Opa! My Big Phat Greek Easter

I'm writing this on the train, headed from Boston to Washington, DC where, beginning tomorrow morning, I will attend my very first meeting of the national board of RCRC, the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice.

I will attend spiritually fortified and definitely well-fed.

I've already written about the liturgy. I've hinted at the food. There's no real way to describe a Greek festive meal - it is really to be eaten and experienced and enjoyed -  but I'm going to give it a try.

First of all, the over-arching theme of such meal - like most things festive and Greek - seems to be "Nothing succeeds like excess."

We begin with the guests. There were 14 of us. I'm told that this is "down" from past years. I can't imagine how any more of us could fit at that table but then again, I don't have the benefit of a Greek imagination. Clearly, this is my loss.

We begin the meal with appetizers. You know. So one can build up an appetite for the main course. There were: water chestnuts wrapped in bacon and baked in a tangy sauce. There were little triangular pies made of philo dough and feta cheese. Just in case this wasn't enough, or for those who wanted something without the same amount of fat, there were these little steamed wantons filled with ground pork and veggies which you could dip in a marvelous terryaki sauce.

All these appetizing beauties were served while various ones of us chopped potatoes or carrots or apples or onion or parsley or dill or garlic whatever else needed chopping, and/or the spinach was squeezed of excess water within an inch of its life.

Others of us organized the Kayro syrup - I counted the use of five bottles (used as a 'short cut' for the simple syrup used for the baklava - walnut pie - and the galaktoboureko - custard pie).

Others of us were tending to the butter - I lost count of the pound cartons at around 12 or 14. This was used for the baklava and the spanakopita and the Greek Easter Bread and, I think, just about every other dish on the table. At the end of the meal, there were six one pound cartons left on the counter. Our host breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Oh, thank God. I was afraid there wouldn't be enough. Somebody put them in the freezer downstairs, please. The church is having a booth at the Marathon in Lexington tomorrow. We'll need them."

My arteries groaned just thinking about the amount of butter we had consumed.

Oh, but wait! There's more.

There was roasted leg of lamb AND a huge bone-in ham. And, in case you didn't like either of these, there was an amazing tomato-based casserole of HUGE bay scollops and shrimp which you could have on a bed of rice. (Which, I did). Or, roasted garlic potatoes. Or, you could have it in addition to some lamb and/or ham (Which I didn't).

You no like? You vegetarian? No problem. We got a HUGE tray of spinach and feta cheese pie in philo dough (spanakopita).

Tsoureki and Galaktoboureko

To accompany all of this, we were presented with some amazing curried carrots, the aforementioned roasted garlic potatoes and rice, a pan of incredible apples with nutmeg, cinnamon and allspice, and, lest we should all starve and waste away, some soft, yummy bread (slathered with some of that butter) and a lovely salad.

Better save room for some dessert, because, ready or not, here it comes.

There was a HUGE pan of baklava - the thickest pieces I've ever seen crammed full of chopped walnuts and crushed graham cracker shells with each layer of philo dough absolutely drenched with butter and then completely soaked with heated Kayro Syrup.

You no like baklava? What, you crazy? Okay, okay. Never mind. We got Galaktoboureko, an egg custard cooked in layers of philo dough, drenched with butter and then completely soaked with heated Kayro Syrup.

From the outside, it looks very much like a tray of baklava. Inside? Oh....My....God.....

There was also that amazing Greek Easter Bread (Tsoureki) with the red egg in honor of Mary Magdalene, the first one ever to witness and proclaim the Resurrection (more about this in a minute).

And, of course, some chocolates and cookies to much on while sipping your coffee or tea or mastika (brandy liqueur). Or, maybe you like a little mastika in your coffee? Okay, so, you like? You have.

Christos Anesti! Opa! 

Then, when you think you can't move another inch or you'll explode - or, you're afraid you will - there comes the breaking of the Red Mary Magdalene Egg. Well, the point is not to try to get your egg broken. You can see that each person got one on their plate before the meal was served.

The hostess begins by reciting an ancient Easter prayer in Greek and then, taking the "pointed" end of the red egg at the "pointed" end of your red egg, taps it quickly. If your red egg cracks, she moves on until someone's egg cracks hers.

Then, that person begins to make the rounds of the table until the last un-cracked red egg remains standing and that person is declared the official recipient of a special Easter blessing.

Opa! Alithos Anesti!

So, as the Greeks are of't wont to say, there you go. My Big Phat Greek Easter Dinner, which is bound to make me Very Fat.

I think I'm going to need a Lenten Fast just to recover from Easter Dinner.

I know. You're worried about all the leftovers. Yes, believe it or not, there were leftovers. I think our hostess cooked enough to feed a small village outside of Athens. Which, I think, was her point.

The Boston Marathon is today and will be coming through Lexington later this morning, which is the location of her Greek Orthodox Church. A group of people from her church got up at 3 AM today and began cooking Gyros and other Greek delicacies to sell to the crowds who gather to watch and cheer the runners as they come by.

I have no doubt there will be lots of people paying top dollar for the remnants of yesterday's bounty which we so thoroughly enjoyed.

So, as my Greek friends say, there you go. It all works out and everybody is happy and well fed. God is glorified and the church benefits.

Me? I think I'm going to take a nap on the train before tomorrow's round of meetings. I'm full all over again, just talking about what I ate. 

Opa!

Alithos Anesti!

