Jamie Parsley's Blog, page 90

Sylvia Plath, on the 50th anniversary of her death

Today is the 50th anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s death. Some people over the years have asked why I have fostered such a weird obsession with her. The reason is very simple: she was the first poet that ever “clicked” with me.  And the poem that caused that “click” was “The Moon and the Yew Tree.”I first read it in high school and I can remember like it was yesterday the first time I read it.  It was a poem that I truly “got.” Later, I wrote my Master’s thesis on how that poem was not only Plath’s transitional poem, but a poem that “allowed” me to write in many ways. This poem, for many years, became the goal of all my own poems. For me, it was, in many ways, the poetic ideal.

While Plath’s poetic career has been overshadowed by a weird mythology, not to mention the scandal and gossip of her private life, the fact remains: she was an incredible poet who wrote poems I still find myself gasping over at moments. Her skill, her vision, her genius are evident in those poems.
I will admit that, for most part, I have outgrown Plath. As contemporary poets go, Elizabeth Bishop’s influence has far outshone Plath’s for me personally. Still, I can’t help but feel a certain need for homage for Plath on this day.  And as I re-read “The Moon and the Yew Tree” today, I am still just as amazed by it as the first time I read it some twenty-seven years ago.
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.
 

2 Epiphany

Annual Meeting SundayJanuary 20, 2013
John 2.1-11
+ Since we are having our Annual Meeting today, I think I can admit this. And I’m sure it is not much of a surprise to anyone this morning. Weddings are not one my favorite things. Give me a baptism or a funeral any day over a wedding.  I have even preached at weddings how much I don’t always enjoy them.

I should be clear here. It’s not that I hate what weddings represent. I certainly believe that marriage is one of the seven sacraments. I just wish that most people saw marriage as a sacrament.
What I dislike are the fluff and fakeness of weddings. And we’ve all seen that fluff and fakeness. I hate the attempts to make every wedding like some royal princess wedding. And I dislike all that goes along with those princess weddings. The fifteen-or more attendants. The bridezillas, or the momzillas—or yes, even the groomzillas and the dad zillas. Yes, they do exist.
Still, I actually do enjoy weddings that are truly joyful events in which two people express their love and their commitment for each other.  And I am very happy that the Episcopal Church is now finally moving in the direction of finally fully accepting Blessings of Unions between same-sex couples. Many of you might have heard that the National Cathedral in Washington just recently OKd “gay weddings.”
So, it’s not fair to say I hate doing weddings. And let me tell you, in the ten years I’ve been ordained, I have done A LOT of weddings.
So, when whenever I encounter the story from our Gospel reading today, I do have to wonder: I wonder if that wedding was one of those awful weddings, with a bridezilla or a groomzilla?  There is a great legend that supposedly the bride and groom at the wedding in Cana were none other than Mary Magdalene and John the Beloved Apostle. And the story further goes that John was so impressed with Jesus’ turning the water into wine, that he essentially left Mary Magdalene “at the altar” to follow Jesus. She, in turn, was so humiliated by this that she became the woman of ill-repute that she is popularly known as.
Whoever the bride and groom were, certainly it must’ve been a raucous wedding.  The good wine has run out and the wedding feast is about to crash quickly. Yup, I’ve been at those weddings too.
But Jesus of course saves the day. No matter if it was a bad wedding or a good wedding, no matter if some bridezilla or groomzilla were hounding him, no matter if the groom is about to leave the bride to follow him, he turns water into wine. And when he does, there is a renewed sense of joy and exultation.  That I think is the gist of this experience from our gospel reading.  It is not just some magic trick Jesus performs to wow people.  It is not some action he performs at the whim of his mother.  He performs this miracle and in doing so instills joy in those gathered there.
But more than that, by doing this he does what we always does when he performs a miracle.  He performs miracles not just for the benefit of those at the wedding.  It is for our benefit of us as well.  Because by performing this miracle, he is giving us a glimpse of what awaits us all.  If we look closely at the story and at some of the details contained in it, we will find clues of the deeper meaning behind his actions.
First of all, let’s look at those jars of water.  This is probably the one area we don’t give a lot of thought to. But those jars are important. They are not just regular jars of water. They are jars of water for the purification rites that accompany eating in the Jewish tradition.  That water is essentially sacred. It is used to purify people and things. A good Jew at that time would wash their hands in this water so they could eat their food.
So, what we find is that Jesus turns these waters of purity into wine. And not just any wine. But abundant wines that bring about a joy among those gathered. 
In a sense, what Jesus has done is he has taken the party up a notch.  What was already probably a good party is now an incredible party.  It’s a beautiful image and one that I think we can all relate to.
And I think it speaks loudly to us on this Annual Meeting Sunday. We, at St. Stephen’s are planning this coming year. We are looking ahead.  We are planning a year in which there are so many great and wonderful opportunities and possibilities for us as a congregation. God has blessed us—and blessed us abundantly, here.
Look around at all the wonderful ministry we are experiencing. Look around at all the improvements and the good and positives changes that are happening here. When God blesses, it is not just a little blessing here and there. It is abundant blessings. It is like the purification water turned into abundant wine.
The best part of this view of the wedding at Cana is that Jesus is saying to us that, yes, there is joy here in the midst of us, but a greater joy awaits us.
Greater joys await us in our future together here at St. Stephen’s  And an even greater joy waits when the Kingdom of God breaks through into our midst.  When these things happen, it is very much like a wedding feast.  When they happen,  the waters of purification are turned into the best-tasting wine because we will no longer have to worry about issues like purity.
To some extent, the wedding at Canais a foretaste of what we do every Sunday (and Wednesday) here at this altar.  It is a foretaste of the Holy Eucharist—this sharing with each other of Christ’ Body and Blood.  
One of my favorite Christian writers is Scot McKnight. He wrote a wonderful book called The Jesus Creed.  In that book, he writes about the miracle at the wedding in Cana most perfectly in this phrase:

