Mid-Winter's Blue

She paints across the evening sky,

with stretched wings freely mocking colder climbs

as the somber'd earth below echoes the graying hope of Spring.

Alone in the mist,

she flies in search of the promised feast,

availing hunger.

Nothing. 

No scratch of life to be found as distant stars brighten her hasty search; azure'd bleak dusking the cause.

And down, spiraling down she goes,

falling into the numbed life.

There she rests under the pillowed banks of snow,

buried with her unrequited dreams,

a promised peace to come,

melting beneath the mid-winter stars. 

Walsingham Explained

I recently came across this graphic explaining the image of Our Lady of Walsingham and was somewhat fascinated by it.  More detailed information can be obtained by clicking here.

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.

The Revised Anthonite Vigil Office

Revised and expanded, the Anthonite Vigil Office has been published by St. Anthony's, OPC Press.  You can order your copy today by visiting Lulu.com.

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.

Still, She Rings

My latest creation for Hampden-Sydney College.  I wrote the script which was narrated by Lt. Gen. Samuel V. Wilson (US Army-Ret), the 23rd President of Hampden-Sydney.  Shaun Irving '97 of Orrio in Richmond did the filming, editing, and production.



Still, She Rings
by Chad M. Krouse '02

Bounding pass these gates,
generations of boys have entered;
Hailing from the world over
to learn the secrets in store.
To the pride of Garnet and Gray,
legions of men have left,
off to change the world.

Upon these hallowed grounds, the bell rings
bouncing from the greats of old:
Cushing,
Venable,
Cabell,
Morton,
Atkinson,
Bagby.

All roads lead to her,
guarded by the benefactors of past and present.
Her voice carries over the slate rooftops:
“To class, to class!”
To her loyal sons she bids warmly:
“Come home, come home.”

Through every season tolling,
rain or snow you can bet,
Her pledge is true,
set the professor’s standard and the bane of other’s alarms--
Ne’er to be missed,
in haste most go.
Her song is simple,
Her cry is heeded.
And still,
she rings.

Singing Yes

Mary said "yes."

She sings the nature of this upside-down Kingdom:  

casting down the mighty from their thrones 
as the lowest of society is lifted high.  Yes. 

The hungry are filled with good things, 

but those who are rich will be sent away empty-handed.  Yes.

Those on the margins of the world will now be brought in 

to celebrate at the great banquet of the Lamb.  Yes.

The cycles of poverty, social injustice, 

and hatred will be destroyed forever.  Yes.

The peaceable Kingdom will triumph 

for eternity as Christ fulfills all in all.  Yes.

Today I say, let it be so.  
Amen.  

Hugh's Day: A Sermon

Hugh of Lincoln November 17, 2010
Luke 12:35-44
Titus 2:7-14

In the early summer of 2009, I managed to make two pilgrimages while living and studying in England. One was to the famed appearance of Our Lady in Walsingham in the Norfolk region; the other was to the shrine of Saint Hugh of Lincoln inside the massive Lincolnshire cathedral. Both hold a special place in my spiritual formation that shall never be forgotten.

The flat midlands of Lincolnshire afford the eye great, distant vistas of Britain. From the train down from Mirfield, I could see far in the distance the towering cathedral of Lincoln floating above the town as it sat quietly atop a massive hill. Consecrated in 1092, the existing cathedral as we know it today was restored and enlarged in 1192 under Hugh’s episcopacy. The western front is a rather interesting blend of Norman and Roman architecture that reflects the long history of the faithful of Lincolnshire, one of the largest dioceses in England. With the double-stroller off and kids in tow, we headed into the town of Lincoln like bewildered pilgrims worn down by two very spirited children. Like good Episcopalians, we found a nice pub for lunch. Fortified and feed, we climbed the massive hill towards the cathedral. All along the way, I responded to numerous objections from the family: “if you’ve seen one cathedral Chad, you’ve seen them all.” But after spotting a confectionary shop, I knew I could buy back their loyalty during this forced uphill march. After all that it took to get here, I found myself asking the question: what is it about Hugh?

