A reflection on John 20:1-18 by the Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig
Of the two Gospels in the Lectionary for Easter Sunday, I found myself drawn to John. A part of that attraction for me is Mary. Mary who went out to the tomb while it was still dark. Mary Magdalene who has been confused and merged with the other Marys of the Gospels. Mary who has been maligned through the ages as prostitute and sinner. Mary apostle to the apostles. Mary of the many narratives, is the one on this Easter morning who brings us the story, the one who is the bearer of the news. Ultimately not only the good news of that Easter morning that Jesus was not in the tomb, but the ultimate Good News that the love of God is stronger than death and the grave is not the end. This Mary has a story to tell us in her own words….
It seemed like so many days since the last time we were together, that night we ate and drank together. That night started out strangely, with him insisting on washing our feet. I mean, not that this wasn’t the thing to do before a meal, but to have the host do it, well that was just not what you’d expect. But then Jesus always was the master of the unexpected. And then there was that strange business with Judas. Of course it all made sense later, but at the time, I was so confused.
He spoke to us of so many things that night. He told us again and we must love one another. He said it very strongly, commanded us even to love one another, I remember he said, as he had loved us. I remember it made me think when he said that about the way he did love others. About the way he was with people, how he seemed to really see them, to be able to see their very souls, and what this did for their lives. Like the woman at the well who had such an experience of him that she left her water jar behind when she ran off to tell the others in village about him! I remembered how he healed that blind man, and how the man kept changing the way he talked about him calling him first a man, then a prophet then calling him “Lord.” I remember how that man stood up to the Pharisees and talked right back to them, asking “so why are you asking me all this? Do you want to become disciples too?” I had to laugh at that. I remember my own healing and liberation. I remember how he always included those who were out at the edges and those that the others left out, and that he preached that we must always forgive others, and that his love was a very radical kind of thing, and how he told us to do the same. So when he said that night to love one other as he had loved us, I knew he was asking a lot.
I think he tried to prepare us for what was to come….not just that he was going to die, but that he would be with us again, But he was right in that we did not understand all that he meant. But I had not always understood him. What he said or what he did. Healing people from illnesses, and even bringing his friend Lazarus back to life after four days in the grave. We all know that he had talked of eternal life, we all had come to know there would be a resurrection on the last day, but when he called Lazarus out and asked us to help him loose himself from those grave clothes, our belief in him as the Messiah was strengthened even more.
This was the Rabbi and teacher we loved, who had taught us all along, the one who had amazed us and sometimes baffled us but always loved us. But on that night there was something different about him, a new kind of intensity, an urgency. Now of course it all makes sense, but at the time, all I knew was that what he said was challenging and a little frightening. He talked about others persecuting us and even killing us for following him. And he kept saying he was going away, going to a place that we could not go, and if he did not do this, the spirit could not come. But that if he did go, this spirit he called the Advocate would come and would guide us into truth and righteousness.
And he said he was giving us peace but not the way the world did, but that we should not be afraid. I remember as much as trusted and loved him, I couldn’t help feeling troubled by all this talk of his leaving, and yes, I was afraid. I loved him with all my heart and I did not want him to go anywhere. We had only had him such a short time and he was doing so much good.
Love one another….Oh yes clearly I remember, he said that a second time. He said it so strongly, that command. I remember being a little taken aback by that, as he was so forceful about it. He said “no one has greater love than to lay down his life for a friend.” At the time I had no idea what was to come so soon, that he was talking about himself…his own great love, such great love.
He talked about how in a while we would not see him and again a little while and we would see him…and he said he was leaving the world and going to the Father. And we had no idea….no idea that this meant that in such a short time he would be taken from us, taken off for that travesty of a trial and be mocked and flogged and finally hung on that horrible cross. That was the worst day of my life, standing there with his mother, seeing the pain on her face as she watched him suffer and finally die. We just could not understand. After all that he said and did, for it all to end there, it simply made no sense. I really had believed that night when he said all those things, that he was that close to God, that he was more than just the wonderful Rabbi and teacher that I loved. But that day, I was there and saw it all, and I have to say that my belief in it all, in him, wavered. It pains me to admit it, but it did. When I went to the tomb that dark, dark morning it was to grieve him and to grieve the ideal of all he stood for. I had lost my hope. I had accepted the unacceptable. My Rabboni was dead, and dead with him were the dreams that the Messiah had come and all that came along with that. The group had broken up even before he was tried, hiding, fleeing, denying they knew him, afraid for their own skins. It was worse than if we had never known him. My heart was breaking, I really thought I might die from sadness. The only thing I could think to do was to go to the grave. If nothing else I could be close to the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid him. The garden was soothing, maybe I would find some peace just being near him there. But when I arrived to find that the stone had been rolled away from the tomb, the bottom dropped out of my world even more. I had thought I could feel no worse, but I was wrong. My despair knew no bounds as I knew that the grave robbers had likely taken him. I ran for my friends, but all they could do was confirm what I had feared, the tomb was empty, the wrappings all that remained. They went back home. But I could not leave. Something just compelled me to stay. It was not hope, for I had none. There was nothing to hope in. It was not faith, for I had no faith left. It was not belief, for there was no one left to believe in. Then I looked in the tomb. I have no idea why I looked, Simon Peter and John had already told me there was nothing to see. But there were messengers there…two of them who asked me why I was crying. I told them of course, and it was then that I turned and saw the gardener; at least that was what I thought at first, that he was the gardener, or that he was another vision of some kind. That maybe I was just was just hoping that much to see him….but then I remembered that I had no hope, had no faith, had no belief. It had all dies on that awful cross with him. But then in the quiet of that empty place, I hear a familiar beloved voice say my name and I know who this was beyond a shadow of a doubt. It is he who has called by name, he who sees and knows all of me, he who has healed me, he who has recalled me to life even as he has risen from his own death. “Rabbouni, beloved teacher” I cry as I recognize him. I must not let him get away from me again! I cannot go back into that hopeless darkness now that his light has shone on me again. I grasp at him, but gently he pulls away and looks at me with great love, “Don’t hold on to me now. When I go to my Father, I will be available to all of you.” And I remember all of those things he said to us on that last night. And suddenly it all comes together and it all makes sense. This is Jesus, the Messiah, the Incarnate one of God. I trusted him then and I trust him now. This is the greatest news of all! I have seen the Lord and he is risen from the dead!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Palm/Passion Sunday
A reflection the readings for Palm Sunday by The Rev. Camille Hegg
Palm Sunday is a spectacle and a range of actions and emotions. It goes from Jesus setting his face to Jerusalem and disciples having to decide to follow him and ‘die with him’ as the gospel from last week says. Emotions in that decision had to had been vast and many. Crowds were there waiting for him, with palms on the ground to honor him. How did they know he was coming? Now, we have Twittter and Facebook that can send instant messages to many people to expect and to gather at certain places.
