A new voice rings out

Posted on October 18, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(Katherine Pfohl, April 21, 1908 – Oct. 18, 2012)

My Great Aunt Katie passed away early this morning, just a few days shy of being “104 and ½.”  It is hard to be too terribly sad, knowing that she had a full and adventurous life, marked by love of God, of family and dear friends.  She loved life in a quiet “day at a time” way, and she shared her passion for music as a patient teacher and capable performer.

In the past 15 years, I was able to visit Katie several times while traveling on business. One week, I was attending a conference on alternative medicine, held in of all places the Home Moravian Church, which my mother’s side of the family (“the Pfohls”) helped to found and build.  At that time, Katie, lived in Below House nestled in the heart of historic Old Salem. We were to meet for lunch on the conference break.  Earlier that morning, as one of the lecturers addressed us, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a lot of colorful movement in the vestibule. I didn’t have to look closely to know who it was: my Aunt Katie, dressed in hat and colorful scarves, with a ruffled parasol and hat punctuating her “look.” She was early for our outing, so I fetched her and she sat with me in the conference for a short while before we cut out for lunch and a visit.

Katie used to walk down to the dining hall at Salem College each day for a meal, a practice that no doubt contributed to her longevity.  The best part of joining her there was seeing how much the girls loved her, calling her by name.  Katie knew them all and would ask each about her family and her schoolwork.

On one of those trips, Katie, who never married, asked me about my ex-husband.

“How long were you married to that fella?”

I, still carrying some regret and shame over a failed marriage, replied: “Five years.”

“Oh, my,” said Katie. “I don’t think I could ever do that for so long.”

Katie loved life and she was loving and caring to whomever was in her midst. Her life was a true “ministry of presence.”  She shared her gifts freely and reveled in affectionate companionship and community wherever she found herself.

In the wee hours of this morning, the heavenly choir received a beautiful boost.  As we make our way toward the All Saint’s celebration, I will be lighting a candle for dear Katie.

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Forever reliant on God.

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(Photo taken at Camp St. John at Marywood retreat center)

When my dear friend Kim saw this photo of one of God’s more colorful creatures, she shared this acronym with me: “FROG: forever reliant on God.”

What does it mean to be forever reliant on God?

As this “introvert-intuitive-feeler” comes off of serving as a spiritual director for a busy retreat weekend (which came on the heels of a very busy couple of months), my soul longs for quietness and rest.  In today’s reading in Silence and Stillness in Every Season, John Main writes that meditation is vitally important because “it prepares us for the real freedom that lives and rejoices at the heart of this mystery within us… To pray in the infinite depths of our spirit, which is the depth of God, is to be utterly free” (page 264).

This afternoon, I used this excerpt as a meditative lead for a session of contemplative prayer with a small cadre of dedicated staff at one of Jacksonville’s homeless shelters.  Once each week, this group gathers to take time out of a frenetic schedule, to find that still point, to set aside twenty-five minutes for quiet.  To rest and plumb the depths before gathering ourselves to go out.

We plumb the depths so we can be, if not utterly free, at least a little more free of self.  We plumb the depths so we can once again be present with our brothers and sisters.

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It’s autumn somewhere.

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(photo taken in Minneapolis, en route to a family reunion)

We are officially in the fall season, though with recent days in the 90s it has been hard to recognize.  Dawn is coming later, which is always a good sign things are turning.  And Wednesday morning should see temperatures in the 60s — blessed relief in the sunbelt.

I have always enjoyed the fall. It is a time of new beginnings and is energizing in a measured way (not the frantic, wacky energy of spring).  It is also a time when nature prunes herself.  Leaves turn — sometimes with firey, bold beauty — then fall and fade away, often with the help of purposeful footsteps on their way to a new thing.

This is a spectacular time for me.  One of action and of waiting. Of reaching out to connect and of listening to the other. Dear God, help me to know how and when to act, when to gather and when to let go, when to listen, and when to do nothing at all.

Below is a sermon from September 30, 2012.  Many thanks to San Jose Episcopal Church, Jacksonville, FL, for inviting me to preach and share about new ministry as we build a “church without walls.”  (www.facebook.com/churchwithoutwalls.Jacksonville.FL)

San Jose Episcopal

September 30, 2012

Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22; Psalm 124; Jas 5:13-20; Mark 9:38-50

May the words of my mouth

and the meditations of all our hearts

be acceptable to you, O Lord,

our strength and our redeemer.

