National Nurse's Week

Note: I work with some of the B.E.S.T. nurses. Seriously. The. Best. I am in awe of them. Every day.

At work today, we honored our nurses with a wonderful luncheon, complete with cake and cookies, a lovely potted plant for each nurse, and a lunch box and water bottle - you know, that new kind you can put fruit into (like oranges or lemons or limes) to naturally flavor your water. Our staff physician also had a special gift for each nurse.

Of course, I thought they all should get a $100,000 raise, but, that not being either possible or probable, the luncheon was lovely. 

The following is the meditation I used for the occasion. We each took a quote and read it aloud. 

Ms. Nightengale was quite a woman. In addition to founding nursing as a profession, she was also a theologian. I have a book of her theology somewhere but I couldn't put my hand on it. So, these are quotes from her book, written in 1859.

Pleae feel free to share with a nurse in your life. Or, at least thank them for what is often a thankless job - well, except for the enormous satisfaction they get from living out their vocation.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

Florence Nightingale was born in Florence, Italy, on May 12, 1820. Part of a wealthy family, Nightingale defied the expectations of the time and pursued what she saw as her God-given calling of nursing. During the Crimean War, she and a team of nurses improved the unsanitary conditions at a British base hospital, greatly reducing the death count. Her writings sparked worldwide health care reform, and in 1860 she established St. Thomas' Hospital and the Nightingale Training School for Nurses. A revered hero of her time, she died on August 13, 1910, in London.

Here are just a few of the things she wrote in “Nursing: What it is and what it is not” (1859):

Wise and humane management of the patient is the best safeguard against infection.

A dark house is always an unhealthy house, always an ill-aired house, always a dirty house. Want of light stops growth and promotes scrofula, rickets, etc., among the children. People lose their health in a dark house, and if they get ill, they cannot get well again in it.

The symptoms or the sufferings generally considered to be inevitable and incidental to the disease are very often not symptoms of the disease at all, but of something quite different—of the want of fresh air, or of light, or of warmth, or of quiet, or of cleanliness, or of punctuality and care in the administration of diet, of each or of all of these.

All disease, at some period or other of its course, is more or less a reparative process, not necessarily accompanied with suffering: an effort of nature to remedy a process of poisoning or of decay, which has taken place weeks, months, sometimes years beforehand, unnoticed.

The amount of relief and comfort experienced by the sick after the skin has been carefully washed and dried, is one of the commonest observations made at a sick bed.

If a patient is cold, if a patient is feverish, if a patient is faint, if he is sick after taking food, if he has a bed-sore, it is generally the fault not of the disease, but of the nursing.”

The only English patients I have ever known refuse tea, have been typhus cases; and the first sign of their getting better was their craving again for tea.

It may seem a strange principle to enunciate as the very first requirement in a hospital that it should do the sick no harm.

No man, not even a doctor, ever gives any other definition of what a nurse should be than this – ‘devoted and obedient’. This definition would do just as well for a porter. It might even do for a horse. It would not do for a policeman.

Women should have the true nurse calling, the good of the sick first the second only the consideration of what is their ‘place’ to do – and that women who want for a housemaid to do this or the charwomen to do that, when the patient is suffering, have not the making of a nurse in them.

Every nurse ought to be careful to wash her hands very frequently during the day. If her face, too, so much the better.

The greatest heroes are those who do their duty in the daily grind of domestic affairs whilst the world whirls as a maddening dreidel.

How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.

I attribute my success to this – I never gave or took any excuse.

The world is put back by the death of every one who has to sacrifice the development of his or her peculiar gifts to conventionality.

Were there none who were discontented with what they have, the world would never reach anything better.

Rather, ten times, die in the surf, heralding the way to a new world, than stand idly on the shore.
I think one’s feelings waste themselves in words; they ought all to be distilled into actions which bring results.

So never lose an opportunity of urging a practical beginning, however small, for it is wonderful how often in such matters the mustard-seed germinates and roots itself.

To understand God’s thoughts one must study statistics… the measure of his purpose.

Let whoever is in charge keep this simple question in her head (not, how can I always do this right thing myself, but) how can I provide for this right thing to be always done?

There is no part of my life, upon which I can look back without pain.

The craving for ‘the return of the day’, which the sick so constantly evince, is generally nothing but the desire for light.

I do see the difference now between me and other men. When a disaster happens, I act and they make excuses.

The first possibility of rural cleanliness lies in water supply.

Live life when you have it. Life is a splendid gift-there is nothing small about it.

#MeToo TEC: I call BS.

The House of Bishops, represented by Presiding Bishop Michael Curry and Mary Gray-Reeves, the Vice President of the House of Bishops (and bishop of El Camino Real), has issued a letter which is entitled "House of Bishops Pastoral Response to #MeToo" which "invites reflections, offers listening and steps to healing".

You can follow the link and read the whole thing, but, in essence, the invitation is for those who have been sexually harassed, abused and exploited in the church, to "share reflections" of their experience.

Further, "a selection of the reflections will be read at a special listening session during General Convention" in Austin, TX.

This session is scheduled for Wednesday, July 4th from 5:15 - 7 PM (Central Time). It's an open session, so everyone is invited to attend. If you're not there, you can watch the live web cast.

