"This Too Shall Pass," but will it?

According to the scholarly source, Wikipedia, that oft quoted phrase, "this too shall pass," apparently comes from Persian Sufisim.  There is a poem by which a fabled king is humbled by these simple words.  Another Sufi version has this proverb inscribed on a ring which gives the wearer the ability to make the happy man sad and vice versa.  Interesting, I admit.  What power does this ancient phrase hold today?

I recently found myself giving this phrase to a co-worker during one of those brief coffee-pot conversations.  It appears fairly innocuous on the surface, like cocktail wisdom when one needs a quick word of re-assurance.  But again, I ask the question:  does this actually mean anything today?

"And this too shall pass."

When I consider the roller coaster that I have been riding non-stop for several years, it strikes me as almost callous and the power to yield an unintended effect of negativity.  I seriously doubt that most who employ this phrase have that intention; moreover, it is such an easy expression to use that its efficacy appears muddled at best.

"Yes, this too shall pass."

I am guilty of longing to achieve my goals at the expense of neglecting the journey to get there.  Sadly, I have missed out on so much in life with that narrow approach.  Wishing an experience to simply pass on, I believe, misses the point regardless if the event(s) are positive or negatively impacting the sojourner.  As I continue to live what I feel is a "tent-maker" sort of life, I am learning to accept that the here-and-now gives me time to inwardly digest the thing at hand.  Unfortunately, there has been more bad than good.  One can only be beaten down so much until lethargy creeps in.  I fight that fight daily.  Wishing things to pass is too easy, truly wishful thinking.  The more I accept and own, the less difficult the things at hand become.

"All good things must come to an end.  And the only certainty is death and taxes."

Perhaps.  Perhaps the life we are called to live is one being filled with the moments of the journey, rather than the rush to our destination.  I will always cringe when I hear fellow Christians say, "we live to go to heaven," and other such nonsense.  As if our lives spent here is some sort of waiting room for a better life ahead.  Bullocks!  If this were true, Christ's eventual triumphant return would be sooner rather than later.  Certainty can be fleeting, and perhaps that is what we really mean to say.
  

Dreaming of England's Green

"Sea Worn" by Chad Krouse, Acrylic on canvas, 30x40.  2012

Those who know me well are all too familiar with my long-standing love affair with England.  Why so?  It all began in childhood where I had too much time to dream, I suppose.  I distinctly recall watching Brit-Coms on PBS as early as age 11 or so.  "Are You Being Served?," and "As Time Goes By," fed my imaginings about this island gem.  The piece de resistance was of course her lady, Hyacinth Bucket on "Keeping Up Appearances."  All these shows taught me to say things like, "bloody hell," "git," and add words like should and rather following a personal pronoun.  Whilst soaking up the unholy British culture being brought through the public tele, I had other outside forces at work drawing me in further to my English dream.

Growing up in The Episcopal Church certainly helped.  Being the child of the Church of England, Episcopalians love to have "high tea," and such following liturgies.  I even attended college where the namesakes are two English revolutionaries--John Hampden and Algernon Sidney.  We spell Sidney with a "y" over here.

It was during my sophomore year at Hampden-Sydney College that I had the opportunity to travel to London for a week--all expenses paid!  I shall never forget standing near Big Ben on the Thames as fireworks erupted in the night sky on January 1, 2000.  That week was pure bliss for me.  Evensong at Westminster Abbey, Mass at Westminster Cathedral, and a day trip out to Windsor.  Of course I found my way to Jermyn Street and indulged in the food halls of Fortnum & Mason, and I also found the bargain basement at Turnbull & Asser.  The highlight was visiting my shoemaker, Cleverely's over on Old Bond Street.  They treated me like royalty, even though all I had to spend was my pay from being a resident advisor!  I hit the National Gallery, ate at Green's and The Goring Hotel--long before Kate Middleton made it swanky.  I had a box seat at Royal Albert Hall for the BBC Proms.  I had truly died and gone to heaven, a proper one at that.  

Six months later, I was back in London, albeit for three days.  I had the pleasure of another all-expenses paid trip to the Continent with a few days in London.  God did I hate Amsterdam and Belgium.  All I could think about was getting back to London, my city!  I even managed to get a few days in London after my honeymoon years later.

My graduate school, The University of the South, is wholly owned by The Episcopal Church.  It was founded to be the Oxford of the South.  And yes, there were many fog-filled days there on that mountain island where I dreamt that I was forging the moors on another island.  Perhaps the most in-depth English experience came in 2009 when I lived in Mirfield, West Yorkshire conducting an independent study while a seminarian.  I knew one goal for me while in graduate school was to go over to England for something, anything.  Thankfully my fundraising background proved useful and I spent seven weeks abroad.

Am I nuts?  Well, perhaps.  I love the USA and I'm a proud tax-payer.  However, my heart belongs to England and there on the Thames shall my ashes be scattered one day.  Amen to that.

Finding Holes in Lent

It is folly to believe that Lent is simply a time to give things up.  One practice that I'm keen to perfect is that of taking something on during these forty days.  Recently, I was reminded of the old Ignatian, "Daily Awareness Examen."  It is quite simply a process of self-reflection and prayer aiming to fill the holes carved out in our daily lives.  The simplicity of the five steps (or rather questions) is not lost on the complication of the human predicament.  I especially like the idea of "co-opting" with the Divine through this technique given to us by St. Ignatius of Loyola.

Through this examen, I for one, see the holes in my life that I so desperately need God in Christ to come fill through the power of the Holy Spirit.  Take it on, try it out, and live with this during Lent.  I invite your thoughts or suggestions for other models of self-reflective prayer.

From the Imago Dei Community's website:

AWARENESS EXAMEN
This short prayer exercise is to help increase your sensitivity to the Spirit working in your life and to provide you with the awareness needed to co-operate and respond to God’s presence. If you use this daily you should find it helpful in noticing spiritual movements and choosing to respond wisely to them. The Awareness Examen is meant as a time of reflection, usually at the end of the day, and can be done in 30 seconds or 30 minutes. It involves five stages:

1. Thanksgiving ….Begin by looking over the day and asking to see where you need to be thankful. Do not choose what you think you should be thankful for, but rather look over the day to see what emerges, what you notice, even slightly. Allow gratitude to take hold of you and express this to the Holy Spirit who at this moment beholds you.

