Easter 3A_2020

3rd Sunday of Easter Year A April 26, 2020 Last Sunday, I began my homily by sharing with you that I had been thinking about grief and hope the week before, and I had realized that grief doesn’t always look like grief, and hope doesn’t always look like hope. I then proceeded to talk about grief and how that connected to Thomas in last week’s gospel and how that may connect to our lives in our current situation. Spurred on by a small phrase in this week’s gospel, I’ve been thinking about hope, and how it doesn’t always look like what we expect hope to look like. Our gospel story for today is, perhaps, my favorite story in all of scripture. Definitely in my top 5. The story picks up immediately after Luke’s telling of the resurrection. Two of Jesus’s followers are on the way to Emmaus, and they are discussing the recent events of Jesus’s death and resurrection. Jesus, himself, joins them on the road, but they don’t recognize him. He asks what they are talking about, and they tell him; and buried in the heart of their telling is the little phrase that has so caught my attention: “but we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel”. “But we had hoped…” The story goes on to tell about how Jesus interprets the scriptures for them around himself, and when they get to where they are going, they invite him to stay and join them. Together they eat, and as Jesus blesses and breaks the bread for them, their eyes become opened, and they recognize him. They race back to Jerusalem (the 2nd 7 mile walk in that day) to tell the others the good news, saying to each other, “were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road…” It’s a beautiful story about how we encounter the Risen Christ in unexpected ways and places and how he often makes his presence known to us both in ordinary ways, such as meals together, as well as in one of our most sacred acts, the celebration of the Eucharist together. But this week, I am stuck by the poignancy of those four words those two men utter: “but we had hoped…” “It is said that Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a short story in 6 words. He replied by taking out a pen and writing on a napkin: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” ‘It’s not just the tragedy of what happened that hurts, but the gaping hole of all that could have happened but won’t.’”i During this strange season, I’ve come to realize that much of what I often think of as hope is more about busy-ness or planning, or looking ahead to something fun. And I’ve been deprived of those endeavors of late. We can’t really plan our summer at this point, and we’d had some plans. But we had hoped… This type of hope is stymied or frustrated when our plans are disrupted or set awry, but there is a deeper type of hope that is available to us even now, in this strange liminal space. The scholar and theologian “Cynthia Bourgeault makes a powerful distinction between [these two different types of hope. There is] what she calls ordinary hope [this kind of hope that I’m talking about, the kind of hope we expect which is] “tied to outcome . . . . an optimistic feeling . . . because we sense that things will get better in the future” and [there is] mystical hope ‘that is a complete reversal of our usual way of looking at things. Beneath the ‘upbeat’ kind of hope that parts the seas and pulls rabbits out of hats, this other hope weaves its way as a quiet, even ironic counterpoint.’”ii She writes, “We might make the following observations about this other kind of hope, which we will call mystical hope. In contrast to our usual notions of hope: 1. Mystical hope is not tied to a good outcome, to the future. It lives a life of its own, seemingly without reference to external circumstances and conditions. 2. It has something to do with presence—not a future good outcome, but the immediate experience of being met, held in communion, by something intimately at hand. 3. It bears fruit within us at the psychological level in the sensations of strength, joy, and satisfaction: an “unbearable lightness of being.” But mysteriously, rather than deriving these gifts from outward expectations being met, it seems to produce them from within. . . [It] is all too easy to understate and miss that hope is not intended to be an extraordinary infusion, but an abiding state of being…. We ourselves are not the source of that hope; we do not manufacture it. But the source dwells deeply within us and flows to us with an unstinting abundance, so much so that in fact it might be more accurate to say we dwell within it. . . . It is no accident or coincidence that the Risen Christ shows up to join his two disciples on the road to Emmaus just when their ordinary hope has failed them. Their plans for the future have been laid waste, and suddenly, he is with them, and he provides them with access to that mystical hope, that abiding state of being. By engaging the scriptures with them, he reconnects them to the wellspring of hope, the source of all hope that dwells deep within them, and after they recognize the Risen Christ, only then are they able to recognize the mystical hope which he has reconnected them with: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”iii How much of this mystical kind of hope might we also be experiencing these days but not recognizing because it does not look like ordinary hope to us? Each one of us, in our creation, has been connected to