Jamie Parsley's Blog, page 78

6 Pentecost

July 20, 2014

Matthew 13.24-30;36-43
 + As you probably know, I can’t share what people confess to me. I’m bound by this wonderful thing called a seal of confession.  It’s a very good thing.

But, someone—a parishioner—recently confessed something to me recently that truly shocked me. And I am going to share it with you. Don’t worry. I’m not a horrible priest standing before you. I asked this parishioner if I could share this shocking confession with all of you.
This parishioner, for some bizarre reason I will never understand, confessed me to me that she---sigh—did not “get” my poetry. Did not “get” my poetry! She actually said, “It’s so Zen!” Is Zen a bad thing? If wonder what she’ll think of my short stories when they are published later this year.
Ok, yes, it might be a bit esoteric, shall we say?  But, if this parishioner thinks I’m being esoteric, I wonder what she thinks of Jesus’s parables.  Let’s talk about esoteric.  Because, in our Gospel readings at this time of the year, we’re getting a good many parables.  Oh no, you’re probably thinking to yourself.  The parables of Jesus!
Some of us really enjoy the parables.  I enjoy the parables!  But, let’s face it, most people feel a certain level of frustration when they come across them. After all, we, as a society, aren’t comfortable with such things.  Yes, we love our typical stories.  We love to hear a good story that really captures our imagination—a story we can retell to others.  
But, for the most part, we like them for purely entertainment reasons.  We like stories that are straightforward.  A story with a beginning, a middle and an end.  We don’t want to think too deeply about these stories.  We want something simple and clear.
“Why couldn’t Jesus just tell us what he was thinking?” we might think. “Why did he have to tell us these difficult riddles that don’t have anything to do with us?” Of course, even by saying that we  miss the point completely.  The fact is, when we start talking about God and God’s work among us, we are dealing with issues that are never simple or clear.  To put it bluntly, there is no simple and clear way to convey the truth of the Gospel.
That is why Jesus spoke in Parables. The word parable comes from the word “parabola,” which can be defined as “comparison” or “reflection.”  “Relationship” is probably the better definition of the word. When we look at Jesus’ parables with that definition—reflection, comparison, relationship—they start to make even more sense to us.
These stories Jesus told then—and which we hear now—are all about comparison.  For example, the Kingdom of God. This Kingdom is difficult for us to wrap our minds around—are we talking about heaven, some otherworldly place? or are we talking about the kingdom of God in our midst? The parables help explain it all in a way those first hearers could understand. Jesus spoke in parables simply because the people he was speaking to would not have understood any type deep theological explanations.
Jesus used the images they would have known.  He met the people where they were, and accepted for who they were. He didn’t try to change them. He didn’t force them to adopt something they couldn’t comprehend.  He just met them where they were and spoke to them in ways they would understand.
When he talked that day of a mustard seed, for example, and what it grows into, when he talks of yeast being mixed into dough, when he speaks of a treasure hidden in a field or of a merchant looking for fine pearls, those people understood these images.  They could actually wrap their minds around the fact that something as massive as a bush of mustard can come from such a small seed.  They understood that something as simple as a small amount of yeast worked into dough will make something large and substantial. Yes, they could say, even with the smallest amount of faith in our lives, glorious thing can happen.  That is the message they were able to take away from Jesus that day.
So, these parables worked for those people who were listening to Jesus, but—we need to ask ourselves—does it work for us, here and now? Does this comparison of the kingdom of heaven being like to someone sowing good seed in a field  seed make sense to us?  Do we fully appreciate these images?
First of all, we need to establish what is the kingdom of God?  Is it that place that is awaiting us in the next world?  Is it heaven?  Is it the place we will go to when we die?  Or is it something right here, right now.
Certainly, Jesus believed it was something we could actually experience here and now.  Or, at least, we experience a glimpse of it here and now.  Over and over again, Jesus tells us that the kingdom of God can be found within each of us.  We carry inside us the capability to bring God’s kingdom into being.  We do it through what we do and what we say.  We do it planting good seed, as we hear n today’s Gospel.  We can bring the kingdom about when we strive to do good, to act justly, to bring God into the world in some small way.  The kingdom of God is here—alive and present among us—when we love God and love our neighbor as ourselves.
Yes, the good seed represents our faith, but it also represents in some way, those small actions we make to further the Kingdom.  Those little things we do in our lives will make all the difference.   Even the smallest action on our part can bring forth the kingdom of God in our lives and in the lives of those we know.
But those small actions—those little seeds that we sow in our lives—can also bring about not only God’s kingdom but the exact opposite of God’s Kingdom.  Our smallest bad actions, can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God and each other. See, bad seeds.
I think we all have experienced what bad seeds do to people and to the Church.  When we act arrogantly or presumptuously, when we act in a conceited manner, or even when we intend to be helpful and end up riding roughshod over others also trying to do good, we show bad seeds.  What grows from a small seed like this is a flowering tree of hurt and despair and anger and bitterness.  So, it is true.
Those seeds we sow do make a huge difference in the world.  We get to make the choice.  We can sow seeds of goodness and graciousness—seeds of the Gospel.  We can sow the seeds of God’s kingdom.  Or we can sow the seeds of discontent.  We can, through our actions, sow the weeds and thistles that will kill off the harvest.
We forget about how important the small things in life are—and more importantly we forget how important the small things in life are to God.  God does take notice of the small things. We have often heard the term “the devil is in the details.”  But I can’t help but believe that it is truly God who is in the details.  God works just as mightily through the small things of life as through the large.
And in that way WE become the good seeds, that Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel.  We may not seem like much. But when we do good, we do much good, and when we do bad, we do much bad.  This is what Jesus is telling us in the parable of the good and bad seeds.
So let us take notice of the small things.  It is there we will find our faith—it is there we will find God. And when we do, we will truly shine like the sun in the kingdom of our God.   It is in those small places that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives.
So, let us be mindful of those smallest seeds we sow in our lives.  Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what we produce can either be a wonderful and glorious tree or a painful, hurtful weed.  Let us sow God’s love from the smallest ounce of faith.  Let us further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small way we can. And then let it flower and flourish and become a great treasure in our life before God.

