There was worse than death

Albrecht Dürer, The Revelation of St John: The Four Riders of 
the Apocalypse, 1497-98, Woodcut, 39 x 28 cm, Staatliche Kunsthalle


Et vidi quod aperuisset Agnus unum de septem sigillis, et audivi unum de quattuor animalibus, dicens, tamquam vocem tonitrui: Veni, et vide.

And I saw that the Lamb had opened one of the seven seals. And I heard one of the four living creatures saying, in a voice like thunder: “Draw near and see.”

                                                                                        - Revelation 6:1                  

Latin Vulgate text, English translation (CPDV)

When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, "Come and see!" I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine, and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7-8 (NIV)

Resignation was ever the fount of man's strength and new hope.  Man accepted the reality of death and built the meaning of his bodily life upon it.  He resigned himself to the truth that he had a soul to lose and that there was worse than death, and founded his freedom upon it.  He resigns himself, in our time, to the reality of society which means the end of that freedom. ...  Uncomplaining acceptance of the reality of society gives man indomitable courage and strength to remove all removable injustice and unfreedom.

         

        - Karl Polyani     

         [Preface to Margaret R. Somers, Genealogies of Citizenship (2008)]

On this day, in this week, of horrific killings, probably the last thing most people want to think about is Death, Hades, and the Apocalypse.  We want to think of blessed angels (the cherubic kind) and feel the sharp pain of their loss, while doing our best to keep from being engulfed in the horrific images their slaughter brings to mind.  Their innocence magnifies that pain, but it also gives us hope.  The radiance that surrounds our images of them, before and after death, gives us a glimmer of light in the midst of the darkest of tragedies.  

This is as it should be, or at least is the best many of us can muster, while reeling from shock and pain.  The only immediate sense to be made of such brutal, heartless, deranged acts is to grasp the good that was lost and embrace all the more those that we love and hold most dear.

But what follows, sooner for some than others, are deeper questions and the pressing need to take action, to do whatever conceivably can be done to keep something like this from happening -- yet again.  Hence the talk of gun control, better access to and quality of treatment for mental illness, and help for families with troubled youth.  No one expects that any particular measure or measures will prevent all mass killings. Nor does anyone suggest that their implementation, alone, would have averted the tragedies of this past week.  What is hoped is that these tragedies will at last bring open-minded and clear-sighted discussion of what reasonably can be done to reduce the extraordinarily high incidence of gun violence in the U.S., which is unparalleled in the world.  And what is lamented is things both done and left undone.

None of this -- neither the radiance of angels nor the drive to seek practical solutions   -- can ever take us away from the reality of Death, the Pale Rider and his fellows, with Hades following close behind. Death is cruel, whether it comes in a sudden explosion of violence, calamity, or disease, or slowly from infirmity, ending in a last rattling gasp for breath.  It is nothing to be sensed or known other than in its gaping, bleeding, ashen loss of the living, breathing flesh that was human. And it always comes, sooner or alter, pounding down the road. 

Nevertheless, whether we deal with death in terms of resignation, acceptance, protest or denial, there remains what is "worse than death."  In times past when most people saw the End of Times as a prophetic vision of the near future, it was the spectre of Hades, eternal torment and separation from God.  Polanyi suggests that this vision may have given those who lived in times and places with little or no hope in their daily lives, a kind of freedom in knowing that they might be saved from "worse than death" for eternity.  No matter what horrors The Horsemen brought, no matter how grinding and awful their daily lives, with Death all around, there was still hope of salvation.  

Polyani further suggests that this kind of freedom has been lost in modern society but that another kind may be found in the hope that comes from the courage and will to seek to "remove all removable injustice and unfreedom."   Secular humanists no doubt would agree, while contemporary mainstream Christians would contend that Kingdom building on earth does not replace hope of eternal salvation but rather is an essential part of that hope, now and in the days to come.

However we might employ systems of thought, such as theology or social or political philosophy, to sort this out, in the end what remains is  "worse than death" -- not things that we might imagine are or could be worse than dying, but rather the gut feeling and knowing that there is, indeed, "worse than death." 

A tragedy like the killings in Newtown makes no sense, no matter how much we may try to reduce it to a political or social problem or enlarge it to the forces of Evil.  There is no picture, no way to conceive of this kind of slaughter of innocents, which has no context.  The Four Horsemen do not capture it.  Nor is there any social or political context of the kind that would give us some kind of perspective, such as what we have for acts of terrorism, torture, and tyranny.

We must weep.  We must mourn.  We must comfort the afflicted.  This must come first.  But we must also dig deep into our incomprehension, pain and search for truth.

There lies our deepest fear: senselessness gripping and grinding us up in its jaws. Freedom from fear requires something other than diving into bunkers, clutching our material belongings, brandishing our guns, and guarding ourselves from the Government, dark-skinned or Spanish-speaking people, or any others whom we think might take our property and guns away.  Freedom from fear requires something more than engineering our safety by means of even better lock-down procedures at schools and  gun control.  Freedom from fear requires searching deeply, thoughtfully, with humility and love, for what gives us the sense of "worse than death," and rejecting the mad, self-centered, self-protecting ways of trying to run ahead of the galloping horses. 

We cannot stop the riders but we can slow them down.

