A Pastoral Letter

A Pastoral Letter from the Rector

Dear Parishioners,

Grace and peace to you.

I hope you have had a good summer, with at least some time for rest and refreshment, some opportunities for travel or to just enjoy the beauty that surrounds us in Maryland. Here at St. Thomas’, summer brought a slightly slower pace. But just slightly. We welcomed our wonderful new Assistant Rector, the Rev. Amelia Bello. We continued the much-loved tradition of hosting Paul’s Place Camp and welcomed a lovely Afghan family into a beautifully renovated “Gilead House 2.” We undertook several other important capital projects, including the repair of many monuments in the churchyard, library and parish hall roof repairs, and the installation of a new kitchen floor. We gathered to watch the film The Six Triple Eight, a fascinating and inspiring story of an all-Black, all-female postal unit during World War II. We also hosted an introduction to community organizing session, which was well-attended by parishioners and guests. And, of course, we continued to gather on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays to praise God and to pray for our own needs and the needs of others.

Unfortunately, while all this good and holy work has been underway at St. Thomas’, the troubles of our land and our world have continued to multiply. Bitter divisions and ruthless acts of violence at home. Unceasing war and unspeakable suffering in Ukraine, Gaza, and in so many other places. No doubt, you are well aware of the problems, challenges, and dangers we face. You also know that St. Thomas’ is a diverse community, welcoming people from different backgrounds, including people with varying experiences and points of view. So, I have been giving much prayer and thought to how we can best live together as Christians in a time such as this. As much as we might like to, we cannot bury our heads in the sand, tuning out the fear and suffering around us. But we also must offer a holy respite from the relentless news cycle, continuing to provide a place where we can all come together to pray, serve, and love, to remember that God loves us and will not let go of us, no matter what.

Before we begin a new program year on Renewal Sunday (September 7), I want to share what I see as the best ways forward for us.

First, perhaps more than ever, we are called to pray. We are called to pray on our own and we are called to pray together in church. Through prayer, we give God more space in our hearts, allowing God to grow closer to us, providing us with the strength, wisdom, and courage that we need. As Sam Shoemaker once said, “Prayer may not change things for you, but it sure changes you for things.” This is a great truth. I urge you to pray. And, in the months ahead, St. Thomas’ will offer more opportunities to learn about prayer and to pray together.

Second, while we cannot ignore what’s happening in Washington and around the world, I am convinced that we are particularly called to tend to our local Baltimore community. Fortunately, this work is already well underway as we continue to deepen our relationships with Owings Mills Elementary School, Owings Mills High School, and the Community Crisis Center. Through community organizing, we are beginning to meet more of our neighbors from other local institutions, learning from each other, and listening for ways that we might make life better for people in our neighborhoods. As a sign of these new friendships, we are planning to host an interfaith Thanksgiving service in November here at St. Thomas’. More on that, and much more, later.

Especially during these challenging times, it is a great joy to belong to our St. Thomas’ community and a profound privilege to serve as your Rector. May God continue to bless you all. And let’s continue to pray for each other.

Your Brother in Christ,

Tom

 

The Renewal of Hope Begins Around the Table

The Renewal of Hope Begins Around the Table

Advent, 2022

            At the heart of Holy Communion is the memory of a meal. Each week, we recall and reenact the story of how Jesus gathered with his closest friends for one last supper before his suffering and death. Jesus blessed the bread and the wine, saying that this is his body and blood, given and shed for us. Jesus promised to be with us each time we come to the table and remember him.

           The pandemic created a great hunger in us, a deep desire for what we may have previously taken for granted. It has been such a joy to return to the table, reuniting with people we have known forever and happily making room for those we have never met. It has been a great gift to hold out our hands - to feel again the slight weight of the wafer that carries Jesus into our bodies and our hearts. It has been a joy to again taste the wine that reminds us of how much God loves us. During the long months of separation, how we missed Holy Communion, what one of our youngest and wisest parishioners calls "Special Treat."

           I'm convinced that the renewal of St. Thomas', our renewal of hope, truly began when we reassembled at the holy table, retold the old story, and received the Body and Blood of Christ once again.

           And this renewal of hope is happening at a couple of other holy tables, too.

           Just as we missed Holy Communion, many of us also longed to spend time together in the Parish Hall after our Sunday services. If you have been around lately, you know that the easing of the pandemic has drawn an increasing number of parishioners to stick around for a cup of coffee, some delicious treats, and good conversation. Since I'm usually one of the last to arrive, I love walking into the hall and hearing the hum of people talking and laughing, sharing stories, catching up, and making new friends. Like everything else, this doesn’t just happen, so, many thanks to Jesse VanGeison for organizing our hosts, and to everyone who has provided us with such excellent hospitality.

           On a recent evening, a few of us shared a marvelous dinner at Gilead House in Pikesville, with some of the refugees who have found safe harbor there, including Hizbullah, the Afghan man who, as you know, has been co-sponsored by St. Thomas'. Despite cultural and language differences, the conversation and the laughter flowed, and our bonds of friendship and respect grew even stronger.