Born around 1140 into a noble family in the Burgundy region of France, Hugh was the youngest of three sons. His mother, Anne, who died relatively young, was known for her particular care of the poor and sick. The sight of seeing his mother wash the sores of local lepers seared young Hugh. Following his mother’s death, Hugh’s father William enrolled Hugh at a local Austin Canons’ monastery for his education—a common practice amongst the nobility at the time. Hugh’s devout and highly restrictive education formed him at young age. At fifteen, he made his profession as a canon and was later ordained deacon at nineteen. Soon afterwards, Hugh was given charge over a parish where he tasted pastoral strife. But something else was stirring deep within him.

Not far from Hugh’s parish rose the Chartreuse mountains, often snow-capped and vivid with color. High in the Chartreuse range bore a monastery and order of the same name, the Carthusians. This highly austere and secluded monastic order was founded by Bruno who followed the reforming spirit of Cluny. Known for their great silence, the Carthusian order is a community who blends the eremitical way of life with that of enclosed brotherhood. Few Carthusians were ever elevated to the episcopacy and few managed canonization by the Church, something that is a point of pride for them because theirs is a life hidden in Christ through prayer, silence, study, and liturgy. All of these drew Hugh to the mountains to see the great charterhouse known still as Le Grande Chartreuse. At twenty-three, Hugh joined the order and was destined for a life of contemplation and silence in the alpine mountains of France. Or so he thought.

Ten years into his life of solitude and prayer, the missionary spirit rose up in the Order as King Henry II of England sought to pay penance for his unfortunate role in the death of his archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Beckett. Henry sought to found three houses in England and the Carthusians were chosen to be one of the three. Hugh was appointed prior of the new house and sent off to England. Hugh’s reputation was quickly spreading on the island. When he secured a land grant from the King of England for the new monastery, he bought the existing huts and houses from the peasants and then in turn gave them their dwellings back which were carted off and sold again by the peasants. Hugh was not going to go the way of the Benedictines and Cistercians who were well known across the land for their often unscrupulous entrepreneurial zeal. Not long into his priorate at Witham, Hugh was elected Bishop of Lincoln and later ordained to the episcopate in Westminster Abbey.

Again I ask the question: what is it about Hugh? Or still, what does Hugh have to say to us today? Here you have a monk who is bishop. He refused to indulge the lavish lifestyle prominent amongst his brother bishops at the time. He lived under the strict discipline of his order, much to the annoyance of many secular clergy around him. He was unrelenting in his care for the poor and even washed the sores of lepers in his Episcopal mansion—something his momma would have been proud to see. Above all, Hugh’s humility and tact is something that many politicians today should heed; for his cheerfulness and love of God’s people made it difficult for the ruling powers to oppose him. In our age of divisive, hate-filled rhetoric which alienates and polarizes the citizenry, Hugh would not hesitate to direct our eyes to the millions of children who have no health insurance, those who are homeless and jobless. Hugh would tend our sores and wash our feet, and that is something worth celebrating today. Hugh, quite simply, had a way with people that drew them closer to the love of God in Christ. His example and witness to us echoes our readings from Luke and Paul’s epistle—where striving for the Kingdom of God begins with how we conduct our own lives in accordance with Christ. Hugh was Christ’s hands, voice, and love made present to all who came near.

Back at the cathedral, I managed to squeeze our large American stroller through the tiny doors of the western porch. Once inside, I was awestruck by the grandeur and simplicity of one of Hugh’s lasting memorials. While he never saw the cathedral completed, its foundation serves as just one of many of the saint’s legacies for the Kingdom. As I moved to the far east-end, back behind the great choir and high altar, I saw what I had longed to see—the shrine of Hugh. I dropped to my knees, touched the shrine, and made the sign of the cross. Hugh’s spirit was palpable, and my prayer to Christ was that I may follow the good example of such a humble servant to draw others to God.

Click here to see my post from last year with photos from the pilgrimage. 

Here, I Cry

I stood proudly once,
twenty odd feet towering above
where the wind pushed me higher.

Towers of steel forged by experience
could withstand the idle assaults
that came.

Nearby glances were thought
empowering, nay
sweetly on my heart.

And the fall came.
All at once.

Those memories seem vain nowadays;
twisting the ego tightly round a
hellish nail.

Chill'd nights,
sleepless nights,
cast the daze upon my face.

