The Church must die so Christianity can thrive.

Two years after his 19 year old wife died of tuberculosis, Ralph Waldo Emerson (b 1803) wrote,

"I have sometimes thought that, in order to be a good minister, it was necessary to leave the ministry. The profession is antiquated. In an altered age, we worship in the dead forms of our forefathers."

Three years after I left parochial ministry, I have to say that, more and more, I agree with Emerson.

Well, by "the ministry" I believe he means the ministry as defined (and limited by) "the church". And, by "church," I mean the institutional church - not the place that is not necessarily a church building where two or more Christians have gathered in the name of Jesus. 

I'll start, straight up, with a confession: I have always been ambivalent about the institutional church.

Of any denomination. Anywhere. 

I once cared. Very much. Don't any more. Waste of energy. Poor stewardship.

I know. On one level, that's an incredible thing for an ordained person to say. Especially one that has given so much of her life to the institutional church and worked so hard to hold the church accountable to the justice the church claims to be central to its mission.

In my own defense, however, I confess that I am passionate about Christianity in general and "making better Christians" in particular.

That doesn't necessarily mean that the institutional church will make you a Christian any more than going to a garage will make you a car (as the old joke goes). 

It's not what you think. I'm not talking about standing on a street corner like the non-denominational Evangelicals and Pentecostal or knocking door to door like the Mormons.

I'm talking about what the church sometimes calls "Christian formation" - although the term sounds pretty spiritually arrogant to me. Sort of in the same way I find "Spiritual Direction" arrogant and mildly offensive. I much prefer the term "Anamchara" or "Soul Friend".

Specifically, I think "Christian formation"  means meeting Christians where they are and helping them to deepen and strengthen their faith.

That's where my passion is. Not the institutional church. Not any more.

Here's why.  I have two confessions. And, a four part plan.

First, the US population growth  is just shy of 1% per year but church membership (a self reported number and likely over inflated) is down.  The data shows a 1.15% decline in in membership.

There is a growing concern that this is going to get worse – much worse.

The members that stay behind are also giving less.

In terms of per capita giving, the $763 contributed per person is down $17 from the previous year, according to a 2013 study for the National Council of Churches conducted by Eillen W. Lindner. That is a 2.2 percent drop.”

That is only 1.8% giving per capita (US Per capita data here) and down 2.2% from the previous year.

So, while the US population is growing, the churches have a decrease in membership and an additional loss of revenue.  A net income loss of somewhere around 3.35% (2.2% plus 1.15%).

Remember: I'm not talking about a specific denomination. I'm talking about the institutional church.

At this rate, as any freshman economics student could tell you, growth is unsustainable.

Indeed, one of my worst fears is that pledging to the church is poor stewardship. 

Here's the truth of it: I still pledge to my local church because it has an amazing number of ministries within the community. It is a mission outpost that also gathers every Sunday to pray. I wish more of the congregation were involved in the ministries in the community, but there's still a higher percentage than many churches.

That said, I don't believe it is either healthy or wise to support the institutional church - financially, emotionally or spiritually or, especially, by ordaining any more "nice" but well educated and well intentioned (Good Lord, deliver us!) people to it.

I have come to believe that the institutional church is hopelessly corrupt and beyond salvation.  I believe that it is more concerned about it's own salvation, which is why it has lost its quest for excellence and has become so comfortable with mediocrity - and why in more and more cases it can't be a vehicle of anyone else's salvation.

That is not hyperbole or exaggeration.

I think most bishops and priests are well-intentioned men and women who are in over their head - way, way over their head. Indeed, I don't know anyone who can do the job they must do in order to "save the church". So, perhaps  predictably, it's become all about marketing and gimmick which, when dressed up in a clergy collar, is supposed to pass for "prophetic".

Actually, it's pretty pathetic.

More than a few bishops were once excellent parish priests who have now have no idea how to be a bishop, because, much to their surprise, they have found that the expectations of the institutional church have more to do with being a CEO and fundraiser than being chief pastor.

Some have simply shut down and have been "phoning it in" for so long that some of they don't even know the accurate names and locations of the churches in their own dioceses (True story here). Others have become less leaders and more cheerleaders of gimmicks and slick marketing.

I think this essay, "Leadership in Anxious Times" nails it.  Frederick Schmidt's metaphor of "this old house" whose "thirty years of neglect that made it affordable," is a brief but powerful parable about the church. I especially like this of his Six Lessons:

Don't confuse creative marketing with effective mission. Nothing sidelines an institution faster than contraction and flailing that is labeled as vision and the dawning of a new era. The people who come through your doors know it instantly. Many more simply never show up, because they can smell false advertising a mile away.

Here's the thing: I don't believe Jesus wants us to save the institutional church. Indeed, I don't think He will, no matter how much we wish He would.

I believe Jesus doesn't want more churches. More buildings. More property. More churches.

That's more about empire building than building up the Realm of God.  

I believe that Jesus would like more followers.

I believe Jesus wants more people to be more authentically Christian. More people who are willing to follow their baptismal vows more nearly and dearly, and live into the answer of their baptismal prayer that they "grow to the full stature of Christ."

We don't need a "vision" or a "revision" or even another "reformation" of the church.

We need a revolution, is what.

We need to discover just how big small can be. 

We need to get "back to the future".

That's my first confession.

My second confession is that, for the past six years, I've been watching the growth and development of the Anamchara Fellowship.  While other religious organizations are shrinking, Anamchara has had a steady 15% annual growth.

Why is it that, while the institutional church continues to close more churches than it starts, this ragtag bunch of assorted Christians continues to attract new members?

Full disclosure: My beloved is the Abbess of the Anamchara Fellowship. 

If you visit their web page, you will find that they have no "place". No building. No monastery. No convent. No retreat center. No church. No property. No land.

Their spirituality is clearly Celtic but they are also clearly and devoutly Episcopalian and Anglican. They are male and female, priest, deacon and laity, single, partnered, married and divorced, black and white, gay and straight, cradle and convert.