So, this is good, right? The church being "open" and "transparent" about all the wrongs that have been perpetrated on women (and men, but mostly women) in the church.

"In the church" is a polite way of saying, "by deacons, priests and bishops".

So, let that sink in for a minute. Because, remember, we're talking about "sexual harassment, abuse and exploitation".

So, not to put too fine a point on it, that means, sexual harassment, abuse and exploitation by those who are ordained. Meaning, specifically, deacons, priests and bishops.

"In the church" also means the disciplinary processes and systems  by which the church deals with "clergy misconduct" and "boundary violations".

This includes the process known as "Title IV" by which clergy charged with "misconduct" or "boundary violation" are brought to an ecclesiastical trial by a jury of their fellow Christians - laity and ordained. In too many instances, the "process" has only served to compound the abuse.

So, what's wrong with this picture?

Oh, let me count the ways.

First of all, the process "invites" those who are vulnerable to make themselves vulnerable once again by "sharing" their stories with the rest of the church.

Ah, but the bishops say that these stories will be read beforehand (the deadline for submission is May 25th) by a panel of bishops who will read them "pastorally" with "deep listening". A selection of these stories will then be read publicly on July 4th.

We are also assured that "the letters (from those who have been sexually harassed/abused/exploited) will be responded to" by a bishop reader. 

The letter will be "pastoral in nature, offering respect and appreciation to the individual who has willingly become vulnerable in the sharing process, express regret for the wounding at the hands of the Church, and offer hope for healing".

The intent of this is to be the first step in a "therapeutic process"- for the women and for the church. 

You will note that it is the bishops who determine what part of whose story will be shared publicly. And, as the House of Bishops is predominently male, the voices that give sound to the women's stories will be predominently male. 

I'm sorry. Wait. No, I'm not. This may be "therapeutic" for the House of Bishops and even some "in the church" but it is callously indifferent to the needs of those who have been deeply wounded by those who are ordained.

Here are some alternative ideas: Why not share letters from bishops confessing to ways they have mishandled and failed to respond to situations that they were aware of?

What if they made themselves vulnerable and confessed all the ways in which they have failed these women (and men) and the church? 

What if, after reading all of the stories - "pastorally, listening deeply"- the bishops publicly expressed and demonstrated  real remorse for all the the harm done? 

What if they offered sincere apologies and enumerated the ways in which they plan to remedy the women who have been harmed and bring justice to them so that there can be reconciliation and peace? (No justice, no peace. Know justice, know peace.)

Here's the thing: I know for a natural born fact that many of the bishops in the House of Bishops - including the Presiding Bishop and President of the House of Deputies - HAVE, in fact, heard many of these stories before. 

They've heard them and they've done nothing - or worse, done something and made it worse.  

So, what's this all about, really? 

Well, I've come to understand that my many years "in the church" have turned me into a bona fide skeptic.  I approach everything that the  institutional church says or does or promises with a hermeneutic of suspicion.

I can't help but think that this has little to do with being pastoral or therapeutic for women who have been sexually abused. 

I've come to recognize a smoke screen when I see one. And, in this case "in the church," that has absolutely nothing to do with a pot of incense. 

I think this "invitation" has more to do with distracting everyone from the allegations made against Bishop Stacey Sauls when he was part of the administration at 815*. (Also, see here, here, and here.) 

Why have we not heard of all of the "changes in the policy and culture" of 815 which was promised by Presiding Bishop Curry  on April4, 2016? **

Inquiring minds want to know. Because it sure looks like someone has been working extra hard to obfuscate what is really going on.  It should be noted that we haven't heard a peep from 815 about this for over a year.

To echo the kids who are working to end gun violence, I call BS.

Yes, of course, there are legal constraints around personnel issues so certain specifics can not be discussed publicly, but if we can't at least talk about what happened at our church center and what was done to remedy the situation, how are we supposed to talk about what is happening at other levels of our beloved church? 

And, why are we requiring those who have suffered because they told the truth and weren't believed bear the burden of truth-telling again? Where is the remedy for them? Where is the justice for them?

So, here's my advice to those who WILL write those letters: 

Make sure you stipulate that the reading of your letter includes the part about how the priest (or bishop or deacon) who harmed you has not even so much as been reprimanded for what he did because you were not believed. Or,  it happened a while ago was "so much water under the bridge". Or, "it is Christian to forgive."

For good measure, name the name of the person who harmed you and the bishop who re-harmed you.

Oh, and if you are a clergy woman, make sure you include how you haven't been able to get a full time position - or, in some of the stories I've heard, ANY position "in the church" - since you told your bishop your story.  In that diocese or any other diocese.

And, make sure to stipulate that they must tell the part about how there has to be justice before there can be either reconciliation or peace. 

Oh, and if the BS level gets higher than your tolerance level, don't be afraid to organize a little impromptu civil disobedience. Be like sister Rosa Parks: Sit down right in the middle of the House of Bishops and refuse to get up. Make them carry you out.

Or, make some noise: Sing "Ain't gonna let nobody turn me around" at the top of your voice just like Sister Fannie Lou taught us. Let your voices ring to the rooftops of the House of Bishops.

