Rough edges and grace.

(photo taken at Our Little Roses home in Honduras.)

(photo taken at Our Little Roses home in Honduras.)

Today was a glorious day at Church Without Walls. The sun shone brightly, warming us up just enough after a chilly night. We had blankets and other items to share thanks to the generosity of our national church. Dear friends provided lunch and a delicious cake to enjoy. We had visitors from as far as Keystone Heights.

When I arrived to set up, I was tired and short-tempered. One of my failings is overwork and, if I am not intentional about it, I overextend. Loading a 6-foot table, flats of water and about 150 pounds of blankets into the jalopy didn’t help. This morning we had a skeleton crew as several regular helpers were away tending to family and other business. Nonetheless, I reminded myself that things always come together, and any “void” in staffing often allows space for others. To my delight a regular congregant, who usually stays on the edge of things, stepped up and ran the Java Jalopy coffee service. Others took care of set-up and clean up.

As we were getting ready for church, two of our folks got in a loud “discussion,” about what I do not know. With less restraint than usual I inserted myself loudly: “This is church!” There were some opinions voiced back-and-forth about who started it. “Makes no difference to me,” I said. “This is church, and we aren’t having this today. That is more than I can handle.” I am not sure I would be so quick next time but the correction seemed to silence the argument and divert the congregants to other business.

Worship was meaningful, with prayers voiced throughout the congregation. At the end of the service, we prayed for four birthday folks and sang happy birthday to “all y’all.” Lunch and cake went relatively smoothly. But then came time to share blankets. I asked those who were housed to allow those sleeping outside to receive first, to make sure they would be covered. During this messy and somewhat chaotic process one of our homeless folks, who had just received a blanket, started fussing at someone who was in line: “You aren’t homeless. That’s not right.” Back and forth they went. I interjected: “We’ll have enough, don’t worry.” The homeless friend kept shouting, and I shouted back: “Let’s not do this!”

As he kept up with the fussing, something told me to go to him, to put an arm around him. As I did, he leaned against me and began to weep. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated as big tears landed on his slice of cake. “Its okay,” I told him. He voiced shame and sadness and grief. We found a shady spot where we could sit. He shared from his heart as he gave voice to the demons that plagued him. We prayed and laughed and shared. I am so grateful I stopped fussing long enough to listen to what was beneath the argumentativeness.

This is privilege in its highest form: to walk with others who are wounded and longing for connection just like me. This encounter was a gift. It taught me that, when I am short-tempered, I might go to place of curiosity rather than shame. It reminded me to listen to my heart and make room for untended needs.

Pause. Take a breath. Look around. Teachers are everywhere and grace abounds.

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Coming together.

(Photo of beautiful plant gifted to me last year by my young friend Dorothy)

(Photo of beautiful plant gifted to me last year by my young friend Dorothy)

In the aftermath of the mass shooting in Orlando (and every other recent and incomprehensible tragedy), it is hard to feel anything other than profound sadness. I want to make room for this overwhelming sense of grief and yet I worry about lapsing into a place of deep despair.

This is not unlike feelings that arose in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. That day forced us to make room for possibilities that we had successfully avoided. It helps me now to recall how my immediate community moved in the wake of that shock and loss.

Instinctively we knew what to do, and we know now. Late that afternoon the neighborhood 12-step meeting, which usually had 30 attendees, swelled to 70 or more. This continued day after day as we felt the visceral need to circle the wagons, to be with others, to remember that we need not walk alone. We must reach out to community, whether they be coworkers, neighbors or whomever we find ourselves in proximity to. We must not walk alone.

As we came together at dusk on 9/11, no one thought about political leanings, sexual orientation or social standing. All potential barriers fell away. We were human beings on a shared journey. Human beings affirmed, comforted and encouraged by the simple act of coming together.

