Mary and Joey?

This week my cousin, Eleanor, posted an absolute gem of a conversation to Facebook. The characters are Joey, her husband, and Nate, their four-and-a-half-year-old son.

Nate: Why were they talking about Joseph at pageant rehearsal?

Joey: Because Joseph was Jesus’s father.

Nate: YOU ARE?!?

Nate found this revelation surprising, but apparently believable, somewhere within the realm of possibility. For most of us, that realm of possibility shrinks as we grow up. Possibility becomes largely defined by the things we’ve learned and experienced. 

There are plenty of reasons why my cousin-in-law, Joey, couldn’t possibly be the father of Jesus. For starters, he goes by “Joey,” and that just doesn’t sound right for the father of Jesus. Mary and Joey?? No way. He was Joseph. Silly Nate.

After I had laughed long and hard over it, “liked it,” commented on it, and laughed about it some more, I was struck by the wisdom of Nate’s ignorance. The great mysteries of Christmas – the Virgin birth, the Incarnation – do not favor the advanced cognitive abilities of the adult brain.

The developing brain of the young child has the advantage on us here. Jesus really tries to tell us this. He comes to us as a baby. He says things like, “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)

We often forget Jesus’ message for the same reason that we need to remember it – it doesn’t make the most sense to our big adult brains. Fortunately, we have the little Nates of the world here to remind us.

Pointing

There is a Zen Buddhist saying, "Don't mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon."

John the Baptist is pointing so hard at Jesus.

"I am not the Messiah." It's not me.

"I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal." I'm just a pointing finger.

"I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord.'" Stop looking at me. Look towards him.

"Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" There he is! He's the One. Follow him.

In the Daily Office reading assigned from the Gospel of John (3:22-30), we see that John has had some success with his pointing. Many of his disciples have abandoned him and are now following Christ. John -- ecstatic -- cries, "My joy has been fulfilled." But his remaining followers are upset. They complain that "all are going to [Jesus]."

The success of John's ministry is measured by numbers. His most faithful disciples see failure in the diminishing numbers. John sees success. After all, his ministry is one of pointing, of teaching his disciples how to see and where to go. It is a testimony to his work that many recognize Christ and leave John's fold.

To those who remain with him, John pointedly reminds, "You yourselves are my witnesses that I said 'I am not the Messiah,'" and "He must increase, but I must decrease." It's still not me.

As so often happens with great teachers, preachers, and leaders, some followers fall in love with the message, while others fall in love with the messenger.

As I prepare yet again for the coming of Christ, this Gospel raises a troubling question. Which kind of follower am I?

John is pointing so hard. Will I see? Will I go?

Surprise

“Surprise!”

My brother, Jamie, and I shouted from the bench where we had been sitting, waiting for our mother to notice us there. She sat at a sidewalk table, six feet away, where she had come to meet a friend for coffee.

It was the day of her 60^th birthday. Jamie had flown in from New Mexico, where he was living, and I’d flown in from California, where my road trip of the American West had taken me. No one but our father – who’d orchestrated it all – expected to see us sitting on a bench in Northampton, Massachusetts.

“Surprise!” 

She turned toward us. Incomprehension turned to shock which morphed into terror. I’d never in my life seen a look anything like it. She was so surprised, she was scared. Reality unraveled in front of her. She would later explain that in that moment life became a dream. What she saw made no sense in the waking world. For one half second I truly thought that we’d caused her a heart attack.

The surprise was so great because our presence was not merely unexpected; it was impossible.

The news of Christmas is this kind of a surprise. Bearing the news to Mary, the Angel must assure her that “nothing will be impossible with God.” And in separate visitations to Mary, to Joseph, and to the shepherds, the message is the same: “Do not be afraid.”

Fear is not an emotion that I generally associate with Christmas, nor is surprise. There is a comfort in the sameness of Christmas from year to year – the same songs on the radio, same movies on the TV, same ornaments on the tree, same foods on the dinner table, same bodies around the table, and the same story told yet another time. 

The layers of tradition are so thick it can be difficult to remember how surprising the story itself is. And the more we try to capture that surprise – through retelling – the more familiar the story becomes. Part of Advent’s challenge is to listen again with new ears. 

Stay awake. Pay attention. Be open to surprise.

Hammers and Hearts

On Thursday, November 15 – two and a half weeks after Hurricane Sandy hit – a group of six young adults from St. Stephen's drove from Richmond to New York City to participate in the relief effort. We drove an SUV and a minivan, full of supplies donated by parishioners.

We spent our two days of Hurricane Sandy relief work in Brooklyn. The days were so different from each other. The work of gutting a flood-destroyed basement – pulling up carpet, tearing down drywall, shoveling mud – was so immediately satisfying. It was hard work physically, but the task was obvious. Step 1: put hammer in hand. Step 2: put hammer through wall. Step 3: repeat step 2.