If necessary, take to the streets - or sidewalks (no permit necessary). Carry signs. Make some noise: Sing "We Are Gentle Angry People (and we are singing for our lives)," just as Sister Holly Near taught us.  Give new meaning to the song, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine."

Demand justice because, if you haven't already learned it,  ain't nobody gonna just hand it to you.

Keep in mind the story of the persistent Canaanite woman in Matthew 15:21-28. Remember how the disciples - the early leaders of the Jesus Movement - tried to keep her away from Jesus because she sought healing - not for herself - but for her daughter. 

Remember that even Jesus, who we remember was both fully divine and fully human, fell into the trap of cultural racism and sexism.  Remember that He, too, dismissed her until she was able to demonstrate to Jesus, before God and everyone assembled, that the faith being tested was not hers, but His. 

And, remember the double miracle in the story: not only was the woman's daughter healed instantly, but so was Jesus. 

What you are experiencing, dear sisters, is a modern day reliving of that Gospel story. 

Resist and persist and, like the Canaanite woman, you will become the vehicle of healing for God's daughters (and sons) - "in the church". 

* (Note: On December 9, 2015 the Presiding Bishop placed Bishop Stacy Sauls, Chief Operating Officer, Mr. Sam McDonald, Deputy Chief Operating Officer and Director of Mission, and Mr. Alex Baumgarten, Director of Public Engagement and Mission Communications, on Administrative Leave pending an investigation into formal complaints and allegations of potential violations of personnel policies of the DFMS, received from multiple members of the staff. McDonald and Baumgarten were found to have violated personnel policies; Sauls was not, was asked to resign, but sued in 2017 because he claimed his firing had "damaged his reputation" and he was unable to secure work in the church. )

** (Note: According to an ENS article dated April 4, 2016, a complete "HR Audit" was ordered by the PB to be conducted "by an expert in the field. The firm Human Synergistics was retained to "address concerns about the culture of the staff and our system".)

ADDENDUM: If you have not been abused/harassed/exploited - or if you have and don't care to share your 'reflection' (but not facts) - or if you want to call BS because you think this is feel-good "Reconcilliation Theater" and a smokescreen to distract us from what's really going on (hint: It has more to do with the advice of lawyers than the advice of therapists), PLEASE CONSIDER WRITING TO THE HOB by May 25th and letting them know you know this is BS. I think they need to hear from us, too. Thank you. 

 pastoralresponse@episcopalchurch.org or mail to House of Bishops’ Pastoral Response, 815 Second Ave., New York NY 10017.

I'm posting this as an addendum with the permission of the author, of course. Perhaps it will inspire others.

DON’T TELL ME—(Published anonymously for the Episcopal HOB, 2018)



“Don’t tell me,” you said in your office at the cathedral,

even though you already knew as well as anyone

of his violent temper, his rage, his abusive manipulation

even while his wearing a collar.

“It’s not a good idea to begin your career with a law suit,” you said.



My first thought was—I don’t have a career;

I have a calling, a vocation.

And I regret not calling you all out before.



My second thought has taken more than fifteen years.

My second thought has survived disabling self-doubt, self-blame,

has been steeped in a vanishing horizon of self-esteem,

has endured loneliness, isolation, deprivation, a wilderness of despair.



When you yelled and cussed at me—yah, another one of you purple shirts,

when you yelled and cussed at me, and then offered me an apology—by letter, mind you—

not even a phone call, not even a lunch (could you not face me?),

I went on, blaming myself, again, thinking I should have done

this or that a little differently.

And you wanted me to go talk to a man

who would help me see what I was doing wrong.

I swallowed the words you threw in my face… I almost began to believe them.



But, then I heard that you had yelled and cussed, verbally abused others, many others;

You placed other yellers and cussers in positions of trust and leadership;

you refused to listen when I tried speaking with you—lost, hurting.

You cut me off; you called me names, you called me down for my ‘tone.’

(You do realize, don’t you, that it is only women of a certain age

that are criticized for their ‘tone.’)



I regret this has taken me so long;

I regret that my beloved has had to suffer, watching me suffer.

I regret not speaking out sooner so that others, even more vulnerable,

might not have to suffer the trash you dish out …

but courage sometimes only comes

with nothing more to lose.



So, this is where my second thought so many years in the making finally gets its breath:

I will not be silent when you call your red-faced tantrums ‘passionate talk.’

I will not be silent when you cut me off.

I will not be cowed when you leave me out.

I will call you out; I am calling you out:

I am telling you—I will no longer be silent.

I am ready to follow the calling of Jesus and toss the tables in this Temple

where power, access and obedient silence are the coin to purchase the sacrifice

of living flesh and blood.
 

Lazarakia Saturday

If you read this blog, you know my commitment to observing Lent IV with a Simnel Cake.

The last Saturday before The Sunday of The Passion (Palm Sunday) has its own culinary tradition.

On that day, that Saturday before Holy Week, there's something that hangs in the air.

Anticipation? Yes. Expectation? Of course.

But, there's something more. A discernible shift. In mood. In tone.

Just like Palm Sunday Liturgy.