Sylvia Plath in North Dakota

On Thursday, July 16, 1959, poets Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) and Ted Hughes (1930-1998) passed through Fargo on their cross-country trip. They left Cornucopia, Wisconsin early that morning, eventually taking, no doubt, Highway 10 through Detroit Lakes, etc., passing through Moorhead and Fargo late that afternoon and finally camping out in a grove of trees near the school in a tiny town “just west of
Jamestown,” most likely like the town of Eldridge. Here are photos of the school in Eldridge (from the Ghosts of North Dakota website). That night they watched “thunderstorms along [the] skyline: lightning illuminated columns of clouds.” The next day they passed through Bismarck and camped the next night in Medora.
 In Fargo, they no doubt took “Front Street” (now Main Avenue) all the way out through West Fargo, where they hopped the very recently completed Interstate-94 to head west.  On that day in July, my grandmother, who lived just a block south of Front Street, turned fifty. My mother, who lived in south Fargo, was pregnant with my brother, Jason. My father, who lived in Casselton at the time (a town SP and TH would’ve passed on their way west), was in the last few, unhappy months of his first marriage (they would divorce early in 1960).  Plath was the first real poet I "got" when I was a teenager (her poem "The Moon and the Yew Tree" was the first poem I ever "got"--I've included it here too) and I still have a special place in my affection for her. Plus, I’m a hopeless poetry nerd who finds things like this endlessly fascinating.
 The Moon and the Yew Tree This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary 
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. 
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God 
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility 
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. 
Separated from my house by a row of headstones. 
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, 
White as a knuckle and terribly upset. 
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet 
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. 
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- 
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection 
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. 
The eyes lift after it and find the moon. 
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. 
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. 
How I would like to believe in tenderness - 
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, 
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering 
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars 
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, 
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, 
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. 
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. 
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

