Expectations.

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

(Photo taken at Church Without Walls.)

Time and again, we have been warned to avoid having expectations. Our 12-step friends often caution us: “An expectation is a resentment waiting to happen.”

The wisdom in this is indisputable. When I shift from dreaming dreams and making plans to expecting things to turn out a certain way, or expecting others to behave in a predictable manner, I am setting myself up for a world of hurt.

But recently I have come to see that a certain kind of expectation makes sense, even can be helpful. For example, I have come to recognize a certain dynamic that happens inside me. When I feel threatened or challenged or dominated in some way, there is a part of me that pushes to the fore of my psyche, that wants to draw the shades, shutter the house, turn out the lights and lie low until the “threat” passes.

This very powerful thing that happens within me is something I typically resist, something I feel ashamed about and frustrated by. When it happens, I find myself holding back at best, and shutting down altogether at worst.

But I don’t hate this thing about me anymore. And I no longer pray for it to be removed. Instead, I am taking a different tack altogether. I am coming to expect it. It will come again, and when it does, I pray for the grace to embrace this part of me as a dear and cherished friend. Thank you for stepping up to help. But you can rest now. I will invite the other parts of myself to the table – the strong, courageous, resilient parts. We will press on. No more holding back or lying low.

What a wacky, messy, wonderful adventure this thing called life is. Whatever is happening is wonderful and to be enjoyed. And as an old friend is fond of saying: “If you can’t enjoy what’s happening, then enjoy not enjoying it.”

What is the celebration of the Epiphany, if it is not a reminder that Christ is present in all we experience. We have every reason to live a life of expectation – of expectancy, as my spiritual director likes to say — and to watch and wonder as gifts arrive in the most unexpected forms and places.

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In a mirror, dimly.

(Photo taken at Lake Logan, NC, in September 2013)

(Photo taken at Lake Logan, NC, in September 2013)

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.
(1 Corinthians 13:12)

This phrase came to mind today as I reflected on those with whom I have had the privilege of journeying, if only for a few brief moments. I am struck by the imagery of a mirror. I can run and even make a pretty solid attempt at hiding, but there is no escaping my self. Even when I try to forget myself and attend to another, I must remember that my perspective is always affected by my experience and sense of who I am.

This past weekend I had the joy of being with my very dear friend Lisa as she took a significant, intentional step in her spiritual journey. While I am delighted that she has chosen to hook her wagon to the same denominational clan as mine, what truly thrills me are her steadfast courage and quiet listening as she continues to trudge along on this great adventure. What truly thrills me is her desire to love others – especially those “others” who are most often shunned or forgotten. She is not afraid to face vulnerability in others because she is willing to own and embrace her own brokenness.

I am struck that this scriptural reference to seeing dimly is embedded in scripture that speaks to us of love. Though frequently read at weddings, there is nothing smarmy or wimpy about the love described here. It speaks of giving ourselves to God and to our neighbor, trusting that in spite of our blindness love will prevail. The imagery of a mirror reminds me that I cannot love others without loving myself, that, because of the way we are made, these two actions are inextricably linked. God calls us to regard ourselves with the same love and compassion with which God welcomes and holds us.

My hunch is that this kind of incomprehensible generosity can only be received in authentic vulnerability.

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The holy “no.”

This entry is worth revisiting as I grow into the discipline of saying “no” to invitations and requests I would love to accept.

Mother Beth Tjoflat's avatarwalkingwithclare

(Photo taken at the Church of the Visitation, Ein Kerem, Israel.) (Photo taken at the Church of the Visitation, Ein Kerem, Israel.)

As we journey this last week toward Christmas, we celebrate the young girl Mary, who without respect to personal cost, said “yes” to the invitation to become the mother of Jesus.  “Let it be with me according to your word (Luke 1:38).”

