Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, ‘What were you arguing about on the way?’ But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another about who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, ‘Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.’ Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, ‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.’
‘If any of you put a stumbling-block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. -- Mark 9:33-37,42 (NRSV)

It is no wonder that this gospel lesson appears on the commemoration of William Wilberforce and Anthony Ashley Cooper, two who sought to heal the brokenness of the world by working to abolish slavery, return Jews to Israel and see to the welfare of children. Society, and even the church, had created stumbling blocks for many by denying the personhood and value of certain people and groups, and those stumbling blocks caused many little ones, beloved children of God regardless of size or age, to fall into hopelessness and despair. People like Wilberforce and Cooper worked to restore that brokenness and, years later, some of it has been healed.

There is still so much brokenness and so many stumbling blocks. There are still places where slavery of different sorts run rampant. The church has made strides to call attention to that wrongness and help to alleviate it, but the church also has remained silent in the face of other things that can and do make God's children stumble and fall.

How many children of God have been forced to their knees because of who or what they are perceived to be by others who see only rule-breakers? For centuries, African Americans were seen as not really full humans and that perception lead to their treatment as less than human. For millennia, children of any class lower than those of the rich, were considered not really human but rather to be put to "honest work" in factories that not only broke their starving bodies but their spirits as well. What now of women in the majority world countries who live on the edge of desperation because they are seen as sexual objects for men's pleasure or possessions to be used at will? What of GLBQTI folk who are no less fearfully and wonderfully made as any other children of God but who have lost faith in God and God's church because they are made to be slaves to the perception of "Christians" who "love the sinner but hate the sin." The Christians may be sincere in their belief, but so were the slave-holders, factory owners and brothel-keepers who claimed to be followers of Jesus but who put physical, mental and spiritual chains on those under their charge and care.

Love shouldn't hurt. We abhor physical violence against children, but why do we sit quietly while spiritual violence is done to those whose life and being are touted as "abominations" or whose physical body makes them vulnerable to power plays and violence?

What are we doing to keep God's children from stumbling and losing both faith and hope? Are we helping them heal --- or are we just handing them millstones in the name of God?

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

Reading for the feast day of Paul Jones, Sept. 4:
Psalm 76
Malachi 2:17-3:5
I Peter 3:8-14a
John 8:31-32

Bishop Paul Jones, one of the fathers of modern pacifism, is not a universally well known figure in our liturgical calendar, but his story is of interest in light of today's highly polarized political messages in the news and on the Internet.

Bishop Jones was elected Missionary Bishop of Utah in 1914 as the outbreak of World War I ensued. Although the United States did not enter the war until 1917, Jones was publicly outspoken against the war, as well as war in general, stating that war was un-Christian, and that war could not be reconciled with the teachings of Jesus. He clearly opposed Germany and alternatively lobbied for other means by which to show this opposition. However, his views cost him his see. Despite the fact that many laypeople and clergy were on record defending his right to speak his mind on the topic, even if they disagreed, in 1917, vestry members from two large Utah parishes, allied with the District Council of Advice, organized a campaign against Jones. A convoluted investigation ensued, and the commission's recommendation was that he resign. Jones did indeed resign in 1918. This, however did not deter his zeal for the Social Gospel, and he was instrumental in the formation of what is now the Episcopal Peace Fellowship.

Our reading from Malachi describes the refining effects of when we are called to speak the revealed truth. We may well have to endure the consequences of being unpopular, whatever the subject, but we are assured that we will live these consequences as a transformed person if we can only endure, with God's help. Our Epistle calls us to a spirit of non-retaliation in the face of evil--to avoid repaying evil with evil or abuse with abuse. Our Psalm reminds us that no evil is too great to be transformed into peace and reconciliation by God, and finally, our Gospel reading, short tidbit that it is, gives us words of assurance that the truth, no matter how unpopular, no matter how icky or painful, frees us to be unbound in the presence of God.

This message, and the message of the life of Bishop Paul Jones, is just as important today as it was at the time of World War I, and as it was in antiquity. The Internet has given any of us the power to be an instant pundit (and an anonymous one at that) through blogs, Facebook, and the comments section of news sites. How many times have we shied away from what we feel in our bones about the truth God has revealed to us about war, the Federal budget, poverty, or the right to hold unpopular opinions, because the majority voices surrounding us are so vitriolic or strident? How many times do we launch an attack on people who disagree with us that throws the issues in the ditch and goes straight for the throat of our worthy opponent?

In short, how many times, when discussing things of a political nature, have we disregarded our Baptismal Covenant, when we are asked, "Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?" and "Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?" Each of us can only answer that one for ourselves, with God's help, but on this feast day of Bishop Paul Jones, it's probably worth spending some time asking ourselves the question.

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

Yonder is the sea, great and wide, creeping things innumerable are there,

living things both small and great.
There go the ships, and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it.
These all look to you to give them their food in due season;
When you give to them, they gather it up;
when you open your hand, they are filled with good things.
When you hide your face, they are dismayed;

when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust.
When you send forth your spirit, they are created;
and you renew the face of the ground.

May the glory of the Lord endure forever;
may the Lord rejoice in his works—
who looks on the earth and it trembles, who touches the mountains and they smoke.
I will sing to the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to him, for I rejoice in the Lord.
-- Psalm 104:25-34 (NRSV)

"The all-powerful and unutterable God, who was before ages but did not have a beginning nor will ever have an end, formed every creature in a wonderful manner with the creative power of willing and then placed every creature in a wondrous manner." - First Part, Vision 6:1*

I can't read the part about the "the ships, and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it" without smiling. My vision is that of a great three-masted clipper with sails fully set, dolphins riding the bow wave and a great whale sounding nearby. I'm sure that wouldn't have been Hildegard's vision as clipper ships hadn't been invented yet although sailing vessels certainly had. And my "vision" certainly doesn't qualify to be in the same category of Hildegard's either. Mine is merely an image while hers had greater import. Still, whether "formed to sport in it" or "placed...in a wondrous manner," I still see the flukes of the whale and the splash it creates.

But the Psalmist also speaks of "creeping things innumerable are there, living things both small and great." I wonder how he knew of all the things? Did the Psalmist live by the water? Did he know how to fish? Did he see the octopus and the skate, the tuna, goby and grouper?

What the Psalmist didn't know is that while God provides food for the sea creatures as he does the land creatures, man has upset the balance that was present in creation, and many species that were once plentiful in the great waters are now extinct or reaching extinction. Has God turned his eyes from the innocent and taken their breath away? It doesn't seem like the God I know.

I haven't read all of Hildegard's writings so I don't know whether she addressed a world so full of greed and selfishness that it causes the deaths of creatures placed by God in their proper places. I do think she would include something like this as part of the rebellion against God, the sin that caused Lucifer to fall from heaven and the unrighteous to find themselves in the same predicament as the rich man who refused the beggar Lazarus even the crumbs from his table (Luke 16:19-21).

May there never be a world without a leviathan sporting in the deep waters or dolphins riding bow waves. May there always be fish, cephalopods, crustaceans, brachids, and all the variety of life the Psalmist (and Hildegard) could never imagine. May humanity wake up to the diversity of life that extends so far beyond the species of homo sapiens.

All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small,
all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.
~Cecil Frances Humphries-Alexander

*Hozeski, Bruce, trans., Hildegard of Bingen's Scivias, (1986, paperback ed.) Santa Fe NM: Bear & Company Inc., p. 68

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

Readings for the Feast of Edward Bouverie Pusey, September 18:

Psalm 106:1-5
Ezekiel 36:24-28
1 Peter 2:19-23
Luke 3:10-14

Several of us in the Episcopal Church self-identify as "Anglo-Catholic" and are not a bit embarrassed to admit that we are drawn to the bright shiny objects of "smells and bells" liturgy like magpies. We have Edward Pusey to thank for much of that. He, along with John Henry Newman, were two of the brightest lights in the Oxford Movement, the period of time in Anglican church history where we first began to grapple with the more catholic roots of our Angican theological heritage. Unlike Newman, though, who packed his bags for Rome, Pusey remained Anglican, despite some serious opposition within his own theological scholarly community.

The end result of his faithfulness in remaining Anglican is now reflected in our 1979 Prayer Book, when we moved to Eucharist, rather than Morning Prayer, being the norm on Sunday mornings. It's hard to conceptualize what seems routine to any of us who came after the 1979 BCP, as once being highly controversial.

Pusey had to feel, at the least, disappointed, and at most, betrayed, by Newman's defection to Roman Catholicism, yet he stayed the course in a time of theological upheaval within our denomination. His fidelity is reflected in the Collect of the Day:

Grant, O God, that in all time of our testing we may know your presence and obey your will; that, following the example of your servant Edward Bouverie Pusey, we may with integrity and courage accomplish what you give us to do, and endure what you give us to bear; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The collect, as well as Pusey's story in relation to the Oxford Movement, is a good reminder that many things in the history of the Episcopal church started out as minority opinions but, over time, became the face of the church. Decrying slavery and ordaining women were just as unpopular notions at the time they were introduced. The "three legged stool" of Anglican theological process--scripture, tradition, and reason--is not the fastest way to move the direction of the church, but history has shown us that it is a reliable one. Most of us in 2011 can barely imagine Sunday worship without the Eucharist, but the people of the time of the Oxford movement (1833-1845) went to their grave never seeing what they had brought to the pulse of our denomination. As we moved from a more penitential theology to a more incarnational one, it opened the door for us to "live Eucharistically" in the world outside our red doors.

