More preachin'

This quarter's preaching class is a little different. Instead of being given specific propers to work from, we are encouraged to pick our own scripture and run with it. For our first sermon, we were to preach using one of the figures in Lesser Feasts and Fasts, the collection of saints, martyrs and models that the Episcopal Church recognizes as part of our liturgical calendar.

The following was my effort in that regard.

**************Mark 10:42-45

"Functioning in a subsidiary or supporting capacity."
"Subservient."
"Relating to something that is added but is not essential."
"Secondary"
"A spare."

These are some of the definitions I found when I looked up the word “auxiliary” in the dictionary.

I did so because that term, “auxiliary,” is what largely defined the role of Julia Chester Emery, whose life and work we remember today. She was National Secretary of the Women’s Auxiliary to the Board of Missions for the Episcopal Church.

Don’t let that title, “Secretary,” fool you; she was the leader of the Auxiliary. But the title simply indicates that hers was a position under the control of the Board of Missions, and of the men who held the authority there.

She took over the position from her sister Mary, who left to be married. Because she remained single her whole life, she was able to serve as Secretary for 40 years, from 1876 to 1916; and the book of Lesser Feasts and Fasts records her tireless efforts over those years. She traveled extensively, visiting every diocese and missionary district in the United States, as well as missions in "remote parts of the world:" China, Japan, the Phillippines, and Hawaii. Remember, this was in a time well before cars, and planes, and easy travel; this was hard work.

Further, under her auspices, the Auxiliary developed "an emphasis on educational programs, a growing recognition of social issues, and development of leadership among women."

However, the one effort for which she is most known is the establishment, in 1889, of the United Thank Offering. This fund, originally set up to support missionary programs both at home and abroad, is still largely supported by the prayers and loose change dropped into little blue boxes on the windowsills and kitchen counters of women across America.

Does that sound familiar? I grew up in the Episcopal Church, so it is to me. My mother always had a little blue box on her bedroom dresser. My grandmother kept hers by the kitchen sink.

In the last 100+ years, the UTO has grown to be a significant source of funding for the church’s mission and ministry around the world. Last year, over $3 million in UTO grants were awarded. Not a bad legacy, for someone whose role as a woman in the church was defined as "subsidiary" and "not essential."

Now, of course, one can make the case that temporal power and authority is not what we as Christians should be seeking. Certainly, Julia had a tremendous impact in her “supporting” capacity. And today’s Gospel is a very pointed reminder of where our focus, our call lies, as Jesus’ disciples. Not in seeking power, and glory, and authority, and recognition; but in service, and ministry-- what my bishop calls “a heart for the lost,” and “a commitment to one another.”

Still, I can’t help but wonder: what might have been the result, had Julia, and her sisters, been welcomed into the upper echelons of leadership? If they had been encouraged to use her gifts for leadership directly? If societal norms had not limited them?

This morning a friend of mine sent me a poem, a psalm written by a woman in his parish. I'd like to share it with you.

You have called me to be not of this world;
Yet while I’m in this world, I am here to do Your will.
To obey Your commands and to seek you above all else;
To desire Your Word and crave time alone with You.
To bring hope to the hopeless and those in pain;
To show Your love to everyone in everything.
To be so focused on You and Your goodness
That I might give every breath, moment, and thought for Your glory.
While at times I stumble and fall to the ground,
You are always there to pick me up again.
When I cannot see the road ahead
You are the light that shows me the way.
When my thoughts become lost inside my head,
Your voice speaks the words I’m unable to say.
Sustained by the grace that You have shown,
May I be forever Yours and never my own.

This profound gift of faith was written by woman who is not currently permitted to serve as a Eucharistic minister in her parish, because of her age. Emily is 17.

Where else do we still inhibit the service of God’s people, by relegating them to “auxiliary” status?

And why?

Marriage... Marriage is what brings us together today.

Okay, not marriage, really, but weddings. More specifically, wedding attire-- a dress (Size 12! Worn only once!) that was for sale on eBay. The sale is over, but the seller's commentary remains.