“When the water turns to wine and the eye of faith peers into the purification vessels, it does not see sacred water but sacred wine. The eye of faith sees not an image of itself but the image of Jesus floating on the surface of the wine. Jesus is seen in the wine for who he is really: the one who not only provides but is himself the joy of the kingdom.”
I love that!  Because it is true. When we see these wonderful things happening in our midst, we can look closely at it and see Jesus in our midst. We can see Jesus in the ministry we do together here at St. Stephen’s. We see Jesus here when are gathered together to hear the Word. We see Jesus when we respond to that Word in what we do when we leave here. And we see Jesus each time we gather together at this altar for the Eucharist.  Here too, at this altar, we see Jesus in this wine and when we do we find that he is truly our joy.
 There are blessings in our midst. They are surrounding us on this day in which we gather to plan another year. As we plan another year of looking for and finding Christ in our midst. Another year of following him in all that we do. And as we do, there is a sense of joy at this—a joy very much like the joy one feels at a wedding feast—that is, a wedding in which true love is celebrated and blessed.
 So, let us look and find Jesus in this water turned to wine. Let us continue to find Jesus in all the wonderful blessings we have been granted here in our congregation and in our own lives. And when we do, we too will be amazed at all the wonderful and amazing ways God has blessed us and supplied us to continue to do what we do best—to love, and to love fully and completely.
 Isn’t that what a wedding feast is all about after all?
 Amen.
 

The Memorial Service for Patrica Hansen

1 Epiphany

Baptism of Our Lord

January 13, 2012

Luke 3.15-17, 21-22


+ This past week I received a get-well card in the mail. It came all the way from Orlando, Florida. Well, actually, it wasn’t really a get-well card. When I opened it, inside was pasted a very mean-spirited, angry bit of hate mail.

Yes, I said hate mail.

As I posted about this this last week on Facebook, I got lots of responses. One person was wondering why Mickey Mouse would have sent me hate mail. Sadly, it wasn’t Mickey who sent this. It was someone much more pathetic and scared, who had to hide behind anonymity rather than be brave enough to face up to their hatred and accusations.

The writer lashed out at me for essentially being a liberal priest who hangs out with “masculine” women and “effeminate, mean-spirited” men who are less masculine than the women. I’m not really certain who those people are in my life…

But worst of all, this person accused me of spouting 1960s “peace and love” platitudes. I think the thing that bothered me the most was that last part. I mean, really. Me, a hippie? Oh, Lord, help us! Yes, I love the early 1960s, but definitely not the latter part.

