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

Dumbstruck

As some of you know, I’m an only child.  If Ginger were contributing to this reflection, this is where she would add, “And that explains everything.”  It’s worse than that really.  On one side of my family, I’m also an only grandchild.  You can imagine what that meant.  Not only did I have my parents undivided attention, I had two grandparents for whom my wish was their command, particularly at this time of the year.  More about that some other time perhaps.

But for now, the point is more about my son Andrew, who had me beat.  Until his brother Matthew arrived, Andrew was the only grand child on both sides of our family.  This, combined with the fact that both my parents and Ginger’s parents felt like they had waited inordinately long for grandchildren, created the perfect storm of indulgence on Andrew’s first Christmas with us.  (He was still in Korea on his very first Christmas.  Not to worry; it got made up for the next year.)

As has become our custom, Ginger got Andrew his Christmas pajamas.  Best to do the truly humiliating while they can’t resist.  The first year night wear was a red and white striped night shirt with a matching night cap.  Very cute.  Pictures exist, which I plan to use in case of an emergency.

The first Christmas morning arrived, and Andrew toddled out of his room in his nightshirt and cap to see what Santa had brought.  Santa, that year, had been assisted by his four grandparents.  In addition to setting out to completely spoil him, there was no small amount of competition for his affection going on.  Ginger and I, at least, stayed out of the Santa event that year.  We knew there was no need, and so we contented ourselves with the embarrassing pajamas.

As Andrew entered the living room where Santa’s bounty was laid out, he stopped dead in his tracks.  There were toys everywhere.  They were on the floor and under the tree and stacked on the sofa.  So much stuff for one very little guy.  We were somewhat overwhelmed.  He was completely overwhelmed.  He was stunned.  It was just too much.  He was quite literally dumbstruck, unable to utter a sound.

The Christmas story, indeed the entire Gospel, begins in a very similar way, although it is a part of the story we usually forget to tell.  Before the Nativity, before the Annunciation, there is the story of another miraculous birth bringing great joy.  It is the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth.  The first chapter of Luke tells us that “[b]oth of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord.  But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years” (vv. 6-7).

And then Gabriel, the same angel who would shortly announce a second miraculous birth, this time to Mary, appears to Zechariah with some most unexpected good news.  “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayers has been heard.  Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.  You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord” (vv. 13-15).

The news is completely overwhelming to Zechariah.  He is not inclined to believe it for, as he says, both he and Elizabeth are getting up in years.  And Zechariah, too, is dumbstruck.  Gabriel assures him of the veracity of all that has been said, and adds, “But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur” (v. 20).

The child to be born, of course, was John the Baptist, announcing the coming of the Messiah.  And with that, the story is set in motion.  One miraculous birth after another.  Grace upon grace.  And so it goes on.  It is all just overwhelming.  It leaves us, or maybe it ought to leave us, dumbstruck. There really is just nothing to be said.  It is just too much.

Now, in future years as parents, we learned to give specific instructions to the grandparents as to who bought what.  No more of the competition. We divided things out quite equally. And there was an overall limit.  Never again more than was possible to take in.  No more toddlers paralyzed by how overwhelming it was.

I sometimes wonder, though, if we missed the point.  God does not act in such a limiting way.  It just keeps coming.  The sun every morning.  The stars at night.  In truth, plenty for all of the creation to thrive, if only we would recognize it and stop living in fear of want.  Work to do and take satisfaction in.  People to love.  Dogs (OK, this is my personal prejudice about things to be grateful for, especially since Annie is at the office with me this morning).

And, above all of it, the most overwhelming statement of all.  God’s overwhelming love for creation, and particularly for humanity, in the Incarnation of God’s only Son, Christ our Savior.  It ought to leave us dumbstruck.

I wish you a dumbstruck Christmas this year.  Ginger, Andrew, Matthew, and the dogs, Annie and Abby, wish you such an overwhelming awareness of your belovedness that you are left completely speechless

Peace,

+Stacy

The Christmas Tree Angel

Star or angel?  That was the big question the first year Ginger and I were married as we prepared to celebrate our first Christmas.  With what should the Christmas tree be topped?  My family tradition was an angel; Ginger’s, a star.  The tradition did not run terribly deep on either side.

Growing up, my family’s tree had been topped with an angel.  It had not always been so, though.  The tradition was not inviolable.  After all, the Christmas tree in my earliest memories was aluminum with a color wheel.  Very modern.  Ginger, whose family always had a real tree, albeit the ugliest cedar tree that could be found, was appalled.  And the tradition at my grandparents’ houses differed.  One had a very fancy angel with a gold dress.  I think it lit up.  The other had a homemade star cut from cardboard and covered with aluminum foil.  Perhaps my mother, or aunt, or one of my uncles had made it in childhood.  I never really knew.  I suspect my grandmother was behind it.

