Tuesday, November 1, 2011 -- Week of Proper 26, Year One
All Saints

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 1000)
Morning Prayer: Psalms 111, 112; 2 Esdras 2:42-47; Hebrews 11:32 - 12:2
Evening Prayer: Psalms 148, 150; Wisdom 5:1-5, 14-16; Revelation 21:1-4, 22 - 21:5

And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
and one was a shepherdess on the green:
they were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.
(Hymn 293)

I can remember singing this hymn as a child and thinking enthusiastically with the naivete of childhood, "Yes! I could be one too." Something deep inside me wanted to be good and noble, like the ones we read about in the heroes' biographies. Something like that urge still surges inside of me today. I want to live a real and authentic life, and to be open to whatever God may draw me toward that might help God's work in the world. As I live my sixtieth year, I certainly know a lot of my limits and many of my abiding faults, but I can claim some of my gifts as well. I also know, now that I am a grownup, and having read some of the more adult biographies, that many of those heroes I thought to model myself by also had some significant limits and faults.

To be a saint doesn't seem quite as exotic as it used to. It seems more about being who I am. It seems more about trusting God in each present moment, and detaching myself from those habits and distractions that always seem to draw me away from simply being.

Toward the end of Graham Greene's novel The Power and the Glory the Whisky Priest sits in his prison cell, the gallows that will hang him on the morrow outside his window. His has been an ambiguous life. With some courage he stayed behind to provide the sacrament to the people after the army arrived. Yet he had fathered an illegitimate child and drowned much of his fear in liquor.

Approaching his end, "He felt only an immense disappointment because he had to go to God empty-handed, with nothing done at all. It seemed to him at that moment that it would have been quite easy to have been a saint. It would only have needed a little self-restraint and a little courage. He felt like someone who has missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place. He knew now that there was only one thing that counted -- to be a saint."

A little self-restraint and a little courage. Moment by moment. Trusting. I can do that.

Usually is takes a little bit of tenderness though. Tenderness toward God. Tenderness toward the other. Especially tenderness toward myself. When I think kindly of myself, I tend to relax enough to act more kindly toward others. If I live in an atmosphere of acceptance, something good seems to grow in me. The acceptance takes a bit of trust however. Acceptance of the present moment -- after all, it is the only moment I have, regardless of its particular shape. Acceptance of myself, for God has accepted me in God's immense grace. If God has accepted me, I can relax and accept myself. It is all love. And life is good. Hard, but good.

Relax. Be. A little self-restraint and a little courage is all it takes.

They lived not only in ages past, there are hundreds of thousands still,
the world is bright with the joyous saints who love to do Jesus' will.
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
in church, or in trains, or in shops or at tea,
for the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one too.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011 -- Week of Proper 26, Year One
All Faithful Departed

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 990)
Psalms 61, 62 (morning) // 68:1-20 (21-23) 24-36 (evening)
Nehemiah 12:27-31a, 42b-47
Revelation 11:1-19
Matthew 13:44-52

Today is the day when the church remembers all of those who have died in the hope of Christ's resurrection. The Prayer Book names it the "Commemoration of All Faithful Departed." Many call it "All Souls Day." In Mexico and other Latin American cultures, they celebrate the "Day of the Dead." Families and friends visit the cemeteries to talk to the souls of the departed, to tell stories and to decorate the tombs. It is a day to remember our ancestors and loved ones.

I've never speculated much on what happens to us after we die. My own experience of God in this life is so profoundly an experience of transcending love, that I am fine with whatever God wants, including nothing instead of something. When I have been close to nothing, when my sense of self has dissolved in contemplative prayer, the peace that remains when self-consciousness returns is so exquisite that it seems to me there is nothing to fear in the nothing. The nothing becomes the all.

We inherit complex traditions about the afterlife. For most of the Biblical period there was no tradition of resurrection and heaven. You can pick through scripture and find passages that speak of judgment and hell. You can pick through scripture and find confident expressions of universal eternal salvation. It seems to me that what people believe about life after death says more about them than it does about God.

I know how much I love my friends and family. Especially those who have seemed in some sense lost. If I in my fallen, selfish self can want eternal bliss for them, how much more expansive and healing is God's love for them. I find it hard to imagine that God would lose anything that has an inkling of the good, and everyone has experienced some inkling of the good. In the light of God's overwhelming love, all of our faults seem simultaneously exposed and healed -- judgment and redemption.

Frederick Buechner seems to pick up a similar notion in his entry about Judas in his little "Biblical Who's Who":

There is a tradition in the early church, however, that [Judas'] suicide was based not on despair but on hope. If God was just, then he knew there was no question where he would be heading as soon as he had breathed his last. Furthermore, if God was also merciful, he knew there was no question either that in a last-ditch effort to save the souls of the damned as God's son, Jesus would be down there too. Thus the way Judas figured it, Hell might be the last chance he'd have of making it to Heaven, so to get there as soon as possible, he tied the rope around his neck and kicked away the stool. Who knows?

In any case, it's a scene to conjure with. Once again they met in the shadows, the two old friends, both of them a little worse for wear after all that happened, only this time it was Jesus who was the one to give the kiss, and this time it wasn't the kiss of death that was given.
(Peculiar Treasures, HarperOne, 1993, p. 93)

"I have found and have known, by Your great mercy, that the love of a man's heart that is abandoned and broken and poor is most pleasing to You and attracts the gaze of Your pity, and that it is Your desire and Your consolation, O my Lord, to be very close to those who love You and call upon You as their Father. That You have perhaps no greater 'consolation' (if I may so speak) than to console Your afflicted children and those who came to You poor and empty-handed with nothing by their humanness and their limitations and great trust in Your mercy."

Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude (New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1958), p. 127.

This gives me a great deal of hope. For Merton, God does not desire us to love God with an angel's love, but with a love proper to human beings. Too often, we are abandoned, broken, and poor. We are empty-handed, with nothing but our humanness and limitations and trust in God's mercy.

As we turn toward God, by the love of the Holy Spirit at work within us, we rediscover God's infinite abundance, become ours by our adoption as children. This is the heritage that was ours in creation, from which we turned by our own fault. All the more abundantly restored by our Creator.

In Christ, God enters the depths of our humanity, showing us God's love and returning love for love as a particular man. He is at once the giver of the covenant (as God) and the keeper of the covenant (as human). And, as such, he is our assurance of divine mercy.

The Rev. Bill Carroll serves as Rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio. His parish blog is at here.

Friday, November 4, 2011 -- Week of Proper 26, Year One

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 990)
Psalms 69:1-23(24-30)31-38 (morning) // 73 (evening)
Ezra 7:27-28; 8:21-36
Revelation 15:1-8
Matthew 14:13-36

Jesus is heartsick. He is grieving. Word has come to him of his cousin John's execution. His lifelong friend and colleague was beheaded in prison. The wanton, capriciousness of the act adds outrage to it all. Herod had John struck down at the behest of a little girl after an exaggerated complement for her dancing for Herod's guests. Jesus can feel the shadow of threat that extends toward him and threatens to darken his mission.

When Jesus hears of John's death, he goes away to a deserted place for a while. He needs to think. He needs to hurt. He needs some time.

But some of the crowd that followed him figured it out. They knew the place, and they beat him to it. By the time his little boat had reached the shore near the deserted place, it was not deserted at all. A great crowd had arrived. They want him. They want to use him to heal them They want him to help them. But how drained he must feel.

Then comes one of the most remarkable words in scripture. As Jesus comes ashore, he sees the crowd and knows that they block his access to a quiet place for his grief. The scripture records his reaction: "and he had compassion for them." Amazing.

Then Jesus returned to work, "and cured their sick."

To react with compassion when your own energy and defenses are at their lowest doesn't happen in a vacuum. You must be filled with compassion in order to be compassionate when you are drained.

Recently I listened to an interview by Krita Tippett with Matthieu Ricard, a French Tibetan monk who has been called "The Happiest Man in the World." He spoke of the necessity of exercising and cultivating compassion if we are to grow in compassion. He offered several analogies. Many people will exercise twenty minutes a day to take care of their bodies, but neglect the twenty minutes of exercise that helps strengthen the mind. A musician cannot learn to master a musical instrument without spending time in practice. But with regular practice, we can learn; we become stronger, more competent. It is the same for compassion or for mental focus. If we will spend time nourishing and practicing compassionate thoughts, our capacity for compassion will grow.

What would it take for my compassion to grow adequately that I might follow Jesus' example? Jesus invites me to be so compassionate that I would be able to react with gentle care even when I am drained and grieving. That will take considerable practice and growth. It will also take some trust, some grounding in Jesus.

Jesus, I can't be that compassionate. I need your help. Be compassionate for me and in me. Let your compassion, which is boundless, be in me and flow through me. I wonder if I could ever practice enough to be so compassionate myself. But your compassion is enough, Jesus. Right now. I can trust your strength, especially when I have so little of my own.

Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’

When they had crossed over, they came to land at Gennesaret. After the people of that place recognized him, they sent word throughout the region and brought all who were sick to him, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed. --Matthew 14:22-36 (NRSV)

We had a boat when I was a child, an old converted Coast Guard boat with a big inboard engine and a canopy over the "cabin". It wasn't a luxurious boat like a lot of them on our river, but it was ours. Often on weekends we would pack up the little camp stove, the picnic basket, the lawn chairs and the fishing poles and off we'd go primarily to do some fishing but also to be together with family and enjoy being on the water. If we hadn't caught fish, Mama could pull out the fried chicken and always packed enough food to do more than keep body and soul together. At the end of the day, we'd disembark, slightly (or more than slightly most of the time) pinker in complexion than when we'd embarked on our journey, but tired, refreshed and, somehow, soothed by a day being rocked by the little ripples and the waiting for the fish to jump on the hook we dangled for them.

There was the day, though, that a sudden storm caught us. It was a typical eastern thunderstorm but somehow on that little boat it seemed like we were in the fiercest hurricane in the world. The boat rocked and bounced, and even though we pulled down the oiled canvas curtains that could enclose the cabin and keep us dry, we could still see the grayness through the front windshield and feel the anger of the wind and waves in the constant rolls and rising and falling of the boat's hull. My sister-in-law, pregnant with my first niece, regretted ever taking this trip and was miserably seasick. I, of course, had all the faith in the world that Daddy wouldn't let us get into something he couldn't get us out of, and my big brother was strong and as capable a mechanic and waterman as Daddy was. All in all, except for the retching of my poor sister-in-law (with whom I had not a lot of sympathy at that time and which I now regret), we got home safe and sound.

