Magdalene, perhaps a couple of other women (the Gospels have different accounts), and his mother. There they watched him stripped and nailed - nailed! - to a cross, where he hung for a few hours among criminals, and then he died.

"He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."



One of the most famous recurring images in religious art is the Pieta, depictions of a grieving Mary holding the body of her son after he has been taken down from the cross.

What must she have thought?

Had she misunderstood? This was not what she was promised. Had God been defeated? Had God deceived her? "Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God." How? How is this favor? He's dead! He's not king. Far from assuming the throne of David in a liberated Israel, he was brutally murdered by its occupiers and Jewish collaborators. He's dead. It's over.

"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior." How empty and bitter the remembrance of those words must have seemed. "All generations will call me blessed." Ha.

But we, on the other side of Easter, know that Gabriel's announcement and God's promise were true. In this last week of Advent, we recite or chant or sing the Magnificat every day: "For he has remembered his promise of mercy, the promise he made to our fathers, to Abraham and his children for ever."

Many of the appointed lessons in the Advent season are apocalyptic in tone; as we prepare for the celebration of Christ's first coming into the world, we anticipate the second, and we imagine what the coming reign of glory will look like.

If Mary's experience is any guide, we haven't got a clue.

* Turns out it is also the Gospel appointed for today in the daily lectionary! Because the Sunday cycle is three years and the daily cycle is two years, it only happens once every six years that this passage will be appointed twice for the same week.

Friday in Week 7 of Easter, Year 1 - Ephrem of Edessa

Luke 10:38-42



The video here doesn't really have anything specifically to do with today's lectionary, but it's a good example of the stuff I love to listen to.

I've always been very uncomfortable with Luke's story of Jesus' visit to the home of Mary and Martha; as a perfectionist and control freak myself, I relate to Martha. I can only imagine the emotional state I'd be in if freakin' Jesus were coming to my house. I would be frantically trying to make sure that everything was absolutely perfect, and I, too, would be very annoyed if someone I thought should be helping abandoned me altogether and went to the party, as it were.

Maybe it seems a little juvenile of Martha to go to Jesus and say, "Can you tell her to help me, please?" instead of talking to Mary directly and saying, "I really need your help for a little bit."

Perhaps there's a lesson in that, too: how often when difficulties in our various relationships arise, do we turn to God in prayer and ask, "Can you please tell her to help me?" or "Can you please help him understand what I'm going through right now?" If you are conflict-averse, like me, that's probably your preferred strategy, rather than confronting the person.

Now, Martha's request frankly doesn't seem all that extraordinary. Really, why should Martha do all the work by herself while Mary's off having a grand time? So I'm always really bothered by Jesus' response: "Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

What's that about? Mary called dibs on hanging out with Jesus so Martha has to suck it up and do all the work by herself?

Well, let's back up, here. So Martha complains, but first Jesus says to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things." This is a very comforting statement; there is compassion here. Imagine Jesus saying this to you: "You are worried and distracted by many things." How would you respond? I would probably say, "Totally." And Jesus continues, "There is need of only one thing."

This is one of those "lilies of the field" moments, a speech that Jesus is working toward in chapter 12 of the same Gospel; "Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?" Oh...busted.

I think what has troubled me is the language of the NRSV, "Mary has chosen the better part." I'm no Greek scholar (understatement...) so for all I know, Luke's original text is best translated "better." But again, this year I am reading the KJV, which instead renders it, "But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her."

Maybe what Jesus is really saying here is not so much, "Sorry, Martha" but rather, "Stop putzing around in the kitchen and trying to do too many things and come sit by me and listen for a while." Stop being resentful of Mary and realize that she has chosen well: to not worry so much about this that and the other thing and just go and sit quietly at the foot of the Lord. I like this wording, "that good part," because it implies that Martha (and the rest of us) can choose it, too, that those of us who are busy working hard behind the scenes to make sure everything is right and perfect need to trust more that a) that is not the most important thing and b) that our needs will be met, and scurrying around trying to make perfect what God has already made perfect is wasted energy.

I don't know. Maybe that's not the point of this passage, at all. But it's always been one of my least favorite readings, as I had this notion that Jesus was condescending and dismissive of Martha. Now I have an avenue toward understanding it differently.