This “yes” is a good thing.  We are enthralled by the might and power of this event.  If we are blessed enough to sense our own deep hunger that is the voice of God calling us, we can be drawn into a lifetime of asking the question: “To what is God calling me?”  We open ourselves to the grace of the Holy Spirit and pray for the courage to say “yes.”

But what about “no?”  Or, more specifically, what my spiritual director calls The Holy No?  I am not speaking about saying “no” to God but…

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The girl without hands.

(Photo of an icon I wrote. My teacher points out that the eyes of this Christ both comfort and convict, something for which I am grateful.)

(Photo of an icon I wrote. My teacher points out that the eyes of this Christ both comfort and convict, something for which I am grateful.)

Lately I have been thinking about this fairy tale, which I encountered years ago. In the past, it helped me in the “in-between times,” when the realization that old ways of being and doing no longer served me. Our 12-step friends would say that when we experience such realizations, it is time to “let go of our old ideas” and behaviors. They would say that we “stand at the turning point,” that we must “ask God’s protection and care with complete abandon.”

These past weeks I have been deeply disturbed by the events in Ferguson and most recently by the decision of a grand jury in Brooklyn to not indict a police officer, who used a banned chokehold which caused the death of Eric Garner. Whether we are aware of it or not — regardless of what we think of these and similar events — each of us is wounded and in pain. No one gets to escape this horror.

In Jacksonville, where I live, communities remain largely segregated. Churches may well be the most segregated groups in our city. The culture here is one where warnings such as don’t rock the boat or don’t stir things up seem to prevail. Peacekeeping wins out at the expense of true peacemaking.

A dear friend and mentor Bishop John Selders (@BishopJSelders) recently shared a photo of a sign that read: White Silence is Violence. I realize that my silence (and that of others) is complicit with a system that is corrupt and broken. My silence refuses to challenge the powers that be. But I also am acutely aware that my silence — whenever I witness injustice in any form and fail to speak up – is also a violence that turns inward, killing me bit my bit.

One Sunday some months ago, after our outdoor church service, a mother (African American, with 3 beautiful children) was sitting on the curb, minding her own business. A police car pulled up and the officer proceeded to grill her for a long time. From a distance, I felt fear (fear for her but also fear that came from not wanting to invite negative attention to our church of mostly poor and disenfranchised folks). I felt physically sick, watching this mother engage quietly and cooperatively (I don’t know if I could have done that, had I been in her shoes). When we were wrapping up our community lunch, she was still there, down on the curb, talking with police, who remained in their car for the entire exchange. When it was time to put away our church supplies, I walked over and asked her if she was okay and when she said yes I left. A week or two later, she came to church again, and I was relieved to see her and her children. She told me the police had been responding to a rumor. To their credit, they went to her home some days later, to tell her that, when they checked out her version of the story, they found all was in order and left her in peace. I told her I should have stayed with her, should have sat with her on the curb. I felt ashamed.

My resistance comes in part from fear but also from inexperience. I feel ill-equipped, much like the girl without hands, who stares at the bloody stumps where her hands once were and weeps. Like her I must allow others to invite me to try something new. I must be willing to try on some ways of being that in the end may not be right for me, but will be of some help temporarily (just as the girl uses silver prosthetic hands for a season). I must trust that over time, if I am faithful in my trying, God will give me new hands. And in the meantime, may I remember that it is never wrong to stand (or sit) with a sister or brother. It is never wrong for us to walk alongside one another.

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The heart of God.

(Photo taken in Philadelphia in October at a retreat for those engaged in street ministry)

(Photo taken in Philadelphia in October at a retreat for those engaged in street ministry)

The following sermon was preached this Thanksgiving Day at St. John’s Cathedral, Jacksonville, FL.

(Deuteronomy 8:7-18; Psalm 65; 2 Corinthians 9:6-15; Luke 17:11-19)

May we experience that Love
which is no respecter of persons.
In the name of God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Recently I had an opportunity to visit at length with “Andy,” a man I met in the hospital.