Go. Read this. Just make sure you're in a place where laughing out loud is okay.

And thanks to Karen for sharing.

Learning

That was the theme of my day. Yes, I know; that seems obvious, in the world of seminary education. But (and this should not surprise you), more learning sometimes happens outside a classroom than in. Today I learned:

-- There is at least one other chapel colder than ours.

-- A community presentation can (and will) be panned by a significant number of people, and still have good come of it.

-- Participles give me fits, and I may never keep all the verb endings straight; but reading scripture in Greek is a Very Cool Thing, even when it's on a midterm exam.

-- I may never meet ice cream I don't like. Hasn't happened yet.

-- Trying to play guitar with someone else is nearly impossible for a rookie; but it's fun trying, so long as the someone else is very, very patient.


So... How about you? What have you learned lately?

Travesty

Susie let me know about this upcoming show.

There's a lot I could say here-- as a birth parent, as an adoptive parent, as a person of conscience-- but none of it is ladylike. I will be back when I calm down, and after I let them know what I think of this. Please feel free to do likewise.

Worship

Here's a question for you: How does a group of mostly (but not entirely) Caucasian, mostly (but not entirely) male Christians, steeped in mainline traditions, begin to worship as a faith community, in a way that will reach into a multicultural context?

I'm deliberately leaving this question as open-ended as possible. Answer as you will; the suggestion box is open below.

Decaffeinated

Well, I'm getting there, anyway. I'm told it takes 30 days to eliminate caffeine from one's system, and I've been off it for maybe 10-- doctor's orders. It would have been longer, but I forgot about the amount of the stuff that hides in chocolate, which I've been in the habit of eating (and drinking) in regular doses. Then my beloved husband reminded me, gently, of the content in the Easter candy I was nibbling. So I gave that up, as well.

Then the headaches began. Ebbed and flowed, but were pretty much constant companions for better than a week. Last Wednesday was the worst-- I was only marginally functional. Fortunately, blessedly, they've tapered off since then. I've gone most of today pain-free.

This whole adventure has reminded me, once again, how much I take everyday health for granted.

Thank you, Lord, for in your image I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Please help me remember that.

Spiritual Direction

I stopped on my way home yesterday for a meeting with my spiritual director. I've gotten into the habit of seeing her monthly, and it has been good. She's a retired Episcopal priest, both gentle and amazingly direct. Our time together has come to be something I really look forward to.

Sometimes our conversation is about support, and encouragement; sometimes, discernment. Yesterday, it was a bit of a wake-up call, regarding some spiritual bad habits I'd fallen back into. Not easy, but very good-- and I am really, really grateful for the guidance as I walk this path of Christian discipleship.

So once again, it's about repenting and returning. Sometimes that's frustrating-- but boy, this time it feels exactly right.

Music

Susie gave me a present yesterday: a Fran McKendree CD that I didn't have, and that is apparently no longer available-- so I'm doubly grateful.

Today I'm listening; and this is the song I keep coming back to.

Jesus Christ is Waiting
Jesus Christ is waiting,
Waiting in the streets;
No one is his neighbour,
All alone he eats.
Listen, Lord Jesus,
I am lonely too.
Make me, friend or stranger,
Fit to wait on you

Jesus Christ is raging,
Raging in the streets,
Where injustice spirals
And real hope retreats.
Listen, Lord Jesus,
I am angry too.
In the Kingdom’s causes
Let me rage with you.

Jesus Christ is healing,
Healing in the streets;
Curing those who suffer,
Touching those he greets.
Listen, Lord Jesus,
I have pity too.
Let my care be active,
Healing just like you.

Jesus Christ is dancing,
Dancing in the streets,
Where each sign of hatred
He, with love, defeats.
Listen, Lord Jesus,
I should triumph too.
On suspicion’s graveyard
Let me dance with you.

