God Is Faithful

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

November 29, 2020

Year B: The First Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 64:1-9

1 Corinthians 1:3-9

Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

Mark 13:24-37

God Is Faithful

        Some of you know that I take Monday as my day off.

It’s kind of a weird day to be off because, of course, for most people it’s the start of the workweek.

In the early days of my ordained life, I found my day off kind of lonely and I still do, a little, but by now I’ve pretty much gotten used to it.

There’s something else about Mondays that maybe you haven’t noticed but I have: often the weather is not so good.

Do I resent that? Yes, a little.

Anyway, this past Monday began in a very Monday way, with gray clouds and showers.

I got an early start, checking off some errands from my list and then, to my surprise, the rain stopped and the clouds began to part.

I made my way downtown, where I met up with one of my oldest friends.

It was great to catch up a little, as together we walked along the waterfront, a place so familiar to us both but that is now kind of eerie, nearly deserted, since most of the people who still have jobs are working remotely.

After I said goodbye to my friend, I hopped the PATH train and went over to the city. I had no real destination in mind, just a chance to walk up and down the streets, an opportunity to see how things are going.

New York today reminds me a lot of how it was back in the 1980’s, before everything got cleaned up and really expensive.

The city doesn’t feel dangerous to me, exactly, but grittier, for sure – there’s a lot more graffiti – and there are many stores and restaurants boarded up, some temporarily, while others look like they’re gone forever.

Without really intending it, I ended up at Herald Square, which would have normally been teeming with people on the Monday before Thanksgiving.

There were a few people around, and some of the trailers and lights were already set up for the scaled-back parade.

But, what caught my eye were Macy’s famous Christmas windows, which are always spectacular.

Understandably, this year’s display looks a little simpler than years past, but still beautiful and impressive, and, this year, with the theme of gratitude to first responders and healthcare workers, really touching, too.

I know that the windows are meant to entice customers to come into the store and buy stuff, but on that kind of barren Monday before Thanksgiving in a battered but still standing city, somehow those windows looked to me like hope and, most of all, faith.

No matter how tired, anxious, and fearful we may be, God is faithful.

God is faithful.

Well, out in the world, over in Herald Square, there are still a few more weeks of this grim old year to go, but here in church we have finally turned the calendar page.

It’s the First Sunday of Advent.

We have arrived at the start of a new church year.

And, I think we can all agree, not a moment too soon!

The past year has been difficult in so many ways – hard for the world and so very challenging, scary, and even tragic for some of us here.

Disease and death have been – and, unfortunately, continue to be - on the loose.

Our economy sank under unprecedented pressure – and while the stock market may be rallying, the lines of hungry people at our food pantry down at Triangle Park, and at food banks all across the country, grow ever longer.

Thanks to the pandemic, and the slumping economy, and some leaders who have shattered norms that we mistakenly long took for granted, many of our institutions have undergone a severe stress test, and, while they’re mostly still standing, they are turning out to be not as solid and secure as we might have hoped.

To say the least, it is an unsettling time.

Today as we start a new church year, in addition to switching our liturgical color from green to Advent blue, we also switch the gospel that we will be hearing in church on Sundays.

We’ve set aside the Gospel of Matthew and have opened up the Gospel of Mark.

Mark is the earliest of the four gospels to be written. It’s a document that records memories and words of Jesus, and it also reflects the challenges faced by people a few decades after Jesus’ earthly lifetime.

The Gospel of Mark was completed around the year 70 – during a time when some Jews rebelled against Roman occupation, leading the ruthless Romans to destroy Jerusalem, even burning down the Temple, the place that Jews had long considered the holiest spot on earth, the place where, in a sense, God was believed to dwell.

This unspeakable tragedy made Jews (including the small group who believed Jesus was the messiah) wonder: was this the end of the world?

What I just read from the Gospel of Mark this morning comes from a section that’s often called the “Little Apocalypse."

When we hear that word “apocalypse” we think of it as meaning disaster, as catastrophe, as the end of everything, but, in fact, the word means “revelation.”

And what is being revealed in the little apocalypse that we heard this morning?

Jesus tells us that, yes, terrible things are happening, terrible things are going to happen, but those terrible things are not the end of the story.

The destruction of the Temple in the year 70 was not the end of the story for our Jewish brothers and sisters.

And, the pandemic, the fragile economy, the long lines at the food pantry, the semi-deserted streets, the scaled-back Macy’s windows and Thanksgiving parade, Thanksgiving spent alone or just with one or two others – none of what we are going through today is the end of the story, either.

None of that terrible stuff is the end of the story because, as St. Paul wrote to the often-troubled community in Corinth, “God is faithful.”

This is the revelation that we receive in and through Jesus, the Son of God whose birth we will celebrate in just a few weeks – but whose most important day is Easter, when we learn that even death is not the end of the story, no match for God’s love.

God is faithful.

That’s the revelation that we experience in our own lives, even when we sometimes fall short.

God is faithful.

People talk a lot about how we need to be faithful – how we should keep the faith – I mean, that’s what we called our stewardship campaign this year, right?

And keeping the faith is important, but we should probably talk even more about the faithfulness of God.

In our messed up and broken world, terrible things happen and are going to keep on happening – temples fall and disease spreads - but that’s never the end of the story, because through it all God is not going to let go of us – never, ever.

That is the revelation.

God is faithful.

So, we step into a new year knowing only too well the problems we face, and painfully aware that terrible things will sometimes happen.

But, let’s also step into this new year with confidence, remembering that God is faithful and will be with us no matter what.

No matter how tired, anxious, fearful, we may be, God is faithful.

And, especially during Advent, during this brief but beautiful season of preparation and waiting, let’s stay alert for signs of God’s faithful presence.

Because our faithful God is surely here this morning – look, Carol Harrison-Arnold has returned after a long absence!

Our faithful God is with us when we finish off the Thanksgiving leftovers, and when we pray together over the phone.

Our faithful God is with us when we see hope and faith in the homes and stores – in those Macy’s widows - that are decorated for Christmas.

And, our faithful God is with us even on a Monday, a weird day for a day off, when gray skies and rain surprise us by giving way to light, and we take a long walk with an old friend.

God is faithful.

Amen.

"Delivering God's Love"

“Delivering God’s Love”

For several years now, each Thanksgiving Day, dozens of volunteers from God’s Love We Deliver have used Carr Hall as a staging area to distribute hundreds of meals to sick and shut-in people. I had wondered if they would manage to continue this good work in our time of pandemic and economic anxiety, but, once again, the dozens of volunteers were here first thing in the morning, as organized and cheerful as ever –and now also meticulous about distancing and disinfecting. On a Thanksgiving Day that was so different, it was reassuring that at least this beautiful effort had not changed, especially since the need is undoubtedly greater than ever.