At the end of the day, the results were strikingly visible. What remained of the basement were a bare concrete floor and a skeleton of studs. Outside, a bank of black trash bags – four feet high and running the length of the property – lined the curb and spilled onto the sidewalk. The family could finally hire an electrician, a plumber and an HVAC specialist, and begin the rebuilding. We’d done good work. It was, in Abigail Whorley’s words, “what we are called to do as neighbors.”

The other day was spent doing “what we are called to do as Christians” (again, Abigail’s words). There were no hammers. We came face-to-face and hands-to-hands with people. It wasn’t easy, wanting to help, not quite knowing what to do. Here we are. Now what?

In Coney Island, one block from the water, we brought warm food to a building of subsidized apartments for seniors. Most were first generation immigrants from Russia; a few had come from Latin America. We walked dark, prison-like hallways, pushing a cart. The doors were closed with more locks than I’d seen outside of a locksmith. In the cart, a white Styrofoam box kept the packages of lasagna warm. They looked and smelled like airplane dinners.

On the 14^th floor, we stood for a long while outside the first door, just looking at it, wondering who’d be on the other side, almost afraid to knock. In retrospect, it was the closest I’ve ever come to understanding the mission of the disciples as Jesus gave it to them: “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money – not even an extra tunic.” (Luke 9:3)

Abigail knocked. Though we had many things with us, including extra layers, I felt naked, as if I had absolutely nothing but the eyes in my face. I could almost feel them being probed and questioned by a stranger through the peephole. I wanted a hammer and a soft wall. Was it a coincidence that Jesus put down a hammer to take up his ministry?

Sometimes the door was opened to us. We were greeted by our long-lost Russian great aunt who hugged us, pinched our cheeks, and told us how beautiful we were. We were greeted by a coughing woman who took two lasagnas – one for herself and one for “her friend” – and closed the door quickly. We were greeted by many people who were so hungry to talk to us and who were happy to take some lasagna too.

Sometimes we heard footsteps but the door remained closed. Jesus tells his disciples to prepare for this, to not take it personally, and to not be deterred by it: “Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet.” (Luke 9: 5) Leave it behind and move on. Keep your heart open.

Finally, in another apartment building, we distributed the supplies that we’d brought from Richmond – toilet paper, personal care items, sponges, and cleaning agents. I fought through my rusty Spanish to understand a woman ask if we had anything fun for her grandkids. We did. Thanks to our 4^th/5^th grade Sunday school class, we had Ziploc bags packed with games, crayons, and toys. The woman laughed with joy and told her friend to bring one to her grandkids too. The toy bags ended up being the most popular thing, surpassing even potable water, at least in terms of excitement generated.

Toys. It was a poignant lesson that our call was not to save lives – none were in imminent danger anyhow – but to give and receive God’s love as freely as possible, in material and nonmaterial ways, for the benefit of all. And it was in showing up that we learned why we’d been called to show up.

Long-Expected

Last Sunday, the first of Advent, I was minding my own business, just belting out the opening hymn (“Come, thou long-expected Jesus”) and watching the procession file past me when a vision of purple tore my heart open.

It was the chasuble (the colorful, tablecloth-like garment worn by the celebrant). Such a deep, vibrant purple. I tried in vain to continue singing, but I was too choked up. 

I’d been moved by many aspects of Episcopal liturgy and worship, but never before by the vestments. Though I’m writing about it now, I really didn’t want anyone to notice that I was tearing up over a holy poncho. How could I possibly explain it?

It took me by great surprise because my brain had nothing to do with it. I felt the richness and the rightness of that purple in my body – a truly visceral reaction. After six months of green, green, and more green – purple! Ah, purple.

It was the final chord of a symphony or great choral work, that moment of resolution, when – after much wandering and teasing – the composer brings us home, back to the sound we’d almost forgotten we were expecting. 

Purple. Oh yes, I had been expecting you, hadn’t I? Long-expecting, in fact.

There is a wisdom and richness to the Episcopal tradition that becomes more and more apparent to me, and alive within me, with each passing year. It is a wisdom that cannot be taught or learned in Sunday school. It is a richness that accumulates over time, through repetition and prolonged exposure.

I hate to generalize, but we as a society love instant gratification, don’t we? We also, not coincidentally, love to quantify and count things, to measure results as scientifically as possible (to know whether or not we’ve been gratified). And we don’t always possess the patience or foresight to recognize that the fruit of our religious practice (and especially that of our children) is often “long-expected.”

I appreciate that many of you encourage, cajole, and perhaps force your children to come to church when their strong desire is to stay home or do something else. As an adult, I am deeply grateful for the gift that my parents gave me of the Church, of literacy in this beautiful tradition. I know that it must have caused suffering at times for them. And I know that I am richer for it. 

As I say thank you to my own parents, I say thank you also to all of you on behalf of your own children, who are at a different place in their faith journey. At this time of year, our tradition reminds us that patience is rewarded. I was able to really see the purple because I have seen so much green.