The disciples, a lot of them, anyway, would have been familiar with storms on the water when they were out fishing. How could they help it? Storms happen, and they didn't have NOAA to warn them to stay home and let the fish fend for themselves because a storm was due. In this case, though, it wasn't the battering of the boat in the stormy waves that frightened them but rather the sight of someone actually walking on the water, heading in their direction. Now THAT was something you don't see and not doubt your own sanity.

Jesus was constantly challenging their thinking and their perceptions. Stories that should be simple took an entirely different direction when Jesus told them. Sometimes it seemed he talked about one thing when he really meant something quite different. Now here he comes, walking on the water as if out for an evening stroll, shaking his disciples' perceptions to their cores. But then there was good old solid as a rock while sometimes seeming to have concrete between the ears Peter, jumping into action before really considering all aspects of the situation. He did just fine — until he realized what it was he was doing and then he sank, sort of like a rock. Luckily for him, Jesus saved him, getting him safely back into the boat he'd so precipitously left. Peter's enthusiasm got the better of him until he realized what he was doing and that it went against all the rules of normalcy. He had Jesus to pull him out of his predicament, though.

When things get stormy in life, it's hard not to try to figure out ways to get out of the boat and walk off to find better, safer, calmer waters. Sometimes I get out of the boat only to realize what I just did was really stupid and clamber back in. Sometimes I get out a bit further and have to swim like mad to get back to the boat that suddenly seemed like so much better a place than it had just a minute or two before. Sometimes there's a piece of flotsam to grab on to and hold on until things calm down and I can get back to my boat, and sometimes a kind soul will fish me out of the water and into the safety of their boat, carrying me safely to land.

Jesus was demonstrating to Peter that if you have faith, you can walk on water, maybe not always literally but figuratively. I know that if I try to walk across a mud puddle, I will be up to my ankles in wet stuff. Still, it's a worthy thing to consider how strong and how deep my faith is when it comes to bouncing boats and rolling waves, the ones that I encounter in the course of my daily life if not in actuality.

I also have to ask myself a question that I don't think Peter thought of -- "Who am I testing, Jesus' power or my own faith?" I wonder what his answer would be. I wonder, what about my own?

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

Psalm 119: 97-104
Exodus 22:21-27
Ephesians 3:7-12
John 1:9-18

In recent days, as I've been following the "Occupy Wall Street" movement spreading across different cities in the U.S., I keep thinking William Temple would have something to say about it. In fact, were he alive today, he might have been in the midst of them.

William Temple was born in a setting of genteel Victorian privilege--his father served as Bishop of London, and, later, Archbishop of Canterbury--and he seemed destined for a similar kind of life. He was a sickly child, suffering from gout and bad eyesight (he became blind in his right eye by age 40,) and by all accounts, an excellent scholar. His road to ordination, however, was not entirely smooth. His initial application for ordination was turned down by the Archbishop of Canterbury because he had "unconventional" notions about the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection

Turns out that was not the only "unconventional" notion he'd have.

Temple became president of the Worker's Education Association in 1908, while tutoring at Queen's College, Oxford. This organization was highly influenced by the philosophy of Anglican theologist Frederick Denison Maurice, the pioneer of the Christian Socialist movement. Temple also joined the Labour Party around that time. Over the next two decades, despite his privileged upbringing, he would become a champion for worker's rights, as well as social and economic reforms. In his famous book, Christianity and the Social Order, he outlined six propositions for a Christian society:

Every child should find itself a member of a family housed with decency and dignity.
Every child should have an opportunity for education up to maturity.
Every citizen should have sufficient income to make a home and bring up his children properly.
Every worker should have a voice in the conduct of the business or industry in which he works.
Every citizen should have sufficient leisure—two days' rest in seven and an annual holiday with pay.
Every citizen should be guaranteed freedom of worship, speech, assembly and association.

Our readings today focus on several elements that speak to reform as a nidus of spiritual transformation. Our Psalm speaks to the love of the law and the value of wise teachers. Exodus discusses the evils of abusing the more vulnerable elements of society. Paul's letter to the Ephesians reminds us of the virtues of servant leadership, and hearing the call in our Baptismal Covenant to seek and serve Christ in all people. Finally, John's Gospel proclaims the power of phos--the luminous power of the Light of Christ's grace to illuminate the darkness of a hurting, broken world.

The life and personal theology of William Temple calls us to our own self examination as agents of the Light of Christ, changing the world, one act of kindness at a time. How are each of us called to respond to the love of those who teach us about grace and tolerance? How have we personally stood up to the abuse of the powerless? How are we servant leaders in our parishes, our schools, or our communities? How does the life of William Temple influence us in our tasks to be bearers of this true Light?

Perhaps the answer is in one of Temple's more famous quotes: "It is a great mistake to suppose that God is only, or even chiefly, concerned with religion."

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

Monday, November 7, 2011 -- Week of Proper 27, Year One
Willibrord, Archbishop of Utrecht, Missionary to Frisia, 739

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 80 (morning) // 77, [79] (evening)
Nehemiah 9:1-15, (16-25)
Revelation 18:1-8
Matthew 15:1-20

"Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great! It has become a dwelling place of demons... For all the nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth have grown rich from the power of her luxury."

Then I heard another voice from heaven saying, "Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins, and so that you do not share in her plagues..." (Revelation 2a, 3)

I heard a brief news report on the radio this morning that more than 600,000 accounts shifted from major banks to credit unions and community banks Saturday as a result of a Facebook campaign that started as a protest against Bank of America's attempt to charge a monthly fee for debit cards.

Last year our Servant Leadership School held a class on money. I can't pull up the exact numbers, but around a dozen households paid off over $30,000 in debt during the class series and nearly all the participants ended their dependence upon credit card debt.

Last Thursday sixteen activists were arrested at the corporate headquarters of Goldman Sachs where they protested the behavior of the company which was a key part of the economic meltdown. Senior employees of Goldman Sachs received bonuses of $18 billion in 2009, $16 billion in 2010, and $10 billion in 2011 while ordinary people were living with rising and food costs and home foreclosures. "This massive transfer of wealth upwards by the Bush and Obama administrations, now estimated at $13 trillion to $14 trillion, went into the pockets of those who carried out fraud and criminal activity rather than the victims who lost their jobs, their savings and often their homes," said Chris Hedges, one of the arrested activists.

And today I hear European economic anxiety shifting from Greece to Italy, whose depth of debt is so massive that should Rome default, it would make the problems in Greece seem like chump change.

Current scholarship contends that the Book of Revelation was not written as an encouragement to churches under persecution. There is no evidence of Roman persecution in the area the book addresses during the time it is believed to have been written.

The threat that Revelation speaks to is the seductive temptation of the wealth, glamour and luxury of the Empire - the evils of materialism. The text of the Book of Revelation sounds a bit like some of the speeches at the various Occupy Wall Street rallys. "Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!" For "the nations have drunk the wine of the wrath of (Babylon's) fornication, and the kings have committed fornication with her, and the merchants have grown rich from the power of her luxury." Ordinary people have taken to the street, and they are commenting on an unjust financial and economic system, saying, "Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins, and so that you do not share in her plagues."

The Book of Revelation as a treatise against greed and abuse of power reads like today's headlines.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011 -- Week of Proper 27, Year One

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 78:1-39 (morning) // 78:40-72 (evening)
Nehemiah 9:26-38
Revelation 18:9-20
Matthew 15:29-39

The Liberation Theology movement that began in the 20th century articulates a vision of God's activity on behalf of those who are oppressed. "God's preferential option for the poor" is one of the phrases that liberation scholars have used to describe a consistent theme in scripture. We see that in spades in the vision from Revelation today.

"Rejoice over her, O heaven, you saints and apostles and prophets!" cries the seer observing the judgment given against "Babylon, the mighty city!" "Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!"

Babylon is a complicated symbol in John's apocalypse. But her primary sin and abomination is pretty obvious -- it is her great wealth and power, the seduction of her luxury and glamour. It is a judgment against luxury. "The fruit for which your soul longed has gone from you, and all your dainties and your splendor are lost to you, never to be found again."

The wealthy merchants weep for the city "clothed in fine linen, in purple and scarlet, adorned with gold, with jewels, and with pearls." The wealthy merchants cry because "no one buys their cargo anymore." The lists of merchandise go on and on with great specificity -- "all kinds of scented wood, all articles of ivory, all articles of costly wood, bronze, iron and marble, cinnamon, spice, incense, myrrh, frankincense, wine, olive oil, choice flour and wheat, cattle and sheep, horses and chariots, and human bodies and souls."

It doesn't take much imagination to see American commerce described. These are the things we advertise and trade in, including human bodies and souls. These luxuries are the things we love. This vision from Revelation thrills at their destruction. I am reminded of the fall of the World Trade Center. There are communities in the world who, like John, see our wealth and power and luxury as corrupting. They see the power of multinational commerce as "the beast." Those communities saw the fall of the towers and rejoiced the same way that John celebrates the fall of Babylon.

But I am a person of Babylon. I live in luxury and great comfort. I am drawn to the "dainties" that John so decries. I am wealthy and powerful, and I live in the wealthiest and most powerful nation in human history.

My friend Jay McDainel of Hendrix College has written extensively that the competing religion of our age is the religion of consumerism. Though he has written and spoken so compellingly about the idolatry of consumerism, he says of himself that he is still not released from its grip. I too am thoroughly enmeshed in Babylon. How to let go?

We shift scenes. In the gospel today a Cannanite woman approaches Jesus for help. "Send her away, for she keeps shouting at us," say the disciples. She is annoying, inconvenient. She is not one of us; she is a foreigner. Yet, she only asks for crumbs. "Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table," she begs. Jesus sees her faith, and gives her her wish. The next thing he does is to go to a crowd of foreigners, and he feeds their multitudes out of compassion.

How can we embrace the compassionate generosity of Jesus and disengage from our enthrallment with Babylon?

Wednesday, November 9, 2011 -- Week of Proper 27, Year One

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 119:97-120 (morning) // 81, 82 (evening)
Nehemiah 7:73b - 8:3, 5-18
Revelation 18:21-24
Matthew 15:29-39

There is something moving about the account we read today from Nehemiah. The community has been on a journey of rebuilding -- rebuilding the walls of the city as well as the corporate structures and the identity of their nation recovering from exile. The people gather together in an assembly to hear the reading of the ancient law. They hear sacred words from their tradition. It has been such a long time since these words have been pondered that the community has lost some of its corporate memory. The people weep, because they realize that they had lost so much of their identity.

In the reading they rediscover a holy festival and reinstate its observance. The people celebrate the Festival of Booths for the first time in living memory. They rejoice as they reclaim a part of themselves that they didn't know they had.

