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.

The Transfiguration of the Church

I was at the last General Convention of The Episcopal Church when the resolutions concerning non-discrimination of transgender people easily passed both houses.

I knew it would happen and yet I was stunned.

It wasn't that the resolutions passed. The logic was undeniable, no matter how you felt about the matter - right, wrong, or as some admitted, confused.

If you can't discriminate against someone because of their gender or race or age or sexual orientation or whatever peculiar or particular human condition you might have that isn't part of the "norm" (whatever that is), then it made sense to add "gender identity or expression" to the list.

That's not what was so stunning to me.

What blew me away was that this movement for liberation had not, as yet, claimed any martyrs in The Episcopal Church.

Every liberation movement - especially in The Episcopal Church - has had its martyrs.

In The Episcopal Church, the Civil Rights Movement gave us people like Jonathan Daniels (who was shot and killed), William Stringfellow, Bob Castle, and Malcolm Boyd. 

The Movement to Ordain Women gave The Episcopal Church the women known as Philadelphia Eleven and the Washington Four and the trials of Bill Wendt and Peter Beebe. 

The LGBT Movement in The Episcopal Church gave us Ellen Barrett, Robert Williams, Barry Stopfel, Walter Righter, and Gene Robinson, among many others.

In each of these movements, there were people who took risks and sacrificed themselves for the movement for liberation and equality and justice. Some went to jail, others compromised their career. And, for their efforts, they garnered a certain measure of notoriety and, as is said in the vernacular, "press".

Which, I hate to say, is a critically important component of the momentum of liberation movements.

That has not been so with the Transgender Movement.

That's not to say that Transgender Episcopalians have not taken risks and sacrificed themselves for the movement for liberation and equality and justice.  Their individual stories of transformation within their families and communities of faith are inspiring and amazing.

You can listen to some of them in the documentary Voices of Witness: Out of the Box.

That's not it.

It's just that they haven't had anyone who has gained any notoriety and press for his/her efforts.

That is, not until this past week.

On February 26th, Bishop Larry Benfield of Arkansas dissolved the relationship between the Rev. Gwen Fry, a transgender priest, and Grace Episcopal Church in Pine Bluff.

The Rev. Fry, whose name given at birth was 'Greg', had informed the congregation on Sunday, that she was in transition and had invited them to make the journey with her.

You can read all the backing and forthing of announcements and statements from the bishop and the priest as well as statements of support from IntegrityUSA.

Episcopal Cafe has them all here.

There are also links to "conservative"/ "orthodox" sites with cruel and horrid articles and comments about this event, but I won't send you there. It's embarrassing to see people who purport to be uber-Christians behave in this manner; that is, when it doesn't induce nausea and vomiting. 

Here's the thing: While the General Convention resolutions to change canon law and provide transgender equality gave Gwen some cover with her bishop when she came out to him, the reality is that, in the trenches of parish life, those canons and resolutions do not have any traction. 

Yet. 

But, it has begun.  

Yes, there is a Transgender person who is the Executive Director of IntegrityUSA. Vivian Taylor is doing a magnificent job.  She gets 'press' all the time.  We've come a long, long way from just adding the "T" and stirring well into the alphabet-soup of being Queer. 

I don't make the rules about these things, but it seems to me that, before any movement of liberation is considered legitimate in the church - especially The Episcopal Church - blood must be spilled on the altar.  There has to be a martyr. 

The Rev'd Gwen Fry now has the dubious distinction of that identity. 

There will be others. 

Before this is over - or, as this really begins - rest assured, there will be others. 

That's the bad news. There is good news. Several pieces of it, in fact.

Martyrs may be wounded - even mortally - but they give life to the movement they represent.  Indeed, the movement gets new life and becomes even more difficult to deny or deflect or destroy.

Yes, Gwen lost her job. That's not necessarily a bad thing.  She had just come out to her bishop and community of faith. Transitioning takes some time. She - and her family, her wife and her daughter, as well as her friends and her community - are going to need that time. 

