June 14: Flag Day

Today is Flag Day.

It's also Mary Bothelo's birthday.

Mary and I were in Elementary School together from first grade to fifth grade. Mary's father was a truck driver and she missed him a lot. Her father was Roman Catholic but her mother was a Jehovah's Witness.

She hated that, mostly because, since her father was away a lot, she couldn't celebrate her birthday OR Flag Day. AND she had to leave the classroom whenever we said the Pledge of Allegiance. She also could not salute a picture of the POTUS (Eisenhower, at the time), with our carton of room-temperature milk. She just stood at her desk, eyes down at her feet, a carton of milk next to the graham cracker snack on her desk.

She, like me, was also a first-generation Portuguese American. Sometimes, we spoke Portuguese to each other on the playground. We made sure the other kids couldn't hear us, of course, but the "double deception" made us giggle.

In the summer before the 6th grade, my family moved to the suburbs to start living "The Great American Dream" in our Very Own House. I haven't seen or heard from Mary Bothelo since.

But, I don't think I'll ever forget her or the sadness on her face when she had to leave the room every morning. I remember that when she put her hand on the doorknob, she always looked back at us. I always gave her a very small wave. She always responded by looking tough and nodding her head slightly to acknowledge my small act of friendship.

As I think about it now, I think that made us more American than any pledge we could recite or any carton of milk we could raise to honor a President. Defiant compliance and friendship in the face of tensions between church and state.

We've always been a nation of Outsiders. Are now. Always will be. Everyone in America came here from a different place. We all have roots in other lands. We are all transplants.

 

The sooner we understand that the better we'll embody the real Spirit of America, which an unfurled flag - stars and stripes and a variety of colors coexisting together and snapping at the wind - can't even begin to capture.

flag

By Jacqueline Woodson

When the kids in my class ask why

I am not allowed to pledge to the flag

I tell them It's against my religion but don't say,

I am in the world but not of the world. This,

they would not understand.

Even though my mother's not a Jehovah's Witness,

she makes us follow their rules and

leave the classroom when the pledge is being said.

Every morning, I walk out with Gina and Alina

the two other Witnesses in my class.

Sometimes, Gina says,

Maybe we should pray for the kids inside

who don't know that God said

"No other idols before me." That our God

is a jealous God.

Gina is a true believer. Her Bible open

during reading time. But Alina and I walk through

our roles as Witnesses as though this is the part

we've been given in a play

and once offstage, we run free, sing

"America the Beautiful" and "The Star-Spangled Banner"

far away from our families—knowing every word.

Alina and I want

more than anything to walk back into our classroom

press our hands against our hearts. Say,

"I pledge allegiance . . ." loud

without our jealous God looking down on us.

Without our parents finding out.

Without our mothers' voices

in our heads saying, You are different.

 

Chosen.

 

Good.

 

When the pledge is over, we walk single file

back into the classroom, take our separate seats

Alina and I far away from Gina. But Gina

always looks back at us—as if to say,

I'm watching you. As if to say,

I know.

 

Jacqueline Woodson, "flag" from Brown Girl Dreaming. Copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline Woodson. Used by permission of Nancy Paulsen Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

Source: Brown Girl Dreaming (Nancy Paulsen Books, 2014)

The Fiftieth Day of Easter

 

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Livestreamed on Facebook at Sirach 26:10 

Pentecost - June 5, 2022

Today is Pentecost, the 50th day of Easter, sometimes known as the birthday of the church. It is the day when we celebrate the gift of the Resurrection. On this day, we were given The Holy Spirit, sent by God in the name of Jesus, to be the advocate to teach us everything, and to remind us of all Jesus has said and taught to his disciples.

 

It’s also the day of the redemption for The Tower of Babel – the ancient story told to explain the many different languages of humankind. We are told that the tower was built by Nimrod, son of Kush, the oldest son of Ham and the grandson of Noah, the same man who built the ark and was part of the faithful remnant to re-establish the earth after the devastating flood.

 

Nimrod built the tower as a refuge should God flood the earth again. Problem is, God promised never to destroy the earth ever again. God even put a rainbow in the sky as a sign of God’s covenant with us. Apparently, Nimrod forgot that promise. God didn’t.

Indeed, when God came to visit earth and saw what they had done, well, God got a little annoyed. God said, well, you know, they all have one language and there’s no telling what they’ll be able to do in the future. According to the story, God said, "Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so that they will not understand one another's speech."

 

Now, that all got redeemed on the Day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit came down and even though everyone was speaking in their own language, everyone understood. There was unity. And, there was peace. Because there was trust in God.

 

Well, almost everyone trusted in God. The scene from ACTS tells us that some sneered and said, "They are filled with new wine." Still the Holy Spirit came down. Because, you know, God works through amazement and wonder but God can also work through skepticism and disbelief.

 

You know, it’s been a tough couple of weeks. My heart has been especially heavy. I know many of you are also feeling helpless and hopeless as gun violence rips through the very fabric of this nation again and again. I think it’s time for a story, don’t you? Right? Of course, right. This is a story about how the Spirit works though different languages and customs to provide us with the experiences and lessons we need to know and learn to live together in unity and peace.

It was 1986. I was a newly ordained priest, a Chaplain at the University of Lowell in MA. It was also the first five years of what was to become the AIDS pandemic. I was part of an Ecumenical AIDS Task Force, teaming up with a Jesuit priest to provide education to churches in the area.

It was in that capacity that I first met Fr. Koumranian, the pastor at the Armenian Orthodox Church in Lowell.  For some reason unknown to me, Fr. Koumranian took a liking to me – or, was intrigued by a “woman priest” – and decided that I should learn the “real” liturgy of the church.  So, he took me under his wing in one of the most delightful mentor relationship I have ever known.