Last night I taught an Inquirers Class. I spoke about the dynamic way time and space opens in the celebration of the Eucharist, the Lord's Supper. I talked about how we experience the past becoming actively present in the Eucharist. "Anamnesis" is a way of remembering so that a past event becomes present to us now. Through active anamnesis we participate in the Last Supper today. I talked about our anticipation of the heavenly banquet where all things are to be gathered together into the eternal life of God. The future blessing becomes present now. When we celebrate the Eucharist, we enter a thin place where past and future merge into the present moment.

One of the participants in the class was deeply moved. He has been a Christian for a long time, though he is new to our church. "I've never heard of that before," he said. Then he spoke about how meaningful that tradition seemed to him. It seemed so much more than merely thinking of communion as a memorial of something that had happened long ago and was now over. Last night he reclaimed something ancient, and his worship will be deeper.

I remember when I was taught the ancient tradition of Centering Prayer, based on the 14th century teaching from "The Cloud of Unknowing." This practice of opening to the possibility of contemplation was unknown to me, though I was an adult who had been brought up in the church. When this tradition was "recovered" for me, it became a portal for my own life and renewal.

I grew up in the days of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer. I can remember some of the process of liturgical renewal that accompanied the composition of the 1979 BCP. One of its treasures is the recovery of the Great Vigil of Easter. The church where I was raised had never celebrated that great liturgy. Thanks to our reclaiming something from our tradition, the Vigil has become my favorite worship service of the year. Our church has reclaimed a part of its lost tradition.

It can be a wonderful moment when we reclaim something from our ancient identity, like finding a valuable treasure that we didn't know we already owned.

I wonder what other ancient things of our tradition remain for us to discover, to uncover or to reclaim.

For a while I've wondered what it might mean for us to reclaim the ancient tradition of the Year of Jubilee (Leviticus 25f). In the year of Jubilee all debts were canceled, all bondage released, and there was a redistribution of the land to its original equal endowments. In our nation, where one percent of our people owns over one-third of our wealth, where the top 20% claim 85%, and where the lower 40% only have 0.3% of our corporate wealth, what might some form of a Year of Jubilee mean for us?

What other treasures lie hidden below our corporate remembrance? What parts of our inheritance have we forgotten? What ancient wisdom waits for our rediscovery? What more is there for us to claim? ...for us to learn?

"God is replenishingly everywhere; but most contractedly and workingly in the temple. Since then every rectified man is the temple of the Holy Ghost, when he prays; it is the Holy Ghost itself that prays; and what can be denied where the asker gives? He plays with us, as children, shows us pleasing things, that we may cry for them and have them. 'Before we call, he answers and when we speak he hears:' So Isaiah 65:24.

John Donne, Sermon on Luke 23:34 in Selections from Divine Poems, Sermons, and Prayers (New York and Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1990), p. 189.

It is a common paradox in Christian theology. God is everywhere, and yet God's presence can be localized and come into focus in any one of a number of places: the Temple, the neighbor, the poor, the gathered People, and--above all--the Christ, who is in all of these other places and persons.

Donne focuses on the notion that the "rectified man" (we would say "person") is the temple of the Holy Ghost. Even though a more accurate exegesis of the Pauline notion might point out that it is the People as such who are the Temple of the Spirit, each one of us is indwelt by this Spirit as interdependent members of the Body, an organic reality whose tendrils may well extend beyond the confines of the visible Church, since the Spirit of the Lord has been poured out on all flesh.

Donne goes on to consider the implications of the Spirit's presence within us for petitionary prayer. No passage in the Gospel presents more enormous pastoral and spiritual difficulties than those in which our Lord implies that God will always answer prayer. For Donne, true prayer is always answered because the Asker and the Giver are one and the same. In other words, God always answers prayer, because true prayer is the work of the Holy Spirit within us, having become our very own prayer, uttered in our own true voice.

Now the cry of our heart may first arise in a variety of askings, some of which may even contradict each other. But if we persist in prayer, and are bold enough to cry out in rage and lamentation if need be, we discover the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit, whose Temple we are. And we are plunged into the abundance of a God who knows us and loves us, and find acceptance and blessing and courage to labor on.

The Rev. Bill Carroll serves as Rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio. His parish blog is at here.

Friday, November 11, 2011 -- Week of Proper 27, Year One
Martin, Bishop of Tours, 397

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 88 (morning) // 91, 92 (evening)
1 Maccabees 1:41-63* *found in the Apocrypha
Revelation 19:11-16
Matthew 16:13-20

There are moments of intuition. Occasionally in an instant, things become clear. Sometimes we see profound, complex things that have perplexed us, and suddenly it all seems so simple. Insight happens.

As I read again the story of Peter's confession -- "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God" -- I can imagine him speaking in a tone of voice and with facial gestures conveying that even he is surprised by his own words. Where did this insight come from? "Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you..."

Years ago our local radio station broadcast a winsome little program by Earl Nightingale, a motivational speaker. It only lasted a minute or so, but Nightingale tried to offer listeners a nugget of his brand of wisdom or encouragement. One story that has stuck with me concerned a chemical engineer who was trying to solve a complex problem about the molecular structure of a particular substance. He had spent hours in the laboratory. He had wasted much paper trying various sketches and equations.

One day at home, as the scientist was watching something distracting on television, his mind in neutral, the answer to his research just appeared to him like a 3D vision in mid-air, between his lounge chair and the television screen. He saw the structure of the substance in its entirety, and it made complete sense. He could even ask the vision to turn around so he could see it from all angles. The answer was given to him.

Of course there had been hours of preparation that set the foundation for his discovery of a moment. But isn't that often how these things happen? We dig and struggle and persevere, sometimes with great futility, then, in an instant something is revealed.

In the back of my mind there is a story about Einstein's discovery of relativity coming in a flash of insight from a mind game he was pondering. Many of us treasure Thomas Merton's Louisville epiphany on the corner of 4th and Walnut where he "suddenly realized that I loved all the people and that none of them were, or, could be totally alien to me. As if waking from a dream -- the dream of separateness." (Private Journal, March 19, 1958) Gerald May tells the story of an addict who found equanimity and freedom in a moment while walking his dog.

Today is St. Martin's day. Legend has it that while Martin was a Roman soldier and a catechumen, a beggar approached asking alms. Martin impulsively drew his sword and cut off a portion of his soldier's cloak and gave it to the poor man. That night in a dream, Jesus appeared, clothed in half a cloak, and said, "Martin, a simple catechumen, covered me with this garment."

These moments happen to us. They are full of grace. They also seem ephemeral and fleeting. Though we may be changed, we must claim the change. It helps to write things down, like Merton's journal. It helps to tell another, like Peter's witness to Jesus. We can forget. We can also, like Mary, treasure these things, and ponder them in our hearts.

When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’ A second time he said to him, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Tend my sheep.’ He said to him the third time, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’ And he said to him, ‘Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my sheep. -- John 21:15-17 (NRSV)

I was looking for something else and ran across this passage in the search. Oddly enough, it fit what I was looking for far better than the original object of the search. I think I hear God chuckle whenever that happens.

Who or what is it that Jesus is asking Peter about? Does Peter love him more than what? His boat? His family? His possessions? His friends? His fellow disciples? Whatever it is, Peter says that yes, he does. This happens three times, recalling the three denials Peter made on the night of Jesus' arrest and trial. Jesus then gives him three instructions: feed my lambs, tend my sheep, feed my sheep. They sound similar but there can be a multitude of facets to them. And oddly enough, Jesus gives these commands to feed his sheep and lambs right after Peter had finished breakfast. Teachable moments can come at any time but it's easier to absorb the lesson when one isn't listening to one's borborygmi.

How I understand Jesus' message to feed his sheep and lambs can depend on how I perceive the message through denominational lenses. The church of my youth would say it meant telling me of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross, my own complete unworthiness of such a sacrifice, and the need for me to acknowledge Jesus as my personal savior, thus ensuring my place in heaven. The church of my later years tells me it means to look after not just the spiritual well-being of others but also their physical well-being with food, shelter, safety and clean environments. I won't argue with either as I believe both have a part of the message.

All living things need feeding and tending, some more than others. Sheep aren't particularly bright although the lambs are endearing. Sheep have to be herded to where the pastures are, kept away from cliffs and precipices, protected from predators and often assisted during birth. They have to learn to accept the shepherd as part of the flock, allow him to come close enough to get them out of trouble, shear them or lead them to a new pasture. It is the shepherd's job to tend those sheep, the job of a pastor.

Commentaries point out that this is Peter's call to pastoral ministry, to care for those Jesus would leave behind and to lead the group of disciples Jesus has formed, keeping them safe, on track and fed spiritually. I wonder, was Peter really the best Jesus had to choose from? Was Peter really the pastoral type, or was he more of a person who operated by fits and starts, thick as rocks at times and sometimes so insightful? I can see him going along, doing the right thing and then getting distracted in the middle of it, leaving the sheep to get along as best they can until Peter recalls what it was he was doing before he interrupted himself. Peter couldn't wear Jesus' mantle because he wasn't Jesus, but evidently Jesus felt Peter would do the best he could as a fully-human, impetuous, often flawed pastor to the flock, feeding and tending it, being present at the birthing of new members of the flock, teaching them by word and example as Jesus had, and caring for them to the best of his ability.

The call to feed and tend the sheep and lambs isn't only for shepherds and pastors. Peter was never formally ordained in the way we understand it today. I believe each person who is a member of Jesus' flock is called to pastoral ministry by virtue of their baptismal covenant. Some may be called to feed others in soup kitchens, feeding or hydration stations, or as part of their ministry at their regular jobs. Some are called to tend the flock as priests and pastors, public safety officers, librarians, judges or legislators. Everyone, though, has a ministry to do, whether they recognize it as such or not. Not all ministry is done by ordained people nor should it be. Ministry, pastoral ministry, can be a calling for many who will never attend seminary or seek ordination. Pastoral ministry can be simply a way of people tending each other's needs, seeing Jesus in each other, and being present to the opportunity placed before them.

The question I must ask myself today is, have I been a shepherd to someone today? Who has been a shepherd for me? What difference have we made in the world? Could I face Jesus and say that yes, I loved him more than anyone or anything? Could I tell him whom I have fed or tended today in his name? I wonder how I could respond.