And - whether they are lay or ordained - they are all entitled to wear the same "uniform".  Some do. Some don't. Some, I'm convinced, sleep in it. I'm not particularly fond of it, and, unfortunately, it invites more than its share of the unstable who really think there's "magic in the habit". Thankfully, they've got a rigorous discernment process and, despite a few mostly delightful 'peculiar' folks in their membership, they have a pretty spiritually, emotionally and theologically solid leadership. 

They meet once a year at Annual Gathering. Monthly in their geographical "priories". Twice weekly on Skype for Compline. They communicate daily on their closed Facebook page. And of course, there's the telephone and cell phone.

They empower and enable and equip each other to pursue their individual and particular vocations and missions in their own communities of faith, in their own neighborhoods, in their own homes and families.

Did I mention that they are growing? 15% every year. Steady. Consistent. Since 2002.

I know some rectors and bishops who might be convinced to sell at least part of their soul for that rate of growth. 

So, here's my plan for evangelism. It has four parts.

First: Close more churches.

Second: Support more cathedrals.

Third: Ordain less priests, even fewer bishops, more deacons and, of them, only proven leaders who are willing to take risks for the Gospel. 

Fourth: Shape and form, empower and equip more Christians. 

Here's why:

The core essentials of Judaism are at the heart of Christianity. The early church did not focus on building places where new Christians could meet. Instead, the early church met people where they lived and breathed and moved and had their being.

The early church, like the synagogue, empowered people to worship and serve God and the people of God in their homes and communities.  People went to synagogue to study Torah and learn how to be a better person. The family was the center of faith. The 'neighborhood' was the community of faith.

Education, religious and secular, was - and is - a high priority.

This is true, even today. 

The synagogue was (and remains) the place for the celebration of High Holy Days and the major events in the life of the community - the weddings and funerals and the Bar Mitzvahs - but the emphasis was (and remains) on educating, empowering and enabling the people of God.

Their liturgies are all about remembering and re-enacting the stories of their faith so that they might live their faith more fully in their own lives where they find themselves.

The Rabbis continue to be the teachers.  The business of running the congregation is left to the President of the congregation. But the emphasis is on an educated laity and the empowerment of families to worship God in their homes and honor God in their lives.

I do believe this model is the work that the church - which claims to be the incarnation of the gloriously resurrected body of Rabbi Jesus - needs to be about.

It's what we're not doing. 

I believe it's a big part of why the church is dying.

Which is why I think we need to close more churches and support more Cathedrals.

Cathedrals, like synagogues, need to be places of education and empowerment.  Clergy - priests and deacons - as well as laity with specific charisms for education, pastoral care, evangelism, catechesis, liturgics, preaching, formation, pastoral counseling, social justice activism, finance, fundraising, administration, communication, etc. - ought to be considered "canons" of the Cathedral (give them titles if you must) and work out of the Cathedral to be with and among the people of God.

The ancient role of the bishops is to be "chief pastor". Bishops are people who love Jesus so much that they call the church and the world to be in more intimate relationship with each other.

The bishop is NOT the CEO of the diocese. The "ministry of the purse" is that of the deacon.

In my plan, the church buildings in communities that can support - and only those that can support - them, will then become "mission outposts" of the diocese and cathedral. As such, they would become "home base" to the various cathedral staff - lay and ordained - who will be assigned there, on a rotating and itinerant basis, depending upon the particular needs of that particular community. 

I think churches must give the "first fruits" - a tithe, a pledge, the first 10% of their income - in service to the community. They must be able to support the workers - the diocesan and cathedral staff who come to minister in their midst.  And, I think "clergy compensation" ought to be standardized throughout the diocese, according to job description.

Instead of using "ASA" (Average Sunday Attendance) as the measure of "viability", the measure would be how the building and the staff are serving the community and the world. Rather than looking at how many people are in the pews, we would be asking of people and clergy, "How did you live out Matthew 25?" And, "How many risks have you taken for the Gospel of Jesus Christ?" And, "How many Christians are being helped to live out the Gospel in their own lives?"

One important metric for me is this: If the line items in the budget for repair and maintenance of the church buildings and grounds is larger than the line item for outreach and mission, a church is already spiritually dead and ought to be closed.

The only people we assign there - like the only people we ordain - are people who have demonstrated skills and abilities as creative servant leaders . . . . BEFORE they are ordained.

I am sick unto death of the embarrassment of riches of "nice" clergy. We have boatloads of them in The Episcopal Church. Well educated. Smart. Articulate. Kind. Deeply spiritual.

We don't seem to be raising up the kind of leadership with the qualities we need: First and foremost, those with some fire in the belly for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Those with some energy who have the ability to inspire others to action.

People who love Jesus more than they do the institutional church.

This is important: Those who are clear about their own identity apart from their spouse/family/church or the identity a clergy shirt and collar will bestow upon them.

People who are: Self-starters. Self motivated. Innovative. Creative. Risk takers. Community organizers. Passionate about justice.  People who can put aside their own personal goals and ambitions and work with others for the sake of the Gospel.

People who are secure enough in themselves to raise up and train other members of the baptized without feeling threatened by their skills and abilities.  People who believe - really believe and not just give lip service to - the priesthood of all believers.

People who believe that so much that they are willing to move beyond status and respectability and permanence and security and be with people where they are: at their work sites - from factories and farms to board rooms and high rise offices - in their homes - from crowded tenements to McMansions - on the buses and subways.

People who can use the internet to the glory of God and for the edification of the Body of Christ. Jesus sent the disciples out, two by two. If Jesus were to begin His ministry today, I have no doubt that He would send out His word, two by two gigabytes.

Evangelism by sandals then. Evangelism by internet now. 

Everywhere people are, there the church should be.

Because, that's where the church is, already. The institutional church is arrogant enough to believe that the only place to meet Jesus is at their altar, with their magnificent music, listening to their profound words of wisdom from their pulpit, watching their beautifully choreographed liturgical dance steps in their beautiful sanctuary.

The people of God are literally dying for the institutional church to meet The Body of Christ where He already is - where they are.

Which is why the institutional church is dying. Because the people of God are not being fed with the bread of heaven where they are. The way Jesus did. The way Jesus sent his disciples out, two by two, to be with people. Not set up shop and expect people to come to them.