Jesus Christ is calling,
Calling in the streets,
”Who will join my journey?
I will guide their feet.”
Listen, Lord Jesus,
Let my fears be few.
Walk one step before me;
I will follow you.

Reflections

Last evening, I got to be part of a discussion about a different sort of church plant-- coming out of more than a single faith tradition, and remaining connected to them. Not non-denominational, but multi-denominational. Federated church, was the term we used.

Worship was part of this meeting, and I was given the opportunity to do a wee bit of preaching; a reflection on John 13:1-17. Here it is.

*******************
I love Peter. Impetuous, impulsive... he has a real knack for blurting out right what’s at the top of his mind in the moment. Sometimes he takes a bad rap for this-- for being foolish, and clueless. And sometimes he is. But this time, I don't believe that's the case. In fact, quite the reverse. It's not that he doesn't understand. He understands only too well.

Remember, he's been traveling with Jesus for a long time at this point. He knows Jesus, as well as any one. And he's got a clear picture in his head of what their relationship is.

I think that if Jesus had asked him to wash the other disciples' feet-- to take on the duty of the most menial of servants-- he might have been startled, but he'd have done it, and without the quibbling that you might have heard from James and John.

But to accept that service from Jesus-- from his Lord-- for himself, is another matter entirely. That's unexpected, and uncomfortable, and inappropriate. He should be serving, not served.

We still have the same conflict today, don’t we? It's certainly the message that we get in secular society, in a culture which honors prosperous individualism. I can do it myself.
I'm willing to help others, but I shouldn't need help from anyone.

And even as Christians, we are consistently taught that this is how to follow Jesus' example. To serve, to give up one's life, to offer oneself in the name of God. In the Episcopal church, we promise at our baptism "to seek and serve Christ in all persons."

But I think we need to remember that the Jesus we see here, willingly taking on the most base of servant’s tasks, is the same Jesus who gratefully accepted a sinful woman falling at his feet, and washing them with her hair, and drying them with her tears.

Service works both ways. Sometimes it means offering-- and sometimes it means accepting what others have to offer.

I think this, in part, is what the idea of a federated faith community is about. Trying to be as Christ to one another, and in the world, in ways that stretch us beyond the barriers that we sometimes erect in the name of denominational loyalty.

Learning, as well as teaching.

Serving-- and being served.

Sometimes being the sinful woman-- and sometimes, being Peter.

Life is what happens while you're making other plans

You know, I get hunkered down working on things, and then look up, and days have passed by, and I realize I never posted the stuff I had in mind for this blog. Some days it's just really busy out there, you know?

Oh, here's a minor irritation: having to use an alternate browser. I normally use Safari for most of my internet perusing (yes, I'm a Mac user), but Blogger doesn't support it in the same way that it does Netscape, or IE. It's not a major effort, to open another program, certainly-- but sometmes it seems like just one more silly hoop to jump through.

So, what have we been up to, lately? Well, here's one thing: a wee small essay that Trevor decided last Monday was just thing to assign in our Anglican Authority class. What put the bee in his bonnet I'm not sure, but he suddenly decided that nothing would do but that we needed to produce a page or two on our favorite minor character from the Oxford Movement period.

It's not due until next Monday, but I went ahead and pounded it out last night, to get it out of the way. I have a Greek midterm next week, and I really need to spend my weekend study time contemplating the joys of adverbial participles and contract verbs.

So, here you go, Trev. The hard copy will be on your desk this afternoon.

Minor Characters in the Oxford Movement

Strictly speaking, my favorite minor character in our text wasn’t part of the Oxford Movement at all. He shared a common realization with Newman, Pusey, and the rest, in that he recognized the imperative need for reform in the church as it existed at the time. However, his vision for the changes necessary took a very different tack.