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

Psalms 66, 67 (Morning)
Psalms 19, 46 (Evening)
1 Maccabees 2:29-43, 49-50
Acts 28:14b-23
Luke 16:1-13

Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.’ Then he asked another, ‘And how much do you owe?’ He replied, ‘A hundred containers of wheat.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill and make it eighty.’ And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes. “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much. If then you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches? And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own? No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.” (NRSV)

The Parable of the Dishonest Manager is not on most people's short list of "My Favorite Parables," because, frankly, everyone in the story is a tad on the slimy side. We're well acquainted with the pattern Jesus tends to use when a parable has a rich boss in the story--by and large the rich bosses tend to care about making money and not so much about doing the right thing. Another tip-off on the boss' character is that he shows his admiration for the manager's "shrewdness." We are told from the get-go that the manager is a bit of a scuzzball--he squanders the boss' property--and when he gets canned, he goes about the business of making friends one last time at the boss' expense. Finally, the clients are not entirely on the up-and-up either--it's obvious they're getting a real deal and it's clear they aren't asking any questions about it.

This parable tends to leave a bit of an acrid taste in our mouths. Our tendency is to think, "Whaaaa? Jesus is telling the disciples they need to be more like this manager guy? Wait a minute. That just seems so "not right" here..." We strain for a shred of allegory to glean at least a bite of something virtuous, and it's just not there. It's also a parable unique to Luke, so we don't have anything else in the Gospels for comparison.

One of the things to remember about looking at the parables through the lens of Luke is that unlike Matthew, who loves to turbocharge parables with a heavy dose of allegory on the side, Luke is more into illustrating lessons for the next world with examples from this world. There's nothing new under the sun when it comes to the fine art of "making friends with someone else's money," and our manager in the story does it flawlessly.

Also, the fact of the matter is, none of us are immune to the flaws in the story. When we've been the boss, have we ever looked the other way at an employee who was a bit less than forthright as long as no one gave us grief for it, or we weren't losing money or good will on account of it? How many times have we been a little on the loose side with someone else's money compared to our own, or tried to look good for ourselves on the company's dime? Have we ever had the cashier at the Big Box Store ring up the cheaper item by mistake and not uttered a peep? In the case of the latter, we might even rationalized it by thinking, "Well, I don't like that company anyway--it's not like they aren't making money," or even morphed that one into some sort of Robin Hood fantasy--the little folks putting one over on the big rich corporation.

The hidden nugget in this parable, however, is in the diligence of this dishonest manager, and the reality of our own diligence for the wrong reasons, sometimes. As my late grandmother used to say, "When you go into the cesspool, don't act surprised if you come out smelling like sewage." (Well...she didn't exactly use the word "sewage.") But what we learn from our foray into the sewage is we can have a surprising diligence about dealing with other people's money for our gain, we have an ability to avert our eyes from wrongdoing, and we can keep our mouths shut if we are getting a deal.

But let's flip this upside down and backwards, in the way Jesus tends to do with confusing parables. Jesus asks the disciples, "Well, boys, if you haven't been shrewd in your dishonesty, how in the world can I expect you to be shrewd in acquiring the good things of the Kingdom of Heaven? If you don't know a deal when you see it with the cheap stuff, how will you understand a deal when it comes to the good stuff? You can't have it both ways. You can't just stop the bad behavior and do nothing for the service of God."

So, let's reframe the questions with a different objective in mind--the objective of building up the Body of Christ rather than playing along with the ways of the world. When we are the boss, can we use the same blind eye we used with the shady employee to created forgiving space for the employee who made a mistake because of inexperience or confusion? How might we use the resources available to us to give other people the credit for their good works or open-heartedness? Is it possible to keep our mouths shut about the times we feel slighted by others and trust it was an honest mistake, rather than assume it was a personal dig and take on the mantle of victimization?

Our parable challenges us not to discard the wisdom we learned while wallowing in the cesspool, but to transform it--to create sapphires from sewage--a magnificent alchemy, indeed.

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

Monday, November 14, 2011 -- Week of Proper 28, Year One
Samuel Seabury, First American Bishop, 1796

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 89:1-18 (morning) // 89:19-52 (evening)
1 Maccabees 3:1-24* *found in the Apocrypha
Revelation 20:7-15
Matthew 17:1-13

We are confronted with war in the first two readings today. Then we encounter a vision of reality transfigured in the third reading. I needed the latter reading.

For our first scripture, we're reading 1 Maccabees about the successful military revolt led by Judas Maccabees following the attempt by Syrian king Antiochus to suppress Jewish worship in 167 BCE. The rebellion created a century of Jewish independence, which was ended with the Roman conquest of 63 BCE.

Although it is a stirring story of courage and victory, the rabbis did not include the book of Maccabees in the canon of Hebrew scripture, very possibly because of its unqualified embrace of violence and nationalism. When later zealots used the Maccabeean tactics against Rome, the results were catastrophic.

Today's passage tells of the beginning of Judas Maccabeus' campaigns. First he forcibly required Jews to a faithful observance of the Jewish law. Any boys or men who had not been circumcised were circumcised, some against their will.

A reforming movement in the Judaism of the time had embraced many Greek characteristics. Among many Jews, particularly those who regarded themselves as cosmopolitan, it became fashionable to omit or reverse circumcision so that they could more freely participate in the exercise and education of the gymnasium. Many of these will become enemies of the Maccabean rule, and its Jewish victims.

Judas Maccabeus, although outnumbered, is successful in two military campaigns.

In Revelation we read of the postmillenial battle against Satan and of the judgment of the dead. There are times when I seem to have energy to work with this material. Today, it just seems intractable. It does strike me, though, that for all of its violent and warlike imagery, there is no portrayal of battle in Revelation. And the sword of the lamb is the Word that comes forth from the mouth of the victorious one. Triumph by word of mouth, not by violence.

Matthew's account of the transfiguration is like a drink of fresh water today. The transfiguration also occurs under the shadow of violence. The trauma of John the Baptist's execution is very present with Jesus and his disciples -- "I tell you that Elijah has already come, and the did not recognize him, but they did to him whatever they pleased. So also the Son of Man is about to suffer at their hands." These are the words that follow the vision of the transfigured Jesus talking with Moses and Elijah.

This wondrous vision of transfiguration transcends the violence and death that is so present to us. Beyond the cross of Jesus and the beheading of John there is the insistence that the deeper reality is the dazzling vision of transfiguration.

Only if we have eyes to see beyond the surface and its violence, and look into the transfigured vision, can we trust so completely like Jesus so as to be more willing to suffer violence than to resort to it.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011 -- Week of Proper 28, Year One
Francis Asbury and George Whitefield, Evangelists, 1816, 1770

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 97, 99, [100] (morning) // 94, [95] (evening)
1 Maccabees 3:25-41* *found in the Apocrypha
Revelation 2:1-8
Matthew 17:14-21

See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.
(Revelation 3b-4)

As we near the end of the Revelation of John, we see a vision of the union of heaven and earth in a new creation. God gives to the thirsty water from the spring of the water of life. The effect of God's presence is justice, healing and peace.

We read of a similar vision from the psalms. Psalm 97 declares that the foundations of God's reign are righteousness and justice. God upholds the truehearted and delivers the saints from those who do wrong. Psalm 99 praises God directly, saying, "O mighty Ruler, lover of justice, you have established equity; you have executed justice and righteousness in Jacob."

Justice is at the heart of the vision of God's reign. God is love. Justice is the social form of love.

The opposite of justice is human injustice. It is human injustice that brings the oppression and tears that need divine healing and peace. There is something fundamentally egalitarian about justice. Justice and equity are deeply related. When justice reigns, righteousness is upheld and human injustice is inhibited.

Those who would live in right relationship with God, which is what righteousness means, are those who uphold God's values, those who strive alongside God for God's purposes. God promises ultimate vindication of the righteous.

Equity, peace, healing, and justice -- these are the cornerstones of righteousness. Inequality, violence, discord, and injustice -- these are the fruits of unrighteousness. Insofar as our power is exercised in ways consistent with the values of God, we are participating in God's reign. But scripture promises that God's judgment reaches out to frustrate the false ways of pride, greed, oppression and violence.

These Biblical words have social, economic and political consequences. Unjust political, economic and social systems create systemic injustice and human suffering. From the time of Moses, God has called us to oppose systemic injustice and to work to create systemic justice. The prophets of every age speak truth to power and call us to a high calling on behalf of God's justice.

From the Biblical perspective, the focus of justice is always on the poor. If you want to know what God wants, ask from the perspective of the poor. "Forgive us our debts" and "give us today our daily bread" are petitions from the poor.

Our political and economic system in this nation tends to be structured from the perspective of the wealthy. Here's a simple example In our state, it is not a criminal act if an employer withholds payment from a worker. But if that same worker, denied a paycheck, writes a hot check to buy groceries for his family, that's a crime. Stealing labor from a worker is a regulatory offense that rarely is prosecuted and results in a slap on the wrist. A hot check provokes quick police action, and not infrequently, jail. That's a system structured to favor the wealthy, those who can afford to employ others.

Equity and justice. The social form of love. Viewed from the perspective of the poor. "Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." These are the things we talk about every day in our headlines. Will health care be available to all? Will everyone have the material essentials of life? Will our systems defend the poor or simply be manipulated by the most powerful and wealthy?

Christians have a vision of God's reign. We are to live by the values of that vision now. God's judgment will be based on those values. Will we be on the side of righteousness or on the side of injustice?

Wednesday, November 16, 2011 -- Week of Proper 28, Year One
Margaret, Queen of Scotland, 1093

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms (morning) 101, 109:1-4 (5-19) 20-30 // 119:121-144 (evening)
1 Maccabees 3:42-60* *found in the Apocrypha
Revelation 2:9-21
Matthew 17:22-27

In the scene that Matthew gives us, the collectors of the temple tax ask Peter whether Jesus' followers pay the temple tax. "Yes, he does," answers Peter. It was an answer that would please Roman authorities when they might be suspicious of the new Christian movement.

There is a second conversation about the ultimate freedom that those who are royal children enjoy. The implication seems to be that Jesus' followers, as children of God, are completely free and liberated from obligations to lesser authorities.

In Matthew's sequence, by his next action Jesus seeks to keep the peace. Jesus has Peter catch a fish that will have the coin for the temple tax in its mouth. Peter is to pay the tax so that they would not give offense to the authorities.

The story is not unlike the question elsewhere in the Gospel whether it is right to pay taxes to Caesar or not. Jesus anwered, "Whose image is on the coin?" Every Roman coin bears Caesar's image. The wonderfully ambiguous answer: "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, but give to God what is God." Every listener would know that all things come from God -- the earth is the Lord's and all that is in it.