This is how Christianity will continue to grow and thrive.

It means that more and more of the institutional church must die.

The good news is that is is already dying.

The really good news is that, because of Jesus, we have the promise of resurrection. 

And, without being too obvious, there can't be a resurrection without first having a death.

I have no doubt that I've more than annoyed a few folks with this post. Indeed, I haven't done that intentionally but, you know, I hope I have.

I also have no doubt that many people will disagree with me. I never said I was right. I have only said that what we're doing is not only not working, it is not bringing more people to Jesus and not edifying the Christians we have. 

My real hope is that it provokes some serious conversation which gets us off the sense of failure because churches are closing and moves us to be excited to close more churches and be better Christians. 

I probably won't be around 30 years from now when my hope is that someone will say, "You know, years ago, Elizabeth Kaeton wrote a blog about this very thing. I just thought she was getting old and dottery. Turns out, we probably should have listened."

Or, perhaps, the women over at Dirty, Sexy Ministry have it right. Perhaps it's only that some "things" have, in their words, "lived waaay beyond their expiration date in the church" and need to die.

Bottom line: The Church (or serious parts of it) must die so Christianity can thrive.

Either way, we agree: The church is dying! And, has been since its birth on Pentecost.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Long live The Body of Christ!

Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

The mystery of healing

A Homily at a Public Service of Healing

May 22, 2014 - All Saint's, Rehoboth Beach

(the Rev'd Dr.) Elizabeth Kaeton

Whenever I'm asked to preside at a "Public Service of Healing," I always have the same conversation with myself. It goes something like: "What do you think you're doing? You lay hands on people and anoint them with oil and think you're healing people? How arrogant can you be?"

So, let me explain a little of what I've learned about one aspect of healing in the last 28 years of ordained ministry. I think it has a little something to do with what we read in today's first lesson (Acts 7:55-60) about the stoning of Steven. 

Hang on. I'll be connecting the dots for you before this homily ends.

I have learned that there are three sentences - three words each - nine words total - which can begin the process of healing. 

The first is: "I am sorry."

In order to say this, you have to acknowledge that, even if you didn't intend to, you hurt someone. Or, betrayed them. Or, maybe you don't even know what you did wrong, but you do know that you hurt someone you care about. You are going to have to let go of anger - at yourself and the other person - and the resentment you may be feeling and the need to be right.

That  process of examination begins the healing in you, so that, when you say, 'I am sorry', the other person might actually believe you. And, even if s/he doesn't, the process of healing has begun in you.

The second is: "I forgive you."

In order to say this, you have to acknowledge that you have been hurt and that you have a right to your hurt and your anger. But, if you hold onto that hurt and anger - as they say in 12 Step Programs - it's like eating rat poison and expecting the other person to die. Being able to forgive someone begins the process of healing in you - as well as the other person. 

It's all about repentance and forgiveness. Those are the two key elements to healing.

So, let me give you a bit of a story as an example.

My father was a nice guy. Except when he was drunk. Then, he became mean and abusive, both verbally and physically. I got out of the house as soon as I was old enough to leave. And, I never came back. 

I also spent a lot of years being angry with my father. And then, he got old. And, sick. Very sick. He had dementia and Alzheimer's. A few days before he died, I went to see him in the nursing home where he was staying. 

He would have periods of lucidity and I happened to be there during one of them. We were walking in the hallway when he stopped to look at a painting on the wall. 

I turned to hm and said, "Dad, I just want you to know that I forgive you."

My father looked at me, smiled and said, "Well, good. Because, you know, I forgive you, too."

And I laughed out loud. Because, you know, he was absolutely right!

As much as a disappointment as he was to me, I have no doubt that I was a disappointment to him. I'm quite certain I'm not the daughter he thought I would become when he held me in his arms as a newborn. My life has taken a completely different track than I thought it would.

I can't imagine his surprise. I'm delighted. I'm sure he wasn't. 

So, I looked at my father and I said the third most powerful, three word sentence which begins the process of healing. 

I said, "I love you, Dad."

And, he said, "I love you, too."

And, right there I'm quite sure I heard the heavens open and the Angels applauded and the Cherubim and Seraphim began to sing and Jesus laughed and God grinned. 

That's what happened, I believe, after Stephen was stoned and before he died.

When he pronounced his forgiveness for those who stoned him, he was healed, and so was a certain man in the crowd whose name was Saul. 

But that's another sermon about another form of healing for another time.

Now it's time for us to pray and for me to lay my hands on you and anoint you with oil.

I'm still not sure how the healing will happen. I only know that, if healing does happen for you, repentance and forgiveness and love probably have something to do with it.

Amen.

The Trouble With Heaven

 

May 18, 2014 – Easter V

All Saint’s Episcopal Church, Rehoboth Beach

(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

        Will the circle be unbroken

        By and by Lord, by and by? 
        Is a better home awaiting

        In the sky, Lord, in the sky?

In the name of God, Creator, Word and Spirit. Amen.

This is a sermon about heaven  - or, actually, the trouble with heaven.  

So, let me being by putting this into context for you.

In this morning’s Gospel, John takes us back to the time just before the troubles began for Jesus. Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead and word of this miracle had spread far and wide as people gathered in the City of Jerusalem for the Feast of the Passover.

If the Pharisees aren’t already angry about this miracle of Lazarus, they have set their hair on fire and run down the street, furious because the miracle took place on a Sabbath! And, Jeeze Louise! Everyone knows you’re not supposed to heal on the Sabbath, much less raise a man from the dead. 

And then, when Jesus and his disciples made their entry into Jerusalem for the Feast of the Passover, everyone shouted “Hosanna” and treated Jesus like a rock star. It was disgusting! Well, in the eyes of the Pharisees, that is.

In this Gospel scene, Judas has just left the Upper Room to complete his vocation of betrayal. 

Jesus begins to prepare his disciples for his death, telling them, “Where I am going, you can not come.” Thomas is confused and asks, “Where are you going?”