2. Ask For Light….This is a prayer for enlightenment from God. We dispose ourselves for the awareness that we hope will come more directly from God. We have a hard time believing that our own thoughts can actually be from the Spirit but Jesus tells us in Matt 10:20, “it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” Likewise Paul tells us in Rom. 8 that “we do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.” Therefore ask the Spirit to show you what God wants you to pray.

3. Finding God In All Things ….Again look over the events of the day. This time ask the Spirit to show you where God’s presence has been in your life, either in you or in others, and in the events of your day:

• What events in your day have had an impact upon you?
• Where are the signs of the Spirit, i.e. of light?
• Where are the signs of discouragement of spirit, i.e. of darkness?
• What interior events were significant for you?
• Notice what stands out even slightly, such as joy, pain, turmoil, increase of love, anger, harmony, anxiety, freedom, isolation, a sense of the presence or absence of God
• Where do you sense you were being drawn by God’s Spirit?
• How did you respond to these events or experiences?

4. Respond To God In Dialogue ….Is there any one area you are being nudged to focus your attention on, to pray more seriously over, to take action on? This is where your energy needs focus instead of on the many other things you think are important. Discuss this with Jesus.

Express what needs to be expressed:
… praise … sorrow … gratitude … desire for change … … intercession …

5. Help And Guidance For Tomorrow ….Ask God for your needs for tomorrow. For example, you may need to pray to overcome something … to be more sensitive to God’s activity in your environment … to celebrate in some way … to let go … … to be open to conversion in some area … to make some decisions to act against some destructive forces in your life; to desire a particular grace from God; to desire to desire.

The Yo-Yo Creed

I believe that I’m on a string, a yo-yo string. I'm good at letting go, sometimes and most always, to my detriment. It’s good to let go. It’s good to feel the heavy-laden release itself from my grasp. I can bind things so tightly, round up so neatly that I forget the big picture.  What's bound on earth can be loosed, though it's extremely tempting to stay bound up.  It is so easy for me, so natural in fact, that I can hardly notice what I am doing. “Where is God in all of this”, I ask. Indeed, my cry of dereliction goes unheeded. Letting loose; unbinding a strangle-hold that grips and winds itself round about my soul is the prescription needed.

Life’s little challenges often present themselves as gigantic tasks—obstacles barring me from believing that anything is possible. That truthy-feeling is flighty, revealing a false sense of creation.  The truth that I’ve come to know as holy and real is true and lasting freedom. Why? Because I keep getting pulled back towards God every time I wander.  Each time I bind, I feel the tug-of-war to let go.  Back and forth, so it seems, is the rhythm of faith. Doubt, as we know, is not the opposite of faith. Apostasy is faith’s contrarian.

Whether or not string-bound, I am still there holding on. The string cannot break; dirty with years of rubbed playing, but nonetheless strong as the day it was made.

Credo.

I believe.

I am a believer.

I am believed.

Amen.

Identity Chaos

"Creation Primordial Chaos," Judy Racz. Oil on canvas

It is a widely accepted phenomenon that out of chaos comes new creation.  At least that's how I find comfort amid the seemingly endless cycles of life.  For me, the struggle for identity in this world has often been fraught with "peaks and valleys," that permeate the ordinary.  The fact remains, however, that creation--even ex nihilo--stirs about constantly.  The birth pangs, the tumult, and the pain are all part of the process.  Who said new creation was pleasurable?  Creation, as we know it, is forever on-going, moving in a dance towards its final fulfillment.  Until that glorious day, we face our tombs each day.  Resurrection, albeit painful as the predessory death was, still affords us hope. 

The quietness of my blog lo these past few months has given me ample time in my own "tomb."  Dark were the days as I swirled about, blowing through chaos like it was only natural to endure.  Enduring one's death is not a badge of honor to be worn proudly.  And now, I can safely say, that the vastness of the heavy stone door is yielding, something new is about to emerge.  New but scarred; alive but keenly aware of death.  Perhaps that's the idea.

While there's absolutely no use in spilling one's soul via the internet, suffice it say that I'm alive and well.  I'm emerging and finally creating again.

Just last week I spent some time with a dear old friend of mine, a Roman priest who has watched me grow from afar.  The power of the sacrament of Reconciliation was the medicine required for my soul--grace worked as it has since the beginning.  Father Joe, never shy with his prayers, helped me break through that damn stone door.  Thanks be to God.  And now we look ahead...to paraphase T.S. Eliot, we return to the beginning and know the place for the first time.

New Dreams, New Years

Dreams come in all shapes and sizes.  Some shatter abruptly, like a soap bubble without any warning.  Others blossom unexpectedly and in odd places.  Either way, dreaming new dreams is deeply human, speaking to the core of our nature.  I once was a big dreamer, but now I settle for the little ones.

I don't make resolutions, I seldom could keep them.  But I will say this about 2011, pray please let this year be good, healthy, and above all bring joy.  I'll settle for joy any day of the year.

Lost in Wonder, Love, and Praise: the Liturgy of the Lamb

The Church of the Advent, Photo by Br. Ciaran Anthony DellaFera, BSG

Turning the corner past Boston's famous bar, Cheer's, I could hear the English Change Ringing bells tolling down the avenue.  In a methodical count, the peal sang out into the crisp air, bouncing off the otherwise silent brahmin neighborhood.  The day could not have better, clear skies with a light breeze.  Boston Common was already spilling over with tourists, runners, and the like.  Sunday was prime time for Bostonians to be out and about.

The spire from one of the gem's of The Episcopal Church began to come in focus, and my pilgrimage was nearing its climax.  And there it was, on the corner of Brimmer Street in the posh company of Beacon Hill, sits The Church of the Advent.  I arrived with ample time for exploration before Solemn High Mass was to commence at 11:15 a.m.  My heart was racing.

Now it goes without saying that every pilgrim erects a construct of expectations--whether spoken or not--of how the people and place will receive the hungry.  I must admit that I had a few in mind that Sunday morning, and upon my own discovery, were proven to be unfounded.  The prevalent stereotype of "spikery" in Anglo-Catholicism was at the forefront of my mind en route to mass that morning.  