Well, what can I say about the Greek Orthodox Great Vigil of Easter?

Loooonnnnng service? Check. The actual liturgy began at 11 PM, but there was the Parish Hall to set up, the tables spread with white linen cloth and a vase of fresh, spring flowers on each, and the food (Oh, My, God - all the food) to organize.

The Service ended around 2. AM. And then, we ate. A lot. And then, there was clean up. We got home around 4 AM. We were up at 8 AM so my friend Penny could go back to church at 11 AM and we could begin cooking for dinner for 14 people tonight at 5 PM.

Exhausted? Check. Well, what did I expect? I had planned for it. Even took a bit of a nap on the train here. And yet, even though my body is screaming at me and I may need a wee bit of a lie down before dinner, there is an inexplicable joy in my heart.

Dramatic liturgy? Check. The church, of course, was in total darkness, save for a few candles lit here and there. There was evidence of the “funeral” the night before – “Great (not Good) Friday” having been just the night before. Flower petals and leaves were scattered all over the floor, as if done in haste – no time for clean up. The religious leaders may have discovered them and they were sore afraid.

The service began from behind the curtain – a large processional container holding many small candles was lit, causing an alarmingly large blazing flame. Lots of chanting, lots of mystery. Lots of charming altar boys dressed in white and gold.

One of the great, dramatic mysteries of the service – well, for me, anyway – was that the cantor ("Psaltis") was a young woman. And, she had three women who provided a “back up” drone as she chanted the Sacred, Divine words of psalms and scripture.

Her's was the voice of a very angel as she chanted in Greek and English, providing a wonderful counterpoint for the bass voice of the priest. I loved the interplay between the two.

I was struck by the fact that, even though boys and young men were the only ones allowed behind the curtain and near the “Holy of Holies”, it was the women who were given voice.

Something radically orthodox about that, isn't there?

A few more surprises? Check. Well, what can you expect when you are celebrating and commemorating a Great Mystery.

The first pleasant surprise was the passion of Father Demetri. A young, very handsome man in his mid-thirties, husband of a woman he met at Holy Cross when he was a seminarian, father of two young boys, and the fifth generation of Greek Orthodox priests, he clearly knew the Divine Liturgy and executed it with a deep reverence that was wonderfully authentic and profoundly moving.

I was surprised by the "matter of fact" tone and rushed delivery of the prayers. Clearly, this was not about him or the psaltis but more about them being a vehicle of ancient, traditional prayers. When you listen to the words of the prayers, or read them in the Prayer Book, they are startling and revelatory. You would never have guessed that by listening to the priest or psaltis pray or chant them.

After we gathered on the steps of the church - the place was PACKED and the crowd spilled out onto the street - holding our lit candles and proclaiming and singing many, many times, "Christos Anesti!" (Christ is Risen) and responding "Alithos Anesti" (Truly, He is risen), Fr. Demetri said, "I beg you. I implore you. Please don't leave now. Please come back and celebrate Eucharist. Give thanks for this Great Mystery of our faith."

He paused a moment for effect and then said, "I promise that you will have no other meal that will satisfy your hunger, no greater drink that will satisfy your thirst, than to have a foretaste of the heavenly banquet that awaits us all. So, come. Stay. I'm begging you. I'm imploring you. Don't leave. It has only just begun! I promise from the bottom of my heart!"

And then, about half of the congregation followed him back into the church while the rest slipped quietly away.

Fr. Demetri then went about incensing the congregation, the bells on the thurible ringing sweetly as he swung the incense into great billowing clouds over and around us.

When he got to the back of the church, he went out to the top of the steps at the open door of the church. There, he saw a group of about a dozen or so people who were talking quietly among themselves before they were to take their leave.

They were gathered there, at the bottom of the driveway, holding their candles. Demetri motioned for them to come into the church. They stood motionless, staring back at him. Suddenly, his shoulders fell and he turned away, off into a corner of the Narthex, struggling to regain his composure.

Finally, he re-emerged, stood at the top of the steps and swung the turible at them and bowed to them. They remained motionless. He turned his back then, to return to the church and - probably unaware that his mic was still on - I heard him say to one of the members of the Parish Council who was standing at the door, "It just breaks my heart."

He continued up the aisle, struggling to regain his composure, incensing the people who were there, shouting, "Christos Anesti!" The people shouted back with great joy, "Alithos Anesti!"

I did not expect to find myself - or this faithful priest and the rest of the congregation - so soon on the Road to Emmaus.

Emmaus stands, for me at least, as the crossroad of what was and what might have been.

It's a place we all know well. Some of us, too well. It is a place of grief and loss and longing. It is the place of Shattered Expectations. Broken Dreams. Lost Hope.

It was in that moment, like all moments on the Road to Emmaus, where we meet the Risen Christ who was there on the road for the first disciples and is always there in those moments for us.

"I will be with you always, even to the end of time," Jesus told the disciples, who had not recognized him while he was in their very midst. They had been too caught up in their shock and grief and loss and disappointment and longing.

The Risen Christ was there, in that moment when a young, faithful Greek Orthodox priest had his heart broken by a small group of people who proclaimed, "Alithos Anesti" with their lips, but apparently choose not to live it more fully with their lives.

Or, perhaps they were returning home to do the best they could, given the demands of post-modern lives. Perhaps they were doing the best they could do - or knew how to do. Perhaps they will live out the mystery of the resurrection in other more common, everyday, ordinary ways - beyond the church. Perhaps, that's where the resurrection has it's greatest efficacy. 