Jesus, whose heart is troubled by what he knows is about to happen, says to Thomas, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” and describes heaven as a place – his Father’s house – where there are many rooms. Jesus says he is going to prepare a place for them there and then he will return to come and take them there himself.

It’s a lovely image for heaven, isn’t it? I know it brings me a deep sense of comfort and solace as it has millions of people throughout the ages who believe the words of the Eucharistic prayer we say during a funeral; that “life is changed, not ended”. 

Many of us hold onto the belief that there is a place for us in heaven where the Spirit will take us when we die and we will spend eternity bathed in the light of Christ and held in the arms of God.

Well, at least, we want to believe that. 

As a Hospice Chaplain, I have learned that there is nothing like a diagnosis with a terminal implication to shake that belief right down to its very core. The one question I get consistently is one about heaven. Is it real? Will I get there? Will I seem my loved ones there?

Or, in the words of that wonderful old hymn, “Will the circle be unbroken? Is a better home a waiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky?”

We want very much to believe, but when we are looking into the abyss, our knees begin to buckle. 

Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled” about the afterlife and yet, our culture seems - even more so lately - obsessed with ‘all heaven all the time.’ 

There are TV programs and movies with titles like “Resurrection” and “Heaven is Real," “Transformation” and "Son of God", and books like “Proof of Heaven”.   

On the flip side, we’ve seen an update of “Rosemary’s Baby” as a TV miniseries.

When we’re not talking about the possibility of life after death or heard the refrain “Religious Freedom” or the SCOTUS decision on public prayer, TV commercials have angels selling us everything from sexy Victoria Secrets underwear to Angle Soft toilet paper to tend to our tushies.

According to a poll of 2,500 Americans reported in the Washington Post last May

-- 62% believe in heaven and think they are going there.

             -- 44% believe in hell as "a place of suffering and punishment where some

                        people go after they die;"

              -- The 56% overall belief in the existence of the devil and 53% belief in

                        hell was consistent across all the four survey age groups;

             -- With regard to what causes evil in the world, i.e., the Boston Marathon

                        Massacre, Sandy Hook shooting and 9/11, older respondents (45-60) feel

                        people are evil while younger  respondents (18-29) feel people are sick;

-  However, nearly one-fourth of Americans (23%) identify themselves as "not at all" religious - a figure that has nearly doubled since 2007, when it was at 12%. -

There’s lots of information and misinformation out there about heaven – and hell, as a matter of fact – and the God’s honest truth is that we simply don’t know what awaits us after we die.  It’s an all too obvious but, I suppose, necessary thing to point out that no one has died and returned to verify and authenticate the words of Jesus.

Except, of course, those who have had an NDE or “Near Death Experience”. The stories of those people pretty consistently report the presence of a tunnel with a very bright light at the end. 

Is that ‘proof of heaven’ or the old understanding of ‘limbo’ (AKA “God’s Waiting Room”), or simply the body’s psycho-chemical response to the traumatic event of a temporary shut down of organs?

We can’t be certain, can we? That’s the problem with heaven. In the end, it all comes down to a matter of what we choose to believe.  And, I suspect, we choose to believe that which brings us comfort and solace as we grieve our loss or consider our own mortality.

I have found two images very helpful to me, personally, as well as to those with whom I am privileged to minister as the hour of their death draws near.

Here’s the first image I have found helpful, one which I hope will also be helpful to you. It came to me, first, as I used to listen to my grandmother as she held her infant great and then great great grandchildren in her arms for the first time. Have you ever noticed that newborns sometimes get very animated in their sleep? Their mouths move and they grimace or smile? My grandmother used to see that and say, “Ah, she’s getting last minute instructions from the angels.”

Later, I learned that newborns will follow the sound of their mother and, often, their father, seemingly recognizing the sound of their voices. That’s because they do. In utero, babies can hear. They don’t know what they’re listening to, of course, but they hear.

So, that got me to thinking and it stirred my imagination an creativity. 

I like to imagine the whole round world as our womb – the uterus into which we are born from our mother’s womb. 

Every now and again, we get glimpses of that ‘other world’, that ‘other, eternal reality’ that lies beyond this known world of our present reality. 

Like newborn infants, we can’t possibly know or understand what is “out there”. We only have hints and intuitions, whispers and murmurs, glimpses and flashes of knowing.

And so our earthly death is really just a new birth. We are born again through death into the new life of eternity with God who created us and gave us these earthly bodies to wear for all the days and seasons of our lives on this plane.

“Life is changed, not ended” as our Eucharistic prayer says. I not only say that prayer, I believe that prayer. Do I have proof? No. I don’t need proof. I have faith.

The second image is from Henri Nouwen, the Jesuit theologian who was also a prolific writer. In his book, Bread for the Journey, Nouwen writes;

Hope and faith will both come to an end when we die. But love will remain. Love is eternal. Love comes from God and returns to God. When we die, we will lose everything that life gave us except love. The love with which we lived our lives is the life of God within us. It is the divine, indestructible core of our being. This love not only will remain but will also bear fruit from generation to generation.

When we approach our deaths let us say to those we leave behind, "Don't let your heart be troubled. The love of God that dwells in my heart will come to you and offer you consolation and comfort.

I choose to believe Nouwen’s words. I do believe Love is eternal – because I believe “all love is of God” – it comes from God and returns to God. And, I do believe that the love in our hearts that never dies comes to our loved ones after we die and offers them consolation and comfort, yes, as well as hope.  It lives on and bears fruit from generation to generation.

Now, if I were to argue the case for heaven in a court of law, I would undoubtedly lose.  The trouble with heaven is that I have no forensic evidence. The only evidence I have is anecdotal.  Circumstantial, at best. I have my belief and I have my faith. And, my faith gives me consolation. Consolation gives me reason to hope. And, hope defeats despair. And defeated despair quickens love. And love, my friends, all love, is of God. It is a gift that can never be destroyed. It lives on through eternity.

The love of God which we hold in our hearts will return to our loved ones after we die and our born into the new life of eternity with God, and it will give to our loved ones solace and comfort and hope.