this deep wellspring of hope in our souls. God’s goodness which produces this hope flows in us and through us, and it is always available to us. We don’t have to produce our hope; we just have to tap into that which is already there. Your invitation this week is to look beyond the disappointments that this season offers to your plans and your expectations, and to pay attention to the times when you experience an unbearable lightness of being or your heart burning strangely within you; listen, this week, for where the hope that wells from God bubbles up in your life. i.This portion is cited from my own Easter 3A sermon from 2014 (preached at St. Peter’s by-the-Sea in Gulfport, MS. The portion quoted in this passage is written by David Lose on Workingpreacher.org, but I can’t find more details on the original citation such as the year. ii. This is Richard Rohr’s introduction (with my voice in parentheses) introducing Bourgeault’s work in his daily meditation titled The Universal Pattern : Mystical Hope Thursday,  April 16, 2020. The Full text can be found here: https://cac.org/mystical-hope-2020-04-16/ iii. As quoted in the meditation listed above. Adapted from Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope: Trusting in the Mercy of God (Cowley Publications: 2001), 3, 5, 9-10, 17, 20, 42.

Easter 2A_2020

Easter 2A_2020 April 19, 2020 This week, our readings have had me thinking about grief, and the conclusion that I have come to is that grief doesn’t always look like grief. Every year, on this Second Sunday of Easter, we get the same gospel reading—the story that begins on the evening of the day of resurrection, that sees the disciples locked in together confused and afraid even after having heard Mary Magdalene’s proclamation of the resurrection: (“I have seen the Lord!”) Jesus appears to them—greeting them in peace, offering them reassurance and hope, and giving them the gift of the Holy Spirit. But Thomas isn’t there with them. When they tells Thomas what has happened, he still doesn’t believe them, telling them he will need to see some proof of this astounding event. And from that moment on, throughout all the intervening centuries, he has been called “Doubting Thomas.” But what if what we have always interpreted as doubt is actually grief. Would it change how we read the story, how we think about our faith, how we understand ourselves if, instead of thinking of him as “Doubting Thomas,” we think of him as “Grieving Thomas”? I listened to a podcast the other day; it was an interview conducted by Brene Brown (who I’ve talked about before). She’s a sociologist whose research focus is on shame. And a couple of weeks ago, she interviewed a man named David Kessler, who has worked in the field of grief for decades.i. Kessler co-authored books with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross who is famous for articulating a schema for the stages of grief, and Kessler has written a recent book that expands those original five stages to include an additional 6th stage, which is finding meaning. But not only has David Kessler worked with grieving people for at least 40 years, he has also experienced his own loss in the unexpected death of his 21 year old son in 2016. It was fascinating for me to listen in on this conversation about grief between these two wise people. And here are some of my take-aways from that. The 5 descriptive states of grief show that grief doesn’t always look like grief; sometimes grief looks like denial; sometimes grief looks like anger; sometimes grief looks like bargaining, sometimes like depression, and sometimes it can even look like acceptance. Grief isn’t neat or orderly; grief is messy, and it is unique to each one of us in how it manifests, even as there is a common pattern in how we grieve. David Kessler defines grief as “the death of something.” It can be the death of a person, a relationship, a job, a situation, a whole way of life. And one of the things that struck me most is when David Kessler said, “Right now, we are dealing with the collective loss of the world that we knew. The world we knew is now gone forever.” We are all grieving, even if we deny it, even if it doesn’t always look like what we think of as grief. He continues, “We’re in this together; it won’t last for forever. But we need to go through it and feel the feelings.” As a part of this process, David Kessler says that we can spend time creating and naming meaningful moments together. He says we can each ask ourselves, “What can I do of meaning right now? How can we all do meaningful moments in the midst of a pandemic?” And when you are in a meaningful moment, he suggests that you name it, and be grateful for it. I think part of how we find meaning in this is to tap into our compassion for each other and to recognize that grief doesn’t always look like grief in the way that we act. We are invited to look below the surface behaviors and actions of anger, denial, belligerence, fear to see what they cloak/hide, which is often grief. How might it change us if we assumed that every person we see, in real life, on social media, in the news is grieving and responded out of compassion for that grief? We are invited to sit with each other in our grief, not rushing to meaning, but being present with the loss, feeling the feelings and trusting the hope that meaning will come. Our gospel story for today is an important reminder for us right now because Jesus doesn’t leave Thomas alone in his grief. He comes back the next week, visiting the disciples again when Thomas is present. He offers Thomas the meaning that he craves, even as he invites him to touch his wounds, the heart of his own grief. This week, I invite you to try to be more present to your own grief and the grief of those around you, and I invite you to know that Jesus is present there with you as well. i. https://brenebrown.com/podcast/david-kessler-and-brene-on-grief-and-finding-meaning/

