Pink Moon Rising.

It has begun.

As early as Sunday night, desperation notes started popping up on social media.

"I want to die," posted one person. I checked in on him. He said he wasn't suicidal. Said he just felt like he wanted to die. Said it wasn't anything new. He was just tired of it all. Felt like he couldn't go on one minute more.

Then, he started responding publicly to everyone with a rant about, "Oh, so NOW you want to talk? Where were you when I needed you? When I needed to talk? When I felt all alone?"

In a strange way, it was like he wanted to be noticed and then got embarrassed because people did.

Or, maybe he wanted to make us all feel the same way he did: hopeless and helpless.

Or, something.

Crazy, right?

Well, maybe not.

The phone starting ringing at 7:30 this morning.

"We are just a few hours into Holy Week and I'm not going to make it," said one voice.

I think that one was the third that morning. Or, maybe it was the fourth.

"Don't worry," I said, "by Friday evening the ERs around the country will be overflowing with suicide attempts."

I might have been a bit sarcastic but that was not a joke. I wouldn't joke about something like that. That's from experience.

I can't tell you how many Good Friday evenings I've spent in the ER with a parishioner or a student or a neighbor or a colleague.

And they weren't all religious. Some weren't even Christian.

This year - 2017, this week - there is a convergence of four major holy days  - three of them the holiest, highest of high, holy days - of four of the world;s major religions.

Hanuman Mistakes the Sun for a Fruit by BSP Pratinidhi

"Hanuman Jayanti" is celebrated to commemorate the birth of Hanuman Ji, the monkey God. He is the symbol of strength and energy. Hanuman is worshiped for his unyielding devotion to Rama and is remembered for his selfless dedication to the God. He is widely believed to be immortal.

Passover has begun for the Jews - the time they observe the history of their people when God saved them from the plagues in Egypt and set them free from centuries of bondage.

For Western and Orthodox Christians, this is Holy Week - the time we observe the history of the Passion of Jesus who set us free from the letter of the law to fulfill the spirit of the law and win for us Life Eternal.

It's also the time of Pink Moon Rising, so named by Native Americans because it heralds the appearance of the moss pink or wild ground phlox - one of the first spring flowers. It is also known as the Sprouting Grass Moon, the Egg Moon and the Fish Moon.

"Pink Moon" is the opening track from Nick Drake's 1972 album of the same name. It perfectly captures - well, for me, anyway - the tone and tenor of this time.

"Saw it written and I saw it say
Pink moon is on its way
And none of you stand so tall
Pink Moon gonna get ye all
And it's a pink moon."

Nick Drake was an English born singer-songwriter, noted for his soulful guitar ballads. By the time Drake wrote this song, he was deep in the throes of his life-long battle with depression. He died two years later, in 1974, from an overdoes of antidepressants. He was 26 years old.

The power of the song for me is that, even in the midst of the deepest part of his depression, Drake could see the power of the undercurrent of life - the cycle of dying and death and rebirth.

There is no doubt in my mind that this week there is a powerful psychic-spiritual undercurrent which has been set loose in the cosmos.

Few of us will be left untouched by it.

You don't have to suffer a major depression to experience it.

You don't have to practice a particular religion to feel it.

You don't have to go to Temple or Church or Mosque and read a Holy Book to know it.

"None of you stand so tall/Pink Moon gonna get ye all".

None of us knows what stories others are carrying around in their souls, especially this week. Betrayal has a very long shelf life. So does cruelty. Violence buries itself deep in the marrow of one's bones.

And, pain? Well, a wise pastor once told me that "Pain touches pain."

Please be kind and gentle and compassionate to yourself this week, that you might be kind and gentle and compassionate to others.

You don't know what cosmic forces will tug and pull at some ancient scar deep in the crevice of the heart.

You never know what a tidal surge will wash up on the Shores of Memory.

Who is to know that which was once safely buried will be unearthed when the tectonic plates in the earth shift with the waxing and waning of the moon?

We have no idea what part of the soul which was once thought dead will be stirred back to life by the moonlight dancing on the water.

In the midst of the darkest part of the night, remember to look for new life.

The Pink Moon is on its way.

It has been promised.

Obladi Oblada

MacKenna Jane and her Mom at Hamilton

When MacKenna Jane, our eldest granddaughter, turned five, we convinced her parents to let us take her to New York City as part of her birthday celebration.

Convinced? Is that what I said? We pleaded. We begged. We cajoled. We promised.

Her mother was nervous. Her father was near apoplexy.

Nevertheless, we persisted. And, she came.

We knew just how nervous her parents were about this Very Big Trip to the Big City when we got out of Penn Station and came up the escalator onto Broadway and decided to call a cab.

"Oh no," said Mackie.

"What?" we said.

"Look at all the yellow cabs," she said.

"Yes, honey," we said, "Is there a problem?"

"Well, yes . . . Nana," she said, trying to mask her rising anxiety.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Well, there are so many yellow cabs and none of any other color," she said, tears beginning to well in her eyes and catching in her throat.

"Yes, honey," I said, "taxi cabs in NYC are yellow."