Opening the door to the sanctuary was a bit otherworldly--the incense from the previous mass was thick in the air and I had an immediate, striking sense of the Divine.  I could smell it.  The twenty-five or so choristers were practicing a beautiful setting of the Kyrie, and the mixture of male and female voices struck a deep impression right at the threshold.  Inside, I grabbed a choice seat with a good view of the altar so that I could soak up all that I was about to encounter.  I sat and surveyed the interior beauty of this gem.  The sunlight that morning was piercing the clerestory windows, amplifying the smokey vaults of the ceiling.  This was going to be something unlike any ordinary Rite II liturgy.

I discovered a pleasant, harmonious blending of Rite I from the 1979 Book of Common Prayer along with what could only be described as Sarum additions.  I got a kick from seeing pasted inserts on the inside back cover of the Book of Common Prayer revealing several of the additional texts.  Underneath the Hymnal was a card with the Angelus and antiphons to the Blessed Virgin Mary printed on both sides.   The hymnody came from The Hymnal, 1982 and was juxtaposed with mass settings in Latin and Greek--the Kyrie, Gloria, etc.  The Gospel was chanted, we genuflected at the appropriate place in the Nicene Creed, and we all said the Angelus following the liturgy complete with the ringing of the Angelus bell.

Ceremonial aside, what I feeling inside was simply exciting.  The power of liturgy to transport you both out-of-time and in-time was not only made possible during the mass but was actually experienced, as evidenced by my goose-bumps.  This was a feeling I have not felt for some time.  One of the unintended consequences of liturgical training in seminary is that you tend to have a harder time worshipping in the broader church--one has to work extra hard to suppress feelings about liturgical mishaps and the like.

Following mass, I wondered about the sanctuary still reeling from the heavenly banquet but wanting somehow to capture that same feeling through photographs.  There were several shrines about the place, but one in particular just sang out, Christ the Great High Priest.

There he was, crowned and adorned in the priestly chasuable with hands outstretched to me.  "I love you," he says, "come to me and I will refresh you."  The hands beckoned a hungry, hurting world to take Christ's burden of love and justice, of true freedom in eternal life.  The eyes were piercing the holiness around me, drawing me into an intimate space of Christ's presence transcending the temporal.  Never before have I felt that way before a shrine, not even Walsingham herself I dare say.

Reentering the atmosphere, I climbed down the stairs for coffee hour and found myself making new friends over a glass of sherry in the garden.  Ah.  This was my kind of parish.  I say that I was lost, off in wonder, love, and praise;  its more likely that I discovered that I was found to be in a place where the liturgy of the Lamb draws both the familiar and the odd together, making new creation.  What a treat for a Sunday.

The American Inquisition

If asked, my parents could tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing the day JFK was shot.  Likewise, I can tell you exactly where I was on the morning of September 11, 2001.  It's something that never leaves me. At the time, I was a senior at Hampden-Sydney College, and like most college students, managed to roll out of bed late and head to The Commons for breakfast, half alert to the comings and goings of the wider world.

I didn't even make it upstairs to the dinning hall that morning.  Walking inside the Tiger Inn, the campus watering hole, I saw scores of other students surrounding the televisions inside.  And there it was on the tube, the smoking twin towers of the Big Apple red hot with tragedy billowing from within.  Shocking does not even begin to describe the feelings going through my body.  The live video feed had a numbing, disorienting affect on me.  The eerie silence of the usual bustling restaurant hit each student as they opened the doors on that crisp September morning.  Something was horribly and unusually wrong.  It was palpable.

Later that day, the Dean of Students called and asked me to accompany him on a visit to a mutual friend and administrator who had just learned of his beloved aunt's death in the World Trade Center attacks.  As we sat with Ryan, it was clear to us that no words could bring back his aunt;  our presence was simply that of loving compassion.  The usually large former football player sat quietly smaller on the edge of the sofa.  Nothing made sense anymore.  

While I was safe in central Virginia that day, the events of our national tragedy are forever burned into my conscience and it still haunts me.

Hope, however, did find a way.  By sunset, students from Hampden-Sydney organized a massive prayer rally on the football field for those who needed to begin their own process of understanding.  It started first with prayer.  Standing hand-in-hand, the college community surrounded the entire field in a unified prayer for peace, reconciliation, and healing.  I was proud to be apart of a community that was willing to struggle in corporate unity for Christ amidst the day's horrific events.

More recently, the news surrounding a proposed Islamic Center near Ground Zero in Manhattan reveals that the Nation's wounds have not healed. Pogroms, of sorts, erupted across the country in sacrilegious protest.  How bold of them, some opined, it's the enemy right in our back yard! The hysteria and media hype that ensued for weeks was akin to ripping the band-aid off fresh wounds still deeply felt by millions of Americans.  Christian extremists were quick to charge that God had demanded Islam's holy book, The Qur'an, be burned in protest.  Pundits spun the stories and debate on every possible side grew to an alarming pitch.

It also reveals that the soul of America is too cramped.  Too narrow and claustrophobic, America's capacity for healing and reconciliation needs to be widened, stretched out.  The western mind categorically rejects weakness and vulnerability in order to champion a form of social Darwinism that inevitably does great harm to the soul.  Christ said as much.

In the post-resurrection narratives of Jesus found in the Gospels, he disarms and assuages his scared disciples with the words, "Peace."  Retributive justice is not on Christ's mind.  Visibly bearing the wounds of the crucifixion, Jesus' glorified body does not erase the painful lacerations inflicted by his death sentence.  They are there, unambiguous to the human eye.  Why?  Because God does not erase the course of human history--it's too incarnational.  Even Francis of Assisi prayed to receive the blessing of Christ's wounds because they were to serve him as the sovereign reminder of God's power to heal through brokenness.

I fear, though, that history is beginning to repeat again in the twenty-first century.  The Spanish Inquisition of the fifteenth century sought to control and maintain Christian orthodoxy under the sentence of death.  Conversion by the sword is fleeting and fickle, history proves that this is not how we celebrate progress.  And now in 2010, the orthodox standards are being drawn from a clouded state of mind tantamount to an inquistion on American soil.

