Thursday, June 24, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
"I was not to wear a mitre at Southwark Cathedral"
Monday, June 14, 2010
"Love has saved you – be at peace."
Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori preached June 13 during a service of Holy Eucharist at Southwark Cathedral in London, as part of a five-day visit to the U.K.
You can listen to it here.
The full text of the sermon follows.
I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. Love has saved you – be at peace.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. Love has saved you – be at peace.
You can listen to it here.
The full text of the sermon follows.
I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. Love has saved you – be at peace.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. I come from a notorious place. Gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Ministry there means that many congregations host 12-step programs not just for alcoholics and drug addicts, but for those addicted to gambling. There are a few groups for sex addicts, too. A story quietly circulated when I was there, about a priest who encouraged the local madams and their employees to visit the churches he served. One congregation made a warm enough welcome that the women of the night returned frequently. Other congregations acted more like Jesus' fellow dinner guests – "who let her in here?" The women didn't return to those dinner tables.
I don't know what it's like in the Church of England, but in some circles the Episcopal Church has the reputation for being a place where you have to dress correctly, and know how to act – i.e., you really should know all the responses by heart, and how to find your way around the several books we use in worship – or you shouldn't even bother walking in the front door. Yes, I'll admit that there are a few places like that, where the local pew-sitters are more afraid than their potential guests, but there are lots more communities where all comers are not just invited, but welcomed with open arms.
I have an old friend, a quirky priest who's been a college chaplain for decades, who tells about the summer he traveled across the United States visiting different churches. He was camping, and didn't get a bath every day, but he talked about what a different reception he'd get when he wore his collar, even when he was grubby. The Bishop of Rhode Island spent part of her last sabbatical learning what it's like to live on the street. She tells about sleeping in homeless shelters in some of her own churches, and then going upstairs to church on Sunday morning. She was never recognized, but she learned a great deal about the welcome and unwelcome of different congregations.
It's hard work to get to the point where you're able and willing to see the Lord of love in the odorous street person next to you in the pew. It can be just as hard to find him in the unwelcoming host.
What makes us so afraid of the other? There's something in our ancient genetic memory that ratchets up our state of arousal when we meet a stranger – it's a survival mechanism that has kept our species alive for millennia by being wary about strangers. But there's also a piece of our makeup that we talk about in more theological terms – the part that leaps to judgment about that person's sins. It's connected to knowing our own sinfulness, and our tendency toward competition – well, she must be a worse sinner than I am – thank God!
That woman who wanders into Simon's house comes with her hair uncovered – "oh, scandal! She's clearly a woman of the street!" And she starts to act in profoundly embarrassing ways, crying all over Jesus' feet and cleaning up the tears with her hair. And, "oh Lord, now she's covering him with perfume! We can't have this in a proper house – what will people think? And I guess now we know just what sort of person this fellow is!"
The scorn that some are willing to heap on others because we think they've loved excessively or inappropriately is still pretty well known. Yet it is this woman's loving response to Jesus that brings her pardon, and Jesus' celebration of her right relationship with God. She doesn't even have to ask. Jesus seems to say that evidence of her pardon has already been given – full measure, pressed down, and overflowing – just like her tears and hair and cask of nard.
It's the same message Jesus offers over and over: "perfect love casts out fear" (1Jn 4:18). It's actually our fear of the wretchedness within our own souls that pushes us away from our sisters and brothers. Fear is the only thing that keeps us from knowing God's love – and we most often discover it in the people around us. Jesus wasn't afraid to eat with sinners, either Simon or the other dinner guests, and he wasn't afraid of what the woman of the city was going to do to his reputation.
The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we're willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don't quite think we're lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted "welcome home." It's risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.