Christ the King Sunday

From birth until age twenty-four, 

I celebrated Thanksgiving in Saratoga Springs, NY

with my grandparents and the rest of my father's family.

The same from year to year to year,

it became ordinary, nearly boring.

The memories blur.

Light snow.

The smell of turkey.

The sounds of football.

Great Aunt Alice’s cackle.

After Eight mints.

Heavy eyelids.

Talk of the weather.

I come from a small family of sturdy stock.

For nearly twenty years, no one was born and no one died.

An illusion of eternity.

Thanksgivings processing by like floats in the Macy's parade.

And suddenly it was 2006.

Grandpa was 92 and had been battling pancreatic cancer since summer.

Grandma called to say that he might not be able to join us at the dinner table.

We arrived to find a hospice bed in the living room.

Grandpa couldn't reach the already used Kleenex 

that lay mere inches beyond his fingers.

And yet it was a surprisingly ordinary Thanksgiving.

We did what we knew.

Ate turkey.

Got drowsy.

Talked about the weather.

Grandma felt bad that she'd forgotten to call – 

had wanted to warn us about the freezing rain in the forecast.

It upset me for a long time – 

that no one had said anything,

that we'd had the most normal Thanksgiving while he died,

that we'd quietly listened to NPR on the drive home.

Much later it dawned on me

that I was upset with myself.

I'd been given eight years with a driver's license, a car, 

and a living grandfather,

and never once visited him without my family.

He'd never spoken a word that only I heard.

I'd never spoken a word that only he heard.

We'd never sat alone together, just two Michael E. Sweeneys.

I wasn't surprised by his death.

He was ninety-two with terminal cancer.

But I'd done precious little to prepare for it.

The church year mirrors our lives.

We spend much of it in Ordinary Time.

Sometimes it seems like it will never end.

Life will be normal forever.

No birth, no death, no re-birth.

Just the everyday miracles of fishes and loaves, water and wine.

Twenty-six weeks after Pentecost, 

today is the last Sunday of Ordinary Time.

Suddenly, Christ the King Sunday has arrived and Pilate is back,

asking questions that we know will lead to death on the cross.

Questions that have already led to death on the cross.

Time seems to collapse here.

Past, present, and future,

incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection

are all now.

When I was twenty-seven years into this life, grandma ninety-four, 

and grandpa three years into the next,

I finally started to visit Saratoga Springs on my own.

I discovered audio interviews and handwritten letters.

I heard his voice answer questions that I’d never thought to ask.

I saw words written by a young man serving his country and missing his wife.

Grandpa came to life in a new way,

giving me just a glimpse of the eternal kingdom

hidden inside this seemingly ordinary one.

I know how often I am like Pilate,

seeing merely the surface of things

and missing the Kingdom.

As we enter this time of deep darkness and dazzling lights,

as the surfaces of things become brighter and more adorned,

I pray that Christ’s words might cut through the noise:

“My Kingdom is not from here.”

Giving Thanks

On Sunday afternoon the youth of St. Stephen’s and St. Paul’s came together to play a game of Ultimate Frisbee and raise funds for Hurricane Sandy relief efforts.

We collected $261 in donations. It’s a modest contribution, perhaps, but every single one of those dollars matters. I can say that with the conviction of first-hand experience.

A few days earlier, I’d traveled to Brooklyn with a group of St. Stephen’s young adults to lend our aid to those in need. We delivered a van full of supplies – donated by parishioners – to an apartment building one block from the water on Coney Island. There, in an unoccupied apartment, we helped to set up and staff a distribution site.

As we carried armfuls of toilet paper and paper towels from van to apartment building, passersby pushing empty carts eyed our donations with great interest. We were truly worried that the van would be broken into for toilet paper.

Each and every one of those $261 might buy two rolls of toilet paper. Or perhaps buy the gas necessary to deliver them. Three weeks after the storm hit, devastated stores are nowhere close to reopening. Rebuilding will take months or years.

Many thousands are still without heat. What will their Thanksgivings be like, I wonder? Can you comfortably fall asleep on the couch if it’s not a few degrees too warm in the house?

To suggest that I should count my blessings this Thanksgiving feels trite. Shouldn’t I do more than that? True gratitude leads not merely to contentment, but to action.

I have so much. How do I share my abundance?

Losing Things

I spent this past weekend at Shrine Mont with 6^th and 7^th graders from St. Stephen’s and all corners of the Diocese.

While there, I received news that my car had been broken into and a number of things stolen – iPod, GPS, stereo, and a bag full of pennies.

I got the upsetting call on Sunday morning, moments before our worship service. Despite my agitation, I heard some of the Gospel. A poor widow contributes to the treasury “two small copper coins” – the beginning and end of her earthly wealth.

I’m not entirely sure what this Gospel is trying to tell me. But I do hear it differently after Sunday. How difficult it was to be present that morning! I was busy counting the coins I’d lost, mourning their loss, and – most importantly – hatching plans to reacquire them.