Such answers intend to maintain the ultimate freedom that is ours as God's children and affirm the absolute claim that God has on us and on all creation. At the same time, they are also practical answers that protected the early church from persecution as enemies of the state.

There have been Christians who have protested the payment of taxes on religious and ethical grounds. Some were jailed during the Vietnam War era when they withheld a percentage of their tax that represented their share for the financing of what they believed was an immoral war. Acts of civil disobedience have generally included a willingness to suffer the consequences of such disobedience.

The early church walked a fine line between its declaration of challenge to the Roman Empire -- the fundamental creed "Jesus is Lord" defies the claim that "Caesar is Lord" -- and the church's wish to avoid active persecution. From Matthew's perspective, paying the hated tax to the Jupiter temple was not a place to draw a line.

Where is that line? For the most part, I am glad to pay taxes because our taxes support so many of the services that are basic to a healthy society. I am blessed to be in a high tax bracket because my wife and I both have jobs that pay us well. We certainly could afford to pay more taxes, and would happily do so if it would relieve the suffering for those who do not enjoy the security that we do. I prayerfully hope our nation is on the way toward providing a public way of insuring health care for all people as most other industrialized countries already do, and I would gladly raise taxes on people like me to underwrite such a benefit.

On the other hand, I opposed the unnecessary war and occupation that the Bush administration launched against Iraq, and the subsequent $800 Billion cost to taxpayers which helped reverse the budget surplus President Bush inherited, sending us into a deep deficit. (The human suffering from that decision to go to war is incalculable.) It would have been much more honest for Mr. Bush and Congress to raise taxes on people like me who can afford it in order to pay for the war rather than to continue to pass the costs to future generations. But it seems raising taxes is even more unpopular than war, so we borrow.

So, like nearly everyone else, I pay my taxes, and I argue about what the best use of our resources might be. I hope for a more progressive tax policy that relieves the poor and lets those of us to whom much has been given be expected to give more. Is there a line for me when the policies of a government might be so abhorrent that I would refuse to pay taxes? I don't know. Maybe there is. I know that I do respect many who have risked their freedom to raise into public awareness policies that are immoral.

"In any case the Christian conception of [persons] as members of in the family of God forbids the notion that Freedom may be used for self-interest. It is justified only when it expressed itself through fellowship; and a free society must be so organized as to make this effectual; in other words it must be rich in sectional groupings or fellowships within the harmony of the whole."

William Temple, Christianity & Social Order (London: Shepheard-Walwyn, 1976), p. 71.

This quotation comes from one of the great twentieth-century Archbishops of Canterbury, who was instrumental in the creation of both the modern ecumenical movement and landmark social legislation.

As we watch the Occupy Wall Street movement unfold (perhaps some of us are participating) and read commentary by various participants, government officials, and Church leaders close to the action, I think it is a useful reminder of one of the hidden dimensions of this crisis, namely the lack of effective social organizations to mediate between the individual and the whole. This leaves the field open for unaccountable elites (whether governmental or corporate, most often an unholy alliance between the two) to reign with the rest of us as passive consumers, left to gather up the crumbs under the masters’ table, with few options for action beyond polarizing interest group politics that cannot change the underlying social realities. In other words, we have all the trappings of democracy but none of the substance, namely people and communities empowered to participate effectively in meaningful decisions about our lives and livelihoods.

John Howard Yoder, the Anabaptist theologian, once said that “the Church doesn’t have a social strategy; it is a social strategy.” Only time will tell if Occupy is the beginning of an effective popular mobilization for the internet age or just more of the same old ineffective protest.

So often we use the word “fellowship” as Christianese for social interactions that are shallow and trivial at best. What would it mean instead to create serious community, modeled on the egalitarian life within the Godhead? What would it mean, in other words, if we modeled our koinonia on the koinonia that pulses forever among the Three? What if our fellowship were part of a seamless tissue of worship, formation, and action that formed us into witnesses and missionaries of Christ and his Kingdom?

I think we would discover a freedom that was for something other than self-interest. We would rediscover the meaning of our baptism into Christ. We would discover the freedom to give ourselves for our neighbors, as Jesus did. And we would discover new effective forms of social organization and mission, in collaboration with other people of good will. Forms that would make a difference for the 99% and eventually for the other 1% (the one lost sheep?) as well.

The Rev. Bill Carroll serves as Rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio. His parish blog is at here

Friday, November 18, 2011 -- -- Week of Proper 28, Year One
Hilda, Abbess of Whitby, 680

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms (morning) 102 // 107:1-32 (evening)
1 Maccabees 4:36-59* *found in the Apocrypha
Revelation 22:6-13
Matthew 18: 10-20

"I fell down to worship at the feet of the angel who showed them to me; but he said to me, 'You must not do that! I am a fellow servant with you and your comrades the prophets, and with those who keep the words of this book. Worship God!'" (Revelation 8b-9)

Our parishioner Andrew Kilgore is a gifted artist who specializes in portraits. He has created a wonderful presentation titled Ineffable Connections, a collection of compelling faces that he has captured in his work. In opening our eyes to see the fullness of humanity, Andrew inclines us toward a glimpse of the divine. I once heard Andrew say that humans are the only animals who will look toward the direction that someone points rather than looking at the finger doing the pointing.

In today's reading from the Revelation, John sees and hears things that are holy, eternal, ineffable. Instinctively, in awe he falls in worship at the feet of the angel who has revealed this to him. The angel immediately tells John to stop. The angel is only the means of God's revelation, not God. The angel says to stand up and keep the words of the book. But the book also is merely the means of God's revelation, not God. Worship God! Not the means of God's revelation.

Underneath the angel's command is the realization that God is ineffable. Yes, God is revealed. Yes, we can experience God. But the fullness of God who is the object of worship is beyond our knowing and our defining. Don't look at the finger and just stop there. Look beyond the angel, the book, or Andrew's transfiguring pictures. Look in the direction of what they are pointing toward... and worship.
____

The reading from Matthew begins with the illustration of the lost sheep. There is one sheep that is lost. Because it is lost, because of its need, the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to search, find and rejoice. "So it is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost." (Matthew 18:14) Here is yet another picture of the inclusiveness and universality of the work of God. We're invited to imagine and follow a God who will search diligently, patiently, and creatively in order to bring everyone to their home. We are invited to believe in a God who will succeed at that task, so that no one and nothing will be lost.

There is a second story in this reading -- about conflict. We are offered some rules of engagement. Visit one-on-one. If that doesn't work, take one or two along to broaden the perspective. If that doesn't work, use the whole church in the process of reconciliation. If that doesn't work, don't give up. "Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector." The Gentile and tax collector, after all, were objects of the church's missionary endeavor and beneficiaries of forgiveness.

(Epistle from the Commemoration of Elizabeth of Hungary)

I do not say this as a command, but I am testing the genuineness of your love against the earnestness of others. For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich. And in this matter I am giving my advice: it is appropriate for you who began last year not only to do something but even to desire to do something— now finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means. For if the eagerness is there, the gift is acceptable according to what one has—not according to what one does not have. I do not mean that there should be relief for others and pressure on you, but it is a question of a fair balance between our present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance. As it is written, ‘The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little.’ --2 Corinthians 8:7-15 (NRSV)

Paul is writing to a group who has done well in many things, praiseworthy things that benefit their community and the mission Paul has set for them. One thing remained, that being to finish what was started and finish it with enthusiasm, love generosity, and, most of all, wisdom.

One way of describing a generous person is to say that they would "give you the shirt off their back". Generally, people take that to mean that the person can be counted on to give generously of whatever they have that someone else needs. Of course, they might not literally remove their shirt in public if someone else needed it (although there are people who have done that in emergencies) or give up their house to a homeless family, but if it is possible to give without depriving themselves too severely, they are the folks who can be depended upon to give.

The generosity has to be genuine but also has to be tempered with wisdom. I have heard people urging others to "Give until it hurts." To a certain extent that might be a worthy goal, but that isn't what Paul is telling the Corinthians to do. Paul suggests a balance: giving from the abundance but not so much that the givers themselves become persons with needs. Maybe that sounds a bit selfish, but in Paul's world, there were only so many resources to go around. What one person had more of meant that someone else had less. Paul is suggesting that there be equality, the rich sharing from their abundance to help make the lives of those less fortunate better.

Paul also asks the Corinthians to finish what they started. It is so easy to dive into something very enthusiastically when the need is first presented but unless the situation is one where a quick fix works, enthusiasm can wane until it dries up altogether. The need might still exist, but contributors have found new enthusiasms and fresh needs to try to address. In the case of a disaster, the need recognition is immediate and usually extensive, so charities and individuals rush in to try to fill those needs. Yet as time goes on, there are fewer and fewer charities and individuals continuing to work to bring the world of the disaster back to a place of normalcy and safety. New disasters have occurred and help is needed to begin that recovery process. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes it seems it would take the wisdom of Solomon to decide what to do, when and how.

The questions I have for myself are how do I respond to Paul's challenge? How do I respond to the needs of the world with generosity but also with wisdom? And, probably most importantly, am I willing to sustain my giving until the problem no longer exists or am I going to quit before I get to the finish line?

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

Readings for the feast day of Edmund, King of East Anglia and Martyr, November 21,
Psalm 21
2 Samuel 1:17-27
1 Peter 3:14-18
Matthew 10:16-22

O God of ineffable mercy, you gave grace and fortitude to blessed Edmund the king to triumph over the enemy of his people by nobly dying for your Name: Bestow on us your servants the shield of faith with which we can withstand the assaults of our ancient enemy; through Jesus Christ our Redeemer, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Edmund was an early king of East Anglia, which is in what we now know as England. Although most of what we know about him is myth and legend, the one thing we are told in vivid detail is his gruesome death at the hands of the Danes.

The Wikipedia description is what really caught my eye. Granted, some of this is rather legendary, and there's certainly a distinct attempt to connect this story with the Passion of Christ, but the short version goes like this:

The Danes had invaded England in 870, led by the brothers Hinguar and Hubba, and it appears their particular specialty was looting and plundering churches. When they get to East Anglia, they offer to cut a deal with Edmund, which really wasn't much of a deal. They'd give him a chunk of the loot if he'd admit the Danes were superior, forbid the practice of Christianity, and continue on as a figurehead ruler to keep the peace in the area.

Some sources say that Edmund's own bishops bailed on him and told him to accept the terms. But Edmund said no, he would not forsake Christ, which, of course, made the Danes furious. So they proceeded to torture and kill him--first beating him with cudgels, and then tying him to a tree and shooting him so full of arrows, as the account by Abbo of Fleury relates, "until he was all covered with their missiles as with bristles of a hedgehog." Even then he would not renounce Christ, so Hinguar ordered him beheaded. Edmond called to Christ throughout the beheading.

