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.

*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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A Third Way.

(Photo taken at Camp Weed, near Live Oak, FL, Oct. 19, 2015.)

(Photo taken at Camp Weed, near Live Oak, FL, Oct. 19, 2015.)

My tendency is often to sort things out, deciding what fits where, as I attempt to order my own life and seek to make sense of the world around me. I know I am not alone in this endeavor.

I know I am not alone in times of angst and frustration, when life’s circumstances don’t lend themselves to such tidy work. Perhaps those things that truly matter are not meant to be fully known or understood by mere mortals. Perhaps instead we are called to love. To be generous.

Drawing on the wisdom of the mystics, Richard Rohr writes of a Third Way – encouraging us to stand in the place between what we know and what we don’t know.* This way of being calls us to search for wisdom rather than answers. It calls us to a place of unity rather than to a place of being right or wrong.

There are an infinite number of ways to look at any issue if we are willing to look anew — if we allow ourselves to enter waters of wonder rather than rightness. What if we were to let go of the need to “prove” and “pin down” and instead to stretch into a place of expansive curiosity?

What if I were to sit peaceably and listen to your heart, not just to the surface currents but to those things deep and hidden? What if I were to love and discover you just as you are?

* Yes, And: Daily Meditations, p 410.

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Hurry not.

(Photo taken in Kula, Maui, September 2015)

(Photo taken in Kula, Maui, September 2015)

This past week I was reminded that rushing is not necessary. It is not life-giving. It is not healthy.

On Maui, no one seems to be in a hurry, even folks going through the motions and routine of day-to-day life. If someone’s mind wanders while stopped at a stop sign, the driver behind just goes with the flow, taking advantage of the pause. There were no signs of road rage anywhere.

I quickly learned to lean into the pause, to enjoy it, to experience it is an opportunity to take a breath and notice what is happening in the world around me: a clump of wildflowers blooming by the side of the road, a bird flitting from branch to branch, the clouds moving to form yet another spectacular show of light, shadow and extraordinary color.

Slowing down to such an extreme put my “normal” routine in stark relief. It affirmed what I had been coming to acknowledge and accept over these past few months: it is time to make changes, to discern the essential and necessary for today rather than trying to do so much, so quickly.

This involves trusting God and considering that God is in charge. As my new friend Paul, a gentle “old hippy spirit” I visited at a hospital in Kula, told me: “You are loved and God’s working it all out.”

So, back on the mainland, I am taking a few small but concrete steps to maintain that “Maui mellow” – to free up the type B person within who has been crowded out by a type A life. I am not kidding myself. I know it will be easy to move to my default behavior.

Even so, I am looking forward to a new practice – a spiritual discipline – of pausing, waiting and discovering the beauty all around.

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Resting in grace.

(Photo taken this morning, while walking above Kula, Maui)

(Photo taken this morning, while walking above Kula, Maui)

I am blessed to be staying in Kula, a tiny town nestled 3500 feet up, on the island of Maui. For me, this time away represents a much-needed and long overdue respite — a time to reflect on what has been and to ponder possibilities. An old writer-friend used to say: “The hardest choices are not between the good and the bad; the hardest choices are between two good things.”

My life is blessed with many good things, and discerning choices — even those “small” day-to-day decisions — can be a dizzying source of tension and angst. I am grateful to my friends Kerith and Ali for their hospitality and to tender Haley for being my 4-legged companion during my stay.

This morning, as I took a beautiful walk along a narrow, one-lane road, the promise of new perspective hovered in the air. I was reminded of the healing power that comes from immersing oneself in the beauty of the earth. The sense of renewed hope and the promise of restoration called to mind this favorite poem:

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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Open hands.

(Photo taken near St. Augustine, FL.)

(Photo taken near St. Augustine, FL.)

Last night I dreamt I was travelling somewhere – with my former roommate Lisa and our friend Ashley and possibly one other soul or two. We arrived at our initial destination by what means I know not. A plane? A glider? A hot air balloon? Our landing was smooth, gentle, effortless.

Suddenly I was in wide-open space, the flat ground covered with grass that was spare but green, the sky wide and blue with wisps of cloud. I could see a city in the distance and a vast ocean to my right. I looked around and saw the bay and waterways close at hand and, as I ran toward the edge of grass, a cement walkway – a tiny boat ramp — rose up, leading into the water.

I was mesmerized as gorgeous, huge fish leapt out of the water, one with a silver-white body, with a jagged streak (perhaps lightening?) running its length.

There was a man with a young boy splashing in the water, delighted by the activity. Gorgeous turquoise and brilliant sapphire blue flying fish leapt out of the water, dancing in front of us. I began to shout with joy and awe — Look! Look! – and glanced back to be sure my friends could see what was happening but they must have had other business to tend.

Then the man stepped onto the far end of the ramp, looking at me, his hands held out, open and receptive. You have an amazing voice, he told me. I wondered to myself, What does he mean, you have an amazing voice, for I have often been uncertain about the tenor and power of my voice. I didn’t ask the question aloud but the man seemed to have heard it anyhow.

Do you see what has happened, he asked. My son heard your voice – the power and joy of it – and suddenly he wanted to be with his mother. And suddenly I was aware of a woman also in the water and of the young boy who had climbed into her arms. I felt a mix of intense longing and delight. They shared the joy of being together in this amazing place of wonder as sunlight and fish danced on the shimmering sea. They found themselves and each other and, as I took this in, I found some lost part of myself. I found a sense of strength and power that was healing for me because it was rooted and grounded in generosity and love.

Some time after this encounter, I caught up with my friends. We broke bread and shared with one another all that we could of what each of us found through our respective adventures that day.

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Communion happens.

(Photographed in the “garden of hope” at Clara White Mission, Jacksonville, FL.)

Last night my dear friend Ian, who a couple of weeks ago staged a production of Godspell to benefit Church Without Walls, shared a wonderful story with me:

This week he was downtown with several Godspell cast members as they prepared for a fabulous production of Spring Awakening this week.

The group had just bought sandwiches and were headed to Heming Park to enjoy them.

Then, suddenly, they heard someone shout “Godspell!”

They looked up to see one of our Church Without Walls parishioners, who is not hard to recognize, with his sometimes awkward gate and flourish of tattoos. This man had attended not one but two performances of Godspell and was so moved that he brought others from his camp to experience it the second time.

During this happy exchange, one of the young actors tore his sandwich in half and shared it with this man as the group found a place to sit together and share a common meal.

Moments like this make the day-to-day work of building community — of being church – worthwhile.

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