Quickly I learned that he was homeless
and suffering from chronic health issues.

Our conversation was difficult at first.
He was nervous and frustrated and shared too much information about his bowel habits.

“No one cares about reality,” he complained.
“Nobody is living in REALITY.”
I waited to see if he might explain further.
“People don’t mean what they say.
They don’t really want to help.
They just want to feel better about themselves.”

I asked if I could pull up a chair and sit for a while
and he shrugged as if to say: “Why not?”
It was difficult listening to him gripe,
but I hung in there.
Eventually he told me he had been living in the woods
off of Mayport Road for the last four years.
He had lost his job and shortly thereafter was evicted.

As I lingered there, Andy began to review his life.
He spoke of his love for learning.
As a young boy, he often cut class –
which he found boring –
so he could spend time in the library.
Though he had only finished 7th grade,
it was obvious that he has spent his lifetime
reading voraciously.

He told me about growing up in Seattle in poverty,
where he took care of his younger siblings.
Brothers and sisters who are spread out in
other parts of the country now and
who have little to do with him anymore.

Eventually Andy told me about his faithful companion —
Tanner — a dachshund who was with him
for 10 years, both while he was housed
and when he began camping.
Tanner would always come looking for him.

One day, while Andy was waiting at a bus stop,
he saw Tanner a few blocks away,
crossing the road.
The next thing he knew, the dog had been hit.
When he ran over to Tanner, it was obvious
the dog would not survive his injuries.
As Andy got down on his knees to tend his pup,
who was barely breathing,
Tanner looked at him and somehow managed
to wag his tail.
To Tanner, Andy was not a homeless derelict.
He was a loving companion.
A loyal and generous friend.

There were times in our conversation
when Andy complained that no one is
interested in truly helping him.
I started to mention various non-profits that
assist the homeless and poor at the beaches
but I bit my tongue.
I realized he knows more about those services
than I do.

Folks who have been hanging on
the edge of life for some time
grow weary of being told what
we think they need to do.
Like you and I, they long for an independence,
that includes a sense of agency, to make choices
and determine the course of their lives.

Throughout our visit, Andy kept returning obsessively
to the idea that if he only had a computer,
then everything would work out okay.
Honestly, it sounded a little crazy to me,
but finally I asked: “It sounds like having
a computer is really important.
What do you imagine that would do for you?”

He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts.
“If I had a computer,” he explained,
“I could be here, communicating with
someone else at a distance.
Someone who could not see me or
make judgments about me.
If I had a computer, then we would be equal.”

As I sat and listened to that stranger,
he took me to church.
The power of his story connected us.
As I rose to leave, Andy took my hand.
“I hope one day we’ll have the chance to meet again.”
In that moment, I saw Christ in his face,
and his words blessed me.

The Thanksgiving before last, I mentioned
my mother’s faith tradition
— the Moravian Church –
which values the idea of a shared meal
as a sacred time of fellowship.
But this visit with Andy called to mind
another Moravian tradition:
In the cemetery at Home Moravian Church
all the grave markers are the same size,
showing that we are all equal in the eyes of God.
And, rather than standing upright, the stones lie flat
as a symbol of humility before God, the great I AM.

In our Old Testament lesson, Moses is speaking to
the Israelites 40 years after the original covenant.
He wants them to remember God
as the source of all life.
He wants them to remain humble and
to teach their children this truth:

We cannot love God without being grateful.
we cannot love God without giving thanks
for all that we are,
for all that we have and all that we experience.
We cannot love God without really
seeing our neighbor,
without loving our neighbor,
in good times and bad.

I want to tell you now about Robert,
one of our more active Church Without Walls
members, who is spending Thanksgiving in jail.

A few weeks ago Robert took care of some
unfinished business, knowing it would involve
2-3 weeks behind bars.
We are holding him in prayer and are grateful
he will be with us for the last weeks of Advent
and for Christmas.