One of the more striking coincidences is our reading today from Ezekiel is what Claude Akins, as the Rev. Jeremiah Brown, quoted in Inherit the Wind, but with a different tack. He quoted parts of this passage in the scene when he was concerned about "saving" his daughter's soul from the perils of being in love with evolution-promoting Bertram Cates, and her refusal to believe the Stebbins boy died outside of a state of grace:

I will take you from the nations, and gather you from all the countries, and bring you into your own land.

I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses, and from all your idols I will cleanse you. A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you, and make you follow my statutes and be careful to observe my ordinances. Then you shall live in the land that I gave to your ancestors; and you shall be my people, and I will be your God. Ezekiel 36:24-28 (NRSV)

The fictional Rev. Brown chose to use this verse to justify his self-righteousness, rather than to focus on the healing qualities of being bonded to each other in the waters of baptism. In contrast, Pusey never undercut Newman for his differences in opinion. Instead, he focused on Eucharistic worship being a unifying facet of our varied shared lives.

As we live in the tension of the newer struggles of our denomination with regard to controversies such as inclusivity, or interpreting the vagaries of the Bible in a popular culture that prefers a more literal interpretation of Scripture, let us remind ourselves to keep the focus on the transformational process of our own faith in community. Many a sermon delivered from an Episcopal Church pulpit points to the power the Eucharist can generate in both self and in community; because of the steadfastness of Edward Bouverie Pusey, we can celebrate that Eucharist more frequently.

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

Psalm 87
Proverbs 4:1-9
1 John 2:15-17
Luke 8:16-21

When the Metropolitan Alexis felt his life was drawing to a close, he summoned Sergius to him, wishing to bless him and appoint him as his successor. Fearfully, Sergius declined. One of the symbols of authority worn by the Metropolitan was an icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary suspended by gold chains. "From my youth up," Sergius replied, "I have never possessed or worn gold, and now how can I adorn myself in my old age?"

The excerpt in Holy Women, Holy Men states that Sergius was "simple and gentle in nature, mystic in temperament, and eager to insure that his monks should serve the needs of their neighbors." Our readings today remind us of several facets of what makes up a piece of the monastic lifestyle--love of God, a desire for wisdom over "stuff," and a charge in Luke's Gospel that we must seek to be active listeners in the process and to be mindful of what has been bestowed upon us--"Then pay attention to how you listen; for to those who have, more will be given; and from those who do not have, even what they seem to have will be taken away."

That part about "from those who do not have, even what they seem to have will be taken away" really sticks with me. I think back to the much more financially lean times of my life. It never failed--when my bank account was getting down to zero/zip/nada, it always seemed like I could always count on something like a flat tire, my furnace gasping its last breath, or a major plumbing leak to be foisted upon me.

In short, it's the mindset of scarcity. When our means feel scarce, we almost expect for things to become more scarce just to kick us to the curb even further.

When we live our lives like there is never enough, guess what? There never will be enough. One of the things I've mused about over the years is it never matters how much any of us make, we get to the end of the week or the end of the month and say, "Where did the money go?"

Yet when we look at the life of Sergius, this monk of very little means influenced an entire country and helped myriad people. The life of Sergius is counter-intuitive to everything our popular culture tells us.

Our culture seduces us with the delusion that our wants, are, indeed, our needs. It confuses us even when we try to do good and live more simply. We have so many choices in our society it's hard to discern what the "good" choice is.

For instance: I really don't care much for certain mega-chain stores. They fill their shelves with things made in places that I can't vouch for their labor policies, and I don't always agree with the labor policies of these stores themselves. But in little old Kirksville, MO, the big box store provides jobs for several people I know personally. It's all good to be high and mighty about our principles, but in small towns that can have tremendous local economic repercussions. My choice to stick to "green" or "fair trade" might cost my neighbor his or her job, because in a small town, I would have to buy those things online sometimes.

The impossibility of these kinds of choices brings us back to this business of "living more simply." What, really, are our needs? How many our wants morph into "needs?" Compared to the bulk of the world, we are the ones who "have," and are probably the ones to whom "more will be given." But why is it so painful to even think about what we could give up so that others can have 1/10th of what we have?

The answer, I believe, lies in that business of changing our life pattern from "a mindset of scarcity" to "a mindset of abundance."

Last time I checked, God's grace is not a finite quantity. God's mindset--one of abundance--frees us from the need to hoard. Hoarding our money, our time, our stuff, and our emotions only sidetrack us from the possibility we have enough. Once we admit what we have is enough, it actually allows us to be lavish and extravagant in our giving with few regrets--and living more abundantly, over time, makes us feel abundant.

What, in our lives today, can we risk doing without, in order to plant the seeds of a real sense of abundance?

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

October 8 - Commemoration of William Dwight Porter Bliss and Richard Theodore Ely

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the broken-hearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour,
and the day of vengeance of our God;
to comfort all who mourn;
to provide for those who mourn in Zion—
to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.
They shall build up the ancient ruins,
they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations. -- Isaiah 61:1-4 (NRSV)

Many passages of scripture that speak of God raining down punishment on disobedient people, individuals, families, tribes or nations. Depending on one's church's emphasis and theology, those might be passages that are heard often -- or almost never. Some relish those passages, particularly in times of uncertainty or disaster. It is proof to them that God is enraged at something and it's all the fault of those who are now experiencing whatever uncertainty or disaster that is going on at the time. Of course, if it happens to be themselves who are suffering, well, then it's God's test of faith and prayers go up for the strength to pass that test. It's all in how you look at the situation.

While it is necessary to look at the tough passages from time to time, it's always a relief to look at one that speaks of hope, reconciliation and restoration, especially in times of stress, anxiety or fear. Whether one is living in the ruins of a city destroyed by flood or earthquake, through a personal medical problem, a family crisis or the economic crisis of country and its trickle-down effect on individuals and families, there are definitely times when Isaiah's words are needed as a reminder of what God seems to have in mind.

Something I noticed about Isaiah's words, though-- they are not spoken to those who have much but rather to those who have little.. The words don't speak to the status quo or those who espouse a theology of limited resources and who are busily accumulating their own wealth and security while trying hard to fend off any attempt to even the playing field with those who have less and actually need more. There are no words here saying it is okay to look out for oneself and let the other guy take care of him/herself. When Isaiah speaks of "the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God," the vengeance will be on those who have laid the burdens, not on those who bear them.

There's one other thing about Isaiah's words. To me, it feels like they are not just words about what God has in mind or will do, but it is also an invitation for those hearing the words to participate in bringing all this about. If we all just waited for God to swoop down and, in the blink of an eye, right all the wrongs, we would have learned nothing except that we have no responsibility in the matter; we can and do make a mess and then someone else has the job of cleaning it up, including God. But is that the way it is supposed to be? Is that what we teach our children to do or do we inform them that they threw all their toys on the floor and now it is time for them to pick them up and put them away?

They shall build up the ancient ruins,
they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations.

God is inviting. What will be our response, individually and collectively?

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

Psalm 107:23-32
2 Kings 2:19-22
1 Corinthians 12:1-11
Mark 6:45-56

"The service we render to others is really the rent we pay for our room on this earth. It is obvious that man is himself a traveler; that the purpose of this world is not 'to have and to hold' but 'to give and serve.' There can be no other meaning."

"Theology is what one comprehends, religion what one does."

~Sir Wilfred Thomason Grenfell

When one begins to look at the life of Wilfred Thomason Grenfell, it becomes clear that he put both his theology and his religion to good use, and probably "paid his rent for his room on Earth" many times over.

Grenfell, a surgeon, qualified for both his MRCS and MRCP medical degrees from the London Hospital Medical College in 1886, graduating in 1888. One of his mentors in surgery was Sir Frederick Treves, most commonly known as the physician who cared for John Merrick, "The Elephant Man." In an era when surgeons literally collected patients as medical oddities and exploited the hospitalized poor as personal guinea pigs for innovative and radical surgical treatments, Grenfell chose a completely different path. He had the credentials and connections that could have landed him a lucrative Harley Street practice or a prestigious spot at one of London's famed teaching hospitals; instead he devoted his life to the care of the people of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Early in his career, he joined the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, both becoming a master mariner, and outfitting the mission's first hospital ship. He served from Iceland to the Bay of Biscay. In 1892 he traveled to Labrador, where he found the poverty and disease of both the English and native population astounding and troubling. A prolific fund-raiser, he used both his medical collegial connections and his social connections to garner money for the establishment of hospitals, nursing stations, schools, orphanages, and social welfare centers throughout Labrador, as well as a seaman's institute in St. John's, Newfoundland. Grenfell was clear that these facilities were to be available for not only the Caucasian inhabitants, but for the native Inuit and First Nations populations there, a move which often provoked criticism by his peers. In more recent years, however, the criticism has been that Grenfell's centralized services and emphasis on a static community changed the culture of Labrador's First Nations people, who were originally nomadic. Nevertheless, the Grenfell missions were well received by the residents of Labrador at the time.

Grenfell's theology was, to be sure, a practical one. He saw service to the needy as a form of faith that opened us up to greater moral power and freedom, as well as something that transcended dogma. He saw emulating the life of Christ as far more important than debating theological principles.