           At the end of the meal, Hizbullah prepared tea for us, using saffron that he had carried with him on his long journey from Afghanistan. As I observed him pour the steaming and wonderfully fragrant tea into cups and then pass them around to all of us, I had to blink tears out of my eyes. It was like a New Testament story had suddenly come to life in front of us. I could almost hear Jesus saying, "The Kingdom of God is like a man forced to flee his homeland, losing nearly everything but managing to keep a small amount of expensive saffron. But rather than holding onto this precious taste of home, he is delighted to share it with his new friends."

There was a sequel to this parable a few days later when many parishioners filled the Parish Hall to hear a mesmerizing presentation by Hizbullah. After this impressive young man shared his gripping his story with us, we were served a delicious Afghan-style feast, prepared by a hardworking and talented team, led by Frances Rockwell. I went home that afternoon feeling full, both in body and spirit. 

           The holy season of Advent marks the start of a new church year. My prayer for this fresh start is that, with God's help, even more of us will gather together, in church, in the hall, and out in the community, receiving and sharing God's love.

The renewal of hope begins around the table.

The Life-Changing and Holy Power of Welcome

From The Rector:

The Life-Changing and Holy Power of Welcome

I'm sure that all of us can look back at our lives and recognize key turning points, moments of significant change, times that set us off in a new and different direction. Of course, sometimes these moments are unhappy ones: the loss of a job, the rupture of a relationship, a frightening diagnosis, or the death of one we love. Fortunately, we are sometimes blessed with joyful moments like falling in love, making a new friend, experiencing physical or emotional healing, finding meaningful and satisfying work, helping someone in need, and discovering a place that quickly feels like home. Sue and I have been blessed with that gift more than once.

About 20 years ago, one of my teaching colleagues invited Sue and me to her church. That church was St. Paul's Episcopal Church, conveniently located just a few blocks from our house in Jersey City. We accepted the invitation because I liked my colleague, and we were curious about this architecturally interesting building, which has the incongruous look of an English country church on a side street in the city. And, maybe without even admitting it to ourselves, we went to this old church because we were hungry for some good spiritual food.

So, that Sunday (by the way, it was the Second Sunday of Advent, the holy season of preparation), we walked through the church doors, stepping into the unknown. Without knowing it, we reached one of the most momentous milestones of our lives. We were greeted warmly by the ushers and took our seats. When the service began, we followed along in the bulletin, prayer book, and hymnal as best we could. I spent most of the service looking and listening, awed by the beautiful building, impressed by the congregation's diversity, and dazzled by the choir's talent. But, the key moment was the Exchange of Peace. Honestly, it seemed like everyone was out in the aisle greeting one another, genuinely happy to see fellow parishioners. Sue and I were surprised and uncertain, not sure if we should (or, frankly, if we wanted to) join in the exuberant celebration. As we stood awkwardly, shyly half-waving to the people around us, the church's rector came down the aisle and stopped at our pew. He extended his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Dave. Welcome to St. Paul's."

That moment changed my life in ways I could have never imagined back on that memorable Advent Sunday. Sue and I returned the following Sunday, and on most of the hundreds of Sundays that followed. "Dave" (The Rev. Canon Dr. David Hamilton) became and has remained a close friend and cherished mentor. His welcome, and the congregation's embrace, gave us a taste of what an authentic Christian community can and should be. Dave's common touch and honesty, especially his unflinching willingness to share his own struggles, reawakened in me a call to ordained ministry. For Sue and me, our simple but profound encounter with the Body of Christ that day set in motion a meandering chain of events that later brought me back to St. Paul’s as rector, and eventually led us here to St. Thomas' and the exciting new chapter we are beginning together.

These past few weeks, your warm welcome of us has reminded me of that long-ago welcome at St. Paul's. So many of you have extended your hands, introducing yourselves (and, yes, often reintroducing yourselves!). You have given us beautiful and thoughtful gifts and invited us into your homes and lives. You have shared your insights and recommendations about this community and have offered to help us with "anything." It really has been something else – yet another beautiful milestone in our lives.

We all know that the ongoing pandemic has changed so much about how we "do church." Fear of spreading or catching disease prevents many of us from being as expressive and outgoing as we might want. And, although sadly necessary, wearing masks again certainly makes it more challenging to greet one another and particularly hard to identify people who might be new to our community. But, just about every Sunday of my ministry, including my first few unmasked and masked weeks here with you, when I've said, "The peace of the Lord be always with you," I've remembered Dave making his way down the aisle, reaching out his hand to us and changing our lives forever. And, even in – especially in – this time of anxiety and uncertainty, I pray that we never forget the simple but profound act of greeting a stranger in church: the life-changing and holy power of welcome.

A Final Note to the Parish: On the Road

A Final Note to the Parish: On the Road

Dear Friends,

Nearly eight years ago, you and I officially began our ministry together with a grand celebration in our beautiful church. The place was packed with parishioners, family and friends, Jersey City Episcopalians, visiting clergy, and a busload of folks from Grace Church in Madison. (Yes, parking was a problem!) Gail Blache-Gill and our choir and guest singers and musicians dazzled us with their artistry. My mentor and friend, The Rev. Lauren Ackland, preached a wise and inspiring sermon. Bishop Beckwith presided with his usual high energy and joyful spirit. For Sue and me, our “Celebration of New Ministry” was a mountaintop experience, a homecoming, and the start of a journey both familiar and unknown.