A narrow and cramped soul disavows anything contrary to what a pollster statistically proves.  American ingenuity has all but disappeared, and the financial markets are reeling for the time being.  "In God We Trust," is the motto found comically on our currency.  More Americans, I suspect, place trust in the almighty dollar than they do with The Almighty One. We blame politicians and political parties for not fixing our problems.  Changing the parties in charge of either the White House or Congress since 9-11, so it seems, has not solved much of anything.

Still, I don't lose heart.

Simply put, we should not put our faith in this or any government for salvific results; we should look to our faith communities to process through the hurt and anger of our woundedness to find answers for our way forward.  We have to reconcile ourselves to ourselves and to others.  Healing takes time.  It is clear that in the space of the past nine years, very little healing has occurred.  This can change and we can serve as instruments of that process.

Wounds, thank God, can and do heal.  They can serve as painful reminders of the past, or they can transform us into blessings for the future.  That decision, for now, is ours to make.

Farewell Good and Faithful Servant

Easter 2008, Pappaw, Chad, and Tucker

His name is Charlie.  He's my Pappaw.  He's dying of cancer, it has spread to the bone and has now left him in a morphine-induced state of life.  Hospice is 'on-call' and we are ready.  A veteran of the Pacific theatre of World War II, he fibbed about his age in order to join the war effort--he was a Naval bomber pilot.  He never speaks much about his military service, in fact if it weren't for the poorly inscribed anchor tattoos on his forearms, you would never know about it.

Charlie is an extraordinary gift to the world, a child of God whose faith in people and in Our Lord was unswerving.  His wife Nancy, married for 51 years, was the love of his life.  He had everything and worked to build it with honest, hard work.  Steel Products, a small custom steel fabrication company, was the fruit of that labor.  Following the war, he did not accept the government's handout with the G.I. Bill.  He did not want any payment for his service in the Navy.  He claimed that he knew others that needed the money more than he did (which was also a fib).

So he saved and built his own first house along with a family in Huntington, West Virginia.  He saved some more and eventually bought his ownership in the steel business.  He saved even more and expanded the business while growing a reputation for quality service 'after the sale.'  A devout Episcopalian, he spent the better part of his entire life in faithful service to St. Peter's Episcopal Church in the west end of Huntington--giving money, time, and dedication to seeing the mission of Christ happen in an otherwise impoverished part of town.  Charlie was the sort who preferred to stay behind the scenes, he didn't care much for lavish attention or even who got credit for anything.  He just liked to do it.  And he did an awful lot of doing.

I cannot recall a single momentous occasion in my own life where he was not present.  Pappaw was seemingly always there.  Family was a top priority for Charlie.  Another priority was Marshall University athletics, football in particular.  He was quick with a joke to lighten the mood and was ready to lend his listening ears too.  He simply loved people and he loved to learn.  Everyday presented Charlie with something new, something to learn, and something to praise God for His handiwork in everything.

His life leaves me gasping.  Is he a modern-day prophet, the quiet example-setting sort?  How could such an ordinary person have such a profound, extraordinary impact on so many lives?  I don't know the answer just yet.

Each day he dies a little more.  My prayer for Pappaw is for a holy death.  He said to me back in June that he was ready to die--he recalled his full life of blessings and with few (if any really) regrets.  I cherish that month spent at home near him.  He knows my love for him, my admiration for who he is and who he came to be.  It makes saying good-bye seem irrelevant, at least to me.  I carry him with me everywhere, everyday.

Farewell, good and faithful servant.  Truly, he was apart of the 'Greatest Generation.'

Flies and Lies

The only fisherman who will tell the truth about where the fish are biting is your father.  And if your really lucky, which fly to tie on.  Don't bother asking anyone else, you'll get a fish story.

The annual father-and-sons fishing adventure saw another season in 2010 on the remote rivers in southwest Virginia.  Knee-deep in the summer stream with cowpies about and copperheads sunning on nearby rocks, I ask what more could any fisherman ask for?  Well, fish, of course.  Trout to be exact.  

Fly fishing is like learning to drive a standard--it requires both hands, some coordination, and a lot of finesse.  It's easy to get hooked (yes, I know--last pun) on what feels like a more artful way to fish.  Rhythm is essential in casting your line, soaring over the water with grace and precision.  My first fly fishing expedition took place in 1994, chest deep in the freezing waters of the Eagle River near Vail, Colorado.  Amid the falling snow, my guide helped me land a large, trophy Rainbow trout which afforded me familial bragging rights for eternity.  Ever since that audacious beginning, I managed to lose my way back to the streams--life and all the familiar distractions got in the way.                                                                

I admit there were times when I begrudgingly went along on those fishing trips with my dad and brother.  It seems my older brother was always eager and I was always looking for excuses.  I could not for the life of me understand why my dad was insistent upon this annual venture.  What is it about taking your sons out into the wilderness in search of these slimy, cold water fish?  Understandably, no teenager could solve that riddle, it took becoming a father myself to grasp an answer.  It goes without saying that fatherhood changes the game of life completely--it's no longer about YOU but about THEM. Sharing your passions with those you love is a profound exercise of trust and fidelity, especially when you reveal the choicest fishing holes or that a copperjohn fly is the best for this stream.   

So the answer of course is priceless.  A bad day fishing is always better than any good day at work.  Adding your son or daughter (or both in my case) only sweetens the deal.  It's not about catching fish, even though that's always the stated premise.  It's about doing something timeless together without distraction and without the pressures of everyday life.  And yes it's true, time manages to stop temporarily as you wade deep into the streams.    

Time, flies, and lies make up the passion of fly fishing.  It's magic worked on me, I no longer drag my feet at an invitation.  I get it now and it makes sense.  Something tells me that my own children will probably act just as I did.           

Warning: Be Careful What You Pray For

Saint Francis of Assisi knew something of the power of prayer.  Recorded in the biographical work on the saint, The Little Flowers of Saint Francis, we learn of Francis' prayer before receiving the wounds of Christ.