Eternal God, in whose perfect kingdom no sword is drawn
but the sword of righteousness, no strength known but the
strength of love: So mightily spread abroad your Spirit, that
all peoples may be gathered under the banner of the Prince of
Peace, as children of one Father; to whom be dominion and
glory, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer, p 815)

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Lasting impressions.

(Photo taken while hiking the Rockdale River Trail near Conyers, GA.)

(Photo taken while hiking the Rockdale River Trail near Conyers, GA.)

This week I was blessed to spend time with folks from a wide range of backgrounds, cultures and life experiences. In spite of our differences, we share a common desire to live in the life-giving flow of the One who created us all and to have a positive impact on the world around us.

I am grateful to share in the company of such humble and generous folk, to experience simple encounters that don’t seem like much at first glance but that work their way into the psyche, into the soul, to change us forever.

This afternoon I had such an experience, finding myself with an hour or so to share a meal with three colleagues, two known to me and one new. We each shared bits and pieces of our lives and vocational longings and, in the course of the hour, the seemingly disparate threads of our lives were woven together to create colorful strands of connection and identification. I feel rich in friendship and blessed to so quickly find common ground.

Then, as seamlessly as we gathered, we disbanded to find our flights. I find myself not only encouraged in the work but also changed for the better, and I know I am in good company.

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A thing of beauty.

(With my dear friends Darlene and Natalie in North Carolina)

(With my dear friends Darlene and Natalie in North Carolina)

The past few months have been a time of rich movement in my life. I have been engaged on multiple levels, which would not be possible without a willingness to let go. The focus that this season requires has meant that my blogging has been on the back burner. Even now, I have little to say but want to stretch into the realm of connection.

Last month some dear friends took me white water rafting – an experience that can be a metaphor for my journey of late. It has been exhilarating and enlivening, something akin to taking in fresh air and warm sunshine. It has also been nerve-wracking to face what at times has seemed impossible. My boat has taken on water and the paddling has grown awkward as I try to detect the sure cadence and flow of the river, as I pull against churning water. But good friends and wise guides have been in the raft with me all along the way, and they are here still.

As I pause on the riverbank and rest a spell, a deep gratitude is welling inside me. It is a good thing to make room for new experiences, new adventures. It is a good thing to be alive. It is a thing of beauty.

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Marked by love.

Ashes2goToday many of us will participate in Ash Wednesday services, offering ourselves – our brokenness and failure and our highest hopes — to the One who created us all. Today we enter the penitential and reflective season of Lent.

Church Without Walls will offer ashes and prayer as part of our Wednesday Morning Prayer and Coffee Fellowship outside Clara White Mission. At midday we will take to the streets offering “ashes to go” for downtown folks out and about over the lunch hour.

It is a time to remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return. But, in the words of poet Jan Richardson it is also a time to consider “what the Holy One can do with dust.” It is a time of surrender – and at the heart of our surrender is hope for the future.

God calls us again and again to turn and offer all that we have and all that we are to the possibility of new life. It is also a call to and affirmation of community. Dust gets blown by the wind of the Spirit and soon we cannot say that is mine and this is yours. The best we can do with dust is to acknowledge this is ours and all belongs to God.

I long to see what God dreams, to see what he will do with us, with dust.

So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
Let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked not
for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are


but for claiming
what God can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made
and the stars that blaze
in our bones
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.

–excerpted from the Jan Richardson’s poem “Blessing the Dust” in Circle of Grace (p 90)

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Young dreams.

(Drawing shared with permission from Beth Knowles on behalf of the young artist Chase.)

(Drawing shared with permission from Beth Knowles on behalf of the young artist Chase.)

This beautiful picture was created by the son of a friend and former colleague. His inspired interpretation of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech captures the best of humanity and speaks to the best in each one of us.

What if we were to look out for our neighbors in all things? What would it mean to know that our neighbors are concerned for our well being?