He was called “Father” so I, of course, became known as “Mother”. He would call me and, in his heavy Armenian accent, begin, “Mother? Dees is Father. We are having baptism at church. It would be good for you to learn Divine Liturgy. It would be good for my people to see woman priest. You come.” (You didn’t know I could speak Armenian, did you? Step aside, Meryl Streep.)

Mind you, that wasn’t so much an invitation as an expectation. I was thrilled. I went. Every time.  One evening, he called. “Mother? Dees is Father. Der is funeral Wednesday. It would be good for you to learn Divine Liturgy. It would be good for my people to see woman priest. You come.”

Nothing was so important that couldn’t be rearranged so that I could be there. There was smoke. There were bells. There was chanting. I admit that I loved it all in that beautiful mosaic tile sanctuary.

When it came time for the eulogy, I looked around the church and saw that it was filled with lots of old Armenian men and women, all dressed in black. I thought sure the eulogy would be spoken in Armenian and I could meditate quietly while he preached. To my surprise, Fr. Koumranian walked into the aisle, near the casket as he began the euology.

“Der are people in dees world,” he said, “who are always making you happy. You see dem walking on de street and your heart leaps for joy, for dey are always making you so happy.”

He put his hand reverently on the casket and said solemnly, “Dees . . . is not one of dos people.”

I was, in a word, stunned. I shut my eyes tight. All I could think was, “Don’t let my face show what I’m thinking.” Which was, “What in the heck is he doing?” When I opened my eyes, I could see the front row of women, including the man’s widow. They were all nodding their heads in agreement.

Fr. Koumranian continued, “But, isn’t God – our own God – so wonderful, dat now – even now – even one such as dees is resting eternally in de arms of Jesus? Because, you know, eets true (Wait for it. Ready?): People is people. And, God is God.”

And then he said, “Ah-min,” and sat down.

One of these days I'm going to learn to just say what I have to say, say, "Amen!", shut up and sit down. (Umm . . . but this would not be one of those days.)

Isn’t that wonderful? ‘People is people and God is God’.

That pretty much sums up just about everything Jesus ever said. These are seven words that sum up the message of all four gospels. ‘People is people and God is God’. That’s really the message of this morning’s gospel.

 

Jesus said: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid."

 

Because, you see, Fr. Koumranian is right: People are people. And God, is God.

Here’s the really Good News: No matter how foolish, no matter how unkind or mean-spirited or even despicable our behavior, God is always ready to forgive. We may not be able to forgive, but what we know of God in Christ Jesus is love and forgiveness, reconciliation and hope.

That is the life we were baptized into. The life of Jesus is a life of love, forgiveness, reconciliation and hope. And, here’s the secret to the miracle of Life: The more of yourself you give away, the more of yourself you will have and the more joy you will know.

 

Not just superficial happiness. Joy. Deep, inexplicable joy – even when your heart is heavy and breaking with sadness. I don’t know how that works. I only know it to be true.

 

Here’s what else I know to be true: We are here on this fragile earth, our island home, just a very short time. If we’re lucky, some of us will live a little less than 100 years. Even though that’s a great, long life, it’s a little, tiny blip in the history of time. I also know that each one of us is hardwired to be compassionate. It’s in our DNA. We were created for unity – to be one in the Spirit – even as we were uniquely and wondrously made.

 

When we act out of our compassion, when we help others in their time of need, even if that is at personal cost or sacrifice, we are living into and out of our baptismal vows. And that, my friends, is the source of joy and peace and hope.

 

Part of the reason Deacon Pete is here with us is to do what Deacons do: They are to bring the needs of the world to the church and the goodness of the church back out into the world. They are to edify and empower the laity – the priesthood of all believers – to find the compassion that is in each of our hearts and be in service to others. Deacons often do that by stirring things up, challenging the status quo. Deacon Pete has already shown us he can do that.

There is something in this world that only you can do. This is the reason you were put on this earth. This is the reason, ultimately, for your baptism – so you can do something wonderful in this world for others in the name of Jesus. Deacon Pete and I are both here to help you find that out about yourself and to do that very thing you were called to do.

And, even if you fall short – even if you miss the mark – when it is time for your time on this earth to end, by the power of the Spirit, you are promised to rest eternally in the arms of God.

 

Why? How does that happen? Honest? I’m not exactly certain. I only know the revelation of truth I learned from a man whose culture and language and style of worship were very different from mine and yet he gave to me a message of the timeless truth the disciples learned at Pentecost: 

People are people and God is God. Amen.

The Last of Her Tribe

My dear Aunt Alice died on Thursday, June 2nd, at the age of 96. 

 

For the past several years her residence had been in an Assisted Living Facility. She suffered from a ruthlessly advancing form of dementia which bore holes in and finally destroyed all barriers that would enable polite social exchange. 

 

She was the youngest child of 15 living children of Maria and August Lima Medeiros. At a young age, she left home and eloped with a handsome young sailor of Sweedish extraction named Dale, and moved with him across the country to settle in one of the small towns outside of Seattle, Washington. 

 

She was trying to escape the often brutal realities and challenges of being a woman in a strict Roman Catholic, immigrant Portuguese culture where she was expected to marry "a nice, local Portuguese boy from a good family, settle down and have lots of babies."

 

She did the exact opposite and thus became a hero in my eyes.

 

By every account, she and her husband and their two daughters were thriving in Washington State. When viewed through my immigrant eyes, she might as well have been living in a foreign country. She came to visit us, once when I was about 6 or 7 years old, she and her husband and the two fair-skinned girls who were my cousins. 

 

Well, the eldest daughter looked more like a fair-skinned version of us, except her eyes were hazel, as are my own. The youngest looked like she had been cut from a batch of Swedish butter cookie dough, complete with blond-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Interestingly enough, while her husband had blue eyes, my Aunt Alice had piercing blue eyes, which was not uncommon on my Grandmother's side of the family. 