We're about to walk into the history of our faith. We're going to put our bodies where our mouths have been and live more fully and deeply into the story of the last week of the life of Jesus.

This includes his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on the Feast of the Passover, the last supper with his disciples in that Upper Room, his betrayal and trial, his death on the cross, his burial in the tomb and, three days later, his resurrection.

In Orthodox Christian Churches, the last Saturday before the beginning of Holy Week is known as "Lazarus Saturday". It is an important story for several reasons.

The first, of course, is that the healing and resurrection of Lazarus a foreshadowing of the death and resurrection of Jesus.

Importantly, however, the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead is the last miracle performed by Jesus before his own death and resurrection.

It is also notable that He performed the miracle on the Sabbath.

Indeed, some scholars have posited that this miracle was "the last straw" with the civil and religious authorities. It was at that point, some say, that the decision was made to bring charges against Jesus, to bring to an end his scandalous ministry by bringing his life to an end.

So, the story of Lazarus - the dear friend of Jesus, the brother of Martha and Mary - is an important way to begin Holy Week. It is important because it reminds us that from death comes resurrection and from resurrection comes new life.

It is a long tradition in the Greek Orthodox tradition to observe Lazarus Saturday with Lazarakia - sweet bread filled with a sweet, nutty jam or marmalade or honey which is made in the shape of Lazarus as he emerged from the tomb.

On the Island of Kos, all engaged girls make a Lazaro the size of a small child filled with countless goodies to send to the groom.

I'm told this song is often sung as the Lazarakia are being made:

Λάζαρος απενεκρώθη, Lazarus became undead,

Ανεστήθη και σηκώθη. Was resurrected and arose.

Λάζαρος σαβανωμένος Lazarus was shrouded

Και με το κηρί ζωσμένος And all tied up.

-Λάζαρε πες μας τι είδες "Tell us Lazarus, what did you see?

εις τον Άδη που επήγες; When you went to Hades?"

-Είδα φόβους, είδα τρόμους "I saw fears, I saw terrors

είδα βάσανα και πόνους. I saw troubles and pains.

Δώστε μου λίγο νεράκι Give me a little water

Να ξεπλύνω το φαρμάκι So that I may wash off the poison

Της καρδίας, των χειλέων From my heart, my lips

Και μη με ρωτάτε πλέον. And don't ask me anything else.
(From Magdalini's blog)

The recipe for Lazarakia is basically a raisin bread.  You can use your own favorite sweet bread dough to make Lazarakia, but to be "traditional" it must be "Lenten" (ie there are no eggs, butter or milk in the recipe).

The Lazarakia are usually decorated with cloves for eyes and are shaped with the arms crossed over the chest to resemble the funeral winding sheet wrapped around the dead for burial. The yeast bread is sweetened with sugar and often (but not always) has a filling made of ground nuts and raisins, cinnamon and sugar, honey or marmalade.

The following is the traditional Greek recipe which has been adapted to American kitchens.

The "lesson" of the Lazarakia is that, because of Jesus, even in the midst of the sorrow of death, there is the sweet joy of Life Eternal.

Here's a video on how to braid the Lazarakia without the filling, in case you're a more visual learner.

Lazarakia

• 8 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
• 3/4 cup olive oil (or 1 tablespoon tahini diluted with 3/4 cup lukewarm water)
• 1 1/3 cups sugar
• 2 packets active dry yeast (4 1/2 teaspoons)
• 2 cups lukewarm water, or more as needed
• A pinch of salt
• Whole cloves
• Greek honey
• Sesame seeds

For the filling

• 2 cups raisins
• 3/4 cup toasted sesame seeds
• 1/2 cup ground almonds
• 1/2 cup ground walnuts
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• 1 tablespoon cognac

In the bowl of a stand mixer, stir together the flour with the olive oil or the tahini diluted with water. Add the sugar, the yeast, the water, and a pinch of salt, and knead using the paddle attachment until the dough forms.

Place the dough in a large bowl greased with a little olive oil, turn to coat the dough and cover with plastic wrap or a clean kitchen towel and allow it to rise for at least 2 hours or up to 6 hours.

To prepare the filling, process the raisins and sesame seeds in a food processor, until chopped as finely as preferred. Stir in the ground almonds, walnuts, cinnamon, and cognac and set aside.

Once the dough has risen, cut it into pieces about 6 inches long and 2-3 inches wide, and flatten it out and place 2 tablespoons of the filling in the center and fold over the dough to cover the filling.

Shape the dough into a little Lazarus by pinching in at the neck to form his head and using two small strips of dough to make his crossed arms as he appears in the icons.

Here is a video that will show you how to make the "shroud". Note: in the video, the Lazarakia is made without filling. If you use filling, you would simply make "arms" to wrap around the shroud.

Use the whole cloves for his eyes and mouth.

Use another small piece of dough to form a strip to wrap around him like swaddling bands. Place on a baking pan covered with wax paper.

Continue with the rest of the dough, making sure to place them at least two inches apart as they need space to rise.

Cover the Lazarakia on the pan with plastic wrap or a kitchen towel and allow to rise in a warm place for an hour and a half to two hours.

Check if the dough has risen enough by pressing the dough, it should rise back immediately.