Nothing escapes.
Nothing holds.

And my cries go unheard.

The Barb of the Nazarene

Hooks of love caught the world (i am)

from the heights above (breaks barriers of hate),

while feeding the fishy souls (and men);

catches and releases (drawn to his wounds)

from the barb of the Nazarene (live again).

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.

On the Mission of the Church

"Mission is putting love where love is not."

St. John of the Cross

Documentary: The Saint of 9/11

Fr. Mychal Judge, OFM (1933-2001)

The Order of Saint Anthony the Great is exploring the life and witness of Mychal Judge, the New York Fire Department Chaplain who died at the World Trade Center on September 11th.  A Franciscan and a priest, Mychal's life was filled with joy, pain, love, and self-giving. 

One of Father Mychal's favorite prayer's sums up his theology:

Lord, take me where you want me to go;

Let me meet who you want me to meet;

Tell me what you want me to say

And keep me out of your way.

The documentary film, The Saint of 9/11, captures both the eternal joy and love of the friar along with inner turmoil that so often accompanies holy people.  Click on the title of the film to watch it, it's worth your time. 

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.

A Fisherman's Tale

Funeral Liturgy for Charles G. Michael

Friday, September 24, 2010

St. Peter's Episcopal Church

Isaiah 25:6-9, Psalm 121, Romans 8:31-39, John 11:21-27

"Martha said to Jesus, 'I know that he will rise again in the resurrection 
on the last day.'  And Jesus said to her, 'I am resurrection, and the life.  
Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.'" (John 11:24-25)

On September 3, 1925, the world was forever changed.  That day is a special day for so many of us, it is the day Charles Granville Michael came into the world.  He would grow up to change the world in only the way that he could--quietly, patiently, with love and gentleness. 

Early in his life, he came to know words like sacrifice and offering, words that my generation is only now beginning to understand.  Charlie was determined to join the war effort and secured a phony birth certificate in order to reach the legal age to join the US Navy.  At the tender age of 16, he left the comfort of home in Grayson, Kentucky, said goodbye to his mom and dad, and set out for a world adventure.  He would tell you that he was too young, too naive, and too green.  But he heard the call of service and deep in his bones he had to answer it.  Following the bombing in Pearl Harbor, Charlie was sent to the Pacific theater where he served faithfully for 8 years rising to be a bombardier flight pilot.  If you never saw the anchor tattoos on his forearms, you would never know of his daring journey in the Navy.  He never, ever talked about it. 

This past June, when the cancer was visibly taking over, I was able to spend a lot of time with him. I prodded him for information and stories about the war.  I even asked him if he ever had any regrets, to which he broke down and said that he knew so many men who died and could not let it go.  We never spoke about it again.

Following the war, Charlie returned to the tri-state area to build a life for himself.  The beautiful Nancy Mary Philip caught his eye and they married.  For 52 years, Charlie and Nancy would tear up the square dance circuit in a beautiful dance of true love and companionship. Because of whatever happened during the war, Charlie refused to take the Government's GI Bill.  He was determined to earn his own way in the world, again on his terms.  He found work at a local steel shop, Steel Products, and began as the low man on the totem pole, welding and fabricating steel out in the hot, hellish heat on the shop floor.  

He dabbled in television and small electronic repairs, as it feed his fascination with circuitry and engineering.  This would later serve him well as he invented train engine testers that were quickly purchased by CSX.  He had no formal training in any of this, for he had an insatiable hunger for knowledge--he wanted to know intimately why and how things worked.  It fed his scientific mind.  Charlie was smart and his inquisitive mind was going to serve him well.  Yes he would make mistakes, but he would mull them over and learn from what they had to teach him.

Eventually he was able to buy ownership of Steel Products and expanded the business.  His success model was simple:  he lived the 'golden rule.'  He was quite proud of the fact that his men never unionized--he knew exactly what it was like to work in the shop and prided himself on knowing from bottom to top what each man was required to know and do.  He cared deeply for his men and treated them like extended members of his family. 

Charlie's family was growing too.  With a son, Peter, and daughter Pam, the Michael family, I imagine, was the American family of the 50's and 60's.  When he could keep Nancy from secretly re-carpeting the house or control his emotions when he'd discover a house filled with new furniture, he managed to build a family and a business, grounded on his life of faith.

