Considering our Christian Pedigree

The Epistle appointed for Morning Prayer today is from Romans 12 in which Paul exhorts the faithful to behave a certain way in the world--to be radically gentle with each other, to honor all persons, to subvert evil with goodness, to upend hatred by overwhelming one's enemies with love that surpasses understanding.


Sometimes Paul frustrates me with his convoluted rhetoric in which it seems he is trying too hard to make his point to some ancient congregation, and we are bystanders trying to make sense of it, somewhat anachronistically. 


Sometimes the Christian tradition frustrates me with its misappropriations of Paul's directives in ways that are, at the least, restrictive and not life-giving, and too often are misogynistic, xenophobic, and just evil in their own right.


But then there are points at which Paul offers words such as these--profoundly simple, yet subversive, if we take them to heart. It is, in many ways, a distillation of the gospel--live in this way, and you will find your way.


I am reminded of Bishop Duncan Gray, Jr., of Mississippi (father of the current bishop there). The elder Duncan stepped up faithfully as a seminarian at Sewanee in the 1950s, and stood up to a faculty and administration at the southern school that was gripping tightly to a racist tradition in the name of preserving the status quo. As a young priest at St. Peter's in Oxford, MS, he walked with the first black student to attend Ole Miss, and bore the brunt of the throng's bitter vitreol and even suffered some injuries along the way. 


Bishop Gray had a blessing he offered as he made his episcopal visitations to parishes around the diocese in his day. He adapted Paul's passage here in Romans 12 to something like this:


Go forth into the world in peace; be of good courage; hold fast that which is good; render to no man evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak; help the afflicted; honor all people; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit. And the Blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be upon you, and remain with you for ever. Amen.


In 1994, Larry Maze was a priest in Mississippi when he was elected Bishop of Arkansas, and he brought Duncan's blessing with him, along with a similar conviction for justice, stepping out in support of full inclusion of LGBT individuals at a time when many in Arkansas were not interested in setting aside the status quo.

Most of Bishop Gray's ministry was before my time, and I met him only in the late days of his tenure as bishop (ironically as the Chancellor of Sewanee, which was my Alma Mater and his). But I claim him in my Christian pedigree, through Larry Maze, who ordained me, and I am privileged to offer God's blessing at the end of the Eucharist, often using the very words the Duncan adapted from Paul.

I give thanks for Paul, for Duncan, for Larry, and so many others whose witness and willingness to stand in God's name in a broken, hurting world is both an inspiration and an invitation to join them in this Christian life we share. 

And I offer once more here, for you, a blessing:

Go forth into the world in peace; be of good courage; hold fast that which is good; render to no man evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak; help the afflicted; honor all people; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit. And the Blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be upon you, and remain with you for ever. Amen.

My heart is leaping for joy! In the short span of just a few hours since it was announced yesterday that I will soon serve at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle as their Dean, there has been an outpouring of good will, affection and generous blessing upon Kathy and me, from those who know us already from our journey together to this point, AND from those whom we have not yet met--who are truly excited by our coming to be in their midst. It is a remarkable thing--humbling and overwhelming, and deeply gratifying.


The Bible is replete with poetic songs of celebration, acknowledging God's goodness and the gift received in the course of life. Miriam, Hannah, Elizabeth, Simeon and Zechariah, to name a few. And then there is Mary's song, The Magnificat, which seems to stand alone in its pure and graceful beauty. 


While I cannot know the depths of Mary's heart from which her song sprang, nor do I know her gender or her position in society and the injustices borne by her as a result. (And from my station of privilege it also serves as a not so gentle reminder of the opportunity to choose a different way than the one of power). 


With all that in mind, I do, nevertheless, with some temerity, long to sing Mary's song today in particular, because my heart does leap for joy, knowing that God is up to something special here, and has asked me to play some role in that plan, and has invited me to respond in a certain way, and has invited me to join others who have and will respond in faith in their own right, and we are together the People of God, giving birth, by God's grace, to something beautiful.