Brush with a little honey diluted with water, and if desired, sprinkle with sesame seeds.

Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for about an hour or until lightly golden brown.

Enjoy with a lovely hot cup of tea after you've prepared the church or your home - and your own soul - for Palm Sunday and Holy Week.

SO THAT

A Sermon for Lent IV – Refreshment Sunday 

March 11, 2018

St. Philip’s Episcopal Church, Laurel, DE

John 3:16. There are children’s songs about it. It’s rare to watch a football game on TV and not see someone holding up a sign in the stands that says, “John 3:16.”

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

The great theologian of the Reformation, Martin Luther, said that one sentence was the entire gospel in miniature. It has freed millions of generations of people to know essence of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and its essential doctrines of Incarnation, Salvation, Resurrection and Eternal Life.

That one sentence has also injured millions of generations of people because of the qualifying statement . . . . .

“ . . . .SO THAT he who believes in him . . . .”

Which raises the question: Is heaven only for Christians?

I don’t know about you but I know my answer to that question.

Personally, I wish John 3:16 would never be spoken without John 3:17. “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Of course, the Gospel writer contradicts himself in the very next sentence but I hang onto the belief that the whole purpose of God sending Jesus into the world was not to condemn the world but to save the world. The rest is just details and, I think, over selling the point.

I don’t find it helpful to scare people into believing something – especially about God and Jesus or, in fact, the Holy Spirit. Indeed, I would challenge that practice by saying that people acting out of fear is not really belief.   

It is, well, fear.

Some things simply have to be experienced to be fully believed. I can be warned that I will be burned if I touch a hot stove but I would argue that there is something in each of us that compels us to touch the stove for ourselves in order to believe it.

Some call that “original sin”. 

I call it “human curiosity”.

Ever watch a child touch something hot after being warned? Most don’t flat out touch the hot object. They tentatively put the tip of the finger on to the surface and, once they feel the heat, pull away just as quickly as they can. And now, they believe.

Often, faith development works the same way – for children and adults. We have to test it. Put our finger on it. Poke our nose into the closed tent. Smell the sulfur. See the red hot flame. Walk beyond the sign that says, “Danger: Do Not Enter”.

We often need the tangible in order to believe the unimaginable.

When I was Chaplain at the University of Lowell in Lowell, MA, there was a Greek Orthodox priest with whom I worked. After the baptism of a baby, he would carry the child in his arms around the church, introducing the child to her or his new “family”. 

He would stand in front of an icon or a stained glass window and say, “Ah, and here is your Uncle Paul. He was a proud, stubborn one. This is when God knocked him off his high horse. You’ll hear that story later.”

“Oh, and this is your Uncle Peter and there are your Uncles James and John - the Sons of Thunder. They are in the boat with Jesus – see him there? – and Jesus is calming the storm. I’ll be telling you that story when you get a bit older.”

“And there is Mother Mary, the Mother of God and the Mother of us all. See? She is holding baby Jesus in her arms just as Jesus will hold each one of us in his arms when we get to heaven. See how lucky we are to have all these people in our new family?”

The BEST part, however, was that every single adult - male and female - followed him around the church, hanging on every single word. We all love stories. We all love to see interpretations of stories. For some Christians, stained glass windows are the only Bible stories they ever read.
 
We often need the tangible in order to believe the unimaginable.

I am forever grateful to my grandmother for providing tangible examples of Gospel stories in much the same way. I loved the way she used everything in life to tell the stories of God.

One of my favorite stories happens to be about this day we are observing in church – the fourth Sunday in Lent. It’s known as Refreshment Sunday. It was the one Sunday in Lent when those who were observing a strict Lenten fast could enjoy something sweet and special.

My grandmother always made a traditional Simnel Cake on this day. I have made one for you, today. It’s waiting for you in the Parish Hall for Coffee Hour.

But, my grandmother didn’t just make a Simnel Cake. She used it as an opportunity to do a little teaching about Jesus.  She called them Bolos do riso “Laughter Cakes”.

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.

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, was allowed to sift the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves into the batter. I was also allowed to make the marzipan balls that went on the top of the cake. Eleven for the disciples. "None for Judas," my Grandmother would say, wagging her finger. And, a big one for Jesus in the middle (You can see that I used blue and pink Peeps Bunnies on mine.)

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 muffin tins or 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, laughter was the special ingredient that "made" that cake - special for Refreshment Sunday.

I believe in the Incarnation. I believe that God so loved the world that God sent part of God’s self into the world to become human like us.

I believe that Richard Rohr is right: Jesus did not come to change the mind of God about humanity; Jesus came to change the mind of humanity about God.

I also believe in the gift of Free Will, which allows us to touch a hot stove to learn about hot stoves for ourselves, and that getting burned, is sometimes the only path to belief.

I believe in the gift of Grace sometimes can only be found at the bottom of the place where Free Will sometimes takes us. I believe Grace gathers and pools there, allowing us to float and find our way back up to the surface.

I believe, that once you experience being forgiven when you’ve done something wrong, or being loved when you feel you are unworthy, you then become the best proclamation of the Gospel truth of God’s unconditional love for us all.