 

What an honor it is to be with you today

to reflect on Holy Scripture and to share a bit about

an emerging ministry here in the Diocese of Florida.

I was baptized in this church and,

while I don’t recall the actual event,

the smell of incense and beeswax that permeates this place –

that saturates the wood, the stone and the tile –

brings me back to my earliest sense of belonging to God.

This place speaks to my earliest sense of identity.

 

Esther was a beautiful, smart queen.

An orphan who was encouraged by her uncle Mordecai to be shrewd,

to do the very best that she possibly good for herself

in this very secular cultural context.

We know that he loved her, that he

had her best interests at heart.

He was a good man.

Esther throws herself fully into the process of a beauty makeover

when she is selected for the king’s harem.

Her dress, her actions, her self-care are all designed so she will

align with what is most valued by the dominant culture,

and she succeeds.

She wins the favor of the King and

ultimately becomes his beloved wife and queen.

When the chips are down, though,

Esther must make a choice to either

continue denying her heritage and her faith or

to risk everything – even her life –

for the sake of her people.

Esther saves the Jews from sure annihilation

by openly acknowledging them as her family.

In this process, she not only saves her people,

she also saves herself.

She is able to own her true identity as a woman of God.

In the end, she finds that she is still the beloved of the King —

probably even more so because of her courage.

Esther’s struggle is in many ways the human story.

But it doesn’t end there.

Our lectionary reading leaves out

an important part of the story:

Esther and her people don’t get it right.

Though they receive mercy and generosity from the king,

in their brokenness, they lack compassion.

They are overcome by the seduction of revenge and

slaughter 75,000 of their enemies.

It is only after this slaughter that they celebrate

their sorrow turning to joy and send food to the poor.

Not that much has changed since Esther’s day.

We live in a culture that expects some to win at life

and many others to lose.

 

In last week’s Gospel, the disciples argued over who was greatest

as they struggled to find their own identity

as followers of Jesus.

This week they ask the question:

Who exactly gets to call on the name of Jesus?

They hope to differentiate between themselves

and a group of outsiders who have been

casting out demons in Jesus’ name.

Christ’s response was one of generosity and openness:

“Whoever is not against us is for us.”

The disciples are talking about mission work.

They want to know what that should look like.

They want desperately to get it right.

This obsession with pinning things down is human.

But Jesus’ instructions have always been clear.

They have been staggeringly simple –

though often not easy to live out:

“Feed them.”

“Heal them.”

“Cast out demons in my name.”

‘Whoever wants to be first among you

must be last of all and servant of all.’

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and strength,

and love your neighbor as yourself.”

“Love your enemies.”

 

The Episcopal Church did something incredibly bold

back in the late 50’s.

We introduced highway signs that are still in use today.

“The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.”

It doesn’t sound particularly radical to us today –

But remember that this was launched at a time

when there was still much segregation and blatant racism.

Think for a moment about how brave this is:

Placing a sign out on the roadway where

all manner of people passes by,

You have no way of controlling who sees the sign.

In effect, we are issuing an invitation to

any and all takers.

and saying “Y’all come!

Whoever you are — wherever you’ve been –

wherever you find yourself on the journey of life –

you are welcome with us!”

Perhaps the best thing about those signs is that

they are out there on the highways and by-ways.

We are making our presence known in

the midst of the commotion of daily life.

That’s what Jesus does.

He may have taught on occasion in the synagogue.

He went to Temple for all the important holidays.

But he spent most of his time out there in the world,

looking for the thirsty and the hungry.

For the sick and the despised.

And when he found them,

he healed them,

he fed them,

he taught them, and

he commissioned them to go out to do the same.

Jesus called his disciples out of their comfort zone

because he loved them.

Learning to be a disciple of the living God

is not  for the faint-hearted.

It takes a willingness to let go of preconceived ideas.

It takes a willingness to be vulnerable.

It takes a willingness to fail miserably.

Increasingly I have felt called to work with people

who find themselves on the edges for whatever reason:

poverty, homelessness, or addiction —

or who are otherwise afflicted by a sense of

alienation or rejection.

Many of these folks are unwilling to

darken the doors of a church.

Their reasons are not completely different from

those of the population at large.

So we must bring the Gospel to them.

Together we build a church without walls.

This ministry was influenced by a project

I participated in during seminary.

Our team interviewed a large number of

20- and 30-something folks.

We found that people are as spiritually hungry and

thirsty today as they ever were, maybe more so.