Each year I take a picture of the God’s Love We Deliver van while it’s parked outside of our church. I post the photo on social media as a way to celebrate this generous ministry. And, honestly, I just like this image because it’s a reminder that this is the work that we Christians are called to do: delivering God’s love, not only on Thanksgiving but all the time.

We are on the cusp of a new church year, about to begin the holy season of Advent. Over the next four Sundays, we will prepare to celebrate the birth of Jesus in simplicity and also look ahead to the return of Christ in glory. This brief season of waiting is also an opportunity for us to begin again, knowing that the world’s problems won’t magically disappear with the turn of a calendar page. So, today, on the edge of a new year, when people are desperate for light and hope, I invite you to spend some time looking at, and reflecting on, the picture of that van parked outside our church.

In the year ahead, how might we deliver God’s love?

Thanksgiving Unplugged

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation

Grace Church Van Vorst

Jersey City, NJ

Year A: Thanksgiving Day

Deuteronomy 8:7-18

Psalm 65

Luke 17:11-19

Thanksgiving Unplugged

        Like Grace Church, in the first days of the pandemic we here at St. Paul and Incarnation had to quickly figure out how we were going to continue worshiping during this unprecedented time when we would not be able to gather together in person, at least not for a while.

There was no one right solution and each community has had to figure this out, but here we decided to continue offering our 10:00 Sunday service pretty much like we always did, but with just me and my wife Sue – who over all these months has been lector, acolyte, and, most important of all, tech support.

Those first few Sundays, it sure felt weird – so strange to be preaching into an iPhone, sad to look out at all the empty pews.

But, what Sue and I missed the most – and what I know our congregation missed the most because they told me - repeatedly – was the music.

So, there was great rejoicing when Gail was able to return, and each Sunday since she has offered us a beautiful prelude and postlude.

Over these past few months, with not much else going on in here, it’s been fascinating to focus and really see Gail work – to hear her sing and play, almost always just by herself.

And, like all great artists who have been at it for a while, she’s secure in her craft – there’s really nothing left for her to prove – definitely no need to show off.

No, instead, there’s this spiritual and artistic purity - just Gail’s voice and the piano.

Seeing and hearing her each week has reminded me of those concerts when rock musicians sometimes ditch the band and disconnect the electronics – “unplugged,” right, so that the focus is on what is essential.

Maybe it seems strange to say this since right now you’re all watching us on your computers or phones, but I think Thanksgiving this year is “unplugged.”

By necessity we’ve scaled back or stripped away much of our Thanksgiving customs.

So, yes, there is still a Macy’s parade this morning but it’s a much more modest event than in years past.

Later today, we may still have a nice meal, but we might be eating it alone or with just a smaller than usual group of people.

And, although, unfortunately, some are rolling the dice and trying to do the holiday the way we always do, for most of us this year it really is Thanksgiving unplugged.

Which is definitely not the Thanksgiving we would have chosen, but there are blessings to be found in getting back to the essentials.

As we heard in our readings from Deuteronomy and Luke – and as we know from our own experience – it is easy to forget gratitude.

Even on day that we call “Thanksgiving,” it’s easy to get wrapped up in preparing and eating all that food - it’s so easy to take for granted the people around us and it is certainly easy to forget about the God who leads us to freedom and who always offers healing and new life.

So, as hard as this time has been, I think our “unplugging” has been good for us – scaling back and stripping away so much – leaving gratitude, pure and beautiful gratitude.

So, here’s one thing I’ve noticed.

I can’t speak to how it goes at Grace, but here when we were all in church together and it came time to pray for people in need, I used to hear lots of people whisper or call out names, identifying specific intentions.

But, when it came time for us to give thanks, to name our blessings, it was usually a lot quieter – probably out of shyness about seeming to boast about just how blessed we are, but also maybe because we didn’t fully appreciate just how blessed we are.

But now, when we’re praying on the phone, I hear so much gratitude – so many thanks given for the people we love, for the shelter that protects us, for the food that sustains us, and, yes, for our church, for the beloved community that has held together during some tough times.

I hear so much gratitude – so many thanks given for the doctors and nurses and everyone working in healthcare – for the scientists racing to deliver vaccines – for the bus drivers and train engineers getting us where we need to go – for the cashiers and clerks who keep the supermarkets open and for the delivery people who bring us items so we don’t have to risk our safety by going to the store – for the teachers struggling to somehow educate our children in this time of fear and confusion – on and on it goes, day after day, so much gratitude, so many thanks given.

So, here we are this morning – the Episcopalians of Jersey City – gathered together like we never have before on a Thanksgiving Day unlike any we’ve experienced before.

Here we are like a musician without the band, with the electronics all disconnected.

We are “unplugged” – so much has been scaled back or stripped away – leaving just pure gratitude and love – just what God has always wanted.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

Amen.

The King Who Washes Feet

The Church of St. Paul & Incarnation, Jersey City

November 22, 2020

Year A, Proper 29: The Last Sunday after Pentecost – Christ the King

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24

Psalm 100

Ephesians 1:15-23

Matthew 25:31-46

The King Who Washes Feet

        I’m sure many of you saw the news the other day about the arrival of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. What’s usually a moment of joy and excitement – Christmas is coming! – became a source of grim humor because the tree looked, well, it looked pretty scraggly, more than a little worse for wear.

Now, follow-up reports insisted that this is actually not unusual and that they’ll get it all fixed up and looking good, but for a lot of people the battered-looking Christmas tree was a bleak symbol of our times, just the latest example, as if we needed one, that this has been a terrible year.

Though, to be fair, they were able to rescue a stowaway owl, the little bird that inadvertently hitched a ride to the big city in the branches of the tree. 

So, there’s that.

Then again, maybe they should’ve checked the tree for nests before chopping it down and bringing it to New York.

2020!

It has been a hard year – one unlike any we have ever experienced - one that we’ll never forget, no matter how much we might try.

But, the year is coming to an end.

The world’s calendar still has a few more weeks to go, but today we have arrived at the last Sunday of the church year – the Feast of Christ the King.

As I remind you every year, the Feast of Christ the King is a relatively new addition to the church calendar.

It was first added by the Roman Catholic Church in 1925, and then Anglicans and other Christians followed suit.