Vegan Diary: 7 Months Vegan

So…I’ve been vegan 7 months as of last Saturday and I can say this: I have never gone his long in my entire life without being sick with a cold or the flu or a flare-up of my ulcer or my “grumbling” appendix or some other health issue of some sort.
 Of course, usually by this time of the year, I would be so miserable with allergies (especially in this humid weather) that I could barely function, even with medication. Not so this year.  As I look back throughout my life at my ridiculously long list of medical issues that included cancer, car accidents, multiple fractured bones, allergies, etc, I should be in some pretty awful shape right now. But here I am today, taking no medication of any sort for anything, not even experiencing a sniffle or an ache or pain of any sort.  Even my chronic insomnia (with which I suffered since I was a teenager) is a long distant memory.  I was a vegetarian on and off for almost twenty years and, even then, never felt anything close to what I feel right now having given up dairy. I can say in all honesty that I am feeling better at age 44 than I did even as a teenager.

3 Pentecost

The Memorial Eucharist for Wallace Mayer

The Memorial  Eucharist for
Wallace Mayer
March 24, 1923-June 24, 2014
June 28, 2014
St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church

+ I am very honored to be here, to help commemorate and give thanks for the life of  Wally Mayer and to commend this wonderful man to God. I got to know both Wally and Gerene over the last several years, when I officiated at weddings and baptisms for the family.  They were a wonderful couple and Wally always carried himself with a sense of dignity and inner strength.  I was always impressed by that and by him.  I genuinely liked him and it’s obvious many of us this morning felt the same way about him.
Now, saying all of that,  I suspect that if Wally were here this afternoon, he would not want me to be up here making him out to be some kind of saint.  But I can say that I am very happy to have known Wally and to have walked with him just a little while anyway.  And I have no doubt that Wally is with us here this morning.  I am of the firm belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is actually a very thin division.
I’m also very happy the family chose to include the Eucharist as a part of this service this afternoon. We, in the Episcopal Church, sometimes call a funeral Eucharist, a Requiem. Requiem comes from the Latin phrase Requiem Aeternum, Rest eternal grant to them...  There’s a great statement from The Anglican Service Bookthat I always like quote at Requiems:

 “A Requiem is a testament of triumph and hope, for those of us who remain know that we also journey toward the same eternal home…In the Holy Eucharist, which transcends all time and space, we are closest to our faithful departed loved ones, joining our prayers and praises to theirs. We pray for them, as we believe that they pray for us, so that all may be strengthened in their lives of service.”
 So, yes, right now, I think we can feel that that separation between us here and those who have passed on is, in this moment, a very thin one.  And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Wally is close to us this afternoon.   He is here, in our midst, celebrating his life with us.
 And we should truly celebrate his life. It was a good life.  It was a life full of meaning and purpose.  And, although it is no doubt hard to face the fact that we are distanced from him, we can take some consolation in the fact that although Wally has shed this so-called “mortal coil,” he has now entered into that loving presence of God.
 There is a great image we find in the book of Revelation.  We find in the book of Revelation Jesus saying to us,
 “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.”
 As difficult as it is in this moment, as difficult as it is to say goodbye to Wally, we are able to find strength in these words. We are able to cling to the fact that, although life is unpredictable, life is beyond our control, it is not beyond Christ’s control.  Christ knew us and loved us at our beginning and will know and love us at our end.
As the poet T.S. Eliot wrote, “In my beginning is my end. In my end is my beginning.”
As we mourn this ending, we also take great comfort in the fact that we are also celebrating a new beginning for Wally today.  This is what we believe as Christians. This is what we believe as Episcopalians.
What I love about being an Episcopalian is that sometimes we can’t clearly define what it is we believe.  Nor should we.  We can’t pin it down and examine it too closely.  When we do, we find it loses its meaning. 
But when I am asked, “what do Episcopalians believe?” I say, “we believe what we pray.”
We’re not big on dogma and rules.  We’re not caught up in the letter of the law or preaching a literal interpretation of the Bible.  But we are big on liturgy.  Our Book of Common Prayer in many ways defines what we believe.
And so when I’m asked “What do Episcopalians believe about life after death?” I say, “look at our Book of Common Prayer.”
Look at what it says.  And that is what we believe.  
Later in this service, we will all pray the same words together.  As we commend Wally to Christ’s loving and merciful arms, we will pray,
Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life eternal.