"But, Daddy said that it was okay to take a cab but I just couldn't take a yellow one."

Yes, that's right. He's Irish.

Anne Hathaway's House, Stratford-upon-Avon

Tonight, ten years later, she's on a plane with her Drama Club, headed to London.

They'll tour London and take in the sights and then head over to Stratford-upon-Avon and study some Shakespeare and watch a few performances.

I sent her a text this morning (Isn't that the only way kids communicate these days?).

I told her to be sure to have some Shepherd's Pie (because I know my granddaughter and she would never order fish 'n chips).

I also recommended she order a plate of "Bubble 'n Squeak".

She simply wrote "Thank you, Nana."

As I remember her anxiety about not taking a yellow NYC cab, I wonder what she thought about my recommendations for culinary explorations while staying in UK. 

I probably should have told her not to take any yellow cabs while she's in London.

I'm thinking she might not get the joke.

And, I'm thinking that those past ten years flew by fast.

Too fast.

In three days, Willow Elizabeth turns two years old.

Her baby sister Ivy is turning the corner on four months old. 

Obladi Oblada life goes on, bra!

La la how the life goes on.

Hospice Hands.

NB: Every now and again, I'm asked by one of our extended care facilities to do "a little something" with and for the staff, especially after they have suffered a series of losses of long-term patients.  The challenge is to do "a little something" over staff break time (15-20 minutes). Today was one of those days. And, this was one of those "little somethings" I did.

What I remember most about our patient was his hands. Big hands. Gnarled hands. A man’s hands. A man who had worked with his hands all of his life. I especially remember the back of his hand which he swung at me occasionally when he didn’t want to be disturbed.

I also remember the hands of the CNAs who cared for him. I remember how they gently but firmly settled the spoon into his hands so that he might enjoy the dignity of feeding himself. That seemingly insignificant sight moved me deeply every time I saw it. It was such a kind expression of generosity and compassion: allowing as much human dignity as possible to a person whose dignity had become compromised by advanced age and infirmity.

So, I offer this little meditation on hands. Your hands. Hands that are vehicles of kindness and generosity and compassion. Hands that do the work of Divine Love. My hope is that this meditation will lead you to appreciate your hands as much as I do – and all of your patients.

MEDITATION ON HANDS.

I invite you into a space of quiet and peace, to ground yourself by noticing your contact with chair and floor, by sitting straight, by becoming aware of your breathing. 

Look at your hands. 

They've been through a lot, those hands. They have strength, scars, beauty.

I invite you to remember that it is your hands that do the work of love in the world. 

These hands may hold another's hands.

These hands may write letters to teachers about a child’s illness, sign permission slips and report card notices, sign legal forms, type emails to politicians, mail cards of consolation at grief and congratulation at success.

These hands may patiently teach, or quilt, knit, crochet or sew works of warmth and beauty or write words urging reconciliation and peace.

These hands may bathe children, feed elders, nurse the ill, work the earth, organize communities.

These hands clasp in prayer, open in release, grasp in solidarity, hold up and guard in self defense, proclaim compliance and vulnerability, clench in righteous anger.

These hands are God's hands, your hands, our hands; a great mystery of flesh and intention, a great potential of embodied love. 

God's work of touching and caring, healing and hope happen through your hands.

Now, press your hands lightly together, palms touching and fingers pointing upwards, thumbs close to the chest. Turn to the person on your right, bow your head slightly and say, "Namaste"

Now, turn to the person on your left, bow your head slightly and say, "Namaste."

Amen.

Immigrant

It happened again just the other day.

I was in a fairly newly-built office building. Toward the end of my appointment, I needed to make a stop at the rest room.  Before I left. Of course.

As often happens, we kept chatting as I made my way toward the rest room. I was searching for the light switch which should have been right on the inside of the doorway.  On the right. Right? 

Or, maybe - maybe - on the left, but right there on the inside. Right?

Nope.

It was on the outside of the doorway, on the left.

What?

How could that possibly be? This was an office in a building that had been constructed in the last 8-10 years. In Delaware. Not like the construction of homes when I was a child. In Massachusetts.

All the light switches were outside the entrance to the room. On the outside of the doorway. On the left. Bedrooms. Bathrooms. Kitchen. Dining room. Living room. Didn't matter.

Before you entered the room, you turned on the light which could always be found on the wall, on the left hand side of the door frame. Outside the room.

Which was a real liability when you were a girl in a family of four - three girls and one boy. My brother always waited until the sun went down and one of us was alone in the room with the door closed. The bathroom was his favorite spot but any room would do.

There you'd be, in the bathroom, sitting on the pot, or in your bedroom, studying for an exam and suddenly, the lights would go out.

"Johnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeee!" someone would scream my brother's name.

Giggles from the other side of the door would float their way into the darkness.

I always wondered why in the name of logic would anyone design a light switch in that way?

It had to be because we lived in old houses -  tenement houses and apartments - that were probably built by people who were, themselves, immigrants.

Which, of course, made them deficient and flawed and at the very least "second class".

The issue took on even greater significance when I was old enough to visit my classmates and friends in their homes. 

