The Sick and Tired

Some of my happiest days were when Ginger and I were first married.  Part of the reason was her job as the head counselor at a group home for mentally challenged adults in Charlottesville, Virginia.  It was called Independence House.

Ginger is the only person I’ve ever actually seen do a miracle; several of them, in fact.  Over the years I’ve seen her as a teacher take children everyone else has given up on and give their lives back to them.  That is why my favorite picture of her, which is in my office, shows her with one of her students.  Her work never ceases to point toward God for me, which is what miracles are meant to do. 

Charles was one of those miracles.  When Ginger met Charles he was a resident of a state institution.  All of his test scores showed that he was beyond the parameters of Independence House, that he did not have would it would take to succeed, that institutionalization was in his best interests.  He had trouble communicating due to a stutter.  He limped.  He had a pretty low IQ.  Ginger, however, saw something beyond all those objective measurements.  It was something she sensed intuitively.  There was something about Charles.  She took a risk, and Charles came to live at Independence House.

There were many endearing things about Charles.  One was, stutter or not, he was a conversationalist.  Once in the car, he obviously had something on his mind and asked Ginger, “Ah-ah-ah-ah, Virginia, you been to college?”  Virginia, by the way, is not her name, but it was Charles always called her.  I have called her that, too, ever since. 

“Yes, Charles, I’ve been to college.”

Charles, who had lived his entire life up to that time in a state institution for people who were then labeled “severely retarded,” had the answer to his question.  “Ah-ah-ah-ah, I guess that’s why you’re so high functioning.”

Charles had a ferocious work ethic.  Shakey’s Pizza Parlor hired him to bus tables and wash dishes.  He called it “Shakey’s Peaches.”  I don’t know why.  I think it was connected to his sense of humor.  And I think his sense of humor liked to keep you guessing whether he said what he did because he was disabled or because he was being funny.

And Charles could pray up a storm.  His prayers were a lot like sermons.  One night we were at Independence House for dinner, as we often were.  It was Charles’ turn to say the blessing.  We bowed our heads.

Charles began.  “Ah-ah-ah-ah, Oh Lord, we pray for the sick and tired.”  He went on.  And on and on and on.  Before he finished he had recited in one way or another most of salvation history.  He ended on a note of heartfelt thanks.  It was a grace before a meal, after all.  “And Lord, we just want to thank you for Moses . . . who cut down the cherry tree.  Amen.”  That would be “Amen” with a long A, not the timid way Episcopalians like to say it.  When Charles said Amen, he meant what it means—so be it! 

Now, at the time, I confess that I thought Charles had merely interjected an expression he had heard along the way somewhere, perhaps from one of the staff at the institution, “sick and tired,” into a rambling prayer that pulled together a lot of different sources for inspiration.  I have come to believe, though, that imploring God to help the sick and tired had a lot to do with the quality Ginger saw in Charles that most people missed.

Charles was sick and tired.  He was sick and tired of living in an institution.  He was sick and tired of being dependent.  He was sick and tired of being treated as an inferior.  And he was sick and tired of being viewed as somehow less than fully human.  And being sick and tired, I’m convinced, is what gave him what it took, something admittedly mysterious, something miraculous, to change his life.  He did it in spite of having been dealt a pretty poor hand.  He did it in spite of what everyone expected.  Somehow, mysteriously, indeed miraculously, Charles took his expectations for himself from somewhere else.  Again, miraculously, he found just the ally he needed in Ginger, I mean ah-ah-ah-ah, Virginia.  

Somehow, I think, the sick and tired are particularly open to God precisely because they are sick and tired.  Everyone once in awhile, you run into someone who takes being sick and tired and turns it into incentive.  That’s why, Oh, Lord, we pray for the sick and tired.

Peace,
+Stacy

Being Who We Are

The weeks in which we are now living are sandwiched in the calendar between the end of Christmastide and the beginning of Lent, between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday.  They are not a season properly speaking; they are between seasons.  They are what the Church calls ordinary time.  Just regular time.  Nothing special.

It is not, though, that they don’t have a theme.  They begin and end directing our attention to identity, to who we are.  They open on the first Sunday after Epiphany with the story of the Baptism of Jesus, this year from the Gospel of Mark.  It is a story about who Jesus is, a story about identity.  “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.  And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”  (Mk. 1:10-11)

This in between time ends each year with the story of the Transfiguration.  It is, once again, about who Jesus is, a story about identity.  “Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’”  (Mk. 9:7) 

The issue at the beginning is the same as the issue at the end.  It is about identity.  There is, though, an important difference.  In the beginning of the story, the divine declaration of identity is directed to Jesus himself.  “You are my Son, the Beloved.”  At the end of this time just before Lent, the divine declaration is to the disciples.  “This is my Son, the Beloved.”  Second person; third person.  It begins with Jesus understanding who he is.  It ends with us understanding who Jesus is.