Nearly a hundred years ago, the church thought it was important – urgent, even – to remind us that Christ is king because so many Christians were turning to other kings – giving their supreme devotion to political leaders, giving their ultimate loyalty to ideas and ideologies, like nationalism, fascism, communism, capitalism, and so on.

Now, I’d be very glad to stand here this morning on this last Sunday of a rough year and tell you that the creation of this feast a century ago, that this attempt to remind us that Christ is our one and only king, has worked - but all you have to do is turn on the news to know that’s really not true.

This has been a hard year – and we’re not out of the woods, yet – but it has had its beautiful moments, too.

For example, I don’t know about you, but I loved our quiet and simple service of Evening Prayer on Election Day – which may feel like months ago, but was not quite three weeks ago.

At that service, for our gospel lesson, Rev. Laurie and I chose the foot-washing from John’s account of the Last Supper.

Jesus has gathered with his closest friends for one last meal – and even the often thickheaded and clueless disciples recognized that time was growing short – that their teacher and friend – the One they had long hoped for – the One they had recognized as Messiah – was about to leave them.

Jesus uses that final meal to teach some last, vital lessons – lessons that over all these centuries we’ve never forgotten and lessons we’ve had to relearn and adapt a bit during the pandemic:

Jesus is present each time we gather – yes, even over Facebook.

Jesus is bread broken for us – yes, even when you can only see it on a screen or when it gets delivered in a Ziploc bag.

And then there is the foot-washing – a lesson that we haven’t forgotten, exactly, but one that maybe we’ve never fully absorbed.

You remember the scene – it’s the one we retell and reenact every Maundy Thursday.

Jesus gets up from the table, ties a towel around his waist and is about to begin washing his disciples’ feet.

As usual, Peter doesn’t quite get it – or maybe he understands only too well.

Peter objects, horrified by the thought of his Lord performing the lowly work of a servant.

Jesus replies that if Peter won’t allow Jesus to do this then he can’t be part of Jesus.

And when he hears that, Peter quickly changes his tune, even asking Jesus to wash not just his feet, but his whole body.

Washing feet – even in a ritualistic way in church like we do on Maundy Thursday – is a deeply intimate act.

The person being washed is exposed and vulnerable – many of us don’t often show our feet in public, let alone allow someone to wash them.

And, I can tell you from personal experience that the person doing the washing experiences a beautiful sensitivity and tenderness – it’s a kind of communion that moves me to tears every year – and it’s hard not to get choked up thinking about it today when we can’t even hug each other or just shake hands.

At the Last Supper, after Jesus has washed everyone’s feet, he says to his friends:

“Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord – and you are right, for that is what I am. So, if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”

In that unexpected and beautifully loving act, Jesus offers us such a radically different vision of leadership.

It’s really the reverse of the leadership we usually find in the world, no matter who is in power.

Jesus is the king who washes feet – and, if we want to live in his kingdom then we have got to wash some feet, too.

Sometimes that may mean literally washing some feet, but, as we heard in today’s gospel lesson, if we want to be counted among the sheep, we’ve got to feed the hungry, offer refreshment to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, care for the sick, and visit the imprisoned.

Jesus’ words about the sheep and the goats continue the theme we’ve been hearing in the parables from the past few weeks – some bridesmaids are wise while others are lazy – some slaves are brave while others are fearful - some are saved, while others are cast into the outer darkness.

But, here’s something you might not have noticed about today’s gospel lesson:

This time Jesus is not talking about his own followers – he’s speaking about other people who are not disciples – who, no matter what they may believe or don’t believe, are saved because they are kind and generous to people in need.

        And, if that's true for people who aren't disciples then it must be even more true for us, right? 

And, then there’s that one last twist: when they – or we – wash feet or feed the hungry or clothe the naked, it turns out we are caring for Christ himself.

In the words of Mechtilde, a medieval mystic whose feast day was yesterday:

“Love your fellow beings – for they are all tabernacles of God.”

So, here in church anyway, a difficult year is coming to a close.

Next week we get to begin again with Advent – when we prepare for the birth of Jesus in simplicity and the return of Christ in glory.

We don’t know what the months ahead will bring, but we can make some new year’s resolutions.

With God’s help, let’s rededicate ourselves to caring for people in need, on our own and by supporting Triangle Park, Garden State Episcopal, the Lighthouse, Family Promise, Jersey City Together, the ministries that we pray for every week – the people who feed and clothe and shelter Christ every day.

And, no matter our political views, no matter how we feel about the election and what has happened since and what is yet to come, let’s remember who should receive our ultimate devotion.

It’s Jesus.

The King who washes feet.

Amen.

Isolation and Communion

“Isolation and Communion”

As a kid, I was an enthusiastic stamp collector. I’m not sure how I got started in the hobby – maybe my parents encouraged me – but I loved gathering stamps from all over the world and organizing them in my albums. Some of my most cherished childhood memories include frequent trips with my family to Gimbels at Herald Square, which, unlike Macy’s across the street, had a most impressive stamp and coin department. I would spend a lot of time looking at the displays, carefully considering which sets of stamps I might buy and add to my collection.

I’m sure all of this makes me seem like quite an antique. I doubt that too many kids (or probably even adults) collect stamps anymore. That’s too bad because I learned so much geography and history from stamps – probably more than I ever learned in school. My stamp collection also sparked a lifelong interest in certain places, including the scattered and remote British colonies of the South Atlantic: St. Helena, Ascension, the Falkland Islands, South Georgia, and the most isolated inhabited place in the world: Tristan da Cunha.

I recently read an article* about the thriving Roman Catholic community on Tristan, an island with a population of just 246, of whom 42 are Catholic (most of the rest are Anglicans, and, just like here, some families have gone back and forth between the two churches.) A Catholic priest makes the arduous journey by fishing trawler to Tristan only once a year. While he’s on the island, he hears confessions, offers confirmation, and administers First Holy Communion. And, before he moves on to the next island, he consecrates a few thousand wafers so that this little community will still be able to receive the sacrament during the long months when they are on their own, more than a thousand miles from the nearest human settlement. As I read the article, my introverted side found the island’s quiet and slow pace appealing, but I also wondered just how long I could stand to be so far away from nearly everyone. 