Being single for most of my adult life, I have some sense of what it means to go it alone. And, yet, despite my own best efforts at self-sufficiency, I have been touched and moved by the generosity of not just friends and neighbors but also strangers. Friends who checked in on me after surgery, who brought me meals, who ran errands, who took the time to sit with me. Strangers who offered a kind word, who helped carry a load, who bothered to smile and look me in the eye.

This drawing captures an often-illusive phenomenon: connection. Connection is something each of us is wired for, something each of us craves. Yet the thought of it can be unsettling, because it causes us to confront our own vulnerability.

Yesterday, at our diocesan convention, I sat at lunch with Bishop Henderson, who recently visited Church Without Walls, to worship with us and confirm some of our congregants. He told me he’d never experienced anything like it. “Sure,” he said, “I’ve participated in feeding programs and the like. But there was always a table between me and the people.” What he described was the uncomfortability and wonder of simply being with the other, without distraction, without some activity or barrier to hide behind.

At the end of his time with our congregation, Bishop Henderson joined with us as we took a church photo. After it was published someone remarked, “Shouldn’t you have had the bishop up front?” In the photo Bishop Henderson is surrounded by the crowd, embraced by the people (you’d have to look close to spot his purple shirt). By freely losing himself in our midst, he connects with us and we connect with him – each of us a child of the One who never stops dreaming for the good of all.

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From expectation to wonder.

(Photo of my first real tree in years)

(Photo of my first real tree in years)

This year I have approached the holidays by deciding to take pleasure in small things. By moving from a place of expectation to a place of wonder.

We talk a lot at Church Without Walls about how, while there is much to be joyful about, this can be a difficult time of year for many. Some are dealing with tremendous loss – the death of dreams or loved ones. Others are facing unexpected, life-changing illness. And many others are feeling shell-shocked by the speed and complexity of catastrophic world events, of inexplicable tragedy in our midst.

Life is full of disappointment; that is a given. Few of us have to look hard to find it. But, in the midst of heartache, there is always the unrelenting promise of light breaking in, no matter how dark the night may seem.

My discipline this Advent season has been to move from a place of expectation to a place of wonder, looking for joy and pleasure in small things: putting up a tree in my home for the first time in years; making time for a relaxed visit with a friend; or setting aside time to get reacquainted with myself in present time, looking for those neglected or abandoned parts of myself that are yearning for acknowledgment.

With open hands it becomes possible to receive the Christmas miracle, whatever form it might take: running into a dear friend I rarely see in the local Walgreens and basking in a few moments of sharing; being able to visit and pray with one of our congregants the night before major surgery; or experiencing the people closest to me in new and wonderful ways.

I don’t do well when things get too loud or too demanding. I don’t do well when I place too high expectations on others or on myself. When I experience life getting to be too much, I remind myself: Keep it small. Keep it simple. Drink in the wonder of it all.

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Silenced by love.

(Photo taken in my backyard in New Haven, CT.)

(Photo taken in my backyard in New Haven, CT.)

Last night during our Church Without Walls Advent bible study, we reviewed the scripture for the third week of Advent. As we read from Zephaniah, we noticed a marked difference between translations. One stated that God will renew us in his love, while another said God will “quiet you by his love.” A study note went further, suggesting we would “be made silent” by God’s love.

To be rendered silent by love is an amazing possibility. So often we hear the words “God loves you” or “God loves you and so do I.” This concept of love becomes tamed by overuse. It becomes a greeting or well wish more than a raw encounter of the heart.

Don’t get me wrong: expressing love to one another is important and often we don’t do it enough. My own father would likely be stunned to know that I saved all the little gift cards on which he scrawled the words “Love, Dad.” Those words are important to me, something I cherish.

Still, this idea of being silenced by God’s love speaks of being startled by the vibrancy of it, by the unbridled advent of it in unexpected places.

Last week, as we were setting up for Sunday worship, a regular member of the congregation, who suffers from mental illness, approached me. He made even less sense than usual, as he uttered a steady stream of inarticulate words. All I could say was “I don’t quite understand what you are saying, but I am glad you are here.”