Charlie was a fisherman.  He loved to fish.  It didn't matter to him what he'd be catching, so long as the fish were biting.  Fishing, he believed, was the reward of patience.  Sure it was time away from the demands of work, but it was his way of putting the world in perspective--focusing on learning what Mother Nature had to teach about creation.   

A son, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, and a great-grandfather, Charlie cast his net wide into the world and all the while helping to shape a small part of it in the process.  His was a life of seeing Christ in every person he met.  No one ever felt like a stranger to him.  I doubt there is anyone here today that did not get a hug, a friendly kiss, or his incredible smile greeting them every time you met him.  From bishops to star football coaches to the local wait staff at Bob Evans, Charlie treated every one, every one as a sacred, special human being without exception.  Life, for Charlie, was about living and loving, giving of himself to others because this was all he knew.  Even in death, Charlie has given his body for medical research; those lessons learned at such a young age stuck with him all his life.   

           

Jesus was a fisherman too.  He cast his nets and caught the whole world.  Time and again when the disciples failed to understand Jesus, he implored them to cast their nets to other side, only to pull in a tremendous catch.  Jesus was no stranger to death either.  The story of Lazarus is, I believe, one of the more intimate stories of Jesus in the Gospel accounts that has something to say to us today about life and death about living and loving.  Jesus wept at the tomb of his dear friend, grief and suffering--something so profoundly human--overcame Our Lord.  But, something even more deeply powerful was in store for Lazarus:  resurrection.  After four days of lying in the tomb, Lazarus was called forth to leave behind the sealed tomb thereby showing the glory and power of God. 

Death, we know, is not our end.  If the Easter story ended on Good Friday then the whole Christian narrative would be radically different.  But it does not end at the cross.  Death is forever swallowed up by life.  The Easter proclamation forever marks us as people of life and light.  When we dip our toes into the waters of Baptism, Christ makes an eternal claim on our lives.  That claim does not end in death.  Death is but a means, it is not our ultimate destination. 

Paul, in his letter to the Romans makes clear to the Christian community that

God's love for us is manifest in the person and work of Jesus Christ.  "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."  Nothing, nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ.  No matter how hard we try, no matter what challenges we face, God's love abides. 

We live to see the beatific vision, to be face-to-face with the risen Christ,  raised by Him as citizens of the Kingdom of God.  To delight in the heavenly banquet that Isaiah so eloquently describes, is the feast of our lives brought to fulfillment in the heavenly Jerusalem.  And our invitation is wide open to all of God's children.  Life conquers death.  The light of Christ overcomes the darkness.  And especially now, we struggle to live into that reality each and every day of our lives. 

But the Good News is quite simply this:  "Even at the grave we make our song Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia."  What Christ has accomplished for us is eternal life, it's worth singing about today and everyday.  Yes the Easter life can be a struggle at times, but we don't have to go it alone.  We have Christ, the Lord and Author of Life who binds us together in the earthly Church.  When we break bread and join in fellowship with one another, we find the source and summit of our lives made whole in Christ.   

Charlie's theology was very simple and yet powerful.  He always told me to live my life by giving others their flowers now, and not at their graves.  Let people know that you love them, he said, and show it.  This is how he lived his life.  This is his powerful story, told to us by his many, many deeds. 

My sisters and brothers, today we are those seedlings, little flowers nourished by Christ through Charlie's witness.  May we live to be the sweet perfume of the Holy Spirit, radiating life, beaming love to every one, everywhere.  Amen.               

Poem: A Travel Advisory for Pilgrims

A Travel Advisory for Pilgrims of Love in a Time of Terror
By Heather Murray Elkins

Pack only what you need and are willing to share.

Leave every weapon except Truth at the border.

When it comes to currency be wise.

Avoid gold

Carry copper instead

The guard dogs of Ceasar can't track its trace until it's too late.

Any penny is a common wealth, and two cents builds trust.

Every true sense of liberty (hammered by wisdom and wired with the Gospel)

Conducts electric vision

With malice toward none, charity toward all...

The hidden assets of the widow's might.

Pope pays tribute to Newman's contributions