One of the first things I noticed was that none of THEIR homes had light switches designed in that way. All of THEIR light switches were right where they were supposed to be, logically: on the right hand on the inside of the door frame.

Or, at least, the light switch was on the wall on the inside of the room. Not too far from the door.

Of course! Why would it be anywhere else?

To my young, impressionable mind, it was one more piece of evidence that to be a second generation immigrant - especially one from Portugal - was to be a lesser child of God and a second class citizen.

The evidence was compelling. It wasn't enough that my skin was darker, my hair was dark and curly, and my eyes were not brown - they were hazel green - but definitely not clear blue like the rest of my friends who had names like "Smyth" and "Brown," "Brandon" and "Workman."

My schoolmates spoke in that breezy, giggly way young girls do about the stores where they had gotten that "cute" sweater or "cute" pair of slacks. I had no idea where my clothes had first been bought. I only knew they were first worn by either my cousin Judy or Jennie.

And, my clothes were not "cute". Cute meant "the latest style" in "the latest season's color."

My clothes, when they were worthy of notice and comment, were considered "nice".

I knew the difference between "cute" and "nice" and "nice" wasn't "cute". 

"Cute" is definitely what you wanted your "outfit" to be.

There were other differences. Their homes smelled like beef stew and chicken and fresh flowers. Our homes smelled like garlic and potatoes and bread and fish.

"Peasant food," my girlfriends called it, trying to be .... "nice". The problem was that in trying to somehow elevate that status, they only emphasized the inferior status of our culinary habits.

Oh, and their mothers smelled like French soap and expensive perfume.My mother smelled like Lysol and Noxema and Jean Nate.

If I could name any one thing that shaped and formed me it would be summed up in this one word:

Immigrant.

I've spent thousands of hours (and dollars) working out all of the "second class citizenship" and the attendant self esteem issues that are all part and parcel of a very formative part of my childhood.

I've always thought that I had made great progress in healing those old hurts and salving those old wounds.  I've always been aware of and grateful for the progress I've made.

And, in fact, I have. Healed and made progress.

And there I was, just the other day - a grownass woman, fairly well educated, responsible, fairly accomplished, emotionally stable, co-parent of six and Nana to seven - breaking into a slight sweat about the location of the light switch.

How neurotic is that? 

Oh, I laughed softly at myself and then, when I closed the door, I found myself simultaneously thinking about and relieved by the fact that I could, if necessary, use my cell phone as a flashlight.

I confess I sat there wondering who designed or built this office? Why in heaven's name would you put the light switch outside the door?

Were they immigrants, too? Children and grandchildren of immigrants like me?

Could be. There are a lot of us around. Even in Sussex County, DE.

I wondered if their kids were growing up thinking their "outfits" were "nice" but not "cute", or worried that they carried the smells of their ethnic food on their hair and clothing and if they were concerned about how different they look and how they don't fit in.

And then I thought that at least I didn't have to worry about someone coming into our home, breaking down the door, and taking my grandparents or parents back to Portugal.

My therapist likes to remind me that I am, in her words, "like many Episcopal clergy - female or male - a healthy neurotic." She also reminds me that "some are not so healthy, just Really neurotic. We have a name for them: bishops," she laughs.

She says its an occupational hazard. It comes from being told that "its not all about you" and yet we are constantly encouraged to self-reflect and be self aware.

In fact, a big part of our ability to have healthy relationships with appropriate boundaries as clergy with our parishioners is dependent on our ability to self reflect and be self aware and have insight about our behavior and the human condition.

I think it may well be that.

For me, it's more about being a legal American citizen who, somewhere in her heart, will always be an immigrant with "nice" hand me down clothes who is concerned that, not by her own design, won't always be in control of the light in her room. 

The Last Temptation

I hate Lent.

Or, more accurately, I hate what it’s become. 

Let me explain.

My first call in ministry was as Chaplain at ULowell. It was 1986. The Priest at the Newman Center decided, my first year there, that as a way of modeling Christian behavior, we should do “stuff” together. Celebrations. With food. 

I really think he wanted to help me succeed but that's another story for another time. 

Thanksgiving Dinner was our first effort. It was so great, we decided to do more.

Christmas. New Years. Valentine’s Day. All of these celebrations were great.

Then, he, being Irish, decided we just HAD to do St. Patrick’s Day, complete with corned beef and cabbage, potatoes, onions, carrots, and soda bread. The students were doing the cooking. I even planned to make some green cookies. We were very excited.

And then, I looked at the calendar. St. Patrick’s Day was on a Friday that year. And, it was at the beginning of Lent.

“Hey,” I said jokingly to my priest colleague, “If we do this St. Paddy’s Day thing, we’ll have to ask for two dispensations. One for celebrating during Lent and another for eating meat on Friday during Lent.”

He said, “Don’t worry. I’ll square it with the bishop. We’ll get a double dispensation.”

Did I mention that I was joking?

He wasn’t.

So, later on that day, we talked. We included the students we both had on the leadership counsel from both groups.