For our gospel lesson, I selected Luke 24:13-35 – the story of the Risen Christ appearing to the two disciples on the road to Emmaus – a story that I have loved since I was a teenager. The setting is the first Easter Day, and two disciples are walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to a town called Emmaus. Along the way, they reflect on all that has happened over the last few days – the heartbreaking rejection, torture, and death of Jesus and now the unsettling reports of an empty tomb. On the road, as the two disciples try to make sense of all of this, they are joined by Jesus, “but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

Without knowing it, the two disciples tell Jesus his own story, and then Jesus replies by teaching the Scriptures in a way that sets their hearts on fire. Finally, when they arrive at what seems to be the end of their journey, the two disciples invite this “stranger” into their home. When they gathered at the table, Jesus “took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” In that moment – in the breaking of the bread - the two disciples finally recognized Jesus. And he vanished from their sight.

The now overjoyed and renewed disciples quickly head back on the road to Jerusalem, back to the others, excited to share the Good News, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

The story of the Risen Christ appearing to the two disciples on the road to Emmaus is the Christian life in miniature. We travel the road not alone but together. We encounter Christ in the stranger, in Scripture, and most of all in the Breaking of the Bread. We are meant to offer hospitality, knowing that when we welcome the outsider we welcome Christ himself. We are sometimes called to leave home – to step away from what is safe and comfortable, heading back out on the road to proclaim the Good News.

With God’s help, over these eight years, we have been a lot like the two disciples on the road. We have stuck together during hard times. We have welcomed the stranger, sliding over to make room for newcomers in church. We have opened our doors to people hungry for food, community, shelter, and beauty. Especially during the pandemic, we have heard and read the Scriptures. We have blessed, broken, and shared the Bread of Life. And, we have stepped out beyond our church, out into the community, back out on the road, sharing the Good News, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And now, the part of our journey that began eight years ago comes to an end. Today is my last day as your rector. Tomorrow I start my work at St. Thomas’ Church in Owings Mills, Maryland (but mostly, I’ll just be packing!). Especially after our celebration on Friday night, and after reading the many touching contributions to the “memory book,” I feel a tumult of emotions, maybe as mixed up as the two disciples on the road. Sue and I will miss you and this place more than we can say. Just know that this church and this city will always be home for us.

Like many of you, I look to the future with a blend of anxiety and hope. Our world, country, and church are all changing way faster than we can grasp. There seems to be trouble all around. But, although we can’t see what lies ahead, we can be sure of God’s indissoluble and unbreakable baptismal bond with all of us. God will not let go of us, no matter what. And, if we keep open our eyes, ears, and hearts, we will continue to meet Christ in the stranger, in the Bible, and in the Bread. 

We have been through much together during these eventful years, a time when our two churches took the bold step of becoming one beautiful community. We have formed ties of love and memory that will endure, despite the passage of time and the widening of distance. I will forever give thanks to God for the joy of walking beside all of you, on the road.

Your brother in Christ,

Tom

Calendar Connections

Calendar Connections

 

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

About fourteen years ago, as my days of seminary preparation were drawing to a close, I turned my attention to finding my first job in the Church.  Here in the Diocese of Newark at that time, there was one full-time position open: curate (assistant priest) at Grace Church in Madison. 

I remember well the day I drove out to Madison for my interview with Grace’s then-rector, the Rev. Lauren Ackland. I was nervous and uncertain, not knowing what to expect. But after a few hours of talking with Lauren and several parishioners who would soon become dear friends, any concerns I had about fitting in at this vibrant suburban parish quickly evaporated. When it was almost time to go back home, dazzled by Grace's many ministries and its robust health, I asked Lauren, "Why do you think there is so much happening here?"

Looking back now, I'm a little embarrassed by that question. Just what did I expect Lauren to say? But, without giving it a moment's thought, she replied, "It's because of the weekday worship." I hoped my face didn't give away my surprise and even skepticism. Yes, sure, daily worship was the heartbeat of the seminary, designed in part to help train future "religious professionals." Could and would daily worship truly shape a parish's life? Surely there must be some other explanation!

During my years at Grace, I realized that Lauren was right (as usual). True, the vast majority of parishioners never attended a weekday service. Yet, there was a difficult to describe spiritual effect caused by worship occurring in that place every day of the year. Nearly always led by laypeople, these services bathed the church in prayer and helped to keep us connected to God between Sundays. 

When I arrived here at St. Paul's, we quickly created a weekday worship schedule, nowhere near as ambitious as at Grace, but still life-giving for our hearty band of lay leaders and worshippers. And I believe that, just like at Grace, this prayer rhythm touched all of us, keeping us connected to God and each other. Our weekday worship has somehow shaped us as a community: a people meant to be Christians every day of the week, not just on Sunday.

I had always hoped that someday we would expand our worship schedule to every day of the year. That hasn't happened. But during the pandemic, we have unexpectedly and wonderfully become a community of weekday worshippers, dialing in and praying together three times each weekday.