This is what I believe.  It is my response to the request of Jesus who said, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” even as his own heart was deeply troubled by the death he knew he was about to face.  I suspect it gave him some comfort to know that his life and his death were for naught. Indeed, it was for love. 

And he is the very incarnation of God’s love for us, which we re-member whenever we gather together, to listen to the Word of God and the Teachings of Jesus, affirm our faith and share together in the breaking of the Bread and drinking of the Wine.

For it is in partaking in this Holy Communion that the circle is unbroken, and, like babes in the womb, we all catch a glimpse of that Heavenly mansion where there is a place for each one of us. The trouble with heaven is the same trouble with love. It is this: As the fox said to The Little Prince. “That which is essential is invisible to the eye.”

One by one their seats were emptied.

One by one they went away.

Now the family is parted.

Will it be complete one day?

       Will the circle be unbroken

        By and by Lord, by and by? 
        Is a better home awaiting

        In the sky, Lord, in the sky?

There are loved ones in the glory

Whose dear forms you often miss.

When you close your earthly story,

Will you join them in their bliss?

       Will the circle be unbroken

        By and by Lord, by and by
        Is a better home awaiting

        In the sky, Lord, in the sky?

Amen.

Seeking and Finding Jesus

 

Luke 24:13-35

A Sermon for Easter III - May 4, 2014

All Saint's Rehoboth Beach, DE

(the Rev'd Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

 

I think, of all the stories in the Easter Season, this story about the Road to Emmaus is my favorite.

This is my very own Emmaus story. It’s a fairly unorthodox story, as one might now expect from this particular preacher. This is a sermon about finding Jesus when and where you least expect him.

I was a newly ordained priest at my first call as Chaplain at University of Lowell, in Lowell, MA. One of the first mission projects I created was to establish a weekly Eucharist at the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center.

I had carefully trained a handful of students in how to lead worship and, together, we had decided that two of them would come with me to the Center, on a rotating basis.

The third floor of the Center was a 'locked unit' - pretty much a human waste basket for all those people who had been released from psychiatric facilities - where they would stay for a few weeks, be released to the streets for a few weeks and then, readmitted again after a brief stop over at the Lowell Police Station and the City Jail for some obtuse, vague charge as 'disturbing the peace'.

I had secured permission to provide a service of Holy Communion, as it would be advertised, making sure the staff knew that I would be bringing in bread (or, hosts, if need be) and wine.

"Nope," they said, "can't bring in anything - not hosts, not bread - from the outside. Especially not wine."

"Okay," I said, "Can you provide me with a few slices of bread and some grape juice?"

"No bread," they said, "We had a 'suicide-by-stuffing-bread' last year. No bread on the ward. And, no peanut butter. That's even worse."

"Okay," I said, "No problem with the peanut butter. How about some saltine crackers and some grape juice?"

"Deal," they said, "We keep them in packages of two - no 'stuffing' - and you can just open up as many packages as you need."

Imagine my surprise when I appeared for that first service and found, waiting for me, some graham crackers and grapefruit juice.

"It's all we had," they said without apology, adding, "It's the end of the month. Supplies are low."

In I went, to the locked "Recreation Room". I heard the door lock behind me and realized that I was alone in the room with two terrified students and about 25 people who were in all sort and manner of 'altered states' of consciousness.

People were walking around nervously, pacing, smoking, muttering to themselves, occasionally shouting out obscenities.

I set the table, yelled out what was about to happen, and asked people to take their seats.

No one did.

I started anyway - said a few, abbreviated opening words, one of the students read the first lesson, the other led the psalm. I went right to the gospel and then said a few words about it.

To my amazement, some of the folks actually sat down and were listening to me. The room was not exactly quiet, but the din had certainly decreased a few decibels and was now a dull buzz.

As I started to say the Eucharistic Prayer, one woman in the front - Helen, I'll never forget her - spoke up.

Helen's eyes looked like the last 20 or 30 years of her life had witnessed some pretty rough roads. Makeup clung to the deep wrinkles and lines in her face, her eyelids were a bright blue with a crooked line of mascara outlining them, and her lips were a misshapen bright cherry red.

She looked like a tragic clown in a very painfully human circus in this "Recreational Room".

"Hey, are you allowed to do that? I mean, being a woman and all," she asked in a gravely voice.

"Yes," I assured her, "I am an ordained Episcopal Priest."

"Yeah, sure you are" she said, taking a drag from her cigarette, "Well, I can't take communion. Divorced, you know."

"Sure you can," I said, "Everyone is welcome at the Lord's Table."

She looked at the oblong utility table where I had set out the starched, white corporal, and had the shiny silver paten and chalice, raised an eyebrow of suspicion, shrugged her shoulders, and lit another cigarette from the one she had almost finished.

I got through the Eucharistic Prayer and marveled as most of the people in the room seemed to be paying close attention to what I was doing. Perhaps a memory from childhood or an earlier day was awakened, and they recognized this as a holy moment.

Even after the words of institution, the mood in the room remained solemn. As I prepared to distribute communion, Helen called out, "Hey, shouldn't we be singing something?"

"Sure," I said, "Why don't you lead us in singing one of your favorite hymns?"

So, she did.

She leaned back her head, closed her eyes and started singing in the most reverent tones I've ever heard, "She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. . . ."

By the third verse, about a dozen or so people joined her. "She'll be be driving six white horses, she'll be drivin' six white horses (big finish) WHEN. SHE. COOOMMMES!!"

You know what? In that moment, when the absurd met reality, and the profane intersected with the sacred, I knew that Jesus was already there, in that locked Recreational Room, on the third floor of the locked ward of the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center, in Lowell, MA.

And, not just in the graham crackers and grapefruit juice.

We had only just brought the church to Jesus.

I wasn't taught that in seminary, but that's what I've come to know is closer to the truth of that wonderful and sacred mystery of Jesus and His body we call 'church'.

I believe Jesus is already with us, here in this church – and I suspect he’s well pleased with what he finds here – but I also believe that we find the face of Jesus in the face of others – many of whom would never darken the door of a church of a Sunday morning.