They were of two minds. One group – a mix of Catholic and Protestant students – was of the mind that what we were building in terms of relationships across ecumenical lines that would have been inconceivable by their parents was more important than rules imposed upon us by the institutional church.

If we had to ask for dispensations from the bishop, they argued, we ought not have the dinner. They felt the insult of asking for dispensation was worse than the injury of not having a dinner together.

But another group felt that was flawed logic. They challenged us to find the scriptural basis for Lent. And, would we be so kind as to show us when it was, exactly, that Jesus ever directed us to give up meat on Fridays in Lent? 

What was more important, they asked, the relationships we were building together as Christians through these celebrations we could share or the institutional church’s directives about a liturgical season imposed upon us by the church? They felt we should have the dinner and not ask for a dispensation from the bishop.

This made my priest colleague break out in a sweat.

Suddenly, the group started to lean toward not having a traditional meal for St. Paddy’s Day. Part of the group didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for observant Roman Catholics. Another part didn’t want to have to go to the bishop for a dispensation they considered unnecessary and an embarrassing remnant of patriarchy.

For a while the group entertained the possibility that we simply declare St. Patrick’s Day a “moveable feast” and have it after Lent, during the Easter season.

One member of the group reminded us of the last stanza of the poem in T.S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral.

Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:

Temptation shall not come in this kind again.

The last temptation is the greatest treason:

To do the right deed for the wrong reason.

Is that what we were doing? The right thing for the wrong reason? Or were we doing the wrong thing for the right reason?

The best part of the conversation, however, came when we engaged more deeply the ‘penitential’ nature of Lent. It’s a conversation that forever changed the way I look at Lent, the way I observe Lent.

It’s the reason I hate Lent. Or, at least, “Lenten disciplines” that trivialize and diminish the power Lent can have in our spiritual lives.

As I remember we talked about ‘repentance’ which is how the King James Version translates the Greek “metanoia”. But, something gets lost in that translation – like the nuances, the depth of the layers of meaning.

Metanoia, literally means, “change of mind”; more fully, it translates to mean “spiritual transformation”.

Let that sink in for a minute.

That doesn’t mean “sacrifice.” Or even, simply “changing your mind” about something. Well, not necessarily. It means “spiritual transformation.”

So, it was asked, what does giving up ice cream, or wine, or meat on Fridays have to do with “spiritual transformation”?

Over the years, I have heard more metaphorical gymnastics stretched and twisted over “Lenten sacrifices” – things we do ‘without’ as well as things we ‘take on’ – than I care to remember, all in an attempt to justify them as appropriate for Lent.

One person argued that the money saved by not have a latte at the Bistro during Lent would allow him to donate that money to a favorite charity. See? He was being a “better steward” of money! And, clearly stewardship is a spiritual issue. Right?

Another argued that giving up soda during Lent was helping her “cleanse the temple” of her body. See? That’s spiritual, right? That she might loose a few pounds in the process was some sort of ‘proof’ that God approved of her Lenten sacrifice. 

As if, poor helpless creatures that we are, God is the direct cause of weight loss. So, I suppose, it follows that if we gain weight, it’s not our fault, directly. It’s just….. “God’s will”.  Apparently, God seems to will lots of God’s creatures to be ‘chubby’.

Seriously? Is this the stuff of metanoia? Spiritual transformation?

One student in the group said that she felt as if she were watching a modern-day version of the scriptural story of Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman. (John 4:1-42)

The woman came to the well to get water to quench her thirst, but Jesus offered her ‘living water’. Something deeper. Something more satisfying that would quench the thirst of the soul. Something for which you’d have to dive deep and resurface.

The group began to dive into deeper questions: Is there more to Lent than just penitence? Is there more than just sacrifice? To what end? For what purpose?

A several weeks-long study group ensued to face into questions about penitence and sacrifice and the need for it, especially during Lent.

I’ll save that discussion for another time but it has to do with a discussion about Original Sin and Atonement, Redemption and Salvation.

As Blessed Joe Biden would say, “Here’s the deal”: Lent is not a self-help program. I really hate that for so many that’s exactly what Lent has become.

I find it especially cringe-worthy when I see clergy – and there are many, all over Social Media these days – proclaiming that they can’t go here or there or do this or that or, God knows, eat or drink favorite foods or beverages because, well, it’s Lent, you know.

And, see? See how they are sacrificing?  See how they – even they – are working at being better people and better Christians. 

I fear they have succumbed to what T.S. Eliot described as “last temptation.” It is the “greatest treason” to the spirit of Jesus who said, “Go and find out what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’” (Matthew 9:13).

What if . . . . . 

What if we, like Jesus, allowed the Spirit to lead us into a wilderness (Mt 4:1-11). 

Not The Wilderness. 

A wilderness.

A place we haven’t yet explored? A place as yet unknown to us? A place where we may confront things – demons, perhaps – we have not yet encountered?

A place where we can explore our own vulnerability? A space where we might discover the limits of our spiritual endurance?

What if we set no goals for a pre-determined outcome? No metrics like weight loss or amount of money saved and donated to “charity”?

Indeed, how does this ‘sacrifice’ which leads us to ‘charity’ actually underscore our privileged status and emphasize – but not bridge –the chasm between rich and poor?