Thursday in Week 7 of Easter, Year 1 - St Columba

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 19-32

I was first exposed to Celtic spirituality about four years ago, and I was deeply and immediately attracted to a way of relating to the goodness of God by seeing it reflected in all of creation, even and especially in simple things, and in discovering "thin" places, those locations or moments when, for whatever reason, the immanence of the divine is palpable. Many Christians give a lot of lip service to how good God is, but focus more on the darkness of the world and the human heart.

The darkness is real; but light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it. It is perhaps good for us now and again to spend some time in the darkness, to be reminded of the healing and comforting powers of the Holy Spirit, and to help us empathize with those whose lives are very dark, indeed.

Earlier this week I was very much in that darkness; not only did I not blog, I wasn't even interested in intentional prayer, at all. I was overcome by negative thoughts and emotions, and instead of engaging with them, discerning their source and praying for wisdom, guidance and hope, I gave in to them. Last night I began to emerge from my funk, realizing that part of my problem was tremendous anxiety about all the many things I need to do in the next week or so, and deciding that the best way to combat that was to, you know, actually get some of that stuff done, and was up late crossing things off the list. By the time I woke up this morning and realized it was St Columba's day, it was too late for me to have morning prayer and still make it to work at a respectable time. However I am very glad I set aside time tonight for prayer; I feel very different now than I did an hour or so ago.

A lot of the fears and frustrations from earlier in the week are still with me. There was great temptation not to pray tonight, either, and go out and have fun instead (or at least look for it). But somehow I knew this restlessness I felt would be best addressed by some time of focused stillness; there's time this weekend for fun and certainly many opportunities in the coming week. It took some mental and spiritual effort to calm myself and enter into prayer, but the result is undeniable. With Celtic spirituality's emphasis on nature I took advantage of this warm, light and quiet evening and threw the windows wide open and listened to the birds and felt a gentle breeze as I settled in.

Today's lesson from the Hebrew scriptures is from the prophet Ezekiel. "But when the righteous turn away from their righteousness and commit iniquity and do the same abominable things that the wicked do, shall they live? None of the righteous deeds that they have done shall be remembered; for the treachery of which they are guilty and the sin they have committed, they shall die." [18:24]

Oh, yeah...that's where I am. Okay, I'm not saying I want to run out and commit "abominable" actions; although I suppose the normal social life of any single gay man qualifies as "abominable" in some circles. But I have been feeling the occasional desire to give the church stuff a rest, and go be a normal gay guy and date and maybe find a boyfriend and go to parties and events and wear nicer clothes, instead of always being so freaking responsible and cautious. I found myself tonight praying for help finding a balance between a healthy faith life and a healthy social life, when suddenly I realized that the seeking of a balance is the problem, because it implies that faith and social life are separate, competing needs that need to be figured out. So I stopped in mid-thought and decided instead to ask for help in integrating them.

Somewhere along the way I picked up an unhealthy dose of Calvinist fundamentalism, this notion that fun = iniquity = death. This is where the important lessons of Celtic thinking can help; there is beauty in life, there are good, divine things to be found in laughter and the company of others, alcohol (used responsibly) is a wonderful gift, dancing is one of humanity's most ancient expressions of joy (and clearly approved of by the psalmists), and there are good, healthy, divine gifts in our sexuality. That's not a carte-blanche license for debauchery, but it is an invitation to think outside of the Augustinian box, as it were.

The chapters of the book I use for my reflections on the great Celtic saints (Holy Companions) always include a short snippet of actual quotes (or at least attributions) of the saint in question; tonight I was struck by Columba's own words, "Let me study sacred books to calm my soul....let me say my daily prayers, sometimes chanting, sometimes quiet, always thanking God," and how closely that articulation resembles my own practice.

I always say this prayer in the evening: "Most holy God, the source of all good desires, all right judgments, and all just works: give to us your servants that peace which the world cannot give, so that our minds may be fixed on the doing of your will, and that we being delivered from the fear of all enemies, may live in peace and quietness, through the mercies of Jesus Christ our Lord." Tonight I really felt that peace.

Monday in Week 7 of Easter, Year 1

Luke 9:51-62

Today's Gospel passage contains a fascinating episode highlighting the importance of understanding what you're reading by knowing something about historical and cultural contexts and the history of biblical texts themselves.