Ginger’s family had a star.  It wasn’t a big deal to them, however.  No one can even remember now what it looked like.

That is a good thing.  Because I had my heart set on an angel.  Ginger was perfectly fine with that.  But no cheesy angels.  Nothing aluminum.  Unlighted was preferred.

So off we set that first December of our married lives in search of an angel.  There was not as big a selection in those days as I suspect there would be now.  We went to many stores in search of the perfect angel for the top of our first Christmas tree.  Nothing met the test.

Finally, we went to a little store we knew to have lots of interesting things, many of them imported, off the main street in Charlottesville, where we lived.  There we found a selection of beautiful angels.  I think they had been made in Germany.  That suited Ginger, who had been collecting ornaments from Germany since a trip there before we were married.  They had velvet dresses and hand-crafted faces.  Each had a candle in her hand.  Real wax.  They would do.

There was one problem, which was the price.  I was a student that year and money was definitely an issue.  We didn’t even look at the larger angels.  A smaller one would be fine.  The one we liked was $14.

Now, $14 doesn’t sound like a lot now, but to a student and his new wife in 1979 it was a fortune.  We debated a long time.  We knew we shouldn’t, but we bought it anyway.  Somehow, setting the Christmas traditions for a brand new family seemed like a very important thing to us.  I suppose it was an investment in Christmas.

That first Christmas together, we may not have been able to afford much to go under the tree, but we had a $14 angel with a red velvet dress and a real wax candle, and just as importantly without lights or anything aluminum, to go on top of it.  This year, that angel will be on top of its 33rd tree, which will go up this weekend by tradition.  (Don’t tell the Advent police.)

Christmas has always required an investment, quite often a very heavy one.  Mary and Joseph made a massive investment in the first Christmas.  Luke tells us that they left their home in Nazareth and traveled to Joseph’s ancestral home many miles away at a time when Mary was about to deliver her child.  It was an extravagant investment.

The angels announced the birth to the shepherds.  Though they were afraid, they left and went to see the child.  Extravagant investment.

The Magi set out from some distant place in the East in search of the child born to be king of the Jews.  They brought expensive gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  They would have made the $14 angels look, justifiably, like nothing.  Extravagant investment.

What I suspect is that making the investment itself made a great difference to the importance of that first Christmas to Mary and Joseph, to the shepherds, and to the Magi.  The $14 investment in the angel has obviously meant a great deal to Ginger and me.  The level of investment we make in something, including Christmas, always determines a great deal of what it will mean to us.  The more extravagant, the more it means.

Christmas now rolls around again.  What it will mean to us depends a great deal on the investment we decide to make.  It always has and it always will.  I think I’m of the opinion that an extravagant investment is well worth it.

As the days leading up to Christmas begin to pass us by, I’m hoping for extravagant investment of myself, something much more important than $14.  My wish for you is the same.

Peace,

+Stacy

(Alas, there is no picture of the actual $14 angel, so we'll have to make do with pictures of other tree-topper angels.)

The Griffin Christmas Parade

My wife Ginger and my older son Andrew were here for the holiday. He and I went to see the balloons blown up around the Museum of Natural History on Wednesday night. We staked out a pretty good spot to watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade along 7th Avenue. It was actually our second time. The last one was 24 years ago. Andrew was four. I carried him on my back with his little brother, then six months old, strapped to my chest in a snuggly. It was my senior year at General Seminary.

           

The next year found us in Griffin, Georgia, which I like to describe as 40 miles and a hundred years south of Atlanta.  It was the smallest place I have ever lived.  And it was quite an adjustment from living in Manhattan.

           

However, Griffin, like New York, had its parade.  Griffin’s parade was not on Thanksgiving Day, but like the Macy’s event, it ushered in the holiday season, and it occurred during the first week in December.  Of course, Ginger and I took our boys.

It wasn’t as hard to find a place to watch.  There was no crowd.  There were no celebrities except for local politicians.  There were flatbed trucks, lots of them, decorated with crepe paper carrying one group or another throwing Christmas candy to the children. The junior cheerleaders marched.  There might have been a horse or two.  There was a fire truck.  The high school band played Christmas carols.  And, like the Macy’s Parade, Santa Claus came last. 

           

After Santa’s appearance, we got ready to go home.  Andrew wasn’t ready to leave.  I noticed he was looking up into the sky.  He was filled with hope.  “When do the balloons come?” he asked.   Andrew’s only experience of parades prior to Griffin was the Thanksgiving Parade in New York.  He had high expectations. 