What if we came to our eight-week Lenten journey with a real sense of ‘poverty’, with a full sense of our powerlessness and vulnerability and no measurable goals? 

What if we risked getting to the end of our journey not even certain what we had accomplished? (How thoroughly un-American, right?)

What if we simply trusted the Spirit to lead us into temptation? 

Might that look more like a ‘Holy Lent’ to which we were invited on Ash Wednesday?

How would we do that? Well, certainly not by giving up chocolate or wine for 8-weeks.

It would take a great deal of intentionality, with at least the possibility of some time away – a retreat for a time certain – in a place conducive to this deep spiritual work.

That may also be accomplished by committing to a set amount of time every day for meditation.

And/or, reading and reflecting and journaling.

And/or a weekly meeting with an anamchara – a spiritual friend/director – to talk about what you are finding deep in your soul.

And/or establishing a small anamchara group where you can talk about the landscape of your journey and what you are seeing and discovering along the way.

Again – and, I can’t stress this enough – this is not about Lent as a Self-Help Program.

That is what I hate about what Lent has become.

Actually, it’s quite the opposite. 

It’s about trusting Spirit to lead you through an undiscovered, unexplored part of your soul.

It’s about trusting Spirit to lead you to the spiritual lessons you need to learn and leading you back again.

It’s about allowing Angels to tend to you before you begin the next part of your spiritual journey.

It’s about making a commitment to spiritual discipline which is transformative.

It’s about resisting the last temptation and doing the right thing for the right reason.

It’s still not too late to make this Lent truly holy for you.

Blessing the Dust

All those days you felt like dust, like dirt, as if all you had to do was turn your face toward the wind and be scattered to the four corners or swept away by the smallest breath as insubstantial -

Did you not know what the Holy One can do with dust?

This is the day we freely say we are scorched. This is the hour we are marked by what has made it through the burning.

This is the moment we ask for the blessing that lives within the ancient ashes, that makes its home inside the soil of this sacred death.

So let us be marked not for sorrow. And let us be marked not for shame. Let us be marked not for false humility or for thinking we are less than we are but for claiming what God can do within the dust, within the dirt, within the stuff of which the world is made, and the stars that blaze in our bones, and the galaxies that spiral inside the smudge we bear.

– by Jan Richardson

Transfigured

NB: It was my privilege to preach this morning at St. Martin in the Field in Selbyville, DE. My month with them has flown by. I'm continuing to challenge myself to preach without a manuscript. It's so much more work than using a manuscript, but I'm relaxing enough to begin to love absorbing the energy in the room and engaging with people's facial expressions. It's a bit like walking a tight rope without a net. Except, of course, the net of a prepared heart. This is what I remember preaching - which, interestingly enough, was not all of what was in my notes: 

 Last Sunday in Epiphany 

St. Martin in the Field, Selbyville, DE

(the Rev'd Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

Let me put this morning's Gospel story of the Transfiguration into some context for you.

Believe it or not, it's been ten weeks since Christmas. Yes, ten weeks. Imagine.

Ten weeks since the shepherds saw the bright star in the dark sky and followed it to find the infant Jesus.  We celebrated Christmas for twelve days before we began to celebrate the eight week season of Epiphany, when three wise men from the East followed that same bright star seeking to find the Incarnation of God.

And this morning we read about the moment that Jesus, who was the reason that star was shining so brightly in the dark night sky in Bethlehem, is so filled with the glory of God that his whole face is shining as bright as the sun and he was "transfigured". 

It is important then, to pause here, as this eight week journey into Epiphany, the season of Light, comes to an end and before we begin another eight week journey into the season of somber darkness known as Lent.

Before we travel forty days and forty nights into the wilderness with Jesus, I want to take us back, way back to the beginning of the story.

I want to take us all the way back to Genesis. Do you remember how the story begins?

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day.

Light always follows the darkness.

Darkness always follows Light.

Just as the day follows the night and the night follows the day

The sun follows the moon and the moon follows the sun.

That's the pattern set right from the beginning of the story.  It's the pattern of the story of our lives as daughters and sons of God.

It's part of the reason we are People of Hope. The promise of Hope is in the very DNA of creation. 

There's yet another pattern. After God said "Let there be light", God said that it was "good". Indeed, after each one of God's creation is called into being, God proclaims it "good"

I don't know this for a fact, but I think there's something God said just before and directly after pronouncing the creation "good".

If we had the original manuscript, I'm betting that if you look closely, you might just see in parenthesis that God says this:

("Be not afraid") "This is Good!" ("Just wait till you see what's next")

That, too, is a pattern. Whenever an amazing new thing is about to happen, God always sends a messenger. In Sanskrit, the word for messenger is "diva" or "point of light". And, these messengers, these divas, these points of light, always say the same thing, "Be not afraid."

And then it gets dark. And then it gets light. And then, it's amazing - something we couldn't have asked for or imagined.

Some of you know that I am a Hospice Chaplain. Sometimes, as it becomes clear that the end of life is rapidly approaching, one of my patients will be brave enough to say to me, "Chaplain, You know that I believe in God. You know that I believe in eternal life, But, I'm afraid."