For our stewardship season, Robert wrote this account
of his church experience:
“I am a homeless man. I guess I am the epitome
of a homeless man. I live in a tent in the woods
with my dog (Baby Girl) and
we take care of each other. Literally.

My church is the Church Without Walls,
mainly because I have felt the presence of
the Holy Spirit there. I still do.
That’s why I go to everything—Sunday service
and two bible studies each week.
The people you meet are real — good and bad —
and we are like a big weird family.
We have something in common though:
we all are seeking to be closer to God.
We are studying the Word.
We are doing our best to love one another.
Just as Jesus said we are all supposed to do.”

In the tenth chapter of Deuteronomy,
Moses tells the Israelites that their hearts
are in need of circumcision.
Selfishness and self-righteousness must be
cut away in order to reveal the heart of God.
He tells them this God of Gods shows no partiality
and takes no bribes.
This God executes justice for the orphan and widow
and calls his people –
who have been strangers themselves –
to love the stranger in their midst,
to feed and clothe those in need.

To experience the heart of God,
we must be willing to touch suffering –
in ourselves and others –
because that is where Christ is found.

For everything that we experience and
everything that we are,
may we remember to give God thanks and praise.
AMEN.

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Seven chaplains.

heartrock.ehs.03.09,12Twelve days ago, I had emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder, followed by a second surgery to remove a wayward stone that was wreaking havoc. Typically these procedures involve no more than a one-day stay, but I had a persistent fever that kept me in the hospital for four days.

I am just beginning to uncover the many gifts of this interruption, this forced slowing down. One is the willingness to trust others with my life. A couple of hours after coming to the emergency room, I found myself on a gurney, being rolled to an operating room. I was amazed by how easy it was to give myself over to the process and to trust that my caregivers had my well being at heart. There was something very freeing in allowing others to take over, and this in a hospital where I was used to spending time being the one offering care – pastoral care – to patients in crisis.

I was moved by the kindness of strangers and by the kindness of colleagues I had only recently met. I was moved by the generosity of my stepmom who appeared in the hallway as they rolled me from the recovery room. I was moved by the presence and actions of friends who stepped in to help. And I was moved by visits from my fellow chaplains.

The first one came that evening, entering the room as a gentle, benevolent presence. And then the next day, another, and another, and then a pair of chaplains. And that afternoon, after my second procedure, two more. By the time the weekend was complete, seven chaplains had come to call.

They made me feel loved and important. Their presence in this time made me feel like I matter, not because of what I do, but because I exist. My vulnerability became their vulnerability. None of them tried to “chaplain” me; they simply came and lingered a while, somehow knowing just how long to stay. Their gift to me reminds me of the heart of ministry – a willingness to show up, to be with “the other” for a while.

We all need to know that we are not alone on this journey. That is something of immense value – a treasure of the heart. Catching even a glimpse of that can make all the difference.

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Commit your way.

(Photo taken at Holy Cross Monastery)

(Photo taken at Holy Cross Monastery)

This afternoon, a couple of us from Church Without Walls will travel to a meeting of folks committed to ministry on the fringes. Nearly three years ago now, many of these saints graciously received me as a visitor when I was trying to discern what the Holy Spirit had in mind when she whispered in my ear: “Go outside!”

We will spend three days together, breaking bread, praying for one another and resting in the sunlight of the Spirit. In small groups and one-on-one, we will share what God has been doing in our respective communities and within us individually, even as we dream and discern what might be next.

That Love that created us all cannot be contained. It disrupts what we have grown accustomed to as it spills forth into our world, bringing reconciliation, transformation and the promise of new life.

May we find a renewed sense of courage and wonder.
May we prepare ourselves to be surprised yet again.
May we jump in with both feet!

Commit your way to the Lord and put your trust in him, and he will bring it to pass. (Psalm 37:5)

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A habit and a habit.