Now, the historical concept is to look at this in terms of his bravery and faith, but I became intrigued at the way Sam Portaro looked at this story in his book, "Brightest and Best." A more modern way to look at this story is to back up and see missed opportunity and a chance at reconciliation. Pig-headedly sticking up for our Christian faith at the point of a lance (or a gun) hasn't really gotten us too far in history--the Crusades being a major case in point--and in societies where church and state were intertwined, the dominant religion becomes an oppressive force, not a healing force.

But it was that image of Edmund being covered with so many arrows he looked like a hedgehog (or, in my mind, a porcupine) that stuck with me--mostly because my own life experience has been that every time I take my ego out on a limb and try to make people see "I'm right," I also end up covered with a slew of metaphorical arrows. Putting my ego on a pedestal usually only results in having a band of folks dead set on knocking me off.

Also, it's been my experience that, once covered with arrows, trying to reconcile with the other party starts looking like two porcupines mating. The two parties walk around each other with a cautious shyness, each afraid of the other's prickly barbs, both desiring to be closer, but not knowing how in the world to accomplish it without being stuck themselves.

So rather than see this tale as an account of Christian bravery, what changes when we see it as a reminder of our own pig-headedness? More importantly, where are the places we need to begin the prickly dance of reconciliation?

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

Monday, November 21, 2011 -- Week of Proper 29, Year One
William Byrd, John Merbecke, and Thomas Tallis, Muscians, 1623, 1585, 1585

Today's Readings for the Daily Office (Book of Common Prayer, p. 992)
Psalms 106:1-18 (morning) 106:19-48 (evening)
Joel 3:1-2, 9-17
1 Peter 1:1-12
Matthew 19:1-12

[Note: I'll be going on vacation starting tomorrow. A trip to Taiwan to see my son and to meet my first grandchild. Will return to "Speaking to the Soul" on December 12. Lowell]

The prophet Joel takes a treasured image from both Isaiah and Micah and reverses it. From the eighth century BCE Isaiah 2:4 speaks of God's restoration of Jerusalem as a city that will lead and inspire international peace: "they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more." Also from the eighth century, Micah looks forward to the day when God will judge among nations: "they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more; but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid." (4:3b-4a) These two visions have been deeply loved for centuries. They speak of the hope that the instruments of war might be turned to peaceful purposes for the welfare and benefit of people.

Joel turns that vision on its ear: "Proclaim this among the nations: Prepare war, stir up the warriors. Let all the soldiers draw near, let them come up. Beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruning hooks into spears; let the weakling say, 'I am a warrior.'" Writing probably after the fall of Jerusalem and the exile of 586 BCE, Joel imagines holy war, God leading a people bent upon vengeance and restoration. Some other biblical writers have elaborated on Joel's image of a "valley of decision" where God's judgment will be executed.

There is a fascinating history of conversation among Biblical writers. What is written in one place by one Biblical author will find interpretation, comment and criticism in another place from another Biblical author. Some tensions run throughout the tradition. One of those tensions is the question of whether God's people should take up arms and use violence to enforce justice and judgment or whether God's people should be non-violent and trust God alone for final justice and judgment. You can find writers on both sides of the argument.

For Christians, Jesus is the standard for our reading and interpreting these traditions. His life and his response was pretty clear. At his arrest, one disciple sought to defend Jesus and struck a threatening officer with his sword. Using firm language, Jesus told him to put away his sword: "No more of this." And Jesus healed the injured enemy. At one point he said that he could call on legions of angels to defend him with force, but he chose not to.

Some Christians have accepted this tradition from Jesus as a commandment for complete pacificism and a total commitment to non-violence, preferring to be victims of violence like Jesus rather than perpetrators of violence. Other Christians have argued for the possibility of armed struggle under very limited and circumscribed conditions. And, in truth, there are many Christians who seem to overlook the standard of Jesus and who look to other places, like Joel, to justify a more militant strategy for solving problems, meeting threats, and even administering vengeance. Christian history is littered with holy wars and even genocide in the name of God.

The Bible is such a vast record of human response that you can find nearly anything you want if you are looking for a verse to justify your opinion. But the person of Jesus is different. When we look at scripture through the lens of Jesus we are required to read it from the perspective of his character and teaching. What we see in Jesus is love and compassion, healing and reaching out to the outcast, sinner and broken -- the little, the leprous, and the lost. We see in Jesus deep trust in the divine presence.

When we give Jesus' voice predominance in the ancient Biblical conversations, we must give precedence to Isaiah and Micah over Joel. The God that Jesus points us to is not a God who is bound to spill blood and desolation toward the oppressors, but the God who seeks to turn their hearts, most powerfully through suffering. That is a hard and challenging standard. But it appears to be Jesus' way.

Readings for the feast day of Clive Staples Lewis, November 22:
Psalm 139:1-9
Proverbs 23:15-18
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 16:7-15:

Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you. And when he comes, he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment: about sin, because they do not believe in me; about righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will see me no longer; about judgment, because the ruler of this world has been condemned. “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you. --John 16:7-15 (NRSV)

Here's my confession: Really, I've never cared much for C.S. Lewis' work. I read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy because I was friends with the geeky fantasy and sci-fi kids, but I thought Tolkien and Ray Bradbury were far better. I never thought his Christian apologetics held much water (and frankly, in that era of the late 70's I got tired of every hippy-dippy evangelical quoting him--Evangelicals quoting Anglicans? Made no sense.) I just kind of wrinkled up my nose at his trilemma as a false dilemma. But there's one thing on which C.S. Lewis and I are two peas in a pod--the notion that conversion to Christianity is the first step in a very long journey, not an end unto itself.

"You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night," Lewis wrote, in Surprised by Joy, "feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England."

I totally understand what the feeling of being a "dejected and reluctant convert" is like. I spent 20+ years outside the door of any church, convinced that I was, indeed a Christian, but one incredibly unwelcome in the church because of what I believed at the time to be heretical thoughts. Those thoughts included notions of our own slice of the Incarnation residing within us, inclusivity in a way most churches were not (and many still not) ready to accept, and my own formidable stack of doubts despite asserting I was, indeed, a Christian.

Yet, when I returned in my new incarnation of "Me, as a Christian," it was almost like being a precocious child in a new school. It was clear I had plenty of knowledge and "book learning," but I needed a LOT of formation. I had to reconcile "The way I used to understand God and rejected," with "The way I am now beginning to understand God and can accept." I could totally identify with Lewis' own statement about the beginning of this journey of conversion.

John's words echo this--"I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now."

When any of us first begin to "get serious about God," that feeling of not understanding, or of doubt, seems wrong somehow. "They're going to think I'm a heretic if I say I think this," was a constant thought for me early on. But it's important to understand it is not the end of the world with our relationship with God if we admit things like, "Ok, I am not so sure what the Resurrection really was or really means," or "I just don't really buy everything about the Nicene Creed." I don't think when we consciously begin life anew as an earnest follower of Christ, we will have all revealed to us as if we were struck by lightning. I think we grow into it, slowly. (Sometimes, so incredibly slowly we think we are going backward.)

The totality of how we become part of the kingdom in the "now" is hard to swallow when all we think we are doing in the beginning is hedging our bets for a slot in Heaven. We are not ready for the power revealed in the partaking of the Sacraments. We're not awake to the possibility that prayer is so much more than petitioning God in a dance where hopefully, our wishes are granted--that instead, being called into prayer is to be called into a deep and dangerous proposition. If we start listening to what God's will is for each of us, we will quickly discover we've been sent to do some rather unnerving work, and that we will be gnawed upon to get off our duffs and do something about it. We find that being sent deeply into our prayer places requires being lashed to the deck of a raft sent into the rapids.

At the beginning of this journey, we would not be able to bear these things if we knew they were coming. It takes time. The life of C.S. Lewis reminds us that there is no end point to learning in faith--that it is, indeed, a life-long pilgrimage. Even when we thought we were wandering around outside the church, we could never have borne the thought that our "time away" was not really time away at all--instead, it was ongoing formation.

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

Readings for the feast day of Clement, Bishop of Rome, November 23:
Psalm 78:3-7
1 Chronicles 23:28-32
2 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 6:37-45

"Our Apostles knew also, through our Lord Jesus Christ, that there would be strife over the dignity of the Bishop's office." -from Clement of Rome's Epistle to the Corinthians

My bishop likes to joke that bishops are given two rubber stamps to use in the performance of their ecclesiastical duties in forming priests and deacons--one says, "Has a problem with authority," and the other says, "Has a regional accent."

I don't know if Clement of Rome had to use the latter, but he certainly had to use the former in the first century of the church. "Has a problem with authority" probably reared its head a week after the early church was born--I have no doubt it was the one of the oldest problems in the church and continues to be so today.

In Clement's case, a younger group of members of the church in Corinth had deposed the clergy unilaterally, without Clement's authority to do so. Clement had to put on his Big Bishop Boxer Shorts and tell the church in Corinth, "Uh, that's not how we do things around here." His Epistle to the Corinthians affirmed the ecclesiastical hierarchy and was read, not only to the church in Corinth, but to many congregations in the early church. It affirmed a framework of authority that we still use in various denominations, including the Episcopal Church.

"Authority" is a tricky business in the Christian community. There's a fine line between using authority and being authoritarian--a very fine line, and often subject to interpretation. This is a difficult balance, at times, when we are talking about a church full of lay people who see their authority as "from God" and don't always see as clear a set of rules regarding the ecclesiastical church, co-mingled with clergy who carry an additional definition of "obedience." Clergy, by virtue of Holy Orders, vow to obey the Bishop and live in accordance with the canons of the church; all of us, lay and ordained, by virtue of our Baptismal Covenant, enter into a covenant as sacred as marriage that we will engage in relationship with God, Christ, and each other.

In other words, it's too simplistic to see it in dualistic terms--which, unfortunately, is how most people see it. Lay people, in times of congregational strife, pull out the "I only have to answer to God--not you," card, and clergy sometimes hide behind shadows of the Bishop's coat tails or the church's canonical coat tails to push their own agenda, hoping the congregation is not savvy about the rules. I've seen parishioners claim the authority of "Jesus the rule-breaker vs. the religious authorities" in their quest to butt heads with a bishop's decision. I've also seen clergy attempt to play the same card.

It's a tricky dance. Are we, at times, called to question or resist authority? I believe we are. That calling, however doesn't come with a hall pass. The consequences of such a decision may ultimately end up being to figuratively die in a ditch--or literally die on a cross. Sadly, some of us are called to make that kind of a decision with God's help.

