Go! Build a Beautiful City!

My reflections on Godspell and keeping the Great Vigil of Easter

Tonight we gather.
We gather in the darkness and light the new fire. This is not a consuming fire, but a life giving spark, kindled in our hearths through the waters of our baptism.

Out of the ruins and rubble,
Out of the smoke,
Out of our night of struggle
Can we see a ray of hope?
One pale thin ray reaching for the day . . . 

Tonight we welcome.
We welcome those new to our community, and we welcome each other in reconciliation. A reconciliation among brothers, and sisters, and to our Father through our brother, Christ.

We may not reach the ending,
but we can start.
Slowly but surely mending,
brick by brick,
heart by heart.
Now, maybe now,
We start learning how.

Then we move to the table.
We move to the table, with all our bruising, and shame, and guilt. We let it go upon the altar, and share in the meal that binds us all as one.

When your trust is all but shattered.
When your faith is all but killed.
You can give up bitter and battered,
Or you can slowly start to build!

We are raised!
Finally raised from ashes, resurrected, and restored, we leave the tomb and enter the world. Now the work begins. Proclaim the Gospel! Share the Love, and build the city!

A Beautiful City.
Yes, we can. (Yes, we can)
We can build a beautiful city,
Not a city of angels,
But finally a city of man! *

* Lyrics - "A Beautiful City" from Godpell by Stephen Schwartz

Life at the Time of Death

Two weeks from today, Western Christians will observe the rituals and liturgies of the Good Friday service. A day of fasting, and mourning, and recalling the death on a cross of one innocent of guilt. I will join the cassock clad assembly as we process the heavy wooden beams to the tolling of the bells up the street and into the darkened nave of All Saints Chapel.  This year, in preparation of the events of Passiontide, I realize how different my approach has become.

Since this time last year, I have seen and experienced many things. During my time as a CPE chaplain, I spent many hours with people before they died, at the time of death and afterwards with the families. For the most part I had no words holy enough for me to even presume to utter in those moments, and I had to learn to trust in the sacredness of silence, and God's presence in the stillness beyond a whisper. Due to various circumstances, I also found myself on the receiving end, sitting in my grief while someone else held the sacred silence for me.

Even in my darkest moments I was always made aware of newness of life, in what ever form it be made manifest. On a rather taxing on-call, I was paged to guide a bereaved family through the transition of losing their mother. After a few tense hours, we gathered together in the room and surrounded their recently deceased love one. As I offered prayers I noticed the dawn was just breaking through the window. We had been weeping all through the night, but now the sun pierced over the horizon, a sign that life would renew. Another occasion presented itself on a Sunday morning. One weekend while I was feeling exceptionally broken I awoke and prepared to go to church.  As I was making ready, I felt the need to change my plans and attend a different church in town. When I arrived I discovered that there was to be a baptism this day. Baptism, when flesh meets water in representation of both tomb and womb, a symbol of new birth and resurrection.

Today my heart again breaks for those I know who suffer pain or bereavement. This afternoon I took some time to sit in the hammock.  I gazed upward at grey skies and baron trees, but as I followed the branches to the trunk and down to the earth I saw a beautiful thing.  Breaking through the muddy ground were strong green shoots of daffodils, not yet bloomed, but quietly waiting for that moment when life bursts forth in glorious color.

These thoughts remained with me through this evening. Before retiring I went to our Oratory and lit the candles. I opened my prayer book so that I might turn to Compline, but instead I happened upon the Ministration at the Time of Death. I have read this portion many times, but one particular prayer stood out and struck me in a new way.

A Commendation at the Time of Death

 

Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world;

In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you;

In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you;

In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you.

May your rest be this day in peace,

    and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God. (BCP 464)

Death is only a part of life; a passing point from life to life.  This year as we recall the Passion of our Lord, let us look to resurrection, while being ever mindful of the death all around us.  For in this we have no fear, the darkness around only makes the color's burst more brightly and makes each sacred silent moment ever more precious. 

"Just In Case"

Sermon given at the Chapel of the Apostles, The School of Theology, Sewanee, Tennessee

Monday, February 15, 2016

Lectionary Text: Matthew 25:31–46

The Benedictines are known for practicing what has become known as “radical hospitality.”  

According to the Rule, when a stranger arrives at the door, they are to be welcomed in the name of Christ.  They are to be cared for until they depart and no compensation is to be required.

There is an old story of a man who crossed the desert alone. After days of travel, when his body was weak, his mouth parched, and his spirit broken, he happened upon an old monastery.

Exhausted, he knocked at the entrance. The dust which had coated his clothing, and hair, and filled his mouth and nostrils, billowed with each rap of his knuckles against the gate, stinging his eyes already scorched by the mid-day sun.The door opened. He lifted his gaze and there before him stood an elderly monk. His black robe faded in the sun, his brow furrowed with years of wisdom.

He said nothing, but took the poor man by the arm and lead him to a small table. At the well in the courtyard, he drew water. Some he placed before the man in a cup, the rest he used to wash his feet, and hands, and face, soothing his skin and cooling his palate. Without making a sound, the old monk left the courtyard and made his way down the corridor. When he returned, he held a clean cloak. With outstretched arms he gave it to the man. The stranger said thank you and began to ask a question, but the monk simply ignored him. Instead he continued his work in silence. He exited to another room in the abbey and a few moments later, he returned placing a bowl of hot soup and piece of bread before the man.

In stunned gratitude, the stranger sat in silence the steam from the bowl rose to fill his nostrils with with the stimulating scent of the simple soup. As the monk turned to leave the man alone with his meal, he turned to the stranger and said, “I welcome you as Christ, just in case.”

Then they also will answer,

“Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty

or a stranger or naked

or sick or in prison,

and did not take care of you?”

Then he will answer them,

“Truly I tell you,

just as you did not do it to one of the least of these,

you did not do it to me.”

“Radical Hospitality” is only radical because, unfortunately its practice is not common at all.  In the story we hear in today’s Gospel, Jesus makes no demands on the “least of these,” neither does he say it will be someone we do not know. In fact, Jesus makes the character’s in his story extremely personal. “I was thirsty” he says. Often times the one in need could be someone we know very well, and may even change over time.

As we have been hearing, Lent is a time to slow down and make self examination. I want us to examine where these people are in our lives.

May God open our hearts and our eyes to see them wherever they may be. And when we see them, let us welcome them as Christ, just in case.