The lesson opens with the beautiful phrase, "When the days drew near for [Jesus] to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem," a unique Semitic idiom expressing resolve. Jesus spent the majority of his ministry in rural areas around the Sea of Galilee, and so from this point the story proceeds both geographically and spiritually toward his destiny in Jerusalem, marking a significant shift in the narrative.

In order to reach Jerusalem from Galilee one had to pass through Samaria; Samaritans revered a version of the Torah and considered themselves the true descendants of the ancient Israelites, objecting to the temple worship in Jerusalem as a fabrication invented after the Babylonian exile. Naturally, tremendous tension existed between Jews and Samaritans (a recurring theme in the gospels), and the Samaritans were not inclined to be hospitable to Jews traveling to Jerusalem.

That, then, is the important background for understanding why Jesus was not "received" by the Samaritans. The brothers James and John - the Gospel of Mark tells us Jesus referred to them as boanerges, or "sons of thunder" in Aramaic - react to this affront by asking if they should "command fire to come down from heaven and consume them," referencing one of the tales of Elijah told in 2 Kings. In the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV), the preferred text of the Episcopal Church, Jesus "turned and rebuked them."

However, for this lectionary cycle I am reading from the Authorized, or "King James" version (KJV), in honor of the 400th anniversary of its publication. Whatever its scholarly or linguistic shortcomings compared to modern translations, it remains one of the greatest achievements in the English language and, for better or worse, is the source of the Biblical texts that most people recognize or can quote.

This is one of those occasions for which it is instructive to read multiple translations. Whereas Jesus "rebuked them," full stop, in the NRSV, the KJV says Jesus "turned, and rebuked them, and said, Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of. For the Son of man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them." (The NRSV puts this language in a footnote, "Other ancient authorities read...".) I would be interested to know why the editors feel the shorter text is the more authentic; presumably it has to do with the preponderance of manuscripts deemed more reliable.

We could wade deep into the weeds beating our heads against the proverbial wall at the idiotic intransigence of the folk who insist the Bible is the inerrant "Word of God," period, when the simple truth is that we have none of the original texts and the surviving manuscripts - case in point - do not always agree. Alas, it's a tired and unoriginal complaint, and one not remotely compelling or successful with the "inerrant" crowd. Criticizing fundamentalists for their lack of academic rigor is truly shooting fish in a barrel. Hooray for us contemplative eggheads who are interested in these sorts of complexities.

What caught my attention here is that the KJV is oft betimes the preferred translation of the fundamentalists, kind of in the same way that for centuries the Vulgate was the only permissible version of the Bible, even though not a single word of the original texts was in Latin. The NRSV indicates that Jesus rejected James and John's suggestion, but does not provide any further explanation. The KJV, on the other hand, has Jesus dismissing the invocation of divine violence against sinners and saying, "Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of," implying that what James and John think is righteous is actually demonic. This is, sadly, one of the things that is least understood about the Devil; we are not enticed to do "evil" things, we just become confused. Little wonder that the serpent tempted us with the fruit of the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, that we might become like God. One of the Enemy's most successful strategies - sadly illustrated by centuries of church history - is suggesting to us and thereby convincing us that acts of dire evil are actually God's will. And this power of darkness is not merely aimed at those who are weak in faith or poor in theology; this is James and John, for goodness' sake. That should be a warning to us all.

What makes the story even more interesting is that this is not some random idea the brothers came up with; they are inspired by the story of Elijah, who in fact did successfully call down fire from heaven against a hostile army. There is, so to speak, biblical precedent for their suggestion.

Jesus then goes on to say that he did not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them.

Do you ever get the feeling that folks like Pat Robertson would just love to call down divine fire on people who believe different things than he does? Bible, Bible, Bible...that's all a lot of these "Christian" extremists can talk about, and yet their referencing of it is so selective as to be comical, if it weren't so painfully serious. You can, like James and John, find plenty of Biblical support for praying for violence against sinners or enemies; the psalms are full of imprecations. But here's Jesus saying bluntly, "That's not what I'm about." And still we get "Christians" referencing Psalm 109 - "Let his days be few; and let another take his office. Let his children be fatherless and his wife a widow" - on anti-Obama t-shirts and bumper stickers. In fact, much of the Evangelical culture is built around this heretical and unbiblical notion that Jesus is coming back precisely in order to rain fire down upon the unorthodox and the unbelievers.