The next day came, to wit the day of the most Holy Cross, and St. Francis, betimes in the morning, or ever it was day, betook himself to prayer before the entrance of his cell, and turning his face towards the East, prayed after this manner: "O my Lord Jesus Christ, two graces do I beseech Thee to grant me before I die: the first, that, during my lifetime, I may feel in my soul and in my body, so far as may be possible, that pain which Thou, sweet Lord, didst suffer in the hour of Thy most bitter passion; the second is that I may feel in my heart, so far as may be possible, that exceeding love, whereby Thou, Son of God, wast enkindled to willingly bear such passion for us sinners"

It's a beautiful prayer for broken people; broken people like me find these words searing.  I learned about this prayer my first year in seminary.  On the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross (September 14), The Rev. Dr. Bob Hughes spoke of Francis' prayer and its efficacy during his sermon in our seminary chapel, Chapel of the Apostles.  It was a favorite of the late Fr. Mychal Judge, OFM of blessed memory who died ministering to NYC firefighters during the 9-11 attacks.  It is also a favorite of mine and helped me greatly during those early seminary days.  In fact, I used to pray it nightly.  There was something so powerful that struck me about Francis' cry of the heart: let me know that pain that delivered the world by your death, but even more fill my heart with the love that brought you to the cross.  I distinctly recall leaving chapel that day and having those words running through my mind.  I could not let them go.  I don't think I wanted to.

It turns out that you have to be careful for what you pray for, if in God's providence it is deemed necessary, it could come true.  I don't boast the stigmata, I am too unworthy of that mark but at least in metaphor I think I have come to know something of this prayer.

Death and resurrection, love and pain, wounds and healing, separation and reunion all encircle those provocative words from Francis.  To be so bold to proclaim Christ crucified and resurrected is to share in that tension where we find our own lives struggling each and every day to be wholly loved.  The marks of the crucified Lord are brought to bear in the lives of the least, the last, and the lost even now.  Some bear those marks deep within.  The Kingdom of God has indeed come near, but it has not yet been consummated in the dance of creation moving ever so closely to fulfilling God's destiny.  And so those scars remain, present reminders of infinite love mingled with mortifying pain.

I prayed those words because I believed that I needed to know that pain of being stuck out on a limb to die, to give up one's own life so that others may have life and have it abundantly.  And yet even hanging out there, God's love is poured into the heart to fill up those leaky cracks--wounds and all. You get both, and both you shall have.  There is no warning label on the baptismal font and perhaps there should be one.  This life in Christ is not all fun and games, it's real and it's really life-saving.  But.  But the cost is death and the return is resurrection.  No one said it would be easy or even remotely pleasant for that matter. The tears somehow turn to joy bringing the cross to bear under the weight of true and lasting freedom in the Redeemer.  Since praying that prayer in seminary, I have known days of extreme and total agony, crying out in dereliction with Christ.  Still there are days which swell my heart with profound, speechless grace.  Today, at least, I sense both at work.  I know them to be inextricably bound together.  Today, at least, I get those words in all their fullness and I'll take it.  Both.

Lord Christ, may I feel in my body as much as possible the pain you endured on the cross, but even more may I know in my heart the love that brought you there.  Amen.

Me, Age 6

My parents are to thank for this photograph, taken in May 1986.  I used to stand on the dinning room chair and pretend it was my pulpit.  I would make my parents sit in the living room and listen to me preach!  I even passed around a bowl asking for a collection, though I padded it with pennies to pretend that money was in there.  I thought of everything, down to the grape juice and saltine crackers for the Eucharist.

In Sunday school class at St. Peter's Episcopal Church (Huntington, WV) where I grew up, we made these felt stoles which all the children wore in a grand Palm Sunday procession.  We even had a wooden donkey on wheels that some lucky child got to ride!  While I don't think that I would do this now, liturgically speaking, it was something to behold as a child.

The lesson, I suppose, is that you never know what can really speak to a child about holy things.

Praying Our Goodbyes

Following Commencement with the Chancellor of the University of the South, 

Bishop J. Neil Alexander (Bishop of Atlanta).

The day came and went as fast as you could imagine.  Graduation day, family, and all the goodbyes.  A day that seemed as though it would never happen, finally did.  And it happened quickly.  How did three years disappear so fast?  Can I get that time back?  Just one more hour in the theology library?  Well, no. Time's up.  

Attending The School of Theology at the University of the South was both an honor and a privilege.  I was stretched in so many ways, taught to expand my own theological and spiritual dimensions while complimenting a formation for priestly ministry in the church.  It hurt at times, the stretching and letting go of all those views that I felt important, and then there were those profound moments of clarity.  Seminary did not "take away" anything of mine, but rather challenged me to go deeper and deeper into Christ's ministry.  Formation, I used to believe, was a bad word; feeling as though I was an empty mass of clay that needed to be shaped into some pre-determined earthen vessel.  What I discovered was that the faculty and curriculum was in fact meeting me where God had begun the work, and the formation naturally takes off. 

While the degree title can be misleading, "Masters of Divinity," I leave Sewanee probably with more questions than answers, deeper questions probing the Christian life and witness.  And yet, I have gained a clearer sense of my own call towards ordained ministry along with a deeper faith in Christ.  I could not even begin to summarize all the experiences, encounters in ministry, and relationships in community that evolved over these three short years.  But I have learned something about death and resurrection, love and betrayal, and what the risks entail for living a life of faith in Christ.  "Comfort the afflicted," you hear often in the seminary halls, "and afflict the comfortable."  There is nothing glamorous about ministry, as you know:  the pay is lousy and the hours are consuming.  But, there is profound joy and wholeness that fills those earthen vessels with overflowing life--however cracked though they may be.

One step that I took this year towards my formation was professing vows in a new, emerging monastic community based in the Diocese of Atlanta--the Order of St. Anthony the Great, OPC.  The order was formed in 2006 and I liked the idea of being apart of an order whose history has not yet been written.  We shall soon have 11 brothers and will be petitioning General Convention in 2012 for formal recognition in the wider body.  I wanted to adapt my life to a written "rule" and live under vows of simplicity, obedience, and chastity (celibacy in singleness and fidelity in marriage).  There is a great freedom, believe it or not, in this life.  Free to love chastely, to obey the rule and the authority over me, and live simply is really life-giving.  I began my discernment with the community in Lent 2009 and my vows are annual.  The monastic "me" compliments my calling to be a priest.  And yes, we do have monk-priests in the Episcopal Church! 