 

Their lack of New England accent was probably as jarring to us as our accent was to them. We drank "soda". They drank "pop". We ate any kind of fish. They ate any kind of salmon. (well, mostly Fresh Pacific salmon - some smoked and dried. Ours came out of the Atlantic and mostly from a can.) We ate a clam boil with potatoes and Portuguese sausage and hot dogs. They ate raw oysters. On the half-shell. With a little cocktail sauce. 

 

They traveled by RV which they set up in the side yard of my grandparent's tenement house. I could be mistaken but my memory is that they arrived in the early days of summer vacation. "But, an RV!" my aunts and uncles whispered, "Do you know how much one of those things costs?" they gasped. "The gas alone. . . ." said one of my uncles, half admiringly, half green with envy. 

 

My aunt was "slim and trim" as her sisters said with no small amount of envy, wore form-fitting dresses, and smoked cigarettes with her feet up. She didn't drink wine like my aunts but, instead, drank actual alcohol - brown liquid in a bottle that came from "the package store" and not homemade beer or whiskey/rum (Cachaça or Aguardente - Portuguese for "burning water") - in a proper glass that clinked with ice cubes when she held it to her lips, deep red with lipstick. 

 

I remember finding her half-filled lipstick-stained glass on an end table once when no one was around. I put my lips on the exact place of her lips, but the smell of the alcohol was more than my young nose could tolerate so I put it down quickly. 

 

So, let me state the obvious: Mother-daughter relationships are complex and complicated. If we don't work through them, we often become what we reject.

 

I've been reflecting on this since my cousin called with the news of my Aunt's death - especially since it was my Aunt who inspired my journey to "run away from home" so I could escape the oppressive expectations of behavior and become more of who I was understanding myself to be. 

 

It occurred to me that my grandmother moved from the Azores to Fall River, MA. That's approximately 2, 403 miles. 

 

When I checked the distance from Fall River to Seattle, it was 3,044 miles. That's a difference of a little over 600 miles. 

 

One journey was over the seas, the other over the land. One journey was from one continent to another, the other journey was across an entire continent. One was to flee the ghost of her mother, the other was to flee the reality of her mother.

 

And yet, when I saw my Aunt last year, there was absolutely no doubt that, with filters off, she had become more of what she had rejected. There was a moment when I gasped at something she did and said and realized that those were my grandmother's exact words and behavior.

 

No matter the quality or content, mother-daughter relationships are fraught with complex and complicated emotions. I know I'm still sorting through my mother-daughter relationship - and my mother died in 2008 - even as I try to figure out my relationships with my own daughters.

 

What I fear most is that the patterns will repeat themselves, despite my best efforts to avoid them. Indeed, some are already well-established, which causes me to grieve more than the loss of my mother or grandmother, or aunts. 

 

I'm told that my aunt left very explicit instructions in her will. There is to be no viewing, no funeral. Gawd, no. That would be "too Fall River immigrant" for her. However, she did allow that there could be a "gathering for lunch and storytelling" which my cousins are planning later this summer. Ms. Conroy and I are planning to attend. 

 

For whatever else she was, she was the youngest and The Last of Her Tribe. She was fierce and feisty and often impossible and iracible. As she got older and her brain no longer served her as it should, she became increasingly cantankerous, fractious, and uncontrollable. 

 

She also became, more and more, what she had rejected. I shouldn't be surprised. It's a rule of the cosmos: That which we reject, we become. 

 

Which is why I so admire my cousins. They have been able to recognize, name, and work through their issues - and continue to do so. They are who they are and I detect little danger of either of them becoming their mother. Or, my mother. Or their grandmother.

 

She was the Last of Her Tribe. That's a special kind of grief, all its own, especially for an immigrant family. 

 

I shall miss her dearly. 

 

And, if I'm honest, I'll miss all that she represents, because it's also a rule of the cosmos: We miss most what we can no longer have, even if we didn't want it when we had it.

Dear Jesus,

 

Esmeralda Bravo, sheds tears while holding a photo of her granddaughter, Nevaeh, one of the Robb Elementary School shooting victims, during a prayer vigil in Uvalde, TX, (AP photo)

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Simultaneously broadcast on Facebook, Sirach 26:10 

Easter VII - The Sunday after the Ascension

March 29, 2022

Many years ago, I was given some excellent advice: When you are angry with someone or about something, write it all down in a letter. And then, put the letter in an envelope and tuck it away in a drawer for a few days. Then, take the letter out and re-read it. If you still feel the same way, send it. If you need to modify it, do so and sit on that for a few days. If you are uncomfortable with anything you’ve said, rip up the letter and throw it away.

 

Well, I went through this exercise on Thursday, the Feast of the Ascension of the Christ, two days after the hideous slaughter of 19 elementary school children and two of their teachers. When I went to bed Tuesday night, there were 15 children dead. When I woke up on Wednesday morning, I learned that four more children had died.

 

And, just like that, my sadness turned to anger – the white-hot, blinding kind of anger that wants to lash out and pin the blame on someone or something. This had to be someone’s fault. Lots of someones fault, I thought. I probably don’t need to share the litany that has been repeated over and over again in various news outlets. It’s tempting, but I won’t.

 

I knew where to take my complaints and anger and anxiety and fear. I took them straight to Jesus. And, I did what I often do: I wrote him a letter. On Thursday. The Feast of the Ascension. I’m going to share parts of it with you this morning.

 

Dear Jesus,

 

Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus. You’ve no doubt heard that it’s happened again. Last week it was 10 people of color in Buffalo, NY. Now, it’s 19 elementary school kids and two of their teachers in Uvalde, Texas. So, I’m coming to you on the day you left us. The Feast of the Ascension. And, I’m mad as hell at you for leaving.

 

I mean, was that totally necessary? Seriously? Just to fulfill the prophecy of Daniel? Everything theologically neat and tidy? It's just compulsively neat and tidy, in my experience. This was done to "fulfill" That. That was said to "fulfill" this. And "all things are being brought to their perfection". No ragged edges. No incomplete thoughts. Everything tucked in nice and tight, like sheets in a hospital corner on a bed. If you tried, I'd bet you could even bounce a quarter off these theological sheets.