The only way to arrive at such a sick notion is to rip various verses from the Bible free of their important contexts, and string them together in a way in which they were not intended to be associated, and you have to completely ignore or deny a bunch of other passages.

As the saying goes, you can take the Bible literally, or you can take it seriously. You can't do both.

The Seventh Sunday of Easter - Sunday after the Ascension

I'm not a particular fan of Salvador Dali, but I do love this vision of the Ascension. There are certain paradoxical qualities about it; Christ's arms are outstretched in a gesture of triumph, like Pavarotti after a climactic high note, and yet of course we are to notice that he is ascending in cruciform, that wonderful juxtaposition of triumph and tragedy at the intersection of the cross. Note how his body appears healthy, whole and strong, but the hands are tensed and the fingers are curled, as if in agony. And we mostly see the bottom of his feet, just what the "men of Galilee" who stood there gaping slack-jawed would have seen, but they do not bear the wounds of his execution. The world he leaves behind is a landscape of death; dark and dry. No trees, no lush green spaces, just a few brown buildings in a dark grey world under gathering black clouds. It's just an astonishing painting.

This morning I visited St Barnabas parish in McMinnville, a good hour from home -- but a very pleasant drive through the most lush and green pastoral landscape imaginable, dotted with beautiful farm houses, fields and orchards -- because a close friend of mine, an aspirant for holy orders, was preaching. He had the unenviable task of not only addressing the Ascension but also the mission and ministry of Integrity, the Episcopal Church's gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender outreach and advocacy organization, in a rural congregation (which it appears was very well received).

He had an interesting metaphor for the Ascension, comparing it to being a child and learning to ride a bicycle with training wheels. One day the father decides that it's time for the training wheels to come off. The child may not be ready; indeed, it may be very frightening, but the father knows this push has to be made. The father also does not turn his back and leave the child to chance, but walks or runs alongside, there to tip us back to center or pick us up if we fall over all together, until we are really ready to ride off on our own. Ascension Day is the training wheels coming off. We're still a little wobbly, but the time has come. Jesus taught us what we need to know, it's our job now to develop the skills and the confidence to ride out into the world. But we haven't been abandoned; the Holy Spirit is right there, running alongside us, encouraging us, teaching us, and ready if we fall.

I enjoyed the visit to St Barnabas very much. It was very different than my home parish in some ways, and I thought maybe I ought to make more of an effort to visit other churches. Not because I am unhappy where I am, but because I think for my own prayer disciplines it's good to expose myself to different ways of approaching worship. I am grateful that the Episcopal Church accommodates so many styles.

Recently I've been in one of those places where keeping the Daily Office has seemed more of a chore than a joy, and while I'm supposed to be focusing on my devotion, my mind wanders off to all manner of things. Last night's study of St Kevin, however, sparked my imagination and I have continued to ponder him today. I am drawn to his passion for and friendship with all kinds of animals, and his frequent desire to retire in solitude to the wilderness to pray. I wish I could find a nice place in the woods somewhere where I could go on regular, affordable retreats.

I am a big fan of the Portland-based women's vocal ensemble In Mulieribus, who specialize in medieval and renaissance polyphony. Tonight they gave a concert at St Stephen's RC church in SE Portland called Legenda Aurea, based on the medieval book of that name about the lives and legends of the saints. I almost didn't make it; I woke up from my nap late and hadn't eaten, but I managed to cook dinner, shower and get dressed all in about 45 minutes and flew out the door, arriving with about five minutes to spare at the concert. I am glad I made the effort. The music was so transcendant, I could not wait to come home and have my own private evening devotions with recordings of sacred music. I had originally planned to stop at a bar on the way home and see what was going on, but decided to go straight back, light some candles and incense and pray.

For the evening hymn, I just put my playlist on shuffle until I landed on something that was appropriate, which rather ironically/coincidentally turned out to be Hildegard von Bingen's "Cum vox sanguinis," from her body of work meant for the Feast of St Ursula, which had been on tonight's program.