How Lovely

                                         Photo by jpstanley on Flickr  Some rights reserved

The night sky

Sermons by the Rev. James M. Jensen on Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday 2009

Grace Church, Utica

In today’s world, if you say to someone that it’s the beginning of Lent and that you’re going to church, you’ve got a 50/50 chance of getting a blank stare, or at least a look of boredom. Unlike Christmas, which has become a purely secular holiday for many people, or Easter, which has become society’s “spring festival,” Lent is something that is peculiarly Christian. And this is true despite that fact that in large cities like New York, more people will enter churches today than any other day of the year. They come to have ashes imposed upon their foreheads, because they know, almost instinctively, that everything in their lives is not as it ought to be.

On Ash Wednesday we do indeed receive marks on our foreheads— a cross traced with ashes, reminiscent of the cross that was traced with sacred oil at our baptisms. This cross is not intended as a public display of our piety or as evidence of the fact that we are religious people. Rather, this cross reminds us who we are and to whom we belong. This cross on our foreheads, like the crucifix that sits on our altar during Lent is intended to remind us that Emmanuel—  “God with us”— died on a cross out of love for you and me.

Since Old Testament times, ashes have been a sign of mourning. As we begin this lenten season, we are entering a time of mourning— 

— mourning for the death of Christ

— mourning for what has been lost

in our own lives and in the world.

The fact that the smudge from the ashes is black and dirty, reminds us that our hearts and souls are unclean, and that we stand in need of God’s saving grace.

Yet in spite of their inherent dirtiness, ashes have also been used in cleaning and purification. They can be used to make soap and other cleansing and polishing agents. These ashes placed on our foreheads will remind us that it is God who washes us from our iniquities and cleanses us from our sins.

The ashes also remind us of our mortality. Produced from the palms of previous years, they remind us that we, too, are made of dust and will return to the earth.

And so we enter Lent marked with the sign of a cross made from dust on our foreheads, and we are reminded that we have been sealed by the sign of that very same cross. We are indeed reminded of who we are and to whom we belong. We have been sealed as one of God’s own chosen children sealed forever into a relationship with a gracious God.

In the Old Testament Lesson the prophet Joel exhorts us to return to the Lord. Wherever we are in life, whatever problems we are facing, whatever joy we may be experiencing, whatever sin we may be carrying, whether our faith is strong, weak, or non-existent, the prophet Joel tells us, “Return to the Lord your God.”

In this usage, the word return means to repent of wrong doings, to change direction, to stop doing the things that are hurtful to other people, and things that alienate us from God. To return is to turn one’s face and focus toward God.  We are encouraged to return to the Holy One, the one who is gracious, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

Lent is all about returning to God. The central focus of Lent is not really fasting and sacrifices, although for some people these acts of self-restraint are useful in helping one return to God. Lent is about really turning our focus from inward “naval gazing” toward being outwardly God-focused. It is about turning toward God and away from the things that are wrong, hurtful, or alienating. It is about is about redirecting our gaze from the treasures on earth and toward the cross. Lent is about remembering that we have been sealed in a relationship with One who is gracious and merciful toward us.

Mercifully for us this seal holds even on the days that we can’t remember to whom we are supposed to turn, and in which direction where we are supposed to look. Along with the psalmist we plead

Create in me a clean heart O God,

Renew a steadfast spirit within me.

Our attempts to return to God by our own efforts are reminiscent of the fable

of the King with only one son. This son had traveled a 100 days away from the King and was desolate. His friends kept urging him to return to his father. He kept saying I cannot. His father hearing of his plight wrote to him, “Return as far as you can to me and I will meet you on the journey.”

So it is with God, who understands our weaknesses and our faith that wobbles, and our inability to turn toward the Holy One. God sent a Son to meet us

on our life’s journey.

One theologian has written that our attempts at Lenten sacrifice, fasting and penance may actually be more effective if we fail in them than if we succeed. Their purpose is not to save us by our own efforts but to bring home to us our need for God’s intervention.

Because with our own efforts we are unable to turn around, repent and be reconciled to God. God sends a Son to us.

As St. Paul wrote in our reading from Second Corinthians

“He who knew no sin was made by God to be sin so that in Jesus we might be made right and reconciled with God.”

And so tonight

As we enter Lent

And accept the ashen cross

On our foreheads,

We acknowledge

That by ourselves,

We cannot stop sinning,

And that by ourselves,

We cannot repent or turn toward God.

Instead, we reflect on that ashen cross

And the merciful God

Who used a hated cross

As a way to save us,

And who sent a Son to meet us

And carry us on the path toward the Holy One.

Amen

Ash Wednesday 2007

The Hasidic tradition of Judaism teaches that every one of us should have two pockets in our coat, and that in each pocket there should be a slip of paper with a note on it. The note in one pocket reads, “I am only dust and ashes.” In contrast, the note in the other pocket reads, “For me the whole universe was created.”

Sometimes we need to remember that first note; we will do it   [today]    [tonight]    as we come to be marked with the ashes of repentance. There are other times when we need to remember the second note, to remember that through our faith in Christ we have been adopted as God’s sons and daughters, have received forgiveness for our sins and been made joint heirs with Christ of all that is holy and gracious. We will also do this    [today]    [tonight]    as we receive the Blessed Sacrament of the Lord’s Body and Blood.

Sorrow and joy.

Repentance and forgiveness.

Humility and joyful confidence.

Fasting and Feasting.

These are the parameters that define our life in Christ. These are the things the Holy Spirit seeks to arouse within us, both convicting us and comforting us as we live out our Christian commitment.