Perhaps the church is not the center of the universe - it is, after all, an important sign and symbol and vehicle of the centrality of God in our lives, but it is not The Most Important Thing. God is. And, the way we know God best is through the life and death and resurrection of Jesus.

Perhaps we break our own hearts with our expectations.

Either way, Jesus is there. Jesus will always be there. Indeed, I think the heart of the mystery of faith is that we know Jesus most fully when we think He isn't there, with us, in the cracks and crevices of our broken hearts.

Home made Tsoureki (tsoo-REH-kee) - Greek Easter Bread

I'm not sure that will make any sense to you, but that's where I am, in this moment.

Yes, I'm exhausted after a long liturgy filled with ancient tradition that proved a richer feast than even the amazing dinner that followed. And yes, there were a few more surprises and spiritual delights I could not have asked for or imagined.

Whether celebrated the week before or this week, the truth remains that Christ is truly risen and continues to be present to us in our joy as well as our sadness, our hopes as well as our despair, our dreams as well as our disappointments.

The truth about the Road to Emmaus is that, unless we have moments on that road, we can't fully appreciate God's presence with us there as well as in church.

Christos Anesti!

Alithos Anesti!

Christ is Risen!

Truly, He is Risen!

And no place, no person, no expectation, no disappointment, no language, no culture, no liturgy - perfect or imperfect, ancient or modern - no constraint of time can change that mystery.

Which is why, even at the grave, our song is "Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!"

Easter Imagination

A Sermon for Easter Day

(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

All Saint’s Church, Rehoboth Beach

It’s always so wonderful to see the church filled on Easter Day. Everyone looks so wonderful, all decked out in their Easter finest.

If you haven’t been to church in awhile, please consider coming back. We do this every Sunday – well, okay not with all the lilies and hyacinth and tulips …..but the music is always fantastic (Thank you, Alex and the choir).

And, I know it sounds cliche, but the spirit of the people here is always genuinely warm and welcoming (and, let me tell you from personal experience, they know how to cook! And, eat!).

And I can personally attest to the fact that, after 26 years of ordained ministry myself, you’ll not find a better pastor than Max Wolf. (And, he’s not paying me a red cent to say that. I will, however, expect the inside information about where to find the best Easter Egg in the hunt after church!).

What I really mean is that every Sunday is a celebration of the Resurrection. Every Sunday, we hear the ancient stories of our faith and sing the old, old hymns – and even some new ones – that put our old faith into new words and music. And then, we celebrate Eucharist and share in the Body and Blood of Jesus. And then...... we eat!

I really consider myself deeply blessed to be part of this faith community.

On this Easter Sunday, I’ve been thinking a great deal about that empty tomb we heard about in today’s scripture. Both Mark and John’s Gospel go to great lengths to tell us two things: (1) that Mary Magdalene was the first one to see the empty tomb and (2) The tomb was empty.

I mean, really empty. No body there. Just the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head, which was still lying in its place, separate from the linen which had shrouded his body. Nothing else. No one else. It was a really empty, Empty Tomb.

So, here are my questions: How is it that you see nothing and suddenly know everything? How do you look at emptiness and see fullness? How do you stare into the face and breathe in the stench of death and see new life? New hope? New possibilities?

The easy answer, of course, is “faith”. Right. Of course. Faith.

Well, if what you mean by faith is that I have to shut my mouth, cover my eyes, and leave my brain at the door then, I don’t know about you, but that’s not ‘faith’ to me.

I guess I’m really an Anglican who is an Episcopalian. I like my faith messy. No easy answers. Lots of room for doubt. Plenty of space to struggle and question and risk going deeper into confusion and uncertainty.

Like, for example, that empty tomb.

Like Mary Magdalene and Salome and Mary the mother of James, and Johanna, I need time to tend to what is dead and dying in my soul.

I need to honor death the way Peter and the rest of the disciples did, going to it, grieving what once was but is no more and think it is finished.

I need to look into the emptiness and be astonished by it. Troubled by it. Confused by it. Scared to death by it. Amazed by it. Inspired by it.

Here’s the thing. No one here will ask you to believe in the facts of the resurrection. Indeed, I think even if Perry Mason laid out the facts of the Case of the Resurrection in a court of law, even he would end up with a hung jury.

As a matter of fact, it's pretty clear from Scripture that the first witnesses to the resurrection of Jesus and His first evangelist were Mary Magdalene and a few other women but you would never know that from the way the Church has treated women for centuries - and, some parts still do.

Never let facts get in the way of what it is you want to (and have others) believe. 

There are facts but facts are not The Truth. The Truth of the Resurrection is more than mere facts.

Christianity is not built on the facts of the resurrection. Our ancient faith is alive today because it is built not on belief in facts, but, rather, belief in a mystery:  The mystery of our faith in a God who loved us so much, God came to be with us as one we called Jesus of Nazareth. This God came to walk with us, to know our sorrows as well as our joys. To know our pain as well as our celebration.

The mystery of our faith is that God loves us so much God not only came to be with us – to know us more fully so we could more fully know God – but God also promised to be with us to the end of time through the power of the resurrection – so we could be with God thought the gift of Life Eternal.

If that doesn’t make any logical sense to you, then rejoice because you have real reason to celebrate. Why? Because you are getting closer to a mystery.

