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.