I believe that Jesus is very pleased when we bring the church to Him – wherever He happens to be – and meet the people of God right where they are – on the road, in their homes, at their jobs, in nursing homes and skilled nursing facilities and hospitals and soup kitchens, and thrift stores and . . . everywhere outside the church walls.

Helen was someone's mother - and sister - and daughter and friend. Helen, and all the other residents of the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center, are children of God and bear the face of Jesus in their faces.

I saw the face of Jesus in Helen’s face.

I hope she saw the face of Jesus in mine.

I hope, when you leave this church this morning, you will be the face of Jesus for others.

I pray that you will see the face of Jesus in others. 

This is my Emmaeus story. I believe we all have them – if you think about it. These stories are, by their very nature, unorthodox if not unusual. 

But, they shouldn't be. 

If we open our hearts and suspend judgment, we will all be able to find Jesus when and where we least expect Him.   

And that, my friends, is the Gospel truth.

Amen.

A prayer for pastors on Easter

It's Good Friday.

Many pastors have already gotten their sermons written and ready to rock 'n roll.

Others . . . . . well, others . . . . .. don't.

There are a million and one details to chase. And, that's just in the church. Those of us who have families also have . . . . . . well, "other duties as assigned".

And then, there are those who are reading the lessons and singing in the choir and polishing the silver and arranging the flowers and . . . .

My prayers are with all those who strive to be faithful, each in their own way, during the remainder of the Paschal Triduum and onto Easter Day.

So, while I keep all those who fuss and fret and chase details in my prayers, here is a special one for pastors by Brian McLaren.

On our way to Calvary, may we always remember and never forget the promise of the empty tomb and the promise of Easter joy.

A prayer for pastors on Easter

Dear Lord, I pray for all the pastors today
Who will feel enormous pressure to have their sermon
Match the greatness of the subject
and will surely feel they have failed.
(I pray even more for those who think they have succeeded.)

Help them to know that it is enough

Simply and faithfully to tell the story
Of women in dawn hush ...
Of men running half-believing ...
Of rolled stones and folded grave-clothes ...
Of a supposed gardener saying the name of a crying woman ...
Of sad walkers encountering a stranger on the road home ...
Of an empty tomb and overflowing hearts.

Give them the wisdom to know that sincere humility and awe
Surpass all homiletic flourish
On this day of mysterious hope beyond all words.
Make them less conscious of their responsibility to preach,
And more confident of the Risen Christ
Whose presence trumps all efforts to proclaim it.

Considering all the Easter choirs who will sing beautifully,
and those who won't,
And all the Easter prayers that will soar in faith,
and those that will stumble and flounder,
And all the Easter attendance numbers and offering numbers
that will exceed expectations
And those that will disappoint ...

I pray they all will be surpassed by the simple joy
Of women and men standing in the presence of women and men,
Daring to proclaim and echo the good news:
Risen indeed! Alleluia!

For death is not the last word.
Violence is not the last word.
Hate is not the last word.
Money is not the last word.
Intimidation is not the last word.
Political power is not the last word.
Condemnation is not the last word.
Betrayal and failure are not the last word.
No: Each of them are left like rags in a tomb,
And from that tomb
Arises Christ,
Alive.

Help the preachers feel it,
And if they don't feel it, help them
Preach it anyway, allowing themselves
To be the receivers as well as the bearers of the Easter News.
Alleluia!

– Brian McLaren

The Bees of Holy Week

 

The Bees of Holy Week
Palm Sunday – April 13, 2014
All  Saint’s Episcopal Church, Rehoboth Beach, DE
(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

In the name of God, + who is Mystery, who is Incarnation, who is Spirit. Amen.

As I consider the significance of this day – Palm Sunday – and the beginning of what we Christians call Holy Week, I have been visited by the continued buzzing of piece of a poem called “Last Night As I Was Sleeping” by the great Spanish poet, AntonioMachado. It begins:

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

It is the second stanza, however, that continues to visit me:

Last night, as I was sleeping.

I dreamt - marvelous error!

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And that the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures

Listen again to that last sentence!

And that the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.

If you listen closely you will hear them. There, in the far distance. – a low hum is beginning  deep in your soul.  The hum will grow steadily into the sound of a buzz, which will grow fuller and deeper and louder as the week continues.

Holy Week begins the gathering of the Golden Bees of Heaven.

The Golden Bees of Heaven need you. They need your regret and your grief, the memory of which causes your heart to ache again in the places where it has been broken. 

They need the sense of loss and anger which have left a sour taste on the back of your palate.   

The Golden Bees of Heaven are especially fond of betrayal and disappointment, but, oh my, how they love the rich, deep, bitter darkness of depression.

All of these human failures are pollen to the Bees. 

They will buzz all ‘round the story of Holy Week, and wait and watch as the story of the Passion of Jesus draws out the pollen of regret, grief, anger, betrayal, disappointment and depression from the depths of your own heart and soul. 

They will take them – all of these human failures – to their very bodies and carry them to the Queen of Heaven where She will make of them a gift to be wept over and blessed with Her tears.

Then the Bees will return them to us and begin to make of these, our old failures and regrets, brilliant white combs of wax, which will provide the framework for us to find our own salvation.

I know. I understand. This is not what you were taught as a child. God, we were very carefully taught, is the Great Master Puppeteer, and we are Pinocchio with Geppetto-as-God-our-Father, controlling all the strings of our lives.

God is supposed to remember the sacrifices you made – the chocolate or wine you gave up for Lent. 

If you sacrificed enough and prayed really hard, He – God – was supposed to bring you that brand new bike or those spiffy new shoes or get you on the team or help you pass the test for your driver’s license which would open the door to unspeakable freedoms. 

Later, that same Geppetto-Father-God, you thought, would get you that job. Or, save your marriage. Or, heal your child. 

And when He – God – didn’t do these things, you would shrug your shoulders and figure you weren’t good enough or deserving enough.  That Santa Claus must have whispered something in God's ear which made it to God's Big Book of Failure. And your shoulders slumped and your heart was heavy and you feared asking for anything else. Of God. Or yourself. Or life.