In order to believe in a mystery, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist. Neither do you have to be an engineer or a mathematician or a chemist.

Oh, you can be those things, certainly, but in order to believe in a mystery you’ve got to engage the part of your brain that believes in possibility. It’s the same part of your brain that allows you to see past what is and envision what might be.

It’s really that same part of the brain that allows rocket scientists and engineers and mathematicians and chemists to be who they are and do what it is they do: to look beyond mere facts and see possibility.

How else are bridges built over mighty, roaring rivers, or chemicals mixed together to create new material, or rockets sent soaring into space? It’s not just about intellect. It’s about imagination!

Being able to see possibility means that you have to engage your whole heart and your whole mind and your whole soul and all of your senses. In order to be able to be open to possibility, you’ve got to embrace a mystery so you can be able to engage your imagination.

That’s what I think the real gift of the resurrection is: imagination. It’s a wonderful, powerful gift, and most of us are afraid to use it, so we hide behind facts and recite them blindly and by rote.

That’s okay, I suppose, but it’s not going to get you to the heart and the joy of the resurrection. It’s not going to open your eyes to see beyond what is so you can see what might be. And, when you can see what is possible, you will find the gift of hope.

And, when you find the gift of hope, you will have found Jesus.

We have a little joke in our family. Most of us will look at a pile of manure and think, “Ewwww! Gross!” One of our daughters can look at that same pile of manure and she claps her hands with joy and says, “Where’s the pony?”.

Now, that one understands the power of imagination. She is able to see beyond what is and imagine what might be possible. Oh, she gets disappointed from time to time, but she knows two things: she knows joy and she knows hope.

Let me give you another Easter image from the words of a poem by Martha Postlethwaite which appeared a few years ago in Parabola Magazine. It’s called “Clearing”…

Do not try to save the whole world or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create a clearing in the dense forest of your life
and wait there patiently,
until the song that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognize and greet it.
Only then will you know how to give yourself
to this world
so worthy of rescue.

That is what this day of the Resurrection of Jesus asks you to do. To make space in your life for your own imagination. So you might know possibility. So you might know hope. So you might know the deep joy that the apostles once knew.

May your Easter be filled with these things, that you may have faith and believe in the power of the Resurrection.

Alleluia! The Lord is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

It is the heart that is to blame

When I was in public elementary school, we were always dismissed at 11 AM on Good Friday so that we could all be in church by noon. We did the Stations of the Cross and then were dismissed while many of our grandparents and those parents who could afford not to work sat in the church in silence until 3 PM, remembering the Seven Last Words of Jesus.

From 1-3 PM, we kids usually played stick ball or soft ball but we had to maintain silence. Round about 2:30, however, we were usually falling down, killing ourselves with silent laughter at the ridiculous enterprise of playing a team sport in silence.

Finally, some adult would come by and send us all home with the stern admonishment to keep silence all the way home - and, no stopping off at the market for a snack. It was straight home and no talking or "I'll tell your parents".

And, they would. Or, someone would spot us on the street, pull over in their car and give us a few whacks upside the head and a good tongue lashing.

Ah, those were the days!

It was always always cause for some alarm, however, when, sometime during that noon to 3 PM period of time, a cloud would cover the sun. Or, unpredictably, a light rain would come from out of nowhere - just for a few minutes - and then, just as suddenly, stop.

As little kids, we thought sure this was a "sign" from God. Surely, the heavens were weeping in remembrance of that terrible "Good Friday" when Jesus hung on the cross until he died.

My grandmother would say, "What those men did to Jesus was horrible. Even the sun is ashamed to shine on this day".

So, we would ask, what's so 'good' about Good Friday?

"It was good," she would say, hand on hip, as if talking to morons, "because Jesus died for us."

We still didn't get it.  It's not an easy concept to understand.

The sun is shining brightly today, glistening and dancing on the water. The early April wind feels more like March. It is gusting, blowing away any temporary warmth the sun might provide and causing white caps to form on the water.

There's no sign of rain, but it remains to be seen if we'll get a cloud to cover the sun before 3 PM.

I was reminded of my grandmother's words when I read Steven Charleston's very brief but very powerful Good Friday meditation. Steven Charleston is the retired bishop of Alaska and the former President and Dean of The Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, MA.

He wrote:

"Life begins in the tomb. Vision is born of darkness. Hope emerges from despair. Since time first played the music that set the human mind to dance, we have watched the waltz of yin and yang, across the floor of heaven. No light without dark, no life without death. The pattern is not the problem. It is the heart that is to blame. For no change occurs without feeling, that pain that turns the balance of creation to poetry, when what we see so clearly is obscured by the tears we cannot avoid, a child seeing the flower wither, an elder bidding the sun good-bye."

I don't know if, as a child, I would have been able to completely comprehend Bishop Charleston's words, but I think I would have appreciated the word of hope rather than the stage of gloom and doom set by the adults of my youth.

It's easy to lose your balance on a day like today. To feel the feelings and then get lost in them.

Many do. My phone is strangely quiet today. I'm used to getting phone calls from people who can't quite put their finger on what's wrong but they are haunted by old memories, ghosts of betrayals past, pained by wounds that have not yet healed.

"The pattern is not the problem," says Bishops Charleston, "It is the heart that is to blame."

Today, on this Good Friday, let us consider "the pain that turns the balance of creation to poetry".

