Another liturgical transition is upon us as the season of Pentecost begins this Sunday. I’m particularly drawn to this season because there are so many dimensions to the seemingly familiar story of the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus and his Disciples came to Jerusalem, shortly before his arrest and execution, to celebrate the Passover Festival. Seven weeks and one day after Passover was a harvest festival known as the Festival of Weeks, and in the time of Jesus people would have made their way into the city, to the temple to offer sacrifices to God.

I find it intriguing that in the midst of the spiritual celebration of the Passover– the last supper Christ would share together with his followers, a miraculous act of Divine love begins to unfold in an upper room. Then, 50 days later, during another spiritual celebration, those lovers of Christ find themselves back in that same upper room… waiting… longing. Without fail, Divine love again unfolds in their midst and they are, again, forever changed.

The festival of Pentecost is sometimes referred to as the birth of the Church, but I think we are often too quick to focus on the imagery of the anointing of fire and the speaking in tongues as the miraculous moment of the story. The true miracle of Pentecost was what took place in the upper room, the Cenacle, before the tongues of fire. As they waited for the Spirit of God, they were becoming a new community. Only when they “were all with one accord, in one place” (KJV) could the sign of God be made visible and the ministry that Jesus had commissioned them to do, begin to manifest in the world.

May we remember, that as we gather together each week as a community of Christ’s followers, Divine love is in our midst. Our ability to live the truth of Christ and reflect his love in the world is empowered by our desire to seek a oneness with God and unity with one another. Then, just as the first disciples, we will experience a spiritual transformation and exit that upper room to truly begin our vocation, bringing the kingdom of God ever nearer.

Peace,
Br. William White, CMJ

This past weekend I had the opportunity to visit the lakefront, among the dunes of Indiana. Despite my upbringing in southwest Florida, I’m not much of a beach person. Given my fair complexion, visits to the beach usual involved painful sunburns or gobs of sticky sun lotion. But, this time I found myself looking forward to being near the waves and out in the nature of the dunes. With the breeze blowing and the sun nestled quietly behind some clouds, it really was the perfect day for a redhead to go to the beach.

My enthusiasm and excitement were immediately shattered when I arrived to find a tiny strip of beach filled with a multitude of people, all vying for some small patch of sand. It was almost comical. Living on the beach in Chicago, this is a scene I am very familiar with, but out there in the rural quietude of a sleepy town I was honestly taken aback by the throngs of people on this small wisp of shoreline.

With every kick of sand by a passerby and every shriek of delight from a nearby child, I felt my centered spirit drift further and further away. I became emotionally drained and more than a little disheartened. Eventually I nodded off for some unknown length of time and awoke to a much quieter scene. The beach had almost entirely cleared out, and I found myself alone. I could hear waves crashing and the breeze blowing through the tall dune grass, and that same sense of centering spirit returned in me and I couldn’t help but pray.

The experience reminded me of how often Jesus removed himself from the crowds to be alone with God. The crowds were wonderful, full of energy of opportunity to minister, but he needed regular refreshment in a quiet place. Even in this week’s scriptures, after feeding the people, Jesus sends the disciples on ahead while he finds quiet time to pray. In our own spiritual journeys, we discover that silence is a powerful place to find Spirit. It is not merely the absence of noise or distraction, but a thing unto itself. The very space out of which God creates… just is in the beginning. Many spiritual teachers through the centuries have said we must “go to the desert” to commune with God. Only in these places of alone-ness, can we truly open ourselves to the fullness of the Spirit of God and in turn refresh our souls for the journey. Where will you seek silence?

When I think about the phrase “violence leads to more violence” it seems a distant abstraction. I am not a violent person. I have never really been involved in a physical fight with another, so it would make sense to me that since “other people” cause violence, the circle of that violence is “over there”. I am but a witness to a turbulent time and yes, I have a responsibility to call for justice and peace but I make that call from over here—in my sphere of safety.  What a foolish and egotistical perception. The truth is that violence is one of the most pervasive sides of evil. It sneaks into places you would otherwise not have noticed and creates much of the brokenness in this world.

The recent incident of a school security officer violently throwing a student to the ground and dragging her out of the classroom flooded the media and social networks and caused another avalanche of public opinions. People were rightly outraged at these now all-to-familiar scenes of excessive force, but what saddens me is the way in which we turn our disgust and frustration on one another in the aftermath of an act of cruelty and injustice. The talking heads, political pundits and media moguls often seize on these moments to ramp up the emotional distress of the public, creating a veritable feeding frenzy of divisiveness. Legitimate questions of what happened and how turn to mistrust for all authority and accusations of victim blaming. It reminds me of the way the crowds were incensed by external forces when Jesus was brought forward to be judged. It wasn’t enough that he had been arrested and beaten, he was paraded through the streets and the public was made to despise him.