Thomas Arnold is described as “the Headmaster of Rugby School and a former Fellow of Oriel.” (9) He was a contemporary of the Oxford crowd, but his suggestions for reforming the church could not have been more at variance. Instead of attempting to return to the ancient theology and practice of the Western catholic tradition, Arnold proposed revolution: opening up the practices and traditions of the church, structuring reforms to make it an umbrella body: a place where all Christian believers (excepting Roman Catholics, Quakers and Unitarians, who he felt were likely to be disinterested, and to remain independent) were embraced. He published his ideas in a pamphlet entitled The Principles of Church Reform, which was both widely read and roundly lambasted.

Obviously, his ideas were not accepted. Our text condemns them as “theologically naive,” and “far too radical for serious consideration.” (10) Rather than triggering desired reforms, Arnold’s ultimate role seems to have been only to intensify the ongoing debate, and spur the Tractarians to action. Nevertheless, I find I have a certain sympathy for the hapless idealist. Certainly he had the courage of his convictions, and was willing to take a significant personal risk in laying out his vision so publicly. And that vision, of the Church as a place where a broad range of Christians come together for worship, is one that I can share.

Plan? What plan?

Today had started with a simple schedule: Kyle's first soccer game of the season was this morning, and this afternoon I was headed up to have my sister give my hair a desperately needed trim. In between, the ever-present homework beckoned.

The first part went pretty much as planned. The game came and went as scheduled, and the kids had their share of fun. Kyle's team lost, but he was not entirely despondent; he had three shots on goal, one of which went into the net-- the team's lone goal of the game. And there was also the post-game treat bag, which always goes a fair way toward assuaging the agony of defeat.

Then I get a call from Jan, who suggests coming to our house to do the hair thing-- because this would be a good day to use up the gift certificates that our father had given us a while back, for a store at the local mall (which is closer to my place than hers).

So, she comes down-- and not only gives both CJ and I a trim, but elects to touch up (and then some) the color that we'd played with, a while back. So now, newly coiffed, Jan and I head to the mall, and spend two mortal hours in this store, trying to find things on which to spend Dad's money.

This was harder than you might think. First, the styles in this particular establishment were not, by and large, the sort of thing I usually look for. Secondly, the sizes bore no resemblance to anything in reality, so everything had to be tried on, in multiples. The things I ended up bringing home had size tags in them that the back of my neck hasn't seen since junior high. (And no, Susie-- they had no shorts that suited at all; we'll have to try another day).

So, this was an unexpected way to spend the afternoon. Wonder if Bruce'll recognize his wife when he gets home.

Sacraments

In my theology class, we've moved on to the Oxford Movement and the Tractarians. I find that our text is a bit of a disorganized read, and occasionally assumes some estoeric knowledge of British historical details and political machinations that I do not always have; but it's interesting stuff, nonetheless.

One bit of extra reading that I've found fascinating, once I slog through the scholarly language of the 19th century, is delving into the tracts themselves-- the set of pamphlets written by various of the leaders of the Oxford movement, to support their vision of the catholicity of the Anglican Communion. You can find all the Tracts here, if you're interested in such things. Some are better than others, of course; but the one that caused the most furor is the last one, Tract 90. Written by John Henry Newman, it looks at the 39 Articles of Faith, to which Every Good Anglican is expected to subscribe, as distinguishing them (us) from the doctrine and theology of Roman Catholicism. Newman tries to demonstrate how they actually don't argue against catholic (note the small c) theology so much as others understand them to.

Some of Newman's arguments seem to really stretch the point, in his effort to find catholic commonality between Roman and Anglican disparities. But in other places, he makes some interesting points. One of my favorite comments of his includes the following, taken from the section on sacraments:

The Roman Catholic considers that there are seven [sacraments]; we do not strictly determine the number. We define the word generally to be an 'outward sign of an inward grace,' without saying to how many ordinances this applies. However, what we do determine is, that CHRIST has ordained two special sacraments, as generally necessary to salvation. This, then, is the characteristic mark of those two, separating them from all other whatever; and this is nothing else but saying in other words that they are the only justifying rites, or instruments of communicating the Atonement, which is the one thing necessary to us.