And, if I'm feeling particularly brave, I tell them the truth that I know:

Death comes on like a cloud of darkness, but after the darkness comes the light. And, in that light we will be transfigured.

And, like Peter, we may even see those who have gone on before.

So be not afraid. This is good. Just wait till you see what's next.

This Wednesday, we will enter the Dark Wilderness of the Season of Lent. For forty days and forty nights we will be asked to enter more fully into the life of Jesus, even as Jesus enters more fully into the experience of being more fully human.

For eight weeks, we will be asked to look at the frailty of our humanness, the brokenness of our relationships, and the limits of our mortality.

It can be a pretty dark and scary time, touching into ancient wounds, giving rise to old anxieties.

But, at the end of that journey we will experience the inexplicably glorious light of the Resurrection.

So, as we enter Lent, don't be afraid. This is good! Just wait till you see what's next.

Think of it as practice for when we'll be transfigured into the glorious Light Eternal of God.

Amen.

On Being a Prophet in a Not-For-Prophet World: A Letter of Encouragement

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On Being a Prophet in a Not-For-Prophet World:

A Letter of Encouragement to Those Who Work for Justice in the Age of Trump.

(the Rev. Dr.) Elizabeth Kaeton

On November 9, 2016, I woke up with a weariness in my bones that has not gone away.

It was, of course, the day after The Election.  

It was the day that was never supposed to happen. We had this, didn’t we? The opposition was so outrageous, so unimaginable, so deplorable, so unprecedented and un-presidential that it couldn’t possibly happen, right?  

Not if there was a God.

We were going to continue the march of progress we had made in the last eight years, weren’t we? Onward to making appointments to SCOTUS and overturning the Hyde Amendment and restoring the Voting Rights Act and making real our commitment that Black Lives Matter, and fixing the Affordable Care Act, and, oh yes, the first woman President of the United States of America.

The truth? It hasn’t yet been a month and I’m already exhausted. I’m already tired of being tired. And yet, I have to admit that I find myself strangely energized.  I’m living out the uncommon truth that “the flesh is weak but the spirit is strong.”

I didn’t know it before but I’m learning it every day: I’m ready for this.

I know many of you who are – and have been – committed to the work of justice feel much the same way I do. It’s a strange mix of exhaustion and excitement. Those of us who are also religious leaders have been carefully considering how it is we can maintain the prophetic tradition of leadership in these days where the smell and stench of bigotry and oppression hang in the air like the hazy fog that arises from a dark and dank, cold and musty swamp.

I’ve been sitting with – dwelling in – the words of Walter Brueggemann. In his book, “The Prophetic Imagination,” he writes,

“The task of prophetic ministry is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us.”

I ask myself how it is that I can do that? How can I be prophetic in a world that is not-for-prophet – even on a good day – but is now flat out antagonistic to those who “evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us”?

In other words, how can I provide the groundwork for an “alternative reality” to the outright lies and falsehoods and deceptions which masquerade as “alternative facts”? 

I have some initial, general thoughts which I hope will begin a conversation among religious leaders. I hope we will “breathe together” – to con-spire – and create out of this chaos a holy conspiracy of a new creation of religious prophetic thought and action. 

Here, briefly, are four barebones of prophetic religious leadership that have begun to take shape in my mind.

FIRST, YOU CRY:  The prophets were empathic. They wept for their people. They wept when their people were too numb from oppression to weep for themselves. They wept for the empire and kings that were anesthetized by greed and sloth and unable to hear the cries of the people. Prophets like Jeremiah laid the blame for the oppression of the people on the feet of the priests, saying, “They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. 'Peace, peace,' they say, when there is no peace.” (Jer 6:14)

One of my seminary professors taught that we must do three things in order to provide prophetic leadership: Name the pain. Touch where it hurts. Offer hope. We must feel the pain of the people ourselves – the refugee, the immigrant, women, the disabled, LGBT people, the poor, those who are persecuted for their religious beliefs and creeds – the anawim or outcast who are beloved of God.

Empathy is the fertile ground from which prophetic leadership can grow.

REPENT!: The prophets were always all about repentance, or metanoia. This is not about some empty public show of breast-beating; neither is it about the age-old religious tact of inducing guilt. Rather, it is about facing reality and taking some responsibility in its creation so that one can turn it around. To repent, to experience metanoia, is to experience a spiritual conversion which results in changing one’s life.

As prophetic religious leaders, we need to analyze the election results and learn the lessons we need in order to move on and move forward. Religious leaders have a habit of getting stuck in repentance, falling into “paralysis by analysis”. The good news is that there is a movement in this country that will not have patience with immobility.

Religious leaders will need to be more nimble, more facile, more empathic and ready to provide spiritual roots so that this new movement can fly.

Religious leaders will need to experience repentance and spiritual conversion before we can create and lead change.