Violence takes many forms and if we are not vigilant, we may not even see how and where it creeps into our “sphere of safety”, nor will we understand that we can become complacent to its grip within our communities. I was recently reminded that one of the beautiful qualities of the Episcopal Church is that more than our individual relationship with God the emphasis is placed on the community with which we exist. Only together are we the Body of Christ. When it is at its best, the Church is a reminder of how a community can respond in love, grace and mercy to acts of violence and it exemplifies a watchful community who is always examining where brokenness and injustice exist.

In the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus instructed the disciples to be alert and awake, but they quickly fell asleep and danger was upon them.  May we all be vigilant together and remind our neighbors what it means to be “quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to grow angry” (James 1:19, NIV)

My apologies for the long silence…

Each year my parish’s Education Committee (of which I am a part) selects a topic for the adult formation series presented, and this year will center around the question, “Who is my neighbor?”  When I think about my “neighbor” I am immediately drawn to one of the many homeless faces I see day in and out in this city. It seems easy and logical for my spirit to come to that conclusion as “the one in need.”  However, the more I examine this in my mind, the more I seem to be replacing the word “neighbor” with “stranger”.  When you live in a city as vast and diverse as Chicago, this becomes more than mere semantics. I live in a high-rise with over 100 units and barely know the names of 10 people—not including my actual neighbors!  Even after years of attending my church there are throngs of strangers I have never met. I may pass these people in the halls or at coffee hour, exchange greetings… but there it usually ends.  When I realize the frequency and ease of my avoidance of stangers, I am ashamed. I cannot help but think of my mother’s childhood in rural New England in the 1960’s, when they literally knew all their neighbors and a stranger was a very obvious anomaly.

Jesus stated, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” (Matthew 25:35, CEB) and yet in this area, I truly struggle. Could it be that I am afraid of what will happen once I take an introduction to the next level? Am I more concerned with feeling judged for approaching these people than I am for the calling to do so?

In the theological journal “Conversations”, I read a wonderful article recently about this very topic and author Jan Johnson frames it this way, “Who are our strangers?” People appear to us as strangers for different reasons but they usually fit into one of these categories: outcasts, wrong-doers, anyone who isn’t like me and anyone we are tempted to exclude and ignore. She goes on to examine each of these categories, showing us how Jesus welcomed these types of strangers.

My Community centers on the discipleship of Mary, the mother of Jesus and we use her title “Our Lady of Cana.” Hospitality and welcome are embedded in the every ethos of our Community, so it is a painful experience for me when I am confronted by the stranger I have not yet learned to welcome. The saving grace is that the Holy Spirit is nothing if not consistent and will continue to present me with opportunities to grown and share, even as I struggle to learn. For now, I continue to hold these moments in my heart and pray, “May the needy not be forgotten, nor the hope of the poor be in vain.”

It’s funny where we find a spark of Spirit-wisdom in our normal routines. I happened to catch a recent interview with Yahoo’s new CEO Marisa Mayer, where she recounted the last thing Google founder Sergey Brin told her just before she walked out of his office to begin her new position. He told her, “don’t forget to be bold.” I kept hearing that statement in my head for days, “… be bold…” I too had a former colleague once reminded me that good things can happen sometimes even if all we do is show up, but great things can happen when we take risks– when we get our hands dirty.

Action is at the heart of Christian living. Sure it’s comfortable and sweet to sit and read the scriptures, attending services on Sunday but the true test for our faith, where the rubber meets the road, is in applying the love we learn to the context of the broken world we live in. The first chapter of James poetically notes, “²² Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. ²³ Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror ²⁴ and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. ²⁵ But whoever looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues in it—not forgetting what they have heard, but doing it—they will be blessed in what they do.” (James 1, NIV)

Taking risks can sometimes seem like a scary thing.  I remember a visit to the Grand Canyon, when I was younger, and taking one of those tours down into the canyon on the back of a mule.  The mule walks right on the outer edge of the path, with no railing between you and a much faster decent into the abyss below. While slow, it was a intense ride but the experience was breathtaking– a perspective of that great space you could not have known otherwise.

When I think of the Disciples, after Pentecost, trying to organize and motivate I feel a rush of energy. Everything Jesus shared with them while he was in their company was done so they could share that same love and wisdom with others, not merely with their words but their actions. They must have been a jumble of emotions, fearing persecution and fumbling but alive in the Spirit and longing to bring the love of their master to the world. We are conduits of God’s love and our challenge is learning where to direct that love. The “acts” of the Disciples and the acts of 1,000’s of holy men and women in the centuries after inspire us to truly be BOLD and trust that the Lord will help us, in all that we do.   -Amen!

Holy week has officially begun and the annual sprint to the finish… or rather, the beginning. As my Rector pointed out, sometimes it’s hard to find new meanings to the timeless story we tell year after year. It’s easy to get bogged down in the superficial and cliched notions of what this season of Easter is all about. I am reminded of my Jewish relatives who also point out their challenge at this time of year as they search for newness in an ancient story of Passover and liberation.

As I reflected on the story myself, I tried to identify key moments that stood out to me of significance. I tried to go into the historical and political components of the story, to piece together a point of view that might adhere to my rational self, but to be honest, my heart kept returning to the same idea. The overwhelming truth that I am loved, unconditionally, and forgiven so that I can know true reconciliation. It’s a powerful message and one that I, personally, need to hear– over and over again.