The emphasis added above is mine. I did so, because I had not heard sacramental theology phrased in quite that way before. When added to the idea of Atonement as "At-One-Ment," it gives a different slant to the understanding of Baptism and Eucharist.

And now, for something completely different...

Tripp sent me the following horoscope this morning. Yes, the Baptist pastor is reading the stars, and leading me down the selfsame road to perdition. Well, at least I'll be in good company.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): It's time for a check-in, Virgo. What progress have you been making in your work on this year's big opportunities? As suggested last December, you'll attract unexpected help in 2004 by growing the parts of your life that are small and timid and immature. Likewise, you'll generate good luck any time you enlarge your sphere of influence and energize your ambitions. Thirdly, you'll feel more and more at home in the world if you aggressively seek out interesting responsibilities that liberate you from your old images of yourself. My sense is that you've been doing OK in all these tasks, but there's room for improvement. The coming weeks are the perfect time to kick your efforts into high gear.

Hmmm... Guess this means I should borrow Susie's slacks again.

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

Good Friday

Gospel: John [18:1-40], 19:1-37

Were you there? Did you see? I wish I hadn’t. I wish this day had never come.

It should have been me. There was nothing he ever did to deserve what they did to him. He’s always been... special, someone different, set apart. I know, every mother thinks so; but he really was-- even from before his beginning, when the angel visited, so I knew.

That’s not something that happens every day, you know.

And I clung to that through the days that followed, through the whispers, and the looks, and the accusations as my belly swelled up. I was grateful when Joseph said we were leaving. No one would know, where we were going... I was glad to leave home behind.

Until the night he was born. Then I was terrified. Childbirth is never easy, but I was so young, and so alone, in that strange place. Joseph and I had only been together a short time, you see, and to have him helping me... like that... felt so shameful. I could not control my own body, could not stop the pain, and the water, and the blood... How I wished for my mother that night, for any mother, to be there, to take this from me, to take control, to make it stop.

But then, finally, in a burst of effort, he was born; and Joseph laid him in my arms...

No, I didn’t forget all that had gone before; anyone who tells you that is lying. But suddenly, it was all worth it. And I knew that here was someone for whom I would do anything. And I swore then that I would never abandon him, as I had felt so abandoned. I would never stand by to see him hurt, as I had been hurt.

It should have been me.

Last night’s dinner had gone well. After he and his friends had gone, I stayed with the other women to clean up the room where we had celebrated the Passover meal, and then I went to bed. Then early this morning, I woke to frantic pounding at the door. It was Mary, that girl from Magdala, and John. I stood numb as they told me that he had been arrested. I couldn’t believe it. Arrested-- for what? I knew that there were people-- powerful people-- he had angered with his teaching, with his gifts; but never before had they touched him. Why now? What had happened? But they had no answers.

I dressed as fast as I could, and we went looking for him. By the time we were able to track him down, he was in Pilate’s hands. My heart froze to hear that.

The Romans are not kind to their prisoners.

We got to the praetorium, and there he was... oh, it hurts to remember. He had been beaten so... my own son, and I hardly knew him.

I tried to go to him, but John held me, kept me from going forward... I buried my head in his chest as the crowd, even our own people, screamed for his death. I couldn’t do anything as they tied the crossbeam to his shoulders, and forced him to walk the path up the hill.

I couldn’t look, but even in the noise and the clamor, I vow I could hear his footsteps. I would know them anywhere, those feet which had padded along behind me so often to market, which had walked beside me to his father’s shop, which had run ahead of me as boy and man...

Oh, it should have been me.

Then they took him to the hill... and crucified him there. I couldn’t see past the crowd, but I can still hear the hammers as they drove those spikes into him, and the screams that escaped him then. I thought that would go on forever.

And then, it was over. The cross was raised and set, and suddenly, horribly, there he was. My baby, that incredible gift brought by angels... my son, who had never harmed anyone... left there naked to die, while soldiers gambled at his feet with the clothing I had made for him.

Most of the people left, having seen the spectacle they had come for, so we were able to move closer then. And there we waited, listening for each breath.