Starting back in March, we’ve had our own Tristan-like experience, getting an unpleasant taste of just how hard it is to be cut off from so much of what we had long taken for granted. During the summer, we did get a brief and so very welcome reprieve from the grim isolation of the pandemic. Some of us were able to see family and friends, though still trying to maintain a safe distance. Stores and restaurants and some houses of worship reopened. The out-of-state ambulances were no longer lined up outside of the Jersey City Medical Center. But now that respite has come to a painful end, leaving us with a familiar sense of dread. As expected, though often denied, the rates of infection, hospitalization, and death are all on the rise, here and across the country. Although the light of effective vaccines is on the horizon, it will be a difficult winter.

During their long months of isolation, communion sustains the people of Tristan da Cunha. They are nourished by the Bread of Life left behind by their visiting priest, and also by the communion that they share with one another. Every Sunday of the year, they gather together in church – even without a priest – to pray and sing and hear God’s Word. And, I suspect that on an island with so few people, they are sustained by each other, by the generous care required to meet everyone’s needs. I’m sure they check on the elderly and the ill, help to raise all the children, and share food and drink.

Isolation and communion.

Nearly two weeks ago, I spent an afternoon driving around the southern part of Jersey City, bringing Holy Communion to some of our parishioners. (Our seminarian Lorna Woodham was kind enough to take the northern and western route.) It was so good to see some faces I haven’t seen in about nine months – to spend a few minutes catching up at a distance and behind masks – to share Communion, even if it was zipped up in a plastic bag, even if we are still mostly stuck on our islands. It was a relief to recognize – to feel – that time and distance cannot break our bond of love.

The following Thursday, we shared communion with parishioners and neighbors by reimagining our Stone Soup Community Supper. Catherine Marcial spent the day in our church kitchen, preparing one of her inevitably delicious meals that she doled out into takeout boxes. Familiar faces began to arrive at the door starting just before 6:00, hungry for a tasty meal prepared by one of the best chefs in town, but, I think, even hungrier for community. Some people looked longingly at Carr Hall, wishing we could sit around the tables like in the old days. And a couple of people were happy to just hang out in the hallway, shooting the breeze until I reminded them that they couldn’t stay too long. The next morning, I picked up lunch prepared by Sonia Staine for the guests at Garden State Episcopal CDC’s homeless drop-in center. I had been expecting a bag or two of sandwiches (which would have been most welcome and appreciated), but I should have known that Sonia had whipped up a coffee hour-worthy hot lunch for some of the poorest people in our community, sisters and brothers who are now even more isolated than ever.

Isolation and communion.

Sometime during the hard and cold months ahead, we will hit the road to bring you Holy Communion again. Meanwhile, I do no doubt that we will continue to be sustained by the “Spiritual Communion” we experience each Sunday when we gather on Facebook. We will still be in communion when we pray together on the phone and when we reach out to someone we know is lonely, sad, or ill. Some among us will prepare and share more beautiful meals. We will purchase Christmas gifts for children in need, even if we can’t place them under the tree in church. No matter what, the good folks at Triangle Park and Garden State Episcopal will care for some of the hungriest and most easily forgotten among us. Just like the people on faraway Tristan da Cunha, we will be united and enriched by a communion far stronger than even the loneliest isolation.

Now, I’m going to pull out my stamp collection and take a quick trip to the South Atlantic...

* https://www.americamagazine.org/faith/2020/11/05/most-remote-parish-tristan-da-cunha-catholics-thriving

Holy Risks

The Church of St. Paul & Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

November 15, 2020

Year A, Proper 28: The 24th Sunday after Pentecost

Judges 4:1-7

Psalm 123

1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

Matthew 25:14-30

Holy Risks

Well, we’re getting close to the end of another church year – a church year that has certainly been like no other.

Next Sunday is the Feast of Christ the King, the last Sunday of the year, and then it’s on to Advent, that brief and beautiful season of preparation and waiting – when we look back to the birth of Jesus and look ahead to his return in glory.

The parable we heard last week - the one about the foolish bridesmaids who didn’t have enough oil, who weren’t ready when the bridegroom came at an unexpected hour – that parable had a real Advent feel, remember?

Stay awake! Be alert!

And today’s parable that I just read – what’s usually called the Parable of the Talents – it also has a real Advent feel.

On the last day we will be asked to account for how we have used our talents, how we have invested our many blessings.

I suspect that the Jewish people who first heard this parable from the lips of Jesus himself experienced this story quite differently from Matthew’s community many decades later.

Remember, Jesus lived in a time when Israel was under occupation. Many people were landless, which meant they depended for their survival on the wealthy who did own the land. Remember the day laborers we heard about a few weeks ago? There were all those guys who were desperately hoping that someone would hire them for work, some still waiting around at nearly the end of the day – those men who were so surprised by the “unfair” generosity of a rich man who pays everyone the same amount no matter how much or how little they worked.

That story gave us a glimpse of the first century economy – and so does the Parable of the Talents.

(By the way, we actually don’t know the exact value of a talent, but it’s safe to just think of it as a lot of money.)

Anyway, Jesus tells us of a rich man who, before heading off on a trip, distributes talents to his slaves, each according to his ability.

We have to give him credit because he clearly knows his slaves quite well because they all perform pretty much as well or as poorly as he expected – the ones who received the most talents get a 100% percent return on their investment – and the one who received just one talent, well, he fearfully and carefully buried his talent. He didn’t lose anything, but there was no profit made – nothing was gained.

What I find striking about this parable is that the fearful slave with the one talent is exactly right about the master – he really is a harsh man who makes his money off of the labor of others.

And the master proves the one talent slave right by punishing him, by taking the little he has, by casting him into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I suspect that the people who heard this story from Jesus himself heard it as no big surprise – just another example of rich landowners being quite cruel, trampling on the wellbeing of the poor, taking the little that they have.

The rich get richer. The poor get poorer.

It’s an old story.

But, by the time Matthew writes down this story, the Parable of the Talents has become a warning to be ready for the return of Jesus when we will be held accountable for how we have used the talents we’ve been given.

If you’ve been going to church for a while, you’ve heard lots of sermons to that effect, maybe even from me.

And especially as one year draws to a close and other is about to begin, it’s definitely worthwhile for us to reflect on what we do with all we’ve been given. 

But, we need to remember that God is nothing like the harsh man in the parable.

Just the opposite.

God is love – and God wants nothing for us besides love and abundant life.

So, here’s a weird piece of trivia for you.

Both my grammar school class and my high school class had the same valedictorian.

It’s true.

And, no, it wasn’t me – though thank you for thinking so!

Our double valedictorian was a very bright, nice, and hardworking guy named Steve.

Now, I actually don’t have any memory of my grammar school graduation. But, I know it happened because there are pictures. 