           

To my surprise he accepted quite readily that there were no balloons in the Griffin Christmas Parade.  He accepted reality for what it was.  But it didn’t stop him from hoping.  One thing reality does not control is hope.

           

Advent is a season to hope.  It is not a season of shopping, Black Friday and Cyber Monday notwithstanding.  It is not a season of getting, or even giving.  It is a season of hoping, hoping in God, in God’s dream for us, in humanity’s basic goodness.  It is the season of hope, not for what might be under the tree, but that God’s dream will be made actual and real by our participation in it. 

           

It took 24 years, but Andrew saw the balloons again.  There were some he might have seen last time as well as some new ones.  As I discovered this weekend, Andrew doesn’t remember any of those two parades so long ago.  I don’t really care about that.  What I do care about is that his character be shaped by hoping.  That is what matters.  Hope.

Hoping is enough, I believe, to make things real enough.  “Endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us”  (Rom 5:4-5).   

           

Advent is intended to remind us of that.

Peace, 

+Stacy

The Foundation is Apostolic

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. That is what we proclaim. Every Sunday. We place our faith in a Church that has four essential characteristics. It is one. It is holy. It is catholic. And it is apostolic. There is no stated hierarchy of those four qualities. Each is, at least, grammatically equal.

My experience as a pastor, though, is that apostolicity is the foundation of the others. It is the basis of the Church’s unity, its sanctity, and its universality. The reason is that of those four qualities, apostolicity is the one that necessarily requires us to turn outward. Without it, unity can be mistaken for isolation. Holiness can be mistaken for introspection. Catholicity can be mistaken for the exertion of power. Turning outward, it seems to me, is the essential quality for spiritual health, being outwardly oriented. The foundation is apostolic.

Apostolic is derived from a Greek word that means sent. The apostles were people who were sent out. Being an apostle wasn’t about their status, not even being one of the twelve. Paul, after all, was not one of the twelve but was most certainly an apostle. And what made him one? It was being sent out. Being sent is what all of the apostles share in common. They were all people who were sent out. See, e.g., . Lk. 10, Mt. 28:16ff., and Acts 1:8.

Being sent has a way of bringing people together despite differences of opinion. Being sent has a way of helping us reexamine what we thought were the orthodox absolutes in the light of lovingly meeting the real needs of real people. That is, after all, what someone no less orthodox than Paul found when he set out to meet the Gentiles where they were and how they were (Gal. 5:6). It was the same with Peter, who was sent to the home of Cornelius the centurion and found that what he had thought about what foods were clean and unclean no longer had the same importance it once did in light of the mission on which he was sent (Acts 10:28).

It is true now, too. Along the way I had an idea to use our diocesan camp to address a serious problem in our part of the country with literacy. We started a program called Reading Camp. The idea was to make a strategic intervention in the lives of third and fourth graders who were seriously behind in learning to read because children who cannot read proficiently by the fourth grade usually end up getting further and further behind until they are left behind altogether.

Reading Camp has proven to be extremely successful. What began as one camp serving 25 students in 2002 has now spread to several other dioceses and 15 or more camps serving several hundred children each summer. There are even camps in three African countries—South Africa, Liberia, and Cameroon. Kenya will soon follow, I hope. Reading Camp has become the epitome of what it means to be sent.

Here’s the point. Part of the miracle of Reading Camp is how the reality of being sent and turning outward overcame what seemed like a pretty significant theological divide. When I first proposed the idea, the two people who happened to respond (and it is difficult for me not to see God involved in this) came from opposite ends of the theological spectrum, about as far away from one another as one can get. This made me nervous, I will admit, but I trusted it. That turned out to be a very good thing. These two people gathered a committee and set to work to make Reading Camp a reality. They steadfastly refused to let the decisions of General Convention come between them despite considerable pressure to. Their work has made a huge difference in the lives of many children. And in their own. And in mine.

Now, to be sure, theology was not part of the work of Reading Camp so theological differences were not likely to surface. In fact, in order to work with the public schools, there was no religious teaching with the students involved (prayer and worship were very much a part of the experience for the volunteers, though). There was much more to this reality, I think, than the fact that the occasion for disagreement was just avoided.

I think it had to do with an ancient truth we see at work in the lives of Peter and Paul. Apostolicity, being sent, overcomes a lot of difference, and serving trumps division. Could it be, I wonder, that it is because being sent gives everyone, no matter what they may think or perhaps in spite of what they may think, a chance to meet Jesus on the same ground? After all, that matters more than anything.

Peace,

+ Stacy