Palm Sunday is a good story. It has drama, mystery, pathos. It goes from festival atmosphere to the confusing, angering, sad actions of human beings reacting to what they don’t understand, and the death of an innocent man. It is a strange story, too. All those events and emotions in just a few paragraphs rather than not an epic novel with chapters nor a history book with footnotes.
In one liturgical day emotions which we experience in our lives happen. What begins with Palm Sunday ends with Passion Sunday. In many churches there is no final processional hymn, but a procession in silence to symbolize the absolute outrage and sadness of what happened.
We find ourselves confronted with outrage and sadness on many occasions. Sometimes, for me, the only response to both of these emotions is silence. Sometimes what starts as a good day ends with some unforeseen event that is sad or outrageous or angering. We may want to shout, but I find silence a better friend than shouting.
It was a Sunday in 1985. The epistle that day was the Ephesians’ admonition to wives to submit to their husbands and so forth. In preparing my sermon I decided it was time to preach on this text. I used a true example of the mother of a grown daughter who came to talk to me. The husband of the daughter had put the daughter in the hospital with internal bleeding, bruises, a black eye, and a broken collar bone. The mother who came to me asked me to pray that the husband would quit beating her daughter. I asked her if she wanted her daughter to go back home with the husband and this mother said, “Oh yes, marriage is sacred. She has to stay with him. I just want him to quit hurting him.”
All of us reading this have stories like this. I decided it was my time to speak about this text. Wiithout going into the sermon much further, I will say that I raised questions for the congregation and said that this was a misunderstanding of the gospel of love. I felt that I had done a good job of preparing and delivering the sermon. I received a very loud applause. I was surprised and I will admit it felt good. That feeling stayed with me through the morning. When I walked into my house after church the hpone rang and it was my sister telling me that our father had died that morning of a massive coronary. I was silent. I finally said that I would be there soon.
This story is nowhere near the events of Passion/Palm Sunday. It came to me as an instance of a time when I myself went from that ‘festival’ of the palms and the procession, (feeling uplifted from my preparation and delivery of the sermon, the congregation’s response), to the “passion” of the sudden, unexpected and stunning sadness of learning of my father’s death. Over the years I have pondered my father’s sudden death, but never have I thought of it in this context. A Sunday like this week’s does have something to say to us about life’s changes and chances. It is remarkable to me that the church, lectionary, seasons, community can help us process our lives amidst the changes and chances of our lives.
Palm Sunday is a spectacle and a range of actions and emotions. It goes from Jesus setting his face to Jerusalem and disciples having to decide to follow him and ‘die with him’ as the gospel from last week says. Emotions in that decision had to had been vast and many. Crowds were there waiting for him, with palms on the ground to honor him. How did they know he was coming? Now, we have Twittter and Facebook that can send instant messages to many people to expect and to gather at certain places.
Palm Sunday is a good story. It has drama, mystery, pathos. It goes from festival atmosphere to the confusing, angering, sad actions of human beings reacting to what they don’t understand, and the death of an innocent man. It is a strange story, too. All those events and emotions in just a few paragraphs rather than not an epic novel with chapters nor a history book with footnotes.
In one liturgical day emotions which we experience in our lives happen. What begins with Palm Sunday ends with Passion Sunday. In many churches there is no final processional hymn, but a procession in silence to symbolize the absolute outrage and sadness of what happened.
We find ourselves confronted with outrage and sadness on many occasions. Sometimes, for me, the only response to both of these emotions is silence. Sometimes what starts as a good day ends with some unforeseen event that is sad or outrageous or angering. We may want to shout, but I find silence a better friend than shouting.
It was a Sunday in 1985. The epistle that day was the Ephesians’ admonition to wives to submit to their husbands and so forth. In preparing my sermon I decided it was time to preach on this text. I used a true example of the mother of a grown daughter who came to talk to me. The husband of the daughter had put the daughter in the hospital with internal bleeding, bruises, a black eye, and a broken collar bone. The mother who came to me asked me to pray that the husband would quit beating her daughter. I asked her if she wanted her daughter to go back home with the husband and this mother said, “Oh yes, marriage is sacred. She has to stay with him. I just want him to quit hurting him.”
All of us reading this have stories like this. I decided it was my time to speak about this text. Wiithout going into the sermon much further, I will say that I raised questions for the congregation and said that this was a misunderstanding of the gospel of love. I felt that I had done a good job of preparing and delivering the sermon. I received a very loud applause. I was surprised and I will admit it felt good. That feeling stayed with me through the morning. When I walked into my house after church the hpone rang and it was my sister telling me that our father had died that morning of a massive coronary. I was silent. I finally said that I would be there soon.
This story is nowhere near the events of Passion/Palm Sunday. It came to me as an instance of a time when I myself went from that ‘festival’ of the palms and the procession, (feeling uplifted from my preparation and delivery of the sermon, the congregation’s response), to the “passion” of the sudden, unexpected and stunning sadness of learning of my father’s death. Over the years I have pondered my father’s sudden death, but never have I thought of it in this context. A Sunday like this week’s does have something to say to us about life’s changes and chances. It is remarkable to me that the church, lectionary, seasons, community can help us process our lives amidst the changes and chances of our lives.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Seeing With New Eyes
A reflection on the readings for Lent 4A: John 9:1-41 by the Rev. Margaret Rose
I love to travel. Perhaps it comes from growing up in a small town where the world beyond always seemed to invite me to something more and better. And even as a child it didn’t much matter where outside: a bus to Atlanta to visit a friend when I was six, or a drive to an even smaller town nearby—Villa Rica which my mother reminded me meant “Village of the Rich” in another exotic language or so she said. That love of travel had to do with a desire to experience something new, visit another place and to see something I had not seen before. Now “traveling” has become a metaphor for seeing things anew, suspending belief and starting with a clean slate experiencing lives and sights that do not have my history or baggage. Traveling to far off places or to new neighborhoods allows me to let go assumptions or labels or judgments, generalities, or stereotypes.
