It's Morning?

Last Sunday's sermon was anchored in Psalm 30:

Weeping may linger for the night;

But joy comes with the morning. 

I taught the congregation to declare it over and again, "But joy comes with the morning."  It's Easter after all, the season of resurrection and new life.  It's time to move beyond old laments to the new songs of praise.  It's  time to put away the sad, heavy dirges and sing for joy.   Alleluia!

That was Sunday . . . then came Monday, with two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  A day that began with glorious, beautiful morning turned to tragedy in the afternoon.  I sat at a table and prayed at the opening of a meeting, oblivious to what had happened in Boston and to what was happening in the hearts of those who prayed beside me.  They had received the terrible news as they arrived.  I had not yet heard it.  The deeper prayer happened in the silence after the spoken prayer.  We were carried back to other tragic times.  We went all the way back to Holy Week, from Sunday to Monday to Friday all over again.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  Where?

Then came Wednesday with its news that our elected leaders had rejected an opportunity to speak and act to limit gun violence in our society.  It was not even a bold bill that was before them.  Could they not remember what had happened on Gibson Avenue to little Christopher Harris so many years ago?  He would have been nearly fifty now.  His life was taken by a culture saturated with guns, drugs, and violence.  His life was taken away.  Day became night.  Could they not remember what had happened so recently in Columbine and Aurora, and so recently in Newtown?  All those precious lives taken away.  "But joy comes with the morning."  It's morning?  Really?  How?

Then came Thursday and the news of an horrific blast in the night in West, Texas.  Volunteer firefighters rushing to save a burning fertilizer plant . . . to save their town.  Lives taken in a flash, given up in the service of others.  A town destroyed, left in broken pieces.  Where are the lilies, the trumpets and the echoes of the alleluias now?  "But joy comes with the morning."  This is morning? 

I wonder, in light of all that has happened in but one week--this week--how I would revise my Sunday sermon were I preaching this Sunday--the Fourth Sunday of Easter.  "Weeping may linger for the night; but joy comes with the morning."  I still believe it to be a word of God for the people of God.  I still anchor my soul in this hope: God's righteousness and love will prevail. Christ's resurrection will be our reality. For now, I will stretch myself toward Sunday, longing for the dawning of God's new day.  I will sit with the silence.  I will pray for all those whose lives are have been changed and taken.  I will cry out for justice, for shalom in this society.  I will pray for the dawn yet again; and I will continue to be confident in the refrain of an ancient poet:  "But joy comes with the morning."

O God, through my tear-filled eyes and my broken heart, give me but a glimpse of your dawn.  Grant us all wisdom and courage.  Bless all people with your joy.  Alleluia!

Life on "Low Sunday"

Yesterday, as we walked toward the front door of our church building, a violet crocus had poked up through the soil where just days before a ridge of snow had been piled.  There were baskets of pansies on either side of the door to greet us.  The signs of life were apparent, even on a Sunday that is often considered to be "low" after the exuberant joy of Easter Sunday.

Once inside the sanctuary we were greeted with more life.  Our congregation had a larger than anticipated crowd of congregants.  The praise band played with joy and taught us to sing a new song in a new day.  Seven new members joined the church.  We heard about the faith of Thomas and came to a greater appreciation for his discipleship.  The Communion Table was spread and shared.  The Risen One was among us.  There was life--joyous, glorious life--even on Low Sunday.

In the afternoon, I attended the Installation of Rev. David Keller at South Newbury Union Church.  This was no ordinary installation, but a service overflowing with promise, energy, and life.  So many came to witness and celebrate the new covenant that was made.  It was probably the final formal service of the Sullivan Association (our oldest) as it soon will merge with other Associations; yet, there was life in the service.  There was hope.  There was the possibility of a new future, a new beginning--the joy of resurrection.  The Risen One was there!

Sometimes, when I least expect it--even on Low Sundays and Mondays--life breaks in and breaks out.  The Risen Christ comes and leads my heart to deeper joy and renewed hope.  Resurrection is the reality that changes the heart and transforms the world.  It is so!  Alleluia!

No One Goes Hungry Here

Last Sunday, I received a revelation.  It was a moment of powerful clarity about the purpose and mission of the church.  During the announcements, I heard the pastor say, "No one goes hungry here."  It was a rather ordinary Sunday morning announcement, sharing about an upcoming fellowship event in the life of the congregation.  But, I heard God speak in the voice of that pastor, "No one goes hungry here."

What if those five words were to become a mission statement for the churches?  

• What if, on any given Sunday morning, our hunger for the living God were satisfied?  "No one goes hungry here."  
• What if the local pantry were stocked to overflowing, so that everyone who came hungering for daily bread was satisfied?  "No one goes hungry here."  
• What if God's forgotten and frightened little ones found friendship and community in a common meal where Jesus, crucified and risen, is eternally present.  "No one goes hungry here."
• What if . . . ? 