Not fear. Love. Grace. Joy. These are the best vehicles of evangelism.

And, I believe, laughter – especially in the face of evil – is the best statement of faith. Indeed, laughter, for me, IS “the Gospel in miniature”. . .  .

SO THAT . .  whatever evil you are confronting will know and believe that you are not afraid. Evil will understand and believe that you believe that God is greater than any Evil.

Even the kind of evil, disguised as fear, that keeps us, one from another, in the name of Jesus.

Amen.

The Devil and Mr. Jones

A Sermon for Lent II – February 25, 2016 

St. Martin in the Field, Selbyville

(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton

Sometimes, what we see in front of us is not the end. Sometimes, what looks like the end is just the beginning.  Sometimes, we forget the fact that before there can be resurrection, something – or someone – has to die.

In this morning’s gospel from Mark, Jesus is telling his disciples how the story ends. He’s flipped through the pages of the book of his life to the last page and tells him that he is going to be turned over to the authorities, that he will suffer and be killed.

But, not to worry. He’ll suffer and die but there is a happy ending. He will rise again. Because the ending is not always the ending. Sometimes, it’s just the beginning.

Peter is understandably upset. He doesn’t understand. He’s confused. He has left everything behind to follow this man, and for what? For him to suffer and die? 

And, resurrection? What does that even mean, really? In those days, people who claimed to be the messiah and who promoted resurrection were a dime a dozen. All Peter could focus on was the part about suffering and death.

Peter suddenly comes to a startling realization: if that’s going to happen to Jesus, Peter’s own life suddenly doesn’t look so great, either. So, Peter takes Jesus aside and begins to tell him to stop saying stuff about death and destruction and all that foolishness about resurrection.

And, what does Jesus do? Jesus yells at him,

“Get behind me, Satan!”

That’s pretty harsh, right? I mean, calling one of his best friends and most ardent supporters and faithful followers, “Satan”?

Well, actually, the Hebrew equivalent of the word Jesus calls Peter is ha-satan, which doesn’t mean “devil” at all. It’s not even a proper name, really. It simply means “the accuser” or “the adversary.”

Jesus isn’t saying that Peter is the Devil or Evil. He’s not saying Peter is “Satan”. He’s saying Peter is ha-satan. Peter is being an adversary, an accuser.

So Jesus tells him, “Get behind me.” Put your protests aside. Don’t oppose me; I have to do this. This is what I’m called to do. Jesus is telling Peter to follow him and be a disciple, get with the program or get out of the way.

Sometimes, what we see in front of us is not the end. Sometimes, what looks like the end is just the beginning.  Sometimes, we forget the fact that before there can be resurrection, something – or someone – has to die.

This may come as something of a surprise to you but, long ago in another galaxy far, far away, I was once a registered nurse. Indeed, over the years I’ve become convinced that God called me first to be a nurse to prepare me for what it means to be a priest. And, a mother. And, in fact, a better Christian.

It’s a long story which I’ll share at another time but I want to tell you about the time I was a public health nurse in Maine. See also: long ago in another galaxy far, far away.

At the time, I was living and working in Portland, Maine. I was young and pretty full of myself. I thought I was going to save the world – or, at least, a little corner of the earth and maybe a few people along the way.

My title said it all: I was a High Risk Maternal and Infant Specialist. I worked with very young very new moms – teenagers – some as young as 12 or 13. I visited them weekly, teaching them the basics of childcare as well as providing them information about their own bodies so they wouldn’t get pregnant again – well, at least, not for a while.

I can’t remember the specifics but I think either my census was low or the overall census was high – whatever the issue, I was asked to help out on the medical-surgical team. I was not pleased. Most of the patients were old and dying and, remember, I was young and going to save the world. That’s why I put all my energy and passion into caring for young mothers and their babies.

I was young and arrogant and, despite all my education, quite stupid. I was about to learn a lesson in just how young and arrogant and stupid I really was.

I was asked to see an elderly man, one Mr. LeRoy T. Jones who lived over on A street – affectionately known as “The Alphabet City” – downtown, behind the old Greyhound Bus Station, literally on the other side of the railroad tracks.

His street address told me that he was an African American man who lived in the “shabby” section of town. I knew the neighborhood well as a few of my patients lived over in Alphabet City.

It was a hot morning in August when I pulled up A street in my car and I was rendered almost breathless at the corner lot of the home of Mr. Jones. While his home was small and modest, the flowers that surrounded it were an absolute riot of the luxury of color and beauty. It was really an amazing sight to behold amidst the rest of the shabby, almost shanty houses in the neighborhood.

I followed the path around the house and saw that the whole of the backyard was a vegetable garden, filled with corn and carrots, pole beans and tomatoes, potatoes and yams, beets and zucchini.

I stopped to put down my bag and wipe my brow and take in this amazing site when I heard Mr. Jones yell, “Ho! Is that the nurse? I’m over here, near the back steps, by the faucet.”

I looked, and sure enough, there he was. I can still see him. A wee little slip of a man, he sat upright on a wooden box, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and bow tie and a proper straw fedora on his head. A large pair of sunglasses completed his dapper summer look.