It is an important point.  Mission necessarily begins internally.  It is a matter of knowing who we are, understanding who we are, incorporating who we are into the core of our beings.  That is not unlike the divine declaration to Jesus.  We bear the image of God in much the same way a child bears a genetic relationship to its parents.  And not only do we bear the image of God.  It is a reality that God declares good; indeed, very good.  “You are my Son, the Beloved.”

But that is not the end.  Our identity depends on what we do with that reality.  That is something we call mission.  Mission depends first on understanding who we are ourselves.  It does not end there, however.  If it did, it would be narcissistic.  God is not narcissistic.  Nor can God’s image be.  Mission is what delivers us from narcissism. 

The next step is to act in the world as Jesus.  It is the completion of who we are, the being of who we are, the actualization of who we are, the making real of our own belovedness.  And in being who we are, as Jesus did, the divine voice can be heard again.  “This is my Son, the Beloved.”  Only this time our identity has authority.  God adds, “Listen to him.”

Our mission is, simply put, God’s mission.  And God’s mission for us is, simply enough, to be who we are, God’s children, God’s beloved, God’s agents in the world for the salvation of the world.  It’s all about being who we are.  And acting on it, making what is theoretical, actual.  Mission is who we are. 

And, as this time of the year reminds us, that is just what we do in ordinary time—be who we are.  And who we are is God’s children.  Beloved.  Beloved in action. 

                                                           

Peace,

+Stacy 

Child of God, Follower of Jesus

I was present this weekend for the investiture of my friend Kee Sloan as Bishop of Alabama.  Kee was already Bishop Suffragan of Alabama so there was no need for an ordination and consecration.  His transition to being the chief pastor of the diocese was marked instead with his investiture as Bishop Diocesan and his seating in the cathedral.

He renewed his ordination vows.  He was officially recognized in his new role by the Presiding Bishop.  Henry Parsley, the now-retired bishop handed over the pastoral staff symbolizing his responsibility.  And amid great fanfare Kee was seated in the cathedra, the bishop’s official seat and most important symbol of office (more on why that is some other time).

But in my opinion the highlight of the service came close to the very beginning when Kee formally asked admission to the cathedral.  This is an obscure tradition, but it has to do with cathedrals enjoying a degree of medieval autonomy, which required, whether or not they were the official and literal seat of the bishop’s ministry, that the bishop formally ask to be admitted.  This is symbolized by the bishop standing outside the closed doors of the cathedral, knocking (traditionally done with the crozier), and requesting to be allowed in.

After the opening prayers, we waited inside the cathedral.  Knock, knock, knock came the sound.  “Who seeks to enter here?” the president of the Standing Committee asked.  Very dramatic.

“John McKee Sloan, Bishop-Elect of the Diocese of Alabama,” was the answer.  There was no reply.  The doors did not open.

Again, three knocks.  “Who seeks to enter here?”

“The Right Reverend John McKee Sloan, Bishop Suffragan of Alabama and Bishop Diocesan-Elect of Alabama,” was the response.  I’m not actually sure of how that ended as we were all laughing at the “The Right Reverend” part of the plaintive request for admission. Still, no reply, and the doors did not open.

Finally, once again, knock, knock, knock.  “Who seeks to enter here?”

“Kee Sloan, child of God and follower of Jesus.”  And the doors were flung open with the prayer, “May the Lord prosper your way.”

It was more than an appropriate answer on the eve of the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord.  “Child of God and follower of Jesus.”  It is the fundamental baptismal reality.  And at least the first part of it, the child of God part, is the fundamental human reality.

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.  And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.  And a voice from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.  Mk. 1:9-11.

The fundamental reality is this, “You are my Child, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Now, I’m not sure God is always pleased with everything we do.  In fact, I’m quite sure God is not.  But in our fundamental humanity, which is God’s creation, I have no doubt of God’s immense pleasure.  All we have to do is live into it.

That is what the follower of Jesus part is all about.  For Kee, for me, and for many of us, we find being a follower of Jesus, the fully human one, a way of living into our own humanity.  It’s not about trying to be more than we have the capacity to be.  It’s just about trying to be what we actually were created to be.  Real.  Alive.  Human.

Human, of course, comes from the Latin word humus, which means earth, dirt, ground.  It also happens to the same root meaning of humility.  Human.  Humility.  Earthy.  Sometimes we find children of God and followers of Jesus to be just that—earthy, humble, human. Sometimes they can even happen to be bishops, which is quite remarkable because there are so many things that work against it in that office.  I don’t think those things will get the better of Kee Sloan who is, in the true sense of the word, grounded, grounded as child of God and follower of Jesus.  It sets a good example.

Peace,

+Stacy