It was a strange moment, getting this hate mail. Obviously this person was trying to be personal, but they knew nothing about me personally. Well, at least out side of the fact that I was accused of being “neurotic and self-centered.” OK. This person might be right about that. Sorry.

But…I do have to admit. There’s almost something weirdly encouraging in receiving this note. I mean, here we are getting hate-mail from Orlando, Florida. Even people in the Orlando, Florida, know about this little, radical congregation in north Fargo, North Dakota. People are noticing us.

Sadly, it’s some unstable people who feel the need to lash out their vileness without being brave enough to stand behind what they say. The fearful and fear-filled people who are out there. Fearful and fear-filled over the radical love we practice here at St. Stephen’s.

Even there, in Orlando, they know we are place in which Christ’s radical love reigns. They know that St. Stephen’s and me, as your priest, unashamedly say, “Yes, we do practice love here. Yes, we do, without a single doubt or fear, say proudly that all people—gay or straight, bisexual or transgender, man or woman or child or whatever or whomever—is now only welcomed here, but is a part of who we are.”

This is what our ministry is. We, as followers of Jesus, put our money where our mouth is. We love. We love radically. We love all people coming through that door. And we love bravely. And we love unashamedly.

And yes, we even love that mean-spirited who went to all that work to put together a get-well card for your Father Jamie. Yes, we love that person as well. We love, because, following Jesus, we know he loved first. And if there would have been hate mail in his day, he certainly would’ve have received it. And many of the same accusations made in my little get-well card this past week, would no doubt have been lobbed right at him.

So, yes, dare I say, this hate mail is truly a badge of honor to some extent. What we are doing here is scaring some people who feel to need to try to scare in some way. It is threatening some people. And if we are doing that, then we are doing something right.

In our Gospel reading for today, we find the very beginning of Jesus’ ministry of radical love. We find Jesus being baptized. He is setting the standard here. He is leading the way for us. At his baptism, his ministry truly began. And in our baptisms, our ministries also began.

At baptism, our following of Jesus began. The breakthrough has happened. From that point on, this is essentially what was spoken to each of us at our own baptisms:

“You are my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

And if that is the case, if each of us are God’s Beloved, as Jesus is God’s Beloved, then how can’t we, as followers of Jesus and believers in that same God, see all as Beloved as well?

When we were baptized, the ball began rolling. At our baptisms, we were baptized into this radical love. From that moment, whether we knew it or not, we were loved. And loved fully. And loved completely. And here we are, all these years after that momentous event, faced again with the fact that, yes, this is what it means to follow Jesus.

Yes, following Jesus means sometimes getting hate mail because we are doing the right thing. Following Jesus means that there will be people out there who will hate us for what we do and what we are. There will be people out there who will hate us because we love. And love too freely. And love too fully.

What Baptism shows us, more than anything else, is that we are loved by God as God’s Beloved. But it also shows us that that is not the end-all. Baptism shows us that we also must love as God loves us.

In this way, Baptism is truly the great equalizer. In those waters, we are all bathed—no matter who we are and what we are. We all emerge from those waters on the same ground—as equals. And, as equals, we are not expected to just sit around, hugging ourselves and basking in the glow of the confidence that we are God’s Beloved. As equals, made equal in the waters of baptism, we are then compelled to go out into the world and love each others as equals. We are called to go out into the world and make a difference in it.

Our baptism doesn’t set us apart as special people. It forces us out into the world to be a part of the world and, by doing so, to transform the world with love.

Oh no! It just hit me. You know, the writer of that hate mail might be right about one thing. It does kind of sound like 1960s peace and love, doesn’t it? Oh well. So be it.

Because, if we don’t love—and love fully and completely and radically—we are being hypocrites. We are being false. We are being untrue to our baptisms and our following of Jesus. If we do not love and love radically, we are the failures that mean-spirited person accused us of being.

But the fact is, we do love. We do accept all. We do see, in our service of others, that God has stamped each us as God’s Beloved.

So, let us continue to do what we have been doing. Bravely. Without blinking. Without wincing at the harsh words others make speak at us and about us.