How much value had been stolen? What would insurance cover? Should I file a claim? Or would that raise my premiums and ultimately cost me more? Did the thief find my secret stash of quarters? Should I ask for a new iPod for Christmas or just get one right away?

The loss was inconvenient. And aggravating. But was it really even a loss? It is now Tuesday afternoon and I’ve already had the stereo replaced. I got a better one. What kind of loss is that?

From where I sit today, this Gospel is not about being rich or about being poor or even about being generous. It’s about being able to let go. Having no plan or means to replace her coins, still the widow gives them away.

Her loss is real.

Our Christian faith tells about loss. In the Eucharistic prayer, “we remember Christ’s death.” Loss is real. In the same breath, “we proclaim his resurrection.” Loss is not absolute.

This is a story about trust. Do I really trust in God’s promise of resurrection? Or am I putting some coins in God’s treasury while I work on my own plan?

Serving Dinner

On Sunday, 20 of our middle school youth helped to prepare and serve dinner to our guests from CARITAS (a traveling homeless shelter that St. Stephen’s hosts one week each year). Afterwards, we sat down to talk about it.

Helping folks who are in need is important work, but not necessarily religious work, right? How does hosting CARITAS connect with our faith? I asked the kids to think of a story they’d heard in church that might connect the two.

How do you think they answered?

How would you answer? Is there a Gospel story that comes to mind when you think of housing and feeding a group of strangers from the other side of town?

A girl raised her hand and suggested a well-known parable found only in the Gospel of Luke (10:25-37). A chorus of voices told the story:

“There’s a guy lying by the side of the road…”

“Yeah, and someone comes along and helps him…”

“A Samaritan!”

“Oh, and he was beaten up and robbed! That’s why he was lying there…”

“Didn’t some people walk past him and not help?”

Yes, some people did walk past. A priest and a Levite each saw the dying man and “passed by on the other side.”

With this parable Jesus illustrates what love for one’s neighbor looks like. At its core, it is Jesus’ answer to the question “what must I do to be a Christian?”

As Christians, we are called to stop and help. Like the priest and the Levite, we have plenty of reasons not to. We are busy. Furthermore, we are very busy.

I like to imagine the priest and the Levite – holy men both – on their respective ways to religious observances. Each is running late. I imagine them reaching their places of worship, each saying a prayer for the dying man, entrusting him to God’s love and care.

The Samaritan, meanwhile, IS God’s love and care. Listening to our youth tell this story on Sunday evening was moving. Watching them live it, even more so. 

The Off Switch

Over a soup and salad dinner at church last night (Sunday the 28th), talk inevitably turned to Hurricane Sandy. There was a certain excitement in the air. While no one wished for injury to person or property, many at my table seemed hopeful that Sandy would interrupt our lives.

Losing power would be inconvenient, but it would offer freedom, too. Freedom from screens of all sorts. If the outage were to last long enough, batteries would deplete. We'd be free even of our iPads, iPods, and iPhones.

I don't have to wait for storm winds to turn the power off. My toys have switches. But how often do I use them?

My iPhone is my alarm clock. It rests on an upper corner of my bed. There, the "Sleep Cycle" app can register movements in the mattress and determine how deeply I'm sleeping. Because it wakes me only from light sleep, I always arise refreshed and energized. (Actual results may vary.) 

The drawback, of course, is that I sleep with my phone.

Last week I was startled awake in the early dawn hours by a robot voice-message from US Airways, telling me that my flight was delayed by two hours, but that I should arrive at the gate on time, just in case. Thanks, US Air.

I suppose that I asked for it. Even in my bed, even soundly asleep, I am not out of reach. 

I can't wait to get back to Shrine Mont on November 9. Going to camp is a bit like hitting the off switch. Sure, there's electricity, but the cell phone signal is abysmal, and the screens stay at home.

The result is my romanticized storm dream. There's nothing left to do but be together -- sing songs, play games, and tell stories. I urge parents of 6th and 7th graders: consider giving your child this gift next week.

The Outsider

I recently joined an adult rec basketball league in Richmond. I joined as a "free agent" because I'm new to the city and don't have enough (any?) basketball-playing friends to start a team.

Let me take you courtside for the start of the first game...

Team One is a group of Caucasian men, between the ages of 35 and 50, ranging in physical conditions from "great for his age" to "if he were married, his wife probably wouldn't let him eat so many potato chips."

Team Two is a group of African-American men, between the ages of 18 and 25, ranging in physical conditions from "great for any age" to "making him wear a shirt is like throwing a tarp over Michelangelo's David."

The guys on Team Two are warming up by lobbing alley-oop passes and dunking them home with graceful, well-timed leaps. The guys on Team One are warming up their jump shots, one of which is easily the ugliest I've ever seen -- the basketball leaving the man's hands with equal parts reluctance and desperation, like a baby entering the world in a slow hurry.