Traveling has become a state of mind which is about heightened senses and paying attention to surroundings, getting away from the routine in order to get at the heart and soul of a place, a culture, a person. Some days even walking to work is like traveling, if I have allowed my mind to be uncluttered by the worries of the day and can simply observe the life around me. Taking notice of the environment, of who and what is there. It may be a “green raincoat day” or a “dog walking day”, or one where it seems everyone needs help crossing the street. Patterns emerge I had not seen before. No doubt they are not real patterns but part of everyday, but with open eyes I somehow see what I had long ignored.
This may be a simplistic way to think about the story of the Man Born Blind in John’s gospel. Certainly, it is one of the “miracle stories” but the real truth of the text is in the whole story and the movement from those whose eyes may see but who are spiritually blind to the truth that sight does not rest in the eyes only. ( This is no doubt why the RCL has included all 41 verses of the story.) The lead up offers one more example of Jesus turning the social structure on its head—healing on the Sabbath, and the discussion of whose fault it is that the man is blind and Jesus’ retort that this is not about sin but the need for healing. Neither his parents’ guilt nor his own is the culprit. (Something we would do well to remember.) The deep lesson of the text comes in the dialog between the blind man and those who hear about or witness the miracle. The man born blind becomes increasingly insightful even as the religious leaders are more blind to the identity of Jesus and the meaning of the miracle.
The dialog plays out like a comedy street scene: the beggar is healed by Jesus using what might be a folk way of mud and saliva and prayer. The onlookers do not believe it is really the same man or that he can really see so they deny it among themselves: This wasn’t really the blind beggar was it? No, just someone like him is the reply. Others respond to the blind man’s proclamation that he can now see by whispers of denial among themselves: He wasn’t really blind in the first place. Still others go to his parents to confirm his identity and his infirmity.
Clearly , the Pharisees did not want to have their eyes opened to Jesus. To accept that the healing was of God would call into question their set rules, would have forced them to give up some very precious and long held understandings about life codes and ways of worship. Their privilege as religious leaders might be called into question. They had a lot to lose by listening to the words of the outcast better, a blind man, a lot to lose if they began to explore the possibility that this healing was of God, or that Jesus might possibly be the prophet or a foretold messiah. In short, a lot to lose by having their eyes opened. Those physically able to see became spiritually blind, unable as they were to risk the loss of comfort, power and long held assumptions of their faith.
The blind man, however had nothing to lose. He knew his infirmity, his blindness, and knew that Jesus had opened his eyes. As he told the story, becoming aware of Jesus’ identity, he is able to proclaim it. The poor blind beggar is open to grace and to Jesus as the Christ. The one who was blind is able in the end to see most clearly physically and spiritually.
What about us? What helps us to see most clearly the healing that God offers us? Perhaps first it has to do with recognizing the places where we too suffer from spiritual blindness, examining what we hold most closely and imagining that others may hold opposite views just as faithfully. In a parish I served, we decided one year to have a program called “Controversial Issues and How to Talk about Them” As one might expect, the series included such topics as sexuality, economics, abortion. There were those who were clear about what the moral or Christian response to each dilemma was to be. But the group agreed that the ground rule for the work would be “sacred listening”, acknowledging that each of us may have some blindness within ourselves. The ensuing conversations were not easy. But the transformation made possible by the commitment to listening created bonds of community which would not be broken across lines of disagreement.
A few years later, the youth director of that same parish had twins, born prematurely, and as it turned out one is completely blind and the other with significant visual impairment. I recently visited them back in that same small town where I grew up. The boys are now about 2, and though there are ongoing issues, they are healthy. As Luke and Jack romped and tumbled and climbed over each other, their mother and me, as they ran around the house shouting and laughing, I could not help but think of the text for today. When this young couple discovered they were pregnant, their joyful expectation of parenthood did not anticipate so great a challenge. Some of the ready made plans had to be forgotten. No doubt this Sunday, these parents will be listening to the text and wondering if Jesus might come by to spit on the ground and hold healing mud on the eyes of their two boys.
But it may be that the healing mud has already come. The eyes of the parents are open to the deep life of God’s spirit working within them and their boys. And they have become a gift to the community they serve. Would I want their eyes to be repaired? Of course. But the ability to see does not depend on it. Thanks be to God.
I love to travel. Perhaps it comes from growing up in a small town where the world beyond always seemed to invite me to something more and better. And even as a child it didn’t much matter where outside: a bus to Atlanta to visit a friend when I was six, or a drive to an even smaller town nearby—Villa Rica which my mother reminded me meant “Village of the Rich” in another exotic language or so she said. That love of travel had to do with a desire to experience something new, visit another place and to see something I had not seen before. Now “traveling” has become a metaphor for seeing things anew, suspending belief and starting with a clean slate experiencing lives and sights that do not have my history or baggage. Traveling to far off places or to new neighborhoods allows me to let go assumptions or labels or judgments, generalities, or stereotypes.
Traveling has become a state of mind which is about heightened senses and paying attention to surroundings, getting away from the routine in order to get at the heart and soul of a place, a culture, a person. Some days even walking to work is like traveling, if I have allowed my mind to be uncluttered by the worries of the day and can simply observe the life around me. Taking notice of the environment, of who and what is there. It may be a “green raincoat day” or a “dog walking day”, or one where it seems everyone needs help crossing the street. Patterns emerge I had not seen before. No doubt they are not real patterns but part of everyday, but with open eyes I somehow see what I had long ignored.
This may be a simplistic way to think about the story of the Man Born Blind in John’s gospel. Certainly, it is one of the “miracle stories” but the real truth of the text is in the whole story and the movement from those whose eyes may see but who are spiritually blind to the truth that sight does not rest in the eyes only. ( This is no doubt why the RCL has included all 41 verses of the story.) The lead up offers one more example of Jesus turning the social structure on its head—healing on the Sabbath, and the discussion of whose fault it is that the man is blind and Jesus’ retort that this is not about sin but the need for healing. Neither his parents’ guilt nor his own is the culprit. (Something we would do well to remember.) The deep lesson of the text comes in the dialog between the blind man and those who hear about or witness the miracle. The man born blind becomes increasingly insightful even as the religious leaders are more blind to the identity of Jesus and the meaning of the miracle.