Honestly, I was feeling a bit impatient, and not paying close attention to him as he hovered, and I continued my business. Half-listening at best, I placed communion cups in the tray. Suddenly I found myself startled, wondering if I really heard what I thought I heard: The words I love you emerged clear and strong from his jumble of speech.

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. Had I heard correctly? Then he said this: “Do you love us?” My heart wrenched and I looked him dead in the eye. “Yes. Yes, I do. Very much.”

A gentle smile flickered across his face, and he moved on.

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“Who are we?”

(Photo taken by my good friend Bill Shay in Fernandina Beach, FL)

(Photo taken by my good friend Bill Shay in Fernandina Beach, FL)

This sermon was preached this morning at Church of Our Saviour, Jacksonville, FL
Christ the King Sunday
2 Samuel 23:1-7; Psalm 93; Rev 1:4b-8; John 18:33-37

Today we are invited to be boisterous
and jubilant as we celebrate
Christ the King!
The One who is triumphant.
It is curious and not without purpose that
we celebrate this day on the Sunday before
Advent begins.

Next week the mood will shift as we prepare
to welcome the Light of Christ into the world —
a light that will come in the form of a vulnerable infant, one who is born into a family on the run,
born into a family of refugees.

How do we reconcile these very different images?
Or should we even try?
Perhaps we are meant to hold them in tension:
Christ the King and Christ the helpless child.

As I pondered this, I couldn’t help but
think of when Jesus visited the
countryside of the Gerasenes.
As he stepped out of the boat,
there were many gathered there,
hoping to hear him for themselves,
to encounter him and all his healing grace.

The scene is disrupted when the demonaic
comes running from the tomb,
his shackles broken,
and pleads with Jesus:
“What have you to do with me, Son of God?”

The able bodied there
– those in their right minds –
promptly leave, while Jesus stands calmly,
hands open and inviting,
before the troubled man.
He has compassion and quiets the
many voices, that have plagued him.

Later, when the people muster
the courage to return,
they find the man sitting with Jesus,
clothed and in his right mind.*

This is the overcoming power and authority
that Jesus, our King, wields –
the ability to be present, hands open,
in the midst of deep agony, brokenness and pain.

Earlier this month two of us from Church Without Walls
gathered in Dallas, Texas, with leaders from
30 other similar ministries
from around the country.

Collectively we call ourselves Ecclesia.
We shared stories and best practices and
offered prayer and support for one another.

While what each of our ministries offers varies,
depending on our context and community,
we all share an abiding commitment to a
ministry of presence – of walking alongside.

In our accomplishment-driven, goal-oriented culture,
it can be hard to get our heads around
this concept of presence –
but it is immeasurably powerful.
By consistently showing up for fellowship,
communion and prayer,
we foster a sacred space –
a community in which we witness the
powerful movement of Jesus.

I am wearing a cross that was designed
for Ecclesia ministries.
We are allowed to purchase these crosses,
with the expectation that we will bless them
and distribute them as part of our liturgy.

They are a strong symbol of belonging.
When we see one another on the street,
we know we are part of the same community.
This extends beyond our geography.

Five weeks ago, I was serving coffee from
the back of my car – also known as the Java Jalopy —
when a young man approached me.
He held up an Ecclesia cross and asked:
“Where can I find this church?”
“You’re here,” I explained.
He had received his cross from an Ecclesia
congregation in Philadelphia.

When we gather as a church,
when the powerful and privileged
come together with the broken,
forgotten and despised,
amazing things happen.

In this quiet, easy space, a leveling occurs
where we each let go of the pressure
of who we think we need to be.
We are able to rest — just as we are —
in this simple community.
Many who come from as far as Ponte Vedra
or Orange Park speak of the healing they
have experienced by gathering under
our sycamore tree.

I want to tell you about Richard,
one of our members who was baptized
on All Saints Day two years ago.