 

Except, why was it necessary? I mean, why did you have to leave? You could have completed the work just as well – probably better – right from here on earth. I'm really angry because I'm quite sure we wouldn't have half the religious squabbles we have today if you were actually around to say, "Umm . . . no, actually, I didn't say that." And, "Uh . . . you know, you are really playing fast and loose with my words there."  And, "Okay, you lazy buggers, let's go. We've got people to feed, houses to build, prisoners to set free from their chains."

 

I'm quite certain you would never have allowed the lurid murder of George Floyd or the shooting of Travon Martin or Breonna Taylor or India Kager.  I have no doubt – absolutely no doubt whatsoever – that there would never have been a Columbine, or a Sandy Hook, or Parkland, much less an Uvalde Massacre of the Innocents if you were still here.

 

So, yeah. I’m angry that you "ascended into heaven and (is) sitting at the right hand of the Father," apparently, just so human logic would reign supreme - or, at least, make it nice and tidy. How nice for you!  Not so for us. Problem is:  It. Makes. No. Sense.

 

Not today. Especially not today. When the shock has started to wear off and the endless cycle has begun: Thoughts and prayers, Facebook debates and Twitter wars, Congressional inaction, and crickets chirping as everyone moves on until the next Mass Shooting.

 

Today? Today I'm pissed off. And, quite conveniently, it's the Feast of the Ascension so I get to express all my abandonment issues and sense of betrayal and outrage on you. It's YOUR fault. You left. You should have stayed. Then, stuff like this wouldn't happen. See?

 

I know. I know. You sent your Holy Spirit to counsel and advise and guide us. Well, guess what? That’s not working out so well. It hasn’t for a long time. You may have noticed. Okay, okay. Fair enough. Not a lot of people listened to you while you were here. Still don’t. Or, maybe they did listen and they didn’t like what you said. I mean, you did get crucified for it, after all.

 

Okay, so, here’s the thing – here’s what I really need help with: Just what am I supposed to do now? I’ve already had several phone calls from parishioners. They want to know what to do. Should they go to their grandson’s graduation in that big auditorium? Did you hear what I told her? I said yes, but make sure you sit next to an exit. In the first three rows.

 

I learned that from the Active Shooter Training Courses I’ve had in the past, when these kinds of things have happened before. You know I’ve spoken with the Wardens and two members of our congregation who are elected members of the Town Council. One of them is arranging with the Police Department to have an Active Shooter Training Course for the church. We’re just waiting for a date. I did that last week. You know, after Buffalo. I mean, I AM doing stuff. See?

 

And, that’s another thing I really need help with: Why does this keep happening? I need to know. We need to know. Because if we knew, then we could take measures to prevent it from happening again. I’m not talking about the lame excuses people keep making which is really just a cruel blame game. The end result of that game is that it leads nowhere, accomplishes nothing.

 

So, I have sat with the scriptures for this week – this Ascension Sunday – to look for some clues from the things you reportedly said before you left us. I’ve been sitting with these words:

 

"Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these know that you have sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them."

 

I’m sitting with the last couple of words: “so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” Well, that’s been a colossal failure, hasn’t it? We could never be accused of having God’s love in us, much less any evidence of you being in us, despite baptism.

 

Why is that? Why is it so much easier to hate than to love? Why is it that we are quick to raise a fist when extending an open hand is just as easy? Might it be that we act too soon on anger and fear? Might it be that we jump to conclusions? Rush to judgment? Settle for easy answers?

 

Sometimes I think we’re afraid to just sit with our feelings. Or, perhaps, it’s difficult to sort through them all. Or, maybe it’s just that it’s really hard to sit with our pain, much less anyone else’s pain. But, that’s exactly what you did, isn’t it? You were there for people. You showed up where they were. You listened to them. You used what you had to comfort and heal and teach them: Dirt. Spit. Humor. Even when you were annoyed or distracted or sad, you still healed the persistent woman, and the daughter of the Roman soldier, and raised Lazarus from the dead.

 

So, perhaps that’s what I should do? Just be with people? Help them to sort through their feelings and then feel the feelings they are feeling? Instead of rushing through with “thoughts and prayers”? Because, when we don’t feel the feelings, when we don’t sit with each other and dig down deep to find the love and compassion that is there, we run the risk of numbing ourselves by moving on too fast, and then wonder why nothing ever gets done.

 

So, okay. I’ll start this Sunday, Jesus. I’ll start by reading the names of those who have died and are now with you. And, I’ll ask that, as each name is read, we stop and think of that person, and feel the feelings, and sit with our feelings and feel the feelings of others around us. And then, maybe, in the midst of our deepest feelings, when we feel most weak and most vulnerable, you will come to us as you always do, when we need you most, and inspire us to do the one thing we can do to make a difference. To create change. To help the world be a better place.

 

Even if that means that I need to search my own heart and seek forgiveness or allow my anger and resentment to be transformed into reconciliation and peace in my own life. What’s the wonderful old song? “Let there be peace in the world, and let it begin with me.” That’s so much easier to sing than to live, isn’t it?

 

Before you left, your prayer to God was that we would know God better “so that the love with which (God) loved (You) may be in (us), and (You) in (us).” Help me help your people, Jesus. Help me to help them know that prayer is not a platitude but a vehicle for transformation. That even anger is a prayer – the ‘holy rage’ of the prophets that spoke truth to power, your wrath that turned over tables of corruption and greed in the Temple – that can be transformed and used for good. And that our tears and anguish are the prayers most cherished in your heart.

 

Help me, Jesus. Help me lead your people to see you more clearly, follow you more nearly, love your more dearly, day by day.  Because, even though you physically left us and went to heaven, you are still here with us, in each other, and you are known by the love we have for each other.