They are searching for something real.

They are searching for a sense of meaning.

Many will not enter the front door of a church

but some will find a way in through

a “church without walls.”

I am convinced that there are people in the pews

who are hungry to find a way to live out the gospel

in the world, to find new ways to connect

with our brothers and sisters and with Jesus.

I invite you to pray and discern with me how

we might develop this new ministry together.

This concept of a “church without walls” doesn’t diminish

or negate the role of our traditional parish setting.

It merely expands it and energizes it.

Already there is a network of some

100 ministries across the country that

have sprung up in unlikely places –

offering Eucharist in city parks,

bringing worship to locked mental wards,

dispensing “ashes to go” on busy street corners

a small congregation that meets in a Burger King

in Hartford and calls itself BK Chapel.

The church cannot be contained.

The kingdom is manifesting in messy and wonderful ways.

It is in venturing out of our comfort zones,

It is in interacting with those who are different,

that we will encounter Christ and find our deepest selves.

Jesus calls us to do what he did when he walked this earth.

He welcomes every traveler along the way.

He invites us to discover and embrace every part of

our identity in him,

and to trust the Holy Spirit to empower us.

We belong to Christ who is our true home.

Owning that for ourselves –

and living into that —

That is what it means to be salted with fire.

We have been sealed as Christ’s own forever.

AMEN.

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A gust of wind.

Posted on September 24, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

A few days ago, I found myself seated on a plane next to a life-filled young man who was traveling to visit his girlfriend, whom he’d met while serving in Kuwait. He was one of those unusual folks who says “hello” and actually means it.

He asked what I was reading (Jesus Freak by Sara Miles), which I thought might shut down the conversation but instead had the opposite effect. As we chatted I learned that he was a preacher’s kid, who had explored a wide range of approaches to spirituality in his journey. He shared his favorite quote, paraphrased here: “A gust of wind can sail a boat around the world.”

We began talking about the Holy Spirit and how we can be led in our lives if we will be open to it. We talked about the importance of silence and of breathing deeply. This young man, whom I’ll call “J,” does a lot of work as a diver for the military — everything from repairing bridges to engaging in rescue operations. He said water is an essential element of his sense of identity and of his spirituality. I told him that being underwater for periods of time must be incredibly quiet. He said he always takes the first few minutes of a dive to sit motionless in the water, oftentimes in the pitch dark, and listen. When we parted ways, I shared contact information (he had asked a lot about the new ministry). I want to hear about how well J is doing in life and how he is contributing. Not sure when I will hear from him again but I hope I do. Our meeting was definitely a Holy Spirit moment.

(Photo with my brother taken on a roller coaster at Mall of America before we headed to some old family farms in Wisconsin. As the “wind” brushed over us, I couldn’t help but think of my conversation with “J.”)

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Even if we fail.

Posted on September 13, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(image downloaded from Dreamstime.com)

Some years ago, I did a little stand up comedy.  My entire act hinged on the premise that we humans do not enjoy criticism. “Anyone else here grow up with critical parents?” was my opener. The crowd laughed. Because most were able to identify.

The problem with taking the position of victim in the face of criticism is that it shuts us down. We stop creating. We stop thriving. We stop living.

Brene Brown, a social scientist who appeared today in an interview with Katie Couric, summed it up well when she quoted Aristotle: “To avoid criticism say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.”

Brown’s research on shame appeals to me – shame is something I know a bit about – and, yet, this is not unique to me (Brene’s TEDtalks on YouTube have been viewed more than 6 million times).  Brene now is focusing on the gift of vulnerability – something that is required if we are to connect with ourselves, with each other and with God.  It involves risk – and the willingness to be seen as imperfect creatures in a world that prefers and often demands “perfection.”

In her new book Daring Greatly, Brown invites us to find a way to live abundantly and wholeheartedly, daring to do those things that are worth doing “even if, in the end, we fail.” In the Couric interview, Brown points out that we love to witness vulnerability – true vulnerability – in others but it is not so appealing or comfortable to us when we are the one acting from a place of vulnerability.

Christ modeled true vulnerability for us when he allowed himself to be crucified for our sake.  Oftentimes – especially here in the Deep South – we focus on the cross as the price Jesus paid to cancel out our debt.  God doesn’t need us to pay any debt! But as shame-filled, vulnerable humans, we find our spiritual and emotional accounts overdrawn and we need to be able to find a way into God.  We need to get over ourselves.  We need to find a way to allow ourselves to be loved by the One who knows, sees and embraces all.

