A second look at the Second Coming

I was about eight years old when I first contemplated the end of the world.  My neighbor, who must’ve been hanging out with some evangelical, apocalyptic types, informed me about it.  We were having a remarkably cool summer, and she said, “You know, they say that when summer becomes winter and winter becomes summer, it’s the End Times.  The world may be going to end soon.”  I thought, “Boy, I hope it doesn’t end before I get to go to Sea World.  I really, really want to go to Sea World next week.”  Lucky for me, I did manage to go Sea World before the Rapture.  Since then, I have approached any message of the apocalypse with the same attitude, “I sure hope it doesn’t happen until… because I’ve got things to do.”

To most rational people, contemplating the end of the world seems pretty crazy.  Most Christians don’t mention it very much.  But some people seem to long for it and proclaim its coming with glee.  They give off a sense of triumphalism, as if they know the rules, they know the score, and they’ve got the big win all sewn up in their secure package of faith.  They are the kind of people who purchase billboard ads with a certain date for the Rapture, and stand on street corners proclaiming that passersby need to be saved, because the End is Near.  They terrify me.  I can’t understand someone who looks forward to his fellow humans being “left behind”, or rubs his hands with satisfaction at the idea of his enemies getting what’s coming to them.

Although it terrifies me, I cannot totally ignore the end of times message that accompanies Advent.  While we await the coming of our savior as an adorable little baby, born in a picturesque stable, with a beautiful mother, we hear dire predictions of the end of the world.  The Lord will return, “like a thief in the night” and we need to be ready, to be awake.  What am I to make of these things? Just because something makes me uncomfortable and raises questions does not mean it isn’t valid and worthy of examination.  My priest tells me that all good theology raises more questions than answers, anyway.  So what am I to make of all the scary predictions in the sacred scriptures?

Recently, I’ve given the Second Coming a second thought.  N.T. Wright’s book, Surprised by Hope, brought me face to face with the predicted end of the world.  Knowing Wright’s other books, I was expecting some biblical criticism and some orthodox theology.  Wright did not disappoint, although he definitely gave me pause.  He didn’t focus on hellfire and damnation; he proclaimed the advent of the kingdom of God on earth with anticipation.  After all, if God is good and we love God, then God loves the good things, too.  To my ears, Wright made God sound like a supernatural social worker, who will remedy all ills, lift up the lowly, bring low the high-and-mighty, exalt the humble and humble the exalted.  From Wright, I find a new outlook on the return of our Lord.  Rather than finding a Jesus who takes his friends, the “right people” up to heaven, and leaves all the rest, I find a Jesus who returns to the world, to get to work, to get his hands dirty here, on the ground.  He says that those who proclaim, “Thy Kingdom come…” should be ready to get our hands dirty, too.  We’ve got things to do.

Wright tells us to get to work preparing the way of the kingdom.  Rather than waiting for God to end the world and punish the wicked, we should be helping the downtrodden, caring for the needy, and building up the Kingdom here on earth.  We should be practicing living in love, so when love embodied comes to earth, we will be ready.  Wright says, “When the church is seen to move straight from worship of the God we see in Jesus to making a difference and effecting much-needed change in the real world, when it becomes clear that the people who feast at Jesus’s table are the ones in the forefront of the work to eliminate hunger and famine;... when the church is living out the kingdome of God, the word of God will spread powerfully and do its own work.” (267)

I cannot pretend to understand or to predict the coming of the Kingdom.  To be honest, it still seems a little crazy.  It's crazy to consider that the Light of the World would appear as a poor, helpless baby in a backwater town in occupied Israel.  It is surely crazy to realize that he allowed mankind to crucify him as a criminal.  It is most certainly crazy to believe that he would rise again, defeat death, and bring to earth a new kingdom.  Crazy, but so compelling, and true.  The God of Jesus Christ could not be kept out of this broken world.  He cannot be kept out of Christmas, out of the shopping mall, out of the schools, or out of our hearts. He cannot be kept out and we cannot know when he might return at all.  We can only continue in compassion, in justice, and in love, because no matter what, we’ve got things to do.

Wright, N.T. (2008).  Surprised by Hope:  Rethinking heaven, the resurrection, and the mission of the church.  New York, NY:  Harper Collins.

Origin Story: On the Bathroom Floor

 At times, I wonder if I’m qualified to be a Christian writer.  I have no moments of addiction, no near-death crises, no dramatic rescues to form my origin story.  The story of my origin as a Christian is a little more ordinary.  My childhood church planted the seeds of faith, deep within me, in the stories and songs I learned in Sunday School and children’s choir.  Church was a close part of my life, a part of my cultural and ethnic identity as a German-American Mennonite.  So much a part of my life, that after my baptism at fourteen, I walked out of church and didn’t return for about fifteen years.  It was as if I checked that box off my list and went out to explore the rest of the world.

Exploring atheism, Taoism, Buddhism, and Unitarianism left me with a rich and varied theology.  I had the pervasive idea that if I was a good enough person, if I meditated better, if I subdued my ego, if I participated in social justice, recycled, voted for the right candidates and ate local-sustainable food, then I would be at peace.  My Christian upbringing taught me values and gave me sacred stories, but all that sin and redemption stuff didn’t matter to me.  After all, I was a good person; I sent money to Free Tibet and Heifer International.  I didn’t need to be saved.  Don’t get me wrong, I liked Jesus and all, but I didn’t need him to save me.  I had that covered; I was getting pretty good at yoga and I could chant the Jewel is on the Lotus.  I was doing just fine--well enough.

Until the day that I wasn’t good enough.   Until the day when I collapsed on my bathroom floor in tears, paralyzed by guilt and anxiety.  There was no near-death crisis here, merely an ordinary crisis of spirit, a beginning-life-crisis, if you will.  Grieving the loss of my beloved father, contemplating a risky change of career, desperate and terrified to become a mother, I had made some poor decisions.  I failed to love my neighbor (and my loved ones) as myself; I failed to love myself.  I had been brought low time and time again, only to promise to myself and my vague idea of God , “I will do better next time.  I will try more.  I will fix myself.”    Again and again, I promised myself and my God.  No matter how much I tried, I just wasn’t good enough.

In a moment of desperation, I said out loud, “I am NOT good enough.  Do you still love me?”  Ostensibly, I was speaking to my husband, but really I was crying out to myself and to my God.  The answer, to my shock, was “YES!”  Brought to my knees by my striving and my failures, I died to my ego and surrendered to the love of God in Christ.  I didn’t realize at the time that it was Jesus who answered me, but I knew I was loved, particularly, unequivocally, unreservedly.  In the midst of my ordinary sins of omission, the little lies I told myself and others, the posturing, the playing the victim, the gossiping, the every-day sins of life while I was trying to be “good”, I was LOVED!  I felt it, palpably, like a cool cloth on my heated brow, like a hand to lift me up, like a rock under my feet.