 

And so, we begin – first the 10 who were slaughtered in Buffalo, NY.

 

Roberta A. Drury, 32

Margus D. Morrison, 52

Andre Mackneil, age 53

Aaron Salter, 55

Geraldine Talley, 62

Celestine Chaney, 65

Heyward Patterson, 67

Katherine Massey, 72

Pearl Young, 77

Ruth Whitfield, 86

 

And now, those children and their teachers who were gunned down in Uvalde, TX

 

Nevaeh Bravo, 10

Jacklyn Cazares, 9

Makenna Lee Elrod, 10

Jose Flores, 10

Ellihana Garcia, 10

Irma Garcia, 48

Uziyah Garcia, 10

Amerie Jo Garza, 10

Xavier Lopez, 10

Jayce Luevanos, 10

Tess Mata, 10

Miranda Mathis, 11

Eva Mireles, 44

Alithia Ramirez, 10

Annabell Rodriguez, 10

Maite Rodriguez, 10

Alexandria “Lexi” Rubio, 10

Layla Salazar, 11

Jailah Nicole Silguero, 10

Eliahana Cruz Torres, 10

Rojelio Torres, 10

Let us pray: O God our Father, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust your beloved children of Uvalde and Buffalo to your everlasting care and love, and bring them fully into your heavenly kingdom. Pour out your grace and loving-kindness on all who grieve; surround them with your love; and restore their trust in your goodness. We lift up to you our weary, wounded souls and ask you to send your Holy Spirit to transform the anger and violence that infects our hearts, and make us instruments of your peace and children of the light. In the Name of Christ who is our hope, we pray. Amen. (Adapted from a prayer by Bishop David Reed, Episcopal Bishop of West Texas)

Why him? Why only him?

 

Sixth Sunday of Easter - Rogation Sunday

May 22, 2022 

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE 

 

As miracle stories go in Scripture, this one would not be a favorite of mine.

 

See? I like miracle stories like the one where everyone is hungry and all the disciples can find are five loaves and one fish, but at the end of the story, everyone gets to eat. Everyone experiences a miracle. And, there’s food left over! Now, that’s my kind of miracle story!

 

I also like miracle stories with a surprise: Like the one with the Canaanite woman who pleads for healing for her daughter but the disciples keep shushing her and sending her away. Nevertheless, she persists. At the end of the story, she surprises Jesus with her intelligence and quick wit and faith. And, Jesus surprises her – and his disciples – with the healing she seeks.

 

And then there are the dramatic miracle stories, the kind that make even his disciples gasp: The healing of the leper. I mean, a LEPER, for goodness sake! No one goes near, much less heals a leper. Or the Gerasene demoniac in which Jesus commands the demons to leave the man and enter a herd of swine who then – OMG – jump over a cliff to their death. Talk about dramatic!

 

Those are some wonderful healing miracle stories, right? If Oprah were talking about this, she’d say, “And YOU get a miracle! And YOU get a miracle! Everybody gets a miracle!”

 

Not so with this story from John about the paralytic who has been waiting there, at the Pool of Beth-zatha (or, as it is known today Bethesda) by the Sheep Gate (now known as the Lion Gate) in Jerusalem. He had been there, waiting for healing, for thirty-eight long years.

 

He is one among many invalids who wait by the pool for an angel to come and ‘trouble the waters’ – to stir up the waters – which was when the miracle of healing had been known to happen. The problem is that there was apparently a small window of time when one could get oneself into the pool while the angel was there, troubling the waters, and because the man was paralyzed and the crowd so large, he could never get there on time.

 

Well, the belief at the time was that the ‘troubling of the waters’ was done by an angel. Other said it was the miracle of Nature – that the flow of water feeding the pool at Bethesda was intermittent, giving the impression of being occasionally – and mysteriously, magically, miraculously – stirred.

If the story about the angel were true it would mean that the fittest and ablest person would be healed first while leaving the needy and frail to continue to suffer. But, those of us who have heard the other miracle stories of Jesus know that this is not how He works.  Jesus always, always, always ministers to the neediest of all those seeking healing, in this case, one who was an invalid for 38 years and who had no other hope!

Which, I suppose, is the point of this healing story. Jesus healed the neediest. I get it. But, I don’t like it. I mean, if Jesus can heal one, he can heal them all. Can’t he? What about all the other people who had come to the pool, desperate for healing? Why were they left out? 

 

Instead, Jesus singles out one man and gives him his full attention. There’s no clue as to why, except that he has been there a long time. Lots of commentators surmise that he is the only one who responds to Jesus’ offer for healing, but that’s not in the text. It remains a mystery.

 

Why him? Why only him?

 

It makes the healing and miraculous work of Jesus look arbitrary and capricious. That is not what we know to be the nature of God as revealed in Jesus but, you know, that’s exactly what some people believe.

 

I’ll never forget the image I saw of the devastation of one of those awful tornados in Texas or Kansas or Oklahoma. It was an arial view of the total destruction of a neighborhood in which you could see the arbitrary, winding path of the tornado. Everything for miles was reduced to sticks and rubble except for two houses – one was still standing, although the back end was blown off – and the other was standing fully intact, not even a flower pot out of place.

 

In front of that house, the owner had placed a sign which read, “Thank you, God, for saving our home.” I gasped. “Really?” I heard myself say. “I wonder what his neighbors think about that. Why was his house saved but not there’s? Was that divine intervention or just dumb luck?”

 

I’ve never heard a satisfying answer to this complex query into the mind of the Divine. Here’s the thing: Everyone has something. We’re all afflicted by some illness, some hardship, some shame, some dysfunction. You may never know it, watching the streams of people who seem to be healthy and whole pass you by or sit next to you in church. And not all afflictions are on the same scale. But you can count on it. Everyone has something.

 

Why then doesn’t God heal us all?