Easter Day 2020

The Day of Resurrection: Easter Day 2020 April 12, 2020 I’ve been having a weekly Zoom call with some of my closest friends and classmates from seminary. Every week, we gather virtually, and we talk about how we are doing and then we talk about the readings for the coming Sunday. (It has been one of many life-giving moments for me during this strange season.) A couple of weeks ago, I was shocked when one of our group told us that he was trying to convince his bishop to let him postpone Easter until his congregation could gather again and celebrate it together. As I’ve thought of this over the course of these past couple of weeks, I think about the song of his own longing that was revealed in that statement (which may find echoes in some of our own hearts). How can it really be Easter without….fill in the blank here. (New Easter clothes. Easter Egg hunts. The flowering of the cross. The Easter hymns. The Eucharist. The Easter brunch or lunch with extended family…) But the joyfully shocking truth of Easter is that resurrection will happen, whether we are ready for it or not. In fact, this year, we are probably more similar to those first followers of Jesus’ as they encountered the shock of the resurrection than we have ever been in any of our lifetimes. Still reeling from the shock and the sadness of Jesus’s sudden and violent death; afraid for their own lives, so they have locked themselves in their own homes for safety; they creep out out when it is still dark (with gloves and mask in place?) to discover that the tomb is empty (just like our churches today). The body of Jesus is nowhere to be found. And then they are more saddened; more shocked; more dismayed; more frightened. Just when they thought it couldn’t get any worse—the tomb is empty. So then they run. Mary Magdalene runs to get Peter and John. Peter and John race back, discovering for themselves that the tomb is, in fact empty. And then, they go back home. But Mary Magdalene stays. She stays to grieve some more outside the empty tomb, and she encounters two angels, and she encounters the Risen Christ (who tells her she’s got to maintain appropriate social distancing). And he sends her back to the other disciples with a message, and so she goes back and tells them, “I have seen the Lord.” And you know what happens? Nothing. A week later, they are still huddled behind the locked doors of their homes because of their fear, but the risen Christ doesn’t leave them there. He appears to them where they are and continues to help them to encounter the resurrection. In fact, it really isn’t until after Jesus’s ascension and the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost that those scared, fragmented disciples become transformed into the resurrection community that will spread the good news to the ends of the earth and will transform the world around them from their day all the way to our own. Even without the normal trappings that we have come to expect and enjoy, resurrection still happens and will continue to happen. We need this day, now more than ever, to remember the power of the love of God; a love that is stronger than loneliness, than sickness; a love that is stronger than fear or the exhaustion that comes from too-much-togetherness. This day, we remember and celebrate the strange truth and the joy of the resurrection: that nothing that happens to us or that we do can separate us from the love of God, and that God’s love is stronger than absolutely anything. Even death. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a blessing I had shared on March 27, 2016: It is titled EASTER BLESSING by the Late Irish priest and poet John O’Donohue. It’s from his Dawn Mass Reflections at Corcomroe Abbey. "On this Easter morning, let us look again at the lives we have been so generously given and let us let fall away the useless baggage that we carry -- old pains, old habits, old ways of seeing and feeling -- and let us have the courage to begin again. Life is very short, and we are no sooner here than it is time to depart again, and we should use to the full the time that we still have. We don't realize all the good we can do. A kind, encouraging word or helping hand can bring many a person through dark valleys in their lives. We weren't put here to make money or to acquire status or reputation. We were sent here to search for the light of Easter in our hearts, and when we find it we are meant to give it away generously. The dawn that is rising this Easter morning is a gift to our hearts and we are meant to celebrate it and to carry away from this holy, ancient place the gifts of healing and light and the courage of a new beginning." How are you called to search for the light of Easter in your heart and then give that light away generously? What is the new beginning to which you may be called once you discover the resurrection gifts of healing and light and courage during this strange season?