Now we get to hear way more Scripture than we ever have. I know that some of us take the time to learn about the holy women and men commemorated on the church calendar.  Maybe some of us reflect on how their lives and witness might inspire us to even greater faithfulness. Perhaps this sounds weird, but sometimes I find that even the church calendar itself - the schedule of feast days – helps me to connect the dots of the Christian life. For example, we began this week with a major feast, the Conversion of St. Paul. The Acts of the Apostles provides a vivid account of Paul's dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus, while the apostle himself is more circumspect about what was surely the most important event of his life.  However it happened, God was able to convert Paul from an oppressor of the Church to the most zealous of apostles, a man who spent the rest of his life urgently and courageously sharing the Good News.

The next day we commemorated two of St. Paul's companions, Timothy and Titus, giving us an important reminder that even the most devoted and capable Christians need company; God intends us to work together. Finally, on Wednesday, we celebrated Lydia, Dorcas, and Phoebe. These three holy women receive just passing mentions in the New Testament yet still offer us powerful models of Christian discipleship.  

I particularly love Lydia’s story. She was a Gentile, an apparently prosperous dealer of purple cloth. Perhaps because material wealth did not fully satisfy her, Lydia sought a relationship with Israel's God. One Sabbath, that search led to a riverbank where she encountered St. Paul. After God opened Lydia's heart to hear the apostle's message, she asked Paul to baptize her and her household right then and there. Tellingly, just after her Baptism, Lydia began her Christian life by extending hospitality to Paul and his companions, inviting them into her home.

This week the church calendar has connected so many dots of the Christian life. God calls us to conversion in ways that are usually subtle but sometimes quite dramatic. We are meant to be companions, to be people who break bread together, who share the joys and challenges of life. We are expected to proclaim the Good News to others, sometimes with words, but always through example and service. And, we are called to be hospitable, knowing that when we welcome others, especially people in need, we open the door to Jesus himself.

Trust Renewed: The Cookie Boycott

Trust Renewed: The Cookie Boycott

 

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

 

Last Wednesday, after the violent storming of the U.S. Capitol, some of us gathered for an expanded "Church By Phone" service. Many of us were on the conference call as usual, and some joined us through Zoom. On that terrifying day, we included a couple of additional prayers, including the much-loved Prayer Attributed to St. Francis, and the less familiar Prayer for Our Country (found in the Book of Common Prayer on page 820). In the days since, we have continued to say both prayers and, even over the phone, I can tell that these words are touching our hearts.

 

In the Prayer for Our Country, we make a most timely request for God to "save us from violence, discord, and confusion; from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way." And, at the close of the prayer, we ask, "in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail." 

 

I admit that after all we have seen and endured in just the last week and a half, and fearing what is yet to come, my trust in God has sometimes faltered. Maybe the same is true for you. We ask, how much longer, Lord? And yet, in God's usual subtle way, there are small but powerful signs that God is still at work, shining light into the shadows, renewing our hope for a just and peaceful future.

 

For example, some of you know that we have been glad to host a Girl Scout troop for five or six years now, renewing an old tradition from both St. Paul's and Incarnation. Thanks to the dedication and persistence of leaders Gina Verdibello and Kellie Lewis, the troop has grown in size and scope. Like scouts throughout the decades, the girls have gained new skills and learned about their community and beyond. It has been so gratifying to see this program flourish.

 

Over just the last few days, many more people have learned about our Girl Scout troop. As you may have read in the Jersey Journal or seen on the news or on Facebook, our scouts have taken a strong and sacrificial stand for compassion and justice. It turns out that many of those delicious (and mildly addictive) Girl Scout cookies are made with palm oil. And palm oil is often produced by child labor in places like Malaysia and Indonesia. 

 

In a time with so much trouble and suffering, we might be inclined to simply regret this reality – just another sorrow in a world full of despair. And, since this wonderful program's financial health depends on the sale of cookies made with palm oil, we might be tempted just to look the other way or maybe try to rationalize the cookie sale. It is a good cause, after all.

 

Our scouts and their leaders chose the more challenging way, the faithful way, the way of compassion and justice. As one of the girls said, "There is no excuse for using child labor when you can pay legal adults to do the same work. Children should be in classrooms and not working on plantations." Recognizing a terrible injustice, our troop has joined a cookie boycott begun by one scout in Tennessee and now spreading through the country. What may have seemed at first to be a small and futile effort will no doubt lead to changes by the Girl Scouts and their cookie vendors, and might even lead to better lives for faraway children we will likely never meet, but who are our sisters and brothers.

 

Thinking about the sacrifice made by our Girl Scouts has renewed my trust that God is still at work in sometimes subtle but always powerful ways. And the stand taken by these girls, and the positive attention it’s attracted, has also made me more hopeful about the future. Like so many young people across the country, our kids envision a better world and are already speaking up and creating real change. So, no matter what happens in the days and weeks ahead, I'm not going to forget the cookie boycott. And, I'm going to keep my trust in our God who is hard at work, shining light into deep shadows, renewing our hope for a just and peaceful future.