I offer two versions here--the Elizabethan language of our tradition, and a contemporary one. I invite you all to join me in singing one or the other, or both, and know that we all have Gabriels heralding good things in our lives, if we will only heed the "good tidings of great joy."


Love and peace to you all,
Steve

The Song of Mary     Magnificat
 Luke 1:46-55

My soul doth magnify the Lord, *
    and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.
For he hath regarded *
    the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold from henceforth *
    all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me, *
    and holy is his Name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him *
    throughout all generations.
He hath showed strength with his arm; *
    he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat, *
    and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things, *
    and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel, *
    as he promised to our forefathers,
    Abraham and his seed for ever.

The Song of Mary                 Magnificat                Luke 1:46-55

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,

my spirit rejoices in you, O God my Savior, *

for you have looked with favor on your lowly servant.

From this day all generations will call me blessed: *

you, the Almighty, have done great things for me,

and holy is your name.

You have mercy on those who fear you *

from generation to generation.

You have shown strength with your arm *

and scattered the proud in their conceit,

Casting down the mighty from their thrones *

and lifting up the lowly.

You have filled the hungry with good things *

and sent the rich away empty.

You have come to the help of your servant Israel, *

for you have remembered your promise of mercy,

The promise made to our forebears, *

to Abraham and his children for ever.

The Gift We Have To Offer

Last night, I attended an annual fund-raising dinner for the benefit of the 32nd annual Arkansas Interfaith Choir Camp, which convenes each July at Subiaco Abbey, perched on a noll rising from the river valley that divides the Ozarks from the Ouachita Mountains in west central Arkansas.

More than 100 children, 3rd through 12th grades, will converge this year on the monastery where they will experience worship several times daily in which they are invited to serve as choristers and hand bell ringers and acolytes under the majestic canopy of this Gothic Abbey church. And they will take their parts in a playful musical, much to the delight of the packed house of parents and friends who arrive the final day for the Choir Fest. It is a great spectacle, not just for its good worship and fun-filled production, but for its subtle but important gift to the future Church.

I was a choir camper in the 1970s and early 1980s, and have seen my own children take their parts through the years, and it remains a highlight for Kathy and me to return to the Choir Camp Festival Day each year. It has formed me, through and through, as I know it has countless others.

Last night, I found myself watching the man who founded the Choir Camp and has served as its director these 30 plus years, who served as my choirmaster when I was a child, and who now, coincidentally, serves as the Organist and Director of Music at St. Paul's where I am a priest.

I was struck last night as I watched him humbly honor those who just want to make a joyful noise to God. I think we all want to sing our praises, but for some of us, we are privileged to have one such as this gentle man actually encourage us to do so, and helps us believe we can with some measure of grace--that our song might be received by God as a pleasing and suitable offering of praise and thanksgiving.

What a gift he has to offer, which is why the throngs of children return year after year, as do staff members, who just want a foretaste of the heavenly chorus, in which we are all invited to participate, here and now.

Today is a special day for me, for reasons that will soon become clear, and I know I have this man to thank, among many others, for his tender service in transforming me, in his contribution in making me a priest in God's church, in his gift of honoring whatever it is that we each have to offer. And...and, in doing so, he nurtured in me a deep love for sacred music, for the gift of the Church to each of us, and to the world.

It seems to me that such is the work for us all--to encourage one another, to honor each other's gifts as sufficiently beautiful to be found pleasing to God, to be transformative influences in the lives of others, not in some grand fashion, but simply by being present, and faithful, and the embodiment of God's love for us all.

Thin Places, Crystal Balls, and Gratitude

It has been said that we are afforded opportunities in life when we arrive at "thin places" which may serve as portals bridging the common and the holy, nexus points between this earthly realm and the transcendent one. Our work (or the invitation) of life is to be vigilant for these moments in time and place, and celebrate them as the transformative experiences they are. Their beauty is often subtle, even subversive, but always a blessing.


On this eighth anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood, a day so ordinary in its character as to never have been assigned a saint's feast, I have occasion to reflect on such thin places in my ministry, knowing that any ontological distinction conveyed to the priest comes, not from within, but by virtue of the goodness of God and the blessings bestowed upon me by the beautiful people among whom I have been privileged to serve. 