Maundy Thursday 2020

Maundy Thursday 2020 April 9, 2020 This past week, Mary Margaret and I started watching a tv show that several people had recommended. It’s called Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist. It’s about a young woman who experiences an accident while she is listening to music in the middle of an MRI, and as a result, she discovers that she can hear people’s deepest longings as if they are singing to her. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting or standing in line for coffee, and suddenly a person or a whole group of people break out into song. She learns that in order to stop hearing the song, she needs to talk to the person or people and help them reconcile with their longing or work to solve their problems. It has been an interesting thing for me to think about: what if we could hear the songs of the deepest longings of the people around us? How would that change us and how would that change our relationships with them? There are songs of longings woven through our readings for tonight. In Exodus, we see the institution of the Passover, which was originally a meal for people who were longing for deliverance. The children of Israel were oppressed and enslaved under the tyrant Pharaoh, and they longing for rescue from a God who proved to be stronger even than Pharaoh’s might. In First Corinthians, we see the apostle Paul writing to a divided and arguing community in Corinth, and he is longing to remind them of their unity in Christ, in the unity that is found in the Eucharist and in their common proclamation—proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes. And in the reading from Luke, we see Jesus’s heart-song of longing to be with his disciples one last time, commemorating the feast of the Lord’s deliverance; one last meal; one last moment of normalcy. And we see the disciples, in their arguing about who is the greatest, longing for meaning, longing for understanding in the midst of Jesus’s unexplainable grief and the confusing and frightening events that have already begun unfolding around them. I have seen glimpses of your longing, too. Many of you wrote me last week asking for me to try to find a way for us to have Eucharist in some form or fashion for Easter, longing to be fed, to be united in this season of fragmentation. And I get it. I hunger and thirst, I long for the Eucharist, too. I grieve that we cannot break bread together on this holy night, or on our happiest and holiest of days this Easter Sunday. And I’ve realized that my hunger and thirst, my longing for the Eucharist is so much more than wanting the bread and the wine, the assurance of belonging to the Body of Christ, the infusion by the Holy Spirit of Christ into my very heart and body and soul. My longing for Eucharist is all of that. And it is also a longing for you, the beloved of God and the other members of Christ Body to which I belong. One of our parishioners told me this week that she misses church and that she especially misses the hugs from people. This made me think more specifically about my longing, and about the different ways that we make Eucharist, or thanksgiving, when we are together and when we are separate. And it is in and through reflecting on my longing that I can also find gratitude for the gifts of this life together. I miss the energy that you bring into this space when we are all together. I miss your smiles, your active listening. I miss your hands, held out for the bread and wine; hands that are small and large; hands that have known many years and hands that have known only a few. I miss your faces—some shining brightly up at me with glimmers of hope and longing held there and some bowed humbly before the mystery God lays before you. I miss all the ages—those of you who move slowly as you make your way carefully to the altar and those of you who, having received what you desire, leap down from the kneeler and race back to your pew, and I miss seeing the way you older folks cherish our younger ones. I miss seeing those things that are unique about each one of you and the gifts that you bring to all of us: Rick, clasping his rosary in his hand; Mary Hardee and Mary Hill’s floral arrangements; the Quaile family, filling a whole pew with people of all ages. I miss Giovanni calling for his sister across the altar rail and then offering me one of his goldfish when I give him communion. I miss teasing Bobby Minis in the announcements, and how he’s always such a good sport about it. I miss the line that forms when you leave communion and stop to light prayer candles; the married couples who walk down the aisle holding hands to receive an anniversary blessing. I miss making bad jokes during the announcements and the kindness of your