But, I do remember my high school graduation pretty well, and I even remember a little bit of Steve the valedictorian’s address.

Like many people in similar situations, he called us graduates to be bold and to use our educations and, yes, our talents, for good.

Thirty-five years later, the particulars of his speech are a little hazy for me now, except for this. He said to us:

“The saddest words in the English Language are would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”

And, I have to tell you, Steve’s words have kind of haunted me for all this time.

I’ve quoted them to myself many times, especially when I’ve kicked myself with regret for poor choices that I’ve made, when I’ve missed a good opportunity, or when I’ve tried to work up the courage to make a decision, to make some big change in my life.

Over and over, I’ve heard Steve’s words echoing in my head, “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”

But, the truth is that none of us gets through life without at least some regret, right?

Sometimes, it’s regret about the ways we’ve fallen short, the mistakes we’ve made, the times we’ve hurt other people, unintentionally or, yes, sometimes even on purpose.

More often, though, I think we regret the times we weren’t bolder.

We regret the times we didn’t have confidence in our talents, the times we didn’t take a calculated risk, the times we give into fear like the slave in the parable, the times we didn’t trust that God would be with us no matter what, even if our risk didn’t turn out the way we had hoped.

God is nothing like the harsh man in the parable.

No, the truth is that God is always by our side, especially when we take holy risks, when we try to use our talents for good.

And, when we may seem to fall flat on our faces, when we seem to get not much return on our investment, God still manages bring new life out of what sure looked like failure.

Holy Risks.

For example.

Some of you know that about ten years ago Sue and I moved from New Jersey to Gainesville, Florida, where I served as the Episcopal chaplain at the University of Florida and rector of a small suburban church called St. Michael’s.

It was by far the biggest move we had ever made, a real stepping out in faith to live and work in a place where we didn’t know anyone at all, a place that in fact Sue had never even been until the day we moved into our new home.

In Florida we met lots of wonderful people – the college kids who were devoted to their chapel (and sure loved those Gators!) and the parishioners at St. Michael’s, who had fought long and hard to keep their church alive.

But, the truth is that it didn’t take Sue and me too long before we started realizing that we had made a mistake – that we were just too far from our families and friends - and we soon started considering the possibility of moving back home, or at least closer to home.

To make a long story short, we left Gainesville almost exactly a year after we had arrived.

When I drove out of town for the last time, with two cats beside me howling in their carriers, I knew I had let down a lot of people, especially the folks at St. Michael’s.

I felt like I had failed.

I was embarrassed.

And, I knew it would take a while to put the pieces of our life and my career back together again.

Now, eventually everything worked out just fine.

I was able to return to Grace Church in Madison, where, after a little awkwardness that I’m sure was mostly in my head – I kept thinking about the goodbye party they had thrown us not so long ago – we were able to settle back into a place where we were known and loved.

And, of course, a little more than seven years ago I came back here, came back home.

But, the truth is that, as recently as a year ago, if you had asked me about my Florida experience, I still would have felt embarrassed about the whole thing. 

There still would have been a lot of regret – should’ve, would’ve, could’ve…

But, during the pandemic something remarkable has happened.

Almost ten years after I drove away with the howling cats, a handful of my Florida people have, in a way, become my parishioners again. 

So, Tina and Jean and Vince and Jessica, and I think there are a few more lurkers out there, either tune in here on Sundays and/or call in to “Church By Phone” during the week.

In a time of trouble, God has reassembled our community.

My friends, God is so, so different from the harsh man in the parable, the man who has no patience for fear and failure, and who takes from those who have little and gives to those who already have a lot.

God wants us to not be afraid.

God calls us to holy risks – to take a chance on love and generosity and community – to use our talents as best as we can to help others and to glorify God.

And, when we chicken out or when our risk doesn’t seem to pay off, God doesn’t scold us or cast us into the outer darkness.

No, God picks up the pieces of what looks to us like failure and gets to work, assembling something new and even more beautiful than we could have imagined.

So, as we approach the end of one difficult year and look ahead to the start of another, let’s remember that God has blessed us with many talents.

Let’s remember that God is by our side no matter what.

And, let’s not be afraid to take some holy risks.

Amen.

Finding Perspective On a Most Unlikely Beach

“Finding Perspective On a Most Unlikely Beach”

In most respects, this has been a painfully challenging season. And now, the days darken, the cynical and dangerous dispute about the election continues, and the rate of Covid infection again threatens to shut down much of everyday life. It has been and continues to be a time of trouble, with waves of fear and anger that can make it hard to feel God’s presence and to keep daily events in perspective. 

But, at least in our part of the world, one bright spot has been the weather. Until the most recent gray and gloom, for the most part, we have been blessed with a beautiful season, covered in blue skies, bathed in bright sunlight, and dazzled by foliage more vivid than I can remember. I’ve enjoyed a spectacular “Fall Festival,” and hope you have, too.

Now, at this point, you may be expecting a story from one of my many walks in Lincoln Park. Wrong! Even those of us deeply set in our ways need to mix things up once in a while! So, a few days before the election, I decided to explore Caven Point, the small nature preserve tucked away at the southern end of Liberty State Park. Despite living in Jersey City for much of my life, I had never been there, but I had heard about it from friends and seen pictures taken there by our parishioner Sara Hopper.

Although Caven Point is not exactly hidden, you do have to know where to look. Getting there requires heading south on a walkway bordered on one side by an imposing retaining wall that seals off the exclusive Liberty National Golf Course from the rest of the community, a stark symbol of the great divide between those who have (and yet always want even more) and those who do not have much at all. After what felt like a longer than expected walk, I finally arrived at the nature preserve, discovering an oasis lush with vegetation and scored by birdsong. I took my time, savoring it all, and, of course, snapping lots of pictures for the “Fall Festival.” At one point, I left the trail and followed a footpath to…a beach! A real beach! Hearing about this miracle and seeing pictures did not prepare me for the reality that Jersey City has a wide sandy beach, dotted with seashells and strewn with seaweed.

I was alone, listening to honking geese and quacking ducks, mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the tide, a little disoriented by a different view of some most familiar landmarks. Although this whole area had long been industrialized, its soil contaminated, there was now not much sign of human activity. Instead, when I squinted a little, I could imagine the Lenape people gathered on the shore, feasting on the overflowing abundance of the sea and the land. I could imagine Henry Hudson sailing into the wide and deep harbor on the Half Moon, hoping to find a quick route to Asia, but recognizing that this place had real money-making potential. Actually, it was so quiet that I could imagine the near eternity before any of that, when there were no people feasting or exploring, just creatures going about their business of survival, only the rhythmic roll of the tide, a time when God was already at work, even if there was no one around to notice.