He greeted me warmly as he dragged another wooden box from behind him and motioned to it for me to sit down, all the while talking about what a beautiful morning it was and how lovely I looked.

This was all quite remarkable to me because, you see, Mr. Jones was blind. He was a brittle diabetic who had lost his sight years ago to the disease – no doubt because he had not gotten proper care, despite the excellent health insurance and pension he received as a former railroad worker. He also had crippling arthritis and had a difficult time moving around and, on bad days, walking.

After we exchanged pleasantries I mentioned the beauty of the garden and how fortunate he was to live in the midst of it – flowers all around and vegetables in the back. He threw back his head and laughed in absolute delight that I had noticed. 

“Whose garden is this? Is this your garden, sir?” I asked.

Again, Mr. Jones threw back his head and laughed. “Whose garden is this?" he roared.

"Why, this is MY garden, of course,” he said.

“Your garden?” I asked. “My, my my!” I exclaimed in wonder. “But, excuse me, sir,” I asked. “Who tends your garden?”

Well, now Mr. Jones could hardly contain himself. He practically fell off his wooden crate, his little body was shaking so hard with laughter.

“Who tends my garden? Who tends my garden? Why child,” he said, “I do. I tend my garden.”

I was momentarily relieved that he was blind and couldn’t see the embarrassment on my face but then suddenly realized that you don’t have to have eyes to see. Still, I pressed on.

“But, Mr. Jones,” I said, “How can you tend your garden? You are blind, sir,” I said almost in a whisper. “How can you tell a weed from a sprout? And your body and hands are all crippled up! How do you manage? Shouldn’t you be taking it easy? I mean, a man of your age and condition?”

(See also: young, arrogant and quite stupid.)

I suppose Mr. Jones could have been angry and yelled at me. Instead, he laughed again and took pity on me, poor young, arrogant stupid soul that I was.

“Well now,” he said with a chuckle “This is when Jesus said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan.’ By which he didn’t mean, devil,” Mr. Jones explained, a far better biblical scholar then than I would ever be. “When Jesus said ‘Satan’ he meant, ‘accuser’.”

Mr. Jones reached behind his wooden crate and pulled out a few old burlap bags. “See these?” he said as he held them up. “Well, I just throw one of these down on the ground there. Then, I just throw myself on top of it. It helps me to glide better through the rows. I suppose I look funny but I can’t see myself so it don’t matter much to me,” he chuckled.

 “I feel around the rows for weeds, and I probably pull a sprout instead of a weed every now and then, but you know,” he chuckled again, “mostly I do alright.”

“See, child,” he said, leaning himself closer to me as if he were going to tell me one of the great secrets of the universe, “this is the work that the Lord has given me to do, now. I used to work on the railroad so products and fresh produce could be delivered to the people of the city."

"Now, I grow beautiful things for my neighbors and I give away most of my vegetables so the children here can grow up strong. Maybe I look like a fool to the folks who don’t know but that don’t matter. It may just look like flowers and vegetables to you, but it’s much more than that.”

“This world can be an ugly place,” he explained, “filled with ugly people who do mean, ugly things. But, the world can also be a beautiful place, filled with flowers and trees and butterflies and bees that make food for the eyes and the soul as well as the body.”

“I want the people here to know that once there was a man who lived among them who chose beauty over ugly, food over hunger, hope over despair. That means I have to die a little bit to myself every day. Got to let my pride die in order to do this work that the Lord has given me to do. Got to suffer a little bit of pain in order for beauty to grow and flourish.”

He lowered his glasses and his cloudy eyes looked straight into mine and asked. “See?”

“Yes, sir, I do, sir.” I answered, “I believe I do. I stand accused.”

“And you have been found guilty,” Mr. Jones said, putting his glasses back over his eyes before he broke into a serious, wide grin, “of having a kind heart,” he laughed.

“Guilty as charged,” he roared, laughing so hard he almost fell off his wooded crate.

And, I laughed right along with him.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear his laughter, and mine, that hot sunny day in August in Alphabet City, over on the other side of the tracks, behind the Greyhound Station in Portland, Maine.

Sometimes, what we see in front of us is not the end.

Sometimes, what looks like the end is just the beginning. 

Sometimes, we forget the fact that before there can be resurrection, something, something inside us – or someone, the person we thought we were – has to die.

Something inside me died that day. I think it was a bit of my youthful arrogance. I came to understand that it had to die in order for something new to be born in me. A new understanding of my life. A new understanding of my vocation. A new understanding of what God was calling me to do.

And, the passion I had was resurrected and transformed into greater compassion.

Before there can be resurrection, something has to die.

Sometimes what looks like the end is just the beginning.

That’s how new life begins. 

That’s how ugly becomes beauty. 

That’s how despair becomes hope.

And, that’s how the accused become disciples.

Amen.

Strong in the broken places

As the reality of the massacre of 17 students and teachers in Parkland, FL begins to leave an permanent scar on the soul of our nation, one way for some folks to deal with this overwhelming, unspeakable horror is to assign it to the time-tested but deeply flawed theology of "The Will of God". 

It begins with a statement which defines the very dynamic of faith: "We don't understand, we can't understand, the mind of God."

"All will be revealed," some assert, "and all in God's good time."