Praying my own goodbye has been hard but ultimately proved fulfilling, a way in which I am reminded to let go and put trust in God's hands again.  The idea is not mine, it comes from a remarkable little book that I discovered this past semester on loss and goodbye written by Sister Joyce Rupp, simply called Praying Our Goodbyes (Ave Maria Press, reprinted in 2009).  Just remember, there is always a "hello" to be heard if your ears are opened to the Spirit.  I feel as though I am able to listen now and sense those hellos echoing daily.   

What an incredible, holy, and life-giving three years seminary proved to be. Formation, as it turned out, wasn't so bad after all.  Of course, it's still ongoing, though you must be willing to trust God and be open to the inspiration of the Holy Spirit--she'll work hard on you and trust that!  

May is for Mary

Lady Month, or the month of May is especially marked by catholics with devotion to the God-Bearer (Theotokos).  May 31st, after all, is the Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin to her cousin Elizabeth whereby Luke recalls that famous ave and the glorious Magnificat (Luke 1:39-57).  Later this month in Walsingham, the National Pilgrimage will be held.  May is the month of Mary.

There is an old catholic tradition of building and maintaining a "May altar" dedicated to Our Lady throughout the month of May.  The photographs of these May Altars come from the home of my brother, Fr. Robert-James, OPC.  The following excerpt comes from the webpages of The Marian Library/The International Marian Research Institute in Dayton, OH.

To the specific characteristics of the May devotion is to be counted the specially set up May altar - be it as an addition to or specially decorated altar in the church or as a "house altar" in the family circle. Like the May devotions themselves, the custom to highlight this type of May altar stems from southern European countries. A report from France in 1842 speaks of Our Lady's altar in May showing off in rich splendor, while the families also erected and decorated small home altars. 

All of nature awakened to new life in springtime is presented to honor Mary, who is herself "a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys" (Song of Songs 2,1). This form of devotion was influence and furthered, for example, in Treatise on True Devotion to Mary by Louis de Montfort, who, among other things, counted the decoration of Marian altars a chief exercise of Marian devotion.

The development of "home altars" seems to have naturally grown from churches specially dedicating altars within the worship space to Our Lady.  The above citation continues:

When erecting a May altar in a church, one distinguishes between the special decoration of an existing Marian altar, the erection of an altar set up specifically to serve this May devotion, or the transformation of the main altar into a May altar. The Handbook of Church Rituals (Regensburg 1846) notes under May altar that these devotions be held at an altar dedicated to the Blessed Virgin and decorated "to the full." If there isn't any [altar dedicated to Mary], another  altar is to be set up and furnished with a picture or a statue of Mary.  In Strasbourg, in 1855 for the first time, a special "Mother of God altar" was set up before the chancel.

With the development of May altars in churches, the custom spread to set up this type of "altar" also  in the home. The authors of both private publications and of official publications refer to this practice, encourage them, or assume that there are such.  While some devotional books encourage the user to decorate an image of Mary found there and to pray there--a custom "that belongs anyway in every good Catholic home"--others depict the "prayer room" as "a shrine dedicated to Mary." 

A side altar of this type was drawn into the celebration in that the blessing frequently was given from this altar. By carrying the Blessed Sacrament from the main altar, the precedence of the main altar was clearly visible. 

Pick some flowers, find an icon or statue, and light a candle.  Place Mary as the "spiritual fireplace" of your home this month.  Our Lady of Walsingham, pray for us all!   

Towards a Baptismal Ecclesiology

What Not to Do:

Holy Water font filled in with sand for Lent.

The 1979 American Book of Common Prayer accomplished an extraordinary thing for The Episcopal Church by reuniting--in theory--the ancient rite of Christian initiation of water and post-water bath anointing.  The Church, through this prayer book reform, has re-ordered the entire life of the Church around baptism, or moving towards a baptismal ecclesiology.

The rubrics contained in the 1979 Book of Common Prayer concerning the rite of Holy Baptism describe clearly the Church’s teaching on initiation, “Holy Baptism is full initiation by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ’s Body the Church.  The bond which God establishes in Baptism is indissoluble” (BCP, 298).  From the inception of the 1979 Prayer Book, a new ethos of Baptism, its theology, and its ecclesiology permeate the whole of the American Prayer Book.  Gone are the days of private baptisms and now the rite is placed on appointed Sundays throughout the Church calendar to be celebrated as a ritual mass in the midst of the full assembly of the faithful.  The Liturgical Movement, along with the initiation reforms of the Second Vatican Council, swept across liturgical churches to instill principles of clear and simple symbolism while reaching back to the ancient rite itself for insights into developing reforms. Here's an instance, at least arguably so, when Prosper of Aquitaine's saying,  lex orandi, lex credendi, does not apply.  With the new addition of a Baptismal Covenant, the Church is proclaiming to all of God’s people the ongoing responsibilities of the bonds forged in the waters of Baptism.  The past event in the believer's life is to made known and re-presented every day.  Moreover, there is a greater emphasis on the ministry of all the baptized, seeking to involve the laity in every possible way into the worshipping life of the Church.  

The Baptismal Covenant, a new interrogatory innovation prior to the water bath, created a new ethos which has taken root in the life of some parts at least of the Episcopal Church.  The 1979 prayer book has taken hold and permeated its inclusive baptismal theology into all aspects of church life.  Most sermons today somehow inevitably allude to the theology and ecclesiology of the Baptismal Covenant found in the rite of Holy Baptism because of the efficacy of the Covenant and its relationship to ongoing discipleship.  Even on appointed days for Baptism on the Church calendar when there are no candidates to be baptized, it is recommended to use the Baptismal Covenant in the liturgy to remind the assembly of the promises made at the font.  The Baptismal ecclesiology revealed in the Baptismal Covenant is clear:  that Baptism is now the primary identity marker for all Christian people and from that comes responsibility to God, to the great fellowship of believers, and to the whole of God’s creation.  Everything is ordered around Baptism because this is how we are fully and completely initiated into the Body of Christ.  With this ecclesiology, then, all baptized Christians share the responsibility of participation and governance in the Church.  While the clergy retain important sacramental functions relating to their orders, the laity has been empowered and approved to serve in additional liturgical and governmental roles in the Church. 