This is especially true in Lent, when the Church holds before us our Lord’s sacrifice on the cross as our spiritual preparation for celebrating his victory on Easter Day. Lent is a time to focus on one of the great mysteries of our faith expressed in the familiar words, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” It is also expressed in the words, “I am only dust and ashes”... [and yet,] “for me the whole universe was created.”

As we embrace both of these truths—  as we feel both sorrow over our sins and joy over our salvation—  may it begin a season of both fasting and feasting: a fast in which we rend our hearts and not our garments, and a feast in which we give thanks to God for his goodness and mercy.

In our fasting, may we take to heart the words of St. John Chrysostom, the fifth century Bishop of Constantinople, who cautioned:

“Do you fast? Give me proof of it by your works. If you see a poor man, take pity on him. If you see a friend being honored, do not envy him.

“Do not let only your mouth fast, but also the eye and the ear and the feet and the hands and all the members of our bodies.

                 “Let the hands fast, by being free of [greed.] Let the feet fast, by ceasing to run after sin. Let the eyes fast, by disciplining them not to glare at that which is sinful. Let the ear fast, by not listening to evil talk and gossip. Let the mouth fast from foul words and unjust criticism.

“For what good is it if we abstain from birds and fishes, but bite and devour our brothers [and sisters]?”

But let us also remember the feasting appropriate for Lent—
to feast on prayer and forgiveness,

to feast on compassion for other people

and on the Christ

who is present to us in them

to feast on praise and gratitude

for the blessings God has given

to feast on enthusiasm and hope

for all that God has promised

to feast on the truth which is ours in Christ

and for the courage to proclaim it>


May the Lord who came to the world to save the lost, strengthen us to complete our fast with humility, and to keep the feast with joy and thanksgiving<

Ash Wednesday 2006

Grace Church, Utica

In the Old Testament Lesson, from the book of the prophet Joel, we heard these words:

Return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.

One of the ways the ancient Hebrews demonstrated sorrow or anger, was by publicly tearing their clothes. That meant that any national emergency or disaster, as well as any piece of tragic personal news, could leave your wardrobe in shreds. The signifi­cance of such an act is certainly far less if you have closets stocked the way most of ours are. In fact if you’ve got a closet full of clothes, tearing one garment to shreds would have about as much significance as the giving up of meat on Fridays and then eating lobster instead. The motive is insincere—  it’s tainted. God looks to the heart; genuine sorrow for our sins must be heartfelt. So the prophet tells us to “rend our hearts and not our clothing.”

The emphasis on the heart was important in the Hebrew tradition, because the heart was understood not only as the center of our affections and emotions; the heart was believed to be the “hidden place” —  the sanctuary—  the place where faith and understanding and decisive choices are made. The heart was where our conscience dwells, the “inner tabernacle” where we encounter God. In the 5^th Century St. Jerome declared that while Plato and the Greek philosophers located the soul in our heads, Jesus taught that the soul is in our hearts.

But if the heart is the place where God dwells within us, it is also the place where the power of sin gets its grip on us. That’s why, on Ash Wednesday, we’re asked not only to “rend” our hearts, but also to “examine” them. Lent is a time to examine our hearts, to come to grips with the sources of our own sin and wrong­doing, in order that we can be ready with clean hearts and minds to celebrate the Lord’s resurrection.

In just a couple of minutes, I will, in the name of the Church, invite you to observe a “holy Lent.” How might we do that? Well, we might start by realizing that merely giving up something doesn’t get us very far, unless we take up or take on something in its place. “Taking on” can be done in many ways. It might include a few minutes of reflection at the end of the day as a means of self-examination. It might mean looking carefully at what we have said and done, and at our relationships with those closest to us. It might mean making a commitment to a deeper life of prayer and scripture reading, setting aside some specific time to spend in communion with the Lord. It might mean reading the newspaper—  not just to be better informed but to see where there might be opportunities for us to do something concrete to make the world a better place. Or, it might mean taking to heart these words of William Temple, a former Archbishop of Canterbury, when he spoke about “repentance.” Archbishop Temple said.....

The world, as we live in it, is like a shop window into which some mischievous person has got over­night, and shifted all the [price-tags] so that the cheap things have the high [price-tags] on them, and the really precious things are priced low. We let ourselves be taken in [when we accept them as is and thereby develop a distorted sense of values.] Repentance means getting those price-tags back in the right place.

As we face up to our own shortcomings, as well as some guilt for how they’ve shown themselves in our lives, there will probably be some anger and defensiveness to address, and also some pain as the truth begins to break through. Without the pain, there will be no gain; and it’s the pain that rents our hearts, and that’s how you and I walk the way of the Cross.

It’s all an essential part of the process by which our religion becomes less a theory and more of a love affair. And when all is said and done, that’s what God really wants from us, our love— our love offered in return for his love, offered freely and without any conditions. That’s the way of the Cross, which is for us, the way of Life.

Ash Wednesday 2005

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

We hear those words every Ash Wednesday. Those words echo God’s admonition to Adam and Eve, after they had eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil: “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” They also bring to mind those words from the committal prayer in the liturgy for Christian burial: “...we commend to Almighty God, our brother [or sister]..... and we commit [this] body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Ashes to ashes, dust to dust— a stark reminder of our origin as well as our destination, if we were to be left on our own.