Gwen will come back to parish ministry changed. She will be stronger and more spiritually centered and secure.  So will her relationship with her family, and they will change as well. That will make her even more desirable as a parish priest in many spiritually mature communities of faith.

That's another thing I want to say about this event: No one 'comes out' alone. Neither does anyone transition alone. It feels like that. God, it can feel heart-breakingly lonely and alone. But, it's not.

Spouses. Children. Parents. Family members. Friends. Communities. Churches. 

Everyone - Every. One. - goes through their own process of transition. 

Every. One. Comes Out. 

Some do it better than others. Some do it with grace and style. Others do it in pain and agony. 

But, when someone you know and love transitions, everyone they know transitions. 

When someone you know and love comes out, everyone they know comes out. 

They may not do it with the person who is transitioning and coming out. They may be totally antagonistic to the person who is transitioning and resistant to coming out. But, they are, nonetheless, like it or not, transitioning and coming out. 

So, please keep Gwen in your prayers - YES! - but also hold her wife, Lisa and their daughter in your prayers. Pray also for their families and friends. And, of your mercy and kindness, pray for their communities of faith, for the diocese of Arkansas and for their bishop. 

Everyone is transitioning. Everyone is coming out. Each in their own way. 

Along the way, they will make mistakes. Pronouns will be confused, misused and abused - or, used awkwardly. Very awkwardly. Names will switch from Greg to Gwen and back again. Even Gwen will do that. Faces will grow red with embarrassment. 

The PC police will get on their high horse and lecture and judge about not judging, because, you know, they are only being "prophetic" or "righteously angry".

The important thing to remember is that we're all human. The person who is transitioning as well as everyone else. 

Here's a link to a handy-dandy little resource called "How to Respect a Transgender Person" which provides some eduction, practical advice and instruction. 

Just know that you will probably make a mistake. Or two. Or, three.  God knows, I have. Probably will again. And, I have to say that, every time I have, I have been treated with such compassion and kindness and generosity of spirit by the transpeople I've known that it makes me want to do better next time. It makes me want to be a better person.

I think that an open mind and an open heart will carry you far as you transition with a person who is transitioning in terms of their gender identity / expression. 

This is a watershed moment in The Episcopal Church. We are going deeper in our spiritual journey as a people of faith. We are delving into what I think of as "the original sin" of The Garden: Sexism. 

Transgender people open and expose stereotypes and gender roles assigned by culture, some of which are buried so deeply in our subconscious that, when we see them laid bare, it makes us so uncomfortable and embarrassed that we squirm.

Transgender people, male to female or female to male, will lead cisgender people to the intersection of gender and sexuality, where, I think, all our images of God are tied and tangled in confusing knots of myth and culture and projection. 

Like it or not, ready or not, we're all beginning to transition. 

We are on holy ground.

As individuals and as a church, we'll be changed and transformed and never again be the same. 

In Matthew's version of the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus (Chapter 17), the disciples fall on their faces when they hear a voice from heaven say, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!”

Jesus said to the disciples, “Get up! Don’t be afraid.”   

And, when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus.

In the process of transition, we will all have times when the truth we discover or uncover will make us fall flat on our faces. 

Transgender. Intersex. Cisgender. We'll all do it.

But, when we get up and allow perfect love to cast our fear, we will see no one except Jesus.  

That, at least, is my prayer.  

A Very Queer Golden Jubilee

My very dear friends, Sheri and Lois - I call them my "adopted mothers," because, well, they are - celebrated their 50th Anniversary this weekend in Boston. It was a grand party, filled with laughter and story-telling and gourmet food and a lovely wedding cake and, because they are lesbians with many Queer friends, more than just a slight touch of drama.
 
I'll get to the drama in a minute.

Sheri and Lois were the founders of the Boston Chapter of D.O.B.  - Daughters of Bilitis , - the first lesbian civil and political rights organization in the United States - which they led for more than 20 years before turning over the reigns to a new generation of lesbian women.