“Holy Baptism is full initiation by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ’s Body the Church.  The bond which God establishes in Baptism is indissoluble”

With the ecclesiological implications in place, the Baptismal theology that flows from the Baptismal Covenant effectively ends an age-old two-tiered system of initiation, meaning Baptism and Confirmation.  Baptism is the full and complete rite of initiation in the Church now in the 1979 prayer book.  Even small children who have been baptized are now encouraged to receive Holy Communion.  This radical change sets us apart from some of our brothers and sisters in the Anglican Communion where Confirmation still holds the meal ticket.  The promises made in the Covenant help move the faithful into a greater participation in the Paschal Mystery—the life in Christ.  There is a call for social justice and stewardship.  There is a call to work for peace among all people, and the invitation to seek and serve Christ in every person.  The Baptismal Covenant shifts the Episcopal Church away from seeing Baptism as simply a way to wash off sins; rather, this new covenant is about enacting discipleship.  This is a major move away from the medieval idea of infant baptism, especially by making adult baptism the norm.

Now with my official GOE (General Ordination Exam) answer out of the way, why do we find sand in some baptismal fonts during Lent?  What image and message, then, does that symbol send the faithful?  I maintain that the "tradition" of filling up fonts with sand diminishes the ongoing, ever-present reality of Christian baptism.  No liturgical season can supplant this; the water is living and flowing ever deeper into the hearts of the faithful especially in a season such as Lent.

While there is the invitation in the prayer book for observance of a Holy Lent, this does not mean that the baptismal water and its implications for discipleship magically disappear for a time.  The symbolism of sand and the notion of wrestling with temptation in the desert is a good one, but it confuses baptism and thus not appropriate for baptismal fonts.   

Chad, Bishop and Saint

Today, the Church commemorates the death date of Chad, Bishop of Lichfield (c. 672).  We know some of Chad by the historian Bede.  Below is the excerpt from The Oxford Dictionary of Saints.

St Chad was the first bishop of Mercia and Lindsey at Lichfield. He was the brother of Cedd, whom he succeeded as Abbot of Lastingham, North Yorkshire, and a disciple of Aidan who sent him to Ireland as part of his education. Chad was chosen by Oswi, king of Northumbria, as bishop of the Northumbrian see, while Wilfrid, who had been chosen for Deira by the sub-king Alcfrith, was absent in Gaul seeking consecration shortly after the Synod of Whitby (663/4). Faced with a dearth of bishops in England, Chad was unwise enough to be consecrated by the simoniacal Wine of Dorchester, assisted by two dubious British bishops. Wilfrid on his return to England in 666, found that Alcfrith was dead or exiled and retired to Ripon, leaving Chad in occupation. But in 669 Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, restored Wilfrid to York and deposed Chad (who retired to Lastingham), but soon reconsecrated him to be bishop of the Mercians. This unusual step was due both to the new opening for Christianity in Mercia and to the excellent character of Chad himself, whom both Eddius and Bede recognised as being unusually humble, devout, zealous and apostolic. Chad's episcopate of three years laid the foundations of the see of Lichfield according to the decrees of Theodore's council at Hertford, which established diocesan organisation. Wulfhere, king of Mercia, gave him fifty hides of land for a monastery at Barow (Lincolnshire); he also established a monastery close to Lichfield Cathedral.

Chad died on March 2nd 672 and was buried in the Church of St Mary. At once, according to Bede, he was venerated as a saint and his relics were translated to the Cathedral Church of St Peter. Cures were claimed in both churches. Bede described his first shrine as 'a wooden coffin in the shape of a little house with an aperture in the side through which the devout can...take out some of the dust, which they put into water and give to sick cattle or men to drink, upon which they are presently eased of their infirmity and restored to health'.

His relics were translated in 1148 and moved to the Lady Chapel in 1296. An even more splendid shrine was built by Robert Stretton, bishop of Lichfield (1360-85) of marble substructure with feretory adorned with gold and precious stones. Rowland Lee, bishop of Lichfield (1534-43), pleaded with Henry VIII to spare the shrine: this was done, but only for a time. At some unknown date the head and some other bones had been separated from the main shrine. Some of these, it was claimed, were preserved by recusants, and four large bones, believed to be Chad's are in the Roman Catholic cathedral of Birmingham. A fine Mercian illuminated Gospel Book of the 8th century called the Gospels of St Chad was probably associated with his shrine, as the Lindisfarne Gospels were associated with the shrine of St Cuthbert; it is now in Lichfield Cathedral Library. The 11th century shrine list mentions the relics of Cedd and Hedda resting at Lichfield with Chad. Thirty-three ancient churches and several wells were dedicated to St Chad, mainly in the Midlands. There are also several modern dedications.

From The Oxford Dictionary of Saints, by David Hugh Farmer, 3rd edition, 1992

Now I doubt that my parents had all this in mind when deciding on my name in 1980.  However, I was not to discover Chad's witness to the faith until my teenage years when a friend and Orthodox priest told me the story of Saint Chad.  From that point forward, I was committed to celebrating this great, humble witness of the Church in pre-Roman Britain!  

I searched for a number of years to find an icon of Saint Chad.  When I began my discernment in 2005, I decided that I would take up the holy practice of icon writing.  The icon above was the fruit of that labor and it hangs above my desk in my study.  

Here are the arms of Saint Chad's College, University of Durham.  I was able to visit the College when I was in Durham this past summer.  There are numerous parishes in the Church of England bearing this great saint's name.  Ironically, our seminary recently hired the chaplain from Saint Chad's College to be our theology professor.  We've swapped icons of Chad.

I pray that I may seek daily to embodied the humility and faithfulness that Saint Chad serves as an exemplar for us today.  

Beloved Dust

In the Book of Genesis we learn, "By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust and to dust you shall return" (3:19, NRSV).  In liturgies throughout the Church for Ash Wednesday, this verse from Genesis intends to re-ground ourselves in the Trinitarian life.  We are created beings fashioned by God and according to God's purposes.

My theology professor, now retired, The Rev. Dr. Robert Hughes offers us another way of looking at this passage. In his recent magnum opus, Beloved Dust: Tides of the Spirit in the Christian Life (New York: Continuum, 2008), Hughes offers us the analogy of human beings as the beloved stardust of creation.  "Human beings are best conceived by as materialistic an anthropology as possible.  I am proposing that we use the metaphor of dust, beloved dust, though by this I mean the stardust of creation, matter much as conceived by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, not merely the dust of the dustbin, though that is included" (Hughes, 7).  Hughes goes on to describe that this beloved dust is animated, spirited, estranged, and redeemed dust.  I thoroughly enjoy my copy and highly recommend this important work on the mission and theology of the Holy Spirit as a companion and guide to the spiritual life.