Let us, with squared shoulders and set faces, shoulder the crosses we have been given at our baptisms. And let us set our eyes on the One we are following. And as we go forward, in love, our faces still wet with the waters of new life, let us listen to those words that are echoing in our ears:

“You are my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Epiphany

January 6, 2013

1 Christmas

Christmas

December 25, 2012

Isaiah 52.7-10; John 1.1-14


+ Last night was one of those magical nights. We had an overflow crowd here at St. Stephen’s for Christmas Eve Mass. And, of course, I LOVE that!

At that Mass last night, I shared how much I LOVE this Mass—the Christmas Day Mass. And I do. I think—though I’m not sure—I might even love it more than Christmas Eve.

We’re not overflow by any sense of the word today. And that’s just fine. I like that we’re not overflow today. I like that there’s balance.

Christmas Eve is beautiful in its way. But Christmas Day is just….so perfect in its own way. There really is something pristine and lovely about Christmas morning. If there was ever a holy moment, it is this morning.

Now, as we enter this holy day, I have to admit something. Some of you, in the midst of the craziness and hustle and bustle of these past few weeks have heard me make a confession I really didn’t want to make. In the midst of being exhausted and tired and overwhelmed by everything, I let slip my secret: Christmas is not one of my favorite seasons. I mean, the commercial Christmas.

I have tried. I have made every effort throughout the years to celebrate and enjoy this holiday. But it just has never really endeared itself to me.

Now, to be clear, I am not talking here about Jesus’ birth or Advent or anything of the spiritual things associated with this season. Rather, I have never been a big fan of all the Christmas trappings that go along with his holiday. OK, I do kind of like some of the glitz of the holiday. But only on a surface.

Still, despite my frustrations over the actual season, this morning I, like most of you, feel a little tinge of excitement on Christmas. I, like most of you, know that today is just a little more special than any other day. Something holy and beautiful is happening around us today.

This morning, at Morning Prayer, the verse we use for the Benedictus (we call this verse an antiphon) was particular beautiful and apt.

“While all things were in quiet silence, and that night was in the midst of her swift course, your almighty Word, O Lord, leaped down out of your royal throne.”

I love that! I love the image that arises in my mind when I hear. “you almighty Word, O Lord, leaped down…”

It’s so powerful and stunning. As wonderful as that image seems, it also seems to say to us that when God’s word—Jesus—leaps down in our midst, he will bring with him all the answers. When Jesus comes to us, our questions of life and death will be answered. Our enemies will be vanquished. All will be made right. And today, on this Christmas day, that prayer has been answered.

We realize that Jesus has truly leaped down among us. But what we find in his coming is that our questions about life and death have not been answered. We still don’t understand life and we still fear death. Our enemies have not been vanquished. In fact, sometimes, they seem to be triumphing all the more. And as we look around this world—at the mass murder of children, the violence, at the crime, at the war and injustice of this world, at the racism and homophobia and sexism that still exists—we realize all has not been made magically right. And what we expected in our Savior, our Redeemer our Messiah—what we thought would be the mighty warrior coming with sword in hand to shield us and vanquish the forces of evil—we instead find a Child. We find a vulnerable human baby, born of a teenage mother under mysterious and scandalous circumstances.

And still, despite all of that, somehow, on this evening, holiness shines through to us. The Word has leapt down to us and yet we know that although it has not been cataclysmic, something incredible still has happened.

As the great Archbishop of Canterbury (and probably the greatest of my personal heroes), Michael Ramsey once wrote: “Our Christmas is no less Christmas and our joy no less joyful because we are keeping Christmas with a very dark and troubled world around us…Our rejoicing at Christmas is not an escape from life’s grim realities into a fancy realm of religion and festivity. Rather is it a joy that, as we face and feel the world’s tragedy, we know that God has an answer: an answer for [hu]mankind to receive. In a word, this is a time of hope.”