Saturday in Week 6 of Easter, Year 1

I have been too busy to do much about this discipline this week. Yesterday in the calendar of the Episcopal Church we celebrated the Feast of the Martyrs of Uganda, an observation that has added import given the ongoing anti-gay insanity in that country, which recently resulted in the new martyrdom of civil rights advocate David Kato.

June 3 is also the traditional date of the Feast of St Kevin, one of the great Celtic saints, who has been proposed for inclusion in the Episcopal calendar; I decided to "transfer" his feast to this evening, and am glad I did. I am exhausted and can't say much beyond the fact that I just felt a powerful resonance with his story. I hope I find the time, opportunity and energy to learn more.

The Sixth Sunday of Easter, Year 1

Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 43:1-12, 27-32; Matthew 13:24-34

We could say more but could never say enough;
let the final word be: ‘He is the all.’

I love the 'wisdom' books, especially Ecclesiasticus and the Wisdom of Solomon from the apocrypha. When people have shallow arguments over whether the Bible is "true," they usually reduce it to banal carping over whether the Earth was created in six days or pointing out or defending chronological inconsistencies in the gospels. Rarely does anyone seem to ask, or care, whether the Bible contains truth. That there can be truth in something that is not necessarily true from a historical or scientific standpoint is lost on a lot of people.

* * * * *

I really need to read Rob Bell's new book Love Wins. The gist of it, as I understand it, is that none of us goes to hell. I think I can understand theologically and scripturally how one gets there, but I'm not sure you can do it without disregarding a lot of other important passages that seem to make it very clear that some will be shut out of the Kingdom, especially from the Gospel of Matthew.

Today's lesson is an interesting one with a series of three parables; the last one is so brief, it's only one sentence, but it is notable that Jesus says "the kingdom of heaven is like a woman." The second parable is a famous favorite trope for the "is the Bible true" crowd, because it refers to a mustard seed as "the smallest of all seeds," which scientifically we know today is not correct. Again, we miss the forest for the trees, or the mustard shrubs, as it were. Why ignore the wisdom of the saying over a technical irrelevance?

It's the first and longest of the three stories for today that is best known and what I wish to ponder.

The parable of the tares is one of many apocalyptic passages in Matthew that seem to refer to Judgment Day, when the good will be separated from the bad, which in this tale are bound into bundles and burned.

But a closer reading does not support the notion that the meaning of this parable is that some people will be separated out. The kingdom of heaven is compared to "someone who sowed good seed in his field." Then an enemy comes overnight and sows weeds in among the wheat. This is interesting; it's not good wheat and bad wheat, it's two different kinds of plants. One kind came from the farmer, the other kind came from an enemy. Maybe it doesn't refer at all to "good" people and "bad" people and judgment, but rather God's wisdom in letting us grow, even with bad things in and among us, content in the knowledge that at the harvest time everything will work out the way it was meant to, and the enemy's efforts were in vain.

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Sorry this post is late, I was working later than anticipated last night and then when I went back and re-read what I had written, I hated it and deleted it and started over.

Saturday in Week 5 of Easter, Year 1

Psalm 27; Luke 9:1-17

The calendar notes that the General Convention of The Episcopal Church in 2009 proposed that this day be set aside for the regular liturgical commemoration of John Calvin, which suggestion will be presented for ratification in 2012. I have to say: I don't get it. Admittedly any student of theology and Christian history ought to know who he is and generally what he was about, but I find this a very odd celebration for Episcopalians. His focus on predestination and the quasi-Augustinian notion of the complete and total depravity of humankind is somewhat alien to the usual Episcopalian view of things.

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I had originally written a much longer introduction here, and decided to file that under "TMI."

CliffsNotes version: I am the diocesan organizer in Oregon for Integrity, the national advocacy and outreach organization for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Episcopalians. Three weeks from tomorrow is the Portland Pride Parade, and for the first time in history, our diocesan bishop will be marching with us. We have also (I think...) successfully coordinated the participation of all the gay-friendly parishes in the metro area so that we march as one group.

By themselves, these should be sufficient cause for jubilation. But that's not how my mind works.

For one thing, though the bishop will be just a few blocks away, celebrating the mass at Trinity Cathedral in NW Portland (Pride is on Trinity Sunday this year), the parade starts at noon. We strategically registered late, hoping for a spot toward the back to give the bishop reasonable travel time after the Eucharist, but it's still going to be a close call. I'm already hyperventilating about that.