So why do we bother coming here on this day to have ashes smeared on our foreheads? Why do we come together in the cold of winter to hear these harsh words? We do it precisely because we have not been left on our own. We do it as a reminder of who we are, but more importantly as a reminder of who God is, and what God has done for us in and through Jesus Christ. We gather be­cause while in and of ourselves we are dust and ashes, by God’s grace we are so much more than that. God has, in fact, given us a way out of our plight. It is the way of the Cross. The death and resurrection of Jesus was God's way of placing a sign of infinite value upon what might otherwise be worth very little. Of course we don’t begin this new life [today] [tonight]; it began some time ago, when we were baptized. That’s when we became inheritors of the kingdom of heaven; that’s when our dust was given the blessed gift of  redemption.

We gather to hear, once again, that God has chosen to give us the precious gift of new life, a life that leads not to the dust heap and the ash pit, but to eternity. What God asks of us is that we remember we are sinners, that we repent and embrace Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, and that we accept divine mercy. God also asks that we practice a piety that is not motivated by thoughts of human praise or reward. Remember Jesus did not say, ‘Beware of practic­ing piety,’ nor did he say ‘Beware of practicing your piety before others.’ He said, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them.” It all has to do with our motives. If our purpose is to demonstrate our own virtue, we’re wasting our time—  in fact, we’re being blasphemous. If, however, our focus is on God and not on ourselves, then our piety is not only an offering of praise and thanksgiving, but a time of communion with the host of heaven.

God has made a commitment to us, and given to us, in the cross of Christ, the sign and seal of that commitment. [Today]    [Tonight]   we come to take up that sign once again, the same sign given to us when we were baptized. We come to re-commit our­selves to God, remembering that while we may be dust, we have also been redeemed by God’s grace, and reborn into a living hope through the Lord’s resurrection. It’s a hope that is ours to claim because God has acted in Christ to offer that new life to all who repent and believe the Gospel.

So come now, to hear, to taste and to see how gracious the Lord is; blessed are those who trust in him. 

ASH WEDNESDAY 2003

Like some other aspects of the Christian life Lent is some­thing of a paradox, a seeming contradiction. We see some evidence of it on Ash Wednesday. As ashes are imposed on your forehead you will hear the words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” These bodies of ours that we pamper with hot tubs and wrinkle creams, and discipline with aerobic exercise so that we can reward ourselves with pizza and Saranac Amber, these bodies are going to crumble and decay, and there isn’t a thing any of us can do about it. Remember that you are dust—  it’s enough to make you cry.

And yet, in another part of the Lenten liturgy we give thanks to God praying, “you bid your faithful people cleanse their hearts, and prepare with joy for the Paschal feast....” Prepare with joy—  that means feasting and celebration!

So which is it? What’s it going to be? Are we supposed to join the prophet Joel, weeping and mourning as we observe a day of darkness and doom? Or, are we to give ear to Jesus, and douse our faces with Dove or Safeguard, add a little spritz of Chanel or Polo, and dance around the clock?

Well, as with any good paradox you’ve got to do some of each; and Lent is no exception. We must prepare ourselves to face both sorrow and joy, both tears and laughter, because what we’re preparing for is the paschal mystery— the mystery of Easter. Em­bracing Easter involves embracing the paradox dying and rising, of losing life in order to gain it. It’s all symbolized for us in the dust of ashes and in the sign of the cross.

The symbol of dust comes to us from the book of Genesis, and God’s judgement on humanity after the rebellion of Adam and Eve. God says to them:

By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out if it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Every human being on the face of the earth is as common as dust. We’re ordinary—  a speck in the universe. If a handful of people see us as different and gifted, there are a billion others who’ve never heard of us and could care less. Each and every day we are in the process of dying. We are creatures of sin—  not always sinning but always blowing hot and cold, more often than not giving in to our selfishness and our self-centeredness, and wandering far away from the God whom we ought to love more than life itself.

That all sounds grim—  it is grim if we stop there. But the symbol of dust is incomplete by itself. Our foreheads are dusted with the sign of the cross, and the cross declares that our dust has been redeemed. The cross reminds us that God in Christ took that same dust of which we’re made and breathed new life into it. As the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins put it, ever since Bethlehem and Calvary our dusty humanity is charged with the grandeur of God. Our dust is literally electric with God’s own life. And being electri­fied with God’s own life we are assured of a place in God’s eter­nity.

Lent is an annual reminder of what Christian living is all about; it’s a joyful opportunity to renew our commitment to dying and rising with Christ. There will always be some tears as we face up to our shortcomings and let go of those things we thought were so important; that’s the dying part. But then comes the rising, the incredible joy of discovering life— life that is full and complete, life that is rooted in eternity.

There is no Lent without the Cross; but neither is there Lent without the Resurrection. Remember that you are dust; and remem­ber, too, that your dust has been redeemed.

Here I am, here's what I see

"To be at the edge of your time, on the cusp of extinction, and still be working like that? This is a long way from 'I am waving. I am waving my hands. I am disappearing.' This is pressing your mind against the world and still saying, 'Here I am. Here's what I see...' "

From "The Difference a Hand Makes" NPR.

Will be back here soon, just saying what I see...........

K.

                                                   (photo courtesy of imagebase.davidniblack.com)

Worship as an Offering

Presentation of Christ at the Temple by Hans Holbein the Elder, 1500-1501 (Kunsthalle, Hamburg)

Mary was a devout woman and so she was anxious to do all that the Law of the Lord required, not because she felt coerced or put-upon, and not because she was afraid of the consequences if she didn't, but because her entire life was one of saying "Yes" to God.  Remember, that's how it all began, when the Angel Gabriel came to her, announcing that she would give birth to God's Son.  She said, "Yes -- let it be according to your word."