The love of Christ gave me the strength to climb up from my knees and back into my life.  The love of Christ allowed me to rest, to stop striving, and to start living, not to “be good” but to do good in the world.  Knowing I was already loved and saved, with all my sins upon me, changed me.  The peace I’d longed for came in drops of water, flowing into a stream, and building to a loving ocean.  I could live a little more honestly, speak a little more kindly, act a little more lovingly, because I was a person already resting in love.

I had missed the main point of the lesson.  I had rejected the idea that Jesus had to “fix me”, because I was sure I could take care of myself.  I missed the whole thing; that Jesus was the love that sustained me, no matter what may come or how I sinned.  I didn’t have to do anything special to find Christ, because he was always waiting for me.  I didn’t have to “take Jesus into my heart” because he was already there, just waiting for to quit doing things and to notice him. As Robert Farrar Capon says,  I didn’t have to plug in to Jesus, because he is The Light of the World, not the Lighting Company.  I just had to open up my eyes and see.

Baby JEEEsus

I don’t think that much about baby Jesus, certainly not outside of Christmas.  I like babies just fine, but it isn’t the image of the virgin birth or a baby born in a manger that brought me back to Christianity.  I came back to church during Lent; the heartbreak and healing of Good Friday and Easter brought me home all over again.  Don’t get me wrong, Christmas is great, but that's not the image I turn to in moments of trouble.

    Most of the time when people talk of Baby Jesus, I think of the immortal Ricky Bobby, of Talladega Nights, praying over a dinner of KFC and Pizza Hut to “Baby Jesus, lying in your crib, can’t even talk yet, watching your Baby Einstein DVDs, thank you for my smoking hot wife”.   Baby JEEEsus is a punchline.  I love Christmas songs and I love babies, but the God in my prayers is an adult God.

    Recently, I saw  Baby Jesus in a different light.  Perhaps the familiar story had lost it wonder--as often happens to an adult come home to the faith of her fathers.  Perhaps, as a mother of two little girls, I saw it a new perspective.  For some reason, the incarnation of God as a helpless human baby took on a new meaning suddenly.  

    No one understands the helplessness of a baby more than a new mother.  I remember holding my babies so tenderly, so carefully, so tightly, while occasional thoughts of danger and destruction flashed through my mind.  “What if I dropped her?  What if I fell down holding her?  What if the car crashed?  What if she slipped under the water in the bathtub?”  Those moments only lasted a split second; I chocked them up to new mother’s anxiety and appreciated how they made me more vigilant.  So, what does it mean that God willingly takes on that type of helplessness?  What does it mean that God allows himself to be cared for by a regular, low-class Jewish woman with a carpenter husband and a baby that isn’t his?  God sure must trust people a whole lot.

    As children grow, it’s not just the physical world that terrifies mothers.  I hope and pray that I’m making the right decisions raising my girls.  I want them to respect me, to obey me when their safety is on the line, to feel secure in their own persons, to feel loved and accepted, to test their abilities, to persevere through hardship.  I want to help them learn discipline and compassion.  I want them to know the love of a mother, so they can love others.  I want to love them into being the people they were born to be.  Some regular, low-class Jewish woman with a carpenter husband prayed for the same things for her son.  Some mother loved him into being who he became.

    Suddenly, it hit me.  The incarnation isn’t just God deigning to become human in order to teach us and to love us.  Yes, Jesus did teach us and he did love us.  But before he could do that, he was taught and he was loved--by us.  God loved the world so much that he gave his only son (John 3:16).  And someone loved that only son so much that he grew up to become all he should have been--God in flesh.  God trusted humans so much that he let us shape him, just a little bit, let us teach him how to walk, to talk, to read.  He trusted humans enough to let them love him into being one.  I know lots of people and I’m not sure I trust any of them that much.  People are pretty rotten, selfish, lazy, and annoying.  Who in his right mind would lay his life in the likes of those?  Once, again I am wrong.  That little baby trusted his parents to raise him into a man; I need to trust my fellow man to life up to his potential, too.  God loved us into being, and then he gave us the supreme gift of allowing us to love God into being, too.

    That my friends is why, this year, I, too, will pray to “Little Baby Jesus”.

Seeds and Sparks

Sometimes understanding grows like a plant, nurtured from a tiny seed.  Sometimes it lights up like a sudden spark, giving heat and light to those around it.  Healthy environments allow for both types of learning to occur.  I am an especially lucky church member, because I can experience Christian formation at St. Ignatius on many levels.  I can assist in the primary Sunday School class, where the teachers inspire the children with Bible stories of God’s work in the world.  I can volunteer with Vacation Bible School, where we bring sacred stories from the Bible and children’s literature to life.  I can explore the Episcopal faith with our confirmation class, and I can examine the mystery of God’s action in our lives in adult study.  I can observe many stages of the growth process, as we plant the seeds of faith, tend them, and harvest the fruit they bring.

Recently, a conversation in our adult study class illustrated perfectly why I love this church and this community so much.  We were exploring the nature of God in suffering through reading and discussion.  As two of us respectfully and passionately debated our viewpoints, we understood that we saw God in different ways.  Our differing perspectives sprang from our experiences and our personal interpretation of scripture.  I said, “As much as you must believe in your perspective, I must believe in mine.”  Although we disagreed on certain points, we came together in our assertion that the God of Jesus Christ is love, unconditional, personal, active love working in our lives.  Another participant pointed out, “Isn’t it wonderful that there is room in the Episcopal Church for all of these views?”  Through sharing my own ideas and listening respectfully to another, my own view of God widens and deepens--and there is room for greater depth and width within our faith.  

When I first came back home to a Christian church, I was nervous about discussing matters of faith with fellow Christians. I loved to talk spirituality, theology, and the nature of things, usually with a diverse group of believers.  My Unitarian Universalist, spiritual-but-not-religious circles contained atheists, Buddhists, humanists, pagans, and even a few Christians. Amongst these “not-Christian” friends, I often argued the liberal Christian perspective.  I was comfortable in that role.  Upon entering the Episcopal Church, what would I find? Would there be room enough for me--someone who is decidedly affirming of my friends who happen to be LGBT, someone who has serious doubts about the idea of hell, someone who desperately wants to believe in universal salvation?  I didn’t expect everyone to agree with me; maybe I would even gain a different perspective in conversation.   Would I have the opportunity to bump my views against the views of others and experience the spark of greater understanding created by the friction?   When the seeds of our faith are nurtured and strong, we are at our best, listening to each other in love.  At those times, moments of respectful disagreement cause the sparks of illumination to fly. There is room for diverse viewpoints, even (or especially) within the church of Jesus Christ.

When I watch Sunday School teachers captivating children with the story of the Ten Commandments, or analyze the gospel of John with our confirmation class, or discuss the nature of the Trinity with adult friends over coffee, my own faith is tested, challenged, and strengthened.  I see the seeds we plant in children flowering in our young adults and bearing the fruit of the kingdom into the world.  I see my fellow Christians sparking the light of faith, by which the world will see.