This morning, on this crisp day, we celebrate that hope. While darkness still exists, we now see that in the midst of that darkness, there is a glimmer of light. It is dim at times. It doesn’t seem like much. But it is there. And as we strain into that darkness, we realize that hope comes to us as Light. We celebrate hope of that Light that has come to us in our collective and personal darknesses. We celebrate the Light that has come to us in our despair and our fear, in our sadness and in our frustration. And as it does, we hold bask in the glory of those two emotions—the two emotions Christmas is all about—hope and joy. Hope—in our belief that what has come to us—Jesus—God made flesh—is here among us,

The Word of God has leaped down among us.

“The Lord has bared his holy arm before the eyes of all the nations,” we hear the Prophet Isaiah tell us today, “and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God.”

We are experiencing joy at seeing this salvation of God in our midst. As we come forward today to meet with joy and hope this mystery that we remember and commemorate and make ours this day, we too should find ourselves feeling these emotions at our very core. This hope and joy we are experiencing this morning comes up from our very centers. We will never fully understand how or why Jesus—God made flesh—has come to us as this little child in a barn in the Middle East, but it has happened and, because it happened, we are a different people.

Our lives are different because of what happened that evening. This baby has taken away, by his very life and eventual death, everything we feared and dreaded. When we look at it from that perspective, suddenly we realize that yes, the Word of God has leaped down. And the salvation of God has appeared in our midst.

This is the source of true joy. We find that our hope is more tangible—more real—that anything we have ever hoped in before. And that is what we are rejoicing in this glorious day.

Our true hope and true joy is not in brightly colored lights and a pile of presents under a decorated tree. Our true hope and joy is not found in the malls or the stores. We know that our true hope and joy are not there because by Saturday, we’re going to see that what the rest of the society is celebrating in this Christmas season will be disposed of. By tomorrow, the wrapping paper and the boxes will be on the curbs and so will many of the trees.

Our true hope and joy is more powerful and more tangible than anything that is so disposable. Our true hope and joy does not come to us with things that will, a week from now, be a fading memory. Our hope and joy is in that Baby who, as he comes to us, causes us to leap up with joy at his very presence. Our hope and joy is in that almighty and incredible God who would come to us, not on some celestial cloud with a sword in his hand and armies of angels flying about.

Our hope and joy is in a God who comes to us in this innocent child, born to a humble teenager under scandalous circumstances in a dusty third world land. Our hope and joy is in a God who comes with a face like our face and flesh like our flesh—a God who is born, like we are born—of a human mother—and who dies like we all must die. Our hope and joy is in a God who comes and accepts us and loves us for who we are and what we are—a God who understands what it means to live this sometimes frightening uncertain life we live. But who, by that very birth, makes all births unique and holy and who, by that death, takes away the fear of death for all of us.

So, yes, I guess maybe all our expectations of Jesus’ coming have, in fact, been fulfilled. Slowly, but surely, he does make all things right—eventually. This is the real reason why we are joyful and hopeful on this beautiful night. This is why we are feeling within us a strange sense of happiness and excitement. This is why we are rushing toward our Savior who has come to visit us in what we once thought was our barrenness.

Let this hope we feel today as Jesus comes to us stay with us now and always. Let the joy we feel today as Jesus comes to us in love be the motivating force in how we live our lives throughout this coming year.

Jesus is here. He is in our midst today. He is so near, our very bodies and souls are rejoicing. So, let us greet him today with all that we have within us and welcome him into the shelter of our hearts. Amen.

Christmas Eve

Weird introspection at the year's end

So, being weirdly introspective today, I am looking back over 2012, and I have to say it has certainly been a roller coaster year. What I thought would be a year of some major healing didn’t quite turn out that way. The poem “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop (a poet whose influence on me has been the longest-lasting outside of George Herbert and Gerard Manley Hopkins) might be the most apt summation for the year: loss is a diffuclt lessons to learn, but the fact is, loss is not always a bad thing, nor does it always a disaster. Ulcers, a concussion, a car accident, set-backs and frustrations and various other kinds of loss both professionally and personally certainly were in abundance. And yet, in the midst of it all, the good things were exceptionally good: my congregation flourished in incredible and amazing ways, my 10th book continued to be somewhat successful, my 11th book was published, etc. Strangely, it all balances out. So, I guess EB is right: none of it was disaster. But certainly, after all is said and done, the art of losing really is not hard to master.


ONE ART

By Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

3 Advent

Gaudete Sunday
December 16, 2012