laughter. I miss the holy handshake line, the hugs, the music we make together. On this Maundy Thursday, it is worth remembering and reflecting on what Maundy Thursday means. It comes from the Latin Mandatum Novum which means “new commandment,” and it refers to the instructions that Jesus gives his disciples in John 13:34-35: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” It occurs to me that the greatest act of love and service that we can do for each other right now is to fast; to fast from gathering; to fast from Eucharist. It is our love for one another that is the cause of our longing; and it is our love for one another that gives our fast, our hunger and our thirst meaning. One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, has a poem titled Thirst (from a book of poetry from the same name). I’ve been reflecting on that poem as I have dwelled with my longing, so I’ll share it with you in closing and offer a question for you to ponder. Thirst by Mary Oliver Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have. I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart. Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning. What does this thirst, this longing for Eucharist and this longing for gathering have to teach us about ourselves, about our gratitude, about God, and about the church?

Palm Sunday Year A 2020

Palm Sunday 2020 April 5, 2020 I mentioned last week that my spiritual practices lately have included a deeper dive into the Franciscan priest Richard Rohr’s daily meditations. This past week, he started a series based on his observations of cross-cultural male initiation rites and the 5 lessons that are consistent in all of them. I was at first struck by how negative these all seem to be, but as I kept reading, I saw that Rohr is writing about how these lessons can be helpful for us as we navigate through this new reality in which we find ourselves now. Rohr writes, “In this time of global disruption, these lessons can help us align to reality, our own belonging in it, and remain grounded in the infinitely trustworthy presence of God. These five essential messages of initiation are: 1. Life is hard. 2. You are not important. 3. Your life is not about you. 4. You are not in control. And 5. You are going to die.”i (How about that for a nice little ray of sunshine?) As we begin our slow walk through Holy Week, following Jesus through his last days of life, I’ve been especially contemplating #4: “You are not in control.” Out of the 5, reconciling with this reality has probably been my biggest struggle during this strange season. Which is why, today, and all of Holy Week presents a unique gift to me this year, if I can lean into this truth as opposed to hiding from it. Today, we watch as Jesus, who could very easily be in full control—more than any human ever could be—gives up control, gives himself over to the events as they are unfolding—the betrayal by a friend, the false accusations, the sham of a trial, the beatings, and the rush toward crucifixion. We resonate with the turmoil that is felt in the city at these events, even as we feel this turmoil within our own hearts. We say the ancient hymn of our faith along with Christians over the ages, a song about Jesus’s self-emptying love, a song about his humility, his service, his obedience. (A testament to lesson #3-your life is not about you—if I ever saw it.) During this most unusual Holy Week in this most unusual season, the Holy Spirit is offering us a most unusual opportunity. That is to spiritually walk the way of the cross with Jesus in new and unexpected ways, to deepen our faith, and to release these falsities that we tell ourselves to dwell more fully, more deeply in the providence of the God who loves us so much that he gives himself up to death, even death on a cross for us. A God who will not allow death-his own or others’ to have the last word. In closing, I’ll share with you a poem by the Anglican priest and poet Malcolm Guite titled Palm Sunday: Palm Sunday Now to the gate of my Jerusalem, The seething holy city of my heart, The Saviour comes. But will I welcome him? Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start; They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing, And think the battle won. Too soon they'll find The challenge, the reversal he is bringing Changes their tune. I know what lies behind The surface flourish that so quickly fades; Self-interest, and a fearful guardedness, The hardness of the heart, its barricades, And at the core, the dreadful emptiness Of a perverted temple. Jesus, come Break my resistance and make me your home.ii i. Adapted from Richard Rohr, Adam’s Return: The Five Promises of Male Initiation, (Crossroad Publishing Company: 2004), 29–30, 32–34.; https://cac.org/the-patterns-that-are-always-true-2020-03-29/ ii.From Sounding the Seasons, by Malcolm Guite, Canterbury Press 2012; https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/a-sonnet-for-palm-sunday/