Dreading it would be his last.

Hoping it would be his last.

Only once did he seem to be aware of us, as we stood there. He tried to smile, only a shadow of the grin I so treasured; and gave me into the care of the man that had held me through this grisly day. My son, as his last gift, gave me a son.

And then, soon after, he was gone.

They took him down, finally, and laid him in my arms, like Joseph had done so long ago. My beautiful, precious boy... an honorable, innocent man... now dead.

I held those bloody hands, and saw chubby fists, waving in the air.

I stroked his matted hair, and felt the silk the wind would catch on a spring day.

And I closed the eyes that had so sparkled with humor, and fire, and love.

It should have been me...

It should have been anyone else...

It couldn’t have been anyone else.

Brother, let me serve you... Sister, you're on your own.

Micah sent me this story, by way of a morning wake up call. It worked.

Why in the world would this Atlanta bishop feel the need to make such a pronouncement? A few thoughts come to mind...

-Maybe he only feels the need to serve half the souls given into his care.

-He's read about the ritual, but has not taken note of the reasons Jesus gave for it.

-Another possibility? Tripp gleefully suggests the belief that women's feet are inherently sinful, just like the rest of us. Which leads to speculation about the propriety of a group of men touching one another's tootsies in public...

Teasing aside, and regardless of the reason this decision was made, I find it appalling. We do not need to put any more barriers between people and Jesus, or between ourselves and the possibility of service to those around us. God knows we do too much of that already.

Authority in the Anglican Communion

I just finished the second of the class requirements for the above class. We meet twice a week. In the first class session one student presents a chunk of the current reading for each week, and leads a discussion; and in the second class session, another student (or two) lead a response to that week's presentation. Last week I did my presentation, as it happens, and today I was the responder to Jeff's presentation from Monday. So my big jobs are done, and I can sit back and enjoy the theologizing from here on out. Very nice.

Both times, things went reasonably well-- at least, no one ran screaming from the room. And the discussion was good. We've been chatting about Arius and the Council of Nicea, with Rowan Williams' text as our reference. There are some good thinkers in our group, and a lot of fodder for contemplation in the material.

However, our professor has a tradition of beginning each class with music; some song (usually Bruce Cockburn, in Trevor's case) that seems to apply to the topic at hand. With his absence today, and since I was the responder, I was instructed to bring something in. So I did... and neither my classmates nor our intrepid substitute were especially enamored of my choice, and did not hesitate to say so. I think I'm glad I won't be doing that again, anytime soon. At least, not with any music I care about.

Should this be included in my canonical evaluations?

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!


If your mission in life is not already to preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!


How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

[Thanks to AKMA for this one. Another reason why I get along so well with my boss.]

Welcome!

Isaac Lane Schmoetzer
born Friday, April 2, 2004
at 12:34 pm, EST
7 lbs., 13 oz.
20 inches long.

Second child to Tom (Bruce's brother) and Gretchen, with brother Logan about 2 years older.

Arrived without much fuss, and with his own fair share of dark hair.

Thanks be to God!

Spring Fever

Right now, the weather outside is a balmy 73F, and the sun is still up. I have my dorm room windows cranked wide open, and the stereo going at unreasonable volume (Springsteen; gotta love The Boss).

It's days like this that make suffering through Chicago winters worthwhile-- I'm not sure folks in warmer climes have the same appreciation for the gift of grace that a day like this is, sandwiched in the random fluctuations that are the way we evolve from winter to summer around here.

I still have the same backlog of schoolwork that I did yeasterday; but somehow it's more bearable. Almost makes doing homework a pleasure.

Sermon

Scripture propers: Palm Sunday, Year C

Palm Sunday. For Christians, it’s a day of contrasts, isn’t it? We begin with celebration, with rejoicing, with what has come to be called “The Triumphal Entry.” People strewing coats on the ground, and waving palm branches, and generally making a spectacle of themselves. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!

And we end with betrayal, and shame, and death.