I am reminded of the humorous remarks made by the preacher at my ordination--that when the bishop and priests lay hands on the new ordinand, surrounding him/her in a shroud of robed mystery, what is being conveyed is not only a blessing with the laying on of hands, but a crystal ball with which the new priest will be able to ascertain when someone is sick or in crisis, and respond appropriately. 


The preacher declared it was his responsibility to bring the crystal ball on MY day, but he had dropped it, shattering it to pieces. 


Alas, he said, Steve would have to do it the old-fashioned way--by building relationships with the people, who might trust him enough to let him know when they might need him to sit at their side or shed a tear with them or to celebrate their good news with them. And the preacher's charge to the people was to find space for Steve to trust them enough to share his heart with them as well. 


The preacher's charge was really a map for us to find the "thin places" together. And we have. By God's grace, we have. In the hospital rooms, at the baptismal font, in the wedding party, standing by the grave, at the relief center in a hurricane's wake, and so many other places. Often when we least expected it. Often with the one with whom I least expected it. That is the awesome privilege of this ministry--to be treated to such beauty and blessing day by day, and know that I am the richer for it.


Joan Chittister and Rowan Williams coined a term a few years back, entitling a book they co-wrote, Uncommon Gratitude. That is what I feel this evening, not knowing what surprises lie ahead, but surely trusting that the thin places will continue to present themselves, that this world is created by a God who loves us dearly, and that this world is imminently good, teeming with burning bushes and beautiful people, and a generous supply of blessing for us all to give and receive. 


And for all that, I am uncommonly grateful.

Rousing the Christ Within You

A Sermon preached by The Rev. Dr. Steven L. Thomason at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas on June 24, 2012.

The Scripture Texts for the Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 7 are:

1 Samuel 17: (1a, 4-11, 19-23), 32-49
Psalm 9:9-20or1 Samuel 17:57-18:5, 10-16
Psalm 133orJob 38:1-11
Psalm 107:1-3, 23-32

 2 Corinthians 6:1-13

Mark 4:35-41

Mark 4:35-41: When evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, "Let us go across to the other side." And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Peace! Be still!" Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?"

When my dreams dip

into the psyche’s

deep chasm of fear,

it is not unusual

that the nightmare involves

some form of watery terror—

either with a sense of drowning

or being dogged

by a ravenous beast

whose sole predatory interest

seems to have settled on me.

Water is one of those archetypal images of dreams,

drawing on its power

and importance in our lives.

Our cells breathe with it;

our organs find it

the perfect diluent

in the brilliant chemistry

of life.

Without water, we die.

Too much of it though,

and the deluge is overpowering.

It’s tendrils of watery grip

pull us in and down,

into the abyss

of a swollen, choked panic

that gives way

to dark, cold oblivion.

Water is real--

in its life-giving,

and life-quenching properties.

Throughout the Bible,

that tension is explored

time and again.

Bodies of water—

lakes, seas,

and the ocean, in particular—

are the site of chaos,

churning reservoirs

for untamed sea monsters

seeking to wreak havoc

over creation.

There is no structure

to the open water—

no length and width and height

to measure and manage.

And the wind whips up water differently

than it does land.

Armies and navies perish

in their watery tombs;

humans are helpless

against such forces.

Chaos reigns, it seems,

and water is its chief weapon.

So it is with the disciples

who have gotten into a boat

to cross the Sea of Galilee.

There were fishermen among them,

those who would have been experienced

with such a crossing

of just a few miles.

But it is night,

and in their night-blindness,

a sudden wind blows up,

lapping the water in their faces,

launching waves up and over the sides,

pulling at the boat to yield its buoyant hope

to the murky depths of chaos.

They were terrified.

And their teacher—

the one for whom they had left all they had known

to follow him in hope and expectation—

Jesus was asleep in the stern,

apparently so exhausted from his toils

that he would sleep his way

into their watery grave,

until the disciples diverted their attention

from the waves long enough

to notice his nonchalance

in the face of the storm.

Incredulous, they awaken him,

and question his disinterest

in their well-being.