What I find most compelling in all this is that image of not being merely dust, but beloved dust.  Beloved of God, redeemed by Christ, and inspired by the ongoing work of the Holy Spirit in our daily lives.  It is quite easy to view Ash Wednesday in terms of "woe is me."  I do not think that this approach is helpful.  If we take seriously the call to confession, then Lent becomes a deeper journey of faith where we can walk with Christ on the journey to the cross.  Woe is world, perhaps, but as beloved dust we share in that cross-bearing moment with the resurrected Christ to help re-orient the world in terms of love, justice, and mercy.

Dust yes.  Beloved dust, even more.  The markings on our forehead are visible symbols of that loving creation that we are all share in as we move towards our ultimate hope in Christ.  The Lenten journey begins and so we can prepare ourselves for not only Our Lord's resurrection, but our own too.

Shrove or Shriven? Pancake Day Worldwide

"May everyday of the year be a Shrove Tuesday"

Jeremy Taylor

My Pastoral Theology professor so aptly said this morning in class, "Shrove Tuesday is not the Middle English word for pancake." Ah, but is it? I turned to The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) to see what is written on the matter. The OED notes that Shrove Tuesday is often referred to as "pancake day." In 1764, OED cites the reference, "let glad Shrove-Tuesday bring the pancake thin." There is even a reference to an ancient Celtic practice of ritually sacrificing a cock or hen to be eaten on this day. Thankfully, however, tons of pancake batter is beginning to be prepared all over for Shrove Tuesday.

So which is the best understanding of Shrove Tuesday? Who would dare buck the OED?

Well, my professor was alluding to the meaning of the root of shrove, which is past tense for the word shrive. Here the OED says quite clearly that shrive means:

"To impose penance upon (a person); hence, to administer absolution to; to hear the confession of."

Thus, the reference to the real meaning of Shrove Tuesday is not lost on carbohydrates. It's about confession, preparation for the following day of Ash Wednesday. Jeremy Taylor's above quotation thus makes complete sense--everyday should be a day in which we offer up our confession and receive absolution and penance from the Church.

Pancakes, or at least the idea of a carnival, is appropriate so long as the meaning of the day is not lost. The historic notion of "suspending the rules" and allowing people to blow off some steam is well within the tradition of Mardi Gras and any festival prior to the beginning of Lent. In England, there is an old tradition of the "boy bishop" or dressing up a young boy in episcopal vestments as a way of illustrating the point of temporarily dispensing the rules.

Go, eat your pancakes and be merry. Confess your sins and receive absolution so that you may be well on your way to keeping a solemn, holy Lent. Enjoy.

Mary, Dawn of Morning

From the Feast of the Purification of the B.V.M. through Wednesday in Holy Week, the Final Antiphon of the B.V.M. at Compline is the Ave, Regina caelorum.

Queen of the heavens, we hail thee,
Lady of all the angels;
Thou the dawn, the door of morning
Whence the world's true Light is risen:
Joy to thee, O Virgin glorious,
Beautiful beyond all other;
Hail and farewell, O most gracious,
Intercede for us alway to Jesus.

V. Vouchsafe that I may praise thee, O holy Virgin.
R. Give me strength against thine enemies.

Let us pray.

Grant us, O merciful God protection in our weakness: that we who celebrate the memory of the Holy Mother of God may, through her intercession, rise again from our sins. Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.

From The Monastic Diurnal (London: Oxford University Press/Lancelot Andrewes Press, 2006).

"Thou the dawn, the door of morning whence the world's true Light is risen..." This line gets me every time.  There is something so intrinsically powerful in these words.  Mary, the gate, the womb which bore life and light, is likened to the dawn of morning.  Living on a mountaintop, I interpret this through my somewhat foggy lenses--dew, deer grazing about, sunrise breaking the foggy mist, and life stirring to begin a new day.  The natural overtones are not missed.  The sun rising in the east and setting in the west, punctuating our time each day with remembrances of Christ rising from the tomb, bursting forth from the womb, and the evil in the world lurking at the setting sun.  Mary the door, the vessel which the Word passes to bring the true Light into our existence.  Such a simple prayer but one that is pregnant with meaning--pun intended.  

I have found the additions of the Final Antiphons of the B.V.M. a welcomed and inspiring addition to the final office of the day, Compline.  Seasonally, they move with the fluidity of the Church calendar, providing a definite incarnational emphasis within each season.  

As a life-long Episcopalian, I was not raised in the Marian tradition of the Church.  I must admit that I found it rather odd that Episcopalians would even pray for Mary's intercession--playing at some Roman fantasy.  But in time, in prayer, and in theological education, I discovered that one cannot fully understand the Incarnation, or even the person or work of Jesus Christ, without a deep appreciation for the role that Mary plays in whole narrative.  For Episcopalians, veneration of the B.V.M. is not tantamount to an ecclesiastical identity crisis, it is our expression of our desire for catholicism in the broadest sense.

Mary, I believe, is the greatest source of unity for the Body of Christ.  Walsingham's appearance, furthermore, is perhaps the greatest and most accepted account of Our Lady among Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholics, and Anglicans today.  However, her identity must be rescued from the extreme wings of the church which beset her into highly repressive circles of clericalism and misogyny which grows out from a repressed sexuality.  How could someone hold Our Lady in such high regard and yet refuse to accept women celebrating at the altar, in the threefold offices of deacon, priest, and bishop?  It's quite telling of something of an identity crisis, and one that I suspect is rooted in the mystery of human sexuality.

Here, I would commend my friend Kenneth Leech's excellent (and rather humorous) essay "Beyond Gin and Lace," as means to understand the phenomenon of which I allude.  

Nonetheless, Our Lady withstands the test of time.  Her powerful intercession on our sinful behalf has aided me in more times than I can count.  I feel certain that by veneration--read, not worshipping!--that Our Lady can help show us the way to her beloved Son, Jesus Christ who stands ready with open arms to embrace us no matter what.  Thanks be to God!