IMAGINATION. Prophetic imagination inspires people to see beyond the daunting, depressing images of their reality, beyond that which is merely probable and into that which was once thought impossible and now is seen as possible. This requires the risk of facing the truth, of engaging the experience of the pain of reality and rejecting the numbness offered by the empire. It also requires the additional risk of collaboration among all the various target groups, which breaks the bonds of ‘brokering’ by the oppressor. Brokering pits different groups against each other to fight for crumbs while the empire holds onto the whole pie.

Now, more than ever, prophetic religious leaders will need to help people recognize our differences while lifting up and celebrating the things we have in common. Prophets know that we are, in fact, stronger together, especially in terms of overcoming the empire which prefers that people bicker and fight with, and are anxious and fearful of each other. Prophetic religious leaders encourage different communities to engage with each other by engaging with religious leaders and communities that are different from them.

Religious imagination frees the mind and spirit to possibility, defying oppression.

HOPE! Contrary to some caricatures, prophets are, in fact, hopeful. They understand that each one of us, in our earthly bodies, contain a divine spark. They know that we are the embodiment of a God of promise, a God who calls people into covenant. That runs contrary to the narrative of the empire which promotes anxiety and fear, and fosters doom and gloomy images like “American carnage”.

Prophetic religious leaders offer hope which flies in the face of the dominant narrative, refusing to accept the reality which may have become the majority opinion. That presents an enormous political and existential risk to prophetic religious leaders because it is subversive, calling into question all the assertions made by the empire and daring to dream of and work for a new reality. The empire offers the ‘bread of anxiety,’ encouraging people to always be very afraid. Prophetic religious leaders offer hope which is the ‘bread for the journey’ into the promise of the future.  

Hope, as the poet said, is a thing with feathers. Without it, our dreams cannot take flight.

These are the barebones of prophetic religious leadership which, I think, will begin, in Brueggemann’s words to, “nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around

 us.”

I’ve been thinking about that weariness in my bones. The prophet Ezekiel was brought by God into the Valley of Dry Bones and God breathed upon those bones and brought them to new life (Ezekiel 37:1-14). I believe that if we, as religious leaders from all faith backgrounds, creeds, beliefs and views enter into a holy conspiracy, these barebones can breathe new life into the ancient calling of prophetic religious leadership.

We need to weep together, repent and experience a conversion of our spiritual lives. We need to work together, modeling the beloved community of God. We need to take the risk and dare to hope even in – especially in – the face of anxiety and oppression. 

I believe we can, indeed, be prophets in a not-for-prophet world, leading people from the numbness of despair to the vision of the Beloved Community.

First, we cry. Then, we repent. We fire our imaginations. And, we take the risk of hope.

What does it mean to be 'righteous'?

Note: I had the privilege of preaching this morning at St. Martin in the Field Episcopal Church in Selbyville, DE. It's the first of four Sundays I'll be preaching there. I have lots of Hospice patients in that area. I drive around there a lot. And yet, I had never seen the church. It's actually a sweet little chapel. I was told there might be 10-15 people in attendance, ages 65-90. When I've previously driven through Selbyville, there have been a lot of pick up trucks with bumper stickers that boast their support for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. So, I preached what I call a "Via Media" sermon. At least, that's where I was aiming. I did not use a manuscript. I thought, with 10-15 people in attendance, I'd best "preach from a prepared heart." So, they put my name out on the sign in front of the church. There were twenty-seven souls in the pews this morning. I guess they were curious about a woman preacher. That's what the Deacon and I figured. (Did I mention that I LOVE working with deacons?) At any event, here's what I preached, best as I can remember. 

St. Martin in the Field Episcopal Church, Selbyville, DE

Epiphany V Year A

(the Rev'd Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton  

So, as Blessed Joe Biden would say, "Here's the deal."

I don't know you, and you don't know me, but we profess to know and love and follow Jesus, so that makes us neighbors and friends with each other and, in fact, everyone else in the world. 

Here's what I propose: That we 'dwell in the word' together for the next 12 minutes or so. Because  this morning's lessons - and especially this morning's Gospel from Matthew (5:13-20) - present us with a serious challenge.  

I want us, in the words of St. Paul to the ancient church in Corinth, (I Corinthians 2:1-12, [13-16]

to have "the same mind in Christ." 

Jesus says,  "For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” 

Did you hear THAT? Unless our righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, we will NEVER enter the kingdom of heaven.

That sounds like a pretty serious challenge to me.

So, I'm going ask you "What does it mean to be 'righteous'?

Not 'self-righteous' but 'righteous'?

I'm not going to ask this as a 'test'. I'm not looking for a 'right or a wrong' answer. I'm not here to trip you up or stump you or embarrass you. 

I don't know you and you don't know me, but we're going to be together for the next four weeks, so it's good that we get to know each other as neighbors and friends in Christ. 

I want us to find "the same mind in Christ" so that we may be, as the prophet Isaiah said, "repairers of the breach"; that we "shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail..... the restorer of the streets to live in." In other words, to repair the things that separate us and make the world a better place.

So, before I ask you for you answer to that question, let me put this morning's Gospel in context for you. 

The first thing you need to know is that, when Jesus was saying these very words, Israel was an occupied country. Rome. It was Rome that occupied - and oppressed - ancient Israel.