It is now defunct, as most DOB chapters are, but has pretty much morphed into the LGBT Aging Project which is making new roads of progress for Marriage Equality and access to health care in hospitals and nursing homes for LGBT Seniors.

It's far from perfect but much easier, now, to be open and honest about LGBT relationships, but, in a former time, it could be flat out dangerous.

Back in the day, gay couples and lesbian couples often traveled together as cover for each other, but there were gay bars and then there were lesbian bars - the only real way most gay and lesbian people could meet and socialize with each other - and no one frequented the other.

The bars were frequently raided by the police and then, the next morning, newspapers printed and published the names of those who had been arrested in the local paper.

Which is why many lesbians and gay men took other names. Indeed, Sheri isn't really Sheri; her name is Claire but she took the name Sheri just in case she ever got picked up and arrested.

During their time in leadership in DOB, their home phone was tapped by the FBI, and their "activities" were closely monitored by the police. Still, they persisted and persevered, providing education and information, legal advice and emotional support for women who were isolated and persecuted for the bigotry and prejudice that affected them in terms of housing and jobs and education and their ability to have custody of their own children. 

There is no doubt in my mind that the DOB in general and Lois and Sheri in particular saved lives. And, when they didn't save lives, they saved the sanity of many women.

I remember with painful clarity the first conversation I had with my father after I had come out. Well, I didn't really "come out". I had been forced out.

I'll spare you all the details for another time but, out of the blue, my father called one night to try and "talk some sense" into me. He started by telling me that, when he has been diagnosed with "a touch of emphysema", the doctor told him that he had to quit smoking.

My father said, "I loved cigarettes, but on the way home I threw that pack out the window and never went back. Now, if I can do that, you can throw that woman out of your life."

It went downhill from there.

His last attempt was to tell me about the time he was a young boy, living on his father's farm. He said, "I used to watch the cows and, every now and again, one cow with try to jump another cow. I would ask my father what they were doing and my father would say, 'they are just overheated'. "

Then, thoroughly disgusted and frustrated, he delivered his final salvo, "Elizabeth, get a hold of yourself! You are smarter and better than an overheated cow!"

I was devastated. Sobbing and inconsolable, I called Sheri in Boston. She listened carefully and patiently, trying to affirm my goodness and graciously explaining that my father's world view was simply too small to try to fit in this new understanding of how the world worked in general and the implications for my life in particular. 

It didn't matter. I was inconsolable. And, rapidly getting hysterical.

When I got the the story about the overheated cows, however, Sheri started to giggle. Her response was so incongruous to what I was experiencing in that moment, it had exactly the effect she wanted. It stopped me in my tracks long enough to think about the absurdity of my father's words and the reality of my situation.

"Mooooooo!" she said. It was a low, slow sound, working up to a full bellow.

"Overheated cows!" she laughed. "Oh please! Oh, please! Stop! You're killing me! Lois! Lois! You've got to hear this one. I've heard a lot of descriptions of lesbians over the years, but that one is a first and it takes the cake."

"Overheated cows!" she shrieked! "MoooooOOOooooo!"

Suddenly, a switch was flipped inside my psyche and I heard my father's words for what they were. Sheri's laughter was just the medicine I needed, allowing me to move past the absurdity and recognize his inability to move past his simple, uncomplicated view of the world and into an affirmation of the goodness of my love and my life.

Sheri found an old pastoral print of some cows, cooling themselves in a stream. She tastefully colored two of the cows a light lavender, framed the print professionally and gave it to us as a present the very next Christmas.

That picture has hung in every home we've ever lived in, a reminder that laughter in the face of blind prejudice and ignorance is not only the best response, it is also the best antidote to that kind of psychic and emotional poison.  

I have Sheri and Lois to thank for that - and so many, many other wonderful lessons about how to navigate my way through life complicated by the prejudice and bigotry that comes with a "love that dares not speak its name."

There were many "Lois and Sheri" stories that were shared at their celebratory party, each one a testimony to their generosity and love and deep commitment to each other and the newly emerging Queer community. 

Oh, I almost forgot the drama.