"Then, if you are 'losing faith in the Gadarene pig story,' you won’t miss that one miracle so much if you have to abandon it," he wrote. "For, if it is not irreverent to say so, you will have a dozen solid facts you could swear to in a court of law from your own personal experience, which will be ten times more helpful to yourself and to other men today than your final decision as to the fate of those unfortunate animals. If you have the evidence of 'that which you have seen and heard' to give, instead of being ruled out of court by the majority of men because they appraise your evidence as unconvincing and inadmissible as mere book knowledge, you will be the most valuable witness for the Christ, and the most dangerous foe to the devil of doubt.... If you are anxious to help others to retain faith, get out and do something for Christ’s sake." ~Grenfell

Our readings today reflect Grenfell's connection with the sea in three places--in the 2nd Kings reference to the "wholesomeness" of salt water, in Psalm 107's imagery of the power of the sea invoking us to call out the name of God, and in Mark's Gospel, where Jesus gets in the boat with his terrified disciples and calms both them and the raging wind upon the waters. Our Epistle reminds us of the myriad talents that can be used to exalt the name of God by doing the work of the world to bring about the manifestation of the Holy Spirit for the common good.

We are living in a time where nature bares her teeth throughout the world, through vicious hurricanes and tsunami-producing earthquakes--and can live out Grenfell's vision of spreading the Word of God by spreading human care and kindness to the victims of nature's wrath. God is, indeed, present in human form amidst nature's violence. How will you choose to be a slice of God's presence in the storm today?

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

Commemoration of Teresa of Avila

We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. -- Romans 8:22-27 (NRSV)

I grew up in a faith tradition where saints weren't really a major deal unless they said something that the preacher learned about in seminary and it bolstered a point that he wanted to make in his sermon or lesson. I remember meeting kids from other traditions at school and being intrigued that they considered someone other than God and Jesus to kind of be there overhead to take care of all kinds of things. I remember Mama telling the story of going to school in New Orleans with kids who went to kiss the toe of the statue of St. Peter and request good grades on their tests and exams while she went home and studied. The saints, to them, were like part of the family - visited often and consulted frequently. At the time it did make me feel that my faith tradition was definitely lacking in something both interesting and important. Eventually I did graduate to a tradition where saints were a regular part of the faith, and I turn to St. Jude (my personal favorite) or St. Anthony (who has found my cell phone and car keys with some regularity) from time to time with no hesitation.

I'd never really considered Teresa of Avila, though. I could understand nuns and appreciate their calling to the religious life, but Teresa just seemed like one of those pious cards with a coiffed nun, eyes uplifted to heaven in an adoring gaze, hands precisely folded to indicate prayer and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Then I read James Kiefer's biography and found something interesting. When Teresa was ill she was very diligent and fervent in her prayers, but when she got better she sort of slacked off, sometimes being very "lukewarm." Now this is something with which I can identify.

I pray when I am expected to -- before meals, in church, in meetings/groups where prayer is part of the regular process and often in the middle of a sleepless night -- but when it comes to ordinary life, I'm a bit lax. Oh, I do remember to say "Thank you" (most of the time) when the light stays green just long enough for me to get through the intersection, a parking space opens up right near the door of the store or when something actually works when I don't particularly expect it to. Perhaps that's simplistic, but there you have it. I did it just this afternoon when I was running late to an appointment and that light stayed green just long enough for me to get through the intersection without stopping. But it's when I'm wading through stuff, especially the really deep stuff, that I tend to pray more and express it less clearly. I can't always come up with words to say what I feel I need to say.

I am grateful for the Book of Common Prayer which so often has something that covers what I need, but there are times when I don't have a BCP handy or I'm struggling just to breathe, totally unable to remember that page 810 holds the list of available prayers and page numbers. I believe I do pray at those times, but if you asked me to say what words I was praying or what I was praying for, I don't think I could tell you. That's one reason the passage from Romans seems so important to me.

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

Readings for the feast day of John Wyclif, October 30:
Psalm 33:4-11
Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 43:26-33
Hebrews 4:12-16
Mark 4:13-20

John Wyclif was noted for his belief that believers had a direct relationship with God, with no requirement for the church or the priestly caste to act as intermediary, and this is most manifest in his translating the Latin Vulgate Bible into English. Through this contribution to the Anglicanism, he most personifies the opening words of today's reading from Hebrews--"Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart." Hebrews 4:12 (NRSV)

I first learned about the business of separating joints from marrow around age 10, when it became one of my household duties to "cut up the chicken." Now, this was one of my favorite tasks, because I was allowed to use large, sharp knives with very little supervision and very little admonishment other than "Don't cut your finger off." My mother, to save money, usually bought a whole chicken at the grocery store rather than pre-cut parts. I learned very quickly there was both a bit of skill and a great deal of satisfaction in learning to cut through the joints of a whole fryer.

One of the tricks I learned was to let the weight of the chicken help me. I quickly learned to hold up the whole chicken by the wing, find the joint space, and "pop" it through the dangling chicken, letting it fall on the cutting board. I also learned to cut the breast in such a way there would be a "wishbone piece" in it. Having the ability to get to make a wish every time we had fried chicken was a real treat.

Having a relationship with God through the living and revealed Word is not much different, really. We can sit in the pews on Sunday and have Scripture served up for us, like a plate of fried chicken, and enjoy a very fine feast, courtesy of the lector, the deacon, and the priest, but it's just not the same as when you are allowed to "cut it up yourself." Nothing opens up Christianity quite like taking up the Bible as a daily spiritual discipline, and it's pleasantly surprising how easy it becomes in a short time. The Episcopal Church's Daily Office allows us to go through the bulk of the Bible in two years' time (and the Psalms every seven weeks!)

Granted, our initial attempts at regular Bible reading may feel clumsy, and our ability to cut into it incisively at first might seem a little tentative, but a good commentary, study Bible, or study group can act as a whetstone for the knife edge of our spiritual imaginations. In fact, there are several sites on the Web that make use of the Daily Office readings. Help is readily available--there's no chance of "cutting our fingers off."

What we discover over time is once we stop worrying that we can't wrap our minds around the Bible in the same way a seminary graduate can, the words start miraculously wrapping around our hearts. Hearing the Psalms over and over causes certain verses and phrases to stand out, and hearing the familiar words of the Gospel begin to knit themselves to our own sinews. Suddenly, the stories are not about ancient people in ancient times, they are about us, in the present moment. There's something spiritually satisfying about popping through the joint of a parable and feeling the relief of the weight of the world drop from us, with a lighter heart. Most importantly, it becomes as much of a daily habit as brushing our teeth, and we will begin to miss it, if circumstances cause us to accidentally omit it.

Then, when we do hear these words on Sunday, they take on new meaning and allow us to become more discerning oracles in our community of faith. We start seeing everyone else's faults a little differently, forgive ourselves a little more easily, and begin to reach out to others in ways we could not imagine. Because we allowed the people of Biblical times into our imaginations, the people we used to think of as "the other" begin to look and feel more like "us."

Thanks to the life and efforts of John Wyclif, we can taste for ourselves the white meat and dark meat of the revealed Word, and live in the hope that there's always a wishbone.

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

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.

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

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

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

Downtown Richmond, Virginia is gridlocked all this week. Steven Spielberg is here filming for his upcoming movie, Lincoln, due to be released in late 2012. The hub bub of this Hollywood presence even makes the evening news….

And today is the day to remember Channing Moore Williams, born in Richmond Virginia in 1829, ordained a deacon in 1855, and left Virginia as a missionary to China and Japan in the midst of the growing fever pitch that finally culminated in the American Civil War. It is an interesting thought to ponder --that while this nation was wracked in increasing political gridlock and friction and the threat to the Union regarding the boundaries of States' rights and equality-liberty-and-justice for all, Williams chose to look beyond the horizons of his nativity and set his sight on Asia.

Hollywood and missionary zeal come full circle in the first week of Advent.

Some claim that the 19th Century missionary efforts of the Episcopal Church (and other churches as well) are part and parcel of the expansionist and imperialistic policies of the secular state. Others might claim that Williams is a wonderful and godly embodiment of The Great Commission given to all Christians --carrying the Good News to the furthest ends of the earth.

How and for what reasons do we carry the Good News of God in Christ? This juxtaposition of mission impetus highlights certain elements of the readings today. The prophet, Amos, laments and admonishes, saying,

Therefore because you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain, you have built houses of hewn stone, but you shall not live in them; you have planted pleasant vineyards, but you shall not drink their wine. For I know how many are your transgressions, and how great are your sins- you who afflict the righteous, who take a bribe, and push aside the needy in the gate. Therefore the prudent will keep silent in such a time; for it is an evil time. Seek good and not evil, that you may live. (Amos 5:11-14)

And-- Jude writes, Now I desire to remind you, though you are fully informed, that the Lord, who once for all saved a people out of the land of Egypt, afterward destroyed those who did not believe. And the angels who did not keep their own position, but left their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains in deepest darkness for the judgment of the great Day. (Jude 5-6)

And-- Jesus tells us the story of the wedding feast, those invited walking away, ignoring or too busy to respond, so the king sends out the invitation to the streets of the realms, to the good and bad alike, and the wedding hall is filled --but one guy didn't wear a party suit, and the king said, "Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?" And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, "Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." For many are called, but few are chosen.' (Matthew 22:12-14)

There is an unmistakable thread of condemnation --beyond judgement, I'm hearing outright condemnation for those who don't care for the poor, who hear and know and don't respond to the call of God --to be ready, prepared for the unexpected invitation and feast. There are several possible responses a Christian might make to these calls to care, to respond, to prepare. Included among them are penance --participating in the Way of the Cross and engaging in bearing the sins of the world. Another way is to actively prepare in hope --prepare for the unexpected inbreaking and revelation of what awaits us all on the other side of judgement.