It is easy for us to say those words without really thinking about them. But those are not light words. Those are words that take on deeper meaning for us now than maybe at any other time. For Wally, in this ending, he has a new beginning—a new and wonderful beginning that awaits all of us as well.  Where Wally is right now—in those caring and able hands of Christ—there is no sorrow or pain. There is no sighing.  But there is life eternal.
At this time of new beginning, even here at the grave, we—who are left behind—can make our song of alleluia. Because we know that Wally and all our loved ones have been received into Christ’s arms of mercy, into Christ’s “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”
This is what we cling to on a day like today. This is where we find our strength.  This what gets us through this temporary—and I do stress that it is temporary—this temporary separation from Wally.  We know that—despite the pain and the frustration, despite the sorrow we all feel—somehow, in the end, Christ is with us and Christ is with Wally and that makes all the difference.  We know that in Christ, what seems like an ending, is actually a wonderful and new beginning.  For Wally, sorrow and pain are no more.
In our reading from Revelation we hear Christ’s promise that all our tears will one be wiped away for good. For Wally, his tears have been wiped away. Wally, in this holy moment, has gained life eternal. And that is what awaits us as well.
We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any real enthusiasm today.  But we can find a glimmer of light in the darkness of this day. It is a glorious Light we find here.  Even if it is just a glimmer, it is a bright and wonderful Light.  And in that light is Christ, and in that light Christ is holding Wally firmly to himself.  And for that we can rejoice. For that, we can say today, in all joy, Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.  