Let us remember that the forsythia which now blaze in yellow glory but was, just a few weeks ago, a dry and brittle bush, desolately clinging to the hard, cold earth.

Let us remember the crocus and the jonquils who stubbornly push their heads above the ground, bidding us to remember that new life lies just beneath the surface of what appears like death.

Let us open our hearts to feel the feelings of this day, knowing that we are safe to do so. The pattern is not the problem. It's simply that it has yet to more fully emerge.

Yes, it is Good Friday. But, Easter is coming.

Take heart.

Awful harmony

Like a young lamb, I am finding my way through this journey in Holy Week.

My heart kicks up and every gust of wind, and my hunger grows stronger in search for the milk of human kindness.

It's always surprising to me what - and who - God will put in my path when I start out in a journey of faith. And, how I find the things I'm looking for in others - and myself.

One of the men who is working on landscaping the yard came over to me this morning during his break. "The Boss tells me you are a minister. That right?"

"Guilty as charged" I said, as he chuckled.

"God bless you," he said.

"Thank you. I really need that," I said, and I meant it because I had been just been fretting about my sermon for the Great Vigil of Easter.

"Oh, I know," he said, "I sometimes wonder how you carry all those stories in your heart." There was something about the way he said that which confirmed my intuition that this was not going to be just a good-morning-how-are-you kind of pleasant conversation.

"You know, I don't have a story," he said. "I only know what I know and that is my truth. I don't have a story to tell. I have my truth to share."

"And, what is your truth?" I asked, looking down at him from my deck as he stood near the water..

"The truth is," he said, clearing his throat, "that I been through hell, but nobody drove me there but myself. And, God came and opened the Gates of Hell and said, 'Come out, son', but I said, 'Lord, save me'. And, God said, 'Son, I opened the gates. What more do you want?' So, the truth is, I had to get myself outta that mess that I created. I made my own hell and I closed the gate behind me. God opened the gate and gave me another chance. And I said to myself, I said, 'You better get yourself together. You drove yourself in here. You had best drive yourself out.' And, so the truth is, I did. Oh, I had Jesus to follow, that's for sure, and Jesus helped me every step of the way, but I had to take every one of those steps myself. And that, Pastor, is my truth."

I took a deep breath and then looked had him square in the eye.

"How long you been clean and sober?"

"I just celebrated one year two week ago," he said, returning my gaze.

"Well, then, it's true. You can't really preach the gospel unless you've lived it. And you, sir, have had the privilege of knowing about salvation because you've lived it. And, you're living it now. And, you've just preached me the gospel. Thank you. God bless you."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I surely have and I surely am, and here's the thing. Salvation is not some high falutin' thee-ology or whatever it is you ministers call it. My pastor says that 'thee-ology' just means 'God-talk' and that's what I talk. God talk. And, the God talk I talk is that Salvation is a gift but you gotsta open it up every day. It don't come just once, but every day. Every day is a chance to live the gift of salvation. And, it don't make no sense to just open it up and say, 'Oh, that's beautiful' and put it up on a shelf and not think about it no more. You got to live it every day. Every. Day. One day at a time."

I put my hands on the railing of the deck and took another deep breath. I think my hands were shaking. It's a powerful, awesome, amazing thing to stand in the presence of another person's truth.

"You know, I've been sitting in there, at my table, fretting about the words I might be given to preach on Saturday night and Sunday morning. I think you just gave them to me. Thank you. God Bless you."

"Well, if you just tell people the truth - your truth - and talk some God talk at the people, those who have ears will hear. If they don't, well, all you can do is open the Gate and say, 'Come out'. They gotsta do the rest for theyselves."

"Amen," I said, quietly. "Amen".

"Now, pastor, would you give me a blessing so I can get some work done for you?"

He took off his baseball cap, moved closer to the railing, and bowed his head. I put my hands on his head and prayed words I didn't know I had in me. I thanked God for the gift of the day and the gift of our salvation. I prayed that we find the strength and courage to open that gift every day and follow Jesus on the long, continuing, winding road to Eternal Life.

And, for some reason, I prayed that we be given the heart of a young lamb, that we might continually find the way to The Old Lamb who knows The Way.

It wasn't until later that morning that I found a book that is an old, dear friend. It's "Deep is the Hunger: Meditations for Apostle of Sensitiveness" first published in 1948 by Howard Thurman - a poet, mystic, philosopher and theologian who knew how to talk God talk in such deeply profound ways as to stir the soul, challenge the mind and inspire the weary heart.

Here is the Thurman poem I found:

A night so wild with the
glory of the moon
that the earth covered its face
with
Silence.
On the pathway of my mind
long, long thoughts run riot.
They are quieted; not by the
beauty of the moon
On the covered face of the earth—
But by the passionate swelling
of awful harmony:
“De Old Sheep, they know the road.
Young lambs must find the way.”
My heart whispers to God:
“Let me always be the young lamb.”

It's Maundy Thursday.

Let us gather the flock of young lambs and follow Jesus through that "awful harmony" to Gethsemane and Calvary that we might be ready to meet him at the Empty Tomb.

Women in Holy Week

Pick up the chicken at the church for Maundy Thursday dinner. Check.

Meet with the landscapers to finish the yard around the house. Check.

Gather documents together for the appointment with the Tax Accountant to file this year's taxes. Check.

Deal with various and sundry unexpected phone calls that add to my growing 'to do' list. Check.