I first met Richard at a local shelter.
He visited with me over several months.
Often he wept as he shared about his struggle
with alcohol.

He expressed deep love for his 10-year-old daughter
and for his entire family, from whom he
kept his distance, not wanting to disappoint them.

About 3 months ago,
we learned that Richard died suddenly.
For days, we struggled to find any details
about his death or possible funeral arrangements.

But then, one evening I got a message
through Facebook from a woman in Georgia.
“Richard was my favorite cousin,” she wrote.
“I just want you to know how special
your church was to him, and to thank you
for providing a safe place where
Richard knew he was loved.”

A few days after that, I got a call from Richard’s mother.
She told me he had had a heart attack and
was found on the street.
“He was wearing the cross you gave him.”

As we spoke, we figured out that she volunteers
at a community hospital where I train chaplains.
That week, we were able to meet face-to-face,
and I reassured her that Richard loved her and
had no doubt that he was loved by his family.
Together we planned his service.

The gift of community – of meaningful connections
that can only be formed
by the creative love of Christ –
is greater that anything any of us
could do on our own.

In the Gospel, when Pontius Pilate asks Jesus:
“Are you the King of the Jews?”
his question is just as much about the community
as it is about Jesus.
He is asking the community: “Who are you?”

When Jesus is condemned and crucified, it is as if
the community has been annihilated
but we know the truth:
Jesus’ sacrificial action – his self-giving — is
about gathering the entire community –
it is about gathering all of creation
into Unity in him.

“Who are you?”
You are a beautiful manifestation of
God’s self-giving love.
You are engaged in so many ministries,
including our Church Without Walls.

When we act on behalf of the Gospel –
when we love and serve
the stranger in our midst,
it is not about the strong ministering
to the weak.

It is about a willingness to come together with
those who at first glance may seem quite different.
It is about sharing whatever we may have
or need on any given day.
It is about both giving and receiving.
The One who is at the same time
Triumphant King and Vulnerable Child
allows this leveling to take place.
In Him, mutual ministry is born.

“Who are we?”
We are children of the King.
And we are children of the One
who knows our deepest need,
because he himself has experienced it.

So let us listen to his voice.
It is for this that we were born.
AMEN.

*Adapted from Craig Rennebohm’s Souls in the Hands of a Tender God.

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Made holy.

(Photo taken by Mary Hamilton at Church Without Walls in Jacksonville, FL, Oct. 18, 2015)

(Photo taken by Mary Hamilton at Church Without Walls in Jacksonville, FL, Oct. 18, 2015)

At Church Without Walls, we often end the service with a blessing attributed to St. Clare. It includes the words: “Your Creator loves you, made you holy…”

What does it mean to be loved, to be made holy? And how can we honor this?

If we accept that we are made in the image and likeness of God, we must accept that we are made whole or complete. We are challenged to love and embrace ourselves just as the One who created us embraces and loves us.

This morning I heard a Franciscan priest talk about how the Prayer of St. Francis (written not by St. Francis but rather hundreds of years after Francis’s death) is counter to Francis’s theology — how he would never utter words asking God to “make” him anything because he was already made. His point invites me to look for the wholeness — the holiness — within, to seek the divine footprint in my soul and my life as part of the whole of an active creation.

I remember explaining some years ago to a group of 12 step friends — as we sought to discern, as best we could, God’s will for us — that God hadn’t called me to be Mother Teresa, of that I was certain. He had already created Mother Teresa. My job was to discover who I was, who God had created me to be, and to work to become the best “me” I could. Many meanderings and missteps later, I still maintain that this is my job.

In my chaplaincy work, in the hospital and on the street, I am called to face and be present with a fair amount of horror and ugliness. I have come to find that the only way to do this work with any integrity is to learn to face and be present with the horror and ugliness within myself. To learn to embrace those parts of myself I find abhorrent, and, in the face of failing and pain, to love the wretchedness, to discover God loving me in the darkest depth and loneliness.

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