Windows and Lenses

“One Light, Many Windows”  is a saying amongst Unitarian Universalists and the spiritual-but-not-religious crowd.  It is a quote from Forrest Church, who gave us the metaphor of the world as a vast cathedral with myriad stained glass windows.  God is the light that shines through the windows and the windows are the world’s religions, the ways we see God in our own lives.  This is a beautiful metaphor for the U.U. life, one where all perspectives are valued and people work together for a common goal of respecting each and every person.  God shines a light on all of it, through the many windows, into a common area, where people come together.  People value each window, realizing that some windows/faiths will resonate more strongly with others.  People choose freely which window to venerate at any time, to venerate all windows, or to venerate none of them and just live within the space.  It’s a beautiful idea.  That idea brought me to church in the beginning, but it caused me to leave it in the end.

Allow me to expand the metaphor a little more to tell the story.  I loved being a Unitarian Universalist.  I could continue with my spiritual-but-not-religious idea with a group of people creating positive change in the community.   As long as I valued and respected everyone else, I was free to believe my own beliefs, to find my own window.  I was free to craft my own theology, as it suited me.  I was free to find my own salvation.  What can be wrong with that?  It's great for so many people.  Well, I worked on it for awhile and, to my surprise, I found that the theology that spoke to me, challenged me and called me was good old-fashioned Christianity.  Picking and choosing from Buddhist, Hindu, humanist, and pagan theology only left me with pieces of ideas that did not mesh together in a meaningful way.  It is too easy for me, in my lack of self-discipline, to only choose the ideas that already suited me, to avoid challenge, and to support my current perspective.  So, the more I explored, the more I found myself sitting at the window of Christianity.

Here is where the window changed.  See, windows let the light in.  They mark the outside and the inside.  They act upon the passive, observing people within, who receive the light.  The more I gazed at one window, the closer it came, until it bent around my eye to color the entire view.  I was fascinated with the story of the dying and rising God, the God who gave up his divine nature to become incarnate in human flesh, who lived amongst us, loved us, ate with us, told jokes with us, taught us to love one another, and then died in disgrace as a final act of surrender to power.  The God whose act of sacrifice and surrender turned the world upside-down, defeated death, and gave new life to all; the God who came into the world NOT to condemn it, but to save it.

The mystery of the story of Christ began to color the way I saw the light of God--it became a lens.  Marcus Borg calls Christianity a lens with which to see the world.  What’s the difference between a lens and a window?  Well, a lens is personal, it becomes the way I viewed the world, it became part of how I saw everything else I touched.  Once I become accustomed to it, I could not put it away without distorting my view.  Different people have different lenses, just as they have different perspectives, different experiences, and different needs.  For me, the miracle of Christ changed from a lovely window at which to gaze to a lens that informed my view of everything in my life.

The view with that lens rallied me out of passivity.  No longer an observer at a window, I needed to participate with others.  I wanted to find people who shared that lens, meet them, talk to them, and work with them.  I wanted to sing hymns, hear the gospel, pray the Lord's Prayer, and celebrate the Eucharist.  I wanted to join the party.  Once the light of the God lit up the lens of Christianity in front of my eyes, I rose out of my seat and into the kingdom.

Who am I to do this?

The Holy Spirit keeps bugging me; there must be something I am supposed to learn.  The idea that I’m supposed to be “listening for the Holy Spirit” keeps popping up in my life recently. It all started a few weeks ago when my priest told me, “Let the Holy Spirit guide you.”  I bit my tongue from my first thought, “Yeah, whatever…” and listened to his inspirational pep talk.  By the end of our conversation, I had tears in my eyes.  The faith he has in my ability to listen and perceive God’s will moved me.  Whatever else he learned in seminary, Fr. Tim sure knows how to motivate a person.  So, I thought, I waited, I thought some more, and made the decision, hoping my idea was somehow reflective of God’s will.  Holy Spirit, check that one off the list; I got it now. But, she was not done with me yet.

At church the next Sunday, the sermon was a little heavy on the “Spirit moving you” message.  I wondered if the lesson about focusing on the positive, having faith, and listening to God’s plan, was directed right to me.  Later on, I teased my priest about his message and our conversation earlier in the week.  I said, “OK!  I get it.  This Holy Spirit thing is something I need to work on.  I will have faith.”  You see, like most people I know, I’ve got some control issues.  I seem laid-back enough, until you get right up in my business and start messing with my stuff.  Or, until you give me a task without clear guidance and tell me to “listen to my gut”.  That makes me pretty damn nervous; then the fretting, worrying, anxious busy-body comes out.  Listen to my gut, yeah right--my gut has told me some crazy things in my life.  I mean, seriously, I should not be even basing my choice of breakfast meat on my gut!

So if listening to my gut is out, what, then, does it mean to listen for God?  In the midst of my questioning, I heard an answer of sorts.  I know I didn’t figure it out myself--something nudged me into realizing it.  I realized is that it’s not about ME.  That is a statement I’ve heard quite often (usually from my husband during an argument).   But this time, rather than a reprimand, it felt like a reprieve.  It’s not about ME--not my choices, not my desires, not my ability, not my mistakes.  It’s about something much, much bigger than me--it’s about the Kingdom of God.  

We live in a fragmented, individualist society, prizing independence and teaching our children responsibility.  I want to believe that my choices matter, that I am in charge of my own success, that my ability stems from hard work and strong character.  That’s not necessarily true.  This is where the Holy Spirit gets all in my face.  This is when I realize that it isn’t all on me.  There is something beyond me that catches me when I falter, that nudges me towards the light, that woos me into a loving relationship with God and with the world.  When I wonder if I’m capable of making wise decisions and positive change in my community, it’s OK if the answer is, “Not on my own.”  The true answer is, “I will, with God’s help.”   As a member of the body of Christ, we are all vessels through which God will bring in his kingdom.  When I wonder, “Who am I to accomplish this task?  Who am I to lead?”, the Holy Spirit answers, “You are a blessed Child of God!”

Coffee with the Holy Spirit

Sometimes, I think priests and ministers just like to confuse me.  When I seek answers from the clergy in my life, I usually only find more questions.  No one must be able to pass Seminary 101 until he masters the rabbinical art of answering a question with a question.  If I had a dollar for every time I heard, “If you think you understand it, it isn’t God”, well, I’d be able to treat myself and a few friends to Starbucks.  Recently, I took on a new project at church.  A little nervous, I called my priest, hoping for some guidelines, goals, and objectives.  My teacher brain wanted to know what our end result would be, so I could figure out the steps to achieve it.  I should have known better.  Instead of a nice, specific scope and sequence, he told me to “trust my gut” and “listen to the Holy Spirit”.  “Really”, I thought, “I ask for reassurance and strategy and you tell me to listen for what God wants me to do?  Come on, dude!”