Your brother in Christ,

 

Tom

Streams of History

Streams of History

 

When I taught history at St. Peter’s Prep in Downtown Jersey City, each year I took my U.S. History I classes on a field trip to an American Revolutionary War battle site. I’m sure that when my students first heard “field trip” they imagined that I’d hand out permission slips to be signed by their parents, and, someday soon, we would board a bus that would take us away from school for a day. So, there was perhaps some disappointment when I told them that they would need no permission slip because our “field trip” would take us… all of one city block.

 

When the big day arrived, we made our way over to the intersection of Washington and Grand Streets. An obelisk stands in the small park there, commemorating the Battle of Paulus Hook, where Redcoats and Patriots skirmished in 1779. We carried with us reproductions of old maps, helping us to situate the long-gone fortifications. The exercise required a lot of imagination because the landscape is so different from what it was in colonial times. Over the years, industrious people hungry for more land extended the shoreline to the east and filled in what had been marshland, burying all the many streams that flowed throughout the area.

 

Today those underground streams are invisible on the street level, but, as many homeowners in the Paulus Hook neighborhood know only too well, they are not gone. The streams continue to run below the surface, occasionally rising back up and doing considerable damage.

 

Now that we live during a time that historians will study closely,  I often find myself thinking back to my classroom days and reconsidering how I went about teaching the past. Thanks to textbooks and, really, our usual way of thinking, it’s almost unavoidable to think of history as having “chapters” with beginnings and endings. For example, each year in U.S. History I, I had the daunting challenge of teaching our country’s history from the “Age of Discovery” to the end of the Civil War. And I aimed to tell that long story in a way that was not just a meaningless list of names and dates, all the while encouraging my students to think critically. It was often fun, but it was a lot to cover! And, the last marking period was usually a mad dash to the finish line. Surrender at Appomattox! The Civil War is over! Lincoln is assassinated! Exam review! Have a good summer and good luck in U.S. History II!

 

Each year it sure seemed that one chapter had come to an end. Other chapters were about to begin. The only problem is that this is not how history works. It’s not how life works. Rather than a collection of chapters with beginnings and endings, history is more like a stream, or a collection of streams. At certain times, some streams flow stronger than others. Some streams may dry up. And, maybe most dangerous of all, some streams may be forced underground, but only for a time. Eventually, the pressure increases enough that, just like in Downtown Jersey City, the streams rise to the surface, wreaking havoc.

 

On Wednesday, it was shocking and frightening to watch insurrectionists, some carrying Confederate flags or wearing shirts bearing Anti-Semitic messages, storm the United States Capitol. Some of those people were buffoonish while others were serious and skilled, equipped for kidnapping and killing. The seeming ease by which they all entered what should be one of the most secure places on the planet raises many disturbing questions. The fact they were cheered on, at least for a time, by the President of the United States, would have been unthinkable to our country’s founders and all the presidents who have gone before. Yet, none of it should have surprised us, really.

 

The Civil War “ended” in 1865, but we all know that the toxic stream of racism and white privilege has continued to course through our land ever since, diverted into “Lost Cause” mythology, Jim Crow, the Ku Klux Klan, voter suppression, and all the rest. Maybe sometimes the stream has been mostly underground, collecting in places like the cesspools of the Internet, but it’s never been far below the surface.  And, sometimes, cynical politicians craving power have been eager to draw from this foulness, convinced that they would be able to cap it again when it’s no longer useful to them. Any student of history knows this is a serious, and potentially deadly, error.

 

It’s convenient for us to forget that many Americans of the 1930s, including some prominent and influential people, admired the Nazis, envying the exaltation of the “strongman,” pinning their troubles on the usual scapegoats, and supporting the oppression of Jews and other minority groups. When the U.S. entered World War II, and when the horrors of the Holocaust were exposed, that toxic stream may have seemed to dry up, but, in fact, it just seeped below the surface. For a while now, this contaminated water has bubbled back up, and it finally flowed into our capital city this week.

 

We know from nature, and maybe from our basements, the destructive force of water. But, at the same time, all life depends on water. And our Christian lives depend on water, too. This Sunday, we will celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord, recalling the day long ago at the River Jordan when God announced to Jesus, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” When we remember the Baptism of Jesus, we are called to remember also our own Baptism, the moment when we began to swim in the holy waters of love, faithfulness, service, and forgiveness.

 

These are grim days. While new leadership will undoubtedly bring some change, it will not be the end of one chapter and the start of another. No, the streams of history will continue to flow, some stronger than others, some more visible than others. So, especially in such a frightening time, when much ugliness that had been hidden has been exposed, I hope we will remember that we have been washed in the water of Baptism. There is no stream strong enough – there is nothing strong enough - to break the bond between God and us.