After we had feasted on an amazing gourmet meal expertly exercised by Penny, another dear, dear friend of more than 30 years, some of the guys got up to start cleaning up the dishes.

One of the guys, John, dropped something into the garbage disposal and stuck his hand in to it to fetch it. Except, his hand wouldn't come out.

As Sheri and Lois continued to hold court in the dining room, some of us quietly attempted to help John.

First, we tried pouring liquid soap. Nope.

Then, some cooking oil. His hand wouldn't budge.

Michael, one of the guys who was there, is a doctor, so I quietly called him aside and told him what was going on. We decided that some cold water to reduce the swelling and then to slather the hand with some petroleum jelly might just do the trick.

Nothing.

I even tried using a plastic spatula and delivering his hand like a forceps delivery of a baby's head.

No way, Jose.

Michael then suggested we check it out on Google.

Duh! Of course! Except, it wasn't much help.

I did find a story about a cat who had gotten her head stuck in the sink and the only way they finally got her out was to sedate her and then put some petroleum jelly all over her before they were able to slide her head out of the sink.

No one had any Valium. We considered whiskey but figured that was probably not a good option. A drunk with his hand stuck in a garbage disposal didn't make for a very pretty picture.

Michael and I decided that we had exhausted every option and now it was time to call 911.

Before we knew it, our festive party of 12 Queer people was expanded to include sixteen (16!!!!) of Boston's finest firefighters, police, paramedics, EMTs and assorted other first responders, all huddled into our host's kitchen, trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation.

It took a little over an hour and included a blow torch to cut out the garbage disposal and some oxygen for John and much backing and forthing and, of course, some picture taking to document the saga because, you know, being Queer people, we are going to be dining out on this story for YEARS to come and someone is bound to say, "Get outta town!" and then we'd have the pictures to prove it.

Indeed, "The Liberation from The Insinkerator" was dramatically announced by two of Boston's finest who came into the dining room, one tapping a spoon on a champagne glass while the other held up the garbage disposal.

"Your friend is free," announced the fire captain to wild applause, "and this," he added, "is going to hang on my office wall. I'll use it for future training purposes."

And, because we are part of God's Rainbow Tribe, we simply had to serenade Boston's finest in thanksgiving for their work in rescuing one of our own from the many dangers, toils and snares of the garbage disposal.

We broke out into a wonderful version of "YMCA" - complete with all the appropriate dance moves.

They loved it.

Of course, our host was left with a sink and dishwasher and kitchen counters filled with dirty dishes and pots and pans and utensils but she won't be able to clean anything until she can get a new garbage disposal and a plumber to come and hook everything back up.

But, hey, we're the Queer community. Someone at the table knew someone from our Tribe who is a plumber and, last I heard, he was coming out first thing in the morning to make things right again.

And, John did spend a few hours in the ER at the local hospital trauma center. I talked with him this morning and he's doing just fine. His hand is in a soft cast and he's a bit sore and more than a bit embarrassed, but, as he says, "What a story, huh?"

I know, I know. I'm an Episcopal priest. I should be able to wring at least one sermon or theologically reflective essay from the metaphor of an aging gay man who had his hand trapped in a garbage disposal, but just this once, I think I'll pass.

If someone had said to me, even twenty years ago, that I would one day be in Jamaica Plain, MA, celebrating the 50th Anniversary of two very dear friends in a room filled with Queer people and just a touch of drama, I would have said, "Shut the Front Door!"

But, there we were. Male and female. Lesbian and gay. Ages 50 to 80 something. Mostly married to the people we love. Celebrating 50 years of so much love and devotion and commitment that is so strong, it spilled over and helped a few generations of people.

If we are blessed to be a blessing to others, then there was ample evidence of the truth of that assertion.

May there be many more celebrations of Golden Jubilees in our Rainbow Tribe. 

Happy 50th Anniversary, Sheri and Lois.

May the light of your love continue to be a beacon of inspiration and hope to us all, and may it be a continued source of joy and consolation to you both.