I mean, do normal people in secular jobs go around listening to the Holy Spirit?  I pray for wisdom and patience.  I pray for discipline and forbearance.  I pray for guidance.  But, I don’t think I’ve EVER thought, “the Holy Spirit is telling me to do a Narnia Vacation Bible School.”  Or, “the Holy Spirit is guiding me through that difficult parent conference.”   I’ve never, once thought, in the moment, “Oh, thanks Holy Spirit, for helping me out.”  I mean, wouldn’t that be a little crazy?  Living a meaningful, mature Christian life is kind of new to me.  Do other people have relationships with the Holy Spirit?  How will I know when she shows up?  What kind of coffee does she like?  In this rational, modern world, what space do I make to recognize the Holy Spirit?

I do believe the Holy Spirit guides my life, in a general type of way.  Looking back on stressful decisions, I can identify moments when something miraculous, grace-filled, and extremely synchronicitous led me in a surprising direction.  It made sense to call upon God for help when I was laid low, anxious, frustrated, and a total mess.  I feel a little silly calling upon the guidance of the Holy Spirit to choose an adult study curriculum.  But this is the moment when the rubber meets the road, when my faith affects my everyday life.   I’m a relatively new adult Christian, still finding my feet in this complex faith.  

Theologian Marcus Borg calls Christianity a lens through which to see the world, and at first that lens gave me new eyes.  I stared at familiar things with new interest, finding new meaning in old stories, seeing previous experiences in new light.  Lately, the lens has become a familiar tool of practice, my regular way of seeing.  A tool I work with to forgive and ask forgiveness, to find peace, and to give thanks.  Now, I’m supposed to use that tool to find guidance from a mystery, to wait upon the Holy Spirit to guide me.  Not so easy!

What I need is faith, and not faith in myself.  I’ve always struggled with self-doubt. Even when I long to serve, I wonder if I truly have the knowledge or the skill to pull it off.  After all, who am I to decide things?  Who am I to lead?  I cover it up with competence and hard work.  I prepare, I think, I cover my bases, I get A’s, and I stack up credentials.  If I can’t manage it, then I probably won’t commit to it.  This combination of humility and work ethic has served me well in life so far, and I hide behind it often.  I’m pretty sure that’s why my familiar plan won’t work right now; I need to learn that sometimes the answer is beyond me and that’s OK.  Sometimes, the answer isn’t even the point.  Sometimes, asking the question is the most important thing.

If a person believes that God is “the great love in which we live and move and have our being”, then God surrounds us every minute of every day.  Once in a while, we notice God, when we are quiet, or peaceful, or desperate, or at our wit’s end.  Once in a while, we give up trying to control, to plan, to manage things.  Once in a while, we take our self-doubt to someone and he says, “Trust in the Holy Spirit”.  And, once in a while, we don’t laugh it off, or deny the possibility.  Instead, we live with the question, we hope and pray, with a little tear in our eye, that the Holy Spirit shows up and joins us for coffee.

Thoughts on apple-picking

Ahhh, September, time of warm days, cool nights, golden corn, and apples.  Apples are everywhere on my facebook feed.  Kids in apple t-shirts picking apples at an apple orchard, riding apple-themed carnival rides, eating apple cider donuts while drinking apple cider.  It makes me want some apple brandy or something.  Seriously!  When did apple-picking become THE not-to-miss fall adventure?  When did something so simple and basic as buying fresh apples from the grower become a contrived extravaganza?  Why do I feel like a slacker parent if my child’s apples come from the grocery store, not hand-picked for $25 on a sunny September day in a picturesque orchard and posted on facebook, twitter, and instagram?

OK, maybe I’m a little cranky and a little harsh.  Shouldn't I applaud the parents having a wholesome outing with their kids?  Isn’t it admirable that people want to connect with the places their food is grown?  Isn’t it a positive trend to buy locally and support local growers?  Yes, yes, and Yes.  But, I’m still cranky.  See, I know about freshly picked apples, from way back.

My childhood Septembers were also apple-heavy.  There was the church apple fritter stand at the town festival.  If I have ever eaten a piece of heaven, it is a cored, sliced, tart, fresh apple, dipped in batter, deep fried, and sprinkled with powdered sugar.  The ladies of First Mennonite Church of Sugarcreek guard the batter recipe with their very lives.  Those apple fritters have caused me to drive 400 miles one way to indulge in them.  There was also the apple butter my mother’s family boils every fall.  As I kid, I played in the leaves while parent, aunts, uncles, and grandparents boiled apple butter in a cauldron big enough to boil a few of the grandchildren.  By tradition, the oldest woman adds the spoonful of cinnamon.  When I was a kid, it was my Great-grandma Smith.   Now, it’s my own mother.  We would come home with enough jars of canned apple butter to last until next fall.  So, trust me, I know about the joy treats made from fall apples.

I also know the joy of picking fresh apples from a tree.  Growing up, if we wanted some apples during September, we walked out to the northeast corner of the pasture.  Some previous farmer had planted a few apple trees that yielded the little red and yellow kind.  I used to ride my horse out to pick them and feed him the cores when I was done.  They were lumpy and small and I had to watch out for worms and rotten parts.  But, the taste of them on my tongue--tart and sweet, crunchy and juicy--that was the taste of the end of summer.  So, I know the beauty of an apple just liberated from its tree.

I guess it bugs me that my natural childhood memories, picking fruit because it was there, making special treats to raise money, and canning to preserve for the rest of the year, are now hijacked by themed t-shirts and carnival rides.  We celebrated apples in September because that is when the fruit came in, so that’s when it affected our lives in my rural community.  It was work, not entertainment.  Today, it seems so contrived to me, so artificial, and so compulsory.  After all, are my slacker ways are costing my kids a great "apple experience"?  Will they be mad at my if there aren't any pictures of them in apple t-shirts, picking apples from a tree, with their little faces covered in apple donut?

Perhaps I am missing the point.  Bravo to the smart farmers and orchard owners who thought of this.  Maybe I should get on the bandwagon.  As a matter of fact, I should put my mind to it.  If my family could come up with some cute hay-bale themed t-shirts, some hay-bale carnival rides, and treats like haystacks or something, maybe we could sell admission when the hay comes in.  People could pay $2 for the chance to lift and stack the hay bales into the mow.  Throwing them from the wagon costs $3, and it’s only for people over 40 inches tall.  Why stop at stacking hay?  For just an extra $5, people could spend 10 minutes shoveling fertilizer.  They could have the experience of spreading it on the fields, or take it home for their own gardens.  We would supply the pitchforks and shovels, and you can take as much as you can carry.  I wonder what kind of shirts I could sell for that?

Why the Episcopal Church? Because it broke my heart

Why the Episcopal Church?  The Episcopal Church exists for people like me, and people quite different from me, of course.  People who differ in race, ethnicity, background, social status, occupation, theology, and preferences of pizza toppings, but people who are similar in their commitment to the saving grace of God in Christ.  I tried to compose a list, or an essay extolling the virtues of the Episcopal Church.  However, I guess I am becoming a true Episcopalian, because all I could come up with was a story of when the church broke open my heart.