So far, not so bad. 

However, the more omnipotence we ascribe to God, two different, opposite things happen at the same time. We become increasingly infantilized while simultaneously becoming omniscient. 

That is to say, we begin to make some incredible assumptions about "The Will of God" for us the "children of God" who, apparently can only learn things through the punishment of tragedy and loss and death. 

And, funny thing: We seem to need to learn the very things that are important to the will of the very people who claim it is also The Will Of God. 

Of course, these are the same people who assert we can't possibly understand the mind of God.

The other day, I heard a woman at the market actually assert that the reason there have been shootings in schools "is because children are no longer allowed to pray in school," she said, adding, "God is angry and is trying to teach us a lesson."

Yes, she was serious. Very serious. 

I suppose, by extension of this .... logic ... this is why there have been shootings in churches.

But, you see, she isn't angry. God is. And she knows this because she sees what's been happening in 'Murica.  No, we can't know the mind of God but we have two eyes in our head, she said. All we have to do is open our eyes and look around, she said. 

I mean, what's wrong with you, she asked?  Wake up, she said.

Le sigh.

As I've thought about this, I thought it might be a good time to bring out some wise words about "God's Will". 

What follows are some excerpts from a sermon by Reverend William Sloane Coffin delivered to his congregation at Riverside Church in New York City in 1983, ten days after his son, Alex, was killed in a car accident in Boston. 

     +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"As almost all of you know, a week ago last Monday night, driving in a terrible storm, my son--Alexander--who to his friends was a real day-brightener, and to his family "fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky"--my twenty-four-year-old Alexander, who enjoyed beating his old man at every game and in every race, beat his father to the grave.

Among the healing flood of letters that followed his death was one carrying this wonderful quote from the end of Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms":

"The world breaks everyone, then some become strong at the broken places."

My own broken heart is mending, and largely thanks to so many of you, my dear parishioners; for if in the last week I have relearned one lesson, it is that love not only begets love, it transmits strength.

When a person dies, there are many things that can be said, and there is at least one thing that should never be said. The night after Alex died I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house outside of Boston, when the front door opened and in came a nice-looking, middle-aged woman, carrying about eighteen quiches. 

When she saw me, she shook her head, then headed for the kitchen, saying sadly over her shoulder, "I just don't understand the will of God." 

Instantly I was up and in hot pursuit, swarming all over her. "I'll say you don't, lady!" I said.

For some reason, nothing so infuriates me as the incapacity of seemingly intelligent people to get it through their heads that  

God doesn't go around this world with his fingers on triggers, his fists around knives, his hands on steering wheels. God is dead set against all unnatural deaths. And Jesus spent an inordinate amount of time delivering people from paralysis, insanity, leprosy, and muteness.

Which is not to say that there are no nature-caused deaths--I can think of many right here in this parish in the five years I've been here--deaths that are untimely and slow and pain-ridden, which for that reason raise unanswerable questions, and even the specter of a Cosmic Sadist--….

The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is "It is the will of God." Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break.

That's why immediately after such a tragedy people must come to your rescue, people who only want to hold your hand, not to quote anybody or even say anything, people who simply bring food and flowers--the basics of beauty and life--people who sign letters simply, "Your brokenhearted sister." 

In other words, in my intense grief I felt some of my fellow reverends--not many, and none of you, thank God--were using comforting words of Scripture for self-protection, to pretty up a situation whose bleakness they simply couldn't face.  

But like God herself, Scripture is not around for anyone's protection, just for everyone's unending support.
 

And that's what hundreds of you understood so beautifully. You gave me what God gives all of us--minimum protection, maximum support. 

I swear to you, I wouldn't be standing here were I not upheld.

And finally I know that when Alex beat me to the grave, the finish line was not Boston Harbor in the middle of the night. 

If a week ago last Monday, a lamp went out, it was because, for him at least, the Dawn had come.

So I shall - so let us all - seek consolation in that love which never dies, and find peace in the dazzling grace that always is. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So, while some adults are blithering and blathering nonsense around us, know that they are, in their own way, anxious and grieving. 

Try not to engage them in theological conversation. Instead, try being kind as a response, even if that means you simply share a gentle smile, wish the person God's peace, and move on with the rest of your day. As St. Francis allegedly taught his brothers, you may be the only Gospel anyone ever reads.

I know. It's hard. It's really hard. I'm obvsiously still working out the encounter I had with that person in the market. I walked away but she's clearly been following me around for days.

I urge you to take consolation in the words of this grieving father and caring, sensitive pastor.

You might also want to pay attention to the young survivors of the Florida massacre, and look closely at how they have transformed their grief and "found (at least a measure of) peace in the dazzling grace that always is". 

How else would they be standing there, talking with the POTUS who got into office in part because of a $30 million contribution to his campaign from the NRA and who still thinks arming and training teachers - more guns - is the answer to the gun problem. 

Hemmingway wrote: "The world breaks everyone, then some become strong at the broken places." 

May it be so for us as it has for the young people of Parkland and other places around this country that are rising up in dazzling glory to speak truth to power. 

May the scar that is forming in the broken places of the soul of our nation become strong enough to overcome the evils of power and greed.