The Requiem Eucharist for Wallace Mayer

2 Pentecost

June 22, 2014

Matthew 10.24-39

+ So, if I was going to ask you, what is your greatest fear? What would you answer? I think most of us would not have to think long about the answer to that question. For me, there are maybe two or three things that are my greatest fear. Now, with that answer in mind, what honestly, do you think would be the worst thing that could happen if that fear of yours became a reality?
Maybe I should ask, has one of your greatest fears ever become a reality? For me, I would say, yes.  I know that awful feeling of suddenly realizing that something I feared more than anything else became real.  It is a horrific feeling. But, weirdly, after a period of time, there is also a sense of relief. This thing I feared so much for so long, is no longer a fear. I’ve dealt with us—I didn’t have a choice. And now, it’s gone.
In a sense, that fear is possibly what Jesus is hinting at in our Gospel reading. Well, there’s a lot going on in our Gospel reading for today. There are layers and layers in our Gospel reading. And some really fairly unpleasant things.  But essentially it is about our fear of doing the work of God—doing the ministry of Christ—and, about taking up our cross.
Essentially, probably our greatest cross to bear is our fear.  Our fear of the unknown. Our fear of the future. Our fear of all those things we can’t control in our lives.
Let’s take a moment his morning to actually think about the symbol of our fears—the Cross.  Look at how deceptively simple it is.  It’s simply two pieces, bound together.  For someone who knows nothing about Christianity, for someone who knows nothing about the story, it’s a symbol they might not think much about.
And yet the Cross is more than just another symbol in our lives.  Most of us have never even given a second though to how the Cross came to be.  We no doubt think that it just simply was there when the Romans gave it to Jesus as he began his journey to Calvary.
But there is a wonderful story about it, that I’d like to share with you. This story can be found in a wonderful sermon by a saint that whose feast day we  celebrated about a week ago, St. Anthony of Padua.  St. Anthony was a priest of the Franciscan Order, the order founded St. Francis of Assisi.  In his sermon, he spoke on how the Cross was present in scripture from the very beginning of Creation.  According to St. Anthony, in his colorful sermon illustration, the Cross originated not with Jesus’ death, but it can actually be traced much earlier—to, of all people, Adam, the first human.
The story goes that when Adam became ill with his final sickness, his son Seth went looking out for medicine to heal him.  As he approached the Garden of Eden, the place from which Adam and his wife Eve were earlier cast out, Seth saw the Angel who guarded the Gate to Eden.  Seth begged the Angel to help him find medicine for his father.  The Angel broke off a branch from the Tree of Life, from which Adam and Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit.  As the Angel handed the branch to Seth, he said, “Your father will be healed when this branch bears fruit.”
Seth returned only to find that Adam had died and was buried.  Seth then buried the branch in Adam’s grave.  The branch grew into a giant tree.
Later, St. Anthony tells, this same tree was seen by the Queen of Sheba in Solomon’s house of wood, which we find in I Kings 7.2.  The Queen had a vision of the origin of the tree and of how on it one day a great man was going to die. She was unable to tell the King of her vision and instead wrote him a letter when she returned to her home, telling Solomon that she had seen in her vision a man hanging on the tree who would bring the downfall of Israel.  Solomon, in fear, buried the tree in what would become the Bethesda Pool.
The tree grew so that, by the time of Jesus, the tree grew up over the water.  It was this pool, that we find in John chapter 5.  In John we find the pool called Bethesda surrounded by five colonnades.  One of these colonnades was believed to be the Tree.  In John we find that interesting story about the Angel who would come down to disturb the water of the Bethesda Pool.  The first person to enter the water after the disturbance would be healed. It was here, on the day that Jesus was going to be crucified, that the Romans looked for a tree on which to crucify him.