That's what Paul is talking about in his letter to the Galatians. He knows that all his work at observing the fine points of the law is like piling up the layers in a piece of plywood. Those layers of veneer may make plywood strong, but in human beings they have to be peeled away, or maybe traded for transparent ones. The layers won't right our relationship with God. Love will. Paul says, "if I build up again the very things that I once tore down, then I demonstrate that I am a sinner." The veneered self simply can't be vulnerable enough to receive the love that's being offered. Can we see the human heart yearning for love in that person over there? Can we recall our own yearning, and find the connection? That's what compassion is – opening ourselves to love.
Practicing compassion rather than judgment is one way the layers start to fly off. Think about all those dinner guests. The party's going to be far more interesting if we can find something to love about the curmudgeonly host and his buddies. Rejecting them is going to shut down any real possibility of compassion. It's risky, yes, but the only thing we risk is our own hearts, and the possibility they'll overflow as readily as that woman's tears. It's a big risk to let the layers go, but the only thing we risk is discovering a brother or sister under the skin.
Jesus invites us all to his moveable feast. He leaves that dinner party with Simon and goes off to visit other places in need of prodigal love and prodigious forgiveness. His companions, literally his fellow tablemates, are the 12 and "some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities." Hmmm. Strong, healthy women, and three of them are actually named here: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. Together with many others they supported and fed the community – they became hosts of the banquet.
Those who know the deep acceptance and love that come with healing and forgiveness can lose the defensive veneer that wants to shut out other sinners. They discover that covering their hair or hiding their tears or hoarding their rich perfume isn't the way that the beloved act, even if it makes others nervous. Eventually it may even cure the anxious of their own fear by drawing them toward a seat at that heavenly banquet. There's room for us all at this table, there are tears of welcome and a kiss for the wanderer, and the sweet smell of home.
Want to join the feast? You are welcome here. Love has saved you – go in peace. Lean over and say the same to three strangers: you are welcome here. Love has saved you – be at peace.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
KJS vs. ABC
Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori has described the decision by Lambeth Palace to remove Episcopalians serving on international ecumenical dialogues as "unfortunate ... It misrepresents who the Anglican Communion is." Story here:
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79425_122744_ENG_HTM.htm
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79425_122744_ENG_HTM.htm
Saturday, May 29, 2010
KJS on the Oil Spill in the Gulf
Thoughts on the environment and the interconnectiveness of man and nature and the warnings of abusing the earth, as an oceangrapher and faith leader:
Huffington Post article
The same article here at Episcopal Life.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
History being made: 1 female presiding bishop consecrating 2 female bishops!
Diane Bruce, Mary Glasspool consecrated bishops in joyous celebration in Los Angeles diocese. Glasspool is the first openly lesbian to be consecrated a bishop.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"We put her up on a little hill so she can look down at all the plants and protect them and nurture them."
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/81803_122063_ENG_HTM.htm
LOS ANGELES: How does our garden grow? With a blessing from the presiding bishop
Episcopal school spreads hope through community service project
By Pat McCaughan, May 05, 2010
[Episcopal News Service] Each weekday 10-year-old Elena Forbath eagerly looks up to Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori — or at least an image of her — while checking the organic garden at the Gooden School in Sierra Madre, California, in the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles.
"I like to see what's growing big. The squash and tomatoes and Swiss chard are growing like crazy. We already pulled the beets," said Elena during a May 4 telephone interview.
The organic garden project, dubbed the Garden of Hope, afforded Elena and other fifth graders at the K-8 Episcopal-affiliated school lessons in science and the environment, community service and the Millennium Development Goals, and a little bit about the Episcopal Church thrown in for good measure.
That's because the presiding bishop gave them permission to use her image for the garden scarecrow.
"I know she's the head bishop of the Episcopal Church. She's the head bishop over all the other bishops," Elena said. "It's really nice to see her every day."
Marianne Ryan, the assistant head of school, said the idea for the garden grew out of her doctoral thesis project at the Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, Virginia.
"Last summer when I was imagining this project, I thought of Katharine Jefferts Schori," she said during a May 4 telephone interview. "I admire her and thought, being a biologist, she's interested in the environment.