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

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

The image that has stayed with me the most powerfully today came when I glanced over towards a new brother (a Benedictine monk) who had come to Church Without Walls for the first time. He was standing in his all-black habit, speaking to one of our regulars before the service. He held a small bag in one hand, while his free arm hung casually at his side. I noticed the ascending curl of smoke first, then saw the lit cigarette balanced between his thin fingers.

After the service, another friend told him: “You can see why I love this community.” He replied, “Of course you do. It’s real.”

It is a relief and a joy to find a community of faith where we each can come as we are. We are invited to be ourselves even as we grow together toward an ever-deepening understanding of our identity in the One who created us all.

I am reminded of the 12-step admonition that tells us we are only as sick as the secrets we keep. We need a community where it is okay to bare our souls, where it is okay to shine light on hidden shame and regret. We need a community that helps us feel safe to rid ourselves of the masks we have hidden behind just to get by. God makes that possible — and our job is to keep the party going.

Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:5-7)

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Into action.

(Photo of Dad taken on family farm in Wisconsin.)

(Photo of Dad taken on family farm in Wisconsin.)

This broken world needs people of prayer but it also needs people of action. My Third Order Franciscan friends have it right when they affirm a call to service that includes not just prayer and study but work.

There is much to be done and thankfully we have wonderful examples of how simple acts of courage and obedience can make the world a better place. Tonight my father will receive the Distinguished Alumni Award from Duke University honoring his tireless work as a judge, mentor and leader in education and the wider community. I am proud of his courage and his tireless commitment (refusing to retire and relax, he is the longest serving judge on the federal bench). In the early 70s, he stood courageously for equality and justice for all people when our county school board defied the federal government, refusing to desegregate.

He will be in good company as he receives his award. Paul Farmer, founder of Partners in Health, is a past recipient, who has fought to end infectious disease in third world countries – defying a greedy system that finds such work unworthy because it is not easily profitable. William Styron also received the award, not only for his immense commitment to literature but for his courageous voice in naming and describing his own personal journey with clinical depression. His courage in making “darkness visible” has inspired countless others to find assistance and has helped erase the stigma of mental illness by raising awareness of the depth and reach of this disease.

These are each amazing individuals, perhaps with little in common. But each one has embraced moments of grace, when they became willing to stand and to act in the face of immense, seemingly insurmountable obstacles. If we were to delve into their personal stories, we would find individuals who are deeply flawed, just like the rest of us.

The One who created us all is not looking for remarkable individuals. He is not waiting for us to get our respective acts together. He is waiting for us the take that leap. To get into action despite evidence or pressure to the contrary.

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Church Invisible

(This cross, nailed to a tree, helps to mark our sacred space.)

(This cross, nailed to a tree, helps to mark our sacred space.)

Recently I reread a portion of Evelyn Underhill’s writing in which she speaks of the Church Invisible (those saints known only to God) and its role in making manifest the kingdom of God. She writes:

Christian selves are simply parts of that vast organism the Church Invisible, which is called upon to incarnate the Divine Life in history, and bring eternity into time… (The Evelyn Underhill Reader, p 164)

Three or four Sundays ago, I encountered this “church invisible.” I had arrived at the parking lot where we set up our “church without walls” services, only to find that I had left our bulletin inserts at home. I turned around to go get them, leaving the 3 or 4 folks who had come to help to fend for themselves.

About 30 minutes later, as I pulled into the parking lot, I was awestruck. The area where we meet was brimming with people. All the things we use for worship had been moved into place and set up – the altar, a few chairs, our sound system. Coffee, cookies and ice water were being served out of the back of someone’s vehicle.

I stopped my car for a moment and simply watched. Taking in this vibrant scene was a goose-bump experience for me, seeing people from all walks of life working together and connecting with one another. There was laughter and joy. A spirit of welcome and happy anticipation.

The church was made incarnate right before my eyes. Jesus is alive and well. It is possible to encounter this living God. It is possible to bring eternity into the realm of time. Just suit up, show up and reach out to your neighbor.

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