And it was there that they found this tree.  They cut it down and made it into the Cross, which Jesus carried to Golgotha.
And Golgotha, as some people know, was believed to be the place where Adam and Eve were buried. In some representations of the Crucifixion, you will often see a skull at the base of the Cross—Golgotha being the place of the skull.  That skull has always traditionally been believed to be the skull of Adam.
So, the Cross had made a full circular journey back to where it began.  The tree that grew out of the grave of Adam, again was set into place on the grave of Adam and, finally, then and there, it bore its fruit.  It bore Jesus.  And the prophecy of the Angel of Eden was fulfilled.  Finally the tree bore fruit.  And when it did, Adam was restored.  Humanity was restored.  When that tree bore fruit, we found our new Adam—Jesus.
Now, the story is good for us if for no other reason in that it helps us to look at the Cross as a very major part of our salvation. Jesus knew full well what the cross was all about, even before he was nailed to it.
In our Gospel reading, he says,  “anyone who does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”
These are words we do not want to hear from Jesus.  Taking up our Cross is frightening after all. The Cross, as much as it defines, as much as it is symbol of our faith, it is also an instrument of torture and death.  To take up a cross means to take up a burden—that thing we maybe fear the most in our lives.  To take it up—to face our greatest fear—is torturous.  It hurts.
When we think of that last journey Jesus took to the place of Adam’s skull, carrying that heavy tree on which he is going to be murdered, it must’ve been more horrible than we can even begin to imagine.  But the fact is, what Jesus is saying to us is: carry your cross now.  Carry it with dignity and inner strength.  But carry it without fear.
Twice in this morning’s Gospel, Jesus commands us, “Do not be afraid.”
“Do not be afraid.”
Do not be afraid of what the world can throw at you.  Do not be afraid of what can be done to the body and the flesh.  Taking our cross and bearing it bravely is a sure and certain way of not fearing.  If we take the crosses we’ve been given to bear and embrace them, rather than running away from them, we find that fear has no control over us.
The Cross destroys fear.  The Cross shatters fear into a million pieces.  And when we do fear, we know we have a place to go to for shelter.  When fear encroaches on our lives—when fear comes riding roughshod through our lives—all we have to do is face it head-on.   And there, we will find our fears destroyed.
As St. Anthony said: "Extending his arms on the cross like wings, Christ embraces all who come to him sheltering them in his wounds.”
Because of the Cross, we are taken care of.  There is no reason to fear. I know that sounds complacent. But there is no reason to fear. There is no reason to fear because we are not in control. God is in control.
“Even the hairs of your head are counted” by the God who loves us and cares for us. This God knows us intimately. So intimately than this God even knows how many hairs are on our head.
Why should we not be afraid? Because each of us is valuable. We are valuable to God, who loves us.  When we stop fearing whatever crosses we must bear in our lives, the cross will stop being something terrible.  Like that cross on which Jesus died, it will be a ugly thing will be turned into a symbol of strength and joy and unending eternal life.  Through it, we know, we must pass to find true and unending life. Through the Cross, we must pass to find ourselves, once and for all time, face-to-face with our God.
So, I invite you: take notice of the crosses around you. As you drive along, notice the crosses on the churches you pass.  Notice the crosses that surround you.  When you see the Cross, remember what it means to you.  Look to it for what it is: a triumph over every single fear in our lives. When we see the crosses in our lives, we can look at it and realize it is destroying the fear in our own lives.  Let us bear those crosses of our lives patiently and, most importantly, without fear.
We are loved by our God. Each of us is precious to our God.  Knowing that, rejoicing in that, how can we ever fear again?
  