Everything about me -- age, race, skill, physical condition, and the canvas tote bag slung over my shoulder -- screams Team One.

I have been assigned, however, to Team Two.

Team Two is populated with nice guys, who shake my hand and tell me their names. They say I should sub myself in. I try it once, but no one will leave the game. I watch all but five minutes from the bench, rooting for a team that doesn't really want me.

Amazingly, Team One wins by one point in overtime. Players from both teams slap my hand, and we all go home.

Questions come with me. When did I last felt like such an outsider? What is there to learn in this discomfort? Am I too comfortable most of the time? Do I welcome those who are different from me?

I think that they are important questions for me to ask myself as a Christian. How we treat outsiders -- lepers, prostitutes, Samaritans, and tax collectors -- is a central concern of the Gospels. To the righteous, Christ says, "I was a stranger and you welcomed me." (Matthew 25:35)

This is not a history lesson. You and I are not off the hook because we don't know any Samaritans. What strangers are we called to welcome?

Reflection on Mark 10:35-45

“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left.”

James and John make a big ask of Jesus.

I have a hard time relating to them in this moment.

I’ve never been so bold, never been so self-assured.

I rarely ask a big favor, rarely make a big request.

I can relate to doing a thing for the wrong reasons.

I have struggled at times with ulterior motives and self-serving interests.

And I can imagine the appeal of Jesus’ power and popularity, 
the desire to be close to him
and to benefit personally from that relationship.

I once met an especially charismatic teacher. 

“Charismatic” in the true sense of the word – not merely engaging –
but spiritually gifted in an especially obvious way.

After studying with Jeff for a brief period of time, 
I signed up for a ten day pilgrimage in Peru, 
where we would hike high into the Andes 
to pray and seek union with God.

Ten whole days!

Surely in ten days I would get it.

Whatever he had – wisdom, gifts, power – 
it would be transferred to me as we rubbed elbows.

Of course, I didn’t know that I thought these things.

Didn’t know until afterwards,
or maybe somewhere in the middle. 

This made the trip a terrific disappointment.

I was disappointed that I had to share Jeff with eleven other students.
(Yes, there were really twelve of us.)

I was disappointed that he didn’t show me any special attention.

I was disappointed in his lack of discernment as a teacher, 
that he didn't recognize my superiority over the other students,

the ones who lived behind their cameras like tourists.

The disappointment I felt was an arrow,
pointing in the direction of my hidden motives.

I wanted the seat of honor.

I never asked for anything or drew any attention to myself.

I just thought Jeff would figure it out.  
He was supernaturally intuitive, after all.

I was not James or John with their big mouths.

I was the other ten, my silent resentment building towards anger.

I wanted Jeff to give me something that wasn’t his to give.

Jeff is not Jesus.
And Jesus tells us that even he cannot guarantee the reward we seek.  
It is not his to give.

What we are guaranteed is work and suffering – the cup and the baptism.

We are reminded that life is gained only by giving it away in selfless service.

Martin Luther King, Jr. – on the eve of his assassination –
gave a great speech in Memphis. He said, 

“Like anybody, I would like to live a long life.  
Longevity has its place.  
But I’m not concerned about that now. 
I just want to do God’s will.”

If I look honestly at myself, I see
how often I am more concerned about my own life than about God’s will,

how often I ask what’s in it for me, where do I get to sit,

how often I feel angry and resentful when I don’t like what’s in it for me.

My hope and prayer is that Christ
show me the same loving patience he shows his disciples,

revealing to me the truth about myself in doses that I can bear,

guiding me away from self-interest,
(by its painful rewards of disappointment and anger)
leading me toward the path of self-giving,

the path of service, the path of love, the path of Life.

Thrills

A group of twenty-seven youth and five adults traveled from St. Stephen's to Busch Gardens last Sunday. Most of the kids (and two brave adults) rode a rollercoaster called "Griffon." The cars are 10 seats wide and only three rows deep, so it looks a bit like a section of a movie theater flying through the sky.

Griffon's steepest descent covers 205 feet, straight down. At the top, the car brakes for six seconds, holding the riders suspended at a 90-degree angle, over the abyss. Then the brakes release and the car hits 70 miles per hour as it falls in a vertical line towards the earth.

Most of the kids thought that looked thrilling enough, but one boy - a slight sixth grader with an insatiable appetite for adrenaline - decided that he'd wait in a line four times longer to get a front row seat on Griffon.

I guess Sam wanted to be right on the very edge. Clearly he's not alone. After all, the front row line was four times longer. And at the same moment, on the edge of space, a man named Felix Baumgartner was preparing to break the speed of sound in a twenty-four mile free fall to Earth. (On a related note, how do you prepare for that? A couple of deep breaths?)