"So we had the fifth graders research her on the Internet. They were excited to learn about her. They thought it was wonderful she was a pilot," Ryan recalled.
"Each student wrote a letter and told her a little bit about themselves and our project and wondered if we could use her likeness as the scarecrow. We sent her pictures of the project. She wrote back a very lovely letter and agreed to be our scarecrow," Ryan said.
"She looks very real," added Ryan.
She said that assembling the scarecrow became a community effort. A local artist, Steve O'Loughlin, created the presiding bishop's face while others pitched in to build a stand, sew the vestments, and even replicate a crozier and mitre.
Bishop J. Jon Bruno of Los Angeles was on hand April 29 to officially bless the garden, with a few sprigs of parsley (from the garden) and holy water. "It worked very well, we were able to get the holy water all the way to the garden," said Ryan.
"The Presiding Bishop had told us her favorite color was blue, so we made her vestments blue, the ribbons around the garden were blue and every 5th grader took part in cutting the ribbon," Ryan recalled.
The presiding bishop good-naturedly agreed to the project, saying in a statement, "I am delighted that Gooden School is encouraging their students to learn more about our interconnectedness with all of God's creation!"
To that end, the garden is already whopping success, said Ted Forbath, Elena's father.
"The kids were so engaged in nurturing their part of the earth and they were so excited about watching the growing process," he said. "Each day when Elena is dropped off at school, she takes us to the garden to see the progress."
He added that the students "are very proud to be helping it to grow. For them, it wasn't about eating the produce, it was about the loving and nurturing and eventual sharing."
And they had an opportunity to do just that, when they loaded their first harvest -- Swiss chard, tomatoes and beets — into cars for a recent field trip to the Ecumenical Council of Pasadena Area Churches (ECPAC).
ECPAC offers a food pantry through its Friends in Deed program, said the Rev. Pat O'Reilly, director.
"We gave them a tour and explained to them how we distribute food, how much we get, why we need the food from the garden," O'Reilly, an Episcopal priest, said during a May 5 telephone interview from her Pasadena office. "We told them that people are just scraping by, that we're trying to prevent people from going hungry and that fresh fruits and vegetables are a treat for them."
O'Reilly said that the food pantry is feeding nearly twice the number of people it did two years ago. In 2008, the agency, a consortium of churches in the Pasadena area, fed 1,300 people a month. "Last month we fed 2,500," she said.
The economic slump has created a ripple effect: "We're finding that grocery stores are ordering less, so they have less surplus to donate," which has affected the agency's ability to serve those in need.
"They told us that because of the garden, people could have fresh vegetables and herbs," said Elena Forbath about her trip to ECPAC. "It's important for them to have healthy food instead of just canned goods. I just hope the garden gets bigger and bigger."
O'Reilly said there's an important lesson for adults, as well as children.
"We all focus on our own little communities most of the time. We think the whole world looks like our community. Often we don't know there are others who live very differently from us and don't have all their needs met.
She said the Gooden School's Garden of Hope is "a model for other schools, other programs and other individuals, to start gardens and to donate their produce. It's an opportunity to do what you love and to help someone else.
"It's important to open the eyes of children at that age because they are full of compassion. It's important to let them know they can make a difference in the daily life of others. That life is about giving and loving and serving and not just acquiring for yourself."
Borrowing the presiding bishop's image for the garden's scarecrow demonstrates the church's support, which is crucial, O'Reilly added.
"After all, this is about fulfilling one of the Millennium Development Goals, to eradicate poverty. It's important that the church backs us up and says we're behind you, that what we need to do as Christians is to love and serve in every way we can, to help each other through this difficult time. I think she's great."
For Elena Forbath, the presiding bishop is more than great. "She's really cool. She has squash and tomatoes and eggplants on her clothes and on her hat is a little jeweled cross.
"We put her up on a little hill so she can look down at all the plants and protect them and nurture them."
-- The Rev. Pat McCaughan is a national correspondent for the Episcopal News Service. She is based in Los Angeles.
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