Today's readings give insight into our understanding of "informed consent" in such decisions--understanding the obligations of those chosen to attend to the temple, understanding the rules and obligations of right living as Christians, leaving judgment to God, and finally, our duty to tell the stories of these struggles. They bring up another "A" word--accountability.

It's been my experience and observation that mostly, authority steps in when there's been a breach in accountability somewhere--and once authority steps in, we run the risk of human judgment vs. God's judgment. It's safe to say we humans don't do it so well. Humans make mistakes from time to time--sometimes serious ones, which also have their own set of consequences.

All Christians are accountable to all of humanity, and this, I believe, is our highest calling in being accountable to God. Perhaps if each of us spent more time being earnest about our exercising accountability, we'd have less cause to confront authority and less desire to exert it.

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

You crown the year with your goodness, *
and your paths overflow with plenty.
May the fields of the wilderness be rich for grazing, *
and the hills be clothed with joy.
(Psalm 65:12-13)

I most recently preached about this Psalm at a wedding. It is a harvest song, and it is also appointed for Thanksgiving Day. It points us to the staggering abundance of creation, and to God the "giver of every good and perfect gift."

Thanksgiving is, for many of us, the last serious observance of Sabbath. Like the weekly Sabbath called for in the Torah, it is a time to pause and worship, to give thanks for the God of grace, in whom we live and move and have our being. Creation is itself a grace. So is the sanctifying gift of God's Spirit, which restores our broken fellowship with God and each other.

Thanksgiving is a time to give thanks for life and freedom, for time and food, for family and friends.

Like many congregations, ours will celebrate the Eucharist today. Eucharist itself means thanksgiving. It is the "sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving."

Christians have been celebrating a thanksgiving meal for nearly two thousand years, at least weekly, and in many cases daily. The prayer always retells the story of the Last Supper and culminates in the Lord's Prayer and the breaking of the bread. Typically, we also give thanks for creation, for the covenant with Israel, and above all for the Word made flesh, Jesus, God's Son.

The Eucharist points us to the sacred dimension of all meals. From the Thanksgiving Day, with its rituals sacred and profane, to bread broken with friends of any faith or none. Food is sacred, because life is sacred, and the gift of God.

And the Eucharist invites us in particular to forsake privilege, to receive everything as a gift from God's wide open hands. For as Christians, we remember a costly love. A love that sought us out when we were far from God. A love that impels us to share what we have and call no one a stranger.

For if all is gift, nothing is possession.

It comes as manna from above.

To be received with thanks and shared with others.

The Rev. Bill Carroll serves as Rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio. His parish blog is at here

While Jesus was going up to Jerusalem, he took the twelve disciples aside by themselves, and said to them on the way, .‘See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death; .then they will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified; and on the third day he will be raised.’

Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee came to him with her sons, and kneeling before him, she asked a favour of him. And he said to her, ‘What do you want?’ She said to him, ‘Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom.’ But Jesus answered, ‘You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?’ They said to him, ‘We are able.’ He said to them, ‘You will indeed drink my cup, but to sit at my right hand and at my left, this is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father.’

When the ten heard it, they were angry with the two brothers. But Jesus called them to him and said, ‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.’ -- Matthew 20:17-28 (NRSV)

Jesus is trying to prepare his disciples for his upcoming trial and death. I can almost hear them give the usual platitude, "Oh, don't talk that way. You aren't going to die for a long time yet. You're still a young man." Jesus, of course, knew better but the disciples weren't ready yet to pay attention to such talk. I have the same sort of problem myself. I don't really want to think about death and crucifixion just as I'm preparing to enter the season of Advent, the preparation time leading up to the celebration of his birth. This reading sort of feels like putting the cart before the horse.

But then I read about the mother of James and John, the sons of Zebedee. She's a bit brazen in her request but then, what mother doesn't want to see her children get ahead in the world? Jesus' own mother Mary rather nudged him into the miracle business at that wedding, didn't she? "Go ahead, son, it's all right. In fact, it would be a mitzvah to save the family the embarrassment of running out of wine. You can do it, you know you can."

James' and John's mother is another one of those nameless women in the Bible who play a part but not be important enough to merit identification by anything other than her position as somebody's wife or somebody's mother or even somebody's daughter. There are so many like that in scripture yet in many cases, they are the pivot around which the story unfolds. John and James' mother is one of those. She produced the boys and she's going to do whatever she can to help them get ahead in a very competitive arena, that of favored disciples over the other ten. Of course, the ten are having none of that, and even Jesus turns her down. The places aren't his to give out; God will have that right. Still, Momma can't be blamed for trying. It would also be some prestige to her to be able to say, "My boys are important men, they're sitting on either side of the Rabbi."

James and John seemed to feel they could fulfill the requirements of the job of right- and left-hand men, but Jesus doesn't quite see it that way. He tries, gently, to put the job in perspective, but, as usual, they don't seem to catch on. Boy, I can see myself in the middle of that situation. I may think I know what's required and what's what, but when push comes to shove, I don't have a clue, any more than the disciples seemed to.

Jesus lays it out for them: if you want to be the leader, you must be willing to be the servant. If you want to be great, you must humble yourself and wait on those who may sit lower in the table seating than you. That's a hard thing to accept. Once I get to the head table, I (and probably a lot of other people) don't want to go sit down near the kitchen door with its heat and steam and constant back-and-forth traffic. Once I get to the head of the line, I don't want to step aside to let somebody, child, elder, disabled person or even just someone a rung or two below me on the ladder go ahead. I don't have a Momma to put in a few words, but somehow I don't think that would matter much in the long run. What would matter would be my willingness to stop thinking of the top of the ladder (or either side of the main speaker or top leader) and start thinking about how to do what needs to be done to benefit the whole ladder-full of people.

Then it occurs to me, what else is the upcoming Advent season about but the coming of the Messiah, the one who came to serve the whole world even though he was the apex of the discipleship triangle. He was like the original "undercover boss" who shed the three-piece suits, put on work clothes and went out into the company to learn what the ordinary people, those far from the corner office with the window and the mahogany boardroom table, who manned the machinery, materials, conveyors and finished products knew and could teach him. Jesus, the guy who was born in a stable and whose mother rather pushed him into the limelight, was not only the leader but the servant of those who needed healing, comfort or words of wisdom.

Maybe Jesus would have eventually done his first miracle and started accumulating disciples who wanted to sit next to him in the boardroom of the disciple world, and without the nudging of his mother. He couldn't say yes to James' and John's mother but he couldn't say no to his own. He couldn't practice political power when his whole mission was to serve God and his fellow man.

I'd probably do just about anything to help my son get ahead in the world, but at this time in our lives, he's made his own way and is doing it his way, without Momma's interference. He knows I'm proud of him, no matter what, just as I guess Mary and James' and John's mother were. As a mother, it's our job, just as surely as it was Jesus' job to teach and to serve.

His momma must have been very proud of him, even as he portrayed the most humble of servants.

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

As they were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. There were two blind men sitting by the roadside. When they heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, ‘Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!’ The crowd sternly ordered them to be quiet; but they shouted even more loudly, ‘Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!’ Jesus stood still and called them, saying, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, let our eyes be opened.’ Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they regained their sight and followed him. -- Matthew 20:29-34 (NRSV)

Three of the four gospels record similar healings of blind men (Mk. 10:46-52, Lk. 18:45-53). Matthew even puts another healing of a blind man (9:27-30). What I found interesting was that the stories had so many similarities even though there were differences -- one man, two men, surrounded by a crowd, on a roadside etc. One thing common to all of them (other than their healings, of course) was that each time, Jesus was not just called by name but by title, "Son of David."

Names were important. Knowing the name of something or someone gave a person a certain power, authority or even just a kind of equality with and over the named. Doctors quite often refer to patients by their first name, ostensibly to promote a feeling of comfort, ease and "I'm going to be your friend and help you out of whatever is bothering you" but seldom do patients return the favor. It has to be "Doctor" so-and-so and that puts the patient in a more inferior position. Using "Jesus" would have acknowledged their equality, "Lord" put them in the position of petitioners, but by adding "Son of David" they appealed to not only Jesus' ability to heal but his authority. Since all the stories contain this detail, it must have been a very important one.

In England and France during the Middle Ages and a bit beyond, those afflicted with a disease called scrofula, a tubercular swelling of the lymph nodes, primarily in the neck area, called it the "King's Evil." They believed that only the touch of the monarch could cure it. Kings (and queens) held public ceremonies where literally hundreds of people would be touched individually by the monarchs and then presented with a coin called an "angel" as part of their healing. Even though David did not have such powers and Jesus' power came from God rather than from the anointing that would have made him a terrestrial ruler, still, appealing to the ruler or monarch or his descendant would acknowledge the power and authority, and demonstrate their faith in his ability and power to heal.

When we pray, we are told that whatever we ask in Jesus' name we will receive it (Matt. 18:19, Jn. 14:13-14). That's our justification for using "through Jesus Christ, our Lord" as part of our collects and prayers, whether we are asking for something or giving thanks. Unlike the blind men, we don't ask for help in the name of the Son of David because, as Christians, we acknowledge that the power comes from of God directly.

Most of the requests I make of God, Jesus and the Spirit are about things that are important to me but not all that much an impact on the greater scheme of things, as the world would view it. I ask for help finding my keys, getting through an unpleasant situation, help for a friend or something on that order. For the blind men, it was asking for their very lives - their ability to be productive members of their families rather than dependents, their ability to take their place in worship and move about without having to rely on pure memory or the kindness of a neighborly guide. Theirs were important requests, for themselves and their families anyway, and so they pulled out all the stops, all the titles of Jesus that they could. For their reward, they were healed, made able to return to a full, normal life.

For me, I often find my keys, get through the situation more or less intact or see my friend helped. The answer isn't always "Yes," but I do try to remember to say "Thank you" when it does. Maybe my faith isn't as strong as theirs or my need as great. Still, if it doesn't work out, I look at it not as "No," but as "Well, it's like this..." I don't see prayer as a test for either me or God and the result being the grade on my report card. It's more an exercise in trust, in humility. Asking for help is often very hard, but is anything ever really improved by trying to do it all myself? I may never ask the "Son of David" for assistance, but I will have to think more about asking at all.