 

I have often said that the people of St. Paul and Incarnation have a special vocation. We are called by God to show the world that all different kinds of people can not only tolerate each other, not only live together in peace, but stand up for each other, truly love one another, no matter what. Our vocation has never been more important, more needed, than right now. And when we are faithful to our calling and when we join hands with other people of faith and goodwill, then together, with God's help, we can unleash a flood of goodness, making real the vision of the Prophet Amos:

 

 “But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

"All the Way to Heaven is Heaven"

“All the Way to Heaven is Heaven”

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Someone once said to me that he believed the Church’s mission was “to get as many souls as possible into heaven.” I didn’t reply to that, but, no surprise, I would not describe our purpose quite that way. Yes, it’s definitely true that we should never lose sight of our ultimate destination, especially during Advent when we are meant to look ahead to Christ’s return. But, salvation is God’s work, not ours. In fact, throughout history, the Church has gone off the rails when it has become too focused on the next life, turning away from the here and now, the needs and hopes of the people all around us, the flesh and blood world that matters so much to God.

And, it’s because of Christmas that we know for sure that this world really does matter to God. Those of us who grew up in the Church, who know so well the stories of Jesus’ birth, may have lost our sense of wonder at this story, no longer seeing the mind-blowing implications of the transcendent God choosing to join us here on earth, not as a blinding light or a resounding voice, not as some kind of awe-inspiring spiritual being, but as a helpless newborn, completely dependent on a man and woman who were far from home, barely able to find shelter and safety. Perhaps in that moment Mary and Joseph doubted their ability to care for a child in such a harsh world, but they were, of course, the exactly right people for this holiest responsibility. God knows what God is doing.

Although there are plenty of fanciful and charming legends about Jesus’ childhood, we know almost nothing about that long stretch of time between his birth and when he first presented himself to John to be baptized. But, although we are unaware of the details, Jesus grew up among relatives and neighbors, no doubt nurtured and challenged by all of the joys and hardships of family and community life. Maybe people recognized something different and mysterious about this boy, but probably not. After all, later on, the folks in Nazareth had such a hard time wrapping their minds around the notion that this grown-up child of Mary and Joseph could be anything other than a craftsman, never even considering that this hometown boy might be the long-awaited messiah.

During his days of teaching and healing, Jesus used earthy images for the kingdom of God. He said it’s like a tiny mustard seed growing into a shrub large enough for birds to nest. The kingdom is like a father joyfully welcoming home a seemingly good for nothing son. It’s like the most unexpected person, the one who is hated and feared, offering generosity and mercy. Jesus insists that the kingdom of God is among us, here and now. 

In church this Sunday, we will hear the perhaps too-familiar story of the angel appearing to Mary, announcing the most amazing news. Mary could not possibly have known all that would unfold in the years and centuries ahead thanks to her “yes,” but she knows enough to ponder the angel’s message in her heart. Mary would have known that God’s choice of a peasant girl to bear God into the world means that a kind of revolution was about to begin. Mary would have anticipated that if God is going to cast down the mighty from their thrones and lift up the lowly and meek, it will come at a great cost for her and her flesh and blood son. The cross shadows the manger. And, sure enough, on a Friday afternoon in Jerusalem a few decades later, it seemed that the hope born in Bethlehem was dead forever. But, God brings new life out of death. And when the Risen Christ appeared to the frightened disciples, he was transformed for sure, but still embodied. He even invited a doubting apostle to touch his wounds.

The pandemic has taught us just how embodied we are as Church. Back in the “before time,” we gathered together each Sunday, often sitting beside or near people we may not have known too well. We shook hands at the peace, with the more exuberant among us offering joyful hugs. I marvel at how many hands I shook every Sunday! We received the Body of Christ in our hands and drank from a common cup. We squeezed into Carr Hall for food and fellowship. I don’t think I ever realized how much closeness and touch we experienced, always taking it all for granted. That’s why it has been hard during these many months to be a “disembodied church,” mostly limited to looking at images on a screen, hearing voices on conference call prayer services. 

Yet, with God’s help, we have continued our true mission of being the Body of Christ. We managed to provide Christmas gifts to over 40 children in need. Every week parishioners and neighbors drop off donations for the Triangle Park Community Center, our little storefront where people are fed and clothed daily, where the light of hope shines bright. We continue to reach out to each other as best as we can with calls and emails and cards, letting our fellow parishioners, our sisters and brothers, know that they are not forgotten, that we are all loved and missed. 

Salvation is God’s work, but we have our own mission here in the flesh and blood world that matters so much to God. Even during this strange, difficult, and even sad Christmas, with God’s help we can - must - continue to build the beloved community among ourselves and with the many people around us so hungry for love and light. And when we are on our mission, when we are the Body of Christ right here and now, then, in the words of Catherine of Siena, “all the way to heaven is heaven.”

Merry Christmas to you all!

Tom

"Be the Kind of Church That..."

“Be the Kind of Church That…”

Dear Sisters and Brothers,

Our Minister of Music, Gail Blache-Gill, brings many gifts to her work, including her exceptional musicianship, of course, and the rich and lasting relationships she has built with other talented and devoted people all around our area and beyond. Here at St. Paul and Incarnation, we’ve benefitted from those connections since Gail has invited many guest singers and musicians from other churches to sing and play at our worship services and special programs. So, over the years, maybe without even realizing it, we have formed bonds with other congregations, perhaps none more than with the Middle Collegiate Church in Manhattan’s East Village, a congregation founded all the way back in 1628.