For a few minutes, anyway, standing on a most unlikely beach, I was able to gain a little bit of perspective, reminded of our small place in the bigness and grandeur of creation, the vastness of the ages. I remembered that, even in a time of trouble, God’s presence is as close as a leaf falling to the ground, providing yet again the promise of new life. I understood that, maybe with a little help from us, God can restore even the most poisoned land, renewing it into a taste of Eden, a glimpse of the way life was always meant to be. 

My time at the beach was brief. And, making my way back out of the nature preserve, I returned to a troubled land symbolized by that sturdy wall built to keep the poor away from the wealthy. But, somehow that wall seemed a little less oppressive. Now, I again trusted that God will give us the strength and courage we need to build a world without walls, to realize the downside-up kingdom imagined, proclaimed, and unveiled by Jesus. 

The Need for Renewal

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

November 8, 2020

Year A, Proper 27: The 23rd Sunday after Pentecost

Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25

Psalm 78:1-7

1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

Matthew 25:1-13

The Need for Renewal 

Back about nine or ten months ago, just before the pandemic began to shut down so much of our everyday life, I met for the first time with my new spiritual director.

In case you don’t know, a spiritual director functions as a kind of guide, as someone who listens to you and reports back what they’re hearing, and, perhaps, gives a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Don’t tell anyone, but I hadn’t had a spiritual director in a long time – it’s not easy to find a good one. And, it could be that I wasn’t exactly in a rush to find a spiritual director since, like with most people, my relationship with God is deeply personal, and not easy to talk about.

Anyway, at our first meeting, after we had gotten the usual pleasantries out of the way, she asked me to describe my prayer life.

I began by telling her about all the praying that you and I did together, the weekday and Sunday services, and the daily devotion I’ve been posting on Facebook for many years.

My spiritual director nodded along kindly and when I was done listing all of this public praying there was a slightly longer than comfortable pause. 

Then she looked at me and asked,

“But, what about your prayer life?”

It was in that moment – just before Covid turned our world upside-down – just before we entered our long in-between time - it was then that I was forced to realize that my own prayer life had mostly dried up – that, yes, sure, I was doing a lot of praying “at work,” but that was pretty much it.

Just in time, I realized that I needed renewal.

And if you’ve been tuning in and listening to me these past months, you have a good idea what my renewal has looked like:

At first, my long walks in Lincoln Park had been about my physical health and my competitive desire to get more steps than my FitBit competitors. But, after I realized I needed spiritual renewal I began to pay more attention, seeing God’s presence in nature’s beauty and in the people around me, spending at last some of my walking time time opening my heart to God in prayer.

And, I set aside a little more early morning time for quiet reading and prayer, making space for God before the rest of the world wakes up, before the busyness of the day begins.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still get tired and anxious like everybody else – especially during this rollercoaster of a week – but I’ll always be grateful for the gentle nudge from my spiritual director – her simple question that made me realize that I needed renewal – a renewal that has helped me get through this difficult time.

The need for renewal.

As you probably remember, for much of the fall we retold the exodus story, the tale of Israel’s forty-year long journey from slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land.

Two weeks ago, we heard about the death of Moses. God gave him the chance to see the Promised Land off in the distance, but he was not allowed to enter. After Moses’ death, leadership passed to Joshua who will bring the people on the last leg of their journey home.

And now today, in our reading from the Book of Joshua, we heard the story of Joshua assembling all the leaders of Israel for a ceremony – a ceremony of renewal.

Joshua reminds them that their ancestor Abraham had worshiped other gods before God made a covenant with Abraham, promising to guide him to a new land, promising that this old man and his old wife Sarah would be the father and mother of countless descendants – a promise so ridiculous that Sarah could only laugh.

And, Joshua reminds the Israelites that in more recent times they had worshiped other gods in Egypt. And, Joshua doesn’t even mention the business about worshiping the golden calf, probably because nobody needed to be reminded of that shameful event.

And, if you read today’s lesson carefully, it sure sounds like that even though the Israelites are back home – even though God had done so much for them – there were still some foreign gods among them.

Maybe some people were hedging their bets – worshiping God, yes, but also worshiping some of the idols of the world, too, just in case.

Maybe that sounds familiar.

So, Joshua calls his people to renewal – calls the people to renew their ancient covenant with God.

God’s promise had never been – will never be – canceled, but the people of Israel who had been unfaithful needed to renew their vow.

That long ago day in Shechem they made a big promise, saying, “The Lord our God we will serve, and him we will obey.”

The need for renewal.

Here in church we are still in a kind of in-between time, but we are beginning to turn our attention to Advent, that quick but beautiful season of waiting and preparation – waiting for the birth of Christ – and preparing for the return of Christ, for the day of judgment, and the end of time.

Today’s gospel lesson, the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Bridesmaids, certainly has a real Advent feel to it.

This parable gives us a little glimpse into the wedding customs in first century Israel, especially the tradition of the groom taking his bride from her father’s house and bringing her into his own house.

The job of the bridesmaids was to welcome the bride and the groom into the house.

But, as has been known to happen at weddings even to this day, things fell a little behind schedule, and the groom and his bride arrived quite late, after the ten bridesmaids had dozed off.

Despite their sleepiness, five of the bridesmaids were prepared – they had extra oil for their lamps.

But, the five other bridesmaids – the foolish bridesmaids – hadn’t thought ahead. They didn’t have oil left to relight their lamps. Naturally enough, their first thought was to ask the five wise bridesmaids for some of their oil. But, the five wise bridesmaids are unsympathetic and don’t want to share. Instead, they send the foolish bridesmaids off to the merchants, though it seems unlikely that any oil sellers would be open for business in the middle of the night.

The whole story is like an anxiety dream come to life, isn’t it?

It reminds me of the kinds of dreams I used to have before the start of the school year – I can’t find my classroom or I can’t figure out my schedule or I can’t make sense of the words printed on the page.

Well, for the foolish bridesmaids, the worst is yet to come.

Eventually they come back – with or without oil we don’t know – but the door has already been shut.

The groom hears them knocking but says coldly, “Truly I tell you, I do not know you.”

The five bridesmaids had foolishly let their oil run out, leaving them unprepared to welcome the Lord – who, let’s face it, usually shows up at what seems to be the most unexpected, least convenient times.