The dialog plays out like a comedy street scene: the beggar is healed by Jesus using what might be a folk way of mud and saliva and prayer. The onlookers do not believe it is really the same man or that he can really see so they deny it among themselves: This wasn’t really the blind beggar was it? No, just someone like him is the reply. Others respond to the blind man’s proclamation that he can now see by whispers of denial among themselves: He wasn’t really blind in the first place. Still others go to his parents to confirm his identity and his infirmity.
Clearly , the Pharisees did not want to have their eyes opened to Jesus. To accept that the healing was of God would call into question their set rules, would have forced them to give up some very precious and long held understandings about life codes and ways of worship. Their privilege as religious leaders might be called into question. They had a lot to lose by listening to the words of the outcast better, a blind man, a lot to lose if they began to explore the possibility that this healing was of God, or that Jesus might possibly be the prophet or a foretold messiah. In short, a lot to lose by having their eyes opened. Those physically able to see became spiritually blind, unable as they were to risk the loss of comfort, power and long held assumptions of their faith.
The blind man, however had nothing to lose. He knew his infirmity, his blindness, and knew that Jesus had opened his eyes. As he told the story, becoming aware of Jesus’ identity, he is able to proclaim it. The poor blind beggar is open to grace and to Jesus as the Christ. The one who was blind is able in the end to see most clearly physically and spiritually.
What about us? What helps us to see most clearly the healing that God offers us? Perhaps first it has to do with recognizing the places where we too suffer from spiritual blindness, examining what we hold most closely and imagining that others may hold opposite views just as faithfully. In a parish I served, we decided one year to have a program called “Controversial Issues and How to Talk about Them” As one might expect, the series included such topics as sexuality, economics, abortion. There were those who were clear about what the moral or Christian response to each dilemma was to be. But the group agreed that the ground rule for the work would be “sacred listening”, acknowledging that each of us may have some blindness within ourselves. The ensuing conversations were not easy. But the transformation made possible by the commitment to listening created bonds of community which would not be broken across lines of disagreement.
A few years later, the youth director of that same parish had twins, born prematurely, and as it turned out one is completely blind and the other with significant visual impairment. I recently visited them back in that same small town where I grew up. The boys are now about 2, and though there are ongoing issues, they are healthy. As Luke and Jack romped and tumbled and climbed over each other, their mother and me, as they ran around the house shouting and laughing, I could not help but think of the text for today. When this young couple discovered they were pregnant, their joyful expectation of parenthood did not anticipate so great a challenge. Some of the ready made plans had to be forgotten. No doubt this Sunday, these parents will be listening to the text and wondering if Jesus might come by to spit on the ground and hold healing mud on the eyes of their two boys.
But it may be that the healing mud has already come. The eyes of the parents are open to the deep life of God’s spirit working within them and their boys. And they have become a gift to the community they serve. Would I want their eyes to be repaired? Of course. But the ability to see does not depend on it. Thanks be to God.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Lent 3A
Reflection on John 4:5-42 by Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig
We humans are by and large social creatures who do not take well to being isolated. Cultural and religious groups who use shunning, or separation from the group, as a consequence of negative behavior understand this well and use its impact to good effect. In our own criminal justice system, a person already being punished for a crime can be further penalized by being “put in solitary” for a period of time.
Other than when Harry Potter dons his cloak of invisibility, there is rarely a time when we don’t want to be visible to others, to be known and appreciated as unique individuals beyond stereotypes of gender, age, race ability or orientation. We have deep needs to speak and be heard, to make connections, to be linked to one another. So vital is this bond that infants who do not have the opportunity to make healthy human attachments in their early lives can fail to develop, fail to thrive and can even die.
It really is all about the relationship, the connection. Jesus got it. It’s all over the Gospels. It’s there in his encounter with the Samaritan woman. This woman who came to the well alone in the heat of the day for some reason… an outcast even among outcasts perhaps? We don’t know. In the Gospel story, Jesus says she has had five husbands, and the “one she had now” was not her husband, but we can only speculate on what that might mean. We might impose meanings; we think we might know her story. Was she simply a user of men? Or had she been the one used? Picked up and thrown away by them for whatever reason. Perhaps it was because she could not bear children, which in that time was a shameful failing on a woman’s part and could indeed get her summarily divorced, perhaps even repeatedly.
But in the end it really doesn’t matter, because at the well that day, there was simply a woman …and Jesus saw her. He saw her and he knew her for more than her isolated self, and more than her shame. He saw beyond whatever role she had been cast in, or even imposed on herself in self-protection. He told her “everything she had ever done” not to judge or shame her but simply because he saw the whole of her just as she was. And being seen, she entered into relationship with him and saw who he truly was as well, God with her there in that moment. Transformed by that moment of connection, she finds herself running toward the community to share her story, no longer shameful, invisible and isolated.
We too encounter and are encountered by the living God. In those encounters our authentic selves are laid bare….our souls in all their glory in the image of God as we were created, but also in our weakness and our sinfulness. And all of this is the Good News. Jesus answers the question asked by the people in Exodus, “Is the Lord among us or not?” He is not only among us, but becomes us, so he can sit with a woman at a well in the heat of the noonday sun and tells her, as he tells us all we have ever done, who he is and who we can be.
I believe that by virtue of our baptismal covenant, we too are called to truly see one another. Those we bump up against every day who are invisible, cloaked and hiding. Some are coming to the well at noonday by choice to avoid the shaming of the crowd; some have had their isolation foist upon them. Some are still hopeful that one day they will belong again; others have given up all hope that their thirst for community will ever be slaked. What would happen if we really saw them? Would they be transformed? Would they too know that they too are seen, known and beloved of God? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find out?
We humans are by and large social creatures who do not take well to being isolated. Cultural and religious groups who use shunning, or separation from the group, as a consequence of negative behavior understand this well and use its impact to good effect. In our own criminal justice system, a person already being punished for a crime can be further penalized by being “put in solitary” for a period of time.