One of the great truths about human life and our relationship with God is that we have been given the freedom to choose -- we choose whether or not we will be a part of the life which God offers, and we choose whether or not to seek God's will.  And God waits for our free participation.  Mary said, "yes," and in that response she was blessed.  That's why she has always been seen by the Church as the first example of what it means to live the Christian life.  It means living in joyous response to the will of God.  Because Mary said "Yes," the Holy Spirit overshadowed her, and the miracle of the Incarnation took place.  By the power of God she conceived in her womb, and the perfect union of humanity and divinity was accomplished.  That's why Mary is among the blessed and that's why Christians down through the ages have always shown great love and devotion to her.

This feast also reminds us of something that is essential to the whole idea of worship, and that is that worship is something that we offer, something that we give to God.  In the Temple scene where Mary and Joseph stand by the priest, holding their baby and offering their sacrifice, there is something very simple and natural -- something wonderfully objective.  They did not perform this act because they thought it would make them feel good inside.  I suspect that they would have been shocked if anyone had asked if they got anything out of it.  They may well have been moved by a beautiful act of worship, but that's not why they did it.  They were simply fulfilling their obligation -- participating in the religious observance of their faith, something that completely transcended their own feeling or convenience.

Worship is both an offering and an experience:  it is something we offer to God and it is also intended to put us in touch with and give us an experience of the 'holy.'  But we need to avoid the temptation of becoming so totally focused on our experience that we lose sight of worship as offering.  Far too many people have developed a twisted idea that worship is a kind of church program whose primary focus is on the worshippers, and making them feel good.  If the reason we come to church is to give ourselves some positive strokes, then what we're engaged in isn't the worship of God but the worship of self -- and that, it seems to me, is the supreme blasphemy.

Worship is giving glory to God, offering our praise and thanksgiving, and acknowledging our dependence on God for everything that we are and ever will be.  It's a time to be reminded of what it means to be God's people, and to join with our sisters and brothers in Christ in receiving the Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.  That's what we're to get from it -- the sacramental assurance that we belong to God and that nothing in this world has the power to change that fact.  There are times when it is not particularly fun or exciting, there are times when we don't particularly feel like it, but we do it anyway because that's part of what it means to be God's People.  In fact, I would argue that it's precisely when we don't feel like it that we need it all the more.  We need to reject the temptation to be consumed by our own feelings, and instead place ourselves before the one who knows us, inside and out, because God is the one who can bring us wholeness and strength.

So we give thanks on this feast day for our Lord Jesus Christ, who is our light and our salvation.  We give thanks for the example of Blessed Mary and her loving and willing obedience to God's will.  And we offer our worship in the way in which God delights -- gathering around the altar with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven to lift our hearts and voices in praise and thanksgiving.

Excerpt from a sermon given for the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus Christ and the Purification of the Blessed Virgin, February 2, 1997, St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Dekalb, Illinois by Fr. James M. Jensen.

Stopping the World

Last week I stumbled upon a video featuring a talk by Fr. Terry Martin on evangelism (follow link here to video at EDOW site).  I listened attentively, hearing much I had heard or read before, including the Stopping the World stories, the ones that had first drawn me to Jake's place, which I later came back to from time to time.  My blog began when these stories meshed together in my heart and mind with those of my husband and his family, and the Good Shepherd story he used in a sermon given not long after his mother's funeral.  Both struck me as Wounded Healers, in the best sense, and I began to understand Jim in different, deeper way, finally knowing how the man and priest were one and the same.

But last Saturday, during a dark time, was the first I heard these stories told with Terry's face and voice.  I listened and the tears started streaming down my face.  I heard  "in all things God works for good" and "God redeems the most terrible of situations," and all I could think was, "yes, sometimes, maybe for you, but no, sadly no, not for me."  It was not a lack of faith or conviction of hope in a global sense, but rather an overwhelming feeling that redemption was over for me, that all that I had been through in life, good and bad, all I had struggled for, had come to nought, and had ended in a flood of despair and heartache that was choking all life from me, so that for me there simply was no hope of redemption - not ever.

This week has been full of turmoil of all kinds.  Yet I awoke this morning with an odd realization:  John, my first husband, was diagnosed with a Type 4 glioblastoma, had brain surgery to remove a golf-ball sized malignant tumor, was told he had less than six months to live, miraculously recovered, went into remission, and lived another fourteen years.  During that time, we resolved our marital differences by separating and divorcing, and I was able to learn to love him again, recall what was best in him, and be there to support him in ways I never could have done had we stayed together.

Jim died suddenly and brutally, each step of the way during his last moments going horrifically wrong, a kind of nightmare scenario from all the medical shows we watched on t.v., which somehow ended up being eerily quiet and heartbreakingly real.  In the time since, I have grieved and will continue to grieve much.  But I have also come to love him more and to better know the best in him, each and every day, and he has been here to support me in some ways he never could have had we stayed together longer here on earth.

So, maybe instead of cruel irony, despite the deep despair and loss, maybe there is redemption after all.  I do not believe that God engineered these events, made them part of his grand design, for the sake of my benefit, instruction, or suffering.   Yet I am beginning to see that God has been redeeming this most terrible situation, for me and others.  It just takes time, patience, and a willingness to listen for it.