Holy Trinity

June 15, 2014

10 years as Priest

The Feast of St. Barnabas
June 11, 2014


Matthew 10.7-16 + In our Gospel reading for tonight, we hear Jesus say, “I am sending you as sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”  I can say that scripture has definitely been a prophecy-fulfilled in my ministry. When I heard those words ten years ago tonight, I had an idea of what Jesus meant. Ten year later, I can truly say I KNOW what Jesus meant. I’ve been there, in the midst of those wolves. And if I have had any gift granted to me by Jesus to survive, it has definitely been to be wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove.  Well, I don’t know how “innocent” I’ve been.  But I’ve tried really hard to be innocent as a dove.
 Ten years ago, at this very moment, I was waiting in the vesting room of Gethsemane Cathedral in Fargo.  That hot night (and it WAS hot that night) I was impatient. I was biting at the bit. I was straining forward. That ordination couldn’t happen fast enough. And when it did, it was something. It was unique. And it was wonderful. It truly was the Holy Spirit that night.
 At moments, it seems like it was just yesterday. And at other moments, it seems like it was 100 years ago.
 Ten years of priestly ministry. If we were going to break the numbers down, they would fall into place like this:
 1,028 Masses that I’ve celebrated (that does not include concelebrations or other masses I’ve been present at).
 That’s 1,010 sermons I have preached.
 That’s 53 weddings.
51 baptisms
97 funerals.
You wonder why I may be tired. You have heard me say it before. I will say it again a hundred times I’m sure.
I love being a priest.
I can say in all honesty that I was meant to be a priest. As sure as a shark is meant to hunt, or a fish to swim, I was meant to be a priest. It was almost like it was programed into me.  From that first day, when I heard my calling to be a priest at age 13, back in 1983, I knew this was what I was meant to do.
Now saying that, I’m not saying I have been a perfect priest. I was never called to be a perfect priest.  Nor even at times, have I been a particular good priest. I have failed. I have tripped. I have stumbled. I have made many, many mistakes. But even then, even with all the mistakes I’ve made, it’s all right. It’s all good.
Still, it hasn’t been easy.  I remember fifteen years ago, when I told the first Episcopal priest I wanted to be an Episcopal priest, he leaned back in his chair, put his fingers to his chin and shook his head.
“It’s never going to happen,” he said.
And I thought then, that was it. All right.   And if that priest had had his way, it would’ve ended there. Sadly for him, he did not get his way.
Jesus did.
Despite things like that, it has been a glorious ten years. And it has been a difficult ten years of my life. Some priests have been able to fly under the radar. Not me. Which is not always a good thing. Being a priest like me means being a target. A big target. For better or for worse.
Ten years ago, I was prepared for the backbiting, the unwarranted nitpicking, the sometimes steady criticisms, the fact that nothing I could do sometimes would ever be right for some people.   I knew those things always existed in the church. I did not go into this as some doe-eyed, naïve PollyAnna.  I was prepared for all this vocation would give me—both good and bad.  I was prepared for people who were not in ordained ministry who thought they knew more doing ordained ministry than me.  I was prepared for those people who thought they could do my job better than I could. And I was prepared for those who were ready to piggyback onto the good works I actually was able to accomplish.  I knew and was prepared for all of those things.
Ten years ago I thought I knew what it meant to be “broken.” I know now what it means to be broken.  And I have served many broken people.
But I was also prepared for the good things, as much as anyone can be prepared for such things in their lives.  In these ten years I’ve known the beauty of grace and friendship. I’ve known what it was to be the priest in a congregation of strong and caring people who truly care for their priest.  I’ve known the joys of being part of the celebrations that our church is known for as well—for the baptisms and the weddings and the celebrations of the good things of life. I’ve enjoyed the suppers and the parties and all the other celebrations that go along with being a priest.  
And I’ve known the incredible joy of being the priest of a congregation that has grown and expanded by leaps and bounds and to be a part of a place that has amazed everyone.  I knew what it was, in those moments, to see God breaking through in wonderful and incredible ways.  
I also realized that all that spiritual training I had—clinging to the Holy Eucharist and the discipline of the Daily Offices of Morning and Evening Prayer—could truly sustain one spiritually when the Devil takes you by throat and shakes you.  The Holy Eucharist and the Daily Office have been my buoys.  They helped me keep my head above water.
Yes, I am the scarred veteran priest. But I stand before you as priest who can still hold my head up and say, without one qualm, without one doubt, without hesitation: I am so happy to be a priest. I am! I really am!
I’m going to close tonight with the prayer I had printed on my worship booklet back then. It was a prayer I adapted from a prayer by one of my all-time heroes, Michael Ramsey, Archbishop of Canterbury. I can say that this has been a prayer that has been answered in ways I never knew prayers could be answered. This is a prayer that is a very clear warning to everyone: be careful sometimes what you pray for.  It might actually be answered.
I close with this prayer I prayed ten years ago tonight. And tonight, I can say that prayer has been answered. And for that, I am truly grateful.
Let us pray.                                                                           
Lord Jesus, the years have fallen away—one by one—
only to reveal this one shining moment.
It lies here before me as a precious gift I neither asked for nor deserved.
And yet, here it is. Here it is in its beauty, more precious than any other gift.     
 
Only one thing I ask: take my heart and break it.
Break it not as I would like it to be broken, but as you would.
And because it is you who are breaking it, how can I be  afraid,
for your hands are the hands I have felt all my life at my back and on my face, supporting me, comforting me and guiding me
to the places you wanted me to be.
Your hands  are safety and in them, I am safe.

Take my heart and where you have broken it, fill it with joy—
not the joy I want for myself, but the joy you want for me.
Fill my heart with a burning joy and let its fire burn away
everything dead or dying within me.
Let my heart burn with a joy I can not imagine
and can only vaguely comprehend.

It’s time, Lord Jesus, and I am ready. See! I am ready to be your priest.

 

7 Easter

The Sunday after the Ascension

June 1, 2014