I remember the wise teacher who taught that those who receive Communion are themselves called to be feeders of others.  When the bread and wine are served at the chancel steps, there must always be an attentive, watchful deacon who sees those who are unable to make their way to the front.  The most wonderful symbol of care comes as the pastor makes her way down the aisle, moving through the congregation, carrying the bread and cup to an isolated member.  Holy Communion requires that "No one goes hungry here."

When the church carries consecrated elements of grace and peace into the world--into nursing homes and hospitals, into Alzheimer's units, into prisons, into homeless shelters--there is true communion.  "No one goes hungry here."

This is more than a clever slogan, another marketing strategy for the Church.  It is Christ's mission.  I heard a great sermon in five words, a simple sentence with propelling implications:  "No one goes hungry here."

May we become the church we profess to be!  Let the hungry be fed. 
May it be so, O God!  May it be so!

Pure Gratitude

Yesterday, I found myself delivering a cake to Concord High School.  It was a bittersweet moment.  The cake was an expression of gratitude for the five years of wonderful education, structure, and friendship that the school has brought into the life of our son Matthew.  On January 25, Matt will leave Concord High for the last time as a student and enter the bigger world of services for special needs adults.  This new network of support is a bit scary to contemplate.  It depends, it seems, more directly on the cooperative spirit of politicians and community leaders to fund programs for those who have different abilities and the more vulnerable members of our society.  But that is another topic for another day.

Today, I am thinking about the feeling of extreme generosity that swept over me as I drove the cake to the party.  I found myself tearing up with gratitude for Mr. Bombacci, for classroom teachers, the teaching assistants, for bus drivers, for the principal and office staff, for coaches, and for fellow students who extended hospitality and friendship to Matt when he was new to Concord nearly six years ago.  It has been an amazing, wonderful experience for our family. 

I felt gratitude--pure gratitude, and still feel that.  I suspect I'll always feel this way.  If someone from the school calls and asks our help with a project, we'll be there.  If the school needs an increase in funding, we'll advocate for that.  If another family needs a testimonial, we'll have no trouble giving that.  It's pure gratitude, wanting to give and to give back so that someone else will be helped along the way.

Isn't that what the church should be, too?  Shouldn't such feelings of pure gratitude to God for the gifts of the Spirit, for the hope of new life, for healing and help--shouldn't these motivate us to be generous?  Sadly, I don't always see such gratitude underneath calculated pledge campaigns and weary pleas for funding next year's church budget.  I don't see pure gratitude for the gift of a pastor's care and leadership.  I don't hear hymns of gratitude sung with great joyous acclamation to God.  I must confess it:  I felt more gratitude delivering the cake than I often feel when I sit in the pew of a local church.  Why is that?  What's that about?  Has faith flattened out, squashing and squelching the feeling of gratitude?  Hard, but necessary questions today.

Generous God, thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you for the great gift of relationships that make a difference in our world.  Thank you for the educators and students at Concord High School (and other schools).  Thank you for your presence in your church and in your world.  Move me to deeper gratitude and generous relationships; in the Name of that One who comes, risking poverty and death, that we might have a future filled with joy and abundant life--in the name of Jesus  Amen.

One Slightly Soiled White Stole

Yesterday I had a mini crisis.  I needed my white stole, one that I seldom wear.  I was headed to a formal, ecumenical event where clergy had been asked to wear white stoles.  My stole was not where I last saw it.  I searched high and low in the closet where I keep my vestments.  That search took me back to another time . . . . a blessed memory:

It was Easter Sunday in California, Missouri.  I had been up for a long, long time.  There had been the traditional sunrise service at the break of day.  Then, came Easter worship at Salem United Church of Christ out in the country.  Finally, I was readying myself for worship at the United Church of Christ in California.  When I arrived that morning, the parking lots were already filled.  There were no on-street parking spots for three blocks away.  It was going to be a big day of celebration.  The folks turned out for Easter!

But, when I began to vest for the service, my white stole was nowhere to be found.  It had been on the hanger under my robe when I left Salem half an hour before.  Where had it gone?  Then, at the very last minute, at the office door an usher appeared with my stole in his hand.  Some worshipper had found it lying in the street a block or so from the church, along the route that I had walked after parking my car.  The stole had been retrieved and delivered to me--just in time before the trumpets began to sound for the processional.

That white stole was no worse for the time that it spent in the street.  It just seemed more real, more authentic--more grounded than before.  Once while wearing that stole at a committal in the church cemetery, it had gotten saturated with rain--but just on one side.  It had a water mark--maybe a baptismal mark--already.  And, before that my Aunt Dolores' sister, Norma, had kissed me at my installation in 1982.  Somehow she managed to get a little smudge of red lipstick on the back of the white stole that I did not hurry to launder away.  My white stole, a symbol of light and purity, had made its pilgrimage over the years of ministry.  It was holy because it had gone through earth's sufferings--even landing in the street on an Easter Sunday.