[Note: The link to Fr. Terry's video from his website no longer works for some reason.  You can still see his video talk if you go here: http://www.diobeth.org/Ministries/Evangelism/evangelism.html and scroll down to Video-Based Small Group Courses and look for the videos from the Diocese of Washington.  Then if you click on the WindowsMedia link next to Terry's name, you can see it from there.]

The Cup of Sorrow

"Now I look at the man of sorrows. He hangs on a cross with outstretched arms.  It is Jesus, condemned by Pontius Pilate, crucified by Roman soldiers, and ridiculed by Jews and Gentiles alike.  But it is also us, the whole human race, people of all times and all places, uprooted from the earth as a spectacle of agony for the entire universe to watch.  "When I am lifted up from the earth," Jesus said.  "I shall draw all people to myself" (John 12:32).  Jesus, the man of sorrows, and we, the people of sorry, hang there between heaven and earth, crying out "God our God, why have you forsaken us?"

"Can you drink the cup that I am going to drink?"  Jesus asked his friends.  They answered yes, but had no idea what he was talking about.  Jesus' cup is the cup of sorrow, not just his own sorrow but the sorrow of the whole human race. It is a cup full of physical, mental, and spiritual anguish.  It is the cup of starvation, torture, loneliness, rejection, abandonment, and immense anguish.  It is the cup full of bitterness.  Who wants to drink it?  It is the cup that Isiah calls "the cup of God's wrath.  The chalice, the stupefying cup, ou have drained to the dregs," (Isaiah 51:17) and what the second angel in the Book of Revelation calls the "the wine of retribution" (Revelation 14:8), which Babylon gave the whole world to drink.

.   .   .   .   .

In the midst of sorrows is consolation, in the midst of darkness is light, in the midst of Babylon is a glimpse of Jerusalem, and in the midst of the army of demons is the consoling angel.  The cup of sorrow, inconceivable as it seems, is also the cup of joy.  Only when we discover this in our own life can we consider drinking it."

Henri J.M. Nouwen, Can You Drink the Cup?



The Thirteenth Station

The body of Jesus is placed in the arms of his mother

We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you.

Because by your Holy Cross you have redeemed the world.

All you who pass by, behold and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow. My eyes are spent with weeping; my soul is in tumult; my hear is poured out in grief because of the downfall of my people. “Do not call me Naomi (which means Pleasant), call me Mara (which means Bitter); for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me.”

Her tears run down her cheeks:
And she has none to comfort her.

Let us pray.

Silence is kept

Lord Jesus, you consoled Mary and Martha in their distress, you wept at the grave of Lazarus your friend, dry the tears of those who weep and comfort us in our sorrow that we may go forth strengthened in your love. Amen.

Holy God,
Holy and Strong,
Holy and Immortal,

Have mercy on us


Common Worship: Services and Prayers for the Church of England
The Archbishops’ Council 2000
Stations of the Cross.doc.5 — 26 March 2004

Is there such a thing as a "healthy" congregation?

Is there such a thing as a healthy congregation? The short answer, I think, is no. There may be moments in time when a snapshot might capture group traits and behaviors suggestive of a strong, relatively stable system for nurturing spiritual growth and ministry. But there can no more be healthy congregations than there can be perfect marriages.

So what? Isn't the point to try, to work on developing and maintaining group dynamics that approach the ideal? And after all, isn't one of the cardinal points in a systems theory such as Peter Steinke's that "wholeness is not attainable"? What's wrong with using systems theory and other psychological and sociological models to help people get along better and learn to work better together?

Nothing really, at least not when sensitive, thoughtful people use them in situations that cry out for help. If systems theory or anything else can get people to step back from conflicts that are strangling a community and learn better ways to manage differences in the future, so much the better.

The same is true for many tools widely available and touted as essential parts of a Human Resources tool kit (or, if you will, medicine bag) for congregations, clergy, and dioceses -- survey forms, focus group studies, long-range planning programs, etc. Used sparingly, appropriately, by those who are not only trained in how to use them but also gifted in their ability to relate to people, to listen, understand, and assist, rather than diagnose, direct, or control, these may be helpful. The problem, however, is when everyone is using them, all of the time, regardless of whether the congregation is suffering from a condition or situation that the tools might help remedy or whether they are being applied by those who know how to use them effectively.

It is like taking anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications or even going to counseling to try to achieve the perfect balance in mood, mind, attention or energy. While it is good to seek help when we need it and learn what we can and should change about ourselves and our circumstances, it also is important to recognize the limitations of medicine, technology, and self-help in general, to make sure that we do not blind ourselves, with a flurry of self-improvement activities, to the pain and suffering of others, the stark reality of our flawed natures, and the urgent need to be in right relation with God before we can even begin to hope of peace and the joy of knowing God's saving grace.

To put it more simply, when we put so much of our time and energy in employing assessment tools and trying to implement social engineering, we run the great risk of our methods becoming the message. I think that is really the point of Ed's sermon (see below). Do we want to be seen and known as those who construct and maintain "healthy congregations" or those who go forth into the world living the Good News, imitating Christ rather than checking off items on a congregational assessment checklist?

Of course the proponents of these methods will argue that they are, in fact, serving the greater goal by helping us live in communities that will better nurture our spiritual growth and provide encouragement and support for serving others. I understand that is the goal, indeed the hope, of their efforts, and I mean no disrespect for those who have thought deeply, listened carefully, and worked diligently and faithfully towards that goal.