Meanwhile, back at Busch Gardens, Sam was tiring of the rollercoasters. So he, another boy, and I went on the "Rhine River Cruise." The antithesis of Griffon, it's a ride so relaxing it borders on boring (even by my standards). If the boat went any slower, you'd be tempted to help paddle.

When Sam noticed a turtle - sunning itself on a nearby log - his excitement, his shriek of joy, exceeded anything I'd witnessed all day. It was as if he'd just seen the earth from space.

Even as we humans make astounding advances in the field of self-induced adrenaline rushes, God's technology still manages to keep pace. While the world held its breath for Felix's four-minute free fall, Sam marveled at the simple, surprising appearance of a turtle.

Room to Grow

Now Lot, who went with Abram, also had flocks and herds and tents, so that the land could not support both of them living together; for their possessions were so great that they could not live together. 

– Genesis 13:5-6

On my first reading of this verse, I saw Abram choosing his possessions over his brother. After all, were it not for their material abundance, Abram and Lot could have lived together in the same land, right? Was Abram really putting his brother first by giving him first choice of the lands? Wasn’t he putting his wealth first?

As I struggled with this apparent greed and selfishness, a friend helped me to take a wider view of Abram and Lot’s “possessions” – to see not only their material wealth, but also their gifts of the Spirit. For the brothers to grow into their own unique gifts, they needed the space that we all require to discover our identities as individuals. 

Clinging to a peer group offers perceived safety and comfort, but it can also stifle growth and self-discovery. I once took a large group to a weekend youth event. They were thick as thieves, and they had a lot of fun. They didn’t seem to care too much what anyone else thought of them. They had their own esteem, and they had safety in numbers.

On Sunday morning, the homily was interactive. Youth were invited to reflect on the reading from scripture. Many young people participated, and it was quite moving. They mostly avoided generalities and vagaries, and took the risk of sharing from their lives – real questions and personal connections. But not one child in my group shared.

I think that they were afraid, afraid of what others would think of them. And it wasn’t the judgment of strangers that silenced them; it was the judgment of friends. When we surround ourselves too tightly with people we want to be like and people who want to be like us (as we are right now), it is difficult to be different than the person we’ve been in the past, to change and grow and become the individuals that God calls us to be.

Growing up, I wanted to be like Nick. We were friends – sort of. He didn’t want to be like me, so I tried hard to be more like him and less like myself. I clearly remember the evening in 8^th grade when I broke down and realized it wasn’t worth it. I let Nick go his own way. The feeling of freedom was intense. Space to be myself. It must have been a similar feeling when Abram surveyed the land before him and realized how vast it was.

At the moment that Abram and Lot separate, God rewards Abram, promising that his offspring will be as numerous as the dust of the earth, and that his descendants will inhabit the land as far as his eyes can see. 

The 8th Grade Dance

I've just returned from a weekend at Shrine Mont with seventy-some 8th graders from St. Stephen's and other parishes in the Diocese. 

For many kids, the highlight was the dance. That may not come as a shock. Perhaps a bit more surprising is that it was a highlight for me, too.

It was not the 8th grade dance that I remember -- gender-segregated circles, tightly sealed against intrusion, with outsiders clinging to the walls as if they were life-saving flotation devices. PYM* youth leaders helped set the tone by dancing with abandon, for no other reason than the joy of it. And the joy was contagious. 

For a few minutes, I just watched and grinned. Witnessing such exuberance and playfulness was like being in the presence of an infant, of life lived completely in the moment. After trying to play it cool with some foot tapping, I couldn't help but dance too.

I was similarly moved by the walking of the labyrinth. On the surface, these two activities present quite a contrast. The silent, measured steps of the labyrinth walk...the deafening chaos of the dance: the sacred and the profane. 

We walked as a prayer and danced as a party, and yet I can't help seeing a connection between the two. Both called us out of our heads, down into our bodies and feet, bringing us closer to life, closer to God. 

On Sunday morning, as we celebrated the Eucharist and our weekend together, how fitting it was to hear Jesus remind us, "Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it."

*PYM stands for Parish Youth Ministries; this committee composed of youth from throughout the Diocese of Virginia.

Irony

Wednesday morning I was to give a reflection at St. Catherine's morning chapel service. It was a little talk about love, and how -- in order to love -- we need to get off of our to- do lists, forget our agendas, and make ourselves present.

Well, then Wednesday morning happened. I just needed to print the thing. I was running five minutes late when I got to St. Stephen's. I loaded the document and hit print. I walked to the copier room. Nothing. I walked briskly back to my office.

I hit print again, just in case that was the problem. I took a light jog to the copier room. Nothing. I ran back to my office.

I hit print again because I didn't know what else to do. I sprinted to the copier room, my shoes clicking and clacking. Turning into the hallway, I saw a woman -- who had been vacuuming -- plastered against the wall. She'd heard me coming. "Oh my," she exclaimed, "We're in a hurry this morning!"