Other than when Harry Potter dons his cloak of invisibility, there is rarely a time when we don’t want to be visible to others, to be known and appreciated as unique individuals beyond stereotypes of gender, age, race ability or orientation. We have deep needs to speak and be heard, to make connections, to be linked to one another. So vital is this bond that infants who do not have the opportunity to make healthy human attachments in their early lives can fail to develop, fail to thrive and can even die.
It really is all about the relationship, the connection. Jesus got it. It’s all over the Gospels. It’s there in his encounter with the Samaritan woman. This woman who came to the well alone in the heat of the day for some reason… an outcast even among outcasts perhaps? We don’t know. In the Gospel story, Jesus says she has had five husbands, and the “one she had now” was not her husband, but we can only speculate on what that might mean. We might impose meanings; we think we might know her story. Was she simply a user of men? Or had she been the one used? Picked up and thrown away by them for whatever reason. Perhaps it was because she could not bear children, which in that time was a shameful failing on a woman’s part and could indeed get her summarily divorced, perhaps even repeatedly.
But in the end it really doesn’t matter, because at the well that day, there was simply a woman …and Jesus saw her. He saw her and he knew her for more than her isolated self, and more than her shame. He saw beyond whatever role she had been cast in, or even imposed on herself in self-protection. He told her “everything she had ever done” not to judge or shame her but simply because he saw the whole of her just as she was. And being seen, she entered into relationship with him and saw who he truly was as well, God with her there in that moment. Transformed by that moment of connection, she finds herself running toward the community to share her story, no longer shameful, invisible and isolated.
We too encounter and are encountered by the living God. In those encounters our authentic selves are laid bare….our souls in all their glory in the image of God as we were created, but also in our weakness and our sinfulness. And all of this is the Good News. Jesus answers the question asked by the people in Exodus, “Is the Lord among us or not?” He is not only among us, but becomes us, so he can sit with a woman at a well in the heat of the noonday sun and tells her, as he tells us all we have ever done, who he is and who we can be.
I believe that by virtue of our baptismal covenant, we too are called to truly see one another. Those we bump up against every day who are invisible, cloaked and hiding. Some are coming to the well at noonday by choice to avoid the shaming of the crowd; some have had their isolation foist upon them. Some are still hopeful that one day they will belong again; others have given up all hope that their thirst for community will ever be slaked. What would happen if we really saw them? Would they be transformed? Would they too know that they too are seen, known and beloved of God? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find out?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Lent 2A
A reflection on the readings for Lent 2a by The Rev. Jacqueline Schmitt
The startling thing about the lessons for this Sunday is that the first three – the story from Genesis about God’s promise to Abram; the beloved and familiar Psalm 121, which also promises God’s unfailing stability and protection; and Paul’s re-cap of the Abram story emphasizing faith in the God whose promises are to be believed – contrast so much with the news of the world around us. How do we navigate this radical disconnect, between what people what people will hear in church on Sunday with what they read in the morning news or heard on their car radios as they drove to church: stories of displacement, instability, fear, shaking ground and monstrous seas and deadliness in the very air they breathe. That’s only Japan and the Pacific Rim. If we turn to news from the other side of the world, the very ground on which Abram, Paul and the psalmist actually walked, we hear of leaders brutally oppressing the people in their charge and violently repelling all who dissent.
I suppose there was a time when we could view such developments from the relative safety, comfort and stability of our North American communities. Dare I say that the “suburban captivity of the church” was one of the factors that insulated us from the cries and whispers of the world? Yes, but back in that (perhaps fictionally) bucolic day, communication in word, image and sound was far less immediate. We could deal with these tragedies in bits and pieces, could respond when we had the capacity to understand what was going on. What a luxury that seems by today’s frantic, frenetic standards, where all the information we get from all sides completely contradicts the message in those three scriptural snippets.
The collect, which Verna Dozier in her bible studies based on the lectionary said set the theme of the day, makes me a bit uncomfortable in this context. I have heard too many Christians jump far too quickly and facilely from “all who have gone astray from your ways” to penitent hearts, steadfast faith and the unchangeable truth of your Word. I’ve had too many people’s absolute convictions of too many truths thrown in my face too many times to find them helpful, much less convincing.
But then we have Nicodemus. Nicodemus lives, like we do, in the terrible world of disconnects, between the reality he lives and sees around him, and the promises of God, which as a faithful Jew, he knows very well. Many Christians can no doubt – and without doubt – jump right to the end of this passage, to those words of absolute assurance, salvation and confidence, words so well known that flashing “John 3:16” on billboards communicates all these people think we need to know.
In these mid-March days, I find I can hardly get beyond something Jesus says earlier in the conversation with Nicodemus: “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.” The Spirit, Jesus implies, is one who destabilizes, shakes up, confuses. It rumbles from underground without warning, blows in from far away without notice. Does this mean that life in the Spirit, the born-again life, is a life where you do not know what will happen next? Where you do not know where God will lead you? That eternal life is not about something perishable, or, well, predictable, like death and taxes, but about something as unpredictable and wild as the wind?
The startling thing about the lessons for this Sunday is that the first three – the story from Genesis about God’s promise to Abram; the beloved and familiar Psalm 121, which also promises God’s unfailing stability and protection; and Paul’s re-cap of the Abram story emphasizing faith in the God whose promises are to be believed – contrast so much with the news of the world around us. How do we navigate this radical disconnect, between what people what people will hear in church on Sunday with what they read in the morning news or heard on their car radios as they drove to church: stories of displacement, instability, fear, shaking ground and monstrous seas and deadliness in the very air they breathe. That’s only Japan and the Pacific Rim. If we turn to news from the other side of the world, the very ground on which Abram, Paul and the psalmist actually walked, we hear of leaders brutally oppressing the people in their charge and violently repelling all who dissent.
I suppose there was a time when we could view such developments from the relative safety, comfort and stability of our North American communities. Dare I say that the “suburban captivity of the church” was one of the factors that insulated us from the cries and whispers of the world? Yes, but back in that (perhaps fictionally) bucolic day, communication in word, image and sound was far less immediate. We could deal with these tragedies in bits and pieces, could respond when we had the capacity to understand what was going on. What a luxury that seems by today’s frantic, frenetic standards, where all the information we get from all sides completely contradicts the message in those three scriptural snippets.