Traditional bible scholarship proposes

that this passage found its way

into Mark’s gospel

for two principal reasons:

The first---to accentuate

the dim-wittedness of the disciples,

which is a chief motif for Mark.

By this point,

in the fourth chapter,

Jesus has called them

with prophetic authority;

he has healed several folks of afflictions,

attesting to his messianic pedigree;

he has taught them in parables

and, in turn,

explained the parables to the disciples.

He has challenged them to have faith

like a mustard seed,

to grow in confident expectation

that God is up to something

in their midst.

We can clearly see all this,

but those first disciples

seem to be blind to it all.

At the first sign of trouble,

with the windstorm rocking their boat,

they are pitted as fools

who just don’t get it.

But we are invited into that messianic secret.

Which brings us

to the second point

traditional scholarship posits---

that this story and others like it,

elevate Jesus

onto the plane of divine power,

which is the only power

that can still storms

and calm waters,

and later walk on them.

Water and its chaotic realm

has no power

in the face of such a Lord God,

and we are invited

to see that encounter.

“Peace, be still,” he says,

and the waters obey.

For my part,

while I understand this traditional thread

of biblical instruction,

it leaves me wanting for more.

Disciples don’t understand;

Jesus is Lord.

I get it.

But can we trim the sails of our boat

to find another tack

into the story?

Our tradition also holds fast

to the ideal

that we would do well

to emulate Jesus—

not in stilling waters per se,

as if we could,

but in the way he conducted his life,

premised on love and good will,

rather than fear and self-interest.

What if we were to turn it around,

what if we considered

that we each have Christ within us,

fully at our disposal for inspiration

to respond to life’s storms

in a different way?

One of my favorite authors

is Frederick Buechner,

who once wrote:

“Christ sleeps in the deepest selves

of all of us,

and whatever we do

in whatever time we have left,

wherever we go,

may we

in whatever way we can

call on him

as the fishermen did in their boat

to come awake within us

and to give us courage,

to give us hope,

to show us,

each one,

our way. 

May he be with us

especially when the winds go mad

and the waves run wild,

as they will for all of us

before we're done,

so that even in their midst

we may find peace...

we may find Christ.”[i]

Fear is real.

Let’s not fool ourselves

into believing otherwise.
         The boat gets battered.

But we come to this table,

on the sure footing

of our faith grounded in a God

who has chosen to join us

on this rocky journey,

trusting that what we say in prayer

may be truly so—

that Christ dwells in us,

and we in him…

in order that our lives might be transformed

by that divine presence,

even when—

especially when the winds

and waves are lashing out.

And lest we think this notion

of divine power positioned in us

is unorthodox,

I assure you it is not.

This invitation for us to consider

that Christ dwells in us is,

as a source of divine encouragement

in the face of fear,

so that we might take a different tack,

is deeply seated

in our tradition of faith.  

Indeed, it was St. Augustine,

writing in the Fourth Century,

who drew on this passage from Mark

about a boatful

of fear-stricken souls.

“So when the winds blow

and the waves mount high,

[your] boat is in danger,

your heart is imperiled,

your heart is taking a battering…

[even then] Christ is asleep in you…

Rouse him, then;

remember him,

let him keep watch within you,

pay heed to him.[ii]

Water may be the nesting place for chaos,

but might it also be

the discerning place of wisdom—

that in the present cloud

of unknowing,

one might discover

the future of faith?

There are times

when getting into the boat

is the only reasonable way

to get to the other side,

but reason

does not mean risk-free.

There are no guarantees in life,

except that Christ is with us

in the boat.

Christ is asleep in you.

Trust that.

Rouse that Christ;

let that Christ keep watch within you,

and see what happens.

See what happens in your life,

and in the world

who needs Christ,

who needs you.

                                                                                                                                                           

---

[i] Buechner, Frederick, Secrets in the Dark, as cited by Sarah Jackson Shelton at http://day1.org/1326-the_sleeping_jesus

[ii] Augustine, Sermons 63:1-3, as cited by Sarah Jackson Shelton at http://day1.org/1326-the_sleeping_jesus