Well, yesterday I panicked, thinking that I had abandoned my white stole in some lonely parish hall after an installation or ordination.  I searched my memory.  No usher appeared at our door.  But . . . then I looked again in the closet, and the old stole was hanging right along with the others.  Waiting to be worn.  It was like finding an old friend--one who has been through the times, seasons, and sufferings of life.  I was grateful to put it on--a vivid, though slightly soiled reminder, of God's marvelous, victorious light.

 

A Pilgrimage to the Manger

It's the eve of the annual Christmas pilgrimage.  The bags are packed.   The car is ready.  The journey awaits.  It will be good to go away, and it will be good to come home again when it is time to return.  There is a rhythm--a holy rhythm--to the discipline of keeping Christmas.

Our journey is different than that of Mary and Joseph.  But it occurs to me that nativity is always a call to a journey--a journey of faith.  We never really know what our lives will become.  Others remember and rehearse our story before we ourselves become conscious of it.  Sometimes the dreams we dream for ourselves and those we love turn out as we imagine.  Often there are twists and turns in life's path that hide the horizon and take us to places and people we had not known. 

In my album of Christmas memories there is a little boy, no more than three years old.  This toddler named "Tom" saw how our little church kept the baby Jesus--high up in a dark and dusty closet in the Fellowship Hall--for fifty plus weeks of the year.  In mid-December, someone would get a ladder and retrieve the manger with baby Jesus down for program practice.  (We never used a real baby in our churches.  That might have caused a controversy, favoritism over who got to play the holiest part.  After all, Jesus was so different, so special, so holy that no contemporary child could possibly stand in for him in the pageant.  That is, of course, a topic for another time.)

Tom saw the sad condition of our plastic baby Jesus, and he insisted that he become Jesus' guardian until Christmas Eve, when Jesus would be at the center of the scene.  Tom took Jesus home and prevailed upon his mother to help him bathe the baby, gently washing one who had not had a bath for several decades.  He persisted in getting his grandma make some new swaddling clothes to replace the dirty, yellowed ones that Jesus had worn.  Fresh straw was added to the matted straw of the manger. 

I remember Tom, as we begin our pilgrimage to the manger this year.  Tom took the baby to heart--so much so that he took him home.  As a three-year-old, Tom's faith was not articulated in some systematic way--but it was sincere, and it was lived.  Jesus was at the center to be cared for, cradled, and loved. 

Tom now has a little child of his own.  I wonder how this father's faith teaches his own little one about loving Jesus--and how that child's faith, perhaps, inspires his father on the journey.  I hope both can see Jesus in the flesh-and-blood babies, who cry for love and hope and peace in this world.  May that same faith take root and grow in all of us that Jesus will be at home in our hearts and our homes.  May it be so!
O God, let your Christmas come. 
Let your Child be born. 
Prepare us to believe and to receive him now.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord, Emmanuel.

Alleluia!

One Word

It is hard to write today.  I have been numb since the news arrived of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut on Friday morning.  Many of my colleagues have weighed in and offered counsel to their congregations and pastors.  I have allowed the tragedy to steep in my soul for the past three days.  Now it is my time to write and speak . . .

I remember a recording that was made soon after 911 by Kitty Donohoe.   Her recording of There Are No Words brought solace to our souls and gave courage to survivors of that national tragedy.  Tragedy is linked with other tragedies--even though they are different.  Donohoe's music also speaks to the terrible trouble that has come to Newtown . . . and to our towns.

"There are no words" . . . .,  but we still do have a Word:  "In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God"  (Jn. 1:1, RSV).  It is the text that greets us at Christmas.  It is the Good News that floods into the darkness at our candlelight services on Christmas Eve:  "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it"  (Jn. 1:5, RSV).  There is a Word in this horrible, holy time, a Word that comes to reassure troubled hearts, to resurrect our hope, and to make the world right.

That Word gives us courage to speak of our own complicity in this trouble.  Violence breeds more violence.  The weapons of war have invaded our homes and our streets.  What's the point and the purpose of citing the Second Amendment?  Were these the "arms" that our forebears envisioned for our society?  It is time to adjust our thinking, to come together, so that automatic, rapid-fire weapons are not accessible in our society.  It is time, now. 

And, the Word, challenges us to care more deeply for those in distress--for families in unimaginable shock and sorrow, for people with illness untreated, for neighbors in their isolation and fear.  The Word pulls us toward others at the edges of madness, of insanity, of harm.  It is time.  This is more than a "private" issue.  Newtown reminds us of the public cost that often comes.  It is time to come together, to stand and speak up, to kneel down, and to pray as we lift one another.  It is time, now.

May Christmas come with new power and enduring peace.  May the Word have its way with our society, our world, with us each and all of us. 

Come, O Come, Emmanuel!