The collect, which Verna Dozier in her bible studies based on the lectionary said set the theme of the day, makes me a bit uncomfortable in this context. I have heard too many Christians jump far too quickly and facilely from “all who have gone astray from your ways” to penitent hearts, steadfast faith and the unchangeable truth of your Word. I’ve had too many people’s absolute convictions of too many truths thrown in my face too many times to find them helpful, much less convincing.
But then we have Nicodemus. Nicodemus lives, like we do, in the terrible world of disconnects, between the reality he lives and sees around him, and the promises of God, which as a faithful Jew, he knows very well. Many Christians can no doubt – and without doubt – jump right to the end of this passage, to those words of absolute assurance, salvation and confidence, words so well known that flashing “John 3:16” on billboards communicates all these people think we need to know.
In these mid-March days, I find I can hardly get beyond something Jesus says earlier in the conversation with Nicodemus: “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.” The Spirit, Jesus implies, is one who destabilizes, shakes up, confuses. It rumbles from underground without warning, blows in from far away without notice. Does this mean that life in the Spirit, the born-again life, is a life where you do not know what will happen next? Where you do not know where God will lead you? That eternal life is not about something perishable, or, well, predictable, like death and taxes, but about something as unpredictable and wild as the wind?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Lent 1
A reflection on the readings for First Sunday of Lent:Genesis 2:15 - 3:21; Psalm 32; Romans 5:12-21; Matthew 4:1-11 by Janine Goodwin, M.S. Ed., M.A.
All people and all places matter, and yet there are some that are closer to our hearts because our lives are entwined with them. I am a native of the Pacific Rim, an Oregonian by birth and by choice, and I have been watching the coverage of natural disasters around the Ring of Fire with a sense of wordless prayer since the Christchurch earthquake of February 22. The earthquake and tsunami in Japan have intensified that prayer and that sense that the ground can always shift beneath us; no place is safe, no possession is secure.
This frightens me less than it used to. I don’t know whether that is spiritual growth or just general fatigue combined with the increasing realization of mortality. I do know that the pictures and the stories of present disaster, the evacuations of places I know, and the view of the fault-block mountains near my home all seem to ask the question:
What matters most?
It is a very Lenten question.
What matters most to almost all the people in the disaster zone is not just their survival, but the survival of those they love. A woman carries a child through rubble. A man wades through floodwater holding on to his child with one hand and a cat carrier with the other. In the cruelest of ironies, a woman is killed because she ran back into a building to get her cell phone so that she can call her family and find out whether they are safe. People call across oceans to say they are trapped and dying and to say goodbye, to hear a beloved voice one more time. Strangers risk their lives to help others without even asking what is important to them. Rescuers converge from around the world to hunt through rubble until the survivors are found, and dedicated workers sift ashes looking for the remains of those who could not be saved. A few lost souls who think material things matter most, despite the evidence all around them, loot ruined stores.
Improbable escapes are called miraculous, and perhaps they are, but I cannot ask why one person is saved when another dies or believe God is choosing to “take” those who die. I believe in a God who is with us whether we live or die, whether we believe or not, whether we took the step that led to death or life with divine guidance or by simple chance, whether we have a chance at all. I believe in a God whose love transcends death and a God who weeps with us as Jesus did, not a puppet-master God, not a cosmic child building and destroying and choosing which toys will die.
I see that theme everywhere these days, so it is understandable that I see it in these scriptures. Relationship with God matters more than total freedom to eat any fruit (though I do wish for a version of the myth in which the first humans ask God why it is so important to obey the prohibition). Paul speaks of a God who wants to be in relationship with us no matter what we’ve done, and chooses to become one of us. And Jesus, in the Gospel, rejects every attempt to turn him aside from the most important thing, his relationship with God and the task he is called to do.
I want to know what matters most and base my life on it now. It won’t save me from anything; life is not safe and faith is not about guarantees of anything but God's presence no matter what. If I know what matters to me, if I spend this Lent listening for the stern yet joyful grace that refuses all distractions, I will have lived, no matter how I die.
What matters most to you? What would you care about if no property, no job, no home were left to you? What will you do, this Lent, to make sure you put first what matters most?
All people and all places matter, and yet there are some that are closer to our hearts because our lives are entwined with them. I am a native of the Pacific Rim, an Oregonian by birth and by choice, and I have been watching the coverage of natural disasters around the Ring of Fire with a sense of wordless prayer since the Christchurch earthquake of February 22. The earthquake and tsunami in Japan have intensified that prayer and that sense that the ground can always shift beneath us; no place is safe, no possession is secure.
This frightens me less than it used to. I don’t know whether that is spiritual growth or just general fatigue combined with the increasing realization of mortality. I do know that the pictures and the stories of present disaster, the evacuations of places I know, and the view of the fault-block mountains near my home all seem to ask the question:
What matters most?
It is a very Lenten question.
What matters most to almost all the people in the disaster zone is not just their survival, but the survival of those they love. A woman carries a child through rubble. A man wades through floodwater holding on to his child with one hand and a cat carrier with the other. In the cruelest of ironies, a woman is killed because she ran back into a building to get her cell phone so that she can call her family and find out whether they are safe. People call across oceans to say they are trapped and dying and to say goodbye, to hear a beloved voice one more time. Strangers risk their lives to help others without even asking what is important to them. Rescuers converge from around the world to hunt through rubble until the survivors are found, and dedicated workers sift ashes looking for the remains of those who could not be saved. A few lost souls who think material things matter most, despite the evidence all around them, loot ruined stores.
Improbable escapes are called miraculous, and perhaps they are, but I cannot ask why one person is saved when another dies or believe God is choosing to “take” those who die. I believe in a God who is with us whether we live or die, whether we believe or not, whether we took the step that led to death or life with divine guidance or by simple chance, whether we have a chance at all. I believe in a God whose love transcends death and a God who weeps with us as Jesus did, not a puppet-master God, not a cosmic child building and destroying and choosing which toys will die.
I see that theme everywhere these days, so it is understandable that I see it in these scriptures. Relationship with God matters more than total freedom to eat any fruit (though I do wish for a version of the myth in which the first humans ask God why it is so important to obey the prohibition). Paul speaks of a God who wants to be in relationship with us no matter what we’ve done, and chooses to become one of us. And Jesus, in the Gospel, rejects every attempt to turn him aside from the most important thing, his relationship with God and the task he is called to do.