Or, perhaps you repeated the cheery mantra that “When a door closes, God opens a window,” and you would try to get on with a life of magical thinking, hoping against hope to find a Genie-In-a-Bottle of sorts who would help you find the right mystical incantation to unlock the Gates of The Treasures of Heaven as your own.

Or, maybe you would get angry and blame something or someone – sometimes, even God – and never really trust God enough to let yourself really be vulnerable and pray. Ever. Again.

Some of us grow up and come to be spiritually and emotionally mature enough to understand that life holds an abundance of sophisticated irony and paradox and absurdity. 

That all of these, our human failures, are God’s repeated attempts to offer us the sweet honey of grace and mercy and the opportunity for a new, transformed life.

Ernest Hemmingway once wrote: “The world breaks everyone and afterwards, many are strong in the weak places.”   

Some of us don’t – won’t, can't – understand that. 

Yet God is persistent, battering down our hearts with three-fisted Love in the form of mystery and incarnation and spirit – all of which are especially present to us in the midst of the Passion of Jesus in Holy Week.

Antonio Machado’s poem ends with this stanza:

Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

We are more able to find God inside our hearts when we get a glimpse of the failures and fragility of our human lives. When we do that - when we are able to look at the absurdity and paradox and irony of life - we awake from our waking dream and discover our marvelous error.

Something is set in motion. The whole field shifts and sets loose some strange mystery which we can neither comprehend nor control. 

That is the work of Holy Week – to awaken us to the failures of the human enterprise which, paradoxically begin to create the framework for us to find our way to salvation, and open the floodgates of the waters of new life which we taste again as if for the first time.

It is Palm Sunday. The Bees of Holy Week are beginning to gather. If you listen, you can hear the hum of their buzzing. 

They are here to gather to their bodies our human failures – the pollen of regret, grief, anger, betrayal, disappointment and depression from the depths of our own hearts and souls. 

We will walk with Jesus this week, as the story of his Passion unfolds. The Bees of Holy Week will take all these human failures, if you surrender to them and don’t mind if they sting a time or two, and make of them the sweet honey of Easter Resurrection. 

We know the story. We know how it ends. 

The Bees of Holy Week are gathering. 

Let them come.   

Amen. 

Note: I am grateful to my colleague David Anderson for reminding me of Antonio Machado's poem and for his idea of 'the Bees of Heaven' which became, for me, 'the Bees of Holy Week'.

Children of The Light

“Children of the Light” (Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41)

Metropolitan Community Church, Rehoboth Beach, DE

Lent IV – Refreshment Sunday – March 30, 2014

(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

Well, that’s quite a Gospel we just heard, wasn’t it? I mean, no one can catch a break from the Pharisees – not the man born blind, not his parents, not even Jesus.

Jesus healed a man who was born blind – with some mud and some spit and some prayers – but he did it on the Sabbath, which is a Big No-No for the Teapublicans – Oh, I mean, Pharisees, of course.

The man who regained his sight is brought not once, but twice before the Pharisees to tell his story. They even drag his parents into the mess to testify – but they wisely defer the question to their son, who is obviously as annoyed at the blind ignorance of the Pharisees as I get with a certain senator from Texas and the former governor of Alaska.

Some scholars theorize that this act of healing the blind man on the Sabbath was the final straw; that it was after this event that the Pharisees began to plot to have Jesus crucified.

The man in the Gospel story may have been born blind but it didn’t take the restoration of his sight for him to know that there are none so blind as those who refuse to see.

In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul writes, “Once you were darkness but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of the light!”

You know, some of us are like that man born blind. Ever since we were children, some of us have been told we are not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty or handsome enough, not thin enough, not tall enough – not enough. Some have even been told that we were born in sin. That, who we are is somehow our parent’s fault. And, even now, some of us hear that we are not normal enough – whatever that means – and all of those negative messages can lead us into the darkness of the valley of despair.  

But, St. Paul reminds us that we are children of the Light. In the midst of Lent, it’s easy to forget that. Fortunately, this is the fourth Sunday in Lent. We’re halfway to Holy Week and Easter. Indeed, in the Anglican/Episcopal tradition, which is the source of my spiritual roots, today is known as “Refreshment Sunday”. It’s a wee bit of a break from all the doom and gloom and an opportunity to let in some light and dance and sing .

It’ is also known as “Latare Sunday” and sometimes known as “Rose” or “Mothering" Sunday - probably because in the 16th century, people went to the nearest Cathedral or their "home" church (which was most likely the Cathedral) for worship. In some churches, this theme of lightness is symbolized in vestments that are rose or pink in color.

In England and, indeed, in much of Europe, it was also a time when women employed as domestics were given time off and one of the few times during the year that the entire family could be reunited to share a meal together. And, to celebrate, a special, rich cake was made – known as Simnel Cake. In fact, I’ve made some for you today for Fellowship Hour after church. So, don’t go rushing out the door before you have a piece of my cake.

My Portuguese grandmother made Simnel Cakes faithfully. Every year. Except she called them "Bolos do riso" or "Laughter Cakes".  I’ll tell you why in a minute.

Apparently, in the original British version, on the top of the cake and around the edge one is supposed to put eleven marzipan balls to represent the true disciples of Jesus. Judas is omitted, of course. In some variations Christ is also represented by a ball placed at the center. "Laughter Cakes" were most appropriate on "Refreshment Sunday" because, in the Pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic Church, Lent was taken as seriously as a heart attack.

We fasted every Wednesday AND Friday - I mean, no solid food, just lots of juice and water, and lots of milk and sugar in our tea - and didn't break the fast until AFTER we had gone to church and said the Stations of the Cross. At four o'clock. Promptly.

I think I still might be able to say that liturgy in the original Portuguese from memory.

We moved around the darkened church, Father with his prayer book, reading to us of the various stations in Portuguese. As we processed from station to station, we sang the various verses of Stabat Mater Dolorosa. In Latin. Of course.

I thought it an unbearably sad hymn. It always made me weep - well, once I stopped giggling at all the old Portuguese ladies - "The Widows" - dressed all in black from head to toe, including the black scarf which they wore snugly around their head, tied in a large knot under their more than ample chins.