5th Sunday in Lent Year A 2020

The 5th Sunday in Lent-Year A March 29, 2020 Today, it seems that our lectionary insists that spend some time dwelling with death. From the image of the prophet Ezekiel standing in the middle of a valley of dried out and scattered bones to the story of Lazarus, dead in the tomb and called back to life by Jesus, on this 5th Sunday of Lent in which we find ourselves scattered and sheltering in place, watching the numbers of the death toll rise, we are invited to think about death within the context of our faith. If you’re like me, you’ve tried to avoid it. Now, I’m not talking about hunkering down, sheltering in place. These are ways that we are caring for one another in this unprecedented time. I’m talking about all the ways I fill my time, the busyness, the “projects,” the almost-obsessive watching of the news and social media. What I’ve discovered this week is that in my avoidance of thinking about and dwelling with the reality of death which is all around us, then I am also missing out on the ways that God is working in and through and among all this. Our readings and their insistence upon making us dwell with death for a moment reveal to us that our God is a God who takes things that are dead and dried out, stinking and scattered and chooses to breathe God’s breath and new life into those old, dead things to make them new and alive in different ways. Our God calls the scattered and exiled home. Our God mourns with and then restores the broken-hearted. Even now, we see glimpses of the resurrection that is to come, perhaps not in the way that we would like it to come, but resurrection and new life will come none-the-less. But in order to see resurrection when it happens, and it will happen, we cannot hide our faces from death. This past week, I have continued on my quest to discover or rediscover the spiritual practices that give me life. I went from staying up too late watching the news, to trying to go to bed at a decent time and setting an alarm and waking up earlier than the rest of my house, so I could sit out on our screened porch and drink coffee, listen to the birds and pray and journal. About half-way through the week, I read a meditation from the daily email by the Franciscan priest Richard Rohr through his Center for Action and Contemplation. This meditation helped me sit with the aspects of death in my life and in that process to find new life, resurrection. I’m going to share aspects of this meditation with you this morning, and if you find it helpful, then I invite you to pick it up as a prayer practice this week. But at the very minimum, I invite you this week, as things continue to shift rapidly around us, to spend some time reflecting on how you may be avoiding death and at the same time, avoiding the possibility of encountering resurrection as it is happening all around and inside of you. You may close your eyes if it helps you focus. “When we call out for help, we are bound more powerfully to God through our needs and weakness, our unfulfilled hopes and dreams, and our anxieties and problems than we ever could have been through our joys, successes, and strengths alone. . . Anxieties can gray the whole sky like cloud cover or descend on our whole horizon like fog. When we rename our anxieties, in a sense, we distill them into requests. What covered the whole sky can now be contained in a couple of buckets. So when we’re suffering from anxiety, we can begin by simply holding the word help before God, letting that one word bring focus to the chaos of our racing thoughts.”i ii I invite you, now, to be still and breathe, and to ask God for the help that you need, focusing on the general word “help”. (silence) “Once we feel that our mind has dropped out of the frantic zone and into a spirit of connection with God, we can let the general word help go and in its place hold more specific words that name what we need, thereby condensing the cloud of vague anxiety into a bucket of substantial request. So we might hold the word guidance before God. Or patience. Or courage. Or resilience. Or boundaries, mercy, compassion, determination, healing, calm, freedom, wisdom, or peace. . . .iii I invite you to sit in silence, and breath, and to name before God what you specifically need. (silence) “Along with our anxieties and hurts, we also bring our disappointments to God. If anxieties focus on what might happen, and hurts focus on what has happened, disappointments focus on what has not happened. Again, as the saying goes, revealing