I want to know what matters most and base my life on it now. It won’t save me from anything; life is not safe and faith is not about guarantees of anything but God's presence no matter what. If I know what matters to me, if I spend this Lent listening for the stern yet joyful grace that refuses all distractions, I will have lived, no matter how I die.
What matters most to you? What would you care about if no property, no job, no home were left to you? What will you do, this Lent, to make sure you put first what matters most?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Facets of Transformation
A Reflection on the readings for Last Epiphany/Transfiguration, Matthew 17:1-9, by The Rev. Teri C. Pilarski
The auditorium at the Salvation Army on 14th Street in New York City was filled to capacity. Women from around the world, young and old, from many countries, colors, religions, ethnicities and cultures, gathered for the 55th United Nations Commission on the Status of Women (UNCSW) NGO orientation. A variety of Non-Governmental Organizations (NGO’s) and their representatives were present. Some NGO’s made presentations at the orientation and most NGO’s offered flyers advertising the workshops they were sponsoring for the two week UNCSW.
The keynote speaker for the orientation was Michelle Bachelet, former President of Chile, and current Under-Secretary General at the United Nations and the Executive Director of the newly formed UN Women. You can read about her and her speeches here. Ms. Bachelet is an inspiring woman with great intelligence and keen insight. She holds a privileged position at the UN, one which will enable her to advocate for issues that concern women and girls, keeping them at the forefront of all UN discussions.
Later that afternoon, in a break-out session on the topic of women, girls, and education, I found myself in discussion with two women from Morocco. Dressed in headscarves the two women shared stories about the trials little girls face in an effort to acquire an education in rural Morocco. These include the risk of being attacked on the way to school by wild dogs, and or raped and kidnapped by groups of men, or being forced into household labor for wealthy urban families. Their greatest concern was the illegality of the headscarf in the classroom. Wearing the religious headscarf is illegal in some school systems. Therefore girls who wish to practice their faith and wear the scarf are prevented from acquiring and education. These women from Morocco wanted to understand the UN system of advocacy, how to make their concerns known and how to get some action for the well-being of the girl-child in Morocco.
A day earlier I attended the Ecumenical Women’s Orientation at the United Nations Church Center. At this orientation I heard a panel of speakers discuss the role of advocacy at the UNCSW. One woman named Marta said this: Go to a caucus, learn who your UN Representative is. Watch for that person to leave, perhaps go to the bathroom. Follow the person and when you catch up to them be prepared to 1. Share a short story that conveys your concern and 2. Give the representative one or two key points you want them to take back with them to UN discussions.
I shared this with the women from Morocco and gave them two flyers I had on caucuses for the education of girls. I encouraged them to go and find their representative and share their story and concerns. I told the women that I will hold them in my prayers and every time I think of Morocco I will think of them. Their story is now part of me.
When I shared this story with my Bishop one of his observations was that, I, a privileged white woman from the United States, had access to knowledge that these women from Morocco did not. He makes a valid point.
However, what I really think is that these women are smart, savvy, survivors, and they would have found the answer sooner or later. I just happened to be there. And honestly, I don’t know if the information I gave them is what they really needed or used. What I do know is that they probably figured it out. And, because of their efforts, there will be some movement toward the improvement in the quality of life for little girls in rural Morocco.
I spent a week in New York City attending the UNCSW and the parallel NGO events. Because I am currently under-employed and have had to piece together an income for the last 20 months I had no resources to pay for my trip to this event. Thankfully, and gratefully, I was sponsored by Anglican Women’s Empowerment (AWE). In the course of my life, rising up from a working class family, acquiring two Master’s degrees (and the student loan debt), and working in fields that are male-dominated, I have faced many challenges and struggles as a girl and as a woman. And even still I remain a privileged white woman. Nonetheless this privileged status is not without significant life lessons. Frankly, not all white privilege is the same. Being white can mask the ways in which I have been subjected to misogynistic prejudice, stereotypes, classism, and systems of dysfunction.
A few days ago a friend of mine was ordained. I have known her since 1995 when we were both in seminary together. For a variety of reasons her ordination process was stopped and she was subjected to some painful scrutiny. She graduated from seminary and proceeded on to a career as a hospital chaplain. Then, a few years ago, the call to ordination began to percolate in her again, culminating in her ordination some fifteen years after the process was stopped. Her ordination reminds me that the Holy Spirit is tenacious and always gets her way. Sooner or later, regardless of how humans try to divert her, the Holy Spirit ends up moving us. Her job, like the mountain top experience of the disciples who witness Jesus’ transfiguration, is to lead us into and through transformative experiences of grace. Her job is to enliven the work of God in and through us. The Holy Spirit walks us through the challenges life throws our way and sustains us with the love of Christ. The Holy Spirit is alive in us, transforming our challenges into compassion and love for ourselves and for others. The Holy Spirit enables us to turns life’s challenges into privileges of insight, self-awareness, and other-awareness. My theology professor believed in the power of the Holy Spirit to continue her work even into the after-life. By this he meant that human beings are unable to wake up to the privileges of the Spirit until we are broken open and transformed, and for some that means death comes first.
My life experiences have left me with a heightened sensitivity to the issues of women and children, increasing my capacity for compassion. I suspect that my experiences at the UNCSW, the stories I heard, the experience of being in the presence of 8500 women from around the world, and, the facts I learned, will become epiphanic, life changing experiences. I will be transformed, over and over again, as I reflect on this time. I have been made acutely aware, in new ways, that privilege has many facets. Sometimes privilege leads to abuse and oppression, and becomes life-depleting. I certainly learned a lot about that manifestation of privilege at the NGO workshops. But there are other expressions of privilege that can be life-giving.
I am privileged to have met these women and to have heard their stories. I am privileged to have worn my “collar” of ordination as a witness to the role of women clergy activists for social justice. As ordained women our role is not “better” than others. My role as an ordained woman is distinctive and particular, and comes with a privileged potential to open doors and hearts. Wearing my collar gets me into hospitals and ICU’s and people’s lives. Peter, filled with awe at the realization of who Jesus is, wanted to give Jesus a place of privilege. But Peter’s understanding of privilege would have contained Jesus, contained God’s love, to the mountain top. Jesus tells Peter, and us, the love of God is for everyone. We are all privileged in God’s eyes. The love of God exists within the beauty of our diversity. We are not intended to contain our differences nor does God intend for us to all be the same. Whether through a clergy collar or a headscarf or a prayer shawl or any other expression of faith God’s love expresses itself in the rich diversity of all humanity.