We know it’s coming. We’ve read the book-- and maybe even seen the movie. The church calendar moved us into Lent, the season of preparation, back in February; so we’ve had weeks and weeks to prepare for this.

Jesus’ followers didn’t have that advantage. Oh, there were warning signs, certainly. The gospels record plenty of them, both subtle and blatant.

But put yourself in their shoes. Jesus has been living with them, and leading them, for years. They’ve been at risk more than once-- and always managed to come away unscathed, able to continue the ministry, the healing, the gently defiant, “in-your-face” teaching that so irritated the religious leaders. They’ve been playing a dangerous game, in direct opposition to their culture, their society-- a society without any Bill of Rights protection. And they’ve been getting away with it.

And now they’ve come to Jerusalem, the capital city, openly and with joyous abandon. They have paraded into the city, shouting and creating a ruckus, waving palms and “preparing a way for the Lord,” as the psalmist says. I’ve read more than one commentator who notes that, in this moment, they’re recognizing Jesus as more than an itinerant rabbi; that this is more in the style of a welcome that might be given a victorious military leader, or powerful state official. With all the fuss, It’s important to realize that this was not simply a religious action; it was also seen as a political statement. In this moment, the Judeans seem to believe that Jesus really is the Messiah-king they’ve been expecting, come to lead Israel out from under the crushing oppression of Roman occupation.

Then, the next thing they know, they are surrounded by soldiers in the Garden. Jesus is arrested, and sentenced, and executed-- their vaunted, miraculous leader, hung between two common criminals to die. And they weren’t ready for that, not at all.

Yes, we read of the warnings, of Jesus telling them what was to come. But we need to remember that the Gospels are written down years after all this takes place. The evangelists have the advantage of hindsight, of looking back to see the signs that were there, of remembering the indicators that should have prepared them for that night. But I don’t think they owned it, that they really understood, in the moment. That week in Jerusalem was such a reversal, as sudden as a heart attack. How could they have been ready for that?

Can you sympathize with that sort of sudden turnaround, the feeling that, in a split second, the world has been turned upside down? I know I can. I think of when my mother died, nearly six years ago. Looking back, I can recall a few things that might have warned us. Signs of change, small indicators that were overlooked in the day to day functions and busyness of life; things that might have given some hint, if I had known what I was listening for. But I didn’t.

On a Wednesday morning, I was over at the house, helping paint the bedroom closet; everything seemed as usual. Thursday afternoon, my sister called from the hospital; Mom had complained of chest pains, and Jan had taken her to the Emergency Room. I spoke to Mom, told her I loved her, and planned to head up to the hospital as soon as I could find someone to watch the kids. But before I could do that, Jan called again-- and she was gone. Yes, I was forewarned; but even the more overt notice didn’t gear me for what was to come. I can still remember standing in my kitchen, seeing the April sun pouring in the window, and whispering into the phone, one word: “No.” I couldn’t grasp that what I was hearing was real. Even with knowing what might happen, the truth came upon me suddenly, and all at once-- like soldiers in the Garden.

That’s how I imagine the disciples must have felt. Even if they had heeded all the signs, all the warnings, the reality had to have been far beyond anything they could possibly have imagined. Think about it-- would Peter have struck out, and cut off the slave’s ear, if he had known what to expect? Are we to believe his denial of Jesus was based on understanding what was going on? Or was it a gut reaction, born out of uncertainty and panic?

And the rest of the apostles-- would they have run in fear, if they were ready for what was to happen? They had been told what to expect; and, more, told of the hope that would follow; but in the face of death, they lost sight of the prior warnings-- as well as the promise of resurrection, and the kingship of Jesus that was foreshadowed in the procession that we celebrate today.

So, here’s an advantage we have over the disciples. We have scripture, laying out the story for us, from four different perspectives. We have 2000 years of history, and tradition, and lots of examples in that time-- good and bad-- of what it can mean to follow Jesus. We have all the information we could possibly ask for.