Yet I still must ask the questions. I have seen time and time again groups of laypeople and clergy who have attended countless hours of meetings, seminars, and workshops, who have heard truly inspirational speakers, read books and articles about what the church should be doing and how it might best weather the storm of sweeping changes in our culture, economy, social groups and interactions. We listen, become more hopeful, and sometimes we feel we have learned a lot. Other times we share these ideas with those in our parish and brainstorm as to how we might implement them. Yet, truthfully, what becomes of most of it? Even when we think we see some small positive results, have we really gained much other than the pleasure of a few moments of wistful hope that things are not as bad as they seem to be?

As far as professional assessment tools are concerned, their benefits in terms of efficiency may be outweighed by the mixed messages they send. No matter how expertly constructed, their structure and content imply certain expectations and ideas about what makes a healthy congregation. Even the best designed and administered surveys have a slant, suggesting which characteristics are negative and which are positive. For example, satisfaction with things they way they are or doing them the same way is seen as negative, while greater willingness to change and experiment with new ways is seen as positive. Likewise, ranking the extent to which congregational life sparks "energy" and "enthusiasm" implies that the failure to produce that kind of response indicates either that the congregation is not spiritually alive or that it is not lively enough to attract outsiders.

More tellingly, significant parts of these surveys assess levels of satisfaction with certain aspects of congregational life. While it may be useful to find out what people are really unhappy about, discovering it with this kind of exercise gives the message that the congregation is comprised of customers to be satisfied, and that by scientifically cataloguing their likes and dislikes, they will have a better chance of being matched with the pastor of their dreams (shades of E-Harmony).

It is debatable whether professional surveys, consultants, and the data and reports they produce give enough benefit for the dollar over the old ways of open-ended survey questions distributed by mail or in church, lay people puzzling over what they receive in return, and group meetings and flip chart data. They certainly have the advantage of having others do the hard work of collecting and digesting information and presenting it in a format that is attractive and easy-to-read for both the congregation and, in the context of a search process, candidates for clergy positions. But the point here is not which survey methods are best or even how often or how they should be done, but rather to suggest that these assessment rituals have become increasingly important for not only the ways in which the data is used to direct and shape congregational life, but also the way it makes us think that the "health" of our congregations is a matter of vital and ongoing concern, which can be measured according to scientifically informed criteria and measurement tools.

The larger implication is that there are, in fact, objective ways to identify and "treat" unhealthy conditions, and that we must be ever diligent in seeking out congregational "disease" and doing all we can to rid ourselves of it. This adds a whole new layer of meaning to the need for any organization to listen to its members, face problems, and deal with them before they get out of hand. Instead of taking us away from the notion that our clergy are merely hospice workers caring for an old and dying institution, it merely reinforces that idea. It also supports the view that unless we do something quickly and effectively, in terms of dramatic life-saving efforts, with the best tools that science can provide, mainline Christianity will die out entirely.  Finally, it suggests that what the church is most concerned about maintaining is the congregation as a functional social unit rather than nurturing the faith of the people who are its members, wherever they may go.

I'd like to suggest a metaphor that may be more realistic and helpful than the medical one -- a forest, rather than a corporate body plagued with disease or mental or emotional dysfunction. For a long time forests have been viewed either as a natural feature of the landscape or as something to be managed for a particular human use, such as hunting grounds, parks, or a crop that produces timber for fuel, building, or commerce. However, it was only in the 19th and 20th centuries that people began to think seriously about applying scientific knowledge and management techniques to preserve and protect large areas of forested land from rapacious harvesting and expanding areas of human habitation and agriculture, and to maintain others to provide a controlled but steady supply of timber and other wood products for human use.

Managing forests and forestland, however, turned out to be more difficult than some first imagined. It required more than just limiting the destructive effects of human activities. Fire, disease, variable weather conditions, soil composition, and other factors could impact forest growth and health, and human interventions sometimes worsened rather than improved the situation. As the science of ecology developed, forests began to be viewed as part of larger ecosystems and life cycles. Even the timber industry began to replace clear cutting with more sophisticated planning, selective cutting, and planting that promoted diversity and better conditions for the soil and the other flora and fauna that inhabited the forest's ecosystem.

A critical turning point came with the understanding that the so-called "climax" forest -- the stage with maximum maturity-- was only one stage in a larger cycle of growth and death, one which might produce variable results depending changing conditions, and one which, in any event, was not static. So while one might find a mature stand of trees and want to preserve it, for aesthetic or commercial reasons, as is, it was only one stage that could not be extended indefinitely. Without fire, decay or wind damage, the forest canopy would become so thick that it would stifle or prevent all undergrowth, including young trees needed to someday replace the mature ones when they die. Therefore, using human means to protect the mature trees from decay, disease, and fire might, in the end, do more harm than allowing them to die naturally to allow new plant and tree growth on the forest floor.  So while the results might seem better than clear-cutting or other thoughtless means of seeking short-term human ends, even well-intentioned human meddling can sometimes cause great harm as well.

I like to think of congregations in much the same way, although the life cycles are less regular and predictable. It is, I think, impossible to create and sustain indefinitely what many would consider a mature, spiritually "healthy" congregation. Yes, a good measure of intention is needed to make a religious community spiritually alive, hospitable, nurturing, growing, and relatively conflict-free (or whatever characteristics make one "healthy" and "mature"). But I think if people were really honest, there's a good deal of luck involved, as well. How often do any of us experience -- if we ever do -- a time in a congregation where most of these supposedly necessary elements fall into place? Once in a lifetime, I'd say, and then for maybe at most two to five years.