I cannot help but think of a particular vision recounted by Julian of Norwich in Revelations of Divine Love. In it, she sees Christ on the cross and she is drawn toward the wound in his side.  She discovers that this is the way into the heart of God – through the woundedness of Christ!

So, let us bring our imperfect, wounded selves to the One who was wounded for us.  In this place we are gathered and held.  From this place we find compassion and love for the Other.

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Silence is not always a virtue.

Posted on September 4, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Last week the Rev. Benedict Groeschel was criticized for making a statement that some victims of child sexual abuse were responsible for causing the abuse, that these youngsters were the “seducers” and that first-time pedophiles do not deserve to go to jail.

I suspect that Father Groeschel strives to be a good, just man and has done much good in the service of God and God’s people.  No doubt his age has played a part in this very public lapse in judgment.  He embarrassed himself and the Church, and he apologized quickly, asserting that the victim must never be blamed.

A very telling aspect of this incident is that Father Groeschel is so well known, so highly respected as a church leader, that the editors never bothered to review the interview before going to press. The problem with assuming our leaders and clergy are good and righteous folk is that we are inclined to accept what they have to say without considering it carefully, without thinking for ourselves.

This kind of faulty logic affects all of us at one time or another.  At some time or another, our biases will show themselves.  In our  confidence we become careless.   We don’t examine our own behavior closely. We don’t subject our beloved positions and ideas to careful review. We are reluctant to weigh things in the light of new information, science or experience. We don’t want to consider that our own high-and-mighty sense of righteousness might just be bigotry all gussied up.

(Photo taken at Kanuga Conference Center, August 2012)

Lately I find that I am becoming increasingly convicted about my own silence.  As a new priest I have been advised by many to lie low, to remain neutral on issues far and wide.  Sounds prudent.  Sounds sensible.  Sounds safe.

A friend of mine shared a link today from a first-hand account of a recent Jacksonville City Council meeting where fear and bigotry won.

Let’s let that be a temporary victory.  Let’s take seriously the call of Jesus to love our neighbor as ourselves even and especially when that neighbor is different from us.  Let’s be intentional in standing with the despised, the shunned, the bullied. For me, I commit to reach out to my brothers and sisters who are hurting. I commit to being a bridge-builder. I commit to letting go of my fear that folks will assume I am queer because I am single (trust me, few are more suspect than a single, celibate, female priest). I need the people around me to hold me accountable.

I love this country. I love Jacksonville.  I love the promise of freedom and equality for all.  That includes a sense of safety and welcome and the opportunity to thrive — to work and laugh and love.  Let’s stand together so all can win.  Let’s be brave together so everyone can be free.

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Making things whole.

Posted on August 28, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Being with lots of people, each with special gifts and a desire to build the church, can be exhilarating and inspiring. This week at Nuevo Amanecer, a conference of individuals dedicated to building Hispanic ministry through the Episcopal Church, I am gifted once again with being in the minority.

Surrounded by hundreds of people from a range of Latin American and Spanish-speaking cultures is for me an invitation into vulnerability. I am blessed through this experience to know a little of what it feels like to have a halting knowledge of a language, to want to communicate in that dominant language but to feel my ability is inadequate to speak from the depths of my heart and mind.

After a couple of days of much sharing and celebration, I feel called into a space apart, coaxed into a setting of quiet tranquility — a space of being still, of listening for the language of the spirit in my inmost parts. There is a time for inquiring and gathering, for opening new doors and windows, but there is also a time when withdrawing is the only constructive next step. This applies equally to facilitating an emerging ministry, a “church without walls.

So many great ideas, so much sharing of powerful life experiences — such wisdom — can shift from a space of building me up to a space of leaving me feeling fractured. I must retreat to that space of silence and wait for the gentleness of the Creator to knit me back together.  In the quiet I am soothed and nurtured, and the glorious shards and rich fragments of so many good things are gathered and reordered. In the quiet, I learn again to let go and trust that the One who loves us all will show me what I need and nothing more.

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Seeing, feeding, reweaving a life.

Posted on August 23, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

(Mosaic photographed at Our Lady of the Ark of the Covenant, Emmaus, Israel)

God is constantly at work in our lives though this is not always apparent.  But as we look back often it is possible to see a pattern and rhythm that suggests Life and Love at work.  I have been visiting lately with a homeless man with whom I had been acquainted in years past (through “the rooms” as they say in 12-step lingo).  He has a tender heart and wants desperately to trust God.