The truth about Jesus and his disciples is that they were not poor. Well, at least, they shouldn't have been. They were businessmen. Small businessmen. Carpenters. Fishermen. Craftsmen. 

They were poor because they were oppressed by the Romans. They were taxed almost literally to death. There were taxes on everything. On the fish they caught. On the nets they used to catch the fish. On their boats. On the lakes and seas they fished in. 

Does that sound so very different than what we know today? The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Some scholars say that the occupation and resulting oppression helped to shape and form four different strains of religion. The Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and the Zealots.

Now, I could give a whole class on this but briefly - very briefly - it goes like this:

The Pharisees had a strict, inflexible adherence to the traditions of "the fathers". They were, if you will, what we call "the fundamentalists" of their day. On a positive note, they were not wed to "The Temple" and encouraged people to pray in their homes and to make prayer and ritual part of their everyday lives of faith.

The Sadducees were functionally like the Pharisees but they were more affluent and had a 'cozier' relationship with the State. And so, Rome. The oppressor. They were also all about the Torah and only the Torah - the first five books - and rejected all other books of scripture. 

The Essenes were a small group who focused more on how to live your life of faith rather than a strict adherence to 'the word'. Some scholars believe that it was the Essenes who were the primary first followers of Jesus, who were called "People of The Way." 

The Zealots were those who were most reactionary to The Roman Oppression. They felt the only way to achieve change was through violent revolt. Do you remember which one of the Disciples was a Zealot? Yes, that's right, Judas Iscariot. 

You may also have heard the words "Sanhedrin" and "Scribes". The Sanhedrin was a sort of "Supreme Court" made up of 70 Jewish men, directly under the authority of the High Priest, who determined legal/religious trials. 

The Scribes that Jesus referred to in this morning's gospel functioned basically as religious lawyers who transcribed the Scriptures. They didn't just transcribe but were teachers of Scripture. 

So, Jesus says, "For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” 

I don't know for certain, but I think Jesus was being a bit sarcastic when he said this. Or, at least, the writer of Matthew's gospel was being sarcastic. 

Why do I say that? Well, if you have paid attention all these years of coming to church, Jesus wasn't all too keen on the Pharisees and the Sadducees, much less the Scribes. He held them even lower than the tax collectors. At least he sat down and ate with them - even invited Zacchaeus , a chief tax collector, to come down from his tree and eat supper with him and stay in his house. 

Whenever the Pharisees and Sadducees observed Jesus and his disciples eating with tax collectors and other ne'er-do-wells, all they offered was criticism because Jesus did not enforce the strict Levitical purity codes. 

Given what we know, then, or Jesus to say,  "For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” can only be taken as a bit of a cheeky, sarcastic thing to say. 

So, what do you think Jesus meant by 'righteousness'? What does being a 'righteous' person mean to you?

(A quiet but pretty lively discussion ensued) So, we've' come to this as the 'mind of Christ' among us': Righteousness is being in right relationship with God. Well done.

Here's a bit of a clue about what Jesus was saying. At the beginning of this passage, he talked about not losing your 'saltness' or it would not be good for anything. Jesus also talked about not hiding your light under a bushel. 

The thing about the Pharisees and the Sadducees is that they hated each other. They were always fighting. Always squabbling. There were a few issues but the major one was the resurrection. The Pharisees believed in a future, full resurrection of the body. The Sadducees didn't. 

They argued so much about their differences that they lost sight of what was important: faith. They created a breach between what they professed to believe and how they lived their lives. 

Jesus called them to repair that breach, to be moral and ethical people, to let their authenticity show and their light shine.  He said that they could do this by keeping the commandments, but to do it even better than that Pharisees and Sadducees.

So, how do we do that? I want to leave you with a practical way to be repairers of the breach and be righteous people, in right relationship with God. 

I want you to reach for your Book of Common Prayer. It's the red book in your pew rack. I'd like you to turn to page 319. When you get there, I want you to look at the bottom of the page and find The Decalogue. 

The Decalogue, of course, are the Ten Commandments. 

Jesus said he "did not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it". It's not about being a Pharisee and obeying the law, every jot and tittle. It's not about fighting with your fellow Christian about what the Scripture "really" means and imposing that - YOUR - interpretation on others. . 

It's about following the law by fulfilling the spirit of the law. To help it change YOUR behavior. To make YOU a better person. To set YOU in right relationship with God.

To keep your 'saltiness' - your authenticity.

To let your light shine and not be hidden under the bushel of self-righteousness and legalism. 

I want to end this sermon by having us read this litany of the Decalogue on page 319 of the BCP. 

I want you to linger over each one of these Ten Commandments. I want to suggest that you take one of them each week for the next ten weeks and 'dwell in the word'. See what it means for you in your life.

This response for this particular version is, "Lord, have mercy, and incline our hearts to keep this law." 

Incline our hearts. Not follow every jot and tittle. 

Let the word dwell in your heart and incline your heart to discern a way to deepen and improve your relationship with God. 

That you might be a 'righteous person' - not 'self-righteous - and be a repairer of the breach. 

Amen.