Three years ago, I was a fledgeling Christian searching for a new spiritual home.  I was all atwitter with thoughts.  The mystery of Christ entranced me, the mystery of a God who so loved the world--this crazy, messed-up, petty, polluted world and all of us crazy people in it--that he gave up his own son--a part of himself--to save it. Once I bought into this incredible story, then I wanted to experience it.  I wanted to be knocked down by it, made quiet by it, brought to tears by it.  I wanted the whole extravaganza.  But, I was nervous.

What would I find there?  Would they preach a message of the shame and guilt, hell-fire and damnation?  Would I be welcomed?  Would I hear from the pulpit that women should submit to men, or that homosexuality was a sin?  Would someone ask me, “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”  Any one of those things would have me running for the hills.  Or, would I find the message of holy, catholic, loving grace for which I longed so desperately?  For weeks, I sat on the edge of my seat, every Sunday, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For the next few weeks of Lent, I attended church regularly.  I figured that if I wanted the extravaganza of resurrection and redemption, the Episcopal Church at Easter was a great place to find it.  Then, came Good Friday.  As I sat in the darkened, bare church through the Gospel reading and the moving sermon, I was overcome. In the image of Jesus’s final sacrifice for all of mankind, I could see how those moments of grief, bound by love, were possible.  I could see an image of the most powerful human being to ever walk the earth submitting to the evil of the world and experiencing excruciating pain, all the while with God holding him in the palm of his hand.  Here I found the context for that mysterious idea of Anthony de Mello’s that “all is well, though things are a mess, all is well”.   I had been looking for the answers to this for a long, long time.  Of course, I have not really found the answers, merely a language and a context from which to ask the question.

But, all of this intellectual thinking wasn’t really what happened that night, in the dark, with hymns playing, as the congregation went forward to venerate the cross.  What was happening was my eyes tearing, my throat closing up, and my heart breaking open.  The only thought in my head was, “make me worthy of this sacrifice, Jesus.”  I didn’t want to be made worthy so I could be saved, because Jesus already saved me.  I longed to be worthy of the immense gift of God’s love.  I knew something powerful was going on because I could hear the sounds of quiet crying all around me.

Why the Episcopal Church?  There are other churches who celebrate Good Friday and teach a message of grace.  But, my church is the church that wraps the message of saving, transforming, transcendent grace in beautiful symbols, poetic language, traditional liturgy, and inspirational music.  Because of the Episcopal Church, my heart broke open to the transforming grace of God.  

The Craziness of Christianity

Lately, church has become a habit with me--a good habit, like exercise, or eating well, or spending time with people who you love--but a habit nonetheless.  It is easy for habits to become routine, even to become chores.  After all, church is a regular, mundane thing.  My parents did it, my grandparents did it, my great-grandparents did it, and so on and so on.  It is nothing extraordinary to belong to a church.  Then, I read something like this:

“Being a Christian should just scare the hell out of us. It’s like on Sunday we need to rush together for protection. “Oh, I’m not crazy.” That we believe that God was in Christ reconciling the world is craziness. It’s going to make your life really weird. And you just need to get together on Sunday to be pulled back into the reality of God’s kingdom.” Stanley Hauerwas

Suddenly, I remember the days before I walked through those red doors of my church.  I remember the longing, the desire to find a spiritual home, and the anxiety about what I would find there. Becoming a Christian really did scare the hell out of me.  As much as I wanted to, when I came face to face with the salvific mystery of Christ, I couldn’t quite believe it all.  That’s why I had to go to church, to see if it was for real.  There was something compelling and absolutely crazy about Christianity. I longed for it, but I couldn't quite buy it.

It all started with the books, especially Robert Farrar Capon.  Capon’s explanation of pure, catholic, unearned grace was inspiring and unbelievable.  When he described Christ as “the light of the world, not the lighting company”, my mind lit up.  The story of the catholic, eternal grace of God in Christ blew me away.  God, the creator of the universe, the ultimate ground of all being, had also been a part of man since the beginning of time.  This part of God came into reality as an incarnated, flesh and blood person.  That holy God-made-man lived with and loved humans, so much that he lay down his life to save us.  He lay down his life to be the saving sacrament of grace, which had been in the world since the beginning, but became real in order to teach us, to save us, to shock us into accepting grace. God, in Christ, gave up his incredible power in order to show us a way of love and surrender.  That is an absolutely CRAZY idea.

I lived with this crazy thought on my own for many months--as long as I could stand it.  I read and reread the gospels, and religious books, I downloaded hymns on my Ipod, I prayed the Lord’s Prayer.  Capon and the other writers made Christianity sound like a big party, and I so longed to join it.  But, it was crazy, wasn’t it?  How could it truly be real?  Wasn't church where people went to "be good people" and to make sure they go to heaven?  Wasn't it just an old-fashioned social club with some bread and wine thrown in there?  Did people there  REALLY live in the mystery of Christ?  Did people REALLY find “the love in which we live and move and have our being” at the feet of the cross?  My curiosity and loneliness got the best of me and I went to church one day.  To my surprise and relief, I was not alone in my weirdness, rather I found an entire community to embrace, support, and challenge me.

Every Sunday, I worship with other people who believe this same craziness.  They, too, have felt the reconciling and redemptive power of God in their lives.  They, too, know the love, greater than all our sin, love without end, love without condition.  They, too, worship a God whose biggest and most important act was lying down and dying, an act so powerful in its sacrifice that it broke death itself.  They believe in loving their enemies, in serving the least and lowliest, not the most powerful, in giving up their own lives to save them.  Who in their right mind would do those crazy things in this post-post-modern society?

We lose the power of our Christian faith when it becomes commonplace, when we stop marveling at the audacity of it, when we no longer regard the love and grace in our lives with shock and awe.  No matter how habitual worship becomes, we must remember the craziness, the weirdness of the glory of Christ.

Feeling before Faith

Recently, I read an Op Ed column in the Sunday NY Times, “Between Godliness and Godlessness”  (http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/31/opinion/sunday/frank-bruni-between-godliness-and-godlessness.html?smid=nytcore-ipad-share&smprod=nytcore-ipad&_r=0).  It’s about a renowned atheist author, Sam Harris, who describes a moment of transcendent peace while walking in Jesus’s footsteps.  The article explains that atheists, agnostics, and spiritual-but-not-religious people also experience moments of connection to ideas bigger than themselves, but lack the language and connection to express it within the normal “church” options of American culture.  Columnist Frank Bruni asks, “The question is this: Which comes first, the faith or the feeling of transcendence? Is the former really a rococo attempt to explain and romanticize the latter, rather than a bridge to it? Mightn’t religion be piggybacking on the pre-existing condition of spirituality, a lexicon grafted onto it, a narrative constructed to explain states of consciousness that have nothing to do with any covenant or creed?”  To which, I respectfully reply, “Uh YEAH it is!”  