 

I do not know the answer to that question. But I do know that God has healed me, in ways that people wouldn’t call miraculous or supernatural but that seem so to me. God has healed depression, broken­heartedness, financial insecurity, grief, doubt and yes, my own racism and internalized sexism and homophobia are being healed every day. Like the man at the sheepgate, I have been healed not only for my good but for the hope-filled proclamation that God can – and, indeed, does – work miracles. It’s that the nature of miracles is a deep mystery.

 

I also know that miracles have happened in others. The same dis-eases with which I have been plagued have troubled the lives of others as well. I have seen confrontation, confession, forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing in situations which I had originally thought hopeless. But, the miracle happened slowly, over time, with a lot of work and some sacrifice on both sides. It happened so slowly you might have missed it. But it happened. And, it was miraculous.

 

How many miracles are happening around us daily, but we miss them because we’re looking for the modern equivalent of demons jumping into pigs and pigs jumping over cliffs? We want the drama of angels troubling waters but then we miss the miracles that can come out of troubled times in our lives.

 

The grand sweep of God’s love may be universal, but the application is personal. Jesus deals in particu­lars. We do too. The church – the Body of Christ – gets to pay attention to the condition of individual people and to confront merciless systems which shrug its shoulders at the troubling increase in homelessness. The church gets to expand the definition of healing from just physical to emotional and spiritual. And the church gets to be honest and, when necessary, speak truth to power in ways that can bring both individual and systemic change.

 

On this Rogation Sunday, when we ask for God’s blessing on creation – on the seeds that will bring beautiful flowers and trees that will bring luscious fruit and earth that will bring nourishing vegetables – we are witnesses to God’s healing power on what was once hard, cold barren earth. And, in that, we are recipients of the greatest healing miracle of all: Hope.

 

Truth be told, hope is my favorite healing miracle story of all time. Hope is what Jesus gave to ever person he ever healed. Hope is strong medicine. Hope can heal a broken heart. Hope can open the eye of those who have been blind to prejudice. Hope can lift the clouds of darkness and bring the light of insight and wisdom. Hope can inspire someone knocked down by life again and again to pick himself up, dust herself off, and try one more time.

 

I believe hope is what helped the paralytic man to believe he could stand up, pick up his mat and walk. Hope troubles the waters of our faith, and helps us to believe Jesus when he said, “. . . . with God all things are possible” (Mt 19:26)  

 

“Hope,” wrote Emily Dickenson, “is a thing with feathers.” Perhaps it was that thing with feathers that appeared as an angel to the ancient people around that pool at Bethesda. I believe hope is a bird that has always lived within the human soul and sings whether there is rain or shine, wind or calm, plenty or scarcity, good times or bad.

 

It is the song of hope, my friends, which helps us to push through the numbing, paralyzing, constant drone of bad news in the world. It is the Devil’s delight to see us separated by conflict and divided by ideology and politics. Jesus wants us to be one, as he and God are one. That was his most fervent prayer. And that we love one another as he loves us.

 

Hope is the delight God has in God’s creation which inspires us to find the good, to see possibility, to hear the call of Jesus over the troubled waters of our lives, saying to each one of us, “Stand up, take up your mat, and walk.”

 

That’s not the question. The question is the same as Jesus asked the paralytic man, "Do you want to be made well?"

 

Amen.

Knowing and being known

 

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Livestream Sirach 26:10 on Facebook

Easter V - May 15, 2022

 

Apparently, the Spirit has given me a lot to say this morning, so buckle up.

This is a sermon about knowing and being known. The first part will lay down some basic information about the particular workings of the Episcopal Church. I would much prefer to do that during an Adult Forum but, well, we all live very busy lives. We have to capitalize on whatever time we have together. And this, I think, is both important and timely.

 

Actually, it’s almost that time. The 80^th General Convention of The Episcopal Church will be held in Baltimore, MD, presently scheduled for July 7-14 but now under negotiation to be made shorter and smaller and hybrid because of the recent surge of COVID. It will focus on “essential” items – like passing the budget, electing a new Presiding Bishop and a new President of the House of Deputies, among other essential issues.

 

Now, for those of you who are new (and a lot of you are) to The Episcopal Church, let me give you a very brief, thumbnail sketch of what GC is: It is one part “My Big Phat Episcopal Reunion,” combined with one part “Dead-serious Legislative Session,” mixed in with daily Bible Study and Eucharist, and all topped off with a heavy soupcon of “The Anglican Circus has come to town.”

 

I do hereby confess: I am a General Convention junkie. I’ve been attending since 1985, 4 times as an elected deputy. For good or for ill, the General Convention is the way the business of The Episcopal Church is done. Every three years, we meet in convention where elected deputies vote on a variety of resolutions which then become the policy or polity of our church.

 

The story that gets told is that when the Constitution of the United States was being written by day in Constitution Hall in Philadelphia, some of those same people would walk down the street by night and meet in the Parish Hall of Old Christ Church where they would write the Constitution and Canons of The Episcopal Church.

 

It’s not a surprise, then, that governance of The Episcopal Church very much resembles the governance of The United States. In order for a bill to pass Congress, it must pass both houses – The House of Representatives and the Senate. In order for a resolution to become policy or polity or canon (law) of the Church, it must pass both the House of Deputies (made up of four elected laity and four elected clergy from every diocese) and the House of Bishops. 

 

Note, please, the word deputy vs delegate. Delegates are elected to diocesan convention.  Deputies are elected to General Convention. That is due to the theology that the Holy Spirit works through the election and voting process, so deputies are “deputized” not to represent their diocese but to vote their conscience – even if that places them at odds with others in their diocese.

 

This is, in part, how we are known and how we know ourselves to be Christians who are Episcopalians: this entity we call General Convention; this corporate and communal work of the Holy Spirit. No diocese can come into – or out of – being, no money can be spent, no rubric can be written, no change to the Calendar of Worship or BCP or Hymnal, no canon can become law, without the approval of General Convention – laity, clergy and bishops, guided by the Holy Spirit.