Plan the menu and shop for Easter Day dinner for six - after checking out a local butcher a friend told me about so I don't have to dress the leg of lamb myself.

Check, Check, and Check.

'Holy' Wednesday, my left foot.

According to that indispensable but not thoroughly reliable resource, Wikipedia:

In Western Christianity, the Wednesday before Easter is sometimes known as "Spy Wednesday",as a reference to the betrayal of Jesus by Judas Iscariot, indicating that it is the day that Judas Iscariot first conspired with the Sanhedrin to betray Jesus for thirty silver coins.

This event is described in the three Synoptic Gospels: Matthew 26:14-16, Mark 14:10-12, Luke 22:3-6.

The Sanhedrin was gathered together and it decided to kill Jesus, even before Pesach if possible. In the meantime, Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper. Here he was anointed on his head by Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, with very expensive ointment of spikenard. Some of the disciples, particularly Judas, were indignant about this; the oil could have been sold to support the poor. Judas went to the Sanhedrin and offered them his support in exchange for money. From this moment on Judas was looking for an opportunity to betray Jesus.

Hey, Jude, give a girl a break, wouldya?

I mean, I suppose I COULD be sitting in church, contemplating the mysteries and magnitudes of Holy Week, but life goes on, ya know, and a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I'm especially glad not to have to plan this year's Holy Week observances. Been there. Done that. Not one T-shirt. I 'just' have to show up for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, preach for The Great Vigil and again for the 11 o'clock on Easter Day.

I remember it well. Three-ring circus comes close as a metaphor but doesn't exactly hit the mark.

I do remember one year when the Parish Administrator AND Sexton were out sick, the organist was "coming down with something" and it was "all hands on deck" (which included most of the members of my mumbling, grumbling family) until 11:30 PM on Holy Wednesday, proofreading, collating, folding, stapling and trying not to mutilate hundreds of copies of service bulletins for the Triduum.

Oh, and I remember a few funerals and a ton of hospital calls and home visits, and not more than a dozen or so looooong conversations with people on the phone who found the events of Holy Week touching deeply into old wounds of betrayal and suffering and pain.

From then on, the 'inside joke' in my family was that this is "Holy 'Old Hell' Week".

I rather like Elaine Pagels assertion that women were the first priests in all but name, until the old boy network pushed them out, roughly in the middle of the second century.

I mean, in Scripture, it’s the women who gradually occupy center stage after men have done their worst to Jesus. It’s the women who come to anoint his body for burial and the first to perceive him as “risen” — that is, an experience stronger than and independent of physical death.

Where do you think they were all that time?

Probably in the kitchen, chopping fruit and vegetables, schlepping water, cooking up great pots of food, grinding grain, baking bread, sharing the stories of the day and their lives, as women are of't wont to do.

The most well-known witnesses to Jesus’ last days are Mary the mother of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. It is Mary Magdalene, from whom Jesus reportedly cast out seven demons, who shows up in every Resurrection account.

It is she who was faithful to the end. She’s the woman who keeps on following the gospel when everyone around her is scoffing at religion.

Mary of Magdala was commissioned an apostle when Jesus told her to go tell. The phrase “go and tell” is “apostellein” in Greek. Church teachers referred to her as an apostle until the third century, and even today Eastern Catholic churches call her “apostle to the apostles".

Indeed, it was Mary Magdalene "and other women" who first discovering the empty tomb and heard the message of his Resurrection.

Jesus entrusted to women the part of witnesses (and often the sole witnesses) to the most tremendous facts in his life.

Why was that, do you suppose?

I'm thinking that Jesus knew what all good leaders and managers know: If you want to get something done, ask the busiest person you know. And, as we all know, that person is usually a woman.

So, let's not forget the women of Holy Week. Indeed, let's make a special point to remember them.

I know I will be thinking of all the Holy Women Jesus knew and loved as I spend my time between cooking in the kitchen, shopping at the market, writing sermons and, of course, being in church.

Have a most blessed Triduum!

My grandmother's guitarra

Palm Sunday, the beginning of what we Christians call 'Holy Week', brought the comfort of the familiar and, along with it, a few 'amusements' and 'wonderments' about the state of the church.

It was a loooong service. Then again, we started at 10 AM in the Parish Hall with the Blessing of the Palms, the procession into the church, a pretty dramatic reading of The Passion (Well, for Episcopalians. And, the one who portrayed Jesus was very dramatic - for just about anyone.), the Bishop's sermon (only 14 minutes - which is brief for him - about the generosity of the Cross and the Christian way of life), followed by 16 confirmations/receptions/reaffirmations (Whew!), followed by The Eucharist.

The music was stellar.

We left the church at 11:50 AM and, after exchanging pleasantries with the bishop and our rector, made a beeline for our favorite breakfast spot - The Robin Hood - and wolfed down some omelets and strong coffee before tending to some afternoon chores around the house.

There was much to appreciate about the service. I love the familiarity of the liturgy and music. I love getting my own palm branch and especially love that it is so crisp and firm at the beginning of the service but hangs limp and defeated as I walk out of the church at the end of the service. I love the tension of singing "All Glory, Laud and Honor" as we enter the church and "O Sacred Head Sore Wounded" and "Ah, Holy Jesus" after Communion.

I love all the pomp and circumstances of the church. It's events like Palm Sunday and Holy Week and Easter that I love most and can't imagine not having church in my life.