My worldview of a Christian religion, my commitment to a journey with Christ, the organization of my life around the Episcopal church as a cornerstone, is all a result of moments of transcendence and the pre-existing condition of spirituality.  My religion is most certainly a lexicon, a context, a language, with which I can express the divine.  I mean, what else is it?  Excuse me as I sound like a 7th grader, but, “Duh!”  I'm sorry to sound dismissive of the argument, but I can’t see religion any other way.  Remember the Taoist idea that religion is a finger pointing to the moon, or a boat that can carry us toward enlightenment?  It is neither the moon, nor the distant shore; it is the direction and the vehicle.

This is why I genuinely like atheists, agnostics, humanists, pagans, Unitarian Universalists, and all other people who cannot quite find their niche in the buffet of organized religion.  This is why I honor the seeker in all of us.  My relationship with God is not a product of my religious upbringing; as a matter of fact, I could only come home to a church after a journey through agnosticism, atheism, Buddhism, and Unitarian Universalism.  My relationship with “the great love in which we live and move and have our being” (as my beloved UU pastor used to say) is because of the moments of transcendent peace I experienced, on the back of my horse, after the death of my father, in my classroom at work, or while sobbing in despair on the tile of my bathroom floor.  Something incredible happened to me in those moments of my life, which spurred me on to a search for truth and meaning.  Eventually, I found a connection to truth, in Christian theology, the Eucharist, and the liturgy of the Episcopal church.

Unitarian Universalists have a saying, “One Light; Many Windows” to describe their expansive faith.  They explain that the light of God (or no God, if you’re an atheist or a humanist) shines through the windows of our worldview, like the windows of a great cathedral, which lights the multitudes within it.  Bible scholar, Marcus Borg, calls religion a lens; a lens through which we view the world, through which we construct meaning.  For me, the teachings of Christ and his church are my lens, but not everyone has the same prescription. 

It makes me smile when my atheist friends make rational arguments against the existence of God.  They don’t see things through the same lens.  As a matter of fact, their rational arguments sometimes refine and temper my own faith.  Atheists often argue against a God I don’t believe in anyway--a God of judgment and wrath, a God that is an old man up in the sky, a God who manipulates our every move with dispassion and calculation.  That is not my God.  I don’t need to prove to anyone that my God exists.  As a matter of fact, I could be absolutely wrong--there may have been no divine incarnation in Jesus Christ, no resurrection, no ascension, no promise of coming in glory.  At the end of the day, I could live this life and find out, well, nothing in the end.  If at the end of the day, all the peace and love I’ve found at church is merely a product of my own brain’s endorphins, rather than the grace of God, I will be no worse off than before. That possibility of being wrong doesn’t keep me out of church.  I don’t go to church for proof, for validation, or for an eternal reward.  Right or wrong, I have a strong faith in a God of Love--a faith of questions, of experience, and of longing.  I go to church because that’s where I find my lens with which to view the world, my language to discuss the divine, my connection to the transcendent mystery that creeps up and taps my shoulder at random moments in my life.

So, yes, Mr. Bruni, my feeling came before my faith; without the feeling of transcendent peace and connection, there would be no faith at all, no need for doctrine, no need for liturgy, no need for any organization at all.  My religion is “piggybacking on the pre-existing condition of spirituality, a lexicon grafted onto it, a narrative constructed to explain states of consciousness that have nothing to do with any covenant or creed”.  Isn’t everyone’s?

Why the church?

“What is the reason for the church’s existence?”  Who are we and what do we do?”  This week, the Acts 8 movement asks that question. (Check out their page here: http://www.acts8moment.org/blogforce-assemble-why-the-church/?utm_content=buffer2638b&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer ) What is the point of having the church, anyway?  I could never resist a good rhetorical question, so here is some of my rhetoric.

The church does a great many things.  It educates our youngsters, supports the community, challenges the comfortable, serves the needy, builds fellowship amongst neighbors, and uplifts those desperate for inspiration.  However, none of those things are the reason we need the church so desperately in this day and age.  We can find education at universities, inspiration in nature, challenges in athletics, assistance at the food pantry, friendship in a bowling league, and service in the Lion’s club or 4-H.  There are a plethora of organizations to fill those needs.  Why do we need the church?

There was a long period in my life when I didn't need the church. I didn't need some archaic, patriarchal, restrictive religion telling me to believe a God in heaven that kept score of my every move and handed out rewards and punishments in this life or in the next.  My life was going just fine without it.  Until one day, when my can-do attitude and work ethic failed me, when my spiritual-but-not-religious outlook fell short, when my failings became too great for me to bear and I melted in a puddle of tears on my bathroom floor.  In that moment, overwhelmed by anxiety and exhaustion, I felt the tangible love of God.  I couldn’t quite believe it, but I started to pray.   When I could no longer find God in nature, in meditation, or in self-awareness, I found God in Christ. I prayed the prayers of my childhood, the ones I had learned in church.  Praying, I traded in a Sunday-school version of God as an old man in the sky and encountered a mystery.  That mystery that led me through the doors of a church and back to the cross.

At church, we meet in the greatest mystery of all.  The mystery that can love me, a sinner, in the midst of my sin, my self-righteousness, my selfishness, my overall jerkiness.  The mystery that didn’t excuse my bad behavior, that helped me feel it, own it, repent, and forgive myself.  The mystery that held me in the palm of its hand during my father’s death, the mystery that brings grace to those in the midst of great suffering.  It is the mystery of catholic, universal love in the name of Christ.  That is why we need church, not to solve our problems, make us better people, teach us values, or give us answers, but to give us a space and a place to live with the mystery.   In the liturgy, I hear it, I feel it, I smell it, I eat it, I drink it, I bask in it, I love it.  I meet others, also imperfect, also beautiful, also beloved children of God, and I learn to love them, too. At church, the mystery of the grace of God in Christ loves me back.

Transforming the Loaves and Fishes of Vacation Bible School

They say the church is dying, and sometimes I wonder if they’re right.  It’s Vacation Bible School time at my church, and I’m a little worried as we make our plans.  Like the disciples with Jesus, I feel like I’m  surrounded by many hungry people and I don’t have enough for all of us.  There is so much pain in this world, so much loss.  My facebook feed is filled with rants about refugees and immigrants, Israel and Palestine, pro-life advocates and feminists.  Everyone seems angry, and I agree with them.  My fellow parishioners are tired from our summer fundraising efforts and no one seems very enthusiastic this year.  We desperately need the loving, uplifting grace of God, and all I’ve got is some construction paper, some glitter, a castle backdrop, a few crowns, and some praise songs.  How can we feed them with this?  It’s not enough!  I’m anxious and concerned and I wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew.    We just don’t have enough.  Oh, but I should have known better, O me of little faith.