As many of you know, Middle Church’s sanctuary was destroyed by fire early Saturday morning, leaving just a stone shell that may not be structurally sound -another heartbreaking loss in a year that’s been full of them. Watching the video of the inferno engulfing that familiar landmark, I felt as sickened as I did in April of 2019 when the world looked on in shock as the old timbers of Notre-Dame de Paris were turned to ash. On both occasions, I felt sorrow for the people losing their spiritual home, for losing so much history. I was reminded yet again of just how fragile everything – everyone - is. And, yes, I couldn’t help thinking about our own beautiful, but vulnerable, sanctuary, the holy place that means so much to us, the place where the walls have been bathed by prayer, our prayers and the prayers of those who have gone before us, for more than a century and a half.  What if?

It’s a sickening thought for sure, but it might be a worthwhile question for us to consider. In the aftermath of the Middle Church fire, it wasn’t just congregants who were devastated. All across the city and beyond, so many people expressed shock and grief and pledged to help with the rebuilding effort. Only partly about the loss of a historic building, this wave of love and care truly arose out of deep gratitude and admiration for Middle Church’s commitment to serving the poor and the outcast, its relentless work for justice, its sincere welcome of anybody and everybody who walked through the door. As Amanda Meisenheimer, a minister at The Riverside Church (yet another great NYC church with Gail Blache-Gill connections), wrote, “Be the kind of church that if your building burned down, everyone in the city would mourn and Facebook would be flooded with both lament and hope.”

Those strong words (a command, in fact) have been haunting me, making me wonder how Jersey City would react if we were struck by tragedy, if we suddenly disappeared. I like to think that people would remember us as a welcoming place, where lots of good food was served at our community suppers, and at our arts and music events, and, most of all, each time we gathered at the Lord’s Table. Perhaps they would recall our partnerships with Garden State Episcopal CDC, Jersey City Together, and Family Promise. Probably more than a few parents would lament the loss of our safe and affordable summer camp. Maybe the people who worked at their sobriety week after week in Carr Hall would miss us, remembering our building as “an icon of my recovery,” as one AA member once told me. Yes, no doubt at least some would regret our disappearance, but I’m sure that many others would hardly even notice. After all, there are plenty of other churches in town, some at least as welcoming, at least as closely woven into the community, as St. Paul and Incarnation.

Advent is the time when we are meant to get ready for the joy of Christmas, and it’s a season when we’re also called to prepare for the end, for Christ’s return, for the day when we will be judged on how we used the many gifts we have been given. We are commanded to stay awake, to be alert. So, maybe the dreadful “What if?”  prompted by the Middle Church fire is the perfect reflection for this season. Maybe the command to “be the kind of church that if you’re building burned down, everyone in the city would mourn and Facebook would be flooded with both lament and hope” is the best resolution for the new year.   

Your brother in Christ,

Tom

Click here if you would like to help Middle Church rebuild: www.middlechurch.org/rising

“The Church is Never More the Church Than When…”

“The Church is Never More the Church Than When…”

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

To better understand the history of the Diocese of Newark, some of my clergy colleagues and I have spent time studying the journals of each diocesan convention, stretching all the way back to 1875. I really lucked out because I was assigned 1948 to 1971, a particularly fascinating and eventful period in history, both diocesan and American. During the late 1940s and early 1950s the Church began to face the enormous changes wrought by World War II and the postwar economic and population boom. There was a lot of attention given to the menace of communism and also the excesses of the Red Scare. There was a flurry of fundraising and construction, as the Church rushed to expand older churches and build new ones in the rapidly growing suburbs. There was concern about the decline of many urban congregations, emptied by changing demographics. And, thankfully, during the turbulent 1960s, there was increasing awareness and acknowledgment that our country, state, and diocese were all falling far short of offering equal opportunity to Black people.

Back then, just like today, some people thought the Church should stay out of politics and not concern itself with the issues of the day. Several bishops pushed back against that point of view, but none more powerfully or eloquently than The Rt. Rev. George Rath, who served the Diocese of Newark as Suffragan Bishop from 1964 to 1970, Bishop Coadjutor from 1970 to 1974, and then finally as Bishop from 1974 to his retirement in 1978. Until I started digging in the archives, Bishop Rath was just a name to me, but now I’ve added him to my pantheon of spiritual heroes. I bet you’ll feel the same way after you read this, from his address to the 1965 Diocesan Convention:

“A Church that is founded upon the faith that God sent his own Son into the world to redeem the world cannot refrain from entering into the politics, and the economy, and the social mores of the age in which it finds itself. To some, the saying, ‘Let the Church be the Church,’ means, ‘Let the Church look after its services of worship, run its Sunday Schools, minister to the sick, and the dying, the poor and the bereaved, but let it keep its nose out of the realms of business, industry, commerce, and politics.’ On the other hand, the Church is never more the Church than when it acts as the conscience of the nation. The Church is never more the Church than when it acts in protest against injustice or the miscarriage of justice. The Church is never more the Church than when it speaks for the unorganized and voiceless poor. The Church is never more the Church than when it takes its stand beside the American Negro in his protest against his economic oppression, his educational deprivation, his political disenfranchisement, his social disadvantage. The Church is never more the Church than when it seeks to act as mediator between hostile groups and hostile nations.  The Church is never more the Church than when it stands ready to spend its life for the sake of the world, imitating the Lord’s example.”