It is Advent --a time of active preparation and hope. With Channing Moore Williams in mind, it is the perfect time to lift our eyes from our local context, pressures, and conflicts --time to look beyond the horizons of our own nativity to the nativity announced in the skyline of the star --following its light, leaving our habitations and comfort zones, and do all those things necessary to prepare for the great Kingdom feast --not in fear of judgment (there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God which we have in Christ Jesus), but in hope and for the joy that is in us.

Margaret Watson is a priest in the Diocese of Virginia. She writes daily morning prayer reflections at her blog Leave It Lay Where Jesus Flang It.

Commemoration of Clement of Alexandria

All men are Christ's, some by knowing Him, the rest not yet. He is the Savior, not of some and the rest not. For how is He Savior and Lord, if not the Savior and Lord of all? — Clement of Alexandria

One thing I never heard of until I started doing Bible studies in the Episcopal church was the idea of "universalism" -- a belief that somehow, salvation will be attained by all everywhere through God's grace and persistence. It was a totally different thing from "You have to pray the sinner's prayer and accept Jesus as your personal savior before you can be saved and be baptized," which is what I was taught as a child. Even if I said the right things and followed the right procedure, it still seemed like my salvation could be snatched away if I didn't live up to the expectations of God and the church. It made for an uncomfortable relationship with the Almighty.

The church in which I spent my childhood and adolescence sort of went from Genesis to Revelation and then, with the exception of the persecutions and the Reformation in sermons and Sunday School lessons. It wasn't until I began EfM that I began to see the curtain rising on the years my former church had kept under wraps, in a manner of speaking. One of the people I never heard of before EfM was Clement of Alexandria. Once I started delving into church history, Clement was introduced, along with a lot of other philosophers, theologians, catechists, apologists and Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. None of them made the most lasting of impressions on me at the time. Still, the more I continue to study the more I realize Clement of Alexandria is one of my spiritual ancestors, one of those who gave me the ability and the courage to set aside the certainties I'd had in my former church beliefs and embrace new possibilities, including the idea that the entire world will be redeemed, not just the ones who prayed the sinner's prayer and were baptized in the name of the Trinity. Clement's comment gives me the vision of that possibility.

God gave the model for parenthood. Does a parent stop loving, nurturing, protecting or caring for a child simply because it is disobedient, stubborn, aggravating or even turns their back on the parent? Some may, but I don't think God is that kind of parent. There may be some people or groups who enjoy special favor, but the remaining children are not forgotten, ignored or unwanted. All are God's children, even if some do not acknowledge it. Jesus told the Canaanite woman that he had come only for the Jews, but he had already begun reaching beyond the borders of culture and tradition and gender. Paul moved beyond ministry just to the Jews and into the cities and towns of the Greek and Roman world. Christianity spread and with it new and different ways to experience God, Jesus, the Spirit, baptism, the Eucharist and all the refinements. Like the veins on a leaf, the central belief grew offshoots that grew smaller with each refinement. Could not that refinement also include what to some is heresy while to others is orthodoxy? Could we not say that the Lord of all really is the Lord of all, even those who do not recognize the relationship?

Clement also said, " We can set no limits to the agency of the Redeemer to redeem, to rescue, to discipline in his work, and so will he continue to operate after this life." It fits with a statement I heard for the first time maybe a decade or so ago, "Either Jesus died for all the sins of the world or none of them." I don't know who said that, but I think if it could be traced back, the trail would lead somewhere in the vicinity of Clement. To me, it challenges me to get the Trinity out of the little box I had shoveled them into, based on what I had been taught, and allow that they can operate in ways I don't understand and don't really need to. It also makes me see other people, those I sit with in church as well as people on the other side of the globe who have very different images of God, as children of God and worthy of redemption, whether or not they have accepted that redemption or even knew of its existence. Their qualification for redemption is based on the foundation that they belong to God, born as God's creation and the child of God's grace. Whether they in fact are "saved" is a question well above my pay grade. It seems to me that a God powerful enough to create a universe (or a billion billion of them) doesn't need me to sort sheep and goats. It's laughable that I should even dare to think of doing that-- and it's also audacious to the n-th degree.

So, for me, I will not discount universalism nor the thoughts of Clement about salvation and redemption. I will simply be thankful that Clement of Alexandria and the great cloud of other theologically/philosophically-minded folk have left me a legacy of thought to be perused, studied, poked, prodded, stretched and my borders of understanding increased. I will simply trust, and let God, Jesus and the Spirit take care of the rest.

That is a great weight off my shoulders.

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

Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, December 6:
Psalm 145:8-13
Proverbs 19:17, 20-23
1 John 4:7-14
Mark 10:13-16

In reality, we know next to nothing about Nicholas. We know he was a bishop. We know he was tortured and imprisoned under the emperor Diocletian. We have modest evidence that he could have attended the First Ecumenical Council of Nicea in 325. That's pretty much it.

We do, however have intimate knowledge of the modern permutation of the legendary Nicholas, in the guise of St. Nick, aka Santa Claus.

Most of what we attribute to our modern Santa comes from legend involving Nicholas--things that endeared him to sailors, pawnbrokers, and most importantly, children. Many of the stories involving him are about giving money to those in need. The most spectacular legend about him (and my personal favorite) is the one where he raises from the dead three boys who had been killed and stuffed in a barrel.

We say we know who Nicholas was, but really, we know his larger-than-life, legendary shadow.

Our readings today focus on the disenfranchised--the poor and children--in both our Old Testament reading and from the Gospel.

We certainly know some legends about poor people, don't we?

Poor people are lazy and don't want to work.

Poor women are promiscuous and have lot of babies by different fathers.

Poor men are irresponsible and can't be depended upon.

Poor people by definition, do drugs, and drink a lot. They smoke a lot, too. They are poor because they spend the money they have on drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes. They go to the ER and have drug-seeking behavior.

Poor people really aren't THAT poor, because in the U.S. they are often fat. They have cell phones. Some of them have bigger TV sets than mine. Some of them drive nicer cars than mine. They're not poor.

Poor people will always be poor. They don't want to help themselves.

There are two things I know for sure about legends. One is that somewhere in the legend is a kernel of truth. The other is, legends are easier to buy into when I have never met or interacted with the people of the legend.

That's the problem with legends. Sometimes there's a lot of baloney wrapped around that kernel of truth that obscures why the kernel of truth got there in the first place. Unraveling the baloney is tiring, a lot of work, and the amount of work involved is daunting enough to discourage us from ever accepting the possibility that there are other ingredients in this roll, and that there is a possibility that by changing some of the ingredients, the lives of individuals trapped in the legend can change for the better.

Now, as it worked out, the legend of St. Nicholas worked out to be one mostly used for good. It's good to have a legend where generally, it encourages us to be kind and generous to others, and it comes at a time of the year where I always hope the generosity of the season sticks with all of us.

But there's a problem with the St. Nicholas legend. The world of St. Nick's evolved character, Santa Claus, is also a world where all we have to do is make a list of our wants, be nice for a little while, leave out some cookies and milk, and we will get what we want. After all, we were "deserving" because we could manage to be nice for a little spell, right?

Happy legends are comfortable. They make us feel better. We don't have to move much outside ourselves to exist within them.

We can get that way a little bit about Legendary Jesus, too.

Legendary Jesus--rather white and fair for a Middle Eastern kinda guy, in a clean white robe, and with more teeth than a person of that era ought to have. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Loves the little children. All the children of the world. Oddly enough, it's those truck stop gift shop prints of "Jesus and the children" that distress me the worst. Oh, these days those kids come in various colors on that print, but it's what is NOT in the picture that bugs me.

There are no mentally challenged kids. There are no kids with physical deformities. There are no kids scarred by abuse, no kids dirty from neglect, no kids fearful of Jesus because a man who looked a little like him sexually abused them. There are no kids with bruises because the other kids bullied them. There are no kids wondering about their sexual orientation. There are no visibly malnourished kids.

The obscurity of Nicholas reminds us that there was probably much, much more to his life that was real, that would ask us to go deeper to love him the way we love Jolly Old St. Nick. In that, we should be reminded there is much to following Jesus that goes deeper to feeling good as Christians about Legendary Jesus and calls us to get a little dirty searching for the truth of the message of Real Jesus.

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

The banner headline at the Daily Office site I frequent reads: Frances J. Gaudet, Educator and Prison Reformer, 1934.

Prison reformer.... The week after The Feast of the Incarnation is usually festive --folks take time off from work, school, or travel to see family and friends and all the like. We still have another week to celebrate Christmas, Emmanuel, the mind-blowing and radical notion that God is not 'out there,' but is indeed With Us.

However, the liturgical calendar has been unrelenting this week: St. Stephen, Deacon & Martyr; St John the Evangelist; Holy Innocents; Thomas Becket.... --from being stoned to death, to the strange ecstasy of eagle vision, to the murder of innocents, to the betrayal of love and loyalty... and now, today, we are being asked to enter in to prayer and remember prison, prisoners and prison reform.

Unrelenting, indeed. My personal longing and desire to remember Christmas joy and the delight of Incarnate Love and Reconciliation seems drowned in blood... imprisoned in the remembering of our violent histories.

Is there not one day of just plain ordinary Christmas?

Frances J. Gaudet, Educator and Prison Reformer, 1934. Why? I googled the name. I half expected Frances to be a man... but she's a she --a prison reform worker and educator, was born in a log cabin in Holmesville, Mississippi of African American and Native American descent.

She has my sudden attention and respect. There are too many obstacles in her way before she even begins --in a world rampant with racism and gender bias. And yet, she persists. Pushing for help for juvenile offenders who also have the world of race and poverty built against them. Building schools. Helping prisoners of all stripes....