The auditorium at the Salvation Army on 14th Street in New York City was filled to capacity. Women from around the world, young and old, from many countries, colors, religions, ethnicities and cultures, gathered for the 55th United Nations Commission on the Status of Women (UNCSW) NGO orientation. A variety of Non-Governmental Organizations (NGO’s) and their representatives were present. Some NGO’s made presentations at the orientation and most NGO’s offered flyers advertising the workshops they were sponsoring for the two week UNCSW.
The keynote speaker for the orientation was Michelle Bachelet, former President of Chile, and current Under-Secretary General at the United Nations and the Executive Director of the newly formed UN Women. You can read about her and her speeches here. Ms. Bachelet is an inspiring woman with great intelligence and keen insight. She holds a privileged position at the UN, one which will enable her to advocate for issues that concern women and girls, keeping them at the forefront of all UN discussions.
Later that afternoon, in a break-out session on the topic of women, girls, and education, I found myself in discussion with two women from Morocco. Dressed in headscarves the two women shared stories about the trials little girls face in an effort to acquire an education in rural Morocco. These include the risk of being attacked on the way to school by wild dogs, and or raped and kidnapped by groups of men, or being forced into household labor for wealthy urban families. Their greatest concern was the illegality of the headscarf in the classroom. Wearing the religious headscarf is illegal in some school systems. Therefore girls who wish to practice their faith and wear the scarf are prevented from acquiring and education. These women from Morocco wanted to understand the UN system of advocacy, how to make their concerns known and how to get some action for the well-being of the girl-child in Morocco.
A day earlier I attended the Ecumenical Women’s Orientation at the United Nations Church Center. At this orientation I heard a panel of speakers discuss the role of advocacy at the UNCSW. One woman named Marta said this: Go to a caucus, learn who your UN Representative is. Watch for that person to leave, perhaps go to the bathroom. Follow the person and when you catch up to them be prepared to 1. Share a short story that conveys your concern and 2. Give the representative one or two key points you want them to take back with them to UN discussions.
I shared this with the women from Morocco and gave them two flyers I had on caucuses for the education of girls. I encouraged them to go and find their representative and share their story and concerns. I told the women that I will hold them in my prayers and every time I think of Morocco I will think of them. Their story is now part of me.
When I shared this story with my Bishop one of his observations was that, I, a privileged white woman from the United States, had access to knowledge that these women from Morocco did not. He makes a valid point.
However, what I really think is that these women are smart, savvy, survivors, and they would have found the answer sooner or later. I just happened to be there. And honestly, I don’t know if the information I gave them is what they really needed or used. What I do know is that they probably figured it out. And, because of their efforts, there will be some movement toward the improvement in the quality of life for little girls in rural Morocco.
I spent a week in New York City attending the UNCSW and the parallel NGO events. Because I am currently under-employed and have had to piece together an income for the last 20 months I had no resources to pay for my trip to this event. Thankfully, and gratefully, I was sponsored by Anglican Women’s Empowerment (AWE). In the course of my life, rising up from a working class family, acquiring two Master’s degrees (and the student loan debt), and working in fields that are male-dominated, I have faced many challenges and struggles as a girl and as a woman. And even still I remain a privileged white woman. Nonetheless this privileged status is not without significant life lessons. Frankly, not all white privilege is the same. Being white can mask the ways in which I have been subjected to misogynistic prejudice, stereotypes, classism, and systems of dysfunction.
A few days ago a friend of mine was ordained. I have known her since 1995 when we were both in seminary together. For a variety of reasons her ordination process was stopped and she was subjected to some painful scrutiny. She graduated from seminary and proceeded on to a career as a hospital chaplain. Then, a few years ago, the call to ordination began to percolate in her again, culminating in her ordination some fifteen years after the process was stopped. Her ordination reminds me that the Holy Spirit is tenacious and always gets her way. Sooner or later, regardless of how humans try to divert her, the Holy Spirit ends up moving us. Her job, like the mountain top experience of the disciples who witness Jesus’ transfiguration, is to lead us into and through transformative experiences of grace. Her job is to enliven the work of God in and through us. The Holy Spirit walks us through the challenges life throws our way and sustains us with the love of Christ. The Holy Spirit is alive in us, transforming our challenges into compassion and love for ourselves and for others. The Holy Spirit enables us to turns life’s challenges into privileges of insight, self-awareness, and other-awareness. My theology professor believed in the power of the Holy Spirit to continue her work even into the after-life. By this he meant that human beings are unable to wake up to the privileges of the Spirit until we are broken open and transformed, and for some that means death comes first.
My life experiences have left me with a heightened sensitivity to the issues of women and children, increasing my capacity for compassion. I suspect that my experiences at the UNCSW, the stories I heard, the experience of being in the presence of 8500 women from around the world, and, the facts I learned, will become epiphanic, life changing experiences. I will be transformed, over and over again, as I reflect on this time. I have been made acutely aware, in new ways, that privilege has many facets. Sometimes privilege leads to abuse and oppression, and becomes life-depleting. I certainly learned a lot about that manifestation of privilege at the NGO workshops. But there are other expressions of privilege that can be life-giving.
I am privileged to have met these women and to have heard their stories. I am privileged to have worn my “collar” of ordination as a witness to the role of women clergy activists for social justice. As ordained women our role is not “better” than others. My role as an ordained woman is distinctive and particular, and comes with a privileged potential to open doors and hearts. Wearing my collar gets me into hospitals and ICU’s and people’s lives. Peter, filled with awe at the realization of who Jesus is, wanted to give Jesus a place of privilege. But Peter’s understanding of privilege would have contained Jesus, contained God’s love, to the mountain top. Jesus tells Peter, and us, the love of God is for everyone. We are all privileged in God’s eyes. The love of God exists within the beauty of our diversity. We are not intended to contain our differences nor does God intend for us to all be the same. Whether through a clergy collar or a headscarf or a prayer shawl or any other expression of faith God’s love expresses itself in the rich diversity of all humanity.
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