Yes, I was. In the copier room, I stood looking at the print status: "Waiting." I challenged it to change.  The copier needed to warm up. I didn't have time for it to warm up. I stared at the thing so hard. I twitched a little bit.

Print!

PRINT!

I was suddenly struck by my hypocrisy and by the humor of the situation. I saw myself, laughed a little, and walked away from the copier.

Without my carefully prepared script, I gave a different talk, one about a youth minister who rushes around, wildly preparing to preach on the importance of slowing down and being present. And it went well, not because of anything I'd done, but because God had given me a gift more powerful than preparation. Presence.  

The To-Be List

‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’  

- Matthew 23:37-39

No matter how much I get done, it seems that there will always be things left undone.  Those words – left undone – are part of a prayer of confession in the Book of Common Prayer. We say, “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.” In another version of the confession, we say, “things done and left undone.”

When I was a teenager and I first began to really hear the words that I prayed, I thought that things left undone meant stuff like...
                        Studying for the test
                        Practicing the piano
                        Stretching properly after cross country practice
                        Feeding the gerbils
                        Doing my homework
                        Writing thank you notes
                        Cleaning my room

When I spoke those words in church each Sunday – “what we have left undone” – those are the things that filled my mind and made me feel like a less than entirely good person.  I rarely wrote Christmas thank you notes before Easter. I used the excuse that I’d wait until after my birthday (January 6^th) and then combine the two. That just made the task twice as large and made me feel doubly guilty for avoiding it. 

I can yet remember the feeling of walking to my piano lesson after another week of not much practice. It’s the feeling of dread that I have in a recurring dream where I’m a college student again and it’s finals week and I suddenly remember a class I signed up for that I haven’t ever attended.

The gerbils I feel genuinely terrible about. I’m quite sure that two gerbils died thanks to my negligence. That’s an awful feeling, to know that two animals starved to death because of me. So I’m not saying that doing things doesn’t matter. It does. But I’m not sure that my mental to-do list helps. So you understand what I mean, my mental to-do list isn’t really about doing things, it’s about wanting to have them done, so I can feel better about having done them, if that makes sense. 

Feeding the gerbils was on my mental to-do list for years – long after they were gone and the point had become moot. My mental to-do list helps me to worry, it helps me to feel guilty, it helps me to feel hopelessly busy, but it rarely actually helps me to do things. Had I instead, simply paid attention to my pets, I never would have needed to remember to feed them because I never would have forgotten to feed them in the first place.

_____________________

Now I hear the words that come after “what we have left undone”: “We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” They are the words we heard this morning from the Gospel of Matthew – the Great Commandment.

“We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” It dawned on me recently (and quite belatedly I suppose) that this sentence is not the start of a new idea. It is a list of the things left undone. And they aren’t really things at all – not in the way I usually think of things. It’s not writing thank you letters. It’s not practicing the piano. It’s not even feeding the gerbils. Feeding pets is important, but hopefully it’s something that we do out of the love that we feel for them, not out of guilt, shame, or mere obligation. In my experience – and the experience of those poor gerbils – a to-do list is not nearly the motivator that love is.

There are so many things left undone every single day, right? That’s not just me, is it? Chasing that to-do list is tempting. And doing things is satisfying. Getting things done is satisfying. In my family – and maybe in some of yours – when someone comes back from shopping, we ask “how’d it go?” And if it went well, the answer is “it was a productive outing”. A productive outing. I bought a lot of stuff. I got things done.

The danger for me is getting stuck on the to-do list. Getting stuck rushing around. I’ve worked many summers up in Maine, at the camp of the Episcopal Diocese up there. Most days we work from 8 a.m. until 11 p.m. It’s hard to turn off the busyness. In the morning I’d be in the great hall, getting ready for the day, and I’d bump into one of the directors. It would go something like this. I’d say, “Sara, I’m looking for the blindfolds. The purple and green lycra ones. I know that Katherine was using them yesterday at camp craft and they’re not back in the resource room. Do you think she washed them or… oh, I mean good morning, Sara.” 

Good morning. 

It’s 7:30. I’ve already had a cup of coffee. I’m already running around. Already getting stuff done. I’m on my never-ending to-do list, not on God’s much, much shorter list: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

That’s it. That's the list.

At the end of the day, God isn’t going to call me to account for the lycra blindfolds. Did I love today?  What if we replaced the words “by what we have done, and by what we have left undone” with “by who we’ve been, and by who we’ve failed to be.” Sure, there are actions that demonstrate love, but love is more about being than doing.

So maybe what I need is a to-be list. It could be pretty short I think. It wouldn’t replace the to-do list, but it would put the to-do list in its place. 

What’s on the to-be list? Love. Loving God. Loving my neighbors. Love.

Breathing While Running

My high school cross-country coach was not a runner. He was a sixty-something, cigarette-smoking man with a body that closely resembled a prune held up by two toothpicks.