So, the lesson here is that the need for renewal is serious business.

Almost a year ago, I was spiritually depleted without even realizing it, praying a lot for work, yes, but not so much for me and my own closeness to God.

Now, I have to say that, no matter how depleted we might be, I trust that the Lord will always know us.

The issue is: will we be ready to truly recognize and welcome the Lord?

For many months we have been through an ordeal.

We have journeyed through sickness and a collapsed economy and distance learning.

We have journeyed through bitter political partisanship and an election that didn’t have the clear and immediate ending that we all wanted, though yesterday we finally learned that we have elected a new President and Vice President – and let us pray that God will give them the wisdom and strength to begin the work of renewal that is so desperately needed in our country.

But, meanwhile, Covid is on the rise again, and we are looking ahead to Thanksgiving and Christmas without our usual gatherings.

It’s a difficult time.

And so, like the people of Israel after their exodus from slavery to freedom, just like the foolish bridesmaids who had run out of oil, we are all in need of renewal.

For some of us, maybe that renewal will begin this afternoon when we finally receive Communion after such a long time without the Bread of Life.

Maybe renewal means dedicating ourselves to daily prayer – even just a minute or two, or the twelve or so minutes of our “Church By Phone” services.

Maybe renewal means keeping our eyes open for signs of God at work in the beauty of the world around us, in the people around us.

Maybe renewal means turning off the TV – especially cable news – at least sometimes, and opening a book, or picking up the phone to call a friend or someone we know could use a good word, or maybe just sitting quietly for a little while.

Maybe renewal means sharing a little of what we have with those in need, and with the church we love so much.

Most of all, renewal is echoing the promise of Israel – echoing the promise of our own baptism:

“The Lord our God we will serve, and him we will obey.”

Amen.

"The Work God Gives Us To Do"

“The Work God Gives Us To Do”

On Tuesday night, an unpleasant sense of déjà vu prevented me from drifting peacefully into sleep. I tossed and turned, grappling with the reality of yet another close election, one likely to be disputed for weeks. I grieved the gaping divisions in our society. We don’t just disagree about politics and policies but seem to live in wildly different realities. I finally managed to doze off, but I woke up in the middle of the night and stupidly checked my phone, hoping in vain for some clarity on the election and our future. 

Although feeling far less than refreshed in the morning, I was determined to make the best of it. On Facebook, I posted a prayer that I found on the website of a Roman Catholic Church. It’s called A Prayer for the Common Good:

God of compassion and love, show us how to care for each other and live in the world.

Beyond all limits, difficulties or failings, give us a passion to hold all people in respect and dignity.

Together, O God, may we create a world of freedom, justice and peace.

Amen.

And then, at just before 7:30, fortified by only one cup of coffee, I dialed into Morning Prayer. It was reassuring and comforting to hear familiar and much-loved voices as we offered greetings and checked in with each other. Many of us were tired from a long night of election watching and worrying, but we were there to hear God’s Word, to pray, and to support one another. The appointed reading was from Ecclesiasticus included this beautiful description of God:

We could say more but could never say enough;

   let the final word be: ‘He is the all.’

Like congregations across the Episcopal Church, last week we began “Nine Days of Prayer for an Election,” a practice that helped to remind us of our common humanity and our dependence on God. These daily prayers prepared us for good discernment and called us to an even deeper commitment to the common good. On Wednesday, the last day of our “novena,” we prayed this collect:

Almighty God our heavenly Father, you declare your glory and show forth your handiwork in the heavens and in the earth: Deliver us in our various occupations from the service of self alone, that we may do the work you give us to do in truth and beauty and for the common good; for the sake of him who came among us as one who serves, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

- The Book of Common Prayer, pg. 261

By the end of Morning Prayer on Wednesday, I won’t say that I was chipper and optimistic, but I had regained some peace and perspective. It soon seemed like the various strands from the last few hours were being woven into a way forward. I thought back to our Election Night service, where we heard some powerful Scripture, including Paul’s call to the Philippians - “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice” - and the story of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, providing a radically different vision from what passes as leadership in the world. I kept hearing Mark Miller’s beautiful anthem, “Draw the Circle Wide.” And I kept thinking that God “who is all” has given us work to do – the work of building a world of freedom, justice, and peace – the work of building God’s kingdom – work that must not be, cannot be, stopped or even slowed by our anxieties and the results (or non-results) of an election.

Sure enough, as the day after Election Day progressed, Catherine Marcial shared with me her plans for “Stone Soup To Go,” the takeout version of our long-running community supper, coming up on Thursday at 6:00. A couple of parishioners stopped by to drop off donations for the coat drive at Triangle Park. I drove those coats down to our community center, along with five giant boxes of warm socks – socks collected and donated by the amazing sons of Evelyn Donato (one of my former students and sister of our parishioner Karol Candelario). Meanwhile, planning continues for distributing Communion to parishioners on Sunday, and for restarting the Lighthouse in its new home. We are drawing the circle ever wider.

This election has exposed gaping divisions in our society - injustices, prejudices, and fundamental disagreements that maybe we used to ignore or pretend weren’t such a big deal. No more. It’s clear for the whole world to see that our country is an angry mess, frustrated by an antique and unfair electoral system, inflamed by rage, and poisoned by conspiracy theories. I doubt this election’s outcome will be much help for what ails us. But, God “who is all” continues to give us our work to do, weaving prayer, scripture, and community into a way forward, a way that looks and sounds like sleepy and anxious people gathered on the phone early in the morning, hungry for some Good News. It’s a way forward that looks like rejoicing no matter what, like a leader washing feet, and like a meal with the best food, where everyone is welcome. It’s a way forward that looks like two boys collecting many thousands of socks for people in need. It’s a way forward that looks like the Body of Christ shared with us all. It’s a way forward to a world of justice, freedom, and peace. It’s the way of Jesus, the way to the Kingdom of God.

So, even in our time of trouble - especially in our time of trouble - thank you, God, for the work you give us to do.

To Be Bread

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

November 1, 2020

Year A: All Saints’ Day

Revelation 7:9-17

Psalm 34:1-10, 22

1 John 3:1-3

Matthew 5:1-12

To Be Bread

Well, once again we find ourselves in an unsettling in-between time.

After a bit of a lull during the summer, the plague of Covid-19 is once again raging across our country and around much of the world – rates of infection and hospitalization are soaring, and here in the United States we’re losing something close to 1,000 people every day, a number that hopefully still shocks us and breaks our hearts.