 

To date, roughly 215 resolutions have been filed for General Convention. While it is not uncommon for a flurry of resolutions to be filed as convention approaches, the current total is far below the 500-600 resolutions typically considered at a convention. There is one resolution – and, there’s always at least one resolution – that is causing high drama and near apoplexy.

 

Resolution C028 has been proposed by the Diocese of Northern California that would repeal the Episcopal canon that requires worshipers to be baptized before receiving Communion in Episcopal churches.

 

Weeelllll . . . . you may not know this, but this has caused a firestorm in every place on social media platforms where Episcopalians gather. Now, I’ve been ‘round The Episcopal Church in general and General Convention in particular since the 68^th General Convention held in Anaheim, CA, in September of 1985. That was when the so called “culture wars” were just starting to reach a boil.

 

Every now and again, however, this issue has reared its head and every time it does, it is met with the same hysterical, pearl-clutching drama and cries from the seminarians and graduates of what I like to call “The Chicken Little School of Theology” in which they claim that if we do away with the requirement of baptism before communion, it will be the end – THE END, I tell you! – of Christianity in general and The Episcopal Church in particular.

 

We will have thrown the proverbial baby out with the proverbial bath water, they say. This is not about hospitality, they say. Communion is not a coffee hour. This is not about inclusion, they say. Everyone is welcome, but you must be a baptized member to receive the sacraments. If we don’t stand for something, we’ll fall for anything. Baptism is about our identity. We can’t lose our identity.

 

The sky is falling! The sky is falling! Etc., etc., etc.. . . . (Le sigh)

 

Jack Spong, onetime bishop of Newark, an equally loved and despised theologian who often provoked pearl-clutching, Chicken Little hysteria, used to say in his quiet, confident Southern drawl, “The church will die of boredom long before it dies of controversy.”

 

No, I’m not going to answer the question for you. I respect your intelligence too much to provide easy answers. Instead, I want to ask a few questions. Our collect prayer contains these words: “Grant us so perfectly to know your Son Jesus Christ to be the way, the truth, and the life . . . “. What does it mean to ‘perfectly know’ Jesus?

 

In the first reading, from the Book of Acts, Peter is struggling with this very issue. He’s been following Jesus and eating with the ‘uncircumcised’ – the Gentiles, the great unwashed – who “had accepted the Word of God,” and is getting real pushback from the apostles and disciples.

 

So, Peter went up to Jerusalem to investigate and had a dream – three times – about the sacred and the profane. He hears a voice say, “`What God has made clean, you must not call profane.” He remembers Jesus saying, “John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.” And, Peter asks, “If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?"

 

Indeed! What does it mean to ‘perfectly know’ Jesus? How do we know ourselves as Christians? How is it that we are known as Christians by others?

 

What is it that makes a Christian? Is it rational thought? An intellectual ability to hear and understand and accept the Word of God? If that is so, why do we baptize infants? Is it having been ‘slain in the Spirit’, hearing and seeing angels who direct our lives? Or, is it the ability to stand in church, properly dressed, listening to proper music, reading proper words from a proper prayer book, having been properly sprinkled with Holy Water by a proper priest and properly baptized in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit (not ‘Creator, Word, and Spirit’)?

 

At the “Last Supper,” in that Upper Room, after Judas left the room, Jesus said, “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."

 

Sometimes, showing love for one another means breaking the rules. Or, more accurately, it’s breaking the rules so we can follow the spirit of the law rather than the letter of the law. It's about breaking open the rules to release the spirit of the law vs being held hostage by the letter of the law.  

 

Look, I'm not saying that I think baptism ought not to be required before communion; neither am I saying that baptism ought to be required before communion. I just want you to know that no matter what General Convention (or if GC even gets to vote on the matter), I'll not be checking baptismal certificates at the altar rail any time soon.

 

I may have told you this story but it’s good enough to hear again. It’s the story about the Band of Brothers who were fighting in WWII – five of whom got separated from their battalion. They took on some heavy fire and one of them was shot and killed.


The remaining four could not leave their brother’s body. One of them noticed a church with a graveyard just up the hill. The four men carried their brother’s body up the hill and knocked on the door of the rectory.

 

They asked the priest if they could bury their brother’s body in the graveyard, promising to return after the war to pay the priest whatever it cost. The priest only had one question: Had the man been baptized in the Catholic church?


Gee, they said, we know he believed in God. We know he read the bible, so he must have been Christian. We know he loved his wife and kids and wrote home faithfully. But we don’t know anything about his religion much less whether or not he had actually been baptized.

 

The priest apologized and said that the cemetery was sacred ground and he could only bury those who had been duly baptized in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. But, as this was war, he would make an exception: They could bury him just outside the fence.

 

Which is exactly what they did. Five years after the war ended the four men found each other and planned a trip back to fulfill their promise. The found the old church and went immediately to where they had dug the grave. They were stunned to find nothing there.

 

Angry, they knocked on the door of the rectory and demanded to know what the priest had done with the body of their friend. “Oh, said the priest, I thought a great deal about what you said and prayed about it. And then,” he said, “I moved the fence.”

 

St. John wrote in the Book of Revelation, “And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new."

 

In St. John’s gospel, he reports that Jesus said, “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."

 

And, that, my friends, is all I really need to know about perfectly knowing Jesus and being known as Christian. God knows, it’s not easy. It’s ever so much simpler to make rules and make sure everyone follows them.

 

But, loving one another, just as Jesus loves us? That, I’m afraid, requires some pretty hard work. Like, moving some fences.

 

Amen.

I bid you goodnight

 

 

A Eulogy in honor of Harriet *****

Melson’s Funeral Home Chapel – Long Neck, Delaware

Saturday, May 7, 2022

(the Rev Dr ) Elizabeth Kaeton, chaplain

 

 

(sung) Lay down, my dear sister, lay down and take your rest

I want to lay your head upon your savior’s breast.