I have served as a volunteer chaplain at the Richmond City Jail. I enter the world of concrete and iron bars and am always humbled by the fervent prayer, the longing, the pain --the knowledge that even when one is released from the jail, the patterns of life that lead to 'the big house' are not so easily left behind. Families and neighborhoods reek with violence and poverty, and resources seem to be more liberally spent on incarceration rather than food, school, housing, job training... hope.

In this bundle of remembering the martyrs and the murdered, the coin suddenly flips. There is room here for joy, for rejoicing. Frances J. Gaudet, Educator and Prison Reformer, 1934. She took her own mortal and imperfect human flesh and worked to free the prisoner, to feed their souls and spirits with hope and love. Not with words, rhetoric or advocacy, but with her own life. Against all odds.

From the lectionary for the Eucharist (John 13:34-35)

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

May we all find the ways to respond to the call to love. There is no better way to celebrate the Feast of the Incarnation.

The Rev. Margaret Watson will soon be relocating from Richmond, Virginia to Eagle Butte, South Dakota to work on the Cheyenne River Episcopal Mission. She keeps a daily morning prayer blog at Leave It Lay Where Jesus Flang It.

Commemoration of the Ordination of Florence Li Tim-Oi

Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed;
save me, and I shall be saved;
for you are my praise.
See how they say to me,
‘Where is the word of the Lord?
Let it come!’
But I have not run away from being a shepherd in your service,
nor have I desired the fatal day.
You know what came from my lips;
it was before your face.
Do not become a terror to me;
you are my refuge on the day of disaster;
Let my persecutors be shamed,
but do not let me be shamed;
let them be dismayed,
but do not let me be dismayed;
bring on them the day of disaster;
destroy them with double destruction!
--Jeremiah 17:14-18

Jeremiah was getting it from both sides. His adversaries are scornful because his prophecies have not happened and God didn't seem to be too attentive to him at the moment. One can forgive Jeremiah for being a bit unhappy with the situation of the moment; however, he does remind God that he has been obedient, faithful and dutiful in proclaiming the message he was given to pass on, just like he was supposed to. Furthermore, God knew it because Jeremiah did his proclaiming to God's face, so there.

There was a woman, millennia later, who would have had every reason to ask why despite her faithful service, her ministry was limited and God didn't seem to be in too big a hurry to change that. Li Tim-Oi, "Much Beloved Daughter", was both a pioneer and a lightning rod. Ordained as the first woman priest in the Anglican Communion in 1944, serving as a priest in the Japanese-occupied colony of Macau (at that time, Maçao) when male priests were prohibited to travel from Hong Kong to Macau to bring the sacraments. She served quietly but effectively until, after the war had ended, her ordination became a cause célèbre around the Anglican world. She voluntarily gave up her license to act as a priest in the name of peace, but never relinquished her vows and anointing from her ordination. She served and suffered in China during some of the most brutal years of the Communist takeover, but was able to start again in public ministry when the churches in China were reopened in 1979, sixteen years after their closure. In 1981 she was able to visit family members in Canada where she later settled, and on that visit was licensed once again as a priest, this time in the Diocese of Montreal and later Toronto. She died in Canada in 1992.

As much as Li Tim-Oi suffered at the hands of the Japanese and the Communists, the rejection by her church of her priestly vocation must have been one of the hardest battles she had to endure. This time the adversary wasn't the armed enemy but those who were members of the same family. Jeremiah must have felt sort of the same way. It's hard to be a prophet, and it's hard to be the first. It's hard to face an enemy but even harder to face brothers and sisters of one's own spiritual family. Li Tim-Oi was the first but not the last. Two women were ordained in Hong Kong in 1971, eleven women in Philadelphia in 1974 and four in Washington in 1975. Canada approved women's ordination in 1975. Other provinces have followed but not all have yet accepted the ministry of women in the priesthood. For those early women priests, however, it was a struggle, and it still continues to be a struggle in some parts of the world. Florence Li Tim-Oi, though, was and is a beacon that will shine brightly wherever women are called by God and assent to that call. Like Mary at the annunciation, there is a choice to say yes or no to God’s call -- and the ramifications of an assent is life-changing. Jeremiah said yes and, even when whiny, kept his focus on what his job was. Li Tim-Oi had that choice and said yes in her turn. It probably would have been easier to renounce the whole thing when oppression came, but she never succumbed to that option.

Florence Li Tim-Oi never made a big noise in the world with powerful speeches and public appearances, but her faithfulness, dedication and grace in the face of hardship and suffering mark her as truly a "holy woman."

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

Psalm 19 (Morning)
Psalm 119:89-112 (Evening)
Isaiah 45:18-25
Philippians 3:4b-11
Ecclesiasticus 39:1-10
Acts 9:1-22

"Saul/Paul and the road to Damascus" is very likely etched indelibly on the brains of most Christians, and honestly, there is very little I can say about this archetype of the Christian conversion experience that hasn't already been said, and by people far more erudite than me. In fact, the story of Saul/Paul's conversion, for many of us, is the polar opposite of our own experience of "encountering Jesus." It's probably the decided minority of us that have ever heard God actually speak to us and lead us to repent and change our attitudes and behaviors towards Jesus.

Really, the only conversion I know very much about at all, has to do with another of my passions--college football. In college football, one of the most exciting things (especially in the fourth quarter of a close game) is that a kicked point after touchdown is worth one point, and one that is run or passed across the goal line is worth two points. In fact, in the NCAA overtime format, once two teams have reached triple overtime, it's mandatory that the two point conversion be employed.

Various sources attribute the success rate of a two point conversion between 40 and 55 percent. The two point conversion, in college football, creates a risk/reward between the win and the tie, or the win and the loss. It has been so extensively statistically studied that in the 1970's, when Dick Vermeil was coach at UCLA, he actually developed a formula of when to "go for two" that is still cited and used in college coaching today.

Perhaps that is really the crux of the Christian conversion experience--when in our lives do we simply take the easy near-sure thing and "kick for one" rather than "run it for two?"

I'm afraid in the world of spreading The Good News In Christ, the institutional church in the past century, has been too complacent to "kick for one"--and the result is declining membership in the mainline denominations. The non-denominational megachurches, however, "run for two" at a rate far more than their mainline counterparts. The result is often increased membership. However, the flip side of that is recent studies show that this "increased membership" is often the result of shifting alliances rather than new converts. Megachurch attendees shop--and when they are no longer entertained, they move on.

Of more concern is the data in recent Gallup polls that show the numbers of people who attend church hovers at 30 percent year after year, but the number of people who never attend church continues to increase.

This is just a guess on my part, but it seems to me that a worthwhile strategy to explore in sharing The Good News In Christ and teaching people to desire that as a lifelong proposition is to first examine our own lives. When are the times in our lives in Christ that we risked "going for two?" What did we learn as a result of both our failures and successes? Did we use our two point conversion attempt wisely or foolishly?

Likewise, when are the times we really needed to kick for the relatively safe point after touchdown? Did we do that, or did we get impatient, risk going for two, and fail?

Perhaps then, we should extrapolate it into the lives of our parishes in terms of outreach and evangelism.

When is the last time your parish took a decided risk in "going for two" in terms of reaching out to the disaffected, the lonely, and the marginalized?

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

Psalm 62:6-9
Genesis 28:10-17
2 Corinthians 2:14-17
Matthew 6:19-23

Jacob left Beer-sheba and went toward Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. And the Lord stood beside him and said, “I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!” And he was afraid, and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” ~Genesis 28:10-17 (NRSV)

Just as Jacob saw a window into Heaven and a means to provide a means for a flow of traffic between the realm of God and the realm of humanity via "Jacob's Ladder," Andrei Rublev devoted his life to creating a ladder between those two realms via iconography. His process for writing icons is outlined in Holy Women, Holy Men, page 196:

For Andrei, writing an icon was a spiritual exercise. It involved the ritual of preparing the surface, applying the painted and precious metal background and then creating the image, first outlining it in red. Throughout he would repeatedly say the “Jesus Prayer” (“Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me”). He was creating a window into the Divine which he knew was always before him but which was invisible to the human eye. He knew he was able to create such an image of God because he himself was made in the image of God. His object was to be totally focused on receiving God’s love and loving in return.

In 2010, I decided I needed an icon for my prayer corner in my house, so I turned to a modern iconographer, Luiz Coelho, to make that happen. What I had discovered by pondering many famous icons, including those of Rublev, was that sometimes the iconographer hooked the viewer to the icon via renditions of cities or places at the time the icon would have been written--creating a ladder between antiquity and the present. I was stunned that Luiz was able to do this by means of my Facebook™ photos, linking Mary as Theotokos, and the image of the young Christ as teacher, with iconic renditions of vast pasture, my church, and my red pickup truck drawing nearer to Mary and Christ on a ribbon of U.S. Highway 63. (click to enlarge icon)

What I've come to realize via using this icon as a window into the Divine, is that icons demand of us the same painstaking process Rublev used to create his icons. First, we are asked to strip ourselves to our barest wood and to imagine ourselves in divine terms--to imagine God's view of us as part of God's good creation, and to allow God the Iconographer create that image in the setting of a discipline of regular prayer. The hardest part, however, is to allow that image to be viewed by others, and to trust that they will see what they need to see when they view us. When we are icons of the Body of Christ, we aren't allowed the luxury of projecting what we wish others to see--it requires being comfortable enough to trust that the scratches and misplaced brush strokes are part and parcel of this divine icon. We don't get to force the image we wish, upon the hearts and minds of others. Instead, we are invited to trust that the image is a sufficient window, and allow others to make their own choices about that window.