He tells me part of him believes that Jesus is real, but at the same time, he struggles because he cannot see Jesus. Recently he spent some days in the hospital and was not allowed solid food; by the time the doctor said he could eat, the kitchen was closed.  A young nurse returned shortly thereafter with a delicious hot meal she had purchased from the public cafeteria.  We talked about that moment – how good the food tasted and how soothing to the soul her kindness was.  He considered that, yes indeed, he could see Jesus in that act of generosity.  The sense of uncertainty in my friend’s voice is palpable, but so is the possibility of renewed hope.

We are none of us alone – even when we are certain that we are.  It is no accident that I reconnected with this friend at this place and time.  It is not an accident that shortly after our conversation, another friend called who was struggling to discern a next step – struggling to see the fingerprints of God on her dreams.  We discover the reality of the Living God as we live and move within the context of community.  My faith is renewed because of the beautiful people I encounter, because of relationships that are formed and re-formed.  We feed each other and help each other to see.  Together we move from a sense of solitary shame and fear to an experience of communal grace and faith.

I have been reading a fair amount lately and keep encountering a common theme – that God lights our path but not all at once, rather step-by-step as we need it.  Where he is leading us is not always obvious and it is rarely certain.  Sometimes the light comes in the form of a memory, or through a friend’s kind word or heart-felt sharing.  Learning to be open to this holy light, to look for it, means trusting a friend or two along the way.  It requires a willingness to be vulnerable, to share a bit of what we can see (or, at least, of what we think we can see).

Yesterday I was sharing with a friend about this new ministry, this “church without walls.”  I shared what is happening right now with it, and some of the next steps I can see or imagine.  I shared until I reached the muddy, dim edges of my vision.  It is all right to wander into the foggy wilderness.  This is a good place to pray and wait, to trust God.  He is working a wonder — weaving a grace-filled tapestry — in us, through us, and among us.

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A taste of shalom.

Posted on August 16, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

God showed up again today. I was early for a new devotional gathering and watched for the women who said they would be joining me.  None of them came.

(photo taken from Memorial Park, Jacksonville, FL, as a storm rolled in from the west side)

I couldn’t help but notice three women huddled around a nearby picnic table, celebrating the arrival of a box of Krispy Kreme by diving in. I said hello and asked them if they’d like to have a little devotional time. They asked me if I wanted a donut.  I joined them and made a bad joke about our feast being a particularly “holey” communion.

Two more ladies wandered over and, in fairly short order, we entered into a time of prayer.  One woman asked if she could sing – bringing a musical gift that was an answer to prayer for this non-musically gifted priest.

We read from John, about the Samaritan woman at the well. We spoke of living water that can quench the most intense soul-thirst.  And of that deep sense of hunger through which God calls us.  We prayed for one another and for all who hunger and thirst.  Then more song.  And joy.  Not a crazy, emotional, hyped-up joy but a deep sense of the goodness of God, of Love that is everlasting and available to all.

*******

Our discussion of the reading from John called to mind this beautiful psalm of lament from Ann Weems:

Come, Holy One,

feed to me a taste of your shalom.

Come, lift to my lips

a cup of cold water

that I might find my voice

to praise you

here in the pit.

Pull forth the hosannas

from my parched lips,

and I will sing to all

of your everlasting goodness,

for then the world will know that

my God is a God of promise

who comes to me

in my darkness.

–Ann Weems

(a portion of “Lament Psalm one”

from Psalms of Lament, p 4)

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Posted on August 11, 2012 by Mother Beth Tjoflat

Today the Church remembers St. Clare of Assisi. This entry about St. Clare is reposted from August 9, 2011.

Mother Beth Tjoflat's avatarwalkingwithclare

“Go forth without fear, for he that created you has sanctified you, has always

protected you, and loves you like a mother.”

– St. Clare of Assisi

This evening as news reports roll out about starvation in Somalia – 600,000 children are on the brink of death by starvation – I know that, if Clare had been born in this time, she would find a way to feed those kids.  She would not — she could not — allow herself to be distracted by all the perfectly logical, well supported arguments that would prove it is simply impossible to save them.  Clare would not arrive at the certainty of her conviction through careful analysis and human reasoning; she would simply respond to the light of Christ within her, driving her forward to do the just, loving thing.

According to Lesser Feasts and Fasts 2003, Clare (Abbess at Assisi…

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