"The Widows" were also known as "The Wailers" to us kids - which they would start doing as soon as the procession began. Wailing, that is.

As kids, we joked that they were paid to wail. We figured they were as excited for the annual arrival of Lent as we were for Summer Vacation. We surmised that they made extra money every Wednesday and Friday in Lent in addition to being paid to wail at every funeral the church held.

They weren't of course. Paid, that is. We were bad. I know. Actually, we were just being kids trying to make the best of a Very Adult situation. We were being Children of Light.

'Round about the third or fourth week of Lent, we kids stopped rebelling against having to be in church THREE WHOLE TIMES a week during Lent. We were, by then, resigned to our fate and took hope in the knowledge that Lent was Almost Over.

So, by the time it was mid-week of Lent III, rolling right into the fourth Sunday in Lent - having not had ANY meat, not even so much as a hot dog or even my mother's infamous "Hot Dog Stew" (but we were allowed chicken on Sunday). . . AND having given up candy for Lent. . . AND having done Stations of the Cross twice a week in addition to church every Sunday - I was ready for a little Bolos do riso. Any kind of 'riso'. You know what I mean?

We made the cakes on the Saturday before Lent IV. My grandmother and I would put the raisins to soak in the brandy - homemade by my grandfather - before going to bed Friday night. I was the oldest granddaughter, and we lived right upstairs, so I was allowed and nobody else was. Ha!

We would gather in her kitchen sometime on Saturday afternoon, after all the other Saturday chores had been done, including polishing our shoes and laundering our white gloves and starching our white mantilla – a circular piece of lace that every female wore. And, if you forgot your mantilla, you bobby-pinned a tissue to your head. Seriously! Any woman of a certain age in this congregation who grew up RC will attest to this.

On Saturday morning, we would line up all the ingredients on the kitchen table - the older kids measuring the liquid ingredients, the younger ones allowed to measure the dry ingredients. One of us was assigned to greasing the pans, another to chopping the walnuts (which we first had to crack - usually with a hammer - and get the meaty walnut out before chopping).

And I, only I, as the oldest grandchild present, was allowed to sift the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves into the batter. Ha!

And my grandmother, only my grandmother, was allowed to pour in the hot applesauce. We all stood back when she did that, in a respectful silence which was tinged with a bit of awe saved only for sorcerers and magicians.

And, indeed, she did cook up laughter there in her kitchen. In the midst of the doldrums of Lent, she was making Bolos do riso - "Laughter Cakes".

Oh, but here's the special ingredient - the secret of "Laughter Cakes".

After every ingredient had been added and stirred, and before she poured the batter into the cake pans, she would gather us round the Very Large Mixing Bowl. And then, she would tell us not to worry. That Lent was a very sad time, but that soon, it would be Easter. Jesus would play a wonderful trick on Satan, and death would not kill him.

And, because death could no longer kill Jesus, death could no longer kill us. Because of Jesus, we would know eternal life in heaven where we would all someday be, once again.

She would tell us this and then say, "So, laugh, children. Laugh into the bowl. Laugh into the cake. Laugh at the Devil. He can't win. He can't ever win! Only Jesus can win. Only Jesus! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!"

And, we would. Laugh. Loud. Right into the bowl. I swear people ten blocks away could hear us laugh.

It was the best part of making - and eating - that cake.

And yes, she would put the brandy my grandfather made in the cake AND the frosting.

Hmm . . . maybe that's also why she called them "Bolos do riso".

Nah, the alcohol in the brandy is baked off.  Laughter was the special ingredient that "made" that cake - special for Refreshment Sunday.

Here’s what I’ve learned about darkness and light, about good and evil. It’s this: Laughter, in the face of Evil, is the greatest statement of faith. Only a fool would laugh in front of Evil if they didn’t believe in God. In order to laugh in the face of Evil, you have to know – deep down in your soul – that ultimately, God is. And, God wins.

In the words of a preacher I once heard, God may not show up when you want God, and God may not even show up when you need God, but when God shows up, God is always right on time. 

So, yes, there are a few more weeks of Lent left on the calendar. And yes, this has been a Very long, Very cold, Very snowy, Very miserable winter. And yes, we’ve still got to make it through Holy Week.

But, take heart! Good Friday is coming, yes, but so is Easter. Remember, we are Children of the Light.  The star that shone over Bethlehem still calls to the wise to find and follow the One who is the Light of the World.  And, because of our adoption in the baptism of Jesus, we are Children of Light.

So, as my grandmother would say, “Laugh, children! Laugh! . Laugh at the Devil. He can't win. He can't ever win! Only Jesus can win. Only Jesus! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!"

Amen.

Here's the recipe:
 

Bolos do riso (Simnel Cake)

1 1/2  c. raisins

4 tbsp. (or so) Brandy (optional)

1 c. shortening

2 c. granulated sugar

2 eggs

2 c. very fine flour (all purpose will do if you sift it)

2 tsp. Baking soda

2 1/2 tsp. Cinnamon

1 1/2 tsp ground Cloves

2 tsp. nutmeg

1/2 tsp. Salt

1 1/2 c. chopped walnuts

zest of one lemon (optional)

2 c. hot applesauce

Soak raisins in brandy overnight. (optional)

Mix together in a large bowl - shortening, sugar and eggs. Into that sift flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. Add chopped walnuts and raisins with the brandy. Add 2 cups of applesauce while it is VERY HOT. Blend thoroughly. Add optional lemon zest. 

Laugh into the batter. Laugh, children, LAUGH!

Pour batter into 8 1/2 x 12" pan (greased and floured.) 

Bake at 350 F for about 30 minutes (or until done).

When done, cool cake in pan 5 minutes - then remove to finish cooling on a cake rack. Frost generously with Butter frosting.

Butter Frosting

1/4 lb. (one stick) Butter

1 lb Confectioners Sugar (10-X)

about 3 tbsp heavy cream (or milk)

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

Blend together the butter and sugar. Add in the cream (or milk) and vanilla until smooth. Makes enough frosting for the cake above.