Many businesses and schools and, yes, some houses of worship, are still open, but we wonder how long that will last. It feels like we’re sliding right back to where we were back in March when so much of daily life shut down and we were all scrounging around for toilet paper.

We are in an unsettling in-between time.

And, you may have heard that there’s a big election – it’s already underway, of course – hopefully most, if not all, of you have already voted – it’s already underway but it’s entirely possible, maybe even likely, that we won’t know the outcome on Tuesday night – there may not be a concession speech or a victory celebration anytime soon. Instead, the days after Election Day may be even more contentious than the days before.

We are in an unsettling in-between time.

And, here in church, last Sunday we completed the exodus with the people of Israel – their journey through the wilderness from Egypt to the Promised Land.

For Israel, it was a forty-year long in-between time, years when they sometimes got frightened and impatient, when they sometimes gave into the temptation to be just like everybody else, choosing to worship gold instead of God.

But, also during their forty-year in-between time, the Israelites got to know God better than ever, they received God’s Law, and they came to know in their bones that God would never abandon them, no matter what.

And, in our gospel lessons, we’ve been hearing the ongoing conflict between Jesus and the religious leaders of his time.

Jesus could get along with almost anybody it seems, even people like lepers and prostitutes and tax collectors – all the people that he was supposed to avoid like the plague – Jesus could get along with everybody it seems…except for the religious leaders.

He called out their hypocrisy – their willingness to place extra burdens on people already weighed down – he critiqued the love they had for their prestige and privilege.

Maybe worst of all, most of the religious leaders weren’t able to see God at work around them, especially in a craftsman from Galilee who was somehow able to teach and heal like no one else.

As a religious leader myself, I find these stories uncomfortable, to say the least. They make me wonder if my kind and I don’t fall into those same traps – getting full of ourselves, or so concerned about keeping the institution going, or protecting our own well-being, that we miss God at work all around us, usually in the people we might least expect.

I’ve mentioned Dorothy Day to you before – back in the last century she was the co-founder of the Catholic Worker.

She spent her life living among and feeding the poor, taking some very unpopular positions against war and capitalism, offering and modeling a very different vision of what life – what the Christian life - is supposed to be like.

Dorothy Day once said that she never expected very much from religious leaders. She said, “I never expected leadership from them. It is the saints that keep appearing all through history who keep things going. What I do expect is the bread of life and down through the ages there has been that continuity.”

Today we are in an unsettling in-between time, a place between sickness and health – a place between the last four years and whatever is to come – a place between exodus and the Promised Land – and, a place between the kingdom of earth and the kingdom of heaven.

And, as Dorothy Day understood, it’s the saints who keep things going – it’s the saints who will lead us from here to where we are meant to be.

Long ago Moses encountered God on a mountain.

It was on a mountain that God gave the Law to Moses, offering the people a roadmap to keep them on the right path, to keep them in right relationship with God and with each other.

And now, in today’s gospel lesson, it’s on a mountain where the Son of God offers his vision of the kingdom – the downside-up kingdom where the people the world sees as fools or losers are the ones who are, in fact, truly blessed.

In the downside-up kingdom of Jesus, the blessed ones are the poor in spirit, the mournful, and the meek.

In the downside-up kingdom of Jesus, the blessed ones are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, and the persecuted.

Whenever I read Jesus’ beautiful but also kind of overwhelming downside-up vision of the kingdom, I always wonder what the disciples made of it.

Jesus had used parables to describe the kingdom, of course.

It’s like a tiny mustard seed growing into a big shrub providing shelter for the birds.

The kingdom is like a father so happy and excited to welcome his seemingly good for nothing son back home, back into the family.

The kingdom is like the person you might fear or even hate turning out to be the one who shows mercy.

Those parables are beautiful and challenging, but here, on the mountain, Jesus lays out his downside up vision.

What did the disciples think?

Probably the same thing that we think:

We have a long way to go.

And, as Dorothy Day understood, it’s the saints who will lead us from here to where we are meant to be.

Growing up as I did in the Roman Catholic Church, I was well acquainted with the saints – or, at least, the saints who were officially recognized by the church, the saints whose statues were in front of houses, the saints we were taught to pray to, maybe when something was lost or when our cause seemed otherwise hopeless.

To be honest, it was well into adulthood before I really understood that saints are not some special category of human being, but, as Christians, all of us called to be saints, all of us are meant to be saints – whether the church or anybody else ever recognizes our sainthood.

With God’s help, we are called to lead each other through this unsettling in-between time to the Promised Land, to the downside-up kingdom.

But, how might we do that?

I was puzzling over that question when on Friday I read the obituary of the poet Diane di Prima, who died last week at the age of 86.

I had never heard of her, but reading her story I learned that she had led a long and unconventional and richly creative life, first in New York and then in San Francisco. She’s probably best remembered as one of the few female Beat poets.

Anyway, for a few minutes her obituary provided a fine distraction from my work, until I came to an excerpt from one of her poems, called “The Poetry Deal.” 

In this poem, Diane di Prima addresses “poetry” itself, making a kind of agreement, or religious types like us might even say, a covenant, with poetry. 

She writes,

I’d like my daily bread however you arrange it, and I’d also like to be bread, or sustenance for some others even after I’ve left.

I read that and I thought, well, there it is.

To be bread.

To be bread.

Long ago, God gave the Israelites manna in the wilderness.

God gives us Jesus the Bread of Life.

And, God gives us one another – each with the potential to be bread for others.

To be a saint is to be bread.

To be a saint is to be the bread of life, here and now, in our broken world.

To be a saint is to be bread that feeds others – feeding others with love and beauty and hope and truth and, even before all of that, being a saint means feeding others with real good food that fills their bellies, the way Dorothy Day did, and like we do at Triangle Park, and the homeless drop-in center, and at Stone Soup.

To be a saint is to be bread.

As Dorothy Day said, “It is the saints that keep appearing all through history who keep things going. What I do expect is the bread of life and down through the ages there has been that continuity.”

Today we are in an unsettling in-between time.

We would probably all like to race ahead, to somehow fast-forward through the next few days, or the next few months.

That’s not possible, of course.

But, Jesus has given us the vision of our destination: the downside-up kingdom, so different from our broken world.

God continues to send saints to keep things going, to get us from here to there.

And, those saints are not “them.”

The saints are us. 

Especially on this particular All Saints’ Day, especially during this unsettling in-between time, sainthood may seem impossible, but, with God’s help, all that’s required is for us…

To be bread.

Amen.