For me, this message of love and forgiveness is wonderfully shown in the Apostle Peter. A man who deeply loved Jesus yet, even though he believed it could never happen, denied even knowing him at one of the most critical moment of Christ’s earthly life. The anguish he must have felt when he realized that in that moment his fear had overcome his faith must have been excruciating. However, unlike Judas, who let that same shame and sadness drive him to his death, Peter carried on and sought forgiveness from God. Beautifully, when Jesus appeared after his death he seems to restore Peter and name him the rock on which he would build his church. I am always moved by the way Peter fits into Jesus’ story and how much like Peter we are.

The Church gives us a very precious thing in providing us over 50 days to wrestle with the notion that God clarified in the narrative of Jesus, what he had meant from the beginning of our creation– that he loves us and that no barrier exist between us and that love that cannot be conquered. I say “wrestle” with this notion because it’s easy to skim along the surface of the platitude that “God loves us”, but it is another thing to truly grasp the depth of the second half of that statement, that “no barrier exists… that cannot be conquered”. As we emerge from the pensive qualities of Lent, may we find newness in the love reflected in the Eastertide story and may it leave us truly changed.

Lent is now at hand, and so it the unavoidable question, “what are you giving up this year?” I have to admit that for years I never fully committed to giving anything up, unclear on the real purpose of self-denial not to mention previous multiple and almost immediate failed attempts. But this year brought new personal study on the season of Lent and therefore a renewed interest in understanding how self-denial can (when thoughtfully tried) lead to a fuller spiritual awareness. After all, Christianity is not the only religion which encourages various ‘denials of the flesh’ in order to achieve some deeper level of consciousness. But how to decide?

I was reminded that the best approach to this dilemma was prayer… listen to what the Spirit of God is calling you to reflect upon during Lent. I sat in silence for a few minutes and then said out loud, “Lord, what should I focus on this season?” Without hesitation, I heard that still-small voice in my head say, “… your anger.”

This was a bit unexpected for me. Not because I deny having some anger issues, but because I was thinking something simpler and more classic would come to mind, like no chocolate or alcohol. This was also sobering because to acknowledge anger-management issues is to acknowledge a lack of love, grace and mercy in yourself– definitely qualities I long for in abundance.

With a conscious Lenten discipline in mind I felt a little brighter and more focused. But, that very day after a stop at the grocery store on the way home I felt the heat rising and when I walked in the door at home I bellowed out, “you know what really ticks me off?!” to my unsuspecting partner, who was quietly clipping coupons. I immediately stopped and sheepishly said, “never mind…”

I had failed again… right out of the gate. I admit to feeling very let down by myself, but I had missed the point. These 40 days of wondering through our own wilderness isn’t meant to be a cakewalk! It’s challenging and frustrating but the very fact that I recognized my anger was a testament to power of these 40 days of self-reflection. We also must take care during this season to not sliding into judgmental finger-wagging over our own actions (or anyone else’s). Lent is not about condemnation of our failings but about the hope and joy that can be found through repentance—that unending grace we receive from a God who encourages us to turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel! So, during this season let yourself stumble and know that God’s love will carry you through, all the way to new life!

There are always so many things happening this time of year. We are often quick to fill up much needed rest away from work with concerts, cooking, shopping and parties. It’s easy to get swept away with the tidal wave of consumerism and sales. As a child I loved how everything changed at Christmas time. Everything seems decorated and cheerful while festive music and familiar scents hung in the air. Now, as I have grown, I realize that Christmas is actually a wonderful opportunity to quiet ourselves, slow down and narrow our focus. The real message laid before us this season is one of incarnation—the ways that the Spirit of God breaks into our time and space. A message that is more than a mere memorial to a story over 2,000 years old. The incarnation of God has been evident over and over again… a burning bush, pillar of fire, a whirlwind, but nowhere is the love and grace of God more perfect and relatable than in the person of Jesus the Christ.

The real joy of this message of incarnation is that God doesn’t sit in some distant and remote place waiting to be found. God comes to us, seeking us out like a shepherd guarding his flock or a father running to meet his beloved child on a road.  Even when we reject Him, He comes. Or, as a friend said in a recent sermon, even when we refuse God any room in our inn, Jesus is among us. It doesn’t matter whether you believe it took place in a stable or a cave, in the Winter or the Spring, Jesus comes. He comes in unconventional ways, revealing himself first to those who are open and responsive. The shepherds and the Magi reacted to their individual experience by going to the place where Jesus lay. That is precisely the dynamic that incarnation always creates, revelation and then a call to respond. 

My heart is delighted when I reflect on the many ways in which God breaks into my life. I pray that I may continually encounter God in this World and in His people. And, every time that prayer is answered it deepens my faith and calls me to respond… to get up and move, like the shepherds and Magi. It is now Christmas and Christ is now among us. How will you respond?

Peace +