And yet, it’s still not easy, is it? With all that, we still don’t get it. We can choose to speak, and to listen, to one another in love and respect-- and still we strike out in anger and fear at those with whom we do not agree, or understand.

We can choose (in our voting, in our volunteering, in our values) to work, as the prayer says, for justice, freedom and peace-- and still we run and hide, focusing on our own security rather than standing against the violence, and hunger, and abuse that exists around us every day.

We can choose a life of discipleship, of acknowledging Christ in everything we do; and still we deny Jesus, and his call on our hearts, preferring to protect ourselves and our comfortable way of life from the changes and risks that answering that call might bring.

Just like the disciples, we still don't get it.

This is why I’ve often struggled with the phrase that we casually use so often, to explain the sacrifice at the cross: “Jesus died to save us from our sins.” That’s very easy to misuse, and to mishear. I mean, Jesus’ death certainly doesn’t keep us from sinning, does it? Human beings are still racking up the same old sins, committing the same atrocities, falling into the same traps as we ever did-- and every one of us here this morning can testify to the truth that Christians are no less liable than nonbelievers to that insidious pull. No; if that’s what that phrase means, Jesus would stand, quite bluntly, as a miserable failure.

But is it sinning from which he saves us? Or, is it the effect of that sin? Paul comments on this in his letter to the Romans, when he says “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” In other words, what Jesus saves us from is death: the death that is the inevitable result of sin. Not only the cessation of our lives after we are done here on earth, but also the smaller deaths of a sort; the sins that eat away at one's soul on a daily basis.

That’s something to which we can also testify, here today: though we are still susceptible to human sin as Christians, we are also witnesses to the forgiveness and restoration that God holds out to us in Jesus Christ. That beyond the death, is resurrection.

I think this is the key to the contrast of triumph and terror that we hear on Palm Sunday: it is by living with us, as well as by dying and rising for us, that Jesus offers us salvation. His death and resurrection hold out restoration in God, and his life shows us how to accept it.

We have this incredible gift laid before us this morning. And, though we can neither know nor control what will happen in the next moment in our lives, we have, in this, been offered the clear-cut opportunity of preparing, of being strengthened for whatever that may be. We are offered death-- and then shown that only through death is resurrection possible.

So, the choice is ours. Will we continue to deny Jesus? To run and hide in our seemingly secure world? Ignore the signs, and assume that things will continue for us the way they always have?

Or shall we recognize our own failings, our own sin, and be willing, over and over again, to accept Jesus’ invitation to walk away from them? To deny ourselves, and take up the challenge and gift of the cross, and follow?

"Episcopal Horoscope"

That's the term my bishop uses to describe the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), an evaluative test that purports to indicate facets of one's personality. He calls it that because it has become such a common thing in clergy and leadership training that "What's your Myers-Briggs?" has replaced the archetypal "What's your sign?" line of years gone by. A recent exchange on Cliff's blog is also a fine example of how this crops up.

The purpose of taking the test is twofold: (a) to allow for a little self-awareness and understanding; and (b) to help understand why some people seem to connect and communicate easily with one another, while others are forever at cross-purposes. Since as clergy our stock in trade is communication, the more we know and understand about how we do this, the better off we are. You can get a fuller explanation of it here, and even take a facsimile of the test, if you like.

I've been trotted through the test three times, over the years, with varying results; but I appear to have settled into life as an ISFJ. Here's one explanation of that; and here's another.

So-- what's your type, baby?

Better every day

I talked to Dad this morning. He's still a little groggy, and tired, and he has a bit of a fever that's been coming and going; but nothing out of the ordinary for the recovering surgical patient. He's coming along nicely, and expects to go home from the hospital tomorrow.

You know, I spent the summer as a hospital chaplain last year, and there I saw it every day; but it still does not cease to amaze me how quickly people are up on their feet and then sent home after major surgery.

All praise to our gracious God, in thanksgiving for the healing skill He has placed in the hands and hearts of the doctors and nurses who do this work every day.