I love you, but Jesus loves you best.

I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.

I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.*

 

She was a lady.

 

That’s the first thing everyone I talked to said about Harriett *******

 

She was a lady. She never gossiped. She never said anything negative. God knows, she was never heard to have cussed. Not even on a bad day. Not even when she lost at the slots at Harrington Casino.

 

How could she? She loved playing the slots. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. That’s the game. That’s part of the fun. And, there’s always next time.

 

That was the attitude of life of a woman who seems to have been blessed with the patience of the angels. I didn’t meet or speak with anyone who knew her as a child or a young adult. I imagine she must have had her moments.

 

Then again, this was a woman who waited five years for the man of her dreams. She waited patiently because she believed him. He gave her his word and she trusted him. She loved him. Completely. Fully. Without hesitation or reservation.

 

And Alvin? Well, he loved her right back.

 

There’s every indication in the obituary and the pictures and from their neighbors that this was a love of a lifetime – a love for the ages – a love that inspired others to try and emulate what they had.

 

What I love most about Harriet and Alvin is that they encouraged each other’s success. The other day, when I was visiting with Alvin, he showed me the sun room which he was having built for Harriet. It wasn’t finished in time for her to enjoy it from the inside, but one of the last things she said to Alvin, as she was sitting at the breakfast table, looking out at the sun room, was to say, “I’m so happy just sitting here, looking out at the sun room.”

 

What she didn’t know is that Alvin has created a wall in that sunroom which will hold all the tributes and accomplishments she achieved in her life. You may have heard the story of how she worked her way up the corporate ladder. What you might not know – well, some of you might – is that, while that climb is hard enough to achieve, it’s even more difficult climbing up that corporate ladder in a tailored skirt and high heels! (Am I right, ladies?)

 

But, Harriet did it. And, she did it with a smile on her face. And, a sense of quiet confidence that inspired others from around the country to call her when they had a question or a problem that seemed impossible to solve. Harriet quietly and efficiently found the answer or the solution.

 

It was her competence and skill and experience, combined with her quiet confidence and gentle spirit that provided the extra lift she needed up that long, steep corporate ladder.

 

What Harriet knew was this ancient wisdom: The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the better. Showing love to the people who would do us wrong is not just a nice thought you can find in scripture or practiced by Gandhi and Dr. King; it’s one of the things that will save humanity, one human contact at a time.

 

Now, you don’t have to stop making what John Lewis called “good trouble” in order to practice the better as a criticism of the bad. You don’t have to be a certain gender or age, ethnicity or race; you don’t have to have a particular religious or political persuasion and violate your conscience to practice the better. You just have to make the commitment to make it your default setting and practice the better every single day of your life – just the way Harriet did.

 

Some called that being a lady. That’s certainly one way to describe it. I think Harriet was also a very wise woman who, with her beloved Alvin by her side, and she by his, together had the courage to live out their belief that the best way to transform that which mitigates against the common good is to be the change we want to see. Alvin and Harriet did that. Separately and together.

 

Ultimately, all those awards and honors of her accomplishments will only be a small part of Harriet’s legacy. Her greatest legacy is one that is not visible to the human eye. No one will ever be able to bottle it and sell it. No one will ever be able to capture it on canvass or film or print or sound.

 

The greatest legacy of Harriet will be the love that lives on in all of her family members – especially the nieces and nephews that she loved so dearly – and all of her many, many friends and neighbors.

That means all of you here, today, who came to honor her life. You all – everyone here – are her greatest legacy. The way she inspired you to be better; to practice the better as the best criticism of the bad.

 

Her legacy will continue every time you are kind to someone. When you share a smile and mean it. When you practice the Golden Rule as a way of life.

 

When you place the excellence and successful outcome of the work you are given to do as the highest priority even before the accolades you might receive for doing it.

 

When you place a higher value on the love of your life than all the other things you love in life.

 

When you make a commitment to be the change you seek.

 

As you do all these things, Harriet’s legacy will live on, and the people you inspire will also become a tribute to the values and the principles that Harriet stood for all of her life. And slowly, slowly, but very surely and almost imperceptibly, the world will be a better place, filled with better people, all because there once was a woman named Harriet who lived among us and shared the love she had in her heart that was filled to the brim with love, pressed down and overflowing.

 

So our goodbyes are tempered by the knowledge that Harriet will live on in our hearts and in our minds and in our lives. Her legacy will live on in love. 

 

So, we won’t say goodbye, we’ll just say good night, until we, too, wake up one day in that sweet by and by when God calls us home to that mansion where Jesus has prepared for us a room.

 

And, in Harriet’s heavenly room? On the wall with all of her accomplishments? I have no doubt there will be pictures of your faces. Smiling. Doing good. Doing better as a way to mitigate the bad. And featured prominently will be a picture of Alvin, loving her.

 

And Harriet? Well, she’ll be loving him right back right, until he joins her there and then they’ll be together again straight on through eternity.

 

Because Jesus teaches us that nothing is stronger than love. Not hate. Not even death. And so, we bid Harriet goodnight.

(Sung) Lay down, my dear sister, lay down and take your rest

I want to lay your head upon your savior’s breast.

I love you, but Jesus loves you best.

I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.

I bid you goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.*                                     

 

And, let all God's children say, Amen.

 

 

 

*Author: Probably Sarah Doudney, 1871 “Psalms of Life”, Funeral Hymn/Spiritual, found in US Britain (England – North) West Indies (Bahamas, Jamaica). and the tune to Ira Sankey in 1884. The song was also in a gospel hymnal in 1928, where the song was credited to F.A. and J.E. Sankey. First recorded in the 1960s by the great Bahamian guitarist Joseph Spence and his family, the Pinder family, where it functions as a “lowering down” hymn by the Bahamian fishing community. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65jQXHIwy00&t=10s Made popular by Aaron Neville https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myipjQsQ7t8