What is God telling you, when you feel brave enough to pray through the holy icon of you, as God sees you in Divine Creation?

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 the Martyrs of Japan
Psalm 16:5-11
Lamentations 3:46-48, 52-59
Galatians 2:19-20
Mark 8:34-38

The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup;
you hold my lot.
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
I have a goodly heritage.
I bless the LORD who gives me counsel;
in the night also my heart instructs me.
I keep the LORD always before me;
because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my soul rejoices;
my body also rests secure.
For you do not give me up to Sheol,
or let your faithful one see the Pit.
You show me the path of life.
In your presence there is fullness of joy;
in your right hand are pleasures forevermore. ~Psalm 16:5-11 (NRSV)

It's absolutely horrifying to think that the story of the 26 Martyrs of Japan represents the focal point of the annihilation of a Christian community that, at least, numbered 300,000 (some scholars estimate it up to just under one million.) However, the more fascinating part of this story, to me, is "the rest of the story"--when the underground remnants of this community were re-discovered by Fr. Bernard-Thadeé Petitjean on March 17, 1865. (Actually, the covert Christians introduced themselves to Fr. Petitjean--but only after he and other missionaries had passed certain tests posed by the Japanese Christians, to confirm that these visitors, were, indeed, Christians themselves.)

For roughly two hundred and fifty years, the remnant of the original Japanese Christians, and approximately seven successive generations of their descendants had managed to keep the Christian faith alive, and relatively intact. Although a few documents and relics had been passed down, most of the faithful carried the tenets of their faith orally through snippets of remaining documents and the creation of the Tenchi hajimari no koto, a sacred book they created themselves that had an amalgam of Bible stories, elements of the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church, and Japanese folk tales. Many of them committed much of this to memory.

Another clever feature of their survival was that they had split among the community various sacramental duties that normally would have been under the scope of a single priest. They understood the Roman Catholic rubrics for emergency baptism and penitential rites in the absence of a priest, and divided these duties up among the community. Other duties overlapped among community members, such as the keeping of the liturgical calendar, the prayers and liturgies known as the orashiyo (from the Latin Oratio) and preserving various relics. Rather than worship as a large group, they created numerous roughly five-household cells, which interconnected to larger confraternaties or sodalities, that interconnected with each other.

But perhaps the most ingenious practice of these crypto-Christians was their creation of everyday objects indistinguishable to the eye from Buddhist tradition that were actually Christian objects of veneration. One example is a statue known as the Mariya Kannon. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be a female Buddha embracing a child--but to the faithful it was obviously the Blessed Virgin Mary and the young Jesus.

Although there were gaps in their understanding of some Sacraments (namely ordination and confirmation, since they required a bishop,) they still transmitted the knowledge of several Sacraments (particularly baptism) with amazing fidelity. When questioned by the missionaries upon their return in 1865, one woman remarked, "We celebrate the feast of our Lord Jesus on the 25th day of the month of frost. We have been told that on that day, about midnight, our Lord was born in a stable, that he grew up in poverty and suffering, and at the age of 33 he died for the salvation of our souls on the cross. Now we have the season of sorrow. Do you also have these celebrations?" (Fr. Petitjean remarked in his writings that, indeed, they were in the season of Lent at the time this story was told.)

It staggers the mind to see the complexity and detail these hidden Christians kept intact for seven generations. They re-wrote a rudimentary form of the Bible mostly from memory. They baptized their descendants. They created hidden objects of worship. They did what had to be done to keep the church alive--because their Christian faith meant that much to them. I doubt anyone would argue that even with their mistakes, gaps, and merging of Japanese folk tales into the tales of the Hebrew people, that these people were undoubtedly Christian.

As we remember not only these 26 brave martyrs, but the seven generations of crypto-Christians that carried on their legacy, let's participate in an imaginative spiritual exercise. If space aliens came tomorrow and began to wipe Christianity from the face of the earth, what would we believe were the most key aspects of our faith that we would be bound and determined to preserve? How would we disguise it? What pieces of our liturgy can you recite from memory? What are the stories in the Bible that matter most to you? Perhaps those are exactly the features we should be displaying to younger generations that are struggling to decide if the church--and God--has any relevance to their lives.

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

Commemoration of Fanny Crosby

Readings:
Ps. 108:1–6
Isaiah 42:10–12,16
1 Peter 1:3–9
John 9:35–39

I made acquaintance with Fanny Crosby long before I knew her name or her story. In the church of my childhood, there was plenty of singing, lots of songs of praise, comfort and hope featuring a loving God, a gentle shepherd, and the joys of redemption. There were plenty of songs about sin and the need for repentance too, sometimes even in the same hymn along with any of the other elements. Most were very sentimental and flowery of language, the usual poetry and prose of the Victorian era in which Fanny lived. Still, congregations loved singing them and even children could learn them by heart and consider the message they brought. They still do; my neighbor next door, a member of the same denomination in which I grew up, assures me they sung often and much loved.

One of the ones that I remember most clearly was one called "Blessed Assurance":

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood,

Refrain
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;
Angels descending bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love. Refrain

Perfect submission, all is at rest
I in my Savior am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love. Refrain*

The music was credited to Phoebe P. Knapp and the lyrics to Fanny Crosby. Reading Fanny's biography, I found that the name I knew from the hymnbook I used in my childhood and adolescence was really quite a person. She wrote thousands of hymns, some of which are present in many contemporary Protestant hymnals (but not Hymnal 1982). Many of the most prominent composers of hymns of the day came to her with music already composed, asking her to fill in the lyrics. She would hear the music several times and, usually in very short order, would have a set of lyrics to go with it.

The hymns became as important to camp meeting revivals and the Holiness movement as they were to the Sunday morning services. Because of their quality, quality, quantity and endurance, Fanny was inducted into the Gospel Music Hall of Fame in 1975, 60 years after her death. I'd never really considered her music to be "gospel", but the evangelical expressions and tone were unmistakable.

The readings for today, Fanny's commemoration, speak of many of the same things of which Fanny wrote so frequently: hope, faith, belief, praise, thanks, salvation and mercy. The readings also mention blindness and the release from blindness. Fanny may not have had a physical curing of her blindness but she truly seemed to walk in a higher light than the sun could provide. She walked unafraid in prisons and less-than-desirable neighborhoods, speaking and preaching the love and mercy of God. The glory wasn't for her but rather for God. Many were attracted to and acknowledged God as a result of her words.

Thou the Spring of all my comfort,
More than life to me,
Whom have I on earth beside Thee?
Whom in Heav'n but Thee? **

* Accessed from the Cyberhymnal
** "Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior", verse 4, lyrics by Fanny Crosby, accessed from The Cyberhymnal

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

Readings for the feast day of Charles Freer Andrews
Psalm 113:2-8
Deuteronomy 15:7-11
Ephesians 2:13-22
Matthew 23:8-12

If we know of Charles Freer Andrews at all, we probably have an image of the rugged looks of Ian Charleson--"Charlie" of the movie Gandhi. A quick Google Images search, however, yields photos of a man who looks a lot more like a mad monk than the lean, handsome Charleson of Richard Attenborough's movie. Often pictured in traditional Indian garb, the real-life Andrews was noticeable by his moderately long beard and his intense, piercing eyes. The Mahatma himself claimed that Andrews' initials stood for "Christ's Faithful Apostle" because of his tireless work in India's independence and in the abolition of indentured servitude. Although the British Empire had abolished slavery, the practice of indenturing servants was alive and well in Britannia's empire.

Andrews never married--but what I have read about him led me to believe he was married to India. He was married to his sense of justice. He was married to the Christ-like notion of comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. The British political hierarchy and the Church of England ecclesiastical hierarchy found him to be quite a prickly character in that regard--Englishmen who sided with the struggles of "the colonials" were generally thought to be traitors for questioning their motives and their methods. Some went to far as to denounce him as a traitor to the land of his birth and the church that had ordained him--even a traitor to the very faith he had been sent to preach.

It is surprising, in these precarious economic times, that his words and his prophetic words have fallen into relative obscurity--a quick search on Amazon.com shows several out of print (and slightly overpriced) works. He was a proponent of the Christian Socialist movement, which followed a very strict definition of the word "usury." Usury, if looked at in a biblical and historical sense, was defined by "the accumulation of wealth beyond what is required to meet the responsibilities of station"--not just as it applied to interest rates. He questioned the morality of his own Church of England's Western/Eurocentric view of Christianity, demanding it to fully embrace humanity, not just the "white races."

"If the desire of possession in a man is stronger than the sense of brotherhood," he wrote, "he may be a tyrant or a slave, or both in one. He in whom a sense of brotherhood is uppermost may suffer, even to death, but he will preserve society from destruction. Through that suffering he will surely rise to the conception of one common humanity, called into existence by one Father, redeemed by one incarnate Savior, quickened by one infinite Spirit."

Our readings today call us to truly embrace "the other," in a way far beyond money and lip service. Our Psalm praises a God who "raises the poor from the dust, and lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes, with the princes of his people." Our passage in Deuteronomy reminds us "Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, “Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.”" Paul, in Ephesians, exhorts us that we are "no longer strangers and aliens," but are "citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone." Finally, Matthew's Gospel calls each of us to servanthood, reminding us that "All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted."

Are we ready to embrace the radical discipleship of the Gospel as it was understood by the real Charles Freer Andrews, or is it easier to watch the dashing and likable Charlie in a re-run of Gandhi?