Just as in the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus, in the form of the Holy Spirit, takes the small and makes it large.  We build an ancient stone table from some plastic and cardboard and create a scene of sacrifice and resurrection with bean bags and firecrackers.  The children arrive, and we create a feast from goldfish crackers and apple slices.  Under the guidance of a patient music teacher, our wavering voices blend into a choir of praise, ringing in the miracle of Christmas with bells.  Santa visits to bring the good news of great joy, and provides the water balloons, as well.  With some fake fur and make-up, our priest embodies the holy lion, Aslan, in all his glory.  Using cardboard shields and bubble wrap, we wage a battle, defeating the evil witch and her minions with the values of love, honesty, and courage.  Children of all ages become soldiers, knights, and kings and queens of Narnia.  We sing and dance and celebrate that “he has the whole world in his hands”.

In my doubts, I wondered if we could pull it off, but I should have known.  I should have known that Jesus would increase and expand our limited resources, our tired spirits, our half-baked ideas into spiritual food for everyone.  I feared we would not have enough energy, creativity, and patience, but I forgot that it wasn’t up to us.  How could I doubt that the God who fed five thousand people from a few loaves and fishes would transform our humble efforts into the kingdom, alive in the hearts of children.  The church is not dying, my friends, not this week, not at St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.

Church and Money--a paradox?

The love of money is the root of all evil, right?  Except, we need money to accomplish good in the world.  I’ve been involved in three churches in my life, all different sizes, demographics, and faiths.  None of them ever have enough people, enough time, or enough money to complete all their ambitious plans.  Recently, during a vestry discussion about church finances, my priest raised the question:  Shouldn’t we treat the church a little more as a business?  Shouldn’t we have high expectations for our parishioners, in terms of gifts of resources and time?  Shouldn’t we hold people accountable when they don’t follow through on pledges and commitments?  Don’t high expectations lead to church growth?  I have to admit, I got my back up a little bit during this vigorous conversation, and my priest invited me to write about it.  I wonder, must my church conduct itself as a business, in order to properly care for our resources?  We need money to continue, to pay for the building, the lights, the priest, and our ministries.  Why are we afraid to talk about it?

As a disclaimer, I should say that although I ran my own business for a number of years, I’m about the worst person to answer this question.  I was a terrible business person; I spent more than I had, I took risks at the wrong times, acted cautiously at the wrong times, I worked too hard, rather than too smart.  As much as I loved the work, I failed in the end.  My first question while considering serving on the vestry was, “Do I have to calculate any of the finances?”  Thank goodness that we have accountants on the vestry, so I’m off the hook in that department.  When people start talking about income and expenses, my eyes cloud over a little bit.  So, when I speak about business practices, I may be wrong.  I have only my personal experience to guide me, and it is limited.

A few quick google searches yield few results about “church as a business”--probably because no one wants to treat the church like a business.  I learned a little but came up with more questions.  After all, what is our product?  The free, catholic grace of God?  You can’t market it, price it, box it up, and ship it out.  It is freely available to anyone who notices it.  Are we selling spiritual succor, happiness, and peace?  Then we’d better quit preaching about sacrifice and giving up our life in order to find it.  We’d better skip over the crucifixion and get happy already.  No one wants gloom and doom when their life is hard enough.  Are we a spiritual gym, training Christian warriors to build the kingdom?  Then we need stiff registration fees and demanding expectations for prayer, fasting, and theology.  We’d better whip those parishioners into shape, and, while we’re at it, let’s only pick the ones who are already smart, strong, friendly, wealthy, and attractive.  That’s our target market; how to we get to those people?  Oh, and they have to be young.  Where do the millennials hang out?  We need millennials, by God!  My short research project did not yield a product that the church for the church to sell.  OK, so without a product, can you have a business?  

Even if the church is not a business, we still need money to help those in need and to spread the good news of the gospel.  It’s difficult to talk about money, in personal and professional situations, and exceptionally difficult to discuss church money.  We are supposed to be the kingdom of God come to life, serving the community, feeding the poor, spreading the gospel, AND keeping a beautiful building, an intelligent and loving minister, and excellent, inspiring liturgy.  We are supposed to give out of the abundant grace of God while we are worried about keeping our mortgages paid and our doors open (both at home and at church).  Don’t you dare start talking about money--because a church might deal in money, but it is definitely NOT a business.  I am usually the first one to pipe up with that line during conversations.  Once again, though, I think there's something more than my kneejerk reaction allows.

We are Christians, Episcopalians for that matter, so we should be practiced in paradoxes.  We can hold both Christ’s incarnational nature and his divinity in our minds.  We can celebrate the mystery of the Eucharist in the bread and the wine that is also body and blood of Christ.  We can contemplate the beautiful love of the incomprehensible Trinity.  Still, we have difficulty balancing a church that is the Kingdom of God and requires a positive bank balance.  It is the church’s practice to find that balance.

As a good Episcopalian, I don’t have the answer, but I do have a story--about practice.  There was once a Zen archery master who moved to the US from Japan to develop a school.  For years and years he taught Americans the principles of Zen archery, that the mindful pursuit of form and technique without attachment to results develops into mastery.  He built a successful school and a reporter came to interview him.  The reporter asked the master, “How is your school going?”  The master replied, “It’s terrible!  These Americans cannot understand practice.  They cannot understand that they should not aim for the target, but that they should practice until the arrow finds its home.  Americans just do not get it.”  The reporter asked, “So what are you going to do?  Will you abandon the school for your native Japan?”  The old master said, “No, THIS is my practice.  Teaching Americans something they may never understand IS my practice.”

I don’t have the answer, only a vision of a church that acts as a responsible steward for its resources while giving to the congregation, the community, and the larger world in money, time, and effort.  I only have a vision of a church that turns our secular monetary gifts into the sacred kingdom of God.  I only have a vision of a church that practices both responsible stewardship and gives from abundance, with faith and fidelity, without attachment to the results, until the arrow finds its way home to the target.

For my youngest, on her 2nd birthday

For my youngest, as you begin your second year…

You came into the world on the wings of a storm, and you haven’t slowed down since.  In the first thunderstorm of the hottest, driest summer I can remember, you made your entry.  You dad could barely see through the sideways rain as we drove to the hospital, and the doctor barely made it to the room before you made your entrance.  Forty-five minutes from check-in to birth.  The nurse slapped me a high-five and said, “That’s the way to have a BABY!”  I had nothing to do with it, darling; it was all you, arriving in your own way.

You embrace life with gusto, going full-speed ahead.  When you fall (often), you say, “I’m OK.”  I worried that you wouldn’t learn to walk on time and the next thing I knew, you ran everywhere.  We can hear you coming down the hall, on your little fat feet.  Your daddy says you’ve got your mother’s lightness of step, which means we both stomp like elephants.  You love to dance though, so you might have a chance to learn some grace.  