your feeling is the beginning of healing, so simply acknowledging or naming our disappointment to God is an important move. This is especially important because many of us, if we don’t bring our disappointment to God, will blame our disappointment on God, thus alienating ourselves from our best hope of comfort and strength. . . .” I invite you to take a moment to breath, and name your disappointments to God. (silence) “Whether we’re dealing with anxieties, wounds, disappointments, or other needs or struggles, there is enormous power in simple, strong words—the words by which we name our pain and then translate it into a request to God.”iv Our God is a God who takes things that are dead, and dried out, stinking and scattered and chooses to breathe God’s breath and new life into those old dead things to make them new and alive in different ways. Our God calls the scattered and exiled home. Our God mourns with and then restores the broken-hearted. Even now, we see glimpses of the resurrection that is to come, perhaps not in the way that we would like it to come, but resurrection and new life will come none-the-less. But in order to see resurrection when it happens, and it will happen, we cannot hide our faces from death. i.The Path of Descent: Praying in Crisis. Wednesday, March 25, 2020; https://cac.org/praying-in-crisis-2020-03-25/ ii.Brian D. McLaren, Naked Spirituality (HarperOne: 2011), 104. iii.Ibid., 116–117. iv.Ibid., 119–120.

4th Sunday in Lent Year A

The 4th Sunday in Lent Year A March 22, 2020 “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.” What a gift it was to me to discover that the beloved and familiar 23rd Psalm was our assigned Psalm for worship together today! In this season of wilderness in which we find ourselves, these familiar words can be words of comfort and inspiration for us. I tried to remember the first time that I knew the 23rd Psalm, and I could not, because I feel like I have always known it. Perhaps I learned it in Sunday school as a child in children’s chapel when we would read from our little 1928 prayer books. Perhaps it has been internalized in my adulthood at some point; perhaps it was through reading it and praying it through so many funerals as a priest of the church burying people who I loved. I wonder if you can remember first knowing the 23rd Psalm? Think for a moment about the thoughts and memories that this familiar Psalm evokes for you. This week, I spent some time with colleagues talking about this old, familiar Psalm. The Old Testament scholar, Walter Brueggemann, has written extensively about the Psalms, and in his book, The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary, he writes about how the psalms fall into three different categories. There are psalms of orientation; there are psalms of disorientation; and there are psalms of reorientation. Brueggemann categorizes the 23rd Psalm as being one of the psalms of reorientation. The psalms can be a great gift to us in this uncertain season because they articulate things that we are often not comfortable articulating. (Think Psalm 22 which we read on Good Friday that begins, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? * and are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress? O my God, I cry in the daytime, but you do not answer; * by night as well, but I find no rest.”) Of these psalms of disorientation, Brueggemann writes, “I have tried to show that a major move of the Psalms is to move from an ordered reliable life to an existence that somehow has run amok. The Psalms give expression to that new reality of disorientation, when everything in heaven and on earth seems skewed…”i In this schema of psalms of orientation, disorientation, and reorientation, the 23rd Psalm is a Psalm of reorientation. It is a song of thanksgiving and of confidence. This psalm offers its comfort and finds its meaning in the truth that “it is God’s companionship that transforms every situation.” Brueggemann concludes his portion on Psalm 23 by writing, “Psalm 23 knows that evil is present in the world but it is not feared. Confidence in God is the source of new orientation.”ii It is important for us to remember in these strange and frightening days that Psalm 23 is not just a psalm of comfort but it is a psalm of thanksgiving, of gratitude, and of confidence. It is a psalm whose speaker has known hardship and suffering but has come out on the other side through the grace of God. It is the song of a person of faith who has learned to trust God even when times are difficult and frightening, frustrating and confining. It is the song of a person whose confidence is firmly rooted in God through a sense of gratitude for all the times that God has already shown up and offered care. When