Second, last year's turnout (I blame the weather) was not inspirational. But this year we have the bishop. (Assuming he gets there.)

Third, we don't have a booth at the waterfront festival this time, and that's my fault. I assumed the registration deadline was a lot later than it was. Oooops. We're on the waiting list, but I think it's too late. Even if a spot opened up, how would we coordinate two days' worth of volunteer shifts on such short notice?

Fourth, I'm struggling to feel like our work is generating much if any interest beyond a tiny dedicated core, and even that has recently fractured somewhat, with the sudden resignation of one of our board members. Given that and various other scheduling conflicts that have arisen, only one other board member can attend our June meeting. Arrrghghgh.

Ooooookay. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

Recently - I forget exactly where, alas - I read that when you reach a point where you can't do anything else, you should rejoice, because that means God has taken the matter out of your hands. There's a part of me that believes that, part of me that wants to trust that, and another part that wants to dismiss it as cheap Hallmarky quasi-religious schlock for the hopelessly naive.

So then we come to tonight's readings for the office. Maybe they haven't anything really to say about the underlying issues of sexuality and inclusion and equality and all that, but they do speak to the question of anxiety.

Psalm 27 is all about anxiety.

There's tons to say here about the various forms of cheap grace, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer termed it, that people ascribe to the Bible and Christianity, about the ways in which faith protects us. But this can be very dangerous thinking, leading to arrogance if our lives are presently comfortable and blessed, thinking we have earned it; leading to contempt, if we similarly look on the unfortunate and imagine if they only had our faith and our virtues they wouldn't be in that mess; or leading to guilt in thinking we have deserved our adversity. The Bible doesn't teach or promise that nothing bad will ever happen to you if you just believe the right things; the right thing to believe is that you needn't fear the bad things that may happen to you. All shall be well.

The psalmist here spends a lot of time thinking about unpleasant possibilities. Maybe evildoers will assemble against me and devour my flesh. False witnesses arise and "breathe out" violence. None of that sounds good. But in the end he advises, "Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!"

Well, easier said than done. But faith is an active thing. Being strong is not about never being afraid. Being faithful is not about never doubting. From fear and doubt come strength and faith. And what's this about waiting? I want my resolution now! I want to know that everything is going to work out!

Well, it is going to work out. Maybe not in the way you'd imagined or hoped; and that's not to say there will never be pain or heartbreak. But so, so many times I look back on worries that I had or fears that I nurtured and see that they were wasted time and energy. Of course, in the moment, it's difficult. Faith isn't about being dismissive of negative possibilities, it's about hanging in there when the outcome appears bleakest. Think of the Israelites backed up against the Red Sea with Pharaoh's host charging them; all the signs and miracles that they had already witnessed didn't even come to mind, they just thought they were going to die, and this pattern repeats itself throughout the story of the Exodus. No matter how many times and how spectacularly God comes to our rescue, the next time we worry.

The Gospel passage for today is relatively long and tells two stories; one about Jesus sending the apostles out on a mission of healing (with a kind of odd interjection about King Herod), and concluding with one of the great miracle stories, the feeding of the five thousand.

I once heard in a sermon the interesting idea that the miracle Luke is talking about here isn't that two fish and five loaves of bread were somehow enough to feed five thousand with leftovers. One way of looking at the story is seeing it as a parable of anxiety: there isn't enough. Imagine everyone there has a fish, or two fish, and a loaf of bread or two. But they look around and they see all these hungry people, and they think to themselves that, as much as they might wish to help, they can't, because then there won't be enough to meet their own needs, let alone those of their 4,999 neighbors. But as soon as someone has the courage to share something from their meager lot, it inspires similar acts of confidence and generosity. And before you know it, not only was there enough, it turned out to have been this tremendous feast, and there wasn't any reason for anyone to have worried in the first place. It's a miracle of trust, not of multiplication.

Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

So now I look back on my worries about the parade challenges. I will wait, and I will trust in the Lord. I will not think about the time and the money and the things and the people and the resources I wish I had, I will trust that not only do I already have them, I have more than I need.

Amen.