I was thinking on these things, pondering them in my heart, as I went about my afternoon chores, one of which caused me to take down my grandmother's guitarra and find a new 'safe home' for it.

I've been thinking about my grandmother's guitarra portuguesa as an image of the church.

She played and sang so beautifully that, when I close my eyes, I can still hear her voice and the sound of the guitarra. She very carefully taught me to play it and to sing some of her favorite Fados.

I loved it. I loved the playing. I loved the singing. I loved the tradition. I loved that I was one of several grandchildren entrusted with carrying that tradition and music the next generation.

I don't sing Fado anymore. I remember the tune but not many of the words.

The music is beautiful and deeply meaningful but even though the themes are timeless, the songs don't translate well into today's culture or concerns.  Even my love for and passion about the guitarra portugesa and the particular history of my grandmother's guitarra and the music she played have not been enough to inspire any of my children or grandchildren to take any interest in either.

Watch keys or Preston tuners of the guitarra portugesa

I don't play the guitarra anymore. Can't. Age has dried the wood to the point where it will not sustain the tension of the 12 steel strings. The "watch-key" or "Preston" tuners are all stiff and hard to turn where they are not so loose I fear they may fall out.

It's a shell of what once was. Anyone else would look at it and toss it out but I can't.

Nobody's fault, really. Oh, maybe I could have taken better care of the wood over the years but the experts - "guitarreiros", or guitar makers - I have taken it to say that it wasn't really built to stand the test of time.

A guitarra is just the instrument, they say. The music is what lives on. The memory is what's redemptive.

Is the church become like my grandmother's guitarra?

I have already confessed my deep and abiding love of the litugies and the music which Grandmother Church carefully teaches her children and passes down to the generations, but the church, after all, is just the vehicle - the instrument - of Jesus.  Or, maybe not even Jesus but his followers who claim the high calling of being "The Body of Christ".

Liturgy and music are but the vehicles of the memory of our redemption. "That which is essential," said the fox to the Little Prince, "is invisible to the eye."

As I puttered and fussed around the house yesterday afternoon, I remembered the very first Palm Sunday I held as Chaplain at the University of Lowell. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. I thought I might get lucky and, maybe, just maybe, gather a dozen or so students and/or faculty who had, perhaps, slept through the plethera of morning services held in the great variety of churches in the Greater Lowell Area - from several Roman Catholic to Greek Orthodox to all sort and manner of Protestant churches, including two - count them, 1, 2 - Episcopal Churches.

I had a dozen or so palms at the ready and 12 service booklets all neatly put together. At ten minutes after four, one young gentleman walked into my office. "Is this Palm Sunday?" he asked, his voice undeniably hesitant if not a little confused.

I invited him in with warmth and reassurance. We waited another ten minutes, talking small talk. He was a graduate student, hoping to become a registered physical therapist. He had been raised Roman Catholic but hadn't really been to church in years. He came to the afternoon's offering out of a sense of good, old-fashioned Catholic guilt. I mean, it WAS Palm Sunday. He SHOULD go to church, right?

No one else appeared to be joining us, so I decided to scrap the formal service and the music, blessed the palms and gave him one as together, we read The Passion in two parts.

At the end of our reading, I looked up and tears were streaming down his face. When he was able to compose himself he said, "You know, I never really heard that story before. I mean, I've heard it read all my life. Sung all the songs about it. Know it by heart. But, I never really HEARD it before."

He stayed a bit later as we talked more about the meaning of the story for his life and what might change because of it. "I don't know, yet, what that story has changed for me. I only know that I'm changed for hearing it. Thank you."

No liturgy. No music. No finely tuned organ. No vestments. No grand church building. No bishop. No Eucharist. Just my simple but rather large office space, a dozen or so palms, and the story of The Passion read by two faithful Christians who were, in that moment, neither Roman Catholic nor essentially Episcopalian nor any particular "brand" of Christianity.

I've come to think we had it closer to right that day, twenty-six years ago.  I'll soon forget the almost two hour service yesterday, but I'll never forget that hour spent with one graduate student on Palm Sunday in Lowell, MA.

Remembering his face prompted me to remember the faces of my children as they watched "Godspell". Indeed, it is making a return to Broadway and two of my children have already written to say, "Let's go!" One of them added, "This play is really Easter for me."

I think their favorite song from Godspell is the a duet between an unnamed woman and the rest of the women in the company.

She has just been healed by him and understands deeply that he has utterly and completely changed her life. She wants to follow but knows that the way will be difficult, if not impossible. She sings:

Where are you going? Where are you going? Can you take me with you?
For my hand is cold And needs warmth Where are you going?
Far beyond where the horizon lies Where the horizon lies
And the land sinks into mellow blueness Oh please, take me with you
Let me skip the road with you I can dare myself I can dare myself
I'll put a pebble in my shoe And watch me walk (watch me walk)
I can walk I can walk!

I shall call the pebble Dare (I shall call the pebble Dare)
We will walk, we will talk together
We will talk About walking Dare shall be carried
And when we both have had enough
I will take him from my shoe, singing "Meet your new road!”
Then I'll take your hand Finally glad (Finally glad)
That I am here By your side (By my side) By your side (by my side)
By your side (by my side) By your side (by my side) By your side (by my side)

Listening to my adult children sing this song almost always brings me to tears in the same way that one of my grandmother's fados did.