we tap into a regular spiritual discipline of gratitude, then we are more inclined to remember the ways that God has been with us all throughout our lives, and we are more inclined to see the glimpses of surprising new life that God offers us, even in these strange and frightening days. This past week, I received a gift in my email from Anam Cara Ministries. It is a 2 week self-guided retreat titled: From Isolation to Invitation A two-week guide for retreat in a time of quarantine. iii In this lovely offering, there was a whole section on gratitude, about how gratitude isn’t so much as a feeling as an action, about how we have to work to strengthen our gratitude muscles, and how we can be grateful even when we are lonely, sad, anxious, or afraid. I especially appreciated the practice which was invited for this portion of the retreat, and so it is my invitation to you to join me in practicing gratitude and reconnecting with your confidence in God this week in the light of the beloved 23rd Psalm. I invite you to spend some time creating a gratitude list for your life by considering different blocks of time in your life. This is an activity that you could do in one sitting or it is something that you can do over a series of days. First start with your childhood. “Think of all the people who helped you before you asked. Make a gratitude list for the doctor who delivered you, the nurse who held you, or the teachers who helped you learn to read and write and do math—even the bus drivers who got you to school, and the janitors who ensured it was kept clean. You may not remember their names, but without them you wouldn’t be where you are.” For 10 minutes jot down as many people, experiences, events, books, clubs, activities, lessons, etc. as you can think of which brought something good into your life during your childhood. Then move on to your youth/young adulthood: Take 10 minutes to list as many of the people, experiences, events and lessons from your youth and young adulthood which helped you to grow and which contributed in some way to who you are now. “What would you say to the coaches who inspired you to achieve a goal, the musicians who wrote your favorite songs, or the boss who gave you your first job? What about the friends and family who laughed at your jokes and loved you through your bad moods? Your list could get very, very long—for you have been given a lot.” For those of you who have been alive a bit longer, you could do this by decade or by seasons of your life. Keep going with making this gratitude list until eventually you get to today. As another writer puts it, “Today may be a great or a horrible day, but you can start wherever you are. At times I walk through my house and look at what fills it. I’m grateful for the farmers who grow the coffee I drink, for the workers who take away my garbage. I remember meals around my table, or the friend I was with when I bought my butter dish. I look at cookies my neighbor dropped off, the quilt my grandma made. I’m grateful for the mailman who carries letters to my door each day, for the friend who sends a card, and for my job that pays the bills. As I remember what I’ve been given, I practice saying thank you. Expressing gratitude changes something in me, and it changes the people I thank. When I express gratitude to someone for something, I shatter the lie that I’m on my own and no one cares for me. I have been given so much; I have benefited from the beauty others offer to the world.”iv Take 10 minutes to list the things you are grateful for today. You might want to walk around your home to look at and touch various objects you have. As you consider each item, think about where it came from, how it got into your possession, and how it’s served you, entertained you, or supported you in this season. In closing, I’m going to invite us to go back and to read the 23rd Psalm again together slowly, savoring each line and the confidence that our God inspires in us as revealed to us through gratitude. If you are so inspired, I invite you to pray this Psalm every day this week, with your family or on your own, to remember your confidence in God and the gifts of new life that God offers even in this season. i.Brueggemann, Walter. The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary. p 123 ii.Ibid p 156 iii.From Isolation to Invitation A two-week guide for retreat in a time of quarantine by Jenny Walley, Dr. Matthew Green, and Tanya Lyons https://mcusercontent.com/7499435774ed1dd632448147c/files/6dde3fac-dcae-4cb9-8088-88e67672df0e/Isolation_to_invitation.pdf pp 13-16 iv. This part of the retreat was adapted from Chapter 18: “The gift of gratitude” from The Gifts I Never Knew I Had: Reflections on Ordinary Treasures, Tanya Lyons (2019)