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

Commemoration of John Roberts, Priest and Missionary (1843-1949)
Psalm: 90:13-17
Deuteronomy 31:30-32:4,32:6-12a
Acts 3:18-25
John 7:37-41

Growing up in Virginia, where history seems to ooze out of every molecule of air, water, earth and rock, it was hard not to know something about the Native American peoples who had populated the area and their relationships with the first English settlers who arrived in 1607. There was interplay in every phase of their mutual existence in that small area of green forest and sparkling water, sometimes positive, sometimes negative. When the settlers arrived, the Powhatan people did not realize that they were seeing the beginning of what became the general policy for most settler-native relationship: their own exile like the children of Israel, mutual warfare and massacres, and the end of their way of life on land they had occupied for centuries. By the time I came along, I knew there were Native Americans around somewhere, I just didn’t know where.

I found some in Phoenix when I moved here. There was a school set aside for them right in the middle of the city. Great, I thought. Give them a chance to get off the reservation, get a good education, help them get good paying jobs and make a better life than they would have had on the reservation. To my horror, I found later that I had bought into something called “forced assimilation,” a policy of the government that dated back almost to the founding of the country. Students at the Indian School, as it was called, were removed from their families at a very young age, sent to a totally strange, closed-in and frightening place, given a new name, a new hairstyle, new and strange items of clothing, different food. They were denuded of any artifact from their homes like small totems, fragments of rock, or anything else that would have connected them with their families. They were forced to speak only English, were regimented as surely as if they were in an army, and basically taught to be domestics and laborers with very little real education. The trauma of such treatment still has an effect on those who had to undergo it years ago.

Reading the biography of John Roberts, who we commemorate today, the thing that reached out and grabbed me was how different he was from probably almost every other white person the Arapaho and Shoshone people had ever seen or met. He treated them with respect, encouraging them to maintain their tribal languages, customs and traditions. He learned their languages and used those languages to preach, teach and even encourage harmony between two very different tribes of Natives Americans who were mutually antagonistic. In a sense, he was a man ahead of his time, educational philosophy-wise. Perhaps it was because he was Welsh by birth and did not grow up with the beliefs common among white people that Native Americans were savages, killers, and inferior in every way to the settlers, who had pushed them into reservations, appropriated their lands, destroyed their food chain and then tried to set them in a form of slavery. He earned respect by showing respect. In establishing missions around Wyoming along with his educational and missionary efforts on Wind River, he bridged the gap between the worlds of the non-Native Americans and the Native, doing his best to live the Golden Rule and, perhaps unwittingly, using St. Francis’ dictum to “preach always and sometimes use words.”

John Roberts, in his dual role of priest and missionary, asked to be sent to the most difficult place among Native Americans. His request was granted and he spent the rest of his very long and productive life among those he had asked to serve. I think the lesson I can take from John Robert’s life is that people are people, no matter what their outside appearance or perceived differences are. Treat them with respect and it will be returned.

Looking at Jesus among the different peoples with whom he interacted, he didn’t ask them to change their language, their location, their manner of dress or hairstyle or anything else other than their hearts. He didn’t force them, but by his words and witness he convinced them. He cured and healed them and they responded to him. John Roberts may not have done any physical curing, but I believe he did a lot of healing as he worked with people who had been sorely wounded as well as those who had done some of the wounding.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.” I have a feeling John Roberts more than fits that job description.

Now where can I take his example and put it to best use in my life? I don’t think I’ll have to look very far.

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

Readings for the feast day of Emily Malbone Morgan, February 26
Psalm 119:137-144
Exodus 1:15-21
Romans 16:1-6
Luke 10:38-42

When I first started learning more about Emily Malbone Morgan, my first stop is almost always the Episcopal Church publication "Holy Women, Holy Men." At first, she didn't seem all that attractive an alternative to the "regular" Daily Office readings. In my mind was this image more like the Dowager Countess of Downton Abbey, but with an American twist--some never-married moneyed do-gooder from one of the old, fine families of New England who went about flinging philanthropy all over the place, to the point she had even bought her way onto our Calendar of Saints. Honestly, I didn't want to be interested in her. It was only until I stumbled on another biography of her in Project Canterbury that I began to have an open mind.

What I discovered is that, although she is still a little obscured by history to me, there are parts of her life that might have more to do with 21st century realities of life than I thought. Her parents, were, indeed, from the more moneyed families of New England--but one wonders if the marriage of her parents was more about that than it was about their personalities complementing each other. Her mother was described as "otherworldly;" her father, a man of mercurial, volcanic temper outbursts--and it appears Emily's mother set out to "reform" her husband. Any of us who have lived under the shadow of alcoholism, drug abuse, or a family member with a personality disorder can perceive some recognizable patterns there. Emily and at least two of her siblings gravitated to the "helping professions"--she had a clergyman brother and a physician brother, and she devoted her life to philanthropy and prayer, creating Girls' Clubs and the Companions of the Holy Cross. Her dearest companion, Adelyn Howard had a "fatal hip disease" (which sounds a lot like chronic osteomyelitis to me, not so uncommon in the pre-antibiotic era.)

Our Gospel reading is the story of Mary and Martha, and the more I thought about it, the more I began to see that Emily Malbone Morgan was a woman with both streaks of Martha and Mary in her--and possibly constantly had to juggle the two roles in her own life. She saw visions. She was deeply committed to the value of intercessory prayer, and her companion Adelyn--an invalid who understood her own power as a dynamo of prayer even in her fragile condition--was key in Emily's understanding of these matters. Yet she was firmly a woman doing good works in the world, and used her wealth to discover places of holy wonder throughout the world. Emily shunned her own ability to provide creature comforts for herself at times, and was known to sleep on floors and in cupboards in her younger days. She chose the least attractive spot in her home, Adelynrood, for herself.

Suddenly, I began to see her life in a different light. At first, I couldn't see anything this woman had to offer me, because of the money. I grew up more or less running three steps ahead of poverty. But as I begin to read her family story (or should I say "hear" it?) I began to see who she was in the light of family dysfunction, and how many of us live lifestyles "below our means" at times, when we start to hear the call of living in Christ, and how many of us end up in the pull of the "helping professions" like the pull of a magnet. I thought of a key player in my own life in terms of learning to serve others with love--my late friend Ben, who had muscular dystrophy. I spent a good portion of my 20somethings accompanying him and chauffeuring him various places because he could not walk or drive. I used to push his wheelchair into amazing places in the pre-handicap-accessible world of the early 1980's, even goofing up a few times and causing him a few bumps and bruises, which he stoically bore as a result of my enthusiastic over-estimations.

Gender, class, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or lifestyle all begin to be less of a barrier the moment we begin to see things in others, that are like ourselves. Praying for others, praying for all sorts of conditions of humans and humanity, praying for those we don't even know all are gentle waves that lap at the seawall of what divides us. Instead, those prayers link us like gossamer threads to people and places that are beyond our capacity for reason or recognition--but without it, we become more Dowager Countess-like ourselves--it's all beneath us.

Is it possible--just possible--that the things we believe that we have changed our hearts and minds about, have actually been answers to the prayers of others, and it was never about "us" at all?

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

Psalm 97:1-2. 7-12
Ezekiel 36:33-38
1 Thessalonians 2:2b-12
Matthew 28:16-20

The commemoration of Patrick of Ireland is certainly one of the more popular saints' days on the calendar. Even people who aren't Irish by birth, marriage, adoption or the grace of God find something green in their closet to wear, have a craving for corned beef and cabbage, and go to pubs to drink green colored beer. Whole waterways turn green which, on any other day would cause great alarm, are treated as a lark on March 17th. Parades are held, special blessings given, little lads and lasses perform the steps they so carefully learned in their step-dancing classes, leprechauns pop up everywhere, and, in general, even if someone isn't really Irish they do something to celebrate. Sure and begorrah, 'tis a fine day, even if it's pouring rain, because it celebrates Patrick and all things Irish -- except, perhaps, those for whom orange rather than green is the color of celebration. But, I imagine, even they wouldn't turn down a glass raised in honor of Ireland's most notable adopted son.

While Patrick surely didn't chase the snakes out of Ireland, he did do a lot of traveling, preaching and converting. A Briton by birth, he was captured and sold into slavery by Irish pirates, being freed (or perhaps escaping) six years later and returned home to his family and to prepare to become a priest. In a way it seems ironic that he was sent to serve in Ireland, the place where he had been a slave. Still, he went to Armagh and went about his job as a priest and then as a bishop.

Patrick left us his story in the form of a confession like Augustine wrote and he left some letters. Best of all, he left (or folks attributed it to him) one of the most beautiful poem-prayers in Christendom, at least in my very humble opinion. It's included in numerous hymnals, including the 1982, and is usually sung when a very long processional hymn is needed (or at an ordination). I refer to Hymn # 370, generally known as "St Patrick's Breastplate." The congregation almost always groans when the bulletin or hymn board (or power point) indicates this is the hymn that will be sung, simply because of it's length and 90% minor key. Pagan friends refer to it as a binding spell, while Christians prefer to call it a binding prayer. In a culture where there's a prayer for everything from getting out of bed to going to bed and all the tasks and problems that might be encountered during that time, this would have been a morning prayer, speaking as it does of rising and girding and the request for protection from whatever the day brings. Not a bad way to start the day.