I don't know what it is, exactly, that is so deeply moving. I only know that, when I hear them sing that song, they sing it with more understanding about the Christian journey and more emotion than any hymn I've ever heard them sing in church.

I'm not suggesting that the church has completely lost its relevance. I'm not suggesting that we stop doing the ancient ceremonies or stop singing those wonderfully familiar hymns of the church. I'm not suggesting that we replace the Palm Sunday liturgy with a performance of Godspell.

I'm certainly not going to toss out my grandmother's guitarra portuguesa.

I'm not even certain what I'm asking.

I just can't stop thinking about the church and my grandmother's guitarra and the powerful, holy stories of our redemption.

And, I keep hearing what the fox said to the little Prince:

"That which is essential is invisible to the eye."

Where are we going? For my hand is cold, and needs warmth.

Where are we going?

The middle of the middle

Even after doing the 'penance' of jet lag, I am so not ready for Holy Week.

First of all, it's a little late in coming this year.  I'm used to Easter being in mid March, not early April. The weather has been weird, this year, for winter and early Spring.

But, that's no excuse, really.

Maybe it's all the excitement over the unexpected defeat of the Anglican Covenant in the Church of England. It feels like the Anglican Communion has been given the gift of the resurrection.

Nah. As happy as I am, that's overstating the case just a tad.

Perhaps it was those three weeks in with the monks at the Wat in Thailand. Maybe I've already had my deep encounter with Jesus.

It could be that, having traveled across the International Date Line and back again, my sense of time is all upside down and out of whack. I still can't get my head wrapped around the fact that it's already tomorrow where some of my friends live. And that, for them, I'm actually living yesterday.

How weird is that? And yet, it's true.

During Holy Week, we are asked to walk back in time and relive an ancient story with Jesus. It's a very powerful experience, if one allows oneself to enter into the story and, simultaneously, allow the story to enter one's present reality. We do this to live better lives today - and into the future.

Having had my sense of time properly warped, I guess I have a deeper appreciation and respect for that dynamic of stepping into an ancient story and allowing it to become part of your own story. That appreciation and respect, interestingly enough, makes it harder to do.

As I consider preparing myself for Holy Week, I'm remembering a wonderful man - a story teller in Boston and Cambridge, MA - named "Brother Blue".

Well, his real name was Hugh Morgan Hill but he was called that because he always dressed in blue - from his socks to his beret to the butterflies painted on his palms. Brother Blue spent a lot of his time in prisons and on street corners, but he also spent a great deal of time in Harvard Square, which is where I first met him.

Brother Blue transformed the classics into a modern setting. He placed his version of Romeo and Juliet in the inner city. He updated the plight of King Lear-Shakespeare's aged, battered royal hero, to talk about the homeless people of today.

He would tell us, “We ain’t nothin’ but music wrapped in a body made of snow.”

When we were at seminary in Cambridge, MA, we would see Brother Blue on the street and, no matter if he had just begun or was just ending or was right in the middle of telling one of his stories, we would always stop and listen.

He always began his stories in the same way: "From the middle of the middle of me," Brother Blue would say, swirling his finger in magical airs in the space between you then gently tapping it toward your heart, "to the middle of the middle of you..."

Blue's storytelling career began with the tales he told his beloved handicapped younger brother Thomas who was unable to read and write. Unable to say "Hugh" clearly, Thomas spoke his elder brother's name with a sound close to the word "Blue," a nickname which became a sobriquet which came to reflect Brother Blue's personal journey.

History records that Thomas died young in an institution. Brother Blue's versions tell of how Thomas was "special" and mostly wanted to fly, so he climbed on the roof of the house and fell to his death.

Blue mused, "Thomas...he thought he could fly, he thought could fly, so he tried." Brother Blue would often explain that, ever grieving, he was still looking for his brother, and "he might be you."

I've decided that I need to heed Brother Blue's words this week in order to get ready for Holy Week. I need to get myself ready to go down - deep down - to the middle of the middle of me to find the middle of the middle of the transforming story of the life and death and resurrection of Jesus.

I need to plow through this time-bound, snow-wrapped body and move down to the middle of the middle of me to get to the eternal music of the resurrection. 

It's going to be another long journey, across international and ancient time lines to get to the middle of the middle of the truth of who Jesus is for me, and rediscover him in the ancient story once again, for the first time.

I think this is where some of the chants I learned from the monks will help me to let go of this moment and step into a non-moment in order to be more fully present.

It sounds nonsensical, I know. Then again, Holy Week doesn't make much sense, does it? Most of our liturgical year and all of our observances seem like an exercise in futility.

I'm learning that sometimes, following what seems like a futile path can lead to a place of Great Importance.

Walking into the ancient story of Holy Week and following Jesus to Calvary can lead one through the middle of the middle of one's own life where one might be able to confront at least a modicum of Truth about oneself.

I make that journey every year. I'm not ready to do that. Not yet. But, I'm getting ready.

I've got the memory of voices of the monks to follow and the muse of Brother Blue to guide me.

As Brother Blue would say, "We want a story from your heart. If it's not from your heart, don't tell it."

You know, Jesus, like Blue's brother Thomas, was special. He thought he could fly so he tried but he fell and died. And then, he rose up again and like the butterfly, began to fly.

And, who knows, that butterfly might be you.

You'll only know if you let the middle of the middle of the story find the middle of the middle of you.