These are such powerful, wise, and challenging words from Bishop Rath. Now here we are, 55 years later, in our own turbulent time, when a deadly virus lurks in the air around us, when so many have lost their jobs or worry that they’re next out the door, when political differences seem to have driven an unbridgeable chasm between us. Plus, the Church is much smaller and weaker than it was during Bishop Rath’s day, and thanks to these long months of exile from our sanctuaries, the Church is likely to shrink even more. So, given all that, today it is tempting for the Church to merely look after itself, to think somehow that all we should do – or, all we can do right now, anyway – is care for our own people, avoiding controversy at all cost, doing our best to keep the institution going during these most difficult days. 

Yet, as Bishop Rath understood well and expressed so clearly, the Church is never more the Church than when we link arms with the poor and the oppressed, when we speak truth to power, especially when power really doesn’t want to hear it. And, the Church is never more the Church than when we roll up our sleeves and get to work, doing our part to heal the world so loved by God, building a world more like what God has always intended for us all.

Your brother in Christ,

Tom

"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?

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

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 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.

"On Our Way to the Promised Land"

“On Our Way to The Promised Land”

Dear Sisters and Brothers,

Thanks to our “Church By Phone” team’s generosity, I took an extra day off this week. I thought it might be a good idea to recharge a little, to be as ready as possible for whatever will be coming our way in the days ahead. Although the weather was not so good, I spent some time over in Manhattan, walking up and down the streets of a city that is certainly hurting, but I’m happy to say, it’s most definitely not a “ghost town.” On both days, I found dry spots where I could sit outside. So, while eating a slice of pizza or sipping a cup of coffee, I did some people watching, looking at everyone getting through the day, wondering what was on their minds, what invisible burdens they might be carrying.

The truth is that we’ve all picked up at least a few scars along the way. All of us carry our own personal regrets, hurts, and fears. We wonder about the roads not taken. We ache about the ways we have betrayed others, and we’re stung by how others have betrayed us. We worry about the future. What is yet to come?

And many of us bear the trauma of living in our deeply messed up society. Despite overflowing prosperity, so many have so little. We are armed to the teeth, making gun violence an inevitable fact of life and inspiring some to form “militias” ready and willing to preserve their white privilege and to act on bizarre conspiracy theories. There aren’t enough good-paying jobs, leading many to desperation and recklessness, convinced that there’s nothing left to lose. Our level of public discourse continues to sink to even lower depths. Many among us seem to have gotten tired of a deadly virus that we were never serious enough about in the first place. And, finally, we get daily reminders that some people in our country just don’t seem to matter very much at all. 

The presidential election is undoubtedly critical, and the outcome may help us heal from some of this agony, but there will be no quick and easy fix. 

So, how do we move forward, scars and all? How do we find healing in our hearts and in our community?

You may remember that in church this past Sunday we heard the story of the death of Moses. He was buried on the edge of the Promised Land. The leadership of Israel passed to Joshua, who will guide the people back to their ancestral homeland, bringing the long exodus to a close. 

I’m sorry that we’ve reached the end of the exodus story because this ancient account of wilderness years speaks so clearly and powerfully to our time and the challenges ahead. The Israelites had left behind all that was familiar and were now in a seemingly endless in-between time, filled with dangers and fears, and with plenty of opportunities to make big mistakes. There were times that the people missed the past (even though it wasn’t so great back in Egypt). They grew hungry and thirsty and impatient. They gave into the ever-popular temptation of worshipping the gods of the world, choosing to be just like everybody else. 

At the same time, Moses and his people learned about God. They received the law, which gave them a trusty roadmap for keeping their end of the covenant. They discovered that God would provide food to fill their groaning stomachs, but hoarding would only disappoint. For the Israelites, the suffering and the mistakes were painfully real. Yet, God never stopped pointing the way forward. And, as we’ve just done in church, the story of this long ago epic journey is told and celebrated to this day.

Unlike the Israelites, we are still somewhere in the middle of our wilderness journey. We are a mess. But, God is always pointing the way forward, reminding us of the power of prayer and the beauty of community. God is unsettling our consciences about the plight of the hundreds of children at the border who may never be reunited with their parents. God is uncovering the suffering in our old cities and towns (like Jersey City) where the good jobs have been moved elsewhere, without a thought for the loyal and skilled workers left behind. God is uncovering the injustice and brutality that have given Black people good reasons to mistrust the police and others in authority. 

It can feel overwhelming to face these realities. Sometimes we may even miss the (often not so great) past. But, there’s no turning back.

Whatever our politics, we all know that next week may be quite difficult. As always, we’ll be praying for one another, our country, and for the whole world. On Election Day, in addition to our three “Church By Phone” services, we will gather on Zoom at 7:00 PM with our friends from Grace Van Vorst, knowing that Jesus is always present where two or three of us are gathered, even if it’s on the Internet. 

So, in the days ahead, no matter what happens, we’ll stick together. We’ll continue to follow God’s lead. Scars and all, we are on our way to the Promised Land.