The one section that always grasps me is the one section in a major key, one of the oldest tunes in Celtic music.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

How reassuring it must have been to Patrick to have the confidence that Christ was indeed all around him, guarding and guiding, as well as the whole Trinity, the company of heaven, the communion of saints, the prophets, the scriptures, creeds, beauties and power of nature and, ultimately God leading it all. To a new ordinand, it represents all that they are taking on as they begin that phase of their ministry. Lay folk can sing it in the conviction that they don't need special chrismation or promises to claim what Patrick did. It is, in a sort of Irish nutshell, a binding prayer, a statement of faith and a memorizable way of linking oneself to all of creation both in heaven above and earth below. By its memorization, it goes inward, to be pulled out when necessary or desired, and retained for the next morning or time.

We have a lot to thank Ireland for, including Patrick and Patrick's Lorica, the Breastplate. Who needs green beer when they can have a daily dose of poetry, prayer and statement of faith, all in one shot?

Bail ó Dhia ort - the blessing of God be on you.

(Note: The Breastplate of St. Patrick with tune and lyrics can be found at the Oremus website.)

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

Readings for the feast day of Cyril of Jerusalem, March 18
Psalm 122
Sirach 47:8-10
Hebrews 13:14-21
Luke 24:44-48

Although "Holy Women, Holy Men" makes special mention of Cyril's skill in preaching, teaching, and the development of catechetical instruction, particularly with regard to creating participatory liturgies for Holy Week, I was more intrigued about another aspect of Cyril's life--he got exiled a lot.

Mostly, it seems, his exiles were related to the fact that, although he, by all accounts, was essentially adherent to the Nicene orthodoxy, he had a little trouble with totally being on board with God the Father and Jesus being totally consubstantial--he had a hard time coming around to the concept of homoousia. This often put him at odds with people who were coming down hard on bishops who exhibited even a faint whiff of Arianism. Out of his multiple exiles, though, the most interesting one was when he was exiled in 358 for selling some of the church furniture to feed people during a famine.

Cyril's life and exiles are a reminder of something that still dogs any of us who recite the Nicene Creed each week and on occasion, feel a little itchy about certain parts of its phraseology. Cyril's own itchiness didn't stop him from doing what he felt God called him to do--care for the poor in his jurisdiction, and create liturgies for Holy Week that were accessible to people of his day through movement, color, expressive poetry, and beautiful hymnody. Despite his own edginess about a piece of the Nicene Creed, he kept coming back. He kept celebrating the Eucharist. He kept trying to think of new ways to invite people to embrace the Christian experience. He didn't let the constant charges of heresy stop him from preaching and living the Gospel. He's a lesson to us to hang in there, and no matter what, keep coming back to the Eucharistic table, and let the Sacraments change our hearts and actions, rather than wrangle with the inconsistencies in our minds to the point we would die in the ditch rather than worship together.

I think about Cyril sometimes in light of what seems to happen every time we get a pile of Anglican bishops together worldwide and it seems some of them want to exclude others of them from the table, or when they start having notions that two X chromosomes make someone incapable of balancing a mitre on one's noggin. Pretty soon, people start throwing the H word around--heresy. Cyril's life and ministry reminds us that some of us are called at times, to rub the status quo the wrong way, and to truly follow Christ and obey his teachings, we may well suffer exile for our faithfulness. Time might even show us we were wrong--eventually Cyril capitulated about that whole homoousia business--but even when we are on the wrong side of an issue, it doesn't have to be a deterrent to our going about our business as a person who builds up the Body of Christ.

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

Commemoration of Óscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador, and the Martyrs of El Salvador

Readings:
Psalm 31:15-24
Isaiah 2:5-7
Revelation 7:13-17
John 12:23-32

If we are worth anything, it is not because we have more money or more talent, or more human qualities.
Insofar as we are worth anything, it is because we are grafted on to Christ's life, his cross and resurrection.
That is a person's measure. - Óscar Romero

He stood behind the altar, lifting his eyes to the element held above his head. The prayer stopped suddenly when a shot pierced his heart and quelled the devotion to the crucified and resurrected one present in his hands. It was not only a death in the most sacred moment of the mass but a political assassination against a man who preached peace, justice and equality in a country where dictatorship, political power and terror among the people was the norm. He was a hero to the common people of his native land but had come to be viewed as an enemy, a communist and a turncoat by the rich and powerful, even those in the church he so faithfully served.

I don't think Óscar Romero sought to be a martyr, yet he became one in the space of a single heartbeat. He studied theology first in his San Salvador, then completed his studies and was ordained a priest in Rome. He then returned to El Salvador where he was seen to be quiet, bookish, conservative and a friend of the elite who supported the military government. After his elevation to Archbishop of San Salvador in 1977 and the assassination of a Jesuit friend who was an early practitioner of liberation theology, Romero became more and more aware of the misery and suffering of the oppressed poor who did most of the labor but reaped none of the rewards. He began to speak against the injustices, disappearances, terror campaigns and murders occurring every day across the country. Romero had no illusions of his safety, and not even his position in the Roman Catholic Church could provide a shield against the military. He stated, "If God accepts the sacrifice of my life, may my death be for the freedom of my people. A bishop will die, but the Church of God, which is the people, will never perish."

He became a voice of the people, an annoyance to the elite, including some of the bishops of his own church who supported the status quo, and a thorn in the side of the military government. On the day after an address imploring the army to cease killing innocents and follow the laws of God which would lead to peace, Óscar Romero was murdered as he said mass in the chapel of the hospital in which he lived. In less than a year, four Maryknoll sisters and nine Jesuits would be dead at the hands of the same army, and the slaughter continued until 1992. Romero's name, words and examples served as inspiration through those tumultuous years and continues today far beyond the borders of El Salvador. Romero's death and that of the Maryknolls and Jesuits finally caused the world to pay attention to the civil rights violations and the need for reform, including the proper allocation of aid from outside countries, including the United States.

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to open the eyes to something that is badly in need of fixing. That's what it took for Romero, but once he made the decision that he could no longer stand by and watch, he pressed forward with every ounce of faith he had. It is easy to stand by and watch when something happens, but so much harder to stand up and do something, particularly if that action could get you thrown in prison, tortured or even murdered. In his last breath, Romero said, "May God have mercy on the assassins." I wonder, would I have the grace to say that in a similar circumstance?

I didn't know a lot about Óscar Romero when I started reading the lessons for today, but after reading about his life and ministry, he is more than a name on a textbook page about liberation theology. His is a story of growth, something that is sometimes hard to recognize until viewed in the rear-view mirror. Growth has to begin somewhere, and in Romero's case it began with personal and professional sorrow. The result of that growth was a voice for voiceless people, a model of courage in the face of overwhelming odds, and a grace in the face of death.

Monseñor Romero, las gracias estén a Dios para su vida y al testigo. Ora por nosotros. (Monsignor Romero, thanks be to God for your life and witness. Pray for us.).

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

Readings for the feast day of Gregory of Nazianzus, May 9:
Psalm 37:3-6, 32-33
Wisdom 7:7-14
Ephesians 3:14-21
John 8:25-32

Almighty God, you have revealed to your Church your eternal Being of glorious majesty and perfect love as one God in Trinity of Persons: Give us grace that, like your bishop Gregory of Nazianzus, we may continue steadfast in the confession of this faith, and constant in our worship of you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; for you live and reign for ever and ever. Amen.
--collect from Holy Women, Holy Men, p. 365

Although we remember Gregory today mostly because of his golden-tongued oratorical skills and his ecclesiastical duties as Bishop of Constantinople, it's actually one of his big failures in life that catches my attention--his falling out with his friend Basil the Great. It was a breach that never was repaired, from the time Gregory was sent by Basil to be Bishop of Sasima in 372 until Basil's death in 379.

Basil and Gregory had a great deal of history together, first as fellow students, later as co-ascetics and co-authors of the Philokalia, an anthology of Origen's writings. Their combined theological minds were a great force in the understanding of Trinitarian theology at a time Christianity was threatened by the Arian heresies. But despite Gregory's intellectual prowess in all this, he carried some serious wounds and some heavy resentments. All Gregory ever wanted was to be a simple monk. Yet, despite his wishes, his father insisted that he be ordained as a presbyter. One can imagine that these resentments he held towards his father "primed the pump" when Basil, by that time, Bishop of Caesarea, had Gregory ordained as Bishop of Sasima. This appears to have been a strategic move on Basil's part to put a heavy theological hitter in a spot that would strengthen his position against Anthimus, Bishop of Tyana, but it was definitely in the boonies. Gregory once described Sasima as, "an utterly dreadful, pokey little hole; a paltry horse-stop on the main road... devoid of water, vegetation, or the company of gentlemen."

Gregory never got over this slight, as he perceived it. The move irreparably tore their friendship asunder, and it was probably the theological equivalent to the breakup of the Beatles.

The story of their breakup is a reminder how old resentments and ego can create a never ending feedback loop of blame, where two people continually pace in a circle, eyeing the other, but never getting around to taking a step forward to break the pattern. What great theological truths might have been uncovered or what knowledge could have been revealed, had they patched up their differences well enough to collaborate again?

All of us, when we think back and allow ourselves to touch our own woundedness, can recall times of irreconcilable differences with people who once were very close to us. Ex-intimate partners, of course, quickly come to mind, but we are not exploring this fully if we only confine our thoughts to "those whom with we've shared sexual intimacy." It's ironic that our jargon these days talks about BFF's--"Best friends forever," when at some point, the truth is very few BFF's seem to be around a decade, let alone "forever."

How many times has a resentment towards another person or situation come out sideways in our present relationships? What great works could be accomplished if we could reconcile with those people again? How many times does our inability to reconcile seem bound up in our own feelings more than the slight that actually caused the breach? But more importantly, how do we take that first step towards the green grass in the center, when we've perfected pacing in a circle?

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