You express yourself unmistakably.  I worried that you weren’t talking, and even called in my friend, who’s a speech pathologist.  The next week, you said, “I want that!” and “I do it!”  It was only a matter of days until you were yelling, “I want the IPAD!”  From one who didn’t talk, to one who won’t be quiet, you have found your voice.  Your newest word is “Why!”, usually shrieked in dismay when I refuse your request for a lollipop.  In the throes of anger, all it takes is 30 seconds in the “time-out space”,  and you return smiling, saying, “All done!”  You know how to make your desires known, little one.

           I hope your sturdy little legs carry you far in life.  I hope your smile continues to light up a room.  I hope you giggle and giggle until you can’t breathe every day.  I hope your indomitable spirit, that leads you to climb up the stairs or try to ride the dog, helps you overcome challenges that life brings.  I hope your helpful nature, the way you pick up your toys or try to vacuum the floor, serves the rest of the world.  I hope your enthusiasm remains undamped and you relish your life, the way you relish ice cream cone coating your adorable face. I hope you know the love of the creator in the love of your family and friends.  I hope you keep hugging with all your might, leaning in and snuggling, just like you do now, for all your life.

My yoke is easy

Sometimes it’s a little hard for me to believe Jesus.  Not believe “in Jesus”, but to believe what he says.  For instance, every night (almost every night) I pray Compline before I go to bed, from the Book of Common Prayer.  One of the readings in this lovely litany is Matthew 11:28-30.  “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  I have loved this scripture passage since I was a child.  But, sometimes, I have trouble believing it.  When I’m worn out from family, work, and church projects, I want to say to Jesus, “Really, dude?  When do I get all this rest and light burdens?”

Something happened since I committed to living a Christian life--I began to work harder.  I say “Yes” to projects much more often, I see need in the community and I wonder how to help, I have ideas and I get excited to organize events for my church and my community.  Since deciding to follow Christ, I have more work, not more rest. In the midst of satisfaction and challenge, I’m tired.  When I read the gospel of Matthew, I want to say, “Come on, dude!”

Once again, as I wish for rest at the end of a hectic day and I doubt Christ’s promise of an easy yoke, I am probably missing the point.  Consider those who work hard for others, for their community, for their church.  The folks serving at the food pantry, the charity resale shop, teaching Sunday School, organizing a church rummage sale, and campaigning for social justice, probably don’t think their burden is light.  They keep working, in spite of fatigue and frustration.  Are they waiting for a lighter yoke?  Somehow, I don’t think they so.  All those verses in the gospels about taking up the cross and giving up your life make it clear that the Christian life is no Easy Street.  So, what did Jesus mean by an easy yoke, if his followers would work so damn hard?

Maybe he meant that I would get a chance to rest, not from hard work, but from self-deprecation, from self-hatred, from not being good enough.  The work we do as Christians isn’t competitive work, driven by ambition.  It is collaborative work, driven by the desire to help, to build a community, to support others.  In the midst of an overwhelming project, I can turn to prayer for aid, or ask a friend to lend a hand.  If my best efforts meet with failure; no one criticizes, rather someone helps me up again.  Jesus’s promise reminds me of a favorite phrase of a great horse trainer I know:  “Ask for much, be happy with little, and reward often.”  The yoke of Jesus Christ comes with high expectations, but there is understanding if we fall short, and the rewards are immeasurable, right here in our daily lives.  Jesus knows what it’s like to be a fallible human being and he forgives us our mistakes.  We can lay our burdens at his feet and rest, until we can pick them up and go on with the challenging, fulfilling, grace-filled work of the kingdom.

"Selling Church" and the Simpsons

Something bugged me just a little in church today.  In mass, our priest wore a t-shirt instead of vestments.  I am not a liturgical purist, so the casualness of attire didn't cause the problem.  But the message gave me pause.  The t-shirt advertised a business owned by one of our very active parishioners, who advertises monthly in our church newsletter.  Last week our priest explained that he would wear t-shirts of our advertisers, to give greater exposure to those who support our ministries.  I value local businesses, especially those who support local charities and churches.  But, I wasn’t sure that commercials belonged in mass.  It felt a little like our church space was for sale to the highest paying advertiser.

Remember the Simpsons?  If you were around in the 1990s, you can’t help but know one of the funniest and most intelligent cartoons of the time.  The shirt on Fr. Tim’s back reminded me of a Simpsons episode, the one where Homer destroys the church with a poorly timed rocket launch.  In order to rebuild the church, Rev. Lovejoy turns to Mr. Burns, the local millionaire.  Mr. Burns promises to build a successful church, by running it like a business.  In no time, neon signs cover the walls and product displays fill the sanctuary.  Upset at the commercialism in her church, Lisa searches for a new faith.  She converts to Buddhism after she meets Richard Gere at the Springfield Buddhist Temple.  Much hilariousness ensues, as usual.  Watching the show, I agreed with Lisa.  There is something a little ironic about listening to a sermon about faith in abundance and commitment to mission, while the priest is a walking billboard.  However, knowing my priest, there was more to learn from this.

On the way home, I mentioned to my husband, “I’m not sure how I feel about the advertiser t-shirt thing.”  He reminded me that churches do rely on businesses for support, that we need to pay the bills, and we should recognize businesses who value our ministries.  It is a blessing that parishioners and community members advertise with us, so we can continue serving our little town. My husband often reminds me of “the real world”, especially regarding money.  I prefer my fantasy world of economics, where everyone has enough, and if they don't we can give it all away to anyone who needs it, where I can round up my income and round down my expenses, and where it all works out in the end.  I don’t like the nitty gritty of making a budget and sticking to the bottom line.  This attitude drives my husband crazy, and it probably doesn’t help my church, either.

I don’t want to go to church to talk about money.  I don’t want to hear about budget woes, or pledges, or fundraisers.  I want inspiration, education, mission, fellowship, and service to the community.  I don’t want to be bothered with how we pay for those things!  When I’m sitting in mass, ready to worship, I don’t want to think about how St. Ignatius requires area businesses to fund our existence, that we depend on money to make our mission.  Perhaps that was exactly Fr. Tim’s point, that the church’s supporters and advertisers (individuals and businesses) literally put the shirt on our priest’s back.

Besides the obvious benefit of bringing exposure to our advertisers, maybe our priest is showing us something.  Maybe he is showing us that the church, with our lofty goals, our commitment to service, and our mission to spread the grace of God, also lives in the real world.  The church also has bills to pay and requires money to pay those bills, as distasteful as it may be to some of us.  The church has financial decisions to make.  We must live in the nitty gritty world of bills, rummage sales, fish dinners, and pledges, while we create the kingdom of God.  We take the secular (money, time, work, donations of furniture and clothes) and turn the secular into the sacred.  We live in the paradox of caring for the needy, giving from the heart, putting others’ needs first, while we preserve our resources in order to maintain our mission. Episcopalians love symbols; they are deep in our language and our liturgy.   Wearing t-shirts of advertisers during mass might just be another symbol of the work that creates the kingdom of God.