 Each fall, on the first day of practice, he'd explain about muscles. "Some of you have more fast-twitch muscles, and some of you have more slow-twitch muscles." Then, in a voice as dry as ash, he'd add, "As you can see, I have only no-twitch muscles."

 It was ironic, I suppose, a nearly immobile running coach. His age and condition, though, served him -- and us -- well. Mr. Brush was not coaching because of a need for competition. He wasn't there to build his resume. And it surely wasn't about keeping himself in shape. It was about us.

 Mr. Brush taught me how to run and breathe at the same time. "Focus on the exhale," he said. "Push that dead air out. Your body will remember to inhale on its own."

 I don't run as much as I used to, but the advice remains useful. God the Holy Spirit -- like the breath it is so often compared to -- fills us quite effortlessly when we make the space. But when our days become 5k races, over hill and dale, around roots and rocks, we leave little room for that capital "I," Inspiration. Sometimes, on those days, the image will come to my mind of a loving little prune of a man, barking "Breathe out! Breathe out!"

Two or Three

For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them. - Matthew 18:20

It's a verse that I've often heard spoken in the defense of a small group of people who wished it were larger. "Hey, if two or three is good enough for Jesus, then it's good enough for our youth group!"

Since I've almost always heard these words of Christ employed as a minimum - a self-justifying quota - I've always thought of them that way. We need at least two or three. And more is better, obviously.

Only recently did I notice that there is no "at least." Christ says "two or three." Period.

In fact, taken in context, it's pretty clear he's saying that the task he is describing -- confronting a member of the church who has acted inappropriately -- will be most inviting of God's presence if undertaken by two or three, not the entire body of the 9:00 a.m. service. Imagine those two scenarios.

Crowds are terrific for kickball and capture the flag. They can enhance a worship experience. I hope that we will have large groups this year for Sunday School and youth group and special events like our October 14 trip to Busch Gardens.

However, I also want to be sure that there are times and places for small groups of youth to gather. Because there is no "at least." Jesus promises his presence in a special way to gatherings of two or three. You probably know this from experience, from a conversation that connected you more deeply to another person and to God.

So introduce yourself to somebody new. Strike up a conversation. Start building a new relationship. Jesus himself tells us where he can be found; let's remember to look there.

Re-Potting

I spent a good chunk of my day off this week re-potting house plants. It's one of my favorite things to do that someone else might consider work.

Re-potting a plant whose roots have outgrown its old home is usually good for the plant. But that doesn't mean the plant likes it. Who enjoys being forcibly uprooted? My peace lily, in particular, appears to be sulking in its beautiful new pot.

I'll have dirt under my fingernails for weeks, and what do I have to show for it? A house full of upset plants, whose sagging bodies seem to moan, "Why, Michael, why? Couldn't you just leave us alone?"

I can relate to my plants. I rarely ask to be removed from patterns and places of comfort. When I'm forced away from them, I whine. I'm reminded of the Israelites in the wilderness, complaining that they'd just as soon have died in Egypt as well-fed slaves than starve to death in freedom.

As we begin a new school year, we are certain to face new challenges. The unexpected will arrive, turn us upside down, and shake us free of our old "pots" - the ideas and things that we've been holding so tightly. Yet, by the time you read this, my peace lily will be flourishing again, growing deeper, taller, and stronger. And, by God's grace, we will do the same.

Escaping the Crowds

When I think of summer, the first image that comes to mind is the cover of The Days Are Just Packed -- a collection of Calvin & Hobbes comic strips. In the golden glow of late afternoon, the boy and his tiger lounge in a tree. Hobbes stretches out lazily along the branch, and Calvin leans against him, holding a water balloon. With wide smiles and closed eyes, they've spent the whole day up in that tree, just hanging out and hoping that someone would walk underneath them.

I don't know how you all spent your summers. I know I didn't spend a single day in a tree. I was working pretty hard at Camp Bishopswood. But I did begin almost every day sitting quietly by the shore of the lake, watching the sun rise on a glorious Maine morning, the light glittering like jewels on the surface and gliding like waves of fire along the bottom.

For many of you, and myself certainly included, summer already feels like a distant memory. The days are getting shorter, and we are getting busier. If the days of summer were packed, these days are bursting at their seams and spilling over into the nighttime. One of my enduring memories of high school is waking up in the middle of the night, the light still on and my face resting on a glossy pillow of textbook pages. Perhaps you've been there.

My Facebook feed recently provided me with a gem of wisdom, a Zen saying that a friend had posted. It read, "You should sit in meditation for twenty minutes a day, unless you're too busy; then you should sit for an hour." For me, it was an important reminder that the busier I am, the more important it is that I make time to be still, to pray, to retreat from the busyness of the world. In the Gospels, Jesus is forever escaping crowds and taking breaks from his important work (sure puts my day-to-day in perspective) to reconnect with God.

In the summer, your place of retreat and connection to God might have been up a tree or beside a lake. In the fall, I hope that many of you will find that special place at St. Stephen's.