The reality that many have to face is that the stars are not always going to be aligned to produce the results we want, no matter how hard we try, no matter how diligently we study, tinker, and maneuver to try to create them. More important in today's world is that the ecosystem, if you will, has changed dramatically. With greater geographic mobility and displacement from family members, weaker ethnic and social ties to religious institutions (with the exception of some minority and new immigrant groups), less support and involvement from the moneyed upper classes, and overall less social pressure to be affiliated with and participate in a particular religious community (with some regional variations), we are bound to have fewer numbers, more frequent losses, less stability and continuity overall in terms of the identity of the members, their ages, family and social connections, and the extent to which they can provide steady financial support. With an ever-changing group of people, less financial resources, more reasons not to attend and less pressure to stay, if conflict arises or simply if something changes that is not to one's liking, little or no denominational loyalty, it's no wonder that congregational life is ever more fragile and precarious, without there necessarily being something seriously wrong or defective about the people involved, their goals, or their individual spiritual health.

In fact, it could be argued that the more passionate and serious people are about religion, the greater the possibilities of conflict and instability than back in the days when church was just "a Sunday habit or a social club." Filling the pews with fairly happy, comfortable people who enjoyed the social life perhaps more than hearing a challenging sermon or having a stimulating leader or group for Bible study, may have once acted as a kind of buffer -- or perhaps simply played the role of a steady Martha who minded the teas, took care of the kitchen, baked and gathered old clothing for the poor, as compared to the sometimes unsettling behavior of the seeking Mary. At the same time, the law of averages might have meant that the larger numbers and the social pressure that kept the successful business people and others with better skills at management and social relations coming to church regularly meant that it was easier to get a ready supply of people who might excel at the more practical aspects of church governance.

This, admittedly, is idle speculation. The demographic trends, however suggest that the decline in numbers and influence among the mainline churches is not so much because of any declining religiosity in the general population but rather because of dramatic changes in the social environment that have largely removed the non-religious reasons for joining and attending church regularly. It may be that the "spiritual but not religious" types were always around in larger numbers than we might imagine, but they once had compelling reasons to warm the pews on a regular basis, as well as a more positive view of religious institutions and religious people.

The mainline churches may still harbor hopes of reversing those trends or, at very least, preventing any further losses. But at some point they are going to have to choose. One option is to keep pursuing efforts at marketing, trying to find and ride the waves of consumer demand and satisfaction, against decades of evidence that what sells is the certainty of fundamentalism combined with the enthusiasm and zeal of evangelical fervor and the money and facilities that go with greater numbers and passion. The other option is to stay the course, tighten our belts, and work with what we have, and focus on nurturing strong, intentional faith communities, whether we lose numbers and buildings and, in some places, meet in small groups and at odd locations.

I think what we have now, at least in the Episcopal Church, is a schizophrenic course that tries to have it both ways. On the one hand, we talk a lot about innovation, new ways of doing things, and now and then check our consumer satisfaction thermometers. On the other hand, we say we want to improve the quality of the communities we have, make them deeper and richer. But what we do is try to measure how far they fall short of the climax forest ideal, with its towering hardwoods and lush undergrowth and sun-drenched floors -- a warm and welcoming place with wise, benevolent preachers and teachers, little or no conflict, and the absence of troubled, contentious people, doubters, and depressives. And instead of patiently waiting for congregations to grow deeper roots and stronger limbs, with the time-tested means of worship, prayer, and mutual love and support, we tell them that what they need most is more energy, more flexibility, different arrangements of furniture, and more lively and contemporary music. So we want our congregations to be spiritually and socially "healthy" and "mature," and, at the same we distract them with assessment tools, fast-talking consultants, systems theory, and innovative liturgies, and constantly remind them that they are not drawing in greater numbers or enough young people.

I think it is time to step back and do less in the way of measuring and engineering and just let the trees grow.  We cannot keep obsessing about the right soil conditions, acidity, temperature, and the like and frantically applying more and more fertilizer and pesticides.  If we keep doing this, we will have no trees at all, let alone the occasional climax forest when the trees reach their full maturity, before they decay and fall or are taken down by wind or fire.

One of the most memorable moments I ever had in an adult Christian education class was a film series on the Epistles of St. Paul.  The narrator traveled to the places where the cities once stood that held the congregations to which Paul wrote.  With a deserted hillside behind him, the narrator explained that not only were the Roman cities gone from those locations, but Christianity was gone as well, and Islam had taken its place.

There was something remarkably calm and matter-of-fact about what he said.  It was not some great tragedy or a waste of time and effort on Paul's part.  Times change and the faith takes root wherever it can, for awhile, at least, and then starts over.  All we can do is keep planting the trees and tend them with care and love.  God alone will decide when we are done.

Jesus as a Congregational Development Specialist?

Listen to Fr. Ed Hunt's sermon of June 27, 2010 here  (or from here)

THE GOSPEL Luke 9:51-62

The Holy Gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ According to Luke

Glory to you, Lord Christ.

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to make ready for him; but they did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, "Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" But he turned and rebuked them. Then they went on to another village. As they were going along the road, someone said to him, "I will follow you wherever you go." And Jesus said to him, "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." To another he said, "Follow me." But he said, "Lord, first let me go and bury my father." But Jesus said to him, "Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God." Another said, "I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home." Jesus said to him, "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God."