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter

Psalms 146, 147 (Morning)
Psalms 111, 112, 113 (Evening)
Amos 1:1-5, 13-28
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11
Luke 21:5-19

Historically, the theme of the first week of Advent is "hope," but our readings today present a rather mixed bag of hope and despair. Although our Psalms are lavish with praise for the goodness of God's provisions to the righteous, our reading from Amos describes atrocities committed by Israel's neighbors, including the ripping of unborn children from pregnant women in Gilead. Our Epistle reading in 1 Thessalonians describes a state of being spiritually asleep and unaware, yet birth occurring, along with its requisite labor pains. Finally, today's Gospel is filled with images of war and persecution to the point of death, yet paradoxically concludes with, "But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls."

In the Northern Hemisphere, even nature seems to display this paradox of the first week of Advent. We are entering into a season of pregnant expectation, the "New Year" of the liturgical calendar, yet all the signs of Nature feel like we are hurtling headlong into a frigid darkness. Many of us are getting up to go to work in the dark, and driving home in the dark. Some of us are dealing with the irritants of winter again, such as scraping windshields and failing at predicting what clothes to wear for the day. What light we see--the strobe-like blinkings of artificial Christmas decorations luring us to elbow our way through the throngs of people shopping on Black Friday--seems insincere and false.

Frankly, it's the time of year it seems the better plan is to close down, tune out, lie down in our beds, turn out the lights, and languish in the inertia of depression. Yet Paul urges us in today's Epistle to stay awake and reminds us that we are not children of darkness by nature, but children of light.

It's exactly when we need to ponder hope more than ever, because, you see, everything I've come to understand about Advent has taught me that Christianity is all about its upside-down-ness compared to conventional logic. Logic tells us that people can't be raised from the dead. Logic tells us that the universe started all compressed and is constantly moving to a more random state. Logic tells us that the birth of a child of locally uncertain parentage in a dirty stable has no power whatsoever to change the world. Yet how many of us, at one time or another in our lives, have cried so hard and long that suddenly the warmth of true release has overtaken us? How many of us have had some horrible work day where we've failed miserably at something, been demoted or canned, and the smile of a child has given us bravery to start again tomorrow? How many of us have experienced some huge emotional blowout with a loved one and had our pets snuggle next to us, and we feel our anger dissipate? I'm betting if we could all sit together and tell our stories, we have them.

Sometimes I think we miss the boat a little bit on Advent. We tend to think of Advent solely from the Christological perspective and tend to forget its power to illustrate another piece of the Trinity--the Holy Spirit's power of creating hope from the ashes of despair, and its role of guiding us from darkness to light. It sounds odd, but without despair, there would be no need of hope. If we had no need of hope, we would have no need of a Savior--and if we had no need of a Savior, we would have no need of God. It's the darkness and the broken-ness of the world, I believe, that creates the substrate for hope to even exist.

A good image we might want to carry into Advent is the classic image used in statuary for hope as a human allegorical figure. Although sculptors generally depict her a beautiful woman of reproductive age (capable of giving birth,) she often has a rather mournful visage. Yet she points upward. She is often depicted as leaning against an anchor, and that anchor also has a vague cross shape. Sometimes we see her wearing a chain around her neck--a broken chain--having escaped the bonds of sin and death.

Today, the church year begins anew--as do we, in this ever-repeating cycle that is a journey best related in our Eucharistic Prayer B--"out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life." May we lean against the anchor of the Cross and feel the free end of the broken chain around our necks as we begin to embrace the mystery of this Advent season.

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid

"Baptism is the sacrament of the extraordinary unity among humanity, wrought by God in overcoming the power and reign of death; in overcoming all that alienates, segregates, divides, and destroys [people] in their relationships to each other, within their own persons, and in their relationship with the rest of creation."

William Stringfellow, Instead of Death (New York: The Seabury Press, 1963), pp. 111-112.

As we turn the corner into Advent, we might begin with some revolutionary implications of the coming of Christ. For "the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

To paraphrase Karl Rahner, Christian baptism is an efficacious sign of a world already dripping wet with grace. Indeed, Christ has already come among us in mercy and justice. And yet, he is still the One who is to come. So long as we abuse God's gift of community and place it in the service of death, Christ's Advent is not yet complete in us, fully realized as it is in itself. In this holy season of preparation, we remember the absolute gratuity of Christ, in whom we are already reconciled, even as we await the consummation of his reign.

The Rev. Bill Carroll serves as Rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio. His parish blog is at here

Psalms 5, 6 (morning)
Psalms 10, 100 (evening)
Amos 3:1-11
2 Peter 1:12-21
Matthew 21:12-22

My Texan friends have a saying that describes people who are showy but without substance--"All hat, no cattle." We are shown two examples of "All hat, no cattle" in our readings today. Matthew's Gospel includes the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree that has plenty of leaves but no figs. Our reading in Amos describes a whole cornucopia of show but no substance--roaring lions with no prey, snares with no birds, blowing trumpets with no fearful citizens. (That last one reminds me of all the times the local tornado siren goes off in a clear blue sky--so much so that, when we really did have a tornado in 2009, we all asked ourselves, "Is this for real?")

The Gospel reading is of particular interest, given the imagery of the fig leaf. The people who would have heard this story in Matthew's day were accustomed to fig trees being used as metaphors of Israel, but they would also have recalled that fig leaves would have been used for covering nakedness in Genesis. The expectation is that there's something worth being covered by the leaves--in this case the fruit of the fig tree--but there's nothing there.

It brings up an interesting possibility. Traditionally, when commentaries discuss this story, the tree is described as being barren. But in that flip-flop way of the Hebrew tradition, is this a story less about the barrenness of the fig tree, and more about it covering absolutely nothing with its showy leaves?

Figs are from the botanical family Ficus, and the leaves can be up to ten inches long and seven inches across. They can display hints of purple and brown, as well as green, when the leaves mature. They are also easy to propagate via vegetative methods (methods other than planting seeds.) When one wants to grow starts from a Ficus, one merely has to bend over a green branch, scratch the bark at the end of the branch to expose the inner green bark, and keep the branch tied down. In a couple of weeks, roots will form. Cut the proximal end of the branch off the trunk and--ta-da!--a new sapling is ready to plant. Fig trees are "fecund" in this manner even when they are not bearing fruit.

In both the Matthew and Mark versions of this story, I've always been a little irritated at Jesus for cursing a tree that was unfortunate enough to not bear fruit. (There's probably a special irritation there for those of us who never had children.) Honestly, a Jesus who would curse something for being barren kind of creeps me out. We all have some form of barrenness in ourselves.

However, when we think about this as an "All hat, no cattle" story, it begins to make more sense. From the time of Genesis on, God has been shown as never being too thrilled with humankind's attempt to cover our various forms of nakedness, as if God didn't know our naked places already. It's precisely when we are in the throes of our vulnerablities--when we are displaying our various forms of psychological nakedness, economic nakedness, and spiritual nakedness that God can most work with us and build a loving relationship with us.

So what if we're barren in some way? Sometimes, I think we're not so much called to bear fruit as we are called to proliferate vegetatively. The trick is, though, that to proliferate vegetatively, we have to allow our branches to be bent over, and, in time, be cut from our stem. It requires sacrificial giving.

All the covering up we do in our lives simply wastes time and obfuscates the root problems in ourselves. We waste time providing ourselves with cover for our fragile egos when we should be using that time more wisely in the act of listening for divine guidance and sharing branches of ourselves to grow roots and be removed to thrive elsewhere. Truly, that's a curse.

Maria Evans, a surgical pathologist from Kirksville, MO, writes about the obscurities of life, medicine, faith, and the Episcopal Church on her blog, Kirkepiscatoid. During Advent Evans is facilitating a Facebook group, "Lo He Comes" exploring Advent through the hymns.

This is now, beloved, the second letter I am writing to you; in them I am trying to arouse your sincere intention by reminding you that you should remember the words spoken in the past by the holy prophets, and the commandment of the Lord and Saviour spoken through your apostles. First of all you must understand this, that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and indulging their own lusts and saying, ‘Where is the promise of his coming? For ever since our ancestors died, all things continue as they were from the beginning of creation!’ They deliberately ignore this fact, that by the word of God heavens existed long ago and an earth was formed out of water and by means of water, through which the world of that time was deluged with water and perished. But by the same word the present heavens and earth have been reserved for fire, being kept until the day of judgement and destruction of the godless.

But do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day. The Lord is not slow about his promise, as some think of slowness, but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it will be disclosed.
2 Peter 3:1-10

One thing you have to give the Apostle Peter, or whoever was writing as Peter: he believes in persistence.. "This is the second letter I am writing to you." Evidently he wanted to make sure the message got across but not sure they have "gotten" it. Funny -- it makes me think of the times Jesus kept trying to explain stuff his disciples and they just didn't seem to get it any more than the people to whom Peter (or whoever) was writing seemed to. Of course, Jesus had promised that he would be returning, and that the people of the age would not taste death until he got back. Now those people are dying and still no sign of Jesus. Did Jesus lie? Did the gospelers misunderstand? Did the disciples pass on a half-understood message? At any rate, It was up to Peter, his own disciples and the others to make sure the movement Jesus started kept going, and if it took multiple repetitions of that message, then so be it. They were willing to try again and again until they caught on.

The part that stood out for me was the assertion,"... with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day." It started an ear-worm of a hymn in my head. I've always loved the hymn I grew up knowing as "O God, Our Help in Ages Past" and subsequently learned to call "St. Anne." It always gave me such a sense of peace, hope and standing on firm ground.

O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home:

Under the shadow of thy throne,
thy saints have dwelt secure;
sufficient is thine arm alone,
and our defense is sure.

Before the hills in order stood,
or earth received her frame,
from everlasting thou art God,
to endless years the same.

A thousand ages in thy sight
are like an evening gone;
short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
they fly, forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.

O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
be thou our guide while troubles last,
and our eternal home!

-- Isaac Watts, paraph. of Ps. 90:1-5

Is the Lord coming? That is the question the writer is trying to answer. When? Reaching back to the Psalm, the writer used the “thousand years” not necessarily to mean a specific period of a millennium but rather an indeterminate amount of time, and nobody, not even Jesus, knew how long that would be. The timing was up to God and God wasn’t letting anybody in on the secret. It seems like a sort of pop quiz --- the teacher warns and warns that there will be a pop quiz, but nobody ever believes it will show up until they walk into class one day and are told to put the books away, take out paper and pen and start writing.

God doesn’t necessarily work on chronos time but rather kairos time. I wonder – could God be waiting for us to get the world in better shape spiritually and physically before the pop quiz comes? I wonder what the writer of 2 Peter would think about that?

I think I’ll just keep “St. Anne” running through my head. It’s probably as good a way as any to get ready for the pop quiz.

Linda Ryan co-mentors 2 EfM Online groups and keeps the blog Jericho's Daughter